That “I” perspective: Privileges of selection

 The “I” perspective is always personal in a way that feels closer to the skin, and this is what Chronology of Water is all about. In having the privilege of selection, the author or narrator can choose what’s important enough to reveal or omit, because it’s his or her story to tell. This doesn’t necessarily mean the story is then automatically deemed fictitious. However, it is important to acknowledge that there are always at least two sides of every story, and that my truth may not be your truth, or even the factual truth (meaning, the textbook truth or what’s been… I don’t know, scientifically proven).  

Perspective is what it boils down to, and Yuknavitch’s is very clear. She and her sister are products of an emotionally, and physically, abusive household. Apparently unsuitable for children and adults alike... She depicts her father as a controlling sexual predator (75, “the way my father had broken into me,” or 48, “He rubbed my far arm with his big thumb in creepy circles.”) that she and her older sister have no other choice but to flee from, and through means of their own. Even her mother tries to commit suicide, although her alcoholic-butt wasn’t a very good example either. What I found very intriguing is this thing the narrator describes as, “a bloodsong in your body that lives in you your whole life (76).” This meaning something inside of the mother that was passed down to the daughters and their need to succumb to death. Yuknavitch describes this “wanting” to die as a force inside of her that is passed down. It’s something that causes all of the havoc and craziness in her life, and in the lives of the other women that share her blood, that even she cannot understand. The scene that comes to mind is when she decides the top of Philip’s head is a nice place to spit, or when she punches him in the face for no good reason, and she can’t understand why she treats him so badly. This before she realizes it’s because there’s something inside of her that won't allow herself to be loved in the way that she deserves, because it’s something that’s foreign to her.

Although “I” perspectives can be seen as storytelling from a slant, the word honest comes to mind in reflection of this author's tale. Yuknavitch doesn’t seem to have a filter, or care about telling much of the bad in her life, I.e.: pissing on the Albertsons grocery store floor, or perhaps the most emotional part of the story for me…her holding her “gutted” belly in the shower and her sister stepping in, fully clothed to comfort her (Bottom of 28). (If I could put the emoji crying face here I WOULD because that’s exactly what I did when I read it). Her story feels believable. She doesn't seem to have a filter when telling her dirt, so I think the "I" POV just may reflect accuracy in the depiction of other characters as well???    

More in class…

B

Privileges of Selection

I wanted to read this a third time. 

The poetry. The peeling away of time like onions, perhaps more like the putting together of the onion. 

The rendition of how we see memoir, of how much linear/chronological time we must spend explaining our childhood. 

How a lot can be said through structure: the time and place to announce experience, when to be vague, when to be specific, when to allude, when to tell it all, quickly or slowly or silently. The staggering selections chosen to create a real sense of memory, somehow not being chronological creates a more realistic approach to time and memory and self. These are truer ways to tell the story of child sexual abuse, of self-destruction and addiction, of failure attempts at love, at the crumbling experiences that become curling memories. It makes sense to tell the stories of pain and trauma this way, this feels natural and fully developed. 

A lot of people believe they must relive every detail of their past, write about it with such detail to make sure people understand what was experienced, to make sure they show what really happened. The Chronology of Water really shows how powerful it is to show the ways in which we live, the ways we experienced, rather than telling/showing the experience in and of itself over large time periods. I found this the most moving part of the whole book, especially the first five chapters that cover life until eighteen. I was astonished. I was in love. I wanted more and yet it was just enough. 

She was able to span so much time so quickly that I a part of me was baffled about the direction of her memoir. I was eager to know the narrative selections of this life of hers that she would be making after she got that suitcase together to leave for Texas. When continuing past “Suitcase,” the magic unfolded in the ways in which she was able to go back into stories of her childhood. 

Childhood stories did not end with the section called “On Sound and Speech” or “The Best Friend” but resurfaced, again like this peeling and building of the onion, in many of the following chapters. I truly loved ready the section explaining how this story is not about her sister, but if it was. Also of the layers of who her father was before he was the thing that she knew. Again, these chapters spoke to these characters and yet opened up the narrative to the stories of childhood.  

The selection of scenes, the chronology of her life, shines more and more in sections like “Love Grenade I” and II where it reminds us, again, of direction. A direction where? Who the hell knows, but we are going forward again and that is all that matters.

This is the story addicts tell. Alcoholics. How stories are revealed. You get that short version. That quick, that untouched, forced-unthought, and painful story where everyone in the room knows what is happening, what is being said, what must have happened to the person to cause the first drink, the first need. I think of the section called "Sun" where she has a the alive boy. Wow. The dead alive, fishgirl, rosy and pink not alive baby. She peeled away at her mother before Miles add more layers to her.  

The Pros of First-Person Selectivity

That "I" perspective: Privileges of selection.

The thing I like about a P.O.V. as unapologetically first-person as Yuknavitch's is that the author can do whatever the hell she wants. I spent minutes wracking my brain for an idea of how to relate the concept of "privilege" to the memoir we read (I typed it out to see if it would make sense of itself - "privilege. privilege, privilege, privilege" - it didn't). Then I realized Yuknavitch created her own privilege. It's a logical choice following a life so spun out of control - if you couldn't experience it on your own terms the first time around, pulled along by fathers and addictions, of course you'd want to tell about it on your own terms. I think we get caught up - examining memoirs like we do - in purity: factual, chronological, objective purity. Stories start to finish, beginning and end, exaggeration-free, et cetera. Yuknavitch doesn't do it like that. I kind of loved it.

What I'm learning about a memory, or a perception, is that it's almost never linear. I ask my roommate why she's upset with her parents: she tells me what's new with her stepdad. She jumps over to her asshole sometimes-boyfriend. Now she's talking about therapy. Now paying for therapy. We get to the point in jabs, reroutes, word-associations. It makes perfect sense. It's pure first-person, meaning made in the composite of things coming from all directions, pieced together, handed over in the unfiltered, conversational voice.

It's all about the details you select. Take, for example, Yuknavitch's chapter about her lover, the photographer from New York. First, the memory of their meeting: "I don't know why I did it, I just know I couldn't not. While I was holding her hand I leaned in close to her face and said my name is Lidia. I am a writer. Which I said exactly to the scar underneath her eye, letting my eyes and voice travel down her skin. I saw stars as I let go. Her hair smelled like rain." (p. 136). Following that, Yuknavitch's immediate context: "Before I met her in that auditorium in Eugene, Oregon, I'd been to exactly three SM play parties in Eugen. Wanna know how? Because my former best friend who went on the little beach excursion got me invited. At the SM play parties I saw some awesome things happen..." (p. 137) And after that, "'Tell me what you want.' That's how it began. If I said something dumb like, I'd like a kiss, she'd say, 'No, that's not right, Angel.' And lightly sting my skin with a riding crop or this crop with thornish things dangling from it in a kind of tassel. 'Try again,' she'd say." (p. 138)

We never actually get the three or four sequential points between meeting in an auditorium and Mommy-domme spankings - and who cares? We get the picture perfectly. Yuknavitch writes from so deep down in first person that she writes the way we communicate a memory: in pieces and in big picture, all at once. Again, I kind of love it. I love how much you can get away with, how much you can control the reality of your own story, when you tell it like you're talking to the reader.

Discovering "I"

I struggle with the difference between fiction and nonfiction and prose and poetry. For me they all happen simultaneously working together to color the page with words that melt into images and meaning communicating my thoughts and when I'm honest, my feelings.  However, for some reason I feel pressure to focus on one genre and perfect it without deviating.  Although the pressure is there, I'm not willing to give in to it.  Giving in means to ignore dimensions of "I." Instead I challenge myself to perfect each genre and within them my style reveals itself, only then can it begin to evolve.  So what does this have to do with Lidia Yuknavitch's masterpiece, The Chronology of Water?   Well, Yuknavitch accomplished what I thrive to develop in my writing.  She crafts creative nonfiction with a beautiful poetic overlay that reads like page turning fiction. From it an honest conversation between the reader and the protagonist allows the dimensions of "I" to come to light free of judgement.

Dimensions of "I" refers to versions of self-awareness that make us who we are and who we fear ourselves to be.  Yuknavitch shares dimensions of I by befriending the reader.

"Phillip and I tried to make a go of it as something called "married." In Austin, Texas, I don't know how to explain why we went busto. Ok, that's a big fat lie. I know exactly why we went busto, but I don't want to say it.  Look, I'll tell you later. Ok (pg. 62)?"

It's as if you're talking to a good friend you've known for years and who holds you accountable for your actions.  Also like a good friend, Yuknavitch keeps her promise and tells the reader later.

"Here it is.  What I didn't want to say before. It’s me. I'm the reason we went busto. I could not take his gentle kindness.  But neither could I kill it (pg. 65)."  Yuknavitch gains the readers trust and continues to build upon it.  Additionally, she reveals that this dimension of "I" requires reconciliation.

 Of the "I" becoming drug addicted, Yuknavitch writes:

 "Again. I wanted to do it again. I wanted to eat all the colors and see what I felt. No. I wanted to eat all the colors to get to the not feel.  But even that was not enough for a burning girl (pg. 51)." Like the AAB rhythm of a blues song, Yuknavitch reveals the "I" who chose not to feel.

 When dispose of her daughter's remains, Yuknavitch writes truth that reads like fiction:

 "Phillip and I stood there watching the little box float nearly out of sight, we also stood and watched it...come the fuck back. Pretty much to our very feet. Knocking itself against his shoe. I looked back over my shoulder to where the posse of sadness that was my idiotic family stood-- they were far away, almost dots. I looked at Phillip. Then I said, try kicking it out.  I don't know why I said that. So he, um kicked it (pg76).

 Even with this nonfiction that read like fiction, Yuknavitch continues to befriend the reader to reveal the "I" that says, "try kicking it out" in reference to her daughter's remains.

 Creative nonfiction, fiction and poetry work together to craft a page turning memoir. Yuknavitch added comedy for good measure.

THE EVOVLING VOICE

WHEN THERE’S A FRAME, HOW DO WE LOSE THE ADULT TO ACHIEVE THE CHILD?

I have the perfect example! I think it’s all in detail details details, and voice. I went back to the beginning of The Glass Castle, where I felt the narrator did it best, and came up with this.

“The pan was too heavy for me to lift when it was full of water, so I’d put a chair next to the sink, climb up and fill a glass, then stand on a chair by the stove and pour the water into the pan. I did that over and over again until the pan held enough water (11).”

This is a good example because although it’s told from an adult narrative voice, the reader can still clearly visualize the event happening through the child’s eye. If we go back to the ironing board, the vision from below would compare to that of the vision below the sink, or below the range of the stove, etc. So it makes sense for the narrator to create, in this particular instance, a scene where a small child is walking back and forth between the sink and the stove. We can visualize this character climbing up and down and up and down continuously, until this pot, which I imagine as being metal, is full. Key words like “climb” really help too because we can imagine a small child not being able to reach things in an average adult sized kitchen.

Another thing too is in the voice details. Simple words and phrases like, “My hospital room even has its very own television…” and “Yes, We do! We do!” (The latter being the children’s request to have Rex tell them a story (11, 24). As a craft choice, I notice that on a sentence level, Walls chooses earlier on to keep the responses of the children shorter rather than longer when they speak to each other and in reference to adults. I think this too is affective in capturing the child because it shows a contrast in the age difference. According to who’s speaking, whether the sentences are short or longer, this can act as a signifier.

Example: Child on Child action (29).

Lori: “Do you like always moving around?”

Jeannette: “Of course I do! Don’t you?

Lori: “Sure.”

Example: Parent on Child action (31).

            Jeannette: “I thought you were going to leave me behind.”

            Rex: “Aww, I’d never do that,” he said. “Your brother was trying to tell us that you’d fallen out, but he was blabbering so damn hard we couldn’t understand a word he was saying”

            Rex: “You busted your snot locker pretty good.”

            Jeannette: “Snot locker.”

These are good examples because we as readers can see the difference in the dialogue between the kids and parent. The kid’s phrases in comparison are choppier.

Also, another thing worth pointing out is how the words are put together. Take a closer look at Lori’s first line above… Notice anything??? She says, “Do you like always moving around?” Opposed to, “Do you like moving around all the time?” or something of that sort. Do you see the difference? (I keep saying it out loud and the way Lori says it sounds really awkward). I don’t think this is a mistake on Wells’ part, but more of her smooth attempt in capturing a child-like voice or language. It almost goes unnoticed. In writing this review, I’m realizing that much of good technique in losing the adult to achieve the child can pretty much boil down to simple sentence structure and wording. 

B. Hill

Adult Vs. Child Voice in Frame Narrative

The Evolving Voice: When there's a frame, how do we lose the adult to achieve the child?

I like a frame structure of narration for the same reason I like any type of hints or foreshadowing: it offers a clue about the future and allows the reader's imagination to run wild, usually along the lines of: "How on earth do we get to this point?" I'm a firm believer in the cooperative effort between author and reader, and any narrative tactic that prods the reader to put their imagination to work is a great one by me. That's exactly what Walls does in the first chapter; she gives us the "ending", the conclusion of a childhood relationship as it has developed between parent and child, and establishes a gnawing question moving forward (or backward): What happens between a parent and child to put them so far apart? (It's like a topic sentence in a paragraph, guiding what comes next and keeping the reader focused.)

From this point on, however, the author has their work cut out for them. Once established, that adult voice must disappear, else the reader will never truly get lost in the way-back-when they bring us back to. I would not have been able to get so utterly caught up in the Walls family fever dream if the first person voice, my tour guide, wasn't 100% committed. I mentioned this in last week's post, so it may be some repetition, but when Walls' narration is at a point when she is four years old, she is four years old; she believes, she parrots, she springs and bounces back. When Walls takes us to a time when she's nine years old, she is nine years old; she sponges, she explores, she asks questions and learns lessons. There's no deviation. That's true commitment.

I have to wonder how an author can pull this off - not just in writing, as we will all dissect, hash and rehash, for very good reason - but in remembering, as well, which seems to be the obscured first process in writing a memoir. I know that when I write from memory, the voice I use stays pretty much the same: the adult looking back. This can be explained by my spotty memory and my difficulty in putting myself back, totally present, in that past time. Does Walls' narrative voice sock right into her former brain because her memory is so clear? Or is this achievement one that takes a good amount of practice, a narrative effort of constructing a convincing voice that borrows from writing fiction? Imagination shoring in the gaps that memory leaves behind may seem like fabrication to a purist, but when you really think about it, this is an excellent thing for a memoirist and a fiction writer to have in common: complete absorption in, and vivid communication of, a world that does not physically, literally exist in the here/now. I'm fascinated by all tactical aspects of writing, and I have to admit it pleases me to imagine some strategy on Walls' part in constructing her child voice, rather than simply relying on and parroting a freakishly strong memory.  

Voice is undoubtedly the pulse in The Glass Castle. And Walls creates a true coming of age novel, essentially, one detailing her transformed view of the world from growing up and her evolving voice. Unreliability is present, but not necessarily because the narrator is lying or withholding the truth. I would not even say that this evolving voice indicates that the narration that is lower on the ladder, in the child’s perspective, is one that is necessarily dramatic or full of exaggerations. More so, it is that the writer was able to be the kind of narrator that reveal the limited experience of the character (young Jennette). Point blank and simple: her unreliability and lack of credibility that many of us wrote about and spoke about for last class is largely rooted in her evolving voice.

Over the course of this memoir, Walls matures and climbs the ladder. She doesn’t climb up too far and tell us much in highlight. We are largely right there beside her, pushing through the turbulence and order, getting too close and too far to those intense moments. We should be blown away by the fact that Walls’ voice maintained consistent and that Walls did a phenomenal job by revealing these transformations similarly to the ways in which we received revelations and transform in our actual lives. 

I found that evolving voice in The Glass Castle were captured in the syntactical shifts between short syntax and longer more complicated sentence structures. Although I would argue that this short and sweet structure is prevalent in the first part of the memoir, I found it here and there within the second part as well. It seemed like those moments where she was being moved and impacted by her father, that those sentences became short again. What a way to indicate to the reader that this man, her father, makes her feel like a child again and makes her flushed or short in speech. Specifically when she is in the hospital because he is dying. When she speaks to wanting to break him out Rex-Walls-style and details a lot of her stirred feelings around this without, she speaks very simply. The moment is captured, all moments she has spent with this man are captured. Of course, not only is she able to remind us of her writing when she lower on the ladder, but also strip fluff from the scene to capture a very pivotal scene.

This more sophisticated narration doesn’t necessarily mean the narrator is up the ladder, aforementioned. But for the most part, this narration style will reflect the adult/ghost narrator. On page 288, the narrator was at the top of the ladder, using sophisticated language and sentence structuring to root a present experience of toasting with her mother with a memory of the past (Brian almost burning down the damn house). This shows that build up that Walls does, the revealing and coming of an older wiser person, is effective. She ends the memoir with the ability to show the impact of what she has learned and internalized. These sentence structures are an important technique in this coming of age story.