"The Lady With The Dog" Response

Anton Chekov's short story, "The Lady With The Dog" tells the tale of an adulterous love affair between Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna.  It starts out innocently enough, with him catching sight of her and her little dog by the sea and desiring her acquaintance.  Their relationship then grows to an ongoing romance, until Anna's husband's failing health summons her home.  Years pass by without each other until, Dmitri can no longer bear his intense longing and travels to Petersburg to find her.  She agrees to meet with him regularly in Moscow, but resents the life of secrecy they both must lead.  As the plot wraps up, the couple vow to find a way to be together always.

The writing is incredibly detail-oriented.  Chekov sets the scene in his story with sentences such as, "The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us," (Chekov).  This excerpt provides a tone of waiting.  He gives to impression that there is something big looming on the horizon, just awaiting the tipping point.  This is a fitting tone because the sentence describes one of the last moments the couple spends together before fate pulls them apart.  Chekov uses the words "monotonous" and "hollow" to foreshadow the lives that await the star-crossed lovers when they are parted.  Their separation can be viewed as something akin to death, to "the eternal sleep awaiting us."  The way that Chekov can imply so much simply by describing the scenery is very impressive.

Additionally, the author uses Anna's little Pomeranian as a reoccurring motif. Dmitri notices the dog running along behind his owner when first day he spots her on the beach.  Then, later, when he is in Petersburg searching for his lost love, the dog is the first familiar face he sees in the unfamiliar town.  The dog becomes, in some ways, an extension of Anna.  Dmitri first thinks nothing of it, as he does of her; then, when his passion burns high, he is gripped with desire to call out to the dog as if Anna would hear.

Overall, the writing is clearly carefully thought out and Chekov obviously knows how to manipulate his language to serve his purposes.

Millennials

Response to these two articles: 1) http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/11/17/how-to-live-without-irony/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0  2) http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/01/opinion/sunday/millennial-searchers.html?pagewanted=2&_r=0

The first article, "How to Live Without Irony" by Christy Wampole, address the current trend of being insincere and sarcastic.  She states that Generation Y, also known as the millennials , have been excessively using irony as a mask to hide from any real emotions.  Wampole explains that irony is "a function of fear and pre-emptive shame, ironic living bespeaks cultural numbness, resignation and defeat" (Wampole). By making shallow jokes, the millennials have managed to close off themselves to criticism.  When being ironic, one is essentially mocking them self; therefore, "no attack can be set against it, as it has already conquered itself." (Wampole).  Generation Y is losing the art of connecting to others because of the mass obsession with insincerity.

The second article, "Millennial Searchers", by Emily Esfahani Smith and Jennifer L. Aaker addresses a similar phenomenon.  This piece explains the shift in life goals over the past few decades.  Previously, people were primary concerned with making a living, however, in recent years, the trend has shifted to preoccupation with giving one's life meaning.  Social psychologists have defined meaning as "a cognitive and emotional assessment of the degree to which we feel our lives have purpose, value and impact". Studies have shown that people tend to show greater concern for others during economic hardships than in times of prosperity. Perhaps this is why the millennials have adopted the focus on this goal.  This general is living through the greatest economic crisis since the Great Depression.  It only seems natural to have concern for the other people sharing this misfortune.

"Shitty First Drafts" Response

Within the book, "The Making of a Story" by Alice LaPlante, Anne Lamott has a section titled "Shitty First Drafts".  In the section, she rebuts the misconception that many aspiring writers hold, assuming "good" writers are always full of brilliance and inspiration.  On the contrary, Lamott states almost all good writers write terrible first drafts and build from that point.

  She recants a method used by a friend of hers; a writer breaks up the process into three drafts; "the first draft is the down draft- you just get it all down. The second draft is the up draft- you fix it up. [...] And the third draft is the dental draft where you check every tooth to see if it's loose or cramped or decayed or even, God help us, healthy," (Lamott).  She emphasizes that authors should write the first draft expecting it to be shitty, knowing no one will read it.  The first draft allows a writer to compose their thoughts and ideas and figure out what they want to say; after that they can fine-tune how they want to say it.

Another interesting piece of writing advice found in this section is an exercise given to Anne Lamott by her hypnotist to help clear her mind.  She alludes to a multitude of voices in her head, all bouncing around and doing different things.  I can relate to this phenomenon, as I often become distracted by fictitious and fantasy situations being played out in my head.  The hypnotist suggests "isolat[ing] one of the voices and imagin[ing] the person speaking as a mouse.  [Then] pick[ing] it up by the tail and drop[ping] it into a mason jar," (Lamott).  He says to repeat the process with each voice then visualize the volume of the jar being turned way up, then all the way down to mute.  Once this process is complete, the author can resume their first draft.

This section is very useful for beginning writers because it reassures them that perfection does not just happen, as well as providing some helpful tips to improve the process.

"Tapka" Response

David Bezmozgis' fictitious short story, Tapka, tells a childhood memory of a young boy charged with looking after his neighbors' dog, Tapka.  The child, Mark, and his family are Russian immigrants with minimals english, traits they share with their neighbors, Misha and Rita Nahumovsky.  When the Nahumovsky's moved to Canada, their precious dog, Tapka was put into temporary quarantine.  Upon her release, Rita is overjoyed and young Mark eagerly bonds with the animal.  Soon, Mark and his friend, Jana, are entrusted with the responsibility of playing with Tapka during their lunch breaks from school.  On fateful afternoon, the dog lost sight of her toy and, instead, chased after a bird... directly into traffic.  After an emotional trip to the vet, it is determined that the dog will be ok, however, it is implied that the children will never be forgiven for that moment of error.

This piece has a very well developed story arch.  It starts out with Mark only hearing anecdotes about the mysterious dog, then he meets her, which leads to his close bond with the creature, and the eventual tragedy.

Additionally, the Bezmozgis' use of imagery added tone to the accident scene.  He kept repeating the word "red" over and over, giving a sense of blood everywhere, or at least it would seem that way to a young child.  "I hadn’t expected it to be red, although I also hadn’t expected it to be not-red. Set against the gray asphalt and her white coat, Tapka’s blood was the red I envisioned when I closed my eyes and thought: red," (Bezmozgis).  The repeated use of this adjective makes the injured dog's blood the uncontested center of the scene and adds emotion to the moment.

The story is tied up nicely at the end when the narrorator realizes that, despite the fact that the creature will survive, in Rita's mind he "killed Tapka and [he] will never be forgiven," (Bezmozgis).  Admittedly, it is not the most uplifting end to the saga, however, it is clean and definite; it does not leave the reader with any unanswered questions about the fate of the characters. 

New Adventures

"Hallo! Velkommen til Skogfjorden!"  I was greeted by this unfamiliar babble as the rental car entered the gates of Concordia Language Village's Norwegian camp.  The warm, Minnesota sun filtered through the thick evergreens and the dust from the gravel road swirled in the air.  I had never heard a word of norwegian but was attending this one-week summer camp at my grandmother's insistence.  Butterflies danced in my stomach as my mother and I filled out basic paperwork and got checked in.  To the young, untraveled American, it was like entering a whole different world.  Everybody was speaking norwegian to me from the moment I set foot in the parking lot.  Of course, they didn't leave me completely in the dark, after looking at my terrified, uncomprehending face, the councilors would mime out their sentences and even throw a few english words in.  The cultural barrier wasn't my only concern, despite almost entering middle school, I had only had one other sleep away camp experience and it... hadn't ended well.  Once my my bed had been claimed and my bags unpacked, it was time for the dreaded, inevitable goodbye.

The days went well, filled with new friends, new food, and new language; but when the sun set, I started missing home.  In my mind, I had formulated an "escape plan."  I had pictured myself packing up my belongings and trekking along the miles of gravel road in the cool, midnight air. The separation anxiety led to sleeplessness and the next thing I knew I was tip toeing into one of my counselors' rooms.  Siri, the counselor of choice, was a perky young woman with strawberry blonde curls.  She was immensely patient and stayed up for several hours helping me cope.  The one thing Siri would not do was allow me to use her cell phone to call my mom.  "Hearing your parent's voice makes the homesickness worse" she assured me.  Instead, we spent a decent amount of the night reading norwegian folktales and trying to take my mind off the situation at hand.  Eventually I was able to drift off to a few fleeting hours of sleep until European pop music awakened the camp at seven AM.

The rest of the week was tolerable.  I made a calendar on a sheet of notebook paper and counted down the days until I would see my family.  However, despite the almost crippling separation anxiety I managed to enjoy the multitude of activities and games that filled my days.

Eventually, friday rolled around.  After a few hours of songs and recitations to, essentially, show off to the parents what we had learned during the week, we were finally reunited with our guardians.  At the time, I admitted to having a fun week, but swore I would never go back.  Little did I know, I would spend two weeks every summer for the next three years entirely immersed in Norwegian on the shores of Turtle Lake.

"How The Other Half Lives" Response

Response to this NYTimes article: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/07/magazine/how-the-other-half-lives.html?ref=lives&_r=0

This life piece by Tara Clancy demonstrates the marked difference in social class.  In this nonfiction story, Clancy recounts her childhood experiences with her mother's wealthy boyfriend.  She uses juxtaposition to highlight the stark contrast between her daily life in Queens and the millionaire's Bridgehampton mansion.

This contrast is most clearly explained through the metaphor: "we became superwomen, able to jump social strata in a single bound!" (Clancy).  She uses this technique to emphasize the almost seamless transition between her daily life at school and the jet setting, glamorous world of the man in the pinstripes.

Additionally, the author uses food to differentiate between the two lifestyles.  She describes the transition of returning home after a weekend with the man saying "Dinner went from being leek tarts and foie gras to the Burger King drive-through or homemade pasta e fagioli," (Clancy).  She takes something trite and mundane and utilizes it to add a sense of tone to her piece.  Food is something that everybody partakes in, but nobody thinks much of.  However, when the subject is raised, it is painfully obvious just how different ways of life can be.  Tara Clancy also continues her food motif in her conclusion by stating that "foie gras doesn’t have anything over a good pasta e fagioli" (Clancy).  In this statement n her closing paragraph, she sums up her experience with another way of life, acknowledging it's merits, but remaining loyal to the life she was born and raised into.

The author effectively communicated her story by giving it a clear beginning and ending.  She starts off the article by explaining her mothers brief romance with her father.  She explains that after the divorce, the older woman is hesitant to rush into another serious relationship, thus ending up in an intense, but noncommittal relation with a man who once employed her.  After recalling the saga of their fling, Clancy neatly ties up the loose ends by proclaiming that everything comes to an end, and her mother married a mailman "who grew up around the corner from her in Brooklyn"(Clancy).

"I Am A Video Camera" Exercise

The late afternoon sunlight filters blithely through the branches of the overhead trees.  They cast just enough shadow to engulf the serene, blue fountain in darkness, but bathe the benches across the water in dazzling warmth.  The water dances in the light, January breeze; the same breeze brushes my hair across my face.

In this beautiful weather, the circle is abuzz with activity.  An elderly couple meanders past, each holding the hand of a young girl, maybe three or four years old.  The girl immediately runs to investigate the fountain.  The woman encourages the child’s curiosity by pointing out “look, it’s changing”.  After the girl’s intrigue has been satiated, the group moves along.  As they leave, the woman reminds her granddaughter to “wipe your hands on your shirt, remember its just water.” 

A few moments later, a young mother passes by with her four-year-old daughter.  This little girl is sporting a striped, pink dress and little curly pigtails tied off with sparkly bands.  The pair passes the fountain and instead unfolds a bright pink blanket at the base of a large evergreen, creating a makeshift picnic area. 

Almost simultaneously, yet another young mother comes along, this time with a baby who is still learning to walk.  She clutches her infant’s hands as the child teeters along the edge of the fountain.  The woman lifts the baby up and perches her on the edge of the fountain. Then she aids the young one in walking delicately around the rim of the large pool of water.  Over the gurgling and splashing comes the easily recognizable cooing and giggling of a new mother with her child.  The baby stretches it’s feet toward the shimmering pool of blue, barely splashing her toes in the surface. 

Another mother comes along, this time accompanied by a four-year-old boy in a black shirt with fiery red hair and a toddler donned in grey.  The older boy insists on playing hide and seek, darting behind the large tree where the picnic is still occurring.

Meanwhile, the young couple has engaged their baby in a game of peek a boo, completely covering the child’s head with her mothers straw hat.  Occasionally they pause the game to shower their baby in kisses.  As they hold the hat above the kid’s head, tiny hands stretch upward, trying to grasp the new toy.

“Mom, come get me!” The redheaded boy exclaims.  “I’m gonna get you!” his mother responds playfully.  When it’s her turn to be “it” the woman runs around the circle with exaggerated slowness, giving her son a fair chance to catch up.

“Excuse me, are you a registered California voter? I look up from my mess of sloppy quotes and blue lines.  In front of me is a tall black man with gray hair and glasses holding a bundle of papers.  I reply “yes”, truthfully.  He goes on to explain that he wants to have a law lowering the cost of healthcare put on the ballot and needs two hundred signatures.  I’m generally skeptical about solicitors, but seeing no harm in having the option to vote on something, I agree to sign.  He thanks me and moves on the fiery hair boy’s parents.

Shortly after, the two four-year-olds have discovered each other.  Their moms attempt to encourage conversation, but the girl shyly smiles and ducks her face, hiding against her mother.  “Don’t be shy,” her mom urges.  “How old are you?” the boy’s mother asks the girl; she enthusiastically holds out four fingers.  Amidst the white noise surrounding me, I hear the girl’s mom saying to the boy, you’re four, too?  What’s your name?”  “Wyatt” is the response.  After some coaxing the two children engage in a mixed game of hide and go seek and tag.  “Don’t run with the lollipop!” the adults warn the girl.  As she attempts to catch the fiery redhead, the supervisors comment on her chances.  One mother declares “it’s like no match at this point,” referring to the to the boy’s obvious advantage.  The girl takes a break and wanders over to the water fountain for a drink, standing on her tiptoes to reach the flow.  The boy dubs this lack of attention unacceptable and quickly tries to recapture her interest.  “Heeeey!” he taunts, coming up behind her.  He pus his face directly in front of hers and runs away.  Only too soon, the game is over and the two must part ways.  The girl’s mother calls out “bye Wyatt!” as he straps on his on green triceratops helmet and leaves on his razor scooter.

Across the fountain, a man on the verge of his golden years has been sitting in a green windbreaker for quite some time with his Jack Russell terrier on his lap.  Both the man and the dog have been content to relax by the rushing water, watching the townspeople come and go, but now it is time to leave.  The man gives his furry friend a kiss on the top of its head and sets the creature on the ground.  The two take their time as they head home.

Meanwhile, a group of young teenagers pass, each holding a Starbucks cup.  There are two boys and a girl whose plaid skirt proclaims private school.  As they go by, their matching St John’s sweatshirts confirm this assumption.  “God damn it’s cold,” one boy hypotheses about the fountain.  They nonchalantly dip their into the water as if to confirm this theory.  As they continue on their way down Chapman Avenue, one boy makes a very reckless, teenage decision and darts between the traffic to the sidewalk.

“Hi,” a high-pitched voice immediately in front of me chirps.  I look up into the big blue/green eyes of the little girl with the pigtails.  Of course I say “hi” back and she smiles and runs off to investigate the fountain for what must be the tenth time today.  Her leggings, bare feet, and irritable curiosity remind me of my own childhood.

As the sun finally starts to set, a young man in a black backwards baseball cap begins to strum away at an acoustic guitar.

"So Long Ago" Response

For me, the most striking thing about Richard Bausch's short story,  "So Long Ago", is the way the author created a sense of the fragility of time.  Bausch's writing had a tone of nostalgia that made me think of smoke slipping through fingertips. 

The first time I felt this tone, was when the author recalls the moment his son forgot a precious piece of his childhood.  He states that the child had no trouble remembering that day two weeks prior but, “one winter evening as [they] were riding in the car on the way to a movie” (Bausch) he discovered his son had lost all recollection of the event.  This instance made me realize just how delicate the human mind is.  When it comes down to it, at the end of our life, the only thing we really have of value is our memories.  The fact that they can just disappear without a trace is unnerving at best.

The importance of memories, especially in one’s golden years is highlighted by the author’s anecdote of his great grandmother.  He recalls her telling him all the stories of her youth and “coming from Ireland on a ship” (Bausch).  She insisted young Richard would grow up to become a writer and tell her tales.  The emphasis the elderly women put on the accounts of her days gone by shows just how much value such memories hold.  She was well aware she was coming to the end of her life, and chose to spend her last years reflecting on all the joys and the sorrows she had experienced throughout her time on Earth, savoring the human experience.

I really enjoyed this piece of literature because it forced me to think about my own memories and reflect on the events of my past.  It really highlights the fact that experiences are more than just the past; they are stories waiting to be told.  Every emotion, for better or for worse is a vital part of being human and we have an inherent need to express ourselves and share the experience with others.