Cathy Ann’s Tips

Here are a few ideas I’ve been using with my grandkids to share A Cup of Quiet during virtual visits online. These ideas are specific to the themes of this book, but the idea of creating games that tie in with the themes of other books should work, as well. Try these on for size, and see what other ideas they might inspire.

1. The Quiet Cut Craft Show

This is a sweet, hands-on activity where one or more children are invited to create their own “Cup of Quiet.” You can organize with parents ahead of time to help gather materials — markers, glue, construction paper, or even printable mug templates that we can make available for download. Have each child design a unique cup. Afterwards, have them present it, describing what their personal quiet feels like. Is it blue like the sky, green like the grass, or maybe yellow like sunshine? Next, invite them to share what their quiet looks like, smells like, and how it feels inside. It becomes a heartwarming moment of self-expression and connection. 

2. Sound and Seek

My grandsons love a good game of virtual hide and seek, and Sound and Seek is a big hit. We take turns counting one-to-ten, then someone makes or plays a sound — e.g. a cat’s meow, the   honk of a big truck, or the sound of running water. We listen carefully and try to identify the sound. Is it loud or soft? This game helps   children notice the world around them with intention, and gently teaches them that quiet lives in the in-between moments, too.

3. A Hunt for a Cup of Quiet

This one is extra special. I hide little coffee mugs around my cozy Italian studio. With the iPad in hand, I take the boys on a virtual walk through my space. Their laughter bubbles up every time they spy one of the cups I’ve hidden. Every discovery becomes a new cup of quiet. With each cup, we pause, put our hands over our hearts, hold our hands over our heads then take a deep breath. What is the takeaway? It’s a treasure hunt for peace, and they love it.

4. Let’s Play in the Kitchen

We move our video screens to our kitchens, where we practice making our very own Cup of Quiet. Only this time, we fill our cups with something other than sounds. This time, we fill it with things found in our fruit bowls, refrigerators, or pantries.

“What’s in your cup?” I ask.

“My cup has strawberries,” one of them says.

“What color? How big?”

“I have mountain-sized strawberries in my cup,” Cairo, my two-year-old grandson, announces proudly.

“Nona, I want chocolate in mine!” he adds.

Then the boys help Nona imagine a very special cup.

“You need sugar!” one says.

“Is it white or brown?”

“White!” they both shout.

But Cairo insists, “You have to have milk, and it’s brown!”

Once everyone has their cup, we put our fingers gently over our lips and whisper.

“Shhhhhhh … be very quiet. We’re drinking our Cup of Quiet.”

There you have it — Cathy Ann Johnson’s tips for sharing our book A Cup of Quiet. So now, my friends, the question is, are you ready to share a special story time with the young readers in your life, whether near or far? Cathy and I are willing to bet your little ones are as eager as you are. I can hear them lick their lips, right now. Yum!

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A teacher reached out to me, recently, with a story that I found chilling. He had done a series of fundraisers in order to purchase 200 copies of Bronx Masquerade for a unit with his 8th grade students. However, after successfully acquiring the books, his school’s leadership informed him that he could not teach this book at his school.

I share this story because it’s at the heart of the problem with current messaging about banned books.

For some years, there’s been an attitude in the general public, and amid many authors, that book bans are a badge of honor, and are ultimately a good thing because the banned book garners more attention and sales than it might otherwise. And it may be true that, at least in some instances, said book does enjoy additional, possibly even more robust sales. However, as the story above demonstrates so painfully, a book’s purchase does not guarantee that book’s accessibility to the readers for whom it was intended.

To be sure, there are cases in which a challenged book remains on library shelves while said book is being reviewed for possible removal. However, students who have not been introduced to that book by teachers, in the classroom, are not likely to be aware of that book’s existence. Hence, they are less likely to request that book for checkout. In other words, one must not only ask whether a book is being challenged, but whether or not educators are allowed to teach that book, or to have it available on their classroom bookshelves. This is key.

A parent or other adult in the young person’s life may purchase a copy of said book for the reader’s personal, home library. However, not every child or young adult is privileged to have a home library. Those readers rely entirely upon school and public libraries for their access to books, as I did, growing up. Without such access, I’ve no idea what would have become of me. I shudder to think.

The issue of book bans is serious business, and when any of us laughs it off, or suggests that a book’s sale is the beginning and end of the subject, this hurts everyone. That messaging obfuscates what’s really going on, and we can’t afford that. Our children can’t afford that.

We’re in a war, and it’s time to rally the troops. No one will enlist in the battle, though, if we repeatedly send out the message that book bans are a joke. I guarantee you, there’s little laughter among the weary teachers and librarians who are being publicly shouted-down and maligned by book banners who are calling them pedophiles, pornographers—and worse—for daring to fight to maintain their diverse book collections.

Teachers and librarians across the country are suffering metaphorical bloody noses from fighting to protect our children’s right to have access to the wide range of books we create for them, books they need. These are books in which young readers see themselves represented, books that make them feel less alone in the world, books that inspire, books laced with hope, books that nurture the dreamer in each of them. Let’s be clear about what we’re fighting for, and what a deadly serious battle we’re in. There’s a lot more to be concerned with, here, than the dollar signs at the end of our royalty checks. Let’s please, all of us, authors and publishers alike, get on the same page for our readers’ sakes. There’s a lot at stake here, people.

Banned Books Resource List from Nikki Grimes

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Over the course of my long career, I’ve written fiction, nonfiction, historical fiction, and poetry on a wide variety of subjects, but the one thing I’ve always believed is that the single most important story I have to tell is my own. Ordinary Hazards, my memoir in verse, is that story. It is a story of darkness and childhood trauma, of a parent’s alcoholism and mental illness, of the seamy side of foster care, and of sexual assault. But it is also a story of love and light, of faith and grace, and of a young girl’s discovery of the power of the written word.

Mine is a story of triumph over darkness, and, as such, is ultimately a story of hope. The possibility of planting seeds of hope in the hearts and minds of young readers is why I wrote Ordinary Hazards. As agonizing as it was to rip open the wounds of memory, I knew there were young people who needed a story like mine—and a true story, at that. And thousands of readers across the country have already been inspired by it. This is why I was stunned when I learned that a school district in Leander, Texas, had elected to remove my award-winning memoir from their curriculum.

What???

It is one thing to rip a book from your own teen’s personal library, but to interfere with every other teen’s access to that book throughout your school district goes beyond the pale.

Leander’s issue with Ordinary Hazards—and Jacqueline Woodson’s Red at the Bone, and Laurie Halse Anderson’s Shout, among other titles recently removed—is that these titles are considered to have “inappropriate content.” I’m assuming the content in question in Ordinary Hazards is difficult subject matter, namely alcoholism, sexual assault, and mental illness. Difficulty, though, is no reason to remove a book from an age-appropriate reader’s easy reach.

The truth is, the lives of many teens are difficult. Some are homeless, or have parents in prison, or have been bounced from one foster home to another—or all of the above. Other teens live, as I did, in homes where a parent wrestles with mental illness or alcoholism, or may struggle with these issues themselves. Finally, though you may be unaware, countless teens of every gender, sitting in high school classrooms right now, have been sexually assaulted. Is this subject uncomfortable? Absolutely. But writing about the topic is hardly inappropriate, especially when it’s handled delicately.

Censors will find nothing salacious, graphic, or gratuitous in Ordinary Hazards. I specifically chose to write my memoir in poetry because the form allows for the delicate treatment of difficult content. As such, no one can reasonably charge the writing itself of being inappropriate. When it comes to sexual abuse, what is inappropriate—not to mention criminal—is the abuse itself. Writing about that abuse is both appropriate and necessary. Teens need to know that sexual assault is not a secret to keep.

For readers who come to this memoir having had any of the particular tough experiences I write about, this story lets them know they are not alone. Other readers encountering Ordinary Hazards come away with something equally valuable: the knowledge that, whatever challenges they may face in life, they can come out on the other side, and not only survive, but thrive—just as I did. Do we really want to restrict young people’s access to a story that holds out that kind of hope?

Perhaps some have forgotten the purpose and power of Story. Story is more than repository of fact and fiction. Story is poultice, is salve designed to mitigate pain and stimulate the healing of wounds, especially those festering beneath the surface unseen. But this meticulously crafted treatment only works when applied.

Not every story is dark or difficult, nor should it be, but those that most often inspire are hard stories in which the protagonist triumphs at the end. Ordinary Hazards: A Memoir is such a story, and there’s nothing inappropriate about that.

__________________

First published in the 8/30/21 edition of Publishers Weekly as “Appropriately Yours,” as well as the 8/27/21 online edition of Publishers Weekly under the title of this article.

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It should come as no surprise that it took another 10 years or more before I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the world of electronic mail. For years, I had an assistant operate an email address on my behalf, and only took over those duties when she neared the due-date for her first child. I knew what she didn’t: her new baby was going to require all of her attention for quite some time.

Once I was on email, my publishers began nudging me to set up a website, which of course I resisted. I eventually caved, and my site went live the day Bronx Masquerade won the Coretta Scott King Award, at which point fans were starting to search for my online presence. Fine, I thought. But a website was absolutely, positively as far down the digital rabbit hole as I intended to go.

Next, I was drawn onto Facebook which those in the biz touted as a primary tool for promoting books. With marketing departments pushing authors in this direction, this seemed worth a try. Facebook, though, was as far as I was going to go into the world of tech and social media. And I stuck to that, too—right up until I took a second look at Twitter and the impact it seemed to be having on author exposure and book sales. Now, here I am, locked in hook, line, and Twitter handle.

Turns out, there were some excellent reasons for me to avoid the digital rabbit hole, if only I’d known.

I came to understand, fairly early on, how addictive social media can be, but that wasn’t especially worrying. It meant that I needed to be fairly disciplined about my use of it, and I’m a fairly disciplined individual, so that was okay. Then, gradually, I became aware of some of the negative aspects on the vulnerable who were being bullied online by bad actors taking advantage of their anonymity to say and do things, they would never say or do to a person’s face. That was troubling. Then it became apparent that young people were either losing, or deriving their sense of worth from social media likes or responses to their selfies, with or without the use of new-fangled filters. Not good. Social media’s downward slide started picking up speed.

More recently, the toxic environment of Facebook in particular, and social media in general, started getting to everyone. Some folks simply decided to get out of Dodge. I hung in, though, but I became increasingly frustrated when attempts to engage in polite discussions with people of a different political persuasion became impossible. Conversation was being replaced by verbal combat.

Alarm bells didn’t sound off in my head fully until I watched a little documentary called The Social Dilemma. And by little, I mean a bombshell.

Among my takeaways: social media has, by design, worked to eliminate our shared reality. It has, by design, created addiction to itself that’s so strong, even its designers have a difficult time disengaging. This, of course, serves advertisers who want our attention, and need us to be on social media for as long as possible, each and every day. They are the customers, and we are the products the tech companies are selling to them.

Social media has aided the growing division in our nation. The use of this media has ratcheted up a young person’s sense of loneliness, isolation, and ultimately, a sense of worthlessness that has wildly increased the percentage of teens and pre-teens suffering from depression and committing suicide (up by as much as 187%). And, bad as that all is, it’s only part of the story.

Some of you reading this will, no doubt, say “well, duh!” But I wonder how many understand to what extent social media plays into the havoc we’re currently experiencing in our lives and the lives of our children, and how much this media is contributing to the breakdown of our democracy.

Like most, I have been painfully aware of the negative impact this media has been having on relationships with friends and family, and have been grieving it. However, I didn’t fully understand the insidious ways social media has undermined us all, not by working poorly, but by working as it was designed to. The documentary, The Social Dilemma, was a giant wake up call. The media’s very designers broke it all down, in great detail.

Once I picked my jaw up off the floor after viewing this film, I reached out to a circle of friends, urged them to watch it, then arranged a virtual group discussion, shortly thereafter. By the end of our talk, we all felt it vital that we broaden the conversation, urge others to watch this film, especially with their families, and to have necessary conversations of their own. This blog is one of my attempts to move that forward.

Please watch this film. Watch it with friends. Watch it with your colleagues, your students. Most of all, watch it with your children. Follow the viewing with a conversation about what surprised you, and what didn’t, what frightened you or gave you pause, and what steps you think you might want to take in response to it.

This is not a call to close your accounts or abandon the media, altogether, although some may. As an author, I’m part of an industry that’s locked into this media, so I see myself altering how I engage with it— and how often—but don’t see myself leaving it entirely, at this point. I do find it telling, though, that the very creators of this media forbid their own children to engage with it. Think about that.

Some designers suggest demanding legislation that sets controls on the media where there currently are none. Others propose that an age-limit be applied to the use of social media, in much the same way as we put age-limits on drinking, and on driving. After viewing this film, you might find this worth considering. Whether you do or not, this is a clarion call to take a sober account of social media. We all understand what’s good about it, but we need to confront what isn’t. We need to fully comprehend its harmful, and dangerous, impact on our lives, and especially on the lives of our most vulnerable.

I rarely recommend films. It’s even rarer that I recommend a documentary. I have never urged everyone to watch a particular film. I am doing so now.

Please make the time to watch The Social Dilemma on Netflix. We all need to understand the mechanisms of this creature we’ve invited into our homes, into our lives, and into our brainstems. What we do with this information is up to each of us.

This one thing I know: knowledge is power.

MORE ON THE SUBJECT

Ten Arguments for Deleting Your Social Media Accounts by Jaron Lanier

The Dangers of Social Media by Paul Otway

Tristan Harris—US Senate June 25, 2019

How a Handful of Tech Companies control Billions of Minds Everyday, TED Talk by Tristan Harris

How Your Brain is Getting Hacked…TED Talk by Tristan Harris

Your Phone is Trying to Control Your Life, by Tristan Harris, YouTube

Can Truth Survive Big Tech? Tristan Harris, YouTube

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When I was young, I was often bullied for “talking white.” That’s the way my precise enunciation, robust vocabulary, and polished use of the English language were categorized by others in the Black community. At the other end of the racial spectrum, several white teachers questioned the authorship of my compositions because they were “too well written.” As for my ability to speak, they would raise their eyebrows in utter surprise and say, “My! You are so articulate!” The left-handed compliment was never lost on me: as a Black girl, I was not supposed to be articulate. Whenever a white person would call me articulate, I’d think to myself, “and why wouldn’t I be?” English was, by far, my best subject, I practically lived in the library, had a grandmother who got on my case every time I mistakenly said, “Can I”, rather than “May I,” both my natural parents were avid readers, as were the foster parents I stayed with the longest, my mother had oratory skills, and my father was no slouch in that department, either. Chances were pretty good that some of that would have resulted in my being fairly well-spoken. Just saying.

I went on to university, graduated with a degree in English, and a minor in African languages, won a Ford Fellowship to study in East Africa, and returned to the U.S. to begin building a writing career. Strangely enough, I continued to be frequently “complimented” on my ability to string words together in a pleasing fashion. Now, 40+ years into a respectable career as an author specializing in poetry, and as a speaker, I am, apparently, still astonishing white people with my ability to be articulate. And I’m not the only well-read, well-traveled, well-educated Black person singing this song.

In all the years that I have given keynotes at major conferences across the country and abroad, or shared panels with white authors, or spoken at book festivals and literary conferences, I can never once recall hearing a white author praised for being articulate, though most of them were. The difference, in case you haven’t caught on, is that they were expected to be articulate, so there was no obvious need to remark upon the fact.

Mind you, I wholeheartedly appreciate someone telling me following an in-person or virtual keynote, or panel presentation, that my words moved them deeply, or that I said something that made them see the world in a new way, or that my words were inspiring or even powerful, or that you found my word choice exquisite. (No one has actually said that last thing, but feel free!) Who wouldn’t love that? But that’s substantially different from “complimenting” an author and poet who makes her living as a professional wordsmith and speaker, by saying—always with a hint of surprise and emphasis on the last word—“You’re so articulate.” Imagine praising a tailor for sewing straight seams, or complimenting a surgeon for deftly handling a scalpel, or congratulating a lawyer for knowing the law, or applauding a minister for familiarity with Holy Scripture. Lord, give me strength!

Christine Mallinson, professor of language, literacy, and culture at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, had this to say to Business Insider: “When a white colleague tells a colleague of color ‘You’re so articulate’ or ‘You speak so well,’ the remark suggests that they assumed the person in question would be less articulate—and are surprised to find out they aren’t.” Pause for a moment and take that in.

Black folk already navigate a world littered with loaded language, coded phrasing, and microaggressions. (And there’s a separate set of microaggressions women have to contend with that focus on things like body image, but that’s not my focus here.) “You’re pretty—for a black girl.” “Is that your real hair?” “Where are you actually from?” “You’re not like them.” “You’re good with your hands.” “Your English is so good!” (Yes, I’ve actually been told that.) Ouch!

There are always assumptions that I sublet my home, rather than own it, and that my nice car is a rental. When I step into the priority lane to board a plane at the airport, my right to occupy that space is frequently questioned. When I enter a clothing store, or a boutique of any kind, I am automatically followed around the premises, merely based upon the assumption—unspoken or otherwise—that I am there to steal, rather than purchase, merchandise—this no matter how meticulous my attire at the time. I won’t even begin to tell you the number of apartments I lost, back when I was a renter, simply because my skin is black. Occasionally, just for fun, I would have a white friend apply for an apartment after I’d been told it was no longer available. Every single time, the miraculously still available apartment was offered to that white friend. Sigh.

This is some of why being Black in America can be so damn tiresome. But I’m not about to give up my beautiful black skin, or the rich heritage of my people in the fields of science, mathematics, art, music, fashion, academia, sports, economics, entrepreneurship, medicine, literature, and beyond. Against all odds, Black people have survived and thrived in this country, and I stand among them.

I enjoy my work as a poet, author, and speaker, and hope to continue this work for some years to come. As always, I look forward to meeting fans virtually, or in person once it’s again safe to travel, and to gather at conferences and book festivals. I will welcome any warm, kind words you choose to share with me following my presentations. That said, let me be clear: if you continue to find it shocking that I’m articulate, might I suggest you ask yourself why. In the meantime, should the idea of praising any Black person for being articulate cross your mind, please consider instead telling us what our words have meant to you, how you have been moved or touched by them, or how our words have inspired, challenged, or lifted you up. Those are true compliments we’d be more than happy to hear, any day of the week.

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As an author, I’m acutely aware of the power of words to heal or harm, to build up or tear down. I believe it’s imperative to choose our words carefully, and to own the words we choose, as well as the intention with which we use them. POTUS rarely does, of course. I wonder, though, how many others of us consider the words we use.

I’m particularly sensitive to the word “abandon,” or any of its derivations. I see it thrown around a good deal, these days, in connection with children forcibly separated from their parents at the border. To be clear, when a child is ripped from a parent’s arms, the parent can hardly be said to have “abandoned” that child. Yet, this is the language being bandied about.

I’ve noticed how frequently the word “abandoned” is attached to the commonly held narrative of the black father, and I wince every time. A man’s absence from a home is usually far more complex than that word would connote, especially if that man is black. His absence might be due to military assignment, work out of state, balancing multiple jobs, incarceration, or a contentious divorce. None of the above constitutes “abandonment.” No matter the reason for a man’s absence, he may, in fact, remain active in the life of his child without sharing the child’s home.          

While writing my memoir, Ordinary Hazards, I had to address my own father’s periodic absence from my life. There were certainly moments, as a child, when I might have felt abandoned. But looking back, I know the label does not apply. My father’s absences were more complicated than that. He never gave me up, blocked me from his life, or left me with the intention of never returning. Nor was he ever emotionally unavailable. On the contrary, over the course of my childhood, he was quite present, and in critical ways. I would not be the person I am otherwise.

It was my father who gave me my early arts education. He introduced me to the ballet, theater, and classical music. He escorted me to my first art exhibit, featuring artist Tom Feelings with whom I would one day collaborate on a book. My father signed me up for, and attended, my first poetry reading at thirteen. He was the person who exposed me to literature by and about writers of the African Diaspora. He took me for weekend jaunts to New Jersey and Washington D.C. He took me shopping for school clothes. We hit the occasional movie theater together and went for pizza runs during my weekend visits. Does any of this sound like abandonment? And yet, the casual observer, falling back on the common narrative of the absent black father would look at my story, note my father’s periodic absences and would say two+two = abandonment. Wrong.

We must carefully weigh our words and own them, whether we’re talking about absent African American fathers, or immigrant parents detained at our borders, weeping for the return of their children, or the Congresswomen of color who are full citizens with the right to serve their beloved country, regardless of the dark complexions and surnames that mark them to some as “other.”

It’s too easy for our narratives to casually be reduced to a few handy catch-words and phrases. When they are, we need to reclaim and reframe those narratives using language that encompasses the nuances of our truth. And we must do so over, and over again. It’s not a one-time proposition. Just ask the four Democratic Representatives targeted by the racist tweets from POTUS. This isn’t the first time someone has told them to go back where they came from and, sadly, it won’t be the last. Others will make false assumptions about them, and they will have to reclaim their narratives afresh, choose their own words and descriptors to set the record straight. And when they do, something tells me they will own their carefully chosen words, every single time.

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Who doesn’t want a book award or citation, or even a starred review? We welcome them, pine for them, lust for them, hope for them. We do so, in part, because we assume they will guarantee success and longevity of our books, and keep them in print. Sadly, that is not always the case. I would know, having a number of such award-winning titles on the proverbial scrap heap of out-of-print books. A notable book citation didn’t keep What is Goodbye? from hitting the pile, nor did the Coretta Scott King Illustrator Award keep Something On My Mind from disappearing from bookstore shelves. (These aren’t my only OP titles, but ouch!) Then, there are those beautiful books that never stay in print long enough to find their market (Under the Christmas Tree, anyone? I dare you to say the paintings by Kadir Nelson are anything less than scrumptious! My poems weren’t too shabby either, if I must say so. I’m getting off point, though. Sorry.)

If awards and major citations don’t keep a book in print, what’s the point? What’s the deal? The truth is, book publishing has always been a crap-shoot. There’s really no nailing down which book will make it, and which one won’t, which book will be chosen for special honors, and which won’t. Don’t waste your time taking bets. Besides, awards, while lovely (I won’t be giving any of mine back, thank you very much!), those shiny stickers don’t come with any guarantees. (Okay. So maybe there’s one or two exceptions. Still.)

Don’t get me wrong: awards are certainly worth celebrating, and I’m ready to do the happy-dance whenever one comes my way. Even so, an award can’t be the reason I write a book. If it were, I’d constantly writhe in misery (well, more than I usually do) whenever one of my books failed to take home the gold, or even the silver. No. I write books because I have to, because I have stories to tell, because I want to entertain, encourage, inform, inspire and challenge young readers. I write because I want to touch hearts and, ultimately—I’ll admit it—hopefully change minds, and maybe even lives. Whether I fail or succeed in the trying, an award is beside the point. Every time I receive a glowing letter from one of my readers, or a teacher, a parent, grandparent, or a librarian, I remember that. You should, too.

Chin up, my fellow scribes! Hope to cross paths with you on the road as we share our stories, and our hearts, with the young readers who move us to put pen to paper, in the first place.

The post Going for the Gold: An Author Intervention appeared first on Nikki Grimes.

The sales person was thrilled to let me know the car was equipped with Bluetooth (what?), could be linked to my cell phone (huh?), and gave me the capability to view films while driving—as if I were honestly interested in splitting my attention between, say, Mission Impossible and the road before me. No. Thanks. As for Bluetooth, I won’t be using that, or most of the other tech goodies available. I find them all too distracting from, you know, Driving. The sales person was especially disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to link my car to my smart phone because—gasp—I don’t have one.

I’m strictly a flip-phone woman. Yes. You read that right. That means I can’t surf the Internet or check my emails every two seconds, but I don’t need to, anyway. Who does? (Well, being able to search for nearby restaurants could come in handy when I’m hungry. Still.) My flip-phone allows me to make and take phone calls, send and receive texts, and access messages. What more do I need? “Apps!” you say. Well, apps might be fun, even useful at times. But necessary? Vital? I don’t think so. Call me crazy, but I actually manage to navigate the world without apps.

My shuttle driver tries to shame me into getting on the smart-phone bandwagon. I’ll ask her something like, “What terminal is my flight leaving from?” Since getting me to the right terminal is part of her job, this is information I expect her to have. Instead of just telling me, however, she launches into, “If you had a smart phone, you could find out yourself, because there’s an app for that.” Really?

I get that the new tech is convenient, but there are a myriad of ways to get the information I need without casting myself off the high-tech bridge and getting caught in the whirlpool of apps, games, and social media connects on-the-go.

I came late to the digital party, kicking and screaming all the way. I’ve found much of it useful as a promotional tool for my business, but I’m also painfully aware of its time-stealing potential. Let’s face it, the Internet is addictive. I waste enough time on social media at home, as it is. Must I now also take it with me on the road? I think not. Beyond the basic cell phone, I don’t need tech that follows me out of the house. Limits must be set.

What disturbs me most about all the new tech, though, is its negative impact on social interaction. Too often, I’ll walk into a room where two people, seated a few feet apart, are connecting with each other (you can’t really call it communicating) via their devices. The same is true of people on lunch and dinner dates. The parties might as well be seated at separate tables, for all the genuine connection being made. They’re all too busy slavishly checking their phones between bites of food they aren’t taking time enough to fully enjoy. What is the point? What ever happened to conversation? I miss conversation. And eye contact. And having a companion’s full attention. Sigh.

I know a good many people who feel quite overwhelmed by constant waves of new tech lapping at the shore of human imagination. We forget that there are shut-off switches, that no one is holding a gun to our heads forcing us to use the latest app dropped into the digital universe. Those who feel overwhelmed complain that they don’t have enough time for their art, for their spouses, for their children, for—fill in the blank. But if they weren’t constantly plugged into their various devices, playing games, exploring the latest new app, checking email and mindlessly scrolling through social media newsfeeds several times a day, they’d have more of the time they crave. How do I know this? (Behind on a deadline, anyone?) As I’ve already admitted, I’m scrolling right along with the rest of the crowd! It’s a habit I’m determined to break.

High tech, low tech, no tech—whatever we choose, it’s a trade-off. We can choose more convenience and connection, but the cost is less security, and less opportunity for genuine, interpersonal communication. If we choose less convenience and less broad-based, or abbreviated connection, we multiply the time we have for deep personal communication, for mindful living, for art, for greater awareness of our surroundings.

It all comes down to time, the most precious commodity we have. How we use it, and how much of it we have to use, is very much bound up with the choices we make concerning high tech, low tech, or no tech. Take your pick. It really is a choice.

I look up all the time. I notice the clouds dance across the sky, the Magnolia blooms spilling their vanilla scent, the rash of mushrooms following a rain, the hummingbird nuzzling a rose. Do you?

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An unarmed black person dies at the hands of, or in the custody of, white policemen, and we run around as if our hair were on fire, screaming, “What can we do? What can we do?”

Nine black souls are massacred in a house of worship, in a state where the Confederate flag, symbol of hatred, flies proudly, and we run around as if our hair were on fire, screaming, “What can we do? What can we do?”

I won’t claim to have all the answers, but I certainly can suggest a few, the most important of which has nothing to do with gun control, and everything to do with empathy. We need to teach our children empathy. It’s a lot harder to murder someone you have empathy for than someone you don’t.

The perpetrator of this latest atrocity was not mentally ill, as some wish to suggest. (Please don’t insult me by suggesting every white person who kills a black person is mentally ill. I grew up with a parent who was genuinely mentally ill, so I, for one, know the difference. Oh, and, I should note: she didn’t kill anyone.) Nor was this perpetrator born with hate in his heart. No one is. Hatred is a seed that must be planted, watered, fertilized, and nurtured. The ugly fruit of hatred is not produced in a single, sudden moment. Rather, it ripens over time. It is not inevitable. I repeat: race hatred is not inevitable.

As a seedling, hatred can be uprooted early on. Or, it can be left untouched in its own environment and allowed to produce a head and heart both poisoned, and poisonous. While children are yet children, and still under our care, we adults get to influence which of those two things happen.

Instead of looking the other way while hatred takes root in young hearts and minds, why not try this: Plant the seeds of empathy. Teach the young to feel the heartbeats of races and cultures other than their own. Replace any possible fear of the unknown, with knowledge of the knowable. Teach them the ways in which we humans are more alike than we are different. Teach them that the most important common denominator is the human heart. Start with a book.

Give young readers books by and about peoples labeled “other.” I’m not talking about one or two books, here and there. I’m talking about spreading diverse books throughout the curriculum, beginning in elementary grades, and continuing through to high school. Why? Because racism is systemic and teaching empathy, teaching diversity, needs to be systemic, too.

You say you want to change the dynamic of race relations in America. Well, here is a place to begin—unless, of course, you’re not really serious. In that case, by all means, keep running around like your hair is on fire, screaming, “What can we do? What can we do?” every time an unarmed black person is killed by a white policeman, or a group of innocent black people is massacred. Just don’t expect me to keep listening. I’ve already told you where to begin.

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I’ve been thinking about my newest title, Chasing Freedom, releasing in January 2015, and trying to trace it’s origins. The initial idea came to me while I was busy working on something else. The something else was a series of dramatic monologues for a theater production to be performed in China, in 1988. The theme of the show was American History, and so I chose as my subjects Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, and Susan B. Anthony. In the midst of researching their stories, and crafting their monologues, I became excited to learn that they not only lived at the same time, but all knew each other. One day, while thumbing through these histories in the stacks of the Doheny Library at USC, I suddenly thought, “I wonder what it would be like if Harriet Tubman and Susan B. Anthony sat down for a talk.” That notion was the seed that eventually led to my writing Chasing Freedom. I wasn’t looking for an idea, mind you. It simply arrived of its own! A gift.

I turned my thoughts to Words With Wings, a novel-in-verse about daydreaming, and I tried to trace the origins of that story. This task was more difficult, because the genesis of the idea was much less straightforward. Over the years, I’d read or heard comments by teachers about the importance of nurturing the imagination; read or heard Steve Jobs bemoan the fact that children are no longer encouraged to daydream; read or heard nameless others comment on this subject, in one way or another. Somewhere along the line, this train of thought stuck, and I began thinking about my own childhood, and how important daydreaming had been in my own formation, and later success, and I realized how much I wanted that for the children I serve through my work. Out of this thick soup of essays, articles, off-hand commentary, and personal memories grew the idea for a novel about a daydreamer. So there.

The origin of the idea for my next book, Poems in the Attic, out next spring, is a bit clearer, but not much. I watch the nightly news as much as anyone, and I’ve noticed a barrage of stories about our military over the recent years. With troops in Afghanistan, Iran, and Iraq, especially, this last decade has produced miles of videotape about soldiers. I especially noticed the preponderance, of late, of images on television of soldiers returning home, snuggling with their children after long tours away, images of both fathers and mothers in uniform, nearly wrestled to the ground by children so excited to have them home, again. These images stuck. Then, there was the show Army Wives, which brought these themes into my living room weekly. Besides the above, there’s the fact that several of my friends regularly share childhood stories of growing up as military brats. At some point, a couple of years ago, I started thinking about the increasing number of children who have to negotiate the uncertainty of life with a parent in the military, and I wondered if I might offer some small collection of poetry that would speak into that. Hence, the story-in-verse book, Poems in the Attic.

The answer to the question of where stories come from is rather random, isn’t it? It’s mysterious. It’s magical. It’s simple: a story, and the idea that gives birth to it, is—a gift. Yeah. That sounds about right.

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