The Church of Conroy

When I fall into love with a book, I fall all the way. Quick. Deep. Immediate. Books are the only place where I do not use caution. The only time I cannonball instead of tiptoe.

On the other hand, I feel just the same when I find a book that does not wow me. I'm not a believer in "sticking it out" when I open a book and lose interest. Life is too short to trudge through a book you do not love.

I am a confirmed believer in the Church of Pat Conroy. I worship at the altar of his salt-soaked images and Southern charms. He is a mystic, a natural wonder, a sinner, a saint. He is a man who has been broken, and it is within his books that he searches for his cure. Each sentence is a blood-letting -- obscene and beautiful and raw. Each ending -- a prayer for his truth to be done.

My first visit with Conroy was The Prince of Tides. Although I've read it now at least a dozen times, there are moments I cannot help but hold my breath. Moments I cannot walk through all at once. Moments I cannot look away.

And while I loved this effort, it is his book, Beach Music, that I find myself carrying through my life. It is elegant and haunting in its unfolding. It is a love letter to forgiveness, both that which try to give to others and that which we withhold from ourselves. It's been a few years since I've read it, partly because I give each of my copies away before I can finish. 

I'm a firm believer in the idea that a writer writes what he knows, and Pat Conroy is no different. his personal demons appear in all of his stories. After studying his life and reading some of his interviews, this much is clear. Pain is the ink within his pen, and it has yet to run out. But there have been moments that it feels as it might.

“American men are allotted just as many tears as American women. But because we are forbidden to shed them, we die long before women do, with our hearts exploding or our blood pressure rising or our livers eaten away by alcohol because that lake of grief inside us has no outlet. We, men, die because our faces were not watered enough.”  -- Pat Conroy, Beach Music

Before the release of his last novel, South of Broad, I had read an entry whereupon Conroy talked often of both his failing health and his desire to write a few more novels. It was of little surprise that what came next was the only book of his that I did not love. In fact, I quit it on several occasions. It felt desperate in its connections. His villains more hateful. His heroes to heroic. It felt rushed and hollow. It was as if every terrible thing that could ever happen could be wished away by magic, and this is the antithesis of everything presented before.  It was a jumble of knots and crossed paths forced into a straight line, and straight lines simply will not do.

“No story is a straight line. The geometry of a human life is too imperfect and complex, too distorted by the laughter of time and the bewildering intricacies of fate to admit the straight line into its system of laws.” 

I did eventually finish South of Broad, and I have read it once more since. But the same copy I rushed out to buy on its publication date is the same that still sits upon my shelf. 

The only member of its church who has never ventured out of its own pew.

Ink

I hate needles. I'm a big ol' wuss when it comes to the idea of them. It's not so much the pain although I, admittedly, am a pretty big wimp about that too.

Actually, it makes me a little nauseated to think of a needle piercing my skin. There will be blood. There will be pain. Then there will be vomit. And if there's anything I like even less than needles, it might be vomiting.

So it should be pretty obvious that my body is tattoo-free. Because tattoos = needles which = vomit.

I feel sick just talking about it.

But the weird thing is that I'm completely enthralled by those tattoo shows like Inkmaster and Miami Ink. It might be similar to the fact that I constantly watch the Food Network even though I don't cook or that I obsess about Project Runway although my most favorite outfit is pajama pants and a t-shirt. I totally dig people who have talents that are worlds away from my own.

I'm also fascinated by other people's tattoos. Maybe it's just good artwork that attracts my attention, but it's probably more their story. Tattoos, like scars, always come with a pretty good story. I love to investigate other people's stories, unearthing who they are, piece by piece.

And how do you choose? Knowing that this will be on your body forever. That it will change and shift -- in both form and meaning -- as your life changes. How do you stay in love with something like that?  What happens when you don't? You can have it removed, but is it ever really gone?

Some people don't care. The experience is the experience, and whether it's good or bad, they are fine.

I am not these people.

Some people hem and haw and change their minds a million times, but in the end, they understand that if they don't like it, they can transform it.

I am not these people.

Still others wander through a store, picking things up, putting them in their cart, and deciding that maybe you don't really need it after all. Then they wander away only to return, pick it back up, and wander around some more. Rinse. Repeat.

These are my people.

Even if I could get drunk enough muster the courage to get into the chair and risk vomiting on a total stranger, I don't know that I could ever choose a design.

I window shop though. I click on a picture. I stare for a while, turning it over and over in my mind, wondering if could go through with it, only to put it back down and wander some more.

But these are a few I pick up often. They are, of course, all book-inspired because I think there's something beautiful about loving a line so much that you carry it with you always. And there's poetry in taking the ink from a page and printing it upon your skin. Mainly, though, it's because I'm a nerd.

But I'd be a nerd with a cool-ass tattoo. And maybe a little vomit on my shirt.

simple but powerful

From The Tempest 

"If people were rain, I was a drizzle and she was a hurricane."
One of my favorite descriptions ever.

And, of course, a little Atticus Finch

What Are You So Afraid Of?

Yesterday was the end of Banned Books Week.

I feel pretty sad because, as busy as I've been, I neglected the big display for my room I had planned this summer.

Books have always held a sacred and special place in my heart.  I am genuinely saddened by people who don't like to read, and I often wonder where all of their thoughts and ideas come from.  I've said before that my parents were never especially political or religious, and I really can't remember even one time where they told me what I should or should not believe.  From early on, I knew that some of the things I felt and believed to be right were not the same views shared by my family or their friends, but I cannot for the life of me remember a time that I was faulted for it.

Books and reading were never denied in my house or in my school, and I grew up surrounded by pages and words and thoughts.  I read everything I could get my greedy little hands on.  Even now, my greatest thrill is the feel of a new book open in my hands.

I have never understood the banning of books because I do not understand the denial of ideas and education.  For parents who challenge books or authors, I ask, "What are you so afraid of?"

Are you afraid of opposing views?

Are you afraid of defending your own views?

Are you afraid that your child will no longer share your views?

Are you afraid that -- maybe, just maybe -- you'll have to reconsider your own beliefs?

If what you believe, or what you've taught your children, is so worthwhile -- so steadfast -- don't you want them to explore other viewpoints?  How do you defend and build your truth if you never investigate what actually makes it true?  An argument that cannot withstand question was never a very valid argument at all.

Are you afraid your child will learn something you don't want him to know?

Are you afraid your child will pick up some bad habit, some swear word, some foul desire?

Are you afraid your child's interest in something will cause you more work?

Unless you're raising your child in a bubble, he probably already does.  The world is a dangerous and dirty place at times, but keeping a book out of his hand won't necessarily keep him clean.  Most of the terrible and dangerous things I learned about in life were certainly not found in a book.

Hypocrisy, adultery, lying, cheating, swearing, racism, bigotry... I saw them everywhere, from the bottom all the way to the top, from the lowly to the holy, from the common to the famous.  I still do.  But it's in books and speeches and interviews and newspapers (paired with open and honest discussion with the adults in my life) that I learned how I felt about those things.  Through those discussions and opportunities, I developed a sharp wit, a moral compass, a strong opinion, and a keen eye.

I said earlier that my greatest thrill is the feel of a new book in my hand, but I think I'd have to amend that.  It has nothing on the moment when a book closes, and I cannot stop thinking about what it said to me.

Books speak, or at least the best ones do, and their voices never go away.  All I ask is that before you silence one, ask yourself, honestly... what am I so afraid of?

 

The Conroy Connection

Many years ago, my friend, Laurie introduced me to The Prince of Tides, by Pat Conroy.  I have adored her for many things, but that is probably one of the finest gifts she ever gave me.  I still have that copy, with its grocery store sticker, outdated cover art, and yellowed pages.  It is my favorite book, but she has labored all this time under the belief that she introduced me to my favorite writer.  I hadn't the heart to tell her otherwise until now.

In truth, my introduction to Conroy came with a handsome boy in a green Jeep, roaring into our lives with a bright, easy smile and a pained heart.  Travis came to us all in that summer as a means of escape, of distancing himself from his departure from the Naval Academy.  Our friendship deepened through a summer of camp, and it was on one of those nights under a dark Texas sky that he brought to me the Lords of Discipline, by Pat Conroy.

I didn't read it then.  Who can concentrate on plebe year and Hell Week and organized terror when there is fairy dust to be sprinkled and campfires to be lit and soft songs to be sung?  I didn't understand what he thought I would find in those pages then, but I think I know now.  I've read and re-read The Lords of Discipline at least a handful of times in the past 17 years, and each time I find something new to stir my anger and disgust and awe at the ways in which we carve away the innocence and sweetness of our boys in their journey to become a man.  In reading this story, I wonder if I truly understood what had been taken from Trav.  I wonder -- did he really see his arrival as an escape as I did?  Or is that word mine alone?  Travis gave me many gifts during our short but powerful friendship, but Conroy is perhaps the greatest of these.

I don't count Lords as one of my favorite Conroy stories although I appreciate it in the same way I appreciate The Great Santini -- as twisted and violent love letters to these sculptors of men.  And even The Prince of Tides and Beach Music, my absolute favorites, leave me breathless, sullen, and bitter against the cruelties of the world.  I often wonder why I subject myself to their angst so willingly.

I sometimes grow tired, reading his floating prose, and I'll silently wish for him to arrive at the damn point already.  And then, there it is, landing gracefully upon the page, hidden by its own lush feathery words. Conroy both constantly belittles and celebrates his wordiness, treating his verbosity as a Siamese twin, at times awkward and cumbersome but necessary for his survival.  I feel his struggle often.  I have a love affair with adjectives and commas and extra conjunctions.

The man can craft a sentence that transports me to another world.  He can sharpen an image that stops me dead in my tracks.  I've studied his works and his life for years, trying to pinpoint why someone who writes with such pain and sorrow attracts me so -- especially since those are my most shameful captors.  The only thing I can decide is that for Conroy, writing is a blood-letting.  His genius lay in his catharsis; his fingerprints and tragedies can be found in all of his stories.  He's said often that writing has brought him to the brink of madness on several occasions, and you can feel the teetering as his books near climax.  But each time, he returns.  He resumes.  He revives.  He finds scathing humor in his pain, unabashed love in his despair, and desperate beauty in his fear.

If that isn't hope, I don't know what is.

There is a part of me that collects his books and his words out of fear.  There is great beauty, yes, but also the fear -- the knowledge -- that one day, his voice will stop.  It's a silly fear, it seems, to not only grieve a stranger but also to grieve a stranger who is still alive.  (But this is me, and you should all know that I fear the day your voices leave me too.)   So you can imagine my surprise when I wandered through Half Price Books last week, looking to replace my copy of Beach Music (I constantly give my copies away), and found an unknown-to-me work by my shaper of words.  It's a nonfiction piece, called My Reading Life.  Within it are all of the people and circumstances that influenced his life as both reader and writer -- his mother, his teachers, his students, his idols.  It has felt like a secret passageway into his art, and I have enjoyed its journey thus far.

Laurie predicted I'd finish it in the first night, and I thought she'd be right.  I finished the first chapter in the parking lot of the bookstore.  I haven't finished though; I've taken my time with this one, reading just a chapter or two a night.  I'm 260 pages in, and now, the night before I have to go back and do real work, I feel the draw to stay up late by the lamplight and savor his thoughts.  There have been many moments I've found myself holding my breath until the end of the sentence or the paragraph, and I find myself putting down the book and looking around for someone to share in it.  But there's no one here, so for tonight, you will all do.

In his chapter, "The Teacher", about his high school English teacher, Gene Norris:

"His ex-students came back to his house by the hundreds and Gene delighted in the low-maintenance miracle of their return.  He knew that they arrived at his doorstep of their own volition, and they came to thank him for honoring them and breaking into the immovable storms of aloneness in the hormonal tempests of their teenage year.  Gene lived for these students who booked return passages into his life.... When one of his students died, Gene would never forget to cry.  If there is a more important work than teaching, I hope to learn about it before I die." (p. 64-65)

On page 195, talking about the difficulty in beginning The Great Santini -- an autobiography of abuse hidden under the covers of fiction.

"I wrote about a military brat who'd spent his whole life smiling and pretending that he was the happiest part of a perfect, indivisible American family. I had no experience in writing down the graffiti left along the margins of a boy's ruined heart."

In remembering his encounter with a man on fire in the streets of Paris, a moment that forced him from his own cowardice to courage, putting out the fire and consequently saving the man's life:

"I had walked into one of those rare, elemental moment of definition when I would be a different human being from what I was ever meant to be.  I was destined to meet the burning man on rue de Seine and my whole life had been leading up to that moment..."

He was convinced that this moment in Paris, where he'd gone to leech out the pain of his time at the Citadel through the composition of The Lords of Discipline, was a metaphor for his art.  I think it's no coincidence that this happened in concurrence with the completion of that novel.  It had taken immense bravery to take on his father, the Great Santini, but the long gray line was a different matter.  If not for the burning man, would Travis had known him?  Or, consequently, would I?  I felt awful for the burning man, but also thankful for his sudden and transforming appearance, which may have altered so many lives, including my own.

Or on pages 257-258, discussing the visit that Mr. Norris took him on to the home of Thomas Wolfe:

"This is the room where Tom's brother Ben died.  That's the bed where he died....  My teacher knew that the death of Ben Gant in Look Homeward, Angel had torn me apart, tamed something in me with its chilling finality, and taught me something permanent and fine about an artist turning the worst moment of his life into something sweetly beautiful.  When I read about the death of Ben Gant, I was certain I could feel as much pain as Thomas Wolfe, but I was uncertain whether I could love with such unflinching, astonishing power.... I stared at the chair where Thomas Wolfe watched his brother die and I could barely contain my sorrow for the way the world cuts into us all by killing the softest of us first."

"I could barely contain my sorrow for the way the world cuts into us all by killing the softest of us first."

A finer, more glaring, example of one of the cruelest truths could not be found, and I think it must be the motivating force behind all of his art. In each of his novels, you can see his armor, but you can also still feel the soft spots.  He is so human in his expression, so honest in his failings, that I don't know if his voice will ever truly die for me.  But I certainly won't stop collecting it, and I won't let it stop urging me on to write out my own fear or heartache or joy.  Words have such power, and I don't know that they are ever meant to be tamed.  But I applaud those who attempt it, who suffer the sharp claws, and make way for those of us who aren't as skilled with the whip.

And that old friend, Travis?  He wrote his own novel, The Joshua Requiem, which won the Benjamin Wofford Prize in 1997.  If you read the linked article, you might recognize one of the panelists near the end.  A full-circle moment with another man on fire.  That book sits on the top of my bookshelf, flanked by my copies of The Prince of Tides and The Lords of Discipline, together as they should always be.


*If you're interested in borrowing My Reader's Life, check back tomorrow, I'm sure.  Until then, enjoy one of my favorite pieces regarding the attempted censorship of two of his novels -- my favorites -- in a West Virginia school.  A copy of the letter hangs in my classroom as a constant reminder of the power of both good teaching and the courage to stand up and be heard.

At the Halfway Point

Last year, after reading a book called "The Book Whisperer" by Donalyn Miller, I took on the challenge of trying to increase the levels of reading stamina for my kids.  I also joined a literacy team at my school where our first order of business was to order hundreds of books to give away.  It was delightful.

I'm telling you... seeing those kids at that giveaway changed my life.  Everything about it made me remember why books and stories were so important to me as a kid; how important they are to me still today.  Stories are my passport, my escape, my guidebook.

On the first day of school I told my students that we were going to read. Every day. Without fail.  We would treat going to the library like a national holiday.  We'd discuss books and characters and authors as if they were our own.  And we'd have fun.

I set the goal at 40 books per student (with any book over 300 pages counting as 2 books).  After a quick poll, I realized that the average number of books my students read last year was just below 4.  I was pretty nervous that this would be a huge failure.  That kids wouldn't get to 40.  They might not even get to 10.  I reminded myself that it's just a number -- a high number -- but that the real goal was to get the kids to just read more than they ever have.  My goal is to get them to fall in love with reading again.

This was the photo I took on Thursday.  This is our bulletin board where we update once a month.  The number on the left is the number of books read, and the number on the right is the class goal (40 per student in class -- some are adjusted for late arriving students).

That's 946 books since August 27. Or 987 if you count mine as well.  And I do.  Three of my students have already surpassed their 40 book goal and challenged me to double my original goal as well. For the record, last year, I read 21 books (including the summer).  Every student has surpassed their total from last year, and it's only January.  My classroom library has grown from 62 books that hardly ever left the room to 507 books that are constantly being checked in and out, traded and reviewed, loved and hated.

I'd say we're doing pretty well.  Delightfully so.

It Only Takes a Spark

So, in my last post, I told you about the most beautiful book riot I'd ever seen.  Well, it's the only book riot I've ever seen, and it happened to be beautiful.  Wondrously so.

I've been writing this blog for just around two years, and that post is, by far, my most popular with almost 95 pageviews in just under a week (It doesn't sound like much, but, believe me... it's huge.).  This is funny to me as each time I read over it before publishing, it just didn't feel right.  I didn't feel as though I'd perfectly captured the moment.  I'm not sure, however, that any number of words ever could.  But somehow, it struck a nerve. 

Actually, I don't think it was the post at all.  I think the Book Giveaway in itself struck a nerve.  A great nerve.  A friend of mine reposted it on Facebook (thanks, Debbie Schmidt), and someone I don't know at all decided to give away books on her next trip.  Our school's lovely theatre arts teacher and her boyfriend picked up and went to Half-Price books so that she could purchase books for students to choose as their end-of-year gift.  Other teachers, from other schools, in districts far away filed the idea for next year.  Throughout our school, teachers and principals alike have been astounded to see our Mustangs with their new books.  The kids have shown them off proudly, compared with one another, and then promptly stuck their noses between the pages.  One of my fellow English teachers witnessed a child's heartbreak over not getting his copy of The Hunger Games and relayed the story to her college-age son who promptly told his mother that they'd just go get him a copy at Wal-Mart.  You wouldn't believe the smile that $6.95 can buy.  Another of my fellow English teachers saw a student not choose a book (a student that we debated over whether he'd buy in or not, really), and when another young lady found out, she traded a bag of Takis for him to go choose a title that she'd wanted but couldn't get because she was only allowed one choice.  A bag of Takis buys a pretty good smile, too.

It was a huge risk -- that Giveaway -- and I had steeled myself for "The Look" many times leading up to it.  You know... that "what-would-I-need-with-a-stupid-book" face.   But it never showed, even from those few that didn't choose a book.  No eyerolling.  No exasperated sighs.  Just smiles.  And isn't that the only look that truly matters?

It certainly matters to my shopping list.  I'll give you one guess what you're all getting for Christmas.  Or your birthday.  Or next Wednesday.  I'm prepared to risk "The Look" from now on because this week, I saw a hundred more smiles than I could have ever wished for.

Thank you all for reading and sharing in the joy my students and school have had this week.  I pray that this small reading revolution will grow and continue for a long time after this school year has ended.  But my truest wish is that my sweet little rioters have given you some hope or some laughter and possibly even sparked an inspiration for you to spread the love of reading to all those children hungering for it. 

Pootie recommends Scat by Carl Hiassen. 
Maggie the Cat (in the background) is clearly finished with her selection.

UPDATE:  That lovely theatre arts teacher, Angela Stidham, just sent me this message:

".....and after a long, hot, joyous day at the zoo Friday- those students of ours that couldn't afford a yearbook, ran around the gym asking their friends & teachers to sign their new book. Oh yes they did! :-D You know that long after they've finished reading that novel our school so generously gave them, they'll still keep it forever now because it's filled with the signatures of their classmates from 2012: the year they were given the gift of reading. I thought that was pretty cool."

More than just pretty cool.  It's the beginning of a wildfire on the horizon.  I feel it. 

The Most Beautiful Riot...

Last year, I gave an assignment which required kids to classify the books in their homes.  I went numb as I saw kids turn in pages with the names of only 2 or 3 books listed.  When I questioned them, they explained that these were the only books in their homes.  Many had none.  Zero.  Zip.  Zilch.  Nada.  I'd estimate that 30-40% of my kids had fewer than 10 books, and most of those books belonged to their parents or younger siblings.  I have plenty of kids show up to my classroom, hungry for food, and it makes me ache.  I was just as heartbroken by their hunger for words.

I have 7 books in my school bag right now.  I have 2 stacks of books, begging to be read, waiting for me on my bedside table.  I have a tiny bookshelf, overflowing with books that I've read but cannot bear to part with.  When I think of their faces, I am embarrassed by my literary riches.  Embarrassed, but thankful beyond belief.

Books were one of the few things which were never denied in my childhood home.  Raising two avid readers, willing to entertain themselves with a story and a quiet corner, my mother was happy to indulge this behavior whenever possible.  And while I adored the library and used it vigorously, the first time I realized that a book was mine -- all mine -- was a delirious and delightful moment.  My brother now has an entire room dedicated to his book and comic book collections, and I am furiously jealous of it.  For me, there is nothing like the possession of a story, of characters living upon my shelf, of plotlines untwisting before my eyes.

I've spent every day since that failed assignment trying to feed my students with words.  It turned out, I wasn't the only heartbroken one in my school.  At a literacy summit in April, one of our 8th grade teachers talked about how her church sets up book-laden tables on street corners for strangers to come collect their knowledge.  The passion she felt for those few days, giving away what she loved so dearly, gave all of us an idea.

So, today, instead of collecting fines or scavenging textbooks out of lockers filled with gym socks and week old lunch bags, we gave away books.

You heard me.  For the first time ever, we stopped clutching our text with suspicious hands and just let them go.  In fact, we ordered them all with the hopes that no grown-up hands would ever touch them save to unpack the boxes.   Brand new books.  Gave 'em away.   No cost.   No strings.  No test or required reading.  Every 7th grade student at my school will travel home with one book of his very own this summer.  That's 450+ books leaving our doors to live upon the bedsides and bookshelves of these homes.  The idea of it leaves me breathless.

My 2nd period went first, and as it's primarily a group of rowdy and wildly inattentive boys, I tried hard not to set my hopes too high.  We'd talked about the 18 available titles yesterday.  They appeared disinterested and rather sleepy as I described each one, so I worried that I'd be picking up titles up all along the hallways as soon as the 3:55 bell rang.  I worried that I'd have to beg and plead just to get them out of their chairs to walk to Mrs. Hines's room.  I shouldn't have worried at all.

Have you ever seen a video of piranhas attacking?  Because that's exactly what it was like.  They picked that book table clean. 

When we returned to the room, I gave the students the opportunity to spend some time reading their new books.  After about 10 minutes, one of my boys announced to all the other kids, "This book goes HARD!  I'm serious!  I don't even like to read, but this book goes HARD!"

My first instinct was that he was joking, mocking my excitement over a dumb book until I realized that he was talking to no one and everyone in particular.  And please understand that this is a child that literally could not read at the beginning of the school year and visited that lovely Mrs. Hines, our instructional facilitator, 3 times per week for tutoring.  Today, he read 16 pages.  I have never seen him read 16 words in front of anyone else.  Ever.  I'm glad he was enthralled with his book so that he didn't see me pick up my jaw off the desk.  In case a child asks you why reading is important, please feel free to let him know that it's because, as E. would say, "Books go hard."  It's the most rousing endorsement of reading that I've ever had in 2nd period.

And it continued on like that all day.  Sure, there were a couple of kids who didn't want to pick a book.  There were a few who picked a book only to turn around and give it to my classroom bookshelf.  That was hard for me, but I reminded myself that there will always be those people who exercise their choice by simply choosing to not choose.  Of 123 book shoppers today, they were in the almost extinct minority. 

In 5th period, my first of two 29+ classes, I walked in after the bell to catch my two smallest boys talking in hushed and conspiratorial tones. 

I asked, "What are y'all talking about?"

"Strategy," they whispered with a wise nod, as I bit back a giggle.

It seems that they had been the only kids listening the day before when I warned that there'd be just a few copies of each book... that not everyone would be able to get their first, or even second, choice.  So as soon as I called the class to line up, they were right behind me, leading the way, and claiming the closest space to "The Hunger Games" and "The Lost Hero".  Quickly thereafter, I walked in behind my last student to see a mass of sweaty and anxious 13 year-old bodies crowded around a single table, anticipating the shout of "3...2...1" to make their grab.  And, sure enough, quick as a cat, my two smallest slipped out of the crowd with the most coveted bounty of the day. 

I overheard one exclaim, "It's like a riot in there!"

And the other replied, in complete shock, "I know!  Over a book!" As if they hadn't been plotting their attacks only moments before.

They were correct.  It was a near-riot.  Over books. 

It was the most beautiful riot I've ever seen.

The Best Belated Birthday Gift Ever

Three things to know about me:

1.  I'm a voracious reader. I was the kid staying up late, flashlight under the covers, finishing a book because I just HAD to finish the book. I still am. Always will be. Only now, I can just leave the light on.
2.  I'm a sports enthusiast. Not a stat-head. Not a sports history buff. Just a  fan. Specifically, I'm a huge college basketball fan. From Midnight Madness to March Madness, there's an undeniable excitement and energy that surrounds college basketball that I see nowhere else. 
3.  I'm a rabid, hard-core Duke fan. Seriously. In my parents' house, I'm sure there are still boxes upon boxes of VHS tapes full of every televised Duke game from the 89-94 stretch (when I finally had to leave home and the free ESPN). I would study those tapes. Watching twice in a row in the wins and sometimes 3 or 4 viewings to see "what went wrong" in the losses. I don't remember exactly when I first started to notice the Blue Devils as it's a weird team for me to choose being from the Panhandle of Texas and all, but I am. Always will be.

So, it's little surprise that as soon as I saw this book pop up on my Twitter feed, I HAD to have it.

I ordered it on Friday. It showed up on Saturday (overnight shipping charges, be damned). And I was done by Sunday morning at around 3 AM. I couldn't put it down. 

So here's my testimonial:  It's incredibly well-written and chock full of behind-the-scenes kind of stories that fans love but hardly ever hear. And while the high point of the book is most certainly the Regional final in Philadelphia, the journey of both teams -- through the narrow misses and consistent "nearly there" years of Duke as well as the NCAA troubles of the Kentucky Wildcats and the living room recruiting stories that built the teams-- is so well-crafted that by the end, I found myself, for the only time in 20 years, hurting for the Wildcats almost as much as I was cheering for my beloved Blue Devils. I realized only years later, and was reminded again with this book, that sometimes it is a real shame that either team has to lose. As I read, I found my heart racing and my breath caught just as it had 20 years ago, and, let me tell you, it was wonderful.

Now I have always loved Duke and their style. I loved their academic sensibilities. I loved the Crazies and Cameron Indoor Stadium. I loved Coach K and his staff. But more than anything, I loved their swagger. Wherever they went, they knew they were going to stick it to the opponent. And they were cute. I admit it. In the height of my Duke fever, I was a high school girl who happened to love basketball, but a high school girl nevertheless. So the fact that they looked like movie stars, carried themselves like rock stars, and played lights out on a day-to-day basis?  Forget it. As I've grown older (and the Dukies stay the same age), I've cultured my basketball attitudes a bit. I'm a little more realistic about our chances year to year. I'm a great deal more aware of our weaknesses and strengths. I'm much less willing to jump into a fight just because. Unless you're a Carolina fan because then you're just askin' for it. But this book took me right back to those Clarendon Crazie days, and I am thankful for it.

There are certain moments that people claim they will never forget, no matter how old they become. When JFK was assassinated. When Armstrong walked on the moon. When the Challenger exploded. Okay, so maybe those are huge examples, but if you're a college basketball fan, you certainly remember when "the shot" went in.

March 28, 1992. I was 16 years and 1 day old. One of my best friends (and fellow Duke fan), Carrie Simpson, had arranged for us to watch the Duke/Kentucky game at the Clarendon Junior College student center with some of the CJC Bulldog basketball guys. As we've established, a high school girl who loves basketball.... this was perhaps the best set-up of all time. Not only would I surely witness Duke head to the Final Four for the 4th time in a row, I'd watch it surrounded by exceptionally tall and handsome college boys.

I know. Sometimes I still laugh at my 16 year-old self too. It's okay. Go ahead.

Little did I know that I'd witness history. Before the game even started, sides were chosen and bets were placed. Only Carrie and I and one of the guys lined up for Duke. Whether they really wanted Duke to lose or if they just wanted to see us suffer and squirm, I'll never know for sure. But suffer I did as the battle went back and forth, back and forth, leading up to the showdown in overtime. When Woods hit that mother-effing bank shot to go ahead one, Covington "Cupp" Cormier -- the Bulldogs' star and future UConn Huskie -- jumped up to do his "you owe me $20 dance". 

"No way," I announced defiantly. "Not with time still on the clock. That 20 is mine still for the next 2.1 seconds."

I will never, to this day, understand how I was so confident. It wasn't normal. I liked teams with swagger because I had next to none for myself. I wish I had that spot of 16 year old confidence more often these days. But somehow I knew. I just knew. This was not going to end without a chance to win another national championship. They were going to win and give me the best belated birthday gift of all time. So I did all my time-out hand-wringing, whispered my lucky chant, crossed my fingers, and prayed like Hell.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Of course, so was my "I told you so" dance right back at Cupp. And wouldn't you know? Bastard still owes me 20 bucks.

One Does Not Love Breathing...

I read this awesome post, by The Bloggess today which let me know that this week is Banned Book Week.  I don't know if that's for sure.  I mean, it's not marked on my calendar or anything, but Jenny doesn't typically steer me wrong.  (Yes, I refer her to as Jenny.  She follows me on Twitter.  Well... me and like 13,000 other people.  It's a minor detail.) 

And it did what all awesome writing does.  It made me think.  And reflect.  And smile.  And feel inspired.

Man, words are totally effing incredible sometimes.

I think I've made it clear that I love books, yes?  I love them here, or there, or anywhere.  So the idea of banning books makes my skin crawl.  Even a book that I hate (although, off-handedly, I can't think of one of those).  Maybe it's because I don't have children to shelter from the cold, cruel, sex-crazed, profanity-laced world.  Or maybe it's because I hope that, even if I did have children, I'd own up to the fact that we all live in a cold, cruel, sex-crazed, profanity-laced world... and then TEACH them how to NAVIGATE it rather than fear it.

The closest I've ever been to a banned book is my elementary library.  And by "elementary library", I mean the school library I used from 1st through 12th grade.  (Don't forget that my first grade classroom and my Senior English classroom were only like 150 yards apart and connected by a couple of breezeways).  But the library was separated into some clearly defined shelving systems.  The end closest to the door and the check-out counter was for the elementary school kids.  Then biographies (which were open to all).  Then, in the middle of the room -- and, yes, I said "room" as in singular -- was the Holy Grail in my eyes.  The Young Adult shelves.  That section was both the metaphorical and literal barrier to grown-up books. 

Well, truthfully, it was the barrier to the reference section, but that just doesn't have the same ring, now does it?

But my flirtations with the Young Adult Shelves doesn't begin with me.  It begins with my brother, the local boundary pusher in my family.  My brother is four years older than me.  He is a voracious reader who imparted both the skill and love for reading to me when I was merely 5.  When he was in the early stages of junior high, he decided that he'd had enough of the elementary section, waltzed over to the YA section, picked up a forbidden book, and plopped it down on Mrs. Stavenhagen's desk. 

She promptly told him to put it back.  And what Mrs. Stave said... you did.

I don't know if there was much of a fight put up at the time.  All I know is that later that evening, my mom was presented with some pen and paper and asked to write a note declaring that she was perfectly okay with my brother checking out books from any and all categories.  In truth, I think it was as much about knocking down a seemingly stupid rule (my brother absolutely detests stupidity) as it was about which book he wanted.  Nevertheless, the next day, my brother crossed the threshhold.  More than anything though, he blazed the path for me.  For that, I will be thankful.

By the time I was in the 4th and 5th grade, Mrs. Stave would simply stand aside and watch me go, knowing full well that my brother's note from so long before served as my note as well.  My goal was to read every book in that library, no matter which shelf it lived upon.  I fell short, of course, but the lessons I learned within those bindings live with me still today.  No other reading has affected me like the reading I did as a pre-teen/teen.

The first book that ever grabbed hold of me was "To Kill a Mockingbird".  I have probably read it 20 times, and there are still moments that I have to close its cover and breathe a deep breath or throw it down in anger or hold it to my heart and weep.  It made my cheeks burn with shame and put the microscope on humanity.  Then it held my eye to the lens.  But it wasn't just the acknowledgment of injustice and prejudice, it taught me about courage.

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand.  It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.  You rarely win, but sometimes you do."

It taught me about  love.  It taught me that friendship knows no boundary of age or class or color.  It taught me that growing up is neither graceful or delicate.   And most certainly, it was not easy.

"Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck pennies, and our lives. But neighbors give in return. We never put back into the tree what we took out of it: we had given him nothing, and it made me sad."


There it is.  The lump.  In my throat.  Oh, God.  Talk amongst yourselves.


I had probably read this book 5 times before I ever heard that someone wanted to ban it.  And, honestly, I am still unsure why.  Each time I re-read it, that thought, the thought of it perched on the top of a madman's bonfire, makes my stomach ache.

But there were many books that changed me, some controversial, some not.  Yet their importance in shaping who I am, how I view the world, and what I believe is true and necessary has never faded.  The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank. (I still cannot re-read this book. I wept for days. I weep still to think of it. This reason alone, I think, is why I will never teach the 8th grade.) Fahrenheit 451... Brave New World... 1984... Animal Farm... Catcher in the Rye... Where the Red Fern Grows... Bridge to Terabithia... The Outsiders... The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn... Charlotte's Web... Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret... The Red Badge of Courage...  The Pigman... Carrie... Flowers in the Attic... Lord of the Flies...

The list could go on forever, and I find myself -- even at the elderly age of 35 -- still adding to this list of important Young Adult literature.  The Hunger Games Trilogy... Speak... The Harry Potter Series... The Book Thief (oh, how I cheered her on.)... Only now, it's the for the Young Adults in my classroom.  And there's no age limit upon my little bookshelf.

So in honor of Banned Book Week, I leave you with an invitation to tell me about your own life-changing books -- controversial or otherwise, YA or otherwise -- for I'm always on the look-out for a good book... and with one last quote from the smartest narrator I've ever known, Scout Finch.

"Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing." -- To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.

The End of an Era

Yesterday, I said good-bye to an old friend. I'd avoided it for a while, pretending that the end wasn't near. But not wanting to let go, while human, is futile. All good things must come to an end.

The Boy Under the Stairs is no more.

That's right. I finally saw the last Harry Potter movie yesterday. I had hoped to wait long enough to find myself in an empty theater, sitting alone so that I could grieve in peace. Alas, 12:55 PM, 8 weeks after release, is still not enough time as I found myself weeping quietly with at least 80 other people.

I'm no idiot. I knew what I was getting myself into. I've read the entire series at least 3 times. I harbored no illusions that things would change.  It didn't matter.  From the opening scenes at Dobby's little hand-dug grave, I was a puddle.  Damn elves.  Sheesh.

I am usually the harshest critic of books becoming movies... as my friend Kit said (after seeing Charlotte's Web in the theater), "It can just never be as clear on a screen as it was, listening to your 3rd grade teacher read it aloud while you laid your head upon your school desk".  I have to admit, however, that while I found the first couple of movies to be somewhat simplistic and surface valued, as the actors matured, directors changed, and the darkness of the storyline intensified, the movies became sensational with the two covering Book 7 being, by far, my favorite.  My interest in the films' progressions mirrored my own fascination with the books and awe at Rowling's skill at weaving together story lines that grew up along with her readers.  Unlike some of the latest young adult literary crazes (that started strong and fell apart in the end), the reader can't feel the deadline on the author's shoulders or the cash cow nipping at her heels.

And that's how these last movies felt.  They just felt... right.  Appropriate.  Timely, even.  But "timely" and "appropriate" are poor excuses for Kleenexes in a darkened theater.

And in response to another blockbuster, young-adult, the end is nigh movie premiere coming to a theater near you soon, I give you one of my new favorite Stephen King quotes.

"Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend."



— Stephen King

Book Snobs Beware

I love Stephen King.

There, I said it. Out loud and proud. I read his books all through junior high and high school, not only because I enjoyed the secret thrill of being scared shitless, but also because I loved the way he crafted his words and stories. I spent years in college, as an English minor, denying this fact. Because as an English student, you're supposed to be "scholarly" and into "real literature".

Sigh.

When did "literature" become restricted to things that were boring and depressing and stale?

As a person who dabbles in writing (and I do just dabble), I was intrigued when a friend recommended King's non-fiction book "On Writing". It is simply magnificent, the straightforward honesty and ethic the man uses. It made me want to go back and re-read all of his classic stories. You know, the ones that made me stay up all night, first because the man knows how to keep the pages turning, and second because I was too dang scared to turn off the light.

But when I took a visit to Half-Price Books, I realized that there was simply no time to go back. I had serious catching up to do.

This week, I read a book of short stories so fascinating that I didn't mind beginning my nightly reads until I'd finally made my way to bed well after 1AM. And while I was mildly terrified at his sinister sentences, I was also fascinated at his construction. The man's mind must never stop.

And for those who doubt me, who snicker or roll their eyes at my "literary" choices, I offer Exhibit A, "Shawshank Redemption" which plays on my tv as I write, or "Stand By Me", one of my favorite coming-of-age stories ever. Both were products of that ever-flowing mind.

And a good story, no matter who tells it, makes me deliriously happy.

I Also Hope that Heaven Smells like Pipe Tobacco and Cinnamon Toast

On Friday, I took my class to the Scholastic Book Fair. Browsing among those titles, I couldn't help but flash back to all the days of walking in to Mrs. Stavenhagen's library (it was never the school library to me) with a fistful of cash. I can clearly remember studying the list of titles and prices ahead of time, planning my purchases and counting and re-counting my collected fortune until it was damp and crinkled from sweat of my greedy little palms. Nevertheless, the excitement for me at 35 was as palpable as when I was 10. My only regret on Friday was that I paid by check. Somehow, not having to sort out my nickels and dimes and beg my older brother for "just one more dollar" made the process seem almost too easy.

Ohh... books. There is nothing I don't adore about you.

All of my safest places, my most treasured moments, revolve around the weight of an open book in my hands. In the classroom, reading along with my beloved teacher. As a camp counselor, with the help of a cheap flashlight and a droning voice, lulling my Live Oakers to sleep. With my nephew's chubby fingers reaching to turn the page first or sitting on a porch swing with the lazy laughter of my dearest friends drifting through the screened windows.

Entering a library, I suspect my blood pressure drops a good 20 points.

There is a certain smell that lingers in my memory, the smell of my childhood library... dusty and warm, old paper and newsprint with an intermingling of the librarian's gardenia perfume and the graham crackers served as a snack. It's the smell of knowledge. Of opportunity. Of possibility. Lift a book to your nose. Ruffle the pages. It will take you to a place you forgot you ever knew.

I am a girl without a passport, but I have indeed traveled the world. I have awoken on the plains of an African Savannah and witnessed the sun setting in Italian vineyards. I shrimped the coastal waters of South Carolina and dipped my toes in the crystal blue of the Pacific. I sat upon Miss Maudie's Alabama porch, and I raced along the Congo River, fleeing an army of ants. I heard the Gestapo thundering up the hidden stairs; I held my breath as I stole from that pile of burning books. I have, with every page I turned, discovered a new adventure, and I met a new friend. Between two covers, I have held the hand of Death, laid my eyes upon the devil, felt the breath of God, chased the meaning of Life.

And to own a book? To run my hands upon its spine, feel its heft, and place it on my shelf? Heaven. The Afterlife most definitely has built-ins.

I'm fairly certain it will not have a Kindle.