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Powell's Staff:
Five Book Friday: In Memoriam
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Every year, the booksellers at Powell’s submit their Top Fives: their five favorite books that were released in 2023. It’s a list that, when put together, shows just how varied and interesting the book tastes of Powell’s booksellers are. I highly recommend digging into the recommendations — we would never lead you astray — but today...
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Brontez Purnell:
Powell’s Q&A: Brontez Purnell, author of ‘Ten Bridges I’ve Burnt’
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Rachael P.:
Starter Pack: Where to Begin with Ursula K. Le Guin
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Up Before Daybreak Cotton & People in America
by
Deborah Hopkinson
richiespicks.com
, September 12, 2006
A slave named Henry Kirk Miller was fourteen when freedom arrived with the end of the Civil War. Later he recalled how his former owner had needed money and had sold off one of Henry's sisters, taking cotton in exchange: " 'I remember hearing them tell about the big price she brought because cotton was so high,' said Henry. 'Old mistress got 15 bales of cotton for sister...It was only a few days till freedom came and the man who had traded all them bales of cotton lost my sister, but old mistress kept the cotton.' " I'm in touch with cotton on a daily basis. As a matter of fact, what could be closer to me? Closer than my plaid flannel boxers ("100% COTTON, Made in Bangladesh")? Closer than my Beatles Yellow Submarine Picture Book tee-shirt ("100% COTTON, Knit in U.S.A, Assembled in Honduras")? Closer than my Levi Strauss Relaxed Fit 550 Jeans (100% COTTON, Made in Mexico)? Or the soft pillow case under my head as I read this fascinating book (100% COTTON, Made in Bulgaria)? Yup, I've got some significant daily connections to cotton. As noted by author Deborah Hopkinson, "Growing up, I never fully understood how important those old, run-down mills had been to our country's history. The evidence was right before my eyes, but I couldn't imagine the past. I couldn't see Lowell as a vibrant center of new technology or understand the forces that had left it broken and economically depressed." Like Hopkinson's experience with Lowell, Massachusetts, I also have a bit of experience with run-down mills. In the mid-Seventies, during my years as an undergraduate student at UConn, I would frequently head down the road to the nearby mill town of Willimantic, whose nickname "Thread City" has since been memorialized by the giant spools of thread upon which the Willimantic Frog Bridge frogs sit. My destination in Willimantic was Shaboo, a cavernous club serving up big-name live music that operated -- of course -- in an old textile factory building. As I learned through a bit of my own searching, the Willimantic Linen Company used to be Connecticut's largest employer. At one time they produced 85,000 miles of thread each day. Its modern-era successor, the American Thread Company, still had a presence in town during my collegiate days. And as I also discovered, another of the old buildings in Willimantic, which has recently been renovated as part of the development of a modern business and technology center, was the world's first mill to be illuminated by electric lights -- said to be Thomas Edison's first paying job! Whether it be factories, farms, or struggling families, Deborah Hopkinson has done an exceptional job here of researching the various threads of the history of cotton in America, and of pulling them together into an engaging story that, in turn, reveals so much about the broader history of our country. What makes the story most interesting is her ability to repeatedly illustrate significant aspects by referring to the words of real characters she uncovered in her research: "Laura Nichols from Connecticut wanted to earn her own money. She hoped to get more education, but her parents couldn't afford to help her. So Laura took a job in a mill near her home, determined not to give up her hopes for the future. "Years later, Laura told her own children how hard she had been willing to work for her dreams. Laura believed there was 'something better within my reach and I must have it or die in the attempt. I began to realize that my future would be largely what I make of it, that my destiny was, as it were, in my own hands.' "New England girls like Laura were part of a new chapter in American history. The early years in Lowell and other mill towns of New England marked the first time large numbers of women moved away from their families to cities to take jobs far from home." But, as is seen repeatedly throughout the book, such manufacturing work was initially done for low wages, beginning at incredibly young ages, and was carried out at a rapid pace throughout obscenely long work days with no ventilation, and under conditions that frequently led to permanent injury. Very young people who grew old while literally spending the majority of their lives inside the walls of those mills were the victims upon whose tragic lives the modern era of child labor laws, compulsory education, safe working conditions, and minimum wages were eventually and belatedly built. Of course, the mills were (and will be) seen by many as an improvement over the lives of sharecroppers and tenant farmers who always faced the possibility of working similarly long hours and of coming away without a cent to show for a hard year's work. For instance, Walter Strange, who began sharecropping in 1911 at the age of 12, and who was interviewed in 1938 explained that: " 'Last year I planted seven acres in cotton and made only one bale. I used poison, too. But the boll weevil ate up the cotton in spite of it,' said Walter. 'The fertilizer cost me one hundred dollars. I sold the cotton for fifty-two dollars. The loss on the fertilizer alone was forty-eight dollars, not counting the work and the other expense. I had to sell something else to finish paying for the fertilizer.' " Young readers will undoubtedly be intrigued by Walter's beginning as a sharecropper in his own right at such a young age. In fact, whether it be from the narratives she's uncovered, or from viewing the wealth of photographs included throughout the book, so many of the characters Hopkinson brings us face to face with are very young people. Thus, UP BEFORE DAYBREAK is an excellent example of bringing American history to life.
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Raiders Night
by
Robert Lipsyte
richiespicks.com
, September 12, 2006
"Richie! Richie! Richie!" Imagine walking into a middle school classroom and finding the desks occupied by the likes of Joey Pigza, Sahara Special, Ruby Oliver, the Ally Sheedy character from The Breakfast Club, Cookie Monster, Roadrunner, Byron's friend Buphead, Jordan Catalano, and various other scholastically, socially, and/or hormonally challenged characters. This was what it sometimes seemed like when I was standing in front of my wife's third period English class this past school year. The class was made up of a select, especially wonderful assemblage of students whom it was decided might benefit from being gathered together into a smaller class. And it was just as much fun for me to be in there as it might sound. (Of course, as Shari would immediately point out, Richie the middle aged adolescent guy didn't have to control the class; he could just be entertaining and be entertained, in turn, by them.) It was a great opportunity to test whether those "high interest" YAs really are as "high interest" as I've always claimed them to be. And so we read aloud and discussed Rodman Philbrick's THE LAST BOOK IN THE UNIVERSE, Todd Strasser's CAN'T GET THERE FROM HERE, and Alex Flinn's FADE TO BLACK. Shari's hope was to work our way up to SPEAK, which she teaches to her other eighth grade English classes. But, alas, the introspective, sarcastic voice of Melinda Sordino was way over too many of their heads, and so SPEAK was abandoned after a week in favor of in-your-face Zach Wahhsted from Terry Trueman's INSIDE OUT. In addition to their enthusiasm (They really would sometimes chant "Richie! Richie!" when I'd get up there to read aloud), it was heartening to see their willingness to take steps toward more scholarly behavior such as showing up close to the time when the bell rang, reluctantly but amicably forgoing mid-class snack times, and becoming attentive, in some cases, for significantly long periods of time. And, yes, I'd say that the "high interest" YAs proved themselves to be just that. During the time they were studying FADE TO BLACK, Shari and I had the opportunity to collaborate on a complementary research unit focused on HIV and AIDS. I was able to document the collaboration process along with the students' results and assessments as the final project for my Instructional Strategies class, and we all agreed -- adolescents and adults -- that we'd learned a lot from the search process and from the actual information that was gathered, evaluated, discussed, and compiled. In chatting with friends about the success of the HIV/AIDS unit, I'd note that such exceptional work was being accomplished by a class of which three-quarters of the students were not being permitted to "walk" with their classmates; they were receiving "social promotions" to high school but, because of their accumulated lack of scholastic achievement, they weren't allowed to participate in the graduation exercises. When, at one point, I spoke of this with a psychiatrist friend, he became quite emphatic in his opposition to such a policy. He told me that there are so few real rites of passage for most kids these days. He said it was a significant mistake on the part of the District to not permit those kids to participate in the ritual after spending three years in the school. "Matt floated into the party a step behind Brody, who opened holes in the crowd with his smile. Brody reached out for guys to tap fists and girls to feel up. Ever since he was in PeeWee, All-Brody had acted like he was walking on a red carpet, but nobody seemed to mind. He could say anything to anybody. Guys trusted him in the huddle and girls couldn't keep their hands off him. He had left the football in the car. He was looking to score tonight. "The beer and Vic buzz carried Matt over the upturned faces. 'Yo, Matt...Lookin' good, my man...Where's Amanda...Ready for hell, hoss?' He felt the words more than heard them, like hundreds of fingers plucking at him. Good thing Brody's driving tonight. Matt grinned back at people, winked, tapped a few fists, squeezed a few soft arms that came out of the crowd to encircle him like snakes then fell away brushing the length of his body. He smelled perfume and armpits. He waved back at Pete, in a corner with Lisa. They talked about everything. Pathetic, Matt thought, then wondered what it would be like to have someone you could really talk to. " 'Start the party,' Ramp bellowed. 'Captains are here.' His shoulders cleared a path and he was suddenly beside Matt, throwing a heavy arm around his neck, thrusting a can of beer in his hand. In this kind of crowd, Ramp always acted like they were buds. Otherwise, he made wiseass remarks and kept his distance. Been like that since PeeWee, teammates but never friends. " 'Wassup?' Can't just blow Ramp off with everybody watching. " 'Hear about the transfer from Bergan Central?' said Ramp. " Bergan Central was in another conference. He didn't know any of their players. 'What about?' " 'Sophomore tight end. Thinks he's just gonna show up and play.' Ramp sounded angry. Ramp was a great linebacker, but only a so-so tight end. He didn't want any competition." After staying up until 3 AM the night before last, totally caught up in reading Robert Lipsyte's RAIDERS NIGHT, I slept a few hours and then sat down at the laptop. My first inclination was to find more about anabolic steroids and Vicodin, the two drugs being used regularly by Matt Rydeck, the Nearmont high school senior around whom the story revolves. I then proceeded to dig up some information about California's recently enacted rules on training coaches who work in high school athletic programs -- rules enacted as the result of widespread use of anabolic steroids and other performance-enhancing substances by high school athletes. But where my information gathering ultimately led me was to an exploration of hazing and ritual and the necessity of devising bonding rituals that really create community. Central to the plot of RAIDERS NIGHT, and to what the title refers, is the final night of Nearmont High's football training camp and the "bonding" ritual inflicted each year by the senior players upon the new guys. The ritual portrayed in the story is homophobic in nature. Sadly, so I've been told, this is not an unusual attitude or occurrence in the real world. What is unusual is that the ritual in Lipsyte's story gets out of hand when Ramp, the team Neanderthal and co-captain, graphically abuses the young transfer hotshot whose substantial talent threatens to significantly reduce Ramp's own playing time during the coming season. Matt Rydeck is the other co-captain and the real story here involves Captain Matt's relationships and behavior in regard to his chemical intake, his teammates, his girlfriends, his parents, his developmentally disabled older brother and, of course, his abused teammate. In SPEAK, the Michael Printz Honor book with the vital message about looking out for the welfare of all the members of one's school community, readers at first don't know what has happened to Melinda to make her call the cops, but gradually they come to learn the facts when she finally begins to let herself remember. In RAIDERS NIGHT, we see what happens to Chris (the transfer student) but don't have any idea about Chris's subsequent thoughts and behavior during the extended period of time when Matt is too confused and too caught up in the rest of his drug, girl, and parent-crazed life to do or say anything about what has befallen the kid whom he, as co-captain, should have been protecting from the Neanderthal. As a reader of RAIDERS NIGHT, one might be tempted to blame Matt's behavior on his father's being such an a-hole -- which he truly is. But, hey, I'm sure that I'm not the only one who could spend an hour or two spewing about how so many of my own bad habits are the result of my father's misparenting or setting a bad example. The bottom line, as Matt eventually figures out, is that you are dealt what you are dealt, and the measure of a young man is who he decides he is going to be and what he decides he is going to stand for, irrespective of the influence exerted by parents (or peers). We do need to be talking about behavior and attitudes of adults is in terms of the rituals in the lives of adolescents. We don't want to do away with rituals. What is needed instead is for adults to ensure that bonding rituals and rites of passage are positive and inclusive to the benefit of the entire group, team, or community. RAIDERS NIGHT is one hell of a story. I'd never before read any of Robert Lipsyte's YA fiction, but am now feeling lots of admiration for the members of the Margaret Edwards Award committee who were responsible for voting Lipsyte that honor a few years ago. You can bet I'll be reading more of his books. And, no doubt, people will be hearing me speak more about RAIDERS NIGHT, both in upcoming presentations, and when the time rolls around to debate the best books of 2006.
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Ask Me No Questions
by
Marina Budhos
richiespicks.com
, September 12, 2006
"...And it's a story, ladies and gentlemen, that I didn't read in a book, or learn in a classroom. I saw it and lived it, like many of you. I watched a small man with thick calluses on both his hands work 15 and 16 hours a day. I saw him once literally bleed from the bottoms of his feet, a man who came here uneducated, alone, unable to speak the language, who taught me all I needed to know about faith and hard work by the simple eloquence of his example. I learned about our kind of democracy from my father. And I learned about our obligation to each other from him and from my mother. They asked only for a chance to work and to make the world better for their children, and they -- they asked to be protected in those moments when they would not be able to protect themselves. This nation and this nation's government did that for them. "And that they were able to build a family and live in dignity and see one of their children go from behind their little grocery store in South Jamaica on the other side of the tracks where he was born, to occupy the highest seat, in the greatest State, in the greatest nation, in the only world we know, is an ineffably beautiful tribute to the democratic process..." --Mario Cuomo, from his keynote address at the 1984 Democratic National Convention. So here we are, counting down the days leading up to the fifth anniversary of 9/11. For some of us who are in the fortunate position of having had ancestors come to America a century or more before, and who recognize that good fortune, such commemorations heighten the recognition that we sit today in collective judgment as to whether those currently outside our borders (or illegally within our borders), who dream the same dreams our forebears did, should be permitted similar opportunities as those from which we benefit. "I like the shores of America! Comfort is yours in America! Knobs on the doors in America, Wall-to-wall floors in America! " -- Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim, America from West Side Story (1957) Of course, many would say, the world of my own immigrant Sicilian grandparents was a different world -- different circumstances. And they would be right. My grandmother arrived by boat with her siblings and parents a few years before the Wright brothers' first successful flight; my grandfather sailed from Palermo a few years after Kitty Hawk became a household name. Now the sort of aircraft that Wilbur and Orville could never have imagined in their wildest dreams have been used to change the world forever. But what of those people who, like my grandparents, have done their best in today's world to make those American dreams come true for their own children, even if their efforts aren't always one hundred percent legal? Where does the crackdown that 9/11 spawned leave them? I expect that this will be a potentially frightening week for anyone in America who is Muslim or who might be mistaken for being Muslim. "The thing is, we've always lived this way -- floating, not sure where we belong. In the beginning we lived so that we could pack up any day, fold up all our belongings into the same nylon suitcases. Then, over time, Abba relaxed. We bought things. A fold-out sofa where Ma and Abba could sleep. A TV and a VCR. A table and a rice cooker. Yellow ruffle curtains and clay pots for the chili peppers. A pine bookcase for Aisha's math and chemistry books. Soon it was like we were living in a dream of a home. Year after year we went on, not thinking about Abba's expired passport in the dresser drawer, or how the heat and the phone bills were in a second cousin's name. You forget you don't really exist here, that this really isn't your home. One day, we said, we'd get the paperwork right. In the meantime we kept going. It happens. All the time." 9/11 was a personal and deadly tragedy for thousands of Americans and their families. And it was also a black day for illegal aliens like Nadira, her big sister, Aisha, and their parents who had the ill-fortune a number of years ago of hiring an incompetent attorney when they'd attempted to stay in the country legally. Nadira's older sister Aisha is within striking distance of being valedictorian of her high school class when, in the wake of 9/11, the government begins tightening laws and hauling in Muslims and the girls' father decides the best thing to do is for the family to head for the Canadian border with their expired visa and request asylum. When they reach the border they are forced to turn around and the girls' father is promptly arrested because of the expired visa. Mom finds refuge in a shelter near the border where her husband is being held, while the girls are forced to return to New York City to be looked after by relatives and pseudo-relatives, to try to continue their schooling while waiting indefinitely for the American government to make its next move. Nadira, who narrates the story and has always existed in the shadows of her brilliant and fashionable older sister, finds herself having to step out into the light as Aisha falls into despair over the loss of her American dreams. "On the way back from school Aisha repeats to me, 'We're going to hear from the lawyer, Nadira. Today. Or our letter, it's going to be answered. I know it.' "But when we get to the mailbox, it's empty. And there are no messages on the machine. "Aisha becomes obsessed. Every day there's no letter in the mailbox from Homeland Security, no phone call from the lawyer. Every evening that we speak to Ma and hear there's no news there, either. Aisha grows more frantic. At night she goes over her homework again and again. She gets up early to go to school, studying in the empty classrooms. She's like a boxer, jabbing and hitting, trying her old moves, but this time she's up against something that so much bigger than her, beyond her power. " I wish I could just put a hand to her skin, stop her whirring inside. "Soon Aisha is barely going out. She sits in Taslima's room and stares out the window. Her hair looks greasy; she hasn't even bothered to press coconut oil into her scalp or run her fingers through the kinks. She keeps wearing that stupid Destiny's Child T-shirt, and when no one's home, she sneaks into the living room and watches soaps on TV." Imagine what it would be like to be an American in the wrong country at the wrong time with all the rules changing, just when after years that country was feeling like it was home.
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That Girl Lucy Moon
by
Amy Timberlake
richiespicks.com
, September 12, 2006
"And Lucy attended detention -- an after-school club for the activist!" "We can change the world, rearrange the world, It's dying to get better." --Graham Nash, "Chicago" The fact is, I can totally enjoy the humor when a children's book author uses the concept of tofu for Thanksgiving as the butt of a joke. Amy Timberlake's THAT GIRL LUCY MOON now joins Denys Cazet's hysterically funny MINNIE AND MOO AND THE THANKSGIVING TREE in that regard. But you have to also figure that if I'm going to speak up about this awesome tale of a sixth-grade activist named Lucy Moon then, as a fellow activist as well as a vegetarian for 28 years, one who has been grateful to consume tofu for many a Thanksgiving, I'm going to take advantage of this opportunity to begin educating y'all about the wonders of having a tofu feast with all the trimmings. And so I'll share with you the Richie method of preparing tofu that everyone around here (hard-core carnivores included) always comes grabbing seconds and thirds of: Ingredients: 1 lb. packages of tofu (The ultimate in my part of the world is White Wave Tidal Wave Organic Extra Firm) Red Star Large Flake Nutritional Yeast Extra virgin Olive Oil San-J Organic Wheat-Free Tamari Directions: Drain tofu and slice each one pound package into eight slices. Heat skillet on medium high and pour in sufficient olive oil to cover the bottom of the skillet. When the oil is hot, arrange the tofu slices in the skillet and fry until they are completely golden on the first side. Just before flipping over the tofu, spoon a generous covering of the nutritional yeast over the uncooked side of each slice. Flip over the tofu and add a bit more olive oil so that the yeast doesn't scorch. When the tofu slices are golden on both sides, lightly splash tamari over them, wait 30 seconds, flip them over one more time, and then remove them from the skillet. (If you're figuring on having mashed potatoes with the tofu, then a gravy can be made with the tofu "drippings" by using some of the potato water, some thinned-down red miso, along with a bit of corn starch and water if you want to thicken the consistency a bit.) That this year's holiday will turn out to not be a stellar Thanksgiving for Lucy Moon will have relatively little to do with her misguided attempt to prepare a tofu main course without the benefit of Richie's recipe for killer yeast tofu. At such a pivotal juncture in her life -- the beginnings of junior high -- Lucy is facing the mysteries and new dynamics of school, along with the sudden development of her best friend Zoe, all without the benefit of Lucy's mother. Mom, an artsy and idiosyncratic photographer who clearly must have been there to support Lucy's well-documented activist past in elementary school, has set out on a trip around the country to take pictures of clouds over a variety of landscapes. But instead of returning when she is supposed to, as has always been the case with previous years' photo excursions, Lucy's Mom will opt to both indefinitely extend her adventures and to distance herself emotionally as well as geographically from her only child and from Lucy's dad, the town postmaster. "And the strangeness of junior high didn't stop there. No, as the weeks went on, the sixth graders had developed other signs of junior-high sickness. When teachers turned their back, notes about who liked who traveled palm to palm, and books with dog-eared pages describing people 'doing it' were read under lips of desks. In elementary school -- only five months ago -- everyone had acted normal. Now, after a summer and a couple of months in junior high, they were cliched characters from a drippy teen movie!" It will be an interesting debate among those middle schoolers who have the good fortune to read THAT GIRL LUCY MOON in a class or book group. Question: Is Lucy's biggest obstacle to serenity and success in middle school going to be overcoming the boys' obnoxious hallway bra checks (with a number 2 pencil), other annoyances engaged in by her harmonally-challenged peers, along with the formation of cliques and the boy/girl groupings; OR is it going to be dealing with the damage suffered as the result of the war of wills in which Lucy becomes engaged with Miss Ilene Viola Wiggins, the town's moneybags matriarch, who apparently decides to show Lucy who is really in charge of Turtle Rock, Minnesota? Aided by the story's lack of malls, laptops, and contemporary communications devices (The two best friends keep in touch by walkie-talkie, while communication with Mom consists of phone calls and letters.), author Amy Timberlake does an exceptional job of setting up Turtle Rock, Minnesota as its own little world, a town unto itself. Furthermore, the author gives the impression that she must have spent a bit of her own childhood happily entertained by Garrison Keillor, for we encounter clever, folksy references to what the local radio station is playing and the Minnesota climate quickly settles in as one of the story's omnipresent and colorful characters: "After that first November snowstorm, the clouds continued to bring snow to Turtle Rock -- no blizzards, but steady, steady workaday snow. There was light, dry snow -- barely visible, but making the air and everything seen through it sparkle. There was the kind of snow that came assembly-line fashion, one snowflake rushing after the next. This snow lasted all day and into the night. And then there were the big flakes that floated out of the sky, drifting like daisy petals -- 'She loves me...She loves me not...She loves me.' The snow piled up in curbs, outlining trees, causing the tops of pines to genuflect under the weight. When the wind blew, long strands of snow combed over land and road." When faced with an onslaught of adversity as a result of her activist impulses, Lucy Moon is compelled to consider why she is inclined to act in such a manner. To watch how she engages in self-reflection in regard to that behavior will undoubtedly cause many astute young readers to ask why they act (or fail to act) when they encounter injustice in their own lives.
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