However, I wasn't sure you guys wanted to read a literary analysis of these mid-90's works, and also, Richard Ford started making headlines in ways that could make even Jonathan Franzen, with all his media blunders, run for the hills. Contemplating the sins of Ford's generation while reading The Sportswriter - how were women so consistently dismissed as pretty things, or put on pedestals as distracting, pretty things? Didn't anyone teach these men how to find the dignity within themselves and others? - made me feel somehow part of the zeitgeist, though, like how I had just finished worshiping at the feet of Jesus' Son a day before the legendary Denis Johnson passed away in May.
Look, I know there's nothing more pretentious than telling people you are re-reading a book, but the distinction between a first reading and follow-up reads feels so distinct to me, I am going to be an a-hole about it every time.
Recently, Tim brought home Sherman Alexie's memoir about his mother, You Don't Have to Say You Love Me. Geez, how's that for a brutal title? It's so good, though: the title, the book, and Alexie's vulnerability and openness about his relationship with his mother, with whom he had much in common, including an undiagnosed mental illness and fits of rage that made life more than just interesting.
You Don't Have to Say You Love Me isn't a perfect book. In fact, it's completely unfair to compare it to reading the first third of White Noise, which I submit as one of the most perfect collections of irony and editing in the English language, but I'm going to do it anyway. I'm sorry to say I get antsy when The Airborne Toxic Event in White Noise actually begins, which is like saying I start to mourn the whole of Legends of the Fall when the three brothers go off to war, which is both true and unfair because there's still about two hours of the movie left after that.
Side-note: It feels irresponsible to write about the film Legends of the Fall without mentioning the novella Jim Harrison wrote of the same name which led to the film. The novella is great. One of my favorite things to do, pre-motherhood, was watch the movie and then read the novella, letting my mind ping-pong back and forth between all the different writing choices.
When I first started reading You Don't Have to Say You Love Me, some of it felt too soon, too therapeutic, too under-edited, to be a final book. But by the end, some of that was what I appreciated about it. It felt really generous, and also risky, to reveal some of the more tender feelings inside. Alexie was recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder, so it also feels extra important that he is choosing to be as open as possible about the struggles he's faced as a son, a Native American, and a member of a dysfunctional family. As this totally legitimate piece of journalism in People states - about Carrie Fisher's autopsy report, which revealed she died with cocaine and other substances in her system - to keep silent means to keep shame inside, and shame begets shame begets shame. I'm grateful for Alexie's honesty and also, because he's one of the few writers I've followed from the start of his career when I read his poetry in college, to now, I'm happy that he seems to be tracing paths of healing in his life, whatever those paths may be: literary, personal, medication, etc. etc.
Of course, this is a book, not a therapy session, but its pages contain all the rage, truth, and narrative processing that make books healing for me.
Speaking of truth, and Jim Harrison who in his books does not shy away from the topic of governmental genocide in our own country, I really appreciated Alexie's insistence on telling the truth about Indian relocation movements, the abuses that Indian education systems fostered, and the rapes. assaults, and violence perpetrated by priests, teachers, and officials responsible for handling Native American affairs, which led to rapes, assaults, and violence within Indian tribes themselves.
How are we not talking about these things every day? (Happy Birthday, America!)
I'm pretty sure that's the cleanest, most white-washed definition of colonization I've read in my life. Like many things in these old library books we pick up from time to time, it gave me chills.
The Great St. Lawrence Seaway was published in 1992. I really hope it would read differently if it were published today.
On that note, in one excerpt from You Don't Have to Say You Love Me, Alexie writes about the fact that there is a United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, which he says is "a vital place. It is a grievous reminder. A warning. It is as necessary as any museum ever built."
But, he says, the fact that we don't have a United States Native American Genocide Memorial Museum, "also proves to me how the United States closes its eyes against the pain it has caused. The United States often looks away from the pain it has caused." Later, he writes: "The United States wants all of us to forget the crimes it committed against the indigenous.
The United States wants us to forget.
The United States wants us to forget.
The United States wants us to forget."
Well, I don't want to forget.
I was going to include some of Alexie's poetry from the memoir, but when I typed it into my computer, it didn't save, and maybe that is a sign because he tends to use profanity and this is a family blog. JK! It's not a family blog but I'm not sure strong language is what people come here for.
I do want to say that I watched O.J.: Made In America and it blew me away with its thoroughness, narrative skill, and absolutely essential education about the history of racial discrimination in L.A., something I didn't really understand when the O.J. Simpson trial first unfolded in 1994. When I read Ann Patchett's book of essays, This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage, particularly her essay about trying out for the LAPD, she alluded to that history, but I was still pretty fuzzy on the details. The murders in O.J.: Made in America are lurid and disturbing, obviously, and it has the most haunting trumpet music you'll ever hear in your life, but I'm so glad I watched it, and I wish everyone would see it.
That's my Fourth of July post, you guys! I obviously didn't set out to discuss genocide, violence, and racial discrimination but in a way, it feels fitting. Some people don't want to talk about these things, and I understand not having the capacity to look at pain - your own, and the pain you inflict on others. It's not something we're taught, really, at least not by the larger, hypermasculine culture we live in.
|Speaking of hypermasculine, check out this slide!|
In my own life, I've watched adults do a dance when my child cries, hoping to distract her back to silliness. I know a child's frustration is fleeting, but I want her to know: it's okay to be mad, it's okay to be sad. It's okay to feel these things, because when you don't allow yourself to feel difficult emotions, you shut out half your life. This shutting off of your experience is, I believe, what really causes suffering, not the initial pain you feel, which eventually recedes when you learn to integrate it all the way.
I'm done with the lecture. What do you guys think of DeLillo for a baby's name? Maybe just The Don??