closelycloselylook

Who’s right? Who’s wrong?

What’s the right choice?

Sometimes, growing up seems so

full of questions. What’s the right

decision? Who should I be friends

with? What kind of person do I

want to be? Every writer in this

unit has things to say about the

choices you face. Read closely and

get some help finding a voice of

your own.

76 Look Closely

Ahdri Zhina Mandiela

i/used to bea lot of things

now/i ammore

Focus Your LearningStudying these poems willhelp you:n represent key ideas of

the poems in a collagen identify and compare

the use of imagery,figures of speech, andmessages

Raymond Souster

As you walk out deep into nightfeel how the trees are leaning overto watch you on your way.

Hear dead leaves hiss and crackleas you twist them underfoot,as winds whip and shuffle them.

See how each streetlight playsat being the ultimateall-too-solemn moon.

Sense that all lighted housesstand ready, each one waitingyour firm knock on the door.

Know without lifting your eyesone star up there will burnbrighter than the rest for you.

Look Closely 77

Tsuboi Shigeji

I may be silent, but

I’m thinking.

I may not talk, but

Don’t mistake me for a wall.

The Young Canadian by D.P. Brown

78 Look Closely

1. Make a collage entitled “What I Can

Become.” Include key words or phrases

and images from each of these poems.

2. Choose two of these poems and compare

them in terms of imagery, figures of

speech, and message. Start by organizing

your ideas in a chart and then write your

comparison in several paragraphs.

A c t i v i t i e s

Charlotte Zolotow

The summer

still hangs

heavy and sweet

with sunlight

as it did last year.

The autumn still comes

showering gold and crimson

as it did last year.

The winter

still clings

clean and cold and white

as it did last year.

The spring

still comes

like a whisper in the dark night.

It is only I

who have changed.

Look Closely 79

TheScreamD I A N A J . W I E L E R

Focus Your LearningReading this short storywill help you:n read for detailn create a dramatic

monologuen use a thesaurus to

extend yourvocabulary

n practise using newvocabulary

Eliza had never been in a drama class. Now that she

was here, she was certain it was a mistake. Absolutely

certain. There were no desks and no blackboards, no papers or

books. The big room was empty, except for a platform at one end,

raised eight inches above the shiny hardwood floor. At the other

end of the room there were mirrors, a whole wall full, so that you

had to see yourself, every time you glanced up.

This isn’t going to work! Eliza thought, flattening herself against

the wall, her binder clutched over her chest. At thirteen, Eliza wasn’t

on friendly terms with mirrors. She was too tall and too skinny;

her elbows and shoulders stuck out like sharp corners. She was on

medication for eczema, but it wasn’t helping. No matter what creams or

lotions she spread on, her skin was forever white, dry and scaly.

“Lizard skin.” Eliza jumped, but no one was even looking at her.

Most of the boys and girls were clustered in tight groups in the centre

of the room. She knew some of them from last year, grade six.

“This is going to be a blast—no homework or books. Just do

plays and stuff. What a cinch!” That was Todd Zudder. Eliza

remembered he had pushed her once, in the stairwell at their old

school. She had fallen down five stairs.

“So I bumped into her,” Todd had shrugged in the principal’s

office. “I’m clumsy. What can I say?” Eliza was still frightened of

stairwells, and Todd Zudder.

“Maybe we can get marks for plays we’ve already been in,” said

Melissa Downing. Eliza knew Melissa had already been Baby Bear in

The Three Bears, the witch in Hansel and Gretel, and the Snowflake

Queen in the grade six Christmas pageant.

How am I going to get out of this? Eliza wondered, her heart

thumping. She’d never been in any plays, she’d never even taken

baton lessons. How could she cope in this empty room that didn’t

have any desks? What if they all had to sit on the floor and no one

would sit near her?

“Lizard skin.” Eliza flinched but pretended she didn’t hear. She

had practice at pretending like that.

Bang! The chatter stopped abruptly and everyone looked up.

“Thank you,” said the teacher, who had slammed the door. “My

name is Mrs. Draginda. Don’t forget it because I’m not going to write it

down. First of all, take off your shoes and set them against the wall.”

There were groans and cries of, “Whew! What a stink!” Eliza set

down her binder and untied her sneakers with trembling fingers. Did

her socks match, did they have any holes? Oh, why hadn’t she thought

about her socks this morning?

“You will take your shoes off every time you come into this

room,” Mrs. Draginda said, limping up onto the platform. “I want you

to be able to feel the floor under your feet.”

80 Look Closely

One of her legs is shorter than the other, Eliza thought suddenly.

It seemed to be what everyone was thinking. Mrs. Draginda looked out

at the group with piercing blue eyes.

“I’ll tell you two things right now,” she said. “I had polio when I

was young, so you don’t have to ask. And I hate grade sevens. Grade

sevens are silly and loud and inhibited.” The room started to grumble

but Mrs. Draginda cut them off.

“That’s right, inhibited. Here’s your chance to prove me wrong.

Everyone, begin walking in a circle—now!”

It was a command. Eliza leapt up and joined the circle of

whispering children. No one had ever met anyone like Mrs. Draginda.

They didn’t understand her. After all, teachers never came out and said

they hated grade sevens. Teachers weren’t supposed to hate anybody.

This is going to be awful, Eliza thought numbly, marching around

with the rest of them. No desks, no shoes, and a teacher who hated

her, right from the start!

“Now, take proud steps. Walk like kings and queens,” Mrs.

Draginda called. Eliza didn’t know how queens walked, but she was

pretty sure they didn’t leap, the way Melissa Downing was. Melissa

was prancing and lunging, a cross between a Snowflake Queen and a

swordfighter.

“Don’t dance—walk! When I want ballerinas, I’ll ask for them.”

Melissa stopped leaping, her mouth set in a tight line. Mrs. Draginda

had them walk like kings, then crawl like insects. She had them reach up,

as high as they could, then collapse to the floor. Eliza wasn’t very good at

reaching, but she knew how to fall. She knew the feeling of her arms and

legs losing power, she knew what it was like to melt helplessly to the floor

in a heap. She did that sometimes when she got home from school, when

the door to her room was closed and no one would hear her cry.

Todd Zudder thought collapsing was funny.

“Argh! I’m shot, I’m shot!” he groaned, falling straight forward

like a mannequin. Some of the kids laughed.

“Save the theatrics,” Mrs. Draginda snapped, “or you’ll be doing

them out in the hallway—without an audience.” The giggles died away.

Look Closely 81

Eliza was thinking about Mrs. Draginda’s limp. At first she’d felt

sorry for the teacher, but she didn’t now.

No one would make fun of her—they wouldn’t dare, Eliza

thought. She remembered the icy blue eyes, how they could freeze

you where you stood. It’d be a good thing to have eyes like that.

“All right, everyone back in a circle,” Mrs. Draginda said, limping

into the middle of the room. “We’re going to scream.”

The class fell silent. Eliza wondered if she’d heard right. What

were they going to do?

Mrs. Draginda was in the centre of the circle, her arms folded

over her chest. She didn’t look pleased.

“I told you grade sevens were inhibited,” she sighed. “Everyone

face inwards. When I point at you, I want you to scream, as loud and

hard as you can. No waiting, no pauses, just give me a good primal

scream.”

She pointed at Todd Zudder. For a moment he was silent, startled,

then he broke into a Tarzan yell.

“Out!” Mrs. Draginda jerked her thumb towards the door. “I’ll see

you after class.”

“Hey, wait. I was just …”

“Out!” the teacher demanded again, turning her back to him.

She pointed at another girl. Todd stomped out and the girl screamed.

It was a high, breathy wail, like a starlet in a science fiction movie.

“Next!” Mrs. Draginda cried, cutting her off. One after another

the students screamed, each sound flowing into the next as the teacher

pointed around the circle.

Eliza was panicking. She had never screamed, not out loud. She

couldn’t even remember shouting. She had yelled inside her own

head a hundred times, but that was different. Now everybody would

be watching her, hearing her. The pounding in her ears was so loud it

hurt.

“You,” Mrs. Draginda said. Eliza closed her eyes. The sound came

from the pit of her stomach and tore up through her throat, vibrating

in her chest. She could feel something ripping inside her, like a piece

82 Look Closely

of paper being torn in half. It felt good. She pushed in her stomach

muscles and the sound went on and on and on until …

Silence. Eliza opened her eyes, gasping. Oh no! Everyone was

staring at her. Even Mrs. Draginda seemed frozen to the spot, a statue

with parted lips. Then she came to life.

“Now that was a scream!” the teacher said. “That’s what I want

the rest of you to work towards. When I ask you for more, think of

that scream.”

The teacher stopped talking, but her eyes held Eliza’s for a long

moment. For the first time, they didn’t look cold. The girl felt a warm

glow in her stomach, the same place the scream had started.

The class was over too soon. As Eliza pulled on her shoes and

picked up her books, she could feel the others watching her. They

were whispering; Eliza caught fragments like, “Did you ever?” and

“Who would’ve thought…” She knew they weren’t talking about her

skin or her bony elbows. Eliza stepped out into the hallway, brushing

lightly past the surprised face of Todd Zudder.

Look Closely 83

1. What is it about Mrs. Draginda and her class that allows Eliza to

scream as she does? Work with a partner to list as many clues as

you can find in the text.

2. Create a personal monologue in which Eliza describes her

experience in the class. Be sure to explain how she feels after the

scream. Try to make the monologue as dramatic as possible. Be

prepared to present it to some of your classmates or tape it for

others to hear.

3. Use a thesaurus or other source to collect as many adjectives as

possible to describe the atmosphere in the classroom both before

and after Eliza screams. Then write at least two paragraphs

comparing the atmosphere at the start and end of the class.

A c t i v i t i e s

84 Look Closely

To Prince Edward Island Alex Colville

National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa, purchased 1966.

Look Closely 85

Focus Your LearningExamining this painting will help you:n identify with a character in a paintingn examine images and techniques used by the artist

1. Put yourself in this woman’s position.

Describe what you see.

2. Think of a range of activities for which

you might use binoculars. What

difference do binoculars make to your

perspective on life? How do the

binoculars make you, as viewer of this

painting, feel? How does the

composition of this painting contribute

to the way you respond?

A c t i v i t i e s

86 Look Closely

Tradition C I V I A N E C H U N G

Focus Your LearningReading this story will help you:n interpret a character’s point

of viewn seek and respond to diverse

opinions and ideasn experiment with dialogue

and role play

She reads her book in silence as her mother

shrills at her in Chinese. At first, she tries to

listen, but her mother’s harangue goes on far too long.

The girl gradually loses interest. She has perfected a

technique of looking utterly disdainful, in hopes that the

annoying buzz that is her mother will give up and go

away. Or shut up.

“You never pick up after yourself. When are you going

to put away that cookbook and the pot you used? And the

phone book. It’s still lying on the table.”

Frustrated, the daughter takes her textbooks and leaves the room,

the faint sound of her mother’s voice trailing after her as she climbs

heavily up the stairs.

“Take out the garbage, it’s—”

She shuts the door to her room.

The school newspaper has been published and delivered, by hand.

The praise that leaves its glow on her still remains when she enters

the house. Happily she searches out her mother. She needs to brag.

Shamelessly, she is fishing for compliments. She hasn’t had enough

flattery.

Mother is in her room reading a novel. Daughter shows her the

inked newsprint, an offering.

“Na, ma, nay tai.”

Mother, look.

There is only a slight, distracted reaction. The girl persists, she

turns the paper to the back and shows her mother the comic strip her

brother, her mother’s son, has drawn.

“Brian did it.”

And to everyone, her mother tells this. Proudly. Showing off. It

doesn’t matter that her daughter is the editor. In chief. She has

forgotten. Or maybe it never mattered.

Beaming with undisguised pride, she hands her mother her report

card. Her mother doesn’t understand the strange form but refuses

to admit it. She gives the sheet of paper a cursory glance before

returning it.

“Show it to your father.” Insistently, the daughter tries again.

“Look mom, the mark I got in politics,” pointing to the highest

mark on the page.

Sharply. “What subject is that?”

Gesturing aimlessly in confusion, she racks her mind, leafing

with shaking hands through her cultural dictionary, looking for the

word. Politics, politics…

Look Closely 87

“Governments. It’s like studying governments,” she replies in

broken Chinese.

“What is it good for?”

“Good for?” Lost, she can’t answer. “I don’t know.” Stuffing the

sheet back into its crisp envelope she wanders vaguely out of the room.

Defeat.

She likes her room. The welcome stillness calms her raging

nerves. She is trying not to think, but her mind goes over the words

again. And again. Insistent. Unrelenting. She is contemplating what it

is that she has done wrong to merit unending criticism. Why does her

mother hold such spite towards her achievements, towards her? She

cannot understand. Nor can she remember when there was any sort

of encouragement. She berates herself savagely for not speaking her

mind. But the self-chastising has been done before and nothing has

come of it. The elusive maternal acceptance continues to shun her.

She is lying on her bed, head nestled in her arms, her nose

tucked snugly in her elbow. She inhales deeply. And releases her

breath in a drawn-out sigh. She remembers asking her mother what

she wished for her to do with her life.

“Whatever you want.” Which was no help. And wasn’t true. She

joked once that maybe she would become a lawyer. Ever after, her

mother dropped hints and made comments.

She had never been impressed by her daughter’s interest in

writing. Somehow that hadn’t been a surprise.

All her accomplishments crumbled and grayed and were

revealed for what they really were under her mother’s disinterested

gaze: a certificate was nothing but a colourful piece of paper, a

well-written essay nothing but ink on paper. Broken Chinese

versus broken English, with neither able to quite master the other.

It had never been easy to talk to her mother. The stumbling stilted

conversations limited to abrupt sentences. Those simple, inadequate

words that failed to express all the emotions and thoughts meant to

pass between a mother and daughter. They were as two separate

88 Look Closely

Look Closely 89

1. Write two diary entries from the perspective of the daughter. The

first entry should be made at a time when the girl is angry with her

mother over one of the events mentioned in the story. The second

entry should come at the end of the day, after the girl has overheard

her mother’s comments. In your second entry, use some of the

language included in the last few paragraphs of the story.

2. In pairs, write a role play depicting the interaction between mother

and daughter. Your role play must be true to the characters as they

are presented in the story. Then write a role play as if there were no

communication barrier between the two, in which both “speak their

minds.”

A c t i v i t i e s

planets of the same material, circling warily around each other.

Years, decades, millennia pass without contact.

At an aunt’s house, the adults are clustered in the dining room. They are

talking about shopping; about where to get the best prices for groceries.

And they are talking about their children. As the daughter walks by on

her way to the bathroom she catches the wafting words.

“My daughter,” complains her mother. “She always so busy, I

barely see her. Always working or at school doing the newspaper and

things like that.” In surprise, the daughter hears the unmistakable pride.

In front of others, her mother boasts in the traditional Chinese way,

never seeming to approve, but the complaints are two-sided. Although

they are said in an exasperated manner, they are nonetheless a sort

of ...praise.

The girl pauses, the reason for her present journey forgotten. She

returns to the living room where the younger generation amuses itself.

A cousin asks in puzzlement, “Why the smile?”

She settles comfortably into a chair, making herself at home.

“Oh ... nothing.”

It was a while before I realized that Miss Nelson

was calling on me. My turn at last to read what I

had written. I got up and started to read, my voice shaky at

first, but since the sound of my own voice had always been a

calming potion to me, it wasn’t long before I was reading in

such a way that, except for the chirp of some birds, the hum

of bees looking for flowers, the silvery rush-rush of the wind

in the trees, the only sound to be heard was my voice as it

rose and fell in sentence after sentence. At the end of my

90 Look Closely

Focus Your LearningReading this novel excerptwill help you:n interpret the text in

light of your ownexperience

n discuss yourinterpretation witha group

n prepare a choralreading

from

“Gwen”From the novelAnnie John

J A M A I C A K I N C A I D

reading, I thought I was imagining the upturned faces on which were

looks of adoration, but I was not; I thought I was imagining, too,

some eyes brimming over with tears, but again I was not. Miss Nelson

said that she would like to borrow what I had written to read for

herself, and that it would be placed on the shelf with the books that

made up our own class library, so that it would be available to any

girl who wanted to read it. This is what I had written:

“When I was a small child, my mother and I used to go down to

Rat Island on Sundays right after church, so that I could bathe in the

sea. It was at a time when I was thought to have weak kidneys and a

bath in the sea had been recommended as a strengthening remedy. Rat

Island wasn’t a place many people went to anyway, but by climbing

down some rocks my mother had found a place that nobody seemed

to have ever been. Since this bathing in the sea was a medicine and

not a picnic, we had to bathe without wearing swimming costumes.

My mother was a superior swimmer. When she plunged into the

seawater, it was as if she had always lived there. She would go far out

if it was safe to do so, and she could tell just by looking at the way the

waves beat if it was safe to do so. She could tell if a shark was nearby,

and she had never been stung by a jellyfish. I, on the other hand,

could not swim at all. In fact, if I was in water up to my knees I was

sure that I was drowning. My mother had tried everything to get me

swimming, from using a coaxing method to just throwing me without

a word into the water. Nothing worked. The only way I could go into

the water was if I was on my mother’s back, my arms clasped tightly

around her neck, and she would then swim around not too far from

the shore. It was only then that I could forget how big the sea was,

how far down the bottom could be, and how filled up it was with

things that couldn’t understand a nice hallo. When we swam around

in this way, I would think how much we were like the pictures of sea

mammals I had seen, my mother and I, naked in the seawater, my

mother sometimes singing to me a song in a French patois I did not

yet understand, or sometimes not saying anything at all. I would place

my ear against her neck, and it was as if I were listening to a giant

Look Closely 91

shell, for all the sounds around me—the sea, the wind, the birds

screeching—would seem as if they came from inside her, the way the

sounds of the sea are in a seashell. Afterward, my mother would take

me back to the shore, and I would lie there just beyond the farthest

reach of a big wave and watch my mother as she swam and dove.

“One day, in the midst of watching my mother swim and dive, I

heard a commotion far out at sea. It was three ships going by, and they

were filled with people. They must have been celebrating something,

for the ships would blow their horns and the people would cheer in

response. After they passed out of view, I turned back to look at my

mother, but I could not see her. My eyes searched the small area of

water where she should have been, but I couldn’t find her. I stood up

and started to call out her name, but no sound would come out of my

throat. A huge black space then opened up in front of me and I fell

inside it. I couldn’t see what was in front of me and I couldn’t hear

anything around me. I couldn’t think of anything except that my

mother was no longer near me. Things went on in this way for I don’t

know how long. I don’t know what, but something drew my eye in one

direction. A little bit out of the area in which she usually swam was my

mother, just sitting and tracing patterns on a large rock. She wasn’t

paying any attention to me, for she didn’t know that I had missed her.

I was glad to see her and started jumping up and down and waving to

her. Still she didn’t see me, and then I started to cry, for it dawned on

me that, with all that water between us and I being unable to swim, my

mother could stay there forever and the only way I would be able to

wrap my arms around her again was if it pleased her or if I took a boat.

I cried until I wore myself out. My tears ran down into my mouth, and

it was the first time that I realized tears had a bitter and salty taste.

Finally, my mother came ashore. She was, of course, alarmed when she

saw my face, for I had let the tears just dry there and they left a stain.

When l told her what had happened, she hugged me so close that it

was hard to breathe, and she told me that nothing could be farther

from the truth—that she would never ever leave me. And though she

92 Look Closely

said it over and over again, and though I felt better, I could not wipe

out of my mind the feeling I had had when I couldn’t find her.

“The summer just past, I kept having a dream about my mother

sitting on the rock. Over and over I would have the dream—only in it

my mother never came back, and sometimes my father would join her.

When he joined her, they would both sit tracing patterns on the rock,

and it must have been amusing, for they would always make each

other laugh. At first, I didn’t say anything, but when l began to have

the dream again and again, I finally told my mother. My mother

became instantly distressed; tears came to her eyes, and, taking me in

her arms, she told me all the same things she had told me on the day

at the sea, and this time the memory of the dark time when I felt I

would never see her again did not come back to haunt me.”

I didn’t exactly tell a lie about the last part. That is just what

would have happened in the old days. But actually, the past year saw

me launched into young-ladyness, and when I told my mother of my

dream—my nightmare, really—I was greeted with a turned back and

a warning against eating certain kinds of fruit in an unripe state just

before going to bed. I placed the old days’ version before my

classmates because, I thought, I couldn’t bear to show my mother in

a bad light before people who hardly knew her. But the real truth was

that I couldn’t bear to have anyone see how deep in disfavour I was

with my mother.

Look Closely 93

1. What does the narrator mean when she says she has been “launched

into young-ladyness”? How are the conflicting emotions of her age

captured in this story? Discuss these questions in a small group, and

then write a short-answer response giving your views.

2. In a group, prepare a choral reading of this story. Try to capture the

narrator’s emotions and her changing attitudes as she begins to

grow up.

A c t i v i t i e s

94 Look Closely

How to Make Your Own

Focus Your LearningReading this magazine article will help you:n identify jargon and colloquial languagen compare web sites, considering the main

elementsn create a checklist for assessing web sites

Ihave built a place where I can say whatever I

want; where everything reflects my interests,

my likes, my dislikes, and my hopes and dreams.

(Parents: this is why I’m online every waking

moment!) And the best part is that no one can

see me, and I can’t see them! Wanna build your

own mental sanctuary? Here’s how:

Web Site!Some like to paint,some like to write,and others, well ...they like to build.The Internet is mypreferred medium,and building websites—my creativeoutlet.

G I S E L L E D E G R A N D I S

1) Choose a topic that interests YOU (that’s

who this place is for, right?) and collect

some info on it.

2) Get hooked up to the net! Sign up with

an ISP (Internet Service Provider) that

serves your area. If you are planning to

spend lots of time online (like me!) opt

for an “unlimited access” plan because

it won’t charge you by the hour.

3) Borrow a book from the library on

HTML (Hypertext Markup Language;

you’ll figure out what it is soon enough).

I recommend The Project Cool Guide to

HTML by Teresa Martin and Glenn

Davis. If you don’t even know basic

HTML you can’t do anything. Seriously.

4) Register to get a free web site space

at a place like Geocities (http://

www.geocities.com) or Angelfire

(http://www.angelfire.com) which

conveniently each have their own

editor and file manager. If you find

that you need more room for your

site you can always purchase a web

space from a number of online

companies, or through your ISP.

5) Do lots of browsing to get ideas. If you

find a really nifty trick on someone’s

page that you want to simulate (don’t

copy stuff; people get mad) on your

own, then click “View” on your

browser’s toolbar and scroll down to

“Page Source.” This will show you the

page’s HTML in full, and you can then

find the code you need within it (if you

look for a while).

6) If you still need some help with your

site, visit an online HTML guide or ask

the web-mistress of your favourite site

for some pointers. There are lots of

friendly people on the net.

7) Finally, work on your web site day and

night until it’s absolutely splendid! Add

a nice background, some attractive

graphics, meaningful links, and lots of

good reading content. Next, give your

site a catchy title, and then register to

have it listed in a big directory like

Yahoo! so you will get lots of visitors.

8) Now the best part. Gloat to all of your

friends about your web site, and allow

them to behold the fruit of your labour.

Make them jealous that they don’t have

a site too. And this is really annoying:

Look Closely 95

update your friends on a daily basis

about how many visitors your site has

had (the larger the number, the more

impressive!).

I think this quote (from Project Cool) nicely

sums up the web site experience: “What

you do with your Web space is limited

mostly by your imagination and the time

and effort you put into building it.”

So what are you waiting for? Get building!

Construction Tips:• Redecorate your site whenever you feel

like it; there is zero mess and zero cost.

• Make sure that you aren’t taking

copyrighted images and text from other

people’s sites. I know this may shock

some of you, but there are (some) rules

online!

• Choose tasteful backgrounds for your

pages. Don’t make your visitors blind

(unintentionally). And make sure your

text shows up on top of it.

• Don’t go overboard on Javascripts (they

make pop-up text, blinking colours and

other fun stuff) because it’s just plain

tacky, and it takes hours for the screen

to load.

• Check your spelling! It’s disappointing to

find errors on really well-designed pages!

• Don’t reveal your name, address, or

phone number on your web site because

you never know who’s going to be

looking at it.

• Update it often to keep your site

interesting (and visitors returning).

96 Look Closely

1. “Jargon” refers to the vocabulary used by

a particular group or profession. Identify

three examples of jargon in this article.

Rewrite these examples in more

conventional language. Then find three

examples of colloquial, or very informal,

language. As a class, discuss why jargon

and colloquial language are used in this

article and what effect they have on the

tone.

2. Visit at least three web sites bookmarked

by your teacher. Create an organizational

structure to record features of the web

sites. On the form you have created, note

those features you particularly liked and

those you disliked.

3. In groups, design an assessment checklist

that can be used to assess web sites. Use

the indicators you have decided are

important.

A c t i v i t i e s

Look Closely 97

Focus Your LearningReading these short pieces will help you:n explain connections between your own

experience and those in the textn work cooperatively in small groupsn create a brochure

These three pieces werewritten by students new toCanada. They were firstpublished in a book calledNew Canadian Voices.

car, someone in a car approached me and

asked, “Are you leaving?”

I was confused. I thought he said, “Are

you living here?” So I confidently said,

“No!”

But once we left there, the stranger

looked at me strangely. I didn’t know why

he did, but my sister explained the reasons

to me. I didn’t know the man wanted to

park in our spot. I was very embarrassed.

It was the first time that I had tried to

speak English with a Canadian.

Sung Ja Hong

Korea

Learning a

New Voice

Pronunciation ProblemWhenever I make a mistake in English, I

am anxious that my English will improve

quickly. A couple of months ago, maybe

my second day in Canada, I went to

Niagara Falls with my family.

After we had finished our sightseeing,

we were waiting for my father to open the

door of our car. When I stood beside the

Finding MyselfA lot of changes in myself began to occur

after I had been in Canada a few months.

My elder brother bought a phonograph and

we spent time listening to rock music every

day until late. My sister got to know some

foreign friends who had a car and my sister

and I would go out more often, neglecting

working in the store. I looked for a job, as

others did. I was busy involving myself in

a lot of new things and new ways of living.

Therefore, my parents started to restrict my

unlimited behaviour, such as going outside

often and coming in late and listening to

music all day, but I ignored them, and

attributed their actions to the fact that

they could not understand my new

circumstances and young people’s minds.

Our conversations became fewer and fewer.

As time went on, I slowly realized that

I had a language problem. At first it did

not seem serious because I thought it

would solve itself as time passed, but it

became more serious. I became afraid of

communicating with other people, and at

home there was a cold atmosphere.

Conversations had dried up because my

parents did not like the way we had acted.

Once I looked at some Korean magazines

and I felt it had been a long time since I left

and that I had changed a lot. I felt helpless

and started asking myself who I was. I

seemed to have lost my identity and I felt

that I did not belong to any country. I had

tried to accept every new thing and discard

all the things I had learned in Korea. I

decided to try to be myself.

I found that I could adapt to the new

circumstances and could change my way

of living, but that I could not change my

ideas that I had brought from my country.

It reminded me of an old Korean saying

telling us that a fish always lives in the

water he was brought up in, no matter

how his life may have changed.

Joseph Park

Korea

Language and CultureAs I went out the classroom door, I called

to my first English teacher, “Have a good

weekend.”

“I sure will!” said Mrs. McIntyre.

“I sure will” kept echoing in my mind

all weekend long. In fact it bothered me.

I could not understand at the time how

anyone could be so sure that they would

have a “good” minute or even a “good”

second, let alone a whole weekend. But

98 Look Closely

then again I had only been in Canada for

four months and indeed had only spoken

English for four months.

I do not intend to comment on the

language here. Language was not the issue.

Culture was.

In Lebanon, where I was born and raised,

if you wished someone a good weekend or a

good anything for that matter, the common

answer was, “I hope so.”

This is indeed a doubtful statement

suggesting a passivity, an inability to shape

the future. One may wonder why a

Lebanese would not say, “I certainly will,”

when being bid a good weekend. After all,

surely it must lie within the individual’s

power to determine the future. The

Lebanese do not lack a strong will—indeed

far from it. The fact is that for a Lebanese,

subconsciously perhaps, fate seems to be

an essential element in any plans for the

future and arrogant is the person whose

certitude allows him or her to actually be

“sure” about any moment of the future.

At the time I did indeed feel that Mrs.

McIntyre was being arrogant when she said

that she would have a good weekend. But

now, about one hundred moons later, I have

grown to perceive the expression of “will”

differently. In fact, I actually say, “I sure

will” whenever I am wished a “good time.” I

now feel that it is fine to “will” and not just

to “hope” although I know that the outcome

in either case is bound to be the same!

Michael Morad

Lebanon

Look Closely 99

1. Think about a time when you had to learn

something you found difficult. It might

have been the multiplication tables,

learning to play an instrument, or

learning a new language. Recall the

process you had to go through to learn

this new skill. Pay particular attention to

the difficulties you faced, the way you

felt, and the way in which you overcame

the difficulties. Record your experience in

a personal journal entry.

2. Working in small groups, brainstorm a list

of difficulties new immigrants face. Use

these short pieces as a source of some

ideas. Then create a six-panel brochure

showing ways in which people can be

helpful to new immigrants. Your brochure

should have an opening panel with a

catchy title and one helpful suggestion

on each of the remaining panels. You will

probably want to use an illustration and

simple text for each idea. If possible, use

a page-layout program to make your

brochure.

A c t i v i t i e s

100 Look Closely

If you were a Canadiannative in 1880 or atanother time in thepast, what would yourmagazine cover look like?What issues would befeatured on the cover?What would yourmagazine advocate?Do research to developyour ideas and makethem historicallyaccurate, and thencreate the cover.

I often do things with my family (e.g. go on

outings, work together)

What my parent(s) think of me is important

My parent(s) expect too much of me

My parent(s) understand me

Even when my parent(s) are strict, I feel

they are being so for my own good

I always consider how my actions will

reflect on my family

There are times when I would like to leave

home

Relationship with Parents (% of teens agreeing)

East Latin South

Caribbean Chinese European American Asian Canadian All

55% 58% 55% 58% 63% 51% 56%

76 76 81 86 86 76 78

28 38 31 36 42 26 33

47 43 53 58 50 49 48

63 67 67 74 67 53 62

52 49 47 63 61 37 48

53 45 47 40 37 46 44

Look Closely 101

Write a thirdline for thebutton. Startwith “We.”

Share with a partner aninstance in your life wherethis saying was true.

Create a t-shirtdesign that communicatessomething about your interests oryour personality. The caption foryour design must be alliterative.

Pressure is usually exhibited by yourpeers. What is this illustration prophesizingthe new form of peer pressure to be?

For the chart “Relationship with Parents,”conduct your own school-based survey usingthe same seven statements. Draw a bargraph comparing the school responses withthe responses from each room. In threesentences or less, give a brief synopsis ofwhat your chart means.

Sometimes I wonder what I’m really like, inside.

I feel as if I’m a mystery story, slowly revealing

a plot to myself, but always in doubt as to what the outcome

will be. I’d even reached a point where I figured it wasn’t a

bad idea to turn off. That way, I wouldn’t have to face facts,

wouldn’t have to accept the consequences of what to do.

102 Look Closely

Ride the Dark HorseM A R G A R E T B U N E L E D W A R D S

Focus Your LearningReading the story will help you:n consider different meanings

of the titlen create an illustrationn express your personal

understandingn write a poem

After all, if I didn’t do anything, who would know whether

I was broad-minded or prejudiced; a hero or a coward; capable or

disorganized. Well, that’s the way I used to think, until last summer.

Then I found myself riding a dark horse and listening to a message,

loud and clear, in that thundering water. Suddenly, I wanted to accept

the challenge. Here’s how it happened.

Right after breakfast, I left the Levesque Fishing Camp and

headed along the narrow shoreline of the St. Maurice River toward

Grandvue Rock. There I stood, my hands clenched deep in the pockets

of my green nylon jacket, staring at the rapids, which only yesterday

had dashed my hopes for a great holiday onto the rocks of my own

carelessness.

I’d been coming to this camp with my dad for three years now,

ever since I was thirteen. It’s no secret that the river takes a mean

turn at this bend, that the water plunges and rears over the shallows

until a deeper channel gentles it down again and it flows on swiftly to

Loretteville. I knew the danger, yet I drifted too close to the flecks of

foam where an undercurrent swung the bow of my canoe against a

jutting rock. The force tossed me, and some of the best fishing gear

I’d ever worked for, into the water. Luckily, it’s shallow there, but the

pressure of the rushing water had my legs trembling and me gasping

like a freshly hooked fish by the time I threw myself down onto the

nice solid shore.

Disgusted, I glared at the channel ahead. To one side, an artificial

sluiceway carried logs. To the other, the dark, racing water with its

curling, swirling manes of white froth made me think of a herd of

hard-sinewed horses. Well, when Dad got back from surveying timber

farther upriver, he’d give me the horse laugh, all right. I must be the

only dope around who’d forgotten that the dark water, even though it

looks wilder, is a better bet than the shallow, bubbling stretches that

mask a treacherous riverbed.

When I heard footsteps sliding on the rocky path behind me, I

straightened quickly, hoping that I looked merely nonchalant, instead

of discouraged.

Look Closely 103

Jean Paul Levesque scrambled up beside me. He’s big Joe’s son and

he’s been my friend for the past three years. “Bonjour, mon ami,” he

hailed me, his dark brown eyes sparkling. He was dressed as I was in

blue jeans, but his shirt was a bright red plaid. “I have good news for

you.”

“Oh, sure, my fairy godmother waved her wand and fixed my

staved canoe,” I commented sourly. “Then, using her magnetic

personality, she dragged the rapids for my fishing gear.”

“You Anglais,” Jean Paul shrugged. “Why do you talk so fast

that no one can understand, I do not make sense from your words.

But mon pere say, if you like, you can have small job helping me to

clear logs from the river. Soon you will earn enough to buy a new

canoe, n’est ce pas?”

For the first time since my accident, I began to feel good. I turned

away from the hypnotic, tumbling water and we started back to camp.

The St. Maurice is used as a workhorse, when it comes to getting logs

to the pulp mill at Loretteville. Though swift-flowing by nature, the left

side is even faster because extra water is released into it from a dam.

The logs literally race one another until they arrive, sleek and

glistening, at the mill.

Sometimes the big tree trunks flip out of the sluiceway and then

they float, half-submerged, a definite hazard to boats and canoes.

These are the strays that a good worker, with a strong arm and a pike

pole, can drag to the shore and reap a bounty from the mill owners.

The pay’s generous, so I figured it wouldn’t take too long to make

up my loss.

“Thanks, Jean Paul,” I grinned. “Your dad’s a great guy to offer

me a job.”

“The others around are all busy guiding the tourists,” he

explained. “So you and I have the river to ourselves.”

We explored for a while tracking back and forth, but never too far

from the shoreline. The bush is dense and the going heavy, unless you

can get into the open. Then we figured it might just be time for one of

104 Look Closely

Madame Levesque’s pancake lunches, complete with homemade

maple syrup.

She is a plump, good-natured woman with big expressive eyes,

which she uses to help her meagre knowledge of English. She rolled

them in concern when Jean Paul told her we were taking on the job of

timber salvage. A regular barrage of French pinned him into his chair

at the big kitchen table, where we were eating, but he just grinned and

shrugged. “Mama sees a bear behind every tree,” he explained, as we

waved goodbye and headed for the wharf. “Between the bears and the

river, we don’t stand a chance.”

“Aren’t you forgetting the black flies,” I asked, taking a swipe at a

cloud of the pests, while we pushed off. “I guess that’s what’s meant

when they say it’s the little things in life that get to you.”

By now, we were well into the current. My job was to sit in

the bow, pike pole at the ready, and keep an eye on the swift sun-

dappled water. The first log, although clearly visible, came at me so

fast the canoe lifted dangerously. We rode up on the tree trunk but I

managed to flail out, hook the bark and push with every ounce of

my strength. My arms were aching by the time I’d brought our

captive alongside. Jean Paul paddled expertly as we angled toward

shore with the log in tow.

“Bon,” he shouted encouragingly. “By the end of the week, you’ll

be strong enough to crack a bear’s ribs.”

“If I’m able to stand up, you mean,” I gasped, as we dragged the

log clear of the water.

One hour and ten logs later, we were both ready for a short rest. I

threw myself down on the narrow beach, thankful for the shade of the

maples crowding the shoreline. Jean Paul reached into the canoe and

took out his gear. I tried not to be envious at the sight of his fibreglass

fishing pole, with its smooth-running reel. “There’s a deeper spot back

a little,” he commented. “Think I’ll do some casting.”

I settled my head on my life jacket and closed my eyes. If those

blasted flies would leave me in peace, I intended to rest up for the next

bout with the river.

Look Closely 105

I must have dozed off because when my eyes snapped open, I

was aware that the shadows had lengthened and that something had

disturbed me. But what? Not one of Madame Levesque’s bears, surely!

Then the crashing, stumbling sound became clearer and I was on my

feet instantly. “Jean Paul,” I shouted and almost reeled back into the

river as he came blundering into sight. He was falling, even as I

reached him, and I could only help lower him to the ground.

My voice wouldn’t work as I stared at him. His face, covered

with blood, was pulled sideways and distended by a long, vicious

sliver of glistening metal. His casting lure must have snagged a low

branch and fallen back on him, I thought, feeling my stomach lurch

at the sight of him. The hooks were embedded above his eye and

through his cheek and seemed to be actually alive and evil, gleaming

there in the sunlight. He’d torn his shirt in his wild dash and long

cuts on his chest were wet and swelling. Already, a swarm of

insidious black flies hovered over the open wounds.

I heard my cracked voice whispering in disbelief. “What will I

do, what will I do,” I kept saying, over and over, as I yanked on my

life jacket and heaved at the canoe to ground it on the shore. The

canoe had to be steadied before I could get him into it. I couldn’t risk

jarring those hooks, so close to his dazed eyes. While I made him as

comfortable as possible on the bottom of the canoe, my mind was

racing like the sluiceway.

Should I try to battle the current upriver, to the camp? But the

men were in the bush and the thought of Madame’s screeching at the

sight of her son decided my course. l’d head for the doctor at

Loretteville.

The shore flashed past as I paddled at top speed, glad of some

physical action to counteract my mental turmoil. I was afraid of the

rapids and there would not be any second chances today. I had to be

ready to hit deep water as soon as we rounded the bend.

While I was still trying to get a grip on myself, I heard it. More

than ever, the water’s roar made me think of galloping horses and as

the noise thudded against my eardrums and paced the straining tempo

106 Look Closely

of my heartbeat, the two sounds seemed to merge into an inner

rhythm that exhilarated, even as it terrified me.

Jean Paul half struggled to sit up, then collapsed back again. “You will

nevair be able to make the portage with me,” he whispered in despair.

“Portage?” I made it sound like a word they used on Mars—a

word I’d never heard. “Keep low, mon ami, we’re going to ride a dark

horse.”

And then I was breathing deeply in the spray-filled air, my paddle

pressed hard back against the canoe to act as a rudder. Sweat oozed

from my clenched hands as we darted between the rock walls, the

water exploding over the shallow bed. The canoe trembled as she took

the first shock of rushing water but I knew what I was looking for. We

settled onto the nearest body, riding high beside the white foam mane.

Once there, away from the pale slate water bubbling above the sharp

stones, I held the paddle firm and guided the craft.

I suppose I breathed at least once before the bucking, straining

horse finally slowed from his gallop to a canter and then, effortlessly

slid us from his back. Personally, I was not conscious of using any

part of me except my eyes. My hair hung down, soaked by the tossing

spray, and I pushed it back as I swiped at my eyes with the back of

my hand.

By now, although the going was easy, I felt exhausted; and when

we finally glided to a smooth stop at the dock at Loretteville, I didn’t

have another ten metres left in me.

Work-roughened hands seemed to reach out from every direction

to help me to my feet, to ease Jean Paul from the canoe. The air was

thick with muttered curses as big, tough men tried to express their

sympathy for Jean Paul. More than one huge arm flailed my back in a

gesture of friendship and approval, and I wondered if I had escaped

the rapids only to be pounded to pieces by my new friends.

A taxi was called to take us to the hospital and I was trying to

think of enough French words to tell Madame Levesque on the

telephone that there had been an accident, but everything was okay.

Look Closely 107

I stared up the river for a long moment, warmed by the good feeling of

having come through in the clutch.

Then it struck me. What if I hadn’t given it a try? I’d never have

known what I could do for a pal, when he so desperately needed my

help.

l still feel like a mystery story inside. But now I’m not afraid to

look over the clues to my personality; I’m not fearful of taking the

action that will move the plot along. I know I’ll find out that there will

be times when I’m not a great guy; as well as times when I have what

it takes.

At least I’ll be doing, and living; and eventually, I may even

understand myself.

108 Look Closely

1. What does it mean when you call someone a “dark horse”? List at

least three different meanings of the title, and explain how each one

applies to the story.

2. Create a two-panel illustration. In one panel, illustrate the “dark

horse” in the river. In the second panel, represent the metaphorical

meaning of the dark horse. Then present your illustration to the

class. In addition to telling about your illustration, be prepared to

speak for 30 seconds about what a dark horse might represent for

you or your peers in real life.

3. Find two quotes, one from the beginning and one from the end of

the story, that show how the main character is transformed. Write a

poem that incorporates the meaning of the two quotations you have

chosen. You might wish to follow the structure of the poem “I Am.”

A c t i v i t i e s

It would happen without warning, but Angie did

not know that. Unaware, she carefully put the

finishing touches on her pale pink nails and checked her hair

once more—ready for another day. Her black stirrup pants and

her bright oversized hot pink sweater were the result of hours of

shopping with her mother. Planning and choosing her wardrobe

were serious issues for Angie. How she looked really mattered a

lot; it was something she could be good at if she tried.

Look Closely 109

My Name Is AngieB E V E R L E Y T E R R E L L - D E U T S C H

Focus Your LearningReading this story will helpyou:n analyse character

developmentn support your viewpoint

with evidencen create a tableaun summarize the

message of the storyn write a continuation of

the story

Her grades were a different matter, really a worry—four failures

on her last report card. Her parents were understanding and didn’t

push her; they knew she was struggling and doing as well as she

could.

School had never come easy for Angie. Many times she had

endured humiliation at the mercy of her classmates. She still cringed

when she recalled the terrible year she had spent in Grade Four with

Richard and Ian Carson, the twins. They had chanted, “Angie, Angie,

can’t pass can she!” over and over, dancing and hooting around her

with the wicked cruelty of young children. If she thought about it too

much even now, more than five years later, Angie could still feel the

sting of impending tears.

She had spent a second year in that grade, a second year with

the same impatient, frightening teacher who really didn’t seem to

have much time for her. She had hated and dreaded the Times Tables

Drills the most. She could never keep them all straight. Every

Thursday night she had practised for hours with her mother; Drill

Day was always Friday. The teacher made each child take a turn

standing at the front of the class. The children in their seats would,

one by one, up and down the rows, hurl a times table at the one up

front. Anyone making a mistake had to recite, out loud, the corrected

version a hundred times and then write it out another hundred times

for homework.

Angie always asked an easy one, like “two times three,” in hopes

that maybe the others would ask her easy ones too. Some did, but lots

of them showed off, asking really hard ones from the eight or nine

times table. Often, Angie had spent most of the weekend with one or

other of her parents sitting encouragingly next to her as she laboured,

hour after hour, writing out times tables at the dining-room table.

At last, the year and the Times Tables Drills were over and Angie

found, with something like surprise, that she had ultimately profited

from the misery. She had memorized all of the times tables, every

single one. Well, she still was a little shaky about “eight times nine”

unless she first recited in her head, “eight times eight is sixty-four,”

110 Look Closely

but then “eight times nine is seventy-two” usually came. If it didn’t,

she could always count on her fingers eight more than sixty-four,

but she had to be sure to keep her fingers still as she counted, just

pressing them gently against the desk top or her thigh. She didn’t

want anyone to see her fingers moving and guess what she was doing.

She didn’t want to be laughed at.

Angie had learned long ago to cover up a lot; by pretending she

was sure of herself, by not letting others know how she really felt or

what she didn’t know, she attempted to avoid censure and ridicule.

What she did most of the time was to sit in class very quiet and very

still and never, absolutely never, catch the teacher’s eye. In this way,

she tried to quietly disappear. Since starting high school, things were

a little better because she was called on in class only occasionally and

even then, the teacher didn’t know her name. They usually singled

her out by referring to “the blonde girl with the blue jacket on,” or

whatever.

Angie almost always knew when she was about to be called

upon. She could tell, even without glancing up, if the teacher was

looking her way by the directness of the sound of the voice. Then

there would be a long pause as they tried to think of her name and

couldn’t. Angie’s heart always started pounding during this silent

pause.

Once, while waiting for the fatal words, with eyes down, staring

at sweaty hands, she was surprised to find that one part of her panic-

frozen brain was busy reciting the times tables in an objective,

disconnected sort of way. That day she had discovered a trick, a life-

saving mind game. If she just made herself think about something

other than how afraid she was, she found she could sort of sidestep

the panic. It was still there, but just because it was there didn’t mean

she had to look it full in the face—she could look in another direction.

She learned to turn to the unchanging pattern of the times tables.

Strange how an old enemy had become one of her best friends.

The multiplication tables were the perfect soother. She recited them

starting at “once times one” and worked right up to “twelve times

Look Closely 111

twelve” if she had to, each one rolling off in memory like a familiar

name, a favorite pebble turned over and over, smooth and round and

cool. Of course, if the teacher actually asked her a question, the

numbers fell away as panic flooded back again, wide-eyed and

trembling. But some comfort, even if short-lived, was better than

none.

“Angie, darling, breakfast is ready!” her mother’s voice cut across

her thoughts.

“Coming, Mom.”

Angie lived just a few miles from the farmer who drove the school

bus. He was a little late this morning; the roads were clogged with

snow and ice from last night’s storm, but finally the bus lumbered into

view and Angie climbed on. She sat alone, as usual. There weren’t

many kids on yet, but as they got closer to the school, pickup stops

became more frequent and soon the bus was almost full. Angie had

never yet had a boy sit next to her. It was something she dreaded.

Every day as the seats gradually filled up, she prayed that it would

be a girl who took the seat beside her.

“Please, God, don’t let him sit here. Oh, please don’t let him!”

She always watched what was happening in the window’s reflection

beside her.

“Please, God, make it be a girl … make it be a girl!”

So far, it had worked. It worked again this morning. Alex sat beside

her—beautiful, clever, popular Alex. Alex was vice-president of the

Student Council this year. Angie shifted a shy sideways glance to see

whether a smile would be returned. It wouldn’t; Alex was already busy,

her head bent into her French text. Angie looked back out the window

to the reflection of Alex coasting along in the air a few feet away.

“She’s so pretty and so smart … love the dangling pompom on

her toque … love how it dances when we hit a bump … heard her tell

her friends her grandma knit it for her. She’s got so many friends, girls

and boys, too … bet she even goes out with boys. She seems so brave

around them, always laughing and having fun. Maybe if Mom knit me

112 Look Closely

a toque with a dangling pompom …” Angie drifted off into her

thoughts, still looking out her window, sometimes at Alex’s composed

studious reflection, sometimes out past that to the fence posts,

pastureland and trees sliding by.

Angie knew the landscape by heart, each grove of trees, which

fields had sheep and which had cattle. She had read the same

mailboxes and gazed at the same farmhouses every day except

weekends for almost six months now. She found the familiar journey

reassuring in its sameness and predictability. It was a quiet time for

her to think her own thoughts with no outside demands—a quiet time

to build up her resources and prepare for the day ahead.

Now they were at the top of the last big hill before the road

swooped down and over the bridge on the final lap before reaching

the school. All the pickups had been made. No more stops now till

they were there.

Angie felt the bus gathering speed as it rumbled down the hill

toward the bridge. Anyone would think they’d have made the bridge a

little sturdier over such an angry and hostile-looking stretch of water. It

was always frothing and foaming, leaping up around the scarred banks

as if intent on escaping. Even now, in the dead of winter, the stretch

upriver from the bridge remained open, lashing and tugging at the

great, frozen chunks it had earlier thrown up in disgust on the banks.

Further down, below the bridge, the surface had reluctantly frozen, but

the heart of the angry blackness was alive, just inches below, ready to

snatch away anything or anyone foolish enough to come close.

Any second now, and they’d be on the bridge. Angie always

hated the hollow rumble they made as they crossed. It made the

bridge seem even less substantial somehow.

If it hadn’t been for the driver’s quick reflexes when they hit

the patch of ice on the bridge, the bus would have been right over

the side. But, he did all the right things. He steered into the skid, then

corrected; steered into the skid the other direction and corrected again,

but it wasn’t quite enough. There was a horrible, jarring crash; metal

being crushed; glass shattering. Finally, they slid to a quivering stop,

Look Closely 113

only the back wheels left on the bridge. The front third of the bus was

hanging at an angle, out over the wild water below. A sudden gust of

wind moaned through the smashed guardrails and set the bus rocking,

like a teeter-totter, softly rocking in a terrifying caricature of all the

lovely, gentle things usually associated with being rocked.

Not a sound. Complete, frozen silence.

“Don’t anybody move! Just sit real still, everybody. We’re okay as

long as we just hold tight.” It was the driver’s voice, a hoarse, trembling

voice trying not to tremble. Angie recognized the sound of fear. She had

heard it enough in her own voice many times.

“Just sit still, kids, we’ll be okay. Just don’t panic. A transport

truck has seen us; he’s stopped; he’ll radio for help. Just hang on

kids …”

Angie was pushed forward and sideways by the angle of the bus.

She could clearly see the river rushing by below, deep and dark and

waiting …

“I’ll just sit very, very still and be very quiet …” This terrified

animal posture was nothing new to Angie; she did it every day in

every class.

Awful, little, strangled, throaty noises from somewhere nearby …

“I can’t! I can’t! … let me out … I want to go, I want to get out!” The

voice rose almost to a scream. It was Alex. She started to get up; a

shudder from the sudden movement ran the whole length of the bus.

Her books slithered from her lap, hit the floor and slid several seat

lengths forward, down toward the gently dipping and swaying nose

of the bus. Finally, catching on something, they stopped.

Alex stopped too, halfway standing, frozen. Alex on the edge

of panic. Others were, too, Angie could feel it. Panic threatening—

crackling through the bus, alive and awesome. They weren’t listening

to the driver. They were too afraid. But Angie knew how to handle

fear, even this kind of fear.

She reached out and took Alex’s hand, gently pulling her back

down into the seat. Still holding her hand, in a small but distinct

voice, Angie spoke out.

114 Look Closely

“One times one is one; one times two is two; one times three is

three; one times four is four …” She spoke with the same steady

rhythm she had used to ease her own panic so many times before.

Were they listening?

“… One times eleven is eleven; one times twelve is twelve; two

times one is two; two times two is four; two times three is six …” on

and on, her voice steady and strong. They listened; it was hypnotic.

“… Six times six is thirty-six; six times seven is forty-two …” Silence

except for Angie’s voice. “… Eight times eight is sixty-four; eight times

nine is seventy-two …”

Everyone listened, following the rhythmic cadences of her

voice, their minds locked into the pattern of numbers, their minds

turned away from fear. Some silently moved their lips in time with

Angie.“… Twelve times seven is eighty-four; twelve times eight is

ninety-six …” On she went, never faltering; steady, perfect rhythm,

perfect calm … “twelve times ten is 120; twelve times eleven is 132;

twelve times twelve is 144 …” then over again, “… one times one is

one; one times two is two …”

The river rushed and raged below, the bus teetered in its

delicate balance, but Angie kept on, repeating over and over again

the times tables—nothing else mattered, just the numbers … just

the numbers …

With a violent lurch, the huge transport tow truck pulled the

bus back onto the bridge. The high school principal had rushed to

the scene. He had watched, helpless, as his students hung on the

edge of death. He was there to wait in anguish for the arrival of the

tow truck. When, after an eternity, it did arrive, he had watched the

cables being attached, oh so carefully, oh so gently. He had seen the

police cars turning back traffic at each end of the bridge; had seen

the arrival of the emergency rescue team and ambulances. Scuba

divers had been sent to the river’s edge, waiting, ages ago. He had

stared at the gently swaying bus with its load of silent, motionless

young people; he had stared and wondered at their unbelievable

calm.

Look Closely 115

116 Look Closely

The jolt of the two front wheels hitting solid ground broke the

spell. A wild, chaotic cheer went up both from inside and outside the

bus. The principal was the first to board, forcing open the twisted

doors and crunching up the glass-covered steps two at a time.

“Well,” he said to the driver, clasping him round the shoulders

in a giant bear hug. “Congratulations to you, sir!” His voice choked in

relief. “You have done a wonderful thing here. But, how did you keep

it so calm? How did you do it?”

“Oh, it wasn’t me,” said the driver with a pale smile, pointing

back down the aisle with a still-shaking hand. “It wasn’t me. It was

that blonde girl there, the one with the blue jacket on.”

The principal turned and looked her way. “And what’s your

name, young lady? It seems we all owe an awful lot to you.”

When the cheering and whistling and clapping had died down,

she looked him straight in the eye; somehow she knew that things

were going to be different.

“Angie, sir,” she said. “My name is Angie.”

1. Do you find Angie likeable? How, and at what point in the story, does

your reaction to her change? Support your answer with at least five

quotations from the text.

2. Work in a group to create a tableau that includes Angie and her

classmates before the day of the accident. Show how her school

environment affects her.

3. Write an inspirational slogan that summarizes the basic message of

this story. Choose a font and style carefully to display and

communicate your message most effectively.

4. Continue this story, showing what Angie’s life is like as a result of

the incident on the bus.

A c t i v i t i e s

My parents realized early on that I had

a lot of energy to spare. They noticed

that I was awkward at ballet, that I punched

the keys too hard when playing the piano

and that I related to only one other female

(because she was exactly like me) so that

ruled out Girl Guides. Their solution was

organized sports and swimming lessons.

That decision sparked a love for sports that

has not died—and a label of “tomboy” that

finally has.

I grew up at the local playground

playing tag and earning the title of King

of the Court for my quick moves and my

fearlessness when jumping from the tallest

pieces of equipment. After conquering the

playground, I moved on to Little League

baseball. When I first went up to bat during

practice, the T-ball stand was brought out,

because it was assumed that I would not be

able to hit a regular pitch … since I was a

girl. I surprised them. Being able to hit the

ball enabled me to be on the starting line-

up. After a while, though, baseball started

to get kind of boring, so during the summer

of grade three, I started soccer. I became the

Look Closely 117

Looking for a High?

Try Adrenalin!

Focus Your LearningStudying this personal account willhelp you:n role-play a conversation to

understand the author bettern skim for information

S I M O N EG R U E N I G

third-leading goal scorer out of a bunch of

boys. I loved it! I was able to have fun and

get acknowledgement.

My attitude changed, though, in grade

five. The other tomboys were becoming less

“boyish” and more “girlish”. Some of my

best recess buddies stopped playing catch

or wall ball to go talk to the girls, and I felt

left out during girl discussions at slumber

parties. All this made me quite jealous of

the girls who were getting attention from

the boys who used to fight over who was

going to have me on their team.

So I changed. I did not play during

recess anymore or wear jogging pants to

school. I had my first crush and started

to become shy around boys. I started to

become a typical girl.

But in grade seven I discovered school

sports and that changed everything. By the

end of grade eight, I was captain of most of

my school’s sports teams, and that summer

I began to swim competitively.

When I entered high school, I realized

there were many other girls like me. It was

a great relief. High school sports made me

more confident. I could appreciate my love

for physical activities and I could play all

the sports I wanted without being labeled

tomboy. Even when I cut my hair short,

the label did not return. I guess we had all

grown up by that time.

Now in my last year of high school

competition I realize I will forever need

athletics. It has become a part of me. I love

sweating my heart out, feeling my lungs

almost explode, and getting butterflies in

my stomach right before I run out on to

the court to a gym full of fans. Oh, and

I do not think I can ever do without the

feeling of victory; it is addictive.

Athletics has even taught me to eat better,

to acquire better study patterns, to work

well with others, and to be less stressed.

I don’t have to be at practice to love

exercising. I can be riding my bike, walking

to school or even just doing sit-ups in front

of the TV. They all give me the same kind

of pleasure and energy. I am very thankful

that I was brought up to be active and

athletic. I cannot imagine my life any

other way.

118 Look Closely

1. Role-play a conversation between

Simone and her best friend at the stage

of her life when she is trying to be a

“typical girl.” Discuss the way she

behaves and feels about herself.

2. Skim the article for evidence of the

benefits that Simone has derived from

participating in sports. List the benefits

in order of importance. Discuss your

conclusions with your class.

A c t i v i t i e s

Look Closely 119

Richard Wilbur

Seeing the snowman standing all alone

In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.

The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare

A night of gnashings and enormous moan.

His tearful sight can hardly reach to where

The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes

Returns him such a god-forsaken stare

As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.

The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,

Having no wish to go inside and die.

Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.

Though frozen water is his element,

He melts enough to drop from one soft eye

A trickle of the purest rain, a tear

For the child at the bright pane surrounded by

Such warmth, such light, such love,

and so much fear.

Focus Your LearningStudying this poem will help you:n make connections between your own

experiences and those described in the poem

n skim for supporting detailsn make connections between your own

interpretation and information in the textn understand unfamiliar words

by considering contextn illustrate the poem

120 Look Closely

1. With a partner, brainstorm a list of

things that we enjoy precisely because

they do not last and we cannot have

them all the time. Discuss how you

feel about these things while they

last, and how you feel when you

see they are coming to an end.

2. Treating an inanimate object

as if it were alive is called

personification. What language

does Richard Wilbur use to make

his snowman lifelike? Skim the poem, identifying

significant words and phrases used for

personification. Then skim the poem for examples

of alliteration—repetition of sounds. How do these

sounds contribute to the mood of the poem?

3. Determine the meaning of “bitumen” from the

context of the poem. Then use a thesaurus to find

uncommon variations of six common words. Write

sentences using these variations in such a way that

the meaning can easily be determined through

context. Trade your paper with a partner and see

how many words you can understand from context

in each other’s sentences.

4. Create an artistic representation of the boy at the

window from the perspective of the snowman.

A c t i v i t i e s

There was a competition at our school last

year. A poetry competition. Anyone who

wanted to could write a poem and enter it in the

contest. The best ten were printed in a booklet and the

first-prize winner received twenty-five dollars and a

framed certificate.

Look Closely 121

The Winner P E G K E H R E T

Focus Your LearningReading this monologue will helpyou:n share and compare responses n experiment with figurative

language and word choicen use a graphic organizern present a monologue

I wanted to win that contest more than I ever wanted anything in

my life. Not for the twenty-five dollars, although I could have used the

money. I wanted to win because deep down inside me I wanted to be

a writer and I wasn’t sure if I had any talent. I thought if I won first

prize in a poetry competition, it would mean I do have some ability.

I’m not real good at most other things. Especially sports.

Everyone else jogs and works out. They lift weights and play tennis or

volleyball. I hate exercising. I’m always the last one to be chosen

when we pick teams for baseball or basketball. And the only reason I

passed Physical Education last year was because my gym partner lied

for me and said I’d done the required three push-ups when I could

barely manage one.

Maybe that’s why the poetry contest was so important to me.

When you’re really rotten at most things, you want to be extra-good at

the few things you care about.

I worked on my contest entry every day for two weeks. I wrote

seven different poems and threw all of them away. I wrote about

butterflies and kittens and the way I feel when I hear certain kinds

of music. None of my poems was any good. I crumpled them up and

threw them in my wastebasket. I wanted them to be beautiful, and

instead, they were awkward and crude.

But I didn’t give up. I kept writing. I revised and changed the

words around and thought up new ideas for poems.

And then, on the last night before the contest deadline, I wrote a

poem that I knew was good. It was a simple poem, but every time I

read it, I got goosebumps on my arms. I knew it was the best writing

I’d ever done. I called it “Unicorn Magic” and I entered it in the

contest the next morning.

The winner was not announced until two weeks later. During

those two weeks, I floated in a special dream, imagining how it would

122 Look Closely

be to sit at the awards program in the school auditorium and hear my

name announced as the first-prize winner in the poetry competition.

On the day of the awards, I couldn’t eat breakfast. I wore my new

grey pants, the ones that make me look thinner than I am. I got up

half an hour early so I’d have time to wash my hair.

Before the winner was announced, the principal read the names

of the authors of the ten best poems. Mine was one of them. My heart

began to pound and my mouth got all dry. Then he announced the

winner: first prize to Kathy Enderson for her poem titled “Goldfish

Jubilee.”

When Kathy’s name was called, she shrieked and jumped up and

all her friends screamed and cheered. I just sat there, stunned. I

couldn’t believe “Unicorn Magic” had lost when it made me get

goosebumps every time I read it. Maybe I wasn’t going to be a writer,

after all. Maybe I had no talent. If Kathy Enderson, who laughs at dirty

jokes and flirts with all the guys and thinks being a cheerleader is the

most important thing in the world, if Kathy can write better poetry

than I can, then I might as well give it up forever.

Except I couldn’t. I went home that day and wrote a poem about

how much it hurt to lose the competition. When I read the poem again

the next morning, I got goosebumps on my arms and I knew I would

keep on writing, even if I never won any awards.

I studied Kathy’s poem in the booklet. I had to admit it was good.

That summer, long after the poetry competition was over and

school was out, I was looking through some magazines in the public

library and I came across a poem titled “Goldfish Jubilee.” For one

awful moment, I thought Kathy had not only won the contest, she’d

actually had her poem published. Then I saw the author’s name.

Andrew Billings. “Goldfish Jubilee” by Andrew Billings. The poem,

was the same; the author was not.

Look Closely 123

I looked at the date on the magazine. It was published a month

before our poetry competition.

Should I show it to the principal and demand that the poems be

judged again? Should I call Kathy Enderson and tell her I knew she’d

cheated? What good would it do?

That special moment in the school auditorium, when the

winner’s name was announced, was over. It was too late.

I hate Kathy Enderson for what she did, but I feel sorry for her,

too. She has a certificate that says First Prize, Poetry Competition, and

she has the twenty-five dollars, but she doesn’t know how it feels to

read her very own poem and get goosebumps on her arms.

And she’ll never know.

124 Look Closely

1. In your group, tell the story of a time when you were denied justice,

and explain how you responded.

2. Is the title of this story ironic or is it appropriate? Write a response.

Suggest an alternative title for the story.

3. Create a tree chart to explore the routes of action the protagonist

could take after she realizes that the winning poem has been

plagiarized. In each branch, show the possible consequences,

including those that could affect the major events of her life.

4. Prepare a reading of this monologue. Present it to your group and

assess each reading using a checklist of relevant criteria.

A c t i v i t i e s

Look Closely 125

Lisa Sloman

A generation ago

they paraded.

“Flower Power,”

“Make love, not war.”

Out to change the world,

To voice their thoughts,

To be individuals.

Now they’ve grown,

and we are what they were

once.

Out to change the world,

To voice our thoughts,

To be our own individuals.

“Shush,”

We’re told

“You’re not old enough,

You don’t know what you

want.”

Suddenly they’ve forgotten

who they once were,

what they once fought for.

What they thought,

when they were told to

“Shush.”

Focus Your LearningStudying this poem willhelp you:n create a collagen select a quotation to

convey a messagen write a poem

126 Look Closely

1. As a class, make a joint collage that

compares important aspects of your life

with those of your parents when they were

roughly your age. Each person should bring

in five or six items. Be prepared to discuss

your selections with the rest of the class. As

a class, reach a consensus on an appropriate

title for your collage. Invite other classes to

view your collage.

2. “Children have never been very good at

listening to their elders, but they have never

failed to imitate them.”—James Baldwin

“Those who cannot remember the past are

condemned to repeat it.”—George Santanaya

What is the central message of each

quotation? How does each compare with

the message of this poem? Research a

quotation or write your own saying that

contradicts the messages expressed by

Baldwin and Santanaya. Mount your

message at an appropriate point on the

class collage.

3. Write the poem that you hope your children

will write about you.

A c t i v i t i e s

Look Closely 127

The Medicine BagV I R G I N I A D R I V I N G H A W K S N E V E

Focus Your LearningReading this story will help you:n examine a stereotypen examine character motivation and developmentn prepare a dialogue based on the story

My kid sister Cheryl and I always bragged about our

Sioux grandpa, Joe Iron Shell. Our friends, who had

always lived in the city and only knew about Indians from movies and

TV, were impressed by our stories. Maybe we exaggerated and made

Grandpa and the reservation sound glamorous, but when we’d return

home to Iowa after our yearly summer visit to Grandpa we always had

some exciting tale to tell.

We always had some authentic Sioux article to show our listeners.

One year Cheryl had new moccasins that Grandpa had made. On

another visit he gave me a small, round, flat, rawhide drum which was

decorated with a painting of a warrior riding a horse. He taught me a

real Sioux chant to sing while I beat the drum with a leather-covered

stick that had a feather on the end. Man, that really made an impression.

We never showed our friends Grandpa’s picture. Not that we were

ashamed of him, but because we knew that the glamorous tales we

told didn’t go with the real thing. Our friends would have laughed at

the picture, because Grandpa wasn’t tall and stately like TV Indians.

His hair wasn’t in braids, but hung in stringy, gray strands on his neck

and he was old. He was our great-grandfather, and he didn’t live in a

tepee, but all by himself in a part log, part tar-paper shack on the

Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. So when Grandpa came to

visit us, I was so ashamed and embarrassed I could’ve died.

There are a lot of yippy poodles and other fancy little dogs in our

neighbourhood, but they usually barked singly at the mailman from

the safety of their own yards. Now it sounded as if a whole pack of

mutts were barking together in one place.

I got up and walked to the curb to see what the commotion was.

About a block away I saw a crowd of little kids yelling, with the dogs

yipping and growling around someone who was walking down the

middle of the street.

I watched the group as it slowly came closer and saw that in the

centre of the strange procession was a man wearing a tall black hat.

128 Look Closely

He’d pause now and then to peer at something in his hand and then

at the houses on either side of the street. I felt cold and hot at the

same time as I recognized the man. “Oh, no!” I whispered. “It’s

Grandpa!”

I stood on the curb, unable to move even though I wanted to

run and hide. Then I got mad when I saw how the yippy dogs were

growling and nipping at the old man’s baggy pant legs and how

wearily he poked them away with his cane. “Stupid mutts,” I said

as I ran to rescue Grandpa.

When I kicked and hollered at the dogs to get away, they put

their tails between their legs and scattered. The kids ran to the curb

where they watched me and the old man.

“Grandpa,” I said and felt pretty dumb when my voice cracked.

I reached for his beat-up old tin suitcase, which was tied shut with

a rope. But he set it down right in the street and shook my hand.

“Hau, Takoza, Grandchild,” he greeted me formally in Sioux.

All I could do was stand there with the whole neighbourhood

watching and shake the hand of the leather-brown old man. I saw

how his gray hair straggled from under his big black hat, which had

a drooping feather in its crown. His rumpled black suit hung like a

sack over his stooped frame. As he shook my hand, his coat fell open

to expose a bright-red, satin shirt with a beaded bolo tie under the

collar. His get-up wasn’t out of place on the reservation, but it sure

was here, and I wanted to sink right through the pavement.

“Hi,” I muttered with my head down. I tried to pull my hand

away when I felt his bony hand trembling, and looked up to see

fatigue in his face. I felt like crying. I couldn’t think of anything to

say so I picked up Grandpa’s suitcase, took his arm, and guided him

up the driveway to our house.

Mom was standing on the steps. I don’t know how long she’d

been watching, but her hand was over her mouth and she looked as

if she couldn’t believe what she saw. Then she ran to us.

“Grandpa,” she gasped. “How in the world did you get here?”

Look Closely 129

She checked her move to embrace Grandpa and I remembered

that such a display of affection is unseemly to the Sioux and would

embarrass him.

“Hau, Marie,” he said as he shook Mom’s hand. She smiled and

took his other arm.

As we supported him up the steps the door banged open and

Cheryl came bursting out of the house. She was all smiles and was

so obviously glad to see Grandpa that I was ashamed of how I felt.

“Grandpa!” she yelled happily. “You came to see us!”

Grandpa smiled and Mom and I let go of him as he stretched out

his arms to my ten-year-old sister, who was still young enough to be

hugged.

“Wicincala, little girl,” he greeted her and then collapsed.

He had fainted. Mom and I carried him into her sewing room,

where we had a spare bed.

After we had Grandpa on the bed Mom stood there helplessly

patting his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t we call the doctor, Mom?” I suggested, since she

didn’t seem to know what to do.

“Yes,” she agreed with a sigh. “You make Grandpa comfortable,

Martin.”

I reluctantly moved to the bed. I knew Grandpa wouldn’t want to

have Mom undress him, but I didn’t want to, either. He was so skinny

and frail that his coat slipped off easily. When I loosened his tie and

opened his shirt collar, I felt a small leather pouch that hung from a

thong around his neck. I left it alone and moved to remove his boots.

The scuffed old cowboy boots were tight and he moaned as I put

pressure on his legs to jerk them off.

I put the boots on the floor and saw why they fit so tight. Each

one was stuffed with money. I looked at the bills that lined the boots

and started to ask about them, but Grandpa’s eyes were closed again.

Mom came back with a basin of water. “The doctor thinks

Grandpa is suffering from heat exhaustion,” she explained as she

130 Look Closely

bathed Grandpa’s face. Mom gave a big sigh, “Oh hinh, Martin. How

do you suppose he got here?”

We found out after the doctor’s visit. Grandpa was angrily sitting

up in bed while Mom tried to feed him some soup.

“Tonight you let Marie feed you, Grandpa,” spoke my dad, who had

gotten home from work just as the doctor was leaving. “You’re not really

sick,” he said as he gently pushed Grandpa back against the pillows.

“The doctor said you just got too tired and hot after your long trip.”

Grandpa relaxed, and between sips of soup he told us of his

journey. Soon after our visit to him Grandpa decided that he would like

to see where his only living descendants lived and what our home was

like. Besides, he admitted sheepishly, he was lonesome after we left.

I knew everybody felt as guilty as I did—especially Mom. Mom

was all Grandpa had left. So even after she married my dad, who’s a

white man and teaches in the college in our city, and after Cheryl and

I were born, Mom made sure that every summer we spent a week

with Grandpa.

I never thought that Grandpa would be lonely after our visits,

and none of us noticed how old and weak he had become. But Grandpa

knew and so he came to us. He had ridden on buses for two and a half

days. When he arrived in the city, tired and stiff from sitting for so

long, he set out, walking, to find us.

He had stopped to rest on the steps of some building downtown

and a policeman found him. The cop, according to Grandpa, was a

good man who took him to the bus stop and waited until the bus

came and told the driver to let Grandpa out at Bell View Drive. After

Grandpa got off the bus, he started walking again. But he couldn’t see

the house numbers on the other side when he walked on the sidewalk

so he walked in the middle of the street. That’s when all the little kids

and dogs followed him.

I knew everybody felt as bad as I did. Yet I was proud of this

eighty-six-year-old man, who had never been away from the reservation,

having the courage to travel so far alone.

Look Closely 131

“You found the money in my boots?” he asked Mom.

“Martin did,” she answered, and roused herself to scold. “Grandpa,

you shouldn’t have carried so much money. What if someone had stolen

it from you?”

Grandpa laughed. “I would’ve known if anyone tried to take the

boots off my feet. The money is what I’ve saved for a long time—a

hundred dollars—for my funeral. But you take it now to buy groceries

so that I won’t be a burden to you while I am here.”

“That won’t be necessary, Grandpa,” Dad said. “We are honoured

to have you with us and you will never be a burden. I am only sorry

that we never thought to bring you home with us this summer and

spare you the discomfort of a long trip.”

Grandpa was pleased. “Thank you,” he answered. “But do not feel

bad that you didn’t bring me with you, for I would not have come then.

It was not time.” He said this in such a way that no one could argue

with him. To Grandpa and the Sioux, he once told me, a thing would

be done when it was the right time to do it and that’s the way it was.

“Also,” Grandpa went on, looking at me, “I have come because it

is soon time for Martin to have the medicine bag.”

We all knew what that meant. Grandpa thought he was going to

die and he had to follow the tradition of his family to pass the medicine

bag, along with its history, to the oldest male child.

“Even though the boy,” he said still looking at me, “bears a white

man’s name, the medicine bag will be his.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had the same hot and cold feeling

that I had when I first saw Grandpa in the street. The medicine bag

was the dirty leather pouch I had found around his neck. “I could

never wear such a thing,” I almost said aloud. I thought of having my

friends see it in gym class, at the swimming pool, and could imagine

the smart things they would say. But I just swallowed hard and took

a step toward the bed. I knew I would have to take it.

But Grandpa was tired. “Not now, Martin,” he said, waving his

hand in dismissal, “it is not time. Now I will sleep.”

132 Look Closely

So that’s how Grandpa came to be with us for two months. My

friends kept asking to come see the old man, but I put them off. I

told myself that I didn’t want them laughing at Grandpa. But even

as I made excuses I knew it wasn’t Grandpa that I was afraid they’d

laugh at.

Nothing bothered Cheryl about bringing her friends to see

Grandpa. Every day after school started there’d be a crew of giggling

little girls or round-eyed little boys crowded around the old man on

the patio, where he’d gotten in the habit of sitting every afternoon.

Grandpa would smile in his gentle way and patiently answer their

questions, or he’d tell them stories of brave warriors, ghosts, animals,

and the kids listened in awed silence. Those little guys thought

Grandpa was great.

Finally, one day after school, my friends came home with me

because nothing I said stopped them. “We’re going to see the great

Indian of Bell View Drive,” said Hank, who was supposed to be my

best friend. “My brother has seen him three times so he oughta be

well enough to see us.”

When we got to my house Grandpa was sitting on the patio. He

had on his red shirt, but today he also wore a fringed leather vest

that was decorated with beads. Instead of his usual cowboy boots he

had solidly beaded moccasins on his feet that stuck out of his black

trousers. Of course, he had his old black hat on—he was seldom

without it. But it had been brushed and the feather in the beaded

headband was proudly erect, its tip a brighter white. His hair lay in

silver strands over the red shirt collar.

I started just as my friends did and I heard one of them murmur,

“Wow!”

Grandpa looked up and when his eyes met mine they twinkled as

if he were laughing inside. He nodded to me and my face got all hot. I

could tell that he had known all along I was afraid he’d embarrass me

in front of my friends.

“Hau, hoksilas, boys,” he greeted and held out his hand.

Look Closely 133

My buddies passed in a single file and shook his hand as I

introduced them. They were so polite I almost laughed. “How, there,

Grandpa,” and even a “How-do-you-do, sir.”

“You look fine, Grandpa,” I said as the guys sat on the lawn

chairs or on the patio floor.

“Hanh, yes,” he agreed. “When I woke up this morning it seemed

the right time to dress in the good clothes. I knew that my grandson

would be bringing his friends.”

“You guys want some lemonade or something?” I offered. No one

answered. They were listening to Grandpa as he started telling how

he’d killed the deer from which his vest was made.

Grandpa did most of the talking while my friends were there. I

was so proud of him and amazed at how respectfully quiet my buddies

were. Mom had to chase them home at suppertime. As they left they

shook Grandpa’s hand again and said to me:

“Martin, he’s really great!”

“Yeah, man! Don’t blame you for keeping him to yourself.”

“Can we come back?”

But after they left, Mom said, “No more visitors for a while,

Martin. Grandpa won’t admit it, but his strength hasn’t returned. He

likes having company, but it tires him.”

That evening Grandpa called me to his room before he went to

sleep. “Tomorrow,” he said, “when you come home, it will be time to

give you the medicine bag.”

I felt a hard squeeze from where my heart is supposed to be and

was scared, but I answered, “OK, Grandpa.”

All night I had weird dreams about thunder and lightning on a

high hill. From a distance I heard the slow beat of a drum. When I

woke up in the morning I felt as if I hadn’t slept at all. At school it

seemed as if the day would never end and, when it finally did, I ran

home.

Grandpa was in his room, sitting on the bed. The shades were

down and the place was dim and cool. I sat on the floor in front of

134 Look Closely

Grandpa, but he didn’t even look at me. After what seemed a long

time he spoke.

“I sent your mother and sister away. What you will hear today is

only for a man’s ears. What you will receive is only for a man’s hands.”

He fell silent and I felt shivers down my back.

“My father in his early manhood,” Grandpa began, “made a vision

quest to find a spirit guide for his life. You cannot understand how it

was in that time, when the great Teton Sioux were first made to stay

on the reservation. There was a strong need for guidance from

Wakantanka, the Great Spirit. But too many of the young men were

filled with despair and hatred. They thought it was hopeless to search

for a vision when the glorious life was gone and only the hated

confines of a reservation lay ahead. But my father held to the old ways.

“He carefully prepared for his quest with a purifying sweat bath

and then he went alone to a high butte top to fast and pray. After three

days he received his sacred dream—in which he found, after long

searching, the white man’s iron. He did not understand his vision of

finding something belonging to the white people, for in that time they

were the enemy. When he came down from the butte to cleanse

himself at the stream below, he found the remains of a campfire and

the broken shell of an iron kettle. This was a sign which reinforced his

dream. He took a piece of the iron for his medicine bag, which he had

made of elk skin years before, to prepare for his quest.

“He returned to his village, where he told his dream to the wise

old men of the tribe. They gave him the name Iron Shell, but neither

did they understand the meaning of the dream. This first Iron Shell

kept the piece of iron with him at all times and believed it gave him

protection from the evils of those unhappy days.

“Then a terrible thing happened to Iron Shell. He and several

other young men were taken from their homes by the soldiers and

sent far away to a white man’s boarding school. He was angry and

lonesome for his parents and the young girl he had wed before he

was taken away. At first Iron Shell resisted the teachers’ attempts to

Look Closely 135

change him and he did not try to learn. One day it was his turn to

work in the school’s blacksmith shop. As he walked into the place he

knew that his medicine had brought him there to learn and work with

the white man’s iron.

“Iron Shell became a blacksmith and worked at the trade when

he returned to the reservation. All of his life he treasured the medicine

bag. When he was old, and I was a man, he gave it to me, for no one

made the vision quest anymore.”

Grandpa quit talking and I stared in disbelief as he covered his

face with his hands. He shoulders were shaking with quiet sobs and

I looked away until he began to speak again.

“I kept the bag until my son, your mother’s father, was a man

and had to leave us to fight in the war across the ocean. I gave him the

bag, for I believed it would protect him in battle, but he did not take it

with him. He was afraid that he would lose it. He died in a faraway

place.”

Again Grandpa was still and I felt his grief around me.

“My son,” he went on after clearing his throat, “had only a

daughter and it is not proper for her to know of these things.”

He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled out the leather pouch, and lifted

it over his head. He held it in his hand, turning it over and over as if

memorizing how it looked.

“In the bag,” he said as he opened it and removed two objects,

“is the broken shell of the iron kettle, a pebble from the butte, and a

piece of the sacred sage.” He held the pouch upside down and dust

drifted down.

“After the bag is yours you must put a piece of prairie sage within

and never open it again until you pass it on to your son.” He replaced

the pebble and the piece of iron, and tied the bag.

I stood up, somehow knowing I should. Grandpa slowly rose

from the bed and stood upright in front of me, holding the bag before

my face. I closed my eyes and waited for him to slip it over my head.

But he spoke.

136 Look Closely

“No, you need not wear it.” He placed the soft leather bag in my

right hand and closed my other hand over it. “It would not be right to

wear it in this time and place where no one will understand. Put it

safely away until you are again on the reservation. Wear it then, when

you replace the sacred sage.”

Grandpa turned and sat again on the bed. Wearily he leaned his

head against the pillow. “Go,” he said, “I will sleep now.”

“Thank you, Grandpa,” I said softly and left with the bag in my

hands.

That night Mom and Dad took Grandpa to the hospital. Two

weeks later I stood alone on the lonely prairie of the reservation and

put the sacred sage in my medicine bag.

Look Closely 137

1. Make a comparison chart to show how Martin’s grandfather differs

from the stereotype Martin has presented to his friends. At the

bottom of the chart, state why you think the stereotype of the old

man is initially so appealing to the boy.

2. Create a timeline showing when and why Martin’s attitude to his

grandfather changes over the course of the story.

3. Write a script for a conversation between the grandfather and a

friend, in which he explains why he has decided Martin does not

have to wear the medicine bag, even though by tradition he

should.

A c t i v i t i e s

138 Look Closely

Focus Your LearningStudying this painting will help you:n use visual clues to understand the paintingn work cooperatively to present tableauxn participate in a whole-class presentation

1. What do the style of the bike, the

rider’s clothes, and the scenery

suggest about the time period and

location of the setting of this

painting? Develop a working sketch

showing how you might update the

piece of art.

2. As a class, prepare a two-part

tableau showing where the rider

came from and where he is going.

A c t i v i t i e s

Reproduced with permission of Ken Danby.

Look Closely 139

Towards the Hill Ken Danby

140 Look Closely

Focus Your LearningStudying thesepoems will help you:n identify, explain,

and appreciate thecommon messagein the poems

n prepare anadvertisement

n prepare a mediapresentation

n debate an issue

Dan Jaffe

Perhaps our age has driven us indoors.

We sprawl in the semi-darkness, dreaming sometimes

Of a vague world spinning in the wind.

But we have snapped our locks, pulled down our shades,

Taken all precautions. We shall not be disturbed.

If the earth shakes, it will be on a screen;

And if the prairie wind spills down our streets

And covers us with leaves, the weatherman will tell us.

Look Closely 141

Bruce Bennett

We watch, fascinated

as the horror is replayed

for us; over and over,

fast, then slower, then

fast again, over and over

and over till we have

it by heart and it’s no

longer a horror but a

shared, explicable event

we can talk about, shake

our heads at, walk away

from, as the patient,

soothing voice, cool and

competent and caring,

keeps repeating and

repeating.

Ieva Grants

In the house

across the street

the television glows

orange in the day,

blue at night

like the moon.

What is there

in that place

behind glass

where the sun

is always cold,

where the flowers

have no scent?

What’s so important

that they cannot

turn it off?

142 Look Closely

1. Make a list of the ways in which TV can bring people

together. Then make a list, based on these poems,

of the ways in which it can keep people apart.

Discuss your conclusions as a class. Write a

response in which you consider how the titles of all

three poems might be ironic.

2. It is the early 1950s. There is a new product on the

market. It is a box that can transmit messages all

over the world, instantaneously communicating

both sight and sound. This new product is called

television. Your job is to write an advertisement for

this new product, citing all of the advantages it

offers. Your advertisement must include a slogan,

testimonials from famous people of the 1950s, and

a view of the future as influenced by TV. Present

your ad to the class.

3. Working in small groups, prepare a two-minute

newscast on a topic suggested by “The Disaster” or

“The Forecast.” All group members should be involved

in reporting events. Try to reproduce elements of

newscasts as suggested by the poems. Evaluate the

newscasts of your own and other groups.

4. What similarities can you see between television, as

presented in these poems, and the Internet? Hold a

class debate on the issue “The Internet is more a tool

of isolation than communication.”

A c t i v i t i e s

When I was five years old, my

parents never worried that I was

watching too much television, because

there wasn’t any.

One day in the late forties, the boy

next door declined my invitation to go to

the movies because his family was saving

up to buy a television set. I laughed at

his silly dream.

However, by the fifties, our neighbours’

prescience was proven and I visited them

to gaze in envy and awe at the black and

white shadows flitting through a dense

screen of electronic “snow.”

The entire history of television has

taken place during my life, and it is an

appropriate symbol for technologies—

the automobile, the telephone, nuclear

power, the pill, computers—that have

transformed our lives.

Television spread with lightning

speed and plays a prominent role in

our perceptions.

Look Closely 143

& a Minor in KnowledgeD AV I D S U Z U K I

A Major in Television

Focus Your LearningReading this article will help you:n take notes, identifying main and supporting ideasn make a speech from a particular viewpointn examine both sides of an issuen write a letter expressing your point of view

It is said the average Canadian watches

six to eight hours a day, while in most cities

cable makes more than twenty channels

accessible almost around the clock. Dishes

capture signals directly from satellites and

provide an extensive menu of choices.

Television is the major way people learn

about the world. It shapes their ideas and

values from infancy. Yet we seldom ask

what the long-term effects of television

have been on society.

Television is a medium of the visual.

Pictures can be worth a thousand words.

The ability to juxtapose images, speed

up or slow down, or explore otherwise

inaccessible phenomena or events cannot

be matched by any other medium. Thus,

TV is most powerful when it brings pictures

of prehistoric coelocanths, a sprouting seed

or a fetus in utero. But far too often its

potential is wasted on the sensational or

trivial.

The dependence on visual images imposes

serious constraints on TV programs, and this

can be seen in comparison with radio. The

entire range of ideas and discoveries in

science, for example, can be explored

on radio, which requires the listener’s

imagination. The scope is considerably

narrower with television, so that areas

such as mathematics, geology, molecular

biology and astronomy, to name a few,

are seldom covered.

The media do not reflect reality but create

it. And because television has become the

dominant medium, it is important to be

aware of this. Decisions on the priorities

of programming and the subjects of news

reports are made by people at various levels

of production. Because everyone looks at the

world through the lenses of his or her own

heredity and experience, those decisions will

be expressions of the socio-economic, ethnic,

religious, and psychological backgrounds of

the people making them.

Other considerations also determine

whether an event is ever reported—whether

there is a camera crew available, the time of

day, ambient light, facilities for editing raw

footage, the number of other reports on the

news schedule.

And how are reports presented? Entire

events involving perhaps dozens of

speakers may be encapsulated in a twenty-

second report. In thirty minutes, we are

presented with news of the entire world

packaged in segments ranging from fifteen

to 120 seconds. An “in-depth” report refers

to a two- to four-minute piece. (Any savvy

politician knows the value of a short,

snappy answer and the best time to call a

press conference.)

Even documentaries must compete for

the attention and then the memory of

viewers watching programs in blocks of

time during which they are confronted

144 Look Closely

with a numbing array of choices and

interspersed commercials. What is

ultimately retained from an evening of

television viewing may be snippets whose

source is unclear. As host of “The Nature

of Things” on CBC television, I am

frequently given credit for reports that

were broadcast on other shows.

Television is a powerful invention whose

potential to entertain, inform and educate is

Look Closely 145

1. Choose an appropriate method to make

notes of David Suzuki’s arguments. Be

sure to organize your notes clearly,

identifying main and supporting ideas.

2. There are many different attitudes

toward TV. Prepare a one-minute speech

responding to David Suzuki, from the

perspective of one of the following: a

parent, a grandparent, a student, a

teacher. Deliver your speech to the class.

3. Should TV be censored to ensure

better quality and to protect young and

impressionable viewers? Make a bulletin

board display responding to this

question. Divide the board into two

categories, “Pro” and “Con.” Pin up

brief arguments. To avoid repeating

existing arguments, be sure to read notes

that have already been posted.

4. Write a letter to a TV channel of your

choice, commenting on any aspect

of its programming (e.g., the types of

programs shown, the coverage of news

events, etc.). Either compliment the

station or recommend changes, giving

reasons for your views.

A c t i v i t i e s

too often squandered in the interest of

profit, glibness and conformity. For viewers

who use the technology selectively and

sparingly, it can fulfil much of its promise.

But what kind of minds and society have

been created as a result of this technology?

We have to ask this question and seek

serious answers.

146 Look Closely

Focus Your LearningReading this poem willhelp you:n make connections

between your personalinterpretation and thetext

n express your personalunderstanding of whatfreedom means

n identify andexperiment with theuse of symbolism

1. List at least four conditions you believe you need in order

to be free. For each condition, provide an immediate

benefit and a long-term benefit.

2. What does freedom mean to the dogs in this poem?

Complete this statement in at least three different ways,

referring either to the dogs or to freedom in a general way:

“Freedom is ….”

3. A symbol is an object that represents an idea or condition.

What does the leash symbolize in this poem? Create an

illustration that contains a symbol of any condition

suggested by this poem.

A c t i v i t i e s

Louis Dudek

My two dogs

tied to a tree

by a ten-foot leash

kept howling and whining for an hour

till I let them off.

Now they are lying quietly on the grass

a few feet further from the tree

and they haven’t moved at all since I let them go.

Freedom may be

only an idea

but it’s a matter of principle

even to a dog.

Look Closely 147

1. Role-play an encounter between the

protagonists or narrator of any two or

three of the following: “The Scream,”

“Tradition,” “My Name Is Angie,” “Ride

the Dark Horse,” and “Looking for a

High? Try Adrenalin!” Share your

experiences and explain how they

have affected your outlook on life.

2. Imagine you have been asked to give an

award for achievement to one of the

characters or narrators in this section.

Choose a winning candidate and prepare

a speech presenting him or her with an

appropriate award. Be sure to explain

why this person is qualified to receive it.

3. Identify the selections in this unit that

deal with family relationships. In the role

of one of the characters, write either a

diary entry or a poem explaining your

feelings toward the family member

described in the selection. Explain the

influence that person has had on the way

you see yourself.

4. Which piece in this unit do you think most

aptly describes the role of TV or the media

in our society? Write a summarizing

paragraph about the selection as if you

were creating the entry for a TV guide.

5. If you had to choose one visual from this

unit to be a poster in your room, which

one would it be, and why? Be prepared to

share your decision with your classmates

and explain reasons for your choice.

6. Create a three-dimensional shadow box

that represents different facets of your

personality and your life. Draw on ideas

from the selections in this unit. You can

include artifacts, photographs, writing,

and artwork.

E n d - o f - u n i t A c t i v i t i e s