memoir

Reading Lips: A Memoir of Kisses

payal — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Let the whole world put on a pair of rubber gloves and plunder and pillage. We have no secrets any longer. We have become public property.

Women who write about their lives face challenges that male writers do not. Not only are women charged with writing about their own lives, with creating selfhood on paper, they are somehow additionally responsible for upholding the idea of womanhood. In this way, they bear the responsibility for representing, and in a sense, for creating the lives of all women. (Considering the diversity of possible identities which women take on for themselves, this is at the very least, a difficult task.)

While we might ask whether a woman writer should even be obligated to tell a story other than her own, for women who read life writing, the question might as easily become: which parts of a woman’s life are hers and which belong, through the construction of womanhood, to all women? Which part of this woman’s life is mine?

In Reading Lips: A Memoir of Kisses, Claudia Sternbach navigates the terrain of personal memories and public ones. Through her nimble use of language, which is delightfully suffused with sarcasm, she connects with women of various ages and experiences. The emotions of the moments, if not the moments themselves, ring true to experience.

“But please,” she writes to her future husband, “You and your soon-to-be platonic friend, enjoy the pool. Enjoy the tennis courts. Bring her up here to the rose garden for a picnic.”

Sternbach also connects with women by wittily drawing on cultural references or events that are familiar to every reader: “…Ma won’t let me leave until my plate is cleaned. Because you know about those starving babies in China.”

While Sternbach never states that she is speaking to a specific idea of womanhood and, in fact, directly backs away from the idea that she speaks for anyone, the effect of this effort to form a connection with other women and their lives is that Reading Lips is less a story of one woman’s life, and much more a celebration of the experience of living a woman’s life. It is a celebration of an idea of womanhood in which “Teddy put his lips right up to mine and they stayed there … and right then I could see our whole long lives.”

Written by: Elizabeth Brasher, April 29th 2011

Made for You and Me: Going West, Going Broke and Finding Home

andrea — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 08:00:00 +0000

By Caitlin Shetterly

Hyperion Voice Press

I’m sharing this book with everyone I know. Caitlin Shetterly’s Made for You and Me: Going West, Going Broke and Finding Home is a strong memoir about a young couple going broke in the recession and it gives readers the satisfying feeling of walking around someone else’s shoes for 250 pages. We’re all connected by some basic humanity and a good memoir reinforces this connection as we don the cloak of another with ease.

Caitlin Shetterly’s Made for You and Me doesn’t simply resonate for us at the level of humanity. It is us. Within the first few pages I learned we are the same age and as she discussed her career moves, life plans and even the love of her pets, I felt we were kindred spirits. Though this may be true, I must attribute this to Shetterly’s writing style more so than the potential that we are long lost siblings. One key element she mentions after a few lengthy tales of her family pets is that writers often neglect the importance of pets in a tale, or even in a life. She refuses to subscribe to this and keeps her promise throughout the tale by consistently accounting for the pets’ needs and whereabouts at every step of their journey.

The pets aren’t the whole story, however. Caitlin Shetterly and her husband Dan Davis struggle through mid-thirties job searches, the want for something more, and the need for some basic success amid an economic recession that brings it all to a screeching halt. The pair is an example of the hidden layers beneath the CNN-drafted economic tag lines and phrases pundits regurgitate at us daily. They are the living, breathing case that represents us.

What’s so endearing about this book is that not only do you recognize the story and eagerly peel back its layers, but you also come to feel the very real emotional stresses that television news stories are leaving out. Particularly moving in Shetterly’s storytelling is her ability to frame her husband through the nuanced lens of gender expectations. These two critically educated people know that they’re held to ideological gender standards and in many places in their lives seem to balk at the hegemonic practices that secure them. Yet, Shetterly’s descriptions of her husband’s transformation strikes at the very core of how masculinity is a powerful framing force that deeply impacts the psyche of men and women alike.

You feel for both of them, but what’s moving the story is the way her gentle, honest tone captures the nuance we need to see in order to understand this is us, this is how we plan our lives, this is what we want for ourselves.

Shetterly frames the story around my childhood favorite, the Laura Ingalls Wilder series, Little House on the Prairie. Little House’s Manifest Destiny, coupled with the lyrics of “This Land is Your Land,” act as a critique woven throughout the story of their financial struggle, and her tale becomes a memoir with more take-away meaning than most. The mirror she holds up to us reminds us that the American Dream is complex, and that the drive within you has as much potential as a Horatio Alger success story as well as the potential to break you with exhaustion, crisis, trepidation and economics. It is this paradox that is particularly comforting and engaging about Shetterly’s story. Her recession tale sheds light on more than just a tough economy. We often argue that the ideology of capitalism and the American Dream have been disrupted, and we do not live in the world, economic or otherwise, that our parents or grandparents did. Shetterly’s work shows us that the resulting reality is complex and dynamic and many of us are struggling within it.

Basic ideas about family, support, goals, ambitions, and working hard are surely themes across the surface of Caitlin Shetterly’s Made for You and Me: Going West, Going Broke and Finding Home. But Shetterly also takes those themes and moves them from trite assumptions about how we are to live and packs them full of the struggle they cause us, inside and out, when we’re simply fighting for survival.

Written by: Dr. Julie E. Ferris, March 8th 2011

Poser: My Life in Twenty-Three Yoga Poses

gwen — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

By Claire Dederer

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

I’ve always wondered what prompts people to write memoirs. It’s one thing to be a celebrity riding the wave of success, but quite another to be a regular Jane baring it all for the judgment of strangers. As a critic for publications as prestigious as The New York Times, Claire Dederer is no stranger to criticism; nor does she seem to fear it. In her first book, Poser: My Life in Twenty-Three Yoga Poses, she bravely opens the cloak of privacy to reveal herself to the world. I suppose she is a writer who was ready to tell her own story for once, as opposed to reviewing those of others. Full of sincerity and love, this book is a cleverly written homage to her family, her friends, her marriage, and of course, her yoga.

Those of you turned off by “yoga” in the title should reconsider, as this is nothing like the New Age self-indulgence that has given the ancient tradition a bad reputation. Instead, Dederer loosely ties her yoga practice to the peaks and valleys of her life. In each chapter she recalls anecdotes and tells them in the context of a different yoga pose. This structural device offers comic relief and surprising tangents like this: “Back in college, we used to have a silly rubric: Never have sex with anyone who doesn’t like Van Morrison…based on the fact that [he] is embarrassing, and sex is embarrassing.” Then onto the next paragraph: “And Lion was embarrassing. It made you feel like Van Morrison, all uncontrollable noises and strange eruptions.” These are also moments for the reader to self-reflect, and this is where her writing is most profound and relatable.

Apart from being an extremely talented writer, she is a poster child for the ultimate alternative generation. In typical Northwest grunge fashion, Dederer is admirably cool without trying. Her book is packed with dry wit, self-deprecation, and cultural references that I only understand because of my older, Gen-X sister. After enough time self-reflecting in Seattle, a city known for its constant self-perfecting, Dederer and her husband move to the mountains of Boulder. This is when she dives into the implications of her childhood, the fine line between selfishness and personal happiness, and the pros and cons of moving back home.

These universal and common issues make for a fascinating memoir that only a serious writer could pull off successfully. From beginning to end, this book carries the mantra that life can be as bizarre as putting your feet behind your head, and also as rewarding. Paraphrasing Patanjali in one of his Yoga Sutras: Yoga becomes firmly grounded when it is practiced for a long time, without a break, and with sincere devotion. I’d say that’s true of most good things in life, and why Dederer would choose yoga as the unifying theme for a book as dear to her heart as this. At one point she reflects, “What happens when a generation of children grows up with all these comings and goings; when a generation of children grows up with parents who want to be free, and who think that freedom is movement?” Well, Claire Dederer has personally shown us just exactly what happens, and why she chose to dig her heels in and never give up on her practice.

We sometimes duplicate a review. Click here for another writer's take on _Poser.

Written by: Katy Pine, February 23rd 2011

An American Radical: Political Prisoner in My Own Country

brittany — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 20:00:00 +0000

By Susan Rosenberg

Citadel/Kensington

Twenty-seven years ago, activists Susan Rosenberg and Timothy Blunk were caught transporting explosives to a New Jersey storage facility. Although the pair had no immediate plans to use the incendiary materials, they—and their comrades in the May 19 Communist Party—were stockpiling them for a revolution they believed was imminent.

Rosenberg’s searing memoir, An American Radical—a chronicle of sixteen years spent in four U.S. prisons—doesn’t spend much time analyzing the reasoning behind this idea. Instead, it focuses on the government’s treatment of incarcerated political opponents. Rosenberg describes heinous abuses, from 24/7 surveillance, to sleep deprivation, overcrowding, medical neglect, and outright nastiness by prison employees. Rehabilitation? Rosenberg scoffs. The High Security Units in which political prisoners are kept, she writes, “seek to reduce prisoners to a state of submission essential for their ideological conversion. That failing, the next objective is to reduce them to a state of psychological incompetence sufficient to neutralize them as efficient self-directing antagonists. That failing, the only alternative is to destroy them, preferably by making them desperate enough to destroy themselves.”

Nowhere is this clearer than in a chapter entitled “My Father.” In it, Rosenberg offers a painful reflection on her attempt to visit her terminally ill dad. “A prisoner may request a two-hour deathbed visit or attendance at the funeral,” she writes. “A prisoner may not request both. If granted permission for the visit, the prisoner must pay the salary of the accompanying security detail.” The machinations that followed Rosenberg’s request are mind-boggling. Despite appeals from a host of people—including her lawyers, a family rabbi, and Congressman Jerrold Nadler—the warden denied Rosenberg’s petition, stating that the nature of her conviction made her too much of a flight risk. Appeal after appeal followed—all of them unsuccessful. Then something—to this day Rosenberg doesn’t know what—shifted and out of nowhere she got word that the visit was approved.

First, however, there were documents for Rosenberg to sign, swearing not to escape. She was later prepared for the journey: “The lieutenant cuffed me, but did not wrap me in chains... They put me in a car and drove me to a small airport where we boarded an eight-seat Learjet… We were met by a small army. There were more than fifty agents of every variety and rank: state police, Westchester County police, Danbury Bureau of Prison personnel, FBI agents, and U.S. marshals—all these people assembled to take me to the Danbury, Connecticut hospital.” After a short supervised visit, Rosenberg returned to her cell in Marianna Prison, grateful to have said goodbye to her beloved father but acutely aware of the class privilege that made the encounter possible.

Rosenberg rails at the racism, sexism, homophobia, and classism that define prison life and An American Radical is brimming with fury at the inequities she and other female prisoners were forced to endure. Whether focusing on AIDS or the disproportionate punishments meted out to political prisoners—Rosenberg, for example, was given fifty-eight years for weapons possession, an offense that typically carries a five-year sentence--her struggle to retain her humanity is both laudable and inspiring.

President Clinton granted Rosenberg executive clemency on his last day in office, January 20, 2001. While the book ends here—and says nothing about her activities during the subsequent ten years—Rosenberg turns a floodlight on the many political prisoners still languishing in U.S. jails. “The government does not recognize the existence of political prisoners in our country,” she writes. An American Radical shatters the denial that has allowed this to occur.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, February 11th 2011

Jealousy: The Other Life of Catherine M.

alicia — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 08:00:00 +0000

By Catherine Millet

Grove Press

I am at a loss as to how to review Jealousy: The Other Life of Catherine M. I suppose that’s not a very good way to write a review, but it’s the truth. After reading this memoir, I feel as though I know nothing about the author Catherine, her partner Jacques, or any of the nameless lovers that passed through both of their lives.

Catherine Millet is an art critic, and, in her words, a libertine. Her first memoir, The Sexual Life of Catherine M., was the story of her life told through the numerous sexual encounters she has had. She participated in outdoor sex, orgies, and same sex encounters, among others. In Jealousy, Catherine let us into the love side of her life. “I had love at home. I sought only pleasure in the world outside.” When she discovers her partner Jacques has had numerous affairs, she is devastated. She obsesses over his affairs, trying to figure out when they occurred, with whom and who knew.

Yet, her narrative voice is disconcerting. In The Sexual Life of Catherine M., the detached voice Millet writes with was a fascinating way to present such lusty endeavors. In Jealousy, that detachment becomes a wall between the author and her audience. It began to feel less like a narrative decision and more like Millet is detached from herself. When she casually mentions that her previous partner beat her, but “I never saw any anger in his face,” it is legitimately hard to judge how to take that information. Her descriptions of how she dealt with Jacques’ betrayal are similarly detached. “Discovering the name to match the initial, putting a face to it, piecing together a set of circumstances and a precise place, based on a given date. And above all, translating two or three words used by Jacques into a whole dialogue, with gestures and speech, between him and the figure I had created, with more or less accuracy.” She channels all of her angry, jealousy, and rage into sexual fantasies that both humiliate and empower her.

She admits that Jacques was not happy at her sexual life when they met, and that they had never discussed the boundaries in their relationship. She never connects his actions with her own. Because Jacques is so enigmatic, her reaction seems much more like an overreaction. He is so far removed that he is more of a concept than a person. The memoir needed him as much as her, and without him, it feels imbalanced.

I do not know whether to tell you to read the book or not. If you enjoyed The Sexual Life of Catherine M., Jealousy may be the perfect complement to it. If you did not like Sexual Life, you will not like Jealousy. Also, if you haven’t read Sexual Life, then this is not the book for you.

Written by: Taylor Rhodes, January 13th 2011

Gay Bar: The Fabulous, True Story of a Daring Woman and Her Boys in the 1950s

annette — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 12:00:00 +0000

By Will Fellows, Helen P. Branson

University of Wisconsin Press

Will Fellows has uncovered a gem with Gay Bar, a re-issue of the 1957 novel by Helen Branson. The original memoir, typed up on an old Polish typewriter, tells the tale of the gay establishment she operated in 1950s Los Angeles. The story revolves heavily around her clientele, a group of businessmen and entrepreneurs whom she affectionately refers to as “her boys.”

While most gay bars of the era were sketchy at best, Branson was committed to providing a clean and safe environment for her boys. She was notoriously strict about the men she allowed into her bar. Newcomers would be screened upon arrival and “troublemakers” would be thrown out without a moment’s hesitation. Helen’s commitment to maintaining her bar, combined with the affection she felt for her boys, are what garnered her loyal following. For the men that frequented her establishment, Branson was more than just a bar maid. She became a part of their lives, often acting as counselor and friend.

Branson’s book is notable for a few reasons. Aside from being one of the first-known publications written by a heterosexual to treat gay men with any semblance of respect, Branson’s portrayal of homosexuality stands in stark contrast to academic publications of the time. While most papers categorized homosexuals as “deviants,” Branson outlines the similarities between hetero and homosexuals. She makes a point to tell the individual stories of her clients, demonstrating a human side to a group that was generally thought of as selfish and unfeeling.

Fellows provides social commentary throughout the book alongside passages from era-appropriate, gay-friendly publications. This, in combination with Branson’s assertion that her boys grappled with “real problems”, help create an authentic snapshot of 1950s gay culture. Excerpts from ONE Magazine, the first pro-gay publication in the United States, outline the loneliness, anger, and frustration that some homosexual males endured.

Gay Bar is not an academic piece, but rather, a story of friendship and compassion. While Fellows’ commentary demonstrates how far gay rights have progressed, it also serves as a reminder that ignorance and stigma persist. Homosexuals continue to face enormous societal challenges, largely due to a lack of understanding. It is for this very reason that books like Branson’s are so important. I do not only recommend Gay Bar for its readability but also for its empathy.

We would all be better off if we learned to embrace one another as readily as Helen Branson.

Written by: Cheryl Santa Maria, December 6th 2010

Are You My Guru? How Medicine, Meditation, and Madonna Saved my Life

barbara — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Wendy Shanker

Penguin

Are You My Guru: How Medicine, Meditation, and Madonna Saved My Life is Wendy Shanker’s follow-up to The Fat Girl’s Guide to Life. It is a hilarious and inspiring account of Shanker’s battle with Wegener’s disease, a rare autoimmune disease that results in inflammation of blood vessels in various organs. Using her love of Madonna as well as her journey in trying to find treatment in traditional and alternative forms of medicine, Shanker dangerously treads Eat Pray Love territory but ultimately gives an honest account of her journey.

The book reads like an open conversation, and I could hear Shanker telling me about her struggles to juggle a fatal disease, her weight, and her stressful work life. Rather than writing as a distant and wise survivor, Shanker writes as a relatable source, another person struggling with her own conflict. Her strength is in writing about the struggles to maintain both physical and spiritual health, and how the two correlate. Rather than reading as a self-help novel, Shanker’s work serves as a self-reflection piece, serving as a conversation piece in understanding how we define health today, particularly as it pertains to women.

While Shanker clearly states that her book is her own journey with finding peace with her condition, Are You My Guru began to resemble Eat Pray Love in some of its more contrived moments of enlightenment. While Shanker used these moments sparingly, I was still hesitant about some of the conveniently “miraculous” moments of the book. Both Gilbert and Shanker speak of random moments of clarity, or messages from God in the most tight of situations. While some of Shanker’s more convenient moments (i.e something she prays for coming true at that moment), may be true, maybe the skeptic in me believes that those moments are there more for substance. Some may read her book and try to use it as the foundation of their own treatment of their own difficulties. However, Shanker is far clearer than Gilbert in cautioning readers that this was her own journey. Her book serves as an encouragement to find a regiment that suits the reader personally. Unlike Gilbert, Shanker maintains her ability to maintain intimacy with the reader.

Though I was more skeptical of some of the more “lucky” moments, where passages were stylized for the sake of substance, these moments did appear sparingly. I think the strongest aspect of Are You My Guru is Shanker’s relentless and honest optimism. Despite the hardships that are constantly thrown at her, she never asks the reader for pity, and that strength is inspiring. Shanker also changed my view of Madonna, someone that I did not really give much thought to as a feminist icon. However, her relationship with her idol is very poignant and entertaining.

Overall, I recommend Are You My Guru. Shanker is honest, vibrant, and hilarious, and I found her story to be thought provoking and well written.

Written by: Sara Yasin, November 13th 2010

Muscogee Daughter: My Sojourn to the Miss America Pageant

tina — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Susan Supernaw

University of Nebraska Press

On the surface, Susan Supernaw’s memoir Muscogee Daughter: My Sojourn to the Miss America Pageant is a story about an unlikely Miss Oklahoma winner and her trip to the 1971 Miss America pageant. The true story, however, is Supernaw’s struggle to escape a childhood marred by extreme poverty and violence and earn the Native American name revealed to her during a near death experience.

While reading the memoir, it was hard to keep in mind that Muscogee Daughter wasn’t a work of fiction. Supernaw’s struggles haunted me long after I finished reading the book, especially the image of her dying grandmother sharing a bed with Supernaw as an ill and abandoned infant.

Supernaw was the fourth daughter in a poor family and her birth was a major disappointment to her father. When she was just a baby her parents left her in the care of her elderly grandparents on a farm in rural Oklahoma so that her father could go back to college. It’s never made clear why her parents took the older girls and left their newborn, but whatever the reason it was ill conceived. By the time she was six months old, Supernaw’s grandmother had died and her mother returned to collect her.

Months of being confined to her grandmother’s bed and being fed cow’s milk and coffee by her inexperienced grandfather landed her in the hospital for many weeks. That would be the first of a handful of close calls in Supernaw’s life and each time she believed she was about to die, a beautiful woman appeared to comfort her. Supernaw believed she was a manifestation of the Corn Mother.

The second time the woman appeared she brought a small dancing bear, a personification of Supernaw’s Native American name. A community elder came to Supernaw’s bed side and advised her to follow her destined path in order to earn the right to her name and earning that name became her primary goal. Paralyzed after a horse riding accident, Supernaw fought to walk again and eventually, she became an athletic high school cheerleader, a Presidential scholar, an accidental beauty queen, and a unifying figure for the eastern and western tribes of Oklahoma.

Supernaw memoir reveals many painful and personal details about her life. We learn of the abusive father who left the family bereft and who was replaced by an even more tyrannical and dangerous step-father, though initially the four girls were happy to have him provide more than the ketchup sandwiches they had been accustomed to eating for dinner.

Supernaw seems to understand that her family’s story is representative of a piece of American history—one that is too often untold; however, it feels like too much was left unsaid. Though she was an anthropology major concerned with human rights, her attitude towards the Civil Rights Act of 1964 is puzzling. Supernaw says that it gave her white boyfriend “an unfair disadvantage and made me feel like I’d been given an unfair advantage.” In later pages she reveals that she “felt a lot of confusion over minority preference,” yet she also felt the sting of racism from her boyfriend who believed her Presidential award was the result of her being a minority. There were was also the cheerleaders’ parents who did not allow her in their homes; the Miss America pageant that treated her like an oddity; and the media that used offensive stereotypes to describe her.

Muscogee Daughter was both fascinating and frustrating. As a reader I wanted to know more about her family and her experience as a woman of color living between white and Native worlds. The importance of earning her Native American name is clear, but the significance of the milestone is not. Nevertheless, Susan Supernaw’s memoir is essential in the narrative of American history.

Written by: Stephanie Sylverne, October 29th 2010

You Have Given Me a Country

caitlin — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Neela Vaswani

Sarabande Books

At the beginning of You Have Given Me a Country, author Neela Vaswani writes, “What follows is real, and imagined.” Thus begins Vaswani's memoir, a dreamy collection of reflections on her family's multiracial, multinational history.

Ashok Vaswani, Neela's father, was born in Sindh (now a province of Pakistan) before the cataclysm of Partition. As a toddler, Ashok fled with his family to the new state of India, where his father found a job as a traveling railroad physician. Later, Ashok traveled to the US to practice medicine and to leave behind a tense postwar economy and a family that had fractured under the pressure of exile. “To my father, nationality was fickle, unreliable,” writes Neela. “My father said, 'Homeland is in the body,' and 'Land is in the blood.'”

Neela's mother, Sheila Vaswani (nee Kent), was born an Irish Catholic American to a family that could beat up and then forgive an uncle who had molested another relative, but that could never accept a gay cousin. Sheila remained a lifelong Catholic, sitting stone-faced at church with her mixed-race daughter, forevermore denied the privilege of communion for having married outside her faith. It was Sheila who castigated Neela's father's colleagues for calling him Frank: “It's not hard. Ashok. Rhymes with Coke.”

The book is told in a loosely chronological series of vignettes and family stories. On the whole, You Have Given Me a Country is told through Neela's eyes, but it is not Neela's story. Although we learn the journeys, prides, and sorrows of Ashok and Sheila, we catch only glimpses of Neela: a nosebleed here, a day in preschool there, and then, at the end, the preparations for her wedding, to a man whom we never really meet. What we do learn about Neela, though, is that she has consistently watched and loved each of her parents, seeing the complexity, the isolation, the miracle of their lives together, creating one tiny space where, as Neela writes, “difference was a way of life. A constant negotiation of respect, ignorance, new understanding... What was not accepted by society was real and lived by me and mine. Love, the great border crosser. No passport required.”

By deliberately framing her story as a “mixed-genre memoir” (which is to say a lived history, but one that refuses to claim perfect allegiance to fact), Vaswani makes a contribution to the contemporary debate about trauma, memory, and narrative. By refusing to promise truth, Vaswani protects her story against anyone, be it relative or critic, who would wish to discredit its accuracy. At the same time, she carves out space to tell as much truth as she wants while still protecting her family's privacy; readers are bound to remember that each story she tells could be a fabrication, after all. (It should be noted that Vaswani is not the first author to take this approach: Audre Lorde's “biomythography” Zami: A New Spelling of My Name comes to mind.)

Critics sometimes have a point when they complain about the accuracy or objectivity of memoirs. However, sometimes these complaints are merely cleverly—and perhaps unconsciously—disguised ruses to silence marginalized stories that are, at best, uncomfortable, and at worst, incriminating. By sidestepping the demand to portray herself as an objective witness, Vaswani shrewdly protects her own story against such attempts to discredit it. Simultaneously, she subtly makes the point that when it comes to narrative, validity and significance stem from something more complicated than mere literal truth.

Vaswani's prose is spare and vivid and her characters richly human. In this series of carefully chosen, effortlessly linked memories, she tells the histories, the romances, and the tragedies of her own family's dance with diaspora, exile, homeland, immigration, identity, and dignity.

Written by: Ri J. Turner, October 20th 2010

I Want to Get Married!: One Wannabe Bride's Misadventures with Handsome Houdinis, Technicolor Grooms, Morality Police, and Other Mr. Not-Quite-Rights

admin — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Nora Eltahawy, Ghada Abdel Aal

University of Texas Press, Dar El Shorouk

The first suitor was a friend of a friend's husband. Along with his family, he came to Ghada's house. He was a doctor, she was told. Excited at the idea of finally meeting a potential husband, she washed the carpets, mopped the floor, scrubbed the stairs, and cleaned all the windows.

She opened the door only to meet Mr. Not-Quite-Right, her technicolor suitor. His shirt was yellow, his pants were blue, and he was wearing purple socks with brown shoes—not to mention the green sweater. "Maybe he is fun and he likes colors", she told herself, in an attempt to convince herself to focus on his personality and brains. The official introduction happened when her father entered the room. "My name is Samy. I'm a physiotherapist," he said. She was impressed until he started rambling about his "imitation skills;" apparently, he could imitate every character in this world. He eventually stopped sharing his talent and asked if the television was working. He turned it on and proceeded to watch a football match. Ghada held in a laugh and tried to pretend that everything is normal, but when her mother criticized his favorite football team, hell broke loose and at the ancient age of twenty-eight, Ghada lost a potential husband. Not only that, she also lost her friend who was angry with her for not being compromising to a "perfect" groom.

I first came across I Want to Get Married! in 2009 and soon afterwards, the blog was turned into a book by a publishing house in Egypt. The blogger/writer is a young Egyptian woman who is a successful pharmacist, but in a country like Egypt, success is measured by your ability to attract a groom at a young age. "The clock starts ticking the day you graduate. Personally, I started feeling like a spinster after I turned twenty-three," Ghada wrote in the introduction to the book.

Currently, Ghada is thirty-two and is still unmarried. After she turned thirty, her family and friends narrowed down her husband wish-list to a man "with a heartbeat." After introducing her to numerous men, from the technicolor suitor to the paranoid policeman who was adamant to get her fingerprints for "research," they gave up on her.

In her book, she chronicles the at least thirty prospective grooms she was introduced to from the age of twenty-five. This is how it works: Someone nominates her to an eligible bachelor, and the bachelor brings his nuclear family to meet her and her family. If she feels something towards him, they start dating to get to know each other. Not only does Ghada hilariously document meeting the men; she also shares the struggles of young women in Egypt who face societal pressure to tie the knot.

Recent statistics state that there are at least nine million unmarried women in Egypt. Social scientists consider rising costs as the main reason to blame for the delayed age for marriage, and they even use the term "marriage crises" to describe the situation of late marriage in Egypt. Diane Singerman, a professor of Comparative Politics at American University, uses the term " wait-hood" to describe the marriage situation in Egypt. She states that women used to get married by seventeen or nineteen in the past and men were ready to get married around the same age or even at twenty-five. Currently, the average marriage age for men in Egypt is thirty-one. Singerman estimates the cost of marriage at eleven times the annual household expenditure per capita. As economic reasons make it hard for couples to marry, women take the brunt of this delay. Ghada is such an example, but she took advantage of the digital age and empowered herself by blogging about her situation. Not only has she established herself as a great social commentator, but she reached out to millions of unmarried women and helped them deal with the social stigma they face.

This Ramadan, after reading the book, I watched I Want to Get Married! as a TV series and today, I will also get the chance to read the book in English as well.

Written by: Reem Abbas Shawkat, October 14th 2010

The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance

mandy — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Elna Baker

Dutton

Beginning at a Halloween-themed singles dance for Mormon adults in the tristate area (the party referenced in the title of her novel) a Queen-Bee-costumed Elna Baker sets the scene for the spiritually-infused existential struggles that are soon to come. Although the attendees are adults, the event aches of prepubescent awkwardness and is plagued by the same maladies that afflict these preteen school functions: forced sobriety, abysmal music, sex-segregated clustering, embarrassing encounters with couples dancing, and sanctified social hierarchy. In a room full of college-aged virgins expectantly looking to find a future spouse before spinsterhood sets in at graduation, no one seems the least bit interested in the chubby girl dressed as a mistress of the hive, and for the fourth year in a row, Elna Baker leaves the dance alone.

Being a single Mormon gal in New York City isn’t without its unique challenges, and Baker addresses them with just the right blend of earnestness and self-deprecating humor. More Sex and the City than Big Love, Baker’s story is an uncommon version of a common enough conflict for the modern American woman: how to be yourself and nab the man of your dreams. For a liberal Mormon like Baker, religion gets added to the mix, and The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance takes us through her coming of age—and coming to terms—as she attempts to reconcile her desire to embody conflicting identities: that of a headstrong, adventurous, sexually curious young woman who wants to be desired by men (and envied by women) versus a submissive, straight-laced wife and mother.

Baker’s somewhat unrealistic relationship expectations stem from her own experience growing up in an idyllic Mormon family. They are complicated by the overlapping and contradictory messages about conventional gender roles and individual autonomy that she has gleaned from both her religion and American popular culture. The marriage Baker envisions for herself takes the shape of a traditional man-and-wife coupling where a charmingly pragmatic and devoted soulmate (Mormons only please!) passionately sweeps her off her feet in Hollywood rom-com fashion. But this is real life we’re talking about here, and even Carrie Bradshaw had to wait until SATC made its debut on the big screen to tie the knot with her perfect match.

Kissing boys is fun and all, but after twenty-seven years, Baker is ready to get to the good stuff—just not at the expense of her faith. Having been taught that sex before marriage is the second greatest sin (murder being the first), her Mormonism contributes to the manifestation of a kind of rabid marriage mania. Unfortunately for Baker, the only Mormon boys she finds in New York City are either tragically dull or playing house Dad at the “family home evening,” a weekly gathering-cum-celestial popularity contest for twenty-something Latter Day Saints who prefer wholesome entertainment—like group devotional readings—to the debauched activities on offer in the big city. When Baker finally does meet a guy with zeal, he’s a diehard atheist who doesn’t believe in the institution of marriage or the existence of a soul, much less the idea that Pocahontas was a Jew.

Baker’s lack of firm resolve about the truth of Joseph Smith’s teachings creates a flip flop effect of religious vigor and apathy, as well as an intellectual insatiability that causes her to return again and again to the unenviable position of trying to explain the unexplainable. She seeks solid ground where none can exist, and as a result, Baker can’t seem to find a sturdy core from which to build her belief.

Ambivalence is not a new condition for those who struggle with spiritual (un)certainty—or, for that matter, those who write memoirs about that struggle. After nearly three decades of indecision, Baker finally makes up her mind about her faith: she decides to hang on to God and continue to grapple with the uncertainty. For now.

Excerpted from Religion Dispatches

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, October 12th 2010

Amen, Amen, Amen: Memoir of a Girl Who Couldn’t Stop Praying

mandy — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Abby Sher

Simon & Schuster

How does an eleven-year-old girl cope with the trauma of losing both her favorite aunt and her beloved father in the span of one calendar year? She may pray to God daily to ask Him to protect her loved ones. But what happens when prayer becomes more than just a comfort? What happens when it becomes a compulsion? This question is at the heart of Abby Sher’s memoir Amen, Amen, Amen.

The power of prayer has been the subject of much debate and research, with studies claiming that prayer can help heal the sick, even when the sick person has no relation to the people offering the curative incantation, nor knowledge of being prayed for. There are other studies that show people who pray experience feelings of relief: it makes sense that prayer could benefit those for whom religion is personally significant. If it’s good for people, even if it’s not provably efficacious, what’s the harm?

Abby Sher’s compulsions began when she was a small child—from tearing up paper napkins at the dinner table to tracing the wallpaper on her bedroom walls until her finger bruised. The impulses grew more invasive as Sher got older and calamity became a fixture in her life. An emotionally fragile pre-adolescent, Abby identified herself as the one to blame for the unexpected deaths in her family, and turned to God for help. But her sense of consolation was quickly overshadowed by a consuming fear of causing death and danger. Abby became convinced that giving herself fully to God and doing His protective bidding was the only way to ensure that no one else would meet an untimely, tragic fate.

For all the benefits that prayer might offer, it does not guarantee safety from disaster. But Abby was certain the lives of others were her responsibility, and hinged on her pact with God. To Abby, the balance of the world rested squarely on her shoulders, and the slightest misstep on her part set in motion scenarios with disastrous consequences.

No doubt this manner of irrational thinking will sound strange to most people, religious or not, and Sher does a good job of allowing the reader an insider’s view of the logic behind her delusions. Much of her behavior fell within the bounds of what is normal, especially in a devoutly Jewish context. On the surface, Abby appeared to be a staunch, if somewhat peculiar, follower of God. It is only when we learn what was going on in her head that Sher’s actions read as bizarre instead of faithful.

Ascetics throughout history have gotten into trouble for exhibiting behaviors far more extreme than Sher’s; the difference between mystical devotion and mental illness can be hard to construe. It is primarily though a lens of psychoanalysis that compulsive ritual begins to be regarded as illegitimate or destructive. In Sher’s case, even when she began seeing a therapist, her faith served to reinforce some of her more ritualistic actions, like daily fasting—a behavior that, when decontextualized, was revealed as severe anorexia.

By the time Abby meets her savior—an atheist man who helped her see her conduct as the result of self-loathing and delusion—I was glad to let go of my knee-jerk feminist disapproval of the knight in shining armor fable. Amen, Amen, Amen is a painful yet revelatory read that had this nonbeliever sending a healing mantra into the universe for Sher and others like her who live with a form of obsessive compulsive disorder masked by religion. In another time or place, Sher might have entered a hermitage. Today she will have to settle for appearances on TV talk shows.

Excerpted from Religion Dispatches

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, October 5th 2010

Cover Me: A Health Insurance Memoir

mandy — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 10:00:00 +0000

By Sonya Huber

University of Nebraska Press

If you suspect that your experiences alone put the hell in healthcare, then Cover Me by Sonya Huber is the memoir for you. By the age of thirty-three, Huber had already endured eleven gaps in healthcare coverage, and had also been sent to collections for medical debt multiple times. She became an expert at scavenging for alternatives and at squeezing every drop of blood from the recalcitrant turnip that is the US healthcare system.

Cover Me is a moving portrait of how access to healthcare determines who is a “have” and who a “have not” and in Huber’s hands, the issues surrounding healthcare reform become clear and relatable. Improbably, given the toll the struggles exact, the author is also very funny, telling her stressful tale with an irrepressible sense of humor.

Huber began her adult employment journey as an idealistic labor activist and became a university professor. At one point, she held down three jobs at once, none of which offered healthcare benefits. The pressure to find affordable healthcare ballooned exponentially as Huber went from single working woman, to wedding a man who was also a healthcare "have not," to becoming a mother.

But even as a single woman, the challenge of good health was daunting. Diagnosed with a disabling panic disorder, Huber was forced to scrounge for low cost medical clinics and sliding scale arrangements, at one point even bartering office cleaning services for therapy. She was often left to rely on two of the universe’s most unstable forces: luck and the kindness of others. At times, sympathetic doctors offered free pharmaceutical samples and dentists forgave their fees. But there were consequences, many of which could be filed under “you get what you pay for,” or more accurately, “you get what you are able to pay for.”

As a wife and mother, Huber’s determination grew even grittier. Schlepping her infant son through the frozen Ohio tundra to register for WIC and Medicaid benefits, and expertly working the phones to correct inevitable and near catastrophic bureaucratic errors, Huber became a master of resourcefulness and tenacity. Even during a rare stretch when Huber had coverage through an HMO, she found it to be Dungeons-and-Dragons-esque, requiring the right "passwords" to gain entry. (The passwords being properly worded referrals and appeals, and an intimate familiarity with the policy’s fine print.) If it’s true that insurance companies spew gobbledygook and denials to weed out folks who lack perseverance, they never counted on someone like Huber.

Huber’s Odyssean journey through the American healthcare system throws the institution's inequities and ironies into stark relief. She describes working for a nonprofit whose mission is to provide low income workers with health insurance; however, in a stunning revelation of either outrageous hypocrisy or business-as-usual in fund-strapped nonprofits, that same organization was unwilling to provide Huber with healthcare coverage. Meanwhile, Huber’s boss, who had stellar insurance through her prominent surgeon husband, could brandish her benefits card and blithely obtain top care. Reading this, you will be tempted to hurl the book against the nearest wall, but you won’t because you’ll be too riveted to let go.

Huber’s story will resonate with anyone who has ever battled a medical bureaucracy. That is, with everybody in America. Her refusal to say “uncle” will inspire, and along the way, readers may even pick up invaluable tips on navigating the labyrinthine depths of both public and private healthcare. There is also a twist at the end that makes university bureaucracy even scarier than its medical counterpart.

One question nagged me throughout Cover Me: where is Huber’s husband? He seemed to hang back and let Huber take the front lines, a story known to too many wives and mothers. But that question aside, and because Huber is such a deliciously skilled writer, Cover Me is the best kind of memoir; it is engaging, enraging, tragic and funny. Fortunately, laughter as medicine is one thing the insurance companies have not yet managed to deny.

Written by: T. Tamara Weinstein, September 15th 2010

Role Models

admin — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 01:14:00 +0000

By John Waters

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

When you decide to read a memoir, do you do so to commune with the author–to get to know his inner secrets, what makes him tick? If that’s the reason you usually shop the autobiography and memoir section of the bookstore, steer clear of controversial filmmaker (Hairspray, Cecil B. Demented) John Waters’ new “memoir” Role Models. While disclosing inspiration is no problem for the eclectic Waters, laying his guts out on the table is not his strong suit.

Of course, memoir can also be an account of someone else’s life as observed by the author–and in this case, we’re talking about the lives of famous crooners, a notorious killer, and fringe pornographers, to name a few. But if you’re looking for major insight into why John Waters is simultaneously comfortable with labels like “King of Puke,” “Duke of Dirt” and maker of “trash epics,” but doesn’t want to end up a gay cliché–as he confesses one of his heroes Tennessee Williams avoided becoming, you won’t find it here.

You won’t find much of anything personal in this book. As Waters warns, “The ultimate level of celebrity accomplishment is convincing the press and public that they know everything about your personal life without really revealing anything.” And speaking of Tennessee Williams: his chapter begins “Tennessee Williams saved my life.” From what? He never says. Waters alludes to conformity and cliché as terrible things to avoid in life; but you might find yourself longing for more depth from a lengthy and detailed confession about the psychic wounds of childhood after reading such a statement. It just isn’t there.

In his Leslie Van Houten chapter, Waters confesses to the tragic event in his own life that inspired his used and reused face-pressed-against-the-windshield-of-a-car image. Beyond this small detail, you’d be hard-pressed to find much else worth discussing in film school or after a screening of Polyester, for instance, in this self-effacing work.

Perhaps his most interesting observations are found in the "Leslie" chapter simply because there are no other humanizing portraits of this Manson family killer to be found: “Leslie inspired me too. Inspired me to believe that if you wait long enough and work hard enough on your damaged psyche, you can eventually come out of it with some kind of self-respect and mental health.” But again, the questions and not the answers to the Waters’ enigma resurface for the reader: why does Waters see his own sins as akin to those of a woman who stabbed another sixteen times with a knife in the lower back, as Van Houten did to Rosemary LaBianca in 1969? The "Leslie" chapter is the most compelling of the book, but Waters lingers too long on this subject and apologizes for the crime, saying he understands its severity, too many times.

As this critic went over her notes after finishing the book, she discovered that she’d written more than two dozen question marks in its margins. This harks back to the point Waters made early on about causing people to think they know everything about him, when really he has shrewdly kept his secrets under wraps. For every insight into the real Waters the reader gets, there's at least one question about said reality that naturally follows.

Role Models is an interesting read, but it’s never as shocking or grotesque as any one of Waters’ films. And its message is muddled: do perverts exist because of or in spite of public opinion? Waters’ seems to teeter back and forth between wanting to vindicate his socially rejected role models and wanting to celebrate their freak status. One thing is for sure: reading this book is like turning over a rock in the mud and examining all of the creepy-crawlies you’d find there. Do it for the fun of learning something new, even though you’ll learn very little about cult filmmaker John Waters.

Written by: Rachel Moehl, August 29th 2010

Video Slut: How I Shoved Madonna Off an Olympic High Dive, Got Prince into a Pair of Tiny Purple Woolen Underpants, Ran Away ...

admin — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Sharon Oreck

Faber & Faber

Sharon Oreck has the career that any child of the ‘80s would envy. She has produced over 600 music videos, many of which defined the monolithic “MTV generation.” She has been nominated for Oscars, Grammys, Women in Film awards, and of course, MTV Music Awards (twenty total!). From 1984 to 2000, Oreck’s work was a model for the visual repertoire that shaped the collective imagination of teens around the globe. Her role in popular culture is so far-reaching that she has been included in a film alongside such figures as Hillary Rodham Clinton (14 Women).

The majority of Oreck’s memoir relates events that occurred while shooting Sheila E.’s "The Glamorous Life," Aha’s "Take on Me," Madonna’s "Like a Prayer," and my personal favorite, Chris Isaak’s "Wicked Game." Upon viewing the videos, Oreck’s talent is immediately obvious. But what was she thinking when she was shooting? Apparently, she was thinking about a lot.

Reproductive rights, feminism, beauty—these are just a few of the topics that Oreck contemplates in Video Slut. Her most empowering moments as a writer occur during the introspective climax, which pairs her decision as a pregnant teen to keep her baby with the demise of her first production company, NO Pictures.

Oreck’s book is written in a tips-from-your-cool-older-sister style. Oreck spares no details and even offers pointers for making it in the scantily clad rock video world—most importantly, don’t make fun of executives until after they’ve left the room. More notably, this narrative updates the classic format for celebrity memoirs by exchanging the contexts of alternating chapters between a video career and an early pregnancy at sixteen. Video Slut puts the spotlight on the largely undocumented moments during video’s heyday—overqualified assistants, moonlighting pot dealers, egotistical bigwigs, and pop stars are the mediums through which Oreck relates her professional and personal milestones.

This is one of the most likable new books that I have read, and I look forward to more of Oreck’s outstanding work; her experiences combine elements of after-hours stand-up comedy, frank confessionals, and visionary strategies for survival when the odds don’t look so good. After all, that’s what petty cash is for, right?

Written by: Maria Guzman, August 24th 2010