When You're Hungry At Work, Eat Bacon

Last night I finished reading the last book in the Hunger Games Trilogy, Mockingjay. I decided to read the Hunger Games trilogy because I really enjoy distopian fiction. I enjoy imagining the possibilities and/or ramifications resulting from a writer's decision to change his/her reader's expectations of fundamental social structures such as gender roles, racial stereotypes, or class markers.

First, some background on the genre. Dystopian fiction requires writers to create alternative, off-kilter universes with just enough of a base in their reader's "reality" for their reader to engage with the story. Writers create these unique societies in the hope that their readers will critically engage with the social structures that underlie the society in which they live. Dystopian fiction is not the same thing as science fiction which tends to include imaginary, but more or less plausible, realities set in the past or future.

As with any literary genre, some dystopian writers create more believable universes than others. Take, for example, Animal Farm by George Orwell. In "real" life two pigs, Snowball and Napoleon, could never kill their leader, seize power, and oppress the other farm animal, all before Napoleon gets greedy, kills Snowball and adopts the slogan "Napoleon is always Right." Any 12 year old could point out that this farm is one screwed up place where no one could possibly live a happy life. Yet Orwell created "real" life on the farm to parallel real life in Soviet Russia under Joseph Stalin. By showing his readers the reality behind the propaganda of "all animals are equal," Orwell readers question the realities of communism.

With Animal Farm as a yardstick for measuring dystopian fiction, I was bound to be disappointed by The Hunger Games. Halfway through Mockingjay I felt like I was watching a Die Hard sequel where Bruce Willis should have died 45 minutes ago, but somehow the movie drags on for another hour. I'm not saying that I wanted the series to end with Katniss martyred for the rebel cause, but such a depressing ending left me unsatisfied with Collins' ability to teach me a new, essential truth about the human experiance.

I know The Hunger Games falls into the "teen fiction" sub genre, but I'm sick of publishers  promoting novels for teens designed to be PG-13 blockbusters. You know which novels I'm talking about. Twilight by Stephanie Meyers. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series. The Princess Diaries series. All of these novels are designed to encourage cookie-cutter individuality that does not threaten the status quo.

What  irked me about the Hunger Games was that it threatens the integrity of dystopian fiction. Katniss recognizes that her society is corrupt, but she becomes the rebel's Mockinjay as an extension of her role as her family's protector. I think if she could have protected her family without destroying Panem she would have. For sure the Hunger Games politicized her, but they drove her to destroy her society rather than reform it.  Hungry

In becoming the Mockingjay Katniss becomes like Animal Farm's Boxer who labors incisively for Snowball (President Snow) and Napoleon (President Coin) with only the promise of humanities goodness to help her sleep at night. The Hunger Games trilogy fell flat for me because I finished the series glad to have finished it, not inspired to see my relationship to the world around me through new eyes.

Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promises

Lately I've been struggling with this profoundly simple question: Who am I? I'm not talking about the my name is X, I just graduated from Y, with a degree in Z. These basic facts only serve to box me into the very corner I'm trying to punch my way out of.

I'm not sure where to begin to answer this question. I thought college was supposed to tell me who I am. But college taught me that no one but me can tell me who I am. Fantastic. On the bright side, college did teach me that self discovery is both a privilege and a responsibility. A privilege in that choosing the kind of life you want to live comes with the responsibility of positively contributing to the world around you.

I began my self hood journey by reading countless books about other peoples journeys of self discovery. I thought if I read enough about self-discovery, somewhere along the line I'd find myself. False. But my research did teach me that self-discovery by way of risky relationships, reckless behavior, and substance abuse usually ends right where it began, with one step forward, two steps back.

A part of me knows that it's pretty ridiculous/arrogant/unrealistic for me to demand a stable sense of self from my 21 year old self. Some days I feel like my thoughts progress at a rate parallel to a child's development in the first 24 months of life. If you'll allow me to push the metaphor a bit, I'll tell you that when I look at moms complaining about their children's terrible twos I think to myself that nothing challenges the individuals capacity for patience/tolerance/and discipline more than the terrible twenties.

In the end I came to realize that my quest for self discovery came from a deep sense of fear. Fear of a life half lived. Fear of a negotiating a life with this head full of doubt/road full of promises outlook. Fear of turning into my mother. Fear of never leaving Pittsburgh and spending the rest of my life stuck in the monotonous existence that "the good" life appears to require. Deep down I know that finding an answer to the "so now that you've graduated, what will you do with the rest of your life" question will not eradicate my fears of failure. Yet I cling to the circular thinking of self-discovery because I fear I might not like the person I will discover I am.

30 Day Song Challenge

The 30 Day Song Challenge's been going around Facebook for a couple of weeks. For 30 Days you are supposed to post videos according to the rule for that day. Rather than annoy people in my newsfeed with 30 eclectic songs, I thought I'd post the list here. YouTube some of the songs if you have time. I promise they won't disappoint :)

I'll try to keep it to 3 Bruce Springsteen songs.

Day 1: Your Favorite Song: "Born to Run" (Bruce Springsteen)
Day 2: Your Least Favorite Song: "Hold it Against Me" (Britney Spears)
Day 3: A Song That Makes You Happy: "Michael Row The Boat Ashore" (Pete Seeger)
Day 4: A Song That Makes You Sad: "Knockin on Heaven's Door" (Bob Dylan)
Day 5: A Song That Reminds You of Someone: "Streetfighting Man" (Rolling Stones)
Day 6: A Song That Reminds You of Somewhere: "Fix You" (Coldplay)
Day 7: A Song That Reminds You of A Certain Event: "Young Forever" (Jay-Z ft. Mr. Hudson)
Day 8: A Song That You Know All The Words To: "Youth of The Nation" (POD)
Day 9: A Song That You Can Dance To: "Shake, Shake, Shake (You're Booty)" (KC and the Sunshine Band)
Day 10: A Song That Makes You Fall Asleep: "Come Fly With Me" (Frank Sinatra)
Day 11: A Song From Your Favorite Band: "4th of July, Ausbury Park (Sandy)" (Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band)
Day 12: A Song From A Band You Hate: "Black and Yellow" (Wiz Khalifa)
Day 13: A Song That is a Guilty Pleasure: "Fat-Bottomed Girls" (Queen)
Day 14: A Song That No one Would Expect You to Love: "Know Your Enemy" (Green Day)
Day 15: A Song That Describes You "Ties That Bind" (Bruce Springsteen)
Day 16: A Song That You Used to Love, but now Hate: "GoldDigger" (Kanye West)
Day 17: A Song That You Hear Often on the Radio: "Love Story" (Taylor Swift)
Day 18: A Song That You Wished You Heard on the Radio: "One Man Revolution" (Tom Morrello)
Day 19: A Song From Your Favorite Album: "Sigh No More" (Mumford and Sons)
Day 20: A Song That You Listen To When You're Feeling Lonely: "Whiskey Lullaby" (Brad Paisley)
Day 21: A Song That You Listen To When You're Feeling Contemplative: "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" (Bob Dylan)
Day 22: A Song You Listen to When You're Bored: "The Times They Are A-Changin'" (Peter, Paul, and Mary)
Day 23: A Song That You Want to Play At Your Wedding: "Dancing Queen" by Abba
Day 24: A Song That You Want Played At Your Funeral: "Amazing Grace"
Day 25: A Song That Makes You Laugh: "Dry Bones"
Day 26: A Song That You Can Play on An Instrument: "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" (The Beatles)
Day 27: A Song That You Wish You Could Play: "Cocaine" (Eric Clapton)
Day 28: A Song That Makes You Feel Guilty: "Hurt" (Johnny Cash)
Day 29: A Song From Your Childhood: "Bye,Bye,Bye" (N*SYNC)
Day 30: Your Favorite Song This Time Last Year: "Starts With Goodbye" by Carrie Underwood

13 Again

I was never one of those people that put much faith in the 13th of the month. The dozen or so Friday the 13th's I've witnessed in my life have come and gone bringing no significance other than bringing me one day closer to another weekend. That is until 2009. June 13, 2009 at 12:07 am to be exact. While the rest of Pittsburgh celebrated the Penguin's Stanley Cup victory, I mourned the passing of my father.

Dad and I always had a complicated relationship. I'm sure the 6 foot 4 ex-Marine failed to appreciate the universe's sense of humor when it handed him a baby girl who grew into an introverted nerd lacking any common sense or sense of direction.

Dad kept a picture of me in my wallet that pretty much encapsulated our relationship. When I was 9 or 10 Dad bought a Harley Davidson. He'd been saving up to buy one for years. Dad worked as an electrician whose paycheck varied with the seasons, so I'm sure he sacrificed a lot to buy it. My bedroom at the time sat right above the garage, so when I felt my floorboards vibrating a little after 10 on a Saturday morning, I knew something was going on.

I reached the garage right seconds before I heard the Harley's obnoxious roar. Dad eased it into the driveway I eyed him with contempt. See my sister Emile and I really wanted to get a pool for our backyard. We'd been begging Mom and Dad for one ever since school let out a few weeks previously. Despite our (in my opinion) very logical arguments, as well as our (in their opinion) illogical tantrums Mom and Dad made it clear that we were not getting a pool because we could not afford one. As Dad climbed off his bike eying me hopefully, I looked him right in the eye, asked "Is this really necessary?" turned on my heal, and stormed into my bedroom to sulk. I refused to speak to him for the rest of the day.

That night, however, curiosity got the best of me and I decided I needed to ride the Harley. Even though it was one of those 80 degree summer nights, I pulled on a pair of jeans, one of Dad's old flannel shirts, the protective goggles from my science kit,  and my grass-cutting Reebok's. I figured if I was going to do something ridiculous I might as well look the part.

Thank goodness my scatter-brained pre-teen self didn't think my ingenious plan through enough to grab the key's to Dad's new ride or I probably wouldn't be sitting here to write about it. Ten minutes later Dad found me in the garage sitting on the Harley shaking my fist at it because it wouldn't start. Rather than give me the scolding I deserved, Dad started laughing. Not the he-he that's-my-Becky-being-simple laugh but the one hand on the belly, one hand on the door frame, tears rolling down his cheeks laughing. Dad promised he wouldn't tell Mom if I let him take a picture. He kept that darn picture in his wallet until the day he died.

Dad certainly wasn't perfect and never claimed to be. As I grew up, I began to understand the impulsive way he made decisions as symptoms of the much larger disease that eventually claimed his life. But today I don't want to focus on the details of his death. I don't want to pass the blame, or fantasize about what if, because at the end of the day all I can expect from the past is wisdom for the future. On the day that marks the two-year anniversary of his passing, I want to remember the Dad who carried the picture of his four-eyed daughter with him wherever he went and who taught me that a good laugh is the best medicine for dealing with life's everyday absurdities.

Strength in What Remains

I created this blog as an outlet to aid in my transition from a college student to whatever God has in store for me in the next season of my life. Since it's summertime I thought I'd share with you some reflections from my summer reading list. I find summer reading list to be one of life's greatest pleasures. As a child, my grandmother enrolled me in at least two summer reading programs a summer, where I read picture books in exchange for stickers and coloring books. My eight year old self did not know that public libraries support children's summer reading programs to keep children intellectually engaged during the summer months. But it's not only children who need to remain intellectually engaged during the summer months. Adults too experience more downtime in the summer, and our culture encourages us to fill that downtime with mindless television (a la Jerseylisciuos and The Bachelorette) and beach romance novels that often leave us irritated and depressed about the fate of humanity.

After spending the first two weeks of my summer vacation gorging on Extreme Couponing and Dancing with the Stars, I decided that I need to be more deliberate with my summer reading list. My roommate recommended a wonderful book, Strength in What Remains by Tracy Kidder, that I just finished reading. The novel was my first self-conscious exploration of the creative non-fiction genre. The first half of the book explores Deo's journey from a Tutsi refugee from Burundi, to a homeless New Yorker, to a student at Columbia University. I loved the way Kidder juxtaposed Deo's experiences with history of Burundi's Hutu vs. Tutsi ethnic conflict. Before I read this book I was only aware of the Hutu vs. Tutsi conflict as it applied to Rwanda, Burundi's neighbor. (If you ever want to read a well written novel about Tutsi xenophobia in Rwanda I recommend Murambi, The Book of the Bones by Boubacar Boris Diop.)

The second half of the book documents Kidder and Deo's trips back to Burundi as Deo works to open a medical clinic in his hometown. Deo spends a lot of time visiting the memorials of the hundreds of thousands who died during the conflict. Many of the memorials contain a banner with "Jamais Plus" (Never Again) splashed across the front. Kidder questions the function of these memorials because they serve the tourist trade more than they do the survivors. The novel raised many questions I struggled with as an undergrad such as: what is the function/purpose of violence? How should a country deal with insurgencies without killing every insurgent? How can a nation move forward in respect to their past? What is the individual's responsibility in the peace process?

Do these questions have answers? Probably not. But the act of asking questions allows me to make sense of the problem, and one must understand the problem in order to envision a solution. The next book I hope will bring me one step closer to a solution for a problem I do not understand is Mother Theresa: Beyond the Image by Anne Sebba. I'm hoping to finish this book in the next week. I'll let you know how it goes :)