Anna Karenina Chunks

As a comment on the blog post, do a point sentence and DIDLS chunk for the excerpt from Anna Karenina. (4 sentences total)

Point sentence: In Chapter One, Tolstoy uses _ to ___.
Detail: From the text (Embed quotations, signal phrases....) Make sure to SHOW the rhetorical strategy you are talking about in the point sentence!
CM1: Significance of the strategy, work in the lit terms
CM2: How is this strategy working towards the author's purpose?

A Call to Care

Hell on Earth. This phrase brings with it so many images. Fire. Destruction. Death. Hollywood has provided scenes for us in countless movies, but I do not picture some contrived moment of special effects. Real life provides enough images, more horrifying in their reality than any screenwriter or director can produce. After viewing Los Angeles Times reporter Carolyn Cole’s moving piece of photojournalism entitled, “So Many People Who Need Help”, I have seen “hell on Earth.” So many people in our privileged country need to see these images to remind ourselves of our incredible good fortune and the multitude of less fortunate people in this big world that need our help.

Cole’s audio slide show documents the days after the tragic 7.0 earthquake that hit the small Caribbean island of Haiti on January 24, 2010. Amid the pictures of buildings crumbling to dust and UN officials doling out much needed aid, I am struck by the faces of the victims. Their eyes hold such agony, yet I could see such resiliency of the human spirit as well. Incredibly human images of a man carrying his sleeping child and families huddled together around the light of a single candle remind me that these are people, not so different from myself, and their world has been turned upside down. The final shot of the police officer, struck down by another officer who mistook him for a looter, is telling of the experience itself. The streets must have been chaos. I can imagine that authorities desperately tried to do something, anything, to bring order to the pandemonium, but the screams and the panic and the death just continued on. Hell on Earth.

Worse than these pictures were those that I found as I searched through the attached galleries. These images were too strong to show my class of high school students. They were too strong for me. People walked calmly past mounds of bodies piled in the streets. A man was caught on camera in his greatest moment of pain after finding his wife and ten-month-old baby on the top of a gruesome stack of dead human beings. My nightmares will be haunted by these pictures, but I chose to not bring those visions to my students.

It always strikes me at the oddest moments how blessed I am to be so safe and sheltered from the world’s tragedies. I can put my daughter to bed in her pink nursery and sip ice tea on my couch and almost forget that others are starving and frightened. It is so easy to see the victims as images on the news. But these are people with families and dreams, and when hell on Earth came to them, they had to survive and go on. Who am I to sit on my pedestal and pretend there is nothing that I can do? I can give blood. I can donate. I can spread the message. I can care. If we all just cared... Imagine the good we could do.

Dreams

Dreams kindle our hearts
With a burning flame of desire
A beacon in the night,
They guide our paths through the darkness.
Oh, but how quickly the harsh wind
Can dampen their flame!

But what happens to lost dreams?
Do they die,
Leaving only the acrid smell
Of dreams lost,
And a permanent darkness,
Or do they continue to smolder,
Waiting for the chance to light again?

I Am....

I am flighty and unpredictable.

I wonder if I'll ever be whole.

I hear the ocean singing me to sleep.

I see magic sparkling in the air.

I want to read every book on the shelf.

I am flighty and unpredictable.



I pretend to dance before a crowd.

I feel the caress of the mountains.

I touch the miracles of God.

I worry that life will pass me by.

I cry when my daughter reaches for my hand.

I am flighty and unpredictable.



I understand that life is a gift.

I say seize the day.

I dream of living on the edge.

I try to teach love and openness.

I hope to leave footprints behind.

I am flighty and unpredictable.

A Whole New Movie!

I am staring in my own personal movie all the time. I am the heroine. There are villains, supporting actors, a romantic lead... Somehow, every song on my iPod speaks to me personally, giving my movie a soundtrack that is always perfect.

But wait! Doesn't everyone have a movie? I may be one of a series of supporting actors! We all have history. We all live with our memories, joy, and pain. The world is so much bigger than me! When I take some time to step outside myself, even for a moment, something beautiful happens; I remember my humanity. I snap out of my self-possessed stupor and engross myself in another's movie.

After reading through the plethora of suggestions to heighten the "six senses" in Daniel Pink's book, A Whole New Mind, I decided that I wanted to do everything. Of course, then I realized that I had to get a blog post finished quickly, so I would have to start with one. I do own the fact that I am a bit dramatic and self-absorbed, so an exercise I need... reality check! Just look how many times I have used the word "I"! It was time for me to reach out, connect, and listen to someone besides myself. I thought of my sister-in-law. I would be surprised not to find her picture next to the word "mom" in a dictionary. She's warm, loving, and completely super-human in her ability to mother three boys without having a nervous breakdown. But, what do I REALLY know about her? Do I know what moves her? Do I know her adventurous side? Do I know which memories make her tick? So, knowing I needed to get a blog post done, I took the only natural recourse available to me; I literally attacked her with a video camera at her son's baseball game. I "[whipped] out the tape recorder" (well, actually the iPhone) in an effort to enhance my sense of "story" (121).

First, I should make it clear that I have known Stefanie for more than twelve years. Naturally, I should already know everything there is to know about her, right? Pahleease! Who sits down and spouts out a life story at the dinner table? What do I know? The events that have unfolded in the past twelve years. We all seem to live in the here and now all the time, as if our past mistakes, triumphs, and mundane experiences have absolutely no bearing on our day-to-day lives. My first question- How did you and your husband meet? The on-camera "mutual friend" evasion turned into an off-camera story that told me so much about her personality! The picture in my head- a good girl who set standards for her own behavior, but who would help out a friend-in-need without judgment, and a bad boy that proved to be too tempting! Loving it! Of course, that "bad boy" turned out to be pretty great in the long run. My brother-in-law is a terrific husband and loving father.

If my romantic heart yearned for a boy-meets-girl type of love story, though, I was quickly brought to heel. The love story that prevailed in this interview was between mother and daughter. I have met Stefanie's late mother. I know of her kindness and compassion, and I loved her as well, but I hadn't grasped the full impact that she had on Stefanie's life. When asked about her best and worst memories, Stefanie quickly answered both questions with thoughts of Brenda- beginning with the Christmases spent giving to local families in need and knitting stockings for the people she cared about, and ending with the heartbreak of Brenda's last breaths when cancer claimed her as its victim. It was clear that Stefanie's story- the one that runs central in her life- tells of the impact of a mother's love.

This impact has spread into all aspects of Stefanie's life. It has become her motivation for being. When asked about her goal in life, Stefanie responded that she hoped to be "at least half the caring Christian, mom, friend, and role model [her] mom was to [her] and to everyone that was blessed to know her." This drive has pushed her to give herself to her kids and her community in a way that makes me, honestly, feel a little lazy! After watching her own mother succumb to illness at a young age, Stefanie knows that we must make the most of life while we are living it. She eloquently stated, "You aren't promised tomorrow, much less your next breath." Perhaps that's why this self-described "not a gutsy gal" flew with my husband in the Skycoaster in Gulf Shores a few years ago! But her biggest adventure? Being a mom. How could it be anything else? Her own mother shaped so much of her life. No one knows better than Stefanie the power a great mother can hold. She will ultimately teach her children to live. To love. Is there any role that could be more fulfilling, or terrifying, than that?

Perspective. We all need to find it periodically. What truly moves the people in our lives? What really moves me? Only when I listen to the stories of my own life and those of the people around me can I come even close to grasping what's "real" in the world. So, am I all finished heightening my "six senses"? Not even close! I have signed up to volunteer. I will watch my daughter play and revel in her curiosity and wonder. I will thank God for a new blessing every single day. I will attempt to do something that I am not good at and take pride in every mistake I make. I may even read The Art of Happiness by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Howard C. Cutler, M.D. (241) because, come on, who doesn't want to read a book that will tell you the secret to happiness? Most importantly, I will remember that my creativity and compassion are the aces in my deck of talents. These mental muscles need to be exercised with a P90x-like regiment, for these right-brained strengths will be the factor in my success as a teacher, a parent, a friend, and a person.

“A Legacy of Paper Cuts and Reading Glasses”

My mother swears that I came out of the womb reading. I can just picture myself as a tiny newborn with a newspaper and reading glasses! Even though I know this can’t be true, I have no idea how I actually learned. One day I just read, and from that day forward, I was hooked. Of course, in my family of self-proclaimed bookworms, who could have expected anything less?

Like any pregnant English professor and bookaholic, my mother began reading to me well before I was actually born. Even though I’m sure this was more for her benefit than mine, I like to think that something may have rubbed off on me. After birth, the evening reading ritual truly began. Every night, I curled in my mother’s lap and was treated to a magical story that unfolded on the brightly colored pages of a book. As I grew into a precocious toddler, I began to request my favorites. I am sure Mom memorized every word that Dr. Seuss ever put on a page! One night, when I was about three years old, I simply began reading along. My mother swears to me that it was not a book we read often, which negates the theory that I simply had the story memorized. Between phonics-inspired educational toys and the constant exposure to written language, I seemed to just pick it up.

When it came to reading, I stayed several grade levels ahead of the majority of my peers throughout school. Boredom prevented any real reading instruction in elementary school that I remember. My memories of reading during that stage of my life still centered on my mother. Our nightly reading rituals did not stop because I simply started school. I crawled into bed with her and, one chapter at a time, read classics such as Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea, Black Beauty, and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. We took turns reading, and every chapter ended with a talk about our thoughts, feelings, and predictions about the story. I imagine this was training for a future English teacher.

When reading on my own, I discovered the true abandonment of the conscience mind that a book can produce. I poured through series after series, such as Sweet Valley Twins, Nancy Drew, and Sweet Valley High. I will never forget the Christmas that my aunt, the librarian, bought me a boxed set of the series, The Chronicles of Narnia. After falling in love with Aslan, the lion, in the most popular of the series, I devoured the entire set of Lewis’s novels. As a child, I often chose books instead of television. Only through reading could I truly escape into a fantasy world. This was the world I reenacted when pretending to be one of my beloved characters. An only child, I spent countless hours playing out my own scenes in the make-believe worlds I read about.

In middle school, I discovered the forbidden world of adult romance novels. Because my mother’s dissertation and many of her lectures and publications focused on romance writers such as LaVyrle Spencer and Jude Deveraux, our house was teeming with the kind of novels that depicted young couples in passionate embraces. It was inevitable that I would one day decide that these looked more interesting than my juvenile fiction. The lasting results of this leap into adulthood include unrealistic expectations of romance and a deep love-affair with the genre. I am always in the middle of a historical romance novel. Every time I read the final page of one, I feel an immediate sense of withdrawal. I often practically push my husband out the door to the nearest store to pick out my next guilty pleasure.

Without a male role-model or an example of a healthy romantic relationship, these novels became my teachers. I spent my early teenage years fully expecting my true love to sweep me off my feet like the swarthy pirate captain that kidnapped the beautiful, spirited maiden that he could not stop thinking about. Thankfully, I did not remain a complete blithering idiot. My ideas of feminine strength and independence clashed with the treatment of women in some of the older “bodice rippers” that depicted forceful, almost brutal, heroes that completely overpowered their heroines. One story made me so angry that I remember stomping into my mother’s room one night, berating her for having a novel like this offensive trash under our roof. Having no idea that I had been reading these in the first place, she found herself at a complete loss for words. After the uncomfortable conversation that ensued, I kept the rest of my opinions to myself until she became acclimated to my interest in this literary genre.

I did eventually develop a taste for more sophisticated literary works. A love for poetry has been as ingrained into my being as a love of literature itself. My mother, my aunt, and my older cousin consider literature and politics to be completely normal topics of dinner conversation. It took the stunned silences of several boyfriends to teach me that not all families had the same interests. My cousin loved to quote poetry at the dinner table. I was entranced by the beauty and power of the words. When he quoted a poet, I vowed to read all I could by this poet and, eventually, out-quote him at a future dinner. In this manner, I became a true fan of Dickinson, Poe, Frost, Byron, Keats, Shakespeare, and many other masters of poetic language.

With such a literary family, it would have been difficult not to develop a true love for reading. I bring a bag of books I have finished to every family gathering, knowing that I will come home with a new bag of books carefully selected from those filling the studies and closets of my family members. My mother used to predict that I would one day follow in her footsteps, bringing my love of literature to a classroom of impressionable students. I steadfastly refused. “I will be a veterinarian, not a teacher!” I used to proclaim. I became a special education teacher instead. She smiled to herself when I decided to focus on English instruction, but she positively crowed with smug delight when I informed her that I wanted to get my master’s degree in English. I can only imagine her glee if I confided my secret ambition. One day I may write the novel that she has always dreamed of.