Not Just One Buddha in the Attic - a Whole Bunch

The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka

A Book Review 

This skinny little historical fiction intrigued me.  It's not often that a novel is told from the point of view of a slew of women.  It is a collective viewpoint, speaking with the voices of many; not following the usual formula for a fiction novel where the voice is from one or two or three characters.  Initially I found it difficult to follow; like a dozen different stories were thrown in a blender for 20 seconds.  My first impulse was to try to fix the story.  To try to put the pieces back together so the various stories flowed smoothly.  This made my initial reading experience a lot more tedious than I was used to.  The thought crossed my mind more than once that I should find a dozen (or more) different coloured highlighters, go through the book and highlight references to each character‘s life so that I could follow their individual stories.  It was a library book.  So I didn’t.

In the end I was glad that my reverence for borrowed materials stopped me from defacing the book.  I began to understand why Otsuka wrote it as she did.  While the style of this book stopped me from identifying with any one individual, I began to identify with the people group as a whole.  Which is what I believe was her main goal in writing as she did. 

In some ways I think that by pushing the reader away from any one story line, one might almost begin to place themselves in the story.  Because of my need to connect with an individual character (and my inability to do so due to the reading style) I began to insert my personality into the various stages of the collective’s lives and imagine how I would react to the situations; crossing the ocean with hopes and dreams, discovering that your husband is not all he advertised himself as, learning to adjust to a new culture where your station in life has changed drastically, dealing with racism and discrimination, being driven from my home because of my race.    While I may do this to some extent with every book I read, I did it a lot more with Buddhas.

Though I had a hard time envisioning any one character it did not make them feel any less real as a whole.  In life, people don’t exist in isolation (for the most part, anyway).  Like it or not, the world is divided into people groups; communities, cultures, beliefs, living standards, skin colour.  While every person belongs to more than one group and the definitions of groups change and lines blur according to societal norms or the opinions of the observer, groups still exist.  And though the group in Buddhas is rather specific (ie. Japanese mail brides in the early 20^th century and the human rights violations done to the community in America during WWII) viewing the story of the group as a whole gives, what could be considered, a more reliable viewpoint than just one story.  Instead of opening your heart a little bit to accommodate the story of one wronged woman, your heart will grow three sizes that day.  Instead of one witness, there are many.

But back to the most important part: highlighter use.  If I were to buy this book I think that I would need two copies.  One to read and to leave as is, and one to highlight the heck out of.

Graphic Novel/Manga Review

Once upon a time there was a show I loved called Heroes.  Alas, not everyone loved the show as much as I did and after only 3 seasons the show was cancelled.  But NBC recognised that there were still enough fans out there to continue it in an online graphic novel format.  That spawned a print collection which became my first ever graphic novel.  Now don't confuse graphic novels with comic books.  Really, graphic novels are just comic books, all grown up.  A longer/more intricate storyline, more complex themes and usually a better quality product are the main differences.  But to me the real difference is that 'graphic novel' just sounds cooler than 'comic book'.  And come on, who doesn't want glow in the dark bones?

For my Children's Reader's Advisory class we were given 3 different graphic novels to review.  The first was Treasure Island adapted by Tim Hamilton.  This is a version that I probably would not have chosen to read on my own, mainly because I found the illustrations particularly creepy.  It would be a good way to introduce this piece of classic literature to an appropriately aged child, perhaps 10 or 11 or maybe even older.  I was surprised to learn that this version has won awards and been very positively reviewed, since neither was I a big fan of the illustrations nor of the captions.

The second book that we reviewed was Cardcaptor Secura, a traditional manga-style graphic novel.  Manga is a style of graphic novel that is traditionally Japanese and is easily identified by it's distinctive artwork.  Narrow little chins, big hair and huge eyes characterise the people and realistic story lines set them apart from traditional Western comics.  I found this book challenging both visually and in it's writing style.  Many of the pictures were hard to interpret and really had to be examined to be understood.  Also, a lot of the jokes and cultural references didn't translate very well.  I had a really hard time finishing this book and definitely did not enjoy it.  For me it probably ranked somewhere equal with waxing my legs; slow and painful.  Not exactly my idea of a fun time, but I have been reassured that not all manga is as difficult to get through.

The last of the graphic novels we reviewed was American Born Chinese.  I loved this book!  The style of illustration was fun and the story was enlightening.  Author Gene Yang, weaves two seemingly unrelated stories into one complex whole.  Though initially the Asian references seem shockingly racist, as you read further you see how they are crucial to the story.  The monkey king amplifies some of the more negative character traits that a lot of people have and makes them relatable in a humorous way.  This book would be great for anyone over the age  10 or so and possibly even younger if read with an adult.

This review of graphic novels and manga has definitely exposed me to some interesting new types of graphic novels other than my beloved Heroes.  Some of these I would never read again for fun, but others I think anyone would enjoy.  Guess which one I'm recommending for you?

Now I know that the few of you who read my blog may be getting a little bit sick of the whole 'childhood reading' tangent that I've been on for the last number of posts, but seeing as the course that I've been writing for lately is called "Reader's Advisory for Children" you hopefully understand where it's coming from.  So bear with me for this last one, because after that I promise all six of you something more exciting.  In fact, if anyone who reads it posts 2 or 3 random words in the 'Comments' section at the bottom I'll combine them all into something exciting/interesting/tantalising/invigorating for my next post.  :)

So the topic of the day is Genres.  As in History, Fantasy, Romance, etc. Wikipedia lists 22 different literary genres, with over 100 sub-genres; a number I find surprising.  As a kid there were probably only a few that interested me at all, those being Family Saga, History, Mystery and Slice of Life.  I think that these are pretty typical genre choices for the average 7-10 year old girl.  Good, safe, usually pretty clean (therefore approved of by most parents) and abundant.  With current reading trends there are age appropriate books published for kids in all kinds of genres from Science Fiction and Fantasy (not to mention the dozens of sub-genres) to Adventure and Thriller.  Twenty five years ago there just wasn't as much choice for kids. 

But there are only so many historical fiction books whose main character is a sprightly and precocious 8-12 year old girl who has adventures on the prairie/in the Annex/on the island before you want to explore the rest of the literary world.  As an adult I'll read pretty much any genre as long as it's well written or has an engaging story line.  This leads me on a tangent; while I may read any genre, the same does not ring true for film.  I may have no problem reading a horror novel, but I would never watch that same book made into a movie.  I suppose it's because when you're reading you tend to manipulate what you read to how you think it should be, whereas in film you get the director's interpretation which may or may not be how you would have pictured it. 

I still do enjoy a book with a smart, determined female lead character, but read plenty without one.  I still love historical fiction, but they tend to have less familiar settings like a Russian palace or a small French town.  Anything with a Sci Fi twist can get it's hooks into me pretty quick and allegorical tales tend to make me go back and read then a few times over, just to make sure I'm getting it.  But the biggest change in my book choice is the whole reading to learn thing.  Go figure.  Who knew that you learnt anything after grade 5?  As a teenager I would have never guessed that one of my favourite ways to spend a sunny winter afternoon is to sit and read a cookbook.  Or that I would go the library to get a mountain of books about passive solar heating to read on a holiday.  Who knew?  Maybe by the time I'm really old (like 34) I'll suddenly have an interest in sports statistics, though I highly doubt it.  My goal is to keep expanding my horizons and never get stuck in a rut.

Pressure Reading

How did you pick a book when you were a kid?  Not when you were young and attracted to anything bright, shiny and colourful.  Think back to when you were a little older than that.  More like the 9 and 10 year old range.  When you started to want to fit in.  When you started to care a little more about what others thought about you.  Did that influence what you read? 

Thinking back I was shocked to realize that peer pressure influenced this part of my life.  The Babysitter's Club was very popular reading amongst the girls in my school.  Over 170 million copies of these books were sold between 1986 and 2000, and the 15 or so girls in my class were some of the fans wanting to get their grubby little hands on the newest release.  This meant that many conversations revolved around what Kristy, Jessi, Mary Anne and many of the other characters were up to.  So I read them.  All of them.  Or at least the ones our school library had. 

The part that I'm sure I never told my friends was that I hated them.  Even at that age I thought they were shallow and stupid (though I have to give them props for their business accumen) but I would have never voiced that opinion.  After all, I was already the girl who wore mismatched socks and brought tuna fish sandwiches and carrot sticks in my lunch.  I didn't want to stick out more than I already did.  So as I said before, I read them.

I saved the books I really loved for home.  Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie and every teeny bopper Holocaust book out there (there actually were quite a few).  These sorts of stories were what I really enjoyed, but they were my private reading.  I was like Lennie from 'Of Mice and Men' who loved his pet rabbits, but kept them for his private enjoyment.  I never destroyed my favorite books with my overwhelming strength....so I guess the ananlogy ends there.

Being a confident, well-adjusted person now, it's hard to admit that peer pressure influenced my reading so much, but being the tinniest kid in class with a pronounced lisp probably had a lot to do with it.  So as much as I may want to take a dull spoon to my brain and scrape out any evidence of my conformity and all Babysitters Club memories, I guess it's part of what made me who I am. 

It's nearly lunch.  I hear my tunafish calling me.

Memories are like Chow Chows

There are those of us who have the memory of an elephant.  My cousin can recall details of conversations that took place years ago with people she hasn't seen since.  My dad saw a guy in a mall in Los Angeles and recognised him to be someone he had gone to school with in grade1 or 2.  Stuff like that happens to people like them all the time. 

Then there are those of us who have the memory of a goldfish.  Someone-who-will-remain-unnamed (since she will most likely read this) that I have known my entire life has very few memories of her childhood, a few more of her teenage years, and has trouble remembering many events in early adulthood.  In this case there was no drug use or head trauma.  As far as she can recall......   That's just the way she is.

I am somewhere in the middle.  Special events, trauma and tears, moments of revelation, stand out clear and stark.  Rituals and habits that happened on a routine basis, but were not memorable individually, may have blurred and fuzzy edges but are solid undearneath.  You know, like a Chow Chow. 

One of these Chow Chow memories starts off with my sister and I vying for position on either side of mom on my sister's bed, her on the right and me on the left.  Cushioned by pillows and an army of stuffed animals we snuggled down.  Now I'm sure that many different books were read to us in this particular position, but most of them have been lost in the outer edges of my Chow Chow's fluff.  Anne of Green Gables and Little House on the Prairie retain the solid centre of my Chow Chow.  We were probably old enough to read along, but why read when you can be read to?  Why think when you can instead, drift.  So we drifted off in a sea of windswept grasses and shovelled six foot deep snow with Laura.  We lived the horror of teenage Mary discovering her blindness and were thrilled by Anne's nerve and quick-witted tongue.  We were ushered from the realities of life to the land of sleep.  Slow, warm words lulling two little girls, quivering with energy, into another world. 

I don't know when this all ended.  Is there an age where being read to at bedtime must stop?  An age when you become too old to cuddle with mom and listen as she reads?  Did I insist, suddenly one day, that I wanted to read by myself?  Did life get busier and bedtime stories become less and less frequent until they just petered out?  Perhaps it was when my sister and I got our own bedrooms, downstairs.  Perhaps it was when my brother, who screamed for months, was born.  Maybe it was when my bedtime began to eclipse my mom's.  Who knows.

Obviously this Chow Chow has an awful lot of fuzz.  But there's some good, solid substance to it.  And that substance has, well, substance.  Substance that gave reading warmth and love, much more than just education.  In a Chow Chow like this the details don't matter.  It's the fuzz.  An awful lot of fuzz.

My Dark Passenger

As part of my Reader's Advisory for Children class we have a journal portion.  Though journals are generally a private affairs, those who know me know that the line between private and public is pushed slightly farther back then perhaps some others'.  So I decided to use this assignment to continue on with my blog.  It really won't include anything more private then what I'd share with a chatty stranger on a bus...  But then again, my 'private line' may be in a slightly different position than yours.

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This journal entry is discussing my childhood reading life.  In the assignment the examples given are "avid reader, occasional reader or reluctant reader".  I'd like to rank those on a scale.  If Avid = 10, Occasional = 5, Reluctant = 1, then I'd say I was a 15.  Or maybe a 20.  I was more like Addictive Obsessive Compulsive.  I have coined a new term which I now dub AOC.  But why refer to my reading habits as my "Dark Passenger"? 

When I was engrossed in a book (which didn't take long) I no longer existed in real life.  It was nearly impossible to get my attention.  Standing and yelling my name in my face worked no better than calling me from down the street.  The only way to snap me out of it was by wrenching the book from my fingers.  I knew this and so did everyone else, so when I wanted to disappear into a story I would hide.  After all, you can't grab my book if you can't find me.  :)  Up in a tree, on top of the garage, in the playhouse, in my parent's room, in a corner of the basement, in the bathroom.  It became a problem.  I think that most everyone goes through a selfish stage at some point in their childhood or adolescence, and I really don't remember how old I was when I realised that my Dark Passenger sat too heavily on my shoulder, but I knew changes must be made.  So my addiction morphed. 

Instead of replacing things I should be doing, I decided that multi-tasking was the way to go.  I got very good at walking while reading.  After all, you only really need your peripheral vision to stay on a sidewalk, right?  Making gravy while reading, practising piano scales while reading, setting the table while reading.  It's amazing what you can manage when you really, truly love that Dark Passenger. 

But life, priorities and maturity changes and I can now say that my Dark Passenger has become more of a Happy, Light & Fun Passenger.  It no longer runs my life and only once in a blue moon does it darken a bit.  The arrival of a particularly good and particularly fat new book usually causes a bit of a relapse that often results in burnt supper and a 4am bedtime.

But now the question is why?  Why did that Dark Passenger grow so large in your life?  At the age of 5 I was diagnosed with asthma.  Not the "hey I just played soccer for an hour so maybe I'll use my puffer later" or the "I got bronchitis once so they gave me a puffer prescription" kind of asthma.  More like the "1600m run takes 45 minutes and puts me in the hospital", or the "hint of wild sage has me dreading grandma's house", or the "running half a block makes me feel like a fat man is sitting on my chest".  I lied to my doctor and told him I lost many inhalers.  He must have thought I was terribly irresponsible.  But he always told me that if it got any worse he would have to put me on a ventilator at night and above all I DIDN'T WANT THAT! 

So my life revolved around things I could do.  Baseball, because it involved very little running, piano, and reading.  Reading, reading, reading.  I'm sure I would have still loved reading, asthma or no asthma, but would probably have been a little bit less AOC and my Dark Passenger may have never developed.


I know that the reading proficiency gained through countless hours stuck in a book has helped me over the years more than it may have hindered me.  It distresses me when I see someone who's held back because of poor reading skills.  So my question is this; What reading programs are there to help older kids, youth and adults who missed the "window of opportunity" when it comes to reading?  You know, that window where everyone is learning and no one is particularly proficeint.  The window that eventually closes and kids are separated in groups and labelled with a title that tells future teachers how much they can expect out of them, academically.  What kind of programs are there that help to open that window a crack?  Where would a library direct that kind of reader?  And what kind of reader are you?

Heart and Soul - An Argument for History

"History is boring.  Numbers you have to memorize, names and dates and places.  Blah!"

Such was a statement I once overheard.  It was a father trying to convince a boy the benefits of Math over History.  Though I found this statement shocking and a terrible thing to say to any child, it is apparently more common a thought than I knew. 

To me history is an echo of a song sung by those passed before us.  Rows of headstones represent lives lived, not death mourned.  Those who came before us formed our beginning, whether directly in the form of family, or slightly less directly (but with nearly as great an impact) through the founding of the countries of our birth and the establishment of our laws.  The myriad of layers of paint being stripped off the trim of my century house tell me a bit of the families who lived there before me.  After all, what kind of person would paint all their trim light pink, then baby blue, then mint green?  And the girth of a giant tree makes me think of the hands that planted it so many years before. 

My grandparents had a farm in cowboy country in Alberta.  It was called the Lone Spruce.  There were a number of deciduous trees and shrubs that acted as a hedgegrow around the farm to dull the winds and shelter the yard, but there was only one coniferous planting.  A spruce put there by my great uncle.  That spruce stood like a beacon, taller than everything around it.  And do you know what?  Around the time my great uncle died that spruce began to die as well.  Am I saying they were connected?  No.  But perhaps a life can be measured by the things into which a person puts their efforts.  History is a record of those efforts that pulses with life and only when it is forgotten does its blood cease to flow.

Where am I going with all this, and when does the book review kick in?  History is alive.  Though certain textbooks may have taken lives and herculean efforts and dulled them into dry numbers and facts that require memorization, other books have the effect of bringing them alive once again.  Such is the effect of Heart and Soul : The Story of America and African Americans, written and illustrated by Kadir Nelson.  450 years of history is told through 100 pages of narration and 46 brilliant oil paintings.  It is told as a living, breathing story that makes the lives and efforts of a people, many of whom are long gone, real and current.  It shows how the actions of our ancestors affect us today and takes the average person through the fight for equality of African Americans in the United States.  Vivid illustrations link the faces of the past, and connect them to the reader. 

Confusion on the faces of slaves aboard a slave ship... 

Resignation in the expression of a slave cleaning cotton...

Dogged determination on the faces of Frederick Douglass and Harriet Tubman...

A glimmer of pride on a Union Soldier, then Buffalo Soldier, then WWII soldier...

Relief etched faces of a family migrating North...

A gleeful Duke Ellington surrounded by his jazz band...

Persistent pride from the boycotters of the Jim Crow laws, Martin Luther King Jr and Rosa Parks...

It is possible to tell a story by faces alone, and Kadir Nelson does it well, though the narration connects the dots from past to present with a voice that is appropriately casual.  This could almost be called a memoir, so personal it seems.  This piece of history is no longer boring.  Memorization is no longer required.  Names are brought to life.  I hope it does the same for you as it did for me.

Find it at your local library.  Don't like to share?  Get your own copy.