When the school bell sounds its final ring, We pack up the Rabbit and head Down South, Where we will ride and walk, up and across, The flat, square city blocks of Charlotte.
When the restless claim on her home overwhelms, Grandma sends us outside to pluck from The bounty from her summer garden, The grass tickling my feet as I skip to its border.
Collard greens and snap peas, The prickly spines of okra Can’t conceal the slime inside– Inedible, except when fried.
My brother holds up a bruised tomato So that I can bite into it like an apple, Letting its pulpy juices spill Through my teeth and down my chin.
Later that night, he and I Spin In lazy circles ‘Round the steamy blacktop Of the church parking lot.
I pray for the stewing tension to break– A sticky breeze lifts the ruffles of my shorts, I mash them against my legs with shame, A swarm of fireflies winks at me while flitting by.
My beehive of hair sticking out in frizzy relief, A halo of exploding lights breaks the silence– In celebration of July’s freedom, We stand akimbo and salute the cityscape
The air rumbles as lighting flashes Across the black gauze of sky, Like God is flicking a switch On and off, off and on.
We kids of the mountains Watch the infinite horizon–amazed, As fat globs of summer rain Plop heavily on our bare skin.
The latter third of this review of Small Great Things contains limited spoilers.
On Tuesday night, I finished reading the powerful and popular novel Small Great Things, which has been taking up a significant amount of my headspace since I first began it almost a week earlier. Thanks to how meticulously bestselling author Jodi Picoult got into the minds of three characters with markedly distinct perspectives on power, privilege and race, I found myself writing about their nuanced viewpoints in my private journal and repeatedly discussing those issues tackled by the novel in conversations with my husband. After reading the final pages, I admit being disappointed by what I felt was too tidy resolution–as I wrote about in my review of the book on Goodreads–but I couldn’t help wondering if I was being too critical of a novel that had nobly tackled such complex issues, while obviously striking such a deep chord in me.
Curious and willing to delve deeper into this dichotomy, I found a 2016 Q&A with The Oxford Union, in which Picoult spoke to the challenges of writing about racism in this country. Her first attempt to set this divisive issue at the heart of a novel was more than 20 years ago, when she sought to write about an African-American, undercover cop who had been shot several times in the back by white colleagues. She claims to have “failed miserably” in her initial effort at a novel, struggling to create voices, characters and situations that were authentic.
Picoult’s Personal POV on Prejudice, Privilege and Power
“And to be honest, I really questioned whether I even had the right to,” she recalled. “I am very clearly a white woman. I grew up in privilege. What was I going to contribute to a conversation about racism?”
Picoult has made a very successful career out of writing convincingly from an array of perspectives unique from her own. However, she felt that writing about race and racism was different. “It’s very hard for us to talk about without offending people, and so as a result, we often just don’t talk about it at all,” she explained. And yet her desire and willingness to write about it never really went away.
Then, in 2012, the novelist heard the news of an African American woman, a labor and delivery nurse of 20 years, who had delivered a baby in Flint, Mich. The baby’s father, sporting a swastika tattoo, demanded that the nurse supervisor ensure no African-American personnel touch his child. This became the seed for the story of protagonist Ruth Jefferson in Small Great Things.
In real life, the nurse sued the hospital and received an out-of-court settlement. But in Picoult’s novel, the nurse faces a different scenario: left alone with the baby when something goes wrong, she is forced to decide whether to follow her supervisor’s orders or to save the baby’s life. Because of her decision, she winds up on trial with “a white public defender who, like me, like a lot of my friends, would never consider herself to be racist,” said Picoult.
As a novelist, she then considered telling the story from three different points of view–the African-American nurse, the white public defender and the white supremacist father. The story would follow each of them as they unraveled their beliefs about power, privilege and race. Having changed her focus and her audience, she knew she would now be able to finish the book.
“I wasn’t writing a book to tell people of color what their lives were like. That’s never going to be my story to tell,” she explained. “I was writing to tell people who look like me–people with light skin–that, although it’s easy for us to point to a white supremacist and say, ‘oh that’s a racist,’ it’s very hard to point to ourselves and say the same thing.”
The author admits that it would have been unfair to ask readers to unpack their biases without first doing it herself. Born into a generation that was never formally educated in social justice, Picoult perceived herself–as does Kennedy, the book’s white public defender–as “a very liberal, open-minded person, with friends from all walks of life. I did not think of myself as a racist.” However, after gaining more education in racial justice, she realized that racism is not just about prejudice; it’s also about power. And in the United States, as the author said, “if you look like me, you have all the power.”
Boy, is that a powerful observation! I have even more respect for Picoult’s willingness to take on this huge conversation in a novel after hearing her talk about this revelation. She was not just able and willing to do the messy work of reflecting on her own perceptions; she was actually curious and eager to dig in deeper.
She spent more than 100 hours interviewing 10 women of color to gain insight into their varied experiences in an effort to write from a black woman’s perspective with empathy and sensitivity. To write from the white supremacist Turk’s perspective, a man who led a life grounded in hate, she also spent time with two former white supremacists who had formally left the Movement.
Nuanced Perspectives on Race and Racism is No Small Thing
Her research proved quite fruitful because Picoult was able to deftly delve into the complex backgrounds of Ruth, Kennedy and Turk in her novel. Her compassionate explorations of the experiences and motivations driving all the main characters in her novel worked to build a bridge of understanding–even engendering empathy–of people we readers might not necessarily like or agree with at all. While the ugliness of Turk’s beliefs and violent actions were off-putting, to say the very least, the genuine grief he expresses for having lost a son evoked real emotion from this reader.
Yes, the story was uncomfortable for me to read, at times–it had to be, especially when presenting the perspective of the white supremacist Turk. Picoult admitted that writing his voice and exploring his “disgusting” beliefs about non-white people made her feel “dirty”. Yet I too was curious to explore a viewpoint I’ve rejected with every fiber of my being, as it challenged my own perceptions.
As I wrote about in my journal, I absolutely related to the description of Ruth’s childhood experience of growing up as an ‘other’ in an overwhelmingly white community. As much as I felt a sense of belonging among my friends, there was an increasing sense of alienation and differentness in my community as I grew older. I did not really fit into stereotypical African American culture that I was occasionally exposed to either. Ruth had greater exposure, living in a black community in which her sister was thoroughly immersed, but she too mostly felt like an outsider there.
Like Ruth, I did my best to fit in with my white classmates as much as I was able, but there was no escaping the reality that I was, in fact, a little different. Some of my classmates were more than happy to point out it out often enough, especially in high school; their eagerness to bring up stereotypes about athletic and academic achievement stung more than I ever let on. So, gaining admission to one of the most competitive universities in the nation made me feel as if I’d won some type of challenge…it took several more years to realize that my most dangerous competitor was myself. As a young adult I spent a lot of time exploring, experimenting with and reflecting on my identity before coming to place of acceptance and love for my self. Yet I am still being forced to confront my own biases and misperceptions.
A Closer Look at Small Great Things
As she endures the trial for a crime she did not commit, Ruth comes to the painful realization that keeping a low profile–behaving as if her skin color is invisible to others–would not save her (or her son) from racial injustice. Picoult shared in the Q&A how a woman explained to her racial justice workshop how she went in the world “with a metaphorical mask so that she can be the kind of black woman other people can handle.” Ruth does this too for most of her life, but that changes when she challenges public defender Kennedy’s insistence that “a criminal lawsuit is no place to bring up race,” and that if you do, “you can’t win”. When Ruth is finally given the opportunity to speak in court, she understandably cannot keep her indignation from her testimony.
Brava to her. It is unfortunate, though, that she is portrayed as an “angry black woman” shooting herself in the foot. It is not surprising, however, that her own lawyer perceives it as such.
I did empathize with Kennedy’s struggle to understand how she still clung to her privilege, despite her good works and good intentions serving the underprivileged. I think her sole night spending time in an environment where she was a minority opened her eyes a little bit, but I found it difficult to swallow that such a brief and limited exposure would be enough to give her true clarity about being on the receiving end of racism.
As part of her experiment, she enters a drugstore to look at hair products “foreign” to her. She thinks: I have no idea what they do, why they’re necessary for black people, or how to use them. Instead of settling into her ignorance, I couldn’t help wondering why she does not attempt to find out from some women who do use them–you know, women like her client Ruth.
It also rubbed me the wrong way how she is the one relentlessly tearing into Ruth’s son Edison when he misguidedly spray paints racial slurs on a wall (I get that he’s a kid who is terrified of his mom getting convicted of murder, but why on earth does he do this?) And it also got under my skin that white lawyer Kennedy was the one correcting black defendant Ruth that what she really needs is not equality, but equity. I appreciated the intent behind explaining the differences between equity and equality, but her speech comes across like she is reading from a textbook:
“Equality is treating everyone the same. But equity is taking differences into account, so everyone has a chance to succeed.” I look at her. “The first one sounds fair. The second one is fair. It’s equal to give a printed test to two kids. But if one’s blind and one’s sighted, that’s not true. You ought to give one a Braille test and one a printed test, which both cover the same material. All this time, I’ve been giving the jury a print test, because I didn’t realize that they’re blind. That I was blind. Please, Ruth. I think you’ll like hearing what I have to say.”
Kennedy does ultimately rise to the occasion by talking about active and passive racism, bias, privilege and power in her closing statement in court. Ruth expresses gratitude that her lawyer finally took “the elephant in the room and paraded it in front of the judge.” I couldn’t help feeling uneasy that this speech alone had the ultimate power that it did, but giving it was the right thing for Kennedy to do. She uses her power and privilege to amplify Ruth’s own voice.
I was also rather amazed (not in a good way) by the plot twist that wraps up Turk’s story. It felt far too tidy and trite. I won’t get into it in detail here–it was that disappointing, to me. What I will do is give Picoult great praise for her overall effort to bring these voices and perspectives to life.
Novels as Catalysts For Critical Social Dialogue
It is no small thing to tackle such thorny issues as race, privilege and power. For a significant part of this novel, I think Picoult writes about it surprisingly well and with incredible insight. By packaging complex issues in a palatable and relatable enough manner, she presents an invitation for many folks who couldn’t or wouldn’t otherwise participate in a conversation about race with true transparency and authenticity to enter in honest dialogue about the perspectives raised in this fictionalized tale.
In this way, the novel serves as a catalyst for the crucial dialogue that our mucked-up society needs to have to survive. Rather than silencing the perspectives that we don’t like or disagree with or that simply make us uncomfortable, we need to get real and honest, truly listening to each other. By writing from these three disparate viewpoints, Picoult’s writing encourages to do just that. And, as she alludes to in Kennedy and Ruth’s discussion about equity, we as a society need to do everything we can to ensure that each of us gets a place at the table, that every voice gets the opportunity be heard and the support to speak up when it wants and needs to. It’s the only way we’ll ever be able to truly move forward and evolve together.
Calling My Name by Liara Tamani is a lyrical and sensuous story–at times, reading more like poetry than prose. A richly detailed narrative immerses you immediately in the life experiences of Taja Brown: from neighborhood kickball games and sibling rivalry to tumultuous first love and the promise of life to come after high school. While honoring the specific experiences of her Southern black girl upbringing, Taja’s deeply personal, coming-of-age tale eclipses ethnicity and geography to be incredibly relatable to girls of a certain age and women who remember being girls of a certain age.
Childhood memories can stretch out with the endless summers of neighborhood play and family adventures. Some experiences we can remember with excruciating detail, while other moments are forever lost. There are popular songs from our childhood we will forever remember the lyrics to, playground chants we could accurately recite 30 years after the fact. Family trips that come back to us in vivid detail. The shakily scary sensation of getting temporarily separated from our parents forever imprinted in somewhere in our hearts. The annoying burden of having to wake up early and go to church every Sunday. The sneaky pleasure of playing sick to have the house to yourself for a time to do whatever you desire. The unfairness of being treated differently from another sibling by your parents due to your differing age or gender. Harshly bickering with your family one moment, yet finding yourself protecting and defending them the next time some outsider dares to threaten and insult them.
Remarkably familiar and true-to-life scenes like these are peppered throughout this novel. Sometimes, they are presented in the disjointed and seemingly random fashion that we remember moments from our own childhood. Other times, Tamani expertly and eloquently weaves in common threads that knit together the whole narrative of Taja’s youth.
Remembering the Milestone of Childhood
The milestones, of course, can be unforgettable. Similar to what I wrote about in my review of Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret, reading Taja’s critical self-assessment of her changing body was palpably and painfully familiar. I also could relate to the embarrassment of Taja’s early experiences of menstruation. While I had heard and read enough to be sort of prepared for the impending ‘first blood,’ my mother was like Taja’s mother in never having talked about it with me beforehand. Reading the scenes where she’s humiliated for staining her pants immediately took me back to having to wrap a jacket around my waist in class when I’d unexpectedly got my period at school.
Yet, as much as my body could sometimes be a source of embarrassment, like Taja, there were times when I was surprised and pleased by its strength, by its speed, and by its being-ness. Oh, the delicious wonder of the discovery of self! I have never, ever read anything like the sensuously spiritual experiences I had as a child until reading this book’s beautiful passages of Taja sensing and feeling the wonder of her soul, of her connection to the greater Universe. To say this took me back is an understatement; by reading passages like the above, I felt like I was reliving my own awe and amazement over life as if for the first time.
I flood my lungs, watch my chest swell, and hold the air in, feeling my insides stir. like glitter in a globe. I exhale and the tiny dots settle. I take another long breath, and the sparkles swirl and swirl deep beneath my skin in a place I don’t know how to name, from where the songs in my head speak, from where tears race and eyes roll, from where gap-revealing smiles escape, laughter skips, cravings call…where words of love and fear whisper and scream, even if they never come out…the room inside the room inside the room.
Fumbling Toward First Love
The journey toward self-love loops and bends through delicious wonder, then mind-blowing confusion; through self-assurance, then doubtful despair. The path toward romantic life can be similarly tumultuous and heartbreaking, while also joyful and sublime. Taja’s first love in many ways reminded me of my own, with the surprising delight of learning about another’s mind, soul and body so intimately, for the first time.
Teenaged Taja and Andre plotting out their relationship timeline toward marriage and kids seems almost laughably naive now, but I did the same with my first love. And while my parents never forced me to sign a Vow of Purity, years of religious indoctrination left me similarly yearning to be virtuous, yet caught up by the unexpected passion of desire. While I felt some guilt for essentially ‘breaking a commandment’ by making love before marriage, both my boyfriend and I sincerely thought we had found “the One,” and he had given me a promise ring.
While I craved my boyfriend’s attention and adoration, sometimes it could be stifling, as Andre’s was to Taja. I wanted to feel free to see the world, to travel to Europe with my family and go to college across country. Though my first love wasn’t anywhere near as cruel and spiteful as Andre, he too felt threatened by my ambition and desire to spread my wings to fly. Both Taja and I were made to feel guilty for wanting to go far from home–and our first loves–to college, coincidentally both at Stanford. While Andre’s immature insecurity led to their breakup as soon as Taja was accepted to the California university, my own relationship limped on for another year and half, through long-distance and then my temporary return home. But, like Taja, I realized my freedom to fully pursue my passion was a delicious gift to protect and embrace.
Hallelujah! Love is God’s One-Note Song
Calling My Name also deftly interweaves the journey toward acceptance, love and the full expression of one’s self with the journey past communal religious obligations through to the empowerment that comes with a personal connection to Spirit. As someone whose upbringing was also influenced by Southern black culture steeped in strict religious tradition and mindset, I really related to Taja’s spiritual coming-of-age, as well. Early on, Taja senses that coming into connection with God is a highly personal experience that transcends confining church walls and preachers’ predictably castigating, yet hypocritical, sermons.
Unfortunately, familial pressure and social conformity allow fear of damnation and the stranglehold of a Vow of Purity to seep into her heart, casting a dark shadow over her blooming adolescence. Aspiring to be a ‘good girl,’ yet wanting to explore her kaleidoscope of desires, Taja struggles with the crippling guilt and hot shame over her ‘sins’ of wanting to express her first love in all ways. She also wants to be friends with non-Christians without trying to convert them and to be a contributing member of her community without getting weighed down by arbitrary obligations and harsh judgement.
If I had to give God’s one-note song a word, then I would pick hallelujah or love. Yes, Jesus would love love! But love wasn’t spoken today…[Pastor Hayes] repeats, “Do you want Jesus to forgive you for your sins?” No, forget that. Hallelujah already won. I’m done.
Claiming Ownership of the Freed Self
Can Taja come to trust that pure voice within that wholly embraces her true self and engenders hope for an inclusive humanity? The one that encourages her illustrious ambitions, encompasses her deepest desires and allows for real freedom of personal expression? That whispers to her that she too is a “gospel song” in her “highest, purest note, in perfect harmony with what calls to me”? Might the Divine indeed be found in the artful dance of nature, in the interpersonal expressions of love and acceptance, and in the deeply, soulful experiences of burgeoning self-love? You’ll have to read it to find out.
As the first stop on my reunion tour of Judy Blume’s classic children/YA novels, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret was a really sweet–albeit somewhat outdated–dash down memory lane. It tells the tale of Margaret, a 12-year-old city girl who must adjust to the suburbs of New Jersey and make new friends, while on the uncertain cusp of puberty. Written in 1970, the book sparked controversy and censorship due to “the frank discussions of sexual and religious topics,” according to The Blume Saloon, but modern readers might find the formal invitation to a fellow classmate’s ‘supper party’ and the celebratory countdown to first periods rather quaint.
A child of the ’80s myself, the concept of feeling such pressure not to be the last of one’s friends to menstruate feels foreign. I do remember wondering when my first period would come, but I don’t remember announcing the occasion to any of my friends. My mom certainly didn’t talk to me about it or give me a heads up on what to expect, unlike Margaret’s mother.
Something that did feel very familiar was the insecurity Margaret feels about being slow to grow in the boob department (though I never stuffed my bra). Exercises, prayers and envy–oh my! My inner child cringed remembering the awkwardness of changing my clothes in front of other girls. And what girl growing up in the ‘80s could forget the chant: “We must–we must-we must increase our bust”? But seriously, what kind of friend is Nancy Wheeler, who shames Margaret by laughingly commenting, “Oh, you’re still flat”? But yes, I do recall my class humiliating the early developers and making up nasty stories about those girls, like Margaret and her friends did to poor Lauren. Yes, kids can be pretty awful.
So much feels for first crushes, first boy-girl parties, first kisses and secret clubs! When Margaret and the PTSs (Pre-Teen Sensations) “got up the guts” to look at the nude male form in a parent’s medical book and to peruse a copy of Playboy, I couldn’t help but remember giggling with my friends over the nudity we’d scope out. (Man, I can’t wait to talk about Forever!) One wonders how today’s kids–who have all kinds of nudity available for viewing with just one click on any of their digital devices–would laugh at the innocence of children from the past.
Another big part of this book that I could relate to was the question elicited by the novel’s title. In a new community where everyone seems to have a clear religious affiliation, Margaret suddenly finds herself forced to tease out her spiritual beliefs and religious predilections. The daughter of a Christian mother and Jewish father, she realizes that feels most comfortable talking with God directly at the end of the day, one-on-one. Growing up in a rather benign Christian church, I remember my own earnest questions and pleas, pondering whether God was actually a presence that could hear me and answer my prayers. I read the Bible on my own and was actually encouraged to determine my own interpretation of what I read. Like Margaret, having such independent thinkers as parents, who didn’t jam their own beliefs down my throat, helped me form my own beliefs regarding religion and find my own path to spirituality, which has served me quite well in adulthood.
I really enjoyed rediscovering and embracing my inner child by reading Are You There God?…Gifted a MasterClass with the beloved, taboo-breaking children’s author by my childhood best friend and currently lacking a library card for the new town to which I just moved, now is the perfect time to run through the Teen Collection of Blume books that my parents gave me this past Christmas. I can’t wait to read Tiger Eyes next; the preview for it is heartbreakingly compelling.
When I was a child, I lived and breathed fiction, inventing detailed characters and complex worlds everywhere I turned. In my fiction, I was a ballerina, a mini Indiana Jones or a resistance fighter. I was an only child growing up with a single father, an orphan raising my three siblings, or I was the oldest of seven brothers and sisters with a widowed mother. I lived in the city, worked on a farm, attended elite boarding schools somewhere far from home, or traveled across invented countries in Europe in the midst of a fictitious war.
Immersing in Imaginary Lives
As a curious little girl, I soaked up my father’s fascinating stories about being one of nine children living on a tobacco farm in North Carolina in the ‘50s. His family grew their own food, and he and his siblings played sports with the fruit crops. They raised animals–from barn cats and chickens to mules and cows–as pets or as livestock. His mother cooked from scratch and regularly baked the favorite desserts of each child. And it seemed like there was always someone his age–boy or girl–with whom he could play. I liked to imagine what it would be like growing up in such a big family in the country.
My mother, on the other hand, was raised in the city as the only child of older parents. She had grown up in the unfamiliar-to-me world of classical piano recitals, debutante parties and local beauty pageants. Hearing stories about her more genteel upbringing (at least, in comparison to mine) encouraged me to fantasize about living in privilege, traveling across the country for ski vacations and attending all-girls’ boarding schools in Europe.
In real life, my parents, brothers, and I lived in the mostly white, New England suburbs during the ‘80s. I had never left the country and had only really traveled down south. Yet, I knew from my favorite novels, movies and National Geographic magazines that there were billions of people out there who lived a reality completely unfamiliar to me, in wholly different environments and raised within richly diverse cultures. I loved to fantasize what it would be like to be born into different families in faraway states or exotic countries.
A Girly Girl in A Tomboy World
Growing up with two older brothers, I was widely exposed to the world of boys–climbing trees, going fishing, playing video games and breakdancing. I was a soccer player and gymnast who had more speed, strength and power than the dexterity, balance and elegance possessed by my ballet-dancing or horse-riding characters. Thus, I enjoyed creating protagonists with traits and strengths that were opposite of my own. What–I wondered–might it be like to be a girly girl?
In truth, I got a kick out of watching the WWF Superstars of Wrestling and kung fu films on Saturdays with my brothers, and I enjoyed creating lively scenes with my M.A.S.K. action figures. Yet, I also really loved playing dress-up and re-enacting the dancing, love scenes of favorite films–like The Sound of Music and Dirty Dancing–with my Barbies. Of course, my best, girl friends were happy to play dolls with me when they visited, but they unfortunately didn’t live with me, like my brothers did. While the boys occasionally indulged me in a make-believe session or two, their hearts were never in it as much as I wished; when they entered adolescence, they stopped playing along all together.
My Cabbage Patch Kids were my surrogate children, but I had to invent sisters through the characters I crafted. In my stories, I had a multitude of female siblings–both older ones whom I could ask proper girly questions and younger ones who pestered me for attention because they admired and looked up to me. Sisterhood remains one of the most explored and fascinating territories of my fiction writing to this day.
The childhood wistfulness for sisters perhaps stemmed partly from instinctively sensing that I did, in fact, have those other sibling connections out there somewhere. It was confirmed in early adulthood that I had both an older and younger sister (and brothers), children my father had with women other than my mom. While I knew of the older sister from a very young age, I didn’t understand the concept of having a sibling who lived several states away and whom I’d never met until my early teens. She couldn’t teach me how to properly put on make up or to effortlessly flirt with adolescent boys. So for most of my youth, my distant sister was less real to me than Beezus, the older sister of Ramona in Beverly Cleary’s classic children’s series. While I knew from books and from friends that older sisters could be just as bothersome as having brothers sometimes was, I also observed that they were a key resource for navigating that tempestuous– and sometimes, downright terrible–terrain of female adolescence.
This would have been especially helpful to me, as I was, to quote the fierce songstress Ani DiFranco “the only whatever I am in the room,” with regard to ethnicity, at least. No one else had my skin color or hair or my physique. Make-up colors that looked great on my friends made me look like a clown. The clothing styles that suited wide hips and flat butts did not favor my round but and muscular thighs.
And my hair? Don’t get me started. I was known for my signature braided pigtails until fifth grade, when I announced to my mother that I now wanted to wear my hair down, like all the other girls. Oh, the humiliation I put my poofy locks through trying to mimic the swooping hairstyles of my fellow, female classmates. I had an ‘old school’ mother from the South who would administer straightening perms for me and roll my hair up in curlers so that it would, after an hour under a salon hood dryer, lie smooth. However, it was never bone straight, and it always had the big bounce of the hairdos my mom favored that were popular in the 60s and captured so perfectly in the film Shag. I figured if I had had an older sister, she would have experimented on her own hair enough to discover what flattered ‘girls like us’; and if not, at least we would be riding in the same, outlier boat together.
The Girls from Shag–Melaina, Carson, Pudge and Luanne/Src: The Island Packet
My loving brothers were generous with advice, but they were popular, star athletes, and their boy realities differed significantly from the more offbeat and bookish female self I had gradually grown into in adolescence. So, I learned about romance from books, and I had my first relationships on the written page. I wrote myself into effortlessly attractive and endearing characters who had meaningful romantic relationships with dreamy boys. I was so convinced of the power of the written word, in fact, that I eventually could only properly communicate with guys about my feelings through writing them letters. And I wrote a lot of flowery, impassioned letters that baffled plenty of oblivious boys.
I also thought I was being generous by rewriting myself as a protagonist who didn’t have to struggle with feeling like she never fully fit in. My heroines were wise, bold and confident in the company of the cool kids. They always knew the right things to say, and, by being themselves, they charmed everyone with their brilliance and beauty. But if, on occasion, they were more like the real me, their blunders were still adorable and delightful. And most had knowing sisters who advised them on dating boys and coached them in looking fabulous. When my female alter egos did look out-of-the-ordinary, it was because they purposely wanted to stand out from the homogeneous crowd.
Throughout my youth, I spent a lot of time and energy in imaginary worlds where an exploration of different realities and identities was not only acceptable, but an admired and treasured pursuit. I honestly believe that having the creative license to try on different hats and follow different storylines through my writing gave me the confidence to ultimately accept both the congruous and contradictory aspects of my self. So, by my mid to late teens, I had developed the courage to more fully embrace being uniquely me–idiosyncrasies and all.
How My Imaginary Lives Helped Me Reinvent Myself
Despite all the effort I exerted in my youth to live and breathe in make-believe worlds for varying lengths of time, I sincerely enjoyed my very real childhood. I admired and respected my amazing parents, who encouraged my passions, supported my pursuits and graced me with unconditional love and plenty of affirmation. I adored my older brothers, who were my earliest allies and cheerleaders, who taught me so much about relating in the world and who introduced me to the incredible passions that filled their lives. I also had a myriad of my own, rewarding hobbies and pastimes that kept me entertained and energized, both alone and in the company of diverse groups of people. I grew close to kids with disparate personalities, some of whom were just buddies for a season, while others became bosom friends I still remain close to today. Most of all, growing up the way that I did showed me how my imagination was something to be thoroughly explored and embraced; doing so would arm me to singularly face any significant challenge that I have encountered in life.
My creativity has nourished and enlivened all vocations and avocations I’ve pursued in adulthood. Being imaginative has equipped me to think outside the box, while shaping an unusual career path that is a better fit for me than a traditional trajectory. Years of reading and writing about other lives, other worlds and other realities have enabled me to truly put myself in someone else’s shoes; nurturing a sincere empathy and compassion for others–and for myself. These qualities are what have enabled me to strengthen and deepen my relationships with others.
Immersing myself in the deep waters of make-believe as a child also gave me the life jackets of hope, resilience and self-assurance as an adult facing the trials of chronic illness. Burgeoning belief in–and love for–self have been incredibly instrumental in my healing journey. Because of all the inner exploration and self-reflection I have done in both my fiction and non-fiction writing, I have learned who I truly am–separate from my physical abilities and health limitations, beyond any surface-level characterizations or restrictive, societal labels.
As a result, I’ve had the amazing opportunity—the great privilege and pleasure, really—to reinvent myself a myriad of times, on paper and in real life. Some of my incarnations have been more ‘successful’ than others, of course, but all have given me the chance to learn new levels of being. I’d like to think that along every plot I carved in my life, I grow into a more nurturing and loving friend, relative and life partner; that with each new story I cultivate, I refine and evolve my character as an observant writer–always, still–and as a constructively engaged citizen of the world.
As I wrote about a few weeks ago, my childhood best friend gifted me a masterclass with Judy Blume for my 40th birthday. As part of our first assignment, we were asked to write a letter as our childhood self. I’ve written letters to my childhood self from my present-day self, and vice versa, each time I’ve gone through The Artist’s Way path to creative recovery. Sometimes, they have been cautionary letters, nudging me not to forget certain aspects of my self or prepping me for the harder years to come. Sometimes, they have been enthusiastically encouraging letters meant to remind me of my youthful spirit and to inspire me to live more fully today. However, I don’t recall writing a letter that fully embodied that childhood self, truly remembering what it was like to be me at childhood, recalling a myriad of details and immersing in memories in a way that wasn’t narrowed and focused so sharply on giving my current self a message I needed to hear. And no longer having the journals I kept when I was a kid, I decided that digging back through my mental archives of childhood was a great exercise in recall. So that’s what I wound up doing for my first masterclass assignment; I enjoyed writing and reading it back so much that I’ve decided to share it here:
I wrote this as if I were writing the first letter to Kelly, a pen pal I had (through college, if you can believe it!)
Dear Kelly,
My name is Renée, and I am 10 years old. Some of my friends call me Nay or Nay-Nay, but I like my real name just fine. I live in a small town in Connecticut with my mom, dad and my two big brothers. The oldest is in a rock and roll band called Rapid Fire. They rehearse in our basement, and their loud music rattles the floors. They sometimes let me get in front of the mic and sing along. And as I’m obviously their biggest and best fan, I get to be backstage to many of their shows.
My dad is their bass player. He dresses like Michael Jackson in Thriller (except in gray, not red) and wears white makeup like the members of the band Kiss. He’s easily the coolest dad I know, but he’s away a lot on business trips in North Carolina. I miss him a bunch, but he always brings me something special when he comes home. One time, he brought me home a glass music box shaped like a piano, with musical notes etched on the top. When you twist the key, it plays Für Elise again and again and again.
My mom says she used to play that song when she studied classical music growing up. I can’t imagine her giving recitals and attending debutante balls with her big, poofy, 50s-style hair when she was only a few years older than me. My mom is a business woman now, and she wears suits to work everyday. But she still looks like a teenager. I look really young for my age too. But I am strong enough to lift her off the ground–when I can sneak up on her. Mom claims to be embarrassed when I sing really loudly, talk in funny accents or give her big hugs and smooches in stores, but secretly, I think she loves it.
Mom comes to all our games and brings us to sports practices every day, but she can’t come to my chorus and band assemblies or go on school trips because she works all day. Sometimes I wish I got all of her attention when she comes home from work, but middle school and high school homework require her math genius. She studied math in college. I love math, too, though I love reading and writing more. And I don’t need her help doing homework…at least, not yet.
I want to be a teacher when I grow up. And an astronaut. And maybe study dolphin communication or chimpanzees and gorillas in the jungle, like Jane Goodall and Dian Fossey. And, of course, I want to be a writer. I already write, but I can’t wait to see my published books in the library one day. The library is one of my favorite places in the world. The librarians used to laugh because I’d take out as many books out as they’d let me each week, but I read every one.
When I’m not reading, writing or playing sports (soccer, gymnastics and running really fast), I am hanging out with my best friend Dee. She is funny and smart and is really great at drawing. Sometimes we write stories together. Right now, we’re working on a detective series led by a mysterious butler. It’s really good so far. When we’re not coming up with stories, we’re playing in her big yard. I go to her house all the time for sleepovers. She also has a big brother. One time he picked her up by her overalls and gave her a big wedgie. While I felt bad for her, I laughed so hard and hard.
My brother Brian would never do that to me. He is my other best friend. He is four years older than me. He is a breakdancer and gymnast (like me), and he lets me hang out with him and his friends a lot. We always make silly faces at each other or pretend to dribble food out of our mouths to try to get the other to laugh. This is always done, of course, when my mom isn’t looking. He also likes to practice WWF wrestling moves on me when Mom isn’t looking. But he always makes sure I don’t get into real trouble. If I talk back or do something else I’m not supposed to do, he’s always threatening to tell Mom on me. But he almost never, ever does.
Sometimes, I wish we still spent as much time together as we did when I was a little kid. But I have my Siamese cat, Mindy, now for company. I always wanted a dog when I was younger, but one day my parents came home late from shopping on Saturday. My brothers ran out to help get the groceries, and they came running back excitedly. I thought for sure my parents brought home pizza–my favorite–but my brothers were carrying a big cardboard box. My dad said, “Watch out for BM [for bowel movement–ew!].” Surprised, I looked inside and there was a teeny, white kitten with blue eyes and black ears, paws and the part around her little pink nose. Her full name is Melinda Sue, and she was named after a character in one of the soap operas Dad and I watch when he’s home recovering from his back injury. My Mindy is mischievous, very talkative (some say whiney) and mostly only likes me. I wish she could sleep with me at night, but dad built her a cat condo in the garage that she loves to prowl around in. I want her to have kittens of her own one day!
Well, I guess that’s enough for now. Write back when you can.
It also rubbed me the wrong way how she is the one relentlessly tearing into Ruth’s son Edison when he misguidedly spray paints racial slurs on a wall (I get that he’s a kid who is terrified of his mom getting convicted of murder, but why on earth does he do this?) And it also got under my skin that white lawyer Kennedy was the one correcting black defendant Ruth that what she really needs is not equality, but equity. I appreciated the intent behind explaining the differences between 
is a lyrical and sensuous story–at times, reading more like poetry than prose. A richly detailed narrative immerses you immediately in the life experiences of Taja Brown: from neighborhood kickball games and sibling rivalry to tumultuous first love and the promise of life to come after high school. While honoring the specific experiences of her Southern black girl upbringing, Taja’s deeply personal, coming-of-age tale eclipses ethnicity and geography to be incredibly relatable to girls of a certain age and women who remember being girls of a certain age.
Can Taja come to trust that pure voice within that wholly embraces her true self and engenders hope for an inclusive humanity? The one that encourages her illustrious ambitions, encompasses her deepest desires and allows for real freedom of personal expression? That whispers to her that she too is a “gospel song” in her “highest, purest note, in perfect harmony with what calls to me”? Might the Divine indeed be found in the artful dance of nature, in the interpersonal expressions of love and acceptance, and in the deeply, soulful experiences of burgeoning self-love? You’ll have to read it to find out.
As the first stop on my reunion tour of Judy Blume’s classic children/YA novels, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret was a really sweet–albeit somewhat outdated–
So much feels for first crushes, first boy-girl parties, first kisses and secret clubs! When Margaret and the PTSs (Pre-Teen Sensations) “got up the guts” to look at the nude male form in a parent’s medical book and to peruse a copy of Playboy, I couldn’t help but remember giggling with my friends over the nudity we’d scope out. (Man, I can’t wait to talk about Forever!) One wonders how today’s kids–who have all kinds of nudity available for viewing with just one click on any of their digital devices–would laugh at the innocence of children from the past.
Growing up with two older brothers, I was widely exposed to the world of boys–climbing trees, going fishing, playing video games and breakdancing. I was a soccer player and gymnast who had more speed, strength and power than the dexterity, balance and elegance possessed by my ballet-dancing or horse-riding characters. Thus, I enjoyed creating protagonists with traits and strengths that were opposite of my own. What–I wondered–might it be like to be a girly girl?
This would have been especially helpful to me, as I was, 
My creativity has nourished and enlivened all vocations and avocations I’ve pursued in adulthood. Being imaginative has equipped me 
Renée Can(ada) Writes 