My name is Little Bee, and I changed my name in order to hide which village I am from in Africa. The oil companies have found their precious product on our lands and I am no longer safe. The same oil companies hired nasty men to kill all the people and burn down each village instead of dealing with tribal leaders. I made it out but my sister, Kindness, was not as lucky.
I now wait in a gray detention center outside of London. The walls are gray, the tiles are gray, the whites of our clothes are gray, the sky is gray, and my heart is gray. Whatever I do, I cannot bring the yellow of sunshine into my body. No matter how hard I look at the sky, blue will not enter my heart. I cannot eat the green grass all around me for I know it will taste like slate. If I could raise a flag for us refugees it would be the color gray.
The center is not all bad. They do separate us from the men at night. We have our compound and they have theirs. During the day I see how they look at the flowers in our group. The pretty girls who dress in the best clothes the hand-me-down bins offer are flowers. The men stare in wait. It is like the wild animal licking his lips.
I make myself less flower like. Early, before they open our compound doors, I wrap my chest in gauge as tight as possible. I want them to think I am very young, too young to bother. To complete my child look, I wear baggy pants and a horrid red Hawaiian shirt. My boots, a size small with reinforced steel toe, makes me feel like a little bee that hides her stinger.
Psst - I have a secret. I spend my days thinking of different ways to kill myself if the men come. It is a little game I play to keep me safe. For example, if the men corner me in the bathroom I will drown myself in the toilet bowl. If they catch me alone in the compound I will hang myself with the curtain pulls. For emergencies, I carry a small compact in my pants and will break the mirror to slit my arms. The nasty men will never get me.
Chris Cleave said he got the idea for his book Little Bee from his UK passport. He was once asked which 10 books he could not live without and one was his pass book or passport. He travels as a reporter for London’s Guardian newspaper and uses his to enter foreign lands seamlessly. If trouble occurs he can flash it and say I am a UK citizen and this is not my battle. Little Bee was written to show the plight of humans who do not own passports nor have a country that will protect them.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Little Bee (copy)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Summer at Tiffany (copy)
Marjorie Hart wanted to do something other than go to summer school at the University of Iowa. Three of her sisters at the Kappa house were heading to New York City to work at Lord & Taylor. They would be dancing at the hippest clubs, eating at the finest restaurants, visiting the beach on the weekend, watching the latest Broadway shows, and meeting midshipmen. Marty Garrett, Marjorie’s roommate, anticipating a boring summer dropped the summer schedule in the wastebasket and declared, “We can get on a train for New York, too,”
A plan was hatched and the two decided to use their savings for summer classes and redeem empty Coke bottles. After a little figuring, they surmised in order to make it in New York City they would need a contact for references and $65 for living expenses. World War II was in full swing and they could rely on midshipmen for tickets to shows.
A discretionary fund would be set up for the following items, “Oxydol laundry soap, Woodbury hand soap, bronze stocking stick, Pond’s hand cream, Jergen’s lotion, Dubarry nail polish, Kreml shampoo, Max Factor powder, Colgate toothpaste, Tangee lipstick, Coca-Cola, Lucky Strike cigarettes, Schrafft sundae, and a drink at Sardi’s.”
With a little help from the parents, they were set up in a meager but clean apartment in the Seth Low building at 106 Morningside Drive. The first morning in the city they were polished clean as they traveled on the upstairs berth of the downtown bus. Passing by the different Fifth Avenue stores, Marjorie was dizzy with excitement. She was disoriented while stepping off the curb and a stranger pulled her back before a Checker Cab could end her career.
When they entered the employment office at Lord & Taylor all hopes were dashed. Staring at them was a room full of other young ladies their age looking for summer work. It was the same at Saks Fifth Avenue, Peck & Peck, Bergdorf Goodman, Bonwit Teller, and De Pinna. The ladies were looking a little down when Tiffany rolled into site of the bus. Always the confident one Marty said, “Let’s try here.”
Marty and Marjorie became the first female pages in the history of Tiffany. This is the story of their summer and it is well worth the read. Titled, Summer at Tiffany by Marjorie Hart, Adriana Trigiani said of the book, “A glorious once-upon-a-time fairy tale come true…I loved every moment.”
Read an excellent review by Tiffany HERE!!! She writes the blog Considering All Things Literary.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Complete Book of Women's Running (copy)
Okay, I do not do this, but this book is so good I believe the extraordinary circumstance is valid. I am talking about book talking a specific topic and not a general topic for all. It is a book for women on running called The Complete Book of Women’s Running by Dagny Scott Barrios.
When I start a hobby, I like to read everything I can find on the subject. Most people do this activity, too. I am going out on a limb because I think both sexes are intrigued with “The Biggest Loser” and the new “Losing It with Jillian,” so much so that people may be interested in losing weight the cheapest and fastest way through running. The finale of “The Biggest Loser” featured a marathon in Hawaii and a mother of two lost 36 lbs. in six weeks by training for a 5K on “Losing It with Jillian.” Running works and the only cost is a good pair of shoes.
If you started with this craze as my mother did in the late 70s and early 80s you are well aware of the classic, The Complete Book of Running by Jim Fixx. Mom’s copy was moved from room to room and she opened it often for motivation. Things have changed and it is better to buy something new with specific advice for genders.
One thing I was taught in track and all the books repeated into the late 90s was the basic foot strike. One must run with a heel strike and roll to the ball of the foot with a push off from the ball. Wrong! Runners today run from a mid strike that saves wear and tear on precious knees. Save the heel strike for races or the professionals.
Author Barrios never mentions the heel strike method. She does talk about the difference in strides for males and females. Women have a wider stride based on wider hips and research shows less knee troubles because women’s thighs are bigger. Hey, finally an advantage to bigger thighs!
Accomplished runners will get tips and drills to take it to the next level. She includes running schedules based on time and not mileage that is another shift from as late as 2000 thinking. Stretches, explained with photos, include two lower back moves not before seen. She has chapters for the pregnant woman and the older runner with nutrition emphasized throughout.
In this book you will find the motivation you need to get off the couch and get back into life. The mere movement of running stimulates the fun receptors in your brain and one feels like a kid again. Until the pain starts and becomes a means necessary to a slimmer end or um, bottom line.
I am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced (copy)
I go alone. He does not know I am gone. He is at work and I should be safe until he comes home.
The Al-Qa Square is full of people. The noise is jarring and the pushing and jostling make me nervous. I feel like a ball of yarn being batted around by large cats.
This place is the opposite of my village of Khardji in northwest Yemen. My home is quiet and I have few neighbors; mostly, they are relatives of mine. Oh, I wish I were home among my family and not out in this chaos seeking justice.
Finally, I find the building that holds court. I weave in and out of the important people. I can tell they are important by the suits and zanna they wear. Those who have on the ankle-length tunics of northern Yemen also carry their jambia, a ceremonial dagger, waist high behind belts.
I walk through an open door and am faced with a group of wailing women and men wearing black robes. This is the place I want to be. It is up to me and only me to find one of those black robed men alone and get what I seek.
I will never be alone in here though. The women are wailing so loud I cannot understand what they are displeased about. It would be easier to read lips if they did not cover them with the traditional niqabs. Everywhere I look, I see big eyes lined in kohl and framed in rectangular windows talking to me. What are they trying to say?
Court has been dismissed by the noon call to prayers and I am swept out by all the bodies rushing for the door. I try to reenter. I try to reach one of the judges but it is no use.
Once outside, I stop a woman and ask her where I might find a judge. She points to the staircase and says there are plenty in the rooms upstairs. I climb the stairs fighting a queasy feeling I believe generated from the heat. I might have fainted at the top if not for the quick shove I got from a boy running to catch up with his parents. I open the first door I reach and sit in the waiting room among others.
The room is empty now and I sit afraid I will be missed as it becomes dark. The lady at the desk goes into the office and speaks to the judge. Suddenly, he is standing in front of me. “What do you want little girl?” I bravely state, “I want a divorce.”
I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced by Nujood Ali and Delphine Minoui is a true story that will break your heart.
