Tuesday, October 30, 2018

BASS thoughts part one: the Internet and me

This is really a mini-post; the next two will be much meatier. I'll attempt to put this year's Best American Short Stories anthology into some kind of context historically and culturally soon, but for now, I just wanted to muse briefly on the personal meaning of one passage in this year's BASS. It's from Dina Nayeri's "A Big True":

I know the Internet isn't some deity. I know it's made up of people trying to inscribe the void, to mark the very ether with what they've lived and what they know.

I've been at this blog for over four years and written a little over 220 posts. Some of those posts were light little throwaway thoughts, but some took real work to put together. In all that time, I've had a pretty moderate readership. I've had about 33,000 hits. I'd guess one-third of those might be bots, unless Russia and Ukraine really love thoughts about writing from a small-time American writer.

So it's not a lot of readers, but there are some, and a few of those readers have been amazing. They write thoughtful replies that show they've actually taken the time to read something I wrote, absorb it, and form their own thoughts in reply. Anis Shivani, whose criticism I find incredibly on-the-nose, once commented on my blog. Amy Silverberg gave me a "Thanks!" the other day when I tweeted a link to my write-up on her story. A few other writers I've written about have sent me a note in one way or another. One friend of mine, who already spends his time reading everything he can consume, still puts time aside to read and posts on half my posts.

I've met others trying to inscribe the void on their own, like Karen Carlson, who keeps posting away on her blog for no other reason than it gives her joy to do so. There's Marc Goodson, who just wants to tell his story and won't quit until he does.

And then there's all those people who stop by for reasons I can never be sure of, since so few comment. Every post gets at least 20-40 people stopping by, and some get more. Although my son likes to point out all the YouTubers who get millions of views just by playing video games on screen, I'm happy for what readers I have. For whatever reason they browse, when I stop to think about it, it's unspeakably flattering. It's Saturday morning somewhere, and I post something, and then a guy I don't know at all, who could be doing anything and doesn't have to read what I write, chooses, of his own free will, to spend ten minutes of his day with me.

That's ten minutes of a reader opening up her mind to my best shots, my attempts to "mark the ether with what I've lived and what I know." I felt the same way about my book, once I got past the initial shock of realizing how few copies I would sell. Because as few copies as sold, there were still some that sold where I have no idea who the buyer was. Reading is hard, and a person somewhere chose to expend the effort to read me.

I've tried to write seriously about the twenty stories in BASS this year. It wasn't easy. My hope is that this effort will be of use to normal folks who gave BASS a try, the people who do something else with their lives besides think about books all the time, but who still like to try to read well. I was aiming for the literary equivalent of the YouTube video where some guy did shows you exactly how to fix the thing in your house you needed to fix. There won't be thousands of people who read this. Even though I put as much effort into this as if the whole literary world were hanging on my every word, I know I have virtually no influence on American letters. But I'm going to write like I'm America's top critic, just like when I blog about the struggles of writing, I'm going to write like America's next Melville needs my words to get them to the next step. I'm going to write like it matters, because to me it does.

I'm grateful the Internet gives me a place to share what I've written, even though the Internet is not a person to whom I can be grateful. It's easy to dismiss people following their passion projects on the Internet, but I stand by what I've written. The Internet has made us dumber in many ways, but for me this year, it allowed me to see a thing I wished existed in the world and make it exist.

And now, to conclude the way my son always tells me I should: But that's just my opinion; leave yours in the comments below. Don't forget to hit like and subscribe! 

Monday, October 29, 2018

And then we came to the end. Of BASS, and maybe the world.

The last story of the 2018 Best American Short Stories anthology, "What Terrible Thing it Was" by Esmé Weijun Wang, is the only story in the collection that somewhat directly takes on what everyone knew was the big deal in America in 2017. (The stories for the 2018 BASS collection were all originally published between January 2017 and January 2018.) "Terrible Thing" is set just before 2017 begins, on the day of the election of Donald Trump.

Although every year when the anthology comes out, there are some introductory remarks that try to place the contents within the context of what is happening in America, both politically and culturally, it's difficult for the anthology to really keep pace with contemporary trends. Many of the writers in this anthology said it took them years to write the stories that appear here, meaning most were written before Trump was president. After the stories were written, it took months or even years sometimes to find a publisher, followed by the wait for the story to actually come out. For BASS, there is then the additional wait of determining which stories published in 2017 will make the 2018 volume, then pushing out the anthology. It's strange that a medium with so little equipment and manpower required to produce has such a slow turnaround time. Many television shows--art that requires hundreds of people--managed to respond to the Trump election within months. South Park did it in weeks.

But here was a story in which the presidency of Donald Trump formed a major part of the plot, making it unique within the 2018 anthology.

Plot


Wendy Chung is suffering from hallucinations. She has a hard time getting others to understand it's not depression, it's hallucinations. Wendy began having these hallucinations a few years after Becky Guo--the only other Chinese girl in Polk Valley--was murdered. Becky was drugged and then hanged from an impossibly high tree. Wendy ended up getting involved in trying to help Becky's parents to get the tree cut down so it wouldn't stand as a reminder to them of what they'd lost. She was seventeen when this happened.

Because it is difficult for Wendy not to identify with Becky, and also because nobody ever figured out who the murderer was or--more importantly--the reason for the murder, Wendy has never been able to rest easy since then:

"It could have been any of them who killed Becky. It would have been any of them. As long as the murderer was free I would not know who had sedated and hung Becky from that high branch. I would not know why or how the killer had done it, and because there seemed to be no reason for the act I would have to keep my head bowed. If she had not been killed in part because of her race I could, as the saying goes, breathe easier, but I could not assure myself of that any more than I could wipe off my own face." 

Wendy is considering getting electro-convulsive shock therapy to zap away her hallucinations. The procedure comes with risks: she might not be able to form new memories. All of this is happening on the day of the 2016 election. The anxiety everyone feels over the election is making all of Wendy's symptoms worse.

It's especially poignant to read this story here, in the last week of October 2018. Although generally, I've felt like liberal concerns that Trump's election would mean an increase in hate crimes against minorities were overblown, this last week has certainly seemed to make those fears seem valid. We've seen two black men shot at random in a grocery store, a series of bombs sent off to liberal political figures, and now a mass shooting of a synagogue. I don't want to get into a digression here about Trump's role or responsibility in all of this (it seems especially problematic to try to pin an anti-Semitic attack on Trump). Maybe Trump hates these white supremacists as much as anyone and is just too bumbling a speaker to state his hatred of white supremacists without also qualifying his dislike in needless and ranting ways. Maybe he's really secretly cheering these guys on. The point is that as long as people don't KNOW where he stands, they, like Wendy, have a right to feel unsettled and unsafe. The current president brings nothing so much as uncertainty.

This story isn't like the others, so I'm not going to review it like the others


A big part of me instinctively felt revulsion to this story. It's not because I don't think Trump's election represents one of the worst moments in American history. It does. I watched it unfold from the couch with my son. It was the first presidential election he was really old enough to grasp. We fell asleep watching, but not long after I dozed off, he rolled over and kicked me in the head, which was a perfect metaphor to describe what the election felt like. I couldn't get back to sleep that night, which made the weirdness of it all the next day that much stronger. Trump's election was, in my mind, a more profoundly disturbing event than 9/11. 9/11 just made it clear that we weren't as safe as we thought we were. But 2016 made me question more than what kind of threat we faced from outside; it made me wonder who we ourselves were.

That being said, I've seen more than my share of conservative memes gleefully laughing at liberal tears following the election, and "Terrible Thing" seemed to play into the hands of those who think everyone who was upset by the election felt that way because we get triggered by anyone who disagrees with us.

I might have felt like this in November 2016, but no fucking way was I going to show it.

(I hope the following is not "ableist"-- a concept I only sort of understand and only partly agree with the recommendations of to the extent I understand them. If I am wrong, I am open to correction.)

Wendy is, in fact, an actual psychiatric patient. Wendy's life and choices and experience are valid and worthwhile. They are not made less so by the way she has responded to trauma or the fact she is seeking help. But it does cast Wendy--and by extension, anyone who found Trump's election deeply unsettling--as a victim. It plays into the narrative that we are unable to respond to adversity with anything other than falling apart, becoming bed-ridden, needing sedated or, in Wendy's case, having our brains electrocuted to where we can't even remember anymore.

This is an unfair way to look at it, I know. Wendy has a right to feel afraid. Many people in America have a right to feel afraid. Even if the risk they face is marginal compared to what many people in the world face every day and get through, it's the uncertainty that gets you. Being unsure what others think of you can eventually drive you slowly insane, especially when an endless news cycle keeps reminding you there are people who don't like you. This is an important story to tell about life in Trump's America. Yet, maybe because it was the only story directly addressing Trump in the collection and wasn't balanced out by another with someone, say, fighting back with useful and practical action, I was a little disappointed in it. Not that it's Wang's fault what else happened to be in the anthology. For what it is--an aperture into the mind of someone suffering from something it's hard to believe would still be a social illness in 2016--it's effective.

So that's it


I've tried to give some kind of helpful thoughts for all twenty stories in the 2018 BASS, thoughts that might help get others past some hurdles and get into thinking about these stories on their own. I'm going to attempt to do my own version of the "what does this collection tell us about the big picture in American literature" question in the next few posts. I hope I've helped somebody to enjoy these stories more than you would have otherwise.

Sunday, October 28, 2018

Figuring it out as they go along: Rivers Solomon's "Whose Heart I Long to Stop with the Click of a Revolver"

Rivers Solomon's "Whose Heart I Long to Stop with the Click of a Revolver" is a story about inter-generational trauma, but the "inter-generational" is a little muddled, because the mother had her daughter at sixteen, making the inter-generational gap between them a little closer than it is for most parent-child trauma pairs.

In fact, "Jo," the self-named mother of "Whose Heart," is still sort of a kid herself. She admits to not feeling like an adult. Her worldview seems to be largely composed of the kinds of notions a precocious teenager who has only read the "great works" one gets exposed to in high school would have. She chose her name from Little Women, and refers throughout the story to works of Joseph Heller, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allen Poe, Edward Thomas, and James Joyce.

Jo's whole life, in fact, is a lot like one of the best-known characters of 20th-century literature, Lolita. Jo left home at about twelve and immediately ran into "Mr. Wheelock," who took an interest in her for being mature for her age. Because Jo felt like an ugly black girl, she quickly fell under his spell, because he seemed to think she was beautiful. By sixteen, she was pregnant with Mr. Wheelock's baby. When Jo wanted to give the baby up for adoption and Mr. Wheelock threatened her with physical violence over it, Jo shot and killed him.

It's not clear exactly what happened after that. She did give the baby up, and it turns out that Mr. Wheelock had already willed her a house and enough money to live on. Jo endured some kind of questioning from police and lawyers, but it doesn't seem like she went to jail or faced charges.

Eighteen years later, Jo meets the girl she gave up. I say "girl," but that's not quite clear. Jo's daughter tells her, before they even meet, that she is trans and that she has changed her name to Luciana, or Luz. Jo asks, "You mean trans, like, you're transsexual?" Luz responds with "Trans like gender is dead."

Which left me wondering: was Luz born a biological male who identified as female, and has now transitioned? Luz does seem to be taking medications to support a gender reassignment surgery. Or was Luz born physically a woman, but now considers herself non-binary? If that's the case, though, what is the medication for? We don't know what Luz's original name was. Jo keeps calling Luz her "daughter" and using pronouns like "she" and "her" with Luz, but is that because Jo doesn't get it, or because Luz really identifies as female? Jo wonders if Luz is gay like Jo is, which made me feel like maybe Luz identified as a lesbian female. Ultimately, I wasn't really sure what the deal with Luz was.

Neither is Jo, and she blunders her way through trying to connect with the girl. Luz has all kinds of questions. She's just aged out of the foster care program, and while Jo can give Luz a place to stay, she can't really answer any of the questions like Luz wants. That's because Jo still hasn't resolved her own traumas.

This is never clearer than in how Jo craves the reassurance of a gun. Jo takes guns with her everywhere. She fires them weekly. That's because a gun is the only thing Jo has ever experienced in life that can even the odds life has dealt her:

"Imagine a large man gifted with athleticism and strength, favored in life because of his class and wealth and color. Now imagine a child, young and poor and thoroughly pathetic. See the two of them together, in a room, butting heads. 
Now imagine the scene again, but this time the child has a gun, and the man does not. He steps back, suddenly fearful of her scrawny figure, her shaking frame, her tearing eyes. Everyone fears the bullet, no matter what gift the invisible puppeteer has bestowed upon him."

Luz has her own trauma she's dealt with in foster care, but we never learn about it. There are, in fact, many details withheld from us that might have made the story's arc clearer. As the story stands, the best we can puzzle out is that both characters have a lot to figure out before they can move forward. Jo wants to help Luz, but she needs to help herself, first. The climax, in which Jo shares a small bit of knowledge that she didn't learn from Mr. Wheelock, is a very early step in her healing. It's something she has independent of him. This isn't a thunderous climax with a profound character shift. It's a microscopic move toward trying to get better.

Some stories take a clear, almost prescriptive approach to what a character ought to do to overcome her problems. Others are content to simply report on the character and what issues she faces. This story is more just reporting the facts as Jo and Luz try to figure out their way.

Both characters have tried to define their own realities. They've both given themselves their own names. However, they both find there are constraints to defining or re-defining yourself. Jo laments her own "obvious" choice, taking a name from Little Women, and as soon as she learns about the name Lucinda, Jo places it as belonging to Catch-22, even though that wasn't the association Luz wanted. We can try to remake ourselves and the world around us, but often we find we're just trying the same solutions others have already tried and failed at.

Still, you have to try something, because the only other choice is to give up. "Whose Heart" is a brief tribute to those who fire shots in the dark at whatever demons are coming for them.

Saturday, October 27, 2018

I see what you did there. And I don't like it one bit. "The Prairie Wife" by Curtis Sittenfeld

Curtis Sittenfeld set herself up a couple of tough tasks in her short story "The Prairie Wife," the 18th entry in the 2018 Best American Short Stories anthology.  There are two targets in the sights of this story: how social media affects us and how we can misjudge others. Neither is a new subject, but that's not the danger, since fiction always is approaching old themes in hopefully new ways. One hurdle the story has to get past is that with so many non-fiction sources telling us nowadays about the dangers of social media, it's hard to keep that part of the story from having an "after school special" kind of feel to it. It could, if not handled right, feel like the familiar warnings about social media transposed into fiction rather than an organic story that happens to have social media in it.

A second danger is that Sittenfeld is attempting a true surprise ending, a tactic that used to be standard for short stories but which is now generally shunned. Just last year, in the introduction to this same Best American Short Stories series, Amy Wolitzer warned against the dangers of the surprise ending:

But of course if everything is surprising, then nothing is. Because we had all been raised on the power of surprise, the short stories that my class wrote for the creative writing unit...sometimes attempted a cheap and lazy kind of mimicry of the kinds of fiction we'd already read. I recall more than more than one kid standing up and reading his or her own short story aloud; it was invariably full of action and suspense and a touch of Borges-like surrealism, and finally there came the last line, the kicker: "Then I woke up, and it was all a dream!"  
Those clever endings taught us not only what to want and expect, but also what not to want: an unearned surprise for a surprise's sake. 

Wolitzer goes on to say that as her tastes grew, she began to want more from a story than a shock ending. She learned to want "a whole story--not just the ending--(that) might itself take on what had been considered the function of the ending."

Does Sittenfeld's "The Prairie Wife" accomplish this? Is it enough of a surprise throughout that its surprise ending doesn't feel like a gimmick? Yes and no.

The set-up

Kirsten appears to be a heterosexual woman with a secret. She had a five-day fling with a girl named Lucy when they were both camp counselors as teens. Kirsten has learned, though, that Lucy is now a well-known celebrity cook/homemaker/individual-brand-celebrity-thing that exists nowadays. She's especially popular with heartland evangelical types. Kirsten is driven crazy by the hypocrisy of Lucy proclaiming her happy marriage and strong sexual attraction to her very male husband. Kirsten considers outing Lucy.

Meanwhile, Kirsten drives herself and her spouse Casey a little crazy obsessing over Lucy's social media. It makes Kirsten less focused at work, as a mom, and as a wife.

The two reveals

Big reveal one worked well for me. Turns out that Lucy's not a fake. Before Kirsten can get around to outing Lucy, Lucy outs herself. In her new cookbook, she confesses to having dated women before marrying her husband. On a talk show promoting the book, she explains she is bi-sexual, although she is a monogamous bi-sexual while married to her husband. She did this, in spite of the risk of alienating her heartland fans, because she wanted to let LGBT kids know they're not alone.

Reveal number two left me a little bit angry. Kirsten's spouse Casey is a woman. They're a lesbian couple raising two kids together. Suddenly, I as a reader realized that the story had carefully avoided using a pronoun with Casey prior to the reveal and let me fill in the gaps. I think the story wanted to pull off a layered surprise, one in which Kirsten is wrong about Lucy, but the reader is also wrong about her.

But it's actually a little more loaded than that. On the one hand, it's kind of like that old brain teaser they gave us in school where they tell you that the doctor can't operate on the patient because "he's my son," but also the doctor isn't the patient's father. So, if you're a boy growing up in 1982, it takes you a a minute to get past your own biases and realize that women are also doctors and the doctor is the boy's mother. In that puzzle, your own biases lead you astray.

Some stories, you're okay with a big twist at the end, and some it just feels like it's a little out-of-bounds. 


But in this story, many of the details also actively lead us astray. We are led to believe that Kirsten was really heterosexual. She is thinking about boys during most of her childhood tryst with Lucy: "...she was mostly preoccupied with the hotness of a counselor named Sean." Or again: "...because she was busy wondering if Sean and Renee would break up and, if they did, how she, Kirsten, would make her move." The hookups with Lucy "didn't strike her then as that meaningful," but were rather "arbitrary."

In other words, it seems like Kirsten is naturally more attracted to boys, and was just taking advantage of Lucy's attraction to her to have an exciting but otherwise meaningless experience while at camp. Kirsten seems "flaky and petty," as she describes herself, and therefore capable of receiving sexual gratification from someone she wasn't really attracted to. Because I read it the first time through as though Kirsten was truly heterosexual, I assumed Casey was a man. True, Casey was in the story before the past with Lucy was introduced, and I naturally assumed Casey to be a man, much like I naturally assumed a doctor was male in 1982 when I was nine. But the story is obviously trying to reinforce this assumption. Casey has a lot of traditionally male traits, like wanting her kids to develop "grit." According to the one site I just Googled and am not bothering to fact-check, 59% of people named Casey are men. And why would Kirsten's childhood tryst with a girl be her "most damning secret" if she's now married to a woman who already knows she's a lesbian?

Of course, I could see at the end that I assumed one reality when everything in the story could have been just as true with another reality in place. But I didn't realize while reading that this was something I ought to be on the alert for. It's just not a common thing in literary fiction to trick readers like that. Usually, the story is trying to get a lot of background to the reader right up front, so you can get oriented to the reality of the characters. This story played off that assumption. It revived the old O. Henry surprise ending, trusting that it would work exactly because nobody expects a surprise ending anymore.

I get that a lot of the point of the story is that I assumed Casey was a man because heterosexuality is still the default assumption in America. The story would like to point out that the normal lives of the characters are also the lives of people we don't think of as normal. Lesbians can be petty, too, and lesbians can struggle to keep affection alive in their marriages. Fine. But I still think I'm in my rights to call foul a little bit here. A fairly small percentage of women are lesbians. About 3.5% of adults in the U.S. are lesbian, gay, or bisexual. If a character in a story had some other characteristic that put them in the 96th percentile of something, I think the story should let me know that right up front. If a character is six-foot-seven, say, or makes a seven-figure income.

I ended up liking Lucy and mustering some reluctant sympathy for Kirsten. It turned out that when they met each other as teens, neither had figured out who they were yet, even though they both thought they knew. I also thought I had figured them out, but I hadn't. If ever there were a story where this kind of surprise ending was merited, it was here. I'm certainly a big fan of the message that we ought to be slow to judge others on who we think they are, because nobody's identity is as clear as it seems. But it also felt like I was being led toward a particular reading that was meant to make me feel guilty about my own biases, when in fact the story gave me more than a little coaching to bring those biases to life.

Life imitates art imitating life


I didn't know who Curtis Sittenfeld was before this story. What can I say? Literature is not my main profession. This is something I do in my spare time, and I was emphatically not reading literature in English for over a decade. Plus, I can't remember anyone's name. So I don't know everyone in literary fiction who's a somebody. I assumed Curtis Sittenfeld was a man. I didn't even know Curtis was a unisex name.

As a result, when reading this story about lesbians, I thought the writing about lesbian sex was typical of what I would expect a man to write about lesbian sex. Mrs. Heretic is always laughing about how men write sex scenes from a woman's point of view, and this story used some of the kinds of language she's always telling me no woman would ever write. Lines like:

- "She and Lucy rolled around a lot, and jammed their fingers up inside each other..."
- "...Lucy was lapping away at her..."
- "After Kirsten had basically spasmed in ecstasy into Lucy's face..."


So in the end, I not only fell for two traps the author set for me based on my own assumptions about gender and sexuality, but three traps, including one the author didn't mean to set.

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Not as easy at it looks: Amy Silverburg's "Suburbia!"

Exaggerating one feature in a narrative grotesquely while keeping all the other elements normal-sized is an old technique. Kafka is probably the best known practitioner of this tactic, but it's been used pretty regularly since the advent of magical realism. Just a few years ago in another Best American Short Stories anthology, Nell Freudenberger used it in "Hover," in which everything in the story is just like normal life, except that a man finds himself suddenly able to hover above the ground a little bit.

It sounds easy: just find something that people all recognize and blow that feature up. But it's hard to do well. You can't just exaggerate anything and have it work. Ideally, exaggerating one element of a story enables the reader to consider that element in a strange sort of isolation. You could, say, examine what it feels like to be a new person in a group by having a character who moves to a new location have a weird disease that turns her into a lizard, but a lizard who maintains human sentience. It's just the normal human experience of being out of place, but multiplied to extremes. But you probably wouldn't be able to just have someone have giant feet that took up a city block and say you were trying to communicate the feeling of having big feet. It's got to be something where people will read it and immediately connect, where they will say, even as exaggerated as the element of the story is, that the feeling that exaggerated element evokes is exactly how it feels

That's what Silverburg does with two aspects of her story. In spite of both of these aspects being well-trod territory, Silverburg makes them fresh through her grotesque exaggerations.


The first aspect exaggerated is the notion of "pushing young ones out of the nest," or "letting them spread their wings" or whatever leaving-home cliche you want to use. Maria's father convinces her to leave home by means of a simple bet. Her dad bets her she will leave the house the day after she turns 18 and never come back. If she does come back, she loses. It's not clear what she loses, but she will lose. The day after her 18th birthday, he wakes her up while the rest of the family is gone, takes her to the train station, gives her a wad of cash, and tells her to leave and never come back.

Most parents, of course, would never do this, and it's borderline psychotic. But it's not meant to be a real-world parenting strategy. It's a hyperbolic and fun stand-in for the idea of getting your kids to go out and find themselves. And find herself, Maria does. She no sooner gets on the train than she is re-defining herself: "I decided the fewer words I said, the better. I'd be a person who spoke very little, but when I spoke, it would be especially important." Whatever else being dumped on the shore of life does for you, it allows you to re-make your own self-identity.

Maria ends up figuring it out. She goes off to the big city, meets a boy, takes her time deciding what that means. She gets a job, sort of succeeds at it. Finally, she decides, when her parents never come to visit like they promised, that she will lose the bet and go home. That's when the second exaggeration happens.

I feel like this story was based on a Dixie Chicks song, but in a good way. 


Everyone is familiar with the feeling of going back to some place you spent a lot of time as a child and finding it smaller when you return. Maria finds that to be the case, and then some. On the way to the house, knowing she will lose the bet, her boyfriend tells her they should have called first, out of consideration. Maria says she has "outgrown" consideration. That's not all she's outgrown. When they pull up to the house, it's literally not there: "The curb was still painted with the numbers of my address, but the land was filled with grass and dandelions and other unnameable weeds."

Maria looks further, and finally finds something that "shone in the sun like a tin can." She sees it's like her house, only it's a doll house-replica of her house. It's smaller than a toaster, she notes. Her parents, she finds, have shrunk down to its size as well. The father is disappointed, "I didn't want you to see us like this," he says. We are left with Maria still marveling at her parents' diminutiveness at the end.

You could see Maria's father as vain, someone who wanted to get rid of his daughter before she found out what they really are, but I see him as kind. He wanted his kids to know what they are capable of, but they'd have never known that if they couldn't get away and get enough perspective to see how much bigger they could be than what they'd known.

Seeing the father as kind rather than vain has an impact on the meaning of the title as well. One could read it as a dig against suburbia, one that sees suburbanites as small people. Maria's father didn't like his own life, after all, seeing his choice to be a real estate agent (no doubt selling more tiny parcels of suburban life to others) as a kind of failure. But it's also true that from that suburban landscape, Maria's parents raised two kids who went off to do great things, things they didn't even know they were capable of. Suburbia is like the calm waters where whales raise calves. After they're big enough, they move on to the big ocean, but that doesn't mean the calving ground is somehow a terrible place. It's only terrible when the people in it don't realize their own significance in the grand scheme of things. Maria's parents do.

Silverburg is a comedian, according to her contributor notes. She certainly has a comedian's knack for pointing out some aspect of life you always knew had something funny about it, but never noticed until she did that bit about airplane peanuts. Certainly, the surest sign that this story hit home with me is how sure I am that I'll think of it for a long time whenever Mrs. Heretic and I are talking about our son leaving home.                                                                                                                                                                           

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

Ron Rash's "The Baptism" is a short story with words in it

I've been whipping through the 20 stories that comprise this year's Best American Short Stories anthology at a pretty good clip. I'm on pace to be done about a month after I downloaded the book. I'm getting a little worn out, which is why I'm glad I can take a pass on story #16. There's just nothing much there. It's easily my least favorite of the anthology so far. It's the story of a minister in the 19th Century who tries to stop an abusive man from marrying a 14-year-old. The abuser, Gunter, has already run one woman into the grave and made another run away. The reverend is trying to stop the marriage without violating the principles of his faith. Gunter needs the revered to baptize him so the girl's mother will agree to let him marry the 14-year-old, and in that lies what conflict there is in "The Baptism."

There's nothing new in this story, nothing arresting or interesting about the main character or any of the side characters, and nothing surprising in the surprise ending. The villain is dumb enough to do everyone's work for them, meaning he was never really the threat he seemed to be. It's almost a deus ex machina kind of ending.

The dialogue seems a little trite and the narrator's language a little predictable. Nothing was new or arresting or challenging or memorable.

A few examples of the passages I felt killed the magic:

1: "Beneath a coat once worn by her husband, the woman shivered, and perhaps not just from the cold." (That's some kind of romance novel trope there.)

2: (Gunter trying to convince the preacher to baptize him so he can marry and lay pipe to the young girl):

"Our baptisms are held in warmer weather."
"I know for a fact you baptized Henry Cope last winter," Gunter challenged.
"He was dying," Reverend Yates answered. "Even then it wasn't this cold."
"I know the water will be cold," Gunter said, grinning now, "but I figure Pearl will warm me up real good later."

(Jesus. Apparently, the author would like us to know that Gunter is bad.)

3: There is a brief moment when it seems like the story might have something to give. There's a nice line: "At such times, he feared some malevolent counterpoint to grace operated in the world." But then, there's a knock at the door and then some dreadful dialogue takes place between the townspeople who want to stop the baptism/wedding and the preacher.

"That is of no importance, Reverend." The storekeeper bristled. "Let them go elsewhere."

....

"Doubtful, I say," Birch answered. "And if so, might not death be better for the child than being wedded to that blackguard?"


-----

Okay, enough. I didn't like it. It wasn't the worst thing I've ever read, I just don't understand how Roxane Gay suddenly went from one great pick after another to this story. On to the next one.


Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Nostalgia for the future's past: Tea Obreht's "Items Awaiting Protective Enclosure"

There are two literary devices I sometimes think are overdone nowadays that Tea Obreht uses in "Items Awaiting Protective Enclosure." One, the use of second person to tell the story, is becoming more and more ubiquitous, although I am usually not sure why it's being used. It's so common now, it's almost just another form of first person. This story didn't seem to call for its use, but fine. The second device, though, made absolute sense here, such that it was almost a necessity. Obreht opened with what I call the "Hundred Years of Solitude" opening, in which the narrator hurries ahead to the end of the story for a moment, but only to look back at the beginning of the story from the point of view of the end:

One evening almost thirty years later, a call from an unknown number. The ringing brings your husband out of the kitchen, ladle still in hand.... 
When you finally lift the phone to your ear...you get the wind knocked out of you.... 
It's Wade. Your Wade. So long-lost that his name overcomes you as first a sensation and then a smell before finally taking lettered form. Calling from some other lifetime, his voice as familiar as your own, saying: "Syl?" And then: "I knew you'd sound exactly the same." 
In a minute, it will hit you that of course you sound the same...

It's the perfect opening, because this is a story written here in the present about a future most people see coming, even though we hope it never comes. In that future, one of the favorite activities of people seems to be pining for the day before that future. Which is now. That's a little disorienting to summarize, and the opening accomplishes just the right combination of orienting and disorienting.

The not quite post-apocalyptic world of "Items Awaiting Protective Enclosure"


We don't know exactly what combination of environmental disasters led to the world the story inhabits, and it doesn't much matter. It's some version of what we in the real world are all being told today are the greatest threats to the environment. Over-consumption seems to be the chief culprit. In any event, human life doesn't seem to be on the brink of extinction just yet, but the world is changed. There are no animals, or at least none to eat. Trees seem to be somewhat rare, as well, although in the Bitterroot Mountains, where the story takes place, there are still enough woods to get lost in.

Society went through something called the "Posterity Initiative." It doesn't seem to have been a conservation effort or attempt to take one last-ditch shot at saving many of the species on Earth. Rather, it was more of a historical effort. The point was to save reminders of the past world so the future world could know something about what was lost. For Sylvia's father, that means collecting grass samples. For Sylvia, it means donating to the "Mammalian Gene Bank of the Rocky Mountains."

The nature preserve of the future doesn't host animals. It hosts the last relics of those animals. The man Syl is in love with, Wade, enters into these preserves to "poach" these relics. One gathers wood. Another seems to hunt the last of the quail in the world to serve in expensive breakfasts. Wade and his blackmarketeer friends see no harm in gathering up these objects. They refer to those who have too narrow a view of using the objects of the past as "wasters." It's an ironic inversion, as the ones using up the last of the remaining resources are calling the conservationists the ones wasting things. In Wade's case, though, he might have a point; what's the use in leaving the antlers of extinct Elk in the ground? The government intends nothing more for those antlers than to let them "reintegrate with the undergrowth."

The traffic in guilt


The black market traffic in relics isn't the only booming industry after Posterity. There's a good buck to be made in guilt. Syl says her father's whole life is ruled by guilt. He is subject to panic attacks, thinking about all the water he wasted in his life. (Side note: there is mention of a water shortage, but there seems to be enough water to grow crops. There are even non-essential crops, like coffee. Best not to look too deeply into it.)

For the guilty older generation who couldn't pass along bacon to its progeny, there is the expensive "reintegration" package to buy at the funeral home. You can elect to be planted into the ground inside a protective enclosure (roll credits!) that will give life to a tree. Your body will become the food to grow a new tree. This will offset some of your environmental bad karma.

Opposing nostalgias


While the generation older than Syl's is feeling guilty about what it didn't pass along to posterity and pining away for the old days, Syl in the "present"--meaning 30 years after the majority of action in the story, when she gets the phone call and remembers her own past--has her own nostalgia she's dealing with. Hers is sort of the opposite of the sadness that plagued her father, in which he felt guilty about his over-use. Syl's regret comes from having consumed too little of life. In her case, she never told Wade how she felt about him. There is the regret in "Items Awaiting" from living life too fully, and the regret of not having lived it fully enough. This is what gives the story its narrative drive and its pathos. It's a really intelligent narrative structure.

Humans are either doing too much or too little, which makes us out to be pretty good fools. "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?" goes a terrible song that's been covered way more times than necessary. But the song is right. As a herd, we tend to take too much. As individuals, we are often too timid to take what joy is right there for the taking. Both as a herd and as individuals, we end up losing out on the best that life has to offer, either by destroying it actively or letting it go passively. This is why the set-up of the story as a memory from the future of a past that is the future of those reading the story right now in the present is so perfect. No time in this set-up is really home.

At the end of the story, there is one final elk left in the wild. It leaves one final set of antlers to posterity. It lives its elky life as best as the last elk in Idaho knows how. One day, there will be a last human wandering along somewhere. When it sheds its final memento of what we were for posterity, what will that memento say about the what has been lost?


This version of the song, however, is brilliant and utterly necessary for our times. 


Will humanity survive?

It's worth asking at the end whether humanity will survive. Syl, after never consummating her love for Wade, studied ecology. She now works on a "kelp-rig," whatever that is. She's still trying to do something to save the world. It's possible that Wade never told her how he felt because he realized that his particular form of "consumption" wasn't what the world needed, and he knew that. He wanted to tell Syl how he felt, but maybe he didn't because he isn't the right person for her future.

Wade's not bad for taking the antlers. He's the type of person who loves (and consumes) too much. Generally, society has a soft spot for a bon vivant. But it's not the right type of person for Syl's future. As pressure continues to mount on the planet, the person who lives life to its fullest might be an endangered species as well.

LINK: Check out Karen Carlson's take on this story. She does a bit about this being an "envelope" story that was extremely perceptive.

Sunday, October 21, 2018

Just your everyday buddy-immigrant-inter-generational meditation on the meaning of the Internet: "A Big True" by Dina Nayeri

One of the critiques I've gotten on my own fiction from time to time is that it's trying to do too much at once. It's a difficult temptation for me to resist: I love a kitchen-sink-thrown-in novel that roams all over, like Moby Dick, or, more recently, Gnomon by Nick Harkaway. A lot of people seem to dislike this kind of story, though, which is why I'd guess there might be some out there who would object to Dina Nayeri's "A Big True." This story could be read as a blend of at least three types of fiction that are familiar to most readers:

1) A "buddy" story, as much of it revolves around the friendship between the main character Rahad and Wyatt, who are tenants of the same YMCA in Wilmington.

2) An immigrant story, as Rahad and his friend Wyatt struggle to adjust to life in America, even after having been in the country a long time.

3) A meditation on the meaning of the Internet for humanity. (Side note: this story follows the custom of capitalizing "Internet" as a noun. Other stories in this anthology have not. I only point this out because I know I'm the only person on Earth who noticed this.)

You could add to this list a fourth familiar type of story, the inter-generational conflict story, although that might already be swallowed up in the other three. For example, part of the conflict between Rahad and his daughter, Yasmine, stems from her getting mad at how little her father understands the Internet. But however many sub-categories of story you find in there, it's clear there are a lot, even for a longer short story like this one.

Appropriate that there are a lot of elements


The main character isn't at all tied to his native culture in Iran, although he doesn't hate it, either. We see him enjoying cultures from Ethiopia, Jamaica, America, Kenya, India, and Vietnam in the story. He's syncretic. So is his friend Wyatt. The story has a lot of ideas coming together, and its characters also are formed from a potpourri of ideas. One might conceivably call it a melting pot of ideas.

The melting pot is, of course, an old metaphor for America, one that's out of favor now. Other ideas have been offered in its place, such as the mosaic. But Nayeri has a more original idea: America is like the Internet. It's got the good and bad and old and new of the whole human race. It's everything. It's "made up of people trying to inscribe the void, to mark the very ether with what they've lived and what they know."

America has been criticized for a long time now for being gauche, for lacking a deep culture of its own. This criticism has largely come from old Europe, which has resented America's cultural influence in the world and seen it as poisonous. "A Big True" has a gentler view of it. America isn't an immature culture, because it's made up of so many ancient cultures. It's both a melting pot and a mosaic, as it has cultures blended together as well as kept intact. It's got its problems, but at its heart it's the sum of people striving for what matters most to them.

That's about all I've got for this story. It's sweet and it's pleasant and that's about all there is to say about it. It refers to a lot of music throughout, including a number of singers I'd never heard of before. So I'll close with Vigen Derderian, the "King of Iranian Pop":

And don't forget to check out Karen Carlson's take on this story over on her blog.

Saturday, October 20, 2018

The freedom of horror: "The Brothers Brujo" by Matthew Lyons

If you leave out all the uncomfortable, gory parts of "The Brothers Brujo," it's surprisingly easy to summarize. A man and his two sons live in a ramshackle home on the outskirts of town. It's not clear what town. Maybe it's the only town in the universe of this story. The three family members perform magic that is either consistent with the Afro-Latino practice of Santería or highly influenced by it. The town members are extremely hedonistic--drinking, drugging, sexing and eating themselves to death. But that's okay, because when one of them dies, their friends can bring them to the shack on the outskirts of town where the father and his two sons will revive them. As in bring them back from the dead.

The two boys are abused terribly. The whole ritual of bringing people back requires suffering on the part of the priest family, and the father isn't shy about exacting that suffering from his sons. The town needs the family, although the villagers loathe and fear the father and his sons. Meanwhile, the family needs the town's donations to eat. That is, until one of the sons comes up with a plan to kill his father and the whole town with him when they come to revive the mayor. He plans to use a deeper and older magic than his father's to do this. The other brother helps with the plot, and they both realize they are stronger than they knew.

That's it. That's the whole story.

The freedom of horror


A good horror story will frighten you, but won't tell you why you should be scared. Over-explaining what's scary about something makes it not scary anymore, the way creating midichlorions to explain the Force makes it not mysterious anymore. That means horror stories become Rorschach tests where everyone fills in for themselves what makes the story frightening.

On one level, a lot of the gut feeling of terror in this story comes from just the visceral scenes depicting the pain the family has to endure to carry out the ritual. Some passages stay with this pain for a long time:

...the old man slowly creaks to the garage, and his home-baked tattoo gun. Strips his pants off and picks out a bare spot on top of his left stump. Dips the sharp end of the rig in the ink and starts drawing. Rides the needle deep, 'til red seeps out around the wet black. He relishes the hurt, drinks it in. The ritual demands sacrifice. When it gets too much, he starts to groan and growl and then he's coming again.

The effect of these passages is like the long, continuous shots of a horror movie that lead to the inevitable jump scare. The audience wants to stop looking but can't as long as the camera doesn't break away from the needle going into the body.

So what are the scary parts, really?


We're free to read a lot of different ideas into the scary parts of the story, but here are a couple of choices that seem to leap out at me:

1) It's about American capitalism and the spiritual bankruptcy of its excesses. 


The town folk seem to be on a non-stop bender. The mayor has died "like he always does--too much crank and booze and pussy and doughnuts for his overworked heart to handle." The rest of the town doesn't seem to live much differently. Rather, they descend over and over into the "depths of vulgar infinity." At the end, the boys head into town to kill whoever is left there. They find "The wakes rumbling to rest, the townies passing out drunk and stoned for the night or maybe just dying." It's a town killing itself with its own excess.

It's the twilight of America, the story shrunk to one town on the edge of the desert. Nearly the last words of the story describe the town as "not long for this world." This might be the last town that exists before the wilderness claims it again. "Brothers" seems to urge us pretty insistently to read it in an American context. Even though the Santería practiced by the boys and their father comes from Africa, the father thinks of it as "American magic," which is "brutal, and ugly, and messy, but goddamn it fuckin' works." One of the sons has his own kind of magic, which is a Henry .45-70 Government rifle. It's hard not to see this as American. When the townies try to escape the ritual when it turns against them, this son uses the rifle for "crowd control," and the America that loves its guns is hoisted on its own petard.

In this reading, capitalism has run its secular course, devoid of any sense of a  spirit to animate it. The brutal but spiritual world of Santería is there to destroy it and inherit the world from it.

Fun fact: this is a photo of a voodoo Halloween costume. Like this story, it's a bit of a commodification of Santería.

2) It's about a culture that's out of artistic ideas.



The town's need for the priest and his kids--even while they mistrust them--can be seen as echoing a culture that has become so materialistic it cannot make art to sustain itself any more without coming to raid the pre-capitalist religion. It both mocks this religion for its primitivism and also relies on it as the only source of ideas for an aesthetically bankrupt culture. But primitivism, it turns out, is a double-edged sword. "Real magic," the people will discover when they ascend to the temple, is "so much better and so much worse" than they have imagined:

The truth is that magic's a beast, enormous and lumbering and starving. It's powerful, and it's violent, and it makes a fuck-awful mess that people don't want to see, or if they see, don't want to remember. 

While the father has been content to keep giving himself to magic on behalf of the people from town (and he's given three-fourths of his body to them already, having lost an arm and two legs in Vietnam), the boys have bigger plans. Why keep taking the dregs from the table of civilization when you can just take over the whole thing from them?

A word about the Santería roots of this story


Three names are right out of the canon of Santeria.  The younger son is Changó, who is kind of the Thor of Santería. The father's name is Agaju, who, fittingly, is known for being the father of Changó in Santería mythology. He's not known for much else. Changó's brother Leonel calls his rifle Ochosi, who is a hunter in Santería.

We never actually are told directly that Changó's name is Changó. His father calls him "Skeet," as in the thing you shoot. But that's because the father fears the boy's real name, as he fears the boy's connection to an older, more dangerous magic than even Agaju knows. The boy spells out four of the letters of his name on the shower and notes there are "two more," which allows those with ears to hear (or those with Google to find). I found it a little hammy. Why this coy game with the reader to see who gets the references?

The problem for the story is that the same critique of Western civilization as out of ideas and bereft of spirituality such that it needs to look to exotic religions can be turned on the story itself. It's easy to throw some references to Santería or something else not totally familiar to Westerners into a story and have it be mistaken for depth. It's the kind of pilfering of native American beliefs Jim Morrison did that so incensed characters in a couple of Sherman Alexie stories.

In fact, the big climax is prefaced by the most explain-y passage of the story, a long sidetrip into how people who witness "real magic" compartmentalize it because it breaks their brains. It's the least magical part of this magical story.

"Brothers" probably insulates itself enough through critiquing this false appeal to the exotic that it can escape with some of its dignity intact, but it does not get away altogether unscathed. I don't understand why it keeps doing this "Do you get it? Do you get it?" referencing to its source material throughout the story. It's a little tiring, and there are points where it seems the story didn't have much life of its own, so it had to coast on the inertia from native religions (and American ignorance of those religions, which will inevitably be filled in by assuming everything is mysterious and awe-inspiring). Ultimately, the story feels like a horror movie that is full of inventive and memorable cinematography, but which struggles here and there with story line.

And now, since if you've made it this far, there's a good chance this song is stuck in your head, I'll provide it for you here to make it easy:




Wednesday, October 17, 2018

The manifesto as fiction: Jocelyn Nicole Johnson's "Control Negro"

It's hard to write a good story about something going on in the news right now. The show SVU has been cranking out nothing but "ripped from the headlines" stories for what seems like forever now, and none of them are going to be remembered a hundred years hence for having really gotten to the heart of the society they've tried to mirror.

One of the stories from my book was about the Baltimore Riots of 2015. I wrote it about a year after they happened. I knew I'd have to anchor this huge story to something small to give it any kind of emotional hook for a reader to attach to. My wife, who was teaching in the city at the time, had passed on to me a story one of her kids told her about the riots. He'd gone to the Mondawmin Mall, which was right in the heart of some of the worst of the rioting. That was the spot where helicopter camera crews caught several people loading up cars with stolen merchandise. This student had walked around watching the looting, and taken one thing himself...a cinnabon that the store had left sitting out. I thought it was so funny, and in that one fact was something I could spin a story around. Humans have a great gallows humor, a way of enjoying themselves in bad circumstances. We'd probably roast marshmallows while the world burned, if it came to that. Sometimes, humans seem more pitiable when they're trying to make the best of something bad than when they're just perishing beneath the oppressive force. I don't know if I succeeded with that story, but I knew I couldn't write a story that just seemed to preach about the social conditions that led to the riots.

For much of Jocelyn Nicole Johnson's "Control Negro," I felt I was being preached to. It reminded me of the show Murphy Brown from decades ago: tiring precisely because it was preaching to me about things I already largely agreed with. It wasn't until the last page that I got a clue that I had read the whole story in too straightforward a manner.

The straightforward reading


On one level, you could read it as a simple fable, one that is meant to demonstrate how far America still has to go in achieving racial justice. Professor Cornelius Adams, the narrator, has devised an experiment to test his country's ability to live up to its own ideals. But this experiment requires a live, black baby he can mold for twenty-one years to fit the parameters of the experiment. Miraculously, he obtains the needed materials for this project. He finds a black woman who is happily married, but whose husband is infertile without actually knowing it. She is somehow willing to have an affair with Cornelius and bear his child, while also being willing to listen to his input on how the boy should be raised. Neither the child nor the woman's husband ever know who the real father is. Cornelius, exerting influence behind the scenes, is able to make the child into his needed "control negro."

What is a control negro? In an experiment, you enact controls in order to isolate the factor you're trying to test for. In this test, what Cornelius wants to test is America's racial justice. But he can't just have any black person test this. If a black child grows up to face injustice, a critic could always cite factors other than racism as the cause: parental care, poverty, the educational system, health care, etc. So Cornelius wants to try to eliminate these factors by raising Cornelius as close as possible to an average Caucasian man, or ACM. As Cornelius puts it:

I wanted to test my own beloved country: given the right conditions, could America extend her promise of Life and Liberty to me too, to someone like me? What I needed was a control, a Control Negro. 

The child would have to "keep his grades up, have clear diction, wear his pants at an average perch on his waist." He would need "a moderate temperament, maybe twice as moderate--just to be safe--as those bright boys he'd be buffed so hard to mirror." Cornelius needs all of these controls so he can have a child he could prove "was so strikingly decent and true that America could not find fault in him unless we as a nation had projected it there."

Predictably, if you're reading this as a straightforward reading, America fails. The child, although meeting every expectation society would have of white men, is attacked by the police when someone calls in about a "suspicious looking man." The video shows the police being rather overly enthusiastic about the boy's compliance. The cops later claim that although he had an ID, it was out of state and they were confused whether he was who he said he was.

Along the way, we get a back story on Cornelius. He was beaten up by a drunk gang of adult white males in the South when he was ten. His refuge from poverty and racism was books. This was partly why he was not married himself, and needed such an unusual setup for his experiment: "Those early years of struggle and I'd become a solitary sort of man."

The thing about this straightforward reading is that it's fairly dull. The whole story becomes the manifesto of a boring history professor, justifying why he manipulated the life of a boy just to prove a point. As the professor drones on, the reader feels preached to with familiar material. It's like a Facebook rant in fictional form. Fortunately, this isn't the only way to read this story.

The not-so straightforward reading


Cornelius is intelligent, but he isn't honest. The entire experiment requires lying, lying he recognizes, even in his own self-justification, as he notes that he was "less than forthright...I concede." As a history professor, Cornelius is aware of how questionable even putting the words "negro" and "control" together is, but he engages in a massive ends-justify-the-means argument. He repeatedly hopes his son will be able to see that it as all "for a grander good," or "in service to something bigger--that someday our sons' sons might be spared."

Cornelius often expresses doubts about his methods, only to immediately talk himself out of them. But there are a lot of reasons we, the readers, ought to be more suspicious of Cornelius than he is of himself:

1: He's playing God: He tells his son that he "began as a thought fully formed and sprung from my head." This is a reference, of course, to Zeus birthing Athena. Cornelius is comparing himself to a capricious god who meddles in human affairs for his own amusement. Speaking of God, Cornelius reminds me of someone who loved God so much he was willing to do something unspeakable to his son...

Take it easy son, this is for science. 


2. Cornelius is a shitty father: Cornelius grew up with an absent father, and notes he felt that "abandonment acutely, like hunger." But he is willing to let his own son grow up without his father, even granting that the boy did have a good substitute. When the boy is grown up, Cornelius has to go years without knowing much about him. When the boy finds he is good at diving and starts to excel at it, Cornelius intervenes to keep him from continuing on with it. Why? Because if the boy becomes TOO exceptional, it will ruin his experiment, because the boy will be too far above an ACM for the experiment to be valid. (You can't judge how America treats black people based on how we treat great athletes or a genius like Neil Degrasse Tyson.) He is willing to sacrifice his son on the altar of his own experiment.

3. Cornelius is asking his son to do something he himself didn't do: Cornelius went off to school while others went to Vietnam or "marched in bigger towns, facing police dogs and fire hoses." Cornelius, meanwhile, devoted his life "to scholarly truth," which, while admirable, didn't require sacrifice like marching did. Or like the sacrifice he is making his son take part in, unknowingly.

4. Cornelius is obsessed and irrational: Cornelius is a little like Dr. Frankenstein, losing contact with the rest of humanity while he pursues truth in an unbalanced way. He sometimes thinks America is getting better for black people. But he can just as easily cite many reasons why it isn't. He doesn't know for sure if his own mediocre career is due to his own failings or his skin. He needs this experiment, because of one question that occupies his mind: "...how can I know for sure? How does anyone know if they are getting more or less than they deserve?" He is obsessed enough with finding the answer, he is willing to sacrifice his own son to find it. He is willing to ruin a black boy to prove America ruins black boys.

The two readings together 


The second reading, the one where Cornelius's entire point is deconstructed, didn't open up for me until the end of the story, where we discover that the impetus for the police attack on Cornelius's son came from Cornelius himself. Cornelius called the police and made the report of a "suspicious man" where his son was, but didn't specify race. There were a lot of students there, but the police picked out his son. For Cornelius, this settles the answer of his experiment. He was willing to let his son be attacked by the police to get the answer he was looking for.

When I read the story the first time, I mostly was thinking the straightforward reading was where it was taking me. It wasn't until that ending that I saw another way to read it. During my second read-through, I was picking up on a lot more things that fit with this reading of Cornelius as an unreliable narrator. But the first reading never quite went away.

The fact is that Cornelius is a little nuts, but he isn't wrong. He should never have called the police on his son, but at the same time, it shouldn't be so easy for him to know how to prove his experiment correct. Cornelius knows truths about America and race in his body from when he was a boy.

On the other hand, Cornelius himself is the tool that unleashes systemic racist faults in America on his own son. We can feel bad that afterwards, when Cornelius tries to explain what is wrong with America, using the boy's case as an example, the media disregards him and writes him off as an angry nut. Then again, he is kind of an angry nut, and this cockamamie scheme of his that he's putting in his own manifesto is the best proof of that.

Cornelius's intervention proves him correct, but it also invalidates his results. It does this not just because an observer became involved in the experiment, but because the idea was for the boy to be treated like an ACM in all ways. What parent of an ACM would have gone out of the way to unleash the police on their child?

In a sense, the black intellectual is letting down the young black man, because even though he is giving the young black man the truth, it's not a truth that is helpful. There is an interesting line when Cornelius quotes the boy's mother. She is an environmental scientist concerned with global warming. Her opinion on racism in America is that soon, we'll all be drowning when the seas rise anyway. It's a grim view that might actually be true, but she doesn't live like it's true. She raised a son, which is not the act of a woman without hope.

There is some wisdom to living your life without regarding the truth too seriously. That's the both the foolishness and the wisdom of youth, which thinks it is going to be able to change the world in ways every generation before it failed to. Youth will mostly fail, but there will always be some successes they were just foolish enough to not realize they couldn't do. Without these foolish successes, we wouldn't even have a world where one has to wonder enough about our shortcomings to need an experiment to verify them. When youth succeeds where it by all rights had no reasonable expectation of success, the responsibility of the older generation is to be happy for those foolish successes, not to go out of their way to prove the success wasn't real.

For Karen Carlson's excellent analysis of this story, go here.

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Why "low-maintenance" girls aren't: Kristen Iskandrian's "Good with Boys"

In a traditional narrative cycle, a character will come in with a certain perspective of the world, have that perspective tested, face a climax of the test in which some modification to the original perspective happens, and then the story ends with the character in a new place. There are all kinds of variations on this cycle. In a happy ending, the protagonist's change allows her to finally overcome the thing that is challenging her original worldview. Alternately, the character can completely fail the test, sinking backwards in life or staying static instead of improving.

There are also varieties of scale with epiphanies. There are massive realizations that lead to epic results. In Thor: Ragnarok, Thor realizes he has a power inside him he hasn't tapped into, and it leads to victory in a battle that destroys a world. In Emma Cline's "Los Angeles," worlds aren't shaken, but the main character, Alice, has a pretty rude shock that is likely to change her attitudes about life quite profoundly and suddenly.

And then there are the tiny little epiphanies, the ones that more closely mirror how learning and getting better actually happens in the real world. Most people have one or two truly profound moments of self-realization in life, the kind that lead to abrupt U-turns where you never go back. The rest of life is slow and gradual change, sometimes in a good direction and sometimes in a bad one. If you have more changes in the good direction than the bad one, you're winning.

Jill is winning, but slowly 


While we're all in this process of gradual change, we are capable of holding contradictory ideas. That's because we're still partly in an old mode of being while changing to the new one. We can do this even if we are capable of identifying our ideas as self-contradictory. That's where Jill is in Kristen Iskandrian's "Good with Boys." Jill isn't a hot girl. She's not going to win attention from boys off her looks. Jill craves this attention even while she is ashamed of it: "I loved boys so much, it was a sickness, it was a secret. I had to pretend I didn't love them as much as I actually did. I didn't want to be boy crazy. Once boy craziness became your signifier you couldn't be taken seriously as an artist." (Her art fantasies seem no more realistic than her romantic ones, but she's a kid and allowed to dream.)

Jill develops a strategy of trying to corner a niche market in the boy hunting game. She decides to become what you might call a "low maintenance chick" or a girl who is "one of the boys." Jill describes her attraction like this: "I was zany, I really went for it, I knew all the good dick jokes. Everyone talks about personality like it's a bad thing but the fact is without one, you've got nowhere to go but ugly." She is trying to be what the other girls are not, but in the process, she's also being what she isn't.

She has studied boys in an attempt to infiltrate them, to sneak past their defenses and get them to notice her. Jill isn't without success, and she does have some insight into the male mind, although even her insight is full of questionable conclusions:

I was good with boys because I knew what they wanted. I could enter the simple machines of their minds and see how their gears turned. Most of them needed a lot of oil. To be told, a lot, how correct their opinions were, because most of them believed that opinions were like facts--provable and true. Thinking something, for a boy, meant not-thinking all other things. When two even vaguely conflicting ideas rubbed together, they either quickly chose one and discarded the other, or abandoned them both for a new and better topic...
She sees boys as the opposite of her own, riven mind. To her, they overcome self-doubt by smashing whatever doubts they might have. It never occurs to her, in spite of her own pretensions she is putting forth, that the boys might also be acting, might be suffering as many internal struggles with opposing ideas as she is.

I'm sure there will readers who highlight that passage and think it's meant as a straightforward critique of men, but to some extent, that would be like saying Robert Frost posited that good fences make good neighbors. These are words from an unreliable narrator, beguiling because much of the passage is true, but sometimes true for the wrong reasons. In any event, practically speaking, the effect of Jill's belief is that when she carries it out, it's not going to have the effect she wants. She even seems to have an understanding that her strategy is flawed, admitting she occupied for boys "a genderless place where I neither quickened the blood like the obvious girls, nor inspired the bravado often necessary around other boys." She is safe for them to be themselves. Which, of course, means they do not see her in the way she wants to be seen.

Jill would be a good character on this show


Jill's contradictions


Jill's self-contradictory logic gets toppled during an overnight trip with her school to a science museum. She is interested in a boy named Esau Abraham, whose mother, inconveniently, is chaperoning the trip. Even more inconveniently, she is a stereotypical Jewish mother, hawking over her son's every move. Jill actually has to stop watching Esau as his mother puts hand-sanitizer on him, because it's a turn-off for her.

Jill's main contradiction is that she is trying to be casual, but it's impossible to be casual when she really wants something so badly. She has tried to imbibe a Zen sense of not wanting from her aunt, who tried to tell her that the ideal state was one of neutrality. But she is, as the kids would say, thirsty AF. Her plotting is obvious to Esau's mother, and also to the other girls, one of whom tells her, "Could you be any more obvious?" Jill even realizes that neutrality is probably a pipe dream--she notes that the aunt who preached it to her was a QVC addict--but she strives for it anyway.

Another of Jill's contradictions is that she can see the hypocrisy of other girls, but not in herself. This is partly because she necessarily sees the other girls as competition. During an earlier class trip, she saw a girl use a cheap ploy to get next to a boy Jill had been plotting to get close to. She was offended by it, but also admired the girl for using it. From that day, she decided that "If you wanted a boy's attention, you had to get it. You had to take it." Her first move at the museum is to try to stake out a sleeping spot away from the other girls and near Esau.

She is quick to see other girls as silly or false. When Caroline protests too much about being offended by a boy's idle threat to do a panty raid that night, Jill mentally derides her: "Caroline definitely wanted her underwear to be stolen. I could see right through her. I didn't like this kind of game-playing. I didn't like silliness, the silliness so often ascribed to our sex. I was constantly trying to get out from under it."

She thinks she is direct, when she's actually being quite coy in some ways (like not telling Esau she likes him). She thinks she is hiding her true intentions when she isn't hiding them from anyone who knows how the game is played. She thinks she's neutral, when she's entirely too emotionally invested. She thinks she's got a grown-up understanding of the true meaning of middle school, but she's the most middle school girl in middle school.

She's a victim of her own worst impulses, meanwhile thinking she's outsmarted them. She is wise enough to realize Esau is probably just a passing phase, yet she still imagines a complicated future for her and Esau. She tells herself she's "good with boys" when she isn't. (The two bawdy jokes she tries to tell to prove how she can think like a boy are both flops.) She tells herself she's a favorite of mothers and grandmothers, but the only mother who sees her in the story is immediately wise to her ploys.

And yet, she's going to be okay


The reason Esau's mother is on to Jill so fast is because Jill is trying something a lot of women try. Jill is actually kind of precocious to be experimenting with being a guy's girl at such a young age. Other women don't try it until they are adults, at which point they get locked into it and end up in romantic disaster land for much of the prime of their adult lives. Jill is finding out now the limitations of this approach. She will refine her ideas and move on to something new, something where she can be more authentically herself. Something better, if only better by inches.

Jill realizes she is on the wrong path when her plot with Esau fails. It turns out Esau is more into his friend than he is into her. The mother embarrasses her. When Jill's epiphany happens, it's quiet. She doesn't even realize it's an epiphany, because it comes to her as a question:

What was this broken mirror inside of me, that showed me I was ugly, showed me I was wrong, but persisted in its reflection that I was better than other people? Could low self-esteem loop all the way around and become narcissism? 

Yes, Jill, I think you answered your own question. Nicely done. While Emma Cline's "Los Angeles" was about giving yourself too much slack as a young person to make bad decisions, "Good with Boys" is about the right kind of mistakes, the inevitable learning curve of growing up. I've been watching Netflix's "Big Mouth" recently, which is entirely about the awfulness of adolescence. One of the major themes of the show is how much kids going through it want to know that they're normal. Jill is normal. In fact, she's ahead of normal.

The story ends with a sweet little denouement. Like Jill, I was dreading the release of the butterflies, because I thought it would be a little too sweet. But it isn't. Jill leans on Sarah, "whose tallness usually got on my nerves." Jill is learning that other women are not her enemy. She longer has to occupy space away from them. She can get close to them. She expects a lecture on butterflies, but "the three men merely counted to three and unlatched the doors, and all of us were made to forget for a second, as wings filled the air, what was hurting."

Jill is going to be okay, even if she doesn't know it yet.


Or is she? For a smart woman's perspective on Jill, check out Karen Carlson's reading of this story.

Monday, October 15, 2018

BASS 2018 finally hits an off note: "Everything is Far from Here" by Cristina Henriquez

Back when I started blogging my way through the 2018 Best American Short Stories anthology, I was thinking I'd be doing at least a few scathing reviews. But for the first nine stories, I had to stretch pretty far to find anything at all to object to. There were none I really disliked, and at least three I thought were brilliant. Nearly halfway through the anthology, I was worried I was sounding like a shill, and that my integrity as a reviewer would be in question.

Finally, on the anthology's tenth story, I got one I don't like, but I absolutely do not have the heart to go much into why. How do I dump on a story about an immigrant who's been through hell, when the story is based on the real lives of so many people? Nothing in me wants to criticize this story.

And yet, it doesn't really work for me. I think it just didn't do anything that hasn't already been done. (Says the writer who has published his own stories about  the harrowing journeys of migrants.) It's telling us a story we kind of already know, and I don't feel like what's new about it is significant enough to make much of a difference. It's not going to change the minds of the people who carry signs that say "Illegal is a crime" or "Send them back with birth control," as Henriquez's story has it. And the people likely to find the unnamed main character sympathetic are already sympathetic to those running from hell to hell.

Kurt Vonnegut wrote what I think is the greatest book on World War II, the book that comes closest to expressing the insanity that engulfed the human race (Slaughter-House Five). But it took him decades to do it. It was the first book he tried to write, but he kept failing at it. He didn't get it right until he'd had time to distance himself from the events and many other novels to learn from. I think this short story hits me like what Vonnegut's early failures must have been like. I'm sure Vonnegut's failure was still excellent, because it's Vonnegut. Henriquez's story isn't bad. It just isn't really new ground. It isn't the story that really nails the essence of the border on big and small levels. I feel like both the New Yorker, who published it to begin with, and the BASS anthology chose it because it seems like immigration and the border ought to appear SOMEWHERE in American literature about now. They're too important to be absent, it seems. But this just isn't the powerful story they seem to feel it is. I saw this movie twenty-five years ago. The political landscape has changed since then, but the human drama is pretty similar. It was awful then and it's awful now.

That's all the criticism I have the heart to offer, which makes this a pretty weak review. Something just feels wrong about shitting on a story about this topic. Even though I didn't feel like it hit it in the sweet spot, any attempt to get readers to connect with the human side of the border seems like it's worth trying. Criticizing this story too much feels like telling the neighbor who brought you lasagna when your dog died that it needed more oregano.

Quick note for students: I know that a lot of the folks who read these reviews are students who get assigned these stories for class. Be careful when reading this story. The main character is separated from her son, but this story was written before the current policy of arresting and trying illegal immigrants as criminals--the one that has led to widespread separation of children from their parents--began. That policy began in spring 2018. This story was written in 2016 or 2017 and published in 2017. The separation in the story happened because the coyote (the person hired to bring the migrants into the U.S.) split up the women from the men and children. It can be very difficult to get an unbiased view of what the government is actually doing, but this write-up by factcheck.org seems about as impartial as you're likely to get.

For Karen Carlson's take on this story (which is not that off from mine), click here.

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Someone wrote a sweet coming of age story and I'm just thinking about eating tacos: Jacob Guajardo's "What Got into Us"

It's no accident, I think, that this story came where it did in order of publication in the 2018 Best American Short Stories anthology. It's just after "Come on, Silver" by Ann Glaviano, which has to do with the confusing messages young women get concerning sexuality. Guajardo's story is about two homosexual boys dealing with equally confusing messages about their sexuality coming from society and from their own bodies.

It's a pretty simple story. Delmar and Rio, both named for the water, are growing up in a Michigan tourist town along the lake. It's a small town most of the year, then overrun during the summer. Delmar and Rio live like brothers, with their mothers, both named Maria, living together in one bedroom while Delmar and Rio share a bed in the other. The Marias aren't a lesbian couple; they are just close friends who have joined forces to raise kids and own a house they couldn't otherwise afford. The mothers run a taqueria together. Meanwhile, the boys roam freely along the beach during the summer.

Their freedom while their mothers are working gives the boys a chance to explore their feelings for each other. The opening scene has them trying on their mothers' dresses. Rio, the tougher of the two, whom the narrator Delmar thought of as "the bravest person he knew when he was fourteen," feels it's important to try to become like a woman, because if he and Rio are sexually attracted to one another as men, then that means they are gay. The most difficult part for the boys about growing up is that on the one hand, evidence of who they are is all around them, but at the same time, they are trying not to see who they are: "I have not said out loud what I am but I think about it all the time."

Being gay would put the boys in a category they call "monsters," which for them is "anything we cannot explain that June." They make occasional attempts to resist what they feel, but their attraction overwhelms them. The strongest part of the story is its believable treatment of the powerful onrush of a first love.

After that we are fucking everywhere. We are naked when our mothers are at work in the taco stand. We fumble around in the darkness for each other, like moths to the only light in a room. Our sex life will never again be as exciting as when we are fourteen and sharing a bed. 

But it doesn't last. The boys are reckless as they sneak off everywhere to have sex. Eventually, they get caught sneaking into an unoccupied summer home. The owner who comes back unexpectedly finds them en flagrante delicto, a fact that gets back to their mothers. The mothers separate the boys from then on, each sleeping in a bed with his own mother.

The boys grow up. Rio plays baseball, flunks out of college and comes back to work at the taqueria. Delmar goes off to college and does well. When he comes home, he finds that Rio has "become the kind of brave that says yes to everything," and he ends up in rehab for a heroin addiction. Delmar, however, eventually manages to find a saner love and marries a man with whom he can raise a family.

The tragedy of the story is that although Delmar thought Rio was the bravest boy he knew, that only extended to the exploration of their sexuality when they were teens. Rio is brave about trying things, but not brave about facing up to who he really is. When it comes to facing up to who he is, Delmar is the braver one. He's the one who at least tries to bring home a husband to meet the Marias. He at least tries to explain to them who he is and what he needs his life to be. Rio may have been brave enough to face the monster on the shore of Lake Michigan when they find a dead moose, but Delmar was the one able to look back at "what got into us" and answer the question. This is the truer form of bravery, and the one that enables Delmar to find happiness that eludes Rio.

Personal notes on the writing


There are some really nice evocative, sensual lines in the story. The spell only broke for me on three occasions, all of which are a little picayune.

First, when the boys are caught in one of the vacation homes and the police officer ends up taking them home, we read that "the cop had been able to speak Spanish and had told our mothers what we'd been doing." But the story had already told us that the Marias speak English: "They are childhood friends--immigrant daughters who grew up translating for their mothers and fathers." When the boys ask about their fathers, the mothers answer in English. It's English with a mistaken turn of phrase in it, but it's serviceable English. They could have understood what they boys had been doing even if the cop didn't speak Spanish.

Secondly, one of the Marias goes away to Mexico for the entire month of July. While she is gone, Delmar's mother "spends July harvesting the garden in our backyard." I don't understand how two mothers on an apparently rather fixed income, an income that seems to mostly depend on selling tacos to tourists during a short tourist season, can afford to do this. Surely, running the taco stand during the busiest part of the season would have required both mothers? And if not, if only one was running it, surely she wouldn't have had time to focus on gardening throughout that month after she got done at the taco stand?

Finally, and this really is a small nitpick here, there is a sentence near the end of the story where Delmar has to tell his fiancee about his past with Rio: "I will have to explain that night on the drive home about Rio and I." The correct grammar there, of course, would call for "Rio and me," since they are the thing he is talking about, the grammatical object. You could try to explain this by saying Delmar is himself a kid who grew up in a mixed-language house, so he has his own little mistakes that bleed into his English. But that's really the only mistake like that I saw him make in the story. It felt to me like that was just something the editors missed. It's small of course. I probably make a more egregious mistake than that in every blog post I put out. But in something that I assume was edited as heavily as this story was, I'm surprised nobody caught it. Which would mean that maybe it's there intentionally, but if so, I can't understand why.

LATE ADDITION: Karen Carlson did her usual excellent summary of this story here.

Saturday, October 13, 2018

Hello Muddah, hello Faddah, here I am getting crushed by the patriarchy: Ann Glaviano's "Come on, Silver"

We've had a couple of entries so far in the 2018 Best American Short Stories anthology that, although acknowledging that society can present people with obstacles, still held people accountable for their actions. Danielle Evans's "Boys Go to Jupiter" and Emma Cline's "Los Angeles" both presented us with lead characters who had problems that were to some extent not of their own making, but who both needed to make changes in order to "stop making it worse."

The question over whether society is to blame for the bad actions of people or they are responsible for their own bad actions is one of the longest running threads in our current cultural divide. It's also a false dichotomy. The sum of our lives is a mix of social forces we cannot control and individual choices we can, but to varying degrees. It's important to emphasize controlling what we can. It's also important to call out those social forces that put obstacles in our way. Getting too focused on one or the other is an imbalanced way to approach the problem of how to make humans improve. Too much focus on the problem of individual responsibility becomes hypocritical at some point, asking people to overcome more than is reasonable, but focusing too much on the responsibility society bears for individual action can deaden individuals to their own agency for improving themselves.

Glaviano's "Come on, Silver," brings balance to the anthology by focusing on the social failures, rather than the individual ones, that impede human happiness and fulfillment. When Josephine, who prefers to be called "Fin," goes off to a summer camp that's sort of like a week-long finishing school, you'd think that would be the perfect example of the belief that by making ourselves better, we can actively control our fate. She is there for no less a reason than to learn "what it means to be a woman."

She is sent to camp because her grandmother caught Josephine playing with Barbie dolls, but playing with them in a sexually explicit way: "On this particular day, Ken and Skipper were naked, and Ken had tied Skipper up with a broken necklace that my grandmother had given me from her junk drawer." She is both too childish and too grown up to stay home during the summer, and she needs some kind of education. This won't be the last time that symbols of childhood innocence are mixed up for Fin with an awakening sexual curiosity. Her obsession with horses--that most quintessentially girlish of obsessions, at least in popular imagination--quickly gets turned into an interest in Andrew, the counselor who teaches the girls to ride horses. Fin describes Andrew at one point as looking like a Ken doll, as well, meaning she has associated him with both ponies and dolls.

There might be something more immediately identifiable with little girls than ponies and dolls, but I don't know what it is.

Manners camp or sex-ed? 


The camp, which is supposed to be about teaching girls to be women, seems to focus a lot on sexuality. The only requirement to attend the camp seems to be that the girls have to have had their first period. But it's never clear what the camp teaches about sex. It's surrounded by rituals meant to frighten them, but not to enlighten them. And that's the whole paradox that these young women are confronted with. The camp's motto is dignae et provisae iucundae, which Google Translate renders, unhelpfully, as "worthy and provided enjoyable." Fortunately, I have a Ph.D. friend with the correct expertise to help with this, but he came away confused by it as well. His take: "if it's a girls' camp, then maybe 'worthy and pleasing;' I wouldn't know what to do with provis- which means 'foreseen.'"

It's a motto, then, with no apparent meaning, although whatever meaning there is seems to be self-contradictory, especially when thought of in a sexual context. Dignified would suggest sexual restraint, but pleasing, of course, connotes sexual license. Even Fin, at the end of the story, is asking what it means, meaning the girls have been repeating a motto three times before each meal without knowing what it means. 

There is a scene that I found hilarious, although maybe I was supposed to be horrified by it. Fin sneaks out at night to try to ride her horse faster than she is allowed to do during the day. Andrew, who is obviously into Fin sexually because of her large breasts, takes her for a bareback ride that is such an obvious metaphor of a woman's first sexual intercourse, I have to imagine the writer was giggling while putting it together. It's all rather over-the-top, but in a good way. It starts with Andrew convincing her to ride bareback: "'Plus it's natural,' he said. 'Think about it.'" That's how teen pregnancies happen, Andrew.

When they get down to it, it's pretty bad:

I sat in front and his arms around me and his thighs pinning me and my back slamming against his chest and my butt slamming against the horse and all of it hurt....And Andrew rocking and grunting behind me. Finally it ended...'Did you feel anything?' he asked." 

The nighttime horse ride ends with a rude good-bye from Andrew, which is why I'm not sure I was supposed to find the whole thing funny. Fin says her butt hurts, and he tells her to grow up. "You got just what you wanted," he tells her. There was a rape allusion earlier, and while it doesn't seem to me that this was a metaphorical rape, I don't think Fin realized what she was getting into, either.

Sisters turn against each other


When the escapade with the horse is over, Fin finds she is the target of some private joke among the other girls. There is a song Fin's friend plays on her flute, a Christmas song about a hooker. (Anyone know what this is? I have no idea. Is this a red herring?) The song suddenly seems to be directed at Fin. A note is pinned to the door of the dining hall that Fin didn't write but that has her name signed to it, asking Andrew to touch her breasts. The real irony, Fin notes, is that she is being accused of having wanted to have sex, but she "had failed, in fact, to like or want these things."

In fact, Fin realizes, she is damned no matter what attitude she takes toward sex. "I was supposed to want, and not to want, simultaneously. Those were the rules. There was no winning. I would fail either way." It's the same unwinnable paradox she faces on the first day of camp. "My mother says it's rude to keep someone waiting. She also says that I am an impatient girl." As one camper says of the "sisterhood" they are all trying to get into at camp, "the secret of the sisterhood is that there is no secret." Indeed.

At the end, Fin is forced to prove she is the paragon of womanhood by swimming across the lake, even though her large breasts make swimming difficult for her. At this point, I found her preferred "Fin" moniker meaningful in two ways: We are both at the "Fin" or end of the story, and also the girl who can't swim is named "Fin."

Personal notes on the writing


This is the kind of story that appeals to me. It's easy to read on a basic level, and then, when you read it a little closer, it rewards a reasonable amount of effort by putting the thematic gold in a place where it's just the right amount of work to get to it.

I was a little surprised by the vehicle of the story. It's an epistolary story, written in letters by Fin to her future husband. She's assigned this task by her counselor, a woman the campers call "Beaver." Beaver immediately criticizes Fin for the letters she's writing, so Fin starts to write fake letters for Beaver to see and the real ones in a hidden notebook.

A story in letters is an old technique, but I wouldn't say it's worn-out. (I was amused to read Glaviano say in the contributor notes that she has "hated epistolary novels her whole life.") There are so many things you can do with it, I don't think it'll ever go away. But when Fin has to switch to a secret notebook, that presents certain logistical problems in the story and also certain suspension-of-disbelief issues. Fin has to keep checking on the notebook, and we have to imagine she has time for the long and secret dalliance of these letters every day without anyone noticing she's been gone. The story ends with Fin somehow sticking the notebook into the empty wrapper of a sanitary pad, which she then stuffs into her underwear. I guess that act was meant to show that the notebook would survive her eventual dip in the lake because it was wrapped in plastic. Or did she put it in her underwear in her trunk, not the underwear she was wearing? Either way, it's a thing the author has to account for, in order for us to be reading the contents of the notebook. But these little things weren't enough to take away from enjoying the story.

FOR KAREN CARLSON'S TAKE ON THIS STORY (I.E., FOR A TAKE FROM SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY KNOWS WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE A YOUNG WOMAN LEARNING ABOUT THE CATCH-22 RULES OF FEMALE SEXUALITY), GO HERE.