Mama Jean

After posting about The Nargun and the Stars, I knew I wanted my next post to be about The Whale Rider; although the countries that are the setting for the two stories are geographically close to each other, the ancestral spirits and philosophies couldn’t be more different. The Nargun and the Stars is about the massive land of Australia, with emphasis on “land,” and The Whale Rider is about the small island of New Zealand.

The story opens “in the old days” before New Zealand was even named: “the sea was ever-churning, shimmering and seamless to the sky, teeming with fish, waiting for the Ancients to come, yearning for them. And then they came, and the sea was filled with singing.” Who were “they”? The whales: one in particular that carried the sacred sign, or “swirling tattoo imprinted on the forehead.” But he wasn’t alone; astride the head, there was a man, the whale rider, “throwing spears into the sky that changed into birds and fish.” All but one “that would flower when the people were troubled,” and thus they waited for a thousand years.

This “golden human” who rode the whale had tended to the lead bull whale as a baby, after his mother was killed by sharks. This man/master played the flute, and his songs beckoned the young whale: a siren call to the whale.

It was this male that established the patriarchy to the land that would be called New Zealand, and the tribe, the Maori, until that line would be broken by Kahu, the first great-granddaughter, and thus rightfully the new whale rider. However, the current patriarch, Koro Apirana, said “I will have nothing to do with her, and literally, turned his back on his great-granddaughter.

Fast forward to when Kahu turns eight and exhibiting all the sign as being the next in line, that spear that had waited a thousand years for when trouble would occur. Kahu would never turn her back on her great-grandfather, ever, even though she was aware as to what was dividing her tribe: her gender. Even at this young age, she could communicate with the whales (and the dolphins) and they jumped from the sea when they heard her speak their language to them.

The rest of the story is the continuing of the conflict through and up until late summer. Kahu went into the sea, speaking—singing—to the whales calming their fears as their greatest enemy, Man, tried to kill them for meat and oil. The story continues, tracing Kahu’s rightful place from the original whale rider to present day.

It’s a “true” story and thus a love story, written in fewer than 200 pages and yet in its narration answers the three universal questions: who am I? Where did I come from? And What is my purpose in the world? Kahu instinctively knows the answers to those questions without even having to wonder, as she activates her role as the present-day whale rider. It’s also the story of how her great-grandfather came to see that he was wrong, and stubborn, and afraid of the changes started thousands of years ago.

So, Read! Enjoy! Like following the journey of Marcellus, the grumpy Pacific giant octopus, you’ll be a better person for doing so because you will become part of the community created by the narrative.

Thank heavens we have Kate DiCamillo to turn to when it comes to writing a good story, a story that’s true, because in perusing the newest children’s literature stories, in my opinion nearly all of them fall short of “a story that’s true.” Instead, these writers must check off the boxes: racism? No. Feminist? Yes. A gay character? Yes (I kid you not.). It’s not about truth; it’s about box-checking. Even the Newbery Award has capitulated.

So I was thrilled to read Kate DiCamillo’s new book published last year called Ferris. It’s a realistic tale about a girl, Ferris, her household, and her neighborhood community. Kate uses a couple of devices in all of her books: one is the concept of “story.” In Despereaux, “stories are light, dear reader,” from teller to listener. In Ferris, it’s “every good story is a love story.”

Introducing you to Ferris also introduces you to children’s realistic fiction—with a touch of fantasy in it. Ferris’s grandmother Charisse sees a ghost in her room.

In past posts I’ve alluded to how our brain can be a way to build the foundation for children’s literature: from birth to about 10, we are all right-brained dominant: no judgements, strong in observation and imagistic thinking, takes in the world. Then from “10 and up” (give or take a year) the left side materializes so that the brain is balanced. However, the left side is the chatty side, the judgey side, thinks linearly, sometimes causing the right side to go behind a door for a while until it has time and space to “speak” which is when creativity comes forth: “You mean to tell me that….?”

So in 2024, here comes Ferris, a 10 year-old girl enjoying the summer before school starts again when her grandmother tells her about the ghost she sees. A female ghost who doesn’t talk; she just “appears,” mournfully. And the grandmother has no fear. Their dog Boomer sees her too. But since this is realistic fiction, he is not a talking dog as Clifford, the Big Red Dog is. He just whimpers when he sees the ghost. Ferris, being 10, asks “but why is the ghost here?” Her grandmother replies, “I have absolutely no idea. I am utterly baffled by it, darling.”

Thus when Kate writes a realistic story with a ghost as a character who converses with Ferris’s grandmother, a reader won’t even blink at it, accepting it as part of the story, the vision of the world written *of* the world. So as readers we say to ourselves, “of course a ghost is part of this story,” because it’s a story that’s true. And all “good” (true) stories are love stories.”

Remember, too, that all good stories are first of all entertaining, and then they reveal lessons to be taught. Not the other way around. This story certainly follows that protocol, thank heavens!

This light and seemingly frivolous story builds slowly, introducing character after character who come into Ferris’s life, or is already a part of her life: Mom and Dad, Pinkey-her younger sister, Aunt Shirley and Uncle Ted, Billy Jackson—a classmate from kindergarten on, Big Bill, his dad, a chandelier, the hardware store owner, and Mrs. Mielk, their teacher who taught them many new vocabulary words. If you remember from ——Despereaux, Kate loves to introduce new vocabulary words to the reader/listener.

Imagine all those characters being introduced and then building, building like a symphony, delightfully at first, almost frivolously to where, by the time we finish reading the story and put down the book, we say to ourselves: “That was quite a story. Kate was right;

All good stories are love stories.”

It’s lovely, sad, happy, and by the end, Kate has shown us something else: how a meal, a dinner, not only can make a community out of a disparate group of people centered on a ghost and a chandelier can give connection and cultural continuity, the last characteristic needed for a story that’s true.