"Shaping Up Absurd," by Nora Ephron

I had a lot of trouble connecting to Nora Ephron’s piece “Shaping Up Absurd” because of the specific cultural environment that she was brought up in (starkly different from mine) that taught her that large breasts = pure womanhood and femininity. Throughout the piece, she discusses how growing up in the 1950’s caused her to develop a very specific sense of what it means to be a woman and thus feel insecure of her small breast size. In contrast, I was brought up in an era that prizes androgyny and small, boyish figures for women. Therefore, I couldn’t really connect to her piece because my small figure has always been culturally valued and thus I have never really struggled with body image issues.

There were certain moments of Ephron’s essay, particularly in the beginning, that struck me as extremely familiar; I think that she did a great job capturing a juvenile voice in her piece. For example, I really liked the moment in paragraphs 6 through 8 that followed a conversation Ephron had with her friend Libby. Libby tells her that her breasts will grow after her husband touches, rubs and kisses them. I could just imagine that kind of conversation bouncing back and forth between myself and my friends at a young age. We all made up absurd myths and rumors about sex and love and casually asserted them as fact, and the we would secretly obsess over the lies that we told each other. I thought that she did a great job of capturing the hodgepodge of emotions—naïveté, cool confidence, and a heightened sense of drama all rolled into one—in this section of the text.

I felt like there was no real resolution in the end; I wanted her to elaborate more on the fear of “gumming up” her femaleness that she discloses in the beginning of her piece. I understand that she, as an adult, is still hung up on her breasts but I wished she could

"Locker Room Talk," by Stephen Dunn

Stephen Dunn’s essay “Locker Room Talk” gives readers a glimpse into the separate “country” (paragraph 8) of the Boy’s Locker Room, where extremely complex emotions are negotiated under the guise of petty discussion of sexual conquests and casual brotherly bonding. I thought it was extremely interesting how Dunn describes the locker room as a country; it reminded me of Simmons’ piece, where he describes the easy way his father and him spoke about motorcycles and thus “moved back to the language of [their] old country” (page 67, paragraph 13). Not being personally familiar with the worlds of motorcycles and boy’s locker rooms before reading these two pieces, I didn’t necessarily give either of these things credit as actual, legitimate locales that could boast of legitimate languages and cultures. However, the way that Dunn and Simmons wrote about their different subcultures made me realize their worth and credibility, and made me reflect upon the subcultures that I operate within in my own life.

Stylistically, I think that I was a little put off by this piece because I read Dunn’s biographical paragraph at the top of page 136 and, upon seeing that he is an accomplished poet, I wasn’t expecting the kind of straightforward, vanilla delivery of information that he utilizes throughout the essay. In class, we frequently talk about personal essay sort of being the lovechild of poetry and academic writing; considering this concept and Dunn’s personal background as a professional poet, I was disappointed in his lack of poetic voice in this piece.

"Motorcycle Talk," by Thomas Simmons

Thomas Simmons’ essay “Motorcycle Talk” proved to be much more relatable than I had first imagined. While Simmons’ piece obviously spends a lot of time detailing his father’s straightforward, masculine joy of tinkering with a motorcycle in auto jargon, it also portrays a more vulnerable side to his father. From the very beginning of the essay, where Simmons describes his father as “magnificent,” we get the sense that his Dad is a more complex man than we may think at first. One does not usually use the word “magnificent” in order to convey a sense of toughness; Simmons’ diction choice reveals that his Dad is not completely defined by the tough, manly hobby that he pursues. This image of a genuine, sensitive mechanic contrasts sharply with the overtly masculine, inaccessible persona featured in Harry Crews’ piece “The Car.”

In this piece, I found another interesting connection to Crews’ essay. In paragraph 10, Simmons writes, “I did not know this then, not exactly. But I knew, when we both hovered over the Benelli’s cylinder head or gearbox, adjusting a cam or replacing a gasket, that he would not have worked on this machine for himself alone.” At this point in the essay, Simmons is reflecting on a very specific moment of his past with a fresh, more mature and intelligent perspective. He realizes the significance of a moment that seemed important at the time, but only now, years later, is he able to grasp just how truly important it was. Crews toys with this concept as well, saying “the moment was brief and I understand it better now than I did then, but I did realize, if imperfectly, that something was dreadfully wrong…” (pg. 404, paragraph 15). This idea of imperfect realization in the moment followed by later clarity is something that I would like to incorporate in future assignments.

Harry Crews' Cars

I had trouble relating to Harry Crews’ essay “The Car.” In this essay, Crews meticulously details the first few cars that he drove as a young adult. He personifies the cars, remembering them “like people—like long-ago lovers” (403). He describes the distinct personalities of each car, and the distinct personalities that each car brings out in him. For example, he informs us that his 1953 Mercury compelled him to stare “into the bathroom mirror for long periods of time” (402) so that he could practice different facial expressions to wear while driving it. The tone that he employs when describing his cars is one of overwhelming pride and unabashed, masculine conceit.

I have only had one car so far in my life; I did not get my license until senior year of high school, and now that I am in college, I spend about 9 out of 12 months away from my car. Needless to say, I have never had the kind of connection with cars as Crews did. For most of my life, I have been a very experienced passenger in the car, not a driver; thus, I could not relate to the act of appropriating a car’s personality that Crews describes in his piece. This phenomenon, I think, is reserved solely for the drivers of cars.

While I did not personally connect to Crews’ experiences, I found the essay to be extremely culturally significant; it was an interesting comment on American society and our obsession with not only cars specifically but also consumerism in general. At the end of the piece, Crews reflects on the strange way that he confused himself with his car. To me, this was the most relatable part of the essay. In our society, we are judged by what we own. Often, we come to believe that we actually are what we own, and we begin to redefine ourselves according to the characteristics of our favorite objects and, to use Crews’ word, merge with what we buy.

Stylistically, I loved the tension between Crews’ various recollections. In the paragraph about his 1938 Ford coupe, Crews uses very cryptic language in order to describe a time that a woman pushed off the wing vent and broke the rearview mirror of his car. He never reveals outright that he and the woman were having sex when this happened, but it is implied. This short, mysterious glimpse into the Ford’s history contrasts so sharply with Crews’ later, more elaborate memories. For example, in one of his memories surrounding the 1953 Mercury, I could practically smell the greasy burned food of the A&W that he writes about. In this paragraph, Crews’ language is so specific and recalls such vivid images; this contrasts with the earlier paragraph, where we get much more of a fuzzy idea of what happened that night in the Ford coupe. This tension between elaboration and the intentional omission of specific details mirrors the human process of recalling memories, and makes the piece seem more real and raw. If Crew utilized as much detail as he does when describing his A&W nights in the whole piece, we would be suspicious and think that he exaggerated or fabricated some of his memories in order to pad the writing.

"The Site of Memory," by Toni Morrison

Toni Morrison’s essay “The Site of Memory” reminded me of the paragraph in Ray Carver’s essay in which he defends his use of poetic license in the poem he writes about his Dad. In “The Site of Memory,” Morrison walks us through the thought process that she employs when writing fiction, tracking “an image from picture to meaning to text.” She starts off by announcing her intention to create a piece of writing that conveys the kinds of emotions and memories that stem from her idea of corn on the cob. For Morrison, corn on the cob represents something much larger than just its surface existence. She describes how corn on the cob reminds her of her childhood home, her parent’s relationship, afternoon naps and being too young to distinguish weed from crop. After walking us through these associations, she describes how she intends to write in testament to all that corn on the cob represents to her. Much as Carver did in his piece, Morrison asserts her right to convey a certain kind of truth—one that will surely evoke a strong emotional response from readers—over a more “pedestrian” kind of fact-truth. I really enjoyed reading Morrison’s ideas about writing—I think that it is the human condition to feel and experience multiple kinds of truth, but I think we are often encouraged, especially in school, to only explore and articulate straightforward, “pedestrian” fact-truths in our writing. I am excited to negotiate multiple kinds of truths and employ Morrison and Carver’s techniques when writing for this class.

"Inspired Eccentricity," by bell hooks

In bell hook’s essay “Inspired Eccentricity,” we are introduced to Sarah (“Baba”) and Gus (“Daddy Gus”) Oldham, a couple whose eccentric world had a profound impact on the person hooks was to become. In terms of craft, I particularly enjoyed paragraph three; here, hooks describes both of her grandparents and sets up a comparison between the two in relation to color. On the surface, hooks is simply describing straight facts about her grandparents’ skin tones; Baba had “skin so white…she could have easily “passed” denying all traces of blackness” while Daddy Gus’ skin “looked like the color of soot from burning coal.” When I was reading this passage, however, my mind instantly jumped to the idea of a yin-yang; two opposites that complement each other perfectly so that one does not operate to its full potential without the other (demonstrated later in the text by Daddy Gus’ death). Throughout the essay, hooks does not necessarily follow through with this metaphor; however, I liked how she began her essay by setting it up so that we as readers had a framework in which we could negotiate all of the additional information about Baba and Daddy Gus she later divulged.

Another part that stuck out to me in this essay were paragraphs 22 and 23. The process that hooks describes here—how families “chart psychic genealogies that often overlook what is right before our eyes”—was extremely familiar to me. It struck me that this familiarity and the hinting at a universality of experience are what make certain personal essays so successful. Yes—we as readers are intrigued by how different other people’s stories are from our own. However, we are also searching for similarities and looking to make connections between our personal experiences and the experiences of the writer. It was particularly neat to feel connected to hooks, someone of a different race, who had a very different relationship with her parents than I do with mine, and someone who grew up in a different time period and geographical region than I did.

Susan Allen Toth's "Boyfriends"

Susan Allen Toth opens her essay “Boyfriends” on an almost desperate note, wondering if she had “magicked” her first boyfriend Peter Stone “into existence out of sheer need” (p. 130). The essay continues on to describe her and Peter’s slowly burgeoning relationship, facilitated by her conscious and calculated efforts (“I had read enough in my Seventeen about how to attract boys to know I needed to show enthusiasm about Peter’s hobbies” p. 131). Nevertheless, amid all of the awkwardness and blatant premeditation, there is something distinctly familiar and endearing in all of the scenes that she describes. She never tries to over-romanticize her interactions with Peter or apologize for any of the awkwardness between the two of them; instead, she takes it all at face value and the effect is comical, light and honest. This is especially true when she describes how, during her almost-second kiss with Peter, she panicked and licked his face instead. This part stuck out for me, not only because it provided a funny visual, but also because she wrote it so matter-of-factly and without an air of embarrassment; when we are typically bombarded by glamorized versions of first love on TV and in movies, reading Toth was really refreshing, because she touched on how un-fabulous your first relationship can, and maybe should, be.

I especially enjoyed Toth’s interjection on page 134: “Amazing as it seems now, when courting has speeded up to a freeway pace, when I wonder if a man who doesn’t try to get me to bed immediately might possibly be gay, Peter and I gave each other hours of affection without ever crossing the invisible line.” I liked how she felt comfortable interrupting her narrative in order to use her future insights to help recall and complicate a past memory. I would definitely like to play around with this technique when writing for this class.

"My Father's Life," by Raymond Carver

Ray Carver’s essay “My Father’s Life” prompted me to think a lot about the ambiguous nature of truth, and the authority that writers have to manipulate various truths to get their points across. Throughout the essay, Carver often grasps at straws when trying to describe the holes of his father’s life that he cannot fill with his own childhood recollections; he does this by either guessing (“I don’t think he dreamed much”) or validating his mother’s thoughts and elevating them to something very close to truth (“And in just a little while, it seemed—according to my mother—everybody was better off than my dad.”) We are essentially given fragments of other people’s interpretations of Clevie Raymond Carver, and while these interpretations are undoubtedly valid, they raise questions about how and by whom a person is ultimately characterized: at the end of the day, are we defined by who we think we are or by what other people think we are?

The passage that stuck out to me the most was the one in which Carver discusses the poetic license that he claimed while writing his poem, “Photograph of My Father in His Twenty Second Year.” He explains that he changes the month in which his father dies from June to October because he felt like October was, “a month appropriate to what [he] felt at the time [he] wrote the poem—a month of short days and failing light, smoke in the air, things perishing.” To him, it was more important to accurately record the truth of his feelings rather than the truth of the straight facts of his father’s death. This tension between multiple truths is something that I would like to toy with while writing for this class. After reading this piece, I think that I have a more nuanced understanding of what it means to write from personal experience; within and surrounding each experience that we have, there exist multiple, sometimes conflicting or paradoxical, truths that we will have to prioritize and negotiate in order to create the most accurate and aesthetic account of our own realities.