“Snow Flower and the Secret Fan is written with a stately but unremarkable prettiness; it is not a book that will make its mark for reasons of style. But Ms. See has worked enough joy, pain and dramatic weepiness …to give it a quiet staying power. It's liable to be read by women's groups and valued for its quaintness… But what will work best for this book is its own secret message: cultures vary, but old sames and same-olds don't change,” wrote Janet Maslin in the New York Times on August 15, 2005.
Maslin’s scathing review of Lisa See’s fourth novel shocks me because her argument that See’s book is melodramatic, quaint and typical cannot be reinforced with textual evidence. Throughout her review she calls this novel a soap opera and argues that the two main characters Snow Flower and Lily have “sudsy lives” that develop into the “rainstorms of bitchery” commonly associated “with this novel's underlying genre.” Although she wants to label this novel to be a soap opera/melodrama, Snowflower and the Secret Fan belongs to genre of historical fiction specifically and women’s literature more generally. See’s novel provides a fictional but reasonably accurate account of life in Nineteenth Century Chinese life derived from months of research. And even more importantly, the novel chronicles and examines the relationship of two women from early adolescence until death separates them in adulthood.
The two women in question are Snow Flower and Lily who are a laotong pair also called old sames (meaning they were born on the same day in the same year, hold the same place in their birth order, have the same number of living and dead siblings and started their foot-binding at the same age on the same day). A laotong match, which should last a lifetime, is a more intimate and committed relationship than an arranged marriage that allows husbands to have concubines. As Lily’s aunt explains, "A laotong relationship is made by choice for the purpose of emotional companionship and eternal fidelity. A marriage is not made by choice and has only one purpose – to have sons."
Emotional companionship is exactly what Snow Flower and Lily give each through tumultuous changes in their lives. Lily climbs up the social ladder as a result of to her beautiful and tiny “golden lily” feet while Snow Flower slides down tragically into destitution due to her father’s addiction to opium and whores. As their social spheres shift, communication becomes increasingly complicated. But thanks to nu shu (a secret women’s only language that they embroidered on the secret fan) and clandestine meetings in remote villages, their relationship continues, despite the disapproval of Lily’s new family, until a misunderstanding about their “eternal fidelity” triggers a regretful and tragic dispute that unravels their bond.
Snow Flower and Lily’s bond, which was allowed only after both girls completed the torturous process of foot binding, is in some way compensation for the agony that must be endured to become a woman and a wife. The comfort that they find in each other’s arms reinforces their value as females, giving them validation in a culture were girls are oppressed and underappreciated. Their passion for each other glides, over the years, into the areas of tenderness, love, eroticism, jealousy, fury, cruelty, retribution , isolation, regret, reconciliation, grief and repentance. Each emotion moves the narrative forward.
Yes, the action is fast-moving; drama is high in the inner-sanctum of the women’s sitting room; emotions are unbridled, but See does not teeter on the border of melodrama. Instead, she creates a fascinating portrayal of femininity in relation to social status and expected gender roles. The author details all kinds all female relationships: mother/daughter, mother-in-law/daughter-in-law/, aunt/niece, mistress/servant, matchmaker/client, cousins, biological sisters, sworn sisters and laotongs. Each relationship is multifaceted with its own unique rules. Although these relationships seem locked away in distant history, the complexities and intricacies of these female relationships are very much alive today in daily life and in women’s literature.
From start to finish, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan is a stunning novel that informs with historical facts, enlightens with intensely affecting prose, entertains with suspense and triumph and gracefully astonishes readers with grotesqueness, eroticism and brutality. Joy, sorrow, love, hate, jealously, compassion, life, death…it all exists in Lisa See’s wonderfully haunting and mesmerizing tale of female friendship. This novel is not just an example of great women’s literature it is a flawless novel within the canon of World Literature.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Book Clubs in Moderation
Today is my favorite day of the month – Book Club Day. This is the one time monthly when I hire a babysitter and head to a local coffee shop for an evening out with the ladies – an evening of thoughtful debate, great conversation, ridiculous but splendid non-book related tangents and a plethora of laughter. For the past few months, I have been posting my thoughts on our monthly selection the morning of our meeting. But since my post is typically a long-winded over-the-top ranting that lambastes the book and ridicules the author, it has been requested that I wait till after the book club meeting so that I don’t bias the discussion before it begins. A fair and reasonable request although I fear that I could be influenced my other book club members and forced to have an open-mind or even concede on a few of my assertions. But probably not, since I hated Little Bee last month and left the discussion feeling absolutely assured that I was right despite the numerous people who disagreed with me.
So instead of sharing my opinions (my, oh so many, strong opinions) on Lisa See’s Snowflower and the Secret Fan, I decided to think about my role as a book club moderator. About fifteen months ago, a bright and friendly attorney asked me, since I am a librarian, to take over for her as the moderator of a small but established book club. With little thought, I started facilitating book selection and moderating meetings. I did no research on the role of the book moderator or how to be a good moderator. Just read the book, brought some questions, lead the discussion and the let tangents fly. Our book club looks like most book clubs—some discussion about the book, a little debate about the issues in the book followed by hilarious conversations about kids, in-laws, husbands, ex-boyfriends, sex, food, Facebook and traumatic childhood memories. Really no subject is taboo. Each month, a good time is had by all; news of our fun spreads; and, we pick up a new member the following month. So based on the general happiness of the participants, I figured I was moderating like a good moderator should…but this might not be the case, according to a guide published on About.com on “How to Lead a Book Club.”
The article, written by Erin Collazo Miller, lists nine steps and two tips on how to be an effective book club moderator. Some of the advice is basic like: "Read the book; write down important page numbers; and come up with eight to ten questions about the book. Then, she advises book club moderators to allow others to comment first. Fascinating concept that I never not once tried and not sure if I would ever have that kind of willpower and self-control. I must admit in most cases I dominate the conversation. But in my defense, I am the mother of four and not a single one of kids bothers to listen to me. So when I have a trapped audience that seems to be listening, I exploit the opportunity to talk, talk and talk some more, sharing every trivial and random thought. Book Club tends to become The Adventures of the Garbageman’s Daughter Live, full of ridiculous anecdotes and raucous tangents, which according to Miller, I am suppose to be controlling.
She writes: “Rein in tangents… A little off topic conversation is fine, but you also want to respect the fact that people have read the book and expect to talk about it. As the facilitator, it is your job to recognize tangents and bring the discussion back to the book.” I suppose she would not approve of my one to three minute monthly tangent about purple news from the world of Prince. No one cares, but for a moment each book club it feels like is 1984 again. Then, we move onto the next tangent which normally involves my blog, my kids or my bad hair in some way.
But eventually, we get back to the book. So tonight when we return to the book, I should remember Miller’s tip, “Do not make dismissive statements toward other people's comments." Yeah, I have to say that one never occurred to me either. Sometimes people are just wrong and they need to know it. But I could soften my approach considering last month one of the moms sitting beside me begged for me to not chop off her fingers like the scene in Little Bee. Really she was never in any danger. She didn’t like the book either, so her fingers were safe.
So perhaps if I follow these tips tonight, there will be no need for impromptu foot-binding.
So instead of sharing my opinions (my, oh so many, strong opinions) on Lisa See’s Snowflower and the Secret Fan, I decided to think about my role as a book club moderator. About fifteen months ago, a bright and friendly attorney asked me, since I am a librarian, to take over for her as the moderator of a small but established book club. With little thought, I started facilitating book selection and moderating meetings. I did no research on the role of the book moderator or how to be a good moderator. Just read the book, brought some questions, lead the discussion and the let tangents fly. Our book club looks like most book clubs—some discussion about the book, a little debate about the issues in the book followed by hilarious conversations about kids, in-laws, husbands, ex-boyfriends, sex, food, Facebook and traumatic childhood memories. Really no subject is taboo. Each month, a good time is had by all; news of our fun spreads; and, we pick up a new member the following month. So based on the general happiness of the participants, I figured I was moderating like a good moderator should…but this might not be the case, according to a guide published on About.com on “How to Lead a Book Club.”
The article, written by Erin Collazo Miller, lists nine steps and two tips on how to be an effective book club moderator. Some of the advice is basic like: "Read the book; write down important page numbers; and come up with eight to ten questions about the book. Then, she advises book club moderators to allow others to comment first. Fascinating concept that I never not once tried and not sure if I would ever have that kind of willpower and self-control. I must admit in most cases I dominate the conversation. But in my defense, I am the mother of four and not a single one of kids bothers to listen to me. So when I have a trapped audience that seems to be listening, I exploit the opportunity to talk, talk and talk some more, sharing every trivial and random thought. Book Club tends to become The Adventures of the Garbageman’s Daughter Live, full of ridiculous anecdotes and raucous tangents, which according to Miller, I am suppose to be controlling.
She writes: “Rein in tangents… A little off topic conversation is fine, but you also want to respect the fact that people have read the book and expect to talk about it. As the facilitator, it is your job to recognize tangents and bring the discussion back to the book.” I suppose she would not approve of my one to three minute monthly tangent about purple news from the world of Prince. No one cares, but for a moment each book club it feels like is 1984 again. Then, we move onto the next tangent which normally involves my blog, my kids or my bad hair in some way.
But eventually, we get back to the book. So tonight when we return to the book, I should remember Miller’s tip, “Do not make dismissive statements toward other people's comments." Yeah, I have to say that one never occurred to me either. Sometimes people are just wrong and they need to know it. But I could soften my approach considering last month one of the moms sitting beside me begged for me to not chop off her fingers like the scene in Little Bee. Really she was never in any danger. She didn’t like the book either, so her fingers were safe.
So perhaps if I follow these tips tonight, there will be no need for impromptu foot-binding.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Skip the Creativity Training and Head to Your Library
No reading for a week can help you become a more creative person. I highly doubt it, and I am skeptical of this proposition put forth by several “creativity trainers” in my community and across the country. Of course, the whole concept of people building their careers on the fragile dreams and passionate desires of aspiring artists seems unsavory. But even if creativity trainers are legitimate and are not charlatans taking advantage of people’s hopes and aspirations, the proposal to restrict reading is simply cockamamie.
Art inspires art. Artists should devour work by other artists. Visual artists study the works of artists past and present in all different genres. Musicians absorb all types of music. And of course, writers read or at least they should. (Stephen King has admitted to never reading Tolstoy or Austen. Perhaps only a best-selling horror author would have the gumption to boast about his literary ignorance.)
Most creativity classes focus on inspiring and cultivating ingenuity and imaginativeness in everyday life. So when they are looking at influences that could stymie productivity, why just look at just reading? Although this is not an idea that I would ever endorse, why not just eliminate exposure to all types of art for a week? Simply ban books, magazines, newspapers, television shows, movies, theatre productions, museums, galleries, sculpture parks, music, and dance events for a week or month or however long it takes to nurture creativeness out of artistic depravity. I suppose this type of cessation does occur at writing retreats, where all kinds of writers recoil into an Emersonian environment, stripped of all distractions. Participants shed all their baggage and influences to find their own voice. It is not just a random purging of one type of influence.
Not only does the ban on reading seem random but it is absolutely counterproductive. When I am writing regularly, I read habitually. As a librarian, I do not read near the number of books as my colleagues who tend to finish more than one novel a week. In fact, my monthly book completion rates are so low I fear that the American Library Association would take back my Master of Library Science if they knew discovered what a bibliographic slacker I am. But as a writer, my reading habits are voracious with daily consumption of multiple essays as a sampling of poetry, plays, and fiction (more short stories than novels.) Each time I start reading a work of literary fiction, influences start appearing in my writing. Perhaps only I can see Colum McCann and Ian McEwan bleeding onto my page, but I know that their works give me the courage and motivation to push my style and intent. If I shield myself from those influences, I do not grow. Therefore, “creativity specialists” should be encouraging an equal regime of art consumption and art production. It is true that imitation will occur at first but eventually mimicking will transfer into originality and fecundity. Art begets art, and art begets creativity. Save yourself some money. Skip the creativity training and head to your local library and nearby art museum.
Art inspires art. Artists should devour work by other artists. Visual artists study the works of artists past and present in all different genres. Musicians absorb all types of music. And of course, writers read or at least they should. (Stephen King has admitted to never reading Tolstoy or Austen. Perhaps only a best-selling horror author would have the gumption to boast about his literary ignorance.)
Most creativity classes focus on inspiring and cultivating ingenuity and imaginativeness in everyday life. So when they are looking at influences that could stymie productivity, why just look at just reading? Although this is not an idea that I would ever endorse, why not just eliminate exposure to all types of art for a week? Simply ban books, magazines, newspapers, television shows, movies, theatre productions, museums, galleries, sculpture parks, music, and dance events for a week or month or however long it takes to nurture creativeness out of artistic depravity. I suppose this type of cessation does occur at writing retreats, where all kinds of writers recoil into an Emersonian environment, stripped of all distractions. Participants shed all their baggage and influences to find their own voice. It is not just a random purging of one type of influence.
Not only does the ban on reading seem random but it is absolutely counterproductive. When I am writing regularly, I read habitually. As a librarian, I do not read near the number of books as my colleagues who tend to finish more than one novel a week. In fact, my monthly book completion rates are so low I fear that the American Library Association would take back my Master of Library Science if they knew discovered what a bibliographic slacker I am. But as a writer, my reading habits are voracious with daily consumption of multiple essays as a sampling of poetry, plays, and fiction (more short stories than novels.) Each time I start reading a work of literary fiction, influences start appearing in my writing. Perhaps only I can see Colum McCann and Ian McEwan bleeding onto my page, but I know that their works give me the courage and motivation to push my style and intent. If I shield myself from those influences, I do not grow. Therefore, “creativity specialists” should be encouraging an equal regime of art consumption and art production. It is true that imitation will occur at first but eventually mimicking will transfer into originality and fecundity. Art begets art, and art begets creativity. Save yourself some money. Skip the creativity training and head to your local library and nearby art museum.
Monday, September 27, 2010
A Supportive Respite from an Endless Job
Demanding boss that cannot articulate his needs clearly but sure makes a lot of noise when he does not get his way. Long hours, very long hours, sometimes with double shifts, triple shifts and all-nighters. Almost never a “thank you” and never a day off. No time to be sick or to vacation alone. Of course, no paycheck, no employee discounts and certainly no 401K. This is the life of a stay-at-home mom.
Sure, the benefits are far more valuable than a dental plan. Afternoon hugs, lunches with a date who can eat for free, and the beauty of naptime. But, it is not just playdough and finger-painting. Stay-at-home motherhood can be very lonely and isolated, especially for first-time moms with newborns. Infants are not great conversationalists and working husbands are working, therefore, not emailing, texting and calling. For new moms who do not have peers with children, solitude becomes a reality and options seem so limited. But of course, not wanting to appear selfish or unloving, secluded moms do seek out options. The guilt of wanting more than just the baby or the fear of being labeled a bad mom keeps many women tied to the home.
I definitely was no exception. My first year of motherhood was riddled with loneliness, sadness and fear. I had no friends with kids and lost contact with my childless friends. My husband, who was just starting his career, worked more than twelve hours a day at least 6 six days a week. And, I was terrified to drive my baby anywhere – petrified of having a wreck that would hurt or kill him. So, I stayed home read and Derrida to my newborn until an acquaintance invited me to a MOMS Club Open House.
That day started my more than a decade-long involvement with the MOMS Club: Mothers Offering Mothers Support, a non-profit organization for part-time and full-time stay-at-home-moms. This group, which has chapters all over the world, focuses on mom-centered events that are held during the day. Stay-at-home moms and their kids get together for playdates, park visits, storytimes, tours and craft days. This is a great way for both mother and children to make connections outside the home. And of course, as a non-profit the MOMS Club is a helping organization in many ways. In addition to daily support through activities, the club provides additional help to members in crisis both locally and nationally. When the club isn’t helping their members, they are helping the community. Local chapters are required to implement meaningful service projects that help children; it is a great alternative to the Junior League if you are unable to meet their time commitment and want options for volunteerism with your kids in tow.
Over the years, MOMS Club has been there for me through three births, a family medical emergency, and my transition from stay-at-home-mom to part-time working-mom to full-time working-mom to stay-at-home-mom to my current status of part-time working mom. I have had the wonderful opportunity to spearhead activities that provide children in need with school supplies, winter coats and diapers. The club’s activities offer structure for my day; MOMS activities come first and everything else falls in line behind. But most importantly, I have established lasting friendships over the years thanks to the MOMS Club. And, if it was not for our group’s book club, I would still be reading Derrida instead of New York Times Best Sellers with narrating dogs and excessive sadomasochism. But nonetheless, MOMS Club is an integral part of my life.
For more information on the International MOMS Club or to find a chapter near you, please go to http://www.momsclub.org/
Sure, the benefits are far more valuable than a dental plan. Afternoon hugs, lunches with a date who can eat for free, and the beauty of naptime. But, it is not just playdough and finger-painting. Stay-at-home motherhood can be very lonely and isolated, especially for first-time moms with newborns. Infants are not great conversationalists and working husbands are working, therefore, not emailing, texting and calling. For new moms who do not have peers with children, solitude becomes a reality and options seem so limited. But of course, not wanting to appear selfish or unloving, secluded moms do seek out options. The guilt of wanting more than just the baby or the fear of being labeled a bad mom keeps many women tied to the home.
I definitely was no exception. My first year of motherhood was riddled with loneliness, sadness and fear. I had no friends with kids and lost contact with my childless friends. My husband, who was just starting his career, worked more than twelve hours a day at least 6 six days a week. And, I was terrified to drive my baby anywhere – petrified of having a wreck that would hurt or kill him. So, I stayed home read and Derrida to my newborn until an acquaintance invited me to a MOMS Club Open House.
That day started my more than a decade-long involvement with the MOMS Club: Mothers Offering Mothers Support, a non-profit organization for part-time and full-time stay-at-home-moms. This group, which has chapters all over the world, focuses on mom-centered events that are held during the day. Stay-at-home moms and their kids get together for playdates, park visits, storytimes, tours and craft days. This is a great way for both mother and children to make connections outside the home. And of course, as a non-profit the MOMS Club is a helping organization in many ways. In addition to daily support through activities, the club provides additional help to members in crisis both locally and nationally. When the club isn’t helping their members, they are helping the community. Local chapters are required to implement meaningful service projects that help children; it is a great alternative to the Junior League if you are unable to meet their time commitment and want options for volunteerism with your kids in tow.
Over the years, MOMS Club has been there for me through three births, a family medical emergency, and my transition from stay-at-home-mom to part-time working-mom to full-time working-mom to stay-at-home-mom to my current status of part-time working mom. I have had the wonderful opportunity to spearhead activities that provide children in need with school supplies, winter coats and diapers. The club’s activities offer structure for my day; MOMS activities come first and everything else falls in line behind. But most importantly, I have established lasting friendships over the years thanks to the MOMS Club. And, if it was not for our group’s book club, I would still be reading Derrida instead of New York Times Best Sellers with narrating dogs and excessive sadomasochism. But nonetheless, MOMS Club is an integral part of my life.
For more information on the International MOMS Club or to find a chapter near you, please go to http://www.momsclub.org/
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Ask Me, I’ll Give You What You Want
Obscene. Blasphemous. Violent. Smutty. Gory. Profane. Racially Charged. This how they describe it. They say, “No.” They say you can’t have it. They say that they know better. They say they are protecting children and preserving values in the community. They say, “No.”
I say, “Yes.” Yes, you can have what you want. Ask me and I will do my best to give you “obscene, blasphemous, violent, smutty, gory, profane, and racially charged” if that is what you want. If that is not what you want, I will help you find what you do want.
I am librarian. I will protect and defend your right to read what you want, even if you are a minor. Your local librarians will do the same, so give them a visit anytime. Please remember this week is Banned Books Week and a great time to check your local library to celebrate the freedom of reading.
I say, “Yes.” Yes, you can have what you want. Ask me and I will do my best to give you “obscene, blasphemous, violent, smutty, gory, profane, and racially charged” if that is what you want. If that is not what you want, I will help you find what you do want.
I am librarian. I will protect and defend your right to read what you want, even if you are a minor. Your local librarians will do the same, so give them a visit anytime. Please remember this week is Banned Books Week and a great time to check your local library to celebrate the freedom of reading.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Please Hold the Politics
When politicians jam up my phone lines with campaign messages, I hang up. When campaign canvassers knock at my door, I don't answer. When you incessantly post political tirades or generic soundbites on Facebook that don't passionately speak to why I should hold the same view as you, I hide your postings, or delete you if you are exceptionally insipid, racist, or homophobic.
Please keep your political opinions to yourself, everyone knows Facebook is the place to recount your grocery shopping experience, announce when your kid poops in the potty for the first time, and the spot to post pictures of the fancy $23.00 meal that you ate for lunch. You know that, right?
Please keep your political opinions to yourself, everyone knows Facebook is the place to recount your grocery shopping experience, announce when your kid poops in the potty for the first time, and the spot to post pictures of the fancy $23.00 meal that you ate for lunch. You know that, right?
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Volunteer Form
"Mom, you need to sign this and say you cannot volunteer now or ever. You have to do it. I don’t want you to come to my school, say something embarrassing and hurt my cred. You know like street cred, but we are not homeless, so I say cred," said the eleven-year-old year.
Form signed. Reporting for duty at 11:00 a.m. sharp on Wednesday.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
A Wonderful Surprise
Every woman, even if she does not admit it, wishes her husband would send flowers to her office. Well, today was my day. Of course, I don't work in an office and I don't spend my time in a stuffy cubicle. I am a public librarian and my desk is a huge reference desk -- a huge reference desk where I displayed my gorgeous bouquet this morning.
Yes, my co-workers and the general public were impressed by the beauty of the flowers and thoughtfulness of my husband. I teared-up, each time I read the card: "If I'd had known I was going on my last first date, I would have brought you lots of flowers then too." So sweet. So romantic. I am a lucky woman.
Today is the fifteen-year anniversary of our first date, which was sort of a blind-date/group get-together that was a sympathy set-up because I did not know anyone in Texas where I was attending graduate school. The other couples did not want or expect their matchmaking to work. But, when I saw him walk through the apartment door, I knew that I found my husband.
Handsome Husband, thank you for the beautiful flowers and a blissful 15 years with many more to come.
Ode to My Ugly Feet
Not huge but are not tiny either. A couple sizes smaller than the most common shoe size, my feet are really quite common looking. My heals are dry with slight chapping, cracking and peeling. My toes are rather tiny—baby toenails barely exist. Sometimes my toenails are painted, and sometimes not. Sometimes I paint them; sometimes a professional paints them, which always results in a plethora of Vietnamese chatter and laughter. Perhaps my nail tech is practicing for open-mic night or translating Letterman’s monologue from the previous night for his co-worker. Surely, it is a coincidence that he laughs as he jolts, jostles, and jams my toes with the cuticle board and trimmer.
After enduring the affliction of a pedicure, I adorn my feet with narrow silver, high-sandals. This is not necessarily to make my feet look more beautiful but to distract from my true curse, cankles. Yes, it is true that I could be Hilary Clinton’s foot double with my thick shapeless ankles that meld seamlessly and unattractively straight into my calves with no sinuousness whatsoever. I am half-human/half kitchen table.
Despite my legs that could hold up an entire buffet, my husband gives my feet very little thought. Sure, he would not complain if my feet were prettier. (More attention to foot hygiene is on my list for self-improvement along with baking cookies without black smoke-emanating bottoms, removing the yellow ring off the toilet the first day I see it, and getting Christmas cards out well before Valentine’s Day this year.) But even though my feet are not gorgeous, the size of my feet was not considered when my sweetheart proposed. The arches of my feet were never examined to determine how many children I would bear. My bones were never made to crack and break to fit into tiny shoes. My feet neither help nor hinder in me in my role as a librarian. My feet get me where I need go and help me stand tall.
Today, I celebrate my big, ugly, smelly feet
After enduring the affliction of a pedicure, I adorn my feet with narrow silver, high-sandals. This is not necessarily to make my feet look more beautiful but to distract from my true curse, cankles. Yes, it is true that I could be Hilary Clinton’s foot double with my thick shapeless ankles that meld seamlessly and unattractively straight into my calves with no sinuousness whatsoever. I am half-human/half kitchen table.
Despite my legs that could hold up an entire buffet, my husband gives my feet very little thought. Sure, he would not complain if my feet were prettier. (More attention to foot hygiene is on my list for self-improvement along with baking cookies without black smoke-emanating bottoms, removing the yellow ring off the toilet the first day I see it, and getting Christmas cards out well before Valentine’s Day this year.) But even though my feet are not gorgeous, the size of my feet was not considered when my sweetheart proposed. The arches of my feet were never examined to determine how many children I would bear. My bones were never made to crack and break to fit into tiny shoes. My feet neither help nor hinder in me in my role as a librarian. My feet get me where I need go and help me stand tall.
Today, I celebrate my big, ugly, smelly feet
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Glory of Writing and the Agony of Rewriting
Rewrites suck the joy out of my heart and the enamel off my teeth. I would rather go to the gynecologist, dentist and waxing parlor all in the same day than work on rewrites. I would rather be trapped in a room with a continual musical loop of the Jonas Brothers, Miley Cyrus and Miranda Cosgroove than edit and revise my writing.
Rewriting is why writing is my avocation instead of my vocation. First drafts bring happiness where rewrites bring misery. First drafts are pleasurable, gratifying and thrilling—pure hedonism. Every word feels sexy and beautiful; the flow is flawless; the tone is pitch-perfect; the metaphors soar like birds returning North in the Springtime. Self-love abounds with writing as a celebratory gesture….until the next day.
After the initial exaltation of writing the first draft, the actual seriousness and downright dreadfulness of the transcript appears. First drafts are terrible in nature, which is why they are called first drafts and not final drafts. In theory and in practice, rewriting should be the next step. Great in theory but in practice, rewriting is miserable, unsexy and downright tortuous.
For bloggers, rewriting is easy to skip. Other than small edits, mostly of a grammatical variety, it is easy to move on to the next hedonistic and enthralling experience known as today’s post with no regards for yesterday’s post and no planning for tomorrow’s post. Blogging is sensual and glorious. It is the splendor of first drafts without any of the pain of the rewriting process…well until now. If “writing is rewriting” then for this blogger, blogging will soon be re-blogging and more re-blogging until there is no more enamel on my teeth.
Rewriting is why writing is my avocation instead of my vocation. First drafts bring happiness where rewrites bring misery. First drafts are pleasurable, gratifying and thrilling—pure hedonism. Every word feels sexy and beautiful; the flow is flawless; the tone is pitch-perfect; the metaphors soar like birds returning North in the Springtime. Self-love abounds with writing as a celebratory gesture….until the next day.
After the initial exaltation of writing the first draft, the actual seriousness and downright dreadfulness of the transcript appears. First drafts are terrible in nature, which is why they are called first drafts and not final drafts. In theory and in practice, rewriting should be the next step. Great in theory but in practice, rewriting is miserable, unsexy and downright tortuous.
For bloggers, rewriting is easy to skip. Other than small edits, mostly of a grammatical variety, it is easy to move on to the next hedonistic and enthralling experience known as today’s post with no regards for yesterday’s post and no planning for tomorrow’s post. Blogging is sensual and glorious. It is the splendor of first drafts without any of the pain of the rewriting process…well until now. If “writing is rewriting” then for this blogger, blogging will soon be re-blogging and more re-blogging until there is no more enamel on my teeth.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Over-the-Counter Dreams
A Random Evening in 1982 at approximately 8:45 p.m.
“Time for bed. Line-up to take some dream-maker,” said the tall, bald man with a loving laugh.
The oldest sister punched her younger brother in the stomach and stepped on her younger sister’s toe to guarantee that she would be the first recipient of the green liquid that their grandfather dispensed. Afterwards, the children could not feel their tongues and their nasal passages quite possibly suffered third degree burns, but they always looked forward to the magical dreams that the green concoction roused.
Twelve hours later, the three kids woke for a large breakfast followed by riding tractors, harvesting corn, watching birds and visiting livestock. A perfect stay at their grandparent’s house.
A Random Evening in 2002 at approximately 8:45 p.m.
“Do you think he is wheezing? Is that a bug bite? I think he needs Benadryl. What do you think?” she asked her husband.
“He is only three. I think you have become a little too dependent on Benadryl to put him to sleep,” he replied.
“Well...” she said as a placeholder while formulating a response.
“NyQuil!” she exclaimed.
“No, Benadryl,” he said, confused by her outburst.
“NyQuil. He gave us NyQuil to go to sleep. My grandfather gave us NyQuil,” she said.
“Time for bed. Line-up to take some dream-maker,” said the tall, bald man with a loving laugh.
The oldest sister punched her younger brother in the stomach and stepped on her younger sister’s toe to guarantee that she would be the first recipient of the green liquid that their grandfather dispensed. Afterwards, the children could not feel their tongues and their nasal passages quite possibly suffered third degree burns, but they always looked forward to the magical dreams that the green concoction roused.
Twelve hours later, the three kids woke for a large breakfast followed by riding tractors, harvesting corn, watching birds and visiting livestock. A perfect stay at their grandparent’s house.
A Random Evening in 2002 at approximately 8:45 p.m.
“Do you think he is wheezing? Is that a bug bite? I think he needs Benadryl. What do you think?” she asked her husband.
“He is only three. I think you have become a little too dependent on Benadryl to put him to sleep,” he replied.
“Well...” she said as a placeholder while formulating a response.
“NyQuil!” she exclaimed.
“No, Benadryl,” he said, confused by her outburst.
“NyQuil. He gave us NyQuil to go to sleep. My grandfather gave us NyQuil,” she said.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sage Advice from a Competent Daughter
“You only have one kid at home now during the day. So, you have to keep up with him. Mom, I mean it, do not lose the baby,” she said with a touch of judgment.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Few Thoughts on the Facebook Status Update
After careful reflection and rumination, I have concluded that the Facebook Status Update is no longer an adequate or satisfying outlet for my creativity and artistry. Why should I spend hours crafting clever witticisms, acerbic quips and charming observations about art, literature, libraries, marriage, motherhood and celebrity gossip only to receive 7 or 8 “likes” (if you are the only person on the planet who is not on Facebook—i.e. my husband—this is a convention used in social networking to show appreciation or agreement with someone’s statements.)? I have spent hours rewriting Prince lyrics to reflect poignant moments in my life. I have spoofed the quintessential public service announcements on Facebook that do not do a damn thing but take up space in the Newsfeed. I have made pithy remarks about the intrinsic silliness of Facebook, which did get reposted by one person but only received three likes.
Three is simply not enough. I must admit my self-esteem suffers when I earn a low “like” count and one of my Facebook friends nets 27 “likes” for “My kid sneezed today, “ or when, “I love (but picture one of those stupid hearts instead of the word “love”) my dog” gets 19 likes and 15 comments. It is always those pet comments that land the most superficial Facebook love. Clearly, these superior Facebookers have many relatives who are giving them undeserved praise or they just have a lot of cyber-friends who are being nice now to compensate for being such assholes in high school. Wonder if I would get deleted if I responded: “Animals get aggravated and eat people. What is wrong with you?” Or, maybe I should try: “People really don’t like you. They just want to feel better about themselves by being kind to you with an insincere comment and a fake 'like'.”
Although I am not likely to make either one of those comments, please do not worry that my Facebook presence will fade. I will continue to read your updates and give you the feedback that you desire. It will be good for your self-esteem, and I (thanks to a new Facebook feature) can earn “ likes” for my witty responses. And of course, I’ll continue to post pictures of my gorgeous children. Kids who are as good looking as mine deserve multitudes of "likes."
But, as far as Facebook Status Updates are concerned, they are no longer an artistic outlet for me. It is not productive for me to spend hours writing and posting to Facebook, only to have my writing floating in Cyberspace unread, unappreciated and never thought of or edited by me again. It is far more productive for me to spend hours writing and posting to my blog, only to have my writing Cyberspace unread, unappreciated and never thought of or edited by me again. So Facebook Friends, I’ll see you at the Adventures of the Garbageman’s Daughter, http://garbagemansdaughter.blogspot.com/
Author’s Note: Of course, the RSS Feed for my blog will continue to appear on my Facebook profile, which I suppose makes me a hypocrite in my stance against the Facebook Status Update. But at this point, does anyone really expect my arguments to be rational, ethical, or logical?
Three is simply not enough. I must admit my self-esteem suffers when I earn a low “like” count and one of my Facebook friends nets 27 “likes” for “My kid sneezed today, “ or when, “I love (but picture one of those stupid hearts instead of the word “love”) my dog” gets 19 likes and 15 comments. It is always those pet comments that land the most superficial Facebook love. Clearly, these superior Facebookers have many relatives who are giving them undeserved praise or they just have a lot of cyber-friends who are being nice now to compensate for being such assholes in high school. Wonder if I would get deleted if I responded: “Animals get aggravated and eat people. What is wrong with you?” Or, maybe I should try: “People really don’t like you. They just want to feel better about themselves by being kind to you with an insincere comment and a fake 'like'.”
Although I am not likely to make either one of those comments, please do not worry that my Facebook presence will fade. I will continue to read your updates and give you the feedback that you desire. It will be good for your self-esteem, and I (thanks to a new Facebook feature) can earn “ likes” for my witty responses. And of course, I’ll continue to post pictures of my gorgeous children. Kids who are as good looking as mine deserve multitudes of "likes."
But, as far as Facebook Status Updates are concerned, they are no longer an artistic outlet for me. It is not productive for me to spend hours writing and posting to Facebook, only to have my writing floating in Cyberspace unread, unappreciated and never thought of or edited by me again. It is far more productive for me to spend hours writing and posting to my blog, only to have my writing Cyberspace unread, unappreciated and never thought of or edited by me again. So Facebook Friends, I’ll see you at the Adventures of the Garbageman’s Daughter, http://garbagemansdaughter.blogspot.com/
Author’s Note: Of course, the RSS Feed for my blog will continue to appear on my Facebook profile, which I suppose makes me a hypocrite in my stance against the Facebook Status Update. But at this point, does anyone really expect my arguments to be rational, ethical, or logical?
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Performance Review
"You are a sucky mom," said the five-year-old who was not allowed to open a box of candy in the car.
An Eleven-Year-Old's View on Cussing
"It is one syllable put together with another syllable. It is not like I punched someone," he said indignantly.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Pre-Teen Lexicon
If I removed the words, sick, sweet, epic, and peeps from my eleven-year-old's vocabulary, he would be a mute.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Could Be Technology Overkill
Seventy-six unread text messages. No contacts in the address book. Voicemail never set-up. Personal cell phone number not memorized and never given to anybody but my husband. This was the state of my $25 GO Phone when I retired it in favor of an iPhone 4, which was a thoughtful gift from my husband.
Four weeks later, no contacts in my address book. Personal cell phone number not memorized and only given to my husband. Five calls made, all to my husband. Seven calls received all from my husband with the exception of a lady looking for Jim.
But no complaints, I now can check Facebook at stoplights, send email at my daughter’s soccer practice, have yet another place to store Prince music and am ready to take candid pictures at all times. And, if there is ever an emergency, I might even be able to make a phone call.
Four weeks later, no contacts in my address book. Personal cell phone number not memorized and only given to my husband. Five calls made, all to my husband. Seven calls received all from my husband with the exception of a lady looking for Jim.
But no complaints, I now can check Facebook at stoplights, send email at my daughter’s soccer practice, have yet another place to store Prince music and am ready to take candid pictures at all times. And, if there is ever an emergency, I might even be able to make a phone call.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Family History
A big thank you to the Mancini family in Wilmington, Ohio for fastidiously detailing your family’s heartrending and inspiring story of emigrating from Italy to the United States. Thank you Simple Mom for your blog on unique family traditions. Thank you Google for indexing 650,071 recipes called “Grandma’s Lasagna.” Thank you Library of Congress for your American Memory Project and your many pictures of immigrants, especially that one where the man and his five daughters have cheekbones and almond-shape eyes that resemble my daughter’s.
With a little piece of family history from this URL and a little piece of family history from that URL, my daughter has an interesting, thorough, and earnest family history that fulfills the requirements for her third-grade assignment. Sure, not a word of it is true. But, isn’t that the American way? Immigrants came here to rewrite their pasts and to create new stories for future generations—exactly what I did with the help of Google. Since my ancestors squandered their American Dreams and didn’t do much other than drink and breed, I took it upon myself to re-imagine my heritage in relation to a four-point rubric that would get my daughter the highest grade possible. With my innovativeness, I prevented my daughter from telling her classmates: “Our strongest family traditions include: Watching grandma drink too many Bellini’s while she tosses the Christmas ham into the garbage disposal because no one appreciates how much she does for the family as well as driving to Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania, each summer, not to learn about history, but to spend all day at the horse races striving for upward mobility.
Silly birthday hats, the preparation of seven fish on Christmas Eve, family charade nights and multigenerational scrapbooking play well to an audience of eight-year-olds. Plus, her information comes from a trusted source—the most trusted source, her own mother. Her project is interesting and based on facts as they were told to her—completely worthy of stellar grade. And, really shouldn’t I be praised for my creativity, ingenuity, resourcefulness, and meticulous research?
With a little piece of family history from this URL and a little piece of family history from that URL, my daughter has an interesting, thorough, and earnest family history that fulfills the requirements for her third-grade assignment. Sure, not a word of it is true. But, isn’t that the American way? Immigrants came here to rewrite their pasts and to create new stories for future generations—exactly what I did with the help of Google. Since my ancestors squandered their American Dreams and didn’t do much other than drink and breed, I took it upon myself to re-imagine my heritage in relation to a four-point rubric that would get my daughter the highest grade possible. With my innovativeness, I prevented my daughter from telling her classmates: “Our strongest family traditions include: Watching grandma drink too many Bellini’s while she tosses the Christmas ham into the garbage disposal because no one appreciates how much she does for the family as well as driving to Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania, each summer, not to learn about history, but to spend all day at the horse races striving for upward mobility.
Silly birthday hats, the preparation of seven fish on Christmas Eve, family charade nights and multigenerational scrapbooking play well to an audience of eight-year-olds. Plus, her information comes from a trusted source—the most trusted source, her own mother. Her project is interesting and based on facts as they were told to her—completely worthy of stellar grade. And, really shouldn’t I be praised for my creativity, ingenuity, resourcefulness, and meticulous research?
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
More than Just Clowns, Jugglers and Storytellers: The Impact of Library Programming on Communities
“Thank you. Thank you so much. You have given my mother something to remember. She forgets everything. She doesn’t know what she ate for breakfast 20 minutes after she finished. She only knows my name sometimes,” said the worn woman in her early-sixties who took her eight-three-year-old mother to special library programs monthly.
“But, she remembered your program. She remembered the stories that the lady told last month. She told them to me," she said wiping the tears from her eyes as she recalled her mother’s reaction to “Stories for the Second Half of Life,” a storytelling program geared towards senior citizens.
As she told me her anecdote, I fought back a few tears too. I lost the battle with my emotions, but later rejoiced in the idea of transformative library programming – programs that impact and changes lives.
Since that day, my goals as a library programmer have shifted away from having huge attendance numbers to implementing programs that entertain and enlighten in meaningful ways—programs that ultimately influence and enrich the lives of participants with information or entertainment. Granted, life-changing programming cannot be achieved with every library event. Sometimes it is just about hiring a puppeteer, a storyteller, a local humorist or a jazz guitarist and hoping that scores of people will show up and write a few nice remarks on a comment card on their way out of the community room. Simply put: Bodies in seats equal high numbers to give administrators and library boards; high numbers equal happy administrators; happy administrators equal more funding to create more programs to put more bodies in the seats. This is the cycle of library programming. Attendance numbers dominate the planning and implementing of most library programs. Unfortunately, a number-driven agenda for both library programs and summer reading does not necessarily promote the high standards necessary for quality, relevance and long-term impact.
A passionate, committed library programmer or programming committee creates a balance between well-attended programs and quality programming that attracts participants and ultimately satisfies them. Effective and pertinent library programming reaches the pulse of the community, attracts typically underserved demographics, and impacts all ages (infants, toddlers, pre-schoolers, primary school age kids, tweens, teens, adults, and seniors). Library program coordinators succeed when the public chooses the library consistently as their destination for exceptional free programming that entertains and informs them, ultimately bringing a touch of happiness and joy into their lives.
To foster successful programming, I implement the strategy that I call value-added library programs. With value-added programming, popularity and audience appeal are considered but in conjunction with the quality of the performer or speaker; the affordability of the performer as well as cost reduction options like grants or multiple show discounts; community demographics; patron satisfaction; the promotion of the library’s collection in relation to the program topic, and opportunities for community partnerships. There is a lot more to library programming than hiring a blue grass band with a cool name and posting a few signs around town. Planning great library programs requires staff to learn the community’s wants and needs; find affordable performers or speakers who can satisfy audience demands and market events in innovative ways that capture the imagination of the community and propels them to visit the library. Once you have a captured audience, you can introduce them to other library products, services and upcoming programs for all age groups. Fantastic programs lead to not just high program statistics, but higher entry gate counts, increased circulation and a spike in computer and database usage both remotely and in-house. Library programs can and should be a solid cornerstone for your entire library system.
Author’s Note: For two wonderful years, I had the most amazing and dynamic job as an adult library program coordinator until an abrupt out-of-state move two years ago caused me to leave my job in the middle of the summer reading program, which for a programming librarian is like an accountant leaving his job in the middle of tax season. Fortunately, I was able to transition into a position as reference librarian but without the programming responsibilities. Now I am thrilled to report that I will be planning library events again as part of a library programming committee. So, there is no doubt I will write additional posts about library programming. Of course, these posts will be completely incongruous with my excessive commentary on Prince and his ridiculous business decisions, so please forgive me as juggle my dual role as competent programming librarian and obsessive Paisley Park commentator.
“But, she remembered your program. She remembered the stories that the lady told last month. She told them to me," she said wiping the tears from her eyes as she recalled her mother’s reaction to “Stories for the Second Half of Life,” a storytelling program geared towards senior citizens.
As she told me her anecdote, I fought back a few tears too. I lost the battle with my emotions, but later rejoiced in the idea of transformative library programming – programs that impact and changes lives.
Since that day, my goals as a library programmer have shifted away from having huge attendance numbers to implementing programs that entertain and enlighten in meaningful ways—programs that ultimately influence and enrich the lives of participants with information or entertainment. Granted, life-changing programming cannot be achieved with every library event. Sometimes it is just about hiring a puppeteer, a storyteller, a local humorist or a jazz guitarist and hoping that scores of people will show up and write a few nice remarks on a comment card on their way out of the community room. Simply put: Bodies in seats equal high numbers to give administrators and library boards; high numbers equal happy administrators; happy administrators equal more funding to create more programs to put more bodies in the seats. This is the cycle of library programming. Attendance numbers dominate the planning and implementing of most library programs. Unfortunately, a number-driven agenda for both library programs and summer reading does not necessarily promote the high standards necessary for quality, relevance and long-term impact.
A passionate, committed library programmer or programming committee creates a balance between well-attended programs and quality programming that attracts participants and ultimately satisfies them. Effective and pertinent library programming reaches the pulse of the community, attracts typically underserved demographics, and impacts all ages (infants, toddlers, pre-schoolers, primary school age kids, tweens, teens, adults, and seniors). Library program coordinators succeed when the public chooses the library consistently as their destination for exceptional free programming that entertains and informs them, ultimately bringing a touch of happiness and joy into their lives.
To foster successful programming, I implement the strategy that I call value-added library programs. With value-added programming, popularity and audience appeal are considered but in conjunction with the quality of the performer or speaker; the affordability of the performer as well as cost reduction options like grants or multiple show discounts; community demographics; patron satisfaction; the promotion of the library’s collection in relation to the program topic, and opportunities for community partnerships. There is a lot more to library programming than hiring a blue grass band with a cool name and posting a few signs around town. Planning great library programs requires staff to learn the community’s wants and needs; find affordable performers or speakers who can satisfy audience demands and market events in innovative ways that capture the imagination of the community and propels them to visit the library. Once you have a captured audience, you can introduce them to other library products, services and upcoming programs for all age groups. Fantastic programs lead to not just high program statistics, but higher entry gate counts, increased circulation and a spike in computer and database usage both remotely and in-house. Library programs can and should be a solid cornerstone for your entire library system.
Author’s Note: For two wonderful years, I had the most amazing and dynamic job as an adult library program coordinator until an abrupt out-of-state move two years ago caused me to leave my job in the middle of the summer reading program, which for a programming librarian is like an accountant leaving his job in the middle of tax season. Fortunately, I was able to transition into a position as reference librarian but without the programming responsibilities. Now I am thrilled to report that I will be planning library events again as part of a library programming committee. So, there is no doubt I will write additional posts about library programming. Of course, these posts will be completely incongruous with my excessive commentary on Prince and his ridiculous business decisions, so please forgive me as juggle my dual role as competent programming librarian and obsessive Paisley Park commentator.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Art Not Rags: Why Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s Over the River Project Should Proceed
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| Photo: Wolfgang Volz. © Christo 2007 |
Now is the time to rejoice. The time to be elated. The time to look forward to having your communities on an international stage. A time to feel honored that a great living artist selected your homeland to be the site of a large-scale environmental art project that will attract worldwide attention and garner big tourism dollars. You should be delighted that Christo and his late wife Jeanne-Claude (who died in November 2009) spent 18 years fighting bureaucracy to bring your communities Over the River, a massive public art work that will feature 5.9 miles of silvery, luminous fabric panels suspended high above the Arkansas River along a 40-mile stretch between Salida and Cañon City in south-central Colorado . The art will stay erected for two weeks in the Summer of 2013, pending approval from the Federal Government.
As of right now, Christo does not have permits to begin installation and without approval from the Federal Government the project could be stymied permanently. If you live in Colorado, now is the time to speak in favor of this project that will have your state chronicled in art history books and recognized worldwide as the location for the incomparable Christo’s final large-scale art work. This is a crucial time for the project. The Environmental Impact Statement (EIS) draft is now complete and available for public review and comment; the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) will accept public comments until Tuesday, September 14.
Supporters must offset the negative and wrongheaded criticism that the opposition group, Rags over the Arkansas River (ROAR), espouses. The concerns generated from this group, which focus largely on traffic and environmental issues, have been addressed by Christo’s team with the project plan being rewritten multiple times to minimize short-term inconvenience and to mitigate lasting adverse effects on the Colorado communities. When examining the nature of the project, many positive aspects exist that supersede any type of temporary nuisance.
- During the fabric panel installation phase and exhibition period, Christo will hire between 300 and 400 workers, with preference given to local residents, according to the official Over the River website.
- It is estimated that Over the River could attract over 300,000 to Colorado, according to the BLM.
- The BLM projections indicate that the public art work could create $121 million in revenue for the state.
- As the location for Over the River, Colorado becomes of a significant part of art history. Since Christo will be 78 years-old when the project is installed, it is assumed that this will be Christo’s last large-scale art work. This is a project that will be sited repeatedly in art history books with Salida and Cañon City frequently mentioned internationally for many years.
- Colorado taxpayers will not have to chip in a dime for this $54 million project. Over the River is being funded entirely by Christo and his private donors, so all of the economic benefits will occur without public subsidy or taxpayer support. This includes expenses to the community during the two-week exhibition period, such as additional law enforcement or trash collection, according to the project website. The Centennial State will experience financial gain with no financial pain.
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| Photo: Wolfgang Volz. © Christo 2007 |
But in addition to financial benefits and international recognition, this is Colorado’s opportunity to be part of Christo’s creative process. Christo’s art amounts to more than just the end product; it consists of more than the fabric, metal, anchors, bolts, cables, and pulleys. Bureaucracy, public opinion, and controversy are all part of the process. The “getting to the completed art work” is as significant as the “completed work,” which means every person who reads about the project, forms an opinion and offers a formal public comment is part of the process. People and process are synonymous. People question Christo’s process and purpose: Christo’s process and purpose spark the questioning. The artists’ methods and outcomes make people ask: Is this art? Is it worth twenty years of hassle to have something that lasts two weeks? Are the risks to the environment too great? Who benefits from these temporary works of art? What is the meaning behind the couple’s art?
Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s works are largely spectacle and flamboyancy, and the artists have consistently claimed that their works have no deeper meaning other than the immediate aesthetic impact from re-figuring and briefly transforming an everyday landscape. Arguments have been made that the pristine and stunning Rocky Mountain terrain and roaring Arkansas River need no enhancement and should not be transfigured even momentarily. Although the landscape stands alone on its magnificence and splendor, the Over the River project allows for the comingling of nature and art; the merging of natural beauty and formulated allure. For a short moment, we can ponder the exquisiteness of the natural world in relation to synthetic constructs. Two weeks later, the moment will pass; the overlaying artifice will be removed and the environment will return to its previous state – only the pictures and memories of the transitory piece will remain.
As a Colorado resident, I hope that I will have the opportunity to share in that fleeting moment. If the project is approved, my husband and I will travel with our four kids over 200 miles and approximately four hours to see the results of Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s vision. We will travel to Salida where will we dine, shop and lodge. We will become part of Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s process. We will become part of the moment called Over the River. We will take the fleeting moment with us as we make the four hour return trip to Northern Colorado. If you too would like to be part of a ephemeral but important artistic moment, I recommend that you learn more about Christo and Jeanne-Claude; examine the Environmental Impact Statement; and, let the Bureau of Land Management know that you support this novel and significant public art work. You can discover more about Over the River and offer public comment at the following website:
http://www.overtheriverinfo.com/. Sincerely,
Garbageman’s DaughterArt Enthusiast and Resident of Northern Colorado
Friday, September 10, 2010
A Few Thoughts on Silly Bandz
I have never considered home schooling my kids, not even for a minute. Well, not until all three of my school age kids came home wearing Silly Bandz. Exactly what they need. One more thing to fight over. One more thing that will get lost and result in tears. One more stupid trend on their arm as if a washable tattoo isn’t travesty enough. Silly Bandz are nothing more than jelly bracelets from the 1980s updated and now shaped like cats, trucks and garbage cans, except you don’t see Madonna wearing Silly Bandz.
But hey, it is sure great that your kids are so generous. I made sure that my kids will be giving your kids a gift in return. When you son calls his baby brother an “idiot.” No need to blame grandpa or HBO. My kids are as generous as your kids and natural teachers too. Thanks for the Silly Bandz.
Author's Note: Silly Bandz have been officially banded at my kids' school. No sadness on my part.
But hey, it is sure great that your kids are so generous. I made sure that my kids will be giving your kids a gift in return. When you son calls his baby brother an “idiot.” No need to blame grandpa or HBO. My kids are as generous as your kids and natural teachers too. Thanks for the Silly Bandz.
Author's Note: Silly Bandz have been officially banded at my kids' school. No sadness on my part.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Home Economics Is a Relevant Class: Who Knew?
Cream cheese lasagna, tasty but runny. Tortellini with mushrooms and cream sauce, my husband’s favorite but the Worcestershire possibly sours the milk during the baking process giving it a bizarre consistency; green chicken chili enchiladas, bombed with my in-laws; red enchiladas, stick to the pan; spaghetti pie, no idea that pasta could transform into something so foreign. I have not one meal that looks perfect and tastes great every time. I do not have classic meal that I can give to new moms, take to potlucks and serve to company. My cooking is for personal use only.
Why didn't the Ghost of Future Domestic Dilemmas come visit me in 1990 when I was seventeen and screwing around in home economics class, improperly handling a sewing machine and sloppily making microwavable desserts? If I could have had a glimpse of my domestic future, I would have saw myself practicing a cherry cheesecake six times before taking it to a Super Bowl Party; bringing a chocolate pie to a party where it melted immediately upon making contact with plates; burning Easter dinner leaving us with Spaghetti-Os as an alternative meal; and, checking out books in September to work on Christmas cookies months before the annual holiday cookie exchange. A glance into my hapless culinary fate would have resulted in less babbling about my future as a career woman with no kids, no husband and more time learning how to make a roux and homemade pie crust. A little less time on Feminism, Queer Theory and Post-Colonialism in the 1990s might have meant that I could bake brownies with cooked centers and chocolate chip cookie that do not have black smoke emanating from the bottom.
So if you need to know how to bake ziti, poach an egg, or seer chicken, don’t ask me. But if you need to know about Deleuze and Guattari’s Theory of Minor Literature, Judith Butler’s view of performativity or Helene Cixous’ assertion for a feminine language, I am your woman.
Why didn't the Ghost of Future Domestic Dilemmas come visit me in 1990 when I was seventeen and screwing around in home economics class, improperly handling a sewing machine and sloppily making microwavable desserts? If I could have had a glimpse of my domestic future, I would have saw myself practicing a cherry cheesecake six times before taking it to a Super Bowl Party; bringing a chocolate pie to a party where it melted immediately upon making contact with plates; burning Easter dinner leaving us with Spaghetti-Os as an alternative meal; and, checking out books in September to work on Christmas cookies months before the annual holiday cookie exchange. A glance into my hapless culinary fate would have resulted in less babbling about my future as a career woman with no kids, no husband and more time learning how to make a roux and homemade pie crust. A little less time on Feminism, Queer Theory and Post-Colonialism in the 1990s might have meant that I could bake brownies with cooked centers and chocolate chip cookie that do not have black smoke emanating from the bottom.
So if you need to know how to bake ziti, poach an egg, or seer chicken, don’t ask me. But if you need to know about Deleuze and Guattari’s Theory of Minor Literature, Judith Butler’s view of performativity or Helene Cixous’ assertion for a feminine language, I am your woman.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A Hemp of a Deal
Black dress. Sleeveless. Slight slit in the front. Nine small black buttons. Knee-length. Thick, rugged material. Looks like denim. The tag says, “Made from Hemp.” Perfect cold weather fabric to be worn with a black cardigan and black leather boots. Would look fantastic while working in the library, particularly walking from the Young Adult section to 746.92 in non-fiction. A fashion must-have.
Grabbed the dress in my size. Went to the front of the artisan booth, which was crowded with four grimy, haggard looking men sitting on concrete eating Subway sandwiches with little regard for their merchandise or the potential customers skipping their booth in favor of organic soaps and chocolate honey.
“I am ready,” I said as I held the dress in front of my chin.
“You can’t go wrong with hemp. It will last twenty years. When the dye fades, you can just re-dye it,” said the man with the silver hair who had strange resemblance to Sean Connery in the eyes and cheekbones.
I rubbed my twenty dollar bill and my ten dollar bill together in my left hand, shifting my weight to my left side while the dress moved from my chin to my waist.
“Yep, hemp is a great material and that’s why the US government won’t allow clothes here to be made from it. They want people to buy cotton clothes that fall apart,” said that man with the metal leg who held a meatball sub. I was distracted by his stick of a limb briefly but quickly decided he lost his leg in Vietnam and refocused on the purchase of the dress.
No time for anti-government propaganda. Please just take my money and give me the dress. Why is this happening again? I just did this same thing 15 minutes ago to get a turquoise and fuchsia tie-die denim dress that will go great with a light denim jacket and magenta cowboy boots, looking particularly hot while I set up an outward facing Western Fiction display.
“So, you want that one?” said the Connery look-a-like.
“Yes, sir.” Why can’t I just buy my dresses like normal people at retail outlets that require drug and alcohol checks? Why I am feeling hungry?
“George, you got a customer,” the supposed Vietnam vet said. George fumbled to wipe his hands on a napkin and stared at me like he was unsure of my purpose for being there. I held out the dress and my money.
“So, you want this one,” he said.
Dear God, Woodstock was in 1969. This is Summer Festival 2010. I am not looking for government propaganda, a joint or casual sex. I just want a hemp dress to wear at the reference desk, please. The history books are wrong. The love was only free because they were too damn lethargic to charge for it. The message was anti-violent because it takes muscle coordination, concentration and depth perception to shoot a gun or throw a punch. How do these people function on so few brain cells? At least the drug culture of the 1980s was good for weeding out the waste. One too many hits of crack-cocaine. Dead. Shared heroin needles. AIDS then dead. Experimental drug users got a taste and moved on to more addictive habits like trading artificially-inflated tech stocks and flipping houses. Capitalism, free markets, and entrepreneurism did not light up in the bong.
“Yes, Sir. I would like to pay for this dress.”
“You’ll love it. Got this one from China,” he said slowly as he placed the dress in brown paper sack and sealed it with a “Radically Hemp” sticker.
I left with my dress, a headache, a craving for pizza, and newly found belief in the designated cashier.
Grabbed the dress in my size. Went to the front of the artisan booth, which was crowded with four grimy, haggard looking men sitting on concrete eating Subway sandwiches with little regard for their merchandise or the potential customers skipping their booth in favor of organic soaps and chocolate honey.
“I am ready,” I said as I held the dress in front of my chin.
“You can’t go wrong with hemp. It will last twenty years. When the dye fades, you can just re-dye it,” said the man with the silver hair who had strange resemblance to Sean Connery in the eyes and cheekbones.
I rubbed my twenty dollar bill and my ten dollar bill together in my left hand, shifting my weight to my left side while the dress moved from my chin to my waist.
“Yep, hemp is a great material and that’s why the US government won’t allow clothes here to be made from it. They want people to buy cotton clothes that fall apart,” said that man with the metal leg who held a meatball sub. I was distracted by his stick of a limb briefly but quickly decided he lost his leg in Vietnam and refocused on the purchase of the dress.
No time for anti-government propaganda. Please just take my money and give me the dress. Why is this happening again? I just did this same thing 15 minutes ago to get a turquoise and fuchsia tie-die denim dress that will go great with a light denim jacket and magenta cowboy boots, looking particularly hot while I set up an outward facing Western Fiction display.
“So, you want that one?” said the Connery look-a-like.
“Yes, sir.” Why can’t I just buy my dresses like normal people at retail outlets that require drug and alcohol checks? Why I am feeling hungry?
“George, you got a customer,” the supposed Vietnam vet said. George fumbled to wipe his hands on a napkin and stared at me like he was unsure of my purpose for being there. I held out the dress and my money.
“So, you want this one,” he said.
Dear God, Woodstock was in 1969. This is Summer Festival 2010. I am not looking for government propaganda, a joint or casual sex. I just want a hemp dress to wear at the reference desk, please. The history books are wrong. The love was only free because they were too damn lethargic to charge for it. The message was anti-violent because it takes muscle coordination, concentration and depth perception to shoot a gun or throw a punch. How do these people function on so few brain cells? At least the drug culture of the 1980s was good for weeding out the waste. One too many hits of crack-cocaine. Dead. Shared heroin needles. AIDS then dead. Experimental drug users got a taste and moved on to more addictive habits like trading artificially-inflated tech stocks and flipping houses. Capitalism, free markets, and entrepreneurism did not light up in the bong.
“Yes, Sir. I would like to pay for this dress.”
“You’ll love it. Got this one from China,” he said slowly as he placed the dress in brown paper sack and sealed it with a “Radically Hemp” sticker.
I left with my dress, a headache, a craving for pizza, and newly found belief in the designated cashier.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Skin
“Is he right-handed?" The teacher asked the proud parents who are assisting their oldest child with the start of his kindergarten career.
“We don’t know. He uses both hands. So, how should we manage that issue,” said the father.
“You don’t have to do anything,” said the teacher. “The brain is very good at self-management.”
Yes, my son and I have returned to the land of healthy children where parents must invent problems and ask the most insipid questions that make their concerns seem relevant. To avoid shooting looks of contempt at the beautiful smiling couple and their healthy child, I focused on my son who kept his left arm frozen and tight against his chest as he neatly and happily colored despite the paper squirming all over the table. He has no choices when it comes to handedness; his choices were cut away with the scalpel during his brain surgery. I wonder if they can feel my contempt and jealously.
When I looked down at my hands, I saw that I was wearing my mother’s skin. Skin that was worn, beaten and broken open. Her long battle, her many years of fighting for a special needs child turned her optimism into bitterness and her love into scorn. She grew to loathe and detest everyone who was typically developed even her own normally developed children. She could never see past the unfairness and cruelty that made her daughter’s life hard. My sister forgave those who teased and taunted her; found unconditional love, and made a life of her own while our mother remained angry at a cruel and unjust universe.
“I love kindergarten,” my son said.
I leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek and to touch his shoulder. My skin returned.
“We don’t know. He uses both hands. So, how should we manage that issue,” said the father.
“You don’t have to do anything,” said the teacher. “The brain is very good at self-management.”
Yes, my son and I have returned to the land of healthy children where parents must invent problems and ask the most insipid questions that make their concerns seem relevant. To avoid shooting looks of contempt at the beautiful smiling couple and their healthy child, I focused on my son who kept his left arm frozen and tight against his chest as he neatly and happily colored despite the paper squirming all over the table. He has no choices when it comes to handedness; his choices were cut away with the scalpel during his brain surgery. I wonder if they can feel my contempt and jealously.
When I looked down at my hands, I saw that I was wearing my mother’s skin. Skin that was worn, beaten and broken open. Her long battle, her many years of fighting for a special needs child turned her optimism into bitterness and her love into scorn. She grew to loathe and detest everyone who was typically developed even her own normally developed children. She could never see past the unfairness and cruelty that made her daughter’s life hard. My sister forgave those who teased and taunted her; found unconditional love, and made a life of her own while our mother remained angry at a cruel and unjust universe.
“I love kindergarten,” my son said.
I leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek and to touch his shoulder. My skin returned.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
I Know You Didn’t Give at the Bar, Try Again.
Brewery to brewery, I travelled begging for free beer. It was a fine art convincing brewers that I genuinely loved their products and would actually use the bottles to raise money for moms in crisis and not go behind their dumpster with the six-pack to ease my mommy blues. I successfully convinced them that I am not an alcoholic just a beer connoisseur with the heart of a fundraiser. The tasting room manager agreed to donate a six pack and said, “Since you are so familiar with our products, which one would you like?” So of course, I lied when I said I love their beer, give it as gifts, and tell all my friends about them. To taste their beer, I would have had to wear nose-plugs to get past the stench that wafts through most of my childhood memories. Instead of admitting my deception, I simply said with a dainty wink that resembled an involuntary tick: “Since I love them all, let’s go with the Manager’s Choice.” I happily left with a six-pack knowing that I would make one lucky, benevolent, charity-supporting mom, a very relaxed and a tipsy woman when she won our group’s basket at a luncheon.
After acquiring beer, I sought tea, toffee, cookies, chocolate, green chile sauce, haircuts, massages, manicures, pedicures, Italian dinners, steak dinners, alternative vegetarian meals, and ice cream. No matter how many owners and managers told me “no,” I knew that my twofold approach to fundraising would bring much plunder for my charitable cause. My method was simple: First flatter their ego and next prey upon their insecurities. I always started with how much I love (their product, establishment or service) and then described how I would like the opportunity to share their wonderfulness with my non-profit group. Normally, when my flattery got me nowhere, I simply made them feel cheap and uncharitable. I had no problem telling potential donors that their competitors donated (Only if they really did. There is a fine between exaggeration to get what I want and fraud; I am an expert at negotiating those murky waters of fibber versus felon. ) I had no problem pitting the two best family-owned Italian restaurants in town against each other, and letting the teahouse owner know that a kitchen novelty store donated coffee, a mug and a gift card. The teahouse owner matched their contribution and added a few more tea accessories and wrapped them all beautifully in a small basket.
It is as simple as appealing to people’s competitive spirit and their shame; people will capitulate just to save face. However, another club member took the high road of explaining our club’s mission and detailed the specifics of our event. This method could be called straightforward honesty. Never thought that would work, but it did. With a basket totaling more $300 in gift certificates and merchandise, our group raised the most money for charity and won first place for the best basket at the event. It was a nice victory for our club, and I learned the valuable lesson that honesty and straightforwardness can pay off. Still dealing with the consequences of that revelation.
After acquiring beer, I sought tea, toffee, cookies, chocolate, green chile sauce, haircuts, massages, manicures, pedicures, Italian dinners, steak dinners, alternative vegetarian meals, and ice cream. No matter how many owners and managers told me “no,” I knew that my twofold approach to fundraising would bring much plunder for my charitable cause. My method was simple: First flatter their ego and next prey upon their insecurities. I always started with how much I love (their product, establishment or service) and then described how I would like the opportunity to share their wonderfulness with my non-profit group. Normally, when my flattery got me nowhere, I simply made them feel cheap and uncharitable. I had no problem telling potential donors that their competitors donated (Only if they really did. There is a fine between exaggeration to get what I want and fraud; I am an expert at negotiating those murky waters of fibber versus felon. ) I had no problem pitting the two best family-owned Italian restaurants in town against each other, and letting the teahouse owner know that a kitchen novelty store donated coffee, a mug and a gift card. The teahouse owner matched their contribution and added a few more tea accessories and wrapped them all beautifully in a small basket.
It is as simple as appealing to people’s competitive spirit and their shame; people will capitulate just to save face. However, another club member took the high road of explaining our club’s mission and detailed the specifics of our event. This method could be called straightforward honesty. Never thought that would work, but it did. With a basket totaling more $300 in gift certificates and merchandise, our group raised the most money for charity and won first place for the best basket at the event. It was a nice victory for our club, and I learned the valuable lesson that honesty and straightforwardness can pay off. Still dealing with the consequences of that revelation.
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