Draft #2 April 27, 2010

Mom could not focus on anything that day, to save her life. After the “reshuffling,” as she called it, her work had doubled and the number of friends lost at her job—twenty-five years worth of dedication—had tripled. The last thing on her mind was how many insurance plans and benefits statements she had to revise before four o’clock. Her stares looked like clockwork: from the desk phone to the cell phone in-hand in her lap every minute, on the dot. Her daily routine had changed; the phone calls from her husband would be rare, and the phone calls from her daughter at college were forthcoming and inevitable. The death of her mother-in-law—her friend, her children’s “second mother”—had hit her hard, and her daughter could not handle it.

My phone calls were slowly decreasing in daily frequency, but the content was no less important or, for that matter, erratic. From sadness to anger to hysterics, the range of emotions felt through the airwaves of electronic communication was something straight from a mental hospital “mealtime.” No words could soothe her child—her young lady was still her baby—and she needed her mother’s comfort now, more than ever. Words exchanged could alleviate only the mildest blows of pain. Not able to talk to me person, Mom imagined my face: the tears, the redness and the eventual smile she hoped would light up my face once again. My breathing was always heavy. Mom could now time how quickly I, on the other end, could well up with tears. Some calls were predictable, while others puzzled her for hours. Mom felt guilty day after day, phone call after phone call, and wondered whether or not the decision to force me to continue with school was such a good idea. The phone calls played in her mind like a constant drone of buzzing bees, or the annoying muzak heard when put “on hold.” My voice filled her thoughts during every minute of everyday; she couldn’t reach me—physically or emotionally—and it broke her heart. I was in a different place in my life now; I knew that I was hurting, but I knew that I had to grow up. Mom wouldn’t always be there, physically, to get me through. I was stuck in the alley between adolescence and womanhood. It was as if I was a kidnapped child, straight from the television screen: the evening news’ weekly “lost child,” or the kid on the side of the milk carton that, eventually, comes back to her family.

My father had never been one to cope well with anything. His own thoughts and feelings were always projected towards my brother and me, usually blaming us for his, and the entire family’s mistakes. No amount of discussion or reasoning could break my father of his stubbornness. His impact on me evolved over the years to create a self-conscious girl, afraid to speak her mind: afraid that Daddy would somehow think I was “crazy for feeling that way.” “You’re crazy if you think that your opinion right now even matters at all”; this phrase will stick with me for as long as I live.

My father’s mother was dead. He was with her until her final breath. She was the only one who could make him calm. Even my own mother—his spouse—couldn’t help assuage his rage. A sense of anxiety and apprehension came over my mother like a tidal wave; how would my father cope? The Rock of Gibraltar had cracked and my mother worried that his life would spiral into a big, fat pile of depression medication and therapy sessions. Dad’s daily phone calls from two hours away slowly dwindled down to none at all. When he did call, he said nothing. He would sigh, say “I just miss her, Mel,” or quickly hang up before I could get a single “hello” out. I expected our conversations to be full of blame on his part and full of guilt on my end. Our relationship as father and daughter had changed. My harsh, spiteful father had, somehow, reverted back to his youthful ways: a kind, loving man. Of all the people in my life affected by my grandmother’s death, I was worried about him the most. He surprised me in ways that I cannot even explain, even now—months later. His anxious, hesitant daughter became a mature, confident woman. In the most terrible situation, some good came out of it. The shared love for a woman named Celia helped both father and daughter mature; the infrequent phone calls were a sign that they grew up. No words had to be exchanged for the two to realize the feat they had accomplished. A mutual, unspoken agreement was made.

Bennett always kept up with a busy schedule. Colleges would be looking at his extra-curricular achievements, critiquing his writing and analyzing his grades like tigers hunting prey; Bennett called this process “swimming in the shark tank.” His grandmother’s death had not only caused him to question everything around him—even God—but his grades slipped and his friendships changed forever. No one could understand what he was going through, in his mind.

Infrequently, my brother would call me while I was at school. Our conversations—if you could call them that—focused mainly on questions regarding the “best way to start an SAT essay” or “what kinds of classes [he] should take in the fall.” My baby brother acted as if he were calling the customer service line to get his computer fixed. No dialogue followed, no feelings were shared and no relationship was rebuilt—after all, I had left him to fend for himself against Mom and Dad. Grammie’s death made him feel alone, with no one to turn to, but this would surely change.

My phone rang off the hook all day, every day. Text messages weren’t enough for him; my brother needed verbal interaction. Mom couldn’t help him because she was too busy with me, and Dad’s “communication” was that of silence; I was his last option. At the start of his series of calls, I felt like I was the last kid chosen for the kickball team. My brother’s conversations seemed forced; he had nowhere else to turn.

Draft #1 April 26, 2010

Mom could not focus on anything, to save her life. After the “reshuffling,” as she called it, her work had doubled and the number of friends lost at her job of twenty-five years worth of dedication had tripled. The last thing on her mind was how many insurance plans and benefits statements she had to revise before four o’clock. Her stares went from the desk phone to the cell phone in her lap every minute, on the dot. Her expectations had changed; the phone calls once expected from her mother-in-law were of importance no more, and the phone calls from her daughter at college were forthcoming and inevitable. The death of her mother-in-law—her best friend—had hit her hard, and her children couldn’t handle it.

The phone calls were slowly decreasing in daily frequencies, but the content was no less important or, for that matter, erratic. From sadness to anger to hysterics, the range of emotions felt through the airwaves of electronic communication were something out of a mental hospital lunchroom. No words could soothe her child—her “young lady” was still her baby, and she needed her comfort. Words exchanged could only soothe the blows of the pain of death in the family. Not able to talk to her in person, Mom imagined her daughter’s face: the tears, the redness and the eventual smile she hoped could light up her face once again. Her daughter’s breathing was heavy and from this Mom could time how quickly the girl on the other end would well up with tears. Some calls were predictable, while others puzzled her for hours. Mom felt guilty day after day, phone call after phone call, and wondered whether or not the decision to force her daughter to continue with school was such a good idea. The phone calls played in her mind like a skipping compact disk full of elevator music—like a constant drone of buzzing bees with sobs in between the monotony.

Background Info/ Proposal April 23, 2010

I had never had to deal with losing a family member at a older age than twelve years old. Three of my grandparents, great-uncles and aunts and an uncle that my brother and I looked up to passed away before I hit my teen years. They say that a young mind cannot fully comprehend death until the teens years. I was always upset and sad that I would never see these family members until I got to Heaven, but I never understood why this happened to my family. It always felt like we were the only people that were experiencing death. I didn’t know that death happened to people and other things every, single day. I didn’t comprehend how death impacted my family. I didn’t know how losing so many people in my life at a young age would truly affect the way I dealt with things as I got older, especially dealing with death. I became fearful–fearful that everyone around me would be taken from me in the blink of an eye. I still had one person in my life that taught me how to properly cope: my grandmother, or “Grammie.”

Grammie raised me from infancy. She changed more diapers than my dad and mom had, combined. I never considered her a “grandmother” because she was a second mother to me. She was my best friend. I confided in her more than anyone. She always knew what was best for me and–she thought–for everyone else, as well. I never thought about the day when my grandmother would pass away because she had taught me so much about death; she taught me not to be afraid of it and to realize that it happens to everyone. I was never scared of losing her. I knew that when that time came, I’d be near her and would watch her go; I wouldn’t be sad because she wouldn’t want me to be sad.

We had spent the weekend at the cabin (the “river house,” as my mom likes to call it). The last night there was the night before “move-in day” on campus. I’d soon be going back to the gind, taking classes and focusing on getting a 4.0, just to make my dad happy. The phone rang and my Aunt Cindy called to tell us that Grammie had fallen in her bedroom; she couldn’t get up. My dad rushed home and took her to the hospital. The hospital told us that she had broken her femur. My dad stayed at the hospital, while my mom, brother and I went home and finished packing my things into the cars for move-in day. The next day was full of excitement: the all-campus picnic, new classes, a brand-new suite with my friends to live in and new-found hope because my grandmother would be having surgery the next day to fix her femur. As my day came to an end, I looked at my phone and saw that I had three missed calls and some voicemails. I called my mom back. My world stopped there. She called to tell me that my grandmother–my second mother–had passed away. I thought it was impossible. I never believed her. It was, simply, unreal to me that she was gone. This was the first time that I was not near a family member when they had passed away. I promised my grandmother that I’d be near her when she left us. I broke my promise.

I plan on focusing my project on how this coping was different than at other times in my life. I was not at home to cope with my family, as I had been in the past. I could only call my family members and share how I felt. I couldn’t stay at home and grieve. This was “coping at a distance.” It was different because I was older, as well. I want to show how I felt as though it was good to cope with the death of someone closest to me in this way; I was okay with her death. Even though I had promised her I’d be near her, I think that it was for the best. I feel that I wouldn’t had dealt as well if I had been near her at that time. This may seem like I am avoiding her death, but it is actually easier to deal with than I had ever thought. The phone calls will be an important way to organize my thoughts and my essay. I think that I can creatively weave my thoughts in with the highlights of these calls, the implications of them, as well as provide facts about coping at different ages and show some of the interesting ways that other people cope within my writing.

My research will consist of gathering facts about the coping process and the ways that it is different at various ages. I want to find some interesting ways that people have coped. I could possibly find documents, poetry and other forms of multimedia to include within or alongside my prose. I plan on interviewing my family members and discussing their thoughts and feelings about this situation. I may look at newspapers or magazines from August 30th, 2009, but I don’t think that I want to focus on that too much. I will research the uses of the telephone, starting at its very beginning.

I will use Susanna Kaysen as a mentor. Her ideas of being “trapped” will certainly help with some of my ideas I would like to explore further. I hope to use the multimedia aspects of both Momaday’s and Rankine’s work. Momaday’s connections to family will assist me in showing my family ties and connections and, especially, how those have been affected or changed through this coping process.

SAMPLE:

“Mr. Watston! Come here! I want you!” These are the words of Alexander Graham Bell: the first telephone call ever made and successfully received. He never met me. I never met him. He saw his invention change the world. It changed communication. It changed lives. He never saw how, years later, his invention would affect my life.

I’ve never been one of those people to plan out my writing. It simply comes to me on the spot and I have to write it then and there. I’m not sure where I want to start this paper, but I definitely want to use the idea of comparing forms of communication to the way that I was coping during the time after my grandmother’s death.

Define “Normal,” Please. April 16, 2010

The memoir Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen gives the reader an intimate look into her life as a teenager with mental health issues. Sent by her parents and doctor, Kaysen checks into McLean Hospital to undergo treatments for what they consider to be “borderline personality disorder.” Her “symptoms include, but are not limited to”: depression, self-image disorder, promiscuity, self-consciousness, anxiety, suicidal behaviors, etc. Kaysen introduces the reader to many different characters: the girls she befriends while at McLean, including Lisa, Georgina and Daisy. Their antics and outbursts, breakdowns and laughter are all described in great detail in this memoir–it is as if you are sitting there with Kaysen in the television room at “this place.” One can easily relate to Kaysen. Her words are straight-forward and her stream-of-consciousness is easy to follow and, in fact, easily relatable. She describes herself in such a way that the reader realizes that she is just a normal teenager. Her symptoms are those of any high school senior who goes through struggles and difficult times with teachers, parents and boyfriends, yet those closest to her find that she may be “crazy.” Kaysen describes what it means to be “crazy” while in McLean, and also what her parents think it means to be “crazy,” yet she does not tell the reader what she, personally, thinks is “crazy.” Reading this book, it almost feels as if Kaysen is an outsider looking in because she is so, oddly, normal. “Stranger things have happened.”

I truly enjoyed reading this book. Kaysen’s writing brings forth thoughtful insights about the notion of “crazy.” Who’s to say that Suzanna is actually crazy? Every other teenager at that time was doing exactly what she was doing–maybe even more, and, especially, more dangerous things. Kaysen is a teenager at the time of Vietnam, Watergate and the sexual revolution. Her place in upper class society does not allow for anything to happen “outside the box.” She thinks in a way that is very much outside of the lines of “normal” thoughts, or the thoughts of her social class. Does Kaysen even belong in this institution? To me, this memoir reads like a self-discovery of thought and self-image. What makes Susanna, Susanna? She is not a conventional person, thus this experience seems as if it is a journey that an artist must take as a “coming-of-age” ritual. Kaysen even states that McLean has been the temporary home of many artists and writers, such as Ray Charles, James Taylor and Sylvia Plath, thus she joins this list of various masters-of-craft. Susanna looks at things in her life and steps back; she thinks logically. Her logic is seen as insanity. She does not let the system define her; she defines herself. Life in the “real world” is not normal–the world is in constant chaos and her social class’ hold on people is like a boa constrictor claiming its prey through its stronghold. Her world inside of the hospital and inside of her head is normal; she analyzes things, thougfully examines her life and knows that the world is not always so black-and-white and not always so “good.” She discusses things that are usually considered “taboo.” Normal worlds discuss these things; natural worlds discuss these topics.

In my opinion, Kaysen is stuck in a parallel universe of normality. She has moved from the unnatural world of the upper class restraint and the “real world” of chaos, and moved to a world where she can just be herself, for once. This story details the journey of an artist trapped in a world that doesn’t accept artists. She is trapped in a world where her thoughts are seen as insane and crazy. This “trip to the loony bin” is her experience to explore her creativity and discover that she is, in fact, normal. She is a writer stuck in a word of non-writers.

The Effectiveness of Unlimitedness April 9, 2010

The American autobiographical tradition has changed greatly since its humble, Franklin-based beginnings. Rather than staying “within the lines” of literary composition, contemporary authors now find ways to challenge themselves, their personal style and the reader through the use of various multimedia. Reading experiences now involve more than just the written word, as photographs, poetry, digital text and works of art take up space among prose. Multimedia aspects provide non-traditional ways of delving into authors’ personalities and that which he or she chooses to share. As the “hybrid” autobiographical tradition becomes more prevalent in the literary world, so does its effectiveness. Hybrid styles, as seen in N. Scott Momaday’s The Names and Shelley Jackson’s hypertext My Body, make for more interesting and, frankly, insightful autobiographies.

Traditional autobiographies usually begin with a phrase such as, “I was born…” What follows this remains in the hands (or words) of the author: almost always, hometown memories, familial relationships and life’s beginnings. The non-traditional “tradition” places all control within the author’s hands. In Momaday’s The Names, he gives the reader a visual from the very start: a family tree with pictures of his descendants showing from whom he, literally, came. In Jackson’s My Body, she provides the “viewer” with what appears to be a self-portrait, with various body parts accentuated and hyperlinked to web pages of prose. The reader’s mind begins to wander from “square one”—one of the goals of multimedia usage. Traditional texts do not allow the reader to focus on anything but the reader’s birth date or hometown, and the reader may find himself wondering how quickly he can finish reading that page. Multimedia creates incentive to continue on with the autobiography. The reader has the potential to critically analyze Momaday’s family tree and speculate why certain family members look the way they do, why their names are different and why his father appears to be Native American and his mother, “white.” Jackson’s hypertext allows the reader to choose where he wants to begin; her autobiography serves as a more contemporary and intellectual “choose-your-own-adventure.” By clicking on her shoulders, the reader comes face-to-face with experiences concerning her “muscular shoulders, molded by swimming and tennis,” and the feelings associated with these experiences. These pages have embedded links to other pages and the reader takes himself through the “web” to wherever his mind chooses to wander. The creativity in these two works makes the reader want to discover more. The multimedia creates a real incentive to turn the page—or to click on the next link.

The concept of finding one’s identity is a challenge, especially when faced with the task of writing a story of the “self”; what makes us, strictly, us? The authors must also portray themselves in the proper light, even if their self-image is less-than-stellar. They must write that which is, ultimately, necessary for themselves, and themselves alone, without outside pressures or influences. Traditional autobiographies state what is assumed “necessary.” Benjamin Franklin shares his life story, his path towards statesmanship and his quest for self-perfection in his autobiography. This Franklin-based tradition carries on today in contemporary, yet strictly traditional autobiographies. His thoughts are self-explanatory, straightforward and he leaves nothing to the imagination; he writes only what is asked of him, from his peers and fellow Americans. Non-traditional hybrids do not limit an author. Self-identification may show itself in bits and pieces, little by little, sporadically or even, just like traditional ones, on “page one.” The multimedia aspect of non-traditional autobiographies helps enrich the author’s self-identity. Authors may not necessarily state what makes them, them. Though the reader may never know why certain photographs are placed between particular memories on the page, he may assume that these serve as an intimate look into the author’s thought process. He may assume that a photograph is necessary or unnecessary, or even random or familiar, but it is merely a tool to supplement thought and memory; the multimedia enhances the author’s “self.” Non-traditional autobiographies are, in a way, more personal because they are more developed. Momaday presents the reader with family photos of his parents after their wedding day, a portrait of his grandparents and a drawing of the landform after which he was named. Momaday may have constructed his autobiography methodically, or even randomly, but because his story is non-traditional, it is not limited. Momaday portrays himself as a part of something much larger and greater than himself. He does not find his identity inside, but he finds it through others around him and the environment in which he lives. If Momaday had not shared the physical photographs with the reader and had, simply, left the written word to be analyzed, the reader would not comprehend his peculiar identity and self-awareness. These photographs put faces to “The Names.” Had this autobiography been presented in a traditional style, its effectiveness would be absent from the story, itself. Shelley Jackson certainly does not show signs of limitedness in her hypertext. Her self-identity lies within her physical self and the memories she associates with her body parts. Her work’s digital characteristics are enough to alert any reader that she has crossed the boundaries of “traditional” composition. The hyperlinked body parts share personal stories that any reader can easily identify himself with: puberty, coming-of-age and clumsiness. Jackson’s identity hides, or screams out, within the sketches of her many body parts. The very personal aspect of this hybrid enriches her “self.” If her “text” had been in print form, and had not incorporated drawings, the story would be not be as effective. The reader can truly see the memories and feelings felt by the author. The reader can feel the connectedness between the body and “self” that Jackson possesses. As in Momaday’s story, without this multimedia, the autobiography would not work.

Traditional autobiographies leave the reader with a look into the author’s current life, as if their search for the “self” has ended: “where the author is now” types of endings. Non-traditional autobiographies, however, share the notion that the self is never “complete.” The search for self-identity and self-awareness is never final, even after death. Momaday’s story tells the reader that he is a part of his environment—if the environment stays alive, he, too, stays aline. Momaday’s search does not end. Jackson’s search does not end, either. As long as her body parts experience things with her, her journey and path may change. Photographs, as in Momaday’s text, are physical keepsakes. Momaday keeps his identity, in part, because of these physical reminders of who he is and what he has come from. Jackson’s hypertext remains on the internet for as long as she’d like it to stay there. She is able to edit it and modify it in whichever ways her “self” chooses. Her story does not end. Both of these non-traditional autobiographies can also be read in many different ways, because of the multimedia aids. In traditional autobiographies, the reader only has to read the story once in order to get an idea of that author’s self. Non-traditional ones make the reader question things long after he has read the story. Momaday makes the reader question his own life’s identity and connection to his physical environment. The photographs can be analyzed in many different ways. Jackson’s hypertext can be read in dozens of ways because the hyperlinks are not linear; the links provide different “journeys” into her identity for each individual who reads her work. Non-traditional autobiographies are not final because the “self,” one’s “identity,” does not end strictly with the turning of the last page in a book.

In both The Names and My Body, the authors exemplify the notion that multimedia aspects of non-traditional autobiographies are highly effective. They enrich that which should and should not be said. The authors are not limited, by any means, to any particular memories or thoughts. These types of autobiographies highlight the universal stream of consciousness that is “memory.” They do not begin traditionally, flow traditionally or even end traditionally. This makes for better reading and more effective writing styles. The notion of “self” is complicated; multimedia aspects highlight complication through simple things like family photos or self-portraits. There is a complication hidden within simplicity. Non-traditional autobiographies highlight the effectiveness of unlimitedness.

Works Cited

Momaday, N. Scott. The Names. Arizona: The University of Arizona Press, 1976. Print.

He is. April 2, 2010

N. Scott Momaday’s The Names uses a multimedia style to describe many events during his childhood and teenage years. Momaday begins his memoir through the use of a family tree. Outlining the differences in his mother’s “white” ancestry and his father’s Native American ancestry, the reader catches a glimpse of what lies ahead: Momaday’s memoir serves as a journey to find his identity, or, at least, make peace with it. Momaday shares family history, community memories, descriptions of landscapes, and photographs in order to inform the reader of who he is. He discusses his childhood recollections of movement from place to place. Momaday describes in-depth various landscapes in places such as Jemez Oklahoma. His family history, though at times lacking, is highly descriptive. The use of photographs assists the reader in forming more concrete ideas and memories in one’s own head, just as Momaday would do, had he been reading this aloud. Momaday’s writing style varies greatly. At times his stream of consciousness seems childish, yet at other times his stream of consciousness is that which stems from wisdom, maturity and older age. His memoir–similar to Rankine’s style–would be better read outloud. His poetic lines and abrupt changes would make for a better oral presentation.

Momaday breaks up his writing into blocks or paragraphs. This could be compared to his view of his own life on page 39: “That realization came to me only much later…as have the other rich revelations in my life, in moments one at a time.” Momaday very often switches from the past to the present, thus these moments–memories known or unknown–simply come to him. His freedom with style makes for a more interesting read.

I find that this memoir is a personal reassurance for Momaday. He continually reminds the reader of one thing: he is. His memoir is complicated and fleshy, yet at the same time it is simple and easy to understand and pick apart. Momaday intended, in my opinion, for this book to, simply, be read, be it out loud or in silence. Some things are just left unexplained or without any analyzing. Momaday writes on page 57: “I am. It is when I am most conscious of being that wonder comes upon my blood.” He reminds us that this book is who he is. Everyone, I think, has some sort of complication in their lives–this is what makes us all different. This is what makes us who we are. Without this complication, we would not “be.”

Momaday clearly states that his life has been about learning. Because he was stuck between two completely different worlds, he had to find a happy medium. He had to learn how to just “be.” I think that he effectively has done this. He writes on page 128 that, “Life itself is the object of such learning…it is simply the construction of an idea, an idea of having existence, place in the scheme of things.” Despite the many movements he had in his childhood, he remained true to himself. He learned how to appropriately live with himself.

The author uniquely describes the meanings of the different parts of Native American names. This explanation, however, can be compared to the way his life has turned out. Momaday explains that every name has a story behind it: “for the telling of the story is a cumulative process, a chain of becoming, at last of being” (p 154). All of the stories that Momaday knows of, and even those that he does not know of, have accumulated to form who he is. This is, once again, the author’s signal to alert the reader of his “being.” Momaday ends this memoir with a note for the reader that for some people in his life, “[he has] the names” (p 161). For others, he does not. He does not want the reader to judge the gaps in memory in some of his memoir, and does not want the reader to judge that which he or she sees plainly. The pictures placed within this memoir do help to put faces to names and to facilitate memories, yet much of Momaday’s life remains a mystery. Momaday does not see this as a problem, rather it is just who he has become. This is a his life and the reader is able to see it exactly how it is. This memoir is raw and complicated and deep, yet Momaday wants simplicity. This, in itself, is a complicated concept. I think that one should just follow his suggestion and see Momaday for Momaday; the reader should realize that he “is.”