Remember us

Review by Booklist Review

Sage is spending the summer before seventh grade doing her favorite thing in the world: playing basketball at the park in her beloved Bushwick neighborhood. She's the only girl on the court, but she knows she's as good as any guy in the close-knit bunch and dreams of playing professionally. A new kid, Freddy, quickly falls in with the sports set and becomes inseparable from Sage in particular. Though it may all sound idyllic, it's a supremely strange time in their corner of 1970s Brooklyn--homes are regularly burning to the ground in "The Matchbox," and Sage's mother is keen to relocate them to a safer part of town. A tragic death combined with a threatening confrontation on the basketball court sees the previously confident Sage question her place in every aspect of her world, and it takes all of her courage and the community strength to find her way again. The deeply moving novel from National Book Award winner Woodson is both elegant and accessible, and the pithy, lyrical approach works wonderfully here, with occasional chapters consisting of only a few dramatic lines. Bushwick and its inhabitants are fully fleshed out with incredible detail and immense tenderness, and Sage immediately feels like a dear friend. A poignant portrayal of a historic neighborhood and an outstanding ode to the grief and gift of growing older.HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Woodson is one of the most esteemed figures in children's publishing, and her historical fiction especially can't be missed.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Black 11-year-old Sage, a Bushwick native, questions the meaning of memory and struggles with self-image as houses begin mysteriously burning down throughout her neighborhood, newly dubbed "The Matchbox." After Sage's firefighter father dies in the line of duty, her mother saves money in the hope of one day moving them out of town. Despite the growing worry that permeates her community, Sage is reluctant to leave, and spends her time playing basketball with local boys. But some of the boys make fun of her for participating in the sport ("You shoot that ball like you think you a dude or something," one taunts), prompting Sage to wrestle with gender norms and feelings of self-doubt. When another fire results in further tragedy, Sage is forced to reckon with her community, her future, and the power of legacy. Woodson (Before the Ever After) draws on her experiences growing up in Bushwick in the 1970s and '80s to craft a nostalgic-feeling ode to the unexpected. Short chapters offer swift glimpses into momentous happenings in Sage's life, while organic dialogue and mesmerizing prose lay bare a narrative that encourages learning to move with the ebbs and flows of life. Ages 10--up. (Oct.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 5 Up--Over the last decade or so, Woodson has chosen to narrate her own books--either hauntingly solo or in a notable ensemble, gifting audiences with gratifying aural enhancements of already gorgeous text. For Sage, "the world I had known so well the year I was twelve" means the Bushwick section of 1970s Brooklyn. She's recently lost her father, a fireman killed in the line of duty; local conflagrations continue, enough to earn the neighborhood the dangerous moniker "The Matchbox." While her mother works hard to move them out, Sage spends that summer before seventh grade hanging with neighborhood newbie Freddy and playing basketball. A teen's aggressive taunt on the court, "What kind of girl are you, anyway?," triggers Sage's growing insecurities about gender, identity, families, friendship. The author's note is a moving ode to being "able to go home again." VERDICT Woodson lyrically, empathetically presents another feelings-full coming-of-age treasure.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Horn Book Review

Sage Durham, a basketball-obsessed Black twelve-year-old, is looking forward to a summer of pick-up games with the boys (she's always the only girl on the court) in her close-knit 1970s Brooklyn neighborhood. Instead, it proves to be a season of screaming sirens and burned-out buildings. The newspapers dub Bushwick "The Matchbox," and a number of the Durhams' neighbors become victims of fire. Sage's mom, the widow of a firefighter, is saving every possible penny to put toward a brick house and a safer future for herself and her daughter. But the idea of leaving the home where her dad grew up and all the people she has ever known is hard for Sage. A recent cruel comment ("What kind of girl are you?") has her questioning where she fits in. This lyrical first-person upper-middle-grade novel taps into a wide array of emotional truths and preteen sensibilities. Passages on loss and memory feature palpable sadness, but there is also a tender exploration of the enduring power of friendship and love, the discovery of inner strength and resilience, and the need to balance an appreciation for what "once was" and what may be. Woodson again delivers an appealing protagonist whose voice will resonate with readers in a nuanced coming-of-age story worth remembering. Luann TothSeptember/October 2023 p.85 (c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

An African American tween's world is turned upside down by mysterious fires in her neighborhood and by self-doubt as she comes of age. Sage's mother wants them to move to a safer area, but Sage is reluctant to leave their community, where her father, a fireman killed in the line of duty, grew up. Her mother was always one of the first to help families when fires struck, and Sage finds herself drawn to the little kids who play in the residue left behind. Rough-and-tumble, basketball-loving Sage grapples with feeling different from the makeup-wearing girls who used to be her friends. The words of a menacing teen who harasses her on the basketball court haunt her ("What kind of girl are you?" "I should punch you in the face just to show you you ain't a dude…"), and her hurt turns to an anger that nearly has a catastrophic outcome. After one of the neighborhood children is killed in yet another fire, Sage finds herself reflecting on her own loss. Drawing on her own experiences growing up in Brooklyn's Bushwick neighborhood during the '70s and '80s, Woodson has crafted a beautifully lyrical narrative of change, healing, and growth. Her ability to evoke time and place is masterful; every word feels perfectly chosen. Sage is an irresistible character with a rich interior life, and her relationships with her mother and her friend Freddy are exceptionally well drawn. An exquisitely wrought story of self and community. (author's note) (Fiction. 10-13) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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After the year of fire vines rise up through the rest of our lives of smoke of flame of memory. As if to say We're still here. As if to say Remember us. 1 The moon is bright tonight. And full. Hanging low above the house across the street where an orange curtain blows in and out of my neighbors' window. Out and in. And past the curtain there's the golden light of their living room lamps. Beyond that, there is the pulsing blue of their tele­vision screen. I see this all now. I see a world continuing. And in the orange and gold and blue I'm reminded again of the year when sirens screamed through my old neighborhood and smoke always seemed to be billowing. Somewhere. That year, from the moment we stepped out of our houses in the morning till late into the night, we heard the sirens. Down Knickerbocker. Up Madison. Across Cornelia. Both ways on Gates Avenue. Down Ridgewood Place. Rounding the corners of Putnam, Wilson, Evergreen . . . Evergreen. Sometimes a word comes to you after time has passed. And it catches you off guard. Evergreen. The name of a family of trees. And the name of a block in Brooklyn. Evergreen. Another way of saying forever . That year, nothing felt evergreen. Palmetto. A word that has never left me. A word that in my mind is evergreen. Palmetto. The name for both a stunning tree and an oversize cockroach. Palmetto was also the name of a street in my old neighborhood. And that year, Palmetto Street was burning. 2 That was the year when, one by one, the buildings on Palmetto melted into a mass of rock and ash and crumbled plaster until just a few walls were left standing. Walls that we threw our balls against and chased each other around. And at the end of the day, when we were too tired to play anymore, they were the walls we simply sat down by and pressed our backs into, staring out over a block that was already, even as we stared at it with our lips slightly parted and our hands shielding the last of the sun from our eyes, almost gone. We said Well, nothing lasts for always, right? We said One day even the whole earth will disappear. We were just some kids making believe we understood. But we didn't. Not yet. We didn't understand the fires. Or life. Or the world. But we knew that neighborhood was our world. And we knew . . . our world was burning. 3 That was the year of Freddy too. 4 Freddy moved into the corner building on Palmetto Street right where it was sliced through by a small block called Ridgewood Place. The brick houses on Ridgewood Place felt like they came from another time. Each house was just as perfect as the one beside it. The cars parked out in front of the houses were undented and shining. We didn't understand how the people who lived on Ridgewood Place got such nice houses and fancy cars. But we understood why their brick houses remained standing long after the wooden houses of Palmetto Street had burned to the ground. So we slitted our eyes as we walked past the houses on Ridgewood Place, jealous because the kids who lived inside that brick didn't have to worry about how quickly flames flew. And we slitted our eyes because we knew they didn't have to sleep with their robes and shoes at the foot of their beds. We knew if those kids woke up in the middle of the night, it was only to go to the bathroom or climb into their parents' bed during a thunderstorm. 5 Hey, girl! The first time I ever talked to Freddy was the day he called to me from his window. I had been dribbling my basketball through my legs as I walked up the block but stopped to see who was yelling. It was summer, and the one tree on Palmetto Street was in front of his building. That's what I remember now--­looking up at Freddy through all that green. Hey, yourself, I yelled back. Where's the park at? What park? My dad said there was a park around here somewhere. With hoops. I shrugged. I don't know anything about some park, I said. But you got a ball. So? A hot wind came out of nowhere and trembled the leaves. I didn't want to be yelling in the street up at some kid's window, and something about that wind made me feel a way. So I gave a little wave and then broke into a jog toward the park. Excerpted from Remember Us by Jacqueline Woodson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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