Rooty Toot

I'm happy to be tooting my own horn this week because of the spotlight on my novels.

I was recently interviewed about Civil War Washington and the African American community. On the one-hour program for the Smithsonian Channel, I shared insights I'd gained from research for my novel, Stand The Storm. I've had a chance to study 19th century African Americans and their way of life in the archives of The Mount Zion United Methodist Church, the oldest continuing African American church in the Georgetown nieghborhood of Washington.   

Mt. Zion Church is a on the National Register

the plaque out front tells the church's story

I've always received a warm welcome

my interview was conducted in the beautiful sanctuary of Mt. Zion Church
the original building was constructed by parishoners and was an important local  meeting site.  

Find your channel and get more info at:

http://www.smithsonianchannel.com/site/sn/show.do?show=3374628

Stand The Storm and River, Cross My Heart got good mention on The Kojo Nnamdi Show( March 21, 2013) on WAMU as fictional works that have used Washington, D.C. as a setting and a backdrop were dscussed.  It was delightful to listen to Kojo Nnamdi's familiar, creamy voice. http://thekojonnamdishow.org/shows/2013-03-21/dc-book

Kojo's guests were:


Susan Richards Shreve, Professor, George Mason University
Anthony "Tony" Ross, Librarian, D.C Public Library; co-creator of DC By The Book
Dana Williams, Professor and Chair, Department of English, Howard University

I loved the discussion. And I love that the DC ( as in Washington, D.C., the real town) Public Library system is creating this and is finding innovative ways to thrive. When I was growing and learning in DC, one of the coolest and grandest buildings in blistering, summertime Washington was the Central Librar;y, aka Carnegie Library http://www.historydc.org/carnegielibrary.aspx, a hallowed marble palace open to the public. 

Growing up I was a regular at the neighborhood branches: Takoma & Upshur and, in high school, West End, but as a kid I rode the Georgia Avenue bus from Madison St. N.W.  all the way to 7th avenue & "K" Sts  in the days before universal bus air conditioning to experience the majestic, awe-inspiring Central Library. I always had a library card and I always had my card because I was a bigtime borrower. I would be hauling returns and would be hauling more back home.  I didn't own many books then. My parents didn't think, and rightly so, that it was necessary since the libraries were full of books and there was free access and they were open long hours and borrowing books was free as long as you were responsible to return them on time and in good order. 

It was a sweaty trip in summer. Folks getting on the bus were huffing, blowing and wiping themselves. Women waiting at the bus stops along the way past stores, past the thronging intersection at New Hampshire avenue, past Howard University, Freedmen's Hospital, the legendary Howard Theater, what was left of the Central Market, had talcum powder poofed over their breasts and necks and underarms.  When you got inside the Central Library, you got a marvelous blast of cool air off the marble staircases. Ah! That and the aroma of the books was conducive of the most deeply satisfying afternoon a youngster hooked on books could have. 


Some of my recollections of my hometown are part of Growing Up In Washington, D.C.: An Oral History, edited by Jill Connors. My younger sister, Vicki and I are the two girls on the book's cover. This photo was taken by my father as we sat at the Tidal Basin, facing the Washington monument. 

Visit the website to check out the project and see if you can add a book :


DC by the book: http://dcbythebook.org/project-book-list/page/3/

A Medal Please, Mr. President

Dear Mr. President:

I would like to propose the awarding of a medal of honor for valor for the adult victims of the tragic events at Newtown, Connecticut. I realize that the Congressional Medal of Honor is not awarded to civilians. But medals are awarded to police officers and firefighters who lose their lives in the line of duty. On the morning of December 14, 2013 six courageous women, the educators and school personnel at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, were killed in the line of their duties. That their duties included stimulating young minds and preparing them for a wider world notwithstanding. They honored their commitment to teach, to lead, to protect their students at the cost of their lives. This is the commitment that teachers are making everyday at their posts in the classroom. On reflecting upon the supreme sacrifice of the teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary School, I am reminded of the brave teachers of the South African freedom movement and movements across the globe, as well as, in our own country’s struggles for civil rights. Many teachers have been upon the bulwarks and clearly remain so. The individuals: Dawn Hochsprung, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Soto, Anne Marie Murphy, Rachel D’Avino and Lauren Rousseau, gave their lives in service to their students. I would like to think there is a medal for that degree of sacrifice on the part of a civilian. At a time that our teachers are maligned for political ends, it is perhaps the moment to recognize their valor in the line of duty. I sincerely hope you will consider this proposal.
Sincerely,
Breena Clarke

John F. Stacks, a Chief, a friend and a mentor

John Stacks was the only other friend or colleague who had been there, too -- The Heartbreak Hotel -- the place a parent goes when their child dies before them. When I returned to work after my son’s death, John invited me down to his office. I look back and wonder how I could come back. The support of my colleagues in the New York Bureau of Time -- from all of the News Service and from edit -- buoyed me.

And then again, John had come back. The bureau, the magazine, the company had supported him. That’s the kind of place it was - collegial, compassionate, supportive.

John and I talked about our sons and our loss. He was Chief of Correspondents then. We cried and smoked and drank diet coke. Those couple of hours we spent talking were more useful to me than the sessions I spent with a grief counselor.


John Stacks started me on the way to my novel writing career. I worked for him as an administrative assistant in the New York Bureau when he was Bureau Chief and again when he was Deputy Managing Editor of TIME Magazine.

TIME Magazine was, for me, the most stimulating place on the planet. I received a lot of writing advice there: learn to write faster; do it until its done; writing is a muscle that gets stronger with exercise; any deadline can be met.

I credit John Stacks with giving me the question that started me writing my first novel. He’d read a short story that I submitted as an assignment for a writing class at Columbia University’s School of General Studies. We had lots of perks then like tuition reimbursements and John always approved and encouraged. He said he liked the story. I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t critique it. I knew it needed improving. Instead he said this: “I wonder. What happens to those people - you know -- after . . .?”

Well, I felt like. . . Eureka! I knew then that I would/could/should write the novel that became RIVER, CROSS MY HEART.

Many of the things we talked about that first night, found their way into RIVER, CROSS MY HEART -- the parts about feeling like you’ve lost your life’s hope. That was the deeply painful territory we knew about. This bottoming out feeling that leads to resolve that leads to triumph became a theme for me for two novels.

John read drafts and discussed three of my manuscripts. His inquisitiveness helped guide me. He was always careful and respectful. He never tried to lard his ideas into the feedback.

When John became Deputy Managing Editor and I became his administrative assistant John was very generous with his vacation weeks. He never made me take my weeks at the same time he took his. So I got the benefit of his weeks and mine. When he went on vacation, he went – no calling – no projects. I got to write during his absence. We joked, but it was serious time.

John was the second creative mentor I lost this year. It's been a tough stretch! Once again the bottom, the resolve, the triumph of survival. I will miss John Stacks when I write. I write everyday because I knew John Stacks.

Vicarious

The nice part of watching other people swim in the Olympics is imagining yourself as a water sprite riding on the swimmer’s shoulder. Or maybe you’re a speck of something -- a fly on their swim cap. You go for the swim, too. The videography is so good now that you can see and feel the underwater swim as well. And, as I was told by the woman who taught me to swim at age 49, you can learn from watching other people swim. Yes, I believe it. I can think about my shoulders and watch their shoulders perform a stroke with strength, beauty and control and understand the ways I can improve my own. I recognize that I have to accommodate my shoulder’s aches and pains. I see how a lack of flexibility in another area puts a strain on that shoulder. Watching the Olympians I see how I can fix some things. At the Olympics I get to see the excellent form and I can put that image before me to emulate. It is a reversal of mentoring sort of if mentoring is about old giving to young. Instead I emulate their athleticism, strength, determination, competitiveness and practiced form. I’m no Olympian. I’m not even a good swimmer. I practice swimming for fitness, contemplation, inspiration and community. My wise teacher told me after I’d accomplished some aqua confidence that anything that gets you from point A in the shallows to point B in the deep and back can be considered “swimming.” Her point being that, though there are standards and techniques in our sport, there is a lot of benefit and pleasure even if you can’t quite get up to them . . . as long as you don’t drown. And, BTW, let’s teach more kids to swim to avoid more accidental drownings. During the Summer Olympics I can get very excited by the swimming meets. I’m the water sprite, the fly on a swim cap. I’m there!

liquid courage

My brain never clicks off when I swim. Some of the time I'm assessing my technique -- goading myself at times. Some of the time I'm contemplating soulful matters and some of the time it is the sunlight on the water that reflects a little bird that sits on the roof. I had a great and exuberant accomplishment in the pool this morning. I was stroking around before aqua aerobics class. My front crawl felt good and smooth. When I reached the wall I tucked my legs and kept my head down and turned at the wall and began the swim back. I came up calmly when I’d made the turn and continued to breathe evenly. The next breath was a little anxious when I realized what I’d done. I had finally conquered the tizzy of panic that hits when I hit the wall at the end of the lane. I almost always pull up to take a safe breath for the swim back down the lane. This time I had the confidence and the strength to make the turn and take the breath in rhythm. My muscles behaved with assurance. There was no question of inability. It made me feel good that I did something I’d not been able to do before.

New Suit

Perhaps it's the psychological effect of having accomplished a slimmer suit, but I felt more energetic in the pool this morning. I've gone through a few suits in my twice a week aqua aerobics class. The chemicals are harsh. They take a toll. I replace them, but I don't throw them out – not sure why. This new one is a size smaller than the others. I got it because they didn't have my regular size. I think I've got a new regular size. It felt like the suit gave a little boost to the workout. The clutch of women who come to my class are always checking out Marshall's for suits. We can't be paying $70 or $80 for a swimsuit. We put them through a rigorous workout – for a period of about 90 minutes for each class. We note the progression of fading. It's pretty steep from bright and colorful to colorless. We try to stock up for the off–season. We worry about the suits getting threadbare along the back seam that goes over our behinds. This is so bad a look that even a woman who doesn't know your name will let you know you're exposed.

a hub of muscles and brain

People who exercise in water are smug. We have a lovely, satisfying secret. We have such a great time while we "fritz" calories because it feels good (really, really good) to swim. It is blissful to float and cavort and do exercises you couldn't attempt on land. The ceiling panels in our neighborhood pool are sometimes opened to the sky and when sun shines on the water it is very like a tropical beach. In the dead of winter we who attend the AA class have the pool mostly to ourselves and when we emerge we are like super heroes. Our bodies are so warm with blood circulation and exuberance that we are impervious to the weather. In the pool I am different. In the water I am nobody's nobody. The only expectations I satisfy are my own. I don't criticize my butt. I critique my preparation. Did I consume enough of the right fuel to keep from feeling hunger in the water? Did I eat too much so that I feel sluggish? True I check my joints for arthritic complaints, but I don't let a twinge in my shoulder keep me at home. I leave self-recrimination in the locker room with my wallet, my phone, my car keys and my glasses. This is part of the process: unencumbered, blissful exercise --- me and my always fading swimsuit. I am only a consciousness --- a hub of muscles and brain. I had a wise swimming instructor who told me that, once you learn to move from point a to point b without drowning, you're swimming. You don't have to be "accomplished" as long as you get there. Ironically,just this idea of personal skill and practice has caused me to acquire and improve my technique. My mother was an exceptional swimmer in an era that had few opportunities for African American women. My son learned to swim well despite that his mother hadn't ever learned. Both of these absent swimmers are my goals -- I reach for them when I touch at the deep end. I find it difficult to make the turn. I smile in the water and I speak their names.