Spook
April 13th, 2011, 02:38 PM
Censored.
You probably know what this word means.
Dictionary Definition: Censorship, the control of speech and other forms of human expression.
You probably know censorship to do with pictures (blocking out nudity), movies (bad language and nudity or sex), and on TV (the censor bubbles in American Idol!), but did you know books can be censored and banned, too? From the 1900s all the way to the 21st century, people have banned and censored books from librarys, schools, and homes. Either the books would be locked up, chapters would be ripped out, or words and sentences would be taken to with a marker. As Judy Blume quotes: "Censorship is like silencing the voices of writers." Judy Blume was one of the authors affected in censorship. Her books: "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret", "Then Again, Maybe I Won't," "Blubber," and "Deenie." Were all affected. Classics like Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, The Twelfth Night, King Lear, The Merchant of Venice, Wuthering Heights, Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, and The Red Badge of Courage were all taken of school and library shelves.
I am going to be sharing with you my favorite censored story from the book, "Places I Never Meant To Be." The book was written to give voice to those writers who's stories never had an audience when they were blocked. Censorors would flip through the pages of books looking for ONE WORD that would lead them to block the book, and they didn't even read the book themselves. So I am bringing two of my favorite stories to VT to share. I do not own these stories, they are copied and typed from the book, "Places I Never Meant To Be." Thank you.
This is kind of a confusing, kind of sad story. But it's cool! :D
Love and Centipedes by Paul Zindel
Tuesday Racinski's large green eyes glinted with concern as a three- inch furry centipede descended over the faded wallpaper storks of Madame Wu's. Her mother sat opposite her in the booth plunging serving spoons into pots of shark fin soup and shrimp with lobster sauce that lay between them like tiny steaming lakes. The girl waited until the long bug was nearly at eye level before she first broadcast her thoughts to it. Hello, wee centipedie. Can you see me, little buggie? Can you hear what I'm thinking? Can you? The centipede stopped and pointed his antennae at her. Don't come to our table, Tuesday's silent prayer continued. Please don't. Please, sweet living thing, make a left turn and travel away from me. Climb back up the wall and go to Maureen Willoughby's booth. Tuesday began giggling at the wickedness of her thoughts. Go to Maureen, the great cheerleader of Tottenville High. Go to our most beautiful leader of cheers, and all her enchanting and perfect cheerleader friends. Go above their booth and drop onto their long sleek blonde Country Club hairdos...
The mother was focused on sucking the meat off a gingered beef rib as the daughter watched the bug's antennae swish gracefully through the air. It looked like the same sort of centipede that Tuesday had begun to see around her house, ones that seemed to come out of the bathroom and cellar drains. For a moment the centipede stared back. It appeared to be listening to Tuesday's thoughts. Then it turned around suddenly and rippled back up the wall. Its path was hyperbolic at first, followed by a series of sharp, dizzying zigzags when it scooted across the ceiling. Eventually, it stopped its journey just above Maureen Willoughby's booth. No, Tuesday broadcast. No, bug. Stop. I've changed my mind. Don't drop. Maureen will only scream and Madame Wu's will get in trouble with the Board of Health, and the bleached cheerleaders will all jump up and down trying to stick you with a fork. The centipede froze on the ceiling, allowing Tuesday to relax and continue to secretly caress the crumpled size ten-to-twelve ankle support she clutched in her hands. She slid her left hand into its elastic and stretched it, then slipped it over to her right hand. Just touching its thick, pliant ribbing eased her back into the stupor of romance and prayer and coincedence that had recently absorbed her life. To many extraordinary things had happened to her the last week for her not to believe that there was some sort of blessed design and sweet sorcery to the universe. It had all begun when she was assigned Maureen Willoughby's boyfriend as a science-project partner. Kyle Ecneps- handsome, his skin clear and beautiful; his eyes and his lips glow. He was a prince who'd come each day to Tuesday's cellar to work at her side on their experiment. Kyle Ecneps was the proof that there were things such as miracles and angels and riddles. A daydream of Kyle grabbed hold of Tuesday's mind there in the booth at Madame Wu's. It happened like a hallowed replay, a type of true-life MTV video spinning in her head.
"My feet hurt from track," Kyle had said in Tuesday's cellar. "The coach made us run three miles today. I had cramps from eating M&Ms. The female kind- no nuts. Five hundred stomach crunches, two hundred push-ups. My feet are swollen." Kyle put his naked feet up next to her. Her memory was so vivid, so controlled, it was as though Kyle was right there beside her in the booth plopping his feet into the platter of egg rolls. They were handsome feet. Strong and sleek. Pinkish, like monk-fish filets she'd seen in the fish department showcase at Shop-Rite. Tuesday hadn't been able to stop herself from reaching out to the feet, from rubbing them gently." "Nice." Kyle had said. He had clasped his hands behind his head, cooing as her fingers pressed and stroked his heels and arches. "Take off my ankle support. I had a sprain last week, but it's okay now." Tuesday slipped her fingers under the elastic cuff and wiggled the support slowly off of Kyle's left foot. She had expected an athlete's foot to be callused, tight, and gnarled with muscle and ligaments. Instead, this boy's were smooth as rayon and as forgiving as a hot water bottle. "You have nice feet," Tuesday had said. Here in her replay, she took time to make every moment match the reality of the day before. She had deliberately let the ankle support drop onto her lap. She let her hands crawl down his foot, fondle the toes, and play piggly-wiggly with them. Toes with neither sweat nor slime nor lint. "That feels great." Kyle had said. "Thanks." Tuesday told him. She looked into his eyes, and her breath quickened. Something stirred wildly in her blood and caught her private spotlight. She had never touched a boy so intimately before, no less had one smiling right at her with acknowledgement and pleasure and curiosity, eyes glaring at her beneath dangling clumps of lustrous midnight hair. She thought of sanctuaries and soaring cathedrals. Emotion burst from her chest, a hallucinatory rush that she was a living monstrance or elaborate dollhouse. She was a monstrance and his feet were the reliquary within. There in the booth at Madame Wu's, Tuesday was reexperiencing the pain and rapture and astonishment of touching Kyle. For the first time, life leapt up as an adventure. Existing was abruptly important and riveting, and she had to admit that she cared terribly, madly, for Maureen Willoughby's steady boyfriend. "Pass the broccoli." Mrs. Racinski interrupted her daughter's reverie, without looking up. Tuesday's mother sat like a squatting volcano juggling swelling squirt bottles of soy and sweet-and-sour sauces. She sprayed them on her heaping platter, rained them down onto lumpy mounds of white rice with flakes of scallion. Tuesday had put tiny, tiny portions on her own plate, but it was too late. Her small frame, like her mother's, had long ago been hidden under nearly two hundred pounds of clotted, hated fat. Tuesday made deranged insults about herself. You're so fat, Tuesday, you're your own realm. You're so gross it'd take eighty days to go around you in a Lear jet. You're so enormous, Tuesday, you're a chip off the old, poor divorced volcano. Mrs. Racinski slurped a jumbo stuffed oyster caked with water chestnuts into her mouth. She heard sounds. Now she looked up and saw tears leaking down her daughter's cheeks. "Tuesday? Are you crying? Are you? Is that what you're doing, dear? Crying?
"No, mom..."
"Well you look like you're crying," her mother insisted. "Why are your eyes red? Have you been using my Lashes Galore again? Have you?"
"I didn't use much, mother..."
"Dear, it's made from goat placentas. That mascara is very, very expensive. Major Hollywood stars use it. Lots of them."
"I know, mom. And you have to work for it," Tuesday said. "I know how hard you work for Kmart, night after night, standing on your swollen ankles, your bunions hurting, killing you..."
"Yes, sweetheart." Mrs. Racinski said. She stared at Tuesday to make certain her daughter was being sincere.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~End of Part One~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hey guys, I hope you enjoyed that so far (it took forever), and part two will be coming soon. I would really enjoy your views and feedback on censorship. Thanks for reading!
You probably know what this word means.
Dictionary Definition: Censorship, the control of speech and other forms of human expression.
You probably know censorship to do with pictures (blocking out nudity), movies (bad language and nudity or sex), and on TV (the censor bubbles in American Idol!), but did you know books can be censored and banned, too? From the 1900s all the way to the 21st century, people have banned and censored books from librarys, schools, and homes. Either the books would be locked up, chapters would be ripped out, or words and sentences would be taken to with a marker. As Judy Blume quotes: "Censorship is like silencing the voices of writers." Judy Blume was one of the authors affected in censorship. Her books: "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret", "Then Again, Maybe I Won't," "Blubber," and "Deenie." Were all affected. Classics like Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, The Twelfth Night, King Lear, The Merchant of Venice, Wuthering Heights, Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby, and The Red Badge of Courage were all taken of school and library shelves.
I am going to be sharing with you my favorite censored story from the book, "Places I Never Meant To Be." The book was written to give voice to those writers who's stories never had an audience when they were blocked. Censorors would flip through the pages of books looking for ONE WORD that would lead them to block the book, and they didn't even read the book themselves. So I am bringing two of my favorite stories to VT to share. I do not own these stories, they are copied and typed from the book, "Places I Never Meant To Be." Thank you.
This is kind of a confusing, kind of sad story. But it's cool! :D
Love and Centipedes by Paul Zindel
Tuesday Racinski's large green eyes glinted with concern as a three- inch furry centipede descended over the faded wallpaper storks of Madame Wu's. Her mother sat opposite her in the booth plunging serving spoons into pots of shark fin soup and shrimp with lobster sauce that lay between them like tiny steaming lakes. The girl waited until the long bug was nearly at eye level before she first broadcast her thoughts to it. Hello, wee centipedie. Can you see me, little buggie? Can you hear what I'm thinking? Can you? The centipede stopped and pointed his antennae at her. Don't come to our table, Tuesday's silent prayer continued. Please don't. Please, sweet living thing, make a left turn and travel away from me. Climb back up the wall and go to Maureen Willoughby's booth. Tuesday began giggling at the wickedness of her thoughts. Go to Maureen, the great cheerleader of Tottenville High. Go to our most beautiful leader of cheers, and all her enchanting and perfect cheerleader friends. Go above their booth and drop onto their long sleek blonde Country Club hairdos...
The mother was focused on sucking the meat off a gingered beef rib as the daughter watched the bug's antennae swish gracefully through the air. It looked like the same sort of centipede that Tuesday had begun to see around her house, ones that seemed to come out of the bathroom and cellar drains. For a moment the centipede stared back. It appeared to be listening to Tuesday's thoughts. Then it turned around suddenly and rippled back up the wall. Its path was hyperbolic at first, followed by a series of sharp, dizzying zigzags when it scooted across the ceiling. Eventually, it stopped its journey just above Maureen Willoughby's booth. No, Tuesday broadcast. No, bug. Stop. I've changed my mind. Don't drop. Maureen will only scream and Madame Wu's will get in trouble with the Board of Health, and the bleached cheerleaders will all jump up and down trying to stick you with a fork. The centipede froze on the ceiling, allowing Tuesday to relax and continue to secretly caress the crumpled size ten-to-twelve ankle support she clutched in her hands. She slid her left hand into its elastic and stretched it, then slipped it over to her right hand. Just touching its thick, pliant ribbing eased her back into the stupor of romance and prayer and coincedence that had recently absorbed her life. To many extraordinary things had happened to her the last week for her not to believe that there was some sort of blessed design and sweet sorcery to the universe. It had all begun when she was assigned Maureen Willoughby's boyfriend as a science-project partner. Kyle Ecneps- handsome, his skin clear and beautiful; his eyes and his lips glow. He was a prince who'd come each day to Tuesday's cellar to work at her side on their experiment. Kyle Ecneps was the proof that there were things such as miracles and angels and riddles. A daydream of Kyle grabbed hold of Tuesday's mind there in the booth at Madame Wu's. It happened like a hallowed replay, a type of true-life MTV video spinning in her head.
"My feet hurt from track," Kyle had said in Tuesday's cellar. "The coach made us run three miles today. I had cramps from eating M&Ms. The female kind- no nuts. Five hundred stomach crunches, two hundred push-ups. My feet are swollen." Kyle put his naked feet up next to her. Her memory was so vivid, so controlled, it was as though Kyle was right there beside her in the booth plopping his feet into the platter of egg rolls. They were handsome feet. Strong and sleek. Pinkish, like monk-fish filets she'd seen in the fish department showcase at Shop-Rite. Tuesday hadn't been able to stop herself from reaching out to the feet, from rubbing them gently." "Nice." Kyle had said. He had clasped his hands behind his head, cooing as her fingers pressed and stroked his heels and arches. "Take off my ankle support. I had a sprain last week, but it's okay now." Tuesday slipped her fingers under the elastic cuff and wiggled the support slowly off of Kyle's left foot. She had expected an athlete's foot to be callused, tight, and gnarled with muscle and ligaments. Instead, this boy's were smooth as rayon and as forgiving as a hot water bottle. "You have nice feet," Tuesday had said. Here in her replay, she took time to make every moment match the reality of the day before. She had deliberately let the ankle support drop onto her lap. She let her hands crawl down his foot, fondle the toes, and play piggly-wiggly with them. Toes with neither sweat nor slime nor lint. "That feels great." Kyle had said. "Thanks." Tuesday told him. She looked into his eyes, and her breath quickened. Something stirred wildly in her blood and caught her private spotlight. She had never touched a boy so intimately before, no less had one smiling right at her with acknowledgement and pleasure and curiosity, eyes glaring at her beneath dangling clumps of lustrous midnight hair. She thought of sanctuaries and soaring cathedrals. Emotion burst from her chest, a hallucinatory rush that she was a living monstrance or elaborate dollhouse. She was a monstrance and his feet were the reliquary within. There in the booth at Madame Wu's, Tuesday was reexperiencing the pain and rapture and astonishment of touching Kyle. For the first time, life leapt up as an adventure. Existing was abruptly important and riveting, and she had to admit that she cared terribly, madly, for Maureen Willoughby's steady boyfriend. "Pass the broccoli." Mrs. Racinski interrupted her daughter's reverie, without looking up. Tuesday's mother sat like a squatting volcano juggling swelling squirt bottles of soy and sweet-and-sour sauces. She sprayed them on her heaping platter, rained them down onto lumpy mounds of white rice with flakes of scallion. Tuesday had put tiny, tiny portions on her own plate, but it was too late. Her small frame, like her mother's, had long ago been hidden under nearly two hundred pounds of clotted, hated fat. Tuesday made deranged insults about herself. You're so fat, Tuesday, you're your own realm. You're so gross it'd take eighty days to go around you in a Lear jet. You're so enormous, Tuesday, you're a chip off the old, poor divorced volcano. Mrs. Racinski slurped a jumbo stuffed oyster caked with water chestnuts into her mouth. She heard sounds. Now she looked up and saw tears leaking down her daughter's cheeks. "Tuesday? Are you crying? Are you? Is that what you're doing, dear? Crying?
"No, mom..."
"Well you look like you're crying," her mother insisted. "Why are your eyes red? Have you been using my Lashes Galore again? Have you?"
"I didn't use much, mother..."
"Dear, it's made from goat placentas. That mascara is very, very expensive. Major Hollywood stars use it. Lots of them."
"I know, mom. And you have to work for it," Tuesday said. "I know how hard you work for Kmart, night after night, standing on your swollen ankles, your bunions hurting, killing you..."
"Yes, sweetheart." Mrs. Racinski said. She stared at Tuesday to make certain her daughter was being sincere.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~End of Part One~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hey guys, I hope you enjoyed that so far (it took forever), and part two will be coming soon. I would really enjoy your views and feedback on censorship. Thanks for reading!