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Drown?

“Drown,” the title story for Junot Diaz’s short story collection Drown, is a short but powerful narrative about a young man and his complicated relationship with an old friend, Beto. The story lingers on the history of the two men, but eventually reveals that the narrator (unnamed) experienced an ambiguous sexual encounter with Beto before he left for college. The unclear nature of this encounter was a prominent topic we discussed in class, and while I think it does matter (and in fact is the crux of this story) whether or not this experience was consensual, I believe the ambiguity and room for interpretation that is left up to the reader is an intentional choice and integral to the complex structure of this narrative.

The majority of the narrative focuses on how the narrator’s life is structured now that Beto has left, as well as flashbacks to how his life was before. This allows the reader to sympathize with both the narrator and Beto, wanting to see their reunion and unsure as to why the narrator is so hesitant to visit Beto. For example, “I pass his apartment but the windows are dark; I put my ear to the busted-up door and hear only the familiar hum of the air conditioner. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll talk to him. I can go back to my dinner and two years will become three.” However, when the reader learns about the narrator and Beto’s history, it is up to them to interpret how the narrator feels about the event. We already know about the narrator’s association with his homophobic friends, “At the Old Bridge Turnpike we pass the fag bar, which never seems to close… Tonight he just puts his head out the window. Fuck you! He shouts… That’s original, I say,” but even here we are unclear about his feelings and how he stands in the group.

I believe it’s important that we get so much background on the relationship between Beto and the narrator, because it supports the interpretation that Beto didn’t consider the encounter an assault. However, the hesitance of the narrator to reunite with Beto could be read either way, that the narrator is hesitant because he doesn’t know how to approach this topic with Beto because he doesn’t know what the encounter meant for them and their relationship, or he’s scared to confront Beto about an assault and doesn’t want it to happen again.

The title of the story, “Drown,” it confusing at first, because the story doesn’t really have anything to do with drowning. However, other than when the boys went to the pool as kids, the one time the narrator does mention water is right after the last encounter with Beto, where he says, “I wasn’t asleep or awake, caught somewhere in between, rocked slowly back and forth the way surf holds junk against the shore, rolling it over and over.” This could support the theory that Beto considered his encounter with Beto an attack, because if he considers himself that junk against the shore, his experience with Beto could be what’s causing him to “drown.”

This story asks us whether the narrator considers this encounter with Beto an assault or an awakening of sorts, and there is evidence for both interpretations. The events of the story and even the narrator’s account of the encounter itself are extremely ambiguous, leaving the decision up to the reader. This could be Diaz commenting on the “gray areas” of human sexuality and what that looks like in practice, or it could simply be a creative choice. Either way, I think the story is more compelling for it, and its complexities make it a stand-out narrative in Drown.

Childhood Masculinity in Drown

Many of the stories in Drown center around the character Yunior and his older brother Rafa. To me Yunior and Rafa were very familiar characters, as reading them reminded me of my childhood in a very general sense. Their own interactions with each other, how Rafa might have been hard on Yunior but at the end of the day was protective of him, all that made me think of my relationships with my own siblings, and it emphasized how universal I think those kinds of relationships must be.

There were a couple of things, however, that I could identify but not necessarily relate to in Yunior and Rafa’s relationship. One of the big things was the concept of masculinity. For example, in “Ysrael,” after Yunior has gotten off the bus and is crying, Rafa tells him to stop even though he doesn’t know the reason for it. The theme of having to keep his emotions inside continues in “Fiesta, 1980” when Yunior’s father punishes him for throwing up in the van. I think throwing up in the van was an emotional response because Yunior said he never threw up anywhere else, so it probably had something to do with the strained relationship/association of fear with his father. Neither of these emotional responses were something Yunior could control, especially at that young age, but I think the reason why it was expected comes down to imposed ideas of masculinity. We saw Yunior’s concept of masculinity get worse in “Fiesta, 1980” after Yunior and Rafa have been reunited with their father for a while, which may be because of their father’s influence or just because they’re getting older and there are more expectations of how boys their age are supposed to be. However any sort of influence at a young and formative age like this is going to have serious implications for how Yunior grows up and sees the world, which we haven’t had the opportunity to read yet.

Diaz heavily has included the theme of masculinity in pretty much all the stories in Drown so far, and in Yunior’s story we have seen the expectations of childhood masculinity not having the greatest effect on him. He went from a child hopeful to receive love from his father in “Aguantando,” to a kid more pressured to be a certain way, but still curious in “Ysrael,” to a scared and lonely boy in “Fiesta, 1980.” I’ll be curious to see what other perspectives/timelines we’ll get from Yunior’s point of view and how that fleshes out this story and topic. Thanks for reading!

The Kid's Guide to Divorce

I really liked this story because I thought it was unique. Moore’s stories mostly have to do with romantic relationships, and I was happy to see a change of pace in her subject matter. This story was also quite short compared to most of the other ones we’ve read, which I think allows the material which is included to stand out. I loved the mother-daughter dynamic (which I can only describe as “sweet”) that was highlighted throughout most of the story, but I think the underlying tensions throughout culminating in the last couple of paragraphs is what really made this story special.

The mother-daughter dynamic in this story was really special and really accurate in my opinion. I felt like I have acted out this scene with my own mom before, right down to the salty popcorn and sappy movie. The daughter herself was someone I think we were supposed to identify with, and I definitely did. She was corny, but honestly really cute and her behavior reflected a lot of what I see in other little kids. She was familiar, and I think that worked within the story very well.

The underlying tensions were another reason I found this story so compelling. First the argument between the girl and her mom, and the following “silent treatment,” which wouldn’t have been out of place in a normal situation I think, but when taken into consideration with the end of the story, could be telling about their dynamic. The mother and daughter obviously have some communication problems, but that isn’t necessarily the issue in my opinion. The daughter hides the things she deems not necessary to tell her mother, like the stuff about the “lady” and the “beer.” I think the daughter is trying to save the mother’s feelings here, or keep her from getting angry, which is a really interesting dynamic for someone we can assume is pretty young. I think that’s where the title comes in, because a “Kid’s Guide to Divorce” could be something necessary for a child who has to mature pretty quick in order to understand how to navigate these situations. This story was interesting in a lot of different ways, and I’m interested to see if Moore will continue any of these threads in later stories.

Sonny's Blues

I loved this story so much. I’m sorry, I just had to start with that. Everything about it fills me with such a pure feeling that I think reading stories and other literature is really all about. I’m always a sucker for sibling relationship stories, I love an angsty plot with a hopeful ending, and it also happened to tick off dealing with mental issues and overindulgent descriptions of music. I immediately identified with both Sonny and the narrator, and was captivated by their story. I found the scenes between just the two of them the most dynamic, particularly their last scene where Sonny invites his brother to the club to watch him play.

This scene starts with the narrator looking out onto the street below from his apartment, where he witnesses “an old-fashioned revival meeting.” He singles out one woman in particular who sings with what Sonny later describes as a “warm” voice. The narrator spots Sonny on the street, where he gives money to the woman. After exchanging pleasantries and his invitation to the club, Sonny brings up how the woman’s voice reminds him of what heroin feels like. Now, earlier in the story, the narrator maintained that he had no interest in knowing what heroin feels like, but now he’s uncharacteristically hanging on Sonny’s every last word.

One question nagged me throughout the entire story; why did Sonny start doing heroin in the first place? I understand that there was an epidemic going on a the time, and it was particularly a part of jazz culture, but why the need to “feel good” as he so describes it? Or maybe more importantly, what made him feel like he was suffering in the first place? I would say the only logical explanation would be the death of his parents, and possibly feeling abandoned by his brother. These events happen, and his only coping mechanism is the music, and when that’s taken away from him, he leaves. These events are really brought into perspective when he says “While I was downstairs before, on my way here, listening to that woman sing, it struck me all of a sudden how much suffering she must have had to go through--to sing like that.” To Sonny, beautiful music is born out of suffering, and the death of his parents and subsequent lack of support urged him to learn piano, to become blues. The title of this story can be read two ways: Sonny’s Blues, his music, or Sonny’s blues, the depression that drives him to create it.

This scene as a whole is characterized by an inability on Sonny’s part to say what he actually means, or in the exact way he means it. Lines like, “he hoped his eyes would tell me things he could never otherwise say,” and, “I can’t really talk about it. Not to you, not to anybody,” are scattered throughout the section. They serve to characterize Sonny as someone who desperately wants to open up, but feels he can’t. But he does, eventually, and rants about how his own stink disgusted him, but he couldn’t get away from it. Sonny lets it all out for his brother, and I get the sense that he said some things he hadn’t even admitted to himself before this conversation. It’s unbelievably real, and raw, and a catalyst for the final scene where he is able to rediscover his past abilities, become part of a community that is so important to him again, and show to his brother that this is not only a community that’s worthwhile in its own merit, but also the place where he truly belongs.

Blue Period

“De-Daumier Smith’s Blue Period” was an entertaining read and a fascinating study of the story’s main
character, Smith. The title immediately brings to mind Pablo Picasso’s Blue Period, a time when the
artist painted somber, essentially monochromatic paintings in shades of blue and blue-green. To see
the events of the book as a “Blue Period” for Smith makes sense when we consider the events leading
up to and contained in the story.

The narrator outlines the recent history of the events leading up to the main part of the narrative for the
reader, and there are a couple elements of interest. Firstly, and probably most importantly, Smith’s
mother has very recently passed away. The death of a close family member is enough to send anyone
into a poor frame of mind, and that is where I believe we see Smith during this story. Additionally, we
know Smith has just left Paris, which he considers his home, for New York, which he finds too crowded
and tiresome. Again, this could contribute to Smith’s inner turmoil, which frames his actions for the rest
of the story.

I think a reader could read this story in one of two ways: either the narrator (who we can assume is an
older version of Smith) is constantly poking fun at Smith’s actions during the events of this story, or he’s
completely oblivious. I’m partial to the previous reading, but there are points supporting each. Either
way, I think that Smith’s actions during the story are a result of acting out (by becoming a pathological
liar, being unnecessarily cruel to the art students, and being way too overbearing pretty much all the
time) because of grief over the death of his mother. I think living in New York with his stepfather
reminded him too much of his mother and therefore he was going to do whatever it took to get out of
there, and therefore his “Blue Period” included working in the Montreal art school. Overall, I think this
story was an interesting exploration of the unconventional expression of a man grieving over the death
of his mother.

The Story with Jim, and Elliot, and that girl that starts with a K, and… there was another one?

Despite what the cheeky title suggests, I would actually like to discuss a short story of which I actually do know the name, “Another Manhattan”. Through the first read, I actually really liked this story and its depiction of mental illness, showing how confusing and nonsensical is can be for someone like Jim to try and navigate normal social situations when he is weighed down by his own mind. I also really liked the way it treated Jim and Kate’s relationship, how it refused to show love in the clean, simple boxes that so many narratives seem to reiterate. However, when we brought up the different relationship dynamics the story presents, the heavy emphasis on Elliot and Kate’s relationship was noted as opposed to the lesser importance of Jim and Susan’s relationship. After going back and considering the story, I started to see the way Antrim’s story fits into the pattern that many male authors fall into when writing stories with female characters.

The story opens with Jim talking about his tense relationship with Kate and how “it was wrong to hate her.” The perspective then shifts to Kate, although all she talks about is her relationship with Jim, and her relationship with Elliot, and how he manipulates her. Right from the get-go we see Kate’s character defined only by her relationships with other men. We then move back to Jim’s perspective, and we get interesting history about him and an inner struggle that really defines the narrative. There’s nothing wrong with that per say, but with him being really our only choice for a protagonist combined with his weird treatment of women (Kate, Susan, the “twenty years younger” flowershop clerk), it just rubs me the wrong way.

My main issue with this story, however, is Susan. Now, I understand it’s supposed to be a short story, and therefore maybe the author can’t do everything he wants to develop the characters, but his treatment of Susan was just pathetic. Elliot was at least interesting, had something of a  backstory, and a few witty one-liners to make him a perfectly acceptable side character. If a houseplant could speak, it could’ve played Susan. Her most interesting line is “I love you,” directed at Jim, over the phone, after she does her most interesting action, when goes to the bathroom. She’s literally just a shell that Jim had an affair with five months ago, and I hate it.

This story isn’t one of the worst examples of sexism in literature I’ve read, but it still had a lot of room to improve. I think it was a good lesson on how we need to work harder to create positive representation of women in narratives, and not just write women lazily to support your male characters. I still liked this story, but I wish it was better in this aspect.

Not Like Other Girls

“Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong” is my favorite story from The Things They Carried so far. Mary Anne herself was a fascinating character to me, from the moment she landed at the camp to her mysterious “disappearance” into the jungle by fourth-hand account. Her transformation from something recognizable, familiar enough that she could be someone I know, to a Green Beret wearing a string of tongues around her neck was equally fascinating to witness. During our class discussion we entertained the speculation of what actually happened to Mary Anne, what this transformation was and what she transformed into. We didn’t really pin it down, but I’d like to put forth my own theory; Mary Anne didn’t become part of the jungle or mountains, and she didn’t just go crazy--rather, I think she witnessed the true horrors of the war as a clean slate, and the war affected her so deeply that the war became part of her, and eventually took over. I saw Mary Anne’s story, from start to finish, as a metaphor for war and what it can do to people.

At the beginning of the story, Mary Anne arrived bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so unprepared for what was to come, much like her fellow Vietnam soldiers. However soon she was put into situation after situation that pushed her to her limits. She showed that she wasn’t what the men expected, just like the war wasn’t what they originally expected. Eventually she got “out of control” and everything was done to rein her in before things got too bad. However, just when things calmed down she went completely off the deep end. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this, but just like Mary Anne a war can be going so well before it turns at the last minute.

The final confrontation scene provides the most convincing evidence. Mary Anne was still beautiful from a distance, but up close proved horrible and grotesque (necklace of tongues = the victims a war takes, eh?), which reminded me of O’Brien’s description of how a war can be “almost nice,” especially when she says, “I know what you think, but it's not... it's not bad." Also, when she says, “Sometimes I want to eat this place. Vietnam. I want to swallow the whole country—the dirt, the death—I just want to eat it and have it there inside me,” besides being extremely disturbing, it’s also a blatant metaphor for war--how it eats the land, leaving nothing in its wake. I think this seen shows that Mary Anne has not only been affected by the war, but in some sense is the war.

Finally, Mary Anne’s mystical disappearance at the end further proves my point. No one really knew what happened to her except through stories, just like in a war, and her disappearance was sudden but somewhat a relief. The fact that the soldiers still felt the need to be on the lookout for her, though, is exactly how many feel about war, and Mary Anne’s elevation to myth/legend status shares a likeness with how wars are spoken of after they happen.

I’ve rambled enough about this, but overall--Mary Anne drove men crazy (just like war), and I enjoy this story, whether it’s “true” or not.

The Short Story

Until further notice, all posts will be for my current English class, "The Short Story."

The End

I’ve really liked writing a blog this semester. I feel like it really improved my writing skills and taught me how to write things that people will be interested in. I love sharing stories, especially ones that make people laugh. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to let me bore you one more time. :)

I feel like college is a topic I’ve successfully avoided bringing up until now, but something that takes up so much of my time was bound to make its appearance eventually. I’ve never done anything before that seems so arbitrary, yet actually matters so much. I feel like I should be super worried, but college applications seem to be one thing I prioritize and complete exactly to my plans (much to the dismay of my schoolwork).

At the same time, the ever-present feeling that everything is ending is hard to avoid. After I got my first acceptance, I was further cemented into this frame of mind. And while waiting to hear back from other places has me caught in a state of anticipation, I can’t help but feel lost. This major five-year chapter of my life is about to be over, and without the easy routine I’ve fallen into, I can’t predict how I’ll cope. I know I’m going to go on to (hopefully) bigger and brighter things, but I’ve found comfort in this life, this home that Uni has provided me.

I know that this next chapter of my life is going to be exciting, and probably better than anything I’ve ever experienced. I also know I’ve got to make it through another whole semester before graduation. But being a senior has given me a new perspective on my time at Uni, and made me nostalgic for something I’m still experiencing. College is an exciting part of my near-future, but I wish it could stay future for just a bit longer.

My Encounter with Law Enforcement

As many who have ridden with me know, driving is not my thing. In general driving gives me a lot of anxiety so to combat that I usually overcompensate by driving really fast and aggressively, which doesn’t always work out in my favor. However my worst driving moment by far happened in August 2016, about a month and a half after I got my license.

It happened when I was driving home from my volunteer shift at Carle Hospital. Carle’s parking garage is already really cramped and dark so I’m always really nervous when I have to drive there. However because I’d had my license for almost 2 months with no accidents I was starting to get really confident, blowing off the incredible danger and immense responsibility that driving a car entails. Anyway after I left Carle I was super jittery, but as I was headed west down University Avenue I whipped into the left turn lane so I could get onto Lincoln. The problem was the car in front of me, an excessively large black SUV, was going straight and I turned too close to it and hit its rear bumper with the corner of my hood. I was a pretty inexperienced driver at the time, so I wasn’t 100% sure I actually had hit it, but also my fight or flight response was to pretend like nothing bad happened at all, so I just kept driving. That obviously wasn’t okay with the car that I hit however, because they turn into the turn lane and start following me. Meanwhile I’m going into super survival mode and just keep driving, but when the SUV starts laying on its horn, I turn onto a side street and park.

The car follows me and I see the driver get out of his car, so I get out too. I know this is what you’re supposed to do when you hit someone, but in retrospect it seems really creepy that 16-year-old me has to get out of my car and talk to some rando dude on a hidden side street as it’s approaching dark. Nevertheless, the guy comes up to me and simply says, “You hit me.” I, 40 levels deep into my own personal hell, could barely manage a “Really?” The guy could probably tell that I was freaking out, which is why he just went over to look at the damage I did to his car. As we looked I start rambling about how I was 16 and had just gotten my license not 2 months before, which I guess is when he decided to tell me that he was the Chief of Police at Parkland (off-duty, of course). At that point I sort of went numb all over, except for my brain which was just doing the mind-scream thing.

Luckily that day God took pity on me, because there wasn’t even a scratch on the officer’s car. Mine had a big scrape on the front, but if you’ve seen my car you already know that I didn’t care. The officer then made his wife get out of the car so she could confirm that theirs had no damage, and when she was satisfied, that’s when I started to get lectured. I don’t really remember most of it, but I think the general gist was “Kids these days are so reckless with driving be more careful or you’re going to get your license taken away before you’re 18.” I was almost crying at that point, but I remember his wife was really nice and told me “Everything’s fine, we’re not mad we just want you to be more careful,” which did absolutely nothing for me but was a kind thought.

After that was pretty much nothing. They got back in their car, I got back in mine and drove away. I knew I was too shaken up to drive all the way home, so I stopped in the McDonald’s parking lot and had a small panic attack. After that I drove home. I told my parents because I was worried the police officer would call them or report it or something, but they just roasted me for not being careful and also didn’t let me drive my brother around for like a year.

This event happened a long time ago and while at the time it was the worst thing I had ever experienced, now it’s just a distant and slightly cringey memory. It was a good wake-up call when I needed it and I’m just lucky nothing and no one was damaged because of my recklessness. I’m a lot better and more careful driver now, at least when I need to be.

Why I Can't Be a Nun

In a lot of ways going to a Catholic school was pretty much the same as Uni, but there were a couple of things that were really weird. One of the main things was that they were always trying to push religious vocations on all of the kids, wanting to get the girls to become nuns and the boys to become priests. In fifth grade our big field-trip was a religious vocation field-trip -- all of the boys were going to a seminary while all of the girls went to a convent.

When we got to the convent, I wasn’t really sure what to expect. First we took a short tour and got to meet a lot of the nuns who lived there, and then we talked about becoming a nun. I didn’t think at this point I would be a nun, but I decided to keep an open mind for the trip. Anyway, by the time we were done talking, it was time for us all to go to the nuns’ daily mass with them.

I was really tired when we walked over to the church, as it was like 1:30 and we hadn’t eaten lunch yet. About ⅔ of the way through the service however, I started to feel really bad. Nausea washed over me as my lightheadedness grew even more acute, compounded by the fact that we had been kneeling for what felt like hours. I decided the best course of action was to close my eyes for a couple of seconds to regain my strength. What happened next however, I will never forget.

I vividly remember waking up lying flat on my back, confused and uncomfortable because of the cold, hard ground. When I opened my eyes I saw between five and ten nuns surrounding me, looking down. In this moment, I assumed I had died and was now in heaven, but was strangely unbothered by this fact I thought to be true. As the nuns moved to help me get up, however, I remembered where I was and what must have happened. My blood sugar must have dropped and I fainted right there, in the middle of mass!

One of the nuns led me out of the church and sat me down on the bench outside. First, she checked for a concussion, but once she was sure I was okay, she left. She soon came back with a paper cup full of grape juice. I sipped on the juice and contemplated how I was going to face any of my friends after this embarrassing moment. Luckily I later found out that no one had actually seen what happened, so now it’s just a funny story I like to tell from time to time. I know for sure now though, I am NOT meant to be a nun.

On Uni

(** Disclaimer **: When I say “Uni” or “Uni students” or anything else like that, I’m making generalizations. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but everything I say here is based on my own experiences and those of my close friends. If you feel anything here is inaccurate or misrepresented in any way, please feel free to comment or talk to me in person.)

Uni has been my home for the past 5 years, and I don’t mean that in a cliche way. Some days I actually spend more hours at Uni or Uni-related events than I do at my own house. Uni has become central to how I operate in my daily life, and to be honest I don’t know how I’m going to react to the change when I go off to college next year. But when I ask my friends, classmates, and Uni alums how they feel about Uni, I get quite a bit of mixed opinions. Most striking is that the people who are often openly critical about certain aspects of Uni are the ones that love it the most. Uni has done some pretty controversial things in the past, and if I had to generalize I would say probably a quarter of our (senior) class loves Uni, half are indifferent, and the last quarter absolutely hate it.

I don’t doubt that people who hate Uni have good reasons. Uni has done some pretty terrible stuff to some of my closest friends, and attempting to invalidate that seems like a horrible thing to do. In my opinion, Uni’s saving graces are the teachers and the academics. The teachers are seemingly unparalleled from the horror stories I’ve heard from friends who go to other schools, and on the whole Uni teachers are some of the most passionate, most intelligent, and most caring individuals I have ever had the good fortune of meeting. Uni’s academics are also another strong point. This sort of goes along with good teachers, because they are allowed to teach information that isn’t common core and therefore is actually interesting, but also I think the “lab school” is just a good idea in general when it comes to teaching new and untested material. I truly think that I've prospered more at Uni than I would've at any other high school, and I'm endlessly grateful for that.

There’s also just a lot of things wrong with Uni in general. Aside from the obvious problems with organization and the lackluster facilities, one thing Uni really needs to work on is students’ mentalities. I’ve met so many of the greatest people in my life through Uni, but I’ve also met some who I truly wonder if they display psychopathic tendencies. The pervasive idea at Uni that people need to look out for only themselves and cut down other people at any opportunity is not necessarily evident on the surface, but when you look closely, it’s there. It’s there when you hear people joke about putting the wrong answers in a class groupchat, it’s there when people give purposefully bad advice about college apps, it’s even there when friends don’t know how to interact besides roasting each other. This mindset is not only seriously damaging, but also kind of scary.

People at Uni have other flaws as well though. They’re too pretentious for their own good, don’t know how to interact with people who have different opinions than them, and they certainly haven’t learned good life skills for what the world outside of an academic environment is like. And for some people, this will never be a problem. Because here is where Uni’s flaws intersect with the very basis of the school’s mission. By siphoning off the top students from surrounding schools, we’ve inherently created an elite group that thinks they’re special, and that group will go on to be future leaders and creators. We want to point a finger and blame the people running our country right now, but unless people start taking hard looks at themselves, I don’t see our futures being much brighter.

But Uni has a lot of other problems. Uni tries to come off as “woke” and on the cutting-edge of liberal, but to me and a lot of other students it seems to be a front. Everything from the lack of diversity, to disrespect of female students by administration and peers, to microaggressions targeting students of color and LGBT+ students screams “we want to seem like we’re progressive but secretly we really don’t care”. Known abusers have been let off the hook with a slap on the wrist. I’ve had friends come to me in tears because no one will listen to their problems. Is this a problem that the administration has let get out of hand, or is the problem the administration itself? Deficit and several almost comical blunders aside, I don’t know if I can say. I hope that this is just a temporary problem that Uni will continue to work on in the coming years, but to be honest, I’m losing hope. It seems like every time some issue gets brought up, we all get angry about it, and then the amnesia sets in. No one really wants to talk about this, or work on it. I don’t know why I waited so long to say this, I’m a senior now so I don’t have much time to do anything. But I want to fix it.

another blog post about writing *eye roll* *shrug*

i should go to bed. but instead here i am, laying in the dark, typing this on my phone. this happens several times a month, nights where i desperately toss and turn in my bed before finally i give up and grab my phone. i open a new note, and start to type. it sounds cliche to say that "writing is my escape", and it’s not quite accurate either. for me, writing is and always has been a coping mechanism.

a couple of years ago while we were moving i uncovered a dusty notebook, and as i was flipping through it i came upon a page that contained the words "I LOVE [insert name of first grade crush]" about seven times, and under that "[insert name of other girl vying for his attention] STAY AWAY FROM HIM" (yes i know i know, i was straight savage even back then.) the point of all this being, writing helps me work through stuff, especially emotional stuff. if my two options are furiously rage-typing into my phone for 45 minutes straight or crying in the back of the MTD, i'm gonna pick the first one (true story, and i only cried a little bit).

overthinking things late at night is one of my specialties, and my 1AM rants are a compelling mixture of legendary brilliance and utter trash. sometimes i just have too many thoughts in my head, but if i can get them down on paper (or more likely, in my notes app) usually i can calm down enough to go to sleep. even now, i should be sleeping but i've been thinking about saying some of these things for like a month now and so i need to write them out.

however i have written endless essays, applications, and coherent arguments this way, so i guess it's both a blessing and a curse. but the fact that late at night i think i'm the best freaking writer in the world is not so good. because then if i'm looking at it in the morning, the cringing starts happening, or god forbid, i found out i sent it to someone else that night. sometimes late at night i just really feel eloquent and enlightened, but it's also my 16th hour of straight consciousness and i'm physically holding one eye open, so none of the choices i'm making are really great. i just have to write the thing then or i'll feel unbearably restless.

it's really hard to describe why writing helps me think through things so well. i think i just have the tendency to get overwhelmed and not think logically when i keep things in my head. for example, when i think i have a lot of homework and start getting really stressed over it, i'll write down everything i need to do and see if it's actually as much as i thought it was originally. most of the time it isn't, but if it is, then at least i have a list of things i need to freak out about.

writing has gotten me through some of the worst points in my life. but the soothing emptiness that follows after i finish getting all of my thoughts out and my brain goes blissfully quiet is at times essential for me to continue to be a productive human being. the urge to write might not always come at the most convenient time, but i think in the end it's almost always worth it. also, sometimes it's fun to go back in the morning and read the stupid stuff i wrote while i was in a frantic, sleep-deprived state of mind.

Superstition

I’m in general a very superstitious person. If you look up the Wikipedia Page on Superstition, it defines it as any belief or practice that is irrational, including religious belief or any action that arises from irrationality. I’ve always been fascinated by things that I don’t understand. When I was 5 I was obsessed with Scooby Doo, and “broke up” with my best friend because she started liking horses instead of Scooby Doo. In 5th grade when we got to check out books for library time, I would always check out the same three books our Catholic school library had about ghosts and paranormal stuff. I still hold my breath when we drive past a graveyard, in order to not breathe in any spirits just floatin’ around.

Unlike most people (especially at Uni) I have no problem in believing things that don’t make sense or I don’t fully understand, which is probably a result of my upbringing. Those who know me probably know that I’m Catholic, which is a huge part of my identity, and since all forms of religion are technically superstitious beliefs, often can discredit me in some people’s eyes. I am always fearful that because I’m religious people will think that I’m anti-science or believe that God planted the dinosaur bones or something, but luckily this is hardly ever the case. I personally have no trouble in consolidating my trust in science and trust in a higher power, and it actually in some cases can make things make more sense.

I may or may not believe the government has strong evidence of alien life and is hiding it from the general public by discrediting witnesses and in general characterizing believers as “crazy”. I may or may not believe that Bigfoot is alive and real, currently residing in the pacific northwest. That’s the best part -- it doesn’t matter if I truly believe in any of this stuff or not, or if this entire post is in fact a joke, because it’s all harmless fun that doesn’t hurt anyone. It’s a good way to waste five hours on a Saturday afternoon surfing Youtube, digging myself further and further into an endless hole.

In conclusion: Ghosts? Cool. Bigfoot? Rad. Conspiracy theories? Wacky. But don’t take anything too seriously, because there's crazy people like me out there.

Further info on these topics for any that are interested:

Buzzfeed Unsolved (a personal favorite)

Creepy Wikipedia Pages

Unacknowledged (available on Netflix)

The Evidence For Bigfoot

Honesty

You know when you’re telling a story, but about 3 minutes into it you realize that it’s not as interesting as you thought it was when you started? And you’ve invested too much time in it at this point to say “nevermind”, and now there’s like, a lot of people listening to you? And you can’t let them down? And the pressure just gets to you, and you end up making up an ending that 100% did not happen, but everybody laughs, and you’re filled with a sense of guilty euphoria? This happens to me more than I care to admit, but now I’m spilling my secret and facing the problem head-on.

As I was reading through some of the older blogs looking for inspiration, I noticed that a lot of people write their first post about writing. Specifically, people usually mention their problems or issues they have with writing, or their insecurity about their own writing. I struggle with writing probably just as much as the next person, but that’s not where my main troubles lie. My problem isn’t that I can’t get started, or I lack inspiration, or I’m overly critical of my own work. My problem is that I’m a dirty liar.

I’m probably being dramatic. When I think “dirty liar” images come to mind of a shadowy figure sneaking around alleys late at night, someone that you would make a deal with and they, in turn, would stab you in the back. I’m not that person, and to be honest I don’t really lie in real life that much. I do lie in my writing however, and it’s a real problem. I don’t lie about big stuff, because that would definitely make things too complicated, but lying about minute details just comes so easily to me. Whether it’s to make something more eye-catching and interesting, or to make a certain event easier to explain, or simply because I think something sounds better, most of my personal writing is spotted with tiny fibs. If I ever get questioned, or on a rare occasion, caught, I’ll usually just blame it on my terrible memory, and play it off as a “well, I thought that happened!” The funniest thing is when I’m actually writing the piece, and my brain will go “THAT’S A LIE!!!! WHY ARE YOU WRITING THAT!!!!! DUDE!!!! WHAT THE HECK!!!!!!!” while simultaneously my fingers are going “Haha :)”

In class we’ve emphasized the importance of honesty in personal essay writing, and so this is obviously a problem I’ll have to work on this semester, and probably for the rest of my life. And it’s also not something I really understand the root cause of, so that’ll be a lot of fun to unpack :). But in all seriousness, hopefully I’ll be able to stop lying in my writing, or at least cut it down? I don’t know. We’ll see.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Nonfiction Writing

Posts from now until the foreseeable future will be for my Uni High nonfiction writing class.

What Happened?

I don’t really see Macon as a hero, because none of his intentional actions were heroic - sure, he died for his cause, but he sure didn’t want to. The things he did on purpose, starting the day of apology, robbing people, were not heroic at all and had serious repercussions, often ending in injury, chaos, and death. And when it came right down to it, he wasn’t able to stand up for what he believed in, and I think his cowardice in the last chapter is enough to put any reader off. He could be seen as heroic at the beginning of the novel for robbing white people, but I see that as more of an outlet for his destructive behavior, and not really an effective method for implementing the change he was supposedly working for.

I don’t want to make it seem like I’m painting a one sided picture, because I liked Macon (or was at least intrigued by him) at the beginning of the novel. Sure, the things he did were kind of problematic at times, but I think Mansbach was showing us a person who genuinely did care, but maybe didn’t go about it the best of ways all the time. However, I feel like as one gets further and further into the novel, you see the eventual disintegration of Macon’s ability to follow his moral compass driven by his cowardice.

I guess what genuinely enrages me the most about Macon and his actions in the last chapter is the overall hypocrisy of it all -- he spent about 200 pages demonstrating how “down” and “woke” he was, and yet when any of that really mattered, he couldn’t stand up for what he believed in. It just gave me an extreme amount of dissatisfaction and sense of anticlimactic-ness, in the midst of a whole bunch of confusion over what exactly happened in the last pages of the book. Overall, while I think Angry Black White Boy was an interesting novel to talk about, but I don’t really see Macon’s actions as heroic in any sense of the word.

Thoughts on Chapter Six

I feel like my, and probably most of the class’s first impression of Angry Black White Boy could’ve been better. I found the prologue jarring, and that followed by the baseball section, and then finally the first chapter made for a particularly confusing first reading. However, now that we’re several chapters in, I’ve noticed some pretty interesting elements of the book, and in particular chapter six.

One prominent thread that we see throughout our time in Macon’s head is just how hard he’s trying all the time. It seems like at every moment he’s either internally berating white people (like at the poetry slam), trying to get black people to like him (like at Nique’s dorm), or explaining to the reader something about which he has vast and endless amounts of knowledge (“vast” and “endless” being sarcastic). Throughout all this time we also get glimpses into Macon’s insecurities (not being liked, being “exposed”, etc.), and this element is highlighted in chapter six.

Because Macon gets off at the wrong stop in chapter five (another example of the limitations of his knowledge), he has to walk through the park, which he knows is a particularly bad part of town, to get back to his dorm. Macon tries to fool himself into thinking it isn’t actually that big of a deal, but the passage reads, “He wanted to emerge unscathed and be able to say, People are tripping. The park is fine at night. And then he’d never set food there after dark again.” This is a really good example of how almost everything Macon does seems to be so he can prove he’s “cool” to other people, particularly black people, by doing things he really doesn’t want to do.

Another interesting/bewildering/hilarious element of chapter six is Macon’s recruitment to the People’s Cooperative Guerrilla Theater. I honestly wasn’t sure what to make of this when I first read it (I mean, they make him wear a dress and play Nora in A Doll’s House, what the hell are we supposed to make of it?), but I think there are elements of it that are significant. The sentry explains that the group had to go underground because they wanted to perform plays by playwrights who weren’t African-American, and they lost support after that (the sentry notably states “I ain’t just a raisin in the sun. I’m a tomato in the rain forest.”) Macon doesn’t seem to have a lot of experience with black people who aren’t super involved in black nationalism or black power movements (for example he seemed to get on way better with Nique than he did with Andre), and so these black men who want to do a diverse range of theater are almost an enigma to him. I think it’s also important the book emphasizes that while Macon is “the wokest white boy” (or trying to be, at least), he still is operating within his own prejudices (scared to walk through a “bad neighborhood”, assumes that the black guy is going to hurt him), and won’t be fully accepted until he recognizes and overcomes those prejudices.

Overall, I still think this book is really weird, but I’m starting to enjoy that weirdness. I definitely feel like an outsider looking in, because I’m not very familiar with the history of hip hop and the Five-Percent Nation, but honestly find the dynamics of the book very interesting. I hope the book continues to surprise me!

From the Perspective of a Five-Year-Old

One of my favorite things about this novel is Jack’s narration. This book operates at a fast pace and really leaves you on the edge of your seat waiting to see what happens next, and I think Jack’s voice really adds to this aspect of the story

One of the main reasons Jack’s narration is so attractive is because of how innocent he is. Jack’s worldview is completely unique-  one might be able to comprehend Ma’s situation (getting kidnapped and imprisoned), but the idea of living your whole life in one room, and thinking that room is the entire world, is a perspective that no one else shares. Because of this unique perspective, the events that happen seem at times more confusing, but usually they were made more exciting because Jack was narrating them. For example, we followed a few days of Jack in Room, from beginning to end, and despite him never leaving it never got boring. Also, if Ma was narrating this book, there might be points in it that were just too depressing (her headspace can’t be a fun place to be) that are lightened a bit from Jack’s point of view.

Another interesting thing about Jack’s narration is his voice. I live with a six-year-old, so I consider myself to have a pretty good understanding of how little kids’ minds work. One thing you catch onto pretty quickly is that while they often don’t make a lot of sense, younger children have an eerie ability to identify certain things that you might think they’re too young to understand and also are often pretty insightful. Little kids are also endlessly creative- like when Jack thinks of “tricking” Nick. The point is, Jack might not make sense some of the time, but his narration provides us with some incredibly useful elements, like complete truthfulness and certain insights that the reader might not pick up on anyway.

Overall, Jack’s narration is really what makes this novel special. Five-year-olds are generally pretty fun to be around, and in this novel Jack operates as a narrator in a completely unique position. His narration of the latter half of “Dying” is honestly one of the most riveting pieces of thriller fiction I’ve ever read. I’ll be curious to see how his narration affects the last ⅖ of the book!