Informal Response:

Sorry, I forgot to post/publish this post on Friday!

Didion 

Didion's essays "Goodbye to All That" and "In bed" remind me of Fitzgerald's "The Crack-Up" as she admits to getting sick of New York City and having migraines. Like Fitzgerald, she is blatantly honest about sometimes being broken. For example, when she turned twenty-eight, she says that, " Everything that was said to me I seemed to have heard before, and I could no longer listen. . . . I hurt the people that I cared about, and insulted those I did not. I cut myself off from the one person who was closer to me than any other. I cried until I was not even aware  when I was crying." It is this honesty that increases her intimacy with her readers. The statements that she uses to describe her emotions seems universal, which heightens the universality of her situation. But more importantly, she adds the specifics of not being able to sit at Grand Central, hearing from people receiving advances from publishers, and not going up to Madison Avenue to people watch, which validate her universal point.

Another aspect of these essays I really enjoyed was her voice and style of writing. There was the honesty to it, but also a very "story-like" style. She tells you how everything happened and addresses the reader directly, which increases this story aspect to it. For example on page 684 of "Goodbye to All That," she mentions, "You see I was in a curious position in New York: it never occurred to me that I was living a real life there." She then explains what she had imagined about her situation. To share where she started feeling depressed and broken in New York, because she had stayed in New York too long, she claims, "I could not tell you when I began to understand that." This direct address makes the story "flow" better and also increases the intimacy with the reader even more.

Rodriguez

 Rodriguez also draws the reader in through his honesty, personality and voice in the essay. His essay "Late Victorians" intrigued me as he sets up in juxtaposition of the rigid, traditional Victorian ideals through the houses and acceptance, love, and celebration of being gay. He begins this very interestingly with the idea of St. Augustine, the saint that addressed inherent sin from Adam and Eve and as Rodriguez said, that humans should be unhappy, because unhappiness is a sign of immorality. This beginning sets up the juxtaposition and also shows a little about him and his dilemma to believe this ideal. He explains why at the end of the essay, he remains seated on the hard pew. It also corresponds with the rigid Victorian houses that represented the rigid and narrow-minded moral family setting of that era. He makes this point of view unique in how that house symbolized having multiple generations living under the same roof. The interesting contrast he then sets up is that families have gravitated toward the one floor houses or the one generation house while men without families or children began buying and living in these Victorian houses.

Throughout this essay, he then brings in interesting and entertaining anecdotes about his living in such a house. That with his personal experiences and observations, he then recounts the naturalness and celebration of gays seen in San Francisco. He recounts this blunt juxtaposition to describe what he sees but also his own dilemma, which is shown in the end of the story. Through these interesting tales and honest accounts, Rodriguez really captivates the reader throughout the entire essay. I thoroughly loved this work.

Pop Culture

The Fairy Tale Ideal

Note: this is a revised version of this essay!

She lies on her bed, sleeping and waiting. She stares from the tower, hoping. She watches the world, wondering. She learns the etiquette of a princess, preparing. She upholds her family duty by marrying. She cleans and takes care of seven “children,” obeying. She accepts her prince charming, her life finally beginning.

From the time I began creating my own stories, fairy tales captivated me. I loved imagining myself in their world: the ever expanding forest where white, sparkly velveteen unicorns roamed, beautiful ladies wore medieval dresses shaded with dark green or royal purple and braided hair that went to their waist, knights in reflective silver chain-mail that glowed in the bright yellow rays of the sun went on adventures, and mysterious gray-stoned castles with secret passage ways and towers to see for miles around existed. I loved the idea of having adventures there. I loved the idea of meeting one’s true love and everything being so simple. The idea of having a happily ever after. The idea of knowing what the future held.

            She is one who is expected to be meek and mild. She must obey her family’s wishes. She is Mulan, who must bring honor to her family through marriage. She is expected to bear children, be a beautiful wife, and act as the gracious and graceful hostess. She must be obedient to her father and husband. She must be on the good graces of the matchmaker. She must not let her family down.

          She is Belle, the inventor’s daughter valued for her beauty. She must be obedient to her father and the Beast. She is expected to be complacent to Gaston. She is expected to marry Gaston, because he is interested in her. She must be pleasant and loving to both the Beast and Gaston. 

            Fifth grade I can still remember falling into the stereotypical ideas of a girl and relationships. I was meek and quiet. I was still taken in by the romantic but simple happy ending of a fairy-tale, but I saw my knight in shining armor with Dan, one of the most attractive and popular guys in my class. He played trombone right next to me in band; the only time it was cool for football players to descend into music geek realm. He had sandy brown hair and baby blue eyes – have I ever mentioned that I am a sucker for guys with blue or green eyes - and he was a little muscular and less pudgy than the rest of us fifth graders.

            I am not really quite sure what I imagined would happen between the two of us, except maybe going on a date. Maybe we would go to a movie, hold hands? He would open the door for me? He would say something adorable, like, “You look extremely nice.” and I would blush? He would ask if I wanted to hang out with him some more, and I would say yes? All I really remember was imagining him as the perfect guy for me. I did not even really know him. 

            “Taught from their infancy that beauty is woman’s scepter, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison.”

               In A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, Mary Wollstonecraft initiates the argument that society by treating women as inferior to men and as dolls or play things only perpetuate this expectation for women to value their beauty and worth over intelligence. She argues that women need to be treated as rational creatures and view love and marriage through a more logical stance and with an equal footing. She argues that this societal expectation of keeping women inferior only yields negative effects for women and society.

The rest of fifth grade and sixth grade I obsessed about my appearance more; my baby fat was finally turning into curves, and I was having an early growth spurt. I was convinced that I needed to keep this shape and forced myself to eat more slowly and less, like I saw my friends doing. My lab group constantly compared what our weights were and how to keep them down as seen in Seventeen and People. One time, Dan’s friend offered me an extra sandwich, and my scarlet face boiled with anger. I assumed that he was giving it to me, because I ate a lot and was fat. I did not want Dan to think I was that. So I ate less. I tried to talk to him more, although it always ended with me turning bright red in the face. Still I dreamed that we would sometime go out. I would write poetry, imagining us together. I clung onto the fairy tale ending. I clung onto the societal expectations of waiting and finding the perfect guy.

“Fondness is a poor substitute for friendship.” (Wollstonecraft A Vindication of the Rights of a Woman)

Returning to class from recess in fifth grade, I was standing behind Dan.

He turned around. “What’s your favorite football player?”

“Um . . .” I did not watch football, did not understand it and had no fascination with it. But I still wanted to impress him. “I think they are all pretty good. . . . I am huge Browns’ fan.” Not really.

            “What did you think of the game Sunday?”

            “Oh, well, you know. . .” My face flushed a deep red, which my class had become accustomed to whenever I answered a question that the teacher had addressed toward me.

            “They lost.” His friend Andy had turned around, laughing.

            “Oh, that’s awful.”

            Belle abandoned societal expectations. She did not accept the marriage proposal of Gaston despite familial (her father) and societal pressure. Rather, she politely pushed him out of the door into the mud and set his nasty and muddy black boots on the steps. Against her father’s wishes, she sacrifices her own life to stay with the Beast so her father can go back into society. She defies the Beast’s commands from the beginning as she refuses to eat dinner with him and then explores the forbidden West Wing in the castle. She maintains her love for books and reading. Throughout the movie, she remains true to herself. 

            Somewhere along the path of “finding true love” my obsession with Dan and fairy tales faded. Maybe it was the fact that one of my “good friends” had accused me of being an awful friend since she also had a crush on Dan. Maybe it was the fact that I needed to move on after she had asked Dan to the dance. Maybe it was the fact that I had been officially kicked out of the “popular group.” Maybe it was the fact that everyone else was changing and I still remained my imaginative, romantic self. Or maybe it was the fact that I was growing up, becoming less dependent on fairy tales, realizing that a crush or daydream is not love, and searching for women empowerment. Either way, my dream of a shining knight vanished. 

            “It is vain to expect virtue from women till they are in some degree independent of men” (Mary Wollstonecraft A Vindication of the Rights of a Woman). 

Toward the end of middle school and throughout high school, I became almost bitter with the fairy tale ideal. I thought it was too simple. I did not want to adhere to societal expectations of being meek and quiet. I did not want to wait for some guy to take pity on me to ask me on a date. I did not need a guy as a distraction. Consequentially, I gravitated toward the strong female leads in books. I loved the retelling of fairy tales, where the princess saved the prince in the end of the story. I idolized Queen Elizabeth I – maybe due to the fact that we shared a namesake - who though “a feeble woman,” used her intelligence to lead a nation into the Renaissance and defeat Spain, the strongest country at that time. In reading Ella Enchanted and the other fairy tale parodies, I saw women that did not wait for their princes and ended up saving the day. In the classic novels I read about Jane Eyre, Elizabeth Bennett and Elinor from Sense and Sensibility, all rational human beings that did not let love blind their judgment. I wanted to be like Elizabeth Bennett, who was witty and outgoing, and fell into love without expecting to. From all of these women, I wanted to emulate their strength, intelligence and determination.

Mulan also rejected societal expectations. She could not be who society wanted her to be. Running away and saving her father from enlisting in the army, she dresses as a soldier and learns to fight the Mongols. She fails the test of the match maker and yet passes the test of being a soldier. She saves China and the Emperor. An entire nation is at her debt. All because she did not adhere to societal expectations or wait for a man. No. Rather, she went on an adventure. She discovered herself and stayed true to that.

“Make them free, and they will quickly become wise and virtuous, as men become more so; for the improvement must be mutual” (Mary Wollstonecraft A Vindication of the Rights of a Woman).

            Now when I think about fairy tales, I do not get angry at the simple happy ending. I do not become bitter that society expects a woman to be submissive and wait for a man. Although there are plenty of examples where woman do wait for men, not all princesses are defined entirely by that ideal. Rather when I think about fairy tales, I focus on their complexity and their strength. While being quiet and meek, some defy societal expectations. They go on adventures. They read. They save their families and nations. They represent strong female characters, similar to a Jane Austen heroine, Jane Eyre, Queen Elizabeth I or even Mary Wollstonecraft. Still these princesses find love. Both Mulan and Belle stayed true to themselves and were loved because of who they were.

            She ignores the judgment, knowing. She reads, understanding. She explores, adventuring. She meets her equal, a prince charming. She accepts his hand, her life continuing. 

Warning: Ads and The Power of Words

Buy Something You Deserve

"Give her the ring she has always imagined . . . Only at Henry B. Ball." The background is filled with soft, wedding-like, happy honeymoon style music as a soprano voice descends with "Henry B. Ball . . . Jewelers." The music continues above as the door slams shut. I wipe my boots on the rug and place my winter coat, hat and gloves onto the radiator. I hear the click of the mouse, the swivel of the chair, and the tread of footsteps crossing the floor. The stairs creaks as my dad descends from his sound studio.

"Still snowing."
"Yeah, it's been heavy all day."
"How was your day at school?"
"Fine. I have lots of homework."
"Okay, well, you'll have a chance to finish that before we get home. I have a session at 4, so we'll be leaving a little later."
"Right, okay."

I settle into my normal routine - homework with an afternoon snack and maybe the possibility to read a few chapters of my newest addiction: Ann Rinaldi's Girl in Blue. Upstairs, the loop of the ad played again as my dad listened to the mix of the soundtrack, the voice and the jiggle. While I began my Algebra homework, I hummed along. "Henry B. Ball . . . Henry B. . . Baawll . . . . Jewelers." Eventually the repetition would be ingrained into my brain, and I would tune it out.

From fourth grade until I was able to drive to school as a senior, the bus would drop me off at my dad's office, a radio and now video advertising studio. There I would hear the voices for small local businesses like Henry B. Ball, Terry Tire's Town, and some big names like John Deer. Some days I would meet the voice talents and clients that were collaborating together and observe their busy lives. Or not really wanting to meet anyone or talk to strangers, I would hide behind the kitchen door or in my dad's back office. This tactic, however, usually only worked on strangers; regulars would always spot me. Either they would open the kitchen door and see me as I ran to the refrigerator, pretending to be looking for water, or they would see me peeking out of my dad's office. Either way, it was alright. They would laugh and exchange pleasantries with me, and I would immediately return back to doing homework.

At the end of the session after my dad walks the clients out to their cars, I run upstairs to the studio. There I can watch him begin the editing process. Watch the screen show the sound waves, similar to heart monitor signals as seen on TV hospital shows like Gray's Anatomy.  I learn the delicate balance between all the different soundtracks, sound effects and voice-overs. I see the repetition of the company's name throughout the jiggle, the catch phrase at the very end. "Give her the ring that she deserves." The you are worth it technique. The jiggle that plays through your head. Anything that keeps the company's name rolling inside your brain, waiting to  be prompted or triggered by the slightest thing.

My dad shows his newest creation in ads: his creative stories to sell the company's product. Like in American Tuxedo, it is prom season, and the guy needs the perfect tux. The guy's voice does the best impression of Napoleon Dynamite. My dad's voice cuts in, advising the customer that he does not want to end up like this Napoleon Dynamite figure and he can avoid this by getting his tux today. The peer pressure, the band wagon technique. If Napoleon Dynamite would have sponsored it, it could have been the celebrity endorsement.

We go home afterwards and turn on World News Tonight with Peter Jennings as we begin to make dinner. My mom's in her home office talking to a client, maybe Target or Krogers, and advising how to appeal to their consumers, how to get the consumers into the door, how to get them to buy more. Something is going on with something and another someone. . . . War on Iraq . . . . A teacher, a mother, a daughter that helped raise money for an organization is named the Person of the Week. The commercial for Viagra comes on . . . use of sex appeal filters through . . .  Wheel of Fortune begins to come on as the TV is clicked off, and we eat dinner, discussing our days, and my parents compare stories about their clients.

The water turns on, and dishes clink together as Jeopardy begins. We sit down as a family to watch the program. Commercials . . . my dad quickly turns on the mute button . . .In the span of one hour, we have already heard enough advertising to last us one day. For my dad, he has listened to enough commercials to last him weeks in the course of one day at work.

But really, if you think about it, we are constantly being sold to. The process is beautiful and subtle, but really it is everywhere. In a consumption nation, someone is always going to try to convince you to buy something. Whether it is the ad on the cup of coffee that you just purchased, the billboard about "Nice Legs. Tables for _" that you pass on the highway, the video that you see on the TV, ads are everywhere. Nine years ago that at least was the case. . . . Then we had our work, our business, and then our home . . . Then when we were busy in separate, public and private worlds . . .  But now?

Now in a world where we are constantly connected through our ipods, laptops, TVs, internet, smart phones, data plans, we are even busier. The private life has become public. We must always know what is happening. It must be amazing and frightening. It must be fast. . . . As a result, our commercials, our ads, our news is faster. It is more widespread. When we check our facebook walls, there is the ad for coffee. Watching TV shows online, even Downton Abbey, we see an ad for Bing or a sponsor for the Viking Cruises. Even this blog has a sponsor as seen at the very bottom of the page.

Consequently, we complain about the heightened news, the annoying ads, the constant begging for us to give money to a certain product. We complain about the loss of privacy. We play the victims of this long and hateful process. We wonder what would happen if we disconnect? If there was nothing but interactions with people.

. . .

People would sell products to you. It is an ingrained part of our societal manner.

Still - maybe this is a secret that I learned only through learning about the advertisement business from my dad - but you are not the victim. All of these commercials are just ways to appeal to your nature. Ways to beg for money. . . . Ways to "manipulate" your train of thought. However, these ads do not make you buy anything. They do not make you give your money. They do not tell you to share your private life with the world. No. That power rests entirely in your hands, and you can spend your money and life as you please.

Short Takes

Part Eight: 

The essays that I read this week:
1. "Disclaimer" by Ron Carlson
2. "Contributor's Note" by Michael Martone

Analysis of "Disclaimer"

In this essay, Carlson seems to be keeping with the theme of these last two weeks that Eggers brought up: fictionalizing non-fiction. What constitutes fiction, and what constitutes non-fiction? Do you have to tell your readers that what you are telling them happened or did not happen? In this work, Carlson blatantly tells his readers that this is "a work of fiction" and that "any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is merely coincidental." Yet the rest of the piece then goes into factual events that did occur. He seems to do the very actual opposite then of fictionalizing an account; he non-fictionalizes it. This particularly can be seen as he relates the details of his first love Debbie Delucca. He recounts the memories of the vanilla milkshake and cheeseburger, but in the end, shows the reality of the situation - he did not get the girl. Rather, they both moved on, and he confirms this by mentioning how fiction would have showed the opposite. "If you want the coincidence where some character based on me gets the amazing girl back and has his heart start again after so many years, you're going to have to look in a book." Placing these two genres on opposing sides of one another, Carlson lends to this discussion of fictionalizing factual events.  

Caution: Fiction

Preface: 

As I was rummaging through my computer today, I fell onto some fictional pieces that I have written, and I would love to share them with you. So over the next remaining weeks, I may include a couple per week just to balance all the critical and creative non-fiction posts. Of course, you guys don't have to read them, but if you have some spare time, I would love feedback! Thanks! : )

Also another warning: I tend to write about periods in time. This one is about the Easter Rising in Dublin, Ireland 1916, which was an "uprising" or "rebellion" - depends on which side you were on - against the English for Irish independence.

Hope you enjoy it! : )

For You

Easter, 1916

            Light from the street-lamps created shadows across the tiny room. Ida stared up at the cracking ceiling as she listened intently for that familiar noise. The tram screeched past, and laughter wafted through the window. Finally, she heard the door slam and Cian’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. She rolled onto her side, closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

            “Still awake?” his voice whispered in her ear. His arms wrapped around her. “I told you that you didn’t have to wait up.”

            “How could I fall asleep?” Her hands reached for his, and her head rested against his shoulder. “Cian, you cannot keep doing this. Every day I watch you leave and fear that it will be for the last time. Every night I am frightened that I will receive the knock from the police, asking me to identify your body.”

            “Ida,” he laughed softly. “You worry too much. I am safe.”

            “Really?” she asked indignantly.

            “The Brotherhood knows what they are doing. We only do what is absolutely necessary.”

            “Does this include the rebellion? Is it really necessary for the Irish Republican Brotherhood to strike against the British?”

            “Yes! An unfree Ireland shall never be at peace.”

            “So you say. But now?” she asked.

            “The British are weakest now. We have waited too long for their empty promises of Home Rule.”

            Ida pursed her lips and refrained a rebuttal. It was useless to argue against Cian’s beliefs. For years she had heard him rage about the cruelty of the British and the need for Irish Independence. And it wasn’t that she didn’t agree. She did want Home Rule. This common belief had brought them together. She could still remember the rally where she had first heard him. His green eyes had shined against his freckled face and brown hair. His voice had rung through the square as he had told his experience of the British brutality, being separated from his parents and forced to go to a Protestant school. Although she had always believed in the cause, his story and passion had captivated her. After years of knowing him, it was the first time she knew she really loved him.

            But she did not believe in this uprising. It seemed too sudden, rash and violent. She was afraid that it would fail as countless other rebellions had. It shared too many similarities: rumors that the British knew, dwindling support and no organization. Any attack now would result in a sure loss.

            Cian’s voice disrupted her reverie. “You do not need to worry for too much longer. By tomorrow, everything will be over.”

            “Tomorrow?” she croaked. Her head turned abruptly, and her hazel eyes searched his.

            “Yes. The rising has been moved to tomorrow.”

            “Oh, Cian, that only ensures its failure!”

            “No, the British will not expect a rising the day after Easter!”

            “But you are not ready! With more time, you could succeed. There will be other opportunities. Please . . . promise me that you will not participate!” She took his hand.

            “Ida, you know I cannot do that. I have to be there for the Brotherhood. I will be fine.”

            “No. If you go . . .” Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head. “Just promise me! I beg you.”

            His green eyes held hers. “Well . . . fine. For you, I promise.”

            “Thank you. You know that I only ask this, because I love you.”

“Yes. Just as I will always love you.”

She nestled her head into his shoulder again. His arms acted like a warm blanket, and she began to feel drowsy. Knowing that she did not have to worry, she drifted off to sleep.

Boom . . . boom . . . boom.  

The pounding on a door downstairs startled Ida awake. The warm pink glow of the sun illuminated the room. Ida shut her eyes. This time she did not have to worry. Cian was safe, lying right beside her. The police were knocking on someone else’s door.

            A cold draft made her shiver and reach for the blankets. She blinked her eyes open. She had been warm last night. She rolled over. Beside her lay ruffled sheets and blankets. Below she again heard the knocks on her door.

Dave Eggers's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Critical Analysis of Two Passages of "Fiction":

Passages:

1.      Toph and Dave discuss the “Big Day” p.114-120

‘“I mean, it was almost as if it was too much to happen in one day, as if a number of days had been spliced together to quickly paint a picture of an entire period of time, to create a whole-seeming idea of how we are living, without having to stoop (or rise) to actually pacing the story out.”

“What are you getting at?”

. . .

“So you’re reduced to complaining about it. Or worse, doing little tricks, out of frustration.”

. . .

“The gimmicks, bells, whistles. Diagrams. Here is a picture of a stapler, all that.”

“Right.”

“You know, to be honest, though, what I see is less a problem with form, all that grarbage, and more a problem of conscience. You’re completely paralyzed with guilt about relating all this in the first place, especially the stuff earlier on. You feel somehow obligated to do it, but you also know that Mom and Dad would hate it, would crucify you-”’

Read until the middle of page 120 where the paragraph begins, “I leave the light on . . .”

2.      Visit of John in the hospital p. 271-275

“I go in to see him.

“He has a tube sticking out of his mouth, one out of his nose. . . . It looks like his hands are tied to the bed.”

“His hands are tied to the bed. The bindings are thick, black, Velcro. He must have resisted, or swung at someone . . .

“But this room is much too big, too big and white. This huge room, separate from the rest of the ward, must have been built for more than one bed. . .

“Who’s John?”

“You’re John.”

“I’m John?”

“Yeah. I changed your name.”

              . . .

            “. . . Whatever. But I didn’t ask you to broadcast all this-”

              . . .

            “Whatever. This is mine. You’ve given it to me. We’re trading. I gave you the attention you wanted, I bail you out, when you spend three days in the psych ward, and say how you’re still thinking of doing it, I’m the one who comes in and sits on your bed and gives you the big pep talk – anyway, the point is that because of all of that, all the shit I put in for you – now I get this, this is mine also, and you, because you’ve done it yourself, made yourself the thespian, you have to fulfill that contract, play the dates, go on the road. Now you’re the metaphor.”

Read until break on p.275.

As seen in both passages, Dave Eggers blends humorous/witty, honest/serious and exaggerated melodramatic into his repertoire of tones. In many cases he juts these tones side by side. In both passages, he begins and ends with a mixture of a humorous and melodramatic tone, which he also uses to break from any serious, bluntly honest analysis of himself. In the Toph scene, this can be seen through the conversation of the “Big Day” that included “basketball,” “dinner,” “open house,” “ice cream” and a “movie” (114) He continues to intersperse the humor in his use of “gimmicks, bells, whistles. Diagrams. Here is a picture of a stapler” and the “toothpaste on your chin” (115; 117).  It is almost as though he uses it as a preface and apology for his serious tone as though he is afraid that he will lose his audience by being too serious. In a way, it reflects this battle of his “conscience” to stay true to the story of his life, parents, childhood, Toph, but he still  wants to entertain his readers. As a result he maintains the humor and a fictionalized version of events, such as the Toph conversation. It serves as his conflict, his reflection of serious matters such as what he is thinking/feeling as he deals with his parents’ death and raises Toph, and the needed humor.

This is also seen in his blend of honesty and melodrama and humor in the second passage. His exaggeration of the expansive and white hospital room and bed and the bruises on John’s arms reflect this use of a melodramatic tone. This is combination of humor and melodrama is seen on p. 272, “But then you’d be dying, and the last thing you would see would be some LeRoy Neiman print from the 1983 Masters and that would be just too terrible, not that there could ever be any appropriate thing to see before you died – But if you really liked golf.” He continues this in his initial banter with “John” about his fake name until it goes into a more serious tone about John serving as a metaphor of lost youth in his book. But even then he tries to hide this honesty of his fictionalization through a melodrama of being a good friend and giving John morphine. So he again uses these fictionalized versions of the truth to hint at honesty or falsehood in this book, analyze himself and others, and still entertain his readers.