Perhaps, it will be Great?

When choosing a book to read for the “realistic fiction” genre, I admit that I was first drawn in by the title. I was expecting a to read a story about a kid in Alaska, a place close to my heart, but upon reading the back, I discovered that Alaska was just a name of a girl. Instead, the characters would be sweating with a southern accent in Alabama. At this point, I almost discarded it haphazardly back to the shelves in the pursuit of a shorter, easier to read book. Then, I saw the words that drew me in… the Great Perhaps. This Pudge guy was going out and seeking the Great Perhaps. An admirer of metaphors and symbolism, I decided slow reader or not, this was the book for me.

Looking for Alaska by John Green is a book about a quirky adolescent boy on his quest to discover a “more-than-minor” life where connections, relationships, and experiences matter, and people are more than the sum of their parts. One recurring question that occurs throughout the book is posed by Alaska and relates to one of her favorite books by Gabriel Garcia Marquez called The General in His Labyrinth. It is a historical novel about Simon Bolivar. Since Pudge is fascinated by people’s last words, Alaska is compelled to share Bolivar’s – “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?” (19). That’s the beginning of the mystery that follows the characters through their crazy days at Culver Creek. Is the labyrinth symbolic of life? Or death? Or suffering? Alaska and Pudge refer back to this pivotal moment in their history numerous times, as it serves as a foundation for their relationship. Rather than a thoughtless element to add depth to the story, I appreciate the fact that Green brings this entire question, Alaska’s question, full circle as their final exam question for Dr. Hyde’s religion class – “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?”

Did Alaska think she knew the answer when she scribbled in her book, “straight and fast”? Looking for Alaska is a book that doesn’t end with every conflict resolved, boxed, and wrapped in a shiny pink ribbon. The reader is left to decide whether or not Alaska’s suffering was so great that she ended it with a suicidal car crash or whether it was the unfortunate accident of a distraught, emotional teenage girl trying to find purpose and balance. Either way, Pudge is insightful. His final essay for class shows the reader the depth of growth in his character and the wisdom that comes from experience. There is hope and beauty that comes out of the most awful of situations. Alaska taught those around her that - not necessarily in her life but in her death. The things that make us want to self-destruct are survivable because Pudge says “we are as indestructible as we believe ourselves to be” (220). I believe that. I know that.

Time and time again, I am reminded of the importance of relationships and character development in literature. This book was no different. I am, by nature, a reader who is bored easily. Perhaps that’s because I’m accustomed to drama in my own life or maybe because my free time is so valuable. Either way, it takes a lot to keep my attention. Needlesstosay, it was a pleasure reading Looking for Alaska. Each character is unique and three-dimensional with raw emotion and intensity both “before” and “after” Alaska’s tragic death. I love the insight into Pudge’s mind. Green is careful to color him with a paint brush of emotion that is innocent and not so innocent. From first kisses to first blowjobs, Pudge experiences it all under the watchful eye of the reader. Nothing is a mystery… except perhaps how to get the hell out of that labyrinth of suffering.

How SHOULD I live now?

Terrorism. The very mention of the word frightens me. Living smack in the middle of the superpower that is the United States enables me, as an adult, to pretend quite successfully that war, brutality, avarice, and murder are elements of another world, a place where certainly I would never and could never live. I don’t have a TV or subscribe to the newspaper. I only catch bits and pieces of current events on Minnesota Public Radio, as the blaring voices from my alarm clock attempt to wake me. I live a minimalist existence and like to think that I’m happier because of the simplicity. However, the reality is that the world is not at peace. Written in the three months prior to the US invasion of Iraq, How I Live Now, by Meg Rosoff, explores that tension through an adolescent’s eyes.

This past winter, my brother was deployed as a logistics officer to help fight the “war on terror” or whatever it’s called these days. In some ways, How I Live Now forces me to relive the months I spent in Fairbanks, Alaska helping my sister-in-law raise her children in the absence of their father. It wasn’t unusual wake up and immediately begin the day by rescuing the princess, hunting polar bears, or masquerading as pirates with my nephews. What was seemingly unusual to me at the time is the fact that a mile down the road an eerily quiet army base stands training soldiers for combat behind its walls, and simultaneously on the other side of the Earth, we, as a nation, are part of a real life war. How can these two worlds coexist – one of imagination and joy and another of power and fear? AND then how is it possible that I can laugh and play while innocent others are dying? These are an adult questions and adult guilt born of society and experience. However, the narrator, an anorexic, matter-of-fact American teen named Daisy, tells it like it is in her world – “no matter how much you put on a sad expression and talked about how awful it was that all those people were killed and what about democracy and the Future of Our Great Nation the fact that none of us kids said out loud was that WE DIDN’T REALLY CARE” (43). Profound and memorable, these candid, honest words show the distance between the children and the war. What follows is a harsh and heartbreaking glimpse into what it means to experience fear, grief, death, and the loss of innocence.

While this is the survival story of a family during a fictional war, Rosoff includes elements of contemporary society that strike close to home (and the heart). The mention of cell phones, e-mail, airports, and apartments in New York City indicate that the story takes place within the last twenty years. Yet, war is timeless and renders its victims to often resort to primitive means of survival which complicates the setting. Daisy and her cousins walk to the village, have knowledge of plants and trees, and live on a farm which give the story more of a historic feeling. There is an edge within the writing, perhaps due to the lack of punctuation within dialogue and the irregular capitalization of words, that is a break from convention. To me, this screams “new” and “fearless.” It isn’t just the words or style of writing that goes out on the limb, though. Rosoff tackles adolescent issues, like anorexia and sexual maturity and somehow is able to juxtapose them in a way that makes sense. For example, when Daisy explains her hunger for Edmond’s love, she makes a comparison to her own physical hunger – “It was the first time in as long as I can remember that hunger wasn’t a punishment or a crime or a weapon or a mode of self-destruction. It was simply a way of being in love” (53).

Further, I was surprised at how Rosoff describes the illicit romance between Daisy and Edmond with such tenderness and purity that what is conventionally and socially wrong appears endearing and powerful. As a reader, instead of being disgusted, you root for them. Their love is sweet, and if you’ve ever experienced what it’s like to be in love, you understand the significance of their relationship. Daisy talks directly to the reader and admits that what she’s doing is probably wrong, which gives her more credibility as a narrator. Beyond the words on the page, Daisy’s strength and suffering, teach a bit about living in the moment and perhaps about how we should all live. Right now.

Adolescent Indian Boy or Russian Poet?

I recently asked a graduate school friend his opinion about whether or not he’d consider me a capable teacher for a position at a charter school in North Minneapolis. In one word, he described me as “imperturbable,” followed by, “like a Russian poet, you can absorb unlimited amounts of suffering. A perfect fit.” Wow. Reflecting upon my last four years, I do feel as if I’ve trudged through hell and back, and I know I’m strong, but it’s not until another person recognizes the invisible force dwelling within, that you truly believe it exists.

After reading Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, I couldn’t help but see myself trapped in the intellectual and emotional mind of a fourteen year old boy. Confusion, sarcasm, skepticism, and innocence are recklessly thrust amidst the thunderstorm of incompatible emotions that make up Arnold Spirit. It’s no wonder bumps and bruises equal bravery and strength in his insecure world. However, while he witnessed drunken brawls, accidental deaths, and visible signs of life gone mad, I was simply a passive observer and a lucky recipient of the dysfunctional characteristics found amongst most children of alcoholics. By his age, I was left wondering why I felt inadequate and unloved when I’d seemingly been provided everything I needed. There’s no doubt about it, Junior and I would have been friends.

Knowing that this narrative is loosely based on the author’s life, I read carefully and cautiously, eager to know more about this oppressed little boy. Unsure of what to believe and what to cast aside as pure fiction, I navigated the monochromatic halls of Reardan High School and through throngs of inebriated Indians alongside Junior. His honest, uncensored account of growing up in a society where poverty and addiction reign, invites the reader to sympathize (or empathize) as he/she sees fit. Alexie is careful to talk like an adolescent and walk like an adolescent. It almost makes the reader believe that an adolescent has written this book.

Heartbreaking, but often times hysterical, I found myself muttering, “Awww” and laughing outloud in the most public of places. I can only hope that my gawkers caught the title as they attempted to casually stare at the caffeinated girl curled up in the corner with her book. I kept thinking to myself, “about damn time, “ as the story went from boners to beauty to beer in mere pages. It isn’t often I encounter authors that choose to confront the real issues nagging at the hearts and heads of coming of age adolescents. That, to me, is what is real. Anyone that has ever been an adolescent can identify with something in Junior’s world. Perhaps, then, this is all the more reason to expose schools to contemporary realism.

Once a teacher, perhaps you never take off that hat. Even though I don’t have my own classroom right now, I still tend to read with struggling students in mind. Students need to realize that reading doesn’t always mean falling asleep after five minutes or involve texts that might as well have been written in another language (i.e. too hard to understand). My friend, Laura, taught this book at an alternative school in Richfield to a mostly Latino population. The books was wildly popular, consequently rendering her with only half of the original copies. She had friends of friends in her classes asking to borrow the book. – students who have never read a whole book before. If that doesn’t scream “award winner,” I don’t know what the world is coming to.

One of the most striking things to me about this book is the wisdom woven within the words. Junior is an insightful character that has a visible journey from cover to cover, discovering and commenting on his identity throughout. He isn’t afraid to share his perspectives and how they change. The hopeless become the hopeful. In the beginning, Junior asks, “Who has hope?” (43), but by the end, he’s answering his own question. After an empowering moment standing up to an insensitive teacher, Junior muses, “It all gave me hope. It gave me a little bit of joy. And I kept trying to find the little pieces of joy in my life. That’s the only way I managed to make it through all of the death and change” (176). He finally understands what we all conclude in the end… perhaps life isn’t always about keeping score.