What Happens When You Ban Books?

Before my daughter went to Azerbaijan, she came to visit me. As soon as she saw me, she pinned a button on my coat that she was sporting on her own: “I Read Banned Books”. Then she said, “Mom, I recently looked at the list of banned books and realized I had read them all because of you. Thanks.”

 As a librarian and a dedicated believer in the First Amendment, I was happy and pleased. And then, I began to think about what it meant to have my children read books that others thought were damaging. What if I was wrong? What if reading those books had damaged them in some way?

A review of the list of banned books created by the American Library Association and cataloged by Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_most-commonly_challenged_books_in_the_United_States relieved me of my worries. How could have deprived them of reading Hemingway, Orwell, Twain, Blume, Angelou, Faulkner, Morrison, Golding, Lawrence, Baldwin, Walker, Cormier, Steinbeck, and Mitchell? A favorite book for the girls was The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky – they bought copies for all of their friends as Christmas presents.

If I had not insured they read these books, we would not have had discussions about utopias and dystopias, child abuse, superiority, self-esteem, survival, anti-Semitism, religion, spiritually, and of course sex. At the age of nine, I bought the girls What's Happening to My Body? Book for Girls: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Daughters by Lynda Madras, only to discover it had been banned from a high school library in Alaska! That was our first discussion about banned books.

In high school, I took entire advanced placement questions on Hemingway and Faulkner. I found Walker’s and Baldwin’s books giving me a taste of the black society I did not know. Maya Angelou and Richard Wright brought me to tears, letting me develop my feeling of empathy.

I worked for a public library in central Oregon at one point. The Harry Potter books were published while I was there and I sent them to my grandson. My [step] daughter called me, excited because her son was finally reading. The county I lived in, however, had the first lawsuit asking for Harry Potter to be banned from the public schools. Meanwhile, the seniors asked me to organize a discussion group where they could discuss why such a book would be banned.

One day, while I was working circulation, a woman with a son about nine years old, asked if she could attend the discussion group. I urged her to please come. She told me that she might not be wanted because it was her husband who had filed the lawsuit for banning. What I remember most was the frown on her face and the light in her son’s eyes. She did not attend the meeting.

For me, when you do not let your children read banned books, you lose opportunities to help them grow. You engage in an unconstitutional practice. You act out of fear. And those are something of which I could not have deprived my children – or myself.

Raising Children: Times I Wish They Were Klingons!

Trekkies will completely understand what I am trying to say here. There are times, as your children grow and develop, that you can’t help but wish you could have some of the traits of a Star Trek character: Whorf, the Klingon; James Kirk and Captain Picard; Data; Ensign Troy, the Betazoid; Gordy, the Engineer; and last, but not least, the original and greatest engineer – “Please, beam them somewhere else”, Scotty!

I was bullied as a child; until junior high school (what they call middle school now), when, on the very first day I entered seventh grade, I walked to the corner, was threatened, and told them I just didn’t care anymore! How I wish that would make a difference. But I can’t even explain how I felt when I heard that my two daughters were being called names and downright threatened. This is when I wish they had a bit of Whorf’s fierce pride and ability to growl. Not to mention his fighting skills.

Under stress, do you and/or your children become tongue-tied? That is when I think of James Kirk and Captain Picard. There is an elegance and grace to being able to being able to verbally elucidate and enunciate under pressure. These Shakespearean-trained actors can deliver regardless of the circumstances. Of course, I hope children will refrain from the sexual prowess of Kirk.

Data can spout any fact, any numerical calculation, and remark honestly and objectively on any behavior. Who wouldn’t want those traits?

Ensign Troy, the betazoid, who can pick on all emotional activity, even with alien races, like boys/girls who have ulterior motives for being friends with your child. Maybe then I wouldn’t have had to deal with the “best friend” who slept with my daughter’s boyfriend, or the tattooed, black-dressed, spike-haired, with multiple piercings who greets you at the door with, “Hey, is she here?”

Ah, Gordy! The one, who in this world would have been seriously labeled, overcame a handicap, was thankful, and knew he was not only equal to anyone, but was a valuable member of the crew. Even in the episodes where someone took his visor, he still proved himself capable and creative. What more could you wish for your children to possess?

And then there are times when every parent needs Scotty. Please, just beam them up somewhere for awhile, Scotty.

The Honey Man

Liana, my younger daughter, attended theatre performances during the Shakespeare festival in Ashland, Oregon while on a Spring field trip when she was a middle school student in LaPine, Oregon. When she returned, she was ecstatic. “Mom, the kids there are all kinds of colors. It is so mixed. You have to go see it. Please, Mom, go check it out.” It was obvious she wanted us to move.

My husband and I had made multiple trips to Oregon, when he decided he wanted to retire from the Alaska State Troopers. While we were not certain we wanted to leave Alaska, the economic issues were unavoidable – we could not afford to stay. We had traveled all over his home state for an appropriate place to live. We explored Salem (where he was born and raised on a farm), Portland, Eugene, Corvallis, the coast and finally looked at the central part of the state. On our way back from the southern part of the state, we happened on LaPine, just thirty miles south of Bend, which I liked. Then I did something really weird – I sent him to find a house – ALONE.  But, this is really about The Honey Man.

We had lived in LaPine for three years when Gary and I had to make a trip to Astoria for a series of meetings. We decided to travel down the coast and cross over to Ashland located on the I-5 corridor (almost literally). Needless to say, I found Ashland absolutely awesome. I felt so comfortable. The only problem was the high cost of living.

Ashland had a regular Farmers Market, next to a rather strange church/spiritual center that Liana and I loved to attend. There we made the acquaintance of The Honey Man. Liana loved honey stiks and we made a point of always stopping by his stall to not only get her some, but for me to get the various honeys, etc. that I needed. We asked The Honey Man about his honey: he owned bees; did all the work during the seasons during the Oregon summer, but also owned bees in California so he could continue his finished product work during the off season.

Liana has torn her ACL (ligament in the knee) and could not attend the market with me for several weeks. Although I did not think she should be out walking (with her brace) at the market, she begged me hard enough, I consented. We walked and walked, buying items here and there, eventually reaching The Honey Man. Liana asked me to take a rest, assuring me that was all she needed, and told me to continue shopping. I went merrily off to buy some seafood and veggies, only to return to find my daughter in a complete state of disarray. The Honey Man had sat her down on his only chair, given her water, and taken care of her. He arranged for me to bring my car down right into the market to pick her up.

I have never forgotten The Honey Man. I wish I could tell him Liana is now running marathons and training for a triathlon; and that she still loves honey stiks. Thank you Honey Man.

[Sorry for the reference to the beehive hairdo!]

My Childhood Easters

When I was a child, before my father died, Easter meant a new outfit, complete with shiny patent letter shoes (eventually with heels, when became a teenager), purse, and hat; not just for me, but for my mother and all six of us children. The Saturday before was spent pressing and curling hair, ironing, cooking, cleaning, and anything else in preparation for celebrating the rising of Jesus and the forgiveness of our sins. My family was not into sunrise services, but they were into southern Baptist stay-at-church-nearly-all-day-long type Easters. So, there was food at church and food at home.

My uncle Arthur Eato, who was career Air Force and lived in Texas, would only visit us at Easter time. He never brought his family (the rumors about his wife ran wild), but would just come to see his brother’s family. One Easter, I woke up early and wanted to dye Easter eggs (when I was very little, the eggs would be hidden around our property and we would have our very own Easter Egg hunt). Uncle Arthur came down the stairs in his dress uniform. Just the two of us spent a quiet (which was rare in my family’s house) morning dyeing eggs. It breaks my heart that my uncle died alone, homeless and destitute in his car; but my image is of a black man, more than six foot tall, who was happy dyeing eggs with his little niece.

Norman Eato, my father, was a gardener and every Easter gave my mother a beautiful white lily plant. Daddy died just before my senior year of high school, but I just knew he would want to make sure my mother continued to get her lily. I saved my money and made sure it would be the first thing she saw on Easter morning. I was so proud when my mother came into the dining room and saw the lily in the middle of the table. “Where did that come from?” she yelled. Her face was twisted and nasty. She started screaming the same question, over and over. It got worse when I said the unforgiveable words, “It’s from Daddy.” The screaming and yelling got worse, the lily was thrown out, and I was never forgiven. Who knew you could commit an unforgiveable sin on the day the Lord had risen?

I never liked chocolate (don’t get Freudian on me here), so Daddy always made sure I had a white chocolate bunny in my Easter basket. I always wanted one that was solid, but I’m sure back then they were just too expensive. And I loved the flowery, sappy Hallmark cards that circulated around the house. Now, I settle for Cadbury eggs.

There is a picture in my one surviving sister’s house of me and my sisters dressed in our Easter finery. I love that picture. It was taken by Daddy whose avocation was photography. It was probably taken about fifty years ago. That’s about all that is left for me about Easter.

Depression and Reading, Writing, etc.

When you are doing reading, writing and numbers (academic work), what happens when you encounter depression? Probably best known are the writings of Sylvia Plath. But since then, there is artwork, music, and a multiple of other media forms that express the depression of their creators.

Read some young adult books and you will find entire genres surrounding the issues of depression: teenage angst; coming of age; coming out; and, naturally, issues of sexuality. Regarding adolescence, we can find suicidal, homicidal, and family deaths related to depression. Is that not how we accounted for the shooting of parents and family, Columbine, and other school shootings?

There have been studies that point to the decline in health of graduate students as they go through their programs, whatever department they may be in. There is evidence of post-partum depression; numerous cases touted by the media when a mother does harm to her children, or a father thinks that death will save his children. And, of course, a look at most cases of domestic violence, we can see some evidence of depression. The fact that you are most likely to be killed by someone you know seems to make an argument for depression gone to the next level.

But that is not all there is. There are millions of people who try to function day to day, feeling serious, clinical depression. Yeah, yeah, we’ve all heard how many American women are on some kind of anti-depressant medication. So, you meet someone like that and think it is simply a matter of making them happy. But in true depression, it is not. Furthermore, it may not be something handled by Prozac, or Xanac, or any other “happy” pill.

Have you ever experienced being alone? Have you ever felt like you were unloved? Have you tried to find the solution in a bottle of alcohol, a bottle of pills, a snort of cocaine, some ecstasy, sex? Have you ever been 10 years of age and trying to fight those feelings? 15 years of age? 20 years of age? 50 years of age? 60 years of age?

The key I wonder about is no matter what age: have you been in the space where you cannot believe the people who claim to love you?

The Music of My Life – Part 3

This third part about the music of my life encompasses primarily four years while I was at Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut. For me, that was 1970 to 1974, and a bit of time to 1976, while I worked at Connecticut Valley Hospital in the children’s psychiatric unit, before I left to get my Master’s in Developmental Psychology. Wesleyan, at that time, was a unique experience for me. I had never been around other black Americans who were as smart or smarter than me [my high school graduating class of more than 600 had four black people: me, a black guy named Billy, my former best friend, and Billy’s girlfriend, named Carrie, and my cousin Christine]. I had never been around rich black people [my first roommate decided her recently purchased wardrobe wasn’t good enough for Wesleyan and had her doctor father send $500 so she could get new clothes!]. I had been raised in a predominantly white, Jewish and Catholic community, despite the black community in the “Projects” that was one block from where I lived.

If I had to characterize my college years in terms of music, there are only three words: jazz and blues! It was marvelous! There was one student, a white boy who had deferred his admission so he could travel through the south to learn true blues piano! He was awesome. Then there a black student, who refused to wear shoes until graduation (yes, I mean even in winter) who played the most awesome acoustic bass. We had players of all instruments who would gather together to jam in the chapel.

Wesleyan also had its own radio station and that was my public entry. Taught by the one person who had the smoothest voice we all knew on radio, Charlie D [Charles Deramus], I became “Lady Lee” and played smooth jazz in the late night hours. This is in the age of vinyl and cassette. I learned all about the ladies I knew from my childhood and beyond: Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughn, Miriam Mekeba, Chaka Khan, Dinah Washington, and more than anyone else, Billie Holiday.

At parties, it was Earth Wind, and Fire; Chicago; Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young; Carole King; Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes; Led Zeppelin; Steely Dan; David Bowie; The Eagles; and so many others. Plus, Wesleyan developed a degree in Ethnomusicology, so we attended concerts by Indian drummers; Pakistani groups; and a number of African groups since we had an exchange program with Tanzania.

I remember attending a concert with Isaac Hayes where Grace Jones performed. Also, a concert at Yale, where Miles Davis played two songs and walked off the stage, throwing his instrument on the floor. But I must admit to crushes on Freddy Hubbard and Ron Carter (who is the featured picture).

But my most memorable experience occurred during my last years in college. I was 21 and my baby brother was having his 16th birthday. I bought him tickets to Shea Stadium (he was into baseball and Shea was brand new). I went home to bring him the tickets and told him to take his best friend with him. He said, “Well, when are we going?” It was then I learned how he had abandoned heavy metal and gotten seriously into jazz. Plus, it was the best baseball game in the world. Oh, yeah, the Mets lost, but I had eight hot dogs with my brother!

Jack-Dog-Dog, Hot Dogs and Reindeer

As a lover of language, I find that despite my attention to how and what I say, some things may get lost in translation. For example, while raising my first daughter, I would keep her away from knives by saying, “No, Honey” and pointing at the knife I would say “Sharp”. Sure enough, as her language developed she always referred to knives as “sharps”. Furthermore, in Nome, Alaska, some common things referred to in the Lower 48, where most of the non-Native adults were raised, we often lapsed into terminologies we expect to be understood.

This came home to me when my best friend and I decided to take her dog, which the girls referred to as “Jack-Dog-Dog”, and the girls out to her cabin near the river for a nice outing. Spring was on its way and, while a bit cool, the day was sunny and bright. Shelley and I gathered up some lunch items, put everyone in the truck, and headed out to her wonderfully homey cabin off the Nome River.

At the cabin, we proceeded to do some preparation for the coming of “cabin” [aka summer] weather: shoveling the walkway, unloading pellets for the stove, dusting and cleaning. Jack, her black Labrador, was happy to be in the wild and just ran around, letting the girls chase him, checking out every little hole in the tundra, and generally feeling good. Somewhere around noon, we called everyone in and asked what we should have for lunch. Shelley said, “Well, why don’t have some hot dogs?” I chimed in and said, “Yeah, hot dogs would be good, don’t you think girls?”

My daughters, then perhaps 4 years and 2 years, suddenly looked stricken. “Hot dogs?” Shelly and I happily said yes. The girls looked at each other and said, “Hot dogs? Jack-Dog-Dog? No, Momma, no! We don’t want to eat Jack-Dog-Dog!”

Amidst a few tears and a great deal of explanation, we explained the difference and had a lovely lunch, feeding Jack-Dog-Dog some of the hot dogs.

The worst part of this is that was also the day we lost Jack. We think he must have gone off chasing some of the reindeer that were being domesticated as a food source for Nome. The reindeer herder had already warned that if he found dogs chasing his reindeer, he would shoot them. We went home that night, after having our hot dogs, with no Jack-Dog-Dog.

Jack, we still remember the joy your brought to our lives.