A Northern Light by Jennifer Donnelly

A Northern Light by Jennifer Donnelly

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Set during the early part of the twentieth century, A Northern Light features Mattie Gokey, a bright sixteen-year-old-girl trying to balance her education with caring for her four sisters and father after the death of her mother. Her older brother Lawton has also left the family and Mattie struggles with taking care of the house and feeding everyone, particularly during a difficult Northeast winter.

While incorporating some of the events surrounding the death of Grace Brown—the inspiration for the Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, as the book’s cover points out—the story remains focused on Mattie’s coming of age and her relationship with her teacher Miss Wilcox. Author Jennifer Donnelly does a tremendous job of illustrating the period, giving a sense of the family’s desperation and determination to succeed in spite of the elements. Mattie represents a glimpse of the challenges faced by young “independent” women, including the difficult decision of whether to continue schooling or to get married to Royal Loomis; the fact that she cannot choose both is a sure sign of the times.

How historically accurate is this book? The sensational case of Chester Gillette has been documented in Adirondack Tragedy: The Chester Gillette Murder Case of 1906 by Joseph W. Brownell and Patricia W. Enos, among other accounts, and proved to be one of the first “trials of the century.” Grace Brown was pregnant as the time of her death, and the letters that were given to Mattie in A Northern Light were based on the actual letters between Grace and Chester. Donnelly has placed Mattie at the Glenmore hotel, where Grace and Chester were staying Grace was found dead.

The book does not center on the tragedy described above. Rather, we see the efforts Mattie makes with her studies and the difficulty her father has in letting her go to work at the hotel. Mattie needed to work in order to earn money for her train ticket to New York, but her father wanted her to continue her role as mother to her sisters. Nothing is clear-cut about her decision to leave her family—Mattie likes Royal Loomis very much, but she knows that if she passes up the opportunity to go to Barnard College, she will never again have another chance.


Though there are times when the story drags a little, the richness of the characters and color of the period do keep us interested in Mattie’s plight. Her sisters, particularly Lou and Beth, are a riot, and the dialogue is snappy and endearing. Donnelly also uses an interesting device in a having a single word serve as the heading for each chapter, representing Mattie’s quest to learn a new word each day. We read along, curious to learn how the word represents that particular chapter.

This novel would appeal to junior high school and early high school students, especially those who enjoyed Little Women. It would be a prime selection for independent reading, though I could see it potentially being used in a local history class in Upstate New York. Donnelly includes notes after the book to clarify which factual elements she chose to use artistic license. For example, she writes that the letters given to Mattie by Grace Brown included all of the correspondence between Grace and Chester, but that in reality, only the letters Grace received from Chester Gillette were recovered at the hotel; her letters to Chester were found in his room when he was arrested for her murder. The historic roots of the story give it a little more credence, helping to establish the period for the young reader. That Mattie and her family are fictional does not take away from the fact that they are still representative of the period. The important thing when considering historic fiction is that the truth doesn’t betray itself. If the reader can detect blatantly false items that disrupt the historic continuity or the continuity of the story, then she will no longer be able to yield to that “suspense of disbelief” that characterizes a good story no matter the medium.



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Sold by Patricia McCormick

A brilliant book about the plight of young girls who are sold into prostitution. The format is superb, a series of vignettes provide glimpses into the daily struggles faced by Lakshmi as she thought she was providing for her family back in Nepal. I especially like the fact that McCormick doesn't explain what things really are--she lets the reader experience them as Lakshmi sees them. How wondrous and unnerving and incomprehensible the journey to India (Bombay, perhaps?) must have been for her, having never seen cars and trucks before. McCormick does a terrific job of establishing Lakshmi's youth and innocence in the beginning, and layering the months of experience on her in a way that makes her far more mature than her years by the end of the novel.

This might be a difficult novel to teach in class because of the sensitive subject matter, but I do think it would be quite educational for students (and teachers!). This would probably function best as a book club selection for mature high school readers, especially girls. I think it would be important to draw parallels between the forced prostitution in the novel and the similar circumstances of child trafficking in the U.S. I would also explore the events specific to the culture and climate of Nepal and how all of that influences the decisions that are made. One could also do a comparison between this book and others like Homeless Bird or Breadwinner (or even Memoirs of a Geisha!), examining the role of girls in their families as they reach adolescence.

If nothing else, this is a must-read, and after reading this one and Purple Heart, I'd highly recommend seeking out Patricia McCormick's other novels--I know I will!

Books, books and more books

I have been doing some reviews of books for a class that I am taking on young adult literature. Below is a review on a book I just picked up this week. Check it out, and let me know if you'd like to see more reviews.

Purple Heart by Patricia McCormick (Balzer & Bray, 2009)

This is a well-written look at a young soldier's life in the Iraq war, with language that is accessible for YA readers. In many respects, Matt Duffy, the protagonist, and his compatriot Justin are just kids, dealing with the ups and downs of life in combat. As the book begins, we learn that Matt has been "on the business end" of an RPG and is being evaluated for TBI (traumatic brain injury). The investigation into "the incident" dominates much of the early part of the novel, shedding light on the hierarchy within the military and the pressures faced by all to get the servicemen and women back in the field ASAP. I really like the way how McCormick contrasts the fears and risks for the troops with the teen worries about driving and school tests.

Overall, I think this is a book that could be used in a mature classroom to discuss the implications of war and the effects felt by all participants. McCormick doesn't get into the politics of the war; rather, she focuses on the circumstances present on the ground and the relationships between Matt and the others in his unit as they make their way through Sadr City. Purple Heart would definitely be a book to consider using, especially in a classroom that could handle some crude language and challenging topics.

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Digging Out

As you probably heard, it snowed a little in Chicago last week. Now, having grown up in Las Vegas, the concept of a Snow Day was utterly foreign to me. For Chicago students, especially Chicago Public Schools, there were at least myths that such an event could occur. While I am not in a classroom yet, I used my keen observation powers to notice that students were thrilled to have a snow day. My co-workers exhibited that same emotion. Truth be told, I was happy about the prospects of being able to sleep in--until I realized that I was going to have to start early with the shoveling. At one point I had grand visions of getting lots of homework done, cleaning and reorganizing the basement, and perhaps even being able to spend some time hanging out with my wife and son. Little did I know that I would end up shoveling nearly the whole day, from 8:30 am until 6 pm, with an hour-plus lunch break. I think I would rather have been at work...

The road to teaching has its challenges. I have been sending out applications since I received my certification. Job fairs are lined up, and I recently interviewed to be a sub for CPS. My mantra must be patience and perseverence. My goal was to spend the winter and spring getting hired; layering on a literature class was something I wanted to avoid, knowing the time and work commitment would be immense. Thanks to the visionaries at my university program, however, the lit course I needed to complete the masters is not slated to be available for the forseeable future. I received a call two days before the start of the current term that I could take an adolescent lit course that could stand in for the unavailable course; failure to take the class would be putting my degree in jeopardy, as it, too, won't be offered again for some time. Great. Nothing like having a few books to read every week, and then write reviews and do projects about them. As much as I love reading and sharing my opinions about things, it is clear that time to obtain books and complete said tasks is fleeting, at best, especially as a parent of a very active (and sleep-resistant) toddler. And then, in addition to the snow, I had another monkey wrench thrown into the equation.

Last week, I learned of the passing of my grandfather. While he will be missed, he lived a very long and productive life. At 88, he defied the odds--he lived 25 years after major bypass surgery before his heart finally gave out on him. He had the opportunity to establish meaningful relationships with his great-grandchildren, something very few people can say. The services for him were beautiful, filled with music and celebration. As I said to many, the silver lining was that the funeral served as a de facto family reunion. My dad and his four brothers were together at my grandparents' home for the first time in my memory, and quite possibly for the first time ever. My son, ever the precocious one, took it upon himself to ask my grandmother, "Where's Great Grampa?" My grandmother responded said, "He's gone... He's in heaven...I think." My belief is that her statement was more a reflection of metaphysical uncertainty and less the idea that my grandfather, her husband of well over sixty years, was headed in a different direction.

Add in all the driving required (especially with nearly two feet of snow on the ground), and I find that sleep is as fleeting as time. Yet somehow I must make sure that I get all my books read. Sure. Fat chance on that one. Especially when my toddlet keeps insisting I read Thomas the Train books instead of my required materials for class (even the picture books and fairy tales!). Hopefully, I'll manage, and this will be just another station on my journey to teaching.

Aw, Geez, Ronnie, We'll Miss You

Just as I was heading to the train tonight I happened to walk by Holy Name Cathedral, where the public viewing for longtime Cub Ron Santo was taking place. Although I had contemplated going to the viewing earlier in the week, I honestly had forgotten about it until I saw the barricades that were still standing. I still didn't even plan on going in, but curiosity, I suppose, got the better of me. And guilt. Here I am, a so-called diehard Cubs fan, grumbling and rambling about baseball's winter meetings and free agency signings, and I was still reluctant to pay respects to a man who lived for the Cubs and the Cubs through him. In many respects, I lived vicariously through the Cubs, especially while listening to Pat & Ron call the games on WGN, so much so that I feel like a chapter of my life has now closed with his death. Does that mean I've decided to move on from the Cubs? Of course not. It just means that I can look back at a certain period of time, perhaps from May 2000 until maybe the end of the baseball season in 2004 with a bit of nostalgia and wistfulness, even as I've grown through marriage, parenthood, education and employment.

I had to go in for the viewing, and my eyes did all the informing. The giant placards noting that no photography was allowed. The church's magnificent rafters. The smattering of Cubbie Blue throughout the pews. And the casket, at the end of the long aisle, with Santo's number "10" draped over it. On top of the casket, maybe over Ron's heart, was a golden mitt. On the ground to the left was an easel with a large picture from his playing days. There were also a couple of ushers--or security guards, I wasn't too sure--flanking the body, presumably to keep the real diehards from lingering too long. I waited my turn in the short line, watched the guy in front of me cross himself before leaving, and then I stepped forward.

At that point, I almost asked aloud, "Now, what do I do?" Everyone in the cathedral was watching me, or so I felt. I stood there, taking in the moment before hearing in my memory a cacophony of Santo's on-air reactions. "Aw...geez," "Wow!" "I can't believe it!" "Oh no!" and a host of other things he may or may not have uttered. It was always the emotion, not the words, listening to Ronnie. I had pictured him practically leaping out of his legs when Derrek Lee hit a pinch-hit grand slam a few years ago, and I chose to remember Santo for his exuberance rather than his exasperation. Feeling my moment was up, I nodded toward the altar and then to the ushers as I glided out. Even now, more memories keeping flooding back.

In the summer of 2003, it was clear the Cubs were competitive. It was the June series against the Yankees that proved the Cubs were serious. When Eric Karros launched a rocket out to left to give the Cubs the lead in the Saturday game (in which Kerry Wood earned his 50th win), pandemonium nearly rang out. Just a few innings earlier, one could have heard a pin drop at Wrigley when Cubs first baseman Hee Sop Choi lay unconscious on the field after colliding with Wood while corralling a pop up. Leading up to and during the next day's evening game, Ronnie described some of the reactions and emotions from the big roller-coaster win. I can't recall his exact words, but it was always fun to listen to him whether he was up or down.

He hated Alfonso Soriano's hop. You know, the one Sori does when he's catching (or sometimes dropping) a routine fly ball. He'd groan when a pitcher would airmail the throw past first base on a routine dribbler back to the mound. He'd burst with enthusiasm when a ball was driven to the gap or a perfect throw nailed a runner at the plate. And he would have these exchanges with his partner, Pat Hughes, that were, simply put, a riot. 


Ronnie always made sure to plug his pet cause, too. When the Cubs drew their first walk of the game, he would note that, "for every walk drawn by a Cubs player today, Walgreens will make a Big, Big donation to my walk for the cure" of JDRF (Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. I always meant to participate in the walk. Maybe next year.


I only met Santo once, while I was working for my previous employer, a urologist. I was covering the check-in desk during a lunch break when he arrived for his appointment. He was getting an opinion regarding treatment of his bladder cancer. This was back in the fall of 2003, two days after the Cubs won the division title and one day after that moving ceremony to retire his number. Of course, we had scheduled him at a time when no other patients would be around. Icons are people, too, and they deserve to go to the doctor's office without questions from autograph-seekers. I don't think he even said a word when he checked in--I told him to take a seat when I first saw him. "I'll let the nurse know you're here." As much as I wanted to talk baseball with him--and there are many who can attest that I'll talk with anyone on the subject--I kept it professional. I even remember waving his wife in a few minutes later when she arrived after parking the car.


Even now, after he eventually succumbed to the disease, I think about how challenging that must have been for Santo. After a whole career of playing  for and then calling games for the Cubs, he wasn't able to be there for the playoff series against Atlanta, the one (and still only) playoff series the Cubs have won since 1908.  He met his challenges head on, between the diabetes and cancer and heart disease, and the perennial disappointments on the field. During these past few years, as Ronnie began limiting his road trips with the team, I kept hoping they'd find a way to make it to the World Series while he was still alive. No one would have enjoyed it more than he. Shoot, the veterans committee will probably vote him in to the Hall of Fame the next time they meet. Too bad he didn't get in while he was alive, because he absolutely deserved it and would have relished every moment of it. He was a guy we all could love--he showed us how to wear our emotions on our sleeves (for better or worse), and he certainly helped me rekindle my love for baseball. Now, I hope he's clicking his heels, wherever he is.