GO GIRL BARBARA ELSE PUFFIN BOOKS, $45

Review by Laura Borrowdale

Once upon a time there were two little girls who wanted a story. One sat on the bed with a book open in front of her, one sat in the doorway scowling at her mother. The one on the bed flipped through page after page of lushly illustrated stories, before narrowing down her choice.

Sitting firmly in the tradition of Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls, Go Girl by Barbara Else is one of a new kind of book, tasked with bringing the feminist ground swell of the zeitgeist to its newest members: children.

It’s beautiful; a bright orange-red with blue titles, no pink in sight. It’s the right size to sit with, legs propped up, in bed. It’s sturdy enough to be lugged into the garden to daydream in the grass and engaging enough that we go back to it night after night to pick more stories to read.

Else has a knack for pulling out details about our “epic women” that both humanise them and make them endearing; Helen Clark’s battered black suitcase found abandoned when she took her office; Georgina Beyer’s ceremonial burning of her male clothing; Ahumai Te Paerata’s silent life-saving protest.

She includes little snippets of the woman’s voice, a defiant “Oh really?” from runner Lisa Tamati, a querying “What if…?” from Dame Suzie Moncrief. This, along with their arrangement (alphabetically by first name), encourages a sense of personal connection, of knowing them.

Of course, we do know many of them, but we should know more. The book crosses boundaries of occupations and ages, the women depicted come from many time periods and many stages of life. There is someone recognisable, or aspirational, for every reader.

The illustrations spring from the page, created, fittingly, by six very talented female Kiwi artists. My daughters’ little fingers trail across the page and they choose stories to read based on images of women in action; running, swimming, holding bows, microphones and medals. We see Lydia Ko swinging her club across a montage of greenery and trophies and Kate Sheppard marching across a sepia Christchurch with a flag declaring “Equality”.

If there is one criticism of this book, it’s the lingering use of the word “girl”. As someone who bristles when described as a girl – because I’m about 20 years past that – I’d love my children to look up to women, and to be proud of the fact that this is what they will become, not simply a bigger “girl”.

By the end of that first night of reading, the little girl from the doorway had crept, silently and slowly, onto the bed. “Read about the one with my name, Mumma,” she said. We flip to Lucy Lawless, her green eyes blazing from the page, her sword ready for action, and my daughter’s eyes blaze in return.