Secret Saturday - 2/25/12: "Changing Colors"

February is Black History Month. Some of my fondest memories are of a black family that lived across Coolidge Street, where I grew up:

     When I was a little girl, some of my friends wanted to be Cinderella. Some wanted to be a nurse. One even wanted to be president. Me? I wanted to be black.
     On Coolidge Street in California, we lived across the street from a black family who, like my family, had five kids. But they had five girls, and we had four girls and one lucky brother. (Though he'd probably disagree.) I didn't really know the three older girls, but Maria and Nina became good friends of my younger sisters.
     Being the mean-no-fun-prudish-brainy-band-freak-oldest-sister, I wasn't included in most of the fun, and usually watched them "play" together from afar. Maria had the best laugh in the world, and Nina moved with the grace and spirit of Tinkerbell. When I say they were two crazy girls, I mean it in the fondest, happiest way.
     Perhaps I noticed these things about Maria and Nina because of my upbringing by my Japanese mother. I was brought up to be hypersensitive to what others would think of my behavior, overly cautious not to do anything that might cause me to "lose face."
     Maria and Nina laughed, danced and joked with such unabashed joy and freedom that it drew my sisters out of their cultural shells. I wanted to join in the fun, too. But, often, I couldn't make myself let go.
     So, I stood by and watched. And sometimes I wished I was black.

Thanks to Facebook, I'm still in touch with Maria and Nina, and have even gotten to know one of the older sisters, Donna, through Facebook. Maria is currently helping me with the voice of my Broken Dolls character, Terrence. Someday soon, we hope to have a reunion.

We were lucky to have grown up with a family like Maria's and Nina's, lucky to experience a culture different from ours. For anyone who has not been so fortunate, different cultures can also be experienced through reading. Thanks to one of my blog readers for sending me the following link to a list of 25 Novels to Honor During Black History Month:


http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2012/25-novels-to-honor-during-black-history-month/

As the article says, these books "contribute to a greater cultural understanding of 'blackness' and its heterogeneous nature."


Do you have cultural stories from your childhood to share?

Telling Tuesdays 2/7/12-"He dreaded the news."

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander. Feel free to use the prompt, or the photo (if a photo is shown.) Of course, if you have a completely different "telling" prompt, you can "show" us that, too.


As always, I invite you to leave a link to your website or blog with your comments.


THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:


He dreaded the news.

The following is an excerpt from Broken Dolls. The scene takes place in December, 1941. Terrence is unable to get into the Christmas spirit, because he misses his daddy, who is stationed at Pearl Harbor.

Missy and Patty serenaded all the way home. Jingle bells, jingle bells. Over and over. Way too many times.

Terrence shook his head. “Come on, you two. Don’t you know any other songs?”

Wouldn’t matter none. He just wasn’t in the mood, even with a tree tied to the top of the car. Even with Christmas carols and colored lights showing through windows everywhere. It’d be a fine scene – if only Daddy was home.

Momma turned into the driveway. “Wonder why Brother Harold’s sitting on our porch swing? And who’s that man . . . in the uniform?” Her voice faded to a whisper.

Patty and Missy stopped singing.

No.

The whole world came to a stop. The talking. The movement. The breathing. Something buzzed in his ear and clutched Terrence’s heart tight. Wouldn’t let go. Might never let go.

No.

Momma’s hands clutched the steering wheel. She whispered real slow. “You kids . . . go on in the house now. I be there in a minute.”

Terrence lifted Missy out of the car and took Patty’s hand. No matter how bad he didn’t want to know, he knew.

Let’s just back up, Momma. Get back in the car. Get back to the Christmas tree lot. I promise I won’t complain about looking for the perfect tree. Won’t never complain about having to get up early. Just please. No way. No way do we want none of what Brother Harold has to tell us.

Terrence nodded as he shuffled past Brother Harold. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—look him in the eye.

Brother Harold touched him on the shoulder with his large, warm hand. It sent shivers all over, tensed every part of his body.

Once inside the house, Terrence put Missy down and shut the front door. “You two go on and play now,” he said.

Missy ran off to her room, but Patty stared at her brother, her eyes looking more scared than he’d ever seen them. “I don’t want to play. Why’s Brother Harold here? Is it Dad—”

Don’t you say it!

“I said, go on now Patty. I wanna talk to Momma when she comes in.”

He pressed his ear to the door, wanting to hear, yet so desperately not wanting to hear. His heart begged for a way—any way—to stop time, to go back in time.