Matched--Ally Condie

So, I've become a total freak about dystopian novels. The more I read them, the more I like them.  I'm picky, however.  I'm not as much into the ones that have a heavy sci-fi side, which is why I loved Ally Condie's Matched.

When I was in high school (Come on, it wasn't THAT long ago!),  we had to read 1984.  I don't think  many kids have to read this for English class these days, though I hope I'm wrong in that assumption. I didn't realize it then, but I think that's what started my love for the dystopian novel. It's all about the hope that even when the odds are against you, you still fight. No matter how big the problem is, no matter how insurmountable it may seem, you still have to try. I love to see a character, who at first seems passive and weak, find strength and passion within him or herself.

WARNING--SPOILERS

As the book opens, Cassia Reyes is 17 and headed to her matching ceremony.  It's the time when she'll find out who she is to marry.  In her world, society has figured out how to perfectly match young people so they will have successful marriages and healthy children.  Disease and malformations are rare.  What's even more rare is when she's matched to Xander, her best friend. They grew up together and know each other, unlike the others her age who are matched with people from around the country.

Her life seems absolutely perfect until she's looking through the microchip that gives information about Xander and sees another boy's face.  Another boy she knows.

The problem is Ky Markham isn't allowed to be matched.  He's an Aberration.  Now, in a society where everything is chosen for her, Cassia has to decide if she will choose the life created for her or create one of her own.

If this book, as seen in others like it, creates teams for the love interest, I am totally Team Ky. He's real in a way Xander can't be. Ky is freer to choose his own life because of his status.  Now, that doesn't mean he isn't subdued by society's rules, but Ky is smart enough to manipulate the rules and fly under the radar. Xander is just as smart, discovering Ky's secret of purposely remaining average, but he has no desire to change.  In this world, you take what you're given, and Xander seems content with that.  He doesn't have the history of another, wilder place like Ky does. It's Ky's experiences that make him unique and intriguing to Cassia.

Isn't that true of all of us?  Our pasts, be them good or bad, make us who we are today. They allow us insight into life in ways others can't see.  The things we love, the things we notice and appreciate (Books, poetry, music, etc) all stem from our own personal history and experiences.

 Let me give you a personal example: When I was growing up, we used to make fun of my Dad who would sit at the dinner table spouting Greek, Latin and Hebrew to us.  "Pedantic comes from the Latin root ped, meaning foot," he'd say. "It's the same root we get in the word pedal." This was common practice, and though I don't remember all the roots,--Sorry Dad--I gained his love for language, words and how they're put together. I chose my path based on this. My experiences with language shaped my love for it. Now, I wish I had paid closer attention to my father all those years ago.

So, I ask you, where do you come from?  What past experiences made you who you are? What shaped you to love the things you love? Do you like to listen to swing music or eat black licorice? (Thanks again, Dad!) Are you a person of faith? Do you love poetry? Books? Sports? Coffee? And do you ever wonder who you'd be if that person, that influence hadn't been around? Think about it. What would be missing from your life if one person or experience hadn't happened?

Bleed For Me

I know I've gotten away from the book reviews for a while.  I hope you'll all forgive me for that. Below is a short story written as an assignment for my new writer's group. (For those who may be interested in attending, it's held on the 1st &3rd Thurs. of the month at 6:30 at the Sinclairville Library.) The assignment was to write about a childhood experience.

For Gramps: I'm thinking of you today.

Bleed For Me

By Jessie Andersen

            She watched the white gauze blush red as blood seeped through the too-thin fabric held against his palm.  Clenching his fist for a moment did nothing to stop the crimson stream that continued to flow.  With the bare, calloused fingers of his good hand, he reached for the metal handle of the wood stove in the corner next to his favorite rocker.  A flick of his wrist opened the door, and he tossed the soaked fibers into the flames.

            Ripping the clean gauze open with his teeth, he pressed it against his skin. “Here, hold that,” he said, his voice gravelly, as she looked on helplessly as any seven year old would.

            Carefully, she pressed her fingers against the gauze.  Her hand in his was odd, out of place against his worn, leathered skin, a pool of fresh cream poured over a pile of dirt and grease.

            While she pressed, he reached into his back pocket where she knew he’d pull out the handkerchief that lived there.  With a snap, he stretched out the cloth from corner to corner and wound it around his hand, tucking one end under and tightening the knot with his teeth.

            “There,” he said, squeezing his fist. “Good as new.”

            But he couldn’t hide the tiny grimace that flashed over his eyes and forehead as he pressed on the makeshift bandage.

            A sharp voice called from the other room. “It needs stitches!”

            “I ain’t going to no doctor, Ginner!” Then he looked at the small girl at his feet and shook his head, his eyes twinkling lights over soft, blue velvet. “I don’t need no gol’ darn stitches!”

            He winked as his lips pulled back in a grin, revealing the gold capped tooth on his upper right side. It made his smile sparkle as much as his eyes.

            “How’d you cut it, Gramps?” she asked, staring up at him from the floor where she often sat at his feet. She’d walked through the door moments before to the sight of him sitting by the fire, attempting to nurse his hand while his wife, her Gram, cleared away some bloodied towels.

            “Cuttin some pussy willers.  Jabbed that gol’ darn knife right into my hand when I was cuttin ‘em.” He leaned his head back on the wooden slats of the rocker and closed his eyes.

            She could picture it.  All 5’4 of him reaching deep into the weeds, bending around a jutting rock with knife in hand, trying to be careful not to fall in the creek bed full of water.  He’d have held the stems together with one hand and sliced with the other, driving the blade deep into his palm.  Deep enough to need stitches. But he’d refuse to get them.  She grimaced just thinking about it.

            “Them pussy willers tried to best me, but I got the better of them, now didn’t I?” He tossed his head to the side, pointing toward the mantle with his gaze.

            She looked up where, for the first time, she noticed a glass vase sprouting pussy willows and cat tails.

            She laughed, “Gramps, why’d you need pussy willows so bad?”

            He clenched his hand. “I just know’d you like ‘em is all.”

            A white heat flooded her body.  “Y-you got them for me?” she stammered.

            “Yepper, and you can take ‘em home.  I don’t want to see ‘em ever again,’ he snickered.

            No, of course not.  He’d not have the plant that bested him standing on the mantle in its full glory, taunting and teasing his injury.  In his mind, he’d met the challenge of the willows and came out on the other side, the slightly marred victor.

            For years those pussy willows adorned her vanity, evidence of a grandfather’s loving sacrifice. Now, though years and her grandfather have passed, the pussy willows displayed in her weed arrangement in her own home remind her of just one of the many sacrifices of a man whose memory still lives on in the willows. The same pussy willers he cut so long ago. 

Rantings on Beauty

I'm sorry.  I can't help it.  I've been putting this post aside, telling myself that because it's not based on a book, I shouldn't have it on here, but this idea has been bugging me for a few days now.  I can't stay silent.  I must speak loudly!

On Facebook the other day, I began to see posts, which said, "Post this on the walls of the 12 prettiest girls you know ... if you get 5 back you're beautiful! ♥ ♥ ♥" Right away, I felt the bile rise up in the back of my throat.  I wanted to puke and scream and cry all at the same time.  If you've ever seen me cry, you know it's not pretty! I would definitely not get that post on my wall on any day that I've cried. So, for a day or so, I said nothing. But it kept hounding me so badly, I posted this to my wall:

"To all the girls posting this, "You're pretty if you get 5 returns of this 'You're pretty' post," I certainly hope you know that beauty does not come from a FB post, or even what anyone else thinks of you. Beauty, true beauty comes from within. How about instead of desiring to get those 5 posts back, you show the kindness to someone else ? That's what makes a person beautiful."

Obviously, I couldn't say all I thought in a few lines on FB, so I'm saying it here.

How is it that we as a society have stooped so low that now our children have to find their beauty and self esteem by how many times random people paste a "you're pretty" post on their Facebook wall?  We have FAILED with a big, fat F if our girls are seeking to discover what true beauty is on Facebook. Look, I love Facebook.  I can now keep in contact with friends I haven't seen in years and keep up with family who live far away. It's great, but when we as parents allow Facebook to teach our kids about beauty, we've gone horribly wrong.

I'm reading a book by Joyce Meyer for my Bible study. It's called the Love Revolution. In it she focuses on the theme of happiness. How many people aren't happy because they think that getting more stuff or wearing certain clothes is going to bring happiness? Now, the book is written from a Christian perspective, but even with that aside, its message says the only way to be happy is to serve others. I'd take this message one step further for our young people. It's that servant's attitude, that willingness to put self aside and do something kind for someone else without need or want of anything in return that makes someone beautiful.

When I was a little girl, my mother told me all the time, "Jessie, It's better to be pretty on the inside." I now tell my daughter the same thing, to which she replies, "Yes, and it's cold on the outside." (We still have a little work before she fully understands the meaning of this phrase.)The point is that beauty comes from within. A person can be the perfect model with long flowing locks and porcelain skin and still be ugly.

Admit it, you know these type of people, people who are "beautiful" but are mean or stuck up. You also know people who may not look perfect. Maybe they have a few more pounds than the average person, or scars that cover their face, but their inner beauty masks what the world considers ugliness.

I hope that as I raise my daughter, I can teach her that she will be beautiful because she loves people, because she loves the Lord, because she is kind and gentle, because she helps those around her and sacrifices herself for others, because she speaks words of encouragement and not harsh words. If I can teach her how to do that, I will have a beautiful daughter. Better yet, if I can show her how to do those things by doing them myself, I can be a beautiful mom.

Maybe I should start a new Facebook post.  One that says, "Post this to the wall of 12 girls who are beautiful because they are kind and gentle, because they sacrifice for those around them, and because they speak kind words of encouragement instead of harsh ones, for their beauty comes from within." Do so with nothing expected in return, just for the sheer joy of encouraging someone else for the good qualities they possess. Join me, won't you?