Elena Vale Wahl YA Author
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7/22/2024 0 Comments

Medium: A New Home for My Thoughts

This year, I decided I just couldn't keep going without an audience. In May, I posted my first personal essay on Medium, a subscription website that welcomes writing from all people, on all topics. Getting my books published is still my principal goal, but I really enjoy crafting short-form pieces for this online community. As an added bonus, there are no ads and no spammy self-promotions on Medium, and no AI-written pieces, as far as I can tell. Just ideas and reflections from professional and hobbyist writers, and a simple process that democratizes their distribution. 

Time being a limited commodity, it's unlikely I'll blog very much over here. But if you're a Medium member, you can read my memoir of a trip to California in Travel Memoirs, or my thoughts on the intersection of household life and creativity in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself. I don't plan on posting links to every single article, so just find me at medium.com/@elenavalewahl_73956. And please, check out some other fabulous writers making sense of our world on the platform, too. I'm learning something new every day over there. 
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1/15/2024 0 Comments

Camp Earl Wallace

So, writing about your own life always leaves you feeling a little naked. This essay was part of the level:deepsouth online anthology curated by creative writing teacher Foster Dickson. Sadly, the anthology went offline in December of 2023. But if you want a laugh and some 80s nostalgia, take a look. This was originally published in July of 2020. 

Camp Earl Wallace

His name was Mr. Prichard, and I looked forward to his visits so much that my classmates joked I had a crush on him. I was indignant, of course--I didn’t have a crush on some mustachioed guy in a Ranger Rick outfit! It was the 1986–87 school year, and we were in fifth grade. Mr. Prichard, from the Kentucky State Department of Fish and Wildlife, visited our class every week for conservation lessons. I already loved the Great Outdoors, so he was just closing the deal on something I was already sold on. 
A couple of years earlier, I’d been a Pixie at Boy Scouts’ Camp Covered Bridge. and absolutely hated being stuck in that cheesy-ass program for younger siblings of Webelos. I’d tried Girl Scouts and did a couple weeks at Camp Pennyroyal, but quit in fourth grade. If it wasn’t bad enough that my troop turned into a Mean Girl convention, I was sorely disappointed that none of the moms in charge wanted to do the outdoor venturing promoted in my paperback Girl Scout handbook. No, I wanted to be a Boy Scout, dammit! I loved the rustic two-man tents, the promises of long and grueling hikes, the fire ring where cute older boys did slightly off-color skits, like “The Overweight Outlaw,” that would never fly in my son’s troop today. 
So, when Mr. Prichard offered us a week at Camp Earl Wallace, I jumped at the chance. It was all the high-adventure stuff of Scouts without the uniforms, and even came with a Holy Grail: The Outdoorsman Badge. And, man alive, did he pump up that Outdoorsman Badge. In order to get it, you had to earn nine smaller badges in skills as diverse as skeet shooting, first aid, and motorboating. 
That Outdoorsman Badge was the first thing on my mind when I shoved the camp registration in my mom’s face that night. She smiled bemusedly, saying, “I need to talk to your father.” I knew the budget was the big issue, since I was always begging for new enrichment activities. But since this was the only sleep-away camp I’d asked for that summer, she gave me a “yes” by the next day. Somehow, between my dad’s construction-worker paycheck and her assortment of odd jobs, they managed to pay for most of what I wanted. 
On a sultry morning in July, we met the school buses in the parking lot at the Louisville Zoo. A couple of classmates joined me for the week. April, who was smart as a whip and good at everything she tried, had been my friend since first grade. Her dark-blond hair hung in one of those blunt cuts that never go out of style. In contrast, her mother Frieda’s heavy brown mane seemed like a ’70s holdover. Frieda worked as a dietitian in Louisville, but had roots in Eastern Kentucky. I did too, but the only hillbilly family reunion I ever attended was for Frieda’s family, not mine. Tamara, a tall, confident black girl, was new to our downtown magnet school. Louisville was very segregated, and I couldn’t tell you where Tamara lived. But she seemed like someone who was going places in life. I envied her self-assurance, and the way she seemed more comfortable in her pubescent body than I did in mine. 
While April and I were not rich, our families worked hard to instill good manners and an appreciation for education and culture. We didn’t yet know that some of our campmates were from a rougher, tougher side of the city. But we were about to get an education. 
Our cabin was enormous. I honestly think it held at least thirty bunk beds. Our counselor, Jennifer, had an un-bunked bed in the middle, right across from the door. She lounged on it, her permed brown hair hanging to the side, as we dragged in duffel bags and bed rolls. And on the knotty pine wall, I spotted the following lovely poem, penned in Sharpie: 
"One night of pleasure, nine months of pain, three days in the hospital, a baby to name, A girl pulls down her reputation, a boy sticks in his education, and that’s what making love is all about.” 
Well. I already knew where babies came from, but geez. We weren’t even sixth graders yet, so the graffiti made me wonder which cabin-mates were hanging with a fast crowd. 
But there wasn’t much time to reflect on knotty-pine sex ed. We had badges to earn. The camp divided us into smaller groups at badge stations, where we got a warning-laden overview of each outdoor skill, and were then turned loose. Casting a reel was easy, despite being terrified by tales of kids landing fish hooks in eyes and hands. I’d gone fishing with my dad, digging worms out of the garden and putting them in a coffee can, so that was old hat. Next, I fell in love with skeet shooting. The shooting instructor, an old country boy with three days’ stubble, showed me how to line up the fat sights on a shotgun and shatter a clay pigeon. It handled a lot easier than Dad’s pistol, and the pieces splintered with a satisfying crackle. It was like breaking dishes, but with no yelling from Mom. 
Badge sessions were broken up with meals and canteen, when the snack bar was open. Because the State of Kentucky operated the camp, everything came to us at-cost. I could get a Mountain Dew and a Snickers for only a quarter each, when the going rate at Wish’s Drug Store was fifty cents apiece. 
Swimming was another diversion. A chain-link fence surrounded the pool, but the bath house lacked enough stalls for the large groups of girls. I remember changing in an open field, a few girls holding up towels to shield us from the male counselor in the lifeguard chair, who wasn’t looking at us anyway. “We’re all girls” was a rallying cry, and changing clothes in front of same-sex peers was a badge of honor. Plus, showers were the old- school kind: three spigots with no dividers. The water had two temperatures: ice-cold or hot as hell. I remember April, Tamara, and I sticking in one arm or leg at a time, squealing in pain, and frantically turning the knobs. 
As the week wore on, however, a bit of darkness crept in. I could tell some of the girls were talking about me, snickering behind raised hands. I was skinny, awkward, and too eager to be cool. In fourth grade, I’d been separated from April and the other two girls in my friend group, and placed in a fourth-fifth split class with a bunch of kids who were new to our school. Those that weren’t tough and fast fell into step behind the ringleaders. The first semester, a girl named Dara was the bullying target. After Christmas, it was me. It rattled me to such a degree that even the next year, when I rejoined my friends in a fifth-grade-only room, I felt I constantly had to jockey for position, worried that other friendships held with a faster glue. 
In idle moments, I perused the knotty-pine walls of the cabin, reading more naughty graffiti, curious about the bad kids who had penned it. One stuck out at me. “Stacey hates Titty Babies.” I turned to Brandi, a petite girl with the permed bob and teased bangs so many girls wore in ‘87. “Hey, what’s a titty baby?” 
She smirked. “Oh, just somebody who cries all the time.” 
I bit my lip. Clearly, she thought I was one, as did her friends, who giggled in the background. 
At home, I was the only girl, and I could cry myself to sleep in my room, without anyone knowing. But at school, I often got upset when I was overlooked or criticized, and once the tear spigot opened up, it was impossible to turn off. My crying jags were first identified as a problem in second grade. I remember a meeting after school, where my teacher confidently announced to my mother and me, “We’re gonna have this under control by Christmas break.” 
But three years on, it wasn’t under control. It was getting worse. And I’d developed perfectionistic tendencies that exacerbated my emotions. Outdoors camp sounds like a great place for a kid to de-stress. But my self-imposed pressure to excel at everything was fanning my anxiety into flames. 
As I recall, Camp Earl Wallace gave us just two sessions to master each outdoors skill before taking our badge evaluation. Often, the counselor in charge would give us a pointed warning of what not to do right before the eval. I still remember the boating instructor saying, “Whatever you do, do not put the boat in reverse when you start the engine, ’cause you’ll run the boat into the dock.” 
And what did Elena do? Ran the boat right into that dock, with a solid “THWACK” against the rubber bumper. Laughter from my peers. Immediate disqualification. And there went my Outdoorsman Badge! But then again, I lacked the arm muscles to pull the bow back for Archery, and couldn’t do the crawl stroke well enough for Swimming. 
April, of course, got the Outdoorsman. And if I remember correctly, Tamara got hers, too. And this budding perfectionist was so, so salty about being bested by them. 
But there was another prize waiting for me at Camp Earl Wallace. At dinner, the camp director announced a Talent Show. Anyone could enter, and it would be the last night of camp. The girls started to buzz around the bunk beds, asking each other, “What are you gonna do?” 
I knew I wouldn’t get tapped for a group routine—after all, they didn’t like me enough. But maybe, just maybe, I could perform alone. I’d never sung a full solo before, just a one-liner in a church musical. And even that, I’d gotten by violating a social norm (which was kind of becoming my thing). “Elena,” the youth choir director said when he cornered me. “You are singing way too loud. I mean, your voice sticks out above everyone else’s. If you want a solo, we can do that for you, but you gotta back off a little.” 
He said I was loud. He didn’t say anything about being good. And at my school, April and her best friend Julie were the ones who wrote songs and performed them in front of the class. Everyone saw them as singers, not me. 
But could I change that? And what song was good enough? I looked no further than Heart’s Anne and Nancy Wilson, the big-haired queens of girl-power rock. Their over- emotive ballads were just as angsty as I was. And which song? “Alone.” You see, I was already boy-crazy, and the thought of cornering one of my many crushes, confiding my true feelings, and maybe, just maybe having them return my affections was a page out of my fantasy book. 
So for two whole days, I snuck off to the woods around Camp Earl Wallace, wailing, “Till now, I always got by on my own, I never really cared until I met you . . . ” The Show became my new Holy Grail. If I couldn’t be an Outdoorsman, maybe I could be a performer. 
On the last afternoon of practice, I ran into a snag. My mom and dad had sent a few dollars with me for the canteen snacks, dollars I watched like a hawk. Nicole, a heavy girl with long, brown hair, had bummed a quarter off me at canteen a couple days before. She was sitting on the front porch of the cabin when I spotted her. 
“Hi, Nicole, can you pay me back the quarter I loaned you?” 
“I ain’t payin’ you back. You’re the one who gave me the quarter.” 
“But you’re supposed to pay me back!” 
“So what? It’s just a stupid-ass quarter! What’re you gonna do, sue me?!” 
Foolishly, I tried to get some other girls to take my side on the matter. They either ignored me or laughed. “But it’s not fair!” I wailed. In my heart of hearts, I knew I was being ridiculous, but I couldn't get over my indignation at how rude she was. It wasn’t just that I was almost out of canteen money. I was tired of people being snotty and getting away with it. Counselor Jennifer was nowhere to be found, so I stalked my tear- streaked face up to the nurse’s station. 
Miss Connie, a country sort of woman, listened to my whiny diatribe about the quarter while she bandaged up somebody’s skinned knee. After a couple minutes, she’d had enough. 
“Ilonna,” she said, mispronouncing my Spanish name like so many Kentuckians did, “it’s just a quarter. For crying out loud!” 
“But she was mean and it’s not fair!” 
“Well, whoever said life was always gonna be fair?! I got kids in here who need medical attention and you’re cryin’ about a quarter. Here, I’ll give you one.” With a sigh, she fished her purse out of the desk drawer. 
As I recall, I accepted the coin she pushed into my hand with a ‘thank you,’ but it really wasn’t what I wanted. I’d lost the battle, and could only hope everybody forgot about me crying. 
Some kids would’ve backed out of the Talent Show at this point. I mean, hadn’t I embarrassed myself enough? But my emotional eruption only made me more determined to go through with my solo. I had something to prove. I didn’t want that brat to feel like she’d gotten me down. And I wanted to be remembered as the girl who could sing, not as the Titty Baby. 
That night, I was a nervous noodle, wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts, pacing around. The Talent Show was quite informal. There was no real stage, just a sea of hyper girls gathered around the flagpole. Performers gave their name and song title to the MC, and waited to go to the middle of the crowd. 
I remember a girl named Jamie who went before me. The crowd roared their approval as her name was announced. Petite, her hair perfectly poufed, she slouched in her acid- washed jeans as if to say she was too cool for her mama’s warnings about posture. The floodlights reflected off of her Ray-Bans as she brandished a small boombox. She pressed play and lip-synced Bon Jovi’s “Never Say Goodbye.” 
Her performance, and the crowd’s reaction, just increased my nerves. I wished I had brought a tape. I wondered if the crowd would be as excited to hear from me, or if they’d boo because I was a titty baby. But then again, I rationalized, Jamie didn’t even sing. Maybe people would be impressed with me. 
And then, they called my name. And it was just like standing in line for The Beast at the Kings Island amusement park. There was no backing out. I was gettin’ on this coaster. 
I cleared my throat and swallowed, blocking out the giggles and whispers. 
“I hear the ticking of the clock, I'm lying here, the room's pitch dark... I wonder where you are tonight, No answer on the telephone... And the night goes by so very slow... Oh I hope that it won't end though... Alone...” 
Gulping another breath, I wailed the next section: “'Til now I always got by on my own I never really cared until I met you And now it chills me to the bone How do I get you alone? 
How do I get you alone?” 
My voice cracked on the high pitch of the melisma before the final chorus, but I kept on belting until the final “Alone!” rang out across the crowd. 
And as the MC congratulated me, I took my place back in the crowd, wiping away tears. Not because they bullied me or because anything wasn’t “fair.” I was crying happy tears because I was proud of myself. I sang the whole song. Was it perfect? No. But did I do something not everyone had the cajones to do? Hell yeah. 
Just a couple days after Camp Earl Wallace, my mom put my brothers and I on our first airplane flight for a trip to Disney World. My dad didn’t attend. That fall, my parents split up. At thirteen, I was diagnosed with clinical depression, which explained my fits of anger and crying jags. However, I didn’t learn to manage my symptoms well until I was in my 30s. 
I kept singing through the tears. Eleven years after that camp talent show, I performed in a vocal recital for my music degree. There were arias in French, German, and Portuguese, but no hits from Heart. Today, I teach music for a living, and I have a YouTube channel with a few solo tracks. Earlier this week, I bumped into Mr. Prichard on the Facebook page for Camp Earl Wallace. I still love the Great Outdoors, so much that I became one of only two female leaders in my son’s Boy Scout troop. In effect, I got my childhood wish for scouting adventures. But not my wish to chaperone camp this summer. COVID-19 shut it all down. But I still live by my own version of the Girl Scout Law: “On my honor, I will try . . . to not let my voice crack on the high notes, and not let the Mean Girls get me down . . . and not run my motorboat into that gol’dang dock!!!” 




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6/24/2022 0 Comments

High Tides: From Liesel to Barbara and Points Beyond

While I am still actively working to sell EAGLE OR DIE and ROCK UNSTEADY, I’m also knee-deep in a new project. Last night, I finished the first draft of the first section, “Liesel,” and have started on “Barbara.” I’m not ready to give many details, but this project will involve recipes, poetry, and text messages. I’m coloring outside the lines a bit. It’s what I need to do to grow. Credit to Dr. Tom Romano, my writing professor at Miami University of Ohio, for planting that seed. 

Writing’s a bit like a bay in the ocean. The water that flows in is what we transform into new work; the water flowing out is a story we’ve already completed, looking for its home in the book world’s wider seas. A writer needs this movement to continue their development. I love water metaphors—perhaps because my father was a sailor, or maybe because water is always moving. And, we cannot know what lies under the surface until we dive in. 

Speaking of water, I have an adventure planned for next month: a trip to the BSA’s Florida Sea Base. I will learn how to sail in the Coral Sea, fulfilling a bucket list wish from my childhood. It’s the first high-adventure trip I’ve done as a Scout volunteer. I’m a little nervous, especially since meningitis and a recent ankle injury have compromised my balance. But still, ready for risk. 

What risks are you taking this summer, either in the wide sea of life or the busy inlet of creative expression?

If you’d like to see pictures of my adventures, or short musings on the artistic process, follow me on Instagram and Twitter @elenavalewahl. 

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9/26/2021 0 Comments

Camp Vibes. 1995. Eagle or Die.

PictureWith my son, before his growth spurt.


Are you ready for something completely different?
​​

I’m Elena, and I am a FEMALE Boy Scout leader. Read that again. And while “stories about the Boy Scouts” may not be on anyone’s list of trending topics in YA, my 1990s historical YA, EAGLE OR DIE, brings together the past and present of this cultural touchstone we call Scouting. Plus, it’s a heaping bowl of nostalgia for anyone who remembers the 90s...or wishes they did. 

My main character, Dom D'Onofrio, is a single-leg amputee who also has a less-apparent disability. What does he want? The coveted Eagle Scout award. And what else? A girlfriend. But there's a couple things in his way. The summer's getting sticky, and it's more than just the Virginia heat...


Here’s a mood board I made on Pinterest: pin.it/6GvQpi2
​


And here's a few of the cultural touchstones I tossed in:

-Green Day       -Carman     -NAFTA    -cargo shorts and Tevas      -cigarettes    -WalMart runs    -cheese fries
   -the very first digital cameras and cell phones      -email, and people who had no idea how to use it     
​ -prepaid phone cards       -Razzles candy      -camo-wearing good ol’ boys   -well-heeled D.C. urbanites
   -blade prosthetics      -Kate Spade bags      

        ….and even (drum roll please) a MIXTAPE FOR JESUS!

Stay tuned to Twitter (@elenavalewahl) for more details!




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6/16/2021 2 Comments

A Trip West...And the Power of Waiting

Picture
My oldest son and I at a wedding (right), March 2010.
PictureMe at Malibu, June 2021 (my son, now a teen, is camera shy).

​It’s 2010, in a small ranch house outside Cincinnati. The living-room carpet is well-worn and strewn with toys. A tall four-year-old with dark button eyes points at the TV. But he doesn’t want any of the four network channels; he’s already a hard-core train kid. “Momma...I wanna watch Coast Starlight.” The mother pops in the DVD, and 1990s footage unfurls a tale of an Amtrak train that runs from Los Angeles to Seattle, with all the ocean, mountains, and picturesque towns in between. 

“Mom, can we go on the Coast Starlight train?”

The mother’s throat tightens. She can’t tell her child that she has tens of thousands of dollars in student-loan and credit card debt, so there’s no money for a train trip, especially one that involves hotels and plane tickets. Every grocery dollar is scrutinized, and even visits to the children’s museum have to be rationed for the gas money. Seattle is where a beloved cousin lived, but she’d never been able to visit her there. California is a place she’d read about in books, with an ocean she’d never seen. 

“Maybe someday,” she says, a little too brightly. But in that moment, ‘someday’ is entirely too far down the tracks.

The years rolled on for that young mom, the little boy, and his brother, two years younger. She found a teaching job with Ohio’s third-largest school district, but money was still tight. She divorced, she remarried, she started graduate school, and she and her new husband continued to plug away at those credit-card bills. Most of the travel was to visit the young mom’s mother and stepfather in Florida. Once, they met on the North Carolina coast.The young mom talked about planning trips jointly with her mom and stepdad, but no definite plans were made until Covid shut everything down. The stepfather passed away, and the young mom grieved with her mother. 

Yet 2021 brought a redeeming ray of sunshine. Reduced airfares. A vaccine to make travel more safe. Two Sunday nights ago, that young mom got her someday. And a few days after their flight to LA, that dark-eyed boy, now fifteen, still a railfan, sat next to his grandmother and gazed out the window for three whole states’ worth of scenery. A trip eleven years in the making. 

I am that young mom, though less young now, blinking back tears, struggling to find the words for my gratitude. 

Some things are worth waiting for. 

In most of the Western world, travel is a privilege, saved for and planned. I am keenly aware of my privilege, reminding my sons that most Americans wouldn’t get to take a trip like this. Some live a lifestyle of travel, dictated largely by profession. From what I’ve heard, the vagabond path has its good and bad points. For the refugee, “travel” is what happens when a cartel threatens you, and you must flee in the middle of the night. Travel means thirst, walking by foot, scarce food, and armed guards. Whether traveling is a choice or a necessity, the traveler misses those whom they’ve left behind, whether through geography or through death. 

For years, I wanted this trip, unsure of when it would happen. And I’m so grateful it did. I’m also grateful the trip was taken under circumstances that made it fiscally responsible (rather than being impulsively charged on a credit card). 

There’s something else I’ve waited for for many years, and I am hopeful that when it finally arrives, I will have the same sense of fulfillment that I have reflecting on this trip. I wrote my first screenplays in 2007 and 2008, falling in love with the creative process, but also hooked by the glamour of the movies. I worked to make connections in the filmmaking world, but hit wall after wall, since I didn’t walk in those circles of influence. Writing went on the back burner while I worked to re-establish my education career, and while I struggled to recover from a life-threatening illness, but my graduate studies in literacy lit a fire in me for children’s fiction. I completed my first novel for young people in 2016, my second in 2019, and am working on a third. Traditional publishing with agent representation is the path I have chosen, as opposed to self-publishing. This path requires submissions to agents and entry into pitch contests. 

As of this writing, I am unsigned, and my books remain unpublished. I’ve heard that persistence—keep writing new work, keep submitting—is the key to success. Yet I question, “How much longer?” It’s not just the brass ring of “being a published author.” It’s the reason I am writing. I write stories about working-class white kids, particularly those from the Appalachian region (for those who are not aware, it’s not recommended that white authors pen stories with minority main characters, so that cultures are most accurately depicted and POC authors get much-needed representation). I write these stories because this demographic group is underrepresented in children’s literature. I write these stories because I lived that life. And what’s more, the book I have queried for the last three years is about the impact of addiction on a family, something I’ve experienced first-hand. I am persuaded that someone needs to read this story. The trick is finding someone in the industry who believes in this story the way I do. 

So many people want to see their books in print. But it takes more than want to make it happen. As I resume writing my WIP (work in progress)  and continue to seek a home for Rock Unsteady, I stare down these figurative train-tracks, the same way I stared down actual tracks last week. How far down is the realization of my goal? 

It’s unknowable. But I haven’t lost faith yet. And I’ll never lose my gratitude for those cheering me on.

If you’d like to see photos of our trip, check out my Instagram: @elenavalewahl. 


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12/29/2020 0 Comments

level:deepsouth

Are you from the American South? Are you proud of it? Embarrassed by it? Maybe a little of both?  Or are you a non-Southerner who has some preconceived notions of what the South is like? Regardless of your answer, I encourage you to check out the level:deepsouth anthology. And I don’t just say that just because I’m a contributor. 

This level:deepsouth anthology covers a time and place you may not hear too much about...the southeastern U.S. during the seventies, eighties and nineties, and reflections since that time, as seen through the eyes of Gen-Xers. Uh, Generation X? You know, the people who get left out of so many discussions of generational trends. Younger than Boomers, older than Millennials, born between 1965 and 1980. 

The South at this time was a place where American pop culture collided with Bible belt beliefs, desegregation, and all the cultural trappings that made life in, say, Knoxville, Tennessee a little different from life in Manhattan or Lansing or Oakland. In these stories, you’ll find album covers, concerts, and promises made in church basements. It’s a close-up on the last little bit of life before cell phones and the internet flipped human engagement on its head. 

Curious yet?

Here’s a couple of my favorite gems. “Bitter Melon Soup” by Rob Linne describes a white teen’s friendship with a Vietnamese refugee family in haunting prose. “Dinner on the Grounds” by Luisa Kay Reyes describes how a college student with roots in Alabama and Latin America shared Southern traditions with her campus friends. Ben Beard’s “Southern Christian Punk and Other Unicorns” documents a push-pull between the cultures of church youth group and punk rock. And the latest I’ve unwrapped is a gorgeous tone poem on the death of a hippie coffee shop: “At the Epitome” by William Nesbitt.

Check them out. They’re worth your time. 

And if you want to laugh at a neurotic preteen, you can check out my memoir of life as a young outdoorswoman, “Camp Earl Wallace.”

The level:deepsouth anthology is edited by an Alabama-based author and creative writing teacher, Foster Dickson. He’s still taking submissions, and there’s room for essays, short form pieces, book and album reviews, photos, and more. To learn more: https://leveldeepsouth.com/submissions/

Thank you, dear reader, for letting me share my passion for this project. And let me leave you with a meme that one of my age-mates posted recently. “The first rule of Gen X is, ‘Don’t talk about Gen X.’” 

Yeah, the anthology broke that rule. But it’s not the first rule or the last rule you’ll see us break. 

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11/7/2020 0 Comments

To Those Who Voted for Trump

Don’t worry, there will be no name-calling. Demographically, I’m much more likely to have been one of you...a white, Christian, married Kentucky girl who attended a religious college and volunteers with the Boy Scouts. In terms of my lifestyle and my respect for authority, I am more conservative than most. So some of you were surprised, or even upset, to find out I wasn’t a Trump fan. 

There will be no gloating from me. You already know that the candidate I voted for won, and that while recounts and challenges continue, they’re not likely to result in a different president. Some of you are very upset. I’ve seen a few social media posts about a dead America. I am not here to belittle your pain. Four years ago, I was the one feeling like the America I knew was slipping away. But what is this country you are so afraid of losing?

Are you now willing to listen to the other side? Because I have listened to yours. I spend a lot of time following the news and reading analysis from both sides of the aisle, and I know many people who said they objected to Trump’s behavior but had to vote for him based on policy issues. Understanding that there’s diversity of thought, including among Trump supporters, here are some common themes: the economy, jobs, immigration, healthcare, law enforcement, guns, abortion, and the culture wars. 

It’s not that these things don’t matter to me. It’s that we disagree on the best way to handle them. Maybe if we took a look at some of these differences, we’d find more common ground and a less divided path forward.

The economy. Yes, I want the economy to do well. But how do we measure that? If we only use the stock market, we’re ignoring employment numbers, money in savings, and a whole lot of other financial indicators. When our lowest-paid workers are coming to work sick because they have no paid time off, or families can’t find affordable housing, that affects everyone (hello...Covid). 

Jobs. You said you voted for Trump because he’d bring back jobs. But I teach at a public school. If Betsy DeVos succeeded in privatizing education, and the new principals decided a music teacher wasn’t a priority, my job would be first on the chopping block. So, do you understand how a vote for a party that supports public education was in my family’s interest? 

Immigration. With the exception of our Native Americans, we’re all immigrants. You said we needed a wall to keep people out. Why, when every immigrant I know came here to work, not live off the dole? I have no issue with criminals being deported, but you say you’re upset because they came here without papers. That’s because our immigration system needs reform. Asylum is being denied and legal fees to have your case heard run into the tens of thousands. What if it were you, or someone close to you? Would you feel differently? Who deserves a chance to become an American? 

Healthcare. I’m sure you want good healthcare as much as I do. But I think everyone should have it, and I’m especially concerned about those too rich for Medicare but too poor to foot enormous bills. This one is personal. I racked up about $40,000 when I contracted bacterial meningitis, but my school-board insurance policy covered almost everything. I’d honestly like the same for you, and for all of our neighbors. 

Law enforcement. I support law enforcement. I don’t want to live in a society without it. I just don’t want cops to overuse force, resulting in the death of people who don’t deserve to die. And I, like most Democratic voters, do not condone rioting and looting. But the implication that I condoned it because I supported the right to peacefully protest is divisive, and I’d really like to lay it to rest.

Guns. They’re such a part of my Southern culture that honestly, I’m pleading the Fifth on whether I own one or not. I understand self-defense and the Second Amendment. But guns are not the solution for every problem, and their easy availability makes our murder rate endemic. How many bullets do you need? Do you know how much money the NRA has spent trying to convince you that the Democrats will take all your guns? If you know that wouldn’t happen, why do you vote like gun loss is society’s biggest threat?

Abortion. I don’t like it. The vast majority of people don’t. There aren’t any easy answers to this one. But when there’s a clear link between a declining abortion rate and programs to help new mothers, I believe that voting for a Republican is not the only way to "vote pro-life."

And last, but certainly not least, the culture wars. Whose culture? Is homogeneity what makes us American? Or is it a shared belief in freedom and the common good? You already know I teach all the kids who walk through my classroom door, regardless of their national origin or skin color. And, you know my co-workers have sexual orientations or religious beliefs that are different from mine. But the America I love is for all of us. So that’s why I could not get on board with the culture war that Trump did not start but fanned into flame. And speaking of culture wars, I am dismayed by the use of ‘socialism’ as a scare tactic to sway us not only from certain leaders, but from government programs that could help so many of us. I don’t want Venezuela. I want that land of opportunity we used to hear about. 

You said you didn’t care what Trump said. So what if his speech was ‘rough’ or ‘coarse’? But does his speech reflect an America for all of us? If you can’t say yes, you probably understand why I, and many other people, could not give him our vote. 

You may not agree. You may still be sorely disappointed in our country. But have you tried seeing the Trump phenomenon through another set of eyes?

Sincerely, your Democrat friend.

0 Comments

7/6/2020 0 Comments

Why I'm One Bad Mother...and a Scary Mommy

Scary Mommy
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Long, long, ago, in a galaxy of sippy cups far away, a youth group friend told me about Scary Mommy. (Oh yes, former youth group members like snark as much as anybody.). Perhaps I've found my sweet spot, because despite multiple rejections from Guideposts, I just published my first piece on Scary Mommy! It's about my experiences as a female Boy Scout volunteer. And yes, that's me in the header photo, holding a falcon. I mean, who wouldn't want to hang out with a falcon?!

Here's a link: Scary Mommy Scout piece

So, this quasi-quarantine summer is turning out to be a productive season. My YA historical is well under way. My kiddos still have a few activities to go to. I've read a few good books. And, my hair color is now RED...a better match for my firebrand personality.

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0 Comments

3/22/2020 1 Comment

COVIDmuse

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A rare toilet paper sighting, early on a Sunday morning, during the COVID-19 outbreak.
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In this corona-virus shutdown, I find myself in a place of unrestful comfort. No one at our house is visibly sick. We’ve got soap, toilet paper, WiFi, and a well-stocked fridge. Gratitude is my outer garment, but anxiety lies just beneath. Unlike a lot of my neighbors, I have survived a life-threatening disease. I’ve spent a few days in a coma and on a ventilator. My family was terrified, and I couldn’t see my kids for more than a week. I remember the sense of invincibility that I had before I got sick, the effervescent gratitude of survival, and how much my life has changed since that time. And I wonder if those that do contract COVID-19, and survive, will struggle with aftermath symptoms like I did, and if so, which ones. Hearing loss? Motor control? Memory? Or will it even be hard to breathe?

It’s been interesting to see other people develop the OCD/germophobe tendencies I’ve lived with for years. A video meme featured a young guy washing his hands repeatedly after accidental touches to the faucet handle and his face. I get this. I tend to open doors with my knuckles or a sleeve, even when there’s not a pandemic. Usually, I’m able to turn off the voices in my head, especially when I’m teaching music, though I cringe if a child returns from the restroom and announces, “I forgot to wash my hands!” I turn off the voices that screech “That’s dirty!” because I love people and don’t want to alienate them. And now that the Great State of Ohio has moved all schools to digital instruction, I only have to worry about the cleanliness of my own home. 

So here I am, indirectly benefiting from this crisis by being home from work, while also haunted by those for whom staying home is not a privilege. An ER nurse at one of our local hospitals has contracted COVID-19. I’m terrified to hear about personnel without gowns and masks. I pray for them. I pray for their families. And I pray for my students, for whom school is a bright spot they’re missing out on. 

It’s a sober time. 

A couple of friends decided to rent a cabin to get away from the stress. I declined to join them (though that's not a slam on them, 'cause I love them to pieces). I have more peace at home right now. I have more time with my immediate family. Work on my writing has replaced the trip to see my mother in Florida, who happens to be one of the immune-compromised folks we are all working so hard to protect. A live-streamed service replaces our weekly time volunteering at church. 

And as I write this, I’m watching the news conference of Governor Mike DeWine and Dr. Amy Acton, two figures who have put politics aside to slow the pandemic. Our state’s on a stay-at-home order until April 6. 

I am eager for life to return to normal, but not so eager as to risk the spread. And I’m deeply grateful for those on the front lines: the healthcare workers, the police, the truck drivers, those making and selling our food. And yet, there’s a part of me wishing I could do more. 

I leave you with one anecdote on how this epidemic affects our youngest ones. On Friday, I took some supplies to the food-and-lesson pickup at the school where I teach. And I saw one of my first graders. His face lit up as he saw me through an open doorway, and as he ran toward me, I said “Long-distance hug!”

He must not have understood, because he buried his face in my tummy and wrapped his arms around me. And I hugged him back. And as I did, I thought about what Jesus said about following the spirit of the law instead of the letter. 

Exercise caution. Follow the guidelines. But hold people as close as you can.


1 Comment

9/2/2019 2 Comments

ROCK UNSTEADY


Imagine you’re thirteen, and you’ve been best friends with your same-age stepsibling since you were tots. Matter of fact, everyone calls you “the twins.” But in just one short year, you go from this...


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...to THIS...


​...because your dad finally made the big time with his heavy metal band (which is something along the lines of Korn):


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​“Hey, y’all, I’m Haven, and animals are my jam!”

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​“Sup, I’m Marlin, and I run with the popular kids. I can’t wait to get on the select baseball team.”
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But while Dad’s out doing this...


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​Mom is doing THIS...


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And suddenly, no one’s rocking steady.

ROCK UNSTEADY is set in modern-day Kentucky, where suburban McMansions are quickly overtaking the tobacco fields. The primary conflict’s between Haven and Marlin. They’re insanely jealous of each other, and what one wants is at odds with what the other needs. I drew upon my experiences as a rural Kentucky teen, a 4-H mom, and a loved one of an addict to craft this suspenseful modern yarn, told from Haven and Marlin’s points of view.





2 Comments
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    Elena Vale Wahl

    I blogged much more when my kids were small. Hoping my quality supplants quantity.

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