Reading Oprah

Reading Oprah is a somewhat academic treatment of Oprah's book club by an English literature professor. I was drawn to the book because the author, Cecilia Konchar Farr, is a former BYU prof who now works in my geographical area. In the book, Farr makes a compelling case that Oprah has truly created a reading revolution. By interspersing serious heavy-weight literature with lighter choices, Farr claims that Oprah has been able to improve the critical reading skills of a large number of woman, and, as a professor of literature, admits to envy at her widespread influence. She breaks down several of the book group discussions in detail, and in particular, focuses on the selections written by Toni Morrison, who attended the discussions (as did all the authors), to provide lesson in thinking deeply and critically about reading.

She also has a fascinating section where she discusses the tension between economic consideration and cultural capital. It is often the case that blockbuster books are not necessarily those with high literary quality. Yet, as an author, the desire to sell books is of course an important consideration. With Oprah's imprimatur, the book club selections were destined to become best sellers. And with her nod of approval, books that could have been previously unknown were being read by thousands of women across the country. These tensions erupted in the choice of a Jonathan Franzen novel. He decided after the original selection that his book was "too good" to be an Oprah book. That it was better destined for elite and highly selective readers. I admit that in the past, I have pooh-poohed Oprah books and have made a conscious choice to avoid them. I felt that they were either pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps, scrappy underprivileged heroine finds amazing success against the odds or self helpish books. Essentially that they were too "middle-brow" for me. But after reading this, I thought that I should pick up a few Oprah books and I admire what she is trying to do.

I also was fascinated by the academic treatment of book groups. On the personal side, I have been in two different book groups over the past 2 1/2 years. And they have been an important part of my life. I love getting together with other women to talk about a book, the ideas it contains, and about our lives. Farr discusses the talking life of a book. Books, she argues, are not only for private and solitary consumption, but, at times, they can also have a social and public function. Books that are rich with ideas, that cause us to reflect on their deeper and broader meanings and applications, and that teach us about ourselves are ideal for shared discussion. As an academic and sociologist, I love the idea of using academic methodology to explore this social phenomena.

2 year old language skills

Language development is one of my favorite stages to observe in my children. Every day, my 2 1/2 year old says things that totally amaze me and that make me laugh out loud. And precious few things make me laugh out loud. I wanted to record a few gems of recent past so that I can remember them.

The other morning, it was early, and T was up. AJ was gone, so I got up with him, and took him down for breakfast. He asked for waffles, and so I put some in the toaster. When I got to cutting them up, I didn't do a good job and was cutting them somewhat haphazardly, leaving the pieces with jagged edges and irregular shapes. He looks at me, on the verge of crying, and said, "This is a disaster!" This is the child who likes everything just so.

That same day, we were at MJ's ballet lessons and he was playing with blocks in the ante-room while I watched her. After a bit, he came running in to tell me, "Mom, you have to come see what I built." I came to see, and he proudly said, "This is my masterpiece!"

He also talking about the duck hatching the eggs. And,while in the tub, he repeatedly told my mom, "For the love of ice." I think that is a direct quote from the Backardigans.

One day, in January, he was waving an empty paper towel tube in front of him at me, and said, "I'm going to use my powers to stop you."

In Feb, we were in the car, and he said, "That's one silly snowman, huh sis?"

I have also been trying to keep in my mind the words that he has mispronounced in memorable ways. I feel sad to see the pronunciations disappear. Here are some of them:

Pocks-ebola: Popsicle. He used this one all last summer. AJ thought it sounded like some tropical disease.
Bagoon: Balloon
Compluter: computer--he still says this
O-gen: orange
girl-o: girl

New Yorker: Betrayed--The Iraqis who trusted America the most

Last night, I finished a super-long New Yorker article by George Packer. It details how the military and the state department are treating the Iraqis who have risked everything to work for the Americans in Iraq. These jobs include translation, and embassy and non-profit work. The men that Packer profiles welcomed the Americans into Iraq and were eager to help them secure a democratic and stable Iraq. However, their loyalty was repeatedly questioned, and many times they were deserted by those whom they were helping. They were not allowed to stay in the Green Zone, making a dangerous journey back and forth across Iraq necessary each day. They lives were repeatedly threatened, while the military would not do anything to protect them, not even providing them with the standard military issue body armour. They were forced to sit in long car lines upon entering the Green Zone, areas ripe for suicide bombers, while Americans with priority clearance breezed by in a neighboring lane. Their lives have been uprooted, many have been killed, and many are in exile. (A statistic I found amazing is that last summer, 40,000 Iraqis were leaving the country each month, going to Jordan and Syria, "taking with them the skills and the more secular ideas necessary for rebuilding a destroyed society, leaving the city to the religious militias.") The United States has provided precious few visas for Iraqis seeking asylum (although in partnership with the UNHCR, more Iraqis could be admitted to the US this year.) Those that worked with the Americans are especially vulnerable to militia groups.

This is such a simplistic summary of Packer's article. I was moved, however, by his description of the plight of those Iraqis who have provided invaluable assistance to the Americans. And also by a deepened understanding of what common Iraqis are facing. Their entire society is in a state of unimaginable upheaval and violence. What chance of successful outcomes is there?

Last week, at dinner with friends, one of them commented how at church, we often hear prayers for the troops, but no prayers for peace. Last night and today I was thinking how I have never heard anyone pray for the Iraqis who are the middle of a terrible situation, whose lives are being torn apart (and who, for the most part, have done nothing to be on our national "enemy list.") I know that headline after headline of suicide bombers has made me numb to their desparate predicament, and I really don't know what I can do. But, I resolved to make praying for them a priority.

The Awakening

As a 27 year old mother of two children in a cordial but emotionally unfullfilling marriage, Edna Pontellier experiences an awakening, leaving her restless and dissatisfied with her domestic life, the life of most women in her social class. She begins to struggle with her place in Creole society and (seemingly) lacks at outlet to the conventional roles of wife and mother.

We read this book in book group for March and I have needed to return to it to write a few notes. I really enjoyed Kate Chopin's beautiful and descriptive writing. Her descriptions of Creole locations evoked the sticky feeling of humid muggy summer weather and it was the perfect companion for a cold wintertime day. I noticed, though, that it seemed to add to my sweat output when I read it at the gym.

The first line of the book describes a bird in a cage, an apt symbol for Edna's feeling that society has trapped her with narrow and, to her, constrictive expectations. Chopin returns to images of birds several times in the book. The final scene before Edna's suicide swin in the ocean portrays a bird with broken wings fluttering about helplessly, reeling toward the water. To me, it was a sad and depressing image. Rather than experiencing the freedom of flight, Edna's awakening has only produced a tragic figure, unable to find a place to live and find happiness.

I read several of the essays in the Norton Critical Edition of the book, and I was frustrated with how many of the writers characterized her awakening in purely sexual terms. The cover of one of the editions shows the misleading picture of a partially nude woman gazing out the window. Yes, she falls in love with Robert and experiences entirely new physical feelings. She seeks physical fullfillment with a man known for his sexual escapades. But, there was so much more to her awakening that this. It all begins, at least in the novel, with Leonce, her husband, choosing to eat dinner at the club rather than with his wife and children. He comes in late, after she is sound asleep, and expects her to talk animatedly with him. Then, he "checks" on the children, enough to tell her that one of them is feverish, although she is certain this is not the case:

He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the children. If it was not a mother's place to look after children, whose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business...He talked on in a monotonous, insistent way.

Mrs Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the pillow. She said nothing and refues to answer her husband when he questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out, he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep.

She responds to this incident by going outside, where she begins sobbing, but for what reason, she cannot tell. "An indescribable opression filled her being with a vague anguish."

This chapter ends a few paragraphs later when a gift of delicious chocolates and sweets is sent to Edna from Leonce, her husband. The women with whom she shared this treat "all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better." She is unhappy with her marriage, she feels anguish and oppression, but yet, she believes that Leonce is one of the better husbands around.

Looking at it with cynical and post-modern eyes, I, of course, completely reject the idea that a husband's measure of success is how often he provides chocolates and gifts and the manner in which he provides money for household luxuries and furnishings. I firmly believe that he should be up with the children at night if he believes they need it. And I have words to describe why a woman should be dissatisfied in such a marriage as Edna's. However, Edna lives in the 1890's: female discontent and balking at traditional roles is uncommon. She cannot express the reasons for her emotional state.

I also found the scene where Edna learns to swim particularly poignant, especially on my second reading of it. After trying to learn to swim all summer, one evening she finds herself with sudden success.

A feeling of exulatation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before.

Here, she begins to feel her own power. She has success in swimming and immediately begins to anticipate excelling. "As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself."

The tragedy, in my estimation, is that this new found independence is ultimately the cause of her demise. She experiences the sublime pleasure of discovering that she can accomplish something new, but in the end, the same ocean where she learns to swim is where she gives up her ambition to live and lets herself drown.

I didn't love the character of Edna. I felt that, if she were a woman of flesh and blood, there was much she could have done to shape her circumstances and that the story of a woman like Edna didn't have to end tragically. Yet, I think Chopin is very wise in the way she lets the story unroll and with the final scene of Edna's suicide. She is telling a story on a broad level, on a societal level, drawing out to its fullest the consequences of pigeonholing women in narrow roles, with little room for personal choices. I really loved this book.

2nd Article of Faith, with Additions

MJ's primary teacher is encouraging the class to memorize articles of faith, with the promise of a reward for each one they can recite in class. Last Sunday, she recited the first one, and this past week, she wanted to learn the second. This is how I taught it to her:

We believe that men and women will be punished for their own sins and not for Adam and Eve's transgression.

She had it down cold. When the mom sitting in the class to help out tried to correct her, "We believe that MEN will be punished..." MJ was quick to retort, "Men AND WOMEN". I wonder how long it will take her to realize that this version is not in the official canon. To me, it only makes the principal taught more accurate. I felt quite happy with this small little act.

The Lost

I just finished reading The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million.
I reserved this book quite a while ago at the library, and then when I could finally check it out, I was given only two weeks, rather than the normal three, to read and return without incurring fines. This is because there are a lot of people who want to read it. The timing, of course, on when you finally get the book doesn't necessarily correspond to when you have time to read it, and until last Tuesday, I was preoccupied with The Awakening for my book group. As soon as I set that aside, I picked up Mendelsohn's book, and dug in. It was lengthy, coming in at over 500 pages, but I finished it late last night before the due date today. My next book is also due in two weeks (now a week and a half) so I know what I'll be reading next. No time to catch up on the New Yorker! All this an aside to the main feature. The book.

I loved this book. Ever since childhood, Mendelsohn has been collecting family stories and compiling charts and tables of family connections. Yet, very little was spoken of the story of what happened to Uncle Schmeil, his grandfather's brother, and his family-- Ester, Lorka, Frydka, Ruchele, and Bronia during World War II. Vague notions of death at the hands of Nazis have made it back to the extended family in Israel and in the US, but there are no definites. In the book, the author details his search to find them and give life to what happened to them during the Holocaust in Bolechow, their town in eastern Poland. He travels around the world to find and interview extraordinary and elderly Jewish survivors from Bolechow who are able to shed light on the details of what happened to these six members of his family. It reads like a detective novel, with incredible plot twists and turns, even to the last minute. The way in which the story unravels, bit by bit, is amazing--what seems like amazing luck and coincidence to find just the right person at just the right time provide a great deal of what Mendelsohn ultimately learns. The last trip he takes, returning to Bolechow, is gripping and moving. When the author sinks to the ground, overwhelmed by what he has learned, I, too, felt a rush of emotion for the finale of such an incredible and heart-rending quest.

Additionally, the author recounts the stories in Genesis--the creation, Cain and Abel, Noah, Abraham and Isaac, and Sodom and Gomorrah--in parallel with his own story, "highlighting eternal themes of origins and family, temptation and exile, brotherly betrayal, creation and annihilation." I found some great insights into these stories that are often bewildering.

He also includes many thoughts on the process of using fragile and subjective memories of many individuals to obtain History as it truly occurred. Ultimately, he concludes that the definitive version of the story of Uncle Schmeil and his family could not be obtained. In fact, it was remarkable that he could piece together what he did. He often reflected on how fortuitous it was to find these elderly Jews at the end of their lives and capture their memories before their seemingly imminent deaths. He also laments what he just missed, by not asking the right questions or finding the right people soon enough.

I love the way his book uses a personal family story to shed light on the larger historical context of the time. I find that for me, one of the best ways to understand history is through a personal lens. One family's story illuminates the larger issues and gives sense and personality to the historical details. Another of my favorite books that does this is Wild Swan, chronicling the 20th century in China through the lives of three generations of women.

Interestingly, the timing of reading this book corresponded with a surge in my own interest in my family's history. I have been poring over microfilm to locate Italian ancestors. I have been reading some histories of long gone Mormon pioneers and wondering about their families. That could be why I found his account so moving. I long for details on the lives of these vague women and men who have predated me and about whom I know so little.

Rebecca Wright

For my family history class this past week, I had to look up census information for an ancestor and I did some research on my Great Great Grandmother, Rebecca. She was a third wife. Although her husband William's first marriage had ended unhappily in a divorce, by the time Rebecca and William marry in 1869, William and Sarah, his 2nd wife, already have 8 children. In 1870, a year after they marry, Rebecca was not listed on the census at all. I found a record for William and Sarah, and their, by this time, 9 children. I also found a record for Rebecca's parents, whom she was supposedly living with. In this same household, William and an infant daughter, Rebecca's first child, were recorded, yet for some reason she was absent. Thus, in 1870, William was listed as a member of two households.

In 1880, the next year the census was conducted, Rebecca was indeed recorded, but this time, while Sarah was listed as wife, Rebecca was labeled as a 12 year old daughter, 2 years older than her oldest child. Her age at this time was 35. Clearly, the census taker was not introduced to Rebecca, and I assume that this tactic was used to try to deceive government officials that this was a polygamous household. Interestingly, Rebecca's location was listed, correctly, as Scotland. While the location of all the other children's births was listed as Idaho, it seems that Scotland would throw up a red flag for anyone bent on locating polygamists.

Because of a fire, records of the 1890 census were destroyed, and the remnant that remains does not include Idaho. However, in 1882, Rebecca moved to a farm with her 7 children to live separately from Sarah's family. Thus, in 1890, she would have been recorded as living in a separate household from Sarah. The question is where William was recorded.

In the 1900 census, Rebecca was given full legitimacy as a wife. William was included here with Rebecca, as household head, and 5 of their children were recorded as well. Sarah, age 72, was also included in this census, living with her youngest daughter, now age 27. William was not listed as part of Sarah's household. It is unclear whether his primary residence was now with Rebecca, or how he divided his time between the two households.

William died in 1907, and so by the time the next census rolled around in 1910, Rebecca, at age 63, was head of her household, living alone. She died in 1919 at the home of her daughter Ruth in a neighboring town.

I was most impacted by the 1880 census. I felt so much sorrow that Rebecca, as a third wife, she was not given any sort of official status. Perhaps she was happy to hide her wifehood from the census recorder, but to me, it symbolizes all my internal queasiness about polygamy. Later in life, only a few years before William dies, they are married by the state, with a marriage license, "according to the law." Interestingly, their marriage was performed in a furniture store, and in his journal, William lists the names of the two witnesses. (This, despite the fact that at their births, the names of several children are not recorded in his journal.) Unfortunately, because of several missing years of William's journal, we have no account of their 1869 sealing.

After my census research, I looked up Rebecca and William's family information and found that on average, she had a baby every year and a half, over the course of 17 years, totaling 12 children. However, only 7 grew to adulthood: her 5th child in 1876 was a stillborn daughter, in July 1885 her 5 year old Winnie died after an illness, in June 1886, she gave birth to Mina, who died three days later, in May 1887, her 2 1/2 year old son Fabius fell into a scalding hot tub at 2 1/2 and died shortly after, and then her final child was born dead, only two months later, in July 1887. Just the bare bones account of her life are sobering.

I wondered how she felt about being a plural wife, how she got along with Sarah, the other wife, and how she felt about the tragic deaths of so many of her children. I called my mom to ask what we knew about her, and she pointed me to the William book that had been compiled from his journals. I had recently received a copy. I spent some time looking through it, but was quite disappointed. William's journals were very dry. This is a typical entry. "March 1877: Sunday 4 Attended circle meeting this noon. Rebecca was delivered of a son at 8:10 PM. Roads muddy. Busy around home all week." Or this one: "March 1881: Sunday 17 Rebecca visited her mother to day who was quite sick. Deborah, Phoebe, and Ivan came home in the afternoon and told me their grandmother was dying. Weather fine today. Much good instruction given by the brethren. Monday 18: Rainy. Rebecca came home and informed me that her mother died this morning about 1 o clock. Maple Creek was overflowing the bottom." The only thing he says of his 5 year old daughter Winnie's death is "My girl Winniefred died this morning and was buried today."

There is no detail about how he felt save for the paragraph about the beetle in his ear that was driving him crazy and the paragraph discussing his frustration and sorrow that his daughter Phoebe is associating with Gentiles and not attending her meetings. He labels his own children by the name of their mother, such as "Rebecca's girls". This, I guess, to distinguish them from the children of his other wife. But, yet, they are still his children. Granted, I didn't read the entire book--I was skimming to find information about his family life and about Rebecca. But, his accounts of family events are devoid of emotion. I wonder if he was emotionally detached as a husband and father or if this is simply his writing style.

A brief bio of her, written in 1970 by someone not attributed, stated that she liked to visit her sisters and neighbors and always invited anyone who came to the farm to stay and eat. I wonder what she would think of my house: "She was a very particular housekeeper, and meticulous in her ironing, washing, and cooking." I wonder if she was happy. I wonder what her questions and heartaches were. I wish I had some of her own personal writings.

Marriage Dreams

Picture a smiling couple exiting the temple. The woman, beautifully clad in white, is walking down a hill, slightly in front of her new husband, holding his hand. All of a sudden, she shakes her head slightly and looks around with confusion etched in her face. "Where I am?" she thinks. She looks down, and sees her dress, looks back and sees the temple and a man, smiling broadly at her. With a shock of realization, she knows that she has just gotten married to someone, yet, she has no idea who he is. The last she can remember of her life is from 4 months earlier. She asks the stranger, "What is my major?" He looks at her quizzically. "Hurry! Answer the question!" He responds that she is studying elementary education, of course. Her thoughts are like a shriek. "No! No! That's not right. I am a physics major." She begins to panic. What can she do? She glances again at the man. He is smiling lovingly at her, but there is also a glint of anxiousness in his eyes. With a jolt, she realizes that he expects to have sex with her that very night. The thought revolts her--not only is he a total stranger whom she just married, but she is not the woman he thinks she is. She starts to walk quickly away. What can she do?

Then, I awake, my heart racing.

This is a dream I had probably 12 years ago, long before I married. I am the woman who comes to myself on my wedding day. As in most dreams, the boundaries between the surreal and the possible are blurred, and here, it is not clear what the dream events are that led to the "wedding day."

I have often thought on this dream. On my mission, I had several experiences with elders where they unrighteously tried to control my missionary behaviors. I began to understand that it would be possible to have a marriage where a husband--my husband even--would try to control his wife--me!--using his priesthood as justification. And I was scared thinking of marriage--for how could I know for certain that any man would not become the dominator or resort to such behavior? Perhaps that had in part spurred the dream, which, best as I can recall, occurred shortly after my return from my mission.

I think that the dream also reflected my fear that to marry as a Mormon woman, I had to become something that I was not. That I would not be able to find someone who would accept me as I was and would have to resort to hiding certain aspects of myself in order to find a husband. However, I knew that no such mask would be permanent and I would be left desperate and unhappy. For such a marriage, I feared.

This first attempt to write a story of my life was inspired by my recent reading of Kate Chopin's The Awakening. Written in the late 1800's, it is prescient in its look at women, domestic life, and discontent.

Stories from my life

Last week, we had an enrichment meeting that I organized. The topic was personal narrative and storytelling. G, the woman who ran the class, had the idea to do it--she said, she felt inspired that the sisters in the ward needed it and talked to the RS president about it.

In preparation for this evening, I had several conversations with G and wanted to write about some of the thoughts she mentioned to me about the process of writing.

• Everyone wants to believe that her life has meaning. Writing helps you find the meaning. Writing conveys the meaning to others.
• You are the link to five generations. You are the only person who will be able to tell your grandchildren about your grandparents. If you don't, how will they know? G told some great stories about her grandmother.
• Although typically you write for an audience (to their benefit), the person who gains the most insight is the writer herself. You don't know what happened to you until you write it down. I really like that thought. The process of writing actually helps you process and figure out the larger patterns of events in your life.
• Writing will help the sisters find a voice.
  

As an offshoot of this meeting, which turned out so wonderfully, we are going to have a writers' workshop. Sisters will bring stories they've been working on and then we will share in a safe environment and give feedback. I am really excited about this. I feel that there are a lot of things that I need to process in my life. It has been a very long time since I kept a journal regularly, and I am anxious to add this piece back into my life. And it will be a lot cheaper than therapy.

Parenting with Love and Logic

In my attempt to figure out how to handle some of my kids' less desirable behavior, I checked out a book from the library with authors from the Love and Logic Institute. I heard about them from my sister--they have workshops, books, and dvds to teach a method for parents and other adults (like teachers) to take back control from children, while at the same time promoting children's agency, responsibility, and ability to think for themselves. Over the last couple of day, I read through this book which first gives a basic overview of their philosophy and then gives examples to deal with specific kinds of problems. Like a lot of parenting books, it was a bit fluffy and the parent-child scenarios could be cheesy, but I think that their basic message is useful and I want to work to implement some parts of it.

The most important part of their philosophy centers around the idea of giving children choices and then letting them struggle with the consequences of their decisions. In an introductory chapter, they discuss two types of parents:
1. Helicopter parents whose lives revolve around their children, who hover over and rescue their children whenever trouble arises. Examples of this type of behavior include bringing their lunches and other forgotten items to them at school, protecting them from all unpleasantness, etc.
2. Control parents: These are the kinds of parents who make the children's every decision for

Ok, this draft has been sitting here a while. So just a few more thoughts:
--seemed more appropriate for older kids, not my 2 year old. I can't ask my 2-year old to walk outside the car for a couple of blocks when he and his sister are yelling at each other
--Christian beliefs pervade the book, moralizing that children who haven't learned responsibility are "going to be a certain way" so you have to look past all that, distill to "the program"

Overall, though, I feel the need to give my kids agency. It's hard to relinquish control for me, but I don't want to be one of those parents who are very controlling of their teen-agers. I've seen others like this, and I felt it was one of the things my parents could have done better as well.

Left to Tell

I read Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust a while ago, but forgot to write anything about it. It is the personal story of a Tutsi woman who survived the massive killing of her people by hiding in the miniscule bathroom of a Hutu pastor with 6 other woman. She is able to pass away the long hours there in prayer and meditation, with the end result being an amazingly strong faith in God and the ability to forgive the men who had murdered her family. The story is simple in its telling--it is only her personal narrative with little of the historical context--but powerful in its message.