Today, I got to have lunch with a woman who has worked at Tyndale for about 13 years in the Editorial department. She talked to me about my proof reading test because...sigh...I failed it like a dumbass...but she just went over it with me. I was really surprised how much she and I had in common. It was like seeing a nicer version of myself in 20 years or something. The funny thing is that I only get an hour lunch break every day. We went to get lunch at 1:00, and I got back to my cubicle at 3:30.
It was awesome.
I wouldn't be opposed to the idea of working at Tyndale at all. I mean, I would miss my friends and family in California, but I really think I could work well at Tyndale. I really like the company and they publish quality books, but a part of me does wonder if there couldn't be more out there for me.
I was doing some research on publishing and editors and I began to entertain the notion of becoming an agent. I think I can recognize good writing when I see it, but I think I am too biased for the kinds of subject matter and in-your-face kind of topics that I wouldn't have a great amount of authors to work with--I would need a diverse portfolio. I think I would make a good agent...the only company that I would be interested in would be Zachary Shuster Harmsworth, but they hire people from like, Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Columbia, etc. There is no way Vanguard is on the same kind of claibar as those school, evident in the fact I'm not sure if I spelt "Columbia" and "calibar" properly.
Being an agent would be fun though. If not that, I would be interested in working as an Acquisitions Editor...I know that I want to have an impact on the content that would be published since I think the Christian populace needs to be exposed to more "racy" and unconventional ideas. I believe that yes, we are a part of this world and not of it, but I think we ought to better understand it. I really love working with content though. That's my thing. I think I would be great in any publishing house I go to, but I really like the family-owned aspect of Tyndale.
I think it is safe to say that I will not be in California for the rest of my life, and I will move to bigger and better things. I would be happy moving to Illinois, or I can deal (quite well) being in Michigan (Zondervan). I don't know how I would feel working for huge corporate places though. I really love doing the family-run thing, but what's great about Tyndale's family-thing, is they are still a big company. I mean, the #3 Christian publishing house--that's pretty damn good.
Ugh.
Note to self: remember you have to finish college first.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
July, July, oh those Julies.
I like reading through my blogs. Yes, I am vain. I don't make any excuses for it. The funny thing about my vanity, is that I can't even think of something I have to be vain about! If someone asked me (which I'm glad no one has...) what my favorite feature of my anatomy is, I would be stumped. It's a surefire way to get me to stop talking.
"What's your favorite feature of your body?"
*insert crickets chirping*
Normally, the first answer would be my hair. However, my hair and I have been at odds lately. Sometimes I like how the long waves tumble down my back, the curls being ever so slightly mussled and unruly. Other times, I wish the dry corpse excuse of hair would take its amber waves that look like grain and hit the road! I seek soft, loose hair that is my natural color.
Note to self: don't let friends dye your hair anymore.
When I got a haircut before coming out here to Illinois (say that with a French accent...much more fun), I couldn't get over how ama-za-zing my hair felt. It was the perfect silky smooth texture I have been craving, and I'm really not sure if it is the straightener my stylist used or the product. So, I'll have to surrender more money to have her do my hair again and buy everything she uses on me. Next time though, I'll ask her to not straighten my hair. I'm sure that'll save me some product, and I don't ever straighten my hair. Talk about time consuming!
I'm big on saving time, actually. I also have a knack for wasting it. I don't know anyone who would dispute this fact.
Changing subjects, just because I got an email that reminded me of it...
There is another intern here (call him 5.0) who cracks me up. Not so much lately, but when I first emailed him, I couldn't stop laughing. 5.0 is a self-proclaimed poet--stop snickering, it gets better. I would email him the most mundane things for the sole purpose of seeing how ridiculous his response would be.
Did you know I do things for a reaction? That is truly my only hidden agenda, and now it's not even hidden. I love reactions and the element of surprise.
So anyway, I would sent out an email to invite the 'terns for a round of Phase 10 because that's the only game I brought with me, and...there's no better way to bond with strangers than over a semi-competetive game of cards, right? My email was simple:
"Hi, [5.0] :)
I hope you’re adjusting well to your job!
Mondays seem to be Phase 10 day for interns at lunch, so would you like to join us today at 1:00 in the caf?
~Stephanie"
His response:
"As much as I would love to me graced by my fellow interns’ company this afternoon, and engage in grand competition over a midday meal, I do, alas, have a meeting at that time. Hopefully, the fates shall smile down upon me, and I will be able to meet you good people in the very near future."
My response was much less eloquent.
Another time, I sent out an email because...well, this is what I sent (verbatim):
"Yes!! I found out how to change the font color for replying emails! The default font color is blue when you reply to an email, but mine is now black.
Muaha! Oh, if technology was a beast I would be the hunter it fears.
How is everyone doing today? Good weekends, I trust?
~Steph"
His response:
"Congrats in your epic quest. May all inboxes from henceforth fear the name Stephanie Rosemeyer, for she shall smite them whenever she crosses their decrepit existences. Forevermore, on this day, computers across the land will weep and gnash their teeth in the ancient computer tongue of binary, for on this day, their sins were exposed.
Blessings on you and your household,
[5.0]"
Like his other email, I wasn't sure if I should reply back with some ghetto verbiage (which I am quite fluent in), or consult some Shakespeare and make a sonnet!!
Maybe this is my favorite one...
My email:
"Hi, [5.0] :)
If you’re interested, Amy and I will meet in the caf today around 12:45 for a round of Phase 10 and you’re more than welcome to join us.
Also, I wanted to apologize for not saying hi today in chapel. I didn’t realize you were sitting near me until I glanced over and by then it was too late. I’m not very good at the “late hello” thing.
Anyway, hope to see you at lunch!
~Stephanie"
His reply:
"Sounds good. I must also implore your pardons for the lack of salutations. I was almost certain of your identity as a fellow intern, and thus sat close by. However, as we have already established, greetings were not exchanged. The guilt is just as great upon my own brow. Let us, with great haste, put this conundrum out of our minds.
See you at 12:45 for great feasting and phasing,
[5.0]"
I am sad to say, though, his recent emails have been much more conversational and I intend to ask him why he doesn't put forth any efforts to his emails anymore! Hahahahahaha
Yes...this is what I get paid to do every day. It's a shame I don't blog more often during work...
"What's your favorite feature of your body?"
*insert crickets chirping*
Normally, the first answer would be my hair. However, my hair and I have been at odds lately. Sometimes I like how the long waves tumble down my back, the curls being ever so slightly mussled and unruly. Other times, I wish the dry corpse excuse of hair would take its amber waves that look like grain and hit the road! I seek soft, loose hair that is my natural color.
Note to self: don't let friends dye your hair anymore.
When I got a haircut before coming out here to Illinois (say that with a French accent...much more fun), I couldn't get over how ama-za-zing my hair felt. It was the perfect silky smooth texture I have been craving, and I'm really not sure if it is the straightener my stylist used or the product. So, I'll have to surrender more money to have her do my hair again and buy everything she uses on me. Next time though, I'll ask her to not straighten my hair. I'm sure that'll save me some product, and I don't ever straighten my hair. Talk about time consuming!
I'm big on saving time, actually. I also have a knack for wasting it. I don't know anyone who would dispute this fact.
Changing subjects, just because I got an email that reminded me of it...
There is another intern here (call him 5.0) who cracks me up. Not so much lately, but when I first emailed him, I couldn't stop laughing. 5.0 is a self-proclaimed poet--stop snickering, it gets better. I would email him the most mundane things for the sole purpose of seeing how ridiculous his response would be.
Did you know I do things for a reaction? That is truly my only hidden agenda, and now it's not even hidden. I love reactions and the element of surprise.
So anyway, I would sent out an email to invite the 'terns for a round of Phase 10 because that's the only game I brought with me, and...there's no better way to bond with strangers than over a semi-competetive game of cards, right? My email was simple:
"Hi, [5.0] :)
I hope you’re adjusting well to your job!
Mondays seem to be Phase 10 day for interns at lunch, so would you like to join us today at 1:00 in the caf?
~Stephanie"
His response:
"As much as I would love to me graced by my fellow interns’ company this afternoon, and engage in grand competition over a midday meal, I do, alas, have a meeting at that time. Hopefully, the fates shall smile down upon me, and I will be able to meet you good people in the very near future."
My response was much less eloquent.
Another time, I sent out an email because...well, this is what I sent (verbatim):
"Yes!! I found out how to change the font color for replying emails! The default font color is blue when you reply to an email, but mine is now black.
Muaha! Oh, if technology was a beast I would be the hunter it fears.
How is everyone doing today? Good weekends, I trust?
~Steph"
His response:
"Congrats in your epic quest. May all inboxes from henceforth fear the name Stephanie Rosemeyer, for she shall smite them whenever she crosses their decrepit existences. Forevermore, on this day, computers across the land will weep and gnash their teeth in the ancient computer tongue of binary, for on this day, their sins were exposed.
Blessings on you and your household,
[5.0]"
Like his other email, I wasn't sure if I should reply back with some ghetto verbiage (which I am quite fluent in), or consult some Shakespeare and make a sonnet!!
Maybe this is my favorite one...
My email:
"Hi, [5.0] :)
If you’re interested, Amy and I will meet in the caf today around 12:45 for a round of Phase 10 and you’re more than welcome to join us.
Also, I wanted to apologize for not saying hi today in chapel. I didn’t realize you were sitting near me until I glanced over and by then it was too late. I’m not very good at the “late hello” thing.
Anyway, hope to see you at lunch!
~Stephanie"
His reply:
"Sounds good. I must also implore your pardons for the lack of salutations. I was almost certain of your identity as a fellow intern, and thus sat close by. However, as we have already established, greetings were not exchanged. The guilt is just as great upon my own brow. Let us, with great haste, put this conundrum out of our minds.
See you at 12:45 for great feasting and phasing,
[5.0]"
I am sad to say, though, his recent emails have been much more conversational and I intend to ask him why he doesn't put forth any efforts to his emails anymore! Hahahahahaha
Yes...this is what I get paid to do every day. It's a shame I don't blog more often during work...
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
My Best Friend is a Mop
I am really excited right now. My friend from California is coming over to Illinois. She is going to be in Indiana for a month, but we will spend more time together later.
I am so excited to finally see someone I know and love here. It has been so so so SO lonely this past month (plus some) and I am just sad that she told her nephew in Indiana that she would see him on Thursday instead of like, Monday.
But still, I am glad to have someone I hold dear here with me.
I am so excited to finally see someone I know and love here. It has been so so so SO lonely this past month (plus some) and I am just sad that she told her nephew in Indiana that she would see him on Thursday instead of like, Monday.
But still, I am glad to have someone I hold dear here with me.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
If I had two personalities, I would go crazy
Talking to my mom always makes me feel a little better, even though she is one of the most frustrating people in my life. She makes me laugh and I always appreciate a good laugh.
I don't know about you, but I have a lot of internal dialogue. I'm actually not sure if it should be classified dialogue, since what I have more aptly can be defined as debates. Being on a diet that is more of an exercise regieme and "make-food-to-eat-since-there-is-no-meal-plan-in-Illinois" kind of diet, I feel like I am going through the detox stage. I constantly crave sugar.
Ice cream. Cheesecake. Cookies. Carmel. Whipped cream. Ice cream. Chocolate. You know, ALL the sugar-fortified goodness that I am used to treating myself with.
I once heard that it is OK to treat yourself once in a while so that when you crave something, you don't go overboard with it. I agree with this, but I am also trying to be economically wise. Quantity over quality, I suppose. The other week, I got a quart of pecan ice cream and pretty much ate it, to my horror, in two sittings. Granted, they were a few days apart, but when I realized what I had done, I decided to put an end to it.
Since the beginning of this month, I have been working out every night. By "working out", I mean exercising not only my self control but my body. Since the 1st, I have escalated my nocturnal work outs from 30 sit-ups to 100. So, every night, I do 100 crunches and other random exercises that I don't know the name of but they give me a burn so I assume it is effective to some part of my anatomy.
How this relates to the ice cream horror story: I have realized that no matter how much I work out, if I "treat" myself every now and again, it's not a good thing. I need to learn a new way to treat myself other than with food so that I learn a new lifestyle that will be healthy with my new life I am trying to get to.
However, I am also poor.
I have too many financially-dependant goals. Want to see them?
1. Pay off credit card bills (who doesn't have this goal?)
2. Pay insurance
3. Pay rent
4. Save money for a down payment on a new car for next year
I guess #1-3 aren't really goals as much as "fixed expenditures", but I like to think of them as obstacles to get to goal #4. Personal goals are as follows:
1. Escalate workouts over the summer to reach 300 crunches per day
2. Make healthy food choices by creating a two-week menu
3. Save $70/month for emergency fund
4.
You know, I have always functioned well with to-do lists. As unfocused as I am, I am going to make one for the next month.
I don't know about you, but I have a lot of internal dialogue. I'm actually not sure if it should be classified dialogue, since what I have more aptly can be defined as debates. Being on a diet that is more of an exercise regieme and "make-food-to-eat-since-there-is-no-meal-plan-in-Illinois" kind of diet, I feel like I am going through the detox stage. I constantly crave sugar.
Ice cream. Cheesecake. Cookies. Carmel. Whipped cream. Ice cream. Chocolate. You know, ALL the sugar-fortified goodness that I am used to treating myself with.
I once heard that it is OK to treat yourself once in a while so that when you crave something, you don't go overboard with it. I agree with this, but I am also trying to be economically wise. Quantity over quality, I suppose. The other week, I got a quart of pecan ice cream and pretty much ate it, to my horror, in two sittings. Granted, they were a few days apart, but when I realized what I had done, I decided to put an end to it.
Since the beginning of this month, I have been working out every night. By "working out", I mean exercising not only my self control but my body. Since the 1st, I have escalated my nocturnal work outs from 30 sit-ups to 100. So, every night, I do 100 crunches and other random exercises that I don't know the name of but they give me a burn so I assume it is effective to some part of my anatomy.
How this relates to the ice cream horror story: I have realized that no matter how much I work out, if I "treat" myself every now and again, it's not a good thing. I need to learn a new way to treat myself other than with food so that I learn a new lifestyle that will be healthy with my new life I am trying to get to.
However, I am also poor.
I have too many financially-dependant goals. Want to see them?
1. Pay off credit card bills (who doesn't have this goal?)
2. Pay insurance
3. Pay rent
4. Save money for a down payment on a new car for next year
I guess #1-3 aren't really goals as much as "fixed expenditures", but I like to think of them as obstacles to get to goal #4. Personal goals are as follows:
1. Escalate workouts over the summer to reach 300 crunches per day
2. Make healthy food choices by creating a two-week menu
3. Save $70/month for emergency fund
4.
You know, I have always functioned well with to-do lists. As unfocused as I am, I am going to make one for the next month.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Wet Nails Make Typing Hard
I can't believe I missed making a post for April!!
That is not what I came on to write about though. I have recently applied for an internship and I am torn between wanting it to my capacity of wanting things and sabotaging my chances of getting it so that I can do other, equally important things. I know God knows best, so I am letting Him deal with it.
The issue I have is that I am exactly 50% sure I do not want this opportunity because then I won't have to stay in school an extra semester because I would be able to take summer classes, working two jobs to make tons of money, live with people I know and love, and exercise. Then I am 50% sure that I do want this internship so that I can learn everything I can about advertising and promotions but then I worry about paying rent, not doing any summer school, and being away from home for two-ish months. That last one is sort of the least of my worries, but then I also hope that I have deny the internship due to housing issues so I can blame my dad for stealing my chances of having it instead of feeling totally fine about it.
Enough of that.
I really dislike my friend right now. I am pissed off at her and I always plan to tell her so many things about how unhappy I am with her, but when I am around her, I am just glad to finally hang out with her that I don't want to ruin it by discussing issues with her that could either destroy or build our friendship up more. I am upset at her for never calling me because I feel like that reflects how she feels about me. I understand that our schedules conflict, but I call her 100% more than she calls me. I call at least three times a week and I always get the voicemail. So, I leave a message. She calls me back two weeks later and gives me a list of excuses why she didn't call me.
I had been planning for three weeks to tell her, "You know, I don't care the reasons why you don't call; I just care that you don't." Last week, I finally said that. She said, "Awww...Steph!"
I was not looking to touch her heart. I was looking for something to say to influence her to call me more because without interaction, I cannot be a person's friend. By her not calling me, I do not feel she values our relationship or me as a human being.
Another thing I wish I could tell her is how much I dislike her "fella." I think he is immature, not ready for what she needs, and fake. I don't care how many times she tells me that "he acts differently around me. You just don't know him like I do" because I think that a person's quality is evident no matter what or who is surrounding the person. When I watch them together, I think he loves her, but not compared to how she loves him. He can't even hold a candle to how much she loves and adores him.
Her whole world revolves around him, which I feel is another problem with their relationship. When I watch them together, she bends her life to his will and whim while he doesn't seem to give a hoot about how she feels or what she does. She is always prompt to meet him, waits for him to get home from work, and waits on him hand and foot while he works at Starbucks and goes to school to get a degree in business (probably the stupidest degree ever) so that he can be a manager in a company that has a high turnover rate. Not only is his only aspiration to be a manager in a company he hates, but she went to a store and was offered an assistant managing position with no degree at all. This is just one example of how different their work ethic is, which is a big deal considering who she is and how she feels about people who don't work hard.
She far outshines him not only in her ability to work at the kind of level it takes to move up in a company, but he doesn't seem to appreciate her. From all I have seen, the only way he expresses his love to her is to work on her house (yes, she even has a house). She is thrilled by this, but I don't think she understands that her house is an object. Working on her house is not the same as loving her the way she needs to be loved. I mean, at the end of the day, a house is a house, and it doesn't make her feel any better about herself. She needs a man who tells her constantly how beautiful she is, stands up for her to his and her family, and compliments her heart.
Since she has begun to date this guy, she has plummeted in how she takes care of herself. It's that whole "equal yoke" thing but in this way, it is the looks department and if you don't think looks are important, then stop reading now. Sure, they are not the sole reason to love someone, but they sure as hell depict to the rest of the world how you feel about yourself. Before she dated him, she would primp herself, accessorize, put on makeup, and just doll herself up because it made herself feel good and she liked to do it. Since she began dating that frumpy, unmotivated bum she has turned into a frumpy lady who hates it. She tells me things like "I don't feel good about myself" and "I just don't have time to take care of myself the way I used to!"
Perhaps leading your own life the way the guy you are so attached does would enable you to take care of yourself the way you used to, since he doesn't seem to care enough about you to make it easy for you to maintain the lifestyle you used to have! And that is how I feel. He lives his own life because he knows she can and will provide for him and he floats around life depending on her.
It is a twisted relationship and I am sick of it. I want someone for her who will let her relax, build up her self-esteem, and give her freedom to do what she wants while he provides a life for her, the way it should be. The reason I say all of this is because I see this happening the way it happened with my brother.
My friend is paying off debt like none other, working two jobs to pay her mortgage and new car payment, which is fine because she bought it all and she needs to pay her bills. But he is doing nothing to help. If he wanted to help, he would get a second job even if he is in school. My mom works three jobs and goes to school, so I don't see why he can't do the same. At the very least, he could get a degree in something that will actually make him money, or to get a career that is easy to advance in. A Business degree is like having a pen because it is easy to get and it just means you are capable of leading people in one direction. I know this because I used to be a Business major. It is so pointless.
Anyway, about my brother--he paid the bills and everything while his girlfriend went to culinary arts school (oh my gosh, another pointless degree, like business!) and their agreement was that they would switch spots while he went to film school. Three years later, she is working in a buffet, they have a kid, and filming is a hobby he sometimes exercises by filming his daughter.
Maybe I am disillusioned from reading romance books when I think that people are quite capable of fulfilling their dreams, but I do not care. I am fulfilling mine, so that entitles me to believe it.
I want to tell her to get her head out of her fella's ass and live her own life. I want her to be happy with herself without him because he doesn't build up her self-esteem. I want her to admit to me that this whole phase in her life where she is dissatisfied with everything is just a phase that she is over. I want her to love herself because she is lovable, not because someone periodically tells her she is loved. I want her to see my point of view and not make excuses for everything I see and just respect my point of view because I cannot help expressing my observances. I want her to consider what I have to say and think about it and see if I have any good points and act on them. I want her to quit waiting around for her guy to become the man she needs because I don't think he cares to do that anytime soon.
That is not what I came on to write about though. I have recently applied for an internship and I am torn between wanting it to my capacity of wanting things and sabotaging my chances of getting it so that I can do other, equally important things. I know God knows best, so I am letting Him deal with it.
The issue I have is that I am exactly 50% sure I do not want this opportunity because then I won't have to stay in school an extra semester because I would be able to take summer classes, working two jobs to make tons of money, live with people I know and love, and exercise. Then I am 50% sure that I do want this internship so that I can learn everything I can about advertising and promotions but then I worry about paying rent, not doing any summer school, and being away from home for two-ish months. That last one is sort of the least of my worries, but then I also hope that I have deny the internship due to housing issues so I can blame my dad for stealing my chances of having it instead of feeling totally fine about it.
Enough of that.
I really dislike my friend right now. I am pissed off at her and I always plan to tell her so many things about how unhappy I am with her, but when I am around her, I am just glad to finally hang out with her that I don't want to ruin it by discussing issues with her that could either destroy or build our friendship up more. I am upset at her for never calling me because I feel like that reflects how she feels about me. I understand that our schedules conflict, but I call her 100% more than she calls me. I call at least three times a week and I always get the voicemail. So, I leave a message. She calls me back two weeks later and gives me a list of excuses why she didn't call me.
I had been planning for three weeks to tell her, "You know, I don't care the reasons why you don't call; I just care that you don't." Last week, I finally said that. She said, "Awww...Steph!"
I was not looking to touch her heart. I was looking for something to say to influence her to call me more because without interaction, I cannot be a person's friend. By her not calling me, I do not feel she values our relationship or me as a human being.
Another thing I wish I could tell her is how much I dislike her "fella." I think he is immature, not ready for what she needs, and fake. I don't care how many times she tells me that "he acts differently around me. You just don't know him like I do" because I think that a person's quality is evident no matter what or who is surrounding the person. When I watch them together, I think he loves her, but not compared to how she loves him. He can't even hold a candle to how much she loves and adores him.
Her whole world revolves around him, which I feel is another problem with their relationship. When I watch them together, she bends her life to his will and whim while he doesn't seem to give a hoot about how she feels or what she does. She is always prompt to meet him, waits for him to get home from work, and waits on him hand and foot while he works at Starbucks and goes to school to get a degree in business (probably the stupidest degree ever) so that he can be a manager in a company that has a high turnover rate. Not only is his only aspiration to be a manager in a company he hates, but she went to a store and was offered an assistant managing position with no degree at all. This is just one example of how different their work ethic is, which is a big deal considering who she is and how she feels about people who don't work hard.
She far outshines him not only in her ability to work at the kind of level it takes to move up in a company, but he doesn't seem to appreciate her. From all I have seen, the only way he expresses his love to her is to work on her house (yes, she even has a house). She is thrilled by this, but I don't think she understands that her house is an object. Working on her house is not the same as loving her the way she needs to be loved. I mean, at the end of the day, a house is a house, and it doesn't make her feel any better about herself. She needs a man who tells her constantly how beautiful she is, stands up for her to his and her family, and compliments her heart.
Since she has begun to date this guy, she has plummeted in how she takes care of herself. It's that whole "equal yoke" thing but in this way, it is the looks department and if you don't think looks are important, then stop reading now. Sure, they are not the sole reason to love someone, but they sure as hell depict to the rest of the world how you feel about yourself. Before she dated him, she would primp herself, accessorize, put on makeup, and just doll herself up because it made herself feel good and she liked to do it. Since she began dating that frumpy, unmotivated bum she has turned into a frumpy lady who hates it. She tells me things like "I don't feel good about myself" and "I just don't have time to take care of myself the way I used to!"
Perhaps leading your own life the way the guy you are so attached does would enable you to take care of yourself the way you used to, since he doesn't seem to care enough about you to make it easy for you to maintain the lifestyle you used to have! And that is how I feel. He lives his own life because he knows she can and will provide for him and he floats around life depending on her.
It is a twisted relationship and I am sick of it. I want someone for her who will let her relax, build up her self-esteem, and give her freedom to do what she wants while he provides a life for her, the way it should be. The reason I say all of this is because I see this happening the way it happened with my brother.
My friend is paying off debt like none other, working two jobs to pay her mortgage and new car payment, which is fine because she bought it all and she needs to pay her bills. But he is doing nothing to help. If he wanted to help, he would get a second job even if he is in school. My mom works three jobs and goes to school, so I don't see why he can't do the same. At the very least, he could get a degree in something that will actually make him money, or to get a career that is easy to advance in. A Business degree is like having a pen because it is easy to get and it just means you are capable of leading people in one direction. I know this because I used to be a Business major. It is so pointless.
Anyway, about my brother--he paid the bills and everything while his girlfriend went to culinary arts school (oh my gosh, another pointless degree, like business!) and their agreement was that they would switch spots while he went to film school. Three years later, she is working in a buffet, they have a kid, and filming is a hobby he sometimes exercises by filming his daughter.
Maybe I am disillusioned from reading romance books when I think that people are quite capable of fulfilling their dreams, but I do not care. I am fulfilling mine, so that entitles me to believe it.
I want to tell her to get her head out of her fella's ass and live her own life. I want her to be happy with herself without him because he doesn't build up her self-esteem. I want her to admit to me that this whole phase in her life where she is dissatisfied with everything is just a phase that she is over. I want her to love herself because she is lovable, not because someone periodically tells her she is loved. I want her to see my point of view and not make excuses for everything I see and just respect my point of view because I cannot help expressing my observances. I want her to consider what I have to say and think about it and see if I have any good points and act on them. I want her to quit waiting around for her guy to become the man she needs because I don't think he cares to do that anytime soon.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Nagging
I am a student, first and foremost...simply because I pay quite handsomely and it is a priority. Other than that, I am a fairly level-headed lady, even if I am guilty of having a single-tracked mind. By that, I mean that I am focused on what I want, and even though I want many things (a new car, to pay off all my debts, lose weight, get an internship, etc), I have learned to compartmentalize in order of priority.
For example, if I have a test, I will forgo the gym and just study. If I am almost done with a book, I will leave my homework for the next hour to finish the amazing novel. I have my priorities and nothing I sacrifice ever bothers me because no matter what I do, I know that it had to be done. For instance, if I had to ditch a class to write a paper, then I will not beat myself up about it.
However, I am bothered by one thing in my life.
All of my romantic encounters have been from a third party source. That is to say, any emotions I feel over the opposite sex is triggered by a novel, magazine article, picture I stumbled upon on Google, or definition. In my art class, my professor relayed a story about one of his earlier teaching years when he taught English. Apparently, he had his class read a Tennyson play about a woman who was forced to take care of her ailing mother and fell in love with her neighbor-cum-doctor. She realizes that he did not return her affections and ran off with a traveling salesman. He told us this story because he was shocked that one of the girls from his class told the dean of that college about this "horrible play". Turns out, it struck too close to home for her and she resented it.
It is my impression he was mocking her.
One term he said today to describe the girl from the play was that "she had never received sweet nothings in her ear, or any male attention."
I was walking back to my room, feeling sorry for myself for being in the same boat as both girls when I realized my situation. I'm not saying that I live in a continual state of ignorance to the fact I have never in my life had any prospects for dating, or have even received signs of interest concerning my person from the opposite sex. I just don't focus on it because I know if I do, I will depress myself. After all, out of sight out of mind, right?
The reason I am writing this post is because I resent my romantic-less situation. I was pondering my professor's statement when I realized that I don't even know what a sweet nothing would be! The distressing part of that was my immediate thought: "I'll look it up on Google."
How is it that my life is so pathetic and void of romantic/sexual/interactive-with-the-opposite-sex-on-things-not-pertaining-to-academia experience that the only way I know what the lingo is, like I mentioned already, by third-party means? I resent that I am almost 21 years old and I have never had a man whisper sweet nothings into my ear, have had my hand held, been regarded with affection, sparked interest in someone's eye, or have even been lusted after.
I cannot hold it against every member of the opposite sex because I do not blame them for passing me by. For God's sake, I live in the plastic surgery capital of America...maybe the world, and if an attractive man can get with an attractive woman, I understand. I am also shallow. But I see plenty of ugly women around who have a man. I see girls who are half my age who lament being single for more than a week.
At the same time, I am ecstatic that I am not dependent on a man for my happiness because I am completely capable of taking care of myself. I just want a man to take an interest in my life because I am interesting, not because he thinks chatting me up at work will get him a better review, or because he feels compelled to smile back at me when I say hello.
Damn it, I am an interesting, fun, compelling, smart, and funny lady! I hate that the only people who recognize that are my friends and my mom.
Like I already said, I do not focus on this issue of my life because I know if I do, I will just depress myself beyond anything. It is the most emotional issue in my life and you would know how intense that is if you could see me now. Even my mom doesn't know how to handle me on the rare occasion that I cry.
I think the part that upsets me most in the voice in my head that can now add to its ridiculous repertoire of laments the line: "There aren't even any traveling salesmen who can sweep me away."
For example, if I have a test, I will forgo the gym and just study. If I am almost done with a book, I will leave my homework for the next hour to finish the amazing novel. I have my priorities and nothing I sacrifice ever bothers me because no matter what I do, I know that it had to be done. For instance, if I had to ditch a class to write a paper, then I will not beat myself up about it.
However, I am bothered by one thing in my life.
All of my romantic encounters have been from a third party source. That is to say, any emotions I feel over the opposite sex is triggered by a novel, magazine article, picture I stumbled upon on Google, or definition. In my art class, my professor relayed a story about one of his earlier teaching years when he taught English. Apparently, he had his class read a Tennyson play about a woman who was forced to take care of her ailing mother and fell in love with her neighbor-cum-doctor. She realizes that he did not return her affections and ran off with a traveling salesman. He told us this story because he was shocked that one of the girls from his class told the dean of that college about this "horrible play". Turns out, it struck too close to home for her and she resented it.
It is my impression he was mocking her.
One term he said today to describe the girl from the play was that "she had never received sweet nothings in her ear, or any male attention."
I was walking back to my room, feeling sorry for myself for being in the same boat as both girls when I realized my situation. I'm not saying that I live in a continual state of ignorance to the fact I have never in my life had any prospects for dating, or have even received signs of interest concerning my person from the opposite sex. I just don't focus on it because I know if I do, I will depress myself. After all, out of sight out of mind, right?
The reason I am writing this post is because I resent my romantic-less situation. I was pondering my professor's statement when I realized that I don't even know what a sweet nothing would be! The distressing part of that was my immediate thought: "I'll look it up on Google."
How is it that my life is so pathetic and void of romantic/sexual/interactive-with-the-opposite-sex-on-things-not-pertaining-to-academia experience that the only way I know what the lingo is, like I mentioned already, by third-party means? I resent that I am almost 21 years old and I have never had a man whisper sweet nothings into my ear, have had my hand held, been regarded with affection, sparked interest in someone's eye, or have even been lusted after.
I cannot hold it against every member of the opposite sex because I do not blame them for passing me by. For God's sake, I live in the plastic surgery capital of America...maybe the world, and if an attractive man can get with an attractive woman, I understand. I am also shallow. But I see plenty of ugly women around who have a man. I see girls who are half my age who lament being single for more than a week.
At the same time, I am ecstatic that I am not dependent on a man for my happiness because I am completely capable of taking care of myself. I just want a man to take an interest in my life because I am interesting, not because he thinks chatting me up at work will get him a better review, or because he feels compelled to smile back at me when I say hello.
Damn it, I am an interesting, fun, compelling, smart, and funny lady! I hate that the only people who recognize that are my friends and my mom.
Like I already said, I do not focus on this issue of my life because I know if I do, I will just depress myself beyond anything. It is the most emotional issue in my life and you would know how intense that is if you could see me now. Even my mom doesn't know how to handle me on the rare occasion that I cry.
I think the part that upsets me most in the voice in my head that can now add to its ridiculous repertoire of laments the line: "There aren't even any traveling salesmen who can sweep me away."
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Plagarism without Cheating
I cannot help but notice this will be the second post of the month, which, until now, has been irregular for my blog. But let's face it--you aren't around my blog often enough to know that.
Anyway, in searching the interweb for Mystical Realism stories to expand on my knowledge of the genre to adequately produce an assignment on the topic in question, I stumbled upon this article. I wish to share it with you because it is beautifully written and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Happy Reading!
The God of Literary Trends
By Noy Thrupaew, AlterNet. Posted June 24, 2002
Wanted: South Asian beauties to pen delicious tales of kitchen squabbles and sparkly saris, imbued with quirky, food-based exoticism.
"You know, you really should be looking for the next Arundhati Roy."
I plucked at the phone cord wrapped around my neck, sighed, and said, "Oh, absolutely."
It was 1998, and I was working at a publishing company that had just launched an imprint featuring "the writing of women of all colors." It was my internly task to call independent booksellers across the country to find out what and whom they thought we should publish. Their advice inevitably boiled down to variations on one response: "That Indian subcontinent is really hot. Oh, oops, do you say 'South Asia' now?"
"Nah, our customers don't really like stuff in translation. But have you read that Jhumpa ... "
Yes, yes, yes.
Literary brown ladies were the new new thing. Arundhati Roy's poetic, multilayered novel "The God of Small Things" had just garnered the Booker Prize. Jhumpa Lahiri would debut in 2000 with "Interpreter of Maladies," her collection of elegantly written short stories that went on to win a Pulitzer. But Roy and Lahiri were just the beginning of what was to become a craze for South Asian and South Asian-American women's writing.
Of course, this wasn't the first time the publishing world had found its newest darlings in female writers of color. And it wasn't the first time bookstores would create pretty displays of books by authors of a "hot" ethnicity, or the first time readers would strip those displays as neatly as ants eating a sandwich at a picnic. The early '90s saw an explosion of Latina narratives a la Laura Esquivel's "Like Water for Chocolate." And Terry McMillan's success with "Waiting to Exhale" in the mid-'90s ushered in a rash of books in which middle-class black women griped about their no-'count men.
Color has become a marketing boon.
Interviewers probe into a writer's upbringing, seeking out ethnic factoids for a voracious public. Details about unusual foods, struggles with immigrant parents, and cultural oddities are all fair game. And in the case of attractive authors, whose images are emblazoned all over magazines and poster-size publicity photos, one can hardly be sure what is for sale anymore -- the "company" of a beautiful, exotic woman or the power of her words.
The Importance of Being Exotic
What is it that makes a certain ethnic genre hot? If I could nail that one down for sure, I'd be rolling around in a room filled with nothing but money. But one can hazard some guesses.
Many of the Asian-American and Latina books had lots of incense and spirits -- "ancient Asian wisdom" and religious tidbits, or mystical realism in the form of pissed-off ghosts and fantastic visions. They also featured nearly pornographic discussions of food; Isabel Allende's "Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses" even had recipes. The mystical stuff and the food seem to reflect the reasons why some white people are drawn to different cultures -- either in search of religious or spiritual enlightenment, or to exhibit their open-minded adventuresome selves by eating our food. Our cultures are tagged as "better" somehow -- closer to the earth, purer, more attuned to sensory pleasure -- but in nice, non-threatening ways, wrapped up neatly in fortune-cookie wisdom or duck tamales.
The doyenne, the matriarch, the empress dowager of all women-of-color literary trends is Amy Tan. The success of "Joy Luck Club" prompted a flood of Asian-American novels, whose "exotic" content was mirrored in their titles. Asian-American women's fiction titles often featured either: a) some nature-related motif to show that we are in touch with the elements (Gail Tsukiyama's "The Samurai's Garden," Mia Yun's "House of the Winds"), b) a familial relationship that displays how wonderfully traditional we are (Tan's "The Bonesetter's Daughter," "The Kitchen God's Wife"), c) or the number 100 or 1000 which demonstrates that we are an ancient, wise people fond of the fairy-tale trick of enumerating knowledge. (Yoshikawa's "One Hundred and One Ways," Tan's "The Hundred Secret Senses"). Some titles even double up on these themes, such as Mira Stout's "One Thousand Chestnut Trees."
Two other Asian-American mini-trends emerged in the late 90s. One comprised novels like Mei Ng's "Eating Chinese Food Naked" and Catherine Liu's "Oriental Girls Desire Romance." Instead of Tan's bickering kitchen wives, here were hard-bitten, angst-ridden Asian-American protagonists who had ostentatious sex by page 30. Hot-pants Asian books seemed to fulfill readers' appetites for sex that was extra-spicy for being ethnic.
But if Asian women weren't screwing, the publishing world wanted them suffering (and maybe bravely triumphing after they got themselves to the United States). The Asian historical memoirs were based on a simple formula: Asia was hell; the United States is a hell of a lot better. This is not to disparage the truly awful circumstances of many of the authors' lives. Being abandoned, purged, "reeducated," jailed, tortured, chased, hunted, raped, and/or nearly murdered in Cambodia, Vietnam, or China would leave scars on anyone's soul. But the Asian- hell-to-Western-heaven motif leaves a U.S. reader in a nicely complacent spot: reclining in a La-Z-Boy and thinking, "Well, thank god for America!"
Attack of the South Asian Women
Despite all the doom and gloom I've laid out so far, literary trends can be good for women writers of color. At least more voices are finding their way onto the store shelves; one can't protest the fact that Americans are expanding their reading horizons, or that female authors of color are receiving much-deserved attention. I'm not advocating a return to the color closet for authors -- why shouldn't ethnicity be ripe for novelistic exploration? And even if the books are published as part of a trend, they are often far from formulaic.
While "My Year of Meats" fits the multigenerational aspect of Asian- American women's writing, the tale of a feminist documentary filmmaker who uncovers the sordid underbelly of the U.S. meat industry is radically wonderful. And even the much-imitated The Joy Luck Club hit on something lasting and powerful -- the fierce, complicated love between mother and daughter.
So I tried to feel optimistic when the South Asian craze appeared in the late '90s. It became a juggernaut among ethnic trends, shaking the book world from top to bottom with the potent combination of crossover appeal and literary acclaim. The work of Indian women had been notably absent from our bookshelves. But now stores were suddenly flooded with it -- Kiran Desai's "Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard," Indira Ganesan's "Inheritance," Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies, and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's "Mistress of Spices," among others. The books and the attention they brought with them were especially welcome, considering that the modern Western literary realm was already a rich one for South Asian male writers like Vikram Seth, V.S. Naipaul, and Salman Rushdie.
On the happy side, the books were generally wide-ranging in style and topic, some drawing on Raymond Carver more than Rushdie or Seth, others exploring the complexity of a diasporic identity. As much as one can generalize, these authors were writing some wonderful literature. And although the texts were often seen as part of a single, monolithic publishing identity, their styles and subject matters varied greatly, with a broader range than was usually present in a given ethnic trend.
Inevitably, however, I started to feel an itch of irritation. It wasn't just the spread of the craze and the concurrent cultural obsession with all things Indian -- something chafed beyond the sight of a Sanskrit-mangling Madonna, blotchy with, or the ubiquity of foul-tasting boxed chai. There were many other dark reasons why this infatuation annoyed as much as it pleased.
For one, there was the distasteful fawning over the authors' beauty: Roy was gushingly named one of People's "50 Most Beautiful People in the World" in 1998. After her Pulitzer, Lahiri was crowned a "Woman We Love" in Esquire. There was the awful sameness of the booksellers' responses when asked about exciting female authors of color -- all South Asian this, Indian that.
And although most of these writers avoid the kind of mystical realism (also labeled as "Rushdie-itis"), some share a certain tinkling, quirky, food-based exoticism -- offering a tired roundup of the angst of arranged marriages, bitchy squabbles over whose chutneys and pickles are better than whose, and slobbery details about saris.
Perhaps the most egregious example is Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard. Kiran Desai's debut features Sampath, an affable dreamer who seeks to escape the hubbub of life by climbing into a tree. Unfortunately, he then finds himself besieged by crowds who claim he is a holy man. Riotous high jinks ensue -- drunken monkeys marauding through the village, Sampath's mother embarking on a mad quest to plunk a monkey into her curry, etc. This pleasant, pastoral, chutney-flavored fable is sort of entertaining, but Desai's characters are that easily dismissed brand of colorful, weird, and harmless; one can close the book and think fondly disparaging thoughts about their foreign little ways.
Writing in the Vancouver Sun, Punjabi-Canadian critic Phinder Dulai offered up a biting criticism of what he termed the Indo-North American novel: "In the North American-style Indian novel, the focus is on domestic family prattle while larger themes of migration, racism, caste and generational conflict are barely touched. When things get too hot, the characters can slip away to the kitchen or the pickle factory to cool off."
The Failure to Represent
While Dulai's attack on such gloppy romanticism is well-deserved, his critique also reveals trendification's double-edged sword: Readers of color can place as many restrictions on "their" writers as mainstream expectations can. Many do grapple with serious themes: Lahiri, for example, addresses the bloody creation and partition of Pakistan and India, poverty, harsh discrimination against women, and familial fractures. However, there is a certain amount of variation in any given literature -- is the onus of political seriousness necessarily greater for writers with brown skin?
Some would say it is: that if someone has made it past the gatekeeper of literary trends, they have a responsibility to speak for the people. When an author of color makes it big, he or she is sometimes viewed as the returned messiah, full of potential uplift but also heavy with the responsibility to take on all the experiences of the oppressed and relay them to the world in great tablets of wisdom. When the author reveals him- or herself to be a mere human telling a tale spun from one imagination, the crown of thorns is angrily snatched back, to be placed on the head of the next likely candidate to come along.
This sort of pressure is almost too much to bear: Who wants to be a sure-to-fail Jesus, dealing with the dashed expectations of a disappointed people? And critics of color often blame the wrong individuals. Those crushed hopes have more to do with the gatekeeping forces of literary cool than the power of any one author's pen. If there were truly more diversity in the literary realm, we wouldn't have to rely on only a handful of imaginations to represent us.
Another oft-heard criticism of immigrant literature is that it is not true to the motherland. It's part of the endless debate about the effects of diaspora on cultural identity -- and no one's going to win that fight. People have been waging it since kids first left their parents' homes. What boils down to arguments of purists/traditionalists against rebellious hybridists/iconoclasts ultimately makes for tiresome book reviews. Better questions might be: Is this author exoticizing her ethnicity? Is she just feeding the public more stereotypes of lotus- blossom ladies and guacamole-hipped mamas? If she's inaccurate or exceptionally critical or dewy-eyed in depicting the culture of her forebears, is it done in a way that suits the general public's fixed ideas? If the answer to any of these questions is "yes," then there's a problem. But if not, I'm happy to read South Asian-American novels for exactly what they are -- South Asian-American, with all the complications and richness that might arise from that hyphenated identity.
Then there's the final pitfall of being the darling of a literary trend: Stray from the pigeonhole into which you've been placed, and you can kiss your darlinghood goodbye. Two years after her People Beautiful Person crowning, Arundhati Roy cut off her long hair, telling the New York Times that she doesn't wish to be known as "some pretty woman who wrote a book." Instead of another work of fiction, she has since produced two books of essays, "The Cost of Living" and "Power Politics" and wholeheartedly thrown herself into activist work. But Roy's radical activism has received little support either in the U.S. or India. Critics who once lauded her have turned their backs: "One Indian intellectual compared Roy to Jane Fonda -- a celebrity troublemaker superficially grooving on cultural uproar," notes Joy Press in the Village Voice. For Western critics, her intense scrutiny of the World Bank and globalization marked her as just another famous face touting the political cause du jour.
Just as being too politically ethnic can make one unpopular, not being culturally ethnic enough can also bump a writer from the in crowd. Aspiring authors attending the South Asian Literary Festival in Washington, D.C., last year told stories of editors who declined their manuscripts because it didn't deal with traditional Indian life. Their works were, in essence, too American. In seminars sarcastically entitled "There Are No Poor or Huddled Amongst Us" and "No Sex Please, We Are South Asians," participants grappled with widening the diversity of South Asian and South Asian-American narratives appearing in the Western press.
Critic Amitava Kumar once wrote, "If immigrant realities in the U.S. were only about ethnic food, then my place of birth, for most Americans, would be an Indian restaurant." The language of cultural consumption is particularly apt here. At its worst, South Asian and South Asian-American writing is just like tasty Indian food -- to be chewed, digested, and excreted without a lot of thought. But hope springs eternal. Perhaps Americans, having tasted something delicious, will seek out books that outrage and challenge, narratives written from the diaspora or in translation that don't rely on bindis or kulfi to make their points.
In the meantime, South Asian and South Asian-American writers are making themselves at home on the New York Times bestseller lists and within literary-prize committee sessions -- but they have their eyes wide open. "I would be wary of the notion that South Asia is hip and can attract publishers," said Yale English professor Sara Suleri at the literary festival. "Those fashions come and die. Maybe in five years, we will be hunting for Tasmanian writers."
Maybe so, but maybe some readers will demand more, and writers will be able to find success while defying trendiness. Perhaps we can all wedge the door open a little more firmly, making room for stories that will last longer than a peel-off mehndi tattoo.
(Noy Thrupkaew is a fellow at the American Prospect. Lamentably, she consumed no Indian foodstuffs while writing this piece. A version of this piece first appeared in Bitch Magazine.)
http://www.alternet.org/story/13448/
Any questions? Comments?? Let's go crazy.
Anyway, in searching the interweb for Mystical Realism stories to expand on my knowledge of the genre to adequately produce an assignment on the topic in question, I stumbled upon this article. I wish to share it with you because it is beautifully written and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Happy Reading!
The God of Literary Trends
By Noy Thrupaew, AlterNet. Posted June 24, 2002
Wanted: South Asian beauties to pen delicious tales of kitchen squabbles and sparkly saris, imbued with quirky, food-based exoticism.
"You know, you really should be looking for the next Arundhati Roy."
I plucked at the phone cord wrapped around my neck, sighed, and said, "Oh, absolutely."
It was 1998, and I was working at a publishing company that had just launched an imprint featuring "the writing of women of all colors." It was my internly task to call independent booksellers across the country to find out what and whom they thought we should publish. Their advice inevitably boiled down to variations on one response: "That Indian subcontinent is really hot. Oh, oops, do you say 'South Asia' now?"
"Nah, our customers don't really like stuff in translation. But have you read that Jhumpa ... "
Yes, yes, yes.
Literary brown ladies were the new new thing. Arundhati Roy's poetic, multilayered novel "The God of Small Things" had just garnered the Booker Prize. Jhumpa Lahiri would debut in 2000 with "Interpreter of Maladies," her collection of elegantly written short stories that went on to win a Pulitzer. But Roy and Lahiri were just the beginning of what was to become a craze for South Asian and South Asian-American women's writing.
Of course, this wasn't the first time the publishing world had found its newest darlings in female writers of color. And it wasn't the first time bookstores would create pretty displays of books by authors of a "hot" ethnicity, or the first time readers would strip those displays as neatly as ants eating a sandwich at a picnic. The early '90s saw an explosion of Latina narratives a la Laura Esquivel's "Like Water for Chocolate." And Terry McMillan's success with "Waiting to Exhale" in the mid-'90s ushered in a rash of books in which middle-class black women griped about their no-'count men.
Color has become a marketing boon.
Interviewers probe into a writer's upbringing, seeking out ethnic factoids for a voracious public. Details about unusual foods, struggles with immigrant parents, and cultural oddities are all fair game. And in the case of attractive authors, whose images are emblazoned all over magazines and poster-size publicity photos, one can hardly be sure what is for sale anymore -- the "company" of a beautiful, exotic woman or the power of her words.
The Importance of Being Exotic
What is it that makes a certain ethnic genre hot? If I could nail that one down for sure, I'd be rolling around in a room filled with nothing but money. But one can hazard some guesses.
Many of the Asian-American and Latina books had lots of incense and spirits -- "ancient Asian wisdom" and religious tidbits, or mystical realism in the form of pissed-off ghosts and fantastic visions. They also featured nearly pornographic discussions of food; Isabel Allende's "Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses" even had recipes. The mystical stuff and the food seem to reflect the reasons why some white people are drawn to different cultures -- either in search of religious or spiritual enlightenment, or to exhibit their open-minded adventuresome selves by eating our food. Our cultures are tagged as "better" somehow -- closer to the earth, purer, more attuned to sensory pleasure -- but in nice, non-threatening ways, wrapped up neatly in fortune-cookie wisdom or duck tamales.
The doyenne, the matriarch, the empress dowager of all women-of-color literary trends is Amy Tan. The success of "Joy Luck Club" prompted a flood of Asian-American novels, whose "exotic" content was mirrored in their titles. Asian-American women's fiction titles often featured either: a) some nature-related motif to show that we are in touch with the elements (Gail Tsukiyama's "The Samurai's Garden," Mia Yun's "House of the Winds"), b) a familial relationship that displays how wonderfully traditional we are (Tan's "The Bonesetter's Daughter," "The Kitchen God's Wife"), c) or the number 100 or 1000 which demonstrates that we are an ancient, wise people fond of the fairy-tale trick of enumerating knowledge. (Yoshikawa's "One Hundred and One Ways," Tan's "The Hundred Secret Senses"). Some titles even double up on these themes, such as Mira Stout's "One Thousand Chestnut Trees."
Two other Asian-American mini-trends emerged in the late 90s. One comprised novels like Mei Ng's "Eating Chinese Food Naked" and Catherine Liu's "Oriental Girls Desire Romance." Instead of Tan's bickering kitchen wives, here were hard-bitten, angst-ridden Asian-American protagonists who had ostentatious sex by page 30. Hot-pants Asian books seemed to fulfill readers' appetites for sex that was extra-spicy for being ethnic.
But if Asian women weren't screwing, the publishing world wanted them suffering (and maybe bravely triumphing after they got themselves to the United States). The Asian historical memoirs were based on a simple formula: Asia was hell; the United States is a hell of a lot better. This is not to disparage the truly awful circumstances of many of the authors' lives. Being abandoned, purged, "reeducated," jailed, tortured, chased, hunted, raped, and/or nearly murdered in Cambodia, Vietnam, or China would leave scars on anyone's soul. But the Asian- hell-to-Western-heaven motif leaves a U.S. reader in a nicely complacent spot: reclining in a La-Z-Boy and thinking, "Well, thank god for America!"
Attack of the South Asian Women
Despite all the doom and gloom I've laid out so far, literary trends can be good for women writers of color. At least more voices are finding their way onto the store shelves; one can't protest the fact that Americans are expanding their reading horizons, or that female authors of color are receiving much-deserved attention. I'm not advocating a return to the color closet for authors -- why shouldn't ethnicity be ripe for novelistic exploration? And even if the books are published as part of a trend, they are often far from formulaic.
While "My Year of Meats" fits the multigenerational aspect of Asian- American women's writing, the tale of a feminist documentary filmmaker who uncovers the sordid underbelly of the U.S. meat industry is radically wonderful. And even the much-imitated The Joy Luck Club hit on something lasting and powerful -- the fierce, complicated love between mother and daughter.
So I tried to feel optimistic when the South Asian craze appeared in the late '90s. It became a juggernaut among ethnic trends, shaking the book world from top to bottom with the potent combination of crossover appeal and literary acclaim. The work of Indian women had been notably absent from our bookshelves. But now stores were suddenly flooded with it -- Kiran Desai's "Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard," Indira Ganesan's "Inheritance," Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies, and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's "Mistress of Spices," among others. The books and the attention they brought with them were especially welcome, considering that the modern Western literary realm was already a rich one for South Asian male writers like Vikram Seth, V.S. Naipaul, and Salman Rushdie.
On the happy side, the books were generally wide-ranging in style and topic, some drawing on Raymond Carver more than Rushdie or Seth, others exploring the complexity of a diasporic identity. As much as one can generalize, these authors were writing some wonderful literature. And although the texts were often seen as part of a single, monolithic publishing identity, their styles and subject matters varied greatly, with a broader range than was usually present in a given ethnic trend.
Inevitably, however, I started to feel an itch of irritation. It wasn't just the spread of the craze and the concurrent cultural obsession with all things Indian -- something chafed beyond the sight of a Sanskrit-mangling Madonna, blotchy with, or the ubiquity of foul-tasting boxed chai. There were many other dark reasons why this infatuation annoyed as much as it pleased.
For one, there was the distasteful fawning over the authors' beauty: Roy was gushingly named one of People's "50 Most Beautiful People in the World" in 1998. After her Pulitzer, Lahiri was crowned a "Woman We Love" in Esquire. There was the awful sameness of the booksellers' responses when asked about exciting female authors of color -- all South Asian this, Indian that.
And although most of these writers avoid the kind of mystical realism (also labeled as "Rushdie-itis"), some share a certain tinkling, quirky, food-based exoticism -- offering a tired roundup of the angst of arranged marriages, bitchy squabbles over whose chutneys and pickles are better than whose, and slobbery details about saris.
Perhaps the most egregious example is Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard. Kiran Desai's debut features Sampath, an affable dreamer who seeks to escape the hubbub of life by climbing into a tree. Unfortunately, he then finds himself besieged by crowds who claim he is a holy man. Riotous high jinks ensue -- drunken monkeys marauding through the village, Sampath's mother embarking on a mad quest to plunk a monkey into her curry, etc. This pleasant, pastoral, chutney-flavored fable is sort of entertaining, but Desai's characters are that easily dismissed brand of colorful, weird, and harmless; one can close the book and think fondly disparaging thoughts about their foreign little ways.
Writing in the Vancouver Sun, Punjabi-Canadian critic Phinder Dulai offered up a biting criticism of what he termed the Indo-North American novel: "In the North American-style Indian novel, the focus is on domestic family prattle while larger themes of migration, racism, caste and generational conflict are barely touched. When things get too hot, the characters can slip away to the kitchen or the pickle factory to cool off."
The Failure to Represent
While Dulai's attack on such gloppy romanticism is well-deserved, his critique also reveals trendification's double-edged sword: Readers of color can place as many restrictions on "their" writers as mainstream expectations can. Many do grapple with serious themes: Lahiri, for example, addresses the bloody creation and partition of Pakistan and India, poverty, harsh discrimination against women, and familial fractures. However, there is a certain amount of variation in any given literature -- is the onus of political seriousness necessarily greater for writers with brown skin?
Some would say it is: that if someone has made it past the gatekeeper of literary trends, they have a responsibility to speak for the people. When an author of color makes it big, he or she is sometimes viewed as the returned messiah, full of potential uplift but also heavy with the responsibility to take on all the experiences of the oppressed and relay them to the world in great tablets of wisdom. When the author reveals him- or herself to be a mere human telling a tale spun from one imagination, the crown of thorns is angrily snatched back, to be placed on the head of the next likely candidate to come along.
This sort of pressure is almost too much to bear: Who wants to be a sure-to-fail Jesus, dealing with the dashed expectations of a disappointed people? And critics of color often blame the wrong individuals. Those crushed hopes have more to do with the gatekeeping forces of literary cool than the power of any one author's pen. If there were truly more diversity in the literary realm, we wouldn't have to rely on only a handful of imaginations to represent us.
Another oft-heard criticism of immigrant literature is that it is not true to the motherland. It's part of the endless debate about the effects of diaspora on cultural identity -- and no one's going to win that fight. People have been waging it since kids first left their parents' homes. What boils down to arguments of purists/traditionalists against rebellious hybridists/iconoclasts ultimately makes for tiresome book reviews. Better questions might be: Is this author exoticizing her ethnicity? Is she just feeding the public more stereotypes of lotus- blossom ladies and guacamole-hipped mamas? If she's inaccurate or exceptionally critical or dewy-eyed in depicting the culture of her forebears, is it done in a way that suits the general public's fixed ideas? If the answer to any of these questions is "yes," then there's a problem. But if not, I'm happy to read South Asian-American novels for exactly what they are -- South Asian-American, with all the complications and richness that might arise from that hyphenated identity.
Then there's the final pitfall of being the darling of a literary trend: Stray from the pigeonhole into which you've been placed, and you can kiss your darlinghood goodbye. Two years after her People Beautiful Person crowning, Arundhati Roy cut off her long hair, telling the New York Times that she doesn't wish to be known as "some pretty woman who wrote a book." Instead of another work of fiction, she has since produced two books of essays, "The Cost of Living" and "Power Politics" and wholeheartedly thrown herself into activist work. But Roy's radical activism has received little support either in the U.S. or India. Critics who once lauded her have turned their backs: "One Indian intellectual compared Roy to Jane Fonda -- a celebrity troublemaker superficially grooving on cultural uproar," notes Joy Press in the Village Voice. For Western critics, her intense scrutiny of the World Bank and globalization marked her as just another famous face touting the political cause du jour.
Just as being too politically ethnic can make one unpopular, not being culturally ethnic enough can also bump a writer from the in crowd. Aspiring authors attending the South Asian Literary Festival in Washington, D.C., last year told stories of editors who declined their manuscripts because it didn't deal with traditional Indian life. Their works were, in essence, too American. In seminars sarcastically entitled "There Are No Poor or Huddled Amongst Us" and "No Sex Please, We Are South Asians," participants grappled with widening the diversity of South Asian and South Asian-American narratives appearing in the Western press.
Critic Amitava Kumar once wrote, "If immigrant realities in the U.S. were only about ethnic food, then my place of birth, for most Americans, would be an Indian restaurant." The language of cultural consumption is particularly apt here. At its worst, South Asian and South Asian-American writing is just like tasty Indian food -- to be chewed, digested, and excreted without a lot of thought. But hope springs eternal. Perhaps Americans, having tasted something delicious, will seek out books that outrage and challenge, narratives written from the diaspora or in translation that don't rely on bindis or kulfi to make their points.
In the meantime, South Asian and South Asian-American writers are making themselves at home on the New York Times bestseller lists and within literary-prize committee sessions -- but they have their eyes wide open. "I would be wary of the notion that South Asia is hip and can attract publishers," said Yale English professor Sara Suleri at the literary festival. "Those fashions come and die. Maybe in five years, we will be hunting for Tasmanian writers."
Maybe so, but maybe some readers will demand more, and writers will be able to find success while defying trendiness. Perhaps we can all wedge the door open a little more firmly, making room for stories that will last longer than a peel-off mehndi tattoo.
(Noy Thrupkaew is a fellow at the American Prospect. Lamentably, she consumed no Indian foodstuffs while writing this piece. A version of this piece first appeared in Bitch Magazine.)
http://www.alternet.org/story/13448/
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