I have to say that I've been opposed to banning of books for quite some time. To ban a book like The Catcher in the Rye based on cursing and morality is ridiculous. I didn't learn curse words from The Catcher in the Rye and I, certainly, didn't build my morals according to Holdens. I agree with the author of this article, on page 12 they state "Talk about novels belongs in all sort of places- classrooms, living rooms, dormitories, coffeehouses, neighborhood taverns, community centers, even in the pages of studies such as this one- but not in courts of law..." I also agree with the author in later saying that J.D. Salinger is not accountable for misreadings of his novel. I understand we all have different minds and interpret things in different ways, but that is no reason for banning a book.
I think my favorite part of the this article was the first full paragraph on page thirteen, where the author discribes Holden's character as a real person and as a mirror image of our faces. I think that idea is what makes The Catcher in the Rye such a success, how many of us go through the day thinking like Holden? We don't always say it out loud, but we think like him, all of us.
Over all, I rather enjoyed reading this article. Happy holidays everyone =-)
Monday, December 31, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Brown; It's More Than a Color
I’m a simple girl,
With simple needs.
I don’t require
Extravagant gifts
Or a lavish lifestyle
In order to be
Happy.
Just a warm cup
Of coffee.
My comfort lies
In nature.
Whether I’m sitting within
Or observing from afar.
Watching the dirt
Blow this way
Then that.
Calming,
Like the
Strumming
Of a wooden guitar.
Sounding out
The neutrality
In my soul.
As the bark
Of a cherry weeping willow,
Nothing will penetrate
My spirit.
Though my
Innocence may come and go
With the seasons,
My endurance
Will stay rooted
To the ground.
With simple needs.
I don’t require
Extravagant gifts
Or a lavish lifestyle
In order to be
Happy.
Just a warm cup
Of coffee.
My comfort lies
In nature.
Whether I’m sitting within
Or observing from afar.
Watching the dirt
Blow this way
Then that.
Calming,
Like the
Strumming
Of a wooden guitar.
Sounding out
The neutrality
In my soul.
As the bark
Of a cherry weeping willow,
Nothing will penetrate
My spirit.
Though my
Innocence may come and go
With the seasons,
My endurance
Will stay rooted
To the ground.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
My Ring
I have this ring I wear on my pinky. Not many people notice it, they tend to stray to my other six rings, but it's my favorite. I'ts gold and in the shape of a crucifix. People think it's part of me being the "super religious" person I am, and it is to a point, but that's not the real reason it's there.
It used to belong to my mom. She got it from Colombia about 30 years ago when she was 16 in a market place, I believe. I always loved her rings, I loved the way they looked on her hands when I was a kid and your mom's hands were just the prettiest things. One day when I was around 12 years old we were in the kitchen getting ready to go out; my older sister, my mother, and I were standing by the island when she put the ring down and said, "Who wants it?"
I snatched that ring up so fast my sister didn't even have time to think.
When I first got the ring, I used to debate with myself back and forth on whether I wanted to be burried with it when I died and keep it forever, or pass it on. Eventually I decided I wanted to pass it on. I created this whole plan to give it to my second daughter, because I am the second daughter and my mother is too. I also would name her Aura Lucia, becuase that's my mother's name and my grandmother's name and it was supposed to be mine too. I always felt kind of gyped for that. I thought I'd make it a family hairloom of some sort; pass it from Aura Lucia to Aura Lucia. I thought it was a fitting plan to keep it going that way, considering my mom took after her mom and I take after my mom; I hoped this cycle would continue and create this neverending circle. I still like the idea of connecting the generations and if it all pans out that way I'd invisioned that'd just make life ten times sweeter. Regardless of who it is, though, I'm plan on passing the ring on.
Now every time I look at my hand, I think of my mom. I think about everything she's given me besides my favorite ring. She's given me independence and taught me how to look after myself, make decisions wisely and on my own. She's given me a good home, a good family, someone to talk to even when I don't feel like talking much. My mother's given me a good life and some one to look up to, and I love her dearly for everything she's ever given me.
It used to belong to my mom. She got it from Colombia about 30 years ago when she was 16 in a market place, I believe. I always loved her rings, I loved the way they looked on her hands when I was a kid and your mom's hands were just the prettiest things. One day when I was around 12 years old we were in the kitchen getting ready to go out; my older sister, my mother, and I were standing by the island when she put the ring down and said, "Who wants it?"
I snatched that ring up so fast my sister didn't even have time to think.
When I first got the ring, I used to debate with myself back and forth on whether I wanted to be burried with it when I died and keep it forever, or pass it on. Eventually I decided I wanted to pass it on. I created this whole plan to give it to my second daughter, because I am the second daughter and my mother is too. I also would name her Aura Lucia, becuase that's my mother's name and my grandmother's name and it was supposed to be mine too. I always felt kind of gyped for that. I thought I'd make it a family hairloom of some sort; pass it from Aura Lucia to Aura Lucia. I thought it was a fitting plan to keep it going that way, considering my mom took after her mom and I take after my mom; I hoped this cycle would continue and create this neverending circle. I still like the idea of connecting the generations and if it all pans out that way I'd invisioned that'd just make life ten times sweeter. Regardless of who it is, though, I'm plan on passing the ring on.
Now every time I look at my hand, I think of my mom. I think about everything she's given me besides my favorite ring. She's given me independence and taught me how to look after myself, make decisions wisely and on my own. She's given me a good home, a good family, someone to talk to even when I don't feel like talking much. My mother's given me a good life and some one to look up to, and I love her dearly for everything she's ever given me.
Friday, November 23, 2007
In My Hands Review
We all know the gruesome story of the Jews between the years of 1939-1944. The heroism the survivors of the Holocaust exhibited is undeniable, but rarely do people acknowledge the role of the rescuer. In My Hands by Iren GutOpdyke is the perfect place to start when looking for the side of the Holocaust.
This book, in short, is beautiful. Through Irene's memories the reader begins to understand the lives of the people during World War II. When the war began Irene was still a child, barely 17-years-old, she was studying to be a nurse and it seemed she had her whole life ahead of her. Irene did not "become a resistance fighter; a smuggler of jews, a defier of the SS and the Nazis all at once". Her life came to a hault with the invasion of her beloved Poland, from there she had lost her not just her home but her family and her innocence.
In My Hands was not a difficult book to read as far as her style of writing. She's clear in all her discriptions, to the point where I can see the coldness of officer Rokita's eyes, or feel the Irene as she's smuggling her friends to safety. The difficult part of the book was her story itself. Which of course is expected when discussing the Holocaust.
There is a great sense of nationalism in Irene, one that is uncommon in today's standards. Post 9/11 there red, white, and blue could be seen everywhere, but 6 years later that number flags has dwindled. Irene's love for Poland never ceased; it seemed that half her fight was for the hope that her country will one day return. Over and over again Irene expresses her longing for her country which fueled her hatred for the Russians and Germans and desire to aide the resistance.
Irene's feminism played a large part in her story. I'm amazed at the things "just a girl" could do. Women in the 1940s were not as respected as they are today. There were many that overlooked and underestimated Irene for the gender she is. At times even Irene herself doubted her abilities as a result of peoples beliefs in girls and what they can and can't do. Soon she realized, who would ever guess a girl could hide 12 Jews? And in the basement of a Nazi major, and who would question a girl carrying a basket of supplies for her employer? She's inspiration to girls of any time period, that "female" is not a handicap.
Irene writes her memoir in a feeling of indifference. There are points in her story where the lasting scars of the war are evident, but when praised by people and compared to Moses she quickly disagreed. Perhaps she is modest, or perhaps she simply believed she had no other option. When faced with the truth of the life of Jews in the ghettos, and her fears of what God would think of her standing by and doing nothing kick in. Helping her Jewish friends only seemed the natural thing to do.
To say the war had put many lives on hold is an understatement. A seventeen year old today is going to highschool, preparing for college, going out with friends, falling in love, learning about life. By 1944, Irene had had one kind of life: resisting. After her friends were gone and safe, after the war was over, she was in her 20s, it felt like not only a life time to her, but to me reading her story. It seemed impossible a young woman had gone through all that she had, and rather unfair that she after all she had done, she still needed to find herself in the world. One would assume that after the war, she could find her family, live in a free Poland once more, and live happily ever after.
Irene's story left me with images of her own memory, as if they were my own. I was completely engulfed from start to finish by the bravery a young woman could have.
This book, in short, is beautiful. Through Irene's memories the reader begins to understand the lives of the people during World War II. When the war began Irene was still a child, barely 17-years-old, she was studying to be a nurse and it seemed she had her whole life ahead of her. Irene did not "become a resistance fighter; a smuggler of jews, a defier of the SS and the Nazis all at once". Her life came to a hault with the invasion of her beloved Poland, from there she had lost her not just her home but her family and her innocence.
In My Hands was not a difficult book to read as far as her style of writing. She's clear in all her discriptions, to the point where I can see the coldness of officer Rokita's eyes, or feel the Irene as she's smuggling her friends to safety. The difficult part of the book was her story itself. Which of course is expected when discussing the Holocaust.
There is a great sense of nationalism in Irene, one that is uncommon in today's standards. Post 9/11 there red, white, and blue could be seen everywhere, but 6 years later that number flags has dwindled. Irene's love for Poland never ceased; it seemed that half her fight was for the hope that her country will one day return. Over and over again Irene expresses her longing for her country which fueled her hatred for the Russians and Germans and desire to aide the resistance.
Irene's feminism played a large part in her story. I'm amazed at the things "just a girl" could do. Women in the 1940s were not as respected as they are today. There were many that overlooked and underestimated Irene for the gender she is. At times even Irene herself doubted her abilities as a result of peoples beliefs in girls and what they can and can't do. Soon she realized, who would ever guess a girl could hide 12 Jews? And in the basement of a Nazi major, and who would question a girl carrying a basket of supplies for her employer? She's inspiration to girls of any time period, that "female" is not a handicap.
Irene writes her memoir in a feeling of indifference. There are points in her story where the lasting scars of the war are evident, but when praised by people and compared to Moses she quickly disagreed. Perhaps she is modest, or perhaps she simply believed she had no other option. When faced with the truth of the life of Jews in the ghettos, and her fears of what God would think of her standing by and doing nothing kick in. Helping her Jewish friends only seemed the natural thing to do.
To say the war had put many lives on hold is an understatement. A seventeen year old today is going to highschool, preparing for college, going out with friends, falling in love, learning about life. By 1944, Irene had had one kind of life: resisting. After her friends were gone and safe, after the war was over, she was in her 20s, it felt like not only a life time to her, but to me reading her story. It seemed impossible a young woman had gone through all that she had, and rather unfair that she after all she had done, she still needed to find herself in the world. One would assume that after the war, she could find her family, live in a free Poland once more, and live happily ever after.
Irene's story left me with images of her own memory, as if they were my own. I was completely engulfed from start to finish by the bravery a young woman could have.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
In My Hands
"If fear alters behavior, you're already defeated."
Brenda Hammond
I think this is an excellent quote to describe Irene. Throughout the memoir she's terrified. She knows what she does is a capital offense, yet she does it anyway. Starting with leaving the box of food underneath the fence. Irene doesn't let her fear get in the way of what she knows is the right thing to do. Had Irene let her fear get in the way of her actions, her friends would not have remained alive.
Her friends, upon hearing Irene's plans, were afraid to let Irene help them. They tried to convince her to save her own life, but she would not hear it. On page 174, Ida begs Irene to turn them in; she argues that what she's doing is too dangerous. Although Irene is as scared as Ida and the rest of the people in hiding, as seen in the pages leading up to this passage, Irene refuses and askes them simply to wait.
What Irene did was couragious, but it was not courage that drove her. I think she merely wouldn't let her fear get in her way. Had she not overcome this, had she given up because she was to scared, her friends would have died in the raid planned by Rokita on page 162.
Brenda Hammond
I think this is an excellent quote to describe Irene. Throughout the memoir she's terrified. She knows what she does is a capital offense, yet she does it anyway. Starting with leaving the box of food underneath the fence. Irene doesn't let her fear get in the way of what she knows is the right thing to do. Had Irene let her fear get in the way of her actions, her friends would not have remained alive.
Her friends, upon hearing Irene's plans, were afraid to let Irene help them. They tried to convince her to save her own life, but she would not hear it. On page 174, Ida begs Irene to turn them in; she argues that what she's doing is too dangerous. Although Irene is as scared as Ida and the rest of the people in hiding, as seen in the pages leading up to this passage, Irene refuses and askes them simply to wait.
What Irene did was couragious, but it was not courage that drove her. I think she merely wouldn't let her fear get in her way. Had she not overcome this, had she given up because she was to scared, her friends would have died in the raid planned by Rokita on page 162.
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