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Overview
When something is most important to me and I do not want to lose it, I gather it into a poem. It is said that women must employ the needle and not the pen. But I will be a Poet! That's who I am!
Before she was an iconic American poet, Emily Dickinson was a spirited girl eager to find her place in the world. Expected by family and friends to mold to the prescribed role for women in mid-1800s New England, Emily was challenged to define herself on her own terms.
Award-winning author Barbara Dana brilliantly imagines the girlhood of this extraordinary young woman, capturing the cadences of her unique voice and bringing her to radiant life.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061993435 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 04/16/2024 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 361 |
| Lexile: | 850L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 1 MB |
| Age Range: | 12 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Author, playwright, and actor Barbara Dana spent over a decade researching Emily Dickinson for this book. Her award-winning books for children include Zucchini and Young Joan, a novel based on the girlhood of Joan of Arc. She is also the coeditor of Wider Than the Sky: Essays and Meditations on the Healing Power of Emily Dickinson for adults. Ms. Dana has three grown sons. She lives in South Salem, New York, with her yellow lab, Riley.
Read an Excerpt
Voice of Her Own, A EPB
By Barbara Dana
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Barbara DanaAll right reserved.
ISBN: 9780061993435
Chapter One
Stoneless Place
March 1840.
My nine-year-old legs swung nervously back and forth beneath the table as we sat in the dining room, having our morning meal. Father's face was pulled tighter than usual, his lips so thin, it looked as if he had no mouth. That was not a good sign. I could feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest—a humming-bird when the cat comes near the bush. Father is given to dark storms within that grip him without warning—to me, at any rate—pulling him back inside his skin until he all but disappears.
My mind raced over everything I had done that morning in search of the culprit deed. I must have done something wrong. Father wiped his dry, straight lips, one sweep across, with his napkin.
Oh, no!
I knew what it was. Each morning we gathered in the parlor to address an eclipse—the one not seen—called our Lord. I can see the black Bible spread open on Father's knees, his striped trousers, the thin, worn pages, the Scripture declaring its Hellfire Truth. That day I had yawned—and at the worst possible moment.
It was my yawn!
I looked at Austin. His head was bent, his eyes closed. Or was he staring at his hash? Vinnie was of similar demeanor. I had hoped for contact with some member of my regiment, but it was not to be. Mother stared at her teacup, her still and waiting fingers barely touching the handle.
Could it really have been my yawn?
I was no longer certain. Father has his notions, but a yawn within the family's private world would not likely tempt such strong displeasure. And Father is especially lenient with me. I don't know why. It brings me guilty pleasure.
Mother sat still as a statue.
Did they fight?
I had never heard them fight, but often felt the heft in the room when they were not of the same mind. When that happened I feared a fight and wished it too, to clear the lead.
Father stared at the grandfather clock on the far side of the room. He had taught me to tell time by that clock, or so he thought. I knew better. I had understood not one word! The concept of time would simply not take its place in my brain. Father seemed so proud of me, happy too, and proud of himself for taking the time to teach me. He thinks of himself as a generous man and I do believe he is, but the evidence hides in a deep place. I had found it that Time Teaching Day and was not eager to let it go.
Mother lifted her teacup. "Emily, eat your breakfast."
I picked up my fork and moved it through my cold and waiting hash. Father was still staring at the clock, his eyes blank, as if he could not see, nor cared to. He was "behind his eyes," as we called it. "Father's gone behind his eyes," Vinnie used to say. She told me once she wanted to get in there and be with him. Austin said it was impossible and I've found that to be true.
My chest felt heavy. I could barely breathe. I would have given anything for an end to the silence. I tried to think of something to say—anything! My mind was blank. Father set down his napkin. I thought he was about to speak, but no luck was to be had in the matter. All at once, Vinnie's prize cat, Roughnaps, rushed through the room in a great swoosh of tail and scampering paws.
How daring! None of us would do a thing like that, though we might wish to.
"We will be moving to a new house."
Father's declaration landed like a stone. Mother set down her teacup.
"Our new house will be on North Pleasant Street," Father continued.
"It's lovely," said Mother. She took a thoughtless sip of tea. "It's near the Northrups."
"I don't care about the Northrups!" I exclaimed.
"Emily!" said Father, his displeasure with my outburst far from secret.
Vinnie's lower lip quivered the way it did when she needed to cry but did not dare. Austin was quiet, his dark eyes locked on Father.
"Mother is right," Father continued. "The house is lovely."
"What's wrong with this house?" I asked.
Father had no answer for that, at least none he cared to share. His face took on the serious expression I knew so well. It was a sign to leave all contradiction on the far side of the road, better yet in another town! "It has been decided," he stated with firmness. "We move next month."
Silence into silence—and deeper still—heavy with distress. Vinnie was crying now. Large soundless tears rolled down her cheeks and stuck to her chin.
"Don't worry, dear," Mother said, then added vaguely, "It will all work out in the end."
"No, it won't!"
"Emily!" corrected Father.
I looked at Austin, who was smoldering as only he can smolder—eyes like daggers.
Why won't he speak?!
I was on my own in the battle.
"Our new house is across from your school," Mother offered. It was a fact of questionable relevance, as I would be attending a new school in September, on another street entirely.
"I don't want to move!" I shouted. I don't know why I felt so strongly on the matter. I can only say that I did. Change has never landed well with me.
Father looked stern to the point of his own discomfort. I was hardly behaving like "the best little girl in Amherst." He fancied me as such. It was too awful, really. I had so many dark thoughts. If he only knew!
"That will do, Emily," he pronounced.
I ran from the table, out the door, into the yard, around the house, past the oak tree, and down the hill toward the garden. My breath was coming in broken sobs. The wind stung my face, blowing my short hair back, then forward into my eyes, sticking to the tears, making it hard to see. I hate not to see.
Continues...
Excerpted from Voice of Her Own, A EPB by Barbara Dana Copyright © 2010 by Barbara Dana. Excerpted by permission.
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