By Lisa G.
The library I work at doesn't observe Banned Books Week. Their thinking is "Don't rock the boat; what the patrons don't know can't hurt us." In other words, if we raise the profile of banned books people will realize we have them. That will give them the opportunity to complain, if they'd be wont to.
And that is true. If you point out the fact you're harboring banned or challenged books fundamentalist conservatives may just come out of the woodwork and complain. Being a firm believer in intellectual freedom I may not agree with that position, but knowing I'm a small fish in a big pond I haven't raised a fuss. I respect the right of the administration to stand where it will. So I'm turning to my blogs to vent on an issue near and dear to my heart.
Banning or challenging books really gets under my skin. Every time I read or hear a story about this subject I feel my blood pressure rising. As with so many issues my take is, "If it offends you don't/read it or do it, but don't tell me I can't."
Book banning is ignorant. Should inappropriate or disturbing material be kept out of the hands of children? Of course, but there's a grey area there. That's where parents come in. It's not the responsibility of the library to deem all material appropriate or inappropriate for children, or any other group of people. In the case of minor children it's the parents who need to make that call. No library would dare intercede, nor should it. With adult materials, those over 18 are presumed to have already developed their personal values and tastes. They may choose to read or not read as they wish.
Period.
The library chooses which books to order. Nothing spewing hatred or advocating violence toward any group of people would be purchased by a librarian with any degree of sense. But that's not book banning; that's using public money to buy materials which will be used and appreciated by the patrons of that library. There's a difference.
Is there a grey area here? Certainly. Life is filled with grey areas. Librarians do the best they can. Patrons who want materials the library hasn't purchased can search the world to find them. Librarians do that, too. And if no one has the material, or doesn't want to lend it, that's how it goes sometimes. You can't please everyone. Budgets are a reality.
For a list of banned or challenged books visit the American Library Association's website. I encourage you to choose a book or several from the list and read it/them. In fact, for everyone who does that, and sends me a short review of a banned or challenged book, I'd be happy to post that here. Then I'll send you a review copy from my pile, if you'd like. That's a win/win situation.
Read a banned book, and encourage everyone you know to consider how banning books is a violation of and an infringement on intellectual rights and freedoms.
Ignorance is not bliss; it's just ignorance.
Showing posts with label Lisa G.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lisa G.. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Monday, October 1, 2007
The Unknown
By Lisa G.
Turning 40 isn’t as big a deal as people say it is. Turning 30 scared me a hell of a lot more. The week of my 30th birthday I was recovering from gall bladder surgery. So naturally my husband decided that’d be a great time to throw me a surprise birthday party. Only, it wasn’t a surprise. Because he was aware I’d thoroughly hate the concept, especially post-surgery, he made sure to tell me about it. He told me when it was pretty much too late to cancel, without extreme embarrassment, when I couldn’t really back out without looking like a huge jerk. So hey, guess what? I went. But I was not a happy camper.
30 just plain depressed me. I can’t even put my finger on exactly why, unless it was the fact the next big milestone was 40, and in this culture that means “over the hill” references. Because by 40 you know, you’re halfway done, buddy. If you haven’t done what you want by now, you sure as hell better start making plans PRONTO, because if you don’t?
Best not think about that. You just better get plannin’.
So when I hit 40 I did go through a bit of a crisis, but, surprisingly, I didn’t throw a hissy fit on nearly the scale of when I hit 30. I think that decade just left me numb to caring about the numbers anymore. For the first time, it became easy to forget exactly how old I was. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three… Does it really matter? But 40. That’s a speed bump. You notice 40, but for whatever reason, I didn’t care. Or, I should say, I didn’t get depressed. There’s a difference. I cared, but in an “okay, the first half was really rough, but now it’s time to get on with things” way. I knew this was a fairly big deal, but I was more prepared for it somehow. I’d gotten the hissy fit out of my system, and even though my age was at least starting to show, in small ways, that was okay. The grey hairs I can cover. The wrinkles? Well, I’ve shunned sun from birth, so relatively speaking I’m doing okay in that way, too. I can now sit back and look smugly at all the other 40-something women who didn’t spend a lifetime looking pasty as the underside of a fish. Sure, you looked hot with your savage tans, but now look at you. Total prune city!
That feels good.
At 41 I made a turning point kind of decision, the kind that changes your life by way of your career. Though I love writing, and I’ll always work on pursuing publication, I realized I needed a fallback, something to pay for all the cool journals and pens I’m so fond of. The ones I buy by the boatload from Borders, not to mention the lattes. God, I love the lattes.
Since I’d been working in a library for a couple of years, I knew this was as close to a perfect fit as any other job I could have. The rat race publishing world’s exciting, that’s true. But in the library I can have relative job security in a much less hectic, and frankly unstable, environment. I can work with books, something you may or may not I kind of like, and it’s a job that’s also really helpful to people. It’s not exactly at the top end of the pay scale, but you know? Some things matter more than a big, fat salary. I’ll get enough in the library. Nothing extravagant, but enough. Having worked in so many crappy, awful jobs, I felt keenly the importance of knowing this was a job I could go to willingly every day. I still remember that dread feeling of having to commute over an hour to a job you hate. That’s just plain painful.
So, I made the decision to make myself more marketable in the field by going back to school for my MLIS. It wasn’t the easiest decision I’ve ever made. When I was an undergrad I didn’t have a family, or a steady job. I didn’t have a household that needed to be maintained. I had the luxury of being a full-time student. This time around I have all of those things, plus this time it’s on my own dime. My parents put me through school the first time. No such luck the second. But the payoff will be a profession. Not just a job, but a real, live profession. I had to ask myself all the questions about affording it, how I’d find the time to study, all those inconvenient things you have to think about when you have kids. But I also knew this was just something I had to do for myself, so when the day comes the kids are out of the house I’ll have a career I enjoy. One I don’t think about with utter dread.
When I was in my 20s I always thought 40 was such a big, scary number. I never thought beyond 25, then when I hit that, never beyond 30. Those bigger numbers were just far enough away I could comfortably forget them, put them out of my mind. All the vast future that was “out there” was the great unknown. I just didn’t want to think about it, because thinking about it meant acknowledging it, and that meant admitting one day I wouldn’t be as young as I was then.
The great unknown is here, and the transition to get here wasn’t as tough as the scratching and clawing I had to do to get from 1 – 20. It wasn’t as tough this time. Not by half. At 41 I’m way more sure of myself than I was at 21, and I know myself a whole lot better. That’s not to say I don’t have any indecision. I’ll always have that. I’ll also never have perky boobs again, at least not without a miracle-working bra.
There’s just a certain content that comes with age, a realization you worried way too long about things that were so insignificant, and now you don’t have to do that. Now you know what’s important, and what you can safely blow off. There’s a perspective you hit, in the middle of your life, and it doesn’t make everything clear but it makes a whole lot of it a lot easier to understand. Maybe it’s a Zen thing, a letting go of what’s come before, with a sigh of regret, but the knowledge you’ve also grown through all the suffering and trials.
Whatever’s out there, from here on out, I’m as ready for it as I’ll ever be. Bring on the great unknown. I think I can handle whatever it has to dish out.
30 just plain depressed me. I can’t even put my finger on exactly why, unless it was the fact the next big milestone was 40, and in this culture that means “over the hill” references. Because by 40 you know, you’re halfway done, buddy. If you haven’t done what you want by now, you sure as hell better start making plans PRONTO, because if you don’t?
Best not think about that. You just better get plannin’.
So when I hit 40 I did go through a bit of a crisis, but, surprisingly, I didn’t throw a hissy fit on nearly the scale of when I hit 30. I think that decade just left me numb to caring about the numbers anymore. For the first time, it became easy to forget exactly how old I was. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three… Does it really matter? But 40. That’s a speed bump. You notice 40, but for whatever reason, I didn’t care. Or, I should say, I didn’t get depressed. There’s a difference. I cared, but in an “okay, the first half was really rough, but now it’s time to get on with things” way. I knew this was a fairly big deal, but I was more prepared for it somehow. I’d gotten the hissy fit out of my system, and even though my age was at least starting to show, in small ways, that was okay. The grey hairs I can cover. The wrinkles? Well, I’ve shunned sun from birth, so relatively speaking I’m doing okay in that way, too. I can now sit back and look smugly at all the other 40-something women who didn’t spend a lifetime looking pasty as the underside of a fish. Sure, you looked hot with your savage tans, but now look at you. Total prune city!
That feels good.
At 41 I made a turning point kind of decision, the kind that changes your life by way of your career. Though I love writing, and I’ll always work on pursuing publication, I realized I needed a fallback, something to pay for all the cool journals and pens I’m so fond of. The ones I buy by the boatload from Borders, not to mention the lattes. God, I love the lattes.
Since I’d been working in a library for a couple of years, I knew this was as close to a perfect fit as any other job I could have. The rat race publishing world’s exciting, that’s true. But in the library I can have relative job security in a much less hectic, and frankly unstable, environment. I can work with books, something you may or may not I kind of like, and it’s a job that’s also really helpful to people. It’s not exactly at the top end of the pay scale, but you know? Some things matter more than a big, fat salary. I’ll get enough in the library. Nothing extravagant, but enough. Having worked in so many crappy, awful jobs, I felt keenly the importance of knowing this was a job I could go to willingly every day. I still remember that dread feeling of having to commute over an hour to a job you hate. That’s just plain painful.
So, I made the decision to make myself more marketable in the field by going back to school for my MLIS. It wasn’t the easiest decision I’ve ever made. When I was an undergrad I didn’t have a family, or a steady job. I didn’t have a household that needed to be maintained. I had the luxury of being a full-time student. This time around I have all of those things, plus this time it’s on my own dime. My parents put me through school the first time. No such luck the second. But the payoff will be a profession. Not just a job, but a real, live profession. I had to ask myself all the questions about affording it, how I’d find the time to study, all those inconvenient things you have to think about when you have kids. But I also knew this was just something I had to do for myself, so when the day comes the kids are out of the house I’ll have a career I enjoy. One I don’t think about with utter dread.
When I was in my 20s I always thought 40 was such a big, scary number. I never thought beyond 25, then when I hit that, never beyond 30. Those bigger numbers were just far enough away I could comfortably forget them, put them out of my mind. All the vast future that was “out there” was the great unknown. I just didn’t want to think about it, because thinking about it meant acknowledging it, and that meant admitting one day I wouldn’t be as young as I was then.
The great unknown is here, and the transition to get here wasn’t as tough as the scratching and clawing I had to do to get from 1 – 20. It wasn’t as tough this time. Not by half. At 41 I’m way more sure of myself than I was at 21, and I know myself a whole lot better. That’s not to say I don’t have any indecision. I’ll always have that. I’ll also never have perky boobs again, at least not without a miracle-working bra.
There’s just a certain content that comes with age, a realization you worried way too long about things that were so insignificant, and now you don’t have to do that. Now you know what’s important, and what you can safely blow off. There’s a perspective you hit, in the middle of your life, and it doesn’t make everything clear but it makes a whole lot of it a lot easier to understand. Maybe it’s a Zen thing, a letting go of what’s come before, with a sigh of regret, but the knowledge you’ve also grown through all the suffering and trials.
Whatever’s out there, from here on out, I’m as ready for it as I’ll ever be. Bring on the great unknown. I think I can handle whatever it has to dish out.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Confessions of a Literary Hoaxer, or Thar She Blows!
By Lisa G.I'm not saying I'm proud of this. I'm just being honest.
I'm a cheat. A fraud. A literary deceiver...
It started with a book. A very BIG book. To be specific, THIS book:
Moby Dick was required reading for a course in American literature I took as an undergrad. The professor who chose it was Sister Jeanne, one of the faculty at Rosary College in River Forest, IL. Sister Jeanne was a particularly shrunken, tiny little thing. I don't remember her even coming up to my shoulder, and at 5' 6" I'm not particularly tall. She was like a little gnome.
An angry, angry little gnome.
It always sounds suspicious when a person claims "I got a bad grade in that class because the teacher hated me." Yeah, okay. When my daughter uses that one it irritates the living hell out of me, because I know what things like that mean. They mean "I didn't do the work, my grade sucked, and I need a scapegoat." That's about as irritating as anything gets, seeing your child fail to take responsibility for something, bailing out, and apparently not learning from the screw up.
But that wasn't so in my particular case. I know this professor hated me, in ways only an angry little gnome can hate.
I was a very serious student, and I mean from the beginning of time. No one had to hound me to do my homework. No one ever helped me with it, actually. I was as solitary in my pursuit of education as I was in everything else. I was self-driven. I had my eyes on the prize, and that prize was a college education. No one in my family had ever graduated from college before I did. I had some cousins who graduated, but no one in my immediate family had, and neither had my parents, grandparents or anyone in my direct lineage. So when I was accepted to college it was a pretty big deal.
I grew up in downstate Illinois ("downstate" meaning everything south of Chicago) in a rural farming community. I grew up in town, but "in town" is a relative term in a place that small. In town there would be in the middle of nowhere most anyplace else. I left home the stereotypical wide-eyed Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm, minus the goofy straw hat, the braids and the suitcase held together with a rope. I came to the Chicago area at age 18, and everything looked huge to me. It looked huge, crowded and just a little bit scary. But I was ecstatic to be there. Ecstatic to have accomplished my dream of getting into college. And to study literature, my first and truest love, put me on cloud nine.
In my first semester of school I met a guy in the library. I was in there studying, and he was doing... Hell, I still don't know what he was doing, but he was there and he wasn't bad to look at. This guy was a lot older than I was. He'd not only gotten his B.A., but he also had his M.B.A. Though I generally have the social skills of a cloistered monk, for some reason I talked to him. Call it fate. Call it karma. Call it a really, really bad choice.
From there it progressed to dating, and from dating to the crushing devastation of breaking up. It was a first break up for me, and it was a nasty one, about as acrimonius as such things get. And he deserved every bit of that.
I hope he's still picking the eggs off his car, too.
A couple semesters later, I found out what I thought was just an interesting, weird fact. One of my professors had been a really close friend of this guy's family for ages. She was a periodic guest at their dinner table, a gargoyle-like decoration they, for whatever reason, liked having around. And now she was my American literature professor. To her this guy I'd broken up with was like a son, and I was the harpie who'd ditched him. Never mind what he did, and why I broke things off. I had the scarlet letter "H" sewn on my chest, as far as she was concerned.
She and I had a track record of not getting along. I'd previously taken a course on women writers with this woman, and her spite actually led me to dislike Jane Austen, something not too many people could achieve. So when I was forced to take another course with her I already had that bad taste in my mouth. I dreaded it, but I knew there was nothing to be done. I was stuck with her.
When I took that earlier course on women writers I didn't realize her connection with HIS family. But the next time around I did. Because she herself mentioned it. She mentioned it when she called me to her office, after having nailed me to the wall grading an essay test I'd taken for this course. I knew the grade was unfair, and complained to my advisor. My advisor, in turn, told me I had to take it up with the professor, the angry little spitfire who thought I'd broken her surrogate son's heart. If he'd actually had one.
In the course of that meeting, she told me she'd been a good friend of my former boyfriend's family. I heard how much she liked them, how she still went to dinner there, and, in a barely-veiled way, what a strumpet I was. I was agog, but nothing she said was actually incriminating to her directly. Nothing would hold up in a formal complaint, but I knew how she felt, and that she was using that power to directly taint my grade in her class. I left frustrated, knowing I had no redress.
Enter Moby Dick, the aforementioned really long, really classic book. A book so long and so dry, every time I sat down to read it I did my best impression of a narcoleptic. I could not keep my eyes open for more than a few pages, despite trying over and over. The problem was, I needed to read it so I could write a paper on it. For Sister Jeanne's American literature class. To top it off, I was already at a disadvantage, because by then I knew Sister Jeanne would gladly have stabbed me in the heart with her crucifix, had there been any way she could get away with that. Not what you'd call an ideal relationship, complicated by the fact I could not get through this book. It was the first book I'd ever had that problem with, the first I found unreadable. But I had no choice but to write that paper.
Long story short, I did write the paper. But I never read the book. I read a lot of background material, a lot of criticism, and I dug out commentary on the plot, the characters and the symbolism. Weirdly, I could read those dry, academic tomes, but I couldn't read the actual novel. I probably worked as hard as I would have if I'd only been able to read the primary text, and I put a lot into that paper. I turned in the paper with trepidation, and not a little guilt. I don't like when things defeat me, especially when we're talking books. And Moby Dick did, for all practical purposes, kick my ass. Despite knowing I'd defied the little troll, it didn't feel all that great.
So, how did I do with the paper? Sister Jeanne, remarkably enough, gave me a "B." A "B," which stands for... Oh, never mind. Best not to speak ill of the sadistic. Even though I had technically cheated on that paper, because I hadn't read Moby Dick, I'd apparently managed to fake it well enough that even she, in good conscience, couldn't give me the grade she'd have loved to. In a weird way I felt vindicated At least until I faced her again, for the last time, for my senior seminar. But that's another story.
The last I heard Sister Jeanne had retired, to that place old nuns go to fade away. I don't know which side of the pale she's on now. I haven't kept track. But wherever she is, I'd like her to know...
"Nannie, nannie, booo booo!"
Oh, and Sister? I still haven't read the book. But you know what? I will. When I'm darn good and ready.
I'm a cheat. A fraud. A literary deceiver...
It started with a book. A very BIG book. To be specific, THIS book:
Moby Dick was required reading for a course in American literature I took as an undergrad. The professor who chose it was Sister Jeanne, one of the faculty at Rosary College in River Forest, IL. Sister Jeanne was a particularly shrunken, tiny little thing. I don't remember her even coming up to my shoulder, and at 5' 6" I'm not particularly tall. She was like a little gnome.
An angry, angry little gnome.
It always sounds suspicious when a person claims "I got a bad grade in that class because the teacher hated me." Yeah, okay. When my daughter uses that one it irritates the living hell out of me, because I know what things like that mean. They mean "I didn't do the work, my grade sucked, and I need a scapegoat." That's about as irritating as anything gets, seeing your child fail to take responsibility for something, bailing out, and apparently not learning from the screw up.
But that wasn't so in my particular case. I know this professor hated me, in ways only an angry little gnome can hate.
I was a very serious student, and I mean from the beginning of time. No one had to hound me to do my homework. No one ever helped me with it, actually. I was as solitary in my pursuit of education as I was in everything else. I was self-driven. I had my eyes on the prize, and that prize was a college education. No one in my family had ever graduated from college before I did. I had some cousins who graduated, but no one in my immediate family had, and neither had my parents, grandparents or anyone in my direct lineage. So when I was accepted to college it was a pretty big deal.
I grew up in downstate Illinois ("downstate" meaning everything south of Chicago) in a rural farming community. I grew up in town, but "in town" is a relative term in a place that small. In town there would be in the middle of nowhere most anyplace else. I left home the stereotypical wide-eyed Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm, minus the goofy straw hat, the braids and the suitcase held together with a rope. I came to the Chicago area at age 18, and everything looked huge to me. It looked huge, crowded and just a little bit scary. But I was ecstatic to be there. Ecstatic to have accomplished my dream of getting into college. And to study literature, my first and truest love, put me on cloud nine.
In my first semester of school I met a guy in the library. I was in there studying, and he was doing... Hell, I still don't know what he was doing, but he was there and he wasn't bad to look at. This guy was a lot older than I was. He'd not only gotten his B.A., but he also had his M.B.A. Though I generally have the social skills of a cloistered monk, for some reason I talked to him. Call it fate. Call it karma. Call it a really, really bad choice.
From there it progressed to dating, and from dating to the crushing devastation of breaking up. It was a first break up for me, and it was a nasty one, about as acrimonius as such things get. And he deserved every bit of that.
I hope he's still picking the eggs off his car, too.
A couple semesters later, I found out what I thought was just an interesting, weird fact. One of my professors had been a really close friend of this guy's family for ages. She was a periodic guest at their dinner table, a gargoyle-like decoration they, for whatever reason, liked having around. And now she was my American literature professor. To her this guy I'd broken up with was like a son, and I was the harpie who'd ditched him. Never mind what he did, and why I broke things off. I had the scarlet letter "H" sewn on my chest, as far as she was concerned.
She and I had a track record of not getting along. I'd previously taken a course on women writers with this woman, and her spite actually led me to dislike Jane Austen, something not too many people could achieve. So when I was forced to take another course with her I already had that bad taste in my mouth. I dreaded it, but I knew there was nothing to be done. I was stuck with her.
When I took that earlier course on women writers I didn't realize her connection with HIS family. But the next time around I did. Because she herself mentioned it. She mentioned it when she called me to her office, after having nailed me to the wall grading an essay test I'd taken for this course. I knew the grade was unfair, and complained to my advisor. My advisor, in turn, told me I had to take it up with the professor, the angry little spitfire who thought I'd broken her surrogate son's heart. If he'd actually had one.
In the course of that meeting, she told me she'd been a good friend of my former boyfriend's family. I heard how much she liked them, how she still went to dinner there, and, in a barely-veiled way, what a strumpet I was. I was agog, but nothing she said was actually incriminating to her directly. Nothing would hold up in a formal complaint, but I knew how she felt, and that she was using that power to directly taint my grade in her class. I left frustrated, knowing I had no redress.
Enter Moby Dick, the aforementioned really long, really classic book. A book so long and so dry, every time I sat down to read it I did my best impression of a narcoleptic. I could not keep my eyes open for more than a few pages, despite trying over and over. The problem was, I needed to read it so I could write a paper on it. For Sister Jeanne's American literature class. To top it off, I was already at a disadvantage, because by then I knew Sister Jeanne would gladly have stabbed me in the heart with her crucifix, had there been any way she could get away with that. Not what you'd call an ideal relationship, complicated by the fact I could not get through this book. It was the first book I'd ever had that problem with, the first I found unreadable. But I had no choice but to write that paper.
Long story short, I did write the paper. But I never read the book. I read a lot of background material, a lot of criticism, and I dug out commentary on the plot, the characters and the symbolism. Weirdly, I could read those dry, academic tomes, but I couldn't read the actual novel. I probably worked as hard as I would have if I'd only been able to read the primary text, and I put a lot into that paper. I turned in the paper with trepidation, and not a little guilt. I don't like when things defeat me, especially when we're talking books. And Moby Dick did, for all practical purposes, kick my ass. Despite knowing I'd defied the little troll, it didn't feel all that great.
So, how did I do with the paper? Sister Jeanne, remarkably enough, gave me a "B." A "B," which stands for... Oh, never mind. Best not to speak ill of the sadistic. Even though I had technically cheated on that paper, because I hadn't read Moby Dick, I'd apparently managed to fake it well enough that even she, in good conscience, couldn't give me the grade she'd have loved to. In a weird way I felt vindicated At least until I faced her again, for the last time, for my senior seminar. But that's another story.
The last I heard Sister Jeanne had retired, to that place old nuns go to fade away. I don't know which side of the pale she's on now. I haven't kept track. But wherever she is, I'd like her to know...
"Nannie, nannie, booo booo!"
Oh, and Sister? I still haven't read the book. But you know what? I will. When I'm darn good and ready.
*Originally published at Bluestalking Reader.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Chicago's "Open Book" Project for Literacy
By Lisa G.
These days, when good news seems a lot harder to come by, it's easy to fall into despair thinking there's nothing good happening in the world anymore. But when a project like this one comes along, it's encouraging to know there are still unselfish people out there working very hard to help make their own corners of the world a little brighter.
Open Books is just this sort of organization. When they open their doors in 2008 they will have the distinction of being Chicago's very first non-profit literacy bookstore. Their plan is to sell books on the first floor of the shop, and use the proceeds from that to fund literacy programs on the second floor.
A very ambitious undertaking, but from the sounds of it Becca and Stacy, the two dedicated women who are organizing the project, have things very well in hand. Right now they're busily collecting book donations from all around the Chicago metro area, from the kind of people who care about the plight of those less fortunate than themselves. My own library has, I'm proud to say, donated books to the Open Books project. If you're in the Chicago metro area please encourage your library to do so, too. Or, if you have books of your own to donate, please consider this very worthy cause. Becca and Stacy pick up large donations, so it's not even a matter of getting to them. If you're local, and have books to donate, let them know and they'll come to you.
Open Books has a goal of opening their doors with a 50,000 book collection. Right now they have in the neighborhood of 20,000 + books. Their dedication and drive are so impressive I have no doubt they'll meet or surpass their goal by the time the ribbon is cut and the doors are opened. Of course, the more benevolent souls who donate, the better their chances will be.
The location of the Open Books facility will be 1449 S. Michigan Avenue, in the South Loop of Chicago. The building is currently being remodeled to suit their needs, with a goal of opening about a year from now.
You may contact Becca and Stacy via their website at www.open-books.org If you'd like to get involved give them a call or shoot them an email. Book donations are greatly needed, and though I'm not sure about other specific volunteer opportunities I'm sure they'll be glad to have every pair of willing hands they can get.
Open Books will be working with Literacy Chicago: www.literacychicago.org in order to bring literacy programs to those in need.
Media Contact
Becca Keaty
Director of Marketing and PR
bkeaty(at)open-books(dot)org
888-851-0701
These days, when good news seems a lot harder to come by, it's easy to fall into despair thinking there's nothing good happening in the world anymore. But when a project like this one comes along, it's encouraging to know there are still unselfish people out there working very hard to help make their own corners of the world a little brighter.Open Books is just this sort of organization. When they open their doors in 2008 they will have the distinction of being Chicago's very first non-profit literacy bookstore. Their plan is to sell books on the first floor of the shop, and use the proceeds from that to fund literacy programs on the second floor.
A very ambitious undertaking, but from the sounds of it Becca and Stacy, the two dedicated women who are organizing the project, have things very well in hand. Right now they're busily collecting book donations from all around the Chicago metro area, from the kind of people who care about the plight of those less fortunate than themselves. My own library has, I'm proud to say, donated books to the Open Books project. If you're in the Chicago metro area please encourage your library to do so, too. Or, if you have books of your own to donate, please consider this very worthy cause. Becca and Stacy pick up large donations, so it's not even a matter of getting to them. If you're local, and have books to donate, let them know and they'll come to you.
Open Books has a goal of opening their doors with a 50,000 book collection. Right now they have in the neighborhood of 20,000 + books. Their dedication and drive are so impressive I have no doubt they'll meet or surpass their goal by the time the ribbon is cut and the doors are opened. Of course, the more benevolent souls who donate, the better their chances will be.
The location of the Open Books facility will be 1449 S. Michigan Avenue, in the South Loop of Chicago. The building is currently being remodeled to suit their needs, with a goal of opening about a year from now.
You may contact Becca and Stacy via their website at www.open-books.org If you'd like to get involved give them a call or shoot them an email. Book donations are greatly needed, and though I'm not sure about other specific volunteer opportunities I'm sure they'll be glad to have every pair of willing hands they can get.
Open Books will be working with Literacy Chicago: www.literacychicago.org in order to bring literacy programs to those in need.
Media Contact
Becca Keaty
Director of Marketing and PR
bkeaty(at)open-books(dot)org
888-851-0701
Mississippi Sissy
Mississippi Sissy
Written by Kevin Sessums
St. Martin's Press
Reviewed by Lisa G.
Kevin Sessums's memoir Mississippi Sissy was one of an armload of review books the Holtzbrinck group sent me recently. In that pile of general and genre fiction, this one leapt out at me immediately. Not only was it the only work of nonfiction in the box, but it's not everyday you see a title with Mississippi in the title, much less one with as engaging a word as "sissy" to go with it. It gets the attention, it really does.
Just a catchy title isn't enough, of course, if the book itself doesn't engage. In this case the style engaged me immediately, and the authentic Mississippi voice was one I could identify with, coming from that state myself.
Sessum's book tells the story of growing up gay in 1960s Mississippi. It may take a moment for the immensity of that to hit home, but considering this is KKK territory you may rest assured this was one rough ride. Mississippi isn't exactly a state noted for being liberal, nor especially tolerant of anyone the slightest bit "different." It was a rough ride made worse by Sessum's uber-macho father, whose disappointment with his son played a major role in his growing up. Imagine being everything your father despises, yet wanting so badly to be a good son and make him proud. The difficulty of his childhood is painful and poignant, and Sessum reacts by shutting down his emotions, in an attempt not to embarrass his father further.
In contrast, his mother thought his cross-dressing cute and funny, at least until her husband began reacting more violently. If Sessum's father hadn't been killed in a car accident the violence and anger would surely have escalated.
Closely following his father's death his mother also died from cancer, leaving the boy orphaned from a young age. With his mother Kevin had enjoyed a much closer relationship. She gave him the feeling of being loved and wanted, and there was also a certain playful camaraderie between them. They shared secrets, as well as private jokes. Her death left Kevin adrift, disconnected from his immediate family.
Mississippi Sissy is a courageous, warm, and often poignant memoir of what it is to be different from the mainstream in an unforgiving environment. It's also a testament to Kevin Sessum's spirit that he was able to weather it all and go on to become a writer known for his celebrity interviews. He's an interviewer celebrities seem to trust implicitly, and there's a quality to his writing in his memoir that may give the reader a good idea why that is. He has a genuineness, as well as an unforced honesty, that lends an especially compelling quality to his writing. I'd recommend Mississippi Sissy without hesitation as a truly well-written memoir.
*Originally published at The Bluestalking Reader
Just a catchy title isn't enough, of course, if the book itself doesn't engage. In this case the style engaged me immediately, and the authentic Mississippi voice was one I could identify with, coming from that state myself.
Sessum's book tells the story of growing up gay in 1960s Mississippi. It may take a moment for the immensity of that to hit home, but considering this is KKK territory you may rest assured this was one rough ride. Mississippi isn't exactly a state noted for being liberal, nor especially tolerant of anyone the slightest bit "different." It was a rough ride made worse by Sessum's uber-macho father, whose disappointment with his son played a major role in his growing up. Imagine being everything your father despises, yet wanting so badly to be a good son and make him proud. The difficulty of his childhood is painful and poignant, and Sessum reacts by shutting down his emotions, in an attempt not to embarrass his father further.
In contrast, his mother thought his cross-dressing cute and funny, at least until her husband began reacting more violently. If Sessum's father hadn't been killed in a car accident the violence and anger would surely have escalated.
Closely following his father's death his mother also died from cancer, leaving the boy orphaned from a young age. With his mother Kevin had enjoyed a much closer relationship. She gave him the feeling of being loved and wanted, and there was also a certain playful camaraderie between them. They shared secrets, as well as private jokes. Her death left Kevin adrift, disconnected from his immediate family.
Mississippi Sissy is a courageous, warm, and often poignant memoir of what it is to be different from the mainstream in an unforgiving environment. It's also a testament to Kevin Sessum's spirit that he was able to weather it all and go on to become a writer known for his celebrity interviews. He's an interviewer celebrities seem to trust implicitly, and there's a quality to his writing in his memoir that may give the reader a good idea why that is. He has a genuineness, as well as an unforced honesty, that lends an especially compelling quality to his writing. I'd recommend Mississippi Sissy without hesitation as a truly well-written memoir.
*Originally published at The Bluestalking Reader
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