SHELLEY:
I like having plans; they give me structure, and make me feel organized and productive. They sort of create a special comfort zone where life is somewhat predictable, allowing me to feel like I have some control over my existence and how my life is led. I especially love fun plans; they create a bit of excitement and brighten the future, giving me something to look forward to. When plans are thwarted or changed, though, I get a bit thrown off. In fact, I become frustrated and disappointed. Whatever I have envisioned falls through, which upsets me to varying degrees, depending on how much value I had placed in the disrupted plan. Although I’m pretty flexible when one plan is replaced by a better one, I struggle when big plans—life changing ones--don't work out.
In Red Hook Road, Ayelet Waldman explores the nature of human reaction when one's plans--one's vision for her life--are ambushed, pierced, and slowly restructured. I think it's safe to say that most people don't have the loss of a loved one in their life plans, especially a loss that is sudden and unexpected. The characters living in Red Hook, Maine, though, must live on, must function, in the aftermath of a disaster--a devestating disaster involving the death of a young married couple who are survived by parents, siblings, and friends. And although the novel suffers from some weaknesses, I think it is most relatable and most engaging when it patiently delves into the multiple ways different people recover and adjust to shattered plans of happiness, expectations, and achievement. This recovery and adjustment, in the case of Red Hook Road, is synonymous with the grieving process. People are obviously different, so clearly, they will end up grieving differently; Matt, for instance, grieves by throwing himself into passionately repairing his brother's boat, while Mr. Kimmelbrod finds refuge in his violin. Such reactions to disaster and thwarted plans were most meaningful to me as a reader; they emphasized that there is no one right way to heal when big plans are altered or squashed, but that healing is definitely possible, and can even allow the experience of happiness again.
What do you think, Melville?
MELVILLE:
I liked what Shelley is saying about plans -- I really think that Waldman focuses on this idea of rebuilding a life. Yes, tragedy happens to everyone (some great, some small) but I was really drawn to her reaction to that age-old question -- how do we deal with death?
I picked this book because it seemed right up my alley in terms of focusing on a place -- Maine and the still ever-inclement weather it has even in the midst of what elsewhere is a bright, sunny summer. It is a brilliant choice for a place to talk about death -- for, in the flash of an instant, a storm may brew, a car can crash, or the sun will come out of the clouds and illuminate the rain-soaked characters. I think what most struck me about the novel was Waldman's attention to details. She saturates the book with details, the sorts of things that clearly stand out in one's mind when dealing with grief, when anything mundane associated with the deceased is suddenly infused with profound meaning. At times the novel almost read like a catalog of a life - describing everything from the necklace Becca made in summer camp years ago to analyzing whether John's dimple was actually on his left or right cheek are the sort of details that bring the deceased back from being remembered as perfect to the messy, imperfect people who were so dearly loved by friends. However, as much as I appreciated Waldman's eye for the grieving process, I found myself overwhelmed. Her attempt to capture grief in all the twists and turns of one's thoughts became almost too clever and too neat to fully replicate the sheer madness that mourning can become.
I think in the end, however, her attempt to detail the need to pick up the pieces even years later really sheds life on her characters' somewhat-extreme reserve in expressing deeply-rooted emotions. Their own sense of restricting who is really an 'authentic' Red Hook resident echoes that same sense of who is 'allowed' to keep grieving for such extended periods of time. If nothing else, Waldman makes a compelling argument that in Maine the natives certainly know how to hold on to a memory or a feeling, just as their homes hold on to the rocky shore instead of plunging into the deep, cold ocean.
As I am about twenty pages away from finishing the novel, I would hope that she does not give a cheery outlook on the end, for like in real grieving, the process takes a few seasons to find rest. Eventually, one may notice the wild Maine lupines growing on the outskirts of one's periphery, but it is certainly takes time to find Spring again.
Your thoughts, Wollstonecraft?
WOLLSTONECRAFT:
I agree with my co-bloggers that the book is at its best in the second section as it explores the many differences amongst people (even within their families) and their complex ways they experience grief. It explores the confusion and pain of the human condition and our incapacity to deal with sudden loss. How often do our lives bring us something we are unprepared for and how often are we at a loss as to how we get over that pain? The book’s characters are raw and flawed—you do not end up “rooting” for any character nor do you completely want to know them because what they experience, what they feel exists; it is a part of life we do not want to think about: what would you do if your daughter or sister died? How long would you grieve? How would you move on? Their pain is explored in detail and without reserve, making the reader confront images of their own grief—though I couldn’t really “identify” with any characters, I’m sure they are in some ways universal.
However, at times, they are almost so perfectly flawed that it seems the characters are contrived or false in some way. Something about the book’s construction—as Melville began to point out—seems to fall apart as the characters are so perfectly detailed the real complexity of them is lost and they become flat clichés of how such a person would react to loss. The father turns to violence (boxing), the brother tries to live the life of his dead brother, the working class mom who is rough around the edges tries to hide her pain, etc. By the end of the book there is nothing more of that chaos that comes with grief; the ending is so perfectly neat as all the characters have their epiphanies almost at the exact same moment—and all these epiphanies were predictable. Even the twist in the end seems contrived. However, under the layer of that artificiality I think there is a truth; it is very hard to put grief into words, and that there is some predictability to how we deal with grief. It is human nature to believe it will all work out in the end, to think “everything happens for a reason”; we want it to be neat because it’s too hard to think life sometimes just sucks for no reason at all. The one thing we want for the characters is for them to learn how to live again because we would hope that if we had to deal with that loss, we could live again too. I will say, it’s hard for a cynic to finish some of the cloying details…
That said, the author’s imagery is very beautiful and she has an observant eye; I want to visit Maine and eat at a lobster bake. There is also a very pretty passage likening marriage to a sail boat, which is too long to post here. But, as a Californian used to people coming and going, in and out of the state, it is hard to understand the obsession the Red Hook people have with ancestry and who belongs...It seems a very trivial worry next to a family grieving over a death, which I don't know if that's what the author wanted you to feel.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Loving Life and Exploring Death in America
Several years ago, a remark attributed to Osama bin Laden (yes, THAT bin Laden) has stayed with me, something to the effect of “We love death. The U.S. loves life. That is the difference between us two.” Take this for what you will, but I know there is a lot of truth to this statement, at least the part about the U.S. loving life. Compared to a lot of other countries and cultures, many Americans have a lot of reasons to love life, in the sense that being an American or living in America generally affords many opportunities. Obviously, crime, hate, poverty, and other negativities afflict this country, but the degree of this hardship pales in comparison to troubles existent in other nations: we are not a war-ravaged country, or wholly destitute; our legal system is set up to avoid governmental corruption, and our media is so fierce, any wrongdoing or sketchiness will be accounted for. Though injustices are inevitable, programs are set up in this country so that justice can for the most part reign; basically, our constitution gives us basic rights that many other countries don’t have, and we have the freedom to speak up about anything without the fear of persecution, and even death.
Anyway, I think you get my drift. America is not a third world country run by a corrupt government, drug lords, or by no government at all. Our culture, then, highly values life because our lives are capable of being enjoyable; at the very least, the possibility of a pleasant, worldly existence makes the idea of living in America promising. The American Dream, right? So, on one level, enjoying a worldly life in America may end up sounding materialistic and superficial, but the consumerism in this country makes this undoubtedly true, to some extent, at least. Regardless, a lot of people in America can live relatively peaceful lives, making life more appealing than death. I think it’s safe to assert, then, that most Americans don’t LOVE death; some might be fascinated with it, but for the most part, death is something to be avoided (by medications, treatments, etc.), youth is highly valued (I think this is obvious), and dying is ultimately a negative, scary thing we don’t really want to get into or think about. Although I don’t think other less fortunate nations love death, either, I think they are more familiar with it because their everyday lives tend to be surrounded by it. They are less removed from death, so (sadly?) they understand it to be a part of life; it ends up not being as terrible. Maybe (warning: generalization forthcoming) death even becomes a release, a sort of freedom from the atrocities they are continuously faced with, or maybe just their upbringing and religious views make death less scary. I’m not sure, but I know young people in America don’t really grow up with the elderly in their homes (which, in many cultures, was a common occurrence back in the day); they are usually outside of the home in assisted living homes, retirement communities, etc., so they are separate from a child or teenager’s daily life. This is significant because individuals then become unfamiliar with the normal process of dying; instead, death is something frightening and horrific that they can only experience through television crime shows, medical shows, the news, horror movies, etc. So, when death does affect us, when death does enter our daily lives, when someone we love and care for does die (especially when their passing is sudden and seemingly too early), we are left in a troubled, confused state. The grieving process and subsequent continued existence for the living become the ultimate unknown, a sort of nightmare. We, being American, are geared for everything vibrant, everything that produces something, for progress; we are not, for the most part, prepared to handle the realities of death. At the very least, the realities of death for the living in the 21st century aren’t usual or preferred topics of conversation.
Ayelet Waldman, though, explores the grieving process in her latest novel and our August book club selection Red Hook Road, delving into how unexpected deaths affect the personal lives of the living, how they affect families and marriage, and how humans recoup so that their existence isn’t wholly destroyed by the loss of loved ones. She takes on this uncomfortable and painful topic for the benefit, I think, of her readers. Stay tuned for our weekend post, which will further reflect upon the aforementioned topics and other intriguing issues Waldman goes into in Red Hook Road.
Anyway, I think you get my drift. America is not a third world country run by a corrupt government, drug lords, or by no government at all. Our culture, then, highly values life because our lives are capable of being enjoyable; at the very least, the possibility of a pleasant, worldly existence makes the idea of living in America promising. The American Dream, right? So, on one level, enjoying a worldly life in America may end up sounding materialistic and superficial, but the consumerism in this country makes this undoubtedly true, to some extent, at least. Regardless, a lot of people in America can live relatively peaceful lives, making life more appealing than death. I think it’s safe to assert, then, that most Americans don’t LOVE death; some might be fascinated with it, but for the most part, death is something to be avoided (by medications, treatments, etc.), youth is highly valued (I think this is obvious), and dying is ultimately a negative, scary thing we don’t really want to get into or think about. Although I don’t think other less fortunate nations love death, either, I think they are more familiar with it because their everyday lives tend to be surrounded by it. They are less removed from death, so (sadly?) they understand it to be a part of life; it ends up not being as terrible. Maybe (warning: generalization forthcoming) death even becomes a release, a sort of freedom from the atrocities they are continuously faced with, or maybe just their upbringing and religious views make death less scary. I’m not sure, but I know young people in America don’t really grow up with the elderly in their homes (which, in many cultures, was a common occurrence back in the day); they are usually outside of the home in assisted living homes, retirement communities, etc., so they are separate from a child or teenager’s daily life. This is significant because individuals then become unfamiliar with the normal process of dying; instead, death is something frightening and horrific that they can only experience through television crime shows, medical shows, the news, horror movies, etc. So, when death does affect us, when death does enter our daily lives, when someone we love and care for does die (especially when their passing is sudden and seemingly too early), we are left in a troubled, confused state. The grieving process and subsequent continued existence for the living become the ultimate unknown, a sort of nightmare. We, being American, are geared for everything vibrant, everything that produces something, for progress; we are not, for the most part, prepared to handle the realities of death. At the very least, the realities of death for the living in the 21st century aren’t usual or preferred topics of conversation.
Ayelet Waldman, though, explores the grieving process in her latest novel and our August book club selection Red Hook Road, delving into how unexpected deaths affect the personal lives of the living, how they affect families and marriage, and how humans recoup so that their existence isn’t wholly destroyed by the loss of loved ones. She takes on this uncomfortable and painful topic for the benefit, I think, of her readers. Stay tuned for our weekend post, which will further reflect upon the aforementioned topics and other intriguing issues Waldman goes into in Red Hook Road.
Monday, August 23, 2010
A great article on imagination
A friend shared this great article from The Atlantic about creativity/imagination by Tim O'Brien.
Check it out!
Check it out!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
They're So Popular: Teenage Readers and Writers
As Melville skillfully reminds us in her last post “To LoL or not to Lol?” technology doesn’t merely operate as a distraction from self-improvement and the like. If used properly and moderately, it can offer a world of learning and enhancement. “Line-by-line online” by Chuck Furlong http://www.kansascity.com/2010/08/06/2134175/young-writers-spin-on-the-web.html illustrates an instance of how beneficial technology and the Internet can be, specifically for teenage writers. Sites like www.inkpop.com allow young writers to self publish their work, allowing them to expose their writing to their peers. In addition, “Inkpop’s owner, HarperCollins, keeps a close eye out for potentially publishable titles”—titles which ultimately end up being the most popular with the most online viewings. So, everyone benefits, right? Aspiring young writers, interested readers, and big-time publishers? And pretty much all for free because of the beauty of the Web.
But is there a cost for doing this? Is there a cost for rewarding young writers for being popular? Obviously, popularity doesn’t always necessitate superficiality and mediocrity if viewed through a literary lens, but a lot of times it does. Don’t get me wrong; I think sites like Inkpop that encourage young people to use their creativity to write and read is a good thing, especially considering other mischievous things they could be getting into. But at the same time, most of their topics revolve around romance, relationships, suicide, and vampires; these are all worthy topics, and they’re obviously meaningful to teenagers, but from the snippets and summaries I’ve read, they seem to be explored in a self-indulgent way, similar to a lot of popular adult fiction. As someone who values the impact literature can have, I am now a bit worried about what American teens find popular in “literature.” I don’t want to be a downer, or anything; I’m not above the “pleasure” read once in a while; I love mixing a silly romantic comedy into my bowl of films that tend to be epic, complex, and artsy. But as Melville points out in her previous post, does a healthy balance exist in terms of what teens are reading these days? Beyond school requirements, are many teens interested in well-structured forms of “literature,” or no? (Shout out to my Mom, who made my sister and I read a classic text in between our unhealthy appetite for the Baby-Sitters Club books back in the fourth grade. Thanks, Mom!)
Obviously, there is always the exception; I’m sure there are some young readers who prefer less indulgent texts, but hopefully those in touch with young adult literature out there can help me out: can young adult literature really be considered “literature?” Do you think what they’re reading now will eventually develop into a taste for more complex texts, or do you think this audience will just continue to read popular adult fiction when they grow older? Considering that they are developing their critical reading skills and such, is it okay for teen fiction to be more superficial in nature? Will popularity always reign? In a country where we think we are progressive, will popularity always be the way of the world? Can authentic literature ever be popular?
But is there a cost for doing this? Is there a cost for rewarding young writers for being popular? Obviously, popularity doesn’t always necessitate superficiality and mediocrity if viewed through a literary lens, but a lot of times it does. Don’t get me wrong; I think sites like Inkpop that encourage young people to use their creativity to write and read is a good thing, especially considering other mischievous things they could be getting into. But at the same time, most of their topics revolve around romance, relationships, suicide, and vampires; these are all worthy topics, and they’re obviously meaningful to teenagers, but from the snippets and summaries I’ve read, they seem to be explored in a self-indulgent way, similar to a lot of popular adult fiction. As someone who values the impact literature can have, I am now a bit worried about what American teens find popular in “literature.” I don’t want to be a downer, or anything; I’m not above the “pleasure” read once in a while; I love mixing a silly romantic comedy into my bowl of films that tend to be epic, complex, and artsy. But as Melville points out in her previous post, does a healthy balance exist in terms of what teens are reading these days? Beyond school requirements, are many teens interested in well-structured forms of “literature,” or no? (Shout out to my Mom, who made my sister and I read a classic text in between our unhealthy appetite for the Baby-Sitters Club books back in the fourth grade. Thanks, Mom!)
Obviously, there is always the exception; I’m sure there are some young readers who prefer less indulgent texts, but hopefully those in touch with young adult literature out there can help me out: can young adult literature really be considered “literature?” Do you think what they’re reading now will eventually develop into a taste for more complex texts, or do you think this audience will just continue to read popular adult fiction when they grow older? Considering that they are developing their critical reading skills and such, is it okay for teen fiction to be more superficial in nature? Will popularity always reign? In a country where we think we are progressive, will popularity always be the way of the world? Can authentic literature ever be popular?
Monday, August 16, 2010
To LoL or not to LoL?
I’ve been thinking a lot about productivity and our reliance on technology recently. Due to an electrical problem last week, I had no internet, cable TV, or a functioning landline for three days. (The first five minutes were the worst. I was basically in the fetal position moaning for my Project Runway fix).
As I pulled myself off the floor, I realized that, as some friends also noted, it was the perfect chance to be like my literary buddy Thoreau. Granted, I was a Thoreau with indoor plumbing, electricity, a still-functioning DVD player, a computer, and a car … but, on the other hand, I had no pond to hear my thunderous yawp and no woods to wander through to inspire some of the most eloquent reflections on nature America has ever read. (Some people would consider that comparison a draw…)
It was an especially interesting opportunity for me. Over the years, I have been mercilessly teased by various people about the sheer amount of time I spend on the net (and from those who know me well – watching endless repeats of my favorite shows on TV). If I just stopped reading about those cats who lol and posting articles on Facebook, they reason, I would be able to write that novel or go to bed earlier or read French (Bonjour mon amie!) or whatever else they feel is more worthwhile. Talking on AIM is too distracting and makes you work slower than you are capable of, they say, or I don’t go on the internet when I go home and my life is better for it! I hear. But mostly, aside from the Charlie Brown voices I use to cover their accurate assessments, I realize that all of them are essentially saying the same thing – we’d be better off without technology!
Now that this small, unintentional experiment is over, I was surprised to see that I was not more productive. If anything, I spent more time figuring out how to do things without the fast speed of the internet (and without James Roday on Psych to help me have sweet dreams). Simple emails that would set my plans were replaced by (albeit delightful) 30-minute long cell conversations. I had to use a phone book to look up an address. I had trouble working on my syllabus because I couldn’t pull up the school calendar online. I’m not alone in that realization. James Strurm, a columnist for Slate Magazine who has gone four months without the internet found rather similar results. While we are addicted to our internet, being without it doesn’t necessarily mean that our lives will automatically be better or more productive.
For me, that was a bit of a revelation. When I read biographies of writers before the modern technological era that I am mystified by the sheer amount of work they leave behind. Consider Anthony Trollope, for example, who not only wrote seemingly hundreds of books that, when combined, weigh more than seven President Tafts and their bathtubs combined, but also managed to hold down a full-time job as a postal clerk. Or what about an earlier writer like Samuel Richardson, who wrote Pamela and Clarissa (the latter of which took several cocktails and several months to finish because the font was so small)?
These examples are impressive, no doubt. But I haven’t even mentioned that most authors, no matter the number of volumes published, were prolific letter writers who managed to be insightful even in their everyday correspondence. (It’s a good day if I even bother to use capital letters and proper punctuation in routine email.) Let’s not also forget that they spoke multiple languages even as children, could accurately quote their extensive reading, and were probably in better physical shape than the vast majority of people today. Frankly, I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
Have we just gotten dumber, slower, and lazier by comparison? (If we’re basing it solely on reality show contestants, then yes, a thousand times yes.) Some critics have argued that these writers had shorter life expectancies so every day was “carpe diem” day so to speak. But I don’t necessarily know if that’s the only reason.
In thinking about my weekend, I’ve reached a few, incredibly unscientific conclusions.
Those people who bemoan the internet/all the tech advancements could change their perspective. There’s not going to be a movement where we destroy everything that has been created and forget all the things we have accepted as the status quo (why give up the ability to play Scrabble online?) Doing so would only set society back to a new Dark Ages. Instead, rather than comparing ourselves to the past, we need to see what values/skills have emerged and embrace those.
For example, we’ve got a breadth, but not necessarily a depth of knowledge today, much of which can be accessed at our fingertips, unsurpassed by those writers of the past. (Could Shakespeare perform CPR like I can as I renewed my certification on Sunday? Would Hawthorne be able to set up my internet like the nice Comcast guy did?) We are called upon to be more adept and skilled in multiple ways that most of those writers could even dream.
With these new fields of knowledge, some of the people who may have been philosophers or writers or critics in the past now have the chance to be on the cutting-edge of future technologies, some of which may save lives or improve our lifestyles. Our brilliance hasn’t diminished -- it’s simply being dispersed and disseminated in new ways. On the other hand, in terms of our stupidity, we’ve simply made it more readily available and more thoroughly documented through these technological avenues. There has always been an undercurrent of society, but today it is more prevalent through the idea that anyone can share their desires online in the comments section on a news site or on a reality TV show.
However, from a personal perspective, I also do realize that some sort of balance is needed to help us feel more productive. We are still in the beginning of the computer revolution and figuring out what to make of all the possibilities, but haven’t quite figured out the side-effects of a multi-tasking, sedentary and solitary life (look at the Industrial Revolution – slowly we figured it out that it was causing pollution and debilitating workers).
Without technology this weekend, I didn’t turn into a snarling animal nor did I become a brilliant scholar. I just noticed that I stopped relying on technology and turned back to myself – for knowledge, for entertainment, and for insights (without input from the Facebook peanut gallery), as anyone of any generation would do. Thoreau went into the woods to find himself away from society, but as our culture moves away from the neighborhoods and onto the information highways, we can find a slower pace quite easily -- simply get into areas without internet service to embrace the quiet. (Not that I would ever be against exploring the natural world, but that is another day, another post.)
I also realized we have a tendency to sell ourselves short. We are so focused on crossing things off our list (most of which are inconsequential in the long run), that we don’t let things grow organically out from our own interests, thus ensuring better quality work. Nor do we see personal growth or time spent in reflection as productive. Think about it – my online conversations with friends serve essentially the same purpose as those lengthy letters. We are trying to deepen our relationships and also expand our understanding of the world around us, through the help of our friends. My time online can be productive in ways I haven’t figured out yet because they are still fermenting – I figure so long as I’m reading articles or talking to friends, I am improving myself.
However, previous generations knew more about how to wade through the muck and find what mattered, because there were fewer necessities or options that demanded their time. After all, when I’m really focused, the music, the TV, the internet all melt away and I can do what I would like to get done. But it’s a luxury to do what I love – no matter how in/efficiently I work because there is that societal view that with all these great new technologies comes even more meetings, paperwork, and protocols to complete first. In other words, we’re tired before our real work of the human soul has even begun to be uttered, thought, or even written down. We just want to survive through the muck by making it more enjoyable through online or televised distractions.
So, rather than bemoan that humans are better off without technology, we should be asking the question, What is really important to us as a society and how can we focus on that instead?
But until that question becomes asked and answered with greater frequency, you’ll have to excuse me if I let myself coast on the information superhighway. I’ve got some lolcats to visit.
As I pulled myself off the floor, I realized that, as some friends also noted, it was the perfect chance to be like my literary buddy Thoreau. Granted, I was a Thoreau with indoor plumbing, electricity, a still-functioning DVD player, a computer, and a car … but, on the other hand, I had no pond to hear my thunderous yawp and no woods to wander through to inspire some of the most eloquent reflections on nature America has ever read. (Some people would consider that comparison a draw…)
It was an especially interesting opportunity for me. Over the years, I have been mercilessly teased by various people about the sheer amount of time I spend on the net (and from those who know me well – watching endless repeats of my favorite shows on TV). If I just stopped reading about those cats who lol and posting articles on Facebook, they reason, I would be able to write that novel or go to bed earlier or read French (Bonjour mon amie!) or whatever else they feel is more worthwhile. Talking on AIM is too distracting and makes you work slower than you are capable of, they say, or I don’t go on the internet when I go home and my life is better for it! I hear. But mostly, aside from the Charlie Brown voices I use to cover their accurate assessments, I realize that all of them are essentially saying the same thing – we’d be better off without technology!
Now that this small, unintentional experiment is over, I was surprised to see that I was not more productive. If anything, I spent more time figuring out how to do things without the fast speed of the internet (and without James Roday on Psych to help me have sweet dreams). Simple emails that would set my plans were replaced by (albeit delightful) 30-minute long cell conversations. I had to use a phone book to look up an address. I had trouble working on my syllabus because I couldn’t pull up the school calendar online. I’m not alone in that realization. James Strurm, a columnist for Slate Magazine who has gone four months without the internet found rather similar results. While we are addicted to our internet, being without it doesn’t necessarily mean that our lives will automatically be better or more productive.
For me, that was a bit of a revelation. When I read biographies of writers before the modern technological era that I am mystified by the sheer amount of work they leave behind. Consider Anthony Trollope, for example, who not only wrote seemingly hundreds of books that, when combined, weigh more than seven President Tafts and their bathtubs combined, but also managed to hold down a full-time job as a postal clerk. Or what about an earlier writer like Samuel Richardson, who wrote Pamela and Clarissa (the latter of which took several cocktails and several months to finish because the font was so small)?
These examples are impressive, no doubt. But I haven’t even mentioned that most authors, no matter the number of volumes published, were prolific letter writers who managed to be insightful even in their everyday correspondence. (It’s a good day if I even bother to use capital letters and proper punctuation in routine email.) Let’s not also forget that they spoke multiple languages even as children, could accurately quote their extensive reading, and were probably in better physical shape than the vast majority of people today. Frankly, I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
Have we just gotten dumber, slower, and lazier by comparison? (If we’re basing it solely on reality show contestants, then yes, a thousand times yes.) Some critics have argued that these writers had shorter life expectancies so every day was “carpe diem” day so to speak. But I don’t necessarily know if that’s the only reason.
In thinking about my weekend, I’ve reached a few, incredibly unscientific conclusions.
Those people who bemoan the internet/all the tech advancements could change their perspective. There’s not going to be a movement where we destroy everything that has been created and forget all the things we have accepted as the status quo (why give up the ability to play Scrabble online?) Doing so would only set society back to a new Dark Ages. Instead, rather than comparing ourselves to the past, we need to see what values/skills have emerged and embrace those.
For example, we’ve got a breadth, but not necessarily a depth of knowledge today, much of which can be accessed at our fingertips, unsurpassed by those writers of the past. (Could Shakespeare perform CPR like I can as I renewed my certification on Sunday? Would Hawthorne be able to set up my internet like the nice Comcast guy did?) We are called upon to be more adept and skilled in multiple ways that most of those writers could even dream.
With these new fields of knowledge, some of the people who may have been philosophers or writers or critics in the past now have the chance to be on the cutting-edge of future technologies, some of which may save lives or improve our lifestyles. Our brilliance hasn’t diminished -- it’s simply being dispersed and disseminated in new ways. On the other hand, in terms of our stupidity, we’ve simply made it more readily available and more thoroughly documented through these technological avenues. There has always been an undercurrent of society, but today it is more prevalent through the idea that anyone can share their desires online in the comments section on a news site or on a reality TV show.
However, from a personal perspective, I also do realize that some sort of balance is needed to help us feel more productive. We are still in the beginning of the computer revolution and figuring out what to make of all the possibilities, but haven’t quite figured out the side-effects of a multi-tasking, sedentary and solitary life (look at the Industrial Revolution – slowly we figured it out that it was causing pollution and debilitating workers).
Without technology this weekend, I didn’t turn into a snarling animal nor did I become a brilliant scholar. I just noticed that I stopped relying on technology and turned back to myself – for knowledge, for entertainment, and for insights (without input from the Facebook peanut gallery), as anyone of any generation would do. Thoreau went into the woods to find himself away from society, but as our culture moves away from the neighborhoods and onto the information highways, we can find a slower pace quite easily -- simply get into areas without internet service to embrace the quiet. (Not that I would ever be against exploring the natural world, but that is another day, another post.)
I also realized we have a tendency to sell ourselves short. We are so focused on crossing things off our list (most of which are inconsequential in the long run), that we don’t let things grow organically out from our own interests, thus ensuring better quality work. Nor do we see personal growth or time spent in reflection as productive. Think about it – my online conversations with friends serve essentially the same purpose as those lengthy letters. We are trying to deepen our relationships and also expand our understanding of the world around us, through the help of our friends. My time online can be productive in ways I haven’t figured out yet because they are still fermenting – I figure so long as I’m reading articles or talking to friends, I am improving myself.
However, previous generations knew more about how to wade through the muck and find what mattered, because there were fewer necessities or options that demanded their time. After all, when I’m really focused, the music, the TV, the internet all melt away and I can do what I would like to get done. But it’s a luxury to do what I love – no matter how in/efficiently I work because there is that societal view that with all these great new technologies comes even more meetings, paperwork, and protocols to complete first. In other words, we’re tired before our real work of the human soul has even begun to be uttered, thought, or even written down. We just want to survive through the muck by making it more enjoyable through online or televised distractions.
So, rather than bemoan that humans are better off without technology, we should be asking the question, What is really important to us as a society and how can we focus on that instead?
But until that question becomes asked and answered with greater frequency, you’ll have to excuse me if I let myself coast on the information superhighway. I’ve got some lolcats to visit.
Friday, August 13, 2010
I think this is why I am an Early Modern Scholar
Sorry for the blog silence last week; I was going through major writer’s block.
I’ve just started researching again for a new writing sample, and when I start this kind of project it occupies my mind, leaving little space for other meanderings. For the first few weeks of the blog I have been writing about things on my mind, and what was on my mind last week was research, research about rape. Honestly, I didn’t know how to blog about it. I can write about my personal struggles, feelings, etc., but I struggle with discussing my projects, especially because the subject matter is usually uncomfortable for some people.
Three things happened this week that made me change my mind: 1) I read half of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which has 3 horrific rape scenes; 2) I’ve been reading nothing but articles on rape and gender for the last week; 3) I read an interesting article on the Huffington Post about Women’s Literature and Chick Lit (which are sometimes insultingly conflated as the same) [http://www.huffingtonpost.com/diane-meier/chick-lit-womens-literatu_b_678893.html].
When (non-English majors) people ask me about my research, I first ask do you really want to know or are you just being polite. If they really want to know, I explain that I study representations of rape in early modern English culture and that coerced consent meant consent, so many victims were treated as guilty. Then explain some of the implications of that for the early modern culture and for our own. I am usually met with two responses: the polite “oh, that’s nice” and the argument, “women have it so much better now, why do you keep making a big deal about it?” So oftentimes to avoid arguments that are based on assumptions from Law and Order and about how some women do “ask for it” (don’t even get me started on this horrendous response), I usually avoid discussing my project with people who aren’t in my field. I also get very emotional/ passionate (something I am not necessarily trying to rid myself of because I think it adds to my insight, but at least control in front of people who equate emotion with lack of knowledge--these are usually the same people who think that some women “ask” to be raped); I get emotional because it is a deeply horrific topic, one that our society seems to be desensitized to like every other form of violence.
However, the reason why I research what I do is because I think it is so important to talk about how we represent rape in society and how it speaks to constructing our views on gender and place. This matters because even though women “have come far” (yes, we no longer are bartered and sold as goods and hooray we can own property), as the Huffington Post article reminded me, there are moments when women are told that there is a separated, constructed place for them and their women things (like domestic space), and this place is usually positioned below the male space.
Dragon Tattoo is one of the first modern books I’ve read with a horrific rape scene. I do study rape, but I think it is easier to emotionally remove myself from the older texts. And, in the early modern texts, the audience never witnesses the actual rape--it is always done off stage; the audience sees only the before and after. So I was quickly disgusted by the several rapes scenes in GWDR and had to stop reading for awhile. I know it shouldn’t really matter if a rape is implied or in detail; but for some reason, I found the details more exploitative--and I have yet to figure out why these scenes are there other than for shock value.
What I did find interesting was the response of the victim (importantly she is considered a victim unlike the early modern hero). In the early texts, raped women were shamed and disgusted by themselves because that is how misogynistic societies told them how to feel. However, Lisbeth in GWDR, is not at all ashamed, which in some ways is empowering; too often we still construct sexual purity as more important than human life (I’ve heard women say they would rather be murdered than raped). What I did find disturbing is that Lisbeth was also not ashamed because *it was something normal and that happened*… Yes, she proceeds to torture her rapist and the reader gets some sadistic satisfaction from that. However, I still wonder why the author includes in detail these really horrifying scenes. Why do we need this level of shock value? And, why is it passed off as something normal that just happens to the disenfranchised? Maybe, I should read the end, but these scenes bothered me. This could be why I am an early modern scholar and usually don’t read bestsellers.
And, I think the rapes bothered me more in the context of my research. Too often rape is used as a trope, employed as shock value art and then used to explore other avenues that minimize the importance of the woman’s pain. The literature uses her pain to explore other things besides what it should be exploring: why is rape one of the only crimes that continues to increase? Why are people afraid to discuss the social factors behind this increase? Why would society like to explain away this increase by still blaming the woman? (Something that has not changed since the beginning of civilization)
In a book I read this morning entitled The Female Tragic Hero in English Renaissance Drama, the introduction discusses our gendered language and how it still constructs much of how our society views place. It emphasized the importance of ridding our language of subtle (or not) gendered terms, such as heroine and actress, as they were first constructed to imply that the female version did not quite live up to the male’s. When Diana Meier published her book The Season of Second Chances , as she explains in her Huffington Post article, she was met with critics arguing whether her book was “Chick Lit” or too smart to be qualified that way. Her book focuses on domestic space, has flowers on the cover, and is written by a woman--all of these things automatically make the value of her book as Literature questionable to critics (someone even told her she would never qualify for a Pulitzer because it has flowers on the cover). There are so many things frustrating about her problems, not the very least is that it points to how we still put gendered spaces in an elitist hierarchy and how our society still constructs value based on gender.
And, I think this hierarchy partly constructs how our society views rape. Many investigators still do not consider it a serious crime and there are many rape kits that go untested or are not taken seriously.
Ultimately, I want to remind myself and others why it is so important to remain vocal about these issues. Representations, images, language and story still do so much to impact our world and (as Shelley mentioned in last week’s blog) to construct our national or social identity. I think we need to at least be aware of how our language impacts how the world (and the rules of this world) is formed.
I feel like my blog brings me to so many discussion avenues. Here are some other questions I was considering as I wrote:
When we use rape in literature, at what point is it an exploitation? At what point is it sensitive?
What do you consider the value of shock value art?
How do you see language as gendered in your own experience?
Where can we go from here? What’s after we have the conversation?
[I have been trying to edit to smaller posts, but it’s so hard!]
I’ve just started researching again for a new writing sample, and when I start this kind of project it occupies my mind, leaving little space for other meanderings. For the first few weeks of the blog I have been writing about things on my mind, and what was on my mind last week was research, research about rape. Honestly, I didn’t know how to blog about it. I can write about my personal struggles, feelings, etc., but I struggle with discussing my projects, especially because the subject matter is usually uncomfortable for some people.
Three things happened this week that made me change my mind: 1) I read half of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which has 3 horrific rape scenes; 2) I’ve been reading nothing but articles on rape and gender for the last week; 3) I read an interesting article on the Huffington Post about Women’s Literature and Chick Lit (which are sometimes insultingly conflated as the same) [http://www.huffingtonpost.com/diane-meier/chick-lit-womens-literatu_b_678893.html].
When (non-English majors) people ask me about my research, I first ask do you really want to know or are you just being polite. If they really want to know, I explain that I study representations of rape in early modern English culture and that coerced consent meant consent, so many victims were treated as guilty. Then explain some of the implications of that for the early modern culture and for our own. I am usually met with two responses: the polite “oh, that’s nice” and the argument, “women have it so much better now, why do you keep making a big deal about it?” So oftentimes to avoid arguments that are based on assumptions from Law and Order and about how some women do “ask for it” (don’t even get me started on this horrendous response), I usually avoid discussing my project with people who aren’t in my field. I also get very emotional/ passionate (something I am not necessarily trying to rid myself of because I think it adds to my insight, but at least control in front of people who equate emotion with lack of knowledge--these are usually the same people who think that some women “ask” to be raped); I get emotional because it is a deeply horrific topic, one that our society seems to be desensitized to like every other form of violence.
However, the reason why I research what I do is because I think it is so important to talk about how we represent rape in society and how it speaks to constructing our views on gender and place. This matters because even though women “have come far” (yes, we no longer are bartered and sold as goods and hooray we can own property), as the Huffington Post article reminded me, there are moments when women are told that there is a separated, constructed place for them and their women things (like domestic space), and this place is usually positioned below the male space.
Dragon Tattoo is one of the first modern books I’ve read with a horrific rape scene. I do study rape, but I think it is easier to emotionally remove myself from the older texts. And, in the early modern texts, the audience never witnesses the actual rape--it is always done off stage; the audience sees only the before and after. So I was quickly disgusted by the several rapes scenes in GWDR and had to stop reading for awhile. I know it shouldn’t really matter if a rape is implied or in detail; but for some reason, I found the details more exploitative--and I have yet to figure out why these scenes are there other than for shock value.
What I did find interesting was the response of the victim (importantly she is considered a victim unlike the early modern hero). In the early texts, raped women were shamed and disgusted by themselves because that is how misogynistic societies told them how to feel. However, Lisbeth in GWDR, is not at all ashamed, which in some ways is empowering; too often we still construct sexual purity as more important than human life (I’ve heard women say they would rather be murdered than raped). What I did find disturbing is that Lisbeth was also not ashamed because *it was something normal and that happened*… Yes, she proceeds to torture her rapist and the reader gets some sadistic satisfaction from that. However, I still wonder why the author includes in detail these really horrifying scenes. Why do we need this level of shock value? And, why is it passed off as something normal that just happens to the disenfranchised? Maybe, I should read the end, but these scenes bothered me. This could be why I am an early modern scholar and usually don’t read bestsellers.
And, I think the rapes bothered me more in the context of my research. Too often rape is used as a trope, employed as shock value art and then used to explore other avenues that minimize the importance of the woman’s pain. The literature uses her pain to explore other things besides what it should be exploring: why is rape one of the only crimes that continues to increase? Why are people afraid to discuss the social factors behind this increase? Why would society like to explain away this increase by still blaming the woman? (Something that has not changed since the beginning of civilization)
In a book I read this morning entitled The Female Tragic Hero in English Renaissance Drama, the introduction discusses our gendered language and how it still constructs much of how our society views place. It emphasized the importance of ridding our language of subtle (or not) gendered terms, such as heroine and actress, as they were first constructed to imply that the female version did not quite live up to the male’s. When Diana Meier published her book The Season of Second Chances , as she explains in her Huffington Post article, she was met with critics arguing whether her book was “Chick Lit” or too smart to be qualified that way. Her book focuses on domestic space, has flowers on the cover, and is written by a woman--all of these things automatically make the value of her book as Literature questionable to critics (someone even told her she would never qualify for a Pulitzer because it has flowers on the cover). There are so many things frustrating about her problems, not the very least is that it points to how we still put gendered spaces in an elitist hierarchy and how our society still constructs value based on gender.
And, I think this hierarchy partly constructs how our society views rape. Many investigators still do not consider it a serious crime and there are many rape kits that go untested or are not taken seriously.
Ultimately, I want to remind myself and others why it is so important to remain vocal about these issues. Representations, images, language and story still do so much to impact our world and (as Shelley mentioned in last week’s blog) to construct our national or social identity. I think we need to at least be aware of how our language impacts how the world (and the rules of this world) is formed.
I feel like my blog brings me to so many discussion avenues. Here are some other questions I was considering as I wrote:
When we use rape in literature, at what point is it an exploitation? At what point is it sensitive?
What do you consider the value of shock value art?
How do you see language as gendered in your own experience?
Where can we go from here? What’s after we have the conversation?
[I have been trying to edit to smaller posts, but it’s so hard!]
O Happy Day!
Happy Friday the 13th everyone!
In honor of the day, here's a very special reading of Poe's "The Raven"
In other ThriceBooked news, it is Wollstonecraft's birthday today!! In her honor, go out and read some Milton! :)
In honor of the day, here's a very special reading of Poe's "The Raven"
In other ThriceBooked news, it is Wollstonecraft's birthday today!! In her honor, go out and read some Milton! :)
Monday, August 9, 2010
Kingsolver
I'm rapidly trying to finish The Poisonwood Bible before school starts and I'm almost to the end...I'll probably post more on it later.
But this quote, by Orleanna Price (the mother in the story) made me think:
"To live is to change, to acquire the words of a story, and that is the only celebration we mortals really know. In perfect stillness, frankly, I've only found sorrow."
But this quote, by Orleanna Price (the mother in the story) made me think:
"To live is to change, to acquire the words of a story, and that is the only celebration we mortals really know. In perfect stillness, frankly, I've only found sorrow."
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Good Ol' America: Who is Her Shakespeare? Does She Even Have One?
Sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I despair about the lack of focus in my life. During such grumblings, I wish I had a more defined identity, or, in other words, I think about how great I could have been, or could have excelled, at one thing IF I would have focused on just one of my interests. Instead, because I seem to be fascinated with a multitude of things (reading, writing, teaching, biking, hiking, cooking, wine, socializing, family, movies, theatre, sports, dogs, etc.), I feel as if I’m pretty good at a lot of things, but not excellent at one major thing. Now, don’t get me wrong: this isn’t a pity party; there are much worse things to be worried about, and I have long ago accepted that I am easily distracted (I like to think of myself as a Renaissance woman). I am just exploring who I am, and what factors in to my identity. Am I the quintessential American—a fortunate individual who has been allowed so many freedoms that I take advantage of them, but in the process, occasionally feel sidetracked from reaching my full potential? Well, I guess to answer this question, what it means to be “American” needs to be defined. What comprises our nation’s identity (a seemingly impossible question to adequately answer, but I’ll give it a go)?
My thoughts regarding the character of America developed from a book review of Stuart Kelly’s Scott-land: The Man who Invented a Nation in The Economist (http://www.economist.com/node/16690869?story_id=16690869). Although the reviewer found the text unfocused and a bit amateurish, he does come to a clear conclusion after his assessment: Sir Walter Scott, a prolific Scottish poet and novelist of the early 19th century, was a “genius” responsible for shaping Scotland’s national identity. All of this man’s work, his authorship—particularly his historical novels—played an enormous role in giving Scotland a distinct sense of self, a collective uniqueness, just as Shakespeare had done for England. Understandably, there are naysayers who repudiate Scott, believing his impact was not as significant (Twain and Ruskin among them), but nonetheless, Scott’s immense popularity extended beyond Scotland, and can hardly be denied.
Regardless of Scott’s actual amount of influence, this notion of how literature and authorship define a nation’s identity struck home. Which author(s) best characterizes America, land of the free and home of the brave? How has American literature shaped the country’s identity, if you believe it has? Who is our Shakespeare? When trying to answer this question, it was extremely difficult for me to narrow down the choices to one or even two authors. Washington? Jefferson? Hmmm. It was easy to come up with regional authors who most appropriately formulated a certain area’s uniqueness: East, Hawthorne; South, Twain, Stowe, and Faulkner; Midwest, Hemingway and Fitzgerald (though I don’t know if that would really be applicable; France and Spain might be more accurate); West, Steinbeck and Stegner; where do you fit in, Melville? ;) The East? The wild sea? I guess that “leaves” me with Walt Whitman, the “poet of democracy,” who I think is actually a pretty good choice, in terms of how he changed how America thought of herself; if I had to pick one author, he’s the one. I’m sure there a ton of other authors who I have not listed here that seem more appropriate to you (Emerson, Dickinson, Kerouac, McCarthy, etc.), but I think that’s the point: we are a nation comprised of many authors, and everyone will have a different idea of who has influenced America’s nationhood the most. Our identity, then, is an amalgamation of lots of things. We are a melting pot of cultures, correct, so a lack of a strict sense of self practically seems normal. Instead of fighting my many interests and tendency towards distraction, maybe I should celebrate my freedom and ability to actually pursue my intrigues. I think Whitman put it best when he claimed “Be curious, not judgmental.” Maybe I should stop judging myself so harshly, and allow my curiousity to thrive.
But is this lack of a clear American identity a good thing? Aren’t many countries considered melting pots these days? What do you think? If it’s clearer to you, please lend me your thoughts. After all, I think the relevance of a nation’s quality and characterization is always relevant and meaningful, and should not be taken for granted. Entities across the globe are constantly fighting to identify themselves, to stand for something in particular that’s separate from other countries/groups (Kosovo and Catalonia, for example); can we—can literature—shape and appropriately define America, or is her identity always in flux?
--Shelley
My thoughts regarding the character of America developed from a book review of Stuart Kelly’s Scott-land: The Man who Invented a Nation in The Economist (http://www.economist.com/node/16690869?story_id=16690869). Although the reviewer found the text unfocused and a bit amateurish, he does come to a clear conclusion after his assessment: Sir Walter Scott, a prolific Scottish poet and novelist of the early 19th century, was a “genius” responsible for shaping Scotland’s national identity. All of this man’s work, his authorship—particularly his historical novels—played an enormous role in giving Scotland a distinct sense of self, a collective uniqueness, just as Shakespeare had done for England. Understandably, there are naysayers who repudiate Scott, believing his impact was not as significant (Twain and Ruskin among them), but nonetheless, Scott’s immense popularity extended beyond Scotland, and can hardly be denied.
Regardless of Scott’s actual amount of influence, this notion of how literature and authorship define a nation’s identity struck home. Which author(s) best characterizes America, land of the free and home of the brave? How has American literature shaped the country’s identity, if you believe it has? Who is our Shakespeare? When trying to answer this question, it was extremely difficult for me to narrow down the choices to one or even two authors. Washington? Jefferson? Hmmm. It was easy to come up with regional authors who most appropriately formulated a certain area’s uniqueness: East, Hawthorne; South, Twain, Stowe, and Faulkner; Midwest, Hemingway and Fitzgerald (though I don’t know if that would really be applicable; France and Spain might be more accurate); West, Steinbeck and Stegner; where do you fit in, Melville? ;) The East? The wild sea? I guess that “leaves” me with Walt Whitman, the “poet of democracy,” who I think is actually a pretty good choice, in terms of how he changed how America thought of herself; if I had to pick one author, he’s the one. I’m sure there a ton of other authors who I have not listed here that seem more appropriate to you (Emerson, Dickinson, Kerouac, McCarthy, etc.), but I think that’s the point: we are a nation comprised of many authors, and everyone will have a different idea of who has influenced America’s nationhood the most. Our identity, then, is an amalgamation of lots of things. We are a melting pot of cultures, correct, so a lack of a strict sense of self practically seems normal. Instead of fighting my many interests and tendency towards distraction, maybe I should celebrate my freedom and ability to actually pursue my intrigues. I think Whitman put it best when he claimed “Be curious, not judgmental.” Maybe I should stop judging myself so harshly, and allow my curiousity to thrive.
But is this lack of a clear American identity a good thing? Aren’t many countries considered melting pots these days? What do you think? If it’s clearer to you, please lend me your thoughts. After all, I think the relevance of a nation’s quality and characterization is always relevant and meaningful, and should not be taken for granted. Entities across the globe are constantly fighting to identify themselves, to stand for something in particular that’s separate from other countries/groups (Kosovo and Catalonia, for example); can we—can literature—shape and appropriately define America, or is her identity always in flux?
--Shelley
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Children's books, yes! Marketing Ploys, no!
Sorry for the tardy post, but yesterday was a flurry of fun with a visit from one of my Swiss relatives!
-------------------------------------------------
As a teacher who has been declared old enough to be in charge of large groups of “kiddoes,” I now feel qualified to utter the following platitude:
You know, back in the day when I was a kid, life was AWESOME.
I remember days spent hopping after the frogs that lived in my mom’s oversized geraniums, doodling on large refrigerator-sized boxes to transform them into rocket ships, and walking to the local park where I’d swing, slide, or build forts to my heart’s content.
My brother and I loved to be outdoors all summer -- swimming, biking, running around, and inventing games as kids do. The best vacations were to Yosemite or Lake Tahoe/Truckee River where we’d jump out of the boat, the car, or off the path to go explore. I had my rock/interesting stick/feather collections to add to and my brother liked to look at all the bugs/fish we could find in the water. Even while not on vacation, just about every day was filled with something fun, because our neighborhood was full of kids ready to play.
And, in those hot summer days, when I was tired but it wasn’t dark enough to come inside yet, I could climb up the crepe myrtle tree out in the front yard and read or even just lazily watch the clouds with their funny shapes roll by. (Occasionally, I would also hide in the branches and try to scare people walking by. But that’s not a story my mother likes me to tell…)
In other words, the great big world in all its natural, free abundance was my playground.
I didn’t realize my parents weren’t rich and I only mildly cared that my brother and I didn’t have the things other kids had like Nintendo, but I do realize looking back that I was blissfully happy as I flew around my block, ready for whatever adventure was coming next.
Fast-forward twenty or so years and I’m witnessing a totally different picture of childhood. This article, for example, the Eloise Plaza Room, makes me feel that we’ve put a price on imagination.
My fun as a child (and that of my childhood compatriots) cost little to no money, but kids can be satisfied with just about anything that encourages their imagination. Heck, I could spend hours with an old Folgers coffee can filled to the brim with water and a paintbrush, creating masterpieces that evaporated almost as quickly as I could splash them onto the cement.
So. That begs the question:
Q: What would any child do in a room devoted to Eloise that cost $995 a night and was covered in pink wallpaper?
A: Nothing that couldn’t be done in her own house for waaaayyyy less than $995/night if she only had the right mindset.
Granted, for the 5% or so of little girls whose parents could afford the room and who like this book series (I liked the books but not as much as the Madeline series), Betsey Johnson has created a wonderland of fun. But why did anyone feel the need to create this room?
Why can’t we be satisfied with our own imaginations anymore?
I think of the little kids I coached on the swim team or my current students’ stories of their childhoods and a few key words keep popping up:
-- Structured Play
-- Scheduled Time
-- Indoors Only
-- Expensive, Interactive Toys
Now these revelations are nothing new – kids don’t go outside anymore, they don’t know what “imagination” means if it doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and they are worried about college by the time they are in 3rd grade. I get it. The world is sadly changing and their lives reflect the frenetic pace of their over-worked parents.
But my issue with this new suite is that children’s books are more precious than just another marketing ploy. The true joy of a children’s book is that most of them can be understood on a fundamental level – through pictures, through a reader’s voice, and through one’s own flights of fancies while listening to the words – not through the purchase of additional things to enhance the experience.
Reading a book to a child is a tangible act of love, a sign that for the next few minutes, you are excited about taking them on a trip to a place that may be richly familiar or expressively new and sharing this experience with them over and over again every time you turn the page.
Turning that vision into a reality almost cheapens the experience. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the Harry Potter movies, for example, and have seen most of them in the theaters. However, the difference between a film adaptation and an expensive New York suite can be found in my favorite memory from childhood: visiting my local library and discovering every part of the world tucked away in the stacks, just for me.
I can live with any adaptation of a child’s book that enhances the experience so long as it accessible to all (most books that become films can be found at libraries). But when books (and their attached expensive amusement parks / destination vacations) become another product, another status symbol of parents’ ability to indulge their child’s every whim, it depresses me because we are descending a slippery slope.
What happens when a girl finds the Eloise books, loves them, and turns to the back flap only to discover that-- thanks to those clever publishers and the Plaza marketing team -- the real suite exists just a short plane ride away? Did she even know she needed that visit before that moment? No, but now those adults have created a huge temptation for this child, when before she would simply act out the books in her room, satisfied that she was queen of her Plaza house.
But no amount of begging will ever get her there if her parents don’t have the money so she’ll never know if her vision of the place is as good as the reality. Will she trust her own imaginative play (Free! Fun!) or will she start saving her allowance so she can see the “real thing” as imagined by grownups ($995! Parental angst!), thus commodifying the experience? What happens when she goes to read another book and the same marketing ploy occurs? What then? What will this girl think about books then and her ability to live in their world?
Perhaps it is an exaggerated vision of this new twist on an old marketing strategy, but I guess that’s what one can expect from someone who had a great childhood, complete without the suite. I only wish today’s kids could have the same simple pleasures but they may be a generation who wouldn’t even know what to do with some water and a paintbrush. And, so, Eloise, the only thing I wish you (and the Plaza) would have charged in your books was my imagination, not my credit card, too. But I guess it’s too late for that. Only time and paying customers will be able to tell whether this trend continues.
-------------------------------------------------
As a teacher who has been declared old enough to be in charge of large groups of “kiddoes,” I now feel qualified to utter the following platitude:
You know, back in the day when I was a kid, life was AWESOME.
I remember days spent hopping after the frogs that lived in my mom’s oversized geraniums, doodling on large refrigerator-sized boxes to transform them into rocket ships, and walking to the local park where I’d swing, slide, or build forts to my heart’s content.
My brother and I loved to be outdoors all summer -- swimming, biking, running around, and inventing games as kids do. The best vacations were to Yosemite or Lake Tahoe/Truckee River where we’d jump out of the boat, the car, or off the path to go explore. I had my rock/interesting stick/feather collections to add to and my brother liked to look at all the bugs/fish we could find in the water. Even while not on vacation, just about every day was filled with something fun, because our neighborhood was full of kids ready to play.
And, in those hot summer days, when I was tired but it wasn’t dark enough to come inside yet, I could climb up the crepe myrtle tree out in the front yard and read or even just lazily watch the clouds with their funny shapes roll by. (Occasionally, I would also hide in the branches and try to scare people walking by. But that’s not a story my mother likes me to tell…)
In other words, the great big world in all its natural, free abundance was my playground.
I didn’t realize my parents weren’t rich and I only mildly cared that my brother and I didn’t have the things other kids had like Nintendo, but I do realize looking back that I was blissfully happy as I flew around my block, ready for whatever adventure was coming next.
Fast-forward twenty or so years and I’m witnessing a totally different picture of childhood. This article, for example, the Eloise Plaza Room, makes me feel that we’ve put a price on imagination.
My fun as a child (and that of my childhood compatriots) cost little to no money, but kids can be satisfied with just about anything that encourages their imagination. Heck, I could spend hours with an old Folgers coffee can filled to the brim with water and a paintbrush, creating masterpieces that evaporated almost as quickly as I could splash them onto the cement.
So. That begs the question:
Q: What would any child do in a room devoted to Eloise that cost $995 a night and was covered in pink wallpaper?
A: Nothing that couldn’t be done in her own house for waaaayyyy less than $995/night if she only had the right mindset.
Granted, for the 5% or so of little girls whose parents could afford the room and who like this book series (I liked the books but not as much as the Madeline series), Betsey Johnson has created a wonderland of fun. But why did anyone feel the need to create this room?
Why can’t we be satisfied with our own imaginations anymore?
I think of the little kids I coached on the swim team or my current students’ stories of their childhoods and a few key words keep popping up:
-- Structured Play
-- Scheduled Time
-- Indoors Only
-- Expensive, Interactive Toys
Now these revelations are nothing new – kids don’t go outside anymore, they don’t know what “imagination” means if it doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and they are worried about college by the time they are in 3rd grade. I get it. The world is sadly changing and their lives reflect the frenetic pace of their over-worked parents.
But my issue with this new suite is that children’s books are more precious than just another marketing ploy. The true joy of a children’s book is that most of them can be understood on a fundamental level – through pictures, through a reader’s voice, and through one’s own flights of fancies while listening to the words – not through the purchase of additional things to enhance the experience.
Reading a book to a child is a tangible act of love, a sign that for the next few minutes, you are excited about taking them on a trip to a place that may be richly familiar or expressively new and sharing this experience with them over and over again every time you turn the page.
Turning that vision into a reality almost cheapens the experience. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the Harry Potter movies, for example, and have seen most of them in the theaters. However, the difference between a film adaptation and an expensive New York suite can be found in my favorite memory from childhood: visiting my local library and discovering every part of the world tucked away in the stacks, just for me.
I can live with any adaptation of a child’s book that enhances the experience so long as it accessible to all (most books that become films can be found at libraries). But when books (and their attached expensive amusement parks / destination vacations) become another product, another status symbol of parents’ ability to indulge their child’s every whim, it depresses me because we are descending a slippery slope.
What happens when a girl finds the Eloise books, loves them, and turns to the back flap only to discover that-- thanks to those clever publishers and the Plaza marketing team -- the real suite exists just a short plane ride away? Did she even know she needed that visit before that moment? No, but now those adults have created a huge temptation for this child, when before she would simply act out the books in her room, satisfied that she was queen of her Plaza house.
But no amount of begging will ever get her there if her parents don’t have the money so she’ll never know if her vision of the place is as good as the reality. Will she trust her own imaginative play (Free! Fun!) or will she start saving her allowance so she can see the “real thing” as imagined by grownups ($995! Parental angst!), thus commodifying the experience? What happens when she goes to read another book and the same marketing ploy occurs? What then? What will this girl think about books then and her ability to live in their world?
Perhaps it is an exaggerated vision of this new twist on an old marketing strategy, but I guess that’s what one can expect from someone who had a great childhood, complete without the suite. I only wish today’s kids could have the same simple pleasures but they may be a generation who wouldn’t even know what to do with some water and a paintbrush. And, so, Eloise, the only thing I wish you (and the Plaza) would have charged in your books was my imagination, not my credit card, too. But I guess it’s too late for that. Only time and paying customers will be able to tell whether this trend continues.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
BlogTalk: My Life in France
In honor of Julia’s memory and our book selection, we decided to have lunch at a French bistro, Patisserie Boissiere, nestled in the heart of downtown
But does her world exist anymore? We couldn’t help but notice the bustle of tourists overwhelming the small streets of downtown. What many years ago used to be a quiet hamlet is now a commercialized tourist trap.
So, we decided maybe to get around this, we need to make choices about how we travel. When Julia and Paul traveled, they decided to take the time and effort to really see and know the place they were visiting. She applies this philosophy to cooking; you need to take your time to become a great chef. We feel like this philosophy can be applied to anything we do. In order to be good, in order to really enjoy, in order to really see and know, you need to take your time and apply yourself. If you want the quality of experience, you need to take the time to do it right.
So, ultimately, why was she successful?
As Melville would say, “one word: Paul.”
As inspirational and driven as Julia Child was, the support and encouragement of her husband Paul was a key component to her success. As a man, he didn’t let his own ego get in the way of his wife’s success. To the contrary, he was her number one fan, genuinely interested in her cooking and professional endeavors, and more importantly, was her best friend throughout her entire career. Whenever someone has a goal, one needs an outside source—a compassionate, logical supporter to help ease the pressure, offer some much needed perspective, or basically instill some confidence that allows one to believe that what she is doing is worthwhile, important, and feasible. Paul faithfully championed Julia throughout their lives; he helped her in the kitchen (prepping, cooking, or eating); he encouraged her culinary learning; he assisted her career in numerous ways, illustrating foods/ingredients for her cookbooks, taking pictures of Julia in action, etc. Most importantly, he loved food and the arts, and so, his commitment to Julia’s fascination with cooking reaffirmed her own passion for it; his love of food and of what she was doing seemed essential to Julia’s persistence—to her many years of tedious work. Paul’s attitude and actions confirmed that what she was doing was meaningful, groundbreaking, and ultimately, fun! Ultimately, My Life in France serves as a big thank-you to Paul, a big recognition that what Julia Child achieved was more of collaboration than an individual triumph.
But this memoir also brings up another point for us – this idea of fate. One cannot help but realize that Julia’s success is well-deserved but also extraordinary. How many other people, as talented, as charismatic, and as supported as Julia have struggled without the same recognition she received? Julia’s experiences in the kitchen and in front of the camera lens have certainly paved the way for the celebrity chefs we know and worship today. But, her chance was certainly a slim one. The stars truly did have to align. If Julia had not married a wonderful man like Paul, had not ended up in France, had not started dabbling in hobbies out of sheer boredom, had not tenaciously fought her way into advanced classes and pushed herself to be the best, would we be reading this book today? As much as we applaud Julia’s own efforts, we also, by the end of her tale, felt a sense of awe that she was meant to discover her talent, because the universe wouldn’t have had it any other way. With all these circumstances molding her, there is truly no doubt left that she truly was one of the rare geniuses that only come along every few decades.
Of course, as good academics, we teach ourselves to fight the impulse to author worship. After all, as brilliantly as she appears during her successful years, Julia was also a human being and flawed just like the rest of us. Her grand-nephew, the ghost-writer of the memoir, does give readers a rather full sense of Julia as she aged and perhaps withdrew a bit into herself. Her open heart and excitement dwindled as first fame and then loss of many of her old friends and collaborators slowly crept into her life. Sadly, Paul, in his later years, was in a nursing home while Julia continued to work across the country, and in France
So in the end, with all these ingredients mixed together, you’ve got a delectable book to devour! Whether you marvel at Paul’s passion and support for his wife, swoon at the delectable references to recipes, or wonder at the twists of fate (and determination) that help Julia take over the cooking world, there should be something in this memoir for everybody. Bon Appetit!
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Our next book choice is Red Hook Road by Ayelet Waldman, a pick by Melville.
Here’s an excerpt from the BN.com Review: “Waldman unfurls her story with a pace befitting grief’s peculiar one-step-forward-two-steps-back progress, narrative and road merge to form a complex conduit for healing and an elegiac meditation on what within us remains after the tempest has undone an orderly life.”
So read along with us and comment with us on the last Sunday of the month! Keep checking “Thrice Booked” to find out how!
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