This is a joke told to me in my World Religions class in college by a classmate after we had studied the term "ecumenical." It is admittedly nerdy, but I still get a kick out of it. Ecumenical is generally used to refer to working relationships or unity between churches, especially between denominations, though it can be used in a broader sense, like cooperation between entirely different religions.
The Conference in Florida
There was a conference held in Florida about different denominations working together. Spiritual leaders from all over the country gather in Florida.
A priest, a reverend, and a pastor found they had been assigned seats next to each other. They sat through the morning session together, taking notes, talking back and forth. By the time the conference took a break for lunch, the three leaders had realized that they were starting to enjoy each other's company, so at the priest's suggestion, they shared a taxi ride to a nearby restaurant, and had lunch together.
After lunch, they still had some time before the next conference session began, so they decided to take a walk around the area. As they walked along, much to their misfortune, none of them noticed a huge crocodile setting his sights on them. Without warning, the crocodile charged up on the bank and ate all three of them in one gulp. A day an a half later, the crocodile had an ecumenical movement.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
The bye-bye drug
I have often heard my mom call me her "Bye-bye baby." Apparently, "Bye-bye" was one of my favorite phrases as a toddler.
Over the years, my ability to voice my feelings has grown more sophisticated, however the longing is the same. Bye-bye. I love to travel. Especially, internationally. I want to see the weird and the wonderful, the beautiful and the heartbreaking. I want to hear the foreign tongues, and decipher meanings. I want to feel the different rhythms, and marvel at the different artistic perspectives. I want to witness the challenges, and praise the ingenuity and determination.
This is something that is embedded deep within me, and often shows itself in more than just international travel. Ask my friends. They can tell you that I am both a very good and a very bad shopping buddy. I will happily shop all day, even if it is just for groceries. I love to shop, but I am not very good at standing still in a store. They stop to inspect an item, and when they look up, I have disappeared. This is mainly because a huge joy of shopping for me is the meandering portion. When we are out together, I have a tendency to drag them into the weird looking shops, because I want to see what I haven't yet seen. (My poor friends have been in numerous strange shops, including but not limited to Indian Religious supply shops, and mystic shops majoring in unicorns and incense) I am often trying to talk them into going to dinner at a different ethnic restaurant, and they are good sports, usually.
Where did this come from? I don't know. According to my parents' stories, it was there when I was very young. I personally think it was something that God built into me before birth. However, my parents have definitely been enablers in the flourishing of this desire.
Their first mistake was using the city bus to get around town when I was little. Oh the adventure! They took me to Washington, back in the early 90s, when Washington and California were practically different countries. They sent me to Virginia as a 9 year old, and that was almost like going to outer space, especially because we got there by train and airplane rides (Thanks to the flooding of the Mississippi river). Then there was Mexico. Then there was the Dominican Republic, then the Democratic Republic of Congo. Then college. I am sad to say, that I have been stuck state side since college, and it is slowly going to be the end of my sanity.
The problem is this: if I stay put, the need to travel, to go-anywhere-go-everywhere-go-now, builds, and builds, however, when I do travel, the need does not abate, instead it intensifies. It's like oxygen, or narcotics, the more you use, the more you need. Hi, my name is Caitlin, and I am a travel junkie.
All of this to say, I need a "bye-bye" fix, and I need it bad! I would especially love to go to Haiti, Ghana, or East India, but honestly, if you were to hand me a plane ticket that had "Destination: we'll tell you when you land" written on it, I'd ask, "Do I need to pack for hot or cold, and can we leave right now?"
For now, I dream. I dream of meeting my Compassion kids. I dream of working on mission trips. I dream of foreign markets. I dream of boarding planes. I dream, and then I rummage through piles of books like a cocaine addict collects sugar packets until he can find his next hit.
Can I go somewhere, now, please?
Over the years, my ability to voice my feelings has grown more sophisticated, however the longing is the same. Bye-bye. I love to travel. Especially, internationally. I want to see the weird and the wonderful, the beautiful and the heartbreaking. I want to hear the foreign tongues, and decipher meanings. I want to feel the different rhythms, and marvel at the different artistic perspectives. I want to witness the challenges, and praise the ingenuity and determination.
This is something that is embedded deep within me, and often shows itself in more than just international travel. Ask my friends. They can tell you that I am both a very good and a very bad shopping buddy. I will happily shop all day, even if it is just for groceries. I love to shop, but I am not very good at standing still in a store. They stop to inspect an item, and when they look up, I have disappeared. This is mainly because a huge joy of shopping for me is the meandering portion. When we are out together, I have a tendency to drag them into the weird looking shops, because I want to see what I haven't yet seen. (My poor friends have been in numerous strange shops, including but not limited to Indian Religious supply shops, and mystic shops majoring in unicorns and incense) I am often trying to talk them into going to dinner at a different ethnic restaurant, and they are good sports, usually.
Where did this come from? I don't know. According to my parents' stories, it was there when I was very young. I personally think it was something that God built into me before birth. However, my parents have definitely been enablers in the flourishing of this desire.
Their first mistake was using the city bus to get around town when I was little. Oh the adventure! They took me to Washington, back in the early 90s, when Washington and California were practically different countries. They sent me to Virginia as a 9 year old, and that was almost like going to outer space, especially because we got there by train and airplane rides (Thanks to the flooding of the Mississippi river). Then there was Mexico. Then there was the Dominican Republic, then the Democratic Republic of Congo. Then college. I am sad to say, that I have been stuck state side since college, and it is slowly going to be the end of my sanity.
The problem is this: if I stay put, the need to travel, to go-anywhere-go-everywhere-go-now, builds, and builds, however, when I do travel, the need does not abate, instead it intensifies. It's like oxygen, or narcotics, the more you use, the more you need. Hi, my name is Caitlin, and I am a travel junkie.
All of this to say, I need a "bye-bye" fix, and I need it bad! I would especially love to go to Haiti, Ghana, or East India, but honestly, if you were to hand me a plane ticket that had "Destination: we'll tell you when you land" written on it, I'd ask, "Do I need to pack for hot or cold, and can we leave right now?"
For now, I dream. I dream of meeting my Compassion kids. I dream of working on mission trips. I dream of foreign markets. I dream of boarding planes. I dream, and then I rummage through piles of books like a cocaine addict collects sugar packets until he can find his next hit.
Can I go somewhere, now, please?
Saturday, March 26, 2011
To eulogize a cat...
It seems ridiculous, doesn't it? Unless you have lost a pet, because then it seems almost wrong to let it go by unmentioned. The problem here is what do you say?
My family's cat, Mr. Kitty, died unexpectedly today. He was 2 years old.
So, here's to the only cat to ever be allowed to live in my family's house, so far. To the cat my Dad claimed to "hate." To the cat who taught my Mom's dog how to fight like a man and cry like a girl. Here's to the cat who owned both the top and bottom of the bunk bed, but was gracious enough to share a corner of the bottom one with James. To the cat who would have a battle of wills to the death over who got to sit in a certain chair. Here's to the cat who protected my family's house by glaring menacingly at every car the drove down the street. To the cat whose passion for shoes rivaled my own.
May there be many warm sunspots, work boots, strappy sandals, grasshoppers, lizards, mice, and chihuahuas in your Happy Hunting Grounds, and may you finally catch that blasted laser dot.
We hope you enjoyed your stay, Mr. Kitty. We certainly did.
My family's cat, Mr. Kitty, died unexpectedly today. He was 2 years old.
So, here's to the only cat to ever be allowed to live in my family's house, so far. To the cat my Dad claimed to "hate." To the cat who taught my Mom's dog how to fight like a man and cry like a girl. Here's to the cat who owned both the top and bottom of the bunk bed, but was gracious enough to share a corner of the bottom one with James. To the cat who would have a battle of wills to the death over who got to sit in a certain chair. Here's to the cat who protected my family's house by glaring menacingly at every car the drove down the street. To the cat whose passion for shoes rivaled my own.
May there be many warm sunspots, work boots, strappy sandals, grasshoppers, lizards, mice, and chihuahuas in your Happy Hunting Grounds, and may you finally catch that blasted laser dot.
We hope you enjoyed your stay, Mr. Kitty. We certainly did.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Another Joke Thursday
Hello all. I am quite happy since today is acupuncture day for me, and I figure since you all can't come, you should get a joke... Especially since I forgot last week!
An officer pulls over a car for going 138 miles an hour. The woman rolls down her window and asks, "Is there a problem, Officer?" The officer replies, "Ma'am, you were speeding."
Woman: "Oh, was I?"
Officer: Can I see your license, please?
Woman: I'd give it to you, but I don't have one.
Officer: Don't have one?
Woman: Lost it 4 times for drunk driving.
Officer: I see...Can I see your vehicle registration papers please.
Woman: I can't do that.
Officer: Why not?
Woman: I stole this car.
Officer: Stole it?
Woman: Yes, and I killed and hacked up the owner.
Officer: You what?
Woman: His body parts are in plastic bags in the trunk, if you want
to see.
The Officer looks at the woman, slowly backs away to his car, and
calls for back up. Within minutes 5 police cars circle the car. A senior
officer slowly approaches the car, clasping his half drawn gun. He shouts, "Ma'am, could you step out of your vehicle slowly, please!"
The woman steps out of her vehicle with a very confused expression and asks, "Is there a problem sir?"
"One of my officers told me that you have stolen this
car and murdered the owner."
The woman puts her hands up hesitantly and asks, "Murdered the owner?"
"Yes, could you please open the trunk of your car, please."
The woman opens the trunk, revealing nothing but an empty trunk.
"Is this your car, ma'am?"
She pulls out the papers, "Yes, here are the registration papers."
The first officer is stunned.
The senior officer throws the first officer a raised eyebrow before saying to the woman, "One of my officers claims that you do not have a driving license."
The woman digs into her handbag and pulls out a clutch purse and hands it to the officer. The officer snaps open the clutch purse and examines the license. He looks quite puzzled. "Thank you ma'am, one of my officers told me you didn't have a license, that you stole this car, and that you murdered and hacked up the owner."
The woman rolls her eyes and takes her clutch back, "Betcha that lying jerk told you I was speeding, too!"
An officer pulls over a car for going 138 miles an hour. The woman rolls down her window and asks, "Is there a problem, Officer?" The officer replies, "Ma'am, you were speeding."
Woman: "Oh, was I?"
Officer: Can I see your license, please?
Woman: I'd give it to you, but I don't have one.
Officer: Don't have one?
Woman: Lost it 4 times for drunk driving.
Officer: I see...Can I see your vehicle registration papers please.
Woman: I can't do that.
Officer: Why not?
Woman: I stole this car.
Officer: Stole it?
Woman: Yes, and I killed and hacked up the owner.
Officer: You what?
Woman: His body parts are in plastic bags in the trunk, if you want
to see.
The Officer looks at the woman, slowly backs away to his car, and
calls for back up. Within minutes 5 police cars circle the car. A senior
officer slowly approaches the car, clasping his half drawn gun. He shouts, "Ma'am, could you step out of your vehicle slowly, please!"
The woman steps out of her vehicle with a very confused expression and asks, "Is there a problem sir?"
"One of my officers told me that you have stolen this
car and murdered the owner."
The woman puts her hands up hesitantly and asks, "Murdered the owner?"
"Yes, could you please open the trunk of your car, please."
The woman opens the trunk, revealing nothing but an empty trunk.
"Is this your car, ma'am?"
She pulls out the papers, "Yes, here are the registration papers."
The first officer is stunned.
The senior officer throws the first officer a raised eyebrow before saying to the woman, "One of my officers claims that you do not have a driving license."
The woman digs into her handbag and pulls out a clutch purse and hands it to the officer. The officer snaps open the clutch purse and examines the license. He looks quite puzzled. "Thank you ma'am, one of my officers told me you didn't have a license, that you stole this car, and that you murdered and hacked up the owner."
The woman rolls her eyes and takes her clutch back, "Betcha that lying jerk told you I was speeding, too!"
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Bakersfield never looked so lovely...
After I posted my blog on Friday, I loaded up the car drove up to visit my friend, Rachel. My intent was to play for a weekend and then come back on Monday afternoon. We drove to Fresno on Saturday and visited some of our favorite haunts. In the evening we got to meet up with the third member of our college triad, Merida, and had dinner. If you haven't figured it out yet, I like my old roomies. After this, Rachel and I returned back up the mountain.
The next day it started snowing, low on the mountain. Rachel and I decided to hang out around the house. Halfway through the day, the power went out.
In the evening, the snow turned back to rain, and then the rain stopped. What this little warmth loving girl from the agricultural, water stricken valley did not realize is that when it snows, and then it rains, and then it freezes, the snow in the trees gets heavier, and heavier, and then branches and trees split like they have been unzipped, and it sounds like a civil war reenactment, all night long.
The night was drawn out with crackling, crashing, and thudding of trees becoming firewood, gravity-style. Our minds were filled with layman's calculations of wind resistance, trajectory, leverage, and timber strength in order to answer the ever present question, "Which of these trees will be coming through the window/roof and how much time will I have to duck and roll?" We lucked out. Only one branch hit the roof, and aside from the loud clatter, it bounced off and didn't cause any immediate damage.
Fortunately for me, I did not have to go to work the next morning. Rachel was not so lucky! I took naps and read books in a nice warm house, wrapped up in my sleeping bag, all day. Rachel went to an office with no power and no heat, and one working phone line, and began coordinating around the chaos. She was pretty amazing in action, even if she only got 2 hours sleep the night before.
As it turned out, the storm had not taken out just a few electrical lines, but an entire circuit tower. The cellphones were down, there had been land slides and rock slides on the one road leading in and out of Yosemite, and there was another storm coming. El Portal had been declared to be in a "small state of emergency" as Rachel put it, when she relayed the information to me. For a moment, we thought we were going to be stranded for at least a week, but fortunately, there was a convoy being escorted out on Tuesday! I loaded up my car, and tried to put on my chains, but the lock link wouldn't lock! (I swear they worked when I did a practice run off the mountain!) I only needed the chains to get out of the neighborhood in order to get on the freshly plowed road to freedom, but I was failing. Three of Rachel's friends and coworkers appeared in the nick of time, first trying the chains, then declaring the chains to be ridiculous, and then giving the car just the shove it needed to get my tires onto some traction, and I was off(and, oh so grateful to Rachel's nick-of-time comrades)!
I was impressed with the response of the residents of El Portal. They started the day after the storm by checking their own damages, but after getting those issues in order, they were soon out into the rest of the town, pulling branches and debris out of the road, oh, so carefully raising and tying up fallen power lines so that cars could pass through again, cutting down precarious branches threatening to take a second swipe at homes. The friends that found and assisted me had actually been going from house to house to hand out fliers so that the communication stricken town knew about the town meeting that would explain the risks and precautions of staying, as well as about the two convoys leaving that day. PG&E had trucks and helicopters trudging through just about every area I saw, assessing damages and trying to make repairs, and there was another company attempting to keep the sewer lines functioning properly.
I got to the convoy really early, partially because I didn't want to risk my car getting stuck again before getting to the convoy point, and partially because I didn't want to risk that they were only capable of taking 30 vehicles and have me being number 31, so I was number 3. I snuggled up in my car and waited, because my feet were cold and I had a book to read. I had no desire to be outside.
The convoy drove us right past a lot of the damages, and while the damages in some of the areas were impressive, they seemed rather small in relation to the chaos they had caused. I think I was expecting a mountain to be split in half, or something.
It was quite the adventure, and though for me it was more adventure than stress, I definitely felt the tension that I had been smothering with calm humor melt when we pulled into Mariposa and I heard my cellphone chime in delight of discovering reception there. I was not going to have to survive on canned soup and rice for the next week.
Rachel and I made it to Fresno, and did some much needed debriefing over soup at Panera, and headed our separate ways.
I had fun.
I had an adventure.
It was exciting.
I thoroughly enjoyed the time spent with my friends.
While I have a tendency to despise home for boring me, for holding me back from adventure, and for being all around uneventful, it has my mattress, my shower, my cat, and no need for chains.
I am so glad to be home.
The next day it started snowing, low on the mountain. Rachel and I decided to hang out around the house. Halfway through the day, the power went out.
In the evening, the snow turned back to rain, and then the rain stopped. What this little warmth loving girl from the agricultural, water stricken valley did not realize is that when it snows, and then it rains, and then it freezes, the snow in the trees gets heavier, and heavier, and then branches and trees split like they have been unzipped, and it sounds like a civil war reenactment, all night long.
The night was drawn out with crackling, crashing, and thudding of trees becoming firewood, gravity-style. Our minds were filled with layman's calculations of wind resistance, trajectory, leverage, and timber strength in order to answer the ever present question, "Which of these trees will be coming through the window/roof and how much time will I have to duck and roll?" We lucked out. Only one branch hit the roof, and aside from the loud clatter, it bounced off and didn't cause any immediate damage.
Fortunately for me, I did not have to go to work the next morning. Rachel was not so lucky! I took naps and read books in a nice warm house, wrapped up in my sleeping bag, all day. Rachel went to an office with no power and no heat, and one working phone line, and began coordinating around the chaos. She was pretty amazing in action, even if she only got 2 hours sleep the night before.
As it turned out, the storm had not taken out just a few electrical lines, but an entire circuit tower. The cellphones were down, there had been land slides and rock slides on the one road leading in and out of Yosemite, and there was another storm coming. El Portal had been declared to be in a "small state of emergency" as Rachel put it, when she relayed the information to me. For a moment, we thought we were going to be stranded for at least a week, but fortunately, there was a convoy being escorted out on Tuesday! I loaded up my car, and tried to put on my chains, but the lock link wouldn't lock! (I swear they worked when I did a practice run off the mountain!) I only needed the chains to get out of the neighborhood in order to get on the freshly plowed road to freedom, but I was failing. Three of Rachel's friends and coworkers appeared in the nick of time, first trying the chains, then declaring the chains to be ridiculous, and then giving the car just the shove it needed to get my tires onto some traction, and I was off(and, oh so grateful to Rachel's nick-of-time comrades)!
I was impressed with the response of the residents of El Portal. They started the day after the storm by checking their own damages, but after getting those issues in order, they were soon out into the rest of the town, pulling branches and debris out of the road, oh, so carefully raising and tying up fallen power lines so that cars could pass through again, cutting down precarious branches threatening to take a second swipe at homes. The friends that found and assisted me had actually been going from house to house to hand out fliers so that the communication stricken town knew about the town meeting that would explain the risks and precautions of staying, as well as about the two convoys leaving that day. PG&E had trucks and helicopters trudging through just about every area I saw, assessing damages and trying to make repairs, and there was another company attempting to keep the sewer lines functioning properly.
I got to the convoy really early, partially because I didn't want to risk my car getting stuck again before getting to the convoy point, and partially because I didn't want to risk that they were only capable of taking 30 vehicles and have me being number 31, so I was number 3. I snuggled up in my car and waited, because my feet were cold and I had a book to read. I had no desire to be outside.
The convoy drove us right past a lot of the damages, and while the damages in some of the areas were impressive, they seemed rather small in relation to the chaos they had caused. I think I was expecting a mountain to be split in half, or something.
It was quite the adventure, and though for me it was more adventure than stress, I definitely felt the tension that I had been smothering with calm humor melt when we pulled into Mariposa and I heard my cellphone chime in delight of discovering reception there. I was not going to have to survive on canned soup and rice for the next week.
Rachel and I made it to Fresno, and did some much needed debriefing over soup at Panera, and headed our separate ways.
I had fun.
I had an adventure.
It was exciting.
I thoroughly enjoyed the time spent with my friends.
While I have a tendency to despise home for boring me, for holding me back from adventure, and for being all around uneventful, it has my mattress, my shower, my cat, and no need for chains.
I am so glad to be home.
Friday, March 18, 2011
When the going gets cold...
This morning, before I crawled out of bed, I noticed that I was quite comfortably curled up under two layers of heavy comforters. That is strange, because usually, when Mrs. Bell gets up, she blasts the heater up to 75, and I wind up kicking my covers off.
Unhappily, I crept out of my warm cocoon to start the day. Stepping into the hallway, I learned: the heater is broken. In response, I layered up and soldiered on. For a while, Thunder curled herself up in my lap while I worked on the last part of my letters for my Compassion kids, but then, as I moved too often she disappeared. A few hours later, I noticed she was still gone. I made a quick glance through her usual haunts, and couldn't find my long, thick, angora haired(even has long fur between her toes...built for snow) cat anywhere. Whenever the nights get slightly less than frigid, she moves away from me, because she gets too warm. So imagine my surprise in finding Thunder in my bed,
swaddled in a cave of both my comforters. She stuck her head out to see what I was doing with my camera, but that facial expression? It says, "Don't even think about messing with my warmth!" Thunder may have the outfit for snow, but like many of us who have grown up in Bakersfield, she has the mindset for desert heat. Hot and dry, please!
When the going gets cold, the cold crawl back into bed, and scowl.
Unhappily, I crept out of my warm cocoon to start the day. Stepping into the hallway, I learned: the heater is broken. In response, I layered up and soldiered on. For a while, Thunder curled herself up in my lap while I worked on the last part of my letters for my Compassion kids, but then, as I moved too often she disappeared. A few hours later, I noticed she was still gone. I made a quick glance through her usual haunts, and couldn't find my long, thick, angora haired(even has long fur between her toes...built for snow) cat anywhere. Whenever the nights get slightly less than frigid, she moves away from me, because she gets too warm. So imagine my surprise in finding Thunder in my bed,
When the going gets cold, the cold crawl back into bed, and scowl.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Books and covers...(Literacy,2.5)
We have all heard the phrase, "Don't judge a book by its cover" and usually we assume it's talking about ugly people. I am here to say, that it also applies to books with covers that look good.
Cane River, by Lalita Tademy, for example, is one of those books. I will admit it: When I saw this cover at the Goodwill Bookstore, it fell into my hand like it was metal and I was Magneto. Look at the cover.
Doesn't that look enticing? It looks like it is going to tell you a rich story, and pull you in and leave you wishing there was a sequel. Not so much. It is very roughly based on a true story...ish? The author based it on her genealogy, after quitting her job to trace it. It started because of her great grandmother, Emily, who being genetically more white than black showed favoritism to her lighter grandchildren. The author felt a need to know what made Emily become Emily, and so she traced the family line back 3 generations. The story starts with Emily's grandmother, Suzette, as a 9 year old, and Suzette's mother, Elizabeth, living and working as slaves. It works forward through the generations until it reaches the author's grandmother.
Prior to this book, the author's career was founded in the corporate world. I am not saying that every author has to live their entire lives being authors. I am just saying that this one, Lalita Tademy, is not a natural author. The words feel very awkward and mechanical in the beginning. They tell a story, yes, but but they are not rhythmic, warming, or inviting words. It reads very much like you were looking at her family tree and reading short paragraph summaries about each person's life: Suzette-house slave, raped by white man, had two babies, sold. In the author's defense, she did write with better flow than that, but it rarely moves the reader to become emotionally involved. Often, Lalita Tademy uses written portions from documents she found in her search, such as letters. It was a good idea, however, it clashes horribly with her writing. For example, she copied a letter written in response to her great-great-great-grandfather's letter, but she did not have the letter that he had written, so she had to make it up. The difference in letter style and eloquence is staggering. She may have tried to mimic the style, but she failed, and the mix of the eloquently written documents, and her mechanical style is quite jarring to the reader.
In Lalita Tademy's defense, the closer the story gets to the present, the better the characters become. Maybe it is because she had half a book to develop her writing style before that, but my theory is that the closer she got to present day, the more elderly people she had in the family to glean memories from. The people she heard about from the elderly people definitely have more character depth than the people she had little more than names and sales registries. Even the characters that started without character gained character the closer they got to her elders' memories.
My favorite character was adult Philomene, the daughter of Suzette. Really, if the book only told about Philomene's story, it would have been a great book. Philomene started as a slave, daughter of a white man, was sold multiple times due to deaths of masters. In reaction to the civil war's ravages on the South, she ended up nearly living as an equal with her mistress in order for the household of 2 women and 7 children to survive.
Philomene made some very calculating decisions that, in the long run, were the redemption of her family after freedom, even though the present sacrifice was such that most women would have forgone the decision. When the war ended, her daughter, Emily, was two, and had no real experience of slavery. This lead to a very interesting observation within the story about the generation gap between ex-slaves and born-free children. A year after being granted freedom, Philomene picked up her children and left to seize it. Because of her earlier and continuing calculating decisions she was able to gain a sharecrop to work until she was able to gain her own property. She united a majority of her family, which and been scattered some ten years before at an auction. Her children were privately tutored and given every training they might need to survive in an upper class world. It really was amazing what this woman accomplished, starting at the age of 17.
Unfortunately, her story is smack dab in the middle of the 416 page book. After her is Emily's story until Emily is 60 years old, and the tying up of lose ends to explain where the grandchildren had scattered.
The book is interesting to an extent, because there are actual photos of many of the people, and also copies of the papers used to learn Lalita Tademy's family history, such as slave auction receipts, news paper articles, hand written (in French) letters and census records.
If I were rating this book on Amazon, it would get 3/5 stars(Well, ideally 2.5/5, but Amazon doesn't allow that option). I would not recommend this book to a friend if they asked me for a good read. It is not the worst book I have ever read. Like I said, it has some interesting moments. I just do not feel the interesting moments redeem the mechanical writing style, the predominance of one dimensional characters, and the sheer drudgery of Cane River.
Cane River, by Lalita Tademy, for example, is one of those books. I will admit it: When I saw this cover at the Goodwill Bookstore, it fell into my hand like it was metal and I was Magneto. Look at the cover.
Doesn't that look enticing? It looks like it is going to tell you a rich story, and pull you in and leave you wishing there was a sequel. Not so much. It is very roughly based on a true story...ish? The author based it on her genealogy, after quitting her job to trace it. It started because of her great grandmother, Emily, who being genetically more white than black showed favoritism to her lighter grandchildren. The author felt a need to know what made Emily become Emily, and so she traced the family line back 3 generations. The story starts with Emily's grandmother, Suzette, as a 9 year old, and Suzette's mother, Elizabeth, living and working as slaves. It works forward through the generations until it reaches the author's grandmother.
Prior to this book, the author's career was founded in the corporate world. I am not saying that every author has to live their entire lives being authors. I am just saying that this one, Lalita Tademy, is not a natural author. The words feel very awkward and mechanical in the beginning. They tell a story, yes, but but they are not rhythmic, warming, or inviting words. It reads very much like you were looking at her family tree and reading short paragraph summaries about each person's life: Suzette-house slave, raped by white man, had two babies, sold. In the author's defense, she did write with better flow than that, but it rarely moves the reader to become emotionally involved. Often, Lalita Tademy uses written portions from documents she found in her search, such as letters. It was a good idea, however, it clashes horribly with her writing. For example, she copied a letter written in response to her great-great-great-grandfather's letter, but she did not have the letter that he had written, so she had to make it up. The difference in letter style and eloquence is staggering. She may have tried to mimic the style, but she failed, and the mix of the eloquently written documents, and her mechanical style is quite jarring to the reader.
In Lalita Tademy's defense, the closer the story gets to the present, the better the characters become. Maybe it is because she had half a book to develop her writing style before that, but my theory is that the closer she got to present day, the more elderly people she had in the family to glean memories from. The people she heard about from the elderly people definitely have more character depth than the people she had little more than names and sales registries. Even the characters that started without character gained character the closer they got to her elders' memories.
My favorite character was adult Philomene, the daughter of Suzette. Really, if the book only told about Philomene's story, it would have been a great book. Philomene started as a slave, daughter of a white man, was sold multiple times due to deaths of masters. In reaction to the civil war's ravages on the South, she ended up nearly living as an equal with her mistress in order for the household of 2 women and 7 children to survive.
Philomene made some very calculating decisions that, in the long run, were the redemption of her family after freedom, even though the present sacrifice was such that most women would have forgone the decision. When the war ended, her daughter, Emily, was two, and had no real experience of slavery. This lead to a very interesting observation within the story about the generation gap between ex-slaves and born-free children. A year after being granted freedom, Philomene picked up her children and left to seize it. Because of her earlier and continuing calculating decisions she was able to gain a sharecrop to work until she was able to gain her own property. She united a majority of her family, which and been scattered some ten years before at an auction. Her children were privately tutored and given every training they might need to survive in an upper class world. It really was amazing what this woman accomplished, starting at the age of 17.
Unfortunately, her story is smack dab in the middle of the 416 page book. After her is Emily's story until Emily is 60 years old, and the tying up of lose ends to explain where the grandchildren had scattered.
The book is interesting to an extent, because there are actual photos of many of the people, and also copies of the papers used to learn Lalita Tademy's family history, such as slave auction receipts, news paper articles, hand written (in French) letters and census records.
If I were rating this book on Amazon, it would get 3/5 stars(Well, ideally 2.5/5, but Amazon doesn't allow that option). I would not recommend this book to a friend if they asked me for a good read. It is not the worst book I have ever read. Like I said, it has some interesting moments. I just do not feel the interesting moments redeem the mechanical writing style, the predominance of one dimensional characters, and the sheer drudgery of Cane River.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)