The Color of My Words

by Lynn Joseph Narrated by Lisa Vidal

Overview

Ana Rosa is a blossoming young writer growing up in a poor seaside village in the Dominican Republic. At the young age of twelve, she finds herself faced with turning points that will make up who she is-watching her brother's search for a future, learning to dance and to love, and finding out what it means to be a part of a community.

But in a country where words are feared, Ana Rosa must struggle to find her own voice and the means for it to be heard. Gradually she learns that her words have the power to transform the world around her-celebrating what is most beautiful on her island and transcending even the most unthinkable of tragedies.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

In finely wrought chapters that at times read more like a collection of related short stories than a novel, Joseph (Jump Up Time) presents slices from the life of Ana Rosa just as she is about to turn 13. Through the heroine's poetry and recollections, readers gain a rare intimate view of life in the Dominican Republic. Ana Rosa dreams of becoming a writer even though no one but the president writes books; she learns to dance the merengue by listening to the rhythms of her beloved ocean; and the love of her older brother, Guario, comforts her through many difficulties. The author's portraits of Ana Rosa and her family are studies in spare language; the chapters often grow out of one central image--such as the gri gri tree where Ana Rosa keeps watch over her village and gets ideas for her writing--giving the novel the feel of an extended prose poem. The brevity of the chapters showcases Joseph's gift for metaphoric language (e.g., her description of Ana Rosa's first crush: "My dark eyes trailed him like a line of hot soot wherever he went"). When the easy rhythms of the girl's island life abruptly change due to two major events, the author develops these cataclysms so subtly that readers may not feel the impact as fully as other events, such as the heroine's unrequited love. Still, it's a testimony to the power of Joseph's writing that the developments readers will empathize with most are those of greatest importance to her winning heroine. Ages 8-12. (Aug.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|

School Library Journal

Gr 5-8- Narrator Lisa Vidal superbly captures the voice of a young Dominican girl caught between the fire of her creative dreams and the realities of her role in a politically repressive society in Lynn Joseph's poignant novel (HarperCollins, 2000). Weaving the rhythms of her culture with her own poetic style, 12-year-old Ana Rosa vividly depicts life on her island homeland. She longs to be a writer, but with no money for paper, she writes on brown bags, napkins, and even in her brother's waiter's notebook. Onto these blank pages, she pours out the heartbreak of her first love, the shock of discovering her beloved Papi is not her real father, and her despair over the government's decision to raze their village. Although self-expression is dangerous in this political climate, Ana Rosa' s mother urges her to follow her heart. Soon after, Ana Rosa is chosen to write a protest to the newspaper in an effort to halt the destruction of their village. Her first taste of celebrity is tinged with heartbreak, as it results in the death of her beloved brother, Guario. Vowing never to write again, Ana Rosa sinks into despair until she realizes that she can use her gift to bring her brother to life again on paper. This is the story of his heroism told through the eyes of an adoring younger sister. The sprinkling of Spanish words throughout adds just the right touch to this richly crafted tale of the triumph of spirit in the face of poverty and oppression.-Laurie Edwards, Dauphin County Library System, Harrisburg, PA Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

From the Publisher

An achingly beautiful story.” — Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Eloquent.” — ALA Booklist (starred review)

“Finely wrought.” — Publisher's Weekly

“Poetically structured, vividly imagined.” — The Horn Book

“Lovely and lyrical.” — School Library Journal

ALA Booklist (starred review)

Eloquent.

The Horn Book

Poetically structured, vividly imagined.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940172103605
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	06/09/2009
Edition description:	Unabridged
Age Range:	8 - 11 Years

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Sometimes you have no control over what will happen next, as I discovered the year I was twelve years old'but sometimes you do. And when you do, that's when it is time to take charge because you sure don't know when the chance will come again.

Wash Day

Saturday is wash day for Mami and medown by the river that flows to the sea.We carry the baskets high on our hips. We juggle the soap, the scrub board, and clips.

Our friends wave hola as we slippery-slide On river—age stones to the other side.Where sun rays glimmer on a whisper of shade.And Mami and me tie our hair up in braids.

Then WHACK! I smack the clothes on the rocksto scare out all dirt and grassy spots.Mami scrubs them up and down,and we both swirl them round and round.

Sparkling white, and river cleanthe clothes smell like fresh-air dreams.We clip them safe to bushes and treesto dry in the sun and flap in the breeze.Later, under the moon's blue lightMami and me smooth the wrinkled clothes right.We fold them into neat little squaresAnd take them back home for all to wear.

Wash day was the day i'd get Mami all to myself. For me it was the best day of the week. Unless it rained. Then I'd have to keep on sharing Mami with everyone, especially Papi, who sat on the porch and never moved. Mami had no time to pat her hair down, let alone share private thoughts the way we did on wash day.

At the river's edge, I'd tell Mami all the special things I had thought about during the week. If I wrote a new poem, I would recite it to her while we dipped our hands into the cool water. Itwas just me and her and the river. No other hands, no other ears.

Mami was the only person who knew I wanted to write books when I grew up. I knew it was a strange thing to want to do, because we sure didn't know any writers around here. In fact, Papi told me that in the República Dominicana, only the President could write books.

I think it's true. I went to the libreria and I saw a lot of books by President Balaguer. I told Mami this during one wash day. We were pounding the clothes with rocks, and I gripped mine hard as I beat the dirt out of Papi's overalls and my brother Guario's waiter uniforms.

Mami didn't say anything. She just kept turning her sheet over and over as she pounded away. Finally she looked up and said, “Ana Rosa, there always has to be a first person to do something.”

I think Mami was telling me that there was no reason why I couldn't try and be the first writer who wasn't President of our Island. Either that or she was hinting that I should run for President, and then if I won I could write what I wanted.

Sometimes Mami's words are a puzzle. I have to spin them around and around in my head as if I am doing a mental merengue. Sooner or later I figure out the dance, but sometimes I wish she would just say what she means straight out.

Papi might sound as if he is talking in a puzzle, but I always know exactly what he means. Like when I asked him if I could have a notebook just for writing my poems in. He said, “Muchacha, your head is getting bigger than your hat.”

When I told Mami this on our next wash day, she laughed. But I could tell the laugh was only in her throat and not in her heart.

“Your papi says funny things sometimes, carino,” she said. “He's a dreamer.”

“A dreamer?” I asked. “How can you say that, Mami? All Papi does is sit on the porch and drink rum.”

Mami's hand shot out faster than a lizard under a rock. I felt the pain on my cheek before I realized what had happened.

“You have no hair on your tongue, chica. Be careful!”

I swallowed my tears and beat the clothes harder. Wash day had never been a day of sharp words and slaps. I felt as if Papi was a rock falling down from the hills and into our river. After the big splash, there was nothing but silence.In daylight, silence is louder and angrier than at any other time. There are no sweet measures of silence such as night's stars, or evening's sunset, or morning's growing light. There is only bright, hard silence and it sounds louder than drums.

I glanced over at Mami. She was dipping the clothes into the river. “Look, Ana Rosa,” she said. “Look at the river.”

I looked. The water rushed around Mami's brown knees and through her blistered red fingers, leaving wet kisses on her skin.

“It'll never pass this way again,” she said. “Off it will go down to the sea, where it will foam with the waves and swim with the fish and glide ships along on steady or rough courses depending on its mood. Around and around the world it will go, this water that slips by me so quickly. Far from the República Dominicana, far from me, but always under the same sky and sun.”

I had never heard Mami say so much at one time. I looked closely at the river but I could not see all that she saw in it.

“You are this river, Ana Rosa,” she whispered. “But you must flow softly around the rocks on your way to meet the sea. There you can do as you wish.”

Mami's words were gentle. But her brown eyes were slits of worry like moon slices on a dark night. There was no happiness in the smile she gave me.

Many days and nights I thought about Mami's words. But no matter how I turned them or shook them or chased them from my mind, they always came back telling me the same thing. Mami was scared.

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