tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41286035725237170512024-02-19T08:43:23.809-08:00Story BlogA site for those who love stories. Do you read, listen to, view, write or teach stories? Join me in exploring life stories.Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-73864339427231270582009-09-25T20:59:00.000-07:002009-09-27T07:52:48.326-07:00Eating Words, Loving Friends<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdd5P-4i9YoBft6HwSTaO_Goo-1p97BqkI_RvDCkujpak8MH7ptYfL8XqPrIvH-F3pfc0fzjVlheFbHewJjJoeRWQlcHexxRj-cpCEhW5JaYyzKw2NQVClES7uWH2Z247M_Eh3zJO2lH7_/s1600-h/books-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" iq="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdd5P-4i9YoBft6HwSTaO_Goo-1p97BqkI_RvDCkujpak8MH7ptYfL8XqPrIvH-F3pfc0fzjVlheFbHewJjJoeRWQlcHexxRj-cpCEhW5JaYyzKw2NQVClES7uWH2Z247M_Eh3zJO2lH7_/s320/books-2.jpg" /></a>There are very few things I love more in life than good books and good friends. In fact, these things will sustain me for a very long time. During the past couple of weeks, my friends have been very active in my life and I'm humbled by the amount of love they've shown me. But, I'm also grateful for the books I've befriended and their authors, whose work means the world to me. As a writer, I appreciate what is required to produce a good book. As a writing teacher, I deeply appreciate the investment of time and skill demanded each time a writer sits before an empty computer screen. Writing is truly one of the most difficult things one can do. <br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When it comes to reading, I devour books, eating them page by page. I swallow commas whole, without chewing. And, metaphors. Well, I relish metaphors, nibbling at the edges until I get to the center. Yes, enjoying a good book is much like tasting a good dish that has layers of flavors. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When I was studying for my Master's Degree, I read voraciously. I read and read and read books about my topic: History in Willa Cather's <em>Death Comes for the Archbishop, </em>an account of the re-establishment of the Catholic Church in the United States, following the Mexican-American War.<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Cather's book is based on the real lives of two Jesuit priests who were brought to the New Mexico Territory (after it became part of the United States) to build an archdiocese in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and their efforts to assimilate indigenous peoples living in the area. My premise (or thesis) was that Cather had written a work of fiction about historical events, in order to explore notions of racism, expansionism, warfare and manifest destiny in ways that would make it easier for her readers to grasp their consequences. <br />
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To gather enough information to support my premise, I read thirty or forty more books about Cather as a writer, as well as several interviews conducted with her, books written by literary critics, and other historical works about the period. I read and read and read. In fact, my list of sources was about thirteen pages in length.<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">That amount of reading may sound daunting, but I read even more while studying for my doctorate degree. I don't think I can tell you how many books I read, but I read a lot of them and read them very fast. I was on a fast-track for completing my Ph.D., and was the first one to finish my studies in my class of cohorts. It took me a little over three years and the last year was spent doing intense research (I conducted a case study on six professional writers) and writing. During that year I also taught three journalism courses and advised a college literary journal and radio station. My husband and I barely saw each other during that time. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The majority of my reading was done to prepare for comprehensive examinations--a set of tests each doctoral candidate must take, and pass, successfully. I read books about composition theory, cognitition and language, language acquistion, composition pedagogy, as well as books about my area of specialization, Narrative Theory and Research. I knew when I entered the program that I'd probably have to read about 150-200 books to prepare and (counting all the books I read for my classes), I probably read at least that many. I read and read and read, my friend.<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Several years later, I read, on average, about six different books at a time. Since I teach, I'm always reading a textbook (my least favorite genre to read). In addition, I read poetry everyday. Currently, I'm reading two novels, Zadie Smith's <em>On Beauty</em> and Alice Mc Dermott's <em>After This</em>, as well as Carlos Fuentes' collection of short stories, <em>On Families. </em>Am also re-reading a book for my book club that's published online, seventeen student narratives, and re-reading a couple of religious texts. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm a bit of a reading snob, who believes that all readers have the right to walk away from a book that's not entertaining or interesting (unless it's required reading, of course). I have high expectations of authors and find myself judging their work as I read, much like I'm reading a student's written work. One book that really bothered me as I read it was Jonathan Franzen's, <em>The Corrections. </em>This was an Oprah favorite read and everyone I knew was reading it, so I bought it too. But, about fifty pages into the book, I grew bored reading about American middle-class angst and put it down. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">One of my favorite books is Italo Calvino's <em>If on a Dark Winter's Night a Traveler,</em> which, on the surface, is a mystery story. However, it's really a book about story telling, and very experimental in nature. Calvino creates a narrator who speaks (figuratively, of course) to the reader, telling him/her to get settled in a comfortable chair with a drink before beginning to read. It's quite engaging to have a narrator speak to you as you read. A great technique. <br />
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I encourage students to become reading snobs, too. I want them to expect interesting stories. They should expect to be brought into the story by wonderful imagery, an interesting plot line, fascinating characters, and moving passages that are beautifully crafted. <br />
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My mother used to tell me that it takes the same amount of time and energy to write a good book as a bad one. But, I don't agree. Good writing takes forever. This is one thing I want my students to know. <br />
</div></div>Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-69186985797274049012009-08-26T09:28:00.001-07:002009-09-27T08:06:57.674-07:00On Students, Mafia Wars and Human Rights Violations<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3pOqfGwsZnFEGfXqAcf65gCWGOJnY12ta9pr0zCaftfOCI0pF1DyrDqlUMPv7WGnh8wjbP_nSHojGeXuRkIHZPNfLEpfPO2iik1MteyxvxGeNzFV1aeCvs29QmwLQPDRH21zOzyMIddDM/s1600-h/MW.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374626574641284290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3pOqfGwsZnFEGfXqAcf65gCWGOJnY12ta9pr0zCaftfOCI0pF1DyrDqlUMPv7WGnh8wjbP_nSHojGeXuRkIHZPNfLEpfPO2iik1MteyxvxGeNzFV1aeCvs29QmwLQPDRH21zOzyMIddDM/s400/MW.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 80px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 110px;" /></a> I enjoy my students--and often write about them. This fall, on rather short notice, I agreed to teach an introductory English course at a local community college. After the first class meeting, I knew why I'd done so. It was the students--sixteen faces, full of expectations about a class they weren't entirely sure was necessary. It would require trust on their part.<br />
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After class, I decided to unwind by playing an online game a couple of friends enticed me into, called Mafia Wars. It's a sleezy little game that reinforces stereotypes, but it's fun. In about an hour, I was able to knock off several bad guys, including a neighborhood don, complete some assassinations with baseball bats and revolvers and increase my income by about $15,000. Then, I bought some land and added a deli to increase my monthly "take." <br />
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<div>Pretty good for an English teacher. <br />
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<div></div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374417047831586466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh77sz5CCPr0Rf4Nu8wHIrHAyWLaHSjdHWeJ2pQoH16MztmAMmVABs8JPKTDTsQFsGDvU2z7Fkq074YJEzzNeBTLjoDfUlgLsWskxtBbpz9jKQ60jFMDiFb0XbbPc_YFsKgeCxuSVSt_6V/s400/Mafioso+Boss+Photo.bmp" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /> <br />
<div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Soon, my conscience began to bother me, so I wrote to a member of my Mafia, Cement Shoes Sammy, to inquire about his ethics for talking his former English professor into participating in such shady game playing. <br />
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<div></div><div>This was not the first big adventure he'd talked me into. The last job Cement Shoes Sammy did on me involved lots of water and sinking. I shoulda established stronger boundaries with him on the first day of class. <br />
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<div>Aw, never mind. I'd discuss it with his wife, aka, "Bullet Tooth, Tony." She'd see my side.<br />
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So, back to my affinity for my students. They bring me out into the world, just when my world seems to be making no sense whatsoever. The past two months, I've dealt with some health issues that have left my head spinning and my heart jumping. Reminds me of playing<br />
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Things are not always what they appear to be. <br />
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So, why not lay aside worry about that over which I have no control and, for an hour and fifteen minutes, two nights a week, try to make a class predictable and conducive for students learning to write. <br />
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<div>It would keep all of us feeling safe. <br />
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<div></div><div></div><div>Before you get too philosophical on me, this is what's known as a double-edged sword. Aside from being wonderful, students can pose big problems. They can be treacherous. <br />
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<div></div><div>For example, on the first day of classes, I ran into the mother of a former student. She introduced herself and when she told me her son's name (and added that he just couldn't wait to see me again--he was on campus, taking some courses, trying to figure out his life), I was in a panic. <br />
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<div></div><div>He was one of the worst students I've ever had. His behavior was so provocative and bad that I threatened to go to the dean at one point. Just couldn't wait to get rid of the kid. And, now he is baaccck. <br />
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Speaking of students and guerilla warfare, one of my favorite poems is "The Colonel," by Carolyn Forche, a piece about an El Salvadoran guerilla army leader whose brutal tactics illustrate the nature of warfare, its violations of human rights by torture and body dismemberment. <br />
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<div>There's a connection between students, human rights violations and mafia wars (and English teachers--which is probably more apparent) and I'll show you what it is after you read the poem. <br />
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<div>By the way, this does not read like a traditional poem, with an external (nor even internal) rhyme scheme. This is called a prose poem, because it reads like a short piece of prose. But, read it out loud to another person and pay attention to the effects it produces. <br />
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<div>THE COLONEL<br />
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What you have heard is true. I was in his <a class="kLink" href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-colonel/#" id="KonaLink0" onclick="adlinkMouseClick(event,this,0);" oncontextmenu="return false;" onmouseout="adlinkMouseOut(event,this,0);" onmouseover="adlinkMouseOver(event,this,0);" style="position: static; text-decoration: underline! important;" target="_top">house</a>. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in <a class="kLink" href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-colonel/#" id="KonaLink1" onclick="adlinkMouseClick(event,this,1);" oncontextmenu="return false;" onmouseout="adlinkMouseOut(event,this,1);" onmouseover="adlinkMouseOver(event,this,1);" style="position: static; text-decoration: underline! important;" target="_top">English</a>. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the <a class="kLink" href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-colonel/#" id="KonaLink2" onclick="adlinkMouseClick(event,this,2);" oncontextmenu="return false;" onmouseout="adlinkMouseOut(event,this,2);" onmouseover="adlinkMouseOver(event,this,2);" style="position: static; text-decoration: underline! important;" target="_top">windows</a> there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief <a class="kLink" href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-colonel/#" id="KonaLink3" onclick="adlinkMouseClick(event,this,3);" oncontextmenu="return false;" onmouseout="adlinkMouseOut(event,this,3);" onmouseover="adlinkMouseOver(event,this,3);" style="position: static; text-decoration: underline! important;" target="_top">commercial</a> in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring <a class="kLink" href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-colonel/#" id="KonaLink4" onclick="adlinkMouseClick(event,this,4);" oncontextmenu="return false;" onmouseout="adlinkMouseOut(event,this,4);" onmouseover="adlinkMouseOver(event,this,4);" style="position: static; text-decoration: underline! important;" target="_top">groceries</a> home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a <a class="kLink" href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-colonel/#" id="KonaLink5" onclick="adlinkMouseClick(event,this,5);" oncontextmenu="return false;" onmouseout="adlinkMouseOut(event,this,5);" onmouseover="adlinkMouseOver(event,this,5);" style="position: static; text-decoration: underline! important;" target="_top">water</a> glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, (<em>Line Removed by Jane). </em>He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground. <br />
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<div>May 1978 Carolyn Forché <br />
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Well, I've had my ears to the ground lately, and it seems my crime family, in Mafia Wars, has endured an onslaught of attacks in the past few days. Perhaps it's someone who doesn't like English teachers. <br />
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<div>O.K., so the moral of the story is: Beware of anyone who displays guerilla-like behaviors, including those who want you to climb into water. Colonels, students or teachers. If what you have heard is true, it's better just to listen. <br />
</div></div></div></div></div>Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-42131917309174791792009-08-09T14:11:00.000-07:002009-08-23T19:29:17.050-07:00Stories of Play<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71tD5YLQYEnyYBidzVKmaWkg50XHZ67-KtDigANMWQsWcLfyJRa-nFLx9qFOgofw2YxpRTXL-qpcDgIsGeSQfWJDfGlH96c_iPwfmqfTAG60to_GlU_437a5AwsO3PFvXZQhS5ZfW0EFS/s1600-h/ponies+006.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373348525153696050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71tD5YLQYEnyYBidzVKmaWkg50XHZ67-KtDigANMWQsWcLfyJRa-nFLx9qFOgofw2YxpRTXL-qpcDgIsGeSQfWJDfGlH96c_iPwfmqfTAG60to_GlU_437a5AwsO3PFvXZQhS5ZfW0EFS/s400/ponies+006.JPG" border="0" /></a>Last Saturday night, I spent the entire evening with my five year old friend, Aria, combing and styling hair on the nine little ponies in the picture above. It took us a couple of hours to comb knots out of the ponies' tails, braid their manes, curl their tails and top each style off with matching flower-barretts. I was completely entranced by the project, because, somehow, I missed doing all those little girl things as a child.<br /><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9O-m_gjpwjRXKYnvAJWCQ3HxfviSkavFrMbXYUNuDnrUpECtcswaWbps8jrtKRHz915LFmii15SN8fEmTHDylUXx37XaE1TgXUu7vMRuALJx6LRjsSCNFtvpY-_zIu4S83em9iJvY7VCi/s1600-h/lillies.jpg"></a>Now, as an adult, I'm fascinated with play. Ever notice how children burst onto the scene of each new day, full of expectation for fun and joy. Why can't adults enter a child's world of play? We might be better at stopping wars and sharing love if we could play like a child does.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLrz7yv36XB7ST4BEFudUfX3OPdVjBiPIXQsN5Uh4IeXeNUf5k6qR4DqAn-KfBhUpYTXSF1MVFOJbrsBDts_VTKlAUMSly1ClVGpa0pxnW_aDPRXPfs7M2TKfE3g0O80DgBzdoXBq8smP/s1600-h/sunflower.jpg"></a> </div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwl0KeYuv8Mei0DXbCULvJuqve303_8Pf5Z1_ooGo4cAcu1ru0Aa1VSmOKt6zOjnwna5568SVcM-BBDSjpiTA0xQ-zsK5W-xc4oSiUbCXZrcDuUgTMgOyhl7APQsEMCnHCDFcZyaz1IIHv/s1600-h/007.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370198603863407362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwl0KeYuv8Mei0DXbCULvJuqve303_8Pf5Z1_ooGo4cAcu1ru0Aa1VSmOKt6zOjnwna5568SVcM-BBDSjpiTA0xQ-zsK5W-xc4oSiUbCXZrcDuUgTMgOyhl7APQsEMCnHCDFcZyaz1IIHv/s400/007.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div>In "Fun and Importance of Play: Why Adults Need to Play Too," Elizabeth Scott explains that in the process of playing, we express our creativity. She observes that when you or I get engrossed in an activity that's enjoyable, we "experience a state of being know as flow, in which your brain is in a near-meditative state, which has benefits for your for your body, mind and soul."<br /><br />Along with being good for us, play is a gesture at the world, at others who share it with us. When others are playful, they are trying to engage with us in a positive, healing way. And, it's natural to do this--just look at the way the pink hibiscus in this picture seems to reach across the screen to elicit appreciation for its beauty and anticipation of the new flowers that have yet to open their petals.<br /></div><div> </div><div>Writers play with words--to be a good writer, one has to devote large chunks of time to writing, revising, playing around with the words to create meaning on the page. Poet William Carlos Williams' work is very playful. His poem "This is Just to Say," lures the reader into the work with a title that suggests or implies the subject is a serious one. Once he's set up the reader's expectations for a contemplative work, he takes the poem in a different direction. Defying readers' expectations is his way of playing with poems. </div><br /><div><p>This Is Just To Say </p><div></div><div>I have eaten </div><div>the plums</div><div>that were in</div><div>the icebox<br /></div><br /><div>and which</div><div>you were probably</div><div>saving </div><div>for breakfast. </div><br /><div></div><div>Forgive me. </div><div>They were delicious </div><div>so sweet </div><div>and so cold.<br /></div><br /><div></div><div>This poem is meant to be read aloud, to be experienced, as all good poetry is meant to be. Experienced. </div><br /><div></div><div>Deepok Chopra explains the connection between experience and sound, when he asserts that all the letters of the alphabet create vibrations that are connected to nature. "These are the sounds of of the wind, of fire crackling, of thunder, of the river rushing by, of ocean waves crashing on the shore" <em>(The Spontaneous Fulfillment of Desire</em>, 171). "Nature," he notes, "is vibration."<br /><br />If nature is vibration, aren't we close to a meditative state when we play and sing to the world with joy, like children. </div></div>Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-59339874603227544882009-07-27T13:13:00.000-07:002009-08-09T19:33:56.580-07:00Friendship Stories<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpx0RTWBskJmwvyojEzhFAH7Iav4Qj1Gd7seQikoW_JGkh7P7AdxJbmGArhrJK_ShD9K21y3X9vANTPBOk1whOEnjyVFyeWSr476HDkOz3vbr1PR-_YNURW72X_oUQcly98RthG3CVpHt/s1600-h/Barn+008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368156805211158930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpx0RTWBskJmwvyojEzhFAH7Iav4Qj1Gd7seQikoW_JGkh7P7AdxJbmGArhrJK_ShD9K21y3X9vANTPBOk1whOEnjyVFyeWSr476HDkOz3vbr1PR-_YNURW72X_oUQcly98RthG3CVpHt/s400/Barn+008.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>This is another story about one of the four road trips I've made in the past six weeks to see friends and family. The most recent, this past weekend, to Western Pennsylvania to see a dear friend, who has been absent from my life for about twelve-fifteen years. Many years ago, we were musicians who practiced and performed together. Or rather, he was the musician and I, the wanna-be rock singer. Life took us down different paths and these days, he's a celebrity in a circuit of excellent musicians in a small mountainous village in western Pennsylvania. I'm an English teacher.<br /></div><div>Actually, the trip took me back to an old dream that I never pursued, one that haunts me. But, aren't all unfulfilled promises and dreams haunting? Like the old barn in the picture that persists in standing at the side of the paved highway, beneath power lines held taut by the poles, this dream has wrapped itself tightly around my heart. It may deteriorate, even though, like the old barn, it's cast against the promise of an afternoon summer sky and surrounded by lush greenery and wildflowers. It may dry up and blow away, like a fragile leaf unable to cling to the branch of a birch tree. But, I don't think it will.<br /><br />In a similar way, friendships stand up under all sorts of conditions--rain, sun, changes in seasons. At least most of mine have. I tend to choose friends who are stable, down-to-earth, unaltering souls who don't surprise me much. Sure, I like the spontaneous, fun-loving, changable folk as well, but my favorite friends allow themselves to be predictable in my eyes. I'm often the daredevil, the strong outgoing person of the pair. This is the dynamic I prefer in a friendship because it grounds me, the way a storm restores energy to the earth. </div></div><br /><div></div><div><div>Another close friend--not so close in proximity--he lives in Sweden these days, has re-appeared and brought with him the comfort of his friendship with my late husband. Don is one of those unrockable people I love to surround myself with. A loyal friend to the end. </div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYm04x1nMKQ_s9R4BtBVwih2jbxony31pD0wj-EK-IZEYyCE3-SboJolEvo_zUsUuGtuMD5Q5EQLI5iWa4h7TerCGi4O6kJjdMu1H-0OIqvyx2ksEv8sEM-xmEvpbkxcxsPL_6yl809xde/s1600-h/don+Garman+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368155860297423858" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 97px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 130px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYm04x1nMKQ_s9R4BtBVwih2jbxony31pD0wj-EK-IZEYyCE3-SboJolEvo_zUsUuGtuMD5Q5EQLI5iWa4h7TerCGi4O6kJjdMu1H-0OIqvyx2ksEv8sEM-xmEvpbkxcxsPL_6yl809xde/s320/don+Garman+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>His memories of my husband, Mike, remind me of the fun we all shared. We also shared some of the bad times with Don, the difficult times he had and...well, the kinds of things we all endure as human beings. </div><div><br /> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Two more friends have recently come back into my life--Dan and Jen, a young couple who shared a very difficult time with me, after my husband's death. About two days after I arrived back in Pennsylvania, the two of them (and their three little ones) drove in from Utah. It has been a wond<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyuJkvx22GurKc2Nwt-b1dRWyuyyMFFL9pjAs2k-AHkoinb3_PW8DdOgR0fE2ljn4GcPMQQiCTTD2jvmUz87jYNl5nCUX3g4F0wcStbekqn3lsfCeJA6hbyZjjmhfowGXDmtQWBSXMkPeu/s1600-h/100_4722%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366212232264863778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 298px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyuJkvx22GurKc2Nwt-b1dRWyuyyMFFL9pjAs2k-AHkoinb3_PW8DdOgR0fE2ljn4GcPMQQiCTTD2jvmUz87jYNl5nCUX3g4F0wcStbekqn3lsfCeJA6hbyZjjmhfowGXDmtQWBSXMkPeu/s400/100_4722%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a>erful reunion, full of fun and celebrations. </div><br /><div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Those who know me, know about Dan, the student in my English class who, after being told that I wouldn't be returning to teach the last half of the semester because of Mike's death, sent gorgeous white lillies. Within weeks, Dan, Jen and church missionaries were at my front door to help me through the long period of grief. Dan and Jen reflect the kinds of friends who defy boundaries, dare to cross lines to reach out during times of need. These friends are irreplaceable. </div><div> </div><div>I was raised traveling the world and taught that, in spite of so-called wrong turns, we are never really lost. So, I learned to read signs, to know when a sign is really a symbol, a metaphor for what life means (whatever that means!). So far, every path I've taken has revealed a sign, something concrete to help me make sense of my life experiences. I look for these things--signs that we are meant to be here, on this planet doing exactly what we are doing. And, these friends tell me so. </div></div><br /><div> </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-62815655757312928772009-07-12T05:31:00.000-07:002009-07-24T05:13:08.981-07:00Fish Story<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLIKqoB-9C4pTMtK-64CYQQWh2I1silEaVJf8ym5ZFnCb5ZT9znieI_T713v8Y8UaZy1DMGgDWaAByFDI-FxcMrsiaVCGGQEwQBxssYEBDrHWCA242oPJghvQ-r94o-fRBPhyvToo7vjS/s1600-h/SA+Riverwalk.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361391680696013922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 137px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLIKqoB-9C4pTMtK-64CYQQWh2I1silEaVJf8ym5ZFnCb5ZT9znieI_T713v8Y8UaZy1DMGgDWaAByFDI-FxcMrsiaVCGGQEwQBxssYEBDrHWCA242oPJghvQ-r94o-fRBPhyvToo7vjS/s400/SA+Riverwalk.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><br />About two weeks ago, I spent the weekend with my brother and sister-in-law in San Antonio, where my brother Jack, production manager for the local PBS station, is working on a documentary about the Riverwalk extension. Between he and my sister-in-law, a local library administrator, I got an insider's tour, full of history and some facts that only local residents would be aware of.<br /><br /><br />It was dusk in the King William District when walked down to the dark- green river. I made several pictures of bridges and sent them to my cell phone buddies. The humidity-haze that nearly kissed the banks of the river, broken by low ground lights, created a romantic setting, like one might see in a Hollywood version of a Jayne Eyre movie. Except this was Texas.<br /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center">After walking through lovely old neighborhoods, filled with gated and walled Victorian homes, into a part of the downtown hotel district, we drove to a recently installed art exhibit, comprised of seven-foot long fish, hanging under the I-35 bridge. The fish are suspended a few feet below the bridge, in such a way that they move back and forth as the bridge sways, at once responding to the movement of overhead traffic, and fish in the river below. Here's a picture my brother took at night, when the fish were illuminated.<br /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361291938533216466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 210px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3FO6z5rgt-UpnOl5okPit9_kh-ZpWeXehJrxQL7KxVWn-nSmKVoPeCo_mRobj5mZmgga73HQhpwsszDzeSOqkEKPf4ey5SKAzvHvZK5ZwHLBP0ytAhi_1A1qdwOnNy-Os8L9uPGn3uXcE/s320/Fish.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Now that we're talking about fish, here's my favorite Marianne Moore poem. </span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">The Fish</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">wade</span></div><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">through black jade</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><strong>the crow-blue muscle-shells, one keeps</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><strong>adjusting the ash-heaps;</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">opening and shutting itself like</span></strong><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><strong>an </strong></span></div><p><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">injured fan. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">The barnacles which encrust the side</span></strong><br />o<span style="font-size:85%;"><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">f the wave, cannot hide</span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"> </span></strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"><strong>there, for submerged shafts of the</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;"><strong>sun,</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">split like spun</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">into the crevices------</span></span><br />i<span style="font-size:85%;">n and out, illuminating</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">the </span><br />t<span style="font-size:85%;">urquoise sea</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">of bodies. The water drives a wedge</span><br />o<span style="font-size:85%;">f iron through the iron edge</span><br />o<span style="font-size:85%;">f the cliff; whereupon the stars,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">pink</span><br />r<span style="font-size:85%;">ice-grains, ink . . . </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">bespattered jellyfish, crabs like green</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">lillies and submarine</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">toadstools, slide each on the other. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">All </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">external </span><br />marks o<span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">f abuse are present on this</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">defiant edifice-------</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">all the physical features of </span><br /><br /></span>ac-<br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">cident, </span><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">lack </span><br />of <span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and </span><br />h<span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">atchet strokes, these things stand</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">out on it; the chasm-side is </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Dead,<br />R<span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">epeated</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Evidence has proved that it can live</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">on what cannot revive </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">its youth. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:85%;">The sea grows old in it. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Sorry for the bad formatting--anyone who's read this work knows the lines should be staggered. Anyway, along with its spot-on imagery (Moore was a biologist), reading the poem aloud should give you the experience of movement. I like it paired with the photograph.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">But, we're neither fishing for poetry here nor swimming, so let's move along. The next day, my sister-in-law, Natalie, and I went on an eleven kilometer Volksmarch that circled the Riverwalk, and I can't imagine we missed any section. Descending the stone-covered stairs, we entered an engineered, walled, bejeweled community below-street-level. At the bottom of the stairs, I felt like I was crossing a line in time and space, entering a place which was very different from the world overhead. Of course it's intended to evoke that feeling, so tourists will relax, have fun and spend money. Although a little contrived, it was stunningly pretty, with flower-filled alcoves, hand-carved benches, rock covered</span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;">stairs </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Xe4V56y6s9Ohs4rbLGC7rMcjYSVf8CBVBa8BdJNKM57ODxxr89x51qzjwybji_ZcFw9O7Kmc9UTyFPRyFquqxqYspl-4dfVL4qBRDIEzmFrnXmzJDhVrM_J6q-hUMCZVL2yykP-fBBa2/s1600-h/IMG_0179.JPG"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361284602744198082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Xe4V56y6s9Ohs4rbLGC7rMcjYSVf8CBVBa8BdJNKM57ODxxr89x51qzjwybji_ZcFw9O7Kmc9UTyFPRyFquqxqYspl-4dfVL4qBRDIEzmFrnXmzJDhVrM_J6q-hUMCZVL2yykP-fBBa2/s320/IMG_0179.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;">leading to imagined locations, lovely hotels with balconies, vine-covered edifices, statues, arts malls, and restaurants with margarita-sipping customers, who glowed as they sat mist sprayers. Then, there was a lovely outdoor theater, with a grass-covered seating area. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">But, it was hot. Very hot. Humid and hot.<br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I wanted to throw myself into the river and swim back to the finish line. Would I be able to make it without taking the plunge?<br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Natalie and I carried bottles of water and, at one point, I resorted to pouring mine down my back, just to get a little cooler. (And, to get wet!) Finally, we stopped to sit on a tiled concrete bench that seemed to grow out of the sidewalk. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuddu-Opf2NZgHL6zsh8TD9pAYM2lK-j-dyTT4ZRxjQUqqmUiWDxlAfQHfhdE32SRshV5NdRwQpTE3aC6zlLuFFL3Hri4cZMwwrLmgwtW2EazZqwBYF5L69wE5xMO8xYfXYpxCrCP7RUAZ/s1600-h/003.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361861453738336578" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuddu-Opf2NZgHL6zsh8TD9pAYM2lK-j-dyTT4ZRxjQUqqmUiWDxlAfQHfhdE32SRshV5NdRwQpTE3aC6zlLuFFL3Hri4cZMwwrLmgwtW2EazZqwBYF5L69wE5xMO8xYfXYpxCrCP7RUAZ/s400/003.JPG" border="0" /></a>I took this picture of Natalie--doesn't she have an aqualine look about her? </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Guess I'm writing (or swimming) in circles here, so will end this story by invoking the philosophical (rhetorical) point: A fish doesn't know it lives in water until it's thrown onto the beach. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Back stroke. </span></p>Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-53281036209618598012009-07-05T04:54:00.000-07:002009-09-11T19:24:16.734-07:00Another Hero Story<div align="center">Tom Nellen's Drawing of the Attack on the </div><div align="center">Twin Towers on September 11</div><div align="center"></div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355030308969765554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtMCQRONd7kvSJ5AuVon6qfvCVr9bMCjM2ltB8K5DF9POYkv2aE8qSkBgITAWP3auEJ5lknUhpogZV-1hJ7-zYLT1EHWZ8cyE7AaMcmQsQnD4uhqVV9qSmM8lMGj0O0cKH8A9lVUknDKj/s320/tom911.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 217px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 270px;" /><br />
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This fourth of July holiday, our nation is engaged in war. War has been a troublesome story in my life as my dad is a retired Air Force officer and pilot, who flew in three wars (WWII, Korean and Vietnam). As the teenage daughter of a colonel (and a member of the peace, not war movement), I took it as my personal mission to make his life miserable (he was my step-dad and I didn't need much reason to torture him), by questioning everything he believed to be true about the threat of Communism, the Cold War, and his need to protect our country.<br />
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But, forty years later, my views of war aren't so rigid--I worry about the civilians on both sides of every conflict. I worry, war is a gesture at the world that engages us with other human beings in a horribly sad and negative way. But, I no longer hate those who declare and participate in it.<br />
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Following the attack on the World Trade Towers on September 11, 2001, our nation declared war. Mostly, I don't know how to think about that and tend to respond with mixed feelings of nationalism and fear. Fear that we've thrown down a gauntlet, crossed a line in the sand from which we might never return. It troubles me deeply, but I have no particular insight nor wisdom to pass along about it, so will, instead, share a hero story about a young boy who found himself in a very dangerous position on that morning.<br />
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Tom Nellen, the son of a good friend, was seven years old and in the second grade at PS 234 in NYC when two airplanes flew into the towers. His father, Ted Nellen, had just dropped him off and was heading uptown, by train, to teach his own class when he was notified of the attack.<br />
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(Read Ted's story here <a href="http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/911.html">http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/911.html</a> )<br />
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Just after the first plane hit the tower, Ted's cell phone rang and he got the message. He writes, "I turned around and saw an image I didn't believe. Then the second plane hit. I was in shock and was panicked that my son was down there and I was uptown." So, he turned back toward Toms' school, which, he later learned, had been evacuated. After a few hours, Ted found his son, and brought him to safety. <br />
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The crux on this hero story is what happened during the evacuation, as Tom, his classmates and teachers fled the blast. The words of Tom's teacher, Mary Jacob, speak of the horror, as they ran away from the blast. She told "Newsweek" reporters she was frightened that they might not be able to escape, and "didn't think she could outrun the thick cloud of blackness roiling toward them; when her legs gave out, she let go of his [Tom's] little hand and told him to run. <br />
'God forbid something was to happen, I didn't want it to happen to him she recalls. <br />
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"So I was like, 'Go, you'll be OK'. Then [Mary] Jacob realized the black smoke had stopped its inexorable rush forward-and it was her turn to be saved. The little boy came back for her and said, 'C'mon. Let's go.'"<br />
<br />
Read the entire story in the Commemorative issue of "Newsweek." <a href="http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/">http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/</a><br />
<br />
Tom turned back to help his teacher, probably not fully realizing the danger they both faced. As a seven year old, he wasn't able to calculate the time he had to turn around for her, before the debris hit them. But, isn't that the definition of a real hero: one who takes action without fully comprehending or thinking about the outcome. He knew in his heart that this was the right thing to do and he did it.<br />
<br />
It was days before Ted was told about his son's actions. On the morning of the attacks, he knew (only) that his son had escaped injury. Ted became aware of Tom's heroism after he had come to Pennsylvania, a week later, to conduct a technology workshop for teachers in a writing project I directed. We had made the arrangements over the summer and, in spite of the attack on NYC, Ted insisted on leaving the city and coming to PSU to honor his obligation (I offered to re-schedule, but he wouldn't hear of it). <br />
<br />
Actually, I was surprised when Ted told me he needed to get away from the devastation (he lived just a few blocks from ground zero and lived with the horrible smoke and soot and destruction for weeks. See Ted's photos of the area here <a href="http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/wtc.html">http://www.tnellen.org/wtc/wtc.html</a>). <br />
<br />
A couple of days after arriving at the campus, Ted got a call from home telling him what Tom had done. When he told me, "I've got to go home and be with my son," I understood. It was Ted's turn to be the hero. The story of a father honoring his son's needs (those of a young hero) is one of my favorite hero stories.Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-13239394632764441022009-06-17T09:10:00.000-07:002009-08-15T16:28:04.667-07:00Let the Story Tell ItselfA few years ago, while defending my doctoral <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">dissertation</span>, a committee member challenged me on a statement I made. Actually, he challenged most of my research, but his questioning bothered me most about my statement on the power of stories. I said something about stories having a life and power all their own, such that they'll tell themselves (so to speak). And, as tellers of stories, we need to get out of the way and let them unwind on their own, rather than forcing a conclusion.<br /><br />It was a leap, I'll admit, but, intuitively, it felt right to say. Perhaps it goes back to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Chinua</span> Achebe's point that the story is always in control of the story teller.<br /><br />"It is only the story...that saves our progeny from blundering like blind beggars into the spikes of the cactus fence.The story is our escort;without it,we are blind.Does the blind man own his escort?No,neither do we the story;rather,it is the story that owns us. " — <a class="authorNameRegular" title="view all quotes by Chinua Achebe" href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8051.Chinua_Achebe"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Chinua</span> Achebe</a> (<a class="bookTitleRegular" href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/80213.Anthills_of_the_Savannah">Anthills of the Savannah</a>)<br /><br />My point is, we believe too much in ourselves as the creators of story, so, at times, get so far ahead of it that we try to control the ending, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">denoument</span>. We do this because, by controlling the conclusion, we believe we are in control of the major events in our lives. We're all guilty of doing this, by trying to figure out how <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">relationships</span> will unfold, what kind of people our children will grow into, how our family members feel about us, what the future holds for us.<br /><br />One of my favorites examples of this is the mythical character, Orpheus, who tried desperately to bring his wife and lover back from death. (Read a brief description of the story of Eurydice and Orpheus in the <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Encyclopedia</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Mythica</span> Online <a href="http://www.pantheon.org/articles/e/eurydice.html">http://www.pantheon.org/articles/e/eurydice.html</em></a><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354919223513750226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 148px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 168px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ylrWenG6tOsfbhOHrNWpcgv2m9qLbqQFsaFoDF1Mm3KWC1nozbhQcCXsbVSolDov73Z_GdHQRj3dopQmG4Bpc-cQDkPrYayNgzgtTiJRCGNUPMLpV6qmpjmb1jSdouhmqyuMDXX1NCam/s320/Orpheus.jpg" border="0" /></p><p align="center">Orpheus<br /></p><br />Orpheus missed his beloved Eurydice so much that he followed her to the underworld and, after charming the gods with his sweet voice and music, was granted the opportunity to bring her back to life. But, there was a condition. As they ascended from Hell, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Orpeus</span> was not to look back at his lover, a promise that he, in his desire to reconnect with his love, broke.<br /><br />He turned and glanced over his shoulder, and his punishment was to lose her forever. Why, one wonders, did he do this? If he hadn't looked back, would the story have ended differently? Several poets have raised this question, including John Milton, W.H. Auden, H.D. and a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">contemporary</span> poet, Jorie Graham.<br /><br />See H.D.'s poem, "Eurydice" <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=182485">http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=182485</a><br /><br />Another poem that examines this is Jorie Graham's "Orpheus and Eurydice." <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=176586">http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=176586</a><br /><br />Back to the point. Why do we care why Orpheus, in spite of dire warnings, looked back? In my own opinion, Orpheus' plight or tragic loss resonates with us because we struggle with a need to predict the end of the stories of our lives.<br /><br />Perhaps this is what this blogger is trying to achieve by writing--that is, to write something conclusive about life. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Myabe</span> I'll end this post without ending the story.Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-88844122438074770212009-06-03T07:46:00.001-07:002009-06-21T17:19:04.449-07:00Story Truth"Sometimes story truth is truer than happening truth." Tim O'Brien, <em>The Things They Carried. </em><br /><em></em><br />Have you ever told a story or related an event to another person and discovered yourself bending the facts just a little? Have you stretched the truth to make the story end in a more interesting way? Tim <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">O'Brien's</span> <em>The Things They Carried </em>raises these questions in such a compelling way that it makes the reader question the veracity of his/her own storytelling practices.<br /><br /><br />Ostensibly a book about the Vietnam War, <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">TTC</span> is </em>also about the art of storytelling. In <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">O'Brien's</span> opinion, there are rules to telling good stories, one of the most important being to make the story interesting. In fact, he suggests, the story itself is often more important than the facts of the event at the heart of the story. This leads one to question O'Brien's storytelling tactics.<br /><br /><br />In interviews about the book, O'Brien has insisted the work is fictitious, yet he dedicates it to the men of Alpha Company, and names each one in the introduction. He does another thing to make the reader question his truthfulness. He openly admits to lying in several chapters. He states each event as factual then, contradicts himself in subsequent stories. How can a reader believe an author who admits to using a lie as a narrative technique--this is a rhetorical question, of course.<br /><br />Personally, I think there's more truth here than he would like us to believe. He'd prefer readers to take the the book at face value and he'll probably never reveal just how much of it has been fabricated, but it's impossible to miss his literary sleight of hand. (Read the now-famous O'Brien interview (about the book) at:<br /><a href="http://www.wooster.edu/artfuldodge/interviews/obrien.htm">http://www.wooster.edu/artfuldodge/interviews/obrien.htm</a> )<br /><br />Besides, O'Brien's theory is, readers are story lovers, and we'll accept most anything if the story is told well. Right? My theory is, we live such interesting lives, storied lives that seem to follow plots that aren't always clear to us, that we don't have to fabricate. It's the old notion that truth is stranger than fiction. We are a storied culture--we make sense out of life by casting events into fables, parables, short stories, poems and other literary forms. Most of us create stories out of the very events that comprise our everyday lives. <br /><br />So, my guess (and I stand pretty much alone with this idea) is, O'Brien's story is grounded in more truth than he'd ever admit. The stories he tells in TTC are so powerful, they don't require fictionalization.<br /><br />If you've read this book, I'd like to know what you think about it.<br /><br /><br />Tim O'Brien's website is at <a href="http://www.illyria.com/tobhp.html">http://www.illyria.com/tobhp.html</a><br />Read<br /><br />NY Times Book Review of O'Brien's book. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/books/98/09/20/specials/obrien-carried.html?_r=1">http://www.nytimes.com/books/98/09/20/specials/obrien-carried.html?_r=1</a>Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-27455663239036010372009-05-18T11:48:00.000-07:002009-06-17T06:39:41.749-07:00What's So Important About Stories . . ."People create stories create people; or rather stories create people create stories." Chinua Achebe<br /><br /><br />We love stories. We tell stories, read stories, listen to and watch them every day of our lives. Not just the big, majestic stories, like the ones we were assigned to read in literature class. We enjoy the stories about the hair stylist's fourteen year old granddaughter's arrest on charges of DUI.<br /><br /><p>More importantly, we tell stories about our own lives and, in the process of the telling, we create ourselves. Often, the stories we tell are based on the most mundane things, such as making morning coffee, getting the car inspected, or paying the mortgage. Not very exciting? Think about the morning you were making coffee and discovered you'd run out of hazelnut-cream and had to settle for that generic breakfast blend stuffed in the back of the refrigerator, behind the milk you meant to throw away two days ago. Didn't that get you started on the wrong track and didn't you yell at everyone who nudged in front of your car on the way to work? Hadn't the twinge in your head blossomed into a full headache by lunch? That's how an everyday event becomes a story. </p><p></p>Why do we prefer to convey life experiences in stories? We live in a storied culture. Some of our most cherished beliefs are shaped by ancient mythology, religious and political ideals, passed down to us in the form of stories. Granted, we aren't aren't mythical gods or goddesses, and most of have never met a prophet or apostle, but some of our life battles could make Odysseus rethink the notion of war. Thankfully, we live quieter lives, but we still have a penchant, a need for story on a daily basis.<br /><br />Most of us begin the day with news from a local or national newspaper. Then, we tune into the weather channel for meteorological predictions (some of which seem more mythological than meteorological) on which we base our daily routines, read letters from family and friends, compose email messages (or blogs), partake in office gossip, listen to headlines and Hollywood gossip, and, with family and friends, share the stories that unfolded (partially or completely) during the day.<br /><br />It's the process of constructing these stories about daily, weekly, monthly, or lifetime experiences that helps us to see connections between the menial and more dramatic events of our lives. Trying to turn life experiences into stories demands that we come to terms with them, even if in a linguistic way. As we select the details we want to share, we begin to incorporate these experiences into our concept of who we are and how others fit into our lives. As we give shape to stories about the unexpected and unpredictable, we begin to feel a sense of power. Although some insist that we have no real power over life, I believe we have the power to shape the stories that constitute our lived experiences. We have the power of selection over the stories to be told, over the emphasis we want to place on one event and the point of view from which the story is told. As we tell these stories, we gain some control by choosing sentences, phrases, ideas, concepts, questions to contain them. We do this as a process of trying to make sense out of them and, sometimes, inadvertently, create some meaning for ourselves. As we construct these stories we reveal ourselves, our character, whatever that may be.<br /><br /><p>As we tell stories, we create and re-create ourselves as characters in our daily lives. So, as Chinua Achebe suggests (strongly), we need to pay attention to stories to see who's doing the creating--the story or the person telling the story. What do you think?<br /></p>Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4128603572523717051.post-13436884549996867672008-07-09T05:15:00.000-07:002009-07-05T03:41:56.583-07:00Classroom Stories<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fVpxa7vPmgLA4XtFLw6SWzoOVUv_9fCBIgXmVxh33mrLas9WyptVK9rwx2_PnTKwrVXejjeDMHeixJM7dboJ8bGjV6HVJjEPTrT8KaNKeR2ZbUZghimUBWvkm-k_ROEgzeNDdJdkSddZ/s1600-h/Disclaimer+for+Students+in+English+015.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354924459928083234" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 183px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fVpxa7vPmgLA4XtFLw6SWzoOVUv_9fCBIgXmVxh33mrLas9WyptVK9rwx2_PnTKwrVXejjeDMHeixJM7dboJ8bGjV6HVJjEPTrT8KaNKeR2ZbUZghimUBWvkm-k_ROEgzeNDdJdkSddZ/s320/Disclaimer+for+Students+in+English+015.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>One morning in the summer of 2006, I was preparing for composition class, thinking about the wonderful stories my students would be sharing during the next few weeks in the semester. A poem began to form in my mind and, as it did, I wrote, making several edits over the next few days. Finally, I submitted the poem, "Disclaimer (for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">english</span> 015 students)" to Richard Hansen, publisher of "Poems for All," (<a href="http://www.sacfreepress.com/poems/">http://www.sacfreepress.com/poems/</a>) an interesting Sacramento-based publishing company that circulates poems in little chapbooks the size of matchstick covers. Here's my poem:<br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Disclaimer (for english 015 Students)<br /><br />You won’t find this in the<br />course catalog, and it’s not<br />on the syllabus. But it’s best<br />to know. If you come into<br />my english classroom,<br />you’d better leave (T)ruth<br />at the door.<br />For it’s not (T)ruth but<br />something else we’ll study<br />this semester. I don’t deal<br />with (T)ruth in English class.<br />And I don’t give high marks<br />for (T)ruth, because I’ve been a<br />liar all my life.<br />Don’t come to me with<br />questions about page<br />length, number of sources,<br />or mis-spellings. This is not<br />the stuff of my classes.<br />In this room<br />we write stories.<br />About love, death, hope,<br />betrayal, lies and other<br />broken promises. Don’t bother<br />telling the dean your professor<br />tells lies. I’ll deny it. Besides,<br />it won’t help you much<br />in this class.<br />You’ve read my warning, so<br />if you still want to enter this class,<br />bring your memories, dreams,<br />questions. And leave all your<br />(True) stories<br />At the door.<br /><br /></span>The poem is a confession by a college composition instructor, who prefers content over form. Although I do evaluate students' written work on the usual standard requirements for language use and grammar, I tend to respond to the story told in the work they've submitted. That's because, in my opinion, it takes a lot of courage to tell good stories and when the story is good, I see and admire the writer's courage. And, don't take the word truth too literally here. It alludes to the sort of official truths being taught to students who have been overly eager to accept everything told them by authority. Learning is about questioning those truths and tuning into the process of self-discovery. My classroom supports that kind of learning.<br /><br />But, back to the point about stories. Why would a teacher care about stories? Story often shapes the content of my courses (sometimes, in spite of my efforts to keep it out). Each semester, new students find their way into my classroom, find each other and me and we begin with a typical English class <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dialogue</span>. That dialogue goes something like this: "How many pages, how many sources, can I use <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">wikipedia</span> as a source?" All important questions, I'll grant you, but not the most important ones.<br /><br />The really big questions I hope to hear from students are about story. "Can I write this story, How should I write this story? Is this a good story?" When their questions settle down around story, we have a class and a class dialogue. We have the beginning of our class' story.</div></div>Jane (Hollinger) Mikonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00297190591793119116noreply@blogger.com0