{"product_id":"a-seed-in-the-sun-isbn-9780593406601","title":"A Seed in the Sun","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e**Four starred reviews!**\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA farm-working girl with big dreams meets activist Dolores Huerta and joins the 1965 protest for workers’ rights in this tender-hearted novel in verse, perfect for fans of Rita Williams-Garcia and Pam Muñoz Ryan.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLula 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen 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.\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003ci\u003eA Seed in the Sun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomás Rivera Children's Book Award Winner\u003cbr\u003eNCTE Notable Poetry Books and Verse Novels \u003cbr\u003eJane Addams Children's Book Award Finalist \u003cbr\u003eALA Rise: A Feminist Book Project Top Ten\u003cbr\u003eBank Street College Best Children's Books of the Year\u003cbr\u003e NCSS-CBC Notable Social Studies Trade Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★ “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.”—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ★ “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.”—\u003ci\u003eHorn Book\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ★ “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.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ★ “[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. \u003ci\u003eA Seed in the Sun \u003c\/i\u003edeserves a space on the shelf alongside Brenda Woods’ \u003ci\u003eWhen Winter Robeson Came\u003c\/i\u003e…and Pam Muñoz Ryan’s Pura Belpré Award-winning \u003ci\u003eEsperanza Rising\u003c\/i\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “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.”—\u003ci\u003ePW\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “[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.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccolades for Aida Salazar\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Moon Within\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour starred reviews: \u003ci\u003eKirkus, SLJ, PW,\u003c\/i\u003e BookPage\u003cbr\u003eBest Books of 2019: \u003ci\u003eKirkus,\u003c\/i\u003e NPR’s Book Concierge\u003ci\u003e, SLJ,\u003c\/i\u003e NYPL, Center for Multicultural Children’s Literature\u003cbr\u003e   • 2020 Indie Next List  \u003cbr\u003e   • ALA 2020 Rainbow Book List \u003cbr\u003e   • Charlotte Huck Recommended Book \u003cbr\u003e   • International Latino Book Award (MG fiction) winner \u003cbr\u003e   • Golden Poppy Award winner \u003cbr\u003e   • Américas Award honor \u003cbr\u003e   • NCTE 2020 Notable Poetry Books and Verse Novels \u003cbr\u003e   • Nerdy Book Award for Poetry \u003cbr\u003e   • Lincoln Nebraska City Libraries Top 100 Novels for Youth  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLand of the Cranes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree starred reviews: \u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePW\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSLJ\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBest Books of 2020: \u003ci\u003eKirkus, SLJ,\u003c\/i\u003e NYPL (Top 10), BookPage\u003cbr\u003e   • Book Expo Buzz pick \u003cbr\u003e   • John and Patricia Beatty Award winner \u003cbr\u003e   • Charlotte Huck Award honor \u003cbr\u003e   • Jane Addams Peace Association honor \u003cbr\u003e   • Vermont Golden Dome Book List \u003cbr\u003e   • ALA RISE: Feminist Book ListAida Salazar is an award-winning author, arts activist, and translator whose writings explore issues of identity and social justice. Her critically acclaimed verse novels and picture books have received numerous awards including: a Caldecott Honor, the Américas Award, Tomás Rivera Children's Book Award, International Latino Book Awards, California Library Association Beatty Award, Northern CA Book Award, Jane Addams Peace Honor, an NCTE Charlotte Huck Honor among other distinctions. She lives with her family of artists in Oakland, CA.\u003cb\u003eSemilla\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey tried to bury us \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut they didn’t know \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe were seeds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Mexican Proverb\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImperial Valley, California • March 1965\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRemolino\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I sometimes think about how\u003cbr\u003e                 I lost my voice. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could have buried it in the earth, \u003cbr\u003e                                 in the surco, the long row of dry dirt \u003cbr\u003e where we planted onion bulbs last spring\u003cbr\u003e while the heat of a too-hot California day \u003cbr\u003e                 fell on our \u003cbr\u003e                                 arched \u003cbr\u003e                                                  backs \u003cbr\u003e                                   like barrels \u003cbr\u003e                 of sun. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It could have happened \u003cbr\u003e when Papá screamed for me to work faster\u003cbr\u003e       just as I was singing along \u003cbr\u003e            to Mamá’s song\u003cbr\u003e                      louder than Papá’s angry words \u003cbr\u003e                                 or the drone of planes spraying the fields                                                                                              overhead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It could have been taken \u003cbr\u003e                 by the roaring remolino \u003cbr\u003e                                 that slammed into us\u003cbr\u003e                 like the storm of Papá’s belt when we upset him,\u003cbr\u003e an out of nowhere tornado \u003cbr\u003e                                 ripping through the fields.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e maybe that’s when the dirt-drenched air \u003cbr\u003e                                                                pulled\u003cbr\u003e                                                my voice out of my breath \u003cbr\u003e                                 and caught it in the \u003cbr\u003e                                                                spin of wild wind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What's left is a whispery rasp\u003cbr\u003e an orange-yellow mist \u003cbr\u003e                 that comes and goes \u003cbr\u003e                                                like clouds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My real voice is either somewhere \u003cbr\u003e                 in the tumble of dirt \u003cbr\u003e                                 in the onion fields \u003cbr\u003e                 of the Imperial Valley             \u003cbr\u003e       or \u003cbr\u003e was taken by \u003cbr\u003e                                 the anger of the wind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e One day, I pray it comes back. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDelano, California • September, 1965\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOpen-Sky Hammocks\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We drown bedbugs \u003cbr\u003e in a pail of water,\u003cbr\u003e chinches we pluck \u003cbr\u003e                 from the mattresses \u003cbr\u003e                 propped up outside \u003cbr\u003e                 on rusty barrack walls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The worst kind of chore \u003cbr\u003e on our first day in Delano, \u003cbr\u003e                 in another labor camp\u003cbr\u003e                 as terrible as the last\u003cbr\u003e                 and the one before that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Concha and Rafa race to see \u003cbr\u003e who can drown more bugs.\u003cbr\u003e                 They beat me by a lot \u003cbr\u003e                 because they’re \u003cbr\u003e                 five and four years older.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I ask Mamá if we can sleep \u003cbr\u003e in our hammocks instead \u003cbr\u003e                 but she doesn’t turn around. \u003cbr\u003e She still can’t hear the tiny hiss \u003cbr\u003e that comes from me when I try to speak. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 “¡Mamá!” I try to say louder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She reads the question on my lips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 “Lula, the mattresses are better so we are together                 \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and not hanging like leaves from the trees.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Me? I’d rather sleep outside \u003cbr\u003e in a crest of oaks \u003cbr\u003e                 at the edge of the grape fields \u003cbr\u003e                 all around us \u003cbr\u003e                 with surcos like long fingers \u003cbr\u003e                 spread throughout the vineyard \u003cbr\u003e                 and thick vines \u003cbr\u003e                 growing big across the wires.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’d rather sleep beneath \u003cbr\u003e                 a blue-black sky glistening \u003cbr\u003e                 with bright stars. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 A stage. A place to dream. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Where I can announce \u003cbr\u003e a make-believe circus like a ringmaster\u003cbr\u003e                 to an audience of hooting owls \u003cbr\u003e                 hunting field mice in the night. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Outside under the dense, starry sky \u003cbr\u003e we can only see in the back roads of California\u003cbr\u003e                 where we work and chase the harvests, \u003cbr\u003e                 so different from the city where we hardly go\u003cbr\u003e                 and where the glow of lights washes away the contrast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yes, it’s colder in our hammocks \u003cbr\u003e than in the one-room wooden barrack,\u003cbr\u003e                 especially in the winter, \u003cbr\u003e                 but so much better \u003cbr\u003e                 than getting eaten alive by chinches.\u003cbr\u003e                 “Pero, Mamá, I wish we could . . .” I try to argue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 “No time for wishing now, Lula.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mamá leans on my shoulder \u003cbr\u003e as she passes me holding a grass broom. \u003cbr\u003e                 Her long thick braid lays against her neck\u003cbr\u003e                 as her body bends like a willow branch, \u003cbr\u003e                 and she sighs, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 “Vamos, Lula, Concha, Rafa. Let’s keep cleaning,                 \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e mis amores.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLight Blue Schoolhouse\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI watch water glisten as it splashes\u003cbr\u003e                 against the tin of the pail I fill \u003cbr\u003e at the only tap at this new but familiar camp.\u003cbr\u003e                 I think of the light blue schoolhouse\u003cbr\u003e                 I saw from the truck as we arrived,\u003cbr\u003e                                 and my panza flutters. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I wonder about the new school year\u003cbr\u003e and if the school will have\u003cbr\u003e a twelfth grade for Concha\u003cbr\u003e and a seventh grade for me\u003cbr\u003e because there’s never a guarantee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A school!\u003cbr\u003e Where we’ll be the new faces \u003cbr\u003e along with other farmworker kids\u003cbr\u003e whose families came like ours \u003cbr\u003e for the grape harvest\u003cbr\u003e and who also won’t know \u003cbr\u003e what they’ll be learning\u003cbr\u003e and will struggle to catch up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An actual school! \u003cbr\u003e Not housework, \u003cbr\u003e not watching my baby siblings,\u003cbr\u003e and not field work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Back in Bakersfield\u003cbr\u003e Rafa missed so many days \u003cbr\u003e he was whittled down two whole grades. \u003cbr\u003e                 That’s when he had it \u003cbr\u003e                                 and instead followed Papá and Mamá\u003cbr\u003e                                                into the fields each daybreak \u003cbr\u003e                 to pick whichever crop was in season.\u003cbr\u003e Truant officers didn’t even blink \u003cbr\u003e to see him in the fields\u003cbr\u003e as dandelion tall as he is. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’d taken what Concha \u003cbr\u003e once told me to heart.\u003cbr\u003e No matter how much we miss,\u003cbr\u003e no matter if teachers are mean,\u003cbr\u003e no matter they sometimes punish us \u003cbr\u003e for speaking Spanish,\u003cbr\u003e no matter if we can’t keep friends,\u003cbr\u003e school is ours. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                “Lula, you’re here to soak up anything you can,\u003cbr\u003e                 porque tomorrow, we’ll be on the road again\u003cbr\u003e                 and the only thing you can take with you”\u003cbr\u003e                 —she tapped my head— “is up here.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The best thing about Concha \u003cbr\u003e is she loves school\u003cbr\u003e as much as me.\u003cbr\u003e Concha’s gentle brown eyes \u003cbr\u003e                 are maps \u003cbr\u003e when I can’t find my way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eBaby Work\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePapá comes back \u003cbr\u003e with work orders from the crew leader\u003cbr\u003e and a face folded in worry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He, Mamá, and Rafa \u003cbr\u003e will pick grapes tomorrow morning. \u003cbr\u003e                 Our baby sister, Gabriela, \u003cbr\u003e                 and babiest brother, Martín, \u003cbr\u003e                 will go with them \u003cbr\u003e so Concha and I can get to school.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mamá doesn’t ask us to \u003cbr\u003e work the fields to pick cotton, \u003cbr\u003e potatoes, strawberries, or grapes \u003cbr\u003e because that’s when school’s in session. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mamá doesn’t ask us to skip school\u003cbr\u003e to watch the babies, either, \u003cbr\u003e she likes what we learn  \u003cbr\u003e about the world outside the fields.\u003cbr\u003e She loves to hear us translate for her\u003cbr\u003e the stories in the books we get to read,\u003cbr\u003e the English transforming into the Spanish \u003cbr\u003e that she and Papà speak. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Threat of a truant officer \u003cbr\u003e or no truant officer,\u003cbr\u003e I don’t think Mamá \u003cbr\u003e would want it any other way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I wouldn't mind watching the babies, \u003cbr\u003e Gabi and Martín are \u003cbr\u003e two balls of sweet masa with legs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gabi’s almost three and runs \u003cbr\u003e like a cheetah on her bare feet \u003cbr\u003e with one too many toes on each foot.\u003cbr\u003e Mamá calls her “una hija de Dios” \u003cbr\u003e and because she’s a child of God, \u003cbr\u003e she is perfect just as she is\u003cbr\u003e with no need for shoes \u003cbr\u003e we can’t afford anyway. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Martín crawls like a ladybug\u003cbr\u003e because being one year old is still pretty little. \u003cbr\u003e He reaches up \u003cbr\u003e with his \u003cbr\u003e dimpled hands\u003cbr\u003e whenever he wants \u003cbr\u003e to be carried,\u003cbr\u003e and we always happily sweep him up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s not hard to do squishy baby work like that. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eEscabs\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI overhear Papá tell Rafa, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 “Caramba, we just walked into a strike. Men with picket \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                signs and bullhorns were yelling at all of us not to work.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                 “What do you think they’re fighting for, Apá?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I get closer but he pulls Rafa inside,\u003cbr\u003e and gives me a “what do you want, nosy”\u003cbr\u003e kind of look but I can still hear him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              “Los Filipinos seem to have left the fields because they \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              want higher wages. They’re en huelga, and they think \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              we’re taking their jobs,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e               “Do you think there’ll be trouble, Apá?” Rafa asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e               “Pues they were protesting and screaming ‘Don’t \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              be escabs!’ at us while we were getting crew orders. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              Josesito said \u003ci\u003eescab\u003c\/i\u003e means traitor because we are crossing \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e              their picket line.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Papá says the word \u003ci\u003escab\u003c\/i\u003e like \u003cbr\u003e his tongue is a skipped record \u003cbr\u003e adding a syllable up front.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mamá is sitting on the edge of the bed,\u003cbr\u003e holding her head between her hands\u003cbr\u003e like she’s hurt, \u003cbr\u003e frowning into her closed eyes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I want to see what’s wrong with her \u003cbr\u003e but I stay outside the barrack\u003cbr\u003e so Papá doesn’t know \u003cbr\u003e I’m snooping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Martín toddles up to Papá,\u003cbr\u003e reaches up to him.\u003cbr\u003e Papá unfolds his brows and arms,\u003cbr\u003e lifts him up and tosses him into\u003cbr\u003e the air with an “Ah, ¡mi muchachito!” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Papá saves his sweetness for the babies.\u003cbr\u003e As soon as we get older, \u003cbr\u003e seeing his love for us \u003cbr\u003e is a sight as rare as rain \u003cbr\u003e falling on desert earth. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eCarpa Smiles  \u003c\/b\u003e       \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI remember a time \u003cbr\u003e before the whirlwind,\u003cbr\u003e a time before Gabi and Martín were born\u003cbr\u003e when we snuck into the circus.\u003cbr\u003e Rafa and me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Papá went without \u003cbr\u003e his bottles of beer for once\u003cbr\u003e to buy three tickets \u003cbr\u003e for Mamá, Concha, and him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hidden behind crates,\u003cbr\u003e Rafa held up the tent’s wall\u003cbr\u003e to keep me from getting scratched \u003cbr\u003e like he did as he crawled \u003cbr\u003e beneath the canvas. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We emerged into a flurry of people\u003cbr\u003e trying to get a seat to see La Carpa Vázquez,\u003cbr\u003e the traveling Mexican circus. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We squirmed, pushed, and shoved \u003cbr\u003e other kids to sit up front. \u003cbr\u003e As the lights began to dim, \u003cbr\u003e I searched and found \u003cbr\u003e Concha, Mamá, and Papá\u003cbr\u003e sitting still inside a crowd\u003cbr\u003e moving like ants around them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Suddenly the lights, the music, \u003cbr\u003e and a loud, booming voice \u003cbr\u003e welcomed us.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e                “Señoras y señores, niños y niñas, welcome to the\u003cbr\u003e                 world-famous La Carpa Vázquez!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That’s when I saw it.\u003cbr\u003e Papá’s smile, \u003cbr\u003e with its missing right-side molar. \u003cbr\u003e      A smile so pretty and wide \u003cbr\u003e         it shined like a galaxy \u003cbr\u003e                in the center \u003cbr\u003e       of the deep brown night \u003cbr\u003e                 of his face. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don’t understand why \u003cbr\u003e he never lets us see it, \u003cbr\u003e but seeing him smile \u003cbr\u003e because of the ringmaster’s smooth voice \u003cbr\u003e opened up my own sonrisa\u003cbr\u003e like a squash bloom \u003cbr\u003e following \u003cbr\u003e the light of day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I swept my head around\u003cbr\u003e and was pulled like never before\u003cbr\u003e and never since \u003cbr\u003e into the magic of la carpa.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The clown jugglers, \u003cbr\u003e the comedians, the singers,\u003cbr\u003e the dancing dog show, \u003cbr\u003e the tightrope walkers,\u003cbr\u003e and the flying trapeze. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rafa and me clapped, hollered,\u003cbr\u003e            and fell on each other, \u003cbr\u003e ¡muriéndonos de risa! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I took a breath,\u003cbr\u003e a dream was etched in my heart, \u003cbr\u003e to join the circus one day,\u003cbr\u003e as ringmaster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I think about the ringmaster \u003cbr\u003e whenever I am still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I think about how his voice \u003cbr\u003e made the lights of Papá’s face \u003cbr\u003e come alive. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I want to be one of the reasons Papá smiles.","brand":"Dial Books","offers":[{"title":"Default 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