Mildred

My great fortune last week was stumbling over a bunch of old issues of Victoria Magazine at the Friends of the Library used book sale. I should write a post on the magazine alone, and what it meant to me over the years. It was discontinued in the early part of this decade, and has recently been published again by a different company and editor, attempting to be faithful to the early format, as a bi-monthly magazine. I have purchased a few issues, but overall, it fails to capture what the original did. In my earlier lament about Victoria’s Secret, I had originally planned to include the magazine as part of the whole “Victoria” stuff of my life that I miss, that is to say, this imaginary ideal of beauty, class, intelligence.
I digress.
Flipping through the April ‘99 issue last evening, I came across a fabulous pictorial entitled “Well Dressed and Set to Sleuth Nancy Drew”. And lo, here are several pages of models representing Nancy and her friends Bess and George. And as I am ogling the cashmere, houndsooth and charcoal grey suits, and lovely ankle strap pumps, and wondering why I don’t dress that way, it occurs to me that I have given little thought to the one person who inspired my addiction to the written page.
Let me take this opportunity to thank you, Mildred Wirt Benson.
Writing under a ghost name Carolyn Keane, Benson was responsible for the first twenty three novels that began the series. Under the direction of Edward Stratemeyer, Wirt crafted the first books which are arguably the best of the series. In doing so, she introduced the world to the 16 year old sleuth, who was remarkably independent for her time, feisty, wealthy, and had the perfect social life with two best friends, and a part time beau.
I was at a slumber party when I first discovered Nancy. Looking through my host’s bookcase, my eyes roamed over the Woulks, Sheldons, Wallaces, until they lit upon four or five hard bound novels with yellow spines. The one I pulled out revealed a young woman in a dark passage making her way up a staircase. The title told me that it wasn’t just any staircase, but that it was hidden. A hidden staircase? I had stumbled upon one such hidden stairway years ago at my parochial school; I had followed it up to what I was sure was going to be little known place of mystery. Alas, it led to the nursery. Now, however, the same tingle of curiosity and excitement flowed through me as I flipped through the pages, studying the illistrations and their captions. Later that day, my godmother allowed me to borrow all of the novels (her own daughter wasn’t a reader) and I was hooked. I argue that reading was one of the things that saved me in my brutal intermediate and middle school environment, and the Keane books were the door of escape. Nancy was clever, beautiful, confident, and offered me secret places to hide from bullies.
I understand the entire series was edited in the fifties, and revised (it is said that this was to remove racist stereotypes), so that if one wishes to read Benson’s original representation of the character (who later editors deemed too outspoken, too young, and not demure enough) one must turn to the originals, at least two of which can be found published by Applewood Books. Of further interest, is the life of the orginal author herself, much of which is documented marvelously at the University of Iowa Digital Library Collection at digital.lib.uiowa.edu (you can even review her college yearbooks!). No demure violet herself, Mildred was the first woman from University of Iowa to earn a master’s degree in journalism, wrote her entire life, traveled the world, and earned a commercial pilot’s license when she was in her fifties. She passed away in 2002, at the age of, and she was still writing.
Mildred, you inspire me today, as your creation inspired me as a child.

No.

Vashti.

Considering Biblical names, I wonder why I don’t hear it on little girls more often. I hear names like Naomi, Rachel (my favorite), Rebecca, Elizabeth, and the eternally popular Sarah. In other cultures I will hear Mari, Magadalena. The more adventurous Haddassah (did you make the connection?) and Sarai have made appearances in years past. Previous generations were fond of Martha, Esther. Sometimes I hear Phoebe, though I doubt most parents connect the name to the woman apostle.

But I like Vashti. It sounds pretty. It’s somewhat unusual; you don’t hear that many girls’ names beginning with a V.

More than its general aesthetically pleasing-ness, I have come to love what the name represents.

Flipping through the Old Testament, there is a compelling story about a woman who, with the help of the Lord, was the key instrument in saving an entire nation of people. So important was she, that she is one of only two women who have books in scripture named after them. If Ruth is the story of an obedient daughter in law, a good woman, who finds her reward in the end, Esther represents a woman’s courage – mostly unnoticed in the patriarchal scheme of things. Taken without her consent, placed in the palace of King Ahasuerus, she bravely defies the heavily rule clad system to do what is right. It is an amazing story, I’ll admit, and if one were to, say, adapt a Biblical woman’s life into a novel, or a film, or even, as was the case with my parochial middle school, a spring musical, then Esther is a sound choice. In the space of ten chapters, we are given a glimpse into her life, until the curtain of history falls shortly after the scoundrel Haman ascends to the gallows.

A novel of her life – it’s been done – but the prospect intrigues me nonetheless, because every time I close the book, I wonder whatever happened to her as the years went on. Did she have children? Did the king tire of her? Did she lose her title? Fall in love? End her days in relative obscurity? Before the curtain draws over my story, I think I should like to discover the answer to those questions.

But today, I am going to write about Vashti.

The book of Esther begins, and I would argue exists, because of Vashti’s disobedience to her husband, the king, who demands that she appear before him so that he may show his drunken guests her beauty (1:11). Research is filled with various scenarios to explain this snippet of history: she felt more noble and higher born than the king, he wanted her to appear with only her crown, she was entertaining guests of her own and couldn't be bothered. The web is even more abundant with stories: one site she was an evil queen who made Jewish women work in the nude on the Sabbath (also that she’d grown a tail). Another asserts that she was banished and subsequently executed, though there is no evidence to support this. Indeed, the Zondervan Study Bible speculates that Vashti and Queen Amestris of Greek historians are one and the same; if that is the case, then she returned after the death of her husband, and was influential in the reign of her son, King Artaxerses, until her death, and I admit unabashedly, that this is my favorite scenario.

But the one thing that sticks in my mind, in connection to Vashti is a Sunday school memory of sorts. I say of sorts, because I can not recall all of the details. I see a teacher, but no face. I see her nylons, plastic framed glasses, and sensible pumps. I’m pretty sure there is flannelgraph involved. We are learning the story of Esther, and I am intrigued by the mention of Queen Vashti. On the felt board, I see a figure of a white woman with a nasty expression on her face – reminiscent of a cackling witch. And I hear, “Mean Vashti was a bad wife! She was disobedient and so she had to go away!” Whoosh! The figure is snatched from the board.

And I am left with questions: why did Vashti say no? Was she really mean and ugly? Was she having a bad day? Was she too shy? Did one of her guests have a problem and wanted to talk about it? Did she actually say no, or just “not right now”? Am I mean and ugly too?

It will be years before I learn how to really ask questions of a text, before I understand about literary critique and lenses, and how one must, patiently, sand away the patina of patriarchal history which obscured women’s truth in a world where we learned to assume all women who said "no" were being selfish, disobedient.

I don't know why Vashti denied her husband's request. I don't know if she was mean to Jewish women, whether or not she had a tail, or if, in time, she came to regret her action. What I do know, however, is that she angered a king (possibly even hurt his feelings) and that she left an entire group of men anxious and in a fit over the example her "rebellion" would set forth - that it could possibly tear apart the fabric of a nation (imagine if all women followed Vashti's example).

The spirit of the International Day of the Woman blog, from what I understand, was to explore what lessons the women of the Bible have left for us. In keeping with that spirit, I offer the following:

Lessons From Vashti

1. When we assert our power, the results are often unpredictable.


2. Sometimes the results include removing us from whatever scenario we find ourselves in (we might lose our crown).


3. Sometimes this removal serves the greater good (perhaps we found the crown too heavy in the first place).


4. Some people in history may not remember us so well (or they may have a great need to be in control and feel threatened by our power).


5. Still. When we feel like something is not right, it is okay, to trust ourselves and say no.

Aloha

As I review the previous gushing blog, I have to smile. To say we had a wonderful time would be an understatement. We had a beautiful, growing time. But it is terribly gushing.
Thursday: Was determined to drive the Road to Hana. And did. Picked up a hitchhiker after we stopped and bought some banana bread. She was an anthropology student who'd been on the island for nine months (she'd just purchased a ticket, packed her backpack, and ended up staying). She became our own personal tour guide. She pointed out every plant, discussed the history of the island and the people. It was very cool. We left her at her home in Hana, and we proceeded down the most beautiful stretch of Maui - the Palini Highway. Amanda had missed out by staying back at the hotel (she had quite an experience there!). I can still see the green hills, old churches, sun slanting on the grass and ocean. It was like being in another world. When we returned to the hotel, Amanda related a horror story: a woman had plunged to her death from the eleventh story and had landed right next to our balcony. She had heard it and ran out to see the woman. How terrible for the woman and her family! My poor child was frightened out of her mind...and very nice to us after that. Here is the site which features an article about the tragedy: http://www.kitv.com/news/18608470/detail.html I reviewed all the articles I could glean - there wasn't much. Everyone was tight lipped about it pending investigation. I learned a little about who she was; I wonder about her life, her last moments.
I stuck close by Amanda for the duration of the trip.
Friday: Swam in a volcano in the middle of the ocean. Clung with my family to the side of a raft, that the capain enjoyed driving in figure eights, and watched whales, dolphins and sea turtles in the distance.
Saturday: Insisted on seeing the Iao Needle, and decided to take an alternate route to the hotel: The Honoa'alillani and the Kahekili Highway. I thought it would be quite scenic since it wound by the north west coast. And indeed, it was. We saw some of the most exquisite sights there that we'd seen the entire week. And if the girls and I were not so afraid of suddenly plummeting to our deaths over the side of the one lane cliff edge highway, we may have enjoyed them more. (I have since learned that people lose thier lives there, that rental companies tell motorists not to drive there, and tour books warn against it. No one told me! A later review of my tour book dismissed it as "adventourous".) It was truly the road to horror. You truly do drive on the edge, and much of the time, on your little one lane, you come to a bend, and pray there isn't a car coming in the opposite direction. There were little villages and houses along the way, and I wondered how people could live there and drive it every day. Another driver angled her car so that it was literally half way parked up the cliff so I could pass.I blew her a kiss. On one particularly high stretch, I came head to head with a pickup truck with about three people in it and tearfully, I had to beg him to either back up, or back up my car for me. Kindly, he backed up his truck until he could squeeze into a tiny shoulder, and I almost reached through his window and locked my lips on his in gratitude.
"No worries," he said with a smile, "that's just Maui."
Indeed. Maui, she is resplendent and terrifying; it's a place where life exists side by side with death. "The first time I smelled death and decay was when I came to this island," said our anthropologist. The island has many cemetaries, not hidden away, but there in the open public spaces, inviting the living to look, think, visit, and exist as neighbors. Rachel and I visited a cemetary on the Palini. I left a rock on one of the graves. In fact the trip itself was a result of my father's death, and was a memorial trip for my family.
I went to the island to remember my dad, for adventure, and to learn about a part of God's creation that I had never seen. I came back with something I can not put words to. But when I sit in traffic and look at the gray tight faces of others choked with life's cares, I can feel it, passing over me with the lightest veil, a sweetness, a feather touch.
Aloha.

Snapshots of Maui

How could I have lived my entire life without seeing such beauty. I feel like Jodi Foster in the film Contact: No words...no words...

Sat on balcony overlooking a beautiful garden stream. To my right are the islands of Lanai and Molokai. In the distance someone was playing a guitar and singing some island melody. The notes were lovely; they found a sad place inside. Thought of my dad. He has funded this trip with my kids; I will take him everywhere we go. Wept.

Took Amanda to K Mart to buy shorts so we could go to workout together. Hiway has tall green mountains on one side, turquoise water on the other. She was outlined in sunlight, hair blowing around her. John Mayer song "Gone" playing on the radio. She's turning seventeen. Rachel will be leaving to college the day after we return.

Tuesday: Drove in the driving rain, pitch black night, five am to catch boat for snorkeling adventure. It was one of the main things I was looking forward to in an adventurous Lara Crofty sort of way. Swimming in the Pacific Ocean. Meeting sea turtles. Now was fumbling with a map, trying to stay on the road, trying to see the road, and navigate areas I couldn't even pronounce. We pulled off on a dark road. Rain beating down on the windshield. We laughed so hard I had tears. A voice on the radio telling us to "get up, brush teeth and smile. We sooo lucky to live on the island Maui". Trip was canceled.
Ate banana pancakes. Went to Front Street (very cool) and movie in a wierd musty theater. The guy at Taco Bell was from Lomita.

Wednesday: Rain again. Refused to stay inside. Drove into center of island. Went to sugar cane museum (yes! a museum for this!) and ended up picnicing in a green countryside draped by fern like trees, with no one around (perhaps a cow or two). Later that night had two slices of banana cream pie.

Nourishing Novels

I would like to think that one day, of the myriad of things I shall leave behind, one of the most useful would be a list of some of the books I have read which have been nourishing to me as a woman. Webster's describes the word nourish to be synonymous with nurture, maintain, support, and to nourish is to promote the growth of. Now, these are not to be confused with the Oprah type of list called Books That Made a Difference. There are many such works, and they were not all nourishing, in fact some, like Brownmiller's Against Our Will were haunting and disturbing (albeit necessary).
No. These are the books that I liken to a mentor, a dear friend, a dip in the cold and clear ocean, and when I emerged I felt more myself.
In that spirit, I begin my list, which is by no means exhaustive, nor in any particular order.

1. The Birth House by Ami McKay. The first novel by McKay details the life of Ms. Dora Rare, as she finds her way in her town as a midwife, at a time when medicine, particularly the experience of childbirth - historically a womans' domain- is about to be taken over by men. It is a tale told in a wonderfully creative way (at times a narrative, at times a scrap book) with heartfelt warmth and humor. I loved Dora, and it's one of the novels that I have read more than once. I can't wait for Mc Kay's next novel, The Virgin Cure.

2. A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf. Charming, insightful, Woolf meanders though various scenarios and suppostations to arrive at a great truth: there were so few women of genius because most women did not have money, time, and a room to call their own.
Think about it.

3. The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. Just sweetness. And while I'm at it, her biographical spiritual journey, Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

4. Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindburgh. A series of reflections on the many faceted life of a woman. It was written during a vacation on a Florida island that she took alone. Each essay is a meditation based on the sea shells she has found and lined up upon her desk, and each shell corresponds to a point in woman's life (ie, the moonshell represents the woman alone, the double sunrise represents woman and her relationships). I return to this book year after year.

5. Cleopatra by Elizabeth George. A gorgeous feast of a historical novel. I read it during the end of my marriage when I was taking care of my father. Also, her Helen of Troy.

6. Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi. It took me a couple of years to finish this because I would read the texts as Nafisi discusses them. I felt like I was in her class.

7. The Tenant of Wildfel Hall by Ann Bronte. A novel ahead of its time.

8. A Northern Light by Jennifer Donnelly. A book for young and not so young adults, it is more about a girl's journey into adulthood. And in that spirit,

9. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith.

Testing Week Over

I should be writing about how overjoyed I am, but I have come to love testing week. Here's why:

1. Unlike the week of testing years ago, I've had the opportunity to work with my students, condition them for this week, and prepare them with test taking strategies. As a result, they're a joy to be with.

2. I get the same class all day, so it's kind of like working in elementary school.

3. The students and I aren't being smothered by the burden of prescribed curriculum. We get to do cool activities that nourish other parts of their intellects.

4. Re: number 3: When I write "cool activities," I didn't actually mean testing itself. Although it is cool to fill in bubbles on a scantron, and show how well you've learned how to take tests.

5. We get ice cream.

6. We get to attend a cool assembly where the staff and students are brainwas- er...pumped up for testing week.

7. We get to see, for the first time in months, that select group of teachers who are highly valued on campus. Since they are busy with other things, they don't get to teach a homeroom/testing class of their own. This is the week they walk the halls, and duck their heads into our classes and offer to be of assistance. I'm sure one of them will be visiting my class soon.

8. Although it's Friday, and the day is half over.

9. And 7th grade isn't actually testing today.

10. Not that I needed any assistance.

11. After the students leave, we get to participate in staff meetings. This is where the real behind the scenes work of teaching is done. We meet by department, roll up our sleeves, and plan for next year. This involves combing through a fifty page document called our Plan for High Priority Schools. It is the masterful plan for turning the school around. It details all of the ways we will work with our students next year to get them up to at least Basic in all subjects. It will be choc full of new strategies.

12. Well, so far I haven't come across any new strategies, but I'm told it's a work in progress.

13. It's generally a time of refreshment for students and teachers alike.

I Miss Victoria

Once upon a time, there was a place that I went to when I wanted to feel beautiful. Its portals were crafted from dark, glossy, burgundy wood. They were the gateway into another world - a world of beauty, in which the sounds of the London Symphony Orchestra drifted about me like a delicate garment. My fingers would brush the lightest, softest fabrics. In my imagination there is the subtle fragrance of Spring Rain, although I can't be sure this was so: I often visited Crabtree & Evelyn first. And while I may have spent my afternoon running from place to place, that stopped when I walked through the door.

"Darling, but what is the hurry?" she would whisper as I held a creamy rose camisole. "We do not rush here...beauty never rushes." And so I would slow down, allowing my senses to take everything in. The matching chocolate satin brassiere and panties. The sheer black nylons. The soft cotton nightgown. Ah, the demi cup bra in pale rose. As soon as I decided to try it on, one of her muses would appear beside me, a measuring tape around her neck.

Visits to Victoria's Secret were uplifting, but that doesn't fully encompass what they meant to me. The imaginary Victoria was the emblem of sophistication: well read, mysterious, very sensuous. She made me want to be better than I was. She didn't make me feel less. She made me feel more.

And when I couldn't visit, there was her catalogue: colorful, glossy pictures of curvy models like Frederique donned beautiful lingerie in idyllic settings. Always tasteful. I would save each issue until the next one came. After I had my first child, my browsing took on a more wistful approach. I collected them as inspiration until I could once again fit into the fashions. Then came child number two, and visits to Victoria's Secret became less frequent, although I would still purchase a nightgown here, and the CD music collection there, in a modest effort to keep her a part of my life. By the time child number three appeared, I am sorry to say I had lost all contact with Victoria. I was too busy, too scattered to give her much thought. I don't think I even noticed when the catalogue stopped showing up. It just...disappeared.

And so did she.

I am sorry to say that for a long time I really didn't give her much thought, until the day I arrived unannounced for a visit and discovered that an impostor had taken her place. This chit angled herself in lewd contortions, her countenance sporting the half-lidded pout favored by gentleman's magazines. There were bins where one could purchase four panties for $20. Bony mannequins sporting thongs were posed, adjacent to polka dotted stuffed pooches in the storefront windows. Had the merchandise been displayed in an unmarked warehouse, it would have been impossible to tell it apart from that of Frederick's without checking the label. A wretched imitation, this Victoria had never read a great novel. She'd never heard of Mozart. She didn't know sensual; she didn't even seem to have the intelligence to grasp subtle. She was Eliza Doolittle before, although I rather credit Eliza with more class.

Where did she go? And who shall we call into account for her untimely disappearance? The consumer? Culture? Was there a generation in there that decided declasse and vulgar were going to be the provocative ideal? I missed it.

Oh Victoria, please come back! I miss you and I know I can not be the only one. You once filled a role in the life of a woman. You were sensual. You were beautiful. You would have been an inspiration to my daughters.

The other day I passed what was at one time my favorite store. I couldn't help it; I glanced up into the storefront, to a larger than life portrait of a woman who appeared to be in a relatively pleasurable state. Her lips were open in a in a dumfounded pout, her eyes were half closed, and she was spilling out of her bra. I wondered for the millionth time if anyone has explained to the CEO the difference between provocative and pretty versus embarassing. I glanced away in time to catch a little girl, about four, walking with her family from the opposite direction. She was staring at the storefront with the kind of intensity I see in children when they are completely focused on some activity. Teachers try to induce this state in the classroom because this is when the brain creates new neuropathways, hence learning takes place.

I looked away.