Debbie Levy's Blog, page 9

In Charlottesville, Lyrically Speaking

When I visited Greenbrier and Burnley-Moran elementary schools in Charlottesville recently as part of the Virginia Festival of the Book, I spoke to assemblies of second and third graders about my book We Shall Overcome: The Story of a Song.  We talked about the profound unfairness–the Jim Crow racism–that blanketed our nation not so very long ago.  The students seemed positively astounded by photographs I showed of whites-only drinking fountains and signs marking whites-only restaurants, swimming pools, and movies.  We worked our way around to the idea of being frustrated and angry and fighting back against injustice–but with your brain and your voice, not with your fists.  With sit-ins and marches and persuasion and bus rides and, of course, songs.

In one of the schools, the kids all knew the song “We Shall Overcome,” because they had just learned it as part of their Black History Month activities.  In the other school, most kids didn’t know the song.  But one of the great strengths of “We Shall Overcome” is how easy it is to learn, so they learned the tune  with me in a jiffy.  Then, after hearing verses such as “We are not afraid. . .” and “We’ll walk hand in hand” and “Black and white together,” they came up with their own lyrics–my favorite part of the day.  Some of their words:

We shall all be kind. . .

We shall seize the day. . .

We shall never stop. . .

We shall come together. . .

Don’t these lines just make you want to sing out?  That’s how I felt, anyway.  And I did.  Into the microphone, no less.  And my singing voice is not something that is exactly a joy to behold.  But that’s another great thing about “We Shall Overcome”–it doesn’t care if you can sing well or not.

 

In Charlottesville, Part 1

There I was in Charlottesville last week for the Virginia Festival of the Book, heading out to one of the local schools I visited as part of my festival festivities–and what crossroads do I happen upon but one with my name on it. . . .

Levy Avenue was named, it’s safe to assume, for Uriah P. Levy, a naval officer and veteran of the War of 1812, known for his campaign to stop the practice of flogging as a form of discipline in the U.S. Navy and for his purchase of Thomas Jefferson’s then-crumbling Monticello in 1834.  No relation to me.

I took my photograph and continued on into the rolling hills of Albemarle County to Walton Middle School, where I talked with seventh and eight grade students about writing, life, history, and The Year of Goodbyes.  Although I’d been invited to the festival for my more recent books, Walton’s librarian and teachers had asked me to focus on this book about my mother’s last year living in Nazi Germany as a girl.  I love talking about The Year of Goodbyes, but this was the first time I’d taken it to a school since I lost Mom in September.  When I packed for my five-day stay in Charlottesville, I made sure to bring a particular piece of jewelry–a pin in the shape of a flower, one of her many items of costume jewelry that she loved.  The flower pin was a favorite of hers, and I thought I’d wear it as a way of bringing her with me into the schools to share her story.

The kids at Walton were terrific.  They may be a little wound up, the librarian apologized before the first group, because they were coming from lunch.  (It was still morning, but you know those early lunch periods in schools.)  They may be a little out of control, she warned before the second group, because they were nearing the end of the day.  But–no, and no. They were neither wound up nor out of control.

These were assemblies, and the kids held their questions until the end.  Inevitably, they asked where my mother was, so I had to tell them that she had died recently.  Ohh, they exhaled.  I wanted them to know that she’d lived a good long time, and when I said that she was nearly 87 when she died, they seemed to feel a little better.  And then I told them how she would have loved joining me on this trip, because she absolutely loved Charlottesville and had been here many times–especially, way back when she was young, for college fraternity parties (gasp! the kids went) when she traveled down from D.C.  She came to see one of her many boyfriends, Herbie, and they had a grand time. . . .

I’m not sure why, but the verbal picture I drew of my mother coming to U.Va. frat parties in the days when you dressed up to go out, even to a frat party, when the guys wore trousers, not jeans, just made the kids laugh out loud.  Me, too.  And at that moment I realized that I’d forgotten to put her pin on before leaving the hotel; it was in my suitcase, not on my sweater.

No matter.  Mom was with me and the kids anyway.

 

Picture Books + Art Gallery = Fun!

In between snowstorms earlier this month, I was the kick-off author at the new “Book Look” children’s book author series at ArtSpace Herndon, a community art gallery in northern Virginia.  I’ve lived in the Washington, D.C. area my entire life and somehow never made it to Herndon–my loss.  I’ve been missing a welcoming community with a little gem of an arts center.   We engaged in poetry together, sang “We Shall Overcome” (from my new picture book about the song), and did a craft activity. Oh, and I wore pajamas (see photo) because we also read some poems from my no-longer-new book of funny bedtime poems, Maybe I’ll Sleep in the Bathtub Tonight.

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“It All Starts in the Water” by Ann Smyers, ArtSpace Herndon exhibitor

And:  we delighted in the current exhibit at the gallery, entitled “Something Blue.”  The exhibit features the textile art of 24 quilters–75 pieces of quilt art in all.  The quilts run the gamut from contemporary to traditional.  It was fun to explore the quilts with the children who came to Book Look, and hear their reactions to the striking pieces on display.  “How do they make it look so real?”  “Do you think that glove is soft?”   (One of the quilts features two beaded, but also soft-looking, knit gloves.)  “I like this one!”

A children’s book event at an art gallery:  great idea.  Thanks to Kwame Alexander–writer, poet, cool dude, and ArtSpace Board member–for extending the invitation to me.  Kwame will be in the author’s chair for the next Book Look event on Sunday, March 9, presenting his picture book Acoustic Rooster and His Barnyard Band.  The quilt exhibit will be closed by then, but not to worry, the gallery will have a new exhibit in place–the 2014 Fine Art Photography Exhibit. Herndon awaits you!

Puppy Love

You know what’s great?  What’s great is when the editor of your next picture book sends you the book jacket, which you’ve never seen before, and you just love it.

Detail from the cover of DOZER’S RUN, illustrated by David Opie

Now, I’m not surprised that I love it.  Along the way, as my manuscript–which tells the true story of Dozer the dog, who ran away from home to join a half-marathon benefiting cancer research–has traveled the road from words on a page to words divided up into a 32-page picture book to 32 pages illuminated by art, I’ve seen sketches and draft illustrations from the illustrator, David Opie.  And I thought Dave was on the road to completely capturing the energy and joy and heart of this adorable Goldendoodle.  But, you know–you never know.  Only now I do know, and I can’t wait to share not only the entire jacket, but the pages of the book when we get closer to publication.

For now, though, I can share  Dave’s post on his own blog about his process in creating Dozer.  He writes about how he started with lots of drawings, using photographs as references.  He progressed to action poses, and then to poses and emotion from the story.  On he moved to color studies–lots and lots of them, as he approached the final version of Dozer.  If the creative process interests you, or if you’re just a sucker for pictures of dogs, I hope you’ll click on over to Dave Opie’s blog for the details.

Being Imperfect

“Being Imperfect With Debbie Levy”–that’s a headline I can relate to!  I had fun with this perfectly titled interview with Young Adult Magazine.  Also had fun talking about the dog recently over at the Coffee With a Canine blog.

Now back to work.

Publication Day!

Today is publication day for my new picture book, We Shall Overcome: The Story of a Song, published by Disney-Jump at the Sun.  With expressive illustrations by Vanessa Brantley-Newton, the final book is so pleasing to me as I hold it and turn the pages of Vanessa’s collage-inspired art.  To give you an idea of why I’m enamored of the illustrations, here are two of the spreads–without the text–that Vanessa put up on her website:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m very happy to have this book out in the world.  I’m also happy that sharing this book birthday today are two new picture books by authors whose work I admire greatly, also published by Disney-Hyperion:  To Dare Mighty Things:  The Life of Theodore Roosevelt, by Doreen Rappaport, illustrated by C.F. Payne, and Rutherford B., Who Was He? Poems About Our Presidents, by Marilyn Singer, illustrated by John Hendrix.   Hendrix.  Check them out!  I’m proud of my publisher for bringing this trio of nonfiction books to readers.

This Never Happened

I come into my little home office to do some end-of-day emails while dinner cooks, and  who do I see but. . . the dog and the cat, relaxing together on the chair and ottoman.  This has never happened.   This never happens.  If the dog’s in the chair, the cat will curl up on the floor.  If the cat’s claimed the chair, the dog will take the floor.  Or the un-chaired animal will leave the room entirely, because, really, they don’t like being too close to each other.

But can you see the body language?  Once I walked in the room, the cat seemed to realize the position she was in.  Do you see her lean away from the dog more in each successive photo?  As the dog gets comfortable, the cat gets uncomfortable.

That cat was out of there before I sat down at my desk.  As far as she’s concerned, this never happened. 

 

‘Toward Mercy’

I am a step behind in writing about Beth Kephart’s new book, Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir.  Since Handling The Truth came out this past summer, this versatile and prolific writer has already geared up for release of her next book, a novel, Going Over, due out in April 2014.  But better a step behind, I figure, than not taking the journey at all, especially the journey offered by this book, which, despite its subtitle, is not just a book for memoir writers, or memoir readers, or for writers or readers of any stripe.  It works as a book for anyone who has had a childhood or a past.

I turned to Handling the Truth in August.  I took to reading it while in my mother’s apartment—either sitting in her bedroom as she dozed, or stretched out on the sofa in another room while attempting to let the home health aides do their job.  If this sounds peaceful, don’t be misled.  I now read death notices that begin with the formula “Peacefully at home. . . .” with a skeptical eye.  But I did find time to read this book.

(There will come a time, I know, when everything I read and write doesn’t seem to me to relate to the loss of my mother.  That time hasn’t come yet, however.)

I mention the circumstances of my reading because they were not ideal for reading any book—and yet this book was ideal reading for the circumstances.  This is not to say that you should be at your mother’s deathbed with Handling the Truth.  Rather, the point is that the ideas and insights in this book, both gentle and penetrating, are ones that can inform and uplift you as you think about your life and the people in it even from the most disadvantageous vantage point.

From an early chapter:

If you want to write memoir, you need to set caterwauling narcissism to the side.  You need to soften your stance.  You need to work through the explosives—anger, aggrandizement, injustice, misfortune, despair, fumes—toward mercy.

The pages that follow offer not so much a primer on memoir-writing as a companion.  Beth’s tone and substance encompass seriousness of purpose, humor, and encouragement vis-à-vis the creation of memoir.  Yes, there are suggested exercises, many of them, for thinking about and writing memoir—for example, on writing about the weather:

Look outside, go outside, write this right now:  The quality of breeze.  The evidence of dew.  The pile of clouds on the horizon.  Find the words. . . . Rain as the sound.  Sun as a caution sign.  A moon that has gone fishing.  A cranberry-colored landscape. . . .  

. . . Write the weather of your wedding day, now, or the weather of your first school day, or the weather of a funeral day, or the weather of a carefree day.

Why weather?

Too many people forget. . . . the reality that things are always bigger than you or me.

I may never write a memoir, but I found myself stopping and thinking at the close of nearly every chapter about how I might incorporate the lessons, observations, and gentle proddings into my own non-memoir writing.  Don’t forget the weather.  Don’t forget the landscape (“Don’t pretend to see what you cannot”). What about the food and tastes, the smells, the things people carry in their pockets?  And this, which one can ask of any writer:  “[H]ow will you bridge your world to mine?”

I’ll take it one step further and say that, really, Handling the Truth is for anybody who wishes to reflect meaningfully on his or her life, or on the life of another.  If you like, writing can have nothing to do with it.  The prompts offered by the author can serve as excavating tools for the archaeological site of your personal history or of a person or subject of interest to you.

And this is why the book was the ideal read for me during the final weeks of my mother’s life, and why I keep turning back to it now, more than two months later.  Handling the Truth has prompted me to think of the smell of toasted barley baking in the oven, of the smeared ink of old recipes, of my mother singing me the Cole Porter song “I Love Paris” but substituting the words “I Love Debbie,” of the jingle of the old Pine-Sol commercials on TV, of Nancy Drew and Cherry Ames.

But the reward here is not merely a long string of sepia-toned memories, although remembering “I love Debbie in the summer when it sizzles” does gladden the heart.  In another corner of my life, recently I’ve had conversations with friends about how they handle anger toward a family member or friend.  My tendency, and my counsel, for what it’s worth, has been to turn toward pity as a way of backing away from anger.  Consider the other’s situation or limitations, I’ve said.  Might that transform the anger into something more like pity?  I’d rather pity someone than detest him.

To my surprise, this has been a tough sell.  On further reflection, I think I really meant something slightly different.  That entreaty I quoted from the first pages of Handling the Truth—“toward mercy”—that’s what I’m really embracing.  The idea of working toward mercy in writing memoir is at the heart of Beth Kephart’s book.  And I think if working toward mercy were also at the heart of coming to terms with one’s past, present, and future, and if working toward mercy were the alternative route to anger and disappointment in relationships–these would be positive things.  Toward mercy.  As a mantra, you could do worse.

A final note:  I met Beth Kephart last July when Ellen Klein, co-owner of the Hooray for Books bookstore in Alexandria, Virginia, put us together for an event at the store, and we’ve stayed in touch since then.  I’d be saying everything I’m saying about her book even if we were strangers.

Poetry Favorites—Children’s Poetry Blog Hop With Jacqueline Jules

Today I’m happy to host award-winning author and poet Jacqueline Jules, who’s here with her excellent contribution to the Children’s Poetry Blog Hop.  Let’s get right to it:

Thank you, Debbie Levy, for tagging me to participate in The Mortimer Minute, a bunny hop through the children’s poetry blogosphere. The Hop was started by April Halprin Wayland and since September has inspired poetry lovers around the kidlitosphere to share three burning poetry questions. Here are mine:

1. What is your favorite kind of poem?

I usually get a little antsy when I am asked to name a favorite. In most cases, my favorite is my most recent—book, movie, song, etc. And I don’t have a favorite sports team which makes me a bit of a nerd. However, ever since I read Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters in high school, I have been a big fan of narrative poems—poems that tell a story in the voice of a character. After I became a teacher, I encountered Mel Glenn’s Class Dismissed and fell in love all over again. A poem that  portrays a memorable character in the space of a page electrifies me.

2. What is the difference between poetry and prose?

This is another hard question. Prose can be quite poetic and poems can be prosaic. Not everyone is as big a fan of the free verse narrative poem as I am. In critique groups and articles, I have encountered cranky arguments that narrative poems are indistinguishable from prose, save for line breaks. I disagree. A good narrative poem concentrates language into images that evoke strong emotion or thought. Carefully chosen details connect with the reader and reveal truths within a brief, breathtaking space. A good example is Judith Viorst’s “If I Were in Charge of the World.” I often use this poem in poetry lessons. Here is the second verse of Viorst’s poem.

If I were in charge of the world

There’d be brighter night lights

Healthier hamsters, and

Basketball baskets forty-eight inches lower.

In the span of four prosaic lines, the poet has revealed an endearing character who is afraid of the dark, has suffered the loss of a pet, and is not as tall as she would like. I find this brilliant, and for me, what poetry is all about—to say volumes in just a few words or sentences. When a poem reveals the essence of a character or a personal discovery in a tiny story, I am transported. I especially love a last line that pulls everything together and makes me humph in agreement or laughter.

Another favorite example comes from Mel Glenn’s Class Dismissed. In the poem, “Dominique Blanco,” a high school girl complains, “I have spent four years here on the edge of everything—friends, parties, classes—rejecting myself before others had a chance to do it.” The poem lists other poignant disappointments of her high school years to end with her yearbook: “They left out my picture./ It figures.” The image of this lonely girl whose picture was accidentally left out of the yearbook has stayed with me for years. It is such a powerful metaphor for how she was ignored and overlooked.

What is your favorite poetic device?

I love using alliteration in poetry. It is so much fun to use the same syllable to create a musical sound and to mimic the topic you are writing about. Here is a poem of mine called “Morning Monster” that makes liberal use of alliteration to express my dissatisfaction with being awakened by a garbage truck one summer morning.

A monster is grumbling in the street

grinding its teeth on broken bits of glass.

It doesn’t help to cover my head with a pillow.

The groaning continues

growing louder and louder

until the monster is right outside my window

gobbling cans in gargantuan gulps

then crashing them against the sidewalk

stealing my first morning of summer sleep.

I have tagged Madelyn Rosenberg, winner of the Arlington Arts Moving Words Poetry Competition, author of Happy Birthday Tree, The Schmutzy Family, The Canary in the Coal Mine, and all around savvy lady and editor. Madelyn also has a great sense of humor, so I can’t wait to read her poetry questions and answers on November 15th on her blog.

I’ve also tagged Anamaria Anderson, a book reviewer, museum educator, and children’s literature judge who has served on various award committees including this year’s Batchelder Award.  Anamaria is also one of the most articulate people I know. I am looking forward to hearing her thoughts on poetry on November 15th at her blog, Books Together Blog.

Thank you, Jackie. I really enjoyed your questions, your answers, and your poems.  –Debbie

Eureka! California

On the 75th anniversary of my mother’s escape, with her family, from Germany–for the record, it was a midnight train, November 7, 1938–I learn that “her” book, The Year of Goodbyes, has received a 2013 Eureka Nonfiction Honor Award from the California Reading Association.  Pretty cool synchronicity.  I’m grateful to the award committee and so pleased to think of this true story about my mother’s last year in Germany finding new readers on the west coast.

Also cool is that my friend and colleague Susan Stockdale’s book, Stripes of All Types, has received the Eureka Nonfiction Gold Award.  They don’t give out many of those, my friends!