We Don't Know What Belongs To Us Until Someone Else Claims It.

Still someone who quivers at the very thought of bringing a pen down to the page of a book, I did it today anyway. It was red, very inky, and I almost kissed the soft paper I was ruining when I was finished with my underlining and commenting.

This couldn't wait though, this idea. It was a mysterious and vague connection that I seemed to have made. Somehow.

Shining at different moments in the Thanksgiving dinner, everyone has a time to say something or do something with the family. My youngest sister, Minna said we should all go around the table saying what we're thankful for.

Her time.

My sister, Lois was our waitress, insisting on bringing out and serving to everyone.

Her time.

I, the perfectionist set the table for dessert just right, scooping the sorbet, cut the pies, and led the annual game of "The Forehead Game."

My time.

Everyone, not just my sisters and I had at least one time to share something.

Came my grandfather, who has been playing the balalaika for 15 years shared his story. His beautiful instrument was bought in a store, 9 years ago. Just a few weeks ago he took it into a repair shop to get a part of it fixed. After arriving at the store and bringing it to the counter, he is prepared to leave, no problem.

Up until the owner of the store stops my grandpa and says to him that he knows this balalaika, he's seen it before. He knows the original owner, who had it stolen from his car 10 years ago. My grandfather says that he did not steal this balalaika, he bought it in a store 9 years ago- end of story.

This is his balalaika, right? He has had it for 9 years, he has played it, loved it, called it his. It belongs to him.

He says he is sorry, but there's nothing he can do, it is his. It belongs to him.

**

Page 30, I move slowly and surely through Great House. Taking in every little detail as I go along.

What I underlined today reminded me much of what I heard heard from my grandpa about his experience with the balalaika.

Page 17
The phone rings.
The daughter of her friend who left years ago's voice fills the other end of the phone.
A question.
Do you still have my father's desk.
?

Yes.

She still has the desk. Just like the 9 years my grandpa owned the instrument, she has written 7 novels.

7 Novels.
9 Years.

So does this mean that she has the desk.
Or.
So does this mean that she owns the desk.

I can only imagine how many years it takes to write 7 books.
I can clearly see how long 9 years is.

Surely, with this of a connection. With this much of a bond, and a relationship with this one desk. This one hunk of wood. This nothing that turned into a something, turned into something I consider she owns.

In Great House it is clearly stated that she has every right to claim the desk her own.

Which makes me wonder what it takes for you to be able to call something your own. It makes me ask myself, in Great House this woman who has written 7 novels at this desk, the fact that she has is what makes it hers. But I never got to ask my grandfather what he did with his balalaika that gave the two of them such a strong argument.

If the character in Great House had someone ask her what made this desk so special, what made her feel like she owned it, she would be able to say that she wrote many, many books at it.

There you go, straight answer.

But is just saying that you're reaching your tenth year with an instrument enough? I think about what my grandfather would say in response to the question, and I think about what things were handed down to me that I now consider mine and when and why and what made it turn into something that is mine from something that was not.

I Have Found Another Voice!

Let me set the scene.

7th grade. ELA. Room 116. Meeting area.

What's on the chart we're reading?
How to make a great reading entry!

One of things that caught my eye?
You have to have voice.

I realized how important it is to allow your voice to reflect through your reading responses, the people who have the most passion for their book will definitely have the most passionate reading response, the most passionate voice. It comes to my attention that much of writing our blog entries- this year and last year had a main focus of writing with your voice shining through.

And it's true! Besides writing deeply about the book your reading itself, writing with a prominent factor of 'your' voice is the most important thing in writing in general, not just blogging. What I discovered today in class when I should have been listening but instead had kidnapped the book of the person sitting next to me, was that it's not just about your voice shining through you writing, but the voice of whatever character you create.

I've never met Ned Vizzini, and I probably never will. I'll never know what his voice really sounds like, so how could I know if it's his voice coming through his writing. The fact is, I don't even need to hear his voice for his writing to sound great. It the fact that Ned Vizzini is able to create unique voices that may not only be capturing his voice, but the voice of his characters.

Okay, so while my experience of It's Kind Of A Funny Story is only seven pages, I can already tell that this is going to be a great adventure. In elementary school our teachers always used to say read the first chapter or up to any point once you get the feel of the book. I did not have to read up to the first chapter of the book, I was able to read up to the second page to not only get the feel of the book, but to find myself laughing and smiling at it, not something you can do with just any book.

And it was the voices, the way Ned Vizzini was able to capture the voice of a teenage boy and all those around him and create voices that were able to paint a picture of their stories by just reading one sentence, or hearing one sentence. Because another thing that Ned Vizzini was allowing us to do while we read the voices, was that every word I read I felt like I was their right with everyone withing the pages of the book.

I anticipated the arrival of Project R.E.A.L in which I would borrow my own copy from the library in the same room 116 as last year when I was introduced to only one of many types of voices you can come across through your own writing, or reading someone else's.

As If They Have Control.

Ten Thousand Rupees = 1 Girl.

Sorry, that wasn't clear. Let me say it again.

Ten Thousand Rupees = 1 Girl.

Ten Thousand Rupees = 1 Person.

Ten Thousand Rupees = 1 Human Being

Ten Thousand Rupees, in what ever tragic, heart shattering world Lakshmi lives in, someone just like you, is worth

Ten Thousand Rupees.

I can't even bare to imagine selling a human.

A Human.

I could not be more serious.

I literally just tried to right this next part 6 times. I can't get the words out. I just can't seem to figure this out. I know this destruction of lives has no answer. I know that if you ever tried to help it and solve it would be like holding the wind.

You can't do it.

It's not a matter of how hard you try, it's the plain, boring, selfish, rude, and cold fact that you just can't.

Lakshmi lives in the mountains. And while no one's life is perfect, our lives seem to be compared to hers. But still. Her stepfather may lose all their money. A monsoon may have swept away her crops. Her only chance.

The fact is, while all these things in the mountains were going on, Lakshmi always had a little glisten a hope. Sometimes to be projected, sometimes not. But no matter what, there was always that sweet, short entry in the book Sold by Patricia McCormick that helped us understand that in Lakshmi's mind, there was a little dot of light. No one else could really see it, but it was always Lakshmi who was able to see things through not so dark, gloomy, hopeless eyes.

In the innocent movie Sky High, Will Stronghold and Warren Peace get into a fight in the cafeteria. Being a magical high school, the detention room is a room the takes away all ability to use your super powers. Once you leave the room, you are granted your powers back again.

I will return to this later, I promise.

While of the course of four days Lakshmi has had an aunt, an uncle, and a husband, there was always hope. There was always a speck of a smile hiding under her Sari, you just couldn't always see it. Once brought to the "Happiness House" described as by her Uncle Husband, Lakshmi realizes she has been sold into prostitution.

And may I bring to your attention once again, for Ten Thousand Rupees.

And while I don't want to take up 6 lines like I did before just repeating that one line, I feel as though I can't emphasize it enough.

Dear reader, this poor child has been sold to the broken life for Ten Thousand Rupees. And she doesn't even realize it until she's trying to run away.

Dear reader, with her Auntie and her Uncle Husband even though we couldn't see her hope, and even though it wasn't being described to us, it was still there.

This, reader, was the first time in 113 pages that I couldn't find her hope. The hope.

The only hope, ever.

Lakshmi didn't even know what this place was, and what she was going to do here until it was happening to her right then and there.

And you want to know why she was where she was?

Because she was sold for Ten. Thousand. Rupees.

And the thing that makes me want to scream more than anything is trying to accept the fact that it's not like she had any control what so ever.

As if she could say no to her stepfather for making her go the city.

As if she could get up and walk away from Uncle Husband.

As if she could turn to Auntie and say, "You know what, I don't want to."

As if she could tell her step father the truth, that he was ruining everything.

As if she could tell him he was the reason everything was falling apart.

As if she could tell him he was the reason she was going to the city in the first place.

As if.

As if she'll ever get out of the Happiness House, which really isn't that happy at all. In fact, it's nothing. It's like the detention at Sky High. Except for the fact that there, you can just get up and leave and everything will be back to normal.

But not in Lakshmi's world.

Oh no.

Because.

"...no matter how often I wash

and scrub

and wash

and scrub,

I cannot seem to rinse the men from my body." -Page 129

Coming Home.

I've been feeling kind of lost, like I forgot how to fall in love with reading again.

It's getting a bit fuzzy, like I don't know which book to read and I don't know how to love it like I did before.

Over the summer, I read The Glass Castle and I found myself reading it at every possible opportunity that was given to me to read. I literally never put it down.

When the school year started though, I was in a sort of doubt that the year was coming all over again and one of the many things I pushed away in anticipation was my love for reading. I don't know why that was one of the things I lost in the transition, but my goal until just yesterday had been to get my self back in the zone. To regain my life of reading and living in my reading like I always had.

I discovered that just like working your way up with something small and allowing it to get bigger and bigger until you've mastered it works with reading as well.

There was always that mysterious looking book with the torn cover sitting on the book shelf in my family room. It used to sit along side my mom's old, old, copy of Are You There God, It's Me Margaret. My mom's name was written in the cover, which I only discovered as I stared at the page I had just ripped out, I guess it was that old.

But not like the purple book that smelled like my grandparent's house and soon after my discovery became my favorite book of all times, stood the weird looking green book. It wasn't as appealing, it did not have a pretty girl on the cover, it had a young boy, something that I at the time I wasn't very interested in.

Then, I wanted to read about growing up, the journeys along the way, the steps you need to take to rise above. This boy did not seem to match my expectations.

But then again, don't judge a book by its cover.

Not like it even mattered, anytime I ever brought it up my mom told me to wait another year until I picked it up.

That went on for five years.

I actually forgot about it, up until a few days ago when my mother suggested that maybe I wasn't reading the way I used to? Maybe I needed to get "lost in my reading" once again? I asked her, what book she thought would be good to get me back on track.

She led me right to that book shelf.

The one that I had pushed away too many times in assumption my mom would just move me away from it, again.

But this time, she let me hold the book. She let me see beyond the cover and the mystery and she let me see and hear and feel the words.

No, I let myself see and hear and feel the words.

It was because I was reading a book that almost seemed familiar because I had seen it so many times that I'm now back on track.

I arrived at an activity early and instead of pulling out my cell phone I pulled out a book.

A book.

It was because I was starting out with something kind of home-y that I was able to return to my sanctuary of reading and loving reading.

So now I know, now I know that whenever I am feeling stuck, I should return to a book that I know will be comfortable and relaxing for me to read. That'll be my reminder, my wake up call to never stop loving the words on the page, whether they lie in front of you or not.

Nothing I could ever experience reading Harry Potter.

Scrambled Eggs

Don't worry, I'm almost done with Interpreter of Maladies, I just want to post one more thing about the gorgeous work of my favorite Jhumpa Lahiri.

I woke up one morning and my dad had his nose in about 5 different Indian cook books. My mom kept pulling out different ones saying things like, "If you like stuff like this, you'll love this book." And, "this book is great for these kinds of recipes."

In a way, I think she actually liked that he was so into it. My dad likes to cook, but we never saw him this into it. He was asking questions like, "What's egg curry?" And, "What spices do I need for this?"

My dad is super smart, and as naive as it sounds, he practically knows everything. I think my mom loved that fact that he was coming to her with questions that only she would know the answer to. I loved seeing the pride on her face when she knew the answer and the curiosity in his eyes when he learned something new.

If you read my post last week, you know that my sister Lois is one of the biggest readers I know. My dad on the other hand is never without a book. He also has a blog where he writes about Jewish text, every day life, and more everyday life. It's very important for my dad to always have a book next to him.

Oh gosh, I feel like such a dummy, I'm sure everyone's wondering why on earth this egg curry was such an important factor to one of the great summer days of 2010.

I found out later that day that the night before my mom had convinced my dad--just like she convinced me--to read Jhumpa Lahiri.

I'm realizing just writing this now, that before this happened, I had no intention of allowing Jhumpa's writing into my heart.

I was deprived of her creaminess.

I can't imagine a life without her words flowing through me. I saw that my dad was so mesmerized by her, and I saw that he was taken over by the one tiny, tiny micro idea that didn't even pop out to me the first time I read the last story in Interpreter of Maladies.

In the last story of the brilliant book our character has left his town of Calcutta and is living in a room that he rented out. The house in general is shared by others, but this one room is his.

Just like my mom says that when she lived in England after college the only thing she could afford were eggs, so did our character. Egg curry was his favorite.

As I think now, there is some sort of appeal to the mysterious egg curry.

What makes it so special? So easy? So affordable and cheap, yet so rich and plentiful?

I live for the micro ideas that you and only you can get something out of. I wait for them to come. Patiently, and not eagerly. But still, I long for their arrival.

I anticipate the pleasure of loving something only you could love for only reasons you can know of and understand.

What I'm trying to say is, is that while egg curry may be something that has absolutely no meaning to you, it has every bit of meaning to me.

I got to experience it physically and mentally, which not many readers can do.

I read of the egg curry and imagined it sliding down my own throat, creating a safe and easy barrier and shield for me.

Then, that night, egg curry was served. My dad made it special for us.

By then I realized I didn't have to imagine loving it and letting it slide down my throat.

I knew it.

And it was delicious.

Dear Mrs. Sen

To Mrs. Sen, who never got to drive the way she always wanted. To Mrs. Sen, who's vegetable cutting blade I envy, and to Elliot, who only got a little bit to have a Mrs. Sen.

A few days before summer vacation ended, I lay awake reflecting, as any other person would, on the year to come and the year that had ended. I feared what was to come, and as I looked at my sister, asleep in her bed, I longed to be back in the perfection of 2nd grade, or shall I just say, elementary school, where drawing a picture seemed to be a lot of work.

I saw that 8th grade was here and there were no more summer days to anticipate the arrival.

But then again, I hadn't touched my blog since August, and I did know that with a new year came new reading, and with new reading came new writing.

I was next to my sister Lois when my mom came up to me. It was about 11:00 and we were both reading. My sister is one of the biggest readers I know, I believe she read 15 books over the summer. As much of a committed reader as I am, I could never, ever do that. I was reading a Woody Allen book that was funny, but didn't quench my longing for a satisfying book to end the vacation. Over the summer I never stopped reading, but I did lose touch a bit, and I feel like I got caught up in a vacation mode that it wasn't as much of a reflex to pick up a book the minute I saw as it was before.

Throughout reading the Woody Allen book, my mom could also see, as well as me, that I wasn't loving it. For a while before then my mom kept trying to introduce me to a writer whose name I never could pronounce, thus I wasn't ever going to read it. Maybe the fact that I wasn't enjoying what was currently in my hands motivated me to try this mysterious author.

And now, Jhumpa Lahiri has come into my life. As I said while describing her writing to my English teacher Ms. Robbins at the beginning of the year, her words are so smooth and in a way give off a creamy factor. There's such a flow and in a way it's easy to read everything she has to say. Jhumpa, I feel , has the ability that not many authors have which is to be able to appeal to all audiences. And while my sister Minna would never be able to read Jhumpa Lahiri's book on her own, she sure could listen and I promise you she would like it.

Anyway, on the occasion of this fine day where I get to write my first blog entry of the year, I decided (obviously) to devote it to Jhumpa Lahiri, especially one of her short stories from the book Interpreter of Maladies, "Mrs. Sen."

I'm sorry, but I think Mrs. Sen is just the coolest person in the world. I can't get over it.

She does this thing where she sits on the floor, newspapers laid out everywhere, and she cuts vegetables. Sometimes, when she's done, she puts them in a pot and makes dinner, and sometimes she just throws them out.

And why would cutting vegetables be such an important element in my annotating of books? Well, Jhumpa, being Indian herself, incorporates very important craft moves intentionally. In Jhumpa Lahiri's stories, it's as if she's made a little stamp on each and every character; every character has left India so go live some where else. This cutting of vegetables just brings up the fact that this is one of the things that Mrs. Sen did back at home.

One of my favorite parts of the story is when Mrs. Sen is shares a story with Elliot, whom she babysits after school. Mrs. Sen tells Elliot of how, back in India, she and all of her friends and her mother and all of her friends you sit to around for hours gossiping, and yes, cutting vegetables.

Yesterday at the Bard Assessment I responded to a poem about shooting a basket while playing basketball. I had a hard time digging deep and I didn't find myself having as many annotations as I did for, say, Charlotte's Web; but I did find one thing that reminded me of the little idea of cutting vegetables becoming so much. I found a line in the poem that consisted of 3 words, but said so, so much. I read it thinking about how beautiful and hard I think it is as a writer to get across a bigger message is something so small.

Though maybe cutting vegetables isn't as much of a message as what I read in the poem, it still had more meaning to me then I thought it would the first time I read it. I also think it's such a treat when you rarely come across little crafts like that, and I hope that for the few occasions I do, I hope to soak up as much of its goodness as I possibly can.

Here's to another great year of blogging!
Audrey:)

The Glass Castle

Ah, summer.

I love summer. I really do. I love the light, free feeling that surrounds you, keeping you safe of the pressure and the fear of whatever is to come. And though it's true that soon there will be no summer and I won't have that light, free feeling I have now, that's okay.

Because right now, I'm focusing on the present, and not whatever lies ahead of me. I'm focusing on how wonderful I feel and how happy I am and how I like the way that it is and I'm going to enjoy it.

But today, around... 5:30, I wasn't enjoying things that much.

The Glass Castle.
Ended.

I don't know, I guess I just finished it without realizing it because when I read the last word and tried to flip to the next page, all I could find was the 'About The Author' and the preview of Jeannette Walls's latest book.

It was just... gone.

When I was in Montreal with my family, we went to tons of cute French cafes and beautiful parks and small stores where my sisters and I tried on dress after shirt after skirt. And no matter where I went, I always had The Glass Castle.

Whenever I got bored, or simply had an excuse to read, I went right for it.

We always moved around in Montreal. We went from place to place, always new things to see and places to be, so I tended to only read about 2 pages at a time. It never mattered. Because there was not one boring part in that book.

Everything I read was what the Walls family called, an adventure.

May the adventure be good or bad, it was always there. And each one was more exciting than the other.

Sometimes, it was Rex Walls, the father of the family. He could have been stealing Lori and Jeannette's New York escape money, or nearly throwing his wife out the window because he lost his temper. But other times, it was him giving each of the kids their own star from the night sky as a Christmas present.

No matter what it was, everything in that book kept me wanting more.

Jeannette Walls's tragic story attached to me in a hungry and kind of curious way. Today, when I was talking to a friend about the book, I found myself describing that, even though I hated in some scenes what was going on, I still loved reading it.

If that makes sense.

There's a part in the book where the family moves in with their father's parents. Jeannette's grandmother Erma is abusive and pained. She's mean and just a nasty, cruel woman. I hated that at that time that was what their life was, but I still loved reading it.

I couldn't understand what it was I was feeling exactly. At times, I hated what was going on so much, I felt like tearing up the pages I was reading.

But I never could because it was so unusual and beautiful and interesting and just plain good.

I was also so confused about how incredible Jeannette Walls, the author of this memoir, seemed to be able to describe it. How exciting it was and how much I found myself wanting more horrible things to come because the way Jeannette explained them blew me away. I want to write like her someday. I really hope I will.

I took so many things with me when I finished the book, but there's one thing I took with me the most. I slowly began to see that although I had this feeling of loss because of finishing the book, I realized that there must be so many more books as moving and exciting and beautiful as The Glass Castle. Enough, that I have the rest of my life yet to discover them.

The Glass Castle helped me realize that, without it, I would never have gained the pleasure I have of getting to know the Walls family, the lesson that more wonderful books wait for me, and the time that it consumed making my so far excellent summer even better.

Thank you Jeannette Walls.