Pondering the Butterflies - Thoughts on 'Flight Behavior' by Barbara Kingsolver

One of my best childhood memories involves monarch butterflies. I believe I was in kindergarten when I first learned about the monarchs' life cycle: the caterpillar weaving himself a cocoon, taking a long nap, and waking up as a striking orange and black butterfly. I remember walking in the fields near our house to find milkweed for our classroom caterpillars. I vaguely remember harboring a few cocoons in mason jars and watching the life-cycle work its magic. Today, there are houses where those fields once attracted their brilliant summertime residents. The milkweed is gone, and sadly, so are the monarch butterflies.

I was blessed to grow up when I did, to have those afternoons tromping through milkweed-laden fields. In the years that followed, the demolition of the ecosystem behind my house became a harbinger of much graver destruction. Those breeding grounds and many others like it would be bulldozed or sprayed with pesticides, killing the caterpillars' lifeline and stymieing population growth. I saw this happen before my very eyes; what I did not see was the other half of the decimation. In recent years, monarch wintering grounds in Mexico have been subjected to landslides due to extensive logging. Additionally, climate change has affected the migratory patterns of butterflies, hindering their ability to survive the winters and reducing their chances of reproduction. And even if they do reproduce, their children will most likely starve in a world saturated with chemicals but devoid of sustenance.

Now, twenty-five years after my first monarch experience, I learn that 2015 may be the year when the dazzling monarch finds its way onto the endangered species list. In the past several days I've seen numerous articles predicting such a fate. Ironically, these articles showed up in the news only a few days after I'd finished reading Barbara Kingsolver's book Flight Behavior. The recent findings brought reality to a sad plot that first appeared in a work of fiction. The world is changing, and the treasures of my childhood will not be available to the generations that follow.

Kingsolver's story of the butterflies was woven into the story of Dellarobia, a young woman trapped in a life that was too small for her. When butterflies appeared by the millions on her in-law's farm in Tennessee, her world was expanded and transformed. Global warming and environmental degradation had led to the loss of the butterflies' winter habitat in Mexico, so they chose a mountainside in Tennessee, which was far too cold to sustain life until spring. The researchers that migrated with the butterflies opened up Dellarobia's eyes, not only to possibilities that lay beyond the four walls of her small home, but also to the fallacies of the conservative right. She was challenged to think, to dialogue, and she realized that life's questions do not always have neatly-packaged answers - at least, not the answers we want to hear. Her tight-knit, conservative community centered around a revered pastor named Bobby Ogle. Her husband's family, and most of her friends followed him blindly. When he wasn't around to tell them what to think, they tuned in to the conservative media outlets. Thus, when the butterflies landed in the mountains nearby, they believed it was a miraculous act of God, not a perilous consequence of global warming.

What I love about Barbara Kingsolver is that she's able to deconstruct this mentality without totally dismissing the people that she's criticizing. As a native of Appalachia herself, one could ascertain that these characters are indeed her own friends and neighbors. I too grew up in a poor, rural community, and fell prey to the teachings that put Scripture at odds with science. Those who espouse this anti-science mentality often surround themselves with speakers and pundits who echo the views they've heard from the pulpit. Yet one of the reasons why Kingsolver has become my own literary role model, is because she recognizes that people are a product of their environment. She understands complexity. In areas where good schools are not available it is difficult to break the chains. In communities where education is lacking, such things as science are deemed "the enemy" and intellectuals are often viewed with suspicion.  Dellarobia is the only member of the community to bridge the gap between the locals and the research team that comes to study the butterflies. Even she struggles to trust them, and understands that they too are products of their environment. They are products of homes that could afford computers. The graduate students she befriends grew up in neighborhoods with good schools and access to universities.  They did not grow up in homes where parents had to struggle to provide basic necessities, where books were a luxury, often coming second-hand and out-of-date. As Dellarobia grapples with the close-minded nature of her community, she astutely perceives that all sides have a tendency to hover near their own kind, at one point realizing that, "Nobody truly decided for themselves. There was too much information. What they actually did was scope around, decide who was looking out for their clan, and sign on for the memos on a wide array of topics." I read this and immediately chuckled, feeling keenly guilty of the same tendency. (I regularly joke about the fact that the NPR reporters are my best friends. They come with me in the car, they talk to me while I'm making dinner; I laugh at all their lame puns, and download the podcasts whenever I miss a show. They are indeed "my clan.")

As Dellarobia begins to step outside the mold she is often ostracized by her own community and her own family. But for her, the truth of the butterflies was far more important. What was once a thing of beauty has now become a dire warning. Knowing the truth causes her to question her faith, her marriage, and her path in life.

Like most good books, these questions are left unresolved. In fact, I've written my own little "happy-ending" in my head (my apologies to Barabara Kingsolver). I too have considered the gap between science and religion, but come to find that it is not very difficult to bridge. I've never been content with the "God works in mysterious ways" explanation that seemed to quell Bobby Ogle's congregation. God works rationally, scientifically, and purposefully. And He's given us a brain. I think He intends for us to use it.

So whether you're a fundamentalist Christian or a atheistic hippie - or a little bit of both - please understand, science is not our enemy. It is not morally good or bad. Sometimes it's messy, sometimes experiments are done poorly, and sometimes the wrong conclusions are drawn. However, more often than not, science gives us answers. What we do with those answers determines the morality of our lives and our societies. Science has allowed child mortality rates to decrease exponentially and it has allowed us to live longer, more productive lives (vaccines rock!). Unfortunately, science has also allowed us to ravage the earth in ways that God never intended. Instead of being stewards of the plants and animals He created, we all too often dominate the earth abusively. Yes, science has allowed us to grow bigger, tastier crops with less natural predators, but at the expense of some of God's most beautiful artwork (i.e. monarch butterflies). God has given us dominance over the plants and the animals, but does that mean chickens should live in cages with no room to turn around or stretch their limbs? (props to California for getting this question right!) God has given us this earth and the responsibility to care for it. Unfortunately, we have replaced this God-ordained responsibility with one of our own design: the quest for profit. This is yet another reason why I believe Christ would not condone modern capitalism.

No, we're not all farmers, but we all eat and we all consume electricity. Perhaps we could drive less, and use our gas savings to pay a little more for free-range eggs. Perhaps we could frequent farmer's markets and seek out pesticide-free produce. If everyone were to adjust just a few elements of their daily routine, perhaps the monarchs will survive to be studied by another generation of eager schoolchildren.

"Fever" by Mary Beth Keane

"There is nothing new under the sun."

A good look at history will tell you that. The recent Ebola outbreak led to soaring sales of The Hot Zone, quarantines established - and fought - throughout America, and a widespread media-induced panic. Since I'd already read The Hot Zone I turned to another medical story, a novel called Fever which traced the path of Mary Mallon, the infamous "Typhoid Mary" of turn-of-the-century America.

Rewind about 110 years and a similar - though I'd argue far more frightening - disease was overtaking cities, creeping into the homes of the rich and poor, and often taking its victims among the youngest members of society. Typhoid was not so contagious that it required hazmat suits and disinfection chambers, but rather, good hand-washing and basic hygiene was all that was required to prevent the spread of this deadly illness.

It says a lot about America as the time that the disease spread so rapidly. We were not a clean society. At the turn of the century cities had grown at breakneck speed in the headlong rush of laissez-faire capitalism. Urban sanitation systems simply could not keep up with the exponential rise in population. Additionally, Americans, historically a rural agricultural people, lacked experience in effective city planning and management. Early 20th century America looked quite a bit like cities in the developing world today where typhoid and a host of other preventable diseases still threaten the world's poorest populations.

Into this context came Mary Mallon, an Irish immigrant who made her way to America on a 19th century famine ship. Through her own stubbornness, hard work and persistence she became a renowned cook in the homes of New York City's elite. Yet, she brought disease along with her delicacies. Mary was an asymptomatic carrier of Typhoid. She infected a confirmed total of 53 people over the course of her career, and was dubbed "Typhoid Mary" in the papers. She fought the NYC Health Department at every turn. After Mary was forcibly quarantined for three years, she was released after signing an agreement to never cook for hire again. However, she worked her way back into the profession, first in a bakery and then in a hospital kitchen, working under the pseudonym Mary Brown. When an outbreak of Typhoid wracked the hospital Mary was once again caught and sent to live out the rest of her life in quarantine.

Mary Beth Keane's book Fever humanized Mary Mallon's story. Perhaps Mary Mallon should be vilified for going back to work as a cook (in a hospital kitchen no less!) but throughout the story, the author gave us a glimpse through Mary's eyes. She simply could not understand how she could be a carrier of such a deadly disease. In this era, medical knowledge of bacteria was still very new. Most ordinary citizens did not understand how bacteria was carried from the bathroom to the kitchen. It's hard to imagine this today, in our society of obsessive attachment to antibacterial soaps, disinfecting cleaners, and hand-sanitizers marketed in every size, shape, and scent. All Mary knew was that she'd never been sick a day in her life. She had trouble believing the doctors' claims that she was carrying invisible microbes of death. Additionally, this was well before the era of worker's compensation, minimum wage, or effective unions. When Mary was told she could no longer cook she was relegated to one of the lowest-paying jobs in the city - working as a laundress seven days a week. Mary felt compelled, out of necessity and out of pride, to once again seek work in her chosen field. She could not accept the evidence that was presented to her, that she was a sick woman actively infecting others with her cooking.

Mary's delusions did not end there. The author introduced an ill-fated love story between Mary and a shiftless alcoholic named Albert. Ironically, I think I had less patience for Mary in her romantic life than in her lethal professional life. One can understand why she ached to return to cooking, but I could not fathom why such a strong and independent woman kept trying so hard to have a relationship with such an undeserving creature - especially when another, far better, prospect presented himself! I have not been able to confirm rather the relationship was real or made up for dramatic effect, but it served to further emphasize Mary's persistent personality. She would not give up on her career, just as she would not give up on Albert. She should have given up on both. In the end, Mary's stubbornness was endearing, but was also her greatest flaw - at fatal flaw that did not kill her, but ended the lives of many others.

"Lake Wobegon Days" and Saturday Nights with Garrison Keillor

Lake Wobegon Days is the only novel I've read where the main character is a town. The town of Lake Wobegon is technically fictional, yet all too real for those of us who grew up in, and thus grew to love, small town life. The book was charming because the town is charming. It was a montage of stories depicting the town's conception and infancy, it's growing maturity, and the new tidings offered by the four distinct seasons. There was no one plot that followed the book from beginning to end, just a host of quirky townspeople connect through the generations by their association to this one picturesque like hamlet on Lake Wobegon.

Garrison Keillor brings us tales from Lake Wobegon every Saturday evening. I purposefully set my clock by A Prairie Home Companion. At promptly 6 pm every Saturday I set down the book I'm reading or the papers I'm grading and turn on the kitchen radio, perennially tuned to our local NPR station. I know this sounds "so 1930s," but I can't help myself. It's a ritual more akin to my grandparents' generation. In our day of DVRs and Netflix, who sets their clocks by a show anymore? Much less a radio show! But I'm old fashioned and I like it. The delight of listening to Garrison live offsets any temptation I might have to venture out on a Saturday night. (Unless of course, it is to see him broadcast live at Wolf Trap - a recent treat that thrilled me beyond all explanation).

For two hours Garrison Keillor provides our evening's entertainment as we prepare, eat, and clean up dinner. The voice actors use their bygone art-form to satirize old-time radio shows. We've become quite attached to Guy Noir, the bungling private eye, and that lonely, guilt-inducing mother whose screeching voice makes us cringe and laugh simultaneously. I'm also rather entranced by the parodied advertisements for Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie and Powdermilk biscuits, both of which sound delightful in their apparent disregard for the trending food movements outside Lake Wobegon. Neither of these items is fresh, local, or devoid of carbohydrates, but I feel like people in Lake Wobegon don't worry so much about carbohydrates. Whatever gets them through that long cold winter can't be that bad.

I don't have the slightest inkling of ever living in Minnesota. I'm not that hard-core. Yet, at this time of year I always find myself a little homesick for my own "Lake Wobegon." I can't stop missing a little town in Western New York where the winters are only marginally better than those in Minnesota and everybody knows everybody else's quirks. It's a place where people don't have perfectly manicured lawns devoid of dandelions, they don't freak out about ticks every time they go outdoors, and they don't find it necessary to refrigerate all the buildings during the summer.  One day perhaps we'll retire to that idyllic little place - if I can convince my husband to move so far from "civilization."  (Though I'm sure he'll bring his more "civilized" views toward dandelions with him.) In the meantime, we'll enjoy our quaint little Saturday night ritual for as long as Garrison Keillor has stories to tell.

"And that's the news from Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children above-average." 
- Garrison Keillor

"Orphan Train" by Christina Baker Kline

Set in Minnesota and Maine in the 1930s and 2011, respectively, Orphan Train weaves together the stories of two orphans, living in the same town, two generations apart. When Molly, a seventeen year old foster kid, steals a book from the local library she finds herself doing community service in an elderly woman's attic. Day after day Molly, and the 90-year-old Vivian sift through boxes of Vivian's things, purportedly to clean them out. In reality, the attic holds a Pandora's box of memories, memories that are not thrown out or donated, but neatly folded, boxed, and labeled while stories are told.

Vivian tells Molly of her journey from Ireland to New York City, her life in the tenements and the tragic night when she became an orphan. She was packed on an orphan train bound for Minnesota. In Minnesota she is at first taken in by a couple who forces her to work as a seamstress in the family business and sleep on a cot in the closet. When the Depression sinks their business, Vivian, then called Dorothy, becomes a "mother's helper," little more than a slave of the Grotes who are a poor and shiftless family living outside of town with too many kids. Her only solace is school and her teacher Miss Larsen. Miss Larsen ultimately saves her from an abusive situation and finds her a kind and upstanding family to take her in. Her name is changed to Vivian and she is gainfully employed at the couple's general store. She gradually builds the business into a thriving enterprise.

As Vivian tells her stories of loss, heartbreak, and ultimately, second-chances, she is at the same time offering a second-chance to Molly. Molly in turn, uses the internet to help Vivian track down and reconnect with long-lost family. In the process this unlikely friendship between a 90 year old woman and a teenager sporting the Goth look becomes a serendipitous chance at redemption for the both of them.

What I enjoyed about this book was its wholesome, neatly packaged conclusion. Every once in awhile you need a book like that to remind you that there is good in the world, that the quest for unconditional love and "family" can be found - even when that family is unconventional or unrelated. There is nothing quite so hopeful as the story of an unloved waif, taken from the streets to a warm and clean home where goodness and compassion gradually build into love.

"The Circle" by Dave Eggers

The Circle is a hyperbolic, yet strikingly haunting cautionary tale of our society's rapid retreat of from privacy. The novel tells the story of an ambitious young woman named Mae who has just landed a job at a groundbreaking tech giant called The Circle. At first I thought the "the Circle" was meant to represent Google, but apparently The Circle is the next best thing. The Circle has taken over and filled the gaps. It has given all individuals one user account through which all social, business, and even domestic transactions occur. (Think Google+Amazon+Facebook+Twitter+LinkedIn+Pinterest+etc = The Circle.) The Circle is everywhere and its rise to preeminence makes it a happening place to work.

The problem is that The Circle is everywhere. Innovators at The Circle have created ingenious mechanisms to make every facet of life not only controlled by The Circle, but also public. Politicians go completely "transparent," meaning that they wear a camera around their neck at all times so that all their interactions are live-streamed and broadcast to the world. Their followers, or "watchers," can comment on their every move from the cookie they ate for breakfast to the approval granted in high-level committee hearings. These inexpensive cameras can be surreptitiously hung in homes, on street corners, and just about anywhere humans frequent. Thus, any crime, any instance of domestic abuse, any call for help can be immediately seen by millions and attended to almost immediately. Genealogy can be tracked back to the Middle Ages, dredging up family history best left in the past. Online identities are not concealed. Since everyone's Circle account is tied to their credit card real names always appear in comments and postings. While ridding the internet of anonymity has indeed made users more civil, what we find is a world where expectations for communication have drastically risen. Friends take offense at the slightest delay in "liking" a post, accepting a invitation, or signing a petition.

This is not some futuristic dystopia where the government is imposing strict surveillance on it's people (though it would be easy for the government to do this if it wanted to, since The Circle has all the information) No - this is a society in the not-to-distant future where individuals choose to give up their privacy. They choose to be constantly harangued by companies looking for product reviews, choose to publicize their every moment by posting videos and photos, choose to give up hours of sleep following others' lives and commenting on their day-to-day activities. This is not a cautionary tale against the NSA and drone surveillance. It's a cautionary tale warning us of the dangers inherent in our voluntary relinquishment of privacy.

The Circle's ethic centers around the belief that secrets are bad. 'Has anything good ever come from hidden knowledge?' The Circles creators, called the Wise Men, ask.   If people are not doing something shameful, why should they hide? The Wise Men believe that the concept of privacy was created to mask wrongdoing. Mae slowly falls into their clutches. Like most of the other young, innovative minds at The Circle, she cannot resist the pull of group-think. Total transparency, thus total accountability, is the goal. Privacy and solitude are viewed as shameful and suspect.

The Circle and its many followers certainly have their opponents. Yet these people are seen as backward, unenlightened and antisocial. Mae, in her first days at The Circle, proves to be an exceptional employee, but is chastised repeatedly for not being social enough online, and for not attending The Circle's plethora of evening and weekend functions. Mae, ever the people-pleaser, then embarks upon an exhausting array of online and offline activities. Working by day, managing her Zing feed (The Circle's version of Facebook/Twitter) and hopping between Circle social events in the evening, her schedule is so packed that she doesn't even have time to go home. Rather, she takes advantage of The Circles dormitories, offered free of charge and often stocked with food, clothing, and personal items consistent with the preferences gleaned from each inhabitant's online activity

It gets even creepier. Soon there is talk of mandating every U.S. citizen to have a Circle account and use that to mandate voting. Thinking optimistically, Mae and the Wise Men believe this will ensure full voter participation and allow for politicians to more closely represent the people - or even do away with the need for politicians altogether as society moves toward a direct democracy This is where the book "jumps the shark." Once the story line moves out of the realm of company policy and social conformity to rewriting the Constitution, it all becomes a little absurd.

Fortunately, the shark jumping didn't occur until near the end, so I would conclude by saying that overall Dave Egger's book was an enjoyable read and made valid points about how often we voluntarily put our security and privacy in jeopardy. I revel in the irony of it all. I chuckle to think about how our nation was in an uproar last summer with the Edward Snowden revelations, yet these same uproarious citizens give up a plethora of data and freedom every day through Gmail, Facebook and Twitter. How important is our privacy anyway? I understand the principle is enshrined in the First Amendment, and no one should be forced to give up their privacy. But just like Mae was not forced to attend Circle social functions and post about her every waking moment, the pressure to be a contributing part of her environment essentially drove her into the clutches of full transparency. While the "Wise Men" of the Circle contend that transparency makes us more honest and would argue that the watchful eyes of millions reduce crime and corruption, it also makes our lives infinitely more stressful. We are always putting ourselves out there to be judged, criticized, and yes, even applauded. In doing so we are constantly molding and remolding ourselves into the image of our watchers.  So not only does this foster homogeneity, but it put us dangerously into the clutches of others. Our constant quest for approval, for attention, for validation through the comments, the likes, and the shares, reveals our true insecurity. And if we are seeking security from the "likes" of our followers, we are on very tenacious footing.

While few would deny there are benefits to social media used prudently and in moderation, Eggers' book firmed my resolve to more consistently put the computer away, close out of Facebook, and seek more meaningful avenues of spending my time. How often does social media shift my focus away from the ones whose approval truly matters. There are only a handful of people on this earth whose opinions should really hold any weight. And really, the only "follower" who knows my every move and every thought is God. Ultimately, it's His approval that matters most. So why spend all this time trying to impress others? He already knows I'm not impressive. He created me to depend on Him; but he also gave me gifts and resources that I can use to serve Him and others. Sometimes those gifts do involve social media (i.e. blogging to hone my writing skills) but other times they require my mind and my heart to be totally offline and unplugged.

"Looking for Alaska" by John Green

I'll have to admit, Looking for Alaska was a bit of a letdown after The Fault in our Stars. The characters seemed pretentious and the plot was rather cliche. Though it was a stimulating read, I was, all things considered, rather unimpressed.

The story had the air of a A Separate Peace, The Chocolate War and Dead Poet's Society. The book is not only set in a boarding school, but all the standard conflicts are present. The rich kids maintaining the status quo always antagonize the purer, deeper outcasts whose revolutionary thinking makes them the protagonists. Likewise, this boarding school novel features pilfered cigarettes, alcohol, and an annoying preoccupation with challenging the seemingly inept authority figures. (Maybe I feel this way because I'm a teacher and I don't like those who challenge my authority.) As in other stories, the boarding school is a pressure cooker of external and internal conflicts that drive one particular student to suicide. The main characters grapple with this death in their own ways and ultimately seek answers to the great existential questions facing humanity.

Looking for Alaska is, at its core, a novel of teenage angst. The four main characters are intelligent, yet underprivileged outcasts. Their otherness gives them a keen disdain for the wealthier boarders who retreat to their luxury homes at the end of classes each Friday. Their social group really centers around Alaska, a rebellious, moody, and promiscuous femme fatale who seems to exude an aura of "mystery" - at least according to the hopelessly enamored boy narrating the story. Though Alaska and I share a lot of the same thoughts on male dominance and a similar abhorrence for patriarchy, that's about where the similarities end. To me, Alaska seems like an overly emotional attention-whore who is obsessed with with breaking the rules simply for the sake of breaking the rules. There is really nothing mysterious or alluring about her.

In addition to being underwhelmed by the title character, I also felt like too much of the so-called plot simply centered around their ridiculous pranks and flagrant violation of rules. The conflicts that arose were all conflicts the teens themselves created through their own stupidity or narcissism. Though the characters' drunken rants were peppered with all sorts of philosophical quandaries and a somewhat odd preoccupation with famous last words, I didn't find any of it particularly pithy. Essentially, these kids needed to grow up and stop taking themselves so seriously. (That was not one of the conclusions reached by the end of the book, if indeed conclusions were reached.) In short, I felt that by writing a book about people who take themselves too seriously, John Green gave those types of people the time of day that they didn't deserve.

"Eleanor and Park" by Rainbow Rowell

You know you've hit on a good book when you go through mourning once it's over. That's precisely where I am right now. Eleanor and Park didn't end. It just stopped. The story is going on somewhere and I'm not there. And I miss them. I want to turn the page, but there is no page to turn. Yes, it's a little pathetic when you're invested so totally in a book that the characters have become so real to you, that once they're ripped out of your life you walk around feeling depressed and alone. Maybe there is something pathologically wrong with me. Maybe I need more human friends. 

Eleanor and Park is set in Omaha, Nebraska in the 1980s. I'm not sure exactly why the author chose this decade, but I have a feeling that she's is fictionalizing some of her own life. Either way, it is a story of teenage puppy love in the old days - the days of walkmans, cassette tapes, landline phones, and a host of other things I only vaguely remember. The story's narration alternates between Eleanor and Park. Thus, the reader got a sense of how each character felt about the other, and how disillusioned they were about their own shortcomings. 

The story is so peppered with sappy love scenes that I almost feel guilty about becoming so attached to it. Yet, what drew me in was not the romance, so much as the fact that it was a romance between two smart, dorky, somewhat naive, and very self-conscious kids. It also spoke a lot about attraction and it challenged our culture's stereotype of beauty. It gave me faith in humanity and it reaffirmed my belief that there really are good guys out there (besides my husband of course), guys who aren't attracted to Barbie dolls. 

The story opens with Eleanor getting on the bus. She's the new girl. She has big red hair, a stocky build, and atrocious clothing. She looks like a loser in every sense of the word. Nobody wants to offer her a seat, but when the bus driver yells at her, a grouchy Asian kid reluctantly moves over and lets her sit down. Before they even get to school the kids in the back of the bus have invented a litany of unflattering nicknames for her. It doesn't get much better during the school day. She's smart, so she does well in her classes and gains respect and sympathy from her teachers, but she doesn't exactly make any friends among her peers. It's gym class that turns out to be the bane of her high school existence. The school bus bullies are in her gym class and they make her life a living hell. To make matters worse, she's forced to wear a revealing and too-tight gym suit that does nothing to flatter her full figure. Eleanor is miserable. She is the butt of all the jokes and she just wishes she could be invisible. 

If school is bad, home is worse. The only time she can breathe easily is when her step-dad Richie is away at work or drinking his earnings at the local bar. She learns how to avoid him as much as possible; she also learns to sleep through the fights and the beatings going on in the next room. She tries, as best as a big redheaded teenager possibly can, to make herself invisible. 

As you can imagine, Eleanor is very insecure, very reluctant to trust, very slow to let anyone in. Thus, the relationship between her and her seatmate develops slowly. The grouchy Asian kid, Park, actually feels bad for treating her so rudely on the first day, yet not bad enough to talk to her. He's in several of her honors classes, and he watches her closely. He begins to see that she is truly unique. Their relationship begins as they read comics together. At first, she surreptitiously reads over Park's shoulder, but he soon catches on. He lets her borrow some. Then he shares his music with her. It is not long before she's coming over to his house, meeting his family, and officially recognized as "Park's girlfriend." 

Over the next few months their relationship grows from simple camaraderie to being "in love," to tentatively experimenting with physicality, and in the process dealing with their own insecurities. Eleanor thinks she fat. The bullies make fun of her for it and her step-dad makes rude comments about her appearance, but somehow Park sees none of this. He thinks her unruly hair and mismatched clothing makes her like "like art." Park however, thinks he's too effeminate, he believes that Asian men are not attractive to white girls. Both of them view themselves through the lens of what the cruelest voices in society have been telling them, yet both Eleanor and Park see the other as beautiful. Here's the best quote, this is the part where I absolutely came to adore Park: 

“I miss you, Eleanor. I want to be with you all the time. You’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met, and the funniest, and everything you do surprises me. And I wish I could say that those are the reasons I like you, because that would make me sound like a really evolved human being …‘But I think it’s got as much to do with your hair being red and your hands being soft … and the fact that you smell like homemade birthday cake” 

I love that these two off-beat kids are in love. I liked that the skinny, semi-emo Asian kid has the hots for a fat, sarcastic, redhead. They are an unconventional couple and that's why I appreciate them, which is also why I was so fond of this book. Eleanor's dysfunctional family added drama and a bit of suspense, and in the end led Park to make a very hard decision. I can't say I was always impressed with Eleanor's choices, but she was wholeheartedly endearing. I understood her and empathized with her. 

This book has made it onto many bestseller lists, including NPR's "Best Books of 2013" (my #1 source for reading material). Dreamworks is making Eleanor and Park into a movie because, as Holly Bario, president of production, told Entertainment Magazine, 

“Every girl who has read it says, ‘That was me in high school, or that was me in 7th grade...It reminded all of us of our own sort of awkwardness, or family dysfunction.”

When I read that quote I was incensed. That was ME in high school. It wasn't "every other girl;" every other girl was skinnier, prettier (or so I believed), and getting picked before me in gym class. I was always the last kid standing when other students chose teams, always the one without a partner, always the kid who got picked on or yelled at (or both) for doing the wrong thing with the ball.  In fact, this book revived bullying memories as far back as kindergarten. I remember getting on the bus and finding there were no seats. I remember the "big kids" picking on me, and I remember standing in the aisle during the bus ride to school (fortunately I lived close, so it was quick). But gym class was truly the worst. For thirteen years I spent at least three hours a week feeling like the most worthless person in the world. 

I'm thankful these experiences generally ended by 3:15. Unlike Eleanor, I don't know much about family dysfunction. I'm only an expert on social awkwardness. As a teacher, I totally gravitate toward the kids like Eleanor and Park. The clubs I sponsor all tend to attract the nerds. They are my people. I suppose the jocks  all feel a little bit insecure too. But to say that Eleanor represents every girl really denigrates the experience of those of us who were legitimately bullied, who were legitimately overweight...and are legitimately redheaded.  And no, I don't identify or empathize with Eleanor in every aspect.  I had absolutely no family dysfunction, but those who did have a valid claim on her too.  But please, Holly Bario, don't say that Eleanor represents every high school girl. She does not. Rainbow Rowell did not write this book to mirror the experiences of the popular kids. She wrote it for the outliers. 

When Dreamworks makes this movie, I sure hope they don't cast Eleanor as some average-sized girl. I do hope that the actress is noticeably overweight and yet still beautiful (also, she must be a redhead, a real redhead). First, I don't want an average-sized actress because all too often these regular girls (like Mindy Kaling) go around calling themselves fat. I guess, compared to most Hollywood actresses they are larger, but Mindy is a size 8. A size 8 is a perfectly reasonable size, and one that many of us average women work very hard to fit into. By branding themselves as "fat" these actresses belittle those of us who are healthy, fit, and moderately curvy. Secondly, I hope Eleanor is overweight because I want beauty to be represented on-screen in all its forms. There are many beautiful people who are larger than a size 8. I'm not trying to promote an unhealthy lifestyle, but I believe we need to re-brand attractiveness.  "Beauty" is not synonymous with "skinny." It is also not the only route to attraction. Oftentimes, one's intellect, humor, and personality makes them beautiful in the eyes of another, even if society doesn't see that. This is something that has taken me years to just begin to accept. It is a concept that Eleanor could not grasp, even as the book came to a close. However, I firmly believe that girls like Eleanor - and girls like me - need to see themselves as Park sees Eleanor. They need to see themselves as "art." 

"Someday, Someday, Maybe" by Lauren Graham

Sometimes it's good to take a brief respite from being Type-A. Books provide me with that escape, allowing me to delve into someone else's life. Many times it's a life that I would never want for myself, but for a few fantastical hours I can experience something that is refreshingly antithetical to my own day-to-day monotony. While I certainly don't want to be an actress in New York City, there is something inexplicably enjoyable about sinking into that fictional existence for just a little while.

This is how I felt while reading Someday, Someday, Maybe. What drew me to the book initially was the author, Lauren Graham. You may know her from Gilmore Girls. Yes, this book was written by "Lorelei Gilmore." As you might expect from a book by the co-star of The-Best-TV-Show-Ever, this story was filled with the kind of witticisms that Gilmore fans will relish. Lorelei/Lauren transfers from the TV screen to the novel quite seamlessly. Her somewhat autobiographical first novel had me chuckling and grimacing in quick succession. The book had its share of awkward moments, sarcastic musings, and cynical humor. The characters were intelligent, but not pretentious. In short, Someday, Someday, Maybe contained all the ingredients that made Lauren Graham into a fantastic Lorelei Gilmore.

The main character, Franny, is a twenty-something actress living in Brooklyn, trying hard to "make it" in show business. In other words, Franny is a waitress. She has given herself a three-year deadline to achieve her dreams. The book opens with six months to go, and Franny has resolved to double-down on her efforts to land a real acting gig. The story takes us through a whirlwind of the common ups and downs that hopeful thespians face every day. To me, Franny's life seems chaotic and disorganized. She is constantly running out of money, short on time, and without a clue as to where her dream will take her next. Some of the people she meets along the way help her to have faith in herself; others pick away at the shreds of her self-esteem, leaving her dejected, yet never without her keen sense of humor. By her side throughout it all are her two lovable roommates and her delightfully amusing father, whose clever quips and guilt-inducing answer machine messages establish him as the book's most endearing character.

I'll have to admit, the novel is a little short on plot. In fact, it seems throughout much of the story that we're just going back and forth from one audition to another. Acting jobs are few and far between. Franny gets an agent, then loses him. She gets a boyfriend, then finds out he's a tool. She gets an acting job, then realizes she's supposed to be naked. Nothing ever seems to work out. I'll tell you right now that the book doesn't neatly wrap up with her becoming a famous movie star on Gilmore Girls. However, she doesn't go home to get married either. What kept me reading was not the plot, but the wit. Franny's sardonic take on everything from show business, to the men in her life, to her own shortcomings really charms the reader into turning the page. Franny is a girl that can laugh at herself. I like that.

"The Cuckoo's Calling" by Robert Galbraith (a.k.a J.K. Rowling)

If you're looking for a beach read or something to keep you occupied on a long flight - this is it. A Cuckoo's Calling takes readers on a jaunt through London in the springtime as private detective, Cormoran Strike, and his efficient young secretary solve a high-profile crime case. Galbraith (or rather, J.K. Rowling) introduces us to a host of quirky characters. While none are quite as endearing as Harry, Ron, and Hermione, they do reel us into the plot. I recommend the audio book. Listening to the story narrated in a British accent makes it all the more entertaining.

The story opens with Robin, a young transplant from the English countryside, recently engaged and working at a series of temp jobs while looking for something more permanent. She is rather excited about her next placement. The agency has sent her to temp for a private detective! Detective work has secretly been her lifelong ambition. However, when she arrives at the office building she is nearly taken trampled by an angry female and a lumbering, overweight man in hot pursuit. The two are clearly at the end of a massive fight (or "row" as the British call it). It turns out that the male pursuer is her new boss. Contrary to first impressions, Strike turns out to be a decent character. After an awkward introduction he tries to get her settled in to his dingy office, which doubles as his home since he was recently kicked out of the aforesaid angry female's flat. Soon, a wealthy lawyer named John Bristow shows up at the office with his somewhat frumpy, and seemingly reluctant girlfriend. Bristow is seeking a private detective to investigate the death of his sister, the famed model, Lula Landry. Though Lula's death was a major event in the press, it had been confirmed a suicide, a conclusion that most, including Bristow's girlfriend, accepted as fact. John Bristow, however is not convinced. Strike is even somewhat skeptical about Bristow's interpretation of the death. As a pretty decent fellow, Strike is reluctant to take Bristow's money for a case he feels will reveal few new details. However, Strike's financial circumstances are rather grim and the need for cash ultimately prevails.

What follows is, at the outset, a somewhat disorganized investigation into the various and sundry characters who wafted in and out of Lula's life in her final days. Strike, an oafish middle-aged Afghan war veteran and Robin, a smart and savvy budding detective herself, make a superb and somewhat comical team. The inauspicious beginning to Robin's stint with Detective Strike foreshadows many more awkward moments. As the two skirt in and out of the lives of the rich and famous and those who cater to their every whim, they find a complex network of drama lurking at every turn. The investigations even takes them to a couple individuals from the lower rungs of London society. Thus we get a diverse cast of characters that adds color and spark to the novel. We soon learn that this eclectic mix of individuals is not quite as random as they may seem. The investigation takes us through a web of intrigue, full of all the twists and turns that make for an engaging detective novel.

The Cuckoo's Calling was a legitimately amusing story. It wasn't anything earth-shattering, probably not very memorable, and certainly not the greatest book J.K. Rowling's ever written (she's at a distinct disadvantage here). However, if we take it for what it is: a London detective novel - and not a-London-detective-novel-by-the-author-of-Harry-Potter then it will most assuredly serve its purpose as a thoroughly enjoyable read.

"Oryx and Crake" by Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood refers to Oryx and Crake as a work of "speculative fiction." This first installment of the MadAddam Trilogy launches us into a futuristic dystopia where humans have genetically engineered solutions to every real or imagined problem. The novel opens with "Snowman" alone in a ghastly post-apocalyptic urban wilderness. The landscape contains remnants of human life, yet Snowman is likely last of his species. He is lives alone, scavenging on the outskirts of a "humanoid" colony - a people he calls the "Crakers." He stands in stark difference to the Crakers, avoiding the suns rays and clothing his body in a thin sheet. His nickname represents how poorly adjusted he is, unable to withstand the elements, frail and sickly, compared to this new species which epitomizes the results of unnatural selection. These beings have been altered to eradicate all of the complicating facets of human life. They are intelligent, yet innocent; they are vegetarians who live at harmony with their environment, and they have efficient mating rituals to ensure optimal levels of procreation. Their skin is designed to absorb the suns rays without harm, they see no need for clothing and are perplexed by Snowman's garment. They are animalistic, yet advanced - a paradox in their very essence.

Snowman relays the story of humanity's downfall through a series of engrossing flashbacks.  Snowman, once Jimmy, grew up as the child of scientists, living comfortably on biotech company compounds. These scientific microcosms contained homes, schools, shopping centers, bullet trains, genetically enhanced food and genetically engineered pets called Rakunks (a mixture of a raccoon and a skunk). Only rarely did the inhabitants have to venture out into the "pleebands" where human life seemed chaotic, messy, and yet secretly alluring. Jimmy befriends young Crake, a somewhat demented genius. Soon after, Jimmy is first exposed to Oryx while watching internet porn in Crake's bedroom. He is captivated by her face, a face that represents human suffering amidst innocence and beauty. Upon graduation from high school Crake is recruited by the nation's premier scientific university, while Jimmy finds himself on a lower rung of the academic ladder. It is not until they graduate from college that the paths of Oryx, Crake and Jimmy intertwine. By this time Crake has completed his crowning achievement: a perfected race of humans.

Atwood's bleak depiction of humanity's future is not altogether unrecognizable. I'm confronted by this every time I buy the unnaturally large and juicy chicken breasts from my local grocery store. I can't help by recall Atwood's "ChickieNobs" derived from genetically engineered "chickens":

""Those are chickens," said Crake. "Chicken parts. Just the breasts, on this one. They've got ones that specialize in drumsticks too, twelve to a growth unit.

"But there aren't any heads..."

"That's the head in the middle," said the woman. "There's a mouth opening at the top, they dump nutrients in there. No eyes or beak or anything, they don't need those."

Is this where we're headed? I ponder this as I take chicken breast out of its individually wrapped packet. It is the size of my whole hand. Atwood's work is a cautionary tale written in 2003 (the sequels have been released in recent years). I'm hopeful that in my lifetime that the burgeoning slow-food movement will effectively resist uncontrolled genetic engineering. It's really only been in the last 75 years that scientifically altered food has become a staple of the American diet. In the old days food was grown and often consumed seasonally. In the spring and summer people ate berries, in the fall there were peaches and apples. Sometimes women would can or preserve fruits and vegetables at home. The children would be sent out to pick the apples and they would assist in the peeling and coring process, watching as they were ground down into applesauce and perhaps savoring the smells of apple butter cooking over a fire pit. In the winter when mom opened that mason jar of applesauce, the children knew exactly where it came from and all the work that went into creating that nourishment. Similarly, meat came fresh from the butcher, or it was raised, slaughtered and preserved in one's backyard.

Fast-forward to WWII. The Industrial Revolution had only begun to change food production. The Great Depression was over and factories were producing in high gear. While some industries produce weapons and enriched uranium, others are canning applesauce and Spam. Additives and preservatives kept the food flavorful and prevented spoilage.  It kept our men and women alive and nourished to fight the Nazis.  However, when the war ended factories faced a dilemma. How would they sustain profits now that all the troops are home? The answer was easy. Food production companies marketed their wartime foodstuffs to the new American housewife. The baby boom was under way, women were back in the kitchen, but who said they needed to be a slave to a hot canner? Soon we got ads like this one:

This was just the beginning. Boxed cookies and cake mixes came next. They took a little longer to catch on because women felt like they were cheating the system if they could bake without cracking an egg. The mixtures were modified to take out the powdered egg product, allowing women to crack an egg and thus feel like they were fulfilling their role.  As America launched itself into the Cold War, we began to take pride in our neatly packaged  T.V. dinners, our Kraft Mac and Cheese and our Hamburger Helper. And it if all else fails there's always MacDonalds.

By the late '60s and '70s the women's rights movement was in full force. Betty Friedan wrote A Feminine Mystique, encouraging women to realize their full potential in the workplace, and Margaret Sanger and other feminists were gaining strides in the fight for birth control. I'm not knocking any of this. I love it! But working women also don't have time to can their own peaches or bake cakes from scratch. It became commonplace, even trendy to eat out of a box or a can. By the closure of the century agribusiness and biotech firms were getting involved in the growth of our produce and meats. Now even the fresh stuff is comprised of questionable genetic and chemical elements. Is it harmful? The jury is still out. According to all the mommy blogs and yoga pundits we're all going to get cancer or autism - or both. Actual science is far less conclusive on the potential health effects of bovine antibiotics or GMO strawberries (though conspiracy theorists like to point out that science gets kickbacks from Monsanto). Whatever the verdict, I believe that buying tennis-ball-sized strawberries in January is harmful to my soul. 

I grew up eating "slow food" before it was a "thing."  In fact, I thought it was normal. (I also thought mommies who bought their children cookies from a box were bad people.) I grew up shopping at our local farmer's market, even playing in the fields with the owners' daughter. Long before farmers' markets became the hip and somewhat pretentious Saturday morning ritual among professional suburbanites, we frequented our local one for fresh-picked corn on the cob and heaping bushels of peaches and apples. This would commence canning season. Those cans of peaches and applesauce were stocked on our basement shelves and enjoyed throughout winter. I knew where they came from. I knew that peaches did not naturally occur in January. The sweet juicy peaches were the product of long hours of labor on a hot August day.

Many children grow up with no knowledge of each season's produce. I'm thankful that I've grown up playing in the dirt and harvesting its gifts. I've known for as long as I can remember that strawberries grow in the spring, while blueberries show up in July-August. Blueberry picking is as much a summer ritual for me as fireworks on the Fourth of July. I also remember many a summer afternoon when I would pick beans from the backyard garden and Mom would cook them up for dinner. A few weeks later, on the first day of school we always had warm chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, baked fresh in time for our arrival home. Once winter came there would be blueberry pie and homemade blueberry muffins, baked with those same berries we'd picked and frozen so many months earlier. It would almost make that blustery January evening feel warmer, as if the berries contained some remnant of the summer sun.

Recently, I heard a story about a kid who was arguing with a farmer about where food came from. The child said that the fruits and vegetables he ate came from the grocery store. It is sad that so many children today do not understand how their food gets to their table. Why is this important? Well, like it or not, eating is fundamental to our lives. For millennia people's entire days were centered around acquiring food. Though we no longer have to work so hard for our food, eating is still the one thing we do several times a day (that and excreting it). It is an activity that brings family and friends together, that allows for the exchange of cultureand the transfer of ideas. Food also represents heritage; our food traditions reach back centuries. Some foods represent elements of our faith (i.e. Jewish matzo bread) or family traditions that bind generations of family who've never met (i.e. my Great-Grandma's sugar cookies). Food also represents labor. In a society where most of our day-to-day labor is disconnected from our actual survival, there is just something so wholesome about actually growing, picking,and preparing one's own food.

I know there are many other arguments in favor of the slow food movement. All of which have their merits. I do not profess to be a paragon of clean or slow eating. My freezer is stocked with the aforesaid GMO chicken breasts (they're cheap and convenient). I do enjoy bananas and pineapple far too much for any moral arguments over conserving fossil fuels to prevail upon me. However, for me, the slow food initiative is really about a daily quest to live intentionally. Since a significant percentage of my household budget goes toward food, I strive to support ethical companies and empower local farmers who are good stewards of the land. If I can get eggs from well-loved chickens, I'm happy to pay a little bit more. But perhaps even beyond that, I don't want to lose those traditions of my childhood and the lessons that sowing and reaping provide. In no other area of life does the value of hard work prove true in such tangible ways. The work we do in the spring will pay off at harvest. The work we do at harvest will pay off as we're enjoying warm blueberry muffins on cold winter nights. Labor and food are two elements fundamental to our existence, to our humanity. God created humans to labor in a garden. We have since reinvented and often perversely repackaged the gifts and responsibilities He's given us.  Slow food means slowing down, reconnecting with the Earth, with the seasons, and with our Creator. If we miss out on where our food comes from, we take one of God's most fundamental blessings for granted. If we don't know how to sow, reap, and prepare our food, we don't have a chance to reflect on the bounty and the diversity of the Earth, and the sheer creativity of its Designer.

Which brings me full circle. Reading Oryx and Crake reminded me that while humans are capable of amazing feats, none of us can recapture the perfection and beauty of the world that God created. Though sin has perverted much of it, human efforts at "fixing" nature's flaws often leave us worse off than we were before. And most importantly, we'll never be able to genetically select the perfect human. Only God can do that. In fact - He already did.