Most of the reactions I've read to Moore's "Referential" in this week's issue of the New Yorker have been either oblivious to the Nabokov original, or pent on a compare/contrast exercise. I'm more concerned about why Moore felt the need to write this piece. I don't think it's absurd to state that "Signs and Symbols" is one of the few perfect short stories in existence. Moore's reason for writing the piece, which is somewhere between a riff and an unsettling rip-off, is a complete bafflement. In the Q&A she calls it an "homage," but an homage is something that serves as a mental cue to another work of art. An homage should take the original and do something interesting and different with it: it should become a frame from which we might view the original with a unique perspective. "Referential" is less homage and more bad Hollywood re-make, because let's be honest, the stories are almost identical. When you're re-phrasing paragraphs in a way that wouldn't pass turnitin.com you aren't doing an homage, you're doing a disservice.
I'm fairly confident the only reason this piece sailed into the fiction slot is because Lorrie Moore is a (somewhat) young, hip writer and her name is a big draw. But I'm disturbed that something like this can be considered appropriate, let alone printable as its own, stand-alone story. I preferred this tack when it was consigned to Shouts & Murmurs.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
"Transatlantic" by Colum McCann
I will preface this by admitting that I am one of those awful human beings who not only managed to escape school with a bare rudimentary scrape of historical knowledge, but further does nothing to patch the leaky sinking boat, floundering in a sea of ignorance. Therefore I devoured Mr. McCann's story in the April 16th edition of the New Yorker in a state of giddy bliss, the will-they-won't-they dynamic providing the perfect "tug" through to the end.
Then I consulted Wikipedia. There needs to be a new word in the dictionary (not like lol or cougar, but a legitimately new word) to describe the desire to have a "save game" and "re-load" feature in reality. Enough people experience this emotion on a daily basis (and now have a model for it in the form of videogames) that it should be classified as a distinct emotion. I wish I could go back and re-read Transatlantic with the benefit of knowing all about Misters Alcock and Brown, because I don't know if the story would have had such a strong effect on me if I had.
To be fair McCann is adept with characters. Brown is the rightful center--conflicted internally and externally, with enough at stake to intensify the flitting dangers of the flight. Alcock is part foil, part mirror. While reading I never felt that I needed to know more about him, but looking back I see an elusive character, slipping in and out of the story. The supporting characters are just present enough to root the piece in its setting. But the attachment I felt towards Brown and Alcock was heavily influenced by the uncertainty of their fate which, if I were a better student with a proper knowledge of history, I would have known at the beginning of the piece.
Unlike, for example, Jim Shepard's Love and Hydrogen, which inserts two fictional characters in the familiar historical setting of the Hindenburg, Transatlantic portrays people who actually existed; people whose fates are a simple internet query away.
The tension that builds in Love and Hydrogen, and which is also evident in pop culture epics like Titanic, comes from the reader's knowledge that, despite whatever the characters contend with in the foreground, there is about to be some kind of grand reckoning which the characters may not survive. It is a sort of pre-cliff-hanger; it creates the sublime irony of reader dread vs. character petulance.
Transatlantic is not as structurally complicated. It is an adventure piece: man vs. challenge, and while there is a decent amount of back- and side-history, it really only serves to heighten the anxiety the reader feels in not knowing whether Alcock and Brown will survive their flight. And of course, I felt a euphoric sense of relief and triumph when Alcock and Brown crashed into the bog. But if I'd known it all along, how would I have felt? I'd love to discuss this with someone who read this without the pretense of ignorance.
Working in reverse, there are elements of the story that are gently diminished by historical knowledge, and then there are those that become especially beautiful. Most of the dramatic action--the breaking of the fuselage, the almost-crash into the pine trees--reads dopier now. The urgency is diffused in knowing that Alcock and Brown survived. But McCann is clever to put the story in the present tense, and when it becomes crucial he slips inside Brown's mind--Good God, Alcock, lift her!--which manages to stir me even on a second read, even after the Wikipedia. I wonder why McCann chose not to have Brown climbing onto the wings to sort them out as in reality.
Curiously, on this read it is Alcock who makes the bigger impression. He died just six months after the transatlantic flight, crashing the newest version of the plane that had carried him from Newfoundland to Ireland. Knowing this, his character now feels ephemeral instead of obtuse. It reminds me of the DVD extras for the film Stand by Me. Someone, I can't recall who, points out the moment that River Phoenix's character waves and vanishes at the end of the film. Trite in the film, tragic in the context of the actor's short life. Recontextualizing stories provides us a stronger means of enjoying them. I now see Brown as the sole survivor. There is something to tie him to the ground. Alcock is leashed to the sky; his daredevil antics are the mark of hamartia, his bravado will be his demise.
Without asking McCann himself, it's difficult to know whether he expected his readers to know the history of Alcock and Brown. It feels, paradoxically, important and utterly irrelevant. I'm glad for the introduction and his story lent a well of rich emotion to what would otherwise be a two-paragraph entry in an encyclopedia. This is the power of writing fiction about real people. Like Pynchon does in Mason & Dixon, McCann creates a bridge between fact and sentiment. Even (in Pynchon's case especially) where the fiction divulges from reality, it feels charmingly honest because it gives us an opportunity to develop a relationship with a character who takes on the attributes of a living person.
One of the follies of my mind is that I find it difficult to conjure images of people who are long-since deceased. Even history's boldest figures are little more than bytes of information to me. It is only when someone is bold enough to recreate that figure in fiction that I can begin to extend my sympathies. We sometimes say books are our friends with absolute sincerity. It is only because the author has been adept enough to smoke life out of language: to make a thing that gives us as much pleasure, resentment, sadness, hope, and fear as our closest friends, dearest lovers, most hated enemies.
Then I consulted Wikipedia. There needs to be a new word in the dictionary (not like lol or cougar, but a legitimately new word) to describe the desire to have a "save game" and "re-load" feature in reality. Enough people experience this emotion on a daily basis (and now have a model for it in the form of videogames) that it should be classified as a distinct emotion. I wish I could go back and re-read Transatlantic with the benefit of knowing all about Misters Alcock and Brown, because I don't know if the story would have had such a strong effect on me if I had.
To be fair McCann is adept with characters. Brown is the rightful center--conflicted internally and externally, with enough at stake to intensify the flitting dangers of the flight. Alcock is part foil, part mirror. While reading I never felt that I needed to know more about him, but looking back I see an elusive character, slipping in and out of the story. The supporting characters are just present enough to root the piece in its setting. But the attachment I felt towards Brown and Alcock was heavily influenced by the uncertainty of their fate which, if I were a better student with a proper knowledge of history, I would have known at the beginning of the piece.
Unlike, for example, Jim Shepard's Love and Hydrogen, which inserts two fictional characters in the familiar historical setting of the Hindenburg, Transatlantic portrays people who actually existed; people whose fates are a simple internet query away.
The tension that builds in Love and Hydrogen, and which is also evident in pop culture epics like Titanic, comes from the reader's knowledge that, despite whatever the characters contend with in the foreground, there is about to be some kind of grand reckoning which the characters may not survive. It is a sort of pre-cliff-hanger; it creates the sublime irony of reader dread vs. character petulance.
Transatlantic is not as structurally complicated. It is an adventure piece: man vs. challenge, and while there is a decent amount of back- and side-history, it really only serves to heighten the anxiety the reader feels in not knowing whether Alcock and Brown will survive their flight. And of course, I felt a euphoric sense of relief and triumph when Alcock and Brown crashed into the bog. But if I'd known it all along, how would I have felt? I'd love to discuss this with someone who read this without the pretense of ignorance.
Working in reverse, there are elements of the story that are gently diminished by historical knowledge, and then there are those that become especially beautiful. Most of the dramatic action--the breaking of the fuselage, the almost-crash into the pine trees--reads dopier now. The urgency is diffused in knowing that Alcock and Brown survived. But McCann is clever to put the story in the present tense, and when it becomes crucial he slips inside Brown's mind--Good God, Alcock, lift her!--which manages to stir me even on a second read, even after the Wikipedia. I wonder why McCann chose not to have Brown climbing onto the wings to sort them out as in reality.
Curiously, on this read it is Alcock who makes the bigger impression. He died just six months after the transatlantic flight, crashing the newest version of the plane that had carried him from Newfoundland to Ireland. Knowing this, his character now feels ephemeral instead of obtuse. It reminds me of the DVD extras for the film Stand by Me. Someone, I can't recall who, points out the moment that River Phoenix's character waves and vanishes at the end of the film. Trite in the film, tragic in the context of the actor's short life. Recontextualizing stories provides us a stronger means of enjoying them. I now see Brown as the sole survivor. There is something to tie him to the ground. Alcock is leashed to the sky; his daredevil antics are the mark of hamartia, his bravado will be his demise.
Without asking McCann himself, it's difficult to know whether he expected his readers to know the history of Alcock and Brown. It feels, paradoxically, important and utterly irrelevant. I'm glad for the introduction and his story lent a well of rich emotion to what would otherwise be a two-paragraph entry in an encyclopedia. This is the power of writing fiction about real people. Like Pynchon does in Mason & Dixon, McCann creates a bridge between fact and sentiment. Even (in Pynchon's case especially) where the fiction divulges from reality, it feels charmingly honest because it gives us an opportunity to develop a relationship with a character who takes on the attributes of a living person.
One of the follies of my mind is that I find it difficult to conjure images of people who are long-since deceased. Even history's boldest figures are little more than bytes of information to me. It is only when someone is bold enough to recreate that figure in fiction that I can begin to extend my sympathies. We sometimes say books are our friends with absolute sincerity. It is only because the author has been adept enough to smoke life out of language: to make a thing that gives us as much pleasure, resentment, sadness, hope, and fear as our closest friends, dearest lovers, most hated enemies.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Junot Diaz Bingo
In honor of Diaz's latest New Yorker piece, Miss Lora, I hereby present Junot Diaz Bingo (click to enlarge):
Sunday, April 15, 2012
"The Turin Horse" by Béla Tarr
In the middle of Béla Tarr's "The Turin Horse," Ohlsdorfer's daughter snuffs out every gas lamp in the house and retires to an out-of-frame bedroom. The camera remains trained on the dim kitchen, thin flickers of light from the fire in the aga's grate providing scant illumination. Nothing moved and only the shrieking wind sounded unceasingly. Gradually, as my eyes strained to adjust, the figures of two devils seemed to become distinct. One, with a long pale face, stood legs apart, back hunched, long sickening spider-like arms hanging low by the ground. The other was a tall, shrouded figure against the back wall. I knew that the pale-faced devil's legs were the legs of a bench, and that his face was a small white cupboard. The hooded devil was a robe on a hook. Still, I couldn't avoid a creeping sense of horror and a deep fear for the sleeping father and daughter.
These moments of almost banal real-world horror are what made "The Turin Horse" a satisfying experience. For someone with ADD I've seen my fair share of endurance cinema, from the borderline-interesting "Andrei Rublev" to the profoundly tedious "Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks," and have developed a strategy of asking questions to confront frustration and tedium. (It helps to envision Werner Herzog asking the questions.) In "The Turin Horse" I found myself asking questions which all boiled down to the same concept: what was driving the inertia of these two people?
I struggled with how disconnected I felt from the characters. I compulsively mastermind solutions to imaginary problems, so it was difficult to watch two people submit to death without expending any energy to save themselves. There is, of course, a kind of natural horror endemic in witnessing a sentient creature disobeying its survival instincts. This is first evidenced in the titular horse, who begins a Bartlebian refusal to eat and drink at the beginning of the film, and then is continued (or contracted?) by the horse's owners.
At only one point do they make an effort to save themselves, packing up the necessities for basic survival and setting out on foot up the winding hillside road. The camera remains in the valley; just as soon as I could be sure that the horse's ears had disappeared over the lip of the hill, they reappeared and without any ceremony Ohlsdorfer and his daughter were back in the house.
What befell them in those thirty seconds off-camera that could cause them to return to certain death? Only two points in the film provide any sort of resolution and exposition. One has been kindly reproduced on youtube:
The other is when Ohlsdorfer's daughter reads aloud from a book she has been given by the gypsies (an "anti-bible" according to Tarr) which details a meeting in which a figurehead announces that, because the congregation has disobeyed, they will be punished with a series of natural disasters including sweeping winds and a blackout.
These expositions contradict one another--the first makes the case for a godless, meaningless paradigm of destruction and oppression while the latter creates a dichotomy of quasi-religious sin and punishment--but they are equally nihilistic in their conclusions. They hearken to the film's introductory monologue describing Nietzsche's mental breakdown and insanity in his final years. The sensation is of a sudden snuffing out followed by a prolonged horror--as in the kitchen scene I mentioned earlier.
I believe the reason that Ohlsdorfer and his daughter turn back to their house is that beyond the lip of that hill everything has been swept away by the howling wind. Where once perhaps some houses dotted another desolate plain, now there is nothing. Perhaps a great blackness rose on the horizon. Perhaps there was fire, or a flood.
Most of my questions were answered as I made a sincere effort to imagine the scope of these people's lives. Their world is so isolated, so cut off from any possible modernization that they have no recourse when the whatever force driving the universe conspires against them. Their stark, monosyllabic communication--Ohlsdorfer frequently lapses into guttural grunts--is all they have. They can't fabricate an escape because they don't have the words to do so. Late in the film the wind suddenly drops and the daughter asks "What was that?" "I don't know," Ohlsdorfer replies. In my world "I don't know" is the platform for imagination and discovery. In theirs it is the final statement in an empty conversation. For them, ignorance means sticking to a familiar ritual.
At the end of the film Ohlsdorfer's daughter sits before the window and stares at the hillside, which is obscured by huge clouds of dust and debris. I was so sure that I could see something careening down the hillside road towards the house, but I couldn't be positive. Not long after, the daylight cuts out. Not a gradual night, but a sudden one. Some of the lamps won't light in the house.
She and her father sit at the table, trying to face a plate of raw potatoes now that the last of the water has run out. The remaining lamp scutters out. Suddenly the film felt too short because it was time to leave. My mind was full of Mihâly Vig's disturbing music, and with a tangle of horrors as it conjured vile images of the fate of those peasants.
These moments of almost banal real-world horror are what made "The Turin Horse" a satisfying experience. For someone with ADD I've seen my fair share of endurance cinema, from the borderline-interesting "Andrei Rublev" to the profoundly tedious "Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks," and have developed a strategy of asking questions to confront frustration and tedium. (It helps to envision Werner Herzog asking the questions.) In "The Turin Horse" I found myself asking questions which all boiled down to the same concept: what was driving the inertia of these two people?
I struggled with how disconnected I felt from the characters. I compulsively mastermind solutions to imaginary problems, so it was difficult to watch two people submit to death without expending any energy to save themselves. There is, of course, a kind of natural horror endemic in witnessing a sentient creature disobeying its survival instincts. This is first evidenced in the titular horse, who begins a Bartlebian refusal to eat and drink at the beginning of the film, and then is continued (or contracted?) by the horse's owners.
At only one point do they make an effort to save themselves, packing up the necessities for basic survival and setting out on foot up the winding hillside road. The camera remains in the valley; just as soon as I could be sure that the horse's ears had disappeared over the lip of the hill, they reappeared and without any ceremony Ohlsdorfer and his daughter were back in the house.
What befell them in those thirty seconds off-camera that could cause them to return to certain death? Only two points in the film provide any sort of resolution and exposition. One has been kindly reproduced on youtube:
These expositions contradict one another--the first makes the case for a godless, meaningless paradigm of destruction and oppression while the latter creates a dichotomy of quasi-religious sin and punishment--but they are equally nihilistic in their conclusions. They hearken to the film's introductory monologue describing Nietzsche's mental breakdown and insanity in his final years. The sensation is of a sudden snuffing out followed by a prolonged horror--as in the kitchen scene I mentioned earlier.
I believe the reason that Ohlsdorfer and his daughter turn back to their house is that beyond the lip of that hill everything has been swept away by the howling wind. Where once perhaps some houses dotted another desolate plain, now there is nothing. Perhaps a great blackness rose on the horizon. Perhaps there was fire, or a flood.
Most of my questions were answered as I made a sincere effort to imagine the scope of these people's lives. Their world is so isolated, so cut off from any possible modernization that they have no recourse when the whatever force driving the universe conspires against them. Their stark, monosyllabic communication--Ohlsdorfer frequently lapses into guttural grunts--is all they have. They can't fabricate an escape because they don't have the words to do so. Late in the film the wind suddenly drops and the daughter asks "What was that?" "I don't know," Ohlsdorfer replies. In my world "I don't know" is the platform for imagination and discovery. In theirs it is the final statement in an empty conversation. For them, ignorance means sticking to a familiar ritual.
At the end of the film Ohlsdorfer's daughter sits before the window and stares at the hillside, which is obscured by huge clouds of dust and debris. I was so sure that I could see something careening down the hillside road towards the house, but I couldn't be positive. Not long after, the daylight cuts out. Not a gradual night, but a sudden one. Some of the lamps won't light in the house.
She and her father sit at the table, trying to face a plate of raw potatoes now that the last of the water has run out. The remaining lamp scutters out. Suddenly the film felt too short because it was time to leave. My mind was full of Mihâly Vig's disturbing music, and with a tangle of horrors as it conjured vile images of the fate of those peasants.
"The Porn Critic" by Jonathan Lethem (New Yorker, April 9th 2012)
In place of criticism, here is an updated list of cardinal sins for short stories set in New York City:
- Set in the 1980's.
- One or more characters is a student.
- Shameless abuse of the phrase "baggie of pot."
- Reference to a "walk-up" apartment in attempt to characterize poverty.
- Quoting of Velvet Underground lyrics.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Unplanned Commentary
If ever there were a valid argument against the merits of higher education, Robert P. George and Carter Snead would be its embodiment. The former a decorated Princeton professor, the latter a Notre Dame fellow of ethics, they have conjoined their fatuous mythologies of reality in a piece entitled "Planned Parenthood's Hostages" which ran in the WSJ on 2/6/12. Despite being authored by not one, but two extremely-well-educated gentlemen, the article is heady and illogical. So much so that I felt the need to deconstruct it sentence-by-sentence:
Planned Parenthood's "apparatus" is not a subservient conglomerate of yes-men. It's a cohesive group of people who support its mission statement and practices.
Clearly if there is a large national charity going around holding people hostage, the FBI needs to get involved.
Even if Planned Parenthood has the power to completely defund Susan G. Komen's operations (which, by the way, it obviously doesn't), to claim that the mass protest of the decision held anyone "hostage" is hyperbolic and ridiculous. Equating Susan G. Komen with the healthcare professionals who actively treat breast cancer is like comparing Green Peace to actual trees. Yes, Green Peace helps keep the trees around, but if Green Peace suddenly shuts down for a few days it's not as if all the trees in the world will simultaneously implode.
It also negates the reality of the situation, which is that some people decry Komen's defundingKomen rep claimed donations had risen 100% since the announcement was made. To claim that Planned Parenthood and its supporters held Komen "hostage" is to completely negate the existence of anyone who supported the defunding. There were plenty of people defending Komen and rallying against Planned Parenthood. It's just more convenient for George and Snead to pretend that those people don't exist. (And if they don't exist, who exactly is getting all mad about Planned Parenthood?)
Finally, it ignores the 17,000+ women who would have lost preventative care through the de-fund. If that isn't holding a group of people "hostage" (via George and Snead's definition) then what is?
Addendum:
If George and Snead had just been honest and straightforward in their article, saying something along the lines of:
Now, if I were a conservative I wouldn't be very happy with this article either. It's far too easy to poke holes in and the arguments are at best unsound, at worst completely loony. It's about time that conservative commentators began hewing to provable facts and statements instead of fudging and misrepresenting everything until all that comes out is obvious BS.
The Susan G. Komen Foundation, an organization dedicated since 1982 to fighting, and one day curing, breast cancer, decided to extricate itself from the culture wars by discontinuing grants to Planned Parenthood, the nation's largest provider of abortions.First off, claiming that Susan G. Komen's defunding of Planned Parenthood was anything but a firm step into the culture wars (especially in light of Karen Handel's revelation during resignation) is a sentiment so brazenly stupid that I wouldn't even accuse the authors themselves of believing it. Indeed, the braying comments in the WSJ decrying Planned Parenthood's "abortion mill" affirm what the statement actually is: a blatant and convenient lie that no one with any degree of intelligence and independent thought would take seriously for a second, liberal or conservative.
The grants Komen had been making amounted to $650,000 last year, funding some 19 local Planned Parenthood programs that offered manual breast exams but only referrals for mammograms performed elsewhere.As has been covered elsewhere, no OB-GYN performs mammograms. Instead their patients are examined and, if the doctor has cause for concern, referred to the radiology department. To imply that Planned Parenthood's role in breast cancer screening is in any way unnecessary is to imply that patients march into radiology with a self-diagnosis and pay out-of-pocket, and that all OB-GYNs relegate themselves to below-the-waist examinations only. It is also worth noting that Planned Parenthood subsidizes mammograms for its patients.
The reality is that Planned Parenthood—with annual revenues exceeding $1 billion—does little in the way of screening for breast cancer. But the organization is very much in the business of selling abortions—more than 300,000 in 2010, according to Planned Parenthood. At an average cost of $500, according to various sources including Planned Parenthood's website, that translates to about $164 million of revenue per year.Firstly, no one "sells" abortions. Regardless of how you feel about them they are medical procedures and need to be performed by doctors. Even if you are in the "only if the life of the mother is endangered" camp you should agree with this one. Rick Santorum's wife was not "sold" an abortion. Second, Planned Parenthood is a nonprofit organization. To imply that someone is greatly profiting off the abortions is to (1) ignore that 84% of Planned Parenthood's revenue does not come from abortion, and (2) seed the notion that this is a for-profit business vs a women's health charity. Just because you dislike a charity, it does not mean it is not a charity.
So how did Planned Parenthood and its loyal allies in politics and the media react to Komen's efforts to be neutral in the controversy over abortion?Reiteration of previous fatuousness.
Faced with even the tiniest depletion in the massive river of funds Planned Parenthood receives yearly, the behemoth mobilized its enormous cultural, media, financial and political apparatus to attack the Komen Foundation in the press, on TV and through social media.Except that Planned Parenthood is not like the army, with a central control that sends out the order to the compliant minions. In fact, my biggest beef with this article is how it constantly refers to Planned Parenthood as the actor in all of this. In fact, Planned Parenthood issued a statement and a call for emergency donations to match the missing funding from Komen's withdrawal. The thousands of people protesting the decision were not mindless drones obeying central command--they were people like me: thoughtful individuals who recognize that pulling a service that provides over 17,000 women with preventative treatment under the guise of ethics is not in and of itself an ethical decision.
Planned Parenthood's "apparatus" is not a subservient conglomerate of yes-men. It's a cohesive group of people who support its mission statement and practices.
The organization's allies demonized the charity, attempting to depict the nation's most prominent anti-breast cancer organization as a bedfellow of religious extremists. A Facebook page was set up to "Defund the Komen Foundation." In short, Planned Parenthood took breast-cancer victims as hostages.This is perhaps the best paragraph in the article. The logistical backflips one would have to do to justify that statement is beyond me. Perhaps someone can help?
- Planned Parenthood supporters claim that Susan G. Komen is pandering to religious extremism.
- Someone creates a Facebook group called "Defund the Komen Foundation."
- ????
- Planned Parenthood takes cancer victims hostage.
Clearly if there is a large national charity going around holding people hostage, the FBI needs to get involved.
Even if Planned Parenthood has the power to completely defund Susan G. Komen's operations (which, by the way, it obviously doesn't), to claim that the mass protest of the decision held anyone "hostage" is hyperbolic and ridiculous. Equating Susan G. Komen with the healthcare professionals who actively treat breast cancer is like comparing Green Peace to actual trees. Yes, Green Peace helps keep the trees around, but if Green Peace suddenly shuts down for a few days it's not as if all the trees in the world will simultaneously implode.
It also negates the reality of the situation, which is that some people decry Komen's defundingKomen rep claimed donations had risen 100% since the announcement was made. To claim that Planned Parenthood and its supporters held Komen "hostage" is to completely negate the existence of anyone who supported the defunding. There were plenty of people defending Komen and rallying against Planned Parenthood. It's just more convenient for George and Snead to pretend that those people don't exist. (And if they don't exist, who exactly is getting all mad about Planned Parenthood?)
Finally, it ignores the 17,000+ women who would have lost preventative care through the de-fund. If that isn't holding a group of people "hostage" (via George and Snead's definition) then what is?
Komen's leaders had good reason to believe their organization could disintegrate under Planned Parenthood's assault.It seemed more likely that Komen hadn't realized how many of its donations came from people who also support Planned Parenthood. I doubt that Komen was facing bankruptcy, but I imagine a large percentage of their base didn't like the sound of their actions. Since this is America, and not my home country of England, it is 100% within the people's right to decide when they want to stop supporting a cause. (And for those of you who will whine about not having a choice about "supporting" Planned Parenthood with your tax dollars, please do skip to the Appendix).
Among Komen's reasons for discontinuing grants to Planned Parenthood was its policy of avoiding entanglements with entities under government investigation. Planned Parenthood has been and is under congressional and criminal investigation (by attorneys general, local prosecutors and various regulatory agencies in Arizona, Indiana, Alabama, Kansas and Texas) for allegations including failure to report criminal child sex abuse, misuse of health-care and family-planning funds, and failure to comply with parental-involvement laws regarding abortions.George and Snead fail to mention that this was a new policy under which only Planned Parenthood would lose funding, despite other institutions (most notably, Penn State) also under criminal investigation continuing to receive funding. If a policy is not enacted fairly it's only natural for the foundation's supporters to protest. The fact is that none of Komen's money contributed to abortions or to Sandusky's defense fund--and neither of the grant recipients should lose their funding status.
Planned Parenthood is very far from the uncontroversial organization the Susan G. Komen Foundation aspires to be. According to its most recent annual report, for 2010, Planned Parenthood sells abortions to nine out of every 10 pregnant women who come to its clinics.This is just a lie. George and Snead pull their data from Planned Parenthood's 2010 annual report (just released) which indicates that 329,445 abortions were performed in 2010 while 31,098 women received pre-natal care. This gives you a 9/10 number but it's facetious because it doesn't prove that 9/10 pregnant women who entered Planned Parenthood facilities walked out having had an abortion. All it proves is that ten times as many women received abortions than prenatal care, which makes even more sense when you consider that prenatal care is covered by Medicaid while abortion is not. This means that low-income women have the option of visiting any doctor who accepts Medicaid for prenatal care; however Planned Parenthood is one of the few abortion providers in America. Therefore it makes sense that relatively few women would use Planned Parenthood for prenatal care (an ongoing service which needs to be convenient to a woman's work/home) while a much larger group (comprising any woman who wants an abortion, regardless of income) would use them for an abortion.
And it's known throughout the country as an implacable and aggressive opponent of any meaningful restrictions on deliberate feticide.This is a worthless sentiment to end on because "meaningful restriction" does not in and of itself have a meaning. What is a "meaningful restriction" on abortion? If we had a consensus on that, we wouldn't have such a raging political debate. Therefore to accuse Planned Parenthood of aggressively opposing "meaningful restrictions" on abortion is absolutely meaningless. (Although of course in context we can infer that George and Snead mean restricting abortion based on some set of variables that may include: rape, illness, potential fatality, incest, etc. Then again, their personal interpretation of "meaningful restrictions" should not be used to gauge the efficacy of a national organization). Also "it's known" is a deceitful way of side-stepping journalistic integrity.
Planned Parenthood has spent millions fighting even those legislative initiatives that command extremely wide public support, such as laws requiring parental notification and informed consent for abortions, and those banning late-term abortions when the child developing in the womb is fully viable. Planned Parenthood even opposes a bill recently introduced in Congress to ban abortions for the purpose of sex selection.When George and Snead say "has spent millions fighting... such as" they actually mean "has spent (unknown sum) on legal defense when they are accused of violating..." Likewise when they claim that Planned Parenthood opposed a bill to ban sex selection they are actually referring to an interview with Planned Parenthood director of the Waterloo area in Canada, Angie Murie, whose opinion is not worth quoting here since nothing she does affects United States citizens in any way. They may have been referring to a letter supposedly authored by Planned Parenthood and NARAL against the PRENDA bill (if someone can find the full text of this letter at a credible source please let me know--I've only been able to find the same excerpt in a series of pro-life articles), which is pointless debating anyway because the PRENDA bill is complete garbage and anyone with a little intelligence and understanding of the law can see that it doesn't have a snowball-in-hell's chance of passing any level of government in its current form.
It is easy to see why Komen might not wish to be associated with Planned Parenthood. Fighting breast cancer is something all Americans can and do agree on; promoting and performing abortions is something that divides us bitterly.Except that by partnering with Planned Parenthood Komen sends the clear message that breast-cancer is indeed above politics, and that both sides of the political spectrum can come together to help prevent further loss of life from the disease. By defunding Planned Parenthood Komen sent the message that only pro-life women are entitled to breast cancer treatment. Which actually isn't very pro-life at all.
In 2010, President Obama and the Democrats in Congress risked and narrowly averted the rejection of their signature health-care law in order to block the inclusion of provisions (such as the 1970s Hyde Amendment) that prevent federal abortion funding. At the 11th hour, a handful of "pro-life" Democrats capitulated, giving Mr. Obama and Planned Parenthood their victory.Referring to the Stupak-Pitts amendment, I fail to understand how agreeing to cut federal funding for abortion could be considered a victory for Planned Parenthood.
Also in 2011, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services threatened to withhold billions of dollars in Medicaid funds from those states such as Indiana that prohibit state funding of Planned Parenthood and other entities that provide elective abortions. Planned Parenthood strongly opposed Indiana's attempt to cut off its funding and celebrated the federal government's intervention. Indiana is currently litigating the matter in federal court.This is not the action of Planned Parenthood. George and Snead seem to confuse "Planned Parenthood" with "every pro-choice person and organization in the country."
Most recently, after intense lobbying, the Department of Health and Human Services did the bidding of Planned Parenthood by imposing a mandate on virtually all employers to provide insurance coverage (without cost-sharing) for abortion-inducing drugs, sterilizations and contraceptives. This threatens to force many religiously affiliated charitable institutions out of the business of providing education, health care and social services to the poor.Keyword here is "all." In fact, religious institutions are specifically exempt. If the organization isn't exempt, clearly it isn't religious enough. Also: this doesn't prevent anyone from providing education, health care, and/or social services to the poor. The only thing it does is prevent non-religious-exempt employers from not offering full healthcare services to their employees. Employers have a choice: either offer health insurance, or don't. Since their employees apparently don't need these services, it shouldn't be too much of a burden to offer them anyway, since no one will be taking.
Addendum:
If George and Snead had just been honest and straightforward in their article, saying something along the lines of:
We both have a moral and ethical problem with abortion. We were glad when Komen decided to defund Planned Parenthood because it would deal another blow to the organization, and hopefully bolster our efforts to outlaw it entirely. When Komen reversed its decision we felt betrayed, and we were angry at everyone who turned out in support of Planned Parenthood. We still think abortion is murder and that the law should prosecute anyone who commits it to the fullest extent.then I wouldn't have given it a second thought. It's this smarmy, illogical, narrative-based demonization that I disagree with, one that points to Planned Parenthood and claims that there is a plot to persuade black women to abort their babies for profit. Face it, that's not what's going on. Instead there just happen to be plenty of people, myself included, who prefer the option of deciding when we want to have children in order to give that child/those children the best possible experiences. I don't have a problem with killing a fetus. You do. That's what the abortion debate boils down to. It isn't a conspiracy on either side, just a profound ideological difference.
Now, if I were a conservative I wouldn't be very happy with this article either. It's far too easy to poke holes in and the arguments are at best unsound, at worst completely loony. It's about time that conservative commentators began hewing to provable facts and statements instead of fudging and misrepresenting everything until all that comes out is obvious BS.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
"M&M World" by Kate Walbert
Once upon a time the New Yorker published a short, affecting story about the fragility of parenting, and that piercing moment when a child brushes against danger and reminds his guardians that they are not only impotent, but rapidly approaching obsolete in the care of their offspring. That was in 1946 with Vladimir Nabokov's "Signs and Symbols" (appearing as "Symbols and Signs") and sixty-five years later, in the May 30, 2011 issue, Kate Walbert delivers a variation on the theme with the muddling, padding "M&M World."
It isn't just that M&M World is a belated riff on post-modern white worry, or that none of the characters is vivid and pulsating in any tangible way, but that it follows the same minimalist short story formula that we are all by now painfully familiar with, and in doing so offers no exciting iterative difference that would make it worthy of appearing in a snooty upper-middle class publication (although clearly the New Yorker disagrees).
The first blow comes when, halfway down the first column and a full three paragraphs in, we realize that the story is written present tense. Since so much of the story takes place from the POV of Ginny's regret, and therefore in vaguely desperate-sounding past- and conditional-past-tense, the flashes of the present are jarring obstructions to the immersion and flow of the piece.
The cast of M&M World is outfitted with usual minimalist monikers: names that are Americana without quite belonging to any real set of people. Mother Ginny caters to/trembles after daughters Maggie and Olivia while reflecting on "the girls' father." Maggie clutches a teddy bear by the name of Zoom Zoom (criticism of advertising and its effect on children). It feeds into the greater purpose of M&M World which seems to be the plodding categorical summation of Americana, Consumerism, and their devastating effects on the American Family. Rather than engage with or attempt to thwart her and her children's relationship with products and advertising, Ginny simply lets it wash over her with quiet, despairing regard. For example:
It's frustrating to see a character so blandly un-opinionated used as a tool to critique American Excess. Just once it would be nice to see Ginny step out of her beige little existence and rail against anything. Sadly this doesn't happen and instead, in continuing ode to Americana, Ginny is the embodiment of the passive aggressive consumer: both slave to and inherently mistrustful of all Products, Companies and Advertising, content to watch the paint peel on the latest Must-Have without giving it a fresh coat or tearing the whole charade from the wall. Her daughters are bland examples of Children Growing Away who at every opportunity demonstrate their profound lack of talent and individuality.
On the language level the story suffers from Minimalist Bombasticism whereby every action is explained in meticulous detail in imitation of character construction. For example, "It made her crazy to look at him and so she stared at her feet, at her ubiquitous galoshes." Surely this sentence could be trimmed to "She stared at her ubiquitous galoshes." (Insert modifiers as desired). The additional space could then be used for more unexpected insight. Transitions are often messy, in particular the first jump to Patagonia (we move between the present, a trip (honeymoon?) to Patagonia some years ago with the girls' father, and their divorce discussion) which is introduced with:
It isn't that Walbert has written a bad story, but rather that M&M World suffers far too many clichés, minimalist archetypes, and "hmmmm" moments (for example, Ginny behaves like a midwestern tourist and even remarks, "Thank God, a Midwesterner;" however, it is presumed she has birthed and raised her children in New York) for it to be a truly outstanding piece. The New Yorker has enough clout, pomp, and circumstance that we assume it has its pick of the litter, so why this story was featured is complete bafflement.
Addendum:
Lest we wring our hands to the bone, here are a couple of lines I quite liked from Walbert's piece.
M&M World appeared in the May 30, 2011 issue of the New Yorker and can be accessed online here.
It isn't just that M&M World is a belated riff on post-modern white worry, or that none of the characters is vivid and pulsating in any tangible way, but that it follows the same minimalist short story formula that we are all by now painfully familiar with, and in doing so offers no exciting iterative difference that would make it worthy of appearing in a snooty upper-middle class publication (although clearly the New Yorker disagrees).
The first blow comes when, halfway down the first column and a full three paragraphs in, we realize that the story is written present tense. Since so much of the story takes place from the POV of Ginny's regret, and therefore in vaguely desperate-sounding past- and conditional-past-tense, the flashes of the present are jarring obstructions to the immersion and flow of the piece.
The cast of M&M World is outfitted with usual minimalist monikers: names that are Americana without quite belonging to any real set of people. Mother Ginny caters to/trembles after daughters Maggie and Olivia while reflecting on "the girls' father." Maggie clutches a teddy bear by the name of Zoom Zoom (criticism of advertising and its effect on children). It feeds into the greater purpose of M&M World which seems to be the plodding categorical summation of Americana, Consumerism, and their devastating effects on the American Family. Rather than engage with or attempt to thwart her and her children's relationship with products and advertising, Ginny simply lets it wash over her with quiet, despairing regard. For example:
" 'Who am I?' Ginny had said, Olivia's blue princess pajamas silky beneath her grip."
"And then, a bit older, those other sneakers--wheelies? heelies?--and Olivia careering along the sidewalk..."
"Happy, the other [horse], its long yellow teeth reminding her: she needs to bleach. Suddenly everyone's teeth are whiter than her own..."
It's frustrating to see a character so blandly un-opinionated used as a tool to critique American Excess. Just once it would be nice to see Ginny step out of her beige little existence and rail against anything. Sadly this doesn't happen and instead, in continuing ode to Americana, Ginny is the embodiment of the passive aggressive consumer: both slave to and inherently mistrustful of all Products, Companies and Advertising, content to watch the paint peel on the latest Must-Have without giving it a fresh coat or tearing the whole charade from the wall. Her daughters are bland examples of Children Growing Away who at every opportunity demonstrate their profound lack of talent and individuality.
On the language level the story suffers from Minimalist Bombasticism whereby every action is explained in meticulous detail in imitation of character construction. For example, "It made her crazy to look at him and so she stared at her feet, at her ubiquitous galoshes." Surely this sentence could be trimmed to "She stared at her ubiquitous galoshes." (Insert modifiers as desired). The additional space could then be used for more unexpected insight. Transitions are often messy, in particular the first jump to Patagonia (we move between the present, a trip (honeymoon?) to Patagonia some years ago with the girls' father, and their divorce discussion) which is introduced with:
" 'Where am I?' [the horse] wonders, or something equivalent, and [Ginny] thinks of the whale in Patagonia that asked the same thing. This was years ago, before the girls were born, when she and the girls' father took a trip to Chile."The problem with the "She sees ______ which reminds her of _______." model of transition is that it is such an obvious conceit: a literary shortcut between two sets of scenes in order to compare/contrast the two. In order to succeed in quiet desperation/slice of life pieces like this, with no real plot or advancement, the author must be absolutely deft. Clumsy construction undermines the whole enterprise.
It isn't that Walbert has written a bad story, but rather that M&M World suffers far too many clichés, minimalist archetypes, and "hmmmm" moments (for example, Ginny behaves like a midwestern tourist and even remarks, "Thank God, a Midwesterner;" however, it is presumed she has birthed and raised her children in New York) for it to be a truly outstanding piece. The New Yorker has enough clout, pomp, and circumstance that we assume it has its pick of the litter, so why this story was featured is complete bafflement.
Addendum:
Lest we wring our hands to the bone, here are a couple of lines I quite liked from Walbert's piece.
"...their teeth cliff walls she could hide behind or possibly dwell in, like the Anasazi, chiselling toeholds so she might scale down at night to forage."
"He was all secrets. They slid around beneath his expression like tectonic plates."
M&M World appeared in the May 30, 2011 issue of the New Yorker and can be accessed online here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)