Narrative Journalism!

Vietnam, Saran-Wrap, diet pills, the Bomb...

2009-06-07T07:37:00.000-07:00

At first, "Slouching Toward Bethlehem" is hard to grasp. It's like the writing of the Beats with elusive content and dead-on feeling. It works together like a collage; all the bits would seem annoyingly random were it not for the trust Didion earns through terrific prose:

A curtain billowed in the afternoon wind. A cat scratched a beagle in Sharon's lap. Except for the sitar music on the stereo there was no other sound or movement until seven-thirty, when Max said, "Wow."

Though I had a terrible time keeping track of characters (all little girls and guys afraid of "media poisoning"), somehow I knew very quickly that the piece would be about family, or brief surrogate families, or children specifically. The ending is fantastic and disturbing, and characterizes the time and place very well.

My favorite part of "Slouching Toward Bethlehem," however, was reading Didion's own thoughts on the movement. When she had the spotlight everything became clearer as these young people's lifestyles became simultaneously more poignant and sad.

They are less in rebellion against the society than ignorant of it, able only to feed back certain of its most publicized self-doubts, Vietnam, Saran-Wrap, diet pills, the Bomb.

Final Feature Responses

2009-06-03T13:44:00.000-07:00

Mary:

This is a really fascinating piece, mostly because you lend a ton of conflict to the topic with your personal experiences. The only problem is that your voice drops out and your character disappears toward the end of the piece. I think it's because your focus isn't narrow enough; though well researched, the legal repercussions of public nudity draw me out of your specific story.

Also, I think you should really consider who your intended audience is. If it's something you want to try to publish locally there's probably enough context, but elsewhere everyone is going to be confused about where K is located, what the college environment is like, and what the heck this LandSea thing is all about. Otherwise, I feel that this is a really strong first draft with lots of interesting details. I just want to see more development of the "I" character in order to have some sense of conclusion toward the end of the piece.

Camilo:

It's interesting that you, as an international student, chose to write about another international student. Because I know you I know that you are a figure of authority on the subject of being abroad in the U.S., but I think it would be really neat for you to include yourself as a character as well. How well do you know Rufus? If you're close friends we might get a more intimate picture of him from a pal's perspective. And, if you included yourself you might try talking to Jim VanSweden, Executive Editor of Lux Esto, about getting it published. That way you'd specify your audience, but I think you'd want to consider changing some of the generalities "most Americans" think about the "mythic magic land" of Kenya. I don't think the Kalamazoo College community assumes there are all lions and no cars in Kenya, but maybe I'm wrong.

The interaction and quotes at the end of your piece are funny and work very nicely. As with the rest of the feature, cleaning up your grammar for smoother narration would make it even better.

Maureen:

This story is, admittedly, a lot more interesting than I expected it to be. Javin is a character, though he seems a bit melodramatic. It was a bit hard to get a picture of him, so maybe drop some more physical description. It sounds like your interviews went very well. Having quotes from Zaide Pixley is nice and really helps the structure of the piece. But I want to hear more about Ashlee and how she "shares the same issues." That's a pretty broad statement. Maybe bring her in earlier and go into more depth about said issues.

There's a quote from Zaide that's super confusing--the one about the dollar and the coat. And I think you should go back and look at the piece grammatically on a line-by-line level to make it flow more smoothly. Overall, however, I think it's shaping up to be a really good feature. I agree that K is incredibly cliquey place and if you don't find a group right away you're pretty much doomed. I'd like to hear more about how this contrasts with K's image to, say, a prospective student or the rest of the community.

Marni:

What happened to following families around? I do think it's really interesting to hear how other seniors shop for groceries and how much people care about buying whole foods and supporting the Co-op. It's almost voyeuristic to read what people eat and where they spend their money, for some reason. Most people keep quiet because with organics food choices have almost become status symbols. What does this say about K that people are willing to spend their money on more expensive foods? And I know these seniors, but learning how they eat adds strange depth to their personalities. Maybe because I'm, you know, food obsessed...

Anyway, maybe focus on just two people--one who shops at the Co-op and one who eats out a lot and/or shops at Meijer. Who has a healthier attitude toward food and making choices? Also, I think there's some danger in the NuVal system you don't mention. Don't be afraid to put yourself in there as a character because your response to it is super valuable.

Joseph:

I like your trickster lede. I can't remember the technical term, but it's extremely playful because it misleads the reader not once, but twice. I also appreciate how smootly it transitions into a bit of historical context, but the information given is confusing. I'm pretty sure I've seen people buried there after the 1930s. Are you talking about a specific portion of the cemetary?

Also, I think you should consider your intended audience and whether or not you want to more specifically describe the location of Kalamazoo College, the cemetary, or the Bardeen family plot marker.

I'm conflicted about you referencing yourself in the piece. I know your research was done observing within the cemetary, but I don't get the feeling of hanging out and just watching things going on until the second- and third-to-last paragraphs. The details exclude you, but they're authoritative, like mentioning the contents of the trash cans. I don't think you need to say, "One student told me..." in the paragraph above that. And I'd work on the ending, too. The technical speak is strangely placed.

Colin:

I really like your lede. It's a fast-paced introduction to the environment of the DEMF, almost like an anthropological description but also very cinematic (go figure). To distinguish this from your documentary project, you could think about your personal response to your experience and morph this into a profile with a critical edge. I think you know enough about the DJs you mention that you could critique their work. I'm familiar with RJD2 and J Dilla (R.I.P.), but I'd like to know more about the other artists like DJ Flying Lotus and Afrika Bambaataa.

I started to get a sense of how electronic music's presence in Detroit relates to Motown, but it wasn't enough. Maybe use DEMF as a frame but focus on music history instead. It would be a good way to juxtapose old and new, and make a statement about the city's collapse. Also, you left me wondering whether or not music can actually help the city financially. What would be needed for a revival movement to happen?

Natalie Next Door

2009-06-01T08:27:00.000-07:00

The houses at the top of the hill above Kalamazoo College are large and beautiful, perfect for the city’s well-known families and best-loved tenured professors. But this is not where Professor Natalie Bourdon lives. Down the hill, across several lanes of traffic, Natalie lives among the undergraduate students and low-income families at the edge of the Vine Street neighborhood. It’s about as urban as Kalamazoo gets, but it’s certainly nowhere near the New York neighborhood she called home just a few months ago.

Still, Natalie carries the energy of a larger city with her, and she knows how to detect it in others. On a Saturday afternoon she slips through the door of The Strutt café just down the street from our houses. She is gracefully and impossibly thin, dressed in a pencil skirt and blue blouse, and the animated owner with thick-rimmed glasses behind the counter recognizes her immediately.

“I could tell he was from the city,” she tells me as we make our way to a tall set of tables and chairs halfway isolated from the loud music within the café. “Which, I mean, he’s from Seattle, so I guess that’s sort of right.” She shrugs.

There’s something strange about having coffee with a professor—even if they’re your next door neighbor, even if you’re not currently in a class of theirs, and even if they’re fairly young. It makes you realize that you might never stop looking for role models, and it makes you worry you’ll never stop caring about what other people think about you. I dig for my pen and reporter’s notebook in the bottom of my oversized tan canvas purse and remind her that I want to talk to her about her experiences in Tanzania and at Kalamazoo College. She reminds me she’s flattered that people want to hear about her life.

In 1998, Natalie participated in a three-month pilot research project in medical anthropology to study AIDS and malnutrition in the people around Mount Kilimanjaro. “It was too hard,” she tells me. “A lot of people died while I was there.” Though Natalie discovered she no longer wished to work in medical anthropology, she knew that she wanted to return.

The second time Natalie traveled to Tanzania it was on a Fulbright, and she didn’t go alone. “People get married for a lot of reasons!” she says, smiling. “You know the story, don’t you?”

I shake my head hesitantly. I’ve heard rumors, but I want to hear Natalie tell her own story.

While living in New York before her second trip to Tanzania, Natalie was in a relationship with a woman, but her best friend from junior year of college was a man, a philosophy major at NYU named Matthew. “He was broke and I was broke,” she says. “And one day after a couple of margaritas…”

Natalie married Matthew at the 53^rd Circuit B Courthouse. Together they would travel to Africa with a dependence allowance from Natalie’s Fulbright. When they returned to New York they planned to divorce, but soon after the newlyweds started dating in Tanzania they knew it wouldn’t happen.

“It’s incredibly easy being married to your best friend!” says Natalie. It makes more sense, she tells me, than dating for a long time and finally deciding to get married. Natalie and Matthew’s mothers, having been divorced, were, if not thrilled, fairly realistic about the whole thing. The only person upset by Natalie’s decision was her sister, who “took it very seriously” because she was, at the time, planning a large wedding of her own.

In Tanzania, Natalie was grateful for Matthew’s companionship and observed his interactions with Tanzanians like a true anthropologist. “Little attention has been given to Euro-American men doing research in Africa,” she says. There’s a certain cultural baggage that white men carry, and though African men won’t physically harass a white woman, nobody hesitated to be aggressive with Matthew.

Back in the U.S., Natalie’s career in cultural anthropology shifted from research to teaching as she began to realize how much she loved facilitating a great classroom environment. And when contacted about the opportunity for a six-month-long position by her friend and Kalamazoo College visiting professor, Victor Torres-Velez, she gave up the energy of New York for new experiences at a liberal arts college.

Natalie’s six-month position stretched into the entire academic year as budget cuts and retiring professors opened new teaching opportunities. By teaching interdepartmental courses like Women and International Development—combining Women’s Studies, Anthropology, and African Studies—a wide variety of students enrolled in classes, including me.

And while Natalie assures me that living in the relatively inactive city of Kalamazoo was worthwhile only because the students were so incredible, next year she’ll be moving on to Mercer University, a liberal arts college in Macon, Georgia. “It’s very much like K,” she says. “It was also founded in 1833 by Baptists, and even has the same school colors.”

Natalie has obtained a tenure track position, which she says “is a huge relief.” Of the twenty-five or so schools she applied to, about half of them cut the prospective position before she could even interview due to massive budget cuts currently affecting almost all institutions of higher learning. Still, this New Yorker is a little nervous about living in the South.

When Natalie asks about my plans after graduation, I tell her I'm going to New York and she looks a bit jealous. But I don't have a job, I say, and in this economy it's going to be difficult. And she agrees. But then she tells me I have to go to grad school, if not now then eventually, and I'm flattered. "Okay," I want to tell her, "but only because you said so."

Sigh...

2009-05-13T09:45:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's just that it's Seventh Week and I'm pretty exhausted, but I didn't feel as engaged with the reading for this week as I have in the past. The "Ethics" section in Telling True Stories didn't contain anything really new or surprising. Of course the interviewee should know what they're getting into and if they say something shouldn't go in the article it shouldn't go in. It's something I dealt with in writing my profile and I didn't need to read TTS beforehand. The only segments that seemed worth reading were the anecdotes told by reporters about experiences in which they learned something about their own ethics. These stories were interesting, but the overall message seemed to be that writers need to have experiences with reporting. It's not until you're tested that you truly know where you stand and what you're willing to sacrifice.

I like Ted Conover. He's appropriately present and observant in "The Road is Very Unfair," and it's clear he was willing to take risks (and even risk his life) to get the story. I think that Kramer made a mistake in "Access" when he explicitly stated why he was in Eastern Europe at the beginning of the piece. It made him stand out even more than he already did in scene. It felt like he was putting himself above everyone else, not only as a reporter, but as an American. Maybe this was necessary in making some sort of a statement about "international friendship," but his relationships with people he encountered didn't seem authentic enough for that to be the case. Conover, on the other hand, was like a sponge journalist, absorbing everything around him even as he was simply a guest on the journey. If I had to choose to have coffee with Conover or Kramer, based on the voice in these two pieces, I'd pick Conover. He's more amiable and vulnerable, and his storytelling really drew me in.

Still, "Access" was neat for me to read because, despite being Ukranian, I know very little about the country and its culture. Descriptions of people, places, and food were rewarding to the senses, and sometimes comical (e.g. the "odd, red-haired high school English teacher" and his use of caricatured British mannerisms and phrases). And the Marlboros. Really fascinating.

Profile Responses

2009-05-06T09:39:00.000-07:00

Mary:

Great ending. This piece is really entertaining and intriguing, and you have a lot of layers going on. I care more about what is said about humanity and the employees' stories than I do about description. It seems like if you've seen one convenience store you've seen them all. I love your little witty bits like, "it's bound to be breakfast eventually," and the description of the poster board with the store's motto. Your writing has character. I want to hear more about Paul and Will as individuals, however, because here they're lumped together and might as well be the same person.

I'd like you to explore more of the conflict surrounding racist and classist judgments that are made by Paul and Will. It seems like they're not trying to do it--even consciously making an effort to avoid it--but it sort of happens anyway. Nice work, and I'm looking forward to reading the final.

Camilo:

There are a lot of good things in this first draft about death. I get the sense that Linda is comfortable with death, but she absolutely loves life. It's admirable that she's beginning a new chapter in her life at age 60, and you've captured a lot of her character. The dialogue and quotes help with this. She has a strong voice, and I'd like to see the piece end with something a bit less impersonal than an e-mail for this reason.

It's tough to get a sense of the "I" character. What is your relationship with Linda? That'll help with the talk of hugging because if you don't know her very well it'll make her behavior all the more strange and touching. I think you have to decide whether or not you want to be a presence in the piece. It could go either way, but might be strengthened by your story as an international student who has found a friend in a college staff member. Nice job.

Maureen:

So, does Jane not know that Germany is famous for beer and that Europeans consume more alcohol per week than Americans on average? It's tough for me to get a feel for her. She seems nice and kind of shy, but she calls women 'sluts,' and she doesn't like crowds or people, but she's looking forward to studying abroad in Germany. What do these contradictions mean?

I'd like to see more description, more physical characteristics and meaningful action. The most meaningful action you have here is when Jane looks at the poster and explains why she goes to bed so early. It's concise, and it says a lot without going overboard.

Also, I'm having difficulty figuring out the relationship between the girls. Jane doesn't want friends, or doesn't need them, she says, but she seems to have found a group of women in which she has found companionship. Is her definition of friendship different than others?

Marni:

You've captured some great bits about cultural differences in this piece. It says a lot about politeness and discipline, and human interactions across cultures in general. The dialogue and stand-alone quotes are well chosen and really capture Kunii's voice. And the comment from Amel is cute. I don't know how I would describe that concept to an international student if I had to.

This is a good start, but I'd like to know more personal information about Kunii. You've only scratched the surface of her as a student. What does she think about cafeteria food? Does she cook in the dorms? Did she make friends easily? What does she miss most about her home country?

Joseph:

It sounds like this was a fantastic story to have been assigned as an intern, and I can tell you've put a great amount of time into doing your research. I'm not sure if you meant this, but Johnny seems unimpressive to me. It's like he's the stereotype of a musician, or maybe the combination of a bunch of stereotypes--compared to Tom Waits, ex-smoker with a minimalist apartment in New York City. The scene in the park with the children and the balloons is what makes the piece worth reading. It's intriguing.

You mentioned this when I ran into you earlier this week outside Humphrey House, and I agree that you need to work on your tenses. I'd probably bring everything into present and recent past. See my changes within the piece. Good work, though.

Colin:

This piece is very gloomy, which is appropriate because the murder that happened in the restroom at the train station was so tragic and unexpected, and unfortunately discovered by a young boy. It was a patient released from the psychiatric hospital because they didn't have enough room, I believe. That would be interesting to include because the train station caters to a lot of people with no place to go in addition to those who are going places fast. Avoid cliches about death and time, if you can.

The description at the beginning is well done, but there's way too much of it. I thought you'd get to the infamous murder right away, but it took a really long time. Also, I'd like to see you do interviews yourself and become more of a character than an observer. You should be active, and the second person, addressing the reader, doesn't work so well for me.

Lindsey:

This piece feels like much more of a review than a profile, and it's promotional. I have a hard time believing you're as emotionally attached and into the place as you make it seem. Here there's no conflict, so for anyone who doesn't live in the Kalamazoo area it might not be worth reading.

Because I profiled the Strutt several weeks ago for The Index, I know Bain is an interesting, almost abrasive character. He's a dreamer, and super enthusiastic about the place, but he's a little overwhelming to deal with. I know some of the employees have had issues, so really talk to them. It seems like the staff has a really high rate of turnover, and there must be a reason for this.

Exquisite for Now

2009-05-04T13:09:00.000-07:00

The view from the third floor corner studio in the massive Park Trades Center building is anything but extraordinary—barren rooftops, a McDonald’s drive-thru, a used car lot, a soup kitchen. And Kalamazoo’s skyline is particularly dreary this afternoon as the cold spring rain pelts the window panes. Beverly Fitzpatrick, one of the original members of the Exquisite Corpse arts collective, sits alone awaiting the arrival of the two artists who will help her install the new exhibit in their tiny gallery space. Snuggled into an oversized heather gray sweatshirt and slouching in a lime green vinyl chair, she seems cheery despite the weather, despite her coworkers’ tardiness.

While the other three individuals who share the studio are students, Fitzpatrick moved to Kalamazoo 10 years ago after briefly being enrolled at the Massachusetts College of Art. “It was a matter of the heart,” she says with an air of sadness and a nervous laugh. But Fitzpatrick is glad to have fallen in with a strong “creative-type community” and is well established as a barista and manager of the smoky Fourth Coast Café just down the street. With jet black hair pulled back in knotted pigtails and a mousy face that is the epitome of cute, Fitzpatrick has found her niche, and she seems happy.

It’s tough to imagine anyone would feel differently in Exquisite Corpse. The small room which serves as the workspace for four artists is crowded with an overwhelming amount of fantastic, colorful artwork. Every square inch of wall is covered with collages, watercolors, drawings, and amusing magazine clippings. Framed textiles haphazardly lean against mismatched furniture, and bright origami paper flowers are scattered across a desk and the wooden floor beneath.

The four young artists who spend countless hours in this room have created a haven. And according to Fitzpatrick, the collective began with this in mind. “It started as a side project,” she said, “so everyone could have a space outside of home to work and to promote ourselves, but also our friends and other artists.” After three years, Fitzpatrick is the only original member involved, but the focus of the group is still the same—to create community and provide emerging artists with a low-key space for their first shows. One of the best parts of being in charge of a gallery space, Fitzpatrick says, is simply being in charge, without the politics of the formal arts community.

The downside is, of course, that a relaxed environment facilitates a relaxed attitude toward shared responsibilities. For this reason one of the members no longer wishes to be involved in group activities, though she will make her contribution toward the rent and keep her workspace until she leaves for a program at the University of Tennessee in the fall. And Fitzpatrick seems to be alone in setting up the May exhibit, “Notably Unnoticed,” until Heidi Weiss finally rushes in and says their fourth member, Tom Howes, will be even later than planned because he is having difficulty setting up a private show at a gallery across town. Weiss will be leaving in the fall as well, to begin a textile program at Cranbrook Academy of Art.

Currently, though, Weiss is a strong presence, a flurry of energy with large sunglasses bobbling atop a head of short curly brown hair. She grabs a roller and white paint, touching up some spots that were missed while striking the last exhibit. This exhibit is a concept show about the artistic process, and she discusses the submissions with Fitzpatrick and asserts that there was some difficulty in categorizing work submitted by 17 local artists, both professionals and students. The exhibit will feature by-products of art rather than final products. Weiss spreads the submissions on a large table: a twisted chunk of metal still covered with the sand in which it was cast, a sampling of overexposed photos, paint-dribbled newspaper, and bright candy sprinkles in a cylindrical plastic mold. She begins to take them one by one, lining them up on the floor next to clean white walls.

When Howes arrives dressed in a red plaid shirt and baseball cap he’s jittery from the excitement of setting up his private show. He apologizes for being late and gets right to work peeling the taped cardstock off a matted piece of newspaper with swirled drips of paint. “I can’t believe she felt like she had to mat this,” he says, “as if she had to qualify what it is.” The piece will hang raw and unframed, as evidence of something more permanent.

As an artist who works almost entirely in collages, Fitzpatrick has given a lot of thought to the subject of permanence. The magazine clippings and paper scraps she works with have acidity levels that are not conducive to long-term preservation, but she doesn’t mind. “It’s my arts philosophy,” she says. “I kind of like the idea of things being temporary.”

The next day the gallery is open to the public in the citywide May Art Hop. Exquisite Corpse feels less like a refuge as small children run across the floor and old couples gawk at a print that hangs above the desk with the origami paper flowers. Beverly stands in the back of the room and talks on the phone with a friend who is doing an internship in Seattle. They’ve asked her to stay longer and she’s not sure if she’s coming back to Kalamazoo.

Guests wander in and out of the gallery space, its clean white walls now decorated with art by-products. These are happy mistakes, vibrant and provocative. A sheet of Howe’s pointillism watercolor confetti proudly appears next to bright spheres of clay stuck into the wall on pins. A scrap of Weiss’ tulle threaded with experimental stitches stirs slightly as people pass by. Even the skeletons of Fitzpatrick’s magazine clippings appear joyful against the stark white wall. The art featured here wasn’t supposed to be; it’s as if it has been given a second chance.

When the exhibit is taken down and the gallery walls are bare, it’s unclear what will happen to these rescued pieces of honorary art. But tonight their temporality is remarkable, and what will be one of the group’s last shows together is undeniably a success. Like the surrealist drawing game for which the arts collective is named, Exquisite Corpse will see artists come and go. For now, it’s up to Fitzpatrick to take responsibility for its perpetuation.

Interfaith Matzo Balls (Revision)

2009-04-30T08:16:00.000-07:00

Sorry, I forgot to post this earlier.

My parents chose for me to be one of the Chosen. Long before I was born, my Catholic mother and Jewish father decided they would send their children to Hebrew school to learn songs about Israel and practice the Hebrew alphabet. My mother, privately devout and outwardly supportive of the strong community that the reform synagogue in Kalamazoo, Michigan had to offer, compromised. And when my grandma tried to pull me, in blonde pigtails and one-piece fleece pajamas, from my crib in the middle of the night to have a secret emergency baptism, my mother stood in the doorway in the form of a shadowy figure who was determined to raise her children properly Jewish. She would, despite her background, establish our personal traditions.

The worksheets that my siblings and I brought home from the synagogue, covered in sticky apple juice spills and crayon scribbles, helped inform our religious practices as a family. The convenience of a variety of delicious foods that we learned corresponded to each of the many Jewish holidays throughout the year—sweet shortbread and jam hamentashen cookies for Purim, greasy potato latkes for Hanukkah, and fluffy golden matzo balls for Passover—allowed for worship through filling our bellies. We quickly discovered that our Catholic mother was a superb chef of Jewish foods.

Besides being present at family Passover Seders, Mom’s matzo balls were my chicken soup when I was sick, and nobody else’s could compare. As the small Reform synagogue we attended grew in size, community Passover Seders featured a first course of matzo balls which, in size and density, closely resembled the golf balls that one could have found just outside on the green country club lawn. By the time I was in high school, at Southern California Seders hosted by relatives, matzo balls were less compact but still very spongy, floating alone in salty yellow broth.

In college I attempted to make matzo balls for my boyfriend, Jason, a tall student of Christian theology with a Samson-like ponytail whose interest in religious traditions of all sorts warranted a Jewish meal. I was disappointed when my efforts rendered sad, lumpy bits of overcooked matzo meal in a stew of cabbage and carrots and apologized profusely, but he assured me he didn’t know the difference between good and bad matzo balls and enjoyed them nonetheless. I was initially cautious to date such a devout Christian after so many school-aged peers approached me, Bible in hand, to show me passages that indicated my fate of suffering in hell, but I knew he was worth making an interfaith relationship work. I invited him to dinner.

Jason and I had been dating for two years when, on the evening of the Passover Seder, I arrived early to help prepare the dinner. When I walked in the door the wine had already been opened and my dad was setting the dining room table and singing loudly and off key, an infamous song from Hebrew school called “Dayanu.” Though we knew the song was in celebration of the Israelite’s freedom from slavery, the actual words had been long forgotten. My dad preferred to make them up himself, inserting an emphatic “Let my people go!” randomly amid mumbled Hebrew-like words.

In the kitchen Mom was preparing the matzo balls. I tried to learn her methods, observing as she removed the mix of matzo meal, egg, and water from the refrigerator and gently began to scoop the gooey substance from the bowl, lightly patting bits into perfectly round two-inch spheres before dropping them into a large pot of boiling water. Because half of our family is vegetarian and half are ravenous carnivores, both chicken broth and vegetable broth, each with tiny floating bits of celery, carrots, and onion, heated on the back burners of the stove. As the matzo balls cooked in the water, each puffed to twice its size before being removed with a large spoon and transferred to a pot of broth.

By the time Jason arrived and we all sat down my younger sister was banging on the table yelling at my dad to stop singing. Dad reluctantly ceased singing and began the service, but as is tradition my family criticized him every time he mispronounced a word or read a prayer in the wrong order. Eventually he gave up completely and tossed the prayer book in the center of the table, demanding that someone else lead if they thought they could do it better. By this time my mom, the elementary school librarian, was trying to make peace by pulling out her infamous props that correspond to each of the plagues in the Passover story. Plastic locusts and frogs began to fly across the table as my sister mischievously grabbed a handful and heaved it in my direction. Due to her imperfect aim, the ever-polite Jason simply tried to duck, but was pelted with sticky frogs. “Hannah!” I yelled, but she ignored me and continued to throw the toys. My dad began to sing “Dayanu” again, and my mom decided she no longer wished to make peace.

As the table erupted into chaos, I leaned in to Jason and told him to be brave, that I’d be right back. I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the two pots of steaming soup, and walked carefully into the dining room. As everyone spotted the first course, they began to calm down in anticipation of the light, eggy matzo balls. It didn’t matter who was Jewish and who wasn’t, and proper Jewishness was the last thing on everyone’s mind. The estranged prayer book lay in the middle of the table, the meal may not have been entirely kosher, and we weren’t exactly peaceful, but we were together. And Jason got his first taste of good matzo balls, the best Catholic ones around.

Update!

2009-04-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

Beverly called! Tomorrow afternoon a few people are putting up the new exhibit in the gallery and getting ready for Art Hop, and they've invited me to join them. My profile can cover prep for the Hop and the Hop itself.

A Confession:

2009-04-29T05:55:00.000-07:00

I know I said I wanted to get started researching Exquisite Corpse right away, but I've had trouble contacting people. I thought I might be able to head over to the Park Trades Center and explore, but someone informed me I wouldn't be able to get in because it's locked to the public except during Art Hop. Luckily there is an Art Hop this Friday, and if I can't contact somebody before then that'll be my chance.

Perhaps it's time to give up on friends of friends and talk to Marin's pal?

Sinatra Speaks

2009-04-29T05:08:00.000-07:00

"Frank Sinatra has a Cold" is pretty incredible. In my women's studies seminar we've been working with vocal exercises that involve telling our life stories and it's amazing how complex the people who you thought you knew so well become when you begin to see them in more depth. That's the sort of feeling Talese captured when he wrote about the legend indirectly, through observation and interviews with friends and family. The Sinatra presented in the profile is humanized, yet he maintains an almost mythical status. That which makes him legendary is well articulated and clarified, and made stronger by the fact that Talese isn't afraid to share Sinatra's negative characteristics. His descriptions are real and precise:

Frank Sinatra, holding a shot glass of bourbon in his left hand, walked through the crowd. He, unlike some of his friends, was perfectly pressed, his tuxedo tie precisely pointed, his shoes unsmudged. He never seems to lose his dignity, never lets his guard completely down no matter how much he has drunk, nor how long he has been up. He never sways when he walks, like Dean Martin, nor does he ever dance in the aisles or jump up on tables, like Sammy Davis.

A part of Sinatra, no matter where he is, is never there.

The dialogue was also fantastic, and I think serves as a good example of what Benham refers to in "Hearing Our Subjects' Voices: Quotes and Dialogues" from Telling True Stories. "The Best quotes," she says, "aren't stand-alone quotes at all, but dialogue. In "Frank Sinatra has a Cold," dialogue chops up lengthy paragraphs of description and puts the reader directly into the scene. The reader, like Talese, becomes an almost voyeristic observer. It's like eavesdropping on a celebrity, yet its purpose is utilitarian. Brilliant.

But Tracy Kidder's piece, "Memory," is too heavy on dialogue in my opinion. He must have taped conversations, and if he didn't I'd question his accuracy. There were quotes that I actually wanted to see stand alone, because completely in scene they seemed to lose some of their power. For example, on page 373: "I don't think my memory's as sharp," she snaps. "I think I started losing some of that back when I was sixteen. The things I've forgotten are the things I don't mind forgetting." That says a lot about a lifetime of an 83-year-old woman.

Research and Destructive Secrecy

2009-04-21T18:54:00.000-07:00

Two comments on the reading for this week from Telling True stories:

1. Because I am planning to begin gathering information to write my profile as soon as possible, I paid particular attention to the writers' comments on research. There were definitely some inconsistencies. Mark Kramer says, "Save most of the research for late in the process. At that point you only have to find the right information for your story. If you research too early, you have to find out everything" (p. 27). This makes sense to me; I fear I would research the topic of arts collectives too extensively and possibly try to make Exquisite Corpse in Kalamazoo fit some preconceived mold that I have developed. Also, though I am generally very engaged in research and find it enjoyable, I know I could waste a ton of time trying to learn as much as possible about any given subject. On the other hand, Anne Hull says, "Do whatever record-checking you can early on. If you're working with someone over several months and find out something halfway through, that could rearrange everything" (p. 41). Is there a difference between researching places and things and researching people? Checking someone's record beforehand seems almost like criminalizing them, not trusting their motives or even that they are who they say they are. Then again, in the example Marin gave in class, the student who wrote the profile of the homeless man and his crazy stories could have used a little critical forethought.

2. How did Ted Conover get away with it? It's amazing how committed he was to his research, that he inhabited his role as a corrections officer so effectively, and that his entire identity was affected so he eventually had to remind himself he was reporting. It's a great journalistic feat that I'm not sure I could manage. I don't know if I could remain in character so long that I would started to suspend disbelief for myself. But, as Conover writes, "Secrecy is destructive. Only a critically important story can justify it" (p. 37).

I'm eager to discuss the two profiles from Literary Journalism in class. I loved how Orlean created something extraordinary out of the seemingly ordinary life of a 10-year-old boy. Her intro was a little strange. I wasn't sure that her "I" character would become stronger, but it did as she followed Colin in his everday life. I was impressed with the way she weaved research and personal observations in with Colin's story. LeBlanc's "Trina and Trina" was full of action and great description, but I wondered about her involvement as a reporter--chainsmoking with the young girl, facilitating her crack runs, etc. Was she appropriately detached or did she serve as an accomplice?

Profile Pitch

2009-04-20T09:56:00.000-07:00

Everyone who goes to Kalamazoo College seems to know about the People's Food Co-op. It's a grocery store within walking distance, and students who shop there can feel good about contributing to their community and making food choices that are healthier for their bodies and the environment. Many are unaware, however, that there is another cooperative that is equally committed to giving back to Kalamazoo--not through food, but through art. Exquisite Corpse, located in the Park Trades Center, is an artist collective that goes relatively unnoticed except during monthly Art Hops when curious visitors wander into the gallery space. Those fortunate guests, however, are guaranteed a unique aesthetic experience.

In writing my profile, I'll start by focusing on the gallery space and artists' studios within the Park Trades Center. If a particular artist seems worthy of the entire story, I can always focus in on them while doing my research. I've discovered that Exquisite Corpse has a Facebook page and a blog, and have also obtained the phone number of one of their main artists. Beverly, a Kalamazoo College dropout of yonderyear, does amazing collages. She's on vacation right now, but her coworker (at Fourth Coast) told me she'll be back soon and will be willing to speak with me and let me hang around her studio.

Week 4 Profile

2009-04-19T19:50:00.000-07:00

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/05/12/080512fa_fact_max?currentPage=all

Leave me a comment if you want me to discuss anything in particular. Thanks!

Franklin vs. Banaszynski

2009-04-15T07:33:00.000-07:00

I have respect for Jon Franklin and his accomplishments, but reading Writing for Story was made tedious by his lengthy discussion of technique. His points were relevant, and I enjoyed reading and learning from "Mrs. Kelly's Monster" and "The Ballad of Old Man Peters," but his instructions for aspiring writers were almost arrogant, and far from concise. Yes, we are thankful for your contributions to journalism, Mr. Franklin, and we agree that you deserved those awards, but some people don't work the way you do. I am one of those people he describes in the Preface: "A gut writer may know that when his mind locks up, a glass of warm milk followewd by two hours of vigorous exercise will get him back on track..." Personally, getting up at 6 a.m., drinking black coffee, and listening to something like math rock works for me, while analyzing anything too closely does not. It's clear that Franklin didn't have a glorious laptop to work with, and five typewritten copies sounds unfortunate, but all of those rules seem to limiting to me. Thanks to word processing, I can "copy massage" (p. 135) with much less effort.

I was very impressed by Telling True Stories and found its tone much more inspirational than tyrannical. In particular, I enjoyed Jacqui Banaszynski's "Profiles" and had to resist the urge to drop everything and attempt to write something great as soon as I read her second paragraph. I'd love to hunt down her profile about the two gay farmers from Minnesota who were dying of AIDS. The zucchini bread, the impatiens and sweet williams--all of it. She really knows how to make a brilliant story about something that may appear normal on the surface. And asking questions in interviews like, "Is Antarctica male or female, and why?" That's the kind of interview I'd rather read about and/or conduct.

Personal Essay Responses

2009-04-08T14:34:00.000-07:00

Joseph:

Your piece is really very interesting. You describe a situation that many college students would be excited to be thrown into, but your reaction is complicated yet clearly articulated. The racial tension in the city, the class issues in the club, and the “hard lesson learned” as you flee the scene work well together. There is a lot going on.

On a line-by-line level there are only a few problems. Your style is fast-paced and minimalistic, and your points of interest as you describe the club move as fast as I perceived your attention span while you were actually there. The results are fluid and really show your personal voice. I think this could be played up even more. There was so much going on in the moment, I can tell, but you don’t seem too overwhelmed. Were you overwhelmed or ambivalent as you became more and more disgusted?

Also, I’d like to see you bring that moral issue you mentioned toward the beginning back into the piece. Even though there weren’t real burlesque dancers, what was your feminist response? Furthermore, how did this feminist outlook affect your sense of shame after you yelled at your female friend?

Mary:

The first thing that struck me about your personal essay was your tone. It’s very playful, in part due to your brilliant little details (“...Barbies, Spice Girls CDs, and washout hair dye…”), but at moments you become hostile. The effect is a little unnerving, but maybe that’s what you were going for—like being at the wheel for the first time, determined yet maintaining a grudge against your mother.

The turning point is when “frustration simmered over and morphed into action,” which is a really good way of putting it. You had the drive (I swear, it’s impossible to write without making driving references.) because of your mom, despite—or maybe in spite—of her. It’s a complicated situation that you might focus on a little more. What were your underlying feelings? How did this affect your relationship with her?

Also, what about your dad? After reading I know only that your dad was a better driver than your mom. Did your mom’s driving cause tension with him as well?

Overall I think this is a great start, and I can’t imagine learning to drive in New York. Side roads in the middle of nowhere in Michigan were difficult enough to traverse.

Camilo:

Traveling stories are always fun. And to be a student traveling to another country while studying abroad in a different country can cause some real problems. The tension is great from the start, and could be played up even more if you provided more context. I feel like if I didn’t know you it would be hard to figure out your position as a student in the U.S. But I really like the opening and your list of memorized questions. It jumps right into interrogation.

There’s a lot of action in the story, but I think more specific details could be beneficial. The piece almost reads like a news article and I’m impressed that you remember times and places so vividly. But, specifically, I’d like to hear more about the feelings you experienced during and after your interactions with Canadian and U.S. officials. That sense of “feeling guilty,” but not knowing why. And at the end, that you told the immigration officer you weren’t upset and then qualified it, saying you really weren’t, is significant. What have you learned about yourself, and how much did your negative experience with the Canadian police officers tarnish your memories of the road trip?

Maureen:

The opening is very good. It sets the scene and reveals a lot about you as a student and your environment growing up, and from there you dig deeper and begin to discuss your insecurities. It flows very well into the main problem. And your tone is very casual, as if you’re telling the story to a good female friend.

I’d like to hear more about what being Dominican means to you and how it plays into your image. You don’t mention it until half way through the piece, but I think it’s a really important detail that you have a lot of opportunities to expand upon. Did your image change bring out more of your heritage? And how did those new clothes affect the many facets of your self-esteem?

The boy-meets-girl (or maybe girl gets a mini-makeover and feels brave enough to talk to the girl?) story has been told so many times, but it’s the details like those you have included in your piece that make it so interesting. Play up those things that make you unique and it’ll be even better. Anyway, it’s a great start, and I’m eager to read the final.

Marni:

Your first line is really great. It’s simple yet poignant, and grabs my attention immediately. And the way you describe not only the colors of the orchid but also those that surrounded you as you transported the flower lets me know that this is a really vivid experience for you. I thought maybe you should mention that you were in Thailand earlier, but after reading the piece a second time I think it actually works well. It’s suspenseful because you get a feel for the environment but you wonder where you were exactly.

I’m a little confused about the relationships. It was the second host family you stayed with, and you gave the orchid with two buds as a symbol for your host mother’s two daughters? Who are the daughters? Did she have any other children besides the son who was killed?

The story works very well in general, but I’d like to hear a little more about your overall experience in Thailand. I can tell it was difficult for you to communicate, and that it was easy to get lost. Did this get easier? I feel like the flower symbolizes a lot more than the two daughters, but I can’t tell what. Maybe I’m missing it, but help out the dummies like me!

Colin:

I like how you describe your gear upon arrival for Land-Sea, and your comment, “I looked like the most [expensively-dressed] homeless person ever. It starts the reader off slow, but lets them know you’re not going to censor yourself in any way. You’re harsh on yourself, but also very critical of the people around you.

After the opening the action moves pretty quickly, and that seems realistic. You’re meeting all of these new people, thrown into an unfamiliar environment, and unsure what to expect. As someone who didn’t go on Land-Sea, I still get the sense of what it was like to anticipate going out into the wilderness with a bunch of strangers.

I’d like to see you focus more on the changes you saw in yourself after this initial Kalamazoo College experience. Did your attitude toward yourself and others change? I can’t really figure it out because the end is so sudden and summarized. How was your outlook on college life and being away from home altered? You were one of the few students who weren’t from Michigan, so how did this factor into your experience?

Lindsey:

I know you’re planning to shorten this piece and were looking for suggestions, and I think you should be able to cut some of the background information in order to focus on the climactic violin smashing. It took a long time to get to this momentous event, and you very effectively gave the reader a sense of the kind of child you were right off the bat. What kind of a woman was your mother? I know that she was just a witch in your eyes, but in retrospect how do you see her? Do you still view her the same way?

It’s funny, my little sister did the exact same thing. My brother played the piano, I played the cello, and my youngest sister was supposed to complete the trio. But she threw the violin across the room. The action toward the end of the story, when you actually break the violin, moves quickly and works very well. The beginning doesn’t have the same movement, and is angry and stagnant.

In the end, I’d like to hear more about how the destruction of the violin changed your life. What happened afterward, and how does looking back on that event make you feel now?

Interfaith Matzo Balls

2009-04-06T06:35:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has ever been to a Passover Seder, or even come in contact with the Jewish foods section of a major grocery store, knows that matzo balls are a staple in the Jewish diet. Regardless of whether one was raised in the Orthodox community or as part of a less observant Conservative or Reform movement, and whether or not one grew up observing kosher dietary laws, matzo balls—unleavened bread crumbs mixed with egg and formed into balls dropped into boiling broth—are an important symbol of comfort and devoutness. Food and worship, for Jews from a variety of backgrounds in the U.S. and around the world, are inseparable.

Growing up my siblings and I attended a Reform synagogue in Kalamazoo, Michigan. As the children of a Catholic mother and Jewish father, we were not considered Jewish enough to attend the larger Conservative synagogue in town. Nonetheless, we went to Hebrew school weekly to learn songs about Israel and practice our Hebrew alphabet, and regularly brought home worksheets about Jewish holidays, each one covered in crayon scribbles and sticky apple juice spills. My Catholic mother decided we would learn about each celebration and together worship as a family. After a quick trip to Barnes and Noble, equipped with a brand new Jewish cookbook, she made her first attempt at matzo ball soup.

In my lifetime I have encountered a variety of matzo balls. As the synagogue we attended grew in size, community Passover Seders featured a first course of matzo balls which, in size and density, closely resembled the golf balls that one could have found just outside on the green country club lawn. By the time I was in high school, at Southern California Seders hosted by relatives, matzo balls were less compact but still very spongy, floating alone in salty yellow broth. My one attempt to make matzo ball soup for my boyfriend in college rendered sad, lumpy bits of overcooked matzo meal in a stew of cabbage and carrots. I apologized profusely, but he assured me he didn’t know the difference between good and bad matzo balls, and enjoyed them nonetheless. Of the many matzo balls that I have consumed, never in my life have I encountered a matzo ball that rivaled those made by my mother.

I invited my boyfriend to my family’s annual Passover Seder in the second year we had been dating. On the evening of the Seder I arrived early to help prepare the dinner. The wine had already been opened, and my dad was setting the dining room table and singing loudly and off key, an infamous song from Hebrew school called “Dayanu.” Though we know the song is in celebration of the Israelite’s freedom from slavery, the actual words have been long forgotten. My dad has since preferred to make them up himself, inserting an emphatic “Let my people go!” randomly amidst mumbled Hebrew-like words.

In the kitchen my mother was preparing the matzo balls. I watched as she removed the mix of matzo meal, egg, and water from the refrigerator and gently began to scoop the gooey substance from the bowl, lightly patting bits into perfectly round two-inch spheres before dropping them into a large pot of boiling water. Because half of our family is vegetarian and half are ravenous carnivores, the chicken broth and vegetable broth, both with tiny floating bits of celery, carrots, and onion, heated on the back burners of the stove. As the matzo balls cooked in the water, each puffed to twice its size before being removed with a large spoon and transferred to a pot of broth.

By the time my boyfriend arrived and we all sat down my sister was banging on the table yelling at my dad to stop singing. Dad reluctantly ceased signing and began the service, but as is tradition my family criticized him every time he mispronounced a word or read a prayer in the wrong order— not because we cared, but because it’s always fun to get him riled up. Eventually he gave up completely and tossed the prayer book in the center of the table, demanding that someone else lead if they thought they could do it better. By this time my mom, the elementary school librarian, was trying to make peace by pulling out her infamous props that correspond to each of the plagues in the Passover story. Plastic locusts and frogs began to fly across the table as my sister mischievously grabbed a handful and heaved it in my direction. Due to her imperfect aim, my boyfriend tried to duck but was pelted with sticky frogs. “Hannah!” I yelled at her, but she ignored me and continued to throw the toys. My dad began to sing “Dayanu” again, and my mom decided she no longer wished to make peace.

As the table erupted into chaos, I leaned in to my boyfriend and told him to be brave, and that I'd be right back. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the two pots of steaming soup, and walked carefully back into the dining room. As everyone spotted the first course, they began to calm down in anticipation of delicious, fluffy matzo balls. And as everyone was served, I decided that "sacred" was a relative term. The estranged prayer book lay in the middle of the table, the meal may not have been entirely kosher, and we weren't exactly peaceful, but we were together. And my boyfriend got his first taste of good matzo balls, the best Catholic ones around.