Coping with Grief and Gaining Empathy Through Story and the Lens of History

Almost unfathomably, this September 11th marks a staggering 20 years since many of us watched in horror as the iconic twin towers fell, and our nation was under attack. As many adults still work to process the shock and trauma of that day, students not yet born in 2001, grow ever more removed from the event, lacking understanding, even as they weather devastating shared traumas of their own: Mass shootings and gun drills, political unrest, and, yes, a pandemic, and the impact of the isolation of quarantine. How do we teach children to cope with such overwhelming trauma, gaining empathy and even hope through the lens of history?

One of the answers is, and has always been, story.

It is well documented that story – especially via literary fiction -- builds empathy and understanding far better than text or nonfiction ever could. Stepping into story, and the metaphorical shoes of children their own age, to "witness" that tragic day and the days after, to feel with their own hearts how we rose from grief as a nation -- as well as changed in both good and bad ways -- is one of the most instructive ways for children today to learn to cope with their ongoing grief.

For the past five years since I wrote my fictional account of two young adults, Kyle and the bird girl, persevering through the trauma of 9/11, not to mention their own personal grief and coming of age, I have visited many schools and met countless readers ages 12 – 18 who have shared how this one little story has changed their perception and helped them to understand. Readers have voiced not only a new understanding of the actual timeline of events that day, but of how important research and source and fact checking are, or how sweeping changes in technology, security and privacy took place, or how the scourge of Islamophobia took a real and dangerous foothold in our country in the aftermath.

As one student recently admitted, “I learned how horrible it was. I used to think it wasn’t that big of a deal, but now I understand.”

Comprehending the value, and necessity, of teaching 9/11, departments of education around the country, including New York, New Jersey, and Virginia have developed 9/11 curriculum, often pairing it with Holocaust teachings. Both those traumatic events in our shared history are often associated with the easy catchphrase “Never forget.” And yet, we’ve begun to. And must not. ____ To learn more about my books, and two wonderful middle grade choices, and how to bring any or all of these stories to your classrooms, you may also watch this brief video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-P7fOXdwjNM&t=19s or reach out to me at g.polisner@gmail.com. To never forget, #ReadAndRemember

9/11, Pandemic & Shared Trauma: Coping with History through Story

This September 11th marks a staggering 20 years since many of us watched in horror as the iconic twin towers fell, and our nation was under attack. Many of us still grieve the shock and trauma of that day even while students in desks become ever more removed, not yet born in 2001, and, thus, without any first-hand understanding.

Now those students are experiencing shared trauma of their own: constant gun drills and mass shootings, political unrest, and, yes, even quarantine and a pandemic.


How do we cope with such trauma? How do we find new understanding through the lens of history?

One answer is STORY.

It is now well documented that story -- especially via literary fiction -- builds empathy and understanding far better than text or nonfiction ever could. Stepping into story, and the metaphorical shoes of children their own age, to "witness" that day and the days after, to feel with their own hearts how we rose from grief as a nation -- as well as changed in both good and bad ways -- is one of the most instructive ways for children today to also learn to cope with their ongoing grief, as well as to learn our true history including the good and the ugly changes that have occurred in our country since.

Nora Raleigh Baskin's award-winning NINE, TEN: A SEPTEMBER 11 STORY; Tom Rogers' ELEVEN (both for ages 9-12) and my award-winning THE MEMORY OF THINGS (ages 12+) are all stories about growing up, coping with tragedy, and so much more, each set against the unforgettable terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.

Watch this brief video, share it with friends and colleagues, and invite us into your classrooms to help you help your readers step into that moment and truly understand.


To never forget, #ReadAndRemember

Reach out to me on social media @gaepol or email @g.polisner@gmail.com

ALL THE HEAVY FURNITURE (The Visit)

All The Heavy Furniture (The Visit)

We visit on a Saturday and I search for you in all the heavy furniture you, the young woman who taught me how to drive over that breathtakingly narrow bridge, who drove me to Super-X and bought me Trojans “just in case.” I spot you in places, familiar in your art room scattered with zines — me, swinging playfully like a teen, indoors, in your hanging basket chair . . . Read the rest at Medium where I am now blogging.
https://gaepol.medium.com/

I am blogging over at Medium Now (Link In Body Below)

IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR ME, I AM BLOGGING OVER AT MEDIUM NOW: https://gaepol.medium.com/



FIND ME ON MOST SOCIAL MEDIA AT GAEPOL.

My Experience with Girl on Girl Hate, Judgment, Bullying, and How Little Has Changed

 

When my editor read a rough draft of my most recent YA novel, JACK KEROUAC IS DEAD TO ME, before she bought it, when we knew it needed revisions, she asked me this question, "But what is it really about?"

Of course, it's obvious from the book jacket what it's about on the surface: an almost-sixteen year old girl, JL, who, abandoned emotionally and physically by her mother and father, respectively, and judged and ditched by her longtime bff, Aubrey, turns to an older boy, Max, who isn't all that great for her. 

It's about growing up, and being caught between childhood and womanhood, whatever either of those mean.

But what it's really about, when I was forced to dig a little deeper, is how girls and young women judge and abandon one another, how we tear each other down. How we make a hard misogynistic world even more difficult and painful for one another. It's about how often our choices are affected by that judgment -- or at least might be different, clearer, easier, if we made them with the support of other women.

What I realized was that, of all the books and characters I've written, JL was most like me, that I had had too many Aubreys in my life as a teen and young woman, and that I had turned to too many Max's, to help me feel whole again.

Since I wrote the book, I've thought more about this, my sureness deepening: We'd be so much more powerful if we'd just lift one another instead of tearing each other down.

Right? I mean, OBVIOUS. 

And yet.

I wrote this piece about that HERE ON MEDIUM -- you can find it on this blog, too -- asking the simple question: 

What If Girls Were Taught to Lift One Another Better From an Early Age?

But why would we need to teach it? Teach something that obvious?

Because we do.

And because all of it is taught, directly or indirectly: how we treat one another, what is acceptable and not, and more importantly, what would actually make us stronger as human beings. It's all taught, though some of it simply via modeling and osmosis. It's taught.

Anyway, that post has received more attention than most of the pieces I write here. I've received private messages thanking me for sharing about it and for speaking out. When I spoke about this at a conference in 2018 before the world shut down, a woman my age approached me at my signing table in tears. She was still feeling the pain her teen self felt when the other girls tore her down.

So here's one of my stories from high school, again. Note, I actually experienced three separate bullying situations in high school all at the hands of girls. The two others were ongoing threats of harm and physical violence, one carried out, one averted when the girl was forced, for other reasons, to leave school for a time and when she finally returned, I stood up for myself and shut her down. Those other two incidences are no less painful to recall, but this one, I share now, is closest to what JL experiences, so it's the one I choose to talk about here. Lucky for me, and unlike JL, I had good, skilled, hands on parents who did their best to build me up while this was going on.

I hope you will talk about this with your students, with your daughters and granddaughters. I hope you will talk about this in your classrooms.

We can do better. And it will make a difference.

-Gae 

When I was in high school, I didn’t think I was worthy. I didn't feel smart enough, talented enough, athletic enough, and most importantly to me at the time, I wasn’t pretty enough—despite parents who repeatedly tried to tell me I was.  

Because I felt so yucky on the inside, feeling good on the outside became essential. I obsessed over hair, clothes, make-up, the shape of my body. Having a boyfriend and “going out” became the measure of my worth.

My best friend, D, now, she was beautiful—I mean, Margot Robbie, Jennifer Lawrence, Bella Thorne beautiful—and had had multiple boyfriends by the time we became friends in 9th grade.

I, on the other hand, had never been kissed.

D and I were inseparable. And through our friendship, through her love for me, I began to gain confidence (even if I wasn’t gaining dating experience). It was a friendship that both bolstered and defined me. And, though I didn’t understand at the time, not only did she think I was beautiful, too, she envied me for other things: my intellect, my feigned confidence, and probably, mostly, my family life which was more stable and supportive of me than hers. Best of all, she truly didn’t seem to see the surface differences between us, how the boys we both loved only ever wanted her.

Even when they used me to get to her.

It is 1980 in Long Island, NY, and my braces have come off. Contact lenses replace my aviator glasses, and my body develops ample curves and swells, and—even though I’m not traditionally beautiful from the neck up—boys our age start to desire me more.

Think Jennifer Gray in Dirty Dancing*.

I was a dead ringer.

A good thing, right?

So, what happens when the boys

finally like you…

And, now, the girls don’t?

Take this event that dominoes in rapid succession in the beginning of eleventh grade:

Remember, I’m mostly devoid of any real self-confidence or experience in the romance department, but there’s a boy I’m crushing hard after, a boy we’ll simply call R.

Problem is, R is dating B seriously—like, they’re a long time “thing”—and, so he is obviously off limits (and way, way out of my league anyway). Important side note: R’s best friend is J, and he’s dating P, who is B’s best friend. It’s a close knit kind of a thing. They’re all a grade older than I am.

And, again, I have barely been kissed.

 

Understatement.

Hold on to those facts. ^^^ They will matter in a second.

So, it’s end of October, junior year, and there is a Halloween party at someone’s house on a Saturday night. I dress as a red devil in skin tight satin pants, a red satin shirt, and sparkly red horns I make myself and attach to a headband, and head to the party with my best friend. Funny now that I can’t recall what she was dressed as.

R is there. Swoon. J is there. Their girlfriends P and B are not there.

Music, cavorting, and underage drinking ensue. At some point R finds his way to my corner and begins to flirt with me. No, really. He flirts with me! My heart nearly explodes. Eventually, he gets around to trying to kiss me. I am buzzed, and 16, and pretty desperate for him to like me, which, apparently, he might. As he leans in for a kiss, I (somehow) muster the wherewithal to ask where B is, because as bad as I want him to kiss me, if they’re still dating, it isn’t the right thing.

 

“Don’t worry about her,” he tells me. “She won’t show up. She has a family thing.”

 

I push back. I walk away.

Somehow, I walk away.

I do the right thing.

Minutes go by. An hour. I can’t really breathe. I can’t help looking for R wherever he goes. But I keep my distance. I drink some more. I don’t let myself go anywhere near him.

Fast forward to… when? I don’t know. An hour? Two hours?

Someone is tapping my shoulder.

“J wants to see you outside.”

J is not R, but he’s cute. It must be the devil costume.

I head out to the backyard in the darkness.

I’m 16. I want a boyfriend so bad.

Hey, I say when I reach him. We chat a bit. Finally, I ask, Where’s P?

Oh, we broke up, he tells me.

We broke up.

J leans in and kisses me.

I let J kiss me.

I kiss J back.

He asks me if I want to “go out” and just like that we are a thing. A dating thing, but a fairly innocent dating thing, mind you.

Fast forward to Monday morning in the hall.

“Slut!”

 

“Whore!”

For the next several months, whenever I pass them in the hall, B and P call me a slut.

They accost me in the halls to call me a whore.

How dare you steal my boyfriend!

I try to explain. About R. About J. About how they were broken up. About how I’m a virgin. About how I tried to do the right thing.

I’m told to shut up.

I’m told I am bad.

I’m told I’m a whore.

For the entire school year, until they graduate: Slut! Whore! Piece of garbage!

This, against the backdrop of already being badly bullied by those other girls.

How do I survive it?

1. My best friend, D, who knows me, and believes I am good. Thank god.

Fast forward to senior year.

To when the (new) guy I’m dating, E, D’s boyfriend’s best friend, breaks up with me and starts dating someone else and D starts spending time with her.

It’s okay. I buck up. Plus, I’m dating L now, the first real love of my life. I spend less and less time with D, who seems to have lost interest in me altogether, and more and more time with L.

It’s spring, senior year. L and I go to a movie, Officer and a Gentleman, and when the opening credits start to roll, I realize I badly need to pee.

I run to the bathroom, rush into a stall, pull down my pants and sit. Start to pee.

“Gae is such a loser," I hear. 

“Yeah, I never really liked her.” Two girls outside my stall, conversing.

How odd, I think, that they also know someone named Gae!

(I know, I know, but I did. That’s what I thought in that moment. That they were talking about a different girl named Gae).

Until I flushed and walked out.

And recognized my best friend, D, immediately.

My best friend, who had valued me,

promised me I was worthy,

was talking about how worthless I was.

It wasn’t until I was in my forties that I had female friends I would learn to trust again. To lean on, and rely on. To trust they loved me for me. And, still, they have disappointed me and broken my heart as recently as a few months ago, holding me to some standard, judging me, not willing to fix and forgive.

What is it about the fragility of female friendships? What is it about girls refusing to go easy on one another, lift each other up, and see the best in each other?

As the #MeToo movement sprang to life, I felt grateful to see women who had been harmed by men banding together to speak out, but what about the women who had harmed one another, done the tearing down?

What about the girls and women who continue to do the tearing down?

Now, when I visit middle schools and high schools, I talk about the girl-on-girl bullying I experienced, and how I was torn down and “assaulted” not only emotionally but physically. And when I finally get to the part where I say, “If you are a girl, and bully other girls, make judgments against them, call them names or worse… please don’t, please stop, please be kind, please hold one another up and understand,” I can’t help but see the eyes that dart to me, desperate and pleading, and the others, that dart so very quickly away.

As the author of books for tweens and teens, I am constantly exploring the complexities of female friendships, ones where girls rise to the occasion of loving one another—and where they do not, never more painfully than in my new novel, Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me.

For JL, my protagonist—and for all girls—I can’t help but ask, aren’t we worthy of the love of our girlfriends despite our bad decisions, despite our mistakes and flaws? Aren’t we worthy of leeway, of understanding, and of deep and abiding support?

I can’t help but wonder how different things might have been for JL if Aubrey had simply stood by her.

*Like Jennifer Gray, I got my nose done shortly after Dirty Dancing. Funnily enough, I never thought she was as beautiful after… if only we could see ourselves as we see others… 

**I feel it’s important to point out that even while it was happening, I knew D didn’t mean it (it didn’t make it any easier in the moment) and after a two year separation, she and I repaired our friendship in college and remain the absolute best of friends to this day.

 

 

What If Girls Were Taught to Lift One Another Better From an Early Age?

 

What if girls lifted girls?

Might everything be different?

This simple question has plagued me for a long, long time.

In high school, I was badly bullied by other girls. In repeat instances.  I was threatened, physically harmed and slut-shamed before I'd ever even "lost" my virginity. For two years of high school, I lived in daily terror.

To this day, I honestly don't know why.

Were they jealous? 

Did I appear too self-confident or aloof?* 

Was I unwittingly cruel to them first? 

Did I play a role in my own torture? Did they, too, play a role in their own simultaneous pain?

You can read more about that if you'd like to know the specifics HERE.  

**I'm also making the original Google Doc I drafted for that feature public with this link and invite you or your readers to have a conversation with me about all of this any time with me there. **

Some of the girls who were cruelest to me are lovely, kind women now. Perhaps a few are not. One of them is dead. I wept, not celebrated, when I learned of this. Of course. Of course. It only cemented what I believe, my best guess as to why girl-on-girl cruelty perpetuates itself, decade after decade:

We were all suffering, and being cruel to me helped them avoid their own insecurities and pain.

Sometimes, when I see photos of teen me,
my heart breaks for me

But what is the source of those insecurities? What if WE -- girls, women -- had a LOT of power in reducing and undermining those insecurities and pain?

I've been reading and thinking a lot about Evan Rachel Wood these days, and her brutal painful story. Maybe I read something that triggered the connection, about women blaming her, but I can't stop thinking about the connection to my book JACK KEROUAC IS DEAD TO ME and what I was hoping to say by that story.

Let me first state unequivocally, that what happened to Wood and seemingly many others, is the fault of a man, of men, of a system of patriarchy and toxic masculinity, and what we continue to allow men to get away with. Period. End of story.

And.

I know, I know. How is there an "and" after you said, "end of story?"

Because. Because two seemingly contradictory things can exist and be true at the same time. They can.

So.

And:

Whatever the book jacket for JACK KEROUAC IS DEAD TO ME says, to me, it is a story about girls judging girls, girls not standing up for girls, and what often happens when they don't.

It's about a story about an insecure, scared teen girl turning wholly to a boy who isn't particularly good for her when her best friend deserts her.

When the other girls around her judge her and turn their backs. Kudos to the Booklist reviewer who got this in their review when they wrote, "Perfect for readers who love coming-of-age stories and who understand the value of female community."

Yes. YES!!! That.

There is value -- and, more than that, huge POWER -- in the female community.

Girls need girls.

Women need women.

And too often we still fail to lift one another up and support one another.

I know this because I talk to teen girls all the time. They tell me how they are judged, bullied, deserted by other girls. I ask the question when I visit schools. We talk. Or they listen.

It's always the same: Those who are bullied cast their eyes down.

Those who do the bullying cast their eyes away.

I see this over and over again. And I always implore them: "You don't have to be friends, but support one another. You don't have to hang out. Just don't tear one another down."

I don't tell people what my book is about. That is up to the individual reader, of course. The book jacket says what it says. People will take from the story what they take. And very few even know the book exists.

But if you read it with your daughters, have a conversation.

If you read it with your students, have a conversation. If you want to have a conversation with me, we can also have one HERE.

I can't help but think how our lives might be different in the face of this one simple change.

Because of my relationship with girls -- because of the harm girls did to me in middle school and high school, and, yes, into college -- I put all my efforts during those years into relationships with men: friendships and otherwise. Because. Because.

A self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts.

My truth is, it took me well into my forties before I trusted women again, until I allowed myself to find any value in those relationships at all. To trust female friendship.

For sure, I am the better for it.

My female friends are beyond important to me. They lift and buoy me.

And I trust I am worthy of them in return.

I believe women's lives - and our willingness to speak up in the face of bad relationships, and, yes, abuse - might be very different if girls and women learned to support one another better from an early age.

We still do not.

At least, too often, we do not.

I know this from personal experience. Still. To this day. And I believe our lives would be very different if we could.

This was also posted to MEDIUM.COM

p.s. Please note that JACK KEROUAC IS DEAD TO ME is upper YA/crossover to adult. The book contains language and sexual situations. * Yes, this is something someone told my dad once. Read that again. I appeared too self-confident and aloof. Those two things could not be further from the truth of how I felt.

Scavenger Hunts - The Perfect Distanced Activity, Indoors or Out!

 

 

How I loved scavenger hunts as a kid! And my kids loved them too! So it's no surprise that, eventually, I wrote a children's book that centered around one, the book that came to be known as SEVEN CLUES TO HOME.

WHEN YOU’VE LOST WHAT MATTERS MOST, HOW DO YOU FIND YOUR WAY BACK HOME?

Joy Fonseca is dreading her 13th birthday, dreading being reminded again about her best friend Lukas’s senseless death on this day, one year ago — and dreading the fact he may have heard what she accidentally blurted to him the night before. Or maybe she’s more worried he didn’t hear.

Either way, she’s decided: she’s going to finally open the first clue to their annual birthday scavenger hunt Lukas left for her the morning he died, hoping the rest of the clues are still out there. If they are, they might lead Joy to whatever last words Lukas wrote, and toward understanding how to grab onto the future that is meant to be hers.

Booklist called SEVEN CLUES TO HOME, "a modern day Bridge to Terabithia" and Kirkus Reviews, "a heartfelt tour de force."

We believe it's a sweet, page-turning story about what it means to love, to grieve and to be a friend, a story about holding on to memories even as you pick up the pieces and move on.

May 24th is National Scavenger Hunt day. Scavenger hunts are the perfect physically-distanced activity, indoors* or out. And what better way to engage your readers more deeply with Joy and Lukas's story?! Reach out to me through social media -- or my email g.polisner@gmail.com -- for engaging book-related activities, including mini book-related scavenger hunts, or ways to connect your readers to this story about healing and hope, including free zooms for classrooms or bookclubs of five or more!

*always wear a mask indoors! :)