1001 Cranes-- Naomi Hirahara

Over the course of this year, I hope to come to peace with the so-called “middle reader” novel. These books are rather awkward things, much like the age group for which they are written—mature readers as young as 10, up to 14 years. The language of these novels must be relatively simple, but the story itself must speak to the vastly different experiences within this age group. Four years is an eternity when you consider how much your world can change between sixth grade and your freshman year of high school.

I remember thinking that the protagonists of these books were ridiculous, because as ridiculous as the actions of 12 and 13 year-olds may seem to an adult, they were beyond what I as a 10 year old could relate to. I also found them annoyingly predictable. Yet, as an adult, I have a theoretical respect for what middle reader books attempt to do—that is, to sustain an interest in reading and guide young people from picture books to young adult novels. I think of middle readers novels as a long, rickety bridge between Chris Van Allsburg and J.D. Salinger (although there is also the route taken by the precocious M, who headed straight for Stephen King). I have respect for authors that embrace the challenge and write stories that speak to the difficult realities and inner turmoil of their young readers.

Naomi Hirahara’s 1001 Cranes, had me thanking my lucky stars that I was no longer 12 years old, but it’s one of the better middle reader novels.

Angie Kato arrives in the L.A. suburb of Gardena to spend the summer with her mother’s parents and sister. In the beginning, she longs for the familiar world of her northern California home—her friends, the leisurely afternoons, and her parents. Instead, Angie’s world is full of unfamiliar people, days in the family shop folding paper cranes, and occasional phone calls from her mom and dad as they prepare for a divorce.

In the typical narrative arc of these “formative summer” books, a crush plays itself out towards heartbreak, the protagonist learns that she is more like her mother and grandmother than she originally thought, and her relationships with others become more responsible and emotionally engaged.

The book involves some interesting identity issues. Angie has difficulty identifying with Japanese-Americans; she describes her trips into San Francisco’s Japanese community as part of her “weekend life” as opposed to her “real life.” Observations such as these might be close to home for some readers, insulting to others. Angie has uneasy relationships with other people in general, and she finds the Japanese church-going neighbors, youth group kids, and her culturally knowledgeable grandmother particularly intimidating.

Angie’s family histories are a major highlight of the story: her parents participated in sit-ins in their undergraduate days at Stanford (Angie is named after Angela Davis), her grandmother Michi grew up in an orphanage for Japanese-American kids, and her grandfather was interned in Arkansas during WWII. The Inui family’s experiences allude to the diversity of experience in the Japanese-American community, which may be an interesting introduction to young readers.