Popular Culture Parenting: A Father's Proudest Day

Prompted by Brad's excellent essay on The Office Nativity, Stephen Swanson reflects on a recent way that popular culture has adjusted his expectations of fatherhood and the potential for father/son relations.

The Greatest Parenting Tool Ever

When my wife and I were expecting our first child, Henry (now 2), we furiously searched for advice on the "must-haves" for parenting in the beginning of the new millennium.  Many friends had great advice, like "Don't read 'What to Expect...' if you are prone to worry about unlikely things."  Other sources, like the explosion of mommy-blogs and podcasts had great suggestions.  We turned to colleagues who had recently became parents for valuable hand-me-downs and suggestions, but the greatest piece of advice was this, "Get a DVR.  Just do it."

I had scoffed at the TiVo craze.  I had laughed alone as comics made fun of the mascot and the schedules and the funny noises and suggestions that it made, but the DVR has saved our lives.  Not only can we tape all of our shows to watch when we want, but just like the commercial shows, when my son wants/needs attention, I can just pause the TV and read a story.  I had completely passed that off as drivel created to make customers think that this, but it works.  The most important use has been to always have a selection of beloved kids shows and movies on hand when needed. (There was a whole month where he raptly viewed the Pixar Shorts Collection, and you have no idea of the eternity that it can take to switch the TV to DVD, open the DVD, put in the DVD, wait through the intros, select "play".)

"Oh No!":  Things that I did not know at 2.

Because of the DVR, Henry has little knowledge of commercials.  Stories are cohesive and continuous, within his daily allotment of TV, and he seriously struggles when we watch live TV or Hulu.  Who are these women in white rooms who rub thing hands on table-tops?  The commercial comes on, and "Oh NOOOO! Where'd it go?"  Because of his online viewing, he also is familiar with "'uffering" and has become adept at putting his finger on the touch-pad when the screen goes dim.

The Real Point of Pride

One word: "'impsons".  Yup, he loves it.  It beats Thomas, Yo Gabba Gabba, and Backyardigans out of the water.  All he needs to hear is the "doo DOO dee Doo" of Danny Elfman's opening score, and he will run from any part of the house, and while we fast-forward through the Itchy and Scratchy cartoons, Henry finds the familiarity of the characters and objects in the show extremely exciting.  People "walk", have "books", ride "bikes", and "animals" abound throughout every episode.

Henry was always a hesitant speaker and signer, but he happily describe the events of the latest "Simpsons": laughing, kissing "oh no"-ing, and, yes, even "Ha-ha"ing along with Groening's creations.  When the episode ends, he speaks and signs, "Dada...Mama, please more 'impsons.  Please."

As I tell my students, the power of visual narratives at their best is that they allow for both immediate identification and for depth and complexity as viewers engage with layers and layers of connectivity and meaning.  The best of popular culture, to which I believe the Simpsons has won a predominant place, holds the power to challenge and grow with us.  My pride is not just in his good taste that eschews the frustrating same-ness of children's television for clever and subtle character and plot, but because Henry not only recognizes images but also cheers, "He did it!", when Homer succeeds in stopping Bart from bringing down the school with the old Springfield Subway and gives him a hug, and how could any father not have their heart touched by that, least of a popular culture scholar.

***

Stephen Swanson teaches as an assistant professor of English at McLennan Community College. Aside from guiding students through the pitfalls of college writing and literature, he spends most of his time trying to remain  aware of popular culture, cooking, and enjoying time with his wife and son. He holds degrees in Communications (Calvin College), Film Studies (Central Michigan University), and Media and American Culture Studies (Bowling Green State University. In addition to editing a collection, Battleground States: Scholarship in Contemporary America, he has forthcoming projects on Johnny Cash and depiction of ethics in detective narratives.

Deleted Scene: The Scar

Lisa Ohlen Harris provides us with a short passage that didn’t make it into her forthcoming book Through the Veil. (This post first appeared on her website LisaOhlenHarris.com.)

I stayed home with the baby that night. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa, because when I woke about midnight, Todd wasn’t home yet. The gathering at the Manning’s house must have run late, I thought.

While I was putting on pajamas and brushing my teeth, Todd was helping Tim out of the wrecked taxi. A couple of Arab shabab stopped at the scene of the accident to ask if they could help; they took Tim to the emergency room to have his head sewn shut.

When they left the Manning’s house, the guys had waved down a taxi. Tim sat in the front seat, because his Arabic was better than Todd’s. There was a seat belt on the passenger’s side, Tim remembered later, but it was grimy and dusty. He thought briefly that he should put it on anyway, but pushed the thought away knowing that the driver would interpret this as an insult to his driving—and a lack of trust in the will of God.

Todd woke me up when he finally got home, early in the morning. It was still dark, but I remember hearing the birds sing outside our bedroom window. When I turned on a lamp, I saw blood all over Todd’s sandals and a deep gash between his toes, almost splitting his foot for an inch or so. It should have been sutured, but he hadn’t noticed his own injury while he was at the hospital with Tim. Todd’s wound took weeks to heal, and he still has the scar. It’s easy to hide under socks and shoes.

We didn’t see Tim over the weekend, and when he came to the language school that Monday he had a big piece of gauze taped over the wound. When his forehead healed enough he took gauze off, but it wasn’t until the sutures were removed that we all saw the jagged crescent.

----------

So there’s the “deleted scene.” The guys were in a taxi crash. Tim hurt his head and ended up with a crescent-shaped scar. It’s kinda interesting, but so what? I mean, really, why would this story matter to anyone but our family and Tim’s? I might tell about the accident when we get the old gang together, sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s book-worthy.

As I assembled my chapters for Through the Veil, I wanted each memory, each chapter to say something more than, “This happened then that happened, now isn’t the Middle East exotic?”

Ultimately, the taxi accident memory just didn’t make the cut.

***

Lisa Ohlen Harris is Relief’s Creative Nonfiction editor. Her Middle East memoir, Through the Veil, will be published by Canon Press in 2010. Lisa’s essays have appeared in journals like River Teeth, Arts & Letters, and The Laurel Review, and have received special mention in Pushcart Prize XXXIII: Best of the Small Presses (2009) and in Best American Spiritual Writing (2008 and 2010). Lisa enjoys mentoring and editing the work of emerging writers through her critique service.

Lent: The Ultimate Sacrifice

Stephen Swanson, despite his public expressions of dislike of columns governed by the calendar, writes about a personal struggle with "snark".

"Snark", a Definition and Use

In addition to the definitions from urbandictionary that I link to above, I think it important to give a personal definition in order to further what might be perceived as an overly general terminology.  "Snark", the combination of "snide" and "remark", fills a large quantity of time in on-line communication and chiefly serves as a tone for self-righteous indignation and belittling of others.  For that reason, my omission of snark for the coming weeks might appear as a wholly beneficial enterprise, and to some degree, they have significant points.

At the same time, my snarkiness also serves as an outlet of frustration and a mask for more overtly offensive reactions to others.  Rather than calling someone an idiot or just staring at them aghast and their comment question, I can compose a snarky reply in my mind which I will post later.  It allows for some degree of fantasy play where I star in an amazingly hilarious sit-com filled with cutting commentary and insightful absurdity.

The Cost of Snark

However, as with all fantasies, there remains a significant price to be paid.  Just like hours-upon-hours of GTA can breed a desire to not stop for a stoplight or an urge to pull in front of a better car and pull the driver out to claim their wheels as your own, snark can explode or, in my case, leak.

I find myself leaking snark in a variety of ways.  First, I make noises.  A not-so-subtle "humph" or a snicker that is not quite masked by a cough can emerge at the most inopportune times, faculty meetings for example.  Second, my eyes tell my story.  It is not just the huge eye-roll of adolescence.  Even a looking away or a squint can be noticed and queried by a friend, student, family member, or coworker.  It's unavoidable.  We are conditioned to pick up non-verbal cues, and when they are left unexpressed, the audience can interpret them as they will, often to my own detriment.  After all, people will often assume the worst when left to their own devices.

What to Do?  What to Do?

Well, I'm hoping to employ a two-pronged approach.  First, I'm going to work on composing the snark into specific communications, things I CAN actually say or write to people.  This will not only still allow me to think and create an outlet for my feelings but also force me to channel that into something public and more productive.

For example, this week in a college meeting, I was growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of direction in the meeting.  We'd been there two hours and not really made any progress.  A member of the campus communications and marketing area was having a devil of a time of pinning faculty down on who they were supposed to reach out to and what the message needed to be.  Generally, I would spend that time creating snark.  It's fun.  It makes for good bar/party stories and generally makes me feel better.

However, it does not really solve the underlying problem, and that's the problem that I'm really seeing with snark, especially when compared to effective satire or critique.  It papers over the issue and ignores the underlying causes, and I've determined that these sorts of communication represent central concerns in any hope in overcoming significant issues to our culture today.  It's much easier to snarkily point out others and label them as such.

As I tell my students, it's easier to construct a fallacious argument or a general opinion than it is to construct something thoughtful and useful.  I need to give it a try.  I need to cage the snark.

***

Stephen Swanson teaches as an assistant professor of English at McLennan Community College. Aside from guiding students through the pitfalls of college writing and literature, he spends most of his time trying to remain  aware of popular culture, cooking, and enjoying time with his wife and son. He holds degrees in Communications (Calvin College), Film Studies (Central Michigan University), and Media and American Culture Studies (Bowling Green State University. In addition to editing a collection, Battleground States: Scholarship in Contemporary America, he has forthcoming projects on Johnny Cash and depiction of ethics in detective narratives.

Challenging Joe Hill (Stephen King's son) to a Battle to the Death!!!

Jason Hubbard Derr joins the blog to write about challenging another writer (who just happens to be the son of the Stephen King) to the death. When Chris Fisher asked me to do a blog post to help promote my story – "Live Nude Girls" – in the latest issue of Relief my mind jumped to several immediate possibilities. I felt I could talk on a range of topics like:

1. The writing life
2. How when someone like Neil Gaiman, fantasy author extraordinaire, goes on about not believing in God and then writes stories populated by Gods and uses them as a metaphor to explore human life and the human condition I immediately being to believe that his atheism is not at all what he thinks it is.
3. On the nature of being a MA graduate with an MA in theology and most of a BA in creative writing but no job what-so-ever so if you want to hire me to do some freelance writing work please contact me.

Instead I have decided to challenge author Joe Hill to a duel to the death. Mr. Hill is the author of Heart Shaped Box and the forthcoming Horns and is the son of Stephen King.

In life – as both a human being and as a writer (not all human beings are writers, it’s a much longer process for us) it is important to have a nemesis. If possible one should indicate their nemesis in writing and make several public declarations of the relationship. I should point out that having a Grown-Up-Professional nemesis relationship and, say, a Deep-Wish-For-Harm-To-Fall-On-the-Guy-Who-Made-your-Life-Torture-In-Grades-4-And-5 are much different things.

I am sure that you have already begun to ask yourself: why be the nemesis of Mr. Hill. Because he is Stephen King’s son and had publishing connections from the earliest glimmer of a desire to publish? Is it because in ‘Heart-Shaped Box’ he took what could have been a clichéd King-esq horror novel and instead – through a truly unique lead character – gave us a story that was as much about growing old and taking stock of our lives as it was about past sin? Or is it because he is doing what I want to do with life – writing comics and books (the comic I created but was not allowed to write? Apparently it’s coming out soon!)?

Yes. It’s that one!

But I won’t belabor the point – part of the fun of having a secret nemesis is that you get to keep your funhouse mirror life justifications to yourself in, say, a journal or in mad midnight ramblings.

In the end I feel Joe Hill would be a good nemesis because he seems like a nice guy – that as he ridicules your work he may actually say something nice about it. And I feel he may not agree with my weird pre-Acclaim Valiant Comic book fascination but he would get it.

So, Mr. Hill I want to do what you do: write stories of wonder that plumb the depths of humanity. And I’m a few years behind you. But I will catch up. And, oh lets say in 10 years, I want to challenge you to a Duel-to-the-Death on the top of the empire state building.

But before that – can we get a beer? Maybe poke around a used bookstore and would you autograph my copy of ‘Heart-Shaped Box’?

***

Jason Hubbard Derr is a theologian, author and independent scholar living in Vancouver, BC with his lovely new bride. Jason is a contributor to PopTheoloy.com, has been invited to submit to an academic journal and will soon see his MA thesis published. He has most of a BA in Creative Writing from Eastern Washington University and and all of a MA in Theology from the Vancouver School of Theology. Jason's story "Live Nude Girls" can be found in Relief Issue 3.2.

Stories like Fine Beer and Cheese: The Importance of Texture (Part 2)

The following is part 2 of 3 from Robert Garbacz.

[Author’s Note: This is the second in my three-part blog series on the importance of a rich and multivaried “texture” in which different parts of the story resist each other, making for a far more engaging piece.  In part 1 (HERE), I discussed Greg Mitchell’s “Flowers for Shelly,” a piece that combined zombie mayhem, humor, violence, multiple characters, and a sweet-hearted love story in order to get itself on the “must publish” list.  Here, I discuss a piece from Relief that is similarly textured, though in a more literary manner.  Next week, I will conclude on a practical note, showing tips for writers and examining the payoff for taking risks.]

The sort of texture I talked about last week isn’t just for zombie romantic comedies, or even genre fiction.  Another story that blew me away was Michael Snyder’s three-page tale of grief and madness inRelief 3.1.  Read it yourself if you haven’t, as soon as possible.  Once you have, here’s the last paragraph in full:

“I walk now.  I talk a lot too.  Out loud.  Mostly to myself, sometimes to God.  All the good smells are gone.  There are no more kind eyes either, no more Tonys or groggy nurses.  I do have my photographs though.  And Hailey’s blanket.  I bartered away Maria’s bathrobe for a pair of Pumas that don’t fit.  When I get desperate, the priest will feed me or give me a coat.  He tells me to keep talking to God, to say it out loud if I have to, no matter how the normal people look at me or move to the other side of the road.  He says my decrease is Jesus’s increase, which sounds like total crap to me.  Still, I continue to testify about the things I have seen and heard and smelled and done.”

This doesn’t look like a zombie romantic comedy, because it isn’t.  What it does look like (and is) is a combination of different sorts of expectations, meeting in unique ways to provide a textured perspective that is true to life.

One would expect certain narratives, particularly in an explicitly Christian magazine: grief slowly giving way to acceptance, an increased understanding and reliance on God.  Those stories are there, like the love story element of “Flowers for Shelly.” The narrator is talking to God more, with the guidance of a priest.  He’s also moving on--maybe--with his final willingness to get rid of Maria’s bathrobe.

But there’s other flavors, as well.  In addition to the comforting taste of acceptance, there’s a strong flavoring of bitterness and continued, self-destructive mourning.  He may have given up Maria’s bathrobe, but he keeps Hailey’s blanket and the photographs.  And while the narrator may be talking to God, he’s still profoundly suspicious of the preacher’s words, which often “sound like total crap to me.” And then there’s the sheer mundanity of life; he gives up the bathrobe not in some glamorous ceremony but in a trade for shoes which didn’t fit.

Again, it is the multiplicity of voices--even if they’re all within one person’s mind--that makes the story memorable, and in this case heart-breaking.  And the conclusion doesn’t get rid of the complexity of flavors; it leaves them, in a melange of tastes that remain on the palate.  Like a fine (and highly alcoholic) Trappist ale, the story leaves the reader a bit disoriented and uncertain, but with a delicious aftertaste to contemplate.

***

Robert Garbacz, when in his natural habitat, can frequently be seen arguing theology, politics, and art over ale with often excessive volume, haranguing his friends repeatedly with obscure but fascinating facts about Medieval literature, or staring cloyingly into the eyes of his beloved wife Hannah. Unfortunately, his natural habitat is Oxford in the period from 1930-1950. This is a bit awkward for someone born in Tulsa in 1983, but he is studying towards his Doctoral at the University of Texas in Austin and feels this is a firm step in the proper direction. His short story, "The Salvation of Sancho," appeared in the previous Diner anthology, inducting him into this peculiar world of horror, bloodshed, and merciless ravagement of grammatical missteps.

Living in the Hours

Good Morning. It is 5:45am, still dark. I have been up since 4:15. I woke up cold, restless, a little hungry.  In the past hour and a half I’ve done what I can to satisfy myself: I’m now wrapped in a huge quilt sitting on top of the furnace vent on the floor in my living room; my dog is under the covers on my lap. I have been packing boxes in the kitchen—we’re moving to our first house in under a week and a half. I packed dishes quietly in the kitchen as my husband slept upstairs. I wrapped glasses in newspaper and towels. All of this while bread baked in the oven and too hungry to wait for it, I ate a bowl full of cut watermelon squares.

I wish all days started like today—with purpose and darkness and quiet and productivity. Just today, I feel somewhat akin to the monastic life; I feel connected to all the others awake right now in the world—working in quiet—its not just about waking up early—its about getting to work, about the ritual of living in these divine early hours.

Today, I will pray the hours, connected with the monks and restless morning pilgrims. Today I will not just intend it, I will do it. I will remember. I will stop. I will allow moments to be holy.

Today I will write. I will pray for inspiration. I will ask God for help. Today I will let it come. I will not be in a hurry. I will move through this work as if my life depends on it, and it does. Today I will not be afraid. Today I will believe for myself what I believe for others. Today I will show up and do the work.  Today I will be a professional writer, even if I have to pretend. Today I will turn off my phone, today I will listen to silence. Today I will light candles. I will burn Fir Balsam incense and smell the air. Today I will look at what has been left undone and leave it undone. Today I will not be lost in distraction, in necessity that does not involve words. Today, I will listen to words; I will listen inside of my head. Today I will not use my ears, today I will not use my eyes. Today I will live in my spirit. I will condition my mind. Today I will work until the moon rises. I will pray the hours before I sleep.

An invitation to pray the hours during Lent, and maybe not during Lent too: 

http://www.explorefaith.org/prayer/fixed/

*     *     *

Michelle Metcalf feels inspired today because the sun has finally started to shine in Cincinnati, OH, where she lives with her husband and dog. She lead a writer's group this morning, just like she does every Friday. That's her favorite part of the week.

Stories like Fine Beer and Cheese: The Importance of Texture (Part 1)

The following is part 1 of 3 from Robert Garbacz.

[Author’s Note: This is part one of a three-part series discussing the importance of a rich texture in fiction.  Here, I discuss the way Greg Mitchell used contrasting genres and perspectives to earn “Flowers for Shelly” a place in the second Diner. Next week, I will take a more literary turn with Michael Snyder’s “Normal People” from Relief 3.1. I will conclude on a practical note, with hints for how to create a sense of texture and a promise of the rewards of taking risks.]

One of the greatest little pleasures of living in Austin is to visit Whole Foods, sampling the cheeses, wines and beer that are available for free.  There is something almost magical about the blend of flavors in a good cheese or ale; a sea of competing tastes, textures and sensations that changes as it trickles across the tongue.  A good beer might start with a soft, fruity taste and then kick in later with a bitter aftertaste.  A good cheese will often be uneven, with a delicious, organic texture as it slides across the tongue.

I hate processed “American cheese” and “light beer.”  Sure, they’re smooth, easy to eat, and they’re focused on their goal.  But they lack the complexity and texture of the good stuff.  In comparison, they’re crap.

The same thing is true of short stories.  Reading through a slush pile, nothing will make me sit up and take note about a story than a sense that it has a really good, complicated texture; that it goes in multiple directions at once, instead of trotting straight at its target.  And while nothing will guarantee acceptance, a story with the rich, variegated texture of a Trappist ale or Irish cheese will make me perk up, and at the least make me want the story to be good enough for acceptance.

But enough about foods, before I get hungry.  Let’s look at our first story, and the way it uses contrasting thoughts and “flavors”  to make something better than the sum of its parts.  (Minor spoilers, it should be noted, are a given.)

“Flowers for Shelly,” from the second Diner, started with the solid, earthy basis of a good character drama.  The narrator is obviously in love with his wife, and wants nothing more than to stay in bed with her all day.  His responsible wife wants him to get up and go to work.  The scene is cute, a bit saccharine, but already somewhat textured thanks to the narrator’s self-deprecating wit.  The wit is understated, but at least engaging:

“Work sucks.  It’s 9:30 a.m. and I want to go home, lie in bed, and wait for Shelly to return with less pressures.  And, preferably, less clothes.”

So far, it’s more textured than processed cheese, but not much.  Maybe Kraft mild cheddar, with a slight kick of humor and marital tension.

Then the narrator’s friend and co-worker gets slaughtered by zombie-police and the story takes on a different tone:

“Suddenly, I feel a cold sensation around my ankle and see a bloody hand reaching out from underneath the car.  Pulling.  Yanking.  Moans rise up like phantoms from the depths of hell and I look into the still teary eyes of Kevin as he lures me in.  At first, I think he’s somehow survived, but then it hits me.  He’s dead, too.”

All of a sudden, this story is beginning to feel more like the sort of solid, hand-crafted cheese that is worth shipping over oceans.  What are the dead doing coming to life?  How will our hero survive?  And what the hell does this have to do with his decision to give flowers to his wife Shelly?  It’s interesting, uneven, and because I have such dissonant tones I don’t know what’s going to happen next.  I like it.

Nor is the combination of two genres all that Greg Mitchell does in his story.  In addition to the gruesome descriptions of zombie mayhem, we have the narrator’s often incoherent thoughts, his gun-nut friends’ insane euphoria at the fact that they’re actually shooting zombies, a thoroughgoing sense of humor, and a mad quest to give pretty flowers to the beautiful Shelly.  I’m not much into zombie stories, but Mitchell’s ability to pile on a hundred different flavors and cram them into a small space made this a fun romp through death and mayhem that I won’t soon forget.

The moral: even with straight-forward, zombie killing genre fiction, odd combinations and unexpected, off-kilter happenings are key.

***

Robert Garbacz, when in his natural habitat, can frequently be seen arguing theology, politics, and art over ale with often excessive volume, haranguing his friends repeatedly with obscure but fascinating facts about Medieval literature, or staring cloyingly into the eyes of his beloved wife Hannah. Unfortunately, his natural habitat is Oxford in the period from 1930-1950. This is a bit awkward for someone born in Tulsa in 1983, but he is studying towards his Doctoral at the University of Texas in Austin and feels this is a firm step in the proper direction. His short story, "The Salvation of Sancho," appeared in the previous Diner anthology, inducting him into this peculiar world of horror, bloodshed, and merciless ravagement of grammatical missteps.

Damascus, February 1990

Lisa Ohlen Harris provides us with a short passage that didn't make it into her forthcoming book Through the Veil. The post first appeared on her website LisaOhlenHarris.com.

We bumped suitcases up a set of stone stairs, and into the narrow pathway of the Old City. Along with the eleven other Americans in my research group, I followed our team leader, Steve, through a maze of stone and dust, of small doorways and little children. I could not imagine finding my way in or out of these corridors every day for three months, but Steve assured us, "Everyone will know where the foreigners are living. If you get lost, just stop and ask." Two boys playing soccer with a grubby ball stopped their game to stare at our strange procession of suitcases and foreigners. I thought I heard one of them whisper the name of our Syrian host, Abu Mousa.

Steve smiled in triumph as we rounded the turn leading to Abu Mousa's doorway. One by one we passed through the front door and into a wide atrium garden, where Um Mousa had prepared a welcome feast—chicken over rice, with vegetables and pine nuts. We were jet-lagged and hungry, and the chicken was so good. We sat together and ate. A lot.

I remember it was cold in Syria in February in a hundreds-of-years-old stone house with no heat. I remember sneaking up to the rooftop to meet Todd after a day of ethnographic research. I remember weeping three months later when it was time to leave Damascus, the city I had learned in such a short time to love.

Twenty years ago. For every detail I remember there are dozens I’ve forgotten. And for every chapter inThrough the Veil there are memories that didn’t make it into the book. In these last months before the book releases (summer 2010) I’m going to post “deleted scenes” from Through the Veil. By sharing these memories I hope to serve up an appetizer for the forthcoming book as well as commemorating the twenty-year anniversary of our time living in Damascus.

***

Lisa Ohlen Harris is Relief's Creative Nonfiction editor. Her Middle East memoir, Through the Veil, will be published by Canon Press in 2010. Lisa's essays have appeared in journals like River Teeth, Arts & Letters, and The Laurel Review, and have received special mention in Pushcart Prize XXXIII: Best of the Small Presses (2009) and in Best American Spiritual Writing (2008 and 2010). Lisa enjoys mentoring and editing the work of emerging writers through her critique service.

Enjoyment, Experience, and Reading

Stephen Swanson, prompted by a recent colleague's sharing of the "Read a Book" rap and expressing a desire to show it to their students.  Without getting into issues of race and class, what is the problem with the "reading issue" a bit more broadly?

Nothing New...

There's nothing new about a general frustration of an older generation of educators complaining about the lack of preparation of the future generation and a fear of a disappearance of books or quality books or the right books, and so on.  It seems that every year a cycle of e-mails make the teaching rounds of century-old quotes that sound just like our feelings of today.

It's Not that I Don't Like to Read, but...

What I've noticed might be changing is that while my students (both young and old) have less experience reading things on their own, they often express a desire to read more and learn to read for pleasure.

In fact, this week, one of my lit students commented during break, "I really like how we are thinking differently about this book, but I also wish that we could take time to enjoy it.  I don't even know how to do that anymore."  At first, my hackles raised, and I wanted to reply, "Well, that's because you're learning to REALLY look into a book and figure out how it means."  Fortunately, I stopped myself and thought for a second.

Why shouldn't we take time to teach/give credit for reading just for enrichment or pleasure?

Part of it is probably because the people teaching are often the one's who already love reading and take that as a given.  As can be seen by the launch of the iPad, an understanding of contemporary society must take on the growing assumption that things should "fit me".  On a certain level, this is pure hubris and entitlement, but "it is what it is", as they say.  Like it or not, people have less time for traditional "reading" and when one is not introduced to reading very early in life (Geoffrey Canada's Harlem Children's Zone advocates that an interest in books should happen in the first 3 years), then where else will you get it?

It's Important, Really, but Don't Make It Too Important.

An NEA study from 2007 found all the usual suspects.  Reading is falling, and it is becoming more important for work.  However, what really gave me pause when this student asked her question was that the immediate assumption that emerged that one must justify reading in terms of educational, and primarily economic, reasons.

Would reading really not be something to teach if it only offered another way of enjoying oneself and connecting to other people, ideas, times, and places?  Looking at the books and movies selected for awards or even just for small, local book groups, one would assume that loving books means loving stories about the deaths of young girls, loss of innocence, or big, historical epics.

In writing this, I've often devolved into a screed against the focus on quantitative educational goals, but I need to keep deleting them and move on to the bigger points.  Reading is more than enjoyment, as I teach in my literature and rhetoric classes.  Reading is also more than analysis and critique, which is not really taught or encouraged anywhere, and I think it needs to be.

Why Can't I Stop Being Serious?

I'll give you a personal example of how difficult this is for me to accomplish.  A couple weeks ago, I was meeting a friend at my favorite bar, and I brought in the genre novel that I was reading at the time (Bounty-hunter Witch Lives with Vampire and Struggles for Her Identity).  After a while of sitting at the bar, a patron asked me, "What are you reading?"  I turned the cover so that she could read the title and author.  She inquired, "What's it about?" "Well,...[confused retelling of backstory]," and I immediately felt the need to point out, "Well, I study genre narratives, especially those about detectives and detective-like characters, and especially about individual morality and ethics."

Immediately after the addendum, she smiled and said, "Cool.  That's awesome that you study something that you love."  It was to this moment that my mind jumped just this last week when the student asked about reading for pleasure.  I do love the literature that I teach, well most of it, but I've loved it for so long that I forget what it is like to learn to love something.  That "learning to love" is a slow process, just ask my wife about onions, but it is a worthwhile process to learn, just ask my wife about onions.  It is something worth putting some time, effort, and reward into sharing with others, if for society in general, then at least for individual, selfish reasons.   While I am loath to say it, learning to love something might even prove useful for one's future life and career, but don't tell anyone I said so.

***

Stephen Swanson teaches as an assistant professor of English at McLennan Community College. Aside from guiding students through the pitfalls of college writing and literature, he spends most of his time trying to remain  aware of popular culture, cooking, and enjoying time with his wife and son. He holds degrees in Communications (Calvin College), Film Studies (Central Michigan University), and Media and American Culture Studies (Bowling Green State University. In addition to editing a collection, Battleground States: Scholarship in Contemporary America, he has forthcoming projects on Johnny Cash and depiction of ethics in detective narratives.

Getting To Calvin, And How You Can Help

Your Typical Anecdotal Opening

This past December I discovered that, as with many high-tech toys and devices, I despise GPS navigation systems.

The university was closed for winter break and I didn’t have to teach again until mid-January, so Jen and I decided to take a short anniversary trip—our thirteenth. We chose Richmond, Virginia, for the Edgar Allan Poe museum, the many antique and book shops in Carytown, and because it’s close to Jen’s parents (in other words, free babysitting for our four kids). The in-laws’ Honda is much too small to carry our abundant progeny, so it seemed only natural that we would swap vehicles for the weekend. My father-in-law, being the considerate man that he is, even programmed his GPS to direct us to our hotel. “Just follow the directions,” he said. “You can’t miss it,” he said.

But after thirteen years, I guess he doesn’t know his son-in-law as well as he thinks. Coming into the city, I followed the sweetly feminine computerized voice, at the same time keeping a careful eye on the car’s odometer.

“Turn left 3.2 miles.”

Okay.

“Turn left onto I-95 North.”

Done.

“Exit point one miles.”

No problem.

“Recalculating. Recalculating.”

Wait a second. Didn’t she say---

“Recalculating.”

One wrong turn, and we were lost in downtown Richmond. And not the “good” side of town, either.

Now I’d looked at a map before we began the trip so, after half an hour of turns and double backs, we finally stumbled on Cary Street, and I had a vague idea where we were. I turned off the GPS and headed west. Ten minutes later we arrived at our destination, exhausted and completely stressed. All because I trusted that wicked computer wench.

Just thirty seconds with a map, and none of this would have happened. Thirty seconds with a map, and we’d have already been checked into our room and opening a bottle of wine.

The Real Point

All of the above is just to point out that I'm the type of person who likes—no, needs—to plan ahead. To me, the phrase “fly by the seat of your pants” has never sounded remotely fun or adventurous but…well, quite painful. I won’t even sit down to write the first sentence of a book or a short story until I’ve worked out the ending in my head. I may not know every detail of the journey (whether literal or narrative), but I know I’m wasting my time if I don’t at least know where I’m going before I start trying to get there. So though it is not until this coming April, the staff at Relief has been for the past six months making preparations for quite a showing at the Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing. And these preparations are really starting to speed up.

This year we will have a booth in the exhibition hall to sell recent and back issues of the journal. With some help from Midnight Diner Editor, Michelle Pendergrass, and authors Michael Snyder and J. Mark Bertrand, we’ll also be presenting a panel discussion during the concurrent sessions. There will be lots of games and giveaways and a circus monkey performing Glenn Beck impersonations. (Okay, I lied about that last part, but if we find one, we’ll make it happen.)

What Does This Have To Do With You?

And yet, all our careful planning aside, there are three specific things we need to get to Calvin. First, as I’ve learned since taking the Editor’s chair, what Relief and probably any journal needs more than anything is people who are willing to actually do things. In this case, that would be little things like helping to man a book table, or passing out flyers, or just spreading the word about the journal. So if you’re going to the Calvin Festival and you’re interested in being a Relief volunteer, please contact me at chris@reliefjournal.com.

Second—and this one is tough for me to even bring up—the Calvin Festival is, essentially, a book fair, so Relief will obviously need books to sell. And books cost money. The last year has been hard on businesses nationwide. Much more so for non-profit Christian literary journals, many of which have folded since the last Calvin Festival in 2008. Relief is fortunate to even still be around, and more fortunate to have completely sold out of Issues 3.1 and 3.2. But that good luck leaves us now with no inventory of our most recent books, and Issue 4.1 may not be complete by April. In short, we need to print another run of 3.2 before Calvin, and we’ll have to get on that very soon. If you are interested in helping to support Relief by donating to put a few books on our table, email me at the address above for details. Your donation will go much further than you may realize, and we will welcome and appreciate any gift, no matter how small.

Third and final, I’d like to ask you to pray for the Relief staff over the next couple months. We are volunteers ourselves, most of us working full-time jobs and then some, and then putting many extra hours of our precious little free time into this journal simply because we love it and the authors we publish. Prepping for a conference like this is a big undertaking, and it only heaps more onto a very tall mountain of things to be done. So please mention us to the Father when you can.

Oh wow, people. It's his BICEP....

Ok, so after some angry emails which I had a pretty solid laugh about, the cover for 3.2 has been altered. It seems that many people mistook the picture of a bicep for a chest. Another man's chest, or perhaps a small-breasted woman. With no nipple. And a tattoo of kittens. Ok. Wait a minute.

********************

Ok, I'm back. From laughing. Again. A lot. The kind of laughing where if I had been drinking milk, it would have shot out my nose in a three foot radius.

So, for those of you who thought it was something other than a bicep, here's your link.

And for those of you who thought it was porn, here's your link.

A big thanks to my buddy Rich Miles from the U.K. for such a quick turn-around on a nifty cover that people won't think is porn. Ok, that's not true, somebody out there is going to think it's porn. Hopefully it's not you.

I Lost

On the last day of NaNoWriMo 2009, Ian David Philpot looks on the positive side of things...even though he lost.

Today is November 30--the last day of this month--and I have officially lost NaNoWriMo. Two weeks ago, I wrote about how I had been faring in the program that pushes writers to get out 50,000 words in the month of November. Unfortunately, I have only written a couple thousand words since then. Resting just below 20,000 words, I am an official loser.

I have no problem admitting my inability. Between helping out with Relief to working 20-35 hours a week and fighting through the toughest semester yet, I wasn't able to meet my goal. And I'm fine with that, because National Novel Writing Month was a success. I wrote more for that story than I have ever written for any one piece before. I've also got a great start to a novel.

I also have a better understanding of how to direct my energies in my future. My dreams of being a professional writer have officially met with the struggles of time and the two clearly do not mix well. Reconciling them may take a lifetime, but if that's what it takes, I will do it.

My new goal is to have my current novel finished and peer reviewed before summer of next year. That way I can start preparing for NaNoWriMo 2010 much sooner. My next novel is going to be about a celebrity who leaves a long trail of clues in his movies about how he is a member of a mysterious society that carries the secret of the still existing lineage from Pope Joan. The title: The DiCaprio Code (copyright Ian David Philpot 2009). Oh, and you better believe I'm going to be using Write a Book in 30 Days next year. I clearly can not do it on my own. :)

***

Ian David Philpot, a Relief intern, is studying English at Northern Illinois University and spent one year in Columbia College Chicago's Fiction Writing program. He writes fiction and poetry and music. Ian prefers black to white, vanilla to chocolate, and only eats yellow cake.

Story Weather

David Holper shares a winter reading list for the upcoming "season of reflection."

Where I live on the far northern coast of California, the storms have begun—wet, windy,  powerful. Today, there’s a break in the weather, and as we rush my son to his last soccer game  of the season, we come down off the hill overlooking Humboldt Bay: the waves are so huge,  they are breaking over the southern jetty, which means that beyond, out where the Pacific is  fighting its perpetual battle with the land, the waves must be peaking at least 15 feet high—or more.

I love this season. The weather is wild, a little unpredictable. Knowing that, and having lived here off and on for over 30 years, I keep an umbrella in my car and one in my office to boot. It’s a perfect time to sit inside, build a fire, and enjoy time with my kids and my wife.

As I sit down to write after the game and the pizza party, I find myself browsing NPR’s website for inspiration, and my thought is perfectly echoed in Sting’s comments about his new album: "I think it's the season of reflection," Sting says. "You know, we seem to need the winter to reassess ourselves, to hibernate, if you like; to seek home, to seek comfort. Somewhere cozy: the church, the family home."

My thoughts exactly.

Although what Sting doesn’t say—at least not here—is that it’s also the perfect time to read. And for me, at least, it’s always a good time to refresh my faith and challenge me to better understand the twenty centuries of believers who have trod this path before me. By this, I mean books that challenge me in my thoughts, in my belief, in my actions. So just in the spirit of sharing some titles I’ve enjoyed, I thought I’d offer a reading list for the winter. But, to be frank, it’s really more an invitation to everyone who stumbles over this blog to join the conversation about books on faith and the church that ignite the fires of our hearts and minds.

In no particular order, here’s my list. Happy winter nights reading!

C. S. Lewis The Great Divorce

Malcolm Muggeridge A Third Testament (a great book I recently read that introduces the reader to the likes of Augustine, Blake, Pascal, Bonhoefer, Kierkegaard, and Dostoevsky)

Fyodor Dostoevsky Crime and Punishment and The Brother Karamazov

Timothy Keller The Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism

Donald Miller Blue Like Jazz

Anne Lamott Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith (and the other books that follow in her faith series)

Ravi Zakarias The Real Face of Atheism

Dietrich Bonhoeffer The Cost of Discipleship

John Eldredge Waking the Dead: The Glory of a Heart Fully Alive

***

David Holper has worked as taxi driver, fisherman, dishwasher, bus driver, soldier, house painter, bike mechanic, bike courier, and teacher. With all that useful experience and a couple of degrees, he has published a book of poetry called 64 Questions (March Street Press), as well numerous other poems in literary journals including Relief. He lives in Eureka, California, which is far enough from the madness of civilization that he can get some writing done. Another thing that helps is that his three children continually ask him to make up stories, and he is learning the art of doing that well for them.

A Return to Basterds: The Monstrous Artist

Stephen Swanson returns to his series investigating Inglourious Basterds. In this and the final entries, he will look at a central opposition between the “artistries” of Col. Landa (Christopher Waltz) and Shosanna Dreyfus (Melanie Laurent) and how they show QT’s significant opinions on the artistic process and the power between the creator and audience both in the cases of each of these characters and between Tarantino and his viewers. Landa and Dreyfus illustrate the dangers and potential of artists who both come from positions of social, political, or cultural power or weakness. This week focuses on the use of Landa’s character in this exploration.

The Tension of the Setting

Col. Landa’s arrival at the farmhouse of Pierre LaPadite (Denis Menochet), in the opening scene, establishes Tarantino and Waltz’s focus on the power of stories and artistry to attract and repel or to protect or destroy, often at the same moment. One watches the beautiful countryside and hears elegant music. However, the soundtrack also contains the sound of Pierre’s chopping of wood, both bucolic and potentially violent. The visual of him chopping steadily and shirtless both highlights his individual strength and his vulnerability. The farmhouse has an unobscured view of the surrounding fields which is both commanding and holds the potential of threat in the distant treelines. Just as Tarantino pans through these elements, the sight and sound of an official, black car invades the frame, slowly making its way to towards Pierre’s place of strength and vulnerability. Politically, Landa’s status as occupier holds all the cards, but practically speaking Pierre’s knowledge and history in the place also give him both vulnerability and potential strength

The Tension of the Men

Landa and his fellow-Nazi escorts immediately threaten, visually and literally. Landa’s polite request to enter the house does not fool Pierre or the audience familiar with the Nazi-officer archetype, creating a tie in perspective that Tarantino, Waltz, and Menochet play throughout the scene. Landa continues the performance of the archetype, with both Pierre and the viewer, as he asks for Pierre’s daughters to wait outside, at once attempting a commonality, since his colleagues are outside, but also a threat as he praises the daughters’ beauty and asks Pierre to place them out of his protection and with the soldiers with guns. He requests milk, praises the cows, and identifies Pierre’s status as an excellent dairy farmer and father in the region but drinks like a child. Landa methodically removes the tools of bureaucracy: pen, paper, filling the pen, and highlighting the mere formality of the meeting. Pierre prepares his pipe and smokes, and Landa removes his ridiculously proportioned meerschaum pipe and begins the process of smoking it. His performance simultaneously comforts his immediate and cinematic audiences. Landa shows his mastery as an actor just as Waltz performs the same feat.

The Tensions of the Artist

These elements all contribute to an audience who both immediately knows and recognizes where they are and what’s happening but also that they cannot make assumptions about the progression of elements of the story and performances. The aware audience, along with Pierre, knows the inevitable result of this visit. Landa/Waltz’s ability and power align to create a character both perfect and monstrous who only toys with Pierre’s hope to persist in silence and brevity to protect the Jews beneath his floorboards. The appearance of reason only barely covers the terrible truth that lies beneath, the goal to extinguish a people, and the joy Landa gets in playing with people, treating them as characters and props in the performance of his beloved identity as the “Jew Hunter”.

***

Stephen Swanson teaches as an assistant professor of English at McLennan Community College. Aside from guiding students through the pitfalls of college writing and literature, he spends most of his time trying to remain reasonably aware of popular culture, cooking, and enjoying time with his wife and son. He holds degrees in Communications, Film, and Media and American Culture Studies from Calvin College, Central Michigan University, and Bowling Green State University, respectively. In addition to editing a collection, Battleground States: Scholarship in Contemporary America, he has forthcoming projects on Johnny Cash and depiction of ethics in contemporary film noir.

64 Questions Review

Almost a year ago, David Holper had a collection of poems published in a chapbook titled 64 Questions.  Shortly thereafter, some of his work was published in issue 3.1 of Relief.  Over the last two months, David has also joined the list of occasional bloggers that write for our website. Recently, The-Chimaera.com wrote a review of 64 Questions that we thought you should check out.  You can read it by clicking here.

David's Bio: David Holper has worked as taxi driver, fisherman, dishwasher, bus driver, soldier, house painter, bike mechanic, bike courier, and teacher. With all that useful experience and a couple of degrees, he has published a book of poetry called 64 Questions (March Street Press), as well numerous other poems in literary journals including Relief. He lives in Eureka, California, which is far enough from the madness of civilization that he can get some writing done. Another thing that helps is that his three children continually ask him to make up stories, and he is learning the art of doing that well for them.

Photo Haiku Wednesday 11.4.2009

Photo courtesy of Michelle Pendergrass. Directions: 1. Enjoy. 2. Write a haiku inspired by what you see. 3. Post the haiku in the comments for bonus points. 4. Put the haiku on your twitter with #RJPHW (Relief Journal Photo Haiku Wednesday) in your tweet for SUPER bonus points.

Review of The Body of This: Stories

About a month ago, Robin Merrill wrote into Relief's Editor-in-Chief asking to write a review of Relief published author Andrew McNabb's new book, The Body of This: Stories.   The e-mail was passed to me and I was more than happy to put Robin on the schedule.  So I present to you Robin's review:

An Important New Voice

By Robin Merrill

A man gives up a million dollar lottery ticket so his girlfriend will eat a bag of potato chips.  A thirty-three year old lawyer quits his practice to work at Home Depot, where he can be truly subservient.   A young girl dreams of marrying Christ.  A woman contemplates the birth of her albino child.  A family man dreams of licking a homeless woman’s teeth to achieve rapture.

Andrew McNabb’s debut collection of short stories is a triumph.  Twenty-eight stories in only 164 pages, some are more like vignettes than stories.  McNabb does not waste words.  His stories are tight and potent.  Don’t expect plot driven narratives; instead, each story paints a portrait of a character (or two), most of whom seem inexplicably familiar.  Have I met them somewhere before?  Or do I recognize myself in McNabb’s honest depictions?

I would be remiss if I did not call attention to McNabb’s peculiar ability to write a love story.  How can a writer today tell a love story that is fresh and authentic without falling into the sticky traps of romance and sentimentalism?  McNabb achieves this with realism.  The collection is worth reading for one piece alone: “Their Bodies, Their Selves.”  An elderly man falls while using the restroom and his elderly wife, upon finding him injured and embarrassed, undresses in front of him for the first time.  Tender.  Human.  Perhaps the most exquisite love story I’ve read.

This is a corporeal collection.  I fear a “Christian” label might summon expectations of cartoonish characters and Little House on the Prairie plots. Instead, a reader finds blatant realism, with sex and flatulence and nudity, and yes, even cursing, but it is never gratuitous, just graciously honest.  McNabb fuses the spiritual and the physical in such a perfect union, one wonders how there was ever a divide.

This is not a collection of stories about being Christian, but instead an exploration of what it means to be human in a beautiful, haunted world. McNabb’s faith and spiritual self-awareness is intrinsically woven throughout the book’s pages.  No story is told “because of faith” or “in service of faith.”  The faith is just there.  It is just part of the human experience, which makes The Body of This all the more authentic.  I expect to be affected by these stories for some time.  Andrew McNabb is an important writer.