tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5185963794436146822024-03-14T03:52:59.582-07:00Ana MariaAna Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-71197628296455872892013-11-21T14:36:00.000-08:002013-11-21T14:37:49.073-08:00Humbug Valley Reclaimed<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMTWBzCf6HxTFHI32AswenxwXw1n9WBH1Cr17sJgRhFHgHZXGMrJ_2dyGwiSocP0pRRHfFTGSg1YTvggKxMuKeaI7mnSjLH85-cnl0OW6z0eu36xfCx_0KHmnZ-7uFXg361pg0z5Lz7Qt/s1600/043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMTWBzCf6HxTFHI32AswenxwXw1n9WBH1Cr17sJgRhFHgHZXGMrJ_2dyGwiSocP0pRRHfFTGSg1YTvggKxMuKeaI7mnSjLH85-cnl0OW6z0eu36xfCx_0KHmnZ-7uFXg361pg0z5Lz7Qt/s320/043.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
The news arrived last week. After a ten year wait,
the Mountain Maidu would reclaim Humbug Valley from Pacific Gas & Electric.
I teared up reading the email. I’ve been writing about this story for a couple
years now, an almost impossible saga of a small federally-unrecognized tribe
fighting for 2300 acres in the Sierras that have somehow—miraculously—remained undeveloped
and are now—miraculously—being returned to them. </div>
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<br /></div>
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A celebration was planned, and I did not plan to
miss it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I drove 800 miles south along the east side of the
Cascades through thin cold November air tinged with sage and juniper, past cars
with headlights out and smokers in hoodies huddled outside mini-marts and the
still-snowy volcanoes--Adams, Hood, Jefferson, Sisters, Shasta, Lassen—floating
over it all.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A day before the celebration, I visited with my
friend, elder, author, and activist Beverly Ogle. She sat beside her woodstove surrounded
by her unfinished manuscripts, beneath a photo of her grandmother in full
native dress, with her children and grandchildren coming and going, and she beamed.
Like Martin Luther King Jr., she said, she had a dream. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“Only difference is I lived to see it come true,”
she said.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The next morning I drove in circles around tiny Chester,
California, lost and panicked, until I saw a vintage Ford pickup and U-turned
to follow it to a newish building beside a park where kids clambered on rocks
under tall pines. A dog I recognized lay unleashed in the sun. This was the
place.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Inside, the crowd gathered with the casual ease of
a family reunion or a church picnic. Young men, heavyset with braids and ball caps
and baggy jeans, held squirming kids in their arms. A group of middle-aged women,
both native and white by looks (though it’s dicey to guess who’s native by
looks) set up a drum circle. Potluck dishes accumulated on folding tables
including venison stew and small Dixie cups of acorn paste, a traditional Maidu
staple. (It tastes exactly as you’d imagine: thick, earthy, nutty, slightly
bland.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I added my own small salad—cherry
tomatoes and cukes I’d chopped at a pullout in the sun since it was too cold at
my campsite—and went to talk to Beverly’s son Ken Holbrook. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Ken is the brand new executive director of the
Maidu Summit Consortium (there’s never been one before.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>He wore a crisp white shirt, grey jeans, and a
tie, the only tie in the room. He’d recently traveled to a conference Salamanca,
Spain to present their efforts to reclaim Humbug Valley and their goal to use TEK—traditional
ecological knowledge—to manage the land as an example not only to other
indigenous people but to land managers everywhere. When he spoke in Salamanca,
he said, he stood in the exact place where Queen Isabella commissioned
Christopher Columbus. He told me this story—told anyone who would listen—with
less irony than giddy triumph, grinning wide, nearly bursting with it.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipY53oBF_gTnO1ZQ0h2G9wQzk5ZNN-dRmIeo0SlQyEPe1p9cqkn3G_k1NI07IqRAAWeU9b7uOQx9aXw5TFKtGjw2fLNvD8aNld3WNargAuYfkDXY-wqisaZ-3I0BmNg3rT8UQZ_4UDOIXA/s1600/049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipY53oBF_gTnO1ZQ0h2G9wQzk5ZNN-dRmIeo0SlQyEPe1p9cqkn3G_k1NI07IqRAAWeU9b7uOQx9aXw5TFKtGjw2fLNvD8aNld3WNargAuYfkDXY-wqisaZ-3I0BmNg3rT8UQZ_4UDOIXA/s320/049.JPG" width="320" /></a>When at last formalities began, members of the
nonprofit consortium stood to speak, people who endured years of negotiations,
interminable meetings, to get to this point. Their eyes sparkled as they
described Humbug Valley and how this moment was meant to be and their hopes for
the future. </div>
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<br /></div>
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One woman, impeccably dressed, with the poise of a
no-nonsense substitute teacher or perhaps a U.S. Senator, was the only speaker
to show any hint of anger, any sense of the injustice of the past 200+ years. She
stood, nearly trembling, and said simply:</div>
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<br /></div>
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“I never thought I’d live to see Indians given <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i> by the dominant culture.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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The applause was long. The truth undeniable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikmBx8DoYkAsf69x3-fSMxpMH1BwPwe4M4iMu6SsU3THJhuRkUEuLNkjoJJ2UZAkwEf1_w8q2Xl9eqtQCXnH_mkpzPoPwIHQXSICmejWc72w_Dgi7K-I5nDtabYl8TS2eNcZRKeSh-agxn/s1600/052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikmBx8DoYkAsf69x3-fSMxpMH1BwPwe4M4iMu6SsU3THJhuRkUEuLNkjoJJ2UZAkwEf1_w8q2Xl9eqtQCXnH_mkpzPoPwIHQXSICmejWc72w_Dgi7K-I5nDtabYl8TS2eNcZRKeSh-agxn/s320/052.JPG" width="320" /></a>At the end of the speeches, a surprise announcement
was made. Well, it was a surprise to Beverly Ogle. Her kids had told me about
it excitedly in her driveway the day before. Beverly was awarded a special lifetime
achievement award by the Indigenous Communities of Northern California. With it
she received a hand-crafted bow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her
daughter, Brenda, presented the bow, and announced with pride that Beverly Ogle
is the first woman ever to receive this award. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
But, Brenda explained, there were no arrows to go
with it. The arrows come later, next spring, when the Maidu return to Humbug
Valley to begin the work ahead.</div>
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<![endif]--><br />Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-5624627553597363042013-10-11T10:59:00.000-07:002013-10-12T13:05:08.056-07:00Non-Essential<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7f_xXhHlM9kA3KVLnaKcwaRVjeeVfSu2tE-5Cc7YhI1kLKaFUmb1bTSi-5PzPRDT2J4w-90vdZEjGzZADX9RZRBYsNB9Oxdj8ndZpMUkaJzhdhMEUYONcj_Ah8_Kvlb5vI7La-PTnwtJc/s1600/010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7f_xXhHlM9kA3KVLnaKcwaRVjeeVfSu2tE-5Cc7YhI1kLKaFUmb1bTSi-5PzPRDT2J4w-90vdZEjGzZADX9RZRBYsNB9Oxdj8ndZpMUkaJzhdhMEUYONcj_Ah8_Kvlb5vI7La-PTnwtJc/s320/010.JPG" width="320" /></a>Everyone I know is weary of it, exasperated,
taking great lengths to ease conversations around the subject like unwinding a
hose on the edge of a fire. Don’t get too close. Shutdown. There, I said it. Very
sorry. Stay with me.
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Even the fact that National Parks, about which I
care a lot, are at the center of it rankles. What about National Forests that
cover more acreage nationally? Not a single news show I’ve listened to has
mentioned that the United States Forest Service is shutdown. Why? Because the
Forests are less glamorous, less high-profile, and therefore less essential than
the Parks even though, for example, the trail workers we know who work for the
Forest Service do the same work for the same reasons as Park Service crews do, except
for less pay … a point which is moot right now because no trail workers for
either agency are getting paid. <br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Why? Because work is non-essential.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
What’s essential? Carrying a gun. Pasting up
closed signs. Handling the media. What’s essential, apparently, is how things
look from the outside, not how they work on the inside. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Which reminds me a little of writing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-kNpynDCRaNd999hnmiWr6rDR4HA-PGka63pZiOQWlcZP7yXzba6T8u2UKwqjdOmHDg7U800REyEnhaTAScBkaBqNLJFMATuNAP2OhBVBQCzOgJgZICuBQqzUBHGPiCytjTNGS0U_arf/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ-kNpynDCRaNd999hnmiWr6rDR4HA-PGka63pZiOQWlcZP7yXzba6T8u2UKwqjdOmHDg7U800REyEnhaTAScBkaBqNLJFMATuNAP2OhBVBQCzOgJgZICuBQqzUBHGPiCytjTNGS0U_arf/s320/014.JPG" width="320" /></a>Conversations about writing inevitably lead to
talk about publishing or agents or marketing. All of that is important, I know.
You want your books to reach readers the same way we want National Parks to be
user-friendly. But people go to National Parks because of what’s actually there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And people read books for what’s actually
there. The present, not the wrapping paper. The content, not the elevator
speech.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
There are many people who see this position as old-fashioned
and unrealistic. Which is exactly what doing trail work is like. Or maintaining
an apple orchard. Or doing carpentry on historic buildings. Or planting willows
along a salmon stream. Everyone I know who does that kind of work is shutdown
right now. They are pawns, and they are angry … but not as angry as you might
think. They know exactly where they sit on the totem pole, and they’ve chosen
to sit there. They take enough pride in the good work they do that it doesn’t
matter that they’re deemed non-essential. (Besides, they worked seasonally for
so long they learned to save pennies, and crucially, few of them have families
to support.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I’ve decided that’s what I aspire to. Non-essentiality.
I realized with considerable shame a few years ago that many of the people I
admire most in the world—and nearly all the people I did trail work with—don’t
have Facebook accounts and never will. The fact that I do, that I always try to
straddle these worlds, sometimes concerns me. I can see the value in reaching
out even as I work. But I never want that to be the end in itself. The work is
the end: trails brushed, trees pruned or planted, boards nailed, words written,
then revised. That’s what matters to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-81476185903224043122013-05-02T09:03:00.000-07:002013-05-05T09:19:35.573-07:00Inlandia - Bound<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYqmx38vlMi8MhYapVVIQt0Ha4DAB5wraL4-8EYILP8807HXYZUn295UzpUTYr5NSviEX1x-5kyJKbgwHFQr3J-wzx3tbfchH_JAMYfj74BbiPU78MDk3gYcOeJDMrnbhf_JWyekwvk7j/s1600/Riverside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYqmx38vlMi8MhYapVVIQt0Ha4DAB5wraL4-8EYILP8807HXYZUn295UzpUTYr5NSviEX1x-5kyJKbgwHFQr3J-wzx3tbfchH_JAMYfj74BbiPU78MDk3gYcOeJDMrnbhf_JWyekwvk7j/s1600/Riverside.jpg" /></a>Next week I'm heading south to do a series of very cool events in the Inland Empire (and of course, to celebrate Mother's Day with Mom.) If you're in the area, it would be wonderful to see you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH9P4K3yzWKz72U6saokyoG0Bgsv3r1rkzYHXN9fAQPOUIifagnZCMhE7AZz1du0uvX_XShgOvrXWp42chjDjwD4B1VnQ9Bvd4j3Eaa750pxEYZ0xv9c_oBAuRd38xft9sJrl9q5H0EO2c/s1600/Spagna_front.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH9P4K3yzWKz72U6saokyoG0Bgsv3r1rkzYHXN9fAQPOUIifagnZCMhE7AZz1du0uvX_XShgOvrXWp42chjDjwD4B1VnQ9Bvd4j3Eaa750pxEYZ0xv9c_oBAuRd38xft9sJrl9q5H0EO2c/s200/Spagna_front.JPG" width="129" /></a><b>Wednesday, May 8 at Riverside City College</b><br />
Room AD 122 7 p.m. - 8:30 p.m.<br />
<a href="http://www.rcc.edu/findus/files/campusmap_rv.pdf">RCC campus map</a><br />
<br />
Reading and signing.<br />
<br />
I'll be reading from <i>Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus</i> and hopefully showing a few slides (do we still say "slides"?) from my research visits to Tallahassee as well as some historical photos courtesy of the Florida State Archives. I've been revisiting my research notes in preparation for the trip, and the test ride story still gives me chills. I'm eager to share the stories. <br />
<br />
<b>Friday, May 10 at the Cellar Door Bookstore </b>in Riverside at 6:30 p.m.<br />
<a href="http://www.cellardoorbookstore.com/">http://www.cellardoorbookstore.com/</a><br />
<br />
Reading with the fine essayist, Riverside's own <a href="http://www.joscottcoe.com/">Jo Scott Coe</a><br />
<br />
I plan to read from my most recently published book <i>Potluck </i>as well as sample brand new work from my most recently completed essay collection, <i>The Hole in the Snow</i>. I'm not sure I can read about snow in Riverside in May with a straight face, so I'll find a summer-themed snippet or two.<br />
<br />
The event is sponsored by the Inlandia Institute who maintain a fine
blog co-sponsored by the local newspaper The Press Enterprise. Check it
out: <a href="http://localauthors.pe.com/">http://localauthors.pe.com/</a><br />
<br />
Then on <b>Saturday, May 11 at Claremont Craft Ales 12 p.m. - 2:00 p.m</b>. hosted by the incomparable<br />
<a href="http://thegooddirt.org/"> Yi Shun Lai</a><br />
<br />
Memoir Writing Workshop <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcmvCE8UGDgXs_LHVFnlmbxARZPH7fs9EGZYsL8cMpfRf04U22tbfpNwfDuzvlAiczLyv2HQa-aAi2qKP706mwzw3I4FLHTWj3aUc5FSUEngzAyhzZhdOIxb08qoxVWFl5f74NpWFqd5S/s1600/colorlarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcmvCE8UGDgXs_LHVFnlmbxARZPH7fs9EGZYsL8cMpfRf04U22tbfpNwfDuzvlAiczLyv2HQa-aAi2qKP706mwzw3I4FLHTWj3aUc5FSUEngzAyhzZhdOIxb08qoxVWFl5f74NpWFqd5S/s200/colorlarge.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Everyone has a story
worth telling from the poignant to the humorous, from the sprawling family saga to the chance encounter at the check stand. But how do you craft your story for the page in a way that readerswill find compelling? Join Ana Maria to try out an easy step-by-step approach for aspiring writers at any stage. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bring a pen-and-paper or a laptop. The workshop will last
two hours. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">$20 cost includes instruction, sandwich and chips, and one
beverage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">RSVP to AMS (e-address on the website)</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-24271844237242975502013-03-14T17:15:00.000-07:002013-04-10T12:48:25.505-07:00It's Not About Ego<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->I’d been warned there’d be 12,000 egos to contend
with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d prepared myself for that, as I’d
prepared myself before for writerly gatherings. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s easy to dismiss ego, even in yourself, to
say: there it is, the worst of me, on display.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So I landed in Boston for AWP and for four days wandered in a maze of snowy
sidewalks and sky bridge and mall – past the Louis Vitton store over and over –
and into panels and meetings and, yes, the bars, expecting plenty of ego.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I did not find it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<br /></div>
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Instead I sensed yearning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Desperate palpable yearning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Times 12,000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
was unnerved.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I wanted to dismiss this, too, chalk it up to
fame-envy, the every-writer desire to be Terry-Gross-ed, Oprah-ed,
Pulitzer-ed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if AWP were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Idol</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that was not true, or not wholly so,
either. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>The yearning felt closer to the
bone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to one panel on how not to
alienate your friends and family when writing memoir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The flippant answer “don’t write” was
followed by nuanced answers, and two hundred heads nodded.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another panel on how to write political memoir
without being polemic addressed real hard every day writerly decisions that
require grace and courage, not just a grasp of story arc or dialogue or, god
forbid, an effective social media platform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I realized, slowly, over four days and with both relief and terror: All
those people yearn to tell the story that’s inside them, to tell it real and
tell it right and tell it beautifully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
to be heard.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Enter the terror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I walked through the book fair and saw all those booths for lit
journals and small presses, all those stories being told, I had to wonder:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does anyone listen?</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lJGbIrx8dVkrgWunBiOaQikIvkcCuBQW7oL-8KMIVAQJ0IaDrZPVIaFBm3X2vzAiD64MeBqHoCcX1MH9xQEOeGZVMLRK44ZNmzHxMfXGcxs_Y69ud8fZK6VrECbud4lWPGKDlpJ4clug/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lJGbIrx8dVkrgWunBiOaQikIvkcCuBQW7oL-8KMIVAQJ0IaDrZPVIaFBm3X2vzAiD64MeBqHoCcX1MH9xQEOeGZVMLRK44ZNmzHxMfXGcxs_Y69ud8fZK6VrECbud4lWPGKDlpJ4clug/s400/005.JPG" width="400" /></a>I wasn’t sure until I got on the plane to
leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Late on Sunday after a run along
the Charles River and some fine sushi and negotiating the subways, I walked the
aisle of a super-packed Boston-Seattle nonstop and noticed everyone was
reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Must’ve been conference
attendees, I realized, because these were not just mega-sellers, but modest
books of poetry, story collections, even essays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Essays!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s easy to dismiss ours as an esoteric world, academic, insular. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Easy to say: Do you only write for writers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Well, maybe, but only to the extent that ballplayers only play for other ballplayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figure the percentage of my readers who are
non-writers is higher than Mariners fans who've never touched a glove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I digress.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thing is: I adore these books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They say to me things that the mega-sellers
don’t or can’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love listening to
people—musicians, artists, filmmakers, and especially writers—say what they must
say as beautifully as they can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People
on that plane did, too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
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So … I told myself not to buy more books than I
could afford, but there was no point controlling that urge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among the fine writers whose books I hauled
home in the roller bag were:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Amy Fusselman</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Elena Passarello</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Joy Castro</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Harrison Candelaria Fletcher</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Bonnie Rough</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Roxane Gay</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Lia Purpura </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Barrie Jean Borich</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then there were the inevitable craft books:<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rose Metal
Press Field Guide to Flash Nonfiction</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bending
Genre: Essays on Creative Nonfiction</i> ed. by Nicole Walker and Margot Singer</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good Prose:
The Art of Nonfiction</i> by Tracy Kidder</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Finally there was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To Show and To Tell</i> by Phillip Lopate. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Lopate hardly counts as a yearning new voice, but
I had to buy this book anyway. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to
his signing and told him the introduction to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Art of the Personal Essay</i> changed my life in 1994.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shook my hand and said “I hope for the
better.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Was AWP a good experience?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On balance not as good as hiking the
Lakeshore Trail today with two good friends and the first wildflowers of spring
and, yes, 12 000 ticks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was good,
and it certainly changed my perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For the better.</div>
Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-22446549462728271792013-01-30T17:00:00.001-08:002013-01-30T17:07:52.818-08:00Going Short<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_4xcr6dDJVfdb-3SOtwPdk6shOIsMH_pvZZuttvUWoJzLMhM7z5lvpUZfohU2rHHk2SK4B-5-h4WrP3HR-Eoh5Cs8UB-IdFaApAQX7_uxo4ePKQg2zgWm5cHtkYZgxFBO_VlkjN4I1d3/s1600/Ben-Affleck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_4xcr6dDJVfdb-3SOtwPdk6shOIsMH_pvZZuttvUWoJzLMhM7z5lvpUZfohU2rHHk2SK4B-5-h4WrP3HR-Eoh5Cs8UB-IdFaApAQX7_uxo4ePKQg2zgWm5cHtkYZgxFBO_VlkjN4I1d3/s320/Ben-Affleck.jpg" width="320" /></a>I blame Ben Affleck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard him on the radio last week talking
to Terri Gross about his movie, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Argo</i>,
and the conversation turned to doing impersonations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Affleck
does a mean Denzel Washington, a decent Morgan Freeman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terri asked him how he does it, if it requires
practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Affleck said, sure, doing
impersonations takes practice, but it’s also a gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It comes easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of that, he said, he doesn’t like to
do it too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He compared it to
playing speed chess, where every move is timed and the game moves
super-fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in the day, he and Matt
Damon played a lot until a friend intervened to say this: <br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Don’t play speed chess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will ruin your game.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
That line stuck in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will not go away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Here’s why:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I write a lot of short essays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I write them because I’m asked to or because I’m
paid to or because I have something I want to say that doesn’t merit twenty
pages … and I write them because they’re easy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I’m afraid it’s ruining my game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
It’s near sacrilege to say so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Short
nonfiction, like flash fiction, has been all the rage for a long while now, especially
in MFA programs where honing stories down to their essence is seen as excellent
practice, maybe even cutting edge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve
encouraged it myself plenty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I also daresay,
from a teaching perspective it’s a lot easier to critique 1000 words than 5K … but
no need to be cynical here.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I adore <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brevity</i> as much as the next person. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">(If you don't know <i>Brevity</i>, definitely check it out -- essays <750 words that amaze. Here's one of mine they published last year: <a href="http://brevitymag.com/nonfiction/crush/">http://brevitymag.com/nonfiction/crush/ </a> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I still
think it might be ruining my game.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
When I sit down to work on my book project, I
struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of it is pure endurance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing
a book is like training for a marathon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You need patience and pacing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
need to think really hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The answer is
simple, I know: Sit longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like a
long slow run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, still, no long distance
runner will tell you sprint workouts are useless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They work different muscles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re part of the package.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I just don’t want to ruin my game.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
Here’s what Ben Affleck said:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you do an impersonation, you use the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">techniques</i> of acting but don’t get at
the heart; you do the external work but not the deep internal work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same can be true of writing short
pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to be vigilant about
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
But I don't suppose I'll give up Going Short any time
soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a new collection of short
essays, in fact, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hole in the Snow</i>,
which is very close to finding a home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
“Don’t be afraid to do what comes easy,” says
picture book author and Whidbey colleague Bonny Becker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It probably means you’re good at it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I hope that’s true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sincerely do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-5376894190614049252012-08-20T14:15:00.001-07:002012-08-20T14:18:47.137-07:00Re-found LoveYears ago Laurie and I bought rings with Hopi
symbols etched in silver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laurie, the
skier, chose storm clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me, I chose
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swimming, after all, was what I
loved best. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a kid, I’d spent long
summer days in backyard pools, in lessons at the park, in the waves at the
beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the high school team, we
practiced outdoors after dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
college, I’d wake at dawn to swim laps before classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An hour in the pool, I found, followed by a
large coffee, made even the most boring lecture fascinating.<br />
<br />But the truth was, even before we bought the
rings, my swimming days were mostly over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We lived in a place with no pool and a lake too cold to loiter in, and
there was an injury to boot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day on
trail crew I’d tossed a long limb off a switchback and heard my shoulder
snap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That ruled out swimming for years,
long enough that I figured it’d be forever.<br />
<br />Until this spring when I decided to join some of
the Whidbey MFA students in a triathlon right before our ten-day summer
residency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A half mile swim?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A cinch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I mean, it was a cinch twenty years ago, so it should be a cinch now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe?<br />
<br />I started training.<br />
<br />I swam alone in the Pacific in the early morning
fog before the Jesus people arrived to set up day-camp-on-the-beach
and sing too loudly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(“I’ve got the joy
joy joy down in my heart …”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No no no,
not again.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnx3plKKkgw5wG0RnHf1eYbEwAn7rnGKWoE5Zw4LvHqMdGH03tn3tMJq9m6JIkBnwJeosyrJrdWa9FDXKu84Anzl5eLsh8FewRt7xjXgJbUGrSXjmcN4pWmP5GdJLWr-26Zv__0YdRHBFg/s1600/DSCN0805+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnx3plKKkgw5wG0RnHf1eYbEwAn7rnGKWoE5Zw4LvHqMdGH03tn3tMJq9m6JIkBnwJeosyrJrdWa9FDXKu84Anzl5eLsh8FewRt7xjXgJbUGrSXjmcN4pWmP5GdJLWr-26Zv__0YdRHBFg/s320/DSCN0805+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a>I swam in New Jersey in a tree-ringed lake where my
young nieces compete on a team with lane lines on the surface and sun fish and snapping
turtles below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watching them approach
the starting block, strong shoulders held high … well, if that’s not
inspiration, nothing is.</div>
<br />
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I swam a few times in the outdoor pool in the
nearby faux-Bavarian tourist town, a half-hour workout wedged between the ferry
and the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pure bliss.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I swam in Lake Chelan on the downlake end one morning,
and because it was warmer than the end uplake, wore no wetsuit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shivered until noon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />I swam uplake one evening and breathing one
direction watched the pink sunset glow on still snowy mountains and breathing
the other way watched the black sky of a fast approaching storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Got home just before the deluge.<br />
<br />I never once swam indoors.<br />
<br />The race went fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My favorite memory is all of us
writer-triathletes, my tribe if ever there was one, treading water awaiting the
start. <br />
<br />The next week I swam in Puget Sound on graduation
morning with my first-ever thesis advisee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cold even in my wetsuit, or afraid of being cold, I made it only a short
distance from her rental house to the dock at Captain Whidbey Inn where dual red
flags waved, the only color in the universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />Here’s the thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You buy rings when you’re twenty-five and wear them because of love until
the silver wears thin and brittle, never imagining that someday – this November?
Right? Right? – they’ll count for real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Meanwhile, there are other things, lesser things, that you give up despite
love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, what a delight, in your mid-forties,
to find yourself, like I did today, swimming through the green water glow of a
windless day, watching your shadow on sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just you and your thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like re-found love.<br />
<br />I’m not the only one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Diana Nyad was a long-distance champion in
her youth, but she gave it up for thirty years – thirty! – before she decided
to get in the water again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, right
this minute, at age 62, she’s making her third attempt to be the first human to
swim from Cuba to Florida.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s not superhuman, but she’s
super-committed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she’s probably
going to make it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://www.diananyad.com/"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.diananyad.com/</span></a></div>
<br />If that’s not inspiration, nothing is.Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-65374854461736180692012-06-13T12:55:00.000-07:002012-06-13T12:55:25.007-07:00Thurgood Marshall and the Sunnyland Case<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipSw2zFoYR6j6GsB0dhAY3xusC8hX7AHsNGCRsrpIOIUNChwFuTi9sNA9GFfpDSf438QlGODamPuo98etvq5FQ1kuogKu-utgqw0KylY9U4jttMGbBhFi5nQdY77T0_WHyspTYTQaGa8UJ/s1600/TMarshall-young.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipSw2zFoYR6j6GsB0dhAY3xusC8hX7AHsNGCRsrpIOIUNChwFuTi9sNA9GFfpDSf438QlGODamPuo98etvq5FQ1kuogKu-utgqw0KylY9U4jttMGbBhFi5nQdY77T0_WHyspTYTQaGa8UJ/s320/TMarshall-young.jpg" width="218" /></a>A few weeks ago my brother stumbled upon a cool
postscript to my book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Test Ride on the
Sunnyland Bus</i>, about our dad’s involvement in the early civil rights
movement in Tallahassee, Florida.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d
known he’d been arrested and that his lawyers had appealed his case to the U.S.
Supreme Court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What we didn’t know was
that one of those lawyers was Thurgood Marshall, the famous civil rights
attorney who later became the first black Supreme Court Justice.<br />
<br />
This shouldn’t be a huge surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marshall was the Chief Counsel for the NAACP
from 1940 -1961. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During that time, he
argued 32 cases before the Supreme Court and won 29 of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My dad's case </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leonard D. Speed, Joseph Spagna, and Johnny Herndon v. City of
Tallahassee</i> came in 1958, but Marshall never got the chance to argue it
since the high court justices refused to hear the case, citing issues of procedure and
jurisdiction. <br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
It’s enlightening, nonetheless, to read the
transcript of the appeal which has recently come available – for a pretty penny
– from The Making of Modern Law.<br />
<br />
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Readers of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Test Ride</i> will recall the
gist of the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad and five other
young men – three of them black, three white - tried to test Ordinance 741, a
law that gave Tallahassee bus drivers authority to assign seats based,
supposedly, on passenger weight and the “maximum health and safety” of the
riders. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUrfq-ZG5Yvt1tx3KacbS6Qd8ECopKlS4b6R5ftPWwsnc61Nnb1iNfWPZY3TD4jGPr7ZwWWcuQM870tv5PJRAHTAmkWjPzcOegO8uGSlxRDlR_8C71fEd0CMG9bT-mbl7BAD2Gr11SQVU/s1600/Speed,+Herndon,+Spagna.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUrfq-ZG5Yvt1tx3KacbS6Qd8ECopKlS4b6R5ftPWwsnc61Nnb1iNfWPZY3TD4jGPr7ZwWWcuQM870tv5PJRAHTAmkWjPzcOegO8uGSlxRDlR_8C71fEd0CMG9bT-mbl7BAD2Gr11SQVU/s320/Speed,+Herndon,+Spagna.JPG" width="320" /></a>When my dad and his friends boarded a bus called
the “Sunnyland”, the driver, Emory Elkins, assigned them seats as you might
suspect: whites in the front, blacks in the back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mid-way through the ride, my dad and two of
the black guys moved seats so now they sat together as interracial pairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The three who moved seats were arrested, and they hoped
to take the case to court to prove that the law violated their rights under the
14<sup>th</sup> Amendment.</div>
<br />
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They started by pleading “Not Guilty.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
According to federal appeals court judge
Dozier Devane, a known segregationist, that was their big mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead of entering a plea, they should have entered an affidavit citing
the unconstitutionality of the law.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since they were inarguable guilty of breaking the ordinance, there was
nothing to appeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>End of story.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That’s not a complicated position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the prose in response to the
appeal, written by Tallahassee attorney Leo L. Foster, is so convoluted as to
be almost unreadable. He refers repeatedly to a seating chart admitted by the
bus driver as evidence, a chart which didn’t specify race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore, Foster argues, race was not a factor
in the seating decision. In the eyes of the court, in fact, the defendants
could’ve been “six negroes” or six white men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Huh?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Thurgood Marshall’s prose, by contrast, is clear,
easy to read, and to the point. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He makes
a thorough condemnation of Ordinance 741 not by addressing what goes unsaid –
that seating will be determined based on race – but what is said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ordinance is “so vague as to make an
innocent act a criminal one.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He uses
the example of a married couple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If a
man gets on after his wife, and sits next to her without the express permission
of the driver, he has committed a crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How is a “reasonable man” to know what he can or cannot do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As you read, you get a keen sense of why Thurgood
Marshall won so many cases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because he
was articulate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because he was
right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s easier to make sense when
you’re telling the truth than when you’re lying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m pretty sure the attorneys for the city
weren’t lying, but they were going to great lengths – the whole nation was – to
sidestep the truth. </div>Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-53836088514806362322012-04-27T10:09:00.000-07:002012-04-27T10:31:35.526-07:00It Don't Come Easy<br />
OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admit
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometime in the middle of my long
stint on the road last month, I started to feel sorry for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d made the mistake of taking the ’98 Buick
we inherited from Laurie’s parents on this little 3000 mile jaunt because of
the smooth ride and the great stereo and because I was thinking more about the
cool stories I’d be chasing than about, say, the possibility that belts might
fray and snap or that the water pump pulley might work loose and go bouncing
down I-80 behind me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never even occurred
to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor had I suspected how
difficult interviews might be to schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or re-schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Government
officials needed permission from D.C.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Huh? What country do we live in?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Meeting locations and times were changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or I changed them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People got sick or forgot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then there was the weather. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Snow, rain, sleet, wind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No fewer than six of the mountain passes I
crossed required chains in last week in March. (I never put them on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t tell the CHP.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And right about the time I was white-knuckling
it over yet another one, Ringo Starr came on the radio: “It Don’t Come
Easy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damned straight, I thought.<br />
<br />Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
didn’t come easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was worth it.<br />
<br />I talked with three amazing women in their
eighties who have achieved great things. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beverly Ogle of the Mountain Maidu tribe in
Northeastern California has been working to reclaim ancestral land in Humbug
Valley from Pacific Gas & Electric. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phyllis
Clausen helped lead the movement to remove the salmon-blocking Condit Dam from
the White Salmon River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pauline Esteves
chaired the committee that negotiated the Timbisha Shoshone Homeland Act to
return land to her tribe in and around Death Valley. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of these women is sharp and gracious,
humble and wise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each has a clear-eyed intelligent gaze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d think they’d revel in retelling the
stories of their triumphs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />Each focused on the future and the new challenges
that face the people and the places that they love. Beverly Ogle told me about how few speakers of
the Maidu language remain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phyllis Clausen
worries about the threat development now poses to the White Salmon River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And near Pauline Esteves’ home on reclaimed
land in Death Valley, the tribal offices have been locked and security cameras put
in place by a rival faction in cahoots with the BIA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the heart of the problem: the politics of
gaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I tried to steer the
conversation to the successful negotiations back in 2000, Pauline would have
none of it.<br />
<br />
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“This is the present,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I was taught: don’t always be talking about
the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, it’s a good foundation,
but go forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You talk about the
circle of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, we’re not going
through that circle at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re not
moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re stuck.”<br />
<br />What doesn’t come easy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Change. Reclamation. Making things right. <br />
<br />“We were told in one of the legends that we were
going to be stuck sometimes,” Pauline continued, “but never to give up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you fall, get up, and if there’s something
in your way go around it, and that’s what we’re trying to do.”<br />
<br />I’m home in Stehekin now to sort through the hours
of interviews, to think and write about the struggles and triumphs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if I’m prone to self-pity, I will think
about these women and the many good people who have worked with them, and I’ll
remember to stay focused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Water pumps
can get repaired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So can rivers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doors can be unlocked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or so we hope. <br />
<br />
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<br /></div>Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-73414970073836405172012-01-20T10:30:00.001-08:002012-01-20T10:36:43.499-08:00Death Valley: Reclaimed HomelandLast winter around this time my mom and I were trying to decide where to travel together. Some place sunny, some place we’d never been. Death Valley, she suggested. Perfect.<br /><br />On the way north, from the eight-lane interstate to the two-lane highway, we marveled about how only a few years earlier, as she battled cancer, we thought she’d be gone. Now she’d get to see Death Valley before she died. We speculated about the wildflowers which might be great – or not – the wildflower watch on the Internet urged us not to get too excited. So there we were on the open road, not knowing what to expect or hope for.<br /><br />Even before the trip I’d been thinking about reclamation, about hydropower and dams and how the combination of outsized vision and the communal will of New Deal America managed to reclaim so much. For better and for worse. When I was young, I harbored Ed Abbey fantasies of dams blasted to smithereens, and I am as happy as the next monkey-wrencher to see the Elwha come tumbling down. But lately I’ve grown a strange and desperate faith in reclamation in all its meanings:<br /><br />To take back. To make right. To make useful.<br /><br />So there we were in Lone Pine. We spent an afternoon at Manzanar, the former internment where Japanese-Americans have reclaimed their history. Then the next morning, we entered the park in all its stark grandeur, and we passed this sign:<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699783589620325762" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 258px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkIstQS2SdkeMc-edKRKAeqf1eINZrgnWyYdbXCD-UZ2jlydX8ap8xaDOtpqCGoyDtw7kwGHhcZmVe3hDq_Ksf7f2WtF3lI40N70CtMuR3ELbhWTA1SIaX2h7cKYSiAKViH9JMUec3gcS/s320/110_r_kl.jpg" border="0" />Check out the phrase at the bottom: "Homeland of the Timbisha Shoshone." I was floored. I know enough of the sordid history of Indians in National Parks to know how uncommon such an acknowledgement is. When I opened the park map and saw that it was not merely a nice gesture, but reclamation at its most raw and right. The Timbisha Shoshone Homeland Act in 2000 had granted 300 acres in the park and more than 7,000 in the surrounding lands back to the Indians.<br /><br />Since then I’ve read everything I can find about the tribe’s history and their activists like Pauline Esteves and Barbara Durham, and I’ve interviewed several of those involved in the Homeland Act negotiations including Charles Wilkinson, author of a terrific history of modern Indian movements, <em>Blood Struggle</em>. My obsession with reclamation has grown even bigger and more unwieldy (outsized?) moving in several directions at once … like the very best projects. But despite my best efforts, I have yet to talk to the Timbisha. I have not given up hope.Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-72714661874961906782011-11-02T15:47:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:38:57.427-08:00Five things a writer needs to be able to do a lot of<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr2EFOHcW8KnIRDElwR8ANGPbvuuVVLgNVyGMdlj111P1uiEnQa88RfMSaFM_IJQRvRs_VztFkh45o-yGgGSSIeS6M88dZSIwiVXj0T1r0O8igDpbIZieC_KJBqwZtrhpqIK9Cs_ekCCJI/s1600/ana_maria_smaller.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670534295429002114" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr2EFOHcW8KnIRDElwR8ANGPbvuuVVLgNVyGMdlj111P1uiEnQa88RfMSaFM_IJQRvRs_VztFkh45o-yGgGSSIeS6M88dZSIwiVXj0T1r0O8igDpbIZieC_KJBqwZtrhpqIK9Cs_ekCCJI/s320/ana_maria_smaller.jpg" border="0" /></a>Last week, I visited Minden Elementary School near Reno, Nevada as part of the sixth grade lecture series. The series is organized and run by a hard-working student committee that assembled a list of questions ahead of time, prepared an introduction, set up the tables and chairs in the library, and best of all, provided the treats for the occasion. Last year the series featured scientists. This year it’s writers, and I was the first. So I decided to go with the basics: How do you become a writer? What do you have to do?<br /><br />I made a list for the whiteboard (which was, by the way, electronic – yikes! – luckily the committee trained me up in no time):<br /><br /><strong>1. Read<br /></strong><br />What inspires you to write? the students asked. The answer: What I read. From Laura Ingalls Wilder when I was a kid to Zadie Smith last week.<br /><br /><strong>2. Sit in a chair<br /></strong><br />As anyone who writes seriously can attest, this is a lot harder than it sounds. How long does it take to write a book? the students asked. Well, my first book, the novel I wrote sitting in a bean bag in second grade, <em>The English Girl from Canada</em>, took 10 days. <em>Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus </em>took five years. That’s a lot of sitting.<br /><br /><strong>3. Find something you love to write about<br /></strong><br />For me, the lifelong urge to write turned to desperate compulsion when I landed in Canyonlands National Park in Utah just out of college, then later when I stumbled into Stehekin. I loved being outdoors, immersed in such beauty, loved the people I met and the adventures I had, and I wanted to write about all of it. So I did. Over and over and over again.<br /><br /><strong>4. Work with other writers</strong><br /><br />After I left Minden, I headed up to Lake Tahoe to teach a private workshop on the bridge between essay and memoir writing. Six devoted writers offered each other support, encouragement, and much needed direction. All of them – all of us, I should say – marveled at how much gets accomplished when we’re around other writers rather than in our own little cubby holes.<br /><br /><strong>5. Accept rejection<br /></strong><br />Back at the elementary school, this offered a great chance for guessing game. I told the students that I have, as of now, about seventy published short pieces. To get to that point, I asked, how many rejections did they think I’ve received? Hands shot up. Ten? Nope. Twenty? Nope. A hundred? Up and up and up the numbers went. (When I described this to my mother on the telephone, she said: just like <em>The Price is Right</em>.)<br /><br />Five hundred, I said at last. I keep track. Five hundred rejections. And counting.<br /><br />Of course the one obvious thing a writer must do a lot of that does not appear on the list is – duh! – write, so we spent some time on three short writing prompts that maybe the students can work into something in the days and weeks to come.<br /><br />Then it was over. Time for refreshments. The only caveat was that, in order to partake of the cookies and Rice Krispie treats, the students would have to be talking about the presentation either with me or with each other. (Not, their teacher Ms. Bertolone-Smith noted, merely hanging out with their “stalemates.”) So they gathered around and asked some great questions: how to write a climax scene, whether you can work on more than one book at once, what’s different about writing fiction vs. nonfiction.<br /><br />Looking back, I realize I did skip over one thing writers have to do a lot of: give readings and presentations and visit with readers. I’ve been doing plenty of that in the past year, and I have to say, the morning at Minden Elementary was one of the most enjoyable.Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-39941016424494815222011-09-17T10:30:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:47:46.547-08:00Excerpts, Covers, NewsSome nice press this month has brought some amusing, uh, juxtapositions.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653383147031878402" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4e3Ehv7hcnPtlz9HQNf9RIEB8oac24uJQ2UwyUtTuaO-qR-ZvgnNAjTbjxH_bNpwNq4683bMOf4ui_Ydet02JJMwRLOT57K1T2AfXUg4akw2TyB-N97LRxlegOjguZLnc2S84Fa2KDK5/s200/024.JPG" border="0" />An excerpt from <em>Test Ride</em> <em>on the Sunnyland Bus</em> appears in the Autumn 2011 issue of <em>Portland: The Magazine of the University of Portland. </em>This is a fabulous alumni magazine, regularly lauded as one of the best, edited by the indominable Brian Doyle, and the excerpt, from the chapter "Heroes and She-Roes" is fabulously presented. Since it's the scene of John Lewis' speech at the 50th anniversary of the Tallahassee bus boycott, a fine portrait of Congressman Lewis accompanies the text.<br /><br />This excerpt appears in an issue for which the cover story is:"Why Be A Priest?"<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5HUNNceUsft9QUPRxHswIgI_24PIv6Unrsd3fnXaj7DDNkULYK292QbaBHMDZWgf87_X5NeaqxqkfjckGlGPqxjFt2Dx1Jc9PWu86bjLQQncFkMshQsbDvMguTRS3eewLhsZA5nrvJJH/s1600/023.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653385152026164546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5HUNNceUsft9QUPRxHswIgI_24PIv6Unrsd3fnXaj7DDNkULYK292QbaBHMDZWgf87_X5NeaqxqkfjckGlGPqxjFt2Dx1Jc9PWu86bjLQQncFkMshQsbDvMguTRS3eewLhsZA5nrvJJH/s200/023.JPG" border="0" /></a>Meanwhile an excerpt from <em>Potluck</em> appears in the Sept. / Oct. issue of <em>Utne Reader</em>. A section of the title essay, retitled "Pass the Populism," appears in the Gleanings section of the magazine, another fine publication with a wide distribution. The excerpt was even noted by a <em>NY Times</em> writer in the Dining section of the paper on Sept. 13. That is, by Stehekin standards - by any standards, I suppose - a big deal!<br /><br />This excerpt appears in an issue for which the cover story is:<br />"21st Century Sex: What Are You Looking At?"<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKr7cYO-AvO4GI9O6_evijQ-p6mtuHFdwlndDigssAzMrTVhgOoVyFzf9NvLe4M-31dk98EC2AD8T8Rw51V7ywChZXArJ-2NEgCj6PRIqR_zZ_QfXg_GZAAMsV8UmrhFTJyMgrdFhQsJ5z/s1600/025.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653387303135387714" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKr7cYO-AvO4GI9O6_evijQ-p6mtuHFdwlndDigssAzMrTVhgOoVyFzf9NvLe4M-31dk98EC2AD8T8Rw51V7ywChZXArJ-2NEgCj6PRIqR_zZ_QfXg_GZAAMsV8UmrhFTJyMgrdFhQsJ5z/s200/025.JPG" border="0" /></a>In neither case is the excerpt related to the cover story, but the contrast tickled me no end.<br /><br />Then came <em>Oregon Quarterly</em> where an excerpt from <em>Potluck,</em> "Saw Chips in My Bra" appears in the Fall issue alongside an essay by Robert Leo Heilman about the legendary woods-working co-op, the Hoedads. This time, the cover photo fit with my story a little better, just right even. The only downside was the news that long-time friend, supporter, author, and <em>OQ</em> editor, Guy Maynard, will be stepping down this winter. He will be sorely missed.<br /><br /><br />Meanwhile, I have new short essays forthcoming in <em>Bellingham Review</em> and <em>Matter 14: Animal</em>, and a short story for kids in <em>ColumbiaKIDS</em>.<br /><br />And ... in the best news of the month, <em>Test Ride</em> was named a finalist for the Washington State Book Award in biography / memoir. A fine honor.Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-12646107410577598982011-08-10T11:31:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:42:56.358-08:00The History of Skagit Dams - Seeing Things Anew<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44Be5So5PD7eHC3gmjYxnxNsrzh5qI1-GSl1Uwv4t9FrlXzJyVv-nIHvqkzsKH6BLbkjs3T0eiLfLAK6nmhLFDfzzBQAcrafOTRCzmOuyRDwTOIRV3oJMEALUJLbeqmML9B59U9ytLl_V/s1600/6002756528_bd18836e14_b.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639297939248919794" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44Be5So5PD7eHC3gmjYxnxNsrzh5qI1-GSl1Uwv4t9FrlXzJyVv-nIHvqkzsKH6BLbkjs3T0eiLfLAK6nmhLFDfzzBQAcrafOTRCzmOuyRDwTOIRV3oJMEALUJLbeqmML9B59U9ytLl_V/s320/6002756528_bd18836e14_b.jpg" border="0" /></a> I’ve driven Washington’s Highway 20, the North Cascades Highway, for years. I used live in Rockport right along the highway, and I used to work for the national park that straddles the highway, and for one interminable summer when Laurie worked on the east side of the crest and I worked on the west, I commuted over the highway. I’ve been wowed by the mountains and soothed by the rivers, sure, sure. I’ve hiked from trailheads and watched wildlife and even taught writing at North Cascades Institute’s Environmental Learning Center on Diablo Lake. It was there, at the Learning Center, that I first thought seriously about the dams.<br /><br />To reach the Learning Center you drive right across Diablo Dam. Overhead the power lines buzz. But when writers sat down to describe their surroundings, they usually wrote about birds or fish or trees or clouds. Never the dams. I was as guilty as anyone. The three dams that line the Skagit River – Gorge, Diablo, and Ross – are all more or less visible from the highway, but, in writing as in life, I’d mostly ignored them. Why? I knew the answer: because we nature-loving types have a kneejerk reaction against anything human-made. While we’re in the woods, we want to see the woods. But part of why people come to the Learning Center is to learn about things they know little about, to appreciate them anew. For me, I realized, that meant the dams.<br /><br />So I was delighted this spring to see that my old friend Jesse Kennedy would teach a class at the Learning Center on the History of the Skagit Dams. Jesse can bring enthusiasm to any subject (you’d have to attend one of his defensive driving classes to believe me) and in this case, the subject could not have been more perfectly suited to him. Dr. Kennedy, who studied both ophthalmology and diesel mechanics extensively before migrating into cultural resources, described dam construction with an engineer’s precision and told the story of J.D. Ross and his battle to bring public power to Seattle with a historian’s heart. Turns out it’s a wild story with several wild subplots. Ross single-handedly fought off proponents of privatization and brought the dams in on schedule and under budget to provide more people in Seattle with more power sooner than in other American cities. Ross was also a renowned expert on lilies and tea plants, who borrowed monkeys and albino deer from Woodland Park Zoo to place on islands in Diablo Lake. The animals – along with a colorful light show and a hearty chicken meal and a ride up the dramatic cable incline used in dam construction – served as attractions for generations of city folks Ross wooed upriver for inexpensive tours from the Depression through the 1960s. When he died, Franklin Roosevelt offered space in Arlington National Cemetery, but Ross had specified that he’d prefer to lie for eternity along Highway 20 in Newhalem. A plaque at the site quotes Roosevelt who heralded Ross as one of “the greatest Americans of our time,” which is particularly impressive considering that Ross was Canadian.<br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp3uLqRTwygDJ9JMI9Pl3jNlotHV70M3S02wLajldlSyrWPj7Mt7DN7LimIuUqCE2hlnDd62Sg2z4elCGPnuIFZriDJ7IdA9bJ9dhwpAs0AFL7VyhgT9fFYwC7tjtNpzcnEqkQbSQ1KF1/s1600/6002756596_c8d1b8fa97_b.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639298636220525250" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp3uLqRTwygDJ9JMI9Pl3jNlotHV70M3S02wLajldlSyrWPj7Mt7DN7LimIuUqCE2hlnDd62Sg2z4elCGPnuIFZriDJ7IdA9bJ9dhwpAs0AFL7VyhgT9fFYwC7tjtNpzcnEqkQbSQ1KF1/s320/6002756596_c8d1b8fa97_b.jpg" border="0" /></a>When at last we visited the dams, we saw a rare sight. The dams, overfull from late snow in the high country, were spilling. The spill would be dramatic in any case – all that water, all that power – but when Jesse turned our attention to the construction, the graceful concrete arc to keep the force of the water from shaking the dam to the ground, my heart swelled the same way it does to see the larches on Liberty Bell backlit in fall. Pure beauty. And this, I realized, was why I’d come. Sometimes it takes a little knowledge to nudge you out of your ideological safety zone, a few good stories, to make you see things anew, to make you think.<br /><br />These days, I’m thinking a whole lot about reclamation. More on that soon.</div></div>Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-30046561737069339672011-07-02T11:12:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:44:13.525-08:00Rust Fish<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpIBaLEaXgBmDWlJgOR-MMxtVNmCrR84qc_7JKgB7G5_D56e9-iqpXkpWaQMTpTPvtl_lf3bLmrvOQSssgdV44Lz-54q5OsnypyRWFCVRCPR8fb_ZvpionFfTXDIzenpBBwX2y3ZAodbA/s1600/002.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624820170937912850" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpIBaLEaXgBmDWlJgOR-MMxtVNmCrR84qc_7JKgB7G5_D56e9-iqpXkpWaQMTpTPvtl_lf3bLmrvOQSssgdV44Lz-54q5OsnypyRWFCVRCPR8fb_ZvpionFfTXDIzenpBBwX2y3ZAodbA/s320/002.JPG" border="0" /></a>Each day before I begin to write, I try to read something, anything, that inspires me. Lately, I’ve been turning more and more often to poetry, and most recently it’s been Maya Jewell Zeller’s terrific first collection, <em>Rust Fish</em>. I heard her read from the collection at Burning Word festival in Leavenworth, Washington in May, and ever since then, I’ve been hooked. I want to say entranced, but it’s nothing that otherworldly or dark. Mostly, I’ve been charmed.<br /><br /><em>Rust Fish</em> is a coming-of-age collection, more or less, and part of what Zeller does so well is conjure childhood without a hint of romanticism or regret or even ruefulness. There’s real childhood friendship (“The World at Eleven”) and real childhood meanness (“Revenge” “Serape”). There’s the chalky mouthful of powdered milk I remember so well, and there’s a sweet lullaby sung to a beloved stuffed snake, despised by her mother. Then there’s G.I. Joe come to life (my favorite line in the book: “GI Joe loved lambsweed with warm government cheese”) then GI receiving the mutilation treatment we’ve so often seen Barbie endure (“Sibling Rivalry”).<br /><br />Through it all, the natural world – a distinctly Pacific Northwest version – weaves into and out of the poems the way, on the west slope of the Cascades, blackberry vines choke rotting barns. There’s skunk cabbage and balsam root and thistle, cedar and salmon and smelt, and lest you think things might stray into too-pretty description or green forest cliché, there’s the flood strewn bloated cow carcass thrown in for good measure.<br /><br />Zeller’s voice is straightforward and plainly feminist (remember the treatment GI Joe got?) and unyielding without turning belligerent. She doesn’t so much confront class issues as inhabit them. Her parents owned both a tavern and a tow truck. In the last section, her poem “For a Student Come Back from the Quiet Beyond” culminates in a wrenching set of lines: “She is the student who made me cry the most./ She loves her job at a dry-cleaner’s/ where the chemicals give her hives/but her boss says she’s the best employee he’s ever had.”<br /><br />Of all the aspects of Zeller’s poetry that I admire, her humility stands out the most. She’s as eager to point out irony as anyone – the new Jack in the Box on the road to Olympic National Park, say – but when she does it, with all her earnest understated passion, guess who’s in the drive thru line?<br /><br />If you’re looking for inspiration, pick up <em>Rust Fish</em>.Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-28715835561188171052011-05-31T10:21:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:45:44.517-08:00On Mortenson, memoir, victims, whiners, and the sometimes sickening truthThe undeserving casualties of the recent fracas over Greg Mortenson’s exaggerations in his bestselling memoirs are many: the people that donated money to his schools in Afghanistan and the schools themselves – guaranteed now to be shorter on funds than before – and the girls who attend them. Then there are readers, even the non-donators, and attendees of Mortenson’s speaking engagements who believed a story and now feel duped. But not least among them are memoirists everywhere who have taken yet another blow to their credibility.<br /><br />Credibility that has long been suspect. The root of the accusations is familiar: how can any writer remember all the details? Memoirists, the naysayers point out, compress time and make-up dialogue and details. True enough. But most readers are cool with that. The truth is, often enough, the eye-rolling exasperation has less to do with how the story is told – how true exactly – than with what kind of story it is. Memoir is the genre of victimization, say the eye-rollers. The realm of whiners.<br /><br />I should know. I taught memoir writing online for several years to hundreds of writers – new writers, experienced writers, rich writers and poor, good writers and bad, women and, occasionally, men – and among the shocks I had to face was exactly how widespread childhood trauma, especially family trauma, is. Not verbal abuse, but horrid physical and sexual abuse. I recoiled. I didn’t want to read it, not once and certainly not dozens of times a day, but I was awed and humbled by the guts it took for writers to relive the trauma, and it did not take me long to realize that these stories must be told. The sheer number of them makes them impossible to ignore. Victimization is not an attitude that’s gone viral. It’s a reality that’s been shoved under the carpet. Because we want it there. We want to change the subject.<br /><br />Oddly enough, it’s rarely the (mostly female) victims of horrific crimes who exaggerate or lie in memoir – I’ve never heard of a documented case – but the (mostly male) perpetrators of minor ones. James Frey lied about his the extent of his drug dealing. Ditto Malcolm X according to a new biography. Greg Mortenson apparently not only exaggerated his commitment to the village schools, but also the extent of his trespass into enemy territory and his subsequent kidnapping. Let’s face it: bad guy dramas, packed with danger and daring, tend toward excess. Whether and how to punish or prevent such excess is, I suppose, a discussion worth having.<br /><br />But let’s not change the subject.<br /><br />Let’s not allow courageous writers who were once victims become victims (again) by letting “Did this really happen?” morph into “Are these stories really worth telling (again)?” They are. And the most important ones may not be packed with misdeeds-turned-bravado – the street thug turned civil rights hero, the climber turned philanthropist – but with pathos and cold hard, sometimes sickening, truth.Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-77246474585623460582011-03-30T16:11:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:46:24.018-08:00Tribute Essay in High Country News<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpQ6LZBr8OL2bLO5tLi9T9enbZFKZ9KRKdXbXZjG9kDTAeER-8tfdqw1gjR4e_wfgjqJDmJHFizgrZOc9xwpajOIG5nr9B6kqwh1v26BqqWeA8Ma7ZEEZldmrB_OO_tTva90yVW33YsJD/s1600/014.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590015899825426050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpQ6LZBr8OL2bLO5tLi9T9enbZFKZ9KRKdXbXZjG9kDTAeER-8tfdqw1gjR4e_wfgjqJDmJHFizgrZOc9xwpajOIG5nr9B6kqwh1v26BqqWeA8Ma7ZEEZldmrB_OO_tTva90yVW33YsJD/s320/014.JPG" border="0" /></a>This week I have an essay in High Country News titled "The Sign Maker" honoring Phil Garfoot, who died almost exactly a year ago. I was lucky enough to have a couple of fine Barnhart photos of Phil's signs accommany the essay, but I thought it'd be fun to include several more. Unfortunately the snow still hangs in the high country so these shots don't include many fine trail junction signs, but they give a sense of how ubiquitous and fitting they are here in Stehekin.<br /><br />http://www.hcn.org/issues/43.6/the-sign-maker<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMhw26MLF-_g9ZqiSbYgStFdwQ5ScTGiQz8cAUXm6G-H4F6nH3KOPs_r9p46zavLTsz06U0K_UT2VDazMSOfPztQ5j3YumCDXfGhQ9d2EVAGelI-Xm1svY9KtxLIY6MMiD-HP_0lpwsI2/s1600/018.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590017187588907618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMhw26MLF-_g9ZqiSbYgStFdwQ5ScTGiQz8cAUXm6G-H4F6nH3KOPs_r9p46zavLTsz06U0K_UT2VDazMSOfPztQ5j3YumCDXfGhQ9d2EVAGelI-Xm1svY9KtxLIY6MMiD-HP_0lpwsI2/s320/018.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhasmSE-r0H70wc5OZ7kh8XML_G5dT-Js0uADLR8Y82oF4yF4w0YJzmQeSAY677xSkmrsEZ5Rgj41ExFilBBhYQcH-aragkAsVa3cKIJkOiFB25cY0ckQuSIwMPl4EJeNiHKUwNZS8OTZSc/s1600/020.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590019036476654610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhasmSE-r0H70wc5OZ7kh8XML_G5dT-Js0uADLR8Y82oF4yF4w0YJzmQeSAY677xSkmrsEZ5Rgj41ExFilBBhYQcH-aragkAsVa3cKIJkOiFB25cY0ckQuSIwMPl4EJeNiHKUwNZS8OTZSc/s320/020.JPG" border="0" /></a>Ana Mariahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03579528893812997237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-87808258066651970992011-01-13T17:00:00.000-08:002012-01-20T10:47:22.860-08:00Teaching, Writing, PublishingSo the three are supposed to be in eternal conflict, I realize. How much time do I spending writing (duh - as much as I can), trying to publish (crucial, right?), and teaching (my passion/my paycheck)? Last semester the three dovetailed nicely and I have my nonfiction workshop at Whidbey Writers Workshop to thank. Sort of. I was afraid, as all writing teachers are secretly afraid, that teaching would sap all my energy. I was simultaneously afraid that I had demanded too much of the students - a complete draft or revision every week of the semester. So I decided I had to keep up. I had to submit a complete draft or revision of an essay to myself and/or to an editor every single week. The rule worked well because it kept me writing, and also because it kept me from fretting over creating a masterpiece every time I sat down to write. The results: 8 essays in 16 weeks. Seven of which have been published or accepted for publication. Here's one from the current issue of Mountain Gazette:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mountaingazette.com/mountain-notebook/re-entry/">http://www.mountaingazette.com/mountain-notebook/re-entry/</a>Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-41966033511259384262010-12-07T09:16:00.000-08:002012-01-20T10:49:38.130-08:00Test Ride on the PNBA 2011 Book Awards Short ListJust before Laurie and I left on a sprawling Thanksgiving trek that has temporarily landed us at Whiskeytown National Recreation Area in Northern California for Laurie to prune a few fine old trees, I heard via the grapevine that <em>Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus</em> was shortlisted for the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association 2011 Book Awards. I didn't quite believe it, but it was true. Big news in my little world. In part because some of the other authors on the list were literary heroes of mine when I first started writing - Rick Bass, Ivan Doig - and all of them are authors I admire.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.pnba.org/awardsshortlist2011.html">http://www.pnba.org/awardsshortlist2011.html</a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNv4yrvpS_gFkrIo4HXnjRLA9Wdx-of5mrVaO8DGDFosNvpVfxQ7J4n_AfZpNymv583Inu5Yf_gxVq9s5fQOkg2GT4MYtUjJ-tY9pGDTIbSNENkXqjP52ggJB_vYPJHdMu0oqHqTwKc6k/s1600/MediumLogo.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547993119488653362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 122px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 140px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNv4yrvpS_gFkrIo4HXnjRLA9Wdx-of5mrVaO8DGDFosNvpVfxQ7J4n_AfZpNymv583Inu5Yf_gxVq9s5fQOkg2GT4MYtUjJ-tY9pGDTIbSNENkXqjP52ggJB_vYPJHdMu0oqHqTwKc6k/s200/MediumLogo.gif" border="0" /></a><br />Additional kudos - and thanks - to Whidbey Writers Workshop MFA student Janet Buttenwieser. The PNBA folks chose to link to the interview she did with me outside Elliott Bay Books in May as introduction to the book.<br /><br /><a href="http://whidbeystudents.com/nonfiction/">http://whidbeystudents.com/nonfiction/</a>Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-23394922961984297432010-11-04T12:05:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:50:29.890-08:00Mink River<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaosph2dxOC561K60LKYtSLFanRgt8tjaqj8nkNBb04vGcuUYpNEoLPidI3irsbEUGVRBE24LVxyxOMw3wHv3jv4sO2DSnhtQ-6hX4sbMYOMc00sJlMEuPid8zBQsudQiPh6uNpKY3EHI/s1600/Mink+River.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536077617055019618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaosph2dxOC561K60LKYtSLFanRgt8tjaqj8nkNBb04vGcuUYpNEoLPidI3irsbEUGVRBE24LVxyxOMw3wHv3jv4sO2DSnhtQ-6hX4sbMYOMc00sJlMEuPid8zBQsudQiPh6uNpKY3EHI/s200/Mink+River.JPG" border="0" /></a>I’ve long admired Brian Doyle’s essays: succinct, precise, unexpected, and gorgeous. They’re chockfull of playful language, unabashed spirituality, and plain elation. It’s not as though Doyle’s unwilling to confront harsh realities. His very short essay “Leap” is the most moving response to 9/11 I’ve ever read. But more often he confronts us with joy. The last sentence of “Joyas Voladoras,” which moves from a hummingbird’s heart to a blue whale’s to a human’s, makes me weep every single time I read it:<br /><br />“You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman's second glance, a child's apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words I have something to tell you, a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother's papery ancient hand in a thicket of your hair, the memory of your father's voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.”<br /><br />Still Brian Doyle’s essays did not prepare me for <em>Mink River</em>, his first novel. I mean, I thought I’d like it, but I didn’t think I’d like it so much that as soon as I stopped reading I’d start all over again. But that’s exactly what happened. Part of the attraction is geographic. <em>Mink River</em> takes place in the fictional Northwest coast town of Neawanaka and the descriptions of the rain and forest rival those in Ken Kesey’s <em>Sometimes a Great Notion</em>. But Doyle’s novel is bigger-hearted than Kesey’s. The prose sings with echoes of Blake and Joyce, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Louise Erdrich. The story itself shimmers. <em>Mink River</em> isn’t just about one stubborn family; it’s about one generous, pained, magic community.<br /><br />And there’s the rub. I’ve been writing essays about community for ten years at least. (The collection <em>Potluck: Community at the Edge of Wilderness</em> comes out in spring) I’ve tried to capture the complicated nuances, loyalties, surprises, and sorrows. Hopefully, I’ve done it in my own little way. Doyle does it in a big way. Between braided storylines, short sections from a omniscient narrator describe what every character is doing at one moment, and the parallels between them captures connectedness, over and over, better than I ever could.<br /><br />I adore these sections. I adore the characters: Worried Man and Cedar who collect stories for the Department of Public Works, the strong women – Nora the wood carver, Grace the fisherman turned barkeep, Stella the barkeep turned farmer. I love Moses the talking crow, Daniel the bicycling boy, Owen the Irishman, Michael the cop, the doctor who smokes 13 cigarettes a day, one for each apostle including Matthias, and young Nicholas who moves away to attend college at Oregon State. Which brings me to my only criticism of the book: Nicholas should’ve been a Duck. Really, it’s a terrific book. Better than terrific. Read it.Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-456765050787188172010-09-26T15:42:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:51:09.253-08:00Books, books, booksFor the past few weeks, as I've been planning ahead for the courses I get to teach in the Whidbey Writers Workshop MFA program next Spring, I've felt the same anxiety I've felt since I was a kid whenever someone gave me a gift certificate to a book or record store, my favorite gift bar none. I obsess over the options and worry that I will make a poor choice. I wring my hands. I wander the aisles or keep updating my cart online. Finally I click to buy and hope for the best.<br /><br /><br />So now I get to choose not one or two books, but several. Not just for myself but for my students. Two courses: Craft of Nonfiction and Directed Readings in Contemporary Memoir. It's like the ultimate gift certificate. Should I choose forty books or eighty? The lists beside my desk on scrap paper kept accumulating. I emailed friends for advice, and then promptly ignored it. I honed the list over and over until it occurred to me, yesterday, that I had other work that probably needed doing, most notably firewood splitting and putting the garden to bed, but also teaching my <em>current</em> classes.<br /><br />Anyway here's the final list for The Contemporary Memoir. Now that it's finalized, please let me know what you think so that I can start the inevitable regretting.<br /><br />Two craft books for reference:<br /><br /><em>The Art of Time in Memoir: Then, Again</em> by Sven Birkerts<br /><em>Fearless Confessions</em> by Sue William Silverman<br /><br />Ten fine books:<br /><br /><em>Brother I’m Dying</em> Edwidge Danticat<br /><em>Another Bullshit Night in Suck City</em> Nick Flynn<br /><em>Lit </em>Mary Karr<br /><em>Autobiography of a Face</em> Lucy Grealy<br /><em>Somehow Form a Family</em> Tony Earley<br /><em>Boyhood </em>J.M Coetzee<br /><em>The Tender Land</em> Kathleen Finneran<br /><em>I’ve Heard the Vultures Singing</em> Lucia Perillo<br /><em>Jarhead </em>Anthony Swofford<br /><em>Gringa: A Contradictory Girlhood</em> Melissa Hart<br /><br />With apologies to the many also-rans: Mark Doty, Alexandra Fuller, Judith Barrington, Michael Ondaatje, Danielle Trussoni, Frank McCourt, Maxine Hong Kingston, Thomas Merton. I don't suspect it bothers them to have missed the cut. But good lord does it bother me. Next time. Next time.<br /><br />PS - For my most recent CD purchase, in spring, I was stuck between Clem Snide and Fruit Bats, nearly paralyzed for weeks. Finally, I bought both. Big splurge. No regrets. I'll take this as an omen.Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-461309890382198122010-08-07T12:12:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:52:04.539-08:00Barrie Jean Borich<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXp01B5Li71xaVJ50KCOwTY2SLeMsjvHrnlbvXnAlDQxFBD7bxQBmEuIocDxbnNGAEcJrh6JTbP2MrFzCjyIwJhIiTFhS9my0wWaBd0Pqn0mgtUD92O1LURoMaU9ZLhq5RzJIbNODZnqA/s1600/Summer+10+039.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502748319821163458" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXp01B5Li71xaVJ50KCOwTY2SLeMsjvHrnlbvXnAlDQxFBD7bxQBmEuIocDxbnNGAEcJrh6JTbP2MrFzCjyIwJhIiTFhS9my0wWaBd0Pqn0mgtUD92O1LURoMaU9ZLhq5RzJIbNODZnqA/s200/Summer+10+039.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>Here in blog-land, I return this month to my project of featuring writers I admire.<br /><br />Barrie Jean Borich is the author of <em>My Lesbian Husband</em>, winner of the American Library Association GLBT Book Award. In preparation for a visit to her class at Hamline University this spring, I picked up the book, thinking that despite the obvious similarity - we’re both lesbian nonfiction writers - our lives and work would be wildly different.<br /><br />And that’s true. I’m out the boonies; she’s in the city. I’m a former trails worker; she’s an established – and gifted – college professor. I have very few gay friends; she’s part of a large community.<br /><br />Turns out none of that matters. Her book struck home with me. It’s a book about lesbianism – about identity and discovery and the joys and struggles of a long-term relationship – themes to which I can certainly relate; it’s also about family, neighbors, pets, and jobs. The language is rich and inventive and honest. The narrative structure, too, takes an original course, meandering through time while staying, well, wed, to her younger brother’s wedding and the feelings it inspires. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.<br /><br />My Lesbian Husband is largely about Minneapolis and various neighborhoods therein, her chosen home(s). Like the best nature writing, her descriptions brought the city, a place I’d never been when I read it, to life for me. Moreover, the way she grapples with the idea of home (especially in the fine chapter “Leaving Bohemia”) helped me understand that my own feelings aren’t as tied - or limited - to wilderness as I sometimes worry.<br /><br />In a more recent essay, “Geographical Solutions” in the Fall 2009 issue of <em>Ecotone</em>, Borich boards the Amtrak “Empire Builder” and sets up her theme:<br /><br />“… all Americans, even the most put-upon among us, might have a little bit of empire building in our makeup, some desire to refind the lost parts of ourselves through locating and owning, landing somewhere and inscribing our names.”<br /><br />As she travels back to Chicago, where she grew up, she discovers that “There is a retaking that comes of reseeing.” Her work has helped me “re-see” some of my own ideas. For that, I’m grateful.<br /><br />You can read “Geographical Solutions” at the Ecotone website:<br /><a href="http://www.ecotonejournal.com/index.php/articles/details/geographical_solutions1">http://www.ecotonejournal.com/index.php/articles/details/geographical_solutions1</a><br /><br />For more about Barrie Jean Borich and her work, visit her website:<br /><a href="http://www.barriejeanborich.net/">http://www.barriejeanborich.net/</a> </div>Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-84651257730719194202010-07-23T15:34:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:52:32.301-08:00KUOW interviewAbout a month ago, I traveled over the mountains to Seattle to tape an interview with Dave Beck on the Seattle NPR affiliate KUOW. It was a great experience - despite the late June snowfall on Snoqualmie Pass - and wildly different than the live radio interviews I've done in the past. You can hear our chat about <em>Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus </em>live tomorrow July 24 at noon on 94.9 in Seattle or at <a href="http://www.kuow.org/">http://www.kuow.org/</a>. (It will also replay a couple of times mid-week.)<br /><br />Or you can listen at the link below:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.kuow.org/program.php?id=20888">http://www.kuow.org/program.php?id=20888</a>Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-1510148035902955822010-06-16T13:58:00.001-07:002012-01-20T10:53:19.840-08:00Book Tour in Retrospect<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEpEPuPWfCdH3xTmEiEIrquRUPyoA2m9qwMWhXBV60cTzOla4Bcvvm56R70geissv1TUPSXBdsLRSEJ_IWaFr1D5Ob5e6HB-C13RB9tRSUCJ73FE_mgBIBw1PaWnar3Gek6QY6nUxVehU/s1600/bellingham+-+islands+131.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483479237377439554" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEpEPuPWfCdH3xTmEiEIrquRUPyoA2m9qwMWhXBV60cTzOla4Bcvvm56R70geissv1TUPSXBdsLRSEJ_IWaFr1D5Ob5e6HB-C13RB9tRSUCJ73FE_mgBIBw1PaWnar3Gek6QY6nUxVehU/s200/bellingham+-+islands+131.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />After seven weeks of readings and one intensive Flick Creek workshop, I’m home. I’ve been home, actually, for a week. Long enough to wash clothes, pay bills, weed the garden, attend one party, run occasionally, and nap often. The thing about traveling around reading from your book is the thing about traveling around doing anything: when you’re in it, you’re in it. Now finally, I can start to take stock.<br /><br />Highlights were many. I got to read in front of family and friends, including many who knew my father, at UC Riverside and at the gorgeous new Rubidoux library. Who would’ve thought, when I was growing up, that someday the fanciest place I’d read would be Rubidoux? (Well, who would’ve thought I’d be out doing readings? That's the real question.) In Los Angeles, I spent a fine evening at the landmark African American bookstore Eso Won (translation: “water over rocks”) with a small but enthusiastic group of readers. Afterwards owner James Fugate, who spent some time in Tallahassee himself in the early ‘80s and had heard much about my father’s test ride, explained that the crowd surely would’ve been bigger if we weren’t competing with the Lakers. (Never thought about that: me vs. Kobe. Scary.) In San Francisco—between readings in Berkeley, at CSU East Bay, and in the Mission District—I visited the site of my dad’s old bookstore in North Beach by bike with Laurie. In Seattle, in the new basement reading room at Elliott Bay Books, I competed with frequent flushings through the exposed plumbing overhead. The reading went on, the discussion was fun, the books all sold out.<br /><br />Home for two days to plant the garden in the rain: peas, cukes, greens, carrots, broccoli, cabbage, squash. Breathe. Breathe. Back on the road.<br /><br />At Annie’s Pizza in Concrete, folks showed up from Darrington, Rockport, Marblemount, Sedro Woolley, and Diablo, undaunted by a cold hard rain. Over pizza and beer, trail workers and tree planters, NPS employees and pizza chefs, old timers and newcomers, shared stories of discrimination and redemption. Laurie and I stepped out into the dark around ten to a flat tire. Having no pride, I decided to call the Auto Club. We’d just gotten a new membership from my mom for Christmas, and I knew our spare was a bugger to get off, so why not? Why not? Lots of reasons. No offense to AAA or to the surly gentlemen who arrived, stripped the bolt, and left … but that was a bunch of bullshit. The spare tire was stuck, and so were we. Luckily our old friend Ned took us home at midnight to meet his new girlfriend for the first time. In the morning, we had the added pleasure of meeting Sweet Pea, the bottle-fed lamb with the purple collar. Next time Ned and Jeanne go on vacation, I hear, they’re taking Sweet Pea. And next time I’m in Concrete in a late night rainstorm with an unfixable flat, I hope Ned’s there.<br /><br />In Bellingham, another crowd of trail types crowded on metal chairs then whooped it up at a local bar from sunset to last call. But the most honored guests were the youngest: nephews Ryan and Evan at their first literary event. Who knows? Maybe they’ll grow up to be writers. Or trail workers.<br /><br />On to the San Juan Islands. Somehow in twenty five years in the Pacific Northwest I’d never been. Well, that was a mistake. The scenery is spectacular, the islands bucolic, the ferry rides worth every penny. In three days, we made it to all four islands that have regular ferry service. On Lopez I did a radio interview with writer Iris Graville then read at the lovely local library, the one librarian Lou Pray has “brought into the 21st century.” Until recently, Lopezians checked out books by writing their names on 3 x 5 cards. In Friday Harbor, I sat in the back room of Griffin Bay Books with three locals and a couple who had traveled from way-distant Kenmore, Washington just to attend. Together we talked over tea about civil rights and memories, writing, politics, and life. Laurie and I camped that night on Sha<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3JZP60CdIescWdx842tQEgXiKhgonGirDgEsvPlIsdcMtJA8kRf3lj5lp08hFcoqnlYNVpy2Ro3DL3xJyu-kbU4HsNVDaWYOJcfWaURmloe2Gs37rYJsUqcDl2hqlDl7Lteg1OML8DY/s1600/bellingham+-+islands+136.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483480679262303698" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3JZP60CdIescWdx842tQEgXiKhgonGirDgEsvPlIsdcMtJA8kRf3lj5lp08hFcoqnlYNVpy2Ro3DL3xJyu-kbU4HsNVDaWYOJcfWaURmloe2Gs37rYJsUqcDl2hqlDl7Lteg1OML8DY/s200/bellingham+-+islands+136.JPG" border="0" /></a>w with old friends.<br /><br />The very last night we landed on Orcas Island. We’d planned to camp again, but it turns out we’ve gone soft. We found a hotel room and settled in and headed over to Darvill’s, yet another fabulous independent store, and afterwards sat together on driftwood, the beach to ourselves, and watched the swallows circle and dive as night fell. It was over.<br /><br />There’s plenty of skepticism in the publishing world about the usefulness of a book tour. Take a peek around online and you’ll get the gist: better to have a Facebook page, better to Twitter. I suppose virtual book promotion is better if your life is already overburdened with the good wishes of critics and fans, better, too—granted—if your only concern is the bottom line. But for me, after spending five years in a room alone, more or less, rehashing some stuff that wasn’t that fun to rehash—and shaping some stuff, to be fair, that was fun to shape—going out to meet real live readers was a must, a relief, a delight.<br /><br />Is it stressful? You bet. Is it tiring? Exhausting. Is it expensive? It is. But with some months of planning you can get your travel, at least, paid for by universities and libraries. In the end, you can help out a few independent bookstores and make a few connections—I came home with a stack of fine books by writers I met along the way—and, of course, you can see new places. Maybe best of all, you can see your book anew in the comments readers make, the questions they ask; often enough they find something I never knew was there. Which is how it should be. It’s not my book anymore, not really, it’s theirs. It’s yours.<br /><br />Then there’s the big question. Sales? Not bad. I’ve about sold out of the first printing of <em>Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus</em>. That’s true. It’s also true that it was a pretty small print run. So onward I go. I oughta try to spit out a couple short essays this month, at least, to help with the bills around here. That and read a few thousand student essays. If all else fails, there’s always day labor.Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-50459400339404688652010-05-04T16:40:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:53:47.894-08:00Sunnyland in Spring<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRoZLGtcU3Jl_qaKV2DE2FxiFouwWzGlCYdaSB0ujkM9JSeRVBGjJ3jber8FThRUGh82rAOFuah41Uh2RWBekjscqSGHS3GcbI8ftJdsXaAsFss13x4WxuuKZu1rvRMkaMwcxehfoWgQw/s1600/IMG_1783.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467568070936517394" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRoZLGtcU3Jl_qaKV2DE2FxiFouwWzGlCYdaSB0ujkM9JSeRVBGjJ3jber8FThRUGh82rAOFuah41Uh2RWBekjscqSGHS3GcbI8ftJdsXaAsFss13x4WxuuKZu1rvRMkaMwcxehfoWgQw/s200/IMG_1783.JPG" border="0" /></a> Is there any better time to go out and about seeing new places than the spring time? I’ve been reading around the country from Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus and just can’t get over it. It’s gorgeous in Minneapolis, gorgeous in Detroit, gorgeous in California and, of course, back “home” here in Washington, for a brief laundry stop, it’s gorgeous. Everywhere there are blossoms and greenness and occasionally snow flurries to mix it up and keep you guessing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467569343874956994" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8LEpTRLGddlPHPaUQGJQDW2k7pS_JqvkxYzTQU-uYK3L9kDNBoSEqLEJ9fVpclzQiOWgMCsvr7VG3_Gr32xCccwasONs2SD8C8vPKgqXJEWgi9AqSrOv1HvfLVlE0wTc8B27t9NfTz4/s200/IMG_1760.JPG" border="0" />The readings are going well. You never know quite what to expect or who will turn up. A Girl Scout troop appeared in Perris to shake my hand and talk about their favorite books. The winner by a landslide: The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Some students way up in Ely, Minnesota knew their civil rights history and were excited to delve deep into it. One young African American fellow even got to thinking he might take a minor in it as a sub-specialty. That’s pretty cool.<br /><br />The next swing is all West Coast:<br /><strong>Thursday, May 6</strong> at 6 pm at the <strong>University of Oregon</strong> in Eugene<br /><strong>Monday, May 10</strong> at 7 pm at <strong>Eso Won Books</strong> in Los Angeles<br /><strong>Tuesday, May 11</strong> at 3 pm <strong>UC Riverside<br />Wednesday, May 12</strong> at 7:30 pm at <strong>Pegasus Books</strong> in Berkeley<br /><strong>Thursday, May 13</strong> at 7 pm at <strong>Modern Times Bookstore</strong> in San Francisco<br /><strong>Saturday May 15</strong> at 2 pm at <strong>Elliott Bay Bookstore</strong> in Seattle<br /><br />There will be a few college class visits and radio interviews along the way, too, to mix it up. Then I’ll go home for a few days, the first in six weeks, and hopefully get the garden planted. Then back out.<br /><br />Test Ride continues to get some nice press.<br /><br />A review from <em>The Oregonian</em>:<br /><a href="http://www.oregonlive.com/books/index.ssf/2010/04/nonfiction_review_test_ride_on.html">http://www.oregonlive.com/books/index.ssf/2010/04/nonfiction_review_test_ride_on.html</a><br /><br />And a profile in <em>The Riverside Press Enterprise</em>:<br /><a href="http://www.pe.com/localnews/stories/PE_News_Local_W_spagna20.48cb618.html">http://www.pe.com/localnews/stories/PE_News_Local_W_spagna20.48cb618.html</a><br /><br />Drop a note/comment to offer any feedback, support, or heckling. At this point, I think I’m unfazed-able.Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-85365818475952765142010-04-30T21:15:00.001-07:002010-04-30T21:17:01.965-07:00This blog has moved<br /> This blog is now located at http://anamariaspagna.blogspot.com/.<br /> You will be automatically redirected in 30 seconds, or you may click <a href='http://anamariaspagna.blogspot.com/'>here</a>.<br /><br /> For feed subscribers, please update your feed subscriptions to<br /> http://anamariaspagna.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default.<br /> Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518596379443614682.post-76793493664641661292010-04-19T08:14:00.000-07:002012-01-20T10:54:13.692-08:00Sunnyland goes to, well, SunnylandI had a fabulous time at Powell's on Hawthorne in Portland and at Get Lit! book festival in Spokane, Washington, and at A Book for All Seasons in Leavenworth. The spring weather - blossoms, blue sky, puffy clouds - put on a fancy show, and I got to meet and/or hang out with some fabulous writers: Diana Joseph, David Laskins, Jess Walters. Not to mention the friends who traveled a long way to listen, chat, pad the audience, cheer me on, and later eat drink and be merry!<br /><br /><br />This morning I hop on a plane to Southern California.<br /><br />Readings this week are at:<br /><strong>CSU Channel Islands Tuesday April 20 7 p.m.</strong><br /><strong>Perris Library, Wednesday April 21 6:30 p.m.</strong><br /><strong>Rubidoux Library, Thursday April 22 6:30 p.m.</strong><br /><br />Looking forward to seeing some sun and some familiar faces ... some in Riverside (my home town - Perris & Rubidoux are right nearby) from way way back!Ana Maria Spagnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042736426539500596noreply@blogger.com0