Change is Coming

Lately, I've been seeing the signs. Not sure what they mean or where they're taking me,

The raven calling to me from the top of the phone pole was the first one. Then the random black feathers show up on the sidewalk in front of me. The Raven, despite sometimes being interpreted to mean death, also means that change is coming.

Then I found a decapitated common rat in my kitchen. Ewww. My skin still crawls. Thankfully, it was cleanly decapitated, I think by one or another of my pets, but I can't get it out of my head. I've never seen a rat around my house. How did it get in? How did it get into my kitchen? How come there was no blood?

Okay, I get that the explanations are simple -- It may have snuck in when someone left the door open by mistake. It was killed by one of my cats who, proud of his or her hunter ability, left it for me to see. One animal or another cleaned up the mess. But I think there's more. I wonder if this was another sign.

The Rats are highly adaptable animals that are also survivalists.

My question, now, is what does it all mean? What changes are coming? The ground is shaking. The heat is getting closer.

Will I be able to handle the explosion when it comes? Will I be able to live up to the title of this blog? Will I be able to Stand for Something Now?

I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

Working Past the Haze

Write something short, my grandmother said. She knows how hard I've been working on trying to publish my novels, maybe she thought it would be easier to publish something shorter. ... so here I am, updating my blog. Maybe my Tata (the name we've always called her) knew something was dragging me down. Maybe she knew writing anything would make me feel better. She's right, I know.

I'm at that point where I've lost the sparkles and the rainbows. I'm floundering in the fog of missed chances and the haze of broken spirits. The promise of a dream-fulfilled has been looming like a helium baloon for many years now. "You're so close," mentors have told me. "You're so lucky, agent so-and-so still has your manuscript," friends have said. But the promise feels empty from my vantage point.

How many years can you count yourself lucky that you're "so close" before it becomes a bold-faced lie? What I thought was a party-sized helium baloon turned out to be a car-sized hot-air ride. I'm at the point right now where I just want to slip on the parachute and jump out of the basket.

Then I try to think of what my life would be like if I didn't have my writing to keep me going.

I can't. I am a writer. I am a dreamer. I am a maker of wishes. Giving up on my dreams would be tantamount to a death sentence for me.

So, because I abhor the idea of giving up, I'm putting on blinders and going forward. I don't know how to go any other way. The depression that tried to smother me recently can't possibly beat my stars-and-rainbows personality. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm still not feeling in the best of moods. I'm still deathly afraid of never achieving my dreams. But I can't live like that. It's not in my nature.

That day, oh so many years ago, when my mother broke the news to me that Santa Claus wasn't real, is still such a vivid memory. I cried for the rest of the day and into the next. The idea of there not being a Santa Claus, to me, meant that there was no hope and no goodness in this world. It only got better when Mom and I redefined Santa's existence -- yes, he lived once and he continues to live in the hearts of many. He just doesn't have a sleigh and reindeer.

So, this dream of being a published author is my grown up Santa Claus moment.

Yes, I am a writer, and I have dreams of writing stories that will live in the hearts of young people everywhere for a very long time. When the dark reality tries to drag me down, I will wish upon the evening star, but wishing and dreaming aren't enough.

Tightening those blinders around my face, I continue forward, working ever-diligently, my dreams alive and palpable, until the day I find my reindeer.

The Clock is Ticking

Fifteen minutes. That's all the time I have to write today -- I have to finish packing for our vacation and finish getting the house ready for our absence, but I'm giving myself fifteen minutes to write.

Fifteen minutes are not enough to revisit the current Work in Revision. When I enter that world, I'm transported in time to another place where heroes and heroines fight against time to save the world. Fifteen minutes won't even get me through the portal. The quarter hour will become an hour and a half. Can't do that today.

I could spend this time writing posts on one social network or another, but that's not creating,
                 that's regurgitating
                 and trolling
                 and stalking. Don't feel like that today.

Today, I feel like connecting with my blog again. So here I am.

I've been thinking about the writing business. To me, writing is not difficult. Revising, although tedious and frustrating, is fun for me. It's the BUSINESS part of the phrase that handcuffs me and makes me beg, Please, Sir, may I have another ... rejection? Because a dozen for this thing I call my reason for living is simply not enough.

I can blame bad luck for the dearth of favorable reactions, but, no. Luck has nothing to do with it. Simply put, my problem is that I don't know how to sell myself.

In the spirit of 50 Shades of Gray: I am a Submissive in a Dominant world.

My thinking is more in line with -- Write it and they will come. (Field of Dreams)


That thinking is wrong. In this crazy publishing world, there is no magic genie who will blink her eyes and hook you up with a publishing contract. The writer has to work at it. Hard. Selling something I think should be able to sell itself.

And that's often the problem.

Those of us who write very often prefer solitary lives that we can enjoy with the characters that flow from our fingertips. That won't work.

Some writers have resorted to bypassing mainstream publishing. They write their fabulous tome, sometimes pay a freelance editor to read through it, and then call up an independent publisher who will then print up a few on demand and put a link on Amazon. For most people, that's okay. That's acceptable.

But for others, especially those: * in mainstream publishing,
                                                    * in the media that provide reviews,
                                                    * and in those writers' own peer groups,
jumping to the self-publishing route is a sign of weakness.

I agree. For me. If I were to go that route, I would be very disappointed in myself because my ultimate goal is to have high school students ravenously flock to my books. Lately, the only people flocking to e-books are hungry wives looking for a gray-eyed lover. That was a fluke, folks. People have been self-publishing for ages, but that rarely (if ever) happened before.

Instead of giving in, I'm using this summer vacation to work harder on refocusing my talents in order to better sell myself. Hopefully, 2012 will be the year I finally get an agent, the next logical step in this long, arduous nightmare we writers subject ourselves to. I will, however, keep my options open.

My fifteen minutes are up. ... or are they?

Until the next post ....

My teaching philosophy

Required. The word itself carries with it the yoke of suppression by the rules and deadlines of people who are outside of what the participant desires. Only in hindsight do we recognize that the requirements themselves are the framework of a functional existence. Therefore the teacher responsible for piecing together the puzzle for teaching a required course must accept this burden of functioning in the haze of misinterpretation.

For me, that burden is a joy, though.

As I lay the foundation in my senior level English literature class, I imagine these students building on the rock I’ve prepared for them. Don't tell my students, but I've been preparing them for writing throughout their college career by instilling a sense of curiosity.

My philosophy does not just refer to teaching English. I teach English because that’s my life experience. That’s what I do and what I know best. My philosophy of teaching reaches past the boundaries of grammar, literature, and analysis. I want my students to think for themselves. I do not mean my students should spew the words of great philosophers and life experts – although that will come with experience. I want students to be aware of their own potential. I want them to question life and expectations, to consider the possibilities, to refine their own interpretations. Inspiring those lessons is not easy. It takes setting the stage in a classroom that shakes their reality, reaching into their comfort zone and shattering it just a little bit. In my classroom, it starts with a bulletin board decorated with fruit-covered wallpaper. It also means having students analyze a simple essay for deeper meaning – not the writer’s, but their own – or determining who, Hamlet or Ophelia, was more victimized by their parents’ weaknesses in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

Accessing students’ deeper learning happens once their reality becomes more accessible when viewed through the words of classic literature or modern film, when experienced through the lyrics of a good rock song or the science of a simple math equation, when analyzed through the microscope of exploration. To learn, we must break through the fear that holds us to others’ expectations. The learner must ask the burning question of an eager three-year-old – why? There is a reason that question is one of the six taught to budding journalists. ‘Why’ reveals intent and encourages honesty. It addresses motives, and, in so doing, creates deeper meaning, enabling the student to turn that child’s question into an adult’s philosophy.

To teach that deeper meaning, I teach the basics of writing: the art of brainstorming, the joy of free-writing, the structure of outlining, the randomness of clustering. Once the rough draft is complete, (heh, heh ... this is coming this week, students!) I teach them to question their essay like a journalist, asking them to possibly answer their question “outside the box.” And then comes the greatest sacrifice, peer review, where students must filter through the comments of classmates for the nuggets that will strengthen their work. The process does not end there, that is only when I actively join it and help them direct it. There is a tedious process to completion, but each step holds its own lessons. It’s in revision that we learn to focus our writing, and many a writer has gotten trapped by their own words.

I believe in the revision process, therefore, the final grade for an assignment is given when the student decides the work is complete. I am available to students and encourage early submission to allow for discussion about clarity of voice and whether the assignment may need another revision.

Writing, for many students, is just something for school. They believe they will not need these tools in the real world. Unfortunately, they will learn the truth soon enough. If they haven’t been taught the precision offered by clear writing they will be unprepared as soon as their employer asks for a proposal. The finished product may have too much information arranged haphazardly. When employers ask for clear directions, they may get imprecise writing that leads to confusion, as the chaos made worse by ambiguous instructions that contributed to the Three Mile Island accident.

The importance of writing is what drives me in my instruction. As a teacher, I am part of the process. I lay the groundwork that must be developed until college graduation and beyond. So, in summary, what is my philosophy? I offer students the tools, help them find answers to their questions, and guide them to a finished product using their own words at a newer, expanded level of comfort. The final product must be well-organized and accessible, as I expect my teaching to be.

And when I connect with students in this way, everything is great in my life.

Stand for Something Now: A Personal Legend

Stand for Something Now: A Personal Legend: My Personal Legend. According to Paul Coelho's THE ALCHEMIST, it is the thing I live my life to accomplish. "When you want something, all th...

A Personal Legend

My Personal Legend. According to Paul Coelho's THE ALCHEMIST, it is the thing I live my life to accomplish. "When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it," the Old King tells Santiago. But as I studied that book and Antoine de St. Exupery's THE LITTLE PRINCE (a book that should be taught in a companion unit), I realized something. What you experience on the journey to your Personal Legend is sometimes more important than the legend itself.

Okay. Anyone who knows me knows that I've been working to become a published novelist for over a decade. When everything seems to be looking up, that mythical gold ring on the carousel of life eludes me. With the perserverence that came when I realized I had discovered my Personal Legend, I brush off the disappointment and keep moving forward.

What I missed, though, was the fact that I am happy. As I travel the sands of this desert searching for my treasure chest of Spanish dubloons, I have found the soul mate who makes the trip worthwhile. I have realized that my sons are amazing boys-becoming-men. I have admitted that I love teaching and giving my students a chance to succeed in their own Personal Journeys. And I have learned to push my body to new physical goals like running (and finishing) races.

I am not the same writer I was ten years ago -- I don't even recognize her anymore! I grow every time I take a class or finish a manuscript. When I'm revising, I readily dump passages that don't work anymore because I know there's more where those words came from. And I can't remember the last time I had mind-numbing, finger-freezing writer's block. The words are always flowing -- onto my journals, my Facebook essays, this blog, or into my works in progress.

I have made wonderful friends and met great people along this writing journey. I would never change a moment of this trip. Some of my good friends are the most magical writers in publishing today, and that circle keeps growing. Rarely, jealousy rears its ugly head, but I rein it in knowing one day my day may come.

But if my day doesn't come, I'm okay with that, too. See this has been a great journey. Sometimes I made mistakes that threatened the stability of my world, but I've learned how to find that distant star I've been following throughout this journey. I train my compass on North and continue searching. As long as I can see my Personal Legend shining in the distance I know this trip will have been worth every step.

Some things are meants to be...

The first star of the night, the Wishing Star, always hears the same wish from me: I want to see my books on (and flying off) bookstore shelves. I've been writing since I opened my first diary in fourth grade and wrote about how clearly I could see the world once I got my new glasses. Now I'm waiting anxiously for my new prescription to be filled, but there must be some sort of hold-up with the optometrist!

See, here's the thing. I want to be a published writer. I want my students to read my books. I want to tell the stories screaming to come out of my story-telling head.

I must not be ready -- this is what makes the wait okay.

I believe I will not become a published author until I am ready to move from the wanna-be ranks. But the road out of the depths of wish-dom is long and hard and no one has made a road map. Or have they? Is there some magic spell that will speed me through the steps? Will I wave that magic wand? Last night a writer friend dedicated a book to me, saying she hopes that dedication helps my wish come true sooner. Will it? Should it?

That's the question. If I wave that magic wand, what lesson will I have missed? Skipping a step in the process may mean the difference between a minor mistake and a crucial error. If I am not ready to succeed, will I be unprepared for the masses of critics that flock around all new writers? If I am not full of unsinkable self-esteem, will a child's question destroy my muse?

Maybe my last lesson could be solved by a simple set of bifocals. Maybe by skipping a step I will forever be squinting.

I think I have learned enough to understand that I have very loving and patient guardians watching over my dreams. I don't receive a gift for which I am not ready to fight, and I have been very lucky so far. But have I fought enough? Has my name flooded enough agent's offices and publisher's desks? I wonder. That part is not going to be done with magic or wishes. That part is my job. I think I still have some work to do toward my dream.

And yet, I wonder if I am being confused by the illusion of a world that doesn't exist. Are my "publication dreams" merely a way to sway me against something much better that will Be.

So, that being said, I must remember that I have volunteered to wait. If this dream I have is meant to be, it's only being human that makes me impatient. My wishing star is not ignoring me. She is waiting for the right wish. I just need to have a little more faith ... and maybe a little pixie dust.


 

The Love that Believed

For Valentine's Day

When you walked into my life
I knew.
Not like you know the lessons from a blackboard
or a textbook; I knew the way you know that day’s weather
won’t ruin your picnic.
I believed in you so I let you borrow my trust;
I’ve never wanted it back.

When I met you, I knew.
Not in the way we would talk for hours
or how we found time to be together when others
scurried off the beach.
It was in the way I couldn’t look in your eyes
without blushing
and the way you always make me laugh.


When you said hello my heart knew
I would never let you go.
You are the North to my compass.
When kudzu chokes the sculpted maze of
everyday life or my personal hurricanes
ravage well-crafted dreams
the serenity in your eyes steadies me.

Somehow, though, I always knew.
Being with you felt right in the pink streams
of the fading sun and in the quiet trickle
of a winding mountain stream.
It still feels right in the hot ocean breezes and
the whispering wind coursing through palm fronds.
I'm glad I believed in the us that still makes my heart skip.

Alpha and Omega

A story is tickling at my brain again, starting as a poem ...

I know you. There is a ghost in your eyes;

it hovers with memories of a love
truer than the roar of the oceans and the silence of the night.
Time has no power over something so strong.

We’ve been here before – two halves of a whole;

inseparable over the cresting tides of eternity but
ripped apart by a Today that won't allow
the burning of two hearts beating as one.

My soul calls through time and you answer
with the phantom of some long-ago kiss.
You hear me when I need you, even when
the panic in my own cries is muted by cold winds.

Glimpses of the past can’t soothe my pain when I wonder 

if the soft memories of my lips warm you when life gets cold.
When you call, do I appear with whispers of our promise?
Does my love travel to you when you reach for me?

You are the beginning and the end of my existence.
I will go to the edge of time to fold myself into your arms
and bring you home. I wait with a heart at peace because I know
that somewhere, over the distance that separates us, you wait too.

The Death Card

He gave in. The man let his standards fall because no one recognized his worth anymore. Actually, they recognized his worth. Those who have had contact with him have praised him, but they're not willing to pay what he's worth. A younger man is so much more functional to their business model. So he lowered his standards.

Initially I wondered what that was like. How does it feel to give in because standing up for yourself isn't getting you anywhere? But I know how that feels. It's like binding your arms in one huge knot. You have to escape yourself just to feel human.

I know how it feels because right now I'm caught up in my own nightmare. I've written a story that needs to be told, but the people who care about my success have told me I have to cut the heart out of my story because it's too confusing. There are too many things happening.

Then the Death card turned up on my Tarot deck.
I don't want to do this. If I cut her heart out, she will die. She will not be the dream I started so many years ago. She will have changed. The truth is, I know I will make the cuts that need to be made. Like the man who sliced off part of his jammed arm in order to survive, I will do what needs to be done to help my story.

I know all too well that the Death card does not mean death. It means change. Change is not a death sentence. It is an opportunity for a new life.

Twitter Novel in progress ...

Started, Halloween, 2011

November created what has turned into a YA Sci-Fi Fantasy. I will continue updating it as the Twitter novel continues past NaNoWriMo.

AKEENAH AND THE EARTHERS

     Dark clouds gathering overhead hint at something, not sure what, but it can't be good. Then a chill slashes through me.
     BOOM! The blast blows me against the wall and holds me there for what seems like forever. I can't breathe. I crumple onto the weathered planks.
     Lightning struck. Again. I should have played the lottery. 

     In the distance, the hulk of what used to be my treehouse burns. I pick up the messenger and call for the helpers.

     It's a routine that shouldn't surprise me. I tempt the universe when I don't follow Captain's orders. The suit is just so bulky.
     I crawl inside the door away from the storm's roar, cursing my wicked luck. Will I walk free again?
     "Idiot!" Derek says.

      My keeper yanks me clear of the door. "It's forbidden and yet you insist. You must have a death wish."
     "Leave me alone," I say. "It's my life."
     "You have it all wrong, Princess. It's no longer your life you risk." He drags me to the window. "They follow you. You endanger all of us."
      "You try living in a bubble!" I shake him off and try to walk away, but he grabs my coat. I pull away and run from everything, but I know I won't, though, it's not in the stars.
     That night the rumbling skies remind me again: the Princess mustn't step outside. The ships hiding behind clouds refuse to give up, and in the morning, the angry faces of my guardians wait for me when I come downstairs.
     "Your father in on the line," Captain grumbles.
     The inanimate floating head in the sitting room is far from inanimate. Father is boiling. Anger burns from his eyes.
     "You do not seem to understand the enormity of your actions, my daughter. Your capture will kill us all."
     He's the one who doesn't understand, but I dare not speak. The voice booming from the head frightens me.
     "I am tempted to --" he says.
     To what? Ground me? Deport me? Let them capture me? Really, what can he do now that he hasn't already? I'm cursed.
     "Akeenah!" Captain says my name as part of a hushed order. Just my name, but I know what it means. He heard my thoughts.
     I stand at attention and take the scolding from my father.
     "If you are so determined to get captured we have no other option." He glares at Captain. "She must be neutralized."
     The room falls silent. What?
     I could wait and ask or I could live. Before any of the guardians can move to stop me, I shoot out the front door into a new storm. I have no plan other than to escape. I've heard of people being neutralized, their powers dimmed until their energy is nothing more than a night light. That will not happen to me. I gather the energy inside me and channel it into my escape. Soon I am dodging guards and zig-zagging to avoid the lightning strikes I'm sure will kill me. Death is better than being neutralized, though.
       The sirens announce my escape, but only Father's guards try to stop me. No one else comes out until I turn down an alley. I'm yanked into darkness. Something is pulled over my head and I'm blind.
      "Don't scream," a gruff voice says before cupping a hand over my mouth. He drags me over loose rocks into a cooler place that smells stale and old. I gain my footing and run alongside over a smoother surface.
       Fear silences me. If he's really planning to hurt me, wouldn't I have already sensed his plans? I'm not a Sentient, but my powers have not let me down before.
       Suddenly, I'm surrounded. Hands grab me from every direction. So many voices. I can't make anything out. Panic takes over and makes breathing hard. I want to cry. The anger rising through me burns. The words are easier to understand now.
       "Help us."  
       They need me. It's too late for me to stop, though. The fire wins. The heat takes control and my captors lose their grip on what used to be my human form. Their screams are pained.
       The energy I have become evaporates the ski mask my captors had placed over my face. They're kids like me. Their damage I have done is obvious and I try to pull back my energy. I didn't mean to hurt them. I thought The Others had captured me, just as Father had threatened.

        This isn't Others. The boy who first grabbed me is Kevin from Math class. The girl crying over the burns on her hands is Sarah, the mayor's daughter. I try to tone down the heat.
       "I'm so sorry." I glide away, but Kevin doesn't forgive easily. "Shit, bitch. We were trying to help."

        My dimming energy allows me to witness their pain, but it's Kevin's anger that keeps me hot. "What the hell did you think was gonna happen?"

        He bristles at my words. I don't stop.

       "I had no idea who had me. I was petrified. Did you ever think to tell me?" Then I see Avery.

       My best friend sidles up near me. "I'm sorry. You caught us off guard, too, Keenah." 

       I look toward Sarah, heading toward the sink. The realization over what I've done is enough to cool me down. 

       "What happened?" Avery asks. "We thought you were going to wait."

        I'm shaking now as the memory returns. "Father ordered me neutralized."

        My friends' voices silence.

       "Oh my stars," Avery gasps. "I never thought ..." 
       None of us thought Father would go to such lengths. "Why?" I can't control the tears now. I crumple to the ground. Avery wraps an arm around me, comforting me while the rest of her friends discuss what to do "with her" - me. Some want to do nothing. Some want to throw me outside before my energy signature reveals their hiding place. Kevin, remarkably, wants to help me.
       I can't argue with the ones who hate me. I have no idea of what's going on. An Underground? A Rebellion? Against who, Father? Reality sobers me. I have to give them a reason to keep me.
       I see a boy smearing yellow medicine on his arm. I hadn't noticed his injury before.  "I can fix that," I say. "I'm a healer."
       The room falls silent until, oh so slowly, the boy holds out his arm. I scramble closer. "This won't hurt," I say, certain of my words but still a little scared. This didn't hurt when Grandmother healed me all those years ago. But humans might be different. I cup my hands until the blue flame flickers to life. I raise my hands in offering to Mother Universe before encasing the boy's arm with my energy. Immediately, he is healed.
        Keven is the first to speak. "That's why they want you?"
        I shake my head. "They want me for another reason. My power can kill."

       The rest of the day they hide me in the tunnels as they wander in and out of hidden entryways. As nightfall nears, the boy I healed returns. He slips out of a large backpack and presents it to me.
       "For protection."
        I empty the pack tentatively. Inside I find my suit. The one that allows me to see the sun. The one that dampens my energy signal so I can live without detection, but it's not as bulky as the one at home.
       "I hope this is okay," he says. "Got the specs from Dad." Dad? How would his father know? I guess he sees my confusion.
       "He's your Captain."
        Captain? Father's enforcer?
        "He wants you to protect yourself. He's hoping the King changes his mind."
        But what if this is a trap? Should I trust this boy? "I guess I have no choice," I mumble, taking the suit into the area that has become my sanctuary. I'll inspect it thoroughly.
        During the weeks that follow, I learn much about the life I thought I was living, about the horrors of Father's laws, that the boy is Natil.
        Natil has become more than a friend. He has taught me much about this Rebellion I stumbled upon. "There are people who go hungry so the king can get fat," he said with a sneer. "My best friend was killed in The Wilds - he was hunting wild boar to feed his sisters." He turned away.
       "I'm sorry." Six weeks ago those words were meaningless to me. Today they're heavy with guilt. His people died for my food or for my suit.
       But six weeks ago I thought Father still loved me. A lifetime has passed since that day I ran from my father's order to destroy my powers.
      "Let's go," he hands me the suit. "Do you want some privacy?" I shake my head. In an underground commune, there is no privacy. He helps me seal into the less-bulky suit. It's still a pain in the ass, though. He inspects every nook and cranny to make certain no skin is exposed.
       As the sun rises, we step outside. I'm tentative at first, remembering the thunderous roars of my last trip outdoors. We're heading for The Wilds. We have to move quickly in order to make it there before the sun disappears again. That is where The Resistance has set up their base.
       "The King's army is camped over that ridge," Natil says, diving behind rocks that fell in last night's landslide. I fight the urge to look where he's pointing. I step over and around the rocks, following his lanky frame. He is merely a child of fourteen, but he speaks like one of Father's learned advisors. Today, however, as we fight the hazards of The Wilds, I wonder if I was wrong to trust him.
       "Natil," I call out. He stops, his leg searching for footing over the large boulder he is climbing.
       "Keep quiet," he says. "There are listeners out there." He waits for me to climb closer then boosts me onto the boulder next to him.
        "What is your question?" he whispers.
        I whisper back: "Have you heard from Captain?"
        He turns his gaze back to Father's camp and says nothing. His silence is enough to tell me he still hasn't heard from him. I think he's too frightened to consider the possibilities. If Father's spies know Natil is with the Underground, Captain's position among the King's Guard is compromised. And my security is in question. I will not think more about this.
       "Lead the way, sir Natil," I say with fake confidence. Worry is for tonight, when we are safely tucked away in some dark cave in The Wilds of Savah, where no one can threaten us with imprisonment.
       When the humans first arrived on Savah, Father's Council thought it best to allow them to live among us. We took on human form to ease their transition. Our world is similar yet very different from theirs. Then the problems started and Father began to change.
       Threading through the boulders in this part of The Wilds reminds me of the days I used to play here in my natural form as a child. We don't dare reveal our true form anymore. We are captives in our own world. Victims of our own greed. That is what I've learned these last few weeks. Trying to share our planet we compromised our people.
        "I wish you could have known us before," I tell Natil quietly as we stop to share our water. "We were a great and proud people. Now we would sell our grandmothers for a human dollar."
       He rolls his eyes, "Or our daughters."
       I am silenced.
       The rest of the trek I find it difficult to make conversation. I want to talk about the greatness of my people. He obviously does not share my enthusiasm.
       Then, as the setting sun softens the sky with pink, Natil turns. "Our camp is near. I must know. Do you still obey your father?"
       His brusqueness stuns me. Do I still obey my father? If I say I love Father, will Natil strand me in the desert? Must I commit to an answer?
       "Father tried to neutralize me." That answer should be enough. How does a daughter turn from her father without reason?
       A powerful voice, one I haven't heard before, thunders from the trees on the edge of The Wilds. "You cannot enter our camp as an agent of the king."
       The owner is imposing. He closes the gap between us swiftly, the sweat glistening on his bare chest. "Welcome, Princess," he grunts. "Now leave." He grabs one of Natil's bags and storms away.
       "I'm sorry, Keenah." Natil moves to follow.
        I see my hopes fading. "Please. Who was that man?"
        "That is Aliks. He rules here.
       Who is this man who judges my thoughts? He's taking the only hope I have left. This cannot happen.
        I climb the closest boulder. "Stop!" My scream echoes off the walls of the canyon and Natil jumps.
        Aliks, however, only slows briefly. "You are not my princess," he shouts back.
       As the daylight dips below the horizon, my reality crashes in around me. I need to make a choice -- my life or loyalty to a father who has not shown me kindness since the days before the Earth-borns arrived on Savah. The heavyness of what I must do weighs on me.
       "I am no longer Princess Akeenah. I am no longer my father's ward." My words have some effect on the leader of this rebellion. "I am your faithful subject."
       I run down the rocky embankment and fall to my knees.
       "What do you need from me, Lord Aliks." I dare not look up. My heavy breaths make the dirt quiver under my face as I wait.
       A hand grabs my elbow and helps me up. "Just Aliks," the leader says. "Natil will show you to your quarters." His earth-blue eyes lock on mine for a breath of a second before he rips the connection and turns away. "We will talk at dinner."
        And just like that, he disappears deeper into the forests of The Wilds. Natil grabs one of my bags and leads me away. "You will not regret this," he says. "He's a good guy."
       He drones on about his childhood and how he idolized Aliks, who never allowed their exile to alter him. I can't get those deep blue eyes out of my mind -- like images of the Earth before her destruction. I wonder, "Is he one of us?"
        Natil stops and lowers his voice respectfully.
        "Oh no Princess. He is an original Earth-born."
        How can that be? They've been here almost a generation.
        "He was one of the last to leave," Natil answers my unspoken question as he steps into a clearing. Soon I am caught up in the formalities, but I can't get the math out of my head. The Earthers arrived twelve years ago. Aliks seems just about my seventeen years, but the trip is at least 20 years.
         What is this mysterious young leader's story?

To be continued ......

Don't look now, you're being watched!

I've never felt comfortable in my skin. It's like I'm visiting this world from another galaxy and just landed in this body out of chance. Of course, I don't really believe that, but it's an interesting facet of my psyche to consider. Maybe the origin of this thinking comes from the fact that I came to America at the age of six not knowing an iota of the English language.

Because of this alien mentality of mine, one of my earliest memories in America were those where I watched my classmates so that I could understand what was appropriate. I started watching and listening. I learned to speak English very quickly doing that -- I was out of English for Speakers of Other Languages within five months of starting first grade! I also learned what my classmates called shooting a bird! At least I was learning.

 

In second grade, when I had a crush on a boy named John, I thought about what people did when they liked each other. People kissed, so I kissed John one day when he passed me between classes. I knew no other way to tell him how I felt about him. I didn't get the reaction I expected. No one had dared me. No one was watching. It was just very stalkerish of me and I had no logical explanation for what I had done.  After that, I stopped acting on my initial reactions. I no longer allowed myself the luxury to be spontaneous and tell the truth.

Then, in sixth grade, I elevated my watching skills to storytelling skills. I wrote a book about a girl who solved mysteries and started making up chapter stories to entertain myself during my lonely lunches at a new school. When I got to college six years later, I got my degree in storytelling -- well, sort of. I became a journalist. But that still wasn't enough for me. I needed more. After a lifetime of watching and listening I've written my observations into stories that are awaiting discovery and publication. What a waste! There's so much more I could do with them!

The reason I began this blog was to highlight the good deeds of my high school students. The thing is, not everything I observe is a good deed. Sometimes it's something sad or something that needs to be changed. I was limiting myself, but I continue to observe.

 

It's time to change things.

The title of this blog remains the same, Stand For Something Now, but it's more a message to myself. If I feel strongly about something or somebody, it will find its way to this page. I'm allowing myself the freedom to become that little second grader who just wanted to tell John she liked him. My comments will be reasonably unscripted and off-the-cuff, in a way, but they will all be about what I watch and listen to as I go through life.

 

This blog will be the musings of a woman who still considers herself an alien in this world, although I am learning to allow myself the occasional act of spontaneiety. Therefore, this entry today serves as a warning to the people who encounter me at any time during my day -- watch out. You may end up in print!

Have faith in that leap you're about to make

It’s the end of the school year, the time when seniors everywhere are deciding between staying near the comforts of home and taking a giant leap into the real world by going to college across the country. Sometimes, the decision is easy. Based on finances, they may be forced to stay near home or take the full scholarship to that university in another state, but it’s still scary. They are comfortable where they are now. They may not be happy, but this life is not scary.

For me, it was easy. When I was graduating high school my mother got a job working for the University of Miami. I had a quarter tuition scholarship and as an employee, Mom enjoyed an employee perk of a 75% tuition discount. It was a no-brainer to go to UM. It was also too easy. There’s something about shaking off all expectations and security blankets to step out on your own. It helps you grow up. It helps you get to understand yourself so much better.

There’s an old saying used when people are considering between two options: “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” Adults say that when they’re tempted to step out of their comfort zone into something different. It’s the safe answer that usually keeps people from trying new things. I’ve found myself repeating that saying often. There is a place for thinking that way. When your boss is a jerk and you’re considering quitting or taking another job, it’s good to think about the repercussions of the change. Will you find another job? Will you be able to continue paying your bills? Will you be forcing other people to drastically change their lives because of your little temper tantrum?

But that kind of thinking is not always the most productive. Maybe a drastic change is exactly what is needed.

Recently, two of my friends made drastic changes in their lives, and the effect was dramatic. They had both been going through the motions of life – not really living, just moving along and getting the job done. One decided to make a change and drop some responsibilities that had become mundane. She also bit the bullet and moved into a new apartment by herself. Another friend decided she needed to move back home and start life over again after a difficult two years. We went out the other day. Both of them were glowing with the excitement the change had brought into their lives. Sure, they’re apprehensive, but they’re excited, too.

I wonder, now, do the grown-up aspects of responsibilities and security take all the fun out of life? There’s got to be a way to make it all work. I think that’s why my husband and I eloped to Vegas for our 20^th Anniversary this year – I needed something different to break us out of the monotony of life, so we got an Elvis impersonator to renew our vows with us. We had so much fun that weekend that when life has thrown wads of, um, garbage in our faces since then we remember Elvis and smile.

Maybe the Elvis memory will be enough in the future, but I intend to remember the lessons I learn every year when my students head off to college. Sometimes a comfortable life may be enough, but there are other times, when we’re the most stuck and depression has become our only identifying characteristic, that the best thing to do is step into the frightening unknown and jump.

Stand for Something Now: When Dreams Slam into a Stop Sign

When Dreams Slam into a Stop Sign

I’m a fighter. Not that I can hold my own in a fist-duel with Mike Tyson (or Cicely Tyson for that matter), but if I really want something to happen I won’t take no for an answer. Even while playing Words With Friends I refuse to resign even if all I have left is an X and two T’s. I have to be forced out kicking and screaming. So when I learn about people who have given up on a dream because someone put up a Dead End sign in front of them, the anger sets my blood to boil.

“Who told you it was impossible?” I rant. Then I go through a list of possibilities – options so they will not have to give up. But sometimes I’m wrong. That student will never be an astronaut. That dream job will never materialize. That singer will never cut a record for a big-name label. And those are demoralizing assertions. Who wants to admit that their sole reason for living has exploded in their face?

That’s when the Polyanna, glass-half-full part of me pops out like a bud through the snows of early Spring. “Maybe there’s something else you can do,” I offer.

There’s always that.

Maybe you’ve spent a lifetime as a secretary when budget cuts hit your department and you were left jobless and without insurance. No matter where you look, no one needs a 40-year-old secretary who’s the diabetic single mother of two kids – too expensive when they can hire a 20-year-old with spunk and no dependents.

That doesn’t mean that mother should give up. “Just change your goals,” Mari-Polyanna says. Sure, maybe she’ll have to whip up Lattes as a barista until something else comes up, but something will come up. There has to be a silver lining, right?

Maybe that Dead End sign was really a Merge Right in disguise. Maybe the kid who wanted to be an astronaut can become a computer technician at NASA. Maybe that singer will find spiritual fulfillment leading the church choir.

Recently, a young friend learned she was not accepted into the Veterinary magnet school program at the school she’s been dreaming about for years. Instead, she was offered another academic option with the opportunity to volunteer at the veterinary clinic as part of her community service. “Great,” I said.

“Not great,” she said. The thought of having to take classes outside of her interest was insulting to her. But she’s on the waiting list. When school starts up again in August, I’m almost certain she will be in the Veterinary program, but if she’s not, I think other options will open up for her. She just needs to wait a little; it’s hard to get that through to someone who’s got her heart set on a dream, though.

My point is that too many of us can’t see past the dream. Maybe what we always wanted is unattainable for us unless we learn to work around the speed bumps. Maybe all we have to do is remember to think outside the box. Maybe with a couple of minor changes our dreams will come true.

If I had one wish, I would want my readers to remember that nothing in our lives should be forced to yield to someone else’s traffic signals. This life is too random for you to force a Stop sign into your path because, really, it’s not a full stop. Maybe it’s just a Detour.

I'm ashamed to say this ...

The reason for starting this blog was to point out the good in the young people growing up in this world where earthquakes, nuclear meltdowns, and potential world wars are a real threat. I hate thinking the worst of people, so today’s column is hard for me. It’s an off week where I live, so the only young people I’ve seen have been on vacation at Universal Studios Orlando. And that’s not always the best place to see the best of people. Most of us don’t like standing in line.

We were standing in one particular line Friday when a couple of young men plowed through without asking for forgiveness or excuse. Then the line comes to a standstill in a dark tunnel where it zigzags to a lower level. I thought the boys had already plowed through to the front when I heard them call up to a girl standing a few spots behind me.

“Come on down,” one kid called to his sister. She refused. I think she was beginning to feel guilty for cutting through the line, but her brother continued to egg her on. That’s when the teacher in me couldn’t hold back.

“The thing is,” I said, “it’s not fair and I won’t let her through.”

The boy exploded. He couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t let his sister through. Geez, why can't I keep my mouth shut! I thought about explaining that they need to ask or at least they should wait like the rest of us, but then something I didn’t expect happened. A woman standing between me and the girl refused to let her through – not just verbally, she grabbed her as the girl threaded through the crowd then jumped over the wall between us and the boys. The woman tried to jump over, too, and, of course, the boy saw her actions as a threat to his sister.

We almost had a brawl in the tunnel for a water ride in Orlando. All because I tried to teach some kids some manners. I felt ashamed. That's not the time, the place, nor my job.

The thing is, these are the young people most adults see, the ones who think only about themselves, who were never taught the power behind words such as Please, Thank You, and I’m Sorry, kids who walk down the middle of a parking lot oblivious to the cars piling up behind them, kids who proudly flick off the action camera on the ride people have waited an hour to ride in order to purchase a too-expensive 5 x 7 picture they will never be able to show their families.

I still believe there is good in these young people, but every now and then my faith is shaken. Then I remember the adults I met that day. In addition to the woman willing to lay her hands on the sister in the tunnel, the day started with the tourist in the parking lot. He refused to recognize that there were two lines so he rolled along slowly with the traffic in the bumper-to-bumper line next to our clear one. When we flashed our lights to politely tell him to move along, he flicked us off. Then, when we parked two spots from each other, he jumped out of his car and began to berate my husband with language usually reserved for bar fights.

Seriously, dude. Orlando is supposed to be the happiest place in the world. Well, since we weren’t at Disney, I guess he didn’t feel obligated. And the kids in his car? They'll probably end up as angry and rude as he is. Or maybe they'll grow up ashamed to call him Dad.

I guess the truth is that it’s not the youth of America that’s in trouble. It's always been like this. There have always been rude people who take advantage of their place in line. Kids soak it all up. They learn to act the way they do somewhere, but the parents aren’t willing to admit when we mess up.

What do you think? Let me know by posting your comment below.

What's this all about?

The saying goes “If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything,” but what does this really mean? In my Young Adult novel, EVERYBODY’S FOOL (check out the link on this page's right panel), that is the critical question for the main character, but I didn’t understand until I remembered what growing up was like for me.

I was what you would call a wanna-be in high school. I wanted to be popular. I wanted to go to the popular parties and have the best best friends, but I had no clue how to do that. I was essentially a loner watching the world go by and waiting for the best moment to jump on board.

I knew the things I liked until someone came up with something better. Music? Styx was good, so was Journey and Poison, then I heard Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA album. Now what? I settled the radio dial on the Top 40 station because that’s what everyone else was doing. That’s what the rest of my life was like. I didn’t want to risk rejection, so I just liked what everyone else liked.

That’s a dangerous thing to stand for. I felt myself slipping in a lot of ways.

The thing is, my mom had this saying she would repeat to me and my sister when we were growing up: “You’re not getting married until you get your PhD.” It was a joke that we tossed around when we needed a laugh. Mom dropped out of high school and got her GED to marry my father not because she was pregnant (she wasn't) but because she was in love and wanted to get on with her life. We knew she had no leg to stand on with her rule, but it stuck. It was what kept me grounded. I needed to focus on my future before I let other things take over.

That’s what this blog is all about. I’ll be looking at issues on the minds of America’s youth. I’ll also be looking at young people who have taken a stand for what they believe in, because that’s one of the hardest things to do when you’re still trying to fit in.

I’m not a psychologist or any kind of expert. I’m a writer and an observer.  About me and that Popularity Train? I tried to jump on board a couple of times. I had a few laughs and a few good memories, but I kept jumping off when the crowd would change the train’s direction.

And that PhD? Yeah, not really me, but I never veered too far from my lifeplan. The thing is, I was never willing to put myself out there and stand for something that might not be acceptable to my peers. That’s why I’m in awe of people who stand tall and proud.

I think the future of our nation is fine, and I plan to find the stories that will showcase how you are my heroes.