President Racist, Sexist, Greedy, Insecure, Whiny Farce-of-a-Man-Baby

Okay. Look. If you are still claiming Donald Trump is not a racist motherfucker, you are either a. delusional, or more likely, b. pretty damn racist yourself. If you are part of the 34% of this country’s population who still approves of this clown, what the fuck are you thinking? No, seriously. What the fuck are you thinking?

If you are not publicly and loudly condemning this shithead, why not? Are you that selfish, that self-centered? Or are you just a racist, misogynist piece of shit?

A woman is dead because she had the guts to stand up to a bunch of neo-Nazi fuckers who think some of the people I care about most in this world aren’t even human. Fuck that.

Violence on both sides? Fuck that. You do not get to stand up and denigrate other human beings for the color of their skin and then be pissed when people stand up to your bullshit. You can say whatever the hell you want to in this country, but no one has an obligation to listen to you or let you bully them.

The “president” hasn’t even called Heather Heyer’s family. Why? The answer should be pretty obvious by now: He’s a racist, sexist, greedy, insecure, whiny farce of a man baby.

If someone waved a knife or a gun at you, you’d probably feel pretty okay doing anything in your power to defend yourself. When an angry mob—because let’s be real, permit or no, that’s what this was—marches through town waving fucking swastikas and automatic weapons and your skin happens to be brown or black? Same thing. Bigger scale.

The other “side” (i.e. the absolutely, no question about it, wrong side) 100 percent lost their right to play the victim when they decided to take their rhetoric off the virtual pages of the internet and into the streets they share with their fellow citizens.

History won’t be silent on what happened this weekend in Charlottesville. Will you?

 

 

The adventures of Miss Migraine

Banner that says "The Adventures of Miss Migraine"

Exciting news! That is, if you like my blog. Or me. Which you probably do, because you’re reading this right now.

At any rate, I’m moving all of my content from my old migraine blog The Adventures of Miss Migraine right here to this very website!

I’ll be republishing most of my posts from that blog here, starting next Monday. I’m taking this opportunity to go back through this content, update posts, reflect, and possibly start working on a memoir. Maybe. We’ll see. At least a few longer essays, I’m sure.

You’ll see the “Adventures of Miss Migraine” banner pictured above on all my Miss Migraine posts. I’ll continue to aim for publishing one additional, non-migraine post later in the week.

Their Eyes Were Watching God and meta-storytelling with a frame narrative

Some critics have said Zora Neale Hurston’s novel about love and loss is not “good” because the narration slips between Janie’s dialect and the narrator’s voice.

I think Edwidge Danticat’s words in the introduction to Their Eyes Were Watching God say it best, though: “Hurston herself also becomes Janie’s echo by picking up the narrative thread in intervals, places where in real life, or real time, Janie may have simply grown tired of talking.”

The novel makes use of a frame.  We start at the end of the story, when Janie is returning home after burying her lover Teacake.  Hurston generates interest immediately when we hear the villagers gossiping about Janie and where she’s been.  We find out a lot about her character when she ignores all of them and decides to tell her story to her friend Phoebe only, who can then do as she wants with it.

So, Danticat’s explanation makes sense because Janie is telling her story to her friend Phoebe “in real time.”  It also sets up the narrator as a fly on the wall in Janie’s life, someone who is telling the story of Janie telling her story.

If we look at the way Janie tells her story, she is always frank and honest, and does not sugarcoat the truth, although there are some ugly ones in there.  But, more importantly, she tells the story in her own voice–and a strong voice it is.

Although writing in dialect has gone out of vogue and is generally considered disrespectful and crass, I think it’s integral to this narrative.  Perhaps Hurston could have conveyed the same dialect and inflection without “misspelling” words, but then we would read the story in our own voices, with our own pronunciation.

By using dialect in this way, Hurston forces us to read in Janie’s voice, and in the voices of the other characters.  We have to become them, if only for a moment, to experience their stories.  That makes the narrative immersive.

Despite the frame narrative and the fact that this is a novel about a woman telling her friend a story, I have difficulty calling it metafiction, because of how immersive it is, and how wonderfully it draws the reader in without calling particular attention to anything but the story itself.

Yes, the astute reader is going to think about the way Janie tells the story and the frame narrative and what it means, but a casual reader will probably not.  After all, who hasn’t sat down after a particularly difficult experience and told the story to a close friend or family member?

I also have difficulty not calling it metafiction, or meta-storytelling at the very least, because the book does proclaim—rather loudly—that this is Janie’s story, and Janie is telling it her way, and she is not making any apologies.  Not to her neighbors, and not to the reader.  And that is a proclamation that should make us think about the structure, characters, and why we tell stories to each other.

A version of this post first appeared on my now-defunct blog about metafiction, The Narrative in the Blog, on September 7, 2010.