I was in 9th grade, at the time part of the middle school where I grew up. Our English teacher assigned our all-boy class two papers about authors – one English and one American. We were required to read one work by each author for our papers. She had a list of 35 English writers and 35 Americans, one for each person in our class. Our choices, however, were determined alphabetically, which meant whoever was last would get the two no one else wanted. Which meant me.
No one wanted to read a play by William Shakespeare, which meant he would be my English author. And the last American author on the list (remember this was an all-boys class) was Louisa May Alcott (1832-1888).
When my name was called, general laughter erupted. The teacher, with her soft Alabama accent in a roomful of New Orleans boys, was irate. She loved Alcott, she said, and she loved Little Women. And if any of us ever wanted to understand girls, we should read the Alcott novel. I knew what I had better read for my report.
To continue reading, please see my post today at Dancing Priest.
Some Wednesday Readings
Lincoln’s God: How Faith Transformed a President and a Nation by Joshua Zeitz – review by Max Longley at Emerging Civil War.
By Hard Fighting: Morgan’s Raiders at Vienna and Vernon – Caroline Davis at Emerging Ciivl War.
Poet Laura: In the Quiet - Poetry and Invitation -- Michelle Rinaldi Ortega at Tweetspeak Poetry.
1 comment:
Bom dia, Glynn
A leitura enriquece a vida, um forte abraço.
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