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Above: a compilation of images from The art of Ramona Quimby by Anna Katz, published by Chronicle Books 2020. Individual images by, clockwise from top left: Louis Darling, Joanne Scribner, Tracy Dockray, Jacqueline Rogers, Alan Tiegreen, Tracy Dockray.
Ramona Quimby is one of my best friends. We both grew up in Portland, Oregon, and when I was 8 she kept me company when I was alone. She whispered her stories to me, letting me know it was okay to ask questions, to be angry, to mess. She taught me to be curious, to find beauty in simple things, like curls that boing and bounce, like deep puddles of water good for splashing and treading. She laughed loudly and cried until there were no more tears. Ramona wasn’t afraid to show her emotion. She wasn’t afraid to take up space. I needed a friend like Ramona.
I remember one day in elementary school where I bragged to my classmates about the new shoes I was going to bring to the show-and-tell. My mother had saved up and gave them to me as a gift. When the day came for me to show off my new shoes, the whole class laughed at me. My new cool, pink and white sneakers were Pro-Wings from Volume ShoeSource. They weren’t cool or cute according to popular and wealthier kids.
Ramona understood me. She knew how embarrassing it can be to laugh at him, how quickly pride can disappear once you realize that what you cherish is not cherished by others. When Ramona brought her favorite doll to the show-and-tell, she was so excited to share her name – Chevrolet, after her aunt’s car. Chevrolet’s hair was a greenish color because she once tried rinsing it blue, like her friend’s grandmother had at the beauty salon, and washed and washed it again with all kinds of household products not intended for washing the hair. The whole class burst out laughing. The doll was considered ugly (like my shoes), and Chevrolet? Not the kind of “pretty” name you give a doll.
Yeah, Ramona got me.
Ramona admired and loved her big sister, Beezus, and I knew what it felt like not being worthy of an older brother, what it was like comparing myself and always feeling like you missed out.
I connected with Ramona because, like her, I wanted to be seen, validated. Before self-love was a popular concept and before I had the courage to ask for what I needed, Ramona was leading the way. In Ramona the brave, there is a scene where, after a tearful day full of misadventures, misunderstandings and mistreatment, Ramona looks at herself in the mirror and realizes that she is not the girl she thought she was:
“Ramona considered herself the kind of girl everyone should love, but this girl… Ramona scowled and the girl scowled. Ramona managed a small smile. The girl too. Ramona felt better. She wanted the girl in the mirror to like her.
She wanted the girl in the mirror to like her.
Above all, Ramona taught me to love me– even if I had made a mistake, even if I was afraid, even if I did not have the material things that my peers had. Even when others didn’t show me love. Later, after another terrible crying spell, Ramona’s mother asks her, “What are we going to do with you?”
Ramona replies: “Love me!” Ramona asked what she wanted. She expressed feelings that most people bottle up, never admit. And because she did, so could I.
As a child, Beverly Cleary introduced me to this boisterous girl and I loved her. As an adult author of children’s books, Cleary provided me with a roadmap, a writing guide. The power of her storytelling is the respect she had for young readers. She deeply understood that a girl expressing what she felt was an asset, not a flaw. She was convinced that children could read books that did not erase difficulties, but rather let those difficulties exist right next to joy and love, just like they do in real life. She let a middle class family who argued, forgave and played take center stage without apologies or mercy.
His books gave me permission to write about Portland, to name the streets, stores, parks and libraries that raised me. While writing the Ryan Hart series, I remembered Ramona, reminding myself of all the ways childhood can feel extraordinary. and crushing. I wanted to write a series about a black girl living in the Pacific Northwest. I wanted her to take up space, to love herself and to be loved by her parents, her brothers and sisters and her community. I wanted Ryan to roam the Portland neighborhoods, splash in the rain, go to the public library, play outside with neighborhood friends. I wanted Ryan to talk about what she needs, what she wants. Agree to try and fail, laugh out loud and cry all your tears.
When I speak with young readers on author visits, they often ask me who inspired me to be a writer. I tell them that I met a girl named Ramona, who lived in my town. I tell them about Beverly Cleary and explain to them how it’s possible to be mentored by people you’ve never met, to be inspired by who they are and how they present themselves in the world. It is possible to have a friend who is not real, but who has a significant impact on your life.
How grateful I am to have a friend forever in Ramona. Thank you, Ms. Cleary, for introducing us.
Renée Watson is a New York timebest-selling author of s. His novel Assemble me together received a Newbery Honor and a Coretta Scott King Award. His other books include Ways to make the sun, Some places more than others, Love is a revolution, This side of the house, What mom left me, Betty before X, co-written with Ilyasah Shabazz, and Watch us ride, co-authored with Ellen Hagan, as well as two acclaimed picture books: A place where hurricanes happen and The Little Harlem Blackbird, which was nominated for an NAACP Image Award. Renée grew up in Portland, Oregon, and divides her time between Portland and New York. Ways to cultivate love, the latest book in the Ryan Hart series, is out April 27.
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