Living La Vida Alpo

Readers are fools.

If ever I become a rich and famous author and have to answer a question about what in my writing is drawn from real life, I am so plagiarizing this from Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale.

Readers... are fools.  They believe all writing is autobiographical.  And so it is, but not in the way they think.  The writer's life needs time to rot away before it can be used to nourish a work of fiction.  It must be allowed to decay.  That's why I couldn't have journalists and biographers rummaging around in my past, retrieving bits and pieces of it, preserving it in their words.  To write my books, I needed my past left in peace, for time to do its work.

Except when I say it, I'll cuss a lot.  'Cause I'm, like, all edgy and shit.  Yeah.

Writing off deafies

I can never be totally happy when I see deaf people pop up in literature. 

(The closest I've come lately is Jennifer Weiner's Certain Girls -- protag's daughter, Joy, has a hearing loss, but isn't part of the signing community.  For once, it colored the narrative, but it wasn't an afterthought, nor was it a totally mangled stereotype the author used to serve her own purposes.)

I always have to ask why. 

Why'd you make those people deaf? 

What right do you have to speak on behalf of us deafies? 

Why use deaf people in your book like chess pieces? 

What are they to you, other than receptacles for pity or fetishization that you fuck over so that your protagonists seem more human? 

And why does it seem that deaf characters are, 9 times out of 10, female?!

I was reading Fear and Yoga in New Jersey, by Debra Galant this week, when out of nowhere, I got slapped in the face with more of this deaf fetishization.  The protag, Nina, is a harried, married working yogini mom -- she escapes to the mall in the middle of one of those days where nothing is going right and everybody's an idiot but you. 

God, I could relate.  Yeah, I related so hard I think I had an erection... until she decided she needed a cookie and got pissed because a blonde, Stepford-ish mother and daughter were in front of her in line and I read this:

When the child and her mother got up to the counter, Nina watched carefully, prepared to find whatever they did contemptible.  The mother would be haughty.  The little girl would vacillate between three different cookies, and the mother would let everyone in line behind her wait.  Nina was already irritated at the little girl's greed and the mother's obsequiousness, and neither had opened their mouth.  And then something strange happened.  The mother looked down at her daughter and rapidly moved her fingers.  The girl repeated finger motions, smiled, then stepped up on her tiptoes and ordered two chocolate chip cookies.  The mother got out her wallet and paid.

American Sign Language, Nina realized.  The mother was deaf.  Nina blushed with shame as if every person had heard the running monologue in Nina's head.  What kind of monster was she?  Thinking ungenerous thoughts about a deaf woman and her sweet little girl.

Oh.  OHHHH!

And the realization slapped me in the face: I was supposed to read this as an indication of just how much Nina had lost sight of her fortune. 

Or how some people, because they're deaf or have deaf mommies, are completely blameless and should be immune from the bitches of the world.

And the sucky thing: if I weren't deaf, it would've worked.  But I am.  So Debra Galant can go suck my left one, thank you very much.

By using a deaf and CODA character just this once (never appeared again throughout the rest of the book -- the Stepford deafies were, apparently, that inconsequential), the author took advantage of the tired but true "poor deafies" trope -- for no purpose other than cheap literary effect.

Way to ruin a brain candy book.  Now I'll never know if I didn't like the book because I genuinely didn't like it, or because she pissed me off so early.

By the way, if you've really got an itch for reading an endearing little beach read about a dysfunctional poor-white-girl yogini, I recommend THIS instead of Fear and Yoga, thank you veddy much (and thanks again for that, J).

Botarded.

 So I went to the library to get one book -- ONE BOOK -- that a friend from work had suggested. 

That was dumb.  Came back with eight.

Especially dumber because I already have literally hundreds of new books here at home, spines not yet devirginized.

Maybe this was doable when I was unemployed, waiting for employers out there to realize what an amazing asset I would be to their company and how reedonkulous they would be not to hire me and throw wads of cash at me.

But, dude.  I'm a full-time droid now.  A droid that sits in front of a computer by day and lives on a couch by night and can barely track which days are mine with the kid now, never mind remember that I'm also a full-time grad student (wait, I'm a WHAT?!  Oh, crap). 

Reading books is a luxury I can nay afford.  And yet... EIGHT books.  Octo-idiot. 

What the hell am I thinking?  With this logic system my brain is currently using, I wouldn't be surprised to find myself cooking Thanksgiving dinner tonight for eight when I only need to feed one and a half people.  And a dog.  Or to find myself submitting photos for Playboy's next playmate search.

Okay, so that last paragraph didn't make much sense.  BUT THAT IS KIND OF THE POINT EXACTLY.  There, now you see where I'm coming from.

Tab Dump

With absolutely no method behind the madness. 

Deal with it, elves.  Mwah:

• L-word creators break their silence in this fascinating interview.  I'm in love with these brains.  Someday I'll join their club and... create something too.
• Obsessed with this blog by Sara on the way your brain sorts out its info.  I wonder if I'll ever be able to make sense of the world via ranges of dizziness, which is pretty much what I'm experiencing now.
• The fact that this link will take you to Oprah's webpage is NOT a sign of my capitulation, I promise.  Rather, it's a sign of how much I'm in love with Ayelet Waldman (aka Michael Chabon's writer wife).  Her so-called controversy: that she puts her husband at the center of her life, not her children.  I have a bone to pick with her about that, but hey, at least she shook things up, right?
• If you don't already subscribe to Sharon Pajka-West's feed, go, run, click NOW.  She always seems to have the in-info on new deaf books or deaf characters.  Now, this posting she has up on Lance Allred's memoir is kinda irritating me.  I've recently fallen out of love with the memoir in general, especially in the ways publishers market them.  Look!  Mormon!  And raised a polygamist!  Oh!  And he's *gasp* deaf!  And... wait for it... oh, no... he struggles with OCD.   In essence, the memoir marketing game seems to be about how many "oh no, the poor thing" factors you can slap on a book jacket.  Whatever happened to good, accessible, relatable writing!?

In which the hype around Oprah gets its due

So I just finished reading Chad Kultgen's novel the average american male.  Oh, yes I did. 

Actually, I finished it last night, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head or stop talking to anybody I meet about it (or, even, in some cases, paging people about it). 

And do you know how long it's been since I read a book that I actually told people about?  (Blogging doesn't count.)  Really long.  REEEAAALLLY long.  That's how long.

This is one filthy-mouthed, balls-to-the-wall, sleazy strip joint book.  And I can't quite figure out why just yet, but I want to dry-hump it.  I'm sad it's over, but no worries -- Kultgen just released another book, the lie.  Yay for sloppy seconds.

While it wasn't actually part of the story, the acknowledgments in which Kultgen simultaneously thanks his parents for their support and apologizes?  The perfect ending.

The plot isn't quite as important as the way kultgen writes the narrator: as a totally cynical 20-something asshole who can't help but think about jerking off and getting laid every 20 minutes (on a slow day), and hates his girlfriend of the fat ass.  Y'know, kinda like the punchline of every male-bashing joke ever told come to life.  Genius, I say.  Genius. 

And also a little disturbing, 'cause you know some people will take it as true-to-life description, and others will take it as total parody.  Me?  I think it's a fucking good novel, with possibly the only misogynistic asshole protagonist I could ever respect... a little.

Here's one of my favorite passages... wherein the narrator is stuck at a bookstore waiting to get his girlfriend's book signed by Marie Osmond, and the only thing available to browse through at the moment is a copy of O magazine:

    She reads it for the next fifteen minutes while we wait.  I read it over her shoulder and these are the results:
    Pictures of Oprah: Twenty-two (including her standard cover appearance).
    "Articles" "written" by Oprah: Six (including the O magazine staple "What I Know for Sure," in which Oprah lies about how hard her life is and hammers home how much more spiritual she is than the average person).
    Uses of the phrase "Self-realization": Ninety-four (in thirteen different "articles").
    Ads for Oprah-related products: Seven (including one for Dr. Phil's show).
    Paragraphs containing poorly veiled condescension: Four hundred sixty-three.
    Impulses to ram the magazine up Oprah's cunt: One (that lasts for the entire fifteen minutes I stare at O).

"Roam if you want to/Roam around the world..."

Just when I didn't think I could love Seal Press any more than I already do, they come out with this: Karen Schaler's Travel Therapy (Amazon link here).  

Purrrfect!  Been suffering from some serious wanderlust lately, from wanting to go back to Vermont to India to the UK to the French countryside to rediscovering the beaches of the Caribbean.  Siiigh.  And even better, this book is geared towards women post-breakup or divorce, or seeking rejuvenation of a certain kind...

"With 101 unique destinations, Travel Therapy is geared toward helping readers refresh and find themselves, whether they’re dealing with a breakup or divorce, celebrating retirement, or looking to shake things up. Every chapter includes quizzes, travel tips, and extensively researched links to the best destination-specific websites to help you figure out the perfect destination for you. From daring destinations to soothing spa escapes, Travel Therapy is your road map to self-discovery, happiness, and success—whether it’s zip-lining in Belize, helping orphaned children in Africa, or beachcombing the Caribbean."

Like, somebody wipe the drool off my face already.  While I'm no jetsetter, I have been on my share of trips to destinations both exotic and quaint.  The thing that always totally makes the trip, though, is the company you keep.  There's a reason honeymoons are always such hyped trips, yo.

But what about when you travel alone?  I wouldn't know -- I've never had the chance.  But I envision revelations, a personal enlightenment of sorts.

And hey, as long as we're talking about travel... looky-look what I found (from here)!  A table of the most photographed landmarks in the world.  And of the top 7, I've been IN three.  Cooool... 

Funny Boy Redux

Not too long ago I was introduced to the intricacies of the violent conflict in Sri Lanka between the majority Sinhalese and the minority Tamil -- or, rather, by factions within those two ethnic groups -- when I read Funny Boy, an archly poignant novel about a boy who grows up gay amidst this political turmoil. 

The Big Picture brought that book back to life for me with the photo essay posted today.  That place is gorgeous, its culture and people fascinating, and it makes me so sad to see this happening there.

This undated picture released on April 25, 2009 by pro-LTTE website Tamilnet shows civilians taking cover after what they say is an explosion caused by a goverment airstrike in the no-fire zone in Mullaitivu district. UN humanitarian chief John Holmes was to hold talks with the Sri Lankan government over the thousands of civilians caught in fighting between troops and Tamil rebels, officials said.The Sri Lankan government has resisted all calls to halt an offensive that is now on the brink of wiping out the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) rebels, who have been fighting for an independent Tamil homeland since 1972. (AFP/Getty Images)

Seduced by Alice Munro's nether voices

Flo had saved up, and had a bathroom put in, but there was no place to put it except in a corner of the kitchen.  The door did not fit, the walls were only beaverboard.  The result was that even the tearing of a piece of toilet paper, the shifting of a haunch, was audible to those working or talking or eating in the kitchen.  They were all familiar with each other's nether voices, not only in their more explosive moments but in their intimate sighs and growls and pleas and statements.  And they were all most prudish people.  So no one ever seemed to hear, or to be listening, and no reference was made.  The person creating the noises in the bathroom was not connected with the person who walked out.

(From Alice Munro's The Beggar Maid.)

Who knew white trash farting could be rendered so beautifully?  Swoon.

How to figure out if your kid is a CODA

"Is it Hearing?"
"Who hears?"
"Is the baby a Hearing?"
"Sure."
"How do you know?"
"Born in newspaper.  Born in all the words."

From Joanne Greenberg's novel with the barfalicious title, In This Sign: The Highly Acclaimed Novel of a Family Whose Love and Courage Enable Them to Survive in the Silent World of the Deaf.

John Lee Clark Releases Deaf Poetry Anthology

New Collection Mines 200 Years of Poetry by Deaf Americans

WASHINGTON, DC —“The Deaf poet is no oxymoron,” declares editor John Lee
Clark in his introduction to Deaf American Poetry: An Anthology (Gallaudet
University Press, $35.00 trade paperback, or Amazon, also $35). The 95 poems by 35 Deaf American
poets in this volume more than confirm his point. Theirs is a remarkable
record of development parallel to the verse of better known poets during
that period. From James Nack’s early metered narrative poem “The Minstrel
Boy” to the free association of Kristi Merriweather’s contemporary “It Was
His Movin’ Hands" and "Be Tellin’ Me,” these Deaf poets display mastery of
all forms prevalent during their lifetimes. Beyond that, E. Lynn
Jacobowitz’s “In Memoriam: Stephen Michael Ryan” exemplifies a form unique
to Deaf American poets, the transliteration of verse originally created in
American Sign Language.

This definitive anthology showcases for the first time the best work of Deaf
poets throughout the nation’s history — John R. Burnet, Laura C. Redden,
George M.  Teegarden, Agatha Tiegel Hanson, Loy E. Golladay, Robert F.
Panara, Mervin D. Garretson, Clayton Valli, Willy Conley, Raymond Luczak,
Christopher Jon Heuer, Pamela Wright-Meinhardt, and many others. Each of
their poems reflects the sensibilities of their times, and the progression
of their work marks the changes that deaf Americans have witnessed through
the years. In “The Mute’s Lament,” John Carlin mourns the wonderful things
that he cannot hear, and looks forward to heaven where “replete with purest
joys / My ears shall be unsealed, and I shall hear.” In sharp contrast, Mary
Toles Peet, who benefitted from being taught by Deaf teachers, wrote
“Thoughts on Music” with an entirely different attitude. She concludes her
account of the purported beauty of music with the realization that “the
music of my inward ear / Brings joy far more intense.”

Clark, a well-respected poet and contributor to the volume from St. Paul,
MN, tracks these subtle shifts in awareness through telling, brief
biographies of each poet. By doing so, he reveals in Deaf American Poetry
how “the work of Deaf poets serves as a prism through which Deaf people can
know themselves better and through which the rest of the world can see life
in a new light.”

Deaf American Poetry
An Anthology               
John Lee Clark, Editor
ISBN 1-56368-413-6, 978-1-56368-413-5, 6 x 9  paperback, 280 pages,
footnotes, references, index, $35.00

To order books, call 1-888-630-9347, FAX 1-800-621-8476
Or visit gupress.gallaudet.edu