Final Revision

Cheers to Naked K

Flashback to 1992 and Sublime front man Bradley Nowell singing about infamous “40oz to Freedom.” For him that may have meant big-time drugging and serious debauchery, but nearly two decades later, students on Kalamazoo College’s campus are exploring their own liquid courage by shedding more than just their inhibitions: they’re publicly discarding their clothes.

Male and female alike, students are streaking.

It usually happens late, right around midnight, on Friday and Saturday—an hour when the alcohol consumed post-dinner is just starting to stake its claim on students’ normally functional decision-making processes.

They do it for the rush. It’s a right of passage. Maybe it’s a bonding experience. How about a drunken whim?

Nearly every weekend once the weather recovers from months of winter, piles of pants, blouses, t-shirts, dresses, skirts, and sneakers litter the steps of Stetson Chapel as bare bodies can be seen racing, swaying, dipping and sometimes falling, from the top of the quad to the sign post across from Hoben. They might high five before forging back up the hill.

Some students make multiple streaking missions in the span of just minutes, others jump their quickly sobering bodies into clothes as fast as coordination will allow, and still more celebrate their jaunt by continuing to bask about casually in the nude.

At certain landmark events during one’s time at K, nudity, if not excessive drinking, seem all but required in order to fully soak up the experience. LandSea, Frelon, Senior Pig Roast: look carefully, there’s a footnote about the nudity one can expect at each of these transitional times.

For many freshmen, first experiences with public nudity take place on the LandSea orientation program, at which time peer leaders often partake in naked swimming and encourage their charges to do the same.

Though in no way is participating in naked swimming mandatory, there is a certain degree of passive prompting at play. However, for this one remove alcohol from the equation.

LandSea participants have to strip down to nothing without the help of the booze that is so readily available to the underclassmen on K’s campus. In the woods, nudity may actually be about self-acceptance and liberation from unrealistic, media-generated body norms.

“Certain boundaries drop and when you don’t have to worry about what other people think of you, and you don’t have to think about other people judging you about your body, it becomes less of a big deal,” says former LandSea participant and two-time peer leader Katja Samati.

She explains, “There was a cool quality to being alright with naked swimming.”

To recap: Cool meets Drunk, Naked Swimming morphs into Group Streaking.

No event better exemplifies this bizarre equation than that which takes place post-Frelon. On this night, hoards of students, comprised mostly of the production’s overwhelming female production cast, march from the Fine Arts Building to the quad where they drop trow, or leotard, and then proceed to streak.

It’s a tradition, and before 2009 it was one who’s sanctity had remained intact, not to mention its illegality ignored by both the administration and campus security. In Michigan, public nudity constitutes indecent exposure and two misdemeanor charges carry the potential to land carefree streakers in the same registry—the Sexual Offender Registry—as child molesters and rapists.

But back to the story.

The 2009 post-Frelon streaking event, one in which upwards of 200 students are believed to have participated, was turned into a mob scene by a group of freshmen men who had gathered to heckle the streakers. They arrived at the quad with boxes of water balloons and proceeded to hurl the brightly colored bombs at fellow students partaking in the tradition. The majority of their violence was directed at men, who represented the obvious minority.

The harassment progressed until two of the hecklers, Riley Wetzel and Martin Blanc, physically tackled several of the male streakers. Though their motivations for violence remain unclear and unattested to, both students admit to being under the influence of alcohol at the time they committed their assaults.

Neither attacker is of legal age.

The ugly scene ultimately concluded with Dan Hulbert, a senior, bearing a broken elbow as a result of Wetzel and Blanc’s liquid lunacy. Both students have been suspended as a result of their actions and Hulbert’s elbow is nearing full recovery.

In a May 1, 2009 email statement sent from Dean Sarah Westfall to all students, it is stated “…spring quarter is a time when the ‘K’ tradition of streaking comes alive…Because streaking has not historically been problematic at ‘K,’ the campus has not contacted the police for assistance in managing the crowds…”

The dean goes on to very clearly state: “Though the College does not condone illegal behavior, like streaking, your help is essential in ensuring that it does not become a problematic or dangerous tradition if and when it occurs.”

Nowhere in the email, nor in public discourse, was the quad’s resident elephant discussed. Sure, on the Sunday morning that followed the mass streaking, sidewalks throughout campus were sprinkled in theatrical attire and vomit, this didn’t inspire those in positions of power to publicly connect the cluster of three dots labeled Alcohol, Streaking, and Violence.

If annual traditions like the streaking that takes place both post-Frelon and after the Senior Pig Roast are founded on drunken liberation, it’s only commonsensical to question what it is that baring all offers to students.

This year, the pig roast, which also took place on the quad, actually boasted a keg for about thirty minutes before campus security intervened.

When student-coordinated events encourage underage drinking and indecent exposure in direct violation of the laws laid out by greater society, the nature of this institution’s traditions,’ even those that remain off the books, like streaking, implementation is immediately called into question.

As college-age students however, it is not the administration’s responsibility to handhold; no, it remains the duty of the individual to, as cliché as it sounds, drink responsibly or to not drink at all. While public nudity, or streaking, within the K bubble in and of itself may not be harmful, the alcohol consumption that enables it has the potential for causing great harm, as evidenced by the irresponsible actions of a few.

“I think what the administration is saying is that us, as a post-secondary educational institution, are not police and the scope or our practice is to teach and educate,” said clinical psychologist and psychology professor Charles Livingston. “If it’s not in their [the administration’s] mission statement, if it’s not in their scope of practice, then it’s a legal issue.”

And that’s why Americans generally, and K kids specifically, are in danger each time they strip in the name of glorious liberation, or life-altering transition, or, more likely, just blurry-eyed drunkenness.

If the large-scale nudity at last Sunday’s Senior Pig Roast is any indicator, the naked culture at K remains undeterred, even in the face of broken bones and potential prosecution. For the $2.50 a 40oz costs, some might say this breed of liberation is a bargain.

Comments All Around

Colin, let me start by saying that the lead is absolutely awesome. You set the tone in a very genuine way, and major props on brilliantly welcoming the reader to Detroit. Now, in order of appearance, more specific comments: "overhead" is one word. What procession are you referring to? Is it the crowd of strangely dressed stoners making their way to DEMF?

Your description of Hart Plaza lobby, and also of metropolitan Detroit, is really moving; the paragraph that begins "This is true..." is very poetic and somber. It works well juxtaposed to the excitement of the festival. Also, by focusing on how downtrodden Detroit is, and that awesome quote from DJ RJD2, you do a great job negotiating between big picture and small picture.

Okay, seriously what was Afrika Bambaataa talking about?

Thank you for referring to Detroit residents as "townies."

Do you think you could you introduce DJ's names differently? The parentheses are a bit contrived and impersonal.

The "Fuck that building, it's about the music!" quote is so strong; could you put it in earlier, like maybe where you're initially describing how downtrodden the city is?

Also, explicitly name DEMF. You say what it was originally called, but never name it outright. Not everyone is as hep and you and me.

Kill the second to last paragraph; the tone doesn't match.

I loved the whole piece but didn’t feel there was really a conclusion at the end. Could you wrap it up differently?

Maureen, I would never have guessed that Javin is the person you were describing. I had no idea he is so miserable. There are some really strong images and quotes here; the piece is strengthened dramatically by such authoritative sources as Zaide Pixley and Pat Ponto. They definitely ground the issue presented by Javin’s unhappiness.

The paragraph that begins “I don’t fit into any group here..” is particularly touching and endeared Javin to me; the image of him looking in the mirror is golden. Also the line about his neighbors being the “parking lot entrance door and the lounge,” works very well.

At times, I got a little confused about where the article was going. Specifically, the section about African American students at K made me wonder if you were attributing his unhappiness to a greater racial divide on our campus. I would be careful about generalizations.

Also, I assume Javin and Ashlee are friends but I think it would be clearer if you explicitly stated their relationship or connection.

Emily, this piece was such a joy to read. From the title, “Natalie Next Door,” to the charming kicker, I was very much endeared to Natalie, and invested in her story. You tell it well and absolutely do it justice! The introduction is crafted to artfully and I love the image of her carrying “the energy of a larger city.”

I’ve found it difficult to make the “I” character work in my own pieces, but it’s something that you do very, very well. I appreciate your presence here especially because it allows you to provide an emotional guide to the conversation. Your reactions and inner dialogue are stellar.

Oh Schafer, I’m so pleased you chose the cemetery. You absolutely do Bardeen justice. Your snarky tone, dressed in black leather jacket and sunglasses, fits very well here. My only major critique is one that came up a couple times: I think you know the place so well that at times sweet little details get left out. I scribbled masses of questions and suggestions in the margins, but for example when you’re talking about the small puffs of smoke rising, that might be a good place to say more by appealing to other senses (Does it smell skunky? Can you hear lighters and giggling?)

The pacing is very well done throughout the piece, but I don’t think the final paragraph is done justice. I think you could break it up into a couple baby paragraphs, vary sentence lengths significantly, and maybe instead of concluding with the idea that the scenery is fleeting, tack on some sort of super-brief, potentially trite and editorialized comment like, “How tragic.”

Marni, I’m so glad you decided to write about the Nutritional Value system. The delayed explanation in the lede works really well and absolutely pulled me in. Although, not to knock my own brain power, I was slightly distracted…okay, confused…by the shapes, the hexagons and diagonal shelf, in the first sentence—is there a way you could simplify the description?

Also, your cast of characters is so complete! It was a treat getting to meet each new “foodie” (I absolutely love that you worked that phrase in!); there are just enough details to flesh each person out, and I felt invested and excited about what they were saying. Using Carrie Brankiewicz worked really well, too; her presence definitely added an air of authority to the piece.

I think that you’re using the Nutritional Value scheme to look at the ways in which healthy eating and nutrition are already being addressed, and also why they are an issue, but I kind of want the big picture-small picture relationship more clearly defined. Maybe some statistics would help?

Camilo, you did such a good job characterizing Rufus. I think what makes your article so strong is the way you contrast perspectives by showing the differences in Kenyan and American life. It works best when you directly quote Rufus (side note: can you use his last name?). The fourth paragraph is really awesome, especially where you discuss his “elegant outfit”—the way either he gently pokes fun at himself, or the way you editorialize to do it, is amusing and quickly works to make Rufus a likeable character. On that note, I am going to be slightly biased and say that I wish you had said something about how he is absolutely always smiling, or that he greets everyone he sees—those details are important to people who don’t know him.

While I enjoyed reading “The Tribe Man,” at times I did wonder what the ultimate focus was. Is it a profile of his experience in America? Is it about the differences between Kenyan and American life? Is it about how international students experience K? I think they’re all very valid stories, but I do think the article would benefit from having its purpose more clearly defined.

Lindsey, I don't know how effective it is for you to frame the piece by asking about a serious topic while being preoccupied by the game. Also, the quotes Laura gives sound slightly contrived, but then again that could just be a side effect of economic-talk.

In the second paragraph, you name the first thing that can happen when adolescents go off to college, but what is the second? Maybe they should be introduced alongside each other.

Though the information you present is very interesting, it doesn't necessarily seem to fit within a single theme. The article comes off as an explanation of several ANSO experiments, rather than an in-depth look at a single issue, like student's apathy toward world events, or why majors are so divided between genders.

Undressing K's Naked Culture

“We’re trying to redefine nudity here at K in order to desexualize it,” says former LandSea participant and two-time leader Katja Samati K’10. “That’s pretty progressive.”

The two main events boasted by Kalamazoo College’s naked culture, the naked swim on LandSea, and the streaking of the quad after Frelon performances, have become part of K lore.

Many freshman tick the former off their To Do lists just before school starts, as they are met by encouraging LandSea patrol leaders, many of whom are past participants and well acquainted with the tradition.

Naked swimming is exactly what first inured me to K’s naked culture. But to back up a moment, having never before slept outside, much less in the woods of Canada, and having never spoken to any of the eleven strangers with whom I spent eighteen days traversing nature on foot and in canoe, my comfort level was already low and quickly waning.

Throw nudity into the mix and, well, my compass was pointed East, back to New York, back to civilization, back to shame, and black tops and black bottoms, faster than you could say, “How does this breeze make my butt look?”

Needless to say, I got over it. I didn’t have much of a choice.

Though neither nudity nor naked swimming appear in the college-sponsored LandSea pamphlet, they both make waves all over Killarney National Park, the site of the college’s esteemed experiential learning program.

Samati explains the program termed the phrase “naked swimming” for three reasons: first, to replace the loaded phrase “skinny-dipping;” second, to desexualize the act; and third, to be sensitive to the complications, that for many, arise from public nudity.

Nakedness on LandSea is not required, but any past participant can tell you that it is encouraged. Intended to liberate participants and to teach acceptance of bodies and of genders, naked swimming is absolutely not about making nakedness sexual, says Samati.

“On LandSea, part of the draw and appeal of being naked is to take away from the physical,” she says. “Certain boundaries drop, and when you don’t have to worry about what other people think of you, and you don’t have to think about other people judging your body, it becomes less of a big deal.”

Once outside of Killarney Park’s deep blue lakes, and finally back on K’s campus, public nudity finds yet another niche in quad streaking.

For serial streakers like Jared Devitt K’10, it’s about the momentary thrill and the bonding experience shared among the participants.

Thinking back to his first experience, Devitt comments, “I certainly felt closer to those guys afterward. Everyone does; it’s kind of a collective feeling.”

For him, like Samati, there’s nothing sexual about running around in the nude. In fact, Devitt attributes the sexualized messages surrounding streaking to voyeurs who choose to observe rather than to participate.

“What really helps consistently around here is the idea that you can’t really get arrested for it,” he says. “At the same time, it helps that I know a lot these people, and I think they know me.”

Public nudity or indecent exposure, skinny-dipping or naked swimming, call it what you will: a bare body is as simple as it sounds.

Or, I’ve learned, at least it should be.

A mere, unclothed body will remain just that until the police are called, or hecklers assemble, at which point the body is forcibly sexualized by outside observers. Male or female, sober or drunk, its owner is subject to legal action.

But, fortunately for freedom, there are of course exceptions. At the esteemed University of California Berkeley, for example, a public school, stipulations have been carefully devised to allow for a practical clothing optional policy—that is, institutionalized allowance and acceptance of public nudity—within “academic programs or classes,” performing arts productions, in gymnasiums, pools, and more.

Reading between the lines, UC Berkeley has authorized nudity in all of the confined spaces over which it has direct control, leaving the outside the only area under which local law enforcement has jurisdiction.

Berkeley, like Kalamazoo College, however, is careful to begin its liberal statement by declaring any “lewd or sexually offensive conduct, including indecent exposure and public nudity,” disallowed.

That’s because being naked in public can be grounds for sexual offender status, perhaps one of the most socially inhibiting and professionally detrimental titles attainable in the United States.

Currently, the American Civil Liberty’s Union is waging a campaign to “protect nudity as a constitutionally sheltered freedom of expression,” but as is currently the case in Michigan—as is the case in most other states—public nudity, be it in the form of streaking, taking a casual afternoon walk, or urinating behind a dumpster, is deemed a misdemeanor.

And it takes just two charges of indecent exposure to relegate one to the sex offender registry, a database the Michigan legislature devised for “a person who…poses a potential serious menace and danger to the health, safety, morals, and welfare of the people.” In the eyes of the law, there is no differentiation made between nudist and child molester, student streaking after Frelon and pedophile.

And while some may argue there is no need for distinction, many others, including K College students and faculty members, disagree. The heart of their argument? Nudity is not inherently sexual, nor should it be treated as anything more than an expression, or exploration, of self.

In a May 1, 2009 email statement sent from Dean Sarah Westfall to all students, it is stated “…spring quarter is a time when the ‘K’ tradition of streaking comes alive…Because streaking has not historically been problematic at ‘K,’ the campus has not contacted the police for assistance in managing the crowds…”

The dean goes on to very clearly state: “Though the College does not condone illegal behavior, like streaking, your help is essential in ensuring that it does not become a problematic or dangerous tradition if and when it occurs.”

When traditions, like the streaking and naked swimming called for by K’s nudie culture, oppose the laws laid out by greater society, the nature of their implementation is immediately called into question.

“I think what the administration is saying is that us, as a post-secondary educational institution, are not police and the scope or our practice is to teach and educate,” said clinical psychologist and psychology professor Charles Livingston. “If it’s not in their [the administration’s] mission statement, if it’s not in their scope of practice, then it’s a legal issue.”

And that’s why Americans generally, and K kids specifically, are in danger each time they strip in the name of glorious liberation, or life-altering transition, or even just blurry-eyed drunkenness.

Surely if the administration deemed streaking an indecent behavior, it would not be tolerated or encouraged, albeit passively.

Specifically regarding streaking, Professor Livingston says, “It’s not an act of sex, in my opinion. It’s an act of freedom, an act of transition, it’s just drunkenness, but it’s not a sexual act.”

“We need to reference the culture the behavior occurs in, as well as the individual doing the streaking,” he says.

The cultural context for nudity remains contested generationally, geographically, and between political parties, but critically, none of these qualifiers are mutually exclusive, and thus, the issue only grows.

If the large-scale nudity at last Sunday’s Senior Pig Roast is any indicator, the naked culture at K remains undeterred, even in the face of potential prosecution. One might say that’s the price of freedom.

A Critical Look at Jonah Lehrer's "DON'T"

To be completely honest, Jonah Lehrer’s article, “Don’t,” is born into some very cold water. The unsubstantiated anecdotal lede is golden, intriguing, and full of potential until the second paragraph hits and it’s revealed that the subject, Carolyn Weisz, in fact “has no direct memory of the experiment.” Though as the reader I am only marginally committed at this point, I still felt somewhat betrayed by the flimsy foundation on which the opening story is told—I had already bought in to this tale.

Regardless, the dreamy narration is enough to propel me forward; Lehrer goes on to say “she [Carolyn] strongly suspects that she was able to delay gratification,” a statement to which I respond, “hearsay.” It is not until Lehrer makes it clear that Carolyn is not the subject of this article that the shaky details earn the right to stay; they’re not perfect, but they’re there to craft a story, not provide testimony.

The article warms up when it is realized that the narrator is actually telling the story of Walter Mischel’s lifework; further, he is telling it with a commitment to complete transparency. Lehrer sacrifices clean corners for story, striking an endearing balance between hard facts as a base, and anecdotes to fill in the white space. Once beyond the slightly misleading and unfounded lede, Lehrer’s article features expert tone, structure, and a creative voice that elicits vivid imagery with every turn.

The tone in “Don’t” is a combination between that of a scientific research study and a scientist’s personal journey toward and through revelation. Lehrer mimics in his own writing the emotional arc that Mischel and the other scientists undoubtedly endured. He writes, “Mischel argues that intelligence is largely at the mercy of self-control,” and then goes on to quote the scientist: “’What we’re really measuring with the marshmallows isn’t willpower or self-control…We can’t control the world, but we can control how we think about it.’” Not only is this completely stellar quote wrapped in juicy hypothesized wonder, the very sentiment is one that has been widely popular in the last several years (think Freakonomics, Blink, The Tipping Point, and Outliers). Lehrer employs the quote in order to appeal to an audience that is already known to exist.

Additionally, the narrator’s heightened consciousness supplies confidence to the piece, and further, the way Lehrer uses his breadth of knowledge to zoom in and zoom out, relating bigger picture with smaller, creates credibility. With the exception of his aside about not being surprised that the low delayers took longer to return the laptops, the narrator endears himself by remaining comfortably removed from the subject.

Though this is a piece about scientific study, more specifically about what it is that “governs self-control,” Lehrer very carefully avoids weighing “Don’t” down with technical garble. Perhaps the cleverest example in “Don’t,” is that of the “Go/No Go task,” in which the variables are simple and the project is clearly, easily explained. By allowing the reader to share in the experiment, Lehrer forces active reading.

Further, his descriptions are organic and fresh. At no point do they grow stale or bog down the article. Lehrer writes first, “he takes on the body language of an impatient four-year old,” and second, describing Mischel’s discovery of a new learning process, says that he “ found a shortcut.” Particularly in the latter example, the language is unconventional but works to keep the reader participating in and thinking about the subject.

“Don’t,” concludes with a bang; at its last punctuation mark the water is scalding. As one who snacks before dinner, spends her allowance before she sees it, and can’t help but peak under the Christmas tree on the way to the bathroom, I very clearly identify as a low delayer. However, the evenhanded context in which Lehrer provides these highly relatable examples lends itself to identification whether the reader is a high or a low delayer.

Reading “Don’t” is a more involved experience than most television shows or movies can provide; it offers give and take, and truly relates the article’s specific scientific subjects with readers’ universalizable experiences.

MUNCH THiS!

Munch This: A Sober Look at Everyone’s Favorite Convenience Store

The hike to Munchie Mart can be a challenge, be it from a Vampire-themed Valentine’s Day Party on Forbes Street, a Zombie Bride Festival on Davis, or even from as close as one of Kalamazoo College’s dorms.

The walk often requires intense focus, chanting the grocery list, or just a single word—cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes—to ensure one’s quest is successful.

“You focus on walking in a straight line, deciding which homeless people to avoid (the answer is all of them), and remembering which light means walk,” says Colin King K’11.

“Drunk people are very focused on their tobacco,” he goes on. In the three minutes Colin, and most other Munchie patrons spend in the store, the mission is easily fulfilled. “You know what you’re going to get when you finally get there,” he says.

But door opened and door closed, that’s just one side of Munchie Mart.

Stepping behind the shop’s tall, forest green counters, Paul, 23, and Will, 26, are vested with the authority and responsibility to dispense two of America’s few legal drugs: cigarettes and alcohol. Both men work two jobs and attend Western Michigan University full time; they’re busy, and on Friday night, five hours into their shifts, they’re peppy.

Sounds from the east side of the state, more specifically Comerica Park, spill through the store’s cobwebbed overhead speakers, and though loud, perhaps unnecessarily so, patrons are rung up and shuffled in and out with great efficiency and order.

Once through Munchie’s Plexiglas door, the one donned in stickers reminding patrons of the legal age and proudly announcing that the store accepts food stamps, a whole new world of sugary sweets, beer, beer, beer, and liquor appears.

Ask any of the many men and women who walk out with a thirty pack of chilled PBR, Red Dog, or Keystone, Munchie’s pièce de résistance is its walk-in fridge.
With its low ceiling and crowded shelves, its heavily postered walls and windows, stepping inside the fridge is an experience. It’s getting out, according to Paul and Will, that proves a challenge for many of Munchie’s already-inebriated customers.

For help out of the fridge, officially dubbed the “Beer Tank” by a Miller Lite banner, the room’s single door sports a user-friendly, eye-level sticker reading: “PUSH.” As if not conspicuous enough, the message is hammered home by a white handprint beneath it, ensuring that non-English speakers and those with blurred vision are not discriminated against, or worse, trapped.

“It’s called the Beer Cave,” Paul scoffs, offering an insider’s perspective. “Miller Lite needs to get it right.”

Whether a fridge, a closet, a tank, or a cave, its door, like those on the ice cooler, is often left open by distracted patrons rushing back to their porch, living room, or dorm.

When two unnaturally orange, spandex-clad women in their early twenties, stumbling and giggly, approach Munchie’s register, they ask for a fifth of bottom shelf booze. Generic College Girl A hands over a shiny plastic ID, and trying to trip her up, Will asks what her zip code is. “49003”—she’s a local and she knows the answer.

Will laughs. “And what state do you live in?” he asks, but before she can answer, his counterpart, Paul, chimes in, “Insanity! I live in a state of insanity!”

And he’s right, but it’s working for them.

Shortly thereafter, just around 10:30, there’s a rush at Munchie Mart. It’s raining outside, and many patrons arrive soaked, but like Colin, they’re on a high-stakes expedition and feeling no pain.

A middle-aged man with intensely unfocused pupils teeters in, leaning forward, his body at a seventy-degree angle with the tiled floor. He’s dressed in a cut-off sleeve tee shirt, wearing a brown vest, and looking utterly removed from reality. Gazing toward a rainbow of beer bottles, he misses the green rugs rolled out for the weather, and he trips, rolls the rug up, and continues on. If he so much as noticed the misstep, he shows no sign of it—but, would you? He buys his booze and leaves.

Another pair of college women arrive and purchase their 6-pack of Coors, but not without Paul first asking if they’re driving; he’s concerned, and with good reason.

The store’s motto, “BIG enough to serve you, SMALL enough to care,” hangs in the background, appearing on indistinct poster board and looking to be the product of an unmotivated elementary school child. Still, its message rings true.

“We’re not driving, but we are drunk,” replies the more rambunctious of the two. With brown paper bag in hand, they give a little cheer on the way out the door: “Beer pong here we come!”

But keeping the shelves stocked and ringing up purchases are only part of the job. After encountering enough drunken patrons who drive to Munchie only to try to buy more alcohol, Paul and Will see their responsibility to look out for the customer as a big part of the job too.

Around 11, a scraggly-haired twenty-two year old, a regular, swings open the door and beelines toward the forties.

“This guy buys for minors,” Paul declares shamelessly. The kid laughs, shakes his head nervously, and continues on his way. “And he knows every time he comes him here I’m going to try to get him to admit it,” Paul goes on.

With no serious response from the accused, Will takes a turn; “He buys about ten forties, and he drops bottles,” he says.

With faux indignation, he kid denies the accusations and approaches the register braced with a single 22-ounce Miller Lite—innocent at least for tonight.

Munchie Mart owner, Tom Berry, has taken an active stance against underage drinking by rewarding his employees with $10 for every fake ID confiscated. The homemade IDs then make their way into Munchie’s box of shame, but often not without tears and protest from former owners.

Just before midnight, an older man comes in, walks to the counter with two forties, and slurs something about a deal he heard on the radio. “You heard it, didn’t ya?,” he asks. But Paul’s heard it all before. No one, especially not this guy, is going to pull the wool over his eyes. The man laughs—he’s been caught. He pays for his malt liquor, and he leaves.

Paul and Will know some of the regulars by name, but Paul says he remembers faces better. Handing over a fifth of Smirnoff, Will warns its new owner to “drink slowly.” He’s seen her at her worst.

If the guys had alter egos, they say they might be Rocky and Bullwinkle (Will’s got dibs on the former), Simon and Garfunkel, or Adolf and Mussolini. Though they do strive to keep the customer satisfied, ruling with an iron fist takes top priority.

Rumor has it there’s a baseball bat behind the counter, but rumor has it wrong. There used to be, according to Will, but “we’d want to use it too much,” he says with a laugh.


With closing time growing nearer, Paul and Will throw on the heavy metal music. Loud. The genre has been statistically proven to get customers out of the store quicker. Sure, every once in a while the plan backfires, but largely, it’s successful.

In between the monotony of fulfilling work responsibilities, the guys like to laugh, control the radio (CCR and The Flaming Lips play second string to the metal), prank call the other Munchie, and to see the clock strike 1:45am—the time they finally get to lock the door, cash out the registers, and ignore lingering sass from old drunks banging on the window and ill-coordinated college students looking for more, more.

For Paul and Will, the Munchie Mart experience is way more than three minutes.

Round Dos

Okay, so I got you last time, but here's my piece for real.

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/05/18/090518fa_fact_lehrer

David Sedaris. The Man.

So, our last talk about David Sedaris has made me all the more eager to share my absolute favorite essay of his. It appeared in the New Yorker last May, but has in no way faded. Hope y'all enjoy.

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/05/05/080505fa_fact_sedaris

After Much Mulling...

Camilo, this campus is just filled with truly interesting people, isn’t it? Next time I’m in the library I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for Linda—I want to see for myself what she’s all about, and maybe ask her a question or two about what sounds to be a very exciting life.

I particularly liked the juxtaposition between her two jobs, helping raise six children while also helping six others die. The detail about the real estate agent’s advice also nicely foreshadows and builds tension, reminding the reader that this is a story about Linda’s abandoning her home and what she knows, in order to try a new lifestyle in Casablanca.

While it is very good, at times I forgot the article’s purpose and I feel like I want to know more about her reasons for joining the Peace Corps. The idea is riveting in the beginning, but then disappears until the very end. I think I would have been more invested if it had been consistent. Also, more emotional cues would make the narration more appealing to me. I want to know about this lady and all the busy thoughts that absolutely must be running through her head all day.

This was great to read!

Emily, I so enjoyed reading your piece. It is really a story. I love how you craft these scenes, set the pace so deliberately, and also characterize strangers in such a way that they are intimately familiar. Some of the language, like where you describe Fitzpatrick as having “fallen in” just sounds so perfect. It fits beautifully and feels totally authentic—I believed you as the narrator, like you have the inside scoop and are cool enough to just be at home in this clearly bizarre environment.

There were a couple sentences that were a little long. I felt myself getting lost in the paragraph beginning with “Currently, though…” but I think it’s just a matter of some strategically placed punctuation. Also, something Aaron told me is that quotes should stand alone as their own paragraphs. Of course it doesn’t make a difference when we’re blogging, but it really does look so much better in print. I’ve also found it makes it easier for me to read my own writing that way. My only other question is if there’s a way you can focus totally on Fitzpatrick, without confusing the profile subject for being the space. I flip-flopped back and forth while reading, and it could have just been my own interpretation, but I wasn’t entirely sure at all times who/what I was learning about
Looking forward to discussing tomorrow!


Maureen, let’s take these girls out on the town. They sound totally miserable. I’m interested in the story here, though, and I want to know more about what makes Jane have such strong convictions. Like, is it the fact that during so much of her life she’s been in this geographic limbo that she feels she doesn’t want to make friends for fear of losing them again? What does she consider her roommates to be? What is her GPA and what does she want to do with all this acquired knowledge?

The dialogue you included is what really ropes me in—that bit about friends just being a waste practically had me scribbling questions for me to ask her! I like how the piece ends with Jane going to bed; it is very fitting for the piece and I totally envision the article, Jane, and all her books being tucked in under the covers.

Looking forward to hearing more about Jane and what drew you to her.

Lindsey, I am so thrilled you decided to profile The Strutt. It is such a funky little place, and Darren is an absolute character. I also learned a lot! Your imagery sold me on the piece—I love your description of the place as being “freckled with fliers,” and also the mini-turn in the sentence “But don’t get the wrong impression, this classy joint is the furthest thing from a pizza place.” There is such authority in your voice! I wanted to hear more and more and more. Also, the mention of the herb garden is so graceful; not too forceful, just functional and just right.

I also like how you characterize the entire establishment as being enthusiastic, hopeful, and most of all, ambitious, by describing the many different avenues for development (ie. the record company, the brewing, etc) that is taking.

There were just a couple points where the sentences got a little bit long. I’m sure reading it aloud would fix them.

On a separate note, Emily actually did a really wonderful profile on The Strutt last quarter for the Index—if you want to take a look at it, I would be happy to get you a copy.

Lots of fun to read!


Schafer, Johnny sounds like he would be a blast to hang out with. Now I know why you were so excited about profiling him! He really is the pied piper of 2009, and what could be better than that?

Oh, balloons.

The image of him touching his lips and then remembering he no longer smokes is truly priceless. It’s clear that you’re inside his head and relate to him on a level that cannot be explored in simple conversation. You bring it to the page very clearly! I heard his voice, “thick and full of rubble,” and adore the fact that he paraphrases Leonard Cohen—now that is a man.

Your very casual description of the “sleeping, possibly dead, homeless man,” is so tragically you I smiled and laughed. It’s brilliant. The whole paragraph beginning “The Sunday before that…” is completely and utterly radical. Loved it from start to finish.

I did, however, have some questions. The sentence “Rather he, and his lyrics, seem toughened by the very act of life, still kicking, but weary,” is beautiful but the image doesn’t totally come across to me. I read it a couple times and got the gist, but was more slowed down than anything else.

Also, when the freak does the drummer arrive? Happy ending? Pashaw.

Marni, this sounds like it’s going to be a really great piece on a very overachieving international student. I can’t wait to read more! The detail about cultural differences clashing, confusing Akiko, and causing feelings of doubt and guilt gave me a glimpse of the person. She sounds great. Also, the exchange she shared with Amel is truly priceless. I would love to know how that conversation went.


Colin, first of all I think we need to make everyone play patty-cake tomorrow while we set up dinner. Deal? Okay, great.

Second, having spent many an hour in that godforsaken waiting room, I especially appreciated your descriptions and insight. There were several points where you brought to life the unquestionably unliving; like, for example, when you describe the door's handicap assistance taking over, "mechanizing your entry." The familiarity of the place, paired with a machine-like coldness, is so true and in your face it’s startling.

The image of the mirror's image repeating into infinity: awesome. There really is no way out of that place, and you show it in a bunch of innovative ways. The details about all sorts of people traversing the tracks is another good example. I would like to hear more dialogue though, and perhaps say a bit more about the police officers--I remember them being quite stringent.

When you introduce the problem, the murder, you do so with such a startling calm that it is eerie, and only further enhances the tone.

Oh, and finally, or wherever I am at this stage, I SO enjoyed reading this! I look forward to hearing more juicy descriptions tomorrow…err, later.

Munch On This

At the busy intersection of Stadium and Lovell, the locally iconic convenience store, Munchie Mart, epitomizes every stoner’s drug-induced dream: the promise of Reese’s, SlimJim, Doritos’s and more concealed inside a creamy white exterior topped with green lettering.

And that’s not to forget the thriving alkie community. To the left of Munchie’s center, targeting passersby on foot and four-wheeled alike, are understated advertisements for deals on beer.

Stepping inside the Plexiglas door, the one donned in stickers reminding patrons of the legal age, a whole new array of sensory stimulants are revealed. Where metal siding has not invaded—undoubtedly the work of modern “improvements”—wood paneling coats the walls and extends to the ceilings where aged, saloon-style fans hang unmoving. Security cameras peek from the corners and an odd support post.

There is one refrigerated closet dedicated entirely to brews. There are 21 coolers: nine for beer, the rest for juices, energy drinks, and finally, milk. Though not their priority, it’s bound to be breakfast eventually.

Tonight, heavy metal blares through massive speakers, scaring the spiders away from their carefully crafted webs. Paul explains that their music choice is quite deliberate; studies have shown that playing the genre, one largely regarded as abrasive, is proven to reduce the time customers spend in the store. This tactic comes in especially handy toward the end of the night.

Munchie’s walls are scarred with placards for Pete’s, Wicked Brews, Coors, Becks, Corona, Budweiser, Labatt’s Blue, Michelob, and finally, the Detroit Tigers and Red Wings. Some hang upside down, most are mirrored, and all appear to have been there for years. Flags for both local colleges hang above the door, and the southern wall is divided equally between support of the Broncos and Hornets.

Twice, the store’s motto, “BIG enough to serve you, SMALL enough to care,” finds its way into the mix, appearing on indistinct poster board, looking to be the product of an unmotivated elementary school child.

Rulers of the playground, the boys of Munchie Mart like to give their patrons a hard time. In fact, they’re told to do just that when they’re hired in.

At Munchie, there isn’t much turnover behind the counter, and that being said, the two newest assets, Paul and Will, get to work prime time. Being stuck with a Friday night shift is comparable to working a Friday night shift for law enforcement, or in the emergency room, or at a fast food chain—without the perks and at least some of the gore, that is.

In between restocking the shelves, checking IDs, and handing over two of America’s few legal drugs—alcohol and tobacco, the guys like to laugh, control the radio (CCR and The Flaming Lips dominate when the metal simply becomes too much), prank call the other Munchie, and to see the clock strike 1:45am—the time they finally get to lock the door, cash out the registers, and ignore lingering sass from old drunks banging on the window, and ill-balanced college students looking for more, more. It’s closing time and it’s a long time coming.

Between six and midnight, Munchie Mart is hopping. After that, it quiets down until 1:30, when a mad rush of people leaving bars and frats stop in to stock up. The statewide last call is at 2. Paul and Will are bombarded, without fail, by hangers-on looking to make the most—or drink the most, anyway—out of their night.

On the average Friday, Munchie pulls in an average of $6,000 in cash alone, most of which is made from liquor, beer, and cigarette sales. Considering the majority of bottles are pulled from waist-level and down, that’s a lot of selling.
Munchie’s top-shelf houses Absolut 100, Grey Goose; their bottom, Seagram’s and Popov.

“You can tell right away who’s gonna buy what,” Will says.

“Poor people buy cheap stuff,” adds Paul.

Shortly before midnight, a middle-aged man comes in, walks to the counter with two forties, and slurs something about a deal he heard on the radio.

He plays the gender card, tries to get me in on it—“You heard it, didn’t ya?,” he asks with a drunken smile. But Paul’s heard it all before. No one, especially not this guy, is going to pull the wool over Paul’s eyes. Paul just waits, unamused. The man laughs. He’s been caught. He pays full price for his malt liquor and he leaves.

Refusing to be racist, Paul says he can only classify Munchie’s patrons into bums, regulars, kids from K College (exchange students, or foreigners, comprise their own group), Western sorority girls, frat boys, and wanna-be gangsters.

Paul and Steve are paid to deal with drunks. They deal with teenagers and twenty-somethings without ID. They deal with giggly stoners who can’t decide between Fritos and Lays.

When the rush subsides and the store settles down, Paul slides out of nowhere into the center-stage between registers, yells, “Hey Will,” and splays open his arms like a young kid ready for his close-up. I ask if that’s a code. They seem to say a lot without words.

“No,” he replies, “I’m just trying to make Will smile. He looks so sad.” At that stage we’re all smiling, Will refuting his melancholy. Both guys work two jobs and are paying their way through school. Seven hours into a shift, it’s about getting through the day.

Rumor has it there’s a baseball bat behind the counter, but rumor has it wrong. There used to be, according to Will, but the temptation was too strong: “We’d want to use it too much.”

Munchie Mart owner, Tom Berry, has put other incentives in place by taking an active stance against underage drinking. He rewards his employees with $10 for every fake ID confiscated.

The confiscated IDs make their way into Munchie’s own box of shame, but often not without tears and protest from former owners. Steve told a story of someone breaking into the store and crawling behind the counter to look for his ID the night after it had been seized. Not only did his search fail, the kid was captured on surveillance cameras and ended up paying his weight in damages.

Berry is willing to pay for the foolishness of others, Will explains, saying the owner, who also owns Portage Wine Cellar and another Munchie franchise, “doesn’t approve of underage selling, and it motivates us to catch them.”

“People are stupid,” Paul says matter-of-factly, encountering yet another impaired customer. It seems patrons often put entire cases of beer in the space between the two counters.

“This is not a counter. It’s a glass display case,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s fragile.”

The case protects treasures like Black & Milds and Munchie Mart tee shirts available in one size: XL (they read “Munch On This”). To the case’s right, displayed prominently with the cigarettes, is a pair of “Love Cuffs,” marketed for “Intimate Lovers Only.” But for some reason, they don’t sell so well.

Raunchy or not, a popular question asked at Munchie, second only to “Where’s the bathroom?” is “How do you get The Voo from here?” The Voo, for those of you not in the know, is a local strip club.

Each of the brown bags Paul and Will pack with alcohol is something of a Pandora’s box, the glint in patrons’ eyes turning its key as the exchange is made: cash for freedom and inhibition.

It’s strong and it’s cheap, and Munchie’s selling.

Addddderall

Adderall is a word that fades in and out of popularity as the quarter dips and dives along. It seems that during the first few weeks, talk of the drug lurks in the shadows, and then, come Week 5 or 6 (and then Weeks 9 and 10), it takes center stage, dominating 2am, 3am, 4am conversations in the library and lounges everywhere.

In this week's New Yorker, Margaret Talbot takes a look at what she describes as "the underground world of 'neuroenhancing' drugs." Check out her article, "Brain Gang."

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/04/27/090427fa_fact_talbot?currentPage=1

The Cold That Cured My Perspective

Okay, so maybe Frank Sinatra isn’t so awful after all. If I’d had survive listening to a re-released CD of his greatest hits all the while eating—I don’t know—zeppolis, I might feel differently, but leafing through Gay Talese’s encyclopedia of a profile, I got the feeling that Frank, despite his evident shortcomings, is a guy I could have been inclined to visit at Jilly’s when he was in town.

Talese’s careful reporting and attention to detail creates Sinatra’s image in an unfiltered light; his unbridled generosity and personable character, thrown into the mix with an unpredictable temper and a demanding set of needs, piece together a transparent image—one of authenticity and believability.

The most structurally pleasing element of “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold,” occurs between the first mention of Sinatra’s attending “the fight,” at which point Talese launches into a digression so artful I felt only my being hand held and not the backwards motion of time nor difference in backdrop, until I was launched (landing gracefully of course, Talese himself directing me to a soft patch of earth), back into the present with the complete quickly accelerating sentence:

“In 1954, totally committed to his talent once more, Frank Sinatra was selected Metronome’s “Singer of the Year,” and later he won the U.P.I. disc jockey poll, unseating Eddie Fisher – who now, in Las Vegas, having sung “The Star-Spangled Banner,” climbed out of the ring, and the fight began.”

Four very distinct and equally accounted for developments occur in this congregation of descriptors, pacing words, and emotion. I felt tricked in the way people do when they’re told, “You’re on candid camera!” I was pleased, wallowed in my own smirk for a moment, and wondered: How can I do that? This guy is good.

Also beautiful are the paradoxes Sinatra embodies; Talese provides careful, vivid lists without offering up any more explanation than is necessary:

“He has everything, he cannot sleep, he gives nice gifts, he is not happy, but he would not trade, even for happiness, what he is…”
“He is a place of the past – but only we have aged, he hasn’t…we are dogged by domesticity, he isn’t…we have compunctions, he doesn’t…it is our fault, not his…”

It is effortless, it is perfect. And in reality, knowing the torture I put myself through just to churn out a single sentence of quasi-brilliance, I’m sure it wasn’t effortless…but one for two isn’t bad all the time.

Also, as one who struggles to capture extended dialogue sequences, I especially admired Talese’s sparse but meaningful employment of it as a means of storytelling. Directly feeling the effect of an expertly captured and crafted exchange—the one between Don Rickles, Dean Martin, and Sinatra—I made a personal promise to own, if not use, a successful dialogue.

If Frank Sinatra actually did have a cold he’s lucky, because Talese succeeded in selling me what I once thought was unsellable.

Light Reading and an Analogy. (For kicks).

Okay, okay so it's 4:30 in the morning and I'm reading the New York Times. Don't judge.

Anyway, I stumbled on this article about restructuring graduate (and undergraduate) curriculum and the educations they provide to better serve the student (and society, of course).

Tres interesante.

If the first sentence: "Graduate education is the Detroit of higher learning," doesn't get you, you might want to dig out your SAT book and review the art of analogies.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/27/opinion/27taylor.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1&ref=opinion

Revision

Ditching Dependence

Long before the lawyers intervened and belongings were divided, the big black boat of a car was decidedly Dad’s; that and the corduroy chair, the stereo system, and the tools. Mom got the dishes, the coffee table, and us, the kids.

We, the kids, claimed the undecided stuff and each other.

But the car meant more to us all than any of the other belongings we wrapped in newspaper and packed away into boxes. I remember just how its leather seats singed the backs of my legs on hot summer days, the way it ran without a key in the ignition, and how, from the safety of its backseat, Dad taught me what it meant to “fishtail” the first time New York had enough snow for it.

Looking strictly at the numbers—monthly payments, insurance, tune-up fees—the car was Mom’s as much as it was Dad’s. Her refusal to drive tipped the scales.

At the time of her last attempt, we had been making our way down barren back roads near the state capital; the air was packed tightly, and humidity choked us. For miles now, a heavy breeze beat at my face, loosening my braids. When the thought dawned on our fearless leader, Mom, to open her own window, disaster was still well concealed from sight.

Using her left hand to manually roll down the window, and relying on her right to brace the steering wheel, it seemed the delicate wires of her delicate brain got crossed, forcing both hands to fall into a loop of circular motion. From there it wasn’t long—perhaps only a single rotation—before we, and the car, were launched into a ditch on the side of the road—the left side, the side with the now open window.

Were it not for the split-second of greater circulation inside the car, this afternoon adventure would be ruled a total lost cause.

With this failure, Mom took an oath against driving. She sentenced herself to the passenger’s seat, the suicide seat, throwing on the shackles of dependence every time she climbed in.

I, on the other hand, first promised myself I would drive only cars with motorized window controls. Second, I devised a plan to get my independent booty out of the backseat.

Without the convenient freedom granted by Dad and his big black car, Mom and us kids found ourselves relying on third parties for transportation. Visit Grandma, call a car service. Get to school, take the subway.

Sure, the situation and the city had its perks. By twelve, I had the subway map imprinted in my brain and could tell you how to stand clear of the closing doors in three languages. Still, the vulnerability that accompanies reliance is one I was eager to shake.

And shake I did.

But if learning to drive was crossing the finish line, there were enough hurdles in the way to blind the average runner. So, with great challenges comes great inspiration—right?

Attaining capitol and accruing life experience, breaking free from the bonds of dysfunctional family life, finding and claiming my own identity in a sea of conformity, and finally becoming self-sufficient (obviously, duh) quickly became my 8th grade goals.

And finding a job seemed a logical place to start.

From there, one dog-walking client soon grew into two. Three into four, and so on. It wasn’t long before a milkbone empire amassed itself before my glistening eyes, each pooper-scooped doodoo cha-chinging all the way to my piggybank, and I came to be known as “that girl with the dogs.” A sure sign of success, I was certain.

But then summer rolled around and my standing position at the tennis courts’ as official ball picker-upper, bench-painter, errand-runner, and assistant-assistant tennis professional availed itself to me. Slight inner conflict, but ultimately a no-brainer: hand off the empire to an underling, charge a handling fee.

Brilliant.
I didn’t even have to look outside my immediate family for an obliging minion; the younger brother was a perfect target—naïve, innocent, eager. We were slatted for great success.

Between basking in the undeserved glory of being a middleman and roasting away at tennis courts reminiscent of Southern plantations, I found time to squeeze in babysitting—if that’s what you want to call it.

“Five kids?” Please, give me all you’ve got.
“Oh, and you want me to walk your dog?” A breeze.
“Cook dinner?” Easy Mac it is.

My responsibilities quickly mutated into something more like zoo keeping.

And like the wolf to my own house, I huffed and puffed until there was straw everywhere.

Boy, did it fall apart fast. With chew marks on my sneakers (the ones I bought by myself with my paycheck), tan lines reminiscent of a trucker’s (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and baby food in my hair (absolutely not okay, not under any circumstances), I found that independence isn’t money, just like it isn’t simply the right to drive yourself around.

It’s a lot bigger than some tangible greenery in your wallet, and it means more than running your own schedule, especially when your schedule is running you into the ground.

For an eighth grader it means feeling free, thinking and believing you can do it better.

For a nineteen-year-old it means making informed personal decisions, like driving, and helping to empower those around you to do their independence better.

Not by pawning off a dog walking empire, but by teaching your younger brother to drive when he’s old enough to get a permit. After all, some other big black boat of a car will be ours one day. (God help us if we have to share.)

"Trina and Trina"

The profiles featured in Literary Journalism, “The American Man at Age Ten,” by Susan Orlean, and “Trina and Trina,” by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, are strikingly different in terms of subject matter; their approaches, however, and the artful way in which each writer captures a greater cultural setting and a deeply personal, individualized story. The big picture and the small picture exist alongside each other, as expert storytelling and attention to detail intertwines, cooperatively playing the perspectives off of each other along the way.

Reading “Trina and Trina,” I was most impressed by the immediate surge of sympathy elicited by the description of Trina’s reality. That is, she was hooking herself, begging for money, going to cop crack, and living on the false logic that inducing her own vomiting would help keep her safe from AIDS. The poor girl was lost and her hopeless ignorance of the world was immediately heartbreaking and simultaneously endearing.

I tend to question the role of the narrator in pieces such as this. That being said, LeBlanc’s unapologetic justification for placing herself as a character within “Trina and Trina” was very much appreciated. She writes:

“Bolstered by our companionable road trips, I took a shortcut in trying to make sense out of her crazy life and mistook her traits for mine…The most important difference between us was that I’d been tracked for luck: I stayed dutiful and took the fight to my writing, while Trina, more feisty, less well-loved, and less well-equipped, took it to the street (212).”

Such a candid explanation of her own role in Trina’s repeated intervention and mentorship, in addition to her willingness to appear vulnerable by explaining her shortcomings in rationale, provide a certain credibility to the narrator, perhaps compensating for her relative lack of street-smarts. A hard life is all the story’s subject ever knew.

The idea that Trina just never had a chance is made repeatedly, but still the hope that she will continue the fight is one that invests the reader in the narrative. The words uttered by Trina’s social worker—“she can’t get beyond that point and relate. There is an empty spot in that child that you can’t fill. You can’t move past that spot.”—are heart wrenching I found myself wishing against their truth and hoping for an alternative.

The quotes Orlean uses are powerful in their authenticity, and her decision to write the dialogue in such a way that Trina’s accent shines through further develops Trina’s character and depth of personality. After reading “Trina and Trina,” I will look to select quotes more carefully, placing them strategically in places where the story seems to be losing steam.

Profile Pitch: Midnight Coffee Drinkers

Complication: Sipping Versus Sleeping
Development:
1. Coffee at Midnight
2. Varied Clientele Profile
3. Routine or Choice?
Resolution: Understanding Night Owls

As a practiced and avid people-watcher, staking out Biggby’s coffee shop between midnight and 2 A.M. is not only a great excuse to sip on much-needed caffeine, but also a prime opportunity to spy on the patrons—some zombie-like and others all riled up. Why are they perusing the library and café area at a time when most people opt to be snuggled between their sheets? Is it a choice? Do some prefer the late night and early morning hours, or is it a matter of necessity?

Preferences aside, I plan to analyze the flow of traffic in and out of Biggby’s, the ways in which patrons interact with one another, the ways they interact with Biggby’s employees, and the presence of study groups (both organized and informal). Additionally, I will take note of how these night owls are dispersed throughout the grades and whether the meetings seem more social or work-related in nature.

If there is not enough of a sketch, I plan to observe Biggby’s during the hours of noon and 2 P.M., as something of a counterpoint. Are there any glaring differences? Similarities?

Writing For Story: Writing By Formula?

Surely Jon Franklin is not the first person to describe an ultimately fatal illness as a “monster.” He accurately characterizes the beast, drawing in the reader by creating a clearly defined struggle between the forces of good and evil. The pleasure gained from reading his high-tension, dramatic true story was eerie in that it is a topic much more comfortably explored in the realm of fiction. Further, several of the storytelling techniques he employs are close, if not identical to those taught for short-story writing. Particularly reminiscent is the final line in “Mrs. Kelly’s Monster;” “The monster won,” grimly mimics the emotional exhaustion and shortness that so often accompanies death.

Reading and enjoying the two pieces of narrative journalism diffused throughout Writing For Story made it difficult to doubt Franklin’s highly formulaic approach to writing. However, I felt the most charming details of his work were those that pulled on personal identification and experience. Franklin’s wordplay is wise and carefully avoids cliché; “It wasn’t an M.D. that his father had really wanted for him, it was knowledge. And what was a librarian after all but a custodian of knowledge?” is a prime example of creative diction. The word “custodian” carries all sorts of connotations and is relevant specifically to Wilk’s journey as a man working odd jobs, including that of custodian, en route to achieving a higher education. This moment in the narrative also functions a distinct turning point in that Wilk realizes he can follow his passion and achieve his father’s dream simultaneously, without having to become a doctor. Wilk takes charge of his own future and reclaims his life while the truths of his revelations begin to emerge.

Franklin’s approach to writing the perfect narrative redeems itself in the tenth chapter, “The Nature of Art and Artists,” in which he draws attention to the magic of the artist, the “magic that occurs behind the smoke and mirrors.” The writer who breathes his soul into words and anecdotes brings writing of all types to life; to deny the personal is to deny the storyteller quality deep within all journalists.

Digestion

Camilo:
Camilo, I enjoyed how certain phrases and sentences have such a distinct tone and very identifiable connotations. Describing some of Canada’s “cool frozen cities” was particularly amusing. I also liked your explanation of taking the “shortest way—not the fastest, in order to save some gas;” it allowed more of you to get into the piece and it was cool to glimpse your personality. The line about “homeland security” reads innocently, but by your choosing to use comedically such an overused phrase I felt well-developed tension.
Structurally, I enjoyed how the piece began; I felt like I was thrust into an interrogation myself—the questioning was very well portrayed. The third, sixth, and second to last paragraphs seemed a little summary heavy. I was more interested by your personal commentary and experience with the Canadian police officers, who clearly did not know what was up.

The end of the piece left me a little confused. I didn’t totally understand why you weren’t upset or exactly what that had to do with the injustices you encountered—it didn’t follow in that I felt you were very aware of the fact you were mistreated and then all of a sudden you were at peace with it and just happy to be allowed back in to the United States.

Maureen:
Your piece is so familiar! I really enjoyed reading about your experience going from tomboy to high maintenance “popular girl,” not that the two are necessarily mutually exclusive. Your storytelling was engaging and the images of your transformation came across very clearly. Particularly fun to read was the bit about how your classmates received your new look and the overall message that even after you’d had a taste of a different identity, one you weren’t naturally inclined to identify with, you were able to return to yourself and take the feeling of confidence with you.

The phrase, “want to be straight,” in reference to your hair made me laugh! I totally understand that feeling and the fact that you put it in quotations made me wonder who had said it to you in the first place, further adding depth to you as a character in your own piece. The characterizations of your Aunt Oneida and Gladys worked really well to paint the scene; I think you balanced their details with your main focus in a very effective way.

At times, I was confused by changes in tense. It wasn’t frequent and occurred more often at the beginning that anywhere else; it just slowed my reading and stalled the action temporarily.

Marni:
Marni, this was such a treat to read. I didn't know you went to Thailand! It sounds like you probably had your share of adventures. This is a gorgeous story, and you do a great job capturing so many events and emotions so succinctly and simultaneously in such great detail.


I particularly liked your explanation of the buses; the bar details--"the red truck" and the "blue truck station"--are such innocent details and work really well to convey how lost you were in trying to find your way "home" to Lamphun. The story comes full circle in a pure, not cheesy way, and there is serious feeling evoked by your host mother's declaration that the flower is "very beautiful."

The fact that the flowers were bruised only makes the metaphor of your journey that much stronger. I admire how well crafted this piece is and I look forward to reading more of your writing! The only part that I was a little slowed down by was your description of being inside the truck. The image just wasn’t completely clear to me and I was more focused on the orchid.

Emily:
Emily, this was such a fun piece to read! Your prose is so clean and clear; I didn’t get hung up on any details (except in a positive way), and just moved through the story like it was being read to me. It really felt like a story. The last sentence in your first paragraph, “Food and worship, for Jews from a variety of backgrounds in the U.S. and around the world, are inseparable,” was one of my favorites because it read almost like a thesis statement in the way it very effectively explains the point of the piece.

There were also very many endearing details—the worksheets covered in “crayon scribbles and sticky apple juice spills,” capture beautifully your relationship to religious education as a child. I also love the picture you paint of your dad—his loud and off key singing is charming and the Americanized chants of ‘Let my people go!’ made me chuckle. The character sketch is seriously awesome. The line about “ravenous carnivores” was great too because it was clear that you are not one of them and clearly have an opinion on the whole meat-eating deal.

I wanted to know more from the beginning about the irony of your mother, a Catholic woman, making the best matzo balls you’ve ever had—at first I thought the point you were going to make was about how the food your loved ones make always seems to taste better.

Lindsey:
Lindsey, I really like reading your piece, especially the beginning, which I found I could identify with very clearly. The look mothers have when they first identify the “bitch” that lives deep—or sometimes not so deep—within their darling baby girls is definitely one worth fearing. I enjoyed the dialogue you wrote and the way you captured your childhood ferocity. In the same vein, I felt sympathy for your being forced to play these awful instruments you clearly didn’t have any interest in, and a somewhat ironic compassion in that you had the experiences as a young child to identify your mother as a “wicked bitch.”

At one point I was confused though about the timeline—were you seven or in seventh grade? Or has time elapsed? That was really the only place I got hung up on. The details of your misery are (awful and something no child should be subjected to), but also amusing in retrospect—I respect how you’re able to turn such an awful experience into a story that can be told relatively lightheartedly. The line “sobbing myself into delirium” is so wise; I really liked it.

Colin,
Colin King, this girl with the mean mug and curly hair thoroughly enjoyed your LandSea throwback. You did kind of look like the most expensive homeless person ever.

There are so many things about this article that I just adored. You captured Connecticut’s pompous attitude with grace (as much as is possible from a Connecticutian, that is) and accuracy, your snub at all the K kids who identify with Detroit when what they really mean is lilly-white suburbville, and your pacing kept me in it the whole time. As I was reading, I kept noticing the really strong structure—varied sentence length and pseudo-profound commentary like “Lunatics and jocks, it was just like high school,” “Eventually I fell asleep,” and “My heart sank,” made me think, “Yea, that’s Colin!” The piece is so authentically you and the bit about your experience with summer camp depicts you so well for the reader who doesn’t know you, the entire tale benefits.

The only criticism I have (and please be assured I am not attacking Granby specifically, or you and your chickens), is that before you introduce Ryan Douglass and the huge detail that you had geographic ally, it might be clearer if you say that you are from Connecticut. It just makes the news all the more exciting and would make more sense to me as the reader. I wish I could have observed that initial exchange; sounds like you were both clearly on your snarky games. Oh and also, watch the cursing. No one likes a potty mouth.

And sheesh, be nice to our Kentuckian hippie! I think you might also want to consider naming everyone or not naming anyone at all, just for consistency’s sake

Schafer:

Schafer, I wondered where your article was going the whole time and it worked to keep me interested and engaged throughout. I enjoyed your piece; it was fun and I could see you skeptically hitting the show, observing, and then dipping. The inner dialogue did a lot for your article and I just simply enjoyed that you let so much of yourself get into the story.

I love the image of you paying your way out of the law and paying your way into access—it is very New York and I think it is also an image of New York with which almost anyone could identify. I was a bit confused about what you mean by a “wasted opportunity”—in what sense, and what decision had you reached at this point? I think I may have an idea, but nothing I would bet on.

Your “Welcome to New York City” line is so jaded, I just adore it. Also, the image of you traversing the city under the superficial glow of neon, which is what you ultimately wake up to, or have shed light on the “reality” of your situation is a really complicated, cool, place to be.