When I told my friend, a writer, that my fantasy novel's main character was an 18-year-old black girl, he cut me off right away. "You can't do it." I fought, I resisted, I got defensive, but I knew he was right. After all, Toni Morrison's Playing in the Dark is one of two reasons I majored in English. The other reason was the Vietnam War, which I'll elaborate on in another post. My ancestry is French and Irish. What would I know of the inner life of a teenager raised in Hollywood by her Haitian ex-model mother and Brazilian producer father? But is the question of whether I should write this book a cultural or racial one? I don't think my hesitation, and my friend's warning, goes much further than skin deep. Cherie's experience isn't rooted culturally in the African-American community. Or is it? How much of her life in Beverly Hills would be different from her blonde besties'? I don't know. She is a mystery to me. Every bit of her life is a mystery to me, as I have only been to LA once.
The reasons I am writing this book includes the reasons it shouldn't be written at all. I don't know if I can pull it off. I don't know if I will make some egregious errors that I am inherently blind to, by my whiteness. It's entirely possible. Probably probable. Caucasian writers have created characters of color for years, that is nothing new. But how successfully? There is a range. Zora Neale Hurston, whom I consider my literary grandmother, for her writing has most changed my life, has most given me permission, no, an invitation, to write, was horrendously panned for her attempt at writing about a Southern white couple in Seraph on the Suwannee. This is her one piece I can't bring myself to read. Ironically, I should read it immediately before I get any further inFaerieWolf. We are all limited by the lens through which we see the world, and that lens gets manipulated and distorted based on how society treats us. I can take a hammer to my lens, and try to see the world through a myriad of perspectives, but it is my eyes, always, peering through.
The problem is, I don't just want to write a book about Cherie, who appeared to me, fully formed, on Ft. Myers Beach, I want to write her successfully. I want Cherie to be seen clearly by the reader for the person she is, not just the things about her. There are pieces of her that I don't really understand, can't really relate to. She is, after all, a fictional character, and not me. Most of those pieces have nothing to do with race, ethnicity, or culture. They have to do with her personal worldview and the way she interacts with the world around her. Our race, ethnicity, and culture inform who we are as people, but they are not who we are as people. We do not exist in homogenous groups based on demographics.
At the end of the day, we all write what we know. But we challenge ourselves as well. Isn't that what writing's about? Challenging the norms of the day? Seeking to elicit some fragment of truth within ourselves and share it with the world? Find one, just one, honest sentence? What I know of the world, the story I choose to tell that world has to do with many things, not simply race. This is not just a fantasy novel about a black female heroine written by a white female writer. That's something about it, but it's just one thing.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Feeling Wonky
A change in events for my dear boy put the brakes on the steam locomotive that was my writing momentum this summer. Writing is too often the thing I say I'll get to when I have time. A recent accident (we're okay) jarred me back to reality: Not writing will not prolong my life. I will not get an extension to my deadline. So, time or no, it's back to the page. School's back in. That's okay. I have commited to writing when my students do. At the very least, I have not given myself permission to stop writing until Winter Break. It's like exercise--you can't wait to make time for it. Either you do or you don't. Hence, I have mixed running quotes in with my writing quotes-to inspire and energize myself as well as my students. In the wise words of one athletic company:
Just Do It.
Just Do It.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
A Whole New World...
I love to escape into strange worlds, rich with language, culture, music, and tales both strange and familiar. My feeble attempt to create such a world continues. I am following the advice of writers I most admire and writing what I wish to read. This is easier said than done. I've always been more reader than writer, more critic than artist. Alas, I have found myself in quite a drought, thirsty for no story save the untold one festering inside me.
So I put the sudoku puzzles aside and set, once again, to work. All posts today on all three of my blogs, DailyProsetry, FaerieWolf, and Sunsets and Sandspurs relate directly to my Fantasy series, FaerieWolf. I will continue in this vein for as long as I can, here relating my fears, successes, and setbacks, on Prosetry, sharing some of my world's folksongs and prayers, and, of course, on FaerieWolf, sparing my children the arduous task of completing my life's work posthumously, one paragraph at a time.
Cheers, and Happy Reading!
Dana LaLonde
So I put the sudoku puzzles aside and set, once again, to work. All posts today on all three of my blogs, DailyProsetry, FaerieWolf, and Sunsets and Sandspurs relate directly to my Fantasy series, FaerieWolf. I will continue in this vein for as long as I can, here relating my fears, successes, and setbacks, on Prosetry, sharing some of my world's folksongs and prayers, and, of course, on FaerieWolf, sparing my children the arduous task of completing my life's work posthumously, one paragraph at a time.
Cheers, and Happy Reading!
Dana LaLonde
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
A Children's Book. Know any good illustrators? When Jacob Saw His Future
When Jacob Saw His Future
When Jacob saw his future, he'd been sledding up Grant's Hill.
His brothers sat up the night before in their room, calculating the speed, weight, and friction necessary to get down their hill and up to their neighbor's. They waited until their parents left for work and headed outside with their caps and mittens, and a trashcan lid. They found the spot that had the fewest trees to get in the way. They heaved and hoed and sent Jacob careening down hill and back up again.
When Jacob saw his future, it happened so fast, he almost missed it. First he saw the scarf, red, rich, wool. Then he saw the hand, rough, strong, soft. Then he saw the smile. In an instant Jacob knew he didn't want to slide back down the hill, go inside and drink hot chocolate and watch Wheel of Fortune. So he reached out. Mesmerized by time and fate, both Jacobs grabbed the other's hand. The scarf fell onto Jacob's face, fuzzy and scratchy as his future helped him up. When he was standing (and could see), he realized he wasn't on Grant's hill, or anywhere near his neighborhood. For a second, he wondered if he was in heaven. The sun was so shiny, bouncing off of every surface, and the streets and buildings were lined with palm trees.
When Jacob saw his future, he thought he must be dreaming. He woke up in a red sports car that matched the red scarf. He looked around at the car full of people that looked like his family and wondered if these were the California cousins, as his dad liked to call his mom's sister's family. He was sitting between two kids in the back, listening to music with their earphones, and playing with gray square toys Jacob had never seen before.
When Jacob saw his future, he was disappointed. The day was gorgeous, but he could barely pay attention with all the bickering in the back seat. The lunch they ate at a restaurant was delicious, but everyone complained anyway. The clothes the man and woman bought their children were fancy and expensive, but the girl complained that she wanted something else, and the boy barely grumbled when his mom held up a shirt for him to look at.
When Jacob saw his future, he started to rethink his present. How many times did he or his brothers fight about what show to watch on television or what kind of ice cream to buy? How many times did they grumble about their chores or fail to say thank you when their mom made dinner?
When Jacob saw his future, he made a decision. He felt bad for the man and woman. By the end of the day, their kind smiles looked tired, their fine clothes seemed worn, and their fancy car that purred that morning started groaning for more gas.
When Jacob saw his future, he made a promise. He vowed to look for the beautiful in every day. He promised to let his brothers take a turn more often. He made a commitment to whine less and help more.
When Jacob saw his future, he hoped it would make a difference. He started to see that the boy he was would make the man he would become. He wanted to make those kids in the backseat know how to be nice. He knew it was up to him to show them how.
When Jacob saw his future, he changed his present. When he got back to the bottom of the hill, he was wearing that red scarf. He confidently stomped through the crunchy snow, dragging that rusty, bent, waste of a tin trash lid solidly in his grip. He breathed in the hard sunshine, relished in the icy pain in his fingers, and couldn't wait for his future to begin.
When Jacob saw his future, he'd been sledding up Grant's Hill.
His brothers sat up the night before in their room, calculating the speed, weight, and friction necessary to get down their hill and up to their neighbor's. They waited until their parents left for work and headed outside with their caps and mittens, and a trashcan lid. They found the spot that had the fewest trees to get in the way. They heaved and hoed and sent Jacob careening down hill and back up again.
When Jacob saw his future, it happened so fast, he almost missed it. First he saw the scarf, red, rich, wool. Then he saw the hand, rough, strong, soft. Then he saw the smile. In an instant Jacob knew he didn't want to slide back down the hill, go inside and drink hot chocolate and watch Wheel of Fortune. So he reached out. Mesmerized by time and fate, both Jacobs grabbed the other's hand. The scarf fell onto Jacob's face, fuzzy and scratchy as his future helped him up. When he was standing (and could see), he realized he wasn't on Grant's hill, or anywhere near his neighborhood. For a second, he wondered if he was in heaven. The sun was so shiny, bouncing off of every surface, and the streets and buildings were lined with palm trees.
When Jacob saw his future, he thought he must be dreaming. He woke up in a red sports car that matched the red scarf. He looked around at the car full of people that looked like his family and wondered if these were the California cousins, as his dad liked to call his mom's sister's family. He was sitting between two kids in the back, listening to music with their earphones, and playing with gray square toys Jacob had never seen before.
When Jacob saw his future, he was disappointed. The day was gorgeous, but he could barely pay attention with all the bickering in the back seat. The lunch they ate at a restaurant was delicious, but everyone complained anyway. The clothes the man and woman bought their children were fancy and expensive, but the girl complained that she wanted something else, and the boy barely grumbled when his mom held up a shirt for him to look at.
When Jacob saw his future, he started to rethink his present. How many times did he or his brothers fight about what show to watch on television or what kind of ice cream to buy? How many times did they grumble about their chores or fail to say thank you when their mom made dinner?
When Jacob saw his future, he made a decision. He felt bad for the man and woman. By the end of the day, their kind smiles looked tired, their fine clothes seemed worn, and their fancy car that purred that morning started groaning for more gas.
When Jacob saw his future, he made a promise. He vowed to look for the beautiful in every day. He promised to let his brothers take a turn more often. He made a commitment to whine less and help more.
When Jacob saw his future, he hoped it would make a difference. He started to see that the boy he was would make the man he would become. He wanted to make those kids in the backseat know how to be nice. He knew it was up to him to show them how.
When Jacob saw his future, he changed his present. When he got back to the bottom of the hill, he was wearing that red scarf. He confidently stomped through the crunchy snow, dragging that rusty, bent, waste of a tin trash lid solidly in his grip. He breathed in the hard sunshine, relished in the icy pain in his fingers, and couldn't wait for his future to begin.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
To Archetype or Not To Archetype...
I have always been entranced with the idea of writing that challenges what writing is supposed to do. I love when art rebels against itself. I love how, when writing a poem and finding the language and space that poem occupies, that the urge to tear down the continuity of what I'd just created tears through me to the page.
Included in my To-Do list are: write a story that tells the hero's journey backward, write one in which the typical steps are followed but out of cadence, write one that defies the pattern of storytelling we are so familiar with.
I wrote a children's book that feels alien, foreign to me. The tone feels off, it's too preachy, it feels like a 1950s coca-cola ad. Maybe that's the point. I dreamed this book.
Writing it was like recreating a dream we can barely recall from the early morning haze and fluff we often ignore. I am afraid that revising this story so that it makes sense might unravel the very thread I liked about it in the first place.
I talked about it with some friends and it seemed to make little sense. The questions they raised were great and necessary. When I got home and re-read what I'd actually written, I realized that there wasn't so much inconsistency in the plot, but that didn't make me like it any more.
To say that I hate the book would be dishonest. Clearly, when the idea of scrapping certain details rattles me to my core. No, I love the book. It must be written. Yet, I don't like the way I wrote it. I did not write a book that I would like to read.
Or did I?
I read all of Laura Ingall's Little House books when I was little. I love grainy old westerns. I still watch Lassie and Andy Griffith. Part of me is nostalgic for the simplicity with which the "good old days" were presented. Where children and adults alike speak in such sensible tones. The dialogue in those shows (Dobie Gillis) were never realistic. Did people ever really speak like they did on TV?
Now, of course, we expect that dialogue seem realistic. That characterization is plausible. But don't any of you still yearn for the kind of dishonesty in dialogue that betrays the writer's wish for society? Ought we not show the best ideas of our characters? After all, are we watching art to find ourselves reflected as we are, or as we wish to be?
Included in my To-Do list are: write a story that tells the hero's journey backward, write one in which the typical steps are followed but out of cadence, write one that defies the pattern of storytelling we are so familiar with.
I wrote a children's book that feels alien, foreign to me. The tone feels off, it's too preachy, it feels like a 1950s coca-cola ad. Maybe that's the point. I dreamed this book.
Writing it was like recreating a dream we can barely recall from the early morning haze and fluff we often ignore. I am afraid that revising this story so that it makes sense might unravel the very thread I liked about it in the first place.
I talked about it with some friends and it seemed to make little sense. The questions they raised were great and necessary. When I got home and re-read what I'd actually written, I realized that there wasn't so much inconsistency in the plot, but that didn't make me like it any more.
To say that I hate the book would be dishonest. Clearly, when the idea of scrapping certain details rattles me to my core. No, I love the book. It must be written. Yet, I don't like the way I wrote it. I did not write a book that I would like to read.
Or did I?
I read all of Laura Ingall's Little House books when I was little. I love grainy old westerns. I still watch Lassie and Andy Griffith. Part of me is nostalgic for the simplicity with which the "good old days" were presented. Where children and adults alike speak in such sensible tones. The dialogue in those shows (Dobie Gillis) were never realistic. Did people ever really speak like they did on TV?
Now, of course, we expect that dialogue seem realistic. That characterization is plausible. But don't any of you still yearn for the kind of dishonesty in dialogue that betrays the writer's wish for society? Ought we not show the best ideas of our characters? After all, are we watching art to find ourselves reflected as we are, or as we wish to be?
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Unlikely Vindication
We are moving our oldest son to college this week. I have dreamed of this day for as long as I can remember. I was not much older when I had him, and have questioned whether my raising him myself was a selfish act or a selfless one. I can say, at the time, it felt pretty selfish. I could barely take care of myself. I couldn't order a pizza without stuttering. I was afraid to make money (will address that issue in my poetry--dailyprosetry.blogspot.com). But I did it. It was hard at times; we were pretty poor and I worked really hard, but I always fell short of my expectations. I think that is what makes his departure from our home so sweet: it feels like despite my poverty, my naivete, I succeeded in raising a (so far) pretty great young man.
I can't let myself off the hook, though. Dr. Phil says not to parent out of guilt, and I agree, although that is sometimes difficult. But what I am really guilty of is parenting out of fear. I have been terrified, from the day he was born, of being incapable of being a good mother to him. It is the circumstances of my youth. My youngest son doesn't plague me with fears and I feel pretty great about myself most of the time, but this, this is my fear. That I've wronged him by making him mine. Pretty heady thought to be knocking around the old noggin for a couple of decades.
Over the years, I've heard it alot: You don't look old enough to have a son that old. I smile gracefully and go about my business. Or I did until last month.
I attended freshman orientation with my son, alone. The parents took separate tours from the students. On the last day, midafternoon, some of us were risking a serious reprimand from the orientation volunteers for sneaking in a coffee break during a session. A few of us were chatting in line, waiting to order the best coffee I'd smelled since arriving on campus. While we were waiting for our coffee, a woman in the group I'd been talking to, who'd already fixed her coffee to her liking, grabbed my arm and said, "I have to be honest."
Now, I'm sure you agree that those words are not followed by anything gracious, polite, or worth uttering. This occurence was no different. "You look like you could be a student here." I smiled, searching fruitlessly for a tactful retort as she (no lie) turned on her heel and smugly walked away, leaving me flustered in front of the other moms.
A rock was in my gut for weeks over this. At the time I was pretty heated, and that night, when I relayed the conversation with my husband, I was downright pissed. Eventually, the emotional dust settled, and my dignity stayed intact.
What she meant to say was this: "You are a statistical nightmare as a mom, and yet your progeny has landed exactly where mine has, and I did everything right. I pre-paid his college. I married a dentist (or whatever...no offense to dentists or their wives). Your kid shouldn't be here. I'm better than you".
Unfortunately for her, my ears and memory are shot these days. What I have chosen to remember is this: "Your son didn't stand a chance, statistically, yet here he is with all of our kids, the people who did everything they were supposed to. He is on a level playing field with our kids, and that really pisses me off."
Well good, I'm glad you're pissed, you're threatened. And I hope my boy kicks ass in college and really makes his life something grand. He worked hard to get there. I worked hard to get him there.
I owe that woman my gratitude. My fears fell away with her words. A little. They were replaced with pride, not for him, but in myself. In choosing to raise him on my own, I didn't fail him. Her words were proof. We beat the odds.
Perhaps our struggles will make a stronger man out of him. After all, they made a more dignified woman of me.
I can't let myself off the hook, though. Dr. Phil says not to parent out of guilt, and I agree, although that is sometimes difficult. But what I am really guilty of is parenting out of fear. I have been terrified, from the day he was born, of being incapable of being a good mother to him. It is the circumstances of my youth. My youngest son doesn't plague me with fears and I feel pretty great about myself most of the time, but this, this is my fear. That I've wronged him by making him mine. Pretty heady thought to be knocking around the old noggin for a couple of decades.
Over the years, I've heard it alot: You don't look old enough to have a son that old. I smile gracefully and go about my business. Or I did until last month.
I attended freshman orientation with my son, alone. The parents took separate tours from the students. On the last day, midafternoon, some of us were risking a serious reprimand from the orientation volunteers for sneaking in a coffee break during a session. A few of us were chatting in line, waiting to order the best coffee I'd smelled since arriving on campus. While we were waiting for our coffee, a woman in the group I'd been talking to, who'd already fixed her coffee to her liking, grabbed my arm and said, "I have to be honest."
Now, I'm sure you agree that those words are not followed by anything gracious, polite, or worth uttering. This occurence was no different. "You look like you could be a student here." I smiled, searching fruitlessly for a tactful retort as she (no lie) turned on her heel and smugly walked away, leaving me flustered in front of the other moms.
A rock was in my gut for weeks over this. At the time I was pretty heated, and that night, when I relayed the conversation with my husband, I was downright pissed. Eventually, the emotional dust settled, and my dignity stayed intact.
What she meant to say was this: "You are a statistical nightmare as a mom, and yet your progeny has landed exactly where mine has, and I did everything right. I pre-paid his college. I married a dentist (or whatever...no offense to dentists or their wives). Your kid shouldn't be here. I'm better than you".
Unfortunately for her, my ears and memory are shot these days. What I have chosen to remember is this: "Your son didn't stand a chance, statistically, yet here he is with all of our kids, the people who did everything they were supposed to. He is on a level playing field with our kids, and that really pisses me off."
Well good, I'm glad you're pissed, you're threatened. And I hope my boy kicks ass in college and really makes his life something grand. He worked hard to get there. I worked hard to get him there.
I owe that woman my gratitude. My fears fell away with her words. A little. They were replaced with pride, not for him, but in myself. In choosing to raise him on my own, I didn't fail him. Her words were proof. We beat the odds.
Perhaps our struggles will make a stronger man out of him. After all, they made a more dignified woman of me.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Sunsets and Sandspurs and...
Sunsets and Sandspurs pretty much sum up life in Florida. They are constant reminders of the beauty in life, and life's little annoyances. Our days are filled with each. I have never learned to wear shoes down here, despite the fact that going barefoot almost guarantees hopping back into the house and pulling a traveler out of my heel or the ball of my feet. The sensible thing to do would be to slip on some shoes before checking the mail or taking out the trash. Being a Floridian means you don't always have to be sensible.
"I believe there is magic here." --Kenny Chesney
I believe Kenny is discussing Key West in that song, but I believe it applies to where I live, south of Tampa. The gulf coast boasts amazing sunsets that my mother rarely missed, and moved out to Matlacha, a small fishing village in Pine Island Sound to ensure her evening ritual. She'd say, "I'm going to catch a sunset." She meant she was going to spend a magical hour or two enjoying the view with a good friend and maybe a good drink.
The years she lived on Matlacha were magical for me. She and her friends would sit and chat on a porch or a dock, on the lookout for dolphins, and gaining inspiration. Just sitting in on these pow-wows made me feel like a priestess-in-training, a squaw* learning the path of healer, dreamwalker, chief. I felt the magic of those hours and that place deep within, with the certainty of knowing my own name.
When my mom died, her children fulfilled her final request. We set her canoe in the waters of her backyard, rowed out among the mangroves and told our favorite stories. We sang a song of remembrance, Sarah MacLachlan's "Angel" and poured her ashes in those waters to "swim with the dolphins".
I feel the magic of her presence when I see dolphins while boating with friends, on the drive through the Everglades on the way to the Keys or a Miami Dolphins game. I sense her during great sunsets, especially after a rain.
If you're still with me, you may now understand the intention behind my Fantasy novel-in-progress, FaerieWolf. I hope to infuse the magic of this place, as discerned through those magical sunsets, into a work that argues for and defends her life's journey of healer, champion of those misunderstood and often mistreated. My mother is Jewely Patchouli and she is my Butterfly Queen.
*For anyone critical of my usage of this often inflammatory term, know that it was a term of affection from her to me, along with "girl-child". She used it when she was imparting ancient wisdom to me. My great-grandmother, Minnie Lalonde, was an Ojibwe woman who married a frenchman, Joseph. I do not seek to disrespect, conflate, or dishonor anyone with my words, and sincerely apologize if I do so. Please refer to the following link for further information of this term and its usage.
http://www.nativeweb.org/pages/legal/squaw.html
"I believe there is magic here." --Kenny Chesney
I believe Kenny is discussing Key West in that song, but I believe it applies to where I live, south of Tampa. The gulf coast boasts amazing sunsets that my mother rarely missed, and moved out to Matlacha, a small fishing village in Pine Island Sound to ensure her evening ritual. She'd say, "I'm going to catch a sunset." She meant she was going to spend a magical hour or two enjoying the view with a good friend and maybe a good drink.
The years she lived on Matlacha were magical for me. She and her friends would sit and chat on a porch or a dock, on the lookout for dolphins, and gaining inspiration. Just sitting in on these pow-wows made me feel like a priestess-in-training, a squaw* learning the path of healer, dreamwalker, chief. I felt the magic of those hours and that place deep within, with the certainty of knowing my own name.
When my mom died, her children fulfilled her final request. We set her canoe in the waters of her backyard, rowed out among the mangroves and told our favorite stories. We sang a song of remembrance, Sarah MacLachlan's "Angel" and poured her ashes in those waters to "swim with the dolphins".
I feel the magic of her presence when I see dolphins while boating with friends, on the drive through the Everglades on the way to the Keys or a Miami Dolphins game. I sense her during great sunsets, especially after a rain.
If you're still with me, you may now understand the intention behind my Fantasy novel-in-progress, FaerieWolf. I hope to infuse the magic of this place, as discerned through those magical sunsets, into a work that argues for and defends her life's journey of healer, champion of those misunderstood and often mistreated. My mother is Jewely Patchouli and she is my Butterfly Queen.
*For anyone critical of my usage of this often inflammatory term, know that it was a term of affection from her to me, along with "girl-child". She used it when she was imparting ancient wisdom to me. My great-grandmother, Minnie Lalonde, was an Ojibwe woman who married a frenchman, Joseph. I do not seek to disrespect, conflate, or dishonor anyone with my words, and sincerely apologize if I do so. Please refer to the following link for further information of this term and its usage.
http://www.nativeweb.org/pages/legal/squaw.html
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Becoming Todd Jarren Andersen
December, 2010
No one was there when the boy appeared on the swingset at Palm Ridge park, but if they had been, they wouldn't have believed it anyway. Pat and Teresa Andersen were the ones to discover him, which made it all the more strange, especially that night. They were walking home from dinner, on an anniversary of sorts, at around 11 oclock when they saw the boy.
He was unresponsive about who he was, where he'd come from. They didn't quite know what to do with him. They were more apprehensive than most adults in their situation would have been, but no one faults them for it. They finally agreed on taking him to the hospital to be checked for trauma and later, the police department to see if the boy fit any descriptions of a missing child.
Detective Burkie arrived at the hospital while the Andersens were still checking the boy in. She couldn't believe what she saw. It was striking, the similarities. She'd been at the call 7 years prior. More important than that, their boys' had swum together. TJ had joined them on vacation to Disney. He called her "other mom". But she was no rookie. The years had to swim together in the back of her mind, tomorrow morning on her day off, tonight with some wine when she could talk it over with Jack. Not now. Especially not when they have to be dying inside. All business."What's your name, sweetie?" she asked.
"TJ", the boy answered. He seemed oblivious to the gasps. To the clacking of a passing nurse's clipboard. It was a small town, after all.
Teresa turned inside Pat's arms and folded herself into his chest. She felt too wobbly to walk and as though she might get sick. Gulping big half sobs, she allowed herself to be led away. They stopped in front of a vending machine. She was too racked to ask the question on her lips, he was too consumed himself to answer. They rocked and swayed as Sarah questioned the boy.
They followed her to the precinct two hours later to reaffirm that he was not a missing persons case. Sarah called Judge Hack out of bed to determine placement. The social worker assigned to the case agreed with the judge: there was no better home for the boy than the Andersen's.
They traveled home in silence, which the boy seemed comfortable with. He smiled when they showed him his room, with TJ painted on the wall in bright blue letters. They tucked him in, by now moving in stiff detached motions, and stood by the door until they heard his soft, loud, almost heaving slow into a dreamstate.
They walked in a dreamstate of their own and crawled noiselessly into bed. They fell asleep facing each other, holding hands, knees drawn up as though in prayer, their tear-stained cheeks providing stripes of cool even as the furnace blew on their faces.
They awoke to the smell of burning toast, running out in time to fan the over-vigilant smoke detector. As if it were stage choreography, they each take a towel and begin to shake them in the air.
"What are you doing?" TJ asks.
"Fire drill", they both reply between giggles. They used to laugh all the time, but the years have drawn their mouths down into serious crescents. This old joke, from Before Disaster is the only thing that ever draws a smile these days, aside from the old stand-up tapes they have from college. They don't even have a player to play them, but they don't need one. The best clips are regularly sewn into their conversation. One last vestige of normal. In fact, that easy conversation point, that one parlor trick, saves countless uncomfortable moments around town. They provide the illusion that for Pat and Teresa life had the ability to surprise them, had joy infused in the small moments. Little did their townsfolk really understand that it was more muscle memory than a genuine response to life's little quirks. They didn't have much time to appreciate life's little quirks, ever since they became part of life's big joke.
But this was different. The sun shone in through the window just so, and their laughter had a bubbly quality of one truly amused. Not by a clever observation, but of the simple irony of the situation. This was a truly novel moment.
They laughed themselves into tears, and it took them until the eggs were cooked and the juice poured to bring themselves to explain the joke.
"I don't get it," TJ said.
"Okay" Pat tried again. He swigged some juice. "You know how when you have a fire drill at school, everyone lines up and the teacher gets the keys and you head outside to a designated spot?"
"Yeah, but..."
"Well, our smoke detector has always been hyper-sensitive. The builders put one on either side of the stove, so it goes off almost every time we cook."
TJ starts to laugh.
"Get it?"
"No, but I was afraid I'd ruined the morning with my terrible cooking."
"Don't get me wrong the toast is awful." Teresa choked out, struggling with a charred end. She smiled when she saw TJ's shocked face. "Just kidding, kid. This was sweet. Reminds me of something our boy would do."
"You have a son?"
"Yeah, and that was his first real joke. When the alarm would ring, he'd run and get a towel and yell 'Fire Drill!' The first time my mom heard him, it took us even longer to explain that TJ understood the concept of an actual drill than it did to explain the joke to you."
"Wait, you have a son...and his name is..." TJ chugged the rest of his OJ. "TJ?"
***
August 2003
TJ entered Ms. Sanchez's first grade classroom slowly. He was a good enough reader to know that none of his friends from kindergarten were inside. He found his desk and began putting his supplies inside, organized by color and smell. The smelly pencils belonged in the back, away from jealous eyes. They were his emergency pencils, for when he would undoubtedly need a pick me up. He worked methodically like this when he was 'scoping out the scene'. One of cool Uncle Jay's terms. He hadn't felt grown up enough to try it out loud yet, and was hoping today would be the day. Maybe in lunch line with Alex Dumfries or Serge Romansky. Not likely now that he's checked out his class.
"You dropped one."
TJ didn't look up to see the speaker, instead he eyed the ground for the missing pencil. He stole a look at the shoes, ratty gray converse high tops, before drawing a deep breath. "Thanks."
He looked up and saw a kid that could have been his cousin. Longer eyelashes maybe. Thinner lips, for sure. But enough similarity for him to smile wider than he wanted to. He stuck out his hand. "TJ".
"Kevin."
He used his phrase and three others of Uncle Jay's that day at lunch. Kevin cracked him up and ate the dried apricots mom insisted were as good as fruit by the foot. They weren't. Kevin was kind enough not to notice.
***
January, 2010
TJ Andersen enrolled in school after the New Year. He seemed oblivious to the stares and double-takes. He quietly found a seat and took out his supplies.
TJ worked hard, and it paid off. He brought home neat work with good grades. The Andersens' refrigerator was once again adorned with "Great Work"s and 'A'-pluses.
While the teachers were boosting his confidence, the kids kept a safe distance. Many of them looked at him like they were seeing a ghost. Some of them still had pictures of the "other TJ" at home, in yearbooks, in scrapbooks. He wasn't quite a dead-ringer, but the resemblance was still remarkable. It wasn't just that. He seemed familiar. He seemed like part of their childhood. It was that they felt almost comfortable around him that made his presence the most odd.
So, they did what most 8th-graders do when confronted with an emotionally confusing situation: they ignored him. Loudly, and on purpose. They laughed a little louder than usual, bullies befriended their victims, joking and sharing food like old friends. It was like he brought the whole school closer together just by being the weird new/old kid.
No one was there when the boy appeared on the swingset at Palm Ridge park, but if they had been, they wouldn't have believed it anyway. Pat and Teresa Andersen were the ones to discover him, which made it all the more strange, especially that night. They were walking home from dinner, on an anniversary of sorts, at around 11 oclock when they saw the boy.
He was unresponsive about who he was, where he'd come from. They didn't quite know what to do with him. They were more apprehensive than most adults in their situation would have been, but no one faults them for it. They finally agreed on taking him to the hospital to be checked for trauma and later, the police department to see if the boy fit any descriptions of a missing child.
Detective Burkie arrived at the hospital while the Andersens were still checking the boy in. She couldn't believe what she saw. It was striking, the similarities. She'd been at the call 7 years prior. More important than that, their boys' had swum together. TJ had joined them on vacation to Disney. He called her "other mom". But she was no rookie. The years had to swim together in the back of her mind, tomorrow morning on her day off, tonight with some wine when she could talk it over with Jack. Not now. Especially not when they have to be dying inside. All business."What's your name, sweetie?" she asked.
"TJ", the boy answered. He seemed oblivious to the gasps. To the clacking of a passing nurse's clipboard. It was a small town, after all.
Teresa turned inside Pat's arms and folded herself into his chest. She felt too wobbly to walk and as though she might get sick. Gulping big half sobs, she allowed herself to be led away. They stopped in front of a vending machine. She was too racked to ask the question on her lips, he was too consumed himself to answer. They rocked and swayed as Sarah questioned the boy.
They followed her to the precinct two hours later to reaffirm that he was not a missing persons case. Sarah called Judge Hack out of bed to determine placement. The social worker assigned to the case agreed with the judge: there was no better home for the boy than the Andersen's.
They traveled home in silence, which the boy seemed comfortable with. He smiled when they showed him his room, with TJ painted on the wall in bright blue letters. They tucked him in, by now moving in stiff detached motions, and stood by the door until they heard his soft, loud, almost heaving slow into a dreamstate.
They walked in a dreamstate of their own and crawled noiselessly into bed. They fell asleep facing each other, holding hands, knees drawn up as though in prayer, their tear-stained cheeks providing stripes of cool even as the furnace blew on their faces.
They awoke to the smell of burning toast, running out in time to fan the over-vigilant smoke detector. As if it were stage choreography, they each take a towel and begin to shake them in the air.
"What are you doing?" TJ asks.
"Fire drill", they both reply between giggles. They used to laugh all the time, but the years have drawn their mouths down into serious crescents. This old joke, from Before Disaster is the only thing that ever draws a smile these days, aside from the old stand-up tapes they have from college. They don't even have a player to play them, but they don't need one. The best clips are regularly sewn into their conversation. One last vestige of normal. In fact, that easy conversation point, that one parlor trick, saves countless uncomfortable moments around town. They provide the illusion that for Pat and Teresa life had the ability to surprise them, had joy infused in the small moments. Little did their townsfolk really understand that it was more muscle memory than a genuine response to life's little quirks. They didn't have much time to appreciate life's little quirks, ever since they became part of life's big joke.
But this was different. The sun shone in through the window just so, and their laughter had a bubbly quality of one truly amused. Not by a clever observation, but of the simple irony of the situation. This was a truly novel moment.
They laughed themselves into tears, and it took them until the eggs were cooked and the juice poured to bring themselves to explain the joke.
"I don't get it," TJ said.
"Okay" Pat tried again. He swigged some juice. "You know how when you have a fire drill at school, everyone lines up and the teacher gets the keys and you head outside to a designated spot?"
"Yeah, but..."
"Well, our smoke detector has always been hyper-sensitive. The builders put one on either side of the stove, so it goes off almost every time we cook."
TJ starts to laugh.
"Get it?"
"No, but I was afraid I'd ruined the morning with my terrible cooking."
"Don't get me wrong the toast is awful." Teresa choked out, struggling with a charred end. She smiled when she saw TJ's shocked face. "Just kidding, kid. This was sweet. Reminds me of something our boy would do."
"You have a son?"
"Yeah, and that was his first real joke. When the alarm would ring, he'd run and get a towel and yell 'Fire Drill!' The first time my mom heard him, it took us even longer to explain that TJ understood the concept of an actual drill than it did to explain the joke to you."
"Wait, you have a son...and his name is..." TJ chugged the rest of his OJ. "TJ?"
***
August 2003
TJ entered Ms. Sanchez's first grade classroom slowly. He was a good enough reader to know that none of his friends from kindergarten were inside. He found his desk and began putting his supplies inside, organized by color and smell. The smelly pencils belonged in the back, away from jealous eyes. They were his emergency pencils, for when he would undoubtedly need a pick me up. He worked methodically like this when he was 'scoping out the scene'. One of cool Uncle Jay's terms. He hadn't felt grown up enough to try it out loud yet, and was hoping today would be the day. Maybe in lunch line with Alex Dumfries or Serge Romansky. Not likely now that he's checked out his class.
"You dropped one."
TJ didn't look up to see the speaker, instead he eyed the ground for the missing pencil. He stole a look at the shoes, ratty gray converse high tops, before drawing a deep breath. "Thanks."
He looked up and saw a kid that could have been his cousin. Longer eyelashes maybe. Thinner lips, for sure. But enough similarity for him to smile wider than he wanted to. He stuck out his hand. "TJ".
"Kevin."
He used his phrase and three others of Uncle Jay's that day at lunch. Kevin cracked him up and ate the dried apricots mom insisted were as good as fruit by the foot. They weren't. Kevin was kind enough not to notice.
***
January, 2010
TJ Andersen enrolled in school after the New Year. He seemed oblivious to the stares and double-takes. He quietly found a seat and took out his supplies.
TJ worked hard, and it paid off. He brought home neat work with good grades. The Andersens' refrigerator was once again adorned with "Great Work"s and 'A'-pluses.
While the teachers were boosting his confidence, the kids kept a safe distance. Many of them looked at him like they were seeing a ghost. Some of them still had pictures of the "other TJ" at home, in yearbooks, in scrapbooks. He wasn't quite a dead-ringer, but the resemblance was still remarkable. It wasn't just that. He seemed familiar. He seemed like part of their childhood. It was that they felt almost comfortable around him that made his presence the most odd.
So, they did what most 8th-graders do when confronted with an emotionally confusing situation: they ignored him. Loudly, and on purpose. They laughed a little louder than usual, bullies befriended their victims, joking and sharing food like old friends. It was like he brought the whole school closer together just by being the weird new/old kid.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Walk your Talk
I used to write as though I had an undisclosed amount of words available to me, like in Eddie Murphy's A Thousand Words. Perhaps this came from my mother telling me about an old proverb that said as much whenever she tired of my babbling, which was often. Unfortunately for her, that warning never translated into limiting my chatter. Unfortunately for me, it has persistently steered me from writing the way I'd like. I always wanted to be brave enough to write as though I could write all I wanted every day for the rest of my life and never run out of words. I know writers like that. You know writers like that. They make it look so easy. Too easy.
I've always told my students that writing is like drawing water from a faucet. If you leave it running regularly, the water comes out clean and evenly. In abandoned homes, where the water's been turned off, though, the water doesn't come out at all, and then a rusty spurt falls down the drain, and sputters and long stints of silence commence before the water flows freely. I truly believe writing is like that. I have experienced the truth in my theory, yet I stare at a blank page more often than not, afraid to begin. I can rationalize that if I don't like what I put down, I can erase it, delete it, throw it away. But that prospect is terrifying.
Why is that? We don't always feel so attached to what comes out of us, we don't speak as though we can never take back words or revise our ideas, yet many of us write as though we are Moses, etching the commandments into stone.For this reason, I treat my students' writer's block with loving understanding. I've been there. Yesterday. So again I give my spiel as I see their eyes glaze over, as mine would, were the roles reversed.
But I don't walk my talk. When I give an assignment, why only make one exemplar text, if any? It's my assignment. I'm telling children to do something I'm not willing to do myself, or more than once. That's not cool. I could easily write an exemplar each period that my students are writing, so that by the end of the day, they have a half-dozen different examples of what I am looking for.
Well, not anymore, my friends. My goal for the fall is no less than three exemplars for each writing task. And why not? According to my theory, each one should get progressively easier to write. Shouldn't it?
I've always told my students that writing is like drawing water from a faucet. If you leave it running regularly, the water comes out clean and evenly. In abandoned homes, where the water's been turned off, though, the water doesn't come out at all, and then a rusty spurt falls down the drain, and sputters and long stints of silence commence before the water flows freely. I truly believe writing is like that. I have experienced the truth in my theory, yet I stare at a blank page more often than not, afraid to begin. I can rationalize that if I don't like what I put down, I can erase it, delete it, throw it away. But that prospect is terrifying.
Why is that? We don't always feel so attached to what comes out of us, we don't speak as though we can never take back words or revise our ideas, yet many of us write as though we are Moses, etching the commandments into stone.For this reason, I treat my students' writer's block with loving understanding. I've been there. Yesterday. So again I give my spiel as I see their eyes glaze over, as mine would, were the roles reversed.
But I don't walk my talk. When I give an assignment, why only make one exemplar text, if any? It's my assignment. I'm telling children to do something I'm not willing to do myself, or more than once. That's not cool. I could easily write an exemplar each period that my students are writing, so that by the end of the day, they have a half-dozen different examples of what I am looking for.
Well, not anymore, my friends. My goal for the fall is no less than three exemplars for each writing task. And why not? According to my theory, each one should get progressively easier to write. Shouldn't it?
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