This book is a bit easier to read and I would suggest it for 6th-7th grade. It’s about Rashko, a boy second in line to the throne. His parents disappear, and an enemy appears outside the walls. He takes it upon himself to save the castle and it’s inhabitats, as his older brother is under a spell.
Watership Down captivated me the moment I saw it, even if it’s not colorful or unique. It took some time to get used to the language they use, but after I did, it amazed me even more. The ending was absolutely beautiful. I’ll not spoil it, if you haven’t read it, I suggest you do.
Welcome to Baga
where nightmares live
and dreams go to die
I had heard the men talk in low tones about what they did to Chibok
and how the nation stood still for a day and moved on
Mama never thought they would come
we have soldiers here, she would brag
oh but you see, they did
last night while men slept, they crept in on us
plundered our lands and set our homes on fire
It burned so beautifully that it reminded me of the fireworks last Christmas
mama and papa were taken away in that van
perhaps they will be back tomorrow
my shoes were left behind
the ones mama bought me for school
but my life is worth more
and so I ran through the forest until I came to a temporary place of solace
where a million other children dwelt
Every night since Baga
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Because my mother was a painter and a beauty when artists had patrons and a woman like that needed a man to take care of her, so she married a money man.
Because my mother’s mother was a beauty and her mother was, too, and that’s what people said: “She was a beautiful woman,” as if that was the only remarkable thing.
Because I was born in 1966, the year Betty Friedan and others started the National Organization of Women and challenged an industry which required flight attendants to quit if they got married, pregnant, or reached the age of 32.
Because when my mother had me, she stopped painting and started cleaning house and throwing dinner parties and smoking too many cigarettes and crying in the mirror.
Because my mother never told me that I looked pretty because she did not want me to grow…
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On Wednesday I asked the students in my class to describe what they’d been doing earlier in the day, before our afternoon session began. While they scribbled I wrote alongside them, producing a dull summary of actions and toil—until I came to waiting …
There is always waiting. It begins in the still-dark morning when my dog barks at a sound I can’t hear. I wait for R. to get out of bed and take her outside so I can go back to sleep. But really so I can go back to waiting.
If you want to write, there’s no way around waiting. Over waiting the writer has no control. Oh, I’m in charge in the sense that I can follow a routine known to be helpful to the production of words. Keep to a schedule is one common suggestion. But there is mystery in writing. Who can say why…
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Several people have pinged me about the announcement of Harper Lee’s new novel. It’s based on a recently-discovered manuscript that she wrote in mid-50’s and takes place 20 years after To Kill A Mockingbird.
I think just about everyone has already read and commented on this post but I thought I’d rerun it. It’s the reason why people are reaching out to me with this wonderful news. It explains who I am and why I’m typing these words right now. I’d be a hot mess if it weren’t for her.
Today is the 50th anniversary of the publication of To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s the single most important book in my life.
I didn’t read a book until I was 20 years old. It’s true! They attempted to force-feed me while attending my below-average schools, but I made it clear that I would only read a book under protest…
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People often toss around the idea that the internet is “not real life,” as though this thing — made by people to allow those people to share and interact with other people — is just the playtime before more serious business. The real business.
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Glasses are great, they may not be for everyone, but they’re useful. The only problem I have with them is that, over time they become loose, and start slipping down your nose and eventually off your face. The screwdrivers you can buy to tighten them are ridiculously expensive. And unless you go to an eye doctor regularly, you’re stuck with them. Srsly? Come on! Not even five minutes ago, I sneezed and my glasses fell off my face and disappeared under my seat. Is there any way I can prevent this without wearing those bead strings that you attach to your glasses?
There’s an unpredictability to the grayness of days in our cove by this water, us in this dent on the edge of the west. As if caught in an eddy, our Bay sends swirls of dark air to engulf us and wrap our landscape in mystery. It is something circadian, yet somehow always sudden.
When I was young, we would visit my grandparents in the Oakland hills, winding up and up the steep streets to the top where on a clear day you could see San Francisco glinting like a toy in a blue pool. But most visits, we’d arrive fresh out of the hot valley where we lived, full of sun and heat and sweat, and find that an eerie world of cool clouds had swallowed everything around us. In the dead of summer, when home was shining bright, we’d find ourselves in darkness.
Now this fog is a part of…
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