Looking at this book actually made me tear up a little. Going through some boxes I saw this lying at the bottom and was instantly transported across space and time to my childhood. I remembered for the first time in many many years a time when I was innocent, and a certain clarity that this novel brought me.
You might be sneering or contorting your face in some representation of disbelief, (stop doing that btw, it’s not flattering) but stay with me for a second and let me explain.
It was my second week of the second grade when I was given this book to read for the first time. It was during the origin of my parent’s marital dysfunction, the first of many intermissions in their terrible attempt at matrimony. We had just moved in with my aunt and cousins, and this was my second week adjusting to Harrison, an inner city school with great caring teachers and not enough text books or funding to foster the vast amounts of potential that filled its halls. It was close enough to the “hood” that no one cared to offer assistance or even update the curriculum, because we were all going to grow up to be degenerates anyway. A far cry from the school I used to attend in my father’s suburban neighborhood. The difference between institutions is something that will always stick out in my mind. At least the library was pretty decent though.
I was further ahead in my learning than my classmates because of the differences in curriculum and got to go to the library for something to do. Walking through the library alone I drew the attention of the librarian. She came over and started to help me. We picked a variety of different books to read later, one of which was “The Snowy Day,” by Ezra Jack Keats. I remember holding the book in my hand and marveling at the cover. That kid looked like me! And before holding that book, I never thought to think why that mattered. Before I opened the pages intrigued at the artwork, I feel ashamed now to expect the book to be bad, or somehow less. It wasn't. It was awesome, from the first page.
In the book, a little boy, Peter, dons an orange jump suit and plays in the snow. He makes snowmen, snow angels, and marvels at the nature around him. He even attempts to take the snow inside, and watches it melt. The artwork is beautiful and fully captures the moments of Peter’s wintry adventure.
Peter was my first hero of color. He was the first Black protagonist I had ever read. Peter was the star of this book. He wasn't a supporting character, a dark splotch in the background of the illustration, not the bully or bad guy. He alone was the whole reason for the book. My little mind was blown. This book was about me. I didn't even know that there were books about people like me, and even at that young age I had already fallen victim to the visual rhetoric displayed all around us. I dreamt of being like Peter, playing in large snowdrifts, and making snowmen like the little kids in the Frosty cartoon. Snow around my home at that point was never tall enough or just too filthy to play with, so I had never made a snowman or even knew what a snow angel was. This book sparked a time of adventure in me. It was a call to action, I could be anything, could do anything. I could take the world around me like young Peter, and manifest it into creations of my liking. I could make snowmen and angels. I could have epic Calvin and Hobbes-esque snow battles; I could do the things that the people on T.V. do.
As I grew up there were other Black protagonists, like Black Panther, Luke Cage, and B.A. Baracus (who might not have been the star, but stole the show). But none of those characters controlled their whole world nor were they viable as actual people. Peter was great because his adventure could be a reality. Peter and I went on many adventures together.
This small picture book unlocked dreams and visions that I never knew I had. It was the first book, independent of any real adult influence to touch me, and I will cherish that forever.
Thank you Ezra Jack Keats.