Valentine's Day: The Holiday You Hate To Love

So, I had every intention of sitting down and writing an intense, heartfelt, outrageously sarcastic and cynical deliberation on Valentine’s Day. But the truth is, I kind of like Valentine’s Day. In fact, it used to sort of be my favorite holiday. For those of you who’ve taken the Stanford Ennegram “personality test,” you’ll not be surprised to know that I’m a “Four”—the type that gets lost in self-centeredness, lets her emotions rule her, believes no one truly gets her, and could, one day, find herself hopelessly addicted to the cheap thrills of trashy reality TV. Okay, I threw that last characteristic in, but my point is that Valentine’s Day was made for someone like me.

I remember in lower school constructing paper mailboxes for the onslaught of valentines from classmates. Most of the cards displayed our favorite cartoon characters—the Smurfs, Transformers, Strawberry Shortcake, etc., but every once in a while there would appear a heavily “mother assisted” red velvet heart with white satin and lace trim. I remember “decoding” the valentines from boys to see which ones were expressing a tacit love. A valentine depicting GI Joe thrusting his fist in the air and shouting, “You’re mine!” was very telling of a young boy’s affections. I exercised grave caution when addressing my valentines—distributing the sappy messages to my female classmates, lest I be accused of having a crush on some boy that, let’s face it, I probably did have.

In middle school, I distinctly remember Eric Martarella (whom the boys in my 6th grade class nicknamed Eric Fartasmella) giving me a red rose and a real card—not a picture of Tom and Jerry exchanging explosive boxes of chocolate—but an actual Hallmark card in which he had written a full-page note. I do not remember the contents of the note that now sits among old scrapbooks in my parents’ attic in Virginia, except one line that read, “there will always be a place for you in my heart.” I seriously thought I was going to get a marriage proposal that Valentine’s Day in 6th grade. We broke up the next day.

In high school, we had a tradition of giving color-coded carnations on Valentine’s Day. Red signified love, of course. No one ever got a red carnation. Pink signified friendship. And white (the most coveted) indicated that the recipient had a “secret admirer.” I’m pretty sure my older brother paid his friend to give me a white carnation my freshman year—but I carried that thing with pride nonetheless!

Once out of the world of school and organized displays of affection, Valentine’s Day gets a little more complex. For instance, it must be difficult for some guys to remember not to ask a woman out on February 14th, or the few days preceding, unless he actually wants to be with her for all eternity.

I suppose I’ve always loved the idea that there is a day set aside for people who are in love. Most holidays of the Valentine’s Day magnitude (St. Patrick’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, Fourth of July) are established to celebrate one thing—the amount of alcohol you can consume in a single day. Valentine’s Day seems to celebrate something a little more intimate and emotional. Ironically, since I've been happily married to the man of my dreams, Valentine's Day has completely lost its allure. I think the day appealed to me in my single years because I was excited about who might suddenly emerge. Who might, as Nick Carraway says of Gatsby, "be delivered from the womb of his purposeless splendor." The idea that some “admirer” would materialize and covertly express his devotion with a Go-Bots valentine or a white carnation was infinitely more stirring than the current secured affections of my spouse. But, as I’ve aged, I’ve also begun to realize that I much prefer the sanctuary of a true friendship to the cheap thrill of an ugly white flower.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Which Slut Costume Are You Wearing on Halloween?

Blog originally posted on Facebook Notes 10/30/2010

Due to the ingenious invention of Netflix (and other copycat--ahem Blockbuster--rent-through-mail services), the Hollywood Video at the corner of my street closed down and has temporarily transformed into a Spirit Halloween costume store. Having a Halloween party to attend tonight, and (as of this morning) nothing to wear, I decided to head up the street to see what last-minute costume choices would still be available on the overturned racks.

I have been aware of the slut trend on Halloween for years, but I have grown quite weary of it now that the ONLY choices for female-designated costumes mean simultaneously to reveal every possible millimeter of flesh and yet remain within the realm of "clothing." The traditional slut costumes are well-known and passe these days (and please insert the term "sexy" before all of the following): cat, witch, devil, angel, nurse, bunny, bar wench, school girl, and cheerleader. What I realized this morning is that, for women, Halloween can be reduced to one single solitary concept: hookers in costume. Additionally, the manufacturers of these costumes seem to be unaware that Halloween occurs at the end of October when it can be a little chilly outside.

The Halloween costumes available to prostitutes this year (and again, please insert the word "sexy" beforehand) are as follows. This list is by no means exhaustive, but I did see all of these at the store today:
disco dancer
pirate
Indian (probably offensive in other ways, as well)
gypsy
lioness (any animal, actually, can become "sexy")
lady bug
bee (as can any insect, apparently)
geisha
firewoman
prison inmate (in the orange AND in the stripes)
greek goddess
m & m
crayon
flapper
hippie
swashbuckler
sailor
clown
policewoman
warrior princess
doctor
army soldier
baseball player (the only athlete costume I saw--apart from a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader costume that was remarkably accurate to the real thing)
Wonder Woman (of course)
Little Bo Peep
Red Riding Hood
Dorothy
Alice
Smurfette
Princess (which includes all of the Disney princesses as well)
Betty Boop
Robin Hood
Princess Leah
Freddy Kruger (didn't think it was possible did you??)
Supergirl (or "sexy" Superman--it's hard to tell)
Batman
Robin
SpongeBob Squarepants (which, more logically, should have been titled "Spongebra Miniskirt")
Ghostbuster
Three Amigos!
Olive Oyl
Mrs. Claus (or "sexy" Santa--not sure)
Minnie Mouse
Elvis
Pebbles
Mad Hatter
etc., etc., etc.

The list could go on and on--and please note that nowhere will you find a "prostitute" costume because it would simply be too redundant. I felt the need to shield the eyes of my five-month old daughter as I scanned the "adult" women's section. And I think if I were a thirteen-year-old boy, I would like nothing more than to walk among the women's costumes for a little while. The most interesting discovery was that beside the "sexy" nun costume (perhaps the most glaring paradox of all the costumes), was a traditional nun costume. The picture of the person dressed as the nun on the cover sleeve was, of course, a man. This reminded me of last year when I was in the early weeks of pregnancy--certainly not feeling "sexy," but still wanting to dress up for Halloween. I found myself among the men's costumes and finally settled on The Cat in the Hat. Although I didn't see one at the time, I hope (for the prostitutes' sake) they manufacture a "sexy" Cat in the Hat costume--to be fair.

The MOST disturbing thing about the costume store, however, is that this marketing campaign that singularly targets prostitutes has trickled down to the young girls' costume section as well. Little girls this year will be dressing as mini-versions of sexy Dorothy, sexy Cinderella, and sexy mermaids. So, please do not be too alarmed when a scantily-clad six-year-old girl hops onto your front porch in a Playboy Bunny costume squealing, "Trick or Treat!"--to be honest, it's probably the best the costume store had to offer.

Happy Halloween!

On Not Caring As Much About the Death of JD Salinger as I Feel Like I Should

I heard it today in serious, low tones in the faculty room: “JD Salinger died last night.” Three American Lit teachers sat for a moment of respectful silence, then two began ribbing the other about the poem she should write for Café Mots. An “Ode to Salinger.” I chuckled a “maybe,” and returned to the crossword puzzle with which I had been struggling moments before. I scribbled in the margin, “I heard today that JD died” thinking it had a nice ring to it for a first line. Then—in the pitiful way I construct poetry—I ran through some possible rhyming words that would help me with the next line: “tried,” “cried,” “lied,” “denied.” I considered . . . I spied and tried but could not cried. No. I changed the line. “I heard that JD died today.” No, it’s too confusing. He didn’t die today and that’s what the grammatical structure of that line sounds like. Then, I lost interest and returned to my crossword puzzle.
So, let me just be honest for a minute and admit that despite the hours upon days upon weeks upon years I have spent among the intimate frustrations of Holden Caulfield, I am not particularly grieved by the loss of his creator. Salinger was a mess—either because he could not stand the feedback of his literary critics (wimp), or because he could not tolerate society (weak), or because he was messed up to begin with (whatever), he lived a life of famous reclusiveness and estrangement from his closest family members even. I feel as deeply about his passing as I feel about the latest news from the domestic front of whichever Kardashian just had a baby.
Another revelation occurred to me today, however, in the midst of this indifference. I simple cannot write poetry unless I am at least moderately tortured about something. Having spent as much time as I have reading and discussing The Catcher in the Rye with students (8500 minutes to be as close to exact as I can get—which is a little more than 141 hours—which is almost 6 straight days), one might think I could write an ode to someone whose portrayal of teen angst has filled so much of my time for the last seven years. But I just don’t care.
Were Holden Caulfield to pass away, now, that might be another story—I might one day be able to write an “Ode to Holden.” And this is what is fascinating about the phenomena of canonized literature. I know and care ten thousand times more about a fictional protagonist than I ever could about his flesh-and-blood creator. The former is, however, immortalized in language arts classrooms around the world. We will never hold a funeral for Holden Caulfield, or mourn his loss, or sing belated encomiums of his troubled, but brutally honest musings—because it will never be necessary to do so.
Thus I will conclude, in all due respect: the passing of JD Salinger elicits from me merely this: “Sleep tight, ya moron!”

Allegorical Mess: Deconstructing District 9

Last night, after having consulted the helpful Yahoo! Movie reviews, my husband and I went to see District 9. I am not usually a "sci-fi" person, but I have enjoyed films of this genre in the past (Alien/s, Star Wars, The Matrix (kind of), Spaceballs, and My Cousin Vinny to name a few). The Yahoo! critics gave the movie an "A-" and Yahoo! users a "B+". Past movies to earn an "A" grade from the critics were Doubt, Frost/Nixon, The Departed, and The Queen--GOOD movies that found themselves a place on my Academy Award nominations ballot in March. So, I was excited to see the movie.

Having no information about the movie, other than what the minimal teaser provided, I was not sure what to expect from the plot. I quickly deduced that there was an allegorical connection to South African apartheid. After all, the movie is set in Johannesburg, South Africa and begins with a journalistic reporting of the relationship between humans (multi-racial) and aliens (crustacean-like beings depicted as semi-violent, scavenging victims of segregation and disenfranchisement). The aliens are called by the "duragatory" nickname "prawns," because, as one character says, "that's what they look like." I think this political backdrop and the execution of the documentary-style content was actually quite clever.

Where the movie fails, however, is in the perplexing and awkward inconsistencies of narrative style and character development. The majority of the film proceeds as if it is a retrospective on the tragic circumstances of a government offical (Werkis) charged with clearing out a shantytown called District 9. While on duty, the Werkis becomes contaminated with an alien substance that causes his transformation into a hybrid cross between the human and alien species (akin slightly to another great sci-fi classic: David Cronenberg's The Fly). At about this time in the movie, the narrative shifts out of the "faux documentary" style into a more traditional narrative frame that centers its focus on the hopes and anxieties of one alien "family" (led by an alien named Christopher Johnson). There is then a constant shifting between the satirical documentary and the sober narrative of the alien escape that it hindered my suspension of disbelief to an annoying degree. I do not understand how the producers allowed for this inconsistency of narrative technique.

Moreover, there is no real depth to the emotional upheaval of either Werkis or the subversive aliens. The marital commotion and betrayal, as well as the bi-galaxial friendship that forms between the two main characters is so awkwardly superficial, it defeats the potentially profound effects of the allegory to apartheid brutality and the real compassion that did exist therein.

So, I will bear with the glowing encomiums of what the movie was trying to do, while remaining confused about the stylistic decisions. In truth, I think the film is overly ambitious in all of its goals. While admirable in its endeavor, the combination of science fiction, action thriller, political satire, historical allusion, and dramatic storytelling remains in its execution clumsy at best.

Cover

In Starbucks
a cover of Duke Ellington’s “Caravan”
plays over the speakers
in a way that cannot be ignored.

Quasi-artistic,
semi-bohemian,
mockably mediocre.

Were I living the life I should,
I would be sitting
in a coffee house in San Francisco—
a real one—
like the ones Hemingway
and Kerouac haunt,
but not the ones they actually
haunt, because those are
popular tourist stops.
A coffee house, though,
that has no corporate office
with men in suits
around a conference table
lamenting stock indexes,
market bottoms,
and underproducing store locations.
A coffee house, perhaps,
that would pour whisky into your mug
if you asked
because it does not cater
to stay-at-home moms
in tennis skirts and visors
who have no plans
to swing a racquet today.

If I were serious
about art and music,
I would have earphones playing
the real Duke Ellington,
and maybe Dizzy Gillespie,
or even Stan Getz.
Instead, I hear a woman’s call
to “Uncle Matt”:
‘Mom’s getting home from vacation. She called me from the boat today. Just calling to see if you all wanted to come over for dinner. I don’t know what I’m making yet. So call me later.’
Her son comes to Starbucks so often
he thinks the toys in the corner are his.
She snaps her cell phone closed
and asks her bored son,
‘Wanna go to the grocery store?’


At this moment
the only song title I can recall
from my personal knowledge of these giants
is “Caravan.”
“Desafinado” from Getz’s
Girl from Ipanema
will come on later,
but I only know that
because the 32-inch flatscreen
tells me so.

And instead of writing
my American Masterpiece,
or, at least my own scholarly interpretation
of an American Masterpiece,
I am reading teenage attempts
to complete an assignment
they don’t understand.

The undeniable truth,
as I sit here
among the step-children of genius,
is that Starbucks is my life.
It’s safe; it’s close; it’s familiar.
It’s a place to sit in judgment
and feel superior
to the cult of soccer moms
I’m a year away from joining.

At Starbucks,
I can pretend I adhere
to the Emersonian calling
of ‘greatness,’
and in the midst of the crowd
keep with perfect sweetness
the independence of solitude.
But this is not true,
and the bland cover design
of Tuesdays with Morrie
that sits beside my
grande
nonfat
sugarfree
vanilla
latte
tells me so.

On Having Never Taught You

A Cafe Mots Front Row Perspective

It’s a shame I never had you in class.
You would have made me laugh,
probably on a daily basis.
I’ll mourn the loss of all those laughs and smiles
until something distracts me, and I forget to.

You probably would have been a good student too—
not the kind of good student who always has his work,
studies for tests, takes notes, sits in the front,
and answers all of my questions—
but the kind of good student who thinks for himself
and reads all he can.

There have been others like you—
other creative, comedic clowns—
off to their graduated lives
of being funny for other people.

I have admired you
from the Little Theatre front row.
And I’ll probably remember you,
until something distracts me, and I forget to.

The Art of Genocide

(I wrote the following after contending with ants in the kitchen. . .)

First there were three.
A trio of black vagrants
on a plain of white linoleum.
Mash—mash—mash—
unspotted white again
with a threat of more to come.

Then there were many.
A steady march
toward strategically laid bait.
An invasion of black bodies moving
purposefully in search of something sweet,
something fulfilling.
They splash in a deadly pool,
gulping the poisonous nectar.
If they do not drown themselves
in the paradisiacal font,
they stagger away,
drunk with syrupy bliss.
Toward home they carry
an infectious plan—
a hope of future death.
Mash—mash—mash—
mashmashmashmashmashmashmash

Then there were hordes.
An undaunted mass,
filled with the faith of their number,
and conspiring with the communication
of devout industry.
The noxious well drained dry
only to increase their power,
firm their resolve,
improve their approach.
Spray—spray—spray—
A chemical shower to halt the arrogance,
to assert authority,
to flush improvements.
Black bodies writhe in silent pain,
paralyzed with asphyxiation.
One survivor drags another
across the white plain—
spraysprayspraysprayspraysprayspray

Then there were few.
Alive to wander
confused, intoxicated, undetermined,
with a faint memory of egg-filled nests.
Sweep—sweep—sweep—