(Source)
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Friday, July 1, 2011
Flannery
(Source)
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Read to Write
What's the word? Apparently, writers like Cormac McCarthy and Philip Roth have given up on the word -- at least the made up word. Over at Salon, Laura Miller dedicates an entire article to it. First, I was angry and defensive. What blatant hypocrisy. Then, equal parts disappointed. So, even literary giants like these men don't like to read fiction, which for the most part, the vast majority of people in the world don't read anymore. Philip Roth reads, but in his statement, he claims he now prefers books about history, science, or politics, and goes on to say that he turned away from fiction, because he "wised up." To what exactly, Phil? Because this statement seems to very much bolster the pervading notion that if something isn't true, it isn't valid, and that fiction is frivolous and a waste of time. The overwhelming advice that any aspiring writer gets from the more successful, the advice I've gotten the most of, is to read. Read like mad. But, apparently if you've become a McCarthy or a Roth, you can give it all up after you're successful? You just read to get published, and win Pulitzers, and be a part of Oprah's book club, and then that's it? Miller brings up the appropriate argument that reading too much can actually constrain a writer. I've even heard similar quotes from Alice Munro. I remember reading in an interview with her that she felt reading too much can leave a writer stifled. This is a valid point, because the main goal of a budding writer is to find his or her own unique voice. I think the difference with Munro is that she was warning against reading to the point of imitation, not giving up reading stories altogether.
The reverse ageism underlying in all of the arguments or excuses can't be felt more, coupled with questioning the use for fiction. So, people who have had more experience in life shouldn't indulge in stories? According to this article, they have "reached a saturation point," but then goes on to admit that the novel is perhaps the single most intimate art form revealing the inner life of another person. And, old people shouldn't have this relationship with a story, because they've already met enough people in real life? Huh? What kind of logic is this? The beauty of fiction is in the access of a different consciousness than one's own, and if it's good fiction, the resonance of having this access shouldn't depend on age. Philip Roth may learn facts by reading about science or anthropology, and as Laura Miller notes that staunch proponents of nonfiction proclaim, even if it's poorly written, he will "come away from it having learned something about the world." But, within fiction is just as much truth, only a different kind -- the truth of someone else's experience. The personal truth attests a universal, more transcendent truth. McCarthy or Roth, while were once eighteen, for instance, don't know what it's like to be eighteen now. They don't know what it's like to be a lower class woman living paycheck to paycheck. They don't know what it's like to be a gay teenager kicked out of their parent's home. They don't know what it's like to have survived a rape. They don't know what it's like to be an undocumented U.S. immigrant afraid of law enforcement. They don't know what it's like to fight in Iraq or Afghanistan. And, the list could go on. And on. And, while they may have read stories about people like this before, or even written about people in similar situations, it still won't be the same character who's affected in a different way than the particular story they happen to read at the time. Much respect for both of them, much more for McCarthy than Roth, I'll admit, but the central question I can't get over is this: How can any writer expect their work to be read or respected and not consume and support the art they produce?
The reverse ageism underlying in all of the arguments or excuses can't be felt more, coupled with questioning the use for fiction. So, people who have had more experience in life shouldn't indulge in stories? According to this article, they have "reached a saturation point," but then goes on to admit that the novel is perhaps the single most intimate art form revealing the inner life of another person. And, old people shouldn't have this relationship with a story, because they've already met enough people in real life? Huh? What kind of logic is this? The beauty of fiction is in the access of a different consciousness than one's own, and if it's good fiction, the resonance of having this access shouldn't depend on age. Philip Roth may learn facts by reading about science or anthropology, and as Laura Miller notes that staunch proponents of nonfiction proclaim, even if it's poorly written, he will "come away from it having learned something about the world." But, within fiction is just as much truth, only a different kind -- the truth of someone else's experience. The personal truth attests a universal, more transcendent truth. McCarthy or Roth, while were once eighteen, for instance, don't know what it's like to be eighteen now. They don't know what it's like to be a lower class woman living paycheck to paycheck. They don't know what it's like to be a gay teenager kicked out of their parent's home. They don't know what it's like to have survived a rape. They don't know what it's like to be an undocumented U.S. immigrant afraid of law enforcement. They don't know what it's like to fight in Iraq or Afghanistan. And, the list could go on. And on. And, while they may have read stories about people like this before, or even written about people in similar situations, it still won't be the same character who's affected in a different way than the particular story they happen to read at the time. Much respect for both of them, much more for McCarthy than Roth, I'll admit, but the central question I can't get over is this: How can any writer expect their work to be read or respected and not consume and support the art they produce?
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Best New Yorker Fiction
It's been a year since I've had a two year subscription to The New Yorker. I got it for myself as a Christmas gift last year. The sole purpose was for the fiction. I got tired of hunching over my lab top, eyes blurry from reading the stories digitally on their website. And, it made me feel all privileged when pieces on the website could only be accessed if the user had a subscription. I figured it would be good for me, as it's regarded as "the best" short fiction being published in the U.S., a reputation I've hardly found validated, especially this year. Reading every story for a year, on the whole, I found myself disappointed. I don't know if this is a product of declining quality or that I've become disillusioned and not as easily impressed. I remember some stories in past years giving me really "wow" moments at what was pulled off in the writing, but there were none like that this year. Or maybe it's a combination of both. This is not to say I haven't read some good pieces of fiction from them this year, which is why I present this list. It's my top 5 New Yorker stories from this year. I wish I had the time to give a more in depth take on what I think about them here, but I'll only give a quick run down. Maybe that's better anyway, to let them stand on their own.
5. "Agreeable" by Jonathan Franzen. I'm assuming this is an excerpt from his new novel Freedom meant to be its own story. I usually don't have a problem with publications doing this, as long as the excerpt can stand on its own with all the tenets I expect from short fiction, or if it doesn't, that its identified as an excerpt, which I will judge differently. I could tell this was an excerpt, and if its not, Franzen has some issues to deal with. But, if it is, I think it's a good one. Though the third person voice can seem too affected and a bit unnatural at times, the central conflict is compelling to me. A teenage girl-basketball player-black sheep in her family is raped. The boy who does it is the son of a couple her parents are good friends with, so her parents don't want to press charges, or if they do, don't want them to be very harsh.
4. "Costello" by Jim Gavin. I provided the link even though a subscription is required. I was pleased to read that this is Jim Gavin's first New Yorker publication. I love it when they premier new writers instead of paying homage to their standard big names. It's usually an indicator that the story will be good, and this one is no exception. It's about a man named Martin Costello who is a plumber salesman. He lives alone and has two daughters, and he frequently deflects dinner invites from his neighbor to sit at home and watch sports instead. The overwhelming loneliness in his life is handled with such subtly not found in most stories in which a central character is in a state of solitude. It's not stated but shown in every way Gavin draws Costello. I particularly like the two line description of the way he eats his microwaved hot dogs while watching the game. The way such a simple detail is delivered gives me a substantial idea of what his life is like. It's eventually revealed that his wife died of cancer. I don't think this is a spoiler, because it's not meant to be a big shock. I like that it refrains from being a "cancer story" even though it's included as a part of the reality of Costello's life.
3. "The Young Painters" by Nicole Krauss. Again, online use restricted to subscription holders. "Meta" has been thrown around liberally recently, especially when discussing a few popular TV shows, as if it's something new and cerebral, even though fiction has been doing it for centuries. Given the boom of its recent popularity, finding a story involving meta-fiction in the NYer this year is no surprise. This one is about a writer who goes to a dinner party that a dancer friend hosts. She takes interest in a painting in his house, and he tells a startling, heartbreaking, and personal anecdote of where it came from, which I'll leave out. The writer ends up writing and publishing a story about it, letting her imagination fill in the details. She worries how her friend will view the way she used something personal from his past. It's told as if she's on trial talking to a judge, occasionally using "Your Honor," as if the reader is the judge. This form does come off as a bit of a gimmick, but I like this story for the central questions it poses about fiction. To what extent is use of real-life inspiration exploiting the people or person from which it comes? (for a similar take, see "Material" by Alice Munro)
2. "Ask Me If I Care" by Jennifer Egan. Now, I know this is an excerpt from her new novel A Visit from the Goon Squad, or if it's not a direct excerpt, it's a story about the same characters. It stands on its own quite well as a story. It's very punk rock. Probably because it's about a teenage punk band. Rhea is the main character, and the story is her first person account. I love that opening paragraph too. There's a big love 5 sided polygon among the members of the band or her friends associated with it, Bennie, Scotty, Jocelyn, and the outsider of the group, Alice. Rhea doesn't beat us over the head with this cliche, but between the lines are insights into why each embraces the "punk" image. Enter Lou. A much older record executive Jocelyn has a fling with after he picked her up hitch hiking. Egan has created a voice in Rhea that is authentic and genuine as she tries to decipher herself what it even means to be "real."
1. "Boys Town" by Jim Shepard. This is my favorite New Yorker story this year. It's a shame it's only available to subscribers. After a major drought in quality stories lasting months, I was starting to get fed up, until this one came toward the end of the year. Refreshing. The power of the story is in the main character's first person POV: Martin, a veteran, who lives with his mom, and is divorced. There's no reason I should be sympathetic toward him. He's a terrible person. He's abused his wife and maybe even his son, who he's lost custody of. He doesn't pay his child support. He's violent, and even wields a gun at one point. But, for some reason I am. He thinks he has post-traumatic stress, which he might, though it's implied he never really fought in Iraq or Afghanistan. His mom only enables him. He's had a hard life. But, so many people have had hard lives and don't turn out like him, which gets at a central question of the story. How much are we affected by our circumstances and how much is a part of our biological make-up? The reason I become sympathetic toward him I suppose is because I'm getting the intimate first person, a power of the form to which this story is a testament.
Honorable Mentions:
1. "Corrie" by Alice Munro. I love her. She's one of my favorite writers. She didn't make the final list perhaps because I was expecting more from her. Every time I pick up a story by Munro I expect to be floored in the well crafted structure and turns of phrase, but this one didn't live up to my expectations for her specifically. This story is still good though. An affair, blackmail, all good stuff.
2. "The Pilot" by Joshua Ferris He was a part of the June 14th and 25th issues' "20 Under 40" fiction segment premiering the "top" 20 young fiction writers under 40. Most I found lacking. The New Yorker seems to be shifting toward this new style that just leaves me thinking "so what?", stories with no real meat and are just showing off some experimental form. Ferris is an exception. I love the main character's obsessive and neurotic tendencies, though they could be a turn off for some.
3. "I.D." by Joyce Carol Oates. Her stories are usually always hit or miss for me. Her recent fiction has been pretty lackluster, especially with the disaster that was "Pumpkin Head", but this one redeems her for me. It's definitely a "hit."
Again, I wish I could go more in depth but lack the time. I find it interesting that the ones I seem to like best are typically in first person when I usually prefer third. I have some ideas about why this is the case, but that's another post for another time. Thanks for indulging this fiction geek.
5. "Agreeable" by Jonathan Franzen. I'm assuming this is an excerpt from his new novel Freedom meant to be its own story. I usually don't have a problem with publications doing this, as long as the excerpt can stand on its own with all the tenets I expect from short fiction, or if it doesn't, that its identified as an excerpt, which I will judge differently. I could tell this was an excerpt, and if its not, Franzen has some issues to deal with. But, if it is, I think it's a good one. Though the third person voice can seem too affected and a bit unnatural at times, the central conflict is compelling to me. A teenage girl-basketball player-black sheep in her family is raped. The boy who does it is the son of a couple her parents are good friends with, so her parents don't want to press charges, or if they do, don't want them to be very harsh.
4. "Costello" by Jim Gavin. I provided the link even though a subscription is required. I was pleased to read that this is Jim Gavin's first New Yorker publication. I love it when they premier new writers instead of paying homage to their standard big names. It's usually an indicator that the story will be good, and this one is no exception. It's about a man named Martin Costello who is a plumber salesman. He lives alone and has two daughters, and he frequently deflects dinner invites from his neighbor to sit at home and watch sports instead. The overwhelming loneliness in his life is handled with such subtly not found in most stories in which a central character is in a state of solitude. It's not stated but shown in every way Gavin draws Costello. I particularly like the two line description of the way he eats his microwaved hot dogs while watching the game. The way such a simple detail is delivered gives me a substantial idea of what his life is like. It's eventually revealed that his wife died of cancer. I don't think this is a spoiler, because it's not meant to be a big shock. I like that it refrains from being a "cancer story" even though it's included as a part of the reality of Costello's life.
3. "The Young Painters" by Nicole Krauss. Again, online use restricted to subscription holders. "Meta" has been thrown around liberally recently, especially when discussing a few popular TV shows, as if it's something new and cerebral, even though fiction has been doing it for centuries. Given the boom of its recent popularity, finding a story involving meta-fiction in the NYer this year is no surprise. This one is about a writer who goes to a dinner party that a dancer friend hosts. She takes interest in a painting in his house, and he tells a startling, heartbreaking, and personal anecdote of where it came from, which I'll leave out. The writer ends up writing and publishing a story about it, letting her imagination fill in the details. She worries how her friend will view the way she used something personal from his past. It's told as if she's on trial talking to a judge, occasionally using "Your Honor," as if the reader is the judge. This form does come off as a bit of a gimmick, but I like this story for the central questions it poses about fiction. To what extent is use of real-life inspiration exploiting the people or person from which it comes? (for a similar take, see "Material" by Alice Munro)
2. "Ask Me If I Care" by Jennifer Egan. Now, I know this is an excerpt from her new novel A Visit from the Goon Squad, or if it's not a direct excerpt, it's a story about the same characters. It stands on its own quite well as a story. It's very punk rock. Probably because it's about a teenage punk band. Rhea is the main character, and the story is her first person account. I love that opening paragraph too. There's a big love 5 sided polygon among the members of the band or her friends associated with it, Bennie, Scotty, Jocelyn, and the outsider of the group, Alice. Rhea doesn't beat us over the head with this cliche, but between the lines are insights into why each embraces the "punk" image. Enter Lou. A much older record executive Jocelyn has a fling with after he picked her up hitch hiking. Egan has created a voice in Rhea that is authentic and genuine as she tries to decipher herself what it even means to be "real."
1. "Boys Town" by Jim Shepard. This is my favorite New Yorker story this year. It's a shame it's only available to subscribers. After a major drought in quality stories lasting months, I was starting to get fed up, until this one came toward the end of the year. Refreshing. The power of the story is in the main character's first person POV: Martin, a veteran, who lives with his mom, and is divorced. There's no reason I should be sympathetic toward him. He's a terrible person. He's abused his wife and maybe even his son, who he's lost custody of. He doesn't pay his child support. He's violent, and even wields a gun at one point. But, for some reason I am. He thinks he has post-traumatic stress, which he might, though it's implied he never really fought in Iraq or Afghanistan. His mom only enables him. He's had a hard life. But, so many people have had hard lives and don't turn out like him, which gets at a central question of the story. How much are we affected by our circumstances and how much is a part of our biological make-up? The reason I become sympathetic toward him I suppose is because I'm getting the intimate first person, a power of the form to which this story is a testament.
Honorable Mentions:
1. "Corrie" by Alice Munro. I love her. She's one of my favorite writers. She didn't make the final list perhaps because I was expecting more from her. Every time I pick up a story by Munro I expect to be floored in the well crafted structure and turns of phrase, but this one didn't live up to my expectations for her specifically. This story is still good though. An affair, blackmail, all good stuff.
2. "The Pilot" by Joshua Ferris He was a part of the June 14th and 25th issues' "20 Under 40" fiction segment premiering the "top" 20 young fiction writers under 40. Most I found lacking. The New Yorker seems to be shifting toward this new style that just leaves me thinking "so what?", stories with no real meat and are just showing off some experimental form. Ferris is an exception. I love the main character's obsessive and neurotic tendencies, though they could be a turn off for some.
3. "I.D." by Joyce Carol Oates. Her stories are usually always hit or miss for me. Her recent fiction has been pretty lackluster, especially with the disaster that was "Pumpkin Head", but this one redeems her for me. It's definitely a "hit."
Again, I wish I could go more in depth but lack the time. I find it interesting that the ones I seem to like best are typically in first person when I usually prefer third. I have some ideas about why this is the case, but that's another post for another time. Thanks for indulging this fiction geek.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Out of the Bubble
For the past year I've been in a book club. In fact, I'm the founder and coordinator of it. Many of my literary friends would find this hilarious; I find it hilarious given the amount of times book clubs were the source of jokes for me and these friends in my college days. The idea invokes a group of people sitting around in a touchy-feely circle talking about surface topics like what characters they liked or didn't, how certain parts made them feel, or whether they like the book or not with no solid justification one way or the other, and very little, if any, discussion about topics of importance like structure of form, character complexity, narrative causality, sources of conflict, subtext, or line-by-line linguistic analysis of style to name a few. You know, topics with real literary significance. Is this snobbery? Yes, very much so. Am I a book snob? Again, yes, very much so. I started this club reluctantly at the proposal of a few friends, and as the only former English major in the mix, I was the logical choice for the role of organizer. Over the past year, my attitude has changed a bit. It's been refreshing to speak in a setting about a book openly with no pressure or grade at stake. Most importantly, I've enjoyed the opportunity to read books I wouldn't have chosen for myself otherwise. Of course, I've liked some more than others.
The last meeting we had was this Monday. We read War Dances by Sherman Alexie, a collection of short stories and poems. As a whole, I admire Alexie's blend of traditional structural form with experimentation, especially in a current literary community where everyone is pegged with being in either one camp or the other. As a lover of fiction, I was most eager for the short stories, and I want to comment on one specifically, "The Senator's Son." This one resonated with me the most. Book clubbers -- at least my stereotypical perception of them referenced in the previous paragraph -- tend to hate a book if they hate the characters. In this story, I hated all three central characters: a conservative senator vying for future presidency, his priveleged son, William, and William's former best friend, Jeremy, a gay republican. While I know if these characters were real I most likely wouldn't be able to stand them, I found this story, and them, powerful, because Alexie provides insight into perhaps why they are the way they are. Spoiler alert. William gay bashes Jeremy years after the latter came out to the former, which had dissolved their friendship. In a surprising reversal, I felt like William, the first person POV character, was more redeemable than Jeremy, who is essentially homophobic himself, maybe even more than William. Jeremy readily forgives William with no questions, claiming gay rights don't matter, because far more pressing issues and problems exist in the world than who he has sex with. In the end, I realize he refuses to support his own rights, the ones that are the most immediate to him, because he is a man who has become so disillusioned and beaten down -- both figuratively and literally in the case with William and also growing up with his father -- by the homophobia in the world that his only defense mechanism is to comply to it by not standing up for himself. William ponders whether Jeremy's act of forgiveness is an act of cowardice. I can't help but agree, and I was taken aback that I felt this way -- that forgiveness isn't necessarily redemptive; it can be spineless.
This story is apt for what I've been rolling around in my head the past week given all the media coverage of the suicides caused by bullying. I'm shocked at how homophobic our society is. Sure, I've known it is. I'm not naive. I've experienced it first hand since quite a young age by enduring harassment similar to what these kids faced. Maybe the extent of our culture's prejudice mind-set is becoming more real for me in these past two years out of college -- a place where my sexuality was a non-issue with the people I surrounded myself with, especially being steeped in a creative writing program. Now that I'm out of the bubble, I notice just how latent our homophobia is. I've had people telling me these suicides in the news aren't issues with being gay but are about bullying. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't almost every instance in the news over the past month a bully who is making derogatory remarks and harassing a kid because he or she was gay, or was perceived as being gay, or didn't fit into any type of gender role deemed "normal"? People who make claims like these aren't looking at the root cause of why their peers are bullying these kids in the first place. And, I wonder why now of all times the media decides to focus on these tradgedies, because they happen much more than the national news stations usually covered before. The suicide rate of gay teens far exceeds the number of straight teens. Maybe now that more people are paying attention to how harmful homophobia is, attitudes will change. In the past week, I've found the media covering more instances of violence, discrimination, and narrow-mindedness:
-The Bronx gay bashing
- A student-teacher fired for answering a student's question about his marital status
- Another suicide, provoked not by harassment at school, but by awful comments made at a community's city council meeting
- More bullying, and physical assault in school
- And, I would be remiss leaving out Carl Paladino
I could list more, but this is sufficient enough to give you an idea. Then again, I wouldn't hold my breath that exposure will make a difference. These attitudes are pretty heavily engrained culturally. Over the past year, since integrating back into Louisville, I've been surprised at certain encounters I've had. Like certain "friends" making comments to me like, "Wow, do you have any masculinity left in you at all?" because I was holding a red drink I suppose this person deemed "girly," or slights like, "It looks like we've got four women here," even though there were three, and then continuing with, "and I'm including Michael." I'm not trying to use this post to play the victim or to even insinuate at all that these encounters are on any level with the suicides, discrimination, or bashing I've cited above. I'm simply pointing to them as examples of how mannerisms and outlooks regarding sexual orientation and gender are so embedded in how people interact with one another that they become second nature, and by extention, these small, subtle attitudes yield the larger more horrific forms of violence and blatant prejudice. Despite the media coverage, I don't see immediate change occurring any time soon. So, I can definitely understand Jeremy in that Sherman Alexie story. It would be easy to forgive people who are the cause of such direct violence and hatred, if that's what would save yourself from it all.
The last meeting we had was this Monday. We read War Dances by Sherman Alexie, a collection of short stories and poems. As a whole, I admire Alexie's blend of traditional structural form with experimentation, especially in a current literary community where everyone is pegged with being in either one camp or the other. As a lover of fiction, I was most eager for the short stories, and I want to comment on one specifically, "The Senator's Son." This one resonated with me the most. Book clubbers -- at least my stereotypical perception of them referenced in the previous paragraph -- tend to hate a book if they hate the characters. In this story, I hated all three central characters: a conservative senator vying for future presidency, his priveleged son, William, and William's former best friend, Jeremy, a gay republican. While I know if these characters were real I most likely wouldn't be able to stand them, I found this story, and them, powerful, because Alexie provides insight into perhaps why they are the way they are. Spoiler alert. William gay bashes Jeremy years after the latter came out to the former, which had dissolved their friendship. In a surprising reversal, I felt like William, the first person POV character, was more redeemable than Jeremy, who is essentially homophobic himself, maybe even more than William. Jeremy readily forgives William with no questions, claiming gay rights don't matter, because far more pressing issues and problems exist in the world than who he has sex with. In the end, I realize he refuses to support his own rights, the ones that are the most immediate to him, because he is a man who has become so disillusioned and beaten down -- both figuratively and literally in the case with William and also growing up with his father -- by the homophobia in the world that his only defense mechanism is to comply to it by not standing up for himself. William ponders whether Jeremy's act of forgiveness is an act of cowardice. I can't help but agree, and I was taken aback that I felt this way -- that forgiveness isn't necessarily redemptive; it can be spineless.
This story is apt for what I've been rolling around in my head the past week given all the media coverage of the suicides caused by bullying. I'm shocked at how homophobic our society is. Sure, I've known it is. I'm not naive. I've experienced it first hand since quite a young age by enduring harassment similar to what these kids faced. Maybe the extent of our culture's prejudice mind-set is becoming more real for me in these past two years out of college -- a place where my sexuality was a non-issue with the people I surrounded myself with, especially being steeped in a creative writing program. Now that I'm out of the bubble, I notice just how latent our homophobia is. I've had people telling me these suicides in the news aren't issues with being gay but are about bullying. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't almost every instance in the news over the past month a bully who is making derogatory remarks and harassing a kid because he or she was gay, or was perceived as being gay, or didn't fit into any type of gender role deemed "normal"? People who make claims like these aren't looking at the root cause of why their peers are bullying these kids in the first place. And, I wonder why now of all times the media decides to focus on these tradgedies, because they happen much more than the national news stations usually covered before. The suicide rate of gay teens far exceeds the number of straight teens. Maybe now that more people are paying attention to how harmful homophobia is, attitudes will change. In the past week, I've found the media covering more instances of violence, discrimination, and narrow-mindedness:
-The Bronx gay bashing
- A student-teacher fired for answering a student's question about his marital status
- Another suicide, provoked not by harassment at school, but by awful comments made at a community's city council meeting
- More bullying, and physical assault in school
- And, I would be remiss leaving out Carl Paladino
I could list more, but this is sufficient enough to give you an idea. Then again, I wouldn't hold my breath that exposure will make a difference. These attitudes are pretty heavily engrained culturally. Over the past year, since integrating back into Louisville, I've been surprised at certain encounters I've had. Like certain "friends" making comments to me like, "Wow, do you have any masculinity left in you at all?" because I was holding a red drink I suppose this person deemed "girly," or slights like, "It looks like we've got four women here," even though there were three, and then continuing with, "and I'm including Michael." I'm not trying to use this post to play the victim or to even insinuate at all that these encounters are on any level with the suicides, discrimination, or bashing I've cited above. I'm simply pointing to them as examples of how mannerisms and outlooks regarding sexual orientation and gender are so embedded in how people interact with one another that they become second nature, and by extention, these small, subtle attitudes yield the larger more horrific forms of violence and blatant prejudice. Despite the media coverage, I don't see immediate change occurring any time soon. So, I can definitely understand Jeremy in that Sherman Alexie story. It would be easy to forgive people who are the cause of such direct violence and hatred, if that's what would save yourself from it all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)