An Unfortunate Interlude
My introduction to David Rakoff came as most introductions to amazing things do for me — on NPR’s This American Life.
I cackle-cry-snorted all the way down Interstate 360 that day, listening to his short story about television on repeat. THIS is how funny funny can get. THIS is what it should sound like. THIS is what I someday dream of doing.
RIP David Rakoff. You’ll be sorely missed.
And Now, For a Serious Word or Two…
A former classmate of mine has been a political prisoner for far too long in Azerbaijan. He’s fighting for democracy in his country, something that most of us will - fortunately - never have to do.
I’d really appreciate it if you could take a few seconds out of your day to sign a petition for his release…
Reflections on 98 Years
My grandmother passed away on Saturday, December 17, 2011. She was 98 years old, which means that she was also: one Great Depression, two World Wars, and 17 U.S. Presidents old. Below is something I wrote for, about, and because of her.
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Reflections on 98 Years
I’m not sure that my grandmother would call herself a ‘feminist,’ but she would at least hear you out. Her favorite expression is “it takes all sorts,” which is how she explains everything from Michelle Bachmann’s presidential candidacy to the advent of reality television. She enjoys talking about history, and she celebrated her 98thbirthday last September.
My grandmother’s first boss signed his name with an ‘X,’ which wasn’t to save time, or distinguish himself from everyone else. It was because he was illiterate.
This was 1930: my grandmother was 17 years old, a recent graduate of Iowa State Teacher’s College, and she had just landed her first job as a country school teacher. Her favorite part about that first job, the one with the illiterate boss, was that she was in charge. To most people, this would seem like a recipe for disaster – a one-room prairie school, a young inexperienced teacher, and a classroom full of students ages 5 to 18 – but she enjoyed the challenge.
It takes all sorts.
A point of pride for my grandmother is that her parents raised eight healthy, hard-working children to adulthood during the Great Depression.
A point of pride for me is that the chain that led me to become a third-generation-college-graduate began with a woman. I have my grandmother’s college diploma on display in my apartment, something she laughed about when I told her.
Esther Greiman met Earl Schuettpelz while he was working as a hired hand on her family’s farm in Northern Iowa. He had an eighth-grade-education, a German-Midwestern upbringing, and he took her on her first date to a hayride sponsored by the local Lutheran church. I found a photo from the hayride in her old scrapbook, dated: 1931, captioned: “Ain’t we got fun!” I can’t really see my face in hers, but I can see my sarcasm.
Esther and Earl Schuettpelz moved to Eastern Iowa after they got married, she continued teaching, and he began his career as a welder. My dad was a year younger than everyone else in his class, because my grandmother couldn’t wait another year to get back to work.
Several evenings per week after work, my grandmother would tutor adults at no charge. One was a 20-year-old, mentally impaired man who the local school had barred from admission because of his disability. He was illiterate; she taught him to read. My dad doesn’t have fond memories of his mother’s home cooking, but he does remember being the first family in his neighborhood to make pizza from a mix.
I was never one of those kids who loved hearing old stories, but I suppose that’s not uncommon for someone growing up with easy access to 100+ channels of television, video games, and, eventually, the Internet. It was only recently that I had that same moment of silent regret that I bet a lot of people do, when we realize all those years with a now-elderly family member could have been spent differently. I could have been writing down everything my grandmother said, cataloguing her beautifully simple stories, hoarding the verbal artifacts of a bygone era. Now, when I go to visit her in her assisted living community, I feel like I’m overwhelming her with questions. I bring her ‘old-looking-stuff’ that I found in her house and ask her about its ‘story.’ This sudden onset of interest entertains but also confuses her, and the answer is almost always that this dish, or this frame, or this lantern, or this pitcher was something they ‘just always had.’
One time, though, was different.
One time, after several minutes of patient prodding, I finally got it out of her that ‘this pitcher’ had belonged to my great-great-grandmother, brought over from Germany when she immigrated to rural South Dakota. Where, together with her husband, she built a sod-house out of prairie grass and mud. Where, for 60 years, she withstood harsh Dakotan winters and scorching Dakotan summers. Where, despite losing several babies to inadequate food and fast-spreading disease, she nevertheless managed to raise ten children to adulthood.
“Wow, that is really neat,” was all I could muster, as I now, more delicately, held up the chipped, robin-egg-blue, ceramic relic.
“Yes, my grandmother was an amazing woman,” my grandmother quietly said.
Mine too.
A Brief (Iowa) Interlude
I apologize in advance, but I have to get serious for a moment. You see, recently University of Iowa professor Stephen Bloom wrote a relatively scathing article in The Atlantic, entitled “Observations from 20 Years of Iowa Life.” And, it upset a lot of people whose hearts belong to the heartland.
Now, I hate to see it happen to a rookie, but obviously Dr. Bloom wasn’t aware of this important rule of thumb: don’t upset Iowans. We might laugh it off at first, but I assure you we’ll find ways of plotting revenge. Like misspelling your name on a thank-you note. Or, worse yet, not even sending you a thank-you note.
Dr. Strange-Bloom or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the BS
I remember being in the eighth grade, and being pissed off. I had just read an article in that heralded beacon of journalism, Teen People. It claimed that, with the advent of online shopping, girls who lived in “the middle of nowhere, like Iowa” were no longer forced to buy clothes at Walmart, but could instead join the rest of the country in shopping at “real stores” like “Delia’s.”
WHAT?!
It stung. Why would people, who very likely had never even been to Iowa, write such hurtful things? The factual inaccuracies were clear — thanks to a recent expansion of our local mall, we now had both a Maurice’s and an American Eagle. How dare they claim that we shopped exclusively at Walmart!!
I felt frustrated. And infuriated. But you know what else I felt? Dis-empowered. When people write things that you consider untrue, and patronizing, and stereotypical, in mass media or elsewhere, it’s only natural to feel a little helpless.
Which is why I’m glad to see the thoughtful responses that Stephen Bloom’s article has received (this one is particularly beautiful). Because, people are using this opportunity to empower themselves to speak up in response to what they feel to be inaccurate and shoddy ‘journalism.’
I’m not really surprised that a widely-read magazine was used as a platform to espouse controversial views and present them as truth — this kind of stuff happens all the time. After all, Bloom has garnered publicity in a way that would be difficult to do with just “facts.” As a result, his piece has received attention — and subsequent debate — on a magnitude that most true journalistic pieces do not.
Ultimately, Bloom’s article has reinforced all the things I love about Iowa — and they don’t include our inclination to “cling to guns and religion.” Or the “skuzzy*, crime-infested slum towns” on the banks of the “commercially-irrelevant” Mississippi River. No, I love Iowa because it’s full of people who have an ability to be presented with unfounded criticisms, thoughtfully respond, and then move on.
And we can still make a hell of a casserole while doing so.
* note: I was not familiar with the word “skuzzy,” so I turned to the internet. According to urbandictionary.com, skuzzy means: “a grade A whore or slut.” Now, I’m not sure if Dr. Bloom meant to call Keokuk, Iowa a “whore,” or whether he just misspelled the word “scuzzy,” meaning: dirty or grimy. In any event, I’ve been to Keokuk, and they seem to do a nice job keeping their streets both clean, and free of venereal disease.
