White Oleander - Intro

A writing teacher once told me to be careful about overusing adjectives.  By over describing, and giving every shred of detail outright, he warned that I took away from my reader the pleasure of creating that place or thing in their own mind. He called it a “sign of overreaching, a signal of unsureness on the writer's part”.   As a reader, I’m inclined to agree with him. As I make my way through a book, I appreciate being led, not pushed into making decisions about a character or a setting. I don’t want to be told that someone is racist, has poor taste, or lacks judgment.  I want to make that decision myself after that character describes Oprah as “nothing but a fat nig-nog who doesn’t hold a candle to Sallie Jesse Raphael”.  A skilled writer will make you work to be a part of the foreign world they create on the pages of your favorite book. You learn new slang, adapt to a character’s quirky pattern of speech. You create a road map in your mind of unfamiliar street names and building landmarks that you’ve never seen in real life. You imagine what an Oleander smells like, or what desert heat feels like even if you’ve spent your whole life surrounded by pine trees and coastal fog.  And regardless of how exotic these new characters and places are, you relate. In providing some of the details and omitting others, the writer offers you the opportunity to find parts of yourself in even fictional characters. You recognize scenarios or emotions that are tangible memories, not simply created in the mind.

Astrid Magnussen’s life doesn’t resemble my own in any way. I stumbled upon her story accidentally while home faking sick from school one day in 1999. As I lounged in luxury, watching daytime television in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, I was introduced to her coming-of-age struggle through the Los Angeles County foster care system.   Our positions in life couldn’t be more different; I lived a comfortable life with my family in rural Maine, she bounced from home to home after her mother was imprisoned for murder. I had friends at school and support from my teachers and parents, while Astrid dealt with domestic abuse, statutory rape, suicide, and isolation.  Although chosen as an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Janet Fitch’s “White Oleander” lacked the irritating optimism that I identified with the Oprah Winfrey brand.  As a somewhat depressed middle school student, I yearned to feel raw emotion good or bad, to have tragedy and drama and challenges in my life beyond petty squabbles on the playground and arguments with my parents over my clothing allowance.  I was drawn to this novel, and devoured it cover to cover in one sitting. It remains one of my favorite books to this day.

Generally I gravitate towards memoirs and biographies, but of the hundreds of books that I own, I come back to “White Oleander” time and again.  This novel, set in southern California, chronicles the fictional, extraordinary string of events that make up Astrid’s survivalist journey.  Although I generally prefer to read about real people and real events, the world that Fitch creates is so authentic and believable, yet altogether alien, that it continues to offer me a unique type of escapism, and opportunity for self exploration each time I read it.

I’ve probably read this story six or seven times over the last decade. Initially I was drawn to Astrid’s story because I wanted to experience a world more exciting than my own. Subsequently I fell in love with the style of writing in this book, the juxtaposition between poetic tangents and specific descriptors.  Fitch doesn’t shy away from foul language, sex, violence, or drugs. Nothing is gratuitous.  Her confidence as a writer shines through in the decisions she makes about how much or how little to reveal about a specific character or events.  Although she never reveals too much, she communicates each fragmented part of Astrid’s reality fully enough to offer a framework for exploring the very human, very relatable themes of love, loneliness, abandonment, self reliance, and ultimately survival.  

TheSuperficial.com

Growing up in a small town I know first hand the human tendency to talk about other people’s lives. I know how rumors get started, and I recognize that sometimes they are based on reality, and other times they are made up entirely, a diversion from boredom or a malicious attempt to slander someone else.  I know that when you have a senior class of nine people, and a town population of less than 500 with no movie theater, no restaurants, and no ferry running after 5pm, gossiping is often the only activity available.  

Now, long after fleeing the nest and surrounded by a bustling city with plenty of stimulation at every turn, I am still drawn to the nosy habit of gossip. Every morning after the dog has been fed and a pot of coffee has been made, I am tempted to switch on the TV rather than fix breakfast.  If watching Elizabeth Hasslebeck tailspin into a panic attack as she is verbally beat down by her co-panelists proves too redundant and uninteresting on an given morning, I can plop myself in front of the computer and instantly access ten different blogs that succinctly summarize the day’s “news”, considerate enough to lead with the celebrity lifestyle items, and leave that serious stuff about Japan or the Middle East out of the mix. If I get ambitious and decide to click over to CNN or the BBC, I am still inundated with stories that all but ignore the serious issues affecting the world, and instead chronicle Charlie Sheen’s self-indulgent addiction fueled meltdown. The modern state of the news raises questions about the rest of the country. Are we really all just small town gossip mongers at heart?

The blogs I read everyday serve as the equivalent of my generation’s morning paper. Except instead of getting caught up on current affairs and international news items, I scan through page after page of speculative gossip. So and so might be pregnant, that couple is getting divorced, this young starlet went on a 48 hour drinking binge and blamed her tardiness to the set the next day on “exhaustion”.  Even reputable news outlets lead with entertainment news items, because the public demands it. These stories increase page views, raise advertising spending, and ultimately feed the conglomerate media machine that controls the majority of news today. These manufactured gossip stories subliminally promote new movies, books, or albums, utilizing cross promotion by making sweeping judgements about the personal lives of the actors, authors, and musicians responsible for today’s hottest new material.  We are a culture obsessed with celebrity, living vicariously through the lives of otherwise ordinary people whose looks or bad behavior have somehow catapulted them to stardom, placing them on a pedestal that sadly, many aspire to, and even more strive to tear down.  

What about those important people in New York City and Los Angeles, don’t they have better things to do than discuss how many pounds she gained and how many affairs he had around the water cooler? Aren’t there actual important issues facing our country, like health care reform and defense spending, and the state of the economy? What about Libya and Tunisia, and the nuclear weapons Iran is surely hiding? Or what about the environment, and the growing disparity between the rich and the poor. What about the Tea Party, besides just making fun of them for being nut-jobs, doesn’t anyone else realize how potentially dangerous those people are?

NO. No one cares. We are so obsessed with entertainment news, we can no longer even distinguish between actual content and shameless promotional advertising. Journalism itself is a dying industry, taken over by conglomerate media interests that protect profit margins and advertising budgets rather than promote meaningful content.  Reality television is a multi-billion dollar industry, spinning the artificial lives of uninteresting people into half hour long segments of product placement and shameless self promotion.  Although we are a generation of media savvy end users, few of us have the tools necessary to distinguish fact from fiction, and even fewer of us care.

Conglomerate media companies, who have grown so large in the last decades that they completely overshadow the few independent sources that still exist, are more concerned with their profit margins and less concerned with fair and responsible journalism. When journalism is viewed as a corporate business, instead of as a public service or as an essential part of upholding democracy, profits usurp ethics. Responsible journalism is characterized by four main points: fair, balanced, broad, and in depth coverage. Hard news must be timely, and must affect a large portion of its audience. The trend of “infotainment” or soft news (including gossip and entertainment items) does little to uphold these core tenants of journalism, but has nonetheless gained momentum because it increases viewership, and in turn increases profits for large media conglomerates.

It is hard to blame large media conglomerates for ruining American journalism and threatening our democratic way of life without acknowledging that these conglomerates themselves are a result of our free market economy. They are examples of how much success is possible within a capitalistic society, as they have survived and thrived through fierce competition and by protecting their own interests. It is also important to remember however, that despite the freedom of our economy, these conglomerates are subject to federal regulations and they also depend on government funding and special monopoly licenses in order to operate on such a large scale. So not only are these conglomerates biased towards programming that increases their profits, they are also biased towards programming that protects their political interests.

Although it is human nature to be interested in the lives of others, to be curious and speculative, our obsession with celebrity as a culture prevents millions of people from being active, engaged citizens. We collectively have the wool pulled over our eyes by big business, who take comfort knowing their populace is distracted by superficial information, unconcerned with the serious issues that affect us all.  The larger reality is that political and social issues do eventually trickle down and affect everyone on a human level. Instead of ignoring hard news and getting wrapped up in the artificial realities of people most of us will never meet in real life, we should take a cue from these celebrities and function in a more self-involved manner, demanding content that matters and refusing to get wrapped up in the small-town mentality of big business.

Barcelona

People and things clutter the long crowded expanse of La Rambla. Indian men hock noise makers and other useless plastic novelties, while street performers pose to take photos with paying tourists and do back flips in the middle of a demilune crowd. Restaurants line the sides of the street, selling overpriced too-sweet sangria and flavorless paella. My guide book highlights the top ten sights: Gaudi and Goya, Picasso and Miro, tapas restaurants with the best Basque wine and underground bars where serious women sweat under lights, stamping their feet to the syncopated beat of a Flamenco guitar player.  My book has subways maps and hotel recommendations, and a small section in the back listing gay-friendly clubs and currency exchange rates. I trust the information in the book, making sure to visit the must-dos and deferring to the Lonely Planet expertise on where to eat the best Jamon Iberico de Bellota, but being my fifth visit to this magnificent city, I have my own favorites as well. I try to impress my travel companion (a first time visitor) with my limited Spanish and knowledge of local customs. I mention the stern warning in my book to look out for pick pockets, feeling overly immune to the threat, having left my tell-tale fanny pack, bright white sneakers, and matching windbreaker at home. 


I don’t look like a tourist. My Spanish is passable, my over-the-knee flat black leather boots on-trend and chic. I wear a cross body bag, like all the locals. It has a zipper that I keep my hand over at all times, knowing better than to be distracted by all the tall buildings, staring up with a gaping mouth like the hoards of school tours here on their spring vacation with matching backpacks and loud American voices. I’m not afraid to use the metro, but I refuse to ask for directions unless absolutely necessary. I make sure to fold my map in such a way that it is small and manageable, not drawing attention to my foreign status. 


We go everywhere. We visit Park Guell, a child’s dream playground with its mosaic tile and signature Gaudi gingerbread house style. We sit on the serpentine bench that overlooks the city, the view stretches over the Olympic Stadium, all the way to the beach in Barceloneta where in a few months time topless women and men in Speedos will line the sand.  We eat in El Born, on Calle Agentine where the waiters speak Italian amongst themselves but the menus read in Catalan. We sit down to dinner at 11pm, finishing plate after plate of shiny cured ham and Manchego cheese, olives and Cava straight from a communal, passed around spout.  We see museums, architecture, the fanciest well-dressed women with the best smelling perfume that only comes from Paris. We finish the night in dark smoky bars, drinking tiny cups of vermouth feeling like an early 20th century bohemian. I imagine Toulouse-Latrec or  some other visiting artist sitting down at the tiny wrought iron table next to us, asking for a cigarette and then launching into a rant about love and loss and everything that is tragic in this world. 


It is impossible not to get swept away in the beauty of this place. The combination of old and new that sets the best European cities apart from those here in the States is exciting and romantic. The medieval palaces and cobblestone streets date back centuries, to a time when blood was spilt during wars, and empires were built on the backs of peasants.  The same settings that inspired Picasso and Dali to re-envision reality and a subconscious aesthetic that challenged the Academy and the existing status quo. Despite my best efforts to blend in and hide my alien status, I cannot help but be impressed by my surroundings. I easily understand the motivation of ex-patriots to abandon American life and take refuge in the culture of Europe, learning new languages and leaving behind Yankee ideals.   

In the midst of my awe, I am robbed. I am pick pocketed by a girl my own age, on an escalator on the way to the airport. She sees me struggling with my luggage, all the tell-tale signs of a tourist present like my “Iberia” luggage tag and carefree attitude. Underground in the subway, she is able to unzip my bag and take out my wallet. I notice moments later, my travel companion running after her, confronting her, and successfully recovering my vital belongings with more cajones than I could ever muster myself.  I feel angry and embarrassed, violated and scared. How did I let myself become a target? Why did I let my guard down? To think that more than once I actually moved my suitcase to the side and said “Perdón” when I thought she was accidentally bumping into me.  


Despite my idealized impression of this romantic city, I was confronted with the sad reality that culture and history do not cancel out poverty and greed. I am grateful that I had a loud-mouthed American with me, with no reservations about causing a scene or demanding a confrontation to get my stuff back. My vision of sophisticated European culture conveniently glossed over the realities of urban living, which in America, Europe, or any other continent still include crime. Countless writers, poets, artists and musicians have been inspired by the tragic juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness, of love and violence.  As much as I fell in love with that city, in the end it hurt me and scared me. Next time, I will know better than to take the metro to the airport. Instead I’ll do what the locals do and just take a cab.

Sammy

As dinner service winds down, a line starts to form outside. Girls in short dresses stamp their feet to stay warm as most of them didn't wear jackets to avoid the hassle of the $4 coat check charge.  Guys in jeans and button down shirts smoke cigarettes and yell into their cell phones. A bouncer towers by the door calmly repeating himself again and again "Doors open at ten".

Inside the doorway someone else is yelling into their cell phone. Taking calls, furiously sending text messages, and surveying the crowd outside searching for groups that look like they can afford to cut the line.  As he thanks the departing dinner guests for coming, the radio in his ear crackles.  He counts out tickets and wristbands, dividing them into groups of "VIPs" and "Reduced Guest List". Ten different people have questions and problems. He runs to the elevator taking it up to the top floor where the DJ needs extra cables and someone to show him how to set them up.

As people start trickling into the club, he is shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Escorting groups to their private tables, he introduces the cocktail waitress with a wink and a nudge to his new buddies.  He hands out business cards and sends over free drinks here and there, answering calls and yelling into his radio piece like a frantic secret service agent.

His name is Sam, and he is a promoter. Unlike New York, Miami, and Las Vegas, Boston is a small pond with few big fish.  The nightlife industry in Boston consists mostly of Irish pubs, sports bars, and college dives catering to the type of crowd who prefer cheap domestic beer and chicken wings rather than private table service and world-class DJ talent. Sam packs them in every Friday and Saturday night. They line up and wait in the cold to pay $20 a person just to get through the door, $12 for cocktails, and upwards of $1000 for a private table.

A Cambridge native, Sam grew up hanging out in the "pit" in Harvard Square. While blond lacrosse players and Asian bookworms walked to class, Sam and his friends tried out skateboard moves, hustled dime bags, and heckled the suits coming out of the T station.  

A nice Jewish boy living on Lexington Ave, Sam had always had an entrepreneurial spirit. He got his first job on a paper route when he was 12. While most kids would want to sleep in as late as possible, Sam had enough hyperactive energy to make the rounds delivering the Globe at 5am rain, snow, or sun. Sam stayed back in first grade, back when scientists and educators were first toying with the new term “ADHD”. A case study for attention deficit disorder, Sam had trouble listening and paying attention. He had trouble reading and staying on task, preferring instead to talk to his classmates and steal the spotlight from the teacher.

Hoping to find an outlet for Sam’s creative energy, his parents enrolled him in summer theater camps. Sam, with his enthusiasm and unwavering confidence, was a natural and landed the lead role in countless school plays, and even on a kids program during Fox 25’s Saturday morning lineup. The year after starting the paper route, Sam began attending countless Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. The entertainment was always the same, some corny guy on the microphone trying to get everyone to do the hokey pokey and mispronouncing family members’ names. Unimpressed, Sam cashed in his paper route savings and bought turn tables and a dual CD player. Sam was comfortable on stage, and naturally intuitive about how to hype up a crowd. He saw a business opportunity that played to his strengths, and he capitalized on it.

It was the mid-nineties, and hip hop and grunge were already considered old by most teenagers. Transplanted from London and gaining popularity at underground Chicago warehouse parties, electronic music was just creeping its way to the Northeast. Like fans of punk in the 1970's, Sam and his friends saw this new genre of music as an active form of rebellion, something completely foreign that their parents didn’t understand or want to hear about.  Techno, as some people called it, involved mixing different synthesized hooks and melodies together. With plenty of Bar Mitzvah experience already under his belt, Sam became a full fledged DJ, playing at raves inside abandoned MIT buildings and getting his first taste of the nightclubs on Landsdowne Street.

ADHD held Sam back in school. His initial diagnosis named “language processing” as a weakness in addition to attention deficit and hyperactivity.  At theater camp he excelled at improv, could easily imitate emotions and play off his fellow actors, but needed extra help memorizing his lines. Music and numbers made more sense. He liked the fast paced beats per measure of electronica, and the tangible dollars he could count after each successful gig. The 12 year old mind that had convinced the Globe to let him have his own route in West Cambridge was the same mind adding up the numbers every time he attended a large scale event. It didn’t take long to go from wondering who collected all the money these people were paying for entrance fees and drinks, to becoming that person himself.

At Bentley college Sam learned the ins and outs of business. He also threw the biggest parties his fraternity had ever seen, tripling chapter profits in less than a year and avoiding ever having to pay dues of his own.

Sam is a big fish in the small pond of Boston nightlife. He is successful in an industry he helped create, an industry that his hyperactive and distracted personality blends seamlessly with.  He knows how to massage egos and promote his own, making his events seem fun yet exclusive. At the end of the night, he makes sure everyone gets a flyer for next week's party.  Counting the cash drawer he checks off a list of people to pay:  the DJ (someone else now that he is in charge), the group of guys he calls his "subpromoters", the guest list girl, and the bouncer who let in those international kids with fake Saudi ID's.  He hands out envelopes of cash with a smile and a word of encouragement, keeping everyone on the team motivated to produce next week.  After everyone and every dollar is accounted for, he goes home with double.