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.