I’m going to use that as an excuse for missing Friday, folks, although it’s probably not a fully accurate one. I did make two kinds of applesauce late last week, however, and I did have a PTA meeting on Friday morning, and I was thrown off my game by my hubby’s dental misery. (He’s off to the dentist for his root canal now, since he was too swollen last week and they sent him home with amoxicillin instead.) Saturday felt full–doesn’t it always?–and yesterday I took the kids up to dinner in Clearfield again since my hubby’s two California brothers and their families were in town. It ended up being a celebration of BYU’s close win over the University of Utah late Saturday night, about which Utah’s athletic director promptly mouthed off with an astonishing lack of class. (He’s been hit with a public reprimand and a $40,000 fine, which should tell you all you really need to know about the whole thing.)
Today, of course, is Veteran’s Day, formerly Armistice Day, and so I’m (once again) sharing John McCrae’s In Flanders Fields to mark the 106th anniversary of that Armistice. Because History.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
On a different historical note, I finished Kathy MacLeod’s graphic memoir Continental Drifter this afternoon, and it stirred up a lot of feelings. MacLeod’s father is American and her mother Thai; she lived most of the year in Bangkok, but spent multiple summers in Maine while growing up. Quite the contrast, right? And of course, therein lies the problem–when you belong to two such very different places, it’s hard to feel like you truly belong in either. Kathy speaks English at her school, watches American shows, and loves American food, and yet when she goes to summer camp in Maine her fellow campers have trouble seeing past her differences. Like many kids–like me at that age–she wants too desperately to fit in to be able to celebrate her differences, and so once again she feels other. Is this what her whole life is destined to be like?
OH, the feelings! Maine is my happy place, and so I was both jealous that Kathy got to be there and upset for her that her experiences were so mixed. (In my experience, Maine is pretty white.) I also, however, felt pangs of empathy–my friend Kim and I were frequently called by each others’ names because of our red hair, which was a rarity in RI, and my own parents’ Utah upbringings marked me as different in a myriad of ways. Being half Thai, of course, is a far more visible and sizable difference, but I still felt a kinship with Kathy. Her family’s vibe, however–for want of a less trendy word–is a bit different from mine. Our family was physically affectionate and spent far more time together, although her dad and mine have some notable similarities, and our extended family is much bigger. Still, though–all the stirred up feelings.
Ultimately, I think I found the reading experience meaningful, although there is that pesky memoir difficulty of less resolution in the ending. How young readers feel about it, however, is likely to depend a great deal on personality.