How scary is too scary?

I started working on a young adult novel a couple of years ago and it is now down to the final 10 pages. In the past couple of months, I have submitted query after query. Everyone keeps saying the same thing: "It sounds very intriguing, but is not a right fit for us....Don't give up though. We're just one agent/publisher and there are many more." I realize that most first-time authors submit to dozens of publishers before they finally find one, but it does get frustrating. I keep wondering if something is wrong with my hook, maybe the wording is not catchy enough and I should change it....or maybe my book is just a little too creepy for young adult fiction?

It's pretty much about a teenager who sees a ghost. The ghost is the little sister of one of her friends. The reason for the little girl's death was unknown, she just got really sick one day. But, after seeing her, the teenager finds out there is so much more to the story and becomes entangled in several different stories involving her future and her mother's past. That's not exactly how the hook goes (don't want to give away too much), but it's the general idea. Every time I submit the query letters, I keep asking myself if I would want to read this book. Of course the answer is always yes, I mean I wrote it, so it's interesting to me. But, for some reason, even though this is a fiction story, the ghost or spirit seems more real than a vampire or zombie. I think that might be a problem, but not sure. Most ghost stories in young adult fiction, are meant to really scare the reader or in some cases they're really funny. In this story, however, everything is so realistic that the creepy vibe might seem a little intense. The book is about unlocking secrets and is more about adventure than anything, but the hook does make it sound creepy. I guess I should work on that.

Fishing tales

This past weekend was very eventful...
Friday night: We ate dinner at a circus-themed restaurant (Farrel's) where there was a lot of singing.

Saturday: We had a yard sale in the morning and sold about 75% of the toys that clutter my kids' closets, then that evening was parent's night out (which the kids actually loved and kept asking when the next one is). For date night, we had dinner and drinks at Dave & Buster's while playing Texas Hold' Em, then we watched Olympus has Fallen (a little graphic, but excellent movie that had me on the verge of an anxiety attack).

That led to... Sunday: Our almost 7 year old has wanted to go fishing since my husband came back from deployment last year. We're always so busy, but this time we made it a point to get up early, get fishing supplies and head to the pier. There were only a few other people there and the fish only seemed to be biting for one guy further down from us. I don't like seafood and didn't particularly want to see a fish dangling from a hook, but since we'd been there for almost an hour and a half and nothing was happening (so I wouldn't have to worry about seeing the fish), I decided to try... A few minutes after taking the fishing pole, I leaned over the cement ledge and peered into the water below. I saw a red fish swimming around and suddenly got excited. My husband knelt down and looked, but couldn't see anything. So for a second, I thought I was just willing a fish to be there and seeing some kind of mirage because it was so hot out and I just wanted something to happen so we could say we caught a fish, then pile into the car with the air-conditioning on full-blast.

So, I looked again, and suddenly there were three red fish. Then, I could feel the fishing pole being pulled from me. I tried to reel in whatever was tugging on the line, but I haven't been to the gym since I started my day job back in December and my arms were not prepared. So my husband took the pole and kept trying to reel it in. We could see the water splashing below and then the line snapped. "Are you serious?" I exclaimed. "I caught us a fish, and you let it go." Just as witty he replied, "You didn't catch a fish, you caught some kind of monster." This led our son to ask, "What if it was a shark?" Then, for the next two hours we kept talking about what would happen if we caught a shark, how we would cut the line before it pulled us into the water, how I would just throw the fishing pole into the water because I am not trying to see a shark and get eaten, what kind of sharks swim in that water, what kind of string is actually strong enough to pull up a shark, etc. All the while, our younger son waved and said "bye" to all of the airplanes that took off or came in above us, not the slightest bit concerned about sharks. It was a great day.

So, how does this relate to the blog (which has mostly been about my two cultures?). Well, referring back to the episode of "Our America: Life on the Rez," Lisa Ling examined how Native Americans are returning to their roots and natural resources to combat the issue of living an unhealthy lifestyle plagued with diabetes and obesity. They are now returning to; hunting, fishing, and gardening. Becoming dependent on yourself is one of the greatest passages to freedom. http://www.oprah.com/own-our-america-lisa-ling/Previews-Life-on-the-Rez

Date night opportunites

TGIF!! =) That means tomorrow is date night. The daycare that my youngest son goes to does "parent's night out" on the last Saturday of every month. This is the first time we're going to do it because by the time the weekend comes, we are so exhausted from work and school. The weekends usually end up being devoted to family time, lounging around the house, the beach, or sleeping. So when we do have opportunities to go out, we try to make the most of them.

We still have no idea what we're going to do tomorrow night, but thinking about it made me think of two other things: where young couples on the reservation might go for date nights and a discussion, which was mentioned at the NALS conference. (A few people from the conference and I talked about how the reservation land was divided up among the different tribes and if some tribes just got completely cheated out of that deal.)

In my profile information, I mention that I love watching documentaries. My favorite series of documentaries include; True Life on MTV and Our America with Lisa Ling on OWN. On one episode of Our America, Lisa Ling visits the Pine Ridge reservation. Pine Ridge is the reservation I happen to be affiliated with and after watching that documentary, I wondered what date night opportunities exist there. Ofcourse there's always the movies. The first movie theater on Pine Ridge opened up late, last year, November 9, 2012. Aside from the movies though, there are no bowling alleys, ice skating rinks, miniature golf courses, or laser tag places. So how does date night happen? According to the documentaries, many turn to drugs or alcohol, and tout the lack of resources as a reason. But when there are no places to go, sometimes the best date nights can come to life with natural surroundings. Bonfires, star gazing, long walks, and camping are all options. One of my favorite, romantic movie scenes is from the 80's movie "Space Camp." The two main characters are sitting on the back of a truck looking at the stars and talking about their future as astronauts. Why wouldn't the young people take advantage of these options? Could bitterness be the reason?

This brings me to the second thought; Were some tribes cheated out of the reservation land arrangements? Our conference for example, was held at a casino on a reservation, where the tribe was able to bring in a lot of money. It was nothing like the reservations constantly shown on documentaries. Business seemed to be booming and the houses were beautiful. All I could think was, "How come Pine Ridge didn't get this kind of opportunity?" It was nice to see the other side of Native Americans, the ones who are doing really well, but I couldn't help but feel disappointed. Shouldn't they have some sense of obligation to give back to the other Natives? This awareness of my disappointment made me feel like I also have some sort of obligation to give back. I don't have the money that the casino does, but maybe this particular blog post will make people realize how lucky they actually are and they'll stop for a moment to think about others, even when it's on their date night.

Friends that look like you: A tale of college roommates

The other night I was hanging out with a friend and we somehow started talking about gymnastics and I mentioned that Ally Raisman looked a lot like her. She googled pictures of Ally and said, "Yeah, I can see how she kind of looks like me. Isn't it weird when there are random people who look like you?" "It is. I don't think I've met anyone who's looked like me before," I replied. It was true, I haven't really met anyone who looks like me, but I've met a few people who could've passed as my siblings. One of them, happened to be my college roommate, who I continue to write about because, even though we burned bridges years ago, at one time we were close friends and sometimes told random people we were sisters. And they believed us.

The summer before I started college, I was working as a score keeper at a basketball tournament in Colorado Springs. There were people from all over the world there, but none of them looked like me. So, three weeks later when I found myself in Hawaii face to face with my roommate, who was half Black and half Thai, it was strange. Really strange. Then, she told me she was from Colorado Springs, where I had just been, and all I could think was, "What in the world is the universe trying to do here?" She even commented on the weirdness of it all, "How did they manage to put the only two half Black, half something else girls on campus together as roommates?"

We were so much alike, but as the days passed, the stark differences began to show. I have always been an organized and goal-oriented person. A lot of people hate that (which is a discussion for another blog). My roommate was one of those people. She always seemed annoyed with me and I was never around to do anything to cause her to be annoyed. I was taking six classes, playing intramural soccer, and working at a grocery store. By the time I got back to the dorm, it was usually 10pm and I was exhausted. My roommate, on the other hand, liked to party. Her and her friends made fun of me whenever they did see me for being "so perfect." They didn't realize how much I wished I could be like them and just have fun, but I had goals and really strict parents. Somehow even when you finally go off on your own, your parents still have a grip on the reigns of your independence. Especially when one of your parents is my drill-sergeant dad. When I was younger, he could just give me a mean look and I would start bawling and confessing and apologizing for the most miniscule things. If my roommate and her friends would've had my dad, they would've understood, why I was "so perfect" in the beginning. But they didn't and we ended up hating each other. I moved out.

The second semester came and her friends had left. She befriended my new roommate and soon we all ended up hanging out. I was different this time. Soccer season was over, I wasn't taking as many classes, and I had realized that I was actually okay on my own. This new sense of self-awareness presented opportunities for: dating, drinking, and partying. Boys and bathroom confessionals about said boys turned me and my ex-roomate into friends, and eventually sisters. We could identify with each other and would often have long conversations about being mixed and how other people viewed us. We had the same circle of friends and all of us were pretty close, but there was something different about our friendship that we could never really explain. We had gone through so many of the same things; racist comments from people who didn't think they were being racist, how difficult dating was, how even though you want to say you are just one of your races, neither race really accepts you. Her dad had also been in the military, so she knew about military life. She understood why it is so frightening to think about what will happen when you don't have your military id anymore. In military communities, there are so many mixed-race people, you belong, no matter who you are.

Our similarities started to outweigh the differences and made us inseperable for two years. Then, senior year came. Everything started out fine, but then we became roommates again. I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach when I found out we were going to be roommates again. I knew that was the reason we'd hated each other before. You can get tired of people, even if they are your best friend. We went out, did everything together, and then she started dating her boyfriend and I found my husband. We stopped hanging out so much and when we did see each other, it was like in the beginning when her and her friends thought that I thought I was "so perfect." My husband was this really nice guy trying to impress me enough to get me hooked for life. Her boyfriend seemed to be the same with her, but for some reason, she didn't seem to like this. I was content. I had grown up and moved on from the partying. I knew that chapter had to end so I could start my new life, but I think she took it the wrong way, like I was giving up my friends to be with a guy. She started to hate me and turn some of our friends against me. So again I moved out, but that time I also moved on and have been relatively happy ever since.

Bingo Nights at Mystic Lake

Mystic Lake is a casino/hotel in Minnesota, where the NALS conference was held. I arrived at this fascintating place the day before the conference. I thought that I was prepared for the freezing weather with my thick, quilted down jacket. Winter has always been my favorite season, mainly because of fashion. The snow was pretty and reminded me of fun times I'd had in Boston. But, I was much more excited about wearing my jacket again. It was the first time I'd worn the purple masterpiece by Laundry, in four years. I thought it was all I needed, but when I stepped outside in the below freezing weather, I knew I was going to regret walking to the store for the shampoo and conditioner that I didn't pack because I was sure the casino would be right in the middle of everything. I was wrong and all ten of my fingers suffered the consequence as they stayed jammed in my pockets, but still felt numb from the cold.

I hadn't realized we were on a reservation and could see my breath forming puffs of white fog as I cursed at the wind for the casino being so far away from everything. The nearest store was a two mile trek. As soon as I reached the convenience store, I let out a sigh of relief and immediately started searching for gloves. There weren't any. Who could have known it would still be snowing at the end of March? I stocked up on snacks for the next three days, like I was about to go into hibernation. I had three bags to carry back with me, and no gloves. I made it back quickly though with no signs of hypothermia. As I headed through the lobby toward the hallway with the elevators, which led to my room, I noticed a long hallway and a sign for bingo.

The last time I played bingo was at my 8th birthday party. My mom had given us bingo cards and had different prizes ready for the winners. My friend won a barbie and I had been pretty jealous until I opened my presents and found Disney barbie, Disney Ken, and their Disney twins. Since that time though, I'd always thought of bingo as a social outlet for the older crowd. Something my mom and her friends might go to. I glanced at the bingo sign and was about to turn away until I noticed in another sign underneath the bright bingo letters that the jackpot was $150,000. "One hundred. And. Fifty Thousand Dollars???" I quickly went up to my room, put the bags down, and went back down to the bingo counter to find out more.

The cards were $10 for twelve rounds. You could also purchase specials, for the extra rounds in between the regular rounds. "Have you ever played bingo before," the lady behind the counter asked. "Yes," I quickly answered, nodding. Ofcourse I had played bingo before, everyone has. It was just bingo. "Okay, well it starts at 8 o'clock sharp," she said as she handed me the cards. I went back up to my room, set the alarm on my cell phone, and fell asleep. I was still completely jet-lagged from the extra long plane ride from Hawaii to Minnesota. I woke up at 7:30pm, grabbed my bingo cards and headed down to the bingo rooms. As soon as I stepped inside, I realized that bingo was kind of a big deal.

The front room alone held about three hundred people. I made my way to the non-smoking room in the back, which also held about three hundred people. I found a seat near two girls who looked my age and started asking them questions. They seemed so excited to tell me the rules of the game. Then an older woman and her friend came and sat across from me. She announced that she was a bingo regular and she would help me through the game. She realized I didn't have a dobber, which is a small, ink-filled bottle, that you use to mark off the numbers called. She pointed to the vending machines surrounding the large room, which all had dobbers in them. I went to one of the vending machines and put my two dollars in the slot. I was going to press the first button, when I noticed that all of the dobbers were different. They were all in different colors, some had caps that were diamond shaped and metallic, and some were themed with different holidays. I chose a metallic purple with a diamond cap, hoping the diamond was a symbol of fortune, and would help me win that jackpot.

When I went back to my seat, Linda, the bingo regular, explained how in each round, we were looking for something different. "It's never just a straight line. It can't be that easy," she said with a small laugh. "We like to make things difficult. It will show on the board what pattern you need to get for bingo. Sometimes they do a seven, sometimes they want a smiley face, sometimes they want two corners, and so on. Also, there are free fountain drinks and coffee and snacks at the back over there," she pointed behind me to a long counter where there were soda machines, chips, cookies, popcorn, and a small crowd ready to devour everything. Bingo started and we played round after round, Linda kept asking me questions in between about where I was from, why in the world I would go to Minnesota from Hawaii, and what kind of conference I was attending. At the end of twelve rounds, I hadn't won anything, but I had almost won several times. Linda told me every night there is a theme. That night had been karaoke, which is why all of the winners were able to choose to sing for an extra $100. "Tomorrow night is cosmic night. They will have glow-in-the-dark lights and music during the game," Linda said. "Wow," I had no words.

The next night, I hadn't planned on going back, but as I sat at the table during the conference dinner, I found myself constantly glancing at my cell phone for the time. Fifteen minutes before eight, I couldn't take it. I snuck out, and rushed down the hallway to buy bingo cards. This time, after entering the bingo rooms, I sat next to another bingo regular and a young couple. Everyone was wearing glow-in-the dark jewelry and there were lights flashing. Just like Linda, the new bingo regular I was sitting near asked questions in between rounds about Hawaii and what in the world I was doing in Minnesota.

All of us sitting at this particular table continued to be one away from winning, every single round. By the eighth round, I was hoping anybody from our table would win, even if it wasn't me, I just wanted someone to win. Then they called the fortieth number, which increased our jackpot to $40,000. As soon as they called that number, an older, Asian woman, at the table in front of ours, held up her hand. She ended up winning Forty Thousand Dollars, which was paid in cash to her right there. The young couple next to me told me they were bingo regulars too and that the woman who'd just won had won two nights ago also. "She's so lucky," they kept saying. "The other night she won $10,000." My mouth hung open in shock at this unbelievable bingo world. "That's $50,000," I finally managed to get out. "Yeah, I know," they all replied. "Wow." And that was the only way to sum up what goes on at the Mystic Lake casino every night at eight pm, just "wow."

Making Dream Catchers

This past March I attended the Native American Literature Symposium (NALS) in Minnesota. It was the first conference I've ever been to (as a professor and a Native)and I took away so many ideas that have kept my head buzzing ever since. How can you particpate in something so important and not continue the discussion? So that was primarily the reason for starting this blog; the NALS conference changed my life in a big way. There are so many things that I want to write about from those three days at Mystic Lake, but because of a milestone in my almost two-year-old's life, I am going to start by discussing the idea behind gift-giving.

Gift-giving is done in almost every culture as a sign of appreciation. We give gifts on different holidays and occasions to show others that they are important in our lives. In Native culture, however, gift-giving goes beyond just appreciation. On the final night of the conference, there were about forty of us left. Our number had dwindled as many had caught midday flights back to working reality. We had been going to different sessions from 8am to 10pm each day, listening to themes of; sovereignty, symbolism, cultural texts, violence, and so much more. That last evening together was our chance to wind down and relax and get to know each other in a different setting. We ate the food of the land: buffalo, salmon, walleye, an array of vegetables, and fruit pudding (which is called wojape in my mom's language). We talked at our different tables about where we were from, what we did, how the weather in Minnesota was freezing, and we coordinated shuttle rides to the airport. Somewhere in the middle of dinner, one of the NALS coordinators, Gwen, went to the front of the room where there were instruments set up. She presented Gordon Henry, Jr. & The Northwoods Improvisors (a Native storyteller and an amazing band that created sound effects for everything).

Before Gordon started, he talked about giving gifts. Usually, our ideas of gifts are material or physical items. However, in Native culture, gifts come in many forms. Dancing, singing, and storytelling are all gifts. In addition, one of the most important gifts that Native people have ever given were signatures on the treaties that they signed so long ago. Those treaties gave the gift of trust. Native people put their trust in the settlers to uphold their end of the bargain. Even though that trust was violated, we still continue to give gifts. The reason we do this is because we are now trusting others to change, to improve, to become better versions of themselves, and to inspire others to do the same.

That brings me to my almost two-year-old... He goes to daycare and this is his last week as a pre-toddler (1-2 year old). His last day will be on Thursday and he will become a toddler on Friday. He has grown so much in this last year and a large part of that is because of his amazing teachers. They pay close attention to the likes and dislikes of each child in their classroom. My little one loves dinosauars, dancing to Yo Gabba Gabba songs, and hanging an owl (with his picture on it) on a makeshift tree. The teachers use this information to create activities that will attract the children's interest and help them grow. This is a difficult task considering the attention span of 1-2 year olds is like that of a kitten chasing one of those red, laser lights. I definitely appreciate their hardwork (especially since I was one of them before) and so I am one of the moms who gives teacher gifts.

During Christmas time, I like to give the more common teacher gifts: candy, starbucks, gift cards, school supplies. At the end of the year though, my Native roots kick in and I feel like my last gift to them needs to have more meaning behind it. I want them to feel proud of what they do and realize how much of an inspiration they are to others, especially the children. Most importantly, I want them to keep doing it. This time, I decided to make the gifts. And....because of NALS (once again, important conference that changed my life) I decided to make dream catchers. I used a quote that was on a picture frame. The frame was a gift given to me when I was a preschool teacher and definitely presents the message that I hope to leave them with.

"100 years from now... It will not matter the type of house I lived in or the kind of car I drove but the world may be different because I was important in the life of a child" -Unknown

Answering the "What are you?" question

I started teaching college English courses three years ago. Before that I had taught pre-school at a military daycare. Making the transition from 24 children with superhero sneakers, glittery maryjanes, Power Rangers and Dora backpacks was nerve-racking. My last day at the daycare was pretty emotional and for an entire year, I found myself wishing I could go back, sometimes.

Becoming a professor was intimidating, not because of the lessons, or the reading, or where I felt my skill level was, but because of the audience. My new students were not the three, four, and five year olds who gave me hugs and asked me to draw them pictures of dinosaurs or mermaids, they were adults, like me. It was in my first class, where I suddenly transformed into another version of myself. The always professional professor who never bent the rules, answered every email within ten minutes, and provided sources for everything. I became a robot, but still managed to get through to my students by remembering what it was like for me when I was a student who worked full-time, was a military wife and a new mother.

I explained everything as clearly as possible and provided a lot of examples. I engaged them in thought-provoking discussions and group activities that kept the material interesting. Being a robot paid off, and now here I am three years later, but something is still missing. In class, I have taught my students to research the background of the authors whose titles they are reading. They realize how important it is to know what time period the author grew up in, who his/her influences were, what was going on in the world at the time when they wrote the story, etc. If your source of learning comes from another person's work, you should know something of that person's background. My students now use this lesson against me by asking me questions about my background, which is confusing, even to me. One of the first questions my students often ask me is; what nationality are you? I fear this question and always take a moment to carefully think about what my response will be.

  If I say: "I'm half Black and half Native American," the usual response is "Oh, yeah, I have Native American ancestors too." I usually nod and drop the conversation after this. What use is it going into detail about how my mom is Sioux, her first language is Lakota, and most of my relatives live on a reservation, which I used to visit every summer? Sometimes, people will say, "That's funny, you don't look Native American." But, if I don't look mixed, then why did they have to ask what nationality I am?

If I say: "My dad is Black and my mom is Native American," the usual response is "Wow, how did they meet? Where are they from? What tribe? Cherokee?" This is the answer I tend to give and then I just answer the questions. It seems as though the answer about my parents is the preferred answer from everyone because my parents each belong to one specific culture, whereas I belong to two. Even though there are many biracial people in the world, there is something about my combination of races that people seem to be uneasy with. Black and Native American. Could it be because these are two races of American minorities who each suffered through a grim, disturbing past that many would like to forget ever existed?

I hate answering this question, but I do because my self-identity depends on it. I know that I am both. I know that my mother's Native American culture had more of an influence, while I was growing up because we visited the reservation numerous times. I know that the last time we visited my dad's side of the family was when I was ten, so I can't just identify with one race over the other, like a lot of other biracial people do. It would make my life so much easier to say that I am just one of those races, but then people would ask about my extra long, curly hair or certain features, and I would be forced to realize that my identity has already been written, and it is unchangeable. Although I hate the question, hate thinking about my response to it, and hate answering it; I like that the question has stirred enough curiosity and interest about the fusion of my two cultures, that people feel almost compelled to ask it.