Paddling back to YA Literature

As a girl, I was never discouraged that the kiddy pool closed up shop too early - no, as soon as I was barred from entry to the world of picture books and early readers, I dove eagerly into the waters of YA lit. No one told me in fourth grade that those olympic sized pools dropped off into deep, deep chlorinated vats of blue, so I taught myself to paddle through novels with mature themes, devouring the sex in Judy Bloom's Forever and the eating-disordered, depression-laden personae non gratae in The California Diaries.

But I remember foregoing those books that taught me the skills I needed to go on to be a lover of literature sooner than my friends around me. By middle school, I had burned through series after series and coming of age tales galore and was braced to move on to classics. I scoffed at the teenagers who followed Gossip Girl after eighth grade, and rolled my eyes in disgust at adult Twilight devotees.

And then something happened. In my senior year of high school, I took a fiction class with Suzanne Supplee, a published writer in the genre of Young Adult Literature, and she encouraged us to embrace the field as a springboard for our own work, our own careers. She made us exercise our voices as young writers, crafting characters close in age to ourselves. And I found that I took comfort in that place, that setting where I didn't have to embody the wisdom of an adult or the struggles of a middle-aged man, but instead, the very real, no less valuable, and inevitably poignant thoughts and endeavors of growing children.

All of this was just a jolty bounce in preparation before jumping off from the diving board and into my main point. I'm currently taking a class on Children's and Young Adult Literature, and one of our exercises was creative in nature, calling on us to personify the voice of character in a YA novel. (Remember when we had to do those sorts of book reports in middle school? Even then, they were my favorite.) Anyway, I based mine off of Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, and to be flat-out honest, my teacher was really digging my response, and I loved writing it, so I thought I'd post it here as a self-motivating force to linger in this genre more, especially when my own life can't seem to inspire me to turn out essay after essay about yours truly. (Please set aside my vanities here.) So here goes. Book synopsis tacked on to the end for those interested. Alexie's novel is an oh-so-enjoyable read, and no one, really, is too old for it.

Dear Sis,

So maybe it’s true – what Rowdy told me. Maybe I killed you when I decided to get the hell off the rez and be some sort of Founding Father of better lives for Indians. Maybe you never would have gotten all googley-eyed over some drunk, gambling Indian that lived states and states away if I had just stayed put. Maybe you never would have decided to pack up your life from the basement and voyage to an unknown land to marry an unknown man if I hadn’t gone the twenty-two miles every day to get to Reardan.

But then, sis, maybe you just never would have lived, you know? Maybe you would have stayed in the basement and let your brain shrink down to nothing. And then assholes would call us “Little Head” and “Big Head,” since mine is overflowing with water like some kind of giant oil spill, and since yours would be rotting away.

No, I think I’m glad you got off the rez, even if it was just to go to another one miles away from here. And I’m glad you started writing again, and that you rode horses across that beautiful, mountain backdrop, and that you started looking for a job, even if you never even got one before you died. I wish I could read your stories. You know what makes me feel worst of all of everything that’s happened? That your book, your little testament of hope, just burned up in seconds in that stupid TV dinner tray of a trailer.

But maybe some day people will find your home out there, and think it was some kind of rare, ancient Indian cremation ground. And maybe it will give people hope: hope about uncovering lost history, or hope about leaving a part of yourself behind to be remembered when you die, just some kind of faith or assurance in something.

But, okay, before I start trying to sound like one of those philosophers Gordy is always getting a boner over, I wanted to tell you a story of my own. Remember how much you loved cantaloupe, and how I’ve always refused to even go near that forbidden fruit since that stupid wasp stung me ON THE FACE in first grade when I was covered with cantaloupe juice? Well, I’ve started eating it again. Like as a memory to you. Like if I eat it, I almost feel like I can carry a part of you with me. I know, I know, I just sound like a crazy, weird, Indian. But it’s true. And you know what I noticed as I was shaking salt onto my little slice of cantaloupe the other day? By the way, I add the salt now to like, subtract some of the sweetness because wasps like to nest in one place and are hard to get rid of just like Indians on reservations. But anyway, did you ever realize that “cantaloupe” is like a play on words of, “can’t elope?” Except that’s exactly what you did: ran away and got hitched without telling mom or dad or grandma or me or anyone. It’s kinda funny that that’s how things work out. Or I guess I should say ironic. But that’s just how everything seems to play out around here. Grandma, who never drank a drop in her life, got killed by a drunk driver. When I threw my geometry textbook and broke Mr. P’s nose, HE apologized to ME and told me to get off of the rez so I could find hope and not give up on myself. And you, who lived in the basement for seven years and hardly saw the light of day, wrote romance novels in your spare time. And you eloped even though your favorite fruit told you not to! And when you died because you were passed out drunk and couldn’t feel the fire, everyone got drunk at your wake because that is the only way Indians know how to deal with the accumulation of death.

Miss you, sis. I’ll keep trying to figure out how to live my dream, for the both of us.

Love,

Arnold

Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian chronicles the trials and tribulations of fourteen-year old Arnold Spirit, an American Indian better known on his reservation as “Junior.” Born with hydrocephalus, Arnold is forced to struggle not only with the problems that accompany a crippling medical condition, but also with universal adolescent stresses, like figuring out how to fit in, warding off bullies, and acting on teenaged feelings of romance. Add to the mix the fact that Arnold has no choice but to face the many known problems of life on Indian reservations – alcoholism, depression, poverty, violence, few educational opportunities, and more – and you’ve got the basis for this first person, diary style narrative first published in 2007. Despite the conflicts with which he is faced, Arnold manages to fight them off with humor and with his drawings, which are scattered throughout the book. All the while, Arnold becomes more mature in his reflections and experiences as well as in developing and embracing his very idiosyncratic view of the world and place in it, however different (or perhaps similar, as he eventually learns) it may seem from the white kids he decides to join at Reardan High, a school away from the reservation that offers him a glimpse of life outside of “the rez,” and more chances for growth than he could have dreamed up. Perfect for the 10-14 age group, this young adult novel should appeal to both girls and boys alike, exposing them to the diversities of the world, as well as teaching them that differences should be celebrated, and that perseverance and creativity will take you a long way in the world.