I’m a Patriot: Here’s What That Means to Me (Plus Expectations for 2018)

Hello blogosphere!

It’s been far too long since I’ve posted. But let’s be real: most of you (except for my devoted parents) probably haven’t noted my absence or ardently pined for my hot takes on media criticism, pop culture and general life in Trumplandia. Journalism grad school life at NYU keeps me busy, and when I’m not procrastinating on one assignment, I’m drowning in thesis hell and/or commuting on the Staten Island ferry for said thesis (long story — hopefully I can share part of the thesis with you all in the future…once it gets done. UGH). True story: the Staten of Liberty gets REAL boring when you’ve seen it more than a dozen times on the ferry. And don’t even get me started about the incessant waves of tourists trying to snap the perfect selfie…

But 2018 is here, and I’m all about turning over a new leaf, putting the pessimism behind me, and changing the world one article at a time.

Okay, well, maybe some of that is a bit lofty. Here are some more realistic PERSONAL EXPECTATIONS (not goals, ugh, that word alone makes me feel like I’m going on a diet):

1) I promise to blog at least once more this semester! Totally doable, though not as often as I would like.

2) Eat healthier! Maybe lift those weights I bought once a week. Get sick less! Eat more fruit.

3) Survive this semester intact with completed thesis in hand come May. (Not really an expectation so much as a requirement of my degree, but I’ll stack this up here as a formality).

4) Publish 1-2 other longform nonfiction pieces that have been sitting in the ‘to-pitch’ pile. Editors: expect a flurry of pitches coming your way!

5) Post more photos on Instagram (just not selfies). Take better photos. Learn how to use my off-camera flash.

6) Shut up the voices in my head that won’t stop chattering and get some creative fiction published (or read by someone other than my dad). I still hope to continue working as a freelance journalist after my program, but I’m realizing more and more that the fever dreams, random shower thoughts and journaling frenzying won’t stop unless I put onto the page some of the the fictional broohaha that I can’t really tap into as a journalist/nonfiction writer. And plus, I might as well capitalize on my love of film and TV and instead of binge-watching Netflix on Sundays in my ugly, off-gray sweatpants, actually do something about it!

So will I move to LA tomorrow and become a wannabe screenwriter on Sunset Boulevard? Probably not quite that soon, but I’m trending more in that direction. So, my expectation is: apply to at least 1-2 screenwriting fellowships/contests, and finish and revise a screenplay. And complete a first draft of a novel and/or get a short story published. It may seem like I’m shooting for the moon here, but hey, I’m twenty-five, which is the new sixteen. And when I get that first screenplay or novel done, I will throw myself the sweet-sixteen birthday party I never had. Except it will be replete with champagne and other delightful bubblies I could not have legally consumed as a teenager.

7) Do more random acts of kindness. The world could do with more generosity. And call my parents and brother more often (hey guys! I still love you kthxbye).

POLITICAL/BIG WORLD REFLECTIONS: Personal woes aside, it’s been a pretty heavy start to 2018. The Golden Globes happened! With fewer people of color represented than I would have liked. I’m still reeling from the fact that Issa Rae did not win best actress for the black female-centric comedy Insecure, though I loved Sterling K. Brown winning for his role in the heartwrenching drama This is Us. But sexual harrassment was front and center, with many actors and actresses sporting Time’s Up pins and calling out a culture of sexual violence.

Though many of the men weirdly omitted any mention of sexual harrassment in their acceptances (not totally surprised), leaving the emotional labor of leading the #TimesUp movement to women like Natalie Portman, who boldly challenged the Globes’ failure to nominate any female directors. And Oprah! Oprah gave a rousing speech that led many to speculate she should be the next 2020 Democratic candidate. Ehh, as much as I adore Oprah, not sure I love this trend of celebrity candidates…can someone call the DNC and tell them to get their act together?

In other news: online outlet Babe.net published an explosive account earlier in January. In the story, anonymous 23-year-old “Grace” accused Aziz Ansari of sexual misconduct on a date that they went on last year. Journalist Katie Way detailed that story in incisive — perhaps almost too literary(?)–detail. (Babe.net is loosely considered journalism, but its ethically questionable writing of Grace’s story leads me to debate its as a news source…) This story prompted every single writer and Internet commenter to simultaneously decry Grace’s story as both sexual assault and just a ‘bad date.’

My take: it’s somewhere in between the horrific acts of Harvey Weinstein and unwanted catcalls (both of which are unacceptable, by the way, just on opposite ends of the sexual violence spectrum). I think that there needs to be room in the #MeToo movement to encompass these gray areas where women’s consent is not necessarily respected but falls short of the legal definition of sexual assault. And more discussion of enthusiastic consent (YES MEANS YES x 1000), how men should pay more attention to the cues of their partners, and how women can better empower themselves in these kind of situations.

And also, more responsible reporting from journalistic outlets that can generate nuanced conversations on this issue. I’m looking at you, Babe.net. But I am glad that this piece has begun to surface those necessary discussions. Hopefully an outspoken ‘feminist’ like Ansari will treat future female partners with the respect that they deserve. You’d think a guy who wrote an entire book entitled Modern Romance would know more about enthusiastic consent, but I digress…

Other not-so-great news: The government also shut down on the one-year anniversary of Donald Trump’s inauguration. What an auspicious way to commemorate the first year in office! I was an intern in DC during the last government shutdown in 2013, and let me tell you, it was not a great time for those few weeks. It was a big media and national feeding frenzy. It’s so indicative of the very different times we live in that a government shutdown nowadays barely registers on the political/national consciousness (except for, hey, countless government workers and soldiers who won’t be getting paid, but that’s another story).

And DACA STILL hasn’t been renewed (where’s that Dream Act, Congress?), leaving hundreds of thousands of young immigrants in the lurch. Temporary Protected Status (TPS) has been revoked for many other immigrants, leaving countless Haitians and El Savadorans without legal status — effectively de-legalizing them after they’ve lived for years, even decades, in the U.S.

But on a more positive note: Yesterday, millions of women marched from Colorado Springs to New York in honor of another anniversary: the inaugural Women’s March. Last year, I wrote a long piece about the women’s march and my participation in it. I was fresh into my journalistic career, and despite the fear of what may unfold in 2017, I was buoyed by the resilience I saw around me.

This year, I opted not to join the march, and instead partake in quiet reflection of where the country stands (and me). Over the years, I’ve had many, many discussions of what it means to be an American. My parents left their home country — virtually, everything they knew and everyone they loved — and came to this country. They sacrificed a lot. The U.S since become their home. And mine, too. I don’t want to flee to Canada or settle down and marry a European boo (though I’d certainly love to travel more — eyeing those cheap Spirit Airlines tickets!). I want to stay, no matter how tough things get. Because this is my country. And it’s the country of countless Americans, many of whom were not born here, but contribute to its lifeblood and economy all the same. #HeretoStay

Yesterday, I realized, that in my own way, I am a PATRIOT. Not in the mainstream sense of the word, which prizes insularity, isolationism and American exceptionalism. Nor in the more militaristic sense of the word, which brings to mind the muscular, macho heroes of Independence Day and Die Hard. And yet, I’m a patriot all the same. Whether in my previous duties as a human rights activist or in my current line of work as a reporter-writer, I’ve always striven to better my country. To know its ugly history of oppression and modern-day reality of oppression. To work to bring it closer into existence with the words enshrined in the Declaration of Independence (amendment by me), while understanding the both privileges I hold and the challenges that face me:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all [people] are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.”

And here are the things I’ll do as a PATRIOT to make that happen:

1) Continue to engage with individuals I may personally disagree with, and truly see from their point-of-view (and represent it accurately on the page). This is essential not only in my work as a journalist, but also as a human being residing in a very polarized country.

2) Immerse myself in worlds other than the NYC literary milieu (it’s very easy to get sucked up in this bubble).

3) Donate to organizations working to aid struggling and under-served communities. For folks looking for suggestions, my former employer, The Leadership Conference is a great one. The ACLU and Southern Poverty Law Center are also top-notch. But also consider donating to local charities, which oftentimes don’t do the hard work but don’t receive the kind of funding that their national counterparts do. A highly-respected nonprofit in the San Francisco Bay Area is the East Bay Sanctuary Covenant, which provides legal and educational services to immigrants in need. I used to volunteer there, and can vouch that they’re lovely people who do essential work for their community.

4) Write both nonfiction and fiction that builds bridges between different communities, promotes greater equity and diverse representation, and elevates the voices of indigenous, disabled, female and people of color.

5) Watch lesser-known TV and films — especially ones that increase awareness of key human rights concerns. On my watch-list is the documentary On Her Shoulders about Yazidi activist Nadia Murad, who suffered horrific abuse at the hands of ISIS militants and now speaks out on behalf of her people.

And the latest adaption of White Fang! Okay, fewer relevant social justice issues there, but my roommates recently adopted a dog, and I cried reading Jack London’s book, so this is on the list.

6) In order to better understand my own country, it’s good to have some distance from my usual stomping ground. So I’d like to travel to one more new state or country before the year is up. Louisiana? Japan? Peru? North Dakota?

What are your expectations for 2018? Did you partake in the Women’s March? What’s on your reading/binge-watching/writing list for the upcoming year? Thoughts on the current media landscape? Do share!

With much love,

Tara

 

 

 

Real Talk Book Review: Why Wuthering Heights is one of the most messed up books I’ve read…ever. But it’s worse in this political climate.

[Image credit: Wuthering-heights.co.uk]

Happy 200th death-i-versary, Jane Austen! I feel my high school erred in adequately prepping me to become a Jane-ite. I read not one, not two, but FIVE Shakespeare plays in the course of my high school education, yet not a single Austen or Brontë novel. Come to think of it, most of the other esteemed, literary books I read in K-12 (with a few exceptions, like the iconic Toni Morrison) were written by old and/or dead white men. Hopefully high school curriculum has diversified since then, though I wouldn’t hold my breath. Anyway, I came to love Austen in my early twenties, in addition to other fantastic writers of the 1800s such as Charlotte Brontë, the well-regarded author of Jane Eyre.

Having long been a Jane Eyre fan, I thought it only fair that I give the other famous Brontë sister, Emily, a chance and read her most famous (and only novel) to-date: Wuthering Heights.

…

Oh boy. I’m not sure I regret reading Wuthering Heights, but this might be one of the most messed-up books I’ve read of all time. Upon finishing the book, I actually sat silent in bed for several minutes, trying to process the gravity of all that I’d read.

Heathcliff, the leading male character and “love interest” of leading lady Catherine Earnshaw, AKA Cathy, is one of the most disturbing characters I’ve ever glimpsed on the page. And I’m a fan of the true crime genre and have read up on the likes of H.H Holmes (read Devil in the White City), so I know what I’m talking about. He is evil embodied in human form. Sure, he was abused severely as a child, and I know Brontë is trying to make a point about how our environment molds us into the terrifying adults we grow up to be, yada, yada, yada but that doesn’t make it any more enjoyable to read. Take a look at the quote below, when Heathcliff refers to his new wife, Isabella Linton, a woman he not only does not love, but hates with an intensity that shocks the senses.

“The first thing she saw me do, on coming out of the Grange, was to hang up her little dog; and when she pleaded for it, the first words I uttered were a wish that I had the hanging of every being belonging to her, except one: possibly she took that exception for herself. But no brutality disgusted her: I suppose she has an innate admiration of it, if only her precious person were secure from injury!…If she desired to go, she might: the nuisance of her presence outweighs the gratification to be derived from tormenting her!”

Now, Heathcliff hates Isabella primarily because she has the misfortune of being the wrong person. Her only crime is that she is not the only person he has ever cared about or desired in this world: his supposed soulmate and once-upon-a-time childhood friend, Catherine. Catherine similarly loves Heathcliff, for reasons I cannot fathom other than he is apparently her ‘soulmate.’ God. Now I get why all the Twilight kids used to love Wuthering Heights. Edward and Bella are the modern day version of Heathcliff and Catherine, though unfortunately, unlike their English predecessors, they do not meet an untimely death. Young adult literature would be so much better for it if they had.

[Image credit: IMDB.com]

Normally, my motto is that truth is stranger than fiction, but in the case of Wuthering Heights, I’m prepared to throw that slogan out the window. How Brontë, a sheltered clergyman’s daughter, came up with this shockingly abusive, demented character is beyond me. Moreover, she decided to pair him with Catherine, a wholly selfish young woman who had little regard for anyone’s feelings but her own. Despite loving Heathcliff, she says that marrying him would bring her status down in society, causing him to run away for three years before he returns to her — at which point, she is already married to her other childhood friend, Edward Linton (and also pregnant with his child). Most of the time she regards her husband as a nuisance, if an unfailingly kind one. Here is how she speaks to him after he rightfully criticizes his wife for receiving Heathcliff into their home:

“Have you been listening at the door, Edgar?” asked the mistress, in a tone particularly calculated to provoke her husband, implying both carelessness and contempt of his irritation.

Catherine was not merely someone who had no hope of inspiring Heathcliff to better himself, but also someone who would only impel him to give in to his most violent vices. It was a match made in hell. See how Heathcliff refers to his ‘beloved’ after he’s gotten into an altercation with her “lamb” of a husband:

“I wish you joy of the milk-blooded coward, Cathy!” said her friend. ‘I compliment you on your taste. And that is the slavering, shivering, thing you preferred to me! I would not strike him my fist, but I’d kick him with my foot, and experience considerable satisfaction. Is he weeping, or is he going to faint for fear?”

I digress. There are too many ‘Heathcliff is a sadistic asshole’ quotes for me to list them all for you.

[Image credit: IMDB.com]

But I have to give Bronte credit for creating incredibly unlikeable characters and sticking to her guns in following their miserable stories through to the end. As an aspiring novelist, I’m definitely taking notes. I mean, can you imagine the kind of shocked reception this book must have received in seventeenth-century England? I’m sure the editing world was shocked and scandalized by the “immoral” nature of the book and its inhabitants. I figure that Brontë imagined such a reaction, and so she actually initially published the book under a male pseudonym (though a lot of that was probably because discrimination against female authors was still very prevalent at the time — and still is to this day, in some literary circles).

And also, Bronte perfected the literary device of using weather and geography to mirror the turbulent human condition. Pretty sure they teach Brontë in all those fancy creative writing classes in college that I never took. Check out the great paragraph below:

“It was a very dark evening for summer: the clouds appeared inclined to thunder, and I said we had better all sit down; the approaching rain would be certain to bring him home without further trouble. However, Catherine would not be persuaded into tranquility. She kept wandering to and fro, from the gate to the door, in a state of agitation which permitted no repose; and at length took up a permanent situation on one side of the wall, near the road: where, heedless of my expostulations and the growling thunder, and the great drops that began to plash around her, she remained, calling at intervals, and then listening, and then crying outright.”

But more than the actual story, I find it interesting to read Wuthering Heights during this political climate. I know, eyeroll. “You can’t link everything to Trump!” I know you can’t, but I’m sure going to try.

Seriously though, it’s hard not to find parallels everywhere. We have a man that openly bragged about sexual assault who is now our president. Heathcliff, a violently abusive blowhard (and likely rapist), is considered in some circles to be merely a tormented, tragically romantic soul. Give me a break. There is a whole set of characters in Wuthering Heights, too many characters with the same first and last names, and a very confusing family tree that may or may bear some traces of incest (?). I’ll spare you all that, but just to know that pretty much every single one of these characters is mercilessly tormented by Heathcliff throughout the course of the book, including his own beloved’s daughter, who is also named Catherine. Heathcliff forces her to marry his son under a series of very spurious, and most likely, illegal conditions. Thankfully, Heathcliff ultimately passes into the netherworld to join his dear Cathy in death, leaving some semblance of peace for the souls who he tortured for so long on these dark and gloomy moors.

Beyond the fact that misogynistic men can rise to influential positions, whether those be in the White House or in the moors of rural England, violence against women is nothing new.  But it seems like every day, I see articles on my Facebook newsfeed about women being stalked, raped, bludgeoned and killed, often by their spouses or partners. The summer before I moved to New York, three female joggers were killed in the span of a few weeks while running near their homes. I read just an article today about a woman whose ex-boyfriend progressively stalked her before hiring a third party to dump toxic acid all over her body, leaving her permanently scarred. It’s enough to make a modern lady dump all dating apps in the garbage and live the life of a solitary hermit.

Normally, I don’t mind bleak literature. Hell, the darker, the better. I’m a Game of Thrones fan, after all. But when I’m reminded day in and day out of how being a woman in this world is a frightening thing, sometimes I just need a respite from that in my literature and television. True, Heathcliff torments men and women alike. But in Wuthering Heights, the women are held captive — in one case, literally — to particularly violent fates at the hands of this tormentor. With all this being said, I’d sooner place Wuthering Heights in the horror category than the romance aisle.

For that reason — and also, because to be honest I find Emily Bronte’s writing style exhausting and dull — I’m not sure if I’ll pick up Wuthering Heights anytime soon. But what the story reveals about the depravity of the human condition — that will stick me for a long time. The soulmate thing? Ehh, not so much.

Review: 3/5 stars

Real Talk Book Review: ‘Hunger’ made me think deeply about the world as Roxane Gay lives in it – and about my own fatphobia

(Image credit: Amazon.com)

“I do not know why I turned to food. Or I do. I was lonely and scared and food offered an immediate satisfaction. Food offered comfort when I needed to be comforted and did not know how to ask for what I needed from those who loved me. Food tasted good and made me feel better. Food was the one thing within my reach.”

There was a lot I couldn’t relate to in renowned author Roxane Gay’s new book, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body. As it well should be.  I have never lived in Gay’s body. Only she has. But the paragraph above hit the nail on the head for me–in a way that I didn’t expect.

I have been fat on and off for the better part of my life, and I still struggle with my weight to this day. As a child, I would gaze down at my thunder thighs with their running lines of cellulite, and imagine what it would be like if a meat cleaver could somehow bloodlessly slice my jiggling fat away. I would huff and puff as I struggled to finish the standard one mile run in fifth grade gym class, clocking in at eleven minutes or more when most classmates finished around eight minutes or fewer. I would be tormented endlessly for my weight, sometimes by other schoolkids, sometimes by friends, and oftentimes by my own relatives.  I loved food, and it loved me back. But it was (some days, still is) also my worst enemy.

And please note, when I’m using the term ‘fat’ here, it’s not as a pejorative. I think of it as classification of one’s body type, and should be no more considered an insult than words like thin, skinny, tall, short, etc. Although I realize that that’s far from the case in the real world, though movements centered around fat positivity are trying to re-embrace the word.

Anyway, this book review is more than just a critical analysis of Hunger: it’s also a time for me to take stock of my own internalized fatphobia.

I think the latter half of the book’s title (A Memoir of [My] Body) is so key. My Body. Because Gay’s perspective truly is her own. She doesn’t represent all fat people — nor does she claim to do so. I’ve never been deemed ‘morbidly obese’ by the medical community. I’ve never sat in a chair and worried that it would break under my weight. And although I’ve ridden on planes as a child with my now-deceased, obese grandmother, and witnessed the ridicule she bore when she required seat belt extensions, I’ve never borne the brunt of that gaze myself. All of these are the small, everyday humiliations that Gay endures and speaks to in Hunger.

And when I put aside my own reflections, I was able to see Gay’s perspective as one that was totally separate, heartbreaking and utterly unrelatable to my own. I was able to see how different someone’s relationship to food could be from my own. Although Gay and I both sought comfort in food, mine was borne primarily of a hearty appetite and perhaps, earlier on in my life, some low self-esteem issues. I had never thought about how a deep-seated trauma like that Gay endured — she was gang-raped by her boyfriend and his friends at the age of twelve and kept that secret close to her chest — could lead someone to seek solace in food. She associated being pretty with being thin, and thus, being susceptible to the unwanted advance of young men like those who sexually assaulted her. And so, she built a cage out of her body in order to keep the touch of men like those who raped her far, far away.

“I ate and ate and ate in the hopes that if I made myself big, my body would be safe. I buried the girl I was because she ran into all kinds of trouble. I tried to erase every memory of her, but she is still there, somewhere. . . . I was trapped in my body, one that I barely recognized or understood, but at least I was safe.”

She writes poignantly about the sexual assault in a way that makes your heart ache and want to hug teenage Gay. But really,  it’s the aftereffects of the rape and everything that followed which makes Hunger so powerful.

And part of its power was in forcing me to resist my own impulses as a (formerly) fat person to talk back when Gay narrates parts of her experience that are foreign to me. When she mentions doctors who dismiss her other valid health concerns and just tell her to lose weight. When she mentions strangers taking items out of her grocery cart. When she talks about how chairs with arm rests painfully constrict her form. When she rolls her eyes at women like me who are have only ever been twenty or thirty pounds overweight. When she mentions that staff at Housing Works — a local New York nonprofit bookstore where I occasionally volunteer, in full disclosure — failed to take into account her physical needs for an event at which she was speaking. Gay struggled to climb onto a stage and then hover above a chair that could not accommodate her body for the entire event.

I learn to bite my tongue. I learn to listen. I learn to accept that the narratives of other fat people are different from my own. I understand my own internalized fatphobia and reluctance to embrace the fat-positive movement better.

But most importantly, I understand Roxane Gay’s story.  She has made her readership — which I presume is includes many thin women who have never known what it is like to be mocked for their body weight — understand what it means to be large in a society that deems her to be the Other. A thing to be ridiculed and mocked. She does this through sparse writing that sings. And that’s a powerful thing.

Book Review: 4/5 stars

“Hillbilly Elegy:” A Book Review. Does J.D. Vance succeed in explaining the Rust Belt to the rest of America?

Photo credit: Goodreads.com

Rating: 3/5 stars

Like many folks in the past few weeks, I stumbled upon J.D. Vance’s nonfiction book and memoir Hillbilly Elegy on a list of ‘best books to understand the 2016 election’ written likely by The New York Times or another similarly eminent publication. In reading it, I hoped to glean an unfiltered, insightful perspective of someone who is from and still holds a deep emotional attachment to his home in Appalachia.

By that metric, the book succeeded — with a few disappointing caveats. Vance gives a honest personal account of everything from witnessing his mother’s drug abuse to the screaming fights of his neighbors to the enduring love of his Mamaw (grandma) that gave him a pathway to great success as a Yale Law student. (Mamaw is awesome and by far the best character in the book, by the way. I would have read this book just to hear her swear like a sailor; gruffly, yet lovingly push Vance to become educated and achieve something more than a hillbilly life; and threaten those who dared hurt her family.)  The book offers both a deeply unflattering and at times, heartwarming look at the people that he calls his friends and family as an insight more broadly into the culture of white working-class Appalachia.

The writing isn’t earth-shattering by any means, but then again, I didn’t open it up expecting literary flash, but rather, interesting substance. As a minor critique: the book can get a little repetitive at times in its storytelling. But I think I was more disappointed in the content, in part because I was hoping for something more than memoir. Had the book combined his powerful story with compelling academic analysis, it might have been more well-rounded and meaningful than a simple narrative account.

The book wasn’t written with the intent to explain the ‘working class Trump voter’ to the liberal masses — even though it’s since been interpreted by much of the mainstream media to be just that — but Vance did seek to shed light on the culture of Appalachia, of how people who live in the Rust Belt behave and why, even if their behavior seems to run counter to their best interests. I would say he succeeded somewhat in making us more aware of and empathetic towards working class Appalachia. However, the end result is often a one-note picture of people who often act in horrible ways to those around them, entrapped by the harshness of their circumstances and being unwilling to rise above them. Still, it’s hard to dismiss, because it is Vance’s own lived narrative.

True, Vance does offer some answers to questions like ‘how do we help ameliorate the situation in Appalachia?’ with some no-nonsense talk against condescending paternalism — which white-collar America is all-too prone to offer up in discussions of blue collar workers — and failed, if well-intentioned, government policies to help the poor. And yet, he offers no tangible solutions as alternatives to the government policies that he bitterly derides.

For example: I almost laughed at his chiding of politicians who set forth legislation to curb payday lending — predatory loans offered at exorbitantly high-interest rates to primarily low-income folks that often leaves them trapped in spiraling debt. He justifies his support of a horrible practice like this by citing how payday loans helped him get over a short-term economic windfall without any long-term debt. This is a case where anecdotal evidence slips dangerously into a generalization that I would strongly wager is not true for many working class individuals — something which Vance tends to do throughout the book.

The biggest critique though: At the end of the book, you’re often left with the feeling of despair; this is just the way it is in this part of the country, and absent the love and support of key familial figures that Vance was lucky to have in his life, most young working class people in Appalachia have little chance of making it out of there. And that’s a tough, maybe overly simplistic pill to swallow for most readers — especially for a policy wonk like me fresh out of Washington, DC — even though it’s the primary takeaway from the book.

A Barnes & Noble closes down this holiday season and shatters Bronx residents’ hearts

Seasonal holiday wares are in full display at the Baychester Barnes & Noble in the Bronx. Red and white tins of spiced black tea, peppermint bark, and mugs bearing the grinning faces of Snoopy and the Grinch adorn the entrance to the bookstore’s café. Kids fresh out of school for the day chase their siblings around the carpeted children’s section and beg their parents for new books.

And yet, the Baychester Barnes & Noble is slated to close its doors at the end of this year. It is currently the only bookstore located in Bronx – a borough of nearly 1.5 million people in New York City. According to Metro US, the last independent bookstore in Bronx, Books in the Hood, shut its doors in 2011. The next closest Barnes & Noble is in Yonkers, north of New York City.

The Baychester Barnes and Noble in the Bronx. Photo credit: Barnesandnoble.com

The shuttering of Barnes & Noble in Bronx is only the latest in a series of closures over the past ten years, though they have become fewer in recent years. According to Fortune.com, Barnes & Noble store numbers dropped from 793 in 2007 to 648 in 2016.

Although Barnes & Noble has pledged to open up a new bookstore in the Bronx sometime in the next two to three years, the community will still be for a time bereft of a key place of learning and tranquility, especially for its youth.

 

It’s an interesting dilemma in New York, where residents usually mourn the closing of independent stores due to gentrification – not a chain retailer like Barnes & Noble. But, I understand the feeling.

 

Growing up in the suburbs of northern California, I loved going to my local Barnes & Noble. I would curl up between two aisles and devour one book after another, reluctantly retreating from my cocoon after three hours to find my mother at the appointed time and depart. A chai frappucino and a set of good books at Barnes & Noble was all I needed.

 

When the Barnes & Noble near my hometown closed down a few years ago, I experienced a keen sense of sorrow, knowing that when I went back home, the site of many good childhood and teenage memories would be gone. I chatted with my mother, begrudging Amazon for decimating bookstores nationwide while I simultaneously bought a Kindle.

 

So I brave the long sojourn from Manhattan to the Bronx, taking the subway and then another bus that drops me off at the side of a lonely highway next to the Bay Plaza shopping center – a strip mall with a Stop & Shop and Bob’s Discount Furniture, among other stores. There isn’t a single mom-and-pop store in sight.

 

And there it is. Flanked by a Kmart and a Forever 21, stands the Barnes & Noble. It appears like any other any Barnes and Noble, with a red brick façade and posters in the window advertising discounts for children’s books like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. Bestsellers like The Girl on the Train and Ina Garter’s new cookbook are prominently on display.

A popular children’s book on display at Barnes & Noble. Photo credit: Amazon.com

 

Strolling in, I ask an employee if she has any thoughts on the closing of the store. She remarks with a curt “We’re not allowed to talk about that.” So I ask for her manager.

 

While I wait, I approach a woman and her young son at the front of the store, and start chatting with them. Her name is Heather Arminio, and she’s aghast to hear that the store will be closing its doors. “We’ve been coming for years. I brought [my son] since he was a little kid, we would come to story time on Saturdays, and he would always come to pick out books. I’m a little upset because I don’t like to order books online from Amazon. I like to physically come to the store and look at the books.”

 

While I’m talking to Heather, the store manager, John, a short man in a polished red collar shirt, interrupts me. He’s all smiles, but I know this is no laughing matter. He never says outright that I can’t interview anyone, but the threat is implicit, as a security guard walks back and forth across the storefront. He fumbles at the counter for a bit before handing me the contact information of B&N’s corporate headquarters.

 

We shake hands and part. I walk over to the Starbucks cafe in the corner of the store, still wondering how I nearly got kicked out of the nicest place at in the world – apart from Disney World, of course. I guess there’s a downside to Barnes & Noble’s corporate charm. The chai frappucino is as sugary as always, but it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

 

After finishing my drink, I head out the store, and set up camp outside the front door. Luckily, I don’t need to wait long. Jane Willis, a twenty-something pre-K teacher, reminisces about the times that she and her friends spent here as teenagers, and thinks with sadness about the children who won’t get to do the same.

 

“Now where are they going to go to enjoy the books, to enjoy that family time with their parents?”

 

Jane sighs. “It puts everybody at a disadvantage. A whole community of people, people like me. Where can we get books? I shouldn’t have to go to a different borough to get books from a bookstore.”

 

If she had to choose between traveling to Manhattan or purchasing books from Amazon, Jane says she would choose Amazon. Score 1 for Amazon. 0 for Barnes & Noble.

Many have credited the decline of corporate bookstores such as Barnes & Noble with the ease of purchasing books online on Amazon and the rise of e-readers like Kindle. RIP Border’s, another chain bookstore and former B&N rival that bit the dust a few years ago. Photo credit: Amazon.com

 

Shortly afterward, I spot a middle-aged woman carrying a petition and a pen, her eyes resolute, as if set on a mission. Her name is Marie Placide. Marie comes to the bookstore frequently to attend writer’s workshops and do research for her book on Haiti. Her daughter was a valedictorian at Truman High School in Bronx, and the Barnes & Noble was often a place of academic refuge for her, a place where she could walk to after school and study in peace. Marie says dishearteningly:

 

“We don’t have many spaces where parents can come with their kids that are quiet and intellectual spaces.”

 

Except for the Barnes & Noble. The local library may offer some respite, Maries says, but it closes early, and lacks books that students need, such as high-quality SAT prep-books.

 

And so Marie stands with her clipboard outside the bookstore, valiantly attempting to save the Barnes & Noble from imminent foreclosure. While I’m chatting with Marie, a line of people has formed that want to sign the petition. One of them is Jose Garcia, who is here with his daughter, Melanie Garcia, a student at Hunter College. Joe says:

 

“We get coffee here. I don’t even live here. We come here just to have coffee, a hot chocolate, and just to sit down and relax.”

 

For Jose and Melanie, like so many others, this bookstore is a comforting place of nostalgia where they would come to attend midnight openings of Harry Potter. Jose mournfully continues:

 

“The store that’s coming in here – the Bronx can’t relate to that store. We have no need – that’s store’s not going to fill a void. “

 

The store that Jose is referring to is a Saks Off-5th, which is replacing the Barnes & Nobles and has already signed a lease with the landlord. Indeed, in a mall filled with Forever 21s and the like, adding yet another retail clothing store – a place that would certainly lack the sense of community that has flourished over the years at Barnes & Noble – seems like a bitter pill to swallow.

The logo for Saks Off Fifth, the retail discount store that will be replacing the Barnes & Noble in Bronx.

 

As I walk away, I’m left with a sense of despair this holiday season

But, per recent developments, it seems that all is not in vain. Noelle Santos, a local Bronx resident, is planning to open up her own independent bookstore, The Lit. Bar, early next year. The unique name for the proposed bookstore stems from two things that will flow together in the proposed bookstore: literature and wine.

So while it wouldn’t be the same as the current Barnes and Noble, Bronx residents may have already found another bookstore to love and cherish come Christmastime next year.

 

Real Talk Book Review: “First They Killed My Father”

The book cover of “First they Killed my Father” by Loung Ung. Image from loungung.com.

First they Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers: What a fiercely powerful, gripping book. Loung Ung makes a bold move by revealing a massive spoiler in the book title, but even with that knowledge, this book remains heart-stopping and horrifically compelling until the very last page. Revealing the brutal Khmer Rouge through the eyes of a middle-class, five-year-old Chinese Cambodian girl from Phnom Penh is the perfect lens to understand the terrible impact of a totalitarian, repressive regime upon generations of Cambodians from 1975-79, during which nearly a quarter of the country’s population perished as a result of execution, torture, and oftentimes, starvation.

Loung Ung is an incredible storyteller, and you as the reader can vividly understand all the emotions and tactile senses she experiences–the overwhelming, scorching heat of the Cambodian sun as she labors in the rice fields, the terror as she awkwardly shoots into the darkness at Vietnamese soldiers (Youns) and phantoms after becoming a child soldier, and of course, the ever-present, terrible aching hurt that comes from a belly that is never full.

I am impressed and moved by her honesty, particularly the way she describes herself, such as the guilt she feels after stealing a bit of the family’s meager share of rice to quell her hunger as she looks on at her utterly malnourished younger sister Geak, as well as the all-consuming rage and desire to kill those responsible for harming her family and shattering her innocence. She makes no effort to sugarcoat her own human failings, which become amplified during the Khmer Rouge regime; her courage is admirable and it helps us understand the unromantic realities of the human condition during starvation and oppression.

Loung Ung occasionally transitions to the point-of-view of her separate family members, as if she were a bird flying high above her family members, witnessing their suffering but completely unable to alter their tragic fate. This may seem jarring at first, but it quickly becomes a powerful rhetorical device to demonstrate a five-year-old’s all-encompassing love for her family and sense of injustice at those who would take them from her.

Loung Ung, author of “First They Killed My Father.” Image taken from loungung.com.

You may cry, you may be angry, but whatever the case–this book is entirely unforgettable. In both the best and worst sense of the word.

Go buy it today. You won’t regret it.

Check out Loung Ung’s website for more information about this book, and also Lucky Child: a story of Loung’s assimilation to  American culture alongside the parallel life of her sister Chou, who endures hardships in Cambodia.