Three Knocks on the Wall-- Evelyn Sibley Lampman

Three Knocks on a Wall is among the few, the proud, the rereads featured on The No Twilight Zone.

When I went looking for this book last year, I was shocked to see that not only was the book out of print, but it didn't appear to have been widely distributed in the first place. Growing up, her books seemed to be everywhere. Of course, by "everywhere" I mean "at my school and in the town library," and it's not shocking that these places would be stocked with books by an Oregon author about the state's history.

I loved, and still love, her books. Historical fiction was my favorite genre as a kid, and it was incredibly satisfying to read about the history of the place I lived. I read pretty indiscriminately back then, so I couldn't have told you what I thought of the narration or characters except that they were "good." But I am not the only one who thought Evelyn Sibley Lampman was special. There is an award named after her. Her grandparents were pioneers who traveled the Oregon Trail to settle in the state-- that alone blows my mind.

I can't say for certain that her books are still in school libraries. I can say that when I rediscovered her writing a year ago, I was struck by how contemporary it feels. Three Knocks on a Wall deals with adultery and absent fathers. It was written in 1982, so it's not ahead of its time, but is probably more progressive than 90% of books available to me at that time. The writing is textbook: solid, establishing characters and setting right away, paced and flowing. In fact, the old-school feel of the book is more on account of its adherence to the writing "rules" than anything else, but that's part of what makes the book so comforting.

Marty, the twelve year-old narrator of Three Knocks on a Wall, is great. She is matter-of-fact, unsqueamish, and something of an old soul. She is great with animals, aloof with other girls, and doesn't know how to react to boys. She has a logical mind, and so when she hears knocks coming from behind the 10-foot high fence that surrounds the neighbor's house, she assumes it must be old Mrs. Hutchins or her daughter Miss Rebecca. But it's not Mrs. Hutchins. And pretty soon, she finds out it's not Miss Rebecca, either. Marty promises to keep her new friend's identity a secret, but regularly brings her news of the world outside: school and social events, WWI, small town dynamics, a world war, and finally a flu epidemic that brings them face-to-face.

Marty's parents stood out to me on this last read; they are older, a bit unconventional in their child rearing, and (perhaps on account of the former) gossip-averse. They speak to Marty like an adult, which explains her undramatic narrative tone and the fact that she is more comfortable around adults than people her age. I liked that her parents were portrayed with some nuance.

I was also pleased to find that I liked Marty's character as much as I did the first time I read Three Knocks on a Wall, though it seems plucky heroines are a dime a dozen these days.

Bat 6-- Virginia Euwer Wolff

This great little book was the young adult selection for a reading campaign to celebrate Oregon's 150th anniversary of statehood. Wolff is a celebrated Oregon author, and I actually liked her book much more than the culturally stereotyping adult selection.

The story is told from the perspectives of 21 different girls who make up the rival softball teams of two little towns in Oregon. It's 1949. The adults are still talking about the hardships of war. One of the players, Aki, has just returned with her family from an internment camp. Another player, Shazam, is also recovering from postwar trauma, but it takes the whole course of the book to unravel that. When the game ends in tragedy, everyone wonders why, or what they could have done to stop it.

The girls' distinct narrative voices and the piecemeal storytelling make for good reading. I loved the dynamics between them-- their polite disbelief in encounters with Shazam, their regard for one another, their shock and tendency to blame themselves for what transpires. I also appreciated that the book didn't offer any easy answers, and that the community at large also had to acknowledge their role in what happened.

Keeping Corner-- Kashmira Sheth

When I read Keeping Corner, a few things clicked in my head.

At this point, I have passed the halfway mark with my reading goal for the year. I have a long way to go, but I have still read some excellent books, some bad ones, and many in the middle.

Here are some of my realizations, mid-journey:

1. Character development is hard. Now that I am trying to do it in my own writing, I am constantly reminded of this. Sadly, I have also found well-developed characters rare in young adult novels. Some books skip over this completely, assuming a generic chatty "young person" tone for the narrative; others dig deeper, but only manage to successfully develop the main character.

If you are writing about a person very different from you-- which most authors are-- poor character development is even more troubling. Which brings me to the next point...

2. The author's level of connection to the character is obvious. Some writers incorporate aspects of themselves, or autobiographical experiences, in their characters. However, some authors can tell an amazing story when the connection is personal but removed, like Adam Bagdasarian in Forgotten Fire, or Padma Venkatraman in Climbing the Stairs. You can sense the kindred connection, even when authors are writing about an experience not their own.

Such is the case with Keeping Corner.

The heroine of Kashmira Sheth's novel is inspired by the author's great-aunt Maniben, a child widow who fought to continue her education. Sheth explained that the novel took her much longer to write than her other young adult novels, but the work gave her incredible satisfaction. The result is a remarkable little book with a family of sympathetic characters, subtly interwoven with details on culture, tradition, and history.

The heroine of Keeping Corner is Leela, who was engaged at two years old, married at nine, and widowed at twelve-- before she went to her husband's home, or ever really knew him. Indulged and pampered throughout her childhood, Leela is unprepared for the life of suffering she must now endure. Leela was never interested in school, but when Saviben offers to teach her, Leela discovers a love for knowledge, a gift for words, and an understanding of the political events that are changing the future of her country.

Well-done, all around.

Jacob Have I Loved-- Katherine Paterson

I didn't read this book in fourth grade. I think just about everyone else did.

I clearly wasn't listening to my classmates' book reports, because I thought it was about something else. It was only recently that I discovered this widely-read novel is about a place I have come to love: the Chesapeake Bay. More specifically, about what the waterman community was like there 50 years ago.

Sara Louise Bradshaw lives on Rass Island, descended from generations of Bradshaws who have been watermen there for the last 200 years. It's a small community, perhaps too small for how Sara Louise wants to live her life-- doing a man's work on a boat, harvesting crabs and oysters. Instead, her identity is reduced to being the twin of the lovely Caroline, whose singing voice is the pride of their small community. When Caroline begins to monopolize Sara Louise's friendships as well as the their parents' affection, Sara Louise resigns herself to incidental status rather than succumb to guilt over hating her own sister. Years go by before Sara Louise finally realizes that if she wants something of her own, she has to make it herself.

This book could easily be written for adults. Though the plot and characters are streamlined, there are many parts of this that will resonate with older readers-- changing relationships within families and with God, and the transition from childhood aspirations to grown-up ones. The most interesting family dynamics portrayed here are not necessarily the obvious ones; we see the grandmother slowly losing her grip in old age, the twins' mother explaining her life's choices to Sara Louise, and Sara Louise herself finally understanding her parents. I was intrigued by Patterson's choice to follow Sara Louise into adulthood, a place where young adult novels seldom go.

Thousand Pieces of Gold-- Ruthanne Lum McCunn

Thousand Pieces of Gold, as its title might suggest, was a treasure trove for me: Pacific Northwest history, Asian American history, and women's history all wrapped up in a compelling young adult novel.

Thousand Pieces of Gold is based on the life of Lalu Nathoy (later known as Polly Bemis), who was born in a village in Northern China in 1853 and died in Grangeville, Idaho in 1933. Author Ruthanne Lum McCunn intended to write a nonfictional account of Lalu's life, but realized there were too many gaps and contradictions in the available historical accounts, and turned to fiction. In this story, Lalu unbinds her feet at age 13 to join her father in plowing the fields-- in doing so, she gives up hope of marriage. She is later stolen by bandits, sold to a brothel, transferred to the custody of a slave merchant, smuggled into San Francisco's Chinatown, auctioned to a saloon keeper, and won in a poker game.

Warrens, Idaho must have been a fascinating place in its gold-mining heyday-- a rare community where whites and Chinese lived together, although the town was segregated. In spite of tensions, McCunn's interviewees all spoke warmly of their friend Polly-- her grit and cleverness as well as her kindness and sense of humor. What an extraordinary person she must have been. I think it must have been amazing to have known her, and after reading this book, I feel like I have come very close.

In the notes at the end of the book, McCunn discusses theories about Lalu's origins that came up in the translation process. McCunn now believes that Lalu may have been Daur Mongolian, and possibly Muslim (one of the meanings of "Lalu" is "Islam"). What struck me about these discoveries, as well as the wide translation and publication of this book, is that Thousand Pieces of Gold is just as much about Chinese history as it is about American history. A great book for discussion groups and young history buffs.

When the Emperor Was Divine-- Julie Otsuka

As I read this, a thought occurred to me: why didn't we read a single book about Japanese internment when I was in school? Up until high school, history classes alternated between state history and U.S. history; internment could have been taught in either context, but it wasn't. I mentioned in a previous review that I had two Holocaust literature units in high school, but nowhere did we discuss the atrocities that transpired only miles from our own homes.

The brief and poetic When the Emperor Was Divine would have been the perfect book for my middle school or freshman year classes. The first page, in and of itself, is exquisite. I got a chill envisioning this nameless woman walking down University Avenue, seeing an evacuation notice in the window, and going home to pack her things without knowing where exactly she was going.

The story follows the unnamed characters many places-- to the backyard of their Berkeley bungalow, a train headed east, an internment camp in the Utah desert, and memories of the past-- but only with occasional glimpses into their innermost feelings. Most of what we know of the characters is divined from their actions: the practical mother does her best to keep her conduct from betraying emotion, the young boy's thought processes are full of unspoken fear, and the girl simply runs away from the reader. We observe the most intimate, telling things about these characters, but they don't even have names. In some ways, we don't know them at all.

I did not expect the book to follow the family back home. For all I knew about internment, I had never imagined what that return must have felt like. The violated house and the coldness of the neighborhood are one thing, but the family that returns to the house is also very different from the one that left.

I Rode a Horse of Milk White Jade-- Diane Lee Wilson

I never would have picked up this book if I had known it was a horse story. I am not a horse girl. I don't understand horse girls (no offense, horse-loving friends; you just keep doing your thing). So why someone would enlist in Kublai Khan's army on account of a horse blows my mind. (My dear brother, a bottomless pit of miscellaneous knowledge, lectured me on the incredible importance of horses in Mongolian culture. Thanks, A, for that. Even so, this seems a little extreme.) Also, why does homegirl bring a kitten with her? I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, as Super Grover would say, on to our story...

Our heroine, Oyuna, is all bad luck. When she was two, she was injured by a horse and has been crippled ever since. Her mother later dies in a tragic accident. No one wants to marry her. She gets to choose a horse of her own, and even she doesn't fully understand why she chooses an old, injured mare. Shaman grandma comes to visit and Oyuna admits that she hears the horse talking to her. Grandma tells Oyuna to prepare for a journey, and then disappears. When the Khan's army comes for the family's horses, Oyuna decides to go with them. Quest ensues. Oyuna makes chit-chat with the Khan (which just seems weird to me) and ultimately gets the swift horses of her dreams. Maybe, thinks Oyuna, it's possible to make your own luck. (In this book, that last point is about as subtle as a whack with a baseball bat.)

This book is all plot. The characters are flattish, and the cultural context seems contrived. That said, it's very fast-paced and readable for age 10-12.

Forgotten Fire-- Adam Bagdasarian

I think Holocaust literature is pretty compelling for a lot of young adults. It's mind-blowing to think of an event so terrible in such recent history. After reading The Diary of Anne Frank, it's terrifying to think that someone your same age, not so different from yourself, had to look death in the eye like that. We had Holocaust literature units all throughout school, and my elementary, middle, and high school libraries all had fiction and nonfiction titles on the subject. The problem is-- and this is embarrassing to admit-- it took me a very long time to realize that the Holocaust was not an isolated incident of genocide, and there were no books about comparable tragedies in those libraries of my youth.

Enter Forgotten Fire, Adam Bagdasarian's account of his great-uncle's survival of the Armenian genocide. In 1915, Vahan Kendarian is 12 years old and living a life of privilege in the Armenian village of Biltis. Things begin to fall apart, however, when his politically powerful father is led away by Turkish gendarmes. Over the following months, Vahan's family members are summarily killed or otherwise lost to him. His survival repeatedly turns on making split-second decisions-- whether to hide or run, to conceal or reveal his identity, say nothing or speak out. Time and again, he meets someone who he grows to love and trust, only for them to be brutalized or otherwise touched by tragedy. We know Vashan escapes and eventually comes to the United States, where many years later his great-nephew will write about his journey, but at so many points in the story escape seems impossible.

I almost stopped breathing when his friend's mother takes Vashan to his old home to work as a stable boy for Talaat Bey, the Turkish governor who has taken up residence there. Bey was known as the "Horseshoer of Baskale," having nailed horseshoes to the feet of his victims. In the story, Bey speaks kindly to Vashan and tell him how much he respected Vashan's father. The whole thing sent uneasy chills down my spine.

The backstory to Forgotten Fire has its own power. Vashan recorded his memoirs on tape when he was dying, and eventually they were given by his son to Bagdasarian. It took Bagdasarian ten years to write the book, which he describes as a highly emotional and self-defining experience:

During the writing of this book, I realized what had happened to the Kenderian family, my grandmother, and my great-uncles and great-aunts had somehow been inside of me my whole life, that the trauma of those events through the seed from one from one generation of Armenians to another. Writing the book freed me of that, in a way. That said, I think of this story, aside from being specifically about the genocide, as being a metaphor for life. The book is about loss and adversity of any kind, and who we become as a result of that.

Recommended for 9th grade and up on account of some seriously heavy content.

Climbing the Stairs-- Padma Venkatraman

I love a strong female protagonist. Have you noticed, however, that many of them are the same? Your typical independent-minded, tomboyish heroine seems to be a convenient vessel to transport modern feminist attitudes into settings where these traits are actually discouraged in women. Think about all the books you’ve read where the character’s mother is like, “oh, you are so stubborn!” or “that’s not ladylike!” or “why can’t you take up sewing and cooking instead of playing outside/ reading books/ having a mind of your own?” These books are so formulaic: the spunky daughter is generally the apple of her father’s eye and so is permitted her independent spirit, she is then placed in some difficult circumstances where her un-feminine traits are somehow an asset to her. So unfortunate.

Vidya, the main character of Climbing the Stairs, almost goes there but not quite. While she is as non-conforming as we expect, there is something real and sincere about her. Vidya’s primary objective is to continue her education, even after her family falls apart and nothing is certain for the future. I like this girl.

Climbing the Stairs is set in India in the 1940s, where Vidya lives a relatively comfortable life until her family can no longer escape the colonial regime and approaching war. A tragedy forces Vidya and her family to move into her grandfather’s traditional household, ruled over by her oppressive aunt and uncle. Separated from her loving brother and without support from her cruelly-treated mother, Vidya’s only solace comes from her grandfather’s library and a friend she meets there. Her uncertain future mirrors the movement for independence in India, with political and spiritual threads woven throughout the story.

This book is beautiful, but also felt very genuine. In the author’s notes, Padma Venkatraman reveals that the characters and some of the events in the book were inspired by people in her family. Vidya, in particular, is inspired by Venkatraman’s mother, a lawyer and legal scholar who was encouraged by her father to pursue her love of learning. That pretty much sealed the deal for me-- there’s a heroine we can truly admire.

Venkatraman has an excellent website for this book for those who are interested in reading more about Indian history, religion, and society—visit it here.

Wild Ginger-- Anchee Min

The Cultural Revolution is an interesting subject for young adult fiction, given the important role of young people in the Red Guard. I hadn’t really thought about that until I read Wild Ginger, which is set in Shanghai in the late 1960s and early 1970s. In addition to making this era more real in the minds of readers, the setting offers thought-provoking themes, including political education and the role of youth in social movements.

History plays a large role in Wild Ginger, but it’s got a little something for everyone—a self-made hero, a loyal friendship, and a smoldering (if slightly disturbing) love story. The elements are relatively simple but the combination is effective, and the book is solid and well-paced. Readers will identify with Maple, whose love and loyalty are repeatedly tested.

On account of her non-proletarian background, Maple is a target for the Red Guard at her elementary school. She thinks she is alone until Wild Ginger comes to her class—a new student with light-colored eyes. Wild Ginger and Maple form a pact to stand up for each other, but Wild Ginger is determined to join the political system that has oppressed her family. When Maple and Wild Ginger fall in love with the same man, each of them makes a choice with haunting consequences.

My main criticism of Wild Ginger is that falls into the same trap as many historical books: the “villain” in the story is conveniently on what we view, with contemporary eyes, as the “wrong” side of history. It’s so formulaic for the enemy to be a loyalist, slave-owner, opponent of women’s suffrage/ school desegregation/ etc. Equating the likability of characters with a hindsight view of their political choices is far too easy, and makes no sense considering that our dogmatic view of the world is tempered as we grow older (and to make sense of this book, readers must be at least that mature). We are not surprised that the baddie in this book is the school’s Red Guard leader, Hot Pepper. It is, however, an interesting variation on a theme when Hot Pepper is supplanted by Wild Ginger herself, although the latter embraces her role and political ideology with very different intentions.

The details about the regime and revolution are pretty tame here, but the love story not so much—just a heads-up for anyone recommending this book to a student. Wild Ginger was written primarily for adults, but I think the characters would speak more to high school readers.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn- Betty Smith

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn came with me on a cross-country flight. On the plane and in the airport, three different people came up to me and asked if I was enjoying the book, because they remembered reading it when they were young. For many, the book is not only about the experience of childhood, but part of childhood itself.

Not so with me. I first attempted this book as a 12 year-old; I abandoned it because the first scene was just too rosy—it opens on 11 year-old Francie enjoying a glorious summer Saturday. She buys penny candy (“oh! The glorious things I could buy with this nickel!”), checks out a library book (“I am reading every book in the library, starting at the beginning of the alphabet, oh how I wish I could read all the books in the world!”), and surveys her neighborhood from the fire escape of her home (“isn’t Brooklyn the most wonderful place you could ever imagine?”).

At the onset, I was irritated by Francie’s naivete. But then I felt like a huge jerk, because 50 pages in I realized that Francie’s childlike wonder was illustrated largely so readers could observe its near-instant evaporation. The charming father slowly drinks himself to death, the hard-working mother barely conceals her favoritism for the other child, and Francie grows up feeling painfully alone. She plays “North Pole” with the family when they have no more food in the house. She receives poor grades in school when she writes about her life and a teacher lectures her that “poverty, starvation and drunkenness are ugly subjects to choose.” She is nearly abducted by a rapist.

There is a hard edge to the narrative, but it is not without sweetness— the grim bits are folded in the golden honey of nostalgia, by turns poignant and cloying. Ultimately, I was won over by Francie—as the story wore on and she was faced the premature responsibilities and disappointments of adulthood, I was relieved when her old sentimentality and sensitivity bobbed to the surface. I was also touched by Francie’s complicated and yet kindred relationship with her mother, and their shared resolve to keep the family alive.

The most compelling character, however, is Brooklyn itself. The book offers a window into early 20th century New York City, the indignities of tenement life, the troubled diversity of immigrant neighborhoods, and the anticipation of the Great War. The horrors and wonders of Brooklyn are what make this book, particularly for those who know and love Williamsburg.

The ending of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn seems facile but, frankly, had the book ended 20 pages earlier it would have destroyed me. I am therefore willing to forgive the dubious/ highly convenient change in circumstances that allows Francie’s family to pull through. This plot resolution is essential, because otherwise this book would be called A Tree Tries Desperately to Survive in Brooklyn and Tragically Fails.