tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1993571330382005852024-03-12T16:59:23.874-07:00Friday Free Topic. . . .any day of the week.Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-25441867728356257382014-08-06T13:09:00.002-07:002014-08-06T14:32:57.255-07:0010 Things About Football and Me<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I grew up in
a family of 49ers fans.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I've never cared about football on television.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was
ten I liked the looks of flag football.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My brother played on a city team and I loved the flags flapping and the
heroic running across the grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
asked my parents if I could be on a team too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the first day of practice I kicked the coach’s hand instead
of the ball by mistake. He cursed at me and that was the first and last day of
my football career.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">3. When I was ten I liked the looks of the Dallas Cowboy
Cheerleaders that I saw on a poster. I thought they were the epitome of
womanhood and if that was what puberty had in store for me, I was really
looking forward to it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That wasn’t what
puberty had in store for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">5.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I attended
Carondelet High School, the across-the-street sister school of football
powerhouse De La Salle High School. I went to a few football games because my
friends were going but I watched exactly zero seconds of any play.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
teaching at all-girls high schools for eight years I started watching Friday
Night Lights on television. Perhaps I chose to take a job at Sac Charter High
mostly because of the show Friday Night Lights. Perhaps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the
deans and assistant football coaches at my school was a former college and NFL
player. He told me that playing for the NFL was a dream come true. He had a
rough childhood in the same hometown as me, and sometimes brought groups of
kids to see where he grew up to show them what was possible through hard work
and commitment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8. I have known students who play football with
the power and grace of Achilles on the fields of war. <o:p></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They are the reason I wrote <i>How to Be Manly.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">9.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have known coaches who drive students to school who otherwise don't have rides.
Who show up at a classroom within five minutes of a call that a student
athlete is having a bad day and turn that student’s outlook around with a
single conversation. Who bring food for students who don't have enough
at home. Who sit for hours counseling a student who is having a hard
time. You think Coach Taylor of Friday
Night Lights is great? Well he is, but real life asks so much more and the
coaches I’ve known are heroes. They are the reason I wrote <i>How to Be Manly.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">10. When the school where I used to teach went against the
school where I currently teach in a playoff game, I escaped by driving out to
the middle of Death Valley and camping there for four days. It was a confusing
time. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvywdFSUPS4EwvqzSM7f0ZCqPynj9k39kk6pNNtWnbf8kMo6OsT2u_abCDpvVOjcVM4cN1rhQHrcDftF9R5tH_JqXK0h33Y8bBr7iMmj5DEjowBE7wB1YOEOGowkPB6Rq_ndC24vEg2Q/s1600/christian_brothers_sacramento_(cif_sjs_d3_playoff)_boys_football_thumbnail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvywdFSUPS4EwvqzSM7f0ZCqPynj9k39kk6pNNtWnbf8kMo6OsT2u_abCDpvVOjcVM4cN1rhQHrcDftF9R5tH_JqXK0h33Y8bBr7iMmj5DEjowBE7wB1YOEOGowkPB6Rq_ndC24vEg2Q/s1600/christian_brothers_sacramento_(cif_sjs_d3_playoff)_boys_football_thumbnail.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When this happened, I went to the desert.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<!--EndFragment-->Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-67401936634309947932014-08-01T12:25:00.001-07:002014-08-01T12:34:04.721-07:00Manly Music<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">All of my novels have playlists that I listen to while I write them. The characters choose the songs so if you don't like them do not blame me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here is the playlist for my YA novel <i>How to Be Manly</i> which will be released by Giant Squid Books next month.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmXumtgwtak">Lose Yourself</a> by Eminem </span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b>
Matty plays this on his way to summer morning football practice. It keeps him from going back to bed.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mb1ZvUDvLDY">Dear Mama</a> by Tupac Shakur</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Matty and Grandma. Ride or die.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qvqtTDKUvVU">Gunpowder</a> by Wyclef Jean </span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b>
<i>Don't you know that we can't stop the violence. </i>The song makes me cry every damn time.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UX6K7waag5Q">Dem Boyz </a>by Wiz Khalifa.</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Matty tries this persona for about twenty-four hours. It's about all he can take.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jr41skFqzb8">Revolution</a> by Kirk Franklin</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Grandma likes this song. This is the only singer they can agree on in the car.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7flrKMGfwjw">Can You Stand the Rain </a>by New Edition</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b>
A little old school for when Matty is feeling sorry for himself over Cassie.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b>
<b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q1DDgNCLD84">Who's That Lady</a> by The Isley Brothers</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b>
Woah. Jessica is a girl.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEJGJjk2yqiQj1rLwZlMWG9RKSyylL4kWh_PayYwa9MLNIAXND9WcYkoEKy0ng1xilk5H6U_PQbmM7nmi0Ppg3hUiNbf-_wkZ13HkRJ_jyPRWBUGQp7PAGp7AxBJycZEB3d_pHFLHToA/s1600/htbm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEJGJjk2yqiQj1rLwZlMWG9RKSyylL4kWh_PayYwa9MLNIAXND9WcYkoEKy0ng1xilk5H6U_PQbmM7nmi0Ppg3hUiNbf-_wkZ13HkRJ_jyPRWBUGQp7PAGp7AxBJycZEB3d_pHFLHToA/s1600/htbm.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></span></a></div>
<br />Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-27486659074796586492014-07-30T18:01:00.000-07:002014-08-01T11:54:38.961-07:00What I Was Thinking About When I Wrote The Spider Man<br />
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I had a sort of boyfriend in high school that people called the
spider man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
wasn’t a compliment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They called
him this because he had a habit of climbing up the exterior walls of the school
and hanging out on the roof. The other kids thought he was weird, not heroic.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let’s call this young man Jenner, since that is what I
called the character I based on him in my young adult horror novel entitled The
Spider Man. Jenner enrolled in our Catholic school as a sophomore the year I
was a senior though he was older than me by a few days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had a history of juvenile detentions
and of boys’ camps designed for rehabilitation. He had a history of drug
addiction, homelessness and violence that was written on his arms, hands and
chest in a web of scars. Some scars were round and puckered, others shallow and
white. One scar along the underside of his forearm was a deep, long ditch of ruined
flesh. I wondered how he had survived the wound.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jenner didn't like to talk about his past. He sent me love notes on candy grams that student
council sent to the homerooms as fundraisers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gave me gold jewelry and stuffed animals and burgundy red
roses on long stems. He took me to Homecoming. We were sixteen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We didn't see each other much outside of school. We went on a few dates where we doubled with friends of his that were
in their twenties. Once during his dad's cocktail party, we snuck
away from our parents to visit the next door neighbors. The next door
neighbors’ house had once belonged to my parents’ good friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had spent a lot of time there as a
child. That night as I sat in the living room while the new owners got my
boyfriend stoned I realized that life was stranger than I had
ever imagined. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Guys never liked me. Jenner was the first to take notice. His attention was heady, interesting, sexy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was rock star handsome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was tall, skinny, with nearly white longish blonde hair
and eyes that were aventurine green. He had high cheekbones and a way of half
smiling to hide his crooked teeth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There were a lot of drugs and alcohol in my school’s
culture but my friends and I never partook. We saw ourselves as morally superior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friends didn’t
really get Jenner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smelled like
marijuana and incense and Chanel for Men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He talked like someone out of Grimm’s. He said “my lady” to me a lot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On Halloween he wore surfer shorts, a t-shirt and a bathrobe.
He carried a hockey stick and said he was the Grim Reaper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was embarrassed when people laughed
at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He swore that the devil
had appeared at his thirteenth birthday party and had been after him ever
since. He scaled the walls in order to escape the devil’s hands sticking out of the ground ready to grab him and pull him into Hell. He saw these hands every day. He was frightened all the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought, finally someone who can match my
imagination. Finally someone who understands about the world beyond the world. I had no idea what he was really dealing with.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now as a high school teacher who has worked with hundreds of
young people, I know that Jenner was traumatized, addicted to drugs and probably in the early stages of schizophrenia. I think of him in my teaching
practice when I try very hard to be present to my students with mental
and emotional health needs. I wish a kind and savvy adult had been there for my
friend when we were kids. He had a reputation as a loser. With me he was a respectful and attentive friend. During the school day he was my prince. At night he went out with much older people. He did and
dealt drugs. He got another girl pregnant. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We broke up, whatever that meant to a boy and girl who saw each
other almost entirely at school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After that he got kicked out for a million reasons. His last day was
when he screamed at the dean and lay down in the middle of the busy street
beyond the parking lot, begging someone to run him over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Once his dad said to my parents: “I don’t know what your
daughter sees in my son.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jenner walked onto campus on the last day of school. I ran to
him to say hello. He signed my yearbook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He told me that he had a poem I had written for him taped to the
dashboard of his car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said he
was sorry for what he’d done. He said he would always think of me and feel
glad that someone believed in him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I saw him again two years later at the Walnut Festival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was talking to a girl as equally strung out as he was. His body was skeleton bony, his face twisted in a reptilian leer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t see me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The summer after I graduated college my dad called with the
news that Jenner had leapt to his death from a cliff in New Mexico. I was not
surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew why he was always climbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Six years ago I did an internet search for Jenner’s
name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know what I
expected to find. Not many other people from high school knew him. He had
connected with so few of us and he had been there for such a short time. Sometimes
I wondered if he truly existed. Even his one yearbook photo looks
faded, his pale face washed out in the frame. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A Google image appeared of Jenner’s tombstone in New Mexico,
adorned with fresh burgundy roses. He is buried in a Catholic cemetery in the
Four Corners region of New Mexico. Someone there cared enough to give him red
roses and to archive his stone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Spider Man is about a girl who falls for a boy who flees the devil’s
hands by scaling walls, who smells of smoke and fine perfume, who has been long
dead by the time she meets him. He makes everything exciting. He introduces
her to classic rock music. He loves her wholly in a way that in the end feels unholy. As addicted as she is to his love the girl knows that if she really loves him she’ll find a
way to help him find peace. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The real boy I knew was brave as long as he could be in the face of
demons that were real enough to drive him to seek higher ground. For a brief time before succumbing to illness altogether, he had tried to live another reality. He’d tried to be a Catholic
schoolboy with a sweetheart who accepted his gifts of roses. When I look back on it now it breaks my heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wish I could have helped my friend find peace.
But instead I wrote him a poem. Instead I archive his courage and his wildness
in a story. It’s the best I can do as a writer. </div>
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I wish it could have been
enough to save him when we were kids.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrxYI8fBC_Yp_c-1oxeijv7wIyI4GgwkKt-nkufdKS5Xz_jf1SAXWDSs6ju-Yt4q84MR-AKeGsJH0IOlUo-AKyhe1hVmnWtDML7uInnQ9E9fRulbiCIxiPr1uSVLXax5X2rk72NvWp-I/s1600/1448129-bigthumbnail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrxYI8fBC_Yp_c-1oxeijv7wIyI4GgwkKt-nkufdKS5Xz_jf1SAXWDSs6ju-Yt4q84MR-AKeGsJH0IOlUo-AKyhe1hVmnWtDML7uInnQ9E9fRulbiCIxiPr1uSVLXax5X2rk72NvWp-I/s1600/1448129-bigthumbnail.jpg" height="204" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red roses for my friend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<!--EndFragment-->Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-46096996589055026742014-06-26T18:53:00.001-07:002014-07-04T18:21:11.406-07:005 Ways the 70's and 80's Weren't Awesome<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> In the seventies our next-door neighbor’s dog bit off the
face of the kid that lived up the street. The boy’s blood starred the sidewalk
in a constellation that stained the white concrete for years.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As the boy went into surgery the neighbors whispered that he
shouldn’t have been teasing the dog with foxtails on such a hot day. What did
he think would happen?</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I never saw that kid again but the dog continued to roam
loose, shitting on everyone’s lawns and scaring </span><span style="font-size: large;">the children. I can’t imagine it now that I’m a
parent. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lots online lately about how great it was to be a kid in the
seventies and eighties.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> We
helicopter parent our children now. Society was better with fewer rules. We are
robbing our kids of authentic childhood. Our kids should have a seventies
summer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was a kid in 70’s and 80’s middle class suburbia, with
loving parents and amid average neighbors. But rip away the hazy film of
nostalgia, the 70’s and 80’s weren’t always so
great. Those years weren’t all wind in your hair and Wonderbread.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">For example, as children in the 70’s and 80’s. . . . .</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<ol start="1" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We
did not wear seat belts</b></span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">. It was a blast sliding along vinyl
seats on windy roads. Long
trips flew by in way backs and the beds of pick up trucks. But when I was
nine, someone broadsided our Dodge Dart and sent us spinning. I rammed my
aunt’s cheekbones with my head, breaking her face and suffering a
concussion.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> I’ve been in one totaling car wreck with air bags
and seat belts, and one without. I walked away from the seat belt wreck in a
straight line. The seat belt law is a good law.</span></li>
</ol>
<ol start="2" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We
watched awful television. </b></span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I tried
watching Wonder Woman with my ten-year-old daughter. She was horrified by
the relentless sexual harassment of Diana Prince. Diana gets her revenge
later as Wonder Woman, but as a regular woman she deflects men’s gross
advances with coy remarks that allow them to save face. So many of the TV
shows we remember as harmless and funny are full of the message that
relentless innuendo and harassment are harmless and funny. Maybe that was why . . . </span></li>
</ol>
<ol start="3" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We
had a high tolerance for skeevy adults. </b></span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">If
you were a girl in the 70’s and 80’s, sexual harassment was part of the
landscape. In one office where I had a summer job, one of the adult
managers came in when I was alone, tracing his pen up and down my arm and
sitting too close to me. He wasn’t worried about a harassment lawsuit and
it would never have occurred to me to press one.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My daughter would flip out if a
friend’s dad rubbed up against her, or if one of her teachers told her
boyfriend she was a slut. I took these things in stride. I told myself none of
it mattered to me.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> Like Diana
Prince, I acted polite to the manager, the dad, the teacher. As scared and
small as they made me feel, I let them feel harmless and funny. No girl I knew
ever did anything different in similar situations in the 70’s and 80’s. </span></li>
</ol>
<ol start="4" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>We
didn’t learn in school. </b></span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I’m no
standardized testing advocate but the 70’s and 80’s had no standards at
all. I read Jane Eyre and
wrote at home and filled out SRA quizzes at school. If it weren’t for my
own reading habit the boredom would have crushed me. It was through
reading that I recognized that in my neighborhood in the 70’s and 80’s. .
. . </span></li>
</ol>
<ol start="5" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>The
Lord of the Flies</i></b></span><span style="font-size: large; font-style: normal;"><b> was a real
thing. </b></span><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, in the 70’s and 80’s we left the house until the
streetlights came on. We weren’t always playing Perfection and freeze tag.
The 70’s suburban neighborhood wasn’t all ladybugs and drinks from the
garden hose. The biggest kids often did what they wanted with the littlest
when no one was watching us but us.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was my ten-year-old
daughter’s age, I walked the mile to school with older kids. We got there early
enough to hang out at the corner liquor store where we ate Jolly Ranchers,
discussed oral sex techniques and admired the boys as they blew marijuana smoke
rings. For a
lot of us, the 70’s and 80’s were no Mayberry. </span></li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So I choose schools carefully for my daughters, and I drive
them there myself. I get to know the families of their friends, especially
before sleepovers, and they get to know me. We make our children wear seat belts, we don’t leave them in the car
when running errands, and we teach them to apply SPF 15 before swimming. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In
fact,
I’m writing this right now by the side of our neighborhood public pool
with lots of other parents. My youngest daughter is across the way
swimming and diving and making friends
with the other kids.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> She’s a
strong girl, self-reliant to the point of making me feel obsolete half the
time. She’s never needed me out here during the long summer afternoons by the
pool and she probably never will.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But if she does, I’m sitting right here.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> Not a helicopter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A parent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-68409569700960088482014-06-24T19:03:00.004-07:002014-07-04T18:22:39.711-07:00Good Dog<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5S6auWnc3ae1Hh9ptpcqZfzD_gijcEExWMUnLJJ2XWZKcH6hFPWV9ACWCTsEoNY8ge1C7-YGL8bYQIDkvEREkRefWDodJlLICPFIE7UnYqgWxpU1Nomm3aSdx-T0Tmjg8X6-Cw_YCEDQ/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5S6auWnc3ae1Hh9ptpcqZfzD_gijcEExWMUnLJJ2XWZKcH6hFPWV9ACWCTsEoNY8ge1C7-YGL8bYQIDkvEREkRefWDodJlLICPFIE7UnYqgWxpU1Nomm3aSdx-T0Tmjg8X6-Cw_YCEDQ/s1600/photo+1.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Up until last month I had a dog named Zeus.</span> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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--></style>Zeus was my first dog. I didn’t know how to be a pet owner
before. I didn’t know that dogs could truly love people. It's not a made up
thing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last spring the vet gave Zeus a days-to-live diagnosis. What
seemed like a chest cold turned out to be tumor town. The vet said we could
feed him whatever he wanted because all that mattered now was his happiness.
Zeus enjoyed this very much and decided to cling to the mast for several more
weeks. I got my hopes up that we cheated death through canine heroine and hot
dogs. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, no. When it was time, the vet helped my husband,
daughter and me usher Zeus into the next plane with treats, drugs and love. My
daughter Margaret flung herself on his neck in the final moments, crying with
the kind of grief that scoops out your insides. I know because my own insides
were undergoing the same operation. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked around for weeks stunned and unhappy and honestly a
little offended. I had never had a pet before. Spoiler alert, they die before
you do. It’s not cool.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my young adult novel <i>How to Be Manly,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> the main character Matty forges a friendship with
his neighbor’s dog Dirty Harry when his owner goes into the hospital. Dirty
Harry is a model of loyalty and bad-ass courage. I wouldn’t know dogs could be
that way if it weren’t for Zeus. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My favorite thing about Dirty Harry is that he is a magical
never-dying dog because he is fictional. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But wait, I don’t want the last thing you know about Zeus is
that he conked out on us before I was ready. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you want to know why I knew enough about an awesome dog
to be able to write Dirty Harry into being?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because one hot day when I had all the doors and windows
open, a man stole a woman’s car with her in it and crashed it down the street.
The man ran into our backyard. I didn’t know this because I was making dinner.
My husband was at work and I was momentarily crippled by a knee injury. All I
knew was that Zeus was barking like crazy and there was nothing I could do to
stop him because I could barely walk. That goddamn dog, I thought. So noisy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then my youngest daughter said, “Look, Mommy. There’s a
man.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And indeed a frantic stranger was barging through our side
door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For about two seconds. Zeus rammed through the house from
the backyard like an orange missile of death and chased him right over the
fence. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve never seen a human being move as fast as that carjacker
escaping Zeus. Within the hour the police arrested him. I don’t know what
happened to him, or to the woman he kidnapped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family’s part of the story was that one day a violent man
was foiled by our loyal, bad-ass dog who though perpetually gentle with
children was fiercely protective of my family.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah, Zeus. Good dog.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-17963034385028477112014-06-23T17:16:00.001-07:002014-06-23T17:16:24.976-07:00The Power of a Book<i>This piece is adapted from an article I wrote that appeared Teacher magazine in</i> 2006.<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a teenager I attended an upscale private school where I
did not fit in. In a sea of preppies, I opted for a brooding persona. I wrote
curse words in Sharpie on my high-top sneakers along with song lyrics from
B-sides of obscure British pop records. I had no idea what I wanted to be when
I grew up, where I wanted to go to college, or whether I even wanted to go to
college. I never liked anything.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In junior year I took an elective called Reader's Response.
I sat next to a girl who ironed the pleats of her uniform skirt every night. I
pinned my pleats together with big safety pins that I sometimes removed to use
as earrings. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had to read 10 books in the course of a semester, our
choice. I liked reading but I could only think of six. The teacher said I should
read <i>The Catcher in the Rye</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. He handed
me a copy he happened to have on the shelf.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I started. By the time the class ended, I had lifted out
of my life and landed into Holden's, a boy I alternately wanted to smack and
salute. Kind of how I felt about myself.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I read that book in its entirety without once putting it
down. I eschewed all other homework. I read late into the night. When I
finished, I lay awake, unable to sleep.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The carousel stuck with me the most. It is such a tragic
scene when Holden pays for his sister Phoebe’s seat on the beat-up ride of his
own youth. Poor Phoebe tries talking sense to nihilist Holden. "You never
like anything," she says. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sympathized with Phoebe yet agreed with Holden. School was
pointless. He and I were trapped together on a road toward an uninteresting
destination. Like Holden I yearned for human connection and authenticity in my
life.</div>
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I walked away from that book a changed person. I read Th<i>e
Catcher in the Rye</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and my life path became
clear. I wanted to read books and write for a living. Nothing else would do
because nothing else felt true to who I really was. This book started me on
becoming who I am.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a teacher I never forget the power a single book can have
on a person. It’s impossible to predict what book it will be. I got lucky with
that one intuitive English teacher because the best life-changing book is
hardly ever what a teacher or parent thinks it should be. In my first published
novel <i>How to Be Manly, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">a teenager’s
whole life shifts course because of a book he steals from a garage sale.</span><i>
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">He finds it by chance and it changes
everything. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I teach and write with reverence for the moment when a
student or reader will find reality crashing with just the right book at just
the right time. It happens with the character in my own novel and it happens
with me still now that I am grown.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is nothing like the book that makes you turn the last
page and look out the window and realize that you are different now. You
realize that your own tragic scenes have meaning. You realize that even though
you still never like anything that maybe you might like a few things. You
realize that while you are still alone, someone once wrote a book explaining
everything you feel and that maybe you are not alone. You have found the book
by chance and now everything is different, including you.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all
done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of
yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it,” Holden
says. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still know just how he feels.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGOh_rMGDIXJUMkUGkBxBkB9k2hJ2H0p-JvSTVbMnpyzEnQEi7vSbrUmA4StnNrBY5xRv3LvUrQXoE6VAb1WgtGQjMv4wo-PTHyNyHn1TabdWiq_yo5Q-QXGOlwpPG8ptSCwOd5GpJG7E/s1600/catcher+rye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGOh_rMGDIXJUMkUGkBxBkB9k2hJ2H0p-JvSTVbMnpyzEnQEi7vSbrUmA4StnNrBY5xRv3LvUrQXoE6VAb1WgtGQjMv4wo-PTHyNyHn1TabdWiq_yo5Q-QXGOlwpPG8ptSCwOd5GpJG7E/s1600/catcher+rye.jpg" height="320" width="246" /></a></div>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-38904929174429478752014-04-16T11:11:00.005-07:002014-04-16T11:15:54.555-07:00Why I Am an X-Files Monster<div class="MsoNormal">
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--></style> A student called me a sponge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said I absorb everything people say
to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he meant it as a
warning to other students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch
out for this one, she’s tricky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’ll absorb you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do observe and take in the people I meet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s always been true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still have speech mannerisms picked
up from cousins I met in Ireland when I was 13, college roommates, fourth
graders I taught in 1993.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can
tell how someone is secretly really feeling from a mile away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember names instantly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I absorb people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m like an X-Files monster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtBf6xhzSlQZJtqzaROkxu-VOccXnSQ0xMuAARXYnh4TLXvqgNokYHBRcxIiQAusDgmLuzsGsPsIyVOWSP-LVfNNKgzQDkEJHoQGu5MiydG6wFZWJ0Qgw29mHvWv7kIe1fSYfPaitWI8/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtBf6xhzSlQZJtqzaROkxu-VOccXnSQ0xMuAARXYnh4TLXvqgNokYHBRcxIiQAusDgmLuzsGsPsIyVOWSP-LVfNNKgzQDkEJHoQGu5MiydG6wFZWJ0Qgw29mHvWv7kIe1fSYfPaitWI8/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I might be this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A person cannot go around feeling other people’s feelings
all day long and function like a proper adult in society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a complex set of coping
mechanisms to deal with this hyper-sensitivity, including but not limited to
starchy carbs, extended gym workouts and writing novels.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I write novels because if I did not then how could I have
answered the questions I had after spending a year in the classroom with a
young sociopath who lived to inflict pain on other boys?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote <i>The Cameraman</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> about a kid who beats up his victims in boys’
bathrooms from the point of view of the bully’s fascinated classmate who films
the beatings to show on his website.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote <i>The Spider Man </i><span style="font-style: normal;">after
spending eight years teaching hundreds of underestimated and powerful high
school girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without writing a
novel about a character channeling the ancient goddess Brigid in the new
millennium, how could I have expressed my awe for those girls who were
determined to use all of their considerable gifts to do nothing less than save
the world?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote <i>How To Be Manly </i><span style="font-style: normal;">about a funny and loving teenaged boy struggling to
become a man when his male role models are a dad who is deadbeat at best,
dangerous at worst, and a grandfather whose dementia renders him more like a
child every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you learn
to become a man of worth and honor when the person raising you is a grandmother
who sees you only as a boy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do
you build self worth when to your own father you are worth nothing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see boys accomplish this very thing
every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m dying to know how
they do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I go home to my
computer and turn into a boy for a few hours a day and I tell his story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I write my stories for the young women and men forging
through their own private odysseys in these crazy times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see them slay their own monsters with
daily courage and ingenuity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t start out trying to be a Young Adult novelist, but when I sit down to
type, sometimes very young voices come out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stories line up in my brain like trains in a station, not so
patiently waiting for their turn to be told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve absorbed them and now they must come out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They must come out or I can’t sleep, I
cry too much, and I become cross over nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My student was right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I absorb stories, roll them over in the tumbler of my imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all I know to do with everything I see, know and feel
through my own journey as a human being in this world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Call me the Story Eater. </div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-80124913563858106002014-03-10T09:14:00.002-07:002014-03-10T09:19:15.430-07:00The 50K Mark<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
The first fifty thousand words of my novels are like a protracted first date with my characters. It takes that long for me to learn enough about them to decide whether or not we'll go any further together on the journey of their make-believe lives.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
As a writer you get to play God, but it isn't as powerful as you think. You can only boss the fictional universe around so much before it starts bossing back and messing things up. Characters start developing their own will after awhile. Only writers will understand what I mean by that. Once my characters start doing what they'll do on the page, I know I have a decision to make. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
Do we go on? Or do I end it here and take up another project with a story that works better?</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
I'm at the 50K mark with my latest literary thriller, <i>The Healing Room</i>. It's about a pair of childhood friends, a young woman who has survived a kidnapping by a sexual sadist and a young man who has survived a tour of duty in Iraq. Together they work to rebuild their lives despite crippling post-traumatic stress. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
At first I thought <i>The Healing Room</i> had a paranormal, magical realism element to it, but no. My female character says that what happened to her was very real, that it happens to mostly women and children every day, and that I'm not to paint that turd pink with anything but the cold hard facts. My male character never believed in magic anyway, so he's impervious.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i>I got out of that shit alive, </i>the woman says. <i>Don't make that any more or less than it is.</i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i>There are</i><i> no short cuts, </i>says the man. <i>Tell the story right or leave us the hell alone.</i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
So I start over from the beginning and rebuild the world of the story to accommodate my characters as they've revealed themselves to me. Or I scrap the whole thing and leave them in their half-lives, toiling away at relationship and healing in that old Victorian on the mountainside, rebuilding the deck and holding Veterans' meetings in the living room. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i> </i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i> </i>I'll make my decision soon, trying to be objective about matters such as plot construction and story structure, trying to ignore the tiny but now full-fledged voices in my head, begging to be heard.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i>Come back, </i>they say<i>. </i><i>Write us.</i></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQ-ukiV6fWcHPY73Qd0n0VXa3XTmQbgNc3W3Cw8XyBYoXxcNBAujDkBoHAyVacgsBSmGFrawzxWgVzTfF4pAAQWwDhAg9X1Or9PLNSF08O5gW2zeUddCADYI67lKtW29OKHL7Emg0jys/s1600/tumblr_ln08dj9YE41qhxciro1_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQ-ukiV6fWcHPY73Qd0n0VXa3XTmQbgNc3W3Cw8XyBYoXxcNBAujDkBoHAyVacgsBSmGFrawzxWgVzTfF4pAAQWwDhAg9X1Or9PLNSF08O5gW2zeUddCADYI67lKtW29OKHL7Emg0jys/s1600/tumblr_ln08dj9YE41qhxciro1_400.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not my photo, and I can't find the name of the photographer, but if you look closely you can see my characters peeking out from the top window, waving hello.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-28381177361288038742014-03-09T17:36:00.003-07:002014-04-18T16:15:10.121-07:00The Arrow (What I Was Thinking)<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
My first year of teaching was in a fourth grade in a tiny Catholic school in Humboldt County. On All Saints Day our class had St. Brigid. We made a banner for her, and I projected a page from Mercer Mayer's <i>East of the Sun West of the Moon</i> on the paper so that we could trace it. We painted it with water colors. I drew in the mean king who wanted to marry her, the flocks of birds that did her bidding. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
The poster was both too much and too little for what the school required. Too many Celtic snakes, not enough actual crosses, but I was hooked. The more I learned about St. Brigid the more I loved her. The Catholic Church renounced her sainthood in the seventies, you know. They found out she was really a goddess and said, no way you're a saint. You can't fool us. </div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
When St. Brigid visited the mean king who wanted to marry her against her will, she turned into an ugly monster with boils on her skin. As soon as he rejected her, she ran away and turned beautiful again. She healed by touch. She hit a target with an arrow from a mile away. She commanded the animals. She is the Triple Goddess, the goddess of so many things that she encompasses three women. She is the goddess of fertility, wisdom, metal work, childbirth, art, fire, to name just a few.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
So I thought, what would happen if an incarnation of the Mother of us all had to face things like global warming, disease, drug addiction, celebrity culture, identity and love just like everybody else? What if she was of mixed ethnicity because her dad was a powerful Maidu Story Keeper god, and she carried her heritage with grace and nonchalance despite living in a racist society? What if the Triple Goddess was in the form of literally three women who had to learn how to live and work together in a family despite enormous personality differences?</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
In <i>The Arrow, </i>the son of Dionysus is a beautiful rock star so addicted to the adoration of fans and groupies that real relationship seems impossible for him. A demon bred to destroy a goddess instead falls in love with her. A billionaire CEO of a huge pharmaceutical company is so obsessed with the girl of his dreams that he's willing to give up the power of a king just to have her all to himself. A witch mother sacrifices her own sons on the altar of her greed for power.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
A modern incarnation of an ancient goddess just wants to make her own contribution to the world without her mother and older sister looking over her damn shoulder all the time.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i>The Arrow</i> follows Fynn, the youngest of the Triple Goddesses as she finds her place in the family hierarchy and falls in love and then out of love and then saves the world and falls in love again. It's got faery drugs, rock guitars, fights to the death, beautiful but awful witches, sexy but evil groupies, a sexy and redeemed demon, a flock of useful birds, a faithful friend with disturbing eyes who might or might not be a Djinn. It was fun to write.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<i>The Arrow </i>is the first in a series that follows Fynn and her friend and sister as they rescue themselves and everybody else while finding love with very sexy boyfriends.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
My obsession with Brigid has taken me far from sainthood, but deep into mythology and the strength of women which isn't a myth at all, of course. But it is awesome and a lot of fun.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdafc90z8w-JzoY4iN7bxehd2XOm9YG9scL68MZzdxzD_lDNNFDabOgHe76LB29lsjr6mUIG-7o74eucYf-Ww1yG7s9B64e3daf8ZZv2ZLomLxFRsjN0PVoKNQq9Ow3LuAdmYjnzV2mpg/s1600/01_mayer_eastofthesun_shehadherpick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdafc90z8w-JzoY4iN7bxehd2XOm9YG9scL68MZzdxzD_lDNNFDabOgHe76LB29lsjr6mUIG-7o74eucYf-Ww1yG7s9B64e3daf8ZZv2ZLomLxFRsjN0PVoKNQq9Ow3LuAdmYjnzV2mpg/s1600/01_mayer_eastofthesun_shehadherpick.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From East of the Sun West of the Moon by Mercer Mayer, a truly gorgeous book.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-64046203517572565782014-01-03T16:23:00.003-08:002014-01-03T17:13:53.414-08:00Sugar Is Not Your Friend<style> <!--
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<br />
I’m addicted to sugar. I’m not using the word “addict”
lightly here. I am truly powerless over processed sugar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best thing I do for my health is to avoid white sugar
and all of its forms altogether.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once I’m two or three days into not eating sugar, I don’t
want it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> When I'm off sugar, my appetite is right in line with my ideal weight. B</span>ut if I’ve had even one
piece of candy, it's over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
appetite grows into a ravenous beast that I can't satisfy no matter what I eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My skin
breaks out and wrinkles, my energy lags, my joints ache, my pants stop fitting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful not to be addicted to alcohol or drugs
or gambling or any other thing that could get me in trouble with the law or
ruin my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I’m in the
throes of sugar madness, I’m perfectly functional as far as everyone else is
concerned. It’s just me that feels crappy. I bow down to people managing addictions to the hard stuff. I can't imagine how difficult that must be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, sugar is corrosive in its own way. Many people battle their weight and spend so much money on diets and feel lousy about themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you are having a problem with toxic
hunger, or in other words an appetite that will not listen to reason, maybe
stop beating yourself up about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe stop eating sugar for one month and see what happens to your
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me it’s
not about willpower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
about avoiding the toxic hunger that sugar throws my body into when I have even just a little.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
There are tons of studies coming out right now that point to the fact that sugar is poison<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">.
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Sugar consumption can lead to diabetes, cancer, all kinds of bad health. </span>Check the information out for yourself if you
don’t believe me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is just one
lady’s experience. I’m not a scientist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m an English teacher.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sugar looks awesome, but it is just like the beautiful-sounding siren
ladies in the Odyssey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I feel
like eating it, I try to be like Odysseus and strap myself to the mast of my own good health and gut that pretty song out.
Practically everything in the grocery store has tons of sugar and it’s made up
to look awesome and normal and not poisonous at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a big trick designed to toss me on the rocks. I'm not falling for it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFo9K1hzgwvXhaYDJ3kE2PvTTLd7PikFvQSk2FqVL5Zo-TNs2MjNufmC2viXSkHvgQTA2_KuTIvl8W7DHHvO61aFss3cdaH7MBXI0Y6GiupoFx1nBSyf0PrEQcdgxgDfjgKr7jfBF5jr4/s1600/Odysseus+and+the+Sirens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFo9K1hzgwvXhaYDJ3kE2PvTTLd7PikFvQSk2FqVL5Zo-TNs2MjNufmC2viXSkHvgQTA2_KuTIvl8W7DHHvO61aFss3cdaH7MBXI0Y6GiupoFx1nBSyf0PrEQcdgxgDfjgKr7jfBF5jr4/s1600/Odysseus+and+the+Sirens.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An ancient vase picturing Odysseus strapped to the mast to keep himself from giving in to the siren's song. You need to do the same thing with sugar, but not necessarily naked.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m just telling you this because it's January and everybody’s talking about
losing weight. I don't like to talk about what I eat and don't eat because I'm embarrassed by the whole subject, frankly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> So I'll say it here and be done with it. Sugar is not your friend.</span><br />
<br />
Besides, there is no polite way to say to a person that sugar is not your friend because when
you’re eating sugar it really really seems like it is your friend.<br />
<br />
I’ve gone
through periods in my life where the only thing getting me through the next
three hours is one of those packages of white Donettes from the 7-Eleven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may very well be there again
tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not today, though. Today I’m tied to the mast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIjYQZlflx9-pse8MMjYVxo7-PFcUVcp1E21GhZHR1IkwJAy4ZbQMX6gCaDf1EKwzeLVW1LcgLaPoVqkZzW6HfS09In7YptmYqeAjtf3o5CRpbYajXOpJ-M_e1_4dJQ5wiUXdqD4Dhrs/s1600/product.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIjYQZlflx9-pse8MMjYVxo7-PFcUVcp1E21GhZHR1IkwJAy4ZbQMX6gCaDf1EKwzeLVW1LcgLaPoVqkZzW6HfS09In7YptmYqeAjtf3o5CRpbYajXOpJ-M_e1_4dJQ5wiUXdqD4Dhrs/s1600/product.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So cute. So not your friend.</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-82572937692111780382013-12-30T09:57:00.003-08:002014-04-18T16:29:35.406-07:00Fimbulvetre: A Norse Mythology Approach to Self-Improvement<style> <!--
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Norse mythology doesn’t mess around when it comes to
Winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Norse mythology does Winter, it’s called Fimbulvetre,
an apocalyptic weather event ending almost all life on earth. Translated,
Fimbulvetre means a “great, big, awful winter” that essentially clutter clears
the world so thoroughly that nothing is the same after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like the way the Norse do things. Sometimes, a full-scale
Fimbulvetre is long overdue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjramYC8PC3uHaucFr91FCkhL8iwZvTzpUUsbwgcQduyHwRrVERu35i09F8_3PeCMw9S4NVIh5vZ3-Tb0BhBAXKWx3QFs33I1t_kl0vlLm4hhT75oW0BP3Fc9fz3vnlt1xNRXThwaxs5io/s1600/425760_10151299552448184_933775424_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjramYC8PC3uHaucFr91FCkhL8iwZvTzpUUsbwgcQduyHwRrVERu35i09F8_3PeCMw9S4NVIh5vZ3-Tb0BhBAXKWx3QFs33I1t_kl0vlLm4hhT75oW0BP3Fc9fz3vnlt1xNRXThwaxs5io/s320/425760_10151299552448184_933775424_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What Winter really looks like where I live.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t mean that literally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I live in the Central Valley of California, where we panic
when the temperature dips below forty degrees Fahrenheit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would probably last three minutes in
an actual awful Winter, but as a metaphor I find Fimbulvetre useful while
looking back on the past few months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a full time teacher, writer, a wife, and a
mother of two daughters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This past
fall I wedged a Masters in Education program into my schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suddenly found that I didn’t have the
energy for the stuff, people and habits that didn’t nourish my family and
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a deciduous tree in Winter,
I shed dead leaves and pooled my resources to the inner core.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fimbulvetre is about clearing away the non-essential. It’s
not about trying to solve problems through compromise. Fimbulvetre is about
getting honest about what isn’t working and letting it go without equivocation.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my own personal Fimbulvetre this past year, I forced
myself to be honest with a few people who were hurting my family and me with
their actions and words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a relief to get back the energy that I had been wasting on disappointment
and anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On a physical level, I stopped eating refined sugar. I
stopped bothering with moderation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I faced the fact that sugar is a problem for me in my diet and I dropped
it altogether. My joints stopped aching and I lost enough weight that I liked
how I looked in jeans again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got rid of some pieces of furniture in my house that I
hated and cleared the spare room altogether. Rather than fill it with new
things, I put down a throw rug and turned it into a yoga room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My third grade daughter had been coming home from school
depressed by a culture of relentless testing and mean girl social dynamics.
When it became clear that nothing was going to change, my husband and I went
Fimbulvetre on the whole issue. We left the school and parish that had been our
community for eight years and found Waldorf education, which suited our little
girl much, much better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fimbulvetre as a problem-solving approach has been a
life-changer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Facing a new year,
my family and I have never felt stronger and happier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have never felt like more of a beautifully working team. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not every year can be a Fimbulvetre year, but clearing out
what wasn’t working with a Norse-like, no mercy approach has helped me to
cultivate presence and awareness in all aspects of my life. It has allowed me
the energy to focus on the essential and the true for myself and for my
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In true Fimbulvetre form, nothing will be the same in the
aftermath. I will emerge from the great and awful Winter strengthened at the
roots, prepared to grow wildly in the warmth of the coming Spring.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-89400881623193414522013-12-10T09:35:00.000-08:002013-12-10T10:12:50.772-08:00She's On To Us (for my Sophomore English students)<style> <!--
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>“She’s on to us.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
classroom of tenth graders shifted uneasily in their seats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not enough so you would notice, or
anyone would notice just casually walking by the open classroom door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, anyone walking by would think
Miss Salt was a teacher who knew her stuff better than most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wasn’t exciting exactly, but she
didn’t put you to sleep instantly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The students were amused by her daily attempts to make learning
fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t always fun but the
attempts were amusing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
was a teacher who read stories aloud in funny accents and who wasn’t afraid to
tell a joke or two in the middle of a grammar exercise. The jokes weren't funny but at least they were something to break the monotony.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jaret’s
wings shook under his wrestling jacket, fluttering against the fabric with a
light rustle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Salt was the kind of teacher who told parents on Back to School Night that she
was so grateful to the parents for having such wonderful children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the kind of teacher who let
you turn your work in a day or two late if you were up past midnight texting
your boyfriend or playing video games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was the kind of teacher who didn’t write up dress code violations
for your black striped hoodie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was the kind of teacher who didn’t give you detention for listening
to your headphones in class.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
spark flew out of Maddie’s finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She put her hand in her pocket to snub it out. Today something was up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
tell you, she knows,” Elijah said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Morgan shook her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Impossible,”
she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She
knows something,” Brayden whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He mixed his breakfast potion into his faery water and stirred it with
his mind like he always did but then he stopped. Looked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There she was, watching him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took up the bottle and shook it, smiling
like an innocent human boy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kat
arranged her hair over her pointy ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jack lifted his hoodie over his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
room went silent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
know, I was going to talk about grammar today,” Miss Salt said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But I have changed my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today we are going to talk about
something real. Something that you should all be aware of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, I know you think I don’t know,
but I do know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know what you all
are.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
human can know about us,” Roman said under his breath to Robert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’re going to have to take her out
right here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
not Miss Salt!” Robert said, though he knew Roman spoke the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
mercy,” said Terise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We have to
think of our own safety.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
plan to mainstream into human society usually worked, but once in a while there would be one human who messed up the plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One who knew too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe there was a little bit of Faery Tale Creature in Miss Salt too, who knew?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe there was a great grandmother who
was a witch or a great uncle werewolf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps she had a bit of the faerie dust herself through her veins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever, it wasn’t enough to save
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was human enough to put
them at risk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
students were not old enough to remember the great faery massacres of the late
sixties when groups of faery tale creatures made the mistake of thinking the
hippies and flower children would be trustworthy friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were certainly not old enough to
have personal experience with the horrible faery smushing that occurred all
over England and America in the early twentieth century when little girls all
over took up the hobby of pressing faeries into the pages of books like dried
flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But their parents and
grandparents and great grandparents knew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The students had been brought up with the warnings since their
infancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do not let the humans
know what you are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if one does
see you and realize, kill her immediately.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know what you are,” Miss Salt says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I see you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You think I
don’t see you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You think I don’t
see the dust you leave on the floor, glittering like moonlight?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ways your jackets bulk up behind
you to hide your wings?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You think
I don’t see that you are made of magic? You're a bunch of Faery Tale Creatures, every last one of you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
class sighed collectively in regret and a tinge of sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were sorry about what they had to
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were so very sorry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hunter
stood up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Megan and Megan blocked
the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Darien cracked his
knuckles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would make it
quick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would not have to
suffer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Salt took a step back towards the cupboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s going on?” she asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
be still,” said Von.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
won’t hurt a bit,” said Eric.<br />
"No," Miss Salt said. "But this will."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Salt reached into the cupboard and whipped out a giant, shimmering sack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She snapped it out and it billowed,
smelling of bad children and the terror of a thousand captured faery tale
creatures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It fell over the heads
of the students and their wings and pointed ears and fire fingers and magical
powers all crashed into one another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everything went dark as Miss Salt cinched the sack closed on the wails
of protest from her tenth grade class.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Krampus
came to the door then, his saucy hooves tick tacking against the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She passed the bag along to him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks
Babe,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You know they
taste better when they’re FTCs.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Spare me the details” Miss Salt said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Just pick me up at 8 and take me somewhere nice for dinner.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miss
Salt watched him go and then sat at her desk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had some papers to correct and she hated to get behind
in her work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2v_PJDiZxqVw72vyfxo-AhDF3hh59OXgmdwtuhKVGtuqM9xZV7C30lHRuBRAYehLQ3uDUggF1FaqqosgT3M9Rip_0JIFTe59OVUW4SrIsuUmtJaUguhC4PAE-S3V-zlCo-iOgNGbKOr8/s1600/Brom_Krampus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2v_PJDiZxqVw72vyfxo-AhDF3hh59OXgmdwtuhKVGtuqM9xZV7C30lHRuBRAYehLQ3uDUggF1FaqqosgT3M9Rip_0JIFTe59OVUW4SrIsuUmtJaUguhC4PAE-S3V-zlCo-iOgNGbKOr8/s320/Brom_Krampus.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-21183825943181241012013-12-09T22:03:00.003-08:002013-12-09T22:03:22.967-08:00WaitingThis is what I said at the prayer service at Christian Brothers High School:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my youngest daughter was small, I taught her not to
interrupt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she had something to
say to me while I was talking to an adult, she had to put a patient hand on my
arm and wait in silence until I could give her the full light of my
attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a really hard
thing for a kid to do, and she wasn’t always patient, but she did it with full
faith that her needs would be met.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She only had to wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Waiting isn’t easy for little kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frankly it isn’t easy for any of us.
Nobody likes being told to wait, especially in this time in human history when
we don’t have to wait for much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I was your age, now brace yourselves, I had to go to an actual
library to look something up if I wanted to do research.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a wonderful time this is to be a
student!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now when you want to know
something, you have millions of texts available at your fingertips. The whole
world is available to you and who needs a patient hand when you can access it
immediately whenever you want?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is a powerful tool for knowledge and connection and the world is
already a better place for it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet waiting still has an important place in the human
condition. One of the things I love most about our faith is the tradition of
seasons, holidays, and special time out to reflect and pray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Advent is awesome and I’m telling you
this because in very few other places in life are you going to hear that it’s
okay to be still a minute and wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Learning to wait is very important. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For example, if you look out at a field in winter with an
untrained eye, you might think it’s just a bunch of dead and muddy dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is nothing growing above the
surface. It’s all chaos and immaturity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the gardener who loves the land looks at that field and knows that
fallow times are necessary for the growth of healthy crops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gardener who loves the land looks
at that field and knows that just below the surface, seeds are germinating,
bulbs are resting, the soil itself is waiting and rejuvenating for the time
when the days grow longer and it will sprout green again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without the resting and waiting time,
the rows become exhausted and will refuse to grow anything but weeds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you look back in our own American history, we’ve
experienced times of waiting that on the surface looked bleak. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are often taught in school that the
Civil Rights Movement in this country began with Rosa Parks not giving up her
seat on a bus, and the young Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. leading a boycott that
resulted in a chain of events leading to freedom and equity for all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These events did occur and these famous
names are great heroes in our American narrative, but did you know that when
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was a very young man younger than you, he was riding
a bus with his teacher on the way home from a speech and elocution contest
where he won first prize?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And did
you know that on that long bus ride, even after he had achieved so much through
study and hard work and integrity, he and his teacher were forced to stand in
order to give able bodied white passengers their seats?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be many years to wait before
young Martin would take an even greater seat as Reverend of Dexter Avenue
Baptist Church and lead that boycott and make that famous speech at Washington
Monument. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And did you know that all during those years when Martin was
a child, the pastor who preceded him at that church, a man by the name of Dr.
Vernon Johns, the grandson of slaves, was pushing for social change, giving
galvanizing sermons from the pulpit, selling fresh produce outside the church
after services to nourish his community? Vernon Johns was waiting, preparing
his people to fight for the bright at the end of the long unlit tunnel of
oppression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Dr. Vernon Johns
stepped down to make way for the young Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., the seeds
were already planted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wait for
civil rights for all Americans was too long by an eternity, but during that
wait, whole communities full of people like Dr. Vernon Johns and many others
were preparing, waiting, acting, praying and having faith that their work would
burst into full bloom and chase away the night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joseph and Mary faced an oppressive government in their own
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just think of that young
couple, poor, roaming the land on a donkey, looking for a place to stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moms out there, you know how
uncomfortable that must have been, nine months pregnant on the back of a
donkey. They did not give up, but set about the quiet work of preparation, in
the fullness of their expectation of the light that was about to come. They
knew the whole time that they were deeply loved as the whole world waited in
quiet preparation for the birth of the Baby that would be our Lord and Brother,
and Who would teach us all how to live and love in the light for eternity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If we want to know more about it, we don’t need to charge up
anything but Scripture. According to the Gospel of Luke, Chapter Three, <i>Prepare
the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill
shall be brought low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough
ways shall be made smooth and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe you are thinking, that’s nice Wanket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does that have to do with me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We your teachers look at you, our beautiful, wonderful
students. And what to some might look like chaos and immaturity looks to us
like process and preparation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
much of what we are engaged in here at CB is one big long advent, a waiting
period, a process of learning and preparation and deep and quiet study while
you become who you are, and while you decide what kind of man or woman you are
going to be in the light of our God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What can you do to honor this season of Advent?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can do your reading and your homework.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actual reading and homework. Education,
in the words of my colleague Mr. Delgado, is not the point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the process. Allow yourself the
dignity of quiet, contemplative and deep study of the material of your
education.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can work for social justice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actual work. Allow yourself to be a part of the sacred
preparation for the light of a family who needs food, a child who needs a book,
a community that needs healing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can pray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Actually pray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allow
yourself the joy of a deep friendship with a God who loves you and wants to be
allowed into your heart more than anything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can listen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Actually listen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allow
yourself to read the Scriptures, to sit in meditation, to listen for the voice
of God in your life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can wait with a patient hand, waiting through the long
night for the light that is surely coming, waiting in the knowledge that you
are deeply, and truly loved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-63016367427758068002013-09-02T11:59:00.002-07:002013-09-02T14:53:07.531-07:00Ten Deep Thoughts on Labor Day<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<br /></div>
<ul style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">I got
my first job when I was eleven years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I taught swim lessons at the local public pool for two
dollars an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have
worked almost every summer of my life since then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
</ul>
<ul style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Only
teachers think working over the summer is a thing to write about in a
blog. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Jobs
I’ve had: swimming instructor, babysitter, hardware store cashier,
telemarketer, telephone operator, substitute teacher, elementary school
teacher, high school teacher, adult school teacher, food service worker,
warehouse inventory taker, laundry and dry cleaning worker, lifeguard,
publicity writer. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">I was
almost killed at work at the Ace Hardware in Santa Cruz during the Loma
Prieta earthquake in 1989. Though a big oak desk saved me, the people
working next door at the coffee roasters were struck by falling beams and
died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All they were trying to
do that day was make a living. They were kind and friendly and I think
about them every day as a reminder for just about everything.</li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">The
best job: teaching.</li>
</ul>
<ul style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">The
worst job: dry-cleaning but mostly because the boss who ran the operation
was a weirdo who made racist comments about the non-English speaking
fellow who did the steam pressing.</li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any job can be hell if the people in charge are
corrupt. The luxury of work that is fulfilling is just that, a luxury. Most people in the world aren't so lucky. Dignity and fairness in the workplace are human rights integral to a true democracy. </li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">I took
two yoga classes this Labor Day weekend with Sukhbir Kaur, Nirinjan Kaur and Gina Garcia, teachers who expressed that there was nowhere else they would rather be in that
moment than sharing their knowledge with their students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were enthusiastic, generous, patient and funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will be blessed
by their challenge to be better and more loving for the rest of my week. </li>
</ul>
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</ul>
<ul style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<li>Good
teachers remind me that labor is a creative gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My work with students, stories, my
own teachers, children and home is where Holy Spirit flows through my
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good teachers remind me
to express my joy to my students so that they know that teaching them is
my privilege.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the same
way, having a home to tend, children to look after and stories to write
are all evidence of Spirit at work and I am so, so grateful. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<li>Nonetheless, three-day weekends off work are nice.</li>
</ul>
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</ul>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BofdND5Kf-qiWE1o54h_M9JybyQvfiF8AgO2of5GOvXrpVuHueeOuARf8FMVkpaV5ltw3Fs_KzpBjcGC9ZteSPd1ghCSpqd2yj3ZD7nk-Ne3BTYUFPVdMvfPwPp1SdHg0yPiqHEeKzw/s1600/452111*304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BofdND5Kf-qiWE1o54h_M9JybyQvfiF8AgO2of5GOvXrpVuHueeOuARf8FMVkpaV5ltw3Fs_KzpBjcGC9ZteSPd1ghCSpqd2yj3ZD7nk-Ne3BTYUFPVdMvfPwPp1SdHg0yPiqHEeKzw/s320/452111*304.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know who took this picture but this is where I used to work.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-87466770382341475252013-08-19T21:54:00.003-07:002013-08-19T22:41:36.149-07:00My Cast of Characters<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
In Carolyn See's marvelous book <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Making-Literary-Life-Carolyn-See/dp/0345440463">Making a Literary Life</a>,</b> she talks about a cast of characters that has inspired her throughout her writing career. This was a brief list of people who stuck in her head and demanded to be figured out in her work.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
As I enter the dreaded middle of my current novel, I think of my own cast. Some are people I never even met personally. Some aren't people. Here goes:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
1. <b>My indifferent education. </b>Was anyone educated properly in the seventies and eighties? My writing group friends and I discussed the question last time we met and the consensus around the kitchen table was probably not. Twelve years spent under the radar meant twelve years of observation and writing practice and the kind of grinding boredom that forces you to cannibalize your own brain for some kind of nourishment. The sense of rattling around in a machine that doesn't know I'm there recurs in almost everything I write.</div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
2. <b>Dani. </b>There were a group of hippies at my college who weren't students. They were vagabonds who slept in actual students' rooms and ate their food. At the center was Dani. This girl was skinny and had surfer blond hair and tan skin. She wore long skirts and a satin robe with a dragon embroidered on the back. She was the polar opposite of me in every particular and though I barely noticed her for the few weeks she hung around my dorm, I've been obsessed with her in the twenty-five years hence.</div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
3. <b>The street musician playing the Chapman stick and the girl with the blue hair. </b>When I was 15 my family took my New Yorker cousins sightseeing around San Francisco. Near Ghirardelli Square I broke from the group to follow music echoing off the bricks. Down a stairwell a dude sat alone on a stool playing this long-necked guitar thing and it sounded like everything I wanted in life. I'd seen a girl earlier that day just a few years older than me who had perfectly dyed blue hair. It was an ombre effect, starting with navy at the roots and lightening to firecracker popsicle light blue at the ends. I bought a cassette from the man and have played it nonstop for the past twenty-eight years grasping at that perfect blue even though it always pops before I can touch it.</div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
4. <b>My husband. </b>The notion of a truly good, strong man. The notion of a person with bottomless integrity. The notion of the redemption that is possible with romantic love.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
5. <b>Randy. </b>The worst kid I ever taught. He was nine years old and the whole school was terrified of him. I've never met a more violent human being. He was unbelievably fast. He could lay a kid flat and bleeding on the ground while you stood there. Other teachers avoided him in the halls. The entire class begged to be allowed to stay inside during recess to avoid being on the schoolyard with him. He threatened to kill me every day. His last words to me were "I ain't trippin'." I never taught him how to read.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
6. <b>Vietnam Veterans my friend's dad knew. </b>In sixth grade, my friend's ex-military dad took us to a meeting of other Vietnam Veterans. These men suffered PTSD that prevented them from simple things such as enjoying the fair with their kids to being able to hold down a job. Listening to grown men weep as they mourned fallen friends and their own broken lives stuck with me forever. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
These people and situations keep coming up in different forms in most of my stories. There are more than I've listed here, but this is a start. If you are a writer or artist, what are your characters that keep coming up in your work? What human puzzles are you figuring out in your stories? </div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-2293324855630661512013-08-05T18:02:00.000-07:002013-08-05T18:06:20.546-07:00The Most Wonderful Time of the Year<style> <!--
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I love Back-To-School everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the sales on erasers, decorations with apples on
them, new notebooks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My God, new
notebooks.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I love the smell of sharpened pencils. My classroom
is all set up with paper on the bulletin boards, brand new maps on the
walls, everything clean and ready. The desks wait empty in their hopeful rows. </div>
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This year at my school we are setting up an ipad
system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of the students will
have one, as well as a special Facebook-like media site where we will all communicate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will be an organizational
hoopla.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There won’t be need for
much paper, or many pencils. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I like ipads and even if I didn’t, this is all happening.
Whatever, I’m down. At one point pencils were a new technology, and they were
far better than etching out sums on the back of shovels with pieces of coal.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Screens don’t smell like anything, however, and that’s a
drawback no one talks about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I love the smell of books and the feel of paper stacked thick in a
binder. It’s so cool and smooth. I love doodles in margins and the notebook covers of
students who love to draw and I love the sounds of pages turning.</div>
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Mr. Sketch markers, Sharpies, new backpacks, fresh uniforms,
clean shoes, haircuts.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love the August issue of Seventeen and the September issue
of Vogue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love corduroys even
though I hate to wear them and I love wool and sweaters even though it will be
six months before it isn’t ninety-nine degrees outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For Back-To-School you iron your
shirts and wear stockings and skirts and wine colored lipstick and rust colored
nail polish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You shuffle through
red and orange leaves and wave pennants at football games and swear to yourself
that you are making a fresh start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you might make a fresh start. It’s all possible during Back-To-School, the witching season when you find out how much you’ve grown over the
summer. When you find out if you’ve changed as much as you think you have.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Maybe you have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe everything is possible now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is my twentieth Back-To-School time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know the magic of a fresh pencil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I know the promises made between the students in the rows and the teacher in the front. We say so many things we think we mean. We are so pure, so grandiose, so full of hot air. But Back-To-School says that this year the dreams of students and their teachers will all be manifested. Back-To-School says that education equals freedom and this year we will be freer than we've ever been.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2tP1dEJ3agPJDjzNtStia7U-1-puA3MuuiTx9Z5tZyyHEu7LXtc7YMRHYDTq7OIp0sT_jklUfWbnjZGaVoCJUc54jL5DLBUubfX0m8bBFY7IYZ7vqioww25G-By5MRbvdbDEfPWOcOQ/s1600/blackwing-pencils.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2tP1dEJ3agPJDjzNtStia7U-1-puA3MuuiTx9Z5tZyyHEu7LXtc7YMRHYDTq7OIp0sT_jklUfWbnjZGaVoCJUc54jL5DLBUubfX0m8bBFY7IYZ7vqioww25G-By5MRbvdbDEfPWOcOQ/s320/blackwing-pencils.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palomino Blackwings, the best pencils ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-68389307958806978932013-07-27T21:19:00.005-07:002013-07-27T21:24:10.215-07:00My Life In Exercise<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">* I started swimming lessons when I was 5. I loved swimming. My parents took us wonderful places for long swimming picnic days and when it was time to leave I would hide underwater and hope that my mom would give up looking for me and leave me there to live.</span><br />
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* Dance classes began when I was 7. Tap, jazz and ballet, culminating in snazzy satiny recitals in June. I begged my mom to move the car out of the garage so I could spend hours in the stink and dust practicing my steps and choreographing my own dances.</div>
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* Swim team from 9 until I aged out at 14, which included getting to practice at 7 in the mornings all summer long. I never missed a practice but I was still the slowest girl at all the meets. I had endurance. I killed the mile swim fundraisers because people didn't believe someone as short and slow as me could do it so they always pledged per lap. </div>
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* Throughout college: swimming, hiking, going to the gym, biking along the sea cliff road, running, dancing.</div>
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* Early twenties: Triathlons. Road races. I was always came in second to the last but I did not care. I felt invincible.</div>
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* Pregnancies: Gyms. Long walks. Afterwards, lots of jump roping, cross-country skiing, Nordic track, African dance. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
* Gyms: Muscle gyms, family gyms, neighborhood gyms, co-ed gyms, women-only gyms.</div>
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Then, for nearly three years. . . almost nothing. Once a week dance classes, a few walks here and there. A neglected gym membership. Or two.</div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
I never thought I could be someone who goes a whole month without exercising. It used to be not even a rainstorm kept me from my morning run. Lately I've skipped it more days a week than not. Work took over because I let it. I stopped fighting for time for my health and so the rest of my life flooded in like a rogue wave. I got too stressed out so all I wanted to do was sleep and rest which made me stressed out. I burst the seams of my clothes and had to buy new ones but that wasn't what bothered me. What bothered me was how not alive I felt. </div>
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This summer I'm really back for the first time in about three years. It astonishes me that my body waited for me that long, but it faithfully did. I began a yoga practice a year and a half ago, and the more I did that, the more I remembered what it felt like to be alive again. </div>
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Today I ran for an hour and then did an hour and a half yoga class. Tomorrow morning, the gym. </div>
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<br />
Always, the neighborhood pool with my little girl where we swim until the pool closes. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
When the lifeguards blow the whistle and call out closing time, I'm tempted to hide underwater in hopes that they will leave me there to live. Because for the first time in the longest, that's what it feels like I'm finally doing.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFM6SYPZkL87vqEgtiBrVGIELV_30_B0az4ArtfiTU62SipM_vf4ZqEVJbo6xsgNjniZ-ncG-SH56hRk9FfUpJi-_8YzKBe0eHZ58aMq7tRLXaXMOXa_M9aYDWZXeo3Fo9_7RcrbDtSyg/s1600/1001807_10151547857578131_563091114_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFM6SYPZkL87vqEgtiBrVGIELV_30_B0az4ArtfiTU62SipM_vf4ZqEVJbo6xsgNjniZ-ncG-SH56hRk9FfUpJi-_8YzKBe0eHZ58aMq7tRLXaXMOXa_M9aYDWZXeo3Fo9_7RcrbDtSyg/s320/1001807_10151547857578131_563091114_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in the middle with some of my favorite hiking pals.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-15545752622431019042013-07-26T22:07:00.001-07:002013-07-26T22:18:22.466-07:00Mistaken Identity<style> <!--
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Today in the middle of a five mile walk I stopped in at the
Rite Aid to take a break and look at make up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't want to buy anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just felt like looking at the little pans of powdered hope
before I hit the road again.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I was feeling pretty cute if you want to know the truth.
I’ve been exercising all summer and I’m tan from swimming with my kid. I was
wearing a tank top that in my mind showed off my glorious biceps, and a ball
cap through which my swishy ponytail swished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Then this man I don’t know came up to me and said, “Is that
Phyllis?”</div>
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“No,” I said. As soon as I turned he jumped back a little
and looked sheepish.</div>
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“I’m sorry,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I thought you were Phyllis.”</div>
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“I hope she’s a nice person,” I said.</div>
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“She is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s—my neighbor,” the man said. And looked even more sheepish before he hustled away.</div>
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That’s when I realized that his neighbor Phyllis is
an old woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had mistaken me
for an old-aged woman and once he saw I was a medium-aged woman he became
embarrassed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I know this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it’s happened before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never get mistaken for women named,
say, Brandy or Kesha.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People come
up when they can only see my hair and behind and call me names like
Elsie and Phyllis. There I was feeling saucy and awesome, and this guy was
thinking, oh look there goes my little old neighbor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should go up and say hello.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe see if she needs some help crossing the street.</div>
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I'm never going back to dying my hair. I'm not even tempted. I love my hair long and grey. It's thicker than it was when I dyed it. Regular dye jobs were not working out for me for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that every box of hair color was an environmental nightmare. I'm not reconsidering the decision I made three and a half years ago to let my hair grow out in its natural white and grey. </div>
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My kid is brushing my hair as I write this. She's applying oils and unctions and it smells great. She just looked over my shoulder at what I'm writing. "I love your hair," she says. "I don't think you look like an old lady."</div>
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Okay. But still. Phyllis? Damn. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A former student and me. </td></tr>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-24273631396866017752013-06-29T17:13:00.003-07:002013-06-29T17:34:41.987-07:00My Personal Movie Posse<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
People get titchy when they talk about movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To some, movies are like a religion
with icons and saints and popes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not so much for me. I’m not so fancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
like what I like and I don’t want to hear it.
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But in case you want to hear it, here are the movies that
were there for me when I needed them:</div>
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<b>1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baz
Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Visually juicy and the soundtrack is so good it makes me want to bite
someone. Also, John Leguzamo’s Tybalt makes me want to bite someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love that saucy Tybalt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is a true believer.</div>
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<b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost Famous. </b>"It's all happening." Also, the deleted scenes are awesome.</div>
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<b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3. Brother From
Another Planet.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Early John Sayles,
with lovely Joe Morgan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"Welcome to Babylon, Brother. . ." Hypnotic, low budget, full
of truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> For example, a </span>white guy
tries to show that he’s a nice, non-racist white person by talking about how
much he loved Ernie Banks as a kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I like it when moviemakers sneak little bits in that you know they saw
somebody do once and were so horrified and delighted that they had to put it
in a movie. Getting to do that must be a very fine thing about being a moviemaker.</div>
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<b>4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smooth
Talk.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> </b> </span>I liked John Hughes just as
much as the next white girl in the eighties, but Sixteen Candles and The
Breakfast Club left me with a feeling of having been at a party for two hours
where I was only pretending to think the punch had vitamins. Then there was
Smooth Talk with Mary Kay Place, Treat Williams and Laura Dern. Laura Dern is a
brave actress, even at this young age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She is so gorgeous and riveting and her mother just hates her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw this film rendition of “Where Are
You Going, Where Have You Been” when I was seventeen and it made me know like
no warning from any adult could that my friends and I were most vulnerable at the times when we thought we were invincible.</div>
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<b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carmen.</b> The Carlos Saura flamenco
version.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like it when the men
dance fight over the girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> You know you are doing something right when two guys are dance fighting over you.</span></div>
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<b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>6.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>G.I. Jane.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> </b> </span>If I'm ever going through a really bad patch, I watch this
movie and say to myself "The more people fuck with me the more I want to
gut it out."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This movie has
been my go-to for bad days since 1998.</div>
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<b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>High Plains Drifter.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> </b> </span>Because, hello.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turns an entire town into a red
hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I like those hip huggers
so sue me.</div>
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<b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>8.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Desperately Seeking Susan.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> </b> </span>My best friend Diane and I went into downtown Berkeley on
the BART train to see it there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Probably the most transformative time I have ever had at the movies.
That ding dongy soundtrack that plays when Madonna walks around lifts my heart
and makes me know that my life is mine and that wonderful things are about to happen.</div>
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<b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>9.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b> <b>Into the Wild.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> </b>
</span>I make excuses to show this to my students when I can. The soundtrack is
soul-wrenching. Chris McCandless’ journey to find meaning in his place and time
and circumstances will always be relevant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This movie is beautiful and unrelenting. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<b>10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Godfather
II.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> </b> </span>My favorite is when Don
Corleone brings his wife a nice pear the day he gets fired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next thing you know he's offing The
Black Hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like a fellow who
takes care of business and still thinks of bringing his wife a piece of fruit.
Now that I think of it, my husband did that very thing today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t kill anybody, but he took a
moment from a very hard work day to go into the hundred degree sun and bring me
a fig from the tree in the backyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For no reason. So, I like that.</div>
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<b>11.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the
Wedding.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like looking at Mads
Mikkelsen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those wide Scandinavian
face planes kill me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s a good
actor too, but really I could watch him make a sandwich and feel entertained.</div>
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Which movies make your list?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1cfU36KeCvlCdjUiw2ldpRfsAwNBeJoHUk1lbcRzC2-RrgYyHBDcZpHU2iQhdme25yolSLundI8cKkhoNi1_JdQ4Uo3sERSQgsLTGQzeYYRX6ogRZKnt4bc0k1KAL2hGx2fTSIOulic/s620/Mikkelsen_2248513b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1cfU36KeCvlCdjUiw2ldpRfsAwNBeJoHUk1lbcRzC2-RrgYyHBDcZpHU2iQhdme25yolSLundI8cKkhoNi1_JdQ4Uo3sERSQgsLTGQzeYYRX6ogRZKnt4bc0k1KAL2hGx2fTSIOulic/s320/Mikkelsen_2248513b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>The sandwich wouldn't even be necessary.</b><br /><b><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="credit"></span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="credit">Photo: Stephane Reix/EPA</span></span></div>
Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-9242468500692309662013-06-28T19:37:00.002-07:002013-06-28T20:18:12.314-07:00My Personal Book Posse<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
There have been lots of recommended reading lists going around lately. It's summer and people like to read or at least talk about reading. Experience in books is highly personal. Whenever anyone asks for a book recommendation, I always give the titles my friends or teachers wrote. It's too hard to say to someone looking for something to read on the beach or on the plane: <i>Go grab One Hundred Years of Solitude. It will rock you under the redwoods and the entire world will never be the same again. </i></div>
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Doesn't everyone have a personal book posse? A set of titles that rocked them under the redwoods at exactly the moments in time when they became who they were? These books are your foundation of personhood. They have your back. They get you. Well, here is my personal book posse, in case you were wondering:</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hundred-Solitude-Gabriel-Garcia-Marquez/dp/006112009X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473280&sr=1-1&keywords=one+hundred+years+of+solitude+by+gabriel+garcia+marquez"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hundred-Solitude-Gabriel-Garcia-Marquez/dp/006112009X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473280&sr=1-1&keywords=one+hundred+years+of+solitude+by+gabriel+garcia+marquez"><b>One Hundred Years of Solitude </b></a>by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. All of us freshmen at Porter College in UC Santa Cruz in the late eighties read this for our core course. It peeled off the surface of the world for me. Then it peeled off my skin and left me to walk around in my bones. It was painful and glorious and too much. Just too much.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tess-DUrbervilles-Thomas-Hardy/dp/1619492725/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473250&sr=1-1&keywords=tess+of+the+d%27urbervilles+-+thomas+hardy"><b>Tess of the D'Urbervilles</b> </a>by Thomas Hardy. I read this when I was seventeen and it was exactly everything I was feeling at seventeen. I moped around for weeks after reading that novel, because poor Tess. That Angel Clare was so cold.</div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Catcher-Rye-J-D-Salinger/dp/0316769487/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473219&sr=1-1&keywords=catcher+in+the+rye">Catcher in the Rye</a> </b>by J.D. Salinger. Holden Caulfield shouldn't have been such a revelation to a teenager in the eighties. But he was. Sometimes he was the only one who understood.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Shipping-News-Novel-Scribner-Classics/dp/068485791X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473192&sr=1-1&keywords=the+shipping+news"><b>The Shipping News </b></a>by Annie Proulx. This gets a reread at least once a year. I carry it around with me in my purse half the time. Quoyle with his chin, Aunt with her strong fingers. These are good, ferocious people.</div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sula-Toni-Morrison/dp/B002AX3EB2/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473122&sr=1-3&keywords=sula">Sula</a> </b>by Toni Morrison. For that scene when Sula cuts off the tip of her own finger to keep that group of boys away. The mushroom cap, the cherry blood. I guess Ms. Morrison and I both speak and write in the English language, but sometimes I doubt it. She's a most powerful magician. The most powerful I've ever read.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Angels-Weetzie-Bat-Books/dp/0062007408/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473090&sr=1-1&keywords=dangerous+angel"><b>The Weetzie Bat Books </b></a>by Francesca Lia Block. These were published in 1989, but I didn't come across them until I was in my thirties when they promptly made everything possible. I knew all along there were fairies.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/White-Oleander-Oprahs-Book-Club/dp/0316284955/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473062&sr=1-1&keywords=white+oleander"><b>White Oleander</b></a> by Janet Fitch. If you read this, it will be difficult to believe that the characters aren't people you've actually known. Evocative and alive in some of the same ways Block's writing is. Those Los Angeles girls are a sensual lot.</div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Speed-Light-Ballantine-Readers-Circle/dp/0345442253/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473025&sr=1-1&keywords=speed+of+light+by+elizabeth+rosner">Speed of Light</a> </b>by Elizabeth Rosner. I've never looked at a Gingko tree the same way since. It's about some of the ways genocide and torture haunt the human heart, and how love rules anyway. One of the best endings of a book ever. </div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Language-Flowers-Novel-Vanessa-Diffenbaugh/dp/0345525558/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372472988&sr=1-1&keywords=the+language+of+flowers+vanessa+diffenbaugh">Language of Flowers</a> </b>by Vanessa Diffenbaugh. Victoria will open your eyes to a whole population of young people dumped onto the streets once they age out of the foster system. Beautiful writing.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Forest-Hands-Teeth-Carrie-Ryan/dp/0385736827/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372472957&sr=1-1&keywords=the+forest+of+hands+and+teeth+by+carrie+ryan"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Forest-Hands-Teeth-Carrie-Ryan/dp/0385736827/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372472957&sr=1-1&keywords=the+forest+of+hands+and+teeth+by+carrie+ryan"><b>The Forest of Hands and Teeth</b></a> by Carrie Ryan. My introduction into zombie literature, and I didn't even know it was about zombies at first. Apocalyptic horror fiction for young adults. I loved it so much I order 75 copies for the school where I worked at the time. </div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Where-Are-Going-Have-Been/dp/0865380783/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372472907&sr=1-1&keywords=joyce+carol+oates+short+stories+where+are+you+going%2C+where+have+you+been"><b>Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? </b></a>a short story by Joyce Carol Oates. Killed me when I was sixteen and made me write my first short story that wasn't about drunk drivers and vampires.</div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Where-Im-Calling-Selected-Stories/dp/0679722319/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372472539&sr=1-2">Where I'm Calling From: Selected Stories</a> </b>by Raymond Carver. I read this on the dirty carpet on the floor of the studio I lived in with my husband. I was 23 and I had a marriage, a full time career, and a feeling of possibility. I read these stories and rolled around on the carpet in amazement and then I stopped rolling and looked at the ceiling and thought, <i>I'm going to be a writer</i>.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gold-Cell-Knopf-Poetry-Sharon/dp/0394747704/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473308&sr=1-1&keywords=sharon+olds+the+gold+cell"><br /></a>
<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gold-Cell-Knopf-Poetry-Sharon/dp/0394747704/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372473308&sr=1-1&keywords=sharon+olds+the+gold+cell">The Gold Cell</a> </b>by Sharon Olds. These poems are impossible to take in all at once. Each one is a devastating, impossibly rich chocolate in a golden box of pain.</div>
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What is in your book posse?</div>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-52814779060095527272013-06-24T15:58:00.002-07:002013-06-24T16:00:13.284-07:00The Butterfly Garden<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
In her excellent writer’s memoir <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Getaway-Car-Practical-ebook/dp/B005JEXTBO">The Getaway Car</a></b>, Ann
Patchett likens a new novel idea to a beautiful butterfly flying overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is such a perfect thing before a
writer grabs it and ruins it by turning it into words and scenes and
chapters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A writer’s idea is
at its most divine before she writes a single word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>
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For the past two weeks I have resided in a butterfly garden
of ideas for my own next novel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write
down the plot outlines, characterizations and titles in a special notebook I
keep just for the purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every
one of these ideas is perfect, sublime. They are not yet squashed within the pages of a
draft but rather gently kept between the covers of my idea notebook. They land
on my nose and flit their wings. Their wind on my eyelids feels like hope,
meaning, truth and possibility.</div>
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Last night, I chose one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve bent its wings already, forcing it into a plot outline
of 22 chapters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that I begin
to write, the characters won’t flesh out exactly as I’ve imagined them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will grow their own vocal chords
and saying what they want to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They’ll head this way on the highway instead of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The meaning that I’ve imagined for
their lives will shift and mean something slightly or wholly different. </div>
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We are on our adventure together now, this idea and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We exit the garden and enter into real
life which requires cause and effect, show not tell and a narrative arc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve chosen this particular idea for its relevance
and strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve chosen this idea
because it matters to me the most, because I looked into my teenaged daughter’s
face over dinner two nights ago and it came to me like that. </div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And so
we begin. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Writer and artist friends, what is your process? How do you decide which idea to turn into form? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCQgLskz2vyUnBcvi6HgFMrdE7C0lS4XllMRFTsbIUYr2Pm1q3hGMsXF9MHDO1QG_fIBMrlwsNSfoahCXY6E9C2JfiJmChasv1KqwVOcLu5cdnyc3zccBuvWsMauK8Yi7GI9_90FnAB2U/s1600/r-blue-morpho-butterfly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCQgLskz2vyUnBcvi6HgFMrdE7C0lS4XllMRFTsbIUYr2Pm1q3hGMsXF9MHDO1QG_fIBMrlwsNSfoahCXY6E9C2JfiJmChasv1KqwVOcLu5cdnyc3zccBuvWsMauK8Yi7GI9_90FnAB2U/s320/r-blue-morpho-butterfly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Blue Morpho. Photo by unknown photographer, posted on <a href="http://www.mini-life.com/" target="_blank" title="Mini-Life.com">www.mini-life.com.</a></span></div>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-34317968590492620102013-06-21T21:38:00.002-07:002015-01-27T14:54:04.895-08:00<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-40088852007420547552013-06-21T21:30:00.000-07:002013-06-21T21:31:56.725-07:00The Boys From RugbyTen minutes ago I returned home from this year's Squaw Valley Community of Writers poetry reading benefit featuring Bob Hass, Evie Shockley, Brenda Hillman, Forest Gander and Sharon Olds. So poetry tonight, and that's how it is.<br />
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The Boys From Rugby</div>
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The boys from rugby pass</div>
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cleats clacking on the wet concrete </div>
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and in the puddles their otherworld brothers march under
identical leaden skies</div>
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These subalterns with mud on their shins </div>
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These wild and tired boys </div>
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These other mothers’ sons</div>
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Who will be home in time for dinner</div>
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Smile on each other then</div>
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These northern lads from northern lands</div>
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The west has already been won.</div>
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So I stand by </div>
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And I stand by.</div>
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Other sons pass through unwon lands on the other side of the
gate</div>
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Once I stood</div>
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For those boys wild and broken </div>
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Those otherworld brothers </div>
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My morning boys with their endless needing</div>
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On the run from R.I.P.s sneaky as rogue waves</div>
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Forgotten sons of loveless mothers with hearts like graves.</div>
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I do not stand by them now.</div>
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My arms are empty and hang by my sides.</div>
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The boys from rugby pass and smile</div>
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In friendly greetings, too fleet for Death</div>
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Too loved for need yet </div>
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Needlessly I stand. And I stand.</div>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-4595980688601337472013-06-21T17:58:00.000-07:002013-06-21T17:58:24.763-07:00Summer<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
The focal point of the day is swimming. We live within walking distance of a community pool. This walk is just a little bit too far for comfort on a hot day but we take it anyway knowing the water will feel all the better for it. It always does.</div>
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Hardly anybody uses community pools in our community anymore so we have the whole thing nearly to ourselves. We play mermaids.</div>
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The we is my nine-year-old daughter and me. I call her Witch Baby but her real name is Margaret. She reminds me of Hester's Pearl, hence the name. Plus she has powers. I'm only bothering to tell you this because I have the time. I'm not in a hurry right now.</div>
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We have been using the hour before pool time for household tasks that never get done during the school year. Yesterday we reorganized a giant closet of chaos and turned it into a usable space. Today we touched up the ceiling where I smudged it with the wall paint two years ago. These were impossible, insurmountable tasks. Together did them in less than 45 minutes. </div>
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This morning she drew pictures in the garden while I wrote out a new book idea longhand. Tomorrow is for scrubbing the windowsills and then movies. Sunday we're thinking church. Then maybe baking something. Monday the pool. Maybe a roller blade trip. Library. Reading time. We're on chapter two of The Hobbit, shared reading at bedtime. Which is whenever we're tired.</div>
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Tonight I'm going to hear Sharon Olds and Robert Hass read their poetry at a benefit for Squaw Valley Community of Writers. My older daughter is coming with me. She is tired from working but has kindly agreed to be my date for the evening. </div>
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This is the first summer in a long time that I haven't worked. I'm off school, in between novels. I feel untethered to the earth without work. I cling to the household tasks, the pool, the poetry like an astronaut to a lifeline, bouncing from satellite to satellite searching for gravity. I protect my children's downtime so that they never turn to a job or employer for evidence of their personhood. They make their own gravity.</div>
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Tomorrow morning I'll go for a long walk and think of things. I won't look at the time. I'll think of what to write next, of the kind of woman I want to be, of what sorts of hummingbirds are knocking around my backyard, of nothing. Maybe I'll float away for a while. Maybe I will come back to earth.</div>
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<b>Weekday mornings are so unbelievably hectic.</b></div>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-199357133038200585.post-6701100683032559492013-06-19T15:22:00.000-07:002013-06-19T15:37:15.736-07:00Writing Addict<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">
I get up in the morning and my first thought is “thank You”
because my life is great. My second thought is, how, where, when, what will I
write today?
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The rewards that I give myself for finishing a writing
project are writing in my journal, writing letters, new notebooks, new pens,
new pencils, and writing a new project.</div>
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Before I had literacy I drew squiggly lines on paper,
pretending to write.</div>
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As soon as I had literacy I pointed to a book of nursery
rhymes and said to my father, “I want to do that.” He immediately (and I mean
right at that moment) left the house to purchase me a folder,
a notebook with an African elephant on the cover, paper and pencils.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still have the folder and the notebook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first poem was about my dad. (Entitled,
“My Dad.”)</div>
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In high school classes I wrote in my notebooks and filled
them with journals and short stories and novel starts. My teachers were flattered by my attention and praised my copious note-taking. The only
teacher who knew differently was my mother but she let me keep writing
anyway. </div>
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One boy I passed notes with in school only liked me in
letters. For weeks he wrote me long handwritten notes and eagerly awaited my replies.
In writing he was a passionate admirer. In person, not so much. I remember him
fondly as my first reader.</div>
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I have had whole friendships conducted almost entirely
through notes and letters. Real letters on pieces of paper, written in pen and
pencil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I have written a novel every year for the past ten
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as I finish one, I
begin another. </div>
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If I am not writing, I’m thinking about writing. If I am not writing, I'm thinking that I should be writing instead. </div>
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I’ve canceled social engagements because I was in the middle
of writing something and I didn’t want to stop. My friendship circle has been
reduced to people for whom this is okay.</div>
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I’ve written ten thousand words in a day before.</div>
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I’ve done things with my writing that I’m not proud of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For cash.</div>
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When the editor of Esopus, an extraordinary magazine that I
respect and love, regretted the small stipend that he could pay me for my
story, I told him that I had written the story anyway for free. I told him that
the weeks of working with his precise attention to my words were the best in my
entire writing life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote him a
handwritten thank-you note with drawings. (But I kept the cash.)</div>
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Whenever I pass a lonely house in the middle of a field I
think, I wonder if that house has electricity so I could plug in my laptop. I
wonder if it has a fireplace and a cozy chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picture myself getting up early for a long hike and then
settling in and writing all day long and that being my life now. </div>
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I think,
whoever lives there is lucky. Whoever lives there has a great life.</div>
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<b>My writing supplies for Summer 2013. Palomino Blackwings, baby. Oh yeah.</b></div>
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Maureen Wankethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12729173878445700441noreply@blogger.com0