About Me

My Life as a Reader

published January 2, 2012

I’m Mary Jo, and I’m a reader. Ever since I learned to read, I have loved books. My best childhood memories are reading with my mother and siblings, making trips to the library and toting home stacks of paperbacks, and spoiling my eyesight finishing a book after bedtime. When I was in elementary school, I would read the textbooks from cover to cover just to have something to do and to be able to say I did it. When I was in high school, I felt cheated when I discovered that my sophomore English teacher was teaching us straight from Cliff’s Notes. “Isn’t there more to these books than these rote questions and responses?” I wondered. The following year, AP English Lit was my favorite class, where my favorite teacher of all time, Mr. Jim McDonough, who looks just like the British comedian Rowan Atkinson (or Mr. Bean) taught me close reading. I followed my reading bug to Centre College in Danville, Kentucky, a small, rigorous liberal arts college where I majored in English and Spanish. At Centre I dove into classes on Shakespeare and Austen, the Romantics, Transcendentalists, and Southern Agrarians, Arthurian legends and Greek philosophy. I also got to spend a semester in Merida, Mexico. I lived the life of the mind and loved every minute.

When it came time to figure out what to do after graduation, I decided to pursue a dream. I figured that no matter what happened later, even if my dream utterly failed, I would feel better knowing that I set out to try for it at the first opportunity, rather than settling early and putting it off. (That might have been a slightly fatalistic way to think of it, but I told myself I was mixing my wildly idealistic optimism with a healthy dose of reality.) I wanted to write, and being the risk-averse, academic-oriented, school-loving 21-year-old I was, I figured the best way to do that was to attend a writing program.

Why did I want to write? Idealizing books had led logically to idealizing their writers, and I thought that the most high and noble thing anyone could do was to create fictional worlds to gift to others, to help them escape whatever they needed to escape and to fill them with joy and make them think, even for just a moment. Ever ambitious, I wanted to try to do the thing that I thought was the greatest and most important thing in the world. I didn’t think much about whether I liked it or was good at it. I wanted to do it because of the value and esteem I held, and mostly still hold, for writers. At that point I actually didn’t have much experience writing fiction. The only short story I wrote in the four years I spent in college was the one I used in my grad school applications. Before that, the only short story I wrote in high school was one that I was assigned to write as a freshman, using a very specific prompt. The one kind of writing I did have plenty experience with was journaling. I have been journaling since I was about twelve. There are boxes of notebooks in my parents’ basement, I think, full of teenage drama. By now, over half of my life has been committed to paper. (Hopefully, this experience will prove useful for blogging.)

I applied to a handful of programs in my senior year at Centre, and was accepted at the University of Cincinnati’s program for a Masters of Arts in English, with a creative thesis and a concentration in fiction. I spent two years there, teaching freshman composition courses, taking classes with intimidatingly intelligent and accomplished professors and classmates, and writing overly serious short stories about shy young women with relationship issues. Also, living in my parents’ house, waiting tables, and traveling to Tennessee about every other month.

At the end of my time at UC, I decided I was moving to Nashville to be closer to David, who was my long-distance boyfriend at the time, and who is now my husband of 17 months. I made some halfhearted applications to Vanderbilt’s MFA and PhD programs, but by then I could pretty much tell that my time in academia was over. I knew I didn’t have the heart for cross-country moves or the academic job hunt, and I doubted I had the intellectual focus or endurance. I figured the bargain I had made while applying to grad schools initially had been fulfilled. I had tried for the dream and failed, and would now be happier in a settled life for having at least tried it. God, that was a bleak way to think of the rest of my life. How about this: more optimistically, I had decided to make a life and a living now, rather than putting off love and gainful employment any longer, and, besides, I could write anytime, and now grad school had given me some of the skills, discipline, and judgment I’d need to make something out of any worthwhile idea I might have later on in life. Whew. That’s better.

So I taught for English composition for freshmen for a year at Belmont University. That was a part-time gig, so I was very, very poor. But it was great to be in a classroom where the students were intellectually engaged and enthusiastic. The low pay created an unsustainable situation for my bank account, though, so I applied to the Nashville Teaching Fellows program, which trains alternatively licensed teachers and places them in urban classrooms. I ended up in McGavock High School, the largest high school in Tennessee, teaching Spanish II and English III. My English classes were all male students from the “STEM Academy,” which in our school meant auto shop. You can imagine how excited those kids were about writing five-paragraph persuasive essays. At the end of the year new teachers were let go in budget cuts, and I ended up at Glencliff High School, the most diverse school in Tennessee. I taught English III and English IV to students in the “Hospitality Academy,” which in our school meant cosmetology and culinary arts. I liked Glencliff because the students were more respectful than McGavock students and the faculty was young and vibrant. But again, at the end of the year, new teachers were let go in budget cuts. Luckily, I had 4 offers, because 97% of my students had passed the TCAP writing exam. I chose the Academy at Old Cockrill, a nontraditional high school which only accepts students ages 17-21 who are making up credits to get their high school diplomas. Classes are small and students are screened through an interview process in order to get in. This is my fourth school in four years, but I want to stay here. It’s challenging, but in a way that I feel I can handle. Because there are so few students, I feel like I’m actually able to create relationships with them. They’re interesting people.

There have been times in my recent history when I stopped reading for fun. Late high school, most of college, all of graduate school, and my first year and a half teaching in public school. It was no fun. Reading is very important to me. But in the past year or two, my reading habit has come back in a big way. I’m reading more than ever, and more widely and systematically than ever. And I have some things to say about what I’ve been reading.

Recent Posts

Americanah

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

2021082381

I read and enjoyed Adichie’s first novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, back before I had a blog, and since then her star has been rising, as Beyoncé quoted her on feminism in her album. I liked Half of a Yellow Sun, but I loved Americanah. I wonder if the difference is that this book is that much better, or if I am the difference. Half of a Yellow Sun is set entirely in Nigeria, but Americanah begins in the US and the narrative travels between the East Coast, Lagos, and London. For some reason the familiarity of the setting allowed me to connect immediately to Ifemelu, the protagonist. I loved learning what she thought about places and situations that are familiar to me, because it taught me to see old things in a new way. Meanwhile, the Nigerian setting of Adichie’s first novel meant that I had to learn about an unfamiliar place and characters both, which might have prevented me from forming such a strong connection. But the question is, why should it? I don’t like the thought of being a reader who can be so disoriented by strange settings that my human ability to relate to a character gets disabled. I don’t want to be limited in that way. I don’t know what to do about this idea except just note it and maybe be extra aware of it in the future.

Americanah is a love story about two young people in Nigeria, Ifemelu and Obinze, who fall in love as teenagers and are separated when they each seek their fortune in the US and the UK. Their long distance relationship ends abruptly, and they are reunited again in Nigeria years later. Most of the action of the book is about the adventures of these two as they try to make a living in the first world, dealing with poverty, immigration issues, fraught friendships and relationships with other Nigerians, African-Americans, white Americans and Brits, and their constant longing for each other.

I read Americanah while the news reports were full of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, and the contrast between reality and the hopes expressed by the book’s characters made me wish I could make every cop, judge, and legislator read this book. I feel like this book does a better job of explaining white privilege than anything else I’ve ever read. The subtleties of the way the white people Ifemelu and Obinze encounter don’t understand what their lives are like, sometimes despite good intentions and efforts, are the perfect thing to educate those who are well-meaning but ignorant. The many, many microaggressions endured by Ifemelu and Obinze are startling, and seeing the world from their perspectives makes the reader understand how wrong the assumptions people make about each other can be. The point is often as simple as this: When people whose experiences are different from yours tells you what their lives are like, listen and believe them. In this way, this book does exactly what fiction should do: it enlarges the sympathies of readers by exposing them to the inner lives of people who aren’t like them.

My one gripe is that this book makes it seem like money just drops in your lap when you write a blog. Ifemelu is able to make a decent living from a blog, without even seeking out sponsors. (Her blog is so amazing, they seek her out.) Overnight, she receives a vast audience of both popular and scholarly readers. She even leverages it into a fellowship at Princeton. Then she shutters her blog and moves, and is able to open a new, equally successful one almost instantly. If monetizing a blog were that simple, I’d have a much larger house.

Best of all, there’s going to be a movie starring Lupita Nyong’o and David Oyelowo!

  1. Mothers Deserve Bodily Autonomy Too 6 Replies
  2. Why Majoring in English Is Awesome 1 Reply
  3. Rebirth Is Awesome, But Having to Die In the First Place is Messed Up 2 Replies
  4. The Courage to Teach 2 Replies
  5. Excavating the Draft Folder 1 Reply
  6. The Inverse of Mansplaining 1 Reply
  7. The Confidence Code 2 Replies
  8. Internet Roundup: Motherhood, Part 5 Leave a reply
  9. In Memory of Elaine Fahrner Leave a reply