Quotation: Unknown English Professor

"I am returning this otherwise good typing paper to you because someone has printed gibberish all over it and put your name at the top."

Newbery Winner 1998: Holes

For some reason, I refused to read Holes for the longest time. I judged the book by its cover, or perhaps by Sachar's other works (notably his Wayside School series) that I just don't like. I was sure the state of American children’s literature had fell hard now that Holes was a Newbery.

Worse still, I own Holes, but I kept it separate from my other children’s books so they would not be negatively influenced. What a wonderful foreshadowing of the issues Sachar tackles.

In a moment of weakness a few months ago, I reluctantly read the first line, “There is no lake at Camp Green Lake.” I’ve read it (the entire book that is) three more times since.

Sachar takes on some big issues — injustice, racial tensions and equality.

The issue of race is introduced and driven primarily through the following six quotations (in chronological order):

“…it took Stanley a moment to notice that one kid was white and the other black.”

“Stanley was thankful that there were no racial problems.”

“On the lake they were all the same reddish brown color—the color of dirt.

“God will punish you.”

“It’s against the law for a Negro to kiss a white woman.”

“Same old story..... The white boy sits around while the black boy does all the work.”

Strategically, Sachar uses the back-story of Kate Barlow (white) and Sam the onion man (black), their love, his murder and her revenge to introduce racial tensions in a manner less affronting to the reader than a full-on attack (chapter 26).

The story of Kate and Sam seems, on the surface, fanciful, which allows Sachar to more starkly present the nasty racial prejudices that existed 100 years ago. The reader accepts it, thinks I’m so glad I’m enlightened, and WHAM! Sachar hits you in the face in the next chapter. The escalation occurs between Stanley (white) and his group (white, black and hispanic) as Zero (black) digs part of Stanley’s hole each day in exchange for reading lessons.

The second quote above, from chapter 19, I felt was rather awkward, inserted primarily to foreshadow the racial tensions later on. It felt forced and drew me out of the story, but only briefly.

From chapter 37 to the end, Sachar paints a powerful picture of equality and as Stanley (white) and Zero (black) struggle together for survival and ultimately triumph over the evil at Camp Green Lake.

Sachar neatly stitches together the back-story and Stanley and Zero’s story with the line, “the great-great-grandson of Elya Yelnats carried the great-great-great-grandson of Madame Zeroni up the mountain.”

Favorite lines

“This isn’t a girl-scout camp.” — Mr. Sir

“Stanley raised and lowered one shoulder.”

“His [Stanley’s] cap was stained with blood from his hands. He felt like he was digging his own grave.”

“That’s just what it is.” — Zero

Additional Resources

Wikipedia Summary

Buy Small Steps -- followup to Holes

Next week: Winner of 1972 — Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, by Robert C. O'Brien

Rambler #8: Too Much News

ATTENTION: News agencies of the world. Way too much news has been crammed into way too few days this week.

Some of the too many events this week:

• Ed McMahon, 86, died

• Farrah Fawcett, 62, died

• Michael Jackson, 50, died

• Jeff Goldblum, 56, fell 60 feet to his death while filming on location in New Zealand. Several hours later, Mr. Goldblum informed Google that he was not dead, not in New Zealand and not shooting a new film

• South Carolina local boy and huge underdog Lucas Glover wins US Open

• US men's soccer team beats #1 ranked Spain 2-0 in a massive upset in the CONFED semi-final

• 9 killed, 76 injured in worst metro crash in Washington D.C.'s 33 year metro history

• South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford got lost on the Appalachian Trail and ended up Buenos Aries, Argentina, in the bed of Maria Shapur

I feel jipped. Barely had the Ed-McMahon-shaped waves of shock and sadness begun to roll over me when Farrah Fawcett barged onto the scene. And poor thing, she received a scant 17 minutes of shock and saddness before Michael Jackson completely shoved everyone off the front page.

What about ad sales, guys? What about days upon days of talking heads, cheesy charts and cloying photo montages? Did you learn nothing from Princess Diana? You guys milked that for over a month of 24-7 coverage because you didn't crowd the plate. If you had planned this right, you could have rode the wave through Christmas.

And someone obviously got carried away with let's-kill-a-bunch-of-famous-people day, as shown by Jeff Goldblum's untimely demise, then un-demise. He's lucky, though. I heard he got lost looking for Mordor and ended up somewhere around Buenos Aries, wherever that is.

Quotation: Flannery O'Connor

"Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a bestseller that could have been prevented by a good teacher."

Rambler #7: Hummingbot

My son got his first transformer the other day. Nothing fancy, one of those dollar impulse buys in the checkout line. I don't even think it was a Transformers transformer; it was that cheap.

It came out of the box shaped like a robot. After watching it transform into a truck, my son looked up and said, "Cool! Can you make it into a hummingbird?"

"Um, no."

The toy was quickly discarded.

Quotation: Mark Twain (or Samuel Clemens, whichever you prefer)

"Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very;' your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be."

Rambler #6: Helen

To the best of my recollection, the following is a true story from my days working at an unnamed bookstore….

Register duty from 4-6 on a weekday is the worst. The afternoon shoplifter is gone so I’m bored. Technically, I’m not supposed to read; I’m supposed to straighten. But I’m done with that so I’m sneaking pages from the latest Grisholm bestseller and scanning for my boss.

Then she shows up. Let’s call her Helen.

Helen plops a book on the counter and ripples run from her arms down out of sight and threaten alerting the local seismic activity center. Her black sweat suit was quite probably from a spray can. Trying not to stare was futile; a car wreck to be sure.

Helen says nothing. Instead, she shifts. Her left foot, unable to withstand the onslaught from above, urges the weight, with monumental effort that comes in times of great duress, off onto the trembling right foot.

This high-stakes game of seesaw makes Helen look like a warning buoy near some dangerous shoals (a large warning buoy covered in black spray paint).

Helen’s eyes shot wildly about. Her brain is unable to focus anywhere longer than the moment it takes to receive the impulse and fire a response to move on. Receive-fire-receive-fire.

I’m still thinking about the afternoon shoplifter, and Helen’s frenetic action could easily be considered suspicious. But I’m totally confident Helen is incapable shoplifting. She cannot focus on a single item long enough to decide if it’s worth the risk of lifting before her brain fires and she moves on to the next item. [Ooh, a cd…ooh, a calendar… ooh chocolate]. It’s a wonder she’s buying anything. Her brain’s synapses are firing at blazing speeds, yet neither considering nor meditating on what is being fired at or the consequences of that firing.

Her brain pauses on a tin of breath mints, an impulse buy. If ever an impulse buyer existed, Helen is one. She grabs the mints and shakes them hard — up, down, up, down — real fast. She sets them back in their place. The synapse has fired.

“$19.85 is your total tonight,” I say.

“Ssssshhhhh!,” she leans in close and continues in a fierce whisper, casting a fearful glance toward a man nearby. He stood with his back to us, oblivious.

The hissing continues. “Don’t let him hear; he’ll have a cow!” Helen even used one hand to cover up her mouth when she said "cow".

I nod. I’m a little nervous now. “you have a great night ma’am”.

Snatching the receipt, Helen wedged it into one of her pants pockets. So it’s not just paint after all, I thought.

Helen need not worry that her husband will ever find that receipt. The great pressing outward against the threads of cloth will forever grip the receipt. She need only to avoid removing her pants and her secret will forever remain kept; Dr. Atkins help us all.

Rambler #5: Scary Red Light

For the past week or so the same exasperating routine has played out around 8 PM in my house. Both kids are in bed and a precious few minutes of silence have passed. My wife and I are collapsed on the couch, willing our bodies to continue functioning.

Then, my son creeps down the hallway. He’s crouching. Why does he crouch? Like maybe it’s less of a transgression if he’s crouching? He crouches into the living room and announces that the scary red light is back.

I don’t know what the scary red light IS, but it lives in his closet and it’s, well, it’s scary. I don’t know what the scary red light DOES, but it’s something awful I’m sure.

I’ve tried exorcising it and just straight up rationalizing to my son that a scary red light is a ridiculous thing to be afraid of. Perhaps if we had just watched The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and he was hearing chainsaws outside his window I would be more understanding.

So, he ends up falling asleep in my bed (my wife usually sleeps in it too) since the scary red light has yet to move in there. Then I move him back to his room once he’s asleep. It’s like a never-ending prescription — repeat forever and call if nothing changes.

Am I being taken advantage of? Probably. This is the same kid who gets asked a litany of “did you…?” questions before bed to remove every possible reason for getting out of bed. This is the same kid who yesterday split his head open while spinning on the bed. Jumping was expressly forbidden; spinning was not. I really need a good contract lawyer to help me close up the loopholes.

So maybe he’s just figured out that an irrational fear is the ace in the hole. If a scary saggy bathing suit moves in under the bed, I’ll know he’s screwing with me.

Newbery Winner 1994: The Giver

I first read Lowry's The Giver about a decade ago in a Children's Literature class during my undergraduate studies. I've read it dozens of times since. It ranks high on my list of powerful, tantalizing works of children's literature. Perhaps that speaks critically of the breadth of my reading. Nevertheless, it is my first reviewed Newbery.

A quick note on my plan for these reviews; I won’t be summarizing the books; I will assume you have either read the book or will check out the resources listed at the end to get a summary. Also, this will not be a formal literary critique; rather a shotgun blast of what moved me.

On to the book….

First lines are determinative. When I open a book, I am physically giddy at reading the first sentence. A powerful first line starts the car and helps me drive through rough spots to the end of the book; a weak line, however, stalls my progress. A long-standing favorite first comes from C.S. Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

“There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Stubbs,
and he almost deserved it.”

With those simple words, “he almost deserved it” Lewis foreshadows everything about Eustace Clarence Stubbs that you come to understand through the subsequent pages.

Lowry does the same in The Giver.

“It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be frightened.”

Why is Jonas frightened of December? From the get-go, Lowry presents Jonas as a wordsmith who is always looking for just the right way to describe something. Perhaps I relate more than some because I am, as my wife can vouch, a cesspool of useless knowledge, especially with words.

I relate to the society’s emphasis on “precision of language” and Jonas’ own obsession with finding just the right word. Ironically, it is this “precision” that is the impetus for his gradual disillusionment of his society and slow-growing sight at the realities of the dystopian around him.

I want to dig further into the element of language because it is what I believe makes The Giver so powerful rather than dynamic action or characters; although it has both. Through the phenomena of “Sameness”, the community is insulated from truly experiencing pain, love, joy, sadness or any such emotion that makes us human, forming an emotional baseline for the story. The characters use many emotionally laden words like “angry,” “happy,” and “starving,” but they carry no meaning. I felt my own emotion leached the longer I spent in “Sameness”.

But when Jonas is selected to be the next Receiver of Memory, he begins to experience real emotions and we experience them as well. Jonas feels the exhilaration of a sled ride, the unconditional love of a true family, and the despair of dying on a battlefield — forgotten and damned.

For the first time in the book, real emotions are laid out before the reader, raw and unfiltered. Jonas has no culturally defined reaction to these events so he responds with unfiltered honesty. When I read those passages, my emotional Richter scale spiked. The banal baseline created in the first half of the book heightened these emotional plateaus in ways not achievable in most other books.

Lowry takes simple things like snow, hills and family and heightens them in such a way to deconstruct the foundations of Jonas’ society. In doing this, she tackles such controversial topics (especially in a 9-12 year old chapter book) like abortion, euthanasia and choice.

I really don’t want to get into this much, but Lowry’s book has made the banned books list every year since it has been published. I only suggest that, perhaps, the very people objecting to The Giver because of the “adult” issues it deals with and the way they are dealt with are themselves attempting modern-day “Sameness” in the same way as the Elders in The Giver did back and back and back....

I recommend you read Gathering Blue and The Messenger, which form a loose trilogy with The Giver.

Suggested Resources

SparkNotes

Wikipedia Summary

USA Today Article, 2001

Buy it - Amazon

Next week: Winner of 1999 — Holes, by Louis Sachar

Quotation: Stephen King

"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings — words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out."

Happy Birthday Mr. Sendak

Today, June 10, 2009 Maurice Sendak is 81.

I labored over a post that would be appropriate for such a celebration. In the end, I can think of nothing, no one rather, better able to pay tribute to Mr. Sendak than my friend, Cory Godbey through his work at Terrible Yellow Eyes.

Take it away Cory....

Rambler #4: Poop Finally

You didn’t listen to my advice did you and now you’re in the heart of it. If you’ve only just started, you can still turn back. If you’ve purchased real underwear adorned with Lightning McQueen or My Little Pony and there’s no going back.

I’ll try to help you salvage what you can.

First, modern-day diapers can absorb a child’s full body weight in pee and poop. That’s right, their full body weight. You can note this when you buy diapers. In the bottom left corner of the packaging is a weight range, say 24-36 pounds. That’s 24-36 pounds of pee and poop that can be absorbed by one single diaper. And you just removed this space-age protection from the loins of your child. You will be appalled by the amount of what exits from your child.

Second, if you have a son, he will soon realize that he can, in fact, control the stream of urine. With reckless abandon, he will fire upon any object within range, be it furniture or sisters. He will not pee in the potty if at all possible.

Worse still results from the ill-advised notion that bathing two kids in the tub at once is a great idea — think of all the water you save. Remember the sleepover where the poor kid who first fell asleep got his fingers stuck in warm water and peed his pants? As soon as your son’s feet hit the warm bath water, his Gatling gun will release a withering assault on his sister’s head.

One small solace is that you will save water in flushing the toilet since no pee ever actually goes in. I haven’t done the research, but these cost savings may, actually, be offset by bulk-order purchases of disinfectant.

Finally, you will likely see progress early on, but you’ll pay a steep price. A real life experience of my own…. My son (age 3) jumps up and hollers, “I have to go peepee!” He disappears into the bathroom. He returns a minute later having completed a magic trick — all his clothes are gone. Handing his underwear over to my wife he directs, “Touch them, mommy.” My wife ignores the directive; instead, she provides the appropriate affirmation, praising his sphincter control. My son (still naked) gets more specific. “Touch them mommy,” he says. “Touch them right on the bottom. They’re a little bit wet.”

Yes, that’s what he said. “Touch them right on the bottom.” And yes, my wife touched them. This will be your penalty for disregarding my advice; you too will touch peed-on underwear and pretend to be excited by the fact that your kid started to pee his pants, stopped and made it to the bathroom.

Hopefully, this phenomenon will stop before high school.

Rambler #3: Arthur P. Rohr

My wife's grandfather is named Arthur P. Rohr. He is part of the Greatest Generation. I had another post scheduled for today (round 2 of poop), but scrapped it Saturday after doing some reading on D-Day. I felt since that I couldn't storm a beach surrounded by high cliffs infested with hundreds of machine gun nests, my life most likely snuffed out before I hit the water with 65 pounds of gear strapped on my back (or I'd quite possibly drown before getting to the beach), that reading a bit about the Great War was the least I could do. I'm quite the patriot.

Arthur was a tail gunner on a B-25 bomber during WWII. He flew missions over Italy and was shot down over Sicily during a bombing run. The last thing he remembers as the plane is going down is jumping up and down on the hatch; it was jammed and wouldn't open. So there he was, the plane going down in flames and he's jumping — up down up down. What could possibly be running through your mind in a situation like that? UPDOWNUPDOWN — that's all I'd be thinking.

The next thing Arthur remembers, he's on the ground.

He got the hatch open, somehow...

pulled his chute, somehow...

and landed, somehow....

He doesn't remember any of it.

Two of his crew died in the crash, two got captured by enemy soldiers. He shed his uniform and spent the next three weeks evading capture by hiding with sympathetic Sicileans (sorry, bad movie flashback here) in barns and houses before getting back to Allied-controlled territory.

Can you even imagine?

So on today, the day after the day after we remember D-Day, I remember Arthur P. Rohr. He's 87 and still going strong.

John Newbery Medal Winner Reviews

Next week, I'm starting a series of reviews on the winners of the John Newbery Medal [cue teacher mode]. Since 1922, the Newbery Medal has been awarded to an author whose book is considered to be the most distinguished contribution to American literature for children in that year [exit teacher mode]. 

A holistic review of the Newbery winners, I think, will offer much insight to the current state of children's literature as well as reveal publishing trends over the past near-century. Whether this project will reveal more about the publishing industry, the reader, the author or [yikes] myself, I don't know.

Naturally, I'll start these reviews with my favorite titles, the ones I own and whose pages are well-worn from dozens of readings. From there, I'll work my way to the titles yet unfamiliar. I'm rather excited about this adventure.

With 87 Newbery medals awarded to date, I'm in this for the long haul. I'll post one review a week and would be thrilled with suggestions for my next review once I work through the familiar ground.

Oh, and these posts will contain spoilers; so I'll preview the next week's review to give you time to either read it or skip the post until you have.

Next week: Winner of 1994 — The Giver, by Lois Lowry

Rambler #2: Poop

You know how they say, “write what you know.” Two quick thoughts. First, and un-original I confess, is who is they? Whoever they is (or are), they has quite the racket going. In any conversation, cite they and you gain the upper hand instantly.

Second, the topic of the day….poop. Write what you know. I have two kids under four. I know poop.

Malcolm Gladwell’s latest New York Times Bestseller is titled Outliers. According to Wikipedia, an “outlier is an observation that is numerically distant from the rest of the data,” like Mr. Gladwell’s hair.

In his book, Mr. Gladwell describes various sensations like the Beatles and Bill Gates — experts in their respective fields — as having spent at least 10,000 hours practicing whatever it is they are awesome at. This is the “10,000 Hour Rule.”

That's it, I thought, That's all it takes to become an expert? I pulled out a calculator and calendar and soon realized that I was, indeed, an expert parent! In fact, I was an expert parent nearly three times over with 30,000+ hours of parenting practice. 

According to Mr. Gladwell, it typically takes 10 years to achieve the label of “expert”. But I’m a parent 24 hours a day, so I achieved expert status in a little more than a year.

Remember, Mr. Gladwell’s book is on the New York Times Bestseller list. Anything in it can and should be accepted with full impunity. What solace; what comfort; what power I now have.

Back to poop. Well, potty training really, but having Poop in the title helps the seo. My eldest, my son, is potty training, nearly trained. They say this is a very important developmental phase in your child. As an expert, I have much to say; today will be a short intro.

Lesson #1 — Potty training (before you begin)

As your child approaches potty-training age, you will feel nervous excitement. By this time, you’ve changed upwards of 10,000 diapers, consequently making you a diaper-changing expert. You are tired. You are elated at the idea not having to extract your child from a mound of poop every morning.

Instead, you'd sit on the couch sipping your coffee and reading this blog while your child plays calmly on the floor. Suddenly, he stops his play, arises from the floor, walks into the bathroom and takes care of business. All the pee and poop goes in the toilet. He washes his hands and goes back to playing. You continue to sip your coffee and shower soft accolades on your child for being so mature.

This is a lie. It never happens. Let me be very clear, it never happens. Listen to the expert... it's a lie. 

I recommend a simpler (and sanity-saving course of action) — simply continue to change diapers… forever. Don't potty train... ever. Don’t do it. Listen to the expert....

Next — Lesson #2: Potty-training (what to do after you ignore my advice)

Quotation: Anne Lamott

"Seeing yourself in print is such an amazing concept: you can get so much attention without having to actually show up somewhere.... You don't have to dress up, for instance, and you can't hear them boo you right away."

Tuesday Tantrum: movie adaptations

Call me old fashioned; I hate movie adaptations of children’s books. I also hate universal statements.

I'm a big fan of telling a story with the best possible vehicle for that story; period. Some stories should be movies; some should be stage plays, some should be poetry, picture books or chapter books. But rarely, rarely, have I seen a story that works in multiple vehicles. The required metamorphoses is grossly magnified with children’s books because they are simple, linear and generally lacking the multi-layered complexity required for a feature film.

The movie adaptations of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and The Cat in the Hat are perfect examples of botched lobotomies intended to wring more dollars out of an already successful franchise. Shame on Dr. Seuss' widow, Audrey Geisel, for giving life to these atrocities, but good for her on closing the door to another Frankenstein. Following the premier of The Cat in the Hat, I believe she was overheard saying, “I hate Mike Meyers” along with some other very nasty things that will not be quoted here.

But why are they so bad? 

In addition to Dr. Seuss, take Jumanji, Zathura, Polar Express among others. The original printed book is not robust enough to support a feature-length movie. So the writers introduce sub-plots, extra characters and whatever else is needed. The result is a cobbled-together monstrosity that has become something other than what it was intended to be in the first place. 

And now, in holding with my anti-universal statement statement: I may, just maybe rescind my policy temporarily for Sendak’s live-action Where the Wild Things Are. 

The trailer looks phenomenal, but clearly includes numerous extra-curricular activities. The “extras” when Max is with the Wild Things don’t seem to bother me as much because of the fantastic world Max enters in to. My psyche seems to accept those elements more easily; what I see from the trailer doesn’t change my own imaginations of that world. However, I am terrified by what appears to be a concocted sub-plot of Max’s life in the real world, his mom, school and friends. I’m terrified because that sub-plot seems to hold a great deal of power and ability to totally transform the story into something that it shouldn’t be.

So maybe I’ll see it; maybe I won’t. Regardless, you should check out Terrible, Yellow Eyes, a wonderful tribute blog by Cory Godbey to celebrate Sendak's genius.

Rambler #1: The s.f.d.

“I hate writing, but I love having written.” This quotation is traditionally attributed to writer Dorothy Parker. Regardless the source, it’s true for me. I really, really hate writing. When I say writing, I don’t mean this post. This is like eating cotton candy — it takes little effort, leaves a cloying taste in your mouth and probably does nothing for you other than increase your blood sugar count.

By writing, I’m talking about communicating an honest observation of the world to your audience through a character in space and time. I’ve finished two picture book manuscripts recently and the finish, the having written, is euphoric.

Getting there is brutal.

I have no deadlines, no boss and for some reason the weather report for the next five minutes has become irresistibly important. My bladder is suddenly overactive and my desktop icons constantly need rearranging.

In the midst of these struggles, I’ve found a drinking buddy in writer Ann Lamott. Of all the writing books I’ve read (let’s pretend that number is in the dozens), Lamott’s Bird by Bird is perhaps the most honest acknowledgement of the doubts, weaknesses, and triumphs a writer faces.

Lamott acknowledges that the first draft will be utterly terrible, horrid to the point that no human being outside of oneself should ever read it. Lamott calls it the [expletive warning] shitty first draft and that's exactly what mine are. But that’s the point; no one reads them. The [censorship warning] s.f.d. is vitally important to step 2: revising. Eventually, the s.f.d. stops looking like the awkward kid whose birthday invite you avoid and more like the flaxen-haired, doe-eyed girl you chase around the playground.

Hopefully, my future editor was neither the awkward kid or the girl as that would be potentially embarrassing.