Mahfouz

“Always remember that the courageous soldier flies like an arrow toward his goal without questioning the one who launched it.”

― Naguib Mahfouz, Khufu’s Wisdom

My favorite picture of Mahfouz.  At his home 

Naguib Mahfouz was born on December 11, 1911 to a lower middle-class Muslim family in the medieval Fatimid quarter of Cairo in Egypt.  Mahfouz was the  baby of his large family – his parents, Abdel-Aziz and Fatimah Ibrahim had six other children before him. The Mahfouz family were extremely devout to the Islamic traditions and customs, and Naguib often spoke of his strict upbringing.  Mahfouz was a seven-year-old at the time of the Egyptian Revolution of 1919 and it had an enormous effect on him as a writer and a person, shaking the security of what was the Egypt of his childhood.  In 1930 Mahfouz was admitted to the Egyptian University, later renamed Cairo University, where he studied philosophy. After graduating, he worked in various government ministries until his retirement in 1971. Mahfouz then worked as a journalist, before his own writings received enough notoriety to feed his family and pay his rent.  He wrote prolifically, publishing thirty-three novels, sixteen short story collections, several plays, thirty screenplays, and a variety of other works of non-fiction over his 70-year career. He was an outspoken advocate of peace between Egypt and Israel, a position that made him a controversial figure in his homeland. An assassination attempt in 1994 shocked to country, when an Islamic fundamentalist stabbed him. Weakened by age and debilitated by the attack, Mahfouz was unable to write longer pieces in his later years.  He began to compose extremely brief, dream-based vignettes.

When We Met:  Another author I admired, Augusten Burroughs, was interviewed and remarked how he would have not read Naguib Mahfouz’s Midaq Alley if he hadn’t seen the cover.  Curious as a cat, I chased it down and read it.  It was amazing.  It was horrific and wondrous, challenging and poignant.   It was so well-written that I could not stop reading Mahfouz.  On a ministry trip to Cairo I bought the Cairo Trilogy and devoured all three.  The more I read, the more I wanted.  Some authors deliver more than a story – they bring a microcosm of their world in a tale.  Mahfouz is one of those. 

Why He’s Good: Mahfouz has a way of taking the complicated history of modern Egypt and making it easily digestible for foreigners. As he paints a picture of Egypt, Mahfouz patiently weaves the stories of the obviously oppressed and the not-so-obviously oppressed.  Mahfouz tells what he sees –and it is easy to understand how Egypt’s alleys can hold a myriad of tales.  Some people refer to him as the Arabic Charles Dickens, portraying characters with such intricate detail that you hope that no harm will come to them.  When you’re in that attached, heart-rendered place, something happens that takes your breath away. Mahfouz is half literary genius and half artist.

Plot Variations:  Three generations of the family of a tyrannical patriarch reveal secret lives, dreams and incorrigible self-indulgence. Citizens inside of a modern Cairo neighborhood unwittingly reenact the lives of their holy ancestors.  An orphan raised by a foster mother, is drawn into prostitution. A former thief returns home from prison only to find that his beloved wife and his trusted henchman had conspired to betray him to the police so that they could marry each other and keep his six-year-old daughter from him.

Buy One:  Since The Cairo Trilogy--Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, and Sugar Street— is three, it cannot be on the “buy one” of Mahfouz’s list. I recommend the terrible and wonderful Midaq Alley – a tale of good and evil and a tragic heroine that is (almost) redeemed by love.

Surrounded by crime and broken hearted, Hamida, an orphan raised by a foster mother, is drawn into a life of prostitution after her true love leaves. A cafe in the alley, is a drug addict and a lustful homosexual. Zaita makes a living by disfiguring people so that they can become successful beggars. Transcending time and place, the social issues treated here are relevant today. Midaq Alley available here.

Favorite Quote:  Mahfouz had a strict Islamic upbringing. In one interview, he elaborated on the stern religious climate at home during his childhood: “You would never have thought that an artist would emerge from that family.”

Trivia:  Mahfouz was named after the Coptic physician who delivered him, Naguib Pasha Mahfouz.

Utterly ridiculous beautiful irony: Mahfouz gives us a world that cannot collapse-and then does.  He paints us a picture that is too beautiful to be destroyed, and then pulls us away as it is slashed before our eyes.  The author of many lines I remember later, in an ache, I love his staying power.  The highest compliment I can pay to any author is that they write“utterly ridiculous beautiful irony,” which Mahfouz does - every single time.

Let my example of this be from Palace Walk, the first book in the Cairo Trilogy:

“Just as he had reconciled the opposing forces of sexuality and ethics, he was also able to merge piety and debauchery successfully into a unity, free of any hint of either sin or repression.”

~Naguib Mahfouz,  Palace Walk

Achebe

“You told us with your own mouth that there was only one god. Now you talk about his son. He must have a wife, then.”

― Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart

Chinua Achebe was born Albert Chinualumogu Achebe in Nigeria on November 16, 1930.  His parents, Isaiah Okafo and Janet Anaenechi, lived as traditional Igbo (EE-bow) until they converted to the Protestant Church Mission Society, or CMS.  After their conversion, neither parent abandoned the beliefs or practices that were found in the Igbo traditions.  This familial environment proved to be a permanent crossroads that affected Chinua dramatically. After secondary school, he won a scholarship and studied world religions and traditional African cultures.  His short stories and poetry tell of the changing African political climate of his day, and the overriding importance of family and tradition. 

When We Met:  I started reading Things Fall Apart, Achebe’s magnum opus, when we moved back home in 2013, after living in Africa for seven years.  I fell in love with the round, natural words of Achebe, dripping with respect and formality.  His genuine love of traditional expression was not wasted on me.  I was homesick for the continent and was able to hear the conversation of my friends, as well as remember the challenge of being a missionary to tribal people.  

Why He’s Good: Think of your favorite Uncle who tells stories – then make him African.  Achebe is the quintessential African story-teller, filled with love and connection, carrying on the amazing oral tradition of his people. Achebe isn't a great African writer because he describes the colors of the African sunsets, or the roaming bok, but becasue he pulls the reader into the world of traditional African people – in most cases, the Igbo--and fills our hearts with their plight.  He writes of the long-standing feud between colonialism and traditional societies.  Themes of polygamy, masculinity, and respect come to life as Achebe deftly weaves their importance into the story.  Beneath the surface is the universal struggle to find God, significance, love, and security.  Achebe’s Post-colonial themes offer a unique perspective on modern literature, infused with politics that cannot be ignored.

Plot Variations:  A tribal leader, trying to live a life of honor and strength, falls from grace with the tribal world and later confronts aggressive Christian missionaries. A marketplace official tries to understand the smallpox epidemic that he suspects is the result of angry gods.  A hair dresser living in New Haven, Connecticut writes a popular blog in which she explores what she calls Racial Disorder Syndrome.

Favorite Quote:  Because I worked as a Christian missionary in Africa I loved how Achebe recognized God’s power and his ability to uplift people, especially women.  Even so, he recognized the shortcomings of organized, institutional religions, especially when the leaders “forgot” how to live in the love of Christ: “I thought that Christianity was very a good and a very valuable thing for us. But after a while, I began to feel that the story that I was told about this religion wasn't perhaps completely whole, that something was left out.”

Buy One:  Things Fall Apart is a bucket list book (one that you should read before you die).  If you love to read, or if you are looking for one book that explains post-colonial culture in Africa, make it this one.  The story unfolds perfectly, is told with a perfect African perspective, and concludes – perfectly.

Trivia:  Achebe's unabbreviated name, Chinualumogu, means "May God fight on my behalf", a parents’ prayer for divine protection and spiritual stability.  Chinua’s five siblings also had English and traditional names – in the spirit of embracing both cultures.

Revelation: I leave you with a powerful quote from one of Achebe’s stories that explains how the poverty-stricken African people were overtaken by globalization:

“But progress had turned [the marketplace] into a busy, sprawling, crowded and dirty river port, a no-man-land where strangers outnumbered the sons of the soil, who could do nothing about it except shake their heads at the gross perversion of their prayer.”

~From "The Sacrificial Egg" by Chinua Achebe

fourth

The Fourth of July  is:

1. ·        the day that we remember our act of high treason against the crown of Britain.
2. ·        we hang the flag in honor of our armed services who have protected our rights and liberties since the founders signed the historic document called the Declaration of Independence. 
3. ·        when Americans barbeque and blow things up. 
4. ·        All of the above

Writing the Declaration of Independence 1776
Jean Leon Gerome Ferris, 1900

In 1776, the American colonists were tired of being second-class citizens in the eyes of England.

They had no rights, other than the protection of the British Army and Navy.  They wanted to govern themselves and knew they could do it without a sovereign.

What the land-owning Founding Fathers had was a voice that England would be forced to listen to.   We are no different than you are – we are gentlemen ourselves.

John Adams convinced the congress to allow Thomas Jefferson to compose an official document called “the Declaration” in which the representatives of the colonies would sign their names and send it off to King George to make the treason official.  Congress adopted the Declaration of Independence on July 2, 1776.  The document was signed two days later by the colonial representatives or our “founding fathers” who were there.

John Hancock was said to have signed it first – in a grand and dark signature ---so that King George could read it without his spectacles.  To this day, his is the American benchmark of signatures.

If the Founding Fathers believed that all men were created equal, they had a funny way of showing it.

The declaration of Independence has a beautiful preamble:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

Like most wealthy men of their time, the Founders were gentlemen only in theory.  Many of them owned slaves, they all would fit into the upper one percent of wealth back then.    It is important to remember that the founders were influenced by the culture and the time.   Washington and Jefferson privately expressed distaste for slavery (Jefferson once called it an "execrable commerce"), but they also understood that it was part of the political and economic bedrock of the country they helped to create.

The life, liberty and pursuit of happiness they spoke of was for land-owning men.  White men.  Not women; not slaves; not foreigners.

Congress   encouraged fireworks on the Fourth of July from the very start.  Authorizing a display on July 4, 1777, in Philadelphia, a year after the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  “At night there was a grand exhibition of fireworks, which began and concluded with thirteen rockets on the commons,” reads a journal from that year.  

Another colorful display took place in Philadelphia on July 4, 1779: “In the evening a set of brilliant fireworks were exhibited, particularly excellent rockets, which, after ascending to an amazing height in the air, burst, and displayed thirteen stars.”

California fare for the Fourth of July is grilling out with the family.  Families often celebrate with picnics and barbecues. Our grilling traditions sizzle with the weather – can you believe we grill in this heat?  BTW – Southerners Bar-b-que. Westerners grill.  The difference is in the sauce.

It is a day that all of us flawed Americans  celebrate high treason, eat too much and blow things up.

 And we remember those who have fought for our beloved Independence.  After living abroad for years, I can vouch that this country is my beautiful home and still does a lot of things very well.  Do not be dismayed and do not give up praying.  Take time out to thank our armed forces once again this holiday.  

God Bless You All.  God bless us in this transition.

Lessing

“Do you know what people really want? Everyone, I mean. Everybody in the world is thinking: I wish there was just one other person I could really talk to, who could really understand me, who'd be kind to me. That's what people really want, if they're telling the truth.”

― Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook

Doris Lessing was born Doris May Tayler (with an "E" not an "O") in Kermanshah, Iran, on October 22, 1919.  Her parents, Alfred and Maude Tayler were both British, brave and born for adventure.  This is why the family moved to Southern Rhodesia in 1925.  Doris had one brother, Harry, and the two of them grew up in the wild and unspoilt veld, just outside of Salisbury (now Harare).  When she was fifteen, Doris began to write, overcoming many obstacles in pursuit of honing her craft.  Lessing moved to London in 1949 and stayed there for the rest of her life. Lessing received many distinctions and awards, including the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2007.  She died peacefully at the age of 94 in 2013. 

When We Met:  The first time I read Doris Lessing I was living in South Africa.  I read one of her short stories, as bare and gnarly as the exposed roots of a baobab tree, with fascination and appreciation.  I also  had a deeper knowledge of what she was talking about simply because I lived in Africa.  Lessing wrote with the appealing and unique voice of a white African woman, familiar with the rugged, untamable Africa.  When people ask why I love her, I tell them that she sewed my heart back together – after it had been split between two continents.

Why She’s Good: Lessing’s brilliance is in her delivery: she is brutally transparent in her descriptions of everything.  An average reader could be misled by her perfect English and Austen-esque execution, thinking she is telling a proper British story.  Within a few chapters, the reader is caught in a web of inescapable human drama.  Lessing is faithful to administer the brimstone of African truth, showing us how the world is brutal and how we all need one another to survive.  Segregation, sexism and racism were Lessing’s favorite themes, so her work was touted as radical for its time.

Plot Variations:  A black gardener saves the life and sight of his young master and then refuses to reveal what herbs he used to do it.  A young boy treks into the veld just in time to see army ants demolish a buck.  An author’s compartmentalized life is forced into one, digestible piece of literature.

A pioneer of feminist and post-modern literature, Lessing told tales of feminine struggle, politics, and family –but nothing was as astounding as her African pieces.

Favorite Quote:  Lessing was incredibly private, despite being a public author.  After The Golden Notebook was published, she was revered as a feminist leader, but reluctant to accept that role.     "I've got the feeling that the sex war is not the most important war going on, nor is it the most vital problem in our lives."

Buy One: If you were to buy only one Doris Lessing, I would suggest African Stories (1964).  An early Lessing sampler that gives you a taste of how she writes.  She evolved into a more accomplished and forgiving author as she aged, but this book is filled with the gorgeous angst that made me want to read more and more and more….  Besides, my favorite piece ever, “No Witchcraft for Sale” is in it.  Available here from Amazon.

Trivia:  In one of the most astounding blessings of my life, our friend, Keir Tayler, asked me to help him compile his memoir.  As we began work on the project, Keir told me that his father, Harry, was raised in Southern Rhodesia by British parents.  Harry’s sister was the author, Doris Lessing.  After I recovered from my heart attack, Keir and I actually completed his amazing memoir – Available here through Amazon. 

Beauty: I leave you with the touching, gorgeous, African kiss that whispers of the veld (for Americans, pronounced ‘FELT’):

“Soon he had left the cultivated part of the farm.  Behind him the bush was low and black.  In front was a long vlei, acres of long pale grass that sent back a hollowing gleam of light to a satiny sky.  Near him thick swathes of grass were bent with the weight of water, and diamond drops sparkled on each frond.”

~From "A Sunrise on the Veld" by Doris Lessing

Mario

Mario - Northern Kenya 2008

As I tapped my foot impatiently for the right man to come, I held several low-paying, dead-end jobs, including a park-aid for an OHV park where the visitors flirted with me shamelessly.  My boss, a Chuck Norris type, had just the right amount of concern and protection.  “You’re pretty friendly,” he’d say to me when I complained about the unsolicited attention.  “They might think you’re interested.”

Mario about the time I met him - 1987

My boss was a divorced man, older and wiser.  He also ran the place and I was obliged to listen to him.  He gave advice only when I asked him for it, unless he was telling me how to do my job better.  I knew him only a little.  He was a friend of Lisa, one of my mentors,  respected as a leader in his department and worked tirelessly for the State Park Peace Officer’s Association, even though he was a Republican.  Tall, handsome, and muscular, Mario was seen by many women as an extremely eligible bachelor. 

Even in the workplace, women seemed to become softer  around him. I used to tease him about this, and he brushed me off.  I was not one of the swooners. Nine years older than me, Mario was not my type.  I was attracted to younger bad boys, usually Democrat musicians who were between jobs.  Mario was so clean-cut, a definite square -- and my boss.  Nevertheless, we became friends and I trusted and respected him.  I could tell he appreciated me as an employee and the symbiotic relationship worked in our office.  

One day, after a complicated series of events, I sought his advice on a personal issue.  He listened to my story and then offered his advice with humility and sincerity.  I sensed a deep ache in his words, a vulnerability that I had not seen before. 

Walking me out to my car, Mario and I said goodbye –and then we hugged.

As I hugged him, I melted into the firm, stable contours of his body.  I felt heaven open and the earth move.  There were angels singing, accompanied by harp music.  Doves bearing long silver ribbons descended from the sky and draped us in the destiny that was now irrevocable: we were meant for each other.   

That’s how Mario and I began.

Togetherness was inevitable, but entering a future together was another story.  Instead of sailing off into the sunset and living happily ever after, we were immediately navigating a rock-filled, rushing river in a two-person kayak, using nothing but foam paddles.  We eventually figured out that love, no matter how powerful, was not going to be enough to get us through the life we wanted together, so we developed skills together.  Not just how to navigate the river in our kayak, but how to make it out of the rapids without drowning after it crashed on the rocks.  Through the years, we learned how to seek help when we were miserably stuck, find hope in darkness, and press through tragedy.  We learned how to do all of these things with four children – four beautiful, wonderful and forgiving children.  God and our many friends helped us through the places that were miserable and dark.

Mario, through it all, was a fearless leader.  Together we have weathered many unpredictable storms and come out of them still friends.

My husband is unusually strong and likewise tender.  He is a marathon runner who never accepts defeat and works tirelessly.  Above all of this, Mario is a faith-filled man who loves and understands me deeply. He cares more about the inside of people, their hearts and minds, than any external label anyone can place on another human being.  He’s taught me patience, perseverance and humility.  I love him more than ever—with the kind of love that grows.

All of Us- Father's Day 1993

This year, as if to challenge himself even further, Mario was part of  Davis Musical Theater's production of Man of LaMancha.  Taking part in the 50th anniversary production of his father's signature play was a huge step out of his comfort zone, but he loved it.

He also just finished writing a tribute biography for his brother, Stephen.  He asked me to edit the text, but it was so touching and beautiful that I couldn't touch it.  This week we took it to the printers and when it showed up, I got tears in my eyes.   What a genuine labor of love for his family!

Today is Mario’s birthday—and Father’s Day!  On this day Mario will “uncelebrate” – hunker down and do what he loves to do best: relax.  For a man who never stops growing and challenging himself, he understands the need for peace and rest!  I can plan a party for him and invite our friends and family – fill the house with celebration and laughter, but that would be for me, not him.

Sometimes I remember the day after the hug – the day when Mario confronted me and asked me what happened.

“I’ve never had a hug like that before.  What did you do?”

I smiled, shyly (I am not shy).  I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that I loved who he was inside and out.  I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t like all the other girls.  I was designed for him as he was for me.  Instead, I just said, “I don’t know.”

He didn’t know what to say, but he looked at me suspiciously.  As a cop, he might have thought that I could be hiding something.  I swear I’m not hiding anything, babe –but feel free to search me!

I love you, Mario.  Happy Father’s Day and Happy Birthday.  How did I ever get so lucky?

US!  

Joe

Joe - 1987

The first time I met Joe he was wearing a green-striped shirt and following David, his elder brother, into his father’s office.  He looked over the counter and smiled at me.  His father was Mario, my boss who I would marry eighteen months later, though at the time I didn’t see that coming. 

“Boys,” Mario said in a voice reserved for his children.  “This is our new Park Aid, Janet.  She’s brand new so don’t bother her.  She’s still trying to learn how to type.” Mario thought he was funny.  So did the boys.

Instead of “not bothering me” the boys gravitated to my desk.  David told me that they had come on a plane together to California, all the way from Kansas City.

“That’s where our Mom lives,” Joe said, dreamily.  He was a blonde, blue-eyed boy who had just turned six.  David, brown haired and brown eyed was seven, but quick to tell me that he would soon be eight. 

I liked them immediately.  They were filled with observations and questions.  They wanted to use my new electric typewriter.  They told me they had just ridden a horse the day before and Joe actually fell off.

“But I got up and got back on,” he said, proud of himself.  What I didn’t see coming was that Joe would become quite an accomplished horse rider—a cowboy, if you will.  Both boys would learn to break and care for horses with such skill that they could make a living.

I went to Mario’s house for dinner that night (more at the invitation of the boys than of him) and got to observe the family dynamics a bit more.  Both boys basked in their father’s attention.  David appeared to be the alpha, even though Joe would say “You’re not the boss of me, David!”  Joe, as the younger child, was thoughtful. 

Joe and I -that first dinner meeting

At some point, I picked up a book and started reading to them.  It was beautiful and magical.  I read four or five books that evening before I excused myself and went home.

“Why are you leaving?” Joe asked me as I packed up my purse. 

“I have a baby,” I answered above their father.  (Mario was laughing, saying: “Because she doesn’t live here!”)

“A girl baby or a boy baby?” Joe asked.

“A boy.  His name is Vince.”

“Can you go get him and bring him back here?”

I looked up at Mario who was smiling. 

“No, honey,” I said.  “I’m going to go home and spend some time with him.  Usually I give him a bath and put him to bed.”

Mario and Joe at the top of the World Trade Center - 1987

I left that night, feeling like I fit in the lives of Mario and the boys. That seed grew and blossomed into a beautiful relationship, one that we realized would become permanent. What I didn’t see coming was how long it would take Joe to accept me as part of Mario’s life.  He was careful and watchful.  Mario and I were careful to read books on blended families and even saw a family counselor. 

On a trip to New York City, David agreed to hold my hand when we crossed the street or walked crowded sidewalks.  Joe permitted me to hold his wrist.   David shared his heart and mind with me while Joe watched me closely.

Eventually Joe and I became closer and he accepted that I was a part of his new life that wasn’t going away.  Thank God there was that acceptance.  As he grew, I saw that Joe’s heart was so like his father’s: steady, beautiful, tender.

Our Family 1994

A little over a year ago, Joe married Ariel, his long-time girlfriend –who has a young son named Asher.  To see the family together is precious and inspiring.  Joe seems to have come alive with fatherhood and the occupation makes him glow.

Joe (holding Asher) and Ariel (holding Harvey)

Today is his birthday –tomorrow is Father’s Day.  I watch Joe now as he used to watch me; I see him alive and sparkling in full bloom.  A husband, a father and the proud pappy of a new baby, Harvey.  As a man, he has come into his own.

Joe with Harvey -- January 2016

Over the years, I have amassed thousands of memories and thousands of words to describe Joe, but the best way I can sum him up is to say he is like Mario.  He’s kind to strangers, loves his family and thinks he is funnier than he really is (wink, wink).  He  is tender and strong.  He thinks before he acts, works well in a team, and make decisions cautiously and carefully. 

In truth, Joe has become stronger with each passing year, and in this world that matters. 

Happy Birthday, Joe!  Your faithful love and understanding has been greater than I could have ever hoped for.  I love you. 

words

The Alleys of Khan el Khalili

I remember the day I almost met Naguib Mahfouz.  I was a mess, cramping with excitement.  I had admired his writing, especially Midaq Alley, a book that both enchanted and horrified me.  On our first trip to Cairo, I begged Mario to take me to Khan el-Khalili, the Islamic marketplace that Mahfouz haunted, writing in coffee-houses with a pen and paper, drinking coffee like he was ordinary.  I knew he breathed atoms there; perhaps I could breathe the same ones.  I wanted to understand the hold that his words had on me. 

“Do you want me to take you to his coffee house?” Our eavesdropping taxi driver spoke perfect English, and I was surprised. “He should still be there.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning my attention toward him.  “Do you know him?”  I suddenly felt naked and exposed.  I sounded like some literary groupie, but Mario laughed. 

“This is perfect.  You know where he has coffee?”

The driver looked at his watch.  “If we hurry we can make it before one o’clock.  He goes home for lunch.”

We made it to the bazaar in record speed and parked.  I was shaking.  I was suddenly aware of how western I was.  My hair hung, black and uncovered, all the way to my shoulders.  My white skirt, in proper missionary fashion, covered my knees, but not my ankles.  

I followed our driver through the narrow alleys, passing hanging chandeliers and brass candlesticks to a doorway with an ornate carved entrance.  As soon as we stepped inside, an oil painting of Mahfouz greeted us; his books lined the walls.  Here, Mahfouz penned the entire history of modern Egypt in a series of books. 

My knees shook; I held Mario’s hand too tightly.

Naguib Mahfouz's nook at his coffee shop, Khan Khalili

The taxi driver took it upon himself to speak to the maître D, a man in a dishdasha and fez.  He looked over at me as our driver explained what an insane fan I was, and sized me up.  

Then. Turning to our taxi driver, he shook his head slowly and whispered something.  I knew I had been rejected.  Perhaps the master liked to write undisturbed- after all, I did.

Our driver returned to us with a sad look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, in a low voice.  “But he died last year.”

The moment makes me laugh now.  What was I thinking? I was going to meet a writer, a fellow author who wrote about his corner of the world.  What would I have said?  What would I have asked him?  

The truth is, it didn’t matter.  I loved the WORDS that Mahfouz gave me; I loved them, ate them, digested them.  They became part of me and I adored him for that.

Like all readers, I have the propensity to write.  I love words and find God in the detail of them.  Whispers of civilizations, friends I will never meet, cultures I will become temporarily attached to, are all in the safe pages of a book that I can buy and own and curl up with somewhere.

Michael Spurgeon, Josh Weil, Christian Keifer,
and Bich Minh Nguyen after the Friday Evening Reading

This year, I heard that Luis Urrea was coming to Summer Words, American River College’s event for writers and readers.  Summer Words is the brain child of two creative writing professors at ARC – Christian Keifer and Michael Spurgeon.  Both authors themselves, Spurgeon and Keifer are master networkers, and model the arts of researching, developing projects, and editing with fellow writers for their students. 

I had managed to power through ARC and graduate with an AAT without taking either one of these professors.  This was not purposeful, but as I wrapped up my time at ARC, it was one of my chief regrets. Going to the Summer Words conference meant so much to me.  I applied for a scholarship to Summer Words and was granted one, graciously, by the beautiful (and generous) English Department at ARC.

 Urrea is a Latino author and poet who somehow brings issues of identity—especially Latino identity—to the fore in order for us to realize similarities in our human condition.  His blunt expression of what is going on along the Mexican border in The Devil’s Highway earned him a Pulitzer nomination.  His newest collection of stories, The Water Museum earned him a Pen/Faulkner nomination.  NPR called him a “literary badass”, which makes me laugh.

Then. My knees started shaking when I thought about it.  Not only was Urrea coming, but I might possibly get to meet him.  Other notable authors were on the schedule, including those two writing professors who I had managed to elude in my rigorous schedule at ARC.

 I chastised myself.  Hadn’t I gotten over this starry admiration of fellow writers?  Hadn’t I realized (by the ripe age of 53) that we are all writers, seeking to connect with readers?  We were all seeking to impart secrets from the corners of our hearts to a readership.  We writers seek the same thing: connection with our readers.  Some of us have made it into that fragile thing we call notoriety; others have not.

Joshua Mohr explains "Plaracterization"
 to our full classroom.

Attending the conference was amazing.  Summer Words covered a broad range of topics, including “Morality in Fiction” “Writing from Your Gut” “Plaracterization: The Kiss between Plot and Character” and “The Organic Outline.”  And there I was, in the center of it all, with words swirling around me like spun sugar.  The presenters were amazing (three of whom signed their books and gave me advice); some were ARC professors. 

By the time Urrea showed up (on Saturday) I was busy having a ball.  I saw him in the hallway and had the shaky knee thing again, but I tried to ignore it.  

His keynote address on Saturday night reminded me why I needed to read him more. Writing about the USA and Mexican border is one thing; writing about the border in our identity is another.  These subjects are not light, they are necessary.  We don’t prohibit them in our country –this is the 21st century and we combine intellectual and cultural influences in everything we call Literary Fiction.  BUT what he is writing is unusual.  It is time-capsule stuff that we deem important and part of our country's identity.  “There is no ‘us’ and ‘them,’” he told us, solemnly.  “There is only us.”

Summer Words 2016 presenters

I knew there was a scheduled Q and A on Sunday morning.  The night before I wondered. If I were to ask one question -what would it be? It was then that I realized I would ask the same question of Naguib Mahfouz.  It is the same question that I would ask any writer: how can I be better?  What is it about the craft of writing that you can impart to me?  I knew I would be “Shaky Knee Janet” on Sunday morning during Q and A, so I wrote the question down on my program.

I asked it, poised and ready to hear the answer.  Urrea raised his eyebrows and casually leaned against the wall as he answered.  “I would tell you that if you’re not going to fill your pen with love, don’t even bother picking it up.”

I began to weep. The answer was the cherry on top of the whole conference.

That’s why I loved Mahfouz.  That’s why I love Austen, Faulkner, Joyce, Urrea, Burroughs, Tan, Cisneroz, O’Brien, Lahiri, McBride, Morrison, Colson, Kingsolver, and Dickens.  Not only do they tell a story well, they love me and show me how they see things.  They respect that I have bought their book and that I want to be taken away.  I want to be loved and shown the corners of the heart…and they do it.

Time and again, they do it.

At the end of the conference, I managed to have Urrea sign the  stack of books he had written that I brought from home.  I even gave him an expired Zimbabwean dollar "A present from another border," I told him.  He was genuinely appreciative.  

Me and the "literary badass"

I managed to hold it together long enough to take my picture with Urrea, which was cool.  I am grateful that he didn't see me as a Kathy Bates kind of fan, which I really am not.  I know that one day I will get over my thing with meeting my literary heroes.  

One day.