The summer before my teen daughter started high school, she was faced with a no-win situation: either read David Copperfield or drop out of Honors English before she even started it.
At the time (with graduation looming, it seems so long ago), I was upset on her behalf. First of all, I think our kids are thoroughly over-scheduled and have too much homework all year. It would have been nice for her to have a summer vacation that actually was a summer vacation. Second, I was disappointed that a course which attracts so many more girls than boys (estimating the percentages to be about 80/20 wouldn't be far-fetched) selected a book by a man rather than a woman. And, third, I worried that Copperfield, which is neither short nor easy, read without the benefit of a helpful instructor, would turn my daughter and her friends off Mr. Dickens — thoroughly and forever. Wouldn't Great Expectations have been a better choice?
For the record though, I never had anything against the title or the author as worthwhile literature. In fact, as I watched my daughter reluctantly read that summer, I realized that my own Dickensian education was not where it should be. I had been assigned maybe half a dozen of his novels in high school and college. And, that insignificant sampling was missing some of his most important titles.
Whether it was out of familial solidarity, an English major's guilt, or temporary insanity, I vowed to go back and read all of his works. I found an antique set of 30 volumes on eBay and began with The Pickwick Papers. When I told people about my project, I usually received a one-word response.
Some people said, "Wow."
But, most said, "Why?"
And, that "Why" wasn't an actual inquiry into my reasons for the undertaking. It was more like an abbreviation for "Why in God's name would you ever even consider that?" and accompanied by a distasteful wrinkling of the nose as if the person smelled rotting fish somewhere on a dark and foggy nineteenth century London pier.
From Pickwick Papers, I moved right into Oliver Twist (a story I was familiar with from countless childhood viewings of the 1968 musical; I had a crush on Jack Wild as the "artful dodger"). But, I found keeping track of a new list of colorful characters a little confusing. After I finished, I decided to intersperse contemporary titles (sometimes two or three ... or ten) between the different Dickens novels. Of course, I realized that this would take a lot longer, but it's not like I was going anywhere.
Some of the most famous titles I read (or re-read) were just marvelous, like Bleak House (which was featured in a course I once took called "Images of Women in Great Literature") and A Tale of Two Cities, Little Dorrit and Nicholas Nickleby. I disrupted my chronological progress a bit so that I could savor A Christmas Carol during the holidays. I struggled through a couple (okay, maybe more than a couple) of absolute snores. And then completely fell in love with Dombey and Son, whose heroine Florence was so pathetic that she made The Old Curiosity Shop's Little Nell seem like a Kardashian.
Last week, I completed The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Except, of course, I didn't and couldn't actually "complete" it because the great Mr. Dickens became the late Mr. Dickens before he gave the novel an ending. Apparently, he was done. And so, apparently, was I.
For those of you who asked, "Why?," I can in all honesty say that I enjoyed the exercise a great deal, most of the time. And, even when a particular title (or particularly long and boring passage) was a challenge, I got through it and was generally rewarded for my effort.
For those of you who said, "Wow!" ... well, I quite agree.
Now, I'm putting the set back up on eBay for some other enthusiastic peruser. And, I'm moving on to The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.
My daughter, who (as I predicted) will never be a Dickens fan after her summer with Copperfield (alas, she was one of the people who asked "Why?"), leaves for college in three months, three weeks and four days.
I expect to have a lot of time for reading very soon.
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Only seven days, two hours and thirty-eight minutes left (not including Saturday and Sunday), and my teenage daughter will be released from the bondage known as sophomore year. She would be completely elated — if she weren't so completely overcommitted and downright exhausted.
In the next week and change, she has regular old homework, a major paper due and five final exams. She also has two different part-time jobs and a concert. Plus, she has to pack for a vacation that starts the day after school ends.
And, last but by no means least, she has The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. You know ...
"Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink."
Always looking for a soapbox, I will (once again) protest the utter absence of women authors — or in this case, even women characters — on the Honors English reading list.
Back to the topic at hand; the end of sophomore year. I feel sorry for my daughter; I really do. But, this is not the time to give in to sympathy. Rather, I must remain ever vigilant, honing my maternal nagging skills (which are quite accomplished already) to their very sharpest. My daughter has worked so hard and done so well for so long. This is the last gasp, the grand finale, the final quarter, the ninth inning.
Enough with the metaphors, mixed or otherwise. I think you get the picture.
The thing is, in her head, she knows there's more to do. But, in her heart, she is done. D. O. N. E. Done, done, done. And so are all her classmates. Besides a challenging curriculum, they've had to deal with school board politics, new rules from a new administration, bomb threats, dress codes, and their first taste of standardized tests.
All in all, sophomore year has been a suckfest. And now?
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
As if my poor daughter needed another albatross around her neck.
Friends of mine advise me to leave her to her own devices. After all, she's done well so far, right? If she did crash and burn, it would be a good learning experience. Blah blah blah.
These friends fall into two categories: childless and multichild. The first don't understand the pressure. And the second gave up a while ago.
We are all so stressed out about grades, transcripts, college admissions. We know better, but we still fall prey to the anxiety, the all-or-nothing sense of pending doom. In just the last week, I've heard two different cautionary tales about promising kids who didn't get in to any of the schools they applied to because of one lousy grade or one botched exam.
Meanwhile, my daughter's doing her own math. I got a text last week (midday, from school — don't get me started) that read:
I know this is bad but hear me out, if i get a 50% on my chem final i will still have an A- for my final average in chem and thats all colleges see
How to respond to that? At first, skimming as I multitasked, I thought she was telling me that she got a 50% on a test she had already taken. (I almost had a heart attack.) Once I understood, I was impressed by her math and by her proactive calculations. At the same time, I was distressed by her lack of drive (and non-pursuit of excellence). I know she's not as concerned (obsessed, okay, the word is obsessed) about good grades as I was. But, seriously.
After all, what did she expect me to say? "Good job, girl! Go for that 50% then!"
Sorry. I'm trying not to nag. But, that ain't never gonna happen.
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As the mother of a teenager, I am intimately acquainted with an oh-so-common adolescent physical manifestation, known as ... the eye roll. Make a suggestion? Eye roll. Make an observation? Eye roll. Make (heaven forbid) a point of constructive criticism?
EYE ROLL!
Often these — most unwelcome — filial reactions come when I least expect them. And, as you can imagine, I avoid them when I can. My dearest daughter, meanwhile, probably wants to spare me her disdain. She probably has my best interests at heart. Right? Of course, right.
That must be why she insisted that I sign the packet her 10th grade Honors English teacher sent home before I actually read it.
You see, my daughter knows me well enough to know that the contents of said package would put me back on my feminist soapbox once again and my subsequent rant would trigger the dreaded eye roll.
The packet explained her new teacher's expectations. It walked through requirements and supplies, tests and quizzes, types of papers. And, it included the year's reading list.
Aye, there's the rub.
Dracula, A Tale of Two Cities, The Catcher in the Rye, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, Maus, 1984, and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
A quick quiz: What do these titles have in common? Classics, yes. Long and boring, arguably. Outdated, mainly. But, no. Sorry. The answer I'm looking for is this ...
They were all written by men. White men, as a matter of fact.
Surprise, surprise.
Not.
I'm so tired of this. It's 2013, people. I'm not criticizing any specific title on this list (although I could, happily, believe me). My point is that out of ten months and eight titles, they can't devote a single selection to a woman? Or a person of color?
When I work with advertising clients (in my day job, running a direct marketing agency), I always stress "Sell what they want, not what you have." It seems to me that the school system in my comfortable little suburb should apply this precept to its English curriculum.
Who takes Honors English? Mostly girls. 65% at last count (and not just in my town, pretty much everywhere).
Where are the admirable women characters? (Lady Macbeth, really?) Where are the women coming of age? (Holden Caulfield's hooker, maybe?) Where are the themes and topics and settings that matter to a class of fifteen- and sixteen-year old girls? (Vampires, war, assassinations, totalitarian regimes, an albatross?)
Where, oh where, are the women authors?
According to the handout that I dutifully signed, the theme of Honors 10 English is "Defining the Classic." I'm down with that. I really am. Here, then, is a list of indisputable classics by women. In no particular order as each title is as wondrous and wonderful as the next:
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
The Group by Mary McCarthy
Beloved by Toni Morrison
To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Play It as it Lays by Joan Didion
Rubyfruit Jungle by Rita Mae Brown
West with the Night by Beryl Markham
Middlemarch by George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans)
The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen (Karen von Blixen-Finecke)
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
Take your pick.
Or, better yet, add your suggestions to the comments below.
