2012 Bucket List!

So I have this tradition... In 2009, I celebrated the new year with my close friend Casey, and together we crafted "Bucket Lists" of things we hoped to accomplish that year. I loved it. New Year's resolutions stuck me as half-assed attempts at changing oneself. It was almost negative: what is wrong about me that I ought to change (but don't really want to).

But the lists were different. They were optimistic, and proactive. It was less about What can I improve about myself? and more What can I hold myself accountable for? What can I accomplish this year?

There are some big things—highlights include "Go to college" (2009), "Go to Europe" (2009, 2010), "Start a blog" (2010)—but I balance them out with smaller items that are still great experiences. It's all about being realistic about what I can do that year. By putting a few big items on the list, I hold myself accountable.

And not everything gets crossed off. Throughout the year, my wants and goals change. But the point is to write it down. As I learned from my mother, unless I write it down, shit don't get done.

Check out the full list.

The Year in Review

2011 started with my moving to Manhattan to work at Marie Claire.

As 2012 approaches, I reflect on the past 12 months. Sometimes, last Christmas seems likes a lifetime ago, and other times, I feel like so little time has passed. But it's been a full year when I think about everything that has happened.

I moved to New York and worked for six months at Marie Claire. I explored the city and spent a week in the Bahamas. I moved back to Boston and lived off campus (my first big girl apartment!). I worked at LOFT and am in a great relationship. I also dyed my hair about a dozen different colors.

But then we had three deaths in the family, and a could friends as well. Only one was from old age. We've faced financial stress and law suits, and the general crappy-ness of some people. It's been a challenging year, but we'll grow from it all, as well.

Click for more to see what I crossed off from my 2011 Bucket List.

Today's Obsession: Kate Spade

To start, a few philosophical musings...

I have this theory that all women should wear sexy underwear, regardless of whether or not they plan on showing it to a third party. Sexy undies make a girl walk taller, strut just a little, and feel completely and utterly beautiful.

Well I also maintain that during the winter months, it's helpful to wear bright colored nail polish on your toes. No one has to see it (though I have no problem showing some toe in January), but coming home and taking off your boots, only to be greeted by perfectly kept bright pink toes... that's a good feeling.

Kate Spade kind of takes that concept and runs with it. Everything in her line is colorful and upbeat and vintage and chic all in one. I'm mildly obsessed with her weekly organizers, and have cases for both my new Macbook and my iPhone. Both have a discreet message hidden in/on them that greets me just like brightly painted toes. "Have Courage."

And how can I say no to that. Though the cost of much of her stuff is—how we say?—steep. But even a lowly college fashionista can afford (or splurge) on a collection of her idiom bracelets. Her decadent bangles come in both classic silver and gold, as well as colorful designs. And all of them include idiom-ic sayings to inspire and cheer up a Yankee girl with Southern aspirations. My favorite? It's a toss-up between "Heart of Gold" and "This is the year to..." Obsessed.

Kate Spade's idiom bangles would pair effortlessly
with my Michael Kors watch, dontcha think?

48A

I walk past the front door with the broken lock and handle,
the door that only ever opens to welcome in 3 a.m. cream cheese wontons,
and head right into the back yard like I live here.
I do live here.

I walk up the rickety porch steps where I sat crying into Geddes' drink
before stealing it and using it as a numbing chaser for my heartbreak,
past the circle of chairs where I rebelliously took a drag on a cigar
Backwards.

I stumble over the piles of recyclables, and the uninvited resident possum
and walk through the back door and into the kitchen...

I love this house,
With its chandeliered ceilings, mile-high floorboards,
forest green granite countertops and a lone stained glass window--
Outdated embellishments from former tenants,
haphazardly shielding the grime of beer-laquered floors.

I sit on this familiar, disease-ridden couch,
my toes tucked under to keep from freezing...
this is where I was first introduced to the classics
like "Superbad" and "Zoolander."

Here, over beer and tequila and cheap peach champagne,
and endless games of Kings and chandeliers,
pregaming turned into midnight turned into New Years.
Before I moved away.

Somewhere buried under the piles of mail and hooker cards,
there is a ripped up Bud Lite Lime box where I scribbled an apology,
a thank you to the boys for their hospitality and hair holding.
And a Christmas card.

Here, we spent lazy Sunday afternoons watching the game.
I cleaned the kitchen with bleach only to dirty it up again with enchilada sauce,
the smells of soap mixing with onions and chicken.
Or Bolognese.

It's funny in a house of boys, I managed to be surrounded by sisters.
We "guy's girls," a breed all our own, laughing and bonding.
And sharing Alec's clothes.

The boys used Best Buy's "No questions asked" return policy
to equip the gritty, sound-proof basement with the best sound system on the hill.
And there, next to the "sex couch," and under the blacklights,
Dez taught me how to dougie.

This is the house that raised me from GDI to TFM, from princess to squalor,
this is where I lick-shot-lime'd my semester away,
learning more and growing more from lazy conversations
over Crispy Dough.

I found this poem in my email drafts. I probably wrote it seven or eight months ago, but just rediscovered it.

My Dad, the Superhero

When I was younger, I use to pretend that I was a cat, and I'm meow all day and then cuddle my dad, who would pet my head and scratch my chin. He was the person I talked to about first kisses and crushes. He was my king, and I, his princess.

We've always had that kind of relationship, and though I no longer pretend to be a kitten, I'm still his princess. There are lines that we don't cross in conversations, certain subjects we don't discuss, secrets we don't acknowledge... because I want to forever be Daddy's little girl.

When I was growing up, I dragged him to shop for prom dresses, and we went to baseball games together. We got pedicures. We went on ski trips. We saw Jewel concerts and Cyrano de Bergerac and movies.

In my head, I viewed him as a superhero. I thought he was forgiving, because he had let go of his own father's mistakes, and forgiven my mom for hers. I'd heard stories of his childhood, and he was always the "good kid:" Senior class president, athlete, private school kid, conscience for all his friends. He made fresh lattes and a hot breakfast almost every morning and listened to Jewel with me. Plus, he loved my mom.

I've since—you know—grown up (though not that much), and I know my dad is plagued by mortality just like the rest of his. His loved ones die, despite his efforts to "save" them. He breaks bones and grinds his teeth and can't touch his toes. Sometimes his smoothies aren't stellar (but I drink them anyway). And I steam my milk for lattes better than he does.

He's no superhero, I have to confess. But that doesn't take away from how spectacular he is, or the incredible bond we're lucky enough to share. He inspires me to pursue things that make me happy, and his moral compass typically points north. He may not be a superhero, but he is my hero. An everyday hero. A cape wouldn't look good on him, anyway.

And the Winner Is...

I mentioned before that I was on the search for my January co-op. As I said before, I applied to numerous positions and have since followed-through and heard back from many, as well. I haven't yet been declined by any companies, but did opt not to interview with some that I thought I might not fit well with. During this co-op round, I opted to only pursue companies that I thought I would genuinely enjoy working at. After some disenchanted experiences at my last co-op, I wanted to make this one a 100% positive experience. I am confident that every single one of the following would have been that for me.

But now for the exciting news...I received offers from (in alphabetical order):

• The Boston Globe
• Farm Aid
• Jill's List
• The San Diego Union-Tribune
• TheStreet.com

And the winner is... (drumroll, please)...

What Lies Within the Lines

Original graphic courtesy/Edwin Morris

My final paper for my ethics course. PLEASE NOTE that my citations didn't transfer into HTML, but I'm more than happy to supply them if needed.

In radio and television, quotes are captured, edited down to a short segment, and interjected into the program between lines of analysis and contextual information. Slang, grammatical imperfections and language quirks are all captured; and in the case of Antoine Dobson, who was interviewed about his sister’s assault, may even be auto-tuned and reproduced in a viral YouTube video. When multiple senses are involved in interpreting an interview, listeners and viewers are better able to immediately understand the content of a quote. Though there may be grammatical errors in much of what the interviewee says, the quote is still decipherable because the viewer or listener is able to take other factors like context, inflection and tone into account.

But in writing, the tools for capturing and communicating quote are not so intricate. Rather than recorded sound bites or video, journalists utilize quotation marks, tiny little squiggles of lines that some call sacred. They are meant to take recorded interviews, cut them down and translate them into organized key points that can be read, interpreted and understood by the common reader. “Wuz” becomes “were;” excessive use of “like” is limited; “Ums,” “uhs” and “you knows” are cut. But at what point does a quote no longer reflect what was uttered by its owner? At what point does a quote become paraphrased? How much tampering can be permitted without eliminating those sacred quotation marks?

“The words we live by are not always the words we see in print,” said Philadelphia Inquirer journalist Doreen Carvaja in a piece she wrote for a journalism ethics newsletter about quotes in the press. But there is a fine line between fixing and altering, as Carvaja acknowledges in her piece. Fixing subject-verb agreement is different than opting for a fancier word, which is different than a completely fabricated quote. “[J]ust how sacred are the sentences between quotation marks?” Carvaja asks.

"The rough draft of history is still history."

Journalist Bob Steele evaluates the issue of fixing quotes from a unique perspective. As a journalist and writer for The Poynter Institute, he’s considered an expert on journalism ethics. Oftentimes he’s the interviewer, but he’s also oftentimes the interviewee. As such, he’s seen his own quotes altered and corrected and even butchered.

Sometimes, he said, there are minor grammatical corrections when he knows he said something incorrectly. And sometimes he’s quoted using words he doesn’t even know. “ The reporter either wasn’t listening well or took bad notes.” But, he said, “Sometimes my ‘quote’ is a composite of several things I said at different times in the interview. The words may be accurate but the reporter is playing loose with the context, perhaps the writer’s way of tidying up my thoughts to tighten up the story.”

Dissonance, or The Numbers of Art

Rothko, No. 2

Speaking of art...I was talking to someone a ways back about art, and we got into a debate about it. I actually started arguing that art is math. And in many ways, it is.

Think of Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, perfect and beautiful because of his proportions. Everything that is beautiful is numbers.

Music is nothing but rules, knowing which chords sound right together, and how they pair well together. And yes, sometimes there are dissonant pairings, or two notes that shouldn't go together and evoke a sense of stress to the music. They stretch a note and make it deeper and tense. But you can't get a dissonant chord without knowing which rules to break (Think Eric Whitacre). Notes are numbers. Solfege is often in numbers. Time signatures are in numbers. Note lengths are in numbers. It's all math, albeit emotional, beautiful math.

And art. So much of drawing and painting is about the geometry of the contents. Modern art would be the exception, but as my boyfriend likes to say, modern art is just one big "F you" to the art industry. It isn't that the rules for aesthetics aren't there; they're just deliberately ignored in order to prompt an emotional response in the viewer.

I was walking through MoMA with my grandmother (who, it's worth mentioning, is very old-school, Catholic and traditional). Nearly everything that I enjoyed—Rothko, Warhol, Klimt, photography—she said was ugly. She didn't even recognize Van Gogh's "Starry Night." It isn't art, she claimed. And she even left the room at one point, while I stood there trying to decipher Rothko's abstract lines and dots. But that kind of response is art, no? Art can and should evoke a response, good or bad. Any artist that is featured in the MoMA knows the rules. They've studied art presumably all their lives. They know the rules, but deliberately break them.

The MoMA is a building of dissonance, echoing off the exhibit walls. But it's still all math.

(By the way, this is one of the most incredible songs ever.)

There's No Place Like Home

And again... I managed to neglect this blog.

Things have been really hard lately. I've never been so challenged as I have the past several months. After my uncle killed himself, my grandmother died. And then her body was looted and all her jewelry (wedding ring included) stolen. My brother's friend overdosed on heroin, and I've never been so desperate to rally around my family as I have this semester.

We're a unique bunch...Never confused for some 1950s model family, but we work well together. We balance each other in an intricate way, and are never lacking in love. Needless to say, I've been homesick; there's something terrible about grieving alone 3,000 miles away from my family. But I'm trying to take care of myself (with the help of a supportive group of friends).

I recently made several calls looking for a therapist, and am meeting with various people to find the right "fit." I also quit my internship at Latitude because I just don't have the time or energy to perform well. I'm sleeping more (and by that I mean all the time. I could sleep for 12 hours straight every night), and drinking more tea. I even went to the gym yesterday.

I'm also seeking art. My boyfriend dragged me into the MFA the other day, but I've been dancing and singing (and heck, even writing) more. There's something about art and beauty and the aesthetics of it all that I'm inevitably drawn to.

I was seriously considering my co-op opportunity in San Diego, because it would provide me my last opportunity to live at home. I could support my father, and pick up groceries, and jacuzzi and tan. I could wear shorts in February. But then I stumbled upon this quote...

‎"A ship in port is safe; but that is not what ships are built for." -Grace Hopper

Going home feels safe, and it's what I (for the most part) want. But I don't know how much I'd grow from the experience. I outgrew San Diego a long time ago, and while I love my family dearly, I wasn't built for being "safe." I was made for exploring.

But still...There's no place like home.

Snowtober

This is how I feel about snow in October (though I must say, I love books). "POO!"

Ventfest: Trivial Problems

I've been worried about my dad, lately. When I start adding up the unfortunately events that have played out this year, it's overwhelming. In addition to the deaths of three family members, we also have a verbally and emotionally abusive neighbor that's been threatening my family. And sometime between the time of my grandmother's death, and when her body was cremated, her jewelry was looted, literally yanked off of her cold, dead fingers.

It's difficult to remain optimistic about little things in the wake of such tragedy. In the past month, I've grown up more than I would have liked. And I'm not the only one; I've watched my dad grow in numerous ways. He's recognized the importance of family, and—as I understand it—has renewed his commitments to himself, his happiness and his family. And he's been rattled.

And all that is just his personal life.

So when people come to me to discuss problems and drama with their relationships or how they're so stressed and busy, I'm inclined to turn and walk away. I don't know where I'm going with all that, but it's overwhelming. Never before have I been so intimately touched by death. So pardon me that I can't be bothered with the superficiality of temporary inconveniences.

While I Was Out

Oh, hello there...

It's certainly been a while since I wrote here. I have a confession to make. I've been cheating on this blog.

What started off as a class assignment has turned into a genuine passion and interest. I've been blogging about organic food in Boston on my new(ish) blog, MetrOrganics. Catchy, right? Basically, I eat, breathe, smell, cook and shop organic food in the Boston metro area and—guess what—write about it. It's fantastic, and I've finally succeeded in creating a singularly focused blog. But at the expense of loving this one.

So, some catch-up work...

• I've been taking much better care of myself and living by the notion of loving myself first and others second.
• But I have been loving others. Remember those angsty, hyper-transparent posts about a certain boy who was unavailable? Well we've been exclusively dating for a couple of months now, and he's provided all the support I could ever ask for. He also serves as a guinea pig for all my organic cooking experiments.
• My family has been in shambles lately. Following my uncle's death, my grandmother just passed away a little over a week ago. That makes three deaths on that side in the last year. Needless to say, I've been extremely homesick.
• I accepted and started a new internship at Latitude News, an international news site/magazine that makes international news more digestible and applicable to American readers by establishing the context of the issues and providing parallels in the United States.
• I'm on the hunt for my January co-op! I've already been offered a position at the San Diego Union-Tribune and am waiting to hear back from (in alphabetical order) The Boston Globe, Boston.com, Daily Item, Farm Aid, Jill's List, OurStage Inc., Second Nature, Tech Target and TheStreet.com. I'll keep you posted.
• WOOF Magazine is up and running (sort of). We have our website and twitter going strong and have set our fall print date!! Glad to see my ideas finally panning out.

He keeps me sane and puts up with my freakouts :)

I Now Pronounce You (Wo)Man and Life

I've hit rock bottom. Somehow in the last week, I've managed to upset pretty much every person that matters to me. And the root of all my problems is that I'm working too much.

I've been averaging a little over 30 hours per week because I've been feeling the stress of paying my rent, of buying new computers, of covering sorority dues, of buying groceries. I'm working because there's nothing else to do and because I feel the dire need to be self-sufficient. I'm working because in some sick and twisted way, I crave the numbness that can only come from brainlessly folding thousands of over-priced sweaters for eight hours.

But the aftershock of all that work it whittling away at me. I'm not working out and I'm not eating right. I'm not spending time with my friends or with myself, and when I do have a free second, I would run away to my boyfriend's to escape the reality of my exhausting routine.

But I've come to the sobering conclusion that this is not okay. My friends have complained for as long as I can remember that I don't have enough time for them. For as long as I can remember, I've been working by butt off and struggling to beef up my resume. I've given 100% to too many things and the mathematical impossibility of that is killing me.

I don't sleep, I don't eat right, and ultimately, I'm not happy. Not like I should be at least. So I've opted to make a change.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I'm on a search for balance. I want to adequately balance my work, school, social, personal and love lives. I want to sleep and maintain my sanity. So I am cutting my workload in half, and contemplating taking out a small loan to help offset the deficit. I am trying to eat better and trying to give myself the extra tidbits of time that I deserve and need.

I'm starting an early morning bootcamp in a week and am clearing time on the weekend for my boyfriend and fun activities like apple picking and finally actually visiting the Athenaeum. I want to read for fun and write a letter once in a while.

It's like a breakup makeover. A breakover. Only, I'm breaking away from the former half-life that I was allowing myself to live. I'm taking myself for pedicures and sushi dinners when I feel the need. I am sleeping in later than 8 a.m. I am living.

My mom has always preached that I need to have a job while in school. It builds character and responsibility and whatnot. But "Alexandra's" mother tells her that if she has enough time to have a job, she ought to spend that time in the library. And I think both mentality's have merit. But somewhere in there,  I want to fit fun, as well.

My big brother says that I should do what I love, even if I've forgotten that I love it. At the time, it kind of upset me, but there's a lot of truth to what he said. So I got thinking about what makes me happy. And it's the little things... a good book, a surprise from a boyfriend, a text from a friend, a call from a family member. I like a clean pedicure and the slight discomfort of a full stomach. It's cooking and cleaning and running. I even want to take a spin class.

I'm renewing my vows to myself, to my life. I'm choosing to love myself for time and all eternity, and to practice what I preach. I choose to live and love and sleep, and to devote my time to all the people that matter to me. I am again married and committed to my life. Please, presents are not necessary.

Nothing like a pedicure to cheer a girl up.

Ladies and Gentlemen, May I Introduce...

Sorry it’s been a while… there’s a lot that’s happened in the past several weeks. I concluded my time in San Diego, I flew home to Boston, I worked (a LOT), I moved into my new apartment…

I also managed to shatter the screen on my laptop. And no, I don’t know how it happened, though I suspect I sleepily stepped on it as I got out of my bed. But suffice to say that Lloyd, my beloved and loyal companion these past several years, is dead.

I’m so tempted to write an obituary…

But alas, there is some sort of good news in it all, as well. Because I have a new companion. She’s round and shiny and lights up when she sees me. I’ve known for a long time that my next computer would be a Mac. With my passion for photography and my need to be multi-media-oriented, it was an obvious step. I had just anticipated that it would be another year or so before I converted.

And though the timing was rather unfortunate for a variety of reasons—mostly financial, I now have a new MacBook Pro. And her name is Charlie.

Charlie’s personality is already coming through—she’s intelligent, friendly, useful. And undoubtably stubborn (even with Macs, technology hates me).

She’s named after Charlotte York. Yes, that Charlotte York, of “Sex and the City.” She’s classy and intelligent and quirky, just like my Charlie. And she’s a sorority sister, albeit fictional.

So, ladies and gents, I’d like to make a toast. Here’s to Charlie and the beginning of a beautiful, aesthetic, multi-media relationship for years to come. Somehow it only feels appropriate to toast with a cosmo.

The lovely Charlotte York.

Foodie Diaries: The Art of Cooking

I was on Skype last night with my (amazing) boyfriend while simultaneously sautéing mushrooms and drinking a glass of wine. Though I may have looked domestic and all, I’m hardly the type to claim I’m a stellar cook. I have my fall back dishes (enchiladas) and occasionally try a new recipe, but I’m better friends with my microwave than my stove top.

I’m learning though. Every time I come home, I cook with my mother. The kitchen is familiar and clean, and I ask my mom questions along the way. It’s like a crash course in Cooking 101.

So while I admittedly haven’t mastered the “art of cooking,” I’m working on it. And I’ve learned a couple key things about what truly is the art of cooking.

• Keep it clean. When I try to write in a dirty room, I can’t think straight; my head is as cluttered as the carpet. In the same way, I can’t (or refuse to) cook in a dirty kitchen. Working in a clean space is more sanitary and less stressful. And honestly, it’s much easier to pace and control a meal if the kitchen is clean. Wash dishes as frequently as possible. Wipe the counters. Throw things away when they smell like something died. Common sense.
• When in doubt, add garlic.
• Be creative. This comes naturally to me, probably because of my mother. She loves trying out new recipes and ideas, and she calls her dinner guests her guinea pigs. Things aren’t always perfect, but it’s always fun.
• Wear an apron. Cooking is one of the only times I get the chance to feel super girly. I love hamming it up with an apron (like this “Cuisine Couture” one from Anthropologie). And then there’s the practicality, too. Don’t want to spill on your fancy cookin’ clothes.
• Taste test right out of the dish. I swear it tastes better that way.
• Don’t try to cook and host at the same time. Honestly, I’ve seen people struggle with this a lot. And there are ways to balance the food and the friends. Either (a) cook things ahead of time so that the most you have to do is dish them out OR (b) co-host the dinner. Having someone else greeting people and starting conversation takes the pressure off the cook. Also, ask people for help. Everyone knows how to stir.
• Take photographs. Foodie photos are the best!
• Have fun. This, for me, typically entails having a glass of wine or iced tea when I cook. It helps me relax and enjoy my time and really savor all the scents and tastes in the kitchen. And if a swish or two of wine happens to spill into whatever I’m cooking, then so be it.

So. Much. Garlic. :)

Foodie Diaries: Vegetarianism

To be or not to be… that is the question.

I first started being vegetarian several years ago for Lent. But because Lenten promises don’t apply on Sundays, I would head to Carl’s Jr. for a jalapeno burger (noms). Throughout the 40-someodd days, I noticed that when I ate meat, I had scary, oftentimes violent dreams. Something in the actual meat or the chemicals or something wrecked havoc on my body.

So when Lent rolled around the next year, I gave up meat again. But this time, I didn’t eat on Sundays either. And I kept it up. I found that after a while, I stopped craving meat and it actually started to smell unappealing to me. I always ate fish; it was my way of making sure I had enough protein and folic acid and whatnot without having to take supplements. It also made eating out a little easier, too. There are surprisingly few vegetarian dishes at restaurants.

And that all worked out well for me. Until I accidentally ate bacon and decided Oh, to hell with it. I didn’t make the diet change for any real ethical reasons. I wasn’t one to preach about the disgusting nature of meat. And I never read Sinclair’s The Jungle. I liked vegetables and didn’t like nightmares. It seemed pretty simple.

Lately, I’ve been considering taking up a vegetarian (okay… that’s what I call my version. Call it pesca-vegetarian or lacto-ovo-vegetarian or whatever. I’m not getting technical) diet again. I like how clean vegetarianism makes me feel. Meals are naturally lighter and simpler.

Currently, my rule is that I don’t buy meat. First off, meat is expensive. But I also tend to eat healthier and fewer meals when I’m vegetarian. I plan them more because I know I can’t go just anywhere and get a snack.

And yes I’ve studied the ethical reasons for why it would be beneficial to be vegetarian. Like how cows are the number one source of greenhouse gases. Or how 80 percent of the food the United States produces is consumed by cows… experts estimate that vegetarianism is the key to ending world hunger. When we consume a pound of meat, we’re basically consuming everything it took to keep that cow alive to mature. I know that animals are scalded and skinned alive, their throats cut until they bleed out and die.

I know that animals are crippled by their hormone-pickled bodies, their legs too small to hold up their amped-up muscles. I know that their cancerous tumors and infections go untreated because the USDA deems that meat approved.

And then there’s the health benefits… how people who strictly limit (or eliminate) their intake of meat are at a significantly lower risk for heart-related issues, high blood pressure, obesity, stroke and some forms of cancer.

So then why not be a vegetarian? That’s where I run into problems. The main reason is that it’s an inconvenience. People have to make an extra meal. People think I’m going to preach about ethics and green house gases while their trying to have their burger. It also means cutting out a ton of things… burgers, machaca burritos, Thanksgiving turkey. But so what. Everyone could use a few fewer burgers.

But I’ve come to a peaceful middle ground. Fish and seafood are in, albeit minimal (for price reasons). I don’t buy meat. But when it comes to “ribs or rude,” be that a meal out or someone cooking for me… whenever my diet might inconvenience others, then I will be okay with eating meat. Because, ultimately, my reasons for vegetarianism are my own. And it would be rude for me to impose them onto someone else.

Foodie Diaries: Organic Produce

If and when I can, I try to buy organic food. The problem is that “Organic” is just a label; it’s challenging to break down what that really means. According to the USDA…

Organic food is produced by farmers who emphasize the use of renewable resources and the conservation of soil and water to enhance environmental quality for future generations…Organic food is produced without using most conventional pesticides; fertilizers made with synthetic ingredients or sewage sludge; bioengineering; or ionizing radiation. Before a product can be labeled "organic," a Government-approved certifier inspects the farm where the food is grown to make sure the farmer is following all the rules necessary to meet USDA organic standards. Companies that handle or process organic food before it gets to your local supermarket or restaurant must be certified, too.

That’s all fine, but not necessarily why I choose to eat organic. I think there are many benefits, but the ones that justify my organic food choices are:

• Taste. I notice that there is a significant difference in the taste and quality of the food I buy. It doesn’t always look as pretty (because it’s, you know, a plant), but the apples are crisper, sweeter. The eggs especially taste ten times more delicious than standard eggs. You know how grapes and avocados taste better when they are forced to struggle? I think there’s a lot to be said there. Food that can brave the elements without pesticides and all sorts of chemical whozits and whatzits galore should taste better.
• Variety. When I opt to eat organic, I find I’m more inclined to eat a variety. I eat more local foods and, thus, eat seasonally. There are fewer “staple foods” because things don’t naturally grow year-round. So instead, I diversify my palette and find creative ways to incorporate whatever is in season.
• Support. Since much of organic food is local, buying organically helps support local farmers struggling to make a living (or break even) in my area.
• Health. Even if I can’t always notice the pesticides in standard food and produce, the fact that they’re there tends to bother me. My dad figures that his father’s brain cancer was due in large part to his growing up on a pesticide using farm. If I can avoid risks and eat healthy, more diverse, better tasting food, why wouldn’t I?

A Boston Organics delivery box.

When I’m back in Boston and moved into my (gorgeous) new apartment, I plan to start utilizing a program in Boston called Boston Organics. The company compiles bins of organic produce every week that they then delivery to individual homes. Patrons can choose to have deliveries every week or every other week. They can tell the company what is on their “no list,” things that they have no interest in and don’t want delivered. They can choose what percentage of fruit and veggies they want (half and half, 2/3 veggies, all fruit) and what size.

Then, patrons can also add on other organic groceries including staples, bread, peanut butter, even chocolate.

Price wise, I’m looking at about $60 a month for delivery every other week. And at first it seems steep, but that’s what I would likely pay at the grocery store for that kind of produce, anyway. And this way, I get diversity. I’m forced to find new and inventive ways of cooking and storing food. It’s a learning experiment.
…
Though Boston Organics makes organic easy, there are other (more involved) ways to eat organic. My parents in San Diego actually own part of a local farm. Many farms have programs called CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). There are more than 400 participating farms in America. Basically, farms cut their land up into “shares,” which they then sell to consumers. The farmers benefit in that they are guaranteed a certain amount of income for the season and the consumers reap benefits as well.

My mom’s program is very similar to the organic delivery: She goes to a local farmers’ market every other weekend to pick up a box of organic produce. There’s always a variety of goods (some CSA’s even have flowers) and a newsletter, which includes sample recipes or ideas of how to cook some of the ingredients involved.

Though most CSA programs are like my mom’s, others offer different benefits. The may give discounts at their farm stands or allow consumers to pick their own food from the farm. But either way, the programs encourage a relationship between the consumer and the farmer. It’s important to know from whom and where your food comes from.

Foodie Diaries (Intro)

For the last several hours, I’ve been reading articles on the benefits of certain diets, the health risks of various chemicals, the pros, the cons, the debate. And it got me thinking about food and the role it plays in our lives.

I wrote before about the important role that food has played in establishing and furthering my relationships, but that’s more about the broad subject of food. What about the gritty details? What about the lifestyle choices, the health, the diets and fads and favorite meals?

The fact of the matter is that food isn’t just a source of energy; it’s an art form. And so I’ve decided to try something new—a miniseries on food.  Stay tuned.

What I'm Reading: A Book on the Good Book

My past relationship with God has been one of many ups and downs. There are times we've been forced together. There are times we've been happy together. I've seen Him change and morph and I've been in love with numerous versions of Him, and he in turn has seen me undergo changes.

And now I treat Him like I treat most of my ex's. I respect Him, love Him for what he gave me when I needed him. I honor Him and keep in touch, but we're not close anymore. Not in the same way.

Maybe that's why I felt inspired to read Sarah Sentilles' Breaking Up With God: A Love Story. Sentilles was raised a Roman Catholic, but then converted to the Episcopal church. She "fell in love" with God and started learning more. She received her masters of divinity and a doctorate in theology at Harvard Divinity School. And yet. And yet she still couldn't reconcile the way she felt about God and religion with the things she witnessed in mainstream theology. And yet she still broke up with God.

Though I found the tail end of her memoir dragged a little (you left God. We get it), I related to so much that Sentilles had to say. Like me, she found herself in draining, toxic relationships (hers just happened to be with God). Like me, she had to learn to love herself before she could learn to properly love someone else. Like me, she was fascinated by religion and didn't see any problem in feminist religious theories. Like me, she believed that reading the Bible is about interpreting what it says in a modern context; it's about understanding that the Bible is not the end-all-be-all account of religion, and it is written by humans.

"This is what I believe in," Sentilles writes. "Mystery. Agency. Creativity. Justice. Accountability. Love." I can believe in all of that.

I'm not going to go off on another ventfest about what I believe. But I did find myself nodding along to much of what Sentille wrote. She argues that what humans love about God--His love and forgiveness and beauty and compassion--are human traits, human traits that we've then surrendered and projected onto God. We make them Godly because we think we don't deserve them.

"What if there is no grand narrative?" she writes. "What is there is only the meaning found in everyday ethics, in trying to live with integrity, in the messy, nebulous, complicated work of caring for what's around you...in trying not to harm another living being."

Sentilles ultimately talks about food, which is something everyone can relate with. She talks about the humanity of treating everything we eat with respect. She writes about the beauty of compassion. And, in her own way, about the Sublime beauty that is my version of "God."

"I used to sit on my deck in Idaho and watch the summer sunset...and I'd think about God.
"Now, I think about the sunset. Now I look around.
"In my search for God, I missed the world right here. Aspen. Lupine. Big Wood River. Red-winged blackbird. Elk. Mountain bluebird. Magpie. Sage."

I've never been to Idaho, but it does sure sound Sublime.

Breaking Up with God: A Love Story by Sarah Sentilles, $18.

Music on My Mind: "Feelings"

This song has been playing in my head for a while, but it's timely and I think it's lyrics are great. It's originally by REO Speedwagon (oh so 80s), but I prefer the Glee cover (see below).

Can't Fight This Feeling

I can't fight this feeling any longer.

And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow.

What started out as friendship,

Has grown stronger.

I only wish I had the strength to let it show.

I tell myself that I can't hold out forever.

I said there is no reason for my fear.

Cause I feel so secure when we're together.

You give my life direction,

You make everything so clear.

And even as I wander,

I'm keeping you in sight.

You're a candle in the window,

On a cold, dark winter's night.

And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might.

And I can't fight this feeling anymore.

I've forgotten what I started fighting for.

It's time to bring this ship into the shore,

And throw away the oars, forever.

Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore.

I've forgotten what I started fighting for.

And if I have to crawl upon the floor,

Come crushing through your door,

Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore.

My life has been such a whirlwind since I saw you.

I've been running round in circles in my mind.

And it always seems that I'm following you, girl,

Cause you take me to the places,

That alone I'd never find.

And even as I wander,

I'm keeping you in sight.

You're a candle in the wind,

On a cold, dark winter's night.

And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might.

And I can't fight this feeling anymore.

I've forgotten what I started fighting for.

It's time to bring this ship into the shore,

And throw away the oars, forever.

Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore.

I've forgotten what I started fighting for.

And if I have to crawl upon the floor,

Come crushing through your door,

Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore.

All the Little "Things"

I flew home this morning because I wanted to be with my family during this difficult time. I wanted to walk the dog and do the laundry and clean the house, whatever it took to ease my parents' load and help get life back to normal as quickly as possible.

Somehow, I found myself lying on the couch looking at a Venician plate and thin king about "things." That plate, the antique apple crates, the thesaurus collection, the silverware... they're all little "things" that make up a life. They are carefully planned purchases paid off over several months. They are trinkets and gifts bought on romantic getaways. They are family heirlooms.

It kind of got me thinking about my own "things." Moving every four months or so makes me acutely aware of just how many "things" I own. But they are my life. They are the things I've collected throughout my travels. They are the things I've purchased with my first paycheck. They are what oftentimes define me. Mostly, they're books, hundreds of heavy books. But that's beside the point.

Looking at my parents' "things," I started noting unfamiliar trinkets and toys... A new bookcase from my grandmother's storage, a new dresser, a redesigned bathroom, a new couch and TV, new computers. There are "things" here now that have nothing to do with me.

In a way, I'm slowly disappearing from this house. My senior picture is still in the dining room and I know where the spoons go, but this house is less and less mine. My running shoes no longer sit outside the garage door and my lips have never touched the new glasses. This house is changing just as much as I am.

It makes sense. A lot can happen in the course of a couple years. I've changed dramatically and am actually moving into a new place with some incredible women. With them, I'm sure to collect some of my own new "things," to outfit our apartment with owls and keys and fleur-de-lis (Oh, my!).

Things are just changing. As much as it pains me to say, the world is going on without me. If home truly is where the heart is, then I'm inevitably split between the two coasts. But if home is where my things are, San Diego is slowly fading away.

San Diego Harbor

What I'm Reading: A Princess and Her Castle

Last weekend, I seriously needed a brain break, so I packed a bag and took the commuter rail up to Ipswich to spend time with my self-made family (not related, but may as well be). There, I stayed with my third set of grandparents, who spoiled me with dinners out and tons of conversation.

Mornings in Ipswich are notoriously laidback, and I knew that I would need a book to occupy my time. So I stopped by Barnes and Noble and picked up The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. I figured that now was as good a time as any to read about dysfunctional families.

My older brother first recommended The Glass Castle, and it makes a lot of sense. We never slummed it or had an alcoholic-bordering-on-negligent father. But nonetheless, our family has had its problems.

Walls’ story is compelling and definition “gritty.” It’s incredible the hardship she faced.

Walls’ childhood was marked by “adventures,” when she and her family would pack their lives into whatever put-put car they happened to have at the time and drive someplace new. Her father was emotionally abusive and thoroughly “pickled,” as he put it. Her mother was an artist, more concerned with surviving than thriving.

"It wasn't just any tree. It was an ancient Joshua tree. It stood in a crease of land where the desert ended and the mountain began, forming a wind tunnel. From the time the Joshua tree was a tiny sapling, it had been so beaten down by the whipping wind that, rather than trying to grow skyward, it had grown in the direction that the wind pushed it. . . One time I saw a tiny Joshua tree sapling growing not to far from the old tree. I wanted to dig it up and replant it near our house. I told mom that I would protect it from the wind and water it every day so that it could grow nice and tall and straight. Mom frowned at me. 'You'd be destroying what makes it special,' she said. 'It's the Joshua tree's struggle that gives it its beauty,'" (35-38).

The beauty of Walls’ story is not necessarily in the story, despite its happy ending (she gets an Ivy League education, works in publishing in New York and marries well). The beauty is actually in the sadness, in the naïve, 7-year-old explanation of her childhood. There is little bitterness in Walls’ voice; she tells her stories as she experienced them.

I don’t know that her book deserves all the praise it received, but I’m not one to tell her that her childhood wasn’t story-worthy. It’s a little predictable, a little repetitive, a little heartbreaking. And easy to read. I devoured it pretty quickly, admittedly hungry for my own happy ending.

I think it was the Ivy League education that diminished the book’s relevancy. It’s difficult to listen to someone discuss growing up in sandstorms when I know they ended up in one of the top five schools and a posh career.

Nonetheless, it was still compelling.

The Glass Castle: A Memoir, by Jeannette Walls,  $9.

What I'm Reading: A Romance Novel

More than a year ago, I stopped in to my old school to say hi to my high school English teacher (one of the few people from home that I stay in touch with). I was hungry for a new book recommendation. After hearing me gush about how amazing Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann was (we were actually reading the book at the same time), he handed over his copy of The History of Love: A Novel by Nicole Krauss.

I read over the back synopsis and wasn't all that thrilled. I mean, I'm not so big on the romantic stuff and this is a book with the word "love" in the title... by some chick named Nicole. It hardly sounded gritty or compelling. And after reading the mini synopsis, I thought I'd already figured out the ending.

But boy was I wrong.

I picked up The History of Love a couple weeks ago (I'm a bit behind on my book reviews) and started reading. It was on my summer Bucket List and I figured it was about time that I read it and return the book to its rightful owner. After reading The Help, I was really feeling the fiction vibe and wanted to be swept up in another fictitious life.

Ultimately, The History of Love is, yes, about love. But it's not a romance novel in the traditional, mushy meaning of the term. It's a story about love and life and the minute, seemingly insignificant, interactions between people. It's about love of self and love of words. It's about the endurance of emotion and the unconditional love of family. It's a twisting story that's fragmented at first... like a million different puzzle pieces. But by the end, everything fits together in the simplest and most beautiful stories I've read in a long time.

Explaining the story is pointless because it doesn't accurately capture the experience of reading it. Yes there are narrators and main characters and love. But the way Krauss fits it all together makes for a masterpiece of a novel. She communicates in such a way that is easy to digest and entirely understandable. And it's not predictable in the least.

"Holding hands," she writes, "...is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together."

Krauss' words are like a Rothko painting; it's easy to look at and think Huh, I could have done that. But the fact of the matter is that you didn't. That's why she is the artist.

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss, $17.

"Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it's something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about." 

-Nicole Krauss

Jim Daniells Obituary

RIP, James Thurston Daniells. 8/7/11

Jim Daniells, known by many for his robust laugh, his effortless golf drive and his passion for fishing, died unexpectedly last Sunday, August 7. He was 48.

James Thurston Daniells was born August 6, 1963 at Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto, Calif. to Barbara John and Jerold Compton Daniells. He attended school in the Bay Area and graduated in 1981 from San Mateo High School. The last few years of high school, and for a few years afterwards, Daniells—who collected recorded tapes of Grateful Dead concerts—played drums in a Dead cover band titled the Cosmic Muffin.

Chris Martin, who played bass guitar in the Cosmic Muffin, recalls having a special connection with Daniells. Bassists and drummers have a special relationship because they hold down the rhythm, he said.

In August 2010, Martin organized a Cosmic Muffin reunion in the Bay Area. Daniells still played the drums as precisely as Martin remembered.

“The way he sat on the drums was in such a regal mater. I think the seat in a drum set is called a throne, but he really made it a throne,” said Martin.

Following his graduation, Daniells attended some classes at Canada College in Redwood City before moving to San Diego in 1987. There, he played a role in many of the Daniells brothers’ entrepreneurial pursuits, from moving furniture to painting garages to managing ATM firms. His brothers recall Daniells’ people skills and his ability to find “a way to get the deal done.”

Daniells’ most recent entrepreneurial endeavor was with Torrey Pines Transportation, a limousine and car company that he and his brothers co-own and operate.

Daniells was a free spirit and found significance in Native American teachings and prayers, but his true passion was fishing. Daniells was first drawn to fly fishing and used to fish both sides of the Sierra Mountains, but he expanded his expertise and became skilled at deep sea and freshwater fishing.

“He could pull a fish out of any creek or any hole, and never met a kelp patty that he didn’t love,” said his brother, Brian Daniells.

Daniells shared his knowledge and expertise with the whole of the San Diego fishing community as the spokesman for Fishdope.com, reporting the daily weather conditions. Though he often released his fish back into the water, Daniells kept his finer catches, skinning and filleting them before distributing the freshly prepared meat in oversized Ziploc bags to his friends and family.

“He was in his own world when he was on the water,” said Pam Meiferdt, a friend of Daniells’. “He could channel fish like no other and it was always evident when he brought a boatload of fish home… [Fishing] was his religion.”

In 2009, Daniells reconnected with his high school sweetheart, Barbara “Boo” Bruce, via Facebook. She moved to San Diego from San Francisco and the two lived together with their dog, Kobe.

“Jim and I could finish each other’s sentences and talked of growing old together,” said Bruce. “He was magic to me."

Daniells is survived by his mother, Barbara Daniells of San Diego; and his brothers, Clay, of Orange County and Brian Daniells, of San Diego.

In addition, Daniells’ corneas were donated to the San Diego Eye Bank, and his skin, bones and fat were harvested for medical research.

In lieu of flowers, the family asks that friends and loved ones consider donating to the Jim Daniells’ Memorial Foundation, which aims to provide access to fishing for children who otherwise would not have the opportunity. The Foundation is funded through private donations and plans to use Daniells’ own extensive collection of fishing gear.

Daniells, a longtime member of Alcoholics Anonymous, enjoyed many years of healthy sobriety due in great part to the strength that AA provided him. Daniells was especially proud of being sober for his last month and, according to family, credited his success to his new Saturday men’s meeting.

A cleansing service is scheduled for 1 p.m., Sunday, Aug. 21 at Kate Sessions Park in Pacific Beach.

Calculating Life

In the wake of my family’s loss, I’m struggling to sort through my feelings. The problems is that emotions are not easily translated into words, and there’s no one thing that can describe the overwhelming nature of this all.

I’ve never previously dealt with death or loss. It was a concept to me, something that I heard about and read about and that I could conceptualize, but by which I had never truly been touched. But with a simple phone call last night, everything changed.

I cried. But then I stopped myself, grabbed a pen and started writing lists of everything I needed to do. Writing lists felt organized and as far removed from emotion as possible. I’ve never been one to allow myself to be very emotional. I don’t know how to process things so I subconsciously numb myself. I run as hard and as fast as I physically can. I write. I make lists.

But sometimes the numbness is just as painful. When I close my eyes or think about someone so near and dear to my heart, I can’t fully process everything.

I’m consumed with anger, that someone would so selfishly take their own life. I’m sure he considered the consequences of his actions, but he made the decision anyway. Now someone has to tell his aging mother that her youngest son is gone. Now someone has to piece together the broken bits of his life. Someone has to write an obituary and decide the next steps.

I’m sad and sorry that he was in such pain. I’m filled with guilt at having forgotten to call him on his birthday. I’m so sorry for those blind sighted innocents that were forced to play a part in his death, people who will be broken for the rest of their lives and feel guilt for something that was never their fault.

In the simplest of ways, I’m also happy though. If things were truly bad enough to motivate someone to take their own life, than I’m happy that he’s no longer in pain.

And I feel an overwhelming and instinctive love that overpowers most everything. I love him, despite the pain and the sorrow and the guilt.

No matter what I feel, though, it doesn’t really matter. Someone I love is gone and I will never be able to see them again. I will never hear their distinct radio-worthy voice at the other end of the line. I will never hold their hand or laugh with them. And I will never again open their tin foil-wrapped presents. The emptiness is something indigestible and it literally gives me a stomach ache.

He is gone. And I’m still at a loss at how to calculate it.

The government puts a value of a human life between seven and 10 million. I would give ten times that to bring him back. I would walk those 600 miles. I would do anything. But saying that doesn’t mean anything because I can’t. He’s gone.

Gone… But then again, matter cannot be created out of nothing. And matter can’t just disappear, either; it’s turned into energy of some sort, recycled and processed back into the universe. So from a religious or scientific perspective—either way, there is an energy in the universe that is my uncle.

Inspiration in the most unlikely of places

This is both a current events post and a political post… I’m really stepping outside of my comfort zone, here.

But I was reading the Sunday Globe this morning and there was a story in the local section about a Massachusetts politician, Thomas Conroy. According to the Globe story, Conroy—who is a three-term state representative from Wayland—is walking more than 600 miles across all of Massachusetts for a chance to oppose Scott Brown in the 2012 Senate election.

He’s more than 400 miles into his trek and has braved the Mohawk trail, triple digit temperatures and blisters. Conroy drew his inspiration from Lawton Chiles, a Florida politician that walked his state 41 years ago; and I’m drawing my inspiration from Conroy.

I think his walk is ballsy and painstaking. But it shows a dedication to his state that I seldom see or hear about from politicians. And it got me thinking… what would I walk for?

Obviously that kind of consistent trek is a great workout (and it looks like he does it in slacks and a button-down), but what am I so passionate about that I would walk 600 miles?

Maybe Woof, though I’ve been feeling a little burnt out from it. Or perhaps my family? There are times I feel like I could easily walk the 3,000 miles home. Or even just for a story… “The Day I Decided to Walk Hundreds of Miles in Search of Artistic Inspiration.”

Ultimately, though, I don’t know that there’s anything I would do that for, especially with my shirt tucked in. But because of that, I admire Conroy. It has nothing to do with his political views or his family or how beautiful his wife is. I admire him for the person he is, and for the passion he has for his candidacy and his state.

I can’t see someone who loves their state that much doing something in office to ruin it. It’s inspiring. And I don’t say that very often about politicians.

Photo retrieved from Thomas Conroy's blog

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To keep up with Conroy's status and campaign, check out his website, blog or follow him on twitter.

End of the Innocence

Last Christmas, we had a new rule: No presents allowed under the Christmas tree. It was a difficult and expensive year and my family decided as a group that we didn’t want to exchange gifts. We decided to still do stockings as a way to keep the holidays festive and fun, though we kept the cost minimal.

We woke up early on Christmas, donned matching outfits and headed downtown to the Civic center to volunteer our time serving Christmas dinner to hundreds of homeless people and those in need. There were a couple minor gravy burns, but in all it was a wonderful experience. We were exhausted and happy all at once. In fact, we didn’t even get around to sifting through our stockings until the 26th.

This year, I’m told we probably won’t be exchanging gifts again. The elimination of stress over the holiday is wonderful, though I can’t help but feel a little conflicted.

First off, I have a job this year. And as such, I have means to buy people gifts. I love Christmas because I love getting people things. I love sharing and supporting interests. But to break the rules and give others gifts would come off as tacky.

I don’t know… I guess I just realize that now that we’ve established this pattern, it’s likely that we will never celebrate Christmas the same way again. And that’s fine. I’m happy to spend my time volunteering with my family and laughing about the joy that some people have, even when their life is in a shopping cart. I love watching my mom speak Spanish with young, struggling families and watching my dad be a real life hero, running inside to get presents for little children who couldn’t make it on time. The happiness on those children’s faces over a single toy is ten times the joy that I showed over my gifts as a child.

I’ve never seen a perfect stranger hug my parents so hard and with so much love.

It really is one of the most treasured experiences. Volunteering is our gift to each other. But in a way, my childhood is over. Santa Clause doesn’t come anymore, his elves don’t write messages on our mirrors, his reindeer don’t leave prints on our lawn. Lighting the tree has somehow become my responsibility, and a little bit of the magic is gone. There’s still a great sense of magic—or love rather. Last year, my older brother and I drunkenly crafted dirty covers to Christmas songs (I distinctly remember one cussing out the Christmas tree because the lights decided to surge).

But a chapter of my life is over. It’s not a bad thing, just a bittersweet thing to realize. Christmas lacks the same energy about it in the same way that Disneyland loses some of its glitter. I used to think that I didn’t want to get married or have children, but my sentiments have changed over the last three years. And in a way, it’s selfish; I want to see the magic I felt reflected on my child’s face. I want the excitement and the sneaking around. I want the homemade booby traps and the all-night marathons to stay up and catch Santa (we never could).

The Daniells family, 2009

Now who knows how long this will last

And now we've come so far so fast

But, somewhere back there in the dust

The same small town in each of us

.I need to remember this

So baby give me just one kiss

And let me take a long last look

Before we say goodbye.

Just lay your head back on the ground

And let your hair fall all around me.

Offer up your best defense

But this is the end

This is the end of the innocence.

-"End of the Innocence," Don Henley

Today's Obsession: The Athenaeum

Yesterday, I found myself strolling around the first floor of the Boston Athenaeum, breathing in the moldy old books, the smell of floor polish, the stunning views. Every time I enter than building, I get the same feeling of passion and comfort and awe.

I picked up a membership application on the way out. $115 is about what it costs for a month of yoga, and I can get the same soothing benefits from the Athenaeum. It's about time. I owe it to myself.

The 5th floor of the Athenaeum.

Check out the arts column from freshman year, prompted by a visit to the Athenaeum after the break.

What I'm Reading: A Timely Novel (I read fiction?!)

The Help by Kathryn Stockett, $15

Laura lent me her copy of The Help and I graciously accepted it because, well, I love getting suggestions from Laura. Also, Tolle—though enlightening—is a mentally exhausting read and I wanted something with a bit more flow.

What I got was a taped together novel with umpteen narrators and one of the most impressionable messages. Kathryn Stockett’s The Help is a new-age To Kill A Mockingbird. It’s about the relationships between black maids and their white employers in the mid-20th century south. Skeeter, a frazzled yet endearing 24-year-old comes home from college with an English degree and a fresh perspective on things. But her peers and friends, many of whom did not attend college and instead got married and had children, don’t share her sentiments.

Skeeter returns from college to rejoin a society where the most pressing issue is separate toilets for blacks and whites, where the Junior League newsletter is studied more than the Bible. And Skeeter begins to question this frozen, superficial South.

After some struggle, Skeeter, with the help of many of her neighborhood maids, compiles a collection of stories told from the maids’ perspectives. Some are heartwarming, about the maids’ intense love and connection with the white children they raise or the displays of generosity they receive from their employers. And some are heartbreaking, like the stories detailing the naïve ignorance of society women and their inability to properly love their children, and the widespread abuse (League members to non-members).

The book Skeeter writes and eventually publishes is a book within a book. Because Stockett’s The Help accomplishes exactly what she would have wanted Skeeter’s book to. Though it’s written almost 50 years after the Civil Rights movement, The Help challenges the reader to evaluate the “lines” that separate them from others in their lives.

Though the storyline is touching, it’s the presentation that puts this book on numerous “Best of” lists. Stockett actually grew up in Mississippi under the care of a black maid. She is a modern Skeeter with better hair who has had years to contemplate the circumstances of interracial relations. And that meticulous thought is evident in her writing. Skeeter and Aibileen and Milly seem tangible because their characters have been so fully developed over the past several decades, down to the way they write and pronounce “tee-vee.”

Stockett so perfectly describes the clash of a pristine and beloved Southern culture with that of the Civil Rights and hippie movements of the time. But Stockett’s humility takes the book another step further. I actually got chills after I read her post-word apologizing for any mistakes she may have made in regards to her portrayal of another culture’s experiences, language or emotion.

Mostly, this book just sparks conversation. It’s intriguing and so deeply personal. It’s about these numerous women and the way their lives intersected. And as such, it should be read in a group or a book club, or at least shared among friends (Thanks, Laura). Read it, digest it, discuss it. Just be sure to ask deeper questions than those in the “Readers’ Guide” in the back. Who really cares about beauty trends of the 60’s when there are more important things to discuss?

 

"The Help," directed by Tate Taylor, comes out in theaters August 10 and features Sissy Spacek, Viola Davis, and Emma Stone (a personal favorite). 

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