UCLA Extension Writers’ Program

The Taste of Anger

Posted on by Wendy Kennar

There are some books that stay with you, long after you finish reading. Books that take up residence in your heart and mind. Books that make you feel, deeply, as if you have been an active participant in the story told on the pages. Books that are so rich with sensory details and vivid images, you did more than read the words; you saw the scenes play out in your mind.

The Taste of Anger: A Memoir by Diane Vonglis Parnell is one such book.

I must be honest. Diane is a friend of mine. We met several years ago at a writer’s retreat. We were classmates in a UCLA Extension Writers’ Program class taught by the late, lovely, Barbara Abercrombie. And after the class ended, Diane and I remained in touch for quite some time, emailing pages to each other, reading the other’s work and offering incredibly valuable insights and feedback and support. 

And now, the hard work, the years of writing and re-writing have culminated in the publication of Diane’s powerful memoir, The Taste of Anger. 

I must warn you, Diane’s book is not easy to read because of its subject matter — her incredibly abusive childhood. At the same time, Diane’s book is an important read, because it serves as a strong reminder — you never know what someone is dealing with simply by looking at them. You cannot always easily see the scars and pain someone deals with on a regular basis, which is something her book and my future book have in common.

Diane’s memoir is written from the point of view of her childhood self. We see the family, the school, the farm from young Diane’s point of view. And young Diane is observant, vigilant, and on high alert.

I am choosing not to share any passages that depict violence and abuse, because I understand how difficult and painful reading such passages may be for some. Instead, I am sharing a few passages that highlight the masterful descriptions and the sensory details that Diane uses throughout her memoir.

“In the kitchen, she rolls my hair in small silver curlers. They pinch so tight against my scalp that when I lay my head on my pillow, it feels as though I have stones tied all around my head.
“The entire family is up before the sun the next morning, getting ready for 6:30 mass. I ask Kathy to take my curlers out because she is gentler than Mom, unrolling them slowly so they don’t tear my hair out. When she’s done, I shake my head side to side, enjoying the tickle of the curls bouncing lightly against my face.”

“I watch a fly circle and get caught in a spider web in the corner. The fly struggles, making a loud bzzz bzzz bzzz, like an SOS signal, as the spider races across the web, pounces on it, and then rolls it in silk, placing it at the edge of the web next to another cocooned victim. I feel like that fly. If I go bzzz bzzz bzzz, will anyone hear the alarm? Will anyone come to save me?”

“Willy is a farmer from the next town over, jolly in a Santa kind of way, with the stub of a cigar always stuffed between the gap in his gray front teeth. His face is white-whiskered, his glasses held together at the bridge by black tape. He pulls his large body out from behind the steering wheel, steadying himself with a wooden cane. A hairy pink belly hangs visible beneath a tattered, ill-fitted T-shirt.”

“Mrs. Walters brings her chair from behind the desk, and we gather on the floor around her for Reading Time. It is my absolute favorite part of the day, and I sit right next to her, soaking in every word. She reads stories of tiny fairies and giants, a cat with big boots. Today we hear about a talking bear that gets lost in a train station. She turns the book around to show us illustrations of a chubby bear in a floppy hat. These vivid stories open doors to new worlds — happy worlds, magical words — and I fall earnestly into every one of them. Only during Reading Time do I truly forget about my life at home. I fight the urge to wrap my arm around my teacher’s leg, to lean my head against her knee. If she’d let me do that, and if she kept reading, I think I could close my eyes and stay right here for the rest of my life.”

“I am afraid of her, but I also like her orderliness, her clear rules, and the high expectations she sets for each of her new fourth-grade students. She scrutinizes our handwriting and then makes a special ceremony of passing out pens to the students she deems have graduated from the pencil. I am one of the first to get my very own blue pen, and when she calls my name, I blush and beam as I make my way to the front of the classroom where she holds it out to me. A gift to acknowledge my hard work. 
“We have spelling bees and write essays. Sister Joan challenges us to think and to express our thoughts, and through her guidance, I am beginning to see that the world is much bigger than just me and my life on the farm. Best of all she reads to us every day, further fueling my love for the subject.”

“At home after supper, I bring my uniform downstairs to show my mother. She purses her lips, holding the jumper out in front of her, scrutinizing the hole. I want to scream at her for letting it get this bad, but we have been conditioned not to speak our thoughts or express our feelings at home, so mine are always clanging around inside of me like a handful of nails tossed in a dryer and set to tumble.”

One last note: I am so honored that Diane included me in the list of friends and supporters she mentions in her Acknowledgements. Thank you, Diane! I am so proud of you!

Please note: I am including a link to buy the book that I’m highlighting this week. If you use my link, I do make a small commission on your purchase at no additional cost to you. I am working with Bookshop.org which also sends a portion of the profit to support local, independent bookstores.

For Barbara

Posted on by Wendy Kennar

This is a difficult blog post to write. 

My heart is heavy. Which in turn makes my fingers feel heavy to write what I need to write.

You know when people ask Which teacher most impacted you? I never had a really good answer to that question. I always thought the question referred to teachers you had before college, either the teachers that told you the play area for the week was kickball, or the teachers who helped you navigate the confusion of changing classrooms for each class period, or the teachers who wrote you the recommendation letters you needed for college.

I had gotten it wrong. 

A teacher is one who teaches. At any level.

Now I know my answer to that question.

Which teacher most impacted you?

Barbara Abercrombie.

And with a heavy heart and my heavy fingers I must add may she rest in peace. 

Barbara Abercrombie recently passed away. I learned of her death through an email newsletter I received from Jennie Nash, current CEO of Author Accelerator, former instructor in the Writers’ Program at UCLA Extension.

About twenty years ago, I took my first class in the Writers’ Program at UCLA Extension. A weekend course about Writing the Personal Essay taught by Barbara Abercrombie. I remember writing a somewhat humorous post about the women’s restrooms not having toilet seat covers. I remember hearing Barbara Abercrombie tell me she could hear my voice coming through. At the time, I didn’t realize what a huge compliment that was.

 It was shortly after that course that I became a published writer with a piece I wrote being published in the Los Angeles Times. (You can read it by clicking here.)

Barbara was a cool lady. She was honest and calm. She encouraged everyone, believing everyone could write — and publish — a personal essay. She was the only teacher I knew who wore a lot of jewelry like I do. Silver jewelry like I do. 

Occasionally over the years I enrolled in Barbara’s classes when they aligned with my teaching schedule. Back in 2005, I was fortunate enough to miss two days of teaching to enroll in UCLA Extension’s intensive four-day Writers Studio Barbara taught.

When I retired from teaching, I was then free to take Barbara’s weekday, daytime classes. And it was in one of those classes that I met one of my closest friends. 

Barbara also offered four day writing retreats up in Lake Arrowhead. I used to wistfully read her emails and think someday. Someday became two different occasions. Each time, I left my family for four days and three nights to go read and write and talk about reading and writing up in Lake Arrowhead with a group of writers.

It was Barbara who told me the essays I was writing could be — should be — a book. 

March of 2020. We all remember it as the month and year when our world ceased to be as we had known it. Originally I was enrolled in one of Barbara’s classes which would have started at the end of March. The class, of course, switched to a virtual format. With my husband working from home, and my son doing his schooling from home, I had to drop out of Barbara’s writing class. 

I hadn’t spoken to Barbara for quite some time though I followed her on Instagram and always liked and commented on the photos she shared of her grandchildren. 

But I know Barbara knows how much I appreciated her, how fond of her I was. Because I always told her — through a letter. At the end of each class, Barbara told her students to write a letter explaining what grade they deserved. You wanted an A, you wrote and asked for one. I always wanted the A. In these end-of-course letters, I didn’t just reflect on my writing during the class, but also on Barbara’s teaching methods. Barbara created a safe space for writers. Writers, who often didn’t know each other well, came together and created a supportive environment to write and share aloud some of the most personal, intimate parts of our lives. 

It always worked, because of Barbara.

Breaking Down Walls, 5 Minutes at a Time

Posted on by Wendy Kennar

Back in March (doesn’t that feel like so long ago?), I was set to begin a class offered through the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. When everything shut down, my class switched from in-person to virtual. 

At the same time, we were figuring out how to best help our son with distance-learning because Los Angeles Unified schools had shut down as well. So I dropped my writing course before it began. 

Since March, I have been writing. Sometimes more than others. 

And since March, I’ve been published. Again, sometimes more than others. (You can check my Published Work page for a complete listing.)

But lately I have felt like something was missing. 

And I realized what it was – being around other writers.

Most writing classes begin with a general introduction of who you are and why you’re there, what your goal is, what you hope to accomplish by being in that particular class. My introduction doesn’t vary a whole lot. I have a pretty consistent writing practice and know how to meet deadlines. (In case you didn’t know, I’m a regular contributor at MomsLA.com.) 

I enroll in writing classes for the people. The energy that comes from surrounding yourself with other writers. Writers who are readers. Writers who read my work, and offer honest feedback, who push me with questions to go deeper and explore further. They let me know what works and what doesn’t work. 

Often, there’s a mix of workshopping and writing in class; short exercises that sometimes develop into longer pieces.

In-person classes aren’t an option right now. And while virtual classes are being offered through UCLA Extension, I haven’t enrolled in any.

But I continue to write.

As an added stimulus, I have begun re-reading Kicking in the Wall: A Year of Writing Exercises, Prompts, and Quotes to Help You Break Through Your Blocks and Reach Your Writing Goals written by Barbara Abercrombie (my favorite instructor in the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program).

If you’re a writer (and as Barbara says, “Writing is a verb. A writer is one who writes”), I recommend this book. It’s gotten me writing – not an assignment for MomsLA or to answer a submissions call I learned about on duotrope.com, but writing not knowing exactly what it may lead to.

May it help you kick in your own wall.