"Lyin' Eyes" -- Eagles

[otherwise titled Why I Hate Nathaniel Hawthorne]

Okay, well, maybe hate is too strong a word. I guess I don't hate Nathaniel Hawthorne. After all, I don't even know the dude. He's like totally dead. Has been for a while. Long enough so that his works have been revered and propagated throughout the world. I guess I don't exactly hate Nathaniel Hawthorne, but, rather, the fact that his works and their 'significance' have been shoved down our throats as students. Who's read The Scarlet Letter? Me. You. Your mom. Who's read Young Goodman Brown? Me. Maybe you. Possibly your mom. Who's read The House of Seven Gables? Okay, well, not me. I dropped that class like a hot freakin' potato. But that's not the point. The point is that Nathaniel Hawthorne's most propagated works, like The Scarlet Letter and Young Goodman Brown have bred the idea of symbolism. Now, now. Don't get your panties in a twist, I'm not completely dismissing the idea. But I am going to rail against it vehemently, so if you're going to get offended then stop reading now.

Why Symbolism Sucks My Ass


When I began writing my book, I nervously passed around copies of the first few chapters to my writing workshop classmates and teacher the first semester of grad school. During the class in which my text was reviewed and suggestions made, someone suggested that my use of light and dark in the descriptions within my story were great examples of symbolism.

I didn't know what to say. I try to refrain from cussing too much during class, so I took a moment to think of something other than, "Goddammit, Nathaniel Hawthorne!" to say.

"Well, I didn't intentionally try to use symbolism. Honestly, when I'm writing I just try to make it sound good. I try to get the images in my brain out onto the page," was what I said. What I wanted to say, besides the aforementioned denunciation, was, "I would never even think to do that kind of shit!"

So it got me to thinking. I'm pretty sure--and, mind you, this may be the direct result of forced-symbolism-learning practiced in our schools--that Nathaniel Hawthorne injected symbolism into every work that he produced. Light, dark, good, evil. Blah blah blah.

In freshmen English we read Lord of the Flies and were forced to explain the symbolism found within that book, and its significance. I made the teacher explain the 'symbolism' 'found' in several parts--repeatedly. I began thinking, then, before years of college and grad level theory, that maybe we were reading too much into this shit. Why can't stories just be stories? Why must we always be looking for the message within the message within the message? Why can't it just be simple? Why can't I just read The Scarlet Letter and not search for the symbolism found within the scene where Hester's daughter plays at the edge of the forest, within the shifting light and shade of the trees? Why can't I just read the damn book? Why do I have to pick it apart like a vulture on a carcass? And, for that matter, why the fuck can't the kids in Lord of the Flies just be fucking crazy and weird rather than opposing symbols of good and evil, hunter and hunted, weak and strong, et cetera? Why can't I just read things and take from them the things that mean something to me.

Well, I'll tell you why. Because if we all just did that, half the teachers in the country would be out of a job. We've gotta teach 'em something, even if it's bullshit. And before you start cluttering my comment box with threats and outraged messages, just think about this: why did Reverend Dimmesdale beat the shit out of himself for being the illegitimate father of Hester's daughter? 'Cause he's just like everybody else. Some people beat up on themselves on the inside. Some people pull their hair, some people pick their skin, some people cut themselves. We all have different ways of dealing with stress, depression, and guilt. If the story were happening today, we'd give him some anti-depressants and send him to a therapist. We'd encourage him to address his goddamn heart condition in a responsible medical manner. We'd tell Hester not to worry about her adultery, and let Pearl play with our kids.Most of us would, anyway.

But, then again, there are some of us who would claim moral superiority by quoting scripture and pointing fingers. So why all the symbols? Why pick it apart? Isn't the story good enough without dissecting it? What would Nathaniel Hawthorne say to all this? I don't really know. But I do know that reading too much into literature, art, music, personal interaction, messages, and the like will only result in confusion and irritation. But that's just me. Maybe you want to know all the symbols contained within these things. You go right ahead. But I'm going to sit over here and write my book sans symbolism and laugh at you when you try to dissect it. I'm going to finish my Master's Degree despite my terrible run-in with symbolism and theory, and when I cross that stage and flick my tassel over, I'll be thinking about how much I fucking hate Nathaniel Hawthorne.

{This one is for my sister, Hester, who doesn't give a fuck. Read it, britches!}

"Ode To My Family" -- The Cranberries

I waited nineteen years to be someone's boss. And what did that get me? The mother's curse, of course.

When we were young we used to beg Dad to listen to something other than NPR while we were in the car. He would tell us that when we were old enough to drive, and have our own cars, then we could listen to whatever the hell we wanted to. Oh how fun it was to tell Anna-Lee such! I even turned up Ellie Goulding to drown out her, "that's not fair"s. Addison tries to be sneaky sneaky about it. Tiptoeing over to the stereo to turn the volume dial down and down as I blast Red Hot Chili Peppers or Tool. It's also funny to put on Led Zeppelin and turn the volume up as loud as I can stand it. But not for the same reasons. When we were too young to understand the lyrics to The Lemon Song, Dad would be blasting the tall boys with Mom begging him to just turn it off.

"But, Mom, we like it!" we would say, staunchly defending Dad's choice of Saturday morning cleaning music.

Little did we realize that ten plus years later we would be blasting Brittany Spears and hoping that the kids wouldn't understand the lyrics.

I think we turned out awesome. Crank it up, Dad!

Sorry, Anna-Lee. One day you will be able to tell your kids that your Mom drove you bat-shit-crazy with weird music. So, when their tinny little voices can be heard in the music's pause, just laugh and say, "Now it's your turn."

"Minor Thing" -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

Okay, so funny story, and true, too:

As I was fishing a Kidney Crusher (otherwise known as Mountain Dew) out of a cooler on the front porch at my grandpa's house, some guy that I am faintly acquainted with spoke up.

"Where's your boss at?" I wasn't quite sure if the question was directed at me, since I don't have a job, per se, and gave the who me? response.

Smiling wickedly as I straightened and turned, "Um, my Mom's dead. I don't have a boss."

There were a few moments in which, if it had been a little later in the day, the crickets would have been chirping. The guy, we'll call him Pete, didn't know what to say. My dad and the neighbor didn't offer a response, either.

Pete tried again, "Well, where's your old man, then?"

I never really liked that term; I don't think it's a proper term for endearment.

"He's at his friend's house, with his son. They're playing guitar, I guess," I replied and made my exit, still chuckling to myself. 

I thought it was funny. My husband later told me that Pete was a softy, and had been upset when my mother, and then her father, had passed.

Oops. My bad. Sometimes I don't really know that I'm twisting the knife in the wound, there, Pete. Sometimes I don't even really understand that there is a wound. I guess I just don't understand that more than just me and my blood and our families were hurt by her demise. 

But, sometimes, mostly in reflection, I just don't care that I've shoved the knife deeper and twisted it, making the pain fresh all over again. 

Maybe I don't want you to be upset that my Mother is dead. 

Maybe I don't want to think of you as having any claim to this grief that is sucking us under. And by us I don't mean you. I mean me. I mean my father, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and our children.

Sometimes I just wish that people like Pete would just not be pained by the death of MY MOTHER. I guess that's selfish of me.

It’s just a minor thing, that one broken branch of our family tree. On the outside you may see a whole shitload of other branches. But, really, that one branch was crucial to the beautiful, safe shade that the tree provides. Sometimes you want me to tell you that everything will be all right. Well, I could say that, but I would be lying. So, instead, I 

will just say: Everything will be all right, but nothing will ever be the same again.

"Save Yourself" -- Stabbing Westward

"...I am just as fucked as you..."

So I've been having these nightmares, which (just in case you were wondering) are a side effect of the new meds I'm on. Really, just the same old things. Last night something was on the bed with me and Arabella, stomping hard enough to wake me up. I kept trying to scream, "Jamie! Help!" because whatever it was was trying to get me. It was fucking weird. And I couldn't move or scream or anything. It was like I knew I had to move, knew I had to scream for help, but no sound would come out of my mouth, and my arms wouldn't do what I was telling them to do. I was so scared it woke me up.

After sitting on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, praying, in fact, to Jesus to cleanse and consecrate us (idk, but it made me feel better, sort of like combining the Power of Jesus and your basic cleansing spell!), I got up and wandered around the house checking on the girls.

Arabella, check. Addison, check. Anna-Lee... Anna-Lee! What the fuck! Whatever didn't get me got Anna-Lee! Oh. My. Fucking. God.

And, after a few panicked moments of tearing away covers and tossing about pillows like the madwoman I am, I began to search the house. She wasn't in my bed. Or in her bed. Or in Addison's bed, or on her sofa.

Alas, it was only a dream. I found her on the couch in the living room, her neck bent at this really uncomfortable angle on the recliner. So I picked her up and attempted to carry her to bed. But she's so heavy! I plopped her down on her feet and sent her off to bed, blinking and rubbing her tired eyes. I was relieved that it had only been a dream, after all.

That one was scary. But it wasn't as bad as the one I had at Dad's house over the Labor Day weekend. For some reason I always wake up, my heart clamoring to get out of my chest, my breath catching in my throat, choking on the screams that won't escape my lips inside those dreams. No, last night's wasn't so bad compared to that one. I dreamed that Jamie left me and I had to work at...wait for it...

Sears!

I am not joking. Though, in retrospect, it is fucking hilarious. My nightmare of all nightmares is that my Jamie will leave me and I will have to go back to work at Sears.

"At Last" -- Etta James

[This one’s for you, Laurell K. Hamilton]

Yesterday my husband came home to a sink full of dirty dishes and a basket of clean, but not-yet-folded laundry. It doesn’t sound like much, but on top of the disaster area that is our home, it was just too much. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I had been whining about being sick for two days and used that as my excuse for lying on the couch and reading all day.

“I’m trying to finish this book,” I told him when he asked.

“You mean you’re trying to finish reading that book instead of finishing writing your own?” he retorted, stuffing another dish in the already over-flowing dishwasher.

What could I say? I didn’t say anything. Sometimes you just have to know when not to say anything. I closed Skin Trade and set it aside. Those last ten or so pages would just have to wait. 

As soon as he was gone, tucked away into bed sound asleep, I tore through those last few pages and debated taking Bullet from its place on top of the ginormous television, out of the reach of sticky toddler fingers. But I didn’t. I sulked and edited my own book, printing endless sheets of paper to take to campus today. And as soon as my errands were finished this afternoon, I took down Bullet and began to read, promising myself just a few pages…