We Really Do Care

July 15, 2019
A tale of empathy and inclusion. A white child and a brown-skinned child, both nameless and with button eyes and simply drawn facial features, cross paths in a peaceful city park. Initially, the white child emphatically claims ownership in bold phrases familiar to young ears: "My ball belongs to me," and "You can't have my mom." In a turnkey double-page spread, a park scene on the left shows green grass, a gentle tree trunk, and the white child's family on a picnic blanket, while across the gutter is vast negative space as the white child notices the brown-skinned child, alone, on the ground end of a seesaw. The negative space creates the pause. "Wait." What unfolds is a series of broad questions about fear of loneliness and loss. The brown-skinned child plays and shares with the formerly possessive white child but never says a word. It is assumed the brown-skinned child does not have a family, and while the white family welcomes the lonely child, why that child is alone in the park is never resolved. While a lot can be said for unspoken understanding, the brown-skinned child's voicelessness makes all the interactions feel one-sided and assumptive. A "we" narrative about caring unfurls, stretching to include families, nature, and animals across the world. While micro-interactions are inevitably connected to global networks of caring, the leap from sharing toys to global togetherness is preachy and contrived. One-sidedness sinks this well-meaning tale. (Picture book. 4-7)

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