Tag Archives: history

Mad Woman Wasting

“Don’t waste your love on somebody, who doesn’t value it.” 
— Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet

From The Land of the Moon by Milena Agus @ Goodreads

The question is: who determines what’s wasted?

In one of my new favorite books, From the Land of The Moon, Milena Agus answers this question.  At first, I thought this was just a simple story of a typical (Sardinian) woman.  The only interesting part was that the grandmother thought herself mad.  She had a bit of Alice and a bit of Sexton with a pinch of history.

“And later, when she lost the babies in the first months of pregnancy, she said that she would not have been a good mother because she lacked the principal thing, and her children were not born because they, too, lacked that thing, and so she shut herself up in her world of the moon.”

Early in the grandmother’s life, her entire family was upset with her especially when she chased away suitors writing them love poems like a mad Dickinson (aren’t all Dickinson’s mad)?.  I should probably tell you that this family is Sardinian (a small island in the Mediterranean, don’t feel bad, I had to Google it too).  I find it really interesting that all over Google, it says that Sardinian women are the most beautiful women in the world, and that they age most gracefully and beautifully as well, living longer than most other cultures. This book shows them as so much the opposite of that.

It’s narrated by a granddaughter looking back at her grandmother’s life.  Her grandmother had a very secret life, not because she held a lot of secrets, but because she stayed mostly within her own head.

Sardinia, Italy (Wikipedia Commons)

“In fact she thinks we should be grateful to grandmother, because she took on herself all the disorder that might have touched papa and me. In every family there’s someone who pays the tribute, so that the balance between order and disorder and the world doesn’t come to a halt.”

When she’s already a rotten egg according to the fairytales and her family no longer believes she’s going to be married, a man comes to stay in their house after his whole family is killed in a bombing during WWII.  It might be worth reading the book, just to read the story of the birthday cake.  The family signs her away to this unknown visiter and for the rest of her life, she questions their love.  At first, she’s afraid to bring him his morning tea and just sets it in the floorboards below before he wakes up.  Then, she convinces him to no longer attend the “happy ending” houses in their neighborhood.  I think this is one of the more true love stories of our generation.  There wasn’t ever a complete 180 in acknowledgement that this was a true love, one that stood the test of time, and wasn’t made of superficial conversations, Facebook photos, and no compromise.

This relationship really begins when she is sent away to get well after continually carrying kidney stones instead of children.  Her husbands sends her to a spa escape where she rarely eats, watches men read newspapers on a balcony overlooking the sea, and buries the stones where they can’t block her children from coming any longer.

Friedrich Kellner diary Oct 6, 1939 (Wikipedia Commons)

I wasn’t a believer in this relationship until the very end of this book when I was tearing up.  There’s a parallel love story that I can’t really tell you anything about, which makes it really hard to review this book, but also makes it one of the most complete works of fiction (imagination).  This book examines the truths of diaries.  Even I sometimes wonder whether I should actually write what I’ve written into my diaries.  Or should I sugar coat some of the parts.  As I write, I imagine a future daughter reading it and sometimes I crumple a little bit, lack courage in my actual thoughts.  It displays my real insecurities.  My mom asked me yesterday if I had already asked a friend to burn them after I die like Oprah, but I’m not sure I can.  There’s so much raw truth of myself in those diaries.  I think it would be unfair to that part of myself that leaves nothing unsaid.

And that’s what this book does.  It leaves it all on the page. It leaves letters, truths, disappointments, madness, sexual rebellion, sexual expectation, desires, looming memories, distant travels, and the wants of an everyday woman that are so similar to some of my wants, it’s odd.  Milena Agus knows her women and knows what they hide in the folds of their aprons, and the locked drawers of their desks.

I was pleasantly surprised by this book and it’s a book that I may have wanted to write in the future, but I was lucky enough to be a reader instead.  I’m wondering now which life the grandmother chose to lead, the one of her imagination or the one with a man who would walk through the snow without a scarf, missing his local potato ravioli and porchetto.

coffee

Coffee Binging a few weeks ago.

And which man is more real to the woman feeding them?  You’ll have to read this one.  Short enough to read during afternoon tea at only 108 pages, if you’re in Britain, or if you’re american one of those all day coffee binges like I’m having now.

Binge on books. Binge on coffee.

The Epigraph, one of my favorites.

The Epigraph, one of my favorites. LOVING my electric blue nails.

“…her husband was a lucky man, really, and not, as she said, unfortunate, cursed with a poor madwoman; she wasn’t mad, she was a creature made at a moment when God simply had no wish for the usual mass-produced woman and, being in a poetic vein, had created her.”

What are the truest love stories you have read lately? What love stories may have changed your idea of love? How do we determine what is world literature and what isn’t, or what deserves to be a vintage book? Do you plan on reading this one or did my review not do it justice? Talk below. 


Favorite Poetry Exercises for Teenagers and Those Who Are Still Teens At Heart

Sometimes the only way to get a highschooler to like poetry is by showing them people who do it dramatically really well (slam poems) or Tupac, who put poems to music, or for that matter, any lyrical, or rap artist, arguably any musician (except maybe Ke$ha).  That’s not always the way I do it.  All I hear when I break out that first poem, because it is definitely a break, and not a nudge, or an “approach” to poetry, is squawking.  I break my students in like those good shoes you’ve had forever and your dad accidentally bleached one time in the wash.

Poetry is one of those times I like the static in my classroom, when I can actually feel the buzzing of their lips on the beats, or the clicks as they tap their pencil along each syllable because the best answer to this ADHD dilemma we have in schools, is poetry.  Memory, rhythm & blues, permeable words, the answers to life tough questions.  If I don’t open poetry with a slam poem, I open it with an exercise.  I make them write the first one.  I teach them that the stanza is the paragraph of the poem, the picket fence, the razor wire, the metal gate that they have to push open to find their way out into the next stanza.  Gosh, even explaining poetry is a metaphor.

I don’t care if they start the year saying, “I hate poems,” or “I just don’t get poems,” as long as once in that year, some line has caused a tightness in their chest, or some confusion of something they thought they held firmly in the palm of their hand, stray specks of dirt that fall out when they’ve broken it open, gather somewhere as a wet pebble in their mind. These are some of my favorite ways to sift the dirt.  I don’t need 97 poetry lovers, I need 97 unique individuals who can think for themselves, create something for themselves, or are just able to rake dirt, and plant flowers.

Here are a few of my favorite exercises, please use these at home.

Jamaica Kincaid @ Community Bookstore

1. If I know they’re going to read a poem, I give them 15 words from that poem and ask them to try to find some thematic way to structure these words together in a set number of stanzas, or lines.  If they can’t connect them together to find some theme, I just go for tone.  Then they create their own poem using that theme, tone, or a way to make the words rhythmically work (this is for my future rappers). My favorite poems to do this one with is “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid (touted as fiction in the NY Times, but we all know that’s poetry) and “Exile” by Julia Alvarez.

Here are the word lists in case anyone wants to write a poem:

“Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid list:

  1. clothesline
  2. slut
  3. bent
  4. crease
  5. flies
  6. throw
  7. away
  8. fall
  9. always
  10. behave
  11. girl
  12. sweep
  13. wash
  14. someone
  15. button

“Exile” by Julia Alvarez

  1. highway
  2. deep
  3. knew
  4. wrong
  5. curfew
  6. worried
  7. fled
  8. frantically
  9. America
  10. visitors
  11. respect
  12. father
  13. stay
  14. Ford
  15. sisters

We Heart It @ Tumblr

2.  Hanging Fire by Audre Lorde: This poem just kicks teenage poetry haters’ butts.  I might have one kid in my class every year who doesn’t connect with this poem and that’s because that kid is actively trying not to connect with life. It’s about a fourteen year old girl who just has no side.  She is a conglomeration of everything around her.  I have my students read this poem and then write one of their own versions.  What betrays you? What does no one think about you? Who defends you and who doesn’t? Who cares the most about you?  Where are you neglected and where are you praised? What is unfair and unjustified? If there’s anything that teenagers want to do, it’s argue about their own life.

3. Golden Description Chart (THANK YOU, 826 National & McSweeney’s)

#obsessed (HASHTAG OBSESSED) The Eggers version is in the link, but I make my students create a chart, and we usually do this chart within the first week because I want them to start thinking about senses, which leads to imagery.

Chart looks like this:

Screen Shot 2014-04-04 at 10.00.24 PM

 

After the chart, I tell them to give me a golden description of their favorite place.  They have to use all the senses to describe the place and I tell them I want to feel like I’m there if I close my eyes and someone reads this to me.  Then, I actually have people close their eyes and a student reads about their favorite place.  The person with the closed eyes tells the reader what they could best feel/see/hear/smell/taste and what they had a hard time feeling/seeing/hearing/smelling/tasting.

This is the best part though, I make them then write a dialogue between the smelly old person (who has become blind in a matter of seconds) and they have to explain their favorite place to the older, blind, smelly person.  This is fun because they have to use so much creativity.  They have to give detailed descriptions to someone, while using correct characterization of themselves (and how they talk), but also how an old person might question things.  My favorite example is that one of my students has a Chief Keef poster in their room.  They had to then describe Chief Keef to the older person because the older person didn’t know who that was.  It’s very interesting to see what you get, but I think this is one of those beginning poetry stages that you have to do because imagery is a killer in poetry.

 

 

Holy Smoke @ Thejaswi – Creative Commons

4. McSweeney’s Poetry Prompts That Don’t Suck aren’t half bad either…

(Trees and shit ALWAYS hooks my students).  Don’t worry, I got permission to cuss in the poetry parts of my classroom. Speaking of cussing…

5. Twitter Poems

Twitter poems are like technological found poems.  For the first time, I just have my students get on their Twitter feed and write down ten random tweets.  Then, they can only use these words in their poem.

I step it up when I want them to write a poem with a specific theme and I send them on the hunt to find tweets that will help them develop something around that theme.

I step it up again when I just ask them to write a poem that relates to the novel, short story, or informational text that we’re studying and then write me a few paragraphs on how the two live simultaneously in a one bedroom apartment.  What is their relationship, are they married and bitter, are they deeply in love but not allowed to seal the deal, are they sister and brother.  Tell me the connection. OU, KILLED ‘EM.

6. Historical Poems: For this students have to research the historical time periods and characteristics of their chosen characters before they can write a poem.  Then, they write in the voice of that person.  I had a kid once write as Ted Bundy and it might have been the creepiest thing I’ve ever read.

*Write as someone who was beheaded

*Write as a person who died on the Titanic

*Write as an Egyptian Pharaoh

*Write as a woman during the Salem Witch Trials

*Write as a founder of our country, or a dead president

*Write as a school shooter (this one makes me really sad, but it really puts their ideas of school security out there)

*Write as a soldier in a war of your choice

*Write as a Disney Princess

*Write as a gang member

*Write as a famous musician

*Write as a hippie (or a protestor of some sort)

*Write as female leader before the 20th century

*Write as someone just before they experienced Pompeii

*Write as someone from The Bible, or another famous work.

There are too many choices, seriously.  I just love the research aspect of this prompt and the fact that students get so into giving me the true voices of their characters.

Mona Lisa @ Wikipedia (Wiki Commons)

7. Paintings: In this prompt, students have to research famous paintings (or graffiti) and tell the story behind the paintings in poem form.  What is the true story of how this came to life.  I had a student write about the Mona Lisa (just for your information, Mona, was a blocked search term on google on my school’s internet) and he wrote about how everything in the painting points toward her cleavage (the river in the background, etc) and how, therefore, it must have been her lover who painted her Mona Lisa smile.  Only a junior male would come up with that one.

8. Broadsides: Students just take a line, section, or whole poem and create a visual display of the poem.  I haven’t actually done this one in my classroom, but I’ve watched a veteran teacher’s poetry cafe using broadsides and it was unbelievable.

9. Neruda Odes/Neruda Questions

For Neruda’s Odes, students will study an Ode by Neruda and see how he twists language to do how he pleases ,and then they write an Ode to something.  There’s obviously more effort done in the analyzing stage of this, but the Odes to things are always interesting.  I had a student write an Ode to his brand new oxfords at the beginning of a class, and then at the end an Ode to his dirty ass shoes.  See, poetry, makes you see the dirt.

*NOTE: When we read Odes, I have students just randomly read a line and then the next student who feels summoned to read reads the next line until the poem is finished.  If more than one student starts reading a line they continue, like a kind of chorus.  By the end, they’re all reading every line.  It’s pretty fantastic.

Sample Odes:

Neruda Questions is a little more difficult.  Neruda had a sort of series called The Book of Questions.  They’re really unanswerable questions about the human experience.  I like them because it takes my students a while to come up with a question.  I love, “Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress?”  Students can come up with some really wonderful questions.  Then, some genius wrote a book called Talking to Neruda’s Questions and I showed them some of his responses to Neruda’s thoughtful questions.  So, after they’ve written questions, I have the groups switch questions and they have to answer the questions poetically.  This would be so much fun if we had poetry clubs like we have book clubs.

T.S. Eliot Book

10. OTHER SOURCES:


Why Write in a “Preachy Tone” When You Could Just Write A Memoir?

“What, I wonder, are the social consequences of life in a country that has no use for history?” (Cole 97).

Photography by Teju Cole

Anytime we read something my students have questions.  Yesterday, they questioned me about the reason they can’t stand up and yell something in class because of the first amendment that we had just gone over.  What do Facebook comments have to do with free speech.  Why is it that the school can have a Christmas tree if the idea of the Christmas tree comes somehow from Christ and we have separation of church and state.  Sometimes I have answers, and sometimes I have to send them out into the world to discover the answers for themselves because I still don’t have them yet.  Some, I’m not sure I ever will.

Teaching literature through the historical context is one of my favorite things to do in my class.  I’m teaching Of Mice and Men through the historical context of the Great Depression with connections to immigrantion (not that Lennie and George are immigrants, but migrant workers and immigrants have great ties in my student’s knowledge of what is an immigrant today.  In their eyes, and the eyes of many southerners I would think, – immigrants living in the ride along mower state of North Carolina are picked up by farmers at Lowes Hardware, paid under the table, and can be kicked off the truck if they complain.  My students are also from a very high poverty county, they understand not planning for the future when you only have enough for today.  The American Dream themes of migrant workers and immigrants are very similar to the way my students see success and their own goals and dreams.

I’m getting off track though.

Every Day is for The Thief by Teju Cole

One of the biggest things I like to teach my students is that you can only in very few cases teach history through race.  Right now, in a school that is truly the mosaic that America is, they are very in tune to the racial barriers set before them and around them.  They simultaneously try to break these barriers and keep them up, when it’s convenient or they’re pushed.  However, history is not viewed through the lens of race.  There is no collective “white history.”  We couldn’t teach “white history” if we wanted to.  Someone would always be an outlier.  There is no collective “black history.”  There is no story that fits all the people that were born with and without pigment.

It is difficult for my students to grasp this because they want to put all their eggs  in the African American history basket.  This history is and is still not quite grasping the total history although it is getting closer to history as geographical which is how we study it today.  The label “African American History Museum” (opening in July of 2015 in Washington DC) not only furthers the barriers between our collective American history, but it eliminates the idea that people should understand and acknowledge all of their mixed histories, American, African, Dominican Republic, Mexican, Puerto Rican, European (and that’s a butt load of histories in itself), Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Native American by tribe, etc.  I understand this is how history labels us, there must be a label for every questionnaire, every time someone asks, “So, where are you from?” some sort of answer.

Teju Cole @ NY Observer

It’s a complicated spectrum, made even more complicated by Teju Cole’s new book, Every Day is for the Thief.  In his book, which is more diary travelogue of life in Nigeria then it is fictional story (in fact there’s not much story at all other than the story of escape, or the story of corruption), Cole paints a picture of Nigeria that would cause Italian trained pickpockets to avoid the place.  Now I’m no expert on Nigeria, in fact, my knowledge of Nigeria is very limited, but the unveiling in this book, even fiction, made me disappointed.

I don’t care what anyone says, when there’s a work of fiction about a specific country, people still believe there’s truth in bits of the fiction even when they’re told otherwise.  My best friend Seth stayed on the Southern coast of Africa (where I’m not sure anymore) for a summer and he lived in a house where he had to barricade his host family into their section of the house and then barricade himself in the other section so that if thieves did target that house, they would only be able to get through to the kitchen and all else was guarded by metal latch and key.

Nigeria @ Global Education Center

This is the Nigeria that Cole writes about.

Police stand guard on roundabouts looking for reasons to stop motorists and be bribed from taking them in.  Teenage purse snatchers are burned alive in the market place.  Everyone is out for that extra dollar.  Gangs both serve the government and are killed in rounds by the government.  The face of Nigeria is a smile with a Jafar (Aladdin reference) rubbing his chin hair evilly behind it.  How can they make the fastest dime.  How can they swindle and sell.  What words do they put in the subject of an email to get someone’s uncle to wire money.  How much do the corruption signs cost that will never be looked in the eye.  This Nigeria is terrifying.  The people are no better, and around every corner is a thief who is serving a higher thief until the chain of command meets a man with fat pockets at the top with no need of the starving children snatching purses in the market.  Lose a finger in the third world, burned alive in a car tire in Nigeria.

Nigeria @ Wiki Commons

I can tell as I write this that I was moved while reading the book, but only due to subject matter, not due to voice, plot structure, or writing style.  Cole did not let the reader in.  Everything was at a distance.  This is a book about a man that walked around a country he knew he was allowed to leave and looked at the people who were not and wrote down his observations.  I could go to a mall and write this story. I couldn’t photograph the moving black and white pictures that close out chapters, but I could people-watch in order to find the lack of sincerity in the faces of everyday American people, the same way Cole put out a book judging the country where he was raised with a facade of fiction attached by a colon to the title.

This is no redemption story for Nigeria.  If this is the truth, it baffles me that this book has been out in Africa since 2007 and is just now reaching the US.  Wouldn’t a US citizen who likes to think of Africa as a hot bet of mischief be more inclined to read a book that proves it so, rather than a literate Nigeria who is facing his country everyday with hope at a new type of freedom. If the people of Nigeria are shopping at bookstores where the collection of King James is the most sought section, why would they choose to read about the scarred face of their own country.  This is the perception of a New Yorker, sizzling with his idea of what a good museum should hold only to find the ones in his home of Lagos are bad replicas of state visitor’s centers on the way through Virginia.  That’s what this book was, the way through, in all ways.

Lagos, Nigeria @ Wiki Commons

It was the way this man’s life took him through to a new world where everything glimmers (like we have no corruption in America or something).

It was the way through Nigeria in the eyes of a person who obviously is no longer attached to the people, the sights, or the ways of life.

It was the way through a market, a public transport station, a town without running water, a police barricaded roundabout.

It was the way through (and a cop out) to not writing a beautiful memoir that actually gripped the reader’s t-shirt at their chest and made them look at the non-bloody massacre that Nigeria has become. If you’re going to bash the country you were raised, do it through the truth, not through something masked as fiction and put on shelves for Americans to believe even though that dirty f-word is on the front.

Nigeria @ Ekoakete (Creative Commons)

If you’re going to teach me some history, teach it without guise, and without the informative tone of a textbook.  Tell me a story.  Make me curl up on the outside of your voice with my crossed legs and just listen.  History is after all just the story we tell ourselves, no matter what we label it or how that label defines us.  Maybe next year, I’ll get to teach history through the perspective of all the losers, and I’ll try to include Nigeria in that list since Teju Cole made it abundantly clear that this country of flaws and humanity has very few redeeming qualities.  Let me clear that I am not upset that there might be some truth about Nigeria in this book, I am upset that it was sold to me as fiction and not as truth if that’s the case. I am upset that this collection will define how Americans see Nigeria if it is all the discovery we try to make.  This truly makes me want to go interview the people myself and pass down their stories.

 


“What We Have In Common Are The Words At Our Backs”

My Great Grandparents

My Great Grandparents

I wonder how my grandmothers took their tea.

I wonder what women influenced them to have strength.  I actually wondered this one today when I put a temporary tattoo on my mother’s wrist.  It was a blue bird with a banner that said “strength” in bold black letters.  There was a station at my nephew’s birthday party.

I wonder if my great-grandmothers had cold feet and an affinity for tall, or bulldog-like men.

My Aunt June

My Aunt June

I wonder what my great, great, great, great grandmother did with the house and the eight out illiterate members of this house when my grandfather was shot in the arm and died during the Civil War.  I have great ideas that she didn’t just shrivel up and set all her worries into a far off gaze while resting her chin in her palm and her elbow on some window mount.  My great, great, great, great grandmother may have worn aprons, but a later census shows she kept the house running, possibly with or without a wealthy gentlemen heir.  I can’t know because these stories have been lost in the clouds of perfume and cigarette smoke that my grandmother’s wafted out.

All I have for those later women in my family tree are census records and collected data of years of birth, years of death and household numbers.  I do have a lot of heirlooms from my grandmothers, but beyond that it’s black and white photos and the last whispers of “talk-story” that my Aunt June still has left.

The Woman Warrior | Memoirs Of A Girlhood Among Ghosts @ Book Critics

This gets me to the pinnacle of my jealousy over Maxine Hong Kingston’s memoir The Woman Warrior | Memoirs Of A Girlhood Among Ghosts.  I don’t know if it’s the Chinese culture, or just this woman, but her writing was insane, literally and her cultural stories and history were both whimsical and brilliant.  I feel like I would know her sitting at a dinner table after reading this collection of narratives about what it means to be a woman, what it means to be Asian-American and what it means to know your own voice based on the voices that you’ve come from.

Fa Mu Lan Woman Warrior @ Chinese Swords (.net)

I’m a bigot in the sense that I don’t believe we’re ever just who we make ourselves, and I will NEVER believe that.  There will be no change of opinion.  We’re an odd conglomeration of the histories kneaded into our hometowns, the deep-seeded truths of how our parents or guardians were raised, even if we go against those truths, our family trees, and the people we encounter in this lifetime (if not other lifetimes that we may have lived).

Off topic branch:  I believe in old souls, not necessarily reincarnation, but I meet people sometimes and they’re my people.  I’ve known them before.  Grey’s Anatomy said it best, “You’re my person.”  One of my closest friends at school is a 60+ year old woman who owns a horse farm and hunted foxes when she was younger.  We should be the least likely people to form close bonds (I’m deathly afraid of horses and I can shoot a gun, but definitely not hunt anything) and yet I love her and I’ve known her forever.  The same goes with my best friend, Seth, who couldn’t break up with me if he tried, and my boyfriend right now who has the thigh muscles of a Greek champion so we must have been sea-faring lovers.  There are ancient traditions of my history with these people, but I can’t tell you what they are because I have very little knowledge of my own family history in order to puzzle these things together. It’s not a miracle of science, just a miracle of miracles and being the Catholic (with a few twists) girl that I am, I have to believe that God purposely put each of these people in my life because they make me comfortable and they’re my partners through the journey.

Orchid for “Brave Orchid” @ Envy GFX

I bet Marie Hong Kinsgston would know all the answers to my questions about this because she has the rich stories of her kin to explain life’s trials, life’s expectations and life’s roads.  I could read four more books on her history without batting an eye, that’s how inspiring this work of literature was.   She has the major story of three women that determine what she believes it is to be a woman with an Asian-American background.  There’s the story of a woman fighter (who I think is the inspiration behind Mulan) and Kingston takes the soul of this fighter on within herself.  Then there’s the history of her Aunt and Mother who in my eyes belong to one single history of womanhood.  Her mother is a doctor in Asia only to “escape” to America and run a laundry mat. Her Aunt is not brought to America until late in her own life because her husband never sent for her, and she is over saturated.

Maxine Hong Kingston @ UCLA International

Then, there’s the history of Kingston which I believe is a weaving of the last three histories and the idea of “talk-story” which is this idea that women in the family pass on … well everything.  Any knowledge of her mother’s past, of Asia, of heroic tales from Asia, comes from the elder women in Kingston’s life and whatever they determine the girl’s should know, they know.  It’s an odd coming of age because when this memoir was written (and probably still although publicly dormant), it wasn’t bountiful to have a girl and girls were assumed to be mostly worthless as far as aging parents were concerned.  At one point, Kingston’s Mother, Brave Orchid, talks about cutting her daughter’s talk so that she can “talk story” which is probably my favorite part of this story because she literally raised a daughter who “talked-story” enough to write an award winning and eye opening memoir.  I really liked Brave Orchid because I think she knew how to live the dichotomy without being found out, she managed to make a living as a medical doctor but still follow the deeply embedded codes restricted to women within in Asia.  I think, even though she comes off abrasive in the book, she influenced her daughters to do the same in their own ways and through their own narratives.  I definitely can appreciate a strong women who must live inside boundaries, but has discovered ways to approach and climb the fence.

“Perhaps women were once so dangerous that they had to have their feet bound” (23). 

Bound Feet @ Danwei.org

Last thing, my favorite story in Sandra Cisneros’s Woman Hollering At The Creek is “Salvador, Late Or Early.”  I always start my students off with this reading at the beginning of the semester and then I have them do a fill in the blank to learn how much they know about figurative language and to see what they reveal about themselves based on what they say in the blanks.  Some students take this very seriously, some students joke about it, and some students just plain hurt me with their raw descriptions of themselves and who cares about them most (or least, unfortunately). In this story, Salvador’s brother drops his cigar box of crayons and I always told my students that that was because he was so poor that he had to hold his crayons in a cigar box.  However, I was reading Woman Warrior and found this quote, “After American school we picked up our cigar boxes, in which we had arranged books, brushes, and an inkbox neatly, and when to Chinese school from 5:00 to 7:30″ (194).   I love when cultural things blow my mind a little.  I originally thought that this was a hispanic way of carrying school supplies, but obviously I was wrong.  This is just a little bit of proof that we’re constantly being educated by literature.  It doesn’t matter what country, what language, or what source, books can teach about our world in big or small ways, we just have to want to read between the lines.


How Much Power Is In Light

TransAtlantic

My original plan was to cheat the system and read every word, but the last whole page of words in, We, The Drowned.  However, I started that book like four weeks before Christmas and couldn’t even finish it.  It’s a colossal whale of 700 and some pages about shipping in Norwegian territories and the dramas of the seas, both on the plank and off.  Holy Shoe Horn, I’m only 300 pages of the way through.  That plan plummeted to the ground rather swiftly when I decided not to even pack the book for the mountains for New Years.

Christopher Richard Wynne Nevinson 1889-1946, The Arrival 1913.

Instead some singing angel made it possible that TransAtlantic was finally available for me in the library system.  I think I waited almost five months to read this one, so long that I had forgotten that I even requested it at the time of that little email saying it was ready for me to borrow for only SEVEN days.  If you saw my reading speed last year, then you know that I hardly ever read a book in seven days.  I read a book a week if you look at the sheer number of books (58), but that was because some weeks my Maury drill sergeant of a professor didn’t assign as much reading as others for American Lit.   Colum McCann was all mine through the new year, with his rave reviews and historical fiction, how could I not be completely enthralled with how he mapped American history with Irish history.  As an Irish/Belgian/Cherokee American I am deeply interested in those cultures through the eyes of literature both nonfiction and fiction.  I haven’t read Let The Grade World Spin (feel free to harangue me in your nicest sarcastic voice within the comments for this serious blunder) or any of his other wildly imaginative stories so I had no real gage of what to expect.  I feel like I’m leading up to how great this book was, but in fact, I felt it dud like a pebble in a well.  It was unexpectedly boring at times, actually.

Colum McCann, Transatlantic

Well, that’s not really fair.  It was boring in parts and deeply interesting in others.  I think when McCann was focused on the inner lives of the women that are tied together by (come to find out) one letter that has crossed the fogged seas, I was much more interested than the generalities in other chapters.  In the beginning, I was pretty involved with the first flight of Brown and Alcock.  Being a native of NC, I think I have to be interested in flight as we claim to have the “First in Flight” on our license plates.  However, I think this was more so that I love when authors take something that I know nothing about and give intricate details of how those things work.  It’s much like Roth’s description of making gloves in American Pastoral (which I’m still not over if anyone asks). I was hushed when the men were in the density of cloud without any gage or compass to secure whether they were in sky or herding just above the land.  It was engrossing.

Frederick Douglass Reading, Tumblr

The next part is a perspective on the life of Frederick Douglass, which in my eyes, you just don’t touch.  I like Frederick Douglass from his own writing, with his own tone and not in some fictional debut of Douglass for new generations (although I appreciate reintroducing his importance and in this book, celebrity, for the younger minds).  I found Douglass to be dislikable in this telling, and I’ve never thought that before.  Especially, in the later chapters when the girls go to see him speak and Lily talks about his new white wife, who seemed a bit of a trophy (especially when his African American wife is told from the perspective that she isn’t necessarily anything but a marker of where he’s come from – slavery).  I don’t know, I had a bad taste with this section.  I was fascinated by Douglass’ barbells and will be researching those for my own dorky curiosity.

Screen Shot 2014-01-03 at 10.51.36 PMThe women in this novel were the true stars.  Lily was inspiring just in the fact that she believed in the American Dream, some dormant seed growing within her, inspired by a man who didn’t even remember her name over dinner, yet knew that her face was familiar in its sweet modesty.  I immediately responded to her view of American culture and I think all of us want to know a bit of where we’ve come from.  That is the power in this collection of interweaving stories from one woman, Lily Duggen, to her daughters for generations.

By Pseudolibrary @ Tumblr

The girls have such fascinating lives.  You wouldn’t think that ice chunks, and moving ice chunks across a lake, and growing ice chunks from a frozen lake made perfect by drilling holes, not for baiting, but for icing, would be the most interesting thing in a novel, but it seriously was.  Lily’s inner life with her son during the war and her husband in the ice harvesting and manufacturing business was the best part of this novel for me.  It was also the showing of true triumph over self and country.  Lily moved to America on Douglass’s word that it was a county moving towards greater freedom, and come to find out the soldiers she sewed up didn’t ever speak of freedom, but just of war.  Women were objects, which is what history tells us we should be, though we have clearly proved to be immovable in our strength and move than moving in our ability to “get shit done.”

July 19, in 1848, Frederick Douglass attends the first Women’s Rights Convention in Seneca Falls, New York. He speaks in defense of its organizer, Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

After working as the laundress of a war hospital (and an almost-nurse) she meets her husband who has an ice trade and a carriage and for some reason, I thought this one of the sweeter marriages in literature.  It was a marriage of convenience, but still one of love.  The women that follow in the line of Duggen’s all had this unbalance in their lives of expectations.  Nothing was all true, or all untrue for any of them.  Each suffered a full life; loss, hardships, floating, sarcasm and grandeur.  None of these women lived perfectly, loved perfectly, or expected “perfectly.”

I think I really learned the true value of this book only at the end because the final daughter with the last paper-eaten letter was my favorite character in the whole story.  She cloaked wetsuit and swam belly-up in her lough, caked in debt and grimy dog fur, and lived as a broken single woman in the shell of her family’s legacy. Yet, she wasn’t a victim.  She had struck this almost perfect, and strange, cord of rebellion with defeat.  Some of the best quotes are in this final section and some of the best characterization throughout the whole book.

“How had he ended up here, at the edge of the Irish Sea? What was it that brought us such distances, rowing upwards into the past” (283). 

“I am not in the opinion that we become empty chars, but we certainly end up making room for others along the way” (267).

“As a boy Tomas loved the notion that the light hitting our eyes might be coming from a star that had already disappeared” (255). 

“It’s hardly wisdom, but the older I get the more I believe that our lives are built not out of time, but light.  The problem is that the images that so often return to me are seldom those I want” (254).

Colum McCann – The Millions – Tumblr Quote

It’s true this is a slow one.  It was a hilled read, there were sections that I would completely high gear and there were sections that I just had to drudge through to get to the next.  I think I can safely say it was worth trudging through.  That would only be fair to the famined mother, Lily Duggen, the child of Brown, and the constellations of Tomas’s decisions.  It was a good first read for the year, a solid one.  Not overwhelmingly good, like it’s all down hill from here, and not bottom rung so that I have to make sure the next one is glowing.

Lastly, the end of my Fall Semester with these first students is January 17th.  I am a blubbering baby when it comes to Of Mice and Men, that book completely broke me, but I know that it’s not everyone’s favorite read.  There are two options below for what my students should read entirely next semester.  Let me know what you think.


Why This Huffington Post Article Pissed Me Off

And why there won’t be a Newsday Tuesday today.

Article by Kia Makarichi 

First, if you’re going to write an article about a movie, and in that article sarcastically pick on the public education system, you should make sure that there are not double words (check until).  Maybe this is that odd version of karma for all the teachers that are reading your article and shaking their heads.  I’m not insulting your grammar, because everyone knows I’m still learning, but I was really hurt as a teacher who works overtime every single day that in a movie review, you felt the need to attack public education.

That being said, what does a middle aged man know about current education within the public school system.  Was he there when the teachers on my team sweat through a summer without air conditioning just so we could meet to implement the common core standards to help our students succeed in college.  Was he there this morning during my planning period when I decided to print thinking maps so that my freshman (who are great in diversity and learning styles) could hold and highlight on the paper, but the printer jammed nine times in seven minutes because our technology is not always up and running in small town America where we’re lucky our students eat on Saturdays.  It says, Mr. Makarichi that you are the “Senior Editor for Mobile and Innovation” at Huffington Post, and rather than cheer on technology and innovation within school programs, or helping educators become technological facillitators, you decided to tear down the way we teach history.

Richard Wright @ California Newsreel

I want you to know that I teach 9th graders, children who range from 12 to 15, if they haven’t been failed by someone else before they’ve reached me.   I want you to know how one of my students last year cried over the raw quake of Billie Holiday’s swooning voice when she sang, “Strange Fruit.”  This was while reading To Kill a Mockingbird, an often mocked classic story that is said to be “old” and “not of value” within public education by non-educators.   If you don’t remember from your own “sterling publication school education,” To Kill a Mockingbird is the story of Scout, Atticus and Tom when a white lawyer represents a black man who is obviously innocent of the crime of rape against a young and lonely white girl.  The story unfolds with the town’s reactions to Atticus’s representation.  Both Tom and Atticus are two of the strongest male characters within literature, and Tom is one of the strongest black males, who ultimately dies at the hand of a town that can only see color.  During the teaching of this book, we discussed and analyzed the Scottsboro boys’s story, Emmitt Till’s story with current day parallels to Trayvon Martin and violence against people who are not of the majority.  We read poetry by Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, Toni Morrison, Rita Dove.  I quizzed my students on excerpts from “Black Boy” by the great Richard Wright, where they had to tell me the significance of the quote, “Our too-young and too-new America, lusty because it is lonely, aggressive because it is afraid, insists upon seeing the world in terms of good and bad, the holy and the evil, the high and the low, the white and the black; our America is frightened of fact, of history, of processes, of necessity.

TKAM by Harper Lee

It hugs the easy way of damning those whom it cannot understand, of excluding those who look different, and it salves its conscience with a self-draped cloak of righteousness.”  Isn’t that what history is, our recording of the world around us?  But you want to know how much my students know about the history of slavery?  How the beautiful daughter of hair weave and crab grass in my second period wrote the most beautiful poem about Harriet Tubman calling her, “Queen of the bees/born a servant to a cold world.”  After researching Tubman’s life, she went on to compare her own poem to the lyrics of modern day rappers and word artists who in her world of broken houses and barefooted children was the way she could relate to the strongest women of revolution, moving men, and women in sacks of flour through the basements of white houses that they were not allowed to call home.

You say, “but in the classrooms of my youth, slavery was something bad that sort of just “happened” — a curious institution that was afforded importance mostly because of the emphasis put on the heroism of what people like Abraham Lincoln “did” about it” (Huff Post).  This isn’t about Abraham Lincoln’s contribution to the start of freedom (which was far off by my standards) because my students can tell you how many slaves traveled through the Dominican Republic and what year they become free from Haiti.  They can write you a dramatic monologue about how it feels to ride those ships through the “gateway of slavery” because they’ve compared and contrasted African American slave narratives to the Pulitzer winning, Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.  You might ask them why Dominicans today do not claim they are black, but instead Indio because of their own dirty history.

Junot Diaz

They will not be able to tell you how tall Abraham Lincoln stood in the river of the Mississippi, but they can tell you what Langston Hughes was saying both explicitly and inferred in, “The Negro Speaks of Rivers.”  This is the history that you claim we missed, correct?  Why stop at slavery when we can educate our children about the world around them, not just their world, but the world of their grandparents, the world before anyone they knew even in six degrees of separation was alive.  Next time you ask yourself why we might still teach The Odyssey, ask yourself what character can teach loyalty and you will find yourself in the lines of Penelope’s face twenty years after Odysseus has set sale to build a horse of cleverness.

Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson’s descendants from Sandra Seaton’s site.

I’m disappointed that in an essay on an upcoming movie, you attack the public education system.  We have the duty of teaching our students the history of America and beyond that, the history of the world.  When we discuss “The Declaration of Independence” and the men held most high on monuments in our nation’s capitol say, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,” my students will be able to tell you how many children were had between Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson according to the Smithsonian exhibit (and this is all without computers in my classroom).  They’ve watched videos.  They’ve analyzed equality in Fahrenheit 451, “Harrison Bergeron,” and “The Declaration of Independence” and then used chart paper to determine which were the most equal according to their collaborative definition.  After learning about Sally Hemings, they were unable to “hold [those] truths to be self-evident” because our fore fathers did not mean “all men,” but only white men, and don’t even get me started on women’s roles.  They are able to argue why “The Declaration of Independence” wasn’t written for the men who broke the land for their “equality” or for the men who fought beside those that wouldn’t call them “equal” in everyday life for at least one-hundred and two years when the “Civil Rights Act” was passed in 1964.

I want to issue an invitation for you to come to my classroom and have this discussion with those students who bled their way through To Kill a Mockingbird and American history to earn their credits in the history of racism and brutality.  Please keep in mind that I am only an English teacher and so not certified to teach them true history.  After having spent some time in a classroom, perhaps then you would feel differently about our education system and teachers too.


“Lincoln was always scribbling notes and putting them into his hat.” – Maira Kalman

Maira Kalman – And the Pursuit of Happiness

* I can’t say the grammar in this is at its finest.  I am exhausted.  I had to let out some word beauty though, my sweet outlet.

It’s an election year. It’s a love letter to democracy (democrazy).  It’s a story about men and their hats, or the tallness that sits upon their heads.  It makes me feel dumb because I can’t speak 9 languages and don’t collect paintings, or keep charts about my farm.  I don’t even have a farm or a garden.  I can barely rake the leaves in my backyard and remember to feed the birds.

Maira Kalman’s And the Pursuit of Happiness is a graphic novel about the history of the US.  What men were important and what is more important than their wars and the parchment they signed in their thick oak chairs?   It is a love letter to freedom, liberty, constitutional declarations.  A sweet swirly handwriting, a drawing of Abraham Lincoln that isn’t a stick figure with a large hat and hair combed-over.  It’s a history class in a graphic novel.   I wish I could teach her in my classroom, let my students see that people wish they could sleep in history, rather than sleep through it.  Go back and sit in balconies, invent electricity, write love letters to their wives over gunshots and tent flaps.

Maira Kalman isn’t a historian, but she’s an American and at some point we all become tiny historians on our tiny piece of the world.  I am the historian of my mother’s spoon and bowl upbringing of my brother, my father’s bald spot, the short history of my cats as they scale curtains and scratch furniture.  I am the historian of this bedroom covered in flowers and robins egg blue.  The teacher, the historian of my classroom with its sit down, stand up rules, its copies of worksheets that kill forests, and the smart board that will forever be my mortal enemy.

Maira Kalman – And the Pursuit of Happiness

Think about it.  We’re all historians.  Our tweets will build history books for our children’s children.  People will ask what the War in Iraq was like and we will tell them dusty, too many bombs, too many lost limbs and young men left broken.  Too many things no one told us before this started.   What was 9/11 like? Terrifying.  What was that town like that you lived in when you were small, the neighborhood pool, the fence built by hand up the alley of the main street.  You are the historian, you are the story teller, you are the voice for this bit part.  

Maira Kalman – And the Pursuit of Happiness

“I would confess to him that I would love to live in the Lincoln Memorial.  Just a simple cot in the center of the space.  I would make my bed and sweep.  Drink tea.  My neatness and happy aspect would amuse him. In the evening I would embroider his words onto fabric.  Words that seem so apt today” (90). I would confess to Ben Franklin that I would love to own a pair of bifocals to make me look smarter in snob coffee houses, when I snap my fingers to the stanzas.  I would wear loafers, penny loafers, and float in on pear perfume and fancy.

I think this book reminded me how much I love the superstars of history and literature.  Aren’t we all obsessed with some bearded man, someone who sweat over notes of declarations, or two scores, or the figures for electricity?

I have a special place in my heart for George Washington and his wooden teeth.  In middle school, I was picked on for my buck teeth, my fingernail gap.  I look at people’s teeth when they smile in the street, as they shake my hand.  I prayed for braces into my pillow and then I grew up and my teeth got coffee stains and floss.  There’s something special about a man who just filled his teeth with ivory (or wood)  and went on conquering.

I also adore John Adams.  I’ve read the letters between his wife and him.  Their romance was one for the storybooks, literally.  When I picture widows standing guard on the railings of Antellbellum homes, I think of Abigal Adams.  Abigal must be a close relative to Alice with their names being so similar, and their dresses frilled with petticoat lace.

Maira Kalman – And the Pursuit of Happiness

“After the 1850’s, thanks in part to Franklin’s influence, America became the land of ingenuity.  Here, in 1898, is Nikola Tesla, who talked to pigeons and worked with electricity, while calmly reading a book. I wish I knew what he was reading” (237).

I’m such an angry feminist.  Sometimes I forget all the gifts that men gave our culture when they weren’t busy being barbarians.  I didn’t know who Nikola Tesla was before this book, but I do love a man who talks to the birds.  Then, there’s Thomas Edison who “invented naps” because he was inventing so many things he needed to get into bed every afternoon at approximately 3pm just after a late tea.

Maira Kalman – And the Pursuit of Happiness

“Everything is invented. Language. Childhood.  Careers.  Relationships.  Religion. Philosophy.  The Future.  They are not there for the plucking.  They don’t exist in some natural state.  They must be invented by people.  And that, of course, is a great thing.  Don’t mope in your room.  Go invent something.”

GO. INVENT. SOMETHING.

You have a blog, write it.  You have a voice, sing.  How do you carve a bird with two stones?  How do you wrap an adult hand around the small pinky of a newborn baby?

For that matter, how do you answer a student who tells you on college ruled paper that he didn’t read, and he didn’t understand any of the stories, that he’s lost hope in ever passing your class? You pinky promise.  You invent handshakes and lessons.  You invent hope where there isn’t any and you create this small flame in his eyes.  You rest everything in your life on that one short sentence, a sentence that means hope in every way you say it….a pinky wrapped around the pink middle of another pinky, the inside of a heart, hanging open.


Newsday Tuesday

Favorite Tweets:

Read bottom to top:

Read normally:

Favorite Search Terms:

  • bowel movements in history: if someone hasn’t written this book, they should.  I will review it with honor.
  • ihop receipt: I just thought that this was interesting.  I must know the story of this googling.  If you are out there anonymous googler, please email.  Yes, this has become a want-ad.
  • disney princess epiphanies: I have this all the time, then I sing, “Ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah” like golden rays are coming out of my hair and I’ve become little mermaid, minus the fin.
  • feminist background: Is anyone really born a feminist or do they become one after many years of silent rage?
  • a re-imagined Florida in which the citizens of the state are born with magic talents: Listen, I lived in Boca until I was five and the only magic talent Florida needs is better driving schools.  My faj flew over a grassy median once and said, “it’s okay, we’re in Florida, they all do that.”
  • spark notes Claire Keegan Foster: Shame on you.  I’m guffawing.

Book News:


Forth A Raven

Raven

I should start by saying that I’ve never cried over a poem.  Being the sentimental loaf of bread that I am, you’d think this would have happened by now, however, it took Christina Davis’ “The Raven’s Book” to get me there.  I was reading aloud her entire poetry collection mostly because I love the way the words sound in my mouth, but also because it was recommended to me by a friend.  I was fine until I reached, “The Raven’s Book” and then my affinity for birds kicked in, and somewhere hidden beneath my rib cage, just below my heart a lump started growing.  It traveled the usual path as my eyes got watery; up through the sternum and then into the throat.  It never reached my mouth, but my voice started to quake and stutter and all of a sudden I was a small storm in the middle of my bedroom.

The poem starts with,

“Are you still there?  I didn’t know

there could be this much room.  Such a short word, No,

but how long they’ve been saying it.”

Maybe that doesn’t break you as soon as you read it, but I was lumping.  First off, it’s incredibly hard to use a question mark in a poem without coming off as an exclamation point user.  What I mean by that is the writing judges and lawyers have come down with the rule that people should only get five exclamation points in their writing, in a lifetime, especially in dialogue.   A period usually does justice to whatever you want to say if you’re writing is powerful enough to do tone without the help of marks.

In the IV section of the “A Raven’s Book” she says,

“Then I waited and continued to wait and made a mess

of your things

to be among them.”

Just that phrase, puts death into reality.  Not that death isn’t lurking between those small dark cracks of your closet door in the night, but we don’t often smell death, or mess among his new found treasures.  When Didion wrote, The Year of Magical Thinking, she talks about being unable to throw away her husbands shoes (because if he came back he would need them).  When my father used to leave for work before I was awake – I would go into his bedroom and slip his tweed suit jackets over my shoulders.  The silk on the inside was smooth against my bare skin and each smelled like his cigarettes.  There’s a picture of me cloaked beneath the jacket – my body being lost in his – with a dead cigarette in my mouth.  I must have removed it from the ash tray and slung a tie around my neck as well.  Someone thought it was funny and snapped a photo for me to look at now.  Now, with my English degree I can say, I was just using miss as a verb.

Christina Davis

I think this is the power of Christina Davis’ poetry.  I’m sad to realize that I haven’t known her for years.  That this pixie elf of a woman hasn’t written more than just this book.  The last sentiment of mine is kind of funny because I believe people should have at maximum three poetry books inside of themselves and that pages shouldn’t be wasted just because you want to get to eighty right now instead of writing more powerful poems and publishing later.  Davis’ clearly hasn’t done that.   She’s worked in the Poet’s House of NYC and was the curator of the Woodberry Poetry Room for a while.  She’s even more than a big deal.  Studying at Oxford and then receiving residencies at Yaddo and MacDowell Colony, I’d say she’s poetry in her blood at this point.

I know a lot of you probably don’t read poetry recreationally.  Sometimes it’s because poetry has this rumor going around that it’s “too hard to understand” or it’s “high-brow.”  Personally, I think poetry came up with that one all on its own – poetry in his hipster glasses and jackets with elbow pads.  You’d never see him caught dead in white sneakers, or keds.  Poetry wants desperately to be a man of the people, and yet he wants also to drink champagne on a balcony somewhere with people who have wine cellars instead of people who have fall out shelters.  (I’m assuming here that people with fall out shelters read poetry.  That means Kansas should be the number one poetry state, but instead at the moment, it’s probably Iowa or Seattle).  And for anyone who still feels this way about poetry after reading Christina Davis’ collection Forth A Raven then I will do something fantastic (at the moment I can’t think of anything creative).  Her lines are fluid, and easy to understand the idea of what she’s getting at even if you don’t understand the exact imagery.  Plus, sometimes poetry just needs to be spoken instead of read and then it all becomes clear.

If you didn’t know by now, I like stories that hurt.  I like to be broken, bent over and sobbing, when I finish a piece of writing.  It isn’t always a literal sob, but I like to be angry for a whole day.  One of my favorite books of all time, God-Shaped Hole, left me throwing things around a basement that wasn’t even mine.  I think that this collection could stand on it’s own as the last words people read before an alien attack.  I think I would be proud if the apocalypse came and people learned about us through the words of Christina Davis.  I’m not giddy over this, and I won’t exclaim my love for these words like I would a piece of fiction because I’m still reeling, and honestly, I’m still trying to figure out her style so that I can use it with my own voice.  (Thus why I haven’t finished another book in a few days).  There are writers out there who you quit writing for because you know they’ve already said everything that you wanted to say, and then there are writers at which you just bow down and thank every bucket of sorrow that you have.

Now that I’ve successfully babbled on about Christina Davis, alien encounters, and the world of poetry at large, here are a few poems, and lines that I loved.

Here is one of the best end lines in the history of poetry:

The Primer - Christina Davis


Also here, you can hear her read her poem, “An Advertisement for the Mountain.


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