Gotowa bibliografia na temat „Ranch life – Juvenile fiction”

Some people cannot love even their family members, while some seemingly normal people have few paradoxical qualities. Is there a connection between their strange behavior and their childhood experiences? What is the role of childhood in the character development of a person? The psychologists consider childhood experiences as the building blocks of a person’s personality. Freud believed that the child’s bond with the parents is the key to his/her psyche. Erikson divides a person’s life into eight stages of development. Every child faces a crisis or a challenge at each stage. The resolution of the crisis would lead to the acquisition of virtue, while failure caused maladaptive. Karen Horney also puts forth similar views. If the child’s basic need is not met, he/ she would either move towards people or move against or move away from people. This article examines the portrayal of children, their challenges, idiosyncrasies, and impact of their experiences on their psyche in the fiction One Amazing Thing, written by famous Indian American author Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni from a psychoanalytical perspective. She has written a few children’s novels also. A master storyteller, she weaves reality, imagination, and psychology together and creates both adult and juvenile characters who are true to life.

Do what extent are we responsible for improving the world? To what extent are those that do evil in the world responsible for their actions? In this work of philosophical short story fiction, Roz is a retired lawyer who is assigned as a volunteer case work for Deshaun, a trouble teenager who has been in and out of foster homes his whole life and was recently released for juvenile detention for getting into a serious fight. Roz attempts to help Deshaun, but he seems unwilling to trust anyone, and views Roz only as a resource to be exploited. Deshaun runs away from his group home while on detention and is at risk of being in violation of his probation. Roz contacts him and he asks her to pick him up. She feeds him and takes him to her place to sleep for the night. The next morning he is gone, along with her family Menorah. Some time later he contacts her, now in prison for other crimes, they meet and he apologizes for not accepting her offers of help.

Anthropomorphism, the imposition of human traits on nonhuman objects and animals, is an ancient tradition in the art of storytelling. Existing studies on anthropomorphism in literature have mostly focused on its being a satirical device in adult fiction but paid less attention to how anthropomorphism is constructed in literature for children. This study was executed to examine the depiction of anthropomorphism through folktales, modern fables, and digitales-in selected contemporary Nigerian prose narratives for children intending to establish the use of anthropomorphized characters to bring abstract concepts to life. Jean Piaget’s cognitive constructivism was adopted as the theoretical framework for the study. Five narratives were purposively selected because of their relevance to the study. The narratives were subjected to critical analyses. The face of anthropomorphism is revealed as a rhetorical tool through personification and metaphoric expressions. Anthropomorphism in children’s narratives serves as an attention grabber and a means of giving concrete information on learning through cognitive constructivism which is effective through a literature-based learning experience. In juvenile literature, anthropomorphism is used in building a relational attitude between the young readers and the fictional characters in the text for subtle facilitation of knowledge.

Twice Pulitzer Prize winner Colson Whitehead bases the plot of his novels on various facts of American reality found in documents and newspaper publications. By juxtaposing fact and fiction, he transforms them to create a new reality, rooted in the events of real life but acquiring a universal or metaphorical character that could be seen even in his early works. In “John Henry Days” (2001) the writer makes use of the legend of the famous black laborer John Henry, its reflection in the folklore and everyday life of the American South and attempts to up-sell it in today’s USA with the help of social networks. In the novel “The Underground Railroad”, written after Whitehead’s archival research and his study of slave narratives of the mid-19th century, the document is woven into the artistic structure of the text by using authentic announcements about runaway slaves. The novel “The Nickel Boys” was written under the influence of the information about the horrible findings discovered on the grounds of the so-called Arthur Dozier School, established in early 20th century for juvenile delinquents, telling the story of two black boys who got there in the 1960s. The writer incessantly explores the impact of racism on American society and social injustice making use of a historical novel elements, of alternative history, neo-slave narratives and satire in his descriptions of the contemporary US media.

Lee Juhong(1906-1987) was a writer, educator, and artist, born in Hapcheon, Gyeongsangnam-do, and worked in Busan. This paper is a study of his calligraphy, poetry, and painting. He experienced various hardships during his life of 80 years, including Japanese rule and the Korean War. Therefore, he expressed human agony and the fundamental essence of his difficult life through various genres of art, including literature. He led students to culture and art during his entire life as a professor of the Department of Korean Language and Literature at the National Fisheries University of Busan, integrated by Pukyong National University in Busan afterward. In addition, he was a comprehensive artist who engaged in artistic activities in a variety of genres, including poetry, novels, essays, plays, and criticism, as well as children's poems, fairy tales, juvenile fiction, calligraphy and painting, folk paintings, comics, book designing and binding, and theater directing. He also wrote collections of literary works and translations that amount to about 300 volumes. I analyzed and examined Hyangpa Lee Juhong’s calligraphy and painting by classifying them into literary communication aesthetics of calligraphy and painting and authentic East Asian aesthetics of calligraphy. The simple beauty, humorous beauty, and natural beauty abstracted from the literary communication aesthetics of calligraphy and painting help the aesthetic emotions organically linked in Hyangpa’s poetry, painting, and calligraphy to communicate through the integrated empathy of creation and appreciation. Therefore, I confirmed that simple, humorous, and nature-friendly works become communication aesthetics that heals complex minds. I summarized the authentic East Asian aesthetics of calligraphy into five beauties.: The first is the simple and gentle beauty that looks smiling. The second is the beauty that to have and to lack generate each other, and the third is the beauty that expresses a neat yet majestic aura with flowing strokes. The next is the beauty that is plain but not sick of, and the last is the magnanimous beauty while remaining faithful to nature without restraint. He used diverse genres of literature and various fields of art. He attempted many experimental things in calligraphy, so we could evaluate that he created a new style and method of calligraphy. In addition, the humanistic, literary, and aesthetic sentiments accompanying Confucius's humanism and Zhuangzi's vital freedom at the bottom of Hyangpa art formed his view of literature, art, and life. Thus, they elaborately emerged in Hyangpa’s calligraphy and painting.

BackgroundHallux valgus is a common deformity characterized by abnormal rotation, lateral deviation, angulation of the great toe at the first metatarsophalangeal joint. Pes planus is known as the loss of the medial longitudinal arch. While some studies have suggested that pes planus plays an important role in the development of hallux valgus [1, 2], others reported that no correlation between these disorders [3, 4]. Thus, the differences in the problems caused by these disorders should be clarified.ObjectivesThe aim of this study was to compare individuals with hallux valgus and pes planus in terms of foot posture, function, pain, and quality of life.MethodsThirty-one (13-hallux valgus, 18-pes planus) individuals of both sexes, who were determined to have pes planus or hallux valgus by clinical evaluation, were included in the study. The dominant foot of the patients was evaluated by the Foot Posture Index (FPI-6), Foot Function Index (FFI), The American Orthopedic Foot and Ankle Society (AOFAS), and their quality of life was evaluated by the Short Form-36 (SF-36). FPI-6 evaluates foot posture with 6 items in the range of (-12) - (+12). According to FPI-6, negative values indicate the foot is in supination, and positive values indicate that the foot is in pronation. The FFI scores for the domains of pain, disability, and activity limitations. A higher score indicates greater impairment. AOFAS, also consists of pain, function, and alignment subscales, and the total score ranges from 0-100, and higher scores indicate better outcome. SF-36 is a scale that evaluates health-related quality of life with 8 subscales, and physical function and general health subscales of SF-36 were used in this study, and higher scores also demonstrate a better quality of life. Mann Whitney-U test was used to investigate the differences between patients with hallux valgus and pes planus.ResultsIndividuals with pes planus and hallux valgus were homogenous in terms of physical characteristics (p>0.05). It was determined that patients with pes planus had worse foot postures according to FPI-6 and more foot pain according to FFI and AOFAS compared to patients with hallux valgus (p<0.05). Other results were similar between patients with pes planus and hallux valgus (p>0.05) (Table 1).ConclusionTo the best of our knowledge, this study was the first to compare between patients with hallux valgus and pes planus. Current findings revealed that pes planus caused more pain and foot posture disorders compared to hallux valgus. A comparative study on a large sample is ongoing to assess the difference between these foot disorders.References[1]Atbaşi Z, Erdem Y, Kose O, Demiralp B, Ilkbahar S, Tekin H. Relationship between hallux valgus and pes planus: real or fiction? The Journal of Foot and Ankle Surgery. 2020; 59(3):513-517.[2]Kalen V, Brecher A. Relationship between adolescent bunions and flatfeet. Foot & Ankle. 1988; 8(6):331-336.[3]Suh DH, Kim HJ, Park JH, Park YH, Koo BM, Choi GW. Relationship between hallux valgus and pes planus in adult patients. The Journal of Foot and Ankle Surgery. 2021; 60(2):297-301.[4]Kilmartin TE, Wallace WA. The significance of pes planus in juvenile hallux valgus. Foot & ankle. 1992; 13(2):53-56.Table 1.Summary of findingsHallux valgus (n=13)Pes planus (n=18)VariablesMean±SDMean±SDpAge (years)33.84±16.1029.77±13.900.57Height (cm)168.30±6.57165.50±6.600.20Weight (kg)70.23±14.8565.11±16.490.22BMI (kg/m2)24.70±4.6123.58±4.850.33FPI-62.46±2.405.88±2.630.00*FFI-Pain12.53±12.8323.33±12.990.03*FFI-Disability11.84±15.4617.50±13.560.12FFI-Activity Limitation6.46±14.414.33±6.800.53FFI-Total30.84±37.8845.16±27.090.04*AOFAS-Pain32.30±5.9927.22±6.690.03*AOFAS-Function45.38±8.1346.66±4.920.66AOFAS-Alignment6.15±2.194.55±2.430.11AOFAS-Total83.83±12.5880.94±8.010.30SF-36-Physical function87.30±15.8984.44±22.220.65SF-36-General health62.30±19.3256.66±14.950.26Acknowledgements:NIL.Disclosure of InterestsNone Declared.

Smith Milway, Katie. Mimi's Village and How Basic Health Care Transformed It. Toronto, ON: Kids Can Press, 2012. Print.Mimi’s Village is part of the CitizenKid series, a collection that seeks to inspire children to be better global citizens. Based on Katie Smith Milway’s experiences working for non-profit organizations, the story is set in Western Kenya – a real-world context that is vividly supported by Eugenie Fernandes’ colourful full-page illustrations of flora, fauna and village life.Told in simple one-page chapters, this story introduces children to the health challenges experienced by Mimi and her family: unsafe drinking water, a child’s life-threatening illness, and travel through the night to a distant health clinic. As the story develops, readers begin to see that small steps can radically improve health in the village: clean water, vaccinations and mosquito nets. Perhaps most importantly, Mimi’s inspirational role – she asks her father, “Could you build a clinic too? Maybe then a nurse would come” – demonstrates that children can make meaningful contributions to their communities. This theme is carried into the book’s final seven pages, which include the story of a “real village health worker,” as well as concrete suggestions that answer the question, “How can you help?”The writing in this book is not the strongest and the title may not inspire child readers. In addition, younger readers will benefit from reading this with an adult. These shortcomings are, however, fully mitigated by Mimi’s engaging story and the book’s two important messages: simple public health measures will dramatically improve the lives of many children living throughout the world; and children everywhere can positively impact their world. This juvenile nonfiction book will make a compelling addition to any library collection.Recommended: 3 out of 4 starsReviewer: Shelagh K. GenuisShelagh K. Genuis is an Alberta Innovates–Health Solutions Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the University of Alberta’s School of Public Health. Although an avid reader of biography, she has never stopped reading children’s fiction.

Among the sub-genres of science fiction, one of the most traditional and most machine-laden is space opera. The name is dismissive and was coined in parallel with the now little recognised 'horse opera' (for westerns) in the wake of the success of the term 'soap opera' (for romantic serials). Space operas were adventure sagas across the galaxies with space ships carrying intrepid crews on voyages of discovery, into glorious battles and terrifying encounters with aliens. The 'opera' part presumably refers to their seriality and overstated melodrama. At various times during the last fifty years space opera has seemed as doomed as the horse type, but sufficient examples were published to keep the sub-genre puttering along until new authors could invigorate it. This has now happened and I want in this brief note to see the change, through looking at one current writer's series to see what has been done, how it has been received and how observing the role of a particular novum (Darko Suvin's term for the imaginative invention that characterises sf) -- a machine in this case, of course -- illuminates what has happened. Because this begins with a consideration of sf history, I want to start with one of the key distinctions that has long operated in both popular and academic analysis of science fiction (though admittedly it has more currency now in the popular); that between hard and soft sf. Unsurprisingly, given how loaded those terms are, it is a gendered distinction. Hard sf is the boys' playground; technologically driven, its allegiances are to physics and engineering. From nano-widgets to space ships as big as planets, it loves machines. The boysiness of hard sf was sedimented in popular sf through the generic hegemony achieved by Hugo Gernsback in his US pulp magazine empire starting with Astounding in 1926. Space opera was the quintessential type of hard sf in the early years, though it came to be challenged if not displaced by colonisation narratives that concentrated on engineering. Soft sf, of necessity the girly stuff, has the squishy bits -- biology certainly, but also the social sciences. Both New Wave and feminist sf, the innovative sub-genres of sf in the 60s and 70s, used soft rather than hard tropes in their subsequently incorporated revisions of the genre. In the 80s, cyberpunk presented itself as the hard stuff, but this was pretty disingenuous (all that voodoo, those drugs, the excursions into various social sciences), not to mention, as Samuel Delany among others has pointed out, the way this could only be managed by denying its feminist foremothers. These days, the traces of space opera's pulp-laden past are there to be read in the way that the more serious American writers like Kim Stanley Robinson prefer sober space colonisation narratives while the truly innovative work (as well as the quality writing) is done outside the US, by a Scot -- Iain M. Banks. In addition to Banks's wondrous novels of the Culture, the revivified field includes more traditional series like Lois McMaster Bujold's Vorkosigan saga, David Weber's Honor Harrington sequence and Colin Greenland's tracing of the career of Tabitha Jute. It would not be possible to examine how Banks has remapped the field in a note such as this, but dealing with some of the more traditional examples can provide an interesting case study in the hardness of the sub-genre, as well as pointing to wider movements in the sf world. It is the latter that is evident in the way in which the male writers produce female lead and the female the male (by and large, Bujold does occasional female leads). Not that Weber makes any attempt to make Honor credible as a female, she's laughably improbable and only needs to be placed near Greenland's Tabitha Jute for the disparity to become evident. (I'm using this comparison not just for its power but also because it stops the suggestion that male writers can't produce decent female action heroes.) For the more detailled part of this I want to concentrate on Bujold's series in part to mull over why it might be that her books are dismissed as too soft and 'girly' to be good space opera. There is something of a problem in that I find the whole hard:soft distinction more than a bit juvenile and value it primarily for its power in understanding sf history. The moves to broaden the field beyond what it was so artificially limited to in early to mid-twentieth century America seem to me to be a move to a more integrated adulthood rather than the imposition of a line of squishy feminine referents to be denied or repelled. I don't see 'softness' as a negative quality (nor 'hardness' for that matter), but I am interested in why and how a space opera series with space ships, space weaponry, gadgets galore and large quantities of prime quality derring-do should be deemed soft. Bujold has written a long series of space operas set in an Earth-colonised far-future that centre on the deformed figure of Lord Miles Vorkosigan. A few other fictions are set in the same universe and link in various ways to the core texts. Not all are set on spaceships though the majority require their presence as significant features of the plot while others rely on such standards of space narrative as space stations, terra-forming and the hardware of space warfare. To dismiss Bujold's world as one where the hardness of space opera technology is subsumed in girliness, it is necessary to overlook not just great passages of certain texts, but to dismiss whole novels. The Vor Game for instance follows a long sequence at an arctic weather station which culminates in the necessary destruction of outdated toxic weaponry with an escapade across great reaches of space in a whole range of ships displaying, selling and eventually using all manner of wonderful weaponry climaxing in a battle for control of a wormhole nexus. The only woman of any narrative prominence is a evil mercenary leader ("face of an angel, mind of a rabid mongoose"). One would think that it all sounds rather a sitter as a hard piece of space opera fare written for a readership of boys of all ages. My description though so far fails to convey where it is that Bujold has updated the sub-genre. It could be that the problem lies in the same place as the updating -- in the nuancing of the character of the hero Miles Vorkosigan and the continuing delineation of the interweaving of his double life as mercenary Admiral and loyal Imperial lieutenant. Traditionally the space opera hero comes into the world if not fully formed, then at least ready for a coming-of-age tale. Bujold shows us the formation of the hero, ensuring that he remains located within his extended family. It could be that complaints come from those who would prefer their heroes not to have mothers. But then again it could be about the humour. Bujold doesn't see earnestness as desirable and writes a fantastical adventure romp. It seems to me that this is one core difference between her and fellow Baen writer David Weber. There is no predicting what a descriptive passage about technology will lead to in Bujold; it could be a novel way to win hand to hand combat or a comic sequence making a moral point about abuse of power. For Weber, a sequence of space ships and weaponry is sufficient in itself, being an opportunity to talk of model numbers and ballistic capabilities with all the narrative brio of Tom Clancy (i.e. none), but at least Clancy is usually talking about something that has an existence in the real world. When both the machine and the science it operates by are more than speculative, labouring the trainspotters'-guide-to-hyperspace-technology talk can only delight anoraks. Machines are ends in themselves for Weber, means to a narrative or characterological point in Bujold. As well as why the machine is mentioned, there is also the question of what kind of machines are favoured. Maybe over the whole sequence, Bujold pays more attention to biologically-based technologies; when she focusses on engineering it is more often as a means to a biological end (usually terraforming), though in Falling Free, the least closely linked of the novels, the biology which enables the creation of the 'quads' -- freefall workers with four arms rather than arms and legs -- is in the service of engineering advantage. The passion in her work, and despite the humour and invention, there is considerable ideologically driven passion, is reserved for her biologically based beliefs -- that physical difference should be no barrier to achievement. As is common in sf, race is incidental and not part of the argument (it is rare for any but black writers of sf to see race as a meaningful issue for the future), but sex and ability are primary. Thus Miles, whose bones were damaged while a foetus and who is short and hunched, Bel Thorne, the hermaphrodite, Taura, the genetically engineered 'perfect soldier' eight foot tall with claws and fangs, Mark, Miles's clone brother and many others who appear less frequently carry the story of difference that must not be allowed to make a difference. Where gender is concerned, the popular spread of feminism means that forceful statements of position are read as political, not as some more woolly bit of being 'nice to the afflicted'. Bujold's feminism may be old-fashioned liberal rather than radical or post-modern, but it doesn't operate by parachuting women in to narratively significant positions of power. You buy the book and you get the argument and with Cordelia, Miles's mother, inscribed as the figure of rationality, the bases are loaded. The machine around which the discourse of liberation is organised, Bujold's novum and the machine which is the focus of complaint, is the uterine replicator -- an artificial womb. In the Bujold universe this is the ultimate good machine. It was a replicator that enabled Miles to survive after teratogenic damage in utero; his first love and his mother both issued from them; and it seems like the key test of a man is his willingness or otherwise to have his wife reproduce in vitro. I suppose I can see why this offends those wedded to old-fashioned hard space opera. Traditionally, the machines that tell the men from the girls/boys/lesser beings are the ships and their weaponry, but here the machines that count replicate the uterus (ultimate squishiness) and so, far from delivering death, deliver babies. Furthermore, their entry into the narrative is almost always the cue for a disquisition on the inequities of the patriarchal society within which Bujold sets almost all her action. InMirror Dance Miles's clone brother Mark finally meets the senior Vorkosigans. He is taken to a court ball by his 'mother' who explains the dynamics of the evening in terms of the political agenda of the old men and the genetic one of the old women. The men imagine theirs is the only one but that's just an ego-serving self-delusion. ... The old men in government councils spend their lives arguing against or scheming to fund this or that piece of off-planet military hardware. Meanwhile the uterine replicator is creeping in past their guard. (296) In the most recent book,Komarr, the main female character is an abused wife with a young son and the fact that her husband required her to bear the child herself is presented as just one of the many abuses he subjects her to. When you read the various passages which discuss the uterine replicators across the books, it can be surprising to discover the insistence with which barbarity and male oppression are figured in the refusal to countenance the machine and good men are revealed by their regarding it as a valuable device. It seems almost to verge on the excessive (but then this is not how such ephemeral texts as popular space opera are read, and if one put together a collection of the passages of 'best bits of weapons admiration' that would look a bit strange too). One could, if so minded, easily dismiss the Vorkosigan adventures as a bit girly on the basis of their enjoyment of interpersonal relations, character development, or romance. If, though, one were willing to admit that only certain pieces of hardware had generically usable hardness, it might rather be possible to observe that the carping at the centrality of the wrong kind of machine identifies much more accurately what is really worrying about the whole popularity of the series -- that this machine is a Trojan Horse for the incorporation through hard technology of 'hard' feminist politics. References Bujold, Lois McMaster. Komarr. Earthlight, 1998. ---. Mirror Dance Riverdale: Baen, 1994. ---. The Vor Game. Riverdale: Baen, 1990. Delany, Samuel R. Silent Interviews: On Language, Race, Sex, Science Fiction and Some Comics. Hanover: Wesleyan UP, 1994. Suvin, Darko. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction. New Haven: Yale UP, 1979. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Frances Bonner. "The Hard Question of Squishy Machines." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.6 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php>. Chicago style: Frances Bonner, "The Hard Question of Squishy Machines," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 6 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Frances Bonner. (1999) The hard question of squishy machines. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(6). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php> ([your date of access]).

At the beginning of his recent collection of essays in queer studies, Jeffrey Escoffier makes the assertion at once portentous and banal that “the moment of acknowledging to oneself homosexual desires and feelings … and then licensing oneself to act ... is the central drama of the homosexual self.” That “moment of self-classification,” he explains, “is an emergency – sublime, horrible, wonderful – in the life of anyone who must confront it.” (1) In the theatre of my own biography, I am unsure how or when I first played out this epiphanic drama of queer self-acknowledgment, but I can vividly recall the first time someone else enacted it for me. In elementary school, at the age of ten, a fellow pupil cornered me in the school playground and announced with calculated precocity to anyone who cared to listen that I was, as he put it, “a homo.” Unlike some of my congregated peers whose chorus of “what’s a homo?” provoked a dizzying exchange of infantile misinformation, I was only too well aware of the term’s meaning and, shocked that my queerness should not only be revealed but also be so transparently legible that even a boorish bully might detect it, slid away in fearful embarrassment. What proved most unsettling to me, however, was that my nascent homosexuality should have been evidenced in this playground spectacle of queer exposure, not on the basis of same-sex desire but, rather, on that of passionate devotion to a woman. Earlier that day, our schoolteacher had directed us to write and then read aloud to the class a composition entitled, “My Hero.” Where most of my classmates wrote predictable tributes to normative role models of the time like Neil Armstrong, Greg Chappell, Muhammad Ali, and even Jesus Christ, I penned an effusive homage to, what I described in the essay as, that “radiant star of stage and screen, Miss Julie Andrews”. It was this profession of ardent affection for a female film star that led directly to my schoolyard outing. As my accuser put it when explicating the deductive rationale behind his sexual detection, “Only a homo would love Julie Andrews!” Even at age ten, the paradoxical (il)logic of this formulation was so glaring as to all but slap me hard across the face – an action transposed from the metaphoric to the literal by my playground adversary who, not content to let “the homo” escape too readily or lightly, pursued me across the schoolyard and pushed me face-first into the asphalt. How could my declaration of desire for a female star – which in strictly definitional terms should have seemed, if anything, eminently heterosexual – be taken so assuredly as a marker of homosexuality? Why and how could my loving Julie Andrews provoke such an explosive manifestation of juvenile homophobia? The answers to these questions were already known, if only intuitively and, thus, only partially, to the ten-year old me. Like many other elements of my childhood, my love for Julie Andrews formed part of what I was fast recognizing was an ever-expanding and ever-consolidating category of bad object-choices – a diverse array of cultural and social cathexes variously abjectified, proscribed or deemed otherwise inconsonant with dominant modes of sexual selfhood. Redefined as a symptom of sexual dissonance, my devotion to Andrews suddenly became a catalytic signifier of shame, a palpable marker of my failure to achieve heteronormality and, thus, another attachment to cache away in the cavernous closet of protogay childhood. That this scenario will sound instantly familiar to many is evidence of the extent to which a politics of shame is routinely mobilized – most potently, though by no means exclusively, in childhood – to stigmatize and thus discipline queer subjectivities. Much of the breathtaking success with which mainstream culture is able to install and mandate a heteronormative economy depends directly on its ability to foster a correlative economy of queer shame through which to disgrace and thus delegitimate all that falls outside the narrow purview of straight sexualities. Not that such processes of juridical stigmatization are necessarily successful. Shameful and shameless are, after all, but a suffix apart and a good deal of the productivity of queer cultures – as of queer lives – resides precisely in the extraordinary capacity they obtain for not only clinging stubbornly and defiantly to the outlawed objects of their desire but investing these objects with a near-inexhaustible source of vitalizing energy. The scene of my schoolyard shaming may have effected a public occlusion of my love for Julie Andrews, but it in no way quelled or attenuated that love. Indeed, transformed into a sign of my developing homosexuality, my attachment to Andrews became more than ever an integral component of my subjectivity and an indefatigable resource for survival in the face of what I perceived to be an unaccommodating social world. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick dubs these survivalist dynamics of queer culture “reparative” in the sense given the term by object-relations theory as an affirmative impulse to repair or make good the losses of subjective constitution. Unlike the competing paranoid positionality which in object-relations theory is understood to fracture the world into colliding part-objects and is marked by “hatred, envy, and anxiety”, the reparative dynamic is marked by love and seeks to reassemble or repair the subject’s world into “something like a whole” that is “available both to be identified with and to offer one nourishment and comfort in turn.” (Sedgwick, 8) For Sedgwick, this idea of a reparative impulse speaks powerfully to the inventive and obstinate ways in which queer subjects negotiate spaces of self-affirmation in the face of a hostile environment, or as she evocatively puts it, the ways in which queer “selves and communities succeed in extracting sustenance from ... a culture whose avowed desire has often been not to sustain them.” (35) As a paradigmatic example of and governing trope for this reparative tradition of queer survivalism, Sedgwick offers, significantly for my purposes, the image of the proto-queer child or adolescent ardently (over)attached to a cultural text or object, passionately investing that text or object with almost talismanic properties to repair or make good a damaged socius . “Such a child,” she writes, “is reading for important news about herself, [even] without knowing what form that news will take; with only the patchiest familiarity with its codes; without, even, more than hungrily hypothesizing to what questions this news may proffer an answer.” (2-3) This characterization of a reparatively positioned proto-queer reader resonates profoundly with my own fiercely loving attachments to Julie Andrews. Much of the energy of these attachments – certainly in childhood and, perhaps less urgently but no less decisively, in adulthood – springs directly from the reparative performances to which this particular star has been cast in the playhouse of my own imaginary. To wit: a cherished ritual from childhood. In the days when I was growing up, the days before VCRs and cable television, my Andrews fandom was of necessity organized not so much around her film texts as around her recordings. While I had seen her films and these were vital, generative sites for my fan passions, the primary focus for those passions – where they were practised, indulged, nurtured – was her vocal recordings. On long, listless afternoons, returned home from school, I would rush to the living room, position myself firmly in front of the family hi-fi and blissfully listen my way through my expansive collection of Julie Andrews LPs. My favourite, without doubt, was the soundtrack recording for The Sound of Music, which I would play and replay for hours on end. I can still recall the palpable sense of breathless anticipation when, unsheathed from its cover and reverently placed on the turntable, the disc would crackle to life. A whispering breath of wind, an echo of birdsong, a rapid swell of violins, and Julie’s inimitable voice would break forth in fortissimo triumph, leaping through the speakers and enveloping the room with melodic abundance. To augment the sense of excitement, I would, while listening, gaze intently at the record cover with its celebrated image of Julie leaping in mid-flight like a preternatural oread, her skirt billowing up with carefree delight, arms swinging open in joyous welcome, effortlessly holding aloft a guitar case and a travelling bag, twin symbols of musical expressivity and liberating escape. Projecting myself into the scene, I would twirl with Julie in imaginary freedom, riding the crest of her crystalline voice in rapturous transport from the suburban mundanity of family, school, and straightness. Invested with the attentive love and astonishing creativity of juvenile fandom, Andrews provided not just the promissory vision of a life different from and infinitely freer than the one I knew, but the fantasmatic means through which to achieve and sustain this process of transcendence. If I loved Julie Andrews as a child it was because that love functioned as a process through which to resist and transfigure the oppressive banalities of the heteronormative everyday. Though unaware of it at the time, my childhood mobilization of a female star as a vehicle of, and for, quotidian transcendence has a long and rich pedigree in queer cultures, especially gay male cultures. From the enthusiasms of the nineteenth century dandies for operatic primi donne and the fervent gay cult followings in the mid-twentieth century of Hollywood stars such as Judy Garland and Bette Davis, to contemporary queer celebrations of dancefloor goddesses, diva worship has been a staple of gay male cultural production where it has sustained a spectacularly diverse array of insistently queer pleasures. While loath to generalize its heterogeneous functions and values, I submit that much of the enduring vitality of diva worship in gay male cultures resides in the commodious scope it affords for reparative cultural labour. Indeed, most critical discussions of gay diva worship posit in some fashion that gay men engage divas as imaginary figures of therapeutic empowerment. “At the very heart of gay diva worship”, opines Daniel Harris, is “the almost universal homosexual experience of ostracism and insecurity” and the desire to “elevate [one]self above [one’s] antagonistic surroundings.” (Harris, 10) Wayne Koestenbaum similarly claims that "gay culture has perfected the art of mimicking a diva – of pretending, inside, to be divine – to help the stigmatized self imagine it is received, believed, and adored." (Koestenbaum, 133) Tuned to the chord of reparative amelioration, diva worship emerges here as a vital practice of affective queer enfranchisement: the restoration of a functional selfhood and the provision of emotional resources through which to transcend – and survive – the often violent deformations of a heteronormative world. That such processes of male homosexual affirmation should be articulated through ardent devotion to a woman might seem a strange paradox. But just as love and sex are never inevitable correspondents, the presence of a heterosexual passion inscribed at the very heart of gay male culture by its long histories of diva worship is a sure – and welcome – sign of the irrepressible waywardness of desire and its stubborn refusal to fit the impoverished scripts that we nominate sexuality. Works Cited Escoffier, Jeffrey. American Homo: Community and Perversity. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Harris, Daniel. The Rise and Fall of Gay Culture. New York: Hyperion, 1997. Koestenbaum, Wayne. The Queen's Throat: Opera, Homosexuality, and the Mystery of Desire. New York: Poseidon Press, 1993. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. “Paranoid Reading and Reparative Reading; or, You’re So Paranoid, You Probably Think This Introduction Is About You.” Novel Gazing: Queer Readings in Fiction. Durham: Duke University Press, 1997. Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Farmer, Brett. "Loving Julie Andrews" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.6 (2002). Dn Month Year < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/lovingjulie.php>. APA Style Farmer, B., (2002, Nov 20). Loving Julie Andrews. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 5,(6). Retrieved Month Dn, Year, from http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/lovingjulie.html

Central Stories is a series of interconnected stories about students at a fictional high school. Each story focuses on a pair or small group of students who are grappling with issues of gender identity, sexual orientation, and changing friendships. These stories explore varying aspects of the coming out processes, as well as attendant character-developments related to adolescence.

Abstract More than a century after Horatio Alger, Jr. achieved his greatest fame with Ragged Dick, the author s name stands as a symbol that has become associated with central values in the American political creed. Alger, author of over a hundred juvenile novels and stories (plus a few adult romances), which appeared from the late 850s until roughly the tum of the new century, has become a household name unlike almost any other. It is not because his works are still widely read or known, but because the name itself is a stand-in for ideas supposedly derived from his fiction that “Horatio Alger” has entered the language and discourse of daily life.

Beginning with a discussion of partisan politics in Catharine Sedgwick’s juvenile letters and her autobiographical fiction, the introduction makes a case for considering five prominent New England women authors (Sedgwick, Judith Sargent Murray, Sally Sayward Wood, Lydia Sigourney, and Harriet Beecher Stowe) as profoundly influenced by and invested in a Federalist understanding of religion in a republic. This investment, which treats Protestant Christianity as a force necessary for public morality in democratic life, shaped their writing careers and forms an unacknowledged contribution to political and religious debates about church and state in the early republic and nineteenth century. Situating this argument as a contribution to scholarship in literary studies, postsecular studies, and political history, the introduction explains contributions to each area.