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Brown girl dreaming [sound recording] /

by Woodson, Jacqueline [author,].
Material type: materialTypeLabelSoundPublisher: Books on Tape 2014; Publisher: New York, New York : Listening Library, [2014]Edition: Unabridged.Description: 4 audio discs (3 hr., 56 min.) ; 4 3/4 in.ISBN: 9780553397260 : CMD; 0553397265 : CMD.Uniform titles: Poems. Selections.Subject(s): Woodson, Jacqueline -- Juvenile poetry | Authors, American -- 20th century -- Biography -- Juvenile poetry | African American women authors -- Biography -- Juvenile poetry | Woodson, Jacqueline -- Poetry | Authors, American -- Poetry | African American women authors -- Poetry | Women -- Biography -- Poetry | African Americans -- Biography -- Poetry | Autobiographical poetry | Audiobooks | Children's audiobooksRead by the author.Summary: In vivid poems that reflect the joy of finding her voice through writing stories, an award-winning author shares what it was like to grow up in the 1960s and 1970s in both the North and the South.
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Item type Home library Collection Shelving location Call number Status Date due Barcode
Audio Books Audio Books Altadena Main Library
Children's Collection Children's Audiobooks JUV SBC C.D. BIO WOO J. Available 39270003532599

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

Jacqueline Woodson, one of today's finest writers, tells the moving story of her childhood in mesmerizing verse. <p>Raised in South Carolina and New York, Woodson always felt halfway home in each place. In vivid poems, she shares what it was like to grow up as an African American in the 1960s and 1970s, living with the remnants of Jim Crow and her growing awareness of the Civil Rights movement. Touching and powerful, each poem is both accessible and emotionally charged, each line a glimpse into a child's soul as she searches for her place in the world. Woodson's eloquent poetry also reflects the joy of finding her voice through writing stories, despite the fact that she struggled with reading as a child. Her love of stories inspired her and stayed with her, creating the first sparks of the gifted writer she was to become. <p>Praise for Jacqueline Woodson: <br>Ms. Woodson writes with a sure understanding of the thoughts of young people, offering a poetic, eloquent narrative that is not simply a story . . . but a mature exploration of grown-up issues and self-discovery."-- The New York Times Book Review

"Books on Tape"--Container.

Read by the author.

In vivid poems that reflect the joy of finding her voice through writing stories, an award-winning author shares what it was like to grow up in the 1960s and 1970s in both the North and the South.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

<opt> <anon I1="BLANK" I2="BLANK">february 12, 1963 I am born on a Tuesday at the University Hospital Columbus, Ohio USA-- a country caught between Black and White. I am born not long from the time or far from the place where my great, great grandparents worked the deep rich land unfree dawn till dusk unpaid drank cool water from scooped out gourds looked up and followed the sky's mirrored constellation to freedom. I am born as the south explodes, too many people too many years enslaved then emancipated but not free, the people who look like me keep fighting and marching and getting killed so that today-- February 12, 1963 and every day from this moment on, brown children, like me, can grow up free. Can grow up learning and voting and walking and riding wherever we want. I am born in Ohio but the stories of South Carolina already run like rivers through my veins. second daughter's second day on earth    My birth certificate says: Female Negro  Mother: Mary Anne Irby, 22, Negro  Father: Jack Austin Woodson, 25, Negro   In Birmingham, Alabama, Martin Luther King Jr.  is planning a march on Washington, where  John F. Kennedy is president.  In Harlem, Malcolm X is standing on a soapbox  talking about a revolution.    Outside the window of University Hospital,  snow is slowly falling. So much already  covers this vast Ohio ground.    In Montgomery, only seven years have passed  since Rosa Parks refused  to give up  her seat on a city bus.    I am born brown-skinned, black-haired  and wide-eyed.  I am born Negro here and Colored there    and somewhere else,  the Freedom Singers have linked arms,  their protests rising into song:  Deep in my heart, I do believe  that we shall overcome someday.    and somewhere else, James Baldwin  is writing about injustice, each novel,  each essay, changing the world.    I do not yet know who I'll be  what I'll say  how I'll say it . . .    Not even three years have passed since a brown girl  named Ruby Bridges  walked into an all-white school.  Armed guards surrounded her while hundreds  of white people spat and called her names.    She was six years old.    I do not know if I'll be strong like Ruby.  I do not know what the world will look like  when I am finally able to walk, speak, write . . .  Another Buckeye!  the nurse says to my mother.  Already, I am being named for this place.  Ohio. The Buckeye State.  My fingers curl into fists, automatically  This is the way,  my mother said,  of every baby's hand.  I do not know if these hands will become  Malcolm's--raised and fisted  or Martin's--open and asking  or James's--curled around a pen.  I do not know if these hands will be  Rosa's  or Ruby's  gently gloved  and fiercely folded  calmly in a lap,  on a desk,  around a book,  ready  to change the world . . .       it'll be scary sometimes    My great-great-grandfather on my father's side  was born free in Ohio,    1832.    Built his home and farmed his land,  then dug for coal when the farming  wasn't enough. Fought hard  in the war. His name in stone now  on the Civil War Memorial:    William J. Woodson  United States Colored Troops,  Union, Company B 5th Regt.    A long time dead but living still  among the other soldiers  on that monument in Washington, D.C.    His son was sent to Nelsonville  lived with an aunt    William Woodson  the only brown boy in an all-white school.    You'll face this in your life someday,  my mother will tell us  over and over again.  A moment when you walk into a room and    no one there is like you.    It'll be scary sometimes. But think of William Woodson  and you'll be all right.       the beginning    I cannot write a word yet but at three,  I now know the letter  J  love the way it curves into a hook  that I carefully top with a straight hat  the way my sister has taught me to do. Love  the sound of the letter and the promise  that one day this will be connected to a full name,    my own    that I will be able to write    by myself.    Without my sister's hand over mine,  making it do what I cannot yet do.    How amazing these words are that slowly come to me.  How wonderfully on and on they go.    Will the words end,  I ask  whenever I remember to.    Nope,  my sister says, all of five years old now,  and promising me    infinity.       hair night    Saturday night smells of biscuits and burning hair.  Supper done and my grandmother has transformed  the kitchen into a beauty shop. Laid across the table  is the hot comb, Dixie Peach hair grease,  horsehair brush, parting stick  and one girl at a time.  Jackie first,  my sister says,  our freshly washed hair damp  and spiraling over toweled shoulders  and pale cotton nightgowns.  She opens her book to the marked page,  curls up in a chair pulled close  to the wood-burning stove, bowl of peanuts in her lap.  The words  in her books are so small, I have to squint  to see the letters.  Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates.  The House at Pooh Corner. Swiss Family Robinson.  Thick books  dog-eared from the handing down from neighbor  to neighbor. My sister handles them gently,  marks the pages with torn brown pieces  of paper bag, wipes her hands before going  beyond the hardbound covers.  Read to me,  I say, my eyes and scalp already stinging  from the tug of the brush through my hair.  And while my grandmother sets the hot comb  on the flame, heats it just enough to pull  my tight curls straighter, my sister's voice  wafts over the kitchen,  past the smell of hair and oil and flame, settles  like a hand on my shoulder and holds me there.  I want silver skates like Hans's, a place  on a desert island. I have never seen the ocean  but this, too, I can imagine--blue water pouring  over red dirt.  As my sister reads, the pictures begin forming  as though someone has turned on a television,  lowered the sound,  pulled it up close.  Grainy black-and-white pictures come slowly at me  Deep. Infinite. Remembered    On a bright December morning long ago . . .    My sister's clear soft voice opens up the world to me.  I lean in  so hungry for it.    Hold still now,  my grandmother warns.  So I sit on my hands to keep my mind  off my hurting head, and my whole body still.  But the rest of me is already leaving,  the rest of me is already gone.       the butterfly poems    No one believes me when I tell them  I am writing a book about butterflies,  even though they see me with the  Childcraft  encyclopedia  heavy on my lap opened to the pages where  the monarch, painted lady, giant swallowtail and  queen butterflies live. Even one called a buckeye.    When I write the first words  Wings of a butterfly whisper . . .    no one believes a whole book could ever come  from something as simple as  butterflies that  don't even,  my brother says,  live that long.    But on paper, things can live forever.  On paper, a butterfly  never dies. Excerpted from Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.</anon> </opt>

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Horn Book Review

In this memoir in verse, Woodson offers an intimate, immediate portrait of her unfolding childhood, haunted by specters of discrimination and cheered by the comfort of family. The author's own narration, with the resonance of a storyteller, is plainly conversational. Her easy cadence leaves phrases open, ready to accept the next line, establishing a comfortable, familiar rhythm perfectly suited to the natural verse. Never calling attention to itself, Woodson's honest reading, with nuanced pauses, inflections, and occasional whispers, invests the emotional impact in service to the poetry, where it belongs. The memoir is already receiving lots of attention, and this audio production offers another entry point into a compelling, transformative life story. thom barthelmess (c) Copyright 2014. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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