SightLines 7 - Edmonton Catholic Schools

Transcription

P R E N T I C E
Brad Ledgerwood
Wendy Mathieu
Susan Tywoniuk
P R E N T I C E
H A L L
S IGHT L INES 7
Karen Hume
L I T E R A T U R E
SightLines 7
0-13-012904-6
SightLines 8
0-13-012905-4
SightLines 9
0-13-012906-2
SightLines 10
0-13-082171-3
ISBN 0-13-012904-6
9 780130 129048
PRENTICE
HALL
H A L L
L I T E R A T U R E
S IGHT L I N E S
7
P R E N T I C E
H A L L
L I T E R A T U R E
S IGHT L I N E S
Karen Hume
Brad Ledgerwood
Wendy Mathieu
Susan Tywoniuk
PRENTICE HALL GINN CANADA
7
SightLines 7
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Main entry under title:
SightLines 7 anthology
(Prentice Hall literature)
ISBN 0-13-012904-6
I. Readers (Elementary) I. Hume, Karen
II. Series: SightLines (Scarborough, ON).
PE1121.S523 1999 428.6 C99-930137-3
Copyright © 1999 by Prentice Hall Ginn Canada,
Scarborough, Ontario
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be produced in any form or
by any means without permission in writing from the
publishers.
Prentice-Hall, Inc., Upper Saddle River, New Jersey
Prentice-Hall International, Inc., London
Prentice-Hall of Australia, Pty., Ltd., Sydney
Prentice Hall of India Pvt., Ltd., New Delhi
Prentice-Hall of Japan, Inc., Tokyo
Prentice-Hall of Southeast Asia (PTE) Ltd., Singapore
Editora Prentice-Hall do Brasil Ltda., Rio de Janeiro
Prentice-Hall Hispanoamericana, S.A., Mexico
ISBN 0-13-012904-6
Publisher: Carol Stokes
Project Manager: Helen Mason
Project Editor and Anthologist: Linda Sheppard
Production Editor: Karen Alliston
Director of Secondary Publishing:
MaryLynne Meschino
Copy Editor: Julia Lee
Production Co-ordinator: Sharon Houston
Permissions: Michaele Sinko
Interior Design: Zena Denchik
Cover Design: Alex Li
Cover Image: Tracy Walker
Page Layout: Kyle Gell
Printed and bound in Canada
12345
03 02 01 00 99
Prentice Hall Canada wishes to acknowledge
the following text and visuals researchers:
Janice Dewar
Alexa Kudar
Catherine Rondina
Elma Schemenauer
Jennifer Sweeney
Kat Mototsune
Heli Kivilaht
Keltie Thomas
Laurie Seidlitz
Martha Di Leonardo
Monika Croydon
Nancy Mackenzie
Rita Vanden Heuvel
Tracey Shreve-Williams
Prentice Hall Canada wishes to thank the
following:
Assessment Consultant: Michael Stubitsch
Equity Reviewer: Elizabeth Parchment
Aboriginal Content: Rocky Landon
Art Content Consultant: John Di Leonardo
ESL Consultant:
Joan Penny Lorintt, BC
Grade 7 Reviewers:
Julie Plesha, BC
Marna Shipley, BC
Don Quilliams, AB
Sandra Bishop, AB
Brenda Bintz, AB
E. Elizabeth Lupton, ON
Sara Knight, ON
Barbara Wohleber, ON
Jody Mayhew, ON
Leo Fox, AB
Anna Kennedy, AB
Nancy Horton, AB
Melody Sawkins, ON
Susan L. Bruce, BC
Every reasonable effort has been made to obtain
permissions for all text and visuals used in this
edition. If errors or omissions have occurred,
they will be corrected in future editions
provided written notification has been received.
Contents by Unit
Look
And Even Now . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Poetry
Dorothy Livesay
Knife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Sarah Ellis Short Story
1
Old Men of Magic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Poetry
Dionne Brand
The Wretched Stone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Chris Van Allsburg Short Story (picture book)
One Who Lives Under the Water . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Blake Debassige Visual
The White Owl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Hazel Boswell Short Story (folk tale)
Messages Are Everywhere
Visual
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
The Dinner Party . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Mona Gardner Short Story
The Revenge of the Blood Thirsty Giant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
C. J. Taylor Short Story (Tlingit legend)
The Phantom Dog Team . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Harry Paddon Nonfiction
Metamorphosis III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
M. C. Escher Visual
The New Food . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Stephen Leacock Nonfiction (humorous commentary)
Zoo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Edward D. Hoch Short Story (science fiction)
Contents
iii
A Strange Visitor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Robert Zend Poetry
The Rabbit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
R. P. MacIntyre Short Story
2
The Necklace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Guy de Maupassant Short Story
Clever Manka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
Ethel Johnston Phelps
Oral Piece (traditional folk tale)
Look Closely
I Am. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Ahdri Zhina Mandiela Poetry
Into Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Raymond Souster Poetry
Silent, but . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Tsuboi Shigeji Poetry
Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Poetry
Charlotte Zolotow
The Scream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Diana J. Wieler Short Story
To Prince Edward Island . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Alex Colville Visual
Tradition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Civiane Chung Short Story
from “Gwen” from the novel Annie John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Jamaica Kincaid Short Story (novel excerpt)
How to Make Your Own Web Site . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Giselle DeGrandis Nonfiction (magazine article)
iv Contents
Learning a New Voice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Sung Ja Hong, Joseph Park, Michael Morad
Nonfiction (personal accounts)
Visual
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Ride the Dark Horse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Margaret Bunel Edwards Short Story
My Name Is Angie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Beverley Terrell-Deutsch Short Story
Looking for a High? Try Adrenalin! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Simone Gruenig Nonfiction (magazine article)
Boy at the Window . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Richard Wilbur Poetry
The Winner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
Peg Kehret Oral Piece (monologue)
Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
Lisa Sloman Poetry
The Medicine Bag . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
Virginia Driving Hawk Sneve Short Story
Towards the Hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
Visual
Ken Danby
The Forecast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
Dan Jaffe Poetry
The Disaster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
Bruce Bennett Poetry
Neighbours . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
Ieva Grants Poetry
A Major in Television & a Minor in Knowledge . . . . . . . . . 143
David Suzuki Nonfiction (essay)
Freedom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
Louis Dudek Poetry
Contents
v
3
Look Back
Sedna, Mother of the Sea Animals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
retold by Ronald Melzack Short Story (Inuit legend)
Immigrants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
William Lyon Mackenzie and
John Robert Colombo Poetry
Scarlatina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
Joanne Findon Short Story (historical fiction)
Miners’ Houses, Glace Bay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
Lawren Harris Visual
The Revenge of the Iron Chink . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
Paul Yee Short Story
Frederick Douglass: 1817–1895 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
Langston Hughes Poetry
Louis Riel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
John Robert Colombo Poetry
The Universal Soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175
Buffy Sainte-Marie Oral Piece (song)
Explorers as Seen by the Natives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177
Douglas Fetherling Poetry
Visual
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
retold by Steve Parker Short Story (historical horror)
House Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192
Robert Frost Poetry
Spellbound . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
Emily Brontë Poetry
vi Contents
The Day the War Came to Halifax . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
Julian Beltrame Nonfiction
A Last Look Back . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202
Celia Washington Visual
What Do I Remember of the Evacuation? . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204
Joy Kogawa Poetry
A Teenager’s Legacy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
Ernst Schnabel Nonfiction (article)
One Thousand Cranes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209
Al Purdy Poetry
Look Beyond
Moon Maiden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Alison Baird Short Story (fantasy)
Visual
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228
4
The Adventurous Life of John Goddard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 230
Nonfiction
Stuart McLean
nobody loses all the time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
e. e. cummings Poetry
Tar Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
Faith Ringgold Visual
Demeter and Persephone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
Celia Barker Lottridge Short Story (Greek myth)
What a Certain Visionary Once Said . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
Nonfiction (essay)
Tomson Highway
The Passenger Pigeon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243
Paul Fleischman Oral Piece (poetry for two voices)
Contents
vii
Gwaii Haanas (Beautiful Place) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245
Jenny Nelson Poetry
i lose track of the land . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
kateri akiwenzie-damm Poetry
Five Minutes to Change the World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248
Peg Kehret Oral Piece (play)
That Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256
David Kherdian Poetry
Banu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257
Farzana Doctor Poetry
Birth of a New Technology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260
Andy Lackow Visual
Eldinah’s Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
Lisa Waldick Nonfiction (magazine article)
Snow White . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
Nasa Begum Nonfiction (personal account)
Goalie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
Rudy Thauberger Short Story
Rosa Parks: Model of Courage, Symbol of Freedom . . . . . . 277
Rosa Parks with Gregory J. Reed
Nonfiction (biography & letters)
viii
Contents
Contents by Genre
Short Stories
Knife
Sarah Ellis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
The Wretched Stone (picture book)
The White Owl (folk tale)
The Dinner Party
Chris Van Allsburg . . . . . . 16
Hazel Boswell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Mona Gardner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
The Revenge of the Blood Thirsty Giant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
(Tlingit legend)
C. J. Taylor
Zoo (science fiction)
The Rabbit
R. P. MacIntyre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
The Necklace
The Scream
Tradition
Edward D. Hoch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Guy de Maupassant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Diana J. Wieler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Civiane Chung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
from “Gwen” from the novel Annie John
Ride the Dark Horse
Jamaica Kincaid . . . . 90
Margaret Bunel Edwards . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
My Name Is Angie
Beverley Terrell-Deutsch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
The Medicine Bag
Virginia Driving Hawk Sneve . . . . . . . . . . . 127
Sedna, Mother of the Sea Animals (Inuit legend) . . . . . . . . . . . 150
retold by Ronald Melzack
Scarlatina (historical fiction)
The Revenge of the Iron Chink
Joanne Findon . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
Paul Yee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (historical horror) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
retold by Steve Parker
Moon Maiden (fantasy)
Alison Baird . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Demeter and Persephone (Greek myth) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
Celia Barker Lottridge
Goalie
Rudy Thauberger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
Contents
ix
Poetry
And Even Now
Dorothy Livesay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Old Men of Magic
Dionne Brand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
A Strange Visitor
Robert Zend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
I Am
Ahdri Zhina Mandiela . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Into Night
Raymond Souster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Silent, but…
Change
Tsuboi Shigeji . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Charlotte Zolotow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Boy at the Window
Time
Richard Wilbur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Lisa Sloman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
The Forecast
Dan Jaffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
The Disaster
Bruce Bennett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
Neighbours
Ieva Grants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
Freedom
Louis Dudek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
Immigrants William Lyon Mackenzie and. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
John Robert Colombo
Frederick Douglass: 1817–1895
Louis Riel
Langston Hughes . . . . . . . . . . 172
John Robert Colombo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
Explorers as Seen by the Natives
Douglas Fetherling . . . . . . . 177
House Fear
Robert Frost. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192
Spellbound
Emily Brontë . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
What Do I Remember of the Evacuation?
One Thousand Cranes
nobody loses all the time
Al Purdy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209
e. e. cummings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
Gwaii Haanas (Beautiful Place)
i lose track of the land
That Day
Banu
x Contents
Joy Kogawa . . . . . . . 204
Jenny Nelson . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245
kateri akiwenzie-damm . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
David Kherdian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256
Farzana Doctor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257
Nonfiction
The Phantom Dog Team
Harry Paddon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
The New Food (humorous commentary)
Stephen Leacock. . . . . 48
How to Make Your Own Web Site
(magazine article) Giselle DeGrandis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Learning a New Voice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Sung Ja Hong, Joseph Park, Michael Morad
Looking for a High? Try Adrenalin! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
(magazine article) Simone Gruenig
A Major in Television & a Minor in Knowledge. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
(essay)
David Suzuki
The Day the War Came to Halifax
Julian Beltrame . . . . . . . . . 194
A Teenager’s Legacy (magazine article)
Ernst Schnabel. . . . . . 206
The Adventurous Life of John Goddard
Stuart McLean . . . . . . 230
What a Certain Visionary Once Said (essay)
Tomson Highway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
Eldinah’s Journey (magazine article)
Snow White
Lisa Waldick . . . . . . . . . 262
Nasa Begum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
Rosa Parks: Model of Courage, Symbol of Freedom . . . . . . . . . . 277
(biography and letters)
Rosa Parks with Gregory J. Reed
Oral Pieces
Clever Manka (traditional folk tale) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
Ethel Johnston Phelps
The Winner (monologue)
The Universal Soldier (song)
Peg Kehret . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
Buffy Sainte-Marie . . . . . . . . . . . 175
The Passenger Pigeon (poem for two voices) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243
Paul Fleischman
Five Minutes to Change the World (play)
Peg Kehret. . . . . . . . 248
Contents
xi
Visuals
One Who Lives Under the Water
Blake Debassige. . . . . . . . . . . 24
Messages Are Everywhere. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
Metamorphosis III
M. C. Escher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
To Prince Edward Island
Alex Colville . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Messages Are Everywhere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Towards the Hill
Ken Danby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
Miners’ Houses, Glace Bay
Lawren Harris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
A Last Look Back
Celia Washington . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202
Tar Beach
Faith Ringgold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
Birth of a New Technology
xii
Contents
Andy Lackow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260
Welcome to SightLines
The SightLines student anthologies offer a wide range of highquality, high-interest literature by both new and established
Canadian and world writers. Each SightLines anthology
features the following:
n
A wide range of texts:
n fiction, including short stories, poems, drama
n nonfiction, including essays, newspaper, and magazine
articles
n stand-alone visuals such as paintings, photographs, and
technical art
n transactional texts such as instructional material, website pages, graphs, and charts
n
A wide range of reading levels
n
Texts geared to a wide variety of learning styles
n
Learning goals called “Focus Your Learning” and activities
for each selection
n
Tables of contents by theme and genre
n
Author/artist biographies
look
Do you like surprise endings?
Enjoy asking “what if”?
Read on for twists, turns, and the
unexpected! The selections in this
unit will challenge you with the
weird and the unusual ... and in
some cases, you may find you
don’t have all the answers!
Dorothy Livesay
When I was a child,
Lying in bed on a summer evening,
The wind was a tall sweet woman
Standing beside my window.
She came whenever my mind was quiet.
But on other nights
I was tossed about in fear and agony
Because of goblins poking at the blind,
And fearful faces underneath my bed.
We played a horrible game of hide-and-seek
With Sleep the far-off, treacherous goal.
And even now, stumbling about in the dark,
I wonder, Who was it that touched me?—
What thing laughed?
Activities
Focus Your Learning
Reading this poem will help
you:
n use visuals to extend
your understanding and
explore the mood of a
poem
n explain and experiment
with techniques
4 Look
1.
Create a three-panel illustration of this poem, with
one panel per stanza. Try to capture the mood of each
stanza in your illustrations.
2. How do the italics contribute to the effect of the
last line? Discuss with a partner and experiment
with different ways of reading the line. Share your
interpretation with the class.
Knife
SARAH ELLIS
Nobody pays much attention to new people at
Focus Your Learning
Reading this short story will help you:
n interpret choices and motives of
characters
n create a dramatic monologue
n explain events from a different
point of view
n identify flashback and explain
what effect it has on a story
our school. We have the highest turn-over rate
of any high school in the city. Families move here, live in
an apartment for a while, then move out to the burbs so
they can have a carport and a lawn and a golden
retriever. The kids learn English and figure out locker
culture and then they’re ready to move on as well. We’re
a kind of boot camp for the guerrilla warfare that is real
Look
5
high school. Mrs. Fitzgerald, who teaches urban geography, calls us a
high-density transitional area.
In our graduating class there are only three people who have
been here since grade eight. Hester Tsao, Don Apple, and me. Mrs.
Fitzgerald calls us the core community. I call us stuck.
So, anyway, it wasn’t much of a deal when the principal
interrupted history last week to introduce a new student. Ron
something-or-other with a lot of syllables.
Ron was big. Not tall so much as wide. A red baseball cap shaded
his eyes. Mrs. Fitzgerald put him in the desk in front of me, recently
vacated by Maddy Harris. Maddy with the clicking beads in her hair.
The back of Ron’s head was not going to be as interesting, especially
when Mrs. Fitzgerald made him turn his baseball cap around.
“I have no objection to hats,” she said, “but I need to check
your eyes for vital signs.” Mrs. F. has used this joke before, but in this
school she gets a fresh audience frequently. Hester and Don and I
don’t mind.
Ron sat down without a word. He shifted uncomfortably, like
maybe the desk was too small for him. Then the weirdest thing
happened. I felt this damp chill, like when someone comes in from
the cold in winter. But we’re talking a sunny afternoon in May here.
I thought I also caught a faint whiff of sea salt.
Mrs. F. came down the aisle to bring Ron his textbook. She was
wearing a sleeveless dress. I didn’t see any goose bumps. Meanwhile,
I was beginning to shiver, and I pulled my hands up into my jacket
sleeves.
Maybe I was getting sick. Maybe I was getting the flu. I leaned
my forehead on my hand. Fever? I stuck out my tongue and rolled my
eyes down to see if it was coated. I couldn’t see my tongue, but my
eyes were definitely starting to hurt. And what was that tingling in my
right elbow? Wasn’t that one of the first symptoms of the flesh-eating
disease?
That was it. I certainly couldn’t go to my father’s for dinner next
week in that condition. Especially not with Stevie there. It would be
6 Look
completely irresponsible to expose a five-year-old boy to my rare,
highly infectious virus.
To understand why I would rather have the flesh-eating disease
than dinner with my father, you have to know that I haven’t seen him
in six years. He took off the summer I was eleven. For the longest time
I was sure he was coming home again and that everything was going
to be the same, that our family was just in some temporary alternate
reality that we would flip out of at any minute. When the truth finally
bored itself into my mind, I made the decision to hate him.
I took good care of my hating. I watered it and weeded it and
pruned it. I backed it up to disc. I carried it with me all the time. It
was always there, handy, if I wanted to take it out.
And now he was back. Of all the transitions in our transitional
area, this is the one I never expected. I thought he was in the Middle
East for good, around the curve of the world, out of the picture, part
of a new family and nothing to do with me.
Mum says I have to go to visit him, even just once.
“It’s all water under the bridge, Curt. And he has been good about
child support all these years, that’s one thing. Who knows, maybe you’ll
get to know each other again.”
Yeah. Right. How about not.
“Curtis?”
There was something anticipatory in Mrs. F.’s tone, a question in
the air. I did a quick survey of the blackboard. William Lyon Mackenzie.
The Family Compact. Not much help there.
And then the bell rang.
Mrs. F. grinned. I knew she would say it. “Saved by the bell once
again, Curtis. Have a pleasant weekend, ladies and gentlemen. Buy
low, sell high, and don’t forget the quiz on Monday.”
Then it happened. In the dull roar of Friday-afternoon liberation,
Ron turned around slowly. The desk shifted with him. And he looked
at me. His eyes were dark brown like a beer bottle. Pale eyelashes. His
eyes locked with mine and I couldn’t look away. My breath stopped in
Look
7
my throat. It seemed like he was looking at me forever, but it couldn’t
have been because the desks were still closing, the chairs still scraping,
far, far away.
He put his hand on my desk. I tore my gaze away and looked
down. His hand was closed into a fist. He spread out his fingers and I
heard a small clunk. His hand was big and pale, and the webs between
his fingers went halfway up to the first knuckle. I felt his eyes on me.
When he lifted his hand, still spread out and tense, a knife lay
on my desk. A red Swiss army knife.
And the six years vaporized into nothing, and I was eleven years
old again. I was in a rowboat and everything about that bad summer
became enclosed in one moment, when I threw the knife. The summer
of being eleven.
That summer we rented a cabin up the coast. It was going to be
so good. There was a tree house and a rowboat and Dad would come
up every weekend. I slept in a room with bunk beds and a door
covered in glued-on seashells and driftwood.
The first morning I woke up early. The birds were loud. I got up
quietly and pulled on some clothes and went down to the beach. The
rowboat was right there, waiting for me. I rowed around for a while,
getting the feel of the oars. There was a thin mist on the surface of the
water. And then, as I was lazily drifting in on the tide, there was the
sound of a small splash, and a shiny black cannonball head popped
out of the mist.
A seal. He stared right at me, friendly but quizzical, as if to say,
“What kind of a strange seal are you?” He had huge, shiny brown eyes
and grandfather whiskers. He swam right around the boat once. Then
he slipped under the glassy surface and disappeared.
To let out a little happiness I rowed around the cove like a maniac,
like it was some Rowboat Indy 500. When I got back to the cabin Mum
was just getting up. We had hot dogs for breakfast.
That first week I saw the seal every morning. He glided past the
boat underwater, on his side or even upside-down, fat and sleek. He
8 Look
started to come so close I could almost touch him. He liked to hide in
the seaweed. I decided his name was Rollo, because he was so good at
rolling over.
“My dad’s coming Friday after work,” I told Rollo. “And guess
what? Friday is my birthday. I’m not going to tell him about you. On
Saturday morning I’ll surprise him. We’ll come out in the boat. We’ll
be pretty early. My dad is an early riser. So am I. I inherited it.”
Dad was late that Friday. We waited and waited. Mum walked up
to the phone booth at the corner where the dirt road met the highway.
When she came back, her face was like concrete.
But then he came. He arrived at the door holding my cake with
the candles already lit. He had parked the car around the curve of the
road and snuck up to the house. “Happy birthday, birthday boy!”
The cake was chocolate with blue icing. The decoration in the
middle was a little wooden dog on a stand. In the candlelight he looked
like a miniature real dog who was all set to bark and jump up and give
me a tiny lick.
I made a wish. I don’t remember what it was. What did I wish
for before I started to wish for the same thing over and over? I blew
out the candles and pulled the dog out of the icing. I pushed the
button on the bottom of the stand and he collapsed. I let it go and
he jumped back into shape.
“Present time,” said Dad, and he set something on the table
beside my plate. It was a bright red Swiss army knife.
I picked it up. It was smooth and solid and heavy. I pulled out
one stiff shining blade.
“Jerry, don’t you think that’s a bit dangerous?” said Mum.
“He’ll be careful, won’t you, pal?” said Dad.
Dad and I looked at all the parts of the knife, the blades and
scissors, the corkscrew and screwdriver, the tweezers and toothpick, the
tool for taking stones out of horses’ hooves. Dad made jokes about me
opening bottles of wine and learning to whittle and helping out horses
in distress. He got louder and louder and jokier. Mum stopped talking.
Look
9
When I went to bed I put the knife under my pillow. Later I woke
up and heard Mum and Dad arguing. There was yelling and crying.
Anger seeped through the wooden wall beside me. I grabbed the knife
and put the pillow over my head.
I woke up early the next morning and jumped into my shorts. I put
my knife in my pocket. I peeked into Mum and Dad’s room. Mum was
asleep, huddled in a ball. Dad wasn’t there. I ran outside, up the road,
around the curve. The car was gone. The dust was soft around my feet.
He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t come out in the boat with me.
He didn’t meet Rollo.
I spent most of that day in the treehouse thinking and gouging
the wooden planks with the biggest blade of the knife. And I figured it
out. They were fighting about the knife. I would just hide it away and
then they would forget about it and it would be okay again.
Dad didn’t come the next weekend or once again that summer. But
still I kept my knife hidden in my pocket, next to the collapsing dog.
Until the day I went out in the rowboat with Laurel.
How did I end up in the rowboat with Laurel? It can’t have been
my idea.
Mum must have arranged it. Laurel and her family had the next
cabin but one. Mum spent a lot of time sitting on their deck, drinking
coffee and smoking and talking to Laurel’s mother. Mum said how nice
it was that Laurel was just my age so that I could have a friend because
it must be a bit lonely for me. It wasn’t nice at all. I hated Laurel. She
looked like a weasel and talked like a grown-up. Besides, I already had
a friend, Rollo. I avoided Laurel.
But I guess I got trapped that day.
I don’t remember why we were in the boat. But I remember
absolutely clearly what happened. I can rerun that movie any time.
We’re floating around in the middle of the cove. I’m letting Laurel
row because she has a way of getting what she wants. And I take out
my knife and she grabs it. She pops the scissors in and out in a way I
know is going to break them. She removes the tweezers and starts
10
Look
tweezing my leg with them and I lunge for them and she throws them
back at me and they disappear over the side of the boat. I see them
sinking, a little silver light, and then they disappear into the murk.
I want to scream and cry and hurt Laurel. But I don’t. I hold out
my hand for the knife and she gives it to me, slapping it down on my
palm. “Here’s your stupid old knife.”
I run my thumb over the hole where the tweezers should be. I pull
out the biggest blade and push its point into the side of the rowboat,
seeing how hard I can push before it starts to enter the wood. Laurel
starts to row again, out towards the mouth of the cove. She doesn’t
look at me.
“I hear your father’s got a new girlfriend.” She acts like she’s
talking to air.
I don’t say anything.
“I heard your mum talking to my mum. He’s got a new girlfriend.
Her name’s Carmelle. She’s going to have a baby.”
“That’s not true.” I knew it was true. Things added up. The little
collapsing dog jumped into shape.
“Oh, grow up,” said Laurel. “Just wait. They’ll take you aside and
say ‘we’ve grown apart but this isn’t your fault.’”
I stuck the knife into the gunwale of the boat.
“They read it in books, you know. How to tell your kids about
divorce.” She made her voice as deep as a dad’s. “‘We can’t live
together but we both still love you.’” And then she laughed her
weasel laugh.
I didn’t think about what I did next. I could not have stopped
my hand that grabbed the knife and pitched it through the air toward
Laurel. It missed her by a mile and then everything slowed right
down. The knife turned in the blue air and Rollo raised his little cat
face above the water. Why was he there? He was never there in the
middle of the day. He was only there in the early morning. The knife
flew toward that head, oh, so slowly. And then they joined. I saw the
red knife sway once in the seal’s head just before he dived.
Look
11
I’ve told this part like a story. But as I sat at my desk staring at
that knife, it didn’t come back as a story, but as one moment of feeling,
with blue sky and Laurel laughing and the obscenity of that red knife
sticking out of the side of that gentle seal head.
The moment came and went as Ron looked at me. I picked up the
knife and ran my thumb over where the tweezers would have been. It
wasn’t as heavy as I remembered. It wasn’t as heavy as the memory of
that moment.
When I looked up, Ron had walked away. He was standing at
the front of the room and everyone was jostling by him. Hester had
Don in a hammerlock and was escorting him out the door. I started
to stand up, but I seemed to have collapsing-dog legs. Ron turned
back to look at me and slowly took off his cap. His hair was black,
thick and very short. And just above his temple there was a white
line. Some guys do that. They shave patterns into their hair. Then he
smiled at me, friendly and quizzical as if to say, “What kind of weird
seal are you?” And something inside me, something hard and heavy,
went fuzzy at the edges and started to melt away. He turned and
walked out the door.
Ron wasn’t in school on Monday. Or Tuesday. I asked Mrs. F.
about him. She consulted her much-erased class register. “He
transferred out,” she said. “A single day’s attendance. That’s the
record, the shortest stay I’ve ever had from a student. I guess he
didn’t like your face, Curtis.” She smiled, and the members of the
core community snorted and made rude noises. I thought about
what it must be like to push through air on two legs, air heavy with
gravity, when your body remembers sliding and diving and rolling
through the slippery sea.
The knife. I think I’ll give it to Stevie when I see him tonight.
Dad dropped by on the weekend. He has a beard now. We had a
careful conversation. He talked about Stevie. He told me that the
little guy is nervous about starting kindergarten. Apparently Carmelle
asked him if he was looking forward to school and he said, “No, I’m
12
Look
looking sideways.” Dad said Stevie talks about me all the time and
really wants to meet me.
So I’ll go. And I’ll give Stevie the knife. He could probably use
a present, a heavy present to keep in his pocket. Sometimes it’s good
to have something to hang onto. And sometimes it’s good to give
things away.
Activities
1.
Why does Curtis decide to give the knife to Stevie? Why does he
decide that “sometimes it’s good to give things away”? In a group
of three, discuss your opinions. Then, on your own, prepare a oneminute monologue in which Curtis explains his motives.
2. What really happened in the classroom on the day Ron came to
school? What does Curtis believe? Could the events be explained in
any other way? Explain the events from Ron’s point of view. You can
make the story as eerie or as “down to earth” as you choose.
3. A “flashback” occurs when a character, through some event in
the story, goes back to an earlier time and relives previous events.
Identify the flashback in this story. How does the writing style
change in the flashback? Why do you think the writer chooses
to use the technique of flashback?
4. Look for some other examples of flashback, either in books or
in films. Ask your classmates to make some suggestions. Why is
flashback used in the example you find, and what effect does
it have?
Look
13
Old Men of Magic
Dionne Brand
Focus Your Learning
Studying this poem will help you:
n focus on details
n identify the mood of the poem
n read aloud
n write a diary entry
Old men of magic
with beards long and aged,
speak tales on evenings,
tales so entrancing,
we sit and listen,
to whispery secrets
about the earth and the heavens.
And late at night,
after sundown they speak
of spirits that live
in silk cotton trees,
of frightening shadows
that sneak through the dark,
and bright balls of fire
that fly in night air,
of shapes unimaginable,
we gasp and we gape,
then just as we’re scared
old men of magic
wave hands rough and wrinkled
and all trace of fear disappears.
14
Look
Activities
1.
Old people are often thought of as being wise. With
a partner, make a list of characteristics that you
think wise old men should possess. Reread the
poem and check the characteristics on your list that
are included. For each characteristic evident in the
poem, record the appropriate words or phrases.
2. What feelings do you experience as you read
this poem? What mood does it create? Think of a
personal experience—perhaps at a camp, cottage,
or sleepover—that created a similar mood. Relate
the story of that experience to your partner or
group.
3. With a partner or in a small group, practise reading
the poem aloud. Together, discuss which sounds
and images create the overall mood of the poem.
4. Imagine that you are one of the children in this
poem, listening to the “men of magic.” Write a diary
entry describing what you have heard and what you
felt. Emphasize the mood of the evening through
your choice of words.
Look
15
The Wretched Stone
Excerpts from the Log of the Rita Anne
CHRIS VAN ALLSBURG
16
Look
Focus Your Learning
Reading this story will help
you:
n identify and interpret a
metaphor
n organize information
n examine images
May 8
We finished bringing supplies aboard early
this morning. At midday we left on the tide
and found a fresh breeze just outside the
harbour. It is a good omen that our voyage
has begun with fair winds and a clear sky.
May 9
The first mate, Mr. Howard, has brought together a fine crew.
These men are not only good sailors, they are accomplished in
other ways.
Many read and have borrowed books from my small library.
Some play musical instruments, and there are a few good
storytellers among them.
May 17
Our passage is going well. The usual boredom that comes
with many days at sea is not present on this ship. When the
members of this clever crew are not on duty, I find them
singing and dancing or amusing each other with tales of
past adventure.
June 5
Land ho! Slightly before sunset we spotted an island. I have
consulted my charts, but do not see it recorded. This is odd,
since ships have sailed through these waters for years.
Apparently they have all missed this small place. We are low
on water and would be happy to find fresh fruit growing here.
Tomorrow I will take some men ashore and look about.
Look
17
June 6
I have just returned from the island. It is strange indeed. The
vegetation is lush, but not a single plant bears fruit. The air has
an odour that at first seems sweet and pleasant, then becomes
an overpowering stink. I saw no sign of animal life, not even
an insect. We found a spring that had water too bitter to drink.
We also discovered something quite extraordinary, which I
have brought aboard.
It is a rock, approximately two feet across. It is roughly
textured, gray in colour, but a portion of it is as flat and smooth
as glass. From this surface comes a glowing light that is quite
beautiful and pleasing to look at. The thing is unbelievably
heavy, requiring six strong men to lift it. With great effort we
were able to get it aboard and into the forward hold. We have
set sail and are under way again.
June 10
The crew is fascinated by the rock. When not needed on deck,
they are down below, gazing in silence at the peculiar light it
gives off. I miss the music and storytelling that had become part
of our ship’s life. The last few days have passed quite slowly.
The men, however, seem perfectly content. I am sure their
interest in the stone will fade away soon.
18
Look
June 13
Something is wrong with the crew. They rarely speak, and
though they swing through the rigging more quickly than ever,
they walk the decks in a clumsy, stooped-over fashion. Last
night I heard shrieks coming from the forward hold. I believe
they have contracted some kind of fever that came on board
with the stone. I told Mr. Howard that tomorrow I will have
the thing thrown overboard.
June 14
This morning I awoke to find the deck deserted. The wheel
was tied steady with a rope. I believe Mr. Howard, who spent
some time around the rock, told the men about my plan to get
rid of it. They have now locked themselves in the forward
hold. They apparently believe, in their feverish state, that I can
sail this boat alone while they sit around that wretched stone.
June 15
We are in grave danger. A powerful storm is headed this way.
All morning long the wind has grown steadily stronger; the sky
is filled with dark clouds. I am unable to shorten the sails by
myself. With this much canvas up, we will surely be blown
over and sink when the full force of the storm arrives. I am
going forward again to try to get the crew to work. All our lives
depend on it.
Look
19
This is, I am sure, my last entry. What I have just seen is so
horrifying I barely have the strength to write it down. After I
pounded at the door to the forward hatch, it finally swung
open. But it was not a man who opened the door, it was an
ape. The whole crew has turned into hairy beasts. They just
sat there, grinning at that terrible rock. They don’t understand
a word I say. We are doomed.
June 16
The storm has passed. The Rita Anne is still afloat, but both
masts and rudder are lost. The stone has gone dark. We were
struck by lightning twice during the storm. I believe that was
the cause. Unfortunately, the crew is unchanged. They are still
beasts, but seem sad and lost without the glowing rock. I have
moved them back to their quarters. We have food for two
weeks. I am hopeful of a rescue.
June 19
I have made an encouraging discovery. I am playing the violin
and reading to the crew. It is having a positive effect. They are
walking upright and have an alert look in their eyes.
June 24
I was in the forward hold today. A dull glow was coming from
the stone. I have covered it and will keep the compartment
locked.
June 28
I am happy to report that the men have returned to normal. It
seems that those who knew how to read recovered most quickly.
20
Look
Look
21
22
Look
June 30
We are saved! A ship has been spotted off our starboard side. I
have decided to scuttle the Rita Anne. There is only one place
for the wretched stone. Before we abandon ship, I will set a fire
that will send this vessel and her cargo to the bottom of the sea.
July 12
Our rescuers have left us in the harbour town of Santa Pango.
One by one the crew should be able to sign on to ships passing
through and work their way home. We have made an agreement
not to talk about the strange events that took place aboard the
Rita Anne. The men appear to have recovered completely,
though some show an unnatural appetite for the fruit that is
available here.
Activities
1.
Reread the description of the
stone. Make a sketch based on
the description. A metaphor is a
type of comparison where one
object is likened very directly to
another. For what might the
wretched stone be a metaphor?
Support your view with details
from the text.
2. Make a “Before and After” chart
describing how the behaviour of
the crew members changed as a
result of the stone. In what way
might the description be a
comment on our society? Discuss
your ideas with other members of
the class.
3. Study the visual of the apes
watching the stone. Working in
groups of three, discuss:
n the content of the picture
n the message the picture gives
n the mood Van Allsburg has
created in the picture
n the technique used to create
the mood
Look
23
One Who Lives Under the Water
Courtesy of the Royal Ontario Museum, © ROM
24
Look
Blake Debassige
Focus Your Learning
Looking at this painting will help you:
n tell a story from different points of view
n use visual clues to understand the painting
n create your own artwork on a similar theme
Activities
1.
Many paintings tell a story in visual form. What is the
story of this painting? Retell the story orally from one of
three perspectives: as the creature, as a survivor from one
of the canoes, or as an Aboriginal elder looking back on
the event.
2. Describe some of the physical characteristics of the
creature. Write a short-answer response explaining how
its appearance adds to the power of the illustration.
3. Using a similar style of art, create an illustration depicting
the cause of any natural phenomenon.
Look
25
The
White
Owl
HAZEL BOSWELL
Focus Your Learning
Reading this folk tale will
help you:
n conduct an interview
n identify foreshadowing
and explain its effect
n create stories from other
points of view
26
Look
Taken from The Basketball Player © 1996 Sheldon Cohen: illustrations published by Tundra Books
It was a still day late in September. The maples
were glowing scarlet and gold; the plowing had
been done, and the fields lay bare and brown under the
silver-grey sky. Madame Blais sat on an upturned box on the
narrow gallery that ran the length of the summer kitchen.
She was plaiting long strings of red onions
to hang in the attic for the winter. The
little gallery was heaped with vegetables:
great golden-yellow squashes, green
pumpkins, creamy brown turnips, and
great piles of green cabbages and glossy
red carrots.
It was a good day for work. Her
husband and Joseph, her eldest boy,
together with their neighbour, Exdras
Boulay, had gone off to repair the old
sugar cabane. Her sister’s fiancé, Felix
Leroy, who had come up from the States
for a holiday, had gone with them. Not
to work. He despised that sort of work,
for he was a factory hand in the United
States and, as he said, “made more
money in a week than he would make in
a month working on the land.” The older
children were off at school; the little
ones, Gaetané, Jean-Paul, and MarieAnge, were playing happily with old
“Puppay.” Me’Mère was spinning in the
kitchen, keeping an eye on P’tit Charles
who was sleeping peacefully in his
cradle. Madame worked happily. She
didn’t often get such a good day for
work. Her mind was turning in a placid, peaceful circle, “Que tous
s’adonne bien aujourd-hui.”
Suddenly the peace was broken. Puppay had begun to bark
furiously; then the barking changed to joyful yapping. The children
were shouting too. Madame turned on her box and looked out to
where they had been playing, but they had left their game and were
Look
27
racing off across the field. As her eye followed them on the far side
of the field she saw her husband, Joseph, and Exdras Boulay coming
out of the wood by the road to the old sugar cabane.
Me’Mère had heard the noise too and had come to the door. “What
is it?” she asked. “Un Jerusalem?”
“No,” answered Madame, “it’s the men coming home, and it’s not
yet four. Something must have happened.”
She watched the men anxiously as they crossed the field. She
noticed that Felix wasn’t with them. As they came up to the house
she called out, “What has happened?”
No one answered her; the men tramped on in silence. When they
got to the house, her husband sat down on the step of the gallery and
began taking off his bottes-sauvages. The other two and the children
stood watching him.
“Where is Felix?” asked Madame.
“He wouldn’t come with us.”
“Why did you leave so early?”
Again there was silence; then her husband said, “We saw the white
owl, Le Hibou Blanc.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes,” answered her husband, “that’s why we came home.”
“Why didn’t Felix come with you?”
“He said it was all nonsense. Old men’s stories.”
“You should have made him come with you,” said Me’Mère.
“You can’t remember the last time Le Hibou Blanc came. But I can.
It was just two years after I was married. Bonté Lemay was like Felix,
he didn’t believe. He stayed on plowing when the others left. The
horse got scared and ran away. Bonté’s arm was caught in the reins
and he was dragged after the plow. His head struck a stone and he
was dead when they found him. His poor mother. How she cried.
One doesn’t make fun of Le Hibou Blanc.”
The noise had wakened P’tit Charles and he began to cry. Madame
went in to the kitchen and picked him up. She felt to see if he was wet;
28
Look
and then sat down by the stove, and began to feed him. The men came
in too and sat around in the kitchen.
“Do you think Felix will have the sense to come home?” asked
Madame.
Joseph shook his head and spat skillfully into the brown
earthenware spittoon. “No fear,” he answered. “He says in the States
they have more sense than to believe all those old stories.”
“If Felix stays on in the woods, harm will certainly come to him,”
said Me’Mère. “I tell you Le Hibou Blanc always brings disaster.”
“Why don’t you go and speak to the curé?” said Madame Blais.
“He’s away at Rimouski for a retreat,” answered Exdras. “I saw his
housekeeper, Philomène, yesterday, and she told me. They had sent for
him to bring the last rites to old Audet Lemay who was dying, but he
was away and they had to send for the curé of St. Anselem instead.”
“Well, it’s time to get the cows,” said Monsieur Blais. “Go along
and get them, Joseph.”
Joseph got up and went out. The children and Puppay joined him.
Me’Mère went back to her spinning. Madame Blais put P’tit
Charles back in his cradle, then went off to milk the cows. There were
ten cows to milk. Her husband and Joseph did the milking with her
and up to a year before Me’Mère had always helped too. The autumn
evenings close in quickly in the north. By the time the cows were
milked and supper finished, the clear cold green evening had swept
up over the sky; the stars were out, and the little silver crescent of the
moon had risen over the maple wood. Joseph was sitting out on the
step of the little gallery, his eyes fastened on the break in the maple
wood that marked the road leading to the sugar cabane. Every now
and then his father went out and joined him. They were both
watching for Felix.
As the kitchen clock began to strike eight Madame put down her
work. “It’s time for the rosary,” she said. “Tell Joseph to come in.” Her
husband opened the door and called to Joseph. He came in, followed
by Puppay.
Look
29
The family pulled their chairs up round the stove, for the evenings
were beginning to be chilly, and it was cold away from the stove.
Me’Mère began the rosary: “Je crois en Dieu, le Père toutpuissant….” The quiet murmur of their voices filled the kitchen.
When the rosary was said, Madame sent the children off to bed.
Then she went to the salon and got a cierge bénit, lit it, and put it in
the kitchen window. “May God have pity on him,” she said. Then she
picked up P’tit Charles and went off to bed with her husband, while
Me’Mère went to her little room next to the salon.
It was bright and cold the next day, and the ground was covered
with white hoarfrost.
Joseph was the first to speak of Felix. “He may have gone and
slept with one of the neighbours,” he said.
“If he did, he’d be back by now,” answered his father.
They were still eating their breakfast when Exdras Boulay came
into the kitchen. “Felix hasn’t come back?” he asked.
Before anyone could answer, the door opened and two other
neighbours came in. The news of Felix and Le Hibou Blanc had
already spread along the road. Soon there were eight men and boys in
the kitchen and half a dozen excited children.
The men sat round in the kitchen smoking. Old Alphonse Ouellet
did most of the talking. He was always the leader in the parish.
“We’ll have to go and find him,” he said.
“It’s too bad the curé isn’t here to come with us. Well, we might as
well start off now. Bring your rosary with you,” he told Monsieur Blais.
Madame Blais and Me’Mère and a group of the children stood on
the kitchen gallery watching the men as they tramped off along the
rough track to the maple wood. “May God have them in His care,”
said Madame.
“And may he have pity on Felix,” added Me’Mère, and she
crossed herself.
In the maple wood the ground was still covered with frost.
Every little hummock of fallen leaves was white with it, and the
30
Look
puddles along the track were frozen solid. The men walked in
silence. A secret fear gripped each one of them that they might
suddenly see Le Hibou Blanc perched on some old stump, or one of
the snow-covered hummocks. A few hundred metres from the sugar
cabane they found Felix. He was lying on his back. His red shirt
looked at first like a patch of maple leaves lying in the hoarfrost. A
great birch had fallen across his chest, pinning him to the ground.
One of his hands was grasping a curl of the bark–his last mad effort
to try and free himself.
The men stood round staring down at him, the immense silence of
the woods surrounding them. Then from far away in the distance came
a thin whinnying note, the shrill triumphant cry of Le Hibou Blanc.
Activities
1.
a) Interview classmates or family members about superstitions
they have or know about. How does superstition affect the way
they or other people behave?
b) Choose one superstition and speculate on how it might have
originated. Share your conclusions with the class. Discuss why
superstition can sometimes be a powerful force in people’s lives.
Support your views with evidence from your interviews and from
the story.
2. “Foreshadowing” is the prediction or suggestion of ominous events
that are going to happen in a story. List all the references in this
story that foreshadow tragic events. Write a short paragraph
explaining what effect the foreshadowing has on your reading of
the text.
3. This tale is written in the third-person narrative form. Retell the
story from the perspective of one of the characters, as a first-person
narrative. In which form is the narrator more detached from the
events of the story? Explain. Why do you think the author of this
story chooses to use the third-person narrative form?
Look
31
Create a movie poster that depicts the first
human contact with alien life.
Predict the storyline and tone of the movie
from the poster. Create a chart of your
predictions, making specific references to
aspects of the image.
Artisan
Enterta
inment
Inc.
What’s the purpose
of using babies in
space in a
commercial product
such as this one?
32
Look
How do the visuals support
the promise that your
adventure will be surreal?
What visuals could change
places without changing the
primary message of this
cartoon? What does this tell
us about the power of visuals
in comparison to language?
ZIGGY © 1992 ZIGGY AND FRIENDS, INC. Reprinted with permission
of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
Look
33
The Dinner Party
MONA GARDNER
Focus Your Learning
Reading this story will
help you:
n investigate the
importance of a
story’s setting
n write an interior
monologue
n identify irony
n create a tableau
ROY, Pierre. Danger on the Stairs {Danger dans l’escalier}. (1927 or 1928). Oil on canvas, 36 × 23 5/8" (91.4 ×
60 cm). The Museum of Modern Art, New York. Gift of Abby Aldrich Rockefeller. Photograph ©1999 The Museum of
Modern Art, New York.
34
Look
The country is India. A colonial official and his wife are
giving a large dinner party. They are seated with their
guests—army officers and government attachés and their wives, and
a visiting American naturalist—in their spacious dining room, which
has a bare marble floor, open rafters, and wide glass doors opening
onto a veranda.
A spirited discussion springs up between a young girl who insists
that women have outgrown the jumping-on-a-chair-at-the-sight-of-amouse era and a colonel who says that they haven’t.
“A woman’s unfailing reaction in any crisis,” the colonel says,
“is to scream. And while a man may feel like it, he has that ounce
more of nerve control than a woman has. And that last ounce is
what counts.”
The American does not join in the argument but watches the
other guests. As he looks, he sees a strange expression come over
the face of the hostess. She is staring straight ahead, her muscles
contracting slightly. With a slight gesture she summons the servant
standing behind her chair and whispers to him. The servant’s eyes
widen, and he quickly leaves the room.
Of the guests, none except the American notices this or sees the
servant place a bowl of milk on the veranda just outside the open doors.
The American comes to with a start. In India, milk in a bowl
means only one thing—bait for a snake. He realizes there must be a
cobra in the room. He looks up at the rafters—the likeliest place—but
they are bare. Three corners of the room are empty, and in the fourth
the servants are waiting to serve the next course. There is only one
place left—under the table.
His first impulse is to jump back and warn the others, but he
knows the commotion would frighten the cobra into striking. He speaks
quickly, the tone of his voice so arresting that it sobers everyone.
Look
35
“I want to know just what control everyone at this table has. I
will count three hundred—that’s five minutes—and not one of you is
to move a muscle. Those who move will forfeit fifty rupees. Ready!”
The twenty people sit like stone images while he counts. He is
saying “… two hundred and eighty …” when, out of the corner of his
eye, he sees the cobra emerge and make for the bowl of milk. Screams
ring out as he jumps to slam the veranda doors safely shut.
“You were right, Colonel!” the host exclaims. “A man has just
shown us an example of perfect control.”
“Just a minute,” the American says, turning to his hostess. “Mrs.
Wynnes, how did you know that cobra was in the room?”
A faint smile lights up the woman’s face as she replies: “Because
it was crawling across my foot.”
Activities
1.
“Setting” can refer to both time and place. Do some research to
find out more about the setting of this story. Write a short essay
explaining how the setting contributes to the story’s plot and theme.
2. Write an interior monologue, recording the thoughts of the hostess
through the events described in the story. What does she think
about the other characters as well as the problem she faces?
3. Irony can refer to a set of events that is the opposite of what might
be expected in the circumstances. In a group, present this scene in a
“frozen moment” tableau. Try to demonstrate the irony in the story.
36
Look
The
Revenge
of the
Blood
Thirsty
Giant
A Tlingit Legend
C . J . TA Y L O R
This nineteenth
century “dancing headdress frontlet” comes
from the same Tlingit tradition as the following story.
The people were frightened. High in the
Focus Your Learning
Reading this Tlingit legend will
help you:
n use role playing to extend the
story
n illustrate key events of a story
n investigate some of the
characteristics of a legend
n write a legend or fable
Rocky Mountains where they lived, an evil
giant roamed, killing anyone he found. The people were
afraid to leave the village. A hunting party had gone out
and aimed arrows at the giant’s heart. But nothing could
stop him.
From The Monster from the Swamp: Native Legends of Monsters, Demons and Other Creatures © 1995
C. J. Taylor, published by Tundra Books.
Look
37
“It is because he has no heart,” the people decided. “That is why
he wants to kill everyone and drink blood. How do you destroy a
creature if it has no heart?” They turned in desperation to their chief.
Chief Red Bird had been puzzling over that very question. Every
time another member of the village was killed by the giant, Red Bird
became more determined to find the answer. Finally he decided what
he must do. He called his people together and announced: “Every
creature that walks the earth has a heart. As your chief, I will go and
find the heart of this evil giant so we can be rid of him forever.”
The next morning Red Bird set out for the path where the giant
had last attacked. When he heard branches break and the earth
tremble, he knew the giant was approaching. He lay down and
pretended to be dead.
The giant laughed as soon as he saw Red Bird. “These humans
are so afraid, they drop dead as soon as they hear me coming. This
one is still warm.” He picked up Red Bird, threw him over his shoulder
and returned to his home.
There he flung Red Bird on the floor, took out his skinning knife
and called to his son to bring wood for a fire. When the son did not
answer, the giant went out to get the wood himself, grumbling all the
while about his lazy son.
As soon as the giant left, Red Bird heard someone else approaching
quietly. It must be the giant’s son. Red Bird grabbed the skinning knife
and hid behind the door. He was surprised by how small the boy was.
“This is the son of the giant?” he thought. Red Bird jumped on him and
held up the skinning knife.
“Tell me where your father’s heart is,” Red Bird growled.
The boy was terrified. “My father is mad,” he said. “The madder
he gets, the bigger he grows. I stay away from him. If he finds me here
with you he will kill us both. Let me go before he returns.”
“I will only let you go if you tell me where his heart is,” Red Bird
repeated, raising the knife.
“It is in his left heel,” the boy cried. He struggled free and ran for
his life.
38
Look
Red Bird hid behind the door and waited. As soon as the giant
stooped to enter and put his left foot inside, Red Bird drove the knife
into the giant’s heel and through his heart. The giant fell, mortally
wounded. As he was dying he uttered a last threat: “Even though you
kill me, I will continue to feed on human blood until the end of time.”
“No, you won’t,” said Red Bird. He made a fire and threw the
body of the giant into it. Then he took the ashes and scattered them to
the wind. They rose in a cloud. It turned into a swarm of mosquitoes
that came back to attack Red Bird. One landed on his nose and bit him.
Red Bird wiped the mosquito away. “What a nuisance,” he
thought. Then he saw the little stain of blood on his hand. “Maybe
you will keep biting us. Maybe you’ll get a drop of blood now and
then. But at least you’re not killing anyone anymore.”
Activities
1.
In a small group, predict the response of the chief’s people when
he returns to tell them he has killed the giant, but they will be
plagued forever by small insects that draw blood. Prepare a role
play in which the chief explains what has happened and the
people respond.
2. Prepare a visual representation of this story. Divide the story into
scenes and represent it either in a series of paintings or drawings,
or as a comic strip.
3. A fable is a legend that carries a lesson or moral. Read one of
Aesop’s fables, and identify the moral of the story. Then write a
moral that could emerge from “The Revenge of the Blood Thirsty
Giant.”
4. List three similarities between one of Aesop’s fables and “The
Revenge of the Blood Thirsty Giant.” Using what you have
discovered to be common elements, write your own legend or fable
to explain the origin of any insect or pest for an audience of young
children.
Look
39
The
Phantom Dog Team
H A R R Y PA D D O N
A
Focus Your Learning
Reading this story will help you:
n identify the central conflict in a story
n design a film poster
n choose music to match scenes within the story
n write a persuasive response
40
Look
ll sparsely populated back country
areas have their ghosts and Labrador,
like the rest, has its share. The nice thing
about the ghosts of Labrador is that they
have kept the qualities of the old-timers of
the era in which they entered the spirit
world. They are a friendly, helpful group of
spirits with more constructive things to do
than merely to haunt the living as their
more highly civilized counterparts seem to
do. Instead, they appear to have a protective
attitude toward their still living neighbours
and descendants.
Such a one is the “Smoker” who, many
times, has stuck his ethereal nose into the
battering blasts of a Labrador blizzard to
rescue a careless or unlucky traveller who
should have known better.
How the Smoker got his name I couldn’t
say unless it derives from his ability to
appear and vanish like a puff of smoke,
or possibly it came from the fact that his
appearance always occurred on a night of
smoking thick drift on the barren lands he
ranged. There is no question that the many
to whom he appeared, including a newlyarrived and hard-boiled Hudson’s Bay man
who had never heard of him, firmly believe
that he did indeed come to their aid and
that without his help they would surely
have perished. The particular incident I
wish to relate occurred some 50 years ago
and, since the people involved were friends
of my family, I shall take a few liberties
with their names though the story shall
remain theirs as they told it.
Bill and Jane Gordon’s winter home lay
several miles inland from their summer
fishing place at Bluff Head. Chosen for the
generous area of woods that had furnished
logs for the comfortable house and now
sheltered it from the savage winds off the
rocky barrens, the winter place was an
isolated spot. The nearest neighbours were
two families at Rocky Cove, fifteen miles
across the barren, rocky neck, and it was
nearly forty miles to the trading post at
Rigolet. The Neck was something to be
treated with respect by winter travellers, for
the way across the bare, windswept ridges
was unmarked and to go astray in one of
the frequent winter gales was to risk death
by freezing on its pitiless miles of
shelterless rocks and ice, or by plunging
storm-blinded from one of its many cliffs.
A few days before Christmas Bill and
Jane left home to go to Rigolet to trade their
furs and bring home a few extras from the
store. The two children, twelve-year-old Joe
and little Janet, ten, were undismayed at
the prospect of being left to fend for
themselves for a night or two. Joe had
considered himself a man for quite some
time, for he could do a man’s work in the
woods or the fish stage, and he had been
hunting and trapping alone for a couple of
winters. Janet reckoned she could look after
the house as well as any woman. Joe, as he
helped his father harness the dogs that
morning, was rather looking forward to
being the boss for a while, and it was with
quite a holiday feeling that the youngsters
watched the team fade into the distance as
they speculated on what wonders its load
might contain when it again came over
the hill in two or three days.
A couple of hours on the easy going of
the firm, wind-packed snow of the ridges
brought Bill and Jane to Rocky Cove where
they stopped briefly for a cup of tea and a
yarn with the first of their neighbours that
they had not seen for two months. From
Rocky Cove the way lay mostly on the ice
Look
41
Halfway across the neck the
first few snowflakes began to fall
to Rigolet and their arrival there was before
sundown. Putting up at the Hudson’s Bay
Company’s kitchen, where open house was
kept for travellers, they spent the evening
visiting the few households of the tiny
village and the next day settled to their
trading. By the time this was finished it was
too late to leave Rigolet and a second night
was spent in the cheery company of friends
who had not been seen for months and
might not again be seen for many more. It
was in the graying dawn of their third day
from home that Bill lashed up his load and
harnessed his team for the return trip.
When the red rim of the sun turned
the sea ice to a crimson plain at the purpleshadowed feet of the hills they were five or
six miles on their way. The day promised
to be fair as the frosty vapour from the
panting breaths of the dogs hung in the still
air. They stopped again for a brief warm-up
and a snack at Rocky Cove before starting
the last fifteen miles across the neck to
home. It was with a slight feeling of unease
that Bill noticed the beginning of a wispy
cloud formation to the eastward as they
pulled away from Rocky Cove and began
the ascent to the ridges. The evening was
calm and fine, however, and he reckoned
42
Look
that the two-hour run to home would be
safely done long before any bad weather
moved in.
The only worrisome thing was that his
was a young team and the year-old pup he
was training to be a leader seemed to have
little sense. The old leader that had died
last fall could have been trusted to take
them home no matter how thick the
weather, without deviating a whisker’s
length from the trail. Bill didn’t quite
know if he could trust the pup who always
seemed to want to be told where to go. It
was clouding in rapidly now and though
still calm the very stillness held the menace
of something waiting to pounce.
Halfway across the neck the first few
snowflakes began to fall, and as darkness
curtained the rocky slopes the first searching
fingers of icy wind stirred the gathering
powder into feathery swirls and dragged
them, rustling, across the tops of the drifts.
In the space of a quarter of an hour it was
blowing a gale and in the black of the night
the thickening snow blotted everything from
sight in a weaving wall of wind and pelting
icy particles. The team faltered, slowed
and stopped. The young leader had no
confidence in his ability to stay on the trail,
and his mates shared his uncertainty.
Unable to see more than a few yards, Bill
began to consider the advisability of finding
a hollow sheltered enough to burrow into
the snow for the night. Though this would
mean a risk of freezing, it might present a
better chance of survival than would be
offered by blundering blindly on with a
very good chance of plunging over a cliff.
Already the biting wind was beginning to
leave little spots of frost bite on any exposed
skin and it wouldn’t be too long before Bill
and Jane began to freeze quite badly.
Bill knew that they were still on the trail,
for just there by his leader a pyramid-shaped
cairn of rocks marked where the Big Brook
trail came in from the north to join their
own. He walked out through the team and
stood by the cairn, recalling to mind the
various folds in the nearby land that might
offer shelter enough to permit them to get
through this night. As he stood, the voice of
another driver reached his ears, the voice of
a man urging his team onward, and, as he
looked, a team surged out of the swirling
darkness. Nine black and white dogs trotted
by almost near enough to touch. On the
komatik behind them knelt a lone man who
gestured urgently at Bill to follow before he
turned again to face his team. Bill’s own
Look
43
dogs, crazy with excitement, were already
lunging into their traces and as the komatik
slid by him he dropped to his seat on the
load. Though the other team was a strange
one to him the driver seemed to know
where he was going, for he drove with the
assurance of a man whose leader had been
over the road before.
For an hour the two teams trotted
steadily through the swirling blackness,
Bill’s young team straining against their
heavy load to let the young leader keep
his nose almost touching the stern of the
leading komatik. On some of the steeper
grades where the weight of their load
threatened to cause them to fall behind,
the black team slowed a little to let them
keep up. Bill marvelled at the control the
stranger had over his team, for he was
travelling light and could easily run them
out of sight in no time. It wasn’t till a faint
spark of light through the storm showed
where the house lay ahead that the strange
team drew ahead in a burst of speed.
Back at the house the youngsters had
been having a grand time. Joe had had
one day hunting ptarmigan on the ridges
above the house. The second day he had
harnessed up his own team of pups and
gone out to the summer place, where a day
on the ice foot by the open sea had yielded
some of the big eider ducks that make a
fine Christmas dinner. Both days, with her
housework done, Janet had spent some
44
Look
hours fishing through the ice at the mouth
of the brook, and several dozen trout and
a few hundred smelt had been added to
the stock of frozen fish in the bins of the
storehouse. The third day they both stayed
close to home, and from noon on many
were the glances they took at the trail from
the hills where their parents’ team should
appear any time now. The first twinges of
anxiety began as the weather worsened at
dusk. The coming of full darkness brought
with it a wind that roared off the hills and
drove icy scuds of drift rattling across the
window panes. The youngsters were
silently thoughtful as they sat down to
supper. Both hoped that the storm had
struck on the other side of the neck early
enough to cause their parents to stay the
night at Rocky Cove.
Supper was barely over when a chorus
of welcoming yelps and howls from Joe’s
pups brought them to their feet to stare
through the windows. A team, not their
father’s, but a team of nine big black and
white dogs, drew up to the door and
stopped at a low-voiced command from
the driver. Joe hastily pulled on his jacket
and cap to go out and welcome the stranger
and Janet watched as the dogs, in the usual
fashion of a team glad to have reached the
end of a hard day, rolled and rubbed their
faces in the snow to rid their eyes of the
accumulation of frost from their breaths.
The driver stood for a moment by his
komatik and coiled up his long whip as he
waited for some sign from within.
As Janet watched, Joe appeared from the
lean-to porch and walked into the square of
lamplight from the window. The leader, a
huge, powerful-looking beast, gambolled
playfully toward him and Joe stooped to
pull its harness off. As he reached for the
leader Joe stopped and gazed unbelieving
at his hands, for there was nothing between
them. There on the wind-swept deck he
was alone, more alone than he had ever
been in his life, for nine big dogs with their
driver and the big tripping komatik had
vanished. Joe turned and started back to
the door, worried by what little Janet,
watching from the window, might be
making of this. As he reached for the latchstring an uproar of welcome again broke
from his team of pups tethered in the edge
of the woods. This time, as he turned to
face whatever might be coming, it was his
father’s familiar team that trotted jauntily
on to the lamp-lit deck.
The dogs crowded around Joe, rubbing
their bodies against his legs, each frantic
to draw his attention and be the next
unharnessed. It wasn’t till Joe had sorted
out and coiled up the mass of sealskin
traces that he approached the komatik to
help his father unleash and carry in the
load. As he straightened from his bent
position to coil the long lash-line Bill
asked, “What became of the team that
came in ahead of us?”
Joe hoisted a heavy sack to his shoulder
and turned toward the house. “There was
no team,” he answered quietly.
Activities
1.
Most stories are structured around
conflicts. Determine the central conflict
in this story. Design a poster for a feature
film version of the story, illustrating this
conflict.
2. If this story were to be made into a film,
what sort of music would accompany the
action? Choose one section of the story
and find a piece of music that, to you,
captures the mood. Present it to the class
with an explanation of why you have
chosen this piece of music.
3. Most ghost stories are frightening.
In this story, we know from the
introduction that the ghost is likely to
be a “friendly, helpful” spirit. Write a
persuasive response arguing either that
the introduction spoils the impact of
the story, or that the story maintains
suspense despite the information in the
introduction. Support your argument
with details from the text.
Look
45
Metamorphosis III
© 1998 Cordon Art B.V. - Holland. All rights reserved.
46
Look
M. C. Escher
Focus Your Learning
Viewing this visual will help you:
n examine visual techniques
n create an illustration with interesting visual
effects
Activities
1.
In a short written response, explain
why the title “Metamorphosis III”
is used for this piece of art. Include
specific references to the visual. In
what way does the use of colour add
impact to the visual?
2. Create your own illustration, either
in colour or black and white, that
creates interesting visual effects.
Give your work a title that
communicates your intention.
Look
47
The
New Food
STE PH EN LEACOCK
Focus Your Learning
Reading this essay will
help you:
n use a graphic
organizer
n discuss information
and meaning based
on text
n debate an issue
48
Look
I see from the current columns
of the daily press that “Professor
Plumb, of the University of Chicago, has
just invented a highly concentrated form of
food. All the essential nutritive elements are put
together in the form of pellets, each of which contains from
one to two hundred times as much nourishment as an ounce of
an ordinary article of diet. These pellets, diluted with water, will
form all that is necessary to support life. The professor looks
forward confidently to revolutionizing the present food system.”
Now this kind of thing may be all very well in its way, but
it is going to have its drawbacks as well. In the bright future
anticipated by Professor Plumb, we can easily imagine such
incidents as the following:
The smiling family were gathered round the hospitable
board. The table was plenteously laid with a soup plate in front
of each beaming child, a bucket of hot water before the radiant
mother, and at the head of the board the Christmas dinner of the
happy home, warmly covered by a thimble and resting on a poker
chip. The expectant whispers of the little ones were hushed as the
sie Har
tland
pec
ial
by J
es
te
S
Pla
lu
e
Ou
rB
nj
oy
E
father, rising from his chair, lifted the thimble and disclosed a small
pill of concentrated nourishment on the chip before him. Christmas
turkey, cranberry sauce, plum pudding, mince pie—it was all there, all
jammed into that little pill and only waiting to expand. Then the father
with deep reverence, and a devout eye alternating between the pill and
heaven, lifted his voice in a benediction.
At this moment there was an agonized cry from the mother.
“Oh, Henry, quick! Baby has snatched the pill!” It was too true. Dear
little Gustavus Adolphus, the golden-haired baby boy, had grabbed
the whole Christmas dinner off the poker chip and bolted it. Three
hundred and fifty pounds of concentrated nourishment passed the
esophagus of the unthinking child.
“Clap him on the back!” cried the distracted mother. “Give him
water!”
The idea was fatal. The water striking the pill caused it to
expand. There was a dull rumbling sound and then, with an awful
bang, Gustavus Adolphus exploded into fragments!
And when they gathered the little corpse together, the baby lips
were parted in a lingering smile that could only be worn by a child
who had eaten thirteen Christmas dinners.
Activities
1.
This essay was written in 1910. It is a humorous piece, but it has a
serious message. With a partner, discuss what you think Leacock was
saying about technology at the time. Then create a web diagram, at
the centre of which is a current form of technology. In the web, record
possible implications of this technology. Find a way to code your web
so that it is clear to viewers whether you consider a particular
implication to be positive, negative, or neutral.
2. Conduct a class debate on the following topic: Leacock’s message
about technology is as true today as it was in 1910. Evaluate the
arguments and choose a winning side.
Look
49
Zoo
EDWARD D. HOCH
The children were always good during the month
of August, especially when it began to get near the
Focus Your Learning
Reading this short science
fiction story will help you:
n respond to the imagery
in a text
n examine the effect of a
surprise ending
n role-play an interview
n see your world from an
unusual viewpoint
50
Look
twenty-third. It was on this day that the great silver spaceship
carrying Professor Hugo’s Interplanetary Zoo settled down for its
annual six-hour visit to the Chicago area.
Before daybreak the crowds would form, long lines of
children and adults both, each one clutching his or her dollar,
and waiting with wonderment to see what race of strange
creatures the Professor had brought this year.
In the past they had sometimes been treated to three-legged
creatures from Venus, or tall, thin men from Mars, or even
snake-like horrors from somewhere more distant. This year, as
the great round ship settled slowly to earth in the huge tri-city
parking area just outside of Chicago, they watched with awe as
the sides slowly slid up to reveal the familiar barred cages. In
them were some wild breed of nightmare—small, horse-like animals
that moved with quick, jerking motions and constantly chattered in a
high-pitched tongue. The citizens of Earth clustered around as
Professor Hugo’s crew quickly collected the waiting dollars, and soon
the good Professor himself made an appearance, wearing his manycoloured rainbow cape and top hat. “Peoples of Earth,” he called into
his microphone.
The crowd’s noise died down and he continued. “Peoples of
Earth, this year you see a real treat for your single dollar—the littleknown horse-spider people of Kaan—brought to you across a million
miles of space at great expense. Gather around, see them, study them,
listen to them, tell your friends about them. But hurry! My ship can
remain here only six hours!”
And the crowds slowly filed by, at once horrified and fascinated
by these strange creatures that looked like horses but ran up the walls
of their cages like spiders. “This is certainly worth a dollar,” one man
remarked, hurrying away. “I’m going home to get the wife.”
All day long it went like that, until ten thousand people had
filed by the barred cages set into the side of the spaceship. Then, as
the six-hour limit ran out, Professor Hugo once more took the
microphone in hand. “We must go now, but we will return next year
on this date. And if you enjoyed our zoo this year, telephone your
friends in other cities about it. We will land in New York tomorrow,
and next week on to London, Paris, Rome, Hong Kong, and Tokyo.
Then on to other worlds!”
He waved farewell to them, and as the ship rose from the ground,
the Earth peoples agreed that this had been the very best Zoo yet….
Some two months and three planets later, the silver ship of Professor
Hugo settled at last onto the familiar jagged rocks of Kaan, and the
queer horse-spider creatures filed quickly out of their cages.
Professor Hugo was there to say a few parting words, and then they
scurried away in a hundred different directions, seeking their homes
among the rocks.
Look
51
In one house, the she-creature was happy to see the return of
her mate and offspring. She babbled a greeting in the strange tongue
and hurried to embrace them. “It was a long time you were gone.
Was it good?”
And the he-creature nodded. “The little one enjoyed it especially.
We visited eight worlds and saw many things.”
The little one ran up the wall of the cave. “On the place called
Earth it was the best. The creatures there wear garments over their
skins, and they walk on two legs.”
“But isn’t it dangerous?” asked the she-creature.
“No,” her mate answered. “There are bars to protect us from
them. We remain right in the ship. Next time you must come with us.
It is well worth the nineteen commocs it costs.”
And the little one nodded. “It was the very best Zoo ever….”
Activities
1.
Imagine that you have been to see Professor Hugo’s zoo. In a journal
entry, describe your reaction to the strange horse-spider people.
2. What is the effect of the surprise ending? In what way is this story
ironic?
3. Work with a partner. Assume that a journalist, through the services
of an interpreter, has the opportunity to interview a horse-spider
person. Prepare the interview, with the journalist asking questions
and the horse-spider person providing answers and comments.
Role-play the interview for the class.
4. Professor Hugo is preparing the next trip of his Interplanetary Zoo.
Write the advertisement he will display to attract visitors to Earth.
Include details about the exotic and unusual sights the visitors
will see.
52
Look
The outer space intelligence
who hovered over my desk,
a glowing vibrating sphere,
one foot in diameter,
asked me endless questions, for instance:
“What were you doing before I appeared?”
and “Why?” and “For what reason?”
to which I replied I was reading the newspaper
to be informed about what was going on
Focus Your Learning
Reading this poem will
help you:
n focus on how the poet
develops the
characters in the poem
n write a dialogue
n consider ways of
describing objects and
events that are often
taken for granted
n prepare a script and
video recording
in the world, and explained the nature
of money and economics and capitalism and communism
and inflation and crises and wars and nations
and borders and territorial expansion and history—
Then he asked me what the other creature
(my two-year-old daughter) was doing.
Look
53
I said she was playing on the broadloom,
talking to her dolls and herself—
Well, this outer space intelligence rather disappointed me,
for after my succinct answers
he asked such a stupid question
that I suspected he hadn’t understood anything at all,
the question being: “How many years does it take
for a wrinkled, wrought-up human baby
like you behind a desk, to shrink into a happy,
light-hearted being like the one on the rug?”
Activities
1.
Contrast the descriptions of the three characters in this poem.
Consider the number of lines given to each, the images
created, and the kinds of words used. What is the overall
effect?
2. Write a short dialogue in which the poet answers the final
question of this poem, and the outer-space intelligence
responds by explaining why he believed the baby to be more
mature than the poet.
3. Prepare a guided tour of your bedroom or any other room of
your home or school for a visiting alien. You must assume that
the alien has no comprehension of how you live or what you do.
You must explain items in the room and your activities very
carefully. Write the script for your guided tour. If possible, make
a video recording of the tour presentation.
54
Look
The
Rabbit
R . P. M A C I N T Y R E
You have a dog named Rusty … you had a dog
named Rusty. This is not so much a story about
Focus Your Learning
help you:
n focus on how a
narrator’s voice can
reveal feelings
n build an argument
Rusty as it is about your parents, of which you still have two.
That’s because nobody’s shot them, yet. You have this theory
that parents are very stupid people, especially after you get to
know them for awhile. You’ve known yours fourteen years.
Fifteen, actually. The first year doesn’t count.
If your dad was an animal, which you occasionally
think he is, he’d be a bird. He’d be one that’s nearly extinct,
because it forgot how to fly. So he just flaps his wings and
jumps instead, jumps to conclusions.
And your mom is like a pair of eyes that glow on the side
of the road at night. You can’t make out what they belong to,
you just hope they don’t spring across in front of the car. But
one of these days, you know it’s going to happen.
The thing is, you’d probably never notice how weird your
parents are if you didn’t have neighbours or other people to
Look
55
compare them to. For instance, the Unruhs, who live next door and
have a rabbit.
It’s a pet rabbit they keep in a cage beside the toolshed in the
backyard. They feed it greens from the kitchen, and they recycle the
little bunny turds, you know, throw them in the garden, where they
grow their own organic food. They have a complete little eco-system
over there—compost piles, solar heating panels, bird feeders—you
name it. And just like the rabbit, the Unruhs are vegetarians.
You, on the other hand, have Rusty. Rusty is locked in his back
yard prison. Every now and then, someone will leave the gate open
and he will run madly all over the neighbourhood, sniffing and peeing
on everything in sight. Doggy freedom. So leaving the gate open is a
definite no-no in your house. Normally, however, he’s stuck in the
back yard where he dumps all over the place. When he’s really bored,
he eats it. Your job is to clean up before he does. Unfortunately, you’re
not very good at your job. Rusty has foul breath.
Rusty eats meat too, of course. He sits beside the barbecue,
begging with his big sad piggy-doggy eyes, “Me too, me too,” he’s
saying. He wants a piece of steak. If you break down and give him
some, he sort of inhales it. He’s more patient with sticks and shoes
and plastic garden hose—those he chews on for a while.
You don’t pretend to understand dogs. They’re dogs. They do
strange things. Rusty has dug up most of the lawn looking for bones,
or China, or whatever dogs look for when they dig holes. Maybe he’s
just looking for a way out of the yard. It’s like stepping through a
minefield of holes and doggie-doo to get to the barbecue that pollutes
the atmosphere with the smell of burning dead cows because you eat
meat too. That’s the kind of people you are.
Yet you are friends with the Unruhs, your rabbit neighbours.
When you were little, you took swimming lessons together with their
kids. Both sets of parents took turns chauffeuring you, your parents in
your Ford, the Unruhs in their Volvo. They give you zucchini from
their garden. Your mom makes five loaves of zucchini bread and you
eat one. The rest she hides in the freezer.
56
Look
One weekend the Unruhs go away. They have asked your dad
to keep an eye on their house. No problem. Three days. He can
handle that.
It’s evening of the second day, Saturday. You go to the video store to
rent a movie. Nobody can agree on what movie to get so you get three.
On the way home, you stop at the store for popcorn and coke. It’s going
to be fun, a family evening fighting over which movie to watch first.
But when you get home, driving into the driveway, black smoke
belching from the Ford, you lurch to a halt and freeze. Your dad turns
off the ignition. The exhaust settles like an air of doom. You know
there is going to be trouble because the gate is open.
Rusty is gone.
You call, “Rusty, Rusty,” you hope the dog remembers his name.
He does. He appears, wagging his tail. He is wearing a foolish grin on
his face.
Rusty has returned from the neighbours’ yard. The Unruhs’.
You go into their yard, and there, lying almost neatly on the
compost pile, is a dead rabbit, a dirty dead pet bunny rabbit. You
know now that Rusty is a killer. Your dad says if this is what Rusty
will do to a rabbit, what might Rusty do to small children?
But Rusty is still standing there with that grin on his face, still
wagging his tail. It’s clear that Rusty is denying everything. He seems
to be saying, “Is there a problem here?” Yes Rusty, there is a problem.
Mentally, you can see your dad lining up the telescopic cross-hairs
between Rusty’s loving stupid eyes and shooting him. Except he can’t.
This is where the story gets ugly.
Your dad puts Rusty in the car. Rusty thinks he’s going for a car
ride. He is. To the vet, who will do what your dad can’t. You wave goodbye to Rusty. You thought he was such a good dog. Stupid, but good.
Meanwhile, your mom springs into action. Her eyes are like
headlights, her face a grill. She takes the dead rabbit into the kitchen.
She washes it in the sink, then takes her hair drier and blow dries the
dead rabbit’s fur. She fluffs it up. It looks almost as good as new. It
really does.
Look
57
By this time, your dad has returned from the vet. Your whole
family is silent. Your dad takes the dead rabbit and puts it back into
its cage. He props it up. He gives it a carrot. It looks like the dead
rabbit is eating the carrot. You go home. You do not watch movies.
You go to bed.
The next day the Unruhs return. Your dad gives them time to be
home for awhile. Time to unpack the Volvo and put things away. There
is no eye contact in your house. Your mom is trying to thaw a loaf of
zucchini bread.
Your dad goes into the back yard and starts scooping up dog turds.
You join him, holding a plastic garbage bag. Dr. Unruh is in his back
yard digging a hole. You hear your dad ask, in a friendly neighbourly
sort of way, how their trip was. Dr. Unruh answers, it was fine, the trip
was fine, but that something really strange had happened here, here in
the back yard.
Your dad fakes great interest.
Dr. Unruh says that someone dug up their pet rabbit and put it
back into its cage.
Your dad’s voice breaks. “Dug it up?”
“Yes,” says Dr. Unruh. “It died last Thursday.”
You look at your dad. He flaps his wings like he’s trying to fly.
“I didn’t know,” he says to you. “I didn’t know.”
Activities
1.
The narrator does not describe his reaction to events in this story.
List the phrases that reveal what he is feeling. At whom are his
feelings directed, and why?
2. You have been entrusted to serve as Rusty’s advocate. Build a
case for his defence, citing circumstantial evidence. Work in groups
to share your completed cases and to select the best one in each
group. These defences will be read aloud to the class, and a vote
taken on the final defence to be adopted on behalf of Rusty.
58
Look
The Necklace
G U Y D E M A U PA S S A N T
The Boulevards 1899 by Pierre Bonnard
She was one of those pretty and charming girls,
Focus Your Learning
Reading this tale will help you:
n focus on a character’s view
of herself
n create a collage
n write a character sketch
n revise and edit your work
n express personal
understanding in a debate
born, as if by an accident of fate, into a family
of clerks. With no dowry, no prospects, no way of any kind
of being met, understood, loved, and married by a man both
prosperous and famous, she was finally married to a minor
clerk in the Ministry of Education.
She dressed plainly because she could not afford fine
clothes, but was as unhappy as a woman who has come
Look
59
down in the world; for women have no family rank or social class.
With them, beauty, grace, and charm take the place of birth and
breeding. Their natural poise, their instinctive good taste, and their
mental cleverness are the sole guiding principles which make
daughters of the common people the equals of ladies in high society.
She grieved incessantly, feeling that she had been born for all the
little niceties and luxuries of living. She grieved over the shabbiness of
her apartment, the dinginess of the walls, the worn-out appearance of
the chairs, the ugliness of the draperies. All these things, which another
woman of her class would not even have noticed, gnawed at her and
made her furious. The sight of the little Breton girl who did her humble
housework roused in her disconsolate regrets and wild daydreams. She
would dream of silent chambers, draped with Oriental tapestries and
lighted by tall bronze floor lamps, and of two handsome butlers in knee
breeches, who, drowsy from the heavy warmth cast by the central
stove, dozed in large overstuffed armchairs.
She would dream of great reception halls hung with old silks, of
fine furniture filled with priceless curios, and of small, stylish, scented
sitting rooms just right for the four o’clock chat with intimate friends,
with distinguished and sought-after men whose attention every
woman envies and longs to attract.
When dining at the round table, covered for the third day with
the same cloth, opposite her husband, who would raise the cover of
the soup tureen, declaring delightedly, “Ah! A good stew! There’s
nothing I like better …” she would dream of fashionable dinner
parties, of gleaming silverware, of tapestries making the walls alive
with characters out of history and strange birds in a fairyland forest;
she would dream of delicious dishes served on wonderful china, of
gallant compliments whispered and listened to with a sphinxlike smile
as one eats the rosy flesh of a trout or nibbles at the wings of a grouse.
She had no evening clothes, no jewels, nothing. But those were
the things she wanted; she felt that was the kind of life for her. She so
much longed to please, be envied, be fascinating and sought after.
60
Look
She had a well-to-do friend, a classmate of convent-school days
whom she would no longer go to see, simply because she would feel
so distressed on returning home. And she would weep for days on end
from vexation, regret, despair, and anguish.
Then one evening, her husband came home proudly holding out
a large envelope.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve got something for you.”
She excitedly tore open the envelope and pulled out a printed
card bearing these words:
“The Minister of Education and Mme. Georges Ramponneau beg
M. and Mme. Loisel to do them the honor of attending an evening
reception at the Ministerial Mansion on Friday, January 18.”
Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she
scornfully tossed the invitation on the table, murmuring, “What good
is that to me?”
“But, my dear, I thought you’d be thrilled to death. You never get
a chance to go out, and this is a real affair, a wonderful one! I had an
awful time getting a card. Everybody wants one; it’s much sought
after, and not many clerks have a chance at one. You’ll see all the most
important people there.”
She gave him an irritated glance and burst out impatiently, “What
do you think I have to go in?”
He hadn’t given that a thought. He stammered, “Why, the dress
you wear when we go to the theatre. That looks quite nice, I think.”
He stopped talking, dazed and distracted to see his wife burst out
weeping. Two large tears slowly rolled from the corners of her eyes to
the corners of her mouth; he gasped, “Why, what’s the matter? What’s
the trouble?”
By sheer will power she overcame her outburst and answered in a
calm voice while wiping the tears from her wet cheeks:
“Oh, nothing. Only I don’t have an evening dress and therefore I
can’t go to that affair. Give the card to some friend at the office whose
wife can dress better than I can.”
Look
61
He was stunned. He resumed, “Let’s see, Mathilde. How much
would a suitable outfit cost—one you could wear for other affairs
too—something very simple?”
She thought it over for several seconds, going over her
allowance and thinking also of the amount she could ask for without
bringing an immediate refusal and an exclamation of dismay from
the thrifty clerk.
Finally, she answered hesitatingly, “I’m not sure exactly, but I
think with four hundred francs I could manage it.”
He turned a bit pale, for he had set aside just that amount to buy
a rifle so that, the following summer, he could join some friends who
were getting up a group to shoot larks on the plain near Nanterre.
However, he said, “All right. I’ll give you four hundred francs. But
try to get a nice dress.”
As the day of the party approached, Mme. Loisel seemed sad, moody,
and ill at ease. Her outfit was ready, however. Her husband said to
her one evening, “What’s the matter? You’ve been all out of sorts for
three days.”
And she answered, “It’s embarrassing not to have a jewel or a
gem—nothing to wear on my dress. I’ll look like a pauper: I’d almost
rather not go to that party.”
He answered, “Why not wear some flowers? They’re very
fashionable this season. For ten francs you can get two or three
gorgeous roses.”
She wasn’t at all convinced. “No…. There’s nothing more
humiliating than to look poor among a lot of rich women.”
But her husband exclaimed, “My, but you’re silly! Go see your
friend Mme. Forestier and ask her to lend you some jewelry. You and
she know each other well enough for you to do that.”
She gave a cry of joy, “Why, that’s so! I hadn’t thought of it.”
The next day she paid her friend a visit and told her of her
predicament.
62
Look
Mme. Forestier went toward a large closet with mirrored doors,
took out a large jewel box, brought it over, opened it, and said to
Mme. Loisel: “Pick something out, my dear.”
At first her eyes noted some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then
a Venetian cross, gold and gems, of marvelous workmanship. She tried
on these adornments in front of the mirror, but hesitated, unable to
decide which to part with and put back. She kept on asking, “Haven’t
you something else?”
“Oh, yes, keep on looking. I don’t know just what you’d like.”
All at once she found, in a black satin box, a superb diamond
necklace; and her pulse beat faster with longing. Her hands trembled as
she took it up. Clasping it around her throat, outside her high-necked
dress, she stood in ecstasy looking at her reflection.
Then she asked, hesitatingly, pleading, “Could I borrow that, just
that and nothing else?”
“Why, of course.”
She threw her arms around her friend, kissed her warmly, and
fled with her treasure.
The day of the party arrived. Mme. Loisel was a sensation. She
was the prettiest one there, fashionable, gracious, smiling, and wild
with joy. All the men turned to look at her, asked who she was,
begged to be introduced. All the Cabinet officials wanted to waltz
with her. The minister took notice of her.
She danced madly, wildly, drunk with pleasure, giving no thought
to anything in the triumph of her beauty, the pride of her success, in a
kind of happy cloud composed of all the adulation, of all the admiring
glances, of all the awakened longings, of a sense of complete victory
that is so sweet to a woman’s heart.
She left around four o’clock in the morning. Her husband, since
midnight, had been dozing in a small empty sitting room with three
other gentlemen whose wives were having too good a time.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought for going
home, modest garments of everyday life whose shabbiness clashed with
Look
63
the stylishness of her evening clothes. She felt this and longed to escape,
unseen by the other women who were draped in expensive furs.
Loisel held her back.
“Hold on! You’ll catch cold outside. I’ll call a cab.”
But she wouldn’t listen to him and went rapidly down the stairs.
When they were on the street, they didn’t find a carriage; and they
set out to hunt for one, hailing drivers whom they saw going by at a
distance.
They walked toward the Seine, disconsolate and shivering. Finally
on the docks they found one of those carriages that one sees in Paris
only after nightfall, as if they were ashamed to show their drabness
during daylight hours.
It dropped them at their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and they
climbed wearily up to their apartment. For her, it was all over. For
him, there was the thought that he would have to be at the Ministry at
ten o’clock.
Before the mirror, she let the wraps fall from her shoulders to see
herself once again in all her glory. Suddenly she gave a cry. The
necklace was gone.
Her husband, already half undressed, said, “What’s the trouble?”
She turned toward him despairingly, “I … I … I don’t have Mme.
Forestier’s necklace!”
“What! You can’t mean it! It’s impossible!”
They hunted everywhere, through the folds of the dress, through
the folds of the coat, in the pockets. They found nothing.
He asked, “Are you sure you had it when leaving the dance?”
“Yes, I felt it when I was in the hall of the Ministry.”
“But if you had lost it on the street we’d have heard it drop. It
must be in the cab.”
“Yes, Quite likely. Did you get its number?”
“No. Didn’t you notice it either?”
“No.”
They looked at each other aghast. Finally Loisel got dressed again.
64
Look
“I’ll retrace our steps on foot,” he said, “to see if I can find it.”
And he went out. She remained in her evening clothes, without
the strength to go to bed, slumped in a chair in the unheated room,
her mind a blank.
Her husband came in about seven o’clock. He had had no luck.
He went to the police station, to the newspapers to post a reward,
to the cab companies, everywhere the slightest hope drove him.
That evening Loisel returned, pale, his face lined; still he had
learned nothing.
“We’ll have to write your friend,” he said, “to tell her you have
broken the catch and are having it repaired. That will give us a little
time to turn around.”
She wrote to his dictation.
At the end of the week, they had given up all hope.
And Loisel, looking five years older, declared, “We must take
steps to replace that piece of jewelry.”
The next day they took the case to the jeweler whose name they
found inside. He consulted his records. “I didn’t sell that necklace,
madame,” he said. “l only supplied the case.”
Then they went from one jeweler to another hunting for a similar
necklace, going over their recollections, both sick with despair and
anxiety.
They found, in a shop in Palais Royal, a string of diamonds which
seemed exactly like the one they were seeking. It was priced at forty
thousand francs. They could get it for thirty-six.
They asked the jeweler to hold it for them for three days. And
they reached an agreement that he would take it back for thirty-four
thousand if the lost one was found before the end of February.
Loisel had eighteen thousand francs he had inherited from his
father. He would borrow the rest.
He went about raising the money, asking a thousand francs from
one, four hundred from another, a hundred here, sixty there. He signed
notes, made ruinous deals, did business with loan sharks, ran the
Look
65
whole gamut of moneylenders. He compromised the rest of his life,
risked his signature without knowing if he’d be able to honour it, and
then, terrified by the outlook for the future, by the blackness of despair
about to close around him, by the prospect of all the privations of the
body and tortures of the spirit, he went to claim the new necklace with
the thirty-six thousand francs which he placed on the counter of the
shopkeeper.
When Mme. Loisel took the necklace back, Mme. Forestier said
to her frostily, “You should have brought it back sooner; I might have
needed it.”
She didn’t open the case, an action her friend was afraid of. If
she had noticed the substitution, what would she have thought? What
would she have said? Would she have thought her a thief?
Mme. Loisel experienced the horrible life the needy live. She played
her part, however, with sudden heroism. That frightful debt had to be
paid. She would pay it. She dismissed her maid; they rented a garret
under the eaves.
She learned to do the heavy housework, to perform the hateful
duties of cooking. She washed dishes, wearing down her shell-pink nails
scouring the grease from pots and pans; she scrubbed dirty linen, shirts,
and cleaning rags which she hung on a line to dry; she took the garbage
down to the street each morning and brought up water, stopping on
each landing to get her breath. And, clad like a peasant woman, basket
on arm, guarding sou by sou her scanty allowance, she bargained with
the fruit dealers, the grocer, the butcher, and was insulted by them.
Each month notes had to be paid, and others renewed to give
more time.
Her husband laboured evenings to balance a tradesman’s accounts,
and at night, often, he copied documents at five sous a page.
And this went on for ten years.
Finally, all was paid back, everything including the exorbitant
rates of the loan sharks and accumulated compound interest.
66
Look
Mme. Loisel appeared an old woman, now. She became heavy,
rough, harsh, like one of the poor. Her hair untended, her skirts
askew, her hands red, her voice shrill, she even slopped water on
her floors and scrubbed them herself. But, sometimes, while her
husband was at work, she would sit near the window and think of
that long-ago evening when, at the dance, she had been so beautiful
and admired.
What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace?
Who knows? Who can say? How strange and unpredictable life is!
How little there is between happiness and misery!
Then one Sunday when she had gone for a walk on the Champs Élysées
to relax a bit from the week’s labours, she suddenly noticed a woman
strolling with a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young-looking; still
beautiful, still charming.
Mme. Loisel felt a rush of emotion. Should she speak to her? Of
course. And now that everything was paid off, she would tell her the
whole story. Why not?
She went toward her. “Hello, Jeanne.”
The other, not recognizing her, showed astonishment at being
spoken to so familiarly by this common person. She stammered, “But
… madame … I don’t recognize … You must be mistaken.”
“No, I’m Mathilde Loisel.”
Her friend gave a cry, “Oh, my poor Mathilde, how you’ve
changed!”
“Yes, I’ve had a hard time since last seeing you. And plenty of
misfortunes—and all on account of you!”
“Of me … How do you mean?”
“Do you remember that diamond necklace you loaned me to wear
to the dance at the Ministry?”
“Yes, but what about it?”
“Well, I lost it.”
“You lost it! But you returned it.”
Look
67
“I brought you another just like it. And we’ve been paying for it
for ten years now. You can imagine that wasn’t easy for us who had
nothing. Well, it’s over now, and I am glad of it.”
Mme. Forestier stopped short. “You mean to say you bought a
diamond necklace to replace mine?”
“Yes. You never noticed, then? They were quite alike.”
And she smiled with proud and simple joy.
Mme. Forestier, quite overcome, clasped her by the hands. “Oh,
my poor Mathilde. But mine was only paste. Why, at most it was worth
only five hundred francs!”
Activities
1.
What qualities does Mathilde possess that convince her she has been
born into the “wrong class”? Discuss this question in class.
2. Create a two-panel collage. On the left show Mathilde’s life as it is.
On the right show Mathilde’s life as she’d like it to be.
3. Write a character sketch of Mathilde’s husband. Include a paragraph
of support for every characteristic that you identify. Trade your first
draft with a partner, and use an editing checklist to review it. Pay
particular attention to paragraphing and descriptive writing. Then
prepare a final draft of your character sketch.
4. Do you think that Mathilde is the instrument of her own downfall, or
is she the hapless victim of a rigid social class? Prepare for a class
debate on this topic. Be prepared to argue either side, as instructed
by your teacher.
68
Look
Clever
Manka
E T H E L J O H N STO N
PHELPS
There once was a rich farmer who was as grasping
and mean as he was rich. He was always driving a
Focus Your Learning
Reading this folk tale will
help you:
n identify the oral elements
of folk tales
n examine the use of
dialogue
hard bargain and always getting the better of his poor neighbours.
One of these neighbours was a humble shepherd to whom the
farmer owed payment of a calf. When the time of payment came,
the farmer refused to give the shepherd the calf, forcing the
shepherd to bring the matter to the mayor of the village.
The mayor was a young man who was not very
experienced. He listened to both sides, and when he had
thought a bit, he said, “Instead of making a decision on this
case, I will put a riddle to you both, and the man who makes
the best answer shall have the calf. Are you agreed?”
The farmer and the shepherd accepted this proposal, and
the mayor said, “Well then, here is my riddle: What is the
swiftest thing in the world? What is the sweetest thing? What is
the richest? Think out your answers and bring them to me at
this same time tomorrow.”
Look
69
The farmer went home in a temper.
“What kind of a mayor is this young fellow!”
he growled. “If he had let me keep the calf,
I’d have sent him a bushel of pears. Now I
may lose the calf, for I can’t think of an
answer to his foolish riddle.”
“What is the riddle?” asked his wife.
“Perhaps I can help you.” The farmer told her
the riddle, and his wife said that of course she
knew the answers.
“Our grey mare must be the swiftest
thing in the world,” said she. “You know that
nothing ever passes us on the road. As for the
sweetest, did you ever taste any honey
sweeter than ours? And I’m sure there’s
nothing richer than our chest of golden ducats
that we’ve saved up over the years.”
The farmer was delighted. “You’re right!
Now we will be able to keep the calf!”
Meanwhile, when the shepherd got
home, he was very downcast and sad. His
daughter, a clever girl named Manka, asked
what troubled him.
The shepherd sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve
lost the calf. The mayor gave us a riddle to
solve, and I know I shall never guess it.”
“What is the riddle? Perhaps I can help
you,” said Manka.
The shepherd told her the riddle, and the
next day, as he was setting out for the
mayor’s, Manka told him the answers.
When the shepherd reached the mayor’s
house, the farmer was already there. The
mayor repeated the riddle and then asked the
farmer his answers.
The farmer said with a pompous air:
“The swiftest thing in the world? Why that’s
my grey mare, of course, for no other horse
70
Look
ever passes us on the road. The sweetest?
Honey from my beehives. The richest? What
can be richer than my chest of gold pieces?”
“Hmmm,” said the mayor. “And what
answers does the shepherd make?”
“The swiftest thing in the world,” said
the shepherd, “is thought, for thought can run
any distance in the twinkling of an eye. The
sweetest thing of all is sleep, for when a
person is tired and sad, what can be sweeter?
The richest thing is the earth, for out of the
earth come all the riches of the world.”
“Good!” cried the mayor. “The calf goes
to the shepherd.”
Later the mayor said to the shepherd,
“Tell me now, who gave you those answers?
I’m sure you never thought of them yourself.”
The shepherd was unwilling to tell, but
finally he confessed that the answers came
from his daughter Manka. The mayor became
very interested in the cleverness of Manka,
and he sent his housekeeper for ten eggs and
gave them to the shepherd.
“Take these eggs to Manka and tell her
to have them hatched by tomorrow and bring
me the chicks,” said he.
The shepherd went home and gave
Manka the eggs and the message. Manka
laughed and said, “Take a handful of corn and
bring it back to the mayor with this message,
‘My daughter says if you plant this corn, grow
it, and have it harvested by tomorrow, she
will bring you the ten chicks to feed on your
ripe grain.’”
When the mayor heard this answer, he
laughed heartily. “That’s a very clever
daughter you have! I’d like to meet her. Tell
her to come to see me, but she must come
neither by day nor by night, neither riding nor
walking, neither dressed nor undressed.”
Manka smiled when she received this
message. The next dawn, when night was
gone and day not yet arrived, she set out. She
had wrapped herself in a fishnet, and
throwing one leg over a goat’s back and
keeping one foot on the ground, she went to
the mayor’s house.
Now I ask you, did she go dressed? No,
she wasn’t dressed, for a fishnet isn’t
clothing. Did she go undressed? Of course
not, for wasn’t she covered with a fishnet?
Did she walk to the mayor’s? No, she didn’t
walk, for she went with one leg thrown over a
goat. Then did she ride? Of course she didn’t
ride, for wasn’t she walking on one foot?
When she reached the mayor’s house,
she called out, “Here I am, and I’ve come
neither by day nor by night, neither riding nor
walking, neither dressed nor undressed.”
The young mayor was so delighted with
Manka’s cleverness that he proposed to her,
and in a short time they were married.
“But understand, my dear Manka,” he
said, “you are not to use your cleverness at
my expense. You must not interfere in any of
my cases. If you give advice to those who
come to me for judgment, I’ll send you home
to your father!”
“Very well,” said Manka. “I agree not to
give advice in your cases unless you ask for
it.”
All went well for a time. Manka was
busy and was careful not to interfere in any of
the mayor’s cases.
Then one day two farmers came to the
mayor to have a dispute settled. One of the
farmers owned a mare which had foaled in
the marketplace. The colt had run under the
wagon of the other farmer, and the owner of
the wagon claimed the colt as his property.
The mayor was thinking of something
else while the case was being argued, and he
said carelessly, “The man who found the colt
under his wagon is the owner of the colt.”
The farmer who owned the mare met
Manka as he was leaving the house, and
stopped to tell her about the case. Manka was
ashamed that her husband had made so
foolish a decision. She said to the farmer,
“Come back this afternoon with a fishing net
and stretch it across the dusty road. When the
mayor sees you, he will come out and ask
what you are doing. Tell him you are catching
fish. When he asks how you can expect to
catch fish in a dusty road, tell him it’s just as
easy to catch fish in a dusty road as it is for a
wagon to foal a colt.... He’ll see the injustice
of his decision and have the colt returned to
you. But remember one thing—you must not
let him know that I told you to do this.”
That afternoon when the mayor looked
out of his window, he saw a man stretching a
fishnet across the dusty road. He went out
and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Fishing.”
“Fishing in a dusty road? Are you
crazy?”
“Well,” said the man, “it’s just as easy
for me to catch fish in a dusty road as it is for
a wagon to foal.”
Then the mayor realized he had made a
careless and unjust decision. “Of course, the
colt belongs to your mare and it must be
returned to you,” he said. “But tell me, who
Look
71
put you up to this? You didn’t think of it
yourself!”
The farmer tried not to tell, but the
mayor persisted and when he found out that
Manka was at the bottom of it, he became
very angry. He rushed into the house and
called his wife.
“Manka,” he said, “I told you what
would happen if you interfered in any of my
cases! I won’t hear any excuses. Home you go
this very day, and you may take with you the
one thing you like best in the house.”
Manka did not argue. “Very well, my
dear husband. I shall go home to my father’s
cottage and take with me the one thing I like
best in the house. But I will not go until after
supper. We have been very happy together,
and I should like to eat one last meal with
you. Let us have no more angry words, but be
kind to each other as we’ve always been, and
then part as friends.”
The mayor agreed to this, and Manka
prepared a fine supper of all the dishes her
husband particularly liked. The mayor opened
his choicest wine and pledged Manka’s
health. Then he set to eat, and the supper
was so good that he ate and ate and ate. And
the more he ate, the more he drank, until at
last he grew drowsy and fell sound asleep in
his chair. Then, without awakening him,
Manka had him carried out to the wagon that
was waiting to take her home to her father.
The next morning when the mayor
opened his eyes, he found himself lying in the
shepherd’s cottage.
“What does this mean?” he roared.
“Nothing, dear husband,” said Manka.
“You know you told me I might take with me
the one thing I liked best in your house, so of
course I took you! That’s all.”
The mayor stared at her in amazement.
Then he laughed loud and heartily to think
how Manka had outwitted him.
“Manka,” he said, “you’re too clever for
me. Come, my dear, let’s go home.”
So they climbed back into the wagon
and drove home.
The mayor never again scolded his wife,
but after that, whenever a very difficult case
came up, he always said, “I think we had
better consult my wife. You know she’s a very
clever woman.”
Activities
1.
72
List the oral elements of Clever Manka.
How do these elements contribute to the
story? Discuss as a class.
Look
2. This folk tale has two major scenes. In
each, Manka helps someone, then
outsmarts the mayor. Examine the use of
dialogue. How does the repetition of
riddles create suspense? Write a short
explanation, including specific references.
End-of-unit Activities
1.
Many of the selections in this unit
involve tales of the unexplainable. In
small groups, use a graphic organizer to
compare the plot, setting, characters,
and theme of at least four different
selections. Then compile a list of
characteristics they share.
2. View a TV show or film that deals with
unexplainable events. Write a review
of the show or film, assessing its
effectiveness based on the characteristics
you identified in Activity 1. Remember that
sometimes a work can be more effective,
rather than less effective, when it departs
from expected characteristics.
3. Compare one of the poems with one of
the stories in this unit. How effective is
each text as an example of a tale of the
unexplainable? Share your conclusions
with the class, giving detailed examples
from the texts you have chosen.
4. In the selections “Zoo” and “A Strange
Visitor,” extraterrestrial life is presented in
a positive rather than negative light. How
would the selections be different if the
aliens were presented in a negative way?
Retell the story, changing the ending.
5. In “The Rabbit” and “The Necklace,”
the protagonists come face to face
with an unjust fate. Which story do you
think best exemplifies that life isn’t fair?
Choose a side, prepare your argument,
and engage in a debate with other
members of your class.
6. Many of the selections in this unit finish
with a surprise ending. Choose two
selections, one with a surprise ending
that is especially good, and one with a
surprise ending that you think is not very
effective. Compare the strengths and
weaknesses of the two endings. Rewrite
the surprise ending for the story you feel
has the less effective ending.
7. Identify selections in this unit in which
humour is used to communicate a point
of view. Draw a comic strip or cartoon
capturing the humour in one of these
selections.
Look
73
look closely
Who’s right? Who’s wrong?
What’s the right choice?
Sometimes, growing up seems so
full of questions. What’s the right
decision? Who should I be friends
with? What kind of person do I
want to be? Every writer in this
unit has things to say about the
choices you face. Read closely and
get some help finding a voice of
your own.
Ahdri Zhina Mandiela
i/used to be
a lot of things
now/i am
more
Raymond Souster
Focus Your Learning
Studying these poems will
help you:
n represent key ideas of
the poems in a collage
n identify and compare
the use of imagery,
figures of speech, and
messages
As you walk out deep into night
feel how the trees are leaning over
to watch you on your way.
Hear dead leaves hiss and crackle
as you twist them underfoot,
as winds whip and shuffle them.
See how each streetlight plays
at being the ultimate
all-too-solemn moon.
Sense that all lighted houses
stand ready, each one waiting
your firm knock on the door.
Know without lifting your eyes
one star up there will burn
brighter than the rest for you.
76
Look Closely
Tsuboi Shigeji
I may be silent, but
I’m thinking.
I may not talk, but
Don’t mistake me for a wall.
The Young Canadian by D.P. Brown
Look Closely
77
Charlotte Zolotow
The summer
still hangs
heavy and sweet
with sunlight
as it did last year.
The autumn still comes
showering gold and crimson
The winter
still clings
clean and cold and white
The spring
still comes
like a whisper in the dark night.
It is only I
who have changed.
Activities
1.
Make a collage entitled “What I Can
Become.” Include key words or phrases
and images from each of these poems.
2. Choose two of these poems and compare
them in terms of imagery, figures of
78
Look Closely
speech, and message. Start by organizing
your ideas in a chart and then write your
comparison in several paragraphs.
The
Scream
DIANA J. WI E LE R
Eliza had never been in a drama class. Now that she
was here, she was certain it was a mistake. Absolutely
Focus Your Learning
Reading this short story
will help you:
n read for detail
n create a dramatic
monologue
n use a thesaurus to
extend your
vocabulary
n practise using new
vocabulary
certain. There were no desks and no blackboards, no papers or
books. The big room was empty, except for a platform at one end,
raised eight inches above the shiny hardwood floor. At the other
end of the room there were mirrors, a whole wall full, so that you
had to see yourself, every time you glanced up.
This isn’t going to work! Eliza thought, flattening herself against
the wall, her binder clutched over her chest. At thirteen, Eliza wasn’t
on friendly terms with mirrors. She was too tall and too skinny;
her elbows and shoulders stuck out like sharp corners. She was on
Look Closely
79
medication for eczema, but it wasn’t helping. No matter what creams or
lotions she spread on, her skin was forever white, dry and scaly.
“Lizard skin.” Eliza jumped, but no one was even looking at her.
Most of the boys and girls were clustered in tight groups in the centre
of the room. She knew some of them from last year, grade six.
“This is going to be a blast—no homework or books. Just do
plays and stuff. What a cinch!” That was Todd Zudder. Eliza
remembered he had pushed her once, in the stairwell at their old
school. She had fallen down five stairs.
“So I bumped into her,” Todd had shrugged in the principal’s
office. “I’m clumsy. What can I say?” Eliza was still frightened of
stairwells, and Todd Zudder.
“Maybe we can get marks for plays we’ve already been in,” said
Melissa Downing. Eliza knew Melissa had already been Baby Bear in
The Three Bears, the witch in Hansel and Gretel, and the Snowflake
Queen in the grade six Christmas pageant.
How am I going to get out of this? Eliza wondered, her heart
thumping. She’d never been in any plays, she’d never even taken
baton lessons. How could she cope in this empty room that didn’t
have any desks? What if they all had to sit on the floor and no one
would sit near her?
“Lizard skin.” Eliza flinched but pretended she didn’t hear. She
had practice at pretending like that.
Bang! The chatter stopped abruptly and everyone looked up.
“Thank you,” said the teacher, who had slammed the door. “My
name is Mrs. Draginda. Don’t forget it because I’m not going to write it
down. First of all, take off your shoes and set them against the wall.”
There were groans and cries of, “Whew! What a stink!” Eliza set
down her binder and untied her sneakers with trembling fingers. Did
her socks match, did they have any holes? Oh, why hadn’t she thought
about her socks this morning?
“You will take your shoes off every time you come into this
room,” Mrs. Draginda said, limping up onto the platform. “I want you
to be able to feel the floor under your feet.”
80
Look Closely
One of her legs is shorter than the other, Eliza thought suddenly.
It seemed to be what everyone was thinking. Mrs. Draginda looked out
at the group with piercing blue eyes.
“I’ll tell you two things right now,” she said. “I had polio when I
was young, so you don’t have to ask. And I hate grade sevens. Grade
sevens are silly and loud and inhibited.” The room started to grumble
but Mrs. Draginda cut them off.
“That’s right, inhibited. Here’s your chance to prove me wrong.
Everyone, begin walking in a circle—now!”
It was a command. Eliza leapt up and joined the circle of
whispering children. No one had ever met anyone like Mrs. Draginda.
They didn’t understand her. After all, teachers never came out and said
they hated grade sevens. Teachers weren’t supposed to hate anybody.
This is going to be awful, Eliza thought numbly, marching around
with the rest of them. No desks, no shoes, and a teacher who hated
her, right from the start!
“Now, take proud steps. Walk like kings and queens,” Mrs.
Draginda called. Eliza didn’t know how queens walked, but she was
pretty sure they didn’t leap, the way Melissa Downing was. Melissa
was prancing and lunging, a cross between a Snowflake Queen and a
swordfighter.
“Don’t dance—walk! When I want ballerinas, I’ll ask for them.”
Melissa stopped leaping, her mouth set in a tight line. Mrs. Draginda
had them walk like kings, then crawl like insects. She had them reach up,
as high as they could, then collapse to the floor. Eliza wasn’t very good at
reaching, but she knew how to fall. She knew the feeling of her arms and
legs losing power, she knew what it was like to melt helplessly to the floor
in a heap. She did that sometimes when she got home from school, when
the door to her room was closed and no one would hear her cry.
Todd Zudder thought collapsing was funny.
“Argh! I’m shot, I’m shot!” he groaned, falling straight forward
like a mannequin. Some of the kids laughed.
“Save the theatrics,” Mrs. Draginda snapped, “or you’ll be doing
them out in the hallway—without an audience.” The giggles died away.
Look Closely
81
Eliza was thinking about Mrs. Draginda’s limp. At first she’d felt
sorry for the teacher, but she didn’t now.
No one would make fun of her—they wouldn’t dare, Eliza
thought. She remembered the icy blue eyes, how they could freeze
you where you stood. It’d be a good thing to have eyes like that.
“All right, everyone back in a circle,” Mrs. Draginda said, limping
into the middle of the room. “We’re going to scream.”
The class fell silent. Eliza wondered if she’d heard right. What
were they going to do?
Mrs. Draginda was in the centre of the circle, her arms folded
over her chest. She didn’t look pleased.
“I told you grade sevens were inhibited,” she sighed. “Everyone
face inwards. When I point at you, I want you to scream, as loud and
hard as you can. No waiting, no pauses, just give me a good primal
scream.”
She pointed at Todd Zudder. For a moment he was silent, startled,
then he broke into a Tarzan yell.
“Out!” Mrs. Draginda jerked her thumb towards the door. “I’ll see
you after class.”
“Hey, wait. I was just …”
“Out!” the teacher demanded again, turning her back to him.
She pointed at another girl. Todd stomped out and the girl screamed.
It was a high, breathy wail, like a starlet in a science fiction movie.
“Next!” Mrs. Draginda cried, cutting her off. One after another
the students screamed, each sound flowing into the next as the teacher
pointed around the circle.
Eliza was panicking. She had never screamed, not out loud. She
couldn’t even remember shouting. She had yelled inside her own
head a hundred times, but that was different. Now everybody would
be watching her, hearing her. The pounding in her ears was so loud it
hurt.
“You,” Mrs. Draginda said. Eliza closed her eyes. The sound came
from the pit of her stomach and tore up through her throat, vibrating
in her chest. She could feel something ripping inside her, like a piece
82
Look Closely
of paper being torn in half. It felt good. She pushed in her stomach
muscles and the sound went on and on and on until …
Silence. Eliza opened her eyes, gasping. Oh no! Everyone was
staring at her. Even Mrs. Draginda seemed frozen to the spot, a statue
with parted lips. Then she came to life.
“Now that was a scream!” the teacher said. “That’s what I want
the rest of you to work towards. When I ask you for more, think of
that scream.”
The teacher stopped talking, but her eyes held Eliza’s for a long
moment. For the first time, they didn’t look cold. The girl felt a warm
glow in her stomach, the same place the scream had started.
The class was over too soon. As Eliza pulled on her shoes and
picked up her books, she could feel the others watching her. They
were whispering; Eliza caught fragments like, “Did you ever?” and
“Who would’ve thought…” She knew they weren’t talking about her
skin or her bony elbows. Eliza stepped out into the hallway, brushing
lightly past the surprised face of Todd Zudder.
Activities
1.
What is it about Mrs. Draginda and her class that allows Eliza to
scream as she does? Work with a partner to list as many clues as
you can find in the text.
2. Create a personal monologue in which Eliza describes her
experience in the class. Be sure to explain how she feels after the
scream. Try to make the monologue as dramatic as possible. Be
prepared to present it to some of your classmates or tape it for
others to hear.
3. Use a thesaurus or other source to collect as many adjectives as
possible to describe the atmosphere in the classroom both before
and after Eliza screams. Then write at least two paragraphs
comparing the atmosphere at the start and end of the class.
Look Closely
83
To Prince Edward Island
National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa, purchased 1966.
84
Look Closely
Alex Colville
Focus Your Learning
Examining this painting will help you:
n identify with a character in a painting
n examine images and techniques used by the artist
Activities
1.
Put yourself in this woman’s position.
Describe what you see.
2. Think of a range of activities for which
you might use binoculars. What
difference do binoculars make to your
perspective on life? How do the
binoculars make you, as viewer of this
painting, feel? How does the
composition of this painting contribute
to the way you respond?
Look Closely
85
Tradition
CIVIANE CHUNG
She reads her book in silence as her mother
shrills at her in Chinese. At first, she tries to
Focus Your Learning
n interpret a character’s point
of view
n seek and respond to diverse
opinions and ideas
n experiment with dialogue
and role play
86
Look Closely
listen, but her mother’s harangue goes on far too long.
The girl gradually loses interest. She has perfected a
technique of looking utterly disdainful, in hopes that the
annoying buzz that is her mother will give up and go
away. Or shut up.
“You never pick up after yourself. When are you going
to put away that cookbook and the pot you used? And the
phone book. It’s still lying on the table.”
Frustrated, the daughter takes her textbooks and leaves the room,
the faint sound of her mother’s voice trailing after her as she climbs
heavily up the stairs.
“Take out the garbage, it’s—”
She shuts the door to her room.
The school newspaper has been published and delivered, by hand.
The praise that leaves its glow on her still remains when she enters
the house. Happily she searches out her mother. She needs to brag.
Shamelessly, she is fishing for compliments. She hasn’t had enough
flattery.
Mother is in her room reading a novel. Daughter shows her the
inked newsprint, an offering.
“Na, ma, nay tai.”
Mother, look.
There is only a slight, distracted reaction. The girl persists, she
turns the paper to the back and shows her mother the comic strip her
brother, her mother’s son, has drawn.
“Brian did it.”
And to everyone, her mother tells this. Proudly. Showing off. It
doesn’t matter that her daughter is the editor. In chief. She has
forgotten. Or maybe it never mattered.
Beaming with undisguised pride, she hands her mother her report
card. Her mother doesn’t understand the strange form but refuses
to admit it. She gives the sheet of paper a cursory glance before
returning it.
“Show it to your father.” Insistently, the daughter tries again.
“Look mom, the mark I got in politics,” pointing to the highest
mark on the page.
Sharply. “What subject is that?”
Gesturing aimlessly in confusion, she racks her mind, leafing
with shaking hands through her cultural dictionary, looking for the
word. Politics, politics…
Look Closely
87
“Governments. It’s like studying governments,” she replies in
broken Chinese.
“What is it good for?”
“Good for?” Lost, she can’t answer. “I don’t know.” Stuffing the
sheet back into its crisp envelope she wanders vaguely out of the room.
Defeat.
She likes her room. The welcome stillness calms her raging
nerves. She is trying not to think, but her mind goes over the words
again. And again. Insistent. Unrelenting. She is contemplating what it
is that she has done wrong to merit unending criticism. Why does her
mother hold such spite towards her achievements, towards her? She
cannot understand. Nor can she remember when there was any sort
of encouragement. She berates herself savagely for not speaking her
mind. But the self-chastising has been done before and nothing has
come of it. The elusive maternal acceptance continues to shun her.
She is lying on her bed, head nestled in her arms, her nose
tucked snugly in her elbow. She inhales deeply. And releases her
breath in a drawn-out sigh. She remembers asking her mother what
she wished for her to do with her life.
“Whatever you want.” Which was no help. And wasn’t true. She
joked once that maybe she would become a lawyer. Ever after, her
mother dropped hints and made comments.
She had never been impressed by her daughter’s interest in
writing. Somehow that hadn’t been a surprise.
All her accomplishments crumbled and grayed and were
revealed for what they really were under her mother’s disinterested
gaze: a certificate was nothing but a colourful piece of paper, a
well-written essay nothing but ink on paper. Broken Chinese
versus broken English, with neither able to quite master the other.
It had never been easy to talk to her mother. The stumbling stilted
conversations limited to abrupt sentences. Those simple, inadequate
words that failed to express all the emotions and thoughts meant to
pass between a mother and daughter. They were as two separate
88
Look Closely
planets of the same material, circling warily around each other.
Years, decades, millennia pass without contact.
At an aunt’s house, the adults are clustered in the dining room. They are
talking about shopping; about where to get the best prices for groceries.
And they are talking about their children. As the daughter walks by on
her way to the bathroom she catches the wafting words.
“My daughter,” complains her mother. “She always so busy, I
barely see her. Always working or at school doing the newspaper and
things like that.” In surprise, the daughter hears the unmistakable pride.
In front of others, her mother boasts in the traditional Chinese way,
never seeming to approve, but the complaints are two-sided. Although
they are said in an exasperated manner, they are nonetheless a sort
of ...praise.
The girl pauses, the reason for her present journey forgotten. She
returns to the living room where the younger generation amuses itself.
A cousin asks in puzzlement, “Why the smile?”
She settles comfortably into a chair, making herself at home.
“Oh ... nothing.”
Activities
1.
Write two diary entries from the perspective of the daughter. The
first entry should be made at a time when the girl is angry with her
mother over one of the events mentioned in the story. The second
entry should come at the end of the day, after the girl has overheard
her mother’s comments. In your second entry, use some of the
language included in the last few paragraphs of the story.
2. In pairs, write a role play depicting the interaction between mother
and daughter. Your role play must be true to the characters as they
are presented in the story. Then write a role play as if there were no
communication barrier between the two, in which both “speak their
minds.”
Look Closely
89
from
“Gwen”
From the novel
Annie John
JAMAICA KINCAID
It was a while before I realized that Miss Nelson
Focus Your Learning
Reading this novel excerpt
will help you:
n interpret the text in
light of your own
experience
n discuss your
interpretation with
a group
n prepare a choral
reading
90
Look Closely
was calling on me. My turn at last to read what I
had written. I got up and started to read, my voice shaky at
first, but since the sound of my own voice had always been a
calming potion to me, it wasn’t long before I was reading in
such a way that, except for the chirp of some birds, the hum
of bees looking for flowers, the silvery rush-rush of the wind
in the trees, the only sound to be heard was my voice as it
rose and fell in sentence after sentence. At the end of my
reading, I thought I was imagining the upturned faces on which were
looks of adoration, but I was not; I thought I was imagining, too,
some eyes brimming over with tears, but again I was not. Miss Nelson
said that she would like to borrow what I had written to read for
herself, and that it would be placed on the shelf with the books that
made up our own class library, so that it would be available to any
girl who wanted to read it. This is what I had written:
“When I was a small child, my mother and I used to go down to
Rat Island on Sundays right after church, so that I could bathe in the
sea. It was at a time when I was thought to have weak kidneys and a
bath in the sea had been recommended as a strengthening remedy. Rat
Island wasn’t a place many people went to anyway, but by climbing
down some rocks my mother had found a place that nobody seemed
to have ever been. Since this bathing in the sea was a medicine and
not a picnic, we had to bathe without wearing swimming costumes.
My mother was a superior swimmer. When she plunged into the
seawater, it was as if she had always lived there. She would go far out
if it was safe to do so, and she could tell just by looking at the way the
waves beat if it was safe to do so. She could tell if a shark was nearby,
and she had never been stung by a jellyfish. I, on the other hand,
could not swim at all. In fact, if I was in water up to my knees I was
sure that I was drowning. My mother had tried everything to get me
swimming, from using a coaxing method to just throwing me without
a word into the water. Nothing worked. The only way I could go into
the water was if I was on my mother’s back, my arms clasped tightly
around her neck, and she would then swim around not too far from
the shore. It was only then that I could forget how big the sea was,
how far down the bottom could be, and how filled up it was with
things that couldn’t understand a nice hallo. When we swam around
in this way, I would think how much we were like the pictures of sea
mammals I had seen, my mother and I, naked in the seawater, my
mother sometimes singing to me a song in a French patois I did not
yet understand, or sometimes not saying anything at all. I would place
my ear against her neck, and it was as if I were listening to a giant
Look Closely
91
shell, for all the sounds around me—the sea, the wind, the birds
screeching—would seem as if they came from inside her, the way the
sounds of the sea are in a seashell. Afterward, my mother would take
me back to the shore, and I would lie there just beyond the farthest
reach of a big wave and watch my mother as she swam and dove.
“One day, in the midst of watching my mother swim and dive, I
heard a commotion far out at sea. It was three ships going by, and they
were filled with people. They must have been celebrating something,
for the ships would blow their horns and the people would cheer in
response. After they passed out of view, I turned back to look at my
mother, but I could not see her. My eyes searched the small area of
water where she should have been, but I couldn’t find her. I stood up
and started to call out her name, but no sound would come out of my
throat. A huge black space then opened up in front of me and I fell
inside it. I couldn’t see what was in front of me and I couldn’t hear
anything around me. I couldn’t think of anything except that my
mother was no longer near me. Things went on in this way for I don’t
know how long. I don’t know what, but something drew my eye in one
direction. A little bit out of the area in which she usually swam was my
mother, just sitting and tracing patterns on a large rock. She wasn’t
paying any attention to me, for she didn’t know that I had missed her.
I was glad to see her and started jumping up and down and waving to
her. Still she didn’t see me, and then I started to cry, for it dawned on
me that, with all that water between us and I being unable to swim, my
mother could stay there forever and the only way I would be able to
wrap my arms around her again was if it pleased her or if I took a boat.
I cried until I wore myself out. My tears ran down into my mouth, and
it was the first time that I realized tears had a bitter and salty taste.
Finally, my mother came ashore. She was, of course, alarmed when she
saw my face, for I had let the tears just dry there and they left a stain.
When l told her what had happened, she hugged me so close that it
was hard to breathe, and she told me that nothing could be farther
from the truth—that she would never ever leave me. And though she
92
Look Closely
said it over and over again, and though I felt better, I could not wipe
out of my mind the feeling I had had when I couldn’t find her.
“The summer just past, I kept having a dream about my mother
sitting on the rock. Over and over I would have the dream—only in it
my mother never came back, and sometimes my father would join her.
When he joined her, they would both sit tracing patterns on the rock,
and it must have been amusing, for they would always make each
other laugh. At first, I didn’t say anything, but when l began to have
the dream again and again, I finally told my mother. My mother
became instantly distressed; tears came to her eyes, and, taking me in
her arms, she told me all the same things she had told me on the day
at the sea, and this time the memory of the dark time when I felt I
would never see her again did not come back to haunt me.”
I didn’t exactly tell a lie about the last part. That is just what
would have happened in the old days. But actually, the past year saw
me launched into young-ladyness, and when I told my mother of my
dream—my nightmare, really—I was greeted with a turned back and
a warning against eating certain kinds of fruit in an unripe state just
before going to bed. I placed the old days’ version before my
classmates because, I thought, I couldn’t bear to show my mother in
a bad light before people who hardly knew her. But the real truth was
that I couldn’t bear to have anyone see how deep in disfavour I was
with my mother.
Activities
1.
What does the narrator mean when she says she has been “launched
into young-ladyness”? How are the conflicting emotions of her age
captured in this story? Discuss these questions in a small group, and
then write a short-answer response giving your views.
2. In a group, prepare a choral reading of this story. Try to capture the
narrator’s emotions and her changing attitudes as she begins to
grow up.
Look Closely
93
How to Make Your Own
Web Site!
GISE LLE DEGRAN DIS
Some like to paint,
some like to write,
and others, well ...
they like to build.
The Internet is my
preferred medium,
and building web
sites—my creative
outlet.
have built a place where I can say whatever I
want; where everything reflects my interests,
my likes, my dislikes, and my hopes and dreams.
(Parents: this is why I’m online every waking
moment!) And the best part is that no one can
see me, and I can’t see them! Wanna build your
own mental sanctuary? Here’s how:
I
Focus Your Learning
Reading this magazine article will help you:
n identify jargon and colloquial language
n compare web sites, considering the main
elements
n create a checklist for assessing web sites
94
Look Closely
1) Choose a topic that interests YOU (that’s
who this place is for, right?) and collect
some info on it.
2) Get hooked up to the net! Sign up with
an ISP (Internet Service Provider) that
serves your area. If you are planning to
spend lots of time online (like me!) opt
for an “unlimited access” plan because
it won’t charge you by the hour.
3) Borrow a book from the library on
HTML (Hypertext Markup Language;
you’ll figure out what it is soon enough).
I recommend The Project Cool Guide to
HTML by Teresa Martin and Glenn
Davis. If you don’t even know basic
HTML you can’t do anything. Seriously.
4) Register to get a free web site space
at a place like Geocities (http://
www.geocities.com) or Angelfire
(http://www.angelfire.com) which
conveniently each have their own
editor and file manager. If you find
that you need more room for your
site you can always purchase a web
space from a number of online
companies, or through your ISP.
5) Do lots of browsing to get ideas. If you
find a really nifty trick on someone’s
page that you want to simulate (don’t
copy stuff; people get mad) on your
own, then click “View” on your
browser’s toolbar and scroll down to
“Page Source.” This will show you the
page’s HTML in full, and you can then
find the code you need within it (if you
look for a while).
6) If you still need some help with your
site, visit an online HTML guide or ask
the web-mistress of your favourite site
for some pointers. There are lots of
friendly people on the net.
7) Finally, work on your web site day and
night until it’s absolutely splendid! Add
a nice background, some attractive
graphics, meaningful links, and lots of
good reading content. Next, give your
site a catchy title, and then register to
have it listed in a big directory like
Yahoo! so you will get lots of visitors.
8) Now the best part. Gloat to all of your
friends about your web site, and allow
them to behold the fruit of your labour.
Make them jealous that they don’t have
a site too. And this is really annoying:
Look Closely
95
update your friends on a daily basis
about how many visitors your site has
had (the larger the number, the more
impressive!).
I think this quote (from Project Cool) nicely
sums up the web site experience: “What
you do with your Web space is limited
mostly by your imagination and the time
and effort you put into building it.”
So what are you waiting for? Get building!
•
•
•
Construction Tips:
• Redecorate your site whenever you feel
like it; there is zero mess and zero cost.
• Make sure that you aren’t taking
copyrighted images and text from other
people’s sites. I know this may shock
•
•
some of you, but there are (some) rules
online!
Choose tasteful backgrounds for your
pages. Don’t make your visitors blind
(unintentionally). And make sure your
text shows up on top of it.
Don’t go overboard on Javascripts (they
make pop-up text, blinking colours and
other fun stuff) because it’s just plain
tacky, and it takes hours for the screen
to load.
Check your spelling! It’s disappointing to
find errors on really well-designed pages!
Don’t reveal your name, address, or
phone number on your web site because
you never know who’s going to be
looking at it.
Update it often to keep your site
interesting (and visitors returning).
Activities
1.
96
“Jargon” refers to the vocabulary used by
a particular group or profession. Identify
three examples of jargon in this article.
Rewrite these examples in more
conventional language. Then find three
examples of colloquial, or very informal,
language. As a class, discuss why jargon
and colloquial language are used in this
article and what effect they have on the
tone.
Look Closely
2. Visit at least three web sites bookmarked
by your teacher. Create an organizational
structure to record features of the web
sites. On the form you have created, note
those features you particularly liked and
those you disliked.
3. In groups, design an assessment checklist
that can be used to assess web sites. Use
the indicators you have decided are
important.
Learning a
New Voice
Focus Your Learning
Reading these short pieces will help you:
n explain connections between your own
experience and those in the text
n work cooperatively in small groups
n create a brochure
These three pieces were
written by students new to
Canada. They were first
published in a book called
New Canadian Voices.
Pronunciation Problem
Whenever I make a mistake in English, I
am anxious that my English will improve
quickly. A couple of months ago, maybe
my second day in Canada, I went to
Niagara Falls with my family.
After we had finished our sightseeing,
we were waiting for my father to open the
door of our car. When I stood beside the
car, someone in a car approached me and
asked, “Are you leaving?”
I was confused. I thought he said, “Are
you living here?” So I confidently said,
“No!”
But once we left there, the stranger
looked at me strangely. I didn’t know why
he did, but my sister explained the reasons
to me. I didn’t know the man wanted to
park in our spot. I was very embarrassed.
It was the first time that I had tried to
speak English with a Canadian.
Sung Ja Hong
Korea
Look Closely
97
Finding Myself
A lot of changes in myself began to occur
after I had been in Canada a few months.
My elder brother bought a phonograph and
we spent time listening to rock music every
day until late. My sister got to know some
foreign friends who had a car and my sister
and I would go out more often, neglecting
working in the store. I looked for a job, as
others did. I was busy involving myself in
a lot of new things and new ways of living.
Therefore, my parents started to restrict my
unlimited behaviour, such as going outside
often and coming in late and listening to
music all day, but I ignored them, and
attributed their actions to the fact that
they could not understand my new
circumstances and young people’s minds.
Our conversations became fewer and fewer.
As time went on, I slowly realized that
I had a language problem. At first it did
not seem serious because I thought it
would solve itself as time passed, but it
became more serious. I became afraid of
communicating with other people, and at
home there was a cold atmosphere.
98
Look Closely
Conversations had dried up because my
parents did not like the way we had acted.
Once I looked at some Korean magazines
and I felt it had been a long time since I left
and that I had changed a lot. I felt helpless
and started asking myself who I was. I
seemed to have lost my identity and I felt
that I did not belong to any country. I had
tried to accept every new thing and discard
all the things I had learned in Korea. I
decided to try to be myself.
I found that I could adapt to the new
circumstances and could change my way
of living, but that I could not change my
ideas that I had brought from my country.
It reminded me of an old Korean saying
telling us that a fish always lives in the
water he was brought up in, no matter
how his life may have changed.
Joseph Park
Korea
Language and Culture
As I went out the classroom door, I called
to my first English teacher, “Have a good
weekend.”
“I sure will!” said Mrs. McIntyre.
“I sure will” kept echoing in my mind
all weekend long. In fact it bothered me.
I could not understand at the time how
anyone could be so sure that they would
have a “good” minute or even a “good”
second, let alone a whole weekend. But
then again I had only been in Canada for
four months and indeed had only spoken
English for four months.
I do not intend to comment on the
language here. Language was not the issue.
Culture was.
In Lebanon, where I was born and raised,
if you wished someone a good weekend or a
good anything for that matter, the common
answer was, “I hope so.”
This is indeed a doubtful statement
suggesting a passivity, an inability to shape
the future. One may wonder why a
Lebanese would not say, “I certainly will,”
when being bid a good weekend. After all,
surely it must lie within the individual’s
power to determine the future. The
Lebanese do not lack a strong will—indeed
far from it. The fact is that for a Lebanese,
subconsciously perhaps, fate seems to be
an essential element in any plans for the
future and arrogant is the person whose
certitude allows him or her to actually be
“sure” about any moment of the future.
At the time I did indeed feel that Mrs.
McIntyre was being arrogant when she said
that she would have a good weekend. But
now, about one hundred moons later, I have
grown to perceive the expression of “will”
differently. In fact, I actually say, “I sure
will” whenever I am wished a “good time.” I
now feel that it is fine to “will” and not just
to “hope” although I know that the outcome
in either case is bound to be the same!
Michael Morad
Lebanon
Activities
1.
Think about a time when you had to learn
something you found difficult. It might
have been the multiplication tables,
learning to play an instrument, or
learning a new language. Recall the
process you had to go through to learn
this new skill. Pay particular attention to
the difficulties you faced, the way you
felt, and the way in which you overcame
the difficulties. Record your experience in
a personal journal entry.
2. Working in small groups, brainstorm a list
of difficulties new immigrants face. Use
these short pieces as a source of some
ideas. Then create a six-panel brochure
showing ways in which people can be
helpful to new immigrants. Your brochure
should have an opening panel with a
catchy title and one helpful suggestion
on each of the remaining panels. You will
probably want to use an illustration and
simple text for each idea. If possible, use
a page-layout program to make your
brochure.
Look Closely
99
If you were a Canadian
native in 1880 or at
another time in the
past, what would your
magazine cover look like?
What issues would be
featured on the cover?
What would your
magazine advocate?
Do research to develop
your ideas and make
them historically
accurate, and then
create the cover.
Relationship with Parents (% of teens agreeing)
East
Latin
South
Caribbean Chinese European American Asian Canadian All
I often do things with my family (e.g. go on
outings, work together)
55%
58%
55%
58%
63%
51%
56%
What my parent(s) think of me is important
76
76
81
86
86
76
78
My parent(s) expect too much of me
28
38
31
36
42
26
33
My parent(s) understand me
47
43
53
58
50
49
48
Even when my parent(s) are strict, I feel
they are being so for my own good
63
67
67
74
67
53
62
I always consider how my actions will
reflect on my family
52
49
47
63
61
37
48
There are times when I would like to leave
home
53
45
47
40
37
46
44
100
Look Closely
For the chart “Relationship with Parents,”
conduct your own school-based survey using
the same seven statements. Draw a bar
graph comparing the school responses with
the responses from each room. In three
sentences or less, give a brief synopsis of
what your chart means.
Write a third
line for the
button. Start
with “We.”
Share with a partner an
instance in your life where
this saying was true.
Create a t-shirt
design that communicates
something about your interests or
your personality. The caption for
your design must be alliterative.
Pressure is usually exhibited by your
peers. What is this illustration prophesizing
the new form of peer pressure to be?
Look Closely
101
Ride the Dark Horse
MARGARET BU NEL EDWARDS
Focus Your Learning
Reading the story will help you:
n consider different meanings
of the title
n create an illustration
n express your personal
understanding
n write a poem
102
Look Closely
Sometimes I wonder what I’m really like, inside.
I feel as if I’m a mystery story, slowly revealing
a plot to myself, but always in doubt as to what the outcome
will be. I’d even reached a point where I figured it wasn’t a
bad idea to turn off. That way, I wouldn’t have to face facts,
wouldn’t have to accept the consequences of what to do.
After all, if I didn’t do anything, who would know whether
I was broad-minded or prejudiced; a hero or a coward; capable or
disorganized. Well, that’s the way I used to think, until last summer.
Then I found myself riding a dark horse and listening to a message,
loud and clear, in that thundering water. Suddenly, I wanted to accept
the challenge. Here’s how it happened.
Right after breakfast, I left the Levesque Fishing Camp and
headed along the narrow shoreline of the St. Maurice River toward
Grandvue Rock. There I stood, my hands clenched deep in the pockets
of my green nylon jacket, staring at the rapids, which only yesterday
had dashed my hopes for a great holiday onto the rocks of my own
carelessness.
I’d been coming to this camp with my dad for three years now,
ever since I was thirteen. It’s no secret that the river takes a mean
turn at this bend, that the water plunges and rears over the shallows
until a deeper channel gentles it down again and it flows on swiftly to
Loretteville. I knew the danger, yet I drifted too close to the flecks of
foam where an undercurrent swung the bow of my canoe against a
jutting rock. The force tossed me, and some of the best fishing gear
I’d ever worked for, into the water. Luckily, it’s shallow there, but the
pressure of the rushing water had my legs trembling and me gasping
like a freshly hooked fish by the time I threw myself down onto the
nice solid shore.
Disgusted, I glared at the channel ahead. To one side, an artificial
sluiceway carried logs. To the other, the dark, racing water with its
curling, swirling manes of white froth made me think of a herd of
hard-sinewed horses. Well, when Dad got back from surveying timber
farther upriver, he’d give me the horse laugh, all right. I must be the
only dope around who’d forgotten that the dark water, even though it
looks wilder, is a better bet than the shallow, bubbling stretches that
mask a treacherous riverbed.
When I heard footsteps sliding on the rocky path behind me, I
straightened quickly, hoping that I looked merely nonchalant, instead
of discouraged.
Look Closely
103
Jean Paul Levesque scrambled up beside me. He’s big Joe’s son and
he’s been my friend for the past three years. “Bonjour, mon ami,” he
hailed me, his dark brown eyes sparkling. He was dressed as I was in
blue jeans, but his shirt was a bright red plaid. “I have good news for
you.”
“Oh, sure, my fairy godmother waved her wand and fixed my
staved canoe,” I commented sourly. “Then, using her magnetic
personality, she dragged the rapids for my fishing gear.”
“You Anglais,” Jean Paul shrugged. “Why do you talk so fast
that no one can understand, I do not make sense from your words.
But mon pere say, if you like, you can have small job helping me to
clear logs from the river. Soon you will earn enough to buy a new
canoe, n’est ce pas?”
For the first time since my accident, I began to feel good. I turned
away from the hypnotic, tumbling water and we started back to camp.
The St. Maurice is used as a workhorse, when it comes to getting logs
to the pulp mill at Loretteville. Though swift-flowing by nature, the left
side is even faster because extra water is released into it from a dam.
The logs literally race one another until they arrive, sleek and
glistening, at the mill.
Sometimes the big tree trunks flip out of the sluiceway and then
they float, half-submerged, a definite hazard to boats and canoes.
These are the strays that a good worker, with a strong arm and a pike
pole, can drag to the shore and reap a bounty from the mill owners.
The pay’s generous, so I figured it wouldn’t take too long to make
up my loss.
“Thanks, Jean Paul,” I grinned. “Your dad’s a great guy to offer
me a job.”
“The others around are all busy guiding the tourists,” he
explained. “So you and I have the river to ourselves.”
We explored for a while tracking back and forth, but never too far
from the shoreline. The bush is dense and the going heavy, unless you
can get into the open. Then we figured it might just be time for one of
104
Look Closely
Madame Levesque’s pancake lunches, complete with homemade
maple syrup.
She is a plump, good-natured woman with big expressive eyes,
which she uses to help her meagre knowledge of English. She rolled
them in concern when Jean Paul told her we were taking on the job of
timber salvage. A regular barrage of French pinned him into his chair
at the big kitchen table, where we were eating, but he just grinned and
shrugged. “Mama sees a bear behind every tree,” he explained, as we
waved goodbye and headed for the wharf. “Between the bears and the
river, we don’t stand a chance.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the black flies,” I asked, taking a swipe at a
cloud of the pests, while we pushed off. “I guess that’s what’s meant
when they say it’s the little things in life that get to you.”
By now, we were well into the current. My job was to sit in
the bow, pike pole at the ready, and keep an eye on the swift sundappled water. The first log, although clearly visible, came at me so
fast the canoe lifted dangerously. We rode up on the tree trunk but I
managed to flail out, hook the bark and push with every ounce of
my strength. My arms were aching by the time I’d brought our
captive alongside. Jean Paul paddled expertly as we angled toward
shore with the log in tow.
“Bon,” he shouted encouragingly. “By the end of the week, you’ll
be strong enough to crack a bear’s ribs.”
“If I’m able to stand up, you mean,” I gasped, as we dragged the
log clear of the water.
One hour and ten logs later, we were both ready for a short rest. I
threw myself down on the narrow beach, thankful for the shade of the
maples crowding the shoreline. Jean Paul reached into the canoe and
took out his gear. I tried not to be envious at the sight of his fibreglass
fishing pole, with its smooth-running reel. “There’s a deeper spot back
a little,” he commented. “Think I’ll do some casting.”
I settled my head on my life jacket and closed my eyes. If those
blasted flies would leave me in peace, I intended to rest up for the next
bout with the river.
Look Closely
105
I must have dozed off because when my eyes snapped open, I
was aware that the shadows had lengthened and that something had
disturbed me. But what? Not one of Madame Levesque’s bears, surely!
Then the crashing, stumbling sound became clearer and I was on my
feet instantly. “Jean Paul,” I shouted and almost reeled back into the
river as he came blundering into sight. He was falling, even as I
reached him, and I could only help lower him to the ground.
My voice wouldn’t work as I stared at him. His face, covered
with blood, was pulled sideways and distended by a long, vicious
sliver of glistening metal. His casting lure must have snagged a low
branch and fallen back on him, I thought, feeling my stomach lurch
at the sight of him. The hooks were embedded above his eye and
through his cheek and seemed to be actually alive and evil, gleaming
there in the sunlight. He’d torn his shirt in his wild dash and long
cuts on his chest were wet and swelling. Already, a swarm of
insidious black flies hovered over the open wounds.
I heard my cracked voice whispering in disbelief. “What will I
do, what will I do,” I kept saying, over and over, as I yanked on my
life jacket and heaved at the canoe to ground it on the shore. The
canoe had to be steadied before I could get him into it. I couldn’t risk
jarring those hooks, so close to his dazed eyes. While I made him as
comfortable as possible on the bottom of the canoe, my mind was
racing like the sluiceway.
Should I try to battle the current upriver, to the camp? But the
men were in the bush and the thought of Madame’s screeching at the
sight of her son decided my course. l’d head for the doctor at
Loretteville.
The shore flashed past as I paddled at top speed, glad of some
physical action to counteract my mental turmoil. I was afraid of the
rapids and there would not be any second chances today. I had to be
ready to hit deep water as soon as we rounded the bend.
While I was still trying to get a grip on myself, I heard it. More
than ever, the water’s roar made me think of galloping horses and as
the noise thudded against my eardrums and paced the straining tempo
106
Look Closely
of my heartbeat, the two sounds seemed to merge into an inner
rhythm that exhilarated, even as it terrified me.
Jean Paul half struggled to sit up, then collapsed back again. “You will
nevair be able to make the portage with me,” he whispered in despair.
“Portage?” I made it sound like a word they used on Mars—a
word I’d never heard. “Keep low, mon ami, we’re going to ride a dark
horse.”
And then I was breathing deeply in the spray-filled air, my paddle
pressed hard back against the canoe to act as a rudder. Sweat oozed
from my clenched hands as we darted between the rock walls, the
water exploding over the shallow bed. The canoe trembled as she took
the first shock of rushing water but I knew what I was looking for. We
settled onto the nearest body, riding high beside the white foam mane.
Once there, away from the pale slate water bubbling above the sharp
stones, I held the paddle firm and guided the craft.
I suppose I breathed at least once before the bucking, straining
horse finally slowed from his gallop to a canter and then, effortlessly
slid us from his back. Personally, I was not conscious of using any
part of me except my eyes. My hair hung down, soaked by the tossing
spray, and I pushed it back as I swiped at my eyes with the back of
my hand.
By now, although the going was easy, I felt exhausted; and when
we finally glided to a smooth stop at the dock at Loretteville, I didn’t
have another ten metres left in me.
Work-roughened hands seemed to reach out from every direction
to help me to my feet, to ease Jean Paul from the canoe. The air was
thick with muttered curses as big, tough men tried to express their
sympathy for Jean Paul. More than one huge arm flailed my back in a
gesture of friendship and approval, and I wondered if I had escaped
the rapids only to be pounded to pieces by my new friends.
A taxi was called to take us to the hospital and I was trying to
think of enough French words to tell Madame Levesque on the
telephone that there had been an accident, but everything was okay.
Look Closely
107
I stared up the river for a long moment, warmed by the good feeling of
having come through in the clutch.
Then it struck me. What if I hadn’t given it a try? I’d never have
known what I could do for a pal, when he so desperately needed my
help.
l still feel like a mystery story inside. But now I’m not afraid to
look over the clues to my personality; I’m not fearful of taking the
action that will move the plot along. I know I’ll find out that there will
be times when I’m not a great guy; as well as times when I have what
it takes.
At least I’ll be doing, and living; and eventually, I may even
understand myself.
Activities
1.
What does it mean when you call someone a “dark horse”? List at
least three different meanings of the title, and explain how each one
applies to the story.
2. Create a two-panel illustration. In one panel, illustrate the “dark
horse” in the river. In the second panel, represent the metaphorical
meaning of the dark horse. Then present your illustration to the
class. In addition to telling about your illustration, be prepared to
speak for 30 seconds about what a dark horse might represent for
you or your peers in real life.
3. Find two quotes, one from the beginning and one from the end of
the story, that show how the main character is transformed. Write a
poem that incorporates the meaning of the two quotations you have
chosen. You might wish to follow the structure of the poem “I Am.”
108
Look Closely
My Name Is Angie
BEVE RLEY TE RR E LL-DE UTSCH
Focus Your Learning
Reading this story will help
you:
n analyse character
development
n support your viewpoint
with evidence
n create a tableau
n summarize the
message of the story
n write a continuation of
the story
It would happen without warning, but Angie did
not know that. Unaware, she carefully put the
finishing touches on her pale pink nails and checked her hair
once more—ready for another day. Her black stirrup pants and
her bright oversized hot pink sweater were the result of hours of
shopping with her mother. Planning and choosing her wardrobe
were serious issues for Angie. How she looked really mattered a
lot; it was something she could be good at if she tried.
Look Closely
109
Her grades were a different matter, really a worry—four failures
on her last report card. Her parents were understanding and didn’t
push her; they knew she was struggling and doing as well as she
could.
School had never come easy for Angie. Many times she had
endured humiliation at the mercy of her classmates. She still cringed
when she recalled the terrible year she had spent in Grade Four with
Richard and Ian Carson, the twins. They had chanted, “Angie, Angie,
can’t pass can she!” over and over, dancing and hooting around her
with the wicked cruelty of young children. If she thought about it too
much even now, more than five years later, Angie could still feel the
sting of impending tears.
She had spent a second year in that grade, a second year with
the same impatient, frightening teacher who really didn’t seem to
have much time for her. She had hated and dreaded the Times Tables
Drills the most. She could never keep them all straight. Every
Thursday night she had practised for hours with her mother; Drill
Day was always Friday. The teacher made each child take a turn
standing at the front of the class. The children in their seats would,
one by one, up and down the rows, hurl a times table at the one up
front. Anyone making a mistake had to recite, out loud, the corrected
version a hundred times and then write it out another hundred times
for homework.
Angie always asked an easy one, like “two times three,” in hopes
that maybe the others would ask her easy ones too. Some did, but lots
of them showed off, asking really hard ones from the eight or nine
times table. Often, Angie had spent most of the weekend with one or
other of her parents sitting encouragingly next to her as she laboured,
hour after hour, writing out times tables at the dining-room table.
At last, the year and the Times Tables Drills were over and Angie
found, with something like surprise, that she had ultimately profited
from the misery. She had memorized all of the times tables, every
single one. Well, she still was a little shaky about “eight times nine”
unless she first recited in her head, “eight times eight is sixty-four,”
110
Look Closely
but then “eight times nine is seventy-two” usually came. If it didn’t,
she could always count on her fingers eight more than sixty-four,
but she had to be sure to keep her fingers still as she counted, just
pressing them gently against the desk top or her thigh. She didn’t
want anyone to see her fingers moving and guess what she was doing.
She didn’t want to be laughed at.
Angie had learned long ago to cover up a lot; by pretending she
was sure of herself, by not letting others know how she really felt or
what she didn’t know, she attempted to avoid censure and ridicule.
What she did most of the time was to sit in class very quiet and very
still and never, absolutely never, catch the teacher’s eye. In this way,
she tried to quietly disappear. Since starting high school, things were
a little better because she was called on in class only occasionally and
even then, the teacher didn’t know her name. They usually singled
her out by referring to “the blonde girl with the blue jacket on,” or
whatever.
Angie almost always knew when she was about to be called
upon. She could tell, even without glancing up, if the teacher was
looking her way by the directness of the sound of the voice. Then
there would be a long pause as they tried to think of her name and
couldn’t. Angie’s heart always started pounding during this silent
pause.
Once, while waiting for the fatal words, with eyes down, staring
at sweaty hands, she was surprised to find that one part of her panicfrozen brain was busy reciting the times tables in an objective,
disconnected sort of way. That day she had discovered a trick, a lifesaving mind game. If she just made herself think about something
other than how afraid she was, she found she could sort of sidestep
the panic. It was still there, but just because it was there didn’t mean
she had to look it full in the face—she could look in another direction.
She learned to turn to the unchanging pattern of the times tables.
Strange how an old enemy had become one of her best friends.
The multiplication tables were the perfect soother. She recited them
starting at “once times one” and worked right up to “twelve times
Look Closely
111
twelve” if she had to, each one rolling off in memory like a familiar
name, a favorite pebble turned over and over, smooth and round and
cool. Of course, if the teacher actually asked her a question, the
numbers fell away as panic flooded back again, wide-eyed and
trembling. But some comfort, even if short-lived, was better than
none.
“Angie, darling, breakfast is ready!” her mother’s voice cut across
her thoughts.
“Coming, Mom.”
Angie lived just a few miles from the farmer who drove the school
bus. He was a little late this morning; the roads were clogged with
snow and ice from last night’s storm, but finally the bus lumbered into
view and Angie climbed on. She sat alone, as usual. There weren’t
many kids on yet, but as they got closer to the school, pickup stops
became more frequent and soon the bus was almost full. Angie had
never yet had a boy sit next to her. It was something she dreaded.
Every day as the seats gradually filled up, she prayed that it would
be a girl who took the seat beside her.
“Please, God, don’t let him sit here. Oh, please don’t let him!”
She always watched what was happening in the window’s reflection
beside her.
“Please, God, make it be a girl … make it be a girl!”
So far, it had worked. It worked again this morning. Alex sat beside
her—beautiful, clever, popular Alex. Alex was vice-president of the
Student Council this year. Angie shifted a shy sideways glance to see
whether a smile would be returned. It wouldn’t; Alex was already busy,
her head bent into her French text. Angie looked back out the window
to the reflection of Alex coasting along in the air a few feet away.
“She’s so pretty and so smart … love the dangling pompom on
her toque … love how it dances when we hit a bump … heard her tell
her friends her grandma knit it for her. She’s got so many friends, girls
and boys, too … bet she even goes out with boys. She seems so brave
around them, always laughing and having fun. Maybe if Mom knit me
112
Look Closely
a toque with a dangling pompom …” Angie drifted off into her
thoughts, still looking out her window, sometimes at Alex’s composed
studious reflection, sometimes out past that to the fence posts,
pastureland and trees sliding by.
Angie knew the landscape by heart, each grove of trees, which
fields had sheep and which had cattle. She had read the same
mailboxes and gazed at the same farmhouses every day except
weekends for almost six months now. She found the familiar journey
reassuring in its sameness and predictability. It was a quiet time for
her to think her own thoughts with no outside demands—a quiet time
to build up her resources and prepare for the day ahead.
Now they were at the top of the last big hill before the road
swooped down and over the bridge on the final lap before reaching
the school. All the pickups had been made. No more stops now till
they were there.
Angie felt the bus gathering speed as it rumbled down the hill
toward the bridge. Anyone would think they’d have made the bridge a
little sturdier over such an angry and hostile-looking stretch of water. It
was always frothing and foaming, leaping up around the scarred banks
as if intent on escaping. Even now, in the dead of winter, the stretch
upriver from the bridge remained open, lashing and tugging at the
great, frozen chunks it had earlier thrown up in disgust on the banks.
Further down, below the bridge, the surface had reluctantly frozen, but
the heart of the angry blackness was alive, just inches below, ready to
snatch away anything or anyone foolish enough to come close.
Any second now, and they’d be on the bridge. Angie always
hated the hollow rumble they made as they crossed. It made the
bridge seem even less substantial somehow.
If it hadn’t been for the driver’s quick reflexes when they hit
the patch of ice on the bridge, the bus would have been right over
the side. But, he did all the right things. He steered into the skid, then
corrected; steered into the skid the other direction and corrected again,
but it wasn’t quite enough. There was a horrible, jarring crash; metal
being crushed; glass shattering. Finally, they slid to a quivering stop,
Look Closely
113
only the back wheels left on the bridge. The front third of the bus was
hanging at an angle, out over the wild water below. A sudden gust of
wind moaned through the smashed guardrails and set the bus rocking,
like a teeter-totter, softly rocking in a terrifying caricature of all the
lovely, gentle things usually associated with being rocked.
Not a sound. Complete, frozen silence.
“Don’t anybody move! Just sit real still, everybody. We’re okay as
long as we just hold tight.” It was the driver’s voice, a hoarse, trembling
voice trying not to tremble. Angie recognized the sound of fear. She had
heard it enough in her own voice many times.
“Just sit still, kids, we’ll be okay. Just don’t panic. A transport
truck has seen us; he’s stopped; he’ll radio for help. Just hang on
kids …”
Angie was pushed forward and sideways by the angle of the bus.
She could clearly see the river rushing by below, deep and dark and
waiting …
“I’ll just sit very, very still and be very quiet …” This terrified
animal posture was nothing new to Angie; she did it every day in
every class.
Awful, little, strangled, throaty noises from somewhere nearby …
“I can’t! I can’t! … let me out … I want to go, I want to get out!” The
voice rose almost to a scream. It was Alex. She started to get up; a
shudder from the sudden movement ran the whole length of the bus.
Her books slithered from her lap, hit the floor and slid several seat
lengths forward, down toward the gently dipping and swaying nose
of the bus. Finally, catching on something, they stopped.
Alex stopped too, halfway standing, frozen. Alex on the edge
of panic. Others were, too, Angie could feel it. Panic threatening—
crackling through the bus, alive and awesome. They weren’t listening
to the driver. They were too afraid. But Angie knew how to handle
fear, even this kind of fear.
She reached out and took Alex’s hand, gently pulling her back
down into the seat. Still holding her hand, in a small but distinct
voice, Angie spoke out.
114
Look Closely
“One times one is one; one times two is two; one times three is
three; one times four is four …” She spoke with the same steady
rhythm she had used to ease her own panic so many times before.
Were they listening?
“… One times eleven is eleven; one times twelve is twelve; two
times one is two; two times two is four; two times three is six …” on
and on, her voice steady and strong. They listened; it was hypnotic.
“… Six times six is thirty-six; six times seven is forty-two …” Silence
except for Angie’s voice. “… Eight times eight is sixty-four; eight times
nine is seventy-two …”
Everyone listened, following the rhythmic cadences of her
voice, their minds locked into the pattern of numbers, their minds
turned away from fear. Some silently moved their lips in time with
Angie.“… Twelve times seven is eighty-four; twelve times eight is
ninety-six …” On she went, never faltering; steady, perfect rhythm,
perfect calm … “twelve times ten is 120; twelve times eleven is 132;
twelve times twelve is 144 …” then over again, “… one times one is
one; one times two is two …”
The river rushed and raged below, the bus teetered in its
delicate balance, but Angie kept on, repeating over and over again
the times tables—nothing else mattered, just the numbers … just
the numbers …
With a violent lurch, the huge transport tow truck pulled the
bus back onto the bridge. The high school principal had rushed to
the scene. He had watched, helpless, as his students hung on the
edge of death. He was there to wait in anguish for the arrival of the
tow truck. When, after an eternity, it did arrive, he had watched the
cables being attached, oh so carefully, oh so gently. He had seen the
police cars turning back traffic at each end of the bridge; had seen
the arrival of the emergency rescue team and ambulances. Scuba
divers had been sent to the river’s edge, waiting, ages ago. He had
stared at the gently swaying bus with its load of silent, motionless
young people; he had stared and wondered at their unbelievable
calm.
Look Closely
115
The jolt of the two front wheels hitting solid ground broke the
spell. A wild, chaotic cheer went up both from inside and outside the
bus. The principal was the first to board, forcing open the twisted
doors and crunching up the glass-covered steps two at a time.
“Well,” he said to the driver, clasping him round the shoulders
in a giant bear hug. “Congratulations to you, sir!” His voice choked in
relief. “You have done a wonderful thing here. But, how did you keep
it so calm? How did you do it?”
“Oh, it wasn’t me,” said the driver with a pale smile, pointing
back down the aisle with a still-shaking hand. “It wasn’t me. It was
that blonde girl there, the one with the blue jacket on.”
The principal turned and looked her way. “And what’s your
name, young lady? It seems we all owe an awful lot to you.”
When the cheering and whistling and clapping had died down,
she looked him straight in the eye; somehow she knew that things
were going to be different.
“Angie, sir,” she said. “My name is Angie.”
Activities
1.
Do you find Angie likeable? How, and at what point in the story, does
your reaction to her change? Support your answer with at least five
quotations from the text.
2. Work in a group to create a tableau that includes Angie and her
classmates before the day of the accident. Show how her school
environment affects her.
3. Write an inspirational slogan that summarizes the basic message of
this story. Choose a font and style carefully to display and
communicate your message most effectively.
4. Continue this story, showing what Angie’s life is like as a result of
the incident on the bus.
116
Look Closely
Looking for a High?
Try Adrenalin!
SIMONE
GRUENIG
y parents realized early on that I had
a lot of energy to spare. They noticed
that I was awkward at ballet, that I punched
the keys too hard when playing the piano
and that I related to only one other female
(because she was exactly like me) so that
ruled out Girl Guides. Their solution was
organized sports and swimming lessons.
That decision sparked a love for sports that
has not died—and a label of “tomboy” that
finally has.
I grew up at the local playground
playing tag and earning the title of King
of the Court for my quick moves and my
fearlessness when jumping from the tallest
pieces of equipment. After conquering the
playground, I moved on to Little League
baseball. When I first went up to bat during
practice, the T-ball stand was brought out,
because it was assumed that I would not be
able to hit a regular pitch … since I was a
girl. I surprised them. Being able to hit the
ball enabled me to be on the starting lineup. After a while, though, baseball started
to get kind of boring, so during the summer
of grade three, I started soccer. I became the
M
Focus Your Learning
Studying this personal account will
help you:
n role-play a conversation to
understand the author better
n skim for information
Look Closely
117
third-leading goal scorer out of a bunch of
boys. I loved it! I was able to have fun and
get acknowledgement.
My attitude changed, though, in grade
five. The other tomboys were becoming less
“boyish” and more “girlish”. Some of my
best recess buddies stopped playing catch
or wall ball to go talk to the girls, and I felt
left out during girl discussions at slumber
parties. All this made me quite jealous of
the girls who were getting attention from
the boys who used to fight over who was
going to have me on their team.
So I changed. I did not play during
recess anymore or wear jogging pants to
school. I had my first crush and started
to become shy around boys. I started to
become a typical girl.
But in grade seven I discovered school
sports and that changed everything. By the
end of grade eight, I was captain of most of
my school’s sports teams, and that summer
I began to swim competitively.
When I entered high school, I realized
there were many other girls like me. It was
a great relief. High school sports made me
more confident. I could appreciate my love
for physical activities and I could play all
the sports I wanted without being labeled
tomboy. Even when I cut my hair short,
the label did not return. I guess we had all
grown up by that time.
Now in my last year of high school
competition I realize I will forever need
athletics. It has become a part of me. I love
sweating my heart out, feeling my lungs
almost explode, and getting butterflies in
my stomach right before I run out on to
the court to a gym full of fans. Oh, and
I do not think I can ever do without the
feeling of victory; it is addictive.
Athletics has even taught me to eat better,
to acquire better study patterns, to work
well with others, and to be less stressed.
I don’t have to be at practice to love
exercising. I can be riding my bike, walking
to school or even just doing sit-ups in front
of the TV. They all give me the same kind
of pleasure and energy. I am very thankful
that I was brought up to be active and
athletic. I cannot imagine my life any
other way.
Activities
1.
118
Role-play a conversation between
Simone and her best friend at the stage
of her life when she is trying to be a
“typical girl.” Discuss the way she
behaves and feels about herself.
Look Closely
2. Skim the article for evidence of the
benefits that Simone has derived from
participating in sports. List the benefits
in order of importance. Discuss your
conclusions with your class.
Richard Wilbur
Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a god-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.
The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
Focus Your Learning
n make connections between your own
experiences and those described in
the poem
n skim for supporting details
n make connections between your own
interpretation and information in the text
n understand unfamiliar words
by considering context
n illustrate the poem
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love,
and so much fear.
Look Closely
119
Activities
1.
With a partner, brainstorm a list of
things that we enjoy precisely because
they do not last and we cannot have
them all the time. Discuss how you
feel about these things while they
last, and how you feel when you
see they are coming to an end.
2. Treating an inanimate object
as if it were alive is called
personification. What language
does Richard Wilbur use to make
his snowman lifelike? Skim the poem, identifying
significant words and phrases used for
personification. Then skim the poem for examples
of alliteration—repetition of sounds. How do these
sounds contribute to the mood of the poem?
3. Determine the meaning of “bitumen” from the
context of the poem. Then use a thesaurus to find
uncommon variations of six common words. Write
sentences using these variations in such a way that
the meaning can easily be determined through
context. Trade your paper with a partner and see
how many words you can understand from context
in each other’s sentences.
4. Create an artistic representation of the boy at the
window from the perspective of the snowman.
120
Look Closely
The Winner
PEG KEHRET
There was a competition at our school last
Focus Your Learning
Reading this monologue will help
you:
n share and compare responses
n experiment with figurative
language and word choice
n use a graphic organizer
n present a monologue
year. A poetry competition. Anyone who
wanted to could write a poem and enter it in the
contest. The best ten were printed in a booklet and the
first-prize winner received twenty-five dollars and a
framed certificate.
Look Closely
121
I wanted to win that contest more than I ever wanted anything in
my life. Not for the twenty-five dollars, although I could have used the
money. I wanted to win because deep down inside me I wanted to be
a writer and I wasn’t sure if I had any talent. I thought if I won first
prize in a poetry competition, it would mean I do have some ability.
I’m not real good at most other things. Especially sports.
Everyone else jogs and works out. They lift weights and play tennis or
volleyball. I hate exercising. I’m always the last one to be chosen
when we pick teams for baseball or basketball. And the only reason I
passed Physical Education last year was because my gym partner lied
for me and said I’d done the required three push-ups when I could
barely manage one.
Maybe that’s why the poetry contest was so important to me.
When you’re really rotten at most things, you want to be extra-good at
the few things you care about.
I worked on my contest entry every day for two weeks. I wrote
seven different poems and threw all of them away. I wrote about
butterflies and kittens and the way I feel when I hear certain kinds
of music. None of my poems was any good. I crumpled them up and
threw them in my wastebasket. I wanted them to be beautiful, and
instead, they were awkward and crude.
But I didn’t give up. I kept writing. I revised and changed the
words around and thought up new ideas for poems.
And then, on the last night before the contest deadline, I wrote a
poem that I knew was good. It was a simple poem, but every time I
read it, I got goosebumps on my arms. I knew it was the best writing
I’d ever done. I called it “Unicorn Magic” and I entered it in the
contest the next morning.
The winner was not announced until two weeks later. During
those two weeks, I floated in a special dream, imagining how it would
122
Look Closely
be to sit at the awards program in the school auditorium and hear my
name announced as the first-prize winner in the poetry competition.
On the day of the awards, I couldn’t eat breakfast. I wore my new
grey pants, the ones that make me look thinner than I am. I got up
half an hour early so I’d have time to wash my hair.
Before the winner was announced, the principal read the names
of the authors of the ten best poems. Mine was one of them. My heart
began to pound and my mouth got all dry. Then he announced the
winner: first prize to Kathy Enderson for her poem titled “Goldfish
Jubilee.”
When Kathy’s name was called, she shrieked and jumped up and
all her friends screamed and cheered. I just sat there, stunned. I
couldn’t believe “Unicorn Magic” had lost when it made me get
goosebumps every time I read it. Maybe I wasn’t going to be a writer,
after all. Maybe I had no talent. If Kathy Enderson, who laughs at dirty
jokes and flirts with all the guys and thinks being a cheerleader is the
most important thing in the world, if Kathy can write better poetry
than I can, then I might as well give it up forever.
Except I couldn’t. I went home that day and wrote a poem about
how much it hurt to lose the competition. When I read the poem again
the next morning, I got goosebumps on my arms and I knew I would
keep on writing, even if I never won any awards.
I studied Kathy’s poem in the booklet. I had to admit it was good.
That summer, long after the poetry competition was over and
school was out, I was looking through some magazines in the public
library and I came across a poem titled “Goldfish Jubilee.” For one
awful moment, I thought Kathy had not only won the contest, she’d
actually had her poem published. Then I saw the author’s name.
Andrew Billings. “Goldfish Jubilee” by Andrew Billings. The poem,
was the same; the author was not.
Look Closely
123
I looked at the date on the magazine. It was published a month
before our poetry competition.
Should I show it to the principal and demand that the poems be
judged again? Should I call Kathy Enderson and tell her I knew she’d
cheated? What good would it do?
That special moment in the school auditorium, when the
winner’s name was announced, was over. It was too late.
I hate Kathy Enderson for what she did, but I feel sorry for her,
too. She has a certificate that says First Prize, Poetry Competition, and
she has the twenty-five dollars, but she doesn’t know how it feels to
read her very own poem and get goosebumps on her arms.
And she’ll never know.
Activities
1.
In your group, tell the story of a time when you were denied justice,
and explain how you responded.
2. Is the title of this story ironic or is it appropriate? Write a response.
Suggest an alternative title for the story.
3. Create a tree chart to explore the routes of action the protagonist
could take after she realizes that the winning poem has been
plagiarized. In each branch, show the possible consequences,
including those that could affect the major events of her life.
4. Prepare a reading of this monologue. Present it to your group and
assess each reading using a checklist of relevant criteria.
124
Look Closely
Lisa Sloman
A generation ago
they paraded.
“Flower Power,”
“Make love, not war.”
Out to change the world,
To voice their thoughts,
To be individuals.
Now they’ve grown,
and we are what they were
once.
Out to change the world,
To voice our thoughts,
To be our own individuals.
“Shush,”
We’re told
“You’re not old enough,
You don’t know what you
want.”
Focus Your Learning
Studying this poem will
help you:
n create a collage
n select a quotation to
convey a message
n write a poem
Suddenly they’ve forgotten
who they once were,
what they once fought for.
What they thought,
when they were told to
“Shush.”
Look Closely
125
Activities
1.
As a class, make a joint collage that
compares important aspects of your life
with those of your parents when they were
roughly your age. Each person should bring
in five or six items. Be prepared to discuss
your selections with the rest of the class. As
a class, reach a consensus on an appropriate
title for your collage. Invite other classes to
view your collage.
2. “Children have never been very good at
listening to their elders, but they have never
failed to imitate them.”—James Baldwin
“Those who cannot remember the past are
condemned to repeat it.”—George Santanaya
What is the central message of each
quotation? How does each compare with
the message of this poem? Research a
quotation or write your own saying that
contradicts the messages expressed by
Baldwin and Santanaya. Mount your
message at an appropriate point on the
class collage.
3. Write the poem that you hope your children
will write about you.
126
Look Closely
The Medicine Bag
VIRGINIA DRIVING HAWK SNEVE
Focus Your Learning
n examine a stereotype
n examine character motivation and development
n prepare a dialogue based on the story
Look Closely
127
My kid sister Cheryl and I always bragged about our
Sioux grandpa, Joe Iron Shell. Our friends, who had
always lived in the city and only knew about Indians from movies and
TV, were impressed by our stories. Maybe we exaggerated and made
Grandpa and the reservation sound glamorous, but when we’d return
home to Iowa after our yearly summer visit to Grandpa we always had
some exciting tale to tell.
We always had some authentic Sioux article to show our listeners.
One year Cheryl had new moccasins that Grandpa had made. On
another visit he gave me a small, round, flat, rawhide drum which was
decorated with a painting of a warrior riding a horse. He taught me a
real Sioux chant to sing while I beat the drum with a leather-covered
stick that had a feather on the end. Man, that really made an impression.
We never showed our friends Grandpa’s picture. Not that we were
ashamed of him, but because we knew that the glamorous tales we
told didn’t go with the real thing. Our friends would have laughed at
the picture, because Grandpa wasn’t tall and stately like TV Indians.
His hair wasn’t in braids, but hung in stringy, gray strands on his neck
and he was old. He was our great-grandfather, and he didn’t live in a
tepee, but all by himself in a part log, part tar-paper shack on the
Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. So when Grandpa came to
visit us, I was so ashamed and embarrassed I could’ve died.
There are a lot of yippy poodles and other fancy little dogs in our
neighbourhood, but they usually barked singly at the mailman from
the safety of their own yards. Now it sounded as if a whole pack of
mutts were barking together in one place.
I got up and walked to the curb to see what the commotion was.
About a block away I saw a crowd of little kids yelling, with the dogs
yipping and growling around someone who was walking down the
middle of the street.
I watched the group as it slowly came closer and saw that in the
centre of the strange procession was a man wearing a tall black hat.
128
Look Closely
He’d pause now and then to peer at something in his hand and then
at the houses on either side of the street. I felt cold and hot at the
same time as I recognized the man. “Oh, no!” I whispered. “It’s
Grandpa!”
I stood on the curb, unable to move even though I wanted to
run and hide. Then I got mad when I saw how the yippy dogs were
growling and nipping at the old man’s baggy pant legs and how
wearily he poked them away with his cane. “Stupid mutts,” I said
as I ran to rescue Grandpa.
When I kicked and hollered at the dogs to get away, they put
their tails between their legs and scattered. The kids ran to the curb
where they watched me and the old man.
“Grandpa,” I said and felt pretty dumb when my voice cracked.
I reached for his beat-up old tin suitcase, which was tied shut with
a rope. But he set it down right in the street and shook my hand.
“Hau, Takoza, Grandchild,” he greeted me formally in Sioux.
All I could do was stand there with the whole neighbourhood
watching and shake the hand of the leather-brown old man. I saw
how his gray hair straggled from under his big black hat, which had
a drooping feather in its crown. His rumpled black suit hung like a
sack over his stooped frame. As he shook my hand, his coat fell open
to expose a bright-red, satin shirt with a beaded bolo tie under the
collar. His get-up wasn’t out of place on the reservation, but it sure
was here, and I wanted to sink right through the pavement.
“Hi,” I muttered with my head down. I tried to pull my hand
away when I felt his bony hand trembling, and looked up to see
fatigue in his face. I felt like crying. I couldn’t think of anything to
say so I picked up Grandpa’s suitcase, took his arm, and guided him
up the driveway to our house.
Mom was standing on the steps. I don’t know how long she’d
been watching, but her hand was over her mouth and she looked as
if she couldn’t believe what she saw. Then she ran to us.
“Grandpa,” she gasped. “How in the world did you get here?”
Look Closely
129
She checked her move to embrace Grandpa and I remembered
that such a display of affection is unseemly to the Sioux and would
embarrass him.
“Hau, Marie,” he said as he shook Mom’s hand. She smiled and
took his other arm.
As we supported him up the steps the door banged open and
Cheryl came bursting out of the house. She was all smiles and was
so obviously glad to see Grandpa that I was ashamed of how I felt.
“Grandpa!” she yelled happily. “You came to see us!”
Grandpa smiled and Mom and I let go of him as he stretched out
his arms to my ten-year-old sister, who was still young enough to be
hugged.
“Wicincala, little girl,” he greeted her and then collapsed.
He had fainted. Mom and I carried him into her sewing room,
where we had a spare bed.
After we had Grandpa on the bed Mom stood there helplessly
patting his shoulder.
“Shouldn’t we call the doctor, Mom?” I suggested, since she
didn’t seem to know what to do.
“Yes,” she agreed with a sigh. “You make Grandpa comfortable,
Martin.”
I reluctantly moved to the bed. I knew Grandpa wouldn’t want to
have Mom undress him, but I didn’t want to, either. He was so skinny
and frail that his coat slipped off easily. When I loosened his tie and
opened his shirt collar, I felt a small leather pouch that hung from a
thong around his neck. I left it alone and moved to remove his boots.
The scuffed old cowboy boots were tight and he moaned as I put
pressure on his legs to jerk them off.
I put the boots on the floor and saw why they fit so tight. Each
one was stuffed with money. I looked at the bills that lined the boots
and started to ask about them, but Grandpa’s eyes were closed again.
Mom came back with a basin of water. “The doctor thinks
Grandpa is suffering from heat exhaustion,” she explained as she
130
Look Closely
bathed Grandpa’s face. Mom gave a big sigh, “Oh hinh, Martin. How
do you suppose he got here?”
We found out after the doctor’s visit. Grandpa was angrily sitting
up in bed while Mom tried to feed him some soup.
“Tonight you let Marie feed you, Grandpa,” spoke my dad, who had
gotten home from work just as the doctor was leaving. “You’re not really
sick,” he said as he gently pushed Grandpa back against the pillows.
“The doctor said you just got too tired and hot after your long trip.”
Grandpa relaxed, and between sips of soup he told us of his
journey. Soon after our visit to him Grandpa decided that he would like
to see where his only living descendants lived and what our home was
like. Besides, he admitted sheepishly, he was lonesome after we left.
I knew everybody felt as guilty as I did—especially Mom. Mom
was all Grandpa had left. So even after she married my dad, who’s a
white man and teaches in the college in our city, and after Cheryl and
I were born, Mom made sure that every summer we spent a week
with Grandpa.
I never thought that Grandpa would be lonely after our visits,
and none of us noticed how old and weak he had become. But Grandpa
knew and so he came to us. He had ridden on buses for two and a half
days. When he arrived in the city, tired and stiff from sitting for so
long, he set out, walking, to find us.
He had stopped to rest on the steps of some building downtown
and a policeman found him. The cop, according to Grandpa, was a
good man who took him to the bus stop and waited until the bus
came and told the driver to let Grandpa out at Bell View Drive. After
Grandpa got off the bus, he started walking again. But he couldn’t see
the house numbers on the other side when he walked on the sidewalk
so he walked in the middle of the street. That’s when all the little kids
and dogs followed him.
I knew everybody felt as bad as I did. Yet I was proud of this
eighty-six-year-old man, who had never been away from the reservation,
having the courage to travel so far alone.
Look Closely
131
“You found the money in my boots?” he asked Mom.
“Martin did,” she answered, and roused herself to scold. “Grandpa,
you shouldn’t have carried so much money. What if someone had stolen
it from you?”
Grandpa laughed. “I would’ve known if anyone tried to take the
boots off my feet. The money is what I’ve saved for a long time—a
hundred dollars—for my funeral. But you take it now to buy groceries
so that I won’t be a burden to you while I am here.”
“That won’t be necessary, Grandpa,” Dad said. “We are honoured
to have you with us and you will never be a burden. I am only sorry
that we never thought to bring you home with us this summer and
spare you the discomfort of a long trip.”
Grandpa was pleased. “Thank you,” he answered. “But do not feel
bad that you didn’t bring me with you, for I would not have come then.
It was not time.” He said this in such a way that no one could argue
with him. To Grandpa and the Sioux, he once told me, a thing would
be done when it was the right time to do it and that’s the way it was.
“Also,” Grandpa went on, looking at me, “I have come because it
is soon time for Martin to have the medicine bag.”
We all knew what that meant. Grandpa thought he was going to
die and he had to follow the tradition of his family to pass the medicine
bag, along with its history, to the oldest male child.
“Even though the boy,” he said still looking at me, “bears a white
man’s name, the medicine bag will be his.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had the same hot and cold feeling
that I had when I first saw Grandpa in the street. The medicine bag
was the dirty leather pouch I had found around his neck. “I could
never wear such a thing,” I almost said aloud. I thought of having my
friends see it in gym class, at the swimming pool, and could imagine
the smart things they would say. But I just swallowed hard and took
a step toward the bed. I knew I would have to take it.
But Grandpa was tired. “Not now, Martin,” he said, waving his
hand in dismissal, “it is not time. Now I will sleep.”
132
Look Closely
So that’s how Grandpa came to be with us for two months. My
friends kept asking to come see the old man, but I put them off. I
told myself that I didn’t want them laughing at Grandpa. But even
as I made excuses I knew it wasn’t Grandpa that I was afraid they’d
laugh at.
Nothing bothered Cheryl about bringing her friends to see
Grandpa. Every day after school started there’d be a crew of giggling
little girls or round-eyed little boys crowded around the old man on
the patio, where he’d gotten in the habit of sitting every afternoon.
Grandpa would smile in his gentle way and patiently answer their
questions, or he’d tell them stories of brave warriors, ghosts, animals,
and the kids listened in awed silence. Those little guys thought
Grandpa was great.
Finally, one day after school, my friends came home with me
because nothing I said stopped them. “We’re going to see the great
Indian of Bell View Drive,” said Hank, who was supposed to be my
best friend. “My brother has seen him three times so he oughta be
well enough to see us.”
When we got to my house Grandpa was sitting on the patio. He
had on his red shirt, but today he also wore a fringed leather vest
that was decorated with beads. Instead of his usual cowboy boots he
had solidly beaded moccasins on his feet that stuck out of his black
trousers. Of course, he had his old black hat on—he was seldom
without it. But it had been brushed and the feather in the beaded
headband was proudly erect, its tip a brighter white. His hair lay in
silver strands over the red shirt collar.
I started just as my friends did and I heard one of them murmur,
“Wow!”
Grandpa looked up and when his eyes met mine they twinkled as
if he were laughing inside. He nodded to me and my face got all hot. I
could tell that he had known all along I was afraid he’d embarrass me
in front of my friends.
“Hau, hoksilas, boys,” he greeted and held out his hand.
Look Closely
133
My buddies passed in a single file and shook his hand as I
introduced them. They were so polite I almost laughed. “How, there,
Grandpa,” and even a “How-do-you-do, sir.”
“You look fine, Grandpa,” I said as the guys sat on the lawn
chairs or on the patio floor.
“Hanh, yes,” he agreed. “When I woke up this morning it seemed
the right time to dress in the good clothes. I knew that my grandson
would be bringing his friends.”
“You guys want some lemonade or something?” I offered. No one
answered. They were listening to Grandpa as he started telling how
he’d killed the deer from which his vest was made.
Grandpa did most of the talking while my friends were there. I
was so proud of him and amazed at how respectfully quiet my buddies
were. Mom had to chase them home at suppertime. As they left they
shook Grandpa’s hand again and said to me:
“Martin, he’s really great!”
“Yeah, man! Don’t blame you for keeping him to yourself.”
“Can we come back?”
But after they left, Mom said, “No more visitors for a while,
Martin. Grandpa won’t admit it, but his strength hasn’t returned. He
likes having company, but it tires him.”
That evening Grandpa called me to his room before he went to
sleep. “Tomorrow,” he said, “when you come home, it will be time to
give you the medicine bag.”
I felt a hard squeeze from where my heart is supposed to be and
was scared, but I answered, “OK, Grandpa.”
All night I had weird dreams about thunder and lightning on a
high hill. From a distance I heard the slow beat of a drum. When I
woke up in the morning I felt as if I hadn’t slept at all. At school it
seemed as if the day would never end and, when it finally did, I ran
home.
Grandpa was in his room, sitting on the bed. The shades were
down and the place was dim and cool. I sat on the floor in front of
134
Look Closely
Grandpa, but he didn’t even look at me. After what seemed a long
time he spoke.
“I sent your mother and sister away. What you will hear today is
only for a man’s ears. What you will receive is only for a man’s hands.”
He fell silent and I felt shivers down my back.
“My father in his early manhood,” Grandpa began, “made a vision
quest to find a spirit guide for his life. You cannot understand how it
was in that time, when the great Teton Sioux were first made to stay
on the reservation. There was a strong need for guidance from
Wakantanka, the Great Spirit. But too many of the young men were
filled with despair and hatred. They thought it was hopeless to search
for a vision when the glorious life was gone and only the hated
confines of a reservation lay ahead. But my father held to the old ways.
“He carefully prepared for his quest with a purifying sweat bath
and then he went alone to a high butte top to fast and pray. After three
days he received his sacred dream—in which he found, after long
searching, the white man’s iron. He did not understand his vision of
finding something belonging to the white people, for in that time they
were the enemy. When he came down from the butte to cleanse
himself at the stream below, he found the remains of a campfire and
the broken shell of an iron kettle. This was a sign which reinforced his
dream. He took a piece of the iron for his medicine bag, which he had
made of elk skin years before, to prepare for his quest.
“He returned to his village, where he told his dream to the wise
old men of the tribe. They gave him the name Iron Shell, but neither
did they understand the meaning of the dream. This first Iron Shell
kept the piece of iron with him at all times and believed it gave him
protection from the evils of those unhappy days.
“Then a terrible thing happened to Iron Shell. He and several
other young men were taken from their homes by the soldiers and
sent far away to a white man’s boarding school. He was angry and
lonesome for his parents and the young girl he had wed before he
was taken away. At first Iron Shell resisted the teachers’ attempts to
Look Closely
135
change him and he did not try to learn. One day it was his turn to
work in the school’s blacksmith shop. As he walked into the place he
knew that his medicine had brought him there to learn and work with
the white man’s iron.
“Iron Shell became a blacksmith and worked at the trade when
he returned to the reservation. All of his life he treasured the medicine
bag. When he was old, and I was a man, he gave it to me, for no one
made the vision quest anymore.”
Grandpa quit talking and I stared in disbelief as he covered his
face with his hands. He shoulders were shaking with quiet sobs and
I looked away until he began to speak again.
“I kept the bag until my son, your mother’s father, was a man
and had to leave us to fight in the war across the ocean. I gave him the
bag, for I believed it would protect him in battle, but he did not take it
with him. He was afraid that he would lose it. He died in a faraway
place.”
Again Grandpa was still and I felt his grief around me.
“My son,” he went on after clearing his throat, “had only a
daughter and it is not proper for her to know of these things.”
He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled out the leather pouch, and lifted
it over his head. He held it in his hand, turning it over and over as if
memorizing how it looked.
“In the bag,” he said as he opened it and removed two objects,
“is the broken shell of the iron kettle, a pebble from the butte, and a
piece of the sacred sage.” He held the pouch upside down and dust
drifted down.
“After the bag is yours you must put a piece of prairie sage within
and never open it again until you pass it on to your son.” He replaced
the pebble and the piece of iron, and tied the bag.
I stood up, somehow knowing I should. Grandpa slowly rose
from the bed and stood upright in front of me, holding the bag before
my face. I closed my eyes and waited for him to slip it over my head.
But he spoke.
136
Look Closely
“No, you need not wear it.” He placed the soft leather bag in my
right hand and closed my other hand over it. “It would not be right to
wear it in this time and place where no one will understand. Put it
safely away until you are again on the reservation. Wear it then, when
you replace the sacred sage.”
Grandpa turned and sat again on the bed. Wearily he leaned his
head against the pillow. “Go,” he said, “I will sleep now.”
“Thank you, Grandpa,” I said softly and left with the bag in my
hands.
That night Mom and Dad took Grandpa to the hospital. Two
weeks later I stood alone on the lonely prairie of the reservation and
put the sacred sage in my medicine bag.
Activities
1.
Make a comparison chart to show how Martin’s grandfather differs
from the stereotype Martin has presented to his friends. At the
bottom of the chart, state why you think the stereotype of the old
man is initially so appealing to the boy.
2. Create a timeline showing when and why Martin’s attitude to his
grandfather changes over the course of the story.
3. Write a script for a conversation between the grandfather and a
friend, in which he explains why he has decided Martin does not
have to wear the medicine bag, even though by tradition he
should.
Look Closely
137
Focus Your Learning
Studying this painting will help you:
n use visual clues to understand the painting
n work cooperatively to present tableaux
n participate in a whole-class presentation
Activities
1.
What do the style of the bike, the
rider’s clothes, and the scenery
suggest about the time period and
location of the setting of this
painting? Develop a working sketch
showing how you might update the
piece of art.
2. As a class, prepare a two-part
tableau showing where the rider
came from and where he is going.
Reproduced with permission of Ken Danby.
138
Look Closely
Towards the Hill
Ken Danby
Look Closely
139
Dan Jaffe
Perhaps our age has driven us indoors.
We sprawl in the semi-darkness, dreaming sometimes
Of a vague world spinning in the wind.
But we have snapped our locks, pulled down our shades,
Taken all precautions. We shall not be disturbed.
If the earth shakes, it will be on a screen;
And if the prairie wind spills down our streets
And covers us with leaves, the weatherman will tell us.
Focus Your Learning
Studying these
poems will help you:
n identify, explain,
and appreciate the
common message
in the poems
n prepare an
advertisement
n prepare a media
presentation
n debate an issue
140
Look Closely
Ieva Grants
In the house
across the street
the television glows
Bruce Bennett
orange in the day,
blue at night
like the moon.
What is there
We watch, fascinated
in that place
as the horror is replayed
behind glass
for us; over and over,
where the sun
fast, then slower, then
is always cold,
fast again, over and over
where the flowers
and over till we have
have no scent?
it by heart and it’s no
What’s so important
longer a horror but a
that they cannot
shared, explicable event
turn it off?
we can talk about, shake
our heads at, walk away
from, as the patient,
soothing voice, cool and
competent and caring,
keeps repeating and
repeating.
Look Closely
141
Activities
1.
Make a list of the ways in which TV can bring people
together. Then make a list, based on these poems,
of the ways in which it can keep people apart.
Discuss your conclusions as a class. Write a
response in which you consider how the titles of all
three poems might be ironic.
2. It is the early 1950s. There is a new product on the
market. It is a box that can transmit messages all
over the world, instantaneously communicating
both sight and sound. This new product is called
television. Your job is to write an advertisement for
this new product, citing all of the advantages it
offers. Your advertisement must include a slogan,
testimonials from famous people of the 1950s, and
a view of the future as influenced by TV. Present
your ad to the class.
3. Working in small groups, prepare a two-minute
newscast on a topic suggested by “The Disaster” or
“The Forecast.” All group members should be involved
in reporting events. Try to reproduce elements of
newscasts as suggested by the poems. Evaluate the
newscasts of your own and other groups.
4. What similarities can you see between television, as
presented in these poems, and the Internet? Hold a
class debate on the issue “The Internet is more a tool
of isolation than communication.”
142
Look Closely
Television
& a Minor in Knowledge
A Major in
DAV I D S U Z U K I
hen I was five years old, my
parents never worried that I was
watching too much television, because
there wasn’t any.
One day in the late forties, the boy
next door declined my invitation to go to
the movies because his family was saving
up to buy a television set. I laughed at
his silly dream.
However, by the fifties, our neighbours’
prescience was proven and I visited them
to gaze in envy and awe at the black and
white shadows flitting through a dense
screen of electronic “snow.”
The entire history of television has
taken place during my life, and it is an
appropriate symbol for technologies—
the automobile, the telephone, nuclear
power, the pill, computers—that have
transformed our lives.
Television spread with lightning
speed and plays a prominent role in
our perceptions.
W
Focus Your Learning
Reading this article will help you:
n take notes, identifying main and supporting ideas
n make a speech from a particular viewpoint
n examine both sides of an issue
n write a letter expressing your point of view
Look Closely
143
It is said the average Canadian watches
six to eight hours a day, while in most cities
cable makes more than twenty channels
accessible almost around the clock. Dishes
capture signals directly from satellites and
provide an extensive menu of choices.
Television is the major way people learn
about the world. It shapes their ideas and
values from infancy. Yet we seldom ask
what the long-term effects of television
have been on society.
Television is a medium of the visual.
Pictures can be worth a thousand words.
The ability to juxtapose images, speed
up or slow down, or explore otherwise
inaccessible phenomena or events cannot
be matched by any other medium. Thus,
TV is most powerful when it brings pictures
of prehistoric coelocanths, a sprouting seed
or a fetus in utero. But far too often its
potential is wasted on the sensational or
trivial.
The dependence on visual images imposes
serious constraints on TV programs, and this
can be seen in comparison with radio. The
entire range of ideas and discoveries in
science, for example, can be explored
on radio, which requires the listener’s
imagination. The scope is considerably
narrower with television, so that areas
such as mathematics, geology, molecular
biology and astronomy, to name a few,
are seldom covered.
144
Look Closely
The media do not reflect reality but create
it. And because television has become the
dominant medium, it is important to be
aware of this. Decisions on the priorities
of programming and the subjects of news
reports are made by people at various levels
of production. Because everyone looks at the
world through the lenses of his or her own
heredity and experience, those decisions will
be expressions of the socio-economic, ethnic,
religious, and psychological backgrounds of
the people making them.
Other considerations also determine
whether an event is ever reported—whether
there is a camera crew available, the time of
day, ambient light, facilities for editing raw
footage, the number of other reports on the
news schedule.
And how are reports presented? Entire
events involving perhaps dozens of
speakers may be encapsulated in a twentysecond report. In thirty minutes, we are
presented with news of the entire world
packaged in segments ranging from fifteen
to 120 seconds. An “in-depth” report refers
to a two- to four-minute piece. (Any savvy
politician knows the value of a short,
snappy answer and the best time to call a
press conference.)
Even documentaries must compete for
the attention and then the memory of
viewers watching programs in blocks of
time during which they are confronted
with a numbing array of choices and
interspersed commercials. What is
ultimately retained from an evening of
television viewing may be snippets whose
source is unclear. As host of “The Nature
of Things” on CBC television, I am
frequently given credit for reports that
were broadcast on other shows.
Television is a powerful invention whose
potential to entertain, inform and educate is
too often squandered in the interest of
profit, glibness and conformity. For viewers
who use the technology selectively and
sparingly, it can fulfil much of its promise.
But what kind of minds and society have
been created as a result of this technology?
We have to ask this question and seek
serious answers.
Activities
1.
Choose an appropriate method to make
notes of David Suzuki’s arguments. Be
sure to organize your notes clearly,
identifying main and supporting ideas.
2. There are many different attitudes
toward TV. Prepare a one-minute speech
responding to David Suzuki, from the
perspective of one of the following: a
parent, a grandparent, a student, a
teacher. Deliver your speech to the class.
3. Should TV be censored to ensure
better quality and to protect young and
impressionable viewers? Make a bulletin
board display responding to this
question. Divide the board into two
categories, “Pro” and “Con.” Pin up
brief arguments. To avoid repeating
existing arguments, be sure to read notes
that have already been posted.
4. Write a letter to a TV channel of your
choice, commenting on any aspect
of its programming (e.g., the types of
programs shown, the coverage of news
events, etc.). Either compliment the
station or recommend changes, giving
reasons for your views.
Look Closely
145
Louis Dudek
My two dogs
tied to a tree
by a ten-foot leash
kept howling and whining for an hour
till I let them off.
Now they are lying quietly on the grass
a few feet further from the tree
and they haven’t moved at all since I let them go.
Freedom may be
only an idea
but it’s a matter of principle
even to a dog.
Activities
1.
Focus Your Learning
Reading this poem will
help you:
n make connections
between your personal
interpretation and the
text
n express your personal
understanding of what
freedom means
n identify and
experiment with the
use of symbolism
146
Look Closely
List at least four conditions you believe you need in order
to be free. For each condition, provide an immediate
benefit and a long-term benefit.
2. What does freedom mean to the dogs in this poem?
Complete this statement in at least three different ways,
referring either to the dogs or to freedom in a general way:
“Freedom is ….”
3. A symbol is an object that represents an idea or condition.
What does the leash symbolize in this poem? Create an
illustration that contains a symbol of any condition
suggested by this poem.
1.
Role-play an encounter between the
protagonists or narrator of any two or
three of the following: “The Scream,”
“Tradition,” “My Name Is Angie,” “Ride
the Dark Horse,” and “Looking for a
High? Try Adrenalin!” Share your
experiences and explain how they
have affected your outlook on life.
2. Imagine you have been asked to give an
award for achievement to one of the
characters or narrators in this section.
Choose a winning candidate and prepare
a speech presenting him or her with an
appropriate award. Be sure to explain
why this person is qualified to receive it.
3. Identify the selections in this unit that
deal with family relationships. In the role
of one of the characters, write either a
diary entry or a poem explaining your
feelings toward the family member
described in the selection. Explain the
influence that person has had on the way
you see yourself.
4. Which piece in this unit do you think most
aptly describes the role of TV or the media
in our society? Write a summarizing
paragraph about the selection as if you
were creating the entry for a TV guide.
5. If you had to choose one visual from this
unit to be a poster in your room, which
one would it be, and why? Be prepared to
share your decision with your classmates
and explain reasons for your choice.
6. Create a three-dimensional shadow box
that represents different facets of your
personality and your life. Draw on ideas
from the selections in this unit. You can
include artifacts, photographs, writing,
and artwork.
Look Closely
147
look back
Do you ever wonder why
your world is the way it is?
Things don’t just happen by
chance. There’s a reason why
everything is the way it is. In
this unit, you will read about
people and events that have
changed the world. Some were
good. Some were bad. All are
worth knowing about.
Sedna,
Mother
of the Sea
Animals
RONALD ME LZACK
Young Sedna by Pitaloosie Saila
Long ago, there were no seals or
walruses for the Inuit to hunt. There
Focus Your Learning
Reading this myth will help you:
n share and compare your responses
n create an illustration interpreting the text
n explore character motivation in the form
of a monologue
n report on other examples of Inuit myth or
artwork
150
Look Back
were reindeer and birds, bears and wolves, but
there were no animals in the sea. There was, at
that time, an Inuit girl called Sedna who lived
with her father in an igloo by the seashore. Sedna
was beautiful, and she was courted by men from
her own village and by others who came from
faraway lands. But none of these men pleased her
and she refused to marry.
One day, a handsome young hunter from a
strange far-off country paddled his kayak across
the shining sea toward the shores of Sedna’s home. He wore beautiful
clothes and carried an ivory spear.
He paused at the shore’s edge, and called to Sedna, “Come with
me! Come to the land of the birds where there is never hunger and
where my tent is made of the most beautiful skins. You will rest on
soft bear skins, your lamp will always be filled with oil, and you will
always have meat.”
Sedna at first refused. Again he told her of the home in which
they would live, the rich furs and ivory necklaces that he would give
her. Sedna could no longer resist. She left her father’s home and joined
the young hunter.
When they were out at sea, the young man dropped his paddle
into the water. Sedna stared with fright as he raised his hands toward
the sky, and, before her eyes, they were transformed into huge wings—
the wings of a Loon. He was no man at all, but a spirit bird, with the
power to become a human being.
Sedna sat on the Loon’s back and they flew toward his home.
When they landed on an island in the sea, Sedna discovered that the
Loon had lied to her. Her new home was cold and windy, and she had
to eat fish brought to her by the Loon and by the other birds that
shared their island.
Soon she was lonesome and afraid, and she cried sadly, “Oh
father, if you knew how sad I am, you would come to me and carry
me away in your kayak. I am a stranger here. I am cold and miserable.
Please come, and take me back.”
When a year had passed and the sea was calm, Sedna’s father set
out to visit her in her far-off land. She greeted him joyfully and begged
him to take her back. He lifted her into his boat, and raced across the
sea toward home.
When the Loon spirit returned, he found his wife gone. The other
birds on the island told him that she had fled with her father. He
immediately took the shape of a man, and followed in his kayak.
When Sedna’s father saw him coming, he covered his daughter with
the furs he kept in his boat.
Look Back
151
Swiftly the Loon spirit rushed alongside in his kayak.
“Let me see my wife,” he cried.
Sedna’s father refused.
“Sedna,” he called out, “come back with me! No man could love
you as much as I do.”
But Sedna’s kayak flashed across the water. The Loon man
stopped paddling. Sadly, slowly, he raised his hands towards the sky
and once again they became wings. He flew over the kayak that was
carrying his Sedna away from him. He hovered over the boat, crying
the strange, sad call of the Loon. Then he plunged down into the sea.
The moment the Loon spirit disappeared, the sea waves began to
swell up in fury. The sea gods were angry that Sedna had betrayed her
husband. The kayak rose and fell as huge waves lashed against it.
Sedna’s father was terrified, and to save himself he pushed Sedna
overboard. Sedna rose to the surface and her fingers gripped the edge
of the kayak. But her father, frenzied with fear that he would be killed
by the vengeful sea spirits, pulled out a knife and stabbed her hands.
Then, it is said, an astonishing thing happened, perhaps because
the Loon spirit or the sea spirits had willed it: the blood that flowed
from Sedna’s hands congealed in the water, taking different shapes,
until suddenly two seals emerged from it. Sedna fell back into the sea,
and coming back again, gripped the boat even more tightly. Again her
father stabbed her hands and the blood flowed, and this time walruses
emerged from the blood-red sea. In desperate fear for his life, he
stabbed her hands a third time, and the blood flowed through the
water, congealed, and the whales grew out of it.
At last the storm ended. Sedna sank to the bottom of the sea, and
all the sea animals that were born from her blood followed her.
Sedna’s father, exhausted and bitter, at last arrived home. He
entered his igloo and fell into a deep sleep. Outside, Sedna’s dog, who
had been her friend since childhood, howled as the wind blew across
the land.
That night, Sedna commanded the creatures of the sea that had
emerged from her blood to bring her father and her dog to her. The sea
152
Look Back
animals swam furiously in front of her father’s igloo. The tides ran
higher and higher. They washed up on the beach until they demolished
the igloo and carried Sedna’s father and her dog down to the depths of
the sea. There they joined Sedna, and all three have lived ever since in
the land of the waters.
To this day, Inuit hunters pray to Sedna, goddess of the seas, who
commands all the sea animals. She is vengeful and bitter, and men beg
her to release the animals that were born of her so that they may eat.
By her whim, a man successfully harpoons seals and walruses or is
swept away from land by the stormy seas. The spirits of the great
medicine men swim down to her home and comb her hair, because
her hands still hurt. And if they comb her hair well, she releases a
seal, a walrus, or a whale.
Activities
1.
This is a story of vengefulness and bitterness. Why is it appropriate
as a myth about the seas? Discuss your opinions as a class.
2. This myth contains many striking images. Create an illustration of
one of them.
3. In the role of Sedna, prepare a monologue addressed to her father in
which she comments on his actions as described in this myth.
4. Look for another story or piece of artwork that illustrates Inuit myths
about or attitudes towards one of the following: loon, seal, walrus,
or whale. Prepare a short presentation about your story or artwork,
explaining the importance of the subject to the Inuit and how and
why you find the piece effective.
Look Back
153
William Lyon Mackenzie and John Robert Colombo
Quebec,
April 22nd to 25th,
1831.
One forenoon
I went on board the ship
Airthy Castle,
from Bristol,
immediately after her arrival.
The passengers were in number 254,
all in the hold or steerage;
all English, from about Bristol,
Bath, Frome, Warminster, Maiden Bradley, &c.
I went below,
Focus Your Learning
help you:
n identify and
experiment with
tone of speech
n work in a group to
create a role play
n conduct research
into the immigrant
experience
n write a fictional
biography
154
Look Back
and truly it was a curious sight.
About 200 human beings,
male and female,
young, old, and middle-aged;
talking, singing, laughing, crying, eating, drinking, shaving,
washing;
some naked in bed, and others dressing to go ashore;
handsome young women (perhaps some)
and ugly old men,
married and single;
Behind Bonsecours Market, Montreal by W. Raphael, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa, purchased 1957.
religious and irreligious.
Here a grave matron
chaunting selections
from the latest edition
of the last new hymn book;
there, a brawny plough-boy
“pouring forth the sweet melody
of Robin Adair.”
These settlers were poor,
but in general
they were fine-looking people,
Look Back
155
and such as I was glad
to see come to America.
They had had a fine passage
of about a month,
and they told me
that no more ship loads of settlers
would come from the same quarter
this year.
I found that it was
the intention of many of them
to come to Upper Canada.
Fortune may smile on some,
and frown on others;
but it is my opinion
that few among them will forget
being cooped up below deck
for four weeks
in a moveable bed-room,
with 250 such fellow-lodgers
as I have endeavoured to describe.
Activities
1.
Identify the speaker in this poem. What
can you tell about him from his tone and
attitude toward the immigrants? Work in
a small group to create a role play of a
conversation between the speaker and
some of the immigrants. The speaker
should maintain the tone of the poem.
2. Research some aspects of the experience
of immigrants to Canada in the 1830s.
156
Look Back
Focus on particular aspects such as
reasons for coming, transportation,
finding a job, etc. Then write a short
fictional biography of an immigrant to
Canada at this time, based on what you
have discovered in your research. You
might also wish to incorporate details
from the poem.
The Scarlatina
JOANNE FINDON
Before the summer of the scarlet fever Alice
thought Mama was always right. About the
Focus Your Learning
Reading this short story will
help you:
n identify and explain the
technique of foreshadowing
n investigate character
development
n consider how points of view
might vary through time
water cure. About God. About everything. But then the
scarlatina came to Whittier’s Ridge.
The scarlatina had been making the rounds of homes in
the New Brunswick community for weeks, and now it was
high summer. Everyone with hay to cut was out in the fields.
All the children trooped off to pick blueberries, and often
Alice went with them. But this summer there was no joy in
these outings. So many had been sick, and some children
had died. The warm breezes seemed laced with fear.
Alice sat across from Papa at breakfast. Next to her
was Albert, with Sandy across from him shifting restlessly
on the wooden bench. Beside Sandy sat Frank, absorbed in
a string game. On Alice’s other side was Clara, just turned
three, a golden-haired little fairy with a mischievous grin.
“I’ll go over to Nancy’s this morning,” announced
Mama as she spooned out the porridge. “She’s in mourning
for her little Lizzie, who died last night.”
“Scarlatina again?” Papa frowned as he bounced baby
George on his knee.
Mama snorted. “So they’ll say, but more likely from
the drug doctoring. Old Doctor Smythe was over there, with
his pills and poisons.”
“Now, Sarah, Doc Smythe is a good man.”
“He may be a good man, but he refuses to see the true
light of God’s will for natural healing. Here it is 1874, and the
new progressive medicine is well known. Yet he still clings to
the darkness of the old ways.”
Look Back
157
Papa looked down at his worn hands. “Don’t you think you’d best
wait a few days before you go over there? That is a house of sickness
now, and you’d not want to bring it home to your own.”
“Joel, you know very well that the scarlatina need be nothing
more than a cold with a rash alongside it. Edwin had it years ago and
was up and running around in two days. Besides, Nancy is my dear
friend and has just lost her sweet little girl to the stupidity of modern
medicine. I must do my best to console her.”
“I only think you ought to wait a few days until the disease has
left the house,” muttered Papa, “until they’ve boiled all the clothing
and bedding.”
“I am fully armed with faith to resist any of the Devil’s artillery.”
Alice gazed up at Mama. There was a light in her tired face, and
although she couldn’t see any armour over Mama’s patched apron,
Alice imagined it there underneath her clothes, glowing softly next to
her skin.
Papa sighed, as he did so often, and went back to eating his
porridge and bouncing the baby.
“Can I come with you Mama?” asked Alice.
Papa’s head flew up. “No, Alice.”
“But I could play outside with Jeremiah. I wouldn’t go in.”
“Alice, even a little dog can carry the disease. I’ll not have two
members of my family taking risks.”
Alice glanced over at Mama. She was scrubbing the porridge pot
and not looking at them. Papa would have his way in this.
Mama walked out into the hot sunshine an hour later with a loaf
of barley bread wrapped up in her apron. Papa had long since limped
out to the only field left untrampled by the neighbour’s cows to cut
hay. Albert had gone with him, and Frank and Sandy were floating
twig boats on the pond. Baby George was asleep, and Alice sat with
Clara in the strip of sun in the doorway of the house.
“Emily needs new hair,” said Clara, combing the corn-silk hair of
their one doll with her fingers. The threads were dry and some of them
came out in her hands.
158
Look Back
“You shouldn’t comb it so often,” Alice told her.
“But if she’s a princess she can’t have tangly hair. I’ll ask Mama
to fix it.”
“She doesn’t have time right now.”
Clara gazed up at Alice and smiled suddenly. “You could fix
Emily’s hair, Alice. I know you could!”
Alice looked hard at the doll and thought maybe she could. She
had watched Mama often enough. And she was the oldest girl, thirteen
now. Surely she should be able to fix a little doll for her sister. But she
had to ask Mama one thing.
“Wait right here for me, Clara,” she said. “Don’t move.”
Alice wasn’t sure why she had to follow Mama right then. The
question about how to tie on the corn-silk could wait, and she could fix
the doll later. But before she knew it she was running down the path.
The dew clung to Alice’s short dress and trousers as she ran along
the trail through the fields of tall grasses that connected their land with
the McDermotts’. Mama was far ahead, striding along, short hair
bobbing as she walked. Her Reform dress and cropped hair made her
look so different from the other mothers. Alice and Clara wore the same
kind of outfit, but long pantalettes weren’t so unusual on children. The
boys all wore the same old clothes, but Mama had cut off Alice’s long
dresses and made pants to go underneath. Mama said the Reform dress
was healthy and natural, just as God intended women’s clothing to be.
But some of the neighbours thought she was crazy.
Ever since Mama had started getting the Water Cure Journal
from New York and reading Dr. Trall’s big book everything had been
different. They never ate meat or pastry anymore and drank only cold
water and milk. Mama gave them special baths when they got sick
instead of sending for Doctor Smythe. And she always talked about
how living this way was God’s will. She even said that to people at
church, although most of them muttered and turned away. Most days
Alice didn’t mind it all, and when Mama showed her pictures of the
dress Reformer ladies in Boston wearing their bloomers, she even
felt sort of proud. Still, Alice was glad she didn’t have to go by the
Look Back
159
McShane place where the boys liked to holler “Trousers! Trousers!”
at her.
“Mama! Wait!” Alice called. But Mama was far ahead and didn’t
hear her.
Alice reached the McDermott’s yard just as Mama knocked on the
door.
Nancy McDermott opened it, wiping her hands on her apron and
looking amazed.
“Sarah Craig! What are you doing here? Aren’t you afraid of
taking the rash?”
“No,” said Mama firmly. “Disease and death belong to the Devil;
I do not!”
Alice shivered. For a moment, Mama was a fearless angel,
standing against all the evil in the world. She walked right into the
house and disappeared in the gloom. Nancy stood frozen in the
doorway. Alice saw surprise, then rage wash across her face. And
hurt? Yes, hurt. It was there only an instant; then she turned and
slammed the door.
Alice stood panting in the sun. She stared at the closed door,
wondering about Mama and the fever and the Devil. The house was
silent. Alice turned on her heel and ran home to Clara, her question
about the corn-silk forgotten.
A few days later Clara pushed her bowl away and laid her head on the
table.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Mama was at her side with a hand
on her forehead.
“I want Alice to eat my breakfast,” murmured Clara. Her golden
curls were darkened and plastered to her head.
Alice sucked in a quick breath. Fever.
The red patches appeared on Clara’s skin a couple of hours later.
By then she was in bed, stripped and covered up to her chin with a
light cotton sheet.
“Can I help tend her, Mama?” Alice asked.
160
Look Back
Mama nodded. “It’s time you learned the proper treatment of a
fever. First is the wet sheet pack.”
Mama wrung out a sheet in the basin of cool water. “Help me
wrap this around her,” said Mama. “It will draw out the noxious
matter in her blood and bring down the fever.”
They wrapped the wet sheet, then another dry sheet, around
Clara’s shivering body. The girl whimpered once, then lay silent.
“We’ll leave her in these for a couple of hours,” said Mama.
“Meantime, bathe her face and neck with the cool cloths.”
Alice sat there all day, wiping Clara’s hot face and coaxing her to
drink sips of water. Late in the afternoon, she helped Mama replace
the wet sheet with another. This time Clara didn’t make a sound. Alice
stared at her in alarm as Mama drew Clara’s limp arms inside the new
wet sheet.
“Don’t be afraid, Alice,” said Mama. “This deep sleep will refresh
and heal her.”
Around suppertime Frank came in and flopped down on the
threadbare rug in front of the stove.
“My head hurts,” he said, and fell asleep right there on the floor.
“May the Lord help us all,” sighed Papa.
The next morning Albert was sick, his face and arms bright red
with the rash. By noon Sandy was down with the fever too. Frank
didn’t seem too bad, but Clara’s face had swelled up and she looked
like a bullfrog with bulges underneath her ears.
“Is she going to die?” Alice asked Papa.
“No, pet,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. But Alice thought he
didn’t sound too sure.
“We’re following the most up-to-date treatment set out in Dr.
Trall’s Hydropathic Encyclopedia,” said Mama. “Dr. Trall has never lost
a patient to scarlet fever.”
Alice bathed Clara’s face and throat every few minutes. But no
matter what they did, her skin was as hot as ever. Why wasn’t the
water treatment working? Alice sat with Clara until her eyes hurt and
her head drooped. Papa picked her up and tucked her into the daybed
Look Back
161
across the room.
On the fourth morning Alice woke with a blinding headache.
She tried opening her eyes, but even the dim light from the cabin’s one
window seemed fearfully bright. Closing her eyes to slits, she rolled over
and slipped out of bed. A wave of dizziness slapped her on the head.
“Mama!” she cried.
Mama’s arms folded themselves around her and lifted her back
into bed. She looked up into Mama’s tired face.
“Mama,” she whispered. “I can’t get sick! I have to tend to Clara!”
“Hush now, darling. Papa and I will manage.” Mama said with
a sigh.
Alice drifted in and out of sleep. Days went by, maybe weeks; she
couldn’t tell. Sounds came in waves: Papa’s soft voice, the tinkling of
water in the basin, baby George’s cries, Mama scrubbing dishes in the
night, Papa’s snores. Sometimes she woke to find Mama or Papa
bathing her hot skin with water, and tried to smile. One day she
thought she saw Frank and Albert making buckwheat cakes for their
supper. They must be better, she thought. Mama was right; the water
cure really was the best treatment.
But one afternoon she heard Mama and Papa talking in low,
pinched voices.
“It is my own fault,” Mama said. “It was pride rather than faith
that drove me to visit Nancy so soon. It is my own folly that brought
sickness into this house.”
“What’s done is done,” said Papa. “We can only trust our
Heavenly Father now.”
“I cannot understand it. Dr. Trall writes in his book that he has
never lost a patient....”
“Dr. Trall is in New York, Sarah. He has a clean, bright clinic and
plenty of good food. He is not a crippled man scraping a living out of
the New Brunswick wilderness, pinching out a few grains of corn and
barley for his starving children....”
“Now, Joel....”
Alice tried desperately to listen. Which patient was about to be
162
Look Back
“lost”? She tried to use her fear as a rope to pull herself back, but soon
drifted away again.
The next morning Alice’s headache was gone. She climbed slowly
out of bed and stumbled to the far corner where Mama sat slumped
beside a figure in the bed. “How is she, Mama?”
“It has been a hand-to-hand struggle with death from the start.
The disease went to her ears and she is almost deaf, but she spoke to
me once this morning and seems better.”
Alice leaned closer. Clara’s rash had vanished but her hands were
moving slowly, scratching her head. Alice watched the little fingers
close around a clump of golden hair and pull it out. Clara laid the hair
on her chest and lifted her hand to her head again. Mama grasped it
gently and pulled it away. Clara’s eyes opened and she stared first at
Mama, then at Alice.
“Are you thirsty, Clara?” said Alice.
“No.” The voice was thin but clear.
“You’re going to get better now, aren’t you?” said Mama.
“No.”
Alice leaned forward. The bulges around Clara’s throat and ears
were gone, but her eyes looked far away as if she didn’t really see her
or Mama at all.
“You have to get better, Clara,” Alice said as a coldness closed
around her heart. “Remember our stories about Emily? You’ve got to
get better or Emily will be lonesome.”
“No.”
“Come now, Clara, you’re not going to leave us, are you?” asked
Mama.
“Yes.”
“No, Clara! I won’t let you die!” Alice grabbed Clara’s hands and
shook them.
“Hush now, Alice!” Mama said, drawing her away. “Pay her no
mind; she doesn’t know what she’s saying. Her fever is gone and she
is certainly getting better now.”
But as Alice watched by Clara’s bedside that day, she grew certain
Look Back
163
that Clara was already walking in a different world. Although her eyes
stayed open and bright, they didn’t seem to see the unfinished wooden
walls of the cabin or any of the worried faces that bent over her. Alice
gripped her small hand and told her the Emily stories one after another.
But even the one about Emily lost in the woods didn’t pull Clara back
from wherever she was.
Around midnight, Alice woke from a deep sleep to the sound of
sobbing. She sat up. It was Mama. She had never heard Mama cry
before. She leapt out of bed, shaking all over.
“She’s gone.” Tears streamed down Mama’s face.
Clara’s little face was calm, her far-seeing eyes closed. Papa held
her still hands in his.
“She looked into a world where there is no sickness, and knew
she was going there to stay,” sobbed Mama. “Oh, if only I had listened
to you, Joel!”
“No!” cried Alice, backing away. She felt as if her chest would
burst. She yanked the door open and ran sobbing out into the black
night, out into the darkness where the trees tore holes in the web of
high cold stars.
The breezes were cool on the hilltop that Mama called her “flower
garden.” Here were four small graves: baby Jimmy, smothered
accidentally; John Edwin, drowned in the pond three summers ago; a
nameless girl, born dead. And now, Clara Matilda, June 10, 1871–July
25, 1874. “In the arms of her heavenly father,” Papa had written on
the little wooden cross.
Alice came here often. She hated the house with its dirty pots and
dark corners. She hated the shouts of her brothers. She hated Mama’s
quick, busy movements.
Poor Emily sat on the grave among the wildflowers, bedraggled now
from the rain and dew. Her hair was even more tangled than before.
Alice knelt in the warm grass and drew the skein of corn-silk from
her apron pocket. Carefully she smoothed it out across her knee, then
reached for Emily. With the doll nestled in her lap, Alice slowly braided
164
Look Back
the new silk in with the old. Sunlight glinted on the pale hair and she
remembered how Clara’s hair always glowed when the sun caught it. Her
fingers kept weaving, in and out, bright hair and bright memory, until
the wind, the sun, the corn-silk and Clara’s hair were one, without end.
Historical Note
A wave of Health Reform swept across North America between the 1840s
and 1870s in reaction to doctors’ tendencies to prescribe large doses of
alcohol or drugs as cures for largely misunderstood diseases. Some
Reformers subscribed to a popular type of alternative medicine called the
“water cure,” which maintained that pure water could cure almost any
disease. These Reformers also believed that women should wear clothing
that was loose and practical to permit better circulation. Dr. Russell
Thatcher Trall’s The Hydropathic Encyclopedia contained information on
the water cure and was used by thousands in treating sickness at home.
Some Protestant Christians saw the method as “natural” and therefore part
of “God’s will” while disease was an evil force controlled by the Devil.
Thus, more fanatical health reformers saw the struggle against disease
as a kind of holy crusade. Although attempts to heal with water failed,
a doctor of the day had no better cure for scarlet fever.
Joanne Findon’s great-grandmother was a water cure fanatic in her
youth, and lost two of her youngest children to scarlet fever. She recorded
her extreme behaviour in the hope that her children would learn from her
mistakes.
Activities
1.
In a group of four, define foreshadowing.
Choose one example of foreshadowing
to share with the class. Explain what
effect the foreshadowing has on the
development of the story.
2. Write a character sketch of Clara’s mother.
Be sure to show how events contribute to
the development of her character.
3. What is your opinion of Clara’s mother?
Make a timeline to show your reaction to
her at key events in the plot. Do you think
your opinion would be different if you
were living at her time, when much less
was known about illnesses and medicine
in general? Discuss as a class.
Look Back
165
Miners’ Houses, Glace Bay
Art Gallery of Ontario
166
Look Back
Lawren Harris
Focus Your Learning
Examining this visual will help you:
n ask focussed questions to further your
understanding
n summarize your personal viewpoint
n compare your views with those of others
Activities
1.
Write four questions you would like to ask a miner from
this scene about his daily life.
2. Record your first impression of the mood of this
painting. Justify your response with specific references
to colour, line, emphasis, and composition.
3. Work in a small group to develop an alternative title for
this painting. Be prepared to present your title, and the
reasons for it, to your class.
Look Back
167
The
Revenge
of the
Iron
Chink
by Simon Ng
PA U L Y E E
In the old days, all up and down the west
coast of the New World, at the mouths of
Focus Your Learning
Reading this short story will help you:
n connect your understanding of
technology with events in the text
n compare your own viewpoints
with others
168
Look Back
mighty rivers, scores of fish canneries, bigger than
barns, sat perched over the water. When the tide went
out, the canneries looked like huge caterpillars—long
rusty roofs of corrugated tin-covered plank board bodies
that stretched over hundreds of stilt-like legs. The smell
of salt and fish was everywhere, and the shrill caws of
seagulls filled the air.
The canneries stayed empty during the winter, but
in the spring crews of Chinese workers would arrive.
They would throw open the creaky doors, brush away the cobwebs
and start making thousands of tin cans. When the morning sun cut
through the windows and lit the wall of waiting cans, the light would
be as blinding as a curtain of diamonds.
Come summer, fishermen would sail forth and fling dark nets out
to take the salmon from the sea. Back at the cannery, the Chinese
would clean the fish and fill the cans with meat. The cans would be
cooked and then shipped off to faraway markets.
Lee Jim was a boss in one such cannery. He had a crew of
workers and, because he spoke English, he couId translate the owner’s
orders to the men. When a boatload of fish came in, he could guess
the exact number of cans that they would need with just one quick
glance. Lee Jim watched that the fresh fish stayed cool and checked
that nothing was wasted. When the butchers’ knives got dull, he
would sharpen them. So, even though Lee Jim was a boss, all the
workers respected him.
At the cookhouse, though, Lee Jim ate alone. His workers
crowded around tables and played card games late into the night. Lee
Jim longed to laugh and joke with them, but he could not. Company
rules said that boss men could not mix with the workers.
Every spring, Lee Jim brought his same old crew to the cannery.
They knew the work so well that the owner didn’t have to watch
them. He was a fat little man who wore a tall hat and puffed on cigars.
The workers called him Chimney Head. He would walk through the
cannery and never look at the men, as if the smell of fish bothered
him. He was always hidden inside his office, adding columns of
numbers and counting his money.
Then Chimney Head began to change things in the cannery. To
speed up the assembly line, he installed conveyor belts. To make the tin
cans more quickly, he brought in a machine that whirred and clicked
like a clock. Another machine jammed meat into cans as fast as fifty
hands. Every year, some new improvement would be introduced.
Lee Jim’s workers muttered nervously. They were working as
hard as they could, yet Chimney Head was not happy. And each year,
Look Back
169
the crew became a little bit smaller because the machines took the
men’s places.
One busy morning, a brand-new machine was rolled onto the
cannery floor. The machine was called the Iron Chink. Great clanking
gears and sharp shiny blades spun and flashed in it. It was taller
than any man and weighed over two tons. The Iron Chink could
go all day and all night without stopping. It did the work of thirty
trained butchers.
Chimney Head rubbed his fat hands in great excitement. Now
he could can fish faster and more cheaply than ever before. And he
was especially happy because he had been invited to send a case of
fish to the Queen of England. The gift would display the province’s
fine salmon, as well as the high quality of the Iron Chink’s work.
Finally Chimney Head would be known as the fastest canner on the
west coast.
Chimney Head stood up on a box and cleared his throat noisily:
“I don’t need you anymore,” he announced to the workers. “Next year
I can hire one or two men to run the Iron Chink, and it will do all the
work. After tomorrow you can all pack your bags and leave on the
next steamer. And you, Lee Jim, you can go, too. I don’t need you
anymore, either.”
That night, the cookhouse was very quiet. The men wondered
where they would find jobs. How would their families eat? “If only
there was something we could do,” they muttered.
Lee Jim sat with them, feeling angry and cheated. Hadn’t he
worked for Chimney Head for over twenty years? Hadn’t he saved the
cannery both time and money by being extra careful? And had he ever
been sick on the job? No!
The next day the final load of salmon arrived. The workers
watched as the Iron Chink gobbled up the fish. The belts whirred,
the wheels turned, and the gears zipped as smooth as ocean waves
sliding over the sandy beach. The fish flew by and the tin cans were
sealed like magic. Lee Jim scurried about as usual to make sure that
everything ran smoothly. Finally, the cases were stacked up, and
Chimney Head passed out the last pay envelopes.
170
Look Back
The steamer sounded its whistle at the dock, and the workers ran
to board the ship. Lee Jim was the last to leave.
As Chimney Head came by, Lee Jim held up his hands. Chimney
Head saw that they were wrapped in bloody bandages.
“What happened to you, Lee Jim?” he cried.
Lee Jim stood up straight and tall. “I wanted to send a gift to the
Queen, too. In two of the tins, she will find my baby fingers! I think
she will find them as sweet as any salmon meat we have canned!”
The workers on the ship laughed and cheered from the railing.
And before Chimney Head could say anything, Lee Jim had turned
and jumped onto the boat.
Chimney Head sputtered in anger. He cursed and stamped his feet
and threw his hat into the water, but there was nothing he could do.
As the steamer chugged away, the workers threw their arms
around Lee Jim. They punched him playfully and told him, “You
showed Chimney Head a thing or two! You’re a brave man! Welcome
to the working life, Lee Jim!”
Lee Jim looked around and grinned. Then he beckoned to his
workers. “Gather closely,” he whispered. “I have something to show
you.”
With his teeth, he tugged at the bandages and began to unwind
them. Some of the men moved back as the red colour deepened on the
long strips that rolled off Lee Jim’s hands. But when he got to the end,
there were his baby fingers, still attached to his hands, as pink and
healthy as any man’s!
Activities
1.
With a partner, brainstorm the effects of
new technology in the workplace. Why
are new machines usually introduced into
factories or offices? What sometimes
happens once they are operating? Record
your findings in a chart showing the
advantages and disadvantages of new
technology in the workplace.
2. In small groups, discuss Lee Jim’s act of
revenge. Do you think it was fair? What
did Lee Jim achieve from it? What other
steps might he have been able to take to
solve his problems? Present your
conclusions to the class.
Look Back
171
Langston Hughes
Focus Your Learning
Studying these poems will help you:
n summarize the message of the
texts
n appreciate poetic techniques
n discuss your opinion in a group
n write a poem
Douglass was someone who,
Had he walked with wary foot
And frightened tread,
From very indecision
Might be dead,
Might have lost his soul,
But instead decided to be bold
And capture every street
On which he set his feet,
To route each path
Toward freedom’s goal,
To make each highway
Choose his compass’ choice,
To all the world cried,
Hear my voice!...
Oh, to be a beast, a bird,
Anything but a slave! he said.
Who would be free
Themselves must strike
The first blow, he said.
He died in 1895.
He is not dead.
172
Look Back
John Robert Colombo
Children, when was
Louis Riel born,
asks the teacher.
A thousand years ago, the children answer.
A hundred years ago, the children answer.
Last year, the children answer.
No one knows.
Children, what did
Louis Riel do,
asks the teacher.
Won a war, the children answer.
Lost a war, the children answer.
No one knows.
Our neighbour had a dog
called Louis,
replies one of the children.
Our neighbour used to beat him up
and the dog died of hunger
a year ago.
Now all the children feel sorry
for Louis.
Look Back
173
Activities
1.
As a class, discuss what you learn about Frederick
Douglass and Louis Riel from these poems. Take
notes of all the facts you gather during the
discussion.
2. Hughes claims that Douglass “is not dead.” What
does he mean by this? Can the same claim be
made for Louis Riel? Why or why not? Give your
views in a short answer response.
3. Work in small groups to read the two poems
aloud. List the ways in which each poet uses
language and techniques such as rhythm,
rhyme, and repetition. Then discuss how these
techniques reinforce the message of the poem.
Be prepared to present your group’s conclusions
to the class.
4. Write your own poem honouring a famous
historical figure of your choice. Before you begin,
you will need to research, briefly, the life of your
subject. Give your teacher a copy of your research
notes and reference documentation together with
your poem.
174
Look Back
Buffy Sainte-Marie
He’s five foot two and he’s six feet four,
he fights with missiles and with spears,
He’s all of thirty-one and he’s only seventeen,
he’s been a soldier for a thousand years.
He’s a Catholic, a Hindu, an Atheist, a Jain,
a Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew,
And he knows he shouldn’t kill and he knows he always will
kill you for me, my friend, and me for you;
And he’s fighting for Canada, he’s fighting for France,
he’s fighting for the U.S.A.,
Focus Your Learning
Reading these song lyrics
will help you:
n express your own
opinions on an issue
n identify allusions and
explain how they
contribute to text
n write a résumé
n determine criteria for
evaluating protest
songs
And he’s fighting for the Russians and he’s fighting for Japan,
and he thinks we’ll put an end to war that way.
And he’s fighting for democracy, he’s fighting for the Reds,
he says it’s for the peace of all,
He’s the one who must decide who’s to live and who’s to die,
and he never sees the writing on the wall.
Look Back
175
But without him how would Hitler have condemned him at Dachau,
without him Caesar would have stood alone,
He’s the one who gives his body as a weapon of the war,
and without him all this killing can’t go on.
He’s the Universal Soldier and he really is to blame,
his orders come from far away no more,
They come from him and you and me, and, brothers can’t you see,
This is not the way we put an end to war.
Activities
1.
Work in a small group to list all the evidence in the song
that suggests the Universal Soldier is to blame for war.
Then make a list of at least three items under the title
“This is the way we put an end to war.” Post your list on
the bulletin board.
2. An allusion is a reference to a specific object, place,
person, or event. List some of the allusions in these
song lyrics. Why do you think Buffy Sainte-Marie uses
allusions to such a broad range of people and places?
3. Write the résumé of the Universal Soldier. Be sure to
use résumé format, listing the soldier’s skills, past
experience, and future goals.
4. Find some other songs of protest and bring them in for
your class to hear. As a class, draw up a list of criteria
for evaluating protest songs. Then choose the song that
you think is most effective, based on these criteria.
176
Look Back
Douglas Fetherling
“Man thrives where angels die of ecstasy
and pigs die of disgust”
KENNETH REXROTH
Focus Your Learning
n identify and explain point of view
n identify and explain the use of an epigraph
n write in role
Look Back
177
The need to explore
is the reason they give
for coming
with lanterns to push back the dark
clothes and helmets to keep away the sun
weapons to kill with delight
what presumes to kill only for safety
or food—
all things explorers use
to experience without learning
as they trample through our land
And we are eager to assist them
They move too quickly
to notice life best viewed
standing still, but push on
without resistance
conquering what they have just discovered
and we have known all along
We who are not asked,
who curiously follow
Soon they will return to
wherever it is they are from
talking as though they invented
178
Look Back
Columbus’s Indian by George Littlechild
what we show them now
and encouraging others to come
In truth they invent only new names
never content with the old ones we use
We who are only too willing to help
Activities
1.
In a short-answer response, explain who
is speaking in this poem and describe
the speaker’s tone. Use quotations from
the poem to support your view.
2. An epigraph is a quotation at the start
of a text. As a class, discuss what you
think the purpose of the epigraph is.
How does its tone compare with the
tone of the speaker in the poem? How
does the epigraph affect the way you
respond to the poem?
3. Make a comparison chart contrasting
the values expressed by the explorers
with those of the Natives. Then, in the
role of an explorer, write a report on
your journey. Base your report on the
values you have determined in your
chart and on the predictions made in
the poem.
Look Back
179
The movie poster refers to
the movie Frankenstein
without ever showing an
image of the monster’s
face. Design your own movie
poster about a horror film
or book that communicates
the horror without using
any of the usual horror
images (knives, blood,
frightening faces).
Columbia Tristar Motion Picture Group
180
Look Back
Ken Keobke, City University of Hong Kong
Read the description of Frankenstein’s monster in Mary
Shelley’s original novel and draw your interpretation
of that description. You may wish to compare your
completed work with the images submitted
to the Frankenstein Mail Art Exhibit
on the Internet.
Do you agree that “imagination
rules the world”? If not, what do
you think does? Discuss as a
group.
Read the last line of the poem
“Frederick Douglass.” How does this
line apply to William Lyon Mackenzie or
Jeanne Mance? Do a bit of research
to find out more about one of these
individuals.
William Lyon Mackenzie 1795–1861
Born and educated in Dundee, Scotland, this famous radical reformer, writer, and
publisher came to Canada in 1820, and at Queenston founded the influential
newspaper, The Colonial Advocate, in 1824. Later that year he moved the paper to
York (Toronto). In 1826, friends of the provincial oligarchy, which he had often
attacked, retaliated by destroying his press. Mackenzie, Upper Canada’s leading
radical, was elected to the provincial parliament in 1828, became Toronto’s first
mayor in 1834, and was the leader of the ill-fated Rebellion of 1837. He fled to the
United States, where he remained until permitted to return in 1849. Mackenzie
became a member of the Canadian parliament (1851–1858), although with
diminished political influence. He is buried in Toronto.
Look Back
181
Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
R E T O L D B Y S T E V E PA R K E R
Source: Edward Von Sloan, Universal/MPTV
Focus Your Learning
Reading this retelling of
a historical horror
classic will help you:
n examine the plot of a
horror tale
n explore the theme of
technology
182
Look Back
It is a winter day in the late 18th century, and St.
Petersburg is thick with snow.
Shadowy figures scurry through the streets, keeping their heads
low as the cold northern breeze swirls around them. Among these
huddled characters, one man stands tall, laughing at the wind.
Wouldn’t you, if you had just inherited a fortune?
With this money, Robert Walton was pursuing his dream—to
travel to the North Pole. No human feet had ever trod this fabled
place, where the sun never sets and a wondrous power attracts the
needle of the navigator’s compass. Some believe that snow and frost
are banished there, and that the pole is a region of amazing beauty
and wonders.
Walton had spent the last six years preparing for this quest,
enduring cold, hunger, and other hardships on whaling expeditions in
the northern seas. Now he was heading north, to the port of Archangel,
to hire a ship and crew. Throughout his journey, he wrote to his sister,
Margaret Saville, who was back in England. This is his story—a tale of
discovery, obsession, and monstrous fear...
During the month of June, Walton set sail to begin his search for
the pole. Fair winds swept his ship safely past the giant icebergs of
the northern seas, and his heart beat faster with each passing day.
But Walton felt terribly alone—not one of his crew seemed to share
his dream.
Two months into the voyage, and hundreds of miles from port, a
thick fog descended. Overnight, a sea of ice closed in around the ship,
leaving no escape from its icy jaws. By midday, however, the fog began
to clear, revealing an astonishing sight. A gigantic human figure drove
a dog sled at great speed over the ice. It swept past the ship, then
disappeared into the distance. How could this be, so far from land?
The next day, the sailors found another dog sled, its occupant
almost frozen to death. He was quickly brought on board, but for days
lay weak and silent.
Finally, struggling to speak, the stranger whispered, “I am Victor
Frankenstein, and before I die, I must tell you how I came to be in this
terrible place...”
Victor told Walton of his happy childhood in Geneva with his
caring father and mother. When he was four years old, his parents
adopted a baby girl, who became his greatly loved sister, Elizabeth.
As a young boy, Victor thirsted for knowledge, and became
obsessed with the search for the secrets of heaven and earth. Deep
into the night he would read the works of the alchemists, who
aimed to turn iron into gold and to discover the secret of eternal
Look Back
183
youth. At school, he became best friends with a fellow student,
Henry Clerval.
One night, a huge thunderstorm erupted in the sky. Victor watched
from the door of the family house, wondering at the violence of the
storm. He saw a huge lightning bolt snake through the sky toward the
ground, where it struck an oak tree in the yard. This awesome display of
electrical power convinced him that he was wasting his time on the
alchemists. He was fifteen years old.
From now on, he would study the secrets of electricity and the
physical world.
When Victor turned 17, his parents decided he should go to
Ingolstadt University in Germany. But on the day of his departure, his
adopted sister Elizabeth caught scarlet fever. Nursed by his mother, she
recovered. But his mother contracted the disease herself, and passed
away. Victor was heartbroken. “Why are those dear to us taken away,”
he cried. “Is there no way to bring them back?”
After his mother’s funeral, Victor left for Ingolstadt. He took an
instant dislike to Krempe, his professor of natural philosophy, who
hated the alchemists and called their work “nonsense.” Krempe was
also a squat and ugly man, and this annoyed Victor. He much preferred
his professor of chemistry, Waldman, who was pleasant and kind
looking. “The old alchemists may have proved nothing,” Waldman
said, “but they showed the way to the heavens, penetrating the tiniest
recesses of nature in their quest for knowledge.”
Victor was fascinated by these comments, and as he lay awake
one night, he vowed to make the ultimate discovery, life itself!
As the weeks passed, Frankenstein’s rapid progress amazed his
professors. He spent every waking hour learning all he could from
them, even from Krempe, who offered sensible advice. In his secret
quest, Victor became interested in anatomy and physiology—the
structure and workings of the human body. What makes a body live?
To solve the mysteries of life, Frankenstein first studied death.
In the dead of night, he visited lonely graveyards and dug up bodies, to
see how the flesh rotted away and was consumed by worms. Despite
184
Look Back
his horror with this work, Victor drove himself on, neglecting his
friends, his appearance, and his health.
It was in a sudden and brilliant flash of genius that Victor finally
realized the secret of life and how to make it. “But,” said Frankenstein
as he told his story to Walton, “I cannot reveal the secret of life. When
I have finished, you will know why.”
Driven by obsession, Frankenstein began to build a human body,
to which he would give the gift of life.
He knew that many body parts were small and difficult to work on.
So he decided to make his creation eight feet tall, as this meant he could
work with larger parts. Now when he visited graveyards, he didn’t just
look at bodies, he sawed parts off them! Returning with the bloody bags
to his attic room, he worked all night, as though in a feverish trance.
For two years, Frankenstein slaved away, his room piled high with
strange devices and chemicals. Little by little, he perfected his methods,
piece by piece, his creation took shape.
One stormy November night, at one o’clock in the morning, the
rain beat against the attic window, and the lightning flashed above.
Frankenstein looked at the huge body, his body tingling with
anticipation. Finally, he was ready to do something that only God had
done before—create life...
The thunder burst with a terrific crash, and a bolt of lightning
struck the roof. Rain and wind swept the attic, blowing out the candles
and knocking Victor to the ground. In the darkness, something stirred.
The lightning flashed again—and Victor stared into the eyes of his
breathing, moving creation. Then, at the moment of his great triumph,
he came to his senses.
He had tried to make the monster beautiful, but looking now, he
found it to be repulsive. Filled with horror, he ran away to hide in his
room. Eventually, he slumped into restless sleep, dreaming terrible
nightmares about the monster, his sister Elizabeth, his dead mother,
and slithering worms.
He awoke to see the monster standing there, grinning and
holding out its hand. Frankenstein escaped and ran as fast as he
Look Back
185
could. After a night wandering the streets, he returned to the attic, to
find his friend Henry Clerval outside. Frankenstein opened the door.
The monster was gone...!
Finally exhausted by his traumatic work, Frankenstein sank into a
fever. With Henry’s care, he recovered in time to hear happy news of
his family in Geneva. “We have adopted another girl, Justine,” wrote
Elizabeth, “so now you have two sisters!”
All the while, Frankenstein said nothing about his creation. But
just when thoughts of the monster were fading, a letter arrived from
his father. Victor’s brother William had been murdered! The poor boy
had been strangled, and the portrait of his mother, which he always
wore around his neck, had been stolen.
Frankenstein rushed to Geneva. As he stood on the spot of his
brother’s murder, Victor felt something behind him. He turned, to see a
huge figure lurking in the trees. Was this the monster? And could it have
murdered his brother? Victor screamed in rage, but the monster ran off...
Frankenstein reached home to find that his adopted sister Justine
had been arrested. The portrait missing from little William’s body had
been found in her pocket! As she stood in court, Victor suffered a
living hell. He knew her to be innocent, but who would believe in
his monster? Justine was found guilty, and the day she was hanged,
Victor wept tears of regret.
Victor decided to take a break in the lovely mountain scenery of
Chamonix, France. He climbed Montanvert for the beautiful view, but
as he rested on a rock, a huge figure swept across the icy crags. It was
the monster again!
The monster spoke, ignoring Victor’s rage. “If you look deep into
my soul, you will see that I am good and kind, but looking like this, I
am hated and rejected by people. Because of you, I live a cold,
miserable life in remote mountains and caves.
“You are my creator, lord and king. If you can carry out just one
vital task, I will leave you alone forever.
“But first, hear my tale,” said the monster. “After you created me,
I lived wild in the forests near Ingolstadt. I learned to eat and drink,
186
Look Back
and identify trees and animals. But whenever I approached a village,
people drove me away. My only refuge was the outhouse of a cottage.
“Through a hole in the wall I could see and hear a man, Felix,
his aged father, and a young woman called Safie. She had come from
Turkey, so Felix taught her the local language and customs and told
her about history, society, and good and evil. As she learned, so did
I. I found some old books and taught myself to read. Watching Felix
and Safie, I also learned what love is.
“Among the books was a Bible, and I read how God made Adam—
the perfect man. But when I looked at my face in the water, I thought
my creator must be the devil himself!
“When I fled from your laboratory, I took a coat and later, I found
your notes in the pocket. I knew then,” said the monster, “that you
were my father, who made me so hideous that even you could not
bear to look at me!
“I approached the old man in the cottage. He was blind, so spoke
kindly to me. But when Felix and the others returned, they saw my
foul appearance. They beat me with sticks and, for the first time,
feelings of hatred filled my heart. I waited until they had gone for a
walk, then set fire to the straw I had gathered. In minutes, the cottage
was engulfed in flames. I danced in joy as it burned to the ground.
“I learned from your notes that you lived in Geneva. On the way
there, I saw a young girl slip and fall into a fast-flowing river. I rescued
her, but the only reward I got was a gunshot wound. Nursing my
injury, I swore revenge on all mankind.
“I came to Geneva to search for my maker. I hoped that a young
child might accept my appearance, but as I came near a boy, he
screamed that his father, Mr. Frankenstein, would rescue him. I knew
this child must be your relative, and saw an opportunity to get my
revenge. In a blind fury, I grabbed his throat and lifted him off the
ground. He wriggled in agony, but my powerful hands squeezed the
life from his helpless body.
“When I found a locket around the boy’s neck, I took it, and
went in search of a hiding place. I eventually came to an empty barn,
Source: Roman Freulich, Universal/MPTV
Look Back
187
where I found a woman asleep. She looked so innocent as she lay
there in the hay. So I placed the locket in her dress, knowing she
would be blamed for the boy’s murder. For the next few days, I
haunted the murder spot, but once I knew that you had returned,
I came to the mountains, ready with my request.” Victor shuddered
as Justine’s innocence was revealed, but the monster continued,
“My wish is this: Create a female monster, as hideous as I am, to
be my companion. We will live wild in South America, far from
humankind.”
After much argument, Frankenstein agreed. The monster left,
saying it would watch him constantly. Victor returned to Geneva,
where his father suggested that he should marry Elizabeth. He had
always loved his adopted sister, so he agreed, but knew he must first
complete his gruesome task.
So he travelled to England, collecting parts for the female monster—
an arm here, a leg there. Then, heading north, he rented a cottage on the
remote Orkney islands. But his nightmare had only just begun...
Frankenstein sweated through days and nights, slicing and
stitching the parts that would form the female monster. But his blood
ran cold at the thought of this new creation. Would it agree to be the
partner of the male monster? If the pair went to South America, could
they start a new breed that would destroy humankind?
As Frankenstein sat in his laboratory, he sensed that someone
was watching. He looked up, and his eyes met the ghastly face of the
monster, pressed against the window. Trembling with passion, Victor
ripped apart the half-finished monster. Frankenstein had broken his
promise—and the monster would be alone forever. With a bloodcurdling howl, it smashed the cottage door with a single blow.
Terrified but resolute, Victor refused to continue his task. “If that is
your decision,” said the monster, “so be it. But remember, I shall be
with you on your wedding night.”
The next day, Victor got a note from Henry, asking to meet him in
Scotland. He set off in his boat, and far from land, threw the female
monster’s remains into the sea.
188
Look Back
With the gentle rocking of the boat, Victor drifted asleep. When
he awoke, the breeze had changed direction, and he found himself
being blown toward a foreign shore. The moment he landed, he was
surrounded by a hostile group of people. One man spoke up, “You are
in Ireland, Sir, and I am arresting you for murder.” Murder! Victor was
shown the body of a strangled man. As the sheet was drawn back, he
gasped in horror—it was his friend, Henry Clerval!
Frankenstein knew his monster had caused the deaths of William,
Justine, and now Henry, and he fainted in shock. After two months he
lay in a prison bed in the grip of a fever. At his trial, the jury decided
that Victor was innocent of Henry’s murder, and he returned to
Geneva to await his wedding day. The happiest day of his life?
But the monster would keep his promise. That night, Victor
armed himself with pistols to kill the fiend—or be killed. Elizabeth
waited in the bedroom. The hours passed by when suddenly, a blood
curdling scream filled the air. Victor rushed into the bedroom, to find
his beloved Elizabeth on the bed, strangled...
Frankenstein looked up from his dead wife, to see the monster’s
grinning face at the window, its once sad features twisted into a
mask of evil. Victor fired his pistol, but the shot whistled past the
monster’s ear. The beast raced away, laughing as it went, and
plunged into the lake.
The sound of the pistol brought servants rushing to Victor’s side,
but the monster had vanished. The news of Elizabeth’s death proved
too much for the weak heart of Victor’s father, and he died a few days
later. Though Victor’s heart was broken, one thought ruled his mind—
death to the monster!
The next day, he visited the graves of his murdered family—and
there was the hideous ogre, challenging him to follow. The chase had
begun.
Victor pursued the creature from the Rhône to the Mediterranean,
from the Black Sea to Russia. All the while, it taunted him with
messages left on trees, leading him to the icy north. There he would
feel the cold, hunger, and loneliness it had endured.
Look Back
189
The final message left by the monster included these words:
“Prepare! Wrap yourself in furs, for we shall soon enter upon a journey
where your sufferings will satisfy my eternal hatred.” A few weeks
later, having obtained a sled and dogs, Frankenstein reached a small
town on the northern shore of Russia. The night before his arrival, a
gigantic monster had terrified the local people, stolen food, and headed
out to the ice-covered ocean. Frankenstein followed it for three weeks,
consumed with rage. He even sighted the monster, but the ice broke
up, and he became stranded on a small iceberg.
“Now that you have heard my story,” said Frankenstein to
Walton, “swear to me that you will seek out the monster and kill
him.” At that moment, the first mate ran into the cabin, his face a
picture of fear. “Captain, if the ice does break, for all our sakes, forget
your quest to find the North Pole and sail south instead.” But Walton
simply replied, “Never...”
As the days passed, Frankenstein became weaker and weaker.
The ice held tight, and the crew again asked that the ship turn south.
This time, Frankenstein answered, “Are you so easily turned from your
glorious expedition? Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock.
Return as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who do not
know what it is to turn their backs on the foe.” Frankenstein spoke
with such passion that the crew was silenced. But Walton had learned
from Frankenstein the evils that obsession could bring, and gave in to
the crew’s demands.
The next evening, after clinging to life for many days, Victor
Frankenstein died. Walton had listened to his incredible story—and
believed it. Later that night, as he wrote to his sister Margaret, Walton
heard what sounded like a human voice in Victor’s cabin.
When he entered the cabin he saw a huge figure crouched over
Victor’s body—the monster!
The monster looked at Walton, paused, then turned again toward
the lifeless form of its creator, weeping tears of remorse and guilt.
Seeing this, fear gave way to anger in Walton’s heart: “How dare you
weep, when it you who killed Frankenstein.”
190
Look Back
“I have never had sympathy from any man,” replied the monster,
“and I do not expect it from you. But it was only my loneliness that
drove me to kill the lovely and the helpless. How could Victor marry
Elizabeth, yet not give me the same happiness by making a partner for
me? But fear not, for I shall leave your vessel and seek the farthest
northern point of the world, build a funeral fire, and burn in agony for
my terrible sins.”
Then the giant being sprang from the cabin window onto an
iceberg near the vessel, and was swept away into the darkness by the
icy currents.
Historical Note
Frankenstein was written by Mary Shelley in 1816, when she was just
eighteen years old. The story resulted from a game among Mary and her
friends, who were on vacation near Geneva, Switzerland.
As the weather was stormy, the friends warmed themselves by a
blazing log fire, telling tales of the supernatural. Each agreed to write a
story in “playful imitation” of the old ghost stories. Mary was the only
one to finish, excited by her awful nightmares. And what a story it was!
Activities
1.
Create a timeline of the events of the Frankenstein story. Choose
one key point on the timeline at which events could have taken a
different turn. Make an alternative timeline showing how events
would have been different. Post your timelines for the class to view.
2. Mary Shelley wrote this story during the industrial revolution, a time
when great advances were being made in technology. With a partner,
discuss in what ways Shelley’s story might be a comment on her
time. Then prepare your own view of the impact of technology, or
any one aspect of technology, in our time. Either write a story or
prepare a comic strip or cartoon.
Look Back
191
Robert Frost
Always—I tell you this they learned—
Always at night when they returned
To the lonely house from far away
To lamps unlighted and fire gone grey,
They learned to rattle the lock and key
To give whatever might chance to be
Warning and time to be off in flight:
And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
They learned to leave the house-door wide
Until they had lit the lamp inside.
Focus Your Learning
Reading these poems will help you:
n present a choral reading
n compare and contrast poems
n revise and evaluate your work
n create a piece of artwork
interpreting text
Les Fétiches by Lois M. Jones, National Museum of American Art,
Washington, DC/Art Resource NY
192
Look Back
Emily Brontë
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go
Activities
1.
In a group, prepare a choral reading of one of these two poems
to present to the class.
2. Write a short response of at least three paragraphs,
comparing and contrasting these two poems. Explain which
of these poems you prefer and why. Use a checklist to revise
your own work and to evaluate that of a partner.
3. Create a piece of art in a medium of your choice that
communicates the feelings of either poet about the night.
Look Back
193
War
the day the
came to
J U L I A N B E LT R A M E
194 Look Back
Halifax
Focus Your Learning
n use a diagram or model to increase your
understanding
n prepare a news report
n make a short speech to celebrate a special
occasion
In 1917, during World War I,
a disaster occurred in the
harbour of Halifax, Nova
Scotia. When a French ship
carrying highly sensitive
explosives collided with
a Norwegian ship, the
resulting blast rocked
the world.
alifax—the doomed ships steamed
unwaveringly toward collision, like
two trains on the same narrow track.
Or so it seemed to Barbara Orr, gazing
out her front window at the morning traffic
in the harbour below.
For the six Orr children, Dec. 6, 1917, was
a red-letter day. One had come down with
measles, so all were excused from school.
The view from the front window was
unimpeded and, on this fateful morning, a
fiery sun painted the harbour in shimmering
gold. Barbara could count ships all day.
But there was something odd about these
two ships.
One, moving slowly from Barbara’s right
toward the Bedford basin, at the far end of
H
Look Back
195
the channel, hugged the Dartmouth coast
as if crowded out of the channel by bigger
ships.
The second, a larger, swifter vessel with
the large red letters BELGIAN RELIEF on
its white side, was obviously coming from
the basin and heading to Halifax harbour
proper, and then to open sea. Strangely, it
was cutting across the centre of the
channel, making straight for the other
ship.
From about two kilometres away, it did
not seem so much a collision as a love
peck. But within seconds, Barbara could
see a spiralling ribbon of black smoke
rising from the front of the smaller ship
and she knew it must have been quite a
smack.
“They looked as if they were deliberately
trying to run into each other,” the 13-yearold excitedly told her mother, Annie.
It didn’t take much convincing for
Barbara and two younger brothers to
hound Annie into letting them go down to
the shore to watch the fire. A lot of people
in Halifax’s working-class north end had a
similar notion.
It was shortly after 8:30 a.m. and the
sight of the ship, now burning out of control
and drifting toward the shore, drew many
curious onlookers, including her father,
Samuel.
Barbara was so excited about what the
morning would offer—fire, men scrambling
196
Look Back
to put it out, the ships that were gravitating
toward the emergency—that she just had to
share it with her friend.
“I’ll come down in a few minutes,” she
told her brother.
Barbara does not remember whether she
had time to find her friend. She remembers
a loud roar, somersaulting in the air, and
landing with a jolt more than 30 metres
away. She was covered with oil and soot;
her face stung with cuts. She felt a searing
pain in her foot and saw her tightly laced
boot was gone.
Barbara’s first thought was for her
home, but she could not move. Her foot,
which had been crushed by her tumble,
ached with pain.
Slowly, she crawled a few metres so she
could see where her home had been, but
she saw only a black wall of smoke.
She cried out for help, but everyone was
scurrying about, paying no attention to her.
It took her an unbearably long time to crawl
to her aunt’s home on Gottingen Street.
Barbara doesn’t remember when she
was taken to Camp Hill hospital. She
remembers being loaded on to the Boutilier
fishwagon, used to pick up the wounded.
Then everything was fine again.
When Robert Oppenheimer, head of the
U.S. Manhattan Project that created the
atomic bomb, wanted to visualize what
destructive powers would be unleashed by
his new weapon, he studied the devastation
of the Halifax explosion.
No better model existed. The explosion
was the single greatest man-made detonation
in history, not bettered until Oppenheimer’s
own invention was dropped on Hiroshima.
The destruction, while confined to a
smaller area and without the curse of
radiation, was similar to Hiroshima.
In all, between 2000 and 3000 people
perished, some vanished into thin air so
that their deaths, their identities and even
the knowledge of their existence remains a
mystery today. More than 10 000 were
injured, 3000 horribly enough to require
extensive hospitalization. About 200 were
blinded.
The tragedy would forever change
Halifax’s topography. More than 12 000
buildings within a 25-km radius were
seriously damaged, 1600 destroyed.
It really did seem, as Barbara Orr told her
mother, as if the two ships set out to collide
or as if fate had decreed Canada would not
be spared direct knowledge of the savagery
of the European conflict.
A series of coincidences, human error
and unfathomable decisions from previously
capable and experienced sailors converged
in one place and time. The sum of these
parts was destruction of a kind few would
have guessed possible.
It was unexpected that Capt. Aime Le
Medec, the 38-year-old commander of the
French freighter Mont Blanc, should find
himself at the mouth of Halifax harbour on
the morning of Dec. 6, 1917.
He had been set to sail for France
from New York in late November. But his
munitions ship, really a glorified tug on its
last sea legs, could muster at most eight
Look Back
197
knots and, hence, would have represented
a danger to the small convoy setting out
from New York.
The convoy would be travelling at about
13 knots, Le Medec was told, but he might
be able to hitch on to an escort that would
protect the Mont Blanc from marauding
German U-boats if he were to join a larger
convoy, amassing in Halifax.
The Mont Blanc was singularly in need of
protection. Carrying 2300 tonnes of picric
acid—a sensitive explosive agent more
destructive than TNT—200 tonnes of TNT,
35 tonnes of benzole, and 10 tonnes of gun
cotton, it made an alluring target.
And so it was that Le Medec found
himself awaiting permission to enter the
harbour as a bright sun rose on the
starboard side.
What put Norwegian Capt. Haakon From
in the harbour that morning was a bit of
hard luck. He had been promised 50 tonnes
of steam fuel for the Imo’s voyage to New
York by 3 p.m. the day before. But it was
5:30 p.m. when the fuel arrived, dusk had
descended and the harbour was closed for
the day.
Fate had set the table, now it was up to
man’s stupidity, pride, short-sightedness and
just plain pig-headedness to play their parts.
At 7:37 a.m., Le Medec was cleared to
enter the harbour, telling an inquiring
officer it was not necessary to hoist a red
flag, signalling the sensitive nature of the
198
Look Back
ship’s cargo. The order was well within
regulations, for a red flag would alert the
Germans as well as warn friendly ships.
Still piqued over the unnecessary delay,
From did not wait for permission to set off
and steamed out of Bedford basin. The Imo
was making as much as seven knots when it
entered the Narrows, an 800-metre channel
connecting the basin with the harbour
proper, like the neck of an hourglass.
Le Medec, following harbour procedures,
kept the Mont Blanc to the Dartmouth side
of the channel when, to his amazement, he
spotted the approaching Imo headed
straight toward him.
He whistled a sharp blast of warning,
and headed closer to shore, to within 300
metres from shore, when the reply came
from the Imo. Two blasts, indicating From
was altering course putting him even more
across Mont Blanc’s bow.
Cursing, Le Medec stopped his engines
and repeated the single blast signal. Again
came Imo’s reply, two blasts and full speed
ahead.
Suddenly, Le Medec realized there was
only one thing left to do, bear left to port.
This time the puzzling Imo signalled three
blasts, meaning she was reversing her
engines. This had the effect of swinging her
head starboard and onto the Mont Blanc,
ripping into the munition ship’s No. 1 hold.
Later, judicial hearings would determine
that both captains could have avoided the
collision by recognizing the danger earlier
and reversing their course. But once the
sequence of actions was initiated, there
seemed to be no turning back.
The time it took for the sparks from
scraping metal to ignite the benzole,
flowing freely on the main deck and onto
the unstable lyddite on the ruptured No. 1
hold, could be measured in seconds.
Nor did the horrified Mont Blanc captain
take long to measure his response.
“Abandon ship!” he yelled. It was about
8:45 a.m. With the speed of men who knew
only distance could save them from certain
death, they jumped for the two lifeboats
and literally headed for the hills on the
Dartmouth shore.
The Mont Blanc, now burning freely,
drifted toward and then struck Pier 6 on
the Halifax shore, attracting a swarm of
spectators, emergency personnel, and
other ships in the harbour.
They drew in close for a better look at the
unfolding drama, or they may have genuinely
wanted to help fight the fire. With no red flag
showing, they were tragically unaware of the
catastrophe now minutes away.
Lt.-Cmdr James Murray was one of
only a handful aware of the danger. As
sea transport officer, he had been notified
of the Mont Blanc that week and now he
was on the deck of the Hilford, not more
than a few hundred metres from the
burning freighter.
No one knows what Murray thought,
for he would not survive the half-hour, but
what he did is well known. He was about to
become the first of many heroes of the day.
He set the Hilford for Pier 9, where he
could send out a general warning from his
office, but would place him perilously close
to the explosion. And he ordered a sailor to
the railway yards.
The first reactions of dispatcher Vince
Coleman and chief clerk Bill Lovett, upon
hearing the panicked sailor’s dire warning,
were to run like heck. But Coleman
remembered two trains were due soon
from Rockingham and Truro.
“Bill, I know (the danger) but someone’s
got to stop those trains,” Lovett recalled the
second hero of the pending disaster saying
Look Back
199
before Coleman returned to tap out the last
message he would ever send.
In the blink of an eye, the Mont Blanc
disappeared into a ball of fire. The force
of the explosion propelled its half-tonne
anchor shaft to the Northwest Arm three
kilometres away, and its forward gun barrel
melted away into Albro’s Lake, almost two
kilometres behind Dartmouth.
The scenes of destruction have been told in
hundreds of testimonials, diaries, letters
and news articles.
Some talk about headless bodies, or of a
severed arm protruding from rubble of
wood and brick. Diaries talk of dead bodies
lying on the road. Emergency crews cite
incidents of having to abandon whole
families, burning alive under collapsed
homes, because attempting a futile rescue
meant ignoring more hopeful cases.
The blast was so great that practically
every window in the city was exploded
into a windstorm of glass shards, blinding
some, tattooing other survivors with
specks of blue still visible today. Survivors
talk about an earthquake and a tidal wave
that drenched them hundreds of metres
inland.
As total as the devastation appeared to
be from photographs of the period, it also
exhibited a fickle side.
One survivor, Millicent Swindells, now
78, was asleep in her upstairs bedroom
200
Look Back
when the Mont Blanc blew up. She heard
no noise.
“All I know was one moment I was in
bed, the next l was standing in the hall,”
she says.
Her father was also in bed, which
overturned on top of him. He emerged with
a scratch on his foot. A brother had his
back to a window and was peppered with
tiny glass cuts.
Her mother and four siblings were in the
east side of the house. It was obliterated.
They all died.
“I remember going out and one of the
kids said, ‘Oh, Millie, your eye is out on
your cheek.’ It had been sucked out by the
air concussion and I wasn’t aware of it.”
Millicent later lost the eye.
And there were stories of wondrous
miracles, like that of the young unidentified
woman on Campbell Road who had been
thrown to the street by the blast. A soldier
offered her his coat and when she looked
down, she saw she was wearing only her
corsets. The concussion had sucked away
her coat and dress, even her stockings and
shoes, but otherwise left her completely
untouched.
And there were the stories historians can
only guess at.
“I still get calls asking me to help with
identities,” says Janet Kitz, who has worked
on identifying remains of the dead for the
Maritime Museum of the Atlantic.
“One woman called because she heard a
rumour her two children, whom she never
found, were seen on a ship. Seventy years
later, she still cannot reconcile herself that
they were lost.”
Few lost as much that day as Barbara Orr.
Her father, Samuel, was on his way to
work at the paintworks that morning. He
never made it. Her mother and the three
youngest children were swallowed up by
their collapsing home. The other two
brothers, watching firefighters trying to put
out the flames, were killed when the ship
exploded.
In 1920, Barbara presented the KayeGrove Church with a magnificent chime of
bells in memory of her lost family.
For close to 50 years the bells rang at
the church, until the failing tower could
no longer hold them.
On June 9, 1985, the 10 bronze bells
made their appearance again. With hundreds
looking on, Barbara again played the
carillon. But this time it was on the crown
of Fort Needham, where they had been
installed in a new tower that today stands
as the only monument to the day the war
came to Halifax.
Activities
1.
Either draw a diagram or build a model
of Halifax harbour, positioning the two
ships as described in the article, and
showing how they ultimately collided
and caused the explosion.
2. Prepare either a newspaper or radio
report of the Halifax explosion. Describe
what happened and how people are
responding.
3. In the role of Barbara Orr, prepare a
one-minute speech to be made on June 9,
1985, after the bells she had donated in
memory of her family were installed in
the monument to the explosion in Halifax.
Look Back
201
Focus Your Learning
Studying this image will help you:
n explore the meaning of a visual
n write a story interpreting the visual
n draw on prior knowledge to
interpret the visual
n share and compare responses
Activities
1.
What do you imagine this rider is seeing
when he looks back? Write a story that
places this character in this situation, and
describe what he sees.
2. Discuss with a partner any other mythical
character, human or animal, that is winged.
How does the presence of wings on this
rider contribute to the mood of the visual?
The Grand Design, Leeds, England/SuperStock
202
Look Back
A Last Look Back
Celia Washington
Look Back
203
Focus Your Learning
help you:
n draw on previous
knowledge to
understand a text
n use clues in the text
to gather information
Joy Kogawa
What do I remember of the evacuation?
I remember my father telling Tim and me
About the mountains and the train
And the excitement of going on a trip.
I remember my mother weeping
A blanket around me and my
Pretending to fall asleep so she would be happy
Though I was so excited I couldn’t sleep
(I hear there were people herded
Into the Hastings Park like cattle.
Families were made to move in two hours
Abandoning everything, leaving pets
And possessions at gun point.
I hear families were broken up
Men were forced to work. I heard
It whispered late at night
That there was suffering) and
I missed my dolls.
204
Look Back
I remember Miss Foster and Miss Tucker
Who still live in Vancouver
And who did what they could
And loved the children and who gave me
A puzzle to play with on the train.
And I remember the mountains and I was
Six years old and I swear I saw a giant
Gulliver of Gulliver’s Travels scanning the horizon
And when I told my mother she believed it too
And I remember how careful my parents were
Not to bruise us with bitterness
And I remember the puzzle of Lorraine Life
Who said “Don’t insult me” when I
Proudly wrote my name in Japanese
And Tim flew the Union Jack
When the war was over but Lorraine
And her friends spat on us anyway
And I prayed to God who loves
All the children in his sight
That I might be white.
Activities
1.
As a class, discuss what you know abut the
evacuation and internment of Japanese-Canadians
during World War II.
2. Make a T-chart. On the left side of the chart, cite the
evidence that shows the child accepts what is
happening to her. On the right side of the chart, cite
evidence that shows she is being hurt by the events.
Look Back
205
A Teenager’s
Legacy
ERNST SCHNABEL
L
ast year in Amsterdam I found an old
reel of movie film on which Anne Frank
appears. She is seen for only ten seconds
and it is an accident that she is there at all.
The film was taken for a wedding in 1941,
the year before Anne Frank and seven others
went into hiding in their “Secret Annex.” It
has a flickering, Chaplinesque quality with
people popping suddenly in and out of
doorways, the nervous smiles and hurried
waves of the departing bride and groom.
Then, for just a moment, the camera
seems uncertain where to look. It darts
to the right, then to the left, then whisks
up a wall, and into view comes a window
crowded with people waving after the
departing automobiles. The camera swings
farther to the left to another window.
There a girl stands alone, looking out
into space. It is Anne Frank.
Focus Your Learning
n use clues in the text as a guide to interpretation
n explain preferences for different media
206
Look Back
Thirteen-year-old Anne Frank wrote the following caption
on her photograph: “This is a photo as I would wish myself
to look all the time. Then I would maybe have a chance to
come to Hollywood.” Anne Frank, October 10, 1942
Just as the camera is about to pass on,
the child moves her head a trifle. Her face
flits more into focus, her hair shimmers in
the sun. At this moment she discovers the
camera, discovers the photographer,
discovers us watching seventeen years later,
and laughs at all of us, laughs with sudden
merriment and surprise and embarrassment
all at the same time.
I asked the projectionist to stop the film
for a moment so that we could stand up to
examine her face more closely. The smile
stood still, just above our heads. But when I
walked forward close to the screen the smile
ceased to be a smile. The face ceased to be a
face, for the canvas screen was granular and
the beam of light split into a multitude of
tiny shadows, as if it had been scattered on
a sandy plain.
Anne Frank, of course, is gone too, but
her spirit has remained to stir the conscience
of the world. Her remarkable diary has been
read in almost every language. I have seen a
letter from a teen-aged girl in Japan who
says she thinks of Anne’s Secret Annex as
her second home. And the play based on
the diary has been a great success wherever
it is produced. German audiences, who
invariably greet the final curtain of The
Diary of Anne Frank in stricken silence,
have jammed the theatres in what seems
almost a national act of penance.
The known story contained in the diary
is a simple one of human relationships, of
the poignant maturing of a perceptive girl
who is thirteen when her diary begins
and only fifteen when it ends. It is a story
without violence, though its background is
the most dreadful act of violence in the
history of man, Hitler’s annihilation of
six million European Jews.
In the summer of 1942 Anne Frank, her
father, her mother, her older sister Margot,
and four others were forced into hiding
during the Nazi occupation of Holland.
Their refuge was a tiny apartment they
Anne and her father, Otto (centre), go to the
wedding of their friends Miep and Jan Gies,
Amsterdam, 1941.
called the Secret Annex, in the back of an
Amsterdam office building. For twenty-five
months the Franks, the Van Daan family,
and later a dentist, Albert Düssel, lived in
the Secret Annex, protected from the
Gestapo only by a swinging bookcase which
masked the entrance to their hiding place
and by the heroism of a few Christians
who knew they were there. Anne Frank’s
diary recounts the daily pressures of their
cramped existence: the hushed silences
when strangers were in the building, the
diminishing food supply, the fear of fire
from the incessant Allied air raids, the
hopes for an early invasion, above all the
dread of capture by the pitiless men who
were hunting Jews from house to house
and sending them to concentration camps.
Anne’s diary also describes with sharp
insight and youthful humour the bickerings,
Look Back
207
Anne Frank, along with her family and four others,
lived in the Secret Annex, a tiny apartment in back
of an Amsterdam office building, for twenty-five
months.
the wounded prides, the tearful reconciliations of the eight human beings in the
Secret Annex. It tells of Anne’s wishes for
the understanding of her adored father, of
her despair at the gulf between her mother
and herself, of her tremulous and growing
love for young Peter Van Daan.
The actual diary ends with an entry
for August 1, 1944, in which Anne Frank,
addressing her imaginary friend Kitty, talks
of her impatience with her own unpredictable personality.
Miep and Elli, the heroic young women
who had shielded the Franks for two years,
found Anne’s papers during the week after
the police raid on the Secret Annex.
Miep and Elli did not read the papers
they had saved. The red-checked diary,
the office account books into which it
overflowed, the 312 tissue-thin sheets
of colored paper filled with Anne’s short
stories and the beginnings of a novel about
a young girl who was to live in freedom,
all these were kept in the safe until Otto
Frank finally returned to Amsterdam
alone. Thus Anne Frank’s voice was
preserved out of the millions that were
silenced. No louder than a child’s whisper,
it speaks for those millions and has
outlasted the raucous shouts of the
murderers, soaring above the clamorous
voices of passing time.
Activities
1.
The title of this article is “A Teenager’s
Legacy.” Write a biographical paragraph
of Anne Frank, describing her legacy.
Remember to draw on evidence from
the text.
2. The film clip brings Anne to life in a
special way for the author of the article.
Consider your own differing responses to
written reports and visual images by
208
Look Back
comparing a newspaper report with a
report on the same topic on television.
What are the advantages and
disadvantages of each medium? Which
medium do you find more effective, and
why? Share your views with a group, and
then be prepared to serve as
spokesperson for your group in a
discussion with the class.
Al Purdy
Focus Your Learning
n use previous knowledge to
understand the text
n focus on a central image and
decide on its symbolic
meaning
n record and evaluate a reading
of the poem
There is an old Japanese legend
that making a thousand cranes
folding them from coloured paper
allows the maker to have any wish
come true—at least anything reasonable
Surely it was not unreasonable
for a little girl to wish to live
as Sadako Sasaki did wish
tho ill of “radiation disease”
since The Bomb fell on Hiroshima
Sadako folded 643 paper cranes
but never reached a thousand
and died in October 1955
at the age of 12
In Hiroshima near ground zero
of the atomic holocaust
Japanese schoolchildren across the country
built a monument to Sadako
and all those other dead children
From Hokkaido to far Kyushu
the children saved their yen
to build the Statue of the A-Bomb Children
with Sadako standing on top
still folding her paper cranes
as she did in life
When I visited the statue today
Sadako was there
Look Back
209
and underneath in a sort of alcove
thousands and thousands of paper cranes
folded by the living children of Japan
For Sadako and all those others
the dead children of Hiroshima
The crane legend is very old
and certainly it isn’t true
that if you fold a thousand cranes
Kwannon the god of children
will cool the radiation fever
And intercede with death for a child
Perhaps the Japanese schoolchildren
never believed the legend of a thousand cranes
but whether they believed it or not
they acted as if they did
and built the monument
—that seems important
HIROSHIMA
Activities
1.
What is the purpose of a monument?
Brainstorm a list of answers to this
question. Then write a short paragraph
completing this statement: This poem is
like a monument because …
2. Create a web diagram around the word
“Cranes.” Include three groups of words.
In the first group, write any ideas,
feelings, or beliefs Sadako might have
had about the cranes. In the second,
write any ideas, feelings, or beliefs the
children of Japan might have had about
210
Look Back
the cranes. In the third group, include
any ideas, feelings, or beliefs the poet
might have had about the cranes.
Finally, write a sentence explaining what
the cranes in the poem symbolize for
you.
3. With a partner, take turns reading the
poem aloud. Try to create impact
through pacing, volume, and tone of
voice. Record your reading, and
evaluate your own and your partner’s
performances.
1.
Many accounts in this unit give a
personal view of history. Choose one
selection and research the background
events. Use several different sources,
including text books, encyclopedias,
electronic sources, and interviews.
Make a chart listing the advantages and
disadvantages of your sources, including
the selection in this anthology. Then
retell the events from the selection you
have chosen in the style of one of the
other sources you have used.
2. Many of the selections in this unit
describe some aspect of war and its
effects. Using a book of quotations, find
a saying that you think epitomizes what
war means. Create a collage to illustrate
that quotation. You might wish to use
images from these selections.
3. Which selection in this unit had the
greatest impact on you? Write a
persuasive review, recommending this
selection to your peers.
4. Which selection in this unit do you feel is
most effectively presented by the visual
that accompanies it? Discuss your choice
with a partner.
5. “The past has valuable lessons to offer
about the way we live our lives.” Support
this view in a one-minute speech that
makes reference to one of the selections
in this unit.
6. Several of these selections deal with
people who have been denied their
rights. Work in a group to make a list of
these people and the rights they have
lost. Based on your list, write a “Charter
of Fundamental Rights” that starts,
“Everyone should have the right to …”
Post your Charters for the rest of the
school to see.
Look Back
211
look beyond
What about your future? Where
will your imagination lead?
Here you will read about the dreams
and aspirations of many different
people — from those who want to
make their communities a better place
to live to those interested in unusual
adventures. These stories may be your
inspiration for a future full of exciting
possibilities!
Moon
Maiden
ALISON BAIRD
Focus Your Learning
n identify the elements of fantasy
n experiment with language
n analyse character development
“Moon Maiden” © 1998 Alison Baird taken from What
If…? Amazing Stories. Selected by Monica Hughes
© 1998 published by Tundra Books.
“You can’t do it, sis,” Matt had said. And
he had looked down his nose at her in his
maddening, superior way. Matt was no giant himself, but
it was easy to look down at Kate.
“Oh, yeah?” She’d glared up at her brother, hands on
hips. “Well, I don’t care what you think, I’m going.
What’s the point of winning a lunar study scholarship if
you don’t use it?”
214
Look Beyond
It had been a hot and smoggy day, she remembered, with an
ultraviolet alert, so the two of them had been stuck indoors and Matt,
as usual, had taken out his boredom and frustration on Kate.
“One: you’re way too young—”
“I’m nearly fourteen!”
“Two: you’re a nitwit,” Matt had finished.
And that settled it. After that “nitwit,” no power in the universe
could have prevented Kate Iwasaki from embarking on the shuttle for
Luna Base.
But Matt had had a parting shot. “You’ll never spend half a year on
the Moon! You’ll end up going crazy, like all those loony Lunies.”
Kate had shivered at that; she’d heard about the moon-madness.
It started with hallucinations. Then you began talking to imaginary
people, even yelling and screaming at them, or sometimes recoiling
from invisible horrors. That was when the security guards came and
“escorted” you away. It was a fact of life on Luna Base; some people
just could not take the claustrophobic atmosphere: the isolation was
worse than on the most remote polar weather station or deep-sea lab
on Earth.
But Kate firmly pushed her fears aside. She was too sensible, too
scientific, to ever lose control like that—or so she told herself. “I’m
going, and that’s that,” she had declared, lifting her chin.
Now she smiled with satisfaction as the small lunar shuttle
carrying her and the other students planed low over the surface of the
Mare Tranquillitatis. Through the window she could see flat plains of
ash-coloured lunar soil—regolith, the instructor called it—strewn with
modest-sized impact craters, some no more than a decimeter across.
Not too impressive, Kate thought. She’d already been on much more
spectacular trips, to the giant craters Tycho and Copernicus, and to the
lunar mountain ranges, the Alps and Apennines. But this outing was
always the most popular. The shuttle’s interior was crammed to
capacity with eager students.
The spacecraft slowed and hovered briefly before setting down
gently on its four wide landing pods. The cabin ceased to thrum and
vibrate as the engines were cut, and a flashing light came on over each
Look Beyond
215
air lock. The students all rose and shuffled down the aisle in their
cumbersome space suits, pulling on their helmets.
“All right, to the air locks, just four at a time now,” the instructor
told them as he checked their helmet seals. “And don’t stampede; form
proper lines.”
Kate managed to be one of the first in the air locks. She held her
breath as the metal door slid open, and all sound ceased with the
release of the air. When they climbed out, most of the kids bounced
around like demented kangaroos the minute they reached the surface.
Kate just stood looking up at the sunlit face of Earth, its blue-white
glow fifty times brighter than the brightest moonlight. Poor polluted
overcrowded Earth! No, she wasn’t in any great hurry to go back there.
With some difficulty the instructor managed to herd them all
together and direct them to their destination. At the sight of it, the
students began to babble with excitement.
Tranquillity Base. The flagpole—bent out of shape by the blast of
the Eagle’s engines when it had escaped back into space—had been
straightened to preserve the image of the site as it had appeared on the
old footage. But everything else was as it had been left: the descent
stage of the lunar module, the instruments, even the astronauts’
footprints. It was all surrounded by a towering steel wire fence topped
with surveillance cameras: no one must get too near, trample on the
sacred footprints of Armstrong and Aldrin, or carve their initials on the
plaque attached to the leg of the descent stage.
A hushed silence now fell as the words on the plaque were
quoted solemnly by the instructor: “Here men from the planet Earth
first set foot upon the Moon. July 1969 A.D. We came in peace for all
mankind.”
First set foot on the Moon. Kate wondered how those two men
must have felt when they first climbed out onto the lunar soil. Above
them had been the same jet-black sky and sunlit Earth, about them the
same barren, crater-strewn plain. But for those pioneering spacemen
there had been no emergency response teams, no Luna Base with its
decorative greenery and mall full of brightly-lit shops. No other living
thing—not so much as a microbe—had shared the grey wasteland with
216
Look Beyond
them. The nearest human being had been the pilot in the orbiting
command service module, high above. All the rest of humanity had
been crowded into that cloud-swathed sphere nearly four hundred
thousand kilometers away. Other explorers would follow over the years
and feel that isolation in turn; but to be the first ... Kate shivered. First
to walk the grey solitudes, first to disturb the thick soft dust no wind
had ever lifted ... She realized suddenly that she had strayed somewhat
and was now some distance away from the others. She turned hastily
to rejoin them.
But there was a woman standing in the way.
Kate stared. It was not unusual for a stray tourist or maintenance
worker to be out here on the lunar surface. But this woman was
different.
She wasn’t wearing a space suit.
She stood there as though the moon’s airless surface were the most
natural place for her to be: a slender woman, Asian-featured, wearing a
kimono of some green silky material embroidered with flowers. There
were real flowers in her hair—shell-pink blossoms nestling among
ebony tresses piled neatly atop her head. About her neck there hung a
string of lustrous, cream-colored pearls. The gaze of her large brown
eyes was cool, solemn, and direct.
There were no footprints behind her, nor were there any shadows
on the grey ground at her feet.
Kate’s breath boomed like thunder inside her helmet. Her mouth
was dry as a bone. The gravity that allowed the other students to leap
and bound around the steel fence seemed to be binding her to the
ground. As she stared helplessly, the woman in the green kimono
approached. There was no smile of welcome on the delicate features;
her expression was sombre, her tread light but purposeful as she drew
closer to Kate.
Kate longed desperately for something to break the spell. But
fear and disbelief immobilized her. The pale woman was almost
touching her; an arm in a long, flowing sleeve reached out toward
Kate’s faceplate. It stopped before actually making contact, the white
hand raised in a gesture of ... command? Entreaty? Kate could not
Look Beyond
217
take her eyes from the woman’s; they were as deep as shadows, their
gaze calm and compelling. She was willing Kate to do something.
But what?
The hand gestured again. Open your faceplate, it said, as plain as
speech.
Kate tried to swallow and couldn’t.
Open it—let me touch you ...
“No,” Kate whispered. But it was only a croak.
The woman who was not—could not—really be there gazed at
Kate steadily. The embroidered flowers upon her pale-green robe stood
out in precise and minute detail, real as the harshly-lit moon rocks, the
granular patterns in the soil. Without speaking, the woman commanded
her again. Her will reached out across the airless space like a lightning
bolt arcing from cloud to cloud.
Raise your faceplate—now.
“Kate? KATE?”
At the sound of the voice, jarringly loud inside her helmet, Kate
moved at last—straight upward, in a leap that would have cleared an
Olympic high jump back on Earth. She spun, arms flailing, before
falling slowly back to the lunar surface.
“Kate? Did I startle you? Sorry.” It was the instructor; he was
standing over her, peering out through his faceplate with a mixture of
amusement and concern. Kate scrambled to her feet, grateful for his
timely interruption—then she went rigid again, her heart hammering.
The woman was still there, standing a few paces away.
The instructor couldn’t see her.
Kate spoke with an effort. “I ... I was just ... daydreaming. And I
...” Her voice faded away, for the woman was gliding silently toward
her again, her eyes intent.
“We’re heading back to the base now,” the instructor told her.
She hastily joined him, springing along at his side. She wondered
wildly for a moment if the ghostly woman would follow, join them in
the shuttle’s cramped interior, disembark with them, and wander
about in the brightly lit mall ...
But a glance over her shoulder showed her only the flat and
218
Look Beyond
empty plain. The green-robed figure had vanished as though it had
never been there at all.
“Want to come to the VR-cade with us, Kate?” one of the boys asked.
“They’ve got some great new games.”
Kate whirled, startled, to face the other students. “What? Oh ...
no, thanks. I think I’ll just go to my quarters—I’m kind of tired.”
“See you later then.” The other kids moved away through the
Lunar Mall in a noisy chattering group, gliding gracefully in the weak
gravity. Kate was left alone.
She walked on through the mall in a daze. It starts with
hallucinations, she thought. Matt had been right; she was going moonmad. Only a crazy would come here to live, people on Earth said:
social misfits, loners, eccentrics of all kinds—they ended up here, like
a kind of flotsam cast up from Earth. Loony Lunies! But why should
she suffer from moon-madness? She had only been here for three Earth
months, and she’d been enjoying every minute of it. Now she recalled,
with a pulse of horror, the woman in the strange robe with its intricate
pattern of long-petalled flowers embroidered on the green material.
They intruded on her vision, for a terrifying instant were clearer than
the scene of shops and pedestrians around her.
No—go away!
She realized in alarm that she had almost said it out loud.
So much for sensible, scientific Kate Iwasaki! she thought bitterly.
I’ll have to go to the counsellor now, and he’Il ship me home on the
next shuttle. She looked fearfully at the other shoppers. Surely they
must see how tense and obviously agitated she was. She thought one
or two of them looked at her oddly as they passed, and she hastily
turned toward a storefront, pretending to admire the wares on display.
It was Ramachandra’s gift shop. She’d often paused to gaze at the
items in its display case, all beyond her own modest price range. Most
souvenirs here were tacky and cheap: plastic models of shuttles or
moon rocks with “A gift from Luna Base” emblazoned on them in gold
letters. But Mr. Ramachandra sold quality goods. Loveliest of all were
the little sculptures which he made himself: graceful figures and animal
Look Beyond
219
shapes that seemed to quiver with life. Kate pretended to examine one
now, an elegant figure of a woman with a hunting bow in her hands.
The string was of gold wire, the arrow poised and ready for flight. A
hound stood at the woman’s side, eager, ready to spring.
“Artemis, Goddess of the Moon,” said a voice in her ear.
She looked up, and to her embarrassment found herself staring
into the face of Mr. Ramachandra himself: an elderly Indian man, with
white hair wisping around a bald, nut-brown scalp. He was attired, as
always, in an outrageous many-colored robe adorned with bits of
flashing mirror that glittered as he moved. His eyes were darkest
brown, the colour of black coffee.
She realized to her dismay that she was on the verge of tears, and
that Mr. Ramachandra knew it.
“Something is wrong,” he said in an undertone, making it a
statement of fact rather than a question.
Kate gulped a lungful of air, furious with herself. “It’s nothing,”
she managed to say, but the answer rang false even in her own ears.
“Oh, dear. That kind of nothing.” He waved to a door at the back
of his shop. “I was just going to have a cup of tea. Will you join me?
Tea can be an excellent restorative.”
She didn’t really want to join him, but it was either that, or risk
bawling in public like an idiot. If I’m going to have to leave Luna
Base, at least let me do it with some dignity, she thought, and
followed Mr. Ramachandra into the back room. It was small and
cluttered, with half-finished figurines of stone, wood, or clay sitting
on the shelves.
“I’ll just put the kettle on,” said Mr. Ramachandra. “There. Now
perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing really. I’m just going crazy, is all,” she replied,
smiling wanly.
“If so you’re in the right place. Only a lunatic would go to the
Moon. We are all a little bit odd, we Lunies, wouldn’t you agree?”
“This is more than just being odd. I’ve got moon-madness.” Tears
welled in her eyes, and she blinked, hard. “Hallucinations and
everything. They’ll have to send me back home.”
220
Look Beyond
“What sort of hallucinations are you having?”
In a few short sentences she told him. It was easy to talk of it in
here, with the kettle on the stove and the workroom all around her,
small and cluttered and normal. Mr. Ramachandra raised his white
eyebrows when she had finished.
“Curious,” he said. He rose and went to the kettle, which was
already shrieking for attention. He glanced at her thoughtfully over his
shoulder. “You’re Japanese, aren’t you, Kate?” he added abruptly as he
filled a teapot, waiting patiently as the water, slowed by the low
gravity, slid down the kettle’s spout like ketchup.
“Canadian, actually,” she corrected.
“But you are Japanese by descent, am I right?”
“Yes,” she admitted, wondering where this was leading.
“Curious,” he said again. He settled in his chair as the tea
steeped. “Are you familiar with Japanese folklore and legends?”
“Not really, I’m more into science.”
“Then you’ll not be familiar with the old tale of the maiden of the
Moon?” She shook her head and he continued, a faraway look in his
eyes, “There was once an old couple in long-ago Japan, who yearned
for a child of their own. One day when the husband was cutting
bamboo, he found a tiny human infant, a little girl, tucked away in
one of the hollow stems. He and his wife raised this girl-child, and she
grew into a beautiful maiden. But she would not marry any of the
wealthy men who came to ask for her hand in marriage. She explained
that she was a magical being, a child of the Moon, and one day she
would have to return to her own people in the moon-world. And,
indeed, there came a night when a company of glorious spirit people
descended upon a moonbeam, and they bore the lovely moon-maiden
away with them into the sky as her foster parents watched in sorrow.”
His coffee-coloured eyes looked deep into hers. “You’re quite sure
you’ve never heard this story?”
Kate hesitated. “Pretty sure.” She had, in fact, no recollection of it
whatsoever.
“And yet your hallucination, as you call it, seems strongly
reminiscent of it. Moon-people. Elegant spirit beings in a lunar realm.
Look Beyond
221
It almost makes one wonder if there might not be a kind of ancestral
memory, or ...”
“Or what?”
“Or perhaps what you saw was—real.”
She stared. He’s the crazy one, not me, she thought.
“The Moon,” Ramachandra continued as he poured the tea into
two large mugs, “the Moon is many things. It is a home for us, and a
provider of useful resources. But it is also a place of myth and
fable—a repository of dreams, if you will.” His own face took on a
dreamy look. “A land about which myths have been woven is a
haunted place. How haunted must the Moon be, which hangs in the
sky for all to see, which all cultures have held in common since the
dawn of time!
“Among these empty wastes dwells the Chinese goddess Chang’o,
in the form of an immortal toad; and the Man in the Moon wanders
about with his bundle of sticks on his back and his faithful dog at his
side; and the Maori woman Rona, exiled here after cursing the moongod, gazes longingly at the Earth to which she can never return. For us
Hindus, the Moon is associated with Soma, god of the sacred plant
that brings ecstasy to mortals. I have felt positively blissful ever since I
first arrived here.
“Now perhaps Mr. Ramachandra’s mind is only making him
believe that he feels the presence of the god. Perhaps that is the
explanation. And then again,” he added, with an impish smile,
“perhaps it isn’t.”
She stared at him over her steaming mug. “What are you
saying—that all those things are real?”
He answered with a question of his own. “Why did you come to
Luna Base?”
She shrugged. “I guess I just wanted to see the Moon. It’s always
interested me.”
“How so?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said irritably. “Is it important?”
“It might be.” Mr Ramachandra sipped his tea and stared into
space. “The original moon landings, now—why did those astronauts
222
Look Beyond
come here? It was quite pointless, from a scientific standpoint. It had
already been demonstrated that automated machines could do the
same thing more cheaply and with no risk to human life. But we are a
romantic and impractical species, we humans.”
Kate made a dismissive gesture. “My dad said it was all done for
political reasons.”
“The space race was, yes. But the desire to walk upon the
Moon—that goes back further to the old myths and legends, to
dreamers like Jules Verne. That is why the world watched and held its
breath in 1969. And that is why some of us come here—not the
tourists, who only want to do what the neighbours haven’t done, to
take pictures and jump higher than on Earth. No, it is the Moon of
myth and magic that calls people like you and me.”
“But if the woman I saw was ... real, then everyone else should
have seen her too,” Kate argued.
“Maybe not, if it was a spirit you saw.” He put down his mug
and waved his arms about vaguely. “The spirit realm is everywhere,
but it is not like our physical reality. It is different for each one of us,
or so I believe.”
Kate looked away. “I ... would rather she wasn’t real. You see, she
wants me dead.”
“Why do you say that?”
Kate rose and began to pace the little room. “She wanted me to
open up my faceplate. To let all my air out, and die. She wanted that. I
could see it, in her eyes.”
“But you don’t know why she would want such a thing?”
“No! That’s just it. Why? What’s it all about?” She was almost
shouting now.
Mr. Ramachandra’s voice and gaze remained calm. “Why don’t
you ask her?”
Kate stood tensely inside the main air lock, listening to her own short,
sharp breaths. She’d have to be quick: students weren’t allowed out on
their own. The metal door slid open; there was a hiss of expelled air;
and dust grains danced briefly before settling again. Before her lay
Look Beyond
223
smooth grey ground surrounded by barren hills: the desolate grandeur
of the Taurus-Littrow Valley.
Kate drew a deep breath and leaped out of the air lock.
She bounded down the length of the valley, halting only when
the safe comforting glow of the base was far behind her. A huge, greywhite boulder sprawled up ahead, casting a long shadow under the
harsh sun. Kate paused next to it, and waited.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
Nothing stirred. The valley was empty, as it had been for billions
of years. Kate turned slowly, scanning the hills, the drab grey ground.
And then, quite suddenly, she noticed the tree.
It was no more than a few moon-strides away on the valley’s flat
floor, growing where nothing should be able to grow: a slender sapling
covered in sharp-pointed leaves. As she stared at it, leaves and
branches stirred, as though bending to the whim of a wind. The little
tree bowed and swayed before her, offering no explanation for itself, a
green intrusion on the moonscape.
Kate swallowed hard. Hallucinations again. She missed the Earth,
with its green growing things, that was all. But the tree did not fade as
she approached it. It looked so real. She must try to touch it, prove to
herself that it wasn’t actually there...
And then she halted in midstride, for the shapes of other trees
were appearing all around her. Insubstantial at first, like smoke or
shadow, their spindly forms solidified as she watched. The grey land
around her bore a blush of green. Above her, blossoms hung amid the
stars, clustering on the half-seen boughs of some flowering tree. She
whirled. The great grey boulder was still there, but now its rugged
sides were mottled with moss and lichen and surrounded by largefronded ferns. The other rocks also remained where they had been,
but they had changed. Random moon-rubble no longer, they formed
part of a garden whose lush greenery they complemented, as if by
design. A large, ornamental pond spread before her, a mirror for black
sky and blue Earth; beside it stood a squat stone lantern, its peaked
roof sheltering a flame that danced as it fed upon some other, alien air.
Then Kate saw the woman.
224
Look Beyond
She was walking along the far side of the pool. Her jet-black
hair now streamed loosely upon her shoulders, teased by the same
wind that played in the little tree, and her robe was white. Where she
walked, grass sprang from the regolith; it did not so much sprout as
suddenly appear, as though her presence called it into being. And
there was a path beneath her feet, a path lit by stone lanterns that
ran winding into the hills beyond—hills that were rocky and barren
no longer. On one jade-green summit there rose pagoda-roofed
towers, their windows glowing warmly against the black sky.
The white-clad woman was now close enough to touch. Kate’s
blood turned to ice, but she held her ground. The woman raised one
hand, gesturing gracefully.
Suddenly Kate understood.
She was being invited to join the woman: to go with her up the
winding curves of that lamplit path, up into the hills that were empty no
more. Up to the palace with its shining towers. There would be music
and warmth within, and light and laughter; and something more, more
than any of these things, something for which her heart hungered ...
Kate set a booted foot upon the path, mesmerized. She would go.
She would enter that palace, that place of light where a welcome
awaited her. All that came between her and that realm was this heavy,
cumbersome suit that she wore. It held her back, anchored her to the
dead realm of the airless waste. She could cast it off, set it aside, be
freed forever from the need for it.
Freed ...
Understanding came to Kate in a blinding flash, and she halted
in the middle of her second step. The woman in white turned to her,
eyes inquiring. Kate made herself meet those deep tranquil eyes,
boldly and directly.
“No,” she said.
The sound of her voice could not reach the woman. Or could it?
The dark eyes widened, the hovering hand fell. The woman faced her,
eyes steady and intense, imposing her will.
“No,” Kate said again, more forcefully. “I want to stay here. Here.
Do you understand? I’m not going with you!”
Look Beyond
225
The woman stared at her, first with gentle puzzlement, then with
comprehension, which broke upon her face like a wave. For the first
time her deep eyes smiled. She shook her head and laughed
soundlessly. Then, in an instant, she was gone.
With her went all the life and colour of that other world. Trees and
shrubbery wisped away to nothingness; the Earth-reflecting pool rippled
away like a heat mirage, and there in its place was the dry, grey ground.
The far hills were bare and lifeless once more, the lofty towers bowed
and faded. Of the garden only the boulders remained, forlorn as bare
bones. Kate was alone once more. Her eyes misted, but only briefly.
She drew a sharp, shuddering breath. And headed back through
the silent valley to Luna Base.
Mr. Ramachandra was modelling clay in his workshop. When he
glanced up and saw Kate standing in the doorway, he smiled but said
nothing, his fingers continuing to pinch and stroke the clay.
“I confronted her,” she blurted.
He put the clay down. “Ah.”
“You were right,” said Kate. “Everything was all right. She didn’t
mean me any harm; she only wanted me to join her, in her world. I
think she believed I wanted to. When I looked in her eyes, it was as
though she understood. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.”
He tilted his head to one side, considering. “No, I don’t suppose
you will.”
“So, what happened out there? Was she real? Or did it all just
happen inside my head? Was I moon-mad, and did going out there
cure me?”
He looked thoughtful. “If I were making up a story, I would say
that your spirit came from the Moon; that you inhabited this sphere
long before you were born in a human body. And that is why you
longed for the Moon, like the maiden in the folktale, why you came
here as soon as you had the chance. It was a homecoming, if you will.
But you realized that to return to your spirit life, you would have to
leave your human, physical life behind, together with your family and
friends down on Earth. And you couldn’t make yourself do that.”
226
Look Beyond
He rose and went to a shelf, taking from it a small figurine, which
he held out to her. Kate stared at it: a woman in a flowing kimono,
standing upon a base that curved like the crescent moon. “It’s
beautiful,” she said shyly.
“It is the moon maiden from the story.”
She reached out, ran a finger over the exquisite folds of the robe,
the flying hair. “How ... how much are you asking for it?”
He pressed the little figurine into her hands. “Consider it a gift,”
he said. “I do not charge my friends.”
She thanked him, stammering a little, then met his dark brown
eyes again. “You know, that was really dangerous, sending me out
onto the surface all by myself. I might’ve cracked ... flipped open my
faceplate, or something. What made you so sure I’d be all right?”
He said nothing, but continued to gaze at her, calmly and
confidently, a smile at the corners of his mouth.
“Thanks,” she said awkwardly.
Then she turned and walked away, the moon maiden clutched in
her hands.
Activities
1.
As a class, discuss the characteristics of a fantasy. Take notes during
your discussion. Then, individually, prove in note form that “Moon
Maiden” is a fantasy.
2. Identify the main characters in this story. For each of them, write
three similes that capture their personalities or roles in the story.
3. Write Kate’s diary entry in which she explains what she has learned
from her experience on the moon, why she was tempted to join the
woman in white, and why she did not go with her.
Look Beyond
227
Choose a cause that you believe in strongly and
create a logo that communicates not only the name
of the organization but something of its philosophy.
Project, based on growth patterns in U.S. rap sales,
what rap sales will be like in the year 2000. Write a
paragraph justifying your response with information
from the graph or your broader experience.
The rise and rise of rap
U.S. Rap Sales
994 41.1 million units
995 42 million
996 56 million
997 62 million
0
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
6
7
Canadian Sales
RAP:
1997 4.8% of record sales
1998 5.5%
R&B
1997 6.6%
1998 5.8%
0
1
228
2
3
4
Look Beyond
5
Read the quotations on this
spread. Decide on one small thing
that you can do to improve your
world. Share your commitment
with the class.
Write or find an inspirational
message that you think is
especially compelling. Contribute
your message to a class bulletin
board. Read all messages and
choose your favourite. Write an
explanation of why it is your
favourite.
So the United Nations appointed a Worl
d Commission on Environment
and Development which produced the
famous report called Our Common
Future which set out the idea of Sust
ainable Development. This means:
Meeting the needs of the present with
out compromising the
ability of future generations to meet
their needs...
Get it?—Feed the world today but leave
a planet around for your
great grandchildren.
Agata Pawlat, 17, Poland
next
of both our time and the
The greatest challenge
will
net from destruction. It
century is to save the pla
y foundations of modern
require changing the ver
e.
onship of humans to natur
civilization—the relati
Mikhail Gorbachev
As chairm
an of the S
pace Sub-c
ommittee
in the
b
lishment o
Mission to
fa
Planet Eart
h, a world
wide
monitorin
g system st
affed by ch
ildren ...
designed to
rescue the
global envi
ronment.
Senate, I st
rongly urg
ed the esta
Albert Go
re Jnr.
Note: Quotes are from Rescue Mission,
Planet Earth, A Children’s Edition of
Agenda 21 published after the Earth
Summit in Rio de Janeiro in 1992.
Look Beyond
229
The Adventurous Life of
John Goddard
STUA RT MCLE A N
hen John Goddard was fifteen years
old, he sat down one night with a
red pencil, a blue pen and a yellow legal
pad and made a list of things he wanted
to do before he died.
His list began just the way you might
expect:
W
•
•
•
•
•
Become an Eagle Scout.
Broad jump fifteen feet.
Make a parachute jump.
Dive in a submarine.
Learn ju-jitsu.
The more the boy wrote, the more his
imagination took hold. The list soon left the
realm of idle daydreams and entered the
world of serious adolescent fantasy:
Focus Your Learning
n scan text for information
n create an advertisement
n set goals and develop strategies for achieving
those goals
230
Look Beyond
• Milk a poisonous snake.
• Light a match with a 22.
• Watch a fire-walking ceremony in
Surinam.
• Watch a cremation ceremony in Bali.
And it didn’t stop there. As young
Goddard continued his list, his vision
expanded and showed signs of the grand
adventurer he was going to grow up to be:
•
•
•
•
Explore the Amazon.
Swim in Lake Tanganyika.
Climb the Matterhorn.
Retrace the travels of Marco Polo and
Alexander the Great.
• Visit every country in the world.
The ideas poured onto the page and at
some point took a sharp turn in tone. As
Goddard added to his list, he displayed an
academic sophistication well beyond his
fifteen years:
• Read the works of Shakespeare, Plato,
Aristotle, Dickens, Thoreau, Rousseau,
Hemingway, Twain, Burroughs, Talmage,
Tolstoy, Longfellow, Keats, Poe, Bacon,
Whittier and Emerson.
• Become familiar with the compositions of
Bach, Beethoven, Debussy, Ibert,
Mendelssohn, Lalo, Milhaud, Ravel,
Rimsky-Korsakov, Respighi,
Rachmaninoff, Paganini, Stravinsky,
Toch, Tchaikovsky, Verdi.
• Read the Bible from cover to cover.
• Play the flute and the violin.
When he put his pens down, there were
127 items on Goddard’s list.
Well. Yes.
We have all taken a stab at this sort of
thing at one time or another. The
extraordinary difference between John
Goddard and the rest of us, however, is the
unsettling fact that Goddard didn’t throw
his list out. Nor did he chuck it into the
bottom of a drawer. He kept his list in plain
sight and set out to complete every item
line by line. Today Goddard has check
marks beside 108 of his original 127 goals.
And that includes all of the items
mentioned above.
Well, that’s not exactly true. There are
still thirty odd countries that he hasn’t
visited. But he is working on that.
I first read about John Goddard in Life
magazine when I was a teenager. It was in
one of those articles at the back of the
magazine in a section called the “Parting
Shots.” The article stuck in my mind (How
could I forget it?) and I always hoped I
would get a chance to talk to him. Fifteen
years later I sat down with his phone
number in front of me and called him at his
home in La Cañada, California. I wanted to
talk to him, I explained, about the list I had
seen so long ago in Life. I wanted to know
if he was still working on it. Yes, he was.
Did he remember what had inspired him to
write it? John Goddard chuckled.
I think what motivated me to write the list
was listening to some family friends who
were visiting with my parents. They had
been over for dinner and were helping to
clear the dishes. I was doing my homework
in a little alcove, a sort of breakfast nook.
The man of the family, a Dr. Keller, looked
at me and said to my parents, ‘I’d give
anything to be John’s age again. I really
would do things differently. I would set out
Look Beyond
231
and accomplish more of the dreams
of my youth.’ That was the gist of his
conversation—if only he could start over—
and I thought, here’s a man only forty-two
years old, and he is feeling life has passed
him by, and I thought, if I start planning
now, and really work on my goals, I won’t
end up that way.
Almost fifty years have passed since
John Goddard wrote out his life goals. He
is now in his mid-sixties. But the day we
spoke, he was busy preparing for a trip to
the North Pole—one half of goal number
54, which is to visit both the North and the
South poles. Another check mark. I spoke
to John Goddard for almost two hours, and
we talked about many things. I asked him
if he remembered the day he wrote the list.
I remember it vividly because it was such
a rite of passage for me. It was a rainy
Sunday afternoon in 1941. Until that
time I really hadn’t crystallized all my
ambitions and hopes and dreams.
Writing them down was the first act in
achieving them. You know, when you
write something down with the sincere
intent of doing it, it’s a commitment. A
lot of us fail to do that. We don’t set
deadlines and say, for example, by June
of 1990 I’m going to have checked out in
scuba, taken a rock climbing course and
learned how to play the piano. The
moment of writing it down is vivid in
my mind because that was my formal
232
Look Beyond
commitment to that life list. And I felt
I would give myself a lifetime to fulfil
everything on it.
One of Goddard’s early challenges was
an expedition by kayak down the longest
river on earth—the 4,000-mile Nile. He was
the first person in the world to travel the
length of the river from the headwaters to
the Mediterranean. He took a bank loan to
finance the trip and then paid off the loan
by writing a book about his adventures. He
sold the book on the lecture circuit. And
that’s the way he has made his living ever
since. Goddard supports himself through his
lectures, his books, and the sale of his films
and tapes. He is not a wealthy man.
I asked him if he had ever been in any
physical danger. He told me of the time he
was lost in a sand storm in the Sudan, and
couldn’t put up a tent because the wind
was blowing so hard. But he couldn’t sit
still because if he had stopped moving, he
would have been buried alive. He told me
about the time he had been shot at by river
pirates in Egypt. Later I read that he had
also been bitten by a rattlesnake, charged
by an elephant, trapped in quicksand, been
in more than one plane crash and caught in
more than one earthquake.
Sometimes I go on and on about a
hazardous drive my family and I had one
winter between Montreal and Toronto. It
was snowing more than usual, the driving
was tough, and there were a lot of cars off
the road. There was also a service centre
every fifty-odd miles, lots of snow-ploughs
and plenty of people to help out if I had
got in trouble. Nevertheless, when I tell
the story of the drive I can make it sound
pretty dramatic.
Imagine being able to start a story with
“Exploring the Congo was difficult....”
Exploring the Congo was difficult. It took
me six months and resulted in the loss of
life of my partner, Jack Yowell from Kenya.
Four hundred miles downstream we had a
disaster when we both capsized on a raging
stretch of rapids. It was the 125th set of
rapids, and we were paddling fragile 60pound, 16-foot kayaks. He got swept to the
left and flipped over, and racing over to
help him I got flipped over, too, and nearly
drowned myself. I tried to fight to the
surface and banged into the river bottom.
The river was so turbulent I couldn’t really
tell which way the surface was, and I was
drowning because I was under the water an
interminable time. I think the thing that
saved me was the fact that I could hold my
breath for three minutes in an emergency. I
was finally washed to calm water and ran
along the banks desperately trying to find
Jack. I couldn’t see him anywhere. Then
suddenly a box of matches came floating
by, then his pipe, overturned kayak and
aluminum paddle, but no Jack. It was very
difficult to go on and travel the remaining
2,300 miles to the Atlantic. But we had
promised one another if one of us did die
on the upper river that the survivor would
continue and finish the expedition for both
of us. So I fulfilled that promise.
John Goddard still has a lot of things left
on his list, but at age sixty-four he is in good
shape and determined to keep at it. He does
one hundred sit-ups every morning, works
out on cables and weights and rides a
stationary bike at least six miles a day.
Activities
1.
Scan the article to find advice that
John Goddard gives about setting and
achieving goals. Find three different
pieces of advice and record them in a
paragraph.
2. Imagine John Goddard is coming to speak
in your community. Make a poster or
advertisement to attract an audience.
3. John Goddard had 127 items on his
list of things he wanted to accomplish
before he died. Make your own list with
a minimum of 50 items. Select three
goals from your list that you feel are
attainable this school year. For each of
these three goals, explain how you plan
to achieve it.
Look Beyond
233
e.e. cummings
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
Focus Your Learning
Studying this poem
will help you:
n identify irony and
playful uses of
language
n identify slang,
colloquialism,
and jargon
n present a choral
reading
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
234
Look Beyond
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scrumptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
Activities
1.
As a class, discuss what we mean when we call someone a “sunny
character.” What are the advantages of an optimistic view of life?
Are there any disadvantages? Explain.
2. In a short-answer response, explain the irony in this poem. Consider
Uncle Sol’s name as well as the events that befall him.
3. Work with a partner to prepare a choral reading of this poem. Before
you begin, find examples of slang, colloquialism, and jargon, and
decide how you are going to present them in your reading. Try to
communicate the humour of this poem as you read.
Look Beyond
235
Tar Beach (Woman on a Beach Series #1) 1988
David Heald, © The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, New York
236
Look Beyond
Faith Ringgold
“After deciding to be an artist, the first thing that
I had to believe was that I, a Black woman, could
penetrate the art scene and that I could do so
without sacrificing one iota of my Blackness or
my femaleness, or my humanity.”
– Faith Ringgold
Focus Your Learning
Studying this painting will help you:
n describe your response to a visual
n write a dialogue
Activities
1.
Write a detailed description of what you see in this visual.
Record your response on a graphic organizer that allows
you to list your response according to your five senses.
2. Write a dialogue between the two children on the blanket.
What are they doing on the “tar beach”? How do they feel?
What is their feeling about family life?
Look Beyond
237
Demeter and
Persephone
C E L I A B A R K E R LOT T R I D G E
Demeter was the goddess who loved the earth.
While most of the gods spent their days on
Focus Your Learning
Reading this myth will help you:
n compare myths across
cultures
n share and compare
responses
n write a myth and present it
as a picture book
238
Look Beyond
Mount Olympus in the company of other gods, Demeter
loved to wander the fields and forests, visiting the country
people who offered her hospitality. They knew that the
simply-dressed woman with the golden eyes and golden hair
must be one of the immortals, because of the nobility of her
bearing and the wisdom in her face.
She had a daughter who was her heart’s joy. As Demeter
loved the fields of grain and the trees laden with fruit, so her
daughter Persephone loved flowers and the spring time. Her
step was light and her smile was like sunshine.
Hades, lord of the underworld, saw Persephone and fell
in love with her. Although his palace was built of gold and
its walls were rich with precious stones, it was dark and
gloomy. Hades longed for the brightness and joy that
Persephone would bring to his kingdom, so he went to Zeus
and asked for her as his bride. Zeus did not want to offend
his older brother, but he knew that Demeter would never
agree to send her daughter to the underworld. So if he did
not forbid Hades to marry Persephone, he did not approve of
it, either. Hades saw that Zeus would not stand against him,
so he proceeded with his plan.
Persephone was gathering flowers in a meadow one day
when a golden chariot drawn by four coal-black horses burst
through a crevasse in the earth. The driver of the chariot
grasped the girl by her wrist and pulled her into the chariot beside
him, before he turned his horses and plunged again into the earth.
Only a few crushed blossoms remained to show that Persephone had
been there.
When Demeter came looking for her daughter, of course she
could not find her. For nine days she wandered, asking all she met if
they had seen Persephone. At last, a story told by a country man gave
her the dreadful suspicion that her beloved daughter had been taken
into the underworld. She went to Helios the sun, who sees everything,
and demanded to hear the truth.
When Helios told her that Persephone had been taken by Hades
to be his queen, Demeter’s anger knew no bounds. She left Olympus
and walked barefoot on the earth, her hair dishevelled, mourning her
loss. And the earth, which had been so dear to her, became desolate.
The goddess forbade the fields and the trees to bear. Streams dried up;
and dust blew in the hot wind. Ploughs could not cut the fields, and
seeds that were scattered did not grow. People began to starve; and the
beloved goddess who had been their friend walked among them
unrecognized, for her eyes were blank, her gown tattered, and her
body bent with grief.
Zeus sent one god after another to plead with her, but Demeter
would not hear any of them. “Until my daughter is returned to me, the
earth will show the sorrow in my heart,” she said.
Zeus, the Father of Heaven, knew he could not let the earth die.
He also knew that Persephone, the eternally young, did not belong in
the underworld. So he called Hermes, the messenger of the gods, who
guides the souls of the dead to their new home, and said, “Go to
Hades. Tell him that he must allow Persephone to return to Demeter.
He must let her go—unless she has eaten any of the food of the dead.
If she has done that, she must remain below the earth.”
And so Hermes found Hades sitting on his gloomy throne and
told him what Zeus had said. Hades knew he had no choice and he
called for Persephone, his queen. She came with her head bent and
her steps dragging; but Hermes saw that even in her misery she
brought brightness and warmth to that cold metal palace, and he
knew why Hades wanted her.
Look Beyond
239
When Persephone heard that Hermes had come to take her away
from there, her eyes brightened and colour came into her pale cheeks.
But Hades said, “If you have eaten anything during your time here you
cannot leave, for no one can eat the food of the dead and return to live
on earth.” Persephone said nothing; but as she left Hades’ palace one
of the gardeners cried out that he had seen her eat four seeds from a
pomegranate, the fruit of the dead.
Demeter greeted her daughter with great joy, and in all the
desolate world the sap began to rise again. But Persephone confessed
that she had indeed eaten the pomegranate seeds, and that Hades
would finally claim her. Then Zeus saw that he must act to stop death
from overtaking the earth. Equally, the old days of endless spring and
summer could be no more.
He spoke to both Demeter and Hades. “Because Persephone ate
four seeds in the underworld, she will spend four months of the year
with Hades. But always she will return to her mother Demeter to bring
flowers and brightness to the earth.” And Demeter and Hades and
Persephone knew that this was the way it would be.
Demeter sorrowed that Persephone would be in a world so far
from the light for so long each year. But now her sorrow did not
overwhelm her. She looked at the dry, barren earth and the golden
light of love came into her eyes once more. She began to walk the
fields and groves again, and again they flourished.
Activities
1.
Work in groups to compare the Greek myth of Demeter and
Persephone with another myth from any other culture describing a
natural phenomenon. From your comparison, draw up a list of
characteristics of myth. Share your findings with the class.
2. Using the characteristics of myth, write your own myth or retell in
your own words a myth that you know. Prepare the myth as a picture
book for primary or junior-level children. If possible share your
completed book with a student of the appropriate age.
240
Look Beyond
What a Certain
Visionary Once Said
TO M S O N H I G H W AY
Focus Your Learning
Reading this essay will
help you:
n identify visual
images that create
mood and reinforce
meaning
n experiment with
language
Mystic Moose by Ray Keighley
s you travel north from Winnipeg, the
flatness of the prairie begins to give
way. And the northern forests begin to take
over, forests of spruce and pine and poplar
and birch. The northern rivers and northern
rapids, the waterfalls, the eskers, the
northern lakes—thousands of them—with
their innumerable islands encircled by
golden-sand beaches and flat limestone
surfaces that slide gracefully into water. As
A
you travel farther north, the trees
themselves begin to diminish in height
and size. And get smaller, until, finally,
you reach the barren lands. It is from
these reaches that herds of caribou in
the thousands come thundering down
each winter. It is here that you find trout
and pickerel and pike and whitefish in
profusion. If you’re here in August, your
eyes will be glutted with a sudden
Look Beyond
241
explosion of colour seldom seen in any
southern Canadian landscape: fields of wild
raspberries, cloud berries, blueberries,
cranberries, stands of wild flowers you
never believed such remote northern terrain
was capable of nurturing. And the water is
still so clean you can dip your hand over
the side of your canoe and you can drink it.
In winter, you can eat the snow, without
fear. In both winter and summer, you can
breathe, this is your land, your home.
Here, you can begin to remember that
you are a human being. And if you take the
time to listen—really listen—you can begin
to hear the earth breathe. And whisper
things simple men, who never suspected
they were mad, can hear. Madmen who
speak Cree, for one, can in fact understand
the language this land speaks, in certain
circles. Which would make madmen who
speak Cree a privileged lot.
Then you seat yourself down on a carpet
of reindeer moss and you watch the
movements of the sky, filled with stars and
galaxies of stars by night, streaked by
endlessly shifting cloud formations by day.
You watch the movements of the lake
which, within one hour, can change from a
surface of glass to one of waves so massive
in their fury they can—and have—killed
many a man. And you begin to understand
that men and women can, within maybe
not one hour but one day, change from a
mood of reflective serenity and self-control
to one of depression and despair so deep
they can—and have—killed many a man.
You begin to understand that this earth
we live on—once thought insensate,
inanimate, dead, by scientists, theologians
and such—has an emotional, psychological
and spiritual life every bit as complex as
that of the most complex, sensitive and
intelligent of individuals.
And it’s ours. Or is it?
A certain ancient aboriginal visionary of
this country once said: “We have not
inherited this land, we have merely
borrowed it from our children.”
If that’s the case, what a loan!
Eh?
Activities
1.
242
List the vocabulary used in this essay
that strikes you as being particularly
vivid and effective. What impression of
the landscape does this vocabulary
create? How does this impression
Look Beyond
reinforce the message of the essay?
Share your views with your group.
2. Write a paragraph describing a landscape
that you know. Make your language as
richly descriptive as you can.
Paul Fleischman
We were counted not in
thousands
nor
millions
but in
billions.
billions.
We were numerous as the
stars
stars
in the heavens
This poem is intended to be
read aloud by two people. One
person reads the lines on the
left, the other those on the right.
When the two lines are the
same, read them together.
As grains of
sand
sand
at the sea
As the
buffalo
buffalo
on the plains.
Focus Your Learning
Studying this poem for two
voices will help you:
n share ideas and information
n present a choral reading
n write a poem
When we burst into flight
we so filled the sky
that the
sun
sun
was darkened
and
Look Beyond
243
day
day
became dusk.
Humblers of the sun
Humblers of the sun
we were!
we were!
The world
inconceivable
inconceivable
without us.
Yet it’s 1914,
and here I am
alone
alone
caged in the Cincinnati Zoo,
the last
of the passenger pigeons.
Activities
1.
As a class, discuss which North American
animals have become endangered or extinct.
What has been the cause of these
environmental problems?
2. Work with a partner to prepare a choral reading
of this poem. Follow the instructions at the start
of the poem, and be sure to read with
appropriate expression.
3. Write a poem about an animal or bird that is
extinct or endangered. You might wish to work
with a partner to write a poem for two (or more)
voices.
244
Look Beyond
Jenny Nelson
When I grow up, my father says,
the Big Trees will be gone.
I want to see the trees
my father’s seen.
“Gwaii Haanas” was inspired by a
trip to Burnaby Narrows in Gwaii
Haanas, then known as South
Moresby. A campaign to preserve
the area has resulted in the island
being managed equally by the
Haida nation and the federal parks
department.
I want to travel on the water
watch the otter
slide into the sea.
I want to see how small I am
beside old Cedar Tree.
I want to see the things
that Chini’s seen.
I want to know the forest
Focus Your Learning
Reading these poems will help you:
n share ideas and information
n compare and contrast two poems
n interpret the tone of the poems
n create a poster
through my toes, as my foot goes,
on moss, on bench, on rock,
on rotting wood.
I want to feel the forest
with my eyes and hands and nose,
Look Beyond
245
wet clothes,
sounds of tree-bird,
sounds of silence,
smell of mushroom, smell of cedar,
following the creeks that run
red and quiet,
water falls.
The forest calls.
I have a need
to see the Trees
My father’s seen.
Leave some for me.
kateri akiwenzie-damm
at night there are no voices
singing me gently to sleep
though i know they whisper
outside these strange walls
i look to the sky for sweet light
of stars
but night is never dark here
246
Look Beyond
Emily Carr, Wood Interior, VAG 42.3.5, Vancouver Art Gallery/Trevor Mills
i long to join the dance of the earth
—i knew the movements once
i dream of the wind
the damp smell of the earth
and the footsteps of animals dancing
by moonlight
my body is tired and aching
blood rushes to my feet
drains into the pavement
is pulled through my scalp
i lose track of the land
Activities
1.
In a small group, brainstorm a list of ways in which people’s
relationship with the environment has changed over the
decades. When making your list, consider how the landscape
has changed and why many people feel less of a connection
with nature than they once did.
2. Compare and contrast these two poems, using at least three
points of similarity or difference. Provide detailed evidence
from the poem for the points you make.
3. Look for suitable music to accompany each of these poems.
Present these pieces of music to the class, and be prepared to
explain how you have made your choices.
4. Create a poster with a message derived from either of these
poems. Display your posters for the school to see.
Look Beyond
247
Five Minutes to
Change the World
PEG KEHRET
By Ma Myat San Moe, 14, Myanmar
CAST:
Five players, either sex, and CONTROLLER.
AT RISE: Characters ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR and
FIVE are On Stage.
Focus Your Learning
Studying this play will help you:
n work with others to present
a performance
n identify and evaluate
sources of information
n record and organize
information
ONE:
Our parents made a mess of the world.
TWO:
The oceans are polluted. The air is polluted.
THREE: There’s overpopulation.
FOUR:
ONE:
248
Look Beyond
Oil spills. Litter.
Wars. Famine.
THREE:
Homelessness. Drugs. Crime.
FIVE:
Animals are becoming extinct.
ONE:
Child abuse. Illiteracy.
TWO:
There are nothing but problems everywhere. The older
generation was totally irresponsible.
FIVE:
If we were in charge, this never would have happened.
TWO:
We would have world peace. And a clean environment.
FOUR:
ONE:
THREE:
CONTROLLER:
OTHERS:
CONTROLLER:
FIVE:
THREE:
CONTROLLER:
TWO:
CONTROLLER:
FOUR:
If teens ran the world, things would be different.
No one would go hungry.
Give us just five minutes with the world leaders and we
could tell them how to improve the whole planet.
(CONTROLLER rushes in.)
Stop!
Who’s that? What? What do you want? (Etc.)
I am Controller. I decide who is in charge of the world. I
have heard your complaints, and I think you are right. The
world is in a mess. The adults have botched up the job.
Controller? I never heard about any controller.
Are you God’s assistant?
I am no one’s assistant. I am in charge.
Hi, boss.
I have decided to give you a chance to save the world.
Right here. Right now. When I say “go,” you will have
five minutes to decide what changes you want to make
and how you will make them. It is not enough to say you
want world peace; you must also say how you plan to
achieve it.
Five minutes isn’t very long for such an important job.
Look Beyond
249
CONTROLLER:
TWO:
Do you have anything to do with raising allowances?
ONE:
Five minutes is better than nothing. Let’s do it.
CONTROLLER:
ONE:
I think the first problem we have to solve is hunger. When
people don’t have enough to eat, they can’t think about
anything else.
People in the U.S. should share their food with the poor
countries.
THREE:
We spend millions of dollars a year on diet foods while
other people are starving.
How do we get the food to those who need it?
TWO:
Let’s fly it over and drop bundles down to areas that need
food. Can’t you just see it? Millions of cupcakes falling from
the sky. (He sings) “Twinkie, Twinkie, little star.”
ONE:
Who pays for the airplanes?
THREE:
FIVE:
FOUR:
ONE:
THREE:
FOUR:
Look Beyond
Ready? (Others nod yes.) Go.
FOUR:
FOUR:
250
All you must do is tell me how to proceed. I’ll see that your
plans are carried out.
The government.
If the government does it, taxes will go up.
We are the government.
We have to be careful that the food doesn’t go to
unscrupulous people who sell it on the black market. How
do we know who to trust?
What about spoilage? Bread would get stale.
We would send flour and yeast. Powdered milk. Dried fruit.
FIVE:
Do those people have ovens? How do they cook?
ONE:
What about utensils? Bowls and cups? If we send powdered
milk, do they have something to mix it in? Some way to
drink it?
TWO:
THREE:
FOUR:
This is getting too complicated. Let’s tackle one of the other
problems first.
Pollution.
Yes. Let’s get rid of pollution.
FIVE:
Let’s ban all automobiles.
TWO:
No way. I’m almost through driver’s training. I’ll get my
license in a couple of weeks.
THREE:
Do you want clean air, or do you want to drive a car?
TWO:
Both.
FIVE:
Not just cars. We should ban all motor vehicles.
ONE:
My dad is a sales rep. Without a car, he’d have no job.
TWO:
At least we’d know what to do with the extra food. We
could give it to you.
THREE:
ONE:
Couldn’t he call his customers and take orders by
telephone?
He has new products twice a year. The store owners want
to see them, before they order.
FOUR:
What about trucks? Should we ban trucks, too?
ONE:
Without trucks, how would the food get to the
supermarkets?
FOUR:
If nobody had a car, we would all shop at neighbourhood
stores.
THREE:
It would be like the old days. My grandparents are always
telling how they grew all their own vegetables, and every
year they raised a steer and slaughtered it for meat.
ONE:
FOUR:
Gross.
I don’t think the manager of the apartment where we live
would be too happy if we had a steer on the balcony.
Look Beyond
251
TWO:
FOUR:
FIVE:
THREE:
FOUR:
Maybe we can’t ban all motor vehicles.
Who decides which ones are OK and which are not?
We could allow delivery trucks and business cars, but no
personal cars.
There would be a lot of people who suddenly claimed they
needed their car for business purposes.
FIVE:
What about school buses?
TWO:
Ban the buses! Close the schools. But not until after I finish
driver’s training.
ONE:
Think of all the industries that are dependent on people
being able to drive. My father wouldn’t be the only one out
of work. Our whole economy would have to change.
THREE:
Your time is half gone.
Half gone! We haven’t decided anything yet.
FOUR:
Air pollution is too complicated. Let’s start with something
smaller, something we know we can change.
FIVE:
Overpopulation. How do we get birth control information to
people who need it?
THREE:
Look Beyond
There’s an old lady in the apartment next to us who gets
Meals on Wheels. Without them, she’d never have a decent
dinner.
ONE:
CONTROLLER:
252
You could have a pig instead. Or chickens.
Are there charities that do this? If there are, we could have
a fund raiser and give them the money.
ONE:
Remember the big flap between some parents and the
school board last year because birth control information
was available at our school?
TWO:
Right. And I didn’t even need it. (Others all look at him.
TWO shrugs.)
FIVE:
If we do anything to promote birth control, it’s sure to
cause a controversy.
FOUR:
Let’s start with drugs and alcohol. They cause so many
other problems, and none of the parents would object.
THREE:
ONE:
THREE:
Good idea. I say we ban all drugs.
Drugs are already banned.
We could make alcohol illegal.
FIVE:
They tried that years ago. Prohibition. It didn’t work. People
kept drinking, only they did it secretly.
ONE:
Just like they do drugs now.
FOUR:
It’s a problem either way, whether there are laws against it
or not.
THREE:
Then what good does it do to try to change things? It won’t
make any difference what we decide.
CONTROLLER:
You have two more minutes.
TWO:
Maybe our parents weren’t totally irresponsible. Maybe
they tried to solve some of these problems and weren’t
able to.
FIVE:
Our grandparents, too.
ONE:
Maybe we can’t change the whole world. Maybe what we
have to do is change ourselves.
FIVE:
And each of us could try to influence one other person and
have them do the same until eventually it makes a difference.
THREE:
TWO:
THREE:
FOUR:
I make a commitment never to use drugs or alcohol. Will
you join me?
Not even a beer now and then?
Not even a beer.
I join you.
Look Beyond
253
FIVE:
Me, too.
ONE:
Me, too. And I make a commitment to volunteer at least four
hours a month with the Red Cross or the Salvation Army or
some other agency that helps feed the hungry people.
THREE:
FIVE:
I will give up junk food and donate the money I save to a
group that helps save endangered animals.
TWO:
Wow! I’ve seen you eat. You’ll probably save the elephants
single-handed.
FOUR:
I can’t stop pollution, but I will pick up litter at the city
park. I’ll recycle the cans and paper I find and dispose of
the other trash.
FIVE:
That’s a great idea. I’ll help you do that. I know where we
can take recyclable plastic, too.
THREE:
Five minutes ago, we set out to save the world, Now we’re
reduced to picking up other people’s trash. What’s wrong
with us?
ONE:
Nothing’s wrong. The problems don’t have easy solutions.
FOUR:
(Turns to TWO) What about you, (Name)? You haven’t
agreed to any of these changes. What do you plan to do?
TWO:
Are there any volunteer jobs where you get to drive? (They
all stare at him, waiting.) All right, all right. When I get my
license, I won’t drive unless it’s a necessary trip.
FIVE:
No cruising?
TWO:
(It pains him to say this.) No cruising.
TWO:
CONTROLLER:
Look Beyond
We’re being practical. We have to start somewhere.
ONE:
THREE:
254
I’ll go with you.
It’s a start.
It’s a sacrifice.
Time’s up. What instructions do you have for me?
THREE:
FOUR:
None.
We couldn’t figure out any solutions. We had our chance to
save the world, and we blew it.
ONE:
No, we didn’t. (Turns to CONTROLLER) Here are your
instructions: Every person is to make one change that will
benefit the world.
FIVE:
We’ll start small.
ONE:
And grow.
THREE:
And become powerful.
FOUR:
Eventually, we’ll make a difference.
ONE:
Even if it means personal sacrifice.
TWO:
Like no cruising.
CONTROLLER:
You have used your five minutes well. Your instructions will
be carried out. (CONTROLLER exits, followed by others.)
Activities
1.
In a group of six, prepare to enact this play. Be sure to
present it with appropriate emotion and
characterization. Practise the play until you feel
confident enough to present it.
2. Choose one of the problems identified in the play. Do
some research to find out more about its causes. Make
notes of your findings organized under appropriate
headings and subheadings. Then list at least three steps
you can take to address the problem you chose.
Look Beyond
255
David Kherdian
Focus Your Learning
Studying these poems
will help you:
n share and compare
responses
n identify metaphor
and show how it
relates to the
poem’s message
n write a dialogue
Just once
my father stopped on the way
into the house from work
and joined in the softball game
we were having in the street,
and attempted to play in our
game that his country had never
known.
Just once
and the day stands out forever
in my memory
as a father’s living gesture
to his son,
that in playing even the fool
or clown, he would reveal
that the lines of their lives
were sewn from a tougher fabric
than the son had previously known.
256
Look Beyond
Softball by William Kurelek
Farzana Doctor
My mother taught me to fight.
In the eleven short years I knew her
She taught me about justice.
Racism.
Love.
“You’re a chocolate face.”
“So what. You’re a vanilla face.”
I grew up in a small suburban white town.
I went to Brownies, said the Lord’s Prayer,
Disliked Friday evening Gujarati classes and
Always wanted to fit in.
“___________ go home.”
My mother swelled in fury
When her little girl repeated the ugly words
She had been told at school.
And so she went out to find justice.
Look Beyond
257
Banu marched to Ed Broadbent’s office
And spoke of her children.
And of racism and ____________.
“And we are not from _____________.”
Years after the cancer took over
Years after I tried to forget her
Years after I shunned the med-keeners who looked like me
Years after I streaked my hair blond
She returned to me.
And I remembered.
I remembered the name-calling
And how she got mad
And I remembered
How she went down fighting.
Did she know that on that day,
She planted a gem in her little girl’s mind
Which many years after her death
Would grow
Inside my Indo-phobic
Multiculturized
Coconut head?
Did she know that her one act
Would help create a
Woman who would love herself
258
Look Beyond
Her brown skin
Her dark eyes
The beauty of women?
If I could know her today
We would sit together
And have chai.
We would speak of our lives
Of truth
Of justice
And of “__________” who
Would not go home
But stayed to change the world.
Activities
1.
Do you feel that the parent and child in each of these
poems found it easy to communicate with each other?
Discuss in a group, supporting your views with details
from the poems.
2. Find one metaphor in each poem. Write a short-answer
response showing how each metaphor relates to the
main message of the poem.
3. Suppose the parent and child in each of these poems
had the opportunity to discuss the “one act” described,
several years after it occurred. With a partner, write the
dialogue that might have taken place between the
parent and child from one of these poems. Explore the
impact of the parent’s action on the child.
Look Beyond
259
Birth of a New Technology
Andy Lackow
A Computer-Manipulated Illustration; Software: Adobe Photoshop/Illustrator, Strata StudioPro
260
Look Beyond
Focus Your Learning
Viewing this visual will help you:
n express your ideas and reach conclusions
n compare your own and others’ insights and viewpoints
Activities
1.
Explain the title of this piece, making specific references to
elements of the visual. Write your response.
2. Do you find this a positive or a negative image? Discuss in
a small group.
Look Beyond
261
Eldinah’s Journey
LISA WALDICK
A
Focus Your Learning
Reading this magazine article will help you:
n use a graphic organizer
n share and compare ideas
n write a letter in role
n ask questions to extend your understanding
262
Look Beyond
t first glance, Eldinah Tshatedi couldn’t
be more different from the character
she played in the movie, African Journey. In
this film, which has aired on Canadian
television, Eldinah plays a shy, African girl
from a poor village. When I met Eldinah,
however, I found she was anything but shy.
Sporting long, braided hair and dressed in
Doc Martens and jeans, she was exuberant,
enthusiastic and talkative.
African Journey is about a Canadian
teenager, Luke Novak. He goes to Africa to
visit his father who is working there as a
mining engineer. While in Africa, Luke
befriends a 16-year-old boy, named Themba,
who introduces him to the beauty, culture
and difficulties of southeastern Africa.
Eldinah plays Themba’s sister, Tulani. In
the movie, Tulani runs away to the city in
order to escape an arranged marriage with a
much older man. The city is overwhelming
and frightening, but Tulani manages to
make her way.
A Star Is Born
When casting for African Journey took
place, Eldinah was living in Zimbabwe. A
friend was trying out for the part of Themba
and asked Eldinah to come along for moral
support. Eldinah agreed. While there, the
casting director talked her into trying out for
the part of Tulani. Eldinah had never been
to drama school, but she loved to act, and
was always in her school plays. She gave
the audition a try and was called back.
Eventually, she was chosen—from over 300
actresses—as the one who could best
embody the character of Tulani.
As one of the collaborators on African
Journey, Mark Winemaker, commented,
“Anyone who has met Eldinah knows she
has a certain magic and presence. I think
George Bloomfield, the film director, was
quite overwhelmed by that.”
Eldinah also did her homework. She read
the script and thought about the way her
character would dress and speak. Eldinah
doesn’t have an African accent, because she
moved at a young age from South Africa,
where she was born, to the State of Oregon
in the U.S.A. and lived there until age 12.
Eldinah had never been to Zimbabwe’s
rural areas, but she had many friends who
had—and that helped her.
A Mind of Her Own
The fact that she had these friends was
something unusual. Eldinah went to a
private high school in Zimbabwe and, at
first, she had some trouble fitting in. Her
background was different from that of the
other kids in her class because she had lived
in the United States for so long. She wore
tank tops, ripped jeans, and mini-skirts; she
questioned teachers and said what was on
her mind. These were not, as Eldinah puts
it, “done things.”
“But,” says Eldinah, “I still managed to
have a lot of friends because I didn’t like to
be friends with people from just my school.
I was friends with everybody; I had friends
from all walks of life. I got to learn a lot
from being with them.”
In the capital of Zimbabwe, Harare,
explains Eldinah, there are low-density and
high-density suburbs. The low-density
suburbs where Eldinah lived “are pretty
posh. The families aren’t very large, parents
can afford to have cars, and everyone is very
well spoken in English.” In high-density
suburbs, “you might have 10 people living
in a house that only has two bedrooms.”
Eldinah didn’t stick to hanging around with
people from the elite areas.
When I asked her what life was like in
the high-density suburbs, she was earnest
in her explanation.
“They don’t have the same kind of food. It
could be mealie-meal with milk because they
can’t afford meat; or if they have vegetables,
it would be vegetables from their garden.
They don’t have a garden with flowers; any
available space has to be for vegetables that
they can eat. You would not find a car
Look Beyond
263
around there. If you found a bicycle, that
would be unusual. People are that poor.”
Eldinah says some of her classmates were
shocked by her other friends. “People would
call me strange. I mean, people from private
schools don’t go to areas like that. You don’t
go to lower-class areas; you are not seen
with people from there. But I didn’t care.
What’s different? They’re people.”
Because of these friends, Eldinah knew
how to speak with an African accent and
how to dress as if she were from the country.
When she was asked to come in for a screen
test after her first audition, her friends
loaned her clothes to wear.
In the Country
When Eldinah actually got out to the rural
areas of Zimbabwe to shoot the film, she
became filled with admiration for the
people living there.
“The things they make!” she told me.
“Things to keep out the frost. They make
264
Look Beyond
houses out of straw and mud. They make
their own pots. I would never be able to do
that.
“They look after their cows. Even though
they don’t have all the animal feed that rich
families have, they still know how to take
care of them.
“Even the kids—not all of them might be
able to go to school. But even the ones who
don’t, learn. And when the kids who do go
to school are playing with other kids, they
teach them what they’ve learned. People in
the rural areas know how to share.”
Understanding Tulani
It didn’t take Eldinah long to see similarities
and differences between herself and the
character Tulani.
“What we have in common is ambition
and determination. We are both very strong
people. We do what we believe in. The
thing that is different between Tulani and
me is that Tulani hasn’t been able to take
advantage of an education like I have. She
hasn’t had the chance to be a child, like I
have. She’s had to mature very quickly, and
take care of her brothers and sisters.
“Also, there is no way I have ever had to
walk two hours every day to get water,
whereas Tulani has. I have seen a lot of
things that Tulani hasn’t. I know about
prostitution, I know about AIDS, and she
doesn’t really understand about that.”
In the film, after Tulani runs away from
home, she tries to find work in the city. She
wasn’t able to attend high school because
she was needed at home. Because of her
lack of education, Tulani finds it extremely
difficult to find a job. The city streets are full
of other young people and she meets some
women who, out of desperation, began
earning a living as prostitutes. They warn
her about AIDS—”slim” as it is called in
certain African countries.
In many ways, Tulani’s character reflects
the realities of youth throughout much of
Africa. Unemployment is high; education is
a privilege; and many go to the cities to
seek their fortunes. Some find misfortune.
Others manage to make their way—as
Tulani eventually does.
Pursuing a Dream
Eldinah, like her character, left home to
pursue her dreams. At age 17, she used the
money she earned from African Journey to
travel to England, where she eventually
decided to study nursing. Now 21, she is
well into her nursing program.
She also has two other films to her
credit. One is the documentary, Journey to
Understanding, a follow-up film to African
Journey. This film explores international
development issues such as the
environment, and women and education.
It also presents modern-day Africa from
the perspective of young people living
there. Eldinah’s other film is called
Rwendo, a British made-for-T.V. movie
about a domestic worker.
Eldinah is delighted but realistic about
her unexpected acting career. “There’s no
guarantee I’ll always get acting roles,” she
says. “My nursing is something for me to
fall back on. Even if I never get acting jobs
after this, I’ll have no regrets. I mean, I’ve
loved it.”
Activities
1.
Create a Venn diagram in which you show
the differences and similarities between
Eldinah and her character Tulani. Given
the significant differences between them,
how is Eldinah able to capture the role of
Tulani effectively? List characteristics that
you think help Eldinah to be a good actor.
Share your ideas with the class.
2. Write a letter from Eldinah to a friend in
North America in which she describes her
experience and the people she has met.
3. Assume you had the opportunity to
interview Eldinah for a newspaper, radio,
or television. Write the questions you
would ask her.
Look Beyond
265
Snow White
always wanted to be an actress and
when I was chosen to play the lead in
my primary school play, I thought I had
definitely started out on the road to fame
and fortune in Hollywood. My teachers
were rather short on irony, otherwise it
might have occurred to them that there was
something a little strange about putting on
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs in a
school full of disabled children and casting
me as the heroine. My classmates’ approach
was more direct.
—“You’re going to be painted white,
Nasa Begum” they would taunt me, along
with other horrendous suggestions. Yes,
Snow White was without a doubt fairskinned, and I wasn’t—(not to mention the
other ways I didn’t look like Walt Disney’s
version of this damsel in distress.) Still, I
desperately wanted the part, so I spent
many anxious hours trying to convince
myself that I could fit the role.
Eventually my mind was put at rest when
my teacher, who was strong on kindness but
weak on political awareness, told me that
Snow White had dark hair like mine and in
the summer was probably quite tanned from
doing a lot of sunbathing. I’m not entirely
sure I believed her but I wanted the part
I
Focus Your Learning
Reading this personal account will help you:
n understand the significance of the title
n analyse character development
n examine the text to understand viewpoint,
opinion, bias, and stereotypes
n present a dialogue
266
Look Beyond
NASA BEGUM
so much, I was ready to be convinced.
Unfortunately, I never had the chance to
make dramatic history by becoming the
first Pakistani Snow White because I had
to go into hospital for an operation. That’s
one of the stories of my life.
For one reason or another my acting
career always seemed to be fated by some
disaster or another. Once again seriously
miscast, but enthusiastically bringing my
own Islamic experience into the role of the
Angel Gabriel, I tripped up and fell straight
into some poor parent’s lap. On another
occasion I was so carried away with waving
my palm around as we sang “Hosanna” in
the school Easter play (the concept of a
multi-cultural approach to teaching hadn’t
yet reached my school), that I lost my
balance and fell off the stage backwards.
I still have a small bald patch on the top
of my head to prove what dangers I was
willing to undergo in the name of drama.
It was after this that I decided to redirect
my enthusiasm into something that didn’t
seem quite so risky. I devoted most of my
efforts to school work. I never liked anything
to do with painting or practical things like
needlework and raffia as I had already spent
long spells in the hospital’s Occupational
Therapy department making stuffed toys,
mats, bead necklaces and anything else
which would encourage me to use my
hands. I loved reading and writing. I don’t
think I was ever quite the “girly swot” but
reading was my comfort and protection.
I knew that I wasn’t learning as much at
my school as my sisters did at theirs. They
always seemed to be doing lots of interesting
things and moving on at a fast pace, whereas
the progress in my school was slow and
repetitive.
One of the problems for me was that
I spent so much time in hospital that I
would miss large chunks of the school
term.There was a teacher on our ward
but it wasn’t really equipped to cater for
children who had to spend long periods
of time in hospital and as I worked quickly
and the resources were limited, I spent a
lot of time being bored.
My “real” school, the school that was
different from the one my sisters went to,
catered for children with physical disabilities
from nursery school age right up until the
age of sixteen. We were all transported to
and from school in single decker buses as
children came there from all over the city.
For some of us, by the time we arrived at
school we had already been travelling for
over an hour. The bus journey was one of
the best parts of the school day because the
activities we had started in the playground
would extend into the journey to and from
school. You could make or break friends,
play games and share gossip. I used to enjoy
waiting on the pavement each morning,
there seemed to be something special about
being collected for school from my own
Look Beyond
267
doorstep. I used to chat to the milkman, the
postman and the families on their way to the
primary school which was right next door.
It was not a very big school but there was
an enormous range of ability levels within
each class. There were children who never
seemed to be able to finish their work whilst
others would be impatiently looking around
for something else to do. I think I was
somewhere in between. I could do the work
without much difficulty but I was very slow
in getting it down on paper. It wasn’t until I
went away to boarding school that anyone
acknowledged that my lack of writing skills
was due to my physical condition rather
than to an inability to study.
I didn’t do as much academic work as
my sisters in mainstream schools, and one
of the reasons for this was the bane of my
life—physiotherapy. I was sure that I was
being treated unjustly as not everyone in
my class had to go away to these sessions
and, what was worse, it didn’t even exist at
my sisters’ school. I couldn’t see the point
of all these agonizing exercises. I was never
very good at accepting the fact that things I
didn’t like could be “good for me” and the
physiotherapist managed to do a really good
job of making me a conscientious objector
for the rest of my life. I was certain that
there were not many physiotherapists who
would allow someone to pull their limbs
in agonizing directions on the unlikely
grounds that it would “make them better.”
268
Look Beyond
It never occurred to me to question the
fact that this was the sort of school I should
go to, or to ask to go to school with my
sisters. I knew that I was different but it
wasn’t something that was an issue for me.
On the whole I used to enjoy school a lot
and looked forward to Mondays and the
end of the holidays. As a little girl I would
ask the teachers to give me homework and
eagerly present it to them the next morning.
I became less keen on working after school
when people told me I had to do it.
The kids at my school were like kids in
any other school. There were the hard kids
in the gang who would rant and rave and
there were the wet blankets who nobody
wanted to know. I was in the middle.
Unlike many girls, I never sought the
devotion of one best friend and was
happy to wander round making friends
with whoever crossed my path.
As a child it was hard for me to accept
that there were two distinct ways I was
different from the majority, not like the
people I saw on the TV, in the comics and
books I read. At school everyone had some
form of disability so no one was picked on
just for that. But disabled kids are just like
everyone else and they would tease out and
pick on anyone who was different. I had
never thought about it before I started
school but I soon learnt what it meant
to be Black in a predominantly White
establishment. I used to get very upset at
the relentless name-calling, but grassing on
anyone was not on so I had to learn to live
with it.
It was hard, though, and it made me feel
out of place wherever I was. My mum used
to sew me the Salwar Kamiz, matching silk
dresses and trousers, like she did for my
sisters, but they just attracted further
derogatory remarks at school until I
begged her to let me stop wearing them.
Eventually she relented and bought me
Western-style trousers and dresses. Even
this didn’t help because my culture said
that girls should wear both trousers and
dresses but according to my school friends
this was the pits of fashion. I ended up
feeling uncomfortable in the clothes I wore
at school and at home and I tried to solve
this dilemma by wearing Western clothes
at school and changing immediately I
returned. For almost fifteen years I did not
allow white people to see me in Salwar
Kamiz.
There was only one other Asian girl at
my school and I always admired her. It was
worship from afar. She was in the Seniors
and I was just a Junior but I saw her on the
school bus each day. She had a wonderful
dress sense and beautiful long black hair
which fell from her shoulders right down to
the base of her spine. I was desperate for
long hair but as I wore a brace from my
neck downwards it was almost impossible
to let it grow. Everything about this girl
fascinated me, not least the fact that her
family owned a shop which seemed like a
palace to me, full of Asian and Western
clothes.
Then came the tragedy of the Orange
Dress. I was about nine at the time, orange
was my favourite colour and I was in love
with that dress. Every day when the school
bus stopped for her to get in, I would see
it in the window of her family’s shop. I
wanted it so much. Eventually I managed to
persuade my mum to let me have it for the
school party and she gave the money to the
bus lady to buy it when we stopped at the
shop to drop the girl off on the way home.
The dress was there in the morning but by
the time we came home, it was gone! My
heart was broken. My beloved dress had
been sold and there were no more in my
size. There was no consoling me and it took
a couple of years for me to live down the
“story of the orange dress.” I think what
upset me most was that I wanted that dress
and I wanted it from that shop. Most of all
I wanted the girl whose family owned that
dress shop to be my friend.
She was the only Black role model I had.
Her culture was very different from mine
and her experience of family life was not
the same, but the fact that she was at my
school was important for me. Until I met
her, I had never seen another Asian person
with a disability and I was proud to be
considered to be like her.
Look Beyond
269
But it was still quite a shock for me
to realize that the other kids at school saw us
as being quite different from them. I don’t
remember race being an issue in the hospital
where I spent a lot of my childhood and there
were so many Asian people where I lived that
I did not stand out as being Black. It took me
a long time to understand why people who
did not know me in my neighbourhood made
fun of my disability and why people with
disabilities used racial slurs. Eventually I
learned that wherever I went I would
probably stand out as being different from
the majority and I had to be prepared to
accept being called names because of my
race or disability, and sometimes both.
At least at primary school I developed
an awareness of being Black through the
very blatant approach adopted by my
schoolmates. It is easier to cope with the
uninhibited forms of discrimination used
by children than the subtle approach
adopted by adults. Children are usually
willing to be given explanations and to
learn about what it means to be Black or
disabled and why discrimination is wrong.
Adults find it much harder to recognize
their own prejudices, they use their own
misconceptions to convince themselves
that they are right.
Looking back, I find it hard to believe
that I was denied the right to have the same
education as my sisters, that they went to
the primary school right next to our house,
whilst I travelled for an hour across town.
At playtime my mum used to pass them
fruit through the fencing that divided our
garden from the school playground. But I’ve
come a long way since the days of Snow
White and orange dresses. I’ve reclaimed
my identity by refusing to accept a concept
of ‘normality’ which tells me I must walk,
have fair skin and try to blend in by
wearing Western clothes.
Activities
1.
In a group of four, make a web with the
words “Snow White” in the centre.
Around the words, brainstorm all of the
different ways that this title is used to
make a point in the story. Then, as a
class, discuss the significance of the title.
2. Write a character sketch of Nasa,
showing how events in her life have
270
Look Beyond
contributed to the development of her
character.
3. With a partner, write a dialogue between
Nasa, as an adult, and her child, in which
Nasa gives advice about prejudice, being
picked on, and other difficulties that she
experienced in her childhood. Role-play
the dialogue for the class.
Goalie
R U DY T H A U B E R G E R
Focus Your Learning
help you:
n understand character
motivation by retelling
events from a different
point of view
n use artwork to represent
character
Nothing pleases him. Win or lose, he comes
home angry, dragging his equipment bag up the
driveway, sullen eyes staring down, seeing nothing, refusing to
see. He throws the bag against the door. You hear him,
Look Beyond
271
fumbling with his keys, his hands sore, swollen and cold. He drops the
keys. He kicks the door. You open it and he enters, glaring, not at you,
not at the keys, but at everything, the bag, the walls, the house, the air,
the sky.
His clothes are heavy with sweat. There are spots of blood on
his jersey and on his pads. He moves past you, wordless, pulling his
equipment inside, into the laundry room and then into the garage. You
listen to him, tearing the equipment from the bag, throwing it. You hear
the thump of heavy leather, the clatter of plastic, the heavy whisper of
damp cloth. He leaves and you enter. The equipment is everywhere,
scattered, draped over chairs, hung on hooks, thrown on the floor.
You imagine him on the ice: compact, alert, impossibly agile and
quick. Then you stare at the equipment: helmet and throat protector,
hockey pants, jersey, chest and arm protectors, athletic supporter, knee
pads and leg pads, blocker, catching glove and skates. In the centre of
the floor are three sticks, scattered, their broad blades chipped and
worn. The clutter is deliberate, perhaps even necessary. His room is
the same, pure chaos, clothes and magazines everywhere, spilling out
of dresser drawers, into the closet. He says he knows where everything
is. You imagine him on the ice, focussed, intense, single-minded. You
understand the need for clutter.
When he isn’t playing, he hates the equipment. It’s heavy and
awkward and bulky. It smells. He avoids it, scorns it. It disgusts him.
Before a game, he gathers it together on the floor and stares at it. He lays
each piece out carefully, obsessively, growling and snarling at anyone
who comes too close. His mother calls him a gladiator, a bullfighter. But
you know the truth, that gathering the equipment is a ritual of hatred,
that every piece represents, to him, a particular variety of pain.
There are black marks scattered on the white plastic of his skates.
He treats them like scars, reminders of pain. His glove hand is always
swollen. His chest, his knees and his biceps are always bruised. After
a hard game, he can barely move. “Do you enjoy it?” you ask, “Do you
enjoy the game at least? Do you like playing?” He shrugs. “I love it,”
he says.
272
Look Beyond
Without the game, he’s miserable. He spends his summers
restless and morose, skating every morning, lifting weights at night.
He juggles absentmindedly; tennis balls, coins, apples, tossing them
behind his back and under his leg, see-sawing two in one hand as he
talks on the phone, bouncing them off walls and knees and feet. He
plays golf and tennis with great fervour, but you suspect, underneath,
he is indifferent to these games.
As fall approaches, you begin to find him in the basement,
cleaning his skates, oiling his glove, taping his sticks. His hands
move with precision and care. You sit with him and talk. He tells
you stories. This save. That goal. Funny stories. He laughs. The
funniest stories are about failure: the goal scored from centre ice, the
goal scored on him by his own defenceman, the goal scored through
a shattered stick. There is always a moral, the same moral every
time. “You try your best and you lose.”
He starts wearing the leg pads in September. Every evening, he
wanders the house in them, wearing them with shorts and a T-shirt.
He hops in them, does leg lifts and jumping jacks. He takes them off
and sits on them, folding them into a squat pile to limber them up.
He starts to shoot a tennis ball against the fence with his stick.
As practices begin, he comes home overwhelmed by despair. His
skill is an illusion, a lie, a magic trick. Nothing you say reassures him.
You’re his father. Your praise is empty, invalid.
The injuries begin. Bruises. Sprains. His body betrays him.
Too slow. Too clumsy. His ankles are weak, buckling under him. His
muscles cramp. His nose bleeds. A nerve in his chest begins to knot
and fray. No-one understands. They believe he’s invulnerable, the
fans, his teammates. They stare at him blankly while he lies on the ice,
white-blind, paralyzed, as his knee or his toe or his hand or his chest
or his throat burns.
To be a goalie, you realize, is to be an adult too soon, to have too
soon an intimate understanding of the inevitability of pain and failure.
In the backyard, next to the garage, is an old garbage can filled with
broken hockey sticks. The blades have shattered. The shafts are
Look Beyond
273
cracked. He keeps them all, adding a new one every two weeks. You
imagine him, at the end of the season, burning them, purging his
failure with a bonfire. But that doesn’t happen. At the end of the
season, he forgets them and you throw them away.
You watch him play. You sit in the stands with his mother,
freezing, in an arena filled with echoes. He comes out without his
helmet and stick, skating slowly around the rink. Others move around
him deftly. He stares past them, disconnected, barely awake. They talk
to him, call his name, hit his pads lightly with their sticks. He nods,
smiles. You know he’s had at least four cups of coffee. You’ve seen
him, drinking, prowling the house frantically.
As the warm-up drills begin, he gets into the goal casually. Pucks
fly over the ice, crashing into the boards, cluttering the net. He skates
into the goal, pulling on his glove and blocker. He raps the posts with
his stick. No-one seems to notice, even when he starts deflecting
shots. They come around to him slowly, firing easy shots at his pads.
He scoops the pucks out of the net with his stick. He seems bored.
You shiver as you sit, watching him. You hardly speak. He ignores
you. You think of the cost of his equipment. Sticks, forty dollars. Glove,
one hundred and twenty. Leg pads, thirteen hundred dollars. The pads
have patches. The glove is soft, the leather eaten away by his sweat.
The game begins, casually, without ceremony. The scoreboard
lights up. The ice is cleared of pucks. Whistles blow. After the stillness
of the face-off, you hardly notice the change, until you see him in goal,
crouched over, staring.
You remember him in the backyard, six years old, standing in a
ragged net, wearing a parka and a baseball glove, holding an ordinary
hockey stick, sawed off at the top. The puck is a tennis ball. The ice is
cement. He falls down every time you shoot, ignoring the ball, trying
to look like the goalies on TV. You score, even when you don’t want
to. He’s too busy play-acting. He smiles, laughs, shouts.
You buy him a mask. He paints it. Yellow and black. Blue and
white. Red and blue. It changes every month, as his heroes change.
You make him a blocker out of cardboard and leg pads out of foam
274
Look Beyond
rubber. His mother makes him a chest protector. You play in the
backyard, every evening, taking shot after shot, all winter.
It’s hard to recall when you realize he’s good. You come to a point
where he starts to surprise you, snatching the ball out of the air with
his glove, kicking it away with his shoe. You watch him one Saturday,
playing with his friends. He humiliates them, stopping everything. They
shout and curse. He comes in, frozen, tired and spellbound. “Did you
see?” he says.
He learns to skate, moving off of the street and onto the ice. The
pain begins. A shot to the shoulder paralyzes his arm for ten minutes.
You buy him pads, protectors, thinking it will stop the pain. He begins
to lose. Game after game. Fast reflexes are no longer enough. He is
suddenly alone, separate from you, miserable. Nothing you say helps.
Keep trying. Stop. Concentrate. Hold your stick blade flat on the ice.
He begins to practise. He begins to realize that he is alone.
You can’t help him. His mother can’t help him. That part of his life
detaches from you, becoming independent, free. You fool yourself,
going to his games, cheering, believing you’re being supportive,
refusing to understand that here, in the rink, you’re irrelevant. When
you’re happy for him, he’s angry. When you’re sad for him, he’s
indifferent. He begins to collect trophies.
You watch the game, fascinated. You try to see it through his eyes.
You watch him. His head moves rhythmically. His stick sweeps the ice
and chops at it. When the shots come, he stands frozen in a crouch.
Position is everything, he tells you. He moves, the movement so swift
it seems to strike you physically. How does he do it? How? You don’t
see the puck, only his movement. Save or goal, it’s all the same.
You try to see the game through his eyes, aware of everything,
constantly alert. It’s not enough to follow the puck. The position of the
puck is old news. The game. You try to understand the game. You fail.
He seems unearthly, moving to cut down the angle, chopping the
puck with his stick. Nothing is wasted. You can almost feel his mind at
work, watching, calculating. Where does it come from, you wonder,
this strange mind? You try to move with him, watching his eyes
Look Beyond
275
through his cage, and his hands. You remember the way he watches
games on television, cross-legged, hands fluttering, eyes seeing
everything.
Suddenly you succeed, or you think you do. Suddenly, you see
the game, not as a series of events, but as a state, with every moment
in time potentially a goal. Potentiality. Probability. These are words you
think of afterwards. As you watch, there is only the game, pressing
against you, soft now, then sharp, then rough, biting, shocking,
burning, dull, cold. No players. Only forces, feelings, the white ice,
the cold, the echo, all joined. A shot crashes into his helmet. He falls
to his knees. You cry out.
He stands slowly, shaking his head, hacking at the ice furiously
with his stick. They scored. You never noticed. Seeing the game is
not enough. Feeling it is not enough. He wants more, to understand
completely, to control. You look out at the ice. The game is chaos again.
He comes home, angry, limping up the driveway, victorious.
You watch him, dragging his bag, sticks in his hand, leg pads over
his shoulder. You wonder when it happened, when he became this
sullen, driven young man. You hear whispers about scouts, rumours.
Everyone adores him, adores his skill. But when you see his stiff,
swollen hands, when he walks slowly into the kitchen in the
mornings, every movement agony, you want to ask him why.
Why does he do it? Why does he go on?
But you don’t ask. Because you think you know the answer. You
imagine him, looking at you and saying quietly, “What choice do I
have? What else have I ever wanted to do?”
Activities
1.
Choose one section of the story to rewrite from the point of view of
the goalie.
2. Design a goalie mask for the protagonist of this story. Decorate it in
some way that represents his character.
276
Look Beyond
Rosa Parks
Model of Courage, Symbol of Freedom
R O S A PA R K S W I T H G R E G O R Y J . R E E D
osa Parks was born Rosa Louise
McCauley on February 4, 1913, in
Tuskegee, Alabama. Named after her
maternal grandmother, Rosa was the
first child of James and Leona (Edwards)
McCauley. James was a carpenter and a
builder. Leona was a teacher. When Rosa
was still a toddler, James decided to go
north in search of work. Leona, who was
pregnant with Rosa’s brother by then,
wanted a stable home life for her children.
She and Rosa moved in with her parents,
Sylvester and Rose, in Pine Level, Alabama.
Rosa saw her father again briefly when she
was five years old, and after that did not
see him until she was grown and married.
Though Rosa longed to go to school,
chronic illnesses kept her from attending
regularly in her early years. Her mother
taught her at home, and nurtured Rosa’s
love of books and learning. The schools
for Black children in Pine Level didn’t go
beyond the sixth grade, so when Rosa
completed her education in Pine Level at
age 11, her mother enrolled her in the
R
Focus Your Learning
Reading this biography will help you:
n draw on prior knowledge to understand the text
n prepare a news report to focus on issues and
attitudes of the past
n create an election brochure to focus on the
character described
Look Beyond
277
Montgomery Industrial School for Girls (also
known as Miss White’s School for Girls), a
private school for African American girls.
Several years later Rosa went on to Alabama
State Teachers’ College for Negroes, which
had a program for Black high school
students in training to be teachers. When
Rosa was 16, her grandmother became ill.
Rosa left school to help care for her. Her
grandmother Rose died about a month later.
As Rosa prepared to return to Alabama
State, her mother also became ill. Rosa
decided to stay home and care for her
mother, while her brother, Sylvester,
worked to help support the family.
Rosa married Raymond Parks in December
1932. Raymond was born in Wedowee,
Alabama, in 1903. Like Rosa’s mother,
Leona McCauley, Geri Parks encouraged
her son’s love of education. Even though
he received little formal education,
Raymond overcame the confines of racial
segregation and educated himself. His
thorough knowledge of domestic affairs
and current events led most people to
believe he had gone to college.
Raymond supported Rosa’s dream of
completing her formal education, and
in 1934 Rosa received her high school
diploma. She was 21 years old. After she
received her diploma, she worked in a
278
Look Beyond
hospital and took in sewing before getting a
job at Maxwell Field, Montgomery’s Army
Air Force base.
Raymond was an early activist in the
effort to free the Scottsboro Boys, nine
young African American men who were
falsely accused of raping two White
women, and he stayed involved in the case
until the last defendant was released on
parole in 1950. In their early married years,
Raymond and Rosa worked together in the
National Association for the Advancement
of Colored People (NAACP). In 1943 Rosa
became secretary of the NAACP, and later
served as a youth leader.
It was also in 1943 that Rosa tried to
register to vote. She tried twice before being
told that she didn’t pass the required test.
That year Rosa was put off a Montgomery
city bus for boarding in the front rather
than in the back, as was the rule for
African American riders.
She tried again in 1945 to register to vote.
This time she copied the questions and her
answers by hand so she could prove later
she had passed. But this time she received
her voter’s certificate in the mail.
In August of 1955, Rosa met the
Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., at an
NAACP meeting, where he was a guest
speaker. Some months later, Rosa was busy
organizing a workshop for an NAACP youth
conference. On the evening of December 1,
1955, Rosa finished work and boarded the
rather than take the bus. Reverend King,
the spokesperson for the boycott, urged
participants to protest nonviolently. Soon
the protest against racial injustice spread
beyond Montgomery and throughout the
country. The modern-day Civil Rights
movement in America was born.
The bus boycott ended on December
21, 1956, after the U.S. Supreme Court
declared bus segregation in Montgomery
unconstitutional on November 13. Not long
afterward, Rosa and Raymond, who had
endured threatening telephone calls and
other harassments during the boycott,
moved to Detroit.
bus to go home. She noticed that the driver
was the same man who had put her off the
bus twelve years earlier. Black people were
supposed to ride in the back of the bus.
Rosa took a seat in the middle.
Soon the bus became crowded with
passengers. The “White” seats filled up. A
White man was left standing. Tired of
giving in to injustice, Rosa refused to
surrender her seat on the bus. Two
policemen came and arrested her.
Rosa’s act of quiet courage changed the
course of history. Four days later, the Black
people of Montgomery and sympathizers
of other races organized and announced a
boycott of the city bus line. Known as the
Montgomery Bus Boycott, this protest lasted
for 381 days. During this time, African
Americans walked or arranged for rides
Rosa remained active in the Civil Rights
movement. She travelled, spoke, and
participated in peaceful demonstrations.
From 1965 to 1988, she worked in the office
of Congressman John Conyers of Michigan.
During those years, Rosa endured the
assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,
in 1968 and she suffered the deaths of her
husband and brother in 1977 and her
mother in 1979.
Rosa’s interest in working with young
people stayed strong, and in 1987 she
co-founded the Rosa and Raymond Parks
Institute for Self-Development for the
purpose of motivating young people to
achieve their highest potential. In the years
Look Beyond
279
since her arrest, Rosa Parks has been
recognized throughout America as the
mother of the modern-day Civil Rights
movement. For children and adults, Mrs.
Parks is a role model for courage, an
example of dignity and determination.
She is a symbol of freedom for the world.
In 1995 Mrs. Parks joined children and
adults all over the world to mark the 40th
anniversary of the Montgomery Bus Boycott,
through marches, lectures, exhibits, and
many other events. She co-founded a new
organization, The Parks Legacy. A movement
among legislators was launched to establish
February 4, Mrs. Parks’ birthday, as a
national legal holiday.
Every year, Rosa Parks receives many letters
from young people. Here are two letters with
her replies.
Dear Mrs. Parks,
I live in the New England area, and I
always wondered about the South. When
you were growing up in Alabama, did you
think that things would ever get better for
African Americans?
Kelli,
Hartford, Connecticut
We knew that they had to get better! The
South had suffered under the unjust laws
280
Look Beyond
of segregation far too long. It was time
for something to happen to turn things
around.
During my childhood years, I had been
bothered by the fact that White children
had privileges that I did not. I was deeply
hurt by the hate that some White people,
even children, felt toward me and my people
because of our skin. But my mother and
grandmother taught me to continue to
respect myself and stay focussed on making
myself ready for opportunity. They felt that
a better day had to come, and they wanted
me to be a part of it. But it was up to us to
make it better.
As an adult, I would go home thirsty on
a hot summer day rather than take a drink
from the “coloured only” fountain. I would
not be a part of an unjust system that was
designed to make me feel inferior.
I knew that this type of system was
wrong and could not last. I did not know
when, but I felt that the people would rise
up and demand justice. I did not plan for
that point of change to begin with my
actions on the bus that evening in 1955.
But I was ready to take a stand.
Dear Mrs. Parks,
I wonder, will there ever be a time when all
people will be treated equally? I believe that
we as a people and the world are divided. I
am fearful. Today, there are racial epithets
painted on people’s property and students’
lockers based on skin. What do you see for
us today, and what is your message to help
us as we prepare ourselves for the next
century?
Lindsey,
Detroit, Michigan
I understand your frustration and pain as
you grow up in this world.
We Blacks are not as fearful or divided as
people may think. We cannot let ourselves,
the human race, be so afraid that we are
unable to move around freely and express
ourselves. If we do, the gains we made in
the Civil Rights movement have been for
naught. Love, not fear, must be our guide.
My message to the world is that we must
come together and live as one. There is only
one world, and yet we, as a people, have
treated the world as if it were divided. We
cannot allow the gains we have made to
erode. Although we have a long way to go,
I do believe that we can achieve Dr. King’s
dream of a better world.
From time to time, I catch glimpses
of that world. I can see a world in which
children do not learn hatred in their homes.
I can see a world in which mothers and
fathers have the last and most important
word.
I can see a world in which one respects
the rights of one’s neighbours.
I can see a world in which all adults
protect the innocence of children.
I can see a world in which people do not
call each other names based on skin colour.
I can see a world free of acts of violence.
I can see a world in which people of all
races and all religions work together to
improve the quality of life for everyone.
I can see this world because it exists today
in small pockets of this country and in a
small pocket of every person’s heart. If we
will look to God and work together—not only
here, but everywhere—then others will see
this world, too, and help to make it a reality.
Activities
1.
As a class, discuss what you know about
the Civil Rights Movement in the United
States. What were the main aims of the
movement? When was it most active? Who
were its members? Who was its leader?
2. Prepare a newspaper or radio report
about the arrest of Rosa Parks on
December 1, 1955. Try to capture the
issues and attitudes of that time.
3. Imagine that Rosa Parks is running for
political office and you are her public
relations manager. Create an election
brochure that persuades people to vote for
her, based on her character and experience.
Look Beyond
281
1.
Many of the selections in this unit
describe visionary points of view that
look beyond the usual view of things.
Choose one of these selections and, in
the form of a letter to the author, explain
why you find it inspiring.
2. Personal reflections are often highly
selective. Choose one of the selections in
this unit and retell it from the point of
view of another character, showing how
events might have been different.
3. Role-play a dialogue between Rosa
Parks and any one of the following:
Nasa Begum (“Snow White”), one of the
characters in “Five Minutes to Change the
World,” or the narrator of “Banu.” Think
carefully about the types of issues the
characters might discuss and how they
might relate to one another.
4. Write a poem about an environmental
issue of your choice. Your poem should
recommend a solution that demonstrates
your ability to be forward-looking.
282
Look Beyond
5. Work in a group to choose an issue where
injustice seems to prevail. The issue
might be related to the environment, to
discrimination of some form, or to any
other topic of your choice. Create a
campaign to bring this issue to the
attention of the public. Your campaign
must include a visual representation
of some form, an audio or audiovisual
component, a dramatic testimonial,
and annotated references to texts and
resources that would help educate
the general public about the problem.
Present your final campaign to a class
in your school.
6. Produce an advertisement promoting
this anthology, to be shown to next
year’s Grade 7 students at the start of
the year. You can choose to focus on
your favourite selections, on the themes
you found most interesting, or on the
book as a whole.
Biographies of Contributors
akiwenzie-damm, kateri
Bennett, Bruce
Born 1965, Toronto, Ontario
Born 1940, Pennsylvania
kateri akiwenzie-damm is an Anishnabe poet and
writer of mixed blood from the Chippewa of Nawash
First Nation. Her writing has been published in
various anthologies, journals, and magazines in
Canada and abroad.
Bruce Bennett works as a professor of English and
creative writing. He has written several books of
poetry and is now working on a book of original
fables.
Baird, Alison
Alison Baird has written several books and has been
making up stories since childhood. Her first poem
was published when she was twelve years old. Her
grandparents lived in China for some years, and her
father was born there. A Chinese vase patterned with
dragons, which her family brought back to Canada,
fascinated her when she was a child and may have
inspired her to write about magic and enchantment.
Her children’s fantasy novel, The Dragon’s Egg, was
nominated for the Ontario Silver Birch Award.
Begum, Nasa
Nasa Begum is a Black, disabled woman who is a
writer and activist involved in the work of many
movements in England. She works as a project codirector with Living Options Partnership which
promotes the involvement of people in service
development. Begum loves grassroots politics, demos,
shopping, other people’s parties, and being with
friends.
Beltrame, Julian
Born Italy
Julian Beltrame emigrated to Canada from Spineda,
Italy. He obtained a job as a newspaper editor and
reporter for a number of Canadian papers. This
Halifax story comes from the five years he spent as a
wartime correspondent for the Southam News.
Brand, Dionne
Born 1953, Guayguayare, Trinidad
Dionne Brand is a poet, short story writer, novelist,
essayist, and film-maker. She is an activist for both
Black and feminist concerns. Brand moved to
Toronto in 1970 and was educated at the University
of Toronto and the Ontario Institute for Studies in
Education. She has written six books of poetry and
numerous books and essays on the history of the
plight of Black women. She won the Governor
General’s Award for poetry in 1997.
Boswell, Hazel
Born 1882, Quebec City, Quebec; died 1979
Hazel Boswell was just a young girl when she first
became interested in the legends and the folklore of
French Canada. She turned her love and
understanding of the unique culture and traditions of
the Quebec people into stories she could share with
her readers. “The White Owl” was first published in
Legends of Quebec: From the Land of the Golden Dog
in 1966.
Brontë, Emily
Born 1818, Yorkshire, England; died 1848
The Brontë sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne, were
all writers who became famous novelists. Their books
were filled with stories about their lonely lives as
young girls growing up on the moors of Yorkshire,
England. Emily Brontë wrote only one novel,
Wuthering Heights (1847), which became a romantic
masterpiece. Her vivid style of description proved her
to be a writer of enduring and lasting power.
283
Colombo, John Robert
Born 1936, Kitchener, Ontario
John Robert Colombo has been described as “a packrat of Canadian culture and history,” having been, in
the span of his long career, an editor, teacher,
essayist, anthologist, translator, poet, collector of
Canadian quotations, and much more. His curiosity
and wide interests have resulted in a wealth of books,
and he is recognized as a national figure in the world
of words and publishing.
Colville, Alex
Born 1920, Toronto
Alex Colville is one of Canada’s best known painters.
A Nova Scotian since 1929, he has had a long and
varied career as artist, war artist and teacher. In
1963, he resigned from Mount Allison University to
devote himself to painting. While his subject matter
from his immediate environment—his family,
animals, or the landscape near his home—is
immediately recognizable, it is never simply realistic.
His work is full of interpretation, reflection, and can
often be beautiful and disturbing at the same time.
The first major retrospective of his work was held at
the Art Gallery of Ontario in 1985. It then travelled
widely both inside and outside Canada, including
Japan. It was the first time the work of a living
Canadian artist was seen in that country. In 1984, his
work was the subject of a film called Alex Colville —
The Splendour of Order.
Chung, Civiane
Chung’s piece, “Tradition,” was originally written for
a high school assignment in 1994. During “Asian
Heritage Month,” Chung decided to write a paper
about her relationship with her mother and the
difference in their cultural backgrounds. Her teacher
was so impressed with the writing that she
encouraged her to have it published. It first appeared
in In 2 Print magazine. Chung hopes to enter the field
of publishing once she graduates from the University
of Toronto.
284
Cummings, Edward Estlin
(e. e. cummings)
Born 1894, Cambridge, Massachusetts; died 1962
e. e. cummings is known for his rebellion against the
rules of written text. He often did not use punctuation
or capitalization in his writings and experimented
with the arrangement of printed matter. His poem,
“nobody loses all the time,” can be found in this
anthology.
Danby, Ken
Born 1940, Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario
Since he abandoned abstract art and turned to realist
painting in the 1960s, Ken Danby has become one of
Canada’s most popular artists. His paintings have
been exhibited worldwide, and his work is included
in the collections of The Museum of Modern Art in
New York, The National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa,
and The Art Institute of Chicago, as well as those of
many private and corporate owners. Danby says of
his work that his instincts told him to work from
nature; it was through nature that he learned “the
individual fundamentals of image making.” He strives
to generate a sense of presence in his paintings, to
“bring out some emotions, a feeling of life … I create
imagery that intrigues me.”
Debassige, Blake Randolph
Born 1956, West Bay, Ontario
Artist Blake Randolph Debassige is a leading member
of the “second generation” of Ojibwa artists
influenced by Norval Morrisseau. Debassige’s
paintings and graphics often involve the teachings of
the Anishabe, which bring together the spiritual
systems of the world, by using cosmic order, the
cycles of the seasons, and the interdependence of
animal, plant, and human life. He frequently relates
these themes to the destruction of the environment
and the breakdown of family life.
DeGrandis, Giselle
Giselle DeGrandis is 15 years old and enjoys writing
about web sites.
de Maupassant, Guy
Born 1850, Normandy, France; died 1893
Guy de Maupassant was a prolific author, publishing
nearly 300 short stories and six novels in a brief
career which ended with his madness in 1891. He is
considered one of the finest short story writers of all
time, and his work has had a great influence on all
European literature.
her own hand at writing. She uses a simple and direct
style of writing, and many of her themes focus on the
family. In 1991, she won the Governor General’s
Award for Children’s Literature for her novel, Pick-Up
Sticks. She is currently the first children’s author to be
writer-in-residence at Massey College in Toronto.
Escher, M. C.
Born 1898, Leeuwarden, Netherlands; died 1972
Farzana Doctor’s family is originally from India. She
is a member of the Saheli Theatre Troupe, a feminist
and educational South Asian women’s theatre
collection. Doctor lives and works as a social worker
in Toronto.
Dutch-born artist Maurits Corneille Escher used
optical illusion and visual trickery in his work. He
used the concept of metamorphosis in many of his
visuals, such as Verbum (1942) and Metamorphosis
(1939-1940), which showed the gradual
transformation of one shape into another. His work
became increasingly popular because of his unique
use of distorted and unconventional subject matter.
Dudek, Louis
Fetherling, Douglas
Born 1918, Montreal, Quebec
Born 1949, Wheeling, West Virginia
Poet, critic, and professor, Louis Dudek graduated
from McGill University in 1939 and then went on to
study at Columbia University. He began teaching
poetry and Canadian and European literature at
McGill in 1952, where he taught until his retirement
in 1982. Dudek always had an interest in alternative
writing and he founded Contact Press, also in 1952,
to showcase Canadian poets. He has published nine
volumes of poetry and a number of book-length
meditative poems.
Douglas Fetherling moved to Canada in 1966–1967.
Here, he established himself as a poet and writer. His
work includes poetry, fiction, art and film criticism,
Canadian history, cultural history, travel books, and
memoirs. His varied interests and involvements in
Canadian literature have made him a valued
contributor to this country’s culture.
Doctor, Farzana
Born Zambia
Findon, Joanne
Born 1957, Surrey, British Columbia
Edwards, Margaret Bunel
Margaret Bunel Edwards, who lives in Ottawa, is a
children’s novelist and short story writer of French
Huguenot descent. She has published over 500 stories
and articles, many of them for children. She often
draws on her own childhood experiences and family
history for her writing.
Ellis, Sarah
Born 1952, Vancouver, British Columbia
Children’s author Sarah Ellis has published short
stories, novels, non-fiction, and critical essays on
children’s literature. As a children’s librarian and book
reviewer, she read many children’s books before trying
Joanne Findon is a writer and university instructor.
She studied at the University of British Columbia and
earned her M.A. and Ph.D. at the University of
Toronto. Findon is known for her expertise in the
area of Celtic studies and she won The Toronto IODE
Award for The Dream of Aengus in 1995.
Fleischman, Paul
Born Monterey, California
Paul Fleischman is the author of several novels and
collections of poetry for young people. He has written
two books of poetry for two voices, one about birds
and the other about insects.
285
Frost, Robert
Born 1874, San Francisco, California; died 1963
Robert Frost is recognized as one of the foremost
American poets of the twentieth century. His settings
and subjects were usually the landscapes and people
of New England. Frost won the Pulitzer Prize for
Poetry four times between 1924 and 1943.
Gardner, Mona
Born 1900; died 1981
Writer Mona Gardner published numerous novels
and short stories. She lived in Hong Kong, South
Africa, and the United States.
Gruenig, Simone
Simone Gruenig was 18 when she wrote the
magazine article included in the anthology. She lives
in Bradford, Ontario.
Grants, Ieva
Born 1968, Burnaby, British Columbia
Canadian poet Ieva Grants plans to be a teacher and
a fiction writer one day.
Harris, Lawren
Born 1885, Brantford, Ontario; died 1970
Painter Lawren Harris was a founding member of the
Arts and Letters Club in Toronto, where he first met
the other artists who were to form the Group of
Seven. His wealthy and privileged upbringing was
very different from that of the others in the group. He
became widely known for his paintings of the North
Shore of Lake Superior, creating boldly stylized
images depicting the starkness of the landscape.
Highway, Tomson
Born 1951, Brochet Reserve, Manitoba
Tomson Highway was the eleventh of twelve children
born into his family; he grew up in northern
Manitoba in a landscape similar to the one he
describes in his essay in the anthology. His first
language was Cree and he didn’t begin speaking
English until he was six years old. His plays have
286
won major awards and his theatre company, Native
Earth Performing Arts, is dedicated to the
development of Native dramatic art. In his work,
Highway writes about characters and events which
reveal a sense of Native community and shared
heritage.
Hoch, Edward D.
Born 1930, Rochester, New York
Edward Hoch has written more than ten novels and
over 700 short stories, many of them mysteries.
Fourteen of his stories have been adapted for
television.
Hong, Sung Ja
Park, Joseph
Morad, Michael
Sung Ja Hong, Joseph Park, and Michael Morad, all
quoted in “Learning a New Voice” in the anthology,
are new Canadians, speaking about their experiences.
Hughes, Langston
Born 1902, Joplin, Missouri; died 1967
Langston Hughes published works in all forms of
literature, but is best known for his poetry. He was a
major literary figure of the Harlem renaissance and
wrote proudly and optimistically about Black people.
He experimented with poetic metre (rhythm) by
adopting the rhythms of Black music in his poetry.
Jaffe, Dan
Born 1933, New Jersey, New York
Dan Jaffe is both a professor and editor-in-chief at a
publishing company. His essays and poetry have
been included in many magazines and anthologies.
His poem, “The Forecast,” appears in this book.
Kehret, Peg
Born 1936, La Crosse, Wisconsin
Peg Kehret is an accomplished writer in many genres.
She began her writing career by scripting radio
commercials. She is best known for her books and
plays for young adults, which have been published in
at least seven countries.
Kherdian, David
Livesay, Dorothy
Born 1931, Racine, Wisconsin
Born 1909, Winnipeg, Manitoba; died 1996
Writer and poet David Kherdian began writing after a
number of different careers, including operating a
bookstore. He has published works in many fields,
including poetry, fiction, and nonfiction (as an
editor). One of his most popular books, The Road
From Home: The Story of an Armenian Girl, tells the
story of Kherdian’s mother, an Armenian, who fled
her home in Turkey to escape being murdered. He
has won numerous awards for his books.
Poet Dorothy Livesay came to Toronto in 1920, where
she attended a private girls’ school and began her
life-long interest in social issues and left-wing
politics. She published her first poetry collection
when only eighteen and went on to combine a life of
activism and political concern with writing. Her later
work reflects concerns with old age and womanhood.
She was twice awarded the Governor General’s
Award for her poetry.
Kincaid, Jamaica
Lottridge, Celia Barker
Born 1949, St. Johns, Antigua
Born 1936, Iowa City, Iowa
Author of novels, short stories, essays, and
nonfiction, Jamaica Kincaid lives in the United States,
but writes about life on the Caribbean island of
Antigua where she was born. She began her career as
a writer for the New Yorker magazine where she
worked for almost twenty years. She has gone on to
publish successful and critically acclaimed short story
collections and novels.
Toronto-based writer and storyteller Celia Lottridge
has won several prizes for her children’s books,
including the Canadian Library Association Book of
the Year Award for her novel, Ticket to Curlew, and
the Geoffrey Bilson Historical Fiction Award for The
Wind Wagon, the sequel to Ticket to Curlew. She is a
founding member of the Storytellers School of
Toronto and also a founder of the Parent-Child
Mother Goose program, a social service program
where nursery rhymes, games, and stories are used
as a way to improve parent-child relationships.
Kogawa, Joy
Joy Kogawa is best known for her novel, Obasan,
about the internment of Japanese-Canadians during
the Second World War. She has also written a
children’s version of Obasan, entitled Naomi’s Road.
Her work addresses issues of racial and cultural
diversity, persecution, and self-identity. Her poem
“What Do I Remember of the Evacuation?” is a
personal reflection.
MacIntyre, Rod Peter
Born 1947, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
Playwright and author Rod P. MacIntyre has written
a number of plays for CBC-Radio and CBC-TV, many
of which were produced in the Maritimes, where he
lived for several years. His poetry and stories have
been included in anthologies and have appeared in
several periodicals.
Leacock, Stephen
Born 1869, Hampshire, England; died 1944
Mandiela, Ahdri Zhina
Stephen Leacock came to Canada in 1876. Although
he taught political economy and wrote books on
politics, history, and economics, it is as a humorist
that he is best known. He wrote more than twenty
books of humour, including Sunshine Sketches of a
Little Town (1912), based on the fictional Ontario
town of Mariposa.
Born Jamaica
Toronto-based dub poet Ahdri Zhina Mandiela
published her first book, Speshal Rikwes, in 1985. Her
second collection, dark diaspora…in DUB, integrates
dub poetry with theatre. Mandiela is active in theatre
and political organizations in Toronto and has worked
on an anthology of Black women playwrights.
287
Mackenzie, William Lyon
Parks, Rosa
Born 1795, Dundee, Scotland; died 1861
Born 1913, Tuskegee, Alabama
Mackenzie was both a journalist and a politician. He
was the first mayor of Toronto and a central figure in
pre-Confederation life. Known as a fiery personality,
he led an armed revolt against the Upper Canadian
establishment in 1837. In 1824, he published the first
issue of Colonial Advocate which became a voice of
the new reform movement.
Rosa Parks is probably one of the best-known civil
rights activists of her time. Her contribution to the
civil rights movement is legendary. On December 1,
1955, she was arrested for refusing to give up her
seat on a Montgomery, Alabama city bus for a White
man. Her actions helped to end the segregation of
Blacks and Whites in the United States.
McLean, Stuart
Phelps, Ethel Johnston
Ethel Phelps co-edits a journal and publishes articles
on fifteenth-century subjects. Also an actor and
director, she has produced three one-act plays.
Stuart McLean grew up in Montreal and moved to
Toronto in the mid-seventies. He worked for the CBC
for many years and is currently teaching journalism
at the Ryerson Polytechnical Institute in Toronto. He
is a well-respected radio and television personality in
Canada.
Melzack, Ronald
Ronald Melzack is a professor of psychology at McGill
University in Montreal, Quebec. He has also taught
and lectured throughout Europe and the United States.
Melzack has written both fiction and nonfiction for
children and adults. He is currently at work on a book
of Inuit stories for children and a psychology book on
the aggression of war. He lives in Montreal, Quebec.
Nelson, Jenny
Jenny Nelson moved to Masset, BC, after growing up
in Ontario. Her interest in the historical and
environmental aspects of the Haida Gwaii/Queen
Charlotte Island is evident in her poem “Gwaii
Haanas,” which was inspired by a trip to Burnaby
Narrows in Gwaii Haanas, then known as South
Moresby. Her writing has appeared in several
publications, and she has also developed an
ecological kit for local schools.
Paddon, Harry
Harry Paddon grew up in Labrador where he spent
much of his adult life working as a trapper. He lives
in British Columbia and writes stories for books and
magazines.
288
Purdy, Al
Born 1918, Wooler, Ontario
Al Purdy is best known as a poet, but he has also
written plays for radio and television, book reviews,
and essays. In his poetry, he uses unconventional
forms in rhythms of everyday speech and writes about
historic and geographic Canadian themes. He has
twice received the Governor General’s Literary Award.
Ringgold, Faith
Born 1930, Harlem, New York
Faith Ringgold is considered by many to be the
leading Black woman artist in America today.
Speaking of her career as an artist, she has said,
“After deciding to be an artist, the first thing that I
had to believe was that I, a Black woman, could
penetrate the art scene and that I could do so without
sacrificing one iota of my Blackness or my
femaleness, or my humanity.” Born and raised in
Harlem, Ringgold once remarked about her
childhood: “Usually people write very negative things
about Harlem. My experience growing up was
positive and uplifting. I had a wonderful childhood
and ‘Tar Beach’ actually comes from that experience.
It’s not autobiographical but we often went up on the
roof when it was hot.” In 1984, Ringgold had a
twenty-year retrospective of her work; she has had a
full professorship at the university in San Diego,
honorary degrees, and a major travelling exhibition.
Her first children’s book, based on “Tar Beach,” was
published in 1991.
Sainte-Marie, Beverly
(Buffy Sainte-Marie)
Suzuki, David T.
Born 1941, Piapot Reserve in Craven, Saskatchewan
David Suzuki received his Ph.D. in genetics in 1961
at the University of Chicago. He has written several
books and many articles in the area of ecology and
has hosted numerous television shows, including The
Nature of Things.
Singer and songwriter, Beverly Sainte-Marie (better
known as Buffy Sainte-Marie) is the composer of over
300 songs. Like many folk musicians of the 1960s,
Sainte-Marie began performing in coffeehouses. One of
her most successful songs, “Universal Soldier,” is
featured in this collection. A full-blooded Cree Indian,
Sainte-Marie is dedicated to the cause of Native people.
Schnabel, Ernst
Born 1913, Germany; died 1986
Ernst Schnabel researched events that occurred in the
last few months of Anne Frank’s life. In his book,
Anne Frank: A Portrait of Courage, he helps complete
the history begun in her famous diary.
Shigeji, Tsuboi
Born 1889, Japan
A member of the Japan Proletarian Writer’s League,
he was imprisoned twice for his political views.
Sloman, Lisa
Born 1977, Edmonton, Alberta
Lisa Sloman’s poem “Time” won a school-wide poetry
contest at Harry Ainley High School in 1991. The
theme of the contest was “Message to the World.”
Sneve, Virginia Driving Hawk
Born 1933, Rosebud, South Dakota
Virginia Driving Hawk Sneve (whose last name
rhymes with navy) is a member of the Rosebud Sioux
tribe. She writes both fiction and nonfiction and lives
in South Dakota.
Taylor, C. J. (Carrie Jo)
Born Montreal, Quebec
C. J. Taylor grew up in a small town just outside of
Montreal. Her mother came from a German-British
family, but her father was Mohawk from the
Akwesasne reserve. As a child, she was fascinated
with her Native heritage and eventually turned it into
a career. Taylor is an author as well as an illustrator
and has written many books detailing the stories of
the First Nations people.
Thauberger, Rudy
Born 1961, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
Thauberger grew up in Western Canada. His interests
are creative writing, film, and cycling.
Van Allsburg, Chris
Born 1949, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Author and illustrator of children’s books, Chris Van
Allsburg first studied art and sculpting and worked as
an artist and sculptor. A friend encouraged him to try
book illustration. Since then, he has gone on to
publish many successful and award-winning stories,
all characterized by his distinctive style of art. The
best-known book that he has illustrated may be
Jumanji, which was made into a popular feature film.
Washington, Celia
Born 1959
Souster, Raymond
Poet, magazine publisher, and editor Raymond Souster
has lived in Toronto most of his life and uses the city as
a background and inspiration for much of his poetry. In
1964, he was awarded the Governor General’s Award
for his collection, The Colour of the Times.
Best known for her painting, Celia Washington has
been showing her work since 1983. Her imaginative
subject matter has been influenced by childhood
stories and by traditional myths and legends. She
says, “I still find it hard today to describe what I
paint, or indeed why I paint; the only thing I know is
it is essential to me.”
289
Wieler, Diana J.
Born 1961, Winnipeg, Manitoba
Wieler has been a gifted storyteller ever since
childhood and always received support for her
creative efforts from her mother. Growing up in a
single parent home, Wieler says she “became
fascinated by men, because there weren’t any in my
family. I watched my friends’ fathers and brothers as
if they were alien creatures.” Today, she often writes
from a male perspective because she says she still
finds it so interesting. Her stories and books have
won many awards, including the Governor General’s
Literary Award for Children’s Literature which she
won for her second novel, Bad Boy.
Wilbur, Richard
Canadian: his grandfather and father, while born in
China, worked in Canada for many years. His
storybook, Ghost Train, won the Governor General’s
Literary Award for Children’s Literature in 1996;
Tales from Gold Mountain, which includes “The
Revenge of the Iron Chink,” won two major awards.
In addition to his writing, Yee works full-time as an
immigration policy analyst for the provincial
government in Toronto.
Zend, Robert
Born 1929, Budapest, Hungary; died 1985
Before he immigrated to Canada in 1956, Robert Zend
worked as a cartoonist, columnist, freelance writer,
and poet. Beginning in 1958, he worked for the CBC
in Toronto as a writer, editor, director, and producer.
Born 1921, New York, New York
Richard Wilbur is a poet, translator, literary critic,
and university professor. His collections of verse have
twice been awarded the Pulitzer Prize. In 1987, he
was appointed United States poet laureate.
Yee, Paul
Born Saskatchewan
Paul Yee grew up in Vancouver’s Chinatown and has
published seven books on the experiences of the
Chinese in Canada. He is a third generation
290
Zolotow, Charlotte
Born 1915, Norfolk, Virginia
Charlotte Zolotow is the author of more than sixty
well-received picture books for children. She began
her career as a writer after having served as senior
editor for Harper and Row’s children’s book
department for several years. In 1974, she won the
Harper Gold Medal for editorial excellence, and her
books have received numerous awards, including the
1974 Christopher Award.
Credits
Literary p.4 From Collected Poems: The Two Seasons by
Dorothy Livesay. McGraw-Hill Ryerson, 1972; p.5 “Knife”
from Back of Beyond, © 1996 by Sarah Ellis. A Groundwood
Book/Douglas & McIntyre; p.14 From A Caribbean Dream.
eds., John Acard and Grace Nichols, Walker Books, Ltd.;
p.16 Entire text from THE WRETCHED STONE. © 1991 by
Chris Van Allsburg. Reprinted with permission of Houghton
Mifflin Co. All rights reserved; p.26 Reprinted with the
permission of Stoddart Publishing Co. Limited, Toronto, ON;
p.34 “The Dinner Party” by Mona Gardner © 1942, 1970 by
SATURDAY REVIEW, reprinted by permission of Bill Berger
Associates, Inc.; p.40 From Green Woods and Blue Waters
by Harry Paddon. © 1989 by Harry Paddon. Breakwater
Books Ltd., St. John’s, Newfoundland. With permission of
author’s estate; p.48 From Literary Lapses, published by
McClelland & Stewart, Inc. The Canadian Publishers; p.50
© 1958 by King-Size Publications, Inc. renewed 1986 by
Edward D. Hoch. Reprinted by permission of the author;
p.53 Reprinted with permission of Janine Zend; p.55 From
The Blue Camaro (Thistledown Press, 1994); p.69 Reprinted,
by permission of The Feminist Press at The City University
of New York, from Ethel Johnston Phelps, “Clever Manka,”
in Tatterhood and Other Tales, edited by Ethel Johnston
Phelps, illustrated by Pamela Baldwin Ford (New York: The
Feminist Press at The City University of New York, 1978),
pp. 109–114. Copyright © 1987 by Ethel Johnston Phelps;
p.76 Speshal Rikwes by Ahdri Zhina Mandiela, published by
Sister Vision Press, 1985; p.76 Reprinted from Collected
Poems of Raymond Souster by permission from Oberon
Press; p.77 From THE PENGUIN BOOK OF JAPANESE
VERSE translated by Geoffrey Bownas and Anthony Thwaite
(Penguin Books, 1964). Translation © Geoffrey Bownas and
Anthony Thwaite, 1964. Reproduced by permission of
Penguin Books Ltd.; p.78 © 1970 by Charlotte Zolotow.
Reprinted by permission of S(c)ott Treimel, New York; p.79
From Canadian Children’s Annual. © 1987 by John Street
Press. Published by John Street Press; p.86 Reprinted with
permission of author; p.90 Excerpt from “Gwen” from
ANNIE JOHN by Jamaica Kincaid. © 1985 by Jamaica
Kincaid. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux,
Inc.; p. 94 Reprinted with the permission of Reluctant Hero,
a magazine written by teen girls; pp.97,98 Reprinted from
“New Canadian Voices” by Jessie Porter. Reprinted with
permission of the publisher, Wall & Emerson, Inc., Canada.
p.102 Originally published in Upward magazine, Nashville,
Tennessee; p.109 From The Toronto Star, July 26, 1986.
p.117 From Reluctant Hero, a magazine written by teen
girls; p.119 “Boy at the Window” from THINGS OF THIS
WORLD, © 1952 and renewed 1980 by Richard Wilbur,
reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace & Company;
p.121 From Acting Natural by Peg Kehret © MCMXCI
Meriwether Publishing Ltd. Colorado Springs, Co. 80907;
p.125 © Lisa Sloman; p.127 The Medicine Bag by Virginia
Driving Hawk Sneve. Reprinted by permission of the author;
p.141 The Disaster by Bruce Bennett. © 1988 Bruce Bennett.
Reprinted by permission of the author, who teaches English
and directs creative writing at Wells College in Aurora, New
York; p.143 “A Major in Television and a Minor in
Knowledge” by David Suzuki for The Globe and Mail,
Toronto, April 29, 1989. Reprinted with the author’s
permission; p.146 The Poetry of Louis Dudek, Definitive
Edition (The Golden Dog, Ottawa, 1998); p.150 Copyright
Ronald Melzack, 1967, reproduced with permission of the
author; p.154 From The Mackenzie Poems (1965) by John
Robert Colombo and William Lyon Mackenzie; © 1965 by
J.R. Colombo. Reprinted with permission; p.157 From
Winds Through Time. Ed. Ann Walsh. Vancouver: Beach
Holme Publishing, 1998. Reprinted by permission of the
author; p.168 From TALES FROM GOLD MOUNTAIN:
STORIES OF THE CHINESE IN THE NEW WORLD, text
© 1989 by Paul Yee, illustrations © 1989 by Simon Ng. A
Groundwood Book/Douglas & McIntyre; p.172 From
COLLECTED POEMS by Langston Hughes © 1994 by the
Estate of Langston Hughes. Reprinted by permission of
Alfred A. Knopf Inc.; p.173 From The Sad Truths (1976).
© 1976 by J.R. Colombo. Reprinted with permission; p.175
UNIVERSAL SOLDIER, by Buffy Saint-Marie © 1963
(Renewed) Caleb Music. All rights administered by Almo
Music Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission
WARNER BROS. PUBLICATIONS U.S. INC., Miami,
FL.33014; p.177 From Selected Poems by Douglas Fetherling,
© 1994 by Douglas Fetherling; p.182 From In the Footsteps of
Frankenstein. Connecticut: Copper Beech Books, The
Millbrook Press Inc., 1995; p.192 From The Poetry of Robert
Frost. Ed. Edward Connery Lathem © 1951 Henry Holt & Co.,
Inc.; p.193 From The Whispering Room Haunted Poems.
Larousse Kingfisher Chambers Inc., NY; p.194 Originally
appeared as “Murderous Blast Shreds Halifax” by Julian
Beltrame. Reprinted by permission of Southam News; p.204
From “A Choice of Dreams” © Joy Kogawa; p.206 © Fischer
Bucherei KG, Frankfurt am Main, 1958. All rights with
Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag GmbH Frankfurt am Main.
Excerpts adapted from ANNE FRANK: A PORTRAIT IN
COURAGE by Ernst Schnabel, English translation by Richard
and Clara Winston © 1958 by Otto H. Frank and renewed
1986 by Justina Winston Gregory and Krishna Winston,
reprinted by permission of the publisher; p.209 Sex and
Death by Al Purdy. Used by permission, McClelland &
Stewart, Inc. The Canadian Publishers; p.230 From The
Morningside World of Stuart McLean by Stuart McLean.
© 1989 by Stuart McLean. Reprinted by permission of
Penguin Books Canada Limited; p.234 © 1926, 1954 © 1991
by the Trustees for E.E. Cummings Trust. © 1985 by George
James Firmage, from COMPLETE POEMS: 1904–1962 BY
Visual and Literary Credits
291
E.E. CUMMINGS, Edited by George J. Firmage. Reprinted by
permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation; p.238
Retold by Celia Barker Lottridge; p.241 Granted by
permission of the author; p.243 TEXT © 1988 BY PAUL
FLEISCHMAN. Used by permission of HarperCollins
Publishers; p.245 Jenny Nelson; p.246 From Gatherings: The
En’owkin Journal of First North American Peoples, Vol. 2,
1991. Theytus Books; p.248 From Acting Natural © 1991.
Meriwether Publishing; p.256 From the book I REMEMBER
ROOT RIVER by David Kherdian. © 1978 by David Kherdian.
Published by The Overlook Press, 2568 Rte. 212,
Woodstock, NY 12498, (914)679-6838; p.257 From Aurat
Durbar: The Court of Women: Writings by Women of South
Asian Origin, edited by Fauzia Rafiq, 1995. Second Story
Press, Toronto; p.262 CIDA; p.266 ‘Snow White’ by Nasa
Begum from Mustn’t Grumble: Writing by Disabled Women
edited by Lois Keith, first published by The Women’s Press
Ltd., 1994, 34 Great Sutton Street, London ECIV OLQ, is
used by permission of The Women’s Press Ltd.; p.271 From
The Rocket, the Flower, the Hammer and Me. Published by
Polestar Press, 1988. © 1988 by Rudy Thauberger. Reprinted
by permission of the author; p.277 Text © 1996 by Rosa L.
Parks. From the book Dear Mrs. Parks: A Dialogue With
Today’s Youth. Reprinted by arrangement with Lee & Low
Books, 95 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.
Visual p. 4 William Huber/Photonica; p.5 Images
B.C./T.W.’s Image Network Inc.; p.14 From A Caribbean
Dozen, illustrated by Cathie Felstead. Published by
Candlewick Press, Cambridge, MA; p.16 Selected
illustrations from THE WRETCHED STONE. © 1991 by Chris
Van Allsburg. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin
Co. All rights reserved; p.32 calendar: Michael Patrick; p.33
MYST © 1993 Cyan, Inc.; pp.37,38 Reproduced from The
Box of Daylight, Northwest Coast Indian Art, Bill Holm.
University of Washington Press. (Private collection); pp.40,
41 Isabelle Bich; p.43 B. + C. Alexander/First Light;
pp.48–49 Jessie Hartland; p.50 From “Cartoons From
Punch” by William Hewison, London; pp. 53–54 Steven
Hunt/Image Bank; p.55 From HER STORIES illustrated by
Leo and Diane Dillon. © 1995 by Leo and Diane Dillon.
Reprinted by permission of Scholastic Inc.; p.69 Roxana
Villa/© SIS; p.79 Anders Wenngren; p.86 Images
B.C./T.W.’s Image Network Inc.; p.90 Michael Keller/Image
Network; pp.94,95 Web site reprinted with permission of
MARC CHARETTE AND FAMILY; pp.97,98 Al Harvey;
p.100 Cover page: Used with permission from Aboriginal
Voices Inc. 800-327-6067; inside page: Television Northern
Canada/Aboriginal People’s Television Network; table:
Barbara Helm and Wendy Warren, “Teenagers Talk about
Cultural Heritage and Family Life” Transition, Sept. 1998;
p.101 T-shirt © Britt Randle; two buttons: Buttons by
Ephemera; cartoon: David Lester Illustration; pp.102–103
Wendy Grater/ Wilderness Adventure Co.; pp.109–116
© Anson Liaw: p.117 Michael D’Souza; p.119 SISSE
BRIMBERG/NGS Image Collection, National Geographic;
p.125 Imtek Imagineering, North America/Masterfile; p.127
292
Visual and Literary Credits
from The Girl Who Dreamed Only Geese and Other Tales of
the Far North by Howard Norman © illustrations by Leo and
Diane Dillon. Harcourt Brace & Company, 1997; p.140
“Nature Lover” David Lester Illustration; p.143
www.TheCorporation.com, Paul Peirce, Reed Berkowitz;
p.146 Tim Davis/Tony Stone Images; p.150 “Young Sedna”
1997, Pitaloosie Saila. Reproduced with permission of West
Baffin Eskimo Cooperative Ltd., Cape Dorset, NWT; p.157
Crabtree Publishing Company; pp.158,160,162,164
Illustrations from A Pioneer Story by Barbara Greenwood
and Heather Collins used by permission of Kids Can Press
Ltd., Toronto. Illustrations © 1994 by Heather Collins;
pp.166–167 HARRIS, Lawren S. Canadian, 1885–1970.
Miners’ Houses, Glace Bay, © 1925, oil on canvas, 107.3 x
127.0 cm, ART GALLERY OF ONTARIO, TORONTO.
Bequest of Charles S. Band, Toronto, 1970. Per Family of
Lawren S. Harris; p.168 From TALES FROM GOLD
MOUNTAIN: STORIES OF THE CHINESE IN THE NEW
WORLD, text © 1989 by Paul Yee, illustrations © 1989 by
Simon Ng. A Groundwood Book/Douglas & McIntyre; p.172
National Archives, NWDS-200-FL-22; p.173 Louis Riel
signature: Notman Studio, W.J. Topley/National Archives of
Canada/C-002048; p.175 © 1993 Steve Edson/soldiers
courtesy collection of James G. Dolan; p.180 poster: “MARY
SHELLEY’S FRANKENSTEIN” © 1994 TriStar/JSB
Procuctions, Inc. All rights reserved. Courtesy of TriStar
Pictures; p.181 Jeanne Mance First Day Cover: Canada Post
Corporation; William Lyon Mackenzie historical plaque:
courtesy of the Ontario Heritage Foundation; p.191 The
Millbrook Press, Inc.; pp.194–195,197,201 From Survivors,
Children of the Halifax Explosion by Janet F. Kitz, 1992,
Nimbus Publishing Ltd.; p.199 Charles A. Vaughan
Collection. The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, Halifax,
Nova Scotia; pp.204,205 National Archives of Canada/PA103565; p.206 CORBIS/ BETTMANN-UPI; p.207 THE
GRANGER COLLECTION, New York; p.209 From SADAKO
by Eleanor Coerr, illustrated by Ed Young. © 1993 by Ed
Young. Used by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, a
division of Penguin Putnam Inc.; p.214 Tim Jonke/Image
Bank; p.228 Logo: World Wildlife Fund Canada; pocket card
key chain and card: © AGC, Inc. Reproduced by permission;
G. Kalt/Zefz/H. Armstrong Roberts Stock Agency; Wax and
Wane column: reprinted with permission from The Globe
and Mail; Rap stars: Steve Marcus/Archive Photos; p.229
Greeting card: Teri Saunders/SpitFire Creations; p.230 J.
Stanley/First Light; p.238 From Song to Demeter by Cynthia
and William Birrer. William Morrow and Co. Inc.;
pp.243,244 © 1988 BY ERIC BEDDOWS. Used by permission
of HarperCollins Publishers; p.248 From Rescue Mission
Planet Earth. Larousse Kingfisher Chambers Inc.;
pp.256–257 Collection Hiram Walker-Gooderham Worts on
permanent loan to the Windsor Art Gallery: courtesy of the
Estate of William Kurelek, and The Isaacs Gallery, Toronto;
p.259 Barros & Barros/Image Bank; pp.262,264 CIDA Photo:
David Barbour; p.266 Al Harvey; pp.271,272 Bernd
Fuchs/First Light; p.277 EBONY MAGAZINE; p.279
UPI/CORBIS-BETTMANN.
P R E N T I C E
Brad Ledgerwood
Wendy Mathieu
Susan Tywoniuk
P R E N T I C E
H A L L
S IGHT L INES 7
Karen Hume
L I T E R A T U R E
SightLines 7
0-13-012904-6
SightLines 8
0-13-012905-4
SightLines 9
0-13-012906-2
SightLines 10
0-13-082171-3
ISBN 0-13-012904-6
9 780130 129048
PRENTICE
HALL
H A L L
L I T E R A T U R E
S IGHT L I N E S
7

SightLines 7 - Edmonton Catholic Schools

Transcription

Similar documents

Pollinators and Poetry

A Psalm Of Life - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

10 activities

Chitarre Acustiche d`Italia

Brochure

Alfredo De Vido Architects Kate`s Paperie

Thema 8 Unit 3 File - Camden Haven High School e

`Poem at Thirty-Nine` and `Once Upon a Time`

Student`s copy - SOS

parkpoint health club - Santa Rosa Chamber of Commerce