Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
Before sitting down, I took a deep breath and shook out my hands as I paced Renaldo’s small work area. “Why are you so nervous?” I asked myself, then closed my eyes before answering, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because your father appears to be selling weapons of mass destruction to terrorists.” A bitter laugh erupted at the absurdity of the situation.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love my father. I truly did. But Dad was a control freak. I’d studied enough psychology in college to understand he had many of the classic criteria for Narcissistic Personality Disorder*, often considered the archetypal CEO signature, and, sadly, what makes them, and my father, so successful. Yet he was charming, enough to manipulate just about anyone into doing just about anything. If they didn’t comply, he’d humiliate them, without shame or remorse. He’d exploit every frailty to get what he wanted, and was proud of it, because he was successful and powerful and no one ever challenged him. He’d be called a sociopath if it weren’t for his ability to love. He genuinely cared for my mom and me. Yet I’d always believed there was someone in his past, someone special, unlike anyone before or since, someone he loved but lost. I asked him once after catching him with that wistful look on his face, and, for a moment, he looked like he might shed a tear, but he recovered and denied it. I even asked my mother, and her reaction was similar. Made me wonder if this woman who didn’t exist had anything to do with how my father had ultimately turned out. But while I loved him, I wasn’t willing to endure what my mom had, his need to dominate, control, and demand total loyalty. That became obvious with every crush I’d had since I was fifteen. But the captain was different. My father had chosen him for me. And he was someone my dad would envy for a number of reasons, his military service most notably. Dad admired the brave souls who served our country, so I understood his interest in the captain. Thinking back on the info I remembered concerning my new bodyguard, I became curious, as well. And who could resist talking about themselves when someone else was so interested, right? That could be my way in. But I had to be contrite first if he was ever to believe my regard was genuine. To that end, I went in search of the dashing Captain Esprit. No time like the present since I had no idea how susceptible he’d be or how long it might take to compromise him. Knowing how seriously he took his job, I chose his one day off to get the ball rolling. Since I knew nothing about his personal life, I started chatting with his detail backup, Cyril, a cheerful-looking fellow, and one of the few men Captain Esprit seemed to trust and like. “Cyril?” I said as he scouted the food court at the U-Dub’s Husky Den. “Yes, Miss Lasette?” he replied with a glance over his shoulder. “Would you mind sitting down with me? I’ll buy dinner, and we can eat while I ask your advice about something.” He nodded to his team member nearby, then said, “I’d be happy to. Let me secure a table. Go ahead and grab me a spinach salad. My wife says I need to eat better.” He patted his stomach, which was pretty damn lean for such a large man. I grabbed our food, paid, and joined Cyril in the far corner near an emergency exit. He helped unload the tray, but instead of digging in, he sat back in his chair and cracked a jovial smile, the white of his teeth in stark contrast to the smooth darkness of his skin. Though an intimidating giant, Cyril was gentle, kind, and soft-spoken, and I both liked and trusted him. “What’s on your mind, Miss Lasette?” he asked, his southern drawl smooth as honey. “Cyril, it’s been over a month. I hope you feel comfortable enough to use my given name.” He grinned. “Sure thing, Miss Reina. Now, what can I help you with?” I started in on my salad and motioned for him to do the same. It was easier to keep my attention on the food rather than meeting Cyril’s eyes. “It’s Captain Esprit.” “Ah, a very good man,” he said after swallowing a bite. “It’s no secret we haven’t gotten off on the best foot. Not that I blame him. As team leader, he’s been caught in the middle of my feud with my father.” I glanced at Cyril to gauge his reaction, but I saw no judgment. “I admit, I’ve been acting poorly, hoping the captain would reconsider and move on. It’s common knowledge I don’t want a security detail following my every move.” “But necessary, Miss Reina. There’re all kinds of crazies out there, jus’ waitin’ to stir up trouble, hear their names on the news, ‘specially when it comes to pol’tics. Your daddy’s a target now, which puts you at risk. Collateral damage. It’s the skipper’s job to see that doesn’t happen, and he takes it very seriously.” “I understand. And I want to trust him as much as you, my father, and the rest of my team. It’s just that…he’s more or less in charge of my life right now, and yet, I know so little about him. With all the tension between us, I doubt he’d open up if I asked. I just want to feel at ease about him, to know what kind of man he is. “The day I met Captain Esprit, my father told me a little about him, but I refused to listen, hoping I’d get my way and he’d back off. Now, I’m stuck in this position for at least the next year, feeling vulnerable to the one person sworn to protect me, all because I don’t know enough about him. Can you see how unnerving that is, to know nothing of the man who holds my life in his hands?” Cyril pushed the remains of his lunch aside and swiped a napkin across his lips, then rested his elbows on the table with his hands knotted together. “Sure, I guess I can understand that. So, what d’you wanna know?” “Anything. Everything. Whatever you feel comfortable sharing. I’m not asking for any deep, dark secrets. I just want to know the man better.” He relaxed back in his seat, and over the next hour, I learned about Captain Kynan Esprit’s past, his time in the Marines and the incidents behind many of his commendations. Then there were his years in the Secret Service and the scandal he was scapegoated for, all professional aspects easily confirmed with a little research, but nothing personal I could use. The captain and Cyril had met in the Corps, served together in Iraq, and grew close during Kynan’s last days there, then even more so after his discharge. While Cyril explained he couldn’t share any details—Top Secret, he said—he’d helped pull the captain out of a horrendous situation during his last mission. They considered their friendship sacred, to such a point he felt he couldn’t share much without permission. Frustrating, but I respected him for that. “Any advice on how to approach him?” I asked. “I don’t want to continue with this strained relationship. It’s too much work to constantly fight.” Cyril rested his warm fingers along my forearm. “Apologize, Miss Reina. And treat him with the dignity and respect he deserves. That’s all anyone wants really. The captain’s a good man. Honest. Hard-workin’. Give him a chance to prove it to you.” He ended with the kind smile I was so used to. “Thanks, Cyril, I will,” I said and paused. “In fact…I’d like to get started right away. Do you know where he is?” “On a Thursday night? Probably down at Kells.” “That Irish pub in Post Alley?” “The very one.” I wiggled my brow. “You know, I haven’t been down to Pike Place in months. Care for a little sightseeing?” “Oh, Miss Reina, that whole area down there’s a zoo of tourists.” “Better bring Felix then. Come on, let’s go.”
“It was kind of…musical, don’t you think?” I said. He snorted then turned onto his side and ran his finger across my cheek. “A virtual symphony.” He leaned in and kissed me like we’d been reunited after a long separation then laid his head back down and stared into my eyes. “I could make music with you forever, Reina.” I sucked in a short breath. “What does that mean?” “I think you know.” “Maybe, but you should tell me anyway…just to be perfectly clear, so we’re on the same page of sheet music…so to speak.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he continued to gaze at me. “I might not have an extensive history in the romance department, but I think what I’m feeling is…love.”
First, be prepared to get to know our main character in the worst ways possible, as he goes through trauma that many soldiers receive during "service" to our country... Because this book proves that when you are trying to act in an honorable way to fulfill your duties, you may find that strictly following orders will place unbelievable stress on a man...who...cares...
Take, for instance, a Captain who is just finishing out and clearing his unit when he hears a young girl screaming and then sees her being dragged into a hut. Most good guys would immediately act to help. Yet it would be against orders... Worse, when he notifies his best friend who is also leading the evacuation, he talks him into helping... It was the time when terrorists were known for killing the enemy by beheading... Yes, that was done while the Captain was also being beaten...
The second job was in Secret Service back home, but as he learned about what he would be doing, he was also being told that what he had done on his last mission--disobeying orders and the results--he learned that he would be watched carefully when handling anything in the future... So that when, a 7-year-old daughter of the vice-resident had specifically asked for him to be part of her guard instead of another man she really didn't like, for several reasons, it was approved, with conditions... But, what do you do with a young girl who obviously has turned to you in complete trust to keep her safe... and then have her kidnapped when there were rumors about inappropriate connection...and her mother had refused to have him around her? Again, the Captain disobeyed orders and ran to the location where the little girl was last seen, considered the methods he had trained her to ensure she could be safe when he wasn't there... and immediately went to where he thought she might be... Only to have her come out to face a gunman aiming at her... Another death, but it wasn't his charge... He killed the man who had been aiming his gun...
Some might say that it was because of his excellent work in saving the little girl that he was once again reassigned. The Captain wasn't too sure about that. This time a presidential candidate wanted him on duty as his daughter's personal guard. Only thing was, she was 28, absolutely did not want a guard following her, and the Captain decided she was a rich snob and that he was once against stucked with a penalty...
This time the Captain was prepared and he set the rules, one of which would be that he would choose his guard team, but knew that he would be walking a tight rope as it was well known that there would be many who would look to the family of a presidential candidate as a potential source of leverage... Which did happen... Her father then decided to send them to a location far away and well guarded to live until after the election... Needless to say that the daughter was quite upset, had bad memories of that location, and was angry she had no control over her own life... But she had begun to trust the Captain... Because, of course, when two people are located where few people would be, that could lead to...
But while the personal lives of Captain Esprit and Miss Lassette were forced into being through the political campaign of her father, readers will watch as, in the background, questionable political decisions begin to be taken surrounding the Captain... Were these actions to control his life so that he'd be forced to do whatever he was assigned to do? Or, as often occurs, were those actually involved in criminal activities, the type that felt that nobody was smart enough to realize what was actually happening?
The Captain was already thinking of conspiracies. But it wasn't until the relocation to Spain occurred, and there was so much free time, that exploration of all of the buildings, including what was called a shed, but which was actually filled with both valuables as well as records, that the two, who had now become friends, leading to more, got busy going through those records and discovering that, perhaps, the candidate for the presidency was involved in major criminal deals that could lead to future danger for the world...
Folks, I even had to check to see when this book was published (2024). For me, and perhaps actually intended to do so by the author, the fact that this turned out to be a political thriller was, in my mind, too familiar and followed closely the reality we've been horrified by for the past decade. Was in coincidentally that actions, such as blackmail, lies, subordinates being forced to act based on authority of their boss(es)? The only salvation was that a hero and a concerned daughter came together to learn more about what was actually happening; and, consequently to fall in love...
As the book moves forwarded all of the bad actors are revealed who were either bad guys or who have been forced by blackmail to do things they didn't plan to do, for the sake of...greed by the true leader. Action becomes fast and dangerous as individuals are after both the Captain and the presidntial candidate's daughter... One bright spot was that the Captail was able to call upon his fellow marines who had rescued him during that last mission, and readers can watch as loyalty, earned and not demanded, is the basis of true leadership...
I got so caught up matching fiction with reality that I immediately downloaded the next book... So watch for my thought on what happens then! This "could" be a must-read for those who need to really understand just how corruption can indeed occur within our government...
It is impossible to believe anything in a world that has ceased to regard man as man, that repeatedly proves that one is no longer a man.--Simon Wiesenthal, The Sunflower
I promise you that I do not purposely choose the books I will next read... And yet, the stories arrive as if arranged... By God? You see, I can't help but compare, to a smaller significance, the "disappearing" of immigrants from America via ICE's removal of those who lived in America for years, by lying and claiming that they were all criminals and gang members, under this administration. Both actions are based upon hate, or hunger for power--for no reason other than that they have a different heritage... What evil can explain actions so cruel?
From somewhere I learned that Donald Trump kept a copy of Mein Kampf on his bedside table when he was young... It was quite easy, therefore, to see the very real comparison as I learned of Reiner beating his brother in the exceprt below, who rose quickly in the German military forces... While at the same time, remembering how, when his Trump's brother, who had become an alcoholic, died, DJT worked to ensure that his two children would not receive their family inheritance as was normal in families... see books by niece, Mary Trump, by searching her name in th right-hand column...
Josef: I will not answer to the other name. That person, he is someone I like to think I have never been. But this isn’t true. Inside each of us is a monster; inside each of us is a saint. The real question is which one we nurture the most, which one will smite the other. To understand what I became you must know where I came from. My family, we lived in Wewelsburg, which was part of the city of Büren in the district of Paderborn. My father was a machinist by trade and my mother kept house. My earliest memory is of my father and mother fighting over money. After the first Great War, inflation spiraled out of control. Their savings, which they had diligently put away for years, were suddenly worth nothing. My father had just cashed in a ten-year insurance policy, and the proceeds did not even cover the cost of a newspaper. A cup of coffee was five thousand marks. A loaf of bread, two hundred billion marks. As a boy, I remember running with my mother to meet my father on payday, and then began the mad rush to the shops to purchase goods. Often, the shops had run out. Then my brother, Franz, and I would be sent at twilight into the fields of farmers who lived outside of Wewelsburg, to steal apples from the trees and potatoes from the ground. Not everyone suffered, of course. Some had invested in gold early on. Some speculated in fabric or meat or soap or produce. But most middle-class Germans, like my family, were ruined. The Weimar Republic, shiny and new after the war, was a disaster. My parents had done everything right—worked hard, saved well—and to what end? Election after election, no one seemed to have the answer. The reason I tell you this is that everyone always asks: How could Nazis come to power? How could Hitler have had such free rein? Well, I tell you: desperate people often do things that they normally would not do. If you went to the doctor and he said you had a terminal disease, you’d probably walk out of that office feeling pretty low. Yet if you shared this news with friends, and one told you, “You know, I had a friend who was diagnosed with that, too, and Doctor X cured him right away.” Well, maybe he is the biggest quack, maybe he charges two million dollars for a consultation—but I bet you’d still be on the phone to him immediately. No matter how educated you are, no matter how irrational it seems, you will follow a glimmer of hope. The National Socialist German Workers’ Party, it was that ray of light. Nothing else was working to fix Germany. So why not try this? They promised to get people back to work. To get rid of the Treaty of Versailles. To regain the territory we’d lost in the war. To put Germany back in its rightful place. When I was five years old, Hitler tried to take over the government at a beer hall—the Munich Putsch—and failed miserably by most accounts. But he learned that the way to lead a revolution was not violently but legally. And at his trial in 1924, every word Hitler spoke was reported in the German newspapers, the National Socialist Party’s first propaganda onslaught. You will notice I say nothing about the Jews. That is because most of us didn’t know a single Jew. Out of sixty million Germans, only 500,000 were Jews, and even those would have called themselves Germans, not Jews. But anti-Semitism was alive and well in Germany long before Hitler became powerful. It was part of what we were taught in church, how two thousand years ago, the Jews had killed our Lord. It was evident in the way we viewed Jews—good investors, who seemed to have money in a bad economy when no one else had any. Selling the idea that the Jews were to blame for all of Germany’s problems was just not that difficult. Any military man will tell you that the way to pull a divided group together is to give them a common enemy. This is what Hitler did, when he came to power in 1933 as chancellor. He threaded this philosophy through the Nazi Party, directing his diatribes against those who leaned left politically. Yet the Nazis pointed out the linkage between Jews and the left; Jews and crime; Jews and unpatriotic behavior. If people hated Jews already for religious reasons or economic reasons, giving them another reason to hate them was not really going to be difficult. So when Hitler said that the biggest threat to the German state was an attack on the purity of the German people, and so her uniqueness must be guarded at all costs—well, it gave us something to be proud of again. The threat of Jews was in the mathematics. They would mingle with ethnic Germans in order to raise their own status and in doing so, would bring down Germany’s dominance. We Germans needed Lebensraum—living space—to be a great nation. Without room to expand, there was little choice: you went to war to conquer territory and you got rid of the people who were a threat to Germany, or who weren’t ethnic Germans like you. By 1935, when I was already a young man, Germany had left the League of Nations. Hitler announced that Germany would be rebuilding its army, which had been forbidden after the first Great War. Of course, had any other country—France, England—stepped in and stopped him, what happened might not have happened. But who wanted to go back to war that quickly? It was easier just to rationalize what was happening, to say he was only taking back what had once belonged to Germany. And in the meantime, in my country, there were jobs again—factories for munitions and guns and planes. People were not making as much money as they used to, and they were working longer hours, but they were able to support their families. By 1939, the German Lebensraum extended through the Saar, the Rhineland, Austria, the Sudetenland, and the Czech lands. And finally, when the Germans moved into Danzig, Poland, the English and French declared war. I will tell you a little bit about myself as a boy. My parents desperately wanted their children to have a better life than they had—and the answer, they believed, was in education. Surely people who had learned how to invest better would not have found themselves in such dire financial straits. Although I wasn’t particularly bright, my parents wanted me to test into Gymnasium, the most academic education possible in Germany, the one whose graduates were university-bound. Of course, once there, I was always picking fights or clowning around, anything to hide the fact that I was in way over my head. My parents would be called into school weekly to see the headmaster, because I had failed another test, or because I’d come to blows with another student in the hall over a petty dispute. Luckily, my parents had another star to hitch their wagon to—my brother, Franz. Two years younger than me, Franz was studious, his head always buried in a book. He would scribble away in notebooks that he hid underneath his mattress and that I would routinely steal to embarrass him. They were full of images I did not understand: a girl floating in an autumn pond, drowned because of a lost love; a deer hollowed by hunger picking through the snow for a single acorn; a fire that started in a soul and consumed the body, the bedding, the house surrounding it. He dreamed of studying poetry at Heidelberg, and my parents dreamed with him. And then, one day, things began to change. At Gymnasium, there was a contest to see which class could first get 100 percent participation in the Hitler-Jugend. In 1934, joining the Hitler Youth was not mandatory yet, mind you. It was a social club, like your Boy Scouts, except we also swore allegiance to Hitler as his future soldiers. Under the guidance of adult leaders, we would meet after school, and go camping on weekends. We wore uniforms that looked like those the SS wore, with the Sig Rune on the lapel. I, who at age fifteen chafed at sitting at a desk, loved being outside. I excelled at the sports competitions. I had a reputation for being a bully, but that was not necessarily fair—half of the time I was beating someone to a pulp because he had called Franz a sissy. I desperately wanted my class to win. Not because I had any great allegiance to the Führer but because the local leader of the HJ Kameradschaft was Herr Sollemach, whose daughter, Inge, was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. She looked like an ice queen, with her silver-blond hair and her pale blue eyes; and she and her friends did not know I existed. This, I realized, was an opportunity to change that. For the competition, the teacher put everyone’s names on the board, erasing those of the boys who joined the HJ, one by one. There were some who joined out of peer pressure; some who joined because their fathers said they had to. There were more than a dozen, however, who joined because I threatened to pound them in the school yard if they did not. My brother refused to join the Hitler-Jugend. In his classroom, he and one other boy were the only ones who didn’t. We all knew why Artur Goldman did not join—he could not. When I asked Franz why he would align himself with a Jew, he said he didn’t want his friend Artur to feel like he was being left out. A few weeks later, Artur stopped going to school and never came back. My father encouraged Franz to join the Hitler-Jugend, too, to make new friends. My mother made me promise to watch over him at our meetings. “Franz,” she would say, “isn’t strong like you.” She worried about him camping out in the woods, getting sick too easily, not connecting with the other boys. But for the first time in her life, she didn’t have to worry about me. Because as it turned out, I was the poster child for the Hitler-Jugend. We would hike and sing and do calisthenics. We learned how to line up in military formations. My favorite activity was Wehrsport—military marching, bayonet drills, grenade throwing, trench digging, crawling through barbed wire. It made me feel like a soldier already. I had such enthusiasm for the Hitler-Jugend that Herr Sollemach told my father I would make a fine SS man one day. Was there any greater compliment? To find the strongest among us, there were also Mutproben, tests of courage. Even individuals who were afraid would be compelled to do what we were told to do, because otherwise the stigma of being a coward would cling to you like a stench. Our first test was climbing the rock wall at the castle, without any safety harness. Some of the older boys scrambled to be in the front of the line, but Franz held back and I stayed with him, as per my mother’s orders. When one of the boys fell and broke his leg, the training was aborted. A week later, as part of our tests of courage, Herr Sollemach blindfolded the group of us. Franz, sitting next to me, held tightly on to my hand. “Reiner,” he whispered, “I’m scared.” “Just do what they say,” I told him, “and it will be over soon.” I had come to see a beautiful liberation in this new way of thinking—which was, ironically, not having to think for myself. At Gymnasium I wasn’t clever enough to come up with the right answer. In Hitler-Jugend, I was told the right answer, and as long as I parroted it back I was considered a genius. We sat in this artificial dark, awaiting instructions. Herr Sollemach and some of the older boys patrolled in front of us. “If the Führer asks you to fight for Germany, what do you do?” Fight! we all yelled. “If the Führer asks you to die for Germany, what do you do?” Die! “What do you fear?” Nothing! “Stand up!” The older boys pulled us to our feet, in a line. “You will be led inside the building to a swimming pool with no water in it, and you will recite the Hitler-Jugend oath and jump off the diving board.” Herr Sollemach paused. “If the Führer asks you to jump off a cliff, what do you do?” Jump! We were blindfolded, so we did not know which of the fifteen of us would be pulled to the diving board first. Until, that is, I felt Franz’s hand being torn away from mine. “Reiner!” he cried. I suppose at that moment I was thinking of nothing but my mother, warning me to take care of my younger brother. I stood up and yanked off my blindfold and ran like crazy past the boys who were dragging my brother into the building. “Ich gelobe meinem Führer Adolf Hitler Treue,” I cried, streaking past Herr Sollemach. “Ich verspreche ihm und den Führern, die er mir bestimmt, jederzeit Achtung und Gehorsam entgegen zu bringen…” I promise to be faithful to my Führer, Adolf Hitler. I promise to him, and to those leaders he has assigned to me, to give them my undivided obedience and respect. In the presence of this blood banner, which represents our Führer, I swear to devote all my energies and my strength to the savior of our country, Adolf Hitler. I am willing and ready to give up my life for him, so help me God. And without looking, I leaped. Wrapped in a coarse brown blanket, my clothes still soaking, I told Herr Sollemach that I was jealous of my brother for being chosen first to prove his allegiance and courage. That was why I had cut him in line. There was water in the pool. Not much, but enough. I knew they could not let us all jump and kill ourselves. But since each of us was being brought into the building individually, we could not hear the splash. I knew, however, that Franz would, because he was already at the edge of the pool. And that, then, he would be able to jump. But Herr Sollemach was less convinced. “It is admirable to love your brother,” he said to me. “But not more than your Führer.” I was careful the rest of that day to avoid Franz. Instead I played Trapper and Indian with abandon. We split up into platoons based on the colors of our armbands and hunted down the enemy to rip off their armbands. Often, these games escalated into full-on brawls; they were meant to toughen us up. Instead of protecting my brother, I ignored him. If he was trampled in the dirt, I wasn’t going to pick him up. Herr Sollemach was watching too closely. Franz wound up with a split lip and bruises up and down his left leg, a nasty scrape on his cheek. My mother would hold me accountable, I knew. And still, when we were walking back home at dusk, he bumped his shoulder against mine. I remember the cobblestones on the street were still warm, from the heat of the day; there was a rising full moon that night. “Reiner,” he said simply. “Danke.” The next Sunday we met at an athletic hall and squared off in boxing matches. The idea was to crown a winner from our group of fifteen boys. Herr Sollemach had brought Inge and her friends to watch, because he knew that boys would show off even more if girls were present. The winner, he said, would get a special medal. “The Führer says that a physically healthy individual with a sound character is more valuable to the völkisch community than an intellectual weakling,” Herr Sollemach said. “Are you that healthy individual?” One part of me was healthy, I knew that much. I could feel it every time I looked at Inge Sollemach. Her lips were pink as ribbon candy, and I bet just as sweet. When she sat down on the bleachers, I watched the rise and fall of the buttons on her cardigan. I thought about peeling back those layers to touch skin, how she would be white as milk, soft as— “Hartmann,” Herr Sollemach barked, and both Franz and I stood. This surprised him for a moment, and then a smile spread across his face. “Yes, yes, why not?” he muttered. “Both of you, into the ring.” I looked at Franz, at his narrow shoulders and his tender belly, at the dreams in his eyes that scattered when he realized what Herr Sollemach wanted us to do. I climbed between the ropes and put on the padded helmet, the boxing gloves. As I passed by my brother, I murmured, Hit me. Inge rang the bell to get us started and then ran back to her girlfriends. One of them pointed at me, and she looked up. For one amazing moment the world stood perfectly still while our eyes met. “Come on,” Herr Sollemach urged. The rest of the boys were cheering, and still I circled Franz with my hands up. “Hit me,” I muttered under my breath again. “I can’t.” “Schwächling!” one of the older boys yelled. Stop acting like a girl! Halfheartedly, I shot out my right fist into my brother’s chest. All the air rushed out of his body as he jackknifed. There was a cheer from the boys behind me. Franz looked up at me in fear. “Fight back,” I yelled at him. I jabbed with my gloves, pulling my punches before I could make contact with his body again. “What are you waiting for?” Herr Sollemach screamed. So I punched Franz, hard, in the back. He fell to one knee, and there was a gasp from the girls in the bleachers. Then he managed to drag himself upright. He pulled back his left fist and threw a punch at my jaw. I do not know what flipped the switch in me. I suppose it was the fact that I had been struck, and was in pain. Or maybe the girls watching, whom I wanted to impress. Maybe it was just the sound of the other boys egging me on. I started beating Franz, in the face, the gut, the kidneys. Over and over, rhythmically, until his face was a bloody pulp and spit bubbled out of his mouth as he collapsed on the floor. One of the older boys jumped into the ring and raised my glove, the conquering champion. Herr Sollemach patted me on the back. “This,” he told the others, “is the face of bravery. This is what the future of Germany looks like. Adolf Hitler, Sieg Heil!” I returned the salute. So did all the other boys. Except my brother. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I felt invincible. I took on contender after contender, and everyone fell. After years of being punished for letting my temper get the best of me in school, I was being praised for it. No, I was being exalted. That night, Inge Sollemach gave me a medal, and fifteen minutes later, behind the athletic center, my first real kiss. The next day my father called on Herr Sollemach. He was very disturbed by Franz’s injuries. Your son is gifted, Herr Sollemach explained. Special. Yes, my father responded. Franz has always been an excellent student. I am speaking of Reiner, Herr Sollemach said. Did I know this brutality was wrong? Even that first time, when my brother was the victim? I have asked myself a thousand times, and the answer is always the same: of course. That day was the hardest, because I could have said no. Every time after that, it became easier, because if I didn’t do it again, I would be reminded of that first time I did not say no. Repeat the same action over and over again, and eventually it will feel right. Eventually, there isn’t even any guilt. What I mean to tell you, now, is that the same truth holds. This could be you, too. You think never. You think, not I. But at any given moment, we are capable of doing what we least expect. I always knew what I was doing, and to whom I was doing it. I knew, very well. Because in those terrible, wonderful moments, I was the person everyone wanted to be.
~~~
But my mother also would have been the first to tell me that good people are good people; religion has nothing to do with it.
Mother's favorite song...
No matter how many times you hear a story about the Holocaust, there will always be another perspective to learn about. This time, the writer, Jodi Picoult, has brought in the family of two boys who will become part of the military under Hitler. How many of us, today, have asked ourselves and others how is our president getting away with all that is happening. Can't something be done? And, yet, there are some who continue to support him no matter what he does!
Is it true what was said when the mother of the Jewish family began to see and fear what was happening? That there are good and bad people and it has nothing to do with religion? After watching the years since 2015, I tend to "want" to agree, especially as, at present, religion is being used by those who are bad, in their attempt to sway our opinions... Just as happened in WWII...
The book moves back and forth in time, as well as from character to character talking, beginning with Sage who is attending a small-group grief session where people bring things in that they can't get over, such as not being able to get over losing your husband... Sage goes, not saying much, since her mother died three years ago... But really, she is unable to get past the accident that left her face scarred...
It was at a group session that she and Josef started talking. Soon there seemed to be a connection, but Sage can't figure out why... And then he starts talking about what happened during the WWII... Josef is in his 90s and feels like his life should be over, but his health is good... Soon, Josef has come to know Sage well enough to know that she is Jewish... And, he wants to share with her about his life, seek and receive her forgiveness...and then... have her kill him... Yes, you understand correctly... Of course, this is very upsetting to even be asked to participate!
What Josef doesn't know is there is somebody who could possibly be a better individual to whom he should seek forgiveness... Her grandmother... Her grandmother is one who has never found it possible to share about her time during the Holocaust. The only way Sage learned of it is when she saw her tatooed prison number on her grandmother's arm...
Readers will then become intimately involved with exactly what happened during the time leading up to and during the actual deaths of the millions who were killed in the 1940s. If this is your first time reading details, be prepared. The story is disgusting, devastating, and impossible to understand just how humans can treat other humans as they do and have... And, if you haven't read any book on this slaughter of men, women and children, I can tell you that this is an excellent book from which to learn.
The inclusion of those young people who were pulled into the German military based upon lies and manipulation is something that, indeed, we should never forget! In my lifetime, the closest devastation I am aware of is what DJT is doing to the world right now. His words, lies, threats, attacks on people, including the loss of millions of jobs, threats of recessions, and so much more, all to fund a major tax break for the richest people in our country, including himself, is simply incomprehensible...and yet, just as those who followed Hitler, there are those who accept what is being done, such as on the basis of DEI, causing disruption at every level of activity that can possibly be destroyed by criminal actions "mandated..."
As we know that the World must Never Forget, we also see continued wars around the world... Loss of Freedom for Ukraine is practically being handed to Russia by America--one day, then something changes, all on the whim and insanity of one man who has no idea how to constructively lead the U.S. Government. We cannot go backward and lose all that America has gained in the period since WWII! Eighty years... A Lifetime!
Many share their stories; others can't bring themselves to remember their own lives being under such a cruel group of armed men who had total control of each and every one that was killed in their homes, or gathered up to ride toward their deaths, based upon lies they had been told...
No wonder that we now face those who use lies to persuade and then turn their backs on those they have lied to and often destroyed. I recognize that this has turned into more of an opinion piece... However, I, along with millions who are protesting and otherwise speaking out, am compelled to be one of the good people who care about others... No matter whether they are in some way different from me...
It's Sad, don't you think, that millions of people look back at WWII with regret, shame, and, fear of it happening again...
While at the same time, we see attacks against Jews one day and then turning against them another day... Could it be, that, it's really about good people versus bad people... And, it's our time for America to have all of the bad guys, who just happen to be greedy on top of being bad guys?
Still, the surprise ending from The Storyteller reminds us that it is extremely hard to trust anybody who is asking for forgiveness and then wanting you to murder them, all the time while continuing to lie directly to your face...
Our only hope...
Psalm 118:8 It is better to take refuge in the Lord
Didi planted her hands on her hips. “So it’s a peach operation that hides the suffragette operation.” “It sure looks that way.” “Hidden in Grandma Rose’s garden.” I had to hand it to Rose. “It would be the perfect cover for secret meetings.” “Nobody would think to look down here,” Didi said as the double doors overhead flew open on the ghostly side. A hook-nosed ghost above us let out a cry, dropping her basket of fruit. Didi zipped out of the way. I wasn’t as quick and caught a silvery peach to the shoulder. The icy wetness of the other side seared me. “Ow!” I cried as it plowed straight through me and rolled across the cave floor. The hook-nosed woman appeared directly between us. She wore men’s work gloves and an apron smeared with dirt. “What are you doing in my storage room?” “Madge let us in,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “We’re looking for the lock that fits this key.” She studied the key I held up. “You won’t find it here,” she said grimly. “Then do you know where?” Didi pressed. Her lips thinned. “That’s not for me to say.” “They’re with Rose,” Madge said, shimmering into existence next to me. “I’ve been keeping an eye on them.”
The ghost looked us up and down. “They’re not even wearing corsets.” “It’s a new day,” Didi told her. She frowned at that. “I say we leave this up to Liberty Brown. If she wants these ladies involved, she’ll tell them what to do.” “Liberty Brown?” I’d never heard of her. “She’ll be at the meeting,” Madge said. “You can wait with me.” “When does the meeting start?” Didi asked as Madge led us out of the storage cellar. “Ladies will be showing up any minute,” she assured us. “In fact, I hesitated to leave the meeting room, well, until you startled Viv.” “I think we all did our fair share of startling,” I said. “So what’s with all the peaches?” Didi asked. “I can understand meeting down here, but actually helping with the harvest?” “It’s…complicated,” Madge said, holding the curtain for us. “But you might as well help me peel a few while we wait for the meeting to start.”
I fought off a cringe. “That might be difficult.” Objects on the ghostly plane felt like ice against my skin and fire in my veins. And anything I touched would vanish within minutes. But if we played our cards right, we could try to learn more from Madge. Didi seemed to be thinking the same thing. She commandeered an apron. I skipped that part and dredged up a rickety stool from the corner. It slanted sideways and looked like it’d crumble in a mild breeze, but it was the only seat I could find that wasn’t glowing gray. My rule when it came to the ghostly plane was definitely more of a look, don’t touch approach. The table appeared real enough despite the ghostly sheen. The peaches were on an entirely different plane. “Ready?” Madge said, placing a shimmering silver knife down onto the table next to me. “Sure,” I ventured. Oh, who was I kidding? I was never ready for this. The ghostly knife would be freezing cold. It would make my teeth chatter and my hand go numb. And if I dared touch it, we could kiss it goodbye. Same with the peaches. The basket. And while nuking all the unpeeled peaches would no doubt speed things along, I’d rather stay under the radar. Learn what we could. I made a show of flexing my fingers. Didi grabbed a knife and a peach. “So, seriously, why are we peeling fruit for the vote instead of marching or making ourselves heard?” She was right. I could think of a dozen more effective ways to be heard and inspire change. Madge wiped her hands on her apron before grabbing her knife. “Bake sales are important fundraisers.” Oh, come on. “You have to give us more than that.” “That’s it,” Madge said, not fooling anybody. “We’re in an underground cave,” I pointed out. “This isn’t a baking party. What are you really working on down here?” Madge stiffened. “We’ve been ordered to keep the fundraising going.” “With peaches?” Didi asked, slicing into her first one. “It’s no secret the movement is in danger.” And it was clear they weren’t telling us everything. She eyed me. “Keep at it, and Viv is going to kick you out.” “Let’s not get hasty,” I said as Didi placed a half-peeled peach in front of me. I could pretend it was mine. Madge dug into a peach with her knife. “Let’s be honest. I know everyone in Sugarland, and I don’t know you.” How strange to be on the other end of that one.
“You should, right?” I agreed. “I mean, if you don’t go back five generations, are you really from Sugarland?” “I’d say the true test is whether you’ve put a raft down on Devil’s Bend,” Didi said. “Or gone to Roan’s for a hammer.” I nodded. They’d been in business since 1843. “Or stared up at Rockhill Mansion and wondered what the heck goes on up there,” Madge added. “It’s haunted, that’s what,” I told her. I’d solved the case. “I knew it!” Madge gushed. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times.” She shook her head. “This is fun. I missed chatting. And working together,” she added, eyeing my knife on the table. “Do you really have to worry about spies?” Didi asked, while I wondered if I was brave enough to reach for the knife. At Madge’s raised brow, I did, gritting my teeth as I felt the bracing chill. I stabbed into the skin of the peach without picking it up. “Didi has a point,” I said to our host. “We’re women.” I ignored the goosebumps erupting on my arms. “Why wouldn’t we want the vote?” Madge cocked her head as she ran a knife around the peach, skinning it with swift strokes. “You have no idea the lengths some women will go to in order to give up their power.” She eyed me. “They leave chicken feet on my husband’s desk at work and call him henpecked.” She returned her attention to the peach. “They say he’s not a man because he stays home with the baby while I volunteer.” “My man takes care of my little Lucy while I work,” I said, flicking the peel and stabbing the peach before tossing it into the metal bowl. “Why shouldn’t your partner take care of his family? It’s what good men do.” Madge placed her peeled peach next to mine. “He has been quite wonderful. I’m lucky.”
“You are,” Didi said. “My husband pretended he didn’t know how to work the washing machine. For fifty years.” Madge barked out a laugh. “Mine can take apart a carburetor but needs me to make his toast.” She pursed her lips. “Although I do cut it into hearts for him. He likes that.” “You’re lucky,” I said, making note to try the heart toast with Ellis. “Mine can’t cook to save his life. The bacon is either raw or burned to a crisp, but he keeps trying.” “Pretend you like it, and he’ll get better,” she said, placing another peach in front of me. “That’s been my plan now that my husband has been fixing dinner every night for the kids. He saves a plate for me.” She brought a hand to her head. “I’ve been gone so much.” “Doing important work,” I assured her. “It may not look like it, but it is,” she assured us. She flicked her knife toward the peach she’d laid out for me. “I already did one,” I said, looking to the metal bowl. The entire bowl had begun to fade. Oh no. It was disappearing! Fast. I hadn’t touched it. But I had touched my peach, which I’d tossed in with the other peaches, which set off a chain reaction of disaster.
“What the—” Madge stood, her chair falling backward as the entire bowl evaporated. Oh my goodness. I stood quickly. “I’m so sorry.” She shrieked, pointing as my knife began to disappear from the table. “I’m sorry about that, too,” I cried. Viv dashed into the room. “What’s the matter?”
“They’re—” Madge pointed at me. “I—” “I’m alive.” There. I’d said it. “I messed up the peaches because I’m alive.” Viv rested a hand on her hip. “Of course you’re alive. Everyone is alive. And peaches don’t disappear.” “I saw them,” Madge said breathlessly, staring at the table. Didi placed her knife down and rose from the table. “What year do you think this is?” Viv rolled her eyes. “It’s 1919, of course.” They didn’t know they were dead. Or that I was alive. “And when is the meeting supposed to start?” I asked Madge. “Tell me. What date? What time?” She looked at me funny. “June 20th. Two o’clock.” “1919,” Didi finished. That poor woman really had been peeling peaches for a century. “I don’t think we can wait around anymore.” Liberty Brown wasn’t coming. Nobody was. These poor ghosts didn’t realize their time was long past. And if they hadn’t noticed by now, I wasn’t sure how to convince them. “Is Liberty the only person who can help us?” “The only one who’ll be at the meeting,” Madge maintained. “Rose and Hope were the only ones trusted with keys,” Viv said from the door. “Where is Hope?” Maybe we could track her down.
“Hope died last week.” Madge’s voice broke. “She died in jail.” “How awful,” I said, rubbing my hands on my dress. They were still tingling. “They locked her up for disturbing the peace,” Viv said. “In truth, it was to scare us. To keep us from organizing.” “Or asking questions,” Madge added. “About what?” I asked. They both clammed up. Viv’s hands formed into fists. “Now Rose is locked in the same jail. I feel so awful for her. No one is allowed in, and she’s in the same cell where Hope died.” The musty air clung to my skin, and I could hear water dripping somewhere in the distance.
I stood as primly as I could, fingering Grandma Rose’s filigree necklace. “I’m dating a police officer. I might be able to help.” Viv gritted her jaw. “We can’t trust the police.” Not again. Not in Sugarland. “Why would you say that?” Madge drew a hand to the button brooch at her throat. “Eleanor Blackwell has vanished. She’s slated to speak at the rally tomorrow. It’s crucial to our cause.” Didi crossed her arms. “When did she disappear?” “Two days ago,” Viv said. “She left the Sugarland Hotel after dinner. We thought she was coming straight here to the house, but she disappeared on the way. Several of our members went to the police, but they’ve done nothing.” “At least that’s kept it out of the papers,” Madge added. “If we have to cancel the rally, we’ll lose a lot of support.” For now. But I could offer some comfort. “The good news is I do believe it will all turn out in the end.” Viv scoffed. Madge’s cheeks flushed gray. “How can you say that?” she demanded. “Our vice president died in her jail cell. Our speaker has been kidnapped. Our president has been arrested. Our lawyer is trying to get her out, but she’s on a hunger strike. She could die in there, just like Hope.” “Grandma Rose will make it,” Didi murmured to me. “But at what cost?” From the way she’d treated Didi in the afterlife, it was safe to say Rose had been through a lot. Didi nodded. “Grandma Rose is alone in the world. Her husband, Grandpa Jack, died in 1915.” “We already lost Hope. If we lose Rose and Eleanor both, we’ll have no shot at the grand plan,” Viv added. “We’ll never stop, but that doesn’t mean we’ll succeed.” “Or live.”
Madge wiped her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” I’d had no idea. And they might be more right than they knew, seeing as they were still trapped down here a century later. Didi had the same idea. “Hang tight and stay where you are. We’ll see what we can find out.” Would we? “If Rose is in jail, we can talk to her about the key,” Didi said. She was right. Even if Rose had moved on, Hope might still be haunting the place where she died. She’d be able to tell us about the key as well. Viv brought a hand to her head. “Rose is the one we trusted to keep the key safe.” “It’s safe,” I insisted. And soon we’d secure Rose’s legacy as well. “Which jail is she in?” The ghosts shared a meaningful look before Viv answered, “Occoquan Workhouse.” I nodded, committing the name to memory. I turned to leave, pausing at the curtain. “Stay here. Have your meeting. We’ll be back with news,” I promised, my voice barely audible as I ascended into the world above.
~~~
I've been a fan for Angie for many years (do a search in the right column to check out all the other books I've talked about!) but, Secrets, Lies, and Fireflies is, not only a personal favorite for 2025, but, in my opinion, is the best book she's written--so far! Let's face it, with all that politics is causing in America, we have all begun to question just how soon women will be next on the chopping block... After all the president has been indicted for sexual abuse of E. Jean Carroll...
DEI actions are so diverse in implementation that you cannot keep up...people are being fired, then have to file legal actions!!! Chaos from one man who has already shown he cares nothing about women (E. Jean is not the only individual who has attempted to sue the president), Social Security, and Medicaid...
I could have continued to illustrate what is presently happening, but I hope all of you already know of the catastrophic mess that Trump and MAGA is forcing on America citizens... Still, it needed to be illustrated because many people have gone through this type of discriminatory action before! This book takes us back to the historical story of what was happening as women were fighting to gain the right to vote--and if we don't stop this madness, that could be next by this misogynist... and white supremacist...
“Where is she?” He blazed toward the house. “Is she in there? She can’t hide from me.” At this rate, she might want to. I was no expert, but I had to assume hell hath no fury like a gangster in penny loafers.
Fox takes readers on a very different direction in her latest, which had to be planned for Women's History Month! Kudos Angie! We still have our regular gangster ghost, Frankie, who is stuck on earth when his ashes was accidentally spilt... This time, it is the family who is spotlighted in both good and bad ways... You see, other than the main character and her sister, all the rest of the family are dead or ghosts...
It all began when a fire is started in the Sugarland Library! Where Melody was working! Verity, our main character, was already hurrying toward the library when she heard somebody shouting her name... Yes, she realized that it was indeed her grandmother, Didi, who was calling her. We learn later that she saw Verity talking with Frankie, a ghost, so she realized that Verity might be able to hear her. She had been sent to be with Melody as she died...but when she saw there might be a chance to help her, all plans were changed! Soon Verity was leaping past everybody and on her way to find her grandmother, who then showed her where Melody was...
Melody was standing, staring into space. A child was still lost and Melody wouldn't leave until she found her... So all three women began searching and ultimately found and saved the little girl, as well as Melody... But a strange thing happened on their way out, Didi saw a white scarf, went and grabbed it and gave it to Verity. At that time, Verity thought Didi wanted her to cover her mouth from the smoke...
What evolved from that was the finding of a key within that scarf which started a search for a lock it would fit!
By the way, before we go any further, you should be aware that Lucy had won an award at the Annual Pet Parade and Festival. Lucy, by the way, is a delightful character who happens to be a skunk and who is also very protective of her loved ones and actually catches the criminal--with her back feet... You really have to read it to understand...LOL
Once the fire was under control, Didi returned to her home... Yes, she had left her home to Verity who had shown she loved it as much as Didi did... But, immediately the fun starts because Didi immediately created her vision of that house as she lived there... Which Verify loved and hoped she could stay... At the same time, Frankie felt it was his home now and wasn't happy with what she represented. You see, when Didi returned into her former home, she became the dominant ghost. Soon Frankie's home had been returned to a garden shed! Then Didi, thinking about her late husband, began to dress Frankie in a sweater, with a pipe... Well, hopefully you all who have been reading Fox for years know what Frankie thinks about himself...He...was...dominant! LOL Just like all men think so, right?
Which leads us to the main thrust of the mystery... During the Women's Suffrage movement, Sugarland had also become involved. However, it was not well received by the town's men. So women, at first, started meeting secretly. Rose, one of Verity's ancestors had been a major part of those activities. Unfortunately, all of the records had been entrusted to Didi, who knew nothing about Suffrage activities and after skimming the mountains of papers, had boxed it up and donated it... to... the... library! And, by the way, during the fire, a skeleton was found hidden in a wall there...
I laughed often, but I teared up as well... Learning what was happening to women, how they were treated but so dedicated that, even after death, when they didn't know they'd died a century before, continued to work to make money to support those speakers who were traveling across the nation working to ensure women would be given the right to vote!
Must we continue to have similar types of situations over and over and over as men strive to override those votes that result in something different than candidates want! I'll never forget how a mother and daughter had lies made about them by the president and his lawyer! We must continue to fight to CONFIRM that ALL PEOPLE ARE CREATED EQUALLY as the Constitution guarantees... Then, why oh why must we repeat each step forward, while men want to go backward to the time when white men were the only ones allowed to participate in determining the type of government under which we live?!
And, why, Lord, do people continue to forget the only real things we needed to do for Him: Love and Speak Truth??? I thought Fox did an excellent job in the creation of the villain in this case... So very perfect an example of how some children are raised, taught, or simply, feel entitled to lie, cheat, and even murder if needed to get what was required for the life chosen... Angie, I hope you'll continue to take diversions into family life from time to time! Best book yet!
The August heat is stifling; thick with moisture, ninety percent humidity. The walls ooze wet drops of grime; the remnants of ninety-plus years of blood, sweat, tears, dirt; simple wear and tear. Sweat drips down my brow, spreads under my arms, through my shirt, as I, the teacher, walk into the classroom. It is the first day back in school, the start of another year. My stomach twitches in a flutter; sweat stings my eyes as I cross the threshold. This nervousness remains unspoken; the heat is simply too draining. Outwardly, I show only disdain. I hate everything about this place: the building, the classroom, the administration, the students. I hold everything about this place in contempt for the benefit of my fellow haters: the teaching staff. I have always been awkward with my fellow teachers, partners in academic fraud. The majority of those teaching in this building have been doing so for at least twenty years. They began their teaching careers before the school declined. They are invested in the school and cannot afford to begin again. The others are first-years, grabbing a quick shot of experience before bolting for greener pastures. I am different. I have chosen to stay for seven years, even though I could go; should go. Some think I am a crusader, others just think I am stupid; but all are convinced I am crazy. I tailor my behavior to suit other’s needs; not my own. I hate, as I am supposed to hate. Secretly though, I love this place. The students have captured me. They keep calling me back. It is all in the challenge; the challenge of getting through to these children of poverty, of teaching them and giving them a shot at a better life. It is what makes me get up and come to work every morning. As I walk back and forth across the tattered remains of carpet, I run the one-act play I have titled Opening Day through my mind. I believe this is what teaching really is; acting. I must perform a play, for the benefit of the students. The performance must be good to engage this audience for ninety-minutes each day. I am not just the actor in this play; I am the writer, director and producer. I control the entire performance; except for the audience’s reaction. This is the one variable each actor, each teacher, cannot control. How will the audience receive this day’s performance and will they play their own roles? Stopping to make sure everything is exact. I want the room to be perfect and the props ready; all the posters straight, the desks arranged, my own desk organized, my pictures in their place. I linger at the photo of my wife and my two daughters. Having spent lazy days with the girls, running, jumping, throwing, catching, playing; I know the magic of those summer days has slipped through my fingers for another year. Now, my days will be filled with teaching and grading and the talk of things learned and homework to be done, both at school and at home. My girls are my pride and joy. They color everything I do. They are my center. In many ways, my students remind me of my own children, struggling to unlock the mystery of letters and numbers. At five and seven, the girls are learning how to recognize letters and numbers, how to add and subtract, how to read and write. My ninth- and tenth-graders are still struggling to unlock these same mysteries. It is sad, but this is part of the challenge. I continue to pace back and forth across the room, as the minutes tick down, before the students enter the school. The students will not arrive at my door until 7:15, so I still have time to wrestle with my rotten stomach and the adrenaline coursing through my veins. The knot of my tie suffocates. I loosen it an inch, while my throat tightens and loosens, tightens and loosens. My hands begin to tremble, so I grab a yard-stick, which is only another prop, and twirl it around. The back and forth swing is almost relaxing. Almost. The repetition is simply to give my hands something to do, but my stomach wins the confrontation. The need to vomit passes, while I remind myself that I have done this before. I have been teaching for seven years now, and today is no different from any other first day. I think my nervousness is a sign that I still care, about my job and my students; my children. These kids are my children, even though I was not present at their births, or even the first thirteen- or fourteen- years of their lives. They are my children to shape and mold. They are mine for ninety-minutes, each and every day. I want them to succeed, just like I want Sarah and Anne to. I want them to learn and live, to grow and mature, and to take responsibility for their lives. I can show them the way, if I can just reach them, and they can get past the color of my skin. Being able to stand up to and face down racism is difficult for everyone and it is not any different for a light teacher in a dark school. I think back to my very first day of teaching in this place. I was nervous then but not nervous enough. Disadvantaged by the cool crisp October air, instead of the oppressive heat of a Midwest August, I started late. I was a replacement, hired after school began, an innocent lamb walking into a den of wolves, offered up for the slaughter. Although my gut was twisted and my heart was a machine gun, I thought I would get a honeymoon, a few days to settle in and get caught up. Not nervous enough, the honeymoon lasted less than a day, less than an hour, less than even that first minute. It ended the second I walked into classroom. I introduced myself and then the torment began. Every vile name known to mankind, and then some more, spewed from the mouths of those students. They were teasing me, the lamb, before moving in for the kill. They taunted, yelled, racially slurred, left the room, came back, threw things, threatened. Not nervous enough, until the student threw his punch. It was a warning, for the bare knuckles missed my large, round face by a fraction, with a purposeful glare from angry eyes. I was so lost that day, not knowing the students’ names, my fellow teachers, where I was, how to get help. I was alone. I recognized the challenge then. I do not back away from a challenge, even when I am crazy not to. The first days have all been easier since, but they are still awkward and I still get nervous. I think I have the key though. This key requires me to yank the students’ attention away from summer and into the classroom the second they enter the room. A teacher must pull the students away from the summer and thrust them into the reality of the now: school. I know a few tricks,learned over time and from experience. I am known in the school now. I have worked hard on my reputation with the students. The majority know who I am, if not personally, then by reputation alone, and not many are looking forward to my class. Those who do not know me are in for a rude awakening. I am nothing like the teachers they have had before. Out crazy the crazies, as the saying goes. My reverie is shattered by the first bell of the morning and the yardstick tumbles from my hand. It is the warning bell for teachers, the warning that students are now being allowed into the building. My heart accelerates and my stomach flops. It is almost time to begin. Retrieving the prop from the floor, I walk to the door and nudge it open. It swings in the wide expanse of the empty hallway. I savor the quiet for a moment and then cross the room and climb onto one of the desks. Removing the American flag from its holder, I descend back to the floor. Unfurling the flag, I walk back to my desk. My arrival is marked by the second bell of the morning, the bell that frees the students from the restraints of the cafeteria and gives them the freedom of the building. I strain for the first sounds of the morning jungle. When it is carried to my ear by the stale, humid, scorching, school air, I take a deep breath, straighten my tie, step up onto my desk, swing the flag around a few times and begin to sing. The play has begun.
~~~
I sought permission to use the Prologue as part of my article on Sex, Lives and the Classroom by James P. Wilcox. The emotion, intensity and...anger and pain were so pronounced that I believe this is a true story...for somebody...
Just as we are appalled by sexual abuse of children, I was equally horrified while I read this story. We had an accusal of one person of another in the family, which was false. We were all upset when that happened. At the same time, we learned years later that there were a number of children who were abused in our family, including myself. This is not something that ever goes away. But when our children learn that they can use the words as a tool to get an unlikable person fired, hurt, or disgraced, while at the same time they are honest and, in fact, really trying to help...it is quite simply a disaster...
Thus the delicate balance between teachers and school students, especially when race, culture, or sexuality enters the picture.
This is a story about an inner city school, where the weather detracts everybody from wanting to even attend school. There is a predominance of one race in the school. We do not know how or why the teacher, not of that race, has decided to accept a position there.
The way I read the Prologue and the story, we quickly learn that this teacher has recognized exactly what happens in this school and is trying to confront the situation in order to make an impact, good or bad, and gain attention and hopefully discussion and feedback.
For instance, he has started first day classes by waving the American flag and singing "The Star Spangled Banner." Personally I thought it was funny...but for their own reasons, three teen girls talked at and back to their male teacher. I think, for many of us, we are not willing to accept the slang talk from young people these days. So, when that happens, we automatically begin a feeling of disapproval. Those girls wound up being suspended...
And began a campaign to get revenge...
In a radio interview, the author stated his belief that schools are in a crisis situation. When I read the end of his novel, I realized why, perhaps, the statistics of teacher tenure in a job was so low. Please consider this book if you care about the educations of our children. This may be a racial issue, but I believe it's, more, a political and personal issue for anybody who cares! Have we changed so much in our schools that simply prepares students for corporations who want technically savvy employees...and dropped the life skills, arts, and other issues that are important to the personal growth of these young ones?
Highly recommended.
GABixlerReviews
James Wilcox, a former newspaper photographer and writer, is currently a high school social studies teacher in Kansas City, where is lives with his wife and three children. His second novel title The M-16 Agenda is also available at Smashwords.com* * * * * For more information about the author, visit: www.jamespwilcox.com Contact the author at: info@jamespwilcox.com
