Stolen first line: Mark Twain's "Tom Sawyer"

Tom--

Well, he never gets it. When I asked if he wanted to play catch last week, he thought we were going to throw a rock around instead of a baseball. I asked him once to fill up my water bottle, and he filled it, sure, but with anything he found interesting and it took forever long, then I had to dump out all the dirt and rocks and thorns and I had dirty water for the rest of the day. For a while, I thought it was because of he can't talk right, but then Gretel told me he can hear fine. Just can't talk right. Sheesh.

He's the reason for all this trouble, is what I'm trying to get at, sir. I had nothing to do with it, 'cept for  it was me who broke the window.

Oh. The window by the back porch, sir. Not the front door, no way, that was all Tom.

See, he thought it'd be a laugh to, I don't know, to, ummm, to hide all your shoes around the house, sir.

Yes, sir.

I already said I don't know why! Ask him, not me!

Er, heh, that was me too, sir. See, I'd dropped my daddy's ring, his class ring, his class of 1915 class ring, sir, the one with the ruby in it to match the school's colors, sir. The other color was purple, he told me, but only sissy men--

No, sir. I think I dropped it down the heating vent or something when we were looking for places to hide your shoes. Have you seen it? Did it fly out at your face and that's why ... never mind. If you see it, you should tell me right away because my daddy said I could have it for the week as long as I didn't lend it to Tom so I've got until then to find it but you won't let me look for it in your house, which is where it is, so that means you've got to look for me or else daddy won't let me outside ever again.

Please, sir? I can't fix your window and your heater and your doorknob and all the other stuff if I am grounded, and Tom can't do anything right because he can't talk right so his parents never taught him nothin'.

No, he goes to school, sir. We sit next to each other.

Okay, sir, but you don't know what you're gettin' yourself into by asking us to work together to fix everything. Tom hasn't ever fixed a thing except a sandwich. He'll probably bring peanut butter and bread or else his lucky butter knife, which he has because his daddy won't let him have a real knife, instead of bringing a hammer or nails or a screwdriver or something.

Could you maybe look for the ring while I am gone, sir? I have to go find Tom. He could be clear to the Denny's by now.

Thank you, sir. You're a great neighbor, sir.

No, I don't know where your slippers ended up. Maybe check the bathtub.

The Racial Identity Movement

If you've been following the news at all, this face -- there's just one -- will look familiar. For those unfamiliar with this woman, her name is Rachel Dolezal, and she is white but, as she puts it, "identifies" as black.

She's gotten a lot of flack over that, the most serious being her life falling apart. She's lost her NAACP position and her job, and her old university is questioning whether she misled them back in the day about her race.

This may seem odd to say, but I think she looks better as a black woman. It suits her. But then the question comes up, "Can you just become a different race?"

I'm sure that's what part of this is about. Someone lying about her race would only merit one or two headlines, but public outcry can merit so many more. It's the public's anger and incredulity that has made this a bigger story. So I can only assume the underlying anger is black people thinking she doesn't deserve to be black, she didn't earn it, and white people thinking she's a big fat liar who put on a new face because she thought it'd be cool and she'd go further.

I know these are just assumptions, but they lead to my point, which is this: If we live in a society that allows one to choose their style of dress, lifestyle, religion and even gender, why can someone not also choose their race?

I see this as possibly the next stage of the human rights movement. After the gay marriage and gay rights movement dies down a bit, we'll turn to allowing people to choose their own race, which is indeed part of their identity. After all, how silly is the phrase, "I identify as black," after Bruce Jenner told the world, "I identify as a woman," and the world cheered him on (at least, the loudest people seem to)? It is not that big of a logical leap. It's little more than a baby step.

I don't know whether I see a problem with deciding one's own race or not. It could be looked at as embracing your true self or as turning your back on your ancestors and choosing someone else's.

Perhaps someone will pull the racist card and say we're all racist for making fun of a woman who wants to be a different race (blacks are racist because she's white and not one of them, whites are racist because she's decided to be black).

Perhaps someone will say we're pigeon-holing her, taking away her right to be who and what she wants to be.

I'm putting this on a reading and writing blog for a number of reasons. 1) It's my blog, I can do what I want with it. 2) It's my blog, I don't have another to use. 3) If you want to write science fiction, or contemporary fiction, you have to pay attention to stuff like this.

Science fiction is about looking at the world as it is and applying a slippery slope. The essential question is "What if?" My husband pointed out that the Rachel Dolezal thing could lead to a science fiction novel where everyone can change their skin color just like we do with hair now. Race and identity become a giant gray area and ...

The technology is there if we cared enough to make it happen, after all.

Critically think about the news and you will find story ideas. Critically think about the news, and you may discover you're a psychic. I think we'll have a race movement in a decade or so. Prediction made.

Bracing Myself to Enter a Poetry Contest

Confession: I have entered fewer than five -- much fewer than five -- writing contests in my life. But I am planning on entering another soon. A poetry one, to be specific.

I don't enter them because I don't want someone to tell me what I sometimes fear: I am not all that good. Who wants to get their hopes up only to hear that they had no chance of winning? On top of that, this is my writing we are talking about. That stuff is important to me. I worked hard on them and they carry a lot of me in them.

But if a writer is going to move forward, someone else needs to be reading their work. I have submitted a couple things to literary journals without success (though one person did write me a full-length letter in response, which means it was good and they realized it), and I suppose I did get to present a couple stories at National Undergraduate Literature Conferences. Which is pretty cool. I also won regional awards for my editorials in college. My boss thinks I should submit my column next year for a journalism award, too.

Basically, I'm not a lost cause. Just a timid cause.

I don't think I've mentioned my column yet. It's called the Front Porch, and in it I relay small bits of happy news in a chatty way. If someone becomes an Eagle Scout, gets a scholarship, makes the dean's list, wins a snowmobile, needs volunteers, you get the idea, it goes into my column.

So I suppose this is a dual-purpose blog post (I didn't realize I forgot to write a post last week! Whoops). First, to tell you I am preparing myself to enter another contest, and second, to tell you I'm a columnist of sorts these days.

To read my Front Porch column, visit www.idahopress.com/heyipt/ and look for headlines saying Front Porch. I've gotten some negative feedback, but mostly the community seems to enjoy it.

As for which poem I am submitting, I'm not sure yet. I have reached out to a writer friend for some help, because the contest hasn't been around for more than a year. Without knowledge of what sort of poems they prefer, I'm at a loss. I'm thinking of entering my poem about Nisha, the Teddy Bear Buttons paragraph fiction (pretending it's prose poetry, which maybe it is), or this poem, which is called Relics.


There is a red, wooden swing
hanging from the lone chestnut tree
that shadows my front yard.
Rachel, the girl with naturally curly hair
who loves mustard yellow,
made it with a friend
before she left for Russia.
Moscow, where she learned to adore
matching scarves and hats,
old window frames,
and long train rides,
but not so much the food —
except for borscht (beet soup),
blini (pancakes),
and smetana (sour cream).

The red swing stayed with me;
I brought it in during the winter
to protect the wood from snow,
and in the summer,
my landlord’s two daughters played on it.
She also left me with a painting
of a rainstorm over a bridge that traverses a river,
beside which two people walk,
one in red and one in light blue.
Neither one is holding an umbrella,
but they don’t seem to be in a hurry
to escape the rain pelting the walkway.

Borscht

I'll let you know how it goes, no matter which one I end up going with. Cross your fingers for me.

The Quiet of Me

At the time of dreams,
I empty my mind,
Sweep it clean of the debris of the day,
Allow the stress to stream from my fingertips
And sink through the mattress --
Away,
Away
From my hunched shoulders
And embryonic crows feet.

I let the debris, the stress, the to-do lists
Fill my dustpan and pour out
Into the night, creating
stars outside the window
of my soul,
Separate,
Separate
From my whited canvas
And ujjayi breath.

I sit in an empty mind
Brilliant as the clouds
And spinning as a comet through space
The space filled with stars that were
Mine,
Mine
As a secret place in the forest
And an heirloom skeleton key.

Perhaps
Perhaps
This is the space where space
Meets soul and dreams
Trip lightly

Behind --
But away, separate.
Mine, perhaps.