childhood

The Magic Children: Racial Identity at the End of the Age of Race

farhana — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 20:00:00 +0000

“I used to think that I was Indian. The world was filled with magic children, living in America under the spell of race. But one day I learned that racial identity was just something to imagine about myself, and I devoted several years of careful thought on the matter. Then shortly, before that century turned into this one, before the old millennium became a young one, I decided to give it up.” —Roger Echo-Hawk, The Magic Children

So begins Roger Echo-Hawk’s exploration of the deconstruction of race in his personal account of identity, ultimately ending with his abandonment of the concept of race. He examines the fact that race has been scientifically discredited by biologists, geneticists, and anthropologists yet society continues to allow the idea of race to thrive. Echo-Hawk emphasizes that race is an inherently dehumanizing concept therefore; racial identity must be rejected in order to embrace a larger acceptance of humanity. “Race tells us a lie—a lie that defaces the true nature of humanity,” Echo-Hawk notes. The concept of race is oversimplified in order to categorize people (or divide) without considering the complex uniqueness of heritage.

Echo-Hawk’s journey into his past and an exploration of his mixed heritage of being White, Indian, and Mexican shapes The Magic Children. These terms reflect on his life once early childhood teaches him a lesson that follows him throughout the course of his adulthood: that he is viewed differently because of his “race” (essentially, the color of his skin). Roger Echo-Hawk questions terms like Mexican (as it reflects national citizenship and not race) as well as Hispanic (as it implies ethnicity and culture but not race). His separation of racial identity is not as complex as the ideology of race as Echo-Hawk carries us through his lifetime in an array of short stories that leads the reader to an understanding of how race has affected his life. These interweaving stories include young Echo-Hawk as a schoolboy, throughout his hippie and college years and later on his reflection on life changing moments. As a student who has participated in programs that assists minority students with funding, Echo-Hawk’s analysis of being an “Indian” in Boulder, Colorado was personally profound to me as it depicted the way in which the education system continues to utilize race negatively. For instance, the rejection of race can have severe repercussions. Hypothetically, a minority student who abandons the idea of “race” and does not fit the standards for funding based on under-representation in a certain field faces the risk of being excluded from assistance that may be vital to their future successes.

The urge to integrate one’s journey with Echo-Hawk’s is inevitable. His understanding, acceptance and the freedom that he has found with embracing the non existence of a racial identity is almost ideal. Echo-Hawk encourages the reader to step outside of one identity and explore not just the various complex identities that reside in all of us but also the identities that are assigned to us by outsiders. The Magic Children is a journey of recognizing those differences as an external factor and uniting to demobilize race by denying it the power to construct our social realities. Everyone’s journey is different, the process of being under the “spell” of race is complex but the ability to free oneself from the confines of a label that segregates humanity is in itself the magic that will help us all move beyond racial identity.

Written by: Aneesa A. Baboolal, March 28th 2011

The Last Pretence

payal — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 00:00:00 +0000

By Sarayu Srivatsa

Harper Collins

In the South Indian town of Machilipatnam, Mallika gives birth to twins, Tara and Siva. Emotionally and psychologically damaged when her daughter dies during childbirth, Mallika finds herself unable to love Siva who is a constant reminder of Tara’s death. Pretending that Siva is Tara, both Mallika and Siva embark on a downward spiral of self-destruction that ends in tragedy. Sarayu Srivatsa’s The Last Pretence tells Mallika and Siva’s stories, their learning and unlearning of love and loss, and attempts to question, through stories of childhood, marriage, and motherhood, how identities and experiences of gender are shaped.

Its book jacket advertises The Last Pretence as a "novel that takes nothing for granted", and that "grapples with notions of love, gender and sexuality", a description that probably attracted readers who were intrigued by the idea that modern Indian-English writing was taking on gender stereotypes, particularly in the specific context of South India, where this theme has been relatively under-explored in contemporary Indian fiction. Alas, The Last Pretence falls far short of being revolutionary, both in craft and in plot.

Unimpressed by the writing, I asked myself if the author’s intentions had any merit. The principal character upon whom Srivatsa’s gender-play is enacted is Siva, who struggles with his gender identity because of his mother’s desperate inability to cope with her daughter’s death. But in what sense are we supposed to find Mallika’s behavior towards Siva troubling? Clearly, some combination of her delusion that her son is her daughter, but also that she sees her son as a girl, and that she treats him as such. Mallika’s ‘disturbing’ behavior includes dressing Siva up in girls' clothes; piercing his ears, and breast-feeding him for longer than necessary, which we are led to believe confuses his self-identity and his notions of what it would mean to be a girl (to be loved by his mother). Ultimately this leads him away from home, fuels his exploration of his own sexuality through his quick and sometimes brutal sexual encounters, and finally leads to his inability to negotiate his personal peace in Srivatsa’s fictionalized world.

In dabbling with issues of gender and sexuality Srivatsa appears like a young child with a stick—gently prodding some fascinating multi-legged creature under a rock. Curious, not intentionally cruel, but ultimately uncomprehending, she speaks as an outsider to the experiences of her characters, making them less believable and more allegorical in order to make broader didactic (but again, superficial) points about gender, culture and the nature of patriarchy.

Perhaps Srivatsa’s biggest failing is the superficiality with which she writes; for example, the historical context of Machilipatnam, a town "where the British first landed to trade in dyes" on the Coromandel coast of southern India – is more or less absent from the book, with limited interweaving of even its fictionalized history through the cursory mythology of George Gibbs and his incestuous relationship with his sister. It also includes a peek into the eunuch sub-culture in India (the stock shining symbols of gender subversion) where half-yawning, half horrified, the reader is dragged into a short (but seemingly necessary) scene of castration involving a sharp knife, hot oil and a grinding stone, cheaply highlighting the cruel repercussions of gender deviance in a straight world.

Marred by poor characterization, predictability, and unproductive diversions (inexplicable inter-religious riots seem to randomly pepper this slim novel) from an otherwise heavy-handed plot driven by unnecessary brutality and an unconvincing lack of detail, I found the long-listing of The Last Pretence for the Man Asian Literary prize undeserving. Lacking in originality and failing to deliver but the most prosaic of prose, The Last Pretence most damningly shrivels before a feminist gaze where it is slowly sucked into the quicksand of the hetero-normative aphorism that any deviations to established gender norms will be ruthlessly punished by society, and ultimately (spoiler alert!) cannot survive.

Written by: Kaavya Asoka, February 4th 2011

The Gerbil Farmer’s Daughter

admin — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Holly Robinson

Three Rivers Press

Holly Robinson begins this book by saying that, essentially, this is a story she has never told. That this is a story she didn’t want to talk about. I am so glad she did.

I am not much for holding back information about my own life and it is completely unfathomable to me how anyone could manage to grow up with a father who raised, became an expert on, and built an empire out of gerbils. I suppose if one was squeamish about having others think you were quirky or odd, you might hesitate, but the story of Robinson’s childhood growing up with a retired Navy captain-turned gerbil farmer is absolutely delightful in its implausibility. I, for one, would not only share the story, but wear it like a badge of honor. I hope she does now that the word is out!

Robinson’s writing is conversational and comfortable. It was like listening to an old friend roll her eyes as she recalled the things her ignorant, dorky parents used to do. We all had embarrassing parents growing up, and it is simply lovely to read about someone whose family was undoubtedly weirder than your own. For anyone who still has secrets locked away in her closet, frightened that her friends or her children or her children’s friends might someday discover, The Gerbil Farmer's Daughter is a huge sigh of relief.

Robinson, while no doubt mortified by her father’s obsession with gerbils, was also mystified by her mother’s tacit refusal to have anything to do with them. She was raised by two individuals who, for all their weaknesses, modeled the notion of following your dreams for their children. Those dreams didn’t necessarily coincide or even complement each other, but Robinson may have benefited heartily from her mother’s example that a wife need not blindly follow her husband’s ambitions, military leader or no.

This story is a lighthearted, entertaining read and Robinson does a lovely job of reminding us that there is no such thing as a “normal” childhood.

Written by: Kari O’Driscoll, August 19th 2010

Little Venus

admin — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 09:00:00 +0000

By Carla Drysdale

Tightrope Books

Little Venus, a collection of poems by Carla Drysdale, is at once hauntingly beautiful and disturbing. The poems are an autobiographical account of child abuse, sexual abuse, and a dysfunctional family, yet Drysdale manages to strike the difficult balance between beauty and horror. As her first published book of poetry, this is an impressive debut.

Last month I reviewed Sharon Doubiago’s memoir, My Father’s Love: Portrait of the Poet as a Young Girl, which confronted similar topics. Both women use the medium of poetry to work through lingering and confusing feelings of pain, betrayal, and love. While Doubiago fleshes out the details of her abuse, Drysdale weaves a portrait through short verse poems.

While many of the poems talk about her father, there are a few poems that address the refuges in Drysdale’s life. I find “New Years Eve at the Artist’s Colony” particularly moving, as Drysdale recounts the solidarity a musician creates:

He played for us—the dreamers, creators, eccentrics, the driven, the insecure, the arrogant, the labeled and unlabeled, the disowned and owned again.

I was drawn to this poem because it establishes how the experience of music, like poetry, can bring together those alienated by society. It also offers an opportunity for love and for the body to be positive. While many of the poems about her father emphasize the imposing and frightening body, in “New Years Eve” the body becomes a sensual vehicle for the music. The body is not always violent.

The truth is that these are difficult and challenging poems, reminiscent of such established poets as Lucille Clifton, Janice Mirikitani, and Doubiago. I cannot say that I enjoy these poems, as they make me uncomfortable and sad. But I would not read Little Venus for enjoyment. Rather, I would read it to recognize Drysdale’s honesty and poetic voice. These are poems like open wounds, seeking to heal and be healed.

Review by Claire Burrows

Written by: Claire Burrows, March 4th 2010

Translating Childhoods: Immigrant Youth, Language, and Culture

admin — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 23:33:00 +0000

By Marjorie Faulstich Orellana

Rutgers University Press

Writing a book and having it published is not the accomplishment it used to be. While academic presses are not known for being as competitive as popular presses, they appear to be on the precipice of absurdity. Translating Childhoods: Immigrant Youth, Language, and Culture is an additional finger’s width of movement toward the edge.

Translating Childhoods is an ethnography. Its research was conducted through observation and collecting data from diaries and interviews. The author studied children of immigrants (and at times immigrants themselves) who fulfill the function of translator for their family, and this is the subject of the book.

Faulstich Orellana, while able to avoid participation, chooses to wade into the ongoing debate in the social sciences about whether, as such, the social scientist should act as a physical scientist. Should they aim for aloofness and attempt detachment, or acknowledge their biases and preferences and address them in their writing? She subscribes to the latter position. Married to an immigrant, much of her motivation and mindset in writing this book are acknowledged by her as being the result of her personal relationships.

Child translators form a stratum of unrewarded workers in society, particularly important in a globalizing world. The children acting as translators are unrewarded in monetary terms while being relied upon for financial matters, and precariously teeter on the edge of adulthood while remaining children. Faulstich Orellana would like to focus on the often ignored economic implications of this work, an emphasis which forms a basis of feminist theories in political economies. Ultimately, subordinates in society often work the hardest while earning the least both financially and socially.

The book reads as many other academic books do: as a formulaic, un-inventive, well-stated thesis in a poorly written publication. While the subject is interesting, it is insufficient. Faulstich Orellana creates additional suspense by emphasizing the dichotomies of the children’s familial positions—child and authority figure, dependent and depended upon—however, these are inadequate in holding the book up, and 125 pages (not including appendices) felt more like the reverse, 521 pages. Faulstich Orellana’s fastidiousness in defining her terms and explaining her methodology contributes to the uninitiated reader’s understanding; however, her circular references, not very cryptic foreshadowing, and academic namedropping make this brand of scholarly writing particularly unreadable.

Written by: Elisheva Zakheim, October 16th 2009

The Way of Boys: Raising Healthy Boys in a Challenging and Complex World

admin — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 23:51:00 +0000

By Dr. Anthony Rao, Michelle Seaton

William Morrow

Having raised daughters and taught young girls, I know what is required to be competent in those roles. The nature and needs of boys, however, were foreign to me. I had very little experience with the care and nurturing of very young boys. I naively and wrongly presumed that a child’s gender was of little, if any, consequence affecting the parent/teacher role. In reality, infancy seems to be the only time of relative equality. Once these tiny beings begin developing skills of locomotion and communication, the gender dichotomy begins in earnest. It is at this point in development that one needs to understand fully just how inherently different boys are in all that is their journey toward maturity.

In this little gem of a book, Rao and Seaton gave me a wonderful look into this heretofore alien world. They present a wealth of boy knowledge in an anecdotal style, making this book an enjoyable read. The focus is predominantly on boys between two and seven years old, the time when most behavior problems arise. The authors clearly present methods to help caretakers address discipline and training issues successfully. Simply put, boys are not girls. We cannot successfully raise both genders from the same perspective. Boys tend to lag behind girls in skills acquisition, particularly language. Unfortunately, developmental expectations are lumped in somewhat generic lists of milestones, and herein lies the beginning of the unintentional assault on development in male children. It is the profound difference in thought process combined with the imperative need to expend energy that makes raising and educating boys much more challenging.

After a general introduction into the nature of boys, the text flows through the myriad of troubling behaviors that plague social and educational settings (e.g., making friends, bullying, competitiveness, fantasizing). The authors then set about guiding the reader through the problems associated with limiting physical activity and the tendency to perceive natural boy behavior as a sickness that must be wrangled with medication. They also offer parents solid guidance to help them in determining that which is in the best interest of the child when presented with fearful scenarios by educators and school administrators. The final chapter is a delightful light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel view, looking at some of the grown boys who had been youthful patients of Dr. Rao.

The Way of Boys is an absolute must read for anyone raising, educating, counseling, treating, and/or advocating for boys. Early-education teachers—who tend to be female—and mothers of boys need to be cognizant of the dynamic differences and be accommodating in the process so as not to stifle genuine development by trying to fit the proverbial square peg into a round hole. Boys are looking for the system, figuring things out, pushing the boundaries, and expending excessive energy in all that they do. I glimpsed this firsthand when I took my two-year-old grandson on an errand to the bank recently. He busied himself grabbing for, inspecting, and enthusiastically throwing the pens provided for patrons. Before reading this book, I would have been frustrated by this ill-mannered child. My girls NEVER did such at that age. By having this new knowledge, I was able to see him not as a bad child, but as a b-o-y. He taught me that I had to plan differently for him to avoid such temptations. I could not be mad with him for being male. This is what they do and how they think, and I love him for it.

Written by: Katherine P. Hutchison, October 12th 2009

Laughing without an Accent: Adventures of an Iranian American at Home and Abroad

admin — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 16:57:00 +0000

By Firoozeh Dumas

Villard

Laughing without an Accent is Firoozeh Dumas’s second book, after her debut memoir Funny in Farsi. Dumas is an Iranian-American who writes about the similarities and differences in Iranian cultures through her own experiences growing up in Iran and America. The book is a compilation of twenty-eight vignettes which span her life in both countries. The vignettes portray her childhood, adolescence, and adulthood in the most memorable ways, usually leaving the reader with a smile or laugh before eagerly turning to read the next story.

These days, Iranians are fighting for free, fair, and democratic elections and for their personal rights and freedom. Humor is not the first thing that may come to mind for Americans when thinking about Iranians right now. However, Dumas, who is married to a Frenchman, writes her stories with such ease that humor is exactly what readers find in each story, along with kindness, compassion, love, and sometimes chaos. Almost all of her stories are about her family, and how Persian culture really defines itself in society—or... well... doesn’t (hence, the humor).

One example of calamity is the cultural clash that occurs over a holiday feast her husband cooks for her parents. This is a hysterical but good-hearted read along with her other story of the amazingly bright red comforter that Firoozeh’s mother brought for them that just wouldn’t disappear. Her stories are meaningful because readers, regardless of origin, can relate to the humanity behind her writing.

Dumas’ descriptive skill gives her the leeway to explore her characters more freely, and set a peaceful tone for her readers. She challenges us to look beyond the dissimilarities and focus on the similarities which bring us together. She cleverly uses humor, grace, and respect for the written word as her instruments in one unique symphony. The music that she creates is our laughter—some with accents, some without.

Written by: Mona Lisa Safai, July 16th 2009

The Films of Su Friedrich, Vol. 3: Sink or Swim

admin — Mon, 23 Apr 2007 23:52:00 +0000

Directed by Su Friedrich

Microcinema, Outcast Films

Su Friedrich's Sink or Swim is a beautifully complex film that quietly sneaks up on the viewer, draws her in and, ultimately, leads her to a place of intimate introspection and intense analysis. The film follows Friedrich's development from "The Girl" to "The Woman" through a series of anecdotes involving her father. The viewer follows Friedrich's maturation as she celebrates birthdays, mourns her parent's divorce and struggles to reconnect with her father after he remarries.

Many of the film's anecdotes center on water, a force of nature which is at once a source of great pleasure and pain for Friedrich. It is from one such memory that the film gets its title: when Friedrich tells her father she would like to learn to swim, he takes her to the water, explains the methods of swimming and then throws her into the deep end to Sink or Swim. The film is comprised of a series of equally powerful and arresting interactions between father and daughter, each of them important to Friedrich's development in its own way.

The power of the film lies not in the recollection of the memories, however, but in the way that Friedrich uses them to move beyond the personal to the universal. Friedrich weaves narrative upon narrative, using her past as a lens through which she may gaze critically at everything from the construction of the Self, to social definitions of femininity and womanhood, and the ideals of the American family. Friedrich considers these issues with a tenderness and subtlety which is at once astounding and breathtaking. Sink or Swim is simply brilliant.

Written by: Joanna Chlebus, April 23rd 2007

Criminal of Poverty: Growing up Homeless in America

admin — Tue, 17 Apr 2007 12:59:00 +0000

By Tiny (a.k.a. Lisa Gray-Garcia)

City Lights Books

We never hear from the poor. They are simply not represented in public life. Perhaps it is because we don't think they deserve to have a say. After all, one of the strongest myths in American society is that any person can succeed as long as she is willing to work hard and never give up. What I like about Criminal of Poverty is that the writer, Tiny, a.k.a. Lisa Gray-Garcia, proves that is simply not the case.

In her gripping, although often awkwardly written, memoir, Tiny portrays her formative years growing up with her mother, Dee, as a very tumultuous time since they lived in grimy apartments, motels or in their car. She was unable to attend school because Dee was mentally ill – agoraphobia – and relied on her daughter to take care of the most basic tasks of survival, including securing housing, healthcare and community services. At certain points, Tiny even manages her mother's personal relationships with men because these boyfriends can help them survive by providing rent or food money.

Dee is an artist, and it is through this expression that she and her daughter cope with their struggles. She and Tiny come up with creative ways to make art and money by opening up a fashion clothing business, but, ultimately, it is Tiny who ends up doing most of the work, especially after Dee's avant-garde clothes are not selling, and they have to switch to cartoon-based designs for their covert t-shirt business. During this time, Dee's agoraphobia is worsening, and she is unable to fulfill many responsibilities required for the smooth running their operation. Because of Dee's utter dependence, Tiny has no time where she doesn't have to worry about money and having a place to sleep at night.

Throughout Criminal of Poverty, Tiny seems to carefully emphasize how much she respects her mother and does not blame Dee for loss of childhood; it is the system that puts women in such a powerless position that they are forced to make bad decisions. I believe Tiny wants to feel this way, and maybe even mostly does; yet in some places I could feel the tension in her writing between the pain she felt as a young woman and the carefully distanced writer of today. Assigning the blame of her living conditions to the system is deserved, but it doesn't always make for the best reading. Sometimes Tiny's careful protection of Dee got in the way of the narrative because this doesn't allow the reader to make one’s own judgments.

A dense book, Tiny writes with very little dialogue and scene, nor does she often refer to the settings, which are Los Angeles, Fresno and the San Francisco Bay Area. Instead, her writing style is very reflective and analytical; she describes what happens and what the consequences are, which doesn't make for a quick read. Although this book is not gracefully written overall, there are a few passages that stand out as exceptional and the story trumps any writing flaws because it is simply compelling. I was left with a few questions after the last chapter, not completely sure if the cycle of poverty was finally over, but I liked this open ending because it gives me space to think about how the term poor is defined and what wealth really means, not only for American society, but also for me.

Written by: Logan Perkes, April 17th 2007