JONNY APPLESEED (Book Review)

By Joshua Whitehead

 

 

(Arsenal Pulp Press, 2018)

 

 

 

It’s interesting that the front cover of this book expressly notes that this is “A Novel.” So often, as I read the anecdotes, I felt certain they were mined directly from the author’s actual experiences. We writers do implant much of our lives into our fiction, but things seemed particularly real here. To the extent the anecdotes are imagined, then it’s high praise to Joshua Whitehead that they came off feeling like memoir. 

 

The fact that I used the word “anecdotes” twice in the opening paragraph is intentional. The novel comes off as a series of vivid vignettes which jump all over the place in time and place. To the extent there is an overarching plot, it involves the titular character earning enough money to make it back to the reservation where he grew up so that he can attend a funeral. The stakes don’t feel high and there is no suspense about whether he or won’t get there on time. 

 

It’s a meandering journey from beginning to end. Sometimes the weaving of past and present plays out in a series of alternating paragraphs. Not my thing, but I appreciated what the author had set out to do. Other times, I’d completely forget that Jonny was trying to get back home since there’d been so many digressions. This might be intentional. I’m no expert on First Nations storytelling, but a quick Google turned up some information about there being a non-linear tradition which also reminds me of some stories I heard from Elders when I lived on BC’s Sunshine Coast on the traditional territory of the Squamish and Sechelt First Nations.

 

What makes this novel compelling is the voice. Jonny identifies as a 2S (Two-Spirit) NDN (Indian) who has left the rez in rural Manitoba to make a go of living in the big city, in this case Winnipeg. Whitehead’s writing makes a strong case for the importance of #ownvoices telling stories from a minority perspective. The slang and the inclusion of terms from First Nations languages enrich the novel. 

 

A couple examples from random page flips provide a sense of the flavor:

 

The house looked like the ones on the rez, two-storeys, an off-green shade, and two windows on the second floor that look like eyes. We always thought our houses looked like Oscar the Grouch’s—maybe they were like that everywhere? Do all rezzes look the same? Like some NDN Sesame Street?

**

 

            I bought a pack of Pall Malls for ten bucks, took one out, and lit it up. That feeling of relaxation came over me, the kind that burns your throat but makes you feel like you’re back home even if you’re hundreds of miles away. A good cigarette is like a familiar story. A Nate [Native] saw me spark one up and made his way over to me. 

            “Hey cuz, can I bum a light?”

            “Oh yeah, sure.”

            “Oh hey, can I bum a smoke too?”

            Damn trickster, I thought, someone’s taught him well.

 

 

Jonny is frank about his life and what his chances are in making it off the rez. His primary source of income comes as a sex worker, typically through a form of online show and tell but also from meeting in person. I’ve never been a fan of having a main character be a queer sex worker. In the past, I’ll admit to being a judgmental prude, but that’s not the case anymore. People are advantaged and disadvantaged. They do what they can to make ends meet. However, the queer sex worker is a cliché in gay fiction. (I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that a guy I dated more than twenty-five years ago read gay fiction almost exclusively. Every time I’d see a new book in his car or on the nightstand, I’d ask, “What’s the name of the gay hustler?” He’d frown, but there was always one. Maybe it made for more interesting reading than a story about the gay antiques dealer or the gay florist.) 

 

Thankfully, the sex work is not the core of the novel. There’s as much talk about the amount money he needs to earn from his vocation as there are details of the job and, combined, it’s still minor part of the story. (I'm glad I kept reading after coming across what may be the worst sentence I've read all year. Describing a dream, Whitehead writes, "Bees buzz around (a lilac), their wings slicing through the air, their bodies velvet smooth in a way that reminds me of how I like to shave my pubes." WHAT? It appears, ironically, on page 69. Whitehead is a much better writer. I feel the editor should have stepped in and said, "Um...just no.") Jonny’s connection to a few prominent characters lends heart to the story. Above all is his loving relationship with his kookum (grandmother) who unequivocally accepts Jonny along with his feminine tendencies from when he was a young boy. He is who he is and she couldn’t love him more. A petite woman, kookum is not to be messed with, except by her own daughter, Jonny’s mother. Both women are prone to drink too much—Jonny, too—but his mother is more of a work in progress who often left the parenting to Jonny’s grandmother. His kookum instills a strength in Jonny, including a sense of pride in indigenous beliefs and traditions. 

 

The other prominent relationship is with Jonny’s childhood friend on the rez, Tias. There’s a casualness to the sexual intimacy between the two men, a natural part of the love between them. Jonny would likely choose Tias as his partner for life, but Tias likes women too and his intimacy with Jonny, while beyond being an experimental phase, comes off as impermanent. Jonny will take what he can get, knowing that Tias is connected to his girlfriend, Jordan, and that Tias will likely opt for a more conventional straight life. In the hands of another writer, it might be easy to judge Tias, even dislike him, but he’s genuinely trying to live his best life, very much wanting Jonny to be a part of it. Yes, it’s complicated as is most everything for the characters in this book.

 

Many vignettes are delightful such as an account of Jonny having to work in a group as part of a class “Culturama” project in elementary school. Why learn about his own heritage when a report on Sweden is what is assigned? A bossy group member rejects his first version of rice pudding—there’s always a food element in these reports on foreign countries—so his mother figures out how to meet the Swedish standard. 

 

“Heck, they eat reindeer? Maybe we have more in common than I thought,” she said. When she flipped to the last page, which was about the Swedish tradition of blood pudding, she started laughing… “Here, m’boy. I have just the thing.” 

 

After the bossy girl tastes the revamped recipe, she screams, “This tastes like shit!” However it tastes, it leaves its mark on the girl’s tongue. “It’s not just red,” I told her. “It’s NDN red.”

 

There are memorable tales about encountering a bear in the street, stumbling upon a dead porcupine and the two boys being caught wearing nail polish by Tais’s stepfather. The tone of each differs remarkably. 

 

Whitehead doesn’t whitewash life on or off the rez. There are bleak aspects to both but there’s also a strong sense of survival, of loving people despite their flaws and of holding on fiercely to what makes one unique as a culture, as an orientation, as an individual. 

 

Jonny Appleseed is a novel that will stick with me. I’m sure a second read will bring more to light. I look forward to following Whitehead’s literary career.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ALEC (Book Review)

Written by William di Canzio

(Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2021)

I knew I’d buy this book. William di Canzio’s Alec is a story many readers already know, at least in part. Its inspiration is Maurice by E.M. Forster, a gay romance set in England around 1912 when being a homosexual risked criminal punishment as well as loss of employment and family ties. In the original novel, Maurice Hall fights his urges, even trying hypnosis, but ultimately accepts who he is, falling in love with a gamekeeper named Alec Scudder. Despite differences in class and the challenges pertaining to homosexuality at the time, Forster wrote, “A happy ending was imperative. I shouldn’t have bothered to write it otherwise. I was determined that in fiction anyway two men should fall in love and remain in it for the ever and ever that fiction allows, and in this sense Maurice and Alec still roam the greenwood.”

 

Forster considered an epilogue but then scrapped it, concluding, “Epilogues are for Tolstoy.”

 

And, it seems, for William di Canzio. Well, not just an epilogue. Di Canzio takes Alec Scudder and imagines the character’s life prior to meeting Maurice, then offers Alec’s perspective for the events in Maurice before exploring the characters’ lives thereafter. It’s a risky venture to tinker with a classic novel and its beloved characters, but I’m glad di Canzio did so even if I have significant quibbles…which are a given when someone so tinkers.

 

The Plot

The first section of the book is Alec’s backstory, fleshing out his school days and his work prior to his job on the family estate of Maurice’s friend and former lover, Clive Durham. Alec explores his sexuality with a village chum but, as with Maurice’s dalliances with Clive, the buddy views these as exploratory experiences, what one might do prior to finding a wife and starting a family. Alec doesn’t fight his sexuality. Indeed, he struggles more with the marked differences in England’s social classes, greatly resenting the limits to education and career that come by birth. He does not want to work for others, to bow to them out of obligation rather than, if at all, based on something earned. This storyline complements Forster’s portrayal of Maurice Hall who has some social standing, though limited, perhaps fading. Hall at least has access to a respectable career; in fact, it is his duty to follow the path he too has been born into.

 

The middle of the novel establishes Alec’s beginnings on the Durham estate, then offers Alec’s perspective upon first seeing Maurice, carrying through until the end of Forster’s story. With some significant exceptions, explained hereafter, this account maintains Forster’s tone. Indeed, as di Canzio notes in the acknowledgments, he obtained permission from the E.M. Forster Estate to use many passages from the original work, weaving in his own writing. This is well done, allowing Maurice lovers like me to revisit the source material while learning more about Alec.[1]

 

Alec and Maurice, as depicted
in the 1987 movie adaptation
of Forster's "Maurice"

As di Canzio takes the story beyond the timeline of the original novel, Maurice and Alec explore the “now what” of their new relationship. Having fallen in love rather quickly, there are practicalities to figure out in a society where the risks are considerable should people see through the subterfuge of Maurice hiring Alec for a business venture and catch on to the true nature of relationship. This begins well with di Canzio introducing new characters, including an established gay couple, Ted and George, free spirits living near a village called Millthorpe. This is a nod to Forster who writes in his 1960 Terminal Note that accompanies Maurice of being inspired by his esteemed friend Edward Carpenter at Millthorpe and his “comrade” George Merrill. It’s a nice touch.

 

Unfortunately, the fact that events in Maurice end in 1912 means that the sequel portion of Alec coincides with World War I. The characters are separated from one another since England’s classism extends to participation in war as well. 

 

Frankly, war scenes bore me and/or disturb me. Even when a battle isn’t occurring, references to life in the trenches—the cold, the fatigue, the rats—get monotonous. I suspect there’s limited overlap between readers who love gay romance and those who seek war stories. Forster himself recognized this in his 1960 Terminal Note which appears as an afterword in Maurice, stating that his attempts to write an epilogue “partly failed because the novel’s action date is about 1912, and ‘some years later’ would plunge it into the transformed England of the First World War.” I’m with Forster. It’s hard to sustain the story of Alec and Maurice when they are apart for a hundred pages. Perhaps it creates longing and suspense for some readers; for me, it killed the momentum and made me want to get on with it. Knowing the dates of the war, it was maddening to know how much more I’d have to endure when a scene was set in, say 1917. Though tempted, I didn’t skip pages. (That’s what happens when I buy a book instead of checking it out from the library.)

 

SPOILER ALERT: Thankfully, di Canzio doesn’t stray from Forster’s overarching intention, that being to allow Maurice and Alec to “roam the greenwood” for ever and ever. It would have been sacrilege to do otherwise. My problem with the ending is the clear shift away from Alec and back to Maurice. For a book that sets out to give us more about the life of Alec Scudder, di Canzio does away with all of Alec’s family so that the ending reverts back to Maurice, his sister Kitty and his mother. The final thoughts and actions involve Maurice, not Alec. I suspect an editor may have required that di Canzio tack on his own brief epilogue. 

 

Departures from the Tone of Maurice

I wonder how Forster would have reacted to certain liberties di Canzio takes, straying from the original’s staid demeanor. There’s considerably more swearing which I’m not sure suits the time. While the f-word was around, it would have been rarely spoken.[2] (Even as late as the seventies when I was growing up, it was considerably less commonly used than now. My mother, born at the outset of World War II, regularly complains about viewing options on Netflix. “Why do they have to use that word?”)

            

Edward Morgan Forster

While Forster might have objected to some of the swearing, I wonder how he’d have reacted to the somewhat graphic sex scenes. On the night Maurice Hall and Alec Scudder consummate things in Maurice, Forster writes: “someone [Maurice] scarcely knew moved towards him and knelt beside him and whispered, ‘Sir, was you calling out for me?...Sir, I know…I know,’ and touched him.” Sharing a bed is as titillating as it gets. “They slept separate at first, as if proximity harassed them, but towards morning a movement began, and they woke deep in each other’s arms.” Di Canzio’s Alec adds far more to the scene:

 

Hall locked the door; when he returned, he stood at the foot of the bed, naked, aroused, unsure…The sheet was tangled across Alec’s middle; he pulled it away. Maurice smiled at the welcome…He touched the head of Alec’s cock and showed him the droplet on his fingertip. He wiped it on his own cheek.

 

Then, as soon as Alec is alone:

 

When he took off his shirt, he still could smell Maurice. He inhaled deeply, happily. And he smiled when he saw their spunk, dried on his belly and legs, on his chest and shoulders, plenty of it, all mixed together.

 

What would E.M. Forster think? Considering he didn’t dare have Maurice published until after his death, would he be horrified or envious of this openness in writing? I suspect he’d still favor restraint.

 

Final Thought

I’m glad William di Canzio opted to write Alec, a companion piece of sorts to Maurice. It’s risky and creates expectations…as well as a built-in readership. There are bound to be disappointments. I’m not fully satisfied with the story, but I appreciated the chance to revisit beloved characters in gay literature.

 

---

[1] It’s possible that the seed for di Canzio’s novel comes from Forster’s own prodding. In reference to the character of Alec Scudder, Forster noted, “He became livelier and heavier and demanded more room, and the additions to the novel (there were scarcely any cancellations) are all due to him.” Still, the character challenged Forster. “What was his life before Maurice arrived? Clive’s earlier life is easily recalled, but Alec’s, when I tried to evoke it, turned into a survey and had to be scrapped.”

 

[2] It’s not that Forster confines himself to “gosh, golly,” “darn,” and “fudge.” In one scene in Maurice, Alec, speaking of Clive’s mother, grouses to Maurice, “Penge where I was always a servant and Scudder do this and Scudder do that and the old lady, what do you think she once said? She said, ‘Oh would you mind kindly of your goodness post this letter for me, what’s your name?’ What’s yer name! Every day for six months I come up to Clive’s bloody front porch for orders, and his mother don’t know my name. She’s a bitch. I said to ’er, ‘What’s yer name? Fuck yer name.’ I nearly did too. Wish I ’ad too.” Still, sparing use of profanity not only reflects the time but adds potency when it appears. In this passage, Alec Scudder is not “shooting the shit” with buds at a bar. His words underscore his abhorrence for England’s entrenched classism.

 

IS A KISS STILL NEWSWORTHY?

Last week at some country music award show, a member of a brother duo got up and kissed his boyfriend after winning Best Group. The “lite” news sources—the kind that pop up on Yahoo—were all over it. I gullibly clicked, thinking it would be something momentous…on stage or something passionate, with tongue maybe. Nope. A peck. Like Blake Shelton might kiss Gwen Stefani or Keith Urban might kiss Nicole Kidman if either of them had won something.

 

It got me wondering. When will we get to the point where a kiss is just a kiss? Man on man, woman on woman, nonbinary on whoever. 

 

I’m just as guilty as anyone for getting sucked in based on context. Last week’s momentous smack was in the country music milieu, watched by millions of country music fans, people we assume to be more Red State than Blue, more conservative than liberal, more beer drinkin’, pickup drivin’, good ol’ boys than bow-tied chess players who ponder giving up fois gras. 

 

Yep, bro. That dude kissed a dude. Guzzle another Bud, let that sink in.

 

Really, this shouldn’t be news, not even on a news-lite site.

 

According to Wikipedia, the first cinematic man-to-man kiss was almost a century ago, in the movie “Wings” in 1927. (It’s a bit of a miss and the men talk of their “friendship” but, yeah it counts. Watch the clip—the build-up, the eye contact, the hands in each other’s hair...)

 

There was a much-hyped 1989 episode of TV’s “thirtysomething” in which two gay characters were shown in bed together but weren’t allowed to touch. It resulted in boycotts and a significant loss in advertising money for ABC. High stakes. The stakes have been lessening with each subsequent glimpse of togetherness. Laura Dern hugged Ellen, Madonna kissed Britney…and Christina, Katy Perry and Jill Sobule each sang about kissing a girl, hell, by the time Pete Buttigieg started giving his husband, Chasten, little pecks, it barely caused a peep from even the most vile conservative talking pieces who make a living off intentionally boneheaded banter. 

 

There was a time when every teensy bit of public gayness involving a celebrity made headlines and was enthusiastically applauded by all of us under the LGBTQ rainbow. Greg Louganis is gay! Ellen makes the cover of Time! Melissa Etheridge! Sir Ian McKellen! kd lang! Will and Jack are lead characters on a mainstream hit TV show! George Michael! Doogie Howser! Clay Aiken! Adam Lambert! Ricky Martin! Well, golly…Jim Nabors! Jim Parsons…Bazinga! 

 

In North America at least, we’re down to the last bastions. T.J. Osborne from Brothers Osborne isn’t the first country artist to come out as queer, but he’s apparently the first out gay man in country music signed to a major record label, publicly coming out in Time in February this year. (While delving into gay moments in country music, I stumbled upon an online mention of the self-titled “Lavender Country” as being the first gay country album, released in 1973. The track list includes a twangy waltz called “Cryin’ These Cocksucking Tears.” Um…pretty sure they never performed on “Hee Haw” or got an invite to the Grand Ole Opry, but maybe now Kenny Chesney will do a remake.)  

 

Yes, I’m glad T.J. kissed his boyfriend, a gesture that’s so conventional for other award winners. I do think it will offer comfort, maybe inspiration, to closeted queers who listen to country music and wonder if they’ll be accepted should they choose to come out. The bigger news—which didn’t fit into a click-worthy headline—was that The Brothers Osborne sang “Younger Me” at the Country Music Awards, with T.J. prefacing the performance by saying, “I would watch this show year after year and I always thought how incredible it’d be of a dream it’d be of being up on this stage. There were so many things that were so many hurdles for me and I always felt, truthfully felt, like it would never be possible because of my sexuality to be here and I just wish, I wish, my younger me could see me now.” 

 

The lyrics to “Younger Me” are rather bland, watered down as so many pop songs so that a large mass of people can find them relatable. But still, there’s enough there for young queers to latch onto and offer strength:

 

Younger me…

Always dreamed of kicking down the door

What were you waiting for?

 

Younger me

Overthinking, losing sleep at night

Contemplating if it’s worth the fight

 

Younger me

Hanging out but not quite fitting in

Didn’t know that being different

Really wouldn’t be the end.

 

Like I said, bland. But a listener who knows the lyrics are sung by an out gay man will read more into it and see himself in the song. The video also adds more (rainbow) colours.

 

There it is, a breakthrough in country music. About time. (It reminds me of all the press last year for Mickey Guyton’s “Black Like Me” and the prime spot she got performing on this year’s Grammy Awards ceremony.) Congratulations, country music. 

 

The time has passed for public kisses and coming outs in untrod territories to excite me. These moments feel like they’re very late arrivals to the Pride party. We’re still waiting for other breakthroughs on final frontiers. There have been recent ripples in football, soccer and hockey. More work to be done there. Embarrassingly, tennis remains a holdout for a prominent male player to come out. Many women have come out—I still remember the years when commentators stumbled over how to acknowledge Martina Navratilova’s then-partner, Judy Nelson, in the family-and-friends box. I don’t follow golf or wrestling so I don’t know whether there are openly queer competitors. I don’t even have enough interest to Google those fields. What other domains are there?  

 

Yes, it takes someone to step forward and be the first. That’s still courageous, making something personal public. But we’re at a point where it says more about the field than the individual that a kiss or saying, “I’m gay” warrants a headline. Applause? Okay, for the individual. But, with regard to that person’s domain of notoriety, all I can say is, “What took you so long?”

WHEN YOU GET THE CHANCE (Book Review)

By Tom Ryan and Robin Stevenson

 

(Running Press Teens, 2020)

 

 

 

I’m not sure I have much to say about this book. Glad it was published. I hope a lot of teens read it. I would recommend it, but I think I’ve had my fill of young adult for a while. Any criticisms I may have are (mostly) because I’m not the target audience.

 

When You Get the Chance is another YA title told in a he said – she said format, two authors alternating chapters, each offering the perspective of a different character as the story advances. (Think Dash & Lily’s Book of Dares by David Levithan and Rachel Cohn or Here’s to Us by Adam Silvera and Becky Albertalli.) In this case, the two authors are Canadian, one in Nova Scotia, the other in British Columbia, like the characters within the novel.

 

This is story about cousins: Talia who’s an eighteen-year-old lesbian and Mark, seventeen and gay. They live on opposite coasts of Canada and meet again after seven years, brought together for the funeral of their grandfather in Toronto. Chummy in childhood, having spent summers at the family cottage in the Muskokas, they’ve grown into different people. Despite both being queer, they don’t relate much to each other. Talia is the serious one, an excellent student who sticks to the rules. Mark is a charming partier who always lands on his feet. (These personalities feel somewhat gender-stereotyped. I’d have liked to have seen the roles flipped.) Mark’s nosy, precocious ten-year-old sister is a sidekick in the cousins’ adventures.

 

 

Things I like about the book:

·      It’s truly Canadian.

o   In the film industry, Canadian locations rarely play themselves. Toronto may pretend to be New York City, Vancouver acts as Seattle and rural Alberta fills in as Montana. Heaven forbid a story should actually take place in Canada. Canadian settings are rare in publishing as well, unless the book is released by a Canadian publisher. In this case, When You Get the Chance is unabashedly Canadian and published by Running Press Teens, an imprint of The Hachette Book Group in the U.S. Let young American readers get a taste of their northern neighbor.

o   Part of the story takes place in Toronto, the country’s largest city, for which many Canadians have a love-hate relationship (or maybe just hate). So big and so diverse, Toronto can portray itself as the center of the universe, at least in terms of anything under the red and white maple leaf flag. Mark, coming from Halifax, is particularly in awe of all the larger city has to offer though, in time, he comes to appreciate some of what his hometown has to offer.

o   The other prominent setting is Ontario’s cottage country. I grew up in Ontario and I didn’t realize how special and perhaps distinct the province’s cottage culture was until my family moved to Texas while I was in high school. Every time I’d mention our cottage, my Texas friends would imagine some fancy second home and look at me like I was rich. While obnoxious monster cottages have popped up in the last few decades, cottage life traditionally centers on a lakeside cabin, kept in one family, simultaneously hosting multiple generations throughout the summer months. Cottages are homey, decorated in kitschy items, canoe paddles on a wall, a door jamb with pencilled in notations of children’s growth from year to year, shelves filled with beach towels and very old (classic!) boardgames. It’s ever-slow, peaceful pace that matters, not some state-of-the-art Wolfe oven. While the heart of cottage country is along Georgian Bay (an arm of Lake Huron), you can find cottages anywhere there’s a lake in Ontario. (My family’s happens to be on a broad expanse of the Ottawa River.)

 

The idle nature of cottage life offers a better chance for Talia and Mark (and Paige) to get to know each other better. In an urban setting, it would be more likely that, after initially seeing how different they are, they’d find plenty of distractions to maintain their distance. 

 

·      The book shines a light on Pride celebrations. Co-author Stevenson has previously published nonfiction on the significance of Pride, including Pride: The Celebration and the Struggle (Orca Book Publishers, 2020), so it must have seemed natural to have a section of the story involve a road trip from cottage country back to Toronto for the festivities. For a teen reader, the Pride references probably plant a seed: attend a smaller scale, local Pride, but one day take in Toronto Pride in all its bigness and boldness. If not Toronto, then New York, San Francisco, London or…there are so many that we older folks may take for granted.

 

·      Speaking of relics, When You Get the Chance features several older LGBTQ characters who serve as mentors while also giving Talia, Mark and the book’s target audience a sense of perspective—the way things were and some of the events that led to the current level of freedoms. It feels odd to read about young queer characters who have no sense of Stonewall other than its frequency as a buzzword but, considering the riots occurred more than half a century ago, it’s a reminder of the history we relics need to share. (As far as I can recall, the novel doesn’t mention the AIDS crisis or include characters living comfortably with HIV. I suppose one YA book can only do so much while keeping story as the primary focus.)

 

Everything wraps up tidily by the end of the book. Too tidily for my tastes. A seemingly mysterious, yearslong, much-ado-about-nothing conflict between Mark’s mom and Talia’s father disappears. As well, despite repeated mention of how much trouble Mark is supposed to be in for some poor choices, nothing comes to be in that regard. Moreover, Talia drops a belated bombshell on her heretofore not very resilient father and it goes over swimmingly. I felt the authors were rushing to the finish line. (Not that I wanted more about any of these problems; I would have preferred different conflicts in the first place.)

 

When You Get the Chance is worth a read. Don’t let my grumpy old guy point of view deter you. And now let my YA sabbatical begin!

 

 

 

 

  

BABY STEPS IN LEARNING ABOUT TWO-SPIRIT IDENTITY

Since I just learned that November is Picture Book Month, I thought it timely to share this post.

 

 

Initially, this post was going to be a review of a children’s picture book, but then I looked up the publisher on the internet and decided to address both the book and the publisher.

 

I recently spent eight days on the northern part of Vancouver Island, twice as long as expected due to (still unresolved) car difficulties and a series of complications, one piling on another. Anytime we leave home, there is a possibility for adventure. This particular occasion helped me let go of the things I couldn’t control and create new opportunities. I needed to adopt that lemons-to-lemonade mindset. 

 

I spent three days at Alert Bay on Cormorant Island, which is largely an indigenous community, the traditional, unceded territory of the ‘Namgis First Nation. While there, time seemed to slow down, with me being a forty-minute ferry ride away from other distractions. 

 

As a child, I was raised to appreciate First Nations culture, particularly in terms of art. In junior high school in Hamilton, Ontario, I had a dynamic, passionate teacher of Canadian history, Mr. Tomlinson, who didn’t sugarcoat elements of conquest and assimilation regarding European settlement in Canada and the role of Jesuit missionaries. He was writing a book about Tecumseh, a Shawnee chief who was born near present-day Chillicothe, Ohio and died near Chatham, Ontario. It’s significant that Tecumseh, portrayed as a hero, was one of the first historical figures I knew about. Still, my understanding of indigenous history plateaued in junior high. There was little to no mention of Native culture and contributions during my high school years in Texas. 

 

Alert Bay painting
by Emily Carr

I’d first heard about Alert Bay as a child. My parents loved Canadian art, particularly works by Cornelius Krieghoff, the Group of Seven and B.C. artist Emily Carr. I frequently looked through coffee table books featuring paintings by these artists and I recall a couple of Carr’s paintings of totem poles at Alert Bay. It seemed like happenstance that I’d get to stay there, awaiting a prognosis for my car. 

 

My first stop, after a fortifying coffee at the town’s only grocery store (alas, the only café didn’t open until noon each day…NOON?!) was to the U’mista Cultural Centre. After viewing First Nations art, I took a long time browsing the gift shop, scanning the bookshelves, searching for anything on two-spirit identity. I found nothing other than a chapter called, “All My Queer Relations: Language, Culture, and Two-Spirit Identity” in the book, Indigenous Writes: A Guide to First Nations, Métis & Inuit Issues in Canada (HighWater Press, 2016), edited by Chelsea Vowel. I didn’t buy it. I was most interested in finding a picture book with a two-spirit character, something to introduce young people to diversity within indigenous populations and, ideally, to help a child see themselves identified and validated in literature.

 

After I finally asked for help with my search, a staff member and the gift shop manager joined in the hunt. Nothing came up.

 

Later, I Googled and still didn’t come up with much, but I managed to get my hands on 47,000 Beads, a 2017 picture book written by Koja Adeyoha and Angel Adeyoha and illustrated by Holly McGillis, published by Flamingo Rampant.   

 

As a children’s book, it disappoints. It’s one of those teacherly books, literary tofu: good for you but not so tasty. 47,000 Beads commits a major faux pas in the genre as the story—to the extent there is one—abandons the child, Peyton’s, point of view after the first few pages and does not have her actively involved in solving the problem (which is that she doesn’t want to jingle dance and wear a dress at a pow wow). It’s Auntie Eyota, other supportive relatives and an adult friend identified as L (they; there’s no use of a possessive pronoun) who each contribute beaded works to create a new regalia, an outfit that includes a shirt, pants, harness and apron, something I presume represents an in-between type of ceremonial attire. It is L—“a new teacher for you”—who gives Peyton the regalia. L says, “I have…stories to tell you. About people from all the nations who carry two spirits inside of them.” As an old-school gay man, I’m not sure about the continuing feminine pronoun used for Peyton as the story wraps, saying Peyton dances “as herself, not as a boy or as a girl, but as Peyton in her 47,000 beads.” I’m guessing the authors are indicating that the young character remains, for the time being, a female exploring what it is to be genderqueer and/or two-spirit.

 

I wasn’t going to bother with writing about the book since it didn’t impress me or even educate me. (In fact, I’m more confused about the meaning of two-spirit and the degree to which it is an accepted term by First Nations people or another example of replacing existing indigenous terms for an English one.) I have more to learn.

 

The book is worth noting, however, for two reasons: (1) It highlights a need for more diverse books, in this case for children, about being queer and indigenous; and (2) It sheds light on a small press, Flamingo Rampant, that is interested in #ownvoices children’s books. 

 

This nascent publisher has sixteen books in the marketplace thus far and will hopefully learn as it grows. It’s disappointing that there isn’t even a sentence to identify the authors and the illustrator of 47,000 Beads. (They each make a dedication though.) I give points to the publisher for a note in the fine print about copyright: 

 

“All literary and artistic rights…are reserved. 

But remember, you have the right to be 

safe, strong, free, and utterly fabulous in 

whatever gender(s) you choose. Don’t let 

anyone tell you otherwise. This is a secret 

message from a happy, well-loved adult 

trans person. You’re wonderful, and there 

are plenty of people in the world who will 

love you just as you are. Also, hi Jacinto 

and Caetano!”

 

Okay, more than points…Bravo!

 

Flamingo Rampant’s “About” page on its website states that its books touch on “racial justice, disability pride, kids taking action, and most of all loving, positive LGBT2Q+ families and communities.” Its submission guidelines also distinguish it from other publishers as it is interested in diverse creators with celebratory stories that move beyond victimization. 

 

“We don’t publish books that have primary 

narratives about bullying, ostracization, 

harassment or violence. If your book is 

about a kid who is made to feel like their 

identity or family is a problem, that’s not 

going to be a book that works for us.” 

 

The page further states: 

 

“We have a strong value around 

#ownvoices work…While we always 

appreciate the work of allies, the 

number of books ABOUT LGBT2Q 

kids/families; Black, Indigenous, 

and kids/families of color and 

disabled kids has increased 

while the number of writers who live 

in those identities is still flatlined.” 

 

Whether you’re a writer, illustrator, reader or a person who simply identifies as a person with some element of diversity, the entire guidelines are worth a look. As well if you know of an aspiring, talented picture book writer or illustrator who identifies as LGBTQ, PIPOC or disabled, direct them to the publisher’s website. More of us need to be published.