Erasure

Today I finished an audio version of Percival Everett’s Erasure, the novel that is the basis of the movie American Fiction. I was especially gutted by the part of the book where the protagonist, Thelonius “Monk” Ellison, commits his mother to a memory care facility. Everett perfectly captures the way dementia patients flash quickly between lucid clarity and complete befuddlement, like the sun peeking in and out of clouds.

The story of Ellison’s mother’s mental decline is a subplot: the novel is primarily a satire of the publishing industry. Ellison is a highbrow novelist and scholar whose experimental novels and stories don’t sell nearly as well as the sensational work of a woman named Juanita Mae Jenkins, whose debut novel, We’s Live in Da Ghetto, is wildly popular because its caricature of impoverished Black life is embraced as “real” by (primarily white) readers. Desperate for money to care for his mother, Ellison parodies Jenkins’ style, and his piece of intentionally racist drivel, published under a pseudonym, ends up being wildly popular.

Erasure satirizes a publishing industry that capitalizes on white readers’ hunger for presumably “authentic” voices peddling stereotypical stories of Black trauma. But it was the subplot of Monk’s mother that hit me hardest. Ellison wouldn’t have “sold out” his literary dreams if he didn’t need to pay for his mother’s care, and the fact that he is forced to make that choice speaks volumes about American society, not just American fiction.

 

Reading fast and slow

This morning I started reading my massive hardback copy of Abraham Verghese’s The Covenant of Water. I tend to read two books at a time: my ears listen to audiobooks when I’m playing with the dog or doing chores, and my eyes read Kindle or print books when I’m done with work for the day. In the case of Covenant, I’m opting to read a physical copy since I’ll be moderating an online book group discussion next month, so I want to take notes as I read.

I have different strategies for reading books in different formats. Listening to an audiobook is an experience of pure enjoyment, like having someone read me a story. Since I use Hoopla to borrow audiobooks from the library, I am more willing to try titles I wouldn’t necessarily buy. A borrowed audiobook is free to me, so my expectations are more forgiving.

Reading on a Kindle is easier than reading a print copy: even the weightiest tome fits comfortably in my palm or purse, and I can read in any light. But although I can highlight passages on a Kindle, I hardly ever do. When it comes to taking notes, I prefer the old-school technique of underlining and writing marginal notes in a print copy.

This weekend, I heard on NPR a story about so-called deep reading: the kind of full immersion that is the opposite of skimming and happens only when you’re not being interrupted at every turn. (Deep reading is also slow reading, so it’s the opposite of listening to audiobooks at double-speed.) Although I have the Kindle app installed on my phone, I hardly ever read on it; instead, I prefer to read on my actual Kindle, where I’m not interrupted by email or other notifications.

Print books, of course, don’t interrupt you with online notifications. With a book as thick as The Covenant of Water, however, I’ll have to develop my upper body strength to heft the thing.

 

When Harry met Meghan

I’m currently reading Prince Harry’s memoir, Spare. When the book first came out, it inspired lots of fuss and hoopla, with royal-watchers rushing to read it and critics of the monarchy in general or Prince Harry in particular refusing to read it at all.

Although I don’t have any urgent curiosity to know about Prince Harry’s life, I was curious to know what all the hype around his book was about. Whether written by celebrities, ordinary people, or royal heirs, memoirs are interesting because they offer a window into someone else’s world, and Spare does not disappoint.

Spare begins with Princess Diana’s death when Prince Harry was twelve. That loss defines much of what follows, with Harry struggling to process his grief in a family where demonstrations of emotion are rare. Refusing to admit his mother is actually dead, young Harry tells himself that his mother is merely hiding from the paparazzi and will reappear someday to reclaim her sons.

Choosing to go straight into the military instead of going to college, Harry is eager to go into active combat even though his royal status makes him a prime target. Having experienced the death of his mother at a tender age, Harry doesn’t seem to care what happens to his life, as death has already stolen the best of him.

I’m about halfway through the book, when Prince Harry finally meets actress Meghan Markle, whom he eventually marries. It’s difficult not to root for the couple, given Harry’s honest description of his struggles with anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. Although being born as a runner-up (spare) heir to a throne might seem like the ultimate form of job security, Spare describes a young man trying to find his way in the world, and meeting Meghan Markle seems to give Harry a new clarity and purpose.

When you read a memoir by a well-known person, you start the story already knowing how it will end. But halfway through Spare, I’m still eager to learn what exactly happens next.

CLICK HERE to read a post from nearly a year ago, when I had a nonsensical dream about meeting Prince Harry around an office watercooler.

 

Accent

I’m halfway through reading Solito: A Memoir by Javier Zamora, and one of the things I find fascinating about the story is how young Javier has to constantly monitor his accent.

Zamora was born in El Salvador, and Solito recounts how he came to the United States as an unaccompanied minor to join his parents when he was nine. Traveling with a half dozen other migrants who are guided by a series of coyotes, young Javier and his companions are told to “speak Mexican” so authorities won’t suspect their Mexican paperwork is fake.

To non-Spanish speakers, all Spanish might sound the same, but Mexicans can tell by accent and vocabulary whether a person is a fellow resident or a migrant passing through from Central America. At one point, young Javier almost blows the group’s cover by using the wrong word to ask a taco vendor for a drinking straw. Given how far the group has traveled and how many hardships they have endured, it’s sobering to realize everything can be ruined by a simple slip of the tongue.

***

In my first-year classes at both Framingham State and Babson, we start with five minutes of freewriting. Students are free to write about whatever they’d like, but I post three random words to give students a nudge if they have nothing else to write about.

Today’s post comes from yesterday’s five-minute entry in response to the word “Accent.”

 

The wisdom of age

Yesterday I started listening to an audiobook of Boy George reading his recent memoir, Karma: An Autobiography. I’ve reached the age where the pop icons of my youth are writing memoirs from the perspective of their Golden Years: the wisdom of age reflecting on the antics of youth.

I’m not usually a fan of celebrity memoirs: most of them follow the same trajectory of hard work followed by fabulous success, with occasional escapades and gossip thrown in for flavor. But I make an exception for the audiobooks I borrow from the library and listen to while playing outside with the dog, vacuuming, or doing other mundane and mindless household tasks. I figure if I’m already being an upright citizen by doing my chores, I can indulge in whatever trashy title currently piques my interest.

After Sinead O’Connor died, I listened to her memoir–and before that, I enjoyed audiobooks by Dave Grohl, Paul Simon, and Dolly Parton. Listening to a young star describe their fabulous life is unappealing: who wants to hear a 20- or 30-something talk about their long, hard life when you have disappointments older than them? But when you listen to a memoir by an artist who is middle-aged or older, you get the same celebrity stories filtered through the wisdom of age. These narrators have the benefit of hindsight and the clarity that comes from decades to cool from the heat of the moment and the impetuousness of youth.

 

Length vs depth

Yesterday I finished listening to an audio version of Nikki Erlick’s The Measure. The fantastical premise of the book is surprisingly simple: on one March day, every adult in the world receives a wooden box containing a string that indicates how long that person will live.

The book raises many philosophical questions. Would you want to know your fate ahead of time, or is ignorance bliss? How does knowing the length of your life affect the way you interact with friends, family, or partners who are fated to die before or after you? Is the value of a life measured by its length or by its depth?

After having helped many sick and aged pets die, I know having more days isn’t the same as having more good days. Erlick’s book was both entertaining and thought-provoking. Does knowing your life is fated to be either long or short change the way you live every single day?

 

The sincerest form of flattery

Today I started reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead. I’ve been wanting to read the book since it was published last year, but since it is loosely based on Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, I wanted to re-read that novel first.

Most of the reviews of Demon Copperhead insist you don’t have to have read Dickens’ novel to appreciate Kingsolver’s coming-of-age story of an impoverished Appalachian boy. But since I had read David Copperfield in high school, I wanted to refresh my admittedly fuzzy memories of the story.

All I’d remembered about David Copperfield was the character of David himself, the slimy villainy of Uriah Heep, and the financial disasters of Mr. Micawber. I’d forgotten all the other characters as well as the particulars of David’s rise from poverty to respectability.

It took me three months (!!!) to listen to an audio version of David Copperfield. Dickens’ novel was originally published in serial format, so listening to the story in small bits here and there felt fitting. Since the novel recounts David’s childhood and coming-of-age, there isn’t a single narrative arc: instead, each chapter describes an episode in the boy’s maturation. This makes the book perfect for slow, occasional reading.

Since Dickens’ David Copperfield is fresh in my mind, I’m enjoying the allusions Kingsolver weaves into Demon Copperhead. Since I know how Copperfield’s story ends, I can imagine where Copperhead’s story will eventually go…but Kingsolver’s retelling of a story from Victorian England to modern Appalachia provides enough novelty to make every episode fresh. I’m looking forward to turning every new page.

 

The curve

Last night I started re-reading Judy Blume’s Deenie. When I turned 50, I bought myself box sets of books I’d enjoyed as a child with the intention of re-visiting them as an adult. Although I have re-read Madeleine L’Engle’s Wrinkle in Time trilogy, I haven’t yet revisited the Walter Farley, Laura Ingalls Wilder, or Marguerite Henry books I bought myself. Like a well-stocked wine cellar, my brimming bookshelves are full of pleasures I intend to savor someday, eventually.

This summer, I’ve decided, is time to revisit Judy Blume. I reread Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret in advance of seeing the movie adaptation several weeks ago, so now is the perfect time to reread the other books in her box set.

One of the humbling aspects of re-reading childhood favorites as an adult is realizing how much you’ve forgotten. When I started re-reading Deenie last night, I realized I’d entirely forgotten the tension between Deenie and her mother, who wants her to become a model. All I remembered about the book was that Deenie is diagnosed with scoliosis and has to wear a back brace to straighten her curved spine.

It’s not surprising I’d remember that detail, since I was diagnosed with a mild case of scoliosis before reading the book. Although I never had to wear a brace or undergo any kind of treatment, I was amazed to encounter a book that spoke frankly about a condition I’d never heard of until I was diagnosed with it.

As I’m starting to re-read Deenie, I’m realizing a lesson that was too profound for my adolescent self. Sometimes life, like a malformed spine, curves in ways you hadn’t anticipated. When multiple modeling scouts mention Deenie’s poor posture, she and her mother have no idea there is a medical reason for her slouch. The first time I read the book, I fixated on the back brace Deenie had to wear; I didn’t realize then there are other ways life can curve in surprising ways.

 

Regarding Margaret

Last night I finished re-reading Judy Blume’s classic coming-of-age novel Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret in advance of (eventually) seeing the new movie adaptation. Although Blume’s book is tame by modern standards, it was a pivotal part of my adolescence: a book that talked out loud about the things girls like me were thinking.

I’d expected to be disappointed by the book, given how nostalgia can shift your perspective: surely a book that seemed epic when I was an adolescent wouldn’t have the same power today. Instead, I was thoroughly charmed. Re-reading Are You There God? made me remember how much I resonated with eleven-year-old Margaret Simon even though on the surface, our lives were very different.

Unlike Margaret, I wasn’t eager to start my period; instead of seeing menstruation as an exciting rite of passage, my adolescent self accurately predicted that getting your period would be a nuisance. Like Margaret, I was eager to start wearing a bra, but not because I belonged to a secret club where wearing a bra was a requirement for membership. Instead, wearing a bra made my middle-school self feel a little less awkward during gym class, where everyone could see what was (or wasn’t) under your clothes when you changed.

Re-reading Are You There God? reminded me that what I resonated with most in Margaret’s story was her spiritual struggle. Judy Blume gained my trust by talking about bras and boys and periods–the things I was too ashamed to mention out loud–and she used that trust to talk about another taboo topic, religion. Margaret isn’t “just” struggling with puberty; she’s also struggling with faith. As a girl raised without religion by a Christian mother and Jewish father, Margaret is trying to figure out where she fits as a girl who prays to God as comfortably as she interacts with her beloved grandmother.

Unlike Margaret, I never had to question what faith I belonged to: my upbringing was entirely Catholic. But like Margaret, I was unmoved by church services, and I often wondered whether God was really listening to the prayers I spontaneously said every night. Then and now, I resonate with Margaret’s claim that she feels God’s presence most strongly when she is alone, and I admire her child-like faith in an entity she can (and does) talk to about anything.

Modern readers accustomed to children’s and young adult titles that explore Deep Topics rightly note that Margaret doesn’t grapple with any pressing social issues: she doesn’t pray for world peace, nor does she beg God to save the planet. A girl growing up in an intact family in a middle-class suburb, Margaret doesn’t have to worry about crime, poverty, or other social ills. Her concerns are entirely self-absorbed and small in the larger scheme of things. Margaret frets that she’s slow to develop, and she worries about boys and her first kiss…but she doesn’t have to worry about coming out as gay or trans, and when she does confide in her mother about her concerns, her mother is supportive.

But even though Margaret’s worries are small potatoes, one lesson of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret is this: God cares about small potatoes. Margaret talks to God about both her developing body and her religious questions. She reminds readers of all ages that there is no real distinction between spiritual concerns and “merely” bodily ones. God is there to hear them all.

 

Facing

I recently read Ruth Ozeki’s The Face: A Time Code, a slender volume written in response to an unlikely prompt: spend three hours contemplating your face in a mirror and explore what arises.

The thoughts that arise when a woman of a certain age considers her face are surprisingly deep. Initially, Ozeki’s observations are as superficial as you’d expect. Ozeki discovers she likes one eye more than the other, for example, and she notes the resemblances between her face and the faces of her white father and Japanese mother.

But if you spend three hours looking at a thing, you’ll eventually be forced to look more deeply. Ozeki notes the way faces are linked to identity: they are the public image we present to the world. Faces are like names: they are how we self-identify and how people judge us, for better or worse. Ozeki was born Ruth Lounsbury but took a pseudonym after her father asked her not to write about his family. A pseudonym is a mask–a crafted face–that both obscures and reveals.

As a middle-aged woman, considering how your face has changed over time is a psychological minefield. Ozeki describes her decision not to get a facelift and wonders if she should return to dying her hair. These seemingly insignificant personal decisions are rife with deeper issues. Ozeki explores, for example, the feminist implications of authorial headshots. Do glamor shots by professional photographers create an image that is impossible for an ordinary and aging author to live up to, or is the beautifying of one’s (female) face an inevitable part of marketing a book?

Ozeki is a Zen Buddhist, so her contemplation is also a meditation. The Buddha said impermanence surrounds us, and there is no better way to (literally) face that fact than to consider how your face has changed over time. Forget about seeing your face before you were born: can you accurately see the face in the mirror right now?

I’ve never spent three hours staring at my face, but years ago at a Dharma teacher retreat, we did an exercise where we spent several silent minutes looking into a random partner’s eyes. That activity was surprisingly eye-opening (no pun intended). Looking into an acquaintance’s eyes made me unusually self-conscious about my appearance and others’ opinions. Does this person think I look silly or stupid or ugly or boring? Should I smile or frown or maintain a neutral meditative expression? Should I try to tame my resting bitch face or just allow my face to rest in whatever expression it prefers?

The Face was published in 2015, years before the widespread masking of the COVID-19 pandemic, so the masks Ozeki describes in her book are the highly stylized masks of Noh drama. Ozeki describes the process of crafting a mask, and she describes how Noh performers embody their characters through voice and gesture instead of facial expressions.

In an unofficial sequel to The Face, last year Ozeki published an article exploring the impact of COVID masking and Zoom meetings on self-image. I remember the first time I walked outside after outdoor mask mandates had been lifted: I found myself smiling uncontrollably whenever I saw another bare face, and the experience of walking among many barefaced people was almost intoxicating.

One of the weird experiences of teaching remotely is having your face constantly on view–and visible to yourself–while most if not all of your students have their cameras turned off. It’s just you and your trying-so-hard-to-look-enthusiastic face trying to engage with the camera as you see nothing but your own thumbnail video surrounded by a sea of black squares. It’s like teaching into the void.

Facing one’s face and the issues of identity, aging, and superficial judgment is not for the faint of heart. What seems like a silly premise for a book is surprisingly profound.