autobiography

The Truth about Me: A Hijra Life Story

andrea — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 08:00:00 +0000

What is it about the form of the life story—the autobiography—that makes it so seductive and so deeply discomfiting at the same time? I think it’s how the boundaries between private and public, someone else’s life and your own, blur in your reading. The relationship you forge is rich and colorful and insightful, but it’s also dark and violent and difficult to come to terms with.

The Truth about Me: A Hijra Life Story is the autobiography of Revathi. Revathi’s ‘truth’ is the first of such to be published in English: at once an illuminating, and a scarring read, that leaves you changed. Hijras are a community of people who are born men, but feel they are women, and so live as such. What differentiates them from eunuchs, or other trangendered/transsexual people is their culture: to be a hijra is to live in a community with other hijras, where you have a mother figure (a guru), sisters and daughters, and a tight set of rules within which you relate with them, what work you can do, how you look and behave.

The book is rich in detail and pulls you determinedly into the whirlpool of Revathi’s experiences—sometimes exciting and joyous, but more often sad and violent, physically, and emotionally abusive—a life of alienation and extreme frustration.

In The Truth about Me, Revathi leads us through her discovery of a community, experiences castration (nirvaanam—this makes her a ‘woman’—‘I felt like a flower that had just blossomed’), learns to dance and sing, becomes a beggar, performs sex work, works as an activist for a nonprofit, is stripped naked and tortured in police custody, falls in love, and more.

What is fascinating about Revathi’s way of telling, and almost painfully illuminating for the reader, is how she sets her own life – her familial relationships, her acceptance of her identity, the journey of becoming a hijra – parallel to the structures that she lives within. We see the demands and injustices that patriarchy inflicts, and its discomfort with her transgression; but on the other hand we also see the norms of the hijra community, which must be followed to be accepted into its fold. The sense one gets is of the (marginalised) self constantly struggling with something—both the mainstream and the alternatives available. She says, ‘A man sometimes has to struggle to live; but for people like me, to live was to struggle and fight…The world looks askance at me.’

While the book validates the necessity and power of a distinct hijra culture and community for a people pushed to the margins, as a slightly distanced onlooker, I felt that it falls silent on how unrelenting and inflexible this culture often seems. When Revathi interacts in the world with her hijra identity, but outside of the confines of the community, the fissures between her numerous worlds are too deep to see, the loneliness almost too cruel to read about: ‘Everyday my feelings died only to be reborn and to die again.’

Written by: Disha Mullick, November 2nd 2010

Iona Dreaming: The Healing Power of Place

caitlin — Fri, 22 Oct 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Clare Cooper Marcus

Red Wheel Weiser

I felt deeply uncomfortable while reading Clare Cooper Marcus’ Iona Dreaming. Too uncomfortable, I thought—like eavesdropping on a stranger’s conversation with a long-lost friend.

Clare Cooper Marcus writes about a six-month, mostly solitary retreat spent on the small Scottish island of Iona. Twice a survivor of cancer, semi-retired academic professor, avid gardener, single mother of two, and author of several books, Marcus removes herself to Iona to focus on healing. In this book, she reflects on that experience and connects it to her wartime childhood spent in the English countryside, her experiences as a young wife and mother, and her cancer diagnoses and treatments. Throughout, Marcus crafts little vignettes and narratives from her adventures on the island, taking us through her brief stint as a waitress in a hotel café, long walks around the entire island, a run-in with bird-watchers, laundry day, and an encounter with the fairies.

If my brief description of the scope of Iona Dreaming leads you to believe it is incoherent, then the fault is my own, not Marcus’ prose. Even though the content of the book spans nearly her entire lifetime, Marcus’ writing conveys quiet and solitude. While reading, I often had the strange feeling that I was inhabiting Marcus’ innermost thoughts.

The intimacy of Marcus’ writing made me very uncomfortable when I first began the book, but by the time I finished it, I was grateful for it. First, I was delighted by the way she writes the island of Iona. Marcus’ academic work focuses on sense of place, and she writes about particular places with sensitivity and conviction. Second, Marcus writes herself with as much openness and sensitivity as she writes about Iona. I thought this an incredible connection and analogy: to think of oneself as a location or as a place.

While reading Iona Dreaming, it occurred to me that it could be very enlightening to consider how one conceives relationships to the external world in light of how one considers relationships to oneself: is the world (or oneself) an undisciplined thing to be mastered, or a natural thing to be appreciated? Feminists have written about the self and feminists have written about nature, but feminist work on place and on self with place could be quite fruitful. Though Marcus doesn’t say much about her relationship to feminism or to feminist thought, her lovely memoir may certainly provoke important feminist work in that area.

Written by: kristina grob, October 21st 2010

Secret Weirdo

admin — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Lauren Barnett

Well, for a twenty-page minicomic that is filled with embarrassing stories about childhood, cat police, imaginary adventures, and an opening page offering “free hugs,” artist Lauren Barnett definitely set herself up for a difficult task. One of her biggest pet peeves as a female artist is having her comics be called cute. “I think ‘cute’ is a terrible way to describe someone’s work,” she exclaims in one of the first frames.

Besides the political cry for gender equality in the artistic community in the first few pages, Secret Weirdo is an eclectic collection of stories (or rather confessions) about the artist’s endeavors as a secret weirdo. Barnett’s comical, autobiographical telling of her obsessive entrepreneurial ventures as a child, unusual birthday present request, sick day science experiment with a frozen egg, kleptomania, and more are interrupted by imaginative pages with the Cat Police and imaginary Adventures of Master Driver and Navigirl—alter egos perhaps?

What most attracts me to her style is the lack of pretentiousness in her art. The cover is a gorgeous abstract watercolor that is both lovely and haunting; the inside frames are made up of simple, flat, black and white line drawings, messy bubbles, and scribbled text that give it what one reviewer noted as a "draw now, ask questions later" style, almost as if she is making it up as she goes along.

While her comics might seem cute superficially, there is clearly a darker, deeper level to her appropriated cute imagery; her “adorable” childhood stories are intersected with short, anxiety-filled frames about adulthood: debt, apartment searches, the dangers of diet soda. These glimpses into her personal, intimate realm are quickly interrupted by embarrassed sarcasm, or more Secret Weirdo stories from childhood, because the reality is far too daunting to dwell on. It leaves the reader wishing for more of this darkness, but still leaving us with the knowledge that there is something else behind the 'cuteness'.

In short, even though the stories are oddly specific and personal, the ambition, sarcasm, curiosity, anxiety, and nostalgia of a child and young woman resonated with me strongly, and I recommend this minicomic to other adults and teens that can handle the occasional F-bomb and sarcasm. Also, although the styles and content are completely different, I enjoyed Secret Weirdo for the same autobiographical, humorous, deeply personal snippets of Erika Moen’s DAR! Comic, so if you like Barnett’s work, read some of this, too!

Written by: Abigail Chance, August 8th 2010

In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun: The Autobiography of a Japanese Feminist

admin — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Hiratsuka Raichō, Teruko Craig

Columbia University Press

In the beginning, woman was truly the sun. An authentic person. Now she is the moon, a wan and sickly moon, dependent on another, reflecting another’s brilliance. _ _... The time has come for us to recapture the sun hidden within us.

These lines launched Seitō, a women's literary journal, in 1911 Tokyo. Hiratsuka Raichō was one of the founders, and she poured her emotions into this opening editorial. Her essay gave voice to frustrations felt by women across the nation, and is now considered part of the canon of Japanese feminism.

In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun is Raichō’s autobiography. Teruko Craig has translated the first half of a four volume set, with her own summary of the latter half of Raichō’s life. The book can best be described as a memoir, with more focus on experiences than facts.

Raichō did not intend to become a feminist icon. An atypical young girl, she went fishing with her father as a child, and later fought for permission to enroll in one of the few women’s colleges. Throughout her youth, Raichō squirmed under the oppressive dictates of school and family, conventions we would designate now as patriarchal, though she was not thinking in such terms.

Raichō was given a remarkable amount of freedom for a young woman. She walked alone to and from school and pursued her own activities. Passionate about attaining spiritual growth, she studied Zen for years. Her interest in literature came late, but when it did she began poring through the classics of European thought.

It was a male friend who urged her to found Seitō, "Bluestocking," a literary journal dedicated to fostering women writers. Raichō’s original drive was to inspire women to become their authentic selves. She did not think in terms of men and women, but of people who were denying themselves spiritually.

Raichō became a primary manager of the operation, with a team of other young women, and the magazine remained independent during the majority of its run from 1911 to 1916. Those involved were dubbed "New Women" by the newspapers, and their every action was scrutinized. The editorial team constantly walked the line between asserting their rights to act freely and avoiding the condemnation of society and the government, which banned several issues.

Raichō narrates her memoir in the voice of a confident woman, never apologizing nor boasting. I felt as though she was sitting near me, telling the story simply because I had asked to hear it. She explains her motivations, even when they are not quite what one might expect from a feminist icon. It was only later in her life that Raichō began to fight for the special rights and responsibilities women have as women, particularly as mothers. She describes this as a maturation of view.

Much time is spent on Raichō’s relationships with other writers. Though I was interested in the other women participating in Seitō, there were so many of them that they began to run together. I am sure that, to someone more familiar with the movers and shakers of Raichō’s time, the names will have more meaning, and these insights into their characters will be a gift. Craig points out that as an oral narrative, the text “tends to be repetitious and digressive,” but I rarely found this to be an issue except for these tangential stories.

The only thing missing is more of Raichō’s writings. The preeminent “In the beginning…” essay is only excerpted, allowing tantalizing glimpses into Raichō’s mind without allowing the reader to develop a sense of her full meaning. I feel it would have been helpful to have more of what appeared in Seitō as well. As such, In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun is not a one-stop-shop for learning about Japanese feminism. There is a good sense of history and the larger changes in Japanese society at the time, but only in relation to Raichō and her projects. Her motivations and intentions are explained, but her work is not allowed to speak for itself. Nevertheless, the book sheds light on a time and a place that few would think of as progressive in terms of women’s rights.

Written by: Richenda Gould, June 28th 2010

Acts of Narrative Resistance: Women's Autobiographical Writings in the Americas

admin — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Laura J. Beard

University of Virginia Press

Laura Beard’s study of women’s autobiography in its many forms, Acts of Narrative Resistance, is quite unique. There has to my knowledge never been a thorough single author study written which connected and compared such a variety of autobiographical texts from the Americas in Spanish, Portuguese, and English. Beard’s study focuses on women’s autobiography in Argentina, Brazil, and what she calls Indigenous Canada (some would argue that the term “Indigenous” in her appellation is superfluous, but we won’t get into that thorny discussion).

Many studies have been published on these genres in those individual countries, studies which have also pointed out some of the central themes brought forth by Beard concerning the difficulties and challenges associated with studying autobiography and its associated forms. All these topics are well summed up by Beard in her analysis, in which she identifies these narratives “as autobiographical fiction, fictional autobiography, autobiographical novels, semi-autobiographical novels, memoirs, and testimonios.” “Testimonial writings,” as they are called in Spanish, are essential to any study of autobiography in the Americas and quite hotly debated. Many questions are implicit in the study of the testimonio: authorship (who wrote the book?), veracity (did that person tell a truthful story?), and a (sometimes questionable) literary value (can this story be considered literature and/or women’s writing?).

The first two parts of Beard’s study involve cross-cultural analysis. All four authors written about in the first two parts are well known in the Latin American “feminist” canon. Part 1 examines the writing of Helena Parente Cunha of Brazil and Argentina’s Luisa Futoransky. In Part 2, Beard discusses Ana María Shúa of Argentina and Nélida Piñon of Brazil. Parente Cunha was translated and published in English in 1989 by the University of Texas Press while Piñon was published in English only ten years later. While Shúa was published in translation in 1998, Futoransky has only had two translations published in English. All four authors are widely studied by academics worldwide. Part 3 is entirely consecrated to the indigenous writers of Canada, Lee Maracle and Shirley Sterling. Although recognized in Canada and examined in recent texts focused on indigenous literature, these native women are still much less studied than the four other women in Beard's book.

Beard’s analytical concept of “Narrative Resistance” is not new, since one of the founding principles of feminist criticism is to examine (all) women’s narratives as new and separate voices in a literary world long dominated by patriarchal tradition. However, Beard coins a neologism to define the works of these six women: natiobiography, defined as the works of women “presenting the (fictionalized) histories of their families as the histories of their nations.”

Perhaps one of the limitations of the study is that Beard did not attempt to draw more explicit parallels between the writing of the indigenous Canadian women and that of the South American writers; the indigenous women, Maracle and Sterling, are once again somewhat marginalized from the main comparisons, quite exceptional, perhaps, when likened to their mostly “white middle-class” counterparts. Although Parente Cunha claims possible African ancestry, Shua Shúa and Futoransky are of Jewish origin while Piñon is of Galician extraction. Indigenous women are once again the doubly-colonized as opposed to the other women writers examined, in most cases “colonizers of,” or immigrants to, the American continent.

Nevertheless, Beard’s study, well structured and meticulously explained, is obligatory reading for those interested in or working on (the concept of) autobiography. It is well-written and highly readable and demonstrates the significance of telling stories for women.

Written by: Sophie M. Lavoie, March 26th 2010

Louder Than Words: Emily

admin — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 09:00:00 +0000

By Emily Smucker

HCI Teens

There were two things that drew me to this book. Firstly, the title is Emily and, hey, that’s my name, too! Secondly, and more importantly, the story revolves around a young girl called Emily whose life is plagued by physical illnesses, which she endearingly calls “Emily flu.” Could this book possibly be written about me?

Alas, whilst I just suffer from chronic hypochondria, literary Emily has a genuine disease; the rare and incurable West Nile Virus. But even if your name isn’t Emily, and even if you’re fit and healthy, chances are you’ll be able to draw something positive from this tale.

Emily is a true story, an autobiography of one teenage girl and what it’s like when you’re forced to take a back seat in life. From school work to holidays, Emily is dealt a harsh hand. Drawing on her Mennonite faith, Emily uses her religion as a crutch to help her deal with the roller coaster of emotions that comes with her illness. Zapped of energy and plagued with dizzy spells, every day life is a nightmare for Emily, who yearns for the things we take for granted and often complain about, such as the ability to attend school and have achy legs from an arduous day at work. Written in diary form with short entries, Emily is the perfect book to dip into if you’re not an avid reader, although it can, at times, be void of much storyline and substance, so it may not be to everyone’s taste.

Emily’s enduring spirit and sense of determination displays a strong, focused view of the female gender. A quirky read—at times focusing on the monotonous activities of daily life, reflecting Emily’s isolation and confinement, which will make you think twice before moaning about your busy work schedule.

Written by: Emily Ray, December 29th 2009

Not That Kind of Girl

admin — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 09:00:00 +0000

By Carlene Bauer

Harper

Carlene Bauer was a seven-year-old child when her mother became a born-again Christian, catapulting the family into a regimen that put avoiding devilish distraction front and center. Fear of imminent doom led to a morass of rules governing the Bauer sisters’ every move, rules that touched on modesty, piety, and propriety.

Bauer was born in 1973 and Not That Kind of Girl takes the reader from her early childhood, to her coming of age in 1980s New Jersey, to the present. Along the way she describes the implicit and explicit messages she received about what type of girl she was not to become. As she does this she reveals profound confusion about womanhood, autonomy, and integrity, the unraveling of which forms the crux of this intellectually stimulating, and often funny, memoir.

Not surprisingly, there are many questions. Is premarital sex really sinful? What about drinking and smoking pot? Is doubt always destructive? Can someone love language, literature, and rock music alongside the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost? If so, how?

Four years at a Catholic college provide few answers, so not knowing what else to do, Bauer and a few friends move to Brooklyn, NY, post graduation. They’re hoping the city’s grit will help resolve these dilemmas, but distractions intrude—there’s the club scene, literary readings, parties, and a publishing job that gives Bauer a chance to hone her editing skills and wit, albeit for a pittance.

The years following the move are full of ups and downs, but it is Bauer’s continual search for meaning that keeps her from settling for less than she wants in relationships and employment. Still, confusion and guilt dominate.

“Christianity had taught me that reaching out your hand for what you wanted, since it might entail pushing someone else out of the way, was selfish and impolite,” she writes. “I could not reconcile my faith with my ambition—I could not stop thinking that one had to be suppressed for the other—and this left me too muddled to be shrewd.”

For a while, Bauer thinks that converting to Catholicism will provide clarity; it doesn’t. And then 9/11 happened. “I would be a fool if I opened my mouth to ask God to watch over us or give us peace after he had taken it away from thousands of people and might be preparing to end the happiness of everyone within the church and without. I could not seek consolation from him,” she admits.

Just like that, Bauer’s faith crumbles, at least temporarily; on the other hand, her quest for life’s purpose never waivers. It’s liberating, if hard, to shift gears into a more secular worldview, but the subtle change allows Bauer to find a satisfying job as a magazine fact checker, begin writing, and pursue a relationship that seems sustainable. As for God, who knows? Bauer’s odyssey is likely to be lifelong, and as her quest for divinity has broadened, she has begun to see, and write about, evidence of the spirit in music, poetry, nature, and city life.

Not That Kind of Girl is a revelatory and provocative work, a personal story that goes far beyond the boundaries of autobiography. Witty and deeply introspective, it shines a personal light on evangelism that proves 1960s feminists correct: The personal really is political.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, November 12th 2009

Cooking Dirty: A Story of Life, Sex, Love and Death in the Kitchen

admin — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 00:00:00 +0000

By Jason Sheehan

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

My initial reaction after reading this book was to hurl it across the room and never see it again. Dramatic? A bit, yet justifiable. In an autobiographical narration, Jason Sheehan attempts to merge his experience as a cook with being a writer, but fails miserably.

Cooking Dirty is not your average tale of a typical award-winning chef. There’s no culinary school or classical training involved, just the lessons he learned from the School of Hard Knocks. For a book that promises sex, love, and death in its title, it actually offers very little of any. Instead, Sheehan fills over 350 pages with unremarkable tales told with what can only be described as a teenage angst bravado.

My main problem with Cooking Dirty is that it offers nothing innovative. Anthony Bourdain is already known for his irreverent tales of behind-the-scenes action and Sheehan’s book seems to be a mere (bad) copy of Bourdain, and at one point, Sheehan even alludes to this as true. Regardless, the shameless imitation could have been forgotten if only Sheehan added something new to the plate.

About three-quarters of Cooking Dirty is dedicated to building up the “pirate of the kitchen” persona Bourdain has already well established. Sheehan includes himself in this group of rebels: violent, tough, junkies, and (for the most part) men. The problem is that his love for the wild life did not seem to balance with his passion for cooking. Sure, there are mentions of his love for the culinary arts, but there are so few and the ones that exist lack detail and appear unconvincing.

The entire book isn't simply boasting and stereotypical male bravado, Sheehan's writing is filled with enough self-deprecation, comic lightheartedness, and sarcasm that can, at times, be amusing. For the most part, however, it is incredibly repetitive and obnoxious. Sheehan attempts to draw the reader in with rhetorical questions and meditative remarks, but Cooking Dirty lacks the intimacy necessary for a reader/author dialogue to be achieved. Instead, Sheehan comes across as a (self-proclaimed) know-it-all and rule-breaker. Even when describing hitting rock bottom, vulnerability is missing; the macho persona Sheehan constructs throughout the book does not allow room for it, and he works very hard to convince the reader that he didn’t really care.

The last quarter of Cooking Dirty is the only section that is salvageable. Sheehan narrates what paved the road to becoming a food writer, and in the last chapters he finally reaches that goal. He goes into his recent writings, including the ones that won him a James Beard Award, and it is here that we glimpse the passion for food. Too little too late? Possibly.

Written by: Jessica Sánchez, October 28th 2009

Live Nude Elf: The Sexperiments of Reverend Jen

admin — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 17:03:00 +0000

By Reverend Jen Miller

Soft Skull Press

Reverend Jen Miller—artist, troll museum proprietor, elf-ear wearer, and reverend in the Universal Life Church—reprints and adapts the essays she wrote during her two-year stint as the writer for Nerve.com’s "I Did it for Science" column in Live Nude Elf: The Sexperiments of Reverend Jen. As the name suggests, the essays feature Miller performing experiments related to sex on herself and her friends. Experiments include becoming a “dude for a day,” attending fellatio school, watching a Sex and the City marathon, experiencing female ejaculation, babysitting (babies being the outcome of sex), and holding a sex toy Olympics.

While it is hardly difficult to find stories about women being acted on sexually in any medium, Miller is very much an active agent in her experiments and is in control even when it means surrendering control. She does things that make her uncomfortable, but continues only when they—sometimes unexpectedly—give her sexual or mental pleasure. I appreciated the way Miller broke the “rules” when confronted with something she did not want to do, such as stripping for an apathetic audience in a seedy strip club.

Miller’s essays are still available on Nerve, but what makes the book different is the way she weaves an autobiography through Live Nude Elf. On Nerve, the column is set up like an academic science experiment, with an introduction, list of materials, discussion of method, and conclusions. In the book, essays are supplemented with introductions that relate to the other things that were happening in Miller’s life while each “sexperiment” was occurring. In addition, Live Nude Elf includes chapters that deal exclusively with “experiments” of a more personal kind: Miller’s adolescence, relationships, sacrifice, and heartbreak. What was an amusing, interesting, sometimes uncomfortable, and occasionally thought-provoking column on Nerve has become a book that is all of those things, but also had an emotional impact on me that I had not anticipated. Live Nude Elf made me laugh, made me read some passages aloud, made me a little bit melancholy, and kept me engaged throughout.

Written by: Erin Schowalter, September 16th 2009

Will Work for Drugs

admin — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 01:38:00 +0000

By Lydia Lunch

Akashic Books

I have always wanted to like Lydia Lunch. I’ve always admired her assertiveness and her dark attitude, and at times, even her severely sarcastic wit. I couldn’t ever get into her music though, so I thought I would try moving on to reading some of her short stories in Will Work for Drugs, a collection of Lunch’s fiction, personal essays, and interviews.

The beginning part of this book drags on and only slightly picks up towards the end with Lunch’s interviews. My favorite part was the interviews because, strangely enough, this was where Lunch seemed the most sincere, the most candid, and the most herself. The stories and essay sections were jumbled together, and they were not labeled as to which was which, so I never really knew if I was reading about some true event in Lunch’s little known past or peeking into her fantasies.

Regardless of whether they were stories or essays, in each one it was also extremely difficult to understand what was going on, where the action was, or the overall message Lunch wanted the reader to come away with. Lunch relies heavily on overtly flowery metaphors for everything, so much so that each story seemed to be mostly descriptions rather than actual stories. This section read more like prose, much like the style of Patti Smith, which was done well at times; however, overall I found Lunch’s choices similar to excerpts from a teenage goth girl’s diary: trying too hard to impress the reader with her darkness and toughness. Maybe her die-hard fans will appreciate Lunch’s newest work, but this reader remains unconverted.

Written by: Jen Klee, September 4th 2009

In and Out of the Working Class

admin — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 23:30:00 +0000

By Michael D. Yates

Arbeiter Ring Publishing

To be perfectly honest, I have not read any of Michael Yates’ other work, and only know his name as a radical economist. I was interested in In and Out of the Working Class to see how he would turn his lens of analysis on his own life, in hopes that he would not only tell his own story, but illuminate the world that we all inhabit. This reading of the personal as political is an important part of feminist writings, and I was curious how Yates, as a radical economist, would present the personal.

Yates succeeds in using an economic lens to place his own life within the capitalist class system. He traces his family’s history as immigrants, workers in western Pennsylvania’s factory and mining towns, and his trajectory towards academia. While Yates' stories of unionization, poverty, and the travails of youth point us toward an understanding of his own class position and politicization, his writing tends toward the nostalgic.

What I took away from Yates’ many stories—most non-fiction, with a few fictional narratives thrown in—was a determination to reinvigorate class struggle in America. I appreciated his attention to the differences and similarities of work in factories and work in universities, drawn out in a useful and coherent manner. Yates never loses his sense of purpose in helping the reader come to an understanding of all kinds of work as part of the same capitalist system, which he paints so clearly as unjust.

Yates’ purpose, however, falls short of bringing new and exciting ways of understanding work, class, and poverty. His autobiography feels, at times, self-indulgent; I remain unconvinced that his story is the one that we all need to read. At the same time, for those well acquainted with Yates' work, it may be of interest. I found it more useful as a model for what we each could do to examine our own lives and role in movements for economic justice.

Written by: Katrina Forman, August 17th 2009

Life Lived in Reverse

admin — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 16:25:00 +0000

By Lucille M. Griswold

Hamilton Books

Who says a woman can’t do anything she puts her mind to? Lucille M. Griswold’s memoir, Life Lived in Reverse, is written proof that dreams are attainable. This small volume is structured so that each chapter resembles a standalone essay. I found myself thinking of them as life lessons. Griswold’s work is a rich history in positive attitude and determination.

When the author entered her seventies, she decided to complete her formal education which she had abandoned at nineteen, when her single mother could no longer afford the tuition. Ms. Griswold became a student at Vermont College and not in the traditional sense: she took courses online. She majored in creative writing and minored in women's studies, both her passions. While photographing working women in all types of professions, she reflected on her life. This led to finishing her studies at Vermont by writing a memoir.

Much of the early narrative allows me a glimpse of a struggling young married couple. With Pearl Harbor only a mere ten years before, Lucille and her husband set out to form a family. The author reminds us that the country as a whole approached life in a much different way than we do now. Planning seemed a luxury. People were more accustomed to life being thrust at them. There was no healthcare insurance, reliable birth control, or fair treatment for women in the workplace. Yet Lucille never surrenders to the temptation to give up, even after her husband is drafted, just out of dental school, and sent to Vietnam to provide dental work for American soldiers and the Vietnamese.

I love the details of Griswold's childhood life as an Italian American in a small town of New Jersey during the forties. And as an adult, the example she sets as a woman encourages and inspires me to never give up on my dreams. Life Lived in Reverse is the perfect title for a memoir of this woman’s life. Griswold reminds me that my story continues to be written, to thrive, and evolve, and that age should never be a legitimate factor when stepping out of one’s box. It is up to me as a woman to embrace this evolution, seek out the details, and make the most of all the doors that open.

Griswold puts a capital ‘F’ in feminism, even if that was not her intention. This book gives a lesson in empowerment.

Written by: Ann Hite, July 27th 2009

Spell Albuquerque: Memoir of a “Difficult” Student

admin — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 23:27:00 +0000

By Tennessee Reed

AK Press

I found Tennessee Reed’s memoir of her educational and professional life to be inspiring and informative. In her memoir, Reed shows the difficulties that learning and physically disabled students encounter in the public and private educational system, and provides suggestions about what can be done to combat racism, institutional authority, and insensitivity.

Between the age of eighteen months and two years of age, Reed, the daughter of writer/choreographer Carla Blank and novelist Ishmael Reed, was diagnosed with a speech and language-based communication disorder, aphasia. Similar to a condition that stroke and head trauma victims experience, this condition prevented Reed from developing normal speech patterns. In addition to aphasia, Reed had difficulty with reading comprehension, three dimensional perception, and tasks that require small muscle control and hand eye coordination; she was also diagnosed with a math disability and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) in 1998.

Despite having several learning and physical disabilities, Reed was able to navigate through the school system from pre-school through graduate school. In Spell Albuquerque: Memoir of a “Difficult” Student, she writes about her experiences as a student, a published writer, and a candidate for the Oakland, California School Board.

Reed encountered difficulty throughout her educational experience, due to insensitive administrators and inexperienced instructors. She gives several examples of being humiliated and ridiculed by school principals, classroom teachers, and other students when she did not perform according to their expectations. As a child, Reed was powerless against the inconsistent behavior and teaching methods of her instructors. But as a teenager and as an adult, she began to question and challenge her teachers and professors. When she encountered racism in addition to discrimination based on her disabilities, she fought back against assumptions that others made about her.

Despite her difficulties with the traditional educational system, Reed became a success. A talented writer, she earned a Master of Fine Arts degree from Mills College; worked as a tutor in the AmeriCorps program between undergraduate and graduate school; and has published five books.

In 2008, she decided to run for a campaign for a seat on the Oakland School Board. The focus of Reed’s campaign was to inform voters of the issues that affected minority, poor, and learning-disabled students. Specifically, she focused on standardized tests, textbooks and curriculum, overcrowded classrooms, school closures, the need for physical education and the arts, creativity, charter schools, and teacher credentials. Although Reed did not win the seat, she received ten percent of the vote and was able to put issues affecting minority, poor, and disabled students on the table.

Reed demonstrates in her memoir that at times minority, poor, disabled, and gay/lesbian/bisexual/transsexual students may have to work harder to succeed in society and she provides a great example of what can be accomplished when we focus on students’ strengths.

Written by: Rekesha Spellman, July 7th 2009

Once You Go Back: A Novel

admin — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 09:48:00 +0000

By Douglas A. Martin

Seven Stories Press

Once You Go Back is a poignant and semi-autobiographical novel about a young man and his quest for identity as he grows up in a dysfunctional working-class household. While Seven Stories Press is most widely known for its books on politics, human rights, and social and economic justice, the publisher continues to champion literature; Once You Go Back does not prevail this philosophy. Martin's highly poetic writing style is an example of high-brow literature in its prime.

The novel begins with a short chapter titled "A Tall One," which basically sets up the tone and scenario of the protagonist speaking to his sister, which he does throughout the entire book. Martin's New Narrative style of writing provides an interesting approach stylistically and experimentally, but sometimes tends to be a difficult read to due to the lack of dialogue in the novel.

The novel follows the protagonist from the beginning of his childhood all the way up to high school when the family moves to the South. Still very poor, it is evident that the main character is very embarrassed about their poverty: "The poverty was embarrassing. We've started to know already we weren't going to be different. Every day there, we'd become more like where we were now."

I would recommend Once You Go Back if you are looking to read a poetically-written or New Narrative style book. As I mentioned earlier, there is not much dialogue so at times it really is almost as if you are reading one long poem. Also, there is a lot of sadness in this family so this is not the most uplifting book. However, it is an interesting read, and definitely worth learning how the protagonist and his family are able to deal with the challenges they face throughout their lives.

Written by: MK Matson, June 29th 2009

Personal Moments in the Lives of Victorian Women: Selections from Their Autobiographies (Book 1)

admin — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 17:27:00 +0000

Edited by Abigail Burnham Bloom

Edwin Mellen Press

I have to admit that when I received my copy of Personal Moments in the Lives of Victorian Women, I wasn't exactly excited to snuggle up and read it from start to finish. The cover art is not particularly appealing, as it depicts an antique black and white photo of a rather serious and unhappy looking woman, and makes the book look about as inviting as a textbook. However, as I read the preface I quickly realized Abigail Burnham Bloom's compilation of Victorian women's autobiographies would be more interesting and revealing than I had originally expected.

In the preface, Gina Luria Walker, a professor of women's studies at The New School, writes, "women do not have formal tradition of writing about themselves because they have long been considered unreliable and potentially disruptive." Walker goes on to point out that "Bloom's scholarly production...demonstrates the compelling need of women from disparate parts of that culture to tell their stories, despite the prevailing cultural mores that a woman not have an inner life or unusual adventures to write about." This collection was like a Victorian Vagina Monologues—well, minus the orgasms.

The autobiographical selections of women like Elizabeth Barrett and Frances Hodgson Burnett are categorized by subject—such as youth, marriage, and career. Many selections from this book made me grateful to live in a modern America, where most women are developed to be more than just attractive wives. In the Victorian era "girls were encouraged to learn languages, dancing, art, geography, music, and other subjects that would make them attractive to potential husbands. Generally speaking, parents wanted their daughters to be cultured, but not to be intellectuals." We have come a long way since then, and Bloom's collection gives us a look at just how much we've evolved.

After finishing the book, I learned the woman on the cover is actually Bloom's grandmother, Grace Isabelle Clarke. It important that the voices of women like Grace are heard because they are an essential part of feminist history. Women's studies professors, add this to your curriculum; it captures a time in women's history that is not often examined.

I found Personal Moments in the Lives of Victorian Women rather difficult to get through (and I can't say I'm going to pick up Book 2), but let's be honest: no one really chooses to read a textbook in her spare time. Nevertheless, its worth taking a look at. Bloom obviously put a great deal of passion into her research of Victorian women, and I believe it would make a valuable addition to anyone's library.

Written by: Samara Sousa, April 13th 2009