you can't see the elephants

This book, by Susan Kreller, is well worth a read. Mascha, an introverted 13-year-old living with her grandparents after her mother's death, comes across two younger children--Julia and Max. She discovers that the two are being abused, their young bodies bruised and scarred, and their minds even more so. When she seeks help, however, Mascha is silenced: her grandparents question her interpretation of what she has seen and insist that the children's father is a good man, well-respected in the community. Even 9-1-1 won't believe her story.

Eventually Mascha takes matters into her own hands and locks the two children in an abandoned blue shack in the middle of a barley field. She goes to great lengths to bring them food, water, and items of comfort, but they nevertheless fall into a state of physical and psychological distress in what becomes a sweltering prison. All three children are well beyond their depth.

In the end, when Mascha is found out, her grandmother's words are so telling. "Does anyone ever think about me?" the old woman asks. "Did we know that no one would talk to her anymore, and she could just forget going to exercise class, and she might as well drown herself," Mascha asks.

I must say that the book, and the people within it, are far too familiar. The denial of abuse is common. I have seen a church community take a neutral stance when it comes to what's going on beneath its surface. People don't want to tangle with an abuser, or uncover the truth. Instead, 'good' church folk conclude that rather than take sides, they will remain 'neutral.' They effectively isolate the victim and reinforce the abuse. Most repugnantly, they say "hi" to the victim in a friendly tone, while simultaneously offering the abuser support. (Not surprisingly, in the very same community, certain behaviours have been normalized, and carefully concealed, while spouses live on, blissfully unaware or in complete denial. It is a church that has nothing to do with God, and I can understand completely why people walk away from such places and never return.)

I have seen people so deep in denial that when hit square in the face with solid, consistent evidence, they continue to claim that abusers are in the right. Not my son.

What is clear, in this book, is that the only human that is truly capable of living, that has not grown old and stagnant, is a thirteen-year-old who is compelled to take a risk. Mascha speaks out because violence is wrong and she knows this on a gut level. Mascha then acts because no one else will. And in doing so, she feels--feels the intensity of rage, and passion (in music, something she shares with little Julia), and the joy of connecting with other humans. She drops all appearances and engages on a messy, often distressing, but profound level.

1 year, 40 Novels

My daughter was not eager to create any resolutions this year. After all, how many bad habits could an eight-year-old have accrued to this point (with the exception of chewing on her sleeves and leaving filtration experiments throughout the house)? However, she did arrive at a number for the novels she intends to read with me this year: 40.

It has thus become my own resolution to record the 40 books we choose, and to give some of our impressions of said books. Should my daughter leap up and down or shake, as she is prone to do, the book will be deemed "Exceptional." (The Children's Story by James Clavell is one such book: D., age six at the time, was literally trembling with excitement.) If my daughter is livid because an ending does not meet her expectations (e.g. The Giver, with its maddening ambiguity at the end), will been labelled "Infuriating," despite its obvious literary merit. And, well, there will be books slotted into the category of "Good . . . but not as good as ___________."

If, at the end of the year, we have not achieved our 40-novel goal, we may need to (as my daughter pointed out), count the occasional book as "two." The House of the Scorpion, although riveting, is a woefully long read.