I missed over a week!

One would think that, as a brand new blogger, I would be inclined to make sure that I always post on a regular basis. After all, isn’t that what all of the “How to start a blog” posts say? “Post on a regular basis!” Alas, work has already forced me to break that rule and within two weeks of starting. On a brighter note, perhaps it’s best to be forced to address something early in the undertaking, rather than after a rhythm has been established.

The last week at work was completely insane and consumed most of my waking hours. After subtracting a few hours for eating, sleeping and commuting, there was barely time left to breathe, much less write blog posts. This morning came along and I suddenly realized that three blog posts had passed me by, without even as much as a nod to my existence. With that slap in the face, I realized I needed to assess.

Although I don’t have a clear purpose for the blog, its initial purpose was to be the place to store passages I enjoyed, general plot summaries, and overall reflections on the book. As I have a tendency to read books and all-too-quickly forget the plots, being able to write this done would give me an easy way to reference stories I’ve already read. Unfortunately, I realized that sharing book plots would make reading my blog dangerous to anyone who hadn’t already read the book. They’d come, read the description, and know how it ends. I’ve gone through several ideas, but I think that this blog is going to have to become more multi-purpose, especially because I don’t have time to read enough books to keep the blog filled solely with book posts. And so, I have decided on the following schedule for my blog, assuming four weeks a month.

Weeks 1-3

Monday: Article on something book-related (ie, things I find online that are somehow related to reading and books)

Wednesday: Notes on the book that I am currently reading

Friday: TBD

Week 4

Monday: Article on something book-related (ie, things I find online that are somehow related to reading and books)

Wednesday: Notes on the book that I am currently reading

Friday: List of 5-10 books that I’ve discovered over the month that look interesting

This will invariably have to change as I develop a routine and there will probably be a new plan sometime in the next few weeks. I hope that this will, at least, make it easier to keep up with the blog that no one reads.

A Wedding in Haiti, by Julia Alvarez

When author Julia Alvarez's husband decides to buy a plot of land in her native Dominican Republic and start farming organic coffee, it leads to adventures that neither accepted. They befriend a young Haitian boy Piti (Kreyol for "little one"), whom they first meet when they drive by him as he makes a small kite. As they get to know each other better, Alvarez promises to attend Piti's wedding whenever he gets married, and voila, you have the story A Wedding in Haiti. I picked this up at the library, mostly because I have Alvarez's In the Time of Butterflies sitting on my floor waiting to be read.

On their way to the wedding, they stop in Bassin-Bleu, a small town in Haiti where they will meet Piti. While waiting for Piti, Alvarez notices girls on a porch step braiding each other's hair. A young man comes up and asks Alvarez if he can help them, but she turns them down. Shortly thereafter, one of the girls joins the young man and together they assess Alvarez, "see[ing] only what of value I am wearing." The girl points to various pieces of jewelry, indicating that she wants them. The boy says he's hungry and wants food. Eventually, Alvarez "turn[s] away, reduced to [her] possessions, feeling the insult of [her] presence in this place" (pg 44-45).

Why did this encounter stand out? While I was in Arusha, something similar happened to me (although admittedly a much shorter and less frustrating encounter). On our way home after picking up some oranges at the local market, a man looked at me and said, "Give me an orange." He laughed and turned back to his friend. The details have gotten hazier since then, but I'm pretty said I said "no", he said something in Swahili, and I kept walking.

With those four simple words, I was more disturbed than I like to admit. I should mention that this encounter was not an encounter with a street vendor. I had many of those and, while annoying, were expected (heck, we even have those in the U.S.). This was one random person walking by another random person who had a few oranges in her hands. Never in a million years would I ever turn to a total stranger and say, "Give me that." I'm as white as you get and the man was black - was it a racial thing? Arusha is a very touristy town - many safaris to Ngorogoro and the Serengeti start here - and I imagine that many of the white visitors in town are rich. Had he been previously successful with such requests, and thus expected to get the orange? Was he making fun of me, trying to make me stop and look confused so that he could laugh about it with friends later? I've tried many possible explanations, but I've never been able to find one that didn't paint the Tanzanian in a bad light. Unless (and this just occurred to me), his English is terrible and he didn't actually mean to say what he said. Unlikely, I think, but either way...back to Haiti.

After a few other adventures, all worth reading, they reach the wedding site and the wedding is lovely. Unfortunately, in order to make the return border crossing, Alvarez, her husband, Piti, his new wife Eseline, their baby Ludy, and the rest of the crew have to leave shortly after the ceremony. Despite the minor fact that Eseline and the baby lack any papers, they all make it back to the Dominican Republic. Life returns to normal for many months, until the 2010 Haitian earthquake. Three weeks later, Alvarez and her husband are back in the Dominican Republic, and eventually they decide to take another trip to Haiti. Although Piti and Eseline's families in Haiti are safe, Eseline is homesick and Piti wants to take her back to Haiti for some traditional family medicine.

With the pick-up loaded and a slightly different crew than last time, they head off. They meet an old woman selling scrawny fruit and purchase some pineapple, which turns out to be delicious. They stop again at the place where old ladies are selling mangoes and share the joy of watching Ludy gnaw on one, and they stop to see Eseline's godmother.

In the interest of not giving away the rest of the book, I'll stop here. I would recommend the book, although I don't think it's a must read. It's great for someone looking for a quick read in which they can disappear to a land they may never visit, meeting people who, despite having few material goods, take the author into her family. Alvarez quickly draws you into the lives of these people, and will have you laughing and crying (well, at least worrying) alongside her.

I'm a "hate reader"....or am I?

Like far too many other people, I read the whole Twilight series. I hated it – the writing is lame, Bella has no spine, and I certainly didn’t learn anything from it – and yet, I couldn’t put it down. Who knew that a vampire who drives a silver Volvo could be so addictive? Halfway through the first book, I wanted nothing more than to throw the book on the floor and scream “I quit!” At yet, each possible hour found me continuing to read. And read. Dishes were neglected, exercise wasn't even considered, and bedtimes were ignored. I read not just the first book, but the entire series. I spent most of the fourth book begging Bella to get the abortion (but suspecting that the author's Mormon background would always preclude the character from such a thing), and then just wishing she's have the #$%^ thing so I could be put out of my misery. What was wrong with me? Why did I bother to finish the first book? Worse, why did I continue to suffer through three more books after that? Worst of all, why were the books so hard to put down? These questions have haunted me for the past three years, casting doubt on my taste in books, my intelligent, and my sense of self. I have suffered, until today. The answer to these questions lies in this article in The Atlantic. Turns out, I’m a “hate reader.”

By this definition, a hate reader "will finish each hate read down to its very last word, and you may well close the covers and toss the volume across the room, but you will do it with a great, secret frisson of satisfaction because it feels so good." While I could only metaphorically throw the Twilight books across the room (my only saving grace in this whole debacle was that I borrowed the books from the library), it did feel good. However, no sooner was I relieved to have an explanation for my Twilight obsession than another, more disturbing question arose - am I really a hate reader? I've loved reading since I was little. How could I be a hate reader?

Rather than mull over the implications of being a hate reader, I decided to read further. And thank goodness I did, for I discovered that I'm only a hate reader with Twilight books (I'll bet many people are - I refuse to believe that the success of this series is because people actually thought it was well-written). For all other books, I'm a "chronological reader." It's as if the author of the article was describing how I read. Who is the chronological reader?

1. You buy (or borrow) a book.

2. You read it.

3. You repeat Steps 1 and 2 in an endless cycle whose beginning is murky and whose end will come only when you take your last breath

4. You always finish the book. For the rare book you didn't finish, you remember the title and the reason why you didn't finish. Even decades later, just thinking about the book will leave a sour taste in your mouth.

5. You're a puzzle wizard and highly reliable.

Check, check, check, sort-of-check (I don't remember the title, but it was about a Lebanese family who tried to eat only things grown in a 100 mile radius), and check. The checkmarks bring a sigh of relief. I'm not really a hate reader. I still love books. With these happy thoughts, I don't even bother to read the rest of the article?*

Does it really matter what type of reader you are? Of course not, although the article does offer book suggestions for each type of reader. I'm just thrilled to know that my obsession with Twilight doesn't mean I'm crazy.

*For completion's sake, you might also be a: book-buster, delayed onset reader (either Type 1 or Type 2), bookophile, anti-reader (this is my DH), cross-under, multi-tasker, or sleepy bedtime reader.

Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen

Written by Sara Gruen and published in 2006, Water for Elephants (which I keep trying to call Hotel for Elephants) has been on my list of books to read for a long time, and I finally got around to it this summer. A young man, Jacob Janokowski, is in vet school at Cornell when he learns that his parents have both been killed in a car crash. In the aftermath, he runs away and joins the circus, becoming the resident veterinarian. The book is narrated by a much older Jacob who now lives in an assisted-living home. In between meal times and conversations with his nurses, he recalls his time in the circus. Unfortunately, it’s a pretty obvious plot line - the book jacket tells you that it’s a book about a bond between Jacob, Marlena, and the elephant Rosie – I enjoyed the book immensely. Gruen paints a realistic setting filled with circus characters who come to life as they struggle through the Great Depression.

One passage stood out in particular. It’s on page 109 (at least in my copy) and occurs when old Jacob is talking about both the betrayal he felt when his children sent him to an assisted-living home and how his children rarely keep him up-to-date on their events. The passage is:

And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don't mention because they don't want to upset me. I've caught wind of several, but when I ask questions they clam right up. Mustn't upset Grandpa, you know.

Why? That's what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don't know what's going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?

I've decided it's not about me at all. It's a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home. When Simon [his son] turned sixteen and got belligerent, I thought it was just him. By the time Dinah [a daughter] go there, I knew it wasn't her fault - it was programmed into her.”

My grandfather has memory problems these days, and when I call him (we’re too far away to see each other more than once or twice a year), I often find myself unsure how much to share. Do I tell him when life is boring, work is frustrating, and I’m unhappy, or do I present things in a cheerful fashion so that he doesn’t worry about me? If I tell him, he might worry. And I’d be okay with that (after all, isn’t worrying about each other part of what makes us family?), but he’ll probably forget the details in a few days. When he forgets about it, his worrying has been for naught. But then again, when he forgets, he won’t remember that he was worried. Do I tell him about the trips I take or do I leave those out, because I know he rarely leaves the house for anything other than doctor’s appointments. I’m left with the best balance I can manage. I mention minor frustrations (“work is boring”) and leave out the bigger ones (“I don’t know what I want to do with my life”). I do not, however, think it’s a protective mechanism, at least for me. It’s looking for the best solution when no such path exists.

I was also struck by the comments about teenagers being programmed to be belligerent. It reminded me of a comment that one of my professors made in graduate school. It was an off-the-cuff remark, and went something like “Oh, and that idea that teenagers are programmed to rebel? It’s not universal.” (Of course, my professor was much more eloquent in her phrasing.) She meant that teenagers in other parts of the world don’t rebel, and that’s in an American (or at least Western)-specific experience. I didn’t ask her to elaborate and frequently regret it. Are teenagers programmed to be difficult? I lean towards no, but I have no evidence to back it up.

Since the end of the book mentions Edison’s electrocution of an elephant, it’s worth referring to one of my favorite comics.

On a semi-related note, the New York Times has started a series of articles about the poaching of African elephants. The first one is here. It makes me feel both sick and powerless. Sick that a whole animal dies for just their tusks, sick that there’s still a market for ivory, and sick that anyone would do this. Powerless because I can’t make people stop shooting elephants or buying ivory. I don’t care how poor you are, killing an elephant for its tusks should be a ticket straight to hell – and yes, I say this as I type on my laptop, secure in the knowledge that no one in my family will go hungry tonight.