Book Review

Wandering Words: A Walk from A to Z, by Gail Boenning, is a collection of thought-provoking observations made by a beautiful soul. From its dedication all the way through to its epilogue, this little gem is peace in the shape of a book.

Book Review

The Secret Language of Women by Nina Romano, a historical fiction set in China in the late 1800s, is the story of a Eurasian healer, Lian, and an Italian sailor, Giacomo, who fall in love after a brief encounter at the Summer Palace, where Lian has accompanied her father, a doctor, to tend the Italian ambassador.

These lovers get separated due to circumstances and try to find their way back to each other despite the many obstacles they face, a journey Lian chronicles in Nushu, a secret language women use, which she has learned from her Chinese mother.

In this fascinating tale of love and loss and search for freedom, the author's descriptions beautifully depict the setting as well as the characters and everything they go through. I enjoyed reading The Secret Language of Women, which is the first installment of the Wayfarer Trilogy, and look forward to reading the next one.

Catching Up

To my friends in the Writing Community...

Finally, the weather seems to be gradually changing for the better, at least where I live.

I haven't done much writing the last few days, but I have been reading... a lot. I stayed under the covers as much as I could -- just so I wouldn't freeze to death -- and read as many books as time allowed, the way I usually do, simultaneously. These were books by Kristin Hannah, Madeleine L'Engle, Fredrik Backman, Philippa Perry, and Nina Romano.

My dogs were in bed with me. They suffered much more than I did. They'd never experienced such weather -- even I had never been this cold in my life. After ten years of being good dogs and not peeing in the house, they are still confused that I now beg them to go on the pads I laid out for them inside, and they only go when they can't hold it in anymore. Each time, the two boys seem apologetic, but not the girl, who insists on standing out as the bitch she is.

We survived this one, and things will go back to normal, whatever "normal" means, soon.

So... I have book reviews to write. Until then, let me say these authors are all worth checking out if you haven't done so already.

All the best,

N

My First Night

I thought it would be a good idea to go camping in the new cabin for the weekend. It would allow me to get some work done and the dogs would gradually get used to the idea of living there.

There is no plumbing in the cabin yet, and there are only a few electrical outlets available. Of course I brought the heater with me as well as both my sleeping bag and the dogs'. Since the floor is concrete and the weather outside very cold, I put a large piece of plywood on the floor where we were going to sleep. The dogs got comfortable in their sleeping bag and I took my jacket off and lay down to read in mine.

Even though I was wearing my warm pajamas, I felt so cold all my muscles felt tense and I couldn't focus on my book. I got up and put my jacket back on and went to “bed” again. I was still cold. I started to wonder why I was cold in my sleeping bag. I thought, maybe this bag isn't as effective as my old one. 

My old sleeping bag was very warm and comfortable, and I had given it to my furry friend Kia who came over to stay with me from time to time. Kia loved sleeping in it. I would place it in the corner of the room, right by my bed, and we used to face each other and stare until we fell asleep. 

In the morning, as soon as she woke up, she would stretch and then jump on my bed. I would say “What just happened?” and she would jump right back down and stretch some more looking at me with her beautiful eyes and jump up again. I would speak the same words again and she would go back down. We would dance around the boundaries of her coming on my bed a few times before I'd get up. I miss that little girl.

Kia's been gone for ten years now, and I think about her all the time. Her death broke my heart. I had nightmares for months and the first thing I did every morning was look at that red and gray sleeping bag in the corner of my bedroom, hoping to see her beautiful eyes staring at me, hoping her death had just been a bad dream. After torturing myself for months, I washed that sleeping bag and donated it to a dog shelter. That was around the time I started tutoring Liza and noticed her Chihuahua was pregnant. A month later, I was driving home with two little Terrier Chihuahuas, one boy and one girl.

The sound of a plane flying over my head brought me back to the freezing cabin, and I realized I needed to go to the bathroom even though I hadn't had any beverage in the last four hours. As I was contemplating my options – cheat by using the bathroom in my old cabin or pee in the woods – I remembered the time I used to visit my grandparents when I was a kid.

They had four bathrooms in their huge L-shaped house, two at each end of the L, and I was afraid to go by myself, especially at night. When I needed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I would sit there and stare at my grandmother, sound asleep, hoping something or someone other than me would wake her so that she would go with me. I didn't have the heart to wake her up. Somehow, she would always open her kind eyes and immediately get up, scolding me for holding it and suffering instead of waking her up.

I smiled at the memory of my time with my grandparents. They loved me so much, and I always felt so spoiled when I was with them. My grandmother always prepared all my favorite dishes when I went to visit. I also felt safe to be myself and do what I liked when I was there. It was the only time I wasn't afraid of doing something that would trigger my dad's anger. He had a temper and would yell at me, but he didn't dare say anything to me in front of them, especially in front of my grandfather. 

The day my grandfather died, nineteen years ago, I lost my rock. He and I had a special connection. We didn't exchange many words. It was as if we read each other's minds. I miss him and my grandmother, who passed nine years later.

Bathroom, my bladder reminded me. It's freezing outside, but no cheating. The woods it is. There's a first time for everything. My first night at my new cabin is the first time I peed in the woods. Maybe this is the beginning of a different way of living in the woods? Maybe not.

Book Review

Nontraditional, written by Nan Kuhlman, is a collection of encounters she has with her students – her own children whom she homeschools and the ones attending college when she is an adjunct professor teaching composition – interspersed with stories of the author's own life.

Mrs. Kuhlman takes an interest in her students' complicated lives and learns how manageable her own problems are in comparison. Her constant attention to the challenges her individual students face that prevent them from succeeding at school and her willingness to assist in any way she can are a testament to her character. She is not only caring but also honest, acknowledging her own mistakes in judgement and in handling some situations, particularly at the beginning of her teaching career.

As an adjunct who has had the privilege of teaching students of various backgrounds, I know how valuable such an instructor is for students and how effective that connection can be in the students' performance. I found the stories relatable and enjoyed reading this book a great deal. Anyone in the teaching profession and anyone involved with students in any way can benefit from reading this well-written and engaging nonfiction.

Book Review

The Life and Times of Clyde Kennard, a nonfiction book by Derek R. King, is an incredibly well researched account of one man's formidable story and the obstacles he faces when he decides to go to college in Mississippi, or rather “in the deeply segregated education system in Mississippi.”

The author's remarkable endeavor in delivering historical background information brings forth the setting, beautifully illustrating the time of racial segregation. This well-written book recounts the true story of Clyde Kennard, a hero of the civil rights movement, the atrocities he endures, his patience, and his resilience.

I believe this educational book should be read by every citizen of the United States, for many of the issues discussed are sadly still very relevant, particularly in some parts of the country. Following the tragic events of May 25, 2020, and the uprising they resulted in, more and more people are becoming aware of all the racial prejudices they have unknowingly learned and carried around. Unlearning them requires effort and cannot be achieved without knowing and understanding the history of the United States, specifically what people have been through for the rest of us to have the freedom we take for granted.

I also highly recommend that reading The Life and Times of Clyde Kennard become required in all United States schools. This fascinating book gives an insight into where the country has been, what struggles and challenges its citizens have faced, what sacrifices have been made to fight for civil rights in the face of ignorance, how far the country has come, and the dangers of prejudice.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Derek R. King for dedicating a decade of his life to the research and writing of this extraordinary book. I've learned so much from reading it, and for that I'm so very grateful.

https://www.amazon.com/Life-Times-Clyde-Kennard/dp/1483491366

Nina

Nina challenged me to write a word for 2021 that starts with the first letter of my name.

I was the N in her NOSTALGIA.

Nina, this is for you.

New is the year 2021.

Nondescript?

Nameless?

Newness and novelty come to mind.

Novel.

Nonpareil.

Negative notions could take over.

Necrology, nuisance, …

Notwithstanding

Nincompoops, ninnies, nitwits,

Nonchalant numbskulls neglecting safety...

Nonplus!

Naught.

Niggling over noxious thoughts?

Never.

Nugatory nonsense!

Nobody knows what the future will bring.

Nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing to do.

Nevertheless.

Nourishing and nurturing...

   body?

Nutritious nuts.

   soul?

Noticing nature.

   mind?

Narration and non de plume.

Her

I'm not sure how I feel about her death. I must say I was close... but I wasn't quite done forgiving her for what she put me through, all because she was trying to save her ass and stay out of prison, which she did... or did she?

Is she really dead? Or did she fake her death and escape? If she is dead, was it really cancer that took her life? I know that's the official version, but I've learned not to trust everything the media presents as truth.

What I know for sure is I didn't want her to die. In fact, I wanted her to live a long life... to allow time to give her back everything she did to others, everything she did to me. I wanted her to publicly be held accountable for her crimes, to go to prison, to get a taste of the suffering she put others through.

I'm not referring to the slander or even the four attempts on my life – four that I know of – each of which, in legal terms, is attempted murder. I'm talking about the reason behind her publicly discrediting me, about what I witnessed.

That was never made public, obviously. When a criminal abuses her power, connections, money, and uniform, the corruption is kept quiet because the truth would compromise not only that one criminal, but also all the connections. I was the scapegoat, the distraction.

A plausible story that the ignorant public, the public exposed to years of brainwashing and devoid of the practice of using their brain, would easily accept was delivered... a story that would justify terminating my employment, a story based on evidence planted only to cover up the truth, a story that would make my testimony sound retaliatory, like that of a disgruntled former employee.

The law, a courtroom, a decent judge, and a jury should have decided what her sentence would be for the long list of charges against her – from fraud and embezzlement and destroying evidence to verbal, physical, and sexual assault to intimidation, torture, attempted murder, and murder. I pictured her standing trial, wearing orange instead of green, knowing none of her power, connections, and money would come to her rescue, feeling as powerless as her victims, her many many victims, who now will never get justice.

She left without making amends, and her departure makes me think of the lyrics to The Noose by A Perfect Circle:

But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about making your amends 
To the dead
To the dead

She never faced the consequences of her actions. Living a long life paying for her crimes and thinking about her deeds is what I wanted for her. Assuming she is dead, if cancer is the real reason for her death, and that's a big if, it's not enough.

Was it really cancer, or did she take the easy way out, like the coward that she was. Cancer is a bad way to go, but innocent people get cancer and suffer.

She was far from innocent, but I never wanted death for her. If I'd wished for her death, I would have wanted something more appropriate for her, something more special, like being skinned alive or death by a thousand cuts or being burned alive... a death worthy of the kind of person she was and the kind of things she did – only after she had confessed. However, I never wished for her death. I didn't even care what kind of prison sentence the judge would give her.

For me, the truth coming out would have been enough. I only wanted her to acknowledge what she'd done. That would have meant justice for me. I don't know if it would have been enough for her other victims, though.

Someone once asked me why I didn't sue her. I thought about doing just that at first, but as time went by and I saw how easily she raised her hand and swore to tell the truth then lied in court, I realized I would never win a case against her. It was a mental struggle for me for months, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized suing her, or her department, wouldn't reveal the truth. She'd been sued before, and she had always settled out of court. For me, it was never about financial retribution. I just wanted the truth to come out, and it wouldn't, not the way she manipulated things.

She'd been forced to resign once for killing a young man, and she'd managed to weasel her way back in the system, only to commit more crimes, many more. No... There was never any hope for the truth to come out, not through her.

That left me feeling powerless and angry. It was more than anger. It was rage... for months... maybe a year... maybe longer. That rage was only intensified by the attempts on my life. Writing saved me. It was therapeutic at a time when I couldn't talk to anyone about what had really happened. My daily writing routine allowed me to vent. I wrote all the things I couldn't say.

Announcing her death, the media praised her bravery and integrity. She had neither. If she had been brave or if she'd had integrity, she would have never done any of those things. If she had made a mistake, she would have acknowledged all of it, and righted the wrong. No.

There was no bravery or integrity whatsoever in her. She tried to kill me to keep herself out of prison because she believed I had a video recording of what I had witnessed. That's not integrity or bravery.

My rage gradually turned into a desire for survival. My focus turned to getting my peace back and putting these despicable criminals behind me. So I did. I got my life back. Despite her multiple attempts to have me killed, somehow the universe protected me.

Look who's dead now. I guess I should take the gift the universe has given me at the beginning of this new year, be grateful for it, and say “Goodbye, Shit Head”...

I can't, however. I hated what that corrupt clown did to me, but I have to admit her criminal actions were the catalyst that got me from the life I had, and enjoyed, to the life I'd always dreamed of having.

My life in the US hasn't been easy, but I've managed by myself, and I've felt proud of my efforts and independence. I've spent all my adult life in this country working toward realizing my dreams. I've worked hard for three decades. I've always obeyed the law. I've always been a no-nonsense person, and that, of course, has never sat well with people who think everyone can be manipulated or bought. Despite all the hardship, I've always enjoyed my own struggles and achievements. I've celebrated accomplishing smaller tasks, done my best to reach my bigger goals, and worked hard to have a simple, quiet, and peaceful life.

I gave up a lot for this life. Had I stayed in Iran, I would have continued to live in a mansion, taught at the most prestigious university in the country, and retired after thirty years of work, which in my case would have been at the age of forty-six. Also, I would have stayed close to my entire family and enjoyed their love and support. Therefore, making the decision to move wasn't easy.

I decided to leave Iran, however, because there were many aspects of that culture I didn't like. I'd spent most of my childhood in Europe and the clash I felt was too much for me. Most of all, I despised the corruption in the country. That was my ultimate reason for my immigration.

I moved to the US in the hope of making a better life: a modest life with less corruption and more peace. It may not be much by most people's standards, but for me it was everything. Besides, I never wanted a big house. In fact, I'd always loved tiny homes. Also, I made my peace with having to work twenty more years than I would in Iran. I was a workaholic anyway. As for the corruption...

For the longest time, I stupidly believed there was no corruption here, at least not any that would affect my life. Corruption, I thought, happened among politicians, and I had no connection to that life. I was just a girl teaching, tutoring, editing, and learning. I was minding my own business... until I accidentally witnessed something I shouldn't have.

Then my world came crumbling down. Not because I did anything, but because she saw me as a loose end. I was a witness; therefore, I was dangerous. Overnight, I lost everything: I was attacked in my home, my possessions were broken or stolen, evidence was planted, my integrity was questioned, and I was wrongly accused.

Accused, threatened, homeless, hunted, I survived it all. For all that, I am so proud of myself and so amazed at how strong I have been. I didn't even realize all this until I started reading all the things I had written down since that time. Reviewing those writings, I saw how my rage changed to gratitude.

I wrote this piece, an acrostic about her, in May 2016:

(“An acrostic is a poem in which the first letter of each line spells out a word, message or the alphabet.” Wikipedia)

Cooked up a fine story
Only to save her tail,
Called me a criminal
Knowing she would prevail
Supported by her drove.
Used all of her power,
Corrupt and deceitful,
Knavish, cunning, and sly,
Eluding justice. Then
Rejoicing in her lie.

I wrote this piece, a letter addressed to her, in September 2020:

You attacked me with all your might.

I took your attack;

I used it to make myself the life I always wanted.

You threw stones at me, hoping to kill me;

I picked them up one by one;

I built myself the house I always wanted.

The truth is...

Without your viciousness,

I wouldn't have the beautiful life I have today.

The universe put your ugliness in my way to make me change tracks.

All bad things are blessings in disguise.

I am grateful for you.

I see my transformation, and it's hard for me to believe all of this happened in less than five years. I'm grateful for my guardian angels, my dogs, and my true friends. I'm grateful for all the ugliness in my life, too. I can't have any regrets because without every single one of those lessons, including her, I wouldn't be the me I am today. I am grateful for where I am now, in this moment in time and space. I'm alive today, living my dream life.