30 Books in 2018 #16: Everything Is Terrible And Wonderful: A Tragicomic Memoir of Genius, Heroin, Love And Loss by Stephanie Wittels Wachs

I used to have nightmares about my brother dying.

My older brother dropped out of college in 2004. This was the height of the Iraq and Afgan wars. There was a lot of talk about reinstating the draft. I was in high school, and anxiety ridden anyway. And I had this image that recurred again and again in my dreams of a plain wood coffin, draped in an American flag, and my perfect charismatic beautiful wonderful big brother, dead as a doornail inside of it.

This image was in my mind as I read Stephanie Wittels Wachs heartbreaking and stunningly beautiful memoir about her brother Harris Wittels, who was a comedy world golden boy, an actual genius at his trade, and more importantly, at least to Stephanie, a drug addict.

The memoir is written in broken grief stricken sections. Flashing through the first year after Harris’s death and the two years before that, beginning when Harris confessed to her about his addiction.

There were a lot of horrible and wonderful things in this book. But as I read about how Stephanie worked through my worst my nightmare, I felt uplifted. (I sometimes think I’m too Irish and depressing things uplift me…) Perserverence through grief is incredible, and the rawness that Stephanie displays throughout is breathtaking.

The book is less funny than you might expect. Stephanie is angry so it’s hard for her to display her brilliant brother in all of his comedic glory. By the way, that’s not her job, either. Harris Wittels was prolific in his short life and so much of it is out there for the world to see (or hear, dude was on a lot of podcasts…)

But it’s also possible that reading about someone having to live through what is literally my worst nightmare, losing a sibling, killed the comedy for me. But the book is very good! You should read it.

I’m take a week off from regular reading (WHAT?) because I’m gearing up my research planner brain for a trip to Paris! (It’s not until fall 2019, but I’m a crazy person.) And I want to dig into some guide books. Also I have some writing to do. BUT I may also read some comics collections. (AHHH!!! I’m opening up the void!)


30 Books in 2018 #10: Persepolis: The Story Of A Childhood by Marjane Satrapi

I became seriously interested in stories about the Iranian Islamic Revolution about five years ago when I read Reading Lolita In Tehran. (THAT BOOK IS SO GOOD!) I’m pretty sure I watched the movie of Persepolis in college, but I watched a lot of things in college that I don’t really remember. (SO MUCH CHEAP WINE! And Yuengling.)

Anyway, Persepolis reminded me of Reading Lolita a lot, actually. It’s about the same group of people, the academic class of Iran, and specifically the women in it. Satrapi’s father was an engineer and her parents were staunch communists. The revolution started as something great for them, overthrowing the Shah, and creating a new more equal regime was something they’d work for.

But as fundamentalism took hold this group of people found themselves strangers in their own country. That’s explored much more deepy in Lolita, because Persepolis is about a girl, it’s about Marjane. And it captures the wierdness of being a kid in the best way.

Everytime Marjane gets in trouble or is confused because of adult contradictions, it’s perfectly executed. She doesn’t understand how her parents can be screaming about injustice and forgiveness one moments and then condemning others the next. She talks back to teachers, she loves western music and fashion.

Overall, there are a million little moments in Persepolis that are perfect encapsulation of that weird space in adolescence between childhood and adulthood. You think you know everything and the people around you know nothing. And every day it feels like the world will end.

But for teenagers who are literally living through a reset of their society and a deadly war, their world might actually end, not just figuratively and Marjane’s does, and also begins when her parent’s decide to send her to school in Europe to  give her a shot at a better life.

Seriously, though, one of the best things about reading memoir, particularly memoirs about people who’s lives seem different from yours, is finding the moments of universal intersection.

Up next is, Crazy Rich Asians because two memoirs of horrifying but not childhoods needs to be chased by some romantic comedy and conspicuous consumption.

30 Books In 2018 #9: The Glass Castle By Jeanette Walls

My years at college gave me a lot of things, but the thing that I took away from my studies that crops up unexpectedly is my love of creative non-fiction, more commonly called memoir, as a genre. Over the long five years I spent in Scranton I took courses in reading and writing this strange new world to me.

I’d read a few memoirs before college. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings obviously, and Our Mother’s Daughters by Cokie Roberts (my mom had been given this as a gift…) but I don’t know when, exactly, but I stumbled into reading incredible memoirs in college, for class and for pleasure, and I still make sure to read a few every year.

All of this prelude is to say, I’m not sure how I didn’t find The Glass Castle before the movie was released, but I missed it somehow and it’s sat on my TBR list for nearly six months now. (To be fair, last year was pretty well consumed by Vonnegut and King…but still.) I grabbed it a few weeks ago when I went to Barnes & Noble to tide myself over until the kindle returned.

Sunday night, I settled in and read the whole thing in four hours. I was absorbed by Jeanette Wells and her extraordinary and impoverished childhood. Her and her siblings escape from the poverty and cycle of addiction and despair is truly special. Walls’s pain at recounting her family’s despair, but also incredible hope is palpable on the page. And I fell into the book in a way I haven’t in so long.

My favorite thing about memoir is the reminder of the power of storytelling. Memoirs aren’t always history. My favorites are when they’re not about extraordinary people at all, but about normal people, every day people who’ve decided that their story is worth sharing. Walls feels like that. While what she and her brother and sister did, pulling themselves free of their parents is amazing, it’s not magical. It’s just true, it’s simply life.

Life is enough sometimes. Those small stories are great. They can be funny, and sad and wonderful and awful. Memoir has a power in that way that fiction doesn’t.

A long quiet weekend means a lot of reading for me. But also, as was sort of the plan with this project, I’m just back in the habit of reading. And, not forseen; I’ve fallen back in love with physical books. I’m still planning on using my kindle, it’s the best for trips, for things like YA series, when I don’t want to buy the books out of embarassment and ease. And I still have space constraints. (Although, I’ve left most of my old books at my moms, I’m building a new library here.)

Up next is Perepolis, which is another memoir I can’t believe I haven’t actually read. Frankly, I’m more shocked at this one. We read a bunch of graphic memoir in college. So much Bechdel. Even more Pekar. I haven’t read anything graphic in ages. (Well, I’ve been reading the Duck Tales comics, but that barely counts.)

30 Books in 2018 #2: Sisters First by Jenna Bush Hager & Barbara Pierce Bush

Sisters First.jpg

I kind of love the Bush twins.

Just like I love Megan McCain.

And I love Chelsea Clinton.

And I love Maria Shriver and Caroline Kennedy.

And will probably love Sasha and/or Malia Obama should they ever decide to live life publicly again.

I find people who had political childhoods fascinating. Particularly women who have come out interested in telling their own stories and the stories of other. Which is why when I opened the copy of Sisters First, the memoir that Jenna Bush Hager and Barbara Pierce Bush wrote together on Christmas I squeed and clapped my hands. (My sister received a copy of Chip and JoAnna Gaines’s book, The Magnolia Story, “This,” in Mary’s words, “is the difference between us.)

The book is slight, just over 200 pages, written as a series of essays, alternating between the two women, talking about their rather exceptional life, which was documented by outside sources from the beginning and yet somehow very private and as normal as was at all possible. But normalcy is impossible when The AP Wire has pictures of you within minutes of your birth.

We hear about their “wild party days,” (mostly a few fairly normal college bar hops) Jenna falling in love with her husband, (he was a young volunteer on the ’04 campaign) and the confluence of events that lead to Barbara starting her foundation. (It’s meant to be a sort of global version of Teach For America for health care providers. I find it fascinating and will be reading more.) Not to mention countless notes, emails and antecdotes from their father and grandfather. (The emails from HW are fascinating. They are adorable and kind of bonkers, and I definitely read them in Dana Carvey’s George Bush voice…)

While well written and creatively put together, I didn’t feel I came away from the book knowing either Jenna or Barbara much better than I do from their public personas, although I’m compelled to read much more about Barbara’s work, and about Barbara Bush, wife of George HW Bush. This makes the book something of a failure as a memoir. I didn’t expect any kind of deep expose on the Bush family, but some deeper insight into these two presidents and the women around them beyond, “Gampy likes fishing, and we sure were surprised when Dad started painting,” would have been nice.

There are glimpses of that, the note that W sent the girls on the eve of the Iraq invasion and the talk he had with them about his alcoholism after they got visibly drunk at a family function are deeply moving, and Jenna’s recounting of interviewing her grandfather on his 90th birthday shows flashes of something more, there’s just not enough there, there.

Still, the book made me cry a few times, if only because I’ve been missing my sister, and clearly these two love each other very much.

The Tattoo Is Only The Beginning

I was travelling this weekend so I got a lot of reading in. (Finished my Harry Potter reread! I’ll have something to say about that soon, but I discover new things about those books every time I touch them, and I need to sort it out.) And there was just no way that I was getting on a plane without Amy Schumer’s book, The Girl With The Lower Back Tattoo queued up in my Kindle. (Walking past it in the airports would have simply made me mad if I hadn’t done it.)

I’m glad I did, as Amy’s kind of meant a lot to me symbolically over the past few years and also because like her movie, her stand up and certain of her sketches, made me laugh and think and wonder at this tremendous woman and her talent.

The Girl With The Lower Back Tattoo is often raw, particularly when Amy (yes, I will talk about her like she’s a friend of mine, I feel very connected to this woman.) discusses her family and relationships. While often hilarious, her reality involving her father’s MS, her mother’s emotional abuse and her sexual assault as a teenager are all heartbreaking. But nothing compares to her story about her abusive relationship, which is presented in such a matter of fact manner that you just want to give her a million hugs afterwards.

My favorite element of the book however, was the way Amy printed and commented on her old journal entries. Journaling, by it’s nature, is a narcissistic practice and Amy manages to make an excruciating exercise relatable and fun.

Overall I enjoyed the book, and I know because of…stuff, Schumer is not the most popular person on the internet anymore…but I’ll just always appreciate her honesty, and the way she makes me laugh and reminds me of my friends.

Non, Je n’regrette rein

I haven’t finished Jen Lancaster’s newest memoir,  I Regret Nothing, because as hard as I tried I no longer have the ability to stay up until 4 in the morning and read a book the day it came out and still function in society the next day.

I would be sad about the loss of this superpower, but I’m figuring that listening to my body when it says, “turn the light off and close my eyes you asshole,” is probably better for me, because books don’t magically disappear off my Kindle the next morning.

But I’ve put a bunch of stuff on the backburner for this book, because there are books and writers that I like and then there’s Jen.

When I was in college, I was introduced to Jen in the weirdest way possible. Both Katie and Katherine sent me links to her work and asked, “OK, have you been writing under a pseudonym, this sounds just like you!”

The piece in question was about why being Team Jacob is the only acceptable reaction Twilight. This was even before Taylor was cast.

Never Forget.

Never Forget.

As I read her blog, “Jennsylvania” I was thrilled. I’d been taking a “non-fiction writing” class, and as much as I liked the various essayists we were reading and basing our work on in that class, none of them spoke to me the way Jen did. I read all of her books that were out at that time. (Bitter is The New Black, Bright Lights, Big Ass, and Such a Pretty Fat.) And waited in anticipation for the next ones. When depression kicked my ass so hard I had to leave school, move home and get a job, Jen was there for me. (Through her books, not literally.)

And then I started blogging. So much of my voice is my own, but a lot of it is influenced by Jen and her style. She would be appalled my many of the things I do. (She has expressed her distaste for adults who wear costumes more than once, and I obviously disagree on that score.) But my decision to go to Vegas this winter had a lot to do with her. (Jen is obsessed with Vegas, she was married there, and in Pretty in Plaid details her first solo trip, which I remembered when I was picking a vacation destination.) Anyone who’s been around for a while knows I used to treat the whole thing like kind of, well, nothing. My update schedule was, “Once a week, maybe, if I feel like it.”

Obviously that’s changed, and I’m glad it has, I really am. But the change came because of Jen Lancaster.

I went to a reading and signing of The Tao Of Martha at my local book store. I was so excited and was clutching my copy of Pretty In Plaid to have her sign. (Which in particular helped me feel better about my protracted academic career and 3 year search for something that felt even VAGUELY good after college) This was pre my convention days of running into my idols on a show floor and having to be cool and not super weird, and back in the shouting that “I’ve seen Camp 17 times” at Robin Dejesus after a performance of In The Heights days, so I was a little freaked that I’d word vomit all over my hero.

I walked up handed her the book, she said, “nice pants!” (I was wearing a pair of Lilly Pulitzer capris, on purpose, because I am a huge dork.) And I smiled and took a deep breath and said.

“I just want to say that your books have meant so much to me, and I’m a blogger and before you I just thought that blogging was bullshit, and then I saw that it wasn’t and it’s been great, and I just wanted to thank you.”

“Blogging is bullshit,” she grinned, “until it gets you somewhere. What’s your site?” I gave her the link and she asked what I write about. I explained it the way I always do and she laughed.

“So which Avenger would you make out with?” She asked. I laughed.

“It depends on the day,” I sighed, “but either Thor or Captain America.”

“I’d pick Captain America,” she said, “I mean, I like Thor, but I think that’s just the hair.”

We parted ways.

But this happened!

But this happened!

The new book is about creating and checking off items on a bucket list. I don’t think I’m ready to follow that model, but I’m really enjoying reading the book and seeing her journey this past year. I still read her blog posts, mostly on facebook.

But that’s why I’ve been sort of disengaged (at least for me) the past few days. I’ve been reading this book, and I’m thrilled.

Caged Birds and Inspiration: RIP Maya Angelou

There are certain touchstones for, well everyone, and I feel like Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” is one of those. If you ask people about poetry, this, or Robert Frost will probably be the first thing that they quote back to you. It’s one of those transcendent pieces of art that has taken on a life of it’s own.

I’m a really big fan of Dr. Angelou’s, like most incredible poets she was able to speak to humanity in so few and undeniably beautiful words. Her words inspired hope, stirred anger, and gave breath and life to so many ideas for so many people.

That might be why when I heard about her death yesterday I spent the rest of the day in a sort of weird, contemplative, melancholy haze.

Her autobiography, I Know why The Caged Bird Sings, was one of the first pieces of literature that I remember reading and fully understanding how something could speak to you and still be so far outside of your own experience. I didn’t have anything in common with Maya Angelou’s life, but I felt like I could see into her heart, and it was a beautiful thing.

I went to an all girl’s high school, and there wasn’t a day that I walked down the halls that Dr. Angelou’s words weren’t on some bulletin board. When I began my women’s studies curriculum in earnest at 20, I was able to understand a great deal of my reading because of my early exposure to her work, her ideals and her unique ability to make the complicated and personal seem simple and universal.


I’m glad that I’ve landed on that word, because I think it’s the right one to describe Dr. Angelou’s work. She was an exceptional woman, an incredible writer, and an inspiration to everyone who encountered her work, whether they studied it or simply let it touch their hearts.

Thank you, for everything, Dr. Angelou.

 The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.