{"product_id":"brown-girl-dreaming-isbn-9780399252518","title":"Brown Girl Dreaming","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER • NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The acclaimed author of Red at the Bone tells the moving story of her childhood in mesmerizing poems.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA NEWBERY HONOR BOOK • WINNER OF THE CORETTA SCOTT KING BOOK AWARD • A KIRKUS REVIEWS BEST MIDDLE GRADE BOOK OF THE CENTURY\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Moving and resonant . . . captivating.”—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eI am born in Ohio but\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ethe stories of South Carolina already run\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003elike rivers\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ethrough my veins.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaised in South Carolina and New York, Jacqueline Woodson always felt halfway home in each place. In vivid poems, she shares what it was like to grow up as an African American in the 1960s and 70s, living with the remnants of Jim Crow and her growing awareness of the Civil Rights movement. Touching and powerful, each poem is both accessible and emotionally charged, providing a glimpse into a child’s soul as she finds her voice through writing and searches for her place in the world. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTeeming with feeling and deeply personal, Brown Girl Dreaming is the groundbreaking chronicle of Woodson’s journey to storytelling, and a beautiful portrayal of physical, emotional, and spiritual growth. \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eA National Book Award Winner\u003cbr\u003e A Coretta Scott King Award Winner\u003cbr\u003e A Newbery Honor Book\u003cbr\u003eOne of TIME MAGAZINE’s 100 Best YA Books of All Time\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eBrown Girl Dreaming\u003c\/i\u003e, Jacqueline Woodson’s highly lauded collection of free-verse poems about her childhood in New York and South Carolina, has language simple enough to be accessible to tweens and young teenagers and more than enough complexity to engage older readers. The winner of a Newbery Honor, NAACP Image Award, National Book Award and Coretta Scott King Award, \u003ci\u003eBrown Girl Dreaming\u003c\/i\u003e presents the story of Woodson’s experiences living with the remnants of Jim Crow during the 1960s and 1970s. The author confronts issues like faith, racism and sexual abuse using the elegant, spare language and powerful imagery she has come to be known for.\" —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eTIME MAGAZINE\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gorgeous.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eVanity Fair\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A radiantly warm memoir.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Washington Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Moving and resonant . . . captivating.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is a book full of poems that cry out to be learned by heart. These are poems that will, for years to come, be stored in our bloodstream.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A profoundly moving memoir.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* “The writer’s passion for stories and storytelling permeates the memoir, explicitly addressed in her early attempts to write books and implicitly conveyed through her sharp images and poignant observations seen through the eyes of a child. Woodson’s ability to listen and glean meaning from what she hears lead to an astute understanding of her surroundings, friends, and family.”— \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, STARRED REVIEW\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* “Mesmerizing journey through [Woodson’s] early years. . . . Her perspective on the volatile era in which she grew up is thoughtfully expressed in powerfully effective verse. . . . With exquisite metaphorical verse Woodson weaves a patchwork of her life experience . . . that covers readers with a warmth and sensitivity no child should miss. This should be on every library shelf.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, STARRED REVIEW\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* “Woodson cherishes her memories and shares them with a graceful lyricism; her lovingly wrought vignettes of country and city streets will linger long after the page is turned. For every dreaming girl (and boy) with a pencil in hand (or keyboard) and a story to share.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, STARRED REVIEW\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* “[Woodson’s] memoir in verse is a marvel, as it turns deeply felt remembrances of Woodson’s preadolescent life into art. . . . Her mother cautions her not to write about her family but, happily, many years later, she has and the result is both elegant and eloquent, a haunting book about memory that is itself altogether memorable.\"—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, STARRED REVIEW\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* “A memoir-in-verse so immediate that readers will feel they are experiencing the author’s childhood right along with her. . . . Most notably of all, perhaps, we trace her development as a nascent writer, from her early, overarching love of stories through her struggles to learn to read through the thrill of her first blank composition book to her realization that ‘words are [her] brilliance.’ The poetry here sings: specific, lyrical, and full of imagery. An extraordinary—indeed brilliant—portrait of a writer as a young girl.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e, STARRED REVIEW\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* “The effect of this confiding and rhythmic memoir is cumulative, as casual references blossom into motifs and characters evolve from quick references to main players. . . . Revealing slices of life, redolent in sight, sound, and emotion. . . . Woodson subtly layers her focus, with history and geography the background, family the middle distance, and her younger self the foreground. . . . Eager readers and budding writers will particularly see themselves in the young protagonist and recognize her reveling in the luxury of the library and unfettered delight in words. . . . A story of the ongoing weaving of a family tapestry, the following of an individual thread through a gorgeous larger fabric, with the tacit implication that we’re all traversing such rich landscapes. It will make young readers consider where their own threads are taking them.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books\u003c\/i\u003e, STARRED REVIEW\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* “Woodson uses clear, evocative language. . . . A beautifully crafted work.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Media Connection\u003c\/i\u003e, STARRED REVIEW\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJacqueline Woodson\u003c\/b\u003e (www.jacquelinewoodson.com) is the recipient of a 2023 Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship, a 2020 MacArthur Fellowship, the 2020 Hans Christian Andersen Award, the 2018 Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award, and the 2018 Children’s Literature Legacy Award. She was the 2018–2019 National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature, and in 2015, she was named the Young People’s Poet Laureate by the Poetry Foundation. She received the 2014 National Book Award for her \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling memoir \u003ci\u003eBrown Girl Dreaming\u003c\/i\u003e, which was also a recipient of the Coretta Scott King Award, a Newbery Honor, the NAACP Image Award, and a Sibert Honor. She wrote the adult books \u003ci\u003eRed at the Bone\u003c\/i\u003e, a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller, and \u003ci\u003eAnother Brooklyn\u003c\/i\u003e, a 2016 National Book Award finalist. Born in Columbus, Ohio, Jacqueline grew up in Greenville, South Carolina, and Brooklyn, New York, and graduated from college with a B.A. in English. She is the author of dozens of award-winning books for young adults, middle graders, and children; among her many accolades, she is a four-time Newbery Honor winner, a four-time National Book Award finalist, and a three-time Coretta Scott King Award winner. Her books include Coretta Scott King Award winner \u003ci\u003eBefore the Ever After; New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestsellers \u003ci\u003eThe Day You Begin\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHarbor Me\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eThe Other Side\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eEach Kindness\u003c\/i\u003e, Caldecott Honor book \u003ci\u003eComing On Home Soon\u003c\/i\u003e; Newbery Honor winners \u003ci\u003eFeathers\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eShow Way\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eAfter Tupac and D Foster\u003c\/i\u003e; and \u003ci\u003eMiracle's Boys\u003c\/i\u003e, which received the \u003ci\u003eLA Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Prize and the Coretta Scott King Award. Jacqueline is also a recipient of the Margaret A. Edwards Award for lifetime achievement for her contributions to young adult literature and a two-time winner of the Jane Addams Children's Book Award. She lives with her family in Brooklyn, New York.\u003cb\u003efebruary 12, 1963\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am born on a Tuesday at the University Hospital\u003cbr\u003eColumbus, Ohio\u003cbr\u003eUSA—\u003cbr\u003ea country caught\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebetween Black and White.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am born not long from the time\u003cbr\u003eor far from the place\u003cbr\u003ewhere\u003cbr\u003emy great, great grandparents\u003cbr\u003eworked the deep rich land\u003cbr\u003eunfree\u003cbr\u003edawn till dusk\u003cbr\u003eunpaid\u003cbr\u003edrank cool water from scooped out gourds\u003cbr\u003elooked up and followed\u003cbr\u003ethe sky’s mirrored constellation\u003cbr\u003eto freedom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am born as the south explodes,\u003cbr\u003etoo many people too many years\u003cbr\u003eenslaved then emancipated\u003cbr\u003ebut not free, the people\u003cbr\u003ewho look like me\u003cbr\u003ekeep fighting\u003cbr\u003eand marching\u003cbr\u003eand getting killed\u003cbr\u003eso that today—\u003cbr\u003eFebruary 12, 1963\u003cbr\u003eand every day from this moment on,\u003cbr\u003ebrown children, like me, can grow up\u003cbr\u003efree. Can grow up\u003cbr\u003elearning and voting and walking and riding\u003cbr\u003ewherever we want.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am born in Ohio but\u003cbr\u003ethe stories of South Carolina already run\u003cbr\u003elike rivers\u003cbr\u003ethrough my veins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003esecond daughter’s second day on earth \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My birth certificate says: Female Negro \u003cbr\u003e Mother: Mary Anne Irby, 22, Negro \u003cbr\u003e Father: Jack Austin Woodson, 25, Negro\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In Birmingham, Alabama, Martin Luther King Jr. \u003cbr\u003e is planning a march on Washington, where \u003cbr\u003e John F. Kennedy is president. \u003cbr\u003e In Harlem, Malcolm X is standing on a soapbox \u003cbr\u003e talking about a revolution. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eOutside the window of University Hospital, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003esnow is slowly falling. So much already \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ecovers this vast Ohio ground. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In Montgomery, only seven years have passed \u003cbr\u003e since Rosa Parks refused \u003cbr\u003e to give up \u003cbr\u003e her seat on a city bus. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI am born brown-skinned, black-haired \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eand wide-eyed. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI am born Negro here and Colored there \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e and somewhere else, \u003cbr\u003e the Freedom Singers have linked arms, \u003cbr\u003e their protests rising into song: \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eDeep in my heart, I do believe \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ethat we shall overcome someday. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e and somewhere else, James Baldwin \u003cbr\u003e is writing about injustice, each novel, \u003cbr\u003e each essay, changing the world. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI do not yet know who I’ll be \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ewhat I’ll say \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ehow I’ll say it . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Not even three years have passed since a brown girl \u003cbr\u003e named Ruby Bridges \u003cbr\u003e walked into an all-white school. \u003cbr\u003e Armed guards surrounded her while hundreds \u003cbr\u003e of white people spat and called her names. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She was six years old. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI do not know if I’ll be strong like Ruby. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI do not know what the world will look like \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ewhen I am finally able to walk, speak, write . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Another Buckeye! \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ethe nurse says to my mother. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eAlready, I am being named for this place. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eOhio. The Buckeye State. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eMy fingers curl into fists, automatically \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This is the way, \u003ci\u003emy mother said, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of every baby’s hand. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI do not know if these hands will become \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eMalcolm’s—raised and fisted \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eor Martin’s—open and asking \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eor James’s—curled around a pen. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI do not know if these hands will be \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eRosa’s \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eor Ruby’s \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003egently gloved \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eand fiercely folded \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ecalmly in a lap, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eon a desk, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003earound a book, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eready \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eto change the world . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eit’ll be scary sometimes \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My great-great-grandfather on my father’s side \u003cbr\u003e was born free in Ohio, \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e 1832. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Built his home and farmed his land, \u003cbr\u003e then dug for coal when the farming \u003cbr\u003e wasn’t enough. Fought hard \u003cbr\u003e in the war. His name in stone now \u003cbr\u003e on the Civil War Memorial: \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eWilliam J. Woodson \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eUnited States Colored Troops, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eUnion, Company B 5th Regt. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A long time dead but living still \u003cbr\u003e among the other soldiers \u003cbr\u003e on that monument in Washington, D.C. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e His son was sent to Nelsonville \u003cbr\u003e lived with an aunt \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e William Woodson \u003cbr\u003e the only brown boy in an all-white school. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eYou’ll face this in your life someday, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e my mother will tell us \u003cbr\u003e over and over again. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eA moment when you walk into a room and \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eno one there is like you. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eIt’ll be scary sometimes. But think of William Woodson \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eand you’ll be all right.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ethe beginning \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I cannot write a word yet but at three, \u003cbr\u003e I now know the letter \u003ci\u003eJ \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e love the way it curves into a hook \u003cbr\u003e that I carefully top with a straight hat \u003cbr\u003e the way my sister has taught me to do. Love \u003cbr\u003e the sound of the letter and the promise \u003cbr\u003e that one day this will be connected to a full name, \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e my own \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e that I will be able to write \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e by myself. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Without my sister’s hand over mine, \u003cbr\u003e making it do what I cannot yet do. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e How amazing these words are that slowly come to me. \u003cbr\u003e How wonderfully on and on they go. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eWill the words end, \u003c\/i\u003eI ask \u003cbr\u003e whenever I remember to. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eNope, \u003c\/i\u003emy sister says, all of five years old now, \u003cbr\u003e and promising me \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e infinity.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ehair night \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Saturday night smells of biscuits and burning hair. \u003cbr\u003e Supper done and my grandmother has transformed \u003cbr\u003e the kitchen into a beauty shop. Laid across the table \u003cbr\u003e is the hot comb, Dixie Peach hair grease, \u003cbr\u003e horsehair brush, parting stick \u003cbr\u003e and one girl at a time. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eJackie first, \u003c\/i\u003emy sister says, \u003cbr\u003e our freshly washed hair damp \u003cbr\u003e and spiraling over toweled shoulders \u003cbr\u003e and pale cotton nightgowns. \u003cbr\u003e She opens her book to the marked page, \u003cbr\u003e curls up in a chair pulled close \u003cbr\u003e to the wood-burning stove, bowl of peanuts in her lap. \u003cbr\u003e The words \u003cbr\u003e in her books are so small, I have to squint \u003cbr\u003e to see the letters. \u003ci\u003eHans Brinker or The Silver Skates. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe House at Pooh Corner. Swiss Family Robinson. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Thick books \u003cbr\u003e dog-eared from the handing down from neighbor \u003cbr\u003e to neighbor. My sister handles them gently, \u003cbr\u003e marks the pages with torn brown pieces \u003cbr\u003e of paper bag, wipes her hands before going \u003cbr\u003e beyond the hardbound covers. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eRead to me, \u003c\/i\u003eI say, my eyes and scalp already stinging \u003cbr\u003e from the tug of the brush through my hair. \u003cbr\u003e And while my grandmother sets the hot comb \u003cbr\u003e on the flame, heats it just enough to pull \u003cbr\u003e my tight curls straighter, my sister’s voice \u003cbr\u003e wafts over the kitchen, \u003cbr\u003e past the smell of hair and oil and flame, settles \u003cbr\u003e like a hand on my shoulder and holds me there. \u003cbr\u003e I want silver skates like Hans’s, a place \u003cbr\u003e on a desert island. I have never seen the ocean \u003cbr\u003e but this, too, I can imagine—blue water pouring \u003cbr\u003e over red dirt. \u003cbr\u003e As my sister reads, the pictures begin forming \u003cbr\u003e as though someone has turned on a television, \u003cbr\u003e lowered the sound, \u003cbr\u003e pulled it up close. \u003cbr\u003e Grainy black-and-white pictures come slowly at me \u003cbr\u003e Deep. Infinite. Remembered \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eOn a bright December morning long ago . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e My sister’s clear soft voice opens up the world to me. \u003cbr\u003e I lean in \u003cbr\u003e so hungry for it. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eHold still now, \u003c\/i\u003emy grandmother warns. \u003cbr\u003e So I sit on my hands to keep my mind \u003cbr\u003e off my hurting head, and my whole body still. \u003cbr\u003e But the rest of me is already leaving, \u003cbr\u003e the rest of me is already gone.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ethe butterfly poems \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e No one believes me when I tell them \u003cbr\u003e I am writing a book about butterflies, \u003cbr\u003e even though they see me with the \u003ci\u003eChildcraft \u003c\/i\u003eencyclopedia \u003cbr\u003e heavy on my lap opened to the pages where \u003cbr\u003e the monarch, painted lady, giant swallowtail and \u003cbr\u003e queen butterflies live. Even one called a buckeye. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e When I write the first words \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eWings of a butterfly whisper . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e no one believes a whole book could ever come \u003cbr\u003e from something as simple as \u003cbr\u003e butterflies that \u003ci\u003edon’t even, \u003c\/i\u003emy brother says, \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003elive that long. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But on paper, things can live forever. \u003cbr\u003e On paper, a butterfly \u003cbr\u003e never dies.","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301841621221,"sku":"NP9780399252518","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399252518.jpg?v=1767723115","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/brown-girl-dreaming-isbn-9780399252518","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}