When the Mapou sings

Review by Booklist Review

Haiti, 1935. A gifted wood-carver like her father, 16-year-old Lucille must flee after inadvertently offending the powerful section chief. Her father sends her to Port-au-Prince, where she will work for the wealthy Madame Ovide. In the meantime, her best friend, Fifina, has gone missing, perhaps doomed to be the section chief's outside wife (mistress). Lucille vows that she will find her and together they will open a school. Before that can happen, however, she meets Madame Ovide's son, Oreste, and falls in love. Discovering this, Madame sends her away to work for an American woman (who turns out to be the real-life Zora Neale Hurston) in Haiti to do research for a book. Soon Lucille will lose Oreste when he goes to New York to study at Columbia University. Will they be reunited? And will she find Fifina? Pinede's novel in verse is extremely well written and character driven. While the pace is sometimes slow, it offers enough interest to hold readers' attention to the end.

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

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Debut author Pinede's historical verse novel centers a 1930s Haiti filled with magic, cultural tradition, and danger. Inspired by the music of Haiti's tall mapou trees ("I hear a woman's voice singing"), 16-year-old Lucille and her best friend Fifina dream of opening a school where they can teach girls "the songs of the trees, flowers, birds, butterflies, the sun, moon, mountains, clouds." The author juxtaposes the grounding magic of nature with ongoing civil unrest throughout Haiti: after Fifina is taken by a section chief, an authority figure who often abuses their power, Lucille's beloved mapou also goes missing. When she discovers the tree at the section chief's home and is subsequently sentenced to exile, Lucille immerses herself in the world beyond her village, where she begins working for affluent Madame Ovides and falls for her son Oreste, a young burgeoning revolutionary. Historical figures such as Zora Neale Hurston, depicted in Pinede's vibrant text, become key players in Lucille's life. While the ending of this lengthy, densely packed tale feels abrupt, culturally rich descriptions and examinations of occupation and class division, as well as the perceived differences between spiritual and material wealth, make this a thought-provoking read. Ages 14--up. (Dec.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Horn Book Review

In this historical verse novel, teenage Lucille comes of age against the uneasy backdrop of 1930s Haiti. The American colonizers have removed their troops, and political discussions among Haiti's new leaders about the country's future are turning incendiary. Lucille discovers she has the gift of hearing her deceased mother's spirit in their mapou tree, and the only one who understands her gift is Fifina, Lucille's best friend and first love. Fifina vanishes under terrible circumstances, which leads Lucille to a confrontation at the section chief's house; she must then leave home. Now a servant in Madame Ovide's house, Lucille is intrigued by conversations she hears about progress, but to quell Lucille's growing relationship with her son, Oreste, Madame Ovide sends Lucille to another one of her homes, to help an eccentric American who has come to the island to do fieldwork in folklore: Zora Neale Hurston. Hurston's presence angers some powerful Haitian politicians, and Lucille finds herself in a race to save Zora, Oreste, Fifina, and herself. The novel addresses issues of classism, colorism, misogyny, and activism with nuance. While the resolution is somewhat abrupt, the detailed, lyrical free verse makes for an impressive debut. Eboni NjokuMarch/April 2025 p.80 (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

Sixteen-year-old Lucille comes of age in 1930s Haiti. Following the death of her mother during childbirth, Lucille has been cared for by her woodworker father and maternal aunt. Lucille can hear the sacred mapou trees sing, although a teacher chides: "The Church or the spirits, / you can't serve them both." Lucille and best friend Fifina dream of opening their own school for girls, one that centers nature and creativity, but ongoing conflict in Haiti poses an obstacle. When Fifina vanishes, Lucille learns she's been taken by the section chief as his second wife. Then, the section chief cuts down Lucille's favorite mapou tree, and she confronts him. Fearing for her safety, Papa and Tante Lila send her to Port-au-Prince. As a servant to a wealthy Haitian family, Lucille takes steps toward adulthood; she also falls for her employer's son and is sent away again, becoming a servant to charismatic American writer Zora Neale Hurston. Lucille learns that activism comes with sacrifice--and even mortal danger. The book's slow pace demands patience from readers, and the resolution feels rushed, but Pinede's beautifully written debut sharply observes class divisions and encourages readers to ask critical questions about dignity. Lucille's optimism is rooted in the purpose she derives from loved ones and a cultural inheritance that values nature over material wealth. The well-drawn characters, strong dialogue, and surprising twists add depth. A rich, lyrical story that shows the high cost young women pay for daring to dream of a better life. (historical notes, bibliography, sources)(Verse historical fiction. 13-18) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Manman My birth brought your death your blood a lavalas in rainy season. Papa buried the placenta with orange seeds and watered them with tears. Papa told me you were a Mother Tree and your great-grandmother was a princess, from the first people who named us Ayiti, the Land of Mountains. She fell in love with a mawon, a runaway who hid in caves and climbed mountains to freedom, then returned with his princess to fight the French. Papa does his best to hide the ashes in his heart. He makes tables, chairs, cedar coffins to sell in his shop. Your older sister, Tante Lila, never married. She moved in with us. When she braids my hair it's always too tight. The dresses she sews hang loose on my body, as thin as a gazelle. Whatever she cooks always needs salt. Not like Cousin Phebus, whose food makes our tongues dance. Tante Lila prays the rosary every day, scolds me when I climb my favorite mapou, the sacred tree. So I keep our secret. How in the forest when I touch the trees-- barks grainy, knotted, or peeled slick smooth-- I see shapes in the wood calling me to carve them. I feel the heartbeat of their roots pulse through my bare feet. The trees sing to me. Inside each one of them a tiny spark of you. PART ONE LAKAY Friendliness and Understanding August 15, 1934 Hinche, Haiti Statement from the Secretary of State: In the nearly twenty years during which our marine and naval forces have been stationed in Haiti they have rendered invaluable, disinterested service to the Haitian Government and the people. At this present moment they are withdrawing from the island in an atmosphere of great friendliness and the best of understanding. We wish for the Government and people of Haiti stability, progress and all success. When the section chief finishes reading to us, gathered in the muggy heat, no one says a word. Was he expecting applause? They say the section chief-- at first respected, now detested-- helped sòlda Ameriken yo kill Caco resisters steal our land and force us like slaves to build roads. "Friendliness and understanding? Hmph." The air is thick with resentment and relief. Surely things will be better now. For the first time in my fourteen years, I see the Haitian flag raised from its lower position at half-mast, and the drapo Ameriken an, always higher till now, lowered, folded, and taken away. My Friend Fifina I'll never forget the first time I saw her when the school year started. In the courtyard of the Mission School I sat apart from the others drawing a bird in red earth with a twig from Mapou. "That's beautiful." Her voice arrived first, warm honey and butter. I looked up and saw skin the color of glowing dark walnut her soft cheve swa a silky braid down her back. A marabou, those we consider the most beautiful. "I'm Fifina." I stood up, wiped my hands on my skirt. "I'm Lucille." We walked back to the classroom inside me a sunrise. Trust At the Bassin Zim waterfall, where Papa taught me to swim in the rivière Samana and dive in underwater caves, the light-jeweled water caresses the cliff. I teach Fifina to swim, first holding her as she floats on her back her black hair fanning out like angel wings. When I sense her body relax, trust the water, I let go. Listen Fifina and I perch high like birds on Mapou's branches for hours. I press my ear against the side stripes of Mapou's bark, Fifina next to me. "Don't you hear anything?" Her mouth rises in a smile, but she never laughs at me never makes me feel my head's not on straight never says that I look like a boy. "I don't hear anything," says Fifina. "If I told you Mapou sings to me, what would you think?" "I'd think you're lucky! Tell me what you hear," she says. "I hear a woman's voice singing, and when I close my eyes, behind my eyelids I see flashing lights, like bird wings fluttering in the sun. "It doesn't make sense until I fall asleep. Then they all come together in my dreams. I used to try and draw them, but now I want to carve, like Papa." Fifina holds my hand and squeezes it. "You have a gift." "Promise you won't tell anyone?" "I promise." That makes me smile, our secret to keep. Our feet swing free from Mapou's branches. We talk of what shape our lives will be when we start our own school where girls will learn more than we do at the Mission School. We'll make our own book, with her mother's leaf-medicine recipes and my drawings of the plants. We'll teach girls how to carve, sew, draw, climb trees. We'll teach girls the songs of trees, flowers, birds, butterflies, the sun, moon, mountains, clouds. Mapou listens to our dreams falling like gentle rain on her leaves. When it's time to go home we climb down carefully Mapou's branch in my hand to chase away snakes. Mine Each mapou is special, a resting place reposwa for the ones before us still with us, ever since our land born from fire stood up high from the sea to make mountains behind mountains. Those who serve the spirits say they know exactly what makes mapou trees sacred. "Trees are God's creation, but He made them mute," says Sister Gilberte when I tell her about my Mapou. "The Church or the spirits, you can't serve them both." To stay in school, I keep my silence. Still, Mapou sings to me. Excerpted from When the Mapou Sings by Nadine Pinede 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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