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This book is written by Carole Boston Weatherford and Rob Sanders and illustrated by Bryon McCray. The main character in the book is Bayard Rustin and he made the march on Washington for jobs and freedom possible. He was a black gay man who peacefully protested in this march. He learned from Ghandhi that peaceful protesting was the only way his voice would be heard and things would change in their community. Bayard has a lot of passion to make the world a better place for people like him that are treated poorly.

Reference:

A song for the unsung: Bayard Rustin, the man behind the 1963 march on Washington - Jane Addams Peace Association. Jane Addams Peace Association - We envision a future where people actively work to dismantle injustices and build a more peaceful, equitable world. (2024, January 16). https://www.janeaddamschildrensbookaward.org/all-books/a-song-for-the-unsung-bayard-rustin-the-man-behind-the-1963-march-on-washington/

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A Song for the Unsung: Bayard Rustin, the Man Behind the 1963 March on Washington, written by Carole Boston Weatherford and Rob Sanders, illustrated by Byron McCray, and published by Henry Holt Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Macmillan is the winner in the Picture Book category.

A Song for the Unsung: Bayard Rustin, the Man Behind the 1963 March on Washington, written by Carole Boston Weatherford and Rob Sanders, illustrated by Byron McCray, introduces an unsung hero, Bayard Rustin, who made the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom possible. It was where Dr. Martin Luther King (MLK) Jr. delivered his famous "I Have a Dream" speech on August 28, 1963. As a follower of Gandhi, Bayard Rustin shared his knowledge about the principles of nonviolent protest with Dr. King. Authors Carole Boston Weatherford and Rob Sanders inform readers of Bayard Rustin's various life experiences during different stages of his life, and illustrate how Bayard put his heart into the Civil Rights Movement during a challenging period for him as a Quaker Black gay man. The illustrator, Byron McCray, recreates scenes of the 1960s in beautiful collages. Right from the book's cover, readers are introduced to Bayard's passion and energy to make the world a better place for people who were treated unfairly. Back matter adds more information about Bayard Rustin and the March that he organized. An unsung hero, Bayard Rustin is remembered through this picture book, and finally, we hear his song from people he loved.

Authors: Carole Boston Weatherford and Rob Sanders
I llustrator: Byron McCray
Award: 2024 Winner Picture Book Category

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A Song for the Unsung: Bayard Rustin, the Man Behind the 1963 March on Washington - Jane Addams Peace Association

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Read More... from A Song for the Unsung: Bayard Rustin, the Man Behind the 1963 March on Washington

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The Jane Adams Children's Book Award "recognizes children's books of literary and aesthetic excellence that effectively engage children in thinking about peace, social justice, global community, and equity for all people" (Jane Adams 2023). Books that are eligible for the JACBA should be for children form ages 5-14, can be books of all genres or format, and have to be published in the United States of Canada in 2024. Some criteria that the book must follow is it must succeed in "literary, visual, and aesthetic excellence" and "invite diaglogue, passionate responses, purposeful reflection, and deep questioning" (Jane Adams 2023).

I do believe that this book should have won this award. I believe this because it does follow a lot of the criteria. I believe that this book covered more than one question on the website listed. I think the biggest question that it answered was, "How can people of all racial identities, gender identities, religions, abilities, classes, and cultures live and work together equitably and peaceably?" (Jane Adams 2023). This question was answered throughout the book. This book was about about a gay black man conquered his fears and stood up for himself and others around him.

Reference:

Award guidelines - jane addams peace association. Jane Addams Peace Association - We envision a future where people actively work to dismantle injustices and build a more peaceful, equitable world. (2023, October 5). https://www.janeaddamschildrensbookaward.org/book-award/award-guidelines/

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Editors Wade Hudson and Cheryl Willis-Hudson

Submission Details

The selection committee is no longer accepting potential contenders for the 2023 Children's Book Award.

For selection committee address information contact: info@janeaddamspeace.org.

Guidelines

The Jane Addams Children's Book Award annually recognizes children's books of literary and aesthetic excellence that effectively engage children in thinking about peace, social justice, global community, and equity for all people.

Eligibility

Books eligible for this Award:

Should be suitable for children ages five through fourteen.

May be books of any length, genre, or format.

Must be published in the United States or Canada in the calendar year preceding the award year.

Author/Illustrator Jessica Love

Criteria

Books commended by the Addams Award meet the following two criteria:

Exemplify literary, visual and aesthetic excellence

Invite dialogue, passionate response, purposeful reflection, and deep questioning related to one or more of the following:

How can people work with compassion, empathy, and activism to advance Jane Addams' belief that achieving true peace means more than ending war; it means ensuring justice for all people?

How can people of all racial identities, gender identities, religions, abilities, classes, and cultures live and work together equitably and peaceably?

How can people, especially young people, break cycles of fear? How can they respond creatively, nonviolently, and humanely to injustice and conflict?

How can people work together to address problems and oppression caused by prejudice, war, violence, social injustice, racism, sexism, heteronormativity, ageism, classism, ableism, and all hierarchies of power and opportunity?

How can people build respect and understanding of differences and of the worth and importance of all individuals and groups?

How can people work for power and equality for women throughout the world?

-Adopted by the Jane Addams Peace Association, December 2016

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Award Guidelines | Jane Addams Children's Book Award | JAPA

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Each book submitted must meet the award guidelines and criteria outlined to be eligible for the Jane Addams Children's Book Award.

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There were 3 reviews on the CLCD. The first review was done by Annie Masters. Annie wrote in her review what the book was about and what she enjoyed about the book. At the end of the review, she states that this book should be read by all students. She says that the book should be at home, in the classroom, and in the school library. I do agree with her review since she enjoys the book a lot and the ways she describes the book is something I haven't thought of before. Annie also got her source from Children's Literature. The next review was done by Kirkus Review. This reviewer mostly just explained what the book was about and some other information that was not included in the book. This reviewer seemed to also enjoy the book by the way they were writing about the book. Kirkus review got their source from Kirkus. The last review was done by Michael Cart. Michael really seemed to enjoy the book and he also stated some new facts in the review. At the end of his review he states, "The result is a splendid tribute to a true hero of the civil rights movement" (Cart, 2022). Michael's source was from Booklist.

Reference:

CLCD. (n.d.). CLCD Enterprise. https://enterprise.clcd.com/

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Throughout this course, I have read a lot of helpful articles that also cover some information in this book. The article that stood out to me most that also related to this book was, Young Readers by Christopher Myers. Throughout this article it talks about the author telling us that all children's books should be for every child. Children's books should have something all children can relate to and understand what the book is talking about. I believe that this book really stands out to me and it is a book that all kids should read and understand. This article relates and covers a lot of what is in the book and how all kids should know what this book is about.

Reference:

Myers, C. (n.d.). Young dreamers. The Horn Book. https://www.hbook.com/story/young-dreamers

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I had wanted to write something funny.

I thought I had something to add to recent discussions about the diversity and lack thereof in children's literature - a unique perspective, perhaps.

I was raised in the midst of these conversations about cultural diversity in children's media. My father, Walter Dean Myers, has been on the frontlines of this debate since he published his first book in 1969. Mealtime conversations were a steady diet of thinking about the effects and importance of images of people of color, of women, of poor people, of queer people. As a child I was allowed to watch as much television as I could stand, but I would have to keep a yellow legal pad beside me and record what I saw black people doing, or women doing, or Asian people doing. I learned how so much storytelling uses stereotypes and how media shapes our perceptions of others and ourselves. This type of activity was common in my childhood, and so there are moments in this particular debate (which regularly creeps to the front pages, every four years or so, like the Olympics or the World Cup) when there are incongruities that I find humorous.

It's strange that we pretend shock at the stagnation, that the numbers of books explicitly dealing with the lives of children of color have not changed significantly in years, though we all purport to keep our fingers on the pulse of this dynamic industry. It's strange that we search high and wide for causes and solutions, when the solutions are in our very hands, and the causes as well.

I thought I would write an essay that would lace some of this "real talk" with humor, because this conversation, as we have been having it, is old and dry and dour; it is full of chastening, scapegoats, and ashes. And if there's one thing I know about children, and children's literature, guilt and self-flagellation are not gifts I want to give to young people.

I really wanted to write something funny.

But today I cannot find a smile.

Last night, the man who shot and killed a young brother, Trayvon Martin, was found not guilty. I have since been vacillating between emotions - sadness, frustration, an acute sense of my own vulnerability as a black man (the police stops, the endless debates with security at publishers as to why I don't need to go to the messenger entrance), and finally a sense of responsibility.

It is that sense of responsibility I want to share with you.

The recent release of figures by the Cooperative Children's Book Center is filled with percentages. The good folks in Madison have taken the time to compile statistics, breaking down the numbers of books that feature children of color. Those numbers are dismal and symptomatic of the stagnation that has taken hold of our well-meaning industry. But as with most metrics, they only tell part of the story, and rely on some underlying and underexplored assumptions.

There is some idea that the percentage of books featuring children of color ought to reflect the percentage of children of color in the country. One hears echoes of this idea in all of the "mirroring, reflecting" rhetoric that pervades discussions of literature for young people. From the countless literacy programs that tout the "one good book" notion of creating lifelong readers to the endless anecdotes of authors, illustrators, and readers who identify this or that book in which "they saw themselves for the first time." While these narratives are often true and heart-warming in their way, this shock of recognition, I think, misses the major point of literature. Literature is a place for imagination and intellect, for stretching the boundaries of our own narrow lives, for contextualizing the facts of our nonfictions within constellations of understanding that we would not be able to experience from the ground, for bringing our dreams and fictions into detail, clarity, and focus. Books allow us a bird's-eye view of our own lives, and especially how our lives relate to those lives around us.

Part of me would like to make an individual book for each and every child I come across, draw careful sweet portraits of all the Trayvons, Sams, Chitras, Sheilas, and Sadias. But I am less interested in that simple mirroring than in making stories that define the kinds of communities in which those children will grow up. The dual impulse and constant stress of our industry is this tension between the way our work shapes culture, our innovation and imagination, and the way it reflects culture, our inclusion in the amorphous and ever-blameworthy scapegoat that is "the market." As important as that shock of recognition may be to a child of color, I believe that creating an understanding of what a diverse society ought to look like for all children is more important. I want the kids who read my books to have a framework with which to understand the people they might meet, or even the people that they are becoming. I want the children who see my books to see an encounter with the other as an opportunity, not a threat.

The rhetoric of the trial hinged on precisely this question: whether or not this young black boy, with his bag of candy and his iced tea and his sweatshirt, was a threat. Here is also where I see my responsibility. Although it is unfair, and although it comes with an intricate history, I have the opportunity with every book I make to write this boy as even less a threat than he already isn't. I get to do in a very public way, that which I do personally every day.

Years ago I stopped wearing hoodies. I found that particular article of clothing would often run me afoul of authorities and had women in elevators clutching their purses ever tighter. But I have found that even when I am not wearing this supposedly threatening piece of clothing, I still wear it metaphorically. My speech, my bearing - so much of it is calculated to direct others' expectations of me, the associations that come from my race, my metaphorical hoodie. Every meeting with a publisher or media person in which I surprise them with my knowledge of ballet, Vietnamese history, classical mythology, international development, or semiotic theory (topics that I suppose I am not expected to know); every "surprise" of my own identity serves to take that metaphorical hoodie off.

And my work, our work, can serve to do the same for boys like me, like Trayvon Martin. I started as an illustrator, someone who is concerned with images and originality. I habitually catalog images, collecting the clichés so as to avoid them or invert them or play with them. I work to change the popular images of those who have suffered violence to their image, of young women, of working-class people, and especially of young black men, of myself. Images matter. They linger in our hearts, vast "image libraries" that color our actions and ideas, even if we don't recognize them on a conscious level. The plethora of threatening images of young black people has real-life effects. But if people can see us as young dreamers, boys with hopes and doubts and playfulness, instead of potential threats or icons of societal ills, perhaps they will feel less inclined to kill us.

Immediately after this latest boy was shot, as the pundits and commentators circled like vultures, one said that Trayvon's hoodie had killed him. I thought this statement to be an odd bit of rhetorical misdirection, a cynical sidestepping of the hollow-point bullet that pierced the boy's chest. But the illustrator in me couldn't help but mentally catalog images of black boys in hoods. I wondered: if the man who killed Trayvon Martin had read The Snowy Day as a kid, would it have been as easy for him to see a seventeen-year-old in a hoodie, pockets full of rainbow candies and sweet tea, as a threat? What might have been different if images of round-headed Peter and his red hood and his snow angels were already dancing in his head?

So here, then, is my responsibility. To make images, to tell stories, to trouble the narratives that pervade so many people's secret hearts and minds. To make books in which black people are not flat emblems of our divided nation, flag bearers for guilt or fractious history, but instead humans full of laughter and love and care for one another and their diverse communities. To augment and enrich the image libraries people carry in their hearts; to give them more than slain civil rights leaders and escaped slaves, people whose lives are steeped in violence both literal and figurative, akin to a McGuffey Reader of tolerance and just as desiccate. Instead, I want to give my readers spaceships, clowns, and unicorns, to depict whole human beings, to allow the children in my books to have the childhoods they ought to have, where surely there are lessons and context and history, but there is also fantasy and giggling and play. To encourage them to open their hearts when they see someone who looks like me, even if that person is in the mirror.

It is a responsibility I hope we share, all of us who love literature and children. It is the responsibility that lies behind the percentages, behind the numbers, beyond the market. When we make books, or write about books, or purchase books, we are affirming a vision of the communities in which we want to live. Through books, we outline a vision for our future. We can no longer stand for our futures to be isolated, segregated, lonely, and angry. We can no longer turn a blind eye to stories that create worlds in which difference is viewed as a burden, a dry educational tool, a threat - or, worse, is simply rendered silent and invisible. Those fictional worlds have very real effects. There are children with fear in their hearts, there are children in caskets, and it is up to us to help the next generations avoid those fates.

Now I will go and write something for those kids, all of them, and it will be funny, I hope, because there are enough sad things in the world, because we are most human when we laugh with one another, feel with one another. This is the point of literature, to widen our view beyond ourselves, to take part in that implied and idyllic community of readers. As a lucky member of that community, who also can make such books, I have a responsibility, one I share with all of you, to create that world in which we want to live, a world with fewer children in caskets. The stories we tell and support, the ones that are funny, or sweet, or heartfelt, are the best way to turn that responsibility into a reality.

This article originally appeared here online; it was reprinted in the November/December 2013 issue of The Horn Book Magazine.

To commemorate Black History Month, we are highlighting a series of articles, speeches, and reviews from The Horn Book archive that are by and/or about African American authors, illustrators, and luminaries in the field - one a day through the month of February, with a roundup on Fridays. Click the tag HBBlackHistoryMonth18 and look for #HBBlackHistoryMonth18 on Facebook.com/TheHornBook and @HornBook. You can find more resources about social justice and activism at our Talking About Race and Making a Difference resource pages.

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A Song for the Unsung: Bayard Rustin, the Man Behind the 1963 March on Washington

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A Song for the Unsung: Bayard Rustin, the Man Behind the 1963 March on Washington

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Jane Adams Award Winner 2024

Karlie Vanek