Guest Lecture -- Routes to My Roots, or How I Came to Write "The Trouble with Virginia"

Lecture, Tuesday October 6, 2015, Africana Studies 324, "The Contemporary Black Woman," taught by Dr. Raquel Kennon.

61 students in the class. They have just finished reading Passing by Nella Larsen, and then read the first two chapters of my manuscript (The Trouble with Virginia) as their next assignment.

Richard Wright's Black Boy

Richard Wright's Black Boy (American Hunger): A Casebook by Douglas Taylor

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I just finished (in two evenings) an earlier version of this book, which I picked up from the library. Interestingly, I just realized I probably got the short version of the book. So I bought this one. I didn't even know that Wright had been compelled to publish a version that only included the first two-thirds of his original manuscript. Wright's prose is compelling, no matter how fictionalized this "autobiography" is -- he certainly is able to communicate his message and elicit the desired response.



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The Help

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


We're off to see the movie version of The Help tonight. I'm rather curious to see it at this point, as I read the book and thought it was actually pretty good, though not as good as all the hullabaloo it seems to be garnering. I mean, Olive Kitteridge was WAY better. (I do notice that I gave it five stars right after I finished it, though.)Is it all just slick marketing that's causing the attention? The "money-people" who see an opportunity to cash in on an eternally sensational subject -- racism and the tyranny of the South pre-civil rights? I'm surprised, honestly, at the (some of it extremely) flattering reviews the movie version has gotten in the LA Times and NY Times.  And of course, stirring in a little controversy, the book received plenty of grumblings from critics of color, on the topic of why a white woman thinks she can write the story -- and the dialect of -- a black woman living in that era (the story unfolds around the time Medgar Evers was assassinated, for those who haven't read the book). Hmm.



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5 Reasons Why It’s Wrong to Edit the “N”-Word Out of Huckleberry Finn

1. The job of an editor is not to change a writer’s style, message, or intent; his job is, traditionally, to work with the writer in making the work more clear, more effective, or more smooth stylistically—or perhaps to fit space constraints. Changing “n” to “slave” in Huckleberry Finn does none of these, and, in fact, it does the earlier-mentioned: it changes the style and the message by attempting to dilute it. Writers and editors often disagree, but that discourse is often what makes the work better, ultimately. Obviously, it’s a hundred or so years too late to do such a thing with Mark Twain. There is no chance for Twain in this case to agree, disagree, or even acquiesce grudgingly. A writer has a right to let his style help define his work—it is, after all, HIS work. Changing this word does not make Twain’s work better. It’s wrong to play Big Brother a century after the fact, and it’s disrespectful.
2. I hate the “n” word. I can’t even bring myself to say it—or even write it out: it is a vile and loaded expression. It marks an ugly stain on the history of America. In fact, I’d venture to say that it’s such a terrible word that at this point in history, it’s probably the single most offensive word in the entire English language. It might be interesting to some day chart the evolution of the word from its beginnings to what it is and what it means now; but I digress. Like it or not, that word is part of our country’s history, and part of the narrative of Huck Finn’s time. It is, simply, what it is. Furthermore, the proposed replacement word, “slave,” is not at all synonymous with the “n” word. Not at all. Ultimately, though, the point I’m getting at here is that editing offensive words out of Huckleberry Finn is no more justified than the notion of editing the offensive anti-Semitism out of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. Should that be done, too? By that logic, editors may as well start with Euripides and work forward from there to edit out the proliferation of misogyny that exists through the centuries. Oh—and what about the excessive profanity, racism, AND misogyny that is smeared like goo all over Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? (After all, that book is taught in schools!) Shall I go on? Where does it stop?
3. If the editors of NewSouth Publishers edit the offensive material out of Huckleberry Finn, it is tantamount to attempting to re-write history, to water down or even ignore this country’s past. It almost hearkens back to the dystopian world of George Orwell’s 1984: how shall we remember the past to suit us? Racism existed (and still does); it cannot be blotted out by removing offensive words and pretending they weren’t there. And, no, this isn’t political correctness. It’s censorship. Plain and simple.
4. Those who would argue that there is nothing wrong with this editing would point out that the Mark Twain scholar’s (and thus the publisher’s) purpose in removing that nasty word from such a great, historical work of fiction is only to update the text for the 21^st century. Did I mention that “n” and “slave” are not the same thing at all? They’re not. These people would also point out that by re-writing this text, they will keep it in the schools, thus “pre-empting” the censorship that already exists—schools are already banning the book, they would say. So, I ask: is censorship the solution to censorship? Now it’s starting to feel a little Ray Bradbury-ish. Most importantly here, though, these short-sighted people are missing out on the real opportunity that is staring them in the face. Since slavery, racism, and oppression are an indelible part of America’s history, this book is an excellent vehicle for opening that dialogue, for challenging the student to think, to consider, to understand. And by understanding, we can all move forward.  
5. So there it is. Face it, America, there is racism in your past. Mark Twain wrote it right into his book: deal with it straight up. Don’t sugar-coat it and don’t ignore it. And go bleep yourself, NewSouth.

Hell, yes,

Merry Christmas!...

and--

Happy

Everything!

My Pick for Best Fiction Read 2010: Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Okay, the book has been out for a couple of years, but I just read it this year, so I'm counting it in this year. I love Olive! This book goes to my One-of-the-Best-Books-I've-Ever-Read list. Elizabeth Strout has done an excellent job of showing the complexity, frailty, and joy of being human. Olive is rude and unlikeable and vulnerable and good... by the end of the book, I wanted to go find this woman and hug her!

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The Orchard Keeper

Wheee! I finally finished this book! Which means that I've only started. Now I have a ton of questions... obviously I'll need to do several re-reads. I'm sorry now that I waited so long to read it... I really, truly wasn't interested in reading it at all at first. It really is a fast read, and I might have had time to do an immediate second reading before feeling threatened by my (teetering) to-be-read pile--or at least a closer read (though I don't know that I was ready for a closer read the first time around--one could get mired in the confusing bog of the story--or the furred green pit of it, as it were). Faulkner-esque? Perhaps-ish, but clearly Mr. McCarthy is a brilliant and capable writer in his own right. This is the first book of McCarthy's I've read (it's his first book, too), and now I'm asking myself what took me so long; I've always avoided him because his subjects seem so dark, in that Southern way that makes my skin crawl, and I can take a novel that leaves me feeling disturbed every now and again, but I have to be either up for it or tricked into it...interestingly, I didn't come away from this book with that troubled feeling at all--though some parts rattled me. Perhaps it was McCarthy's exquisitely lush prose, which mesmerized me. I could smell it and taste it. 

The characters, John Wesley Rattner, Marion Sylder, and Arthur Ownby (Uncle Ather), possess a certain quality of tragedy, but they are wily and hard to really connect with; however, the post-prohibition-era Tennessee countryside is lush and delicious. The three men are bound together cryptically and inexplicably by a decaying body in "the pit"; the story explores the push and pull between loyalty and love, and destiny and self-determination. It's not quite a 5 out of 5 for me (not yet anyway), just because it was so confusing and therefore hard to read. I still don't feel like I really know what just happened. However, that's not a complete negative in my little book of what-makes-a-best-book-I've-ever-read... it just hints to me how much depth this novel may have lurking beyond its fog-inducing difficulty. This story has many layers, and so much condensed into its stunningly breathtaking descriptions of the Tennessee mountains and eerily realistic rendering of local dialect, that it haunts me... I imagine one could re-read it an infinite number of times and get something more out of it every time. I will be curious to see how well the story continues to thicken and set as I pass through it on subsequent reads. I think I've just become a McCarthy fan.

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Yep: the weather outside is frightening, and

what a co-inky-dink... the following, one of my favorite Frosts, was in my inbox today, from poem-a-day (poets.org / Academy of American Poets) (I love this poem!). It conjures up the holiday spirit for me--the invigorating and serene beauty of nature on a cold winter day; the anticipation of coming home to a fire in the fireplace and a soul-warming hot toddy or spiced wine; relishing the  good company of friends or the (sometimes even better) company of a good book, maybe after a day of cross-country skiing or snowshoeing...

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Freedom

Phase I. November 2.
I'm halfway through Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, and I have to say that I am enjoying it much more than I thought I would. It's a truthful tale of middle America; the characters, I find very believable, even if they are not all likable. I suspect that many of us know people like the Berglunds... I may change my mind by the time I'm finished with the book, but so far, it appears that Franzen has hit on the state of the American family, and by the looks of the voluminous criticism the book has received, both good and bad, it appears he has hit a nerve as well.

***

Phase II. December 12.
Ugh... finally finished. In the end, I give it a 3 because I enjoyed it and am glad that I read it but was slightly disappointed in that it didn't quite measure up to all the hullabaloo and hype and therefore my expectations. For me, a great book is one that I just can't put down, can't stop thinking about, and really, really don't want to end--so much that I end up dragging out the last chapters so that I can linger. This book dragged for me alright: I read it; I finished it; in parts it even really caught me up in its spell; but overall, I had to kind of discipline myself to just get the darned thing finished so that I could get on with it--those last 100 pages or so really dragged.

I liked the story, I appreciate the pathos of Patty and Walter and the rest. I appreciated the messages I got out of it: the elusive and ambivalent surety of "freedom" --and even the meaning of it-- and the whole Big Question about life and why we're here and what, in this contemporary, modern world we have created, we're supposed to do with it

O! O! O!

Where did the semester go? I got so wrapped up in Othello, I didn't notice what time it was. My. I can't believe how long it's been since I posted. Actually, the truth is, this semester has been overwhelming. Ack. I'm glad it's over. Well, I sure enjoyed studying this play . . . we could go in all sorts of directions with this. But anyway. I must say that this semester was my first experience reading Shakespeare, and once I got into it, I couldn't get enough. We read Richard III, Julius Caesar, The Merchant of Venice, Twelfth Night, and finished with the famous Moor. I think I could have spent the entire semester studying Iago and Othello, and the fair Desdemona, too, of course. And I found a cool site for anyone who is interested in this most amazing bard: Open Source Shakespeare, which "attempts to be the best free Web site containing Shakespeare's complete works." Check it out. The cool clipart is courtesy FCIT.

Alack,

how is it that I find myself in the middle of the semester already? Where did the time go? And how is it that I find myself writing an essay on the villainization of Shakespeare's Richard III? Silly me. What thinketh I? I started out for a nice little lake swim, and find myself adrift in the middle of the Atlantic. Three pages...now going on seven, and I still haven't wrapped up my argument. Sigh. I must finish this paper. I simply must.

(still) crazy like a loon

"I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo."

from The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

I've said this before; I'll say it again. Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets. The brilliance of her poetry is blinding in a very unsettling way; it's as if she has caught me naked in the vastness of my parched, cracked desert, sitting spread-eagle, under a cloudlessly hot indigo sky. She also wrote some startling prose. As I struggle to write a collection of short stories, stories which I hope will eventually become the wellspring of a memoir, I re-read her novel, The Bell Jar, for inspiration. Why do I relate?

When I was eighteen and lost (oh, hell, who am I trying to fool? I'm still lost), I went to a career placement center for women. They were going to help me get a good job, and they were going to teach me the things I needed to know: how to dress properly, the finer points of office etiquette, typing proficiency, and all the other things necessary for becoming a good secretary. Of course, I would have to work my way up to that, but receptionist jobs are very respectable, too, they assured me. I told them what I really wanted to learn was how to become a waitress. They couldn't help me.

Now I want to be a writer. I'm still looking for help.

I like to read startling books, no, I require startling books, when I need a nudge. The glass on my bell jar has cracked; it's too late to go back now. But how to proceed? I am new at all this; I haven't a clue what I'm doing. I am writing a memoir because I need to write it; I need an exorcism. Maybe what I write will be shit, I don't know. Or maybe I'll be the next Sylvia Plath.

Sylvia scares me. Which is exactly why I am so enchantingly lured, into her dark and intensely pulsating embrace. I was hoping that what I read would prod my brain to remember--to feel what I long ago embalmed in the bowels of my soul. I am at a loss to find the memories that have poisoned the very red of my marrow. Perhaps it is too late. Perhaps the demons of my pain have already killed me. Perhaps I will be unable to purge this fetid miasma from my belly. Perhaps I am indeed, nothing more than a still and empty hole in the eye of the tornado that I have created.

Welcome to my neighborhood

photo source: www.oddee.com

See more unfortunate towns: http://tinyurl.com/l9a9oj

Hulloo, everyone, I've missed you. I have been busy, though. I have written the first chapter of the memoir, and the book outline. Not quite ready to look for an agent, though. Soon, soon. Chapter one came out quite nicely; I will post a little excerpt for you later when I get it polished enough. I started chapter nine, too, I know, I know, I'm all out of order. But, um, duh. News flash: that's my life. All out of order. You'll just have to read the book, yo. Or visit my memoir blog for random updates: http://beautiful-blue-butterfly.blogspot.com/

In the meanwhile, I'm just trying to stay cool in this lovely California heat and pondering the tumbleweeds that got stuck in my belly button after the last winds. August...dog days. My ass is still fat, but I can't afford to buy a new swimsuit anyway, so what the heck? Took a nice little hiatus from the blog-thing in July. This is good to do every once in a while. People, you need to remember you are not virtual, you are still flesh and blood, well, most people are anyway. And besides, go take a look at the title of my blog. Keyword: random. That's me. D'ya think? Stay cool.

Oh, one more thing. I just got one of my flash fiction stories published in the August issue of poeticdiversity ezine, check it out here: http://www.poeticdiversity.org/main/index.php. You'll find me in the "prose" section. Cheers.

Here's to the crazy ones.

Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things...

Summertime Poetry Picks

S.B. Poet Laureate David Starkey Gives Us His Must-Read Collections in the Santa Barbara Independent

Focused on Killing the "Angel in the House"

A Look at Virginia Woolf's "Professions for Women"

After reading an actual excerpt from Coventry Patmore's "Angel in the House," one can see clearly why Woolf devoted so much time, necessarily, to "killing the Angel in the House." Even sixty-plus years after Patmore penned this tribute to his wife Emily, it is clear that Woolf saw this ideal -- written by a man -- of how a woman should conduct herself (the "Angel"), as a threat to women, and especially "professional women."

Woolf's conversational style is thoroughly enjoyable, and it is interesting that she noted "Professions for Women" was a paper she read to the Women's Service League in 1931. In this essay, presumably also a speech she presented, Woolf at length describes how the Angel frequently intervenes as she writes. The Angel tells her that as a woman writer, she must always "be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure."

As the Angel continues to get in the way of her attempts to write, intelligently, her own thoughts, wasting her time and provoking her, Woolf describes how she finally "caught her by the throat" and tried to kill her. Woolf explains that "Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing." Woolf also describes how the Angel "died hard."

In order to be successful as a writer, Woolf explains that "Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer." The Angel is still appropriate for all women of all professions, which is why she chose to spend so much time discussing her: "it is necessary also to discuss the ends and the aims for which we are fighting, for which we are doing battle with these formidable obstacles."
read the rest here: http://tinyurl.com/lpgn89

Word of the Day

daedal \DEE-duhl\, adj: 1. Complex or ingenious in form or function; intricate 2. Skillful; artistic; ingenious 3. Rich; adorned w many things


from dictionary.com