Peer Response 4, Week 7

Diamond,

Your writing voice is amazing. Only occasionally, your prose gets a little wordy, like in the first sentence of paragraph two. I don't think you need to leave that sentence out, but readability might benefit from a little trimming. Maybe just: I spent most of my Christmases and Thanksgivings with my mother's side of the family. But streamlining is an easy fix, and your prose overall is well-presented.

What strikes me most is the consistency of beautifully presented images/moments. For example: "I felt it like you feel a tugging at your shoulder, that somehow, we had fallen short in their eyes" and "more clumps and patches of rocky red soil than grass, sad little sprouts of limp green lilting out and smashing underneath light-up Nikes." Fantastic!

I hope you keep going with this draft. And with writing, in general. Your workshop piece was impressive, and this draft equally so. I think as long as you're taking time to write every day, you'll continue to produce sharp prose. I want to keep reading . . .

Peer Response 3, Week 7

Jenna,

First--I'm impressed with your way with words, both in this piece and in your other work. Among my favorite phrases from this memory are "throwing his graduation cap in the air for eternity" and "as though she would continue to curtsy for her guests until the train came home." As I'm picturing what these characters/deer look like, dancing down the road or stapled to the door, respectively, your smart descriptions give me an intriguing visual, one that is both comic and sad, in both cases.

Brett touched on regional or at least locational bias as well as performativity, both of which I think are worthwhile avenues to explore with this piece. But I think, too, of the role the media plays in stereotypes about the south, etc. When you mention the news stations "interview[ing] the person wearing head-to-toe camouflage, you touch on what I'm talking about. Not that it's a character flaw or even, in the wider scope of things, a stereotype-worthy image. But we can make it one in order to inform our idea of, or need for, the "lesser," which you allude to in initially reading the Hiram dancing man as a result of "too much exposure to roadkill stew," a reading which, you suggest, was later revised.

So, one possible avenue might be the influence of outside sources in the formation of biases or stereotypes. How much is "us" and how much is being fed to us? But, if that seems too obvious a thread, how about the prevalence of these loner figures like the Hiram dancing man, defying social expectations to live on the margins? There have been two such characters in Wedowee and two in Woodland in my lifetime, and these are very small towns. I'm sure they're out there in New York, too, although they might not initially stand out in a larger crowd. What do you think?

I think this piece is fantastically presented! If you decide to keep going with this entry, regardless of which thread you decide to follow to expand it, I look forward to reading it. Great work!!

Peer Response 2, Week 7

(A response to Ashley's Junkyard Quote 2, Week 2

Ashley,

This makes me think of an essay I read about a family that swore off purchasing or using anything made in China for an entire year. It was interesting to hear about their experience and really made me think about the origins of products, who makes them, their working conditions, etc., as well as the prevalence of China's products in U.S. markets. Also, your quote reminds me of Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," a food memoir chronicling her family's experiences when they moved to a farm and vowed (for a one-year period) to only eat food they grew or raised themselves or that came from farms in their community.

I know your quote emphasizes your reaction to returning to Wal-Mart after such a long time, and how your mom lightheartedly downplayed the moment. But what if you used your experience differently, to write about what it's like to boycott Wal-Mart for a year (or two). Wal-Mart is an interesting topic, anyway, I think. The chain has closed down a ton of mom and pop operations, as well as smaller chains all across America (in smaller cities, especially), with its low prices and promise of convenience. It has also caught a lot of flack in the last several years, receiving criticism for its purchasing policies, employee policies, etc. (best I can remember--I know there's a documentary on this somewhere).

I once tried to boycott Wal-Mart for a year; I can't stand to shop there. My husband loves it, so I still go about once a month (although I'm trying to gradually influence our shopping habits.) But if you managed two years away, I'm wondering if this was intentional or incidental. Changing the shopping habits of consumers (according to one of Target's marketing gurus) is typically only possible during a major life change, such as the birth of a child, a marriage, buying a first home, moving to college, etc. (And I guess also if a consumer makes a commitment to shop more deliberately.) Did you just decide you didn't like the chain? If it was calculated, were there moral reasons? Was it location? Personal preference? Anyway, after fleshing out the "why," I'd love to read a story about what it's like to banish Wal-Mart from your regular shopping haunts, as well as your thoughts on returning. Were you just a spectator? Or did this trip draw you back in as a regular patron?

This might not be an avenue you're interested in, but I would personally love to read about a Wal-Mart boycott, what was difficult, what was easy, what you missed, didn't miss, etc. Just a thought . . .

Memory, Week 7

Note: This one takes an uncomfortable turn, but it's because the writing brought me back to a few questions I keep returning to in life, to a sort of rhetorical dilemma. Something, I guess, I just needed to unload.

Tough Enough

When I was ten, an emergency room doctor admitted my father to the hospital with kidney stones. I decided to play nurse. If he yelped with pain, I pushed the button for someone to bring medication. When it took too long, I went looking for staff with access to a pain pill or a shot. My grandfather tried to stop me, succeeded actually, by telling me that some people exaggerate pain, that some handle it better than others. I accepted that. He's one of those people, I thought. He just needs to toughen up. I hate to admit that I thought that. But at age 10, I knew all about that concept. My father told me to toughen up all the time. The pills and shots still came of course.

I heard much later, years later I guess, that a man passing kidney stones is the equivalent of a woman giving birth, at least in terms of pain. Who decided that, I wonder? A man with kidney stones estimating the pain of childbirth? Or a mother passing kidney stones? When I was 21, I went to the ER with severe back pain, nausea, and a fever of 103. Four kidney stones were trying to pass at once, and there were ten others waiting to strike at some unknown future date. My father was there to demand Demoral on my behalf, and I who hated needles, begged for the fastest relief, shot or no shot. To help with the analogy, and speaking as a mother of three, I prefer childbirth to kidney stone delivery.

The wholly physical pain of stones in the urinary track forces the host to break routine. Housework goes on hold, employers get notified, driving waits for another day. The line between well and unwell clearly marked, the unspoken “man down” a given. Nobody expects business as usual when you're flat on your back, doped up on pain killer, the x-rays your proof, a tangible sign of your physical excuse.

Emotional pain works differently. When I was a junior in high school, one of my classmates was admitted to the hospital for a week of rest, a victim, I heard, of stress, a victim on the verge of a breakdown. How, I wondered, does one recognize the “verge of a breakdown?” Later, a friend of mine who taught kindergarten students for ten years was diagnosed with a stress disorder related to her job and given an early retirement with pay. She was only 35 years old at the time. I'm not discounting the emotional and mental pain of these friends. I know that pain well and I relate to the need, the desire, to be removed from the stressors, the sources of pain that won't show up in radiology. And, for me, that's the crux. I sometimes wonder if I've passed my mental breaking point or if I really can take more. There's no hard evidence, no clearly marked line I can say I've crossed. Am I sucking it up or am I really not broken yet? Of my closest women friends, I only know one who hasn't been prescribed a mood enhancer for either short- or long-term treatment of anxiety or stress, the idea that if we face our demons with a better attitude, none of the stressors need be dealt with. The medication equivalent to a mantra I picked up somewhere: "You are the master of your emotions."

I once visited a friend who'd just given birth, and looking at her in her white hospital gown I thought not of the baby she was now responsible for, not of the nine months leading up to the birth, not of the delivery itself, but only of that image of her resting in her hospital bed, her food prepared for her, her job on hold, her duties delegated. And I was jealous. That's an odd thing to admit. But that's what I felt. I wanted a few days of bedrest, a break from kitchen chores, time off from my job, time off from chauffeur duty, time to stop pretending that everything was okay, that I felt like keeping up my routine, that I didn't have hidden hurts or repressed desires, that I was up to sucking it up.

On a good day, I crashed into a solid glass door at the Kapalua Maui Resort, thinking for a good 15 minutes that my nose was broken. When it stopped hurting, I knew an x-ray was unnecessary. I know, too, that on that day, heading out to ride horses and tour a pineapple plantation, my emotional health was in tact. At the plantation, my assigned horse, Harrison Ford, took off from the path at a trot and I squealed, one of only two things our tour guide told us not to do. She and Fabio caught up to us, calming Harrison down and reminding me to gently rein him in, to stay calm, should he stray again. Later, I saw a baby pineapple, learning that it takes a full year for the fruit to mature. Back at the hotel, I paused at the glass door, a little disoriented by its sheer invisibility.

Stress, heartache, debt, suffering loved ones, hopelessness, the blues. They're all invisible, too. Maybe you'll cry and that's visible. Maybe someone says, “You've got an anger problem” or “you're overemotional.” Maybe you never say a word, only squeeze yourself into a ball in the dark, wondering if tomorrow you will really stand up again, brush your teeth, wash your hair, make the coffee, drive to your part-time job, apply again for a real job. Or will you wake, find yourself unable to rise, and get the diagnosis that mandates your withdrawal? If standing when the moment comes, will your knees buckle, your body landing helplessly on the concrete like others you have known? Or, if no diagnosis comes, will you say anyway, finally, I'm not tough enough?

Original Prompt, Week 7

On Lia Purpura's "Autopsy Report":

Obviously we don't all want to write about death, naming what it is that killed a person, what the dead body looks like, what dead bodies en masse waiting for the knife look like, how "our skin [is] not at all the boundary we're convinced of as we bump into each other," because, in the end, "[we open] easily" (410). But what Purpura gives us (or my reading of one of the many grains she gives us) is access to a mystery, something we might not have even realized we were curious about. I've never before tried to imagine the details of an autopsy, but Purpura goes in and reports back images I wouldn't have conjured up even if I had thought to try. Never would I have conceived of "[laughing] out loud" at first sight of the bodies either, but what Purpura gives us is the unexpected (406). And she's able to give us that moment because she surprises herself and is willing to share that moment.

So, I'll offer a prompt based on that last little bit:

Conversely to Purpura's unexpected and genuine laugh, is there a moment that you know without a doubt that you overreacted, either that your elevated emotion was fabricated because you felt it was expected or that you unexpectedly went all teary eyed at an otherwise carefree moment. She made an awkward admission, and I think this prompt might lead us to something similar and equally pen-worthy.

Peer Response 1, Week 7

*I'm responding here to Brett's Memory 2, Week 5, which I didn't get a chance to read closely until now.

Brett,

I haven't had the pleasure yet of reading all your posts on Korea, but of the ones I've read, this is easily my favorite. You happened upon, at the risk of my sounding predictable, the "perfect" hitchhike hosts. I'm wondering if hitchhiking is common in Korea, enough so that a family feels comfortable picking up strangers (although you seem nonthreatening enough). Or maybe I've just watched too many movies and have an uninformed fear.

The crux of the piece, for me, is the "gesture of erasure" made right by the idea that we are "contemporary people." Let's not talk about the history; we're concerned these days with "digging for razor clams in the mudflats off the coast," able to change course on a whim to tour Bomunsa. That's such a rich juxtaposition . . . the skirting of the news about the "mass graves of suspected leftists from the Korean War era" in order to live carefree as "contemporaries." But even though the gesture of erasure was made, that historical bit still hangs in the air, maybe like the smeared chalk in Beard's essay. Although you've moved on, the remnants of the moment suggest that you have to come back to it eventually, even if only to contemplate briefly on the significance of the past to the present. I LOVE this!!

Of course, I'm interested in the food, too, the crab on a stick. I don't think you necessarily need to expand on this moment, but I do think the piece benefits from this kind of detail, which you did a nice job of incorporating. Another rich moment is when you craftily show us the odd play between father and daughter, English teacher and student, and how, already, her English surpasses his. Great detail! Fantastically presented!! My best advice? Keep writing. I want to hear what happens next.

Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Week 7

1) In protest of racial lines, my friend Tim says that underneath our skin, we're all red meat.

2) "I'm a vegetarian. But I do eat bacon." ~~Quote from a friend of a friend (I know roughly a half-dozen vegetarians, and oddly enough bacon seems as much missed as chicken. Very few miss beef.)

3) The Eggbeaters slogan: Unbeatable. That could be read positively, but I wonder if the public wants "unbeatable" eggs. Kind of an odd conundrum.

4) Fake meat. I know this isn't new or even that extraordinary. But I'm still intrigued. I eat veggie burgers sometimes. I even tried "Smart Bacon," which I thought would grow on me eventually, but in the end I deemed it eternally disgusting. You can get fake chicken patties, fake sausage, and even fake crumbled meat for stews and soups. The ingredient lists in these substitutes are often massive, the "chik patties" ingredients, for example, filling a 2" x 1.5" space (very tiny font). And although the "chik patties" are also labeled "veggie patties," only roughly 2 percent of the ingredients have anything to do with vegetables. (Yes, I have a box in my fridge at this moment.) I'm picturing the "chefs" in the labs/test kitchens scrambling to recreate the chicken sandwich, the hamburger, the slices of bacon, the sausage patty, etc. without the meat. And I'm wondering . . . are there any vegetarians out there who have always been vegetarians? If so, are they eating this faux meat (meat analogues)? Or is it just the former meat eaters buying this stuff up, trying to fill an absence.