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https://jacquelinewoodson.com/product/the-day-you-begin/
A lovely story about how our difference make us special.

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There will be times when you walk into a room and no one there is quite like you. So what are you going to do?

Where it takes place:

It takes place every single day all over the world.

Where I wrote it:

Right here in Brooklyn and while I was traveling around the country.

Why I wrote it:

It was inspired by this poem in Brown Girl Dreaming:
it'll be scary sometimes My great-great-grandfather on my father's side Built his home and farmed his land, William J. Woodson
United States Colored Troops,
Union, Company B 5th Regt. A long time dead but living still His son was sent to Nelsonville William Woodson You'll face this in your life someday,

Jane Addams Peace Association

2019 Winner Book for Younger Children

2019 Floyd's Pick Book Award Winner

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 only brown boy in an all-white school.
lived with an aunt
among the other soldiers
on that monument in Washington, D.C.
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:
was born free in Ohio,
Awards

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| The Day You Begin | Jacqueline Woodson

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There will be times when you walk into a room and no one there is quite like you. So what are you going to do?Where it takes place:It takes place every single day all over the worl

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By: Carl Sagan
Focus on writer's moves
Pale Blue Dot text

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By Yangsook Choi

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Skip to Main Content (Press Enter)

"Unhei's reflection and inner strength are noteworthy; cultural details freshen the story, and Choi's gleaming, expressive paintings are always a treasure." - The New York Times

Arkansas Diamond Primary Book Master List WINNER 2003

Arizona Young Readers Award NOMINEE 2005

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The Name Jar by Yangsook Choi: 9780440417996 | PenguinRandomHouse.com: Books

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A heartwarming story about the new girl in school, and how she learns to appreciate her Korean name. Being the new kid in school is hard enough, but what happens when nobody can pronounce your name?...

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By Jason Reynolds
Focus on internal dialogue

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by Linda Sue Park
Focus on change in perspectives

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By Tupac Shakur

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By Langston Hughes
Focus on dialogue

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by Amy Tan
" I fell in love with the minister's son the winter I turned fourteen. He was not Chinese, but as white as Mary in the manger. For Christmas I prayed for this blond-haired boy, Robert, and a slim new American nose."
Focus on identity

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by Matthew A Cherry
Grab the box of tissue before you read this book. This book is such a beautiful story of fatherhood, self-love, and family.

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by Jennifer Dignan
This poem allows for students to write out big or small questions they have, or answer the author's big and small questions.

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by Kevin Noble Maillard
I used this book when my students were studying and discover their identities. This book is perfect for exploring how food is so much more than something we eat.

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Fry Bread A Native American Family Story  - A Celebration of Food, Family, and Culture - Read Aloud

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by Matt de la Peña
Beautiful written book which talks about relationships and perspective. I use this story as a mentor text as a model for descriptive language. This is also a great story to use to review identifying theme.

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By Kobe Bryant
This poem is a great one to use to analyze figurative language and voice. I use the animated short before giving my students the poem.

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Dear Basketball - Kobe Bryant [1978-2020]

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written by LeBron James
My daughter got this book for her birthday and I haven't stopped thanking the friend that got it for her. My daughter and students love this book! It would be a perfect resource to use to introduce mentor text by asking your students to make a list of promises for themselves. Maybe for the school year or for a New Year's Resolution.

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I PROMISE | Storytime with LeBron and Nina

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written by Judith Viorst
This poem is super cute and something students can relate to. We followed the reading with a discussions on something they really want (a pet, phone, game, etc) but it isn't allowed in their house. They came up with some funny poems.

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Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they smell,
And never sit when you say sit,
Or even when you yell.
And when you come home late at night
And there is ice and snow,
You have to go back out because
The dumb dog has to go.

Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they shed,
And always let the strangers in
And bark at friends instead,
And do disgraceful things on rugs,
And track mud on the floor,
And flop upon your bed at night
And snore their doggy snore.

Mother doesn't want a dog.
She's making a mistake.
Because, more than a dog, I think
She will not want this snake.

From If I Were in Charge of the World and Other Worries . . ., published by Macmillan, 1981. Used with permission.

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Mother Doesn't Want a Dog - Mother doesn't want a dog.

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score Mo Williams Score Amber Ren
This book is great to use when teaching cause and effect or personal interests. I love that this book is about how a little girl started loving music so fiercely.
"In row C, seat 14-- sat the girl with the uncle’s ticket. She heard the beautiful music written
by the man named Franz--
and it changed her.

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Amber is a New York Times bestselling illustrator and a visual development artist in the animation industry. She earned her BFA in Character Animation at the California Institute of the Arts. Amber's work is inspired by her love for folk art, nostalgia, inclusion, and her childhood spent in China. When not drawing at her desk, Amber can be found petting her cat, Ruyu, and sipping boba tea. Find Amber online at amber-ren.com.

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Amazon.com: Because: 9781368019019: Willems, Mo, Ren, Amber

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by Sandra Cisneros
I LOVE using this short story with 6th graders at the beginning of the year because they are still so innocent and most child then tween. Cisneros has a creative way of exploring how age is attached to behaviors. Students can connect to these behaviors by writing behaviors that they exhibited at that these certain ages.

“Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or

like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls

that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.”

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What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are-underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.

You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.

Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.

"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."

"Not mine," says everybody. "Not me."

"It has to belong to somebody, "Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.

Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.

"That's not, I don't, you're not...Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.

"Of course it's yours, "Mrs. Price says. " I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.

Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.

But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough, "because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.

"Rachel, "Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."

"But it's not -"

"Now!" Mrs. Price says.

This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me-ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one-are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.

That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.

But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers. I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.

Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.

I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven. Because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.

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What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't.

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by Jory John and Pete Oswald
I used this mentor sentence to have my students explore the author's ideas and conventions.

“I stare at everybody. I glare at everybody. I finish everyone’s sentences. And I never listen. And I do LOTS of other bad things, too. Know why? Because I’m a bad seed. A baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad seed.”

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The Bad Seed – Picture Book Read Aloud | HarperKids Storytime Anytime

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The Write Right Rite series from Jason Reynolds 

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The Write Right Rite series from Jason Reynolds 

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He. is. the. BEST! These videos are not really mentor text, but have amazing writing prompts. My students LOVE when they see his face pop up for our journal writes.

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Welcome to the "Write. Right. Rite.," a "GRAB THE MIC: Tell Your Story" video series! The "Write. Right. Rite." is meant to be an entertaining and inventive way to engage with the National Ambassador for Young People's Literature, Jason Reynolds.

According to Reynolds, the "Write. Right. Rite." is all about learning the ritual of "authentic"-not to be confused with "correct" or "exact"-expression. Throughout the series, Reynolds shares his passion for storytelling while discussing topics like creativity, connection, and imagination. At the end of each video, Reynolds shares a prompt that encourages young people to work toward a specific idea. The activities are fun-filled and some are more challenging than others, but Reynolds always makes sure to include brainstorming "get-you-going" questions.

So, what do you say? Are you ready to dive into, try on, and work through all the "Write. Right. Rite." episodes?

Go for it!

Watch the Entire "Write. Right. Rite." Series:

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Research Guides: Jason Reynolds, National Ambassador for Young People's Literature: "Write. Right. Rite." Series

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On January 13, 2020, Jason Reynolds was announced as the seventh National Ambassador for Young People's Literature. Learn more about Jason and his activities as National Ambassador through this guide.

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I was introduced to this flyer during IAWP- summer session and loved the conversation that followed between my peers. I wanted to see what would happen if I used this has a mentor text with my students, and they did not disappoint! This flyer led was a fun discussion with tons of inferencing. See comments for the whole story.

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This poem, written by Nikki Giovanni, is great for students learning how to use mentor text. Students can list activities from their summer or their favorite season.

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I was born in the congo
I walked to the fertile crescent and built
the sphinx
I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
that only glows every one hundred years falls
into the center giving divine perfect light
I am bad

I gazed on the forest and burned
out the sahara desert
with a packet of goat's meat
and a change of clothes
I crossed it in two hours
I am a gazelle so swift
so swift you can't catch me

For a birthday present when he was three
I gave my son hannibal an elephant
He gave me rome for mother's day
My strength flows ever on

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended
except by my permission

I mean . . . I . . . can fly
like a bird in the sky . . .

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I was born in the congo I walked to the fertile crescent and built the sphinx I designed a pyramid so tough that a star that only glows every one hundred years falls into the center giving divine perfect light I am bad I gazed on the forest and burned