30 books, and shifting paradigms

It's May 2015, and I missed the half birthday of my last post. Since that time, I've closed out the year of adventure by cruising the Caribbean, visiting lil' Rhody, and seeing Colorado. I also finished my master's program. Booked a trip to Vietnam. Spent a week at Disney World. Heard news about a new book by Harper Lee. I also saw Neil Gaiman in real life at the Tulsa PAC. Read 29 books in 2014.

I'm also working on a goal of reading 30 books in 2015, and I'm 8 books in:

1) A Sudden Light, by Garth Stein

2) Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, by Ransom Riggs

3) The Short and Tragic Life of Robert Peace, by Jeff Hobbs

4) Looking for Alaska, by John Green

5) The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz

6) Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison

7) Flight, by Sherman Alexie

8) One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Around book 4, I decided to try and read books by authors who were not white males. Somewhere in there, I also started reading "A Brief History of Seven Killings" by Marlon James, and had an epiphany: not only is it easiest to find books by white, male authors, but in a world that favors white culture, reading books from non-white cultural viewpoints can present challenges. It also can be profound. 

I am committing to reading 30 books this year and that the majority of them will be by folks who are not white males. Around the time I made this commitment, I read this article about a "racebent" Hermione Granger. It's a powerful read about the importance of diverse cultures and perspectives in literature. In the article, Junot Diaz is quoted a couple of times:

"Look, without our stories, without the true nature and reality of who we are as People of Color, nothing about fanboy or fangirl culture would make sense. What I mean by that is: if it wasn’t for race, X-Men doesn’t sense. If it wasn’t for the history of breeding human beings in the New World through chattel slavery,Dune doesn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for the history of colonialism and imperialism, Star Wars doesn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for the extermination of so many Indigenous First Nations, most of what we call science fiction’s contact stories doesn’t make sense. Without us as the secret sauce, none of this works, and it is about time that we understood that we are the Force that holds the Star Wars universe together. We’re the Prime Directive that makes Star Trek possible, yeah. In the Green Lantern Corps, we are the oath. We are all of these things—erased, and yet without us—we are essential.

He also said:

"You guys know about vampires? … You know, vampires have no reflections in a mirror? There’s this idea that monsters don’t have reflections in a mirror. And what I’ve always thought isn’t that monsters don’t have reflections in a mirror. It’s that if you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves. And growing up, I felt like a monster in some ways. I didn’t see myself reflected at all. I was like, ‘Yo, is something wrong with me? That the whole society seems to think that people like me don’t exist?’ And part of what inspired me, was this deep desire that before I died, I would make a couple of mirrors. That I would make some mirrors so that kids like me might see themselves reflected back and might not feel so monstrous for it."

I am also committing to posting my reflections more often. I'm no longer writing grad school papers and I really should log my reading reflections. How's 1 per week? We'll start there.

To reading (&writing) & learning,

~MJ

Where have all the heroes gone? Part 2.

Interesting earmark I want to record here for connection to my previous post about Zeitoun  by Dave Eggers:

"For like other peoples around the world, Americans need heroes...Most of us tend to think well of ourselves when we have acted as we imagine our heroes might have done. Who our heroes are and whether they are presented in a way that makes them lifelike, hence usable as role models, could have a significant bearing on our conduct in the world." -James W. Loewen, Lies My Teacher Told Me, p. 30

This makes me think that my desire for Dave Eggers' portrayal of Zeitoun to be true, and for the context following the story to not be true, is perhaps rooted in how my upbringing and education have conditioned me to think - that heroes are required. Loewen reminded me that even the "heroes" of American history are more often ideals and not true to life. Every one of those "heroes" had flaws (Jefferson had slaves, Wilson was a white supremacist, Revere likely didn't do anything...)...but their accomplishments have been added to the cannon of American mythology and those flaws veiled or overlooked. Why? To influence. To make us seem better than we are and to strive for higher expectations.

But we can't forget the past, and we have to accept the whole story in order to truly learn and to become better. So maybe, while Zeitoun taught me about resilience, family and perseverance - the aftermath may teach me about mental illness, family dysfunction, and the both the implications of and lessons for government policy.

That's deep. And it isn't easy.

But wow - look what reading just made me do, and it's even past my bedtime.

Goodnight.

~MJ

9/11

I picked up a book at the library yesterday (as if I needed more to read) called "The Unthinkable." It's about how humans react in major disasters. Interestingly, as happens when I visit the library, I was calmed from daily stresses by reading the first few pages of this book in the presence of hundreds of books (I also picked up a Nick Hornby book about reading...)

Today is the 13th anniversary of 9/11/2001. I still remember where I was when I learned - the quiet and innocent moments that preceded my knowledge gain and the confused, tarnished, emotional moments that subsequently followed.

But I couldn't figure out if I should write anything in reflection, 13 years later, as I have in previous years. Then I read chapter 1 of this book and decided I needed to note a relevant earmark. The first chapter, "Delay" focuses on a women who survived the '93 World Trade Center Bombings and the attacks in 2001 (by the way, "attack" just doesn't seem enough of a word for that day). The following description stood out - a moment when she made it out of Tower 1 but ended up in the rumble of the buildings' collapses:

"She moved and stumbled over some debris, falling on top of someone else. It turned out to be a police officer. He was screaming that his eyes were burning. And at the same time, he was telling her, 'Don't worry, don't worry! We're going to get out of here.' Zedano could see his hands shaking. But she never saw his face.

By then, her anger had vanished again. She got very quiet. It helped to have a police officer there, even though he was hurt. Then she heard a voice: 'I found a way out. Everybody, hold hands.' And that's what they did."

The moment I read "Everybody, hold hands." My stomach rose to my throat. The image, although simple, not only was really but FELT real. It felt like a description of how I felt following the day. Confused, yet comforted by those around me grappling with similar struggles and emotions- and metaphorically, so many of us joining hands to get through it.

Cliche, but that's how this writing struck me at this moment. And I wanted to note it first because of the anniversary but second because of how vivid that day and those feelings still are. 

I know we remark about Pearl Harbor and D-Day; we discuss important dates and have moments of recognition for those who fell, or for the history of that moment. But I feel like we do so much more every 9/11, and I wonder of there can ever be an anniversary where we don't call for moments of silence and see  tributes across all media. 

Likely, that day will come - maybe when less people who were there are gone. But I don't know. This event feels so different, and the feeling so enduring - that I literally cannot imagine a day where it is a fleeting, 3 minute news story of rememberance. 

If anything, because every 9/11, I do feel a moment when we're holding hands again - for the moments we remember where we were, where we see how others are feeling, when we hear the names of victims or images of survivors. Images of rubble and waves of ash - the last moments of tall buildings, crumbling like a Jenga set.

That hand holding matters. And maybe that's how we will also move on, but with the small bits of our hearts chipped and clinging to the memory.

To books that serve as reminders,

~MJ