You know those books where they're so good you're furious at yourself for not knowing the book before, not reading it sooner? Reading one of those at the mo
And this line! 'All at once, a door slammed. Everyone jumped, but Sal, partly because she'd been lost in a world of her own and partly because of her cerebral palsy, leaped a good two inches higher than everyone else.' There's that startle reflex, being written about in 1962!
I can't imagine how mindblowing it would have been for disabled kids to not only see themselves in a book in 1962, but in the illustrations, too!
ID: An illustration by Lewis Parker, which shows a child called Sally Copeland standing on crutches and looking down at a small dog.
This illustration is from the late Jean Little's first book, Mine for Keeps
And this paragraph! 'Sal could feel her face redden as Elsje's mother looked at her. When you were at home or at school, she thought unhappily, where everyone was used to seeing you, you forgot all about having cerebral palsy.'
(Continued)
'But when you went to strange places and people looked at you the way Mrs. Jansen was looking, with sorry, extra-kind eyes, then you had to remember and feel different.'
The novel is full of these small moments, which a nondisabled author would never be able to grasp.
So I just finished reading Mine for Keeps (spoilers ahead). The novel ends with our disabled protagonist, Sally Copeland, feeling enormous joy.
That may not sound like much, but disabled characters rarely get happy endings in books, even now. The trope that disability is synonymous with misery is still prevalent. And here's this book, all the way from 1962, defiantly asserting the happiness of Sally Copeland.
What struck me while I was reading the book was just how much is left unsaid about Sally, something that a nondisabled author would never have the gumption to do. Sally is never treated, on the page, like a rare species sighting that needs to be explained.
Hell, if I read that kind of respectful treatment of a disabled character in a book that was published yesterday, it would be refreshing. I can't fathom how kids in 1962 would have reacted to it.
Mine for Keeps went on to be a bestseller, and over fifty years after it was first published, it's still in print. The novel began Jean Little's career, which would see her write more than fifty books. Little died at the age of 88 last April. She was working on a third memoir.
Talking about writing Mine for Keeps, Little said 'I decided someone had to write a realistic book. I wanted kids to find children like themselves in the books they read.' Little made sure disabled kids could see themselves in books, and so much more.
• • •
Missing some Tweet in this thread? You can try to
force a refresh
In 2006, nondisabled school children (in Years Two to Six) were asked for their thoughts on whether disability appeared enough in the books they read. Here's what they said. These quotes are from a 2006 Booktrust Report.
The schoolchildren noticed disability wasn't in the books they read. They commented,
'The world is portrayed in a different way than it is.'
'If I was disabled, I would feel that books are made for the rest of society and not for disabled people.'
'I would feel that books are avoiding the subject and not acknowledging that people like me exist.'
I am so excited to read @BooksandChokers's second novel!! I read A Kind of Spark on Christmas Day in one sitting. Elle's one of the most thrilling literary voices to emerge in a long, long time. If you haven't had the pleasure of reading her work, go read her essential words!
ID: A white hand holding a book in front of a bookcase. The book is Show Us Who You Are, by Elle McNicoll. The cover shows two girls with a backpack. One side of the cover (and one girl) is blue, and the other purple.
Also some deep part of my soul is satisfied when an author's books are the same size.
One of the clearest childhood memories I have is getting out of a car in a disabled space. As I got in my wheelchair, an old man started spitting, 'you're too young to be in that parking spot, too young to be in that wheelchair.' Well, guess what, #DisabilityHasNoAgeRequirement
If I had a penny for every time someone's said I'm too young to be disabled, I would be richer than my wildest dreams. As an adult and a child, people always tell me I'm too young, or that I must be faking. #DisabilityHasNoAgeRequirement
I've been informed that after the person said this, I rammed my wheelchair's leg rests straight into his shins lmao
Hello, it's me, your local disabled queer, here to remind you that the LGBTQIA+ community includes ALOT of disabled people, like yours truly 💅🏼💋💁🏼♀️♿️ #LetsCelebrateLGBTQIA#LikeAGoodGaybour
Image descriptions as Twitter is unreliable.
Image 1 (left): Karl, a white man with curly brown hair, looks down at the camera with a tilted head. He is wearing glasses, red lipstick, and a blue vest which says 'Venice.'
Image 2 (Right): Karl, a white dude with curly brown hair, smiling directly into the camera. He is wearing glasses, red lipstick, and a blue vest which says 'Venice.' One hand is scratching his cheek, a wristwatch strap is visible on his arm.
Here's the last poem I'll share from the 1989 anthology, Measles and Sneezles, 'In hospital' by seven year old Edward Mooney. The illustration is by Susie Jenkin-Pearce.
Alt text: In Hospital by Edward Mooney. The illustration shows a boy holding a teddy and waving to a doctor down the hall. He is following his mother. The poem reads:
'Doctors hurrying/Nurses scurrying/and me worried in my room.//Doctors talking,/Nurses walking/And me listening in my room.//Doctors looking,/Nurses watching/And me lying in my room.//Doctors standing,/Nurses waving/And me going to my home.'
Here's a poem about hospital, by fifteen year old Brian Geary. The illustration is by Susie Jenkin-Pearce.
'A quick rush for the play area, but/your mother's firm hand pressing on your shoulder/automatically suggesting no.'
Alt text: Hospital by Brian Geary. An illustration of a boy whizzing down a corridor in a wheelchair is above the poem. The poem reads:
'The white walls, echoing, lonely corridors/Seem unwelcoming for a caring place./The staring nurses and patients,/The abrupt and brief talk with the lean/Lady behind reception, her glasses distorting the reflections/of the gathering place./