Archive for the “"Can I Sit With You"” Category

Can I Sit With You? on BlogHer!

BlogHer, a fantastic, growing, online community, is featuring Can I Sit With You? as part of their Back-to-School series. This is really exciting for us, and for the Can I Sit With You? community.

We are using the comments section on the BlogHer post to keep tabs on the stories people are talking about. Then we’ll take the best of those stories and feature them on this site, and  include them in in the third, forthcoming Can I Sit With You? book. Yes! We are doing it again!

Right now we’re featuring

• SJ Alexander: All’s Fair in Love and Mucus
• Michael Procopio: The Sound of Musicals
• Sabrina Enayatulla: If it Wasn’t for Caller ID, I’d Still Be Dialing Strong

Please join in the conversation over on BlogHer and add your own story, and tell your friends so they can be a part of the next book.

oh, and and are you following us on Twitter?

and don’t forget the Facebook page!

Hope you’re having a great summer.

Jen

by Annelise Zoe Barriga
Currently in Seventh Grade
Translated by Sheryl Muñoz-Bergman and Liz Henry

This art will grace the cover of the second Can I Sit With You? book, which will be published in mid-November 2008.

Here are the notes as to how Lea created this incredibly detailed sculptured doll tableaux.

What you need to know is that Lea, also a mother of children with special needs, donated her time, materials, and this image to Can I Sit With You?, even though she herself is asking for commissions so that she can resuscitate her dead car.

Thank, you, Lea. You and your art are amazing, and we are grateful for your contribution to this project.

By Lisa Lucke
Age 9 at the time 

Mrs. Winton had barely finished forming the phrases “school assembly” and “music recital,” and my nine-year old heart was already pounding. I tracked her every move as she made it clear that “yes, families were invited.” This meant that I would actually be up on the stage, violin nestled under my chin, and my hand carefully sliding the thin bow over the taut strings, just the way Mrs. Winton had taught me to do. I’d only been playing for a few months, like everyone else in the 4^th grade with their chosen instruments, but I was absolutely sure of my abilities. Every Wednesday afternoon, instead of going to last recess, I walked to the cafeteria for music. I was proud of myself, and most of all, I felt important.

At the sound of the 3 p.m. bell, I ran the two blocks to my house, where I found my father mowing the lawn. “Dad!” I shouted over the grinding noise of the push mower. “We’re having a recital in two weeks and guess what?” My dad rotated the mower at the end of the long row and managed a breathy response.

“What?”

“Family gets to come and it’s in front of the whole school and it’s at night!”

“That’s great Ellen. Go call Mom and tell her the good news.”

The days flew by, filled with extra practices after school, and rehearsals that folded in every detail, from where we would sit and who we’d sit next to, to reminders about how to dress. One by one, Mrs. Winton fine tuned our weaknesses with gentle admonishments, as if we ourselves were the instruments and she the player. Finally, at the end of two weeks, we were ready. I couldn’t believe that this unlikely instrument, the third I’d tried in as many years, the one my mom said was my great-grandmother’s passion, would be the one to propel me into the spotlight, and out of ordinary.

I had decided the same thing about the accordion two years before, in second grade. Mr. Carlotti, a seemingly ancient man, found my two best friends first. They were sisters, and lived just a couple doors down from me. One Saturday morning, the seemingly ancient man trod door to door in our neighborhood, looking for prospective students. Chrissie and Debbie’s mom said yes, and before he had even left their porch, the girls sprinted down the sidewalk, past the cranky neighbor’s house that separated us, and flew up my porch steps. I opened the door to their frantic chattering that I must get my mom to say yes to accordion lessons, though just what an accordion was I didn’t exactly know. When Mr. Carlotti reached my door, after old Mrs. Tadblink shooed him away, the polite gentleman in the dark brown suit got lucky again.

The three of us, Mr. Carlotti’s only students, wedged into his tiny office in the basement of the public library each Saturday morning. We had exactly four lessons before what I now realize was Mr. Carlotti’s likely overdue passing. I wasn’t so much sad for poor old Mr. Carlotti as I was for me. I wanted to get good at something, and the accordion was different, so different than any other instrument most kids played. For me, different meant special, and special meant better.

I tried again the following year, in third grade. I took piano lessons from a spinster living across town in an aging Victorian with a slobbering, monster of a dog who rested his mouth, complete with gloppy tennis ball, between my knees as I played. Miss Ricky hugged me the first time I entered her house, and every time after that. She hugged me goodbye, too. She may have even hugged me after each song – I just remember her thin, yet surprisingly strong arms squeezing my shoulders in a lovely vice-grip, and her nervous, happy voice prattling all the time. Miss Ricky’s corrections came in the same tone as praise: soft and encouraging. She ended each lesson by playing anything I wanted, and without exception, I chose one of Joplin’s rags. I loved to watch Miss Ricky’s bony shoulders and arms and fingers vibrate up and down and that silly look on her face that resembled a smile but may have just been the natural slope of her wrinkled, oval face. I also remember that she seemed to be somewhere else – somewhere I wanted to be, without even knowing why.

For three months I played at Miss Ricky’s house, which ended up being the problem. My parents decided that without a piano of our own at home to practice on, I was not making any real progress, and therefore, lessons were pointless. The decision took me totally by surprise, and of course, I disagreed. In my mind, and definitely in Miss Ricky’s, I was doing just fine. Besides that, I enjoyed the lessons, which were more like a trip to a carnival than work, and most of all, Miss Ricky needed me. Why else would she insist on showing off the endless upstairs rooms of her house each week after our lesson ended, and keep introducing me to the relatives who stared out at her antics from behind dusty glass? How could I make my parents understand that progress really wasn’t important to me, but spending time with Miss Ricky was? I couldn’t, so I quit the lessons and reluctantly said goodbye to Miss Ricky.

Now, just one year later, under the direction of Mrs. Winton, I would reveal my musical talents to the world with the violin.

At 6 p.m. promptly, on a Friday evening in late October, Mrs. Winton took center stage, in front of the heavy, velvet stage drapes and welcomed the assembled parents, relatives and teachers to the 4th Grade Fall Music Recital. Behind the curtain, my classmates and I sat in our assigned seats – I near the end of the third row, between two other violin playing 4th graders. I knew I’d be able to catch a glimpse of my parents between pieces, and I was already imagining how proud they’d look. I wiped my hands on my jumpsuit and tried to stay calm. At 6:03 p.m., the curtains parted a crack and Mrs. Winton slipped back through, looking us over for the last time. As she quickly made her way toward the wings, we made eye contact, and she stopped just long enough to whisper one, simple sentence in my ear that remains with me to this day, 33 years later:

“Ellen, I want you to pretend to be playing.”

With that, the curtain rose.

By: mom2spiritedboy
Age at the time: 6

Dear Kirk,

I am sorry that I did not stick up for you more in the first grade
I am sorry that I didn’t ask you to come to my house to play
I am sorry that you didn’t get to live with a forever family
I am sorry that the kids at school were so horrible to you
I am sorry that they called you “Kirk the Jerk”
I am sorry that I do not remember your last name

If I could have it all to do over
. . . I would have played with you at recess when no one would, EVERY day, not just sometimes
. . . I wouldn’t have let go of your hand when we were walking home and other kids were coming
. . . I would have shared my Jos Louis with you on the field trip and sat with you on the bus
. . . I would have been your best friend

I am glad that I kicked those boys HARD with my Cougar boots that day they were bullying you after school. I wish that there wouldn’t have been a need for anyone to have to protect you – I wish people could have been nice to you and that grown ups would have made the world a safer place for you.

I think of you often. I feel much shame and sadness for the things that never were and all that should not have been. When I watch my son as he struggles so much to fit in, I often think of you. I will do better by him than what was done for you.

I am sorry and I hope life got better. I hope you found someone to sit with on the bus and who would share their lunch with you.

Gerard Sarnat MD
Age 6 at the time

Outside home, digging rich loam coated with city block soot,
I notice a carrot-topped frecklyface
against the inky flaming sunset.

Auburn, fair, and more than a bit stippled myself;
fingernails chock full of dirt;
uncertain why; I leave the boys to move my bones closer.

At first I circle in, pursuing nearer and nearer until I just
plop down beside the new girl.

Never before thusly stirred to thrust my body,
the world mocking me, a bushel of apples
crushing a soft tomato.

Still — eventually gathering steely courage,
not sure what I’m doing –before I know it, I lean over
and at the tender age of six, cannot resist the bliss,
plant my first non-family kiss in our neighborly wading pool.

Our first-ever Can I Sit With You? event was a smashing success! Liz Henry, SJ Alexander, Sarah Glover, and Michael Procopio all read their stories from the Can I Sit With You? book. Then we sold a gazillion copies of said book. And then — in an act of generosity that would have gotten Shan teary even if she hadn’t knocked back two beers to combat severe stage fright — host (and CISWY author) Cindy Emch donated the entire night’s proceeds to SEPTAR! All told, we wrangled $400 for those adorable kids and their families and teachers. *Sniff*

If you didn’t have the good fortune to attend, check out our brand-new Flickr photostream for documentation. If you were there and took pictures, please link them up. And don’t forget to add us as a contact.

Cindy Emch sporting the world’s greatest tattoo

We gots the videos, too! (Please excuse the Cinéma-Vérité camera action. Again, there was beer.) Have a look at the excerpts:

Liz Henry reads from The Sex Change of Zyax II:

SJ Alexander reads from All’s Fair in Love and Mucus:

Sarah Glover reads from Love Hurts:

Michael Procopio reads from The Sound of Musicals:

Thanks again, everyone. More events and more authors will be coming, so if you couldn’t make this one, stayed tuned.

Winter break is over and our kids are finally back in those lovely, wonderful schoolyards.

Now that we have half a moment, can we say how nice it is to hear that your list of New Year’s Resolutions includes writing a story for the second edition of Can I Sit With You, and poking your friends and family to do the same? Thank you. For our part, we promise to publish at least one story per week in 2008, starting Wednesday, January 9th.

If you have half a moment yourself, please check out Jen’s interview about the making of Can I Sit With You?, on Blooking Central.

Can I Sit With You? is the #762 book in sales on Lulu.com!. This may not seem like a big deal, but when you consider that the book I bought my brother for Christmas is #23,216, then our rank is remarkable. We’re so happy, so grateful for everyone’s support.

Keep spreading the word! Keep telling your friends to buy this wonderful, helpful, inspiring, reasonably-priced book. Use the special education angle if it helps your argument; after all these years of parenting special needs children, we’re not above a wry little knife-twist to the guilt/philanthropy section of anyone’s heart, if it’s for the greater good.

Can I Sit With You? is on a tear. At this moment we’re the #813 seller on lulu.com (we started out at 22,000), we’ve sold almost 250 copies, and we’ve cleared almost $1300 in direct donations to SEPTAR. Thanks so much, everyone, and please tell even more people to buy our book!

In other, also very exciting news:

Beth Kanter featured Can I Sit With You? as one of her charitable holiday giving recommendations for the BlogHer holiday gifting guide. Thank you, Beth!

We have also been featured at Blooking Central, a blog all about [blogs+books=] blooks. There may even be a follow up Q&A on how we made CISWY happen, so stay tuned.

Our local library is very excited about Can I Sit With You? and wants to set up an author’s event, since our book features so many local writers. Again, we’ll post updates as we receive them.

Locals who would prefer to get their hands on a hard copy of CISWY right now can do so at Main Street Coffee Roasting Company or Canyon Coffee. Both places feature fantastic, roasted-on-site coffee.

And, finally, we will be hanging with our Blogosphere buds at the BlogHer Holiday Meetup on Thursday in San Francisco. If you ever wanted to see just how tall and striking Jen is, or how short and fuchsia-haired Shan is, then come on by. Just don’t forget to RSVP.