Roll On

Hi Everyone,

Last Wednesday, I got done with my evening class and was all set to bike home. I reached the rack outside the Illustration building and realized that my bike wasn’t there. I scoured my brain, trying to recall if I’d left it somewhere else. Nope. I distinctly remembered attaching it to the rack with my coil lock and securing the back wheel to the frame of the bike with my U-bolt lock.

So my friends Erin and Krishna kindly waited with me while I reported the theft to SCAD security and then to the police. I wasn’t as upset as I would have thought. For one thing, bike theft in Savannah is so prevalent that I was expecting this to happen at some point or another. For another, it could have been much worse. If it had been stolen out of our backyard, that would have felt much more invasive. If I’d been mugged or if something more irreplaceable had been taken, like my computer, I would have been more upset. On the whole, this wasn’t too bad.

The security guards and the police officers were terribly sympathetic, and were assiduous in taking down every detail I could remember about my bike in case they came across it. My favorite part of the evening was explaining three separate times to three separate authorities that one of the distinguishing features of my bike was a pink shower cap on the seat. (An important aside here: I think the shower cap bike seat cover is my single most brilliant moment in life and I’m completely fine with peaking at age 25. I was told a few weeks ago that some Chinese people use them as well, but I don’t think that information detracts from my invention. I suspect that everything was originally invented by the Chinese anyway, so if anything, this news only confirms that it’s a good idea.)

I was told that since I’d registered my bike with SCAD security when I first arrived here, there was a 90% chance of it being recovered. Apparently, the police stop people who they think “shouldn’t be on a bike,” check to see if there is a registration sticker on it, and if so, hand it over to SCAD security. Uh... hang on a tic. Back up. What does that mean, “shouldn’t be on a bike”? It seems to me that bikes, out of all methods of transportation, are the most likely to be ridden by a wide variety of people. Was this a euphemism for racial or other kinds of profiling? If that was the case, I didn’t want my bike back through this kind of policing.

After a week full of discussions with friends prompted by the ludicrous request for President Obama to release his official birth certificate, and by the capture and death of bin Laden, my mind was already steeped in thoughts about racism and about justice. On the one hand, I believe very strongly that seeking justice is essential, not just to maintain order in society, but morally. One of the most beautiful and hopeful verses in the Bible, which has particular racial overtones due to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s famous speech, is Amos 5:24: “But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!”

However, when seeking justice the question becomes, “At what cost, not just to a particular society but to justice itself?” Do we label groups of people more dangerous or criminal than others in an attempt to isolate danger and defeat crime? Ironically, so often when we try to uphold justice, we end up stripping it from an individual or a group of people, either directly or more subtly.

Today, I woke up to phone call. I think I had been dreaming about some kind of sporting event because as I was waking up, in my head, I heard an announcer say, “Well, this is an unusual turn of events.” The conversation began the way many of my phone calls do:

“Hi, this is Sarah.”
“Hello. Is Sarah there?”
“This is she.” (I was too sleepy to think of a non-poncey way of saying that.)

I was then informed that SCAD security had found most of my bike (minus the front wheel) right outside the Illustration building and I could go and pick it up. I hurried off to reunite with my bike. It was exactly as I’d left it, except, of course, for the front wheel. The basket was still there, the U-bolt lock still attached to the back wheel and frame. Even the pink shower cap had made it through the ordeal, zealously protecting my seat from the elements.

I tried to take my bike home wheelbarrow-style, but it was not as easy as I’d predicted, so in the end, I carried it the five blocks. As I walked, I found myself being relieved that the bike had been found on its own and had not been taken from someone, even if that someone were guilty. If the ways we catch criminals aren’t fair, the justice we claim to be upholding -- even when we catch the guilty person -- is incomplete at best. And it’s a lot harder for justice to roll on when one of the wheels is missing.

Have a good week,
Sarah/Mouse

Good Friday in Savannah

Some folks call them palmetto bugs
since they occupy the palms
wedged decoratively between the live oaks.
The size of first grade fists,
they lurk under leaves
until once a week,
they are evicted briefly by the street sweepers,
only to scurry back to the darkness.
At times, though, they stray
into the light.

And if you stray east,
past Broad,
past Savannah Marble and Granite
(celebrating 100 years),
with its sample tombstones out front,
where the sunburned houses
keep a sleepy watch over scattered Kroger carts,
and the sidewalks are as dependable
as disciples,
to the east,
they’re just called roaches.

It’s the same thing,
almost.

My roommate and I discovered one
on the entryway stair,
upturned and waving feebly.
She took the roach phone book
and did the deed,
as I stood in the kitchen plugging my ears
and squeezing my eyes shut.
I wasn’t against the killing so much,
just the crunching.

This is sort of a routine,
she’ll crunch, and I’ll clean up;
equally complicit, a partnership.

Today was different, though.
I’d never seen such violence.
Outside so ordinary,
inside, a kaleidoscope of color;
a roach exterior
a palmetto interior,
dashed
smashed
splayed
laid
visible for anyone to see,
dead as a doornail on the threshold
of in and out.

We try to keep our surfaces clean,
so I grimly did my deed,
and tidied the remains away
in the garbage,
no room for resurrection.

In the second before it died,
did it think of another world,
of better times, of palm fronds?
It probably had no time to decide:
roach or palmetto.
The label was up to us.

INRI
Word made flesh
and blood
and color

It’s the same thing,
almost.

Well, duh!

Hello Everyone,

Everyone has an inner voice that affects the way they do anything. The way you do your taxes and shop for clothes and participate in committee meetings all have something in common: You. And it is often only when you place activities next to each other that you realize a shared thread between them. That thread is your voice, and people who know you well can see it in you the way you can recognize a friend from far away because of the way he walks.

This is particularly true of your voice when you’re an artist of any sort, and even more so when you’re a commercial artist. You’re hirable partly because you have a consistency to your work that allows art directors, editors or companies to know what they’re getting. If I were hired for a project and the final art I gave the art director looked entirely different from what was in my portfolio, she would probably be less than enthusiastic about my spontaneous new artistic direction. When you buy a Beatles album, you want it to sound like the Beatles. When you buy an Eric Carle book, you want the pictures to look like Eric Carle made them.

For some people, the terms “voice” and “style” are interchangeable. Others think that your voice is relatively stable, whereas you can adopt different artistic styles as though you were changing outfits. My opinion is that it depends on the person. Some people really just draw one way and it reflects how they see and interact with the world. Others tend to draw in different ways, depending on the circumstances and on what they think that particular image needs. I think I fit more into the second category, which can be difficult when it comes to putting together a body of work that has a consistent style.

The fact that I have written about style several times since coming to SCAD reflects the amount of time I have spent thinking about it. Our program is designed to allow a fair amount of experimentation in the first year or so, and my work reflects a variety of techniques and approaches to drawing. I’ve been trying to narrow my focus this past year so that my work would begin to look more consistent. I’ve ended the last three quarters thinking that I have a good idea of where I’m going with my portfolio. I’ve then begun the last three subsequent quarters convinced that my work is all over the place and I feel like I must start completely from scratch.

This artistic oscillation comes in part from the many voices we have in the department. We often begin our courses by showing our work to the professors. “I like this one,” he or she will say. “Make your portfolio like that.” Then the next professor will choose a different one: “This one is great. Make your portfolio like that.” The variety of opinions among the professors is definitely a strength to the program, but sometimes I feel like drawing one of their names out of a hat and just going with whatever that one advises. This, of course, is the easy and inauthentic way out, but sometimes it sounds lovely.

The truth is, I’m somewhere between the two extremes: I certainly haven’t yet arrived at a style that is completely consistent, but I also am not completely lost. One thing that all my professors have told me is that I have good basic shapes in my images. My reaction is usually, “Well, duh! Isn’t that what the world is made up of?” But then I remember that not everyone sees the world as I do. Some people may draw a tree with intricate line work. Some may draw a tree by emphasizing a range of values. Some may draw a tree as a pattern of different textures. I apparently draw trees by plopping a short rectangles under triangles on the paper.

This sounds so elementary, so obvious. My inner cynic is saying, “You’re in graduate school, Mouse. You’re still getting excited that pictures are made up of shapes? What were the first 17 years of education for -- learning how to sharpen your pencil?” But for now, it’s helpful for me to think of my style in “Well, duh!” terms. It’s the very thing that I think is most blatant that best shows how I think and see.

At a teaching workshop last week, we talked about the personality types described in the well-known Myers-Briggs test. As I read the description of my personality type, I found myself thinking, “Well, of course. This isn’t saying anything about me. It’s just saying what the world is like.” And then I read that only 1% of the population falls in this category and thinks in this way. Oh.

Though it can be helpful to think through these issues (us INTJs like to do that, you know), they won’t ever be completely resolved. Plus, at the end of the day, there’s something to be said about just having fun with paint and trusting that your “You” will show up in the final result.

Here are a few examples of recent work I’ve done.

"The World's Largest Russian Doll (Or the World's Smallest Kremlin)"
gouache resist


"Savannah Bold," coffee bag design
mud, gouache resist and digital


"Whale Fountain"
gouache resist

"The Big Day"
mud and gouache resist

I’ve updated my website with more images from last quarter, if you’re interested. For the moment at least, I have been rather indiscriminate in my choice of what to include, so the variety of images I mentioned is reflected there. Eventually I’ll go through and prune it back to the essentials, but I’m going to make some more essentials first. It’s at www.clearasmudillustration.com.

Have a good week,
Sarah/Mouse

The Savannah Cyclist's Manifesto

Hello Everyone,

On Thursday night, I got in a minor bike accident. My friend Erin and I were independently biking to the Green Truck Pub for dinner and I saw her up ahead at a traffic light. I tried to get on the sidewalk so I could pull up next to her and we could bike the rest of the way together. The pavement was taller than I’d anticipated, so though my body was heading to the right, my front wheel kept going straight. I landed on my face, knee, hand and hip and the visor on my helmet popped off. “Oh no!” I said, and then attempted to fix my bike chain, which had been knocked loose, without getting too much grease in my scrapes. I called Erin and she kindly came and brought me napkins from the restaurant. Once there, I was able to clean up a bit and the server kindly provided some bandaids. Erin and I enjoyed a delicious dinner followed by a fascinating lecture on how the internet changes our brains.

Thankfully, I’m healing quickly and no longer look like I have an unfortunate case of oral herpes. For a while, I’ve been wanting to write a piece on cycling in Savannah and I figured now would be an especially appropriate time to do so. Plus, it’s been quite a while since I wrote a manifesto. Here it is:

The Savannah Cyclist’s Manifesto

Fellow bicyclists, join me as I petition Savannah and her guests for a moment of her time. We who love both economy and efficiency, who swim through the vehicular currents and torrents pulsing through downtown, who curse the cobbles and praise the pavement, we are the Savannah Cyclists.

One: Savannah Cyclists are equal members of the traffic conversation echoing through this loquacious city and are to be treated as such.

Two: Savannah Cyclists are pro-Lincoln, pro-Habersham, and anti-Broughton (and we are not talking Civil War politics).

Three: Savannah Cyclists arrive perspiring but find a parking space within seconds.
Four: Savannah Cyclists are particularly adept at biking one- or no-handedly due to their need to simultaneously tote mat board, Kroger bags, or yoga mats.
Five: Savannah Cyclists delight in coasting down the slight declines, locally known as “hills,” that are sprinkled throughout the city.
Six: Savannah Cyclists are pleasantly surprised every time they return to their bikes and both wheels and the seat are still attached.

We cyclists declare to our vehicular companions a message of peace, of dignity, and of efficiency:

-To the SCAD busses: We have done nothing to you but help to pay for your upkeep. Kindly desist from running us off the road.
-To the tourists (either walking or on Segways): Yes, Savannah is a gem. She’s stunning, gorgeous, charming, and many other adjectives your book hasn’t even conceived of. She is also best appreciated from the side of the street.
-To the myriad tour guides driving fascinatingly slow-moving busses: You will get more tips if you don’t hit bikers during your tour.
-To the drivers entering the traffic circles around the squares who assume you have the right of way: It’s not you, it’s me.
-To the geriatric drivers who pause in the middle of a busy intersection to contemplate the meaning of life, the universe and everything: It’s 42. Let’s keep moving.
-To drivers who have recently parallel-parked: LOOK! I’m a bike this time, and car door beats bike, but next time I could be a U-Haul, and U-Haul definitely beats car door.
-To the horse-drawn carriages: We’re sure it’s awfully quaint up there in your turn-of-the-century buggy, but it’s awfully horse-urine-ish down here.
- To the cars that drive cautiously just behind you for three blocks at your exact speed: We could fit one of the smaller European countries in the space between me and the center of the street. I promise there is enough room for you to pass.
-To our fellow cyclists: Wear your helmets. Use bike lights at night. Don’t ride in the middle of the lanes; you’re giving us a bad reputation.

Finally, Cyclists and Non-Cyclists alike, remember the two things that unite us all:

1.) None of us can see around the parked cars when we’re trying to turn onto a road.

2.) The Savannah Transportation Annoyance Equations:

myself = in the right
everyone else = in the way

Remember that “everyone else” believes this too.

Have a good and safe week!

Sarah/Mouse

Conference

Hello Everyone,

This probably doesn’t come as too much of a surprise to you, but I am a total conference nerd. I love them. It doesn’t really matter what they’re about, as long as there is a bunch of people wearing name tags and carrying matching folders and going to sessions about a very specific topic that they all are passionate about.

Last week was my Spring Break, a much needed time after the most demanding term I’ve had at SCAD. But immediately after finishing up with classes, and before my parents came to Savannah for a great week-long visit, I raced down to Orlando, where I attended the International Conference for the Fantastic in the Arts. This was both much cooler and much nerdier than it sounds. It was nerdy because it was a giant collection of people from around the world who think writing, music, art and film are better when they contain elves and wizards and aliens. It was also nerdy because there were occasional werewolf howls that arose during the sessions or at particularly convivial meals.

On the other hand, it was cool because everyone took each other seriously. There were well-known writers and editors, as well as professors and graduate students from a wide range of institutions and backgrounds. There was a high level of scholarship, and it was such a treat to be around so many people who are so intelligent in an English-major-ish kind of way. In one of my favorite British comedy shows, one particularly pedantic character gets excited about an exhibition in a neighboring town on the “train timetables of the 1920s.” When I first heard this, I thought, “Well, that could be interesting, provided it was presented in the right way.” In other words, I am pathetically easily interested. However, if you throw children’s literature in the mix, I’m yours for life. At the conference, I was in the Children’s and Young Adult Literature and Art division, and I was able to attend sessions on topics ranging from food and commensalism in the Harry Potter series, menstruation (or the lack thereof) in the Twilight series and the resulting feminist implications, and the ethics of anthropomorphism in children’s books. SO COOL!

Even more exciting for me was the opportunity to present my own paper. During this last term, as I was worrying about when I was going to find time to write it, one of my SCAD friends tried to reassure me. She told me that her boyfriend presented at a conference a while ago, and that he wrote his paper in the hotel bathroom the night before (so as not to wake anyone up, I assume, or else perhaps he just thought it had better lighting). I swore I wouldn’t do this. I was taking this opportunity extra seriously and unlike with most of my college papers, I determined to leave time to at least proof read! No way was I going to write my paper in the bathroom the night before. And I’m happy to report that I didn’t! I wrote it in the lobby.

While I had done all of my research, I just didn’t have the time to put it all together until after I’d arrived in Orlando. I finished it at 4:00 am and presented it at 8:30 am. After I was done, anytime I wasn’t doing anything crucial like eating, showering or attending sessions, I fell asleep. I’m pretty sure that my two roommates were convinced that I was narcoleptic.

Assuming I remember correctly, I presented a paper on Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie.



I’ve mentioned this book on several occasions before, and it holds a special place in my literary heart. I first discovered it in my ninth grade English class around the same time I discovered how thrilling literary analysis can be. In retrospect, I’m not sure which led to which. Later, I chose to represent the book in my final self-portrait project for my painting class in college, just at the time when I was becoming excited about creativity.




In Haroun, one question haunts the title character throughout the book: “What’s the point of stories that aren’t even true?” his neighbor asks. This is a good question, and one that Rushdie himself was struggling with when he wrote it in exile from his family, friends and country. What’s the point of fiction? Does it actually affect its readers? Furthermore, what’s the point of fantasy, which in some sense is even less “true” than more realistic fiction? Why would several hundred people gather in a hotel near the Orlando airport for five days to discuss the fantastic in the arts?

Haroun eventually realizes that he too has no time for stories that aren’t true, but the truth he discovers is not merely factual. Its source is much deeper, and can be learned only through venturing so far outside of his normal existence that he can finally see his life for what it is. The only story worth telling is one that isn’t “only a story.”

I came away from the conference a little bit nerdier and a lot happier. I was quietly gathering ideas for my thesis, which I am beginning now that the Spring Quarter has officially started. I’ll share more about that once I’ve gotten a more clear idea of what I’ll be saying. So look for an email at about 4:00 am the night before it’s due.


Have a good week,
Sarah/Mouse

More Amazing Things

Hello Everyone,

Several months ago, I gave some highlights from my Amazing Journal, where I record the most amazing thing that happens each day. Since my workload the last few weeks has been quite heavy, and it’s only going to get more intense before the quarter ends, I thought this would be a good time to mention some of the amazing things that have happened since then. For one thing, it’s simpler than writing a whole new letter, and for another, it’s at times when I’m most stressed that I need to remember that I’m surrounded by truly wonderful and at times, ridiculous, things.

October 25, 2010: Today at dinner, Cindy got indignant about something and flung her chopstick at a neighboring patron.

November 4, 2010: Today I read that scientists have made early progress in inventing an invisibility cloak.

November 6, 2010: Today I learned that the average person in the States eats 126 lbs of sugar each year. That’s more than my body weight! And with all my Werthers, I could well see me being above the average . . .

November 7, 2010: Today I learned about these giant busses that will be made in China. They will straddle two lanes of traffic and cars will be able to pass through them as thought they were moving tunnels.

November 8, 2010: Today I found out that while Colin S. was in college, someone broke into his car, stole his Michigan basketball shorts and left a recipe for soup.

November 9, 2010: Today Colin J. told about how he was driving behind this old lady and he noticed her license plate said “Anus tart.” He got really grossed out and worked up. It took him a while to realize she meant “A nu start.” Oh boy.

November 14, 2010: Today I saw bikers who had flashing spinners on their wheels. Who says being safe isn’t fun?

November 18, 2010: Today Bri told us that her dad had been capturing chipmunks on their property and releasing them elsewhere. Her mom was convinced that they were returning, so her dad spray painted the captured ones pink so that they’d be able to tell if they ever came back. They didn’t.

November 19, 2010: Today Daddy sent me photos of an elephant getting attacked on its trunk by a crocodile. It dragged the crocodile out of the water and eventually got away with her baby who was also there. But it was just like the Just So Stories!

December 7, 2010: Today I learned that Julia Child used to be a shark frightener in WWII. She and others were employed by the Allies to keep sharks away from underwater bombs (which they kept exploding when they’d get too close). Dead sharks have a scent that repels other sharks, so she and the others used that.

December 14, 2010: Today at the post office, I overheard a short, rotund, elderly, ex-military German man say, “It’s not like anyone put a gun to your head and said, ‘You have to be a makeup artist.’” Never a truer word.

December 17, 2010: Today at the Costco fast food section, I saw a guy wearing a specially designed hair net on his chin strap. He was also wearing a normal hair net. Hot.

January 10, 2011: Today Becky had her hands full and asked if I could open her bedroom door for her. As my hand got about a foot from the doorknob, the door opened on its own!

January 14, 2011: Today a helicopter landed in the parking lot across from the police station.

January 17, 2011: Today I found a website called Spokeo that gives you name, contact information and other personal information for people all over the country. It knew my age, my address in Spokane, how much the house is worth, who my family members are . . . creepy. It also thinks I’m married.

January 22, 2011: Today Erin told me that in a history test in high school, she was asked “What enemy of the French did Napoleon never defeat?” She misunderstood, thinking it was asking, “What French enemy . . .” So instead of Russia, she put “syphilis.”

January 29, 2011: Today a lady on a bike used one of those super corny cartoonish hooter things to signal she was going by. I didn’t know those still existed.

February 5, 2011: Today I read that Malawi is banning farting in public.

February 15, 2011: Today the bottle of ink I ordered arrived. It’s 32 oz, the same as my water bottle. Let’s hope I don’t get confused.

February 18, 2011: Today it got very smokey all afternoon and it was raining ash. Erin and I think it was from a fire that burned 10 acres yesterday when a trailer near a meth lab exploded several towns away.

February 19, 2011: Today the first National Tree Climbing Competition was held in Forsyth. There were about 70 contestants and the participated in five events. They said things like, “Think like a squirrel,” and “Your mother’s a beanbag.” They all wore bright colors and helmets. I think I’ve found my calling.

February 25, 2011: Today I saw a sort of a wagon vehicle downtown that had a long elevated kitchen table and chairs around it. People sat at the chairs and pedaled and that moved everyone along. They even had drinks at the table. Classy.

Have an amazing week,
Sarah/Mouse

Heroes 7-13

Hello Everyone,

Firstly, I apologize for the huge delay since I last wrote. The past few weeks have been very full with projects and other work, and I haven’t had much of a chance to stop and think, let alone stop and write. Several weeks ago, I talked about the picture book Of Thee I Sing, by Barack Obama and Loren Long, which highlights thirteen people whose stories have impacted the United States in various ways. I decided that it might be a helpful exercise to come up with a similar list of heroes, people who I don’t know, but whose examples and words have inspired and changed me. Last time, I talked about six of them, and now I’ll finally finish the list.


7.) Salman Rushdie:


I first discovered this writer as a freshman in high school, when we were assigned to read Haroun and the Sea of Stories. This remains one of my favorite books of all time, so much so that I will be presenting a paper on it at a conference in March. Rushdie has received numerous accolades and threats as a result of his writing, and for a while, had to live underground in Britain. His writing rings with his passion for free speech and his belief in the power of stories. He has an energy and excess of language that showcases the ability words have to breathe life into us.

8.) Amy Poehler:


Having never gotten into Saturday Night Live, I was introduced to this comedic actress only recently, but my opinion of her continues to rise. (The fact that my life is often frighteningly like that of her character on the show “Parks and Recreation” is entirely beside the point.) I find her very funny, and that’s usually enough to be liked in my book. But what I love most about her is that she is using her fame and talents for a cause outside herself. Last year, she and two of her friends started a series of webisodes called “Smart Girls at the Party,” which highlights talented girls who are, as the show’s tagline boasts, “changing the world by being themselves.” Poehler’s show celebrates individuality and intelligence, encouraging girls to resist the pressure to conform to peer pressure or societal norms. (Check out some episodes from the show at http://www.smartgirlsattheparty.com/video/video/listTagged?tag=episode)

9.) Frederick Buechner:


If Karl Barth (see previous letter) taught me about the simplicity of faith, this preacher-writer taught me about the subtleties of faith. I have liked everything of his that I’ve come across, but his Wishful Thinking, a theological alphabet book, is particularly stunning. He has a way of pairing mystery and the quotidian so that they both become more real and more sacred. His picture of Christianity leaves a lot of room for doubt, and he has taught me that doubt can be a healthy counterpoint to belief, and that their conversation comprises faith.

10.) Desmond Tutu:


This man was one of the main advocates for change during the Apartheid era in South Africa, and he remains an icon around the world for peace and justice. He exudes joy, and has a mischievous spirit. He is fearless in decrying injustice and yet remains humble, recognizing that any voice or authority he has comes from Outside himself.

11.) Eric Carle:


Eric Carle’s books have played a prominent role in my life since before I could read. Their bright colors and explanation of an underlying order in the natural world attracts children from across the globe. As I have gotten older and am studying picture books more systematically, I have become more and more impressed with his work. Beginning with his famous The Very Hungry Caterpillar, he has continually blurred the boundaries between books and toys, between science and story. Unlike some picture book creators, his primary audience is always the child.

12.) John Newton:


The story of this slave-trader turned abolitionist and hymn-writer is well known even in secular circles, but it remains one of the most powerful reminders to me that anyone can change, even if this change can take an entire lifetime to occur. It was over thirty years after Newton retired from the slave trade and over forty years after his conversion to Christianity that he began to speak out against slavery. I see the beautiful irony that “Amazing Grace” has a particular home in the African American spiritual tradition as proof that when God changes a person, the effects can resound throughout history. The final (and, I think, the most beautiful) verse of the hymn as we know it today was not written by Newton, but was adopted from an African American song: When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, than when we first begun. I suppose in light of eternity, thirty or forty years doesn’t seem quite so long.

13.) Tacky the Penguin:


There once lived a penguin. . . . His name was Tacky. Tacky was an odd bird. This book, written by Helen Lester and illustrated by Lynn Munsinger is my favorite picture book of all time. I love the pictures. I love the words. I love the story they both relate. I love reading it aloud to children. I even ended up using it for a theater audition in college. (I didn’t know I was supposed to have a piece prepared and it was the only thing I had memorized. I performed it with flair and vigor, I must say, and the director was duly impressed. The show was about suicide, however, and Tacky didn’t have quite the right tone. Needless to say, I didn’t get the part.) But as much as I denounce didacticism in children’s books, it is the moral of this book that I love the most: Only by being yourself, Tacky says, will you be able to help others.

And there you have it. Thirteen people who have changed me in one way or another. Who are your heroes?

Have a good week,
Sarah/Mouse