This book was not what I was expecting. I don't know what I was expecting, especially with such a title, but this wasn't it. I think that threw me off at first, as I tried to plow through the first section and understand who the author was and who his father was. But as I continued to plow and read and understand and pull the pieces together, I got sucked into Nick Flynn's story and the simultaneous tragedy and wonder of it all.
I really appreciated the starkness of the voice, the unapologetic tone that Flynn uses. There is a lot to potentially hide from and be ashamed of, but he sets is all forward. He doesn't excuse his father or himself, and that somehow makes their actions okay. I didn't feel the need to pass judgment because they were just facts, just the building blocks of a story. It also made me feel secure, made me feel like things would be okay. I trusted the narrator's voice to tell me the whole story and give it to me straight.
I can appreciate the structure of the memoir as a whole, though parts of it didn't work for me. I really appreciated the dates at the beginning of most chapters. Especially when the narrative was switching from the past to the recent past, those dates helped ground me and put the story into context. I also appreciated the chapters that were in a different format, though sometimes I felt like their meaning was getting lost in the form, like the Santa screenplay. Overall, I felt like I knew where it was headed from the beginning and that made it interesting to put the pieces together. I felt like the ending was a little bit abrupt, and I wanted something a little more satisfying or definitive.
What I most appreciated was this examination of the relationship between father and son, between brothers, between mother and son. But mostly the father-son relationship. It becomes complex, real relationships between people and abstract inheritances of names and dispositions. I loved what Flynn wrote in the chapter called "Ulysses" on pages 23: "Many fathers are gone. Some leave, some are left. Some return, unknown and hungry. Even if around, most disappear all day, to jobs their children only slightly understand..." There is this aspect of absence that is fairly universal in all fathers, and this makes Flynn's experience to one very small degree universal.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
My Home Tree
I wanted to be alone that day. Traveling across England with a group of 26 meant very little personal time or space, and most of the time that was okay. But that morning at Stourhead Gardens, I wanted my own thoughts and time and breath and pace.
We had started the morning at Stonehenge. Because we were a school group and we were going before it opened to the public, we got to go into the stone circle, touch the stones, walk among them, sit in the wet grass at their feet, listen to their silence. The silence felt heavy, full of questions and old, old answers. It was awe-inspiring, but it was imposing. I walked around the circle of stones, pressing my warm palm into each rough surface, greeting the monoliths, memorizing the feel of mystery.
Stourhead was such a relief, such a release after Stonehenge. It was light and beautiful and required absolutely no reflection. (It was where part of the most recent movie adaptation of ride and Prejudice was filmed.) I needed the mental space. I had found out the day before that my dad's surgery from six weeks ago hadn't caught all the cancer. It had spread, and now there was talk of radiation and drugs and more tests. It was not good news. It was like finding out there was cancer all over again, only this time I was on the other side of the world and didn't have a phone.
As I walked around the lake and admired the views, I took dozens of pictures. Everything was a postcard. I was fascinated by the tree with the flowers that hadn't opened to the sun yet, still in the shade. The rounded red petals looked like fuzzy ribbed cherries. The back part of the lake was so perfectly still it reflected the green hill and blue sky and blooming trees perfectly. There were huge rhododendren bushes with vibrant purples, pinks, reds, and oranges.
Then I saw the perfect photo op: high green bushes with purple flowers next to a tall tree, all striped with early morning light. I could sit at the foot of the tree and be perfectly framed by the bushes. I set the timer on my camera, perched it on some rocks across the path from the tree, and ran to sit on the protruding roots.
And something magical happened. As I leaned back into the tree, I found the curve of the trunk that fit my back, with the perfect bend in the roots making the ground comfortable and moss on the tree to cushion my head. The camera clicked, but I didn't move. I felt like I belonged there. The tree was made to fit me, or maybe I was made to fit it. It was almost like the universe had slid into place, had stopped spinning for a minute. I had found my equilibrium on this swiftly tilting planet, the place where I was always on solid ground. The place where I knew who I was, where I could always find myself again when the world threw me off balance. It was my Home Tree.
Maybe it's silly to make so much of a tree, but it was a distinct and special moment. I didn't have to have any answers, or even any questions. I didn't have to worry about not letting my distress show or calling my dad or coming up with an essay or writing about Stonehenge in my journal. It was my tree. And I was home. When I finally got up to leave, I touched the tree, pressed my palm into the mossy bark like I had at Stonehenge, into the rough surface. It felt the same.
We had started the morning at Stonehenge. Because we were a school group and we were going before it opened to the public, we got to go into the stone circle, touch the stones, walk among them, sit in the wet grass at their feet, listen to their silence. The silence felt heavy, full of questions and old, old answers. It was awe-inspiring, but it was imposing. I walked around the circle of stones, pressing my warm palm into each rough surface, greeting the monoliths, memorizing the feel of mystery.
Stourhead was such a relief, such a release after Stonehenge. It was light and beautiful and required absolutely no reflection. (It was where part of the most recent movie adaptation of ride and Prejudice was filmed.) I needed the mental space. I had found out the day before that my dad's surgery from six weeks ago hadn't caught all the cancer. It had spread, and now there was talk of radiation and drugs and more tests. It was not good news. It was like finding out there was cancer all over again, only this time I was on the other side of the world and didn't have a phone.
As I walked around the lake and admired the views, I took dozens of pictures. Everything was a postcard. I was fascinated by the tree with the flowers that hadn't opened to the sun yet, still in the shade. The rounded red petals looked like fuzzy ribbed cherries. The back part of the lake was so perfectly still it reflected the green hill and blue sky and blooming trees perfectly. There were huge rhododendren bushes with vibrant purples, pinks, reds, and oranges.
Then I saw the perfect photo op: high green bushes with purple flowers next to a tall tree, all striped with early morning light. I could sit at the foot of the tree and be perfectly framed by the bushes. I set the timer on my camera, perched it on some rocks across the path from the tree, and ran to sit on the protruding roots.
And something magical happened. As I leaned back into the tree, I found the curve of the trunk that fit my back, with the perfect bend in the roots making the ground comfortable and moss on the tree to cushion my head. The camera clicked, but I didn't move. I felt like I belonged there. The tree was made to fit me, or maybe I was made to fit it. It was almost like the universe had slid into place, had stopped spinning for a minute. I had found my equilibrium on this swiftly tilting planet, the place where I was always on solid ground. The place where I knew who I was, where I could always find myself again when the world threw me off balance. It was my Home Tree.
Maybe it's silly to make so much of a tree, but it was a distinct and special moment. I didn't have to have any answers, or even any questions. I didn't have to worry about not letting my distress show or calling my dad or coming up with an essay or writing about Stonehenge in my journal. It was my tree. And I was home. When I finally got up to leave, I touched the tree, pressed my palm into the mossy bark like I had at Stonehenge, into the rough surface. It felt the same.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Do you know someone who committed suicide?
I didn't want to write about this subject this semester, seeing as how I subjected you all to it twice last semester. But Emily's prompt to respond to this prompt got me thinking about it again.
Evan is not the first person I've known to commit suicide. The summer after 8th grade, my classmate Kevin killed himself. He was thirteen. I don't know if we were really "friends," but we'd had several classes together for two years. He was funny, kind of a goof off. I never, ever would have guessed that he was suffering. I found out that he shot himself in the mouth in the orchard behind his house, and his older sister was the first to find him. She sang at his funeral, barely making it through the song. It was so awful, the whole situation.
It was during that summer that I found out Evan was depressed. That's when the worry began, though I tried to ignore it most of the time. But he always needed some worrying over. Like the time he told me and some of our friends that his father hit him, once with a sprinkler head. We were appalled, though none of us would say the word "abuse." He told us not to tell anyone, but one of the other girls, Jessica, did. She probably told her mom, who made her tell our teacher or the principal. I remember Evan being called into the principal's office and Jessica revealing what she had done. Evan wouldn't talk to any of us for the rest of the day. Maybe that's when the worry began.
It still seems very surreal that Evan is gone. I forget, most of the time. I didn't think about him much in the last few years when he was alive, so it isn't weird that I don't think about him now. I still haven't deleted his phone number from my cell phone, though. At first I couldn't do it because it was too fresh, it hurt too much. Now I can't because...I can't. It seems wrong to just delete him from my life. The phone number wasn't even current. It's from at least two years ago, if not more. But I always kept it, in case I needed to get a hold of him. It was the only link I had.
Evan is not the first person I've known to commit suicide. The summer after 8th grade, my classmate Kevin killed himself. He was thirteen. I don't know if we were really "friends," but we'd had several classes together for two years. He was funny, kind of a goof off. I never, ever would have guessed that he was suffering. I found out that he shot himself in the mouth in the orchard behind his house, and his older sister was the first to find him. She sang at his funeral, barely making it through the song. It was so awful, the whole situation.
It was during that summer that I found out Evan was depressed. That's when the worry began, though I tried to ignore it most of the time. But he always needed some worrying over. Like the time he told me and some of our friends that his father hit him, once with a sprinkler head. We were appalled, though none of us would say the word "abuse." He told us not to tell anyone, but one of the other girls, Jessica, did. She probably told her mom, who made her tell our teacher or the principal. I remember Evan being called into the principal's office and Jessica revealing what she had done. Evan wouldn't talk to any of us for the rest of the day. Maybe that's when the worry began.
It still seems very surreal that Evan is gone. I forget, most of the time. I didn't think about him much in the last few years when he was alive, so it isn't weird that I don't think about him now. I still haven't deleted his phone number from my cell phone, though. At first I couldn't do it because it was too fresh, it hurt too much. Now I can't because...I can't. It seems wrong to just delete him from my life. The phone number wasn't even current. It's from at least two years ago, if not more. But I always kept it, in case I needed to get a hold of him. It was the only link I had.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Pittsburgh before it was home
As per Amy's request to "ugly it up" a little...
I hated the humidity here. It was especially bad during August and September in my little top floor room in a house with no air conditioning. I couldn't escape the smothering wet air that seemed to suck out my will to live. I sweat a lot anyway, so the extra water made me gross all the time. And then I'd freeze after ten minutes in an air conditioned building. Sometimes I was too hot to sleep and I would leave the fan on all night. I got so excited when it rained, because I thought the rain would clear out the pressure, cool things off. Then I realized that it just added to humidity without taking away the heat. I hated that it felt like being a jungle sauna, my hair that will not hold curl starting to frizz in weird ways. I could feel the humidity in my lungs, pushing them down underwater and holding them there. I would walk home from class late at night and be able to see, actually visibly see the water in the air around the street lights.
I hated not knowing where anything was. I could find a couple of things, but my geographic knowledge was limited to a five block radius at most. But I hated driving somewhere with my roommates and not recognizing anything, not having any kind of reference point for where I was. I couldn't tell north or south or up or down. I had no idea where a gas station was or a shopping mall. I was useless when people asked me directions. I could only plead "not from here" and hope they found someone more useful. It gave me a sense of powerlessness, of lost control.
I hated not having any friends. I have two wonderful roommates, but they aren't in school and our schedules are completely different. I didn't really know anyone in my classes beyond their names and genres. I hung out with people from church, but they weren't my friends. They weren't people I could call up at any time and say let's go out, let's do something. Or let's stay in, let's just hang out. I spent at least half of my time on the phone or on the internet trying to keep in touch with the people I missed so much. I missed being in charge, being the leader, being the instigator. I missed knowing the inside jokes. I missed being needed as a friend, being understood. I started to hate having to explain who I was again and again and again.
I hated the humidity here. It was especially bad during August and September in my little top floor room in a house with no air conditioning. I couldn't escape the smothering wet air that seemed to suck out my will to live. I sweat a lot anyway, so the extra water made me gross all the time. And then I'd freeze after ten minutes in an air conditioned building. Sometimes I was too hot to sleep and I would leave the fan on all night. I got so excited when it rained, because I thought the rain would clear out the pressure, cool things off. Then I realized that it just added to humidity without taking away the heat. I hated that it felt like being a jungle sauna, my hair that will not hold curl starting to frizz in weird ways. I could feel the humidity in my lungs, pushing them down underwater and holding them there. I would walk home from class late at night and be able to see, actually visibly see the water in the air around the street lights.
I hated not knowing where anything was. I could find a couple of things, but my geographic knowledge was limited to a five block radius at most. But I hated driving somewhere with my roommates and not recognizing anything, not having any kind of reference point for where I was. I couldn't tell north or south or up or down. I had no idea where a gas station was or a shopping mall. I was useless when people asked me directions. I could only plead "not from here" and hope they found someone more useful. It gave me a sense of powerlessness, of lost control.
I hated not having any friends. I have two wonderful roommates, but they aren't in school and our schedules are completely different. I didn't really know anyone in my classes beyond their names and genres. I hung out with people from church, but they weren't my friends. They weren't people I could call up at any time and say let's go out, let's do something. Or let's stay in, let's just hang out. I spent at least half of my time on the phone or on the internet trying to keep in touch with the people I missed so much. I missed being in charge, being the leader, being the instigator. I missed knowing the inside jokes. I missed being needed as a friend, being understood. I started to hate having to explain who I was again and again and again.
Monday, February 2, 2009
What have you waited a long time for?
I remember sitting in a restaurant the day I graduated from college, waiting for my family to arrive. I thought about that, about how much time we spend waiting for people to show up, literally and figuratively. About how so much of our lives are spent waiting. Waiting for the food to come, waiting to graduate, waiting for your big break, waiting for the test results, waiting for the day to come, waiting to board an airplane, waiting for the sun to shine, waiting for the rain to fall, waiting, waiting, waiting.
Mostly, I remember a time when I did not wait. My high school boyfriend, Scott, served a mission to England for the LDS church when he was 19, as all of our guys friends did. It's a two year mission and the rules are pretty strict about having contact with people back home--no phone calls and limited emailing. Sometimes when a guy has a girlfriend, he'll ask her to "wait" for him while he's serving his mission. In other words, he's asking her to not get married and to still feel the same about him when he gets back so they can pick up where they left off. It's a tricky business, waiting for a missionary. A lot can happen in two years, and with the limited communication, it's hard to keep the relationship strong. I know of a lot of couples who make it, and I know of more who don't.
I didn't wait.
I didn't get married while he was gone, nor did I even meet anyone that I could have married. But somewhere in between the time he went to England and the time he only had six months left, I realized that I didn't feel the same about him. I didn't want to pick up where we left off. I didn't want to wait. I had been all set to do all of that at the beginning. I wrote him letters and emails every week, sometimes more than once a week. I supported him, I sent him packages, I encouraged him to focus on his mission and the work he was doing. But the distance gave me perspective to see what was not good about our relationship, and then it still took me eighteen months to decide that I was moving on.
I don't consider myself an impatient person, but that decision to stop waiting was one of the best decisions I've ever made. Even though I lost Scott as a friend for a while, even though it hurt him deeply, even though it was hard for me to let that part of my life go, it allowed me to wait for the right person to come along. Someone who, ironically enough, is now waiting for me to have the experiences I need and want here in Pittsburgh.
Mostly, I remember a time when I did not wait. My high school boyfriend, Scott, served a mission to England for the LDS church when he was 19, as all of our guys friends did. It's a two year mission and the rules are pretty strict about having contact with people back home--no phone calls and limited emailing. Sometimes when a guy has a girlfriend, he'll ask her to "wait" for him while he's serving his mission. In other words, he's asking her to not get married and to still feel the same about him when he gets back so they can pick up where they left off. It's a tricky business, waiting for a missionary. A lot can happen in two years, and with the limited communication, it's hard to keep the relationship strong. I know of a lot of couples who make it, and I know of more who don't.
I didn't wait.
I didn't get married while he was gone, nor did I even meet anyone that I could have married. But somewhere in between the time he went to England and the time he only had six months left, I realized that I didn't feel the same about him. I didn't want to pick up where we left off. I didn't want to wait. I had been all set to do all of that at the beginning. I wrote him letters and emails every week, sometimes more than once a week. I supported him, I sent him packages, I encouraged him to focus on his mission and the work he was doing. But the distance gave me perspective to see what was not good about our relationship, and then it still took me eighteen months to decide that I was moving on.
I don't consider myself an impatient person, but that decision to stop waiting was one of the best decisions I've ever made. Even though I lost Scott as a friend for a while, even though it hurt him deeply, even though it was hard for me to let that part of my life go, it allowed me to wait for the right person to come along. Someone who, ironically enough, is now waiting for me to have the experiences I need and want here in Pittsburgh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
