Process Writing

One of the greatest challenges in this class was choosing what to write about for each assignment. And then came the execution, which was even harder. I wanted my personal journalism rewrite to be a Modern Love piece about my Dad, but I felt completely overwhelmed, like I needed a month to just think about our relationship. I wanted to do it right. With all my pieces I had this sort of obsession with doing things justice. Like when I wrote about the gentrification of Pilsen. That neighborhood is so close to my heart that if I didn’t convey all of its sounds and smells and activities the way I experience and idolize them, I would feel like I wronged the place. The same went for writing about my Dad. I couldn’t get that essence of my Dad and me on the page, so I didn’t follow through with it. I thought my Dad deserved better and it was my responsibility to communicate our lives together honestly. The written words had to be as emotional as me speaking about him.

For the first time ever in my writing process, I talked to myself out loud. When I decided to write about my high school boyfriend, I had to talk myself through the relationship. I asked myself who I am now, and who I was back then. I feel as if I grew tremendously as a writer in this class, but as a person, too. That’s not just because I went through an emotional time thinking about my Dad and an ex-boyfriend and realized just how special Pilsen is me; at one point in both of those writing processes, I wanted to crack. I doubted what I could do as a writer. I hit writer’s block every time I started or revised a piece and thought about dropping the class. I guess it’s because I always thought one of my best skills is my writing, and in a time in my life when I’m really questioning my passions, I don’t want to struggle with finding the right words because I thought I had that covered.

This has been a challenging quarter emotionally. I knew I couldn’t let what’s going on in my persona life get in the way of focusing on my subjects, but sometimes it did and sometimes that emotion benefited my writing in cool ways. If I could devote so much time thinking about and analyzing the events of my life, I could reflect that same way about my high school relationship or Pilsen or religion on campus. The way I want my words to appear on the page has changed, too. I’m more intentional about those words now, and what details I will give, and how I paint my characters. I’m aware of my voice. Most importantly, though, I want to be really honest in my writing. I want Pilsen to sound amazing because it is amazing, and I want my Dad to sound like the most wonderful person on this earth because he is, and I want that high school relationship to sound messy because that’s what really happened. I’m definitely more honest with myself now. I don’t want to exaggerate any experiences or feelings or sights because that doesn’t make me feel like I’ve accomplished anything, even if it sounds good. 

Audio/Visual: Catholic on Campus

Final (draft): Catholic on Campus

(Audience: The Index, or the Gazette)

Two days before 43 Catholic groups nationwide filed a lawsuit against the Obama Administration for its mandate requiring some religious institutions to offer health insurance that covers contraception, anti-gay protestors appeared at the site of Kalamazoo College’s annual Crystal Ball dance. For one night every spring, students can dress in drag to reclaim their identity and look beyond the limitations of gender stereotypes. One protestor wore a t-shirt that said, “Stop sinning! Trust Jesus!” and gripped a sign with the rainbow-colored words, “Homo sex is sin!” Tempers on campus subsided by that morning, but that same protestor was met with a hot resistance a few days earlier during his first of two campus visits that week. He shouted that K's students deserve hell, that they support AIDS, that they are a load of sinners. A mildly composed female student sat on the grass waving a sign that read, “Homo sex is fun!” while one gay couple flaunted a kiss in front of the protestor and another laid entwined at his feet. During his visit the next day, after receiving emails from administrators urging the campus to pay no heed to this man, students stood near him in silence holding posters with the message, “God loves everyone.”

Sophomore student Marissa Dawson remained quiet, not so she could get her peaceful point across or deflect the attention from him, but because, as a practicing Catholic, she feels silenced by the campus community.

She only heard about the protestors in conversation and read about them in Facebook and Tumblr posts, but that already left her upset about the campus’s reception of its unpleasant visitors. She saw a student blog, “Variety of Reactions to Those Damn Evangelicals,” followed by pictures of Lady Gaga saying, “Go Fuck Yourself”, Steven Colbert jolting wide-mouthed from his seat, and Ryan Stiles joyfully whipping out his middle finger. She wondered if her peers actually knew his denomination, or if they were just stereotyping.

“We do not need something else on this campus to add a stigma to religion,” she said, half grinning. “I was never taught to hate.”

Marissa’s relationship with her Catholic faith began like many others’; born to Catholic parents, she had no say in the matter. She went to Mass and Sunday school, prayed and read the scripture. Early on she learned that religious practices extend to how she lives her life; they are a combination of institutional and individual things. She admits that she would have given up her religion if not for certain spiritual experiences. It was not a coincidence, she says, that she was able to lift herself out of dark places like depression and self-deprecation at a young age.

Her religious life transformed after she was confirmed in her freshman year of high school. Grade school religion classes failed to remind her that she still had the individual power to choose, and that the Church’s institutionalism is not black and white.

“There’s a space for personal decision among all those big issues [like gay marriage and contraception]. The judgment is left up to God.”

Despite her strong religious convictions and unwavering relationship with the Church as an adolescent, the protestors reminded Dawson why being Catholic on K’s small campus has never been easy, and why she no longer feels a passion for practicing. Support is scare, she says. People are not that accepting of religion.

“I don’t blame them. I’ve been made aware of the issues people have with the Catholic Church. But just because I do believe in God doesn’t mean I don’t understand the doubts that people have.”

She just wishes her peers understood why she believes what she believes. But her recent insecurities surrounding her religion and the backlash against the anti-gay protestors on a small campus in the small city of Kalamazoo lend themselves to an escalating nationwide discourse involving the Catholic Church.

One week ago, Catholic organizations around the nation—hospitals, universities, and charities—sued the Obama Administration over a mandate requiring birth control coverage in most health insurance plans, charging it for violating their religious freedom. Several sources assert that the lawsuit is not about preventing women from having access to contraception; it is based on the conviction that the Government is imposing values onto these organizations that conflict with their religious teachings. If the Supreme Court upholds the mandate, they believe it will set precedent for future administrations to undercut the values of religious organizations. Catholic institutions were still displeased after Obama’s proposal to allow religious universities and charities to have their health insurers offer the coverage instead, seeing as many of them, like the archdiocese, are self-insured.

Dawson’s strongest frustration, stemming from her personal experience as an impaired Catholic voice on a liberal college campus, is that people do not understand why the Catholic Church has its stance on contraception and abortion. Behind its pro-life stance is a compassion for the child and its mother, a desire to protect and keep sacred the inherent beauty of life. Conservative viewpoints are vilified, she says, twisted to sound like people want to deny medical care and are against women’s rights.

But Dawson prefers not to politicize her religious views, even though they are closely tied to her politics, because she has doubts. She stays away from arguing for the Catholic Church, like she stayed away the day of the protests, because she has the same doubts as her gay best friend and other liberal friends when it comes to Catholic teachings; Catholic institutions should not be forced to provide contraceptives, but a woman should have access to abortion if she wants one. God did not create man to be with man, but she knows that gay couples often live a more Christian lifestyle than straight couples. She believes in sin, but in love just the same.

If people see her doubt, Dawson thinks people will ride her off. They will play up her insecurities and inner conflicts. They will look at her interactions, experiences, and relationships, and pass judgment, call her hypocrite.

“We don’t celebrate the student with doubts. We’re oriented towards believing something 100%. We’re high achieving individuals. We’re rational, logical. Faith and religion don’t work that way. They require an amount of intangibility. But that doesn’t necessarily follow the logic of how the world works, and how this school thinks.”

Profile: Final

Sonia González works the reception desk at the National Museum of Mexican Art (NMMA) in Pilsen, a low-income Latino neighborhood located just southwest of Chicago’s central business district. This means she interacts with more tourists than anyone else at the Museum. As the largest Latino museum in the country and the only one accredited by the American Association of Museums, the NMMA is in part responsible for putting Pilsen on the nation’s radar. In anticipation of out-of-state and country visitors, González has developed programmed responses to their most popular question: Where should we go next? They can check the Museum off their lists, which leaves Pilsen’s first great appeal: its Mexican food. She usually rotates El Milagro, Nuevo Leon, and La Casa del Pueblo as her top restaurant recommendation.

Over at La Casa del Pueblo, a white woman and her young daughter approach the counter. The woman taking her order of caldo de pollo with arroz and frijoles just finished serving three Spanish-speaking parties. She releases a thick accent when she initiates the interaction with, “Hello. What would you like?”

All of the employees speak English, but judging from the dominant Spanish dialogue in the restaurant, they prefer to speak their first language. La Casa del Pueblo commands attention from Latinos mostly, but it’s been attracting a growing non-Latino audience for a while now.

If restaurants in Pilsen like La Casa are grateful for the diversity of its clientele, it can thank the Museum. Employees like González are encouraged to send visitors to the neighborhood’s best taquerías, panaderías and tortillerías. A city’s best eats is usually a matter of personal opinion, but in Pilsen, where the smell of carne asada, pozole and sweet conchas penetrates the walls of Catholic churches, bilingual schools, and apartment buildings adorned with Museum-commissioned murals, residents are in agreement. La Casa del Pueblo is the place for Mexican soul food, and some of the best tacos are made at El Milagro Taquería

El Milagro and its adjacent small-scale tortilla factory are tucked into a neglected corner on Blue Island St. They stand a block from the Museum’s “Declaration of Immigration” mural, created by local artists and local high school kids, painted on a brick wall behind the Yollocalli building, the Museum’s radio station. Five columns of black-and-red-painted statements read:

WE ARE A NATION OF IMMIGRANTS
NO INHUMANE TREATMENT, DEPORTATION, FAMILY SEPARATION,
DETENTION
NO WALL
NO HUMAN BEING IS ILLEGAL
NATIONAL SECURITY IS USED TO FOSTER INTER ETHNIC TENSIONS

Two days after its completion in 2009, the spray-painted words, “LIES LIES LIES” and, “MEXICANS ARE RACIST” covered the last statement. One Yollocalli employee remembers feeling gutted, but not too surprised.

Who would write those graffiti words? The answer can be traced back to the Museum.

The NMMA is a blessing and a curse for the neighborhood. It gives off an exciting vibe, a vibe of ethic pride seen in colorful murals on Ashland Avenue, Damen, and school buildings on 19th street. They wear the faces of Mexican icons like Joan Sebastian, María Félix, Frida Kahlo, Sor Juana Inez de la Cruz, and Benito Juarez. Many of these murals, like at Casa Aztlán on Racine Ave, were painted by the 1960s Chicano Movement’s most powerful activists, like David Siqueiros and José Clemente Orozco. The Movement was an extension of the Mexican American Civil Rights Movement that began in the 1940s, whose purpose was to achieve Mexican American empowerment. Several years ago, the Museum purchased a modest home directly across from it to house visiting Latino artists from all over the nation and Mexico, people like the late Francisco Mendoza who are now taking on the task of once again creating revolutionary works of public art that also honor local Latino leaders.

The Museum itself and the surrounding area are a retreat for youth. Bordering the NMMA are soccer fields and baseball diamonds; the two sports fight for the attention of neighborhood youth, but both are given equal respect when the dozens of grade and high schools let out during the week. Director of Operations Ignacio Guzman says that soon all of that space will be converted into soccer fields. “This is a reflection of the community; soccer is a dominant sport.”

The Museum also offers free art education programs inside their studios, stage nationally-recognized events like Día del Niño every April, and invite high school students to broadcast live at the Yollocalli radio station. Every Easter they organize a reenactment of the crucifixion during the Passion of the Christ walk on 18th street. They team up with the many Catholic churches to celebrate other holidays, too. The Catholic faith takes on a life of its own in the Museum’s murals on Ashland Ave that span the length of brick apartment exteriors.

It is likely that the NMMA is Pilsen’s most prized possession, but not everybody in the community sees it that way because of the looming threat of gentrification.

The most obvious sign is the young white man with a trendy messenger bag standing on the same corner as the champurradovendor and his traveling cart is a tip off: the ethnic composition of Pilsen is different and has been since the first signs of a diminishing Latino population around 1990. (But Pilsen’s very first residents in the 1920s were immigrants from Czechoslovakia, Poland, Lithuania, and Italy. Their influence is what gives Pilsen its distinct Bohemian feel, mostly in the architecture of its homes. It was not until the start of the 1950s that the neighborhood demographic changed to reflect the increasing Latino population, most from Mexico).

The NMMA has a lot to do with how this non-Latino population got here. González knows the repercussions of her answer to, “Where do I go next?”

“Some individuals may say, ‘I like Pilsen’, and it doesn’t take long for them to realize that Pilsen is in the ideal spot,” says Development Coordinator Anel Ruiz. Pilsen is ideal because of its access to public transportation, its proximity to the major expressways, Lake Michigan, the Chicago River, a big university, its housing stock, the numerous churches, restaurants and bakeries. “And then people who are trying to gentrify the neighborhood are starting to realize that these rents are not your typical depressed rents. The property values are still very good there so that draws in more affluent people, and people who want to invest in properties because they’re seeing an opportunity to make money,” she adds. What results is higher rents and, eventually, the displacement of existing community members.

González and Ruiz recognize that Pilsen is one of those “up and coming” places that attract young urban professionals, so it seems inevitable that the neighborhood will lure people with more financial means.

That knowledge is spreading quickly and affecting the way locals do business. “It's likely you have businesses that spring up with a business plan that relies on the people who are leaving the Museum,” says Ruiz. “I see more higher end businesses going up, I see businesses similar to those in Near North, where they have the fancy delis, sandwich shops, coffee shops. And some of them survive but most of them don’t. They haven’t been able to feed that type of clientele yet. People still want their ethnic foods. I’m always surprised to see that they don’t last. But you put up a taco joint and those type of places still hang in there.”

It makes sense that Pilsen’s ethnic pride persists, for now at least, since that was the initial attraction of neighborhood gentrifiers. Ruiz hopes that persistence prevails with business owners now trying to attract a different type of clientele, a clientele that is not “our people”, she remarks.

There is a movement, although not formally organized, trying to prevent gentrification. Guzman knows one local developer in particular who is buying up a lot of properties and hiking up the rental price. Most of his clients are the very people that anti-gentrification organizations are trying to keep out. He explains that, now, people in Pilsen are pushing back because they realize if they do not, the neighborhood will probably start to change too quickly and drive the Latino residents away over time. “You see these commercial banks going up, and you see these large buildings that were not used at one time--now they’re condos. You see a lot of conversions going on,” he says.

Ruiz and her Development coworkers willingly admit that the Pilsen area is under pressure in part because of the Museum. People who frequent museums are not only the people who the museum is about; a big portion of the NMMA’s visitors are not Latino, just like the DuSable Museum of African American History in Chicago does not only attract African Americans. The NMMA knows it brings in other ethnic groups that end up visiting the neighborhood, becoming familiar with it, and moving in. González has stories as proof.


The Museum provides many great services to the community and lends much stability. Founded in 1987 by a pack of public schoolteachers who raised $900 to get it started, it is certainly a model for other small community museums to emulate. But there comes a point when it stops being a beacon of culture and ethnic pride and turns into a commodity of locality and neighborhood identity. Thankfully, that is a line many Museum employees know not to cross.

Events of October: Reading Response

Reading The Events of October as a Kalamazoo College student is a unique experience because I can imagine everything taking place on a small campus, and how different a murder suicide affects a small campus like ours. Knowing how intimate the setting is here--how people interact, and how information is spread, how close relationships are formed--changed the way I read this book. There was something very eery about Gail's description of Neneef standing on a chair glaring at Nick at the Homecoming dance, for the obvious reason that it is creepy, but also, those dances are so intimate that it's the kind of action that does not go unnoticed. On a campus where your business isn't only your business, I wonder just how many people knew Maggie and Neneef's situation, and maybe foresaw serious consequences.

One question I would like to ask Gail has to do with the emotional experience of writing this book. It's hard to feel the same sympathy for Neneef as I do for Maggie, especially when Gail includes chat histories that portray Neneef as a violent, needy, hyper-aggressive person who was never satisfied with Maggie's constant reassurances that she loved him. Gail really paints two drastically different portraits of them; Maggie, a very confident, intelligent, mature woman--always growing throughout the book--and Neneef, this insecure boy who blamed everybody else including Maggie for his personal struggles. I wonder how her emotions and personal feelings about these events affected her writing and the process.

Democracy in Yemen: Reading Response

At the beginning of the series "Yemen: Exporting Democracy", I liked how David Finkel uses foreshadowing to tell the reader what to expect in the following pages. He opens with, "On the first day, which would turn out to be the best day, the one day of all 180 days when everything actually seemed possible, the president of Yemen hadn't yet dismissively referred to an American named Robin Madrid as an old woman." Using words like "had yet" kept me engaged, although so did the content of the pieces. Finkel puts this very convoluted topic of exporting democracy into words that anybody without a background in foreign policy (me) and knowledge of the U.S.'s history with Arab nations (me again) can understand. I thought he did this well by weaving in Madrid consistently throughout. She was, of course, a major player in bringing democracy to Yemen, but the times she emerged acted like reference points, always bringing me back to the real issue. The way he sometimes posed questions to the reader also helped. Then he introduces a cast of important characters from President Bush, to the sheiks, to President Ali Abdullah Saleh; this part reminded me of something that would come out of a Quentin Tarantino film.

He recounts some of Yemen's history and what the city physically looks like today through profiling Madrid. I felt like he was describing the current situation there from her perspective, like when he quotes her saying, "I cried. I mean, it was magical," and then, "First there's this horrible city, then there's this beautiful city, then I almost get sho
t." He presents the conflict through her eyes, while simultaneously telling us about her life, her routine, her expectations versus the reality, and commenting on the culture.

I really enjoyed this piece and the ease with which I could read most parts. The consistent dialogue helped, and the outlining of individual characters broke it down for me.

Process Writing: Profile Piece

I think there's some confusion surrounding my profile piece. I chose to profile the National Museum of Mexican Art, but more specifically, the NMMA's role in the gentrification of Pilsen, the surrounding neighborhood. Maybe that was too much for me to take on, though, because I found myself getting really overwhelmed during the writing process with so many descriptions, interviews, and observations to include. I got to 700 words and thought this would never get finished. That resulted in me leaving out a lot of important points, quotes, and personal insights.

Still, I think it's a fascinating topic, and that was reinforced as soon as I drove into the neighborhood last week. I went to school just a couple of blocks from the heart of Pilsen--18th street--and my family and I frequent the local restaurants, so I'm familiar with the people and the places. The reason I chose to focus on the NMMA's role in the gentrification of Pilsen was because 1) in my mind, the Museum has always been a great, fascinating addition to the neighborhood and I love art museums and 2) in my last couple of high school years, I began to notice more than before the changing demographic. I saw more diversity in skin color, in clothing choice, in physical appearance in general. It no longer was a neighborhood of and for Latinos. I myself have been to those higher end Mexican restaurants which are also part of gentrification. But I've also been to El Milagro, La Casa del Pueblo, and Nuevo Leon. To me, those are the "authentic" places that give Pilsen its unique cultural identity. Maybe subconsciously I went to La Casa del Pueblo before I went to the Musuem for my interviews to get into the right mindset. I didn't know what my interviewees were going to say about the local food joints, but once I headed home after my day of research, I perceived my experience at La Casa del Pueblo that morning in a completely different light. I noticed the interaction between the white woman and the Latino employee, but I didn't realize the implications right then.

I had a ton of fun writing this piece. I got to eat some great Mexican food in Pilsen, my second favorite neighborhood of Chicago, hang out with my family at the Museum, and talk to some fascinating people.

Rough Draft: The White Hipster at the Corner

A white woman and her young daughter approach the counter at La Casa del Pueblo Taquería in Pilsen, a low-income Latino neighborhood just southwest of Chicago’s central business district. The woman taking her order of caldo de pollo with arroz and frijoles just finished serving three Spanish-speaking parties. She releases a thick accent when she initiates the interaction with, “Hello. What would you like?”

La Casa del Pueblo is a cafeteria-style restaurant that offers a selection of caldos, including menudo, pozole, and caldo de camarón, pescado, albóndiga and pollo. All entrees, like the carne de res, tamales, and guisado, come with the traditional Mexican sides, arroz and frijoles. All of the employees speak English, but judging from the dominating Spanish dialogue in the Taquería, they prefer Spanish. La Casa del Pueblo commands attention from Latinos mostly, but it’s been attracting a growing non-Latino audience for a while now.

If La Casa del Pueblo is grateful for the diversity of its clientele, it can thank the National Museum of Mexican Art (NMMA), the nation’s largest ethnic museum located a few blocks away on 19th street. Reception desk worker Sonia González recommends the taquería to most Museum visitors, mostly school groups and tourists. She directs them to restaurants, panaderías, and tortillerías on the busy 18th street, close to Museum-commissioned murals painted by local artists and high school students. A local favorite, Taquería El Milagro and its small-scale tortilla factory next door stand a block from the “Declaration of Immigration” mural. Five columns of black-and-red-painted statements read:

WE ARE A NATION OF IMMIGRANTS
NO INHUMANE TREATMENT, DEPORTATION, FAMILY SEPARATION,
DETENTION
NO WALL
NO HUMAN BEING IS ILLEGAL
NATIONAL SECURITY IS USED TO FOSTER INTER ETHNIC TENSIONS

Two days after its completion in 2009, the spray-painted words, “LIES LIES LIES” and, “MEXICANS ARE RACIST” covered the last statement.

One street over, Panadería Nuevo Leon bakes fresh conchas everyday around 4pm. Even among the dozens of other panaderías on its street alone, Nuevo Leon stands out for its quality conchas, bolillos, and other breads and pastries.

The people of Pilsen don’t frequent chain restaurants because they don’t exist here. No McDonalds or Subway, and not one Starbucks. And most of the unique local businesses, like La Cebollita, Mundial Cocina Mestiza, and La Casa del Pueblo, cater to the Mexican palate.

González, who grew up in Pilsen, knows the neighborhood better than most Museum employees. She prides herself in her back-of-the-hand knowledge of the neighborhood. That’s why coworkers leave her with the task of directing visitors to Pilsen’s best attractions. But her life-long familiarity with the area also makes her one of the best judges of Pilsen’s changing demographic, and the rising threat of gentrification. More importantly, though, is the perspective of an NMMA employee like González on neighborhood changes.

The young white man with a trendy messenger bag standing on the same corner as the champurrado vendor and his traveling cart is a tip off: the ethnic composition of Pilsen is different and has been since the first signs of a diminishing Latino population around 1990. The NMMA has a lot to do with how this non-Latino audience got here. Everyday tourists from all over the country and other parts of Chicago ask González the same question: Where should I go next? It’s other Museum employees, media outlets tied to the Museum, and informational brochures given by the Museum that send outsiders into the community.

Development Coordinator Anel Ruiz explains, “It's likely you have businesses that spring up with a business plan that relies on the people who are leaving the Museum." She adds, “I see more higher end businesses going up, I see businesses similar to those in Near North, where they have the fancy delis, sandwich shops, coffee shops. And some of them survive but most of them don’t. They haven’t been able to feed that type of clientele yet. People still want their ethnic foods. I’m always surprised to see that they don’t last. But you put up a taco joint and those type of places still hang in there.”

She says that business owners in the area are trying to attract a different type of clientele now, and it’s not “our people”. Even among the Mexican restaurants in Pilsen are smaller restaurants with higher end Mexican food. “They’re trying to attract the higher income Latinos,” explains Ruiz.

Even though these higher-end businesses and business plans don’t always last, a trend is emerging that reflects the changing demographic and the changing nature of Pilsen’s economic development.

Ruiz and her Development coworkers agree that gentrification is a threat to Pilsen and its residents, and it’s unstoppable. Ruiz has heard several cases of NMMA visitors coming back to the neighborhood looking for permanent residence.

“Some individuals may say, ‘I like Pilsen’, and it doesn’t take long for them to realize that Pilsen is in the ideal spot,” says Ruiz. It’s ideal because of its access to public transportation, its proximity to the major expressways, Lake Michigan, the Chicago River, a big university, its housing stock, the numerous churches, restaurants and bakeries. “And then people who are trying to gentrify the neighborhood are starting to realize that these rents are not your typical depressed rents. The property values are still very good there so that draws in more affluent people, and people who want to invest in properties because they’re seeing an opportunity to make money,” she adds. What results is higher rents and, eventually, the displacement of existing community members.

That’s why, Ruiz believes, Pilsen residents feel conflicted about the NMMA’s existence. In a sense, it’s a prized possession as the largest Latino museum in the country and the only one accredited by the American Association of Museums. It brings in people who bring in revenue to places like La Casa del Pueblo. But there comes a point when the Museum stops being a beacon of culture and ethnic pride and turns into a commodity of locality and neighborhood identity.

The NMMA falls, maybe unwillingly, into a package of tourism that uses Pilsen’s unique Mexican culture as a marketing tool. So when the Mexican woman behind the counter at La Casa del Pueblo takes the order of this young white woman and her young daughter, it should be an innocent interaction between a business and its clientele. But in Pilsen, meaning runs deep.

(Sidenote: I intend to make this piece at least another 800-1000 words--I just ran out of time to add all of my descriptions and explanations!)

Revision: Caricature Love

Audience: Modern Love

“Twinkies are made of whale blubber” were some of the words Matt shared with me during our first encounter freshman year. That and, “I went to The Avery Coonley School. We’re the seahorses because we only travel onward and upward—never backward.” Anxious to learn more about my first high school crush, I Googled The Avery Coonley School after class, and sure enough the site’s masthead read, “Guiding Gifted Children Onward and Upward.” Seahorse silhouettes and seahorse watermark paraded the page. It was a well-known suburban grammar school for kid geniuses, but Matt didn’t want many people to know he attended, or that he got a 36 on his ACT two years later. I liked Matt’s quirks, his playful personality and his obliviousness to the dos and don’ts of making a good first impression. So I took his word for it that the cream filling of the Twinkie was made with the blubber of a whale.

I spilled the details of my infatuation to my older girl cousins not long after. We inspected his Facebook at the next family party.

“He looks like a girl.”
“His nose is funny.”
“Does he always make that face?”
“He’s…cute, Emmy.”

We were dating by the end of freshman year. It was an anticipated pairing, in the works since I joined the rowing team that winter as much for Matt as for my innocent desire to find my niche at school.

Matt joked that his lips were bigger than Bubba Blue’s from the movie Forrest Gump, and that his stubby nose, which matched his stubby fingers, was not a nose but a Yukon Gold potato. He acknowledged the short and awkward distance between his eyes and an ass that forced him to shop at specialty clothing stores for husky boys. He looked and walked like his dad, a strong man of average height with a short stride.

He needed only his backpack to announce himself in the hallways; this highly discussed neon green and yellow North Face item was his favorite high school purchase. “He would buy that,” said my annoyed older sister. For a while I was as embarrassed to be around him with his backpack on as when he mimicked the crying babies in the movie theatre on date nights. (Voice imitation was one of his many unusual talents.) I was mortified by his indifference to the people staring at him. His silliness embarrassed me for a long time. But sometime into our second year of dating, I gave him my first gaze of real adoration at his freeness toward most things in life. I released my inhibitions right back.

Matt excelled in drawing. He aspired to be an architect but identified as a caricaturist. Hidden in my closet is a shoebox of letters, cards and ripped notebook pages coated with Matt’s hyperbolic sketches of our wacky senior-year religion teacher Mr. Thompson, of our friends, and of him and me. Also in that shoebox are the letters he wrote me from camp every high school summer we dated, one every day for three years. And the Valentine’s Day card he gave me freshman year that reads, “Roses are red, violets are blue, gee it’d be cool, if I could have you!” Matt kept his tangible memories not in a box but in a drawer next to his bed. It overflowed with the handmade holiday and birthday cards I would make him, ticket stubs of movies we watched, playbills from the shows we treated each other to, and the letters I wrote in response to his. Two framed photos of us rest on top, next to a large stack of non-required reading that alternated every month. He selected Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time to lend me first. I finished it eager for his next suggestion—a book of short stories I pretended to read. Suspecting I fibbed, he playfully interrogated me one day during free period.

Matt forgave me most everything, and he was patient with me. I learned that when I didn’t return his first “I love you” just fourth months into our relationship. On the phone later that night he admitted “it sucked”, but that I should wait until I’m really sure. And then again the winter of our junior year when I told him I still liked my first boyfriend, Kevin, a neighborhood bad boy whose hard-to-get games Matt didn’t care to play with girls. I had just returned from a parish retreat that Kevin and I attend twice a year—Matt’s two least favorite weekends. It was nothing more than a physical attraction, but my relationship with Matt lacked the spontaneity that came naturally to Kevin. Matt knew this, and knew my feelings lingered for this bad boy since grade school. We were at a birthday party when I told him I needed to talk.

“I just feel like I can’t be with you when I have feelings for Kevin.”

The breakup didn’t last long, maybe a week. The truth was that Matt and I could not assimilate high school as individuals. Worse, we couldn’t assimilate a private life that didn’t intersect with the other’s. He came to my extended family gatherings, and I ate homemade dinners with him and his parents on the weekends. His mom showed me how to make her cherry scones and her pasta with vodka sauce, two of her best recipes. If weather conditions were bad, his mom insisted I sleep over and drive home the next morning. I cried when his dog died and tried to convince his parents to get another. His dad addressed me by the nickname he created, “Memily”. In the summers, they invited my family to their log cabin in the north woods of Wisconsin. My grandma, an unobtrusive woman, questioned whenever Matt wasn’t at Easter brunch or didn’t make an appearance at Thanksgiving.

I felt like we were one of Matt’s caricatures, comical in its exaggeration of a high school romance and grotesque in its display of two humans consumed.

We lasted past graduation and into our first year of college, where we split ways for the first time. He was in Indiana and I was in Michigan. I can’t help thinking that we chose to stay together to validate our four-year absorption in each other. So we tried, but we broke up in January of freshman year, just a few days before my birthday.

I’m not proud of what happened between that January and my last encounter with Matt two summers later. For three years I took advantage of Matt and his innocence and his patience. “I’m too good to you,” he would joke. He loved walking me to class when it was out of his way, and planning how he would ask me to school dances. But too often it was an unrequited love; he loved me more than I loved him. I can only assume he woke up one morning after our January break up and realized that because he didn’t fight for me again. And he assimilated into college without me. I responded with a hysterical jealousy and neediness that pushed him away in the following months.

By the beginning of sophomore year, we cut off most communication. It took many months to step out of the role of the unrequited lover. And I thought I had, until I saw Matt again the summer before junior year. We hadn’t spoken in several months but were both leaving to study abroad in the fall so we wanted to see each other.

I walked into his house intoxicated by the promise of the night. We went to eat at a dumpy Chinese joint, Matt’s selection, then back to his house. He was distracted by his iPhone, which buzzed every few minutes, and he grinned at each new received text. I wanted to know who was sending them. I had tucked my phone into my purse, which I purposefully left upstairs out of reach. We talked about school and our families, and then Matt asked me if I still had that boyfriend at school. I didn’t. I dated him to temper the sting of Matt’s absence, but only for a couple of months then we ended things amicably. He was the last person on my mind. But then I had to ask him the same, to put my obsessive conscience to rest. Was he dating anyone?

Throughout high school, Matt garnered the attention of the cutesy and eccentric theatre girls at our high school, and the girls who were still “growing into their faces,” as parents say. Then there was Maria, the self-described guidette, clinging to Matt’s side that day I met him in the school cafeteria. Even when Matt began to mature in high school (eventually my girl cousins admitted he was good looking), he still attracted the odd types. So when Matt told me he was “sort of seeing” our 27 year-old ex rowing coach, Jenn, I was disturbed; Jenn was seven years older than him, bubbly and free spirited, and training for a dangerous rowing excursion across the Atlantic Ocean in the summer of 2012. She was quirky in an attractive way.

I covered my mouth in shock and disgust. My thoughts raced back to weekend regattas: Matt, an awkward 14 year-old kid and Jenn, already a college graduate from Michigan State University. At first I thought it was a cool coincidence that her family is from the same town I attend college; now I hated the thought of her living so close to me. I hated her cool job at Groupon, her super impressive upcoming rowing adventure, and her awesome social life. I followed her on Facebook, so I knew these things. I tried to look surprised in a “good for you, Matt” way. After all, we hadn’t communicated much in almost a year so my jealousy wasn’t justified. But still my mouth trembled. I thought maybe at the end of the night he would walk me to my car and kiss me goodnight, even though he gave me no reason to hope for it. I stayed to listen to him explain why he liked Jenn, why she and their relationship was “different.” My hands trembled before my legs joined and the tears came. In the middle of Matt’s next sentence, I stood up, walked up the stairs, and marched out the door. I didn’t close it behind me. I didn’t stop. I got into my car and drove away. Matt didn’t call after me, and I didn’t want him to. I wanted to drive alone far away from him.

Profile Story Pitch

The National Museum of Mexican Art, located in Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood, isn't like other museums. It's a safe haven for ex-gang members, local high school students, and kids of working class moms and dads. It's more a gathering place than an institution of art. The community needs it, and not just because its local economic impact is huge. When I drive through the streets of Pilsen, I stop and stare at the murals. I know I'm in Pilsen when I see store fronts and apartment walls on 19th street covered in paint. The murals are the collaborative efforts of local latino artists commissioned by the NMMA and neighborhood kids. They create relationships that last. The NMMA takes art to the public, beautifying the city, and it gives young kids especially something to aspire to.

I want to profile this place because I believe in what they've done and what they do, and I want to share that with people outside of Chicago, and outside of Pilsen.

Reading Response: Week 4

In this reading of Telling True Stories, I began to see the advantages of compiling a book of many author's writing insights instead of one single author. As a beginning narrative journalist, I appreciate reading about their similar and contrasting writing processes and opinions of their field. For example, in the section "To Tape or Not to Tape", one writer swears against taping while another says the profession was much harder before it came along. Later, Malcolm Gladwell says he doesn't write profiles of people because he doesn't think we're truly capable of describing a person's core; that he prefers to write profiles about ideas rather than the person. After reading a whole chapter on the beauty of discovering and accurately representing a person, that came as a shock. It was a good shock though, because now I have this idea in my head that I should be looking at how a person is a gateway to larger issues in society, like Gladwell says. Isabel Wilkerson agrees, stating that "It is important to honor the people who allow themselves to be representatives of something larger in our society" (33).

Then Mark Kramer argues that access is everything to a narrative. Our goal is what he describes as felt life; we must take the right steps to reach that level of informal comprehension of the subject. That means sometimes living as the subject does, following them around, keeping tabs on worthwhile events in their schedule. Imagine sending yourself to prison as a corrections officer for ten months like Ted Conover. But Louise Kiernan warns us to know when not to be around, when not to push for intimate access. Sometimes packing off has its rewards later on.

The other areas that stood out to me in this reading had to do with the perspective that writers enter situations with, and how narratives can take a creative turn depending on the angle the writer chooses to write from. Tomas Tizon explains how in 2004 Vanity Fair profiled activist Tomothy Treadwell who was killed by a bear, but the magazine writes part of the story from the point of view of the bear. I would probably never consider something like that. On a (I think) similar note, Victor Merina warns that journalists reporting across cultures, especially their own culture, must learn enough about that place, but understand that even if you're reporting your own culture and believe you know the history, other perspectives and views may emerge that alter that course of the piece. He calls this "unlearning" the culture, which paves the way for other, unthought-of topics to surface.

Week 4 CYOA responses

Cam and Amanda: "Wonder Town" by Sasha Frere-Jones

I'm always a little anxious to read music reviews or any kind of music journalism because I'm not well-versed in the music-specific language. But Frere-Jones's piece, "Wonder Town", was relatable. He uses creative and easy-to-understand descriptions about their style of music, their albums, and his experience watching them at CBGB in 1986; their notes are "intricate fractions" that don't come from the "world of easy round numbers", and they are "crammed with information." He talks about the sound of the music, that "every guitar was strangely tuned, moaning and howling instead of crunching in satisfying consonance." And in terms of explaining the kind of instruments they were playing: "a serious guitar and an okay one." I like his lack of technicality. Maybe I didn't understand the part where he mentions the guitar chords, but that didn't intrude upon the reading experience.

Frere-Jones admits, in describing the performance at CBGB, that he had no idea what kind of music it was. I didn't read that and think, "This guy doesn't know what he's talking about." He talks about it in a way that anybody could understand. His language throughout the piece reflects this, like when he says, "The feeling was a little like being held hostage in a room with someone who refuses to turn on the lights." The way he describes the musicians themselves speak to this as well, I think. He writes that Kim Gorden was "like the lead in a movie who refuses to read from the script"; a less-seasoned musician on stage. I understood the music better through his descriptions of the bandmates.

Frere-Jones complements talk of Sonic Youth's current album with details of and comparisons to their 30-year history. He weaves in information in a subtle way that doesn't disorientate the reader. He says that much of their style has changed since the 80s, giving him the opportunity to delve into the past. He integrates song lyrics from then and now, and lets a band member's anecdote from the 90s speak to the "lengthy, experimental stuff" that characterized that time.

Ellen and Jordan: "Shooting an Elephant" by George Orwell

I think what most strikes me about this piece is Orwell's voice and the suspense he builds, and how that weaves into the theme of imperialism. He clearly sympathizes with the Burmese and disdains the British imperialists (and himself a little by extension because of the role he plays in the Burmese society), but he also regards the Burmese with contempt for mistreating him. There's a complexity to the author that he develops paragraph by paragraph, and that culminate at the end of the story with the shooting of the elephant. In Orwell's voice I sensed an innocence and a cowardliness, which is especially interesting in this piece because of his (seemingly) imperialistic role. I liked that tension between his inner thoughts and his facade.

And did Orwell actually shoot the elephant--is it not obvious?! Maybe I'm missing something here. He said he shot the elephant. I believe him. Why shouldn't I? But that brings up an interesting discussion about trust and credibility (like Ellen posted on her blog) in narrative journalism. Orwell says he shot the elephant, and I automatically believed him. In writing narrative pieces, we all have to keep in mind that what we write, the readers will take as fact. There's no room for error, really. If Orwell didn't actually shoot the elephant, why should I ever trust his word again?

Franklin outline

After talking through some things with Marin last week, I decided to change the topic of my personal journalism assignment from my relationship with Matt in high school, to my relationship with my dad. Here's the outline I came up with, as concise as I could make it:

Complication: Emily battles time
Development:
1) Worry consumes Emily
2) Emily neglects herself
3) Emily values time
Resolution: Emily accepts impermanence

My essay is going to focus on how I fear the time I don't, and someday won't, have with my dad.

Writing for Story

Franklin says it is best to read his book cover to cover, and I have a theory as to why; it's a book that deals you a blow with insight after insight, rules, don'ts and suggestions--and reading that, all at once, whipped me into gear, shot at me a rush of adrenaline, and made me think hard about my writing and the writing process. I reacted strongest to the bits where Franklin flat out told me what not to do--don't start at the beginning when writing a story, don't use to be verbs, don't use flashback unless you want to sound like an amateur, don't tell sad stories (at least know that positive ones garner longer-lasting attention). I liked being told what not to do, yet I recognize that my willingness to obey him implies that I take him as an authority; he has experience and knowledge in this field (what he deems "the Secret" of writing), and that I lack.

I finished the book feeling enlightened, motivated, overwhelmed, a little naive, and surprised that just now I'm learning the rules of structure, outline, polishing and craftsmanship. It's always a little disheartening when you think yourself a great unique writer who can whip out a good story without much effort, only to have a man you've never heard of before tell you your approach is all wrong, and your story could use some more dynamism. Or that, if you've been struggling on a piece you're really passionate about, you might have the story choice all wrong or you have to cut out everything you love.

The most humbling part of this book for me was toward the end, as Franklin contemplates the rejection of one of his novels, when Franklin says, "My book wasn't working because I had avoided looking directly at what my characters were feeling. Why had I avoided it? Because I had built my whole psychic apparatus, my whole world view, on the premise that I was somehow different (which is to say better) than the people I wrote about. To look at them was to realize that I was no different, and that what was happening to them could as well happen to me. I was, in short, nothing special" (209). Franklin invites us to consider unpleasant truths of rejection, to consider ourselves as writers in relation to our characters, how we do or don't relate to certain ones, and how those differences or similarities sometimes manifest themselves as prejudices. This part of the book stood out to me.

Discussion Questions:

1) In chapter seven, "Structuring the Rough", Franklin writes, "...it does not make sense to begin at the beginning. The story doesn't pivot on the beginning , it pivots on the ending--so write that first. That way you know exactly what it is that you need to foreshadow" (158). What is your writing process like? How does it compare or contrast with Franklin's suggestions?

2) In the last chapter, Franklin admits that the rejection of his novel on accident medicine had to do with his inability to really relate to his characters. He says, "My book wasn't working because I had avoided looking directly at what my characters were feeling. Why had I avoided it? Because I had built my whole psychic apparatus, my whole world view, on the premise that I was somehow different (which is to say better) than the people I wrote about. To look at them was to realize that I was no different, and that what was happening to them could as well happen to me. I was, in short, nothing special" (209). Have you ever come into a similar conflict when creating your characters on the page? Do you ever "attempt to apply prejudice where only insight will do" (211)?

3) What do you as a writer see as your biggest responsibilities to the reader after reading this book?

Writing About A Boy

I didn't want this piece to be about my high school sweetheart. I wanted to be able to say that my most significant personal transformation came from some event less superficial than a high school relationship, like study abroad, or my Dad's illness, or my family. I had a problem admitting that Matt still plays a big role in my life as a catalyst for change. It was an insecurity of mine; I felt embarrassed that an ex-boyfriend defines so much of me. But I didn't feel that way once I finished the essay. I felt proud and empowered, and I can't be ashamed of my past.

Now let me take a step back: Once I told myself that it was okay to write about my high school boyfriend, I still needed to think hard about myself and figure out if that was as deep as I could go. I thought about how I've changed, how I manifest those changes, who I am, how I live my life differently now versus before. I know I am a much different person than I was in high school, than I was before I left for Ecuador last August, than I was even a week ago at the start of spring quarter. But to actually transform those reflections into a tangible thing like a personal essay and find words that don't sound preachy and cliche, was both frustrating and liberating. I never had that conversation with myself before. And I found that right now was the best time to do it--as I'm coming back from study abroad, trying to reignite an excitement for school, and cutting myself off from a year-long fling. All of these recent changes are forcing me to question everything I once sought and believed in, and how I got to be the person I am at my core.

So I chose to accept Matt as the most critical part of my personal journey thus far, with reluctance though. I found myself belittling every moment of that relationship. I wrote, deleted, wrote and again deleted sentences like, "It was an immature relationship," or, "It was just puppy love." Which is why, reading my piece once it was finished, I don't feel like I was being true to what really happened those high school years and beyond. I was criticizing young love when I am still the first person to say that age doesn't matter when you meet the right person. What we had was young and innocent love, and it didn't work out but that shouldn't negate the rest.

In terms of content, I have some gaps to fill. When I know the story so well, I take for granted certain details. I don't think the audience gets to know Matt as well as they need to to understand why he was so hard to say goodbye to. Or certain events that would better explain the relationship dynamic. I also worry that certain parts are too fragmented, and certain ideas not drawn out enough. So I'm really looking forward to workshop this week!

Thick Skin

Audience: Modern Love

“Twinkies are made of whale blubber” were some of the words Matt shared with me during our first encounter. That and, “I went to The Avery Coonley School. We’re the seahorses because we only travel onward and upward—never backward.” Anxious to learn more about my first high school crush, I Googled The Avery Coonley School after class, and sure enough the site’s masthead read, “Guiding Gifted Children Onward and Upward.” Seahorse silhouettes and seahorse watermark paraded the page. It was a well-known suburban grammar school for kid geniuses, but Matt didn’t want people to know he attended, or that he got a 36 on his ACT three years later. I liked Matt’s quirks, his playful personality and his obliviousness to the dos and don’ts of making a good first impression. So I took his word for it that the cream filling of the Twinkie was made with the blubber of a whale, for the next four high school years.

Each academic year had its defining moment; freshman year I joined the rowing team for two reasons: I hoped to find my niche in sports, since my older sister had found hers on the volleyball team at that age, and Matt was on the team. We traveled to out-of-state regattas nearly every weekend and carpooled to 5:10am practices Monday through Friday, but even outside our rowing bubble we were best friends. The last regatta of the spring season fell on Mother’s Day, so Matt absconded with a white rose from his mom’s bouquet and gave it and an invitation to be his girlfriend to me. The natural blush of my cheeks made my face doubly pink, as I had already coated it with a layer of makeup to look my best for the race. I said yes, we dated for two weeks, and I broke it off for the neighborhood bad boy, Kevin, who I had been crushing on since our First Holy Communion in the second grade. Matt’s Facebook status that night read, “Well this blows. Tryin’ again next year!”

So he tried like a toddler on a two-wheeler. But after a year of wanting to have my cake and eat it too, of rejected dance invitations and unreciprocated romantic gestures on my part, Matt decided he’d had enough. But I liked him, and he was, in the words of my girlfriends, perfect. So I asked him to be my boyfriend. But first, to show the seriousness of my request, I purchased every last Twinkie from the local grocery store to equip his locker, so that later, his face would shine as bright as the golden sponge cakes cascading to his feet. He accepted, and as the story goes, we fell in and out of young love in what seemed like a blink of an eye.

Those are transformative years, say my parents, the years we begin to discover our individual selves. And it happened that my hip was glued to his during that transformational time. I walked and he followed. I was one half to a whole. So two years into my glorious teens, I became all about a boy. And I was all about that boy for the many months following a painful breakup at the start our sophomore year of college, the adversary of all high school sweethearts like Matt and me who go to separate schools and can’t make it work.

Until July of the following summer, a year into my half trying to be its own whole, when Matt told me he was dating our 20-something-year-old high school rowing coach. Jenn was seven years older than him, bubbly and free spirited, training for a dangerous rowing excursion across the Atlantic Ocean in the summer of 2012, and she was awesome. I would date her too, but still, the news hit me like a meteor flogging the cement, and I stormed out in tears like a fourteen year-old high school me. But she would feel justified, and I felt foolish.

That happened one month before I boarded a plane to study in Quito, Ecuador for six months. With the excitement of that change in setting, of breathing in another language, traveling and living independently of my family, fast came an instinctive and effortless desire that everything I do, I ultimately do for myself. So in twos, I was a one, and in a group, I didn’t worry about losing the sense of myself. I thought about Matt often, longed for him at first, then after a few more months in Ecuador, I didn’t feel anything for him. I couldn’t disregard, however, that he was the reason I sought and worked at that change in the first place.

My dad wanted only to be a bystander in the six years this boy overwhelmed my life, while my mom organized book club meetings with Matt’s mom and trips to their summer cabin in the north woods of Wisconsin. He foresaw the ramifications of a high school couple consuming themselves in each other before they leave for college, but he only ever told me, “You have to be selfish, mija.”

He didn’t mean a vindictive selfishness that eats away the good in people, but one that leads to resilience instead of weakness when a plan backfires, or when a boy breaks my heart. A selfishness that's left me satisfied inside.