A Book about History: Devil in the White City

**This blog is a part of a series, as I read my way through 2017.  To see my book list and/or recommend more, see this post.**

5. A Book about History: Devil in the White City - Erik Larson

(Shoutout to Mrs. Donna Manning
for recommending this book to me.)

Devil in the White City is the true tale of "murder, magic, and madness" at 1893 World's Columbian Expedition.  (Like, really true. I found it in the non-fiction section.  Had to use Dewey Decimal system. Felt very accomplished.) Mrs. Donna's recommendation was enough to get me interested, but once I realized it basically combined the Chicago World's Fair with an episode of Criminal Minds, I was sold.  Full disclosure, I love anything and everything about Chicago.  That gorgeous city gave me my first real breath of independence and missions and multiculturalism and changed my world forever. I've also always had a fascination with the World's Fair, but knew relatively little of the details surrounding it.

Larson takes us on a wild ride through the creation of possibly the largest single event in U.S. history, alongside the evolution of America's first recognized serial killer.  Now, I will be the first to tell you that I am shamefully ignorant when it comes to history.  Dr. Ford tried really really hard to instill some knowledge in my freshman brain, but all I can tell you is that in 1066 William the Conqueror won the Battle of Hastings.  That's all I came away with.  So for me, this book gave me a look at a historical event and historical figures in a way I've never experienced.  Larson's not shy about name dropping, and we catch glimpses of folks like Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill, Thomas Edison, Elias Disney, Frank Lloyd Wright, Sitting Bull, L. Frank Baum, and so many others all throughout the novel.  If you had previously told me that all of these individuals existed in the same year, I would've laughed at you. I have no sense of chronology when it comes to our history. I know, shameful.

I expected to be thoroughly creeped out by the serial killer story running parallel to all of this, but it stayed tame enough that I had no trouble going to sleep every night while following the story.  The story of H. H. Holmes is really interesting from a psychological perspective.  Juxtaposed with the tale of creating the World's Fair, there's a fascinating view of some of humanity's best and worst all crammed into one place.  Lines are blurred and boundaries are pushed, and it seems to me that the question running alongside all of this is whether we were really ready for it. In my head it's a very tower-of-Babel-like scene, and I look at today's world with all the technology and progress we've made and wonder the same- are we really ready for it? Can humanity be trusted with all of this? (History says: probably not. But we'll make it work.)

In the end, I found myself missing Chicago, and wishing for a day long past when excitement spread slowly and infectiously, without the benefit of Facebook live, Instagram, and the media. I felt the thrill of waiting on the newspaper headlines to reflect the latest development telegraphed from the big city.  I felt the awe and wonder of hundreds of thousands of people gathered to take it all in- the living work of art that eclipsed any other similar experience. I felt the swell of patriotism at realizing how much beauty was created solely for love of country and pride in their city. This book quickly placed itself high on my list of favorites, and inspired me to take a closer look at the history of my country and to fall deeper in love with one of our greatest cities.  10 out of 10 stars- Go read it yourself and enjoy it as much as I did!

A Book By Its Cover: The Mysterious Benedict Society

**This blog is a part of a series, as I read my way through 2017.  To see my book list and/or recommend more, see this post.**

2. A Book Chosen for Its Cover: The Mysterious Benedict Society- Trenton Lee Stewart

This was the second book I chose to read in 2017, and also second on my list!  I chose it by rambling through the children's section of my local library and grabbing the first book that looked interesting.  I will admit that while the cover was one appeal, the other was the length.  It's a good-sized "chapter book" that I thought would hold my interest and keep me busy for a few days.

As it turns out, I was quite right! The Mysterious Benedict Society follows a group of exceptionally talented young people on the adventure of a lifetime as they are selected for a very special mission to rescue their society from "the Emergency."  I abhor giving away vital plot details, so I'll spend most of my time here focusing on the big picture, and I'll leave the mystery for you to solve alongside our young protagonists!

This book, while not the absolute best in its genre, is definitely near the top.  It's compared to the likes of Roald Dahl, Lemony Snicket, and even dear J.K. Rowling (who has been slaying on twitter this week- just sayin').  I personally got some definite Madeline L'Engle vibes, which always bodes well.  The story is clever and will absolutely keep the late-elementary/early-middle schooler on their toes.  It kept me engaged, and while certain moments were a bit predictable, there were a few great plot twists that surprised even me. The characters are lovable and relatable, and ultimately believable heroes. They struggle with self-doubt and courage and identity, and even selfishness, and learn important lessons as they pursue their quest for truth.  They're flawed, and that makes them even more dear to us as we get to know them.

Much of this book seems to me to be about the power of friendship/family/belonging. At the same time, it offers great insight into a society that is all-too-ready to accept a norm of panic and chaos at the expense of independence and truth.  Some very Orwellian themes lie just below the surface, and would make great discussion points for any age group. I think a bold enough teacher could even use this as a companion novel for something like 1984 or Fahrenheit 451, or even an alternative for students who aren't quite up to that high school reading level.

But I digress. Overall, I think I made a fantastic choice in judging this book by its cover and joining my new friends in a great adventure to prove I'm up to the job of joining the team and saving the world.  I'm also glad to say there are a few sequels floating around out there, so my journey with these clever kids doesn't have to end here.  I highly recommend The Mysterious Benedict Society to readers of all ages!

A Biography: Twelve Years a Slave

**This blog is a part of a series, as I read my way through 2017.  To see my book list and/or recommend more, see this post.**


4. A Biography: Twelve Years a Slave - Solomon Northup

This was the first book I read for my 2017 reading challenge (the order having mostly to do with what I found first at the Harrison County Public Library, West Biloxi branch.)  I have to take a moment to praise my library.  While my branch is not especially large, it's close to home, and it has a fantastic inter-library loan program with all the other branches of the Harrison Co. system.  The librarians are also great- helpful and always have something good to say about one of the books I've chosen.

So I started my journey with what might actually be the most difficult subject matter on the list.  Twelve Years a Slave (now a movie, too) is the autobiographical tale of Solomon Northup, a free black man kidnapped and sold into slavery, where he remained for 12 years.  First let me say I was very impressed with the readability and accessibility of the text.  For a novel written by a black man living in the mid 1800s, the work is easy to understand and relate to, even for a white woman in the 21st century.  The story is crafted so well that I often had to consciously remind myself that I was reading a biography rather than a work of fiction.

I suppose that's where the difficulty of the subject matter comes in.  While the story would be a brutal work of fiction, much of the violence is nothing we aren't accustomed to seeing on prime time television.  It's hard to hear of characters subjected to cruel, inhumane treatment, but it was much harder to force myself to keep in mind that the events of this book are things that actually happened to a singular man who really did live, and happened not too far from where I am sitting tonight.

When we're taught about slavery in school, it's mostly in context of human labor in the cotton fields and the civil war, leading up to the emancipation proclamation.  I find that in the South, history teachers will often focus on the misconceptions about the role of slavery in the Civil War and in so doing, minimize or gloss over the facts of slavery's role in our past.  So while I was never under the impression that slavery was actually a pleasant thing, the reality of it never quite hit home, I suppose.
This book certainly reframed that narrative for me.

I now picture a society that was bold enough to venture to another continent, lie, cheat, and kidnap actual human beings and bring them to America to be sold as property- hardly better than an animal. Northup describes his own ignorance as a free man, and his shock upon fully understanding the absolute lack of value a black life had in the South, save for its ability to work. He recalls standing on the auction block and being examined like an animal, with buyers inspecting his body, feeling his limbs, investigating his eyes and teeth for sign of defect.

He later describes the predicament of a female slave who is regularly raped by their master, and thus hated and punished continuously by the master's wife.  On one occasion she is strung up naked and whipped and beaten nearly to death.  And she's entirely powerless to change a single thing about her situation. Northup attempts to intervene on her behalf as often as possible, and she makes it clear to him that she feels his presence is the only thing that has kept her alive this long, but that she'd be better off dead anyway.  To the whites, she is considered nothing more than property to be used and abused.

One thing I found incredibly striking was Northup's description of his first master, a pastor.  He said the man was kind and generous, but a product of his environment who never considered that a human being should not be the property of another.  It simply never occurred to him that life could or should be any different.  As kindhearted and pious as he may have been (Northup only speaks well of him) he still participated in the systematic oppression of an entire race of people, depriving them of the inalienable rights of freedom and equality.

This is where the book became most personal for me. This sort of predicament terrifies me, to be quite honest, as I look at my own life and wonder what parts of my own culture have been so ingrained in me that I never think to question whether they are in fact wholly upright and Good. Do I allow injustice to continue around me, simply because I have never known anything else?  Do I remain silent as a matter of culture or convenience when my voice as a daughter of God could be used to fight for "the least of these?"  Oh, may it never be.

May I stand with the forgotten, lend my voice to the voiceless, fight for the helpless, and always seek to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God.  Even, and especially, when it flies in the face of everything I've been taught by my culture, my government, and even my church.

2017 Reading Challenge

I've been looking for good motivation to blog more often (as it's been a year and 3 days since my last post.) I write a lot for my job, so I think writing for myself has been a bit neglected. But one thing I've found to be true is the more that I read and write, the more I want to read and write, which usually leads to improvement in my writing, which is always good.

So, right around new years, my friend Wes Kinsey posted on Facebook that he was looking for a good reading challenge, and as he received suggestions I received motivation.  With the help of the FB Group he subsequently created and a lot of great suggestions from friends, I came up with a list of books that match up with the prompts.

It is as follows:

1. A Memoir: Talking As Fast As I Can - Lauren Graham
2. A book chosen for its cover: The Mysterious Benedict Society - Trenton Lee Stewart
3. A book from a different genre: The Secret History- Donna Tartt
4. A Biography: Twelve Years a Slave- Solomon Northup
5. A book about history: Devil in the White City - Erik Larson
6. A book targeted to my gender: In the Unlikely Event - Judy Blume
7. A book about theology: The Explicit Gospel - Matt Chandler
8. A children's book: TBD at the Library
9. A book being published in 2017: Exit West- Mohsin Hamid
10. A book over 100 years old: Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
11. A book about a different religion: Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus - Nabeel Qureshi
12. A book by a person of color: Americanah - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
13. A book about food: French Kids Eat Everything- Karen LaBillon
14. A book whose main character is different than me: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time - Mark Haddon
15. A book becoming a movie in 2017: Wonder - R.J. Palacio
16. The 1st book in a series I haven't read: A Series of Unfortunate Events- Lemony Snickett
17. A book of poetry or a play: Harry Potter & The Cursed Child - J.K. Rowling
18. A book of short stories or essays: whatever I can find from Wendell Berry or Walker Percy
19. A book by an author I haven't heard of: My Name is Asher Lev - Chaim Potok
20. A book recommended by a friend: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
21. A book recommended by the media: A Partial History of Lost Causes - Jennifer Dubois
22. A book I started but never finished: A Severe Mercy - Sheldon Vanauken
23. A book relating to current events: The New Jim Crow - Michelle Alexander
24. A book whose title makes me think: The Name of the Wind - Patrick Rothfuss
25. A book that feeds my wanderlust: TBD at the library
26. A book that I love: A Wrinkle in Time - Madeline L'Engle (...probably)

Over the course of 2017, I plan to blog about each book as I travel through my list.  I'm sure a few will change as I find what is and isn't available at my local library (which is FANTASTIC, btw) and perhaps I'll even find time to share a few other things throughout the year.  So here's to a2017 full of good books and good thoughts and lots of words... Cheers!

P.S. What am I missing?  If you know of a GREAT book that deserves to be on my list, make your case!  I might be persuaded to add a few!

Dreaming

Today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.  A holiday observed in America to celebrate the life of a famous civil rights leader.  A pastor, a leader, a freedom fighter, and a peace keeper.  A man who fiercely believed in equality and justice, and was not afraid to speak up for those beliefs.  Not a perfect man, but a purposeful one. A sinner, and yet a saint.

A dreamer.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed; "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." 

 I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.  

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.  

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.  

I have a dream today! 

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. 

I have a dream today!

The words stir my very being.  Oh, Dr. King...I, too dream.  And alas, it is still a dream.  Although we are closer than when those mighty words of longing were spoken, we are yet so far.  

I know, because I fell in love with a man whose dark brown skin compliments the fair, peachy pink of my own. A man with the greatest smile you'll ever see, and the gentlest words, and kindest eyes, and brightest mind. And when I brought him home, there was much rejoicing that God provided a man who loved Him to love and care for me. 

And there were questions. And stares. And quiet whispers and long, loud, silences of those who want nothing to do with reconciliation.  Who have misunderstood the nature of the Gospel that frees them.

I know, because my definition of family changed in a matter of moments.

I know, because I heard the joke told in the office.  I saw the instant of shame, almost imperceptible, and not enough to quell the laughter or even change the subject.

I know, because I heard the presidential candidate spew vile words of hatred and scorn, and I heard the masses agree. And so few stood up to stop it. 

   "In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."

Today is a day for remembering.  A day for repenting.  A day for forgiving.  A day for changing.  A day for redeeming.  A day for embracing.  A day for learning.  A day for listening.  A day for loving.  

"I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear." 

Thank you, Dr. King.  Let us keep on dreaming.  And let us invite others to build those dreams with us.

Seeking Refuge

Whew. You guys, these last few days on social media have been brutal.  I broke some personal rules.  I try really hard not to engage on FB. Like, I'm okay with posting a status that says something worthwhile, but I try not to let conversations flow from that. Because even though I write better than I speak, you lose some of the human aspect in a facebook comment flow.  So after a few lengthy posts and a few long threads of comments, I decided a blog post was necessary for the sake of my aching heart.

There is so much I could say, but it all starts for me with a summer I spent in Chicago.  I worked with a mission/church that primarily operated amongst refugees.  I spent my entire summer surrounded by people who had run for their lives and wound up dropped off in a suburb of Chicago with refugee status attached to their name.  Some of them were born in refugee camps where they received almost no education and where weekly fires that burned large portions of the camp were a regular event.  Where food was scarce and disease was common and childhood was not really allowed.  Some of them gave birth while running through the jungle, fleeing for their lives from people who bombed their villages and attacked their families.  One man (a Christian) even spent years leaving the relative safety of the refugee camp to go back into the jungle and seek out other believers who were fleeing like him, and guide them to safety. Another man had to flee because he became such a threat to the religious leaders in his homeland, as he'd planted dozens upon dozens of churches who worshipped the true God.  He's on a most wanted list, of sorts.  All of them came to the US with little more than the clothes on their back.  Some came not speaking English because they'd never had access to education.  Some came with years of established careers as pastors, teachers, doctors, lawyers, and were forced to work here as custodians or long hours in factories, despite their old age and years of experience.  All came here because they felt that it was their last hope of safety.  Because all the trials they would face here paled in comparison to the place they could no longer call home.  Because being poor and perhaps even unwanted is still better than being dead.  While I got to know these people, a few shared their stories.  On July 4th we gathered to watch fireworks and celebrate America, on the weekend that marked their 1-year anniversary of arrival.  That night they shared what it was like living in the camps, and what it was like to be the 18 year old man of the family seeking out enough records for their family so they would be eligible to begin the process of applying for placement in the US or the EU.  Many of them came here worshipping other gods.  Some came having given up hope on any God.  But little did they know that already there were churches in their context in Chicago, waiting to welcome them in with the love of Christ.

These same refugees, many of whom lived in we would consider to be the most impoverished communities in the USA, took this young ignorant college student in, without ever questioning my motives, and fed me.  They invited me into their homes and offered food and laughs and stories. They hugged me and loved me and one night a young girl literally slept at my feet, holding onto my ankles, desperate to let me know that our friendship was real.  They patiently taught me bits of their language and anxiously asked me to share more of mine. They practiced for citizenship tests and collected resources amongst themselves for a family whose apartment burned. They taught me the meaning of community and illustrated to me that my God was so much bigger than I'd ever imagined he was.  I learned to pray like they prayed, and learned to sing like they sang, and learned to worship through dance and through chant and through feasting together.

So this week, when I heard so many Mississippians (and Americans) loudly cry, "we do not want them!" I was devastated.  When I saw Christians rejoice as we turned away the needy, I mourned.  When I saw many react in a spirit of fear rather than in a spirit of love and truth, I balked.  And when I realized so many were ignorant of the plight of these humans seeking refuge, and the process they go through, I was saddened.  And I could not remain silent.

I know there's a chance that members of ISIS might try to masquerade as refugees and infiltrate the US. I know that at least one man who perpetrated the attack on Paris did just that.  I also know that a few months ago two young people at Mississippi State University were conspiring to join ISIS.  And I know that the Lord is capable of saving the darkest of hearts.  I know that one man responsible for penning a good portion of the Bible I read was a murderer.  I know also that the man who wrote most of the New Testament was a Christian-murdering terrorist. I know also that Simon the Apostle was a member of an extremist group responsible for terrorist attacks. I know that God has saved Muslim friends of mine through dreams and visions with scandalous love and grace.  I know that the God I now worship died a cruel death on a state-sanctioned instrument of torture while I was yet monstrously opposed to him and hated him. I know that if His love was not sacrificial, I would refuse him still. I know that I've read and quoted from Jim and Elizabeth Elliot, who had no sense of self-preservation.  I know that the grandchildren of Nate Saint call the man who killed him "grandfather."  I know that immense sacrifice was made in each of these circumstances.

Someone said something to me yesterday along the lines of "Why don't we pile all the Syrian refugees into camps and let the Christians put some action to their words and THEY can take care of them."  And while I adamantly and vehemently oppose the idea of camps, I embrace the idea of the Church taking this challenge to heart.
This morning in the early hours before daylight, as my heart was burdened for these people, I had this vision of the Church doing just that.   I imagined us taking in refugee families and housing them in our churches and homes.  I imagined one person opening their home, or a church sacrificing their parsonage or extra building to house a family or two.  But then I imagined others coming along side them and bearing the burden with them.  Perhaps there are a few teachers in the congregation.  One might take responsibility for taking the children of the family to school and watching over them there. One might spend some time studying the language and culture of the family and teach the congregation so that they'll be able to welcome them in a way that feels familiar.  Another teacher might spend a few hours a week helping teach the family English.  Each family in the church might take responsibility for providing a meal to them, and perhaps a stay-at-home-mom will bring the mother into her house and teach her about cooking and shopping in America.  The men of the congregation will come alongside the father and teach him about finances in America, and how to manage a household.  They'll provide tools and resources for him to eventually be independent.  The children of the church know best how to make friends, as smiles transcend culture and language and race, and they will love with the encouragement of their parents.  And in time, this family will realize that the love of Christ prompted complete strangers to take them in.  Perhaps a Saul will become a Paul.  Perhaps a family in the church will realize they're called to go minister to others in that context.  Children who might have been washed up drowned on a foreign soil or recruited into a terrorist group will be loved and grow into thriving adults who also show love. I know it's idealistic.  I know I'm still young and I'm sure you think me naive.  But Jesus said the kingdom belongs to those with childlike faith.  Jesus said that I had to take up my cross (state-sanctioned weapon of torture) in order to follow Him. Jesus said that the last are first in his Kingdom.  He said that it was better if I stored up wealth in heaven instead of on Earth.  He said if I wanted to gain life, I had to first lose it. He said that what I do for the poorest and neediest of people is actually done to Him. He didn't qualify those statements.  He didn't give me an out for when I was scared or worried or feared consequences.  He said that He had nowhere to lay his head on this earth, and if I want to follow Him, that's what I must be prepared for. He said some crazy things, and they make me uncomfortable. But I see life in those words.  I see a love and grace bigger than I could have pictured without them.  I see hope and promise of eternal life.  I see a God who took me in when I hated Him.  Who created me knowing I'd reject him.  I see a Father who adopted the child who wanted to murder Him.
"Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all." 

New Indeed

      Well, I'm changing things up a little bit over here. The blog got a mini-makeover aesthetically, and it also got a new web address.  Because, as much as I (still) hate to admit it, "allisoninmalawi" is no longer in Malawi. I suppose after 2.5 years of being back in the U.S., it was finally time.

      You may also have noticed that I've posted exactly twice in the past year. Needless to say, I've been a little bit busy doing things like getting married and stuff. But I've also been working, which involves staring at a computer screen from 8-5 every day, so making myself look at a computer when I get home hasn't been on the top of my to-do list. If I'm honest, though, there's more to my absence than the practical aforementioned reasons.  There's been a whole host of internal processing that's just been too scrambled for words in the past year.

     I was told at some point that it takes someone half as long as the time that they lived out of the country to re-adjust to being back "home".  In other words, having lived in Africa for two years, it would take one year to feel "normal" again.  And I found that to be a pretty conservative estimate.   I'm really not here to talk about Malawi, as I know it's old news for most of you.  But it's so real in my heart, and it took me a good two years to find closure and answers and simply be emotionally stable enough to let myself process the havoc that was wreaked by going from 4 years at Mississippi College to two years in Malawi to moving back into my parents' house in my hometown and entering into an inter-cultural mega-long-distance relationship.  To be honest, I was a wreck.  And I'm just starting to feel like I'm okay with my life again.

     Writing and reading and language have always been an outlet for me. Sometimes they've been an escape.  But they are always emotionally charged. I write with various combinations of logic and passion. I have never read literature without an emotional response to it. (Okay, don't tell Dr. Smith, but the closest thing to an exception would be what little I read of Shakespeare's histories. I'm sorry. I. Do. Not. Care.) In all seriousness, though, part of the reason I have been unable to write is that I have been unable to handle the emotions involved in letting myself process, whether by blog or journal or other means.  (Also, why would anyone want to read the messy emo explosion of words that would likely result? That's not attractive.)

     Anyway, all this to say...I think I'm back.
     I work in a job right now that I have a very love/hate relationship with.  It's the greatest place I could dream up to work, and the environment is fun and wild and spontaneous and creative and I adore it. My coworkers are all the best kinds of crazy, and my boss is seriously incredible.  However, large portions of my job involve numbers and money and figures and rules and regulations.  Not this English lover's ideal.  And lately I've realized how much I miss the world of language and literature and writing and debating and interpreting and theorizing and simply enjoying a work of art.  (Side note: I read way too much goofy silly teen fiction. I think the library lady is really confused about my actual age.)  But I miss academics.  While I'm not itching to be back in the classroom, (on either side of it, actually) I AM itching to do something that I love.  To exercise the part of my brain that God tweaked so that it produces a bit of a high when I even think about an uninterrupted afternoon with C.S. Lewis's works. The part that is about 2 seconds away from taking a day off work and paying a lot of money just go hear Lois Lowry for an hour.  The part that inspired me to take Greek, and still remembers ridiculous amounts of French, and willingly subjected itself to hours and hours and hours in the 3rd floor of Jennings Hall discussing the use of capitalization in this poem or the absence of dynamic females in that novel.  The part the gets a little bit giddy learning new words, and falls in love with a good novel in all of 2 minutes and then refuses to be separated, devoting continuous hours to it and basking in the feelings it produced when it is all too soon ended.  (That's also the part of me that hasn't finished writing Thank You cards, so sorry about that. I'm working on it, I promise.)  

So, consider this another new beginning in the blog titled All Things New.
Expect to hear from me more. Apparently, I need to write.