Ghost Boys Banned

Jewell Parker Rhodes’ novel Ghost Boys was banned in at least one school.

The Kingsburg (CA) Elementary Charter School District removed this book from its curriculum after a parent complained about the political views expressed in the book. The novel concerns a Black boy who is killed by police while playing with a toy gun. The district removed the book without going through a reconsideration process. (Source: Marshall Libraries)

In an interview by Refinery29, Jewell spoke about her feelings over the ban:

“I was honestly shocked when Ghost Boys was banned. I spent two and a half years writing a book that educators and parents could use to discuss the differences between racism and unconscious bias. The book is about love and how children, in terms of their open-heartedness, can help rid the world of oppression, discrimination, and prejudice to become a collective group of heroes and heroines who engage in an affirmative, nonviolent change. We are failing in our job as educators and parents and adults to equip our children with the skills they need to be responsible citizens if we take away discourse around these issues. We’re saying we want our kids to grow up in a fantasy rather than to be prepared to take over and run the world. And they will run the world. They’re going to be old enough to vote, and they will be reshaping our destiny, so important conversations must be had to get them to be educated and to be a citizen in the deepest, deepest sense.
There are a lot of young writers today who are just so self-assured that they’re just going to stand up and speak. When I was a young writer, the banning would make me want to shut down. But of course, today, I can’t shut down because I tell the truth, I’m an artist, and I have a commitment to my craft and my own humanity more than anything else. If I had been a different kind of person, I would have quit, but I was born to tell stories and educate.”

You can read the full Refinery29 article here.

FAQ with Jewell

Jewell Parker Rhodes answers your most frequently asked questions, all in one place!

Where do you get your inspiration and ideas from when you write?
My ideas come primarily from history, contemporary news, and reading. And from dreams.

How many hours a day do you write?
Some days I don’t write at all; some days, I write a few hours, and other days, I write ten to twelve hours a day. These times parallel my “dreaming” time, my first draft creation days, and then the most exciting phase of all—revising and add depth and nuance to the final draft.

What kind of research do you do, and how long do you spend researching before beginning a book?
Research for each book is different. Black Brother, Black Brother has research elements that are over thirty years old. I’m always generally researching—gathering ideas and exploring emotions, and it’s more a matter of how and when my thoughts and feelings come together to birth a book. For example, writing and researching adult novels about voodoo and New Orleans in the 1980 to 1990s lead to my children’s Louisiana Girls Trilogy: Ninth Ward, Sugar, and Bayou Magic published in 2010 to 2015.

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?
“Be kinder to yourself.” I was so self-critical about my writing, my work habits, and my self-worth. Expressing oneself shouldn’t be painful.

Why do you feel books with powerful and relatable characters are so popular and have such a voice right now?
We live in tense, unsettling, and disruptive times. Social equity issues, in particular, affect families. Youth are desperate to discuss conflicts and for opportunities to develop critical thinking skills and empathy. Characters become a conduit for them to explore ideas, feelings and, perhaps, more importantly, to discuss with classmates, teachers, and parents ways to become empowered and make their future better and brighter.

What is your favorite childhood book?
Virginia Hamilton’s The People Could Fly has been a lifelong favorite. Slaves flying back to Africa have always meant resilience, hope, and freedom to me.

You depict the importance of addressing issues regarding racial prejudices and identity in your novels. What advice can you give to parents and educators that want to teach and hold these types of discussions with children and young students?
Fiction, in particular, can foster empathy. Allowing the imaginative connection between one’s self and a character allows youth to vicariously experience events, emotions that can affect identity. Encouraging critical thinking, exploring cause and effect, asking about motivations and best reactions to racial prejudice all lay the groundwork for great discussions. Kids especially want to control the narrative of their own lives. Stories can model various life pathways and affirm choices that nurture an amazing, self-loving identity.

Why did you choose to write in the middle-grade genre? What kind of impact are you hoping this book has on young readers?
For decades, I wrote for adults trying to become good enough to write for the most important audience in the world – youth. I always try to affirm children’s resilience, strength, empathy and intelligence. 

Middle-grade is especially challenging as youth make the passage from childhood to young adulthood. My own middle years were difficult. (Sometimes I think I’m “rewriting” my own history through characters inspired by today’s amazing youth.)  Most importantly, I’m providing diverse mirrors and a “safe place” for students to discuss critical issues about identity, social injustice, family and friendship. Words are powerful; books open hearts and minds. 

Ghost Boys Q&A

What inspired you to write Ghost Boys?
As an artist, I wanted to “bear witness” to the murders of children of color during my lifetime. I was one years old when Emmett Till was killed. How sad that I’m a grandmother and such atrocities haven’t ceased! Weaving history with today’s social issues educate our youth about racism’s historical roots. Many children don’t know how Till’s murder served as a catalyst for the Civil Rights movement. A lot of wondrous work was accomplished but there is still much work to be done. Ghost Boys is meant to remind youth that they, too, can “be the change” and continue advocating against racism and racial bias.

Where did you get the premise for this book?
My grandmother taught me that the dead are never gone—they continue to exist as spiritual ancestors (ghosts). I paired honoring our ancestors with the theme of “bearing witness,” speaking against injustice. So, the ghost boys aren’t just victims but they seek out living persons who can change the world for the better.

What was your writing process for Ghost Boys?
Writing Ghost Boys was challenging and emotional. Emmett Till was murdered when I was a year old. As a woman and as a mother of a black son, I’ve had my own challenges with discrimination. And as a grandmother, I still live in a time when black boys and men can be murdered due to racism or racial biases. Before I could bear witness to tragedy, I had to experience my own catharsis.

I first wrote 27 pages and said, “That’s it. I’m done with the novel.” Then after several weeks, I’d dive back into [it] and write another 10 pages. Then, I’d repeat, “That’s it. I’m done!” Over a two-year period, the novel grew in increments with long breaks in between, during which I read volumes on discrimination and felt sorrow. I had to experience my own painful journey in order to experience and reaffirm transformative love for our common humanity. I felt such a special obligation because I was writing for youth. My novel makes a space for strong emotions but doesn’t slay hope and optimism, and celebrates the inherent power in each child “to be and make the change.”

What was your hardest scene to write?
Writing Emmett Till’s death in Ghost Boys was extremely difficult. First and foremost, the internet and both children’s and adult fiction and nonfiction books for over sixty years all referenced some kind of “misbehavior” by Till. References to “wolf-whistles,” being arrogant, and saying, “heh, baby” were paramount. Yet, in my heart, I couldn’t imagine Till being other than completely innocent.

I wrote Till’s death based upon known research but just as the book was being printed, Timothy Tyson’s The Blood of Emmett Till was published. In it, Ms. Bryant confessed that she’d lied about Till’s behavior and that he hadn’t done anything disrespectful. Thankfully, I was able to revise the death scene and show Till as he was, a youth victimized twice over—by murderous racism and by supposedly “true historical accounts” which blamed him for his own victimization.

Which character was your favorite to write?
Carlos is my favorite character. He’s such an inspiration and accepts responsibility for his actions and becomes a “big brother” to Jerome’s sister, Kim.

What do you hope young readers will take away from your novel?
I hope young readers will feel inspired and know that their thoughts and feelings matter. By their presence and their actions, young readers can make (and are making) the world a better place. Whether the book is read by one child or a trillion children, young readers should know that this author and wonderful booksellers are honoring them by fully and firmly believing that their lives, thoughts, and actions matter. Children are the heroes of our time. It is a special grace to hand a child a book. Storytelling is the human discourse that unites and inspires us all.

Young readers will “live and make the world better.” They will tell their own powerful stories. And because of the example of booksellers, teachers, and parents, they will hand a book to their future children. And in another generation, future books may indeed fulfill Jerome’s admonition—“Don’t let me/(Or anyone else)/Tell this tale again/Peace out/Ghost Boy.”

Black Brother, Black Brother Q&A

What was your inspiration behind Black Brother, Black Brother?
While researching Ghost Boys, I learned elementary through high school students of color are often unfairly suspended, arrested by police, and in many cases charged with crimes. Once arrested even for minor infractions, the odds that a student will be entrapped by the criminal justice system and not graduate, double. Ghost Boys addressed racial bias in our cities and towns. Black Brother, Black Brother addresses bias in schools, both public and private.

What character do you most relate to and why?
I relate to both brothers, Donte and Trey. These characters are inspired by my own experiences raising two bi-racial kids (one, light-skinned; the other, darker) who have had very different experiences growing up in America. Skin color should not determine the ease with which one child is more fully embraced by society and the other is subject to racism. Like Donte and Trey in Black Brother, Black Brother, I want my children (all children) to be treated equally and none privileged because of skin tone.

Fencing plays a huge role in the novel, can you explain a little bit about why you chose to incorporate the sport? Does it hold a personal connection or was it something you had to conduct further research on?
Decades ago, I discovered Alexander Dumas’ was mixed race (Haitian and French) and his novels were based on his father’s exploits as the “Black Count,” a swordsmen and general in Napoleon’s army. Yet popular culture and media historically has rendered fencers as aristocratic and white. I mourned not having black D’Artagnan as a role model for youth—especially since in the twenty- first century, fencing can be a path toward college scholarships, global travel, and Olympic competition. My husband and children fenced a little; I cheered and did research. Most helpfully, Ben Brattan (a three-time fencing all-American and the youngest to win a gold medal at the World Team Championships) hosted my visit to the Peter Westbrook Foundation in NYC. There I glimpsed dozens of youth and instructors striving for fencing excellence.

Towers Falling Q&A

What do you remember about September 11th?
I was in bed in Arizona. I was not in New York City. I think if I had been in the city, I might not have been able to write this book. My husband called me downstairs to watch the coverage on television. The two of us were absolutely grief stricken. It seriously affected my mental health. I went into a depression — I just felt shaken to the core. I think the only thing that got me through was the idea that, given all the people who died or were wounded or lost their loved ones, I should take care to live my life to the fullest, and part of that is being a writer. In that sense, I’m connected to the event by my desire to do something to honor the 9/11 survivors and those who didn’t survive. Something that moves our society forward, something that engages children in what it means to be a citizen and encourages them to love and be inclusive. Because if we don’t live our lives well — if I don’t live my life well — it’s an affront to all the people who were involved in the tragedy of 9/11.

What experience have you had sharing 9/11 with young people? Was there any child in your own life you needed to tell about it?
No, and in fact the idea for writing this book wasn’t mine at all. It came from Liza Baker, my editor at Little, Brown, at the time. She had seen on 60 Minutes that children were growing up not knowing about 9/11, and she said, “Would you like to try writing this book?” I immediately said, “Nope, I’m not going to do it.” The more I thought about it, though, over several months, it burrowed deep inside my soul. My background is in teaching, and I love the idea of teachers teaching my books. That helped me frame the novel in a fifth-grade classroom, which gave me distance from the event itself. It also gave me room to imagine how an elementary school curriculum would teach it, as well as how the children themselves would perceive what happened, particularly if they find out that 9/11 has affected them quite personally. I think that’s the key to this book. When I actually went and visited schools, I learned they were not teaching 9/11, that the teachers felt the trauma was too immediate. Yet the world has changed so much because of terrorism, so much since 9/11. It seemed wrong to me that children did not have a sense of it, a place to talk about it, to understand how the world they’re growing up in is unlike any other world we’ve ever had before. It should be discussed. It shouldn’t be off-limits.

Was the book inspired by any real schools in Brooklyn?
Absolutely. Brooklyn New School, PS146. The whole wall of their building is glass windows. And they were able to see everything that had happened, and when I went to visit the school, they spoke of how even today the teachers were still traumatized by the event and still unable to talk about it with their students, and so in some ways I wanted to create a book where teachers and families can begin having conversations to inform our kids so our kids can be better citizens.

Sugar Q&A

Tell us about Sugar in three sentences or less.
Sugar is about a spirited, curious girl who wants to play with friends, listen to stories, and have fun. Instead, Sugar [my heroine], an orphan and ex-slave, has to work hard, all day, on a sugar cane plantation [tending cane]. When Chinese workers come to the plantation, Sugar—enchanted by cultural differences and similarities, reaches out to the new community and discovers friendship and dares to dream a new future for herself where she can be free to explore the world and fulfill her dreams.

In both Sugar and your first book for children, Ninth Ward, you write strong, [resilient] female characters. Why do you think this is important?
Sometimes life brings unavoidable hardships like a hurricane in Ninth Ward and lingering aftereffects of slavery in Sugar. But what always matters [to me] is how a person responds—how they use love, hope, and faith to remain resilient and strong. For me, Lanesha and Sugar as characters mirror the beauty and heroism of all girls and the society (neighbors, teachers, parents, foster parents, and friends) that support them.

How did you come to the idea of writing about the post-abolitionist South?
A friend emailed me a review of Lucy Cohen’s book, Chinese in the Post Civil War South: A People Without a History. Ed knew I’d been traveling frequently to Sichuan University in Chengdu, China to teach creative writing. He also knew I’d be captivated by an American history I’d never known. I kept dreaming of Chinese and African Americans in post abolitionist South, working side by side. Then, one day, I visualized a little girl, hands on her hips, complaining, “How come I have to work? How come I can’t play?” Sugar was born.

Why is writing historical fiction for children so important?
While teaching historical facts is important, fictional techniques allow readers to empathize with characters and feel, sense the events via concrete details. Readers “know” history in a fuller, more alive sense. I do believe all of us need to understand our historical past, our nation’s historical past to better understand ourselves, our common humanity and our country.

If readers can take away one thing from this book what would you want that to be?
Young people should believe that they, like Sugar, can make their dreams come true. Being resourceful, unafraid of new cultures and experiences, opens horizons and enriches our common humanity. So to every reader, I say, ”Be bold, be brave, expand your horizons!”

Ninth Ward Q&A

You’ve written other books that take place in New Orleans and write with such affection for the characters if the Ninth Ward. Your connection to the South seems to run deep. Can you talk a little about that connection?

My Grandmother Ernestine who raised me was a southern girl. She’d migrated North seeking a better life for her children; but I always sensed that our urban ghetto didn’t compare to the beauty of the South. Grandmother, never finished elementary school, but she was a terrific storyteller and a gifted healer. She practiced her “rootwork” on us, kids, by insisting on our daily dose of cod liver oil and using herbs for healing burns, cuts, and colds. Grandmother, like Mama Ya-Ya, also believed in signs. For her, numbers, colors, dreams, all had meaning. She’d also told us that we had to burn the leftover hair in our brush, because if we didn’t and a bird found a strand and used it for its’ nest, our hair would “fall right out.” Grandmother was also the wife of an AME Methodist minister and, as in New Orleans, blended African-based spirituality with Christianity.

So, short answer: I’m not a southern girl but I was raised by one. My upbringing provided the perfect entry to understanding the complicated, magical, and mystical world of New Orleans!

Within the first few paragraphs of Ninth Ward readers know that the relationship Mama Ya-Ya and Lanesha have is special. Do your characters speak to you first, or do you visualize them, then give them voice?

I need to hear my character’s voice before I can write about them. In 2005, when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, I was transfixed by new stories and images of the survivors. I kept asking, “What about the children? Still, it wasn’t until 2008 when Hurricane Ike was threatening New Orleans that Lanesha spoke to me. I wrote furiously, trying to honor Lanesha’s voice. As I wrote, Lanesha became more real—became a lively, wonderful three-dimensional girl.

Mama Ya-Ya’s voice is based upon my memory of my grandmother’s voice. However, Mama Ya-Ya’s vulnerability surprised me. She becomes quieter and quieter as the storm approaches. I think children are shocked when grown-ups are confused and don’t know what to do. I was shocked by Mama Ya-Ya’s silence. Eventually, I realized her silence became a “sound”—a cue for Lanesha to grow up.

Lanesha was born with a caul—what’s the significance of her caul? Several characters in the book see ghosts and ghosts—both neutral and benevolent—are a real presence in the book. Can you talk about them? What is it they are looking for?

Lanesha, when she first spoke, told me she was “born with a caul.” A caul is a portion of the amniotic sac that sometimes forms a veil over a newborn’s face. In folklore, this means the child will have “sight.” By announcing her gift, Lanesha was heralding her southern heritage. She was telling me, matter-of-factly, that she accepted and experienced mysteries. It’s impossible to live in New Orleans without experiencing remnants of the past. The architecture, the churches, the above ground cemeteries, and even the music, all incorporate ghosts and echoes of slavery and French and Spanish colonization. Particularly, for African Americans, New Orleans is where African-based spiritual beliefs blended with Catholicism. It is the birthplace of ragtime and jazz, rhythms inspired by African drums. It is a place where medicinal healing by slaves and native peoples produced a “roots” based, holistic tradition. In New Orleans, many African Americans do not believe the dead are accessible. It is not uncommon for someone to talk about receiving comfort and guidance from their ancestors. Dreams, spiritual visitations, and talking with the dead are all part of folklore and cultural and religious traditions.

The ghosts in the book help, I think, to deepen the “sense of place.” New Orleans is a uniquely American city—a mixed-blood stew, historically, and in the present. Most of the ghosts aren’t ready to move on. They feel comfortable, like Lanesha, living in two worlds, the seen and the unseen. In a sense, the ghosts are Lanesha’s alternative community. In “coming of age,” tales, there is always a moment where the child ascends. Mama Ya-Ya is old with waning powers. Her inability to interpret Katrina’s signs is a call for the next generation, for Lanesha, to take charge. This is a natural cycle. The young with their energy and education replace elders who sustained the world as they knew it. Lanesha is getting ready to shape the world, as she knows it—and she “knows” the world as Mama Ya-Ya and her teachers have taught her. The ghosts keep silent about the impending storm because 1) they’ve seen it all, their sense of time is infinite; but their silence, coupled with Mama Ya-Ya’s silence, provides space for Lanesha to find her voice. And she does. To me, this is life. Parents, teachers, and ancestral ghosts (history, if you prefer) will ultimately give way to the next generation. Children will, one day, rule the world.

Jewell Parker Rhodes Biography

My grandmother taught me how to tell stories.

I grew up in a three-story brick house in Pittsburgh, raised by my grandparents. My dad lived there, too, and my aunt, and my sister, and my three cousins. That made nine of us total squeezed into the building, none of us ever finding more than a few minutes of solitude at a time.

To escape the heat and clutter, my grandmother and I sat on our stoop while she told me stories – stories about our family, slavery, her Georgia childhood, stories about love and death and life. I still vividly remember the lessons she taught. “You never need an excuse for joy,” she would say. “Prejudice is sinful – all blood flows red,” she told me. “Wear clean underwear. Don’t let anyone ever think there’s trash in you.” I didn’t realize it then, but my grandmother was also carrying on the African American oral tradition, turning me into another storyteller in a line that’s continued for generations.

At the same time I inhaled books, blowing through them as fast as the librarians could give them to me, buying whatever ones I could afford with the change I got for turning in pop bottles. I read illustrated versions of classics like Robinson Crusoe, The Prince and the Pauper, the Arthurian legends. In my Pittsburgh ghetto, we never saw white people unless we took the bus downtown. I only saw them on the covers of my books.

I wrote my first book ever, “The Last Scream,” when I was eight years old. I illustrated it and bound it in yellow construction paper myself. My teacher encouraged me to read it in front of the class, and when I saw my friends react to the twists and turns of the story, I got my first taste of the power of my own literary voice. But I didn’t think about becoming a novelist until years later.

In third grade, my mother reappeared and took me and my sister to California. I lived there until my teen years, when I became a revolutionary and a flower child. I grew out a bushy Afro, blasted Jimi Hendrix. My mother found it all frustrating and grew tired of parenting me. On my sixteenth birthday, she kicked me out of the house.

When I returned to Pittsburgh, my grandmother took out a loan so she could put me through college at Carnegie-Mellon. At first I studied dance and theater, but one day in my junior year I saw a copy of Gayl Jones’s Corregidora on the library shelf. Black women wrote novels? It was a revelation. I changed my major the very next day to drama criticism, and when I finished my undergrad, I went on to a master’s program in English. As much as I’d adored books as a child, the Pittsburgh school system never taught me the fundamentals of literature and I found myself way behind the rest of my class. I went to the library every day and studied as hard as I could to catch up.

In time, I earned not only my Bachelor’s degree but also my Master’s and a Doctor of Arts from Carnegie-Mellon.

One night, while I paged through a Time-Life cookbook on Creole and Acadian cooking, I came across a slice of Louisiana history: the great Bayou Teché waterway, the traditional “Fais dodo” lullaby, and the voodoo queen Marie Laveau. The story I wrote that night slowly expanded and transformed into Voodoo Dreams, my first novel.

My writing habits at the time were, in retrospect, a little insane. I only ever wrote at night, always with every aspect of the room arranged in a particular way. I wrote everything longhand on yellow legal paper; when I switched to a typewriter, I found I couldn’t make any changes to the story without starting over again from the beginning, retyping and reworking the whole manuscript. Even when I got a computer, the ritual maintained.

At long last, a completed draft of Voodoo Dreams emerged, but no one wanted to publish it. The lack of interest in my book also meant I didn’t get tenure at the university where I worked, and I felt lost, worthless. But eventually, for lack of any better option, I started writing again. I reconceived of the characters and the story just as I rediscovered myself. And finally, nineteen years after I started it, my first novel arrived on shelves.

From there I kept writing – a mystery trilogy, a memoir, two writing guides – but the whole time it felt as though I were practicing to someday write books for children, books with strong little girls who looked like me, the kid of of books I wished I could have read as a kid. When Hurricane Katrina swept Louisiana, I stared at the television, thinking “What about the children?” The cameras only lingered on their terrified faces for moments at a time. Then Lanesha’s voice sprung into my head and I knew I needed to write Ninth Ward.

My stories tend to come to me this way – less like I create them and more like they present themselves to me. One day I was doing the dishes, mulling over what I’d been reading recently about Chinese immigrants working alongside African Americans in the post-slavery South. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little girl with wild hair standing in front of me, hands on her hips, asking, “Why do I have to work? Why can’t I play?” Sugar was born.

Now I’ve written many books for children, read by thousands. These days I spend almost all my time either writing new stories or traveling to meet the kids who have read them. I live with my husband in Seattle, along with two Toy Sheepdogs and a cat. I’m the proud mother of a daughter and a son, and the very proud grandmother of a toddler girl.

I feel tremendously lucky to be where I am today – writing books for kids is truly a dream come true. I’ve always attempt in my stories to capture the morals that meant the most to me growing up: the importance of self-respect, the power of black womanhood, the value of the people closest to us. When children tell me that these lessons resonate with them, it’s the greatest reward I could imagine. Above all else, I hope that my books can play some small part in inspiring a new generation of storytellers to carry on the tradition, maybe in the books they write or the films they direct or the songs they sing, or even in the tales they tell to their own grandchildren, years and years from now, sitting on a porch somewhere.

Want to learn more about Jewell? Read her short story Block Party, or her memoir Porch Stories.

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