Conflicting Identities and Poserism in Saggy Harbor

The final post of my high school career, B!!! How crazy is that?

I wasn't really sure onn what to write my blog post about with this novel, because it's a difficult one to relate to on the surface. Benji is a black boy, he has a summer house, he lives in the city -- there's a whole laundry list of conditions of existence that I just don't have in common with him. And, yet, I also found some of the lessons Benji was learning throughout this novel so incredibly poignant and familiar. Particular, there's this recurring theme of duality, conflict of identities, and "posing" that, in my opinion, is an integral part of any coming of age story, regardless of the rest of someone's identity.

For Benji, this seems to manifest in a couple of ways, generally positioned around the premise of his confusing racial condition. Benji is a black boy with a beach house, stuck in an awkward position between pride for his race, acceptance of his socioeconomic state, distance from his school peers, and distance from his Sag Harbor buds (in the words of Earl Sweatshirt, Benji at the beginning of this novel might feel like he's "too black for the white kids and too white for the blacks").

Benji's novel-long struggle with identity and self presentation is such a crucial part of this book, undeniably. His willingness to ebb and flow, and his sort of hesitance to put up fronts, in my opinion, are what make him such a likable character. If he had wanted to front he'd still be an interesting narrator, but there's something about his sort of disenchantment with being a poser, that sense of disillusionment. Of course, I think this has a lot to do with Ben being the narrator, and having that space to analyze Benji's behavior. Nonetheless, it's not mocking poserism, and Ben never seems to dislike poser behavior, but the ability to see how those attitudes pan out after the novel takes place, I think, gives Ben the space to critique them (think of the literal posing with guns and the eventual gun violence that seeps into the gang -- he's certainly not fond of the way that the fake ones sort of plant that seed in his friends).

I guess I don't really have a point with this post, I just really enjoyed that part of Benji. It's rather refreshing and appealing, and I guess Ben has a great amount of distance from which he can reflect on his days in Sag. Anyway, that's it!!

Jason Taylor = Sam Weir (of Freaks and Geeks fame)

SORRY, THIS POST ONLY REALLY MAKES SENSE IF YOU'VE WATCHED FREAKS AND GEEKS :-/

I've had a great, great time reading Black Swan Green for a number of reasons. This book is really compelling in a relatable way, an objective way and, generally, it's just a blast to read. There's so much to look at, I feel like we almost could have had another day or two just talking about the novel as a whole. That being said, I don't want to disregard any parts of this book and I don't mean to be dismissive, but the entire time we've been reading Black Swan Green I couldn't ignore the feeling that Jason seemed really familiar, like a character I'd met before... then it hit me. I was thinking of Sam Weir, of Freaks and Geeks. The similarities are striking!!!
On the surface level, there's a lot in common between Sam and Jason. They both have an older sister (and giver of advice), they're living in small towns with, they love fantasy worlds, they hang out with nerds, they've got... interesting home lives, they're decidedly unpopular, they struggle with fitting in, they've got some lovely fringe, and they're about the same age in the early 80's (though Sam's a bit older than Jason). Even below all this, too, there's lots of deeper issues in their lives: Sam and Jason both have problems humanizing girls at first (and listening to them), they're sensitive and struggle with how to handle it socially, and they experience moments in the in-crowd, but choose to walk away from it because they "give a toss" -- think of Sam when he and Cindy break up, and he chooses to return to Neal and Bill, who are the "geeks" (similar to the lepers, perhaps). As well, here's a classic example of Sam's social life at school (plus, the "homo" stuff at the end -- all too familiar to Jason as well!):

Sam is 14 when Freaks and Geeks finds him and, though I'm bitter the show only lasted one season, I think it functions as a sort of snapshot of his life really well. We see Sam develop over the course of a school year, come into a lot of realizations about himself and the people around him, and grow to learn a lot about his personal values. Of course, we find Jason in a very similar state: over the course of Black Swan Green we learn so much about him that, by the end of the novel, it's almost difficult to let go. 

Both of these characters do a great job of being relatable for most people that have had to go through middle school, but just distant enough from personal experience that we find their stories appealing and strange. I find Sam Weir so sympathetic and sweet because the eye of the viewer in Freaks and Geeks, much like the reader in Black Swan Green, is intimate enough that we're allowed to see his worries, his sensitivities, and his growth. Especially after he's dated Cindy, he comes to the realization that girls go beyond their charm and looks and are complex characters like everyone else. Just like Jason, because of our up-close-and-personal view, we're able to see all of this as it comes to Sam, and I think that's why I like him so much. 

Also, there's a lot of similar scenes between these two. Hallway scenes, dance scenes, going on walks and getting harassed, being confused by sex and girls, fears of being "gay" and other boys' macsulinity, etc. etc. It's a funny parallel, because while Black Swan Green is written from Jason's perspective and takes a much more dire, serious tone (where it's hard to imagine getting out of being 13, and a life beyond middle school [the neverending purgatory that it is]), Freaks and Geeks follows a list of characters and, mainly, Sam's older sister Lindsay. Sam's story line is a lot more comedic and scene in the conteht of this larger picture, which makes his struggles feel a bit more lighthearted. Yet, there's so many similarities that I think it's really intriguing to think about it in this context. Personally, I remember middle school/9th grade (Sam's year) as being the shittiest, but looking back it's a lot easier to laugh at that period of my life. I guess I really have to commend David Mitchell for managing to write a novel from the perspective of a middle schooler in a mostly serious tone without it seeming contrived and stiff or satirical. Props to him!

Finally, I guess I'll mention all the references to music (and popular culture of the early 80's in general). This doesn't pertain to Sam as much, but culture still plays a heavy hand in Freaks and Geeks. There are some golden scenes where Sam and his friends are playing Dungeons and Dragons around his dinner table, and plenty of music refernces (JOHN BONHAM IS DEAD!!) Though music isn't as important, necessarilly, to Sam's story as it is to Jason's (and perhaps that's because he's not so obviously on a creative path yet?) I think it still sets a certain tone in the show overall. Black Swan Green felt very cinematic to me because of the amount of mood setting based on music, and the way the music really fleshed out scenes in their entirety, and I guess, after noticing how similar the two stories are, I began to think of Freaks and Geeks like an American version of Black Swan Green in a lot of ways.

This isn't really a super productive post, and I don't have THAT much to say with it besides wow, they're so much alike and I love both of these cute little boys!! I don't mean to take away from the structural, literary, or metaphorical complexity of Black Swan Green by comparing it to Freaks and Geeks, but I just think it's a funny similarity. I looked around online for a minute and couldn't find this anywhere, but I hope some of you guys maybe noticed this too. :-)

Escapism and leaving town/childhood in Black Swan Green

As we talked through Souvenirs this week, I began thinking a lot about the way Jason's thoughts change dependent on the spaces he occupies. Of course, everyone's thoughts change as they move about, but I think the way that David Mitchell uses Jason's location relative to Black Swan Green is particularly valuable.

Basically, it seems to me that Mitchell is honing in on Jason's immense feeling that he needs to escape Black Swan Green. There's the moments when he's sitting in Ewan's car daydreaming about flying away, the lines when he talks about the fact that he just can't stay in his shire, and the scene where he's fantasizing about running away with Dawn to London, where they'll become the hottest new artsy it-couple. Overall, there's this gnawing within Jason, it seems, that's commanding him to leave.

With that in the back of our (and Jason's) minds, I thought Souvenirs was a really interesting chapter, as well as Solarium. In Souvenirs, Jason gets a breath of fresh air -- the first one we see in the novel -- by leaving Black Swan Green. During these trips, we get glimpses of really lovely, cool experiences Jason has alone, and then with each of his parents; yet, these scenes are, both times, disrupted by embarrassments and let-downs. Also, in Solarium, I think there's a really intriguing dynamic between Jason and Eva where Eva is not only playing the role of the sage, experienced artist, but of an outsider, a worldly woman invading Black Swan Green and providing Jason with some idea of what it means to be an artist outside of his shire. She pushes him to come into his own, grow into himself, and move away from the hiding he's in because his town is so little and he feels the need to hide. Then, Eva gets arrested and taken away from him, and it suuuucks :-(

It's difficult to articulate, but in both of these chapters, and in earlier ones (Hugo's visit, etc.) there seems to be some sort of running theme: though Jason complains and whines about being stuck in Black Swan Green, when he leaves OR gets a glimpse of the outside world it may seem pleasant at first, but there's something darker under the surface. Think of The Falklands in Rocks, as well -- Jason opens the chapter cheery and gung-ho about the war but by the end, he's weary and confused by the purpose of it all.

I think a lot of this foreign experience ties into adulthood as well -- though Jason wants so desperately to just be done with being a teenager, the glimpses he gets of adulthood seem to be a sort of mixed bag. Take Eva, again -- he's mystified and drawn to her, but there's also something dickish and scary to Eva. That might be good in the long run, but it's certainly not pleasant in the moment. He used to idolize his dad, as well, and his mothers a sweet lady, but on their respective business trips we see that fun, dorky side of his parents disrupted. This also happens in Rocks parallel to the Falklands, as his parents bitterly fight the whole time. Therefore, I think it can be sort of difficult to separate these two unknowns in Jason's life at times -- the outside world, and adulthood.

Mitchell hints at this theme a number of times. There are glimpses Jason gets into these experiences, and they interrupt his fantasies a lot, reminding him that, although they might be better than right here, right now, they're not necessarily peachy keen and sweet. I think there's definitely something there about Jason sobering and maturing after realizing that 1. the world outside of BSG and 2. adulthood, aren't necessarily just amazing -- and I think these realizations mean a lot for Jason in terms of rationalizing the scale of time and life and everything. In Rocks this happens most openly, but I believe it goes along with each of the chapters I brought up; there are moments that go against Jason's idyllic understandings of these unfamiliar experiences, and once he's seen them in action, he's led to the questions, is this really something I want? Is it actually like this? These questions go for a lot of themes in the book -- coolness, popularity, not giving a toss, etc. etc., but I think it's compelling that Mitchell chose to apply them to themes like adulthood and leaving, because these sorts of realizations are just as important as those about social status when you're coming of age.

Housekeeping and narrative voice and folklore

Compared to Bell Jar and Catcher, Housekeeping has come as a breath of fresh air so far. Don't get me wrong, I've been a big fan of all the books we've read in this course, but the narrative styles and tones have been somewhat homogeneous: a heavy focus on the deep emotive reactions of the narrators, generally told from afterward, though with a stream-of-consciousness style to it -- we see Holden and Esther (and Stephen!) describe the moments they see people, walk through cities, and confront their demons with painstaking detail and a tone that feels like beautifully articulated spontaneity more often than not.

As a result, Housekeeping is just... so refreshing. Of course, we've only read the first chapter so far, and this might not hold throughout the novel, as Ruth departs from the sweeping account of her family history, but it's still great anyway. Ruth's tone -- the removed narrator, factual and specific in her details (though she plays around with the mystery of unseen and unremembered events) is such a large shift from our previous books. Callie mentioned this in class yesterday, and we talked about how, if we hadn't read Catcher and Bell Jar right before this we might have interpreted it differently, but Ruth's tone, in comparison to Holden's and Esther's, almost seems to work with levity. There's removal in her tone, yes, but there's a hint of sarcasm and a playful use of language that is so, so different and compelling.

I also mentioned the narrative style, and how it reminds me of Song of Solomon and Toni Morrison's introduction to the novel in a lot of ways. Take this excerpt (the opening lines of the novel):

"The North Carolina Mutual Life Insurance agent promised to fly from Mercy to the other side of Lake Superior at three o'clock. Two days before the event was to take place he tacked a note on the door of his little yellow house:
         At 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday the 18th of February, 1931, I will take off from Mercy and
         fly away on my own wings. Please forgive me. I love you all.
                                                             (signed) Robert Smith,
                                                                              Ins. agent"

It takes a minute to hit the reader, but as the rest of the first chapter unfurls we learn very clearly we're talking about Robert Smith's suicide. This style of factual, mystical, vague description of something seemingly brutal, mirrors the style Robinson uses in the first chapter of Housekeeping in many ways. Robinson drops the moments of Edmond and Helen's deaths (also relating to lakes like Robert's!) at the ends of paragraphs, afterthoughts almost, and treats them with a light tone and straightforward language, resisting the overly-complicated, intensely emotional style that Holden, Esther, and Stephen all go for in their description of most of the stuff they do.

Because of this descriptive and narrative style, Housekeeping and Song of Solomon both come across as reminiscent of folklore and fables, in the way that they describe nature, death, and brutality with levity. The dark underpinnings of stories like La Llorona, The Lady in the Veil, and classic nursery rhymes like Ring Around the Rosie (which, as children, I think we were all told was secretly some reference to the plague and Black Death and funerals, or something awful and grotesque along those lines), haunt the stories themselves. There's children's tales like these all over the world, but I find their strange histories and the lore that surrounds them -- explaining natural phenomena, the stories themselves, or some otherworldly or occult things -- is really intriguing, because however brutal these backgrounds are, we still tell all the stories with lightheartedness to our children. It's difficult to articulate, but you know what I mean? Like, kids love the stories of Brothers Grimm, but we all find out later in our lives how bizarre and cruel most of them are... think of Sleeping Beauty, or Cinderella, and all the crazy shit that goes down in the original versions of those stories.

In some way, I think Housekeeping evokes those styles. Though Ruth narrates with humor and a tone of objective truth, there's something dark and mysterious that looms above the reader as we realize she's talking about the deaths of her grandfather and mother, consumed by this giant lake and the terrifying ways of nature to just, simply, continue without us (like all those stories that explain natural forces -- "yes, he was eaten up by the ground, and his soul weeps now, and that's how earthquakes work, children!")

Anyway, this is a messy post but those are my thoughts! Toni Morrison and Brothers Grimm, y'know?

regression and dealing with growing up

In all of the novels we've read this semester, there are moments in which our protagonists fall backward a bit. They've done something they don't know how to process (or don't want to), they're overwhelmed by a situation, or they can feel themselves entering unknown territory. In moments like these, they all move backward into something they know, something safe and grounded and real. Though it's a general theory, I think this idea of regression (or back-stepping?) is a cool thread to look at between the books.

I wrote about Stephen's regression in Portrait for my essay, and it led me to really think about the way in which he returns to religion a lot. He's sleeping with heaps of prostitutes at one point and letting his life slide but, when the sermon terrifies him to his core and he realizes what he's done, he throws himself back into piety, something he knew when he was younger and shaped himself around. Yes, he gets away from religion later in the book, but this sort of retreat into the familiar land of Catholicism is, for Stephen, a step back into the comfort of a childhood regime. Of course, he goes overboard and it's not the same as his behavior when he was younger by any means, but just roll with me here!

In Catcher, Holden has the steadfast comfort of Phoebe and her closeness. He thinks about her all the time, holds on to this idea of her being in the same city as him and how he should phone her, and thinks about how absolutely great she is constantly. By the end of the book, he's thinking of Phoebe not only as someone he loves, but also as an anchor. After all the shit that has gone down, he's still got this emblem of affection and purity and his own personal life that has remained untouched, and that's Phoebe. Particularly, I think Holden's case ties into so much stuff -- his fear of adulthood, his dealing with Allie's death, Jane's growing up, sexuality, depression, etc. -- but Phoebe is safe from all of that, or at least his memories of her are.

In The Bell Jar, after the scene at Lenny's house, Esther uses a bath as a way to re-center herself and talks about the beauty and power of a good hot bath. She's just walked away from a generally wild and uncomfortable night full of things she's just not too keen on (men who don't get it, creeps, sexuality, public performance, etc.), and the bath comes as the washing away of sins and discomfort. Esther hasn't necessarily been the perpetrator, but I undestand her in the sense that watching other people do stuff you're not cool with -- especially people you're hanging out with and thought you liked -- is super awkward and icky. The hot bath is the retreat, and Esther talks about how she is going back, back, dissolving New York and Lenny and Doreen and starting anew, a ritualistic rebirth.

This concept of retreat isn't particularly surprising; growing up is a difficult and weird thing and we've found all of our protagonists in the pits of their "awakenings," you could say. Many times along the way, a new experience or a realization is just too much for you to handle at that point, and some sort of denial is needed to be like "okay, I'm alright, I don't have to deal with that yet" (think in these books: sexuality, sin, the outside world, the future, etc.). It's a habit I'm sympathetic to, so it doesn't surprise me to see this in coming-of-age novels, but it's interesting anyway to see how that idea runs throughout each of the books we've read so far :-)

Cut Holden some slack, please

We've touched on this a number of times in class, and I've been thinking about it a lot outside of school, too, but I think Holden's "meanness" is really revealing, honest, and (for me) appealing.
Holden sounds "mean" in his descriptions and narration, but I think most people can relate to this sentiment in one way another. We're in Holden's head, and we hear his internal monologue when his peers don't, and this level of intimacy reveals a lot about him. No one can be in your head, no matter the level of closeness they have with you -- that's why art as a form of fiction, I think, is such a compelling tool: it lets us enter the heads of characters and see inside their minds for once. It's uncomfortable to see the reality of other people's consciences at first, but Holden is so candid about his thoughts that I can't help but appreciate and like him as a character.

He dissects people, takes them apart in his head (and for us), but there’s a line that Holden draws between his inner monologue and the way he behaves. Though he thinks Stradlater is only “yearbook handsome” and is sort of phony, he still hangs out with him in the bathroom; he doesn’t particularly like the way that Ackley can’t take a hint but he gets it, I think, and doesn’t immediately get mad at Ackley (it takes a Ackley not listening to him). Though Spencer is stressing him out and Selma has a big nose and crooked falsies, he’s still polite to each of them, still hangs out with them and has conversations. In this way, I think Holden is a really captivating character – he exemplifies the way that we all behave, in one way or another. He is thoughtful, wishes Stradlater would think about things and have conversations with him, and he knows when is the right time to keep his thoughts and judgments to himself.

I like Holden a lot; I think he is honest with the reader and we can see his sensitivities, his personality, his intricacies, all that, and we can also see the way he chooses to present himself. He brings up the concept of "phony" a lot and how he can act a little phonier when he's with phony people, but isn't that how we all are? Someone who was really truly 100% open with their thoughts would be the biggest asshole ever!! Even with the best intentions, not-very-nice thoughts come into our heads no matter how much we love someone. Everyone thinks about people's appearances, their idiosyncrasies, their character, and sometimes we like it and sometimes we don't. Holden is honest and thoughtful and real!!

Also it seems that, at the point in the novel that we join him, he is in the middle of some sort of minor emotional breakdown, and those are definitely hard to go through without coming off as a bit of an asshole. When he gets all hung up on the memory of Jane (especially since it's bringing up all the memories of Allie -- which he doesn't seem to have fully processed yet), he gets into the fight with Stradlater. Have you guys ever had those days when you know you're really upset about something and taking it out on the people around you, but you don't know how to stop? His meltdown with Stradlater really struck me as one of those, especially when he goes to Ackley. He's desperately lonely, and he's reaching out to Ackley as a shot in the dark. I feel like, in the context of him bringing Allie's death back up to the surface of his mind, thinking about Stradlater possibly date-raping his old best friend, and feeling incredibly isolated at Pencey and unable to relate to the people around him, it's reasonable that he comes off as sort of an asshole. But hey, maybe that just says something about me!

Joyce and Balwdin, and religious coming of age (LONG POST)

As we read Portrait in class, I was reading James Baldwin's novel Go Tell It on the Mountain. I usually can't really manage reading multiple books at a time, but I was trying it! But I found that, in some strange coincidence, it was a really crazy combination to be reading at the same time; particularly because of the crazy similarity in content, theme, and prose. As we read chapter three of Portrait -- watching Stephen take in a sermon and think about sin, eternity, Hell, etc. -- I was reading the part two, chapter three of Go Tell It on the Mountain, in which the main character is going through a super similar religious experience. All this got me thinking about the many similarities!!

Basically, Go Tell It on the Mountain is a 1953 novel about John Grimes, a 14 year old boy living in Harlem. He has grown up with his mother and step-father, a Pentecostal pastor, and most (if not all) of the tension in John's life springs from his questioning of his own faith, sexuality, and identity, and his stepfather's push against this questioning. The book takes place entirely on John's 14th birthday and follows him as he wanders through the day -- through a dirty film, through Central Park, through his home as his brother lays bloodied on the couch, and into the church his father preaches at for Saturday night prayer. The climax of John's story comes as he drops to his knees, weeping and saved, a little before sunrise on Sunday morning (he stayed in the church all of Saturday night in a religious fervor).

What I thought was most interesting about the parallels between Portrait and Go Tell It was the way that the authors talked about themselves. Joyce, as we know, based Portrait on his own formative years in Dublin, and much of the religious content of the book is true to his upbringing, if not commentary on the climate of his teenage years. Baldwin as well mirrored his own youth in Go Tell It: Just as John did, Baldwin not only grew up a Pentecostal in Harlem with a pastor stepfather, but was also saved at the age of 14. By using the fictional character of John, he allows himself artistic leeway, but the ties are deep and undeniable.

So, we have two stories of intense religious pressures: in Joyce's, Stephen grows to become supremely faithful and pious, convinced that this is the only way to rid himself of all of his sins and to truly bring himself back into the light. In Baldwin's, John is so overcome by emotion, belief, and the ideas he has been raised with that he breaks down, weeping and sweating in redemption, at the age of 14.

I think these concepts of religion are so so super intriguing because both authors eventually veered in totally opposite directions, as well!! We talked in class about Joyce's use of the term "portrait" as a way to reflect on his youth, not necessarily recount it in 100% accuracy, and in this sense I think his depiction is revealing: rather than focus only on the hard truths, Joyce describes a relationship with religion, and God, and sin, that seems warped and bizarre, using that artistic freedom to craft a deep understanding in the reader's mind of how truly strange it must have been to come of age in such an extreme world of Irish Catholicism in the late 19th C. Stephen becomes entrenched in this Catholic world not because he is prepared to be a priest and dedicate his life to God, but moreso because he feels so strongly about the sins he has committed and the guilt they have given him (and maybe a little bit because he likes the idea of the brooding cool priest image at first). This, cool enough, predicts Baldwin's telling of his own youth really well: In Go Tell It, John doesn't seem to understand the terms of his own savior and piety at first. In the opening chapters of the book he struggles with religion -- rather than a firm belief, he questions the moral foundations of the Pentecostal belief system and Christianity as a whole, and seems to view his religion as more of a form of spite and betterment. His brother Roy, whom his father favors and dotes on, isn't religious in any way, a decided rebel child. John tries to use his own intense belief as a way to gain his father's approval, rather than truly believing in its validity and truth. Generally, we see both characters (and their authors) using religion as a way to free themselves of their guilt, or as a tool to raise themselves up -- neither of which are really deep, complex understandings of their faiths.



As we know, Joyce definitely didn't stick on the path of devotion -- and neither did Baldwin. While Joyce exiled himself from Ireland (and inherently, Irish Catholicism) and denounced God, Baldwin went on to denounce Christianity and accuse it of acting as a vessel for the perpetuation of inequality, racism, and slavery in America. Also -- and we get hints of the beginnings of this in the novel -- Baldwin was openly gay, something that didn't really vibe with the Pentecostal Church. These story lines of later denunciation both contrast their roots so drastically, and I guess that's the point I'm getting at: just as we did in Portrait, in Go Tell It, we watch as an artist retraces his pseudo-missteps through religion as a young boy, with his eventual destination in mind. The lines between fiction and reality are severely blurred in both stories, and because of that grey area, that disconnect from the deeply personal, generalizations are allowed to arise: in both stories, religion doesn't necessarily serve as a positive experience for the author, but, rather, a formative foundation for their understanding of themselves as artists. Baldwin went on the write Giovanni's Room among others, a novel all about love, repression, and shame -- things we can see rooted in the religious tone and rhetoric in Go Tell It. Joyce, though in self-exile, obsessed over Dublin and the ironic piety of the city, and these themes play key roles in the rest of his work. It's difficult to articulate the connection for people who haven't read Go Tell It (which i REALLY recommend as a novel, and it's not nearly as hard to read as Portrait, trust me), but there's so much similarity and influence from Portrait in Go Tell It that can be seen -- not only as a novel, but as reflection and prediction of self. In both cases, the artist uses their warped, tumultuous upbringing in an intensely religious circle to reflect their growth away, to reflect on the strange terms by which they became deeply involved in said circles, and to reflect their minds, as artists.