. . . you might say stuff like this:
Teen son to mom, as he's wearing his homemade costume for the Napoleon Dynamite dance he's about perform in the school showcase (moon boots, a white T-shirt with "ringer" neckline and sleeve edges colored in marker, a paper decal of “Vote for Pedro” awaiting ironing and temporarily stuck on with pins, his dad’s old aviator-style glasses) -
“This is just a rough draft, but what do you think?”
It warmed my heart. :-)
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Bluecoats: Robertsonville Prison
Does the above title ring a bell with you? No? This isn't surprising, unless you're a Francophone and recognize the translated title of a much-read volume in the comic-book series "Les Tuniques Bleues."
I'm now translating this series into English for publisher Cinebook. The volume Robertsonville Prison takes its setting from the infamous Andersonville Prison, which operated during the War Between the States. "The Bluecoats" takes a humorous look at the ineptitudes, inefficiencies and incongruities of humans and their actions in wartime. It's been extremely popular over the years with the French-speaking world (the comic-book series, not war) and is making its debut in North America.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Gone Ridin'
Just a brief update to say that I'm out riding my bee-yoo-tee-ful new cruiser, a generous Christmas gift from my amazing children. :-)
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Most embarrassing news anchor line on election day 2008
Brian Williams (white) to Tavis Smiley (black) after Smiley's observations about the import of this election:
"That's why we invited you to our family table."
Yikes.
"That's why we invited you to our family table."
Yikes.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The Troubles: 1968
Professor MacKenna teaches his children to spit through their gapped front teeth at the American flag. When asked, they are to say they’re not from America. Ameri-k-a, he spells it out in conversation. Boann MacKenna cringes each time.
The children don’t question. Well, Siobhan, the baby, six, asks: “Why can’t we be American, Da? My friends are.”
Her elders stifle groans. They’ve heard it, all.
“Shuvvy, my love,” Mam coos.
“You’re no more American than my R’s,” MacKenna lectures his giggling brood, his brow knitted all over in a complicated cable pattern.
Even the older kids think he means arse. They’ve been taught to call it bum.
Mam shakes her fair head. “Gair,” she murmurs.
Gair. His Irish name. Some of the neighbors call him Gary and he seethes.
Gaping teeth aside, the five of them look American, Boann thinks. Red, brown, blond heads. Wide-striped T-shirts, frayed jeans, sneakers with rubber-capped toes. (Trainers they’re called back home, which the children know is not Home anymore).
At school, where they wear St. Margaret Mary’s chosen plaid, they look much like the others, the Americans. Their names are anything but: Breandan, Aedan, Boann, Emer, Siobhan.
Boann—a misery of a name to wear to middle school, where she is called Boo Ann. “Close enough, Sister,” she says each September, a small smile painted on her face.
She’s stuck in the middle at home, too. And what’s she called when she’s at home? Her nickname’s worse: Bobo. She doesn’t explain to Da that he’s given her a clown name, that they’re all clowns. Worse, she doesn’t tell him the neighbor kids call him Mr. Magoo. A cartoon character. Well, aren’t they all?
Boann drives her father mad with her American desires, habits, terms. Her dreams he only guesses at. She cocks her hip out when he lectures, sticks a tolerant look across her face like a plaster. Boann has a friend, an open-faced Proddie girl from down the block who came to the house once. Da answered the door to her trusting knock and glared until she ran back down the messy front walk.
Now they only speak at school, and to and from. They stow their friendship at the corner every day.
Da is not all bad. It’s hard on him that he’s not allowed in Belfast anymore. What was he called when he was at Home, then? His friends there knew MacKenna as Mac Cionaoith—“sprung from fire.”
It’s a derivation his children never can forget.
© Erica Jeffrey 2008
The children don’t question. Well, Siobhan, the baby, six, asks: “Why can’t we be American, Da? My friends are.”
Her elders stifle groans. They’ve heard it, all.
“Shuvvy, my love,” Mam coos.
“You’re no more American than my R’s,” MacKenna lectures his giggling brood, his brow knitted all over in a complicated cable pattern.
Even the older kids think he means arse. They’ve been taught to call it bum.
Mam shakes her fair head. “Gair,” she murmurs.
Gair. His Irish name. Some of the neighbors call him Gary and he seethes.
Gaping teeth aside, the five of them look American, Boann thinks. Red, brown, blond heads. Wide-striped T-shirts, frayed jeans, sneakers with rubber-capped toes. (Trainers they’re called back home, which the children know is not Home anymore).
At school, where they wear St. Margaret Mary’s chosen plaid, they look much like the others, the Americans. Their names are anything but: Breandan, Aedan, Boann, Emer, Siobhan.
Boann—a misery of a name to wear to middle school, where she is called Boo Ann. “Close enough, Sister,” she says each September, a small smile painted on her face.
She’s stuck in the middle at home, too. And what’s she called when she’s at home? Her nickname’s worse: Bobo. She doesn’t explain to Da that he’s given her a clown name, that they’re all clowns. Worse, she doesn’t tell him the neighbor kids call him Mr. Magoo. A cartoon character. Well, aren’t they all?
Boann drives her father mad with her American desires, habits, terms. Her dreams he only guesses at. She cocks her hip out when he lectures, sticks a tolerant look across her face like a plaster. Boann has a friend, an open-faced Proddie girl from down the block who came to the house once. Da answered the door to her trusting knock and glared until she ran back down the messy front walk.
Now they only speak at school, and to and from. They stow their friendship at the corner every day.
Da is not all bad. It’s hard on him that he’s not allowed in Belfast anymore. What was he called when he was at Home, then? His friends there knew MacKenna as Mac Cionaoith—“sprung from fire.”
It’s a derivation his children never can forget.
© Erica Jeffrey 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Critical thinking is just code for . . .
. . . being an informed voter.
Who's your candidate in the upcoming election? Why?
If your man is Barack Obama, please visit the following site for a detailed, dispassionate overview of his stated policies, recorded votes, and issues on which he's been called to account and had to respond/recant publicly. Having read much of the material (and planning to read more via the copious links supplied), I wonder: Is Joe Biden running the most Freudian, passive-aggressive, covert campaign for VP in US history? When he said that Obama's response to an outside threat within 6 months of being elected would look like the wrong choice to the rest of us, I don't think he was being hyperbolic.
Please read carefully: The comprehensive argument against Barack Obama.
Who's your candidate in the upcoming election? Why?
If your man is Barack Obama, please visit the following site for a detailed, dispassionate overview of his stated policies, recorded votes, and issues on which he's been called to account and had to respond/recant publicly. Having read much of the material (and planning to read more via the copious links supplied), I wonder: Is Joe Biden running the most Freudian, passive-aggressive, covert campaign for VP in US history? When he said that Obama's response to an outside threat within 6 months of being elected would look like the wrong choice to the rest of us, I don't think he was being hyperbolic.
Please read carefully: The comprehensive argument against Barack Obama.
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