It was the summer of 1980, and I was about to become a high school senior. I was too young to vote in the presidential election that year, but I had hopes that Jimmy Carter would be re-elected. That's not what happened, of course, and our country has been on a very strange course of events since then.
I watched the Democratic National Convention that year, the first one I had watched with any sense of political awareness. Senator Ted Kennedy had to give a concession speech, but of course, it turned out to be one of the most eloquent speeches ever given and hardly a concession at all.
I remember reading Time or Newsweek the following week in order to find out where he got the quote that he cites a few minutes into this clip. It's from the poem "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and it's become one of my favorite poems over the years. I frequently teach it, and I always love rereading it.
Almost a year after he delivered this speech, I used the same lines from the poem as a part of my high school graduation speech. I was the salutatorian, having missed being the valedictorian by 0.6 points (not that I'm still bitter after all these years, mind you). I like to think that Kennedy inspired me that night at the Democratic National Convention. Due in part to him and his work, I not only became a lover of poetry but also a long-time liberal.
Thank you, Senator Kennedy, for all of your work on behalf of those less fortunate, those who have been ostracized, those for whom government no longer seems to care.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Hair
Two weeks ago, I had my stylist cut off almost all of my hair. I have developed a bald spot on the crown of my head, and it was getting larger and larger, so I decided it was time to get rid of all of my hair. I asked him to shave my head, but he said he didn't have the equipment to do that. Instead, he promised to cut it very short and then let me shave off what was left. When he finished, I decided I liked the buzz cut look and kept it. I have maybe a quarter-inch growth, and that might just be the length I keep it.
By the way, while I was in the chair, my stylist began by cutting shorter and shorter on the sides, keeping the top longer. He cut it so that I had a short mohawk for a few minutes, but I thought I looked too much like Travis Bickle to keep it that way. Off the rest of it came. Since then, I've had a lot of people say how much they like the shorter 'do, and some who just say that it's a big change. I must admit that I've let go of a lot of vanity now that I have no hair to trouble with any longer. I enjoy this short haircut more than any I've had in decades.
I will admit that I have always had a complicated relationship with my hair. It has never been easy for me to maintain. When I was younger, I suffered the indignity of having a flat top like every other little boy around my age. We even had buzz cuts for a while then although none were quite as short as my hair is now. I remembered hating School Picture Day because I'd be stuck with photos of me with that flat top. It wasn't even long enough to need "product," as my stylist says. My grandmother tried to get me to use this stuff called Butch Hair Wax (I know, the irony of it all), but it never seemed to help. By the way, I think I destroyed all of those photos of my elementary years a while back. I just couldn't face looking at that kid's awful hair any longer.
My grandmother, bless her, tried all kinds of things to help me. She bought something called "hair trainer" from Avon or Luzier or Watkins or some door-to-door peddler. It was a waste of her money. My hair couldn't be trained. It just would hang limp whenever I tried to do anything with it. I couldn't even get the cowlick or two that I had to lie flat with the trainer stuff. My brother's hair would respond to almost everything she or my mother tried but not mine.
I was in junior high before my hair was allowed to grow out a bit. And, as soon as they allowed me (sometime in high school) to decide how long to grow my hair, I practically turned into a hippie. My bangs were so long that I would have to push the hair out of my eyes sometimes just to be able to read. I eventually cut it a bit shorter when I got to college, but I always seemed to prefer it to be a bit long. Oddly enough, my hair was still pretty long when I got my senior year photo taken at the university. The way our photos were lit made it look like I had a halo behind my head, leading to what my mother has always referred to as my "Jesus picture."
I have had almost everything done to my hair over the years except for coloring it. I had a "body wave" for a couple of years in high school. That's what they called "permanents" for men at the time, and a lot of guys did it at the time (even though most of us wound up looking like large poodles). It didn't really help me until the first time I got it cut. Then it would look good for a couple of weeks until the "wave" would grow out. I have also had it cut with almost everything, including a straight razor. If you want to know pain, have someone use a straight razor to slice off your hair. I have had it short and long. I once got the same haircut that Arnold had in the Terminator movies. I never had a mullet, thankfully, but it has frequently been long enough to have one.
I've used mousse (remember that stuff?), gel, pomade, even hairspray for a while. I tended to favor Garnier Fructis Fiber Gum Putty in recent years because it was sticky enough to hold my hair in place but not so sticky that it looked like I had clumped a lot of product on my head. I've had dozens of stylists over the years before I found my current one. They've tried everything they could to help me, all to no avail. One of them did reveal to me that I had hair the same texture of the hair of most Native Americans. I do have some Chickasaw heritage in there somewhere, I guess, but I didn't know it would manifest itself in my hair. (His first job after getting his cosmetology license was cutting hair on a reservation. That's how he knew.)
In recent years, it's gotten gradually shorter as my stylist has tried to keep me from looking too much like a bald guy. I tried to keep what hair I had for as long as possible, but nothing seemed to help. No ointments or pills kept the bald spot from getting larger, and there are side effects to the pills that a man should never want to have happen to him. I never wanted to do a comb-over because they look so silly and obvious, and I think getting hair plugs is an extreme sign of vanity even though I know some people who have had the procedure done. I also know some guys who just comb their hair straight back to cover the spot, but that too seems like an act of desperation. So a buzz cut it is.
I will admit to missing my longer hair. I had a good thick pelt there for a long time. I should have appreciated it more than I did, I suppose, despite all of the grief it gave me over the years. However, you can't imagine how much easier the maintenance is. I've shaved (no pun intended) at least half an hour out of my morning ritual. No more fussing with my hair. I just towel it off, and I'm ready to go. Maybe I should have gotten this buzz cut years ago. Think of all of the agony I might have avoided if I had.
By the way, while I was in the chair, my stylist began by cutting shorter and shorter on the sides, keeping the top longer. He cut it so that I had a short mohawk for a few minutes, but I thought I looked too much like Travis Bickle to keep it that way. Off the rest of it came. Since then, I've had a lot of people say how much they like the shorter 'do, and some who just say that it's a big change. I must admit that I've let go of a lot of vanity now that I have no hair to trouble with any longer. I enjoy this short haircut more than any I've had in decades.
I will admit that I have always had a complicated relationship with my hair. It has never been easy for me to maintain. When I was younger, I suffered the indignity of having a flat top like every other little boy around my age. We even had buzz cuts for a while then although none were quite as short as my hair is now. I remembered hating School Picture Day because I'd be stuck with photos of me with that flat top. It wasn't even long enough to need "product," as my stylist says. My grandmother tried to get me to use this stuff called Butch Hair Wax (I know, the irony of it all), but it never seemed to help. By the way, I think I destroyed all of those photos of my elementary years a while back. I just couldn't face looking at that kid's awful hair any longer.
My grandmother, bless her, tried all kinds of things to help me. She bought something called "hair trainer" from Avon or Luzier or Watkins or some door-to-door peddler. It was a waste of her money. My hair couldn't be trained. It just would hang limp whenever I tried to do anything with it. I couldn't even get the cowlick or two that I had to lie flat with the trainer stuff. My brother's hair would respond to almost everything she or my mother tried but not mine.
I was in junior high before my hair was allowed to grow out a bit. And, as soon as they allowed me (sometime in high school) to decide how long to grow my hair, I practically turned into a hippie. My bangs were so long that I would have to push the hair out of my eyes sometimes just to be able to read. I eventually cut it a bit shorter when I got to college, but I always seemed to prefer it to be a bit long. Oddly enough, my hair was still pretty long when I got my senior year photo taken at the university. The way our photos were lit made it look like I had a halo behind my head, leading to what my mother has always referred to as my "Jesus picture."
I have had almost everything done to my hair over the years except for coloring it. I had a "body wave" for a couple of years in high school. That's what they called "permanents" for men at the time, and a lot of guys did it at the time (even though most of us wound up looking like large poodles). It didn't really help me until the first time I got it cut. Then it would look good for a couple of weeks until the "wave" would grow out. I have also had it cut with almost everything, including a straight razor. If you want to know pain, have someone use a straight razor to slice off your hair. I have had it short and long. I once got the same haircut that Arnold had in the Terminator movies. I never had a mullet, thankfully, but it has frequently been long enough to have one.
I've used mousse (remember that stuff?), gel, pomade, even hairspray for a while. I tended to favor Garnier Fructis Fiber Gum Putty in recent years because it was sticky enough to hold my hair in place but not so sticky that it looked like I had clumped a lot of product on my head. I've had dozens of stylists over the years before I found my current one. They've tried everything they could to help me, all to no avail. One of them did reveal to me that I had hair the same texture of the hair of most Native Americans. I do have some Chickasaw heritage in there somewhere, I guess, but I didn't know it would manifest itself in my hair. (His first job after getting his cosmetology license was cutting hair on a reservation. That's how he knew.)
In recent years, it's gotten gradually shorter as my stylist has tried to keep me from looking too much like a bald guy. I tried to keep what hair I had for as long as possible, but nothing seemed to help. No ointments or pills kept the bald spot from getting larger, and there are side effects to the pills that a man should never want to have happen to him. I never wanted to do a comb-over because they look so silly and obvious, and I think getting hair plugs is an extreme sign of vanity even though I know some people who have had the procedure done. I also know some guys who just comb their hair straight back to cover the spot, but that too seems like an act of desperation. So a buzz cut it is.
I will admit to missing my longer hair. I had a good thick pelt there for a long time. I should have appreciated it more than I did, I suppose, despite all of the grief it gave me over the years. However, you can't imagine how much easier the maintenance is. I've shaved (no pun intended) at least half an hour out of my morning ritual. No more fussing with my hair. I just towel it off, and I'm ready to go. Maybe I should have gotten this buzz cut years ago. Think of all of the agony I might have avoided if I had.
Stories My Mother Told Me
I recently shared with you a photo of me with my grandfather that was taken just a few years ago. The one above is the first photo of the two of us together, at least the oldest one that anyone can find. I'm just a few months old, and we're on the porch of the "old place." Within the next few months, we would move into the house that I grew up in, my home for the first 18 years of my life. I know this picture is a bit fuzzy, a bit out of focus, but that's how different the talents for picture-taking were in those days.
My mother says that this picture shows just how devoted my grandfather was to me. She claims he doted on me as a baby like no man she had ever seen. I love it when she talks about the time she found him painting the "new house" with me cradled in one arm and holding a paint brush in his free hand. There he was standing on top of a ladder painting a house with a baby of only a few months. She asked him if he thought it was dangerous. His reply was classic Papa: "Aw, that baby's all right." I suspect I was no bigger than you see in the photo above.
Years later, when I began my first real job, as a reporter for a daily newspaper, I needed to find a place to live in Starkville, MS. I had always lived either at the "new house" (they called it that for years after we'd moved in, of course) or with Papa in his home after my grandmother died or in the dorms at school (the university officials preferred the term "residence halls," but as we say in the South, just because your cat had kittens in the oven don't make 'em biscuits). I wanted to go apartment hunting, and he and his wife, my step-grandmother, came with me. I found a little house for rent for $250 a month. (I know. Don't even get me started.) The landlady said she knew she had to rent the place to me when she saw that I had brought my grandparents with me.
I stayed in that little house for about five years before coming to California to attend graduate school. Naturally, Papa came to help me pack everything up and put it in the moving van. He wasn't making the trip to California with me--that was Mom's job--but he wasn't going to let me leave the state without helping. My mother told me that first night of our trip west, when we had finally stopped to rest for the night, that he had been crying as we drove away from the house. Many times over the years, she would remind me that she had never seen him cry over anyone else.
Whenever I would call home, Papa would always ask when I was coming to visit. What I didn't know was that when he and my mother talked on the phone, he would sometimes say to her, "I reckon Joe likes it out there." That was his way of saying that I probably would never move back to the South. Mom knew how that felt herself, having moved to northern Illinois almost forty years ago.
I wasn't his first grandchild. That would be my cousin Debbie, who was born three years earlier than I was, and he'd already had half a dozen or more step-grandchildren from my grandmother's kids (four boys) from her first marriage. I wasn't even the first grandson for long, as my cousin Jamie arrived just seven days after I did. However, I was the only one who lived with him. I think sometimes he considered me to be his son more than his grandson.
I'm feeling a bit sentimental these days. On the night of his wake, after we'd all returned to my uncle's house, we sat around for several hours talking about my grandmother. My uncle's wife said, "She must really be on your mind tonight." And she was. Perhaps sometime I'll post about her. However, Papa's been on mind lately. I know it isn't surprising, but I've been thinking back and remembering all of these stories, particularly the ones my mother has told me about when I was a little boy. I don't remember them, of course, but I do have pictures like this one.
Monday, August 24, 2009
15 Films
Again, the rules from a Facebook posting:
Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen movies you've seen that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what movies my friends choose.
Here is my list:
1. Lawrence of Arabia (still my favorite movie of all time)
2. Star Wars (I was 14 when it came out, the perfect age to love this movie. Still thrilling after all these years)
3. Casablanca (I could watch this film over and over and never tire of it. It's the most perfectly made film)
4. Citizen Kane (I find something new about this movie each time I watch it)
5. Sunset Boulevard (one of the greatest performances by an actress in the history of film. Compelling viewing)
6. Jaws (I could tell you almost every detail of the day I saw this movie--life-altering)
7. The Boys in the Band (sigh. another one of my favorites, now finally on video)
8. Forbidden Games (hardly anyone has seen this, but it's an intense, beautiful movie. A forgotten treasure)
9. La Strada (great film, great performances)
10. 8 1/2 (want your mind blown about what film can achieve? watch this one)
11. The 400 Blows (that final image still haunts me)
12. The Poseidon Adventure (I love popcorn movies, and this was one of my earliest favorites)
13. The Way We Were (I never make it through this movie without crying)
14. The Letter (my god, Davis is spectacular in this one. The opening sequence alone is worth watching it for)
15. Atonement (this movie is so underrated. I think it's just brilliant)
These are the first ones I thought of, but it seems like such a pedestrian list in many ways. Do you know how tough it is for a movie lover to pick only 15 movies, though? I could make this list almost five times as long. I'd have to add Rashomon and Close Encounters of the Third Kind and The Godfather and Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (no, really, I would) and so many others. And Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown and Reservoir Dogs...
Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen movies you've seen that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what movies my friends choose.
Here is my list:
1. Lawrence of Arabia (still my favorite movie of all time)
2. Star Wars (I was 14 when it came out, the perfect age to love this movie. Still thrilling after all these years)
3. Casablanca (I could watch this film over and over and never tire of it. It's the most perfectly made film)
4. Citizen Kane (I find something new about this movie each time I watch it)
5. Sunset Boulevard (one of the greatest performances by an actress in the history of film. Compelling viewing)
6. Jaws (I could tell you almost every detail of the day I saw this movie--life-altering)
7. The Boys in the Band (sigh. another one of my favorites, now finally on video)
8. Forbidden Games (hardly anyone has seen this, but it's an intense, beautiful movie. A forgotten treasure)
9. La Strada (great film, great performances)
10. 8 1/2 (want your mind blown about what film can achieve? watch this one)
11. The 400 Blows (that final image still haunts me)
12. The Poseidon Adventure (I love popcorn movies, and this was one of my earliest favorites)
13. The Way We Were (I never make it through this movie without crying)
14. The Letter (my god, Davis is spectacular in this one. The opening sequence alone is worth watching it for)
15. Atonement (this movie is so underrated. I think it's just brilliant)
These are the first ones I thought of, but it seems like such a pedestrian list in many ways. Do you know how tough it is for a movie lover to pick only 15 movies, though? I could make this list almost five times as long. I'd have to add Rashomon and Close Encounters of the Third Kind and The Godfather and Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (no, really, I would) and so many others. And Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown and Reservoir Dogs...
Guess Who?
He's a famous writer. Once his identity is revealed, you'll probably say to yourself, "Of course..."
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Papa
I always called him Papa. Even after I was a grown man, he was still Papa to me.
When I was growing up in Mississippi, he was the only father figure I had until my mother remarried. I never knew my own father, and my paternal grandparents remain a mystery to me. If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know that I grew up with my maternal grandparents. When they divorced in 1972--long after they probably should have split up, frankly--I lived with my grandmother until her death during my senior year (December 27, 1980, to be specific). After that, I lived with Papa.
He gave me my first job, working with him as a carpenter. I use the term "carpenter" loosely to describe myself, but he taught me what he knew about painting and roofing and plumbing and whatever else it took to build a house. I worked with him during every Spring Break and every summer and every winter break from school even after I started college. If I know anything about tools and fixing things, it's because of him. I still have the toolbox he gave me as a gift, and I have several tools that he gave me as well. And I have so many memories of the places we worked on, including that first house I helped to build and all of those roofs we put on during the hottest days of the summer.
I also owe him my sense of humor. If I'm at all funny, it's because of his genes. My mother is funny, but even she would admit that Papa is the source. I can remember him cutting a slice of cake for himself one night and then taking a bite and telling me that I wouldn't like it. "It's got that old moist taste," he said. Then he'd say that he didn't think it was "fit to eat," but, of course, a second slice would be the determining factor. I'm nowhere near as subtle as he was, but I like to think that I owe him my sense of humor.
He was in a terrible car accident three weeks ago. He ran a red light and hit a semi truck. The truck Papa and my step-grandmother were in spun into another car before finally coming to a stop. He was thrown from the car because, as usual, he refused to wear his seatbelt. He made sure his wife was buckled up, saving her life, thankfully. She suffered some bruising and a fractured leg, but that's all, amazingly.
He spent two weeks in a surgical trauma intensive care unit. He was only allowed visitors four times a day for twenty minutes. I was teaching summer school and had one more week to go when my mother called to say that the end would likely be near and that I should make arrangements to get there as soon as possible. I purchased my plane tickets, planning to fly on Tuesday of last week. He died Monday afternoon after his wife made the difficult decision to take him off life support when his kidneys and liver failed. He had been on a machine that was doing most of his breathing and another that kept his heart pumping. He had pneumonia and what my mother keeps calling "weeping edema." He was 86 years old, and although he was in good shape from having remained active all his life, there's no way he could have survived all of the injuries he sustained. And he wouldn't have wanted to be an invalid, believe me. He hated being in the hospital the few times he was ever sick.
Members of my family who were there said they're glad I didn't see him in the hospital. He certainly looked like he had suffered a tremendous amount of pain when I saw him at the funeral home on Thursday night. He almost didn't look like Papa. He didn't have that smile I was used to seeing. I know he's no longer in pain and, hopefully, now at peace. I only wish I could have said goodbye to him before he passed away. He's buried in a little country cemetery in rural Alabama, and he has a view of a beautiful pasture filled with cattle. If I know him, he's probably complaining that the owner should plow the land and plant some corn instead of wasting all that good land on a bunch of cows. (He was never much of a beef eater except for the occasional hamburger.)
When I would talk about going home to visit, I meant going to see Papa. The picture I've included of the two of us is from one of those holiday visits. It's from Thanksgiving a few years ago, and we're riding his four-wheeler, which he drove like a crazy person, by the way. He had already driven me down to the pond to see his fish and over to the chicken house and out to the dump. We were coming back to the house when this picture was snapped. My mother loves this picture of us, and so do I. It's the last photo that I have of him. I don't know what my family will do this Thanksgiving without Papa. We'll have nowhere to go, and even if we do all meet, it certainly won't be the same.
I saw lots of my family--and it's a big family--last week. He still has three sisters who all live in the same area, and there are lots of grandchildren and great-grandchildren and even a couple of great-great-grandchildren. I stayed with my uncle and his wife, whom I'd not seen in years, and they live next to two of my cousins and their families. I reconnected with people from high school who heard of his death and wanted to come see me. I met a lot of people who knew my grandfather from his more than 60 years as a carpenter and from his life spent in the same geographical area. Thursday's visitation was packed, a testament to how well liked Papa was.
Mostly, though, I cried. I broke down on the phone with my brother when he called last Monday to tell me the news. And I cried again when I saw my mother at the airport on Tuesday when she and my stepfather came to pick me up. I had to walk outside the funeral home several times Thursday night because I was so overcome with emotion. And the funeral on Friday rendered me speechless except for my sobs. Even on the plane ride home on Saturday, I felt the tears begin to well up a few times, but I somehow managed to hold them in until I got in my own car in the parking lot.
So many of you have lost loved ones, and you have been such good counsel for me during the past few weeks. I do appreciate all of your thoughts and prayers. I would never have made it through without your help. I know I'm not done grieving, but I'm very grateful to know that you've been there for me. I recognize that this post is going to be a difficult one to get through for many of you--it was tough for me, too--but I needed to write down what I'm feeling. It might help me to move on to the next stage, so thank you for indulging me.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
15 Books
Here are the rules (as per a friend on Facebook): Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what books my friends value.
1. Moby-Dick (Herman Melville). This book is like the movie Casablanca. I can reread it and find something new and interesting each time. I can watch Casablanca over and over again and never tire of it either.
2. Sure of You (Armistead Maupin). The first book I purchased in the Tales of the City series. I now own all seven of them, and whenever I want to have a fun reading experience, I go back to Maupin's novels.
3. Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens). My favorite novel from one of my favorite novelists.
4. Beloved (Toni Morrison). I must have read this book a dozen times now. It was one of the works I discussed in my dissertation. Breathtaking stuff.
5. The Sound and the Fury (William Faulkner). I could put down any number of Faulkner novels, but after reading The Sound and the Fury, I could never read fiction the same way again (and, yes, I think that's a good thing).
6. The Lord Won't Mind (Gordon Merrick). Trashy, fun stuff. The first in a trilogy of novels about this gay couple. Hilarious, profane at times, serious-minded, groundbreaking.
7. The Borrowers (Mary Norton). The first book I ever sought out to read after watching a TV show or movie adaptation. It was the TV movie from the 1970s, by the way, not the stupid adaptation of recent years with John Goodman.
8. Pippi Longstocking (Astrid Lindgren). My mother bought me three of these books after we saw those wonderfully campy movies in the 1970s. I reread them about a year ago, and I had a blast. It was just like being a kid again.
9. Any of the Peanuts books by Charles Schulz. I owned a lot of them over the years. I loved that strip and its world view. I, naturally, always fancied myself to be like Linus. Minus the blanket.
10. The Rain God (Arturo Islas). This and Migrant Souls are two of my favorite books from my graduate school years in California. I had never heard of his before taking a seminar in Chicano/a literature, and I was devastated when I found out he had died after completing them. No more masterpieces from such a gifted writer.
11. The New Confessions (William Boyd). Victorian in its size and scope, this novel is about the life of a film director. It spans much of the Twentieth Century, and it has one of the best opening sequences I've ever read. Comparable to the shock value of reading the opening sentences of Billie Holiday's Lady Sings the Blues.
12. The Tipping Point (Malcolm Gladwell). I've read all of three of his books, but this was the first for me. He finds the oddest things fascinating, the most minute of issues and moments to discuss.
13. America's Faces (Rheta Grimsley Johnson). Johnson was a columnist for the Memphis newspaper for many years. This is a collection of her columns, and it made me want to be a better writer. Any budding journalist would benefit from reading her work, but sadly, it's out of print.
14. Collected Poems (Frank O'Hara). I'd also recommend reading Brad Gooch's biography of O'Hara, City Poet. O'Hara is one of my favorite poets, right up there with William Carlos Williams and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'd recommend this collection for the poem "Joe's Jacket" if for no other reason.
15. Passage to India (E.M. Forster). Just brilliant.
I've left off too many people. Where's Jane Austen? Where's Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse? Why isn't there more poetry? This is such a difficult task, but I went with the first ones that popped into my head.
1. Moby-Dick (Herman Melville). This book is like the movie Casablanca. I can reread it and find something new and interesting each time. I can watch Casablanca over and over again and never tire of it either.
2. Sure of You (Armistead Maupin). The first book I purchased in the Tales of the City series. I now own all seven of them, and whenever I want to have a fun reading experience, I go back to Maupin's novels.
3. Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens). My favorite novel from one of my favorite novelists.
4. Beloved (Toni Morrison). I must have read this book a dozen times now. It was one of the works I discussed in my dissertation. Breathtaking stuff.
5. The Sound and the Fury (William Faulkner). I could put down any number of Faulkner novels, but after reading The Sound and the Fury, I could never read fiction the same way again (and, yes, I think that's a good thing).
6. The Lord Won't Mind (Gordon Merrick). Trashy, fun stuff. The first in a trilogy of novels about this gay couple. Hilarious, profane at times, serious-minded, groundbreaking.
7. The Borrowers (Mary Norton). The first book I ever sought out to read after watching a TV show or movie adaptation. It was the TV movie from the 1970s, by the way, not the stupid adaptation of recent years with John Goodman.
8. Pippi Longstocking (Astrid Lindgren). My mother bought me three of these books after we saw those wonderfully campy movies in the 1970s. I reread them about a year ago, and I had a blast. It was just like being a kid again.
9. Any of the Peanuts books by Charles Schulz. I owned a lot of them over the years. I loved that strip and its world view. I, naturally, always fancied myself to be like Linus. Minus the blanket.
10. The Rain God (Arturo Islas). This and Migrant Souls are two of my favorite books from my graduate school years in California. I had never heard of his before taking a seminar in Chicano/a literature, and I was devastated when I found out he had died after completing them. No more masterpieces from such a gifted writer.
11. The New Confessions (William Boyd). Victorian in its size and scope, this novel is about the life of a film director. It spans much of the Twentieth Century, and it has one of the best opening sequences I've ever read. Comparable to the shock value of reading the opening sentences of Billie Holiday's Lady Sings the Blues.
12. The Tipping Point (Malcolm Gladwell). I've read all of three of his books, but this was the first for me. He finds the oddest things fascinating, the most minute of issues and moments to discuss.
13. America's Faces (Rheta Grimsley Johnson). Johnson was a columnist for the Memphis newspaper for many years. This is a collection of her columns, and it made me want to be a better writer. Any budding journalist would benefit from reading her work, but sadly, it's out of print.
14. Collected Poems (Frank O'Hara). I'd also recommend reading Brad Gooch's biography of O'Hara, City Poet. O'Hara is one of my favorite poets, right up there with William Carlos Williams and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'd recommend this collection for the poem "Joe's Jacket" if for no other reason.
15. Passage to India (E.M. Forster). Just brilliant.
I've left off too many people. Where's Jane Austen? Where's Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse? Why isn't there more poetry? This is such a difficult task, but I went with the first ones that popped into my head.
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