Original Creative Piece: Sometimes

Sometimes, there are so many words inside of my head, I feel like I might explode. I have poems, and stories, vivid memories and hazy images, all scrambling to escape.

Sometimes, those words hit my soul.

Ocean.

Water.

Waves.

Salt.

Floating. Adrift. Endless.

Sometimes, I write about the sea

Sometimes, I don't know how to say what I want to say.

Honest? Hurtful? Unfiltered? Blunt? Brutal?

Softened? Eased? Semi-true?

I don't know where my inspiration comes from. My Rockstar Neurosurgeon has been inside my head. Has he met my Muse? Does he know where the ideas hide? Where they develop? How they are born?

Sometimes, the words burn inside of me. An inferno of rage. A conflagration consuming me from deep inside.

Hot.

Hateful.

Unkind.

The worst parts, burned beyond ugliness. Too charred to share.

Sometimes, the thoughts fly out of my head. Too jumbled, bursting forth like starlings flying together and apart as if of one mind. Flying is better than falling. Few things are better than flying. Flying is freedom. Falling is inevitable. Falling is fate, for all of us, eventually.

Sometimes, the words are the most important thing in the world.

Sometimes, they are just words.

Spoon Theory and being an Introvert

The other day, I forgot for just a little while, to keep track of my spoons. If you are not familiar with Spoon Theory, I strongly recommend you click through the link here. It's not very long, and it may explain quite a lot if you know or are close with someone dealing with chronic illness. Go ahead. Click the link and do some reading.

Okay, ready? Let's talk about spoons.

Before all of this, I was aware of spoon theory, but I was oh so lucky. I didn't actually have to keep that close a count on my spoons.

It's really quite incredible how brain surgery, radiation, chemo, and all the rest steal your spoons before you even know what happened. This damn spoon thief -- just wow.

Some mornings, I wake up, slowly, sluggishly, and I can just tell that putting my feet on the floor is going to cost me. And some mornings, I wake up feeling full of inspiration and energy, feeling like maybe the spoon thief forgot to get me while I was asleep, and I start with three extra spoons for no particular reason. When I wake up with those glorious extra spoons, I have to take advantage when I can, because who even knows when that will happen again.

So, the thing is, cancer fatigue is a real pain, because side effects of cancer, brain surgery, chemo, radiation, and all those pills also make it hard to predict just how quickly those spoons will slip through my fingers.

The simple act of writing my blog is absolutely exhausting and costs me more spoons than I care to admit. Writing a blog post might take me 30 minutes or it might take me three hours, and I have no way of knowing before I get started. By the time I'm finished and ready to post, I need to eat a snack, grab something to drink, and take a nap. Spoon count doesn't matter at that point: it takes brain power that is not in full supply to get these words out of my head. I love to write. I love to write so much, but at this point, writing feels like an athletic activity, most of the time. I am just always so tired.

While we are here, let's talk about being an introvert. There are conflicting theories out there about whether introversion or extroversion are really a real thing, but let me explain. Introversion does not mean being shy. It does not mean being quiet. Simply, introversion means that it costs energy (spoons) to be around certain people in social situations (parties I guess, what else did we do before quarantine?). For extroverts, they feel recharged being around people, so they gain spoons by being social around most people. For me, most social situations cost me spoons. That doesn't mean that I don't like and/or want to spend time with my friends, but I have to watch that spoon count.

So the other day, I talked with a couple of good friends on Zoom. After that I got to Skype with my oldest friend. By the time I finished talking with these friends about whom I care very deeply I was so tired and done that I proceeded to take a four hour nap. I only woke up because I was hungry, The Husband very kindly cooked a delicious dinner for me, but I still basically wasn't worth a damn the rest of the day. That was the reminder I didn't know I know I needed that it's not just about the spoons, but also keeping track of over-planning stuff for myself. I always feel so guilty for not keeping up with people, or having to cancel or bow out of my online social life, but I am just always so tired. So yeah, if you call or text me at any time of day or night, there is a solid 95% chance I'm just asleep. Gotta hoard those spoons.

One Year cancerversary

Well, one year ago today, I was diagnosed with brain cancer. I'm still here, still mostly me, minus a few bones and plus a few extra scars. When it comes down to it, I don't want to celebrate this as some special milestone; I just want to say that inertia keeps me going, and as long as I can keep on going, I will keep on going.

As a young kid, I remember taking a special test, and in the 3rd grade I was moved to the Gifted class. I was proud of being a smart kid. I loved to read (still do) but for me, for most of my life, my proudest asset was my intelligence, my logic, my rationality. Life played a dirty trick on me by letting this happen, and it just wasn't fair. I felt betrayed, lost.

I was afraid.

But it wasn't just the cancer, I was afraid of losing myself. I begged my Rockstar Neurosurgeon not to make me stupid. I was so scared to wake up from actual literal brain surgery having forgotten how to read, how to spell, how to write.

Would I even know if that part of me was erased? Who would I be without that part of me? My Rockstar Neurosurgeon is a true Rockstar, and I came out of that first (of multiple) brain surgeries with very little in the way of deficits. My reading speed slowed down, but otherwise I was okay.

Since then I've had radiation beamed directly into my head, three different kinds of chemo, three brain surgeries, countless MRIs, finding more tumors, and the never-ending isolation of Covid quarantine. But after a year of all of this, I am doing okay. As okay as I can be with cancer.

Yeah, I have cancer, but I'm not helpless, and I'm not dying yet. I spent a lot of time thinking about my inevitable mortality, staring at that bus. It took me a long time, but I am finally able to stop thinking about it, at least for days or even weeks at a time. It's not about dying of cancer any more. For now, I choose to mark this milestone by living with cancer. No cakes or parties because I don't want your germs, but I won't say no to a few more penpals, and if you would like to donate I still have that Gofundme, Amazon wish list, Cashapp, stuff like that. Do you know how much it costs to keep up with prescription copays?It's a LOT

My family and friends who have been here for me, thank you for all of your love and support. It means more to us than you could possibly know.

Ok, ready to hear the original poem of the day?

Things they don’t tell you about cancer:

It is lonely

It is frightening

Everything hurts

The chemo isn’t even the worst part

Well, sometimes, it is

There is so much to keep track of

Like a full-time job

Flu season is scary

Covid quarantine is pants-shittingly terrifying

You can’t hug every friend or family member you see

No matter how much a good strong embrace would help

It is too dangerous

Besides

Your skin will hurt

Your stomach will hurt

Even hugging your dog will hurt

there is so much fear

Is this a normal cancer symptom?

When should I worry?

When should I just take a valium and go to sleep?

How to turn off the loop in my head?

Cancer cancer cancer

Cancer cancer cancer

Eat dream and breathe cancer

It erases who you were

A professional

A friend

A sister

A daughter

Instead you become the diagnosis

Cancer cancer cancer

A reader

A writer

A mentor

Cancer cancer cancer

Consuming you

Destroying you

Shredding you to bits

Tearing away all of your softest spots

Leaving you with only the hardest pieces

Cancer cancer cancer

It leaves you with nothing but stone

They don’t tell you that you will have to be stronger than you have ever been

That the scars will harden you

Preparing you for the fight of your literal life

It will be quiet

Whispers and murmured euphemisms

So many prayers and thoughts

Overflowing good vibes and warm fuzzies

They won’t tell you any of these things.

-         11 June 2020

That's my stuff for today. I hope you have a good day. Love you guys!

Inspired and motivated and random thoughts

Today I feel inspired and motivated. I've been reading and resting and hanging out with my niece who came to visit. But today, I woke up ready to write a real chapter of my book. No time to waste, need to get these words out of my head and onto the screen.

I have joined a few communities recently, including the writing group which I know I have mentioned. I've made some really amazing cancer friends (online, of course *thanks quarantine*). I've been learning from my co-conspirators in this terrible club we are all members of, and I've been able to take better care of my mental health this way. Before, I thought I was too fragile and too afraid to have cancer friends. But even with all the different stages and types of cancer, we are all sharing valuable experiences, even if they are often incredibly unpleasant.

Let's talk mental health. From the beginning, I knew I would need help. If you have a cold, you take Dayquil, right? There's no shame in taking some medicine to stop the flow of boogies and constant sneezing. You might even pop some extra vitamin C to hopefully prevent the flu or some sinus infection from taking you out. I know enough about myself to know that I am predisposed to depression and anxiety, so from the beginning, I knew I would need chemical help to make it through all of this. I'm not ashamed to say that I am on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills and even birth control pills to keep my brain chemistry and hormones evened out and relatively balanced.

So when this all started, I got into regular talk therapy and also tried music therapy. Neither of these was quite the right fit for me. That doesn't mean that therapy doesn't work, but for me, I needed something different.

The wild thing that I truly never expected was my cancer writing group to be more beneficial for my overall mental health and stability than so-called real therapy would be. I've always been a reader, and I've always written when my feelings overwhelmed me; somehow I never realized the connection between the emotion and the release/acceptance of how I was feeling.

Anyway, if you just wanted a regular cancer update: still have it, chemo sucks, blah. Good times.

Fave Quote of the Book: Small Victories by Anne Lamott (Part 2)

From Amazon:

So, where did we leave off? (LINK)

Was I saying that I came from an unhappy family?

What does it mean to have a happy family?

Who knew that I'd be exploring such difficult questions in a silly little blog that is supposed to be about non-cancer. Yet, here we are.

My family is special. I remember a childhood of laughter, silliness, bad jokes, talking lobsters, and spontaneous trips to unexpected locales.

I also remember a childhood with tears, fear, hurt and misunderstanding, and being misunderstood. As a shy introvert from an exceptionally loud family of extroverts, I spent too much time with my own thoughts, wishing I fit in better. I had feelings I didn't understand, couldn't put words to, and as an early reader who read "at the college level" by the time I was 11, it was unusual to be unable to find the words I needed.

We fought (and still fight). We cried (and still cry). We try to understand each other, even though it often feels like we all came from different planets. Are all families like that? I honestly don't know.

We had love, but we also had an unfair share of unhappiness. Well, I call it unfair, but I don't know if that is true either.

We have hard conversations, hard feelings, and hard hearts, and all the wishing in the world can't undo some of the terrible things we've done, or unsay the terrible things we've said. Lamott says,

"Forgiving people doesn’t necessarily mean you want to meet them for lunch. It means you try to undo the Velcro hook. Lewis Smedes said it best: “To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.” (Lamott 117).

As family, we should always be prepared to forgive, because we are family, right? Even the Bible says we should turn the other cheek, so forgiveness is the word of the day, yes?

Maybe.

For me, explicit forgiveness is not free. Again we come back to the idea of grace. I am not full of grace, I might be full of something, but grace ain't it. Forgiveness comes at the cost of acknowledging the wrong, committing to never repeat it, and apologizing. An apology involves the words "I am sorry" or "I apologize for the hurt I caused to you."

A non-pology might include the words "I'm sorry if..." or "I'm sorry but..."

"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings" is NOT an apology. "I'm sorry but I didn't mean it that way" is NOT an apology. I'm sorry for anything that I might have done" is not an apology. It is so difficult to find grace when trust is broken. Trust might be healed if the apology includes a commitment to not repeat the transgression. Trust might be healed if the transgressor takes some action toward healing. Trust might be healed by respecting boundaries.

I am no expert on grace, but I have so many expectations. I love the idea of grace, of love undeserved and without conditions. I want to learn that grace.

My therapist tried to teach me about giving myself grace. Do you want to know what is even harder? Giving grace to others. But as Smedes above said, forgiveness sets us free. Perhaps that is the grace that I am looking for. That doesn't mean that my heart is left open to be trampled by any and all who wish to stomp on it. The doesn't mean that I have no hurts left, because I do. But in my quest for giving myself grace, I have to try to let go of those hurts and move forward. Unconditional love is not the same as unconditional trust, but maybe we can learn to get closer to that, no matter how far away that grace might seem.

Read this book. It is by far one of the best I've stumbled across in a while.

Fave Quote of the Book: Small Victories by Anne Lamott

From Amazon:

Anne Lamott writes about faith, family, and community in essays that are both wise and irreverent. It’s an approach that has become her trademark. Now in Small Victories, Lamott offers a new message of hope that celebrates the triumph of light over the darkness in our lives. Our victories over hardship and pain may seem small, she writes, but they change us—our perceptions, our perspectives, and our lives. Lamott writes of forgiveness, restoration, and transformation, how we can turn toward love even in the most hopeless situations, how we find the joy in getting lost and our amazement in finally being found.

Profound and hilarious, honest and unexpected, the stories in Small Victories are proof that the human spirit is irrepressible.

I first read Anne Lamott in grad school. Her book, Bird by Bird, changed the direction of my education, my career, and my life. Although Lamott and I have some things in common, our belief systems are vastly different, but that's ok. Obviously, I don't know this woman, but from her writing, I get the impression that she is kind, warm, and thoughtful. I'd love to have a meal with her, or buy her a cup of coffee.

Throughout my diagnosis, I've been heavily contemplating the idea of grace. My therapist says I should give myself grace, but I don't always know what that means. She says I should forgive myself, and I don't always know how to do that. I have spent the majority of my life mastering negative self-talk; what is this grace we speak of?

I feel like Lamott understands me, without even knowing me. One of my favorite parts of this book is when she says,

"When you are on the knife’s edge—when nobody knows exactly what is going to happen next, only that it will be worse—you take in today" (Lamott 4). 

I feel that this is my diagnosis, summed up in one sentence. I'm still in a place of intentional ignorance. This diagnosis has taught me to take in today, one day at a time. Like an addict, I don't count too far ahead in the future. I count tomorrow, and the rest come as it may.

Lamott also talks about her family:

"Ours was like any other family, basically well-meaning, with lots of addictions, secrets, and mental illness. We were such a polite catastrophe that everyone’s energy went to survival, self-medication, Mask Making 101, and myopia" (Lamott 161).

Every family has their secrets, right? As Tolstoy said, "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" (Anna Karenina). While I'm not prepared to share all of our secrets, I will say that Tolstoy had his wisdom.

Am I saying that I came from an unhappy family?

Stay tuned to find out more!

"But you look so strong"

"You look so good!"

"Your color is good," with a grin, "I can't believe how strong you look!"

I don't go out when I don't feel good. 

When you see me, you see me at max a 3 on the pain scale. Keep in mind, as someone who suffered from chronic pain before my diagnosis, a 3 is barely notable. I've taught classes with 3/10 migraines. I've tutored students or graded 50 papers with 3/10 pulled muscle in my less than healthy back. I've hiked up mountains with 3/10 for pain from my plantar's fasciitis.

I can't remember the last time I had a 0/10 day. Recovering from this most recent brain surgery has been a lesson in pain. All day, I hurt. My head. My skin. My joints. Everything. 

I can sleep through 8/10 pain if I take prescription painkillers. I was always so afraid of becoming a statistic, but I can barely function in my own home without warm blankets, a heating pad, and opiates to bring me back away from the higher end of the pain scale. Every day, at some point, without fail, I hit 7 easily. Some days I hit 8 and I don't know what to do with myself besides be angry for not being stronger. Be angry for becoming a statistic with my opiates. Be angry that the pain just. Won't. Stop. 

But it doesn't stop me. The Husband listens to me complain, but I can only let it get me down for so long. I assess my incision site, my joints, my neck. Strong enough for now; may as well take advantage while I can. 

I go out and paste a smile on my face. "You're so strong!"

You don't get to see my tears. My drug induced sleep. My frustration with a body that is not strong enough, not warm enough, not stable enough. My fear of tripping over my dog, falling down in the shower, bumping my head on the cabinets that are exactly the right height for my still tender surgical wounds. 

Before the coronapocalypse, I used to go out for coffee and read a book, comforted with the knowledge that The Husband would take me home as soon as I was ready to go, too tired to be out, feeling too much pain to paste on that fake smile. He would see the moment when my eyes stopped hiding the pain and start looking for an escape. 

3 out of 10 on the pain scale is barely worth a Tylenol. I can do anything at a 3.

You don't get to see me at a 7. The tears at a 10 are my secret. See how strong I am? 

Identity crisis: Who even am I?

Guess what.

I'm back!

I want to tell you a story about my identity crisis that I had last night that almost broke me. For those of you who don't know, I am Puerto Rican and Dominican, a mix that is quite rare in the area in which I live. Most of the few Hispanic people in my area are Mexican, which means that dialect and food are different enough that I just don't quite fit in. My local grocery store stopped selling anything Goya (the food of my people) a few years ago; the next closest grocery store only occasionally has the Goya goodness that I need.

Now, I am not what you might call a *good* Latina. I am woefully out of practice with my Spanish, which I understand but barely speak anymore. I only rarely cook Hispanic food, and when I do, I have to call my sister to remind me of the recipes that families never write down.

I do, however, use the seasoning of my people, although it is getting harder and harder to find on a local level

  

Anyway, I tell you all of this, because there is one special beverage from my childhood that holds a place near and very dear to my heart. The single only people I've met who like this stuff are either related to me, or of similar descent.

Ladies and gentlemen, nerds and cool kids alike, I present to you:

Evidently, it is an acquired taste. The Husband doesn't like it. To be honest, I don't know many other people who do. But for me, this drink is the epitome of being Latina, and drinking it brings me such comfort of days gone past that I can barely verbalize how much it means to me.

Like I mentioned, the food (and drink) of my people is hard to find. The second closest grocery store carries a generic version which I've not dared to try, because I grew up only drinking Goya brand, and this is one of those instances where brand loyalty means so much more.

Now, the fifth closest grocery store is about nine miles away from my house. The Husband and I happened to venture over there the other day, because we remembered that this particular grocery store has an actual international section, with options beyond taco kits. This grocery store, carries Goya products!

AND they had Malta!

Y'all. It was the last six pack, on the bottom of the shelf, and I felt myself pulled to it like a magnet in my heart was telling me exactly where to look. The heavens opened up, and I heard the angels sing. Finally, I could have some Malta!

Well, before I tell you anything else, I need to tell you a very important fact about brain surgery, chemo, and radiation. Any or all of the above have the ability to change your palate. Things that you used to like might taste disgusting to you, and things that were repulsive might be just the worst. For example, before all of this happened, although I only rarely drank alcohol, when I did, it was either liquor or wine.

Imagine my (and The Husband's) surprise when one day I decided I wanted a beer.

I don't like beer. 

I've never liked beer.

Even in college, I preferred cheap vodka over beer any day of the week.

Why did I suddenly crave beer? Keep in mind, I can't drink a whole beer, especially with the various medications I'm on, but a sip here or there wouldn't kill me, right? So The Husband had a bottle of Yuengling, and I grabbed the bottle and took a sip, and the beerness and tangy delicious flavor of this beer soothed my bitter soul in the most unexpected way.

I don't like beer. But this beer calls to me. I can drink maybe a third of a bottle before I start to worry about medical interactions, so I'm not a full-on beer drinker yet; however, The Husband now has to deal with Wife tax on his beer (a couple of sips from an ice cold bottle) then I'll leave him be.

Okay, so now you have the background information. The key point is that, although I suddenly like beer (seriously, it's weird), I never thought my palate had changed that much.

Remember that Malta?

Yesterday, I was waiting for dinner to be ready when I decided to crack one open before we ate. I took a biiiiig swig.

I gagged.

My dearest friends, who am I if a swallow of Malta makes me gag? Did the Rockstar Neurosurgeon scoop out the Latina part of my brain?

Maybe I should try another couple of swallows.

Nope. No good. It tasted chocolatey and rancid in all the wrong ways, and I was pretty sure that I was going to vomit. 

The spirits of my ancestors had abandoned me, left me to rot in a Malta-less hell where I didn't know who I was anymore.

So, I dumped out the rest of the bottle and tried not to cry.

The husband could see the distress in my face, and I wanted to lay down on the floor and cry.

Remember how I said it was the last pack on the bottom shelf?

I just remembered that, and took a look at the bottle I had just dumped.

Expiration date - wait for it - July TWO THOUSAND SIXTEEN.

Yeah. For real. The bottle had 07/16 printed on it.

It was not that the Rockstar Neurosurgeon had scooped out the Latina part of my brain, it was that my palate can't handle FOUR-YEAR-OLD Malta!

Whoo! Needless to say, that was roller coaster ride of emotions.

I don't know how I'm going to find non-four-year-old Malta, but my already shaky identity is now slightly more solid. 

Can Malta be mailed?

Happy Birthday, Mr. Adams!

Today is Douglas Adams' birthday!

You may or may not remember, but The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is my favorite book.

When I am feeling sad, or unsettled, lost, or just not right, I can pick up this book and open it to literally any page and start reading. It doesn't matter where I end up, it's always a good part of the story.

I am very pleased to say that recently, The Husband started reading this book. Now, bear in mind, this book, which is very important to me, is almost 800 pages long. I know that The Husband must like me at least a little, because it is quite a commitment to read someone else's favorite 800-page book. Meanwhile, every few nights, I glance over at his kindle and read over his shoulder for a few minutes. I can't say if he will love this book as much as I do, but I can say that it makes me feel even more loved that he is reading this special story for me. The occasional snicker I hear while he is reading fills my heart with even more love for this book AND this man.

I've had some people posit to me that this book is not actually very well-written. I ignore those people. Yes, I do teach Composition and occasionally Literature at the community college, but that doesn't mean that I am restricted to only reading capital-L Literature. I don't care if this book is not Literature. This story fills my heart, and any opportunity I have to share it brings more love and laughter to my life.

Dearest Husband of mine, I only hope that as you continue working your way through this monster of a book, that you continue having fun with it. That's really the point, right?

So, that's it. I bow my heavily-scarred head to you, Mr. Adams, and thank you for all of the joy, past, present, and future, your story has brought to my life. Happy birthday!

Fave Quote of the Book: So Long and Thanks for All the Fish

 My favorite book (counting it as one because I have it as one complete and ultimate anthology) is The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I own at least 2 and possibly as many as 6 different copies/versions. There's the copy I read:

 But there is also the leather-bound copy with gilded edges. The paperback radio-script. The movie. The BBC miniseries (on Prime). All twelve episodes of the radio play. And most recently, this:

So Long and Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams

Amazon Link

Now, why would I need a copy of just book 4 of the trilogy?

Before I answer that, let me tell you a story. Back before The Husband was The Husband, he worked at a bookstore. Dangerous place to get a paycheck if you are me, but luckily (I suppose) I did not work at that bookstore. But oh how I loved that bookstore. And I found out that people who work at these type of bookstores have access to things that I never dreamed of. Rare books. Databases. Dealers.

One day, the not-yet-husband gave me a gift. I don't remember if it was a Christmas gift, or a birthday gift, or a just-because gift, but this gift was a very effective love letter to me. He got me a very rare signed first edition of a book by one of my favorite authors (Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman). When he explained to me what he went through to get this book for me, that was one (of the many) moments that I knew this wonderful man loved me.


Over the years, I have acquired quite a few signed books, as gifts from friends, from The Husband, as lucky finds. It is important that you know that signed books are not for reading. They are for admiring.

What that means is that for every book of which I have a signed copy, I have a reading copy. We don't just go pawing signed books. We look with our eyes, but never touch with our hands.

Now, prepare yourselves. This is gonna get mushy.

I know that every signed book I've gotten from The Husband has been a love letter to me. He knows exactly the way to my heart. My love letter to him is in sharing my favorite books with him. He doesn't have to love them the way that I do, but getting a peek into these beloved books gives him a peek into my soul. Sometimes I feel like this is not enough, but those books make me who I am. Understanding my favorite books means he understands me.

My favorite quote from this specific book (but not from the complete series) is from Wonko the Sane:


Fave quote:
“[T]he reason I call myself by my childhood name is to remind myself that a scientist must also be absolutely like a child. If he sees a thing, he must say that he sees it, whether it was what he thought he was going to see or not. See first, think later, then test. But always see first. Otherwise you will only see what you were expecting” (Adams 587; emphasis added).

Now, I am no scientist (too much math involved) but I love this. Always see first.

When I saw this scribble on the front page of So Long and Thanks for All the Fish, I don't know what I was expecting, but what I saw was yet another love letter from The Husband. I've always wanted something signed by Douglas Adams, but because he died almost 20 years ago, finding and verifying items with his signature is decidedly more difficult than finding signed Neil Gaimans, of which I have three signed items.

Have I mentioned how much I love The Husband? Not just because he knows my love language is books, but because he knows which books, which means he knows me. He sees me.

Fave Quote of the Book: The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

Amazon link:

In Margaret Atwood’s dystopian future, environmental disasters and declining birthrates have led to a Second American Civil War. The result is the rise of the Republic of Gilead, a totalitarian regime that enforces rigid social roles and enslaves the few remaining fertile women. Offred is one of these, a Handmaid bound to produce children for one of Gilead’s commanders. Deprived of her husband, her child, her freedom, and even her own name, Offred clings to her memories and her will to survive. At once a scathing satire, an ominous warning, and a tour de force of narrative suspense, The Handmaid’s Tale is a modern classic.

I've taught this novel in the classroom. The experience of teaching this novel was made even more interesting because this book is easily in my top 10 favorite books of all time. Point of interest: I collect signed books. I've always wanted a signed copy of this book, and interestingly, when I mentioned this in class in the fall of 2017, I failed to be entirely clear with my intent. At the end of that semester, I received a gift from three students: a signed copy of the book.

Let me clarify. This book is not signed by Margaret Atwood. Instead, it was signed by those three students.

"Mrs. Blank,
Coming into college, the impression we all were under was that all college professors sucked and we would be miserable, especially in English. Over the past semester, you have not only been one of the coolest teachers we've had in high school and in college, but you've been one of the best. You've taught us so much but at the same time, we've had a lot of fun. I know myself, Student B, and Student C have been a handful and we appreciate you dealing with all our crap. You said you wanted a signed copy of this book so we went out and got you one. See you around campus, Student A, Student B, and Student C"

The class these boys were in was one that affected me deeply. It was my third year teaching, and this was one of the first classes in my short experience where I discovered that the dynamics of a classroom can make it feel like only a classroom, or the dynamics can make it feel like a real community. This was a class of very smart students with very bright futures, and we laughed, but we also had some very serious conversations. I won't say that this specific group of students was my favorite class I've ever taught, but they sure came close. It was because of these students that I realized that teaching did not have to be painful. I learned as much from those students as I hope they learned from me.

Without further ado, my favorite quote from this book, when the protagonist is speaking privately and illicitly with her Commander in his office: He tells her that the Republic of Gilead is better than what they lived with before. "Better?" The protagonist asks. "How can he think this is better?":

"Better never means better for everyone, he says. It always means worse, for some" (Atwood 211).

This is something that I hadn't thought much about, in general, or specific to this story; nonetheless, when I first read this, I underlined it as something to contemplate. Is this always true? It feels like it is a universal truth, but I am not sure. Is this what life is about: a zero-sum game where some win and some lose?

Those special students of mine expected to be miserable in my class. (Why do so many people hate English class?).

I was able to show them that my class could be better than what they expected, but I am sure, over the years, that there have been enough students whom I was unable to reach.

Even in a book that I have read easily a dozen times, I am still able to share those glimpses of magic, those moments when the world between the pages grabs at you and refuses to let go.