Myth, Harry Potter, the Canon and Morality Tales

This weekend, I saw the final film installment of the Harry Potter franchise. I have long been a fan of J. K. Rowling's books and of the films based on them. The reasons for my support of them are manifold. As a teacher, I applaud that Rowling has brought so many young people and adults to the written word, and the films have introduced the public to a host of talented young and veteran actors who have given the books life. Several talented directors also should be credited for their vision. What dismays me is that parents and various conservative groups deride the Potter series because it deals with witches and magic. Others denigrate Rowling's series because it is new and not in the sanctioned canon. For many of these people, literature written after 1899, or at the latest 1940, is of no value. Literature written by minorities or other non-privileged groups also is verboten, according to these fonts of purity and wisdom. What these people don't realize is that the central theme of the books has its roots in the depths of ancient myth and biblical literature. The Potter series deals with a young hero who must battle evil, thereby saving his world from destruction. Such a battle has been fought by Moses, Jesus, Odysseus, Aeneas, and King Arthur. Now, before my religious friends are offended, let me say that I'm not saying figures like Odysseus rank with Jesus, but these ancient tales share many of the same admirable traits. (By the way, I'm also religious.)

Biblical figures and ancient characters often fight the forces of evil through God-inspired power. Moses spoke with God, deriving a power from the Holy Word that would allow him to part a sea. Jesus turned water into wine and consulted with long-departed prophets. In so doing, Jesus unites his message of goodness with the ancient traditions of His people. In ancient literature, Odysseus conferred with the dead to gain their wisdom and find his path. Again, I'm not saying that Odysseus equals Christ, but all of these heroic figures from the past share certain important traits. I find it very ironic that the very people who criticize Potter on the grounds that it is non-canonical praise tales like the Odyssey, the Aenid, the tales of Arthur, or the Lord of the Rings; the Potter books deal with many of the same issues as do these heroic tales.

Rowling definitely builds on ancient myth and biblical precedent. Like the young Arthur, Harry is chosen to fulfill a prophecy and to lead others to greatness. Like Arthur who is drawn to a sword meant only for him, Harry has his special wand that will help him defeat evil. Like Odysseus and Aeneas, Harry must travel far to claim his place in a world that is at times dangerous and even deadly. Like the young Arthur, Harry learns that the world is not always what it seems. People betray and disappoint. Arthur is betrayed by his queen and his first knight. Harry learns that his parents and his teachers are human, prone to frailty and pettiness as well as courage. Like Tolkien's hobbit heroes and their band of warriors, Harry and his friends must face the enemy and forge their destiny. Each of us is set on a path with pitfalls and battles to be faced. Harry and his friends also are an unlikely band of warriors. They are wizards, but they are also kids wearing jeans and T-shirts. Kids identify with them because they are Everyman, armed with magic. Many have read Tolkien's work as a metaphor for his own experiences in the Great War. The young people who fought that conflict, like the hobbits, were also unlikely heroes, but they, too, faced the enemy with courage.

What I say to skeptical parents is that Harry Potter follows an ancient tradition that hopefully will ignite their children's imaginations, encouraging them to read the source material from which it derives. Because of Little Women, I read German philosophers like Kant and Fichte. Because of the Beatles' lyrics, I read King Lear and Lewis Carroll. Because of Godspell, I read the Bible. The Harry Potter books stand on their own, but they also can send children on a treasure hunt in which they discover the source of the magic. Don't discount "popular culture."

Love, War, and the Human Spirit

My latest release LOVE AT WAR( www.redrosepublishing.com) was born of a great deal of research and more than a touch of family lore. My grandparents lived on Palmyra Street, as do Nuala's parents. My grandmother fixed stewed chicken on Sundays. My uncles fought in WWII, and one of them never returned from that horrific conflict.

I've placed some very dramatic posts on my Facebook page of late. When I wrote LOVE AT WAR, I was extremely conscious that I was portraying a momentous time in history. Yes, I realize that history is a construct that varies depending upon the writer and the culture, but the loss war inflicts onto the people caught within its web is overwhelming. Supposedly, WWII was the war to end all wars, but the Second World War soon followed. We saw the evil of genocide with that war. Many predicted that genocide would never happen again, but it has occurred in places like Rwanda and Serbia. My novel recreates many graphic war scenes, but I hope I have shown the damage war inflicts as well as the heroism it inspires. In the midst of terror, people rise above the chaos of war, conquer their fears, and often defeat the evil they must confront.

Love at War

I started writing after a long draught. It was 2005, the year Katrina devastated the region. My first book, BURIED TRUTHS (Sapphire Blue Publishing), grew from my despair and grief, but it also showed the resilience and hope of the area's people. Like my characters, many of them rebuilt their lives and even found love.

My second book, LOVE AT WAR (Red Rose Publishing), also sprang from grief, but I pray it also shows the triumph of the human soul. My beloved mother died in 2008. She was my touchstone and my best friend. When I went through her things, I found letters from her brother Russell written while he was in Germany. Re-reading those letters reminded me of the lore that had circulated throughout our family. That summer, my cousin Sandy invited me and other relatives to her house. We read her parents' letters to each other, weeping and laughing together. Sandy's father, my mother's brother, never returned from Germany. He died in an attack on the Bremen enclave after WWII officially ended. The passion he and his young wife shared made us all cry, smile, and even blush as we read.

My mother had died only a few months before I read those letters. I was grieving, doing nothing except watch television, cry, and starve myself. Writing again saved me. I began researching the war that claimed one of my uncles and sent the others home changed. These young people had left the States as kids and returned as hardened men. I researched the war, devouring books and articles that added to my own family lore. None of the main characters are based on my family, but they, like my family members, lived through those tumultuous times.

The world was never the same after WWII. The strides made in civil rights and women's rights would never have occurred without that war. That war changed the world order, but it was fought by innocent kids who stormed the beaches of Normandy. One day, they were goofing around on a beach, jumping on amusement park rides and flirting. Then, they were on Omaha Beach, a very different one than they had known in New Orleans. I was obsessive about getting it right. I owed it to my mother and her siblings. Portraying the role of women in the war also was important to me. WWII was the first time women had full military rights. They often worked as nurses, but they also were undercover and frequently worked as translators. My protagonist, Nuala, works for the OSS, the precursor to the CIA. She is covert and military.

I also wanted to show the brutality of war and what becomes of the young people caught within its web. I opened the novel on Pontchartrain Beach. The young people are queuing for rides. The action takes these kids to Pearl, to Bataan, to Omaha Beach, and beyond. I wrote like someone possessed. Sometimes, I think my mother's spirit guided me. I hope so.

Sad Street Theatre

Every time the Souther Decadence Festival comes to town, New Orleanians and tourists are treated to the protests of Rev. Grant Storms and his band of "Christian patriots," or so they deemed themselves. They walk through the French Quarter with broom, cleaning the area of filth, or so they said. Rev. Storms had a church--which he lost--and a radio show on which he railed against those he pronounced sinners, non-Christians, or any other Christian denomination not to his liking. Catholics were satanic and demonic, so I guess I'm going to hell in a hand basket.

Last week, Rev. Storms found himself embroiled in a scandal of his own. Two women allegedly saw him masturbating in his vehicle, which was parked in a local park near children. They were collecting their children and flagged down a park employee. The employee detained Storms until police responded. Storms is a bit of a puzzle. He vehemently denies masturbating or being a danger to children. He says he had stopped for lunch in the park, felt the urge, and was relieving himself in a can. In almost the same breath, he readily admits to a penchant for liking pornography but denies the allegations against him, insisting the truth will come out in court. Now, Rev. Storms has a right not to approve of certain lifestyles. That's his business, but his willingness to condemn others violates the very Christian tenets he supposedly espouses. Curious, isn't it, that some people who sing the loudest in the choir may have the ugliest sins? Notice that I said he was allegedly seen doing something inappropriate. I wouldn't want to judge him in the same way he's judged others. Lately, he's been on the news, admitting to his liking of porn and asking for forgiveness. He admits to being "prideful" and has even asked for forgiveness from the gay community. Surprisingly, the owner of one establishment he has vilified has expressed compassion for the man and pity for his family. I wonder how it feels to have someone you once hated and saw as inferior come to your defense. As I said, Rev. Storms will have his day in court. So far, these are only allegations, but the man's lambasting of others is simply wrong. Storms professes to be a Christian, but I guess he missed the lesson in which Jesus advised people with sins not to throw stones. None of us is without sin, not this preacher, his family, or any other human being.

People who promote hate are quick to judge and often intolerant. Storms and his followers crusading through the Quarter reminded me of the members of that Kansas church who protest at military funerals. They say awful things to grieving families and brand anyone who doesn't practice their flavor of Christianity as hell bound. They, like Storms, have the right to their opinions, but they say they are Christians. How is harassing people at a funeral Christian behavior? I've seen these people. They stood outside my church in New Orleans, holding signs and screaming awful things at us because we're not a denomination of which they approve. They were in town that week because a Jewish group held a conference downtown. They approve of no one and feel free to vent their fury on others. Perhaps one day, they, like Storms, will have to look to the very people they vilify for succor.

Exotic Port Cities Rising from the Ashes-Buried Truths, St. Luke's, and a new dawn

I readily admit that I am an unabashed Beatles fan. As a wee child, I thought they were the hottest blokes to walk. As a New Orleans native, I also am a fan of exotic port cities that have lost their former glory and now exist in a surreal zone where a poignant history, gorgeous architecture, and proud culture intermingle. In recent years, my own life has followed this pattern of loss and renewal. In August, 2005, I was teaching in a school I loved surrounded by people I respected and who respected me. I was on a fast track to promotion when Katrina ended my complacent existence. My school was closed, and I found another teaching job that is less than fulfilling. Two years ago, I suffered another great loss when my mother died. I find solace in writing, but a part of me was still lost. My life was in flux, and in danger of losing myself, I decided to take a journey. Being a Beatles fan and a lover of port cities, I made my way to Liverpool.

I first made my way to Liverpool in December of 2009, but the journey was marred by terrible weather and a too-short visit. This year, I sojourned to Liverpool in November. The weather was beautiful and the people as friendly as I'd remembered. On my previous visit, I'd taken a cursory tour of all Beatles haunts and of the city itself. This time, I would explore the town more fully and find many similarities between my hometown and Liverpool.

The National Trust tour of John Lennon's home and Paul McCartney's home was like time traveling into a forgotten Britain and in many ways the America my parents remembered. My parents were like many of their British counterparts. They didn't come from wealthy families. Like Paul McCartney, they grew up with a coal fire in the grate. The rooms in Sir Paul's boyhood council house were small and sparse. My parents also grew up in Depression era New Orleans at a time when money was scarce and even basic goods were hard to find. Sir Paul still calls himself the "scruff from Speke." My dad was a scruff from Mid City in New Orleans, and while he may not have made it as big as Sir Paul, my dad rose from very humble roots to have a lot more than he once did. When Paul McCartney received his knighthood, he thanked the people of his native city for making him what he was. My parents also were products of a working class city that instilled them with values and work ethic. (Yes, I know that people think we all walk around with Mardi Gras cups filled with whiskey most days, but the working stiffs in this city go to a job every day and make precious little. Another thing we have in common with Liddypool). Streets comprised of cobbled stones reminded me of the French Quarter in all its history and decadence.

I think what most struck me about Liverpool is that it could resurrect itself from the ashes. As a port city, Liverpool suffered untold damage during WWII. German bombs devastated its port and dock. I was reminded of the war at every turn, and perhaps the most poignant reminder was St. Luke's Church. To most Liverpudlians, the building is simply called "the bombed out church." St Luke's was once a working parish before the war, but bombs took its roof. Now, the structure stands as a testament to what war can do to a city. From a distance, the church appears to be totally intact, but a look inside reveals that flora and fauna have overtaken the sanctuary. Though no longer a church, the building stands as a testament to nature's ability to resurrect what was dormant and defeated. A building once buried in rubble now symbolizes the resurrection and rebirth of nature's wildness.

In New Orleans, we, too, have memorials to Katrina and rebuilt homes. We will always remember those lost to us, but we also have risen from the devastation of disaster. Most people have rebuilt or elected to move on. Many were reborn and renewed in the wake of devastating loss. When I wrote Buried Truths, I wanted to show that people could rebuild their lives in the wake of personal loss. Heather and Wesley's journey to find themselves and each other began in their youth, but they suffer many setbacks and must make many detours before they really find the path to fulfillment. They lost each other as teenagers only to find each other as adults. They, like their city, rose from the ashes. I also think that I, like my city, am rising from the ashes.

My mother's last days

I was not used to my mother being sick.  No matter how old you are, your mother's the one in charge, the one who takes care of everything.  My mother lay in a damned  hospital bed looking small and helpless, relying on me--and I felt damned insignificant and incompetent.  My mother wasn't used to dependency, and I wasn't used to seeing her dependent.  

Truth is, I loved no one in the world like I did her.  It's a cliche to say your mother's your best friend, but mine really was.  Since my father died, it had just been Mama and I.  She always made me feel safe, even as an adult.  When my mother was ill, I had to be the strong one, and I felt woefully inadequate.  I've never inspired confidence like she did.  When she told me I could learn those lines for that damned kindergarten play, I did learn them--and knew every line in the whole production.  When school was lousy(which it often was), I'd sit on the sofa with Mama while she read to me.  Daddy would start the fireplace(yes, in southeast Louisiana), and sit near us in  huge easy chair.  Mama would hold me tight as she read  novel or a tale by the Brothers Grimm.  I'll always love Little Women because I can't even hear the title without thinking of her.  On rainy days, we played a game called "Steps."  The rules are only vague in my memory, but the game consisted of guessing the right letters and filling them in a puzzle.  The game always managed to cheer me up, and when I was a kid, I always needed cheering up.  

Mama always was there.  I couldn't have earned three degrees without her confidence in me.  She told me that the only person who lacked faith in me was myself.  Mama gave me faith and love.  She also willingly sacrificed for me.  She took a thankless job so that she could be home with Grandma and me at night.  She was wasted in that job, but she persevered--coming home bone tired and hurt.  She initially had to endure undue rudeness from her male co-workers.  Though they eventually came to respect her, these men actively made her life miserable during the first year of her time there.  My mother worked hard so that she wouldn't have to use the little money my father had left for my future.  

The woman who once looked out for my well-being lay helpless in a hospital bed.  With the help of physical therapists and nurses, I almost carried her to a bedside commode, but the heroic effort was too late.  Her backside was full of her own dirt, and sadly, she hadn't even felt the evacuation of her bowels.  My mother became the child.  I, her daughter, became the mother.  I wiped her rear and threw the soiled wipes into the trash.  I bathed her, gently passing a cloth under her breath and over her buttocks.  

Doctors made objective projections about her possible recovery, but their hearts didn't lurch for her as mine did.  The clinical observations did nothing to assuage the sickening fear I felt as she suffered  loss of dignity and purpose.  One night, she told me that she would rather die than live as she was.  She felt glued t her bed, a prisoner in her own body.  

Mama eventually lost her fight with old age and illness.  Hospice workers came to the house to help me and her sitters with her care.  Most days, she lay in a hospital bed that occupied half of the living room.  She slept for hours.  Only strong medicine controlled her pain.  She would call out for the Virgin Mary.  She cried for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to help her.  The Sunday before she died, Mama told me I had to let her go.  It was the anniversary of my father's death, and I couldn't say those words.  

During the coming work, my mother lived in a hazy, surreal world.  Drugs kept the pain at bay, and she still managed to smile at me.  She drank water and broth from a straw, and I didn't leave  her as she existed in that limbo.  Relatives visited, but no one really said  why they were there-- to say goodbye.  The sitters and the visitors joined me in the sad vigil.  I took care of my mother.  Everyone else tried to take care of me.  Barbara and Valerie, her wonderful sitters, brought me coffee and coaxed me to eat.  My fabulous relatives brought me food I barely ate and couldn't taste.  They were trying to take care of the living while waiting for a death.  

Mama died on Good Friday, 2008.  My aunt and my cousin Trudy were there.  I'll never forget her labored breathing.  Each breath sent a needle into my chest.  I stroked her hair and held her hand.  I whispered to her.  My cousin, a nurse, monitored her pulse.  Eventually, we could no longer hear her breathing.  A hospice nurse arrived, pronouncing her dead.  More relatives arrived.  Two people came from the morgue to take her away.  They gave me a rose.  I didn't see them take her body.  The nurse tactfully asked if I'd witness her dispose of my mother's meds.  I watched through tears as she flushed them down the john.  

I eulogized my mother at her funeral.  I followed my cousin Charlotte.  She was a hard act to follow. During the funeral, I was in a grief-induced fog, but I cried endlessly in the coming months.  Two years later, I sometimes still do.  Since I was twelve, I've only communicated with my father by putting a bouquet on his grave.  It was my way of saying I still thought of him and that I missed him.  Now, I visit the same grave and place bouquets in two vases.  I wish that I'd had them longer.  

When the Words Stopped

When I think of men like Calvin Borel and Kent Desormeaux, I think of my father and all  those people who have found salvation, even redemption, through horse racing.  Training and guiding those magnificent beasts to the finish line is an exhilarating, totally absorbing experience.  Sam, my father, was a horse trainer.  . . .

When I was eight-years-years old, my father stopped speaking.  He had a heart attack and massive stroke while racing horses in Chicago.  When he returned home, his emaciated physique, confused stare, and inarticulate mutterings baffled and embarrassed me.  My father aged fifty years in a few short weeks.  I dreaded the ridiculing comments of the rich, snobby brats infesting the bowels of the suburban school I attended.  

My father, Sam, was undoubtedly more angry and humiliated than I, his only daughter, could ever have been.  Sam was a healthy man, and  no one expected the heart attack and stroke that felled him while he was racing horses in Chicago in 1971.  He returned to us a changed man.  He could no longer say my mother's name or mine.  He couldn't articulate even the simplest ideas, and the frustration level at home was high.  Once, consumed with anger, he bellowed, "I ca--an--'t say what I wa--nt to--"

Sam had been a man's man.  He'd done everything in his life and lived to tell about it.  When the Depression robbed people of their lives and homes, he sold liquor and kept his family alive during the lean years when no one had a dime.  His second son died in infancy.  His first wife succumbed to tuberculosis during those hungry years.  She died a painful, lingering death.  Sam and Emile, the man who would be his business partner for life, made the hooch and sold it.  Sam and Emile's teenaged sons helped pack the stuff.  

Leah, his mother, crossed herself and said, "Your father would roll over in his grave if he knew you were doing anything illegal."  

My father responded, "He'd roll over in his grave if he knew we were starving, too."  

Leah shook her head in horror but cooked the food the liquor bought without further comment.  Sam and Emile were sometimes arrested, but they never spent a night in jail.  Most of the New Orleans Police Department were customers.  

When Prohibition ended, Sam and Emile opened a bar on Canal and Broad.  They worked in it day and night, providing lunches for downtown businessmen during the day and drinks for many of the same men after work.  Politicians and cops frequented their establishment.  On the side, Sam and Emile trained and owned prize fighters.  Images of my father standing beside many of the Italian-American boxers grace the walls of the Italian-American Cultural Society.  One of their fighters went on to win the Feather Weight Champion of the World.  

Sam eventually developed a hobby of his own--horse racing, and a business that paid well for some time, booking. He was a natural at both.  Sam acquired three more wives after the death of his first wife.  My mother was his fourth wife.  At thirty-eight, she was one year younger than his surviving son.  My cousins remember my mother telling them, "Never answer the phone! Never!" When he became a father again at fifty-seven, Sam told my mother, "I'm shutting this operation down.  We have a little girl now.  I don't want her disgraced if the place is raided."  He sold his elaborate phone system and concentrated full-time on raising and racing thoroughbreds.  

The horses respected him and heeded his commands.  Other men willingly rode his horses and accepted his direction. In a time of rampant racism and discrimination, Sam didn't care if a jockey was black or white, country or city.  The animals that bucked, reared, and kicked others walked passively beside my father as he led them with the flimsiest of halters.   I walked by his side, feeding the horses carrots and sugar as he stroked their mane and brushed their coats.  My father lived for the sound of the starting gate opening and for the smell of fresh hay in a stable.  

When he first became ill, the doctors were uncertain if he would even be able to walk.  He did.  My father was the most stubborn man in the world.  Determined to race again, he reapplied for his trainer's license and passed muster.  His clients stayed with him.  Jockeys were still willing to ride his horses.  My father was not given to whining or quitting. 

Men like my father, Borel, and Desormeaux find beauty in horses and in racing.  The sport offers them the opportunity to greatness.  . .  .

On the morning he died, I saw the light shining in the bathroom. Sam, as usual, was awake at dawn so he could go to the track.   I was tired and turned over, shielding my eyes from the crack of light coming from the bathroom.  We were having our last cold spell in March, and the bed felt snug.  Only a few hours later, my half-brother pounded on the door, screaming that Sam was dead.  At the time, I only felt hollow.  I remember a fern blowing in the dying March wind.  I've hated fern to this day.