Simona -
Excellent reporting and excellent narrative. Your piece really sheds light on something many people would never think about or even know existed. The structure of the article is sound and I think the quotes are well selected. I think the piece could use a little bit more of scene though. Besides that, I think the technical aspect of the piece, the writing itself, like I said, is already really good. I’m really interested in a description of one of these camps if you can find one!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Response for Andrea
Andrea –
I love the piece! So many profound issues at hand, its like a whirlwind of all this deep stuff; MS, welfare, single-parenting, the worth of a college education, etc, etc. The quotes from Lisa really nail it home. I love the quote about “we make plans and God laughs”. However, I think this piece would benefit a great deal from a refinement of its scope. I think sticking to one of those issues and really running with it will have a tremendous impact on the message of the article and it seems like Lisa is a well of quotes for any and all of these isssues – I couldn’t imagine it would be hard to focus on one thing. Structurally, I would maybe not go back and forth between speakers because it can get confusing. I think you should chose the best quotes from Mira and have it one place and then sign her off, so to speak. I really look forward to the final article.
I love the piece! So many profound issues at hand, its like a whirlwind of all this deep stuff; MS, welfare, single-parenting, the worth of a college education, etc, etc. The quotes from Lisa really nail it home. I love the quote about “we make plans and God laughs”. However, I think this piece would benefit a great deal from a refinement of its scope. I think sticking to one of those issues and really running with it will have a tremendous impact on the message of the article and it seems like Lisa is a well of quotes for any and all of these isssues – I couldn’t imagine it would be hard to focus on one thing. Structurally, I would maybe not go back and forth between speakers because it can get confusing. I think you should chose the best quotes from Mira and have it one place and then sign her off, so to speak. I really look forward to the final article.
Response for Marina
Marina –
This piece has excellent structure to it. The story flows smoothly from beginning to end supported with adequate and appropriate quotes. However, I feel like the conflict in this story can be fleshed out more. There are repeated claims of the uphill feminist battle on campus but there is no real discussion on what that battle entails. Why do these women feel they are in a battle? What are some of the things they have dealt with on campus that they struggle with? I’m not rejecting their claims, I’m just interested in what exactly are the concrete issues they are striving against. I think the microcosm of the theatre department really serves nicely as a point of departure for the larger issues at hand.
This piece has excellent structure to it. The story flows smoothly from beginning to end supported with adequate and appropriate quotes. However, I feel like the conflict in this story can be fleshed out more. There are repeated claims of the uphill feminist battle on campus but there is no real discussion on what that battle entails. Why do these women feel they are in a battle? What are some of the things they have dealt with on campus that they struggle with? I’m not rejecting their claims, I’m just interested in what exactly are the concrete issues they are striving against. I think the microcosm of the theatre department really serves nicely as a point of departure for the larger issues at hand.
Response for Steven
Steven –
I really liked the descriptions throughout this piece, though, as you say, they were overbearing at times. I think limiting the decsriptions to a few choice scenes and adding more dialogue would really establish a good balance in this article. The vocabulary is excellent – it is refreshing when adjectives aren’t repeated, and you manage this quite well. Structurally, I think the piece would benefit from breaking up the paragraphs. Sometimes I found myself getting lost in them but this may just be the result of the online layout (which, in all probablity, is the case). I’m looking forward to the element that Greekfest will add to this piece. One thing to consider: what is the overall story of this besides just observing a religious ceremony?
I really liked the descriptions throughout this piece, though, as you say, they were overbearing at times. I think limiting the decsriptions to a few choice scenes and adding more dialogue would really establish a good balance in this article. The vocabulary is excellent – it is refreshing when adjectives aren’t repeated, and you manage this quite well. Structurally, I think the piece would benefit from breaking up the paragraphs. Sometimes I found myself getting lost in them but this may just be the result of the online layout (which, in all probablity, is the case). I’m looking forward to the element that Greekfest will add to this piece. One thing to consider: what is the overall story of this besides just observing a religious ceremony?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Final Draft of Final Article: The Lost Children of Vine Street
The Lost Children of Vine Street
On a quiet and warm spring weeknight in the student ghetto of Kalamazoo, a quick stroll down any of the more well known streets of the neighborhood will reveal a common scene: small groups of college friends, often accompanied by a tolerable volume of music, hanging out on the front porches of hundred year-old houses casually drinking the night away.
A house on Vine Street, however, plays host to a different scene. The house itself immediately stands out to anyone walking down the street. A clutter of chairs, bikes, and unidentifiable junk litter the porch at any given time. Like many other houses in the neighborhood, there is usually a group of college-aged people hanging out on the porch. But, unlike the other houses in the neighborhood, this group doesn’t go to college and this group all lives in one house.
In the backyard of this house, floating embers softly illuminate the faces of ten or more of the house’s residents around a dying bonfire. The gathering of individuals has found their seats among white plastic chairs, couch cushions, a log, a tire, several deteriorating wooden dining chairs and the damp, littered ground.
Just beyond the cusp of illumination, a man haphazardly picks at his acoustic guitar emitting a folksy tune that fuels three to dance barefoot wildly around the fire, fleeting in and out of the darkness. They hoot and holler unintelligible sounds, often colliding with each other and falling to the ground in fits of childish laughter; intoxicated by the lack of apparent inhibitions. The scene is tribal.
I stand in my own backyard, two houses down, watching this scene unfold for several minutes. Finally, I recognize Olivia, a twenty-something woman who lives in the house where the bonfire is being held and who, on occasion, I’ve interacted with when I’ve gone over to her house in hopes of borrowing a can-opener and knife.
The first time I approached the house was during daytime. I grew more hesitant as I got closer, seeing two long and untamed haired guys on the front porch, shirtless, shoeless, and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Climbing two steps and avoiding the mini-cultivation of plants growing in egg cartons, I asked them if they had a can-opener I could borrow. Without breaking his distant glaze and taking a long, hard drag from his cigarette, the man closest to the door responded, “Ask Olivia, she’s inside.”
Entering the house, I was hit with a pungent smell – a combination of acidic body odor, dirty feet, cigarette smoke and mold - that I could only imagine being the inevitable result of twelve, free-spirited people living in a four-bedroom house. Having had no directions as to where I would find Olivia, I wandered cautiously through the first floor of the house.
The living room overflowed with unbounded and coverless books whose pages all seemingly exhibited the hue of coffee-stained parchment: a collection of rare and self-published literature. Moving on, the dining room, walls painted black, did not house a dining table; instead, in one corner stood a cello and a violin and in the other corner an easel was flanked by a wobbly-looking coffee table.
At the doorway to the kitchen, I saw a woman with her back to me preparing a huge salad bowl. Nervously, I uttered, “Olivia?” She turned around, smiling, her dark brown hair held back by a blue bandana; she wore a pair of knee-length, cut-off jeans and a sweaty, white tank top with no bra underneath. Her outfit left her leg and armpit hair unabashedly noticeable. Nicely enough, she let me borrow the can-opener.
Tonight, after recognizing Olivia at the bonfire, I decide to make my way over. Arriving next to her, only to find standing room only (I dare not sit on the ground, scattered with trash and God- knows what else), she turns to me and says, “Hey, John, right?” Nodding my head and trying to start a conversation I reply, “So, what’s the deal with all these bonfires lately?” Olivia laughs and shares, “Oh, well, our power got cut off over two weeks ago so this is kinda our only light during the night. Good thing the weather has been nice.”
I momentarily get lost in the thought of sharing a house with eleven other people and without electricity. The thought sends chills through my body, which the dwindling fire fails to warm. I muster the only response I can think of, “No electricity? That must really suck” to which Olivia, aloofly replies, “No, not really. It is kinda nice.”
Watching the others continue to dance, the lack of anything in common with them strikes me and I grow uncomfortable. I try to make more small talk with Olivia, “How long have you lived here? Does it get crazy with all these people?” She doesn’t take a moment to gather her thoughts “I think I’ve been living here four, five months. I don’t really know. It’s not that crazy, we have chores assigned to people each week and we just live day by day. We try not to stress about things.” I get the sense that everyone hear shares the characteristic of speaking few words but having many thoughts.
Another man, sitting across the fire from us, has apparently been listening to our conversation. He jumps up from his sitting post on a tire and comes over to join us. He is wearing tight, rolled-up corduroy pants, a ripped, yellow tank top, and, peculiarly, a bicycle helmet. Now only a couple of feet away, I can see his face, hidden behind dirty and sweaty strands of hair and a full, bushy beard. He can’t be older than twenty-two.
His most striking feature is his wild brown eyes, a sharp contrast to the appearance of wear and tear the rest of his face shows. Leaning in towards me, I notice his jitteriness. Dousing me with breath that has never known, or at least forgotten, a toothbrush, he says, “Olivia is the mother hen. Yup. Cooks and cleans. Always painting and cooking and baking. You should try her food. Try her salad. I love it.”
Not knowing how to appropriately respond, I say, “I’ll be sure to try it. What’s your name?”. He recoils and says, “I don’t have one”. He goes back to his tire. Olivia tells me not to mind him because “he is probably just coming down from his high… he does heroin.” I ask her if she does drugs too. “No, I don’t do those drugs. Sometimes I’ll smoke pot or something. But no. I don’t do those drugs,” says Olivia.
Without being prompted she continues, “I mean, everyone does what floats their boats here. I’m not going to judge. Yes, some of us do all kinds of drugs here. Others don’t at all. Don’t even smoke cigarettes. We are just very accepting of each other and I don’t really see anything wrong with that.”
I sit and continue to watch the madness of unchecked liberation drive deeper into the night. I can’t help but think that these people are the grown-up lost children of William Golding’s novel. I ask Olivia if I can come talk to her more formally next week and she agrees.
When I returned the next week, I again encountered the two guardians of the free-spirited temple. The house always has people in it, since only two of the twelve people living there hold legitimate jobs. I ask them if Olivia is home and they respond, “Who the fuck are you?” Today is not a good day to be an outsider. Shocked, I reply, “Uh…I’m your neighbor. We’ve met before. Uh, so is she home?”. Coldly, the more vocal of the two says, “No, she doesn’t live here anymore. Don’t know where she is either and its no one’s real fucking business too.”
Defeated and confused, I walked back the eighty yards to my house, passing by the front porch of another neighbor’s house where his friends were beginning to arrive with six-packs and brats to throw on the grill. One of the guys offered me a beer as I passed but I kindly refused. I smiled, feeling comforted to be back in the student ghetto.
On a quiet and warm spring weeknight in the student ghetto of Kalamazoo, a quick stroll down any of the more well known streets of the neighborhood will reveal a common scene: small groups of college friends, often accompanied by a tolerable volume of music, hanging out on the front porches of hundred year-old houses casually drinking the night away.
A house on Vine Street, however, plays host to a different scene. The house itself immediately stands out to anyone walking down the street. A clutter of chairs, bikes, and unidentifiable junk litter the porch at any given time. Like many other houses in the neighborhood, there is usually a group of college-aged people hanging out on the porch. But, unlike the other houses in the neighborhood, this group doesn’t go to college and this group all lives in one house.
In the backyard of this house, floating embers softly illuminate the faces of ten or more of the house’s residents around a dying bonfire. The gathering of individuals has found their seats among white plastic chairs, couch cushions, a log, a tire, several deteriorating wooden dining chairs and the damp, littered ground.
Just beyond the cusp of illumination, a man haphazardly picks at his acoustic guitar emitting a folksy tune that fuels three to dance barefoot wildly around the fire, fleeting in and out of the darkness. They hoot and holler unintelligible sounds, often colliding with each other and falling to the ground in fits of childish laughter; intoxicated by the lack of apparent inhibitions. The scene is tribal.
I stand in my own backyard, two houses down, watching this scene unfold for several minutes. Finally, I recognize Olivia, a twenty-something woman who lives in the house where the bonfire is being held and who, on occasion, I’ve interacted with when I’ve gone over to her house in hopes of borrowing a can-opener and knife.
The first time I approached the house was during daytime. I grew more hesitant as I got closer, seeing two long and untamed haired guys on the front porch, shirtless, shoeless, and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Climbing two steps and avoiding the mini-cultivation of plants growing in egg cartons, I asked them if they had a can-opener I could borrow. Without breaking his distant glaze and taking a long, hard drag from his cigarette, the man closest to the door responded, “Ask Olivia, she’s inside.”
Entering the house, I was hit with a pungent smell – a combination of acidic body odor, dirty feet, cigarette smoke and mold - that I could only imagine being the inevitable result of twelve, free-spirited people living in a four-bedroom house. Having had no directions as to where I would find Olivia, I wandered cautiously through the first floor of the house.
The living room overflowed with unbounded and coverless books whose pages all seemingly exhibited the hue of coffee-stained parchment: a collection of rare and self-published literature. Moving on, the dining room, walls painted black, did not house a dining table; instead, in one corner stood a cello and a violin and in the other corner an easel was flanked by a wobbly-looking coffee table.
At the doorway to the kitchen, I saw a woman with her back to me preparing a huge salad bowl. Nervously, I uttered, “Olivia?” She turned around, smiling, her dark brown hair held back by a blue bandana; she wore a pair of knee-length, cut-off jeans and a sweaty, white tank top with no bra underneath. Her outfit left her leg and armpit hair unabashedly noticeable. Nicely enough, she let me borrow the can-opener.
Tonight, after recognizing Olivia at the bonfire, I decide to make my way over. Arriving next to her, only to find standing room only (I dare not sit on the ground, scattered with trash and God- knows what else), she turns to me and says, “Hey, John, right?” Nodding my head and trying to start a conversation I reply, “So, what’s the deal with all these bonfires lately?” Olivia laughs and shares, “Oh, well, our power got cut off over two weeks ago so this is kinda our only light during the night. Good thing the weather has been nice.”
I momentarily get lost in the thought of sharing a house with eleven other people and without electricity. The thought sends chills through my body, which the dwindling fire fails to warm. I muster the only response I can think of, “No electricity? That must really suck” to which Olivia, aloofly replies, “No, not really. It is kinda nice.”
Watching the others continue to dance, the lack of anything in common with them strikes me and I grow uncomfortable. I try to make more small talk with Olivia, “How long have you lived here? Does it get crazy with all these people?” She doesn’t take a moment to gather her thoughts “I think I’ve been living here four, five months. I don’t really know. It’s not that crazy, we have chores assigned to people each week and we just live day by day. We try not to stress about things.” I get the sense that everyone hear shares the characteristic of speaking few words but having many thoughts.
Another man, sitting across the fire from us, has apparently been listening to our conversation. He jumps up from his sitting post on a tire and comes over to join us. He is wearing tight, rolled-up corduroy pants, a ripped, yellow tank top, and, peculiarly, a bicycle helmet. Now only a couple of feet away, I can see his face, hidden behind dirty and sweaty strands of hair and a full, bushy beard. He can’t be older than twenty-two.
His most striking feature is his wild brown eyes, a sharp contrast to the appearance of wear and tear the rest of his face shows. Leaning in towards me, I notice his jitteriness. Dousing me with breath that has never known, or at least forgotten, a toothbrush, he says, “Olivia is the mother hen. Yup. Cooks and cleans. Always painting and cooking and baking. You should try her food. Try her salad. I love it.”
Not knowing how to appropriately respond, I say, “I’ll be sure to try it. What’s your name?”. He recoils and says, “I don’t have one”. He goes back to his tire. Olivia tells me not to mind him because “he is probably just coming down from his high… he does heroin.” I ask her if she does drugs too. “No, I don’t do those drugs. Sometimes I’ll smoke pot or something. But no. I don’t do those drugs,” says Olivia.
Without being prompted she continues, “I mean, everyone does what floats their boats here. I’m not going to judge. Yes, some of us do all kinds of drugs here. Others don’t at all. Don’t even smoke cigarettes. We are just very accepting of each other and I don’t really see anything wrong with that.”
I sit and continue to watch the madness of unchecked liberation drive deeper into the night. I can’t help but think that these people are the grown-up lost children of William Golding’s novel. I ask Olivia if I can come talk to her more formally next week and she agrees.
When I returned the next week, I again encountered the two guardians of the free-spirited temple. The house always has people in it, since only two of the twelve people living there hold legitimate jobs. I ask them if Olivia is home and they respond, “Who the fuck are you?” Today is not a good day to be an outsider. Shocked, I reply, “Uh…I’m your neighbor. We’ve met before. Uh, so is she home?”. Coldly, the more vocal of the two says, “No, she doesn’t live here anymore. Don’t know where she is either and its no one’s real fucking business too.”
Defeated and confused, I walked back the eighty yards to my house, passing by the front porch of another neighbor’s house where his friends were beginning to arrive with six-packs and brats to throw on the grill. One of the guys offered me a beer as I passed but I kindly refused. I smiled, feeling comforted to be back in the student ghetto.
Process Writing for the Quarter
In general, I found writing the articles for this class quite challenging. First, most of the articles required extensive reporting and this is an area I always fear doing. Approaching complete strangers has never been my strong point and even less so when we are expected to get a “story” out of them. Secondly, since this is a narrative journalism class, we are forced to write considerably more creatively than, at least, what I am used to. This was probably my first significant exposure to the elements of creative writing since, I don’t know - middle school? These two aspects of the class, taken together, constantly challenged me on each article I wrote.
My first article, my personal essay, was very difficult to write for several reasons. On the one hand, I’m not used to writing about myself and on the other hand, the topic I chose to write about, my parent’s divorce, is still something that is hard for me to talk, think and, in this case, write about. In my first draft, I had considerable issues with the “time” of events and, after the workshop, I think I was able to adjust it and make it clearer to the reader when and where all these events were happening in my life. I think writing about this particular aspect of my life served to help me deal or at least reflect more upon these issues and what effect they have had on me.
My second article, the profile on the barbershop and Eddie Anderson, presented me with those issues of approaching strangers. This issue was further complicate by the fact that this barbershop, in several ways, is an ethnic enclave and at multiple times I felt like an unwanted intruder. I felt like sometimes I was an anthropologist going into study this place from my privileged position in the ivory tower. I was also concerned about accurately portraying the subject without patronizing them or casting them in some negative racial stereotype. Another issue I encountered was the flakiness of my subjects. My scheduled interview was canceled several times and this really stressed/frustrated me. However, once I conducted the interview and started writing I found that the story came out pretty easily and naturally. There is just something that I like about barbershops and getting a haircut that I think enabled me to write creatively and effectively for this piece.
The last piece, the profile of my neighbors, has been a little tricky. Most of them are consistently in some sort of a drug-induced stupor, so approaching them doesn’t always work out. My main contact, Olivia, was nice but it was very hard to get a hold of her (no email, cell, etc) and finally she moved without letting me know (we had another interview “scheduled”). Though I didn’t have the complete access I had hoped for, I kind of thought that this would be an interesting thing to portray in a story and I also think it is an element of the story itself – how this group of people is really isolated and wary of outsiders. I’m not sure I could get the access I want without making this an immersion piece and that’s something I just didn’t have time for. But, like I said, I think the story works in its own way.
I think writing for this course really helped me to refine my creative writing abilities and most importantly I think this course taught me a lot about myself by constantly challenging me and making me feel uncomfortable. I think being forced to reflect (the personal essay) and being forced to work outside my comfort zone (interviewing strangers) allowed me to grow as a person by identifying some of my weaknesses and allowing me to work on them. After writing these articles I’m exponentially more confident in my creative writing abilities.
My first article, my personal essay, was very difficult to write for several reasons. On the one hand, I’m not used to writing about myself and on the other hand, the topic I chose to write about, my parent’s divorce, is still something that is hard for me to talk, think and, in this case, write about. In my first draft, I had considerable issues with the “time” of events and, after the workshop, I think I was able to adjust it and make it clearer to the reader when and where all these events were happening in my life. I think writing about this particular aspect of my life served to help me deal or at least reflect more upon these issues and what effect they have had on me.
My second article, the profile on the barbershop and Eddie Anderson, presented me with those issues of approaching strangers. This issue was further complicate by the fact that this barbershop, in several ways, is an ethnic enclave and at multiple times I felt like an unwanted intruder. I felt like sometimes I was an anthropologist going into study this place from my privileged position in the ivory tower. I was also concerned about accurately portraying the subject without patronizing them or casting them in some negative racial stereotype. Another issue I encountered was the flakiness of my subjects. My scheduled interview was canceled several times and this really stressed/frustrated me. However, once I conducted the interview and started writing I found that the story came out pretty easily and naturally. There is just something that I like about barbershops and getting a haircut that I think enabled me to write creatively and effectively for this piece.
The last piece, the profile of my neighbors, has been a little tricky. Most of them are consistently in some sort of a drug-induced stupor, so approaching them doesn’t always work out. My main contact, Olivia, was nice but it was very hard to get a hold of her (no email, cell, etc) and finally she moved without letting me know (we had another interview “scheduled”). Though I didn’t have the complete access I had hoped for, I kind of thought that this would be an interesting thing to portray in a story and I also think it is an element of the story itself – how this group of people is really isolated and wary of outsiders. I’m not sure I could get the access I want without making this an immersion piece and that’s something I just didn’t have time for. But, like I said, I think the story works in its own way.
I think writing for this course really helped me to refine my creative writing abilities and most importantly I think this course taught me a lot about myself by constantly challenging me and making me feel uncomfortable. I think being forced to reflect (the personal essay) and being forced to work outside my comfort zone (interviewing strangers) allowed me to grow as a person by identifying some of my weaknesses and allowing me to work on them. After writing these articles I’m exponentially more confident in my creative writing abilities.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Rough Draft of Final Article
Floating embers softly illuminate the faces of several people around a dying backyard bonfire. The gathering of individuals have found their seats from a motley of furniture; white plastic chairs, couch cushions, a log, a tire, several deteriorating wooden dining chairs, and some have even chosen to retire to the damp, littered ground.
Just beyond the cusp of illumination, a man haphazardly picks at his acoustic guitar emitting a folksy tune that fuels some to dance barefoot wildly around the fire, fleeting in and out of the darkness. They hoot and holler unintelligible sounds, often colliding with each other and falling to the ground in fits of childish laughter; intoxicated by the lack of apparent inhibitions. The scene is tribal.
I stand in my own backyard, two houses down, watching this scene unfold for several minutes. Finally, I recognize Olivia, a twenty-something woman who lives in the house where the bonfire is being held and who, on occasion, I’ve interacted with when I’ve gone over to her house in hopes of borrowing a can-opener and knife.
The first time I approached the house was during daytime. I grew more hesitant as I got closer, seeing two long and untamed haired guys on the front porch, shirtless, shoeless, and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Climbing two steps and avoiding the mini-cultivation of plants growing in egg cartons, I asked them if they had a can-opener I could borrow. Without breaking his distant glaze and taking a long, hard drag from his cigarette, the man closest to the door responded, “Ask Olivia, she’s inside.”
Entering the house, I was hit with a pungent smell that I could only imagine being the inevitable result of twelve, free-spirited people living in a four-bedroom house. Having had no directions as to where I would find Olivia, I wandered cautiously through the first floor of the house.
The living room overflowed with unbounded and coverless books whose pages all seemingly exhibited the hue of coffee-stained parchment; a collection of rare and self-published literature. Moving on, the dining room, walls painted black, did not house a dining table, instead, in one corner stood a cello and a violin and in the other corner an easel flanked by a wobbly-looking coffee table.
At the doorway to the kitchen, I saw a woman with her back to me preparing a huge salad bowl. Nervously, I uttered, “Olivia?” She turned around, smiling, her dark brown hair held back by a blue bandana, wearing a pair of knee-length, cut-off jeans and a sweaty, white tank top with no bra underneath, leg and armpit hair unabashedly noticeable. Nicely enough, she let me borrow the can-opener.
Tonight, after recognizing Olivia at the bonfire, I decide to make my way over. Arriving next to her, only to find standing room only (I dare not sit on the ground, scattered with trash and God-knows what else), she turns to me and says, “Hey, John, right?” Nodding my head and trying to start a conversation I reply, “So, what’s the deal with all these bonfires lately?” Olivia laughs and shares, “Oh, well, our power got cut off over two weeks ago so this is kinda our only light during the night. Good thing the weather has been nice.”
I momentarily get lost in the thought of sharing a house with eleven other people and without electricity. The thought sends chills through my body, which the dwindling fire fails to warm. I muster the only response I can think of, “No, electricity? That must really suck”, to which Olivia, aloofly replies, “No, not really. It is kinda nice.”
Watching the others continue to dance, the lack of anything in common with them strikes me and I grow uncomfortable. I try to make more small talk with Olivia, “How long have you lived here? Does it get crazy with all these people?” She doesn’t take a moment to gather her thoughts, “I think I’ve been living here four, five months. I don’t really know. It’s not that crazy, we have chores assigned to people each week and we just live day by day. We try not to stress about things.” I get the sense that everyone hear shares the characteristic of speaking few words but having many thoughts.
Another man, sitting somewhat across the fire from us, has apparently been listening to our conversation. He jumps up from his sitting post on a tire, and comes over to join us. He is wearing tight, rolled-up corduroy pants, a ripped, yellow tank top, and, peculiarly, a bicycle helmet. Now only a couple of feet away, I can see his face, hidden behind dirty and sweaty strands of hair and a full, bushy beard.
His most striking feature is his wild brown eyes, a sharp contrast to the appearance of wear and tear the rest of his face shows. Leaning in towards me, I noticed his jitteriness. Dousing me with breath that has never known, or at least forgotten, a toothbrush, he says, “Olivia is the mother hen. Yup. Cooks and cleans. Always painting and cooking and baking. You should try her food. Try her salad. I love it.”
Not knowing how to appropriately respond, I say, “I’ll be sure to try it. What’s your name?”. He recoils and says, “I don’t have one”. He goes back to his tire. Olivia tells me not to mind him because “he is probably just coming down from his high… he does heroin.” I ask her if she does drugs too. “No, I don’t do those drugs. Sometimes I’ll smoke pot or something. But no. I don’t do those drugs”, says Olivia.
Without being prompted she continues, “I mean, everyone does what floats their boats here. I’m not going to judge. Yes, some of us do all kinds of drugs here. Others don’t at all. Don’t even smoke cigarettes. We are just very accepting of each other and I don’t really see anything wrong with that.”
I let this shock to my way of thinking soak as I sit and continue to watch the madness of unchecked liberation drive deeper into the night. I can’t help but think that these people are the grown-up lost children of William Golding’s novel. I ask Olivia if I can come talk to her more formally next week and she agrees.
When I returned the next week, I again encountered the two guardians of the free-spirited temple. I ask them if Olivia is home and they respond, “Who the fuck are you?”. Today is not a good day to be an outsider. Shocked, I reply, “Uh…I’m your neighbor. We’ve met before. Uh, so is she home?”. Coldly, the more vocal of the two says, “No, she doesn’t live here anymore. Don’t know where she is either and its no one’s real fucking business too.”
Just beyond the cusp of illumination, a man haphazardly picks at his acoustic guitar emitting a folksy tune that fuels some to dance barefoot wildly around the fire, fleeting in and out of the darkness. They hoot and holler unintelligible sounds, often colliding with each other and falling to the ground in fits of childish laughter; intoxicated by the lack of apparent inhibitions. The scene is tribal.
I stand in my own backyard, two houses down, watching this scene unfold for several minutes. Finally, I recognize Olivia, a twenty-something woman who lives in the house where the bonfire is being held and who, on occasion, I’ve interacted with when I’ve gone over to her house in hopes of borrowing a can-opener and knife.
The first time I approached the house was during daytime. I grew more hesitant as I got closer, seeing two long and untamed haired guys on the front porch, shirtless, shoeless, and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Climbing two steps and avoiding the mini-cultivation of plants growing in egg cartons, I asked them if they had a can-opener I could borrow. Without breaking his distant glaze and taking a long, hard drag from his cigarette, the man closest to the door responded, “Ask Olivia, she’s inside.”
Entering the house, I was hit with a pungent smell that I could only imagine being the inevitable result of twelve, free-spirited people living in a four-bedroom house. Having had no directions as to where I would find Olivia, I wandered cautiously through the first floor of the house.
The living room overflowed with unbounded and coverless books whose pages all seemingly exhibited the hue of coffee-stained parchment; a collection of rare and self-published literature. Moving on, the dining room, walls painted black, did not house a dining table, instead, in one corner stood a cello and a violin and in the other corner an easel flanked by a wobbly-looking coffee table.
At the doorway to the kitchen, I saw a woman with her back to me preparing a huge salad bowl. Nervously, I uttered, “Olivia?” She turned around, smiling, her dark brown hair held back by a blue bandana, wearing a pair of knee-length, cut-off jeans and a sweaty, white tank top with no bra underneath, leg and armpit hair unabashedly noticeable. Nicely enough, she let me borrow the can-opener.
Tonight, after recognizing Olivia at the bonfire, I decide to make my way over. Arriving next to her, only to find standing room only (I dare not sit on the ground, scattered with trash and God-knows what else), she turns to me and says, “Hey, John, right?” Nodding my head and trying to start a conversation I reply, “So, what’s the deal with all these bonfires lately?” Olivia laughs and shares, “Oh, well, our power got cut off over two weeks ago so this is kinda our only light during the night. Good thing the weather has been nice.”
I momentarily get lost in the thought of sharing a house with eleven other people and without electricity. The thought sends chills through my body, which the dwindling fire fails to warm. I muster the only response I can think of, “No, electricity? That must really suck”, to which Olivia, aloofly replies, “No, not really. It is kinda nice.”
Watching the others continue to dance, the lack of anything in common with them strikes me and I grow uncomfortable. I try to make more small talk with Olivia, “How long have you lived here? Does it get crazy with all these people?” She doesn’t take a moment to gather her thoughts, “I think I’ve been living here four, five months. I don’t really know. It’s not that crazy, we have chores assigned to people each week and we just live day by day. We try not to stress about things.” I get the sense that everyone hear shares the characteristic of speaking few words but having many thoughts.
Another man, sitting somewhat across the fire from us, has apparently been listening to our conversation. He jumps up from his sitting post on a tire, and comes over to join us. He is wearing tight, rolled-up corduroy pants, a ripped, yellow tank top, and, peculiarly, a bicycle helmet. Now only a couple of feet away, I can see his face, hidden behind dirty and sweaty strands of hair and a full, bushy beard.
His most striking feature is his wild brown eyes, a sharp contrast to the appearance of wear and tear the rest of his face shows. Leaning in towards me, I noticed his jitteriness. Dousing me with breath that has never known, or at least forgotten, a toothbrush, he says, “Olivia is the mother hen. Yup. Cooks and cleans. Always painting and cooking and baking. You should try her food. Try her salad. I love it.”
Not knowing how to appropriately respond, I say, “I’ll be sure to try it. What’s your name?”. He recoils and says, “I don’t have one”. He goes back to his tire. Olivia tells me not to mind him because “he is probably just coming down from his high… he does heroin.” I ask her if she does drugs too. “No, I don’t do those drugs. Sometimes I’ll smoke pot or something. But no. I don’t do those drugs”, says Olivia.
Without being prompted she continues, “I mean, everyone does what floats their boats here. I’m not going to judge. Yes, some of us do all kinds of drugs here. Others don’t at all. Don’t even smoke cigarettes. We are just very accepting of each other and I don’t really see anything wrong with that.”
I let this shock to my way of thinking soak as I sit and continue to watch the madness of unchecked liberation drive deeper into the night. I can’t help but think that these people are the grown-up lost children of William Golding’s novel. I ask Olivia if I can come talk to her more formally next week and she agrees.
When I returned the next week, I again encountered the two guardians of the free-spirited temple. I ask them if Olivia is home and they respond, “Who the fuck are you?”. Today is not a good day to be an outsider. Shocked, I reply, “Uh…I’m your neighbor. We’ve met before. Uh, so is she home?”. Coldly, the more vocal of the two says, “No, she doesn’t live here anymore. Don’t know where she is either and its no one’s real fucking business too.”
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Workshop Group Comments
Anna –
The descriptions in this piece are exceptional. Good job capturing the detail! The opening paragraph is very strong and really caught my attention from the beginning. I think you are right about being able to capture the general physical description of the building along with the atmosphere. However, like you said yourself, the story is unfinished and after reading what you have so far I was left wondering about the relationships between the artists. That notion of comraderie you briefly mention seems like it could be a really strong point of departure for this story. I think it would be cool if you can capture the shared struggles and successes of the people who share a common space and common lifestyle/passion/hobby/interest, etc.
Jessica –
This is a really well written reporting piece. I’m with Anna on this one and wondering where the “narrative” is in this article. Aside from that, I think you have really good information logically and sufficiently located throughout the piece. I think the piece was trying to be about Mr. Streeter’s passion to get his students to college, but the article conveys more his professionalism rather than his passion.
Myles –
Fantastic imagery! Great work truly capturing the feel for the place. I really liked what you chose to describe and I think it works well with the piece. I think you should talk more to Curt and get his description of what the place used to look like so you can have that contrast in your piece. I think that will really add to the article. Keep up the good work.
Claire –
I liked your topic considering it’s relevance. I think you should maybe take yourself out of the piece and focus more on the smokers and get more details about them and the places you visited. Starting and ending the article with Fourth Coast gives the piece a good flow and a nice structure.
Joel –
Awesome quotes! Alex really makes this piece fascinating. However, I’m left wondering more about the other band members and I guess the general theme of the article. If you could get more interviews with the other members, fans, etc that would help a lot. Also, I think descriptive scenes and physical descriptions would really add to this. It’d be cool to capture some of the relationship dynamics between the members and also the dynamics between the audience and the band.
The descriptions in this piece are exceptional. Good job capturing the detail! The opening paragraph is very strong and really caught my attention from the beginning. I think you are right about being able to capture the general physical description of the building along with the atmosphere. However, like you said yourself, the story is unfinished and after reading what you have so far I was left wondering about the relationships between the artists. That notion of comraderie you briefly mention seems like it could be a really strong point of departure for this story. I think it would be cool if you can capture the shared struggles and successes of the people who share a common space and common lifestyle/passion/hobby/interest, etc.
Jessica –
This is a really well written reporting piece. I’m with Anna on this one and wondering where the “narrative” is in this article. Aside from that, I think you have really good information logically and sufficiently located throughout the piece. I think the piece was trying to be about Mr. Streeter’s passion to get his students to college, but the article conveys more his professionalism rather than his passion.
Myles –
Fantastic imagery! Great work truly capturing the feel for the place. I really liked what you chose to describe and I think it works well with the piece. I think you should talk more to Curt and get his description of what the place used to look like so you can have that contrast in your piece. I think that will really add to the article. Keep up the good work.
Claire –
I liked your topic considering it’s relevance. I think you should maybe take yourself out of the piece and focus more on the smokers and get more details about them and the places you visited. Starting and ending the article with Fourth Coast gives the piece a good flow and a nice structure.
Joel –
Awesome quotes! Alex really makes this piece fascinating. However, I’m left wondering more about the other band members and I guess the general theme of the article. If you could get more interviews with the other members, fans, etc that would help a lot. Also, I think descriptive scenes and physical descriptions would really add to this. It’d be cool to capture some of the relationship dynamics between the members and also the dynamics between the audience and the band.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Revised 2
Shear Hospitality
Continuing south on Westnedge, past the student-magnet Crow’s Nest Restaurant, Martini’s, the serene Westnedge Park and the Knight’s Inn, one finds the Fresh ‘N Clean Barbershop nestled in the heart of the historic Vine Neighborhood commercial district.
Outside, a red Piston’s jacket and two Allen Iverson jerseys hang from a tree over a bicycle and Piston’s garbage can, peculiar yet distinct markers of the shop. To the right of the door, a frayed American flag sways in the wind, often its threads getting caught in the lone shrub underneath.
Immediately upon entering the shop, the smell of Barbicide awakens the olfactory senses. Pictures of Tiger Woods, Lebron James, President Obama, Michael Jackson, and Mohammed Ali, snipped from magazines, adorn the walls of the bigger of two rooms used as the barbershop itself; the smaller room is used for the display and sale of urban-wear. The white with green trim barber stations, all hand-made by the barbers themselves, house the tools of the trade: shears, clippers, Clubman Talc, a stinging after-shave not meant for the light-hearted, hand-held mirrors, hair gel, brushes and combs.
At one of the five, alternating in style barber chairs, shop founder Eddie Anderson is busy meticulously perfecting the fade of a young black male. A clipper in hand, Eddie, hunching over from his six-foot stature and peering through his gold-colored frame glasses, examines and re-examines his work. The hallmark of a fade is the appearance of a smooth transitional change in hair length from bald to a few millimeters and Eddie carefully ensures no single hair disrupts the illusion. The commitment to his craft is evident in the time he takes with each cut, often taking over an hour with each client.
Usually one of the bigger men in the shop at any given time, Eddie commands a presence in the shop well beyond his twenty-six years of age. Dressing in accordance with the shop’s name, Eddie often sports pressed slacks, dress shoes, and an un-tucked polo. He maintains his hairstyle buzzed on top, with a fade on the sides; his beard a permanent five o’clock shadow. When he speaks, glasses sitting below his line of sight, he relaxingly gazes at you and talks in a mild manner.
It is impressive to see a twenty-six year old at the helm of a thriving, old-school barbershop employing a total of six other barbers and stylists mainly catering to the local African American youth population of the Vine neighborhood. It is even more impressive to learn that Eddie founded his business when he was just eighteen years old.
Graduating from Kalamazoo Central High School at the age of sixteen, Eddie enrolled at Kalamazoo Valley Community College shortly before his seventeenth birthday but soon dropped out during winter semester. Smiling, Eddie recalls his decision to drop out, “I just got bored with it, I liked working a lot more.”
Indeed, Eddie says he has always had a knack for business and a passion for work. Starting at the age of ten he began to develop a keen eye for moneymaking. “One day, when I was ten, I got the idea to go mow my neighbors’ lawns. So, I went and mowed all of them, did a damn good job too, and then told all my neighbors they owed me ten dollars”, Eddie stops and bursts into a contagious laughter, “I guess I should have asked first. But my neighbors all said ‘Eddie, you did a pretty good job, how ‘bout you come back in a few weeks, and tell you what, you do the same good work and we’ll pay you those ten dollars.’”
From there, he expanded his lawn-mowing business to include most of the neighborhood and never missed an opportunity to make money, working all through his high school years. It was only natural then, that when the West Michigan College of Barbering and Beauty opened in Kalamazoo, Eddie saw an opportunity, “At the time, there were only two or three barbershops and they mostly catered to the older crowd. Not that they were bad or anything, just if you were younger and wanted a fade, it wasn’t going to be as clean. So, I wanted a place that had that younger feel to it.”
After working a short time at the Playhouse barbershop on the East side of town, it became apparent to Eddie that he needed his own spot. Luckily, the opportunity to open his own business practically fell in his lap, or rather, sat down at his station one day at work. Devin, a Jamaican man who frequented Playhouse and who was impressed with Eddie’s work, suggested they should open a shop together. Devin would sell clothes and Eddie would run the barbershop. “He came in one day, suggested it, I said ‘sure’ and the next day he called me and told me he had found a location. So we opened up the shop, right across the street from this one, in November of 2002,” says Eddie as he points across the street to the corner building.
Soon after however, Devin disappeared and never showed up again. The landlord came around and was surprised to see the eighteen year old hard at work. Apparently, the landlord was unaware that Eddie was a tenant; Devin had never given him the lease with Eddie’s signature. Mimicking the landlord, Eddie describes the landlord’s reaction to finding him running the shop by himself, “Who are you? Where is Devin?” “I told him who I was, and after the confusion was settled he told me ‘Look, I like your work ethic, I think we can work something out. Find a co-signer and you can stay here.’”
The business-savvy Eddie immediately solved the problem: his mom co-signed the lease and he continued to run the shop, establishing it as one of the most respectable businesses in town. Eddie has continued to grow and improve upon his business, recently moving across the street, to Fresh ‘N Clean’s current location of 1305 S. Westnedge Avenue.
The new building is bigger, in better conditions, and most importantly, according to Eddie, “this new building has two window fronts, so I can display the clothes on one side without obscuring the view to the barbershop. At the other place, the barbershop was in the back and that took away business.”
Eddie’s ability to perceive factors that affect business, such as the importance of visibility, has enabled him to stay profitable. Along the way, he has learned other lessons crucial to the successful operation of his shop, “When I first started, because I was young, I let a lot of my friends and neighborhood kids hang out in front of the store. I learned quickly that this was a bad idea. Really quick. I realized how unwelcoming a group of teenage kids loitering outside the shop could be for potential customers, so I fixed that up right quick.”
Striving to establish his shop as a welcoming place has been a central business philosophy for Eddie’s barbershop. His desire to provide more than just a haircut is reflected in Fresh ‘N Clean’s slogan, “More than just a fade, we do it all.” Eddie reflects, “Other barbershops are just focused on the haircut and can be really unwelcoming. When I opened up I wanted a place where everyone was welcomed.”
Eddie believes his training at the college of barbering taught him to interact with all types of people, a crucial skill he has applied to accommodating his clientele, which he describes as coming “from all walks of life.” He continues, “You know, hair is hair, I learned that at the college. I learned to deal with everyone, any style of hair, and any race. Other barbershops aren’t as pleasant. I like to think we are the opposite of them.”
He stresses the importance of conversing, “We can deal with anyone. While we cater to that younger crowd, we can have a conversation with a fifty-year-old to eighty-year-old. We respect our elders, it’s really important to us. We try not to curse and keep the conversation clean.” Eddie highlights the fact that his staff is even representative of multiple generations, ranging in ages of twenty-five to forty-five.
The welcoming atmosphere of the shop is quickly realized after a few seconds inside. Customers, upon entering the shop, are greeted with a genuine, “How you doing?” – a rare transaction in today’s service industry – and are expected to respond with a more substantiated response than just “good.”
On any given day, the shop teems with lively conversation and storytelling. What Eddie calls “the number one rule” in the Barber’s Handbook – that of never mixing haircuts with politics and religion – is often broken, yet respect for each other is always maintained. “People come here because they are comfortable not only with getting a haircut but also voicing their opinions,” asserts Eddie.
However, conversational topics are not confined to that of politics and religion; subjects of discussion are as varied as the haircuts that are given. Talk of sports, neighborhood happenings, jokes, cars, music, and entertainment all mix with the haircut styles of hi-tops, flattops, afros, high and tights and anything else against the backdrop of Erykah Badu’s “Window Seat” playing through the shop’s speakers.
Reflecting on the talkative atmosphere of the shop, Eddie offers, “It is like we are therapists. People come here to talk to us. Sometimes just to talk to us. We’ve made friends from just all the times we talk to somebody.” It is true; some people do just come by to talk about current times or even personal matters. One man, Gary, rides his bicycle all the way from Portage two or three times a week just to talk to the barbers. Others like Terrell, a fifty-something man with a black surgical boot on his right foot, are an even more frequent haunt of the shop; stopping by almost everyday to give his exaggerated, yet comedic, take on neighborhood happenings.
On this day, Terrell is more excited than usual. Recounting a confrontation he just has had with a younger male fresh out of jail, Terrell proclaims to the shop, “This young cat, all upset, takes of his shirt and starts to go Hulk on me, flexing his chest and showing off his muscles like ‘bing’!” Continuing with his tale, Terrell raises his voice and moves about the shop acting out the scene as he recalls it, “I told him, ‘hey why don’t you come back to my shed I’ve got something for you.”
He mimes the revving of a chainsaw, “I said, ‘here. Let me just fix up the side of your face for you’. That didn’t scare him so I did the only other thing a guy could do when faced with a bigger guy – grab him by the throat and squeeze his esophagus! Brought him down to the ground, kicked him with my bad leg then gave him an old-man slap!” At this point, Eddie interjects jokingly questioning the validity of his story, “Terrell, you sure you got this right? Sure it wasn’t the other way around? Maybe that’s why you have that boot on your leg!” The shop erupts into fits of laughter.
Terrell concedes, “Ok, maybe I didn’t bring out the chainsaw – didn’t have no gas to start it up. But I tell you what, whatever that man had planned for today just went the opposite when he met me. Opposite. Reciprocal.” Though the mood is light, Terrell ends his recount by telling the shop’s patrons, “But for real, I know these guys (the barbers) have my back. Eddie keeps it peaceful, people respect him and they don’t want to get crossed with Fresh ‘N Clean.”
Eddie’s maturation has always been intertwined with the growth of his business. His friendly and genuine demeanor along with his acute business acumen have allowed Fresh ‘N Clean to flourished into what it is today: a place where good haircuts are given but more importantly where good conversations are had and where friendships are made.
As the shop prepares for closing time, “Big E”, one of the other barbers, brings attention to Eddie who is outside, “Man, this place without Eddie…wouldn’t be this place. Just look at him, he’s outside picking up the cigarette butts because it is his pet peeve when people just throw them on the ground, especially right outside his door. He says we won’t get business with all that trash outside. It’s a small detail, but he’s right. Those little things go a long way.”
Continuing south on Westnedge, past the student-magnet Crow’s Nest Restaurant, Martini’s, the serene Westnedge Park and the Knight’s Inn, one finds the Fresh ‘N Clean Barbershop nestled in the heart of the historic Vine Neighborhood commercial district.
Outside, a red Piston’s jacket and two Allen Iverson jerseys hang from a tree over a bicycle and Piston’s garbage can, peculiar yet distinct markers of the shop. To the right of the door, a frayed American flag sways in the wind, often its threads getting caught in the lone shrub underneath.
Immediately upon entering the shop, the smell of Barbicide awakens the olfactory senses. Pictures of Tiger Woods, Lebron James, President Obama, Michael Jackson, and Mohammed Ali, snipped from magazines, adorn the walls of the bigger of two rooms used as the barbershop itself; the smaller room is used for the display and sale of urban-wear. The white with green trim barber stations, all hand-made by the barbers themselves, house the tools of the trade: shears, clippers, Clubman Talc, a stinging after-shave not meant for the light-hearted, hand-held mirrors, hair gel, brushes and combs.
At one of the five, alternating in style barber chairs, shop founder Eddie Anderson is busy meticulously perfecting the fade of a young black male. A clipper in hand, Eddie, hunching over from his six-foot stature and peering through his gold-colored frame glasses, examines and re-examines his work. The hallmark of a fade is the appearance of a smooth transitional change in hair length from bald to a few millimeters and Eddie carefully ensures no single hair disrupts the illusion. The commitment to his craft is evident in the time he takes with each cut, often taking over an hour with each client.
Usually one of the bigger men in the shop at any given time, Eddie commands a presence in the shop well beyond his twenty-six years of age. Dressing in accordance with the shop’s name, Eddie often sports pressed slacks, dress shoes, and an un-tucked polo. He maintains his hairstyle buzzed on top, with a fade on the sides; his beard a permanent five o’clock shadow. When he speaks, glasses sitting below his line of sight, he relaxingly gazes at you and talks in a mild manner.
It is impressive to see a twenty-six year old at the helm of a thriving, old-school barbershop employing a total of six other barbers and stylists mainly catering to the local African American youth population of the Vine neighborhood. It is even more impressive to learn that Eddie founded his business when he was just eighteen years old.
Graduating from Kalamazoo Central High School at the age of sixteen, Eddie enrolled at Kalamazoo Valley Community College shortly before his seventeenth birthday but soon dropped out during winter semester. Smiling, Eddie recalls his decision to drop out, “I just got bored with it, I liked working a lot more.”
Indeed, Eddie says he has always had a knack for business and a passion for work. Starting at the age of ten he began to develop a keen eye for moneymaking. “One day, when I was ten, I got the idea to go mow my neighbors’ lawns. So, I went and mowed all of them, did a damn good job too, and then told all my neighbors they owed me ten dollars”, Eddie stops and bursts into a contagious laughter, “I guess I should have asked first. But my neighbors all said ‘Eddie, you did a pretty good job, how ‘bout you come back in a few weeks, and tell you what, you do the same good work and we’ll pay you those ten dollars.’”
From there, he expanded his lawn-mowing business to include most of the neighborhood and never missed an opportunity to make money, working all through his high school years. It was only natural then, that when the West Michigan College of Barbering and Beauty opened in Kalamazoo, Eddie saw an opportunity, “At the time, there were only two or three barbershops and they mostly catered to the older crowd. Not that they were bad or anything, just if you were younger and wanted a fade, it wasn’t going to be as clean. So, I wanted a place that had that younger feel to it.”
After working a short time at the Playhouse barbershop on the East side of town, it became apparent to Eddie that he needed his own spot. Luckily, the opportunity to open his own business practically fell in his lap, or rather, sat down at his station one day at work. Devin, a Jamaican man who frequented Playhouse and who was impressed with Eddie’s work, suggested they should open a shop together. Devin would sell clothes and Eddie would run the barbershop. “He came in one day, suggested it, I said ‘sure’ and the next day he called me and told me he had found a location. So we opened up the shop, right across the street from this one, in November of 2002,” says Eddie as he points across the street to the corner building.
Soon after however, Devin disappeared and never showed up again. The landlord came around and was surprised to see the eighteen year old hard at work. Apparently, the landlord was unaware that Eddie was a tenant; Devin had never given him the lease with Eddie’s signature. Mimicking the landlord, Eddie describes the landlord’s reaction to finding him running the shop by himself, “Who are you? Where is Devin?” “I told him who I was, and after the confusion was settled he told me ‘Look, I like your work ethic, I think we can work something out. Find a co-signer and you can stay here.’”
The business-savvy Eddie immediately solved the problem: his mom co-signed the lease and he continued to run the shop, establishing it as one of the most respectable businesses in town. Eddie has continued to grow and improve upon his business, recently moving across the street, to Fresh ‘N Clean’s current location of 1305 S. Westnedge Avenue.
The new building is bigger, in better conditions, and most importantly, according to Eddie, “this new building has two window fronts, so I can display the clothes on one side without obscuring the view to the barbershop. At the other place, the barbershop was in the back and that took away business.”
Eddie’s ability to perceive factors that affect business, such as the importance of visibility, has enabled him to stay profitable. Along the way, he has learned other lessons crucial to the successful operation of his shop, “When I first started, because I was young, I let a lot of my friends and neighborhood kids hang out in front of the store. I learned quickly that this was a bad idea. Really quick. I realized how unwelcoming a group of teenage kids loitering outside the shop could be for potential customers, so I fixed that up right quick.”
Striving to establish his shop as a welcoming place has been a central business philosophy for Eddie’s barbershop. His desire to provide more than just a haircut is reflected in Fresh ‘N Clean’s slogan, “More than just a fade, we do it all.” Eddie reflects, “Other barbershops are just focused on the haircut and can be really unwelcoming. When I opened up I wanted a place where everyone was welcomed.”
Eddie believes his training at the college of barbering taught him to interact with all types of people, a crucial skill he has applied to accommodating his clientele, which he describes as coming “from all walks of life.” He continues, “You know, hair is hair, I learned that at the college. I learned to deal with everyone, any style of hair, and any race. Other barbershops aren’t as pleasant. I like to think we are the opposite of them.”
He stresses the importance of conversing, “We can deal with anyone. While we cater to that younger crowd, we can have a conversation with a fifty-year-old to eighty-year-old. We respect our elders, it’s really important to us. We try not to curse and keep the conversation clean.” Eddie highlights the fact that his staff is even representative of multiple generations, ranging in ages of twenty-five to forty-five.
The welcoming atmosphere of the shop is quickly realized after a few seconds inside. Customers, upon entering the shop, are greeted with a genuine, “How you doing?” – a rare transaction in today’s service industry – and are expected to respond with a more substantiated response than just “good.”
On any given day, the shop teems with lively conversation and storytelling. What Eddie calls “the number one rule” in the Barber’s Handbook – that of never mixing haircuts with politics and religion – is often broken, yet respect for each other is always maintained. “People come here because they are comfortable not only with getting a haircut but also voicing their opinions,” asserts Eddie.
However, conversational topics are not confined to that of politics and religion; subjects of discussion are as varied as the haircuts that are given. Talk of sports, neighborhood happenings, jokes, cars, music, and entertainment all mix with the haircut styles of hi-tops, flattops, afros, high and tights and anything else against the backdrop of Erykah Badu’s “Window Seat” playing through the shop’s speakers.
Reflecting on the talkative atmosphere of the shop, Eddie offers, “It is like we are therapists. People come here to talk to us. Sometimes just to talk to us. We’ve made friends from just all the times we talk to somebody.” It is true; some people do just come by to talk about current times or even personal matters. One man, Gary, rides his bicycle all the way from Portage two or three times a week just to talk to the barbers. Others like Terrell, a fifty-something man with a black surgical boot on his right foot, are an even more frequent haunt of the shop; stopping by almost everyday to give his exaggerated, yet comedic, take on neighborhood happenings.
On this day, Terrell is more excited than usual. Recounting a confrontation he just has had with a younger male fresh out of jail, Terrell proclaims to the shop, “This young cat, all upset, takes of his shirt and starts to go Hulk on me, flexing his chest and showing off his muscles like ‘bing’!” Continuing with his tale, Terrell raises his voice and moves about the shop acting out the scene as he recalls it, “I told him, ‘hey why don’t you come back to my shed I’ve got something for you.”
He mimes the revving of a chainsaw, “I said, ‘here. Let me just fix up the side of your face for you’. That didn’t scare him so I did the only other thing a guy could do when faced with a bigger guy – grab him by the throat and squeeze his esophagus! Brought him down to the ground, kicked him with my bad leg then gave him an old-man slap!” At this point, Eddie interjects jokingly questioning the validity of his story, “Terrell, you sure you got this right? Sure it wasn’t the other way around? Maybe that’s why you have that boot on your leg!” The shop erupts into fits of laughter.
Terrell concedes, “Ok, maybe I didn’t bring out the chainsaw – didn’t have no gas to start it up. But I tell you what, whatever that man had planned for today just went the opposite when he met me. Opposite. Reciprocal.” Though the mood is light, Terrell ends his recount by telling the shop’s patrons, “But for real, I know these guys (the barbers) have my back. Eddie keeps it peaceful, people respect him and they don’t want to get crossed with Fresh ‘N Clean.”
Eddie’s maturation has always been intertwined with the growth of his business. His friendly and genuine demeanor along with his acute business acumen have allowed Fresh ‘N Clean to flourished into what it is today: a place where good haircuts are given but more importantly where good conversations are had and where friendships are made.
As the shop prepares for closing time, “Big E”, one of the other barbers, brings attention to Eddie who is outside, “Man, this place without Eddie…wouldn’t be this place. Just look at him, he’s outside picking up the cigarette butts because it is his pet peeve when people just throw them on the ground, especially right outside his door. He says we won’t get business with all that trash outside. It’s a small detail, but he’s right. Those little things go a long way.”
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Reading Response for Week 7
For the most part, I really, really liked "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold". I thought the physical descriptions were amazing to say the least. Talese's ability to capture everything really impressed me. The way he presents other details is also really well done. For example, Talese's six paragraph describes the song "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning" in such a way that can only be described as pure dominance of his craft. Almost every character's disposition clearly comes through in the writing.
However, while the details were excellent, I had a hard time understanding Talese's presence throughout the piece. In some instances he includes himself, in others he just tells the story without much attribution. For example, at his daughter's birthday, was Talese there? Much of these anecdotes come off as being purely hear-say, and if they aren't, then stalker-ish. I think if the details were sprinkled with direct quotes from sources other than Sinatra this would be a better piece.
However, while the details were excellent, I had a hard time understanding Talese's presence throughout the piece. In some instances he includes himself, in others he just tells the story without much attribution. For example, at his daughter's birthday, was Talese there? Much of these anecdotes come off as being purely hear-say, and if they aren't, then stalker-ish. I think if the details were sprinkled with direct quotes from sources other than Sinatra this would be a better piece.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Assignment 2
Continuing south on Westnedge, past the student-magnet Crow’s Nest Restaurant, Martini’s, the serene Westnedge Park and the Knight’s Inn, one finds the Fresh ‘N Clean Barbershop nestled in the heart of the historic Vine Neighborhood commercial district.
Outside, a red Piston’s jacket and two Allen Iverson jerseys hang from a tree over a bicycle and Piston’s garbage can, peculiar yet distinct markers of the shop. To the right of the door, a frayed American flag sways in the wind, often its threads getting caught in the lone shrub underneath.
Immediately upon entering the shop, the smell of Barbicide awakens the olfactory senses. Pictures of Tiger Woods, Lebron James, President Obama, Michael Jackson, and Mohammed Ali, snipped from magazines, adorn the walls of the bigger of two rooms used as the barbershop itself; the smaller room is used for the display and sale of urban-wear. The white with green trim barber stations, all hand-made by the barbers themselves, house the tools of the trade: shears, clippers, Clubman Talc, a stinging after-shave not meant for the light-hearted, hand-held mirrors, hair gel, brushes and combs.
At one of the five, alternating in style, barber chairs, shop founder Eddie Anderson is busy meticulously perfecting the fade of a young black male. A clipper in hand, Eddie, hunching over from his six-foot stature and peering through his gold-colored frame glasses, examines and re-examines his work. The hallmark of a fade is the appearance of a smooth transitional change in hair length from bald to a few millimeters and Eddie carefully ensures no single hair disrupts the illusion. The commitment to his craft is evident in the time he takes with each cut, often taking over an hour with each client.
Usually one of the bigger men in the shop at any given time, Eddie commands a presence in the shop well beyond his twenty-six years of age. Dressing in accordance with the shop’s name, Eddie often sports pressed slacks, dress shoes, and an un-tucked polo. He maintains his hairstyle buzzed on top, with a fade on the sides; his beard a permanent five o’clock shadow. When he speaks, glasses sitting below his line of sight, he relaxingly gazes at you and talks in a mild manner.
It is impressive to see a twenty-six year old at the helm of a thriving, mainly catering to the local African American youth population of the Vine neighborhood, old-school barbershop employing a total of six other barbers and stylists. It is even more impressive to learn that Eddie founded his business when he was just eighteen years old.
Graduating from Kalamazoo Central High School at the age of sixteen, Eddie enrolled at Kalamazoo Valley Community College shortly before his seventeenth birthday but soon dropped out during winter semester. Smiling, Eddie recalls his decision to drop out, “I just got bored with it, I liked working a lot more.”
Indeed, Eddie says he has always had a knack for business and a passion for work. Starting at the age of ten he began to develop a keen eye for moneymaking. “One day, when I was ten, I got the idea to go mow my neighbors’ lawns. So, I went and mowed all of them, did a damn good job too, and then told all my neighbors they owed me ten dollars”, Eddie stops and busts into a contagious laughter, “I guess I should have asked first. But my neighbors all said ‘Eddie, you did a pretty good job, how ‘bout you come back in a few weeks, and tell you what, you do the same good work and we’ll pay you those ten dollars.’”
From there, he expanded his lawn-mowing business to include most of the neighborhood and never missed an opportunity to make money, working all through his high school years. It was only natural then, that when the West Michigan College of Barbering and Beauty opened in Kalamazoo, Eddie saw an opportunity, “At the time, there were only two or three barbershops and they mostly catered to the older crowd. Not that they were bad or anything, just if you were younger and wanted a fade, it wasn’t going to be as clean. So, I wanted a place that had that younger feel to it.”
After working a short time at the Playhouse barbershop on the East side of town, it became apparent to Eddie that he needed his own spot. Luckily, the opportunity to open his own business practically fell in his lap, or rather, sat down at his station one day at work. Devin, a Jamaican man who frequented Playhouse and who was impressed with Eddie’s work, suggested they should open a shop together. Devin would sell clothes and Eddie would run the barbershop. “He came in one day, suggested it, I said ‘sure’ and the next day he called me and told me he had found a location. So we opened up the shop, right across the street from this one, in November of 2002,” says Eddie as he points across the street to the corner building.
Soon after however, Devin disappeared and never showed up again. The landlord came around and was surprised to see the eighteen year old hard at work. Apparently, the landlord was unaware that Eddie was a tenant; Devin had never given him the lease with Eddie’s signature. Mimicking the landlord, Eddie describes the landlord’s reaction to finding him running the shop by himself, “Who are you? Where is Devin?” “I told him who I was, and after the confusion was settled he told me ‘Look, I like your work ethic, I think we can work something out. Find a co-signer and you can stay here.’”
The business-savvy Eddie immediately solved the problem: his mom co-signed the lease and he continued to run the shop, establishing it as one of the most respectable businesses in town. Eddie has continued to grow and improve upon his business, recently moving across the street, to Fresh ‘N Clean’s current location of 1305 S. Westnedge Avenue.
The new building is bigger, in better conditions, and most importantly, according to Eddie, “this new building has two window fronts, so I can display the clothes on one side without obscuring the view to the barbershop. At the other place, the barbershop was in the back and that took away business.”
Eddie’s ability to perceive factors that affect business, such as the importance of visibility, has enabled him to stay profitable. Along the way, he has learned other lessons crucial to the successful operation of his shop, “When I first started, because I was young, I let a lot of my friends and neighborhood kids hang out in front of the store. I learned quickly that this was a bad idea. Really quick. I realized how unwelcoming a group of teenage kids loitering outside the shop could be for potential customers, so I fixed that up right quick.”
More Than Just a Fade, They Do it All
Striving to establish his shop as a welcoming place has been a central business philosophy for Eddie’s barbershop. His desire to provide more than just a haircut is reflected in Fresh ‘N Clean’s slogan, “More than just a fade, we do it all.” Eddie reflects, “Other barbershops are just focused on the haircut and can be really unwelcoming. When I opened up I wanted a place where everyone was welcomed.”
Eddie believes his training at the college of barbering taught him to interact with all types of people, a crucial skill he has applied to accommodating his clientele, which he describes as coming “from all walks of life.” He continues, “You know, hair is hair, I learned that at the college. I learned to deal with everyone, any style of hair, and any race. Other barbershops aren’t as pleasant. I like to think we are the opposite of them.”
He stresses the importance of conversing, “We can deal with anyone. While we cater to that younger crowd, we can have a conversation with a fifty-year-old to eighty-year-old. We respect our elders, it’s really important to us. We try not to curse and keep the conversation clean.” Eddie highlights the fact that his staff is even representative of multiple generations, ranging in ages of twenty-five to forty-five.
The welcoming atmosphere of the shop is quickly realized after a few seconds inside. Customers, upon entering the shop, are greeted with a genuine, “How you doing?” – a rare transaction in today’s service industry – and are expected to respond with a more substantiated response than just “good.”
On any given day, the shop teems with lively conversation and storytelling. What Eddie calls “the number one rule” in the Barber’s Handbook – that of never mixing haircuts with politics and religion – is often broken, yet respect for each other is always maintained. “People come here because they are comfortable not only with getting a haircut but also voicing their opinions,” asserts Eddie. However, conversational topics are not confined to that of politics and religion; subjects of discussion are as varied as the haircuts that are given. Talk of sports, neighborhood happenings, jokes, cars, music, and entertainment all mix with the haircut styles of hi-tops, flattops, afros, high and tights and anything else against the backdrop of Erykah Badu’s “Window Seat” playing through the shop’s speakers.
Outside, a red Piston’s jacket and two Allen Iverson jerseys hang from a tree over a bicycle and Piston’s garbage can, peculiar yet distinct markers of the shop. To the right of the door, a frayed American flag sways in the wind, often its threads getting caught in the lone shrub underneath.
Immediately upon entering the shop, the smell of Barbicide awakens the olfactory senses. Pictures of Tiger Woods, Lebron James, President Obama, Michael Jackson, and Mohammed Ali, snipped from magazines, adorn the walls of the bigger of two rooms used as the barbershop itself; the smaller room is used for the display and sale of urban-wear. The white with green trim barber stations, all hand-made by the barbers themselves, house the tools of the trade: shears, clippers, Clubman Talc, a stinging after-shave not meant for the light-hearted, hand-held mirrors, hair gel, brushes and combs.
At one of the five, alternating in style, barber chairs, shop founder Eddie Anderson is busy meticulously perfecting the fade of a young black male. A clipper in hand, Eddie, hunching over from his six-foot stature and peering through his gold-colored frame glasses, examines and re-examines his work. The hallmark of a fade is the appearance of a smooth transitional change in hair length from bald to a few millimeters and Eddie carefully ensures no single hair disrupts the illusion. The commitment to his craft is evident in the time he takes with each cut, often taking over an hour with each client.
Usually one of the bigger men in the shop at any given time, Eddie commands a presence in the shop well beyond his twenty-six years of age. Dressing in accordance with the shop’s name, Eddie often sports pressed slacks, dress shoes, and an un-tucked polo. He maintains his hairstyle buzzed on top, with a fade on the sides; his beard a permanent five o’clock shadow. When he speaks, glasses sitting below his line of sight, he relaxingly gazes at you and talks in a mild manner.
It is impressive to see a twenty-six year old at the helm of a thriving, mainly catering to the local African American youth population of the Vine neighborhood, old-school barbershop employing a total of six other barbers and stylists. It is even more impressive to learn that Eddie founded his business when he was just eighteen years old.
Graduating from Kalamazoo Central High School at the age of sixteen, Eddie enrolled at Kalamazoo Valley Community College shortly before his seventeenth birthday but soon dropped out during winter semester. Smiling, Eddie recalls his decision to drop out, “I just got bored with it, I liked working a lot more.”
Indeed, Eddie says he has always had a knack for business and a passion for work. Starting at the age of ten he began to develop a keen eye for moneymaking. “One day, when I was ten, I got the idea to go mow my neighbors’ lawns. So, I went and mowed all of them, did a damn good job too, and then told all my neighbors they owed me ten dollars”, Eddie stops and busts into a contagious laughter, “I guess I should have asked first. But my neighbors all said ‘Eddie, you did a pretty good job, how ‘bout you come back in a few weeks, and tell you what, you do the same good work and we’ll pay you those ten dollars.’”
From there, he expanded his lawn-mowing business to include most of the neighborhood and never missed an opportunity to make money, working all through his high school years. It was only natural then, that when the West Michigan College of Barbering and Beauty opened in Kalamazoo, Eddie saw an opportunity, “At the time, there were only two or three barbershops and they mostly catered to the older crowd. Not that they were bad or anything, just if you were younger and wanted a fade, it wasn’t going to be as clean. So, I wanted a place that had that younger feel to it.”
After working a short time at the Playhouse barbershop on the East side of town, it became apparent to Eddie that he needed his own spot. Luckily, the opportunity to open his own business practically fell in his lap, or rather, sat down at his station one day at work. Devin, a Jamaican man who frequented Playhouse and who was impressed with Eddie’s work, suggested they should open a shop together. Devin would sell clothes and Eddie would run the barbershop. “He came in one day, suggested it, I said ‘sure’ and the next day he called me and told me he had found a location. So we opened up the shop, right across the street from this one, in November of 2002,” says Eddie as he points across the street to the corner building.
Soon after however, Devin disappeared and never showed up again. The landlord came around and was surprised to see the eighteen year old hard at work. Apparently, the landlord was unaware that Eddie was a tenant; Devin had never given him the lease with Eddie’s signature. Mimicking the landlord, Eddie describes the landlord’s reaction to finding him running the shop by himself, “Who are you? Where is Devin?” “I told him who I was, and after the confusion was settled he told me ‘Look, I like your work ethic, I think we can work something out. Find a co-signer and you can stay here.’”
The business-savvy Eddie immediately solved the problem: his mom co-signed the lease and he continued to run the shop, establishing it as one of the most respectable businesses in town. Eddie has continued to grow and improve upon his business, recently moving across the street, to Fresh ‘N Clean’s current location of 1305 S. Westnedge Avenue.
The new building is bigger, in better conditions, and most importantly, according to Eddie, “this new building has two window fronts, so I can display the clothes on one side without obscuring the view to the barbershop. At the other place, the barbershop was in the back and that took away business.”
Eddie’s ability to perceive factors that affect business, such as the importance of visibility, has enabled him to stay profitable. Along the way, he has learned other lessons crucial to the successful operation of his shop, “When I first started, because I was young, I let a lot of my friends and neighborhood kids hang out in front of the store. I learned quickly that this was a bad idea. Really quick. I realized how unwelcoming a group of teenage kids loitering outside the shop could be for potential customers, so I fixed that up right quick.”
More Than Just a Fade, They Do it All
Striving to establish his shop as a welcoming place has been a central business philosophy for Eddie’s barbershop. His desire to provide more than just a haircut is reflected in Fresh ‘N Clean’s slogan, “More than just a fade, we do it all.” Eddie reflects, “Other barbershops are just focused on the haircut and can be really unwelcoming. When I opened up I wanted a place where everyone was welcomed.”
Eddie believes his training at the college of barbering taught him to interact with all types of people, a crucial skill he has applied to accommodating his clientele, which he describes as coming “from all walks of life.” He continues, “You know, hair is hair, I learned that at the college. I learned to deal with everyone, any style of hair, and any race. Other barbershops aren’t as pleasant. I like to think we are the opposite of them.”
He stresses the importance of conversing, “We can deal with anyone. While we cater to that younger crowd, we can have a conversation with a fifty-year-old to eighty-year-old. We respect our elders, it’s really important to us. We try not to curse and keep the conversation clean.” Eddie highlights the fact that his staff is even representative of multiple generations, ranging in ages of twenty-five to forty-five.
The welcoming atmosphere of the shop is quickly realized after a few seconds inside. Customers, upon entering the shop, are greeted with a genuine, “How you doing?” – a rare transaction in today’s service industry – and are expected to respond with a more substantiated response than just “good.”
On any given day, the shop teems with lively conversation and storytelling. What Eddie calls “the number one rule” in the Barber’s Handbook – that of never mixing haircuts with politics and religion – is often broken, yet respect for each other is always maintained. “People come here because they are comfortable not only with getting a haircut but also voicing their opinions,” asserts Eddie. However, conversational topics are not confined to that of politics and religion; subjects of discussion are as varied as the haircuts that are given. Talk of sports, neighborhood happenings, jokes, cars, music, and entertainment all mix with the haircut styles of hi-tops, flattops, afros, high and tights and anything else against the backdrop of Erykah Badu’s “Window Seat” playing through the shop’s speakers.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Revised 1
I lay motionless on the carpet, with my ear pressed up against my bedroom door. The smell of the carpet, that distinctly sterile yet somehow also dusty smell, infiltrates my nostrils and stops to sit heavily in my lungs. I struggle to comprehend the distant voices; at first hushed and hurried but quickly growing louder. My mother’s voice travels the dark hallways to my room like lightening, disrupting the calm of a late school night, “You make me sick, I can’t believe I married you!” And like thunder, my father’s reply follows, “Believe me, if I had the chance to do it all again, we wouldn’t have gotten married!”
There were many nights like this. So many, in fact, that when I look back to this period in my life it is as if someone maliciously sucked the days out of my memories, leaving me with one elastic night that lords over my past like a thick, morning bayou mist.
For the better part of a year, 1999 to be exact, this turmoil bred “irreconcilable differences” in my parents’ marriage. Spring, summer and fall were all marred by venomous words and bitter actions. Christmas came and went without bringing joy or the present of normalcy. January was bitterly cold and in February, this saga of marital attrition came to an end.
It happened while I was at school so I can’t say I actually saw my dad moving out of my house and out of my life. When I got home, he was just moved out. My mother was in the kitchen chopping an unnecessary amount of onions. A quick inventory check revealed the kitchen table, family room sofas and my father’s desk to be missing. My brother noticed this as well. Having Down syndrome, the only way he found to express himself was to cry over the missing furniture, “Where is my sofa?” Though he couldn’t say it, he knew much more was missing.
All I could do was watch my mom begin to chop another onion and envy the fact that my brother, apparently, was only upset over the missing furniture. It was the same envy I felt knowing he slept soundly through the many nights of yelling that continued to haunt me the next day and for the rest of my life.
I stood in the doorway of the kitchen for what seemed like an eternity, too afraid to ask the obvious: did my dad really move out for good?
My mother, sensing me standing petrified waiting for something and no longer able to stand the weight of the silence stopped her compulsive dissection of onions and turned around to face me.
Tears glistened in her eyes. I wanted her to tell me she was crying because of the onions, that we were getting new furniture and that my dad would be joining us for dinner tonight. Instead, tears now rolling down her face, she strived to keep her voice emotionless, “John, I think we all knew this was coming. Your dad and I have decided to separate. He rented an apartment near the city and you guys will spend the weekends with him.”
With those words, I knew things would never be the same and I was terrified by the uncertainty of the future.
Life before the fighting and the separation was defined. Defined in that my mother was a stay-at-home mom from Nicaragua; my father was a corporate lawyer from upstate New York; my mother was married to my father; my parents had two children; we vacationed together and I was to attend catholic/private school followed by a prestigious college and finally University of Chicago Law school, just like my dad.
Now, this defined life I had known up until this point suddenly lay shattered. I never imagined a life in which my parents were divorced and the implications of this reality are still being discovered and understood.
The security I once felt with the façade of a seemingly normal family was stripped away a long time ago. Notions of marriage, love and family were forever altered; my sense of life direction and certainty in my destiny obscured by the chaos of it all.
And the shake-up was merely beginning. One weekend, after having spent it at my dad’s apartment and now being dropped off, my parents erupted into a huge argument. It ended with my mom storming out of the house, something she had never done before. My father came out from the room they were fighting in and called my over to the living room couch, whose innocuous floral pattern I will always remember.
Searching for the words and struggling to hold back his emotions my father said, “John, I need to talk to you about something.” I had never seen my father anywhere close to crying and I worried over what it could be he needed to talk about. “John”, he said, barely audible, “your mom has been begging me to let you guys move to California.” I already knew the next words but I refused to believe them long after my mother, brother and I moved to California, three thousand miles away from my dad and everything else I had known.
As I sat in my window seat on the plane to California, I thought of how far away I was now traveling; how far away from everything I had ever known. In just one year, my life had gone from living with both of my parents to now moving cross-country away from one of my parents. And, as I sat there equating distance with change, I realized life is always going to take you somewhere unexpected so my best bet is to just sit back, enjoy the in-flight entertainment and embrace it.
There were many nights like this. So many, in fact, that when I look back to this period in my life it is as if someone maliciously sucked the days out of my memories, leaving me with one elastic night that lords over my past like a thick, morning bayou mist.
For the better part of a year, 1999 to be exact, this turmoil bred “irreconcilable differences” in my parents’ marriage. Spring, summer and fall were all marred by venomous words and bitter actions. Christmas came and went without bringing joy or the present of normalcy. January was bitterly cold and in February, this saga of marital attrition came to an end.
It happened while I was at school so I can’t say I actually saw my dad moving out of my house and out of my life. When I got home, he was just moved out. My mother was in the kitchen chopping an unnecessary amount of onions. A quick inventory check revealed the kitchen table, family room sofas and my father’s desk to be missing. My brother noticed this as well. Having Down syndrome, the only way he found to express himself was to cry over the missing furniture, “Where is my sofa?” Though he couldn’t say it, he knew much more was missing.
All I could do was watch my mom begin to chop another onion and envy the fact that my brother, apparently, was only upset over the missing furniture. It was the same envy I felt knowing he slept soundly through the many nights of yelling that continued to haunt me the next day and for the rest of my life.
I stood in the doorway of the kitchen for what seemed like an eternity, too afraid to ask the obvious: did my dad really move out for good?
My mother, sensing me standing petrified waiting for something and no longer able to stand the weight of the silence stopped her compulsive dissection of onions and turned around to face me.
Tears glistened in her eyes. I wanted her to tell me she was crying because of the onions, that we were getting new furniture and that my dad would be joining us for dinner tonight. Instead, tears now rolling down her face, she strived to keep her voice emotionless, “John, I think we all knew this was coming. Your dad and I have decided to separate. He rented an apartment near the city and you guys will spend the weekends with him.”
With those words, I knew things would never be the same and I was terrified by the uncertainty of the future.
Life before the fighting and the separation was defined. Defined in that my mother was a stay-at-home mom from Nicaragua; my father was a corporate lawyer from upstate New York; my mother was married to my father; my parents had two children; we vacationed together and I was to attend catholic/private school followed by a prestigious college and finally University of Chicago Law school, just like my dad.
Now, this defined life I had known up until this point suddenly lay shattered. I never imagined a life in which my parents were divorced and the implications of this reality are still being discovered and understood.
The security I once felt with the façade of a seemingly normal family was stripped away a long time ago. Notions of marriage, love and family were forever altered; my sense of life direction and certainty in my destiny obscured by the chaos of it all.
And the shake-up was merely beginning. One weekend, after having spent it at my dad’s apartment and now being dropped off, my parents erupted into a huge argument. It ended with my mom storming out of the house, something she had never done before. My father came out from the room they were fighting in and called my over to the living room couch, whose innocuous floral pattern I will always remember.
Searching for the words and struggling to hold back his emotions my father said, “John, I need to talk to you about something.” I had never seen my father anywhere close to crying and I worried over what it could be he needed to talk about. “John”, he said, barely audible, “your mom has been begging me to let you guys move to California.” I already knew the next words but I refused to believe them long after my mother, brother and I moved to California, three thousand miles away from my dad and everything else I had known.
As I sat in my window seat on the plane to California, I thought of how far away I was now traveling; how far away from everything I had ever known. In just one year, my life had gone from living with both of my parents to now moving cross-country away from one of my parents. And, as I sat there equating distance with change, I realized life is always going to take you somewhere unexpected so my best bet is to just sit back, enjoy the in-flight entertainment and embrace it.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Article Defense 1
http://nymag.com/realestate/neighborhoods/2010/65356/
Clash of the Bearded Ones
http://nymag.com/realestate/neighborhoods/2010/65356/
First, I believe this article falls under a profile because it chronicles a place; in this case the Williamsburg neighborhood in New York, and the author is able to capture the neighborhood in as much complexity as possible. I also believe the author does well in threading the urban-relations conflict throughout the whole piece.
This article appealed to me because I have always been fascinated by neighborhood identities and sub-cultures. I really like how the author at first focuses on a very superficial conflict – that of the bike-lane controversy – and then launches into a deeper observation of the larger issue at hand: the changing demographics of a neighborhood and the effect it has on the incumbent residents as well as the newcomers.
The article was accessible to the outsider who has had no previous knowledge of this religious enclave. The author effectively outlines the history of the neighborhood in brevity. Furthermore, I think the piece presents an interesting question for discussion: should newcomers be mindful of the Hasidic community’s norms and values or should the Hasidic community realize they live in a diverse urban environment and accept that their neighborhood will eventually have to change to accommodate the inevitable newcomers?
Clash of the Bearded Ones
http://nymag.com/realestate/neighborhoods/2010/65356/
First, I believe this article falls under a profile because it chronicles a place; in this case the Williamsburg neighborhood in New York, and the author is able to capture the neighborhood in as much complexity as possible. I also believe the author does well in threading the urban-relations conflict throughout the whole piece.
This article appealed to me because I have always been fascinated by neighborhood identities and sub-cultures. I really like how the author at first focuses on a very superficial conflict – that of the bike-lane controversy – and then launches into a deeper observation of the larger issue at hand: the changing demographics of a neighborhood and the effect it has on the incumbent residents as well as the newcomers.
The article was accessible to the outsider who has had no previous knowledge of this religious enclave. The author effectively outlines the history of the neighborhood in brevity. Furthermore, I think the piece presents an interesting question for discussion: should newcomers be mindful of the Hasidic community’s norms and values or should the Hasidic community realize they live in a diverse urban environment and accept that their neighborhood will eventually have to change to accommodate the inevitable newcomers?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Reading Response 1
I, like many of my peers, approached Franklin's book with much skepticism, as having had read many similar types of guidebooks to only be left disappointed and, frankly, annoyed. With the exception of William Zinsser’s, On Writing Well, I find these guidebooks to be more contradictory of each other, and thus more confusing for me to establish a comprehensive approach to writing, than helpful and enlightening. Sadly, Franklin’s guidebook, at least for me, falls under the category of useless.
Outside of grammar, I believe that trying to teach someone how to write well, in one singular approach, is almost an impossible task – there are just too many legitimate approaches to creating a “good” piece of writing. My issue with Franklin – besides the issue that befalls many of these established writers who, in their infinite wisdom, decide to write self-ego-stroking guidebooks – is that he loses me too many times with his grandiose analogies and convoluted methods/definitions.
This is really apparent in Chapter 5: Structure, where the reader must wade through Franklin’s physics analogy and then try to decipher all of the “focuses”, “sub-focuses”, “sub-sub-focuses”, etc. I found myself skipping over this section as it was becoming too hard for me to follow without taking detailed notes – which I wasn’t going to do because of my already stated predisposition towards these types of books.
Franklin does have some, albeit very few, pieces of advice throughout his book – like when he talks about developing a story over always choosing the right words – but for the most part it is a book I could do without.
Outside of grammar, I believe that trying to teach someone how to write well, in one singular approach, is almost an impossible task – there are just too many legitimate approaches to creating a “good” piece of writing. My issue with Franklin – besides the issue that befalls many of these established writers who, in their infinite wisdom, decide to write self-ego-stroking guidebooks – is that he loses me too many times with his grandiose analogies and convoluted methods/definitions.
This is really apparent in Chapter 5: Structure, where the reader must wade through Franklin’s physics analogy and then try to decipher all of the “focuses”, “sub-focuses”, “sub-sub-focuses”, etc. I found myself skipping over this section as it was becoming too hard for me to follow without taking detailed notes – which I wasn’t going to do because of my already stated predisposition towards these types of books.
Franklin does have some, albeit very few, pieces of advice throughout his book – like when he talks about developing a story over always choosing the right words – but for the most part it is a book I could do without.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Workshop Group Comments 1
Jessica –
I liked your piece because it had a very personal tone to it. You were able to clearly express your feelings and your state of mind during the time that you discuss. The opening line was very powerful and a good hook for people who both have and haven’t had similar experiences.
However, I think overall your piece gives us more questions than answers. Did you find an alternative to therapy? If so, what was it? I feel like the pivotal moment should not have been focused on what didn’t work but rather what did.
Steven –
The writing was pretty good overall except for some areas in which the complexity became distracting and confusing at times. I liked a lot of your phrases, as I usually do, and I liked your conclusions.
But, I can’t help but read this as more of a social critique/anthropological piece than a personal essay. Your feelings are almost lost in this piece and it’s hard to find the “personal” quality of this essay other than it was a piece about your grandfather. I think it would be a stronger piece if it focused on how that relationship, albeit almost non-existent, between your grandfather and yourself made you feel.
Myles –
The race relations you touch on are fascinating and I’m sure almost everybody can relate to them. I think you do a good job outlining general attitudes as well as specific tendencies of prejudice.
At the same time though, I really was waiting to hear a more direct story of how race relations affected you. What made you see that racism was wrong in the first place? I want to see a scene in which you were directly involved that had both races present – not just a classmate spewing racial jokes behind other students’ backs.
Besides that, I like a lot of your wording and your clear, concise writing.
Simona –
I think your piece was superbly well written. The settings and your idealistic aspirations are very well fleshed out. I also really liked the way you incorporated translated dialogue – it really served to add interest to the piece.
The one thing I have to say about your piece is that the ending kind of took away from the rest of the article. To me, it comes off as your whole disappointment in the U.S. was because you saw one piece of trash in the airport. I can’t imagine that was the only and most profound reason. I would like to see something more concrete and perhaps more significant. What other negative experiences did you have? Do you still feel the same way?
Andrea –
I loved your scenes – they were very well depicted, so much so that I saw myself sitting with you in your hospital room. I really enjoyed the clarity of your sentence structures as well.
However, as much of a good story this is, I feel like there is not a very strong punch to it. I was wondering what else you took away from this besides your newfound awareness of your pain threshold.
I liked your piece because it had a very personal tone to it. You were able to clearly express your feelings and your state of mind during the time that you discuss. The opening line was very powerful and a good hook for people who both have and haven’t had similar experiences.
However, I think overall your piece gives us more questions than answers. Did you find an alternative to therapy? If so, what was it? I feel like the pivotal moment should not have been focused on what didn’t work but rather what did.
Steven –
The writing was pretty good overall except for some areas in which the complexity became distracting and confusing at times. I liked a lot of your phrases, as I usually do, and I liked your conclusions.
But, I can’t help but read this as more of a social critique/anthropological piece than a personal essay. Your feelings are almost lost in this piece and it’s hard to find the “personal” quality of this essay other than it was a piece about your grandfather. I think it would be a stronger piece if it focused on how that relationship, albeit almost non-existent, between your grandfather and yourself made you feel.
Myles –
The race relations you touch on are fascinating and I’m sure almost everybody can relate to them. I think you do a good job outlining general attitudes as well as specific tendencies of prejudice.
At the same time though, I really was waiting to hear a more direct story of how race relations affected you. What made you see that racism was wrong in the first place? I want to see a scene in which you were directly involved that had both races present – not just a classmate spewing racial jokes behind other students’ backs.
Besides that, I like a lot of your wording and your clear, concise writing.
Simona –
I think your piece was superbly well written. The settings and your idealistic aspirations are very well fleshed out. I also really liked the way you incorporated translated dialogue – it really served to add interest to the piece.
The one thing I have to say about your piece is that the ending kind of took away from the rest of the article. To me, it comes off as your whole disappointment in the U.S. was because you saw one piece of trash in the airport. I can’t imagine that was the only and most profound reason. I would like to see something more concrete and perhaps more significant. What other negative experiences did you have? Do you still feel the same way?
Andrea –
I loved your scenes – they were very well depicted, so much so that I saw myself sitting with you in your hospital room. I really enjoyed the clarity of your sentence structures as well.
However, as much of a good story this is, I feel like there is not a very strong punch to it. I was wondering what else you took away from this besides your newfound awareness of your pain threshold.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Assignment 1
There had been many nights of marathon yelling contests, so many in fact, that when I look back to this period in my life it is as if someone maliciously sucked the days out of my memories, leaving me with one elastic night that lords over my past like a thick, morning bayou mist.
I think the bulk of this happened in 1999, though I can’t be sure; I was young and now I’m not really inclined to fact check. I didn’t know it then, or at least I never wanted to admit it, but my parents’ marriage was grasping for its last breaths.
Life before the fighting, as I remember it, was defined. Defined in that my mother was a stay-at-home mom from Nicaragua, my father was a corporate lawyer from upstate New York, my mother was married to my father, my parents had two children, we vacationed together and I was to attend catholic/private school followed by a prestigious college and finally University of Chicago Law school, just like my dad.
However, as I would soon come to learn swiftly and rather crudely, things change. Things change constantly and infinitely and most importantly, indefinably.
As the hostile vocal exchanges continued with growing frequency, my household also became a hotbed for unidentified flying utensils activity with an assortment of spoons, spatulas, and tongs whizzing about at blurring speeds - don’t worry, no one ever got hit, I’m guessing it was just for dramatic effect.
I can remember only once, when things were getting pretty bad, that I seriously considered the possibility of my parents splitting up. It was only after a close friend at my school revealed that his parents were getting divorced – a revelation that quickly became the shocking topic du jour amongst the school community – and described to me what it was like over in his house that I accumulated enough doubt in my head to worry.
Realizing the frighteningly similar situations of my friend and mine, I decided to confront my mom.
The day was overcast, the ground was wet and the air was a crispness known only to a Westchester, New York fall. Winter coats were still in the closets, so I’ll put the day sometime in early October. I had orchestrated for my mom to pick me up at school this day, thinking it would be the best time that allotted for the needed privacy of a matter of this severity. My mom pulled up in her cinnamon colored Ford Windstar minivan. (Don’t ask me why I remember the things I do, memories work in mysterious ways.) She opened the rear-automated sliding door to let me in. She was all-smiles, hiding another night of agonizing frustration and naïve to the growing hurt I felt for all of us. I took my seat behind the driver side.
We would talk through the rearview mirror; I dared not to be in a position where the weight of direct eye contact could crush me.
“Mom.”
Our eyes met in the mirror.
“Yes?”
“You know Ryan? His parents are getting divorced…”
She showed no shift in comfort. She had still not caught on to the direction of my inquiry.
“Yes. I know his parents are getting divorced. I feel really bad for all of them. What about him?”
“Well, I’ve been talking to him a lot. And…are you and dad getting a divorce?”
I remember her suddenly braking in the school parking lot. I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t have asked.” Her eyes darted for a second in the mirror, breaking our indirect eye contact. Her eyes met mine again, this time they were filled with guilt and sadness.
“Why would you think we are getting divorced?”
“You guys fight all the time. Just like Ryan says his parents do.”
“Yes, we do fight. But there are always fights in marriages. We just have been fighting a little more than usual lately but it happens. Divorce is a long way from this. You don’t need to worry.”
“Really? You sure? Would you tell me?”
“Yes I’m sure. I’m sorry all of our fighting has made you worry.”
I was relieved. I had nothing to worry about. This was just normal in all marriages. I continued to tell myself this long after my mother, brother and I moved to California without my dad. Denial is a timely seductress.
The thing about a “long time” is that it is relative. For my mother and father, it meant a few months after I asked my mom about a possible divorce. For me, I hoped it meant never.
Christmas came and went without bringing joy or the present of normalcy. January was bitterly cold and in February my dad moved out.
It happened while I was at school so I can’t say I saw my dad moving out, moving out of my house and moving out of my life. When I got home, he was just moved out. My mother was in the kitchen, my kitchen table was not and soon thereafter, my brother came home as well. Having Down syndrome, the only way my brother found to express himself was to cry over the missing furniture and though he couldn’t say it, he knew much more was missing.
I look back at this period and wonder what else besides furniture and my dad moved out.
I think the bulk of this happened in 1999, though I can’t be sure; I was young and now I’m not really inclined to fact check. I didn’t know it then, or at least I never wanted to admit it, but my parents’ marriage was grasping for its last breaths.
Life before the fighting, as I remember it, was defined. Defined in that my mother was a stay-at-home mom from Nicaragua, my father was a corporate lawyer from upstate New York, my mother was married to my father, my parents had two children, we vacationed together and I was to attend catholic/private school followed by a prestigious college and finally University of Chicago Law school, just like my dad.
However, as I would soon come to learn swiftly and rather crudely, things change. Things change constantly and infinitely and most importantly, indefinably.
As the hostile vocal exchanges continued with growing frequency, my household also became a hotbed for unidentified flying utensils activity with an assortment of spoons, spatulas, and tongs whizzing about at blurring speeds - don’t worry, no one ever got hit, I’m guessing it was just for dramatic effect.
I can remember only once, when things were getting pretty bad, that I seriously considered the possibility of my parents splitting up. It was only after a close friend at my school revealed that his parents were getting divorced – a revelation that quickly became the shocking topic du jour amongst the school community – and described to me what it was like over in his house that I accumulated enough doubt in my head to worry.
Realizing the frighteningly similar situations of my friend and mine, I decided to confront my mom.
The day was overcast, the ground was wet and the air was a crispness known only to a Westchester, New York fall. Winter coats were still in the closets, so I’ll put the day sometime in early October. I had orchestrated for my mom to pick me up at school this day, thinking it would be the best time that allotted for the needed privacy of a matter of this severity. My mom pulled up in her cinnamon colored Ford Windstar minivan. (Don’t ask me why I remember the things I do, memories work in mysterious ways.) She opened the rear-automated sliding door to let me in. She was all-smiles, hiding another night of agonizing frustration and naïve to the growing hurt I felt for all of us. I took my seat behind the driver side.
We would talk through the rearview mirror; I dared not to be in a position where the weight of direct eye contact could crush me.
“Mom.”
Our eyes met in the mirror.
“Yes?”
“You know Ryan? His parents are getting divorced…”
She showed no shift in comfort. She had still not caught on to the direction of my inquiry.
“Yes. I know his parents are getting divorced. I feel really bad for all of them. What about him?”
“Well, I’ve been talking to him a lot. And…are you and dad getting a divorce?”
I remember her suddenly braking in the school parking lot. I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t have asked.” Her eyes darted for a second in the mirror, breaking our indirect eye contact. Her eyes met mine again, this time they were filled with guilt and sadness.
“Why would you think we are getting divorced?”
“You guys fight all the time. Just like Ryan says his parents do.”
“Yes, we do fight. But there are always fights in marriages. We just have been fighting a little more than usual lately but it happens. Divorce is a long way from this. You don’t need to worry.”
“Really? You sure? Would you tell me?”
“Yes I’m sure. I’m sorry all of our fighting has made you worry.”
I was relieved. I had nothing to worry about. This was just normal in all marriages. I continued to tell myself this long after my mother, brother and I moved to California without my dad. Denial is a timely seductress.
The thing about a “long time” is that it is relative. For my mother and father, it meant a few months after I asked my mom about a possible divorce. For me, I hoped it meant never.
Christmas came and went without bringing joy or the present of normalcy. January was bitterly cold and in February my dad moved out.
It happened while I was at school so I can’t say I saw my dad moving out, moving out of my house and moving out of my life. When I got home, he was just moved out. My mother was in the kitchen, my kitchen table was not and soon thereafter, my brother came home as well. Having Down syndrome, the only way my brother found to express himself was to cry over the missing furniture and though he couldn’t say it, he knew much more was missing.
I look back at this period and wonder what else besides furniture and my dad moved out.
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