Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Check out inTravel Magazine for my first (creative writing) publication!

see: inTravel Magazine, Authentic Travel
http://intravelmag.com/10120-inTravel-Magazine/10368-2011-November-December



Maho Bay Camps: An Endangered Species?
Janice M Anderson

If only I believed people really meant it when they asked, “How was your vacation?” I’d tell them about my week with no running water and the ten-flight walk to a bathroom, where pull-cord showers only ran cold. I’d show them bites on my ankles from sand fleas and mention the long flight delay. But then I’d urge them to book the same trip – before it’s too late. 
   
Pat, the adventuresome love of my life, likes to “travel.” I prefer “vacationing,” by which I mean beach-to-fridge on the Outer Banks. Maho Bay Camps, in St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands, seemed like a good compromise: restful Caribbean beaches for me, water adventure for her, and the idea of “eco-friendly” yet comfy camping, intrigued us both. To be honest, I’m not a good traveler no matter where I’m going. I get antsy on long drives. If I’m flying, I hate even one layover. This trip was scheduled for four: two flights, two taxis and a ferry.













very exciting.

Read more about Maho Bay Camps: An Endangered Species? by intravelmag.com

Friday, September 16, 2011

Depending on a Two-year-old


Recently, I’ve begun to veer off the familiar and well-maintained trails in Frick Park. I choose instead thin and muddy bike-paths that wind around inclines so steep I fear for the biker's safety. This challenges me to find my way and keeps my ankles strong. It’s taken me a long time to venture to the park at all, let alone, by myself. You see, Frick is a dog-lovers park and I harbor an old and deeply embedded fear of dogs – apparently a big old friendly mutt knocked me down when I was two. I’ve come to learn that park dogs generally don't have any interest in me, but when they do trot, or run toward me, I freeze in place and depend on their owners to reassure me I’m safe.

Last night, I attended a “candle party” at my daughter-in-love’s. She and my son recently bought a house on a street with other 2-bedroom homes with small yards. About halfway through the party, when the candle scents became too much for me and the frequent “don’t-touch-that”s too much for my granddaughter, she and I went out together to explore her new neighborhood. She’s 2 ½. Hand in hand we walked up the streets and down an alleys.
“Dat my neighbor, dat my neighbor, dat my neighbor,” Nicole said rhythmically. (She hasn’t mastered "th" or "s" yet). She pointed to all the kid’s yard toys: bicycles, little plastic picnic tables, and foot-powered mini coups. We stopped for a good while as she peered through one fence and yearned to ride a carousel-colored rocking horse.
We rounded the bend at the end of her block to return by way of the alley, and to my dismay, we came upon an unleashed dog. He just stood there, staring at us from three houses up. Fear seized my stomach; I squeezed Nicole’s hand a little harder.
"Come on honey, let's go this way," I tried to make a quick U-turn.  
"No, di way," she pulled my hand toward the dog. "Puppy!"   
Instantly, I had visceral plan: I’ll scoop her up Heimlich-wise, bend over her with my arms and body, so the dog could only chew on my back when he attacked. (I’m not sure if this was before or after my (now embarrassing) inclination to hide behind her).
"Come on!" she pulled again. "Di way!"
I didn’t move. Her light brown curls flung off her shoulder as she turned to look up at me, eyes wide and brow furrowed.
“Puppy!” she said again.
I reassessed. The dog wasn't moving toward us. He wasn't barking. Maybe it would be okay. Probably it would be okay. And surely, I didn't want her to internalize my fear. I scanned the yards for a neighbor I could shout to, in case of attack. Then, with my plan in place, I let her lead me forward.
It was fine, of course. The dog was calm and friendly and cute. His owner, also friendly, was only ten feet away, hidden from my view as he worked in his garage. 

Nicole tried to tug me into the future as I hung on to the past. As I think of myself standing there, balanced between two, I’m grateful I could choose the future. Grateful for my strong ankles, for my ability to inch forward on narrow strips of land on steep hills without tumbling down.

Monday, April 25, 2011

On my Father, and Mark Twain’s Racism

Autobiography of Mark Twain, Volume 1
Edited by Harriet Elinor Smith  

          As a memoirist, I found Mark Twain’s Autobiography, Volume 1 interesting from a craft perspective. In it, he meanders through his life’s memories based on the daily news, the week’s correspondence, or his own whim. This style paralleled his life. Never one for doing anything “by the book” – any book, Twain meandered from one walk of life to another, from one adventure, one financial endeavor, one outlandish story to the next. In what ways did these experiences change Twain over his writing life? How is his autobiography different from, for example, Innocents Abroad, where his comments were at best culturally insensitive, and at worst classist and racist?
                 In Twainian style, allow me start with a side story of my own. I am a lesbian. Perhaps I should thank Providence that I have lived in a time where being a sexual minority didn’t cause me deep pain, or shame, or regret. Even so, I have had to stand along side of many a loved-one as they processed my situation for themselves. My father, an Irish Catholic and World War II vet from Camden, was a good example.  While I was in college, and before I “came out” to my parents, I took my girlfriend home to meet them. We stayed in my room and giggled much of the night, as (Twain would tell you) girls sometimes do. A few weeks later, I told my parents that I was a lesbian. They took the news pretty well, all things considered. Mom said, “As long as you’re happy, nothing else needs to be said.” And I was happy. My father thought through it differently. He called me a week or so later. “Well, Janice,” he said in his fatherly voice, “the rule here in our house is that if you’re not married you can’t sleep together under our roof.”  Hmm, I thought, at least he gets it. A few months after that, he called me and said, “You know, I’ve been thinking, you two can’t get married; so we’ll bend those rules next time you come home.” 
                He went on like this, processing and changing his preconceived notions little by little. Every time I came home he’d have taken another step. “Let’s go for a ride,” he’d say and we’d talk it over. He worried about the harm my openness would have on my career, my safety. Once he asked if I thought it was due to anything he had done. Another time he told me he suspected his brother might be gay and maybe that was why. (Which he was ...we think.) 
              Years later, my sister had what she called her “real wedding ceremony” with friends and family after she had married out-of-state with a justice of the peace. Pat and I had been together for 8 years by then. Right after the ceremony, my father put one arm around Pat and the other around me and said, “Couldn’t you two do something like this?” 
            He changed. His deeply embedded beliefs had been shaken to the core. He had to rebuild them, little by little. But his honest approach, his constant striving was more than any daughter could ask. 

            This is what I see in Mark Twain’s autobiography. Evidence of change. Throughout his life, Twain reevaluated his own beliefs and moved along a continuum. Still, he remained bound by his time in history, his country of birth, and his religious upbringing. In one of his earliest pieces, Innocents Abroad, his embedded racism leaked all over the pages. He painted a picture depicting White American Protestant men as the only people worth a damn. His habit of calling people “savages” carried marked negative connotations, especially from this man who knew and valued the precision of language. To his credit, Twain demonstrated movement even within that work when he said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness…” underscoring his own transformation.
           
            Further change is evident in Twain’s autobiography. In an early section, he said of a family slave, Uncle Dan’l: “It was on the farm that I got my strong liking for his race and my appreciation of certain of its fine qualities. This feeling and this estimate have stood the test of sixty years and more and have suffered no impairment. The black face is as welcome to me now as it was then.” He refers to the slave children as his “comrades.” Importantly, he follows this by noting the ways in which they were “not comrades” because “color and condition interposed a subtle line which both parties were conscious of, and which rendered complete fusion impossible.” With this comment I detect truth and insight topped with a spoonful of respect. Absent from his autobiography are any of the painful and blatant racist and classist comments of his earlier work. He described George, his butler of 18 years, as “a colored man--the children's darling” and “a member of the family.” Twain demonstrated this respectful relation with others of his servants. He describes Patrick, his long time Irish coachman, as his friend. And, in fact, Patrick was pallbearer at Twain's funeral. When writing of the last thirteen days of his daughter Susy's life, he said, “she had faithful old friends” at her side. These included “Patrick, the coachman; Katy, who had begun to serve …(them) when Susy was eight; and John and Ellen, (the gardener and cook).”
            As far as I could tell, these servants were all Irish. I did notice that George, the “colored butler,” was not mentioned as present during Susy’s final precious and coveted moments. Does this imply an outer limit of Twain’s progress towards extinguishing his racism? Neither my father nor I were totally spared the rod of homophobia. While he came to full acceptance, he never quite made it to pride. As for me, to this day I am wary of reaching for my love’s hand in public. Changing behaviors is difficult; changing deeply embedded beliefs is even harder. Twain remained bound by the limits of his race and class and time in history. But he moved; he changed over time and stayed well ahead of many in his generation. What else can we expect from the ‘father of American fiction’?



Thursday, March 31, 2011

Sweet Life


I love ice cream. Just like my father. I spooned a little through his dry lips on his deathbed. Right before his final smile.

Now, I eat it everyday. Breyers, the purest form. Vanilla. And not just any vanilla, vanilla bean - the one with specks. Low fat, of course. Avoids the Chap Stick feeling of creamy types.

Working from home, it’s my midday pleasure. Read one more chapter, write one more page, and then dish it up. The cool sweet milk slips from the spoon to my tongue, just pleasing my mouth to no end.

Except there is an end.
There's always an end.

The specks matter.