READER RESPONCE: You Can’t Kill the Rooster by David Sedaris

You Can’t Kill the Rooster by David Sedaris

If you can’t find the full length version of the narrative, try listen to it on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJPCHSUkruo. The online text I found is not as long as the Youtube video, and it includes some funny scenes you may miss if you just read the online text version. Plus, there are two different endings; I like the Youtube version better.

The narrator begins his story by moving from New York State to North Carolina. He could not have made a bigger transition, and this juxtaposition is further emphasized by explaining the humorous differences between his family and his brother who was born post-the move.

Paul is a feisty foil to the other characters in Sedaris’ family. Paul is “The Rooster” whose main vocabulary includes the various forms of fuck. Paul is clearly different than the rest of his family and seems to have been raised in a “different household.”

At first, due to Paul’s vulgar nature, I viewed him as a static character—merely there for humor; yet, Paul has a heart. He is the only one who visits his widowed father for Thanksgiving, and came to see him when there was a hurricane.

I was surprised to be emotionally moved by the end of the story. Beneath its abundance of “motherfuckers,” “bitch,” ect… Sedaris is telling us something more than a funny family history. He’s giving us a fun-house mirror that reflects a hint of sentimentality.

BOOK REVIEW: Boy in the Striped Pajamas by John Boyne

Today it would be nearly impossible to hide from the fact that two planes crashed into the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001. It would be impossible to not know that there is a war on terrorism because we hear it all the time on the television, see it on newspapers, and view it on our computer screens. However, what if we did not have access to that media? Could we actually remain oblivious to the reality that 4,376 American soldiers have died in Iraq? In John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pajamas Bruno, a nine year old boy, remains completely unaware of the Holocaust even though it is literally happening in his backyard. Yet, however unreasonable it sounds, the reader goes along for his journey and sympathizes with his character because his story and perspective is unlike any other World War II fiction novel.

Even though, he is the son to an Auschwitz commandant, he believes that he lives in “Out-With,” not Auschwitz, a concentration camp for Jewish prisoners. He sees the world around him in total innocence: the criminals’ prison attire is merely striped pajamas, his father is loving, handsome, and intelligent, not a cold-hearted commandant, and the phrase “Heil Hitler” means, “Well, goodbye for now, have a pleasant afternoon.”

It is this innocence that makes the overall theme of friendship and bravery so powerful. Bruno is not aware of the social discrimination going on around him because his mother feels, ‘“War is not a subject fit for conversation”’, and his main concern is homesickness. He is forced to move from his five-story home in Berlin, Germany, and immediately misses his three best friends and how they reached out their arms and pretended to be airplanes as they ran throughout the streets. His new home in Poland offers no places to explore like he once did with his friends. Bruno simply passes the time by looking out his window at a large fence and the men on the other side of it.

Soon enough the loneliness and the natural adolescent inquisitiveness act as catalyst for Bruno’s exploration of the long fence that separates him from the people dressed in black and gray striped pajamas. He walks along side of the fence until he sees a dot in the distance which to his surprise is a boy his age—but much more thin. The two become fast friends, claiming to be twins because they have the same birthday. Bruno walks to see Shmuel almost every day and a very odd friendship results in the unthinkable. This friendship is a paradox in a world that fosters discrimination, violence, and innate hatred. Time and time again, Bruno wonders why he cannot play with Shmuel like he did with his friends back in Berlin. In the most heart-wrenching ending, Bruno decides to crawl under the fence to be with his only friend. The only problem is once they hold hands for the first time, they never let go.

Recommended Reading #2 : The One That Got Away by Denny Johnson

The One That Got Away by Denny Johnson traces the steps of a journalist who is trying to get an exclusive interview with Traci Edwards, the man who escaped death by fighting his way out of Jeffrey Dahmer’s apartment. The narrative begins with a collage of clichés and journalist jargon, but immediately after Part I, the narrative becomes so realistic, I can't get out of my bed because I'm...afraid. I can watch a horror movie like no other, but there is something about reading Traci Edwards’ details about Dahmer’s apartment and the movements and words the serial killer made that make me feel sick.

The author often made short breaks within his interview with Edwards that made me jolt back into reality. He would say comments like, “Two short rings on the hotel telephone shook everyone back to the present in the hotel suite” and “Denny let out a little yip which startled everyone.” I needed those breaks. I needed to actually breath.

However, the way in which Johnson treated Edwards left a bad taste in my mouth. He was too much of an unemotional journalist who would do anything to get his story. Which I suppose, if that’s the way it happened—then that’s that. I was just so emotionally petrified as Edwards told his journey in Dahmer’s house and how he remembered every little detail from the type of stench and the type of pornographic pictures plastered on Dahmer's wall, I felt like I was there with him, and I wanted to get out as much as he did. Conversely, Johnson was thinking about the title of his article—uncaring about the fact a serial killer was resting his head on the chest of his victim to listen to his heart beat and say that he wanted to see how his heart looked and then eat it.

Nonetheless, read this. http://eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/OneThat.shtml It’s a unique perspective on the story we have heard too many times.

Nonfiction Narrative Assignment

"The Countdown"

The New Year countdown began. My mother, older brother, and I were ready to welcome 1991 as we sat in our living room with my coloring books and crayons scattered on the floor. My favorite hackneyed teddy bear sat there beside me as I colored outside the lines, transfixed on making the perfect picture that had just the right amount of blue, green, and red. Amongst the clutter of drawings, toys, and my two family members, I noticed there was someone missing from this picture. I looked up to my mom who had just turned on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve countdown and I said, “When is Daddy going to get here?”

I knew if he didn’t arrive soon he would miss the great big ball drop. He would miss the fireworks, and the popcorn my mom made, and my brother falling asleep, and the picture of a bear with a giant red heart in the center I was just about to finish coloring. My four-year old mind knew the very first second of 1991 wouldn’t be the same if he wasn’t there to hear Dick Clark shout amongst the crowds of people in New York City, “Happy New Year!”

I remember the excitement from the people on the television screen. I remember hearing a wave of shouts and laughter from people I did not know who were dressed in Eskimo-like jackets and glittery sunglasses. I thought to myself, “If it’s so cold there, why are they wearing sunglasses?” However, I remained silent as I watched the television show clips of people waving hello to their loved ones back home, people clapping with large gloves that looked like oven mitts, people laughing, people crying, and people kissing. What type of person was I? I looked to my brother, and he was one of the people who decided to eat all the popcorn himself. I looked to my mother, and she was one of the people crying.

Instinctively, I climbed onto the couch and placed my head on her shoulder. Together we listened to Dick Clark talk about New Year’s resolutions and jokes about people kissing that I didn’t understand.

“What is a resolution?” I asked.

My mother rubbed my forehead and kept me close as she described that people make resolutions to bring in the New Year. “They are goals,” she said.

Goals. I have heard people shout, “Goal!” during a soccer game, but I knew somehow that it wasn’t the same thing. I then asked, “What is your resolution?”

By this time my brother had dozed off and his head was rested on my mom’s other shoulder. She held him close too, and there we all were. We were like the people on the television screen who bundled up close to keep warm. My mom replied to my question in a quiet tone that made me feel safe, “To keep you happy, to keep you safe, and to keep us together.” She then gave me a hug so tight I thought I would burst like the big giant ball would when the countdown ended.

I liked hearing the word together. Together. I wanted to be sandwiched in between my mom and dad and feel their warmth. I wanted to smell the collage of scents coming from my mom’s hairspray and my dad’s work. I wanted to have one hand hold onto my mom’s slick hands that she recently put lotion on and my dad’s tough hands with dirt under the fingernails.“My New Year’s resolution is to give Daddy the picture I colored,” I spoke to no one in particular.

I slid off the couch and landed on top of a mound of childhood masterpieces. Each drawing inferior to the one I was coloring for Daddy. It has to be perfect; I picked up a midnight blue crayon and made a border around the teddy bear. I smiled with pride because its completion was nearing.

Suddenly, the television beamed loudly with excited screams I have never heard before in my four years of life. The ball was about to drop! I was seconds away from seeing that silvery disco ball of lights flash the numbers 1991. Could I put it on pause? Could the clock roll back time? The ball cannot drop without my say-so!

Then there was a knock at the door. Maybe just maybe my dad wouldn’t miss everything. Perhaps, everything would be as it was the previous New Years. I could see it now—my dad would rush in the door, but my mom would stop him saying, “Take your boots off first,” and he would. He would pick me up and then place me on his lap. Together as a family, we would countdown, “Five…four…three…two…”

“Stay on the couch” My mom was standing at the door now. Her voice was elevated, and I thought I was in trouble, but I still wanted to follow her.

My brother woke up and turned down the television so we could hear who was at the door. I wanted him to scoot closer, but he didn’t move when our front door opened and the January wind blew inside the house. My eyes squinted, but I couldn’t see who was at the door because my mom was blocking my field of vision. I wiggled on the couch, tossing my head left to right. My hands clutched down on the couch cushion, and I threw my head over my shoulder to look at my brother. I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. His eyes were wide, and his thin lips were closed tightly shut. He didn’t seem excited, and I wanted to know why. I opened my mouth to speak, but he snappily put his finger up to his lips as an indication for me to stay quiet. I reached out to give him a much needed punch on the shoulder but…

Without notice, I heard glass bottles drop to the ground onto our porch. One by one, I heard a dozen glass bottles shatter as they hit the concrete. It would almost be beautiful if the song it sang was not a sad one. As my mother stood by the door, she looked unfamiliar as she used the door as a shield from the person on the other side of it. I couldn’t hear what was going on, but I saw half of her body inside and the other half was outside. The part of her that was outside was moving threateningly. Her hand pointed and waved accusingly. It was like she was two people—one half calm, the other half hysterical. The other half took over.

She cried, “Don’t come back, Bob…”

It was my dad! Why did she continue to say, “Don’t take a step into this house smelling like that. Your children are here. I won’t give you any more money. Go away. Go spend New Years where you came from. Just go! Just go…”? I heard the front door slam, and a car speed away into the night. It was silent.

My eyes filled up with tears, and my face got tight as I grinded my teeth. I stared at my mom as I complained, “Why did you go and do that? Let Daddy come inside! It’s not fair that you made us all miss the ball drop! It’s all your fault!” I ran to the door and held my hand out to it. It was icy cold. I wanted to open it, but I could not reach the top lock. I stood on the very tip of my toes, but it was useless. I was trapped.

My mom just sat down, and looked at the television while my brother gave her a hug. Why would my brother do that? She sent Daddy away! He came home but she made him leave. By this time there were multi-colored glitters of fireworks blasting into the night sky on the television screen. The television was still on mute, so I couldn’t hear the blasts, the people cheer, and Dick Clark wish me a Happy New Year. All I could see was lots of lights amongst the faces of people. They were smiling so wide with their arms so high up into the air.

Then I directed my eyes to my living room. It wasn’t the same as New York City. That night I saw my mom and brother hold each other and cry. I searched for the picture I colored of the teddy bear with the heart in the center, but I could not find it in the collage of coloring books. I got down on my hands and knees and tossed pictures into the air, shuffled them into piles of paper, and looked under the couch several times. I couldn’t find it anywhere. For a brief moment, I forgot about the yelling at the front door and thought I already gave it to my dad. But, no. The picture was missing. It was lost. It was gone, and I gave up looking.

Recommended Reading #1 : Paper People by Lisa Dietz

Paper People by Lisa Dietz

I was reading the 10th place winner of Writer’s Digest nonfiction contest. The piece is entitled “Paper People” and will soon be published in The Awakenings Review. I’ll be honest. I read it because I liked the title. I liked the alliteration and the overall mystique behind people made of paper. In reality, this narrative recounted a day in the life of the author’s stay in a psychiatric ward. The people who cut themselves were forced to wear paper gowns as a preventative means for future self-inflicted injuries.

It took me until the very end of the narrative to see any promise of a conflict. The beginning and middle of the story was filled with descriptions for description’s sake. I learned more about the appearance of the nurse than Leslie, the girl who ended up cutting herself at the end of the narrative. I would have liked to have had more details about her relationship with Leslie rather than how unrelated characters looked/walked/had their hair parted. In fact, now that I look back, I question if Leslie even cut herself, or if the nurses are hitting her. However, I’m not directly told what is going on, and I don’t like making assumptions like this. I want to be in the loop--know what's happening.

I think this piece is a means to learn to only include valuable scenes in my piece. I have no idea why some details were included. What did having to get bread from her locker comment on the stay in the psychiatric ward? Also don’t judge a story by its title...even if it has alliteration. :(

Jan. 27 & Feb. 3 Responces to Readings

Jan. 27

Ch. 1-4

In Ch. 3, Zinsser preaches against the use of clutter. This is a concept I have no paid much attention to in the past. Teachers tend to avoid addressing clutter. Likewise, I realized I used some of the clutter phrases found throughout this chapter. This chapter reminded me of the Mark Twain quote, “Sorry, I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one.”

Coco Scales – “The Hostess Diaries”
This personal narrative is an impeccable example of how to incorporate voice into our writings. Phrases like “Celebrities and models are my least favorite customers,” “Drunken skeletons,” and “I call them all darling” evoke so much of the author’s attitude toward her job. She was able to portray herself as a feisty yet almost power-hungry hostess through her word choices. Scales did not explicitly say that she was spunky or aggressive, but rather let the reader make those conclusions through the mini-stories she decided to bring to life.

David Foster Wallace – “Federer as Religious Experience”
Unlike Coco Scales’ “The Hostess Diaries,” I was not engulfed into David Foster Wallace’s “Federer as Religious Experience.” I was definitely not having a religious experience as I was preached at about Federer’s tennis career. I am not entirely sure who this tennis player is, and I have a feeling that is why I did not connect to this piece. In “The Hostess Diaries” I knew Star Jones and the other celebrities depicted, and I enjoyed their out of the ordinary yet oddly predictable behavior in the restaurant. However, “Federer as Religious Experience” read too much like a sports broadcast. With that said, the author utilized action verbs uniquely and depicted an accurate account of how tennis players move.

Feb. 3

Ch. 5-7, 14

In this reading, I was drawn to the phrase “audience of one” in Ch. 5. I appreciated the advice to write for yourself—the audience is the author initially. Personally, when I have writer’s block, it is due to the explosion of assumptions I think people will make if I write this sentence or use this word. However, if I'm writing for myself, I can release myself of these assumptions. Now I just need to overcome the notion "I'm my worst critic..."

Ian Frazier "Typewriter Man"
As Prof. Goodwin brought up in class, as writers we need to find out or remember quirks or characteristics that make the people we write about in non-fiction stories interesting. The characterization of Mr. Tytell is inspirational because we get a sense of who he is—a little odd, and damn good at his job. This is a man who says, “I talk to typewriters myself sometimes” yet we feel for this character when people like him do not become army pilots.

Despite my enthusiasm for this piece, I am confused why the author decided to comment heavily on the history of typewriters. I would have liked the piece more fully if it were more about his journey with Mr. Tytell.

E.B. White “Death of a Pig”
I noticed many occasions where the author “broke the fourth wall” by commenting on the fact he is writing this piece: “I have written this account” and “I feel driven to account for this stretch of time.” It gave the narrative a more storytelling feel which I appreciated.

After first reading this, I assumed it was a sarcastic tone, yet I remember reading a thorough essay written in the 15th Century by a man who loved his rooster.

The name of the author and title of essay escapes me, but when I find it, I'll add it and give a link to it too.* This Renaissance gentlemen went on and on about his affection to the rooster because the rooster won many cockfights. There is no question in my mind he was not sarcastic, but rather heavily serious about writing poetry to his beloved.

The same can be said for this piece in that the pig was given a burial, and by the end of it, I felt sympathetic toward the death of a pig. The very concept of becoming so emotional on an animal many people eat daily for breakfast seems trivial, yet the author used such great imagery that this pig become a person-like.

Outline for Memoir: "The Countdown"

I do not have a very good memory. However, I can guarantee that I know every detail on Dick Clark's New Year's Rocking Eve of 1991. I do not even remember bringing in 2010 but I can still see the television screen displaying the people in New York for the 1991 countdown. They huddled together as they wore glittering sunglasses and oversize oven mitt gloves. The ball was huge that year. It spilled neon lights into the star stained sky, and I wanted to be there--huddled in between my mom and dad.

I was four years old, and I had no idea as I was watching the television, my dad, who I wanted so desperately to be sitting next to me, was spending the night bar hopping with the night's worst.

For my memoir, I plan to recount the details I remember watching on the television screen and juxtapose that excitement with the tension filtering in my living room as my mom and brother wait for my dad to come home. Below is an example of how I plan to incorporate the juxtaposition:

"I remember the excitement from the people on the television screen. I remember hearing a wave of shouts and yelps from people I did not know who were dressed in Eskimo-like jackets and glittery sunglasses. I thought to myself, “If it’s so cold there, why are they wearing sunglasses?” However, I remained silent as I watched the television show clips of people waving hello to their loved ones back home, people clapping with large gloves that looked like oven mitts, people laughing, people crying, and people kissing. What type of person was I? I looked to my brother, and he was one of the people who decided to eat all the popcorn himself. I looked to my mother, and she was one of the people crying."

I also plan on using speech and logic equivalent to a child's mindset in order to highlight my naivete.

"Together we listened to Dick Clark talk about New Year’s resolutions and jokes about people kissing that I didn’t understand.

'What is a resolution?' I asked.

My mother rubbed my forehead and kept me close as she described that people make resolutions to bring in the New Year. “They are goals,” she said.

Goals. I have heard people shout, 'Goal!' during a soccer game, but I knew somehow that it wasn’t the same thing. I then asked, 'What is your resolution?'"

Through this memoir I hope to accomplish a window into my life. I chose a moment in my past that I remember in such detail because it put me on the cusp of change.