My mother, who loves me, claims I have the worst singing voice she’s ever heard.
I take issue with that. My sister’s is much worse.
If you want evidence of how bad a singer I am, tell me when your birthday is and wait for a call. When you hear “Happy Birthday” to the tune of the “Hallelujah Chorus,” you’ll know it’s me.
When I sang this jingle for my brother, leaving it on his voice mail, he laughed so hard he could hardly spit out the words “thank you. ” “That’s the funniest – and worst – thing I’ve ever heard,” he told me. He played it for his friends, who were certain I was pretending to be THAT BAD.
I wasn’t. I just am THAT BAD. You’ll never hear me sing in church. If I really like the song, I’ll mime it.
Maybe it’s that complete lack of talent that gives me the freedom to fully appreciate those with true ability. I have friends who can sing beautifully, but claim they can’t hear it in others. It’s not clear to me if it’s competitiveness or a different gauge for quality.
Could it be if you’re gifted, you only recognize those more talented you? I don’t know, and I’m too restless to ponder.
I do know one thing, however. My late great cat Paco was apparently tone deaf, because when I’d hold him and sing the classic tune, “You Don’t Know Me,” he’d lean his head into my shoulder and purr quietly. Until he’d had enough, when he’d let out a yowl like he was in wild pain.
Wait, I just got it. I think he was singing along with me.
Arpita gave me the wonderful opportunity to guest post on her blog — here’s my review of “To Kill A Mockingbird” by Harper Lee.
Today’s guest post in Re-living the Classics is a review of To Kill a Mockingbird by the wonderful Belinda. I love reading her beautiful personal anecdotes! Be sure to check out her site!
Would you like to have your review of your favourite classic featured on this blog? To do that, contact me through the form given after today’s post. Be sure to mention your name, email and the name of the book you wish to review. Thank you!
Review of To Kill a Mockingbird
Guest Post byBelinda
First, thanks to Arpita for this opportunity to review one of my all-time favorite books. While I originally had planned to take a look at Madame Bovary, current events and the imminent release of Harper Lee’s second book (Go Set a Watchman, July 14, 2015) compelled me to change my mind.
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In high school, my friend Sue gave me an ornament for Christmas. I remember being a bit disappointed. It wasn’t much of a gift in my 15-year-old estimation.
At a time when I was awkward and insecure, she made me feel important. The first time I met her was as the new kid in sixth grade. I huddled alone in the corner of the playground, the only girl wearing a dress, waiting for class to start.
Shaking, my back against the brick wall, hands clasped tightly together, I was wishing I’d worn jeans as my mom suggested. All these kids had gone to school together since kindergarten, I was sure of it. I’d never fit in.
Sue with her pigtails & bows and another girl, Nada, approached me.
“Are you new?” they asked in unison. We all giggled.
“Yes!” I said, incredibly happy someone had noticed me.
Turned out we were in the same class, with the same scary teacher. They gave me the scoop. She was fat (apparently important information for sixth-graders) and this was her first teaching job.
I don’t know if I was the friend to her she never stopped being to me.
The next summer Sue’s mom was killed in a plane accident. Her father remarried soon after, and certainly the adjustment must have been hard for her. I don’t know if I was the friend to her she never stopped being to me.
A seventh-grade diary entry early in the school year noted she seemed okay. At least I wondered how she was doing. I hope I asked her about it, gave her a chance to talk. I don’t remember.
In high school, my mental health problems arose. As I started to lose confidence, gain weight and sink into a series of deep depressions, she did her best to make me feel better. “You look real nice today,” she’d tell me on days when my dirty hair was held back with a scarf or my outfit played up the extra pounds. I saw through it and appreciated her thoughtfulness. It meant I had a friend.
Every Christmas I think of her and cry a little, missing our friendship and how much it meant to me.
The last time I saw her was about a year after we graduated. I was walking around a lake near my home and she came from the opposite direction, with a boyfriend, I think.
She was genuinely happy to see me. We had an enthusiastic and chatty catch-up conversation, then moved on in our separate walks. I haven’t seen her since.
I’ve tried to look her up, with no success. Every Christmas I see that ornament, think of her and cry a little, missing our friendship and the opportunity to tell her how much it meant to me.
Still means to me.
Photo Credit: (background) © Diana Rich; (ornament) © Stuart Monk, both — DollarPhotoClub.com
Centered on the living room wall when I was growing up was a drawing that tore at me. It was of a woman, clearly weary, her head in one hand looking off to her left, a sleeping child draped over the other arm.
While I now see the beauty in this art, as a child I believed my mother identified with it because of her own weariness with her lot in life, namely, me, and I felt a great deal of guilt over what I’d done to her.
We didn’t get along, my mother and me, until after my stepfather died when I was 28. After that, by her own admission, her focus changed from wife to mother. Even then it took us years to work through all the barriers. Issues remain today, but they aren’t the structure of our relationship.
I see her getting older and I’m constantly mindful of the fact she’s only a few years away from the age her parents were when they died. She’s on a fixed income and can barely afford her own needs month to month, yet she still jumps at the chance to give to me.
That’s what moms do, I guess, at least it’s what my mom does. I resisted it inside myself until I realized how important it was to her. I turn around and send her money when I can to help her in any small way.
A few years ago I went through terrible times, and it left its mark on me long after that. I was so deep in the pain of it myself I didn’t fully realize what my mom went through each day, wondering what I was undergoing and imagining the worst.
I need to keep to myself what is mine to know.
I hold back on telling her everything because it is too difficult to express. I don’t know that she should know all the details. I need to keep to myself what is mine to know.
Perhaps she did identify with the woman in that drawing, for reasons I’ll never really know. As one of the few pieces of art she’s kept through the years, it seemingly has meant something to her. Just as I don’t fully involve her in my experience, certainly she hasn’t fully involved me in hers.
I told her once, in a moment of reflection, what it had made me feel, and she simply said, “Really? I never knew.” Then smiled a little. “I always loved that picture.”
A college dropout – me? The National Merit Scholar, with a family history of college graduates, back as far as a number of great-aunts who graduated at a time when higher education was the exception for women?
That didn’t make any sense.
Yet the first go-around, that’s what happened. I took on too much and burned out. Few close to me disputed the wisdom of my choice, but all agreed I should try again when I was ready.
It took three years to be ready, but when I was, I was. The second time, at a different university, was the charm, and when it comes to charm, no one had more than my ultra-geeky Logic professor.
Many of my fellow students foolishly and vocally didn’t see the need for Logic 101.
Actually, he wasn’t even a professor at the time; it was his first teaching experience after graduating with a doctorate in Philosophy.
He faced formidable odds. This was before the plethora of news programs with self-proclaimed experts whose statements deserved challenge at every turn. Many, if not most, of my fellow students foolishly and vocally didn’t see the need for Logic 101.
For me, initially it was a requirement to plough through, something I didn’t expect would be challenging. Instead, it was the most challenging and rewarding course I took. I consciously apply what I learned on a regular basis.
You’d be surprised when you listen how many “experts” seem to forget, or perhaps ignore, logic.
For those unclear about what you learn in a logic course, it starts with this: “All cats are animals, but not all animals are cats”. You’d be surprised when you listen how many of the aforementioned “experts” seem to forget, or perhaps deliberately ignore, that logic.
To take the cats-animals-cats thinking a bit further, something like “Most (specific political party devotees) believe this…but not everyone who believes that is a (specific political party supporter)” escapes them.
Or, for sports fans, “if we’d scored that touchdown in the second quarter, we would have won.” Nuh-uh. Any real fan of football knows each play builds on the previous one, and scoring that touchdown would have created a different game. (Scoring a field goal without penalty in the last second, I’ll give you that one, even though technically the logic wouldn’t).
So when you hear the pundits say, “my candidate in the last election never would have created the mess we’re in,” that simply is poor logic. You don’t know what your candidate might have done. But all sides smugly say it, or something similar, all the time.
That’s the simple logic that’s violated on a regular basis. Other practical elements are equally good to know.
Okay, I can’t necessarily apply anything I learned in that course to the logic of my decision to drop out the first time. Yet it clearly was the right choice. Or was it? I’ll never know, logically speaking, because I’ll never know what would have happened if I stuck with it.
image credit: © tiero – Dollar Photo Club
Last week, our hearts were broken.
In response, my friend Wanda organized this silent vigil in our community for the victims of the Emanual AME Church shooting.
Wanda has two daughters, ages 12 and 14. They’re learning what it means to be black in America. They’re black, so there’s that, and then there’s the bigger picture Wanda is helping them understand.
More to teach everyday, no doubt. It’s hard to be a parent.
In November of 1960,
Ruby Bridges made history. Many of you know the story. Six-year-old Ruby was one of the first black children to cross the lines at an all-white school in New Orleans to claim her right to an equal education in the public school system.
U.S. Marshalls escorted her & her mother to the classroom that first day amidst rioting protesters, including one woman who put a black baby doll in a makeshift casket and shoved it at Ruby as she walked by.
Ruby was brave, no doubt about it. But when I saw this picture all I could think was how much courage her parents had, how deep their conviction and love must have been.
Her mama probably didn’t sleep much the night before. She likely ironed and starched that dress until it could stand up by itself. There may have been a petticoat, given the same care.
The little white anklets, perhaps with flowers embroidered on them. The patent leather shoes, polished until light bounced off them at every step. The bow pinned firmly in the hair.
When I picture Lucille Bridges, I see a woman who believed in what she and her baby girl were about to do. Ruby was going to shine, inside and out, as she changed history.
And she did change it. Today, countless doors have been opened for children everywhere, and each of us has benefited at one point or the other from the education they’ve earned.
All in my lifetime
Ruby’s story never would have happened if it hadn’t been for Abon & Lucille Bridges, her parents. I wouldn’t care so deeply if not for my parents, who raised three children in the turbulent ’60s and taught us about equality and justice as best they could.
We stumble through, work together and listen to each other.
That’s all anybody can expect, to teach the best way — and words — we know. Perhaps down the road we learn our lessons were somehow off the mark. Yet we stumble through, work together and listen to each other.
I’ve kept my heart, mind and eyes open for increasing understanding because of the foundation my parents laid. Whatever mistakes they may have made, at its heart, their message was right. They believed in equal opportunity. They saw people as individuals with value. They recognized the problems and knew the solutions were bigger, but would take time.
It’s hard to be a parent, but you make a difference. May it change your child’s world, and that of those around you, for the better.
During Christmas break when I was in seventh grade, I added bangs to my one length-fits-all hair style, and for most of my life since then I’ve kept them.
I’ll never be sure how much this plays into it, if at all, but I distinctly remember one boy complimenting me when we returned to class in January.
“They look really nice,” he said. “They make your face look less round.”
He was a year older than me, and all through junior high, high school and until the last time I saw him, two years after I graduated, he was particularly nice to me.
I didn’t clue into it until about twenty years later, but I think it was more than just a kind nature.
This very popular, somewhat bad, really good-looking boy quite possibly liked me, the socially awkward girl whose weight fluctuated with the changing tide and insecurities overshadowed everything about her.
It makes you think. I’d realized it already on some level by this time (the age of 36 or 37), but it brought home a valuable truth: no one is who they appear to be on the outside. Why one kid is popular in high school is a bizarre combination of the “right” talents, good looks and circle of friends. He’s not better than the girl with none of that, and if he’s lucky, he knows it.
That continues throughout life. The seemingly perfect couple gets divorced. Most of us knew the Duggars would fall eventually (although perhaps not as far). There’s always the pastor who walks away from his church in shame…that’s just a given in any community. Okay, I’m being facetious with the last one. A bit.
The hooker with the heart of gold. A cliché to make a point.
A close friend of mine made the observation a few years ago that who we are is “not about behavior.” It rang true for me instantly.
In her case, her husband had had a benign brain tumor that affected the entirety of his behavior, including his ability to hold a job or even help with household chores.
Their church, in a gross misuse of its authority, directed him to leave his family until he could figure out how to become “the man of God his family needed him to be.”
He had a brain tumor. He had brain damage. His behavior had nothing to do with who he was.
Now, that’s an extreme example. But there are plenty of people, say, with mental illness, who do things that later shock and humiliate them. Virtually everyone I know, mentally ill or not, has done something so “unlike themselves” they have a hard time confessing it to others.
I wish I’d known that boy liked me, if in fact he did. I wish I’d had the confidence to openly reciprocate his feelings, because I probably would have felt something for him if I’d let myself. I could have learned, early on, one of life’s most valuable lessons: who we are is more than what others see, it’s more than how we behave, and it’s more than we’ll be able to discover in a lifetime.