tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79711362817804834182024-03-10T14:55:13.915-07:00Jana's Musings...Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-9520831442107882532018-06-26T17:03:00.001-07:002018-06-28T20:54:45.646-07:00A PLEA TO ACT<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am sitting here in my kitchen, looking out at the peach trees I planted and my two dogs in the yard, thinking about the world. The world right here seems fine on the surface. The grass was cut today and smells new and fresh. The little two-year old peach trees are bursting with life...hundreds of tiny peaches are dangling like fuzzy ornaments. The birds are calling in the distance. The neighbors' sheep are bleating. If I lived in a bubble, I might imagine that all was right with the world. But all is not right. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Supreme Court voted 5-4 today in favor of banning Muslims from entering this country, in what can only be described as an act of racism, plain and simple. The US is running on fear and that is the opposite of love. Our so-called president is a fearmongering ignoramus, a two-bit performer, a no-talent narcissist. And many people are supporting his hateful agenda. And man, he is gloating right about now. It makes me angry just thinking about it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Children are in cages. Parents are desperate. It wasn't enough that these people were fleeing for their lives. LEGALLY seeking asylum. But now their lives are forever destroyed. The damage is irreversible. For the children and the adults. And we know that ICE never had any intention of reuniting children with parents. How is that ever going to happen? It is sickening and heart wrenching to think about it. I wonder, who are these goose-steppers? Who are these brainless, spineless monsters? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Just before #45 signed the bogus order to stop separating families, I wrote a letter to the FLOTUS. I was about to send it, and then she wore the coat. I knew that appealing to her as a woman, an immigrant, a mother, was a waste of words. I did not send it. Here is what I wrote:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Dear First Lady, </span></span></i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span><br />
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">I'm writing to you in the throes
of profound sadness, heart-wrenching disbelief and abject fear of what is
happening to our country. I have chosen to write to you because you sit in
a place of power and honor, as the First Lady of the United States of America,
FLOTUS. You; an immigrant, a woman, a mother. </span></span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">My sleep is disturbed, my heart
is disturbed, my very soul hurts as I watch and listen to the news reports of
thousands of immigrant children, displaced, ripped away from their mothers
and fathers and placed in what can only be termed as internment camps. I
imagine that nursing mother whose baby was ripped out of her arms. I feel
her grief and I imagine her breasts becoming painful, perhaps infected, with no
place for her milk to flow, no tiny mouth to suck on them for sustenance,
warmth and succor. She is devastated. And I imagine her baby, traumatized,
crying, with no one to hold her. Who is nursing that baby now? </span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">I can hear the five-year-old boy
screaming for his papa, inconsolable, as he is being put in a cage. What if
this were your son?</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">No parent would risk what these
parents have risked if there was any other way. All they want is asylum. I hope
that you would do anything to keep your son from harm, as I would do anything
for my children. I heard you speak out against this with the other First Ladies.
You yourself said that you “hate to see children separated from their
families.” You visited, you influenced your husband to rescind the order to
separate, and I thank you for that.</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1"> </span></span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">But it doesn’t go far enough.</span></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">I don't know these children, but
they are my children. They are our children. And they are undergoing trauma
that is irreversible. The damage irreparable. They need to be reunited with
their parents. Immediately.</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Over the course of my life, I
have had the unique honor and privilege to have worked with refugees and
immigrants from all over the world. It has been my joy to have taught hundreds
of people to speak English and to help them navigate their way around their new
country, to welcome them and befriend them. I've learned their stories and
I have held their hands, I have been their friend, and they have become mine. I
have taught them and learned from them and my life is far richer because
of them.</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">The people at the border have
come here to escape something horrible, unimaginable; perhaps gang violence, perhaps
abject poverty, human trafficking, war or climate disaster. They come here
seeking safety and shelter. They're not stealing our jobs, they're not
raping our women, they are not criminals. They are refugees.</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1"> </span></span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">I am pleading with you, First
Lady Melania Trump to do something. To use your incredible power and influence
to do the right thing at this moment in history. Be the hero of the
situation. You have the power to change the course of history. I'm afraid that
if you don't, you and your family will go down in infamy.</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">This is your moment. </span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Thank you,</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Jana Laiz</span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="s1">Mother, daughter, sister, friend,
woman, citizen </span></span></i></span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="s1">I was hoping to reach her... I'm sure she would never have read it, but it was cathartic. Now it feels pathetic. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="s1">So I am having a spiritual crisis. I am not feeling full of anything but rage. I know I am suppose to fight this with love, but I am having a real crisis. My heart is bursting with pain for the mothers and the fathers, the children, the babies. Is that love? I cry a lot these days. And I call my Congressmen and Senators and I call Republican Congressmen and Senators. I protested and made #143 tags for everyone to wear in solidarity with the little boy #47. Mr. Rogers' number was 143... and it means I LOVE YOU. #whatwouldmrrogersdo? </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdANbyzwinGf8L6Ncd6Nu9QQMoWw473HogX0mYZ8JigRZeKBmZxUb8FCjriqApvBiraek1gb4PlgU3M8DOD5WMySb5VgvjCa4hBWXZU_ZwkRU7zebL37Jn-3ASKbvYDtp5cCAwLo3Qo74P/s1600/IMG_4455.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdANbyzwinGf8L6Ncd6Nu9QQMoWw473HogX0mYZ8JigRZeKBmZxUb8FCjriqApvBiraek1gb4PlgU3M8DOD5WMySb5VgvjCa4hBWXZU_ZwkRU7zebL37Jn-3ASKbvYDtp5cCAwLo3Qo74P/s1600/IMG_4455.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_z5ytvgjq-v7TH5D_4DBvHdOjudzbpkAnIrM8t3dI7B8msCpTNRyqZtgwF2Ao4rz-HXVo8VWEVnOxEmJ-0tGVCRmUqe011CtK38YwNoZLbx-kI75QFz5BxmpDlJeMQdohIUuAnAeZdmD3/s1600/IMG_4454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_z5ytvgjq-v7TH5D_4DBvHdOjudzbpkAnIrM8t3dI7B8msCpTNRyqZtgwF2Ao4rz-HXVo8VWEVnOxEmJ-0tGVCRmUqe011CtK38YwNoZLbx-kI75QFz5BxmpDlJeMQdohIUuAnAeZdmD3/s1600/IMG_4454.JPG" /></a></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhockZlktwX9F8OAc8GrFP_bHo_oWkMmxwy-joe5BA-pdpSCHezkL4oPpdvwsjPeqeX2tkCEUonj3hxtau6uhz6CKWt90VP_B7GaUJhdslhKg49tj_-CpCFSWAnAC2f9MemsyhXX3syuNuj/s1600/IMG_4453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhockZlktwX9F8OAc8GrFP_bHo_oWkMmxwy-joe5BA-pdpSCHezkL4oPpdvwsjPeqeX2tkCEUonj3hxtau6uhz6CKWt90VP_B7GaUJhdslhKg49tj_-CpCFSWAnAC2f9MemsyhXX3syuNuj/s200/IMG_4453.JPG" width="150" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="s1">I want to be like Mr. Rogers. I want my neighbors to be from Syria and Canada and Iran and Sudan and China and who the hell cares! EVERYWHERE. What are they so afraid of?</span></span></span><br />
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="s1">Try reaching out to an immigrant or refugee today and see what happens. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="s1">I'm going to march on June 30 and try like hell to be love. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><style><font size="3"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Will you join me?</span>Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-17130250928373567252018-04-17T10:44:00.000-07:002018-04-17T10:51:12.686-07:00Yes, you heard it right! OCTAVIA SPENCER! Dream BIG! That's my motto.<br />
<br />
Dreams actually do come true if you dream big enough and work hard at manifesting those dreams. That means holding the vision and not letting fear get in the way. When I teamed up with Ann-Elizabeth Barnes to write<a href="http://janalaiz.com/books/a-free-woman-on-gods-earth" target="_blank"> "A Free Woman On God's Earth" The True Story of Elizabeth "Mumbet" Freeman, The Slave Who Won Her Freedom</a>, our goal was to tell this remarkable story in an accessible and enjoyable way that children (and adults) would love and be inspired by. Mumbet is our hero and her story is important. Who would have thought that renowned illustrator <a href="http://www.jacquelinerogers.com/" target="_blank">Jacqueline Rogers</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">, </a>would join us in telling this story! That in itself was amazing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AnD_1TWRo45VseA1jAW-7pYSFquITvf4etyL_UnBEv0I4kPsTizZsszEf4ghnhANK5uMQqRx6gdDRE7zurDVrAbOaSN3Hkq2-FjbN2PyVQIRrEtxZNHVhHIdUO9K1pFp1pKHldRFkuBM/s1600/Mumbet+cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AnD_1TWRo45VseA1jAW-7pYSFquITvf4etyL_UnBEv0I4kPsTizZsszEf4ghnhANK5uMQqRx6gdDRE7zurDVrAbOaSN3Hkq2-FjbN2PyVQIRrEtxZNHVhHIdUO9K1pFp1pKHldRFkuBM/s320/Mumbet+cover.jpeg" width="233" /></a></div>
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Little did we think that one day there would be a film about her. Based on our book! But the truth is, we imagined it, and we dreamed about it. It was a fun fantasy we indulged in. When we sat down to write it, we saw it visually, like a movie, scene by scene and wrote it that way. Jackie added her gorgeous art, which could tell the story even without our words. And when director, <a href="http://www.berkshireeagle.com/stories/movie-news-octavia-spencer-signs-on-as-executive-producer-of-local-film,536510?" target="_blank">Alethea Root </a>read it, loved it and asked us for the option, we were thrilled and honored. Was our dream coming true? Would our fantasy become real? It sure felt like it. That was in 2010.<br />
<br />
And so began a very long, arduous and wondrous journey. In that time, we never wavered in our belief that this would manifest. A team came together; a director, a screenwriter, producers, executive producers, historians, actors, even a politician or two, and we worked really, really hard. And we held that dream. <br />
<br />
And now, eight years in, something remarkable has happened. Academy award-winning actress, <a href="http://variety.com/2018/film/news/octavia-spencer-anti-slavery-movie-mumbet-1202741301/" target="_blank">Octavia Spencer joined the MUMBET</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null"> </a>team as <a href="https://filmschoolrejects.com/octavia-spencer-will-bring-an-anti-slavery-biopic-to-the-big-screen/" target="_blank">Executive Producer</a>!<br />
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<br />
I had known it was happening, but the day the <a href="http://variety.com/2018/film/news/octavia-spencer-anti-slavery-movie-mumbet-1202741301/" target="_blank">Variety announcement</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null"> </a>came to my inbox, my heart raced and I shook, for the entire day. It was real! <br />
<br />
There is still a long road ahead, movies take a long time to make! But we will continue to hold this dream. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this movie will manifest and thousands of people, maybe millions, will know the name of Elizabeth MUMBET Freeman. She will take her rightful place in history, and I am honored to be a part of that. <br />
<br />
So dream BIG. You just never know!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-78913581359568701182017-08-27T09:56:00.004-07:002021-04-26T07:37:02.479-07:00Can a Tree Teach Race Relations?<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I've been thinking a lot about race, as many
of us are these days. I've been crying and losing sleep over events that I
wonder if I have any control over. I spend nights imagining how it will all
turn out. I ponder over why people hate so much. I march. I teach. I write
about these issues in books. I've read blogs and articles on the subject. I
hear progressive people say "You <b>cannot</b> say '<i>I don't see color,'</i>
and I agree. I see color everywhere. But to me, it's not so much as, "I
don't <i>see </i>color" as it is, "I see color and find all of those
colors fascinating and beautiful." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br /> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm a Jewish woman, was married for 25
years to a Filipino man, I have two interracial children.
My middle sister is happily married to a Brazilian,
whose parents were both adopted, origin unknown, and so might actually be of Middle Eastern,
African or Latino descent, or maybe he's just Brazilian. They have
one interracial child. My youngest sister was in love with Ghanaian man, has
two boys with a Mexican man and is now happily in a same-sex relationship. My
middle sister and I are ESL teachers. We are advocates for immigrants, we
celebrate diversity. I studied Language & Linguistics and Anthropology at NYU. I travel. I am fascinated
by culture, by language, by customs and how people think, communicate, love...
I want to know where your ancestors came from. Who they were, how they lived.
If I ask you about your ethnic background, it's because I want to find out more
about my own. For me, it's to feed my soul. To know I'm not alone on this human
journey. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My mother spit into a cup, sent it away and found, as she expected, that she is 93% <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashkenazi_Jews">Ashkenazi.</a> Jewish. 3% is comprised of Iberian Peninsula, Celtic, Central Asia and the rest unknown. I find that 4% most
intriguing. How many white supremacists would be surprised by what their saliva
reveals? Would that change any minds? Maybe. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I am heartbroken at the hate and vitriol
spewing these days. I know the pot has been stirred and the dregs at the bottom
have come rising disgustingly to the surface. But so much anger. Is it fear? I
think it is. What is there to be afraid of? But here's why I'm writing this
blog today; I wrote a story just published in <a href="http://greenfirepress.com/writing-fire-an-anthology-celebrating-the-power-of-womens-words/">Writing
Fire</a>, an anthology of 75 women writers, that I need to share. I wrote it
and wondered when the time would come for it to be ready to offer to the world,
and unfortunately, I believe the time is now. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Here's how it came to be:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I often dream entire passages or lines for
books I'm writing and one night, I woke with this line, "I remember the winter long ago, the one that lingered like regret." I had to rustle
around in my bedside table to find paper and pen to write it down. I wasn't
writing anything at the time that could use a line like that and I wondered
what it would be for. I knew it would have to go somewhere. When your dreams
offer you lines like that, you don't say no. Later that same day, out of the blue, my (then) husband
came into my office and said, "You should write a story about a lynching
tree from the point of view of the tree." And he walked out. I thought about it
all day. The idea stuck. Then I remembered that line
and I knew that must be what it was for. I began to do research into that most
heinous practice. That most insidious, hateful, malevolent and evil practice.
It was a hard place to go, let alone write about, but I knew I had to do it.
Had to go to those incredibly disturbing places. I researched lynchings and based my gruesome tale on the real, h<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">orrific, brutal murders of Sam Ho<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">se and Emmit Till. </span></span>And I began to write. In
Southern tree </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">dialect. </span></span>All made up, based on what I thought a Magnolia
might sound like if it could speak. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When this story was done, I had no idea what
to do with it, who to give it to. I shared it with a few of my friends, some
from the South, one of whom said, "My grandmother from Mississippi talked
just like this. How did you do that?" Her great-grandmother had been
enslaved. I knew I was on the right track. She, actress <a href="http://historicalfirsts.org/website/">Tammy Denease</a> suggested we
turn it into a play. We're working on it now. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's very disturbing and quite graphic, so
please beware. If it inspires you or calls you to action, please share this blog. If
it changes your mind or opens it, I've done my job. If it offends, apologies,
but not really. It has to be told. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1NgkLQWM95LlGMyP62G85KMw5dVL3UAMZugbHd8Xchyphenhyphen0AY7v2Edgl-QfagBhG1RKWYGBq-CV_PmtNu7B8EWXQH3EgoeQfFjiKQ8SW94x3WGuMlD3086zE8RegEf-g5frEaaYu6JgVl7ms/s1600/smith-magnoliatree.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1NgkLQWM95LlGMyP62G85KMw5dVL3UAMZugbHd8Xchyphenhyphen0AY7v2Edgl-QfagBhG1RKWYGBq-CV_PmtNu7B8EWXQH3EgoeQfFjiKQ8SW94x3WGuMlD3086zE8RegEf-g5frEaaYu6JgVl7ms/s320/smith-magnoliatree.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="separator" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Warning: Contains graphic and disturbing
images.</i><br />
<i>Excerpt by permission from Writing Fire, published by Green Fire Press</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Magnolia Justice<br />
by Jana Laiz<br />
<br />
I remember the winter long ago, the one that lingered
like regret. And the spring that waited…But I’m jumpin’ ahead of myself. I’ll
start from my beginnin’. First thing I want to tell you is, I have
consciousness. That’s right. I feel. I see, I hear, I smell, and I dream. Thing
is, I do it slower. I do everything slower. I started out small, like we all
do, tryin’ to reach up and feel the sun’s warmth like a blind child reachin’
out to find her mama. I managed, hard as it was. So many of us tryin’ to find
our way. But it was quiet then, easier. Birds and rain and wind. Those were the
sounds of my smallness. And they were the sounds of my middlin’ too. ‘Cept for
the steady hum of the blood runnin’ and the loud movement of the underground.
Most folk think it’s quiet under there, but it ain’t. Them worms makin’ a path
through the Earth ain’t easy and we feel it and hear it, too. Maybe how y’all
hear a bulldozer nowadays. But then, we’re connected in ways you ain’t and never
will be. And I don’t mean that figuratively. We're really connected, gotta be,
or<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>we’d just fall. So my lullaby was the stars singin’ their
high-pitched song. The soft wind ticklin’ my body. Even the gentle rain pourin’
down on me, findin’ its way into the ground around me, beneath me. All those
things were my lullaby, my early melodies. But all that changed. Now I cain’t
forget. But never you mind. I’ll get to that later. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> My first season, my
first buddin’, I was young and small, but oh, I was fragrant! My blossoms were
the sweetest in the county. I heard them say it. “Ain’t that Magnolia the
sweetest in the county?” And I was. I could smell my own self, and I smelt real
good and heady. And I stood straight, though still small. That first season,
things were quiet around me. I stood out in a field of flowers and fruit trees
and pecan trees, all of us quiet, hardly speakin’ to one another. Weren’t much
to say at that time. Nothin’ much happenin’, ‘cept for the critters comin’ to
steal the fruit from my neighbors’ branches, the folk comin’ and admirin’, but
not much else. We saw the folk from the big house and them that worked in the
fields, but no one paid us no mind, ‘cept, like I said, admirin’. The light
folk walked by at twilight, commentin’ on this, that or the other, arm in arm.
Once when I was still small a man took a knife to my trunk and carved something
there. I never did know what he wrote, but the girl he was with was sure happy,
so I knew it couldn’t be bad. Hurt mighty, though. I cried out, but of course
none but my own kind heard, and there weren’t much they could do, ‘cept
sympathize. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The dark folk, the
ones that worked in the fields nearby me, they never said much, but they sang
loudly. I liked their singin’, though times were, made me feel sad. But I
swayed to their melancholy tunes. Them days, I didn’t understand why their
songs always sounded sad. That was before. Now I know. Wish I didn’t. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Sometimes, when I
was more spread out, wider and taller, they’d come out from the fields and sit
down by my side and lean against me, breathin’ hard and smellin’ like cotton
and sweat. They never stayed for long, someone always hollered for them to get
back out to the fields. And they’d get up, tired like, defeated, and trudge
back out to the cotton. Sometimes they patted my woody hide, sayin’ “Thankee
for the shade.” I liked their company, though their smell was strong, but I
didn’t mind. They never carved into me. Once in a while one of ‘em might pluck
a flower from my bough and give it to another, but I didn’t mind that, neither.
I wish I could’ve talked to them, or rather, I wish they could’ve understood
what I said to them when they sat there, restin’ in my shade, tryin’ to feel
like people. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> As I grew, my
blossoms were fat and pink and perfumed. I was the prettiest out there in my
field. The pecans were attractive, the great Spanish oak around the big white
house with all their moss decoratin’ up the place, they was pretty too, but
none held a candle to me. I never lorded it over no one, that’s not my way. But
I knew. <br />
Later years, they planted more Magnolias,
lining a path on either side, but I was the first one. Now they calls me the
old one. I’m still standin’, all these years later, not quite so straight
anymore, not quite so fragrant. But back in those days, Lordy, I outshone them
all. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The light and dark
children often climbed upon me, sometimes together, sometimes separate, and I
told them the old stories as they sat on my limbs, breathin’ deeply of my
perfume. Whether they understood me or not is anyone’s guess, but I’m always
hopeful. Seemed funny to me that the children could play together, but not the
big folk. No, from where I stood, it didn’t take me long to learn their story.
The light ones stayed in the big house and told the dark ones what was what.
Those dark folk hopped to it, too; I seen the consequences if’n they didn’t.
But like I said, the children played together, but the light ones always had
their way, always told the dark ones how to move, what to say. I didn’t like it
much, but that’s the way it was. I watched them children grow into big folk,
and then there was no more playin’ together, no more laughin’ at each other’s
silly antics. No, the light ones followed their mamas and daddies and got
demandin’ and the dark ones put down their heads and their dark eyes and said,
“yes’m” or “no sir,” and the like. Made me sad to see, but ain’t no one
listenin’ to the thoughts nor opinions of a tree anyhow, so I just kept real
quiet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> There was one time I
shudder to recall, one big dark feller he fell down in the fields. Must
have been sick or something. Done fainted right there in the cotton. Overseer
tell him to get up! Hot, fiery words that made me tremble. The dark man
couldn’t get up. Sick he was, but that overseer didn’t care one whit. He
dragged that man up on his staggering feet, and what he do?! He done brought
him over to me. I trembled and shook, but weren’t nothin’ I could do. That
overseer leaned the sick man against me and took a whip to his naked back. I
really don’t think the man even felt it, he was already half gone. He lay there
by my underside for hours. I felt his blood seep into the soil at my roots.
Late that night, a dark woman came out of a little shack, silent, stealthy, and
stooped beside him, cryin’, ministerin’ to him with cloths of cool water and
unguents. He groaned some, and finally got himself up off the ground beneath me
and leanin’ on her, made his way back to his sleepin’ place. I felt sick with
relief when he left, though I had tried to comfort him. I sang to him,
whispered words, but I’m sure he didn’t hear. He was heavy with sickness and
sorrow and it made me sick and sad, too. <br />
There were some
happy times, I do admit. The light folk from the big house had big tables
brought out and placed all around me. Sweet smelling, steaming vittles were
placed upon them tables and scores of fancy folk would come over and eat and
sit on chairs around me, admirin’ me, talkin’, gossipin’. Music was played by
some fellers. The gentlemen and ladies danced some. I swayed to the rhythms.
Gentlemen smoked cigars, ladies fanned themselves and fancy light children held
hands and danced around me. One even tried to climb me, but was hollered at,
somethin’ about Sunday best and such. Some of the dark folk were dressed fancy,
too, but they weren’t eatin’. They was only servin’ the food. I saw the dark
children hidin’ and spyin’, their mouths salivatin’. When them parties was over
and done, the dogs and pigs got the scraps. Not one crumb went to them dark,
hungry little ones. No sir, not a one. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Years passed, the
fullness of the moon came and went in unending tradition. I grew taller and
broader. Things didn’t change much from where I stood for some time, but then
everything got a little faster. The birds woke me at strange times during the
new moon, when everything was dark and warm and the night lay heavy with sweat.
I see from every angle, you know, and I saw shadows in the darkness, movin’
shadows, following other movin’ shadows away and away. And I understood. I
never said nothin’ to a soul. But every time, next day at sunup, the dogs would
be a-barkin’ and light folk were a-hollerin’, runnin’ around with guns.
Sometimes the shadows came back in shackles. Mostly them shadows got away. I
hoped they made it to the land of the Maple and the Fir.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> This is how it
started. Dark folk and some light ones trying to change things as they were.
For my kind, we change some, but mostly, things change around us. And we stand
and watch, sometimes with pleasure, sometimes with grief. We weren’t sure what
to make of these changes, but I thought they was good. And that’s when the folk
with guns came. Scores of ‘em, sleepin’ in the fields, wavin’ flags, shootin'. <br />
It were no
pleasant time, you can be sure of that. Them guns were loud and everything
smelled liked blood. Not the sweet blood of my kind, but the hot, slick, spicy
blood of folks. I noticed something strange though. Blood of the light ones and
blood of the dark ones, well sir, they was the same. Couldn’t tell them apart
by color nor of smell. If them red pools lay there in the field, you wouldn’t
know one from another. They mingled together out there, seepin’ into the earth.
Them harsh folk with their clothing all the same and their guns, well, they
couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see what we saw. To us, folk were folk. Big, small,
light, dark. Same blood, same bones. Didn’t matter the color of the hide. We
saw the way the water fell from their eyes when they was sad, light ones or
dark. We saw their crinkly faces and the lightness of their step when they was
glad. But it didn’t matter to them harsh folk that they was the same. They saw
somethin’ else. Difference. They thought they was better and they was fightin’
to keep it that way. And them dark folk weren’t treated right. No sir. Trees
ain’t the judgin’ type, but I saw what I saw and I know what I know. They
wasn’t treated right. And it got worse. A lot worse. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The fightin’ raged
on and on, from buddin’ time to flowerin’ and back again. It got so I was used
to the smell of it and the loudness of it. But it rankled me and mine. We could
only talk of it in the stillness of the night, when there was respite from the
beatin’ of the drums, the shootin’ of the guns. I was one of the lucky ones,
never havin’ a bullet pass through my flank. I know others that weren’t so
lucky. Bullets don’t make us fall, but they do their damage just the same. We
shook ourselves and wondered when it would end, when we’d be able to hear the
birds and the wind again. For myself I can only say it went on too long. By the
time it was over I felt stiff in my limbs. My blossoms felt grimy. My kind,
well, we hear things, we’re connected through roots and earth and the seasons
and we communicate in ways unlike folks and I learnt the truth. Them dark folk
were free. Free to live like people and the light folk in the big house
couldn’t order them around no more. I watched the dark ones, confused lookin’
and mighty scared, wanderin’, wonderin’ where to go, what to do. Some of ‘em
stayed on, havin’ been birthed and grow’d up on the place. But I watched and
listened carefully to the light ones. There was a difference in their tone and
manner toward the dark ones. I’m thinkin’ t’was fear. I never heard it comin’
from them before, but I was sure that was what it was. I, for one, thought they
had it comin’. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> But from where
I stood, things didn’t change so much, ‘cept the dark ones tryin’ to get along,
almost more fearful than before. At least before, they knew their lot. They had
their sleepin’ places, their meager food. Now, they weren’t sure what was what.
Some went away, to colder climes, I heard. But them that stayed, well, bein’
freed didn’t make the light ones any better towards ‘em. Different maybe, like
I said, scared and even angrier than before, but no better. It was worse for
some time, neither of them knowin’ how to act. The dark ones had to ask the
light ones for work to make the coins and papers to buy their bread. And it
seemed to me, though the light ones now paid the dark ones, they knew who was
still master.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Times went on like
this and gradually, it became quiet again and my kind could fall asleep to the
stars’ lullaby and the wind could rock us again. But it never felt as clean nor
comfortin’. I tried to put the past from my mind and stood straight
as I could in my advancin’ age. And still I watched. Things were changin’
again. The dark ones were beginnin’ to rise up a bit, tryin’ anyways. The light
ones didn’t like it none. That’s when the nights got all blazed up. That’s when
the ghosts appeared with their burnin’ sticks and their fiery talk. They torched the little sleepin’ places where the dark
ones lived. I seen the dark ones runnin’ and screamin’, grabbin’ their young
‘uns. Sometimes there was no escapin’ and I smelt their burnin’ flesh and I
felt sick. I wished I coulda run, but I ain’t got that option. And here is
where I’ve been leadin’ up to this whole time. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The winter came, not
cold, never cold, but cool. Mostly the summer nights were when the ghost men
came out, hollerin’ their wrathful words. Maybe the heat made them angrier,
heated them up. And maybe that’s why what happened next happened at all. ‘Cause
this day was different. It was unnatural warm. Dark folk was workin’ in the
fields, preparin’ the earth for the Spring plantin’. The day was near done and
they’s all sweatin’ and commentin’ on the unusual weather. I’m surprised when
one dark feller pass by me, makin’ his way to the big house, before he’s told
he can leave the fields. He goes to the back door and calls for his boss to
please come out; he’s got somethin’ to say. The big light one comes out on the
back porch askin’ what he’s doin’ there before the day’s work is done. I sees
the dark one tip his hat and ‘pologize. He asks for some money owed him and for
the day off next day to see his girl, the one he’s to marry. He smiles and
tells the boss that he’s plannin’ a weddin’. The light one, arms folded cross his
chest, tells him to get back out to the fields and not to bother him no more.
He’ll get his money when everyone else does and not a minute before and he’d
better be out in them fields next day like usual. Them words are spoke harsh,
and the dark man goes away. I see his pain as he passes me by. I tell him to
pay no mind, but of course, he cain’t hear me. Next day, he’s pullin’ stones
out the ground for the missus’ garden and the boss comes out a-tellin’ him
never step upon his porch again. The dark one stops his diggin’ and I see he’s
got a big rock in his grasp. He tries to apologize once more, but the light
one, he points a pistol at the dark feller, movin’ toward him, threatenin’ and
yellin’. I begin to tremble and I hear my own dry leaves rustle. The dark man
is taken by surprise and I see him fling the rock toward his attacker, like
he’s tryin’ to protect hisself. I see the light one fall to the ground, his red
blood pourin’ out his head. I don’t want to look no more. I’ve seen too much
and this ain’t too different from what I seen before. But what happens next is
what I need to tell y’all, what I want out of myself and gone. But I know it
never will be, not ‘til I’m earth itself and my glorious blossoms are merely a
legend.<br />
That dark
feller, he look’d at what he done and he groan loud and look as terrified as
any folk could look. And he run. Far and fast, he run, but I knew it wouldn’t
be long before he couldn’t go no further. What I didn’t know and still shudders
to recall, is how evil folk can be to one another. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> That night my sleep
is restless, cause I feel somethin’s comin’. There be whispers in the night
from my own kind and it don’t feel right. Whispers about a dark man killin’ his
boss in cold blood, rapin’ his wife as he lay dyin’ and I know this ain’t the
truth. But y’all already knows, I cain’t testify. Light folk are combin’ the
countryside for him. And I know they’s gonna find him. I can feel it, like I
can feel a storm comin’. What I don’t expect is what they gonna do to him once
they have him. Next day, when the sun is high and the coolness of the winter
night has gone and the day is heated up this unusual heat, I see the man being
dragged by some light folk. He’s not puttin’ up a struggle as they got him in
chains. He falls once and they kick him and tell him to get up. There be
scores of light folk followin’. Women and children, but mostly men with angry
faces.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I’ve waited this
long to tell this grisly tale, and I ain’t even sure I can come out with it
now, but seein’ as I’ve gone this far, guess I better finish. They unchain the
man and he drops to the ground. They’s right near me now. I see some little
boys throw pebbles at him. They laugh and their mamas laugh with them. Big
light men drag him to standin’ and then they bring him to me. I start to
tremble and shake and I wish I could run. I tell ‘em to get away, but they
come closer and they throw a rope over one of my branches and they pull it
taut around me. It’s real tight, but that ain’t what’s troublin’ me. No, all I
feel is fear. And not for myself neither, but for the dark feller. I’ve heard
the whisperings from my kind, unspeakable things I didn’t want to believe but
I now know is true. They put the dark man on a wooden box and then they put
the rope round his neck, but they don’t make it tight nor kick the box away
just yet. They’s got their heinous work to do first. One big, light feller
smiles at the crowd that has gathered around me, folk standin’ on toes, pushin’
and shovin’, children on parent’s shoulders to get a better look. His smile is
evil. I can see it when he turns round. He pulls out a big, shiny knife and it
glints in the sunlight as he holds it up. Someone throws him a tomato and showy
like, splits it with the knife real smooth. Everyone cheers. I know I’m
quiverin’ now and I don’t want to look, but I cain’t help myself. The dark man
is shiverin’ and cryin’ softly now. Maybe I’m the only one can hear him or
maybe it’s that I can feel his fear, him bein’ connected to me and all. That
light man, he comes up to the dark one and puts the knife to his throat and
then with a swift movement, peels off one ear, then the other. The dark man
screams out, but I cain’t hardly hear him through the cheers of the crowd. Folk
be putting out their hands, beggin’ for the ears. The big light one gives one
to a little boy and he takes it like it’s candy. The other goes to a woman with
angry glee on her face. She holds it up and hollers somethin’ I cain’t
understand. By now I am sick, but I, like the dark feller is a prisoner. I
cain’t escape my own self. And I’m mad, because I ain’t never wanted to escape
myself before, but I do now, ‘cause of them.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> As I said before,
things get worse. Other folk want their turn with the knife and more parts are
cut off and handed out like Christmas toys. By now the dark man is cryin’ out
for Jesus, but he cain’t be heard through the cheers of the crowd, that grow louder with
each part of him that falls. He screams loudest when they take his manhood and
it seems to be the most coveted prize of all, light hands a-reachin’ and
a-grabbin’. Blood everywhere. Then they pour liquid over him and that’s when
they tighten his rope and kick the box from under him. And quick as a wink, he
starts to burn. I wish he died then, but he don’t. He swings and burns and
screams and as the flames are lickin’ him, they’s lickin’ me too. I guess I’m
lucky ‘cause them light folk tied him to my weakest branch, so what I do next
saves my own sorry life. I’m angry now, somethin’ I ain’t never felt before,
and it courses through me like the hot fire that’s consumin’ him. I sway hard
and hard again and he swings crazily and my branch breaks off from my trunk. I
scream out as he falls to the ground, my broken branch fallin’ on top of him.
There he lay at my roots, writhin’ and burnin’ as folk back up some to watch
him blaze. And I cain’t look away, though believe you me, I want to. Fact is,
I want to die along with him.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> When all that’s
left is soot and sorrow, men and women folk, even little ones, scoop up the
coolin’ ashes to carry home in their pockets. Souvenirs. And I’m left all
alone. It’s quiet then and I hear my own kind asking me in whispers, but I
cain’t answer no one no more. I cain’t speak. I got nothin’ left to say.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Years pass me by and
no one seems to want to know me no more. Ain’t no folk comin’ nor admirin’. No
one a-restin’ against me. Even the birds ain’t landin’ on my branches. I feel
tainted and dismal and I mostly just sleep, tryin’ to remember days when I was
the prettiest tree in the field. Rememberin’ when I heard the birds singin’ and
the wind whisperin’ its lullabies. But mostly, I try to forget. But of
course, I cain’t forget, and the memory clings to me like chokin’ vine.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I wake up now and
again and one time I know I’m dreamin’ for I think I see dark ones and light
ones holdin’ signs together, headin’ in the same direction, walkin’ like they’s
equals. But that cain’t be and I don’t ask no questions then, I still got
nothin’ to say. <br />
<span> </span>Until now. Now, when these thoughts
cain’t stay inside me another minute. Now, when my days are nearly done. Now,
when I’ve become a monument to the tragedy of that day. Well, that’s one good
thing. They put a plaque on me. I don’t know what it says, but I think it says
‘sorry.’ I surely hope so.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I’m old now. My
blossoms, the ones that do come, are more cloying than sweet. Sometimes as I
look out toward the fields and watch the sun settin’ in its way, I see the
beauty and I try to be grateful. The memories have faded some, but truth be
told, forgettin’s not the hardest part. The hardest part is the forgivin’ part.
And I know I better do it ‘fore I die. Truth is, I don’t know that I want to.
I’ve been holdin’ on to this hurtin’ for a long time. Feels familiar. But y’all
know that’s why I’m tellin’ this tale. To let go my pain. Like my fallen
branch that I wrenched from by body to save myself, I know I got to free this
hurt and sorrow, or I’m-a get too bitter to behold.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> You know, the heart
of a tree is deep and wild and still. We live quietly, standin’ and watchin’,
slowly livin’ out our lives, givin’ to others of our fruit or fragrance or
shade. Sometimes others take what they oughtn’t, leavin’ hurt behind. That’s
what happened to me. My heart’s likely deeper than some and maybe that’s why I
feel as I do. But I’m ready now. I’ve had my say. I done told my story. I give
it to y’all.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> So now, as I
get ready to return to the earth that holds me up, I look ‘round me real wide
and long and hard. I ain’t wanted to look at nothin’ since that day. I look at
what is, not what was and I’m surprised by what I see. I see light ones and
dark ones laughin’, workin’, even schoolin’ together, hurt gone…mostly. And I
wonder, maybe if’n they can forgive, I can too. And as I do, I feels lighter
than I felt in a long time. When I return from where I come from, I don’t want
to be bitter. I don’t want to poison the ground with my anger. No sir, I want
the earth sweet, like my blossoms in their glory. Them ghosts need to be free.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> So I will mix
with the bitter ashes and sweeten them with forgiveness so that whatever comes
after me, rising up out of his ashes and mine, will give sweet fruit or
fragrance or shade.<br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-73339578504971700492017-02-01T19:06:00.000-08:002017-02-01T19:27:02.699-08:00Enraged but engaged<style>
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</style> <span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I started off writing an angry tirade. I was swirling with negativity and I didn't like the feeling it gave me as I read it aloud to some friends. I'm still mad as hell, but I'm backing up a step or two and taking a deep breath. This will be an attempt to regain my footing, to get back in balance, to
re-adjust my equilibrium which seems completely out of whack. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">All my life I
have been on a mission. To make things better. It started with animals;
rescuing squirrels that had been hit by cars, tending to birds fallen from
nests, adopting stray dogs and cats. Moving on to stopping litterbugs and building trails in the woods.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQQgnK_-xsUlT8YdOzaf4pcaDXkK1tfj152md24S8dvdomJNQ7W4S2X2DflCivCZfhU_i9_bxctlh14X-k1GjXVjeSljUB3wN1V3H5mJX-cENxnGpMRKYMeicL4uAjKXh8kiNhQt0pt4Q/s1600/IMG_1623.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQQgnK_-xsUlT8YdOzaf4pcaDXkK1tfj152md24S8dvdomJNQ7W4S2X2DflCivCZfhU_i9_bxctlh14X-k1GjXVjeSljUB3wN1V3H5mJX-cENxnGpMRKYMeicL4uAjKXh8kiNhQt0pt4Q/s200/IMG_1623.JPG" width="142" /></a><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">And then, as
a lonely, bullied teenager, I volunteered, helping Vietnamese refugees ~ Boat
People as they entered our country; frightened, hungry, alone, and friendless.
And that act of reaching out my hand across cultures literally saved my life.
Had it not been for those people, I can’t even imagine where I would be today.
Their warmth and generosity of spirit gave me purpose and a reason to go on. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">That experience was so powerful, I even wrote a book about it, <i>Weeping Under This Same Moon</i>. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtl0ZUncdBDUZeXwMneTECqXlHp-_I4tUggUohJ1B_7J-FKfMipMBxnCouct9fZ_I7Qn0ZmIL4z0qF_ZAM70UvIj6_lPGE_RnXtK6G1TQ73tWPW6kzFb-gM9bbjW1Ad6PNgdj7tIZuWWMF/s1600/IMG_1623.JPG"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; text-decoration: none;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">After
volunteering I graduated college and was hired by the International Rescue
Committee as a refugee resettlement caseworker, serving Vietnamese, Cambodian and Laotian
refugee clients. It was my great joy. I was the one who got to go JFK and meet
them with a sign that said WELCOME. I found them apartments, I helped them get
jobs, I enrolled them in English classes, I took them shopping, showed them how
to take the subway, and I was treated with more respect and appreciation than
ever in my life, then to now. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQgw-2I5qKoFzLmlvuGzwwKweKUu3BTTciZs9n_maJLUtZzQbqZG0Fi2b9wgmWX8HcNvBtc4xXmUDwoJPOVRuZ039d-I4UVdsE6MM85Rq67Gyqzpv96R8ke9hpL0pJnOTeOP7thpqsBa8E/s1600/FL030031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQgw-2I5qKoFzLmlvuGzwwKweKUu3BTTciZs9n_maJLUtZzQbqZG0Fi2b9wgmWX8HcNvBtc4xXmUDwoJPOVRuZ039d-I4UVdsE6MM85Rq67Gyqzpv96R8ke9hpL0pJnOTeOP7thpqsBa8E/s200/FL030031.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"> </span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinyNsYMLIZfACr7WIlgX5cO4hOSZ-hsVYvwxr61hMtVora-rkkHfIYSufKKfQBYjczkuymSdyKugo1iZAZbJ-XhfC89M1i3iab_MvrQvqlHeUflD2ISwJcvvfhf2hWb_Oucu12Q1rTjG95/s1600/SSL20080.JPG" style="float: left;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; text-decoration: none;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0NhQvH4EIOKhuB5B3Sf8okJsbPaTdtA0nP11mJpCPUvAl78JplK2mqzICp470ovO7sYACnjuiEWyz9obeB1mfZArM07AuEmDlSuC6YpXzOJ4OF_Ss5m2GWTF1_wENuFQE3cm4lMS7ag-s/s1600/DSCN0629.JPG"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; text-decoration: none;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT3E2bmz6Y8ngLeYlHQtR0-AXlxxuTXgCNUuPPWx5cJ1GPHQ3WwbNihxHFjoUXJs-4EMZgmM4mAzEzVIOgT4KQ97g8BQkWLNCw1GERRLLX8e2GOZl6RUKhUnFPFaBm-AOUfLpSGxdHvagr/s1600/SSL20160.JPG" style="float: left;"><span style="color: blue; text-decoration: none;"></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Here's what I want you to know; anyone
who is afraid that refugees are dangerous, taking away our jobs, are
terrorists, and are destroying our country, has never met a refugee. Refugees
are you and me. They are us, if suddenly we had to leave our homes never to
return. Can you even imagine? You get a call at work saying it is no longer
safe to return home. If you even have one. And so you leave, with the clothes
on your back, and if you are lucky enough to be able to get some stuff, what
would you take? In 10 minutes? What would you choose? And then you run, you
hide, you make your way onto some vehicle, on land or sea and you say goodbye
to everything you know and hold dear. And not just stuff. People. Friends,
relatives, children, parents, siblings, lovers, pets. It is unbearable and the
anguish is indescribable. And the truth is, they don’t want to come here, they
just want to go home. No refugee wants to be a refugee, believe me. They want
to live with their own culture, steep themselves in their own traditions, drink
coffee with their own people, entertain in their own place, sleep in their own
bed. We arrogantly think that everyone wants to come to America, and certainly,
many do. But the dream of most refugees is to be able to just return home. Home
is a powerful idea. What does it mean to you?</span><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">There are
currently 65 million refugees in the world today. And now, the land of Liberty,
our America, will not let them in. For fear. For xenophobia, for hate, for
spite. </span><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"></span><style> <!--
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div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1T</style><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">The madness
that has taken over our country is truly nightmarish. I wake most nights around
3 am and think this must be a dream. It’s no dream. It is the new reality, but
NOT the new normal. It takes me a few hours to get back to a fitful sleep. </span>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">It makes me sad as I think back to just a few months ago when I saw
my adult children and their friends supporting Bernie Sanders, engaging in
politics for the first time, with joy and hope for their future. And it wasn’t
just Bernie, but all he stood for, all the values I taught them, come to life.
Environmental stewardship, human rights, Black lives matter, refugees welcome,
women’s rights, animal rights, LGBTQIPA rights, the list goes on.</span> All the
struggle and upward movement we’ve been working for and seen, gone. In an
instant. That amazing trajectory of positive energy, raised consciousness, vanished. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8OiVWVT-I5hz9oL5ixHUKR3V5NFQ-U65f1anqXSv8N6NdxUU1Nln8tzb20akPFmFBRFD5RdfRywoSvis0AOzk0ZG0Bh7w9umGaeL_ciyzLSg-3vpkh96ZPGyucj0DVEPofI-PqVdOT1H/s1600/IMG_3527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8OiVWVT-I5hz9oL5ixHUKR3V5NFQ-U65f1anqXSv8N6NdxUU1Nln8tzb20akPFmFBRFD5RdfRywoSvis0AOzk0ZG0Bh7w9umGaeL_ciyzLSg-3vpkh96ZPGyucj0DVEPofI-PqVdOT1H/s320/IMG_3527.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's like the quote my friend read at the Women's March.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJxFiNzQZtxnSJlReiX5vS2gcj7sjHGfzpOIV0Sd0zc8Z-P2OOVAs3YdjLjHw-LhMk5f0BuEzBw6Kbej91cNlQ9IttSxdjdB2c0slLRKG4hoVErdcJYD7Q_j6CAK4NtuInCXhuRJaGi4s/s1600/seed++cracks.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJxFiNzQZtxnSJlReiX5vS2gcj7sjHGfzpOIV0Sd0zc8Z-P2OOVAs3YdjLjHw-LhMk5f0BuEzBw6Kbej91cNlQ9IttSxdjdB2c0slLRKG4hoVErdcJYD7Q_j6CAK4NtuInCXhuRJaGi4s/s400/seed++cracks.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<h1 class="quoteText">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"> Maybe the seed is cracking and there will be a new paradigm. All of us in solidarity can't be a bad thing.</span></span></h1>
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Some days though, I feel like
my joy has been hijacked, kidnapped, held for ransom. I want to file a class
action suit against those who are messing with my happiness. But then I remember Deepak Chopra saying that happiness is out there, but joy is inside and no one can take it from you unless you let them. So, I'm going to try as hard as I can to keep my joy intact and not allow current events to rattle me to the core. It will be an act of will.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">And as each and every one of my issues is attacked, I understand that I can't take them all on. I'd lose myself in the process. So here’s what
I have decided to do to save myself. I will choose one
issue that I am most passionate about. For me, it’s refugee/immigrant rights. I will talk to young people about the joys of volunteering, I will educate those who don't understand. I will allay fears, I will teach by my example, and I will ask for help when I need it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Tomorrow, we begin production of a new audio book of my refugee story. And when it is out in the world, we will use it for good, to donate money to refugee organizations in its name.<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif";"> <a href="https://help.rescue.org/donate/refugees-need-urgent-support?ms=fb_onex_ppc_inaug17_es_170104&initialms=fb_onex_ppc_inaug17_es_170104&utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=display&utm_campaign=inauguration17&utm_content=onex">International Rescue Committee</a></span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5qcIgWHVO4Dk3tozjCueEOZar08LWS_rQ1iwIWdtynoLw3Ehqpj0Zyok9ziLfOQWdBkfY6wTfT8Yq6ij6PlzJpQ11ZUPEfn2vAn8wQ3pDo4KSX0BjSGPwC4AemqhzqSXayv_BrnJBvOgL/s1600/Front+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5qcIgWHVO4Dk3tozjCueEOZar08LWS_rQ1iwIWdtynoLw3Ehqpj0Zyok9ziLfOQWdBkfY6wTfT8Yq6ij6PlzJpQ11ZUPEfn2vAn8wQ3pDo4KSX0BjSGPwC4AemqhzqSXayv_BrnJBvOgL/s200/Front+cover.jpg" width="130" /></a><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">This is what I can do. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"><style><!--
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</span>
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Yes, I am enraged.
But I am engaged. I will take the energy I get from this anger and turn it to
good use. I will roll up my sleeves and do what it takes to change this. To
protect refugees and immigrants. All MUST be welcome here. That is our
creed. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">“Give me your
tired, your poor, <br />
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, <br />
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. <br />
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: <br />
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” </span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "" "cambria" "" , "serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">I believe that still means something. </span><br />
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Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-33921873131142187372016-09-21T01:33:00.000-07:002016-11-19T12:21:40.027-08:00Why I Do What I DoWriting can be a lonely business. We writers spend a lot of time alone, thinking, dreaming, percolating ideas, taking walks to get inspired... We sit at our desk, alone, or at the kitchen counter by ourselves with our coffee, or at least I do. And we write and write when the ideas begin to flow. Sometimes we don't know who our audience will be, or even if our book will be read by anyone. Or if it will even become a book. But we write anyway, because we have to.We often will never know how our work affects people. In my case, I always hope to inspire and educate through my writing. And sometimes we get to see how the fruits of our labor pays off.<br />
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And sometimes, we reach just the right person. The one we may have written the book for.<br />
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That's what happened to me on a recent author visit to a school in Maryland. An entire high school read my novel <i>Weeping</i> <i>Under</i> <i>This</i> <i>Same</i> <i>Moon</i>. 400 kids and teachers and even parents! That in itself was incredible. Even better, I was invited to spend two full days talking to students and writing with them, answering their questions about the writing process and the story itself. I met with all four grades, spending most of my time with the senior class. At night, I gave a talk to an auditorium full of students, administrators, teachers and parents. I spoke about what it was like to be a teenage volunteer working with Vietnamese refugees, and how it changed my life, informed my life, perhaps even<br />
saved it. Then I invited a very special guest to Skype in. The cover girl from my book, now a beautiful young woman, a doctor. She told her story. How she escaped with her older sister, my main character, Mei. How she was cold and frightened and how that experience informed her life. And how my friendship with her and her family changed everything for them.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQLvPMiyDIy1FTMnRCuSjca5DgT70LHUa1JoGriV5MzPdhVMH1CB87chJPP0_2Miqky_3lFfa2rKHhTPpKXXUcxlQgD-NJOTKTWJwvW0iD3zNDED2vnbIEDLMi99DDgx42Lj7kOU2MOdf/s1600/IMG_0327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQLvPMiyDIy1FTMnRCuSjca5DgT70LHUa1JoGriV5MzPdhVMH1CB87chJPP0_2Miqky_3lFfa2rKHhTPpKXXUcxlQgD-NJOTKTWJwvW0iD3zNDED2vnbIEDLMi99DDgx42Lj7kOU2MOdf/s320/IMG_0327.JPG" width="320" /></a>We invited the audience to talk, or ask questions, and they did. Toward the end of the evening, a woman came up to the mic. She was the mother of one of the students. She was in tears. She took a deep breath and shakily told her story. She, too, had been a "Boat person" - a Vietnamese refugee. She had never shared her story in public, but hearing "Linh" speak about her experience, gave her the courage. By the end of her story, we were all in tears. She had been through much trauma which she relived on a daily basis. She thanked me for my book and we hugged. She thanked "Linh" in Vietnamese and went back to her seat.<br />
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The next day, I received a beautiful card from her telling me that being there and being able to feel safe enough to share her story was the most healing experience of her life.<br />
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Experiences like this one affirm why I do what I do. Writing is my passion, and if my writing can touch someone this deeply, I know my purpose.<br />
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<br />Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-72180432223276729472016-08-06T08:00:00.000-07:002016-08-06T08:00:07.843-07:00Dreamers Needed<style>
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I'm just coming off two weeks of INTENSE writing. First, a week-long writer's retreat in the heart of the Catskills, where I wrote uninterrupted for HOURS a day, taking breaks for meals, sumptuous meals, fed to us by cooks who understand the hunger of writers. And the aversion to cooking when you are in a flow. <a href="http://www.renaissance-house-harlem.com/">http://www.renaissance-house-harlem.com/</a> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Five of us, including two poets, a screenwriter and a two novelists, wrote our collective butts off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then plunging right into facilitating a week long writing workshop called Write The Change, with Jennifer Browdy. <a href="https://bethechange2012.wordpress.com/">https://bethechange2012.wordpress.com/</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/1151846914836888/">https://www.facebook.com/events/1151846914836888/</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Jennifer and I worked with five amazing writers, delving deep into our individual and collective psyches to become writers for change. Topics ranged from depression to the joy of reawakening the creative self, from global climate change to immigrant reform and refugee issues. Mostly allowing our voices to be heard and our words to be read. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Here's an example of my own work from an exercise I learned from Renaissance House founder, Abigail McGrath. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Write a letter to your younger self. Choose a time in your life, young child or teen when you could have used some advice. What would you tell your younger self. Look into her eyes and talk to her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Letter to my
younger self: 17 and angry</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh
Jana, Jana. Look at you, with that furrowed brow. It’s going to cause you
wrinkles if you keep scrunching your face like that. Come, sit beside me and
I’ll tell you a secret. There’s more good in people than you can imagine. You
think no one understands you, and maybe you’re right. But they will. Believe
me, one day they will. Because as much as you might not believe it, everyone is
going through something. They may just hide it well. </span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Here’s
what I want you to know. The world needs people like you in it. Dreamers. You
belong with the Eagle spirits, the dreamers, the artists and visionaries, the
music makers, the writers and poets. Your dreams soar far and wide. Let them
fly. Don’t try to ground them. Sit by the window, and stare out into the sky,
forming stories. It’s OK. Wander into the woods and watch a spider build its web.
It’s OK. Walk the rocky shore, dive into the salty waves, imagining you are the
dolphin. It’s OK. The world needs people like you in it. </span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
will be those who don’t understand your dreaming nature, try to put you in a
box and make you conform, but you can’t change your nature, and you don’t have
to. So relax that furrowed brow, and when you look at the people around you who
try to put you in their box, just say, thank you, no. I’m OK. The world needs
people like me in it.</span></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our next task was to write a bit about the process of writing these letters to self. And as I wrote about my process, I really took those thoughts and feelings deep into my being and owned them. It really is OK to be a dreamer. There <u>is</u> a place in the world for dreamers. That's when the tears began to flow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our "students" told us how much they loved the fact that we were writing alongside them. I can't imagine any instructor not doing that. I'm sure I got as much out of the workshop as they did, and I'm ready to do it all over again. I am inspired!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Here are a few words from <i><b>Write The Change</b></i> participants that just came into our inbox:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: purple;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: purple;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">"WOW! Thank you! I can't thank you enough, Jennifer and Jana for all your support, but mostly for the feeling of warmth and love from the group. To be able to share my story was huge for me. I feel for the first time that I can share my story to help others..."</span></span></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: purple;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Jennifer and Jana, I really appreciated how you framed the classes with prompts, writing, sharing, quotes and feedback. It feels like you had a strong intention of helping each of us reach a point of clarity towards our own personal next steps towards writing the change we want to see. I know it happened for me..."</span> </span></span></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So gratifying. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The tagline of my email is Gandhi's quote, "Be the change you want to see in the world." I look at that quote everyday as I send out emails, and I wonder if I can actually be that change. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe I can.</span></div>
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Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-20959736530293606462015-02-17T09:16:00.002-08:002015-02-17T09:20:56.648-08:00Herman Melville and MeI'm writing a new book that I never in my wildest dreams thought I would
write. It is a biography of Herman Melville. For kids. You might be
thinking, why for kids? And I might say, because Herman Melville had an
incredible life and most kids don't know about it. And I might add that
kids love interesting characters with extraordinary lives. And Melville
is such a character. I used to love reading biographies when I was in
elementary school. I never read one about Melville. Sure, I heard of
Moby Dick when I was little, most kids have heard of Moby Dick, who
hasn't? But there is so much more to Herman Melville than Moby Dick. My
hope is after reading this biography of Melville, a new wave of Melville
fans will emerge.<br />
<br />
I have never considered myself a biographer, but my co-authored book, "A
Free Woman on God's Earth" is the juvenile biography of Elizabeth
"Mumbet" Freeman and writing it with my co-author, Ann-Elizabeth Barnes
was a joy. We added flesh and blood to a person very few people ever
heard of. We want Mumbet to become a household word and now, more and
more people know about her. Is it because of our little book? We like to
think so. Our job was to get her story out into the world in a very
accessible way and I think we did that. From there, it takes on a life
all its own.<br />
<br />
So now, Melville. Sometimes is feels like a Herculean task. There are so
many Melville scholars and so many scholarly biographies of this, the
greatest American writer, possibly ever. So what I am doing is a little
daunting and I'm slightly intimidated by what has come before me. But I
like to think that no one has done what I am presently working on. I
know of no biographies of Melville for children. Perhaps mine will be
the first. And this excites me. And scares me a little.<br />
<br />
I'm the very first Writer-In-Residence at Herman Melville's home in the
Berkshires, a position that I never dreamed of obtaining. But sometimes
in life, we are lead to places and people we never dreamed we would go
or meet. I love my position at Arrowhead. I love sitting in Herman
Melville's chair, looking out his window and writing from that place. It
inspires me. From Arrowhead, my colleagues and I have created a
wonderful program for children we call "Inspired by Melville." It's a
writing program for students, third grade to high school. And it was
from this program that the idea to write his biography for children
came. There was not one I could bring on my school visits. We have
graphic-novel versions of Moby Dick, we have abridged versions, even
pop-up versions, and I bring those with me, but like I said, there is
way more to Herman Melville than Moby Dick. And I want kids to know
about the person he was.<br />
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I've got to get back to work.<br />
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Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-58239813078511128942013-06-26T10:12:00.002-07:002013-06-26T10:12:53.247-07:00Paw Prints On a Purple Bench<span style="color: #444444;">I painted the bench in my hallway this week. I painted it purple. A deep dark elderberry color that makes me happy when I look at it. I put the finishing touches on it yesterday. The bench sits under the window looking out onto my driveway. The bench was made from wide pieces of polished wood that in a former life was part of a shelf system that used to hang on the wall of my bedroom and was full of books. I am a recycler by nature. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">I am learning to let go of things, but I save things like wooden shelves. You never know when they will come in handy. They call it "upcycling" nowadays and it's very trendy. I guess I'm ahead of my time.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioGX2T7su4lCI6KROoTDIwIPgTGnNqwM9XVq4TOr_GOOdLa5Gq4RscPh5Fapvwm6voDKaBfs56Os_BxpyzJltXjNJ1Z0Q907x2K0RDnxyGnEAdmf4ypPwEVZnezF_ccVhd0DMC8jo8N120/s1600/Image+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioGX2T7su4lCI6KROoTDIwIPgTGnNqwM9XVq4TOr_GOOdLa5Gq4RscPh5Fapvwm6voDKaBfs56Os_BxpyzJltXjNJ1Z0Q907x2K0RDnxyGnEAdmf4ypPwEVZnezF_ccVhd0DMC8jo8N120/s320/Image+1.jpg" width="239" /></a><br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Jordy, my sweet brindle Pitbull Lab mix often perched there on his hind legs, watching for cars pulling in, and was always there, paws up on the bench, head, practically out the window, when he heard my car pull in. I got mad the first time I found him there, one deep scratch marring the newly polished wood. I sanded the spot but it never was the same. </span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivUID-oFeuGUAiOeIU5BCb12Q1WaYZcna5InzmLCS87b6J1tJktTodDHTQ6cKX725JnSn7KgwL8Zcbb8Iijkd6kNDDkwuy-e6qY5_Q20BY31_c4OIa0k0DLXTXSRD9AqAptVlcqXzOBD-j/s1600/Image+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivUID-oFeuGUAiOeIU5BCb12Q1WaYZcna5InzmLCS87b6J1tJktTodDHTQ6cKX725JnSn7KgwL8Zcbb8Iijkd6kNDDkwuy-e6qY5_Q20BY31_c4OIa0k0DLXTXSRD9AqAptVlcqXzOBD-j/s320/Image+2.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDvzJWtnFeaBJz644ArQGd345hAWQwKdXNzuauukbMdL_KneBHYiE3T_7_OGRP28lPwqXnUUlwsEPTHCYcxKHEOBppmGPNryB66CGWqKPugPVEl20CTmsbYTTwErwhEJTXFJLXmVX2Cjt/s1600/IMG_1886.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDvzJWtnFeaBJz644ArQGd345hAWQwKdXNzuauukbMdL_KneBHYiE3T_7_OGRP28lPwqXnUUlwsEPTHCYcxKHEOBppmGPNryB66CGWqKPugPVEl20CTmsbYTTwErwhEJTXFJLXmVX2Cjt/s320/IMG_1886.jpg" width="174" /></a><span style="clear: right; color: #444444; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">My stomach would tighten with anxiety over my bench every time I saw that goofy face looking out the window from his spot when I pulled in from anywhere. The one deep groove became a series of grooved patterns, the bench, pretty much ruined. And then one day I decided to cherish the fact that my dog was waiting for me, and wood was wood. Who cared, really?</span></span><br />
<span style="clear: right; color: black; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></span></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbLI37ysO-niFdhre-F7Z7OVzX2xuZ_FiQBWHuRjbiJhWUdqkJD6wDn55uOaTweoYlSMcgHRL4FilXci1qYqnqEr5dGejjmPbfEyzsDEUgu2XKQJWeeZUE3YlXM0Z-0tK8_agZFMXBR6p/s320/Image+3.jpg" width="239" /></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #444444;">And now my brindle boy is gone, lying beneath the tree in my yard that blooms pink in the spring. The tree is about twenty feet high now, but was a sapling, a mere six inches when I got it as a gift for joining the Arbor Society. Jordy might have been a tiny puppy when I planted that tree. Like the tree, he grew strong and broad and eventually mature. But trees live longer than dogs, and he now lies under its broad green leaves, next to its roots.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARFqHl8qpDmsXJrjBUvBPlD2PWSg2W7yVnLr23oD0Gbtqah7agiDLtd39w96ZZpMFnB9yDDKrNp6l5OquTDQChqVUdYOubEmbRvqwmIBT_p_tgHOlDbx737EvV_ZlOelYo6hxPBfswtVS/s1600/Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARFqHl8qpDmsXJrjBUvBPlD2PWSg2W7yVnLr23oD0Gbtqah7agiDLtd39w96ZZpMFnB9yDDKrNp6l5OquTDQChqVUdYOubEmbRvqwmIBT_p_tgHOlDbx737EvV_ZlOelYo6hxPBfswtVS/s320/Image.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #444444;">I don't know why I didn't take a picture, and I regret it now, but the other night I went to admire my new purple bench and looked down at the place where Jordy's scratches are now purple scratches, and there I saw what looked like a paw print. I swear. I tilted my head to the side and discovered two tiny cat prints as well. I have two cats, so that's no surprise, but above the cat prints I know I saw a big print. A dog's paw print. I'm telling you. I called my daughter down and she confirmed it. I should have kept it. I didn't. But I know it was Jordy stopping by to let me know he's still here.</span>Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-42360465949035163002013-04-30T07:49:00.003-07:002013-05-01T16:17:41.122-07:00Saying Goodbye to a friendThere's a flowered chair that sits in my living room and it's empty these days. It was Jordy's chair. When he sat there it was covered with blankets for softness and to prevent him from shedding all over it. It is lately uncovered to reveal the lovely flowered pattern and it is mine now. I sit in it and try to imagine his soft, furry warmth draped over it, from head to hassock. I try to feel his presence, try to fill an emptiness that is palpable. The emptiness washes over me and comes upon me at odd times. It mainly comes when I walk downstairs and see the chair, devoid of dog. No soulful eyes looking at me from over its arm, no stiff, achy old boy needing help to get down from it and make his way to the kitchen for his breakfast.<br />
<br />
I have lost a dear friend. A friend I took care of and loved for over 15 years. My children were tiny when we brought the little guy home. A who knows what ~ Pitbull/Lab? Boxer mix? Brindled and gorgeous, he was our Nigerian Lionhound. My children are adults now and Jordy is gone. Wrapped in a blanket, under a tree in the yard.<br />
<br />
But when he lived, he lived! Every moment filled with joy. Running in the woods, on the beach, catching balls and sticks thrown, gulping down snowballs caught in midair, digging in snowdrifts, rolling in who knows what, stealing the lemon cake and eying the turkey, sneaking his way up on the bed, one leg at a time.<br />
Oh, he will be missed.<br />
<br />
Here's the poem I wrote for him on his passing:<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">May golden light guide
your way<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And fields of flowers
dance at your approach<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">May you be met by loved
ones, soft and warm,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our loving family; Dulcie,
Indy, Skye, Kelsey, Vincent and Tamina<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And may friends; Henry,
Pippi, Haiku, Mack and Merck greet you too<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Your kindness and
warmth, your love and licks, your sweet gentleness <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">will never be forgotten
and will live inside us for all of our days<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And may you take our
love for you in your heart as you make your way to the place<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">of happy days and
running through fields and catching sticks and lemon cakes and splashing in the
sea<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Your soulful eyes will
watch over us and as we sit in your favorite chair, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Which will become our favorite,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We will feel your
presence embrace us, washing us with love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The most loyal love
there is<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The warmest and most
unconditional<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The truest love under
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dog to person, person
to dog<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">us to you and you to us<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We speak soul to soul
and we understand<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And when our time comes
to leave this place, we expect you to be there<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Waiting to greet us,
tail wagging, ready for a walk<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We love you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Godspeed, Jordy. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Herculanum;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-64994536308151300652012-12-21T09:01:00.000-08:002012-12-21T10:48:17.834-08:00Books can healIt's been a week since the devastating tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut at Sandy Hook Elementary School and I have tried to find words to express my feelings on this subject. I am a writer, I should be able to write something profound, but I am at a loss, still, for the right words. I am sitting here in my kitchen, sick with a cold the size of Texas, waiting for my tea water to boil. The rain is pouring down tears. My head aches, but so does my heart as I scroll facebook messages, as I read articles about a funeral for a little 7 year-old boy attended by the entire NYC Fire Department, as I remain quiet, reflecting in my moment of silence. This tragedy has cloaked the nation. These are our children.<br />
<br />
I sent books to Sandy Hook School along with a promise to come to the school to write with the children, when they are ready, and if they want me to come. I hope they will.<br />
<br />
I have tackled life-altering subjects before. My book, <i>Elephants of the Tsunami</i> dealt with the December 26, 2004 immense tragedy. The book was sent over to Thailand on a healing mission. I wrote that book to heal my own sorrow, and for the children I taught, who were scared from afar. I never thought it would be sent to Thailand and I was worried that it would hurt those Thai children, that it would bring back memories of that day. But Wachiramat, a Thai teacher working with 600 children in the villages of Khao Lak and Pang-nga, where 5000 people lost their lives in 5 minutes, told me that the words were so beautiful and that even though the story was sad, it helped the children heal. The children would never forget that day, but the book brought them out of themselves for a moment.<br />
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
How do we heal? Time, maybe. Love, for sure. Pie, absolutely. Books? I'd like to think so. </div>
<div class="p1">
All I can do is what I can do. I can't bake a pie, I can't sing or play the guitar. But I can write and when I do, all my love goes into what I write. And I have written, co-written and edited books for children and teens. All those books are in that box.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
So when that box of book arrives at Sandy Hook Elementary School, my hope is that the children will pick them up and read them and laugh and be taken away to that wonderful place only books can take us, if only for a few precious moments. That is my wish. </div>
Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-32489727601638271822012-10-31T09:47:00.001-07:002012-10-31T09:47:38.814-07:00Looking for PurposeThe birds are at my feeder this chilly, windy morning. They seem frantic. They can't seem to get enough of the oily black sunflower seeds I put out for them just yesterday. The storm has passed, the leaves are almost all fallen, my daughter is safe in New York City and my parents are without power still. Maybe the birds aren't sure we're safe yet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtreL4QbFwYm36uXeYWu4Li_71ooP82ELEX-1JlrIayLP_bzgh6QNXpxAXNf-oJXRh0yx2WAiEr-TVMlomnNgh0i2HzW12sSvdtc44p_diMiX-I_tlbg3UPSFcJlm7mNntGprSfAfWsErp/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtreL4QbFwYm36uXeYWu4Li_71ooP82ELEX-1JlrIayLP_bzgh6QNXpxAXNf-oJXRh0yx2WAiEr-TVMlomnNgh0i2HzW12sSvdtc44p_diMiX-I_tlbg3UPSFcJlm7mNntGprSfAfWsErp/s320/photo.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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I took a run today down a country lane to clear my cloudy head. Lots of boughs were on the ground, but the air was clear as I ran. After a storm kind of clear. Lots of things stirred up, making room for what's coming next.<br />
<br />
I've been thinking a lot about my purpose here on this fragile planet. Am I a writer? Am I a teacher? A poet? A jeweler? A mom? A friend? A sister, daughter? Maybe I am all of the above. Maybe I'm allowed to be everything and not have to choose one over the other.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfB6De1pkaYRzVCyHyaVX-8Vg3xSgsezGbQ-2HYpm4zZo7vNpWliFWRxxnHXoflzEKWL8izuk3UkSF3C0IZIgNYb120tunhLcuc3R-3a1pnH9BnRcpkXDTTwva20iUY5syJhHK_HSnwy-/s1600/photo.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfB6De1pkaYRzVCyHyaVX-8Vg3xSgsezGbQ-2HYpm4zZo7vNpWliFWRxxnHXoflzEKWL8izuk3UkSF3C0IZIgNYb120tunhLcuc3R-3a1pnH9BnRcpkXDTTwva20iUY5syJhHK_HSnwy-/s320/photo.PNG" width="213" /></a></div>
I made a bracelet the other night. It was made with leather and beads. It fit just right. I wrote two poems yesterday, and neither of them rhymed. I called my mother to see if she was fine, I took a walk with my sister, texted my daughter, had dinner with friends. Kissed my son on his head as he went off to work. Fed my dogs and cats. I loved.<br />
<br />
Is that enough? Maybe it is. Maybe there is inspiration everywhere. I think I just need to remember that.<br />
<br />
Tonight is Halloween. Samhain. The night the veil between worlds is lifted, when humans can dance with the fey. I wrote a book about it. It just won a silver medal. I can write another, I can. And I will. Maybe I'll even go out into the moonlight tonight and step into the between. Who knows where I might end up. But that's what it's about. The not knowing. The process. The journey.<br />
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<br />Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-68868197397322915842012-09-27T16:46:00.001-07:002012-09-27T16:47:08.274-07:00Summer of FaeriesWhat a summer! Full of sprites and faeries, real and imagined. I've been to Spoutwood in Pennsylvania, and Enchanted Ground in Guelph, Ontario, to Maryland and Binghamton, NY where the fey world is alive with dancing, singing, fire circles, pageants, processions, and a faerie rade or two. Fiona, Maggie, Rionnag and the rest of my fey family were introduced to readers young and old. Here are some pictures of the people I shared my summer adventures with.<br />
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<br />Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-49620866607282455462012-06-04T12:57:00.000-07:002012-06-05T08:29:07.085-07:00A Teacher's Year to Cherish<br />
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<i>For anyone who questions why the U.S. should adopt a fair and tolerant policy toward immigrants, try teaching ESL, even one class. Get to know an immigrant.</i></div>
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I have been teaching English since I was seventeen years old
in various forms and descriptions. I have taught abroad and at home, I’ve
taught privately, one-on-one, and in large groups. I’ve taught mothers with
babies at family centers. I’ve taught businessmen and doctors, factory workers
and dishwashers. </div>
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I’ve held classes in my kitchen and on my patio, in church
basements and in high tech classrooms, even on living room floors in the Bronx.
I’ve taught children and I’ve taught adults. I have taught literally hundreds
of people to speak, read, write and understand English. </div>
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My students have come from Vietnam, Burma, China, Czech
Republic, India, Guatemala, Mexico, Colombia, Ecuador, Germany, Cambodia, Laos, Nepal, Tibet, Kazakhstan, Russia, Greece, Brazil, Peru, El Salvador, Thailand, Taiwan, The Philippines, Costa
Rica, Japan, Italy, Hungary, Dominican Republic, Indonesia, Hong Kong, France,
Poland, and from many countries in Africa including Ethiopia, Burkina Faso, Liberia,
Congo, and Ghana just to name a few.</div>
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People who don’t understand the nature of teaching English
think I must be brilliant to be able to speak ALL of those languages. They ask
me how I learned so many. When I tell them I do not speak all those languages,
and I use ONLY English when I teach, they are shocked and confused. But my
students understand.</div>
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English is our unifying language and whether we speak it
through pantomime at the beginning level, or move on to read and discuss
literature at the advanced level, it is what binds us and makes us into a
community.</div>
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After years of teaching children, I have returned to adult
ed, teaching advanced ESL. I have never been happier. I love getting up in the
morning and I can’t wait to see who will come to class. Sometimes the classes
are full and there are not enough chairs. Sometimes, there are only a handful
of students, and occasionally there is only one. No matter what the situation,
there is always something to take away from the experience. In my classes, we learn more than just grammar and vocabulary.</div>
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In my students I have seen appreciation and gratitude, I
have seen tears, laughter and I have learned their stories. Many, many stories.
Sometimes heart wrenching, sometimes heartwarming. All uniquely individual. All adding to the tapestry that makes up our community. Our country. Our world.</div>
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This year, I have had the privilege of teaching people from all
walks of life and many cultures, to watch them grow into more confident
individuals, getting closer to fulfilling their hopes and dreams. </div>
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To my students: It has been an honor and my absolute
pleasure to share my story with you, to become friends with you, to watch you
make new friends with each other, and to teach you. Because of all of you, I have the best job
in the world.</div>
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Thank you for giving me such a rewarding reason to get up in
the morning.</div>
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<br />Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-86101422895195589882012-04-10T12:11:00.000-07:002012-04-10T12:11:05.819-07:00Here at ArrowheadHere I am at Arrowhead. I am sitting at a table in Herman Melville’s study, looking out the same window he looked out as he wrote Moby Dick. I am listening to the cars speeding by, a sound he surely was not troubled by when he did his writing. What a busy road is Holmes Road. I’m not sure Herman would approve.<br />
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I feel a little strange, my macbook sitting atop the table here in his study, but the curators assure me that were there macbooks available when Herman sat here, he would have used one too.<br />
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I have evoked his spirit and thanked him for this opportunity to sit here. I hope I can do him justice.<br />
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The mountain is covered with fog today, so I can barely see the outline. No whale, just mist-covered hills through the wavy glass. My own house once had windows of wavy glass. I am sick sometimes with the knowledge of what a carpenter did to those gems.<br />
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My house was built in 1810 and those old windows let in the chill air through every crack and crevasse. And I was always cold. As cold as the inhabitants from days gone by. As cold as Herman probably was here in his study on a winter’s day. And so, 1995 replacement windows were installed. In retrospect, I wish I had had the money to reglaze, repaint, reinstall, and add efficient storms over those 19th century beauties.<br />
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But modern impatience ruled the day, which I now rue, and double-paned insulated windows pushed out the old. The house was warmer, but colder too, with its new charm-lacked view. No distortions, no cracks, no waves or bubbles, no antique charm.<br />
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It makes me sad to remember how the carpenter flung the old windows into a waiting receptacle. A dumpster. Smashed and broken they were by the time I got home from work. Not one pane worth saving. I cried, but faulted only myself for not making sure these treasures were saved. Put in the old 1847 shed. Something. And now I am selling my two hundred and two year-old farmhouse and the new owners will never even have the option of putting the original windows back where they belong. They are gone.<br />
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But now I am here, looking out Herman Melville’s wavy glass panes. They make me dizzy with distortion and pleasure. It’s almost three o’clock, a time I was told that he would have stopped writing for the day. The sun is moving toward the west and the natural light, the only light that fills this room is waning. But I’m going to stay here as long as I can and enjoy his essence. I get chills when I think about him, sitting here where I am sitting, quill pen in hand, pondering.<br />
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There’s a harpoon by the window, leaning up against a bookcase filled with leather bound books. On the table are quill pens and an inkwell, a candle in a silver candlestick and a pair of spectacles. There are some papers, letters from 1850. May 14th to be exact. <i>My Dear Dana – I thank you very heartily for your friendly letter; and am more pleased now…</i><br />
It is a struggle to read the writing, but the letter is signed, <i>H Melville</i>.<br />
I wonder who Dana is.<br />
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The Hemlock trees are swaying and Mt. Greylock is even less visible than when I started writing. On the wall is a framed piece of writing by two men, along with a pen and ink drawing of this same window with its view. Here is what it says:<br />
<i>to be in & of the weather</i><br />
<i>it</i><br />
<i>not a thing out there</i><br />
<i> but here emanating</i><br />
<i>& I a part</i><br />
<i>partaking of it</i><br />
<i>the cold, bitter cold of the past few days</i><br />
<i>the pipes froze, & no water</i><br />
<i>the heat in the house being only what we made</i><br />
<i>with our hands, wood, that is</i><br />
<i>weather being not something out there </i><br />
<i>but in & of us, I</i><br />
<i>the house & winter</i><br />
<i> Paul Metcalf 1917-1999</i><br />
And then…<br />
<i>“I have a sort of sea-feeling here in the country, now that the ground is covered with snow. I look out my window in the morning when I rise as I would out of a port-hole of a ship on the Atlantic. My room seems a ship’s cabin, & at nights when I wake up & hear the wind shrieking, I almost fancy there is too much sail in this house, & I had better go on the roof & rig the chimney.”</i><br />
<i>Herman Melville 1819-1891 Quote from</i> a letter to Evert Duyckinck December 13, 1850<br />
<a data-mce-href="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/photo2.jpg" href="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/photo2.jpg"><img alt="" data-mce-src="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/photo2-150x150.jpg" height="150" src="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/photo2-150x150.jpg" title="wavy glass" width="150" /></a><br />
Well, all I can say is, I’m glad I’m starting this residency in the spring. Even then, it’s chilly in here. But I’m warm enough.<br />
Jana Laiz April 9, 2012Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-30709707352180360152012-04-01T07:39:00.000-07:002012-04-01T07:39:13.368-07:00Sitting With MelvilleI am reading Moby Dick again. The first time I read it I was in high school and I did not fully appreciate the scope nor the depth of the writing. Between then and now I have read many, many books by many, many authors. Dickens, Austen, Bronte, L’Engle, Gabaldon, Rowling, Berg, Collins and Stockett to name a few. I have always been more partial to English literature than to American, but it seems fitting that I should read this American classic again before I sit at Melville’s desk and set to write. Yes, you read that correctly. I have been given the distinct honor to sit at Herman Melville’s desk, to look out the wavy glass window he looked out while writing his famed tale and write my own story.<br />
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I have been chosen to be the first Writer-in-Residence at Melville’s beloved Arrowhead in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. The curator, Betsy, gave me a private tour yesterday and when I entered the study where I will be privileged to write, I felt an energy fill my body that took my breath away. I was moved to tears. Melville is there still. I felt his presence.<br />
<a href="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/photo1.jpg" style="border: 0px none;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-thumbnail wp-image-445" height="150" src="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/photo1-150x150.jpg" title="Arrowhead" width="150" /></a>My mind is bursting with ideas for my new project and my fingers are itching to start, but I think I will wait to begin in earnest until I am seated at his desk. And there, I will ask Herman Melville to guide me through the process.<a href="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/photo.jpg" style="border: 0px none;"></a> <a href="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/pastedGraphic9.jpg" style="border: 0px none;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-thumbnail wp-image-431" height="147" src="http://janalaiz.com/wp-content/uploads/pastedGraphic9-150x147.jpg" title="Herman Melville's desk" width="150" /></a>Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-1158984852134140222011-08-11T11:07:00.000-07:002011-08-11T11:07:34.360-07:00The Twelfth Stone is about to arrive!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Some writers crank 'em out. Book after book. Some take longer than others. I'm one of the latter. <b style="font-style: italic;">The Twelfth Stone, </b>my new novel, has been part of my life for most of it. I got the idea in 1978, based on an experience I had in 1972, began writing in 1993, finished the first draft in 2001, and now, in 2011, <b><i>The Twelfth Stone</i></b> is coming out! </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEo7pns54fdXwCwap8z1Gzuao7kiE_17NxxOttjgWvyR_XyN95L3xV2I2NRBx_5XN3isSOWKmE0Lu5VyvWW1vZFcw6W7h_mf1bgbhlJ4Wl5E9xFU9E8DcN3XvF1rlm3mC-h-w4m60pk8p_/s1600/TWELFTH+STONE+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEo7pns54fdXwCwap8z1Gzuao7kiE_17NxxOttjgWvyR_XyN95L3xV2I2NRBx_5XN3isSOWKmE0Lu5VyvWW1vZFcw6W7h_mf1bgbhlJ4Wl5E9xFU9E8DcN3XvF1rlm3mC-h-w4m60pk8p_/s320/TWELFTH+STONE+cover.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It has been a labor of love from start to finish. Living with all those characters in my head. They kept me company through bright days and dark nights. When I finished the first draft I cried like a baby, thinking I would never see them again. But then the editing began and I got to be with them for quite a while longer. In October of this year I am finally releasing them to my readers. I hope they will love them as much as I do.</span>Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-5278126394574019182011-07-29T13:03:00.000-07:002011-07-29T13:03:59.335-07:00Jana's Musings...: Finally my audio book is here!!<a href="http://janalaiz.blogspot.com/2011/07/finally-my-audio-book-is-here.html?spref=bl">Jana's Musings...: Finally my audio book is here!!</a>: "It's been a while since I've written. Been very, very busy and finally, I can breathe and announce that the audiobook I produced, based on t..."Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-44783370527527904222011-07-29T13:01:00.000-07:002011-07-29T13:01:11.854-07:00Finally my audio book is here!!It's been a while since I've written. Been very, very busy and finally, I can breathe and announce that the audiobook I produced, based on the book I edited and published, <b>The Adventures of Charlie and Moon</b>, by Martin Meader is LIVE and up on audible.com. <a href="http://www.audible.com/charlieandmoon%20%20%20">www.audible.com/charlieandmoon </a><br />
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Brilliantly narrated by internationally acclaimed comedienne/novelist Alison Larkin, <a href="http://www.alisonlarkin.com/">www.alisonlarkin.com</a> The Adventures of Charlie & Moon takes kids (and kids at heart) on a wild ride through the village of Tumblegum to the City of the Qunicequonces to save the endangered species from the evil Skunk Weavel. Only Charlie and his friend Moon can save the day!<br />
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This book was a ForeWord Book of the Year Award Finalist, and is a fantastic book to recommend kids read and listen to at the same time! <br />
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6 hours of listening hilarity and fun! <br />
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Teacher's Guide available for free download <a href="http://www.martinmeader.com/">www.martinmeader.com</a><br />
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I hope you'll download it onto your mp3 or iPhone and if you like it, be the first or 100th to review it!!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJAZycji_0Y9oJ1Ji_2mvWzZr_-tdsmdf8bUKjHP1YNvsna6jDye_dxmjzlhyz7ueFLWQN2MODLTn7t-sIZ5RqYGc53f9czMocju3GqPS4ok_4D4Z5PytB3mZy6FXGn9YAJ-bYjPNFv-Uz/s1600/Charlie%2526Moon+cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJAZycji_0Y9oJ1Ji_2mvWzZr_-tdsmdf8bUKjHP1YNvsna6jDye_dxmjzlhyz7ueFLWQN2MODLTn7t-sIZ5RqYGc53f9czMocju3GqPS4ok_4D4Z5PytB3mZy6FXGn9YAJ-bYjPNFv-Uz/s320/Charlie%2526Moon+cover.jpeg" width="234" /></a></div>Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-18107602243246742122011-05-24T07:15:00.000-07:002011-05-24T07:15:55.031-07:00Pollen and meThis has got to be the worst allergy season I have ever encountered. How about you? Are your eyes watering? Are you sneezing? Itching? Breaking out? Yeah, me too.<br />
It's all from pollen, that's right. I'm pretty sure.<br />
What is pollen, you might ask?<br />
<h3 class="r g0"><em>pol·len</em><span style="font-family: 'Doulos SIL','Gentum','TITUS Cyberbit Basic','Junicode','Aborigonal Serif','Arial Unicode MS','Lucida Sans Unicode','Chrysanthi Unicode'; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: smaller; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.7em;">/ˈpälən/</span></h3><span class="f">Noun: </span>A fine powdery substance, typically yellow, of microscopic grains discharged from the male part of a flower or from a male cone transported to the female ovule by the wind, insects, or other animals.<br />
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I'm looking at pictures of pollen and they're scary to say the least, and what they cause, I can hardly deal with it. <br />
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<b>What types of pollen trigger allergy symptoms?<br />
</b><b></b>Many trees, grasses and low-growing weeds have small, light, dry pollens that are well-suited for dissemination by wind currents. These are the pollens that trigger allergy symptoms. Seasonal allergic rhinitis in the early spring is often triggered by the pollens of such trees as oak, western red cedar, elm, birch, ash, hickory, poplar, sycamore, maple, cypress and walnut. In the late spring and early summer, pollinating grasses - including timothy, bermuda, orchard, sweet vernal, red top and some blue grasses - often trigger symptoms. Ragweed is the pollen most responsible for late summer and fall hay fever in North America.<br />
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Well there you have it!<br />
Yuck! I can't say I'm looking forward to winter again, but kinda.Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-40459051866481890822011-03-30T15:12:00.000-07:002011-03-30T15:12:33.153-07:00welcome<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4W53NfFDLbuBMjcwFDhQ2m6y3sUw0OucU9xuuqOhW1Up64fQl2xc4y7xDKTW495De4S4zmaaAeU48Si3bY9iT5KWjvBjivpB6n_nC84P4L5wtA9cvwcUz2XUds_QChgdcPcpE315U6nPb/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4W53NfFDLbuBMjcwFDhQ2m6y3sUw0OucU9xuuqOhW1Up64fQl2xc4y7xDKTW495De4S4zmaaAeU48Si3bY9iT5KWjvBjivpB6n_nC84P4L5wtA9cvwcUz2XUds_QChgdcPcpE315U6nPb/s320/photo.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4W53NfFDLbuBMjcwFDhQ2m6y3sUw0OucU9xuuqOhW1Up64fQl2xc4y7xDKTW495De4S4zmaaAeU48Si3bY9iT5KWjvBjivpB6n_nC84P4L5wtA9cvwcUz2XUds_QChgdcPcpE315U6nPb/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>I just had to post these crocuses. I am in awe of the way they poke up through layers and layers of dead leaves. New life appearing on the barren ground and it couldn't have come at a better time, when we here in the Northeast are about to go mad from this cold. So hopeful. I raked for 2 1/2 hours straight, with my coat off! I kept these crocuses in their little patch of decay, not daring to disturb them. A man saw me raking and laughed at me from his car as he drove by, yelling something about a snowstorm on Saturday, but I didn't care. I just smiled at him.<br />
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My crocuses reminded me of a song by Beth Neilson Chapman, <i>Life Holds On</i>, "...when I noticed all the grass in the cracks in the concrete I said 'where there's a will, there's a way around anything.' Life holds on, given the slightest chance, for the weak and the strong, life holds on."<br />
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Life is coming back to the Berkshires, and even if it snows on Friday or Saturday, these crocuses remind us of how life will continue and continue given the slightest chance.Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-678710169300011872011-03-30T10:22:00.000-07:002011-03-30T10:25:58.430-07:00Alison Larkin's narration of The Adventures of Charlie & Moon Audio Book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.alisonlarkin.com/images/alison_mic2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.alisonlarkin.com/images/alison_mic2.jpg" /></a></div>Alison Larkin's many voices are resounding through my kitchen as I sit here listening to the new audiobook I produced, <b>The Adventures of Charlie & Moon</b>, by Australian author, Martin Meader. I have listened and listened again to this six hour children's fantasy adventure, and thanks to the incredibly funny and charming narration by British comedienne, author and friend, Alison Larkin, I could listen for hours more.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2WIY3rxsPXwg66YzNhEOLuWkx01Wy1u9v1_eeum2XJ5D1VMbpD3YaI-VvV_X2wwVEsP7SNAJPoGaPyjXaqnCSQxG8OaAXhyphenhyphenR5Wb5TlAGfY2my47qHNAEapjtu34TOAgOSQa7eLusjG4Zy/s1600/Charlie%2526Moon+cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2WIY3rxsPXwg66YzNhEOLuWkx01Wy1u9v1_eeum2XJ5D1VMbpD3YaI-VvV_X2wwVEsP7SNAJPoGaPyjXaqnCSQxG8OaAXhyphenhyphenR5Wb5TlAGfY2my47qHNAEapjtu34TOAgOSQa7eLusjG4Zy/s320/Charlie%2526Moon+cover.jpeg" width="234" /></a></div><b>The </b><b>Adventures of Charlie & Moon</b>, is a fantasy for children about a boy named Charlie who opens his birthday present the night before his ninth birthday and the consequences that follow. Moon is a young eagle who needs Charlie’s help to stop an evil toymaker from turning all the eagles and endangered species into stuffed toys. <b>The Adventures of Charlie & Moon</b> takes children on a wild ride through the imaginary Shire of Tumblegum to stop the evil toymaker, Skunk Weavel from achieving his wicked ways. The <b>Adventures of Charlie & Moon</b> is in production to be a feature film and I will be updating you on that exciting news as well. <a href="http://charlieandmoon.com/">http://charlieandmoon.com, </a><a href="http://www.crowfliespress.com/">www.crowfliespress.com</a>, <a href="http://charlieandmoon.blogspot.com/">http://charlieandmoon.blogspot.com/</a><br />
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Alison's character voices can be heard in cartoons and movies all over the world from work by Robert Altman to The Wonderpets. Her own bestselling novel, <b>The English American</b> joins a nobel Laureate, E.B. White and President Obama on Audible.com's list of best author narrated audio books of all time. She is a comedienne, an entertainer (she certainly entertains me when we get together), author, screenwriter, playwright. To hear some of Alison's cartoon and movie voices click <a href="http://www.alisonlarkin.com/voice_work.htm">http://www.alisonlarkin.com/voice_work.htm</a>. For more details go to <a href="http://www.alisonlarkin.com/index.htm">http://www.alisonlarkin.com/index.htm</a><br />
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Kids are absolutely loving this crazy book, and they will now be able to read along with Alison, who does the voices better (sorry folks) than ANY parent could ever dream of doing. I am so excited about sharing this audio book with the world! <br />
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I will keep you posted on the launch date, but it will be SOON. It will be 6 hours of listening magic. Think of the long drives you'll be taking this summer. Think of the new Masterpiece Classics you want to watch, but it's bedtime. Or that paperwork you need to finish up, but your kids are bored and whiny. Now you'll be able to turn on the MP3 in your kid's room and go do your thing as they fall asleep (or crack up) to Alison's hilarious rendition of <b>The Adventures of Charlie & Moon</b>. But what I think will happen is, you'll wind up listening with them and you'll all be laughing your heads off. That's family time.Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-52419264867133843472011-03-21T08:53:00.000-07:002011-03-21T08:53:07.428-07:00Jana's Musings...: Tsunami Help<a href="http://janalaiz.blogspot.com/2011/03/tsunami-help.html?spref=bl">Jana's Musings...: Tsunami Help</a>: "It's scary out there. Earthquakes, tsunamis, radiation leaks, crazy dictators...it goes on and on. I am sitting here in front of my woodstov..."Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-47223856563587906062011-03-21T08:51:00.000-07:002011-03-21T08:51:58.462-07:00Tsunami HelpIt's scary out there. Earthquakes, tsunamis, radiation leaks, crazy dictators...it goes on and on. I am sitting here in front of my woodstove, watching yet more snow fall, trying to figure out what I can do to make even the tiniest helpful dent in all this mess.<br />
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Here's what I came up with: I can sell books and donate money to what I consider to be simply the best relief agency in the world, The International Rescue Committee. <a href="http://www.theirc.org/">www.theirc.org</a> <br />
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So if anyone out there reading this blog wants to get a good book to read and make a difference, even a small one, I am offering this: buy a book off <a href="http://www.crowfliespress.com/">www.crowfliespress.com</a> and I will donate $5 for every book we sell to IRC for tsunami relief. Choose from<i> Weeping Under This Same Moon </i>by yours truly. <i>"A Free Woman On God's Earth"</i> by me and Ann-Elizabeth Barnes, illustrated by Jacqueline Rogers, or <i>The Adventures of Charlie & Moon</i>, by Martin Meader.<br />
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Thank you for your help! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHBK-4Ave5-tlwUAO-5VKwtV-d_W__RXcp3ewNWi8nl3BmKRRrI5yWzsiwmhyphenhyphenqL7OlgIFttFUKWcd2fZASJ6AYYYgwQX-LWmYn2otTv6oNLyRodxVZ4TB_YRnxU7mEdn3ggZT7m6E5b-Zj/s1600/Weeping+-+front+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHBK-4Ave5-tlwUAO-5VKwtV-d_W__RXcp3ewNWi8nl3BmKRRrI5yWzsiwmhyphenhyphenqL7OlgIFttFUKWcd2fZASJ6AYYYgwQX-LWmYn2otTv6oNLyRodxVZ4TB_YRnxU7mEdn3ggZT7m6E5b-Zj/s320/Weeping+-+front+cover.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIAZcxJQzGD4gxawY1bRcGIUJclM9zlG1OY2BxZH811seBgS4POwI8voBgm91_i1dI5tHLMieSmKo36iyJcLsLgcEbzLlMhrjlOkg8gjkWufHHx0lZw10i4Oa7p3CHv_WwWl_wexj-8mP7/s1600/Mumbet+cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIAZcxJQzGD4gxawY1bRcGIUJclM9zlG1OY2BxZH811seBgS4POwI8voBgm91_i1dI5tHLMieSmKo36iyJcLsLgcEbzLlMhrjlOkg8gjkWufHHx0lZw10i4Oa7p3CHv_WwWl_wexj-8mP7/s320/Mumbet+cover.jpeg" width="234" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOTlrk8N0nED3rDnu0Hs9OdOqW7HHTOpOKJmWmt7a3VvnJD8m26l8kyRwXRAKIX9X0Mn72H-1XAwqmVK91oLiqml8ZZkBY3P9enLifth6yDP7Kf2jbheeCZBTgbHp7T-ZdDnpS5vb9v-0e/s1600/Charlie%2526Moon+cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOTlrk8N0nED3rDnu0Hs9OdOqW7HHTOpOKJmWmt7a3VvnJD8m26l8kyRwXRAKIX9X0Mn72H-1XAwqmVK91oLiqml8ZZkBY3P9enLifth6yDP7Kf2jbheeCZBTgbHp7T-ZdDnpS5vb9v-0e/s320/Charlie%2526Moon+cover.jpeg" width="234" /></a></div>Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-70649067374599337202011-02-20T16:27:00.000-08:002011-02-20T16:27:42.523-08:00Thomas & AutumnI'm so excited to share my news about my new picture book, <b>Thomas & Autumn</b>. My friend, Melody Lea Lamb is illustrating it. You've got to see this woman's art. She is amazing. Her book, Moonlight Memoirs has won a number of awards! <a href="http://www.melodylealamb.com/">http://www.melodylealamb.com/</a>. <br />
<b>Thomas & Autumn</b> is the sweet story of a little boy named Thomas who has a very special relationship with a very special chicken, Autumn. It is a book for tiny children and for chicken lovers of any age.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZtNvClSG1bSkMQxUlPGMLqnRh7eTL4N7MGgXR2a9Kd6_9T9kFaTGo0uqAMpittxI5J5QfyZAbjwtdplWlqnZAGF1JYhBhlSmPoX2X9T4VNs2bVK-mpknDbMSWZFKBeFDnkPbcrDvF-vE/s1600/photo.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZtNvClSG1bSkMQxUlPGMLqnRh7eTL4N7MGgXR2a9Kd6_9T9kFaTGo0uqAMpittxI5J5QfyZAbjwtdplWlqnZAGF1JYhBhlSmPoX2X9T4VNs2bVK-mpknDbMSWZFKBeFDnkPbcrDvF-vE/s320/photo.PNG" width="213" /></a></div>Thomas raises and shows chickens. He sells eggs. Thomas works hard in the barn. It takes him a while, but finally his egg sales earn him enough money to buy his very own chicken, a Banty hen that he names Autumn. Here's the first illustration!Jana Laizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709109958191902163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7971136281780483418.post-55912049157253265822011-01-11T13:41:00.000-08:002011-01-11T13:42:48.117-08:00An Audio Book Is Born<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4Liv44vy0ct3NBjyp8ETbViZH0xeOYYljzSOfoxZ6qaJi0g1aesaCbDDTIOYZKqjDM5KDRdddUhshp6EbOJXUBefyr6HNQVFdCTWrSiNZl6JfQ9Jb9b_Vu_czQse8xvp8nq3wdf0xE7d/s1600/IMG_0718.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4Liv44vy0ct3NBjyp8ETbViZH0xeOYYljzSOfoxZ6qaJi0g1aesaCbDDTIOYZKqjDM5KDRdddUhshp6EbOJXUBefyr6HNQVFdCTWrSiNZl6JfQ9Jb9b_Vu_czQse8xvp8nq3wdf0xE7d/s320/IMG_0718.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8bDqy0t-BHlwN_Yqp81MDe_EFT1UAcUegrLAMatkSW0637uFI8hFIUkjMzzLIGJKer9dvRhMqxkJn7TzdCAKi6-cYGTd2j70hci21SVrs2npU9AplmocCFYInY2Gu9PtgsMPuODcD-sb/s1600/IMG_0707.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8bDqy0t-BHlwN_Yqp81MDe_EFT1UAcUegrLAMatkSW0637uFI8hFIUkjMzzLIGJKer9dvRhMqxkJn7TzdCAKi6-cYGTd2j70hci21SVrs2npU9AplmocCFYInY2Gu9PtgsMPuODcD-sb/s320/IMG_0707.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> It's so interesting how the Universe works. One day, a few months ago out of the blue, an Englishwoman calls me on the phone and tells me she was given my name by a mutual friend. She has been told that my daughter is a babysitter supreme (which is true) and she needs one. It turns out she has just moved to the area, is also a writer and as we speak and connect, we find we have more in common than one could believe. And to top it all off, she has moved in right across the street. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My new friend is Alison Larkin, author of the bestselling novel, The English American. She is a wonderful actress and she narrates audiobooks! She demonstrates her array of crazy voices and characters and I begin to formulate an idea. Why doesn't she narrate The Adventures of Charlie and Moon, a wonderful children's book that I published? And it just so happens, she has a tiny window of opportunity to do it - right now! We find a wonderful studio, Off The Beaten Track, right here in the Berkshires. We work for hours, but we have a blast. As I sit with the engineer in the studio directing it, we laugh so hard we can barely see. And the end result is fantastic! It will be out soon! I'll keep you posted as we get closer to our pub date! You can listen to Alison at her website:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.alisonlarkin.com/">www.alisonlarkin.com</a></div><br />
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