Book review: Kindred

Once again, I find myself the lonely curmudgeon. My book club's selection for this go-round, was Octavia E. Butler's "slave narrative" novel, Kindred. Everyone in our group not only enjoyed it, but sang its praises to the heavens. Except me. I didn't like it.

Octavia Butler is a celebrated author and something of a pioneer in that she is a black woman, writing in the science-fiction genre, which is largely dominated by white men. We're all familiar with Isaac Asimov, Arthur Clarke, and Ray Bradbury, right?

I suppose Kindred could legitimately be considered science-fiction. It does, after all, involve time travel. But it is science-fiction only in the loosest sense.

Really this book has very little to do with science and more to do with sociology and evolving social mores. It centers around Dana, an African-American woman in Los Angeles in 1976, who is transported "magically" to early nineteenth century Maryland. Her experience is somehow tied to the experiences of Rufus, a white slaveholder with a propensity to put himself in life-threatening situations. Dana is transported between these two time periods several times over the course of the narrative. The novel examines the evolution of her perceptions and attitudes as she alternates between existence as an independent, self-determining black woman and a submissive, shackled slave with no rights.

An interesting premise, to be sure. The parallels between Dana's relationships in her two existences are intriguing, and the potential for social commentary is undeniable.

But, unfortunately, Butler doesn't deliver. Firstly, I was put off by the careless manner in which the time travel element was assumed. It didn't make sense and it wasn't explained satisfactorily. Over the course of the novel, all the characters --Dana, herself, her modern-day husband, Kevin, her "owner," Rufus, her fellow slaves --all seem to casually accept this impossible phenomenon. It didn't ring true.

But more than that, I found Butler's prose to be dull and colorless. The narrative was detached. There was very little imagery and almost no sense of immediacy. Butler seems to studiously avoid the whole "show, don't tell" writer's adage. Here's a sample:

"A couple of Kevin's friends came over on the Fourth of July and tried to get us to go to the Rose Bowl with them for the fireworks. Kevin wanted to go --more to get out of the house than for any other reason, I suspected. I told him to go ahead, but he wouldn't go without me. As it turned out, there was no chance for me to go, anyway. As Kevin's friends left the house, I began to feel dizzy.

I stumbled toward my bag, fell before I reached it, crawled toward it, grabbed it just as Kevin came in from saying good-bye to his friends.

'Dana,' he was saying, 'we can't stay cooped up in this house any longer waiting for something that isn't...'

He was gone."

Here we have an incident that is ripe with potential. But Butler's dull voice makes it fall dead. No drama, no life. Wouldn't it be more effective and entertaining for readers to infer Kevin's desire to see the fireworks through imagery and dialog? Wouldn't the scene be more engaging if we knew something about Kevin's friends? If we heard the actual exchange of words that occurred between them? Couldn't Butler have come up with a more vivid description of Dana's fit than "feel[ing] dizzy?"

There were times, reading this book, when every single sentence I read irritated me. They seemed more likely to have been written by an amateur, by an 8th grade literary arts pupil.

Well, considering that the novel is widely acclaimed, and that it has sold nearly 500,000 copies, there is something in this book that people seem to appreciate. But for me it just didn't work. Hats off to Ms. Butler for breaking new ground for African-American women writers, but I might have hoped that that particular demographic could have produced a more engaging writer.

Kitzhaber resigns!

This morning, Governor John Kitzhaber, just a month into an historic fourth term, announced his intention to resign the governorship effective Wednesday, February 18th. The governor will be succeeded by Oregon Secretary of State Kate Brown.

The resignation comes as allegations of misuse of state resources and influence plague the governor's office. Allegedly, Kitzhaber's fiancee, Cylvia Hayes, used state resources to promote her own private consulting firm. Ms. Hayes is also under federal investigation for under-reporting her income on federal tax returns. The governor himself may have directed state employees to implement policies that directly benefited Ms. Hayes' interests.

Yesterday, Willamette Week reported that the governor's office attempted to destroy private emails on a state server, raising suspicion of a cover up and perhaps even violating state law.

As political scandals go, this one is pretty innocuous, especially when compared to some of the scandals that have brought down governors of some of our sister states. (Rob Blagojevich, anyone?)

But in Oregon our politics are clean. And we like it that way.

So, today, the governor raised the white flag.

This is a sad day for Oregon and a major disappointment for me, personally.

To say I've been a supporter is to state the obvious. I first voted for John Kitzhaber when he ran against Denny Smith for the governorship in 1994. I voted for him again, when he ran for reelection in 1998.

When he ran for an unprecedented third (non-consecutive) term in 2008, not only did I vote for him, but I volunteered for his campaign and worked hard to help get him elected. And just last fall, I cast a final vote for him, even as the allegations that would become his undoing first surfaced.

Well, here we are.

Responsibility, of course, falls squarely on Kitzhaber's shoulders. At the very least, the allegations reveal a lack of judgment unbecoming for the governor of this great state. Well, he certainly isn't the first leader to fall victim to hubris.

I wonder... could some of this been avoided, or at least mitigated, if the Republican party in Oregon were not in such a sorry state?  Oregon's GOP is a laughing stock. The last four Republican gubernatorial candidates included two Tea Party radicals, a retired professional basketball player, and Kevin Mannix, a man with his own special brand of crazy. Responsible, civic-minded citizens simply could not vote for any of them.

When the opposition party is that weak, it's bad for everyone. For legitimate, sane conservatives there is no one to represent their interests. And it allows Democrats to operate under the illusion that they are invulnerable.

(It wasn't always this way. The GOP dominated Oregon state politics in the 70s and 80s. I actually voted for a few. I voted for Governor Vic Atiyeh when he ran for reelection in 1982. In 1986, I voted for Norma Paulus in her losing effort against Neil Goldschmidt.)

Well, Oregonians, let's try to find the silver lining in this mess. As a Democrat, I can take relief in the fact that Democrats still control both houses of the state legislature, and soon-to-be governor Kate Brown is a Democrat as well.

But what would be best for Oregon would be for the Republicans to use this opportunity to rebrand themselves, to make themselves into a responsible party. You know? A party that people like me might actually be able to vote for?

Book review: The Girl with All the Gifts

Whatever it may say about Western culture these days, a particularly dark, pessimistic genre of art seems to have arisen in the last couple decades. A neighbor of mine once referred to it as "zombie porn." It's a variation on the holocaust meme that ran through earlier books like, On the Beach or Lord of the Flies, but with a twist. Instead of portraying a world in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust (the Soviet Union is some 25 years gone, after all), the new spin on apocalypse is infrastructure collapse, viral infections, or some other equally terrifying cataclysm, in the aftermath of which, survivors must contend with hordes of cannibals or zombies.

M. R. Carey's The Girl with All the Gifts is one such book.

A young girl, Melanie, exists in a strange world where she and other children are held captive, isolated but for their time in a school classroom, where they are bound to their chairs and taught mathematics, reading, writing, and (especially) Greek mythology. Their lessons are taught by a compassionate young woman, Ms. Justineau, for whom Melanie has developed an admiring crush. An austere administrator, Dr. Caldwell oversees the school and the children. A menacing, hard-boiled military man, Sargent Parks, provides security for the facility.

That's about as much of the plot I want to reveal, since Carey goes to pains to conceal the nature of the world so that the reader may discover it over the course of the opening chapters. Suffice it to say that mankind is under assault, and that civilization teeters on annihilation. (If you really want to know, go to the Wikipedia page. They blab.)

In fact, the process of discovery, which occurs over the first half of the book, is the most intriguing and compelling part of the novel. Unfortunately, once the truth is laid out, a significant event transpires, transforming the story to a standard "zombie gauntlet run."

At times, Carey's prose became tedious. He seemed to overuse the adjective "really" to the point of abuse, which became distracting and annoying. But, all in all, I found Carey to be a decent writer. He put effort into character development. Although I wouldn't call the characters in this novel "complex," he does provide them with plausible backgrounds and motivations. That's more than you'll get from a lot of genre fiction writers.

Carey's creation may lack the eloquence and beauty of McCarthy's The Road, but it is certainly more intriguing than Atwood's drab, half-hearted Oryx and Crake.

All in all, The Girl with All the Gifts is a good, fast read. The perfect pastime for a rainy Portland winter.

Signs of a good neighborhood

This is how you know you live in a good neighborhood.

My path home from Mount Tabor's summit takes me past Benjamin Franklin High School where today I beheld a pleasing sight.

English

An organization called Oregon's Kitchen Table is conducting an online survey on public schools as a means, I think, of initiating a public discussion. A worthy endeavor. You can view the web site here. I encourage any Oregonians who might be interested in contributing to public discussion of issues to take a look. Even (or perhaps especially) right-wingers. The idea of a public forum to discuss real issues with a diversity of Oregonians appeals. I plan on signing up as soon as I finish this blog post.

But the reason I learned of the organization at all is because I saw the signs posted in front of Franklin and noticed something. They were written in 6 different languages!

One would naturally expect that there would be signs in both English and Spanish, of course. Spanish is the de facto second language of this country.

Spanish

And no Portlander would be surprised to see signs in Mandarin or Vietnamese. Chinese people have been in Portland since the city was founded. Downtown Portland has a Chinatown section, with Chinese and Taiwanese consulates, but many Chinese people live in Southeast, as well. There are many Chinese restaurateurs and grocers. And the sheer number of pho kitchens (even within walking distance of my home!) attests to the city's ample Vietnamese population.

Mandarin and Vietnamese

And I wasn't too surprised to see the Cyrillic characters of the Russian language on one of the signs. Inner Southeast Portland has a significant Slavic demographic. I think most of the Slavs in Portland are Russian, but there are also many Ukrainians. 

Somali and Russian

But there was one language that I couldn't readily identify. So, when I got home I did a Google Translate language identification. 

The language turned out to be Somali. Apparently, there are enough Somalis in the area that the Kitchen Table folks felt it justified to have a sign printed up in their language.

Well, when it comes to diversity, Portland may not be San Fransisco or Vancouver (BC), but we're getting better. And I find it very cool to live in a neighborhood where there is a need for signs in a half dozen different languages.

Nine

Nine:

1. When we were still dating and your English was fragmentary and tenuous. I was taking you home one afternoon and you reached across the console and took my hand as I was driving. And you smiled, peering out at the road ahead of us and you said, "I don't be lonely no more, now I have my Dade."


2. As I watched the Honda Civic creep out of the DMV parking lot. You were at the wheel and the driving test administrator sat next to you, clipboard in hand. I felt helpless watching the car pull away without me. And my heart was full of pride and hope and fear. Pride, because it was I who taught you how to drive. Fear, because I knew how disappointed and hurt you would be if you didn't pass. And hope, because I wanted it badly for you, even though it meant you'd need me less.


3. When we said goodbye in the airport security line. You were bound for Dakar. I must stay and we would be apart for a time. And I'd been discreetly weeping all day at the thought of our separation, but I was trying to hold it together. And when the time came for you to pass through the metal detectors, you turned to me smiling bravely, and said "Bye, honey," but your voice broke, setting my tears free. And I cried as I drove home without you, remembering how you looked as you waved goodbye from the far side of the security panels, your form strobed by the faceless shapes of people passing between us.


4. When I led you down to the bench in Waterfront Park. You moved gingerly. The pain of your recent surgery and the grief of your father's passing enveloped you in agony. And I tried to feel what you felt, to make me alive and hyper-aware for some way to alleviate your suffering. And you held my hand and we watched the people go by: the strollers and the skaters, the hopeful and the homeless.


5. As I watched them present you with your Certified Nursing Assistant Certificate. You were proud and I was proud and the people who knew you, who had worked and studied with you, all loved you. And the residents, whom you cared for --the double-amputee diabetes victim, the confused old woman, the bent and broken veteran --they all loved you, too, because they knew that the care you gave them was given out of compassion and basic human decency. I could tell they knew by the way they looked at you.
    
6. When I was suffering and full of doubt. When I believed I had failed, was failing, would always fail. We were in the car, driving to look at the condominium we were going to buy and you asked me what you could do. And I said, "Just love me, honey." And you said, "I do love you. You're a good husband." You drew out the word "good" for emphasis, which made me cry. Because I was afraid that I would fail you, too. But you would have none of it. "You're a good husband," you insisted.


7. When Youssou N'dour came on the YouTube feed and you sprang up from the couch and danced an Mbalax dance out of sheer joy. You turned your face to the ceiling, a raptured, open-mouth smile beaming out to the heavens beyond. A moment of joyful abandon with only me to bear witness. But I testify. I testify now.


8. When you surprised me with kibbeh. I had wanted Lebanese food for supper, but you, ever mindful of my health, didn't want to go to Nicholas. You were concerned that I would eat too much bread. So, we didn't go. But then you surprised me because you had secretly gotten take-out kibbeh as a special treat for me. Your smile --your beautiful, delighted smile --told me how very pleased you were to please me.


9. When I wonder, every day. What laws of divine justice or what random firing in the cosmos endowed me with this reward? Is it possible that I deserve this? I can't believe it. I'm not all that. I'm just not. Humbling. It's all very, very humbling.

Happy 9^th Anniversary, my love. My Mat. My beautiful wife.

Movie review: Foxcatcher

Perplexing. Befuddling. Those were the first two words that came to mind when I tried to charactarize Bennet Miller's acclaimed new flick, Foxcatcher.

The film is based on an actual incident that occurred in 1996 when John Dupont, heir to the Dupont family fortune, gunned down Dan Shultz, a gold-medal winning Olympic Free Style wrestler. The narrative of the film, then, recounts the events and circumstances that led to this tragic and inexplicable event.

The film stars Channing Tatum, Steve Carrell and Mark Ruffalo, each of whom turn in powerful and convincing performances.

Up to now, I haven't been much of a Channing Tatum fan, but this film gave me new respect for him. He plays Mark Shultz, Dan's younger brother and the film's chief protagonist. Mark is a man very much at war with himself. Although an Olympic gold medalist, his self-esteem is shaky. Tatum conveys this in the set of his shoulders, in his tormented expressions, in his troubling bouts of tearfulness.

Steve Carrell plays John Dupont, the wealthy Dupont heir who attempts to buy his way into the world of Olympic wrestling by sponsoring a training facility at Foxcatcher, the family estate. Carrell's interpretation of an out-of-touch blueblood is disturbing as well as convincing.  "Ornithologist, philanthropist, philatelist," Dupont chants to Mark Shultz in a self-aggrandizing monologue.

But the best performance, in my opinion, was Mark Ruffalo as Dan Schultz, the murder victim. The way Ruffalo moves, the way he rolls his shoulders as he walks, the way he holds his arms like weapons at the ready, all say "Olympic wrestler." And, from the accounts I've read of the real Dan Schultz, Ruffalo's interpretation of a calm, reasoning and compassionate man is spot on.

The choreography in this film is fantastic. Tatum and Ruffalo are completely convincing in the wrestling sequences. And Carrell is convincing as well --as a pathetic caricature of a wrestler.

Of course, being a film, the Foxcatcher story is abridged, but it seems to me that Miller's work conveyed the essence of the event. In the real-life investigation following the murder, police were never able to establish a motive for Dupont's behavior.

In the end, it was a senseless tragedy. Like I said: perplexing. Befuddling.

Last day of staycation

Adieu, 2014. Bienvenue, 2015.

Last day of winter staycation. It's been good. A time of rejuvenation. A reprieve from nagging, hateful anxiety.

The Year of our Lord 2014 passed with but a whisper last week and I can't say I'll miss it. It was an emotionally bruising year --a year of change, a year of turmoil. And just as the newborn passes through the birth canal battered and bruised but alive to a world of possibilities and wonder, so too for me and my beloved African woman as we face the new year.

Prescience is beyond us despite the claims of the soothsayers. None of us may know what is to come. Reassurance is mere intellectual placebo, whether it be the solace afforded by mystical entities entreated with incensed rituals or ardent prayer, or the pseudo-certainty of mathematical equations derived from discipline and rationality. No guarantees, folks. It could all end in cold entropy.

But I believe we'll be alright. Me, Maty, family, friends. I think things will work out fine for us. And I know for dead cold certain that it will all be as it must, as it is ordained.

Today, anyway, the last day of staycation, that's enough.

Peace out.