Once upon a time on a PAC-10 campus not far from here, an arrogant English professor named Dr. Donelson required his students (myself included) to read and write about what seemed like hundreds (but was probably only fifty or sixty) of young adult (YA) novels in one semester. Donelson read every YA book ever published, or so it seemed, and therefore proselytized that good English teachers needed to do the same. Maybe because we were afraid of his wrath, maybe because we were looking for As in his class, or maybe because we really loved those books as much as Donelson did, we read. And we read, and read, and read.
Many years and many credit hours later, Dr. Donelson retired. Still, though, I continue to read YA books--now for entertainment rather than for grades—and sometimes find that I like “kid books” better than those written for us adults. Wintergirls is one of those books.
Wintergirls is a book about two anorexics: one is dead, one is not. The dead one, Cassie, haunts the one still living, Lia, (who is also Cassie’s former BFF) and, in a bizarre attempt at rekindling the friendship, attempts to lure Lia into the afterworld. Cassie’s spirit appears unexpectedly and at inopportune times. She taunts Lia and encourages her to dangerously restrict calories and fluids which Lia does despite the fact that she was previously hospitalized and is being monitored for the same throughout the story.
Most disturbing to Lia is the fact that Cassie called her—thirty-three times—on the night she died. But because the girls hadn’t spoken in the months that preceded the tragedy, Lia did not answer the calls (we girls tend to hold grudges), consequently feels responsible for Cassie’s death (who wouldn’t?), and strongly considers joining Cassie in the spirit world (bad idea).
Wintergirls is a well-choreographed dance of opposites: living and dead, comfort and insecurity, friends and enemies, sanity and insanity. Even the words on the pages dance with each other as Lia’s true thoughts and feelings are often written, crossed out and then replaced by whatever she “should” be thinking. This self-editing, something most of us do unconsciously, is artfully illustrated (literally) throughout the book and reminds readers that while all feelings are authentic and valid, expression must be monitored at times.
If themes surrounding adolescent anorexia, afterlife, relationships, and complexities of modern life interest you, read Wintergirls. But maybe eat a sandwich beforehand.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Generation Me: Why Today's Young Americans Are More Confident, Assertive, Entitled--and More Miserable Than Ever Before (Jean Twenge, Ph.D.)
Do you believe that self-esteem is more important than personal achievement? Do you believe that anything is possible regardless of one’s talent level or work ethic? Were you born after 1970? If you’ve answered “yes” to all three questions (or at least the last one), then it’s time to self-reflect.
Within Generation Me, Dr. Twenge, a San Diego State University professor, presents compelling data that identifies you folks born in 1971 and beyond as indulgent, spoiled, impatient, and unprepared for the realities of adult life in the 21st Century. Her commentary isn’t at all complimentary. But before you get really pissed off and refuse to read her book and before those who are older and wiser (ha) hail her a genius, understand this, too: Twenge blames your parents and your teachers (that would be us!) for making you indulgent, spoiled, impatient, and unprepared for the realities of adult life in the 21st Century. Intrigued?
Generation Me isn’t a pedantic opinion. It’s a compilation of longitudinal data collected through statistics, polls, personality test results, and more that presents a somewhat sad commentary on modern life in America. The book reads sort of like a tweaked dissertation—which it might be--so get ready to trudge through a mass of statistics and their somewhat redundant implications. Regardless, it tells an important story that really can give readers an epiphany or two about the obvious shift in American culture and why some things are now the way they are (especially relative to education issues like inflated grades, social promotion, non-participative parents, and the like) instead of the way those of us born prior to 1971 remember them.
I rarely read nonfiction. However, since reading this for our 2008 faculty book discussion, Generation Me has become my absolute favorite piece of recent nonfiction. I refer to it countless times in the classes I teach. But each time I do, I wonder which twenty-something or thirty-something student I’ll irritate. To date, no one has been offended nor has anyone filed related grievances so maybe things aren’t as grim as Generation Me would have us think. Let's hope.
Within Generation Me, Dr. Twenge, a San Diego State University professor, presents compelling data that identifies you folks born in 1971 and beyond as indulgent, spoiled, impatient, and unprepared for the realities of adult life in the 21st Century. Her commentary isn’t at all complimentary. But before you get really pissed off and refuse to read her book and before those who are older and wiser (ha) hail her a genius, understand this, too: Twenge blames your parents and your teachers (that would be us!) for making you indulgent, spoiled, impatient, and unprepared for the realities of adult life in the 21st Century. Intrigued?
Generation Me isn’t a pedantic opinion. It’s a compilation of longitudinal data collected through statistics, polls, personality test results, and more that presents a somewhat sad commentary on modern life in America. The book reads sort of like a tweaked dissertation—which it might be--so get ready to trudge through a mass of statistics and their somewhat redundant implications. Regardless, it tells an important story that really can give readers an epiphany or two about the obvious shift in American culture and why some things are now the way they are (especially relative to education issues like inflated grades, social promotion, non-participative parents, and the like) instead of the way those of us born prior to 1971 remember them.
I rarely read nonfiction. However, since reading this for our 2008 faculty book discussion, Generation Me has become my absolute favorite piece of recent nonfiction. I refer to it countless times in the classes I teach. But each time I do, I wonder which twenty-something or thirty-something student I’ll irritate. To date, no one has been offended nor has anyone filed related grievances so maybe things aren’t as grim as Generation Me would have us think. Let's hope.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Still Alice (Lisa Genova, Ph.D.)
I hate to start this with a total downer but I had to read something while waiting for the new ones from Jodi (Picoult) and Jen (Lancaster). Both authors are favorites of mine and will release new books this spring. Actually, Jodi just released her new one, House Rules, this week. Yea! So exciting! Still waiting for Jen’s My Fair Lazy…
Anyway, I ran across Still Alice (Lisa Genova, Ph.D.) while in Costco one Saturday. Brian (husband extraordinaire) abandoned me in the book aisle so he could shop for wine. I didn’t buy the book that day. I wrote the title on the back of my Costco list and Kindled it later so I could have it for an upcoming PHX/SAN trip. Confession: Since Brian gave me the Kindle for my last birthday, I rarely read print books anymore. Another confession: While my Kindle is currently my FAVORITE tech device, I miss the feel and the smell of books. To get that “fix”, I visit Barnes and Noble on a semi-regular basis. One final confession: I needed a glass or two of that wine after reading Still Alice.
Back to the book…I finished it four days ago and its realistic portrayal of an academic’s (Alice Howland) descent into early-onset Alzheimer’s still haunts me. Alice Howland is a Harvard linguistics professor (how’s that for irony?) who becomes symptomatic during the prime of her life and in the midst of the career she loves. Alice’s horrifying symptoms, described by Alice herself, and her handling of her situation begs a few questions.
First, what do we do when our “services” (anywhere…at work, at home, in a relationship) are no longer needed? Alice must resign her position shortly after her diagnosis and the situation devastates her almost as much as the disease itself. What would we/will we do when personal circumstances result in unwanted change?
Second, who are we beyond our positions at our jobs? Alice was a Harvard professor. Who is she after her resignation? Who are we when we’re no longer working? What happens to our identities then?
Third, what is the condition of our relationships? Alice doesn’t truly know or understand one of her own children long before her disease manifests itself. And she doesn’t notice the distance that begins to separate her from her husband (also a professor). Should our relationships be reexamined, changed, or strengthened in the near future?
Thankfully, my family has not been plagued by this often hereditary disease so I don’t perseverate on the possibility of contracting it the way I sometimes do when I “WebMD” the symptoms of something I’m experiencing only to find a long list of related terminal illnesses. But this book scares the hell out of me, anyway, and it forces me to consider the difficult concepts of personal identity, self-worth, and relationship dynamics.
Still Alice is definitely worth reading. Brace yourself.
Anyway, I ran across Still Alice (Lisa Genova, Ph.D.) while in Costco one Saturday. Brian (husband extraordinaire) abandoned me in the book aisle so he could shop for wine. I didn’t buy the book that day. I wrote the title on the back of my Costco list and Kindled it later so I could have it for an upcoming PHX/SAN trip. Confession: Since Brian gave me the Kindle for my last birthday, I rarely read print books anymore. Another confession: While my Kindle is currently my FAVORITE tech device, I miss the feel and the smell of books. To get that “fix”, I visit Barnes and Noble on a semi-regular basis. One final confession: I needed a glass or two of that wine after reading Still Alice.
Back to the book…I finished it four days ago and its realistic portrayal of an academic’s (Alice Howland) descent into early-onset Alzheimer’s still haunts me. Alice Howland is a Harvard linguistics professor (how’s that for irony?) who becomes symptomatic during the prime of her life and in the midst of the career she loves. Alice’s horrifying symptoms, described by Alice herself, and her handling of her situation begs a few questions.
First, what do we do when our “services” (anywhere…at work, at home, in a relationship) are no longer needed? Alice must resign her position shortly after her diagnosis and the situation devastates her almost as much as the disease itself. What would we/will we do when personal circumstances result in unwanted change?
Second, who are we beyond our positions at our jobs? Alice was a Harvard professor. Who is she after her resignation? Who are we when we’re no longer working? What happens to our identities then?
Third, what is the condition of our relationships? Alice doesn’t truly know or understand one of her own children long before her disease manifests itself. And she doesn’t notice the distance that begins to separate her from her husband (also a professor). Should our relationships be reexamined, changed, or strengthened in the near future?
Thankfully, my family has not been plagued by this often hereditary disease so I don’t perseverate on the possibility of contracting it the way I sometimes do when I “WebMD” the symptoms of something I’m experiencing only to find a long list of related terminal illnesses. But this book scares the hell out of me, anyway, and it forces me to consider the difficult concepts of personal identity, self-worth, and relationship dynamics.
Still Alice is definitely worth reading. Brace yourself.
