There are many kinds of writing, and many writers do more than one. I write both memoir and fiction, both manuscript length and short pieces. I also write curriculum.
For the past year and a half, I have had the pleasure of working with a wonderful group of creative, fun people at South Seattle Community College (SSCC). We call ourselves the AANAPISI grant team. That’s “ay-na-pea-z” and it’s the acronym for Asian American Native American Pacific Islander Serving Institution. In 2008 the U.S. Department of Education created this designation, and SSCC was one of only six two-year and four-year schools in the United States to receive this award. To learn more, please visit our temporary website at www.successatsouth.org or go to www.southseattle.edu.
So what does any of this have to do with writing, you might ask. Well, my role on the grant team is to write curriculum. With the collaboration of numerous colleagues, I have created the Transition Portfolio. This is a collection of activities designed to help English as a Second Language, Adult Basic Education, and other pre-college students learn to navigate the American college system. The Transition Portfolio is available on-line, free-of-charge at www.successatsouth.org. Just click on “Resources.”
Another of our AANAPISI grant projects involves creating a series of short videos to provide college-related information to students or potential students and their families. As the curriculum writer, my task is to create instructional materials for classroom use with each video. The videos are being posted to the website as they are completed. The the curriculum packets will follow by summer 2010.
Just as creativity takes many forms, so does writing. The challenge sometimes lies in finding a way to balance it all.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
It's About Time Writers Reading Series
Happy 2010! We've survived the holiday season, and now it's time to get back to what matters...writing! I find I need structure. I need a schedule. And I need the opportunity to share my work...
If you're in the Seattle area, I'd like to invite you to a group reading at the Ballard Public Library at 6:00 p.m. on Thursday, January 14th. The It's About Time Writers Reading Series, coordinated by Esther Altshul Helfgott, is now on Facebook. For more information and regular updates, you might consider joining the Facebook group by going to www.facebook.com. For information on past readings, you can check out http://itsaboutimewriters.homestead.com/.
January seems like the perfect time to share a bit of the old and a bit of the new. To that end, I'll be reading a short selection from The Thirty-Ninth Victim and another from my work-in-progress, a memoir carrying the working title, Moving Mom. It's the story chronicling the 7 years and 6 days between my father's death and my mother's move to a dementia care facility. It took an astute writing partner of mine to point out to me that Moving Mom picks up where The Thirty-Ninth Victim left off. Funny how we (or should I say "I") so easily miss what's right under our (my) nose. Or in this case, pen.
I hope to see you Thursday night!
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Supermarket
I'm happy to share a new memoir piece, recently published in Crosscurrents, the annual literary publication of the Washington Community College Humanities Association. Because this publication has limited distribution, and because this edition is not yet on-line, I've decided to share the piece here. To learn more about WCCHA, please go to www.wccha.org.
The Supermarket
The supermarket was shiny – newer, bigger, fancier than anything my sleepy hometown had ever seen. A farm girl, I knew little of supermarkets. With nine kids, Mom shopped alone whenever possible. How could a woman shop with nine kids trailing behind? We’d fill a whole aisle, even one of the long aisles in the new supermarket. No, I rarely went shopping with Mom. But now that I was in junior high school, I could walk down the hill after school to the new supermarket off Front Street to wait for a ride home with Dad on those days when I stayed late.
I loved the new supermarket. The bright lights and colorful packaging. It was clean and neat and full of abundance. On cold winter days, I was pulled towards the delicious aroma of the bakery, pretending I was in the kitchen at home and Mom was baking cookies just for me. On warm spring afternoons, I wandered the frozen food section, dreaming of huge ice cream sundaes with thick chocolate syrup and peanuts on top.
It was late spring. School was almost out and my afternoons of exploring the long aisles of the supermarket would soon end for the summer. Living eight miles from town, summers were spent doing farm chores or playing in the woods. Trips to town were rare in the summer. Only for church on Sunday, and those trips didn’t involve a stop at the supermarket.
I was alone, walking up and down the long aisles, my long dark hair in what Dad called squaw braids, large coke-bottle glasses weighing my nose, so tall and skinny my older siblings called me String Bean. My ill-fitted hand-me-down clothes hung off my scarecrow body – high water pants and a baggy T-shirt. To the eyes of the supermarket manager, I suppose I looked needy, hungry, and in my shyness, a bit shifty.
I had no backpack. Kids in the sixties didn’t carry backpacks. I carried a paper grocery bag full of library books and homework assignments. A sweatshirt stuffed in on top.
“You there. Stop right there.”
I heard a harsh male voice. It was a voice I didn’t recognize, so I ignored it, intent on my dreamy wanderings, reading labels, trying to figure out what all these strange and exciting items stacked high above me on each side of the aisle could possibly be used for.
“Hey, you there. I told you to stop.”
Again, the voice. Then a hand. A hard, tight hand on my shoulder spinning me around.
“Come with me, young lady.”
The man released his hard grip on my shoulder, and I followed him in obedient silence to the front of the store. I’d been taught to obey authority. Adults were authority. Especially big, tall men with loud, harsh voices and strong hands.
The man stopped near a cash register at the front of the supermarket. “Now young lady, what have you put in that bag?”
I was stunned. It was one thing to be ordered around by the store manager. It was a totally different thing to be called a thief, and despite my silence, I was smart enough to know who this man with the name tag pinned to his broad chest was and what he was calling me.
I broke my silence. “I haven’t put anything in my bag.”
“What’s in it then?” he demanded.
“Just my school stuff.”
“Show me.”
I couldn’t believe it. I heard the words, but I didn’t understand, and I didn’t react. The next thing I knew, the store manager pulled my bag from my arms and dumped the contents on the checkout counter. I watched in silence, willing myself not to cry as I felt the curious eyes of strangers watching the show. With all my might I prayed to be invisible, to disappear. I prayed that nobody would recognize me. In such a small town, that was a mighty prayer.
The store manager fingered through my books, notebooks, pencils and sweatshirt. Finally, satisfied that there was nothing of any worth there, no unpaid for candy bars or gum, nothing that I had shoplifted, he shoveled it back into the torn bag and pushed it into my arms.
“Okay, it’s clean. But don’t you be wandering around in here, young lady. We don’t take kindly to shoplifters.”
I could only look into his dark angry eyes. Words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t defend myself against this bully. At the very least, I knew he owed me an apology, and I knew just as clearly that I would never get one. So, I hurried out the sliding glass front door of the new supermarket and sat on the curb waiting for my ride home, tears of anger and frustration streaming down my young face.
The Supermarket
The supermarket was shiny – newer, bigger, fancier than anything my sleepy hometown had ever seen. A farm girl, I knew little of supermarkets. With nine kids, Mom shopped alone whenever possible. How could a woman shop with nine kids trailing behind? We’d fill a whole aisle, even one of the long aisles in the new supermarket. No, I rarely went shopping with Mom. But now that I was in junior high school, I could walk down the hill after school to the new supermarket off Front Street to wait for a ride home with Dad on those days when I stayed late.
I loved the new supermarket. The bright lights and colorful packaging. It was clean and neat and full of abundance. On cold winter days, I was pulled towards the delicious aroma of the bakery, pretending I was in the kitchen at home and Mom was baking cookies just for me. On warm spring afternoons, I wandered the frozen food section, dreaming of huge ice cream sundaes with thick chocolate syrup and peanuts on top.
It was late spring. School was almost out and my afternoons of exploring the long aisles of the supermarket would soon end for the summer. Living eight miles from town, summers were spent doing farm chores or playing in the woods. Trips to town were rare in the summer. Only for church on Sunday, and those trips didn’t involve a stop at the supermarket.
I was alone, walking up and down the long aisles, my long dark hair in what Dad called squaw braids, large coke-bottle glasses weighing my nose, so tall and skinny my older siblings called me String Bean. My ill-fitted hand-me-down clothes hung off my scarecrow body – high water pants and a baggy T-shirt. To the eyes of the supermarket manager, I suppose I looked needy, hungry, and in my shyness, a bit shifty.
I had no backpack. Kids in the sixties didn’t carry backpacks. I carried a paper grocery bag full of library books and homework assignments. A sweatshirt stuffed in on top.
“You there. Stop right there.”
I heard a harsh male voice. It was a voice I didn’t recognize, so I ignored it, intent on my dreamy wanderings, reading labels, trying to figure out what all these strange and exciting items stacked high above me on each side of the aisle could possibly be used for.
“Hey, you there. I told you to stop.”
Again, the voice. Then a hand. A hard, tight hand on my shoulder spinning me around.
“Come with me, young lady.”
The man released his hard grip on my shoulder, and I followed him in obedient silence to the front of the store. I’d been taught to obey authority. Adults were authority. Especially big, tall men with loud, harsh voices and strong hands.
The man stopped near a cash register at the front of the supermarket. “Now young lady, what have you put in that bag?”
I was stunned. It was one thing to be ordered around by the store manager. It was a totally different thing to be called a thief, and despite my silence, I was smart enough to know who this man with the name tag pinned to his broad chest was and what he was calling me.
I broke my silence. “I haven’t put anything in my bag.”
“What’s in it then?” he demanded.
“Just my school stuff.”
“Show me.”
I couldn’t believe it. I heard the words, but I didn’t understand, and I didn’t react. The next thing I knew, the store manager pulled my bag from my arms and dumped the contents on the checkout counter. I watched in silence, willing myself not to cry as I felt the curious eyes of strangers watching the show. With all my might I prayed to be invisible, to disappear. I prayed that nobody would recognize me. In such a small town, that was a mighty prayer.
The store manager fingered through my books, notebooks, pencils and sweatshirt. Finally, satisfied that there was nothing of any worth there, no unpaid for candy bars or gum, nothing that I had shoplifted, he shoveled it back into the torn bag and pushed it into my arms.
“Okay, it’s clean. But don’t you be wandering around in here, young lady. We don’t take kindly to shoplifters.”
I could only look into his dark angry eyes. Words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t defend myself against this bully. At the very least, I knew he owed me an apology, and I knew just as clearly that I would never get one. So, I hurried out the sliding glass front door of the new supermarket and sat on the curb waiting for my ride home, tears of anger and frustration streaming down my young face.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Author! Author! :: Anne Mini's Blog
On Dec. 13, 2008, Author! Author! :: Anne Mini's Blog featured a guest entry by Arleen Williams: Bringing a memoir to successful publication at an indie press. Williams writes: "How did a middle-aged straight woman get a memoir published by a small press with a lesbian fiction focus?
"This is a question I am often asked in one form or another. It’s a sort of how and why question, I suppose. So here’s the answer I tell readers and fellow writers alike: it took relentless determination and a whole lot of luck."
Read the entire blog entry…
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Friday, October 3, 2008
Issaquah Reporter: Memoir shares tale of Green River Killer
Memoir shares tale of Green River Killer victim who grew up in Issaquah
By WENDY GIROUX
Sammamish Reporter Editor
Oct 03, 2008
Sammamish Reporter Editor
Oct 03, 2008
Twenty-five years ago, Gary Ridgway killed Arleen Williams’ sister, irrevocably changing her family. In her first book, Williams tells the tale of growing up on a remote parcel of land on Tiger Mountain in the Issaquah Valley. Her sister, Maureen Sue Feeney, was killed at the age of 19, just a month after moving out of the family home and into a Seattle apartment. “Like all victims of violent crime, Maureen was more than just a number,” Williams said.
“This is not another book about Gary L. Ridgway. There are plenty of those out there,” she said of her book, “The Thirty-Ninth Victim: A Memoir.” “I wrote it not only to remember my sister, but also to understand the circumstances that led to her death.” King County Court documents listed Feeney as Ridgway’s 39th victim when he was sentenced in December 2003 to life in prison for killing 48 women.
“My truest memories of Maureen are of this beautiful little girl,” Williams said, remembering her sister’s blond curls and love for nature and animals. Nicknamed “Maurie,” Maureen later became interested in working with young children, first in a daycare and later hoping for a career in the early childhood development. “The 39th Victim” was published earlier this year by Blue Feather Books, and describes Williams’ life as the middle child in a family of nine. “I am no longer a middle child,” she said in an interview. “When there is a death, of course it changes that whole structure.”
The writing started as a cathartic process — something Williams said she needed to do for herself and her own teenage daughter as much as for the rest of her family and the community — and, of course, for Maureen. “ ... I tell Maureen’s story, because she can no longer tell it,” Williams writes in the book.
Now a resident of West Seattle, she is an English professor at South Seattle Community College and has taught the English language for more than 30 years.
She believes in communication — so strongly, in fact, that she believes lack of communication caused the unraveling of her large family and also that Ridgway could have been arrested decades sooner if detectives and officers had communicated more effectively.
The book is an attempt to point out the vital need to clearly talk with others in our families, our community and our society at large.
A silent family
Williams describes her family, her upbringing and her relationships in a level of detail that is both excruciating and addictive for the reader. “Making the decision to publish was extremely difficult,” Williams said. “In publishing this book, I have broken every family rule it was possible to break.” To be as conscientious of her family’s feelings as possible, she tried to limit the material she included in the book to only those things that had a direct impact on her and her life. And, she changed the names of some people — no easy feat given that her parents named each of their six daughters with a name that ended in “een.”
The Feeney family went through many difficult times, long before Maureen went missing. While Williams said she believes that her parents were doing the best they could to parent nine children in the turbulent times of the 1960s, it simply became more than they could handle. When their oldest daughter was 17 and they felt she was no longer within their control, the parents called the police and had her taken away. Two other older siblings left home or were disowned, and Williams and the younger kids weren’t allowed to ask questions, talk about any of what had happened or even mention the missing siblings’ names. “ ... I don’t think we ever learned to communicate among ourselves because we never learned to communicate with our parents,” Williams writes in the book. “We imitated the silence that they modeled.” That fact continued later on, when no one in Williams’ family told her that Maureen was missing until a month had gone by. Living in Mexico at the time, Williams finally received a letter from their mother telling her of Maureen’s disappearance. “I needed to break the cycle of silence,” Williams said.
Intertwined with Green River case
The Feeney family moved from Seattle to 10 acres in Issaquah in 1959. The land where the family plowed a road through, laid water lines and built a house sat less than 10 miles from where Ridgway left the body of Maureen Feeney near the intersection of Interstate 90 and Highway 18. The children’s mother worked as a nurse at Echo Glen, just a short distance from the spot where Maureen’s remains were found 31 months after she went missing. Life in Issaquah certainly wasn’t all bad. In fact, some of Williams’ childhood memories were quite rosy — gathering blackberries with her brothers and sisters, playing in the woods and riding horses along the Bonneville Power Administration access line among hosts of daisies. They even made chores into games. “For a while, we really were that big, happy family building a dream.”
In the book, Williams touches on other coincidences and oddities, such as the fact that nearly her entire family was gathered together — something that happened only a handful of times after the elder children began leaving home — to celebrate their father’s 80th birthday on the day that Ridgway was arrested. They had no warning of the arrest, and woke up to see the headlines the next day.
Their father died about two months later. “I was a basketcase. My husband said, ‘You’ve been talking about writing forever. Maybe now is the time to do it,’” Williams said. “I had put it off for so many years.” So, she began researching and found a course through the University of Washington extension called “Turning Journals Into Memoirs.” Through that class, and with the help of writing coaches and a writing group at Louisa’s Cafe, the winding story of Williams’ family and Maureen Feeney’s early death came together about five years later into a book that invites compulsive reading.
Issaquah resident Suzanne Suther, whose family were the only “real” neighbors the Feeney family had, lost touch with them after Maureen’s funeral. She recently spotted a listing about Williams giving an author’s reading at the Issaquah library, and reunited with Williams last week.
The Feeney kids played with and babysat for Suther’s four children, the youngest of whom was the same age as Maureen. “I think it’s a very courageous journey you’ve been on,” Suther told Williams after the reading at the library.
First — and last — visit as friends
The last time Williams saw her sister alive was when Maureen visited her in Mexico City, where she was working and living in the early ‘80s. Maureen stayed with Williams and her husband for a three-week visit. The two siblings, six years apart in age, began to get to know one another as adults for the first time. Maureen had been only 11 when Williams moved away from home. They went sightseeing in Mexico, awkward together at first but beginning to glimpse a true relationship between one another. While she does have happy memories of spending time together and watching Maureen go parasailing and swimming, Williams said she regrets not remembering their last conversations and moments together more clearly.
“This is not another book about Gary L. Ridgway. There are plenty of those out there,” she said of her book, “The Thirty-Ninth Victim: A Memoir.” “I wrote it not only to remember my sister, but also to understand the circumstances that led to her death.” King County Court documents listed Feeney as Ridgway’s 39th victim when he was sentenced in December 2003 to life in prison for killing 48 women.
“My truest memories of Maureen are of this beautiful little girl,” Williams said, remembering her sister’s blond curls and love for nature and animals. Nicknamed “Maurie,” Maureen later became interested in working with young children, first in a daycare and later hoping for a career in the early childhood development. “The 39th Victim” was published earlier this year by Blue Feather Books, and describes Williams’ life as the middle child in a family of nine. “I am no longer a middle child,” she said in an interview. “When there is a death, of course it changes that whole structure.”
The writing started as a cathartic process — something Williams said she needed to do for herself and her own teenage daughter as much as for the rest of her family and the community — and, of course, for Maureen. “ ... I tell Maureen’s story, because she can no longer tell it,” Williams writes in the book.
Now a resident of West Seattle, she is an English professor at South Seattle Community College and has taught the English language for more than 30 years.
She believes in communication — so strongly, in fact, that she believes lack of communication caused the unraveling of her large family and also that Ridgway could have been arrested decades sooner if detectives and officers had communicated more effectively.
The book is an attempt to point out the vital need to clearly talk with others in our families, our community and our society at large.
A silent family
Williams describes her family, her upbringing and her relationships in a level of detail that is both excruciating and addictive for the reader. “Making the decision to publish was extremely difficult,” Williams said. “In publishing this book, I have broken every family rule it was possible to break.” To be as conscientious of her family’s feelings as possible, she tried to limit the material she included in the book to only those things that had a direct impact on her and her life. And, she changed the names of some people — no easy feat given that her parents named each of their six daughters with a name that ended in “een.”
The Feeney family went through many difficult times, long before Maureen went missing. While Williams said she believes that her parents were doing the best they could to parent nine children in the turbulent times of the 1960s, it simply became more than they could handle. When their oldest daughter was 17 and they felt she was no longer within their control, the parents called the police and had her taken away. Two other older siblings left home or were disowned, and Williams and the younger kids weren’t allowed to ask questions, talk about any of what had happened or even mention the missing siblings’ names. “ ... I don’t think we ever learned to communicate among ourselves because we never learned to communicate with our parents,” Williams writes in the book. “We imitated the silence that they modeled.” That fact continued later on, when no one in Williams’ family told her that Maureen was missing until a month had gone by. Living in Mexico at the time, Williams finally received a letter from their mother telling her of Maureen’s disappearance. “I needed to break the cycle of silence,” Williams said.
Intertwined with Green River case
The Feeney family moved from Seattle to 10 acres in Issaquah in 1959. The land where the family plowed a road through, laid water lines and built a house sat less than 10 miles from where Ridgway left the body of Maureen Feeney near the intersection of Interstate 90 and Highway 18. The children’s mother worked as a nurse at Echo Glen, just a short distance from the spot where Maureen’s remains were found 31 months after she went missing. Life in Issaquah certainly wasn’t all bad. In fact, some of Williams’ childhood memories were quite rosy — gathering blackberries with her brothers and sisters, playing in the woods and riding horses along the Bonneville Power Administration access line among hosts of daisies. They even made chores into games. “For a while, we really were that big, happy family building a dream.”
In the book, Williams touches on other coincidences and oddities, such as the fact that nearly her entire family was gathered together — something that happened only a handful of times after the elder children began leaving home — to celebrate their father’s 80th birthday on the day that Ridgway was arrested. They had no warning of the arrest, and woke up to see the headlines the next day.
Their father died about two months later. “I was a basketcase. My husband said, ‘You’ve been talking about writing forever. Maybe now is the time to do it,’” Williams said. “I had put it off for so many years.” So, she began researching and found a course through the University of Washington extension called “Turning Journals Into Memoirs.” Through that class, and with the help of writing coaches and a writing group at Louisa’s Cafe, the winding story of Williams’ family and Maureen Feeney’s early death came together about five years later into a book that invites compulsive reading.
Issaquah resident Suzanne Suther, whose family were the only “real” neighbors the Feeney family had, lost touch with them after Maureen’s funeral. She recently spotted a listing about Williams giving an author’s reading at the Issaquah library, and reunited with Williams last week.
The Feeney kids played with and babysat for Suther’s four children, the youngest of whom was the same age as Maureen. “I think it’s a very courageous journey you’ve been on,” Suther told Williams after the reading at the library.
First — and last — visit as friends
The last time Williams saw her sister alive was when Maureen visited her in Mexico City, where she was working and living in the early ‘80s. Maureen stayed with Williams and her husband for a three-week visit. The two siblings, six years apart in age, began to get to know one another as adults for the first time. Maureen had been only 11 when Williams moved away from home. They went sightseeing in Mexico, awkward together at first but beginning to glimpse a true relationship between one another. While she does have happy memories of spending time together and watching Maureen go parasailing and swimming, Williams said she regrets not remembering their last conversations and moments together more clearly.
“I didn’t know that she’d be murdered 13 months later, or that I’d never see her again,” Williams wrote. “So I wasn’t affixing her face, her voice, her smell in my permanent memory. I wasn’t present in the moment, and the moment was lost.” She does, however, have a snapshot from the day they dropped Maureen off at the airport for her return flight to Seattle. The photo shows Williams and Maureen, grins on their faces and arms thrown around one another.
“I wish I had never let go.”
To read more about the Feeney family and the years before and after Maureen Feeney’s death, visit Williams’ Web site at www.arleenwilliams.com or look for the book at www.bluefeatherbooks.com.
Sammamish Reporter Editor Wendy Giroux can be reached at wgiroux@reporternewspapers.com or 425-391-0363, ext. 5050.
Monday, May 5, 2008
the thirty-ninth victim: a memoir
What started as as string of local killings in Seattle became a national nightmare before it was over. In homes all across America, television news programs and newspapers large and small carried feature stories about the ever-growing list of victims.
Now imagine that during this time, someone you love--your baby sister, a beautiful young woman of 19--suddenly goes missing. The police are at best unhelpful, and at worst, seemingly uninterested in what's happened to her.
And then comes word you hoped you'd never receive: your youngest sister's remains have been found. She is yet another victim of the Green River killer.
With amazing candor, Arleen Williams tells the story of her family's journey, before and after the Green River killer murdered her sister Maureen and left her body in a stretch of wilderness off the west side of Highway 18. As insightful as it is heart wrenching, The Thirty-Ninth Victim gives you a window into the family dynamics that contributed to this life-altering tragedy.
This is a memoir unlike any other. The author set out to tell Maureen's story, but in doing so, she tells bits and pieces of every family's story. You cannot read this profoundly personal and cataclysmic tale and come away unchanged, nor will you ever view your own family in quite the same way.
You will applaud Ms. Williams's courage in sharing this recounting of her family's trauma through one of the most atrocious streaks of serial killings in American history. And like the family, you will never forget The Thirty-Ninth Victim.
Published by Blue Feather Books, Ltd.
ISBN 978-0-9794120-4-2
ISBN 978-0-9794120-4-2
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