And in the End...

"Your power to write rests gravely on your commitment to read." -Lovanda A. Brown 

Lovanda Brown

When I first began writing this Common Place blog, I knew I had much to say concerning literature and the elements pertinent to it, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to effectively convey them all. Now at the end, I’ve realized how far I’ve come and how lucky I’ve been to be able to express my views in a world that filters out “unscholarly sources” or “expert critiques.” Not only has this helped me mature as a critical reader, I am now a more well-rounded writer as I have spent the past 10 weeks or so analyzing the works of those who have paved the way--studying the patterns of literary geniuses.

     In this final post, I believe it is important to share what I have learned throughout this experience. I’ve learned that every story carries symbolism. This assertion seems far-fetched, but let me explain. These symbols are often overlooked. Each story represents either a culture, a lifestyle, an idea or an active imagination. Nonetheless, whatever symbol each story carries, it ultimately belongs to two people—the writer who took great pleasure in sharing his/her story, and the reader who is given the freedom of unrestrained interpretation. 

Once you can understand that, it changes literature in a way that makes it become a whole new love for those who have already adored the craft. That is something, I will take with me for the rest of my journey as a writer, and this is an experience I’d gladly and most certainty would do. all. over. again.

Read...it makes the good great.

All the best, 

Lovanda

Live NOW

“I made a big mistake.”

“About Exeter?”

Yes, I made a big mistake. You should be with us for that time. I should never let you go there.”

“So why did you?” I said.

“Because I didn’t know I was going to die.” –Chang Rae Lee’s, Coming Home Again

It is possibly one of the greater questions of the human condition—why we fail to value time or appreciate time spent until there is none left. This idea stood out to me as I finished reading Chang-Rae Lee’s Coming Home Again. While we are alive, time seems infinite and we can easily feel invincible. Family members and friends are often blurred together in a midst of repetitive days and daily functions, feelings are silenced by the technology we have worked so hard to establish, and complications are never truly worked out. In fact, they are avoided, ignored, brushed or simply shipped away—which was the case we saw in the story.

As the narrator reflects on his mother, her overall presence and the relationship they had despite her decision to send him to boarding school, regret settles in. I have yet to experience death, which is impossibly evident even now as I write, but I could imagine that deeper than the anguish it is to die when you’re not ready is to die with regrets. To recount the moments you sold due to complications, and to remember the times when fighting to create these moments were never seized. By the story’s end, we find the narrator’s mother regretful of her decision to send her son to boarding school—which ultimately strained their relationship. It makes me wonder, if in fact, she was not dying would the regret present itself?

The cycle of life 

She said that if she had known she was going to die, she wouldn’t have sent him there. But that entire concept makes me question. We all know that someday we are going to die. Our flesh will cease to function and we will deteriorate with the passing of time. If we have this idea already embedded in the back of our minds, why is it so hard for us to embrace each moment today as if we were dying tomorrow? These thoughts of infinity and invincibility die when we do, so those thoughts in themselves are self-damaging. They rob us of moments we can’t get back because we believe time will present these opportunities once more. They rob us of productive tomorrows because we are living reckless todays. Coming Home Again helped me to consider the cycle that is life, and the error that is the human condition.

It's Easier to Run than Drown in it

“I want to ask her if she loves her boss but I ask instead, How do you like the States?”

    In Junot Diaz, Edison, New Jersey we are confronted with feelings of lost love and an underlying yet unfamiliar hope that creeps with it. As the narrator discusses the daily demands divided between him and his road partner, Wayne, he discusses his ex-girlfriend who he still presently refers to as  “the girlfriend.” You can tell that the decision for the two to separate stemmed from disappointment and one being braver than the other. Nonetheless, after meeting Mr. Pruitt’s maid, I realized this is a story both the narrator and the Dominican maid share. I believe the narrator realized this just the same when he considered asking the question written above.

    First, I considered the fact that neither one of the two referred to these people by name. The maid never once referred to Mr. Pruitt as such, she only calls him the “pendejo” or “her boss.” As mentioned above, the narrator seems to call his ex-girlfriend, “the girlfriend.” There is much to say here. It seems as if uttering there name would take too much energy, or it would pain a part of them that they are trying to get past. They both seem to share this. There is an underlying disappointment. Time has gone by, so his disappointment is thinly veiled by distraction but still very evident. The maid’s disappointment with what affair I speculate she and Mr. Pruitt had is also thinly veiled—but by anger. Whatever happened between the two just recently happened and she wants run from it just as the narrator runs from how he feels about his ex-girlfriend.

I also considered the clothes the maid leaves behind versus the pictures of the ex-girlfriend that the narrator neglects to tell his mother to dispose of. They both symbolize hope. The maid leaving her clothes could be a sign that she wanted nothing to do with him, not even own the clothes he may have bought for her. But, to me, it seems she left them as a hopeful gesture just as the pictures left of the narrator’s ex-girlfriend are still around his mother’s home. There is no finality in leaving them behind. In fact, there is a chance that she may return to Mr. Pruitt and the narrator’s girlfriend may come back to restore order once more, so why get rid of them? There is a shared pain and culture between the narrator and the maid. It seems that this unspoken understanding of one another is what helped him to be able to help her. It's easier for them both to run from these feelings, than sit around and drown in circumstances they have no control over. 

Raising a Kite

“Raising a child is like building a kite. You must bend the twigs enough, but not too much, for you might break them. You must find paper that is delicate and light enough to wave on the breath of the wind, yet must withstand the ravages of a storm. You must tie the strings gently but firmly so that it may not fall apart. You must let the string go eventually so that the kite will stretch its ambition. It is such delicate work, Lord, being a mother."

Helena Viramonte’s Cariboo Café is a complex story that I found hard to grasp at first. While the story’s end did it’s best to connect all characters outlined within the story, the way each story was told in each separate section was challenging to understand, to say the least. I could relate with the relationship between Sonya and Macky. I too am protective of my younger brother, regardless of the circumstances that come. But even so, I both thoroughly enjoyed and found poetry in the excerpt provided above.

I, myself, have yet to experience motherhood, but based on what I’ve learned thus far (through others, of course) I believe the concept is eloquently explained in this quote. If raising a child is like building a kite, much effort and careful considerations even calculations must be applied just to properly construct/develop a device that symbolizes both freedom and innocence. The twigs in this case are simply rules. You must bend them to establish your own parenting and your unique relationship with your child, but you must be careful not to break them, for in so doing, the child would have no structure. Structure is needed for the kite to fly. Structure is needed for a child to soar as an adult.

 Then, you must find paper, or a balance between being both delicate and firm—delicate enough so your child feels free enough to enjoy the life you’ve built for him/her, but stern enough so the storms or life’s unprecedented challenges won’t break the child. How do you create that balance? By tying the strings gently but firmly or by handling your child both carefully and firmly at the same time, you’re essentially binding up any chances of complete failure. The love won’t allow him to fall apart when strong winds are against him, and the firmness will allow him/her to overcome.

And then eventually, when developing the kite/child is all said and done, you must let go and allow your child to pursue his/her own goals, all the while being confident that the structure you laid out and the love and stern teachings you’ve taught throughout the years was just enough for your child to make it.

Motherhood and the responsibility that treads along with the title is very delicate work.

And yet… where would we be without them? 

Seventeen Syllables--Limited Expression

“The truth was that Rosie was lazy; English lay ready on the tongue but Japanese had to be searched and examined...”

I found it relatively simple to just equate Seventeen Syllables with the life of Rosie’s mother. In fact, I think it must be established that the haiku is a poem with many limits, but it is often what you do with only a few choice words that makes a difference. Tome Hayashi, or Rosie’s mother, we find had so much locked away. By the story’s demise, the true unlimited story of Ms. Hayashi is revealed and her love for the haiku poem can be directly correlated with her life. Nonetheless, the aforementioned quote explains just why Rosie and her mother had trouble communicating before. The quote, I believe sums up the true heart of the story.

Rosie, having been raised in America it seems, had grown accustomed to the American way of communication. Here, we are encouraged to talk about our emotions, we are motivated to share our stories, and often times our behaviors prompt others to ask about information that other cultures might deem private. The emotions in America “lay ready on the tongue.” If we’re compelled enough to tell another how we feel at a moment’s notice (i.e. therapist, counselor, friend etc..) this makes us less open to examination. In fact, it means any mystery is placed directly on the table.

“But Japanese [culture] had to be searched and examined.” In a haiku, the limitations of seventeen syllables often leave much room for interpretation. A haiku is often searched and examined, what is this poem really trying to say? I found myself trying to figure out Rosie’s mother, while Rosie’s feelings and overall characteristics were displayed openly. There is a reason for this. It is to express the juxtaposition explained earlier. Rosie is American, and her English/way of life speaks for itself. Mrs. Hayashi’s experiences in Japan and her marriage to Rosie’s father had to examined and searched. By the story’s end, you find the two finds common ground when Mrs Hayashi decides to open up, and Rosie finally putting her lazy ears behind her, finally decides to listen. 

Beauty After Death

"But they also knew that everything would be different from then on, that their houses would have wider doors, higher ceilings, and stronger floors so that Esteban's memory could go everywhere..."

In Gabriel García Márquez's The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World, we are introduced to a small community who has just discovered an unusually tall, and large man washed up at shore. Upon first glance, the community is able to recognize that the man was indeed a stranger, but what they unmasked thereafter is what made the story truly unique. At first his size is what was intriguing considering that his height elevated above ceilings and his overall size outweighed a common man even being compared to that of a horse. But what captured the attention of the village's women was the handsome face he carried. 

As the story continued to describe how well he was treated because of how handsome he was, it made me consider life. When the man was alive, he was impossibly tall and large. The story notes that he likely often criticized for it despite everything else he may have possessed. As the women of the village cleaned him up and saw him as beautiful, it made me consider how often this gesture is repeated today. When a person is alive, all of his/her faults and imperfections are not only sought by others, but they are scrutinized. We tend to judge just based on size, shape, and all of the superficial aspects of a person. But if you notice, once a person dies, all of that fades away. Surviving individuals then take the time out to highlight all of the good attributes of the deceased and find the best words to say about those who have passed. 

It's unfortunate that it takes death for us to see the beauty in a person. Some people, if you consider them closely, have the ability to make a very real difference in society just being who they are. You noticed that Estaban's very existence changed the outlook of the entire community and even shaped it differently from what it used to be. Often times, we all encompass this power. The problem is, we are backwards. We scrape to find the good in a person, whether it be stranger or friend, once he/she is dead, but when we are alive--judgement ensues and we become dismantling boulders to one another. It's unfortunate, but Marquez's story reveals this truth both subtly and beautifully.

Tim Parrish Visits

  I read Red Stick Men with a certain voice—my voice. Yes, the author’s tone was clearly evident throughout each short story, and yes the style was just as established. Still, I read the story with my voice. I heard the words playback with a familiar sound, and for some odd reason, it never once varied as I read. I understood that the book was based on Southern reality and life within the late 60s-early 70s, I understood the accents placed subtly throughout each story, I even understood what the author was going for—what he was trying to convey. But still, I read it with the voice I’ve grown accustomed to hearing over the past 23 years.

  It wasn’t until Tim Parrish, the author of Red Stick Men, came to read using the voice I’d overlooked that I realized I was reading his stories all wrong. He began with a satirical introduction, very humorous yet humble about the stories he has created. My mind automatically recounted the photo I had seen of him, the one plastered behind a display of his books on an image-projected screen. Wow, he’s a tall dude, I thought as I watched him adjust the microphone to accommodate his height. As he spoke with his Southern accent I had failed to mimic whenreading, I realized just how talented he is. Sure, evidence of this can be found in his book, but hearing it aloud as it was intended to be received made a world of difference.

  Parrish offered different versions to stories he’s personally experienced, scenes straight from his memoir and re-read his story Bonnie Ledet—a story I read, but didn’t quite hear until Parrish recited it aloud. After listening to his responses during the Q & A portion of his visit, I became more hopeful in my craft. I’ve learned that writing a book can literally take years, so I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. I’ve learned that personal experiences are conveyed best in literature, and that as a serious writer it’s important to not take oneself so seriously. If writing is what you love to do, never let it become work. Treat it as the friend it has always been. In any friendship, work and life circumstances don’t always allow friends to interact as often as they would like, but once the moment is there, it’s important to get to work! Catch up! Get it all out!

It was a pleasure to experience this visit.