Thinking outside the Book

I was kinda on a roll, reading and posting about a book each week or so, and then last weekend I was (far more social and) out and about so much that I didn't get any reading accomplished. The weekend was still inundated with words, though, despite my lack of reading...

"You know, actually, you're the first person I ever told about this, and I feel a little bit better." (from "The Flood," in Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues)

For the sixth time, I watched Illinois College's production of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues; in the second annual one I performed the monologue "The Flood," so that one will always have a special place in my heart. I think that the last line of that monologue, shown above, is one of the most important reasons why we perform and promote VDay year after year. Ensler is right in the opening monologue when she says it's worrisome when we consider how little we talk about these important issues in our culture. It's empowering and comforting to realize other women have had experiences or thoughts very similar to ours. I love hearing new women perform the same monologues each year, emphasizing different lines each time and personalizing the stories to make them their own. I like being able to whisper a line or two to myself as we relive those familiar stories together.

Each year, though, new monologues are introduced to the production, and these are another essential reason for perpetuating VDay. These are the monologues that rarely stir up laughter in the audience; these are the monologues that tell us of the horrendous experiences women have all over our world; these are the monologues that educate us so that we can make a difference and incite change. I love how Ensler draws us in, reminds us that we are all connected, and then shows us the importance of doing all we can to protect and stand up for one another.

"Why do I do it?" (from Ken Bradbury's play From Behind the Curtain)

I also saw my first Ken Bradbury play, From Behind the Curtain, which makes me feel like an official resident of the Springfield/Jacksonville area now. The man is a legend, both in my world of education (he taught for years at Triopia High School and was known throughout our Region) and, obviously, in the world of community theater. It was actually really cool to sit in the Hoogland and see the playwright sitting in the last row of the section below us. He even played the accordion for one of the songs. Completely awesome! I also thoroughly enjoyed the stories Bradbury shared that he collected from local actors. I may not participate in community theater, but I enjoyed hearing about it. And most important, at least for me, were my proud teacher moments -- two JHS students were in the play, one of whom has been my student twice. It's difficult to describe how proud I feel when I see my kids excelling in something so wonderful, even when I only know one actress because she delivers passes from the office to kids in my class. To see them so passionate and so successful is simply inspiring.

"When it falls apart, the pieces fit; you won't see it 'til you're blinded; you can let it go, or hold it tight; when you lose your life, you will find it..." (from "When It Falls Apart" by Matthew Perryman Jones)

And on the Sunday of my long weekend, Em and I drove four hours (one way) to see Matthew Perryman Jones in concert at the SPACE in Evanston, IL. Like the fanatic fans we are, we drove there to see Tyler Hilton a few months ago; this time, we discovered MPJ through a free download of a mix of his songs and days later realized we'd both be free to drive up and back for his concert. It was fate.

Being the word person I am, I'm very lyric driven when I choose my music. Songs can't just sound good; they need to say the right things, and if they don't, the even catchiest tune usually can't redeem the song for me. MPJ is a songwriter after my own heart -- the lyrics are thoughtful and line up and tell me ideas I like to ponder (and sing at the top of my lungs) again and again. I have found, though, that I have to be in the right mood to listen to his albums because the music itself isn't all that peppy.

The best part of this concert experience was that we went for MPJ and fell in love with two more artists, too. Kathryn Ostenberg and Jay Nash also performed and immediately won me over. Jay Nash's songwriting skills are as impressive as MPJ's, and I can listen to his songs even after a long day in Classroom 809.

Now, I'm off to read another segment of my current book, The People of the Book, before starting the first of five full weeks at work. We'll see how long it takes me to finish this one...

Little Bee...

The back of Little Bee by Chris Cleave just says this:

"WE DON'T WANT TO TELL YOU TOO MUCH ABOUT THIS BOOK.
It is a truly special story and we don't want to spoil it.
Nevertheless, you need to know something, so we will just say this:
It is extremely funny, but the African beach scene is horrific.
The story starts there, but the book doesn't.
And it's what happens afterward that is most important.
Once you have read it, you'll want to tell everyone about it. When you do, please don't tell them what happens either. The magic is in how it unfolds."

And I agree on all parts. So first, I should say -- go out and read it. It only took me a week, sans-snow days, so it can't be too difficult or too long. Then come back and read the rest of this.

To first touch on what the publishers mentioned -- it really was a funny book, but that's not the overall tone, so I wouldn't have thought of that on my own without rereading the back afterward. The cultural juxtapositions were more than necessary for character consistency; they poked fun at Western society just enough to make me stop and think a moment. And the interactions with Charlie/Batman often made me laugh out loud. The beach scene would've made me cry if I hadn't been in the laundry room reading it. I certainly didn't breathe while I read it.
In the beach scene, I felt the "intellectual jet lag" that Sarah tells us she felt. It was difficult to read, so it was easier to file the it away in my mind with all of the violence in The Hunger Games, as events that haven't really happened. But events like the beach scene have happened, are happening. I think that I subconsciously did file them there until Little Bee told us how her sister died, and then suddenly I couldn't help but think of what I would do if Tina and I were there. Talk about not being able to breathe. (Luckily I was back to the apt by then.) Me and Tina. Running from real hunters, real men who only cared about eliminating evidence. And then, I think, the book finally had the impact on me that it was meant to.
In an interview included at the end of the book, Cleave says that "the reader might justifiably side with either Andrew or Sarah." I agree, I think. I'm not sure, and I think that's the point. There were too many factors -- too many realistic factors -- involved for me to take a side, either on the beach or back in England. I didn't become particularly attached to either of them (Andrew didn't really have a chance with me, since Sarah and Little Bee do all of the narration), until after Sarah flew back with Little Bee. Then I was attached to Sarah as much as I had been to Little Bee all along, and by then we only heard from Sarah through Little Bee.
This time, I was given little to no ending, nothing in terms of solid details of how everyone fairs after the last page. This time, though, I was grateful. More details might keep me from playing out the different possibilities, and in doing so, I'd forget that the two weeks the three spent together isn't a likely ending for anyone in Bee's situation. Here the lack of ending doesn't mean a lack of closure: Little Bee sees, there on the beach with Charlie and the village children, a glimpse of what would be ideal. It doesn't happen, because it hasn't happened yet, and will likely be quite some time before it does.
I loved Little Bee's description of tea -- perhaps because I'm an avid tea drinker, but I think because it surprisingly made sense to me. She says that tea "tastes of longing...of the distance between where you are and where you come from. Also it vanishes -- the taste of it vanishes from your tongue while your lips are still hot from the cup." I'm not far from where I grew up, but that doesn't mean I don't long for places of my childhood, of my adolescence. This morning as I drank my hot tea, I considered her words, and I agree -- tea leaves you without a distinct flavor, but only the sense that something was once there. Hence the longing, I suppose.
Overall, I liked Little Bee's discussion with Charlie at the river the most. We might be tempted to shrug off Charlie's belief that staying in his Batman costume will keep everyone he knows safe, but don't we all think like that every now and then? Or, at the very least, wish that we had something that would work that way? And do we ever find ourselves making the assumption that Charlie makes, that all individuals can be strictly categorized as either a "goody or a baddy"? Sometimes we need to be reminded by our own Little Bees that some baddies are right inside us, and that those are often the most difficult baddies to fight.

Hunger Couldn't Wait

"Real."

Two nights ago, I finished Mockingjay by Susan Collins, the third and final book in The Hunger Games series. I have never been sucked into a story the way I was with this one -- which is saying a lot considering how many hours of my life I've spent reading -- and finished the series in 6 days. (Thankfully, the Blizzard of 2011 cooperated with my need to read and gave me 3 consecutive snow days and, therefore, plenty of time to finish.) It might be cheesey, but The Hunger Games left me starving for more until I finally reached the end of Book 3. I think being in Katniss' thoughts made the whole experience come to life around me, and Colllins wrote in such a way that I truly felt I was experiencing Katniss' days and emotions along with her. I'm always drawn into a story that makes me feel I have something in common with a character, especially characters who are, in the grand scheme of things, vastly different from me. I thrive on finding and feeling those commonalities -- in this case, a sense of responsibility, the desire for more even when it isn't clear what you need more of, the need for human interaction and connection when it's not easy to find or when it seems other things are more important, the drive for justice and freedom for all, not just those in charge.

This was one of those stories that, upon finishing it, I reread the ending a few times. I usually do that when I was so engrossed in the story that I didn't feel like I absorbed all of the final details enough. The ending was satisfying and gave a welcomed sense of closure. Even so, I do have one wish -- that Collins had given us more in the last chapter than she did. More about Katniss' thoughts about Coin, more about her trial, more about how she worked through the mess of emotions associated with Gale, left to his own devices in District 2. More about how she and Peeta learned more about each other and found how they fit together. More about how she came to terms with having children. More about how the country continued after Coin, and how Katniss' children would face the past and how their parents were involved.

I recommend this series to anyone and everyone, but only if you have some time to really devote to the books, since I'm not sure you'll want to put Katniss and her revolution on pause to deal with the real world.