All posts by Nina Adel

New Year. Newness. Everywhere.

A New Year’s visit with Suprima from Nepal reminded me that  New Year’s celebrations on our planet mark the start of the year in different seasons for some cultural groups. It is not always, in every corner of the world, the January 1st of the Gregorian calendar that we follow in the U.S. As Suprima said, it is not even 2015 in some nations, but a year number far from that.

When does a new year actually begin?

When I was a child, I imagined the year like the chain of a bicycle, All of the months from September (which was, for me, the beginning of the year) to May were on the upper length of the chain, with late May through August taking up an equal length on the bottom. Thus the summers, though shorter in months, were just as long as the rest of the year, or, as it seems, the “school year”. I imagined the year spinning around as I pedaled through, like that bicycle chain when a cyclist is riding along. I wonder if my younger self needed to see the summer as longer-lasting than it really is. The summer was a time of relative freedom, relief from structure. I am always in need of a change, either from too much or too little structure. It is a difficult thing to balance.

Our U.S. New Year celebration is over now, for 2015, but around the planet, some New Year’s celebrations and the start of the  calendar years of calendars conceptualized quite unlike ours here are coming up in the months just ahead. While it wouldn’t be right to appropriate the calendar of some other culture, just because we think it’s interesting or cool or different – things we seem to value or claim to value in American culture – it is a good thing to celebrate newness in ourselves; to celebrate the ability to open  up to the lives ahead of us. My song “You Won’t See A Thing”, on the album “WildLife”, suggested this feeling, these hopes. I keep my feet planted right here, right now, and all the while I look forward. To what I haven’t yet started:

“I lean against a damp tree,

and I can’t remember Me,

but there’s always someone new inside

…that I just might find.”

Eleni and Jon


“None of these stories will stitch up into a seamless blanket to cover this family’s tracks. In this story, all the fissures show, they bulge scarlike, they come apart at the seams or they were never sewn up in the first place.” – Eleni Sikelianos, The Book of Jon

Sometimes running off without the baby saves the baby.


She keeps waking up

with the same revelation,

like it’s new, every morning:

taggedat birth. Father


held this latest baby in

its blanket, traced

radiating circles alternating

beige and blue

and red


onto its forehead with

his pointer finger.

the finger hairy at

the knuckles bending only

slightly, its tiny

Mediterranean curls.



Adored by women. and his wife.

the whole

of possibility still ahead.


but this baby,

small and last in line,

all mapped out now, circles

in beige and blue

and red.


It’s on the second anniversary of the death of my father that I am reading The Book of Jon, a memoir of Eleni Sikelianos. Rather it is something of a memoir of her father. Recollection is not fully available to her. It is as if also retold and relocated from others on his map. And conjured, too. The intersection of Eleni the daughter and Jon the father, but more the father, as is so often true in the world, in their world, in human history. I cannot say it too many times, but I can say it again differently: Our common human history – our is we is all of us everywhere – so often privileges the father over the daughter, as if there were actually no intersection.

Eleni Sikelianos is mining. Where she seeks any shade of gemstones, assuming, perhaps, they will be few and far between and buried in pain or numbness or a portion of love that had escaped, she sometimes finds only asbestos. Waste. And worse. None of us knows if waste can be an acceptable answer. If there is any use for it. If it is acceptable.

                   Acceptable: a common reference yet a low aspiration.

There are fathers who shine on the surface, no matter what’s beneath, but hers is not that kind. Hers, this man Jon, has spent some years, and certainly his later years, as a homeless drug addict who stoops to whatever lows his survival might require. Scraping the bottom. I’ve heard it called being a bottom-feeder. Or a lowlife. He’s not hiding anything, though, not trying to cover up any of it, the downward spiral. It’s there in his black teeth. If there’s a way to respect an overt lowlife, it is for the former rather than the latter aspect. It’s what you see is what you get. Talent, a legacy of brilliance, thrown to the dogs. At least he wasn’t pretending the entire time. From here, where I reside, it seems better when the world can see it. No one’s pulling the wool over your eyes. Pretending you’re the only one who thinks so. Who has reason to think so. From the end of the line, it’s easy to observe what is happening all up and down in front of you. Excluded from the fray. The benefit of exclusion, though perhaps not so with only partial exclusion.

So when Sekelianos writes, “None of these stories will stitch up into a seamless blanket to cover this family’s tracks. In this story, all the fissures show, they bulge scarlike, they come apart at the seams or they were never sewn up in the first place,” I might say – might ask – a different thing. Because what if they do? Stitch up. Cover. What if the stories of your family aren’t told truly? What if the details are correct but the intent is disguised? What if they do stitch up seamlessly and are used to cover the tracks? What it they’re cut from a small, veiny slice of rancid underbelly but are sewn cleanly into a blanket which covers the family’s tracks completely? If the fissures don’t show, if you can’t smell the rot through the bleach and none of the blanket comes discernibly apart at the seams?

Only now after reclimbing the same alps many times over years, plummeting down and starting over each time, to someday, I hope, look down, look back and see what was really there – the Highland view of the family – have I come to place the most true significance on intent. If we look at the people who are the outcomes, at the people formed of the materials mined from the cave of the nuclear family, intent has more weight than real-time action. A hierarchy of applied intent in the family mythology appears like this on the screen in my mind:


hurtful lack of intent

intent lacking awareness

unintentional intent nevertheless perceived and continued by its owner

selective intent

hierarchically targeted intent

precisely targeted intent

applied and magnified harmful intent

That is why, of course, sometimes running off without the baby saves the baby.


Dear readers,
Here’s a holiday offering. A story of magic, of identity, of family, of tradition. It’s a bit long, as it involves a journey of sorts. To a town of fools. After awhile, you’ll be laughing with me. Grab a cup of tea or coffee. Come, read…

On The Way From Chelm

Before she left us, Grandma gave me an old, red book of tales, told me all the old stories, and, without my conscious consent, made me – Bella, the youngest granddaughter – their guardian.

When she was alive, she was more of a keeper than a teller of tales. A quiet grandmother, full of humor. I was only ten when she died, aware neither that she had held the name of keeper nor that she had passed it on to me. I was already known as a storyteller by then, and the stories I was most often asked to tell were the stories of Chelm, the Jewish old-country town known as the town of fools.

I had learned my ten year’s worth of stories. I had eaten my ten year’s worth of poppyseed and sponge cake, of farmer’s cheese blintzes, of kasha, of dill pickles, of cholent and kugel. I had absorbed my ten year’s worth of Yiddish sprinkled into English, the only full language I spoke. I had sung my ten year’s worth of songs, and their rhythm broke free of the music, embedding itself in the stories that were now mine, stories which flew from me with laughter whenever we gathered as a family to celebrate, whenever I had an audience. I had no idea that an entire, vanishing culture and language had been planted in me, a grain of being which, if protected somehow deep inside me – an Ashkenazic child – could inch forward, unseen, to an unnamed future.

I didn’t understand that every day in my house, interacting with parents, one of whom had been raised by that grandmother, would nourish the grain with small drops of Continue reading Holiday

What is Stopping You?



arrived in the mail. A book so beautiful that I cried. Which made my children laugh a little. But there are books for them to love at first sight, too. They know. What is the difference between a watering in my eyes and my son’s sudden jolt forward towards a book on the counter, between my bubbling eyes and my daughter’s adrenaline surge when the pile of secondhand books, bought with a college-job paycheck, is placed in a bag by the cashier?

It is the third week and so far all I can manage is to cry over the beauty or suspected wondrousness of the books; to sleep with three or four of them under my pillow. I am so tired.

Still, there is something to be gained just from their proximity, from the knowledge that in a purse slung over my shoulder, wedged between a used paper towel, a wallet and a little bottle of Chinese medicinal herbs, there is a book that I will surely love; a book that will elicit from me the response that everything I know is connected to everything else out there outside my house, my street, my borrowed city.

I’ve taken, lately – these last weeks – to carrying the books around when I cannot read them.

“cannot read them” doesn’t mean that I begin to read and am soon interrupted by a call from of a far-away friend, a classroom full of students waiting for me, a pan of gyoza and rice and special sauce steaming on the stove with crooked burners. Rather, I cannot read, ever, at any hour during this time, in this part of a year in my life. My brain cannot read. It shuts down. It sleeps.

No, I cannot read at present, but the profound affection or attraction that I feel for these books – there are six, and five that already have me – is nevertheless undiminished.

So I carry them, as if with the intention to read today. I move them from table to car trunk to classroom to grocery store. I tell my son to bring along my book – he knows which one, it is already familiar to him – so that I can read during his rehearsals, his classes, his practice, his playtime. I carry it and splatter it with hopefulness. I cast a messy, unlikely charm:

Today I will read. Today I will read.

The rush of hopefulness lifts me, I can feel that I’m going to read, I plan to read it. The Book of Jon. I reread the first four pages as if I had not already done so six or seven times. My eyes begin to close. I can’t stop that from happening, then can’t open them. My head slips a little to the left, then drops to my left shoulder.

I cannot read, so I carry the book, all the books, the beautiful books, wherever I go.



Bechdel again.


Bechdel again. Hybridity and Psychological Intensiveness In and Around the Graphic Memoir Are You My Mother?

It took far longer for me to read and process this text by Alison Bechdel than it did the previous one, Fun Home. Perhaps I could say it is because of my traveling, because I don’t have a Thursday evening class during which I’ll be discussing it with my fellow students before turning it in. While these may have some bearing on the length of time I spent with the text, the larger factors seem to me to be, in the first place, that I found vastly different purposes for pondering each time I dug in (which did affect my concentration a bit) and, secondly, while I found Fun Home more accessible and, well, more…fun, in fact. Are You My Mother? is relevant to my present concerns as a writer almost to the point of excess.

As in Fun Home, Bechdel’s technique of circling back, revisiting in light of newly-introduced occurrences and elucidating through this revisiting is powerful and effective and unique. As a reader, I felt a sense of completeness with each section, yet threads from previous ‘sections’ (pieces within chapters, that is) are pulled in – more of an effect of reweaving than of simply weaving this text. And even though it diverges from the earlier book in atmosphere, I cannot imagine reading this before or without having read Fun Home. I did try to trick myself into thinking of it outside the light of that previous book, but it didn’t work. And it’s true, it almost never works to trick myself into reading something as if it existed in isolation or without prior knowing.  I think perhaps Bechdel makes it difficult to do so in any case, so requiring of special concentration is her method, her personal reflection combined with academic intensity, with the aforementioned circling back as well.

An intensive employment of psychology – Bechdel’s constant citation and use of Freud, of Winnicott, of Woolf and of Miller – seems by nature quite academic. Yet looking through her lens here, what could be more personal than psychology? To take an exploration of narcissistic parenting, its mark upon subsequent generations, an analysis of the effects of parental objectification of children, and to turn this microscope back upon herself is an act by Bechdel of fearless vulnerability, I think.

Beyond a doubt, Bechdel shows us that the system of her family-of-origin was a narcissistic one. The person raised in the web of such a family faces a double bind in life which is very much in play for a writer (and Bechdel is in ample company, as a surprisingly large number of writers come from these families). The double bind is that people with narcissistic parents are aware that these parents – their parents – are overly focused on their own perceived needs above those of the children. They sense that this is wrong and possess a covert understanding that their needs are not being met, and, often, that this is harmful to them and they must get away (as in Bechdel’s leaving home, mentioned but not dwelled upon) and recover. Yet in order to emancipate themselves, they, too, need to apply what can seem like excessive focus on themselves, for clarity, for understanding, for untangling, for remaking.  Thus to carry out the very thing required to change their circumstances, and especially the aftermath (the toll on the Self), they must in a sense commit the same “crime.” Though it can feel wrong to the adult child, in her case, it isn’t, of course, as it isn’t a focusing on oneself instead of on one’s offspring and responsibility. And it isn’t a manipulation or objectification of someone else, either, but a focus on oneself for the purpose of diffusing and finally knowing.

Even though no one is actually harmed by this inward focus – in this case, in fact, Bechdel’s self-analysis is illuminating, forgiving towards herself and ultimately her mother, and on top of that, an artistic offering to a broader community – it feels, as I said, like narcissistic activity to the person in recovery. I think we can see that illuminated in this text as Bechdel, in analysis (in the sections depicting her experiences in analysis), displays a tremendous amount not only of self-doubt but also self-loathing. She questions her very right to create the work that is her key to emancipation. Thankfully, she also questions that questioning. That is a large part of the work undertaken in this hybrid text and is, perhaps, addressed so well because of the hybridity in the approach.

Recently an acquaintance of mine complained to me and a mutual friend about “people who spend all their time contemplating the fuzz in their own navels.” I had heard her say this many times about many people in her world, but this time, it appears she was covertly directing this remark at us, as the mutual friend, a writer, had just been earnestly asking me about my work this semester and comparing it to her own. On and on the complainer went, holding forth on her thinly-veiled criticism that instead of writing or talking about yourself and your experiences, you should go out and meet people to discuss politics and social conditions with, and they should be people who are actually doing something rather than just talking about it. I have always detested the expression “contemplating the fuzz in your own navel” and especially its frequent use as a tool for causing shame and destabilizing and devaluing people. Ignoring for the moment the offensiveness of dismissing people’s real life issues as nothing more than fuzz, few are those who have no proverbial fuzz in their navels to contemplate in order to grasp an understanding of their place in the world, a world comprised of nations full of other people with their own struggles to live, survive and understand. Not fuzz. Fuzz in the navel is the accusation of the insecure narcissist, and it becomes the worry of others in the system. How in the world can you be a writer (or an artist of any medium) without substantial time spent in contemplation of your life circumstances and how they situate you within the broader world? It seems to me a ridiculous charge! Without such pursuits, all or nearly all literature, film, music, theater and visual art would cease to exit.

Bechdel investigates the unmet childhood needs that have extended into her adult life and formed obstacles to that very work of writing, in addition to pieces about the world as she knows it (her long-term comic strip about lesbians, for example), works that are about surviving that family system, and furthermore, being of that system. About being her mother’s daughter. Unlike those who criticize this kind of work, Bechdel is extraordinarily just and compassionate in her contemplation. She allows and elucidates that the cause of the inadequate and hurtful parenting was that her mother did not have her own needs met. She acknowledges the way this shapes and alters a personality and chips away at selfhood. She acknowledges the generational passing-on of the problem. She acknowledges her mother’s humanity. She allows, too, that her mother gave her a way out, and in so doing, gives her mother a way out as well. What distinguishes Bechdel from her mother most is the way she can reach around her own heartache to offer a very public empathy for the source of much of that heartache…which is, the very thing that distinguishes the healthy-at-heart from the personality-disordered in the system.

How, then, does the hybrid approach of this text help secure that it is the inherent right of this writer to write her own concerns? Certainly if Bechdel were merely contemplating her fuzz, she would still have the “right” to do so…but perhaps no one would care all that much and there would be no New York Times bestselling book from it. It is the way she utilizes, as in her previous book Fun Home, the works of writers, questioners and established voices in the fields of psychology and human development to illustrate the patterns of her own experience, supporting them with revelations about the lives of these sources themselves; it is the way she provides a visual revelation beyond the words. For example, one smiling babyhood photo of herself with the other three in a series which paint, together, a very different picture of her father as parent, of her response when he appears on the scene.  I mentioned earlier the technique of reweaving and circling back that occurs throughout the text. The reader experiences how weighty each seemingly small occurrence is in the scope of Bechdel’s  (and therefore anyone’s) trajectory; how all of our childhoods circle back and are rewoven into each new phase or experience or endeavor; how cumulative is the disowning effect of a moment’s choice on the part of a parent, for example, to tell one child she’s too old to be kissed goodnight anymore after this child has just seen that same parent lavish love and affection upon the younger siblings.

The hybridity in this text offers more pairs of eyes, a greater breadth of concern for the effects of these moments on a life. It offers a greater breadth of tools for digging, unearthing, scraping clean, searching for clues and for evidence toward an ultimate form of emancipation. Bechdel reminds me that I have always (or at least often) felt that one medium, one genre just isn’t enough to root out the truth and observe all its angles; one or two of the senses just isn’t enough for the full expression and perception required for personal growth and for a public offering coming out of that growth. For me, well, I can’t draw at all skillfully, but I can make music, and that came before writing any prose or poetry. When I now undertake creative writing, it always has music or sound and a look to it in my head. When, in the writing, I am remembering a moment to write about, what I remember is its sensory aspect. Sometimes that is all I remember until I am mostly through the writing, and other things appear that I didn’t know I remembered. That is the reason for a lot of my concerns about the requirements of truth and accuracy in creative nonfiction. Some of the best things may contain inaccuracies, which I used to agonize over.

It took quite a while to notice that Bechdel, the older sister to two boys who, as she tells it, received far more love and attention and subjective recognition than she did, scarcely mentions these brothers in this particular book beyond one key scene (the bedtime kiss). I can’t help but ponder this from two perspectives, the first being whether Bechdel herself gives minimal thought to these brothers as important to her life and story or, secondly, whether she makes the choice to avoid excess and obstacle to the aim of her book. Is it a book solely about the mother-daughter relationship? Can that relationship largely exclude the siblings in the mix? I’d like to know if Bechdel intentionally avoids outing her brothers in terms of any sort of precariousness in their relationship and how they regard her work, whether they are all close, whether they feel hurt by her work or are supportive. I want to know this in relation to my own questions about some of my siblings, about my fear of outing them despite my own sense of wanting freedom to tell my own story in my own way, despite perhaps considerable pain I’ve received for regarding them through much of my life as some kind of authority, as I was taught, since they are older, no matter how absurd that becomes in adult life. I wonder about Alison Bechdel. So I look up the brothers.

Among other things, I find a lot of affirmation for the tasks I have set out for myself. And besides this, I find that the earlier book, Fun Home, has expanded its hybridity in ways similar to what I myself envisioned for the future of my own project, Edge: a novella in short stories, poetry and music and other projects I’ve been contemplating for the near future. What I discover is Fun Home: The Musical. So I end this excursion with a tremendous longing to see this now-past production. I’ll keep my radar on for its return to the stage. You never know.


Fun Home, Not-much-fun Home


Fun Home, Not-much-fun Home: Bechdel, Satrapi, Barry and The Graphic Novel and Memoir

Nearing the end of Alison Bechdel’s graphic novel and memoir Fun Home, I wondered what it would be like to read the entire text without the drawings. The dark humor, the straightforward yet complex prose was clearly a masterful brew. I found myself drawing exuberant little stars – my substitute for highlighting – in a great many places on each page. This author’s particular blend seems both to draw the reader inside her deepest perceptions and, simultaneously, keep a safe, buffering distance. I wondered if it is the wry prose, the wry voice that achieves this or if that simultaneous distance and inclusion is achieved precisely through the use of both art forms together. The title of the work, Fun Home on its own, without its subtitle A Family Tragicomic (the one and only thing I dislike about the whole project) and without the cover drawing, stands quite strong. Just those two words comprise several layers of pain, humor, irony. Alone they beckon and captivate. Alone they make me laugh.

It is the use of cartoon that permits the almost adolescent-feeling or raw, streetwise way of telling while it is the use of sophisticated vocabulary, literary knowledge and articulate phrasing that permits the psychological consideration of Bechdel and her parents. What would it be like to separate them? Would the prose, apart from the drawings, hold enough water? I decided to try.

In fact the experiment would have worked better if I had done this from the start, because, having read the text and viewed and read the drawings together the first time, it was fairly difficult to take the text on its own the second. I already knew. Could not ignore what was in there as if I didn’t. Ultimately I ascertained that the text would certainly need filling in or fleshing out (which is not at all the same as development) without the supporting drawings, yet the text was almost  – not quite – a self-sufficient possibility. A different sort of project, but possible. Not so for the drawings. Supporting seems a very fitting word for the drawings; enriching and humor-infusing as well. I come away from the experiment completely skeptical that such a lengthy tale could be told with just the drawings. I know, this skepticism comes from someone who works with words and language or music as my own primary art form, and hybrid works my emphasis toward the future. Therefore it may be that it is harder for me to envision, while a visual or graphic artist could possibly interject here a clear idea or proposal of how to do that very thing. I remain skeptical.

Another consideration for me as a reader is that graphic novels are a personal challenge. My learning style and brain type require a strong measure of visual organization, a level of order on the page for full absorption, processing and contemplation. Off the page that is not such a challenge; that is; in music or other art forms or experiences. Viewing Bechdel’s work through that lens, as compared to Lynda Barry, for example,  I was relieved that Bechdel is not difficult to follow. Even though she takes up a particular topic and moves forward somewhat chronologically, she goes back in time to take up each new topic, usually chapter-wise. This was so skillfully ordered and the language had such a logic to it that there was none of the sense of being “scattered” that I have seen in other works of this genre.

Speaking of other works of the genre, I feel in Fun Home a significant departure from Marjane Satrapi’s Persopolis books, another notable, highly-effective, artful example of the graphic novel and memoir. They differ in many ways, not the least of which is the emotional approach. Satrapi seems largely to allow the events to speak for themselves. She comes across as adored, loving, and adorable. Her family suffered the most from circumstance, not psychological tumultuousness and affective insufficiency. Not so Bechdel’s life, Bechdel’s childhood and adolescence, Bechdel’s family. Satrapi’s tale orients us toward a global critique, a critique of governments, policies, politics and their impact on individuals and families. Bechdel’s work orients us toward a critique of parents (and families) who inflict their own unresolved pain on their children. In fact we could look at her story from the perspective of how homophobia in general destroys family, thus a critique of society (and certainly that is not absent from Fun Home), but in Bechdel’s work, we are seeing how the parents destroy family, or at least individual children. We don’t walk away saying, “Oh, if only Bruce had been accepted as a gay man in his community, poor guy.” Neither does Bechdel ask us to completely write him off as a human being. It is a huge offering that she makes towards him in the very last frame. If we didn’t know it before, she informs us that a harmful parent is not so one-dimensional as to be easily sorted onto an all-encompassing pile of badness. In that sense, Bechdel’s world is not as black-and-white as its actual medium.

Closer to Bechdel’s approach but not as directly critical of her parents is the work of Lynda Barry, especially through her character Marlys and Marlys’s family members. Barry is not as angry, does not eviscerate any relatives or parents. Perhaps this is partly because no one, as far as I recall reading, in her immediate family, no one with authority, publically did anything so brutal as committing suicide or directing abusive behavior towards Barry’s character. Perhaps it is because she presents most of her work (which is at least loosely autobiographical) as fiction while Bechdel is unashamedly autobiographical.  Or perhaps it is that Barry uses the childlike perceptions and voice of, well, an actual child throughout the work. Marlys just reports. Even in works like 100 Demons, Barry doesn’t really tell us whose inner demons she is revealing – are they hers or those of Marlys or another of her frequent characters? In the end, considering these three graphic novelists (all of whom are, in fact, autobiographical in their projects), even though I think it is all of these things that soften the voices of Satrapi and Barry and sharpen the verbal knives, however humorous and lovely, of Bechdel, they feel alike in ways far beyond genre and far beyond gender as well.


Summer Ryde

I spent the summer in something like a bewildered pondering. In between classes to teach and classes to take, boxes full of our possessions spread out vertically across  America, from Midwest to Southeast, I wasn’t sure  what to do with myself, with my time. Wasn’t sure how to wait out the summer, or if waiting it out was even an option.  Or an acceptable use of my time.

The mail came. A package. I opened it up and extracted a large, fuzzy pink mustache pillow with ties on the back to attach it to the front grille of my car. Or maybe it was a pair of fuzzy peach pig ears to fasten over the side-view mirrors, the identifying symbol of a car-sharing app. A smaller bag from the box contained a tiny device to attach my phone to the air vent on the dashboard. I decided to do as directed, so I detail-cleaned my car, attached the mustache (or was it the pig ears?), turned on the phone app and began to drive friendly total strangers from one end of the sticky, melting city to the other. At all hours of the day and night.

We talked. We listened to the radio, to my CD mixes. They told me their names, rated my driving and the relative cleanliness of my car. They stepped into my storybooth on wheels, and when they had finished talking, having been transported from bars to restaurants, hotels to airports and apartments to juice bars, they stepped back out. They left behind candy wrappers, bracelets, paper coffee cups and stories. I returned the bracelets and threw away the garbage, but the stories, well…some of those I am sharing with you:

Ryding Around

Father’s Day

Sunday morning, 8 a.m., just south of downtown, I drove into an apartment complex and put on the flashers at the designated spot. My passenger appeared and leaned over, opening the passenger-side door, as Ryders are encouraged to do.  “Oh, maan,” he groaned and lifted one flip-flop into the front next to me, the rest of him tumbling in after. He was wearing shorts and a baggy Madras shirt, a handsome thirtyish face coated with dark stubble. He winked a swollen eye and said, “I can’t believe what I just did,” As I drove him to a near-empty parking lot in the Gulch to retrieve his car from the night before, my passenger talked to me like I was his trusted auntie, confessing that he did not even know exactly where he’d spent the night with the woman he’d gone home with or exactly where I’d gone to pick him up on my first Ryde of the morning. Repentant, that’s what he was. Never doing that again, Ryding home with a stranger and having to face her the next morning. And Father’s Day, too.  And a Sunday.

I sent him off with a breath mint and reassuring words and answered my next summons just barely within the allotted fifteen seconds before it bounced to some other lucky Ryde driver. This next Ryde was a man leaving one of the newer Gulch high-rise condos, also headed to his car left the previous night by the Woodlands Indian vegetarian restaurant alongside I-440. “Glad to see everyone Ryding instead of driving home dangerously!” I joked, and this man, round and rumpled and smiling, said, “Well, I’ve gotta get home fast and shower and shave. Gotta do Father’s Day stuff today. Kid wants to do brunch and church, that’s what he requested, so I’ve gotta pick him up from his mom’s in an hour.” The requested very precise and out of sync with his language.  I offered him a mint or a coffee-shot candy and he took the mint.

This turned out to be the theme of the morning. Six nonresident fathers in a row, from one side of town to another, needed morning-after Rydes to their cars so they could make it back home to shower, shave and go to brunch with their children. Three fathers were alone, three with women with whom they shared the familiarity of a current romance. I thought of my own children asleep, wondering if they would see my note and call their out-of-state father when they woke up.

I didn’t think long because the beeping green button was offering me now only seven more seconds to claim my chance at the next Ryde. The GPS sent me in circles around Lifeway Christian and my passenger wasn’t picking up the phone. Then a text came in. “Holiday Inn on Broadway and 10th.”  I pulled  in and a couple came over. “Sorry I couldn’t answer, “ the man said amicably in the voice of one who has never heard spoken language. “I’m completely deaf! Can’t hear a thing! Can you take us to Pancake Pantry?” We arrived at their destination to the usual round-the-block line. I ended the Ryde, the man asking a question I couldn’t understand but thought I knew. “Can you lip-read?” I asked, and he nodded. “It’s always like this, the line for The Pantry, but it moves fast.” He smiled, touched my shoulder and hopped out with his partner, who squeezed my hand while the green button flashed only six more seconds to grab the next request.



Coming home to Nashville often feels like I’ve come to a new destination city. One of the many things about our growing homeplace that I wouldn’t have known had I not begun driving for Ryde, the side mirrors of my oldish Camry adorned with the identifying fluffy peach pig ears, is that it’s become a bachelor and bachelorette party hotspot.

This week, in the middle of a brief burst of rain, my passenger acceptance ticker flashed Ryde green. I caught it in the first two seconds and was summoned to a high-rise condo in the Gulch. A stream of gals in pink matching t-shirts came through the front doors into the valet area, the soon-to be-married bachelorette sporting a plastic tiara. The giant sign she wore listed many instructions for this final night of single-gal status, including the following:

  1. Dance with an aging cowboy on a tabletop at a downtown club
  2. Sing karaoke, change the words to something that maks your mama blush; and
  3. Find a husband for one of the single girls; kiss him first to see if he’s any good.

I gave four members of this peppy group, gathered from all around the nation, a Ryde to Rippy’s where the bride would presumably commence these prenuptial tasks.

There were three bachelorette groups and one bachelor party group that night.  One of these was a swarm of gals in various black embroidered tops and giant sombreros. Four hopped into the pig-eared Camry and included me in their ebullient talkfest as we headed onto Hillsboro from Golf Club Lane and down to the Village. Two other Ryde cars caravanned behind me, the entire party jumping out laughing in front of Cabana and tumbling in the front door, oversized sombreros banging into each other and impeding their entry.

It wasn’t until the arrival of the bachelor party guys, who got into the Camry and asked to be taken to their own little shindig on Demonbreun, that I became aware that the Cabana sombrero ladies had left behind an essential party favor in a sparkly pink box with a vintage design, about the length of a, well, pencil. This was not a night for discretion, and the bachelor party men blurted, “Hey, look, someone left some of those penis sipping straws! You must’ve had a bachelorette party in here before us!”

I bid the bachelors adieu and felt a pang of sadness for the sombrero ladies, all dressed up in their sombreros with no straws to sip. So I did the only right thing. I turned off driver mode on my app and went all the way back up Broadway to the Village, turned left onto Belcourt and pulled up to the Cabana valet, my kindred spirit of evening work shifts. “I drive for Ryde,” I explained, as if the fluffy peach pig ears were not already a dead giveaway. “Some passenger ladies left a, uh, “special” party favor in my car and I need to run in and return it.” “Oh,” he said, ignoring my attempt at discretion, “You mean they left some penis straws? Go right on in, I’ll watch your car.” So I went in carrying the telltale pink box, trying to appear as unembarrassed as the valet and found the gals. As I pulled aside the net partition, one of my Ryders recognized me and jumped up in excited gratitude, her giant sombrero knocking into the one next to her. Suddenly, the group of partiers was upon me, erupting into cheers and thanking and hugging me in drunk-tight embraces until I managed to escape, the evening’s penis-straw deliveryheroine riding off in a silver Camry to rescue more of our fine city’s passengers in distress.


Is She or Isn’t She?

Pondering Just About Everything in Marianne Wiggins’ The Shadow Catcher, As Likely She Would Have Us Do

There was…something…so I scoured the internet. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to be one of those celebrity gossip-reading people spending her time searching for the intimate details of some {choose one from the following list: actor, musician, Fox News anchorwoman, model, talk show host, recording artist, novelist}’s life. And it wasn’t because of the Rushdie connection, which I hadn’t even realized or recalled at first. Until my friend F. asked what I was reading for my current work, and I said, “Marianne Wiggins’ Shadow Catcher,” and she responded, “Marianne Wiggins!…Wiggins…who was married to Rushdie?” and I said, “Ohhhhhh…..ding. ding! That Marianne Wiggins!” But no. It really wasn’t that. Was it, then, my wondering about certain details regarding author Wiggins’ father…and sister? I admit to being a person overly preoccupied with everyone’s father and everyone’s sisters. But it wasn’t that either.

I think it was the irrepressible urge that came over me to pour Wiggins and her book through a fact-or-fiction sieve, to isolate the yolk, and not because I feel that the egg white and the egg yolk must necessarily be made into separate omelettes. Clearly I don’t feel that. I am definitely of the all-in-one, mix-it-up together-omelette variety. In large part my interest was in the legitimacy of reinterpreting or restating conversations and reinventing real-life relationships to suit a story. In part it was in understanding whether Wiggins just boldly dared to lend her name and the names of family members to fictional or half-fictional characters (or fictionalized representations of real people). And the only reason I would care if that is…well, acceptable for a writer to do, given the rigid specifications of certain publications in the field of cnf – otherwise I only care about the book in question and whether I enjoy it or find it somehow meaningful – is that I want to know if I can do that, too. Can I make up a character named Nina Adel who is just like me in name and basic details but isn’t actually me just so I can make a relative meaner or an authority figure crazier than they actually are or were? Can I commit the misdeed of exaggeration for the sake of illumination?

Whatever the reason or justification, I scoured the internet to discover whether Wiggins was exaggerating or inventing or twisting or, perhaps, engaging in absolute truth-telling from inside the subjectivity of her own perspective. What I found was a series of articles by reviewers who all claimed not to care whether Wiggins had invented another Marianne Wiggins or even half of one. “Who cares, really,” these reviewers said, and at length, “what the true story is or was, when the writing and storytelling is so masterful?” But I don’t believe them. I don’t think they really were not-curious because life has taught me that a question – whatever question – is only mentioned by those to whom it has occurred, just as accusations (especially convoluted ones) are mostly made by those who have themselves done whatever it is they are accusing someone of having done. The two things are very similar. Just as I am, in this reflection, more or less making the assertion that the reviewers were chomping at the bit just because I was. Chomping at the bit to know how much of this novel was Marianne the Writer and how much was merely Marianne the Character and whether Curtis was who he was and did what he did because of society’s restrictions on his sexuality or because he was a user and a deceiver or because Marianne the writer engaged her imagination as a writer does. Or all of that in some measure.

That is, I have a feeling that these multiple reviewers cared or were curious and said they didn’t or weren’t. How could a writer and reviewer be lacking in curiosity, and about such a grand proposition at that? In fact it seems that it is the very nature of the genre to inspire such questions and it is, of course, also inherent in the job of the reviewer to ponder and dig.

Recently I attended readings by Lorrie Moore and Susan Minot and Karen Joy Fowler. Two separate readings. All of these authors were or are touring to promote current works of fiction. The works were identified very specifically as fiction (as all three are considered fiction writers, so no surprises there). All three, as well, told the story of the truths behind their works of fiction. Each situated her current work at a different place on the cnf-to-fiction prose-writing spectrum, though none crossed over to outright nonfiction at all. While Moore and Minot spent most of their time reading from their work, the opposite was true of Fowler, who talked at length about the substantial connections between her life and her book. And all I could do was keep wondering, given those connections and author similarities, how successfully Moore and Fowler dreamed (as Minot’s book was another thing altogether, a situation far removed, apparently from her own life, yet eerily preceding a recent similar event as if a premonition) a completely different person out of their own very real selves in those works (novel and short story, respectively). What they had to cut away from themselves, what they had to tack on, to remold. Which of course took me back to Wiggins, who may have done a bit of the opposite, making a not-Wiggins and calling her a Wiggins, to some undisclosed and perplexing extent.

Earlier in this reflection, I said, “I want to know if I can do that, too. Can I make up a character named Nina Adel who is just like me in name and basic details but isn’t actually me just so I can make a relative meaner or an authority figure crazier than they actually are or were? Can I commit the misdeed of exaggeration for the sake of illumination?” I struggle with this for a number of reasons. One of these is that the decision whether to privilege the truth or the story comes up rather frequently. It seems that the decision to privilege the story could be followed by a wild flight in the opposite direction of the truth. This would then be clearer – a piece that is very lightly based on reality or inspired by reality (I see these words a lot with regard to film and fiction) which seems more acceptable to the reading and viewing public.

Personally I am not interested in a wild flight from the truth. I’m interested in the exact opposite. In my life I have lived in the direct flight path of harmful untruth. Even a useful mistelling of word or deed, presented for purposes of illumination, is hard for me to put forth in my writing. The particular world I often try to illuminate is especially challenging in this regard. It looks very different on the inside than its beautiful outside would let on, much as a pretty peach skin can be deceptive regarding its mealy contents. It rings true to me that people tend to prefer to believe the pretty exteriors they encounter. To acknowledge that many people are not at all who they say they are, as Wiggins so expertly addresses in her novel, is upsetting and unsettling and hard to live with. If we didn’t customarily believe that people are who they say they are, relationships would become impossible, living in community would be impossible, existing within any social structure would be impossible. This seems normal to me. However, because people are so accustomed to taking others at face value, when it is pathology or deception that lies beneath the surface, it becomes a difficulty for the nonfiction storyteller, as perhaps great drama or strong backlighting or intensive measures towards unmasking are necessary. Sometimes a tiny truth about motive completely changes the overarching meaning of what may seem like a kind or generous or possibly just benign act. If you are not privy to the true motive or driving force or ultimate intent of the actor, an assumption of normalcy will continue to mask actual harm or harmful intent or unhealthy, longstanding patterns of behavior.

I am in awe of writers like this who succeed at revealing that tiny morsel or motive, especially without taking intensive measures to do so, and thus allow the truth to come slowly up to the surface on its own, or allow the reader to have a either a sudden or slow, undramatic moment of revelation. A moment of quiet understanding. There are places in The Shadow Catcher where Wiggins manages to retell the entire story (this happens separately with all of the major stories contained within the novel) in just one sentence. Maybe two.  And that is one of my fascinations. How to get there more discreetly. Less awkwardly. Without (much) excess.

All of this, however, is a departure from a little urge to address the lengthy passage near the front of the novel that is certainly amongst the most thrilling place-based pieces of writing that I ever recall reading. Wiggins describes her impending-late-arrival journey to a meeting about a film version of the novel we are presumably about to read. In just a few pages, she turns the drive to the appointment into an engaging connection to the geography not only of the San Fernando Valley (the location of the drive) but to the seismic and geological history of the West…which will come back to us later in the novel. It is such a gorgeous geological exploration in the moment regardless of that. Truly thrilling. And another aspect of this which sets up some of what’s to come very beautifully is the voice of humorous cynicism that gives us a breather every time it returns after painful moments in the novel. Wiggins mostly pulls it off perfectly and without waving a big sign that says, “Hey, readers, this is your moment to take a break and chuckle!” I noticed, however, several moments when she broke into a language – the character Marianne’s language – that felt a bit pedestrian compared to the entire rest of the novel. But I didn’t mind that, really. I sometimes need to be reminded that even in the best of all works, nobody’s perfect, and that’s okay. John Hiatt, who is one of my favorite songwriters and has been for many years, wrote a song for his daughter which contained the lyric “She is beautiful, she is small, she don’t wanna play basketball,” and it took me about five years of heavy listening to stop saying, “Uggghhhh. How could he write something so clumsy and stupid in the midst of such an otherwise deep and gorgeous collection of songs?” But now I get it. I may not have liked the way he chose to lighten up, but it probably made somebody laugh as much as it made me cringe.  And…yes, nobody’s perfect, and perfection, in any case, is relative.

Finally, I want to say that the passage I referred to here on the geology and geography of the San Fernando Valley (and entire West Coast) is one I will return to many times – and please, you should, too. You won’t regret it! It’s noteworthy not only for its beautiful language and the special set-up of the novel but also because it is a wonderful example of paving the way early in a creative work to establish opportunities for hybridity later in the work. Oh, and..well, it made me happy to read it.

The Real Curtis Follows The Imagined

Rekdal Follows Wiggins, The Real Curtis Follows The Imagined

It turns out that Paisley Rekdal’s Intimate really ought to follow Marianne Wiggins’ The Shadow Catcher rather than the other way around. This was a happy coincidence for me. The painful complexity of fathers and male privilege are powerful currents through both of these texts. White male privilege, both overt and subliminal, quite specifically, is a definite commonality. If you read one of these books, you should also read the other. Reading Shadow Catcher first grounds the aspect of Edward Curtis’ story, a background which allows the reader greater focus on Alexander Upshaw in Intimate; on the dismissive disconnect as well, the abyss separating Curtis and Upshaw, the true nature of which Upshaw was well aware of and Curtis fairly oblivious.

Paisley Rekdal frankly reveals racism and historical racist policy toward indigenous America, a familiar topic yet with a new and refreshing method. In this she also brings her racially mixed heritage and its accompanying societally-wrought issues and import into the spotlight.

All of this – all of these issues and themes – are situated firmly amongst my own interests as a reader, writer, thinker and human being. Yet I found myself very slow to love the book. I found the writing precise and beautiful, found each section well-crafted, recognized the text as interesting, but I was more than halfway through before I really wanted to read it, and the reasons why are the aspect that I want to unpack and explore. I always want to love a book like this; a book not only recommended by someone whose previous selections have not failed me as a reader and ponderer, but one which intelligently approaches a topic I care about; by a writer who can, in short, really write. Because of this, I hesitate to cast any sort of negative eye upon such a book. In fact, it is really difficult for me to do so. I’m afraid to complain!

But I want to learn from this reading and from this writer, so I am asking myself to be honest about what is bothering me. First and possibly foremost, it takes a very long time before the idea of Rekdal’s story and Upshaw and Curtis’ stories inhabiting the same text feels right. My experience of more or less the first half of the book was that it felt like I was reading two books at once, going back and forth too quickly between one book and the other without a sense of present or impending unity. In retrospect I understand the trajectory laid out by Rekdal, yet it never completely gelled for me. The way she brought in her father’s perusal of the Curtis book (followed by her own perusal of the same) seemed random at first and too much related to an agenda later. While I ultimately enjoyed the project as individual bits, I never felt a sense of the whole project having integrated. In fact, I didn’t like the poems about the photos, for the most part – I actually had the thought, “I know I should care, but…” –  and despite the fact that I love hybrid works and the idea of combining prose, poetry, visual art, and music, this particular text wasn’t, for me as a reader, cohesive. In other words, the individual elements were related but not successfully unified enough.  I would have liked Rekdal to have elaborated more thoroughly the through-line between her own cultural and ethnic no-man’s-land identity and Upshaw’s liminality. Certainly both were quite compelling on their own and can easily coexist in the same work, but there was a gap in history between them here. In other words, despite what I know about racism in America, what I felt was that Upshaw is gone and lost to the tragedy of racism and cultural genocide, but she Rekdal is here and now and teaching and writing (and addressing that same issue as it pertains to her selfhood) and in that she has an advantage. I don’t want to come away from this topic feeling like his experience (Upshaw representing here all of indigenous America) trumps hers (Rekdal representing, it would seem, racially-mixed-and-therefore-oppressed America) which is a terribly minimizing thought or feeling. I dislike it that I felt set up to compare them, which is a thing I don’t even believe in.  I don’t believe that one person or one community’s experience “trumps” another’s. I realize that I am particularly sensitive to this issue, as such discussions constituted the fabric of my parents’ teaching and have always been with me; but since racism, liminality and cultural genocide sit amongst the overarching issues in this text, I don’t think it’s just me thinking what I’m thinking, or more correctly, feeling what I’m feeling – an important distinction. But maybe I am wrong, and what they (whoever they are) are thinking is that it is about…photography. The role of photography in illuminating identity. And it is, in fact, about that. Probably more than the other issues I’ve discussed here, but that is right up-front and visible and easily discerned.

I want to reiterate here that by the middle of the book, I was in.  The problem, I think, isn’t that it never works, but that, due to the issues explored here already, it took so long to get there, and when I finished, I remembered that. The problem is that I said to myself, “Well, yeah, in the end, it turned out to be an interesting and worthwhile book.” That I remembered the first half as a kind of a chore and that I singled out the poems as something I didn’t like reading. *Disclosure: I am not a fan of ekphrastic poetry in general, so this may not even be specific to Rekdal’s poetry.

If I consider it in light of what I am working with in my own hybrid propositions, this text stirs up a great worry about being up to the challenge of creating cohesive hybrid pieces. Not that I won’t do it, but it scares me a little. I remember reading a book, when I was very young, from my sisters’ book stash – I think it was Up the Down Staircase – in which letters and notes are used to illuminate life and relationships within a high school, including a love letter from a student to a teacher which was handed back corrected in red pen for grammar and such, and the student subsequently commits suicide. Though I’ve never revisited the book (and so may be incorrect in this description), what I have always remembered from that long-ago reading was that the use of something different than the narrative was exciting…enchanting. It was something I thought about over and over for years. The sense of the creation of hybrid works as a puzzle has excited me ever since. I feel compelled both as an artist and as a general human being to look at issues and ideas through many different lenses, saying as I go, “No, no, that’s not completely it, how about this? No? Not that either? Well, let’s try this, do you see now?” And I see this in Rekdal’s book, but I wasn’t with her all the way – it was easy to stop to make Spirograph designs with my son or walk my little hound in the woods. What I want is that when what I am saying is only partially exposed, and I have to offer up another medium or a piece of another genre to get at it better, the reader will say to his or her own child, “Hey, not now, kid, give me twenty more minutes and then I’ll make designs with you, I promise!” and what’s more, the reader’s little hound will have to go chew on a bone or something.

For me, in short, Paisley Rekdal’s book Intimate is like a unique and fantastic dress with some un-hemmed edges and a bunch of threads hanging out of the seams. Perhaps the fabric of the bodice or the sleeves are not quite attached in a way that falls right, even though they are a nice part of the design. I love those sleeves and that bodice, could we just tweak the way they’re attached, maybe?

With all of that, however, it nearly kills me that I was not on campus or even in town when, not long ago, Paisley Rekdal gave a talk.  Someday, I swear, I am going to be in the right place at the right time.