Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 102

thank you, Katrina

Sometimes it's hard moving between worlds.  It was good for me to come back from NOLA and go straight back into the classroom; I was able to stay in that "zone" for a little while, but today I'm back to my own reality.  I think it might be time to head back into the academy; this kidlit thing isn't really working out and it's starting to get me down.  I'm not going to stop writing, but I think I need to try a new approach—maybe try operating from within the academy instead of the blogosphere.  But this post is about my visit to New Orleans.  I don't think I have a whole lot more to say, but I feel like I need to admit something.  Yesterday in East Harlem one child asked me how I felt when I found out Bird was going to be published.  And I told him how Hurricane Katrina motivated me to start sending my stories out again; Katrina hit in August 2005, and I had been living in Baton Rouge for only about 3 weeks…I'd just started a new job at LSU and I already knew I wouldn't be staying long.  Then the hurricane threw everything into disarray, and I was filled with so much rage and I had to do *something* to take my power back.  So I went through all my manuscripts and sent out everything that was ready–picture book stories, academic essays, plays.  And a few months later, I found out I'd won the New Voices Honor Award; after that I got into an MFA program, I got accepted to a summer artists' residency, I got a job offer in the northeast, and my first play was named as a finalist at a Chicago theater.  It was Hurricane Katrina that lit that fire inside of me—the rage she inspired drove me to look for a way out, and that's exactly what I found.  When I think about my time in Louisiana, I still get mad.  It's an irrational kind of rage—aimless, really, because I'm just mad at everything and everyone.  I hear the phrase "way of life" and have to bite my tongue.  So I didn't go to New Orleans out of any sense of nostalgia; there's nothing romantic about the city for me, and I didn't expect to do any touristy things during my time off.  I don't eat seafood, and I don't drink; I do like jazz, but I never connected the particular songs or artists I love with New Orleans.  When I lived in Baton Rouge back in 2005, I remember a prominent black poet telling me that New Orleans was "the only truly great American city"—the only one to produce anything of value (she meant jazz).  And I thought to myself, "What about New York?  What about hip hop?"  But then I thought, hip hop doesn't need NYC any more than jazz still needs New Orleans.  I didn't say that, of course, because she was homeless due to the flooding and I was an outsider—not a Yankee, maybe, but a northerner nonetheless.  I'm always wary of exceptionalism, whether it's New Orleans, or Haiti, or the USA.  Anyway, all this is to say that I didn't expect to "have fun" while I was in New Orleans.  But I did—my host, Karen Ott, took me to the House of Blues one night and to Irvin Mayfield's Jazz Playhouse the next; Bob French and the Original Tuxedo Jazz Band blew me away and their vocalist, Yolanda Windsay, put Beyonce to shame with her rendition of Etta James' "At Last."  I ate a lot of good food, including the BEST school lunch EVER—white beans and rice!  But I don't wake up thinking about the food or the jazz.  I wake up seeing the faces of the kids in the 7th grade—and the boy in the 6th grade who said he saw a mirror when he looked at the first page of Bird: "Because I'm a black boy and I like to draw, too."  I see the girl in the front row who didn't want to read her poem aloud, but asked me to read it privately.  And it was clear that she got teased a lot, no doubt by the pretty blue-eyed girl in the row behind her who was acting like a typical mean girl.  Yet she herself had written a touching tribute to her beloved teacher the day before.  All you can do in two days is listen and learn, observe and try to inspire.  I read my favorite chapter from Wish, and when I put the book down, a boy in the back row said, "Keep reading!"  So we read another chapter together.  The boy who'd been pushing my buttons all afternoon wrote one of the most powerful poems I've heard in a while.  Who's your addressee?  Some kids spoke to bullies, some spoke to those outside their community.  All had their own ambition, plans for the future, their own sense of themselves.  And they were not willing to let something like Hurricane Katrina define them.  Foremost in their minds was the one-year anniversary of the loss of one of their teachers.  Most of them met President Obama when he visited their school, and they've got signed books from JK Rowling.  I'm no celebrity, but I hope I made an impact.  And I hope I now think of those kids when I think about New Orleans.  It's time to let that anger go.

hum

I want to write about my experience in New Orleans, but I don't feel ready yet.  I woke up this morning realizing that I owe my host teacher an apology; there were a couple of moments when I lost my patience with a few of the boys in the class.  And it felt like there were a *lot* of boys in the class!  Then this morning I went up to East Harlem and met with a 6th-grade class that's been studying Bird; the fabulous teacher, who's one of the best managers I've ever seen, spent at least half of the 90 minutes dealing with three boys who just couldn't get it together.  Two wanted to write, but couldn't focus; one just refused to do anything except distract the other students in his group.  Then there were the girls, working quietly and cooperatively, and there were all the *other* boys in the class who needed a little guidance but were otherwise just fine.  When the class ended I asked the teacher how she found the patience to work with those particular boys; she clearly had strategies—pair the loud one with a quieter child and let their opposite temperaments balance each other out; isolate the one who's easily distracted and have him sit at a desk by himself; try to figure out the child's emotional state so she can figure out why he's refusing to work.  But ultimately, she just refuses to give up; she meets them head on day after day after day.  And the 7th grade teacher in New Orleans was just the same—no yelling, no slamming kids into lockers as I've seen other male teachers do.  Just a quiet, steady vigilance.  I'm sorry to keep going on about boys; I used to be so invested in educating girls, and now I find I'm constantly wondering what to do about boys!  They aren't all the same, so one solution won't work; yet all the kids are in one classroom, in one school…and as obnoxious as their behavior can sometimes be, their stories and poems are amazing!!  After my workshop ended this morning, one of the more challenging boys came up and gave me a silly band—you can see it's a hummingbird…and his story outline looked amazing: a boy who wants to learn how to dance meets Michael Jackson; "The Glove" will show readers the importance of passing on knowledge.  There was one boy in New Orleans—smaller than the others, but louder, too—and he clearly had some trouble with gangs and drug dealers in his neighborhood, but when we did our "You Don't Even Know Me" poems, he blew us all away…he knows he's more than the "type" others perceive; he's super smart, and yet if he can't respond to authority and the structure of school, where's he going to end up? (there's a photo of him with President Obama on the school website).  I wish I could go back.  I miss working with students over time and being able to track their development.  And I wonder if my writing about boys truly reflects their complexity—the diversity among boys.  I told the kids in East Harlem about what's next on my list of things to write—a story about two boys, one 11 and one 14—who initially come together because the younger one's a top student and is assigned to tutor the older boy (who got "left back").  When the younger boy is attacked by the creatures that live beneath Prospect Park, the older boy becomes his protector…ok, I'll try to do a proper post about New Orleans tomorrow.  Everyone at the school was so kind, and the food…the jazz!  There's lots to tell.

awe

I've got some catching up to do…but will try to use "awe" as a central theme/ recurring experience of the past few days.  Saturday was the Brooklyn Museum Book Fair and once again, it was an intense, fantastic experience.  I arrived 15 minutes late and the pavilion was already packed with families…and that was my first moment of awe: how do parents do it?  how do you wake at dawn (because that's when kids get up, even on the weekend), feed your kids, take them to swimming/soccer/art class, get them lunch, and THEN spend up to 4 hours at a book festival?  I was exhausted and I was SITTING the whole time!  Each child was collecting stamps from authors, so the kids were circulating, the parents were keeping up, browsing books, buying books, pushing strollers, and chatting with us.  I had the good fortune of being paired with Emily Goodman, horticulturist and author of Plant Secrets.  She gave me some helpful tips for my Xmas storybook, and also brought crayons so the children could draw pictures of plants.  In this age of digital everything, it was amazing to watch children's faces light up at the sight of new crayons and white paper…then they drew so intently, with such detail.  One child, Zora, came back 3 times just to draw more pictures!  Kids amaze me.  I'm in New Orleans right now, courtesy of PEN American Center—thank you, thank you Fatima Shaik and everyone else at PEN who made this possible.  The MLK Academy is in the lower Ninth Ward, and on the way home today my fabulous hostess, Karen Ott, drove me down the street where Brad Pitt's Make It Right project is building eco-friendly homes for (and with) residents.  The Ninth Ward is a patchwork quilt—lots of different colors, textures, and homes in various conditions.  I haven't taken any photos because I don't want to act like a tourist in someone else's neighborhood.  This community has been through enough.  The kids are *great*—will have to write about them tomorrow; today we did writing workshops based on Bird, and tomorrow we'll move on to Wish.  These kids are survivors…but they're also kids—regular kids.  I want to make sure I remember that.  Last night my hostess took me to the House of Blues—tonight we're going out again; I'm trying not to be my usual homebody self.  It's New Orleans!  But I don't feel like a tourist.  I feel lucky…in so many ways.

night & day

DIY

So I'm sure I've mentioned this a zillion times already, but I've got 20 unpublished picture book manuscripts.  And you know I've been wanting to learn how to paint…well, artiste extraordinaire, Rosamond S. King, gave me this book she found at the library and now I'm on my way to MAKING MY OWN BOOK!

I am following Taylor's directions, and am several steps into the process. You can make your own book from scratch or you can refurbish an old book, which is what I decided to do.  Taylor has compiled actual storybooks made by mixed-media artists; he shows you how they look, summarizes the story, and then describes how the artist made the book.

Step One: Buy a board book that you're willing to deface.  I got two for $3.99 at Marshall's.

Step Two: Lightly sand the surface of the book's pages and cover.

Step Three: Apply three coats of gesso.  This stuff is like primer; it doesn't completely cover the original illustrations, but your acrylic paint will do that.

Step Four: Sketch your book using page frames.  My story, "Let the Faithful Come," is a little too long for this board book so I'm going to have to use the back cover, too.

Today's task is to finish framing the story and choose colors for each page.  Once I paint all the pages, I'll apply crackle medium and let it sit for a few days.  When I get back from New Orleans, I'll be ready to use pastels and textiles and cutouts and found objects and stencils and stamps to illustrate my story!  I'm hoping to have it done by Xmas…

have hope

It's Remembrance Day in Canada and Veterans Day here in the US.  My 6-year-old niece made this beautiful piece of art to pay tribute to our troops and veterans—notice the peace sign in the sun, the red poppy, and soldier in camouflage.  The art some kids make just amazes me—it gives me hope to know that they're processing everything in the world around them.  I saw some fantastic art at a middle school in East Harlem yesterday; Behind the Book, my favorite literacy org, sent a car to pick me up and as we inched our way up Flatbush Avenue, I saw an Asian boy hustling to school—book in hand.  Later that day I was walking along Flatbush and again saw a black boy with his face buried in a book.  During my workshop, three boys in the class started to cry—and despite their distress, all raised their hands and wanted to read their postcard to someone far away.  One child lost his mother; one lost his grandmother when he was just a baby, and wept over that missed opportunity to know and love her.  A third boy showed me the gold link bracelet his stepmother gave him the time he was hospitalized after an accident.  Later, when I discussed the experience with a friend over lunch, she asked if the boys were black and Latino and reminded me that in many families, boys are socialized to take up space no matter their emotional state.  She's right, and the boys in that class definitely raised their hands *a lot*, while most of the girls were silent.  But it's still a touching scene—and a moment that, unfortunately, doesn't seem to last beyond the 6th grade.  At the end of the workshop, one of the girls presented me with this beautiful bouquet of paper flowers—and a boy, Joshua, raised his hand and said, "I made them!"  So proud—as he should be!  How long will that last…

Another ray of hope is Jesse Joshua Watson's new book, Hope for Haiti. You can read a digital copy at the We Give Books website, and each free viewing leads to an actual book being donated to children!  The holidays are coming—this book would be a lovely gift for the children in your life because it IS hopeful and shows how one gesture of generosity can transform lives.

you dig, you discover

Tricia Rose was my advisor in graduate school, and she once gave me some advice that has made more and more sense as I've continued to age.  "If you look back at your life," she said, "you'll find that you've always been drawn to the same things–the same themes, even the same colors."  At the time, I was in my 20s and I could see a slight pattern but now, as I near forty, it's very apparent that I've been loving the same things all my life.  Yesterday I went with a friend to see the King Tut exhibit in Times Square.  I *loathe* Times Square, but Rosa got us special discounted tickets and we didn't have to view the exhibit with a horde of tourists.  I was 7 when King Tut's treasures first came to Toronto; in my memory, my older sister was taken on a school trip to see the exhibit and she came home with a calendar and coloring book and scarab jewelry.  Earlier this year, my sister insisted that wasn't true—she, too, had missed the first exhibit and so went by herself to see the current exhibit touring North America.  It was a bit of a let down, she said, and many of the artifacts didn't actually belong to Tutankhamun.  She's right—the exhibit is small, but the pieces on display are still stunning and for me, that was just the right amount of objects to consider at one time.  I go into overload-mode pretty easily, and in a way, I've been looking at Tut's treasures all my life.  Poor Rosa—she had to listen to me rambling on and on about the *three* ancient Egypt specials I've watched on PBS in the past few weeks.  I remember moving into my current apartment three years ago and painting the living room only during commercials because I didn't want to miss the Discovery Channel special on Queen Hatshepsut.  Would I say I'm obsessed?  Perhaps.  Fascinated, for sure.  When I think of my interest in history, architecture, and archaeology—the drama of all three—I trace that back to Tut.  I gazed at that Klimt painting for quite a long while, and what impressed me most was how he depicted the sitter's jewelry—an ornate silver choker dotted with jewels.  Her gown was a mass of gold symbols, which I'm now trying to replicate.  The first symbols I ever studied? Hieroglyphs.  I'm drawn to anything gold and glittering; I love mosaics, stained glass, sequins.  And all of that started when I was seven.  Back then I didn't know Egypt was part of Africa; I was on my way to graduate school before I found out about Cheikh Anta Diop and the efforts of African scholars to reclaim Ancient Egypt and prove its link to Nubian civilization.  Yesterday Rosa and I were able to scoff at the curator's remark that brown was "the traditional color for males"—not their *actual* color, of course, just the color they picked out of the sky to represent themselves.  We watched the rather silly 3-D film at the end, and noted that everyone building the pyramids was brown-skinned but Ramses himself was mighty white.  I won't lie—I watch those Brendan Fraser Mummy films when they come on TV.  And I grew up loving Indiana Jones films, too.  It never occurred to me then that there was a problem with some white guy going into other people's sacred spaces and pilfering the treasures he found there.  I'm not "Afrikan-centered;" I won't name my child Ptah.  But Cleopatra did *not* look like Elizabeth Taylor, and I'm sure my seven-year-old self appreciated seeing beautiful, brown-skinned people swathed in gold and admired by all.  I'm glad that I now have this awareness of the impact King Tut had on my life, the strange debt I owe to a handful of white male adventurers who thought all the glory was theirs alone.

Brooklyn Museum Children's Book Fair 2010

It's that time of year again…and books are the perfect gift for the holidays!  I'll be at the Brooklyn Museum this coming Saturday for their annual Children's Book Fair.

CHILDREN'S BOOK FAIR

Saturday, November 13, Noon – 4 p.m.

The Rubin Pavilion

Meet your favorite Brooklyn authors and illustrators. Featuring storybooks, picture books, and graphic novels Author readings, a game for children, and cafe service will be offered.

Readings

1 p.m. Randall de Seve, author of Matilda and the

Orange Balloon

2 p.m. R. Gregory Christie, illustrator of Black Magic

3 p.m. Artie Bennett, author of The Butt Book

Participating Authors and Illustrators

Artie Bennett, Cathleen Bell, Sophie Blackall, Peter Brown, Lauren Castillo, R.Gregory Christie, Nina Crews, Randall de Seve, Zetta Elliott, Buket Erdogan, Emily Goodman, Melanie Greenberg, Lisa Greenwald, Jenny Han, Mike Herrod, Isabel Hill, Paul Hoppe, John and Wendy, Nancy Krulik, Diane Landolf, Alison Lowenstein, Laura Ljungkvist, Meghan McCarthy, Leslie Margolis, Diane Muldrow, Roxie Munro, Johan Olander, Claudia Pearson, Sean Qualls, Sergio Ruzzier, David Stein, Scott Teplin, Lauren Thompson, Robin Wasserman, Jacqueline Woodson, Dwight Zimmerman

shady

This short TV documentary is an introduction to the issue of shadeism, the discrimination that exists between the lighter-skinned and darker-skinned members of the same community. This documentary short looks specifically at how it affects young womyn within the African, Caribbean, and South Asian diasporas. Through the eyes and words of 5 young womyn and 1 little girl – all females of colour – the film takes us into the thoughts and experiences of each. Overall, 'Shadeism' explores where shadeism comes from, how it directly affects us as womyn of colour, and ultimately, begins to explore how we can move forward through dialogue and discussion.

I don't know if these kinds of conversations were taking place in Toronto in the '80s, but I wish I could have known some of these smart young women back when I was an insecure teenager.  I found this film, Shadeism, on Neo-Griot, which is a fabulous listserv run by poet Kalamu y Salaam; I also subscribe to the Carl Brandon Society list, which is how I find out about news in the multicultural sci-fi world.  I'm very grateful because I'm not a very social person and being part of an online community keeps me abreast of what's going on in the world.  EXCEPT for Canada.  If anyone knows how to get connected to the online PoC community up there, please let me know.  It sounds like some important conversations are taking place and I hate being out of the loop…

bright future

Ok, so it's just one list for one year, but it's still very exciting to know that THREE black women authors made Amazon's Top Ten Sci-Fi/Fantasy list!!!  Congratulations, ladies!  You can read my rave review of The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms here; I recommend Karen Lord's beautifully written Redemption in Indigo, and I'm planning to read Nnedi Okorafor's Who Fears Death (which has been optioned for a film!).  Charles Yu also made the list—you can read The Rejectionist's interview with him here.