Choose a single line, excerpt, image, or craft issue to examine in 1 essay due this week (select from required or optional readings): see what the writer is up to; how does it do what it does; what does it teach you as a writer? Responses should be brief. Do not summarize. While your ideas should be clearly formulated and presented, these responses are not expected to be formal or linear — think of them as conversational, meditative, exploratory.
23 responses to “Week 2 Reading Response”
“We treat desire as a problem to be solved, address what desire is and for and focus on that something and how to acquire it rather than on the nature of the sensation of desire, though often it is the distance between us and the object of desire that fills the space in between with the blue of longing. I wonder sometimes whether with a slight adjustment of perspective it could be cherished as a sensation on its own terms, since it is as inherent to the human condition as blue is to the distance?”
“The Blue of the Distance” by Rebecca Solnit
The idea of the space between desire and achievement of said desire is a concept that Solnit muses on throughout the essay. She forms a connection between this common human experience and the color blue. The use of the color evokes a visual image that makes the concept more real. We understand what she means by saying the sky is blue and that distance is physically represented by the color blue. We also can understand the emotional distance of want and reward. By tying these two concepts together, Solnit offers a more metaphorical existence of the color blue. And we follow the metaphor.
This quote in particular is phrased as a comment or a musing on how we as humans view our lives and the concept of desire and longing. This comment is something that, perhaps, some readers have thought about and if not, she introduces the idea. She doesn’t try to convince the reader of anything, but merely mentions it as if in passing thereby inviting us to do the same. This is carried throughout the piece as the audience follows along with her train of thought. She leaves it up to each reader to determine exactly what we believe while still offering her thoughts on the matter. This style opens up doors of possibilities in the mind of the reader. Perhaps we will begin to cherish the distance between like Solnit does, perhaps we will not. I find that her story is compelling enough to at least contemplate it as she does. And perhaps that is the point in and of itself. To consider. To sit in the feeling if even for just a moment. To experience to blue of wondering and distance.
While reading “Where I Slept” by Stephen Elliot I was intrigued by the line, “…this is just a list of the different places I slept. It’s the only way I can get any perspective.” I began to think of the reasons why the author chose to structure their homelessness around sleeping. In this line, the writer states that their purpose is to gain perspective on a traumatic childhood by listing the places where they slept. It can be easier to remember all the places one slept rather than all the harm and trauma that one went through since no one wants to remember that, compared to sleeping which can be the only place someone can find comfort even if the sleeping place is not ideal. Every time the author listed a place they slept they were able to remember how they got to that place, what happened when they woke up, or how they knew the person who let them sleep there. After they recall those traumatic events, they remind the reader that the story is not about those events but about where they slept. Perhaps they aim to draw away focus from the horrific and traumatic events. Perhaps they don’t want to charge the reader emotionally, or maybe they do. Perhaps the story is not about sleeping at all and it is about the trauma that they tried to avoid.
Moreover, I thought that sleeping frames homelessness in a specific way. Why did the reader choose to focus on sleeping rather than what they ate, what they wore, or the places they had been? To sleep, a person needs a roof over their head, warmth, comfort, and the physical ability to do so. It also sparked the idea of house vs. home because, in the fourth paragraph, the author talks about sleeping at home and having a large bedroom. Perhaps home was “home” at one point but later evolved into a house they could no longer go to.
This teaches me that writing does not have to be told linearly to be effective and impactful to the reader. As a writer, I can choose to focus on something else to bring me to what I want to talk about or remember. Maybe it can bring me to things I don’t want to remember. I can write to uncover details about events of the past that I wouldn’t have been able to without talking about something else.
Total Eclipse by Annie Dillard
I have seen a total eclipse before. Like Annie, this moment was something monumental for both me and the people I was with while it was occurring. While it was happening, I could not stop wondering if the animals were confused by the sudden darkness. Annie described the feeling of darkness when the sun was gone, how it dropped a few degrees when the sun was gone. I remember that feeling vividly. It was odd to not only see the eclipse but feel it too. Did the squirrels think the world was ending? Annie discussed that she felt strange during the eclipse. It is strange and amazing to witness something so apocalyptic yet natural. Both Annie and I knew of this event, we prepared, we watched. I wondered what the animals felt when the world turned dark. Were the deer confused? Then a few minutes later the world was back to normal and everything was as it was but we had all experienced something extraordinary. Were the animals still in shock afterward? — Now it is just a memory that I only really remember if I look back at my photos from that day. How did such an event become so insignificant? I wonder if the animals are still confused about the event they will never fully understand.
I enjoyed the way that Dillard worded her story. Passages such as “To put ourselves in the path of the total eclipse, that day we had driven five hours inland from the Washington coast, where we lived” and “It is especially different for those of us whose grasp of astronomy is so frail that, given a flashlight, a grapefruit, two oranges, and fifteen years, we still could not figure out which way to set the clocks for Daylight Saving Time.” Her writing is very descriptive in her own personal way. As the reader, I really got to view HER experience of the eclipse which made the passage more interesting. It was not just describing what it was like to experience an eclipse but what she was doing, feeling, experiencing before, during, and after the eclipse while making the reader fully engulfed in the story.
While reading The Green Room there were several things that stood out to me. Even in the first paragraph you are able to gain such a sense for the relationship between Sloan and Layla. Sitting by the ocean is something you do with someone you want to talk to and are comfortable with and that gives the reader such a clear idea about the comfortability that these people have with each other. Also the tone and bluntness that they use with each other when talking about such serious topics reveals that they confide in each other and have an understanding between them.
Sloan jumps around to many different points in time. Some follow their own childhood, sometimes they write about their parents, and at other times they speak from their adult perspective. While it took a bit more effort and need for attention to not get confused, I think this style lent itself to giving the essence of memory. People don’t remember their life chronologically, certain memories get lost while others stick with you forever. I think their writing allows you to have that feeling of nostalgia and reflection. I think this taught me about using a certain narrative structure to help convey emotion within a piece.
“I have tried to understand how he felt. I have tried to write about my father.”
Eliot Sloan: The Green Room
The shift in perspective from the author herself to her father is sudden and there’s an underlying desperation to just understand where he was coming from — what he felt. Sloan struggled with her father’s actions and identity her whole life. She can’t relate to his decisions, but she loves him. She wants to make the past better, to justify it somehow. To be able to love him without pain.
Her words from her father’s perspective are decisive. They are not speculative. It’s written as an account, not a guess. In this way, it can be difficult to discern her likely bias in the writing. Does she know exactly what her father thought of her mother, or does she just imagine that she does? Did her father truly think that her mother was “radiant and golden and so beautiful he sometimes had to watch her while she slept, amazed it was real, her beauty.” It would help her face his choices if he did.
We don’t truly know though. The reader is left with the same questions that Sloan herself has. We feel her confusion and her hope. Without the perspective of her father, we would not feel his guilt and pain so profoundly when Sloan writes that he hated “those looks she’d give him at dinner sometimes, her eyes silently begging for time with him alone.” We sympathize with him, but we feel her mother’s pain too. We are torn between the parents, much like Sloan has been.
This perspective shift highlights the fluidity of writing and the importance of the narrator. Instead of simply staying in one place and one voice, flipping the narrator can pack a punch that the author’s sole voice cannot always convey. This shows that creative choices pay off and that you do not need to know everything to write. Knowing just a bit — and with feeling — is enough to create something in-depth. And it’s all right to be wrong and to search for a truth yourself while pulling your reader along that journey with you.
The line, “My father tells me as we walk the dog one night that I am an extension of him, that we are hardly different at all. His decision to be with men makes me feel ugly, barren, rejected. I look into the mirror and pull the hair over my eyes until I can’t see his face anymore.” in The Green Room punched me in the gut, for both parties involved. There is a bit of irony in this line, as the father also felt shame over his sexuality, and his daughter shares the same shame about him— they are hardly different. This story is as much about her father as it is about the narrator, but mostly about their connection together. The narrator is almost selfish, that her father’s sexuality makes her feel less desired in the eyes of boys, makes her specifically feel “ugly, barren, rejected”. But I can’t imagine how it makes her father feel, both good and bad. I like how the reader shows this selfish side of her, something that is complex and maybe not proud of— it has shown me to bring this authenticity of my actions and feelings, even if ugly, as it brings a rawness to the story.
Like I said, this story is as much about the father as the daughter, and this is evident in the switch where the narrator says, “I have tried to understand how he felt. I have tried to write about my father.” I thought this perspective shift was so beautiful and inspiring to my own writing, and it gave us a deeper understanding of the narrator’s view of her father, trying to speak for him. We don’t have his voice, so we won’t know. It is a picture of perception. This showed me I don’t have to write completely in my voice, there can be a bit of reimagination within memoir writing, expanding the boundaries of the writing in ways I didn’t think of. This whole section made me so emotional. We see all this anger from the narrator towards her father, all this resentment. The understanding through a writing form was an unexpected conclusion. I felt like I got to know so much about the father, about his hopes and dreams, and humanized his struggles.
“”Hey, how’s my hair doing?” She asks suddenly. […] I make an okay sign, thumb and forefinger. The music is deafening.”
“Cousins”, Jo Ann Beard
The style of writing that Beard undertakes in “Cousins” is one of my favorite kinds. Rich, observational, all-encompassing, a work of atmosphere instead of plot. The quote above was exchanged between the author and her cousin, Wendell, and it is a motif that threads itself through the story and follows the two girls as they age. At no point in the story is it entirely clear how old the girls are, just that they are the same age—born from sisters who got pregnant at the same time. Which ostensibly makes them cousins, but they seem to function more similarly to twins & best friends: going through each stage of life together, from playing with dolls to dancing in bars to getting married.
The uncertainty surrounding their age makes for an interesting reading experience, as it’s never explicit that time is passing. Their ages blend together, and they seem at once 14 and 24. The author’s intent here, I believe, was not to show a linear map of their lives, but rather emphasize the fact that they were girls, and that they were girls together.
Though there’s not necessarily a storyline, Beard creates an atmosphere of nostalgia and growing up through beautiful imagery and sparse but intentional dialogue. The reader both longs to join them and is simultaneously content to just watch. It is full of action yet overwhelmingly peaceful, and you get the sense that the author isn’t romanticizing nor deglamorizing, but telling it exactly how she remembers it, which allows the dynamics of their family to flourish.
I appreciate how she begins and ends the story with her mother and aunt pregnant, because it makes the whole thing circular in a really beautiful way. Similarly, Wendell asking Jo how her hair looks carries them from beginning to end, from childhood to adulthood, and consoles the reader who wishes they would never grow up.
“Some light does not make it all the way through the atmosphere, but scatters.” – Rebecca Solnit
While reading The Blue of Distance, I was struck by how much the writer’s portrayal of blue and how it affected her resonated with me. Creating different sections for different parts in her life when the color blue had an emotional impact on her resonates with me because until reading, I didn’t realize how big of an impact the color blue had on me.
For six years I focused on hitting a blue cross on a wall as fast as I could in a blue pool, in a blue swimsuit. For six years I associated the color blue with passion, fire, and speed. Now, I have drifted from the fiery mindset and begun to view blue as a reminder of growing up and becoming an adult like the author. The author goes on then to describe all the beauty the color blue gives the world, which reminds me of how much the color has changed for me as well. The color blue has transformed from the rigidity of a pool to all the blue that comes with Mount Holyoke.
“Years later when I was at a party telling my favorite story, about hitchhiking from Chicago to California with my best friend, he would interrupt me and say, “Steve, I was molested.” – Stephen Elliott in “Where I Slept”
His story truly intrigued me. The way the author chose to tell a part of their life that permanently affected them but took a somewhat dry and funny approach stood out to me. It is not a sob story but it did make me giggle sometimes even though this should not be funny. The quote that I chose is so absurd because it depicts the author as an unreliable narrator looking for bits of positivity in traumatizing experiences. They reject victimhood. I believe this to be relatable for a lot of people. You can twist and distort a memory to the degree that even you are uncertain of what the truth is.
The author also works with a lot of repetitions. The title already implies this but they start almost every paragraph with “I slept…” and whenever they added horrifying experiences they would start or end with “But this isn’t about…” The repetitiveness of these phrases eases the reader (possibly the author too) into this story and the matter-of-factly writing takes away some of the depth and sharpness. Moreover, the choice of words makes it out like he had a great year as a teenager, e.g. “I was always the last to leave the party. I never had to go home.” It sounds almost like he had the freedom other teenagers wished for.
What I got from this text is that you can write a story and be unconventional. Just because you write about your own (traumatizing) experiences doesn’t mean you have to do it in a way that makes the reader pity you. You can also just tell the story how you want to remember it rather than the actuality. Unconventional approaches like a funny one can make as a good a story as any.
“At 13 we lay up in her loft bed one night and talked about praying: how she asked God to save her dying father, how I squeezed my eyes shut and hoped that someone would come down to this tiny hole of an apartment and save her, Layla.”
– Eliot Sloan, “The Green Room”
I love this line because clarifying Layla’s name at the end adds so much intrigue. The clarification feels like it doesn’t need to happen, of course, we are talking about Layla, but the name at the end makes it so intimate. To call someone by name is something I think is taken for granted, I’ve noticed I actually don’t do it much in my life. How often does someone say your name in front of you? It always seems to surprise me. Saying someone’s name adds emphasis and makes statements so much more personal. By punctating this plee with Layla’s name the plee is grounded in love and a sense of knowing.
However, it also begs the question of who else could we be talking about. Could the “her” have been Sloan herself? Perhaps Layla’s name is a reminder to Sloan of her purpose in that room and her desires. As a writer, I think surprising readers in small ways is quite effective. It wakes the reader up by breaking a pattern set by usual ideas about storytelling.
” This isn’t about hate or love or what went wrong between my father and I or the kind of resentments that never go away. This isn’t about splitting the blame between bad parents and bad children. It’s not about culpability. It’s about sleeping and the things that are important to that like shelter and rain.” – Stephen Elliott, “Where I Slept”
This quote stood out to me in this essay because it in my opinion felt like it contradicted the rest of the essay. In the essay, it felt like the moments about Elliott’s troubled childhood felt like it was not just about sleeping and shelter. I was drawn in because of the relationship he had with his father, and the times he got kicked out of the house, apartment, and moved everywhere just to try to survive. The moments throughout Elliott’s life that he experienced were moments that felt like something not to focus on.
I believe that what Elliott is trying to do with this quote is to contradict the reader. Maybe Elliott was implying that life happens, and his moments are moments in his life and that doesn’t define him or who he is. His life is so much more worth than a traumatic and hard childhood, which is why he said that this essay is about sleep.
The Green Room by Eliot Sloan
An image that stood out to me was the image of the beach. The author describes her relationship with Layla and showcases the passing of time while being on the beach. The reading started with Layla and her at the beach enjoying each other’s embrace and company and talking about their fears of their father’s dying. The descriptions of Layla’s makeup and the beach give the reader a sense of the comfort that the two characters have together.
Later on, she says, “I miss the moodiness of the storms there. The way Layla and I stayed up so late some nights, talking and touching shoulders in constant rain, drifting off on each other to wake up secretly again, tangled, the endless summers drumming of rain pelting the window.” (7) There is a lot more of a focus on imagery of rain and storms. She uses words such as “tangled” and “pelting” which conveys a sense of discomfort contrasting her previous description in the beach.
“But that is not what this is about”
I was technically homeless once for three days in which I slept in a rented moving van with my cat, Figaro. Stephen Elliot’s piece hit home for me. I too, had parents with substance abuse issues – one who died young and one that was left demanded that I “get my own apartment” while I was a junior in high school. I was an older teen than Elliot so it was easier for me to find a roommate and I supported myself with two jobs. I also got a very small amount of money from my father’s death benefit which I used to buy myself a used car.
After high school, I enrolled in college, but two and a half semesters in, the bill was unmanageable and I had to drop out. I rented a moving van with a charge card. I put all of my belongings, myself, and my cat in the van. I set up my mattress in the back and made my bed complete with sheets, duvet, and throw pillows. I could have driven anywhere, but I chose to go home. Well, I didn’t have an actual home, just a hometown. Sometimes I wish I would have driven to a big city or a beach community.
I spent three nights in the van before I found a landlord willing to let me move in immediately.
What impressed me about Elliot’s piece is his willingness to expose himself and be vulnerable about his experiences. There are things I experienced during that part of my life that I have never shared with anyone other than my husband, and I’m not sure that I ever will. I speak about that part of my life truthfully, but painted a different color than it actually was, my cover for my shame.
What also struck me about Elliot’s piece was when he said “but that is not what this is about.” He claimed he was just writing about where he slept, but his story said a lot more. Was this creative way to share these difficult parts of his life a cover for his shame?
I loved when he said, “Things got much better after that though it took me a little while to recognize it.” I found this true for myself as well. After experiencing these kinds of things, it’s hard to get to a place of trust and security, but like Elliot, while scared, things worked out fine.
T CLUTCH FLEISCHMANN – EXCERPT FROM TIME IS THE THING A BODY MOVES THROUGH; HOUSE WITH DOOR
ELIOT SLOAN – THE GREEN ROOM
ANNE LAMOTT – SHITTY FIRST DRAFTS FROM BIRD BY BIRD
For better or for worse, in writing, I am drawn to beautiful language or imagery more so than actual meaning. I also tend to have a fairly narrow range of the stories and styles of writing that I’m drawn to. It is always stories I relate to, ones that feel like pasts, futures, memories, another life… but almost every story does, in a small way. I could type up every line, word, or phrase I found beautiful, but we’d be here all day.
Both of the readings I was drawn to this week told queer stories, both, in their own ways, about family, love, the limits of labels, and blurred lines. Both also touched on HIV & AIDS. In some ways, Fleischmann’s piece serves as a hopeful companion to Sloan’s – a series of snapshots from when AIDS was, for the most part, a silent, slow death sentence, to a time where treatments exist that allow people with HIV to live long lives – though the virus remains little-spoken about, and, as Fleischmann notes, treatment remains challenging to access. But all this is neither here nor there.
Fleischmann’s writing reminds me of the person I wanted to be, the life I wanted to live, when I was little. I thought of the drawing by Anna Haifisch that you can view here: https://www.instagram.com/anna.haifisch/p/CjQE-5psuAw/?img_index=1
There was a pang of recognition in reading House With Door. The child written about there may be too young to even remember the interaction they had by chance with the author, but I think I would have remembered. It would have opened some doors, no pun intended. It reminded me of the connections I have and the art I make with other queer people. I’ve worked on a podcast for almost three years with a woman who I was reminded was dying yesterday, January 29th, 2024. I was supposed to text her to wish her luck for her scan. But, like always, I forgot. I lost track of time. Julie has had terminal cancer for more of the time I’ve known her than she hasn’t. I have never met Julie. I know nothing of her house, somewhere in upstate New York, her life before, her wife, Eva, their tiny, white dog. I want to try to see her, catch a bus. Just to sit, to get a sense of her without the distortion of a zoom call, my bad cell service, pretending to be better. We call from time to time to talk about post-production and side effects. I don’t know how to say what Julie is to me, and I think that makes it, almost, more difficult. Is she a friend, a mentor, a parent, another human spinning through space? This makes me think about what Fleischmann says about becoming nothing, about leaning into illegibility.
Illegibility reminds me of Frankie, who must be only a few years older than I am. I might have just missed them in high school. Frankie works freelance – on a queer-owned & run farm, on the podcast, odd jobs, here and there. Frankie is the kind of person who could do anything, the sort of person, like Fleischmann’s many people, to build a beautiful house, a beautiful life, for themselves and the people they love. They are the type of person to remember. Last I heard, they’d buzzed their head again, bleached it, started T, and were applying to art school. They were feeling worse, but better. Like most people I know most, I have also not met Frankie. They could be six feet tall, particularly strong, have an unusual side profile or a calming aura. I would not know; I know Frankie from the shoulders, up. To many people, it is strange to feel like you know a person, to feel even a kinship to them, and have never met… but I’m accustomed to it. All to say that Frankie, like Fleischmann, is illegible. We know each other’s words, the ones we use at doctors’ offices, paperwork, the odd meeting. But Frankie is just Frankie. It is disarming in the best way, like that part of a romantic movie where someone turns up to the first date with a gift that just happens to be perfect. So joyful it takes the edge off the surprise. Frankie may be somewhere in their twenties, but Frankie is one of the wisest people I know. Fleischmann, Julie, Frankie. All people I would love to be like when I grow up, despite everything. Julie & Frankie – I have been so lucky to survive with them, before I knew them, beyond. The human story is one of survival, maybe, but I think that as queer people (and together, as people living with different types of sickness,) we might be closer to an awareness of this than most.
Finally, this reading reminded me of Joy. Joy, here, isn’t entirely a feeling, but a person very vaguely in their thirties, five feet and change of slacks, patterned button-ups, enamel pins, and exuberance. Joy chose their names – all three of them – which I still think is one of the coolest things imaginable. Joy was one of my professors in the Spring of 2023, a historian, writer, and all around wonderful person. They taught us more than I can remember, but what I do remember was coalitions. I hadn’t had a word for putting differences aside, deciding to make life better. Fleischmann writes about coming across the remains of the Michigan Womyn’s Festival – I remember the headlines like a family drama. I was young, but not too young. It broke my heart, a little. But there was Fleischmann, on the beach, encountering the acceptance, the company, of “many dykes.” I imagine, many of them on the older side. Again, it is so important to see oneself. Fleischmann writes, “they say they see us and they welcome us.” I think that is all most people want. Despite what the world claimed, they still cared for each other.
I am not the sort of person who stops loving people. I’m not sure anyone is. Fleischmann remembers Otelia, Georgia, more, with as much love as, I imagine, the best of times held. Sloan recalls Layla in the same warm light. Again, I do not want to blur the experiences of half the world into one, but there is a certain tone to stories of girlhood that I come across, again and again. Sloan writes that it has been six years since they’ve spoken. At the very end of the piece, we’re told of a betrayal – but before the betrayal, there are pages upon pages of not quite happiness, but love. I think, maybe, only artists remember and forgive like this.
I loved Sloan’s piece until the very last page. Suddenly, an odd moral was imposed upon an otherwise real story. Both Fleischmann & Sloan’s pieces were, in large part, about the limitations of language and labels as we know them. But while Fleischmann’s felt liberating, Sloan’s felt like cutting a puzzle piece down to jam it into a place. I understand the need or desire for neat closure – I do it in my writing, will go for pages and pages until I feel things wrap up neatly – but I think The Green Room was a good reminder, heading into this class, to try and release myself of a little bit of that pressure, even if it makes me feel unattached, unstable. I also struggled a little bit to follow the flow of Sloan’s piece; one takeaway could be that I should spend more time intentionally reading this style (because I already write in it,) but I could have just learned that I have a preference. Maybe both.
I was also interested in Flesichmann’s House with Door because of some of its opening statements, as it were. I am also trying to separate metaphors, in some way, from my life – whether that’s a good idea, or a successful one, remains to be seen. When I was in high school, a teacher pulled me aside by the elbows to tell me, desperately, that “sometimes, a tree is just a tree.” I still don’t agree. I am always writing things that begin in truth but wander off to live lives of their own, usually lives that are prettier, or make more sense, which is all well and good in poetry, but troublesome in nonfiction and day-to-day life. I am not sure I will ever be successful at living a life where things simply are what they are, or if I want to, but in the meantime, it’s something to focus on. I was writing about my grandfather recently and was trying to think of a way to describe a hematoma. After probably twenty drafted lines, it occurred to me that, sometimes, even in poetry, a hematoma is best described as what it is: a bruise.
I’ve also been thinking about the idea of writing as self-indulgent, given one of our first readings, Shitty First Drafts. I haven’t quite wrapped my head around the idea yet. I think most artists I know are young. Most of the art we make is for ourselves, in one way or another. Maybe from the outside in, it looks political, like it’s telling the story of a triumph… like a great many things. But at the end of the day, the art that kids (and small adults) make seems to usually be out of a need to, to process something, to create something. Maybe that’s everyone’s art. Shitty First Drafts made writing for oneself seem like an intrinsically bad thing – and sure, in her example, of a food review with a word/page count, it does get in the way – but I don’t think it always is. We don’t always write to publish, and even if we do, where is the line between telling a story about one’s life and being self-indulgent?
Anyway. In future, I can more or less promise that my responses will be far less long-winded. I lose steam as the semester goes on, and reminders of death give a person a lot to think about.
“On the coldest nights when my lashes became icicles I snuck into a boiler room and slept next to the warm pipes and left when I heard the banging that meant someone was coming down the stairs. I walked along Devon Avenue when the bank clock read twenty below. I had hypothermia. It was like a circuit at times: roof, roof, boiler room. Other times it was a pattern and I would go to the same place over and over again and go to sleep just like anyone else.”
This paragraph perfectly encapsulated to me what I love so much about Elliott’s writing style in this piece. The sentences are short and minimalistic in their content, reading them feels like trudging down a snowy street late at night. It does a great job of encapsulating how someone without consistent sleep and food would go about writing something like this; given the topic of the essay I think this is extremely successful. Furthermore, the matter of fact-ness with which it is revealed that Elliott has pneumonia reeks of the dissociation/derealization that obviously comes from experiences as traumatic as these.
“Everyone’s gay in my life, it seems. Layla and that boy both are now, and our father – hers and mine – and all that they know. I tried that, too, but it just didn’t cut clean through me in the same way…”
A majority of the essay that is from the author’s POV is about her, as a child, trying to understand her father and his wants. At many points she finds herself wishing that her dad was straight, thinking it was unfair to her that he wasn’t. She compares her dad’s behavior to that of her friend’s dads, wishing he could be more like them, and is embarrassed at times that she is related to him.
Years later, the tables are turned and now everyone the author knows is gay. As an adult, she doesn’t do nearly as much self-questioning as she did when she was younger. She acknowledges that she is straight, and describes her feelings towards men as solid confirmation that she is not anything but. The main difference is that she has matured and is not trying to compare herself to the people she knows, wishing she was like them the way she wished as a kid that her dad was more like her idea of a typical father. This moment of reflection on the people in her life and their sexualities is kept brief to focus on the main point of this section of the essay, which is the phone call with Layla and reminiscing about their time together as kids.
“‘I will never tell,’ I chant over and over like a mantra as I fall asleep” (Sloan, 3).
This line stood out to me – it is ambiguous, but at the same time I think it encapsulates a lot of what the essay is about. Sloan writes this sentence after talking about her father’s friend dying of AIDS and the impact it has on her 13 year old self. She feels uncomfortable in class when the teacher asks what the students know about the disease, and is terrified that she and/or her father will contract it.
I think this quote touches on the pertinent themes of fear, alienation, secrecy, and having to grow up too fast. My interpretation of it is that Sloan feels like she has a responsibility not to divulge information about her gay father and his friends/partners, which is a big burden on a 13 year old. The use of the word “mantra” here suggests that repeating the phrase over and over to herself is a form of self-soothing.
“The patterns of her parents’ voices muffled whispers in the next room seeped into my dreams that night, tangled voices.”
Whilst no single literary technique or device stands out in this quote, the interplay between them is what I think really makes it shine. From the alliteration of the “p” sound, to the emphasis through both “muffled” and “whispers”, to connotative diction of the words “seeped” and “tangled”, the picture painted is one of a poignant failure at secrecy in an attempt to shield the girls, and yet it’s clear the truth is pervasive, filling her mind even when asleep, showing how she cannot escape her reality.
“The Lamb Roast” is a vividly detailed narrative that explores the complexity of family dynamics and the passage of time through the lens of a recurring annual event, a spring-lamb roast. The author, seemingly recalling childhood memories, paints a vivid picture of a bygone era, set against the backdrop of a rural Pennsylvania landscape.
The narrative unfolds with the depiction of an idyllic childhood filled with annual lamb roasts, a tradition created by the father, a set designer with a love for hosting events. The description of the family home, a castle built into the ruins of a nineteenth-century silk mill, sets the stage for a unique and charming upbringing. The meandering meadow, wild geese, and a creek running through the backyard contribute to the lush and picturesque setting, creating a sense of nostalgia for a simpler time. This sense for a simpler time is strengthened when the author reveals that their “home town has become, mostly, a sprawl of developments and subdivisions, gated communities that look like movie sets that will be taken down at the end of the shoot.”
The lamb roast itself becomes a symbol of the father’s creative spirit and love for grand gestures. Despite his lack of culinary skills, the father takes charge of the event, turning it into a legendary party that attracts people from both near and far. The detailed descriptions of the preparations, from building the fire pit to selecting the lambs and marinating them with olive oil, rosemary, garlic, and lemons, create a sensory experience for the reader.
As the narrative progresses, the author introduces a cast of characters, each contributing to the tapestry of the family’s life. The mother, with her French heritage, adds a touch of sophistication to the otherwise wild and rough atmosphere. The siblings, running in a pack like wild dogs, engage in outdoor activities that reflect the freedom and spontaneity of their upbringing. The father’s role as the creative force behind the events is emphasized, highlighting his ability to infuse romance into everyday life. However, the picturesque narrative takes an unexpected turn with the revelation of the parents’ divorce. The author skillfully navigates the emotional landscape, conveying the sense of loss and fragmentation that accompanies such a life-altering event. The dismantling of the family and the father’s financial struggles during the “summer of Bone-less living” mark a stark contrast to the earlier carefree days.
The lamb roast, while a reminder of a fractured past, also becomes a symbol of endurance and tradition. The description of the preparations for the lamb roast, even in the face of adversity, reflects a determination to preserve a sense of normalcy and connection.
In conclusion, “The Lamb Roast” is a beautifully crafted narrative that weaves together elements of nostalgia, family dynamics, and the passage of time. Through rich storytelling, the author invites the reader to reflect on the transformative power of traditions and the enduring spirit of familial bonds, even in the face of life’s inevitable changes.
“If we have a shared identity it is that we identify with how lovely it is this morning, and the way we talk about our politics is by trying to make something for our friends to enjoy. ”
What I found interesting about this line is that it comes at the beginning of the essay, before most of the discussion about how their past identities have affected their life and their friendships, and how they would like to uninscribe these identities from themself. The story almost moves backwards, beginning in a time in the Authors life in which they have created identities without rules, that connect them to others and enrich their relationships. The sentence also begins with “If”. They are at a point where there may not be any identity to tie them with that person, and that does not impact their relationship. Then the story moves forward and further into their past, where the end of their identity as a gay man lead to the loss of their part in that community.
This also seems to tie in with the disconnect they feel with their past self who held tightly to those identities.
“I insist on this absence more, even, than I used to insist on my identities, that I was a bisexual boy, or genderqueer, or a queer, which was actually just unpleasant for me in lots of ways, come to realize. I stand by only a quarter of what I said when I was queer. ”
Their identities go from something that needed to be insisted on to the point of discomfort, to something that is undefined, impermanent, and only important in that it brings them closer to the person they’re with. They are only inscribed with the words they choose to use for themself.
Sloan’s piece is a sensory experience, bringing objects into what it means to engage with one’s gender, what one loves, who one loves, and how they build their home. At first, I wondered how the idea of the green room fit with the rest of the piece, but then I realized, its engagement with other thematic material alone isn’t what makes “the green room,” profound, but rather, it’s the engagement with Sloan’s writing style.
“I wake up warm after a nap on the sofa with him, its wine-dark velvet pressing a pattern into my cheek,” writes Sloan, taking special care to engage the senses, inspiring thoughts of heat, the taste of wine, the sight of a dark auburn couch, the softness of velvet, the pressure of a face up against some material for too long. She writes about objects, “[t]hey were there to greet me when I woke up, eager to win me over with complicated eggs or a bike ride in the park,” or perhaps the crux of the issue, “I long for a different father, one who’s normal and shares Cheerios instead of caviar, Muppet movies instead of tormented French films, love stories about girlfriends instead of boyfriends.”
This kind of description risks stereotyping gay people, but there is truth to the fact that physical objects and gender relate. After all, objects have everything to do with functionality, as does gender. We really all do have a “green room,” an androgynous space inside for our souls to reside, but what we choose to put in there has less to do with the name of our souls and more to do with the roles of our personhood. A soul first, a house second, do we want our person to be seen as a little protective, loyal? Do we want to be seen as nurturing and keep a teapot in our green room to express that? Do these objects or traits relate to how we understand “woman,” or “man?” Maybe a teapot expresses masculinity to some, for their own reasons.
Reading the Green Room and reading the dynamic between the narrator and her father is a realistic back and forth that many children go through with their parental figures. The question of whether or not their parents were good parents based on their naive child-perspective when they were young and the retelling of events now that they are older all wrapped up by the unconditional love that children have for the people who raised them. It is an odd gray area to come to terms with because, yes, you can love your parents and how they live their lives however it is always okay to address their shortcomings because they are human.
I think the line “The blue of distance comes with time, with the discovery of melancholy, of loss, the texture of longing, of the complexity of the terrain we traverse, and with the years of travel” beautifully captures a deep understanding of human emotions and experiences. It suggests that distance, whether physical or emotional, isn’t just about measurement but about how our perceptions evolve over time.
As a writer, I feel this line encourages me to explore the layers of meaning behind distance. It prompts me to consider how our experiences and the passage of time add depth to our understanding of longing and melancholy. The idea of discovering melancholy and loss over time resonates with the bittersweet aspects of separation and yearning.
Moreover, the mention of “the texture of longing” evokes a sense of palpable yet intangible emotion, which can be a powerful theme in storytelling. The idea of traversing complex terrains, both literal and metaphorical, expands the metaphor of distance to include psychological and emotional landscapes.
In essence, I believe this line invites us as writers to delve into the intricate ways in which distance shapes our narratives, characters, and themes, urging us to explore the profound impact of time, experience, and longing on the human condition.