When I ran across the title The Cookbook Collector, I knew I had to read it, for one simple reason: I collect cookbooks. I have well over a hundred by now, including a book of Icelandic recipes I picked up changing planes in Reykjavik, a collection of rum-based recipes from Belize, and a delightful book that I'll almost certainly never cook from, of Hawaiian Spam recipes. Since my passion for cooking and cookbooks was originally sparked many years ago* by my good friend Colleen over at Col Reads, we decided to have some fun and read and review The Cookbook Collector together - so you can check out her review as well, also posted today.
I generally take the blurbs on the back cover with a grain of salt, particularly when they involve comparisons to the incomparable Jane Austen, but in this case, the Publishers Weekly assertion that author Allegra Goodman "deserves to wear Austen's mantle" could not be more apt. Set in the late 1990s, the novel concerns two sisters, Emily and Jess, who are bound together by a sisterly affection that is intensified by the death of their mother during their childhood, but who could not be more dissimilar. Emily, the elder sister, and like Sense & Sensibility's Elinor Dashwood, is the pragmatic, caretaking sister, who makes a fortune riding the cresting wave of the dot.com era as CEO of a tech startup. Younger sister Jess, the novel's Marianne, is a career student, driven by her passion and idealism, living in a communal house with her vaguely suspect tree-sitting boyfriend, and working in an antiquarian bookstore.
The story starts rather slowly, devoting considerable time to each character's introduction and developing a rich backstory that carefully connects them. Emily is getting her startup company off the ground while conducting a long-distance relationship with her go-getting boyfriend; both of them are more dedicated to their careers and rapid success than to the actual relationship which seems to drift along. This contrasts with Jess, who passionately devotes herself to her relationships, to the neglect of her academic career, and who drifts along in her job.
Like the book, both sisters drift along like this for a bit, when the cookbook collection makes its appearance - finally, right when I was beginning to wonder if it ever would - and the story suddenly gains steam and takes off. The antiquarian book dealer who Jess works for, and who quietly admires her but does not act on his desires, learns of an extraordinary collection of rare cookbooks that he hopes to acquire from an estate, with Jess's assistance. As they begin to explore the collection, the writing - especially for those who are passionate about cooking or cookbooks - becomes passionate about its subject and begins to truly soar.
As Jess becomes absorbed by the collection, she also becomes fascinated by the collector - the late man who she never met, who amassed the books and left an array of menus, notes, and sketches within them. She feels haunted by him, much in the same way that she is haunted by her mother, a woman she barely knew in life, but who also left her objects and notes by which to know her in some way.
As the story jumps back and forth between the sisters, so too does the style of writing, in a somewhat subtle fashion - for Jess, immersed in antique books and literature, there are constant literary references carefully woven into the text, and the story lingers gently, almost meditatively with her thoughts as she explores the collection. For Emily, the writing's brisker pace perfectly captures her faster-moving, business-oriented nature.
Despite having lived through events that form the backdrop of the story, I was as astonished by the turn of events at the end as I was when I originally watched them unfold on the news, so swept away was I by the writing and the story.
The Cookbook Collector is a masterful work by a writer who is fully in command of her material: Wonderfully developed, original characters; a story with no ends left loose; and a finely honed, intelligent, yet very accessible style of writing.
*No, I'm not going to tell you how many. A lot. We're both very young at heart!
... for the literate flightless marine bird.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
When you least expect it: Birthday surprises
My father reads my blog, so he knows a lot about me, including the fact that the birthday gift he sent last week is still in its gift wrapping. My birthday wasn't for another week anyway, so of course there's always a chance I might unwrap it on the big day, although it's likely that I won't, because really, why tamper with perfection?
Well, that clearly didn't suit him, because on Thursday evening another package arrived, bearing a bold message on the box:
Well, I am nothing if not a well-behaved daughter, so I sat down on the floor next to the front door and complied.
There were several gifts inside the box, all neatly wrapped in fun birthday papers, along with a girly pink envelope with my name on it.
My daughter immediately set about helping me decide which one to open first, based on her vast experience determining the contents of still-wrapped Christmas gifts.
"This one is a book. You can tell because of the loops on the side. This one" - holding up a heavy box - "is a craft kit. You can tell because it's heavy. And this one" - holding up two rectangular boxes tied together with ribbon - "is jewelry, because it's small and not heavy."
"Also, the big box and the little boxes go together, because big gifts always go with small gifts. They're accessories."
Ok, so what I have here is: a spiral bound book, possibly a cookbook; a kit to make my own gummy bears (because he knows I like to cook and everyone knows I love gummy bears), perhaps; and finally, individually wrapped, kitchen-utensil-shaped earrings.
Armed with this knowledge, I begin to open, while my daughter watches, and pops bubble wrap.
She's absolutely correct about the first thing:
I'll explore it more later, obviously.
Next up: gummy bears. I begin to open the wrap.
Coolness - they're apple flavored. There's a picture of an apple on the side of the box.
Wait a minute. This is not a kit to make my own apple-flavored gummy bears.
This is an iPad.
I gasp with the excitement of a small girl who's just gotten that Barbie Dream House she's always wanted.
My husband and daughter gasp with acute cases of gadget envy.
I clutch my iPad protectively and move on to the two boxes tied together, presumably some sort of iPad accessory.
Apparently, the knives are symbolic: every father should give his child their first pocket knife. I've never had a pocket knife or a father to give me one so the knife doubly meaningful for me.
I immediately put them to good use, defending my iPad from gadget-coveting family members.
I briefly consider ordering a pink plastic iPad case to symbolically represent the Barbie Dream House - but the Dream House never really worked, and I don't want to jinx it, so I chose an apple-green case instead. I've already written my first blog post on it (this one) and downloaded my first e-book (Halloween is coming, so I went with Unicorns vs. Zombies, obviously).
Now, back to my regularly scheduled procrastinating.
Well, that clearly didn't suit him, because on Thursday evening another package arrived, bearing a bold message on the box:
Well, I am nothing if not a well-behaved daughter, so I sat down on the floor next to the front door and complied.
There were several gifts inside the box, all neatly wrapped in fun birthday papers, along with a girly pink envelope with my name on it.
My daughter immediately set about helping me decide which one to open first, based on her vast experience determining the contents of still-wrapped Christmas gifts.
"This one is a book. You can tell because of the loops on the side. This one" - holding up a heavy box - "is a craft kit. You can tell because it's heavy. And this one" - holding up two rectangular boxes tied together with ribbon - "is jewelry, because it's small and not heavy."
"Also, the big box and the little boxes go together, because big gifts always go with small gifts. They're accessories."
Ok, so what I have here is: a spiral bound book, possibly a cookbook; a kit to make my own gummy bears (because he knows I like to cook and everyone knows I love gummy bears), perhaps; and finally, individually wrapped, kitchen-utensil-shaped earrings.
Armed with this knowledge, I begin to open, while my daughter watches, and pops bubble wrap.
She's absolutely correct about the first thing:
I'll explore it more later, obviously.
Next up: gummy bears. I begin to open the wrap.
Coolness - they're apple flavored. There's a picture of an apple on the side of the box.
Wait a minute. This is not a kit to make my own apple-flavored gummy bears.
This is an iPad.
I gasp with the excitement of a small girl who's just gotten that Barbie Dream House she's always wanted.
My husband and daughter gasp with acute cases of gadget envy.
I clutch my iPad protectively and move on to the two boxes tied together, presumably some sort of iPad accessory.
Apparently, the knives are symbolic: every father should give his child their first pocket knife. I've never had a pocket knife or a father to give me one so the knife doubly meaningful for me.
I immediately put them to good use, defending my iPad from gadget-coveting family members.
I briefly consider ordering a pink plastic iPad case to symbolically represent the Barbie Dream House - but the Dream House never really worked, and I don't want to jinx it, so I chose an apple-green case instead. I've already written my first blog post on it (this one) and downloaded my first e-book (Halloween is coming, so I went with Unicorns vs. Zombies, obviously).
Now, back to my regularly scheduled procrastinating.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
When you least expect it: Birthday Wishes
My birthday is coming up, and for many years, it brought with it a sense of excitement. The crisp smell of autumn leaves, one of my grandma's angel food cakes, and birthday surprises. Presents!
I still remember some of the birthday gifts that excited me most: Once, my grandparents sent me a five-dollar bill in my card, which I used to buy a six-pack of soda, because my mother only rarely let me have soda, and certainly never bought it in glorious six-packs. When I was ten, my aunt gave me the soundtrack to Grease. I still have that double-record set in my garage. And so on.
I also remember the things I didn't get - most importantly, a Barbie Dream House - you know the one, with the elevator that you could put Barbie on and then turn a hand crank to take her to the top floor. I didn't have Barbie dolls because my mother thought that Barbie symbolized the kind of materialistic, superficial woman that she didn't want me to be when I grew up*. I wanted one in the worst way, and for the longest time, but I never got it.
As an adult, I tried to compensate for this grave shortcoming by buying my own daughter Barbie dolls, but oddly, as an adult, they seemed a little less enticing and a little more - well, crappy. The Dream House no longer has an elevator and it's made, inevitably, entirely of pink plastic. Emma was decidedly uninterested so instead I overcompensated by buying her American Girl stuff, dignifying each purchase by reminding myself that, after all, they're "educational.*"
There was something else I always wanted, but never really admitted to myself that I did: A birthday card from my father. Or maybe a phone call. I don't think I even allowed my subconscious to hope for as much as a gift - although one year, about 15 years ago, I found a note on my door from UPS that they were attempting to deliver a package that required a signature, and the ZIP code was from the Los Angeles area, his last known place of residence. Every day for a week I raced home from work to try to catch the UPS man, and after a few days of missing him and coming home only to Attempted Delivery Notices, my anxiety reached a fever pitch. I called a friend and cried. And she told me that the package was from her: She had sent me a gourmet chocolate pizza, and there she was apologizing for upsetting me so much with this very expensive and thoughtful gift.
I wish I could tell you it was delicious, but that's not the part I remember.
This year is different. One of the emails my father sent me included a copy of his US Social Security card, issued shortly after my birth, with my full name and birthday written in the margin. I wasn't sure he even knew what my birthday was, but he did, and I asked him for the thing I wanted: Please remember my birthday.
I want a card, from my father, on my birthday.
He has mentioned a couple of times that, having missed 40 birthdays of mine, he has a lot of catching up to do, and at first I got excited about this: I'm getting presents! Maybe I'll get an iPad! or a car in the driveway with a big red bow like in the movies! Or ... or ...
So this week, a box showed up on my doorstep, with a gift inside, neatly wrapped by the nice people at Amazon, with a card. I put it on the table and looked at it. I put it on my desk and looked at it. Emma asked if we could open it; I said No.
A bouquet of flowers arrived a couple of days later from my father, and I put leaned the still-wrapped gift against it, like part of the display.
When you've wished and hoped for something your whole life, and then it actually arrives, the thing itself can easily be a disappointment - like Barbie's dream house, whose elevator (according to my friends who had one) didn't really work and which obviously hasn't improved over time. And since I don't want to be disappointed, I don't want to open the box.
I got the thing I always wanted, and here it is: A box, neatly wrapped, with a card on it that reads "Happy Birthday Jessica."
*Sorry, Mom.
*They come with books that she doesn't read, because they're boring.
I still remember some of the birthday gifts that excited me most: Once, my grandparents sent me a five-dollar bill in my card, which I used to buy a six-pack of soda, because my mother only rarely let me have soda, and certainly never bought it in glorious six-packs. When I was ten, my aunt gave me the soundtrack to Grease. I still have that double-record set in my garage. And so on.
I also remember the things I didn't get - most importantly, a Barbie Dream House - you know the one, with the elevator that you could put Barbie on and then turn a hand crank to take her to the top floor. I didn't have Barbie dolls because my mother thought that Barbie symbolized the kind of materialistic, superficial woman that she didn't want me to be when I grew up*. I wanted one in the worst way, and for the longest time, but I never got it.
As an adult, I tried to compensate for this grave shortcoming by buying my own daughter Barbie dolls, but oddly, as an adult, they seemed a little less enticing and a little more - well, crappy. The Dream House no longer has an elevator and it's made, inevitably, entirely of pink plastic. Emma was decidedly uninterested so instead I overcompensated by buying her American Girl stuff, dignifying each purchase by reminding myself that, after all, they're "educational.*"
There was something else I always wanted, but never really admitted to myself that I did: A birthday card from my father. Or maybe a phone call. I don't think I even allowed my subconscious to hope for as much as a gift - although one year, about 15 years ago, I found a note on my door from UPS that they were attempting to deliver a package that required a signature, and the ZIP code was from the Los Angeles area, his last known place of residence. Every day for a week I raced home from work to try to catch the UPS man, and after a few days of missing him and coming home only to Attempted Delivery Notices, my anxiety reached a fever pitch. I called a friend and cried. And she told me that the package was from her: She had sent me a gourmet chocolate pizza, and there she was apologizing for upsetting me so much with this very expensive and thoughtful gift.
I wish I could tell you it was delicious, but that's not the part I remember.
This year is different. One of the emails my father sent me included a copy of his US Social Security card, issued shortly after my birth, with my full name and birthday written in the margin. I wasn't sure he even knew what my birthday was, but he did, and I asked him for the thing I wanted: Please remember my birthday.
I want a card, from my father, on my birthday.
He has mentioned a couple of times that, having missed 40 birthdays of mine, he has a lot of catching up to do, and at first I got excited about this: I'm getting presents! Maybe I'll get an iPad! or a car in the driveway with a big red bow like in the movies! Or ... or ...
So this week, a box showed up on my doorstep, with a gift inside, neatly wrapped by the nice people at Amazon, with a card. I put it on the table and looked at it. I put it on my desk and looked at it. Emma asked if we could open it; I said No.
A bouquet of flowers arrived a couple of days later from my father, and I put leaned the still-wrapped gift against it, like part of the display.
When you've wished and hoped for something your whole life, and then it actually arrives, the thing itself can easily be a disappointment - like Barbie's dream house, whose elevator (according to my friends who had one) didn't really work and which obviously hasn't improved over time. And since I don't want to be disappointed, I don't want to open the box.
I got the thing I always wanted, and here it is: A box, neatly wrapped, with a card on it that reads "Happy Birthday Jessica."
*Sorry, Mom.
*They come with books that she doesn't read, because they're boring.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Blogfest 2010 Winner! The Next Queen of Heaven by Gregory Maguire
Using Random.org, I've selected the winner of my Blogfest 2010 giveaway! The winner is:
Tammy will be receiving a new copy of Gregory Maguire's not-yet-released The Next Queen of Heaven. Because the book was originally sent to me by Concord Free Press as part of its generosity-based publishing program, I am honoring the spirit of the program by making a $10 donation to a literacy nonprofit chosen by Tammy:
Tammy at Bluerose's Heart!
Tammy will be receiving a new copy of Gregory Maguire's not-yet-released The Next Queen of Heaven. Because the book was originally sent to me by Concord Free Press as part of its generosity-based publishing program, I am honoring the spirit of the program by making a $10 donation to a literacy nonprofit chosen by Tammy:
The Fayette County Memorial Library.
I had some fun poking around the library website, and discovered that among their collections is a pretty neat local genealogical research collection - some things you won't likely find elsewhere.
Congratulations to Tammy! Thank you to all who stopped by during Blogfest, especially those who became followers. And a special big thank you to the amazing Cinnamon at A Journey of Books for organizing the festivities - it was a great way to discover a lot of cool blogs.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Blogfest 2010 Giveaway - The Next Queen of Heaven by Gregory Maguire
Welcome to Blogfest 2010! I so thrilled to be participating in this fun event for the first time - and hosting my first giveaway at the same time.
Up for grabs is a brand new, not yet read copy of The Next Queen of Heaven by Gregory Maguire - you know, the Wicked guy. This book is scheduled to be released on October 5, 2010. I got an early copy with a special cover as part of Concord Free Press's generosity-based publishing program. Here's the catch: the company asks that each recipient of the book make a donation to a charity (any amount) and then pass it along. (There's a letter in the book that explains it all.) To honor the program's spirit, I will make a $10 donation to the literacy nonprofit of the winner's choice.
About the book:
From the HarperCollins Website: "With the new millennium approaching, the eccentric town of Thebes grows even stranger. Mrs. Leontina Scales begins speaking in tongues after being clocked by a Catholic statuette. Her daughter, Tabitha, and her sons scheme to save their mother or surrender her to Jesus—whatever comes first. Meanwhile, choir director Jeremy Carr, caught between lust and ambition, fumbles his way toward Y2K. The ancient Sisters of the Sorrowful Mysteries join with a gay singing group. The Radical Radiants battle the Catholics. A Christmas pageant goes horribly awry. And a child is born.
Only a modern master like Gregory Maguire could spin a tale as frantic, funny, and farcical as The Next Queen of Heaven."
Rules:
1. Giveaway is open to everyone - U.S. and international.
2. Please complete the form below (do not leave information in the comments - it will not count!)
3. Giveaway ends September 15, 2010 at 11:59pm EST.
4. Once the winner is contacted, they will have 48 hours to respond to my email or another winner will be chosen (make sure to check your spam filters!).
Winner will be randomly selected using random.org. (Please be patient with me - it's my first giveaway!)
Don't forget about the massive BlogFest 2010 grand giveaway! Head on over to http://ajourneyofbooks.halfzero.net/ and click on the Tracking Site link to head to our own exclusive tracking site. Once there you can register with a valid email address (to be used solely for the purpose of contacting the winner). This site will allow you to track your progress through BlogFest 2010! You can log on from anywhere at any time and continue where you left off. The best part is that every blog that you visit and mark off through this tracking site will give you one entry into the massive giveaway! We have a great collection of books, goodies and other swag that is looking for a new home!
Up for grabs is a brand new, not yet read copy of The Next Queen of Heaven by Gregory Maguire - you know, the Wicked guy. This book is scheduled to be released on October 5, 2010. I got an early copy with a special cover as part of Concord Free Press's generosity-based publishing program. Here's the catch: the company asks that each recipient of the book make a donation to a charity (any amount) and then pass it along. (There's a letter in the book that explains it all.) To honor the program's spirit, I will make a $10 donation to the literacy nonprofit of the winner's choice.
About the book:
From the HarperCollins Website: "With the new millennium approaching, the eccentric town of Thebes grows even stranger. Mrs. Leontina Scales begins speaking in tongues after being clocked by a Catholic statuette. Her daughter, Tabitha, and her sons scheme to save their mother or surrender her to Jesus—whatever comes first. Meanwhile, choir director Jeremy Carr, caught between lust and ambition, fumbles his way toward Y2K. The ancient Sisters of the Sorrowful Mysteries join with a gay singing group. The Radical Radiants battle the Catholics. A Christmas pageant goes horribly awry. And a child is born.
Only a modern master like Gregory Maguire could spin a tale as frantic, funny, and farcical as The Next Queen of Heaven."
Rules:
1. Giveaway is open to everyone - U.S. and international.
2. Please complete the form below (do not leave information in the comments - it will not count!)
3. Giveaway ends September 15, 2010 at 11:59pm EST.
4. Once the winner is contacted, they will have 48 hours to respond to my email or another winner will be chosen (make sure to check your spam filters!).
Winner will be randomly selected using random.org. (Please be patient with me - it's my first giveaway!)
Don't forget about the massive BlogFest 2010 grand giveaway! Head on over to http://ajourneyofbooks.halfzero.net/ and click on the Tracking Site link to head to our own exclusive tracking site. Once there you can register with a valid email address (to be used solely for the purpose of contacting the winner). This site will allow you to track your progress through BlogFest 2010! You can log on from anywhere at any time and continue where you left off. The best part is that every blog that you visit and mark off through this tracking site will give you one entry into the massive giveaway! We have a great collection of books, goodies and other swag that is looking for a new home!
Thanks for stopping by!
Please visit the next Blogfest Blog!
Please visit the next Blogfest Blog!
No Ruts Review #4: Give Us Liberty - A Tea Party Manifesto, by Dick Armey and Matt Kibbe
I didn't think I was going to make it to Gold on my own challenge, which would be awkward, to say the least. I did finish this book by September 1, though, so it counts - and I think I've earned my medal.
When Obama's healthcare bill was passed recently, I was startled to read some of the posts and status updates by some of my Facebook friends. If you think Seattle is full of nothing but granola-crunchy, grunge-listening, hemp-necklace-wearing liberals, allow me to assure you this is not the case.*
I worried about what might happen if politics ever came up for discussion. I worried a lot, and decided the best course of action would be to avoid the conversation entirely - I even practiced responses in my mind. Why? Not because I fear disagreeing with people about politics, but because of the level of vitriol that seems to be present in politics today. Basically, I'm afraid of being screamed at.
But I decided that since the No Ruts Reading Challenge was about trying new things, in completing the gold level, I should not only read a book by someone with an opposing viewpoint, I should be prepared to talk about differing points of view with others. So for my final challenge book I chose Give Us Liberty - A Tea Party Manifesto, by Dick Armey and Matt Kibbe. Then I carried the book everywhere with me, wondering** what kind of conversations it might inspire if people saw me reading it in a public place.
I bought it at Target. I put it on top of the pile, so the clerk would be sure to see it. She rang it up without comment. Disappointing, but then, I guess that's her job.
I read it in the waiting room at the doctor's office. I put it on the counter while I wrote the co-pay check; the receptionist said nothering. I held it high so that all the other patients wouldn't miss it. Hello! Possible Tea Partier here! Not so much as a raised eyebrow. What was in those old People magazines that was so compelling? I'll never know.
Maybe, I thought, I'm not being obvious enough. So I took it to my daughter's piano lesson, and dropped it down the stairs so that her teacher would have to pick it up and hand it back to me. He didn't say a word. He didn't even complain about us being late.
That's another thing I should probably mention about Seattle people: They're incredibly polite. Annoying, huh?
I struggled a lot reading Give Us Liberty, but oddly, not so much because of the politics, which are neatly summed up on the cover: Lower Taxes + Less Government = More Freedom. Most of the book isn't really a discussion of policy points or philosophy; the reader's agreement with these points are simply assumed. Instead, the authors spend a considerable amount of time arguing that 1) Protest is right, and American (insert flag and/or historical reference here); 2) the Tea Party really is a spontaneous grassroots movement agreement (not a well-funded and -organized group); and 3) Democrats suck and everything they do is suspect, but when people whose politics the authors agree with do the same thing, they are patriots (refer back to point one).
The book is awash in constant comparisons of Tea Partiers to historical figures, including George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Winston Churchill, Martin Luther King, Jr. These people were the rabblerousers of their day, and rabblerousing is thus, a good thing - no, it's more than that - it's an honorable, important thing. Truth be known, I could not agree more: public debate and open dissent is important and necessary for people to make informed decisions. Unfortunately, it only seems to be okay to rabblerouse or disagree when you're a tea partier or have been proved right by history - if it's coming from the left, it's "part of an onslaught of attacks and smears."
Don’t identify with bewigged historical types? Maybe you’re a younger voter – in which case, there is a lengthy section that attempts to persuade the reader that Tea Partiers are really cutting-edge, what with their strategic use of Facebook and Twitter and the internets and all. The important point seems to be that the Tea Party was using modern social media before Obama so effectively utilized it in his successful campaign. Maybe they did and maybe they didn't - who cares? It’s a specious point.
An incredible number of statements of opinion were given as fact, and with no substantiation, for example: "Higher taxes degrade our standard of living, leaving citizens with fewer choices and fewer dreams." Maybe I’m naïve, but in the world I live in, taxes pay for things like schools, which allow my children to become educated and thus, improve more opportunity to have higher-paying jobs in the future. There’s a trade-off between level of taxes and services, and both sides has their opinion about how the government manages (or mismanages) public money, but I truly don’t understand how one can make simplistic statements like this without some explanation as to how we are going to pay for the things that we, collectively, need: Military, infrastructure, police, education, clean water, etc., etc.
The answer to this, in general, seems to be another blanket statement – the individual will take care of himself better than the government can: "The Tea Party has trust in the practical genius of the American people to be responsible for making decisions." This is because "It is naive to think that politicians will do the right thing simply because a proposed policy will benefit the general citizenry ... That's simply not how things work ... (those) in power often act in their own self-interest at the expense of the 'public interest.'"
This ignores that fact that these public officials have to explain themselves to their voters every few years in order to keep their jobs. So, why do they do this? Because “public officials act in their own self-interest, just like everyone else.” So, in short, people elected to public office are harmful to the greater good, but those same people as individuals do the right thing – not just for themselves, but for their community? Sorry, but I’m not convinced.
And on it goes. The September 12, 2009, Tea Party rally in Washington, D.C. was “indisputably one of the largest protests of any kind,” a statement followed by four pages chronicling the dispute over estimated number of attendees, which, not surprisingly, varies wildly depending who you talk to. Repeatedly the assertion is made that health care is being forced on the American public, “whether they want it or not” – as though being uninsured in America is always a matter of personal choice. If that is really true, fine, but sway me with reason: Barbara Ehrenreich and others have written eloquent and well-researched books on being poor in America, supporting another point of view.
In the end, Give Us Liberty isn't an effort to persuade anyone to change their point of view - it provides justification for anyone who already holds these views. I read it with a willingness to be swayed by reason, but after a while, the constant bitterness and derisive tone was too overwhelming and I gave up. So, I'll just keep drinking my tea - in moderation.
*It's true we drink a lot of coffee though.
**Okay, dreading.
When Obama's healthcare bill was passed recently, I was startled to read some of the posts and status updates by some of my Facebook friends. If you think Seattle is full of nothing but granola-crunchy, grunge-listening, hemp-necklace-wearing liberals, allow me to assure you this is not the case.*
I worried about what might happen if politics ever came up for discussion. I worried a lot, and decided the best course of action would be to avoid the conversation entirely - I even practiced responses in my mind. Why? Not because I fear disagreeing with people about politics, but because of the level of vitriol that seems to be present in politics today. Basically, I'm afraid of being screamed at.
But I decided that since the No Ruts Reading Challenge was about trying new things, in completing the gold level, I should not only read a book by someone with an opposing viewpoint, I should be prepared to talk about differing points of view with others. So for my final challenge book I chose Give Us Liberty - A Tea Party Manifesto, by Dick Armey and Matt Kibbe. Then I carried the book everywhere with me, wondering** what kind of conversations it might inspire if people saw me reading it in a public place.
I bought it at Target. I put it on top of the pile, so the clerk would be sure to see it. She rang it up without comment. Disappointing, but then, I guess that's her job.
I read it in the waiting room at the doctor's office. I put it on the counter while I wrote the co-pay check; the receptionist said nothering. I held it high so that all the other patients wouldn't miss it. Hello! Possible Tea Partier here! Not so much as a raised eyebrow. What was in those old People magazines that was so compelling? I'll never know.
Maybe, I thought, I'm not being obvious enough. So I took it to my daughter's piano lesson, and dropped it down the stairs so that her teacher would have to pick it up and hand it back to me. He didn't say a word. He didn't even complain about us being late.
That's another thing I should probably mention about Seattle people: They're incredibly polite. Annoying, huh?
I struggled a lot reading Give Us Liberty, but oddly, not so much because of the politics, which are neatly summed up on the cover: Lower Taxes + Less Government = More Freedom. Most of the book isn't really a discussion of policy points or philosophy; the reader's agreement with these points are simply assumed. Instead, the authors spend a considerable amount of time arguing that 1) Protest is right, and American (insert flag and/or historical reference here); 2) the Tea Party really is a spontaneous grassroots movement agreement (not a well-funded and -organized group); and 3) Democrats suck and everything they do is suspect, but when people whose politics the authors agree with do the same thing, they are patriots (refer back to point one).
The book is awash in constant comparisons of Tea Partiers to historical figures, including George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Winston Churchill, Martin Luther King, Jr. These people were the rabblerousers of their day, and rabblerousing is thus, a good thing - no, it's more than that - it's an honorable, important thing. Truth be known, I could not agree more: public debate and open dissent is important and necessary for people to make informed decisions. Unfortunately, it only seems to be okay to rabblerouse or disagree when you're a tea partier or have been proved right by history - if it's coming from the left, it's "part of an onslaught of attacks and smears."
Don’t identify with bewigged historical types? Maybe you’re a younger voter – in which case, there is a lengthy section that attempts to persuade the reader that Tea Partiers are really cutting-edge, what with their strategic use of Facebook and Twitter and the internets and all. The important point seems to be that the Tea Party was using modern social media before Obama so effectively utilized it in his successful campaign. Maybe they did and maybe they didn't - who cares? It’s a specious point.
An incredible number of statements of opinion were given as fact, and with no substantiation, for example: "Higher taxes degrade our standard of living, leaving citizens with fewer choices and fewer dreams." Maybe I’m naïve, but in the world I live in, taxes pay for things like schools, which allow my children to become educated and thus, improve more opportunity to have higher-paying jobs in the future. There’s a trade-off between level of taxes and services, and both sides has their opinion about how the government manages (or mismanages) public money, but I truly don’t understand how one can make simplistic statements like this without some explanation as to how we are going to pay for the things that we, collectively, need: Military, infrastructure, police, education, clean water, etc., etc.
The answer to this, in general, seems to be another blanket statement – the individual will take care of himself better than the government can: "The Tea Party has trust in the practical genius of the American people to be responsible for making decisions." This is because "It is naive to think that politicians will do the right thing simply because a proposed policy will benefit the general citizenry ... That's simply not how things work ... (those) in power often act in their own self-interest at the expense of the 'public interest.'"
This ignores that fact that these public officials have to explain themselves to their voters every few years in order to keep their jobs. So, why do they do this? Because “public officials act in their own self-interest, just like everyone else.” So, in short, people elected to public office are harmful to the greater good, but those same people as individuals do the right thing – not just for themselves, but for their community? Sorry, but I’m not convinced.
And on it goes. The September 12, 2009, Tea Party rally in Washington, D.C. was “indisputably one of the largest protests of any kind,” a statement followed by four pages chronicling the dispute over estimated number of attendees, which, not surprisingly, varies wildly depending who you talk to. Repeatedly the assertion is made that health care is being forced on the American public, “whether they want it or not” – as though being uninsured in America is always a matter of personal choice. If that is really true, fine, but sway me with reason: Barbara Ehrenreich and others have written eloquent and well-researched books on being poor in America, supporting another point of view.
In the end, Give Us Liberty isn't an effort to persuade anyone to change their point of view - it provides justification for anyone who already holds these views. I read it with a willingness to be swayed by reason, but after a while, the constant bitterness and derisive tone was too overwhelming and I gave up. So, I'll just keep drinking my tea - in moderation.
*It's true we drink a lot of coffee though.
**Okay, dreading.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
When you least expect it: Nine pictures
My parents split up when I was about a year old. I don't remember anything about it, obviously. My earliest memory involving my father comes when I was about three: my mother and I were living with my grandparents in Wisconsin, and a Christmas card came back, "Moved, No Forwarding Address." I remember a bit of excitement in the house - and that's it.
My father was a blank space in my life. Of course, I heard all about him from my mother over the years: He was stupid, he couldn't do anything right, he didn't support his family, and he had ugly knees*, which I apparently inherited, or so I was told when I eventually grew up into a mini-skirt wearing teenage girl.
I kept a picture of him up in my room, all those years (forty-one, to be precise) - it has a small hole in the top border from the pushpin I used to attach it to my bulletin board. Here it is:
I often looked at the picture and wondered - in particular, I wondered why I bothered to keep it up. Having a picture of a father isn't the same thing as having a father. But I didn't really want a father. At least, I did not want the kind of father that had been described to me. Still, I looked at the picture and burned the image into my brain. I counted the number of pictures I had of him: nine. Those were the facts that I had that I used to fill the blank space.
Over the years, I got to know my cousins on his side of the family, and I sort of gathered that although his sister was in touch with him to some degree, I had been soundly rejected: No communication was forthcoming. There were lots of possible reasons for this, and none of them good.
I developed my official story: My parents split for some reason, my father disappeared, and although I could look him up and find him if I wanted to, I have chosen not to, because he's clearly trouble and why would I knowingly go seek out trouble? My life is fine the way it is.
So, when he returned into my life a few months ago, I took a very academic approach. Having dealt with my feelings years ago - therapy is a gift you give yourself - I could be emotionally detached and simply deal with the facts: What are they? How do I analyze them and fit them together with the existing facts, as I understand them?
I asked a lot of basic questions at first: Why did you leave? What was the deal with that Christmas card? I was an objective reader of the answers, which oddly enough were consistent - factually - with what I already knew. We traded a lot of emails at first, and sometimes I would ask a question, and he would respond with a rather detailed narrative that lined up perfectly with something else I had been told - but had not yet inquired about or even mentioned to him.
Where the narrative differed was not in substance, but in tone: The stories were not told, by him, defensively or angrily. There was no blame or finger-pointing. I asked for facts and got them - sometimes sadly, and sometimes with great remorse. But for the most part, I felt I was receiving the truth, plainly stated.
Gradually, I moved over to skype, and we had a couple of conversations that way, using webcams (when I could get mine working)** so I could hear the inflections of his voice as he told me things, see the facial expressions and the body language. There were very emotional moments, but actually those were relatively few. What struck me more were very curious moments, like when my husband sat down to introduce himself and, on mentioning he was just back from the store, was asked by my father, "What did you buy me?"
Wait a minute. That's my line.
Or then there was the moment when my father noticed I was drinking from a bottle of Perrier, and held up an identical bottle of Perrier - and then we both launched into the same lecture about why we drink it (because the artificial sweeteners in diet soda will kill you).
Or I could tell you about the time he quoted TS Eliot from memory (I adore Eliot and read The Waste Land to calm myself when I was in labor with my daughter).
He lives outside Los Angeles, and since we were in San Diego last month to visit my in-laws, I was comfortable enough with the situation that I suggested we get together, and invited myself over to his house. We talked a lot, and talked some more, and then he went off to learn about fairy houses from my daughter (there are several good locations at his house, apparently).
I took the opportunity to talk with his wife, a very nice lady who owns as many - possibly more - cookbooks as I do, and she mentioned the baby pictures I had scanned and sent to my father. All those years, I'd had nine pictures, but he'd had none. She was amazed to see these, and observed, "You can just see the love."
I knew at that moment why I'd hung that picture on my bulletin board when I was a child, and why I stuck it in a locket when I was in my teens.
It showed me what I somehow knew, but what nobody around could - or would - tell me: My father did love me.
*Since I know my father reads this blog: sorry to have to tell you this painful truth. I recommend you stop wearing mini-skirts, immediately.
**I just don't understand all these newfangled contraptions, whippersnapper. Get out of my petunias!
My father was a blank space in my life. Of course, I heard all about him from my mother over the years: He was stupid, he couldn't do anything right, he didn't support his family, and he had ugly knees*, which I apparently inherited, or so I was told when I eventually grew up into a mini-skirt wearing teenage girl.
I kept a picture of him up in my room, all those years (forty-one, to be precise) - it has a small hole in the top border from the pushpin I used to attach it to my bulletin board. Here it is:
I often looked at the picture and wondered - in particular, I wondered why I bothered to keep it up. Having a picture of a father isn't the same thing as having a father. But I didn't really want a father. At least, I did not want the kind of father that had been described to me. Still, I looked at the picture and burned the image into my brain. I counted the number of pictures I had of him: nine. Those were the facts that I had that I used to fill the blank space.
Over the years, I got to know my cousins on his side of the family, and I sort of gathered that although his sister was in touch with him to some degree, I had been soundly rejected: No communication was forthcoming. There were lots of possible reasons for this, and none of them good.
I developed my official story: My parents split for some reason, my father disappeared, and although I could look him up and find him if I wanted to, I have chosen not to, because he's clearly trouble and why would I knowingly go seek out trouble? My life is fine the way it is.
So, when he returned into my life a few months ago, I took a very academic approach. Having dealt with my feelings years ago - therapy is a gift you give yourself - I could be emotionally detached and simply deal with the facts: What are they? How do I analyze them and fit them together with the existing facts, as I understand them?
I asked a lot of basic questions at first: Why did you leave? What was the deal with that Christmas card? I was an objective reader of the answers, which oddly enough were consistent - factually - with what I already knew. We traded a lot of emails at first, and sometimes I would ask a question, and he would respond with a rather detailed narrative that lined up perfectly with something else I had been told - but had not yet inquired about or even mentioned to him.
Where the narrative differed was not in substance, but in tone: The stories were not told, by him, defensively or angrily. There was no blame or finger-pointing. I asked for facts and got them - sometimes sadly, and sometimes with great remorse. But for the most part, I felt I was receiving the truth, plainly stated.
Gradually, I moved over to skype, and we had a couple of conversations that way, using webcams (when I could get mine working)** so I could hear the inflections of his voice as he told me things, see the facial expressions and the body language. There were very emotional moments, but actually those were relatively few. What struck me more were very curious moments, like when my husband sat down to introduce himself and, on mentioning he was just back from the store, was asked by my father, "What did you buy me?"
Wait a minute. That's my line.
Or then there was the moment when my father noticed I was drinking from a bottle of Perrier, and held up an identical bottle of Perrier - and then we both launched into the same lecture about why we drink it (because the artificial sweeteners in diet soda will kill you).
Or I could tell you about the time he quoted TS Eliot from memory (I adore Eliot and read The Waste Land to calm myself when I was in labor with my daughter).
He lives outside Los Angeles, and since we were in San Diego last month to visit my in-laws, I was comfortable enough with the situation that I suggested we get together, and invited myself over to his house. We talked a lot, and talked some more, and then he went off to learn about fairy houses from my daughter (there are several good locations at his house, apparently).
I took the opportunity to talk with his wife, a very nice lady who owns as many - possibly more - cookbooks as I do, and she mentioned the baby pictures I had scanned and sent to my father. All those years, I'd had nine pictures, but he'd had none. She was amazed to see these, and observed, "You can just see the love."
I knew at that moment why I'd hung that picture on my bulletin board when I was a child, and why I stuck it in a locket when I was in my teens.
It showed me what I somehow knew, but what nobody around could - or would - tell me: My father did love me.
*Since I know my father reads this blog: sorry to have to tell you this painful truth. I recommend you stop wearing mini-skirts, immediately.
**I just don't understand all these newfangled contraptions, whippersnapper. Get out of my petunias!
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