Going Bovine, by Libba Bray

In my last response, I made the mistake of thinking that the genre of fantasy had changed significantly since I was a child. I thought space travel and time warps had gone out of style. After reading Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book, I was actually starting to think that I might like fantasy. I guess I was wrong. Honestly, I don’t know that I’ve ever enjoyed a book less than Going Bovine. I found it to be unbelievable, immature, and simply ridiculous, all in one very long and laborious novel.

I don’t think I would have had a hard time with any of the premises put forward in the book if they hadn’t all seemed so cliché, especially when put together into a complete package. Let’s take a quick look back: mad cow disease, a dwarf best friend, a talking gnome, a beautiful angel girlfriend, virginity lost to a gorgeous cheerleader, time travel, evil geniuses, wormholes, parallel universes, fire giants, reality television, dead musicians come back to life, and ray guns that turn people into snow globes. (My apologies to Libba Bray for the many moments in the book I have failed to mention.) It’s as if Bray took every idea she ever had — every glimpse of a dream, every glimmer of a story, every tidbit of a thought — and put them all together in one book. And, in my opinion, it simply didn’t work.

Furthermore, Bray doesn’t leave us with a message of any substance. 480 pages read, and all I’m left with is another cliché: life is worth living. Maybe if I hadn’t just wasted hours of my life reading a book with such a simple and obvious theme, I would think so. Either that, or I completely missed the real message, in which case I consider the book a failure as well.

The only redeeming element of this book is the tone of voice of the main character, Cameron. I thoroughly enjoyed his sarcasm and wit, and especially his intelligence. I do think his voice lends itself to a much higher-level reader than the students at my school, but I could see it being a very desirable voice for an advanced high school reader. Bray has managed to capture the tone of a typical adolescent, but not dumbed him down enough to bore an intelligent reader.

The most effective use of Cameron’s voice comes in the form of the title chapters, which provide a window into his personality. For example, Bray loads sardonic wit into advanced vocabulary to create “Chapter Two: Wherein the Cruelties of High School are Recounted and the Stoner Dudes of the Fourth-Floor Bathroom Offer Me Subpar Weed and a Physics Lesson” (p. 6).  She could have easily titled this chapter ‘High School Sucks and the Stoners Give me Bad Weed,’ but she instead uses more complex language to clarify that Cameron is not your typical pothead. We understand from the very beginning of the book that Cameron is smarter than most of those around him, which makes us respect him as he begins his journey.

Furthermore, just as Bray creates an intelligent main character, she also treats the reader as intelligent enough to understand Cameron. Often, in young adult fiction, authors use simplified language to make the book appeal to a larger audience; however, Bray does not fall victim to this. While I didn’t appreciate her plot choices, I did admire the fact that she kept the story at a level of complexity that truly taxed the reader to keep up.

The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman

My two sons (ages 8 and 11) are starting to read what they want to read, rather than what I want them to read. This has been an eye-opening experience for me, since one child gravitates toward science fiction and the other gravitates toward fantasy, neither of which have I ever been remotely interested in. Luckily, both science fiction and fantasy have become much more broad and interesting genres than I think they were when I was a child. To my relief, science fiction is no longer solely about outer space, and fantasy is not always focused on talking animals.

Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book was fascinating to me on many levels, not the least of which was a new appreciation for fantasy, and I cannot wait to share it with my fantasy-oriented son. While I have no patience for fantasy worlds full of vampires and unattainable love, I really enjoyed the idea of ghosts raising a child in a graveyard. I haven’t read Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, and I don’t know that I ever will, but the symbolism involved with a child being successfully raised by a community of caretakers different than his own, is fascinating to me. For me, it brings up all kinds of ideas regarding how identity is formed and how random it can be. For example, children are raised with the religion of their parents; therefore, if a child is born to a Jewish mother, but adopted by a Protestant, that child is raised as a Protestant. Random. Almost as random as a boy being raised by a group of ghosts. Love it!

In addition to the novel itself, I thoroughly enjoyed Gaiman’s acknowledgements at the end of the book. (I don’t think I have ever said that about a book before.) In the acknowledgement section, I thought Gaiman allowed the reader to share in part of his writing journey. I found it fascinating to hear the different inspirations he had while writing and the many sources of encouragement. Just as I came to know Bod through his coming of age journey, I also felt like I got to know a little bit about Gaiman through his brief explanation of his own writing journey.

One of my favorite elements in Gaiman’s novel is his matter of fact writing style. While dealing with a subject that is obviously fantasy — the world of ghosts raising a living child — Gaiman’s narrator continually speaks to the reader in such a clear and concrete way, that we are able to forget our own immersion in the fantasy world. When explaining how Bod’s childhood friend, Scarlett, accepted the fact that Bod talked with ghosts that she could not see, our narrator simply states that since “she had already been told firmly by her parents that Bod was imaginary and there was nothing at all wrong with that…it came as no surprise to her that Bod had imaginary friends” (p. 43). As Gaiman expertly navigates his readers through the real world and his fantasy world, his language allows us to simply accept what we are told, in the same way his characters do.

Gaiman also uses tone of voice to give us insight into his sense of morality as taught to a child, specifically Bod. When discussing the idea of people committing suicide, a touchy subject that is interpreted by different people and cultures in many different ways, Gaiman has Silas give Bod a simple explanation: “And there are always people who find their lives have become so unsupportable they believe the best thing they could do would be to hasten their transition to another plane of existence” (p. 104). When Bod wonders if this approach works, Silas again offers a simple, yet profound, explanation:

Sometimes. Mostly, no. It’s like the people who believe they’ll be happy if they go and live somewhere else, but who learn it doesn’t work that way. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. If you see what I mean (p. 104).

Even Bod’s response to Silas when asked if he understands — “‘Sort of,’ said Bod.” (p. 104) — is so plain spoken as to allow even the youngest reader to acknowledge that some things will be understood immediately and fully, while some will not.

            It is through this matter of fact, simple, to the point tone of voice that Gaiman so perfectly handles the world of fantasy. Rather than rolling my eyes at the inconceivable setting and storyline that I encountered in The Graveyard Book, I allowed myself to believe the world of Gaiman’s creation and to look more deeply into the much more important stories he was telling: stories of morality, friendship, loyalty and dependability.

Luna by Julie Anne Peters

I feel I owe Julie Anne Peters a huge debt of gratitude. When I first read the description of this book, I felt a little disappointed that it was about a transgender person. I wanted to read a GLBT book, but I seemed to hope it would focus more on the “GLB” part of the label. While I know many gay, lesbian and bisexual people, I know only one transgender person. I realized, as I was reading, that my hesitation was because I had subconsciously considered gay, lesbian and bisexual as somehow more “normal” than transgender. Peters not only made me understand my own discriminatory thinking, but she also helped me overcome it. And I thank her.

I think this book really normalizes the idea of transgender and takes into account how difficult it is for people to accept and understand significant differences. Even Regan, Luna’s closest ally, often has a hard time knowing how to fully accept her. I think Regan’s own struggle to accept her sister made me feel better about my initial hesitation. Regan’s constant questions in her own head reminded me of times I have worked with myself, having silent conversations inside my head, to understand and accept people who are different than me. I’ve always thought that open-minded people who don’t admit that these conversations happen are deluding themselves. Many people say they have never had a racist or discriminatory thought. Growing up in the South, surrounded by racists so mired in their systemic discrimination that they didn’t even know how racist they were, I think everyone has racist or discriminatory thoughts about others. In my opinion, it is what you do with those thoughts that counts. Do you have an honest conversation with yourself in your head, or do you block out the thoughts and pretend they don’t exist? I think the truly open-minded have those conversations, just as Regan has them about Luna.

One internal conversation Regan had really resonated with my own thoughts. When Luna wants to go shopping the second time, Regan begins a conversation in her own mind: “Why can’t you just give this up? Leave it the way it is, the way it’s always been?” (p. 106). To the insider, it seems so much easier to conform, to simply do what’s expected; but, to the outsider, there is nothing more difficult. Whether it’s a little girl who hates dresses or a teenager who loves to read Shakespeare, a lesbian falling in love for the first time or a transgender person trapped in the wrong body: people are who they are. Trying to change to make other people happy is the most unfair thing we can ask of them.

To look at the conversations Regan has from a more critical standpoint, I think Peters’ using Regan as the narrator, rather than having Luna tell her own story, is the key to this book’s success. Because we can hear the dilemmas Regan confronts in processing what is going on with her sister, we have a more direct link to the issues and emotions of the entire family and community. If Luna were the narrator, it would be her story only and would feel removed from the reader (unless the reader was also transgender). I think the use of Regan as narrator allows us to confront the realities and questions in our own minds, just as Regan is allowed to work through her own issues involving full acceptance of her sister.

The flashback scenes are also enhanced by Regan’s serving as narrator. As she shares childhood memories, we begin to understand, along with Regan, the pain Liam has endured throughout his life. Regan shares her own thoughts and comes to realizations about Liam, just as the reader begins to understand and empathize with his issues. For example, as Regan processes her memory of her father spinning her round and round as her “girly whirligig” (p. 14), she remembers the look of hatred on Liam’s face. She asks herself, “What did Liam want, to be the girly whirligig? It struck me like a hammer to the head. Well, duh, Regan. That’s exactly what he wanted. It’s what he’s always wanted”
(p. 14). Peters uses Regan to help the reader form her own thoughts and understanding of Liam’s challenge.

Finally, Regan’s character is so fully developed on her own that it allows us to draw a parallel between her and Luna. Regan, like Liam, is an outsider. She has no friends and isn’t in with the popular crowd. She doubts herself constantly, labeling herself as an invisible person compared to “the ones with shape, form, matter. They Who Mattered” (p. 65). As Peters allows us to see inside Regan, a teenager most readers can relate to as a self-conscious, insecure high school student, we begin to understand that she is no different than Liam, who appears to the outside world to fit in, but, in reality, could not be more miserable. The more we get to know Regan, and those she has contact with, the more we begin to see Liam in the same way: as someone who “just want[s] to blend in” (p. 70). Peters does an expert job helping us understand this difficult, and not completely common, issue through a completely common sister. She helps us understand that we all want to find people like us, just as Liam exclaims when he discovers the testimonials of TG’s in transition: “It’s me, exactly me, same as me” (p. 70). Peters helps us realize we’re all the same: Liam, Luna, Regan, the reader. We all want and need to be accepted for who we are, but sometimes need a little help and understanding to get there.

Folklore: The People Could Fly

  

           I have never been very interested in folktales; I have never related much to the exaggeration and supernatural that I correlate with folktales. Unfortunately, The People Could Fly didn’t do much to change this.

            One of my main issues with this collection was the dialect used in the first section (the animal tales section). I have read—and enjoyed—many books whose authors have used language that is true to the characters’ dialect or setting, so I was surprised to find how frustrating and aggravating it was to read the dialect in these first stories.

While reading, I kept thinking of books I have read with difficult dialect, specifically African-American dialect: Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Color Purple, and Push. In all of these books, there is a clear and direct purpose for using the language that is used. The dialect truly adds to the experience of reading the book: it makes the characters seem more realistic and it helps the reader enter the different worlds of those characters. While I understand that the purpose of the dialects used in the folktales in The People Could Fly is to recreate the oral tradition of the folktales involved, these first stories seemed to go overboard. I felt I could have gotten the same sense of the story, and of the oral tradition, with less literal interpretations of the languages. Rather than adding to my understanding of the characters, I felt the language detracted from my enjoyment of the stories.

While the overuse of dialect in the first section of stories created a negative reaction, I did learn from the stories in a unique way. One characteristic that proved enjoyable was understanding how American slaves often used the animals in their stories to not only explain the mysteries of the natural world, but also the hierarchical order of the social world. For example, “Bruh Alligator Meets Trouble” sheds light on how the alligator’s smooth white skin became “all burned black and crinkly up” (p. 41). Using folktales to explain the natural world is a common practice of all cultures. However, some of the folktales in this collection also explored the hierarchical roles of the different beings on the planet, not just how they came to be. In “Bruh Alligator and Bruh Deer” white hunters, black slaves, and hunted animals are explored in relation to each other, rather than in an explanatory, physical way. Because there is a history of slavery in these folktales, it was interesting to see how it influenced the tales and distinguished them from their ancestral African folktales.

In regard to the structure and elements of folktales, a typically simplistic plot structure with a defined moral ending was present in many of the folktales in this book. Taking advantage of a direct, black-and-white worldview, many of the stories laid out a straightforward, often predictable, path toward danger. For example, in “Little Eight John” the main character purposely disobeys his mother, over and over again. As the story continues, in a very predictable way, the mother warns Little Eight John against certain actions, yet he consistently acts against her wishes. Eventually, Little Eight John is turned into a grease spot and his mother wipes him away, never to return. As the tale continues, we know Little Eight John will disobey each and every time; there is no suspense regarding what decision he will make. This leads us toward the obvious end—a predetermined moral lesson: “And that was the end of Little Eight John. What happens to all little chil’ren who never mind.” We are led to think: Yes, of course that is what happens to children who don’t listen.

These straightforward plot lines and blunt endings help the reader imagine the moment of the original storytelling. The overt repetition of similar events helps audiences stay tuned in to the storyteller, even allowing them to predict correctly what will happen next. An excellent example of this is in “The Peculiar Such Thing.” We are told at the beginning of the story that the main character “had no sense” (p.117) when he ate the creature’s tail, so we know something bad will happen to him. Again, the story is not about suspense, but about reader attention and lessons learned. As the creature comes back again and again, asking for his tail, we can predict that the terrified main character will continue to claim he doesn’t have it. The gruesome ending is stated briefly, in a mild voice, and concludes with a simple statement: “They say it got its tailypo back” (p. 120). Again, we are led to agree: Well, of course it did.

This simplistic plot and predictable ending is also used to tell other stories, those without an overt moral lesson, but still with a clever, yet obvious ending. In “How Nehemiah Got Free,” we know Nehemiah will be set free. It is not the suspense that keeps the story moving; instead, it is the predictability. As we read, we know Nehemiah will make Mister Warton laugh; it is just a matter of when. Once Nehemiah wins the bet, the black-and-white simplicity returns: “But true is true and facts are facts. And Nehemiah got his freedom” (p. 150). Well, of course he did.

These straightforward, almost emotionless, plots and endings are the best insight into the way the stories were told in the past. I can imagine a wry grin and a quick wink as the storyteller spins his tales and teaches his lessons, and then shoos everyone off to get back to work or go on to bed.

New Class Coming Soon

Just getting things set up for my Literature for Adolescents class...posts to come soon!