A Touching Salute

Sheeler honors the Marines, fallen soldiers and their families through quiet moments.

My first encounter with Jim Sheeler’s story, “The Final Salute,” came not from the written story but from the award-winning photographs that ran with the story. I don’t recall where or when I saw the photo story, but the pictures certainly made an impression on me. They showed caskets and family members, poignantly demonstrating a young widow’s grief after losing her husband in the Iraq War. I remember them even now, a few years after having first encountered the photographs. The images of Katherine Cathey rubbing her swollen belly on her husband’s coffin and keeping vigil at the mortuary during her last night with him have been etched in my mind. When I began to read “The Final Salute,” then, I was skeptical that Sheeler could tell the story as movingly as the pictures had. Fortunately, I will remember this story now as much—if not more—for its words as for the photographs.

The primary method by which Sheeler produced such a memorable piece is through telling the story in a respectful and intimate manner. Sheeler easily could have made this an exposé on the ways in which the military fails grieving families, highlighting funerals that haven’t been paid for or tactless ways in which they are informed about their loved one’s death. While Sheeler mentions these, he certainly does not focus on them. The focus of the piece is instead the emotional process of Steve Beck and the families he encounters. Again, Sheeler could have exposed their tribulations by bluntly describing their sorrow. Instead, however, he creates quiet, touching moments that display the families’ grief while hinting that life goes on. While the Burnses are going through Kyle’s belongings, for instance, we see their happy memories as well as their sadness. Sheeler treats Beck the same way, juxtaposing his love for his wife and children with the desolation he shares with the families. Through these poignant moments that—rather than expose grief—allow us to experience it with the families, Sheeler brings us into this story to create a connection between readers, Beck and grieving military families.

Today, we continually debate and doubt the current battles being fought by the United States military, and we often look at the armed forces through the lenses of controversial policies and scandals overseas. In the middle of this turmoil, Jim Sheeler has written "The Final Salute," weaving a moving and memorable story that allows us to escape the controversy and see some of the real people involved in these conflicts. By focusing on the support and brotherhood of the Marines and their families, Sheeler challenges us to look at the military through new eyes and, if nothing else, to remember the true sacrifices made daily for the rest of America.

The Sound of Discomfort

Our instruments may be different, but as a pianist I read the same notes as Bell.

On May 2, 2010, “60 Minutes” on CBS aired a story called “The All-American Canal.” It was an exposé on a California waterway that many illegal immigrants try to cross to get into the United States. Hundreds of human beings have died in the canal, yet the government does nothing to make it safer. The people interviewed clearly were of the opinion that the lives of illegal immigrants simply do not matter. I watched this story with my mouth open, gaping in disbelief at the TV. I couldn’t accept that this type of injustice—this level of indifference—could occur within my own country. Why did my fellow citizens think it was all right to continue to let people die in this canal? Though the piece aired just before my final exams while my mind was occupied with other activities, the story stayed with me. Even now, six months later, the details still disgust me.

Sometimes discomfort signifies good journalism. Though “The All-American Canal” may not have been the best piece of journalism to come out of “60 Minutes” and may not win any awards, it is one of the few stories that has not left me even after half a year. Likewise, I expect Gene Weingarten’s “Pearls Before Breakfast” to stay with me for quite awhile. I had already heard the tale of Joshua Bell’s experiment in the Washington D.C. subway station, but Weingarten’s use of description and provocative questioning made me look at the story in a new way.

Throughout the piece, Weingarten uses flowing, precise description that, though perhaps flowery at times, painted a complete picture of this artistic experience. Though the readers were not present in that subway, we get a true sense of how Bell’s playing looked and sounded. In a mere three sentences, Weingarten compares Bell’s appearance to Donny Osmond, Zorro and the Beatles, miraculously yet effortlessly connecting the three ridiculous images. As to Bell’s abilities, Weingarten writes, “He played with acrobatic enthusiasm, his body leaning into the music and arching on tiptoes at the high notes. The sound was nearly symphonic, carrying to all parts of the homely arcade as the pedestrian traffic filed past.” He even beautifully describes the passers-by as engaging in a “grim danse macabre to indifference, inertia and the dingy, gray rush of modernity.” These perfect details bring the readers into the subway, inviting us all to be members of Bell’s early-morning audience.

As listeners, then, Weingarten presses us to think about various questions he poses. He draws on various sources—philosophy, poetry, filmmaking, even the band The Cure—to ask us why so many people simply walked past Bell without taking notice of his music. Why did these commuters ignore this phenomenal musician? He points to some possible answers, such as Americans’ busy lives, our depreciation of beauty and even the prevalence of technology. The most important question Weingarten asks, however, is not stated in the piece but rather implied. If you, the reader, were at L’Enfant Plaza that morning, would you have stopped to listen?

This is where I get uncomfortable. Weingarten’s details and philosophical musings up to the end of the piece convinced me that I certainly would want to stop and listen; it seems like a beautiful experience, and I do not want to be someone who ignores beauty in everyday life. As a woman who played the piano for 10 years, I should appreciate Bell’s music, efforts and courage even more than most others would. This is not reflective, though, of how I actually act. I rarely give money, or even stop to listen, to musicians on the streets of Omaha, Kansas City or any other city in which I may be. This summer, I walked past hundreds of street musicians all over Europe. Saxophonists, guitarists, violinists and even organ grinders serenaded me through Europe, yet I paid them little mind. Instead, I made a mental note that there was music in the air and walked past.

My indifference upsets me. Perhaps it does not bother me as much as the deaths that take place in “The All-American Canal,” but I still regret my own disregard for the beauty around me. Through details and provocative questions and references, Weingarten uses “Pearls Before Breakfast” to not showcase his writing skills but to make readers feel uncomfortable with their own habits. Hopefully I can ease at least this discomfort, taking time to listen to the music.

An organ grinder entertains Parisians and tourists on the Rue Montorgueil.

Engaging the Disenchanted

America seems to be teeming with disenchanted youth.

In November 2008, Barack Obama won the United States presidential race, running on a campaign platform that stressed a belief in change, that America could accomplish anything and everything it set its optimistic mind to.  A mere two years later, the bright sunrise that was the election of President Obama seems a distant memory, clouded by dissent and disappointment.  (This pall of discord has even led lone voices such as Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert of Comedy Central to organize a Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear, highlighting the absurdity of the current political climate.) 

Within this context, David Foster Wallace’s “The Weasel, Twelve Monkeys and the Shrub” seems distinctly familiar.  With the youthful optimism of the 2008 Obama campaign evaporated, we can easily recognize the disenchantment with which Wallace describes the Young Voter.  How is it, then, that Wallace manages to engage his Rolling Stones readers, as well as us—people who fit perfectly into this cynical group?

Two methods allow Wallace to reach his audience: stream-of-consciousness style and personal opinion.  In short, Wallace breaks two huge rules of journalism to reach readers.  And in this instance, the risk works.

First, Wallace fills the piece with stream-of-consciousness writing.  Stream-of-consciousness is, according to the Britannica Online Encyclopedia, “intended to render the flow of myriad impressions.”  He writes long run-on sentences that offend many grammatical rules but nevertheless make sense, because they sound just the way people think.  For example, he writes, “As you might have gathered, Rolling Stone dislikes the 12M intensely, for all the above reasons, plus the fact that they’re [stingy] when it comes to sharing even very basic general-knowledge political information that might help somebody write a slightly better article, plus the issue of two separate occasions at late-night hotel check-ins when one or more of the Twelve Monkeys just out of nowhere turned and handed Rolling Stone their suitcases to carry, as if Rolling Stone were a bellboy or gofer instead of a hard-working journalist just like them even if he didn’t have a portable Paul Stuart steamer for his blazer.” (He refers to himself throughout the piece in third-person as "Rolling Stone.")

Though it makes for a very long story, writing in this style provides good description, and he manages to show, rather than tell, the story.  More than this, however, Wallace uses stream-of-consciousness to engage readers on our level.  Because this is how we think, the story makes perfect sense.  His use of stream-of-consciousness helps the story to flow, causing us to constantly wonder what is coming next.  By writing this way, Wallace draws us into the piece and makes it easy to read; the writing is on the same level as our thoughts.  (He is not the only journalist to use this style.  As The New York Times reported in 2005, for instance, The New Orleans Times-Picayune used stream-of-consciousness in its blog created in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.)

Wallace’s second method, though, is the one that really grabs the reader’s attention.  He gives his personal opinion throughout the piece, and his honesty is riveting.  Wallace admits that Young Voters do not care much about elections, highlighting their cynicism within the story.  He points out that politicians are often corrupt liars whom we cannot trust and that many Americans are weary of the political process, weary of broken promises.  Wallace also, however, tells John McCain’s history as a prisoner of war with awe, admitting that readers should admire the man, if only for his strength.  Wallace also poses several hard-hitting rhetorical questions that hit at the heart of the problems with American politics.  While accusing the Young Voter of not tolerating hard questions about politics, he challenges us to ask why we really dislike our leaders and why we avoid the voting process.  These challenges, as well as his straight personal opinions (such as the one shared in the sentence quoted above), allow the readers to trust Wallace.  This is not a normal political campaign story.  It is also not just a story that exposes the inner workings of the campaign trail.  It is a story that wants us to question American politics, society and citizens.  Wallace’s honesty thus transforms this story from a commentary into a direct provocation, daring us, if not to vote or trust politicians, to understand the complexities of the political process and why it turns us off as it does.

Through his use of stream-of-consciousness and honesty, David Foster Wallace uses “The Weasel, Twelve Monkeys and the Shrub” to question the current political process and its many players.  Though he admits he knows nothing about campaign reporting, Wallace delivers much more than a story about McCain’s 2000 presidential campaign.  He delivers instead a story that reaches out to this cynical audience 10 years later and asks us to “try to stay awake.”  We must, in essence, remain vigilant and in touch with our own sensibilities in order to understand how they affect how we view the world.  Once we reach this understanding, Wallace suggests, perhaps we can begin to grasp where we can find leaders who truly do effect change we can believe in.

Wallace is appealing to America's bright youth at their finest.

Things That Go Boom in the Night

Bam! Bang! Boom!

Onomatopoeia is one of my favorite words.  It rolls off the tongue and is delightfully impossible to spell, and once one knows what it means, chances are he or she will not forget it.  In elementary school, when we were first introduced to the concept of onomatopoeia, our teachers used examples from comics (“Kaboom!”) and nature (“Moo!”).  I always thought that it was a legitimate but slightly silly grammar point.  From what I’ve been able to find, many others associate onomatopoetic words with frivolity as well, such as in an online music quiz from mental_floss or a list of words that should be eliminated from the English language from Cracked.com.  To me, onomatopoeia is something that is used in lighthearted or frivolous pieces.


In “Mrs. Kelly’s Monster,” however, Jon Franklin uses onomatopoeia to grimly remind his audience of the steadiness yet frailty of life, as well as to add suspense.  Published in The Baltimore Sun in 1978, this piece follows in detail a complex and intense brain surgery that ultimately kills the patient.  The descriptive details guide readers through the surgery visually, putting a precise and almost tactile picture of a common yet foreign topic—neurosurgery—in our minds.  With sentences such as “The aneurysm finally appears at the end of the tunnel, throbbing, visibly thin, a lumpy, overstretched bag, the color of rich cream, swelling out from the once-strong arterial wall, a tire about to blow out, a balloon ready to burst, a time-bomb the size of a pea,” Franklin paints a perfectly intricate picture.

This imagery, though, is not the thread that keeps the readers going through the story.  Every so often, Franklin will mention this small detail: “The heartbeat goes pop, pop, pop, 70 beats a minute.”  Although it does not at first seem to be very important, this heartbeat is what later indicates an increase in danger, thus facilitating suspense.  It also, at times, stands in stark contrast to the frustration of the surgeons and the perilous situation at hand.  By juxtaposing the terror of the monstrous growth and the helplessness of the surgeons with the steady “pop, pop, pop” of the heartbeat, Franklin reminds us of the senselessness of Mrs. Kelly’s illness and death.  The suspense and helplessness are conveyed by one tiny word that perfectly describes the sound of a heartbeat—“pop.”  Upon reaching the end of the piece, my own heart popped a bit, perhaps out of disappointment, or maybe it was the release of suspense.

The numerous emotions depicted by one tiny onomatopoetic word in Jon Franklin’s “Mrs. Kelly’s Monster” have me convinced: onomatopoeia is not just for silliness.  Such words, from an excited roar to a hushed whisper, truly can create a whoosh of feelings that reach far beyond frivolity.

Conversing with the Child Inside

I try to keep the child inside of me alive and kicking.

I do not remember watching “Mister Rogers' Neighborhood” as a child.  I recall seeing episodes of his program, but I cannot say that I considered him my neighbor.  My childhood memories are of Maypoles and Fourth of July fireworks, of summer evenings spent chasing lightning bugs and Hide-and-Seekers to the symphony of cicadas that surrounded us in the trees.  That was my neighborhood. 

We used a neighbor's oak tree as Base for every game of Hide-and-Seek.

A man in tennis shoes and a zippered cardigan did not educate me; however, I feel as though the Mister Rogers whom Tom Junod portrays in “Can You Say… Hero?” would approve of my childhood.  In the profile, Junod uses astounding detail to paint a picture of this famous man who touched so many lives through his program.  Through observation, Junod is able to recount various stories about Mister Rogers as well as those affected by him, and these observations lead us to understand the man behind the cardigan.  What’s more, they lead us to understand more about ourselves.

I think that a great profile accurately depicts an individual and the impact that he or she has—why is this person important?—while making that individual relatable.  To care about the subject, readers must be able to relate to it.  To make us really understand Mister Rogers, then, Junod had to make us see the connection we have with the star.  Mister Rogers speaks to children.  Thus, he must speak to the child in all of us.  In “Can You Say… Hero?”, Junod does just that: he makes Mister Rogers reach out to the child inside.

I love that Junod accomplishes this through telling a bit of his own childhood and how getting to know Mister Rogers changed his life.  What Junod does is a mark of truly good writing: in writing about himself, he challenges the readers to think about our own childhoods.  When he throws Old Rabbit out of the car, I pictured the times I lost my beloved stuffed animals and dolls; when he prays, I think of the times I’ve prayed furiously for something and then have not learned from the experience.  By connecting Mister Rogers to himself, Junod causes us to connect him to ourselves.  In this manner, we enter into a personal relationship, a personal conversation, with Mister Rogers that really has nothing to do with the writer.  This is a mark of brilliant writing.

The detailed picture that Junod paints helps place us in the scene and create a cohesive vision of the life and surroundings of Mister Rogers.  From images like “The place was drab and dim, with the smell of stalled air and a stain of daguerreotype sunlight on its closed, slatted blinds…” to scenes such as, “…he leaned back from his waist and opened his mouth wide with astonishment, like someone trying to catch a peanut he had tossed into the air…”, we grasp exactly what his life looks like and how he acts in private and in public.  It is a remarkably detailed story that allows us to walk for a while in those famous tennis shoes.

My favorite detail, however, that Junod utilizes is the style in which he writes the story.  He uses a combination of short sentences with long run-on ones, including extensive phrases and descriptions that only a child could follow.  That is the point: he writes the story just like Mister Rogers speaks to the children who watch his show.  Though some sentences are long, they flow like a stream of consciousness, and the simplicity of the story is of the kind children require.  Watching a short clip of “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” gives us a glimpse at the similarities between Mister Rogers’ speech and Junod’s writing style.  By writing this way, Junod makes is sound as though Mister Rogers is talking directly to us.

Junod’s descriptive profile “Can You Say… Hero?” allows us to speak to Mister Rogers, even if he was not a large figure in our own childhoods. Mister Rogers stresses the fact that we each have “special ones who have loved us into being.”  While reading this piece, I could not help but take his advice and think of—and thank—those people who have helped me become who I am.  My childhood was full of these figures, and I think he would appreciate that I was so blessed.  I, too, was a child once, and my neighborhood of family and friends filled that little girl with hope and love.  And I like to think that in those times I did watch “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood,” I felt his love emanating from the screen, just as it does from his words.

Capturing the American Boy

My nephews, Andrew, 9, and Alex, 8, refuse to take normal photographs.

In April, my nephew Alex and one of his friends went missing for a couple of hours. As he does not live in the best neighborhood in Kansas City and was 7 years old at the time, my family was frantic. As dusk neared, nearly 100 people as well as the police were searching for them. Suddenly the two boys came walking up the street. According to Alex’s friend, who was roughly the same age, a man in a big black car picked them up, drove around for a few hours and dropped them back off at home. When the police asked Alex what happened, he excitedly explained that they had followed a raccoon into the nearby woods and froze like statues every time he stopped so he wouldn’t see them!

As I read Susan Orlean’s “The American Male at Age Ten,” I could not help but think of spending time with my two nephews. Andrew is almost 10 and Alex just turned 8, so they are at the same stage of life as Colin Duffy, Orlean’s subject. When Colin speaks, I actually hear my nephews’ voices, and I see them doing many of the same activities as he. This is the basis for why I believe “The American Male at Age Ten” is such a good story. Most people know or have known a boy around the age of 10, and Orlean’s details are uncanny. From his clothing to his bedroom to his future goals, we can picture Colin standing in front of us; or, more accurately, we can think of someone in particular who channels Colin’s spirit. I have had conversations with my nephews about girls that were exact imitations of Orlean’s talk with Colin and Japeth.

Based on the popular culture references, we can tell that this story was written several years ago; this means that Colin’s fashion sense and video game interests, for example, are out of date. What makes this story good, though, are not the exact pop culture references, but the spirit of the 10-year-old boy that these references reflect and that still echoes in today’s boys. So often we read about extreme children that rest on either side of a behavior spectrum. Either they are the angel children of the 1950s or the rotten kids of today. It is refreshing to read a piece about a boy who, though maybe slightly naïve, is real—so real that we may know kids like him.

Orlean approaches this story from two different angles: as the interviewer and as the invisible fly on the wall. Though she does ask questions and receives wonderful responses, many of the details and quotes come from quiet observation. Clearly, this technique works well for her and could be a valuable resource for me in the future. It is this candid realism that I like best about this story. Much of what I like to read looks at the world realistically, simply observing what is going on. In fact, though I am not a parent and certainly not a new dad, I enjoy reading my cousin’s husband’s blog about fatherhood. On noodad.com, Greg tries to help other fathers of young children with genuine, funny and frank posts.

 

I appreciate “The American Male at Age Ten” mostly because of its connection to my nephews; I know it must have taken eternal patience to hang out with Colin Duffy. This is also, however, how I knew it was a wonderful story. In illustrating Colin, Orlean was able to tell the story of countless young American boys.

Chasing My Art Form

Claude Monet planted his gardens at Giverny as a place to find inspiration for his paintings, as he did with these famous water lilies.

This summer I traveled to Paris. I found many new loves while wandering the avenues (why can we not have crêpe stands on the streets of Omaha?), but one of the greatest joys I discovered was the art that permeates the city. From the Louvre to the Musée d’Orsay, magnificent works surrounded me. I learned the history behind these pieces and delighted in the emotions they aroused in me. One emotion I recognized, however, was not delightful at all: jealousy. How could I ever reach these artists’ levels of success, igniting in others the awe, joy, sorrow or whatever other sensations I felt? I have never been much of an artist, and among these giants, I was insignificant.

 Writing is my art form. I do very little creative writing and dread having to write academic papers, yet words are still the medium through which I best express myself. I have found that once I actually sit down and force myself to compose a piece, I truly enjoy the writing process. This process usually begins with me waiting until the last moment before I begin. This may not be conducive to creativity, but procrastination is a hard habit to break. I will then come up with a brief outline, though it is likely to change course once I start; my best ideas typically form when I have already written a significant portion of the piece. From there, I let the subject take me wherever it will. After I am finished, I will let the piece sit (maybe only ten minutes or so, given the deadline), and then I will edit.  Usually I edit as I go along, so this final step does not yield many changes.  Finally, I type in the title and consider it complete.

Rather than paints and brushes, my favorite tools are my computer and a thesaurus.  Synonyms are some of my best friends. I feel that they can make any form of writing poetic. That is what I love best about writing; I can transform a boring sentence into a beautiful one. I enjoy stretching my mind in order to come up with new ways of phrasing and structuring my thoughts. Writing is frustrating, however, in that as an art form, it takes time to develop. My procrastination often leaves me little time for creativity.

When I read, I usually search out articles from magazines such as Newsweek or websites such as CNN.com and NPR.org.  These I read to stay informed about what is going on in the world. I also am a big book fan, though the ones I typically read are novels or memoirs. I rarely read blogs or print newspapers, as I do not think to seek them out. I like the websites and books I read for their quickly accessed information as well as their entertainment value.

My writing must become more concise, as this entry may suggest. I tend to write long sentences, which can become tedious, and I love to use flowery language. I also would like to think more outside the box when it comes to style and how I approach different stories. Reporting has forced me to do this, for news stories must be written concisely and in a certain format. Though this challenges me, I do enjoy the work. I am not a fan of interviewing people, however, and this creates problems when it comes to reporting.

This semester I will work to hone my art and try new ways of expressing myself. Though I may never successfully imitate Monet with my writing, I will attempt to capture some of the life in his paintings with my words.