My Brother Thinks He's Spiderman

My family and I watched the newest "Spiderman" movie over the past weekend, which I had been boycotting since, hello, there were already three Spidey movies out. But my brother and dad insisted – insisted, I tell you! – that we watch because "It's just better than the others, Angela. You don't understand." I didn't love the other Spiderman movies to begin with, but because I am a wonderful sister and daughter, I indulged them.

I loved it. I should have known I would. I went into the first "Ironman" movie thinking: "This is going to suck, really bad. It's going to be all guns and men and sweat and death and action." I came out a new woman (puh-lease, Robert Downey Jr.'s hotness had nothing to do with me loving it... okay maybe a little, but there's that scene where he's wearing the white cutoff and omghisbackmuscles). I also enjoyed "Ironman 2" and am awaiting the third installment. The "Batman" trilogy was phenomenal, in my opinion. Oh, and then there was "The Avengers." Well, "Spiderman" got me again. I genuinely love the action.*

The day after we watched the movie, I was sitting the couch in my "spot." My dad says that there's a permanent indent on the couch there, because I don't do anything except sit on my ass all morning and watch talk shows when I'm at home. I will neither confirm nor deny that statement. Out of nowhere, my brother runs into the room, leaps up on three-foot counter, and perches there like Spiderman does in the movie. He just hung out there for a little bit. My brother is soon-to-be seventeen, mind you. I thought he was going to rip his pants from the jump.

Mom-Angela took over at that point, and I yelled at him to get off of the counter. "Who do you think you are? Spiderman?!" Well, poo poo on you Angela, because he does think he is Spiderman. Alright, not Spiderman, but Andrew Garfield, the actor who plays the new Spiderman. In fact, their resemblance is one of the closest celebrity look-alikes I've ever seen.

But... just because we look like someone, do we have to act like them? I think when someone tells us we remind them of a certain personality, we subconsciously take on that role. As humans, we copy what we see to mold our own personalities. Think you're super original? Chances are, what you're doing has been done before. What makes you unique is how all of the things you do come together.

My brother thinks he is Spiderman/Andrew Garfield. He is not. He is a little bit like John Mayer (plays guitar), a little bit like my dad (witty), a little bit like my mom (reserved), a little bit like Rhett & Link (makes YouTube videos with his friends)... you get the point. He is Adam. No matter how many buildings counters he jumps on, how many guitar strings he strums, or how many videos he records, he will still just be Adam. And that is all he needs to be.

Exhibit A:

*Side note: Movie aficionados, please do not scoff; we all like what we like, and I promise I have some redeeming cultural qualities... although that may be hard to believe after my last essay regarding "The Bachelor.*

Big Ideas, Big Cities

The following is an opinion about a class reading assignment.

Between, "Late Victorians" by Richard Rodriguez and "Goodbye to All That" by Joan Didion, I particularly liked Didion's piece. 

I felt that what Didion focused on pertained more to me in this time of my life; "one of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened to anyone before." I am at a time in my life where I feel like my problems are and have ever been/will be solely conquered by me. No one else has gone through what I have. But we all know that is not true. So much of what she said resonated with me: overstaying your welcome in a place, realizing that what we believe to be glamourous is not so, and the feeling that mistakes you make when you are young simply disappear when you leave your current location. I liked that she admitted that change was needed, and while she experienced despair, which we may not all face, she took it on with courage and moved away with her husband. I don't feel the sense that she longs for New York any longer. She spent her time there, and Los Angeles is her new haven. I admired that, even though she enjoys LA, she cannot give a straight answer as to why the chose the west coast as their new home after New York. They are vastly different worlds–but she says that time is no factor. LA feels right now, New York is her past.

Unfortunately, I was not as much a fan of Rodriguez's work. Although I think that his essay had some strong moments, especially the ending, I felt a disconnect at the beginning of the piece. Nearing its close, I realized the essay was strongly commenting on AIDS, and I think that he portrayed the disease well. It was altogether sad and a little overwhelming but also beautiful. One thing I did enjoy very early in the essay was his description of his parents' views of the west coast, specifically how easterners moving west have a "sense of running from the past–the darkening time zone, the lowering curtain " I thought that was brilliant. What I did find interesting was that I could not tell from his tone what his opinion was of homosexuality. I gathered that he was gay, but I did not feel that he had a positive outlook on his sexuality or the community he lived in. Perhaps I misread the piece, but I think that that uncertainty is what caused my mixed feelings about the work.

This has nothing to do with anything...

... but if you like the classics then you might like this.

She also did an interview with HuffPost.

"I sure like me some ham."

The Reality Is

The first episode of 'The Bachelor' aired in March 2002. I was in fifth grade, hardly aware of what romantic love was at the time, hardly aware of reality television. 

Survivor had already been streaming into family rooms across America for two years, one of the pioneers of the genre, if it is even justifiably a genre. I imagine families sitting in blue-lit, darkened rooms  around wooden coffee tables stained with coffee rings, eating microwave meals for dinner. Who will get voted off of the island tonight? Certainly the tribal council's decision will alter the course of their evening, maybe their lives. If their favorite contestant is voted off, their milk will turn sour, meat rancid. If the favorite stays, ice cream for dessert. These families are to blame for the explosion of the reality television phenomenon.

Shelbie is one month younger than myself, but sometimes it feels like years. She is a television junkie, addicted to the sugar and spice of mindless shows. She eats up reality television, romantic sitcoms, and sexy dramas three-thousand calories at a time, leaving witty comedy and intense drama for the dieters. She watched 'The Bachelor' from day one, vying for it's excellence and hot guys. In fifth grade, I don't think I knew what the word 'bachelor' meant.

Somewhere between countless episodes of 'The Bachelor,' 'Survivor,' 'American Idol,' and 'Big Brother,' reality television became a women's genre. Not necessarily dictated by women themselves, marketers and advertisers decided to appeal to the primetime female viewership over the family unit. Women talked about 'The Bachelor' while dropping their children off for school, at the grocery store, on the telephone. Shirtless, attractive men with airbrushed, ripped abs and pecs became the centerpiece for all reality shows. Soon, spouses were sent off to bed alone while women found their pleasure on the couch from eight to ten.

I wasn't allowed to see 'Titanic' when it first came out in theaters. I was only in first grade. Every girl I knew had seen it, multiple times, within the first year of its release. My mother didn't approve of the rating: sex and death were too much for my naïve mind and virgin eyes. Shelbie had a poster of Leo DiCaprio on her wall, and I was always jealous that her mom was more lenient about television and movies than mine. She didn't understand why mom was so protective, and I would blindly defend my mom, unsure of the reasons myself since I thought I should be able to watch mature things. 

Look at the TV guide on any given weeknight, and I guarantee at least one reality game show has a spot. More than that, they dominate the ratings over intelligent, plotted shows. When did we decide that it was more entertaining to watch a guy make out with twenty-six different bikini-clad women than play whodunit with a murder mystery? As a nation, we prefer to sit on our asses and judge contenders on a love show or a dance contest or a singing competition, perhaps because we seek the rewards playing out right in front of our eyes. The lack of a true script makes us all feel like we have a chance in this world to be something great or love someone special. Real people become glamorous. 

Shelbie always tried to talk to me about the newest 'Bachelor' or 'Bachelorette' gossip. I remember listening to her endlessly chatter about Trista and Ryan, the first couple to successfully wed after 'The Bachelorette.' I would drown her out, scoffing silently at her for caring so much about two people she would never meet, two people who met on a game show. That's not true love, right? Season after season I rolled my eyes at 'The Bachelor' empire, despite the millions of women drooling over
Alex or Jesse or Travis or Brad or Jake. And don't even get her started on the hundreds of men who have passed through the bachelorette house. 

It's easy to get caught up in television lives. You trick yourself into thinking that you know them personally, and could one day be like them or be friends with them. Could you really meet your match on 'The Bachelor?' When you watch someone try to achieve their dreams or find love, you cheer them on and become invested in them. Marketers keep you coming back each week with the promise of drama, heartbreak or success, and you sit remote in hand, ready to console their woes and celebrate successes. Add internet technology into the mix, and you have thousands of women throwing themselves at the contestants on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. We can connect with these people in ways that weren't possible even a few years ago, but they probably don't care about half of the messages we send to them. 

One summer, I went on vacation with my friend Lauren. She and her mother are avid 'Bachelor' fans, and our trip happened to coincide with the season premiere of 'Bachelor Pad,' a spinoff where men and women compete for not just love but money as well while wearing basically nothing other than bathing suits. Sex, money, sexy money. Hot, right? I immediately wrote it off, but sat down to watch with them so as to not be rude. Who wouldn't want to sit inside instead of soaking up the salty beach air, feeling the soft sand beneath their feet, or listening to a band at the pier? Surely, not I. One contestant thought she was Malibu barbie, clad in pink and sparkles with a tiara on top of her platinum blonde head, so I anticipated promising source of jokes as my reward. I hated myself after the show was over. Something about 'Bachelor Pad' enticed me, and I tuned in the next week. The next time I saw Shelbie after my trip, we were at a local park. Two college-age girls moving like pendulums on the swingset. I indulged her with my thoughts about who was crazy, who was fake, and who should hook up on the show. Was I actually becoming a part of the reality contest culture? I had to combat it. I assumed my 'Bachelor'-hating persona once more, but I had approached a slippery slope.

‘Survivor’ is on its twenty-sixth season; ‘Dancing with the Stars,' it’s sixteenth; ‘American Idol,' its twelfth; ‘The Bachelor’: seventeenth; ‘The Bachelorette’: ninth. Are we overindulging as a society? When will this madness end, when will people tire of beautiful people doing beautiful things? I don’t think it ever will. I don't think I ever will.

My roommate is obsessed with 'The Bachelor.' She had viewing parties with her friends at home for every season, and this year, the parties moved to our apartment. We invited Lauren over for the premiere; she returned every week.

I don't like 'The Bachelor.'
I guess I can watch this episode with you.
No, I don't know who Kacie B. is. I didn't watch that season.
Hm, Sean Lowe is pretty hot.
I wonder what Sean's Twitter handle is.
I'm following Sean.
Oh my gosh, Tierra is a crazy bitch!
I want Sean to end up with Leslie!
I want Sean to end up with Lindsay!
I want Sean to end up with Catherine!
I'm soooo happy that Desiree is the new 'Bachelorette!

'The Bachelorette' starts in May. I'll have to tell Shelbie to come over.

Marketer's Dream

I have a gift.

I've known about my ability since I was young. At first, I tried to hide it. I wasn't sure what others would think. I was afraid of the consequences. Some people may call it a sixth sense. I consider it both a blessing and a curse.

I can memorize commercial jingles and one-liners.

We sit in our living room, staring at the bulky, silver television. The screen is rounded, glass – a device atypical to the sleek, LED TVs lining store shelves today. We're watching "Kourtney and Kim Take Miami." Go ahead, laugh. I like the show. It's mind-numbing and envy-inducing and glamorous and gross, everything you could want for your weekend viewing pleasure. Not only are we watching KKTM – yeah, I just used the abbrev, whatevs – but we're watching our fourth episode in a row.

"Life is amazing with the love that I've... found." Kraft cheese. I sing it like it's my anthem, but I don't eat really Kraft packaged cheese. Kellie looks at me, making a comment along the lines of "there she goes again." I know she secretly loves it.

Kanye and Kim are dating, if you weren't aware. This is pre-pregnancy, though he just sent her their first child via UPS. A cat. They name her Mercy. It's a wonder they can take care of themselves. How can they keep the white fur-ball from getting poo all over it's bottom, they ask. Smartphones to the rescue. Siri, how do you clean a cat's butt? Kim loses Mercy somewhere in the room the first night.

"Friskies, feed the senses." I use perfect pitch. I don't have a cat. I think cat food looks gross. I do, however, eat tuna out of the can sometimes. Contradictory? Maybe. Perhaps I am the cat they are marketing to. Kellie laughs at my vocals again. Brittany joins in with her.

A new episode. Scott's being an asshole to Kourtney, as usual. Today he's making a comment about her weight. Apparently 115 is too heavy and shouldn't she be able to get back down to 98 and he fell in love with her when she was super skinny and... god, Scott would think I'm a cow. One of them throws in a comment about the girls' vaginas for good measure.

"Safe-light repair, safe-light replace." I do have a car. They're getting warmer.

I may be the marketer's dream. I can remember the tunes, I hum them in the shower. I recite the taste the rainbow's and because you're worth it's, the maybe it's Maybelline's and the I'm lovin' it's. They're really just falling on deaf ears, though. I consume their messages, sing them to the masses. But I rarely buy into the hype. I am not the marketer's dream.

"How do you do it?" Kellie asks. "It's a gift," I say.
____________

This has nothing to do with the above reflection on media. Today, I saw a squirrel on a barren tree, one of the smallest and skimpiest on campus. The branch it was on was maybe the circumference of a pencil, and the branch was bouncing up and down, the squirrel was holding on for dear life. I laughed so hard. It's the small things.

"Short Takes" #7

"Moon Snail" by Barbara Hurd

I am surprised by how impressed I was at the end of this story. What begins as an artist musing about how she would paint the small moon snail, an aquatic creature whose shell she found as she walked the beach, ends as a reflection about the changing beauty of creatures. Hurd starts the essay with a quote from Aristotle: 

"No very small animal can be beautiful, for looking at it takes so small a portion of time that impression of it will be confused."

The author disagrees at first, remarking on the curves and colors in the shell. She then takes several paragraphs to describe the hunting process of the snail and how it finally captures its food, which seems to have taken much research (point for Hurd). She decides she will paint a triptych, the definition of which I had to look up. A triptych is a three-paneled painting, and Hurd finds that it is necessary because the beauty of the moon snail changes when it hides from its own predator, the starfish, it crams itself inside its shell to a claustrophobic point, organs squeezing against the shell walls. "Aristotle notwithstanding, this has nothing to do with size but with unseemly proportions and the reminder that need so often vulgarizes form" (198-99). Hurd believes that when "hunger and threat intensify"that beauty recedes, and she leaves readers with an image of her painting's final panel, which would depict snails squeezing themselves in their shells, to the near point of death by suffocation.

This essay actually reminds me of a science class I took my freshman year called Animal Kingdom... otherwise known as the most boring class ever. Without coffee to get me though, that class was hell. Nonetheless, I went every time because the professor tried so hard, and I actually did find some of the information interesting. We spent a great deal of the time watching videos about sea creatures because they are the beginning of our evolution. I find sea creatures thrilling because they are "the unknown," and actually many are so small that you can hardly see them, but they are extremely beautiful [aside over]. 

I think that Hurd does an excellent job with the scientific description in her story, so that impresses me. Then, I am left musing about how beauty can recede in all of us when greed, hunger, or threat face us. We are not snails, I know. But like snails, when we threaten or are threatened, our appearances change to a darker state. That can be both outer and inner appearances, just like the snails. When we are angry or defensive, our ugly sides emerge – eyes glare, words burn. Hurd is accurate in her final thoughts, and thus I am pleased with where she leaves me.

-Sorry that was so long, I just ended up really liking the essay.-

This week I also read:
"From Two or Three Things I Know for Sure" by Dorothy Allison

Tell Me A Story, Dave

Dave Eggers is one of my new favorite authors (Mish, don’t hate me). I love his sarcastic undertones and sense of humor, and I also appreciate the way that he can get serious about things when he needs to — and then pull back with a one-liner. It’s comforting for me to read about his difficulties in that way because I find that I often use the same coping methods when I talk about serious things, albeit without as keen a sense of comedic timing. I would say that I need to find this man and marry him so that he can just tell me funny things all day, but that would be weird because of the age gap (Or are large age gaps trendy now? I don’t know.).

Though he has a pretty standard “voice” throughout the novel, which we’ve talked about in class as one that is intelligent, witty, sometimes racist, and oftentimes overzealous, Eggers mixes different tones in his writing.

One example of this, which happens to be one of my favorite sections, is his script of a typical conversation between himself and a school mother. Eggers uses italics, parenthesis, and normal type so that the reader can decipher between what he is thinking and what he actually says. His answers to the mother in the script are what you would hope he would say for the sake of social norms, but his thoughts are mocking yet answer the question.

MOTHER 

(grabbing BROTHER’s forearm)  

Oh, I’m so sorry.

  

BROTHER 

No, no, don’t worry. 

(wanting to add, as he sometimes does, “It wasn’t your fault.” He loves that line, especially when he tacks on: “Or was it?”) (100-101)

That passage tells so much about his character. We get that he is biting and somewhat bitter that people ask him the same questions over and over, but we also can tell that he understands that such questions are human nature. He answers mostly in truth, but the reader sympathizes with him (even though that is not his goal here) and realizes the reasoning he has behind the bitterness. The reader forgives him for making snide internal comments because he is doing something really hard: taking care of a child. He undercuts the formality of the situation with his humor.

Another interesting tone shift Eggers makes, which I think contrasts well with the one described above, is his ability scene set. When Eggers describes his surroundings he gives a great illustration with his own flair with exaggeration. I don’t think I’ve ever been left unclear about his setting.

“We drive past Half Moon Bay and Pacifica and Seaside, the condos on the left and the surfers on the right, the ocean exploding pink. We pass through cheering eucalyptus and waving pines, cars reflect wildly as they come at us, they seem to come right for us, and I look through their windshields for the faces of those coming for us, for a sign, for their understanding, for their trust, and I find their trust and they go by. Our car thrums loudly and I turn up the radio because I can.” (53)

Eggers tells us what his surroundings look like, who he is with, what they are doing; I have picture immediately with the eucalyptus, pine, pink ocean, cars reflecting, and the radio. He takes it one step further, as only he can, with “waving,” “exploding,” and “cheering.” Of course I can’t ignore the scenario he poses as well, that these random people driving by actually recognize his life’s story and trust him. He knows they don’t. We know they don’t. When he inflates the truth, he becomes breathless and hopeful and excited. And I can relate to that as a reader because he is honest about the wild ideas in his head; we all have them, but he says them.

This works well with the tone mentioned previously because it puts his thoughts almost in reality, more so than his parenthetical sarcasm does. We see a “real” play-out of his thoughts in these descriptive instances. Whatever his tone, he is purposeful, aware, and he puts it all out there for us to take in. And I love it.

"Short Takes" #6

"The Mother" by Anne Panning

This piece is extremely honest, and I think that Panning is able to show us a vulnerable side of herself and still seem likable  She presents a situation unique to her, but I think that the feeling can translate to everyone. She talks about what it feels like to be a mother and how she eventually feels so sluggish and frumpy that she wants to "eat potato chips and watch reruns of Providence and cry" all the time. I think we've all had those moments where we want to forget our responsibilities and watch some trashy TV and eat all the junk food in the world, but she makes the scenario specific to her own life because she focuses on the motherhood aspect through a pair of glasses. 

Her glasses are out of date, and people used to compliment them. When she takes a trip to California for a wedding, she buys a new pair, apparently from Europe and of the latest trend. The trip leaves her half wishing she could live a fabulous life on the West Coast, but she also misses her son. When she returns, she looks at herself in the mirror at her son's play-gym. She doesn't recognize herself wearing the glasses and a fur coat, and she immediately feels out of place. That is not who she is, and she writes, "I am completely mismatched with my life..." I feel such a strong connection to that because as I try to figure out who I am and where I want my life to go, I often feel out of place and like a poseur. She realizes where her personality and values lay, and the piece makes me hopeful that one day I will, too, even if I have to feel "mismatched" first.


This week I also read:
"Two" by Steven Dunn

How many miles, etc.

Dave Eggers incorporates a few different stylistic elements in his first chapter of "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius." I can distinguish approximately three:

1. Flowing, smooth descriptive sentences
2. Choppy, stream-of-consciousness thoughts
3. Quippy Dialogue

Here, I'm attempting to emulate his choppy style, simply because I enjoyed that section of the first chapter the most. Also, I didn't cop out on a title. I just went with what Eggers did in his table of contents by writing the first few words followed by "etc." My topic is certainly not as serious as his, but in the moment, it felt pretty urgent.

"How many miles, etc."

How many miles to Clarksburg? I know it was 36 a little bit ago—twenty minutes? I don’t know. Shit. I should be there soon. Hold it. But I have to pee so bad. When’s the next sign—oh, I remember that exit. It should be soon, right? Turn up the iPod. Maybe the song will distract you. This truck is moving so damn slow. What is this—snow? There was no snow on the ground back there. “Let’s get these teen hearts beating faster, faster—" Why am I singing Panic! At The Disco? That’s embarrassing. I should delete it off my—no, I’ll keep it. Maybe I could pee in my Starbucks cup. No, that’s disgusting. But… can bladders explode? Maybe—I know, I’ll pull off to the side of the road and grab the cup. No, I’ll do it outside of the car. Is that illegal in West Virginia? I mean, it is West Virginia… I know it’s illegal to pee outside in Ohio—Stop it. That’s nasty. You can hold it. What would you do with the cup? What the hell made me have to go this bad? I didn’t drink anything more than usual on the drive—Just a little longer—Yes! I know that intersection. I’m so close. Damn it! Why is the light re—ok now it’s green, thank God. This music is pissing me off. Nothing I want to hear is playing. Next. Next. It even hurts to move my finger—can bladder pain extend all over the body? I’ll just pause it. Maybe a change in sound will make the time pass. Seriously, what is this snow? Freaking truck is blowing—Shit! A rock just hit my windshield. That could have been it. That could have made me pee my pants. That’s the exit. Right there—no, NO, don’t slow down. Okay I’ll switch lanes then—damn it, I have to go through this yellow, fast. Starbucks is too far. I’ll go to Panera. Should I buy some—no, worry about that after you pee. What if there’s a line? There better not be a freaking line. Okay turn right. Right again. Where to park—I’ll have to walk so far. Shit. Okay get out slowly—ouch. I feel huge. Take it slow. Any faster and you really will pee. Bathroom… bathroom… of course it’s on the other side. There better not be a line. Open the door…Classic. A line.

I wait my turn. Finally, I feel better.

_______________

This was my thought process for about twenty minutes of my drive home today. It was an excruciating twenty minutes, and I'm fairly sure I hobbled into Panera so as not to burst. It all turned out fine. And I even refilled my water bottle there.

Today I learned that I do not have the bladder of a blue whale (yes, I looked that up, and yes, Google showed some weird results with "which animal has the largets bladder"). I also learned that I'm no Eggers... but I can try.

A Mousetrap

I had never read anything of Virginia Woolf's before this class, and I was pleasantly surprised by her writing. I actually really enjoyed reading her work. I think what I favored most was her ability to pick one subject/object and expand on it in as much depth as the subject would allow. She comes to very profound conclusions in her work based on the smallest of objects: in the essays we read, a pencil and a moth. She is able to make grand conjectures about empathy and death from subjects that at first seem unimportant to the reader. A few things I noticed about her work are:

• Narrowly focused beginnings; more general life observation to end
• Favoring lengthier sentences
• Lush words
• The ability to be in the story without over-inserting herself 

The following is my attempt at emulating Virginia Woolf.


"A Mousetrap"

We set the mousetrap in the corner of the hallway, where I thought it be best out of toe's harm, because it seemed, being that my roommates might forget its existence, that danger was eminent if the trap was placed in a busy space. The trap was small, barely the size of my hand, I was astounded that a trivial piece of plastic could hold the ability to maim with the quickest of strokes. The mousetrap looked anything but ruthless in the dirty corner of the apartment, where feet rarely walked, but its deadly force would be surprising to an unsuspecting mouse that wandered upon an enticing dollop of peanut butter, who thought that a marvelous dinner would follow its grand plan to covet the treasure.

I imagined the dreadful moment when I, myself, would find that mouse, lifeless, lonely, and cold on the floor. I speculated that the discovery would occur at an unpredicted, unfortunate time; I would be joyful, and in a moment I would be faced with a murder I plotted but never believed would materialize. And life can be unexpected at the worst times, for even the littlest creatures. Doom will befall us when our hearts are light, and those hearts will suddenly be crushed because nothing satisfactory or even wonderful can truly last forever, at least not consistently. I would find a bag and transform it into a coffin; pick up the dead mouse at an arms length with the plastic, and bury the mouse in the trash, along with the spoils it never possessed.

________________

As an aside, I must add that I am currently in the midst of ridding a tiny fourth roommate, who so kindly squeaked and clawed at the wall above my bed for an hour and a half on Sunday night. I hope that the mouse leaves the premises before it decides to venture into our actual apartment rather than staying in the walls, as I don't want to deal with a poor, deceased animal.

I'm not afraid of Virginia Woolf. I may not write as eloquently about creatures and grand themes as she, but I can try.

"Short Takes" #5

"What Sacagawea Means to Me" by Sherman Alexie

I thought that this piece was kind of brilliant. It brought so many truths to light, in my opinion. What was most interesting to me was the feel of the piece, which itself mirrored the essay's topic: contradiction. Alexie delves into American culture and colonization, and he also touches on the great and terrible things that our nation has done or endured because of contradictions. I say that the essay felt contradictory because he talks about serious, sometimes solemn topics but he manages to keep a humorous air about the piece, which I admired.

For example, Alexie rattles off several often forgotten members of the Louis and Clark journey, like a slave and several men who were unpaid and unmentioned historically. He then continues with an anecdote about a dog: "It's even the story of Seaman, the domesticated Newfoundland dog who must have been a welcome and friendly presence who survived the risk of becoming supper during one lean time or another" (135).

In all of the pain and suffering colonization and American culture in general has caused, it has also triumphed. Our nation and its people are a contradiction, and in the conclusion, Alexie brings the focus back in a very astute manner. He says that he is Sacagaewa; based on his heritage, he is innately a contradiction.

This piece was very short but very powerful and thought invoking for me. I recommend it.



This week I also read:
"Clean Slate" by Joanna McNaney