Forgive me, friends, for I have sinned.
I did not actually read Go the F**k to Sleep. I listened to it on Audible. And you should, too. Especially if you have children.
My bestie, Michele, told me about this book yesterday when I told her that I had just returned from the "Everything Must Go" sale at my local Borders and was mourning the loss of print media (which is somewhat ironic because of my Kindle dependency, but distressing nonetheless). Michele said that one of her fellow teachers found this book at a Chicago-area Borders (also closing) and purchased it as part of a baby shower gift. Until I heard Samuel L. Jackson reading it aloud, I thought it would be some kind of Life of Pi for tots type of thing. So wrong. So incredibly wrong.
In somewhat related news, two of my friends are currently expecting. Nothing says "Welcome to the world" like a darling Calvin Klein onesie and a copy of Go the F**k to Sleep. So guess what, ladies? :)
Here is the link to the read-aloud. Enjoy! And turn down your volume. Trust me.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeKxIaG_f_c&has_verified=1
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
If You Were Here (Jen Lancaster)
Dear Jen,
If You Were Here, I'd cheerfully reminisce with you about the evening we spent together at Barnes and Noble. I, along with 300 or so of your devoted fans, listened to you read an excerpt from this long-awaited piece of fiction and then waited in an impossibly long line inside the sultry San Diego bookstore (why was it so hot in there?) so we could briefly chat and pose for a photo while you signed my book. I've looked forward to meeting you, Soul Sista', for over two years. Well worth the wait.
If You Were Here, I'd enthusiastically share North Shore Chicago survival tactics with you so that you could navigate the Northbrook Whole Foods without getting arrested. My husband, Brian, was born and raised in the Land of All Things John Hughes, attended "Shermer High School" and could teach PhD-level courses in dealing with the often pushy and condescending residents of that area. By association, I can now do the same.
If You Were Here, I'd shamefully admit to you that I read only two (well, three) books this spring as I anticipated the arrival of yours this summer. And I haven't read another since.
If You Were Here, I'd proudly boast that I caught your every John Hughes reference while reading the book (I think). What a privilege to have experienced his films before Judd Nelson permanently rocked the drug dealer look and before Emilio Estevez's Charlie Sheen lost his mind. Winning!
If You Were Here, I'd candidly tell you (because I think that Soul Sistas should be able to be candid) that, despite my unending adoration for you, this book was rather sub-par. In fact, if you hadn't signed my copy, I might be tempted to sell it to my favorite independent bookseller, Changing Hands, in an effort to recoup at least a portion of the money I spent on it. And this makes me incredibly sad.
If You Were Here, I'd selfishly suggest that you write another memoir. I miss your sassy recollections and long for the next installation of what could be your own reality show. Fiction is not your forte. It's not mine, either, so no judgment. I'm just being honest here (see previous paragraph regarding candor). And, at this point in the conversation, you'd gently (or not so gently) remind me that your next book is, indeed, a memoir. Good news for both of us!
If You Were Here, I'd sincerely thank you for the obvious hard work you did to get this book published, regardless of my personal opinion.
If You Were Here, I'd now expertly roll the credits while "(Don't You) Forget About Me" played in the background.
See you next year.
With Sista-ly Love,
Diana
If You Were Here, I'd cheerfully reminisce with you about the evening we spent together at Barnes and Noble. I, along with 300 or so of your devoted fans, listened to you read an excerpt from this long-awaited piece of fiction and then waited in an impossibly long line inside the sultry San Diego bookstore (why was it so hot in there?) so we could briefly chat and pose for a photo while you signed my book. I've looked forward to meeting you, Soul Sista', for over two years. Well worth the wait.
If You Were Here, I'd enthusiastically share North Shore Chicago survival tactics with you so that you could navigate the Northbrook Whole Foods without getting arrested. My husband, Brian, was born and raised in the Land of All Things John Hughes, attended "Shermer High School" and could teach PhD-level courses in dealing with the often pushy and condescending residents of that area. By association, I can now do the same.
If You Were Here, I'd shamefully admit to you that I read only two (well, three) books this spring as I anticipated the arrival of yours this summer. And I haven't read another since.
If You Were Here, I'd proudly boast that I caught your every John Hughes reference while reading the book (I think). What a privilege to have experienced his films before Judd Nelson permanently rocked the drug dealer look and before Emilio Estevez's Charlie Sheen lost his mind. Winning!
If You Were Here, I'd candidly tell you (because I think that Soul Sistas should be able to be candid) that, despite my unending adoration for you, this book was rather sub-par. In fact, if you hadn't signed my copy, I might be tempted to sell it to my favorite independent bookseller, Changing Hands, in an effort to recoup at least a portion of the money I spent on it. And this makes me incredibly sad.
If You Were Here, I'd selfishly suggest that you write another memoir. I miss your sassy recollections and long for the next installation of what could be your own reality show. Fiction is not your forte. It's not mine, either, so no judgment. I'm just being honest here (see previous paragraph regarding candor). And, at this point in the conversation, you'd gently (or not so gently) remind me that your next book is, indeed, a memoir. Good news for both of us!
If You Were Here, I'd sincerely thank you for the obvious hard work you did to get this book published, regardless of my personal opinion.
If You Were Here, I'd now expertly roll the credits while "(Don't You) Forget About Me" played in the background.
See you next year.
With Sista-ly Love,
Diana
Saturday, February 12, 2011
How to Bake a Perfect Life (Barbara O’Neal)
From the time we are able to eat solid food, Italian girls are expected to help in the kitchen. We start with simple things: folding paper napkins and tucking them under the plates at dinnertime, ripping lettuce and tossing the salad, scattering colorful sprinkles onto Christmas cookies and placing them gingerly into the tins. Years pass and we advance to mixing, rolling and frying meatballs for Sunday sauce, flicking gnocchi off of the dough rope with our thumbs to toss into scalding water, pushing pizza dough to the far corners of the pan without making it tear all while pretending that there is no place we’d rather be than in the kitchen (forget hangin’ with friends at the mall, we’d rather be cooking!). Complaints were scolded and then dismissed by knowing words from our mothers, aunts and grandmothers, “You need to learn to cook. One day you’ll have a family of your own.”
Good Italian girls cooked. Judged by the number of hours we spent in “learning” from our matriarchs and, eventually, by the quality of the food we produced ourselves, my sister, my cousins and I entered the culinary competition early and without our conscent. To my own mother’s embarrassment and chagrin, I was never interested in learning to cook. The kitchen was prison and I longed for parole without caring about the deficit I’d face when I was a married adult. The best thing to make, as far as I was concerned, was reservations!
I’m not sure when my attitude towards all things culinary shifted. The change was subtle, like shrimp transitioning from Dove white to Flamingo pink when being sautéed for scampi. Cooking ignited my competitive spirit. Suddenly, I must barbeque the ribs that always fall off the bones (a secret I’m unwilling to reveal), roast the most succulent Thanksgiving turkey (brined, massaged, rubbed, buttered and basted strategically each year), to win the egg roll contest at work (I beat a guy born in Shanghai!), to concoct the most delectable garlic dill sauce for the grilled halibut (which is, in a word, AMAZING), to bake the most enviable Christmas cookies (and package them in the most darling treat boxes I can find each year). I am a cook. I am a baker. And I now feel an inherent need to be identified by both labels.
Those who know me best know all about my glorious metamorphosis. Most grateful is Brian, who loves to eat whatever I cook, and my mother who is thrilled about passing the holiday dinner torch to me—a daughter who was, for a time, an incredibly lost cause in the kitchen. Third on this list is Linda, the recipient of the sometimes luxurious leftovers I save for our office luncheons each week. It was Linda who recommended How to Bake a Perfect Life.
Besides baking, I have almost nothing in common with this book’s protagonist. Other than the kitchen, the setting (Colorado) is no place I’d choose to be. But this book reminds me that food provides sustenance, creates comfort, builds community, promotes joy, and symbolizes love.
Mangia!
Good Italian girls cooked. Judged by the number of hours we spent in “learning” from our matriarchs and, eventually, by the quality of the food we produced ourselves, my sister, my cousins and I entered the culinary competition early and without our conscent. To my own mother’s embarrassment and chagrin, I was never interested in learning to cook. The kitchen was prison and I longed for parole without caring about the deficit I’d face when I was a married adult. The best thing to make, as far as I was concerned, was reservations!
I’m not sure when my attitude towards all things culinary shifted. The change was subtle, like shrimp transitioning from Dove white to Flamingo pink when being sautéed for scampi. Cooking ignited my competitive spirit. Suddenly, I must barbeque the ribs that always fall off the bones (a secret I’m unwilling to reveal), roast the most succulent Thanksgiving turkey (brined, massaged, rubbed, buttered and basted strategically each year), to win the egg roll contest at work (I beat a guy born in Shanghai!), to concoct the most delectable garlic dill sauce for the grilled halibut (which is, in a word, AMAZING), to bake the most enviable Christmas cookies (and package them in the most darling treat boxes I can find each year). I am a cook. I am a baker. And I now feel an inherent need to be identified by both labels.
Those who know me best know all about my glorious metamorphosis. Most grateful is Brian, who loves to eat whatever I cook, and my mother who is thrilled about passing the holiday dinner torch to me—a daughter who was, for a time, an incredibly lost cause in the kitchen. Third on this list is Linda, the recipient of the sometimes luxurious leftovers I save for our office luncheons each week. It was Linda who recommended How to Bake a Perfect Life.
Besides baking, I have almost nothing in common with this book’s protagonist. Other than the kitchen, the setting (Colorado) is no place I’d choose to be. But this book reminds me that food provides sustenance, creates comfort, builds community, promotes joy, and symbolizes love.
Mangia!
Monday, January 31, 2011
Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses (Claire Dederer)
My favorite yoga studio is Carmel Valley's Sculpt Fusion. I can say this today after practicing there for over a year. I could not say it after taking my first Vinyasa class taught by my now favorite yogini, Anna. Allow me to describe the experience.
Brian was hard at work--as usual--and I was left to my own SoCal devices (as usual). Earlier that week, Brian and I noticed Sculpt Fusion in the same plaza as the incredible and delectable Taste of Italy restaurant where we spend every San Diego Friday night together and which (this is fascinating) serves the BEST grilled fish tacos I've/we've ever eaten. No lie. I digress.
Anyway, Sculpt Fusion looks pretty much like every other yoga studio I've experienced. How many would that be, you wonder? Here is the short list: At One (Scottsdale, Arizona), Harmony Yoga (Redondo Beach, California), Bikram Tempe (Arizona), Summits Chandler (Arizona). And, like all other studios, it offers a free unlimited week to locals. I signed up and chose Anna's class as my first.
Anna teaches her Level I (which would really be a level III anyplace else) Vinyasa Flow class on Friday afternoons. And because there isn't a class scheduled after hers, she usually runs longer than the advertised 60 minutes. This I learned from a fellow yogi. No problem, I thought. If I could once handle "Chappy's" scream of "Asses to PCH (Pacific Coast Highway)!" during downward facing dog at Harmony, I could handle this Anna's disregard for the Sculpt Fusion schedule. In a word: wrong.
The SF yoga studio is heated to a balmy 98 degrees. Sometime in the middle of each class, about 40% humidity is added to the air. I was completely unprepared for the climate in there, much less the rigor.
Anna, welcomed all of us and directed us to begin our Ujjayi breathing. Shortly after, she strolled about the sultry studio giving gentle commands in Sanskrit for poses that, when strung together in a seemingly endless sequence, are anything but gentle: Tadasana (Mountain Pose), Uttanasana (Forward Bend), Chaturanga Dandasana (Push Up), Parivrtta Ardha Chandrasana (Revolved Half Moon), and more, more, more. Click here for a complete list of poses and descriptions: http://yoga.about.com/od/yogaposenamesinsanskrit/Yoga_Poses_Alphabetically_by_Sanskrit_Names.htm
I left class exhausted and drenched to my core with sweat. I actually felt physically sick for many hours afterward.
Brian eventually arrived home that evening and asked me what I thought of class. I emphatically announced that I would never return. I couldn't endure another moment of Anna's torture.
Eighteen months later, I cannot get enough of Sculpt Fusion. I'm addicted. In fact, I was there three days in a row this past weekend and loved every excruciating pose and every sweaty moment. My body craves these poses, the sweat, the heat in ways I never thought possible. I am a yogini traversing a yoga journey.
It should now come as no surprise as to why, despite the fact that it is most definitely NOT a Debbie Downer book, I chose to read Poser. I loved, loved, LOVED the title! And I loved that the author uses yoga and the poses as a metaphor for her own life. I applaud the cleverness of this idea (as well as the darling stick figures in each chapter that illustrate the poses) and wish I'd thought of it myself. Cha-ching! Unfortunately, the book drags--just as my ass did after my first class with Anna--and that is rather disappointing.
Similar to yoga, books provide an escape from reality and an introspective personal journey. Like the poses, books offer a myriad of possibilities from which to choose. When one doesn't work, we can try others. And that is exactly what I plan to do.
Namaste.
Brian was hard at work--as usual--and I was left to my own SoCal devices (as usual). Earlier that week, Brian and I noticed Sculpt Fusion in the same plaza as the incredible and delectable Taste of Italy restaurant where we spend every San Diego Friday night together and which (this is fascinating) serves the BEST grilled fish tacos I've/we've ever eaten. No lie. I digress.
Anyway, Sculpt Fusion looks pretty much like every other yoga studio I've experienced. How many would that be, you wonder? Here is the short list: At One (Scottsdale, Arizona), Harmony Yoga (Redondo Beach, California), Bikram Tempe (Arizona), Summits Chandler (Arizona). And, like all other studios, it offers a free unlimited week to locals. I signed up and chose Anna's class as my first.
Anna teaches her Level I (which would really be a level III anyplace else) Vinyasa Flow class on Friday afternoons. And because there isn't a class scheduled after hers, she usually runs longer than the advertised 60 minutes. This I learned from a fellow yogi. No problem, I thought. If I could once handle "Chappy's" scream of "Asses to PCH (Pacific Coast Highway)!" during downward facing dog at Harmony, I could handle this Anna's disregard for the Sculpt Fusion schedule. In a word: wrong.
The SF yoga studio is heated to a balmy 98 degrees. Sometime in the middle of each class, about 40% humidity is added to the air. I was completely unprepared for the climate in there, much less the rigor.
Anna, welcomed all of us and directed us to begin our Ujjayi breathing. Shortly after, she strolled about the sultry studio giving gentle commands in Sanskrit for poses that, when strung together in a seemingly endless sequence, are anything but gentle: Tadasana (Mountain Pose), Uttanasana (Forward Bend), Chaturanga Dandasana (Push Up), Parivrtta Ardha Chandrasana (Revolved Half Moon), and more, more, more. Click here for a complete list of poses and descriptions: http://yoga.about.com/od/yogaposenamesinsanskrit/Yoga_Poses_Alphabetically_by_Sanskrit_Names.htm
I left class exhausted and drenched to my core with sweat. I actually felt physically sick for many hours afterward.
Brian eventually arrived home that evening and asked me what I thought of class. I emphatically announced that I would never return. I couldn't endure another moment of Anna's torture.
Eighteen months later, I cannot get enough of Sculpt Fusion. I'm addicted. In fact, I was there three days in a row this past weekend and loved every excruciating pose and every sweaty moment. My body craves these poses, the sweat, the heat in ways I never thought possible. I am a yogini traversing a yoga journey.
It should now come as no surprise as to why, despite the fact that it is most definitely NOT a Debbie Downer book, I chose to read Poser. I loved, loved, LOVED the title! And I loved that the author uses yoga and the poses as a metaphor for her own life. I applaud the cleverness of this idea (as well as the darling stick figures in each chapter that illustrate the poses) and wish I'd thought of it myself. Cha-ching! Unfortunately, the book drags--just as my ass did after my first class with Anna--and that is rather disappointing.
Similar to yoga, books provide an escape from reality and an introspective personal journey. Like the poses, books offer a myriad of possibilities from which to choose. When one doesn't work, we can try others. And that is exactly what I plan to do.
Namaste.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Room (Emma Donoghue)
Typically, when I think of anything related to 12 x 12, the following comes to mind:
• A scrapbook page
• An album to hold a collection of scrapbook pages
• A Suduko puzzle (though I’ve never solved one because these things frustrate the hell out of me)
• Multiplication tables through “the twelves”
• The cover of a vintage 33rpm vinyl album
A dwelling does not come to mind—even though I’ve purchased overpriced real estate in Southern California.
In Room, 12 x 12 is a shed inhabited by five year-old Jack and his “ma”. Through Jack’s voice, we learn that he was born in Room, plays on Rug, sleeps in Wardrobe, eats at Table and has never been outside beyond the locked Door. We also learn that a mysterious “Old Nick” visits Jack and his ma almost nightly; mostly to repeatedly rape Ma while Jack hides in Wardrobe, but also to remove trash and bring sparse supplies of food and clothing. At a certain point, Jack’s young Ma determines that she’s had enough and is ready to risk everything in an attempt to escape and it is only then that she reveals how she and Jack arrived in Room in the first place and why they’ve lived there for so many horrific years.
Life outside Room is fascinating, terrifying, stimulating and ultimately exhausting for both Jack and his ma. The overwhelming adjustments they must make to survive result in their longing for change and the unique execution of their desires in ways that are both predictable and heartbreaking.
I’ll stop here. The less I share, the more the book retains its incredible power. Read it. Definitely.
• A scrapbook page
• An album to hold a collection of scrapbook pages
• A Suduko puzzle (though I’ve never solved one because these things frustrate the hell out of me)
• Multiplication tables through “the twelves”
• The cover of a vintage 33rpm vinyl album
A dwelling does not come to mind—even though I’ve purchased overpriced real estate in Southern California.
In Room, 12 x 12 is a shed inhabited by five year-old Jack and his “ma”. Through Jack’s voice, we learn that he was born in Room, plays on Rug, sleeps in Wardrobe, eats at Table and has never been outside beyond the locked Door. We also learn that a mysterious “Old Nick” visits Jack and his ma almost nightly; mostly to repeatedly rape Ma while Jack hides in Wardrobe, but also to remove trash and bring sparse supplies of food and clothing. At a certain point, Jack’s young Ma determines that she’s had enough and is ready to risk everything in an attempt to escape and it is only then that she reveals how she and Jack arrived in Room in the first place and why they’ve lived there for so many horrific years.
Life outside Room is fascinating, terrifying, stimulating and ultimately exhausting for both Jack and his ma. The overwhelming adjustments they must make to survive result in their longing for change and the unique execution of their desires in ways that are both predictable and heartbreaking.
I’ll stop here. The less I share, the more the book retains its incredible power. Read it. Definitely.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
If I am Missing or Dead (Janine Latus)
I spent part of this morning shopping at Cost Plus World Market for an assembly-required bookshelf to aid in my office renovation and reorganization project. I was just about to check out when perky clerk, Shannon, asked me if I needed any of the “amazing” products from the Eat, Pray, Love (the book written by Elizabeth Gilbert) part of the store. I must have unconsciously expressed irritation or disgust at that point because Shannon then asked if I had read the book. I said that I had not. She was soon deflated and sighed, “Oh my God. You have to read it! It’s amazing!” I explained that I tried to read the book but could not get past the author’s whining and self-pity in the beginning so I put it down. I further explained that I could not respect a person who, admittedly and for a lifetime, failed to see the beauty within and around her and found it necessary to travel the world to do so. An aside: Apparently I am one of few people who feel that way as this book has been on the New York Times Best Seller list for over 155 weeks (according to the author’s website).
Shannon, ever the customer service professional, then asked if I planned to see the film. I said no so, of course, she wanted to know why. Aside from the fact that the film is based on a book with a premise I found completely annoying (didn’t she get that from the first part of the conversation?), I shared my recent disenchantment with Julia Roberts who, in a recent interview on the Oprah Winfrey Show, claimed that she was resigned to sewing her children’s clothing by hand because of the recession. REALLY JULIA??? As if we all believe that YOU are suffering financially. For those who are somehow unaware, Julia Roberts will play the lead role in the Eat, Pray, Love film (apparently because she’d prefer to buy clothes at Baby Gap than continue to sew them and royalties from this project will enable her to do so). And because I have now relegated Julia to the status of the couch-jumping, Scientologist, Tom Cruise, I have no immediate plans to see that movie. Or read the rest of the book. My conversation with Cost Plus World Market Shannon underscored those facts.
Throughout at least several of the past 155 weeks, I’ve reflected upon the fact that I am not nor ever will be part of the EPL phenomena. I’m sure it’s a fine book for some. But really, the book’s content is too introspective and ultimately uplifting for my taste considering my penchant for "Debbie Downer" books. None of which should come as a surprise if you’ve been following this blog or have known me personally for longer than three hours. And that, finally, brings me to If I am Missing or Dead.
What a brilliant title for such a devastating novel. The author writes about her own bleak childhood, the abuse her mother endured from her father, and how both resulted in a second generation of victimization as both Latus and her favorite sister, Amy, married abusers. Latus ultimately escapes the horror of her own relationship. Amy does not.
This memoir, in many ways, reminded me of Jeannette Walls’, The Glass Castle. It shares themes of spousal abuse, women with escape strategies, and tragedy mixed with successes. It’s another book that women everywhere should read either to reaffirm their own healthy relationships or to see themselves within the Latus family dynamic and take action.
This book will live on my new Cost Plus shelf—as soon as I finish assembling it.
Shannon, ever the customer service professional, then asked if I planned to see the film. I said no so, of course, she wanted to know why. Aside from the fact that the film is based on a book with a premise I found completely annoying (didn’t she get that from the first part of the conversation?), I shared my recent disenchantment with Julia Roberts who, in a recent interview on the Oprah Winfrey Show, claimed that she was resigned to sewing her children’s clothing by hand because of the recession. REALLY JULIA??? As if we all believe that YOU are suffering financially. For those who are somehow unaware, Julia Roberts will play the lead role in the Eat, Pray, Love film (apparently because she’d prefer to buy clothes at Baby Gap than continue to sew them and royalties from this project will enable her to do so). And because I have now relegated Julia to the status of the couch-jumping, Scientologist, Tom Cruise, I have no immediate plans to see that movie. Or read the rest of the book. My conversation with Cost Plus World Market Shannon underscored those facts.
Throughout at least several of the past 155 weeks, I’ve reflected upon the fact that I am not nor ever will be part of the EPL phenomena. I’m sure it’s a fine book for some. But really, the book’s content is too introspective and ultimately uplifting for my taste considering my penchant for "Debbie Downer" books. None of which should come as a surprise if you’ve been following this blog or have known me personally for longer than three hours. And that, finally, brings me to If I am Missing or Dead.
What a brilliant title for such a devastating novel. The author writes about her own bleak childhood, the abuse her mother endured from her father, and how both resulted in a second generation of victimization as both Latus and her favorite sister, Amy, married abusers. Latus ultimately escapes the horror of her own relationship. Amy does not.
This memoir, in many ways, reminded me of Jeannette Walls’, The Glass Castle. It shares themes of spousal abuse, women with escape strategies, and tragedy mixed with successes. It’s another book that women everywhere should read either to reaffirm their own healthy relationships or to see themselves within the Latus family dynamic and take action.
This book will live on my new Cost Plus shelf—as soon as I finish assembling it.
Friday, July 9, 2010
We Need to Talk About Kevin (Lionel Shriver)
Some people just shouldn’t have children.
I say this after spending many years teaching kids who were, mostly, delightful. But of the two-hundred or so students I taught each year, every once in a while, a not-so-delightful kid appeared in my class. I’m not talking about the kid who brought a rat to my class in an attempt to derail my lesson plan. And I’m not talking about the kid who ate, with his hands, the cake I bought so my honors class could celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday. These boys (yep, both boys) were amateurs and acted out as a function of their immaturity. The not-so-delightful students I’m thinking of were ones I was certain, at the time, were future felons. Even at the tender age of fourteen, they exuded pure evil. Several names and associated offenses come to mind when I reminisce about that reality but I won’t list them here. And I hope their parents, the same people I pleaded with to pay careful attention to the behaviors I observed in class yet didn’t, appreciate that.
Kevin, the protagonist named in this book’s title, could have easily been one of the students I’m thinking about with one notable exception: his mother, Eva, was never in denial about the very different child he was nor the monster he was destined to become. She knew, as perhaps only a mother could, Kevin’s malicious, immoral and sociopathic psyche better than anyone. Even Eva’s beloved husband, Franklin,—seemingly estranged from her throughout the novel—rejected the idea that Kevin was socially unacceptable and exhibited gruesome behaviors despite the obvious.
Eva’s inherent ill feelings towards Kevin cause her to question, throughout the book, her decision to have children until Celia, her savior child and Kevin’s younger sister, is born; thus vindicating her role as a mother. Unfortunately, Kevin is a force greater than what Eva initially understands. His remorseless path of destruction is infinite and ultimately resonates in Eva’s relentless introspection about her decision to become a parent and how that decision resulted in the raising of an adolescent murderer.
Presented creatively in a series of letters to her husband, Eva tells a haunting story. In the end, those who have children will be left wondering if such horror could occur in their own families. Those who don’t (due to personal choice) may realize an affirmation regarding that decision.
I say this after spending many years teaching kids who were, mostly, delightful. But of the two-hundred or so students I taught each year, every once in a while, a not-so-delightful kid appeared in my class. I’m not talking about the kid who brought a rat to my class in an attempt to derail my lesson plan. And I’m not talking about the kid who ate, with his hands, the cake I bought so my honors class could celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday. These boys (yep, both boys) were amateurs and acted out as a function of their immaturity. The not-so-delightful students I’m thinking of were ones I was certain, at the time, were future felons. Even at the tender age of fourteen, they exuded pure evil. Several names and associated offenses come to mind when I reminisce about that reality but I won’t list them here. And I hope their parents, the same people I pleaded with to pay careful attention to the behaviors I observed in class yet didn’t, appreciate that.
Kevin, the protagonist named in this book’s title, could have easily been one of the students I’m thinking about with one notable exception: his mother, Eva, was never in denial about the very different child he was nor the monster he was destined to become. She knew, as perhaps only a mother could, Kevin’s malicious, immoral and sociopathic psyche better than anyone. Even Eva’s beloved husband, Franklin,—seemingly estranged from her throughout the novel—rejected the idea that Kevin was socially unacceptable and exhibited gruesome behaviors despite the obvious.
Eva’s inherent ill feelings towards Kevin cause her to question, throughout the book, her decision to have children until Celia, her savior child and Kevin’s younger sister, is born; thus vindicating her role as a mother. Unfortunately, Kevin is a force greater than what Eva initially understands. His remorseless path of destruction is infinite and ultimately resonates in Eva’s relentless introspection about her decision to become a parent and how that decision resulted in the raising of an adolescent murderer.
Presented creatively in a series of letters to her husband, Eva tells a haunting story. In the end, those who have children will be left wondering if such horror could occur in their own families. Those who don’t (due to personal choice) may realize an affirmation regarding that decision.
