Walter Elevated Us All
In 2007 HarperCollins put together a Dream Team of mostly geezer jocks for the American Library Association Conference: Robert Lipsyte, Terry Trueman, Kenneth Oppel, (the only youngster) me and Walter Dean Myers. We were each assigned one of the others to introduce, and Walter drew the short straw. When it came time to introduce me, he said back in the day he heard my name long before actually meeting me. (Walter was an established superstar well before my rookie season). He must have mistaken me for competition because he said, “When I finally got a look at Chris, I smiled and nodded, ‘I can take him.’”
No shit, Walter. Could you, and can you, ever. And forever. You lived the life of the some of the hardest kids I’ve written about, turned around and told their stories without an ounce of bitterness.
When a guy like Walter passes, I can only stand in breathless awe. His awards and formal accomplishments have been lauded many times over in these days after his passing, but what I hope people never forget is his elegance. When he walked into a room you couldn’t take your eyes off him; his bigger-than-life physical presence, a smile that turned his professorial countenance instantly warm, his wide embrace. And oh, God was he smart. Walter was an intellect, cognitively and emotionally: school and street.
In 2012 when Walter was named Library of Congress National Ambassador for Young People's Literature, some would-be educator who couldn’t carry Walter’s scholarly water, wrote a piece admonishing his selection. I wish I could remember the guy’s name because I’d call him out right here. He said he’d once used Walter’s work in alternative classes to make connection with the tough kids, but found he could do better with the classics, once he showed them all the bawdy material in Shakespeare, Chaucer, etc. All his hostile and rebellious students now hungered for more material written by dead guys, in language that could just as well be foreign, once he translated it for them.
Tell you what, dip-shit-whose-name-I-can’t-remember…Bull-Shit! And I may be pushing it here, but probably racist bull shit. Shakespeare and Chaucer may well have connected with the readers of their times, writing in the languages of their times. But Walter Dean Myers wrote in the tough, raw, beautiful language of his time, in metaphor of all time. He will be once and for always, that ambassador.
During a short exchange during one of my last meetings with Walter, he laughed and told me he was through trying to save the world. Then he turned around and kept right on saving the world, reader by reader, revealing a universe inhabited by kids so many in our culture are willing to discard. It kills me that writers like Walter, Virginia Hamilton, Christopher Paul Curtis, Nikki Grimes, Jackie Woodson, et al, are sometimes referred to as African-American writers. How come nobody ever calls me a white writer? Every one of those masters reflects to us the human condition.
I read a recent article debating whether or not John Green is the savior of Young Adult literature. John is a fabulous writer and humanitarian and long after I’m gone there will be many stunning tributes written to him, but because of Walter Dean Myers and a few who exist in his rare air, YA lit will never need a savior. Walter’s stories view the world through the eyes of struggling kids and adults of every age and race and because of that, empower us. Because of Walter Dean Myers, Young Adult literature is already saved.
Thanks, Walter, for making the road wide enough for guys like me.
No shit, Walter. Could you, and can you, ever. And forever. You lived the life of the some of the hardest kids I’ve written about, turned around and told their stories without an ounce of bitterness.
When a guy like Walter passes, I can only stand in breathless awe. His awards and formal accomplishments have been lauded many times over in these days after his passing, but what I hope people never forget is his elegance. When he walked into a room you couldn’t take your eyes off him; his bigger-than-life physical presence, a smile that turned his professorial countenance instantly warm, his wide embrace. And oh, God was he smart. Walter was an intellect, cognitively and emotionally: school and street.
In 2012 when Walter was named Library of Congress National Ambassador for Young People's Literature, some would-be educator who couldn’t carry Walter’s scholarly water, wrote a piece admonishing his selection. I wish I could remember the guy’s name because I’d call him out right here. He said he’d once used Walter’s work in alternative classes to make connection with the tough kids, but found he could do better with the classics, once he showed them all the bawdy material in Shakespeare, Chaucer, etc. All his hostile and rebellious students now hungered for more material written by dead guys, in language that could just as well be foreign, once he translated it for them.
Tell you what, dip-shit-whose-name-I-can’t-remember…Bull-Shit! And I may be pushing it here, but probably racist bull shit. Shakespeare and Chaucer may well have connected with the readers of their times, writing in the languages of their times. But Walter Dean Myers wrote in the tough, raw, beautiful language of his time, in metaphor of all time. He will be once and for always, that ambassador.
During a short exchange during one of my last meetings with Walter, he laughed and told me he was through trying to save the world. Then he turned around and kept right on saving the world, reader by reader, revealing a universe inhabited by kids so many in our culture are willing to discard. It kills me that writers like Walter, Virginia Hamilton, Christopher Paul Curtis, Nikki Grimes, Jackie Woodson, et al, are sometimes referred to as African-American writers. How come nobody ever calls me a white writer? Every one of those masters reflects to us the human condition.
I read a recent article debating whether or not John Green is the savior of Young Adult literature. John is a fabulous writer and humanitarian and long after I’m gone there will be many stunning tributes written to him, but because of Walter Dean Myers and a few who exist in his rare air, YA lit will never need a savior. Walter’s stories view the world through the eyes of struggling kids and adults of every age and race and because of that, empower us. Because of Walter Dean Myers, Young Adult literature is already saved.
Thanks, Walter, for making the road wide enough for guys like me.