2008 August « Line Up To Eat Me!

If You Look Hard Enough, You’ll Find a Connection

August 17, 2008 at 12:15 am (Uncategorized)

One thing I learned in college, aside from my Social Security number, is that if you look hard enough, you can find connections between anything. I am writing this blog raw: no proof-reading, and only minor pre-planning. Here’s what I’m thinking about tonight: 1. the novel “Snow Angels” by Stewart O’Nan” 2. watching “The Facts of Life” on On Demand cable, while Kim “Tootie” Fields’ sobbing on one of those round-table discussions of the puppymill-esque conditions of child stars in TV studios in the early 80s.
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I spent the major part of today (when not rearranging the fans and bottles of ice for maximum welfare air-conditioning effect) reading and re-reading “Snow Angels.” I haven’t seen the movie yet, and it’s been on my list for a while since finding out that my friend Amy is in it. Amy plays Barb, the main character’s best friend, and in my opinion, the only mentally stable character in the entire novel.

I apologize to anyone reading this who hasn’t read and plans to read the book. There are spoilers about the plot, and I’m going to write this as if the reader had a basic understanding of who’s who therein.

After my first hungry read-through (I was hooked after about 30 pages), the first thing that popped into my head was the contrasting narrative styles. The narrator, Arthur, starts out sounding pretty much okay. He’s a kid in the 70s who smokes weed, which is, of course, redundant. Then his parents divorce, and he keeps learning, time after time, that dissociation, escapism, and apathy are the three tools that will get him through his transition from child-to-teen-to-adult.

Then there’s the third-person objective narrative (in which the reader can’t see into any of the characters’ thoughts) about Arthur’s parents’ relationship. It’s all about keeping up appearances. That is, keeping up the appearance that no matter how much of a ruin your life is, you’re happy, and there’s no reason for anyone to feel anything but apathy for you. His parents only argue out of earshot from anyone else, yet O’Nan’s descriptions of Arthur’s mother’s appearance tell the story that she is in dire pain, but will not ask for help from anyone outside of the family’s psychiatrist, whom they only visit separately. She, and Arthur’s absent sister keep telling him to think of people other than himself, no matter how far away Astrid is physically, and how far his mother distances herself from him and everyone else who has ever loved her.

Usually, I prefer a third-person or first-person objective narrative because it involves the reader as another very important character. The author isn’t going to TELL you someone is in pain and hanging on by a thread. They’re going to use images, like messed-up hair and a shoddy makeup job to SHOW you someone is in pain and hanging on by a thread.

USUALLY I prefer that. But Stewart O’Nan is enough of a craftsman that he’s able to show-not-tell even with a third-person omniscient narrative (in which the reader is shown everything about a scene: time, character, motivation, spectacle, insert-Aristotilian-unity-here). He bends time to let you know the result of a scene so you can fully immerse yourself into that scene without constantly guessing how it’s going to end.

From the start of the novel, you know that Annie is going to be shot dead in the woods while a high school band practices nearby. Throughout the book, snow is falling. The lights are all on, and everything glares. The pond is frozen, the terrain is slippery, cars are fishtailing…everything is dangerous. What start out as tenuous relationships seem to freeze, then break apart. People who start out appearing grounded and sane seem to melt, and fall apart.

The common ground that all of the characters in the book inhabit is the way they strive toward apathy. While they confront and deal with immediate ways to make themselves feel better (a box of cookies, or bitching out a cheating lover), they are all clawing their way out of a pit and trying to not care. They try to distance themselves from their problems. As a visceral example, this distancing is shown physically when Annie knows that Brock is cheating on her, and she hides out on the frozen pond chain-smoking instead of waiting for him at home.

Arthur learns that instead of finding the prettiest girl, the best way to get what he wants is to settle for someone he used to tease. He and his mother move into the same poor building as Lila and her sister, and seizes the opportunity to “fall in love.” He learns that by distancing himself emotionally from the type of relationship that is supposed to be intimate both physically and mentally, he can present the world with a facade of happiness that will make him more accepted. He saves his money to buy Lila a necklace that he described as “cold and hard,” and presents it to her on Christmas Eve. By giving his girlfriend something “cold and hard,” and by the fact that she accepted it and loved it, he finds himself content in his apathy. He has given her nothing of himself, and she is happy. He is learning that by only giving others that about him which is dispensable and invulnerable, he’s less likely to turn into the wrecks his parents have become.

All of the characters in the book are shoving away the parts of themselves which are most easily hurt. They arm themselves against attack with bitter humor and sarcasm, escapism through either physical distance or alcohol/drugs, and a total lack of emotional investment.

All of the characters, except Barb. Barb is the only character who seems to wear her heart on her sleeve. When there’s a big problem, she faces it head-on, confronts the people involved, and tells them exactly what to expect from her. When she finds out that Annie was sleeping with her boyfriend, she said, “I don’t think I want to talk to you right now. Right now I’m talking with Brock. I will talk to you because I have some things I need to say to you but I can’t do that right now.” She spells it out and stays true to her word.

When tragedy strikes, Barb is able to put those feelings aside and come to the aid of her friend. By the end of the novel, Barb and Annie are great friends again. Barb even invites Annie to live at her home.

By confronting the major issues as they happen, Barb is able to work through her feelings and ultimately forgive. Every single other character simply reacts like a pinball bouncing around between crises. There are tears, there is screaming and yelling, and ultimately, obliteration. Barb is the only character who, despite terrible hurts and trespasses in her life, is able to walk with her head high, and look everyone in the eye. By working through her problems in a rational way, she’s able to avoid the apathy that results from escapism and emotional distance.

Now here’s the fun part. Why, when I was thinking about child star puppy mills, was “Snow Angels” so present in my mind? The easy answer is, “You read it three times today, dipshit, of course you’re thinking about it.” I’m all about easy. That’s why I just answered my own question with the easiest answer possible. I’m going to leave that up to you.

What is the connection?

Letter to the Editor

August 6, 2008 at 3:25 am (personal)

They are the “Greatest Generation.”

Threadbare and creative with recycling, they survived the Great Depression. The men, without reservation, signed up for probable death fighting imperialism in the Pacific and fascism and utter horror in Europe.

The women, unable to fight in the military, stayed home and kept the country’s factories and infrastructure running. As a sign of respect, men wore hats and removed them upon entering a building, also as a sign of respect.

After the war, women outside the workforce kept the houses clean, raised the children, and had dinner waiting when their husbands came home from work.

Before buying a piece of clothing, stitches underwent the scrutiny of the consumer, and fabric ran between judgmental fingers. People expected to buy furniture only once, ever, and furniture was treated with delicacy; often covered with plastic to protect the fabric from stains.

Members of this generation referred to each other respectfully, using the nearly antiquated terms “Missus, Mister, and Miss,” until it was agreed that to do so would negate the intimacy of friendships that were built to last as long as the furniture. Neighbors could be relied upon to wave a friendly greeting and lend the occasional cup of sugar.

This is the generation that bears witness to the 20th century in its entirety. Members don’t have to use the Wikipedia to know who Joe McCarthy was and what he was about. The Greatest Generation lived passionately, paving the way for Civil Rights to take hold, for women and other minorities to start to knock down the walls of prejudice and inequality.

I am proud that my grandmother is a member of that Generation. She remembers everything. She can solve a New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle in 10 minutes flat. After I’d been practicing the game of cribbage for a year, I challenged her to a game. She skunked me no less than three times in one game.

And don’t you dare call her “Kaye.” It’s “Mrs. Clarke” to you, buster.

She is a formidable woman, a product of the years she lived and survived as the daughter of settlers on Vashon Island, later living in both Anchorage and Seattle.

Few non-Japanese people were certified to teach the intricate and difficult method of Japanese embroidery called Bunka. As long as I can remember, her fingers were nimble and sure, working quickly to fill an 18×36 canvas with embroidered images of fish, roses, birds, and replications of classic and historic paintings and landscapes.

She tried to teach me Bunka, but I didn’t have the patience. As a member of Generation X, my mind wanders, even when my hands are not idle, devil’s playthings. I couldn’t stare at the needle and thread as my fingers worked to poke it through canvas, trapping the thread below with a firm scratch, for hours at a time.

My grandmother could embroider all day and into the night, and she taught many Japanese immigrants her art, which originated in their country of origin. She is still corresponding with the majority of those women, and is fond of reminiscing about the days her basement classroom was full of the delightful Japanese women who attended class toward the sole end of maintaining their heritage and traditions.

Every time she and I enter a restaurant where she’s been before, there’s a staff member who remembers her kindness and faithful correspondence with them and their families.

Everybody loves her. She smiles without reason, and laughs easily with a palpable generosity of spirit and friendship.

Until she re-married at the age of 81, Gram worked for at least three companies as a bookkeeper. She loathes inactivity, and it drives her crazy to have the television on during the day, unless there’s a baseball game to watch.

A couple of years ago, Gram was diagnosed with congenital heart failure. She’s been able to lessen her decline with medication and concentrated oxygen intake. Occasionally, she requires hospitalization, usually for one night or so.

Yesterday, she was admitted into Valley Medical Center through the Emergency Room. She had fluid on her heart, and could barely breathe. Death drew nearer to her than it had ever dared. She waited six hours to be seen.

Upon examining her, the ER doctor said, “If she was 50 years old, I’d run all sorts of tests, but in her state, there isn’t a lot I can do.”

He admitted her, thus transferring responsibility of her care to another physician. He all but said, “Let’s just put her in a room and let her die.”

Overnight, with medication, Gram clawed her way back to life. Her nurse confirmed that she was in decent shape, and would probably be discharged. A family member was with her all day until about 6 in the evening.

No doctor had examined or even seen Gram since the ER last night; nearly 24 hours would pass before one would. In the HOSPITAL, where there is a high concentration of physicians, not a single doctor even poked a head in her doorway to say hello. It was like going to the zoo without encountering a single animal.

Around 7 in the evening, a doctor finally arrived and told Gram she’d have to stay a couple more days because of fluid congestion around her heart.

Gram lived through the night by sheer dumb luck.

Valley Medical Center’s physicians appear to have forgotten that people Gram’s age ARE the Greatest Generation. They have lived so long and given so much of themselves, enabling today’s doctors and lawyers and general public to enjoy the freedom and pride we each enjoy. Every single person they encounter owes them respect.

Once a person passes 80 years old, they deserve the same, if not better, level of care and attention from medical professionals as their children and grandchildren.

When I hear of someone who, through neglect and apathy, inflicts harm and discomfort onto my grandmother, I can’t describe the feeling.

Nobody’s loved ones should have to endure pain and near death due to the ignorance, arrogance, and total lack of humanity shown by the physicians and staff at Valley Medical Center in Renton, Washington.

If you need to take a loved one to the hospital, and you don’t want them to suffer and/or die, STAY AWAY FROM VALLEY MEDICAL CENTER in Renton, Washington.

Valley Medical Center, get in line to eat me .

Signed,
Gram’s granddaughter