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.

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.