I'm Kind of over Being Told to Put My Hands in the Air

When I was the age for reading comic books, I had no interest in them. Instead, I read what I considered to be real books, with the occasional Archie or Katie Keene (a comic about a model which also included a paper doll in every issue). At the time, I was no book snob, and read high literature, children’s chapter books, and mysteries with the same avidity. But comic books—they had pictures, and that meant that they were not serious.

It was not until I was in college that I developed an interest in comics, and but not because I had any interest in the comics themselves. Another long held obsession, Tori Amos, led me to them. Amos, whose career was only made possible by the alternative music movement of the 90s, wrote surreal lyrics, played piano expressively, and sang breathily. Amos happened to be friends with Neil Gaiman, and even mentioned him in her lyrics. Gaiman, in turn, loosely based his Sandman character, Delirium, on Amos. Amos was invited to write the introduction to the collected volume Death: The High Cost of Living.

When I learned about Delirium, I agreed to go to the comic book store with my brother, who started collecting at the age of five, and flipped through a volume of Sandman looking for Delirium. Knowing nothing about the series, I did not know that Delirium did not figure prominently in every issue, and I was disappointed when I could not find an image of her. In addition, I did not find the illustrations appealing, and so did not brother taking one home with me. Later, my parents tracked down a Delirium T-shirt with an image that resembled Amos a good deal and also gave me copy of Death: The High Cost of Living as Christmas presents.

Amos’s introduction was beautiful, but I also found the story intriguing. Death is cheery and sweet, unlike her human companion. Her human companion is a typical teenage boy, disaffected and unhappy with his experiences. The story is dark and brilliant full of hope. It came to me at a point in my life when I particularly needed it, and I was grateful and surprised that comic books could contain such emotionally moving content. At the time, I did not desire to pursue the Sandman series, as it was Death I was in love with, and I knew that she was not the star of the other comics.

It wasn’t until my stint at Borders that I picked Sandman back up. I was in graduate school, reading lots and lots of poetry, writing lots and lots of poetry, with little time for any other reading. In addition, while there was downtime at work, it wasn’t possible to read anything of substance, because a good book would distract from a customer who might need assistance. So, I tried sneaking Preludes & Nocturnes to the information desk, and decided to buy it so that I could take it home and have it for my own. By this time, the series had long been completed, and I knew that there was a finite number of books to read. With great self-control, I spaced out the purchasing and reading of the compilations, until they were done, and I had fallen hopelessly in love with Gaiman.

Sandman tells the story of immortal icons of Dream, Death, Delirium, Desire, Despair, and Destiny. All are siblings and all are involved in the lives of mortals, to varying degrees and with varying amounts of empathy. The plot encompasses Shakespeare, myths, and history, and explores political, emotional, and ethical topics. As imaginary as the characters are, they become real in a way I had not experienced since James and the Giant Peach. Magic. Gaiman allows magic to return.

It was not until my second run of graduate school that I begun to consume graphic novels with a voracious hunger. I had moved to Oxford, Mississippi, where I knew no one, and where I found myself experiencing a culture shock worse than I felt the summer I spent in Prague. Searching for a friendly face, I found Gaiman’s The Books of Magic at the public library. In fact, while the library itself was not terribly impressive (I had been spoiled by enormous libraries in Pittsburgh), the graphic novel selection was extensive. And so, in an effort to distract myself from loneliness, I read all the books by Gaiman, and then everything that looked like a literary type book, and then anything that looked fantastic, but stopped short of superheroes. But I made flesh and blood friends, and comics were not always a necessity. Then, a few laters, when I found myself in the midst of a devastating break up and temporary bout of unemployment, I returned to comic books, this time discovering superheroes. It was not as bad as I thought it was going to be, and I was fascinated by how different interpretations of Batman could be.

For me, comic books offer popcorn reading, a relief from the intensity of reading literature and grading papers. I do not have to analyze (as much—I can never turn it off) and I find myself more forgiving of poor dialogue and plotlines. Though, I must admit, that more I read, the more I find myself aware of poor technique. However, I still feel that I am doing something frivolous, and it feels both comforting and relaxing. Now, I have series I have followed for years, such as Fables and Unwritten, as well as series I followed from the beginning, like Saga. I still wait for the collected volumes to come out, instead of purchasing monthlies, because it feels more satisfying, but I might yet come around to the phenomena of individual issues, as I did buy the first issue of Sandman: Overture.

Have comic books informed my own writing? Surely. Everything I experience, see, and hear influences my writing. And I still harbor a dream that I will write my own comic book someday. As to why comic books are so good at offering me comfort, I don’t yet know, but I continue to question. Question—always question. When we quit questioning, we are surely dead.

Pay no attention to the girl behind the book.

Nonsense and Other Chewy Delectables

Fall 2013: the semester I taught five classes, with four different preps, at three different universities. Pretty impressive, if I do say so. But there are some—well—side effects. For example, since I spend the majority of my waking hours (and sometimes even in my sleep) reading student essays and Literature (“L” capitalized purposefully) for my classes, I have an even greater taste for comic books. In fact, I am completely caught up with all of my current favorites Saga, Unwritten, Fables, and Justice League Dark. And I needed something to read.

Fine. I admit it: I am a comic book junkie.

So I had a coupon from Barnes & Noble*, so I thought I would try the second spinoff series from Fables, even though the first spinoff series, Jack of Fables, was not only painfully awful, but also painfully sexist. So, I was prepared for Fairest: Wide Awake from Bill Willingham and Matthew Sturges, in that it is supposed to be about the female characters of Fables to also be sexist and painfully terrible. The first volume, which features Briar Rose, Snow Queen, Beauty, and introduces Hadeon, the evil fairy who cursed Briar Rose to die in the first place, is not as bad as I had feared.

The story, thank goodness, is not overly sexist. The gifts which Briar Rose is given by the fairies are not unchanged from the original story: beauty, grace, kindness, all traits specifically associated with women, and not with power or men. But, fine, there is only so much that can be manipulated from the original story. And, of course, there are lots of skinny women with big boobs, but you can’t expect for the artists to switch that up, when the male readers have expectations and needs from their comics. Fine. But the tellers of the stories are predominately male. First, there is the Imp, Jonah, who, though not human, is drawn to be male. He orchestrates the first two-thirds of the book, convincing Ali-Baba to pursue Briar Rose, on the promise of riches, and then to confront the Snow Queen. As Jonah seems to be Ali-Baba’s helper, the story belongs more to him than to Briar Rose, who does not choose who wakes her and also has no guarantee on the true love that is supposedly needed to wake her.

The female characters, though they are not necessarily the main players, do have some agency. The Snow Queen, after being under the control of Geppetto for much too long, has finally broken free from his influence, and as Jonah points out, now gets to choose what kind of character she is going to be. At the same time that he is encouraging and manipulating the Snow Queen, Jonah manages to attract the attention of Hadeon, the evil fairy who is simply evil and has no intention to be anything else, and shows just this by picking a fight with the Snow Queen for no other reason than that she can. So, ultimately, the story points out that women have the opportunity to break out of their type casting (although it might mean stepping right into another unoriginal role), and also discusses love in a more realistic, albeit also pessimistic, way.

Following the main story is a short about Beast chasing a beautiful and deadly woman. Though she harms many men, he cannot bring himself to hurt her, just as she seems to have no control over her desire to lure in men with her looks and then to murder them, with great pleasure.

In conclusion (as I cannot get my students to quit writing)**, I will probably read the next volume, but I do not expect the same greatness as the first story line of Fables.

*Don’t fret—I still frequent Labyrinth, the local independent bookstore, and Fallout Shelter, my comic book dealer in Highland Park. 

**I kid—my students are pretty freaking awesome. 

For Your Viewing Pleasure: Cat in a Box. Nothing to do with Fairest, really, but she's pretty cute.

We're All Stars Now...in the Dope Show

Well, nerds, it is time to welcome another to your rank. To induct a green, yet eager geekling. Yes, I am ready. Since I am not able to go to the Clarion Writing Program this summer, as I had hoped, and since Neil Gaimen told me, in no uncertain terms that I must go next year, then I will spend this time learning the ways of the science fiction and fantasy writer.

I just finished The Illustrated Man, Ray Bradbury’s brilliant collection of short stories which predict and undo humanity. Take, for example, “Marionettes, Inc,” about an underground company who make robotic clones for their clients, and which ends with a horrible truth about marriage—no one is telling the truth.

Several of the stories I had seen before, either in written form or as filmstrips in Mrs. Dunn’s seventh grade Language Arts class. Mrs. Dunn had an affinity for dark short stories with twist endings, and somewhere she had found a trove of filmstrips, as well, some of them based on Bradbury’s stories. I vividly remember “Zero Hour,” in which a mother slowly realizes that what she and all the other adults had assumed was a game is actually a plot by aliens to invade the earth. The children, empowered by the terrestrials, will also rid the planet of all adults—mainly, their parents. It was, I believe, my introduction to creepy children in horror films.

Several of the stories are quite scary. “The Veldt,” for example, also features parents who underestimate not only their children, but also the power of technology. Set in a future world in which our homes are completely automatic and do everything for us, two distant and complacent parents begin to worry for the health of their children. They decide that the source of the children’s odd behavior is the enormous interactive television in their playroom. As of late, the set has been trained to an African veldt, complete with menacing lions. It turns out, much to the parents’ chagrin, that the television has more power than just a hold over their children.

Bradbury stories do not have happy endings. They do not, with few exceptions, show the goodness in humanity. One of the exceptions is “The Other Foot” about a community of African Americans who have been moved to Mars, and they are waiting for the first white man to arrive. The community becomes a crowd becomes a mob. They plan to put whitey on the back of the bus and make him shoe shine boy. They even show up to the rocket landing with ropes for a lynching. Unlike so many of the other stories, no one dies.

When I was a little seventh grader, it was the year I read Roots and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Both books, though they had horrible and violent scenes, ended with the message that we, as a nation, can grow and become more accepting and kinder to each other. They suggested that we will not ultimately destroy each other, but will, instead, find love. Not so with The Illustrated Man, in which, even when the tattooed man of the title seeks to find peace with his wife, he ultimately destroys their marriage. I was able to appreciate the stories in The Illustrated Man better than I did when I first encountered them at the age of twelve. And yet, there is still a part of me that cries out that people are good! We are good! Most of the time we will do the right thing! Perhaps.

If Bradbury can cause the cynic in me to rebel and believe in the goodness of people, perhaps his writing can encourage at least the fear of our evil capabilities in his readers. And if we fear, we are aware, and can change. The ending, unlike a Bradbury story, is not inevitable.

The Cocker Spaniel from Beyond the Grave

My Inheritance

The day before yesterday, in a pre-Valentimes package, the memento from my dead grandmother’s belongings arrived in the mail: a porcelain cocker spaniel figurine. The choice is well-meaning, as I have a beautiful cocker spaniel, the indestructible old-man-pup, Boogie. It’s cute. Sure, it’s cute. But it does not remind me of her.

Grandma was not shy to tell you why she loved me: my smart mouth. And she loved my smart mouth because she had one, too. She was forthright and funny, and if she hurt people's feelings once in awhile, well, maybe she helped make them stronger for it. When you have eight children, like Grandma did, you have to have a sense of humor. My mom is the oldest, and the youngest is nearly twenty years behind her. That’s not just a lot of kids, that’s a long time spent raising them.

She and Grandpa didn’t have an easy time financially, so she worked. Up until she moved out of the house they lived in for as long as I could remember, she worked part-time cleaning houses. Caryn Kadavy, figure skater, was among her clients. She was of the ilk that does not enjoy being idle, but she was not shy about telling you you could serve yourself. One Thanksgiving, as the pumpkin pie and Cool Whip were brought out, she asked if anyone would like ice cream to go with it. When we all refused, she said, “Good. I don’t have any ice cream anyway.” She did, however, go out of her way to be sure she had all of our favorite treats when we visited, including an entire bag of Doritos reserved for my younger brother.

Unfortunately, Grandma and I were not close. When I was little, we visited on major holidays and her birthday. When I was older, and moved down South, I didn’t see her for five years. When I decided to convert to Judaism, it was not something I ever discussed with her, though when I did see her again, and had a coffee at the restaurant while everyone else ate, it was explained that I was “on a diet” and later, my parents must have been more forthright, because sometime during the year before she died, she called me, and we had a brief chat. “Are you still on that diet?” she asked. And I knew that she meant keeping kosher, the Jewish diet according to Torah restrictions. And in fact, I was. I had converted the winter before. When I said yes, she said, “Good for you.” And that was the end of it.

When I brought home a Jewish boyfriend, she was welcoming, and did not even blink an eye at his yarmulke. In fact, she sent me a card simply to tell me how much she liked him.

And of all the amazing things that my grandmother did, that was the most precious to me. It was not easy for my family when I converted, and it could not have been easy for her. There were years when she attended church nearly every day, and she did her best to raise my mother, aunts, and uncles to be good Catholics. For her to offer her blessing was a real act of chesed.

I could tell you, of course, of some of Grandma’s less stellar moments, but in the end, it seems unnecessary. I am beginning to understand how death washes out the lighter stains and brings us closer, at least in the memories of those still on earth, to Gan Eden. More importantly for those still in this world, holding onto the old hurts committed by the dead does not do the departed any good, nor does it serve us. They cannot give us the satisfaction of an apology, and gripping the hurt just continues to hurt. Likewise, guilt for our own action or inaction. We cannot change the past, only the present and future. Learn from your errors and do better to those still close to you.

So, instead of a critical memory, I will celebrate my grandmother by telling a story, which is now part of family lore. One of my aunts had taken my grandmother and her two boisterous sisters out for a drink. Having enjoyed themselves perhaps a bit more than they should have, they began to flirt with the bartender. When he did not show the interest they thought their attention deserved, they began to pelt him with peanuts.

My grandmother and her sisters were kicked out of the bar. She was over the age of eighty at the time. May we all live to see such feistiness. 

Ardys Moniot

Affliction, All Stars, and Adult Rebellion

As I was getting ready for Yom Kippur and already an hour behind schedule, I realized that I had exactly one non-leather shoe. The other one is snoozing contentedly somewhere in Memphis. They were separated during Tisha A’Bav, when I was still wearing one shoe and one boot. Interestingly enough, the shoe that made it was the boot shoe. Huh.

Since I was running behind to get to Highland Park and very much desiring to get there in time to eat before the fast began, I decided to jump on New Jersey Intrastate Highway 1 and jump off at the first place where I might be likely to find non-leather shoes. Which was how I found myself dashing into Target, desperately looking looking for the footwear. Now, although I don’t consider myself a shoe person—I don’t love to go shoe shopping and I don’t spend a lot of money on shoes—I still don’t like to wear ugly shoes. And, to make the non-leather thing more difficult, the only fashion tip my mother ever gave me was to never wear sneakers with a dress. Even when I was wearing a boot, I found flats (or nearly flats) to wear because I could not bring myself to wear sneakers.

But then I saw them: black Converse All Stars. My last pair of Converse was in high school, and the orthopedist threw them in the garbage for me. He took one, bent it in half, and said, “You know what these are? Caca. You know what caca is? It’s what we Italians say instead of shit.” Away went my beautiful rebel sneakers, my one nod to rock and roll clothes.

Here they were again, staring me in the eye with the pristine white star blinking in the perfect black material. Material—just cloth. And rubber soles with rubber toes. Which meant no leather. In less than five minutes, I picked up the shoes, confirmed with a sales person that they were all rubber and cloth, found socks and insoles (to silence the voice of the podiatrist), paid, and was out the door.

I silenced my mother’s voice, too. Converse are not sneakers, exactly, certainly not tennis shoes. They might not be dress shoes, but I could get away with wearing them with a dress. I did still have a small question in my mind, though, because the point of not wearing leather is that you are to afflict yourself on Yom Kippur, to fast and also feel uncomfortable. Were the shoes with the insoles too comfortable?

It turned out that they were not uncomfortable, but the podiatrist was still right—they weren’t the best for my feet. During the Amidah, my feet fell asleep. And my toes were a bit pinched because of the room that the insoles took up. However, I made it through, prayed fervently, and drove home after breaking the fast.

In the morning, the brand new Converse All Stars were again staring at me, sticking out from under my bed. They had not been cheap and it would be a shame if there were only used twice a year. How could that be fair?

Again, I was thinking of high school, how they made me feel like a rebel, even though they were wildly popular among certain groups. Could I wear sneakers with a dress? Was I too old for the rebel shoes?

For me, this is a question of not only fashion, but propriety. I felt disdain in college when I saw newly divorced women putting on baby tees with Diva written in rhinestones. Once, I commented to my sister that she ought to shoot me in the neck if I was still wearing Emily the Strange t-shirts when I was thirty. Yes, I judged the women who dressed too young harshly. What I wondered was, didn’t they know that that super pink pink was not for them? That it did nothing for their hair or complexion? That they looked older, not younger? Harsh judgment from a girl not even in her twenties.

No, I don’t wear Emily the Strange t-shirts anymore, or t-shirts at all. I shop in the women’s section, wear dresses, and cover myself well. But I do have affectations—I have allowed my hair to grow out, and I wear a flower barrette to keep it out of my face. Would the sneakers be too much?

Perhaps I had judged those women too harshly. Perhaps they deserved to allow themselves to dress like the youth for a moment, to flaunt their bodies. After all, they were coming out of the worst of it, from marriages in which they were not appreciated and probably rarely felt attractive. If clothing made them feel rejuvenated, wonderful. Down the road, maybe they would allow themselves to find a middle ground between the juniors section and the garbage bag shaped dresses they wore during their marriages.

I decided that today, I would wear my rebel shoes, with a purple cotton dress. At the copier, a woman confronted me. “Are you a student?” she asked. Before I could answer, she pushed me out of the way and made her copies.

Are the sneakers too young for me? Maybe. Probably. But I get to be a fashion rebel again, and atone for the judging I did many years ago, by in turn, being judged myself. So, shoot me in the neck, if need be. At least I’ll be wearing cute shoes.   

What to Expect When a Southern Belle Is Transplanted in New Jersey

I can call myself a Southern Belle, right? Because that's what I am, right? At least, my heart's still there.

So. New Jersey. By far the strangest thing is the driving. Everyone I met seems pretty normal, so I don’t know where they got all the maniacs driving the cars. Changing lanes is taking your life into your hands. And making a U-turn—ha! Basically, you have to cross the state border before you can turn around. But Princeton is very picturesque and it is lovely to walk outside and not immediately begin to sweat. (You hear that, Memphis? When are you going to simmer down?)

A lovely couple from Highland Park agreed to host me for Shabbat. They were welcoming and sweet, served delicious meals with great conversation, and invited fabulous guests for Saturday lunch. They even had two very cute cats.

The service was only slightly different from what I’m used to, and of course the shul looked different and the mehitza was different. The important part, however, was the things that were the same. Listening to those around me sing the first part of the “Shema,” following along in the Chumash as the week’s parsha, “Shoftim,” was chanted, and taking three steps back, then three forward, before saying the “Shemoneh Esrei.” All these things occurred not only at Ahavas Achim in Highland Park, New Jersey, and Anshei Sphard Beth El Emeth in Memphis, Tennessee, but in every congregation of every shul in the world on every Shabbat. It felt good to know that certain things will not change. It felt even better to know that, as a Jew, I am part of a larger community, a greater force and a stronger pulse, all doing our best to be close to G-d.

Shavua Tov, y'all. 

Cabin in the Woods--Not a Horror Story!

I had the pleasure of spending this past weekend with my entire family: Mom, Dad, three brothers, one sister, two sisters-in-law, one brother-in-law, one nephew and one brother’s girlfriend. All in the same cabin in the mountains of Pennsylvania. And it was relaxing and beautiful and pleasant.

Three mustached, but beautiful ladies. My sister-in-law, me, and my brother's lovely girlfriend.

My family has many ways in which they show how much they love and care about me. One of the very important ways that they demonstrate their love is by respecting that I keep Shabbat and kosher. They do their best to understand not only the Halacha (laws) but also ask questions in order to better understand. They are careful to leave on bathroom lights and watch television in another room, as well as planning activities that will not force me to break Shabbat. For example, we went hiking (I was so glad my ankle held up!), played board games, and retold stories for the benefit of my baby brother’s girlfriend. Keep in mind, my baby brother is about to begin his junior year at Emory, so he is a baby only in the pecking order of the family.

The visit reminded me of how much I miss seeing everyone in person. We talk on the phone often, but it does not replace a real-life hug. And my family are definitely huggers.

Being from a big family is a blessing. There was always someone with which to argue, play, and discuss problems. We tormented each other but protected each other from outside tormenters. I always knew that my teachers would be pleased to see another Green, because of the impression that my older brother and sister set before me. Now, as adults, we have strengthened our relationships, which grow and change as we grow and change. We are friends as much as we are siblings, and that is not something that everyone can say. I am very appreciative to be so close with my brothers and sister. I guess my parents must have done something right.

My adorable nephew and I mug for the camera.