I Read Banned Books

 I see my home state is at it again. Book banning at some schools in Grant's Pass, Oregon.  his overprotective, curiosity killing sport lives on.  Funny thing is, though, all that ever results from attempts to keep books from readers is that they find other ways to secure the forbidden material.  Even funnier, however, is that some fairly well-known and award winning titles continue to make it onto the "Frequently Banned Books" list.

I'm rather proud that about 60% of the books I taught to high school Juniors and Seniors are on those lists.  No, my classes did not contain books that were objectionable because of vivid sex scenes or radical political theories.  Yes, there was some violence, some expressions of affection for self and others, and certainly political statements.  There were also some Nobel Prized winners in the group as well.

Today the offended school boards and their supporters are complaining about books that deal with themes of gender identity.  This is to be expected, given where we are with the emergence of young people declaring themselves non-binary.  But it's only natural that people would write books helping young folks who struggle, mostly aline, with these issues.  Lives are often in the balance so you'd think that even the squeamish would welcome some assistance in this department.  But no.  Onward they go banning left and right, often books they have not even read.  

Of course the old standbys continue to be banned.  Even titles like The Grapes of Wrath, The Color Purple, Beloved, and yes, The Catcher in the Rye are off limits for some high school students.

Also high on the list is Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye.  That is a book I taught for over 25 years with as much success as anything I ever did.  The offending portions are some passages, quite lyrical I might add, where the young protagonist  self pleasures in discovering her own body.  Hard to see how this can offend people, but nevertheless they scream about it.  No matter every person deals with these issues at some time in their life.  The real treasures in the book are the discussion possibilities about standards of beauty, the power of self hatred, the power of media images, and the consequences of emotional and physical abuse.

I would have loved to have testified before a committee about how I taught The Bluest Eye.  The emphasis would have been on how many important themes, topics, and issues would be lacerated from the curriculum if that book were unavailable.  I recall one particular group presentation in one of my English classes where a small group of African American girls.  They discussed and demonstrated the many hair straightening and skin lightening products available to Black women.  Pecola Breedlove, the book's main character is bound up in thinking her worth is in her beauty and what is beautiful is white skin, straight hair, and blue eyes.  Not only was this particular presentation eye-opening for my students, but even more so for one particular student who was challenged by this Honors class but after this experience felt much more comfortable with her peers.

I should mention too that the ethic make-up of a class goes a long way in determining the quality of discussion and the life experience that students bring to a work of literature.  I'd be happy to elaborate on that, with illustrations, should anyone want to know more.  Simply contact me through the information on my Blog profile.  

So, what gives someone the authority and agency to suggest banning a book?

Reading Aloud (Allowed)

 I must have done 35 Back To School nights in my teaching career.  Like an open house, a Back to School night occurs after the first month or so of the new school semester and gives parents an opportunity to meet their child's teachers and learn a bit ab out the expectations and curriculum for the school year.  Of all the post presentation comments I ever received from parents, the most memorable came from a parent who whispered something in my ear and then walked away.  Apparently her need to tell me something was greater than to stand in the modest line and wait her turn to talk with the teacher.  

Still the comment did not fall on deaf ears.  "Thank you for reading to your class," she said. "Especially at this level." That latter comment meant that she believed just because they were high school Juniors in an Honors class, they weren't beyond being read to.  In my view, she gets it.  Reading aloud is a vital part in educating a person.  Language, in all its rhythm and flow, needs to be heard out loud.  

Research tells us that parents and people who read to kids model important skills and help insure lifelong reading.  Given that we live in a country where half the people did not read a book in the last year, this is significant.  I'd wager no reading in the last 10 or even 20 years for most.  Scary, no?

With the increasing impact of technology, that figure isn't going to improve any time soon.  Maybe audio books will have an impact, but they compete with so many things that are available.  I guess listening to something whether it's music or pod-casts or audio books is time well spent, but does it reproduce the experience of personal engagement with a text and the various skills that develops.

I recall having a class of virtual non-readers.  It was a small group of mostly teenage boys who started the academic year late.  Some came from Juvenile Hall, others had been expelled from one school district to another.  Still others had moved recently. All were seen as students with low skills that were reluctant readers.  Quite a challenge.  This came at a point when I was a fairly young teacher and did not have the classroom library I ultimately developed over 30 plus years.  I had only the materials that were available to me.  This group consisted of 14students, of which 11-14 showed up daily.  Mostly male, African-American, and low skilled.  I chose Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea to start the year for a couple of reasons.  It involved fishing, and it was there in the textbook room.  Ever aware of meeting the needs and interests of all my students, male and female, diverse ethnic groups, all skill levels, I often supplemented other genres of thematic literature while teaching a novel.  Could be a poem, a sone, a short story, or even a film.  

We read that Hemingway novel together.  Every word, aloud in the classroom.  I'd read a while, and then ask for volunteers.  While I'd read for 15-20 minutes at a time, students would usually read for 5-10 minutes.  If there was a lag, I'd emote, vary my voice inflection, pause for digesting a particular poignant event.  I gave that novel all I had in me.  As a friend of mine would say, "I taught the hair off that book."

For some in that class, it was the first time they'd completed an entire adult book.  By that I mean a piece of literature rather than a child's book.  I like to think it set a tone and made reading other books by that crew possible.  People like a good story.  They like being told a good story.  Isn't that what happens when we mature readers sit down with a good book.  

Disappeared?

 They disappear. People, treasured memories, cherished objects.  From car keys to one-time friends, to collections, to everyday items, things disappear.  

Over a lifetime, a few chosen objects or people irritate the mind.  Where did they go?  We all have these mysteries.  For me it's a few folks I knew in college, my baseball cards, and accidental displacements.

I had a robust collection of 1950s baseball cards between the ages of 8 and 12.  Lots from the glory years of 1951-1956.  They were in a couple of shoe boxes, the thin ones that originally held US Keds.  After I turned about 14, they went from my bedroom closet to the garage.  At least that's what I tell myself.  By the time I left my childhood home for good and returned to clean it out after my father's death, they were nowhere to be seen.  Nobody in my family would have thrown them out.  Nevertheless, like so many before me, they disappeared.  

When I see 1955 Mickey Mantle, or Willie Mays cards online, and what they sell for now, it's a gut punch.  Those were the glory years,  I played Little League baseball, I spent every nickel and dime I came by on those cards, and I traded for some.  

There was a kid I knew back in the 5th grade. He lived a few blocks from me in an older house on a street that wasn't completely paved.  I recall a wishing well in his front yard and a C-shaped driveway.  Kids called him Chuckie.  He wanted a few of the black and white glossies I used to get from a NY uncle who worked for King Features Syndicate.  These were photos that never made the newspapers and would be thrown out.  He'd scoop up a handful and every so often I'd get a large brown envelope in the mail.  Uncle Murray would always say, these are for you, but please don't sell them.  He never said anything about trading them.   traded three photos of Yankee baseball action (two of which I had doubles) for about 6 1951 baseball cards.  In the cards I got was Satchel Paige when he was briefly with the St. Louis Browns, and a couple of other players.  Still those 1951 Tops cards are worth much more today, but like all the other cards I had...disappeared.  

After the internet captured our fancy, I found I could see those colorful cards  buy simply using Google Images.  Whoa! did a flood of memories unfold when I saw 60 years later the likes of Spook Jacobs, Ferris Fain, and Sandy Koufax from the 1954 editions.

Too bad the Internet can't always bring back people or places as they were.  The house I grew up in still stands, but I wouldn't recognize it or be able to make my way safely around it in the dark.  The back yard is most likely full of concrete and the elm tree my grandfather planted gone as well as Orange, Lemon, plum, and apricot trees I once harvested.  The wooden fence and my mother's clothes line will always exist in my mind, but all are gone now.  In 1969, when I left that home, I could tell you who lived in every house on the street, nobody today.  That's just the way of things.  As Willy Loman, in Arthur Miller's prize winning play "Death of a Salesman" moaned:

“Figure it out. Work a lifetime to pay off a house. You finally own it, and there's nobody to live in it.”

Those losses are to be expected, what about people who have crossed your path and seem impossible to forget? Four folks I knew in college disappeared when I graduated.  If I hadn't gone to such a large school like UCLA, that might not have happened.  Marv was my age and dealing with the draft in the same way as me.  We often spoke about filing conscientious objector status and ultimately did.  After a good high school friend of mine was killed in Vietnam, it became easier to make that decision.  I hope Marv is still around and fondly recalls those years, especially for the music and counter culture.  Another Bruce was a person I could have remained friends with longer with if circumstances hadn't interfered.  Last I heard he was in Chicago.  Bruce G (my initials too) served as a spirit guide for me helping me navigate the changing values of the 1960s.  He took say more risks than I did, but I could always pick his brain and know what to expect.  A cheerleader, a deep thinker, a guy who wanted to help people, not kill them, he was the kind of friend I needed in those heady yet lonely times.  

There were two women I knew back then that drifted into the ether too.  Judy liked to quote Shakespeare, knew a lot of crash pads and passed me my first joint.  I recall a period on my life when I was drifting amid a pile of moral questions.  She was there for me a few times and I never got to thank her properly.  We had the kind of friendship that was just that.  No real sexual tension, just good friends.

With Susan it was different.  She was 4 years younger than me, a Freshman I met during my Senior year at a party.  I really liked her, but we both knew the timing wasn't right.  I've often wondered if she ever achieved her career goals and if she ever found, "the one."  One of the few genuinely nice people I met on that large campus.  

Maybe they haven't disappeared if I recall them so vividly after all these years?  There is some merit in holding on to the images and emotions we retain.  Retained probably for a reason.

Pay It Forward

 After my lifelong friend Kenny died, his partner sent me some of his books, records, and fly fishing gear.  Kenny and I met at age 9 in the dugout of the Sun Valley Little League during the tryouts in 1956.  Through Jr. high and high school we remained friends,  Even though we went to different colleges, we stayed close.  In fact it is during those years between the ages of 19-22 that we cemented our shared interest in the burgeoning folk/rock music scene, beat poets, foreign films, and baseball.  Living in LA in the late 1960s we had a wonderland of opportunities to see iconic blues and jazz artists.  We frequented small bookstore readings, music clubs, and small cinema houses that featured many films from the iconic European filmmakers.  Kenny read widely and most of the time, had his own car and knew the geography of the vast LA basin.  In later years from the 80s to early 2000s we went on fly fishing trips together, camping and exploring many of Northern California and Central Oregon's most beautiful spots.  

As we aged, our visits became less frequent, but always we exchanged birthday gifts, because, ironically, we shared the same birthday.  So, after Kenny's passing, his partner wanted to fulfill some of Kenny's wishes and made some of his books available to me.  I asked only for a small group of poetry books and perhaps a few of his blues/jazz records.  She was anxious to complete the job of clearing out his small apartment/studio and he had previously made arrangements for most of his art supplies to go to the Art Department of Cal State, Northridge.  

Kenny loved the Beat poets and the crown jewel of his small collection of poetry books was a 1969 copy of Howl that he got Alan Ginsberg to sign after meeting Ginsberg at a bookstore reading back in 1991.  

I have enjoyed looking through this dozen or so volumes but since I have also been thinking about where to place my most treasured books, I decided to put some energy into finding a home for Kenny's books.  Then it hit me.  There is a small, independent bookstore in my neighborhood that would be perfect.  It specializes in good used books and sports a nice collection of small press poetry anthologies.  If I were out to cash in on my friend's books I could do the research and sell them piecemeal on Ebay, but I'm not interested in that.  I want to find a good home for these books and know that Kenny would want that and really love this little bookstore.  

I went to the store and as expected, both guys working there went nuts for this small collection.  After spending a little time online double checking the availability and prices some of the rarer books had brought, we arrived on an agreeable number.  The owner of the little store is barely scraping by in this economy, but was really taken with a few of the poetry books.  Some  poets like Diane Di Prima, Jack Horseman, and Kenneth Rexroth.  

This guy really appreciates this stuff, I kept thinking.  Kenny would be pleased.  That happiness was mixed with overwhelming sadness as I walked home.  All part of the grieving process.

These Eyes

 These eyes are deep brown,

They've seen for decades.

Sights include:

Those who hate (heard too)

Emotional darts thrown at the vulnerable.

Poverty from aging wooden homes,

Whose walls have child-eyes,

Empty kitchens,

Clothes long gone,

cheap highs in the gutter,

Catatonic, clinging survivors,

unemployment waiting rooms,

unnecessary wars,

Prime of life interrupted,

Friends gone too soon.

Then too, 

meadow streams,

Alpine lakes,

Crystal rivers,

Love returned,

isolation,

watercolor worlds,

gleaming coat of a thoroughbred,

Black spotted golden Redside trout,

Fluorescent blue/pink spotted Brook trout,

Black/tan Brown trout,

Willie Mays play,

100,000 people in the street,

Iron gate at the White House,

Coffins on the Capital steps,

Texas, Montana, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Newark, New Orleans, Baltimore, Portland, Atlanta, Dallas, Los Cabos, Mex. from above,

Son House, Lightnin' Hopkins, Howlin' Wolf, Elvis, Arthur Crudup, Miles, Brownie and Sonny, Big Mama, Donovan, Dylan, 

Appreciation

Seeds planted.

Intelligence harvested.

Free Concert

 It was a moment in time.  Something that could hardly happen again.  Imagine going into a place to look at and probably buy some records of some of your favorite artists, and seeing one or two of them right next to you in the store.  

In the late 1960s I spent a lot of time in and around the famed LA folk/blues club, the Ash Grove.  It was where I could see performances by legends like Son House, Howlin" Wolf, Elizabeth Cotton, and Big Mama Thornton.  The place was a living museum and gave me an opportunity to see many influential performers in the last years of their lives.  People like Sleepy John Estes,  Yank Rachel, Lightnin" Hopkins, Hedy West, and Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup all played there.  Crude was the bluesman who wrote and recorded "That's Alright" in 1947, well before a young Elvis Presley took it and added a rockabilly beat and soon became the "King" of Rock and Roll." If Presley was the King, Crudup was the Father. Presley made millions, Crudup, virtually nothing.  

If the Ash Grove was a premier folk/blues club, it was also a book and record store.  Back then there was a counter in the front where a small selection of books and records were available for purchase.  On the counter, from time to time, was a clip board where people could fill in, "Performers you'd like to see here."

In 1967, during my Jr. year at UCLA, I'd drive from the Westwood campus every Sunday after studying all morning,  to the Ash Grove on Melrose Blvd, to check out the records and pick up a flyer of coming events.  One Sunday after 4 hours in the research library, I arrived and heard music coming from the empty club.  In the darkened room, with the reflection of a ceiling fan painting shadows on the floor, was a  very young Taj Mahal giving guitar lessons to an even younger but eager student.  Every now and then, after showing his pupil some lick or blues run, Taj would just continue on by himself and play riff after riff completely enraptured by the music radiating from his National steel-bodied guitar.  It was like a free concert where I was the only one in the audience.  When that ended I returned to the foyer of the club and began to scroll through the blues records.  To my right, was a large woman in bucket hat, blue jeans and plaid shirt.  When she turned around I saw it was Big Mama Thornton.  She'd come in to sign a contract to play at the club and wanted to check out the records before going home.  

Before I left, I ran into a friend of mine who was pondering who to add to the clipboard requesting  possible performers.  He asked me if there was anyone I wanted to see.  I had just started playing blues harmonica and I quickly responded, "Sonny Boy Williamson II.  Rice Miller, the second one, not Sonny Boy I, John Lee Williamson."  I knew he was no longer alive.

"He Dead." Sonny Boy II died." I turned to see Taj Mahal.  "Yeah, he died a while back, I'd love to see him too, but we can't now."

I thanked Taj, and left the clipboard blank.  Anyway the Ash Grove was doing a pretty good job of booking people already.

Don't Mock Me

 As the clock winds down on the 2024 Presidential election, the mood is tense and foreboding.  It wasn't always this way.  Still, a quick look at the history of our elections shows some striking similarities.  This election is the most crucial in our lifetime...they all say.  As a 7th grader in Jr. High I recall how the Nixon/Kennedy race of 1960 was described that way.  The week before the vote the popular sit-com "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis even ended its program with a giant question mark.  If we only knew how both those candidates would end up taking their place in history!  You can watch that episode here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvV8xaL8TIY

I recall, too, how we debated the issues in my classes.  Those activities were spirited, to be sure, but nothing like the climate today.  Back then we all took Government classes with a big-ass textbook.  We learned about the 3 branches of government, the various intricacies of our national government, and, of course the history of electoral politics.  Most every kid then knew their elected representatives and even a bit about the electoral college.

In the 1970s-the 1990s, I taught a few Senior Government classes.  By that time, much of the emphasis was on local politics and the intersection of law and justice.  No longer were those big textbooks checked out to each student.  Some remained in the classroom for reference, but eventually, they were replaced by GOOGLE.  In my Social Science Department, we did a mock Congress in these classes.  An elaborate  role-play, students took the roles of various national lawmakers and wrote bills and then tried to get then enacted into law.  All the popular national leaders were represented and students looked forward to playing the role of popular politicians like Ted Kennedy, John McCain, John Lewis, and Nancy Pelosi. 

I often wonder, given the make-up of the current Congress, how dong a simulation  like that would go.  Congress is so dysfunctional and many of the personalities so sociopathic that it just might be impossible.  My students were often motivated to write a piece of legislation and struggle to get it through the Congress.  That's how they learned about things like the filibuster, conference committees, the veto, and how to build a coalition.  

One thing I know for sure: Come November 6th, the day after the election, teachers will be challenged to keep the lid on their discussions in class.  Hopefully, the days of the Mock Congress will return to our classrooms and our students will compete to play the roles of stable, sane, intelligent, and hard-working law-makers who know how to get things done.