Again, my apologies for choosing such a morbid piece. I selected this article from Vanity Fair because I think it provides an interesting perspective in profiling a particular place and people. Also, there are things about the writing style to both praise and critique. I think Alex Shoumatoff does a nice job of giving the reader a varied scope that narrowly focuses on the stories of individuals and more broadly addresses the issue of of suicide and young people. The author describes the physical place well- situating the reader in the environment where this epidemic is occurring. In a strategically placed order, the history and current state of this place--Bridgend county--is revealed as to provide context and circumstantial evidence for this tragedy. Shoumatoff gives us statistics and facts as well as his personal observations and sentiments, informing and engaging the reader. He makes connections and draws comparisons between each of the individuals and at the same time regards them as individuals with unique stories; to me, the balance between these two depictions is the aim of narrative journalism.
I think Shoumatoff does well to include the voices of those he interviews to provide the reader with the words in which the those most affected speak of these circumstances. Also, contextualizing this situation within the tradition of domestic and social institutions in Britain as a whole provides the reader a lens with which to view the scene.
While I think the piece is comprehensive, I wonder how structural adjustments could change the narration. If the author began with the story of one of the victims instead of his introduction to the geography of the place, would the reader feel more connected from the beginning or more detached? There is a point in the narration where Shoumatoff lists in rapid succession a number of the suicide victims. While this approach increases the sense the reader gets about how suddenly these events began and how frequently they continued, does it also desensitize and depersonalize?
I think, overall, Shoumatoff distances himself well enough to write objectively and yet, still is able to connect to these people and relate personal inflections that humanize the story.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Week 3 Profile Response
What I most enjoyed about the pieces selected by Jackie, Joseph, and Elizabeth for this week was that they all told the story of individual people framed in a larger context. In particular "Rajas and Rollers" and "Notes from Rio," describe the current climate of particular cities in relation to specific individuals who represent one side of the story. In this way we get a look at how persons interact within a larger environment and through their words and actions we get a sense of how the greater society operates. All three pieces weave personal stories into a larger and more significant context well.
In "Rajas and Rollers," A.A. Gill establishes authority in his writing and also (through the writing) shows the reader that he is a foreigner in a place that is always a little foreign no matter how often he visits. The author does a good job of setting us in a scene (a Bombay traffic jam) and relating this struggle to contemporary class issues in India--cars become a synecdoche for the larger issues of capitalism and shifts in class structure. The portrait that Gill paints of Pranlal Bhogilal depicts him as a symbol of the old, imperial India--aloof, unconscious of his own extravagance, and intentionally naive of the changes in the world around him. Gill has eloquently weaves the story of one out-dated individual into the story of the progress and struggle of an emerging middle class. The boy selling the Vogue magazine--the symbolic pinnacle of Western material culture-- to middle class motorists in Bombay juxtaposed with Bhogilal--the owner of more cars than he could count--brings together three classes of people and shows how each stands in relation to the others: with upward mobility the thread connecting the three.
"Notes from Rio" works similarly, I think. We see a picture of a place through the lens of the people who live there and the way that those people interact with each other and with outsiders. This approach to reveals some of the many layers that all at once are at play in any given location. It also enables American readers to see how our influence effects other places and people. It is a slice through a people and place rather than an overhead view.
In all three articles, quotations from the interviewees are used effectively to expose the personal and emotional impact of larger events; humanization makes the pieces relatable. This approach to narrative journalism provides the reader with both a general and narrow scope of individuals within a larger society--which is essentially what we all are.
In "Rajas and Rollers," A.A. Gill establishes authority in his writing and also (through the writing) shows the reader that he is a foreigner in a place that is always a little foreign no matter how often he visits. The author does a good job of setting us in a scene (a Bombay traffic jam) and relating this struggle to contemporary class issues in India--cars become a synecdoche for the larger issues of capitalism and shifts in class structure. The portrait that Gill paints of Pranlal Bhogilal depicts him as a symbol of the old, imperial India--aloof, unconscious of his own extravagance, and intentionally naive of the changes in the world around him. Gill has eloquently weaves the story of one out-dated individual into the story of the progress and struggle of an emerging middle class. The boy selling the Vogue magazine--the symbolic pinnacle of Western material culture-- to middle class motorists in Bombay juxtaposed with Bhogilal--the owner of more cars than he could count--brings together three classes of people and shows how each stands in relation to the others: with upward mobility the thread connecting the three.
"Notes from Rio" works similarly, I think. We see a picture of a place through the lens of the people who live there and the way that those people interact with each other and with outsiders. This approach to reveals some of the many layers that all at once are at play in any given location. It also enables American readers to see how our influence effects other places and people. It is a slice through a people and place rather than an overhead view.
In all three articles, quotations from the interviewees are used effectively to expose the personal and emotional impact of larger events; humanization makes the pieces relatable. This approach to narrative journalism provides the reader with both a general and narrow scope of individuals within a larger society--which is essentially what we all are.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Personal Essay (so far untitled)
I first went on a date with a guy when I was 16. Although I had already come out to my friends and had thoroughly homosexualized my wardrobe, being openly gay at school, or in most public settings, was not something I was comfortable with.
His name was David and he was in my zoology class; we were partners for the fetal pig dissection lab. David exemplified every gay stereotype to perfection (or as I saw it, imperfection). I did the grunt work of the dissection, as David “certainly wasn’t going to touch that thing.” He had just had a manicure. We were writing our lab report, when David asked me if I wanted to hang out sometime, go to a movie or something.
“Yeah, sure . . . .sometime,” I hesitated in response. While I wasn’t sure what kind of homosexual I was or wanted to be, I knew what kind I didn’t want to be or be with.
At 16, like at 22, I maintained exacting standards concerning the kind of guys I presumed I was compatible with. It was a list of qualities, characteristics, and idiosyncrasies absurdly specific and idealistic. In my imagination the perfect candidate would be no less than two inches shorter than me, and no more than 4 inches taller. He would be slim but not more so than me. God forbid. Mr. perfect would be well versed in the cult classics of literature, film, and music; would share my love of Capote, Heathers, and The Smiths. At the same time that he would be intelligent and confidently well spoken, he would be elusive, irreverent, and walk with a mysterious air. He would possess mannerisms that were gentle and smooth but not feminine. This god among mortals would dress casually chic; have an effortless, sleek style. He would wear threadbare vintage t-shirts that hugged his torso and when with arms raised, reveal a glimpse of pale midriff. His kiss would sting sweetly, would paralyze my lips when it fell away. His scent would be so subtle but so alluring that its intoxication would make the girls wish he were theirs’. He would be strong, impenetrable to slurs and slander; he would be his own protector and mine.
David possessed none of these qualities. While he was in reality only an inch or two taller than me, the ridiculous shiny black leather boots he wore (a disqualifier in their own right) put him well above my height limit. He was painfully thin, and intentionally so. His preferred Nsync to Robert Smith, was ignorant of Winona Ryder’s oeuvre, and didn’t really read much. His etiquette and mannerisms made Emily Post look like Jabba the Hut. David only wore black and, I believe, used the same facial crème that my great aunt did and that Avon had produced the entire quantity of in 1974 and now continues to sell the remaining supply to elderly olive-skinned ladies and homosexuals who both seek its firming and lifting properties. David was not the kind of homosexual I was, nor the kind I wanted to be with.
I reluctantly gave David my phone number and secretly hoped he’d never call. It was not entirely out of pity that I wrote down my number. I did want to move what was up until that point, my strictly theoretical homosexuality into a practicing approach.
David called that Friday night when I was hanging out with my friends. I didn’t answer. I didn’t answer his call the next night either.
“What happened to you this weekend?” he asked me in class on Monday. I gave him a poorly fabricated excuse about my parents taking my phone away. When he asked me again on Friday if I was free that weekend, I concocted the excuse of being out of town visiting relatives. My series of lies and excuses continued for several more weeks until once David called and one of my friends answered the phone before I could silence the call. She handed the phone to me suddenly and I had no time for excuses; we would go to a movie the next night.
(this is as much as I have so far)
His name was David and he was in my zoology class; we were partners for the fetal pig dissection lab. David exemplified every gay stereotype to perfection (or as I saw it, imperfection). I did the grunt work of the dissection, as David “certainly wasn’t going to touch that thing.” He had just had a manicure. We were writing our lab report, when David asked me if I wanted to hang out sometime, go to a movie or something.
“Yeah, sure . . . .sometime,” I hesitated in response. While I wasn’t sure what kind of homosexual I was or wanted to be, I knew what kind I didn’t want to be or be with.
At 16, like at 22, I maintained exacting standards concerning the kind of guys I presumed I was compatible with. It was a list of qualities, characteristics, and idiosyncrasies absurdly specific and idealistic. In my imagination the perfect candidate would be no less than two inches shorter than me, and no more than 4 inches taller. He would be slim but not more so than me. God forbid. Mr. perfect would be well versed in the cult classics of literature, film, and music; would share my love of Capote, Heathers, and The Smiths. At the same time that he would be intelligent and confidently well spoken, he would be elusive, irreverent, and walk with a mysterious air. He would possess mannerisms that were gentle and smooth but not feminine. This god among mortals would dress casually chic; have an effortless, sleek style. He would wear threadbare vintage t-shirts that hugged his torso and when with arms raised, reveal a glimpse of pale midriff. His kiss would sting sweetly, would paralyze my lips when it fell away. His scent would be so subtle but so alluring that its intoxication would make the girls wish he were theirs’. He would be strong, impenetrable to slurs and slander; he would be his own protector and mine.
David possessed none of these qualities. While he was in reality only an inch or two taller than me, the ridiculous shiny black leather boots he wore (a disqualifier in their own right) put him well above my height limit. He was painfully thin, and intentionally so. His preferred Nsync to Robert Smith, was ignorant of Winona Ryder’s oeuvre, and didn’t really read much. His etiquette and mannerisms made Emily Post look like Jabba the Hut. David only wore black and, I believe, used the same facial crème that my great aunt did and that Avon had produced the entire quantity of in 1974 and now continues to sell the remaining supply to elderly olive-skinned ladies and homosexuals who both seek its firming and lifting properties. David was not the kind of homosexual I was, nor the kind I wanted to be with.
I reluctantly gave David my phone number and secretly hoped he’d never call. It was not entirely out of pity that I wrote down my number. I did want to move what was up until that point, my strictly theoretical homosexuality into a practicing approach.
David called that Friday night when I was hanging out with my friends. I didn’t answer. I didn’t answer his call the next night either.
“What happened to you this weekend?” he asked me in class on Monday. I gave him a poorly fabricated excuse about my parents taking my phone away. When he asked me again on Friday if I was free that weekend, I concocted the excuse of being out of town visiting relatives. My series of lies and excuses continued for several more weeks until once David called and one of my friends answered the phone before I could silence the call. She handed the phone to me suddenly and I had no time for excuses; we would go to a movie the next night.
(this is as much as I have so far)
The Personal Essay and the Writing Process
Pondering a topic to write about for the personal essay, I was immediately struck with (or by) an idea. Last Friday morning I was at my computer going through my morning routine of email, Facebook, and weather. I then went to the MSNBC website, feeling confident enough in my to-do list, social interactions, and the forecast for that day that I could handle whatever horrific events were occurring in the world concurrently. The main blurb at the top of the page was something predictably disheartening about the economy and I quickly scrolled down. When I came across the text-only lede I had to read it three times before I could comprehend what it said. The supreme court of the state of Iowa had ruled unanimously to overturn the state's restriction of marriage one man and one woman; finding that the law was in violation of the state's constitution that guarantees equal rights to all classes of citizens.
I then went to the Des Moines Register homepage where the news was confirmed and with much more attention. I remembered the brief attention the lawsuit filed to the state supreme court had garnered when it was filed some months ago. I also remembered thinking at the time that it would be another lifetime before anything became of it. I was utterly amazed and somewhat incredulous. I remembered past feelings of frustration over the ignorance and prejudice of others and feeling so bewildered that anyone could even think that there still needed to be a debate over the issue: that justice and equality were still rights that could be reserved and denied.
What I want to share in my essay is that as a gay man and as an Iowan, I have myself had prejudiced ideas about the gay and lesbian community and that I can understand how people can make judgments based not on reason but on their own personal beliefs (and often, their own ignorance). I want to get at the importance of everyone voicing their opinion and being comfortable with themselves to demonstrate the diversity within groups that are still seen as uniform and homogeneous. If we are to continue to make progress and to gain equal rights for everyone then we cannot be afraid to make share our commonalities with people from other groups. We can no longer (and this goes for the gay community as well) make distinctions between "us and them."
I then went to the Des Moines Register homepage where the news was confirmed and with much more attention. I remembered the brief attention the lawsuit filed to the state supreme court had garnered when it was filed some months ago. I also remembered thinking at the time that it would be another lifetime before anything became of it. I was utterly amazed and somewhat incredulous. I remembered past feelings of frustration over the ignorance and prejudice of others and feeling so bewildered that anyone could even think that there still needed to be a debate over the issue: that justice and equality were still rights that could be reserved and denied.
What I want to share in my essay is that as a gay man and as an Iowan, I have myself had prejudiced ideas about the gay and lesbian community and that I can understand how people can make judgments based not on reason but on their own personal beliefs (and often, their own ignorance). I want to get at the importance of everyone voicing their opinion and being comfortable with themselves to demonstrate the diversity within groups that are still seen as uniform and homogeneous. If we are to continue to make progress and to gain equal rights for everyone then we cannot be afraid to make share our commonalities with people from other groups. We can no longer (and this goes for the gay community as well) make distinctions between "us and them."
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