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Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts

Friday, December 2, 2011

Let Them Eat Cake!

             I spend a ridiculous amount of my time in the act of feeding my family. When the kids were little I just shopped willy-nilly; no really strategy, no menu, no list, no plan. But I learned that can not only be expensive, but it causes multiple return trips for forgotten items. So now, each week I sit down with a calendar, a notebook and a pile of cookbooks and I begin the first of four lists. Using the calendar I determine which days already have events planned that will conflict with meals for that day. Monday nights we have Scouts, better cook something quick and easy; not too much prep or clean up so Dad and the boy can get out on time. Tuesday night I have school, better choose something simple to prepare, like chicken pot pies or pasta, so hubby doesn't have to put in too much effort, (also a good night for foods I don't enjoy, like hot dogs.) Friday night everyone goes out…why bother cooking at all, instead get something each person can just grab and prepare on their own-- grilled cheese and tomato soup.
            Once I have finished this first list I begin paging through the cookbooks accruing my second list-- What can I prepare that will meet each person's tastes and dislikes? My cookbooks have ratings next to each recipe we tried, using a complex mathematical system of averages and a general scoring poll of those who participated in the meal, (with an automatic zero from my younger son who hates all things beyond the sophisticated pallet of a six year old, despite his near adult status,)  as well as notes for future preparations. (I bet you didn’t know I was THIS crazy!) High ratings get put in rotation more than the lower ones. (Accidental Banana Mushroom Shrimp with Bacon has never been repeated due to massively low scores and a general gag reflex when considering it.)
            I also use this time to pursue the store ads and determine what's on sale that week. Then I organize the week’s meals for "variety" and other considerations. Can't have chicken two nights in a row. Pasta is not a healthy meal three times a week. We had that casserole last week, too soon to have it again. This child doesn't like anything with flavor, better plan a bland night so he doesn't feel left out. Saturday is supposed to be 100 degrees, plan something that doesn't require turning on the oven, etc. The point is everyone is taken into consideration in compiling these two lists.       
            Next, I comb back through the list and compile the third-- ingredients. I list all the ingredients needed for each recipe. During this time I check to see what we already have, and what we will need. Do I have 3 teaspoons of olive oil? Is that onion still good or do I need another? Do we have enough milk to get through the week? Did someone leave an empty butter container in the fridge (or a full one on the counter?) Do I even own Cumin? What the hell is "chard?" (Don't get me started on recipes without pictures!)
            Once this list is completed I create my final list by rearranging this third list into an easy-to-shop-from master list: Meats, produce, canned goods, dairy, household supplies and etceteras. This list is subcategorized in order of appearance for the market I will be visiting. Now, after about an hour or two of careful planning, demographic review, extensive research, and a quick review of my coupons, I am ready to embark on the execution stage-- shopping.
            For me marketing takes a few hours and a trip to a minimum of two stores. I used to shop just the local market, but I am enamored by our new Farmer's Market and do the bulk of my "food" shopping there, picking up a few remaining household or sale items from the grocery store (along with 15 items I had no intention of buying, except now I'm tired and hungry and have no willpower to resist suggestion.) I line-up my items on the conveyor belt in the order I want them bagged, for ease of unloading at home. Yes, I realize this is pretty anal and OCD, but don't worry, other than my anal and OCD daughter, I have never met a bagger who understands the concept of grouping. I have also never met a bagger who doesn't believe my cloth bags are made of titanium and can be loaded down with as many items as can be stuffed into them. (Two gallons of milk in the same bag? Come on!)
            Once I arrive home I frequently get a five minute break to pee while people who have NOT spent the day carefully meeting the needs of others bitch about how many bags their sibling did not have to carry because they took too long to find shoes, or who should have to make the final trip outside to close the trunk. Now I begin the thoughtful two part process of putting things away. First I pull a chair and a trashcan up to my fridge. Here I spend some time emptying out containers of leftovers and other expired items. Next I use my efficiency skills to divide my bags into things for the fridge/ freezer, and things for the cabinets (and on occasion things that need to be transported to other rooms.) Here I will reference my weekly menu to decide what gets frozen for later in the week and what gets defrosted first. Finally I cram the remaining goods into my limited cabinet space, pausing to close up half open boxes of cereal, and throw out empty bags of chips etc. I have now devoted my entire day to the acquiring of sustenance to feed my family.    
             Still, only ten minutes after I have dropped my exhausted butt onto a comfy couch, I will see a disappointed child emerge from the kitchen whining, "There's nothing to eat!" The real irony however occurs when I actually prepare these carefully selected meals. I am not one who slaves over a hot stove. I stopped trying to be creative when they started making fun of my meals and giving them clever nicknames like "green eggs and ham" and “Swedish Meat Soup.”  (Side note: It's NEVER a good idea to mock the woman who cooks your food!) What I'm saying is, I'm not trying to be Julia Child. My standards are pretty low-- if it's edible, I'm good. So I'm not trying to dazzle anyone with my culinary talents. I'm just trying to feed my family. Yet it seems that no matter what we are serving in "Chet Knell" someone is unhappy with the selection, someone is not hungry because they had a big snack after school, someone has made spontaneous plans and won't be eating at home tonight, and someone "isn't feeling well." In other words, no one is eating dinner tonight. (Return me to the day when all a woman had to do was skin and cook a Woolly Mammoth and I'll show you the last happy woman.)
            Were I a lesser woman I would take to the internet to complain about this…. Ok, I’m a lesser woman, what can I say? But it is only through this loathsome practice of calling my family out on Facebook that I discovered two important things: One, I’m not the only mom with this problem, and Two, I’m a freakin’ Genius!
            As several other moms commented with their similar experiences I happened on the most brilliant idea to hit Momkind since the Papoose! I call it "The Fellowship of the Leftovers." (One meal to serve them all. One meal to cook them. One meal to feed them and in their hunger, save some time and make some extra cash.) Here’s how it works. Find six friends who are equally tired of being unappreciated. At the beginning of the week you each shop for and prepare ONE meal. Serve it to your family, who will refuse to eat it. Pack up your leftovers and pass them along to the next friend on your list (like a chain letter of food!) Serve the next meal, and repeat. At the end of the week you have saved hours of time, tons of cash, and you only end up throwing out ONE meal. Genius, right?

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Princesses, Puppies and Paying Attention


            Right after my youngest turned three I took her shopping for the first Halloween costume she would choose for herself. It was also the first year none of them were wearing home-made costumes. As we browsed the isles at Party City looking at all the pictured costumes she was certain of one thing: she didn't like the scary stuff. Finally she settled happily at the end of one row and stared at a costume bag for a long time.
            "I want to be that," she said pointing at the costume.
            I  bent down to see the picture. It was a dog costume; pictured on the front was a yellow cocker spaniel dressed in a pink princess dress with a pointy hat. Ok. A Princess. We can do that. I lead her back to the people costumes and started looking for an affordable princess. The best ones cost too much for a one night event but I found a pink one with a tiara and pulled it off the rack.
            "Here's one." She frowned and shook her head. "Let's see what else we can find. They have Belle. Do you want a yellow one?" She examined the picture on the front of the bag and shook her head. I showed her three or four others and she started to look sad. The corners of her little mouth turned down and her big brown eyes looked at me like I was crazy. She walked back to the dog costume and said again,          
            "I want to be that."
            "Ok. But that one is for a doggy. You need a little girl costume." She sighed heavily and looked like she was going to cry.
Ok. Time to try something different. "What do you like about that one? Is it the pointy hat? I can make you a pointy hat." She shook her head.
            "I want to be her." 
            Suddenly the whole thing was clear.
            "You want to be a puppy?" She nodded her head and started to smile. "You want to be a puppy princess?" Her whole face lit up and she nodded with a dreamy look in her eyes. She could see herself as that Cocker Spaniel princess.
            I explained to her that the puppy costume was FOR a puppy, and not a costume OF a puppy, that she could be a puppy, or a princess, or some combination of them both, but that it would not look like the picture. She would still be a little girl dressed as a puppy/princess.
            She was slightly disappointed and abandoned the idea of being a princess if she wasn't going to look like the dog in the picture. She eventually settled on a little Pocahontas costume. When Halloween came she happily carried her bucket around and gathered her candy and never thought twice about her disappointment, but I have always recalled how sad I was that I couldn't make her into a puppy princess.
            We've had a lot of rough times over the years and the kids have often had to deal with the disappointment of not getting the things they want most. But they have always recovered quickly. Quicker than I have. As some sort of compensation I have always tried to make them whatever they wanted to be for Halloween. This year, she came to me and asked me to make her and a friend Native American Indian costumes. I ended up making hers and three others-- they're a  whole tribe now.
            So you might think the lesson of this little tale is about dealing with life's disappointments, but it's not. What I learned most that day was that even though you think you know exactly what is going on inside your child's mind, you never really have a clue. I learned it's important to slow down, take the time, listen, and not assume I know what's going on, just because it seems obvious. How many times has a teenager told me "You don't understand!" And they are right. I probably think I do, but really I haven't got a clue.
            Two weeks ago an acquaintance of the kids tragically committed suicide. Another friend ran away from home (and thankfully returned after several days.) I have been reminded to remain vigilant-- to pay attention and listen better, because sometimes the princess is really a puppy and I don't want to make that mistake again.

Friday, September 16, 2011

It’s Not Stalking. It’s Relationship Reconnaissance.

Remember when you were young (I’ll give you a minute…. Got  it? Ok.) So, anyway, remember when you were young and you first discovered you were becoming attracted to someone?  Not actually dating them yet, just discovering that you were getting the makings of a wicked good crush. Remember that stealthy way you started getting to know them better, without actually making contact? Watching them from afar, until they glanced in your direction, then quickly looking away; pretending you were actually deep in thought studying that tree/ bathroom door/ flyer for the math club/ bare wall etc. Remember changing the way you walked to class so your paths’ would “accidently” cross, even though you didn’t have class in that building? (That school.) The casual way you would “wander” by them at nutrition, lunch, the bus stop (…their house at 1am in a headlight free car with your best friend? No? Just me then?) If you were really brave, and had the right kind of friends, you could find yourself bumping into your new obsession in the mall, the movies or the local hang out afterschool or on the weekends.
However you chose to do it, you probably spent some time in your youth aim-fully wandering around somewhere, hoping for a chance encounter where you would do absolutely nothing, except pretend that the encounter was chance, if you even acknowledged it in the first place. Casually appearing on the radar. Notice ME! Remember me! Think about me just before you fall asleep at night! PLEASE!
                Until recently I was unaware how much having adult children is like being back in the pubescent world of stealthy pursuit. My two oldest moved out a month or so ago. My excitement for their adventure has not waned. I'm not pining for them. I'm not wandering my empty halls at night, holding discarded pillowcases or items of clothing, in order to reconnect with their particular smell. I know that description sounds a little too on target for someone not actually performing these actions,  but I swear I haven't gotten there yet. (Yet.)           
              Mostly I don’t do this because I have two other wonderful children still at home, so the emptiness echoes less. Also, because in their desperate escape they left no stone unturned. (At least no stone I’d like to wander around sniffing.) Still, I've been able to avoid intruding on their new found freedom, mostly. I've managed to limit the Skype sessions, (one apiece in a month) and the phone calls, to “necessities.” I sent a few cute post cards, to keep in touch but not annoy. I’ve been doing great. I don’t know what everyone was so worried about. This is not that hard. I hardly even notice they're gone. On the other hand I feel I have a great advantage over my predecessor generation. The internet.
Thanks to this wonderful modern invention I find myself on Facebook a little more frequently (if you can imagine that possibility.) Each time I go online, I nonchalantly glance at the list which indicates “who’s online now” just to see if they’re there, you know, in case of a chance encounter. I wouldn’t say I check it frequently, so much as more frequently than before.  I casually look over the status updates to see if they posted anything about their day, their classes, their job hunts--scanning for new photos, added friends, their high score in Bejeweled; pretty much any crumb which creates a connection to them.  
I've had to be stealthy though. I don’t want to smother them or be accused of cyber stalking my child (the new ultimate sin of invasion visited upon youth.)  So there I was last week, in the middle of a response to one of my son’s Facebook statuses, when I suddenly realized it was the fourth or fifth I had made that day… ok, that hour. I was about to blow my cover and get caught. (Quick…look at a wall, duck into the first open doorway, RUN!) I went back over his page deleting my comments; carefully editing myself back out of his day, leaving a couple of noncommittal comments and smiley faces. Just enough to remind him I’m here. Still here. Just, you know, hangin' out and stuff. (Psst. Notice me.) God! I so thought this part of life was long over!
            For now I’ll have to settle for reminding myself, that it’s enough just to see them from afar. Love them secretly from here-- hiding out in the Facebook bushes, where I am carefully planning my next coincidental collision in the cyber corridor. It’s not stalking. It’s relationship reconnaissance. Totally different!

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Tight Rope: Life's Ups and Downs

            Watching your children head off on their own into the world of adulthood is a lot like watching a high wire act. You are filled with excitement and anticipation as well as the underlying feelings of fear and doubt. Consumed by this mixture of horror and awe, holding your breath, you gaze up at them, eyes wide, as they take those first pensive steps-- establishing their grip on the tight rope, wobbling slightly, focused and intent. Part of you is confident that they have been properly trained to work without a net; that no one in their right mind would just let them out there, so high and alone, if they didn't have the skills to complete the performance. The other part of you maintains its full grasp of reality-- shit happens.
            This was of course my exact feeling as I hugged my child goodbye and drove the 400 plus miles home. You spend a lifetime preparing for that moment, and there is so much you want to impart to them in those last seconds. You wish it was like the movies, where you are able to give them some profound piece of advice which will guide and protect them on their new adventure-- words of wisdom. Father's give practical advice: Keep your doors locked, Turn down the air conditioner at night, Park close to your apartment. Fatherisms, meant to subtly convey love and concern. Moms are faced with a particular dilemma at this point-- how to give last words of advice without sounding like a mother.
            As mothers we are plagued with the awareness that everything we say at this time in our children's lives is discounted as overprotective evidence of our inability to "let go" and often met with an eye roll and an impatient sigh-- the universally renowned,  wordless communication of "Let me go." One day these words of wisdom may be sought out by frustrated adults who find themselves in one of a dozen situations, and their cry for help will always begin with one simple word, "Mom." But in the meantime, there I was, standing there as each family member hugs goodbye, my turn coming closer and closer, pressure growing, knowing this is it-- my parting words. As everyone stands by impatiently waiting to get going I hug tightly and say, "I love you." Hoping it says it all, and knowing it will never be enough. Disappointed I couldn't come up with something better.
            A few nights later I came across some old letters I thought were long gone. A decade or so ago, when they were all still young, I was going to have major surgery and I was very nervous. I was concerned that if something happened to me my children would be without a mother. They would miss out on all the important motherly advice beyond "wear clean underwear" and "brush your teeth." I would never have the chance to teach them the really important stuff they would need to know about themselves and life. So I wrote them each a letter, trying to tell them everything they needed to know about growing up, and being a good person. I remember I felt the same writing the letters as I did saying goodbye-- like it was too much to cram into one moment.
            Curiosity caused me to open the letters and read what great wisdom I had left for my children in the case of my untimely demise. I don't know why, but I was surprised to find it was all the same things I had wanted to say a few days ago. Although, I was happy to see that while I had missed the opportunity to say them out loud, I felt confident I had managed to impart them in other ways. Things like: don't doubt yourself, value family, laugh as often as possible, don't waste time with anger, make informed decisions that represent you well, be open minded, treat people well, always do your best and help others do the same, don't worry-- accept change as a gift, always look for the silver lining, never let others define you, don't grow up too fast, it's ok to be vulnerable, you can always come home, unconditional love is limitless- pass it on, follow your beliefs, if it's worth feeling- feel it passionately, speak up- you have a voice be heard, and remember I am always with you. All the meaningful advice had already been given.
            A tight rope walker has to count on a lot of people and factors before they ever set first toe on the rope. Not only do they rely on a lifetime of training, but they have to be able to count on the guys who set up the rigging, the guy operating the lights, the rosin they used on their shoes, even the participation of the audience is key. Everything has to come together in perfect harmony for the show to end successfully, for the performer to avoid plummeting to the ground. That's a lot of pressure, a lot of "ifs." As I reflected on my feelings saying goodbye, and those involved in writing the letters, I am faced with a new revelation: I am the tightrope walker.
(and I made it!)

Friday, July 1, 2011

Come Over to the Dark Side.

          I have spent the last few years trying to lure my sister into joining the social networking community. (Come on. All your friends are doing it.) Her response is always, “I don’t have time.” Which is a legitimate excuse, considering how much of my time is sucked up by the internet. Although, upon reflection, I have found this reason lacks accuracy and understanding of the social networking phenomena.
          I began my foray into social networking with a MySpace account. I joined so I could keep track of my teen and preteens as they hitchhiked along technology’s superhighway. After all, you wouldn’t just drop your kid off on the side of the freeway and hope they get home safely (although admittedly that has crossed my mind on several raucous family outings.)
          This was back when you just had a plain profile page, no cool backgrounds, creative fonts, or colorful texts—simply a picture of your face and just enough personal information to get you into trouble. Then my daughter, techy that she is, redesigned her space. Well, that looked kind of cool. I’d like to give MYspace  a fresh new look, just for fun. I could do that…couldn’t I?
          No. I couldn’t. What I knew about computers at the time was that they were glorified typewriters/encyclopedias. I learned binary in high-school.  Oh so useful in real life, (especially to a dyslexic.) Technically speaking I think I should actually say I was SHOWN binary in high school. I learned nothing. So I went to the source, asking my 14 year old question after question. How did you do that? Where do you find that? Why is it doing that? Did I just enter the atomic launch codes that will begin World War III? (Yes, I had an inane fear that I could somehow affect some serious damage by mistakenly entering the wrong data. Don’t laugh. You weren’t there. It could happen!)
          It was not long (about 10 minutes) before my daughter discovered two important details. One, I was an idiot. And two, without her help I had less of a chance to stalk her every teenaged move. It was at this point she adopted the “teach a man to fish” philosophy. Except her version was more “give a guy a pole and throw him in the river, then laugh while he struggles to survive.” Needless to say, I was on my own.
          I spent countless hours poking and prodding my Myspace. I had never seen HTML, the new language of computers. I still have only a loose grasp of its form and function. But slowly I discovered how to change a font, add a background, place glitter graphics as section heads.  And I felt wonderful. I felt young and accomplished and a little bit smart. I had conquered the internet, and along the way I had “friended” a few fellow moms trying to keep track of their own kids. I had wished Happy Birthday to a few people I probably wouldn’t have conveyed the sentiment to otherwise. I had shared a few laughs at a Youtube video or two and checked out photos of my friends’ families doing a myriad of activities.
          And so I was rolling along, enjoying my new found creative outlet and feeling accomplished; spending more time catching up with my own friends and refurbishing my home page than monitoring my kids, when I realized, someone was missing. Where was my teenager? Why were her posts fewer and fewer? Why were her friends commenting less and less? Why was my newsfeed getting shorter and shorter?
          Facebook. Yes, as soon as I mastered (and I use the term in the loosest sense) the world of MySpace the children disappeared down the rabbit hole into the land of Facebook. Dutifully and begrudgingly I followed. This new land was sort of plain and I didn’t “get it.” It wasn’t personalized or creative. Other than the fact that your parents weren’t there yet, what was the big draw? Statuses? Really? That’s it? Just random status updates about what your friends were eating for lunch, or what weird thing happened on the way to school? But this is where my kids had gone, and so I followed.
          Soon I started getting friend requests from the other parents transitioning over from MySpace. My high school reunion started taking shape and requests came from people I had not thought of in years. Most I didn’t care to become reacquainted with, but some were just lost in the shuffle of growing up; misplaced with the other youthful playthings I had cherished but set aside as memory while life unfolded. My Facebook exploded, albeit slowly over time, with the faces and voices of my past and present; merging into one hub of collective ruminations.
          Being a stay at home mom can be isolating. It’s not your fault. It just happens. And in my case, because I started my family so far ahead of all my friends, I had lost contact with most of the adult world, unless it pertained to one of my “mom” activities: school, scouts, little league etc. Everything I knew, everyone I knew, revolved around the lives of my children, and to a lesser degree my spouse.  Now, suddenly, through the wonders of modern technology I was connecting and reconnecting. I was existing as an individual.
          I have read some articles about how social networking is stunting our ability to interact in reality. In my case my life has been enhanced by social networking in a way I can not imagine living without. I am more connected than I ever could have been without it. I converse almost daily with two sisters I had barely known in their childhood. I have followed my niece’s pregnancy updates with excited anticipation, despite only having seen her twice since she turned 16. I met up a few weeks ago with my cousins and a family friend who I have not seen since my wedding 20 years ago.
True, with great effort these things all could have taken place in the real world, but I live in the real world and sometimes, I’m only available at 4am. How nice to know I can leave a thought for you without waking you up.  And in the real world, I couldn’t have shared in the joy of that new birth, or dance recital, because in the real world you are 12 states away and neither one of us can afford to travel. Social networking is just more convenient. It is the pen-pal of our generation.
Sure, I have spent countless hours posting photos or silly updates or quoting a particularly funny thing I heard that day. I have lost an entire day connecting little colored jewels, and rolling virtual dice, although I have never tended a crop or traded mafia equipment with anyone. I have spent entirely too much time reading YOUR updates, commenting on your photos, and laughing at the memes you shared. (I even learned what a meme is!) But I have also discovered a support network. When my day sucks, you’re there to give me a boost. When I am excited I have someone to share it with. When my husband had his heart attack, you knew about it right away, and I didn’t have to call 100 people to give them updates on his condition, I could do it in one 30 second post. And you could respond, send well wishes and prayers, offer assistance, in a way you could never have done before.
          This year I received almost a hundred birthday wishes. I probably sent at least as many. I was a part of your life. I watched your kids grow up a little. I saw your cool vacation photos and little Suzie’s first ballet recital. I heard about the demise of your Great Aunt Tilly and the family turtle. I have seen your new haircut, your new pet, your new house, your new car, your new husband. I invited you to a show and then actually got to hang out with you in person after a 20 year hiatus. I reconnected with old relatives (and yes, I meant “old” both ways.) I have taken and given advice with you. I have laughed with you and cried for you, and generally wondered what the hell you were thinking. What I have not done, was waste my time.
          I know you better now. I have invested in our friendship. I may have left a few real world chores undone while I did it, but I consider it time well spent. So I will continue to extol the virtues of social networking to my sister, and anyone else I’m dying to spend more time with, in hopes that we can share a little more, be a little closer, drift a little less. Resistance is futile. Come over to the dark-side. It’s a hell of a lot of fun.
One of us. One of us. One of us…..

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Friday, March 4, 2011

Look Ma! No Hands!

          A few nights ago I was out running some errands. In an effort to kill two birds with one stone I was acting as passenger, while my oldest son practiced his driving. We were parked in front of the Girl Scout leader’s house while my youngest ran up to drop off some papers, and chatting-- which is one of my favorite parts about teaching the kids to drive, all that one-on-one time they are required by law to spend with me. I happened to glance over at his hands as they rested on the steering wheel and I was surprised by how big they seemed. When taken on a whole, as they grow, you don’t notice the changes too much. Sure, over time you recognize they are now a foot taller than you, or that the round baby cheeks are gone forever, but day-to-day it is much less significant.
            I said something to the effect of, “My God! When did your hands get so big?”  He laughed and took my hand holding it up against his to measure the difference. Broad palm, long fingers, this was the hand of a man, not my little boy. But more than that, the feeling of his hand placed in mine brought to mind a memory, from my mind’s recesses, not  so much forgotten (never forgotten) but tucked sadly away: The first time he let go.
            This particular child has always been an affectionate boy. Always ready with a hug and a smile that melts your heart. Whenever we walked his hand just naturally found it’s way into mine. I didn’t really think much about it. It was mostly habit, left over from the toddler days. I’m not even sure who held who’s hand, they just always seemed to find their way together. His skin was always warm even in winter and it just seemed to belong in mine. So there I was one day, like any other, walking hand in hand with my son, when tragedy struck.
            He was probably about 8 years old, maybe seven, maybe nine, but in that range. He had been to a doctor’s appointment or some other event which had caused him to miss the early part of the school day and I was walking him to class and chatting about whatever eight year olds like to tell their mothers. Then, almost imperceptibly, I felt his little warm hand slip from mine. Simultaneously, I noticed two young boys had rounded the corner and were walking toward us. My son never broke stride. He continued as though nothing significant had happened, just kept talking about whatever eight year olds talk about with their mothers-- their deeply devastated mothers.
            I recall lifting my hand to my face as we walked and staring at the spot his hand used to be, as though there was an answer there, at least an answer I liked better than the one I already knew in my heart. My son was “too big” to hold mommy’s hand. Somehow, without my knowing, he had instinctively come by this information. I could still feel the fading warmth of his hand, but now it felt like a burning that proceeded up my arm and into my heart. As the two boys passed us we exchanged polite ‘Hellos’ and then continued on our way, as though nothing major had occurred, but inside I was being consumed by a deep sadness. My children would out grow me. I had always known it. It was, of course, “The Plan” but somehow I had never actually been expecting it. I was blindsided.
            Not one to be daunted I decided to gently probe the situation. I wanted to throw myself on the playground before us and beg him to hang-on for just a few more years. I wasn’t ready to let go yet, but one of us had to be a grown up, and it would be wrong for me to let it be the eight year old.
            So,” I asked, “No more holding hands?” (It’s like that huh?)
            He shook his head. “No.” he answered gently. “Not at school.”
            “Ok. I get that. What about other places. Can I still hold your hand at home?”
            “Sure. “
            “How about kisses? Can I still kiss you goodbye?”
            “ In the car.” (Well, that seemed reasonable.)
            “What about hugs? Can I still hug you?”
            “Yep.” (He’s still a man of few words.)
            “Just in the car?”
            “ No. Hugs are ok… sometimes, you know?”
            “Yeah. I know.”
We reached his classroom and, following the new rules, I extended my hand to shake his. “I guess I’ll see you afterschool.”
            “Ok.” He said, and disappeared into his room.
 On my way back I had to resist the urge to punch his punk-ass little friends. I tried really hard not to cry. I made it all the way to my car. I felt incredibly stupid for being so hurt by something so natural. Of course he didn’t want to hold my hand anymore; he was a big boy-- getting bigger. It was completely appropriate. But my heart was no less broken.
            Still I had to respect the kid’s choice. I couldn’t be one of those mothers. For awhile I was careful about where and how I showed my affection, letting him lead the way. Eventually, thank God, he outgrew the dumb idea that boys can’t be affectionate. He started to snuggle while we watched TV and hold my hand, or let me play with his hair. Now, a decade later, he stops and hugs me, for no particular reason when we pass each other in the hallway, or leans against me while we watch TV. And I’m grateful every time, because I can still feel the exact spot where the emptiness began, like a stigmata, and it saddens me to remember the loss. So, sitting there in the car while he measured our hands against each other, I intertwined my fingers in his and squeezed, knowing that you never really know when it will be your last chance.
            “I love you.” I said.
            He smiled and squeezed back, “I love you too.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Too Close To The Freeway?

            When I was around 15 or 16 years old my sister and I were good friends with another set of sisters the same ages. We would spend a lot of our time out running around together at the movies or eating out, like teenagers do. I don't know about the other girls but my sister and I had a fairly liberal curfew, although at the time I know it seemed extremely limiting. I think it was 11 it may even have been midnight, I can't recall. But within those hours we had some wonderful and ridiculous times. We hung out at the Café 50's or Bob's Big Boy. We hung out in large crowds and small groups and sometimes just the four of us. But one night has always stuck out in my mind, and it eventually became one of the best tools I have in my parenting arsenal.
            The four of us were sitting around in my sister's room which she had recently converted to her own "living room"--complete with sofa bed, end tables and spinning chair-- when we decided we wanted to go out and get some dessert. It was about 9 or 9:30 on a weekend night. No problem. Somehow I ended up chosen as the delegate sent to inform my mother of our plans. I recall finding her in the kitchen doing some never-ending mom task. I told her that we wanted to go over to Baker's Square and get some pie. She said No. Never one to really accept a "No" as anything other than a request for more information, I pressed further. Why not? I don't recall the discussion lasting long because my Mom's answer stumped me so profoundly. Her response, "It's too close to the freeway."
            To this day I have no idea what that meant. I'm pretty sure I argued a bit, trying to establish what the freeway had to do with our inability to obtain dessert. I know I made the point that we had been to this Baker's Square a million times, and it had always been located next to the freeway, but in the end it was one of those things I just had to walk away from without any satisfaction. I remember walking back into my sister's room and announcing that we couldn't go. When asked why, I told them "It's too close to the freeway." We all sat around for the rest of the evening hypothesizing what correlation there could be between our safety, which had to be the X-factor, and the location of a freeway to a Baker's Square. We did the math. Was a car going to fall off into the building and kill us all? Was some freeway bum going to jump us in the parking lot? Was she afraid we'd pull a Thelma and Louise squared and take off spontaneously for parts unknown, after robbing the Baker's Square? In the end the other girls left early, and probably went to get dessert, and my sister and I were left to wonder. I don't know if it has ever even crossed her mind, but for years it was one of my favorite "My mom is crazy" stories. Until that strange twist-of-fate day about 18 years later, when it all made sense.
            It was a hot summer day. The kids were all out of school. Hot. Bored. Cruising the cul-de-sac looking for something to do, when my oldest daughter, about 13 at the time, hit upon the solution. She and the neighbor girl decided they wanted to walk around the corner to the 7-11 for some snacks and air conditioning. For a lot of reasons this didn't sound like a good idea to me. It meant these two small girls would be out on the major street by themselves without any means of contact or protection (these were the pre-cell phone years.)  They had walked it before, in larger groups or with the older brother of the friend, but never alone. It was the middle of a week day. Not a lot of people out there paying attention, everyone in a hurry. Additionally, there was a tattoo shop in the same mini-mall as the 7-11. Outside the 7-11 there was a pretty steady string of vagrants and outcasts just hanging around with their brown paper bags. There were a million and one alarms that went off in my head. Not all, if any, were even reasonable, but there was that core instinct that it was just a bad idea.
            Of course the teenage girls did not share my core instinct. They thought I was over-protective. Paranoid. Controlling. Unreasonable. Crazy. Yep it sounded pretty familiar. I suggested they walk the other direction to the doughnut shop. This did not help my reputation. The doughnut shop, as they quickly pointed out, was further away. Albeit on quieter streets and with less disreputable ambiance. It only made me appear crazier to them. Every objection I had was met with a more than reasonable response. I really couldn't even argue my point successfully. It was just a feeling, how do you justify that? In the end I watched them walk away in the same confusion and frustration I had felt and there was nothing I could do about it except to call on the oft over-used "You'll understand when you have kids of your own."
            I've always tried to have good communication with my children. I've never been a parent fond of the "Because I said so," rationale-- accept in the case of my younger son who just exhausts one's ability to reason-- a parent's greatest revenge. I wasn't comfortable with this empty space left between my daughter and I, where she thought I was being arbitrary and unfair (a space I have become much more comfortable with over the years.) Later that evening I sat down to try to explain the inexplicable.
            I started out telling her my "Too Close To The Freeway" story. I explained to her that to this day I have no idea what was bothering my mother that night, but that somewhere inside her she had to have been feeling something she couldn't voice in a way I could understand. When you are young you are invincible. Nothing bad will ever happen to you. The bad things all happen far away. You are insulated-- protected from their impact. Hear no evil, see no evil…evil doesn't exist in your world. When you are a parent you know different. One mistake, one single moment in time can change the course of a life. Can end a life. Can devastate a child, a family, a community. And it all hinges on you.  That's a pretty damn big burden. And as parents, the only thing we really have to rely on is instinct. How much does that suck?
            We talked about instinct. We talked about how humans are the only animal conditioned to ignore their best instincts, often to disastrous results. We talked about those moments of intuition, those moments you hesitate and hear that little internal alarm and just know something without any rational reason. We hypothesized about why a person would suppress those feelings, what did they hope to gain or achieve? It turns out, she understood these experiences already, which was wonderful to know. We made a connection. She understood the feeling, if not my specific concerns.
            From there it was cake. I was able to explain to her that some days in her young life I would have these feelings. I wouldn't be able to rationalize them to her because they may not even be rational. I promised I would make an effort to weigh which ones really we're over-protective paranoia and which were really legitimate instincts. I promised her I would always be honest with her about what I was feeling, and I would allow her to try and reason with me, but that sometimes I would just need to say no to something because it was Too Close to the Freeway.
            Over the years it became our code for the feelings we could not explain. She generously accepted it as a response on several occasions after that, without much fuss. I generously caved on the things she could reason successfully on several occasions, with much fuss. And on one or two occasions, as she became older and wasn't ready to share a feeling, she would simply say "Mom. It's just Too Close to the Freeway." The other kids don't appreciate it as much as she did. Like always, they didn't get the full experience. But it still works. They all understand my craziness, and I can put up with their teasing, most of the time. Eventually, they all got to walk to the 7-11 alone with friends, thanks to her perseverance and "Never say never" attitude. In the end, what may have been one of the most confounding and confusing moments in my younger life, became one of my most valuable and inspirational moments as a parent.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Queen of the Banned

          As a (former) Children's Librarian I always try to draw attention to Banned Books Week (September 25- October 2, 2010.) I am 100% against all types of censorship-- books, film, music et al. I often find most people are unaware that book banning and challenging still goes on today. I also find most people are shocked by the materials being challenged. At the end of this blog is the ALA's list of Top 100 Challenged Books for this Decade and a link to the 100 Most Challenged Classics. How many have you read? In the past I have always made an effort to select a book from the list and do my part to fight censorship by reading it. I encourage you to at very least, share the list.

          Finally, this week I find it necessary to share the words of someone else; someone who can say it better, and from experience. Please read this wonderful introduction to "Places I Never Meant To Be"-- a book with short stories written by oft banned authors-- written by Judy Blume, Queen of the Banned.

Excerpt from
Places I Never Meant To Be
Original Stories By Censored Writers
Edited by Judy Blume
(Published by Simon and Shuster, 1999)

Introduction
by Judy Blume

          When I was growing up I'd heard that if a movie or book was "Banned in Boston" everybody wanted to see it or read it right away. My older brother, for example, went to see such a movie -- The Outlaw, starring Jane Russell -- and I wasn't supposed to tell my mother. I begged him to share what he saw, but he wouldn't. I was intensely curious about the adult world and hated the secrets my parents, and now my brother, kept from me.

          A few years later, when I was in fifth grade, my mother was reading a novel called A Rage to Live, by John O'Hara, and for the first time (and, as it turned out, the only time) in my life, she told me I was never to look at that book, at least not until I was much older. Once I knew my mother didn't want me to read it, I figured it must be really interesting!

          So, you can imagine how surprised and delighted I was when, as a junior in high school, I found John O'Hara's name on my reading list. Not a specific title by John O'Hara, but any title. I didn't waste a minute. I went down to the public library in Elizabeth, New Jersey, that afternoon -- a place where I'd spent so many happy hours as a young child, I'd pasted a card pocket on the inside back cover of each book I owned -- and looked for A Rage to Live. But I couldn't find it. When I asked, the librarian told me that book was restricted. It was kept in a locked closet, and I couldn't take it out without written permission from my parents.

          Aside from my mother's one moment of fear, neither of my parents had ever told me what I could or could not read. They encouraged me to read widely. There were no "Young Adult" novels then. Serious books about teenagers were published as adult novels. It was my mother who handed me To Kill a Mockingbird and Anne Frank's Diary of a Young Girl when they were first published.

         By the time I was twelve I was browsing in the bookshelves flanking the fireplace in our living room where, in my quest to make sense of the world, I discovered J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, fell in love with the romantic tragedies of Thomas Hardy and the Brontë sisters, and overidentified with "Marjorie Morningstar."

          But at the Elizabeth Public Library the librarian didn't care. "Get permission in writing," she told me. When I realized she was not going to let me check out A Rage to Live, I was angry. I felt betrayed and held her responsible. It never occurred to me that it might not have been her choice.

         At home I complained to my family, and that evening my aunt, the principal of an elementary school, brought me her copy of A Rage to Live. I stayed up half the night reading the forbidden book. Yes, it was sexy, but the characters and their story were what kept me turning the pages. Finally, my curiosity (about that book, anyway) was satisfied. Instead of leading me astray, as my mother must have feared, it led me to read everything else I could find by the author.

          All of which brings me to the question What is censorship? If you ask a dozen people you'll get twelve different answers. When I actually looked up the word in The Concise Columbia Encyclopedia I found this definition: "[The] official restriction of any expression believed to threaten the political, social, or moral order." My thesaurus lists the following words that can be used in place of ban (as in book banning): Forbid. Prohibit. Restrict. But what do these words mean to writers and the stories they choose to tell? And what do they mean to readers and the books they choose to read?

          I began to write when I was in my mid-twenties. By then I was married with two small children and desperately in need of creative work. I wrote Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret right out of my own experiences and feelings when I was in sixth grade. Controversy wasn't on my mind. I wanted only to write what I knew to be true. I wanted to write the best, the most honest books I could, the kinds of books I would have liked to read when I was younger. If someone had told me then I would become one of the most banned writers in America, I'd have laughed.

          When Margaret was published in 1970 I gave three copies to my children's elementary school but the books never reached the shelves. The male principal decided on his own that they were inappropriate for elementary school readers because of the discussion of menstruation (never mind how many fifth- and sixth-grade girls already had their periods). Then one night the phone rang and a woman asked if I was the one who had written that book. When I replied that I was, she called me a communist and hung up. I never did figure out if she equated communism with menstruation or religion.

          In that decade I wrote thirteen other books: eleven for young readers, one for teenagers, and one for adults. My publishers were protective of me during those years and didn't necessarily share negative comments about my work. They believed if I didn't know some individuals were upset by my books, I wouldn't be intimidated.

          Of course, they couldn't keep the occasional anecdote from reaching me: the mother who admitted she'd cut two pages out of Then Again, Maybe I Won't rather than allow her almost thirteen-year-old son to read about wet dreams. Or the young librarian who'd been instructed by her male principal to keep Deenie off the shelf because in the book, Deenie masturbates. "It would be different if it were about a boy," he'd told her. "That would be normal."

          The stories go on and on but really, I wasn't that concerned. There was no organized effort to ban my books or any other books, none that I knew of, anyway. The seventies were a good decade for writers and readers. Many of us came of age during those years, writing from our hearts and guts, finding editors and publishers who believed in us, who willingly took risks to help us find our audience. We were free to write about real kids in the real world. Kids with feelings and emotions, kids with real families, kids like we once were. And young readers gobbled up our books, hungry for characters with whom they could identify, including my own daughter and son, who had become avid readers. No mother could have been more proud to see the tradition of family reading passed on to the next generation.

          Then, almost overnight, following the presidential election of 1980, the censors crawled out of the woodwork, organized and determined. Not only would they decide what their children could read but what all children could read. It was the beginning of the decade that wouldn't go away, that still won't go away almost twenty years later. Suddenly books were seen as dangerous to young minds. Thinking was seen as dangerous, unless those thoughts were approved by groups like the Moral Majority, who believed with certainty they knew what was best for everyone.

          So now we had individual parents running into schools, waving books, demanding their removal -- books they hadn't read except for certain passages. Most often their objections had to do with language, sexuality, and something called "lack of moral tone."

          Those who were most active in trying to ban books came from the "religious right" but the impulse to censor spread like a contagious disease. Other parents, confused and uncertain, were happy to jump on the bandwagon. Book banning satisfied their need to feel in control of their children's lives. Those who censored were easily frightened. They were afraid of exposing their children to ideas different from their own. Afraid to answer children's questions or talk with them about sensitive subjects. And they were suspicious. They believed if kids liked a book, it must be dangerous.

          Too few schools had policies in place enabling them to deal with challenged materials. So what happened? The domino effect. School administrators sent down the word: Anything that could be seen as controversial had to go. Often books were quietly removed from school libraries and classrooms or, if seen as potential troublemakers, were never purchased in the first place. These decisions were based not on what was best for the students, but what would not offend the censors.

          I found myself at the center of the storm. My books were being challenged daily, often placed on restricted shelves (shades of Elizabeth, New Jersey, in 1955) and sometimes removed. A friend was handed a pamphlet outside a supermarket urging parents to rid their schools and libraries of Judy Blume books. Never once did the pamphlet suggest the books actually be read. Of course I wasn't the only target. Across the country, the Sex Police and the Language Police were thumbing through books at record speed, looking for illustrations, words or phrases that, taken out of context, could be used as evidence against them.

          Puberty became a dirty word, as if children who didn't read about it wouldn't know about it, and if they didn't know about it, it would never happen.

          The Moral Tone Brigade attacked Blubber (a story of victimization in the classroom) with a vengeance because, as they saw it, in this book evil goes unpunished. As if kids need to be hit over the head, as if they don't get it without having the message spelled out for them.

          I had letters from angry parents accusing me of ruining Christmas because of a chapter Superfudge called "Santa Who?" Some sent lists showing me how easily I could have substituted one word for another: meanie for bitch; darn for damn; nasty for ass. More words taken out of context. A teacher wrote to say she blacked out offending words and passages with a felt-tip marker. Perhaps most shocking of all was a letter from a nine-year-old addressed to Jewdy Blume telling me I had no right to write about Jewish angels in Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself.

          My worst moment came when I was working with my editor on the manuscript of Tiger Eyes (the story of a fifteen-year-old girl, Davey, whose beloved father dies suddenly and violently). When we came to the scene in which Davey allows herself to feel again after months of numbness following her father's death, I saw that a few lines alluding to masturbation had been circled. My editor put down his pencil and faced me. "We want this book to reach as many readers as possible, don't we?" he asked.

          I felt my face grow hot, my stomach clench. This was the same editor who had worked with me on Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret; Then Again, Maybe I Won't; Deenie; Blubber; Forever -- always encouraging, always supportive. The scene was psychologically sound, he assured me, and delicately handled. But it also spelled trouble. I got the message. If you leave in those lines, the censors will come after this book. Librarians and teachers won't buy it. Book clubs won't take it. Everyone is too scared. The political climate has changed.

          I tried to make a case for why that brief moment in Davey's life was important. He asked me how important? Important enough to keep the book from reaching its audience? I willed myself not to give in to the tears of frustration and disappointment I felt coming. I thought about the ways a writer brings a character to life on the page, the same way an artist brings a face to life on canvas -- through a series of brush strokes, each detail adding to the others, until we see the essence of the person. I floundered, uncertain. Ultimately, not strong enough or brave enough to defy the editor I trusted and respected, I caved in and took out those lines. I still remember how alone I felt at that moment.

          What effect does this climate have on a writer? Chilling. It's easy to become discouraged, to second-guess everything you write. There seemed to be no one to stand up to the censors. No group as organized as they were; none I knew of, anyway. I've never forgiven myself for caving in to editorial pressure based on fear, for playing into the hands of the censors. I knew then it was all over for me unless I took a stand. So I began to speak out about my experiences. And once I did, I found that I wasn't as alone as I'd thought.

          My life changed when I learned about the National Coalition Against Censorship (NCAC) and met Leanne Katz, the tiny dynamo who was its first and longtime director. Leanne's intelligence, her wit, her strong commitment to the First Amendment and helping those who were out on a limb trying to defend it, made her my hero. Every day she worked with the teachers, librarians, parents and students caught in the cross fire. Many put themselves and their jobs on the line fighting for what they believed in.

          In Panama City, Florida, junior high school teacher Gloria Pipkin's award-winning English program was targeted by the censors for using Young Adult literature that was depressing, vulgar and immoral, specifically I Am the Cheese, by Robert Cormier, and About David, by Susan Beth Pfeffer.

          A year later, when a new book selection policy was introduced forbidding vulgar, obscene and sexually related materials, the school superintendent zealously applied it to remove more than sixty-five books, many of them classics, from the curriculum and classroom libraries. They included To Kill a Mockingbird, The Red Badge of Courage, The Great Gatsby, Wuthering Heights, and Of Mice and Men. Also banned were Shakespeare's Hamlet, King Lear, The Merchant of Venice and Twelfth Night.

          Gloria Pipkin fought a five-year battle, jeopardizing her job and personal safety (she and the reporter covering the story received death threats) to help reinstate the books. Eventually, the professional isolation as well as the watered-down curriculum led her to resign. She remains without a teaching position.

          Claudia Johnson, Florida State University professor and parent, also defended classic books by Aristophanes and Chaucer against a censor who condemned them for promoting "women's lib and pornography." She went on to fight other battles -- in defense of John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, and a student performance of Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun.

          English teacher Cecilia Lacks was fired by a high school in St. Louis for permitting her creative writing students to express themselves in the language they heard and used outside of school everyday. In the court case that followed, many of her students testified on their teacher's behalf. Though she won her case, the decision was eventually reversed and at this time Lacks is still without a job.

          Colorado English teacher Alfred Wilder was fired for teaching a classic film about fascism, Bernardo Bertolucci's 1900.

          And in Rib Lake, Wisconsin, guidance counselor Mike Dishnow was fired for writing critically of the Board of Education's decision to ban my book Forever from the junior high school library. Ultimately he won a court settlement, but by then his life had been turned upside down.

And these are just a few examples.

          This obsession with banning books continues as we approach the year 2000. Today it is not only Sex, Swear Words and Lack of Moral Tone -- it is Evil, which, according to the censors, can be found lurking everywhere. Stories about Halloween, witches, and devils are an suspect for promoting Satanism. Romeo and Juliet is under fire for promoting suicide; Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, for promoting New Age-ism. If the censors had their way it would be good-bye to Shakespeare as well as science fiction. There's not an ism you can think of that's not bringing some book to the battlefield.

          What I worry about most is the loss to young people. If no one speaks out for them, if they don't speak out for themselves, all they'll get for required reading will be the most bland books available. And instead of finding the information they need at the library, instead of finding the novels that illuminate life, they wll find only those materials to which nobody could possibly object.

          Some people would like to rate books in schools and libraries the way they rate movies: G, PG, R, X, or even more explicitly. But according to whose standards would the books be rated? I don't know about you but I don't want anyone rating my books or the books my children or grandchildren choose to read. We can make our own decisions, thank you. Be wary of the censors' code words -- family friendly; family values; excellence in education. As if the rest of us don't want excellence in education, as if we don't have our own family values, as if libraries haven't always been family-friendly places!

          And the demands are not all coming from the religious right. No...the urge to decide not only what's right for their kids but for all kids has caught on with others across the political spectrum. Each year Huckleberry Finn is challenged and sometimes removed from the classroom because, to some, its language, which includes racial epithets, is offensive. Better to acknowledge the language, bring it out in the open, and discuss why the book remains important than to ban it. Teachers and parents can talk with their students and children about any book considered controversial.

          I gave a friend's child one of my favorite picture books, James Marshall's The Stupids Step Out, and was amazed when she said, "I'm sorry, but we can't accept that book. My children are not permitted to use that word. Ever. It should be changed to 'The Sillies Step Out.'" I may not agree, but I have to respect this woman's right to keep that book from her child as long as she isn't trying to keep it from other people's children. Still, I can't help lamenting the lack of humor in her decision. The Stupids Step Out is a very funny book. Instead of banning it from her home, I wish she could have used it as an opportunity to talk with her child about why she felt the way she did, about why she never wanted to hear her child call anyone stupid. Even very young children can understand. So many adults are exhausting themselves worrying about other people corrupting their children with books, they're turning kids off to reading instead of turning them on.

          In this age of censorship I mourn the loss of books that will never be written, I mourn the voices that will be silenced -- writers' voices, teachers' voices, students' voices -- and all because of fear. How many have resorted to self-censorship? How many are saying to themselves, "Nope...can't write about that. Can't teach that book. Can't have that book in our collection. Can't let my student write that editorial in the school paper."

          This book is dedicated to Leanne Katz to commemorate a life spent trying to prevent voices from being silenced. (Leanne died in 1997.) It is our way of thanking her and NCAC for their hard and valuable work, which continues today under the able direction of Joan Bertin and her small staff of dedicated coworkers. All the royalties from the sale of this book win go directly to NCAC to benefit their work.

          Many censored writers are missing from this collection: Maya Angelou, Stephen King, Lois Lowry, Margaret Atwood, Alice Walker, Richard Peck, Bruce Coville, Ken Follett, Kurt Vonnegut, J.D. Salinger, Shel Silverstein, the anonymous author of Go Ask Alice, to name just a few. Some, like my friend, Robert Cormier, whose I Am the Cheese started the fracas in Panama City, say they just can't write short stories. I know what they mean. I've never been a short-story writer either. Others were trying to meet deadlines and weren't able to fit this project into their busy schedules. But almost all have joined us in spirit.

          I'm grateful to the outstanding writers who have contributed to this anthology. They've come up with a fascinating group of characters. In a wry story of teenage love, you'll meet a couple who have been best friends for years, deciding the time is right to lose their virginity. In another story, the unforgettable Sarabeth takes off one night when the going gets tough at home, only to find herself in the most threatening situation of her life. There is John, a college student torn between the opportunities his education affords and his responsibilities to his family. And a group of teenage boys spending their summer vacation at baseball camp, where they meet up with an unspeakably cruel coach. You'll be transported from a story of romantic infatuation in Japan to the wacky world of Tuesday Racinski, who has no choice but to use her supernatural powers to zap Miss Popularity. Whether the situation is dead serious or wildly funny, all of these characters find themselves in places they never meant to be.

          Aside from being good storytellers, what these writers have in common is that somewhere along the way their work has been challenged by an individual or group wanting to forbid, prohibit or restrict the books they have written. In some cases the censors have been successful; in others, sanity has prevailed. Following each story the writer shares his/her personal experiences and feelings about censorship. Remember, if you ask a dozen people what censorship means, you'll get twelve different answers.

          The bottom line is, censorship happens, often when you least expect it. It's not just about the book you may want to read but about the book your classmate might want to read. It's not just about teachers and librarians at other schools who might find themselves in job-threatening situations -- it could happen at your school. Your favorite teacher, the one who made literature come alive for you, the one who helped you find exactly the book you needed when you were curious, or hurting, the one who was there to listen to you when you felt alone, could become the next target.

And what can you do if censorship hits close to home?

The first step is awareness. Become informed. Take a stand. Work with the adults in your community. Don't try to do it on your own. Contact one or more of the following support groups immediately.

National Coalition Against Censorship 275 Seventh Avenue New York, New York 10001 Tel.: 212-807-6222 Fax: 212-807-6245 E-mail: ncac@netcom.com Web site: www.ncac.org

Office for Intellectual Freedom American Library Association Judith Krug, Director 50 East Huron Street Chicago, Illinois 60611 Tel.: 800-545-2433, ext.: 4222 Fax: 312-280-4227 E-mail: jkrug@ala.org Web site: www.ala.org/oif.html

People for the American Way Attn: Pia Sumler 2000 M Street NW, Suite 400 Washington, D.C. 20036 Tel.: 202-467-4999 Fax: 202-293-2672 Web site: www.pfaw.org

          They will help you help yourself. Get the local newspaper involved. Censors hate publicity. So do school boards. If you don't take a stand, others will eagerly make decisions that affect your First Amendment rights. Make sure you know what those rights are.

          A word of warning to anyone who writes or wants to write: There is no predicting the censor. No telling what will be seen as controversial tomorrow. I've talked with writers who have told me, "Oh...I don't write the kinds of stories you do. I write for younger children. My work will never be attacked," only to find themselves under fire the next day.

         So write honestly. Write from deep inside. Leanne used to say, "It's your job to write as well as you can, Judy. It's my job to defend what you've written."

But Leanne couldn't do it on her own. No one can. It's up to all of us.

Copyright © 1999 by Judy Blume

I am proud to have housed many of these books in my library and in my own home.

Top 100 Banned/Challenged Books: 2000-2009

1 Harry Potter (series), by J.K. Rowling
2 Alice series, by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
3 The Chocolate War, by Robert Cormier
4 And Tango Makes Three, by Justin Richardson/Peter Parnell
5 Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
6 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou
7 Scary Stories (series), by Alvin Schwartz
8 His Dark Materials (series), by Philip Pullman
9 TTYL; TTFN; L8R, G8R (series), by Myracle, Lauren
10 The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky
11 Fallen Angels, by Walter Dean Myers
12 It’s Perfectly Normal, by Robie Harris
13 Captain Underpants (series), by Dav Pilkey
14 The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain
15 The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison
16 Forever, by Judy Blume
17 The Color Purple, by Alice Walker
18 Go Ask Alice, by Anonymous
19 Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger
20 King and King, by Linda de Haan
21 To Kill A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
22 Gossip Girl (series), by Cecily von Ziegesar
23 The Giver, by Lois Lowry
24 In the Night Kitchen, by Maurice Sendak
25 Killing Mr. Griffen, by Lois Duncan
26 Beloved, by Toni Morrison
27 My Brother Sam Is Dead, by James Lincoln Collier
28 Bridge To Terabithia, by Katherine Paterson
29 The Face on the Milk Carton, by Caroline B. Cooney
30 We All Fall Down, by Robert Cormier
31 What My Mother Doesn’t Know, by Sonya Sones
32 Bless Me, Ultima, by Rudolfo Anaya
33 Snow Falling on Cedars, by David Guterson
34 The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big, Round Things, by Carolyn Mackler
35 Angus, Thongs, and Full Frontal Snogging, by Louise Rennison
36 Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley
37 It’s So Amazing, by Robie Harris
38 Arming America, by Michael Bellasiles
39 Kaffir Boy, by Mark Mathabane
40 Life is Funny, by E.R. Frank
41 Whale Talk, by Chris Crutcher
42 The Fighting Ground, by Avi
43 Blubber, by Judy Blume
44 Athletic Shorts, by Chris Crutcher
45 Crazy Lady, by Jane Leslie Conly
46 Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut
47 The Adventures of Super Diaper Baby, by George Beard
48 Rainbow Boys, by Alex Sanchez
49 One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, by Ken Kesey
50 The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini
51 Daughters of Eve, by Lois Duncan
52 The Great Gilly Hopkins, by Katherine Paterson
53 You Hear Me?, by Betsy Franco
54 The Facts Speak for Themselves, by Brock Cole
55 Summer of My German Soldier, by Bette Green
56 When Dad Killed Mom, by Julius Lester
57 Blood and Chocolate, by Annette Curtis Klause
58 Fat Kid Rules the World, by K.L. Going
59 Olive’s Ocean, by Kevin Henkes
60 Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson
61 Draw Me A Star, by Eric Carle
62 The Stupids (series), by Harry Allard
63 The Terrorist, by Caroline B. Cooney
64 Mick Harte Was Here, by Barbara Park
65 The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien
66 Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, by Mildred Taylor
67 A Time to Kill, by John Grisham
68 Always Running, by Luis Rodriguez
69 Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury
70 Harris and Me, by Gary Paulsen
71 Junie B. Jones (series), by Barbara Park
72 Song of Solomon, by Toni Morrison
73 What’s Happening to My Body Book, by Lynda Madaras
74 The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold
75 Anastasia (series), by Lois Lowry
76 A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving
77 Crazy: A Novel, by Benjamin Lebert
78 The Joy of Gay Sex, by Dr. Charles Silverstein
79 The Upstairs Room, by Johanna Reiss
80 A Day No Pigs Would Die, by Robert Newton Peck
81 Black Boy, by Richard Wright
82 Deal With It!, by Esther Drill
83 Detour for Emmy, by Marilyn Reynolds
84 So Far From the Bamboo Grove, by Yoko Watkins
85 Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes, by Chris Crutcher
86 Cut, by Patricia McCormick
87 Tiger Eyes, by Judy Blume
88 The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood
89 Friday Night Lights, by H.G. Bissenger
90 A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeline L’Engle
91 Julie of the Wolves, by Jean Graighead George
92 The Boy Who Lost His Face, by Louis Sachar
93 Bumps in the Night, by Harry Allard
94 Goosebumps (series), by R.L. Stine
95 Shade’s Children, by Garth Nix
96 Grendel, by John Gardner
97 The House of the Spirits, by Isabel Allende
98 I Saw Esau, by Iona Opte
99 Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, by Judy Blume
100 America: A Novel, by Frank, E.R.

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