Thanks Cynthia For Asking...
May 21, (Serendipitously the birthday of my honey, the best step-dad, Curtis) Cynthia Leitich Smith posted my guest blog "Kelly Bennett on Celebrating Fathers: Daddy, Father, Pop, Son, Shel, Cash and Cole." In asking me to write about what inspired my 2 new picture books, Dad and Pop, illustrated by Paul Meisel and Your Daddy Was Just Like You, illustrated by David Walker, she challenged me to undergo a little psychotherapy. Here's the link to my guest post. And whatever you do, don't stop there--Cynthia's website, Cynsations is as rich and luscious and smart and funny as Cyn herself! Indulge!
Just Who Do We Think We Are?
Anyone living in the USA whose ancestors weren’t immigrants raise your hands? 
Only Native American’s, First Nations People, should have a hand up…and then only pure bloods.
My American heritage dates back about 150 years, post Civil War, post slavery. (I like that part—it’s nice not taking blame). My father’s family came from Sweden and England, and were part of the Western Expansion. (Indian Relocation? Guilty). My mother is of Portuguese ancestry (with a little Scot-English we like to pretend never happened). Our Portuguese ancestors came here from the Azores in ships much like Columbus’s Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, small, crude, wooden. The ships sailed around the Horn—Cape Horn, the tip of South America, a journey called “a great challenge” by sailing aficionados—stopped in Hawaii and finally arrived in San Francisco Harbor. Immigrants who traveled this route were called “Green Horns.”
My grandfather’s mother, her husband and children left the Azores in the late 1800s. Long months later, my grandfather’s mother was the only one in her family to step ashore. Her husband and children died during the crossing. A “green horn,” alone, poor and grieving, she took the best job she could get, doing laundry. She remarried and had one son, my grandfather, Joseph Thomas Silva, born in America.
When I was 8 or so my grandparents were visiting and my step-father, having recently joined the Elks Club, proudly took us to his Club . As Elks do, the men got to comparing how long they had been members. My grandfather, also an Elk, pulled out his card. The man he was talking with whistled. “Wow! You’ve been a member a long time,” he marveled.
My grandfather looked at him. “I would have been a member longer, but back in my day, you wouldn’t let my kind join.”
My grandfather’s story is far from unique. If you’re descended from recent immigrants, you may know first hand how hard life is for anyone coming to America who does not speak American English with a USDA approved accent—aka one traceable to a southern, northern, Midwestern or eastern state—or broadcaster bland. Others, like me, look back through American history, through your own family history. You’ll uncover layer upon layer of injustices and difficulties new immigrants endured before finally being accepted as Americans. Sure, we love, love, love having “them” --African “them” to plow our fields, Chinese “them” to build railroads, Italian “them” to build our cities, Mexican “them” to harvest, clean, sweep, paint, garden, do all the “dirty jobs” we don’t want to do. But who do they think they are wanting citizenship? That may have been our ancestors’ right, but its not theirs…
What about that statue in New York Harbor, Lady Liberty, officially “Liberty Enlightening the World”? Should we sandblast the words off the base of her statue: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses?” Or paste a new sign over it: Only the wealth, white, and those under “work/study contracts" from Eastern Europe need apply, the rest of you immigrants—especially those of you already living and working and paying taxes here—shut up, do your job then get out. History be damned, the good old US of A is Full Up so Get Lost…
The Longer, Winding Road
With regards to making my way around, after five years living in Jakarta, I thought I had it figured out. Feeling quite capable and confidant about riding in a taxi--many of our friends take taxi’s everywhere—I had Sugiman, our Friday driver, drop me at the SOS Medical Clinic, and continue on his way to the airport to meet our friend, Justus’s flight. Justus and his sister Trinity are visiting us for a few weeks. While they are here, we are flying to Kalimantan where we’ve organized a weekend-long boat trip to view the orangutan in the wild. Although malaria is not much of a risk, the trip organizers suggest participants take malaria prevention medication. As expected, I zipped into the clinic, and a half-hour later zipped back out, Malarone in hand, and asked the car-call attendant to hail a taxi.
Blue Bird is the preferred Taxi company in Jakarta, because the drivers are supposed to be trained and know their way around. Borrowing on Rick’s line from Casablanca, of all the drivers in all the taxis in all of Jakarta, I had to get the one driver who didn’t have a clue where I wanted to go.
In basic, gramatically incorrect but servicable Indonesian, I rattled off my street, nearby main roads, the neighborhood, even Pasar Mingu, a large traditional market near my home (which every Jakartan knows well. It's like saying at the base of the Eiffel Tour in Paris). He shook his head at every possibility. Was he saying no, that he didn't understand me? Or no, that he didn't know those places?
“Ask the guard,” I suggested, pointing out the window to the main opening the clinic gate.
The driver looked back at me, “Where is this place?” He asked. He didn’t know where he had picked me up?
“SOS Medical Clinic” I said. I felt my eyebrows rise and tried to keep the duh…out of my voice.
He nodded, and then asked the guard something, but whatever answer he got, it was not satisfactory.
“Tidak apa apa,” I said, “no problem, I’ll call my house. My maid can tell you where I live.” So I pulled out my handphone, called Rusnati, and asked her to give him directions.
The driver pulled the taxi to the side of the road, took the phone and listened for a second before turning back to me.
“What road is this?” he asked.
Needless to say, it was a longer, winding road home...
What Kind of Excuse is “Too Busy”? or If Only Thoughts Transmitted…
I am disappointed. After committing to posting a blog entry every week, and faithfully keeping that commitment for more than a year, I dropped the ball. Not just once and not with a good reason—“good” meaning the Internet crashed or I did. What’s my excuse: I’ve been too busy… How busy have I been? I’ve been so busy Kelly’s Fishbowl was booted from my list of “most visited” internet sites. That’s disgusting. How can I expect anyone else to remain faithful to my blog if I can’t even do it myself?
Those unblogged postings belong on a list along with letters I never wrote, calls I didn’t make, stories I never finished, revisions I didn't make, friends I didn’t keep up with.... It’s not that I haven’t thought about doing these things. Oh the things I have thunk! If only the head letters I’ve written and head chats I’ve held could be transmitted… Unfortunately (or fortunately) these mind writings and chats usually take place while I’m driving or waiting somewhere away from my computer, however never far from a pen and paper, as I always keep those in my purse. But, I get carsick if I write in a car, the economy section on a plane is so tight that I’ll gut-elbow the passenger next to me if I try to write on the plane or pull out my computer. Yes, I could have opted for the smaller size laptop. Yes, I have tried talking into a tape recorder while driving. No clue how those road stories and letters turned out as I have never transcribed them—I can’t stand listening to my own voice. The excuses go on….
You know the adage “if you want something done, ask a busy person to do it?” I’m one of those busy people. Aren’t we all? Busy as I am, I seem to be getting done only “what’s expected” i.e.: the things others (except my husband) ask me to do, and things others tell me are important. Isn’t that how it is with so many things? We stay really busy doing what we should, so busy in fact that we are often too busy to do what we want. Never mind what we promise ourselves (or our husbands) we will do.
Take writing, for instance. During the two years I worked toward a Masters Degree in Writing for Children and Young Adults at Vermont College of Fine Arts, I committed to 25 hours a week of work on the program. During those hours, and more, I read copious books and maintained a summarized biography, wrote at least 20 pages of new work and 20 pages of revised work, along with an essay (or the equivalent) every month. Many things got in the way of my completing my monthly packets, but somehow, someway, I found the time to do the work. Illness, travel, family issues, surgery, moving…baaahhhhhh, I was never too busy. Upon graduation, I said to myself: “Self, you’re used to this schedule. You like it. You’re happy when you are writing, reading, creating…so stick with it.” But did I?
These missing blog entries are a prime example. I love writing the blog. When events in my Jakarta life stir me, I can’t wait to blog it. Blogging allows me to consider issues and vent.
(Boy howdy, if you could have read the blog I thought while watching the anti, anti-immigration law protest in New York last week…)
But you can’t, because I only thought it. To paraphrase my friend Beverly: “spit in one hand, think in another, rub them together and what have you got?”
Until they do connect thought transmitters directly to my brain, as depicted by M.T. Anderson in his book Feed, I need to get really busy pleasing me. So, I’m renewing my vow: I here by commit to unbusying myself enough to do more than only think it; I’m going to write it.
Tra-La, It's Here, That Lusty Time of Year!
"It's May, It's May....the lusty month of May/The time of month when everyone goes blissfully astray....It's time to do a wreched thing or two/And try to make each precious day one you'll always rue..."--from CAMELOT, Music by Frederick Lowe, Lyics by Alan Jay Lerner.
This is a gloroous weekend! Isn't it grand when spring blooms!!! NYC is fabulous! I'm visiting my daughter, Lexi. We spent the day day walking around, shopping, looking at people in all manner of costume, eating...such fun! We even stumbled upon a bunch of merry makers hoisting a ribbon and flower festooned May Pole. Loved it!. You can smell life in the air! Love blooming! Everyone and everything growing, streching up to the sun...love that! We are having an al fresco dinner in her tiny Soho apartment with the windows open and the music playing. The neighbors downstairs have pointed their computer/tv to the wall and are projecting car races on the side of the building. I am heading outside to sit on the fire escape, drink a glass of wine and enjoy! It's May, It's May...a Lively Lush Display!
Come on... Fluff Up! Spruce Up! Perk Up! It's spring....time of rebirth, regrouping, revitalizing... The time of "Yes You May!" Make it your YES YOU MAY!!!
I am saying Yes!....yes, Yes, YES!!!
Dad and Pop is Here! For Father's Day and Everyday!
Welcome Dad and Pop: An Ode to Father's And Stepfathers, fresh, shiny and new from Candlewick Press (April 28, 2010). The brilliant artist, Paul Meisel, has framed the story as a delightful whimsical scrapbook! Dad and Pop is a celebration of loving fathers and father figures--however they happen to come into a child's life. When creating the story, I particularly wanted to honor the men who helped my babies, Max and Lexi, grow into their own: Curtis, Steven and best bud, John; and my brother, Joe, who is an amazing dad to Devin and Grace!
So Much for Being a Rock Star...
I’m currently on a month-long “tour” of the states which began on April 7-8th with the Corpus Christi Book Festival. What an amazing event! The festival, which celebrated its 10 anniversary this year, is the combined efforts of public librarians, 2 colleges, and community sponsors, and results in more than 2000 Pre-K students meeting authors and illustrators, sharing stories and activities, celebrating reading and books! One of the delights of being a children’s book author is watching a reader's face alight when he/she recognizes my book. “You wrote the goldfish book?” They say, as though I had created one of the eight wonders of the world. And, at the end of a school visit, if I get hugs, waves and high fives from students, my day is made.
After visits to the CC Book Festival, Texas Library Association in San Antonio, and Field Store Elementary in Waller, having been hugged and high-fived a lot, I was feeling like a total children’s book “Rock Star" as I cranked up the car stereo and zoomed down to Victoria, Texas for a visit to Chandler Elementary. Lady Bird would have delighted in the roadsides festooned with gay wildflowers. The skies were bright, the roads were clear, and the music fine.
I hit the Victoria town limits sometime after 7:00 pm. Puffed up proud of myself for having arrived—without having to double back--but not quite sure where I was headed (since I had forgotten to Google Map the school) I followed signs to downtown. There are several large, wide columned, colonial style homes, what looks like army barracks near the town center, and an amazing castle-like stone, garroted courthouse/jail compound, and a town square, complete with gazebo a glitter with twinkle lights—which affirmed the feeling that I had arrived somewhere special. This was not your typical small Texas town; this was a town with history and mystery. A Thursday night concert was underway in the town square—icing on my happy cake. I pulled my car into a vacant spot and cut the engine.
When I opened the door, the night air engulfed me like a velour robe. Food and drink tents lined one side of the square. White clothed, round tables with twinkling lanterns, resembled a wedding reception, were clustered under one of the tents—a fundraiser dinner for the symphony (who knew Victoria even had a symphony!). Relishing the night, the small town feel, the spring in my step, after hours of tense driving, the folksy/country music blaring from giant speakers, I stepped out into the night.
Locals watched as I walked, wondering who I was, and what I wanted. One waved, another snapped my photo. I feigned pseudo-mystery woman.
The band, comprised of a one-time rocker, folksy style female singer, pixyish keyboard player with a dark bob held back a sunglass headband, computer programmer-like drummer and geek bass guitarist, was...enthusiastic. While the band performed original compositions, each prefaced by a chatty introduction, I circled the square several times, watching couples and families enjoying the evening, then ducked under bands of yellow “caution” tape guarding the entrance to the Subway. An eager-to-close teenager smiled when I asked the way to Chandler Elementary. She consultedwith her co-worker, then gave clear instructions accompanied by descriptive hand-motions. “Go that way, turn that way---you’ll go through lots of light…and through the tunnel…when you get to the HEB Supercenter, you have to turn… if you hit the highway, you missed it.”
Hers were my kind of directions. Not only did I not “miss it,” I knew I had arrived when I spotted the Chandler Elementary Marquee glowing: “Welcome, Children’s Book Author, Kelly Bennett.” I slowed and rolled past,enjoying the sight. They were ready for me! Tomorrow was going to be a great day!
Feeling so like a rock star rolling into town the night before a big gig, I cruised into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Express. After checking in, I wheeled the luggage cart out to my car—parked in the reservations only area, because the hotel clerk said I could—and began unloading my car. I hosted my 2 giant duffles, computer bag, bag of books, bag of snacks and sweater onto the cart then turned to check what I had missed. Behind me, I heard a car drive up. Then, a cart rolling down the road…”just another guest unloading, I figured, big deal.
The cart noise speeded up. “Fun! They’re running,” I thought.
However, rather than rolling toward the door, the cart seemed to be rolling away. “What????” I turned to see why.
It wasn’t another guest’s cart….It was mine! My cart was rolling down the drive…down the street…down toward the intersection—my cart, with my duffles, my sweater, my purse, my computer bag flapping in the breeze as it zoomed!
Clutching the grocery sack of take-away veggies, water, eye drops, my trash bag, phone, trash—an armload of who knows?—I full out, raced toward the cart. I had one chance to catch it.
As I ran, I had the feeling that this could not, no way, end well…either I was going to miss the cart, or I was going to lose my armload. But what else could I do? That cart was making off with my stuff….the sight of my cart colliding with an oncoming car flashed through my mind as I ran….
I reached out my arm, closed my eyes, and made a lucky grab for it….
It happens every time: No sooner does that fantastically great, fabulous head-swelling “Wow! You wrote the goldfish book!” Rock-star feeling hit than something—like a runaway luggage cart—deflates me.
…Gone…gone…gone…whoo-ohh-ohhh-oh...
Got 3 Minutes?
Really, what can you do in 3 minutes? Brush you teeth? Check Face Book? Put in a load of laundry? Or… The 4th Round of ALL THINGS CONSIDERED NPR’s 3 Minute Fiction Contest is closed. The challenge this round was for writers to send original works of fiction that could be read in three minutes or less and to incorporate 4 words into their stories: button, plant, trick, and fly—used in any form.
With the help of 1st readers from the Iowa Writer’s Project, Ann Pachett, author of the novels "Bel Canto" and "Run,” is judging the more than 3800 entries. While the reading/judging is underway, Ann tantalizes listeners with “interesting snippets” from entries each week on ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. During, Sunday’s chat with host Guy Raz, Patchett noted that she is “pleasantly surprised” by the entries, “stories have a good shape, something happens in them…” Imagine all that in around 600 words!
Notable Round 4 entries are posted on the website: www.npr.org/threeminutefiction, along with finalist and winners from the 3 previous rounds of the 3 Minute Fiction Contest.
3rd Round: Writers submitted original works of fiction inspired by this photograph.
2nd Round: Submissions were original works of fiction that begin with this sentence: "The nurse left work at five o'clock."
1st Round: Submission rules were simplest: original works of fiction that could be read in three minutes or less.
Have 3 unscheduled minutes? Read some short fiction. You’ll be surprised, impressed and inspired!