Tuesday, February 08, 2011

Shift by Jennifer Bradbury

Shift by Jennifer Bradbury is about the long friendship of Chris and Win, their cross-country bike trip following high school graduation, Win’s eventual disappearance, and the consequences of his disappearance. Written from the first-person perspective of Chris, Bradbury creates a familiar, likable voice and a gripping story. Because Bradbury only uses Chris’ perspective, the reader finds out information at the same time as Chris and is asked to make connections and conclusions in real-time with the main character.

Bradbury’s opening chapter of Shift sucks the reader right in and does not let them go until the final page. Chris and Win have a love/hate relationship, stemming from two very different home lives and perceptions of the world. Win is the child of wealthy parents who through money and disappointment his way, but little love and support. Chris, however, comes from a supportive lower-middle class family, proud of their son and willing to make sacrifices to see him happy. Many young people experience this struggle to understand where their friends are coming from and how to support them through those differences. The snappy dialogue between all of the characters makes these attempts to understand probable and engaging.

Between the events of the bike trip and the nervousness around the mystery of Win’s disappearance, Bradbury writes a book that will grip adolescent boys. They will have to read all the way to the end to solve the mystery, while enjoying some male bonding and funny stories along the way.

Saturday, February 05, 2011

Weetzie Bat

Weetzie Bat by Francesca Lia Block, published in 1989, is an interesting book about Los Angeles punks. The book covers some serious themes such as sexuality, parental relationships, pregnancy, and blended families. Block writes a whimsical, fast paced novel that takes you off the beaten track into punk LA. Although the writing is entertaining, it is hard to connect with the characters and their lifestyles. But that's me! I am sure there are some kids out there who will identify with this writing style and yearn for the freedoms. Weetzie Bat reads like a modernized, punk version of On the Road.

Prom Leads to Forever?

In the past week, I read Prom by Laurie Halse Anderson and Forever: A Novel by Judy Blume. While aimed at the same general age groups, these two books could not have been more different in tone and attitude, despite their similar outcomes (Click here for summaries of Forever and Prom).

With thirty years between the two novels, Blume and Anderson have created similarly strong female characters in Katherine and Ashley. They are both seniors in high school feeling unsure about the future and having some clashes with the authority figures in their lives. Beyond these similarities, the two characters are very different - suburban vs. urban, upper-middle class vs. working class, college-bound vs. unsure. While Katherine and Ashley certainly have different world views and experiences, it is their thoughts about sexuality and relationships that are particularly interesting.

In Forever, Blume has created enlightened parents and grandparents who speak freely about sex and believe that a sexually educated daughter is the safest form of birth control. Within the household, there is even a private room with lockable door and a fireplace in which Katherine and her boyfriends could find privacy. Katherine's grandmother senses that Katherine is about to begin a sexual relationship so she casually mails Katherine a package full of information about Planned Parenthood and birth control. When Katherine decides she is ready to have sex, she promptly makes an appointment at Planned Parenthood and surprises her boyfriend with her new package of birth control pills. Their new sexual relationship is explicitly described and is evidently quite a positive experience for both of Michael and Katherine.

Anderson, however, deals with sex in a much more indirect way. First, Ashley's parents never seem to acknowledge the sexual relationship between Ashley and T.J.. It is unclear if their daughter's sexuality it just assumed, if they had a conversation when Ashley was younger, or perhaps it doesn't even occur to them to inquire. Nothing is directly addressed within Ashley's family.

When Ashley is speaking about her relationship wtih T.J., it is obvious that the two are sexually involved and have been for some time. The only references to birth control include the pregnancy of Ashley's classmates (and thus their lack of birth control use), and the giant box of condoms Ashley and her friends try to obtain as prom favors. By the discussions had by Ashley and her friends, the distribution of condoms and shot glasses are the best possible gifts for high school seniors. Their sexual activity and drinking habits are known and accepted. The discomfort of the Principal and Mr. Gilroy shows that the teenagers' comfort with their sexuality does not extend to the authority figures.

The two sets of parents in these books appear to have very different perspectives on serious relationships in high school. While Katherine's parents, particularly her father, fear that Katherine and Michael are getting too serious at too young an age, Ashley's parents, particularly her father, encourage her to be patient with T.J. and let him outgrow his late-teen angst. Katherine's parents are concerned that her relationship with Michael will limit her future prospects, while only Ashley's friends appear to have this concern for Ashley and her relationship with T.J. One set of parents encourages dating around while the other seems to support committed relationships, even at the age of eighteen.

Blume's Katherine clearly undergoes a decision process about what sex is (physical or emotional connection), whether or not to have sex with Michael, and then, if her relationship with Michael should continue. All of these things seem to be deeply considered from every possible angle. Ashley, however, does not seem to have the same deep associations with sex, meaning it does not seem to have been such a big decision for her as everyone around her is also doing it. When she finally breaks up with T.J., it is after some consideration about her future, but mostly due to a loss of temper with his antics. Previous to T.J.'s final infraction, Ashley appears to make excuses for their relationship despite knowing that their future would be difficult.

The role of friends in these books is also of interest. Erica encourages Katherine to have sex and to be in a committed relationship. Ashley's friends are not concerned with the sexual aspects of things, but instead that their friend's boyfriend is dragging her down. Never do Katherine's friends worry that her relationship with Michael will prevent her from succeeding - that is the role of her parents. In Prom, Ashley's friends believe that she can do better for herself and should do so before it is too late. The parents do not seem overly concerned one way or another.

Blume and Anderson, writing thirty years apart from each other, have been and are developing into the writers of a generation. While Blume's writing still holds some truths of adolescence, the world she writes about is almost utopian. Anderson captures a very different reality. One of speed, constant noise and information, increasing responsibilities, feigned apathy, and latent desires to achieve something for the greater good. I do wish, however, that some of Blume's consciousness about the responsibility of sexual relationships and the affect of sexual activity on self-image and self respect would permeate Anderson's Prom. In an age of abstinence education and denial combined with a hyper-sexualized society and people, perhaps that is too much to ask of a contemporary writer.

Friday, February 04, 2011

An Autobiography of Reading

As an assignment for my Young Adult Literature course, I was asked to write an autobiography of reading. For those of you who love to read, or even those who do not, it is a really neat exercise. My thoughts are below. When you write yours, do share!

An Autobiography of Reading
For my first three years of life, I was an only child. Life was peaceful and my parents were doting and engaged. Being the child of two people who love to read and learn meant that they took great pleasure in introducing me to stories, music, libraries, and museums. From the beginning, I was taught that reading was not only a special activity, but also something that could be done everyday to enhance my daily experiences.

Some of my earliest memories involve my mother and I sitting on a flowered, 70’s style sofa reading the stories of Thornton Burgess and E.B. White in front of the large windows of our post and beam house. Burgess was a local author from Massachusetts and my mother tells me we frequented the Burgess Museum located in the town in which we lived. In particular from this era, I remember crying with my mother over the death of Charlotte in Charlotte’s Web. Sometimes my mom had trouble continuing to read aloud and we had to take a break to garner strength to go on. I think my mother taught me empathy through her emotional connections with Wilbur, Charlotte, Peter Cottontail, Jimmy Skunk, and many other characters. While these may have been the first times I cried over a book, they were certainly not the last.

At the age of three and a half, I became a big sister. My brother was born very prematurely and was in the hospital for quite some time before he could come home. During this time, my paternal grandparents spent a lot of time with me. Grandpa enjoyed reading me the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. Though the reading of stories did not make me any kinder to my new little brother (I would hit him over the head with my mother’s hair brush when she was not looking), I think reading helped me adjust to the new family dynamics.

According to my mother, we often went to the local library for story hour and regularly checked books out of the library. Along with the books, I frequently listened to musical versions of stories like Cinderella and Snow White on my little record player. My mom says I really loved to read and listen to stories, but I do not have many memories of this. Though they often read to me, my parents did not try to teach me how to read as they were not sure how to do so. They thought my teachers were better prepared for this task.

Jump ahead to the age of seven when I was in first grade and welcoming my second brother. We lived in a small town in Kentucky and I was a student in the class of Mrs. Neuman. It was in Mrs. Neuman’s class that I learned how to read. While I do not remember the process of learning to read, my mother tells me that I picked it up right away and never looked back. By the end of first grade, I was reading chapter books and helping my mom read to my brothers. One particular memory I have from this age is my mother reading E.B. White to my brothers and I, telling us to shut our eyes and imagine what the characters and the settings looked like. She told us the joy of reading was in the freedom to use and develop our imaginations. Given my brothers’ lust for life, these were some of the quieter moments in our household.

At age eight, my family moved again to a town in Massachusetts in the middle of January. I was the new girl in school with buck teeth, glasses and a Kentucky accent. During this adjustment phase, I was reading the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder, L.M. Montgomery, and Margeurite Henry. These books took me away from the snowy, new town to places of wonder, beauty, and intrigue. In springtime, I discovered the joys of reading in the shade of the pine grove in our backyard and on the branches of the Weeping Willow just beside our carport – quiet, tranquil places away from my rambunctious brothers.

By third grade, I was well settled in to my new town and had formed a lovely relationship with the school librarian, Mrs. Wolkenbreit. In me, Mrs. Wolkenbreit recognized a voracious, curious reader who was open to many genres and ideas. She told me that I would have the responsibility of helping her choose books for the library’s collection. I needed to report back to her on all the books I was reading so she would know what books to choose for the library. At the time, it was the most wonderful thing anyone could have told me. I do not remember specific authors from that period, but I do know I was exposed to many types of books: novels, biographies, non-fiction, novellas, short stories, memoirs, and more.

The summer of my fourth grade year, I was finally allowed to ride my bike to a branch of the public library and pick out my own books. The librarian there was my summertime Mrs. Wolkenbreit. She remembered what kinds of books I liked to read and would have some selected when she thought I might be visiting her again. She always asked what I thought of the books I was returning and what I might like to read next. Beyond her kindness, I remember her fingers – always dry with paper cuts, but quick to pat me on the back. She was a part of my life for the next five years we lived in Massachusetts.

From fourth grade to seventh grade, I developed a deep curiosity about World War II, the Holocaust, the A-bomb, and the Vietnam War. I began reading books like Memoirs of Auschwitz, Number the Stars, The Devil’s Arithmetic, So Far from the Bamboo Grove, Fallen Angels and others. During this time, I asked a lot of why questions. In sixth grade a classmate of mine asked our teacher, Mr. Noel, how many people he had killed in Vietnam. Mr. Noel immediately sent Charlie to the principal’s office and left the room. This tense moment only fueled my need to understand how human beings could do such damage to each other. Something I think I still seek in the books I read today.

To take a break from these serious themes, I read the Nancy Drew, Babysitter’s Club, Sweet Valley High, and R.L Stine thriller series. Starting in third or fourth grade, I discovered my mother’s stash of Harlequin romance novels kept in paper bags in her closet. I would sneak a few into my room on a regular basis and hunt through them for the “steamy” parts. Much was learned from these books. Now I call these books pallet cleansers – a way to clear away or absorb the taste of the more serious books to prepare for further heavy reading.

In junior high school, I continued my exploration of humanity through John Grisham, Bryce Courtenay (particularly The Power of One), and young adult level romance novels like Dance With Me by Jahnna Beecham. Beyond these few authors, I do not really remember what I read during this period. I do not even remember what books were assigned for summer reading or in English class.

At the age of fifteen, my family moved again, to Rhode Island. Again, I was the new girl only this time I was no longer plagued by buck teeth, glasses or a southern accent. Sadly, that did not make the transition any easier. Instead, I was the “hippy, grunge” girl in a very “preppy” high school. The first year did not go well, with regular snubs from sports teammates and most other people. It was during this adjustment year that I was exposed to Shakespeare for the second time. In ninth grade, at my old school, we had read Much Ado About Nothing and Macbeth and I had really liked them. They were tough, but also really lovely. In tenth grade, at my new school in Rhode Island, we read Julius Caesar and I grew to hate Shakespeare. When we moved on to The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway, I began to wonder if I still liked to read. It seemed like my teacher was killing my love of reading. The Great Gatsby, Heart of Darkness and A Separate Peace, read the following year, began to renew my faith, but only a bit. School reading was just no longer fun.

Outside of school, I do not recall what I was reading in high school, but I know I was always reading. Following the birth of my second brother, I almost always had a book with me. When my family went on road trips, I brought a stack of books with me out of necessity. While my brothers poked, prodded, and tortured each other and my parents, I had my nose in a book. Survival instincts at their best! Sadly, many of those titles now escape me.

College was a time of copious reading. My freshman writing course, “Sex, Love, and the Twentieth Century Novel” introduced me to the likes of Zora Neale Hurston, F. Scott Fitzgerald (beyond The Great Gatsby), and James Baldwin. After the course, I explored more of their writings to my great pleasure. Given my major in Theatre and Dramatic Literature, I soon fell in love with plays while reading Arthur Miller, Shakespeare, Athol Fugard, Paula Vogel, William Wycherley, and many more. I also discovered the works of James Herriot, Barbara Dimmick, and David Sedaris. My junior year of college saw the beginning of my love affair with the Harry Potter series. Friends always asked me how I could read so many books while also maintaining good grades. My secret – reading for pleasure every night before bed, whether it was one page or a whole book.

In my twenties, I began to read much more. Fiction had always been my go-to genre, but some forms of non-fiction caught my eye. I read wonderful books such as Bachelor Girls by Betsy Israel and Confederates in the Attic by Tony Horwitz – non-fiction books that explored history and human nature with humor and wit. In my fiction-reading world, I read Jasper Fforde, Gregory Maguire, Cormac McCarthy, and Jonathan Safran Foer to name a few. During this period, I also decided to read some of the “classics” I had missed in high school and college. I discovered The Grapes of Wrath, On the Road, Brave New World, The Count of Monte Cristo, and the Sherlock Holmes series. Over and over again, books from past and contemporary authors broke my heart, gave me hope, challenged my opinions, and brought me to new, unexplored places. My joy of reading had returned in great force and has not abated since.

In my late twenties and early thirties, I continue to read a variety of authors and genres. Some books that really stick out include On Foot to the Golden Horn by Jason Goodwin, White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, A Map of Home by Randa Jarrar, and most things by Walter Moseley. A good friend of mine also recommended some graphic novels, including Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (for whom I plan to name a daughter, should I have one) and Fables by Bill Willingham. As I move into my thirties, I have developed a deep interest in reading books that have been translated from other languages, or that deal with the migration/immigration experience.

Young adult literature reappeared in my life when I was about twenty-six. My best friend became a school library teacher and reminded me of the joys of young adult literature. I explored classic children’s and young adult authors including Lewis Carol, Roald Dahl, and Frank Baum while discovering new authors such as Markus Zusak, Philip Pullman, Sherman Alexie, Neil Gaiman, Douglas Adams, Suzanne Collins, Meg Cabot, and Scott Westerfeld. The authors listed here are my particular favorites because they transport me into other worlds, question my morals/values/opinions, ask me to dream bigger, command me to feel something, and often make me laugh while doing so. The strong feelings elicited by these authors cause me to rave about them to anyone and everyone I speak with about reading – my topic of choice at parties.

In the past ten years, I have also developed a strong relationship with my pallet cleanser authors. I am currently in passionate relationships with Jennifer Crusie, Mary Kay Andrews, Sue Grafton, Stella Rimington, Janet Evanovich (the Stephanie Plum series), John Le CarrĂ© and Kathy Reichs. Jennifer Crusie and Mary Kay Andrews serve as my adult pacifiers, reading them over and over again, particularly in times of great stress or sorrow. They are my friends – knowing just what to say to make everything better.

My reading life has been one of depth and commitment, fluffiness and laughter, and sometimes both. Without books, I am not sure what kind of person I would be or what kind of dreams I would have for myself. Because of reading, I am a more articulate, empathetic, balanced, and creative person. Having traveled all over the world and into many time periods through the experiences of children, teenagers, adults and adults of all ages, fictional and real, I have lived a thousand blessed and full lives.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Get with it, people!

I have recently encountered something so gross and perplexing that I got off my lazy little behind and decided to blog about it. Well, actually, it is more that I decided to sit down on my tired behind and write about it, but those are just details.

Over the past few years, numerous health officials, health advocates, doctors, nurses, scientists, random people who know about germs and medicine have spoken out about the importance of hand washing. They have said that, with few exceptions, the spread of most communicable illnesses could be slowed and even stopped if everyone just washed their hands, especially after using the bathroom. They are not suggesting that we wash our hands all the time, just that we wash them after activities such as: going to the bathroom, riding public transportation, shaking hands with people, touching public computer keyboards, etc. Now, I do not advocate people becoming crazy about this whole thing and washing their hands until their skin comes off, but I do think the advice of washing hands more regularly should be heeded. Sometimes science has a point!

So, here is my issue - the issue that compels me to write today - why do I still see a large number of women walk out of the public restroom without washing hands? And often really smart, savvy women, too! WHY?!? So, you don't buy into the whole washing hands prevents disease thing. Fine. But, when you think about public bathrooms and what you have just done in the public bathroom, shouldn't that be enough to compel you to wash your hands? Do I need to spell it out for you? (POOP!) And, ladies, we also have that pesky little event that happens once a month, adding a whole other element to our public restroom experience. Seriously! Does this not make you feel that washing your hands is a must-do? How can you justify leaving the restroom and nibbling on a snack when you might have someone else's poo, or lord knows what else, on your hands? Really? And, rinsing one hand under the faucet for two seconds does not count as hand washing, but merely hand rinsing. Not the same thing. Soap, water, rub, rinse - that is what I am asking, even begging for. Pleeeeaaase!

And if some of you reading this blog are the perpetrators of this crime, I hope you will reconsider. If not for yourself or the general public, then for me because all I think about when I see you non-washers and hand rinsers is how I will probably touch whatever poo, pee or blood you have on your hand at some point in the near future while fighting back nausea, spoiling my own effort to wash my hands and to have a decent day. It is torturous. I am begging you, appealing to your best self - wash your hands. Please!?! Remember: soap, water, rub, rinse. Thank you!

Tuesday, April 21, 2009


Recently I have found my ability to fantasize about hot celebrity men hampered by rules. Rules that my own conscience has created and seems determined to have me follow. A few years ago, I developed the inability to fantasize about married or seriously involved celebrities. If my dreams started in that direction, some dormant part of my brain leaped to life to create a back story justifying my rendezvous with said actor/athlete/hot guy. Sometimes he would be widowed (morbid, I know). Other times, he and his wife/girlfriend had amicably gone their separate ways, and we had connected after an appropriate grace period. No matter how hard I tried, the fantasy could not continue until one part of my brain had explained to the other part of my brain that my connection with this man was morally acceptable...or at least somewhat acceptable. Frankly, by that time, the hotness had totally vacated the fantasy. What's the point!

Now, I find myself taking into consideration the reputation of the hot guy based solely on what is reported on Perez Hilton, US Weekly or some other gossip/news source. I cannot fantasize about an actor that is known to have shagged his nanny while his wife/girlfriend was off at the market. Or about a man notorious for his womanizing ways. Or an actor known to not shower very often and stir up drama on the set of the movie that made him famous in the first place. If I start having dreams about this kind of celebrity, my brain creates this heart to heart talk with the man where he explains how he is so misunderstood and he is not really like that and that I am the most interesting woman he has ever met so he cannot imagine being with anyone else. Lots of talk and no action. Again, where's the fun in that? Oh, and I never believe the guy.

Now all of a sudden, my conscience has taken its moral code to another level and I can't fantasize anymore. The rules created by my mind have pretty much eliminated every possible man about whom I can fantasize. I mean, can't I just think a guy is hot and imagine him taking me out for dinner and drinks and whatever else without all this other stuff needing to be explained - and sometimes it is really hard to explain. That nanny thing? Rough! We are in a recession for God's sake. I am looking for some free, fun entertainment and my brain will not cooperate. I have always been a little neurotic, but this is really taking to too far. Can't a girl catch a break?

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Sweet, sweet adolescence

As a fairly confident, generally happy thirty year old, few things make me feel like an insecure, unbalanced seventeen year old - thankfully. Sadly, however, this past week, I re-discovered my inner, unbalanced seventeen year old and had a complete confidence meltdown. What could make me feel this way? The GREs and young adult fiction. I read quite a few young adult books, but in conjunction with the more adult aspects of my life, such books of teenage angst and insecurity do not adversely affect me. Certainly I feel great amounts of sympathy with the pimply, awkward protagonists, but their high school dramas do not get me down. I know that they too will outgrow that horrid era of high school and move on to better things. But, in combination with my agonizing preparation for the GREs, reading young adult fiction reignited a part of me I thought had disappeared long ago. As a result, I have grown a large pimple on my chin, lashed out at the people I love for no apparent reason (at least to them), and stressed out about things that only a week ago would have slid off my back.

See, taking standardized tests has always been one of my most hated activities, second only to throwing up and maybe hitting my shins. They make us sit in a small, usually windowless room, in an even smaller cubicle with a computer in front of us. We sit here to be judged on our intelligence, or at least, our test taking abilities. The computer provides a tutorial informing us of how the test will proceed. Then, we are on our own. In the upper left corner, a vicious clock counts down the minutes until our time to answer questions is through. In the center of the screen, just barely to the right of the ticking clock, are the tortuous questions with trick answers. The trick answer always standing out a bit brighter from all the rest. And down in the left hand corner are the evil options, telling us we can quit the test or leave the section. What those options do not tell us is that we essentially become a complete failure when we click on them. So, our eyes gravitate back to the center of the screen, with a quick peek at the ever descending numbers of the clock. For some, like my brother, this experience might be exhilerrating, challenging him to beat the system, the man. For others, for me, such a set up breeds sheer panic and a complete evacuation of the brain. All the words, geometric formulas, and reading comprehension skills I learned through years of schooling and weeks of hard core cramming are gone. My brain is a blank. Empty. And then the trick answer glares brighter on the screen. I know it is a trick, but panic tinged with a moth-like fascination take over and suddenly I am compelled to click. And click, and click, until suddenly time runs out. At the end of the computerized test, our scores flip on the screen. For some, elation and/or pride might overwhelm them. For others, for me, a true sense of mediocrity and failure fills my gut. We know we have yet again let the ETS and standardized tests get us down. Even at thirty, such an event is painful, reminding me of the very insecurities I felt thirteen years before taking a similar exam. Always wondering if my grades and hard work would be enough, or if this three hour test would break me.

Add these feelings with a little teenage vampire sexual tension, and I reconnect with that seventeen year old self - the one I so proudly thought I had outgrown. Hubris. Tonight I reacquaint myself with thirty through a French film, red wine and Jane Austen. I'll just have to ignore the pimple.