A Word About Redemption Stories

I love a redemption story as much as anyone. But there are certain necessary elements — remorse, concern for people who may have been hurt, an attempt to make amends, a change in behavior going forward. If those pieces are missing, it’s not a redemption arc. It’s a story of a stunted character trying to shirk responsibility.

Patricia Highsmith is the only author that immediately comes to mind who successfully made a character like this the main focus of her stories. Usually, a character of this nature would have a starring role only as an antagonist to the hero. And if said character gains power, that’s not evidence of redemption. That’s just upping the stakes.

Yes, these thoughts were prompted by current events.

 

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Meditative Librarian

pile of books

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I saw a job listing for a meditative librarian. But on second read it was metadata librarian.

Nonetheless, now that the position of meditative librarian has been created, even if only in my own mind, I aim to fill it. I will be your meditative librarian. Let’s begin.

Find a comfortable position, in a meditation hammock perhaps.

Feel the weight of the book in your hands. Allow the pages to open naturally.

Breathe in the new book or old book smell.

Feel the weight of the words in your soul.

If reading leads to thoughts, no matter. Let those thoughts occur naturally with no resistance. When you notice them, simply turn your attention back to your reading.

Feelings may arise. Allow them to be.

Let yourself sink into the words on the page. Feel the connection to the world created therein. Hold the characters in your mind. May they be happy. May they be healthy. May they overcome the story’s conflicts.

You are as one with the other readers who have inhabited this same world. All are interconnected.

Allow yourself to continue to read, not trying to control or direct your emotional responses.

Breathe in, rising action. Breathe out, denouement.

When you are ready, end the reading meditation gradually. Close the covers slowly. Take a few cleansing breaths. Stretch and allow your gaze once again to take in your surroundings.

Remember that a regular reading practice contributes to health and well-being. Set aside a time every day if possible.

Poem: Allegiance

Allegiance

The city filled with flags proclaims
its puffed-up patriotism
the billowed colors clamoring
for adoration, for awe.

The crest of a cardinal catches
my eye instead, my loyalty pledged
to saving it, to a future of
scarlet feathers brightening trees.

A constellation of white wood
anemones on the creek’s bank
garners my allegiance, my hope
for beauty in the years to come.

The first blueberries of the year
bring with them a taste of wonder
and a wish for a republic
filled with enough fruit for all.

Tomatoes, roses, rainbow stripe,
great whales, clean snow, and polar bears,
blue morpho butterflies, clear skies –
all things for which I take a stand.

-Ida Bettis Fogle, 2018

***

I’m sure I will still wear my red, white and blue as I usually do on July 4th. I will not miss my city’s fireworks display. And I still find things to celebrate about our country.

But I wrote this poem because I feel that patriotism lately is being overtaken by nationalism, and that too many people — especially those who are positioned to really do something about the environment — are more interested in immediate personal gain, while not looking at the big picture.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?: Thinking About Fred Rogers

Mister Rogers

Credit: Daren McClure, flickr

We didn’t have a television when my kids were little. We occasionally popped a DVD into the computer for them, but TV as such didn’t come into their lives until they were out of grade school. The only thing I’m sorry they missed was Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. we did read some of his books and we owned a cassette tape of his songs that they listened to again and again. So he still influenced their lives.

These days I work in a public library. Fifteen years after Fred Rogers passed away, parents are still coming in looking for his books to help their children through difficult issues. One mom recently said to me, “My first thought when I was trying to figure out how to help my son (through a loss) was, there has a be a Mister Rogers book we can find.”

Over the weekend I went with my husband and 20-year-old son to see Won’t You Be My Neighbor? — the documentary about Fred Rogers. My husband might have made it through with dry eyes. Maybe. Neither my son nor I did.

Spoiler: Was Mister Rogers really like that? According to everyone interviewed in the movie, yes, absolutely. The movie didn’t paint Fred Rogers as perfect and all-knowing. It showed how he had some growing to do through the years on some issues and that he struggled with self-doubt. He was human, but a pretty gosh-darned exemplary human.

The truly great thing about Mister Rogers was that he didn’t lie to children. He took on tough, tough subjects and let kids have their feelings about them. He never pretended children’s lives were easy. He never said, don’t be scared or don’t be angry. The vital part of his message lay in telling children those feelings are to be expected sometimes, but that there are healthy ways to express them and that you will survive having them. He also deconstructed gender stereotypes by showing that a man could be a gentle, patient, nurturer.

My newly grown son was a child who needed gentle, patient, listening adults in his life. After the movie, he seemed profoundly moved. All he could say at first was, “He really understood children and what they need.” Later we talked some more about the bigger philosophy of Mister Rogers and his message of unconditional love.

Go see the movie if you can at all. It’s a needed reminder in these dark times that there are people who strive for goodness and kindness, people who dedicate their lives to making the world better. It’s also a good reminder that heroism comes in many forms, including quiet small acts such as inviting someone of another race to soak his feet in your pool at a time when public pools were segregated.

I came away inspired to be my best self. I will try to be the person Mister Rogers believed I could be. And I will remember that even he had self-doubt, but he kept working anyway.

 

 

Thoughts on Three Billboards (Spoilers Abound)

I saw Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri more than a month ago and I’m still processing. In case you missed this in the big print up top, I’m not avoiding spoilers at all.  I specifically plan to discuss the ending. If you want to see the movie, but haven’t yet, this is your chance to stop reading.

Some meta observations first. I have lived nearly my entire life in Missouri. Before I saw the movie, I read a couple of reviews that focused heavily on how things are “in the south.” Cough, cough. I suppose the southern part of the state, bordering on Arkansas and Tennessee, is edging toward being in the south. But if you look at a map or talk to Missouri natives, you will discover that we are, by and large, mid-westerners, in geography and self-identity.

I also read a review by a New Yorker who went on at some length about why there had to be some specific allegory or needed justification for setting a movie in Missouri. What does it mean that it’s set in Missouri? he wondered. Oh hey, maybe it means that Missouri is a place where people live and have stories that involve something other than longing to be in New York. Maybe coastal cities aren’t the default or the norm. Maybe Missouri is as valid a place to set a story as anywhere else. Maybe that’s what it means. Also, to the same critic who thought it seemed artificial for Missourians to quote from literature, I can attest that some of us have read a book or two.

Though not filmed in Missouri, I felt the movie captured the look and feel of the Ozarks area fairly well. I was relieved that none of the actors used a fake, over-the-top drawl. I will nitpick with a line of dialogue when one character, who is supposed to be a Missouri native, says “here in the south.” I guess that might be where the reviewers got the idea.

I found it interesting how the movie is set in the state that is the home of Hallmark Cards, but the story is the antithesis of a typical Hallmark movie. We start with the knowledge that Frances McDormand’s character, Mildred Pierce, is awash in grief-fueled rage over the unsolved rape and murder of her daughter. Though we see a few soft, gentle moments, by the end of the movie she’s still struggling over what to do with the feelings that threaten to pull her under and drown her. She doesn’t come to a full and peaceful resolution of any kind. As a mother, I got the feeling she was never going to stop trying to find something — anything — she could do that would feel like a fierce care-taking of the daughter she could no longer truly help.

This is what made her a real and true and large character, a character with shoulders broad enough to carry such a heavy story. The viewer comes into the story in Mildred’s point of view. It’s easy to identify with her, even as her behavior becomes more and more extreme and violent. Because the first thing we see is the depth of her pain and the depth of her love.

Chief of police William Willoughby is the target of Mildred’s billboard messages. He’s portrayed in a largely sympathetic manner, as someone who looks deep and sees nuance. There’s a genuine warmth and humanity to him. It’s obvious he’s pained by the failure to catch the murderer of Mildred’s daughter. I’ve seen a lot written about him as the most unambiguously good character in the movie. BUT. Not to me. I’ve been so surprised by something that goes unmentioned over and over again that I’m starting to wonder if I imagined it. I don’t think I did.

There’s a scene with a conversation between Mildred and Willoughby, after she tussles with the dentist, where it’s revealed her ex-husband had formerly been a member of the local police force, presumably under Willoughby’s supervision. And her husband beat her. And Willoughby did not much about it, “reasonably” explaining it was a he said/she said situation, with no proof of anything. Mildred’s billboards and the pain and the grudge against the police chief go back beyond his failure to solve her daughter’s murder. There are layers here, and I’m consistently befuddled that nobody seems to mention this. If Mildred believes he didn’t try hard enough, she has some justification, considering the two of them have a history where he’s failed to help her before. On the other hand, the implication is there that Willoughby wants to make this up to her, too.

Meanwhile there’s Officer Dixon, and the first things we know about him are violent actions he’s taken, or at least everyone believes so. Everyone talks about him inflicting violence on a black citizen. However, he denies it. It’s easy to dislike him immediately. As the movie progresses, we see he does have a penchant for lashing out. But we see all of that before we know much about him as a person. Throughout the story, other characters tease him about being a mama’s boy. It’s not until much later we learn he’s hurting over the loss of his father and has made sacrifices to take care of a dependent mother.

Mildred and Dixon face off throughout the movie, but in the end, when they drive off together as allies on the same quest of vengeance, they don’t seem so different from each other. Two sides of the same coin, more like. I felt as if the film’s writer, Martin McDonagh, created a character arc for me, as a viewer. Both Mildred and Dixon engage in behavior that is just plain wrong. I questioned why I cheered, or at least sympathized with Mildred’s actions, while despising Dixon for his. I believe it was the whole context thing. With Mildred we see the suffering first, but with Dixon not much other than how he has hurt other people. The context of his life fills in later.

If there’s anything I identified as a central message of this movie, it’s this: hurt people hurt people. But not always. When a man who was savagely attacked by Dixon has a chance for revenge, he shows mercy instead. If there’s a glimmer of hope this dark movie offers us, it’s this: hurt people can sometimes rise above hurting other people.

 

 

My Year: Twelve Ways of Looking at 2017

My year in review, in terms of moods and emotions.

January: Anxiety, shock. Impending doom. Grasping at straws of hope, picking up pieces of shattered wishes. The coldest January 20th ever, the world upended. A plunging of the stomach. Fury. Sick fear. Solidarity.

February: Calls and calls and calls. Emails and emails and emails. Postcards and postcards and postcards. Small personal triumphs. Small personal resignations. Heels dug in. Grappling.

March: Nurturing others and myself. Sitting with. Starting seeds: literal physical plants and new beginnings for myself. Trying to allow myself to bloom. Focusing close to home.

April: A few sprouts, a few false starts. A little cutting loose. Seeking of wisdom and camaraderie.

May: Nostalgia. Celebration. Family. Care-taking.

June: Opening. Doing. Self care. Moments of peace and fulfillment.

July: A dreaded ordeal. Survival. Defiance. Resistance. Resilience.

August: Doing. Accomplishing. Revelry. Thoughtfulness.

September: Improving what I can. Projects. Sorting. Aesthetics.

October: Planning and researching. New goals.

November: Setbacks. Doggedness, determination. Grindstone. Head down.

December: Repeatedly dragging myself back from the brink of despair. Grim realizations. Surviving. Teetering. Holding close. Looking for the light, making the light, being the light. 

The Worst Poem I Ever Heard

Poetry Books

Credit: brewbooks. I’m sure their poetry reading was fabulous, unlike the one I’m describing.

I wish I’d said something, after the reading. I wish I’d approached the esteemed professor, though I was a young nobody, not even one of his students. I wish I’d had the nerve to tell him You’re not so enlightened. I wish I’d said to the those heaping praise on him That was some messed up crap. Sometimes I wish I’d shouted out in the middle, while he was still at the mic. I wish I’d booed while others were politely clapping.

The poetry reading was memorable, I’ll give him that. It was the late 80s or early 90s. My blood still boils decades later.

He read a serial killer poem, but not really a serial killer poem. It was about Ted Bundy, in particular, but not really about Ted Bundy. It was about a woman who had a conversation with Ted Bundy without being abducted, but it wasn’t about that, either.

The poet spun a verse about a fat girl who later discovers her girth made her an unattractive target. But think about it. How would she find that out? The poet thought he could get in the head of this young woman he called a girl, whom he referred to as a fat girl. He related her thoughts to us as he divined them — how being a fat girl (and by extrapolation unattractive, joyless, unfulfilled in life because nobody would date her) had only been a curse until that fateful day. But upon realizing her hideous visage (not his words as I remember, but the meaning behind his words as I remember) of fat had saved her, she becomes happy with her looks, for the very first time in her miserable existence. Again, I’m pretty sure miserable existence was not his exact phrase, but was his exact meaning.

At the end, some of us sat stony-faced, unclapping. At least there was that. I hope someone said something to him, showed him the many layers of wrong upon wrong in his poem. A colleague, a nephew, a daughter — someone who could make him listen. I hope he came to know. I hope he never published that poem. I hope he never again read it aloud. I hope he burned that poem. I hope he now carries around ashes of regret for having ever written it.