I thought I was going to end my class blogging with a saucy fairytale bang, but then I remembered I forgot to write about This One Summer.
Which, I suppose, is appropriate since summertime is creeping up on us, and I have declared, once again, that this year's summer is going to be perfect.
This One Summer takes us all back to a time when summer was an alternate reality: a place free from school, removed from the routine of everyday life, when a family goes to a lake or a cabin, and people become free.
Windy and Rose are summer friends: they meet only in summer, at the cabins in a resort town. They're just on the edge of being teenagers, and Rose is captivated by the older teens in the town. I loved the contrast between the real drama faced by the kids in the resort town, and the transient, dreamy quality of the drama that Rose and Windy experience. Mariko and Jillian Tamaki are showing us the edge of childhood, where we realize that the alternate reality of summertime is someone else's everyday reality, and soon it won't be a true escape for us either.
For myself, I remember going to cabins as a child. I remember things that only ever happened in summer, experiences and habits and treats that were reserved for long hot days and late nights on the lake.
Then I grew up, and those all faded away. Summertime is just like any time, now.
So much of this story is told through the art. As opposed to El Deafo, where the text is very dense, much of This One Summer is without text. We watch Windy and Rose move through the space: swimming, running, dancing, and creeping around the edge of the real-life problems that have crept into their summertime space.
I loved lingering on the artwork, because I could remember glimpses from my childhood, and I could also remember snatches of things that I experienced as an adult: Walking down a hot road in my pajamas in the dark. Sitting and looking at the stars. Driving my car in the twilight. Walking along train tracks, climbing abandoned grain elevators, sitting on rooftops. We test our freedom in the summer, no matter our age. We want to be wild, with our hearts bursting and our bodies free.
I think this book is suitable for any age. Younger readers will read up, and catch that glimpse of teenage drama, not understanding it, just as Rose and Windy are confused. Older readers will perhaps remember their youth. Everyone will read it with a longing for summertime to come, and for hot evenings and sparkling water in the day.
Savor this book, when you read it. And savor your summertime.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Poisoned Apples - eat them
Poetry is one of those things that I never seek out, yet usually enjoy when it's foisted upon me.
Christine Hepperman's Poisoned Apples was one such collection of poetry, and I think it might be the second poetry book I actually buy (the first was a collection of Baudelaire, in case you were wondering).
You may recall how much I ended up liking Far Far Away, a modern fairytale. You may, if you know me a little better, know that I've become a bit mouthier about feminism in recent years, and less amused about winding up with the short end of the "Bitches be crazy" stick.
You may, perhaps, also feel this way about feminism and creepy fairy tales, and if so, you may just enjoy Poisoned Apples, all the way from the curl of your hair to the tips of your witchy toes.
The poems in Poisoned Apples are exactly that -- poisonous. We people -- both women and men -- experience poison in our (North American, first world, somewhat puritanical) society. We have poisonous ideas about how we should treat each other, how we should look or act or dress, and Poisoned Apples addresses these ills. The author says in her note that in her mind, reality and fairy tales blend together. We are all the heros and heroines of our own lives, after all, and sometimes the pain and sadness in our lives is so fantastic, it takes a fantastic, fairytale style to express it accurately.
A great majority of Hepperman's poems have to do with self-image, addressing anorexia, beauty, perfection, and existing as an object to be gazed upon and judged by others (and in the magic mirror, by yourself).
She isn't offering solutions, or stories where everything turns out alright.
She's illustrating the fantastic horror that is existing as a young woman, and doing so in the style that is most appropriate. Short, pithy, and almost cruel in snark, but always, always true.
I appreciate that truth in my poetry. I think a lot of young women, younger than myself, those who are currently living through those difficult teenage times, would appreciate it even more.
Christine Hepperman's Poisoned Apples was one such collection of poetry, and I think it might be the second poetry book I actually buy (the first was a collection of Baudelaire, in case you were wondering).
You may recall how much I ended up liking Far Far Away, a modern fairytale. You may, if you know me a little better, know that I've become a bit mouthier about feminism in recent years, and less amused about winding up with the short end of the "Bitches be crazy" stick.
You may, perhaps, also feel this way about feminism and creepy fairy tales, and if so, you may just enjoy Poisoned Apples, all the way from the curl of your hair to the tips of your witchy toes.
The poems in Poisoned Apples are exactly that -- poisonous. We people -- both women and men -- experience poison in our (North American, first world, somewhat puritanical) society. We have poisonous ideas about how we should treat each other, how we should look or act or dress, and Poisoned Apples addresses these ills. The author says in her note that in her mind, reality and fairy tales blend together. We are all the heros and heroines of our own lives, after all, and sometimes the pain and sadness in our lives is so fantastic, it takes a fantastic, fairytale style to express it accurately.
A great majority of Hepperman's poems have to do with self-image, addressing anorexia, beauty, perfection, and existing as an object to be gazed upon and judged by others (and in the magic mirror, by yourself).
She isn't offering solutions, or stories where everything turns out alright.
She's illustrating the fantastic horror that is existing as a young woman, and doing so in the style that is most appropriate. Short, pithy, and almost cruel in snark, but always, always true.
I appreciate that truth in my poetry. I think a lot of young women, younger than myself, those who are currently living through those difficult teenage times, would appreciate it even more.
Friday, May 8, 2015
El Deafo
When I picked up my graphic novels for the week's readings, I had a choice to make: Which to read first? There was an assumption in my mind that all of them would read fairly quickly, so it was a question akin to "Which delicious candy shall I stuff in my face first?" rather than "What shall I have for dinner tonight, and then tomorrow night?"
El Deafo, by Cece Bell, is the Newberry Award-winning story of Cece as a child, growing up with a hearing aid after she lost her hearing due to illness. And let me tell you, friends, it is COLORFUL! Flipping through my choices for the week, I was immediately drawn to the bright use of color on the pages, as well as the disregard for row after row of square panels. Cece's images completely fill the pages, or loop across them as the titular character imagines herself as El Deafo, the superhero, flying through the skies.
This is a story about children, and in some ways, aimed towards children, even though the text is very dense. The images are so vivid, and the characters -- all portrayed as rabbits -- are very relatable in their simplicity and style, and the message really focuses on the feelings of a young child who is struggling with being different.
But it's also important to remember, as an adult, that this is about a world where someone cannot hear. In this graphic novel, I really felt that the high level of detail and color in the pages was stepping in for the missing component, that of sound. How sound worked -- or didn't work -- for Cece was portrayed visually. We could see her being overwhelmed by sounds that were too loud through her hearing devices (most amusingly, hearing a giant, wet flush of a toilet), or frustrated by speech bubbles where words were over-enunciated or shouted in a misguided effort to communicate more effectively. She is saying to the reader, Look, look at how frustrating this is to read. See how this isn't helpful, even written on a page. It's not helpful when you're speaking, either.
Even with all the color, and fun, and super-hero rabbits, there is a strong message in Bell's novel about how difficult it is for a child to be different, and how we all need to be able to find friends, and find our place in the social dynamics of school. This is a very cute story of a girl using her "super powers" of her hearing aids for good (and evil? Well, not evil, just some light mischief), and it's also the story of a child figuring out where she wants to fit within the spaces of hearing, deaf, and Deaf people.
El Deafo, by Cece Bell, is the Newberry Award-winning story of Cece as a child, growing up with a hearing aid after she lost her hearing due to illness. And let me tell you, friends, it is COLORFUL! Flipping through my choices for the week, I was immediately drawn to the bright use of color on the pages, as well as the disregard for row after row of square panels. Cece's images completely fill the pages, or loop across them as the titular character imagines herself as El Deafo, the superhero, flying through the skies.
This is a story about children, and in some ways, aimed towards children, even though the text is very dense. The images are so vivid, and the characters -- all portrayed as rabbits -- are very relatable in their simplicity and style, and the message really focuses on the feelings of a young child who is struggling with being different.
But it's also important to remember, as an adult, that this is about a world where someone cannot hear. In this graphic novel, I really felt that the high level of detail and color in the pages was stepping in for the missing component, that of sound. How sound worked -- or didn't work -- for Cece was portrayed visually. We could see her being overwhelmed by sounds that were too loud through her hearing devices (most amusingly, hearing a giant, wet flush of a toilet), or frustrated by speech bubbles where words were over-enunciated or shouted in a misguided effort to communicate more effectively. She is saying to the reader, Look, look at how frustrating this is to read. See how this isn't helpful, even written on a page. It's not helpful when you're speaking, either.
Even with all the color, and fun, and super-hero rabbits, there is a strong message in Bell's novel about how difficult it is for a child to be different, and how we all need to be able to find friends, and find our place in the social dynamics of school. This is a very cute story of a girl using her "super powers" of her hearing aids for good (and evil? Well, not evil, just some light mischief), and it's also the story of a child figuring out where she wants to fit within the spaces of hearing, deaf, and Deaf people.
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