Gender: Female
Status: Married
Age: 33
City: Mebane
State: North Carolina
Country: US
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Saturday, August 09, 2008
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Deportee
Current mood:  angry
This is a more indirect posting as I'm being somewhat censored. So much for my post as a defender intellectual freedom and freedom of speech. This posting will self-destruct in…
http://radicalaction.wordpress.com/2008/07/31/nc-librarian-and-family-in-the-process-of-being-deported/
If you're outraged, let the tips listed in the link be your guide.
"Never forget that everything Hitler did in Germany was legal" ~ Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
This quote and the lyrics to Woody Guthrie's "Deportee" came to mind as I witnessed shock invade the consciousnesses of some of my colleagues. Some of them had, I think, dumbly swallowed a black and white explanation of current "immigration reform" and linked the blank identities of terrorist, thieves and rapists to the cause. Attaching the face and name of a sweet-spirited mother, wife and upstanding member of the community to the "crime" of illegal status has jolting them into the uncomfortable position of thinking for themselves. I hope they will now be compelled to consider the many variables that make this issue complex. Complex issues cannot be approached with ridiculously simplistic solutions (a fence? Really... a fence?!?!) I hope eyes and minds are opened. I had my own personal revelation. I was shocked that people did not know similar scenarios have affected numerous contributing, dare I say, "citizens" of communities across the country since the rise of immigration "deform." Such ignorance is so upsetting because it is ultimately WHY these kinds of policies are created and remain in place. I'm just so angry. Marxavi and her family deserve compassion and justice and they've experienced little resembling either from our legal system so far.
Deportee (Plane Wreck At Los Gatos)
Words by Woody Guthrie(1948) and Music by Martin Hoffman
The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning,
The oranges piled in their creosote dumps;
They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border
To pay all their money to wade back again
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees"
My father's own father, he waded that river,
They took all the money he made in his life;
My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees,
And they rode the truck till they took down and died.
Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted,
Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to that Mexican border,
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.
We died in your hills, we died in your deserts,
We died in your valleys and died on your plains.
We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes,
Both sides of the river, we died just the same.
The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills,
Who are all these friends, all scattered like dry leaves?
The radio says, "They are just deportees" Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except "deportees"?
Additional links
Forced Apart
http://hrw.org/reports/2007/us0707/
Families and Immigration (scroll down)
http://blog.lib.umn.edu/ihrc/immigration/
Rights of Illegal Immigrants
http://blog.lib.umn.edu/ihrc/immigration/2007/10/legal_rights_of_illegal_immigr_1.html
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
-Liberty
7:01 PM
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Saturday, July 07, 2007
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The History of Love...and elbows
Current mood:  nostalgic
I recently read The History of Love by Nicole Krauss and it was a thought provoking experience. Krauss places several seemingly unrelated main characters, all of whom are complex, peculiar, flawed and yet endearing, into their own little worlds in this book. Then, by gradually offering up unifying plot points in each world, she shines light on thin, glimmering threads which lead from one moment or character to another- it's beautiful the way the parallels in their stories rotate and intersect then fall away. Her writing style is poetic, witty and intricate and all things related- I can not possibly explain it…I highly recommend it to those who are active (rather than passive and/or lazy) readers. It's a kind of mystery but not the Mary Higgins Clark kind…
It's funny (and I'm completely digressing now) how many of my misplaced "child logic" memories are resurfacing- this book brought back a few of them (There. Not a complete digression after all.) There was, for example, the main character's memory of learning a few words of English from a dictionary as a teen. He discovered the word "elbow" and decided that it was a ridiculous word. Well, one of my earliest memories is of my younger brother and I saying "elbow" to each other and giggling until our sides hurt. One summer when I was about 7 or so, my mob of cousins and brothers and I decided that since "elbow" was an absurd sounding word, it was a proper substitute for "stupid"- a word we were forbidden to say. So, returning to school in mid-August instead of late August became "the elbow-est thing ever". The fact that we didn't have window fans in said school and would likely suffer heat strokes on the first day was "sooooooo elbow" (air conditioning was not yet in our vocab.) We couldn't go all the way up our street because of the evil elbow dogs that were always loose. We had elbow chores to do. Grandma made us shuck elbow corn and snap elbow beans from the garden. We had to eat my aunt Novella's elbow canned beets (though I secretly LOVED them and sneaked them out of the cupboard constantly).
We all lived in the same little country neighborhood (all eleven of us) and we ran around it in our lovely little bare feet all summer, spreading the good news of "elbow". Soon all the neighborhood children knew it and used it. Unfortunately, the adults noticed that word floating around and they also had an inkling of what it meant. "Elbow" was on the verge of becoming yet another forbidden word so we changed tactics. Instead of saying the word when near adults, we'd tap our elbows as inconspicuously as possible. This worked its way into our child world too, only more animatedly. If we were playing around with one another or being goofy, we'd lazily slap our elbows and laugh, enjoying the joke. However, if we were seriously upset we would whip one elbow forcefully in front of us and slap it dramatically- rolled eyes and/or pursed lips often accompanied this.
I witnessed wordless arguments of slapping elbows and grimaces all the time. Once I came upon an argument between two of my cousins where they were slapping each other's elbows and running away from one another. It continued all day until one got on his bike and attempted an offensive elbow slap while peddling by the other at top speed. They collided magnificently and both needed stitches. Needless to say, that method of insult never caught on but we did continue to slap our own elbows dedicatedly - I'm certain we would have been a social anthropologist's dream to observe.
Of course, all good/bizarre things must come to an end. I don't remember exactly why or how but by the time school did start that mid-August, we were forbidden to declare that it was "the elbowest thing". In fact we were absolutely forbidden to use the word "elbow" unless we'd scraped our own and needed to tell someone. We were also forbidden to touch our elbows unless we were bathing or rubbing them after knocking a funny bone. The trend had lost much of its appeal by then anyway and we were ready to move on to "forehead"- it was such an elbow word.
Anyway, The History of Love…great book.
10:45 PM
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Friday, July 06, 2007
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pin dropping
Current mood:  melancholy
My days have been terrible lately, so I've been a bit less forthcoming and have been humming a lot more. Why do people find that uncomfortable or awkward? A well-meaning friend once told me that I'm socially awkward and am easily misread because social norms like small talk don't come naturally to me. She also said my reserve and shyness compounds the awkwardness. I think she thought if I was aware of the "problem", I could work on it. Well I haven't yet mastered small talk, but I have developed a keen awareness of the discomfort oozing through the pores of those who don't quite get me, particularly when they are forced to share silence with me. So, that's something gained I guess.
Those graced with such awkwardness should not dare to search their minds for something to say to break silence in such instances because one will undoubtedly come up with something a little off...like "my dad had three sets of teeth". Though this may be true, it's evidently not small talk material unless the subject of teeth or freakish biological facts had come up recently.
Also, if small talk doesn't come naturally, it's difficult to make it sound casual, like it happened to be on one's mind at the moment. Instead, these calculated quips may be nervously blurted it out like a desperate answer from game show contestant. That actually happened, by the way... the blurting of the "teeth" comment thing... in high school... good times those were not. Anyway, I'm just feeling aware and vaguely proud of my awkwardness at the moment…thought I'd share. What's wrong with silence, by the way? It's a beautiful thing, I think.
10:36 AM
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Thursday, May 31, 2007
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little people
Current mood:  hopeful
Ok- my week has not been good and yesterday afternoon was ESPECIALLY horrible but I'm only focusing on the good today (more or less)- let's rewind to last week. Last week was a fine week, though I was forced by circumstances beyond myself to watch the live-action version of "Charlotte's Web". As a child, I loved both the E. B. White book and the animated movie, so why, one might ask, would I not be thrilled to witness this beloved story's portrayal via the wonders of CGI? Dakota Fanning. I commiserate with the child actress to a small degree (I too have a name that can be found on maps and have a GREAT MANY unwelcome nicknames as a result) but I'm thrown by her "un-childlike" child acting. Though I admit she has a great deal of talent, I find myself digging my toes into whatever surface is available when forced to watch her -or any "little adult" actor for that matter- pretend to be an average child. So when it was decided to show this movie for the "Kid's Movie Afternoon" program at our library, I was hoping for desk duty.
The Afternoon came last Thursday. I managed to sneak out of the movie after the first thirty minutes, but had to go back in after my supervisor left. To be fair, it was a well-executed version of the story. The voice-actors were great, the animal CGI effects weren't to special effect-ty (a technical term) and I concede that Dakota Fanning was just fine as Fern overall, though she did toss out a few overly dramatic faces beyond Fern's years. I got through the movie with my toenails intact and as a bonus, witnessed the sweetest moment I've seen in a while.
As the movie wound down and the credits were imminent I noticed dark little somethings flit across the bottom of the wall on which we projected the movie. I soon realized they were finger shadows. Looking into the small crowd of children sprawled on the storytime rug, I spotted two girls, maybe seven or eight-year-olds, timidly stretching their arms as high as they could, wiggling the tips of their fingers through the projection light, then yanking their arms down as they stifled tinkling giggles. The other kids on the rug noticed and a couple looked at the girls forebodingly. Some, of course, tried it out for themselves, and there where a few others still who looked back at Rachael (aka- projector girl extraordinaire) and me to see what we thought of the whole rascally thing. I shrugged at them and smiled and they turned to stare at the daring young children in what seemed envious wonder (truly.)
By then the credits were rolling, accompanied by the Sarah MacLaughlin song "Ordinary Miracle", so I asked "Who wants to make shadows?" Well, I cannot accurately describe their reaction to my question except to say there was an explosion of arms, legs, squeals, and uncontrollable giggling. As I lifted the lights to semi-dim, all the children, even the skeptics, skipped and danced about in the projector light, wrestled with their friends to see what shapes their rumbles would make, and dashed their fingers directly in front of the projector, creating strobe light-like flickers (Rachael led them to the latter discovery). The spontaneous joy my question created was overwhelming and quite endearing. As I watched these children (from ages four to supposedly-surly twelve) creating this infectiously gleeful sort of havoc, backed by the sappy but sweet "Ordinary Miracle" song, I just laughed and felt thankful that children are still capable of finding joy in such simple things. It made me want to buy Dakota a swing set.
5:24 AM
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Friday, May 18, 2007
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The Invention of Hugo Cabret
It's my day off so I treated myself to an absolutely magical children's book-"The Invention of Hugo Cabret" by Brian Selznick. It's the story of a Parisian orphan and the path down which his determination to repair a turn-of-the-century (20th) automaton takes him. Selznick, a noted illustrator, uses artwork within the book as a storytelling tool, giving the book a "silent film" feel, as each illustration acts as a frame of action which the reader must follow and take in to move the story forward. In fact, Selznick relies on film history as a plot point in the story, weaving in the life and work of pioneering film-maker Georges Méliès (a personal favorite) with illustrations based on his work. I could go on and on about the book but thought I might spare anyone reading my incessant babble by posting more eloquent reviews:
From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. Here is a true masterpiece—an artful blending of narrative, illustration and cinematic technique, for a story as tantalizing as it is touching.Twelve-year-old orphan Hugo lives in the walls of a Paris train station at the turn of the 20th century, where he tends to the clocks and filches what he needs to survive. Hugo's recently deceased father, a clockmaker, worked in a museum where he discovered an automaton: a human-like figure seated at a desk, pen in hand, as if ready to deliver a message. After his father showed Hugo the robot, the boy became just as obsessed with getting the automaton to function as his father had been, and the man gave his son one of the notebooks he used to record the automaton's inner workings. The plot grows as intricate as the robot's gears and mechanisms [...] To Selznick's credit, the coincidences all feel carefully orchestrated; epiphany after epiphany occurs before the book comes to its sumptuous, glorious end. Selznick hints at the toymaker's hidden identity [...] through impressive use of meticulous charcoal drawings that grow or shrink against black backdrops, in pages-long sequences. They display the same item in increasingly tight focus or pan across scenes the way a camera might. The plot ultimately has much to do with the history of the movies, and Selznick's genius lies in his expert use of such a visual style to spotlight the role of this highly visual media. A standout achievement. (Mar.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
From School Library Journal
Starred Review. Grade 4–9—With characteristic intelligence, exquisite images, and a breathtaking design, Selznick shatters conventions related to the art of bookmaking in this magical mystery set in 1930s Paris. He employs wordless sequential pictures and distinct pages of text to let the cinematic story unfold, and the artwork, rendered in pencil and bordered in black, contains elements of a flip book, a graphic novel, and film. It opens with a small square depicting a full moon centered on a black spread. As readers flip the pages, the image grows and the moon recedes. A boy on the run slips through a grate to take refuge inside the walls of a train station—home for this orphaned, apprentice clock keeper. As Hugo seeks to accomplish his mission, his life intersects with a cantankerous toyshop owner and a feisty girl who won't be ignored. Each character possesses secrets and something of great value to the other. With deft foreshadowing, sensitively wrought characters, and heart-pounding suspense, the author engineers the elements of his complex plot: speeding trains, clocks, footsteps, dreams, and movies—especially those by Georges Méliès, the French pioneer of science-fiction cinema. Movie stills are cleverly interspersed. Selznick's art ranges from evocative, shadowy spreads of Parisian streets to penetrating character close-ups. Leaving much to ponder about loss, time, family, and the creative impulse, the book closes with a waning moon, a diminishing square, and informative credits. This is a masterful narrative that readers can literally manipulate.—Wendy Lukehart, Washington DC Public Library
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Don't you want to read it now?
5:43 PM
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