Still Wasting Time

Two years ago, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I challenged myself to return to reading for pleasure. It is so easy to make excuses not to do something. From work to family, there are so many obligations pulling me in so many directions, it would be understandable to people if I claimed there was simply no time to dedicate to one of the most enjoyable pastimes.

Now, I carry whatever I'm reading, the hard copy or my Kindle, with me wherever I go. Ten minutes to kill before picking up my daughter and nephews at school? I squeeze in a chapter. Find myself aimlessly searching for something to watch on TV, or staring vacuously at my computer screen? I shut the TV off or close my screen and read.

It is hands down the best resolution I've ever made.

For this year, rather than rehash how I've increased my book tally, I've decided to list the best of 2015 adventures. For all my 2015 reviews, click here.

My Top 5
I've provided my initial write-up of the book after I read it. In red are additional comments of mine as I write this.

5. The Pearl that Broke Its Shell Nadia Hashimi
At first the book was a bit slow, but as it picked up, I got more into the story and the characters. It was interesting to learn about the custom of bacha posh--the practice of passing a young daughter off as a son--and to think that puberty is the cut-off line for when a girl is seen as useful to her family. I liked the parallel narrative of Rahima and Shekiba, but felt the ending for both was rushed. I have not issue with open-ended conclusions, but how the author got there was abrupt. The book lends itself to great discussions of gender identity and freedom in one's own skin. 4.5/5 In looking at my ratings, I was initially surprised that this book scored as high as it did. But then, I reread my review and thought back on the book and remembered that this book was pretty solid. This was a good lesson for me because without my ratings and reviews, The Pearl may have slipped through the cracks. 

4. Missoula: Rape and the Justice System in a College Town by Jon Krakauer
As I read this book, I kept adding to my list of people who should read it. At first I was thinking parents of young women about to enter college, then I was thinking the young women themselves and now I realize everyone is a stake holder in rape culture, from the those who may be victimized to those who might be perpetrators, from law enforcement to educators, from coaches to athletes and every possible combination in between. I was not surprised by the treatment victims received, even when perpetrators confessed to the crime. While so much of the book enraged me, there were important facts about how victims of sexual assaults behave after the fact and about the probability of rapists to rape again that should one ever find him/herself in the presence of a rape victim--either as a friend or a jury member--they'll have a better understanding of the larger issue and hopefully more compassion than judgement. While the book focuses on one town, rape culture is an issue nationwide and an important topic for everyone to educate themselves about. 5/5 I have not stopped recommending this book to anyone who will listen. Really. Read it. 

3. The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown
I do not think I've read a more compelling nonfiction book. Rowing is not something that particularly appeals to me, though I now have a greater understanding and appreciation for the sport having read this book. Yet, the author was able to make me care about rowing because I cared about the men in the boat. Also interesting was the history behind the 1936 Olympics and the extensive propaganda carried out to keep the world from discovering Germany's true intentions. I loved it. 5/5 I bought this for my dad for Christmas. I'm really hoping he likes it as much as I did. I think he'll appreciate the work ethic and dedication of these young men as my dad has an insane work ethic as well. 

2. All the Light we Cannot See by Antony Doerr
This was my favorite read of 2015 so far. Doerr brings each character in the book to life with very little effort. I was rooting for Marie-Laure and Werner throughout the entire novel. The relationships in the novel, father-daughter, sister-brother, uncle-niece, and everything in between were authentic and sincere. I loved how Doerr showed us who each of these characters was through his/her relationships with others. The structure of the novel was great too in that each chapter was extremely short, and left me wanting to know more about that character. However, to get to the next step, I had to read another, equally compelling, piece of another character's plot line. Lastly, I loved that there were so many perspectives of the war introduced--the occupied, the German soldier, the opportunistic jeweler, the innocent children of both Germany and France, the rebels, the weak and selfish, the brave. I loved it.  5/5 I love the conversations I've been able to have since starting this challenge two years ago. From colleagues to family to strangers, you're never at a loss for something to talk about when you read. Case in point, I struck up a conversation with a woman in BJs about this book after I finished it. She was hesitant to get it. Her daughter recommended it, but she wasn't sure. After we talked, she said she was excited to read it. Mission accomplished. 

1. The Nightingale by Kristen Hannah
I did not expect to like this book as much as I did. I have read other books by Kristin Hannah, and while I liked them, one might categorize them as "chick lit"--which is well and good for a fun, quick read. But when you're reading a book about WWII, chick lit isn't going to have the gravitas one would expect. I'm glad I got over myself and read this despite my preconceived notion of what it would be like. Though the book was a little slow in the beginning, it wound up being a wonderful read. I loved Isabelle's fierce spirit, Vianne's reluctant courage and the way the sisters come to understand their father through "their" war. There are some predictable moments, but many poignant ones as well. Overall, the book offers flawed (as in personality, not writing) but admirable characters as well as numerous lessons on how little time we have to tell those we love how much we do and how important it is to do something that matters. 5/5 I'm pretty sure this will be on the required reading list for my Heroine's Journey class next year. The more I think about the book and remember reading it, the more excited I am to share it with more people. 

Honorable Mention:
Written in my Own Heart's Blood by Diana Gabaldon

My husband and I dressed as Jamie and Claire
from the Outlander series on Halloween.

OK, so this Honorable Mention gives me a chance to talk about my new book obsession. But, isn't that something that deserves to be noted? I mean, this series got me talking about something more than Harry Potter, and I think my mom is glad that I've moved on from dressing as a teenage boy wizard for Halloween...


But really, it was gripping, well-written, and a nice ending for characters I came to really care about. However, I have heard a rumor she is currently working on the ninth book.

Looking for a new book obsession? The Outlander series is it.

Steel yourself for disappointment in adaptation of The Book Thief

Book adaptations are always a risky venture. More risky is adapting a renowned book. Brian Percival (Downton Abbey) makes the attempt with Markus Zusak's The Book Thief in his 2014 release of the movie by the same title.

The novel, and by extension, the movie, takes us to Molching, Germany 1939. A young girl is being transported to Hans (Geoffrey Rush) and Rosa (Emily Watson) Hubermann's home--an aging couple who has agreed to foster Liesel Meminger (Sophie Nelisse) and her brother Werner, who dies on the train ride there. While living with the Hubermman's, Liesel must allow herself to get close to others again while slowly gaining understanding of her parents' disappearance, the punishing Nazi Party, and anti-Semitism that surrounds her. As the war continues and tensions rise in Molching, Liesel forges new relationships with her foster parents, a Jewish fist fighter who hides in their basement, and a boy with lemon hair who dies longing for one kiss from Liesel. Each of these relationships is fostered through books, reading, and words.

There are striking moments in the film, most notably the juxtaposition of horror and innocence during the Night of Broken Glass scene. The children's choir sings the Nazi anthem as Jewish shop owners are tossed out of their businesses, and as men and women are clubbed in the street after being ripped from their homes. Also striking is a book burning ceremony, where the mayor's rhetoric reminds the Molching citizens that filth needs to be burned. At the conclusion of the speech, books are burned, the anthem is sung, salutes are given, and the camera pans in on a woman with tears in her eyes--whether of blind obedience or fear is up to the viewer.

Admittedly, there are some difficulties presented to Percival with this book adaptation, the largest obstacle being the book's narrator Death (Roger Allam). How does one aptly translate the narration of this entity, maintaining the sardonic and astute observations of Death without being a distraction to the viewer? Apparently, one does not. Death's narration appears a handful of times--so infrequently that when his observations are piped through the stereo, the viewer has to remind herself who the speaker is.

Even allowing for the difficulty of Death's presence, the movie is underwhelming in its lack of character development, the most endearing and poignant piece of Zusak's novel. Rudy (Nico Liersch), Liesel's best friend and neighbor in Molching, is adorable and endearing in the film; however, his character never goes beyond the love sick puppy missing his dad who is off fighting the war. The outrage over Hitler's murdering prejudice that leads to Rudy's rebellions in the book--standing up to power hungry Hitler Youth members or handing out bread to starving Jews who are marching to Dachau--are not truly addressed, leaving the viewer with no sense of Death's love for the boy Liesel never kisses. He's a secondary character, not one who plays a crucial role as he does in the book.

Similarly, Max (Ben Schnetzer), the Jewish fistfighter, is reduced to a background story, not the crux of Liesel's development and understanding of basic humanity. Liesel arrives to the Hubermanns only knowing what she's been taught to believe by adults and her teachers at the Hitler Youth classes. When this man arrives at the door, nearly dead from hiding and traveling, movie Liesel is curious and eager to get to know the stranger; her earnestness is in contrast to book Liesel, who is nervous, tentative and slightly distrustful of this man she knows is putting her, and her new family, in danger. It is not until Max extends a gift of friendship, a book he writes for her, that their friendship is solidified. In the film's version, Max wakes up and they're friends. There is no bonding over nightmares and the shared guilt that each of them feel having survived while their family members have not--or at least will likely not--come back from wherever they are.

The one shining aspect of the entire film is Rush's performance as Hans Hubermann. He is humble, gentle, funny and exceedingly kind and believable as Hans. From the first time he meets Liesel, nervous and paralyzed in the back of a car, we know this man, her new Papa, will protect her. It is also one of the relationships the film tries to get right. There are certainly elements of bonding from the novel that are not included in the film, but enough of their time together, her reading lessons at night, basement writing lessons, and the comforting sound of the accordion, showcase the loving bond between Liesel and her Papa.

While the viewer should always enter into a movie adaptation with the understanding that the book and the movie are two separate entities, there are important elements that should be included in order to uphold the original sentiment. For viewers who did not read the novel first, the movie comes off as lighter and more superficial than the novel. There is loss, sadness and horror in both the film and the movie, but what the novel is able to do that the movie cannot is display both the vile capabilities of human beings and the the resiliency of the human spirit: the power and the glory of words, and their ability to save lives.

Some more ruminations on reading

Being critical of books isn't a bad thing. I always find it funny when students apologize to me for not liking a novel we've read in class. My stock response is always, "Why are you apologizing to me? I didn't write it."

This is me when I hear any Miley Cyrus song on the radio.

I understand that not all books will resonate with all students. Even novels that overwhelmingly receive rave reviews from students, like Markus Zusak's I am the Messenger, leave some students unimpressed or uninspired. The inability to get 100% of students to like a book does not make me feel like a failure as a teacher, nor does it make a book a bad book.

Just like with any other piece of art, music, or film, everyone's tastes differ. My preference for country music does not demand that others listen to it any more than I should be subjected to Miley Cyrus. (Just. No.)

However, I have learned, not only through the course of finding my way back to reading for enjoyment, but also through being an English major, that books, like many new things in life that are presented to us, deserve a sincere attempt.

Don't be jealous of my amazing HP costume.

If I stuck to my narrow-minded view of fantasy back in the spring of 2001, when I was a junior in college who believed her roommate was a wacko talking about wizards and muggles, I would have missed out on a literary world of wonder. Similarly, to have dismissed the Harry Potter series simply because it was Children's or Young Adult--a term that thankfully has lost much of the negative connotation it once held through other wonderful writers like John Green-- would have stripped me of the ability to find comfort and escape in re-reading the magic of words when I was going through a hard period of my life.

Not every book I've given a sincere attempt at has worked out so nicely, however. To this day, The Time Traveler's Wife, a book the boasts 4.5 stars out of 5 on Barnes & Noble, has a bookmark stuck in the pages about a third of the way through. It was the first book in my life I've given myself permission to "Miley Cyrus" (I'm making it a verb now) and just say no to. There was nothing in either of the characters I cared about, so I figured, why keep reading?

It is important to note here that I was reading Time Traveler's for my own enjoyment, and not for a class. There have been plenty of school-assigned titles I wasn't pumped about reading: Tartuffe comes to mind. Pure torture. But for every Tartuffe the was a Magus. John Fowles's postmodern head game that is The Magus was an intense read because I could not lose focus for a second. It was to me what A Tale of Two Cities is to my freshmen. Complex, layered, and hard work--but worth every second of that work.

I walked away from The Magus experience with a much deeper understanding of the individual and was able to connect that lesson of self-knowledge to the self I was in the midst of defining as I neared the end of my college tenure; however, I would not have been able to get that depth of understanding had I read The Magus on my own. I'd have been in way over my head without the discussions with my peers and the probing questions of my professor.  

In the same vein, I hope students walk away from A Tale of Two Cities appreciating the power of stepping up, doing what is right, and choosing love over hate, even if they kicked and screamed the whole way through, because I was able to guide, to explain, to clarify, and, hopefully to infuse some of my own passion for the characters in them. Again, I'm not delusional that all will feel that way, but end-of-the-year surveys tend to play out OK for 'ole Dickens.

While there needs to be room for contemporary titles where the language might be easier to understand, but the lessons and issues are no less complex, hard work and thinking are not fatal, especially in the classroom where there is a coach to help guide students along.  I strive to strike a balance between classic and contemporary in the classroom. However, students can do themselves a favor by picking up a book outside of class, one aligned with their interests and tastes, to keep their minds sharp and primed to tackle the more difficult texts that will be presented in the classroom. 

As with any skill one hopes to develop, practice makes perfect. The brain is a muscle in constant need of conditioning. However mundane the drills may seem, a student can't hope to master the curve if (s)he never takes some practice swings.

Time Well Wasted*

If you’ve looked at the “What I’m Reading” section of this blog, you’ve noticed that last year I challenged myself to read one non-school related book a month for 2014. At the conclusion of 2014, I was quite pleased to find that meeting the 12-book challenge was easier than I anticipated, so much so that I’ve upped the ante this year and set my goal at 20 books for the year.

Over the next few blogs, I’m going to be talking about things I learned, or relearned, through the course of getting back into reading for enjoyment, rather than reading as a chore or a checklist I have to get through for work.

One truth is that making time for reading is not hard.

When I first started the challenge, I knew my children would not be the most helpful in allowing me to meet my goal. They’re young, like a great deal of attention, and when they’re not given it, find other ways of entertaining themselves which typically end in the dismantling of one or more rooms in the house.

The other obstacle was the fact that I already read quite extensively for my job. Between books for each of my classes (yes, I re-read all books, every year!) and the writing assignments students complete, I’m reading constantly. How was I going to find not only the time but also the energy to add to my daily reading?

I started by setting a goal: I’d dedicate the half hour before going to sleep to reading. By that point, the kids would be in bed, and any work I‘d have to get done for the following day would be completed. Once I established the routine, I figured it’d be easy to stick to.

The problem was that I started off reading books that would not stand for a 30-minutes-a-night limitation. The first book of 2014 was Jennifer Donnelly’s Tea Rose. To say that I couldn’t put it down would be an understatement. I’d go so far as to say I nearly neglected my children for the book. I say nearly because their basic needs were all taken care of throughout the course of my reading the novel. They may have watched more episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse during that period of time, though. 

I found that if the book were good enough, I’d find the time to read. If I arrived somewhere early or was sitting in the doctor’s office waiting for an appointment, I’d have my Kindle, or my phone with the Kindle app, that allowed me to squeeze in a few pages or chapters during down time.

The more time I spent with Donnelly’s characters, the less I cared about other “stuff” I was missing: the latest episode of The Big Bang Theory or Modern Family, and the time wasted scrolling through my timeline on Facebook or pinning baking feats on Pinterest that 90% of the time end in complete failure.

I crack up every time I look at this.

The unexpected lesson in making time for something I always enjoyed, and had allowed to get away from me?  I was actually more present in other areas of my life.  I disconnected from being connected to everything, deleting time-sucking apps from my phone that I learned I didn’t miss while spending time reading—so why would I miss them while hanging out in the backyard with my family, or out to dinner with my friends?

Reading seems, on the surface, to be an isolating activity. But when I think of the conversations I’ve had throughout the course of the year with relatives and friends about the books I’ve read or when I think of the excerpts that connect to lessons I’ll teach to, and discuss with, my students, I realize just how shallow that judgment is.

Finding time to read has allowed me to assess and prioritize how and where I spend my precious time. As I enter into another year and a new reading challenge, I am much more content replacing vacuous status updates with a tea entrepreneur, a Scottish Highlander and his time traveling wife, and a blind young woman as she tries to survive occupied France during WWII.

That’s some time well wasted.

*To borrow a phrase from Brad Paisley 

Realizing my Dream

The last dream of my soul is in the process of coming true. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to emulate my mother. The balance of encouragement and tough love, the freedom to figure things out for myself, as well as the knowledge that I'd have support if I fell, allowed me to figure things out for myself. She would guide, but not control.

In serendipitous fashion, I purchased Garth Brooks's new CD this week, as I've been figuring out how to present what the last dream of my soul is. There is one song on this album that speaks so beautifully to what my mom provided me, and what I ultimately want to provide my children: freedom to grow, to learn, to mess up, to try again--in short, to navigate the world with confidence built upon accomplishments of their own doing.

The song, "Send 'em on Down the Road" is my parenting credo. In the chorus, Brooks sings, "you can help them find their wings/But you can't fly for 'em/'Cause if they're not free to fall/Then they're not free at all"(Beeson/Shamblin).

I find that my parenting philosophy is closely connected to my teaching one; it is quite likely that my time in the classroom has only bolstered my resolve that my children need to be given the freedom to not get it right the first time so they can experience the satisfaction of perseverance, and the independence of completing the task before them even though they struggled.

Also serendipitous is that through reading all of your "Last Dream" essays, I'm finding myself commenting that the first step of achieving your dream is to set the intention--in the words of William Arthur Ward, "if you can imagine it, you can achieve it; if you can dream it, you can become it." Thus, I want to share with you an essay I wrote in high school--the beginning of the last dream of my soul, that I find coming true step-by-step, and that will hopefully continue to unfold in the manner I have planned.

Works Cited:

Beeson, Marc, Shamblin, Allen. "Send 'em on Down the Road." Man Against 
          Machine. Perf. Garth Brooks. RCA, 2014. CD. 

***

The Woman I want to Be

One of my favorite places:
Ham-Smith at UNH

The sun warms thoughts of jubilation as I rise for the finale of my four years as a UNH Wildcat.  Semblances of relief, pride and accomplishment scurry in synchronization through my mind.  As I ascend another rung in the ladder of my years, I recall the prominent female figure in my life who has shared her wisdom and learned from her mistakes; she has inculcated me to follow.  Through me she will forever endure.

As my life’s path guides me to my occupation, the countenance of my mother is embedded in my mind’s eye; pride and encouragement are evinced on her face.  This encouragement allows me to imagine the myriad of students I will one day inspire.  The determination she has instilled in me will reap its rewards with my promotion to department head of the English Department and the renowned debut novel I will one day compose.

My husband and I on our wedding day.

Upon savoring the sweet taste of success, I am propelled into marital bliss.  I portray my mother in my new role as wife.  I have received her wit and good humor; both of which endear my love to my whimsical stories.  My husband’s strong arms embrace me as we talk by the fire of all that occupies our thoughts.  To him I show passion in my beliefs and my inner clarity, as did my mother to my father.  Like my mother I am confident in who I am, and will not sacrifice my individuality. 

With my kids at the Halloween Parade

I will convey this same cardinal confidence in my children.  No being will ever tell my children what they can and cannot do.  Their inner clarity allows them to one day navigate their own destinies, as my mother urged me to do.

My mom and me at my friend's wedding.

As the organist begins to play "The Wedding March", new feelings of relief, pride and accomplishment scurry in synchronization through my mind.  My daughter is being escorted down the aisle on her father’s arm, while tears of descend from my eyes.  I taught her everything a woman should be.  I am assured she is my greatest accomplishment.  I have passed onto her all the wisdom of my mother, the woman I want to be.

She'll be there

I come from a large extended family, both on my father’s and my mother’s sides. While many people dread spending time with relatives, especially large groups of them in smaller than ideal spaces, I relish it. 

My appreciation for my extended family could stem from the fact that I grew up with my grandparents and the majority of my aunts, uncles and cousins close by, as close as next door or a few streets away. Adding to the close proximity of my family is the fact they are awesome people. 

While every family has to negotiate the delicate which-side-of-the-family-will-we-celebrate-with-this-year issue, over the last few decades Thanksgiving has traditionally been celebrated with my maternal family. Even if not everyone in the extended family arrived for 1:00 lunch, they would trickle into my parents’ house after their lunch or early dinners celebrated with the other side of their families, for Haley Thanksgiving.

Card games were played, karaoke songs belted out, sometimes in tune, often not, and inevitably, my dad would invent some new word as he loudly expressed his opinions on politics, religion or pop culture. Some of my favorites: when he was talking about that “Harvey Bolito” song you hear at church—known to everyone else as “Ave Maria”—or when he proclaimed the automation in Lion King to be incredible. We even started Bob’s Thesaurus to keep track of his malapropisms.

As the years passed, adopted members of the family would join us. My brother’s friends and mine would come join in the festivities, and then some cousins’ friends began to follow suit. One of my favorite “adopted Haley” moments was when my cousin Tommy’s friend Dave brought his guitar. We stood around him joining in the chorus of Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction,” which then lead to more sing-alongs. A family favorite? Feliz Navidad. It was such a favorite, that if we got together at different times in the year, we would still sing it loud, even in the dead of the summer.

Ma's apple tree, with Tommy back on top.

But at the core of it all was my grandmother, Ma. She was the center to which we were all pulled. We all wanted to be the apple of Ma’s eye—and the top of her Grandmother apple tree. There is a running joke about the favorite grandchild in our family. Ma had a wooden plaque with the painting of an apple tree. Each apple had a grandchild’s name. As we were born, we were placed on the apple tree, with eldest grandchild's apple, my cousin Tommy,  proudly hanging at the top.

Tommy’s participation in a semester abroad in England coincided with my Ma re-wallpapering her dining room. To match the new wallpaper, my mother took the tree home, repainted it, and repainted the grandchildren by family rather than birth-order. Tommy returned to the States to find he had been demoted from top apple. We began competing, trying to give the best gifts or succumbing to brown-nosing in general for the chance to be top apple. Tommy went so far as to write her a song one Christmas which was performed that Christmas Eve, and many Christmases, Thanksgivings, Mother’s Days, and random family gatherings after the fact.

Ma, our matriarch

The last time we all sang the Ma Song was in February at her funeral collation.

This will be our first Thanksgiving without Ma. It’s just starting to hit me that she won’t be sitting in my parents’ kitchen when I walk over after I have my Thanksgiving lunch with my in-laws. Her peanut butter cups and apple pie will not be sitting on the counter, waiting for us to attack. The low hum that she used to unknowingly emit will not fill the gaps in conversation.

She won’t be sitting there, but she’ll be there. She’ll be in the stories we’ll tell and the memories we’ll share. She’ll be there in the recipes cooked—they won’t be Ma’s peanut butter cups or apple pie, but someone will have stepped up to fill the space on the counter with her confectionary goodness. She’ll be there in the pieces of herself she’s handed down to each of us.

For me, she’ll be there in my love of the written word and Emerald Isle, the slope of my nose and the blue of my eyes, the laughter, the love, and the joy of being with family.

***

Below: Tommy performing the Ma Song. I apologize in advance for my cousin Dan's tone deaf singing and the not-with-the-beat clapping half way through. ; )

Springsteen

One of Eric Church’s most known songs is the track, “Springsteen”. Off of his Chief album, “Springsteen” hit number one on the country charts in 2011. When I saw him in concert two weeks ago, he closed with this song, pausing to discuss the power of a melody to invoke memories of moments in time. I have many of these memories.

Whenever I hear TLC’s “Waterfalls,” I’m on the bow of my father’s boat, skin warm from the summer sun, dancing with my best friends—the girls who are still my best friends and the Godmothers to my children. It’s instantly sunny and clear, and I think I have “swag” as I belt out Left-Eye’s rap solo toward the end of the song.

I’m transported to the O’Donnell Auditorium, at old Woburn High, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving whenever The Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” comes on the radio. The first annual lip sync began that November in 1997, complete with acts by The Rolling Stones, Pearl Jam, Puff Daddy—before he was P Diddy, or Diddy—as well as my friends and I telling everyone what we want, what we really, really, want. 

The opening riff—da da dA da da da, da da dA da da da— of “Send Me On My Way” by Rusted Root places me firmly on the patio of Jessie Doe at UNH in May. We’ve traded our fleece jackets for light hoodies, windows are once again open to allow for some relief from the stuffy dorm atmosphere, and the year is drawing to a close. No matter where I go on campus, the yodeling of “Send Me On My Way” provides a soundtrack for my walk.

And naturally, when Tracy Byrd begins singing, “it was no accident, me finding you…” I’m on the dance floor of the Hillview Country Club, spinning into the arms of my husband as we celebrate our first dance as husband and wife.

The list of pivotal moments and of relationships celebrated and cherished through the memory of melody is extensive, but most recently, Eric Church has made his way into my life’s soundtrack with “Springsteen.” It isn’t because his song speaks of music memory that makes it important, though. Plenty of other songs have had similar messages, one of my favorites being Kenny Chesney’s “I Go Back.”

No. It isn’t the sentiment of the song that makes it stand out.

When I hear the low “whoa, whoa, whoooawhoa, whoa, whoa, whoooawhoa” chant half way through “Springsteen”, I’ll see my three-year-old blond-haired, blue-eyed boy, bobbing his head to the words, his little mouth shaping out the sounds while a smile twitches in the corner of his lips, shoulders alternating—up and down—dancing to the music.

To me, the “whoa whoa” song, as he calls it, will always be his song. Whenever I hear it, he will always be three. In that moment, music is melody and memory magic.

Writing on the Run

A photo of my daybook.
I was working on a poem on these pages.

I’m not a runner.  On occasion, I’ve been bold enough to tell myself that this time it will be different.  If I just stick it out, I’ll be able to run a distance without getting winded, without feeling like my heart is trying to fold itself up like a pair of freshly laundered socks.  

The only time I’m able to break this rule is in my writing notebook.  In here, I’m Usain Bolt.  I’m not running to tone and maintain, or to achieve Olympic gold, rather, I’m running for my life, my writing life.  In my notebook, I’m dodging the censor, and the cursor. 

When I have a blank page in my writer’s notebook, I see possibility.  I see the opportunity to simply write without judgment, mine or anyone else’s. .  Here I’m able to, as Don Murray discusses, write badly to write well.  I do not have the distraction of the blinking cursor, taunting me with each blink, or the audience for whom I’m writing whispering in the back of my head that my last line was awful.

Pictures of the important people in my life help provide me
writing inspiration, but also my support system.

I’ve made my writer’s notebook my safe place.  It is bookended by photos of all the people in my life who care for and support me: my husband, my daughter, my parents, my best friend, my mentor, and my dog.  These people provide me with plenty of writing material, but also are those who allow me the freedom to experiment, mess up, and try again.  This comfort allows me to take risks in my writing that I don’t allow myself to take when I’m staring at the cursor. 

There are fewer distractions for me when I’m writing in my notebook, even if the place where I am actually writing has more than noise and activity than a quiet classroom or office.  There are no red squiggly lines reminding me I’m an awful speller, no green hecklers prompting me to doubt my grammar knowledge.  I’m less judgmental about my writing, so I can just write.

When I journey through my writer’s notebook, reliving the writing I’ve recorded, I feel accomplishment.  In this notebook I have found understanding of another’s writing, felt the pain of watching a grandmother succumb to Alzheimer’s (not my grandmothers, but a grandmother of a character I created) and discovered truths about my family and myself. None of these discoveries would have been possible without the security of my writer’s notebook. 

I guess I am a runner of a different sort.  My sharpie pen is laced up, the open track of my notebook ready for sprints.

Sacredness of the Ordinary

It is smooth to the touch save for a dimple in the middle, silver, and the size of a nickel. In the rare moments she wants to cuddle, my daughter will perch on my lap, pull the necklace close to her, and align her thumb in the pendant’s middle—a cast of her one-year-old thumb.

That cast marks my transition to motherhood and my re-education of things I thought I knew.

The sleep deprivation of those first few weeks, standing in her bedroom, shirt wet from my tears and hers because I could not get the mandrake shrieks of my colicky child to stop, trumps any late night college study session. I also realized that fears I previously thought legitimate pale in comparison to the fear that gripped me as I witnessed a heart wrenching febrile seizure and the nerve-wracking ride to the hospital that followed. 

That first year was not all scary and frustrating lessons, however. There were many moments of joy: seeing not only myself, but my mother and grandmother reflected back in her bright eyes, which shortly after her first birthday changed from blue to hazel; watching her confidence grow as she toddled from the couch to my open arms; and, laughing as her diapered bottom swayed to the “Single Ladies” video.

I also learned to appreciate the fun in every day.  I remember someone asking me how parenthood was and replying that there was not a day since Evelyn was born where I had not laughed. Five years later, that laughter and appreciation for the lighter side of life continues, especially now that she has a newfound love for joke telling--and her knock-knock jokes don’t make any sense.

It is hard to fathom that the little girl whose thumb made this print is now a kindergartner, a little girl who loves to read—to her mother’s joy--a little girl who relishes in making new friends, and a little girl who is not afraid to make her voice heard—usually, but not always, to her mother’s joy.

In the end, the greatest lesson I learned in that first year, and continue to learn in the four years since, is how quickly time moves. This year, she went off to kindergarten, confidently strutting through the doors; tomorrow it will be middle school, and then high school and then college. Like so many mothers, I wish I could freeze time and keep her this age longer, to relish each minute.

Yet, with each passing year, I will have the memory of the first year that changed the way I defined myself—no longer just daughter, sister, wife and friend, but mother, first and foremost—cast in silver, smooth to the touch save for a dimple in the middle.

In fiction as in life, fathers are not cardboard cutouts: my defense of fictional fathers

A common gripe voiced this year about the freshmen curriculum is the less-than-stellar father figures in our literature. While there are some fair points to be made about the questionable nature of our fictional fathers, the statement that they're all bad is quite unfair. As we look toward the end of the week, one that honors our fathers, I thought I'd take a swing at dispelling the myth that all our books focus on awful dads. To be fair, some do. But I challenge you to think a bit more deeply about that broad statement to see if there are more redeeming qualities these dads harbor than you give them credit for.

The least defensible father appears to be Capulet from Romeo & Juliet. At first, it seems like we have a father who is ahead of his time and wishes his daughter every happiness. But by the end of Act 3, he is screaming at his daughter, wishing her to die in the streets because she won't go along with his plan to marry Paris. On this one, I'm with you. This character change has always confounded me. I can only chalk it up to Shakespeare having to move things along and add a plot twist that would make Juliet want to take her life. A bit unsatisfying if you ask me.

Five People You Meet in Heaven also includes a father with less-than-ideal tendencies. Eddie's father is displayed through his alcoholism, his short temper, and his violent outbursts. On the surface, he's not a good man and certainly not admirable. Like Eddie as an adult, his father is insecure about his lot in life. He believes his son thinks he is better than him. When we learn of the true cause of his father's death and the fall-out with Mickey, we see that there is more to this man than a violent, angry person. While his case is not compelling enough to warrant him a "good father", to write him off as purely bad--considering not only that he tried to protect his wife the night Mickey died, but also tried to save Mickey--would be a mistake.

Johnny not a good father? Bite your tongue!
(Smith 328).

Those cracks in the argument that all the fathers in the novels are bad become gradually more distinct in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  On the surface, Johnny is the man. He's good looking, he loves to sing and dance, he's madly in love with his wife, and adores his children. But, he is also weak. Alcohol is his kryptonite. 

Yet, despite his struggles with alcoholism, we see the love his children and wife have for him. They know at his core, Johnny is a good man with a good heart. He takes time to listen to his daughter, to tell her stories--as fantastic as they may be--to teach her to dream, to apply herself, and to appreciate and respect her mother. He is constantly trying to educate his children about life, about nature, about song. He is the dreamer that makes Francie see possibilities beyond Brooklyn and a large part of what enables her to go out and seek success.

A father who shares Johnny's flaw is Ed's dad from I am the Messenger. We never get the chance to meet Ed's dad, but from the way Ed discusses his father--and the way the narrator does at the end of the novel--it is clear that his dad, like Johnny, was a good man with a serious weakness. Yet, it is his dad's weakness that ultimately makes Ed into the man he is by the end of the novel. Without a clear picture of the path he is heading down, despite the love he bore for his father, Ed knows he'd end up just like him: a drunk with wasted opportunities. It takes some prodding by his mom and the man behind the cards for Ed to find his purpose. When he does, it is clear to the reader as well as to Ed that his dad loved him and was loved in turn.

In Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, we have a few father figures we can assess. Henry's dad, much like Eddie's, is set in his ways and shuts Henry out. However, in Henry's father's case, he believes he is doing everything to give Henry the best chance at a successful life. He just doesn't realize that his definition of success is not the same as Henry's. Furthermore, he is abiding by the customs he was raised with, and has a hard time navigating this new world and its culture.

While Henry does not have the best model of a good father, he does an admirable job of trying to bridge the gap between himself and Marty. He remembers what it was like to not have the chance to make his own decisions in life and ensures that Marty will follow his own happiness. In doing so, he's able to find happiness for himself long after he believed it possible.  

Lastly, Keiko's dad is flat out amazing. We only have brief glimpses into the character, but he clearly represents the American ideal of making your life what you want it to be. He passes this belief on to Keiko. He enjoys "American" music, harbors no prejudice against the Chinese, and makes the most of his time in the internment camps. Mr. Okabe is certainly a dad to admire.

Students can see Dr. Manette evolving into a present and caring father.
photos drawn by Hannah McIntosh

While all the previous books have had a mixture of good and bad in each of the fathers, there is no denying that A Tale of Two Cities presents us with a father who is good in every sense of the word. He is a good doctor, a good citizen, a good husband, and, when finally given the chance to be, a good father. He devotes his later life to making Lucie happy--going so far as to not only forgive a wrong he'd never thought he'd be able to, but also to defend the descendant of that wrong because he could see the love between his daughter and Darnay. He knows that people are not black and white and that children should not be held accountable for the sins of their fathers.

In saving the best for last, the hasty generalization that all our fictional fathers as bad is dismantled. Hans Hubermann repeatedly puts himself at risk by standing up for injustice--painting over Jewish slurs, offering bread to a starving Jew as he marches down the street, and harboring a young Jewish man to make good on a promise. Aside from being a human that epitomizes a good man, he is the model for a wonderful father. It is Hans that allows Liesel to grow in every way imaginable. It is Hans who teaches her to read and who shows her that humans have the capacity for evil, but so many more have the capacity, and propensity, for good. He helps her grieve the loss of her family and opens her eyes and heart to love again. It is his strength that allows Liesel to keep moving forward after the bombing of Himmel Street. He is a man among men.

Everyone, real or fictional, wants to believe his or her dad is Superman--and we all do to some extent. As children, we do not believe that our dad has any weaknesses, and we can believe so fiercely in his invincibility because we're kids and do not know of all the stresses, anxieties and vulnerabilities that occupy space in his mind. It isn't until we get older, when we start to see dad as a man separate from the person who kissed skinned knees or drove the monsters from under our beds, that we can see the cracks in his armor. But just because he is human--flawed and imperfect as the word implies--he is no less a wonderful father.

Our real dads deserve accolades for the everyday feats they accomplish without armor, capes or superpowers. We recognize their human qualities and understand they're doing the best they can with the tools they have at their disposal. It is easy to condemn from afar, and much more difficult to strive for understanding--to look at the whole picture and see a person's motivations or limitations--before making our final judgment.  In the words of another great fictional father, Atticus Finch, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it" (Lee). 

Dads, both fictional and real, deserve as much.

Works Cited:

Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1960. Print.

Smith, Betty. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. New York: Harper Perennial, 2001. Print. 

Writing is not easy

Since my last post, I’ve been brainstorming what to write about this week. I keep coming up short. My problem is that there are so many ideas, concerns, lists, and thoughts swirling through my brain right now that it is hard to pick an area on which to focus.

Then I remembered learning about one of Don Murray’s writing tenets (if you don’t know who Don Murray is, you soon will. I’ll talk about him quite a bit in class, and on this blog I’m sure, throughout the year). Whenever you get stuck, just remember: to write, you just have to say one thing.

My one thing I want you to know? Writing is not easy.

Often times people--whether they are students learning to navigate the process of writing, or adults who feel their time to learn the process has come and gone--get hung up on being a “bad” writer because they don’t think they have something to say. I am guilty of this myself. It is one of the reasons I was so hesitant to take on blogging. But then I remember the whole point of this blog is to model writing for my students—the good, bad, fun, difficult, and messy, as well as the feeling of relief and accomplishment that comes along with writing something you didn’t think was going to turn out anywhere near “good enough.” Good enough will depend on your audience and purpose as well as on your own sense of what you feel is acceptable.

For me, the majority of what I’ve written is barely good enough because I am my own worst critic. But I’ve learned that I have to let that critic go so that I don’t get in my way. Saying just one thing becomes pretty difficult when you’re always second-guessing yourself.

Because you may not feel you are measuring up to your own idea of good enough, writing takes dedication. “You need to put your butt in the chair” as Don Murray would say. (Two mentions in one post!)  But it also takes perseverance because even when you find that one thing to say, it often comes out pretty messy and in need of polishing. At this stage you can either give up, claiming you are a “bad” writer, or you can stick with it until you feel that sense of accomplishment and relief I mentioned earlier.

As we enter into the new school year, I am hoping that if you count yourself in the former category, we’ll be able to develop your skills so that you can confidently become the latter. And to those of you who believe writing is easy, great! I can’t wait to watch you challenge yourself to take risks in your writing and push yourselves to the next level.

Get those pencils sharpened and pens poised. We have many pages to fill, and “miles to go before [we] sleep” (Frost line 15).

Works Cited

Frost, Robert. "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." PoemHunter.com. N.p., 17 Jan. 2012. Web. 2 Sept. 2013.

For you, Class of 2018

You're going to get a great deal of advice over the next few weeks. Whenever you tell someone that you're a freshman in high school, inevitably you'll hear the following:

• Enjoy high school. The next four years are going to fly by!
• Even freshman year counts for college, so don't slack off!
• The pool is on the fifth floor. (This is the only piece of advice here that won't be said in an enthusiastic tone, rather with a smirk on the faces of the speaker and his/ her cronies.)

I wish I could say that the advice I'm going to extend were less cliche, or more profound than the above, but I can't. Though you may hear it from many other people, please keep it tucked in whichever mental file you review every now and then: be you.

I had the pleasure of seeing Wicked at the Boston Opera House last year. Though I enjoy The Wizard of Oz, I don't claim to be a super enthusiastic viewer of the movie. I like it, but I don't go crazy when it's on TV. (I save my excitement for the likes of Elf, Steel Magnolias, or any of the Bourne trilogy.)

Anyway, I love musicals, I like The Wizard of Oz, and everyone I've ever met goes crazy over Wicked. It did not disappoint. It wasn't just that there are scenes of boarding school reminiscent of Hogwarts or that the music is fabulous that made me love the show. It was Elphaba, the "wicked" witch, who made me love the show.

She's green, she's a pariah because she's green, and even though it is hard, she embraces her verdigris as well as a teen trying to fit in can. I don't want to write any spoilers, but she stays true to her beliefs even amidst some fierce opposition. As I watched the other characters shun Elphaba, and saw her pick herself up--or try to dance her blues away--I thought of you all and hoped you'd all be your own versions of Elphaba.

Whatever your "oddity" might be--your offbeat ideas, your atypical fashion, or whatever might set you apart--do not bow to others' thoughts about what normal or cool is. By the way, I have some authority on this topic. As a freshman I once busted out the African Anteater Ritual from Can't Buy Me Love at a dance attended by all four grades. (Ask your parents...or YouTube it if you don't know why that might be kind of strange.)

What makes being a high school teacher so much fun is that I get to know each of my students' unique personalities and learn from perspectives I might never have considered. As Miranda Lambert says, "ever since the beginning to keep the world spinning it takes all kinds of kinds..."

For a rich classroom community, the more diverse the better. Conversations go deeper and class always goes by much faster. So don't stifle who you are because it might please others or garner you favor with a certain crowd. You'll find your niche.

Oh, and enjoy. These next four years are going to fly by!