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This essay analyzes images of both movement and immobility in Nina Bunjevac’s Fatherland, a Canadian graphic memoir in which the author/illustrator traces her father’s involvement in a Serbian nationalist terrorist cell. Although, as scholars such as Mihaela Precup have convincingly argued, Bunjevac depicts her father as trapped by historical circumstances he cannot control—and her larger family as “frozen in disbelief, anger, and sadness” (220)—I maintain that such immobility is paradoxically the consequence of constant movement. In the course of her narrative, Bunjevac, while she does not excuse her father’s actions or even depict him sympathetically, nevertheless shows how three generations of wartime displacement and transnational migration traumatized her father and in turn her immediate family. Thus, I maintain that her graphic narrative demonstrates how Astrid Erll’s concept of “travelling memory” might be enlarged to address how traumatic memories follow, and become uncannily reenacted by, migrants and displaced people. Bunjevac’s text is a particularly effective demonstration of this dimension of travelling memory because its very form as a graphic memoir necessarily depends on such elements of fracture, repetition, and difference.

Winner of the Children's Literature Association Book Award This book visits a range of textual forms including diary, novel, and picturebook to explore the relationship between second-generation memory and contemporary children's literature. Ulanowicz argues that second-generation memory - informed by intimate family relationships, textual mediation, and technology - is characterized by vicarious, rather than direct, experience of the past. As such, children's literature is particularly well-suited to the representation of second-generation memory, insofar as children's fiction is particularly invested in the transmission and reproduction of cultural memory, and its form promotes the formation of various complex intergenerational relationships. Further, children's books that depict second-generation memory have the potential to challenge conventional Western notions of selfhood and ethics. This study shows how novels such as Lois Lowry's The Giver (1993) and Judy Blume's Starring Sally J Freedman as Herself (1977) - both of which feature protagonists who adapt their elders' memories into their own mnemonic repertoires - implicitly reject Cartesian notions of the unified subject in favor of a view of identity as always-already social, relational, and dynamic in character. This book not only questions how and why second-generation memory is represented in books for young people, but whether such representations of memory might be considered 'radical' or 'conservative'. Together, these analyses address a topic that has not been explored fully within the fields of children's literature, trauma and memory studies, and Holocaust studies.

The act of translation is intimately bound with migration: the Latin translatio, meaning \"to ferry or carry across,\" was originally used to name the process of moving and transplanting sacred relics. A case study of the English translation and serialization of Andriy Chaikovsky's 1907 novel Za Sestroyu illuminates how cherished children's books move with, and are transformed alongside, migrant communities. Initially a Ukrainian nationalist allegory, Chaikovsky's novel took on new resonance with its 1941–42 serial publication in the American diasporic newspaper The Ukrainian Weekly, particularly insofar as it symbolically performed the conflict that young Ukrainian Americans faced between cultural assimilation and fidelity to a distant homeland.

The graphic image suggests, in other words, that for every surviving account of slaves' experiences and for every attempt made by slaves to preserve a sense of history and identity, there were countless lives and stories rubbed out of the \"master narrative\" of American history. [...] once the graphic image is considered in light of the novel's Iraq War moment of publication, it may be read as an emblem of the on-going American imperialist attempt to smudge out the voices of those whose histories and ideologies are not easily aligned with American imperial concerns.

In an essay featured in theHuffington Poston December 21, 2010, Melissa terzis annotates a Christmas wish list her brother had found on a New York City train bound to Connecticut. This list, apparently composed by a twenty-something-year-old woman and addressed to her presumably wealthy boyfriend, contains the following items: noise-canceling earphones; a bicycle; Louis Vuitton city guides; “whatever the newest Chanel makeup is (as long as I don’t already have it)”; a Mulberry oversized Alexa bag (priced at approximately $1,200); a Cartier large Tank watch (priced at approximately $2,000); an a Cartier Love bracelet (priced at approximately $6,200)

[...] a close reading of America, made in conjunction with analyses of statements Cheney made at the height of the culture wars of the 1990s and immediately after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, reveals that this picture book in fact signals Cheney's reinforcement-rather than relaxation-of her long-held positions on such matters as education, multiculturalism, and the United States' strategic role in the global theatre.\\n It is not insignificant, moreover, that this patriotic primer intends its facile interpretation of American history not only for the consumption of the child reader but for her adult guardian.

Long before Lois Lowry's The Giver was published to great critical acclaim, Judy Blume's own narrative of second-generation memory, Starring Sally J Freedman as Herself (1977), met considerably chillier responses from reviewers. Of course, Blume's previous books, including Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret (1970) and Forever (1975), similarly endured negative critical reviews, mostly in response to their frank and, to many reviewers, obsessive treatment of such topics as menstruation, masturbation, and pre-marital sex. What most provoked reviewers of Sally, however, was not its representation of sexual awakening or its depiction of (pre-)adolescent angst, but rather its startling and occasionally graphic references to the Holocaust. Overwhelmingly, critics were repulsed by the central conflict of Blume's novel, which involves its ten-year-old protagonist's obsession with and fantasies about the atrocities suffered by Jews at the hands of the Nazis. Such treatment of the Holocaust, reviewers agreed, was \"unnecessarily violent in its expression\" (Haas 59), \"trivialized by poor taste and unnecessarily ghoulish fantasies\" (Weeks 112), and \"neither credible nor humorous\" (Stein 809).

\"The past is a foreign country,\" declares L. P. Hartley's narrator in the opening line of The Go-Between (1958): \"they do things differently there\" (5). Hartley's novel-whose first line is often quoted but whose subsequent content is sadly underappreciated-is narrated by a middle-aged man who reluctantly recalls a childhood trauma that resulted in a nervous breakdown. As the narrator, Leo Colston, describes the events leading up to this catastrophe, he scrupulously draws his twentieth-century audience's attention to the very otherness of the turn-of-the-century historical context in which these incidents occurred, documenting such details as the importance of wearing a proper suit to meals, the regularity of morning prayers in an English great house, and-most crucially-the taboo nature of inter-class romantic affairs. Likewise, he deftly underscores the differences between his childhood self and his present, adult identity, thereby suggesting that one's youth is as impossible to directly access and represent as the national past itself.

If there is one book that has rivaled Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as the most frequently taught literary text in the American school-room, it may be Lois Lowry's dystopic children's novel, The Giver . Published in 1993, this story of a boy's act resistance against a futuristic totalitarian society became an instant bestseller; soon thereafter, it collected a number of literary prizes, including the Newbery Medal and the American Library Association's prize for the best book for young adults of that year. Praised by reviewers and educators for the directness and simplicity of its style and the richness of its characterization, The Giver soon became a main staple in middle school reading curricula, where it has remained a solid presence (Hipple and Maupin 40-41). Decades after its publication, readers continue to find Lowry's depiction of a dystopic society especially convincing, praising the manner in which her vision of this brave new world \"forces us to question values taken for granted and to reexamine our beliefs\" (Bushman 80). The novel has also garnered a great deal of attention from scholars of children's literature, who both praise and question its political significance. Indeed, like many complex and particularly memorable children's novels (including the aforementioned Adventures of Huckleberry Finn), The Giver has been subject to intense scholarly debate. On the one hand, readers like Carrie Hintz have praised the manner in which it \"seriously portray[s] dissent for younger audiences and make[s] it clear that young people should be integrated into political life\" (263). On the other hand, more skeptical readers like Susan Stewart have argued that it \"fails to address alterity, reinforces cultural continuity, and actually diminishes opportunities to think in terms of difference because of its overriding humanist impetus\" (26). Although its implications may remain contested, The Giver's persistent presence within scholarly conversation, as well as its continued insertion into various teaching curricula, 1 has assured its sustained popularity. In fact, since its publication, Lowry's novel has been named one of the 100 best books for children, and it has inspired art exhibitions, stage adaptations, and even a Tai Chi ballet (Silvey 147). 2