Annotations

Curtis, Christopher Paul. (1995). The Watsons go to Birmingham – 1963. New York: Yearling. ISBN 978-0-440-41412-4

Kenny is a 10-year-old African-American living in Flint, Michigan with his family, known simply as the Weird Watsons. When 13-year-old Byron can’t manage to keep himself out of trouble, Mom and Dad decide it’s time to Grandma’s house. Traveling during a tumultuous time in the South, the Watsons arrive in Birmingham, just as history is about to be created. Hilarious and heartwarming, this adolescent work of historical fiction touches upon the tensions of race, explores the issue prejudice, and celebrates family values.

DuPrau, Jeanne. (2003). The city of ember. New York: Random House, Inc. ISBN 978-0-375-82274-2

Lina Mayfleet and Doon Harrow are twelve years old and growing up in Ember. With only streetlights and lampposts to light their way, the citizens of Ember live in darkness, with a perpetual nighttime sky devoid of stars. When the life-sustaining lights of the city begin to flicker, Lina and Doon must find a way to save the ones they love… or else. A magical and intriguing book nestled between adolescent science fiction and fantasy, Lina and Doon take readers on an adventure through the twisted underground tunnels beneath the city of Ember.

Peterson Haddix, Margaret. (1998). Among the hidden. New York: Aladdin Paperbacks. ISBN 978-0-689-82475-3

What if you weren’t ever able to feel the sunshine on your face or go to school with your brothers? What if you had to spend your days hidden away because your very existence is illegal? Meet Luke Garner, a twelve-year-old forbidden third child in a world where Population Police exert totalitarian control over everyone and everything. One day, Luke spies the shadow of a child in a neighboring home where he knows two other children already exist. Will Luke risk the safety of those he loves for a chance to meet another hidden child? The first book in the Shadow Children series will beg the reader to explore ideas of population, social responsibility, and freedom.

Prelutsky, Jack. (1984). The new kid on the block. Ill: Stevenson, James. New York: Scholastic, Inc. ISBN 0590-40836-4

Humorous and original, complete with nonsense words and silly pictures, Prelutsky’s timeless book of poetry will entertain young and old readers alike. From “Baloney Belly Bill” to “Homework! Oh Homework!”, this collection of poems is simple enough to read to young children and complex enough to analyze in the classroom.

Stuck in Neutral by Terry Trueman

Trueman, Terry. (2000). Stuck in neutral. New York: HarperCollins Children’s Books. ISBN 978-0064472135

Fourteen year-old Shawn McDaniel sees and hears perfectly well. He understands when people say “hello” and “how’s it going?” He has a remarkable memory for sounds and events. He even knows how to read, thanks to his sister’s passion for playing special education teacher as a child. The problem is… nobody knows this! Almost everyone thinks that Shawn is a “retard.” Those are his words, not mine. I’ll let him clarify: “Not a ‘retard’ like you might use the word to tease a friend who just said or did something stupid. I mean a real retard. Real in the same way that total means total. As in total retard: Everybody who knows me, everybody who sees me, everybody, anybody who even gets near me would tell you I’m dumb as a rock” (4). Shawn can’t talk, walk, or feed himself. He can’t ask to go to the bathroom or cheer on his favorite sports team. He can’t throw teenage temper tantrums or tell his parents that he loves the wonder and freedom of his grand mal seizures. He literally can’t move a muscle. Shawn has cerebral palsy.

Diagnosed with an I.Q. of 1.2, the equivalent of a 3 to 4 month old, Shawn lives in a silent world. His parents divorced when he was four years old because his father couldn’t cope with his son’s condition. After appearing on countless talkshows to discuss winning a Pulitzer for a story-poem he wrote about Shawn, Sydney E. McDaniel, Shawn’s dad, decides to interview a man from prison who killed his mentally handicapped toddler. The man claimed that it had to be done to end his son’s suffering. Convinced his father secretly wants to commit the same crime, Shawn silently screams for help, but will he ever be heard?

Thoughtfully written in the first person from the private thoughts of Shawn McDaniel, Stuck in Neutral by Terry Trueman is an invitation into an otherwise deathly silent world. The sympathetic reader can feel, see, hear, and understand everything that Shawn can. At times, he is nothing but a regular, raunchy fourteen-year-old: “I love it when Becky works with me, especially when she wears a low-cut top and has to bend over to load and unload me from this special standing contraption they put me in a couple hours every day. Her breasts are perfect: round and smooth and big.” Other times, Shawn is exceptional, and pain and fear seep through the cracks in his adolescent “voice”: “I wonder what it would be like to have a girlfriend. I even wonder what it would be like to love someone else more than I love my mom.” Trueman exposes Shawn for the emotional, sensitive human being that he is and not just another statistic in the mental health world.

The beauty of this book lies in the behind-the-author story. Terry Trueman is the father of a son named Sheehan with cerebral palsy. While Shawn is a character of fiction, his world is modeled off of the real life and presumed genius behind the mask of developmental disability that Trueman experiences every day with his son. Stuck in Neutral is both a social commentary and an inspiring story that isn’t colored black or white. Instead, it’s painted gray and shelved among novels that span both fiction and nonfiction. Further, Trueman uses his book as a vehicle to challenge stereotypes and touch upon the hardships of disability, as well as explore the meaning of unconditional love (and acceptance). Thus, Trueman struggles to reposition bricks between the walls of literary genres and surprisingly creates an entirely reinvented definition of the multicultural genre.

The Arrival

A silent story spoken through sepia-toned illustrations, The Arrival by Shaun Tan shares a journey. A man, his wife, and their little girl live in an impoverished city where their very presence is unsafe. In an act of love, the man leaves his family to search for a new home and a better life, promising to send for them soon. The Arrival is his story, exploring the nuances and niches in an unknown land of floating objects and foreign customs. Along the way, he encounters sympathetic strangers, each with their own unique survival tale, who offer unexpected assistance as he explores his unusual surroundings.

Contrary to the concept of traditional picture books, The Arrival isn’t just another 10 page book of cartoons for a 4 year old to spill spaghettios on. It’s designed for older readers to enjoy. The drawings illuminate emotions and symbolize ideas, sometimes sparkling brighter than words ever could. For example, as the family of three walk to the train station, there is a beautiful two-page drawing of the “city of immanent danger” as I call it. There is an eerie, frightening sense as the family escapes the vacant streets and a dark, shadowy dragon-like creature slithers in the sky between buildings. What is really causing such fear? Is it a creature or is this a mysterious symbol of something more foreboding? Perhaps war or famine? This isn’t the only instance of symbolism in the story. Tan uses the image of the continuous life cycle of a flower/plant in a series of 24 small pictures to show the change of seasons and mark the passage of time.

While The Arrival might appear at first blush to be a fantastical story with simple fictional characters and a magical dreamland, there are traces of truth in every curved line. This is a journey all too familiar to most immigrants. At the birth of the 20^th century, Ellis Island was flooded with families seeking refuge in a new country. They arrived to find that they couldn’t understand a word in their new homeland. Like the main character in The Arrival, they sought food, shelter, and a way of life so that their children could have a bright future.

I don’t know that I’ll ever understand what it truly means to be an immigrant, but what I do understand is the debilitating fear of the unknown. Prone to worrying as a young child, I often lived in fear of what would happen next. What if my parents never came home at night? Who would take care of me? What if my mom forgot to pick me up at school? What if I didn’t get into the one college I applied to? What if I never find someone who’ll love me? What if life always feels like such a struggle? Thankfully, my “what ifs” aren’t as paralyzing as they once were. Experience has trained me well for the inevitable stumbles, bumps, and broken hearts. Instead of allowing my past to enable dysfunction, I am able to embrace it. I am now an empowered individual, able to mold my life into the shape I want it to be. I recognize that his experience and my experience are drastically different, but both he and I must come to terms with the life we choose.

Like Luna and Jin, this unnamed main character seeks a sense of belonging. Even though he is alone and confused in his new space, he never quits. He hunts for knowledge that will sustain him on his personal journey. He is not entirely alone, however. A new little curious creature befriends him and remains an endearing, faithful companion as he strives to make a life for himself and his family. His beautiful story is wholly pieced together with bits of understanding and accepting in the end as he truly makes his arrival.

More Than Meets the Eye

American Born Chinese, by Gene Luen Yang, is a graphic novel made up of three seemingly individual stories that are woven together to create a powerful conclusion. Like three small streams trickling through the forest towards one almighty river, each touches one another and ultimately become inextricably linked. The first story is that of the Monkey King, which Yang purposefully twists into a Christian version of an ancient Chinese folk tale, complete with kung fu and the real hand of “God”. The second story treads amidst the footprints of Jin Wang, a Chinese American boy growing up in a primarily white suburb. The third storyline is about Danny and the torment he endures every year when his Chinese cousin Chin-Kee visits.

If it is read without mindfulness or careful thought, American Born Chinese can be dismissed as a frivolous attempt at exposing racism and stereotypes. By creating a character like Chin-kee, Yang runs the risk of readers taking what might seem like blatant social commentary, at face value, consequently further perpetuating existing stereotypes. However, Yang was quite aware of this when constructing his characters. In his blog on the publisher’s (First Second) website, Yang says, “In order for us to defeat our enemy, he must first be made visible. Besides, comic book readers are some of the smartest folks I've ever met. They'll figure it out.” He respects his audience and their ability to discern fact from fiction.

http://www.firstsecondbooks.com/authors/geneYangBlogMain.html

American Born Chinese, for me, is a crisp winter afternoon of laughing-out-loud and bathing in the bubbly sunshine of a coffeeshop window, pages of colorful comics and witty humor at my fingertips. As I turn the last page, a deluge of emotion strikes, and I know that, between the lines, beneath the words, near the warm core of this little book is a profound message. Prejudice, identity, acceptance, and gratitude paint the pages and beg the reader to search within for meaning that resonates at the level of the heart.

Near the conclusion of the story, the Monkey King visits Jin and shares his painful realization – “You know, Jin, I would have saved myself from five hundred years’ imprisonment beneath a mountain of rock had I only realized how good it is to be a monkey” (223). Perhaps we always want to be something we’re not. A child prays to be an adult by morning, a short woman longs to be tall, a man curses himself for studying English instead of medicine, and a monkey wishes he were a human? We always seem to seek that more beautiful other side in the hopes of a greater happiness. In the lightning-quick world we live in, it’s easy to lose sight of ourselves and the littlest things (and people) that bring us joy. As for me, I appreciate the classical music of 99.5 on a bad day, the kindness of strangers, watching my garden grow, peanut butter, the silent early morning summer sun, striped socks, and my animals (cats and kittens).

Yet, when I stop to look myself in the mirror and ask the question, “who are you?” empty eyes and a blank expression stare back at me. Most days, I think I’m still trying to figure it out. However, like Jin, I have a story to tell. Identity and cultural heritage mold us into complex creatures, and then experiences bend and twist us until we’re exactly where we need to be. We are all shapers and transformers of our own lives. Whether it’s a robot that turns into a motorcycle or a young boy growing into a man, either way, you’re bound to find “more than meets the eye” (28).

Who Am I?

Grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change

The courage to change the things I can

And the wisdom to know the difference

Liam, originally comes from the name William which is German for “Will-Helm”/”Desire-Helmet.” This suggests the loose meaning “strong protector.” Somehow, it seems like an appropriately fitting name for a transgender adolescent. Liam is the identity that has kept her safe from the scrutiny of the public, the judgement of her parents, and the cruel misunderstanding that exists when people fear what they don’t know. Liam will protect Luna as long as she allows it.

A sensitive, thought-provoking novel about a girl trapped in a boy’s body, Luna by Julie Anne Peters tells the story of a transgender teen through his sister Regan’s eyes. Tortured with the silence of her brother’s true nature, Regan wrestles with the emotion and angst of being a secret keeper and the stress that accompanies that role. In her heart, she wants her brother to be happy and fulfilled, but at what cost? She also seeks simplicity in her own life, which is already too complicated. Together, they must discover the delicate balance between reality and fantasy and truth and trust.

In the upper righthand corner of the cover of the book, there is the cutout of a butterfly. As Regan reflects upon the sad, lifeless Liam, she realizes that when Liam morphs into Luna, he is, in essence, freeing himself from the chains of his male identity, like a butterfly hatching from a cocoon. This particular scene, coupled with a moment at the end of the book, allows the reader to “see” the transformation with depth and perspective – “Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, I thought. An exquisite and delicate creature, unfolding her wings and flying away. Except in Luna’s case, the butterfly is forced to rein in her wings and reinsert herself into the cocoon every day. Every single day, she has to become this shell of a person” (126). Luna painfully stuffs herself into Liam’s clothes, classes, and demeanor day after day in order to avoid the inevitable punishment that awaits her in her true form. While the pain of the process is excruciating, the heartwarming ending of the story revisits the image of the butterfly and completes the transformation: “An aura framed her, a glow. Her whole body seemed to be backlit as she blew me a kiss. I felt it land, a brush of butterfly wings against my cheek. It lifted me up, away. All at once the weight of the world dissolved and I felt myself expand, grow. The same way Luna must feel to be free, I realized. She’d freed us both” (247-248).

Luna (and Luna) captivated my spirit and my mind. Her strength and charisma were unavoidably charming. I found myself a ravenous reader and finished the book in an afternoon. I am the kind of person who doesn’t necessarily have a healthy sense of fear walking alone in the dark in the city and is absolutely colorblind when it comes to the differences in skin color. I don’t care about gender identity or lifestyle choices. A person is a person and should be treated as such regardless. Perhaps, I loved this book because of the emotion it evokes. I have a tender heart and tremendous compassion for those who struggle.

As an adult child of an alcoholic, I find myself identifying with the typical characteristics of others like me – being super responsible, guessing at what normal is, judging myself without mercy, seeking approval/acceptance, taking myself too seriously, and most of all, feeling different from others. Like me, I know that Luna felt different from others. It wasn’t until she discovered Terri Lynn that she felt hope. I’ve had a similar experience in Adult Children of Alcoholics. It’s the power of connecting with people who have had a similar experience that allows one to change, embrace that transformation, and find serenity within. While I have learned a lot about myself in the last 6 years, I continue to unlock pieces of myself every day. I still don’t know exactly who I am, but I long to fly freely like a butterfly, like Luna.

This Space Intentionally Left Blank

I cannot attempt to creatively and imaginatively respond to a book such as A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah. The book screams quietly, yet passionately about violence, war, suffering, and anger infused with hope. Any thought or insight from my heart pales in comparison to the power of Ishmael’s prose. Thus, I am left with the things that intrigue me, haunt me in my dreams, and continue to claw at the fabric of my being. I don’t anticipate them letting up anytime soon.

To begin, memoirs and good nonfiction have always been my favorite genres to read. I still think about Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane which is a horrifying account of a boy growing up in the midst of the South African aparteid, as well as The Glass Castle by Janette Walls which centers on a young girl’s will to survive in a broken, transient family with parents who chose to be homeless. Perhaps it’s that “other” drama that renders my own pain a dull ache instead of a persistent sharp knife blade on the edge of my heart. Stories like A Long Way Gone inspire gratitude and educate readers about life on the outskirts of their own small world. Memoirs open windows and doors and eyes and ears to fears, realizations, and change.

Adding to the emotional impact of the events in Ishmael’s childhood are his intense words. A gifted writer, Ishmael remembers pieces of his past that others in the same situation might be too numb to notice. He colors his memories with a pallet of personified paints that make the images come alive. The forest in particular has a life of its own, richly described by Ishmael: “The branches of the trees looked as if they were holding hands and bowing their heads in prayer” (119). The forest sees suffering and keeps silent secrets. The natural world plays a significant role in Ishmael’s experience, as the trees were the company he kept most often. There are countless beautiful moments nestled in the cracks of a broken world: “The sun’s brightness painted our shadows on the ground” (116). It was often the night and the weather that saved Ishmael and his friends from certain death: “The path had ended, but we kept running until the sky swallowed the sun and gave birth to the moon. The bullets continued to fly behind us, but now their redness could be seen as they pierced through the bushes. The moon disappeared and took the stars with it, making the sky weep. Its tears saved us from the red bullets” (97-98).

It’s one thing to know about civil wars and child soldiers but quite another to read the firsthand, torturous details. Fueled by anger, sadness, and pain, children picked up guns and vowed to revenge the deaths of their siblings and parents. The bodies of young children were poisoned with drugs, keeping them awake for weeks at a time and transforming them into killing machines. At one point Ishmael even says “killing had become as easy as drinking water. My mind had not only snapped during the first killing, it had also stopped making remorseful records” (122). Their innocent childhoods were stolen from them and replaced with something less than human.

I hope one day to go to Africa. My parents have been to Ghana twice, which is only two countries to the east of Sierra Leone. They’ve fallen in love with the culture and the people. I dream of going to South Africa and volunteering at Boikrabelo, a community that models itself like a traditional African village and has an orphanage, a school, a medical clinic, and an organic farm. Education and sustainability are high priorities in a country where 1.2 million AIDS orphans struggle each day to survive. Reading A Long Way Gone reminded me of all of the work that still needs to be done in this country and around the world. I have plenty of emotion to spare. I need to remind myself to channel this energy and passion to those places that need it. I admire Ishmael for his eloquent strength, honesty, and quiet resilience. He is a true survivor.

Do You See What I See?

Nicollet Mall on a late Saturday afternoon in November: twinkling lights woven into the branches of barren trees, men and women scurrying in dresses and ties to Orchestra Hall, children skipping on the sidewalk, busses blasting by, the sun and her shadows playing hide and seek between the skyscrapers… Most days, I wish this was all I could see. Instead, the neurons are on rapid fire in my brain, my awareness hypersensitive to the point of exhaustion and I SEE… the half a dozen homeless people holding misspelled signs and begging for change, an illegal immigrant speaking Spanish to a small child the busstop on the corner, trash littering the street, the bitter, angry drug-addicted teen in my classroom, and the look of defeat on an elderly man’s face as he glances at the cussing youngsters at the back of the bus, memories of simpler times flooding his heart. Because it is all so overwhelming most days, upon rising in the morning, I look for hints of love and sparkles of hope in the most unlikely of places.

Good deeds are being done daily but often behind closed doors and out of the way. My mom is one of the most humble and generous people I know. Consequently, I was raised to give – everything from extra buttons and half-used crayons to clothing and furniture -- either to Haiti or Jamaica. Perhaps that is why one particular moment in The Circuit by Francisco Jimenez caught my attention. At the beginning of the story, Francisco travels with his family across “la frontera” to California. After arriving in the labor camp where they would make their home, Francisco and his older brother, Roberto, discover the train tracks running behind the camp. Everyday the boys would watch their favorite train tremble down the tracks around noon speculating its departure point:

“’I wonder where the train comes from,’ I said. ‘Do you know, Roberto?’

‘I have been wondering too,” he answered slowly lifting his head. ‘I think

it comes from California.’

‘California!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is California!’

‘I am not so sure,’ he said. ‘Remember what—‘” (7).

California is a symbol of hope, happiness, and freedom for the boys. So far, all they’ve experienced in the United States is hunger, anger, and frustration. However, one day, the Conductor leans out the window and drops a paper bag down to the boys. Inside they find treasures – apples, oranges, and candy! They conclude that perhaps they’re in California, afterall. It’s moments like these that remind us that diamonds exist in the dirt and that good people aren’t so few and far.

Written from the perspective of a child, The Circuit is an honest and innocent account of the lives of a migrant family. Children are plentiful; resources are not. Work is backbreaking; leisure is foreign. This book is everything you already knew about hardships of farming and more. Rather than read as a chronological story from the start of their journey to the end, this memoir is a somewhat fragmented selection of memories. At first blush, I was confused, thinking that this little book was like any other, but then I sought the source of my mistake. In the “Acknowledgements,” Jimenez confirms that it is a collection of short stories.

Immigration is a topic of contention in the United States melting pot. Compared to so many third-world nations, America is a superpower (and a superhero) with resources enough to save the world. It’s no wonder that people seek safety here. The Circuit ends as I expected it might - sadly, with Jimenez and his family presumably being deported. Francisco is pulled out of school, in front of all of the children, by an immigration officer. Readers are left with the echo of “this is him” in their ears and the image of little Francisco in the front seat of a car labeled “Border Patrol,” staring out the window as his brother awaits the same fate. A carefully placed last memory serves as an abrupt ending to a story that begs you to continue reading and thinking about these issues as they exist today. Where are those sparkles of hope? What is left to be seen?

Beastly by Alex Flinn

Flinn, Alex. (2007). Beastly. New York: HarperTeen. ISBN 978-0-06-087418-6

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away… er, I mean, Manhattan, lived a 9^th grader named Kyle Kingsbury who had it all – the looks, the smarts, the money, and the girl. But, that’s not all. Kyle Kingsbury had a heart of stone. Raised by a looks-are-everything TV news anchor father, Kyle was taught as a small child that “people wanted to look at someone hot instead of someone fugly. It was human nature.” When the new goth girl at school, Kendra, calls him “beastly,” Kyle vows to teach her a lesson. In a cruel attempt at revenge, Kyle asks Kendra to the Tuttle Prep school dance, when everyone knows he’s already promised to take the hottest girl at school. Mission accomplished. In a cruel display with his “real” date, Kyle publicly insults and taunts Kendra. Big Mistake. Later, Kendra reveals her true identity, as a witch, and transforms Kyle into “his truer self” so that finally he’s as ugly on the outside as he is on the inside. Within two years, he must find someone to love him or he’ll remain a beast… forever. When countless health practitioners can’t “fix” Kyle, his father banishes him to a 5-story Brooklyn brownstone with only a maid and a blind tutor for company.

Thoughtfully written from an adolescent boy’s perspective, Beastly by Alex Flinn uses hip language and slang words, as if taken right out of the hallways of a high school. When asked by Sloane Hagen, Kyle’s real date to the dance, about the “rumored” other girl, Kyle turns on the charm: “’Are you trippin’? Why would I ask some skank when I’m already going with the hottest girl in school?’ I put on my special “just for Sloane” voice. ‘We’re the perfect couple, babe.’” Amidst the typical young adult drama and banter, Flinn also infuses the story with 21^st century technologies, like cell phones, instant messaging, myspace, and chat rooms that actualize the plot and allow young readers to relate. The book actually begins in the “Unexpected Changes” chat group where BeastNYC, SILENTMAID, Froggie, Grizzlyguy, and the room moderator Mr. Anderson (Hans Christian?) are talking about their problems. These conversations are sprinkled throughout the chapters.

While Beastly might appear to be just another modern retelling of a fairytale, it’s more than that. It’s an exploration of privilege, prejudice, and the power of love. Flinn carefully crafts a multi-layered tale of transformation and realization, atop a veiled critique of a judgmental society. Feeling like a caged animal, Kyle ventures out at night, covered from head to toe in his winter clothes to conceal his hideousness. Along the way, he remains anonymous, wondering why passers-by don’t even offer him a glance. Then, he gets it: “In my heavy coat and scarf, I looked like a homeless person. That’s what they thought I was, the people on the street and the train. That’s why they hadn’t looked at me. No one looked at the homeless. I was invisible.” Readers will find Kyle endearing as he stumbles and struggles to uncloud his vision and see(k) Beauty beyond the walls of his New York castle.

Tracking Trash

Burns, Loree Griffin. (2007). Tracking trash: Flotsam, jetsam, and the science of ocean motion. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. ISBN-13:978-0-618-58131-3

As the year approaches 2010, the news headlines read: “ Humans Continue to Use and Abuse the Earth and her Resources.” Mother Earth screams in deafening volume, and we simply turn up the TV or lace up our Nikes for a whirlwind all-day shopping trip. Unbeknownst to us, those very Nike sneakers that make us run so fast are also helping to provide researchers with scientific data regarding ocean currents and further, informing the public about the traumatic consequences of plastics in the Pacific.

In an appropriately-timed book entitled Tracking Trash: Flotsam, Jetsam, and the Science of Ocean Motion, Loree Griffin Burns shares an educational adventure at sea. Armed with an array of beachcombers, scientists, volunteers, and researchers, oceanographer Curt Ebbesmeyer picks up trash for a living. Well, not exactly. Coupled with Jim Ingraham, Jr. from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) and his cutting edge computer program OSCURS, Ebbesmeyer takes readers on a scavenger hunt, complete with clues and hidden trashy treasures, looking for soggy cargo that has fallen from ships and survived at sea. Since 1991, objects like hockey gloves and plastic bathtub toys, have been washing up on beaches around the world. In an effort to understand this traveling trash and motion of the ocean, Ebbesmeyer and Ingraham predict the paths of the floating debris and then collect data on ocean waves, tides, and currents.

Written in a straight-forward, no-nonsense style, Tracking Trash: Flotsam, Jetsam, and the Science of Ocean Motion is an informative story about the power and variability of ocean currents. Yet, it has a compassionate streak, also doubling as a spokesperson for the environment. Did you know that there is a garbage dump as big as the state of Alaska floating in the Pacific Ocean? Not only that, but plastic accounts for a tremendous amount of trash in the swirling ocean garbage can: “plastic is one of the most indestructible materials on the planet. This is one of the reasons we find it so useful. Plastic is found in everything, from the toys we play with to the plates we eat from, the cars we drive, and even the clothes we wear.” It is only by understanding the consequences of our actions and teaching books like Tracking Trash in our classrooms that we begin to develop a love for our mother… Mother Earth.

The Weather Started Getting Rough.

The tiny ship was tossed. If not for the courage of the fearless crew, the Endurance would be lost. And fearless they were. While Ernest Shackleton and his 27-man crew did not succeed in being the first to cross Antarctica as they had hoped, their journey, nevertheless, made a mark in history. A tremendous tale of survival, Shackleton and his crew lived to tell a story of seal steak suppers, frostbitten fingers, and impossible, impassible ice.

It’s Friday night. The girls entrusted to my care for the evening are slumbering in their sleighbeds. I’m reading Shipwreck at the Bottom of the World by Jennifer Armstrong. I’d like to say it’s the unfamiliar drafty house or the dreariness of the November night. However, I’m not convinced. Rather, the numbness creeping into my extremities is likely a byproduct of a spectacularly-told story. I can feel the howling of the hurricane-force winds on my bare skin. The blue hue of glaciers glimmering in the sun blind me. The pain of physical exhaustion and persistent cold permeates my being. The strength and power of Armstrong’s words induce sympathy in the reader: “When the sun finally rose in a brilliant pink sky, it shone on twenty-eight men who were more dead than alive. Saltwater boils on their faces were breaking open and dripping across the dead-white rings of frostbite. Their eyes were sunken and red, and they had the wild look of men driven to the end of their ropes by pain and exposure” (86). Even without a photograph, this description evokes a haunting and vivid image within the imagination of the reader.

After spending several months in the interior of Alaska with my brother’s family during his deployment, I have some semblance of understanding regarding the hardship experienced by the men on the Endurance. Last winter, the temperature in Fairbanks, Alaska plummeted to nearly 50 degrees below zero. I drove a red Toyota Tacoma with studded tires on the snowpacked roads and was often blinded by blizzard-like conditions. To ensure the power of my battery, I often plugged the truck into outlet, upon reaching the parking lot of Lathrop High School in the darkness of the early morning. Winter appeared neverending, with snow-covered lawns well into April and darkness that prevailed when my body told me that the sun should be shining. While this in no way compares to Shackleton’s epic journey, it’s the only way I can even begin to comprehend the physical and emotional struggle these men lived through.

A story and a science lesson in one, Shipwreck at the Bottom of the World, serves to educate its reader as well as entertain. From astronomy and chronometers to nautical history and the geography of Antarctica, there is a wealth of knowledge to be discovered within Shackleton’s story and not just in words. Living in the twenty-first century amidst e-mail, double decker airplanes, and lightning fast lifestyles, the collection of black-and-white photographs in this book is surreal. Thanks to Frank Hurley, the twenty-four year old photographer on the ship, even in 1915, the voyage could be thoroughly documented. The Endurance looks like a threatening pirateship out of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, rather than a sturdy seafaring vessel tackling the Southern Ocean in the dead of winter (40). The crew, fitted with individual harnesses, steadily pulls a boat on skis like a sled dog team, over snow drifts and broken ice (53) and finally… a rescue! Arms raised in exasperated joy, the men appear as silhouettes against the angry arctic shore, moments from being saved in August of 1916 (122).

Although a book of nonfiction, Shipwreck at the Bottom of the World, reads like a New York Times bestselling thriller. If not for books of nonfiction, events like this one would be lost in the passing of time and further, forgotten for fanciful fiction. Shackleton’s courage and resilience are powerful reminders of the immeasurable capability and potential of the human spirit. As my own struggle begins to feel frustrating and even normal(?), perhaps I should embrace the fortitude and self-assurance of those who lived before me. Is nothing really impossible?

What Do You See?

Red and yellow and pink and green,

Purple and orange and blue,

I can sing a rainbow,

Sing a rainbow,

Sing a rainbow too!

-The Rainbow Song by Delta Goodrem

Remember that song? I have no idea where I heard it or at what age, but upon finishing reading The Giver by Lois Lowry, it’s all I could think about. I set out in the early morning hours, immediately after reading, to walk the boston terrier that I was caring for at the time. A beautiful sunny day that felt more like spring than autumn, I found myself more aware of my surroundings than usual. I’ve never seen the sky as blue as it was that day or heard the birds in singing as loudly in the trees. What would my existence be like if I lived in “Sameness” and not “Elsewhere”? Thrust into a job for the rest of my life, not knowing love or sadness, I’d become a robot. Sometimes I do feel like I’m going through the motions of life, but it’s nothing like Jonas experienced.

I’ve always been a bit rebellious in spirit. This manifests mostly in my opinions and outspoken nature. While I’m a terrible decision-maker, the idea of not having choices infuriates me as it does Jonas: “If everything’s the same, then there aren’t any choices! I want to wake up in the morning and decide things!” (97) Jonas gains wisdom from the Giver that allows him to see the beauty and value of free will. It’s simply the ability and dignity of having a choice that’s important. Then I think about how much we take for granted each day – how many places people can’t choose what they want to each for breakfast simply because there isn’t any breakfast that day and how many places religious freedom feels like a myth. Of course rules, laws, and schedules govern how people live, but they’re not meant to suck the emotion out of life. People still feel and hear and see and taste and touch.

By the end of The Giver, I was distressed. Five days later and I’m still unsure about what I feel or what to say. My head is swirling with questions spurred by Jonas’ questions to his mentor. What does it mean to love? Is that a generalized term that has become meaningless over time? Life is precious – am I valuing the moments as I should or getting swept up in the busyness? In Sameness, they don’t know the meaning of the word emotion. Do I express how I feel too much or not enough? We try to protect our children from wrong choices but does society stifle their freedom of expression and ability to be unique? I desperately want to contribute something worthwhile to the world. My favorite quotation is from Ghandi – “Be the change you wish to see in the world” and I try to live that way. I was raised a “giver”, not of memories, but of myself and my heart. My mom is the most tremendous giver I know. But, the idea is that everyone has a job to do in the world. What is mine? It’s not as if when I turn 29 in a few months, that there’ll be a Job Assignment Ceremony for all of the Twenty-Nines. The questions are endless and perhaps so is the book.

The ending of The Giver is openended and worthy of being interpreted as the reader sees fit. Either Jonas and Gabriel sailed through the snow to Elsewhere, a place with a roaring fire, Christmas lights, joyful family, and love - or - they froze to death on their journey beyond Sameness, and Elsewhere was simply another name for life after death. Mina, a character in Skellig by David Almond says that we need to accept that which we cannot know and use our imagination. For me, I’d rather I didn’t know the author’s intent at the close of The Giver. The unsettled feeling I have tells me that I NEED to think deeply about the ending and explore why this book is incredibly profound and moving for me. I already have a line of 6 people waiting to read it. I’ll be interested to hear what kind of colors they’re seeing by the end.

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them – that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like” – Lao Tzu

Reflecting upon my own life, I find myself seeking continuous awareness and mindfulness in the moment. Too often, I abandon my own good judgement in wild, fitful attempts at forcing solutions or controlling outcomes. Does that usually work in my favor? No. Instead, I’ve learned that focusing on the natural progression of life and relationships and accepting the inevitable changes that occur within both is essential to contentment. It’s only when I’m confronted with issues that extend so far beyond my own lifestyle, values, and scope of morality that I realize how important it is to be true to myself.

The House of the Scorpion written by Nancy Farmer is a science fiction novel that addresses the issue of human cloning and what it means to be human in a very direct way. Matt Alacran has never been outside the confines of his shared shack nestled in the poppy fields. He’s been told stories by Celia, his caretaker, about the horrors that lay beyond the walls of their home. Matt has never seen other children, never gone to school, or even had reason to ponder the reasoning for the tattoo on the bottom of his foot – “Property of the Alacran Estate.” When a couple of children make the journey to the mysterious house, Matt’s life changes forever, and he begins to understand the reason for his existence. Written in a real and provocative way, Farmer’s book further incites the reader to contemplate the idea of mind control, what makes one human, and the resilience of soul and spirit.

Matt is told from a young age how useless he is and is likened to livestock. I was gripped with terror as Matt was tossed into sawdust and made to live shackled to the whims of others. Left then to his own thoughts, he doesn’t know what to believe. He knows he’s different and somehow less than human. “’Bad clone!’ said Maria, hugging the pillow to her chest. Matt considered the idea. Being a clone was bad no matter what you did, so why bother being good at all?” (59). Through friendship with Tam Lin, Matt realizes the worth of is life. “No one can tell the difference between a clone and a human. That’s because there isn’t any difference. The idea of clones being inferior is a filthy lie” (245). Up until this point, Matt’s experience has been one of inferiority. With the power of these words, the Matt begins to fight the battle he’s been preparing for his entire life.

The United States is a place that thrives from advances in technology, corporate expansions, and consumerism. Less isn’t more. More is more. Unless you surround yourself with likeminded souls, you’ll be lost amongst the masses of self-seekers who restlessly chase the illusion of contentment through cash and happiness through power. El Patron, the 100-something superpower in The House of the Scorpion, governs everyone in his path and is the supreme example of the desire to control and the consequences thereof. He’s the epitome of selfishness and not afraid to hurt (or kill) anyone who gets in his way. Matt, his clone, appears at first as a simple weakling, tossed about by commands and rules. However, Matt’s simplicity is only matched by his intense complexity. He is resilient and determined to beat the odds. While he could easily fall into the victim role, he develops into the hero amongst his new friends at the border. While El Patron symbolizes chaos and evil stemming from control, Matt represents the consequences of control and also the hope, peace, and release that comes from letting go.

It's a bird. It's a plane. It's... Skellig!

While he isn’t faster than a speeding bullet or able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, Skellig is as mysterious and magical as a superhero. He might not have the most charismatic personality, but there is something charming about Skellig, nonetheless. Like all good fantasy characters, Skellig is described in detail by Michael and Mina, his rescuers: “Mina and I gazed at his face, so pale and plaster dry. His skin was cracked and crazed. His lack hair was a tangle of knots. Dust, cobwebs, bluebottles, spiders, beetles clung to him and fell from him. We saw for the first time that he wasn’t old. He seemed like a young man” (85). Vivid imagery colors the readers mind with pictures of Skellig. He is a man but something more than a man. It isn’t until Michael and Mina move him that they realize just how extraordinary Skellig is: “Beneath his jacket were wings that grew out through rips in his shirt. When they were released, the wings began to unfurl from his shoulder blades. They were twisted and uneven, they were covered in cracked and crooked feathers” (94). Perhaps, Skellig is an angel?

Skellig by David Almond is a novel marked by short chapters and repetition. Each chapter is roughly 3-6 pages long, allowing readers to see Michael and Mina develop, relationships form between characters, and the story progress as a whole. The structure also adds to the swift pace with which the story is told. Further, repetition causes the reader to note special attributes or characteristics. In this case, when Michael attempts to communicate with Skellig, he describes Skellig’s response: “He laughed, but he didn’t smile” (19, 28, 31, 55, 75, 76). Because of this repetition, the reader becomes invested in seeing Skellig smile and when he does, it’s incredibly powerful. After Skellig is moved out of the garage, Michael and Mina continue visiting him. On one magical night, they sprout ghostly wings and Skellig, Mina, and Michael hold hands, turning in a circle. It is only then that we first see a glimmer of happiness within Skellig: “I found that I was smiling, that Skellig and Mina were smiling too” (120). This time he didn’t laugh. He smiled.

Even fantasy books are not without insight and life lessons. There are questions in life that will always remain unanswered. For me, why did my marriage end? Why did both my parents get cancer? Why can’t I find the right job? For Mina and Michael, they learn, through the agony of the unknown, about acceptance – “’Sometimes we just have to accept there are things we can’t know. Why is your sister ill? Why did my father die?’ She held my hand. ‘Sometimes we think we should be able to know everything. But we can’t. We have to allow ourselves to see what there is to see, and we have to imagine’” (140).

Acceptance and letting go feel impossible in the moment. I find myself feeling so often like Michael, with tears silently dripping down my face, kittens meowing for attention, and simply wanting to be like Skellig: “I felt the tears trickling through my tightly closed eyelids. I felt Whisper’s claws tugging at my jeans. I wanted to be all alone in an attic like Skellig, with just the owls and the moonlight and an oblivious heart.” An oblivious heart would at times be a blessing. How often have I wished that I didn’t think and feel EVERYTHING? But, an emotionless world would be a world without meaning. Therefore, we must accept what cannot be changed, seek gratitude for what we see, and appreciate the connections we make. The truth is that Skelligs exist, and they aren’t like anything like Superman. They’re merely beautiful people who inspire us when we’re apathetic and strengthen us when we are weak. They teach us about acceptance, love, and joy simply by being.

Happiness... Where Are You?

“Why do you need to fly so much?” she asked.

“If I don’t, it’ll catch up with me.” The words just came out.

“What will?”

I took my hands from my face, panting. I stared out at the storm.

“Unhappiness.” (269)

Everyone knows what unhappiness looks like. It is the bill that comes in the mail the same day you lose your job. It is the tension that has wiggled its way into your marriage and transforms itself into divorce. It is the neverending emotional imbalance that threatens your very sanity. It’s the illusion that stillness is the enemy and movement our companion. So we keep moving. We all run from unhappiness, and yet, there is no safe hiding place. But… I wonder, where are we running to? What happens if we stop running? Where IS happiness?

Ever since his father’s tragic fall from a zeppelin in the sky, Matt Cruse, one of the main characters in Airborn by Kenneth Oppel, has been running away (or rather, flying away) – from his family, from his fears, and from himself. The death of his father shakes his security, and he worries that he may never be happy again. Born in the sky, however, Matt finds comfort amidst the clouds and birds upon the airship Aurora, and for the last three years, the ship has served as his home. It’s the harbor that shelters him from the storms of life. When a real storm threatens to damage the Aurora, which is already beached on an island, Matt spills the contents of his heart to Kate: “’I need the ship,’ I said. ‘If it’s wrecked, nothing’s good anymore. I can’t stand still. I’ve got to keep flying’” (268). Upon land, Matt feels suffocated and insecure. He doesn’t dream of his father, like he does in the air. So, he must keep flying. There is no other choice. Unhappiness might catch up with him.

While exploring ideas about happiness and sense of self, Airborn also contains qualities that ring true to the fantasy genre. Matt Cruse and Kate de Vries are characters that battle pirates and searches for mystical creatures on an uncharted desert island. They remain believable characters whether they are eating dinner, running along the hallways of an airship, or wrapping up the bones of a mysterious winged animal in ladies undergarments. Rich details and a map of the Aurora contribute to the visual images created for the reader. The story opens up as Matt is in the crow’s nest, observing a “sky pulsed with stars” (1) and the “distant flicker of a freighter” (2). Beautiful imagery takes the reader into the sky alongside the Aurora. At times, however, the level of detail regarding the ship appears to go beyond the scope necessary for the reader to understand the setting. I found myself often lost, distracted, and eager to move beyond the aerial jargon – mooring mast, ballast board, and keel catwalk – to the story.

After all of the pirates have been slain or thrown overboard and the cloud cats have been photographed and admired, what remains is the question about happiness. Where is it? Unexpectedly Matt stumbles upon a sense of well-being within the loneliness and misery he experiences when first at the Academy. He dreams of his father: “As long as I could dream about him, I knew everything would be all right. I didn’t need to be aloft to find happiness. It could find me wherever I was” (495-496). He learns that when we stop running from UNhappiness, happiness has a chance to catch up. The game of hide and seek is over. Happiness wins.

Chapter By Chapter

Five days after reading A Northern Light by Jennifer Donnelly, I still find Mattie Gokey walking around in my thoughts. She is afraid of being alone and yet just as afraid of losing her independence. She is fascinated by the lives of others and frustrated with her reality, one that doesn’t lend itself neatly to a storybook happy ending. She’s as real as anyone I know, but I keep reminding myself that she’s just a character in a book.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt different. I’ve never been a surface friend or someone who does tasks at less than 100%. I am drawn to the most impoverished of students and the most challenging of situations. I was raised a giver and thus strive to live as selflessly as I can. From Hurricane Katrina Pet Rescue to an orphanage in Jamaica, I’ve extended my hands to causes in need. That’s where I’m most comfortable. It’s no wonder then that I am drawn to the depths of Mattie’s honest emotion and her strength that is born in the face of adversity. Upon hearing of the illness that has swept through her home, Mattie rushes to the bedsides of her sick sisters and father. When Weaver’s mama loses her home and her son’s college money, Mattie rescues them with her life savings. I am like her in so many ways… perfectly imperfect, desperate to be loved and concurrently fearful of the natural consequences of love.

A lover of literature, Mattie says, “I used to wonder what would happen if characters in books could change their fates” (84). Ironically, I wonder the same about her. What if she’d chosen the expected route of marriage over education? Isn’t she persistent enough to seek her passion while making a home with a man? What if her mother had lived? What if her brother hadn’t left? What if she’d burned those letters? Would she have still reflected upon her life as deeply and made the same choices? I feel silly, but amidst those questions, I wonder what happened at Barnard. Did she become a writer? Did she ever marry? A true sign of an authentic character, I keep forgetting that Mattie isn’t real.

With two plotlines weaving throughout the pages, the structure of A Northern Light is speckled with chapter titles like “con-fab-u-late” (314) and “Uri-ah the Hit-tite, stink-pot, warthog” marking the past and untitled chapters marking the present. In the end, both come together to tell the rest of Mattie’s adventures. Mattie’s quirky love of words and resulting “words of the day” and word wars with Weaver, show her intelligence as a young girl, as well as her adolescence.

The great level of detail found in this book gives it substance and contributes to the legitimacy of the time period. Clearly much research went into creating a book that is historically valid. From Grace’s letters and the abundance of literary references to the depictions of farm life and authentic language, every element helps put Eagle Bay on the map. Donnelly even goes as far as to describe a home birth, “She pushed instead – on Minnie’s enormous belly – and rubbed and pummeled and kneaded until she was panting and the sweat was streaming down her face. Then she wrenched Minnie’s knees apart and peered between them again. “You son of a gun, you…Come on!” she yelled, kicking the stool away” (91-91). It’s hard not to admire an author whose passion and energy you can feel within the pages.

Perhaps A Northern Light reminds me of the time I spent in my youth reading Laura Ingalls Wilder or the Orphan Train children books. One of my favorite series (and therefore movie) is Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery. I’ve always liked tales about the frontier and rural life at the turn of the century. I like the dresses and the ambitious, headstrong dreams of the girls in these stories. To me, their survival instincts and behaviors, although fictional, are proof of how resilient the human spirit is. I can only hope that I continue to be as resilient as Mattie as the chapters unfold in my own life.

Tell Me a Story

Tell Me a Story

Although I’m ashamed to admit it, my knowledge of United States history and politics is embarrassing and poor at best. As an elementary student, I did average in social studies, and as a high school student, I can even say that I did well. I’m enormously grateful to my intense-attention-to-detail and good memory. However, ask me about the Spanish Indian War or about the Cold War, and you’ll be greeted with a blank stare. I even just struggled coming up with historic events to mention right there. Consequently, I’m angered by the way that history is taught to children, focusing on the memorization of dates and names. I’ve never been sure how to get around that… until now. Tell me a story.

Prior to reading Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson, I was intimidated by the historical fiction and had very little exposure to the genre. I was convinced that I wouldn’t like it simply because I would be grasping for understanding the entire book. I didn’t want to gloss over countries and politics that I didn’t understand, like I usually do with newspaper articles and journals. I wanted to learn something. Surprise! I liked the novel, AND I learned something.

The year 1776 came to life in the pages of Chains. As the British invaded New York City, the tension between the Patriots and Loyalists took my breath away. Told through the eyes of a 13 year old slave, Isabel, the story is both heartbreaking and realistic. Raw emotions flow like water from the “Tea Water Pump,” and hope is set ablaze like the great New York fire, as war is waged throughout the city. There may be only one Revolutionary War being fought on the surface, but the talons of war claw and tear at the relationships of all who live during this time - Patriots and Loyalists, men and women, children and adults, blacks and whites. No one is spared.

Touched by Isabel’s courage and determination, I became emotionally invested in her relationship with Ruth, her only sister, and her ability to survive against insurmountable odds. She is an enchanting character who sees beauty in the simplest of things. Even as she faces her cheek being branded with an “I” for insolent, Isabel fights against her tears and focused her eyes on life: “In betwixt me and the brazier, dandelions grew in the mud” (147). She sees not a weed but a beautiful flower: “The dandelions were lemon yellow with bright green leaves and thick stalks pointing at the sky” (148). Her senses are alive, and so is she.

Laurie Halse Anderson writes with glorious, descriptive detail that truly captures the reader and places him/her alongside Isabel and her quest for freedom. The story opens up with Isabel at her mother’s grave, describing the moment: “I could smell the honey that had dripped on my hands, the damp ground under me, and the salt of the ocean. I could hear cows mooing in a far pasture and bees buzzing in a nearby clover patch” (6). As the story continues, Isabel describes the ghost of her mother on the shores as they journey to an unknown destination: “They kept moving us over the water, stealing us away from our ghosts and our ancestors, who cried salty rivers into the sand. That’s where Momma was now, wailing at the water’s edge, while her girls were pulled out of sight under white sails that cracked in the wind” (25). Anderson requires few words and yet invokes sparkling clear, vivid images. Even as Isabel is being slapped across the face by Madam, it’s “Craaack! Lightning struck from a blue sky” and simply the act of being hit. My heart raced with every stolen biscuit and soared with every row across the river. I wasn’t just a passive observer but an active participant from beginning to end.

I found myself completely incredulous at the history of the United States, even asking myself, “did this really happen?” As a white American, I am plagued by the guilt that exists in an unjust society where the privileged are given rights simply by birth, in honor of the “right” skin color. I feel so far removed from the world of racism, as I was raised sharing Thanksgiving dinner with the homeless and celebrating multicultural Christmases. Just this past summer, my mom threw a party in celebration of diversity. Numerous countries were represented – Mexico, Ghana, Jamaica, West Indies, Kenya, and Nepal to name a few. History is an important part of culture, and too often the truth is lost amidst facts and dates. Perhaps dull history books should be coupled with historical fiction because everybody loves a good story.

CELEBRATE.

In just over 2 hours, I’ll be going to a funeral for a 31 year old man who lost a long, tiring battle with a rare form of cancer. The all-too-common follow-up question after such a tragedy then surfaces, “Why? Why someone so young, married just a year ago, with dreams of family and possibility? That’s not fair.” My mind, swirling with conflicting thoughts, is then brought back to the present moment, to my life, to my homework – The People Could Fly: American Black Folktales told by Virginia Hamilton. Yet, the connections between the stories of then and now are impossible to ignore. Whether it be death by the evil hand of cancer or death by the cruel whip of the White Bossman, both end with innocence lives taken and hopeful stories to be told. History is and always will be riddled with injustices. Right now, in Minneapolis, the rich are taking advantage of the poor, love is being used as a weapon, greed is driving decision making, and suffering spreads like wildfire. While these particular stories were created out of sadness, Hamilton says that we must view the tales as a “celebration of the human spirit” (xii). Rather than lament the loss of freedom, folktales, as a part of American history and tradition, bring alive the love and hope from silenced voices of the past.

As words on a page, read silently cover-to-cover, People Who Could Fly comes across as a book of trite little stories. Depth and meaning is lost amidst the colloquial language. However, read aloud, as they were once told long ago, the characters in the stories are resurrected. At first blush, I genuinely did not like the challenge presented by reading the folktales alone. The opening line of the very first story“He Lion, Bruh Bear, and Bruh Rabbit” reads, “Say that he Lion would get up each and every mornin” (5). My response, “So say he does? Then what.” Being accustomed to reading academic grammar, punctuation, and diction, I became frustrated to the point of rereading that first sentence 3 or 4 times, thinking I might have missed a word somewhere. Regardless, I knew that I had to make it through the story and by the end, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I liked it. After telling my significant other about the story, he said he wanted to read it, but of course, I wanted to read it out loud to him, as I do David Sedaris’ short stories. I don’t know how it’s possible, but I loved the story this time around. Perhaps it was my dynamic, gruff lion roar “ME AND MYSELF, ME AND MYSELF!” or the simple beauty and power of oral stories. Either way, I read most of the rest of the book aloud to Josh.

The tales in this collection are divided into four sections, one of which is called, “The Beautiful Girl of the Moon Tower and other tales of the Real, Extravagant, and Fanciful.” Like the other three sections, each story is followed by a commentary from the author about the nature and history of the tale, the characters, setting, language, or other details that give the reader a greater understanding and insight into the story. My favorite in this section is “Manuel has a Riddle.” In this story, Manuel seeks a fortune from the King by outwitting his daughter with a riddle. Even after accomplishing this, the King gives Manuel another task, one he is sure to fail – set 3 rabbits free in the mountains and bring them back fattened up in 30 days. With the help of an enchanted flute and his clever wit, Manuel uses the King’s own tricks against him, gets his fortune, and lives happily ever after. This story has all the elements that a dreamer like me might want in a story – royalty, magic, animals, and the poor defeating the rich at their own game. “Manuel has a Riddle” weaves together the magic and beauty of a fairytale with the characters and language of a folktale.

As I get older, I continue to surprise myself. I have the ability to learn and change. Ten years ago, I would have discarded The People Could Fly for time better spent outside or writing an e-mail. Sadly, I spent much of my undergraduate experience exerting my effort for As while missing out on learning both the things in books and about myself. While time is precious, I see life differently now. I find value in literature of all genres, even folklore. Rather than be the pessimist of my youth, I’m seeking hope and success, much like the tellers of these tales both enslaved and free. I’m learning to celebrate life, love, and the wonder in both. And for now, I’m off to a funeral, a celebration of 31 years of life.

Shout it outloud.

“Joyful Noise: Poems for Two Voices” by Paul Fleischman is a creative and clever approach to poetry. Written in a two-column format and most powerfully read aloud, two voice poetry juxtaposes ideas, emotions, and perspectives. Sometimes, the two speakers alternate lines, but often, the words come together and are read as one, creating a harmonic resonance and indicating compromise or unity.

Additionally, “Joyful Noise” is a collection of poems about insects that celebrates the natural world in a way that is alive. For example, “Whirligig Beetles” is a poem in motion. The poem begins with just one reader, and then the second reader repeats the same words but is one line behind. The repetition of sounds and words might at first seem confusing, but as the words fall into place, it starts to make sense. The poem embodies a quick pace because the beetles are “spinning and swerving” as if on a “mad merry-go-round” (32). The words are carefully chosen to reflect the twirling, circular swimming of the beetles. As if that weren’t enough, Fleischman includes a speckling of illustrations of the little black beetles amidst the words. While the pictures are static, they’re drawn in such a way that shows a shadow of stirring, allowing the reader to feel the motion, as if to relive his/her own days on the merry-go-round.

My own summer memories are triggered as I read “Whirligig Beetles.” I feel the heat of a warm and humid summer night around dusk, just as the sun is about to set. I can hear buzzing. The search is on for the source, but it doesn’t take long. June bugs… whirling and twirling as they spin on their backs, buzzing in defiance as they attempt to right themselves. Moments later, inside, they tap on the window and buzz at the screen door, mesmerized by the light.

Fireflies. Beautiful and elusive, they dwell outside the city where it’s quiet and dark. Fleischman’s poem entitled “Fireflies” is my favorite in the collection. I love the use of metaphors, like “light is the ink we use” and “night is our parchment” (11). The physical and lyrical imagery add depth to the words on the page. I love the image of the fireflies as artists,

As a reader, it is often difficult to extract my personal self from my teacher self and thus, I’d be remiss if I didn’t touch upon the value of two-voice poetry to the teacher of communication arts. Two-voice poetry is a concept that students of all ages like to read and hear. A lesson in two-voice poetry combines writing with performance and results in creative freedom and ultimately a boost in self-esteem, as it is a huge accomplishment to share in the reading of a completed two-voice poem. Because it is read with a partner, it eliminates the fear of failure and sets students up for academic success in the classroom.

Perhaps I DO like some poetry? Poetry for two voices evokes emotions for me in a way that other poetry doesn’t. It’s one thing to read the words but quite another to feel their power. Reading “Joyful Noise” proves to me that the subject matter isn’t truly as important as the execution, style, and approach of the author. Fleischman writes about bugs. While I am an environmentalist and a nature lover at heart, insects don’t particularly interest me. However, that being said, I read “Joyful Noise” cover to cover and was fascinated by every nuance.

To Love Poetry or Not to Love Poetry

I love song lyrics. I love quotations. I am amazed by words and the meanings they’ve acquired over time. However, I do not and never have loved poetry. I try to appreciate the aesthetic and evocative qualities that poetic verses supposedly embody. Time and time again, I attempt to lose myself in a book of poetry only to find my mind wandering ahead to what’s for dinner or that next item on the ever-growing to-do list.

Naomi Shihab Nye’s “19 Varieties of Gazelle” is a collection of “poems of the Middle East,” in which Nye gives a passionate voice to the emotions she feels for her heritage. As an Arab-American living in the United States, Nye’s writing encompasses everything from daily sightings and memories to politics and people. She attempts to share life as she knows it and has experienced it through poetry.

One feature in this collection of poems that appears more than once is the use of an outside quotation before the actual poem. Along with the title, the quotation serves as an introduction to either the content or the mood of the poem. For example, before the poem, “Those Whom We Do Not Know” Nye includes a beautiful quotation by Pablo Neruda, a Chilean writer and politician that says, “To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life. But to feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know…is something still greater and more beautiful…” (55). This quotation reminds me of the kindness of strangers, good Samaritans, and the pure innocence and affection of children. It is as if this quotation was placed to draw readers in, for love is a universal emotion, recognized by everyone, regardless of age, race, or religion.

As I reflect upon reading “19 Varieties of Gazelle,” I am struggling to disentangle the confusion in my mind. Could the fact that I dislike history and consequently know nothing about the Middle East be clouding my appreciation for Naomi Shihab Nye’s poetry? Could my lack of knowledge and limited travel experience be affecting my ability like these poems? Do I just not like poetry?

The truth lies somewhere within the answers to all of these questions, but additionally, I find Nye’s collection of poems about the Middle East to be exclusive. My intellect tells me that the audience is all readers, anyone who cares enough to open the pages of the book. However, Nye’s cultural experience might best be understood by those of the same background. I simply couldn’t connect to poems about olives and figtrees, Jerusalem and the Holy Land. I found such a disconnect between what I wanted to feel and what I actually felt.

The introduction to the collection includes a bit about the tragedy that September 11^th has come to represent. Nye touches upon the meaning that poetry has within her own life and the purpose that it serves. She claims that poetry slows life to the moment, the very detail and that large disasters create chaos amidst the details. Further, she said that we need poetry “for nourishment and for noticing, for the way language and imagery reach comfortably into experience” (xvi). I love this! If only the emotion of these words translated in a universal way to the pages of poetry that follow. Perhaps I’d learn to love poetry too.