The Hunger Games part 2: Pandemonium & Myth

It's Hunger Games mania at school right now!  We had a haphazard Hunger Games book club meeting at lunch, which involved a lot of "what's your favorite part" and "who would you be" type discussions.  The poor representative from our yearbook publisher walked into the middle of an intense Gale vs. Peeta argument in my publications class, and got a lot of  "Oh my God, you haven't read it!  You have to read it!"
It's a phenomenon.  Every morning I'm getting updates like, "I stayed up until one in the morning to finish Catching Fire!"  It's affecting students' performance in their other classes, because I'm also getting periodic updates like, "I read chapter 12 in band, and I can't believe..."  I feel like I've betrayed the college prep English teacher, who just assigned Crime and Punishment.  Many students will not have the first 100 pages read by Friday.
That said, here's the post I was planning on writing.  One aspect of The Hunger Games that I love is how Collins has created a story where a classic heroine is placed in a conflict that is so relevant to contemporary society.  To explain, I'll have to employ a Star Wars metaphor via Joseph Campbell.
In The Power of Myth, Campbell discusses Darth Vader, saying that he is "living not in terms of himself but in terms of an imposed system.  This is the threat to our lives that we all face today...How do you relate to the system so that you are not compulsively serving it?"  Campbell's answer to his own question: "By holding to your own ideals for yourself and, like Luke Skywalker, rejecting the system's impersonal claims upon you."
So, what does Campbell mean by "the system"?  We all have institutions vying for our loyalty and imposing systems on us--government, religion, workplace, school--and we all make decisions about how we will go about being an individual in relation to these institutions.  To paraphrase Campbell, our challenge is to find how we, as individuals, can use the system to benefit ourselves and others, instead of being consumed by it.
Katniss is slow to figure out where she stands in relationship to the system, the institutions of Panem and, later, of District 13.  She did not intend to become the leader of a revolution, but she eventually accepts her role.  She accepts it on her own terms, though, and never fully gives herself to the politicians and masterminds behind the revolution.  Her ultimate act of autonomy is the murder of President Coin.
So, if myths are metaphors for the journey of ordinary life, what are we to take from this?  We could start by asking ourselves if we are using the system or if it is using us.  Of course, what "the system" means to each of us will be different.
There is also the consideration of the community.  Heroes are not selfish.  Their victories are supposed to benefit others, as well.  Theseus, though he certainly had fame and fortune on his mind, slew the Cretan Minotaur to end the sacrificial slaughtering of Athenian youths.  Sound like a familiar scenario?  To facilitate this discussion, my contemporary literature class watched Jim Henson's version of the tale.  (Full disclosure, I got this idea from Wikipedia.)  We also charted Katniss' journey according to Campbell's model, which is here in simplified form.  We also discussed comparisons to The Iliad, Lord of the Rings, and others.
I feel like I'm gushing over The Hunger Games, perhaps exaggerating it's quality.  I don't know, I guess time will tell as far as that goes.

The Hunger Games part 1: Politics

I'm excited for the Hunger Games movie, and I'm not alone.  Yes, I'm a bit concerned the hype might overwhelm it, so I'm not paying too much attention.  Why am I so excited?  Isn't this just another teen action/romance series?  Yes and no.  Most of my students who have read The Hunger Games love it.  Many of them, mostly girls, have devoured the entire trilogy within a week or two.  Some guys, however, are not going to go for a book with a female narrator who's torn between two guys, even if she is shooting explosive arrows at hovercraft.  This trilogy is so much more than a post-apocalyptic love triangle, though.  Suzanne Collins has packed a lot of social criticism into these deceptively easy reads, and they serve as a wide open door into some great conversations.

First of all, there are the obvious parallels between the rebellion against Panem and the Arab Spring of 2011, as well as the Occupy movement.  When I brought this up, I was surprised to find out many students knew little-to-nothing about Tunisia or Tahrir Square, let alone the 99%.  The fictional revolution and the real ones certainly have similarities, but probably more differences.  While both the real world protestors and the revolutionaries of the Hunger Games utilized civil disobedience, the real people have been much more democratic in their methods.  There is currently no equivalent to President Coin, no single group masterminding the Arab Spring or the Occupy movement.  There's also no Katniss in the real world, not this time around.  The socialist revolutionaries of the previous century certainly had their emblematic figureheads, and characters like Haymitch are hellbent on turning Katniss into a Che Guevara.  Unlike Che, though, she is naive and usually motivated by her drive to save only her loved ones.  Only in climactic moments of clarity does Katniss see outside her small sphere of concern to realize the bigger game in which she is an unlikely player (i.e. the berries and the forcefield).

Another important social criticism seething between the lines has to do with media manipulation.  In Collins' future world, the revolution must be televised (RIP Mr. Heron).  The government of Panem uses what we now call "reality television" to control the masses through the Hunger Games.  The rebels  utilize the same platform to begin their revolution, using the Quarter Quell, and the popular heroes gathered therein, as their springboard.  Then, they continue to build support for their cause by broadcasting Katniss' contrived forays into the war.  Through these experiences, she realizes the influence she has due to her heroic status in the hearts of the populace.  This hero status is, of course, based on her performances in the Hunger Games, a media event.  The question I find myself asking is, "could this book have been written before Survivor?"  I don't think so.  The Hunger Games is a uniquely contemporary invention, and ingeniously so.

So, there they are, two parallels to our own society.  But what is Collins saying about them?  I think that's a rather complicated question to answer, which is something I love about these books.  Her fictional revolution, while seemingly well-intentioned, has a serious dark side.  There's Coin, the Stalin-like, would-be president who gets murdered by the hero before she has the chance to assume total power.  Then there's Haymitch and Plutarch Heavensbee, supposed good guys who carry out a program of coercion and manipulation to accomplish the takedown of Panem, and for whom the ends certainly justify the means.  District 13 itself seems like a somewhat more friendly version of Panem, one that dehumanizes by means of schedules and uniforms, rather than by violence and intimidation.

So, is Collins telling us to be wary of politicians?  Is this a cautionary tale for would-be revolutionaries, warning them to be careful of repeating history and  putting another Napoleon or Caesar in power?  (All the character names from The Tragedy of Julius Caesar were not lost on my sophomores.)  Or is this a hero story of a more mythological type?  Is Katniss another Theseus saving her people from the Minotaur?  Is her journey a metaphor for our own?

What, You've Never Read Where the Sidewalk Ends?!

Thank you to everyone who commented on the last post.  You reminded me of books I'd loved and forgotten (like Sideways Stories from Wayside School), and given me some great ideas of new books to enjoy.
Yesterday, I was surprised when a number of my tenth grade students did not get my reference to Shel Silverstein's "Boa Constrictor".  So, I promptly retrieved Where the Sidewalk Ends from the library and read a number of selections to them.  Just for fun, here's "The Toy Eater", from Falling Up.

It's strange to think about a childhood encounter with a story, poem, book, movie, or song, and what difference it might have made.  Was some aspect of my personality or sense of humor forever altered by Where the Sidewalk Ends?  It feels that way, but it's impossible to know.
As far as my tenth-graders go, surely some astute teacher or librarian along their educational path read them some Shel Silverstein poems.  Most of them don't remember it, though, and I can't help feeling sad for them.  It makes me want to put out an alert to all elementary teachers.  Of course, that's a can of worms that, once opened, would cause an infestation, because I want them to read all the books on my list and many more.
There are plenty of recommended reading lists by knowledgeable people out there, which is helpful.  Somehow, though, the idea of required reading for elementary rubs me the wrong way.  Childhood is a time for exploration, discovery, and wonder, and adults should do everything in their power to preserve that.  So, there's an art to choosing, suggesting, and guiding kids to the right books.  I, for one, have the utmost respect for those librarians, teachers, parents, and others who practice that art.

Children's Literature, What's the Deal?

The following is an imagined conversation among the characters of Seinfeld.

Jerry: Children's Literature, what's the deal?

Elaine: What do you mean?  It's books for kids.

Jerry: Yeah, but can only kids read them?  What if I want to read one?  Is that not allowed?

Elaine: So, you're saying you want to read Dr. Seuss.  I say go ahead.

George: I love Dr. Seuss.

Kramer: (bursting through the door) Hey, did somebody say something about Dr. Seuss?

Imaginary Jerry brings up a good point.  What is the deal?  What is children's literature?  Infamous book snob (and critical genius) Harold Bloom, in the introduction to Stories and Poems for Extremely Intelligent Children of All Ages, says, "Most of what is now commercially offered as children's literature would be inadequate fare for any reader of any age at any time."  There he goes harping on about universality again, but his point is clear: there's a lot of junky books out there.  Assuming that imaginary Elaine is correct, that children's literature is simply books for kids, then what makes for good children's literature?  This is a question I'm eager to explore.  Tons of smart people (Bloom included) have plenty to say on the topic, but I'm curious about what you think.  

So, I've thought back to my own childhood, made a list of books that stand out in my memory, and I'd like you to do the same.  These are the books that I remember reading, or in a couple of instances remember them being read to me by a teacher.  I figure that's a pretty good measure of the impact the book had on me. I've skipped over the early childhood stuff, but feel free to include those in your own list.

• The Secret of NIMH, by Robert C. O'brien
• The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain
• The Mouse and the Motorcycle, by Beverly Cleary
• The Trumpet of the Swan, by E.B. White
• The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis
• The Hardy Boys series, by Franklin W. Dixon (pseudonym)
• The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster
• The Alligator and His Uncle Tooth, by Geoffrey Hayes
• Hatchet, by Gary Paulson
• They Whipping Boy, by Sid Fleischman

Please post a comment with your own "most memorable children's book" list.  Also, you can explore these books by checking out my list on Indiebound.

Elizabeth Bennet: the Anti Bella

After reading Twilight, I should have delved into something more manly to compensate, but that was not to be.  I had already decided on Pride and Prejudice as the second book for my novels class, my plan being to read it over the summer.  That didn't happen, so with all the false confidence I could muster, I announced to my students that I would be reading this book for the first time with them.  It's lame, it's embarrassing, it's probably terrible teaching.  We are now halfway through the book, and today we were discussing comparisons between Elizabeth Bennet and other fictional characters.  The class agreed that she was pretty much the opposite of Bella from Twilight, which was nice to hear.  In fact, compared to any other character, Elizabeth was smarter, more confident, and more outspoken.  I think that, as far as female characters I've read, only Shakespeare's Rosalind rivals her in those qualities.  One girl in my class compared her to Annabeth from the Percy Jackson & the Olympians series for the same reasons.  Another contemporary character who comes to my mind is Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

I am not an expert in feminist issues, and anything I try to say on the topic will only embarrass me, I'm sure.  I have been intrigued, however, by the responses I've heard to both Twilight and Pride and Prejudice.  Some women say that Twilight is bad because Bella is a terrible role model for girls, and some say that the series honestly captures the essence and emotional intensity of teenage romance.  Most women I know who have read Pride and Prejudice love it.  The girls in my novels class are expressing desires to go back in time and live the life of an 18th century, upper-class English girl, mostly for the balls and the gowns, but also for the simplicity of the lifestyle.  They do not, however, wish for the pressure of finding a well-to-do husband or for the social limitations.  I can't help but remember that one of the things that attracted Bella to Edward was his old world charm.  He spoke eloquently, danced gracefully, played piano, and was exceedingly polite.

I also can't help thinking of Chaucer's The Wife of Bath's Tale, in which a knight convicted of rape was given one year to answer the question, "What do women most desire?"  The answer was mastery over their husbands, but for my purposes in this post I'm not so much interested in Chaucer's answer as in the question itself.  The question is, itself, an oversimplification of the greatest degree, but it is, nonetheless, a question for which the books I'm involved in right now are positing some possible answers.  Bella wants romance, Charlotte Lucas wants security, Elizabeth will know it when she sees it, I think.  Of course, I know that she ends up with Mr. Darcy, but I don't know how yet.  So, don't ruin it for me because I'm actually enjoying this one.

Twilight

I just finished reading Twilight.  I made a deal with my novels class, "You read Dracula, I'll read Twilight."  I think most of them actually read it.  So here, in five words, are a 33-year-old man's thoughts on the infamous teen vampire romance: it's a teen vampire romance.  That's it.  As I told my class one day, "my problem is that I'm not a teenage girl."

I feel like I have no context by which to fairly judge this book, having never read a romance novel, but I'm going to judge it anyway.  Stephanie Meyer has obviously captured the imagination of millions of teenage girls of all ages, so she must doing something right.  For me, though, the book was a series of desperately hopeful build-ups, and awful let-downs.  I wanted it to be good, despite everything I'd heard, and honestly gave it a chance.  For the first 150 pages or so, I thought it was interesting, but only because I assumed it was going somewhere.  Alas, that was not to be.

I'll briefly list my chief complaints:
1. Vampires playing baseball during thunderstorms so they can literally hit the ball with a thunderous crack is the silliest thing I've ever read, and not the good kind of silly.
2. Everyone in this book, especially Bella, needs to eat more food.  Skipping lunch because your crush is mysteriously absent is a bad idea.
3. Every time I thought it was headed somewhere, that something was actually going to happen, all I got was more obsessing, more drooling over Edward.
4. A vampire sparkling in the sunlight of a secluded meadow, cuddling carefully with his human girlfriend is the most inane thing I've ever read.
5.  Will everyone please stop comparing this series to Harry Potter?  It is not at all the same sort of book, but as I was reading Twilight, I got so many questions and comments along those lines.

The worst thing about this book is that it is ALL about a lonely girl obsessing over a boy, mostly for his looks.  That's it.  Even the climax is disappointingly bogged down by pages and pages of Bella in a hotel room missing Edward, then being duped in a ridiculously simple way by her captor.

Finally, I'm not interested in the emotional complexities of loving a vampire.  By the end of the book, Bella wants to become a vampire.  She calls prom a "trite human thing."  Edward refuses to turn her into a "monster", which is supposed to demonstrate Edward's nobility, but somehow only makes him seem more self-indulgent.  The best literature, in my opinion, affirms our humanity while allowing us to escape our personal situation for a time.  Twilight, however, only affirms our desire to escape.

Kids in the 1820's

I am teaching a class on folklore this semester and have completely fallen in love with the stories of the Brothers Grimm.  Not only that, but my students have, too.  I was skeptical when I saw that my roster consisted of five guys and one girl, but I should not have been.   Seventeen-year-old guys love violence and gore, and the Brothers Grimm deliver both with a surprising and twisted sense of humor.  Stories like "The Robber Bridegroom" and "Fitcher's Bird" rival any current horror movie for shock factor.  Here's an example from the latter, translated by Maria Tatar in her delightfully titled book, The Grimm Reader:

"Imagine what she saw when she entered!  In the middle of the room there was a big basin full of blood, and in it there were chopped up pieces of dead bodies.  Next to the basin was a block of wood with a gleaming ax on it."

This is a children's story?!  I think one of my students put it best: "Kids in the 1820's were B.A."

I knew that Jacob and Wilhem had magically imbedded themselves somewhere deep in the Disney-dilluted collective cultural consciousness, and I had a hunch that by reading the raw original stories we could light up some long-dormant regions of our temporal lobes.  I'm delighted that it's working.  So far, we've worked on tracing motifs through the stories: the wicked stepmother, human-to-animal transformations, hidden identities, etc.  We've compared the Grimms' "Briar Rose" to Disney's Sleeping Beauty.  It's been fun, and I hope the good energy continues.

After The Grimm Reader, we'll be reading Yeats' Celtic Twilight, Favorite Folk Tales from Around the World (edited by Jane Yolen), and Legends and Tales of the American West (by Richard Erdoes).  Right now, though, I feel like I could linger with the Brothers Grimm all semester.  So, what do I love about them?  It's not the violence, although I can't imagine the stories without it.  It has something to do with the joy of knowing that when a certain element is at play, you know what's going to happen, but not how.  If there's a wolf, you know somebody's getting eaten, but how is the wolf going to trick them?  If there are any number of brothers and one younger sister, you know they're going to get turned into birds, or maybe a deer, and the sister is going to have to save them, but how?  At the end will the wicked stepmother be boiled in a barrel with poisonous snakes, or drug through the streets in a barrel studded with nails on the inside?

And there are always those out-of-nowhere, never-saw-it-coming moments that you can't help but laugh at, like when the young man enters hell and finds the devil's grandmother sitting in an easy chair.  It is in such moments that you can feel the oral tradition bleeding through the page.  You can imagine yourself in cottage in the black forest listening to some old woman spin the tale.  So, props to Tatar for a wonderful translation.

I'm looking forward to seeing where this semester goes.