When I first saw Chris Park’s jacket art for Stephanie V. W. Lucianovic’s Touch the Sky, I was struck by its bold colors, display type that would fit right into street art near a city playground, and by painterly, energetic brushstrokes evoking the soaring movement of the  child on a swing. Combined, I saw how these elements contribute to a cartoonlike illustration style that is lively, exuberant, and eminently appropriate for the story’s focus on a child at play. Then as I looked at the child, who appears wide-eyed and beaming with an open-mouthed, kidney-shaped smile like an anime character, I admit I fell prey to conventional, binary thinking about gender. I assumed this joyful, long-haired kid on a swing was a girl. 

My assumption was corrected when I encountered the first lines of text in the book proper: “Vern went to the park practically every day. On some days, he flung himself stomach-first onto the swing” (emphasis added). Oops! I turned back to the jacket art to behold this boy again. Looking more closely, I noticed that the vibrant palette that had caught my eye includes Vern’s long, teal, purple, and red hair, as well as a rainbow-like sweep of color trailing behind him in the sky — not in precise color-spectrum order, but close enough that I can bet other readers more visually astute than I will notice it at first glance. 

The meaning assigned to this rainbow is open to interpretation. Is it an actual rainbow? Perhaps, though rain itself appears nowhere in the story. Is it an artistic expression of emotion, making visible Vern’s joy and excitement at the narrative climax when he finally masters pumping on a swing? This seems quite likely, especially given Park’s deliberate omission of such background colors when Vern fails at pumping in an earlier spread, the empty white of the page a stark backdrop to his struggles. Or, can we read the rainbow in the jacket art, and then later in triumphant, swing-pumping interior spreads, as akin to a Pride flag? In other words, can we regard it as an encoded representation of how Vern troubles gender norms with his colorful, long hair, his lack of physical prowess, his slight frame clothed in bright hues? Of course we can! Why shouldn’t we?

Well, at a time when overtly queer books are routinely subjected to challenges and outright bans, I am sadly hesitant to assert such a reading, even as I believe that Vern’s visual characterization is precisely what elevates this picture book from good to great and even Caldecott-worthy. It’s not that I fret about offering an interpretation that the writer and artist didn’t necessarily intend — I firmly believe that meaning resides not in authorial or artistic intent, but in the space between the reader and the book. I do worry, however, that in publicly sharing this subtly queer reading in this moment, I might hurt, rather than help, the reception of this outstanding picture book. 

Isn’t that a crying shame? Doesn’t it make you want to kick out your feet and sail up and away from the fearmongering and hate that would deny such a reading, or see it and seek to deny children access to the book that inspired it? Or maybe, like me sitting very still at my desk, it makes you want to dig in your heels and resolve to claim space for readings that embrace characters like Vern, who do not fit into tidy categories of gender, and to commend artists, like Park, who provide them for young readers. 

Through his decision to present personal resilience  embodied by a gender-nonconforming boy, I argue that Park displays “excellence of pictorial interpretation of story, theme, or concept” and distinction in his “delineation of [...] character.” Nothing in the text overtly calls for this visual characterization, after all, but Park builds on the moment when “[s]ome kids laughed as they soared past [Vern],” to illustrate a boy who is more vulnerable to bullying than one who conforms to gender norms might be. This decision ultimately adds great depth to a story about reaching great heights. 

Happily, Vern encounters not just kids who tease him, but an ally. Lucianovic’s text introduces Gretchen as the feisty, physically powerful girl who helps Vern overcome his challenges, and Park’s illustrative talents make the most of her clear textual contrast to him. She consistently appears larger than Vern on the page, and when they first speak to each other, Park places Gretchen on the verso, Vern on the recto, with the gutter between them to visually underscore their opposing natures. Gretchen is also placed higher on the page, and Vern lower, indicating her relative power as she asks him, “‘Do you want to learn how?’” 

He does! Gretchen is patient and kind, unlike those who earlier laughed at Vern on the swings and said, “‘It’s soooo easy!’” Words in her voice, like “‘Lean back, stretch! Pull forward, tuck! Yes! Do it again!’’’ offer contrasting encouragement, their importance emphasized by their appearance in vibrant, graffiti-like type in a rainbow of hues on the endpapers and book casing. With daring pacing that stretches out the characters’ interaction, Park’s ensuing seven spreads alternately show Gretchen exalting in pumping and swinging up high on her swing, and Vern awkwardly struggling to make his body do what he wishes it would. 

It’s not until Gretchen leaves the playground that Vern finally succeeds, rainbow colors streaking behind him like they do on the jacket as he swings. He has internalized Gretchen’s encouragement in resistance to those who belittled and laughed at him, and he has endured in the face of self-doubt. Park then devotes three more spreads to Vern’s triumph. In these, he no longer shows Vern in simultaneous succession, frenetically scattered about the pages, but presents him singly on each page or spread, as his body stretches “[s]trong and sure and powerful” out to “touch the sky” with his toes. Rather than employing a rainbow palette, the final climactic moment is dominated by peaceful blues. Vern not only touches the sky, but seems one with it, as silhouetted birds soar above him like guardian angels, and curvilinear brushstrokes cradle him in safety while he sails up on his swing. 

This small victory is clearly a big deal to Vern. Indeed, the summary on the copyright page asserts that this picture book "[c]aptures the unforgettable moment when a child learns to pump on a swing.” As much as I like the book, this description gives me pause. Though I have many fond memories of playing on playgrounds as a child and with my own children over the years, the precise moments when any of us learned to pump on a swing are lost to me. First steps — sure, I remember those with my kids; but with apologies to the copywriter who drafted that front-matter summary, I don’t think the power of this picture book lies in its depiction of a universal “unforgettable moment.” This story is about more than learning to pump on a swing. Its power resides in the potential of its words and pictures to offer a metaphor for perseverance when facing challenges of all kinds. 

While learning to swing is arguably a low-stakes endeavor, figuring out how to navigate the world as a small, uncoordinated boy with a rainbow of long hair is fraught with risk. In my reading, Park’s illustration achievement takes a Caldecott-worthy turn through his inspired visual characterization of Vern as a boy who flouts gender norms as he perseveres, trailing rainbows in his wake. In choosing this picture book for Caldecott recognition, the committee could take great pride. 

[Read The Horn Book Magazine review of Touch the Sky]