The So-Called "Death of Books"

Unless you've been living under a rock for oh, about three years now, you're familiar with the concept of an e-reader or e-book. No longer are books simply paper-bound entities, you can buy digital copies of them, and read on an electronic device. While a number of companies have jumped into the fray, such as Sony and Barnes & Noble (the Nook), the two main players in this area seem to be Amazon's Kindle (and by extension the Kindle app for iPhone/iPod Touch/iPad), and Apple's newly released iPad - although to simply call the iPad an "e-reader" is a bit misleading because it is actually much more than that, but I digress and this is not a discussion about the iPad, so back off.

The primary draw of these devices seems to be - at least to me - portability. Imagine going on a two-week trip, and wanting reading material. Now imagine wanting to take 10 of your favorite books, as well as periodicals, with you. That's a lot of luggage space - unless you have a device that is less than and inch think, is about the size of an 8.5x11 piece of paper (or less), and weighs slightly more than a pound. Tempting, huh?

You would think that making books, newspapers, and magazines more accessible would be a good thing, but there appear to be two major camps: one thinks this is the greatest thing since movable type, and the other moans, "It's the death of books! I love my shelves and the feel of paper! I shall never use a digital reader, they are the evil spawn of Satan!" (Okay, that last bit might be hyperbole, but you get the idea.)

For myself, I was kind of skeptical of these digital reading devices. Were they really as easy on the eyes as books? Can I sit for hours reading without getting a headache? Portable they might be, but could I actually use it? I was unwilling to spend $300 dollars or so to find out. Then I bought an iPod Touch. Then a co-worker showed me all the e-reader apps in the App store - not just the Kindle app (which was free), but several that came pre-loaded with a fairly large selection of classics, books like A Christmas Carol and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland that are in the public domain and could be purchased for the low, low price of 99 cents - or in several cases were free. Free being free, well, I was in. After all, I could always delete the app if it sucked, right?

Oh... my... goodness.

In less than an hour, I had downloaded no fewer than five e-reader apps, including the Kindle app, Stanza, eReader, at least four classics collections, and a collection of the most important historical documents in history (the Constitution, the Gettysburg Address, the Magna Carta). I flicked open each app to test read. I was entranced - childishly thrilled with the "page turn" effect of the Classics app and it's virtual bookshelf (it even "bookmarks" your page when you close the book - hee, hee!). Almost instantly, I had close to 90 literature classics in my pocket, available for my reading pleasure at a moment's notice. It was a bibliophile's dream come true.

I downloaded Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief from the Kindle store. I read it for hours. No problem. The first three books from that series joined my collection in rapid succession.

A friend recommended the Harry Dresden series. Poof! Downloaded to Stanza.

If you're keeping count, that's almost 100 books. All on a device that weighs maybe 4 ounces and is only slightly bigger in dimension than a pack of cards. No more paging through trashy, outdated magazines in the doctor's office. No more wishing I had a bigger purse to carry around my current book. Cost? Oh, about $15-$20 at this point (the cost of the Kindle edition of books being much lower than their physical paper counterparts).

Okay, ability to carry lots of books - check. Actually able to read on it - check (and recall this is my little iPod touch screen, 2"x3" - I'd imagine the bigger screen of the Kindle or the iPad would only be better). What about ease of use?

I walked into Bruegger's bagel, ordered a chai latte, plopped myself down in a comfy chair, and started reading. It was actually easier than a book because I could turn a page by tapping the screen with my thumb, leaving my other hand free to hold my latte. It might have been the most enjoyable 30 minutes of waiting I've ever spent.

Could I read to my kids with it? An hour with my son proved I could.

Oh no! the bibliophiles scream. But what about books?

Keep your hoity-toity pants on. All this is not to say that I'll be getting rid of all my books. For starters, I have too many of them. Second, there is something very soothing to my soul to see shelves of quality hardback books. And there are some books I simply want to have in physical form - my complete Jane Austen, my complete works of Shakespeare, the Harry Potter series. Old books that have fallen out of print and aren't available digitally. But throwaway paperbacks? I might as well get the digital copy.

Gutenberg had a pretty good run - how many hundreds of years ago did it take to even start to displace the printing press? Further, I argue that digital books to not displace anything - they augment. I was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to read on a portable, digital device. And I can see it's use. A friend of mine is an avid reader of the NY Times. The week after he bought his iPad, the physical paper lay untouched - he read the entire thing online. Easier to carry around, easier to navigate, no black fingers from newsprint - no expensive subscription.

Anything that brings reading to a wider audience - that makes it easier to read - can only be a good thing, in my humble opinion. After all, does the soul of a book lie it the physical paper and binding, or is it in the words that are read? Anna Quindlen explored this topic in a recent Newsweek article. Is Shakespeare any less relevant in digital print? I think not.

The true soul of a story - whether a fiction novel or a factual biography/news story - is in the words of the writer, the emotions they evoke, the actions they prompt. If you read a story about the environmental damage of throwing away plastic bottles on the New York Times website, and it prompts you to reuse/recycle, is that story any less powerful because the media was digital? Um, no. If you read "Romeo and Juliet" on an e-reader, are Shakespeare's words any less true and vibrant, is the point any less relevant? Hardly. The words and intent are what is important, not the delivery mechanism.

And just as Beethoven's 9th is no less powerful because I have it digitally on my iPod, the words of Keats or Shelley are no less powerful because they are in digital form. Tell a good story, it matters not how people read it. Tell a crappy story and all the fine paper, fancy illustrations, and fine binding in the world won't make a difference. Just look at Moby Dick. =)

I can also see where digital media would be a boon to aspiring writers. After all, what is the biggest barrier to getting published (okay, after you finish the story)? Convincing some big publishing house that your work is worth the not insignificant cost of printing, binding, shipping, and storing a book. That manufacturing/storage cost is not to be scoffed at. Why can Apple offer songs for 99 cents on iTunes? Because they have almost no overhead - no CDs to burn, liner notes to print, cases to manufacture, or inventory to store. It's all ephemeral bits and bytes. Now imagine some enterprising soul starting a company to do digital publishing for up-and-coming writers. You pay a nominal fee to upload your story/novel/whatever, and folks can download it for a small fee. Will you be a blockbuster author like Tom Clancy? Maybe not, but you'll have the satisfaction of pushing your story out for people to read. And who knows, if you have enough success, maybe you can convince Simon & Schuster, or Knopf, or Houghton/Mifflin that you're worth the investment.

So to all you outraged bibliophiles I say this: relax. Books are not dead. They live on in the hearts of readers everywhere, on bookshelves and libraries across the planet.

And on my iPod.

Crossroads

Crossroads

There is a song lyric (which song, I cannot now remember) that says, "I'm at a crossroads in my life, and I really don't know which way to go."

Brother, am I.

I don't believe in the phrase "mid-life crisis." I do believe, however, that you are happiest when your life is in balance, like an equilateral triangle: personally, professionally, and spiritually. And when one of the sides of that triangle becomes imbalanced, you experience "crisis." Sometimes this is once during your life, sometimes multiple times. You may be 15, 20, 25, or 50 - not yet a quarter through your time on this Earth, or more than halfway. It does not happen at a specific time, nor at a specific frequency. But when it does happen, you feel it in your very bones. It permeates your existence. You feel like you are walking up a steep hill in uneven shoes.

Brother, do I.

I have been blessed to have almost 12 years working in a place where I felt balanced. In the tech sector, 12 years is forever. But as I look around my cubicle today, I am dissatisfied, disjointed. Off balance. I no longer find meaningful fulfillment in what I do. I feel as though I no longer should be here.

Problem is, I don't know where I should be either.

"Life is too short to be miserable at work." I saw that somewhere recently. The sad fact of life is, however, that while love may make the world go around it doesn't pay the mortgage - or the electric bill, or buy groceries. But does that mean I must labor joylessly? God I hope not. My father labored for 19 years at a soul-sucking job, and it nearly destroyed his marriage. I would like to not let it get so dire.

This is not to say I hate work. The Catholic Church defines meaningful labor as essential to healthy spirituality. Perhaps my problem is that I no longer find my labor "meaningful." And I spend too much time at my labor for that. If I exclude the hours I sleep, I spend more time at "work" than anywhere else (even including traffic, although it doesn't feel that way as I slog down Route 28 every day, but I digress). At 36, I'm too young to feel that way.

My day started with the latest entry in my Moritz's blog in my Inbox, a blog in which she writes, "One of the most powerful and profound phrases you can utter to yourself is 'I am.'" I am a mother, I am a wife, I am a friend, I am a writer. But for 8 hours a day, give or take, I am none of those things - and I don't know what I am.

As I flipped on my iPod to take solace in music, I went to an album I haven't listened to in a while, Mary Chapin Carpenter's, "Come On, come On." First song: "Show a little passion, baby. Show a little spark. Everything we've got, we got the hard way."

And as I look to my right, I see my plaque purchased years ago in college: Opportunity always involves some risk. You can't steal second base and keep your foot on first.

True words all of them. The trick now is to find my passion, invest the work, and take the risk. Question is, do I have the guts to do it?

Brother, I hope so.

Claiming Your Space

"I don't know why I'm not popular, I'm just not."

That was the plight of my daughter, 9, this morning as I readied myself for church. I would not call it a plaintive cry for pity, it was just a statement of fact: she is not the popular girl in her class. Her friend, Meredith, is the popular girl. Ultimately, she is okay with not being popular - it just puzzles her.

I explained that I was not a popular kid when I was in school. The 12 years of my pre-college education were, to put it lightly, socially trying. There seemed to always be someone to remind me that I wasn't cool enough, didn't do the right things, didn't wear the right clothes, and did say the right things to be in the "in" crowd. I vividly remember the very first day of 7th grade, when two of the so-called "popular" girls informed me that I very definitely was not cool, and, if they had anything to do with it, I never would be. They were right - I wasn't. Oh, the social snubbing got less vitriolic as the years progressed, but it wasn't until college than I could count more than a few people in my social circle. See, by college, I figured out that clothes do not necessarily make the woman - and there were plenty of people who thought that way (many of them hadn't been the "cool kids" in high school either).

And truth be told, I am still not one of the "cool kids." I'm considered reliable, but reliability and popularity are not the same thing. I am still the one that is kind of on the fringe, no matter where I am. Not quite as fringe as high school, but still. Of course, at 37, I'm not really interested in proving myself "worthy," you either like me or you don't.

That's a hard concept for a 9-year old. Of course, her level of popularity changes depending on the group. At school, yeah, she may not be popular. The most recent "problem" is that most of the kids in her class like to play football at recess. My child does not play football. It's not that she can't - she can throw a football as well as the next kid - it's that she does not want to play football. She is a dancer and a gymnast. The other kids call her "wussy" and "girly" because she will not play football. Wussy she is not - girly, yeah, maybe. But perception in the dance studio is different. She has a lot of friends, especially among the older girls. Younger ones look up to her.

The best I could do for her this morning is to reassure her that I new what she was going through and tell her she had to "claim her space." She is most emphatic that she doesn't want to be a follower, and that is good. But it is the harder path - and no one is going to give her a "space." She's got to find it herself. I can support her, but I cannot find it for her. No one can.

We all must find - and claim - our own space. Not necessarily physical space, but the thing that helps us define ourselves. We shrink from it, or downplay it, at our own peril. A couple weeks ago, I quoted Marianne Williamson (via my friend Moritz) and I quote it again here: "You're playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you... as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same."

As human beings, we like to classify people, to put them in boxes: the cool kids, the jocks, the geeks, the nerds, the dorks. But when you claim your space, you give yourself permission to live outside of other people's labels. To build a buffer that says, "You may want to stick me in another space of your choosing. But I choose this space, and this space gives me the freedom to thrive despite your label." It doesn't stop the label, but it allows you to understand that the label is not the end. It is someone else's feeble attempt to keep you down. Claiming your space makes less possible for others to make that label meaningful.

Ironically, I find myself at a point where I must again claim my space. At my son's First Communion retreat, I found myself talking with a friend who said he read my entry "The Cake is a Lie." I am always surprised that people would read what I write - in my mind, what I write is just not that interesting. He is a writer - he has written three books. Not published, but still, that's three more than I've written. I told him about my half-started attempt at a mystery novel and he offered to hook me up with a writing group that helped him find motivation. After a moment, and with the prompting of my spouse, I said sure. After all, I did say I wanted to write.

Nervous? Of course. Heck, I just said I didn't understand why people would read what I write. But that's what claiming your space means. In the end, it doesn't matter what others think or if I never publish a book. I am claiming my space as a writer. If I truly mean to claim it, I will join the ranks of those few (relatively speaking) who have not just talked about writing a book, but done it. The decision alone feels pretty good.

Tired of living according to public opinion? Find your space - and claim it.

Somebody's Hero

A few years ago, country singer Jamie O'Neal released a song called "Some Body's Hero." It tells the story of a mother and a daughter, and how the mother is "hero" to her daughter as a young child, and later as a young woman, but eventually the daughter becomes a "hero" to her elderly mother living in a nursing home. It is a little sappy, but it makes me think of the relationship with my own mother, and my relationship with my daughter.

As a young girl, I didn't like my mother very much. Oh, I loved her, but I didn't like her. I felt that she was harder on me, the eldest, overly critical, and not very understanding of what it was like to be young. Typical pre-teen and teen angst. I still remember the one and only time she slapped me in public and in the face. I said she couldn't possibly be my real mother, because my real mother wouldn't be so mean to me (she wouldn't buy me a chocolate bar). One of those times when the brain is frantically trying to shut off the mouth because it knows this will not end well, and fails miserably.

It wasn't until she was diagnosed with breast cancer, when I was 14, that the relationship changed. I still vividly recall Mom telling me that she was going to die, and she was looking to me to raise my brothers and sister. That conversation simultaneously encouraged and terrified me. Encouraged because it was good to hear that my mother trusted me with her most precious possessions, her children. Terrifying because I was 14 and hey, what did I know about child rearing anyway? Fortunately, Mom didn't die then, and by the time she did pass away, we were all grown - and I had kids of my own to deal with.

Early on, I vowed I would no do some of the things my mother did to me to my daughter. To a large extent, I haven't. The result is a big difference in our relationship: my daughter actually likes me. I know she loves me, but she likes who I am, she regards me as a friend. She knows that above all I am her mother, and I will (and do) frequently tell her things she doesn't want to hear, but she likes me too. She likes spending time with me - going to the mall, reading a book, working in the yard, or even just sitting on my lap in a chair on the front porch while we watch the world go by (although she really is getting too big for the lap - we may have to move to the love seat).

This culminated in the receipt of a poem recently in my email (I got her a Gmail address so she can write to a pen pal). I ignored the lack of poetic form and spotty grammar; after all, it's the thought that counts:

hey mom you rock

you always were there for me

you always cuddled with me

and there fore your great!

As you go through life, you will meet many people. Some you will like, many you won't. The vast majority will want something from you, or be irrationally demanding, or even hostile. Some may call you a "hero" for a big accomplishment at work, or doing something that needs to be done when no one else will. But in the end, this is a hollow heroism - a heroism of the moment, brief, fleeting, and easily supplanted by being called a "goat" when something goes wrong.

If you want to see heroism, look around the dinner table at night - at little faces who want nothing more from you than a hug, a kiss, or a cuddle. Nothing more than to know that at that exact moment, they have your attention, your love, and your friendship.

The angst of the teen years beckons - I can see it coming. But I take comfort in the fact that for one shining moment in time, I really am some body's hero.

The Cake is a Lie

Over Christmas (yes, 3 months ago), I had the opportunity to talk to my oldest friend - oldest in the sense that she and I have been friends since 6th grade (over 20 years), not in the sense that she is old. She had her first baby last September - a very darling girl, whom I hope to see before she graduates from high school. Anyway, my friend and I were both raised in a very feminist environment: You can have it all - job, family, whatever. But as we've both struggled through our professional lives and walked the precarious work-home tight rope, we've realized something:

The cake is a lie.

Despite how far women have come, let's face it: An assertive woman is often not rewarded in the work place. Heck, I'm not so sure men are either (although they have it easier in my experience). Growing up, I was told that if I worked hard, was conscientious, dedicated, and went above the call of duty I'd be rewarded.

Bull.

If the past couple years have taught me anything, they've taught me that the opposite is true. I gave my employer, whom I have worked for since 1998 (almost 12 years) everything I have between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00 - and sometimes beyond. There was a time that dedication mattered: I was one of 3 employees to receive a very generous cash award when our CEO sold his controlling share interest to a private investment firm.

Now, I'm not so sure.

Lately, I find myself repeatedly slapped - both for going beyond my zone into the "white space," and for not doing so. I can't do anything right. I'm too assertive, I'm not assertive enough. I have let basic responsibilities lapse - despite the fact that a year ago I repeatedly told my boss that I was overtaxed and no longer had the capacity to do all these things. I was letting the "small stuff" slide just to keep the engine running. She was okay with that - right up to my annual review, and then bam! Uh...

The past year, and the past 3-6 months in particular have made me realize something: This is a job. It is not my passion. It's a decent employer, a good wage, awesome benefits and I work with some fantastic people. But it's just a job. A recent email from my alma mater asked me to share "how I was living my passion."

Well, it's not in the workplace.

An email from a guy I've never met in real life, as to whether he was too young for a mid-life crisis, kept me thinking. What is my passion? What is the thing I would love to do - that would really make me excited? And I thought of two things: writing and teaching.

I love to write (the infrequency of this blog notwithstanding). I was good at it in college. I had fun. But I'm not sure at the age of 37 (close enough) I want to do the "cub reporter" bit. And I don't want the pressure of a daily newspaper deadline. I want to be creative, I want to write things that people want to read because it makes them think, maybe the occasional movie or restaurant review.

Teaching, well, that's what I trained to do, way back when. I was going to be a high-school English teacher. But I couldn't get a job in the mid-90s and the loans needed to be paid. Now, I realize I don't want to teach some snot-nosed teenager who is only in class because the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania tells him he needs to be there. Nor do I want to teach some snot-nosed young adult who is only in class to meet an elective requirement of his college. I want to teach people who want to learn - who are interested in what I have to tell them. I adore explaining things to my kids. I had a wonderful evening recently explaining WWII and the rise of the Soviet Union to my kids at the dinner table, using condiment bottles as props. I've explained the solar system using a globe, a tennis ball, and a can of Coke. Why did I enjoy it? Because they wanted to learn, they hung on my every word. I could almost see their little sponge-like minds soaking it all up, and it was fabulous. Literature, theology, natural science, it matters not what I teach - I just like to teach. I'm not an expert on all these things (well, I do have both a Bachelor's and Master's degree in Literature), but I know a lot, and what I don't know I can learn right along with my students.

The problem is, I have no idea how to go about acting on these desires. Because I do have kids, a mortgage, car payments, private school tuition, dance, tae-kwon-do, and thus the need for a regular income with benefits. So I teach my kids and putter on this blog (hoping that someone reads it and likes it). But oh, to find a way to make real money off of that would be so liberating.

In the meantime, I think am living my passion. It's at home. It's in the faces of a boy and a girl who think I'm the cat's pajamas - and a husband who thinks I'm pretty cool too. My passion is not some soul-sucking corporate job. I have the soul-sucking corporate job to pay for my passion - because while love may make the world go around, money sure is more convenient for the purposes of paying the bills.

I've been watching past seasons of "House, M.D." courtesy of a co-worker, and one recent episode hit me. In that episode, a young woman who is the assistant of a high-powered female right attorney gets ill, and she has a conversation with House's young female doctor assistant, 13. And the exchange goes something like this:

13: But that's feminism. You can have anything you want.

Patient: Just wanting it doesn't mean I can have it. I can aspire to anything, but I can't necessarily have it.

Yeah. I can have it all. To paraphrase a former president, it depends on what your definition of "all" is.

Words for Thought

Every once in a while, you read something that captures your mind and makes you think. Well, at least I do. If you don't, I'm very sorry for you because it means either a) you don't read or b) what you're reading doesn't affect you in the slightest. Which is really a bit sad because, well, reading should make you think - at least occasionally.

Anyway, I recently started following a blog written by a college friend of mine - Byline to Finish Line. Moritz and I were co-editors of the sports section at the St. Bonaventure student newspaper - the BV. In the fall of 1993 I was her assistant editor; when I became section editor in the spring of 1994, she remained as a "consultant" (they called it something else, but whatever). We had a lot of fun together, many sleepless nights of trying to fit copy on a page, and come up with catchy headlines (Hey Moritz, remember, "It's all about soul!"). Like so many people I went to Bona's with, I didn't hear from her for ages, until I found her one day on Facebook. And then I started reading her blog, and then I subscribed to regular updates. Because it's good and Moritz is a good writer. She blogs about two main points: her updates with ultra running and triathlons, and women's issues in sports. The latter really doesn't surprise me, but I find the first two fascinating. One because "triathlete" would not have been a term I'd have used to describe Moritz in college (sorry), and she really seems to have immersed herself in it. Second, I'm about as athletic as a tree stump and can't imagine running a city block, so I find anyone who really digs that stuff fascinating.

And while I have enjoyed all of her posts, there have been three recently that really caught my attention.

Using My Power

This seemed at first just a post about swimming - until the end:

"It made me wonder where else in my life I was failing to utilize my power. It’s not about a lack of heart or effort or desire. It’s not even about working on weaknesses so much. In fact, thinking about your weaknesses only reinforces the negative in a way. Instead, where am I not drawing out all my positives? Where am I stopping short, not using all the power I already have?

In swimming, it’s about finishing the stroke and utilizing all of the power that comes from pushing the water behind me.

In life, it’s about seeing all the positives, all the strength, I already have. It’s about owning that, letting it shine, and letting that carry me forward. We are stronger than we think we are, and when we realize that, our true power takes us right to the places we want to be."

How incredibly true. Think about it. How often does someone encourage you to focus on your strengths? I'm willing to be it's not often. In school, we're pushed to work hard on the things where you don't excel. For me it was math. I kicked butt at history, English, even science (as long as there was no math involved). Ask me to do something more complicated than 2 + 2 and I was toast. And the hours I spent working on my math skills really didn't help. My brain just didn't work that way. And in the end, it didn't matter. Because in the adult world, you don't have to calculate a sine or cosine or standard deviation by hand. That's what calculators and Microsoft Excel are for, right?

Imagine if I had spent all those hours struggling with math enhancing and extending my writing skills instead. Maybe, instead of being a frustrated project manager and blogger, I'd be a writer like Moritz. But while I was "good enough" for high school and college, I spent so much energy focused on math that I never took writing to "exceptional." My daughter has the same problem. She is very good with liberal arts. Not so good on the math. Fortunately, her teacher seems to know what mine didn't: She doesn't have to be an "A" math student. She needs enough to be able to know when she's been cheated in her change at the grocery store, and to know her basic math facts. Heck, even Quicken balances your checkbook these days. Instead, her teacher is trying to get her to use her power: her creativity, her imagination, her generosity, her verbal skills.

Focusing on your failings holds you back. Use your power and it will carry you forward to greater things.

Playing Big with My Tribe

If you are in touch with anything, you know humans are social animals. The news is full of stories of children who are kept from social contact throughout their formative years, and who, therefore, are not functional members of society. This article, like the others, started deceptively "newsy," until the bottom:

Sometimes we are so concerned about not upsetting others, that we forget to live our own truth, live our own authenticity. As author Marianne Williamson wrote, “Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened abut shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. …. as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.”

The world does not generally look favorably on those who "toot their own horn." Pride is, after all, one of the seven deadly sins. And it may be worse for girls and women, who still battle a social concept that a "good girl" doesn't push herself forward. But there is a difference between hubris and knowing your own worth. Hubris puts you above others. Knowing your own worth puts you on equal footing. This concept plays along with using your power: If you are constantly pushing yourself to the background, you deny yourself the opportunity to lift another. If you deny your own power, how can you be powerful enough to give your neighbor a leg up?

Pride may goeth before a fall and it may well be a "deadly sin." But to constantly put yourself down and push yourself into a corner is a form of pride - and one I believe God finds more abhorrent than the former. As the saying goes, "God doesn't make junk" - so if you find yourself tempted to play small, remember that and play big instead.

Celebrating Strengths of All Kinds

This one hit me - kind of hard, actually. Written on International Women's Day, it made me think not just about my own life, but my daughter who is 9 and just beginning to realize her own power. In it, Moritz writes "Athletics breeds strength... It also breeds emotional strength. It develops an inner confidence. It makes you strong and humble at the same time. It allows you to see who you are, what you want, and gives you the focus and the support system to create your own authentic life."

True words. I was not an athlete - I am not an athlete. I spent most, if not all, of my school-age life lacking confidence. I was an awkward adolescent. I never fit in. I never really felt "good enough" - not until I got to college and found people who would empower me, instead of putting me down. Seventeen years wasted where I could have been more.

How different from my daughter. She is a dancer and a gymnast. She started doing competition dance this year: so far she has a second-place medal and a first-place trophy under her belt. She is supremely confident in her abilities on the dance floor - and it carries her forward. Where other children seize up reading or speaking in public, my child doesn't. Read this passage at Mass? No problem. I've danced in front of 200 people. Answer a question? Sure, no sweat. Older girls at school giving her grief? Who cares, I can dance - I have lots of friends who know I'm a good dancer and a good person. This is not to say that she is boastful or doesn't have moments of insecurity. But oh, how I envy her the confidence that dance has given her. The physical confidence and strength to do a back walkover or a back handspring (her latest goal), and the emotional confidence to step out on the stage and say, "Here I am world. Take it or leave it; it's the best I've got." When she started dance competition I told her she'd already done more than I ever had the guts to do, just by saying, "I'll give it a shot." She's hit the tri-fecta: using her power, playing big, and celebrating her strength. God bless her for it.

So there you have it. Moritz will continue writing, I'll continue ready, and who knows what will be the next thing that makes me go "hmm." If you've read this far, maybe I've done the same for you. If so, my work here is done. If not, go read something, keep your mind open, and you just might find yourself saying, "hmm."

Down the Rabbit Hole

(Wow, has it really been a year?)

Ever since Disney announced they would be releasing a Tim Burton-directed version of "Alice in Wonderland" with Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter, my 9-year-old daughter begged to go. On opening night. With a stop at Hot Topic to buy movie gear beforehand. I was able to squash a midnight showing, explaining that "midnight on Friday" actually meant really early and not only did she have to go to school on Friday, I had to work. Me, I was less enthusiastic about this movie, although I do like Johnny Depp. But since her younger brother would be at a Cub Scout sleepover, I promised we could go. And go we did. She wanted to see it in 3D, but the 7:00 show was already sold out when we arrived, so we settled for 2D (since neither she nor I really wanted to wait for the next 3D show at 10:00 pm).

Now, if you've been living down a rabbit hole and not heard of this movie, here's the gist: it's not a remake of the Disney animated version. The movie opens up with a 6-year old Alice telling her father about a nightmare she had about falling down a hole and meeting all sorts of weird creatures, some of whom weren't very nice. Flash forward 13 years. Alice, now 19, is on her way to a garden party hosted by a young lord (who looks as icky and priggish as he is) with her mother. Her father is dead. In typical spunky Alice fashion, she refuses to wear a corset or stockings, at which her exasperated mother says, "But it's accepted." Alice responds, "If it was accepted to wear a codfish on your head, would you do that to?" It's a nice reverse of roles (okay, how many parents have used the old "If everyone jumped off a bridge" line with your kids?).

Once arriving at the party, Alice learns that Hamish (the priggish young lord) intends to propose, with about 100 party guests looking on, and she is less than thrilled. Fortunately, she spies a rabbit, follows him, falls down a hole, and thus adventure begins.

Turns out, this is not her first trip to Underland. The White Rabbit was sent to lure her back. In the years since her first visit (at six) the Red Queen (deliciously portrayed with a hydrocephalic CGI head by Helena Bonham-Carter) has usurped the throne of her younger sister, the White Queen (a dreamy, more delicate creature than her sister and played by the charming Anne Hathaway) and brought terror to Underland through use of the Bandersnatch, Jub-Jub Bird, and the Jabberwocky. (Okay, note here: If you're thinking Burton has made all these things up, he hasn't. The original Disney cartoon was actually a mashup of two Lewis Carroll books, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and Through the Looking Glass. All these characters are from those books, notably Through the Looking Glass, if my memory serves. And I can't put my hand on my copy right now, but I do believe Carroll calls the place "Underland" and it is Alice who dubs it "Wonderland" so don't go accusing Burton of distorting the story.)

Once there, she meets most of the familiar characters, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, the Dormouse, all of whom seem to think she's the "wrong Alice." So they take her to the Caterpillar (voice by the wonderful Alan Rickman) who dubs her "not hardly Alice." Eventually, she goes off to tea, and is rescued from the pursuing forces of the Red Queen by the Mad Hatter, who explains that it is crucial that Alice face the Jabberwocky (voiced by Christopher Lee, who unfortunately only gets about a dozen lines) on Frabjous Day. And the adventure really begins.

(Another note: It was Disney who introduced the notion of the Queen of Hearts. Carroll always had the Red Queen and the White Queen.)

Earlier on Friday, I got a text message from a friend saying the reviews had not been very good (really, I only listen to Roger Ebert) and the movie was "dark, twisted, and not for kids." Um, okay folks, this is Tim Burton. If you're looking for sweetness and light, you've got the wrong director. Even Ebert gave it 3 stars, only decrying the inevitable battle scene (which, honestly, I didn't have a problem with - it was clear from Alice's first meeting with the Hatter that some sort of battle was brewing).

However, I'm not sure the critics are on the mark here. Yes, this is not Disney's animated Wonderland. The colors are certainly lush, and the CGI is not irritatingly overpowering. Burton's storyline (which actually extends the Alice story) is logical - here is a young woman looking for what she wants. There is a lot of oddity and strange-looking creatures (flowers with faces anyone?), but I would call Burton's version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory darker and more twisted than Alice.

Not for kids? Well, if your child is easily spooked by loud noises, or fantastical (and yes, somewhat grotesque) visuals, then don't take him or her. Depp's Mad Hatter alone is pretty outlandish looking. But the movie is rated PG and I think that's appropriate. There's the battle scene, some fantasy disgust (for example, a scene where the White Queen brews a potion to get Alice back to normal size and uses "buttered fingers"), but no sexual innuendo and no profanity. So really, the only "objectionable" content for children is the fact that Burton has not remade Disney's cartoon and it is slightly twisted. The effect is not quite that of watching a cartoon on LSD, but you know for sure and for certain that this isn't your mother's "Alice in Wonderland."

And here's the thing: Wonderland isn't cute and harmless. Read the book. Tenniel's illustrations are slightly alarming. Carroll's book is not sugary children's fare. Just as those who bemoaned Burton's "Charlie" as "betraying the original Gene Wilder version (which I love, don't get me wrong), Roald Dahl's books were closer to Depp's portrayal of Willie Wonka than Wilder's. The same applies here. Wonderland (or Underland) is supposed to be distorted. It's fantasy, but not a candy-coated one. I've read the Alice books three times: once in high school, once as an undergraduate, and once for a Children's Literature class in graduate school. At no time did I think these were light-hearted affairs suitable for a five-year-old. They are, on a certain level, very disturbing.

There is this notion, perhaps born out of the 50's but that has certainly persisted to today, that a "children's" movie must be cute and happy. I've heard many criticisms of Pixar's "Up!" that say the movie is too sad. But that's life. Life is happy, and sad, and violent, and dangerous, and joyful, and wonderful all mixed together. It is sweet and bitter. A great movies show that. Great children's movies show that in an age-appropriate manner.

The Alice in Burton's movie is a young woman who isn't happy with the role Victorian England has assigned her: marry young to a lord, produce children, and spend your days at teas and garden parties. "What do I want?" and "Who am I?" are the predominant questions here. It's even something that the Caterpillar asks repeatedly, "Who are you?" Alice keeps saying "I'm Alice Kingsley." But that's not the question. "Who are you?" does not mean "What is your name?" The Caterpillar's question is more profound: Who are you and what do you want to be? It's a question that plagues us all, and we are lucky to be able to answer it before we die.

Happily, I think Alice does answer the question. She finds out "who are you" in a way that satisfies her. The last time we see the Caterpillar, he is building his cocoon and says he's going away. "Are you dying?" asks Alice. "No," he replies, "perhaps I will see you in another life." A deep question. But one essential to the human story.

Is Burton's "Alice" children's fare? Perhaps not, in that a child of 9 will hardly appreciate the profoundness of the question. Will children enjoy it? I think so - it is a visually stunning film with plenty to capture the imagination. Should you take your child? Can't say: how sensitive is your child to fantasy violence and visual oddity? As a parent, I don't find the behavior of the characters or their language objectionable (well, nobody wants to imitate the Red Queen, but the movie doesn't exactly try to make her a heroine - the "off with their head" line is alive and well).

"Perhaps I will see you in another life."

Who are you?