Horses and Heroines

When I read The Glass Castle a few years back, I was sucked into a world so unbelievable and riveting I had to cancel all my goings-on and close myself into the bedroom until every last page was turned. And when I have that kind of connection to a piece of writing, to a story, it can sometimes make me reluctant to read other works by the same pen--for fear she can't possibly do that again and I wouldn't want to ruin her high literary standing in my internal critic's shop.

That being said, Half Broke Horses is brilliant. It's the life story of Lily Casey, Walls' maternal grandmother, told in first person the way only Walls can tell a life story: in short yet voluminous vignettes. Lily Casey was a woman not always dealt the best hand in life, but who always knew how to bluff her way to victory or to work her way out of a debt. She was fiercely ambitious, which often led to disappointment, but she always had a plan for what to do next. This is the kind of story you want to tell your daughter, whom you believe will be the first female president of the United States, to remind her that it's OK to want everything in this world.

I grew up with a fiercely strong and independent mother whose voracious belief that I would one day be the president was not to be extinguished. She also believed I would be a doctor and a lawyer; a teacher and a graphic designer; a famous artist and a famous writer. I'll never forget the Christmas of my 6th grade year. I was going through a phase where my dreams included Harvard Law School and my mom found a Harvard sweatshirt at the local department store. When I opened it Christmas morning she relayed the story of its purchase and the conversation she had with the clerk about her daughter who was going to be going to Harvard. "Wow! Congratulation, that is quite an accomplishment!" the clerk exclaimed, "What will she be studying?" "She thinks law," my mom replied, "but she may change her mind by the time she gets there."

This overwhelming belief that I was rocket-scientist material made me the dreamer I am today. It gave me confidence through adolescence and college--something a lot of women don't encounter until later and then, to some, it is fleeting. Even now, as a 31-year-old, there have been times I've overheard my mother boasting to another relative about some accomplishment of mine the way I might describe my own son's first steps or how he is surprisingly verbose for three. She is a great teacher of many things (hard work, follow-through, and weed-pulling to name a few), but the two most important lessons she has taught me in my life are how to believe in myself unwaveringly and how to believe in others the same.

Lily Casey was a believer and a dreamer. I like to think, if asked about the aspirations of her granddaughter she would have replied, "She will probably be one of the most profound memoirists of her time. That or the president of the United States."

"Anyone who thinks he's too small to make a difference has never been bit by a mosquito."--Lily Casey Smith

Help Yourself

As an English major in college, my focus was American Literature--more specifically Early American Political Rhetoric. Plainly speaking, I studied the struggle to create and form an American Voice. It seems kind of dramatic now, 10 years removed from the world I was once submerged in--looking for America, but I was truly in love. The idea that social injustice was confronted head-on in this new land was fascinating to me. I found myself drawn to eras in which the oppressed would rise against opposing forces and make the world a different place. A better place. The Help catapulted me back into that college mindset, made me want to know more about this particular atrocity that took place in my America.

Kathryn Stockett, a white woman raised by a black maid in Jackson, Mississippi, wrote this story in an effort to seek absolution from the past sin of passivity. The novel follows two African American maids in the 1960s and the white women they work for. The white women who have fallen so neatly into the role of "master" to these black women who raised them and whom, in childhood, they had loved like mothers. It is also the story of Miss Skeeter, who I imagine is none other than Miss Kathryn Stockett herself, a young white woman and a charter member of the Jackson Junior League. Skeeter does what Stockett did not (in her youth) and begins to empathize with these maids and the injustices they face in the 1960s South. She wants to tell their story.

This is my book club pick for April and I am geared up for an array of Southern food tonight including fried chicken, cornbread and chocolate pie. I think I will wear an apron.

Oscar WOW

*

This is the kind of book that you can just tell probably ripped the author up to write. Controlled his being to the very core of his soul. Like he tried to write a work of fiction but could not avoid brutal autobiographical practices.

Told in a vibrant mix of ingles y espanol, The Brief Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao would be a dura read for anyone not in possession of a working knowledge of el idioma espanola. It is the sad and brilliant tale of Oscar and the Dominican-American generations that preceded his existence. It schooled me historically on the plague of evil dictatorship in the Dominican Republic over the past century and had me asking my dad (the words leaving my mouth as the realization of their idiocy hit me) what year the Dominican Republic became a self-governing territory of the United States (shame on me and my Spanish endorsement!/sorry Puertro Rico!).

The Carribean culture being steeped in the supersticious, the root of the story revolves around a family curse (or fuku) that just keeps coming back. A curse that affects Oscar, his beautiful sister Lola, their mother Beli, her parents (dead under the rule of Rafeal Trujillo, Evil Dictator), their relatives, various neighbors and boyfriends and possibly any family pets that may have, unluckily, been adopted into the curse. Set alternately in New Jersey and Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, the book employs a literary technique I love called "en media res"--Latin for "into the middle of affairs"--in which the story begins in the middle or at the climax, fills in details from the past, and resolves after having done so (side note: this technique is also one of the reasons I love the show Southland).

Years after the publication of The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver is said to have, in press conferences, responded to questions about the novel by saying, "I gave ten years of my life to that story and I no longer have anything to give." I imagine this must be what Junot Diaz feels about the story of Oscar. An immense sense of pride (very Latin) and a constant, suppressed terror at the thought of returning, his heart heavy with apologies, to the narrative.

*The black, white and red cover is most familiar to me and the one mass-marketed in the US, but I think this one is a better representation of the story:

Habitual Hobby Hobbit

I've mentioned before (here) that one of my favorite hobbies is taking up new hobbies. With Spring Break coming up, I was bound to be on the hunt for something new to do and, alas, the inkling to pick up some knitting needles nestled it's way into my subconscious like a...

Anyway, I had just finished reading The Friday Night Knitting Club--a good story about women and craft--and they just made it seem so simple! So I checked out some books from the library, got myself some cheap needles and a skein of yarn from Walmart and embarked upon my soon-to-be new favorite hobby.

Seven hours and two blistered pointer fingers later I had successfully completed five two-inch scarves. Since I couldn't figure out what to do when I messed up, I kept starting over. I was pretty sure I was only a couple of years away from making this (my original inspiration)...




...when I decided to check on Etsy and see how much these suckers were going for. $12! I could buy this hat for $12 and I had just spent the equivilent of an entire work day making knitted scarves for mice! Plus, I could not do anything whilst knitting. I tried to knit during family movie night while the boys watched Wall-E, but I had to sit in an entirely auxillary room because I needed a virtual spotlight on my fingers.


Women who knit: I applaud you. It is a beautiful craft. But I am moving on...

Still Waiting After All These Years

I've been sluggishly working through Fumiko Enchi's The Waiting Years (Japanese title: Onna zaka or 女坂) for a couple of weeks now in anticipation of tomorrow night's book club meeting. I love a Japanese translation as much as the next person, but...I am going to have to put some time in tonight to finish.

This novel--a glaring social critique about the lives of Japanese women--was first published in 1958 and won Enchi Japan's highest literary award. The story follows Tomo, the wife of a high-ranking and politically shameless government official, as she goes about the daily affairs expected of a woman in her social position. Things like scouring the country in search of the perfect concubine to bring home to her husband. All in a day's work, Tomo!

It is heart-wrenching and frustrating to read about Tomo's ultimate submission and her husband's hatred-inducing oppression of all women. I'm looking forward to the conversation we'll undoubtedly have tomorrow--a group of college-educated, working wives and mothers--about the self-deprecating Tomo. I don't see myself entering into a friendship with someone as pitiful as she is, but then, I suppose that's what literature does, right? Exposes us to things we would not normally choose to give the time of day. Stay tuned for a re-cap of the evening's festivities.

On the menu: sushi and man-bashing.

Persuasion

I was persuaded, on Wednesday, to stay home with this:

Well, actually, I was mandated to do so on account of his above-average fever. But let's be honest, that is a persuasive little face.

Speaking of persuasion, I feel compelled to share a round of first attempts at persuading an authority figure, courtesy of my 9th grade honors students:

These might work on me:

K: Mom, please let me go to the movies. It will cost you nothing as I will find a ride and pay for the ticket. Also, when I return I will be rejuvenated and probably more productive as far as my chores are concerned.

C: Mom, letting me walk to school would save you gas money. Also, I will burn more energy which will make me calmer and more willing to eat your dinner.

A: Mom, I need a cell phone!! What if, one day, I get lost or in a bad situation (even though you always tell me not to do such a thing) and no one is around? I won't be able to call you or the police to come and save me.

B: Mom, can I go to the movies with friends? You won't have to worry about me for at least 2 hours and you can do whatever you want with that time. Plus, you won't have to make me dinner.

M: The best, most beautifulest, wonderful mom in the whole wide world belongs to me. I am a focused, hardworking girl for my age and I think I should be able to throw a bon fire party for my birthday with no parental figures attending. Remember, I am very responsible!

Driving-related hilarity:

S: Mom and Dad, can you guys stop yelling at me when I drive? It stresses me out and if you keep it up I'll crash or have a heart attack someday.

E: Hey mom, you should get me a car for my birthday! If I never get a car, then how can I go places in the life? Don't you want me to go places in life?

Extreme Sports:

J: Dad, I know you think he's too old, but honestly, he's a 4.0 student who goes to church twice every Sunday and Monday. And he already knows that I would never do anything extreme with anyone until I'm married.

My two favorites:

J: Mom, you should let me go to a musical theater camp over the summer because it will allow me to gain more experience in that field. It will also allow me to learn under different teachers and meet other people interested in this profession.

C: Dear Albus Dumbledore, Being arguable the best wizard of all time, you should be astute enough to recognize real magical talent when you see it. Therefore, I plead with you to accept me, being insanely un-mugglish and exceptionally magical, into you wonderful school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Juliet Always Dies

I am supposedly editing Romeo and Juliet literary analysis rough drafts as we speak. But between the invalidity of "young love" and the submissive role of women in the play I am feeling a little forelorn myself. Somehow these papers reek with cynicism and I am starting to wonder: "Did I put these ideas in your head, or did you come up with this stuff on your own?" I mean, it's still a good story, right? We might have to spend a day talking about all the puppy dog and rainbow parts or something. Did I forget to mention the puppy dog parts?!?

While we are on the subject of star-crossedness, let me just briefly mention the season premiere of 'Lost'. I have very little of my own insight to lend, but have done quite a bit of reading up on what others think and it has sparked some things for me. Our beloved survivors are now operating in what the producers are calling a "flash sideways"--as I see it there are three possibilities: 1. Jughead was successful in resetting time therefore allowing Oceanic flight 815 to avoid crashing on the island; 2. it was not and the survivors have simply been catupulted into the future along with the chains that bind them to their island nemesis; or 3. Jughead was successful in the eyes of Destiny, catupulting our survivors into the future along with the chains that secure them to their star-crossed lover, The Island. Or it could be all of them. I'm not sure, but the point here is JULIET!

Juliet dies in the island "flash sideways" (there is no good way to make that singular--sideway?), but not before thinking (a thought extracted from her cold dead brain by resident ghost whisperer Miles Straume) "...it...worked...[cough]...[sputter]..." What the what?!? does that mean? I don't know, but here is how I bring things back around for you and whilst I do so please remember that everything matters. Don't be like my husband, who, upon my gasp at the title "Shut the Door. Have a Seat." appearing on screen to prelude the season three finale of Mad Men said, "The title does not always mean something huge." Really, it was like a cry for help which resulted in the pausing of the show so that I could deliver a thirty-minute lecture on allusion and the various literary implications of said title. The thesis of this lecture: Everything means something. Elizabeth Mitchell's character is not named Juliet because the writers thought it sounded pretty. She has been a straddler of fences in an ancient feud. She has gone behind her parental figure (Ben)'s back and fallen in love with someone from the other side (Jack. And then Sawyer.). She has tricked that evil temptress Fate. Thwarted her plan, if you will. But ultimately, the story always ends the same. Juliet dies. She has to. It is her destiny.

I think what comes from her death will be monumental in determining the outcome for our survivors. Will it be in vain, or will she serve as a sacrificial lamb on an alter to "peace of mind"?

RIP Juliet. I didn't really like you until you became a mechanic in the Dharma Initiative in 1977 and lived in a house with Sawyer. But I'm sad to see you go.