Victoria Villarreal's lilting tones highlight 12-year-old Lula's sunny disposition in the face of her challenges as the daughter of a migrant farm worker in the 1960s. Villarreal's heartfelt performance captures what Lula sees: the terrible living and working conditions of migrant farm workers, including women and children. Villarreal sensitively conveys Lula and her sister's vulnerability from predatory supervisors. There's power in Villarreal's narration, especially when Lula has mysteriously lost her voice and when she finds a place for herself among labor rights activists as they fight against oppression. The author adds to the poignant and compelling elements of this story with her own narration of the closing notes. An important listen and springboard for discussion for young teens. M.F. © AudioFile 2023, Portland, Maine
A Seed in the Sun
Narrated by Victoria Villarreal, Aida Salazar
Aida SalazarUnabridged — 4 hours, 1 minutes
A Seed in the Sun
Narrated by Victoria Villarreal, Aida Salazar
Aida SalazarUnabridged — 4 hours, 1 minutes
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Overview
Lula Viramontes aches to one day become someone whom no one can ignore: a daring ringleader in a Mexican traveling circus. But between working the grape harvest in Delano, California, with her older siblings under dangerous conditions; taking care of her younger siblings and Mamá, who has mysteriously fallen ill; and doing everything she can to avoid Papá's volatile temper, it's hard to hold on to those dreams.
Then she meets Dolores Huerta, Larry Itliong, and other labor rights activists and realizes she may need to raise her voice sooner rather than later: Farmworkers are striking for better treatment and wages, and whether Lula's family joins them or not will determine their future.
* This audiobook edition includes a downloadable PDF that contains resources to learn more about the subjects explored in the book.
Editorial Reviews
10/24/2022
Centering a family of migrant workers during the 1965 Delano grape strike, Salazar (Land of the Cranes) tackles civil rights and labor justice in an extensively researched novel in verse. In Delano, Calif., 12-year-old Lula, who is Mexican American, helps her siblings to drown bedbugs as they settle into “another labor camp/ as terrible as the last.” But as Lula and her older sister Concha begin school, and their parents and older brother head into the fields with the littlest siblings in tow, the family learns that they’ve inadvertently crossed picket lines against Filipino workers striking for better wages. The situation intensifies when the siblings’ mother becomes mysteriously ill and can’t afford treatment; their father, who drinks, turns increasingly volatile; and the family faces increasingly dangerous working conditions, including the threat of pesticides and sexual assault. As Lula seeks her voice, her Filipina and Mexican American classmate Leoner speaks up for the Filipino-led Agricultural Workers Organizing Committee, of which her family is a part and which seeks to collaborate with the Mexican National Farm Workers Association, striking for better working conditions for all. Spotlighting historical figures including Dolores Huerta and Cesar Chávez, Salazar’s lyrical poetry shines offers a sensitive depiction of Lula’s struggles and hopes, culminating in a personal arc that emphasizes developing one’s voice. An author’s note contextualizes historical language used. Ages 8–12. Agent: Marietta Zacker, Gallt and Zacker Literary. (Oct.)
Praise for A Seed in the Sun
Tomás Rivera Children's Book Award Winner
NCTE Notable Poetry Books and Verse Novels
Jane Addams Children's Book Award Finalist
ALA Rise: A Feminist Book Project Top Ten
Bank Street College Best Children's Books of the Year
NCSS-CBC Notable Social Studies Trade Book
★ “Poignantly told, the story of Lula and her family’s plight will tug young readers’ heartstrings; this is an important, and sometimes unspoken, part of the American past and present that needs to be brought to light.”—School Library Journal, starred review
★ “Salazar seamlessly combines historical events of the farmworkers’ rights movement and the 1965 Delano grape strike with a sensitive portrayal of a girl trying to make sense of the world. It’s a powerful coming-of-age story filled with evocative language, memorable characters, and apt nature imagery.”—Horn Book, starred review
★ “There is a special power in historical fiction’s ability to blend real issues and events with engaging characters, turning the past into a living, breathing thing. Salazar accomplishes this beautifully in her new novel in verse . . . Led by a memorable protagonist, this novel mixes themes of growth and change with historical details and powerful observations on the abuses that sparked the Farmworkers’ Movement and the strength of those demanding justice.”—Booklist, starred review
★ “[W]ell-researched . . . In two previous novels, Salazar established herself as an expert writer of middle grade verse narratives filled with beautiful metaphors and similes. Her skill is evident here . . . Salazar’s text is dynamic . . . Readers gravitate toward middle grade historical fiction because it makes complex history tangible. A Seed in the Sun deserves a space on the shelf alongside Brenda Woods’ When Winter Robeson Came…and Pam Muñoz Ryan’s Pura Belpré Award-winning Esperanza Rising.”—BookPage, starred review
“Salazar’s lyrical poetry offers a sensitive depiction of Lula’s struggles and hopes, culminating in a personal arc that emphasizes developing one’s voice.”—PW
“[An] introspective novel with a well-developed sense of place . . . The character development is strong . . . Lula shows tenacity as her seeds of potential are nourished. Compelling and atmospheric.”—Kirkus Reviews
Accolades for Aida Salazar
The Moon Within
Four starred reviews: Kirkus, SLJ, PW, BookPage
Best Books of 2019: Kirkus, NPR’s Book Concierge, SLJ, NYPL, Center for Multicultural Children’s Literature
• 2020 Indie Next List
• ALA 2020 Rainbow Book List
• Charlotte Huck Recommended Book
• International Latino Book Award (MG fiction) winner
• Golden Poppy Award winner
• Américas Award honor
• NCTE 2020 Notable Poetry Books and Verse Novels
• Nerdy Book Award for Poetry
• Lincoln Nebraska City Libraries Top 100 Novels for Youth
Land of the Cranes
Three starred reviews: Kirkus, PW, SLJ
Best Books of 2020: Kirkus, SLJ, NYPL (Top 10), BookPage
• Book Expo Buzz pick
• John and Patricia Beatty Award winner
• Charlotte Huck Award honor
• Jane Addams Peace Association honor
• Vermont Golden Dome Book List
• ALA RISE: Feminist Book List
★ 11/01/2022
Gr 3–7—Lula Viramontes, a seventh grader in Imperial Valley, CA, has big worries in 1965. Her big family lives in a labor camp, as they follow the farming crops of grapes and whatever else needs harvesting. Lula and her older sister Cocha want to go to school, but they are often needed at home to help with the younger siblings, as Mamá has developed a mysterious illness. Papa and their older brother Rafa toil in the fields, doing the backbreaking "men's work" while often being mistreated and not paid. The plight of Lula's family and that of migrant farm workers is deftly told. Lula has big dreams, but her wispy voice is all but gone, and she lives in fear of her father's violent temper. When Lula's friend Lenor tells her of strikes that are forming for workers to get better rights and wages, Lula is afraid to speak up. Then they learn Mamá's illness may be a result of the pesticides used on farms, and the family is more willing to hear the compelling voices of Dolores Huerta and Cesar Chavez, the leaders for the striking farming associations. When the family faces eviction for striking, Lula must find her voice, and stand up for what is right. VERDICT Poignantly told, the story of Lula and her family's plight will tug young readers' heartstrings; this is an important, and sometimes unspoken, part of the American past and present that needs to be brought to light.—Michele Shaw
Victoria Villarreal's lilting tones highlight 12-year-old Lula's sunny disposition in the face of her challenges as the daughter of a migrant farm worker in the 1960s. Villarreal's heartfelt performance captures what Lula sees: the terrible living and working conditions of migrant farm workers, including women and children. Villarreal sensitively conveys Lula and her sister's vulnerability from predatory supervisors. There's power in Villarreal's narration, especially when Lula has mysteriously lost her voice and when she finds a place for herself among labor rights activists as they fight against oppression. The author adds to the poignant and compelling elements of this story with her own narration of the closing notes. An important listen and springboard for discussion for young teens. M.F. © AudioFile 2023, Portland, Maine
2022-07-13
Twelve-year-old Mexican American Lula longs to speak out and stand up against oppression in 1960s Delano, California.
Lula lives with her migrant farmworker family in bedbug-infested barracks. Her older sister, Concha, loves school just like Lula does; big brother Rafa works the fields with Mamá and Papá while youngest siblings Gabi and Martín tag along. Papá drinks, has an unpredictable temper, and only shows love to the littlest ones. Lula dreams of being able to make Papá smile. When Mamá becomes gravely ill, she’s turned away from the emergency room due to lack of money. A local curandera thinks she’s been poisoned by pesticides used in the fields and treats her with herbs. At school, Lula befriends Leonor, a Filipina and Mexican American girl, and is inspired by her powerful voice and grit. Leonor’s family is involved with the Filipino strikers’ union, the Agricultural Workers Organizing Committee. The AWOC are recruiting the Mexican National Farm Worker’s Association, led by Dolores Huerta and Cesar Chávez, to join them in striking for better wages and conditions. This introspective novel with a well-developed sense of place features free verse in varied layouts that maintain visual interest. The character development is strong; as Papá is influenced by Chávez, who speaks of nonviolence, his behaviors change. Lula shows tenacity as her seeds of potential are nourished.
Compelling and atmospheric. (author’s note, further reading) (Verse historical fiction. 9-13)
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940176107166 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 10/25/2022 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Age Range: | 8 - 11 Years |
Read an Excerpt
Semilla
They tried to bury us
but they didn’t know
we were seeds.
—Mexican Proverb
Imperial Valley, California • March 1965
Remolino
I sometimes think about how
I lost my voice.
I could have buried it in the earth,
in the surco, the long row of dry dirt
where we planted onion bulbs last spring while the heat of a too-hot California day
fell on our
arched
backs
like barrels
of sun.
It could have happened
when Papá screamed for me to work faster
just as I was singing along
to Mamá’s song
louder than Papá’s angry words
or the drone of planes spraying the fields overhead.
It could have been taken
by the roaring remolino
that slammed into us
like the storm of Papá’s belt when we upset him,
an out of nowhere tornado
ripping through the fields.
maybe that’s when the dirt-drenched air
pulled
my voice out of my breath
and caught it in the
spin of wild wind.
What's left is a whispery rasp an orange-yellow mist
that comes and goes
like clouds.
My real voice is either somewhere
in the tumble of dirt
in the onion fields
of the Imperial Valley
or
was taken by
the anger of the wind.
One day, I pray it comes back.
Delano, California • September, 1965
Open-Sky Hammocks
We drown bedbugs
in a pail of water,
chinches we pluck
from the mattresses
propped up outside
on rusty barrack walls.
The worst kind of chore
on our first day in Delano,
in another labor camp
as terrible as the last
and the one before that.
Concha and Rafa race to see
who can drown more bugs.
They beat me by a lot
because they’re
five and four years older.
I ask Mamá if we can sleep
in our hammocks instead
but she doesn’t turn around.
She still can’t hear the tiny hiss
that comes from me when I try to speak.
“¡Mamá!” I try to say louder.
She reads the question on my lips.
“Lula, the mattresses are better so we are together
and not hanging like leaves from the trees.”
Me? I’d rather sleep outside
in a crest of oaks
at the edge of the grape fields
all around us
with surcos like long fingers
spread throughout the vineyard
and thick vines
growing big across the wires.
I’d rather sleep beneath
a blue-black sky glistening
with bright stars.
A stage. A place to dream.
Where I can announce
a make-believe circus like a ringmaster
to an audience of hooting owls
hunting field mice in the night.
Outside under the dense, starry sky
we can only see in the back roads of California
where we work and chase the harvests,
so different from the city where we hardly go
and where the glow of lights washes away the contrast.
Yes, it’s colder in our hammocks
than in the one-room wooden barrack,
especially in the winter,
but so much better
than getting eaten alive by chinches.
“Pero, Mamá, I wish we could . . .” I try to argue.
“No time for wishing now, Lula.”
Mamá leans on my shoulder
as she passes me holding a grass broom.
Her long thick braid lays against her neck
as her body bends like a willow branch,
and she sighs,
“Vamos, Lula, Concha, Rafa. Let’s keep cleaning,
mis amores.”
Light Blue Schoolhouse
I watch water glisten as it splashes
against the tin of the pail I fill
at the only tap at this new but familiar camp.
I think of the light blue schoolhouse
I saw from the truck as we arrived,
and my panza flutters.
I wonder about the new school year and if the school will have a twelfth grade for Concha and a seventh grade for me because there’s never a guarantee.
A school!
Where we’ll be the new faces
along with other farmworker kids whose families came like ours
for the grape harvest and who also won’t know
what they’ll be learning and will struggle to catch up.
An actual school!
Not housework,
not watching my baby siblings,
and not field work.
Back in Bakersfield
Rafa missed so many days
he was whittled down two whole grades.
That’s when he had it
and instead followed Papá and Mamá
into the fields each daybreak
to pick whichever crop was in season.
Truant officers didn’t even blink
to see him in the fields as dandelion tall as he is.
I’d taken what Concha
once told me to heart.
No matter how much we miss,
no matter if teachers are mean,
no matter they sometimes punish us
for speaking Spanish,
no matter if we can’t keep friends,
school is ours.
“Lula, you’re here to soak up anything you can,
porque tomorrow, we’ll be on the road again
and the only thing you can take with you”
—she tapped my head— “is up here.”
The best thing about Concha
is she loves school as much as me.
Concha’s gentle brown eyes
are maps
when I can’t find my way.
Baby Work
Papá comes back
with work orders from the crew leader and a face folded in worry.
He, Mamá, and Rafa
will pick grapes tomorrow morning.
Our baby sister, Gabriela,
and babiest brother, Martín,
will go with them
so Concha and I can get to school.
Mamá doesn’t ask us to
work the fields to pick cotton,
potatoes, strawberries, or grapes
because that’s when school’s in session.
Mamá doesn’t ask us to skip school to watch the babies, either,
she likes what we learn
about the world outside the fields.
She loves to hear us translate for her the stories in the books we get to read,
the English transforming into the Spanish
that she and Papà speak.
Threat of a truant officer
or no truant officer,
I don’t think Mamá
would want it any other way.
I wouldn't mind watching the babies,
Gabi and Martín are
two balls of sweet masa with legs.
Gabi’s almost three and runs
like a cheetah on her bare feet
with one too many toes on each foot.
Mamá calls her “una hija de Dios”
and because she’s a child of God,
she is perfect just as she is with no need for shoes
we can’t afford anyway.
Martín crawls like a ladybug because being one year old is still pretty little.
He reaches up
with his
dimpled hands whenever he wants
to be carried,
and we always happily sweep him up.
It’s not hard to do squishy baby work like that.
Escabs
I overhear Papá tell Rafa,
“Caramba, we just walked into a strike. Men with picket
signs and bullhorns were yelling at all of us not to work.”
“What do you think they’re fighting for, Apá?”
I get closer but he pulls Rafa inside,
and gives me a “what do you want, nosy”
kind of look but I can still hear him.
“Los Filipinos seem to have left the fields because they
want higher wages. They’re en huelga, and they think
we’re taking their jobs,” he says.
“Do you think there’ll be trouble, Apá?” Rafa asks.
“Pues they were protesting and screaming ‘Don’t
be escabs!’ at us while we were getting crew orders.
Josesito said escab means traitor because we are crossing
their picket line.”
Papá says the word scab like
his tongue is a skipped record
adding a syllable up front.
Mamá is sitting on the edge of the bed,
holding her head between her hands like she’s hurt,
frowning into her closed eyes.
I want to see what’s wrong with her
but I stay outside the barrack so Papá doesn’t know
I’m snooping.
Martín toddles up to Papá,
reaches up to him.
Papá unfolds his brows and arms,
lifts him up and tosses him into the air with an “Ah, ¡mi muchachito!”
Papá saves his sweetness for the babies.
As soon as we get older,
seeing his love for us
is a sight as rare as rain
falling on desert earth.
Carpa Smiles
I remember a time
before the whirlwind,
a time before Gabi and Martín were born when we snuck into the circus.
Rafa and me.
Papá went without
his bottles of beer for once to buy three tickets
for Mamá, Concha, and him.
Hidden behind crates,
Rafa held up the tent’s wall to keep me from getting scratched
like he did as he crawled
beneath the canvas.
We emerged into a flurry of people trying to get a seat to see La Carpa Vázquez,
the traveling Mexican circus.
We squirmed, pushed, and shoved
other kids to sit up front.
As the lights began to dim,
I searched and found
Concha, Mamá, and Papá
sitting still inside a crowd moving like ants around them.
Suddenly the lights, the music,
and a loud, booming voice
welcomed us.
“Señoras y señores, niños y niñas, welcome to the
world-famous La Carpa Vázquez!”
That’s when I saw it.
Papá’s smile,
with its missing right-side molar.
A smile so pretty and wide
it shined like a galaxy
in the center
of the deep brown night
of his face.
I don’t understand why
he never lets us see it,
but seeing him smile
because of the ringmaster’s smooth voice
opened up my own sonrisa like a squash bloom
following
the light of day.
I swept my head around and was pulled like never before and never since
into the magic of la carpa.
The clown jugglers,
the comedians, the singers,
the dancing dog show,
the tightrope walkers,
and the flying trapeze.
Rafa and me clapped, hollered,
and fell on each other,
¡muriéndonos de risa!
When I took a breath,
a dream was etched in my heart,
to join the circus one day,
as ringmaster.
I think about the ringmaster
whenever I am still.
I think about how his voice
made the lights of Papá’s face
come alive.
I want to be one of the reasons Papá smiles.
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