Molokai

Rachel Kalama is an average six year old. She is mischievous, she hates wearing shoes and she fights with her sister.  Her Father is a sailor and he mails her dolls from all the faraway lands he visits. Her life is ordinary in Hawaiian terms. Until a patch of thick, feelingless skin shows up on her leg. Her mother tries to hide it. Leprosy is a worse sentence than death in Hawaii. Rachel’s Uncle Pono contracted the disease. The government searched for him. They found him. They took him away from his family and sent him to die. But no matter how hard Rachel’s mother tries, she can’t hide the leprosy forever. Soon, Rachel’s condition is discovered. The six year old is taken from her home, her family, her beloved father. She is sent to Molokai, the leper’s island, where the sick are sent to die, out of sight and out of mind of the public. Sent to die, but Rachel’s life is just beginning.

Alan Brennert’s writing is smooth and easy to read. His passion for Hawaiian history and people is evident through his meticulous detail of the islands. The book was steady and constant, but didn’t throw in too many surprises. Taking on a character’s entire life is difficult to do. The reader tends to lose interest. It’s hard to make a character constant and relatable throughout eighty years.

Pros: Little talked about issues with an easy reading style, great word pictures and writing that generates a response in the reader.

Cons: Too long of a book with unoriginal characters. He essentially bit off more than he could chew and a result, chunks of Rachel’s life are glossed over.

For me, the novel dragged on a bit long. I thoroughly enjoyed it however, and I cried for the last 100 pages straight. Brennert does a good job of making the reader care about what happens to Rachel. The book spans from the dark ages of leprosy in the late 1800s all the way to its cure in the 1970s. Molokai isn’t just a book about leprosy, Hawaii, or even the island Molokai. It is a story about ambition, obstacles, and peace with our lot in life, no matter what it may be. Joy can be found in the saddest of things and beauty can be found in the ugliest of things. That’s what makes life livable. That’s what Brennert tells us. I just wish it didn’t take so long to do so.

 

Coming up…

On the docket is a review for the novel Molokai, a review of The Impossible, as well as the Great Gatsby. For now, listen to the most incredible song by the greatest songstress this universe has ever known. Florence and the Machine, singing Over the Love:

May 10

“Jules Elie over here, raspberry, white,” I bark out each flower colour as I lift each bunch out of its box. “Too many pinks again,” I complain as yet another box is filled with pink Jules Elie peonies. It’s hard to make assorted pails of flowers when all you have are pink. I am in the cooler at work, and inside, it is peony apartheid. Separated by colour into piles, each bud scrutinized and looked at under different lighting in order to determine its true colour. Besides the three regular colours, pink, raspberry and white, there are a few bunches that are different. White with green edges, soft pink with bold stripes, a conspicuous mix of pink and white. And a few bunches with three white and two raspberry, some mix of colours. They are banished to the “freaky box”, where their fate will be determined later. My fingers are cold and I’m tired. I started work at 1:30 am the day before to sort peonies when they were flown in. I’m still tired from lack of sleep and I’m sick of peonies already.

Before long, my boss comes to the barn and asks me to help her with her cow, Pearl. She has electric wire wrapped around her back legs and it’s cutting into her skin. The problem is, Pearl is a Highland cow, an enormous breed of cattle that are hugely shaggy and not only that, she has massive horns. I throw on a raincoat and head into the drizzle to rescue a cow.

Pearl is tied by her horns to the fence and she’s not happy about it. My boss Joanne says the plan is to move her to a different fencepost, where Matthew and I will squish her between a gate and the fence, while Joanne tries to clip the wire off her legs. And we’ll all try not to get smoked in the face by deadly hooves. Piece of cake.

We move Pearl from fencepost to fencepost, trying to keep the rope from going slack, but it does and every time Pearl goes berserk, bucking and kicking, trying to run away. We tie her head right up to the fence and wait for Matthew to come. Pearl throws her head violently, barely missing my head and she knocks the gate off its hinges. I scream “Whoa”. Pearl’s eyes roll and she foams at the mouth. I yell “Shush” to get her to back off but she presses herself against the gate.  Joanne and I brace the gate and she hollers for Matt to come. We move Pearl to another fencepost.

I grab the pliers and a halter from the garage and give them to Joanne. I slip inside the pasture and Matt and I grab an old gate. He stands at one end and I at the other. We press Pearl into the fence and Joanne starts tentatively clipping wire off Pearl’s hooves. Pearl kicks out and violently jumps, tossing her head and bucking. I manage to keep hold of the gate and Matt manages to not get gored. We reposition the fence and Joanne tries again. The old farm dog Kashmir nips at Pearl. He thinks he’s helping, but he’s agitating her more. I shoo him away. Pearl lurches and Joanne scrambles away but Pearl doesn’t throw a tantrum. Joanne snips the remaining wire off her legs. I can see that the wire cut the cow’s legs but it looks like it should heal on its own. Joanne slips the rope off her horns and on the count of three Matt and I remove the gate. Pearl doesn’t move.

After all that, she doesn’t even walk away once she’s free. I trudge back to the cooler. Maybe peony sorting isn’t so bad.

April 22

The wind blows coolly across my face and goosebumps rise on my arms. It’s barely ten degrees out and I’m in shorts and sleeveless running top. I pat my dog on the head and take off down the road, Samson bounding happily along beside me. I rarely take my mastiff with me when I run. He’s so big and bumbling, hardly athletic. But he loves being with me so I take him anyways. His excited leaping is quickly replaced with an elongated jog and he’s panting in no time. I left my phone and music at the house. I only have two hands- one for water, and one for Samson, or my phone. I can’t take the dog and my phone, since none of my running shorts have pockets- a dilemma that needs to be amended shortly. I figure having the dog is almost like having the security of my phone. Granted I can’t call for help if I fall and break an ankle, but the dog will ward off anything sinister.

Before long I have to slow down for my poor dog’s sake. He has joint issues and even though he’s been sound for a long time, he’s not in shape. A black van passes me with the logo of a plumber plastered on the side in white letters. The man driving it cranes his neck to watch me as he passes by. Creep. The van pulls off to the side of the road, in the entrance to the conservation area I run in. I ignore the van and scoot in the gates behind the van. Samson gets distracted by something beside the path so I stop to let him sniff and pee if he has to. I’m about a hundred feet away from the still idling van. The passenger rolls down his window and looks at me. After a few uncomfortable seconds I lift my hands up in a “what?” gesture. The guy mirrors my actions and shrugs. I roll my eyes, use all my will power not to flip the guy off, yank my dog’s leash and keep running. I see the van remain in the corner of my eye. After a few minutes, the van pulls out of the drive and continues driving. Weird, but not abnormal enough to be suspicious.

Once I’m in the conservation area I take Samson down to the creek for a drink. I tiptoe across the dry creek bed until I reach the water. The dam must be open and the water level is low. Samson splashes into the water, getting wet up to his elbows. He noisily drinks and drinks. When he’s finally done, he slobbers all over me and we keep going. We’re less than halfway done and Samson seems exhausted. I walk the rest of the trail, only running up the hills. We slip out of the forest through a break in the barbed wire fence, back onto the road. The air is a bit warmer, and I enjoy the sun and brisk walk. Samson pants and looks up at me happily. He’s shedding like a maniac, and bits of dog hair cling to my pants and surround him like a halo. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m Samson’s favourite person. He follows me around all day when I’m home, and he mopes by the front door when I’m not. He sleeps outside my room and when he goes to bed before I do, he whines and stays awake until I go to bed. However, he’s also drooly, hairy, smelly and it’s aggravating when I can’t be anywhere in my house without a dog attached to my hip.

When we get home I get him fresh water and put him on his chain outside.

Birds chirp.

Sun shines.

Samson pants.

Life’s good.

April 12 continued

My brother and sister and I were playing at the church near our house. I was probably 7 or 8, Amber was probably 9 and Nathan was 6 or so. The church was our bus stop for years and sometimes we played there during the weekend. We found a cat and some kittens in the garden. My sister and I sent home Nathan to get a cardboard box to put them in. A white truck with a business logo pulled into the driveway. A middle aged man stepped out. He told us that the cat was his and wondered if we wanted to see some of his other cats. We looked nervously at each other. We weren’t supposed to go with strangers. We hesitated and said no. He said he knew our Dad and that we could call our mom with his cell phone to ask her. We called her, but the reception was terrible, I guess because we weren’t far from the house. We couldn’t understand each other and we just assumed she’d said yes. We piled into the man’s truck and he drove us to his house, probably only 2 or 3 minutes away from the church. He showed us some cats in his garage and then my mom showed up. She panicked when she saw us get into the guy’s car and she followed in the van to his house. She recognized the lettering on his truck. He really did know my dad. I remember her shoving us into the car and telling us to never do that again.

I’ve never talked to my mother about what happened. Did that man just innocently want to show us his cats? Or were his motives more sinister? I’ve thought a lot about that incident. My mother obviously never had him charged. He still lives a few minutes away from our house. I don’t know if she yelled at him or if she just smiled graciously and pretended it was normal for her kids to get into stranger’s cars. The whole thing was weird. Did he want to kidnap us? If he did, he wasn’t very smart about it. It was broad daylight, he let us call our mom and he had lettering on his truck. On the other hand, who picks up three little kids to show him his cats?

April 12

I open my eyes groggily and look at my alarm clock. It’s dark. No numbers. Power’s still out. Rain and ice tick against my window. I’m supposed to ride this morning, but I doubt it’s going to happen. It’s been raining for three days and it looks like there’s no end in sight.

I trudge upstairs, where it is even colder than in my room. I complain about the cold, Dad complains about the lack of coffee. Just when he gets the generator started to make himself coffee, the power flickers back on. He’s fed my horses since he was concerned about their safety. There are branches and trees down all over my fence and within my fence but none have hit it, and my animals are safe.

After mindless TV watching and breakfast, I get outside with my brother to clean up the backyard. The poplar trees that line our property are old and half dead. Poplars aren’t strong; they’re just big weeds. Every tree has branches down due to the heavy ice coating them and the terrible windstorm during the night. I feel bad for my horse. He’s hock-deep in mud and he hasn’t been dry for three days. I feed him an apple as a peace offering. He licks my hand and nibbles on my hat. I take it as forgiveness.

My brother finally brings the chainsaw outside and we start cleaning up the debris. Ice pellets and pieces litter the ground. Not only is it raining raining, it’s raining ice too. Poplar buds encased in ice lie on the swollen soil, dead little unborn trees. I drag branch after branch towards the fire pit, leaving deep trenches in the ground. Soon the flooded ground is crisscrossed with gouges, scars that quickly fill with mud and water.

I am wet. It is miserable. I throw a few flakes of hay at my horse and head inside for a shower. At some point in the afternoon I go to my feed store and buy a trace mineral block, two bags of high fat feed and a bag of beet pulp. On my way, I pass a white truck with distinctive lettering. I remember why his truck is familiar. I was lured into that truck more than ten years ago. A grown man asked me if I wanted to see his cats. He said he knew my dad. I said yes, I wanted to see cats. I climbed into his car. And he took me to a second location.

I open my eyes groggily and look at my alarm clock. It’s dark. No numbers. Power’s still out. Rain and ice tick against my window. I’m supposed to ride this morning, but I doubt it’s going to happen. It’s been raining for three days and it looks like there’s no end in sight.

I trudge upstairs, where it is even colder than in my room. I complain about the cold, Dad complains about the lack of coffee. Just when he gets the generator started to make himself coffee, the power flickers back on. He’s fed my horses since he was concerned about their safety. There are branches and trees down all over my fence and within my fence but none have hit it, and my animals are safe.

After mindless TV watching and breakfast, I get outside with my brother to clean up the backyard. The poplar trees that line our property are old and half dead. Poplars aren’t strong; they’re just big weeds. Every tree has branches down due to the heavy ice coating them and the terrible windstorm during the night. I feel bad for my horse. He’s hock-deep in mud and he hasn’t been dry for three days. I feed him an apple as a peace offering. He licks my hand and nibbles on my hat. I take it as forgiveness.

My brother finally brings the chainsaw outside and we start cleaning up the debris. Ice pellets and pieces litter the ground. Not only is it raining raining, it’s raining ice too. Poplar buds encased in ice lie on the swollen soil, dead little unborn trees. I drag branch after branch towards the fire pit, leaving deep trenches in the ground. Soon the flooded ground is crisscrossed with gouges, scars that quickly fill with mud and water.

I am wet. It is miserable. I throw a few flakes of hay at my horse and head inside for a shower. At some point in the afternoon I go to my feed store and buy a trace mineral block, two bags of high fat feed and a bag of beet pulp. On my way, I pass a white truck with distinctive lettering. I remember why his truck is familiar. I was lured into that truck more than ten years ago. A grown man asked me if I wanted to see his cats. He said he knew my dad. I said yes, I wanted to see cats. I climbed into his car. And he took me to a second location.

April 10

I drag my sorry ass out of bed and trudge up the stairs. It’s raining outside. Joy. I down honeycomb cereal and coffee while watching Breakfast Television. I google Dina Pugliese because I wonder how old she is. 38. Who knew? I finally stop stalling and get dressed, brush my teeth, let out the dog and feed my hungry donkey and horse. Then I go to work, a flower farm literally 300 meters down the road. It’s too far to walk, too short to justify driving and just the right distance to bike. Screw it, I drive. It’s raining and I’m sore from running farther than I usually do the day before (see April 9).

Before long I’m situated in the greenhouse, which isn’t really a greenhouse, just a round frame covered in clear plastic. I’m armed with instructions to weed, hoe and water the plants. My boss is going to a poultry show, so I’m on my own. Rain pitter-patters on the plastic roof. I play music on my phone to distract myself from the maddeningly consistent rainfall. I attack the creeping Charlie patch with a sickle. It only takes me fifteen minutes to clear it out. I haul the tangled mess of vines into a wheelbarrow, armful by armful. I reach down to pick up the last pile. A fat, black spider stares up at me with shiny eyes. I shriek and stomp it into the foliage. I hate spiders. More than anything. I tentatively shove the pile onto the wheelbarrow. The tower of weeds teeters precariously. I put on my coat and brace myself for the rain outside. I wheel the weeds out to the layer hens and chuck them over the fence. Chickens attack the weeds with fierce pecking and clucking. Rain drips off my hood and into my face. TS Eliot wasn’t kidding when he said that April is the cruellest month.

Back in the greenhouse, I move on to hoeing the eucalyptus plants. Tendrils of old spider webs hang from the low ceiling like party streamers.  I dodge them as best I can and tear some down, but they cling to my hair and I end up looking like I’m wearing a bad Halloween costume. An obese leopard frog leaps in front of me. I tell him he is stuck in the greenhouse since the sides are rolled down.  But maybe he likes it in there. It is warm, humid and filled with bugs. I ask him if he eats bugs, especially spiders, if for no reason than to hear my voice above the din of the rainfall. I tell him he’s my hero if he does. Then I carefully hoe around him. When I was younger, my siblings and I used to catch frogs in the vegetable garden and pretend they were our pets for the day. One time I accidentally stepped on one of my pets. We wrapped him in Kleenex, I guess to keep him warm.

He died.

And I’ll never forget the horror of killing something I had no right to be controlling in the first place. I tell him he shouldn’t hide because then I’m liable to accidentally kill him.

The rain begins to fall harder and harder, until I can’t even hear myself think. I scream, “Seriously!?” at the storm. I can’t hear my music anymore, so I pause it for a while. I finish the eucalyptus and go on to weed the peonies growing along the edge of the greenhouse. Some of the peonies are tall and robust; some are still small, fragile shoots; other’s still have buds but have black and curled leaf edges. Why are some healthy? Why are some so underdeveloped? Why are some obviously ill? It just goes to show that even when life gets the same start, some thrive, some survive and some die, for no reason other than because.

I water the eucalyptus, peonies, lilies and lavender. I come across my frog friend again. I also find the decayed body of a large mouse, maybe even a rat. I avert my eyes and keep watering. My boss kills them with poison. I know it has to be done, but I still don’t like it.  I continue with the hose, and its spray is louder than the rain drops drumming the plastic above my head.

On the rainiest of days, I am watering plants.

April 9

My feet pound the pavement as Florence and the Machine blares over my headphones. My foot falls keep in time with the beat of Bedroom Hymns. I thought after running two miles a day on my treadmill all winter, I’d be in better shape. But I’m huffing before I got a kilometer away from my house. I slow to a fast walk and decide to run in Christies Conservation Area. I cut into the main entrance and hang a right, arms pumping and legs pounding. My running shoes sink in the mud and the ground groans soggily with each step I take. The pine trees let in no light. It’s dark. And wet. I should’ve realized the ground wouldn’t be near dry. I slow again. No way can I run in this mess. I alternate between walking and sprinting the hills until I hit the main gravel path. The trees loom overhead as the forest mutes sounds my footsteps. I’ve always felt nervous in here alone. One time I saw tents pitched in the forest. I didn’t know who lived there but I didn’t want to find out. Sometimes I pass people in Christies. When I’m mounted on my horse, I feel like I can outrun anything, but on foot I feel vulnerable. Too slow. Easy pickings. I don’t know why I’m suspicious. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. I blame it my paranoid mother’s horror stories. She was only trying to protect me, but she’s made me paranoid too. Better safe than sorry I guess.

I pick up my pace again. I can feel the silence around me even though I am listening to music. I walk the paved bridge over the culverts in Spencer Creek. The air is still and the river emits a rhythmic hum despite the low water level. A single red winged Blackbird flits in the yellow rushes. He sings twice and then looks at me. There is a vague air of menace about the whole thing but I shake it off and continue running. I pass a girl running with her dog before I make back onto the road. A few clumps of red fur lay on the driveway, evidence that my shedding horse had been in there earlier. I smile. We all leave a mark, whether or not we are aware of it or even want to. The fur tumbles away in the breeze. I hear a low rumble. I pause my music and listen for more of what I think is thunder. But there is only silence. I come to the road once again. Struggling on the shoulder is a fat toad. He takes long, unsure steps, moving like a crab. I don’t know why he isn’t hopping. Maybe he’s sick or disoriented. Either way, I don’t want him to get run over by a car. I guide him back off the road with my foot. I don’t really want to touch him. Childhood myths of toads giving warts still haunt me. I take a few steps away and see a car coming towards me. I stay by the toad until the car zooms past, just to make sure he’s safe.

I start walking, and realize I’m on the wrong side of the road. A habit I picked up from riding my horse in the same direction of traffic. While heading home, I kick myself for not picking up the toad and bringing it to the other side of the road. That’s where he seemed to be going. He’s probably going to get hit by a car. Then it starts raining. Soft at first. Tiny pinpricks dimple the surface of the creek. I picked up my pace, not wanting to get wet. But it doesn’t matter. No matter how fast I run, I always get caught in exactly what I’m trying to avoid. My bangs curl and stick to my forehead. My whole body is damp and clammy. I make it to the house, trudge up the stairs and collapse into a chair on the porch. I wait for the storm to roll in. In the distance, birds sing of the coming thunder.

Beasts of the Southern Wild

My mom bought Beasts of the Southern Wild because she ‘heard it was good.’ Translation: it was nominated for an Oscar. What my mother fails to take into account, is that the majority of Oscar nominated films are dull, sentimental and tedious. *Ahem* Lincoln, The King’s Speech, The Artist… I could go on. She also didn’t think too much about the fact that Beasts of the Southern Wild is an independent film. Ergo, not a big budget and some crazy, usually hippy, undertones.

So the movie was really doomed from the start. At least to the average shallow movie goer.

I quite enjoyed the film. It was at times slow moving and the plot is unremarkable, but artfully done. The story centres on Hushpuppy, a 7 or 8 year old girl living with her Daddy on the bayou, in a fictional area called The Bathtub, reminiscent of Louisiana.  The Bathtub has been cut off from the rest of the area, an island in the middle of water no one else wants. The others have built a levee to keep the water- and the citizens of the Bathtub- out. They figure the citizens of Bathtub will drown eventually.

Hushpuppy lives in her own “house”, really just a shack on stilts. Her Dad lives in his house. Hushpuppy dons rubber boots, underwear and a dirty tank top. She cooks her own food, consisting of gravy and cat food heated in a pan on a stove started with a blowtorch. Nobody said her Daddy was a good father. Daddy disappeared for days. He came back in a hospital gown. Hushpuppy wants to know where he was. He tells her to shut up. When she insists he slaps her. She punches him over his heart. He falls to the ground. And in the eyes of the seven year old, the universe is now out of balance.

Between a massive storm, collapsing ice shelves, her Dad’s failing health and aurochs closing in, Hushpuppy’s world is crumbling.

It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not in this film. The story is told through Hushpuppy’s eyes and narration. In her mind, the thunder is caused by the collapse of ice shelves into the ocean, something she had heard at school. Her teacher also told her about aurochs, ancestors of cows that used to be the biggest baddest beasts around. When her dad falls and the storm starts, Hushpuppy makes the connection that hitting her dad has plunged the universe into chaos. She says, “The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece… the entire universe will get busted.”

The film is quite symbolic and metaphorical. It requires attention and your brain needs to be engaged. Which is not what my family is looking for in a movie.

The acting on the part of Quvenzhané Wallis is incredible.  How a 9 year old can act that effortlessly is beyond me. It really was monumental for her to be nominated for Best Actress, the youngest actress ever, by four years. But I digress. If you’re looking for a fun and engaging movie, don’t pick this one. If you’re looking  for a though provoking and startlingly honest look at an impoverished seven year old’s life through her eyes, this is the movie for you.

This last line from the movie sums up the message of the film, as told by Hushpuppy, “When it all goes quiet behind my eyes, I see everything that made me lying around in invisible pieces. When I look too hard, it goes away. And when it all goes quiet, I see they are right here. I see that I’m a little piece in a big, big universe. And that makes things right. When I die, the scientists of the future, they’re gonna find it all. They gonna know, once there was a Hushpuppy, and she live with her daddy in the Bathtub.”

Indecision

As many of you know, I’m a university student at Wilfred Laurier University. I’m studying Journalism. I decided I would do this in grade 9. I never really questioned it. I never really looked into anything else. And now I am second-guessing my decision.

I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like I’m never giving 100% in school. I feel like I’m half-assing things and I don’t know why. I feel like I’m trying to get away with doing the bare minimum amount of work. I feel like I don’t enjoy school .

And I’m wondering: should I stay in Journalism? Is this what I want? Is this what God wants for me? I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m making a big mistake. I don’t know if I should switch programs. I don’t want to quit Journalism school because it’s too hard. My greatest fear is that fear itself will hold me back. I’m not afraid of hard work, or at least I think I’m not. So why am I so reluctant to commit to Journalism? I don’t really like interviewing people. It makes me nervous. I don’t like being pushed outside my comfort zone. But this is a necessity of life. I don’t like to be challenged, but I should. I’m trying to embrace it.

I know that I need to be pushed out of my comfort zone but if I hate interviewing and digging for a story, does that mean I’m in the wrong program? I don’t want to commit 4 years and so much work and thousands of dollars into the Journalism program if I’m not going to be a journalist when I graduate.

But the fact still remains, that I don’t really like what I’m doing. Is that a good enough reason to quit? Do I dislike it because it’s school and just hard work? Or is this career not for me? I feel like I can switch programs in first year, but not in second. I feel like I need to make a decision. One that I’m utterly unprepared to make.

Stay or go? I don’t want to make a huge mistake by switching into another program and then wishing I could go back. I don’t want to enter second year hating Journalism. But I don’t want to quit just because it’s hard. But am I making a huge mistake devoting 4 years of my life to something I don’t love?

There aren’t a ton of jobs in Journalism and it’s hugely competitive. Am I prepared to commit everything to Journalism? I don’t know if I can.

Am I just being discontent? Or is journalism just not for me?

I’m so afraid of making a huge mistake. I don’t know what to do. “In all you ways acknowledge him and he shall direct your paths.” I need some direction. And I don’t know where I’m supposed to get it from. Am I just being difficult?

“One of the hardest decisions you’ll ever face in life is whether to walk away or try harder.”

Am I at that point? Do I just need to commit more to school? Or is God telling me that this isn’t His path for me?

I don’t know. I feel like I’ve never known.

I feel like I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m doing in relationships, I don’t know what I’m doing with my horse. How can I make decisions about my future when I’m so unsure about the present?

Now what?