Filling my mind up

"I have a story that's really going to fill your mind up: Jack and the Beanstalk. Will that really fill up your mind?"  (Molly, 4)

Molly's use of language often makes me stop and think. What does the expression "fill your mind up" mean? I had to wait for her to use it a few times to learn that she uses it in two senses: to become completely interested or absorbed in something; to restore the mind to its natural state, as she sees it, maintaining an intellectual homeostasis of sorts.

I have been trying to fill my mind up in more than one sense, too. Procrastination takes many forms and mine is usually black, rectangular, and has at times a sluggish WiFi connection; recently, however, thinking about Molly's words caused a tinge of guilt because I would have happily set aside my Kobo Vox for a while just to watch some television.

Luckily, instead, I found Dani's Story: A Journey from Neglect to Love (by Diane and Bernie Lierow with Kay West) the other day while browsing on my ereader though I should have been more concerned about a deadline.

Dani's Story  traces the relationship between a family hoping to adopt and an eight-year-old girl so seriously harmed by her upbringing that she functions at the level of an infant. Definitely, this is heavy subject matter and might not work its way easily into casual conversations that begin with, "So, read anything interesting lately?"

It sounded so promisingly similar to books that I had read as a teen* which usually dated back to the late 60s, 70s or early 80s, were written by a sociologist, social worker, psychologist or psychiatrist, a teacher, a parent...and which told a story about life/work with a child that had special needs. I devoured those books! (And I only just recently thought to ask myself: why were these books scattered throughout my childhood home?) 

Generally, in these books the trajectory started at a poor/devastating prognosis and ended at an against-all-odds reversal of a condition but not always. There was oftentimes a bittersweet ending and, less often, a very sad one; but each book that I read (and the number must be in the dozens) required some sort of emotional commitment that I did not mind (and, admittedly, that can be a deal-breaker because reading decisions are often mood-linked for me).

Because I was unaware of Dani's story through the media, I am glad that I stumbled upon this book because it speaks to the remarkable qualities of fragility and resilience that can be found in a human being in equal measure and by which I have always been both bemused and amazed. I was engrossed from the outset--the description of the initial meeting of everyone involved in Dani's story--until the topic of the eventual media coverage that culminated in appearance on Oprah.

At any rate, I think that I can seen why Molly enjoys the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. Among others, it contains a very apt message: what appears to others to be an unwise or incomprehensible decision can actually yield wonderful, unexpected results.

Think about it. Jack sold his impoverished family's cow for beans but ended up restoring his family's rightful material status, and he lived happily ever after with his mother.

I laboured at the last minute to meet a deadline because I had chosen to read when I should have been working, but the book reconnected me to the nonfiction of my youth; it also unburied memories of discovering the books around my home. My ostensibly unwise decision enabled me to experience the story of Dani and her family. I spend so much of my reading life these days absorbed in the details of the human body that it is great to be reminded of life itself and of the powerful surge of admiration that the sheer mental strength of another such as Dani can inspire.

Naturally, the Lierows' decision was by far more important than my own. They chose to adopt a child with different needs than they had originally imagined for their family, and, as they note, the decision was met with skepticism at best or outright discouragement by some unexpected sources. Certainly, the details of Dani's past are horrifying and unfathomable but in the details of her recovery there are so many rewards.

In Dani's case, the Lierows watched a child come to life as her world filled with love and light. Where others saw only futility and tragedy, the Lierows saw potential and happiness; where others assumed Dani could not form attachments, the Lierows recognized that their initial meeting with Dani established a connection. As a result, they all ended up with the family that they wanted and, it appears, needed.

At several points, the Lierows mention that their other children helped throughout the adoption process because their behaviour was unencumbered by prejudice and bias. Coincidentally, shortly after I had finished reading Dani's Story, Devyn said, "Why can't everyone just see that everyone is different and then help whenever someone else needs it?" I then realized that Devyn, at eight years old, is so very strong. She defends others on the playground even if it means losing friends; she, too, sees ability where others see disability.

How easy it is to forget that children are great teachers! After reading Dani's story, I paused to gather my thoughts before jumping into another book. I realized that it is impossible to keep track of just how much and how often I learn from my children, but I do, in fact, learn: from Molly because she thinks outside the box, has her own special language that causes me to think, and reminds me that the veil of common sense sometimes distorts; from Devyn because she becomes the voice and the strength of others when they need it on the playground and because she instinctively is the change that she would like to see in the world. So, problem-solve creatively, express yourself, and trust your judgement; help others and don't preach about it--just do it. I like those messages. Thanks, girls.
---

Sic vita est

Time flies. With three children in the house and two courses on the go, my reading has lapsed. This isn't to say that I haven't read; in fact, considering everything, I've probably done pretty well. Mostly, I've picked up titles that I could read in a very short time and postponed longer titles for the not-too-distant future.

In spite of myself, I did read Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years. Sue Townsend could leave the series here and not feel guilty about it. He's grown; hell, he's old (40ish, like me) and we've seen him mature and/or resign to his lot in life. It is a rather bleak tale without as much of the humour as I've come to expect from the series. At any rate, I think he and I will part ways here. Really, it's over. I'm not going back. And, truthfully, I think it's him, not me.

Graphic novels are a great sanctuary for me -- especially those in the memoir or journalistic vein -- and I surprised myself this week by reading Nylon Road by Parsua Bashi. Why surprised? Because it -- the graphic novelization as much as the subject itself -- is not exactly a new idea: a journey from girlhood to womanhood during Iran's revolution. But it was fresh and original and, of course, inevitably linked in my mind to Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis series from frame to frame.

Three days ago, I read 9/11 Emergency Relief, a graphic novel anthology compiled in aid of the American Red Cross. I'd picked it up used for about five dollars at my favourite comic/graphic novel store last summer because I thought it would be an interesting read. It ended up being a surprising array of talent and an excellent opportunity to sample the graphic wares of dozens of artists/writers. (I've burrowed through quite a few graphic novels over the years and I'm always impressed by the originality of the inking, colouring, and lettering styles of each artist.)

The day before yesterday, it was Rutu Modan's Exit Wounds. I think I understand why it was received with such critical acclaim. The story -- both mystery and romance, set in Tel Aviv -- is very moving and it flows seamlessly. I loved the plot twists. This g-novel won the 2008 Eisner Award.  (I really enjoyed her graphic blogging, Mixed Emotions, on The New York Times website in 2007).  The next stop for me where this author is concerned is Jamilti -- I almost finished it, several times.  It's not that I'm not interested; I just keep putting it aside right next to Asterios Polyp by David Mazzucchelli.

Last night, I sped through Clubbing (Andi Watson/Josh Howard) -- 176 pages -- a graphic novel for the Young Adult audience.  There isn't much to say about it: breezy, brief, and enjoyable.

And I have no idea where I'm headed next.

Mother's Day

Ah, well, it hasn't yet arrived but I know Paramedic to the Prince: An American Paramedic's Account of Life Inside the Mysterious World of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is on its way.

I'm really looking forward to it. 

New York

My first thought: Somebody, please tell me why this graphic novel -- New York Four -- has not been made into a series?

This is pretty much the only complaint that I have about this work that features Riley Wilder, twenty-something rich kid let loose on the streets of Manhattan to attend NYU.

I read it quickly, enjoying the portrayal of a young woman's anxieties that author Brian Wood has created. Riley's first taste of freedom is tainted by conflicting family loyalties, awkwardness, but the excitement she feels is heightened by intrigue and the unknown.

We visit Japanese restaurants, comfortable apartments, and dance clubs.

Manhattan is gritty but there's not even a glimpse of the more traditional depiction of New York City streets: crime, homelessness, etc. New York is not as bad as the media would have us believe.

The setting stands in stark contrast to the book I read before this: Overheard in New York (Updated), by Morgan S. Friedman and Michael Malice, founders of the well-known blog of the same name.

Racism, toilet humour, sexual positions and preferences. Nothing is off limits. Cruelty, indifference, ignorance and thoughtlessness. Nothing is unthinkable.

Though the latter is handpicked from reality, it actually seems less believable than the fictitious angst and naivete of a young woman on her own in the big city. Hang on. Here comes the cringe-worthy cliche: Truth is stranger than fiction.

Or is it that I'm in denial, that I don't want to believe the worst of people is possible? I doubt it. Or do I want to hang on to the image that I have cultivated of a city in my dreams? More likely.

But, it's all possible. Maybe that's partly the message -- good or ill -- of both books: Anything is possible.

But the books exist in a state of tension. To believe the worst of New York in reality in Overheard, I have to believe the best of New York in fiction in New York Four.

Overheard In New York
Brian Wood

Opportunities

I get to read while I wait in my doctor's office for appointments. My husband has the children (it's a small waiting room) and I am gloriously free for, at times, an hour to an-hour-and-a-half.

When they apologize for keeping me waiting, I always tell the staff not to worry:

"Are you kidding? This is the only rest I've had all day!"

The other day, I took along my latest issue of Quill & Quire: It's a magazine that, frankly, enables my odd habit of reading "just enough" of a blurb or a review of a book so as to note that I want to read it while seemingly avoiding spoilers that could pop up unexpectedly. Then, I mark a line in the top-right corner of the page to indicate that it's a page I want to remember.

I made note of a few titles that belong to the two subsets of literature comprise my reading list: that of the South Asian diaspora and that of the African diaspora (well, my reading also list includes authors still resident in their country-of-origin):

Vishnu Dreams by Ven Begamudre

I haven't read Ven Begamudre's first novel so I haven't the slightest sense of the author's style.

According to Emily Donaldson, Begamudre's second novel deals with "the conflicts that develop within an Indian family in the wake of their emigration to North American in the late 1960s . . . The story follows their attempts to integrate into a culture still mired in racism and ignorance."

There were also some titles for the young that really caught my eye:

The Bite of the Mango by Mariatu Kamara with Susan McClelland (Young Adult)

This account of young Mariatu Kamara's trauma in Sierra Leone -- which garnered international attention -- was released in September 2008.

Laurie McNeill writes:

"Because the text bears witness to a conflict most young Canadians will know little about, it deserves thoughtful reading, though its necessarily graphic nature makes it best suited to mature readers."

I think I'll have to work up to this and, admittedly, there are so many books awaiting my attention that it could be many months before I get to this one. Heavy.

Child of Dandelions by Shenaaz Nanji.

This novel is set in the era of Uganda's Idi Amin.

Librarian By Day writes:

"Child of Dandelions offers a positive look at a difficult period in the life of a girl, a family, and a country. This is an intriguing novel, one that could be paired with other culture-clash or immigration novels, to offer an example from the recent past." (Italics mine).

Usually, reading Uwem Akpan or Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (my favourite authors) requires a strong, emotional commitment due to the serious and descriptive content that captures individual strife in the midst of national turmoil. I suspect, this novel will require the same kind of relationship. Am I ready?

The Octonauts & The Frown Fish by
Meomi

(Honestly, being so out-of-touch with, well, everything, meant that I needed to Google Meomi to find out who/what it was. It is a self-described studio.)

Wonderous Strange by Lesley Livingston

I want to write more but can't because a toddler pulls me away from my compuer to read to her.

Kabul Beauty School (Random House, April 2007)

As often happens, I find a brilliant passage in an article that describes something far more effectively than I. In this case, the following from the New York Times captures both the co-author, Deborah Rodriquez, and the bottom-line effect of Kabul Beauty School: An American Woman Goes Behind The Veil:

The book, released April 10 [2007] by Random House, is a story of a
flame-haired, cigarette-smoking, multiply-divorced Michigan hairdresser who travels to Afghanistan, falls in love with the country, and returns later to set up a beauty school.

The story provides a greater appreciation of the cultural mores (and sometimes laws) governing male-female relationships in Afghanistan and it is this kind of ethnographic detail of both fiction and nonfiction that I generally crave.

Initially, I wanted to say that the account is kind of thin. The author could have done more to flesh out relationships, maybe focus more indepthly on the follow-up of the individual lives that she affected.

And I asked myself: What was Deborah Rodriguez's original intention in writing this book? Clearly, she wants to let the world know about the organization responsible for getting the beauty school-cum-salon off the ground.

She probably wants people to know her own difficulties in getting and keeping funding for the school which included starting a salon of her own. (In this way, she trained would-be professional beauticians, generated revenue and sourced additional teachers as the project grew.)

I like to think that she wants to convey the magnitude of the accomplishment: Empowering women with skills to run their own salons and generate income for themselves or for their families seems no small feat in a country in which women are discouraged from doing such things.

Considering the general public reaction to the book, my own observations seem inconsequential. The narrative, at times, is jagged and I wonder what, if anything, I might be missing. But I like the dialogue and the sometimes creative means by which the author overcomes language barriers.

I think she fails in some important respects. The personal stories -- when mentioned -- are not detailed enough for me. I still want to know what happened -- what really happened -- to Topekai, Baseera, Roshanna, Laila and Hama. I am still curious about Shaz.

But there are bigger problems and I may have been too optimistic in thinking that she and others might have started social reform in Afghanistan from which future generations will benefit.

According to the NPR in June 2007, the details already shared in the narrative cause controversy and anger:

the subjects of her book say Rodriguez and her newfound fame have put theirlives in danger . . .

About the subject women, the article continues:

At least one of the girls from the school has made an escape plan. One, who is called "Topekai" in the book, says her husband, who read the book, is moving their family to Pakistan.

The others — whose husbands are unaware of the
book — say they don't know what to do.

The woman called "Baseera" in Rodriguez's book says it may not matter. She is convinced someone will kill her.

This is serious and saddening: Cross-cultural value systems colliding, sociopolitical fears casting shadows over well-intentioned efforts.

And there is yet more controversy. According to quoted subjects in the New York Times (April 2007), there are questions about consistency and accuracy and perhaps enough changes to actual details that place the very nature of the narrative in question.

Frankly, like the project itself, the book initially seemed to be the start of something and, hopefully, the promise of something more. Now, I am not so certain. Did I even read a memoir?

Shades of Truth: An Account of a Kabul School Is Challenged (Abby Ellin, NYT, April 29, 2007)

Subjects of 'Kabul Beauty School' Face New Risks
(Soraya Sarhaddi Nelson, NPR, June 1, 2007)

PostSecret

PostSecret.com is popular; its message is powerful: If secrecy alienates, then vulnerability unites.

It also attracts humans in hordes, including me.

In fact, I may have to eat my own words. I once publicly decried the rise of reality-based television as marking the end of collective reason that would have us wandering around like incoherent halfwits while civilization around us slowly declined.

Now, I see that it is the hope of glimpsing the unedited that is so compelling to an audience whether that glimpse be in a staged photograph, a carefully written celebrity interview or a tightly produced reality show. At least, that is true for me. So, when I first read a blurb about PostSecret in a magazine, I was interested.

After downloading the site, I wanted more -- much more -- so, I immediately bought the first two books: PostSecret and My Secret. At first, I was embarrassed by my interest in the lives of other people, even as I asked the clerk at my local bookstore for the copies. Then, it hit me: having secrets makes us uncomfortable because it reminds us that we're human; having access to other people's secrets makes us comfortable because it reminds us that they're human, too.

I think it is this uncensored honesty of the project's content that I found particularly moving. It also helped me with my writing. Winburn, in my weekly course readings, suggests searching for "emotional truth" in producing narrative and this now makes sense to me. The more the author gives of himself, the more willing the reader is to contribute, or to commit, to the text because he sees himself in the story.

The project also raises questions about relationships: reader and author, reader and text, author and text. Who authored this work? Certainly, the nameless public contributed the content, but did Frank Warren edit in even the slightest way? Was there purpose behind the order in which the postcards appeared? For example, was he trying to, or, did he subconsciously, elicit different emotional reactions?

My immediate impression was that there was no intention behind the sequence of secrets. The only way in which he could have removed himself from the work would have been to lay out the book without first having read the cards and, in the introduction to the book, he suggests that he did, in fact, read the secrets.

At any rate, Frank Warren seems to have achieved a significant goal of mine: He has produced a narrative that has dictated its own compositional form to the degree that this is actually possible.

______

All the books in the series are available on the website for purchase.

My Self

Just bought: Junk Mail (2006) by Will Self (his literary journalism, bought last week) and Edmonds's translation of War and Peace. This afternoon I had occasion to read the first article of Junk Mail. Typical, hot Will Self. In this piece, he's hanging out with drug dealers and describing the subculture. Deceptively casual, reminds me of banter.

It's 1991 all over again for me when I connect with him. The Quantity Theory of Insanity Together With Five Supporting Propositions, see "The North London Book Of The Dead" and "The Quantity Theory of Insanity." Actually, read it. Doris Lessing did:

Very funny and very good, with that unmistakable sign of the genuine comic writer: absurdity unfurls logically from absurdity, but always as a mirror of what we are living in- and wish we didn't. (Back cover blurb.)

I love Dr. Jules Smith's description:

His narrative voice, whether in short stories or lengthy novels, is relentlessly surreal-comic, smart and vehement... (British Council Arts, Biography: Will Self)