The Heart of a Woman by Maya Angelou - Why White Nationalist Want Her Removed from Libraries...From History - We MUST Fight Against The Loss of Precious Words!

In the book Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson,   Maya Angelou was mentioned quite a number of times by the main character. She had been given a picture that was just taken down from the school library--because this wonderful author was no longer welcome there. Melinda thinks the school board must be scared of Angelou--why else would her books no longer be available in the library...nor her picture, that even has some beautiful words, and not be able to be viewed by students...???

Melinda hangs her new picture  in an old closet that seems not to be used by anybody, and she starts scrubbing, bringing in a blanket, and, talking to Maya, telling her that she might bring some books in to read while she's there, thinking that, maybe, she would find some peace in the midst of the day, especially when she could no longer stand having everybody stare at her or shun her... Or, worse, expect her to talk to them! She had vowed she would not speak after IT had happened... It was easier to just hide away from anybody...

In her book The Heart of a Woman, Maya Angelou wrote, “If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities.”

Sure I knew who she was and, of course, follow her on Facebook 

“Life is going to give you just what you put in it. Put your whole heart in everything you do, and pray, then you can wait.” posted 8-21-22 in celebration of her life

and had even referenced her works from time to time, but when the author of Speak spoke about the solitary fantasy, I could not help but think about how a young 13-year-old girl who had just been raped would find herself finding comfort in fantasy, as opposed to her reality, for surely she was in solitary, even if self-imposed, upon facing the new reality of her no longer being a virgin--and NOT by her own decision... I knew Maya would understand...

It didn't take me long to decide that I, too, wanted to spend some time with Angelou, and a memoir could be exactly what I wanted to read... I'm very glad I did! Indeed, she is a woman to be reckoned with and a possible role model for many girls and women around the world... if she were allowed to be...

Maya Angelou would be one of those writers who would be banned by white nationalists, simply because of her race... For those us who have read some of her words, we cannot help but learn from her--of pain, of love, of life... She has so much to tell... to all people, no matter what color you are! Thus, when she is confronted by those she has just met that they seemed to be talking about whites so much, she thought to herself:

In the ensuing years in California the jokes came scarcer and the jobs grew meaner. Anger was always present whenever the subject of whites entered our conversations. We discussed the treatment of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., the murder of Emmett Till in Mississippi, the large humiliations and the petty snubs we all knew were meant to maim our spirits. I had heard white folks ridiculed, cursed and envied, but I had never heard them dominate the entire intimate conversation of a black family. 

In the Killenses’ home, if entertainment was mentioned, someone would point out that Harry Belafonte, a close family friend, was working with a South African singer, Miriam Makeba, and South Africa was really no different from South Philly. If the West Indies or religion or fashion entered the conversation, in minutes we were persistently examining the nature of racial oppression, racial progress and racial integration. I fretted at the unrelenting diatribe, not because I disagreed but because I didn’t think whites interesting enough to consume all my thoughts, nor powerful enough to control all my movements...

You know, folks, over the years I've lived, I've had many occasions to talk to, see, and watch those who are Black. I remember a personal experience that made me realize that I may be different from other white people--maybe--you'll have to decide for yourself. Many, many years ago, I was attending a basketball game on campus. I sat with an acquaintance at that time--I must admit after the experience, I chose not to become more involved with her, although I had many opportunities. 

Working on campus, I looked around to see who I knew, picking out both men and women, of different races, with whom I'd had contact. One of the men turned just as I was looking at him and waved to me--I returned the greeting with a warm smile. The woman sitting beside me asked if I knew him and I said, yes, he was a professor on campus. She then began a discussion about interacting with men of a different race. As usual, I was honest and open, at least at first when I am with somebody and responded that, yes, I thought he was attractive (which he was). Somehow she got around to dating and a relationship. All I can remember was that, I responded, that, for me, I would first think about any children from such a relationship. At that time, mixed races was "frowned upon," to be polite, and I said that I wouldn't want to have children have to face such prejudice...

Well, before the month was over thereafter, I had a favorite aunt ask me if I was dating Black men. I said no, of course, since I wasn't dating anybody in those days. LOL... I asked why she was asking and she told me that she'd been told that I was or would be willing to date men of a different race...and then shared who had told her--of course, it was the woman with whom I had briefly chatted at the game... Well, I learned, that day, that I could not trust that acquaintance--who would remain merely an acquaintance... 

However, since I was on campus, I would watch as Blacks would congregate in a far corner of the student union, so of course wondered about "separation..." Yet, I worked with both Black men and women and, indeed, had a good friend in high school, as well as had become friends with those with whom I worked.

One thing I saw was that Black people support each other more than, in my opinion, white people. As I grew older, I can recall one writer with whom I worked that, when I needed personal help, it was to him I turned, asking for prayer. At that time, I thought he would say, of course, I will... like all those white people who quickly write, sending prayers...and then go on to another post to comment. But this Black elder, stopped right there, and, online, he started to write/pray for me! His words were appropriate to the situation, his words were sincere in expressing concern for me...and I knew He was a man of God because he spoke to God like he was on a first name basis...* Anyway, over time, I have felt that people of the Black race, are far more family-oriented than most white people I knew... And I realized that, perhaps, it was because of how white people have traditionally treated those of the Black race... It must be much

harder, I think, to be a Black parent, knowing that, even in today's world, that they must teach their child(ren) about prejudice, bias, and potential violence against them just because of their race... I have come to respect the Black race, just because of all of those I have met that, indeed, deserved to be respected...

As a young single mother, Maya traveled often, each time, her son would, sometimes, unwillingly quickly prepare to go somewhere and start over, for a short time. From her words, he seems to have been a very special boy (who died at the age of 77, as also an author and poet.) and was there for her during those years when she strived to be able to make enough money to provide for shelter and food. And sometimes, those friends had to remind her of what was really happening in America:

“Girl, don’t you believe it. Georgia is Down South. California is Up South. If you’re black in this country, you’re on a plantation. You have to deal with masters. There might be some argument over whether they are vicious masters, but be assured that they all think they are masters … And if they think that, then you’d better believe they think you are the slave. Maybe a smart slave, a pretty slave, a good slave, but a slave just the same.”

Even though this book and her others was written some time ago, you can and will find her words just about anywhere that shares about just how important one single person can become in America... So much so that I find, that it is more important to me to, now, celebrate her life, and share that she died at the age of 86, and just how sad, yet, defiant, she would be as today many white nationalists are striving to erase her and so many others from our history... I say to you, who claim to be Christian, that what you are doing by trying to erase the Black Culture, will NOT succeed! We will celebrate those words that have been shared and are still being shared even after her death on places like Facebook, because we want to remember her face, her words...and her gigantic love of life! And so much wisdom that there is NO way it can be stifled!

“I do not trust people who don't love themselves and yet tell me, 'I love you.' There is an African saying which is: Be careful when a naked person offers you a shirt.” 

“You can only become truly accomplished at something you love. Don’t make money your goal. Instead pursue the things you love doing and then do them so well that people can’t take their eyes off of you.”

Be sure that you always share wise words and not stifle those just because somebody else hates! God loves ALL He created!

Right Now! Celebrate The Words of Maya Angelou!

MAY EACH WHO READS THIS RISE UP AGAINST HATE AND SHARE WORDS OF WISDOM AND OF GOD'S LOVE!

*By the way, I feel the same way about Joe Biden. I "know" he is a good man of God, because he speaks like one...his words come naturally to his tongue, and his acts toward all men and women are truly there to be seen as he continues to strive to help

 America.

Social Commentary, Historical Mythology Merges into Extraordinary Vampire Novel...

I saw little difference between my human classmates and myself. I was a little faster, a little stronger, but that seemed pretty normal to me. I was a fifteen-year-old Black girl, and I didn't have my vampire abilities yet. I live with my father in Beverly Hills, California. I was insulated from the outside world, from the breezes, the scents, the sounds. My father was a hard man with few regrets, and I adored him.
In less civilized times, he would be in charge of our coven, the alpha vampire. In those days, vampires allowed what was known as The Thirst to rule them. It was simple arrogance that prevented the vampire from living longer than forty years. In that time, vampires had no desire to fit in; they wanted to run things. The word 'Integration' for the vampire, for my father, had the same meaning as suppression. He didn't believe in killing humans, only because that could start a war.
I was born in deep vampire country, Savannah, Georgia to be exact. I was born in a simple house that my parents shared. They separated five years before we all moved west to Southern California. I had no reaction to the shake-up; I guess I was too young to even notice. My father and I moved into a plush Beverly Hills condominium. My mother moved to a modest three-room, one-story home in Angel Beach, California. I hadn't spoken to my mother in years because it was agreed that my father would provide all of my needs. Big cities and vampires didn't mix, so my father spent half a decade hovering over me...
The repeated clicking of the turn signal pulled me from the isolated region of my mind. Here I am in the passenger seat of a chrome black-walled Porsche Panamera. It sped along at seventy miles per hour; its soft leather seats swallowed my small body.
As I eyed my father from the corner for my eye; the corners of my mind neatly hid the bad dream. It was my nightly screams that alerted him. The only thing I was sure of was that something had gone wrong,
"You're going to love your new school," the volume of my dad's voice slowly increased. I was lost in thought the whole time he had been talking. We slowed as the traffic congested the freeway. I could tell that the weight of the occasion unnerved him.
The plan was for me to stay with dad until a certain age. As I stared out the window into the deep blackness, I realize that certain age was about three nights ago. "Dad, you sound just like a TV commercial," I retorted.
"What's wrong with a father wanting his daughter to love her new school?"
"How do you know I am going to love it? I just don't understand why I have to move, and here of all places. I mean, why can't I just stay in Beverly Hills with you, like I've been doing? Why can't I just keep going to the same school?" "Because... it's just that your mother is more..." "More what?" I interrupted. "She's more stable than I am. Look, I have my own issues, and now you're having these nightmares... so your mom and I..." "...decided that I should move without asking for my opinion. Well, it's my life. Isn't it? I'm fifteen years old. I'm practically an adult. I already know what's best for me." I could tell that my father read my thoughts and had saw remnants of what I had hidden.
"And what, may I ask, is best for you?" he looked over at me through his jet-black sunglasses.
I paused as I looked away from my father to gaze out the window. We passed thousands of lighted billboards and dozens of car dealerships as we speed south on the 405 freeway. My father effortlessly moved the steering wheel, gently coaxing the vehicle from lane to lane. My dad's familiar scent of red grapefruit, saffron, and wood filled the vehicle. We were insulated from the night. Angel Beach was a large city along the California coastline. Its port was the accompaniment to Los Angeles.
By accompaniment, Angel Beach was one of the busiest port centers in the world. Angel Beach High School had five thousand students, and there would be fifteen hundred students in my sophomore class. That's a lot of humans. The thought of it was nauseating. If I were hardly noticed before, I really wouldn't be noticed there.
"I just wish you and Mom had talked to me before making a life altering decision that will ruin my social life," I let that linger for a minute. I didn't remember much about my mother. My father said when they met she needed him; she made him want to be a better vampire. "How can living with your mother ruin your social life? You're not being reasonable. There are more things in life, more things to your life, than being social..." he said, looking at his diamond-encrusted watch.
It was exactly 11 p.m.

~~~

Amber had been living with her father in California for most of her life and had a good life. But at 15, she was informed that she would be now moving to live with her mother--that it was time for her to begin to learn new things and be taught how to handle what would be happening to her.  It all ways, Amber looked like a typical African-American teen, but she was more than that. She was only half human and her body would be accommodating to changes brought forth as her non-human side blossomed...

"Ambrosia Wharton!" he said. He quickly pulled the car over to the freeway's shoulder. "How dare you raise your voice to me?" His fangs bared, a faint yellow glow circled his pupils as the sound of his voice rattled the rear view mirror. "You may be a young woman, but I am still your father. You won't be just another girl on the beach. You must always remember your legacy. You were born where you were born, and you face the future that you face because you are what you are and for no other reason. "

"The limits of your ambition are set. You were born into a world that has spelled out with brutal clarity, and in as many ways as possible, what you are. You are not expected to aspire, to excel. You are expected to make peace with being invisible. Never forget who you are and what we are. We are the Uhura coven. We are the elite. We are vampires!" 

"I know." 

"Then, act like it! As a female vampire, it's crucial for you to be around..." "Another female vampire," I interrupted my father's lecture. "You've told me this a half a dozen times. I get it; I don't have to like it." I sat uncomfortably silent in my seat. The car's chassis subtlety vibrated from the still running engine. "Dad...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice."

~~~

Amber didn't care and she was upset nobody had discussed with her the need to move away from her home and friends... Besides, she hadn't seen her mother for years, would have to go to a new school and would again have no friends...

Still, she knew why the change had to be made and she really was happy to be with her mother again... And, once she saw...him...at her new school, she was quite willing to wait and see how things would go... But there was already a problem... He was human; he was a Christian. Both were trouble.

She didn't care... He was a star basketball player and she was going to try out for the team and was soon accepted and leading the team with her skill. Adrian and Amber soon became friends and Amber also developed a small group of additional friends...Things at the school seemed to be doing well...only disrupted when Adrian had pulled Amber close in a hug and Amber sharply pulled away--Adrian's cross around his neck had burned her... Quickly making an excuse to leave, she left him standing, confused...

The school activities are somewhat typical for the most part, except that Amber spends most nights out on the roofs of buildings in town... preparing her body for the future...

I talked to the author about the number of small typographical errors and discovered that he'd paid three different editors to work on his book. You, the potential buyer will have to decide about this issue. Given what I learned, I decided to point the problem out via a downgrade of ranking, but am quite willing to also recommend it highly for many of you who have the desire to read it based upon the cover and book description. 

There are also a couple of other issues to be spotlighted...The book contains a number of picture collages of the events happening in the book. They were exceptionally well done, but needed to be bigger for me to totally enjoy them and would have made perfect whole-page additions to the novel. Nevertheless the idea is very cool and the author should be commended... Also the author has used another method for helping to teach reading and color identification...Great idea... I read the book in a non-color application and didn't see the effect until I checked it out online... Nice...

Throughout the book, Hardie has presented considerable social commentary about the life of Blacks interacting in today's world, and with other races. It is definitely a learning experience, including the use of historical mythology to explain the heritage of the vampire. I was impressed... with the continuity and integration of this broader scope of the book beyond the typical vampire life...

And yet, the ending felt like it could also be the beginning...perhaps a sequel or a series? I've been reading Hardie since his first book and have seen continued improvement in his writing... In this book, which I would place in the literary drama genre rather than horror, which is normally expected for vampires, there is a element of  life participation that pulls individuals into what the author wishes to share with his readers. In fact, I was so involved that with the ending, I was totally shocked... Do Check it out!

GABixlerReviews

An average guy making his way in the world. Speaking and writing are my contribution to make the world a better place.
What are the names of your titles?
My works include Every Day Life, It Ain't Just The Size, Midnight: Rise of the Black Vampires and the science fiction THEM title.
Each time I am told not to do something...it motivates me to break the rules and to push limits...

Guest Blogger Larry Watts, Co-Author of Dishonored and Forgotten Writes About Policing and Minority Community

I am very concerned about race relations/police. What we see and hear everywhere is always about excessive violence, especially with African-Americans... What we see is, at a minimum, disheartening, and, in reality, scary and heartbreaking. 

Click over to Read Review...

I had just finished the book by Larry and Carolyn Ferrell Watts, and, based upon that story, I felt comfortable asking Larry about this major issue in America... He graciously provided the following. 

Policing Will Change and Minority Community Demands will be a Factor

by Larry Watts

Some believe the relationship between police and minorities is at an all-time low. I am not so sure. A look back at the 50's and 60's during the civil rights movement might convince one that we've been down this road before. If true, we should ask whether the tension, accusations and demonstrations then changed the relationship between police and minority citizens.

The answer is a resounding YES! Police were used for generations to keep certain people in their place. This was particularly true in the South, but it was prevalent all across America, even if not as blatant as in some of the southern

Rosa Parks

states. When those minority communities began demanding to sit up front on the bus, to eat in restaurants with whites, and to send their children to integrated schools, political leaders eventually succumbed to the pressure and the losses in courtrooms. When they did, a funny thing happened in police departments across our country. Cities began hiring more minority officers, taking complaints from those communities more seriously, and ultimately recognizing a greater duty to those segments of society.

Police officers today become frustrated because they are trained and encouraged to be enforcers of laws.  In other words, they believe they are expected to operate in real life as such former screen stars as Clint Eastwood portrayed in his several Dirty Harry movies. 

But when they shoot the bad guy in real life, often the community demonstrates, demanding the officer be fired and sent to prison. It doesn't often turn out like the movies.

What police departments should be instilling in young officers is that they're not expected to work the mean streets of the city by reacting to every crime they encounter as if it was the next Brinks armored car robbery. Some communities don't want lethal force used to apprehend a shoplifter or to endanger others by engaging in high speed chases through city streets. In fact, some communities may not want any force at all used to apprehend violators of minor laws. But to expect officers to act in a way totally contradictory to virtually all previous police training is not realistic.

• Officers should be made aware of EXACTLY the conduct expected of them. If they are expected to retreat rather than confront an armed suspect, to take cover rather than approach that suspect, and wait for backup rather than act swiftly, all of which are legitimate but not widely accepted responses by police agencies, then it must be a significant part of officer training and publicly acknowledged.  
• It must also be introduced as a change in culture so that officers who comply are not branded within the police community as cowards who are not to be trusted. 
• While the demands are being made and demonstrations conducted, both police and community groups should spend some energy insisting on clear guidelines without political wiggle room for the leaders.

When all the noise, created by both minority and police communities, has subsided, there will be change in how policing is conducted and there should be. 

That's not leadership, it's simply political expediency for the purpose of placating the loudest voice, whether it be the law and order crowd or the community activists from minority communities.

But an important part of that change should be to make sure political leaders and police chiefs clearly convey the instructions to the street officers and to the public. Too often, these leaders simply stand silent as they judge the direction of the political winds after an incident, before either sacrificing the careers of officers or touting them as heroes. That's not leadership, it's simply political expediency for the purpose of placating the loudest voice, whether it be the law and order crowd or the community activists from minority communities.

~~~

After high school, I found myself in Houston, Texas, trying to make a living as an industrial painter. I soon realized that hanging from water towers and scaling 100 foot high smoke stacks was not for me. I needed to find another occupation.

At the time, ads ran on television daily, touting the great pay and adventure for young men who became Houston police officers! The pay was a whopping $400 a month. I had never considered such an occupation, but decided it was worth a try; surely I could at least make it through the training.

I spent the next 21 years giving police work a try. After that I took a job with a union that represented police officers across the State of Texas. It was about 15 years into that career that I decided I to write a book.

Finally, in 2011, my first novel, The Missing Piece, was published. It’s a story set in Austin, Texas and details the disruption in the lives of all those involved when a police officer uses a weapon in the line of duty. My second novel, Cheating Justice was published in 2012 and tells of a man wrongfully convicted of murdering his wife.

I have since published a book of short stories, The Park Place Rangers, and three books in the Tanner & Thibodaux series. My most recent work, Dishonored and Forgotten, published January of 2017, is a historical fiction set in Houston during the 1950’s and relates the account of Houston’s first police drug scandal.

I live on the Gulf Coast in Texas, with my wife, Carolyn, who is also a published author of parenting and children’s books. I hope you try my writing. If you enjoy it, please let me know. You can e-mail me at Larry@LarryWatts.net. All my work is available here on my website, at Amazon, and wherever good books are sold.

Thanks so much to Larry Watts for his insightful and informative article...I believe he is right...If you, do, too, please share this article... I just picked up one of Larry's early books, so you'll be hearing about his work again, sometime in the future...

James P. Wilcox Provides Another Side of Harassment and Hatred...

Prologue

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

Check out interview with the author!

I fell in love with Jerome Peterson's Latest novel as I read...

"Jonas failed in telling his deceased mother. He also failed in telling his sister about his dream of buying a farm in America. Weeks melted into spring. The day finally arrived. Jonas received his long-awaited letter. He knew it was the letter because at the end of the return address, printed in bold, brave letters, was USA. Jonas stared at the envelope as if it were divinely sent and he was the prophet who awaited prostrate before golden tablets that would toughen his feet and light his path. He kissed the envelope several times before bolting across the street to find Antoine, who was the only one he knew that could read English. Antoine was busy fine tuning a business suit for a rich Polish aristocrat. He was studying the garment closely when Jonas shoved the important envelope in his face...
"HA! That is it my friend! That letter you have read is the beginning of a dream come true. I can see me out in the fields plowing. I can hear the cows mooing and chickens cackling. Antoine, I can almost smell the dirt of America!" Jonas brought both of his hands to his nostrils and inhaled...
"Have you told Evelina?"
"The truth of the matter was that Jonas had nothing under control. He definitely wasn't looking forward to telling his sister..."
English: Andrew Peterson Farmstead in Waconia, Minnesota, listed on the National Register of Historic Places. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Leaving Family Behind




By Jerome Peterson






After reading The Haunting of Andrew Sharpai by Peterson, I didn't know what to expect when asked to review his latest. Indeed this historical literary novel was surprising even within the book itself as the story evolved! By the time I had finished, honestly, I did a search on the main female character's name to see if she really lived. That's how much she had become so real to me! But who knows, somewhere at some time, another young girl did exactly what Evelina did! If you enjoy historical novels, this one gets my highest recommendation... Let me tell you a little about it...

There was much that brought fond memories of my past to me...perhaps the same will be true for many readers...

The story begins in Lithuania where we meet the Violettskus family. For generations the family had been farmers, except for this one. Father had taken up furniture making and Jonas had been taught and worked with him. When Evelina was old enough, which was early teens, she was sent to apply for a job at a nearby home who hired servants.

The family life was hard, but was it because the father had become so withdrawn and cold? Evelina was grateful for the opportunity to walk to the house where she was to be hired and along the way, she enjoyed the sounds of the birds and other noises which routinely surrounds us. Soon she was singing, humming along and in her mind creating complementary songs!

The woman who owned the house in which she worked was a concert pianist. Evelina had never heard a piano so she was immediately drawn when she heard the sound for the first time...

Fortunately, Irena was a kind and good woman and soon she had made arrangements to start teaching Evelina--quickly discovering she was a prodigy!

Also, fortunately, Evelina's mother spoke up against her husband to ensure her daughter had this chance. Evelina was soon giving concerts and also was given a scholarship for college...

She was never able to go...

Her parents died; her brother finally told her of his own dream to go to America and return to the farming life of his family... She was 17 and underage. Everything she tried failed to allow her to follow her dreams while Jonas followed his to America. Nothing worked, especially because Jonas knew he needed her to go with him and was just as stubborn as their father when he wouldn't give in.

The next part is an event in itself--learning and seeing how most of our early immigrants paid $25 to board a ship, live on the bottom floor near the engine room, on cots, with inadequate ventilation, restrooms and other facilities. The detail of this voyage is dramatically presented and a young female stowaway adds a poignancy that highlights the plight of lone women...This was a special learning experience for me, realizing what it took to come to America, maybe only a few steps higher than conditions of those brought over as slaves...

Ahhhh, but once in America, I began to love Evelina as a sister or daughter...I was so proud of her. I will only say that when she finally was 18, she began playing music--as one of a group called the Black Diamonds. And the ending was perfect!

Needless to say, I highly recommend you consider Leaving Family Behind!


GABixlerReviews

Check my review of Peterson's first book...
http://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2010/05/review-haunting-of-andrew-sharpai.html#

Jerome Peterson is the author of Thumb Flagging and The Haunting of Andrew Sharpai. He lives in Sonora, California, with his wife, Carolyn, and is working on his next novel. For more information, visit the author’s website:www.jeromejohnpeterson.com.