A fine site

Archive for the tag “This American Life”

Horrendous Things

While having lunch with my friend, I mentioned a few of the podcasts I had heard en route to see our daughter in Philadelphia.One of them had left an indelible image in my head, one I wished I had never heard. A producer or editor of This American Life, an NPR show, had related that one of her and her peer’s earliest fears was being taken to the The Black Wax Museum in Baltimore, a terrifying wax museum that documented the atrocities and outrages visited on black people from slave holds to lynchings to the one that has uncomfortably lodged in my head- of the brutal treatment of Nat Turner, the leader of a slave rebellion in the 1830’s and even worse, his pregnant wife: so as not to impart this indelible crime I will not share it here. But rest assured, you would not want the details to permeate your consciousness.

As a segue, my friend mentioned Transparent, saying she had endured only fifteen minutes of it, and I agreed, that the people on the Emmy winning show by Jill Solway can be unbearable, but like a train wreck, once hooked , viewers stand amazed, perplexed and cannot look away. But as I knit while watching and only half consume television shows, I remarked that although I hadn’t seen the Nat Turner horror, the power of a word somehow more strongly imprints on me. Interesting observation- as foremost, I am a visual person who responds to sights. But in our conversation, I mentioned as well a scene of torture from Lawrence Thornton’s Imagining Argentine, a book I had taught to my students maybe twenty years ago. And she agreed, nodding her head and affirming, we both immediately recalling the same scene from the book.

Watching Ken Burns’ documentary Viet Nam is an 18 hour visual immersion into the horror and stupidity of war, a topic almost normalized as Trump struts and threatens and preens like some obnoxious rooster before pecking the ground. Marc Maron on his WTH interview with Ken Burns and Lynn Novick, the creators of the documentary, present a 360 of views , stories and tragedies, framed as they both attested to the “ goalposts” or the chronology of dates of when the war began and when it finally ended; rather than a so- called theme or story that shaped the documentary. For baby boomers growing up in Canada, at least for ones like me , the war was backdrop to the first excitement of university , folk singers at The Riverboat in Yorkville, student protests, draft dodgers to the city, sit- ins, newspaper articles on napalm, and that haunting picture of the naked young girl running and screaming in the street. In other words, a mixture of amazement, righteousness, ignorance, dread and relief that we were living safely in Canada. The filmmakers of Viet Nam, with the advantage of years passed , archival information and the wisdom of the survivors, sought a multiplicity of views from civilians, policy makers, veterans, protesters. They underlined in the Maron interview that they purposely did not interview on tape the well known proponents and objectors such as Jane Fonda, John McCain, the recognizable voices usually associated with the war.

On a personal note, a cousin of mine, actually a Canadian having been relocated to California with his family, came back to Toronto to contemplate whether he should return to the States and participate in the war. Strange, as I often overheard how as a high school student there, he had refused to put his hand over his heart and swear allegiance to the flag every day so his previous twelve years as a Canadian must have been deep in his mind. But he did return home to Culver City and went to war. So we worried and my mother poured over his letters, coveting them as signs of his survival in a war Canadians particularly did not understand or support.Burns and Novick include the tapes between Nixon and Johnson, the deals, the treason, the wastage of young men who perished , or returned home with PTSD and missing limbs.

And I could not help but think of our visit to Saigon several years back, sitting in the Caravelle bar overlooking the city where once the military gabbed over drinks, plotting their strategies of devastation. Now western business, capitalism, the way of life, for which soldiers on both sides fought and died has overtaken the bustling, dangerous streets of Saigon with Gap, Louis Vuitton and Coach. Needless stupid suffering and earth so all that crap from the West is available. Business overtaking ideology. And at what cost?That’s what Burns film screams at me.

No doubt part of Burns and Novick’s ‘s incentive for the documentary resided in the contrast between their earlier documentary , The War that dealt with WWII, associated with a certain heroism and sentimentality whereas Viet Nam represented a failure and shamed those associated with it. They said they knew while working on the one, they had to do the other.

My friend says politicians fight for ideals, a way of life. I say it is power grabbing and grubbing, the film, Viet Nam, even documenting that the children of the top brass of communists were sent away to foreign schools to keep them safe from fighting. Hardly one for all and all for one. Congruently my friend, my husband and I have all been reading The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen, the 2016 Nobel Prize winner, the story of a split narrator, a traitor, a spy, a misfit, a sympathizer, an outsider during the Viet Nam timeline. The unnamed protagonist arrested by the Communists is the illegitimate son of a Vietnamese woman and a priest, his loyalties twisted, as his friendships with two of his classmates appear to be the only straight forward and clear relationships he possesses, along with his enduring love of his positive mother. He is a multi faced actor.

Apparently supportive of the America exploits and invasion of his country, in truth the narrator is a North Vietnamese spy reporting all American plans to reconquest his country in his invisible ink letters to his “ Aunt” in France.At the heart of the story is the narrator’s own unhappiness, his search for identity and inability to discover where he can belong and feel safe. On his back are the years of French colonial conquest in Viet Nam, his hatred, his cynicism and deep feelings of rejection: common to many terrorists.There is an arrogance, a smugness, perhaps because he knows he is bright, assuming he can help inject a sense of his country into a film ( resembling Apocalypse Now). This attempt affords him some satisfaction because he ironically demands truth in the movie describing the war: he strongly suggests real Viet Namese actors be employed in stead of ciphers and stereotypes. And in truth he manages to provide some of his countrymen with work, his belief being to portray or create as truthful a verisimilitude as possible. However, film and especially an American film made by Americans are little concerned for the true emotions of the pawns or enemies in their film. When an explosion lands the wounded narrator in the hospital it is a symbolic and total rejection of both him and his views.

And just as in The Black Wax Museum and the Thornton book, the author’s description of those attempting to leave Saigon in its last days , climbing on top of one another, the political bribes and money for passage out, the pressing bodies, the screams, the push and tear of flesh, the despair, the exploding planes, the carnage of bodies torn apart and especially the destruction of his friend’s wife and baby have seared my brain in indelible images. The word. Again, the words that make us( me) create pictures deeply into our imaginations. Coupled with Burns and Novick’s film, especially in Segment 8 The hideous My Lai Massacre, The Sympathizer has carved horrendous events into my mind never to be forgotten.

The brilliance of the documentary is the completeness of here and there, home and away: fresh soldiers in the field, their stories of being prisoners of war and eating a commander’s cat, their realization that a peasant’s hut where there is enough rice to feed six must hide Viet Cong, the Tet offensive, explosions if Agent Orange, crumpled dead…. are juxtaposed with the events back in the States such as the Chicago convention, the brutality of the police on the heads of the idealistic youth, the music of Clearance Clearwater, the burgeoning role of women, civil rights abrogation, films that began to protest the war. It is a panorama of years through which I blithely lived and for which I now feel like weeping.  

My cousin posted on Facebook that it was fifty years ago that he had gone to Viet Nam, never really having openly discussed it when he was home. No doubt the public attitude, the derision heaped on the vets when they returned from the war that lingered on and on, unwinnable and untenable, caused many to rethink why they had not left the country or refused on some moral ground that they would not be manipulated. But most were young, untried, many not focused on a life path between those idyllic years having finished high school, loosely finding themselves and their paths, perhaps trusting their leaders knew what was right and in truth, there was little choice but to go.But they did not repatriate as heroes. Burns’ war speaks to those vets, uplifting them by explaining in a nonjudgmental way, these are your valuable and significant stories, the true history of those days- on both sides, of brilliant young men just like you. And this was the situation- the terrible, terrible situation, but we honour you. We see you at the blaze of experience, fresh, willing, wondrous in a new place with the dream of heroism and moral good in your pockets, too naïve to know you were sacrificial lambs to party votes and politics, maybe believing the American way would be best for all folks- even those in a sweaty, swampy land whose language and traditions you could not fathom. Besides your birthday number was called and maybe it was just fate that recruited you as you sat with your friends around the television set, frozen and waiting to hear how the dice had rolled out and likely ruined your future.

Scary stuff. War stuff. Horrendous stuff.


The security of a backseat

When we were kids, there was no money for fancy summer camps so my parents would pack us up into the back seat of the grey dodge or the blue chevy in late July and head for the States. As children we thrilled at a new adventure, believing, I suppose it was somewhat exotic.

My mother lugged the heavy suitcases while my sister and I danced around her, excited to be going on a trip. We could hardly wait to get in the car; however, by hour one, I was proclaiming, ” I’m bored, “and their response would be , faintly annoyed, “ Pat, just look out the window”. My sister would cuddle bowwowwoof woof, her ratty dog, occasionally puking on him if the ride got rocky.

I recall those days – in spite of this intro – as very special, time together when we chanced on or visited new places such as the immense Paul Bunyon statue, the Hayden Planetarium, Fort Lauderdale , Boca Raton or especially, Batavia, New York near Buffalo : the home of the special toy store my parents had located. We often stayed at Howard Johnson’s and ate our meals out: all very exciting for a pair of city kids. In the confines of the car, we played games, napped, or cuddled with our mother. Perhaps it was the embryonic start of my desire to leave home and discover new locations, experience freshly in spite of my grumpiness of always being bored.

I recall vividly one of my choices at the toy store and the feel of the make -it -yourself leather kit that contained a small change purse, key ring and fold over wallet ; and the Calling All Girls magazine in a motel smoke shop that my father let me select. These times have burned into my memory and of all the days of my growing up shine out through other darker events.

These days when we visit our daughter on the long drive to Philadelphia, it’s a bit similar as often I climb into the back seat, and often I will bring an unread copy of Vogue to pass the 8-10 hours,  depending on whether Howard gets lost or not.

Last weekend en route to visit our new granddaughter with the wondrous name Remy, we listened to Marc Maron interview Norman Lear. At 92, his mind is crystal clear and still producing new revelations on his life. He described how his father was jailed and his mother abandoned him at a young age , but with no trace of malice,laughingly referring to his father as a ” scoundrel” as if he had hidden the cookies in the jam jar. He continues on about the impact of missing parents , but not with discontent or anger, having arrived at a place of solace and understanding. For some, this process of finding serenity never occurs. His life’s work in television that tackled the biases in society such as Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, All in the Family, etc. are legend. He has presented the importance of the individual with all its warts and imperfections, comprehending the good and the bad in each one of us, simple yet so complicated human beings: tossed cupcakes of a variety of coloured sprinkles and nuts.

Later as we tuned into This American Life, we also heard Lindy West, journalist, outspoken feminist and film critic discuss the Trolls who via the internet attack her, harassing her for not only her stand on rape but also her weight and appearance. She wonders why these techno- followers choose to painfully lampoon people whom they have never met and who have done them absolutely no harm, just taking exception to posted piece with which they disagree. She revealed she has been continually attacked for her views,but one speared barb actually pierced her otherwise made-tough skin, most hurtfully because it entwined her dead father, a musician she adored.
She Expressed her feelings in The Guardian as well,

“My dad was special. The only thing he valued more than wit was kindness. He was a writer and an ad man and a magnificent baritone (he could write you a jingle and record it on the same day) – a lost breed of lounge pianist who skipped dizzyingly from jazz standards to Flanders and Swann to Lord Buckley and back again – and I can genuinely say that I’ve never met anyone else so universally beloved, nor do I expect to again. I loved him so, so much.,”

Instead of just ignoring  her troll as the biz tells writers not to feed them by answering them, West responded.She communicated her pain and he actually apologized, merely explaining that he was at a bad point in his own life and he needed someone to attack. She weeps quietly on air, the grief seeping through her mumbled words that suggest something pure, private and personal has been ripped from her and been sullied by a Troll with an axe to grind. The cruelty levelled at her, pointless, rueful, sharp , and stinging has found its target: for no real reason. She has been a handy place to shoot the dart.

In her telephone call to her attacker on This American Life, she finds he is not a bad sort and although he mildly apologize, she writes reflectively again,

“We talked for two-and-a-half hours. He was shockingly self-aware. He told me that …he hated me because, to put it simply, I don’t hate myself. Hearing him explain his choices in his own words, on his own voice, was heartbreaking and fascinating. He said that, at the time, he felt fat, unloved,  and purposeless. For some reason, he found it easyto take that out on women on line… I asked why. What made women easy targets?…But he did explain how he changed. He started taking care of his health, he found a new girlfriend and, most importantly, he went back to school to become a teacher.

I didn’ mean to forgive him, but I did.”

We wonder at the cruelty of being an anonymous attacker, the cowardice of these betrayals that can even fell the hard veneer of those in the public eye. Lindy’s troll seemed a bit amazed, promising these Internet attacks will,stop, that he is not a woman hater,and that he even likes female co-workers with whom he works. Thoughtless actions by a person only interested in their own needs, blissfully uncaring that there is a real person receiving his barbs,a mouthful of thick spit that lands in the face of someone who displays an opinion.

These podcasts bring so much to the listener, whether sitting on the bus, riding a bike or in the backseat of the car careening towards Philadelphia. The world as global village is a truism. What impresses is the multifaceted approaches taken by interviewers and the range of topics. We also heard 30 minutes on earwax!😎

Post Navigation