Another book on Penny Kittle's list of student favorites is Townie by Andre Dubus III. This was the first one I could find that the public library had on audio book. It turns out (I read in his bio on his website) that Dubus won multiple awards for this audio recording, including being the 2011 "Voice of the Year" on audio.
I am loving it.
The book feels like a properly fleshed-out and down-to-earth version of Good Will Hunting. Dubus recounts what it was like to grow up outside Boston in the 70's to a single mother. The violence, the drugs, the sex and the family dysfunction are all there, but told through the lens of a young man who takes it all in stride, as I guess you simply do when that's what you've grown up knowing.
It is a strange feeling, looking into the lives of kids who grew up with so little parental supervision and so little emphasis on future goals. The need to protect oneself is constant. Dubus has one humiliating experience in which he can't fight back when someone else swings at him - he's not strong enough - and the flavor of defeat that was left in his mouth motivates his devotion to weight-lifting and boxing, where he gets "chipped" enough to send other guys, even strong ones, to the hospital with one jab.
One thing that strikes me is the role the police play in these neighborhoods. They show up to break up fights all the time. Neighbors call the cops, cops arrive and break up a fight. They save lives nearly every time they break up a fight. Where should these kids be? What should they be doing? Organized sports? Hunting? Building houses for themselves? It seems like a grave fault in our society that our strongest and most energetic demographic are being chased by some of our most street-smart and strong men, a police force that is reduced to holding teens' fists apart.
The thing that shocked me in the last chapter I heard was that Dubus went to a Red Sox game when he was in college, and it was his first baseball game. He didn't know who the Yankees were. He grew up 40 miles from Boston, and didn't know what Fenway Park was, much less about the rivalry that went on inside it. I liked Dubus' narrative style here - he didn't point out that this situation might strike readers as absurd. Even in Maine the Sox/Yankees rivalry was basically imbibed with breast milk. His unawareness simply becomes known through the chapter.
I'm only halfway through the book and I'm rather amazed that Dubus ended up a writer and teacher. His father was one, but the image I have of him now is of a built college guy who feels out of place on a campus of liberal arts light weights. I'm looking forward to hearing the rest, then suggesting this book to more advanced readers in my classes.
I am constantly astounded by the way reading allows me to live so many experiences that are not my own. In other weekend reading, this essay from the Sept 11 issue of the New Yorker relates the story of a young Somali woman and her women's basketball team which fights for the right to play in a country where extremism forbids that women participate in sports. They walk a fine, dangerous line in order to pursue their sport. I plan to read this in class (broken up and made interactive) in a few weeks. Here's am excerpt that conveys this young woman's bravery:
One evening after practice, she and five teammates were leaving a court in Hodan District—known as a dangerous place, where shootings and attacks were common. Aisha was on the phone with her mother, who was asking her to pick up milk and cooking oil on her way home. As the players walked, a black sedan stopped alongside them, and the driver asked if they needed a ride—a common occurrence in Somalia. Aisha didn’t recognize the man; he wore his beard long, and had on a white qamis, a linen robe. One of the girls asked him to drop them off down the road. Aisha wedged herself into the back seat with her friends.
I am loving it.
The book feels like a properly fleshed-out and down-to-earth version of Good Will Hunting. Dubus recounts what it was like to grow up outside Boston in the 70's to a single mother. The violence, the drugs, the sex and the family dysfunction are all there, but told through the lens of a young man who takes it all in stride, as I guess you simply do when that's what you've grown up knowing. It is a strange feeling, looking into the lives of kids who grew up with so little parental supervision and so little emphasis on future goals. The need to protect oneself is constant. Dubus has one humiliating experience in which he can't fight back when someone else swings at him - he's not strong enough - and the flavor of defeat that was left in his mouth motivates his devotion to weight-lifting and boxing, where he gets "chipped" enough to send other guys, even strong ones, to the hospital with one jab.
One thing that strikes me is the role the police play in these neighborhoods. They show up to break up fights all the time. Neighbors call the cops, cops arrive and break up a fight. They save lives nearly every time they break up a fight. Where should these kids be? What should they be doing? Organized sports? Hunting? Building houses for themselves? It seems like a grave fault in our society that our strongest and most energetic demographic are being chased by some of our most street-smart and strong men, a police force that is reduced to holding teens' fists apart.
The thing that shocked me in the last chapter I heard was that Dubus went to a Red Sox game when he was in college, and it was his first baseball game. He didn't know who the Yankees were. He grew up 40 miles from Boston, and didn't know what Fenway Park was, much less about the rivalry that went on inside it. I liked Dubus' narrative style here - he didn't point out that this situation might strike readers as absurd. Even in Maine the Sox/Yankees rivalry was basically imbibed with breast milk. His unawareness simply becomes known through the chapter.
I'm only halfway through the book and I'm rather amazed that Dubus ended up a writer and teacher. His father was one, but the image I have of him now is of a built college guy who feels out of place on a campus of liberal arts light weights. I'm looking forward to hearing the rest, then suggesting this book to more advanced readers in my classes.
I am constantly astounded by the way reading allows me to live so many experiences that are not my own. In other weekend reading, this essay from the Sept 11 issue of the New Yorker relates the story of a young Somali woman and her women's basketball team which fights for the right to play in a country where extremism forbids that women participate in sports. They walk a fine, dangerous line in order to pursue their sport. I plan to read this in class (broken up and made interactive) in a few weeks. Here's am excerpt that conveys this young woman's bravery:
One evening after practice, she and five teammates were leaving a court in Hodan District—known as a dangerous place, where shootings and attacks were common. Aisha was on the phone with her mother, who was asking her to pick up milk and cooking oil on her way home. As the players walked, a black sedan stopped alongside them, and the driver asked if they needed a ride—a common occurrence in Somalia. Aisha didn’t recognize the man; he wore his beard long, and had on a white qamis, a linen robe. One of the girls asked him to drop them off down the road. Aisha wedged herself into the back seat with her friends.
After a few minutes, the driver pulled over, and then turned around to tell the girls that he knew who they were, what they were doing, everything about them; he named the neighborhoods where they lived. Aisha felt pricks of fear spread through her. “I know that you all are playing basketball,” he said. They shook their heads furiously and said that they had nothing to do with the sport. “I’ve been watching you play basketball,” he said. “All of you.”
The man’s phone rang, and he got out to take the call, locking the car behind him. The girls, panicking, pounded on the doors, but they wouldn’t budge. The man came back and rolled down a window so that he could watch them as he talked. Aisha pushed herself through the open window and fell onto the ground. Looking desperately around her, she picked up a big stone. She told the man that if he didn’t let them leave, she would throw the stone at the windshield. “I know I’m crazy, but I had to do something,” she told me. “If we stayed scared, this guy would kill us.” The man said, “Now you want to destroy my car? I wasn’t going to harm you. Calm down.” He unlocked the doors, and the girls scrambled out.
Aisha hailed a tuk-tuk and they got in, sitting tightly next to one another to feel safe. On the way home, they reported to the police that a man from al-Shabaab had threatened them. Aisha told no one else. “I had to hide it from my family so that they wouldn’t stop me playing,” she said. She was sure that if her parents found out they would send her to stay with her aunt in Ethiopia or, worse, keep her at home.
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