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Are You a Ted Head?
Love our Pulitzer Prize winning Poet Laureate Ted Kooser,
but can't think of a way to share your love with the world? How about a
t-shirt? A Ted Head t-shirt. That'll be pretty cool. A Ted
Head t-shirt in small, medium, large, extra large or extra-extra large?
That'll be great, wouldn't it?
Then get your Ted Head t-shirt from the University of Nebraska Press today! Follow this link to the ordering page and display your fandom to the world!
he word terrorist, in the past few years, has become about as commonplace in our country as Barbies and rice krispie treats. We toss it around in polite conversation, can't escape the latest exploits of these semi-mythical terrorists on the evening news, and even find ourselves--against our politically correct leanings--making jokes about them. (If Duffy's doesn't have Boulevard Wheat on tap tonight, then the terrorists have won!) In fact, more than ever, it is acceptable and encouraged to not only consider ourselves experts on the terrorists and their tactics, but to gaze cautiously at every suspicious character on our Omaha to St. Louis commuter flights.
And so, let me (via Baya Gacemi, journalist and author of I, Nadia, Wife of a Terrorist) offer you a reality check: with a handful of exceptions--those thugs we keep close tabs on with the help of Anderson Cooper and Matt Lauer--no American will ever really get near to interacting with a bona fide terrorist. Because, and here's the shocking revelation, most terrorism is not, in fact, directed at the good ole U.S. of A. It's much less grandiose than that. Terrorism in its purest form is an exercise in fear control and uncurtailed violence against the innocent. It's happening in more countries that most of us can probably name, let alone locate on a globe. (And lest you feel I am getting all sanctimonious over here, let me assure you, I am lumping myself in with the masses on this one!) It's happening within borders, neighbors against neighbors, families against families. It is inexplicable and non-linear.
Nadia, who dictated her story to Gacemi, puts a name (albeit an assumed one) to the lifestyle of a terrorist's wife in a country, Algeria, that knows from terrorism. Nadia has virtually no memories untouched by violence. The stories of schoolmates and cousins murdered by anti-government factions that riddle her memoir almost become tedious. At sixteen, she fell in love with the charismatic ne'er do well next door, (ah haven't we all......memories....) but his marriage proposal was rejected by her loving father, who saw that the young punk was up to no good. Two years later, the story changed. Nadia, living with a relative in another village, was summoned home for her marriage. Her father had relented to Ahmed, now an operative in the GIA (terrorist forces) and far too dangerous to refuse.
Elated, Nadia prepared for her wedding day. But her reunion with Ahmed was far from the romantic whirlwind she had anticipated. In their two-year separation, he had changed. He now followed strict Islamic laws, and the sunny, teasing teenager had been replaced with a violent, devout (in Algeria those words were not mutually exclusive) soldier. From day one, Nadia was forced to veil entirely--even in the heat of summer--and slave from sunup to long past midnight, preparing elaborate meals for Ahmed and his "brothers." The men felt they should stuff themselves with delicacies and never lift a finger so they could preserve their strength for battle. Nadia, on the other hand--even in the early phases of her pregnancy--rarely rested, and was allowed only meager portions, so that she would not become too attached to the worldly sin of enjoying her food. When she broke Ahmed's rules, she was beaten. Once, for listening to religious songs on the radio, she received 30 lashes with a whip. Ahmed believed that no joyous music should accompany religious messages. Good times.
As things heated up, Ahmed told Nadia of the killings and violence he participated in. Not only did he see this as his duty, he relished the tasks of torture and murder. No longer safe at home, he hustled Nadia from one stranger's floor to the next, always just one step ahead of the police. When she did reunite with her husband, it was to boil the lice out of his clothes and wash his ruined and stinking feet. The "brothers" never removed their running sneakers, so that they would always be prepared to escape the police.
For years, Nadia lost her family and friends, through isolation and violence. Ultimately, she lost her husband, too. His body was recovered but not his head. Widowed at 21, a broke and desperate Nadia stumbled upon Gacemi, who was developing a news story on women victimized by terrorism. Their collaboration began. Today, Nadia lives with a host family, and civil war continues in Algeria. And Sudan. And Liberia. And Burma. And Zimbabwe. And so on.
here is a legend among comic books. The legend goes that sometime in the early sixties Jack Liebowitz, publisher of DC Comics, and Martin Goodman, publisher of Marvel Comics had a game of golf. At this time DC Comics was doing well but Marvel Comics was on the verge of bankruptcy. Liebowitz was telling Goodman how well they were doing with a title called Justice League of America which featured Wonder Woman, the Flash, and Aquaman, along with others to fight crime. Goodman went back to the office and told his editor, Stan Lee, to create an ensemble comic. (Did I mention this story is legend? The heads of both companies deny any such thing happened, but I like the story anyway.) They didn't already have a stable of characters to use like DC Comics did, so Lee started from scratch and created The Fantastic Four. But he did something DC Comics didn't do. He made them have problems. And bicker. And be wrong. And have bad days and bad luck. It was a turn around for Marvel. And soon the Four were upstaged by another, even more disfunctional hero: Peter Parker, otherwise known as Spiderman.
Comics weren't the first or only place that worked with disfunctional, misfit, yet special characters. Most of them are. Sf is riddled with "chosen ones" from Neo in the Matrix, to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, to Harry Potter (if you haven't read books 5 & 6 yet, I may have just given something away). Ender in Ender's Game is also a chosen one, though very specifically allowed to exist as a third child because of the rest of his family's potential. Even when not specifically chosen, there is still something unwilling but special about main characters of stories. Leisha Camden in Beggars in Spain separates herself, not only from the sleeping society, but also from other sleepless like herself, because she doesn't agree with them. Anita Blake, of Laurell K. Hamilton's series has talents and tenacity that put her a step ahead of her enemies. And almost none of these characters has lots of friends or win popularity contests.
I don't think we are interested much in characters who have lots of friends and win popularity contests. (Even among The X-men, a group so big you can have lots of other misfit friends, the most loved character among readers is Wolverine, who barely gets along with anyone in the comics.) We are interested in the people who stand out, who do things, who learn things, and risk being unpopular. Even reading biographies of famous people, most of them were not prom queens. They were too busy breaking out and if that made them a little antisocial, fine.
I like these sorts of characters. Maybe it is wish fulfillment, but most of us aren't winning popularity contests either. You have to be a little off to be an sf fan anyway. We have a few friends. We have our family. We live our lives. And maybe, if we get lucky, a radioactive spider will bite, or someone will come along and notice we are special too. And we still won't get to be prom queen.
Live Science has a three day series about the implications of living forever, or at least the implications of an average lifespan of above 100. It is worth checking out.
o begin with, I wasn't sure how often the Press would want me posting here. Others seemed to be sporadic and usually about books. So I finally emailed and asked, saying, you know, usually blogs are posted to rather often. They said go ahead. So, as last week was an indication, I'll be checking in more often.
And since this isn't all book review format anymore, I should tell you some things that the press is coming out with. That's part of what a press blog is for, isn't it? So here it is, new in May:
The 2nd edition of Mary Shelley's The Last Man. I already have my hot little hands on it. It was the first thing I requested when they told me they'd give me books. So expect a discussion on it later. Perhaps a bit later. Shelley is dense reading. This is not the sort of book you take to a beach. It is the sort of book you curl up in bed with while a thunderstorm rages around you and you can feel the emotions and torment of the romantic poets.
t one point I was a writer for a television pilot. I got into a heated discussion with the producer regarding whether the bay doors of the space shuttle would rip off if they were opened while the shuttle was moving in space.
I contended there was no need to be aerodynamic in an environment with no air. He said the door would rip off just like if you drove your car with the hood up. "Basic physics really," he told me.
The argument only ended when another writer said we could worry about the science details later. (This was a science fiction show!)
Don't be that guy. Read this blog.
My favorites so far are what would really happen to a person thrown into space without protection (I'd never thought about the instant sunburn) and the discussion on spacecraft. Check out the comments too, where the contributors then discuss more of the science in the original post. I feel smarter already.
y husband and I married under slightly false pretenses. Yes, he already knew I was a science geek. Our first conversation had included the Shoemaker-Levy comet and the dust it kicked up on Jupiter. And he already knew I read science fiction. In an example of how pathetic geeks in love can be, we wound up at a bookstore on one of our first dates, where we held hands and perused the sf section pointing out favorites and exclaiming about overlaps in our reading lists. (well, hey, dinner and a movie is pretty dull too.) And he knew I liked computer games. Our first Valentine's Day together we bought a Playstation and games and then spent every night up playing. What I didn't tell him, even for the first year of our marriage, was that I play Dungeons and Dragons and have since I was 15.
He hadn't ever played before. He was far more popular in high school than I was. (You can see how it came about. I was a skinny sf nerd who was never going to get the jocks. But there was an entire group, including a few cute, skinny boy sf nerds, and as the only girl I had them all to myself. I got into gaming for the boys.) But we met up with some other gamers and for his wife's sake he was willing to try. And he liked it.
Roleplaying games are like a big group Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book. And my viewpoint here is skewed, but rpgs seem to go hand in hand with sf. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've run into a person at a gaming table who doesn't regularly read sf or fantasy, and usually both. And most of time that person got dragged in by a friend or significant other. In my regular circle I am the only woman who dragged her husband in, rather than the other way around, but I am not the only woman anymore. (I have to share the boys. Since I'm now married, this is OK.)
So this weekend is Nexus, the local gaming convention in Lincoln, Nebraska (overtop of Brothers and starts at 9am on Saturday if you are interested). I admitted it to a co-worker and he laughed at me, but Andy and I will be there, dice in hand, dorks in love, and isn't there something about couples that play together, stay together? What can I say? I like Shadowrun more than cribbage.
The Fortune Teller’s Kiss by Brenda Serotte
“The Fortune Teller’s Kiss is an eloquent brief on the transformative powers of stories, giving us permission to enter a private territory and offering the limitless interpretations to which a good memoir lends itself.” —Tara Kai, Sun-Sentinel (May 14)
"Poet Serotte relives a childhood cataclysm in this culture-rich, affecting memoir, part of the American Lives literary nonfiction series. In 1954 she contracted polio, mere months before Jonas Salk perfected his vaccine-a coincidence that struck her Sephardic Jewish household as especially cruel. . . . She explores the identity that confounds her: first, her ‘bouillabaisse’ blood line and, later, the immobility that suspends her between ‘normal’ and ‘special,’ as she limns her family with wry affection that doesn't blot out their flaws. The drama of Serotte’s struggle to walk again, filtered through the tender emotion of youth, creates an aromatic narrative brew that reveals her destiny in riveting detail."—Publishers Weekly
Writing Brave and Free by Ted Kooser and Steve Cox
“If you’ve yearned for the courage to put pen to paper, or hands to keyboard, after reading Writing Brave and Free, you probably will.”—Marge Pellegrino, Tucson Weekly (May 25)
“What a treasure to have a second how-to book of this caliber enter the world for developing writers. . . . [T]his is a practical, down-to-earth, advice-driven collection of smart, unpretentious chapters on the work of becoming a writer. . . . The section on self-publishing and electronic publishing will be especially important to today’s younger writers. . . . The greatest strength of this book is its friendly, don’t-be-afraid-we’ll-help-you tone, a must for people who are just beginning their writing endeavors. . . . [This] will be an essential tool for anyone considering the adventure of writing.” —Anne-Marie Oomen, ForeWord (May/June)
Black Gun, Silver Star by Art T. Burton
“[This] biography is more statement of fact than tribute to Reeves and no punches are pulled. Bass had an exceptionally long tenure as a Deputy U. S. Marshal and made a few mistakes along the way. These are covered. But, so too, are the remarkable feats he accomplished. . . . No critic, then or now has been able to show that Bass did not do good and bring law and order to the frontier. Art’s rendering takes on all comers and their questions. The book is a heck of a good read and not the least bit painful.”—Mike Tower, Oklahombres.org (May 7)
“Aside from a few fluff films (like Mel Brooks’s Blazing Saddles ) and a smattering of lesser-known scholarship, the African-American presence in Wild West history has been severely underrepresented. . . . Against this backdrop rises Burton’s painstaking account of U.S. Deputy Marshal Bass Reeves. . . . Rigorous and impartial, Burton is less concerned with entertainment than faithful research—no small task given the Old West’s diverse and troubled racial climate, in which black accomplishment often went overlooked. But dedicated readers will become acquainted with a brave, resourceful lawman and the patchwork of homesteaders, murderers, horse thieves and bootleggers he governed.” —Publishers Weekly
