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Zusatztext 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 Informationen zum Autor Aida Salazar Klappentext A young girl with big dreams meets activist Dolores Huerta and joins the 1965 protest for migrant workers' rights in this tender-hearted middle grade novel, perfect for fans of Rita Williams-Garcia and Pam Muñoz Ryan. Lula Viramontes dreams of one day becoming someone whom no one can ignore: a daring ringleader in a Mexican traveling carpa, like the one she saw years ago while her family was working a harvest in Texas. But when the Teatro Campesino (the official theater company of the United Farm Workers) comes to their encampment in Delano, California, Lula meets activist Dolores Huerta and discovers an even more pressing reason to raise her voice: the upcoming farm workers' strike, an event that will determine her family's future-for better or worse. Story Locale: 1965 Delano, CA Leseprobe 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 ...
