and at the very same time

Black scientists and technicians, many of them women, used cells from a black woman to help save the lives of millions of Americans, most of them white. And they did so on the same campus—and at the very same time—that state officials were conducting the infamous Tuskegee syphilis studies. - Rebecca Skloot, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

Americanah and Another Beyonce Video

She heard his words like a melody and she felt herself breathing unevenly, gulping at the air. She would not cry, it was ridiculous to cry after so long, but her eyes were filling with tears and there was a boulder in her chest and a stinging in her throat. The tears felt itchy. She made no sound. He took her hand in his, both clasped on the table, and between them silence grew, an ancient silence that they both knew. She was inside this silence and she was safe. - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Americanah

At the end of Daredevil's (the tv show) somewhat disappointing second season, there's this great cliched pep talk from a seasoned newspaper editor to his cub reporter. This is followed by the age-old trope of a narrator putting a pin on the show's themes while watching a montage. It was silly and annoying and made me think about what I'm doing here. So maybe there's something to that.

In that scene, our reporter is staring at a blank screen. She doesn't know what story to write. Her editor tells her to tell the story that only she can. Let's forget that she goes on to write a non-news, vague pep talk to New Yorkers that would have been deeply disappointing to her editor. It made me wonder what that is for me. A lot of these articles end up being me repurposing things I've learned from reading other posts, or attending trainings, or sporadically, my own life experiences. Hopefully with my own brand of optimism/humor/awkward self-deprecation. But is it the story only I can tell?

Listen, Karen (in Daredevil) saw some dark stuff. She was kidnapped, part of an undercover sting that went real wrong, in a room by herself with a psychopath, present for every minute of the trial of the century, and the story she can tell, that nobody else can, is that you're a hero if you can survive in New York City? That's a bummer, you guys.

When I wrote about Mindy Kaling's book Is Everyone Hanging Out With Me? I ended with this:

What if we all had a book? And we could tell our stories and what was going on in our heads when we messed up and how hard we worked for the accomplishments other people seem to think we didn't earn? Where we were sometimes tough and sometimes vulnerable and worried about the future. What if when you meet someone new and think, this is someone I would like to know better and they handed you a book, like a business card, and said this is me. Understand me. What if we understood each other?

First of all, yes. I just quoted my own self. This thing has become the self-referential, snake-eating-its-own-tail self-congratulation fest it's threatened to be since its inception. Now that it's happened we can all just relax. Second of all, when I'm at my most confident about having a "blog" or "website" or whatever, it's when I tell myself that this is my book. Not in the sense that I want to publish it, but in the aforementioned sense of creating a record of what I'm thinking and why. Whether that matters is up for debate, but I'll give you a brief anecdote.

At this point I've had several friends die at very young ages. Of those, two left a blog. One was killed in a surprise and tragic car accident. Her blog told the story of someone just figuring herself out. It was a mix of movie reviews and memoir, obsessions with expensive heels and meditations on a horrible break-up. And then it just ends, you guys. There will be no more posts. It's been close to ten years. I don't think about her a lot, but sometimes a movie or book will come out and I wonder what she'd think of it, sure that a blog post would have appeared.

The other is darker. It's often a cry for help. It's a story of someone overwhelmed and feeling incapable of existing in world filled with seemingly random tragedy. It's lonely. Reading it and knowing what happens is difficult, but I'm glad it's there.

I spend a lot of time trying to justify what I do here. I'm self-conscious about the hubris it takes to think that your thoughts are so important that you should advertise them endlessly on social media. I usually have better things to do than sit down and write these. Sometimes I think I do it more to keep momentum than anything else. Hopefully, at some point, I'm writing something that nobody else could have written. I know as a society we make so much fun of blogs.

Guess what? A lot of things that we make fun of as a society actually rule. Of course a blanket that you can wear is awesome. A computer that is in your glasses? Why not?! I bet that Uggs and yoga pants are super comfy. Video games are fun. I just started playing Dungeons and Dragons with my wife and kids, and it's amazing. It's like we're telling a story together but with dice. You get online during the super bowl and make fun of "sportsball" and I dismiss the Bachelor season finale and neither of us realize that they are essentially the exact same thing.

In Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the main character Ifemelu has a blog. As a Nigerian immigrant, she has a unique perspective on race in America, and she talks about it frankly and with humor. We read some of her posts sometimes, and we see the experiences that lead to the posts. She dates some dudes. Some are white, some African-American, some American-African. She figures out what to do with her hair. Listen, Americanah is about a lot of stuff. But as Ifemelu says, “Why did people ask "What is it about?" as if a novel had to be about only one thing.”

Yeah, it's about race:

When my father was in school in my NAB (Non American Black) country, many American Blacks could not vote or go to good schools. The reason? Their skin color. Skin color alone was the problem. Today, many Americans say that skin color cannot be part of the solution. Otherwise it is referred to as a curiosity called “reverse racism.” Have your white friend point out how the American Black deal is kind of like you’ve been unjustly imprisoned for many years, then all of a sudden you’re set free, but you get no bus fare. And, by the way, you and the guy who imprisoned you are now automatically equal. If the “slavery was so long ago” thing comes up, have your white friend say that lots of white folks are still inheriting money that their families made a hundred years ago. So if that legacy lives, why not the legacy of slavery? And have your white friend say how funny it is, that American pollsters ask white and black people if racism is over. White people in general say it is over and black people in general say it is not. Funny indeed.

But it's also about society.

He had first been excited by Facebook, ghosts of old friends suddenly morphing to life with wives and husbands and children, and photos trailed by comments. But he began to be appalled by the air of unreality, the careful manipulation of images to create a parallel life, pictures that people had taken with Facebook in mind, placing in the background the things of which they were proud.

They ticked the boxes of a certain kind of enlightened, educated middle-classness, the love of dresses that were more interesting than pretty, the love of the eclectic, the love of what they were supposed to love. Ifemelu imagined them when they traveled: they would collect unusual things and fill their homes with them, unpolished evidence of their polish.

 And love.

She liked that he wore their relationship so boldly, like a brightly colored shirt. Sometimes she worried that she was too happy. She would sink into moodiness, and snap at Obinze, or be distant. And her joy would become a restless thing, flapping its wings inside her, as though looking for an opening to fly away.

I've talked about race on here a couple of times. I'm clearly figuring this out. I have a long way to go. Adichie points out many times that even well-meaning, liberal people can really screw up our attempts to accommodate people of color.

The only reason you say that race was not an issue is because you wish it was not. We all wish is was not. But it’s a lie. I came from a country where race was not an issue; I did not think myself as black and I only became black when I came to America. When you are black in America and you fall in love with a white person, race doesn’t matter when you’re alone together because it’s just you and your love. But the minute you step outside, race matters. But we don’t talk about it. We don’t even tell our white partners small things that piss us off and the things we wish they understood better, because we’re worried they will say we’re overreacting, or we’re being too sensitive. And we don’t want them to say, Look how far we’ve come, just forty years ago it would have been illegal for us to even be a couple blah blah blah, because you know what we’re thinking when they say that? We’re thinking why the fuck should it ever have been illegal anyway? But we don’t say any of this stuff. We let it pile up inside our heads and when we come to nice liberal dinners like this, we say that race doesn’t matter because that’s what we’re supposed to say, to keep our nice liberal friends comfortable. It’s true. I speak from experience.

I'm sorry, guys. I'm quoting a lot and not saying much. That's probably the best way to deal with these issues, though, don't you think? What do I have to say that she can't say better? She's telling the story that only she can. And boy does she tell it.

I had this thought over the weekend. The last book I read was such a slog. I had to force myself to keep going. This was a book about magic and giant robots that destroy things with anti-gravity rays. About the end of the world. Cool gadgets! Hot girls! And I was so bored. Then there's this story about an immigrant woman reflecting on her life while getting her braids done and I just. can't. stop. reading.

Everything I love about writing and reading is in Americanah. Adichie's writing doesn't call attention to itself. It isn't mannered. It's just right. There isn't a sentence that annoys me. The ideas are meaty and dense. The plotting is perfect. I've now read everything she's published, and I'm very sad. I was, however, deeply delighted to see her We Should All Be Feminists (I just reread that post and darnit if I'm not proud of it) used as the basis for a Beyonce song.

If I blog enough will I be featured in a Beyonce song? Stay tuned! (UPDATE: This is Howie from the future. You are never featured in a Beyonce song, but you do die at some point ((This is Howie from the present: OK)))

All the Birds in the Sky and The Best/Worst Blurb of All Time

I hated it at first! Then I kind of liked it! Then I was hooked! Then I hated it!

That's the existential story of life for a fish and also my reaction to All the Birds in the Sky, by Charlie Jane Anders. Please don't take my word for it, though. Read about it and if it sounds like something you'd like, maybe you will? I seem to be clearly in the minority here. L.A. Times calls it "brilliant." Michael Chabon said, "In All the Birds in the Sky, Charlie Jane Anders darts and soars, with dazzling aplomb, among the hypotheticals of science fiction, the counterfactuals of fantasy, and the bittersweet mundanities of contemporary American life, throwing lightning bolts of literary style that shimmer with enchantment or electrons."

I want you to really chew on that blurb for a minute.

So let's just get this out of the way: who is this Howie? What has he ever done with his life? Has he ever published a novel? Is he as handsome as his profile picture looks? Did he really drop his gloves in the toilet? Is reality the same for everyone or do we experience the same stimuli in such diverse ways that no one person could ever speak for another's reaction? Are we all actually characters in a novel, and if so, would anyone read it and is the author watching us in the bathroom?

I'm nobody. I'm not Michael Chabon. I don't think this website is a place where you should go to find out what books to read. It's actually just a place where I practice writing and try to work things out in my head and if you want to be a part of that, I'm very humbled and grateful but it is certainly not a prerequisite for my friendship.

Who is this Howie? A guy who doesn't immediately melt for pop-culture references. Just because I know who MC Frontalot is doesn't mean I get chills when I see him referenced on a written page. "Doctor Who is a thing!" many pages of this book say, "And I am acknowledging it!" That's not an actual line from the book, but this is: "Actually, Laurence is hardly ever home; this is the first I’ve seen him in weeks. Which can only mean one thing: Red Dwarf marathon."

That's it. No oblique reference to the characters of an old show and how it applies to the current situation. No social commentary. Just banking on that thrill each of us gets when we realize we have something obscure in common. 

This is a book that doesn't know what kind of book it is. It goes from 20-somethings-having-very-deep-conversations-over-organic-coffee to Douglas Adams-style absurdity.

“We’re doing serious research here,” said Tanaa. “Nothing is a toy. Well, except for Six-Fingered Steve.” She gestured at the tiny tap-dancing robot, who heard his name and made jazz hands with too many digits. Disturbing, as always.”

Ugh. I'm going to stop. I'm sure Anders is a nice person and people sure seem to love this book. If you like magic and science fiction and painfully hip people saying things that are painfully clever (not to mention modern human beings who casually say things like, "I haven't seen him in a fortnight") and romances that happen seemingly out of nowhere and giant robots and a wizarding school that isn't-your-kid-sister's-Harry-Potter-because-of-swears then go for it.

I think there's a good argument to be made for science fiction and magical realism. These stories can be allegories. In this case there are some big interesting ideas, but I have a hard time with the basic premise and its application to real life. On the one hand, Laurence is a scientist who joins a group of people who want to save humanity from the impending doom of climate change through a wormhole tunneler, which would create a bridge between Earth and another habitable planet. On the other hand, Patricia represents the witches, magical nature folk whose last resort to save the world is to make humans abhor each other and never reproduce again.

Which, OK, that's kind of interesting. Except magic isn't real. Right? Maybe what Anders is trying to say is that there shouldn't be a divide between people who love Sci-Fi and people who love Fantasy, so she wrote a book full of both. Fine. If you're me and you don't like either, though, maybe it's not the book for you.

If the parallel is to point out a so-called divide between optimistic scientists who think that technology can save humanity from an increasingly uninhabitable Earth and the hippy granola-heads who say the only solution is mass suicide, then frankly I find that argument annoying. By focusing on the extremes we're missing everything in between. I go to a lot of scientific conferences. And these conferences are filled with people who are (A) Very passionate about the environment and (B) Very into science. They use technology to track wildlife, and climate, and plant growth. They use lasers to find polar bear dens in a way that is infinitely less invasive than the old-fashioned way (dogs and digging). They work with engineers to fix streams, and build massive highway structures to provide safe passage for wildlife across the roads. I'm sorry, dreadlocked white guy, but if we're going to save the world, we're going to need to science the sh** out of it.

Pretty cool of me to say I was going to stop and then not stop. I really don't want to be mean. I don't want to review books. I don't like to call my posts reviews. I don't like to call them posts, either. I've stopped calling this a blog and started calling it a website and started calling my blog posts "articles," because I enjoy lying to myself. I see the light and optimism and hope for the world disappear from people's eyes when I tell them that I have a blog. And I see them smile tightly and look for someone else to talk to when I say, "I wrote a post about that, I'll send you a link."

Most of my "articles" start out with me talking about an idea from a book that I find compelling. Or an anecdote. Or a dirty limerick. Then I might briefly discuss the book and say it was good. I'm not really that hard to please. If you look at my Goodreads, I give out stars like they are Tootsie Roll brand Halloween mix and it's the end of the night. I like almost all books. But sometimes I don't and my editor (me) is really getting on me (again, me) to post because he (me) has a thing to get to (which is a lie), so I write anyway.

So I don't like writing negative blogs (or articles, or reviews, or detritus dumps, call them what you want). What I do like, though, is seeing that I've written enough words to justify posting. Which I will do right.... now
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