Who's Afraid of Tobias Wolff?

    

     I was recently forced to re-read chapter one of Tobias Wolff’s memoir, This Boy’s Life, by a creative writing instructor who, judging by his selection of the reading material, was a Tobias Wolff protégée. 

    I found the first chapter of the memoir just as disturbing as I did eight years ago when I read the book for a local library book club. The memoir begins with the ten-year-old Tobias riding on the freeway in a car driven by his mother while being passed by a truck that lost its brakes. Soon, Mom and son arrive near the scene of the deadly accident--the aftermath of the truck going off the cliff. 

     What would you expect a ten-year-old to experience at the sight of this tragic scene? Shock, terror, sorrow at the loss of human life?  Apparently, the answer is none of the above for young Tobias.  The ten-year-old immediately begins to scheme of a way to turn this tragedy into a “souvenir opportunity” for himself, getting his mother to buy him several gifts from a near-by store that he knows she cannot afford.  So much for my naive belief that writers are sensitive observers of the world around them.

     Lecturing to the class, the childless Tobias Wolff protégée argued that you “cannot hold a ten-year-old boy accountable for such behavior.” Really?  “Especially,” he elaborated, “a ten-year-old with an abusive step-father.”  In other words, it’s O.K. for mistreated 10-year-olds to become heartless manipulators and we can expect no more from them!

     This was quite contrary to the feelings and opinions of the library book club members I heard eight years ago.  They were people like you and I—the readers, the market—people who are not affiliated with Stanford’s creative writing program, headed by Tobias Wolff.  Most book club members did not finish the memoir because they were so disturbed by how a young Tobias got away with lying, cheating, scheming, and stealing his way throughout his formative years.  In the back of our minds we were probably all wondering if that’s also how he became a successful author and academic as an adult. If that’s the case, then who needs good parenting? Should I be raising my kids to be sociopaths so that they can assume prestigious titles and positions in life?

     I know someone who claims to be Tobias Wolff’s neighbor—although she admits that the author probably wouldn’t recognize her.  Obviously, she recognizes him when she sees him walking down the street, because she likes to brag about how the author’s pooch goes crazy at the sight of her dog.  Personally, I would not want to cross the man’s path.  Yes, I am afraid of Tobias Wolff!

     So that’s it for my awkwardly-phrased, politically-incorrect post, possibly with typos.  For the elegant, beautifully-written prose of disturbing people and events, consult Tobias Wolff’s self-aggrandizing work.

Only A Mother

In case you’re wondering why there haven’t been any recent updated to my blog, I can summarize the reason in two words: summer vacation.  As of the middle of June, those wonderful long breaks, called school days, ceased.  Like many stay-at-home-moms with some resemblance or existence of a budget, I cannot justify putting my kids in an all-day camp. 

As a result I am left with the task of filling the time in-between scheduled summer activities with long meaningful, educational, and emotionally rewarding experiences for my children.  In short, I keep them away from the T.V. and from fighting with one another. 

At the end of the day, once the little darlings have gone to bed—one of them with a lot more fuss and struggle than the other--I can’t wait to jump into bed myself.  Words like “Google search hits” and “key words” just don’t carry the same weight as a “good night’s sleep.” 

I miss writing.  A lot!  Luckily, with much encouragement from my husband, I got myself into a creative writing class through an extension class at a local university.  I started at least writing, if not blogging, again regularly.

One of the recent class reading assignments was a short story by Edward P. Jones, The First Day.  It is about the first kindergarten morning in the life of a five-year-old girl.  Well actually, the story is not about the child, who happens to be the story’s narrator, but rather about the child’s illiterate mother’s struggle to enroll her daughter in the right public kindergarten.  The story openes with a beautifully-crafted, seductive sentence:

“On an otherwise unremarkable September morning, long before I learned to be ashamed of my mother, she takes my hand and we set off down New Jersey Avenue to begin my very first day of school.” 

I slowly savored the story, admiring its flawless poetic narration.  Then, shortly after finishing it, I called it a bluff.  The five-year-old narrator is so aware of her mother’s struggles with the public school system paperwork and placement that she seems to completely ignore her own childhood fears about starting kindergarten.   While the mother may be noticeably upset about not being able to enroll the child in one of the schools, the five-year-old remains calm and attentive to her Mom.   Her observations of what her Mom’s going through that morning shine with the emotional maturity, wisdom, and perception of an adult.  (And how many adults recall their first day of school with such clarity?)  Any mother whose child started kindergarten in a not-so-distant past would call this story a bluff.   If such five-year-old existed, she would be auctioned-off to the highest-bidding couple for billions of dollars.

 The First Day is included in the prestigious volume, “The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Short Stories,” edited by the literary giant, Tobias Wolff.  Needless to say, neither the story’s author nor the editor is a mother of a kindergartner.

Noticing this lyrical story’s fau pax makes one feel good about being a mother, about knowing something from direct experience.   Life and writing seem to require a strong and steady balance.  If you lean too much in one direction, your miss the other.  Forgive me, Edward P. Jones and Tobias Wolff!

Award-Winning Poetry

The award-winning poetry featured in one of my previous posts is not mine.  It belongs to my five-year-old son, Tyler, who as you may remember, entered a kindergarten poetry contest through his school. . . And won third prize!  While I was not privy to Tyler’s creative process as he penned the poem, I was the one to tell him about the prize.  His reaction?  “I knew I would win when I wrote that poem.  I KNEW it!!!” 

            While it’s hard to argue with the cocky self-confidence of a five-year-old, it is just as hard not to admire it.  If only his mom had this kind of cockiness about her writing.

Here’s Tyler’s poem again (ah, the wisdom from the mouths of babes):

 

Once there was a frog

On a log

With another frog

Tyler told me that the poem is about friendship.  That’s as far from Alienation as you can get.  Thank God!

A Little Poetry?

While re-reading my last post, I thought about how the feeling of alienation is not new to me.  For whatever reason, some of us, at some point in our life experience this sense of separation from others.  I remembered a poem I wrote in my twenties.  At the risk of sounding new-agey,  cliché-ish, or extremely right-brained, I can honestly say that the poem “came to me.”  I didn’t fully understand what the poem was about and did not title it back then. Now I realize that the most appropriate title for this poem is Alienation.  By the way, I am in no way promoting the state of alienation or suggesting that it’s the place to be.  I simply want to share this poem and dedicate it to those who at one point or another for one reason or another experienced a sense of isolation.  May none of us stay in that state for very long. 

                                    Alienation

                                    by Sonya Doernberg

The struggle with oneself begins

And who can win where no one wins

How can you not feel torn-apart?

When different voices rule your heart

And you don’t know left from right

Thick clouds of fog are in your sight

It makes you want to yell and scream

But nothing can come in-between

You and that ever-lasting fog

And even if they threw a rock

It could not penetrate the wall

You’re separated from it all.

The Rules of Alienation

The Rules of Alienation

Someone else’s dog licked my cell phone today, while I was waiting for my kids in front of the elementary school. The fully-grown golden retriever had no problems reaching the smart phone I clutched in my right hand.   For a second, I though he was going to answer my cell phone.

We recently moved into a small rural area that is somehow magically tucked away from the sprawling, forever-rushing urban metrapolis next door. The town's peacefulness and slower pace were seductive. I've noticed something unusual about our new town, though--it seems to make and break its own rules.  No matter how many reminders the school sends out about the “no dogs on campus” policy, some mothers insist on ruling their universe by continuing to bring dogs to school.   This is the same community that had the Earth Day celebration a week after the fact, because the town hall was booked with some God-knows-what function on the actual day.

Standing in front of the school, I’m surrounded by conversations about play dates, swimming pools, country clubs, etc.  The tight circles of our small town seem impossible for a newcomer like me to penetrate.  Even though I’m surrounded by moms, I feel invisible, as the conversation flows from one established resident to another, somehow making detours to avoid me.  I finally excuse myself from the group I’m next to, pretending to have something on my cell phone that requires my immediate attention.

Oh, yeah, back to the golden retriever who ran up to me only to slobber all over my cell phone.  After a bit of sanitizing, I found it next to impossible to stay angry at him, even though I am not a dog person by any stretch of the imagination.  After all, the golden retriever was being genuinely friendly.  Not something I can say of the moms I was surrounded by.

My Five-Year-Old WROTE That!

My Five-Year-Old WROTE That!

In my opinion, a five-year-old boy is too young to have his own blog.  This leaves me no choice but to post my son’s work on mine.  As far as I know, no child labor laws have been violated.  Besides, he wrote the poems for the kindergarten poetry day, not for me.   Since his kindergarten will not, at any point in time, become the sole and proprietary publisher of his poetry, no copyrighting laws have been violated either. Generous royalties will be paid as requested by the writer.  They will be in the form of backpack decorations and a remote control robot. 

Poems by Tyler D.

Writer’s Age: 5 (and a half)

Poem 1

Once the Lorax went to a hill and found a log.

Then he rested on the log.

Poem 2

Once there was a frog,

On a log,

With another frog!

Important Disclaimers: No children, animals, or trees were hurt or treated cruelly during the production of these poems. The opinions expressed in them are solely of the writer and do not represent the opinions of the blogger or the rest of her family.  The writer does not support or suggest cutting down trees but, being an artist, simply expresses what he sees.  Any resemblance of or reference to a fictional character is exactly that—a reference to a fictional character.  Neither the writer nor the publisher promote or support the production of the newly released motion picture, The Lorax.  They neither suggest nor deny it as a possible source of inspiration or influence.   While the writer owns a frog, any resemblance of the frogs in Poem 2 to the frog that the writer owns is purely co-incidental.  The frogs in the poem are the product of the writer’s imagination and constitute a work of fiction.  The writer is in no way suggesting or supporting the reproduction of amphibians or their use of tree stumps or limbs, but is simply noticing frogs’ occasional and most likely, accidental, companionship occurring on logs.  Both poems are deemed appropriate for young audiences by a set of undisclosed parents of five-year-old boy/girl twins.

Fairies Away!

Fairies Away!

Imagine my surprise when a friend told me that Daisy Meadows, the author of countless daisy stories, is not a real person.  I thought the woman loved writing about fairies so much that she changed her name for the sake of her fictional fairy mission. 

No one knows exactly why five-year-old girls become fascinated with predictable  stories--lacking as much in plot as in character development--in which two friends, Rachel and Kirsty,  battle the evil Jack Frost and his goblins to help the fairy kingdom retain its magical prowess.  No one with the exception of the mythical Daisy Meadows and a very real army of ghost writers who got the formula down for getting five-year-olds hooked on their books knows.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t tell the stories apart.  They all blend together replicating one another.  Since I can’t ruin a story that repeats itself over and over again, I can tell you that in every book Rachel and Kirsty succeed in protecting the fairy kingdom, defeating Jack Frost and his goblins.  I know that the fairies have different colors and magical powers assigned to them.  Which fairy goes with which color and magical power, you might ask.  If you as a parent can answer this question, give yourself a gold star! I would have to struggle to remember their individual names and powers.  I also know that it’s almost impossible to tell Rachel and Kirsty apart as the two seem to be cloned to me.

As for my daughter, she’s doing what all her friends are doing along with millions of girls across the country—looking forward to getting a different fairy book out of the school library each week.  She is as dedicated to getting and listening to the Daisy Meadows series as the rest of her peers.  I wonder if she will recall any of the cloned stories or characters years from now.  I know I will, but only because I’ve read the same story in each of the series’ books.

Corners

     I can't believe that after all the drama my twins put me through, neither one of them wants to try out for the school play.  Both Arielle and Tyler made it very clear that they do not want to act, sing, dance, or do any activity that involves performing in front of an audience.


     "I would be SO embarrassed!" Tyler said.  This is coming from a kid who once mockingly bit his hand and dropped to the kitchen floor to express his shock and disbelief when I asked him to close the refrigerator door.  "Hollywood, Broadway" went through my mind. 

     Arielle not only echoed Tyler's sentiment, but quoted him word for word.  That's the girl who want my attention ALL the time.  "Mommy liked being on stage when she was a little girl" I told her the morning of the try-outs. "It made me feel like a star!"  By the way, I usually don't talk about myself in the third person, but if it works for Elmo . . .

     "Mommy, star!" Arielle replied and stroked my cheek--very sweet but no indication of a desire to get on stage.  Both kids expressed an interest in helping paint the set.  So, instead of reaching for the spot light, they were going to paint themselves into a corner!?!?!?

     When I was about their age, I discovered that the terror I initially felt when asked to stand on a chair and recite a poem in front of company, can magically turn into a thrill.  When school plays came along, I realized that the bright stage lights make it impossible for the actors to see the audience.   The best part was that the audience never talked back.  So, by being in a play, I thought, you get all of the attention and none of the "talk-back!"  I don't think the expression "captive audience" was a part of my vocabulary then.  I certainly appreciated the concept even if I couldn't verbalize it.

     If you're wondering why you've never heard of me, that's because the dream of being an actress lasted only through my tween years.  It was a temporary childhood/adolescent fascination, not a life-long dream or calling.  Although, the thrill of performing stayed with me through adulthood and gave me quite a high when  I got to sing the National Anthem--along with about twenty other people, all members of the Foster City Community Choir--at a Giants game a few years back.   It was that old "terror-into-thrill" experience, intensified by the largest "captive audience" I've ever had.

     It would be accurate to say that my children don't share most of my interests.  Although, I got excited when Tyler asked me to read him a book in late afternoon!  An avid reader myself, I cringe when I hear "books are boring" from my kids--although some books are boring indeed. Tyler's book of choice was If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.  Both kids pulled their chairs next to mine (that's as close to a Hallmark moment as this story will ever get) so that they could follow along (we're working on reading skills.)  

     My son's gaze quickly wondered to a catch-up bottle label, which I promised I would read AFTER we finished the book.  I pointed and read both the writer's and illustrator's names--of the book, that is, not the catch-up bottle.  We talked about the meaning of the word "illustrator."   "How do you get to draw so good?"  Tyler asked pointing to a profile of a smiling mouse puffing tiny clouds of "super beauty powder" into the air.  Did I ever tell you that I was the kid who NEVER drew anything?  

     "Well," I thought out loud, "You probably spend a lot of time drawing and also looking at other people's drawings to see how they did it."  In addition, I felt it was my duty to tell them that the rats and field mice who live in our neighborhood are not nearly as enchanting and harmless as Felicia Bond's creation. 

     Yes, we made it to the end of the book, which, as everyone knows ends with the beginning.  Ah, that literary technique of taking the kids through the process to a predictable ending.  How about some suspense for the adult reading the book to the children?  After we finished, Tyler excitedly traced the pictures in the book (on tracing paper, of course) while Arielle cheered him on. 

     "We have an artist in the house!" Arielle announced.  

     The try-outs for the play were a few days ago.  It just occurred to me that I could have explained to Arielle that you can't see your audience when you're on stage and it's hard to feel embarrassed.  Oh, well, there's always next year's play.

Twin Symphonies

There comes a time in a parent's life when you get to witness your child's first trip to the symphony.  The music, at that point, becomes irrelevant, and what you are really paying attention to is your child, or, in my case ( I have five-year-old twins), children's reaction to the grand event. 

The San Francisco Symphony does their darnest to engage yound minds in the 35-minute, "especially-for-kids," performance.  The conductor, Donato Cabrera , turns around to address their predominantly young (with the exception of the few gray-haired parents like us) listeners, encouraging them to clap and even shout to some of the pieces. 

Despite the Symphony's earnest college try to entertain elementary school students, many kids, especially those whose feet cannot reach the ground from the fine upholstered chairs,end up being fascinated by the seat's up and down rocking motion.  The kids' mass is just not heavy enough yet to keep the darn "flip-flop" seat down the adult mass can.  My advice to the Symphony:  have the kids rock in those chairs to music!  Surely, there must be a classical kids that can accommodate that tempo.  May be Liszt's "Grand Galop Chromatique?"

The school did a fine job in preparing the youngsters for the big day.  They've been playing the Symphony's CD in class for weeks and giving tips on what to do during the concert.  Apparently my daughter's teacher told the kids that they could close their eyes to enhance their enjoyment of the music.  My daughter took that advice to heart.  Not only did she close her eyes, but she assumed a meditative yoga position, sitting cross-legged on the flip-flop seat with her palms facing up.  I guess those yoga classes at the J didn't go to waste after all.

I could not sit in-between my twins per school's instructions.  The adults were to spread their presence among children.  My husband sat next to our son at the other end of the row behind us.  Every once in a while I would twist my neck to see how he (my son) was handling his first exposure to live symphony.  For a kid who can't sit still, he did great!  No flip-flopping on the chair for him.  He was all ears.  My husband later told me that my son recognized and named one of the musical pieces.  Hurray!!!!