Dear Ms. Marjane Satrapi,
I first encountered your book, Persepolis, when it appeared on the syllabus for an anthropology class on "Women and Islam" that I took in the fall of 2008. I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that it was the first 'comic book' that I had ever read. As a result, I approached it as I would any other work of literature, and was unsure what to make of its lighthearted descriptions of repressive or violent situations. When you came to speak at Scripps College on April 9th, I was also somewhat stunned to hear you say that you think of yourself as a cartoonist, not an author, and that you don't like it when people refer to Persepolis as a "graphic novel".
However, asking the question of "what is literature?" is certainly valuable. For a written work to be called "literature", it has to earn that label, or justify why it deserves to be in that category. This begs for the question "who decides what literature is?". People often forget that a system is in place deciding what makes it and what doesn't. That system needs to be constantly questioned by introducing new voices. Watching and reading are generally passive acts, but they don't have to be.
I realized that your point of view on literature probably gets ignored by many because it doesn't support exclusivity in academia. Comics get dismissed as "unsophisticated"; yet, comics speak through the language of drawings and images, which is the first language of all people, and universal in its own way. Text lends itself to more speculation, but authors get put on artificially high pedestals that often cause admirers to forget the author's humanity.
You said that Persepolis is more about history than autobiography, but I think that personal storytelling is important for bringing people of different backgrounds together. The time and place of one's life are central to one's life experience. Yet, as an American woman, when I think about women in or from the Middle East, what I most want to know about is what they have in common with me, so the autobiographical elements of Persepolis are really valuable. Maybe you didn't want to call it "autobiography" because that implies some kind of cathartic or therapeutic "need" to write the story. You seem like a strong, opinionated woman, both qualities that I admire very much.
You made several interesting points about the American media's view of the Middle East that opened my eyes. For example, when you asked whether "values" such as love and family exist everywhere, and my first instinct was to answer "yes, they do"; and yet many people talk about the "culture clash" as if the values of East and West, or Muslims and Christians had nothing in common. This creates unfair demonization of Muslims, creating more conflict and getting us nowhere. If the only real division in the world exists between fanatics and non-fanatics, we would be much better off focusing on education and alleviating the economic need that often drives people toward resentment and intolerance.
I wish that I'd had the courage to ask you more questions about the role of gender in Persepolis, and what you meant when you said that comics are not a genre, but a medium. You did mention that one motivation for creating your book was the fact that there are very few female characters in comics to relate to. The roles, viewpoints, and feelings of women from Muslim countries is a popular topic for debate, but information and stories from a primary source seem to be rare. Of course, you aren't expected to represent such a large demographic, but one voice is better than none at all.
Although you stated that you would like readers to approach Persepolis as a comic and not as literature, I'm going to agree to disagree on that point. I feel that it's appropriate to approach it as a book, because the literary world needs to be exposed to more stories by women writing about themselves. Also, people from the Middle East offering a different perspective on their homelands than the mass media need to be heard, and Persepolis contributes to a positive culture in both ways.
Sincerely,
Claire Palermo
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Slam Poetry: Daniel José Custódio
Dear Daniel José Custódio,
I just wanted to let you know how strongly and passionately your performance at Pitzer College affected me. I had no idea what to expect when I came to see your performance because I had never seen a slam poetry presentation before. To be honest, I came for a literature assignment. I sat there with my notebook open, prepared to take notes, when I found that I simply could not. The power of your words and the emotions behind them had me, to say the least, mesmerized.
I admired how easily you let every audience member enter into you memories of sadness and love. Your openness was beautiful and your candid behavior had my attention, well, hooked.
Though I could not relate to all of your subject matter (I grew up in Hawaii, far from the baseball hat wearing Yankee types) your messages were so clearly understandable and resonating to my age group. Know yourself, be yourself, know your name. Growing up in Hawaii, many Hawaiian names and traditions have been dumb-ed down simply for convenience’s sake. I thought of my own upbringing and feeling in your introduction about your name. The sadness I have experienced is different from yours, but it follows a similar message.
Your poem “Hooked” could mean so many things, but what it meant to me was something completely unique. Knowing that some things are going to be difficult and painful to achieve, those are ideas that a college student can understand. Being taken advantage of and allowing your self to love someone, those are definitely subjects a college student can understand.
Your poetry is beautiful, what you are doing for your community is amazing, and your talents appear to be endless. I just wanted to let you know that I have been thinking about your performance over and over again these past few days and no words can describe how I felt and how I was moved.
I just wanted to let you know how strongly and passionately your performance at Pitzer College affected me. I had no idea what to expect when I came to see your performance because I had never seen a slam poetry presentation before. To be honest, I came for a literature assignment. I sat there with my notebook open, prepared to take notes, when I found that I simply could not. The power of your words and the emotions behind them had me, to say the least, mesmerized.
I admired how easily you let every audience member enter into you memories of sadness and love. Your openness was beautiful and your candid behavior had my attention, well, hooked.
Though I could not relate to all of your subject matter (I grew up in Hawaii, far from the baseball hat wearing Yankee types) your messages were so clearly understandable and resonating to my age group. Know yourself, be yourself, know your name. Growing up in Hawaii, many Hawaiian names and traditions have been dumb-ed down simply for convenience’s sake. I thought of my own upbringing and feeling in your introduction about your name. The sadness I have experienced is different from yours, but it follows a similar message.
Your poem “Hooked” could mean so many things, but what it meant to me was something completely unique. Knowing that some things are going to be difficult and painful to achieve, those are ideas that a college student can understand. Being taken advantage of and allowing your self to love someone, those are definitely subjects a college student can understand.
Your poetry is beautiful, what you are doing for your community is amazing, and your talents appear to be endless. I just wanted to let you know that I have been thinking about your performance over and over again these past few days and no words can describe how I felt and how I was moved.
Yours sincerely,
your fan Jordan Everett, Scripps College 2012
Friday, April 3, 2009
Response to Bernard Cooper (for real this time, I hope)
Dear Mr. Bernard Cooper,
As an avid Times reader, it is a Saturday ritual of mine to devour the New York Times Magazine. While I sometimes skip over articles that delve into complex economic theory, or the intricacies of professional sports, I never miss the “Lives” essays printed on the last page. These quirky and thoughtful pieces never fail to pique my curiosity and make me think. Your essay, “A Thousand Drops,” was no exception.
From the very beginning of the first paragraph, you had me roped in. I felt, that Saturday, as if I was seated at a chair in your bedroom, watching as you grappled with all the frustrations, watching as you and your partner of 25 years, Brian, carried out all the monotonous but live-saving routines. Your rich descriptions and the somber mood you conveyed evoked my compassion as well as my aggravation, (in a good way, of course.)
I confess, that when I came to hear you read from your memoir “Glitch,” I did not realize you were the Bernard Cooper of New York Times Magazine fame. Thus, you can imagine my delight when you read the piece aloud and I made the connection. I must say, I was surprised by the way you presented yourself in person. I would not have expected the author of “A Thousand Drops” to be so humorous, nor would I have expected him to re-tell such a story with so strong a presence and so unassailable a voice. I found your posture, volume, and cadence to be spot-on, and I was impressed.
More than that though, I was pleased to hear a more fleshed-out version of your story. I was quite amused by the anecdotes of the teenagers who drive down your street blasting their cell phone ring-tones, and your neighbors, Christina Aguilera’s spiky-haired wardrobe crew. I understand how all that contributed to your rising stress level! I also enjoyed your embellishment on the maddening noises, the constant din that invaded your life, and all the gadgets and commotion required to keep Brian functioning. The way you describe things, it seems no wonder you were driven to insomnia. I, and others probably, would assume that someone in your situation would crave peace and quiet. Instead, I was intrigued to hear about how you found solace in the strangest and noisiest of places.
I was very glad you brought in some “glitch” music to play for your audience. Neither I, nor anyone else present, as noted by the lack of raised hands, had ever knowingly listened to it before. You mentioned that your friends don’t share your interest in this music, and after hearing the selections you played, I can’t say I blame them. It wasn’t exactly something you snap your fingers to. Nonetheless, I concede there was something appealingly zany about glitch. I somehow appreciated the unexpectedness of the rhythm and the instrumental noises. For some reason, it struck me as perfect background music for an indie movie, and I guess that’s a good thing. And if nothing else, it is commendable that glitch artists push and explore musical boundaries.
What’s more, the oddity of this music, the seeming strangeness of your newfound taste, makes your story all the more fascinating. In your situation, all the predictably uplifting music wouldn’t cut it. Instead, the soundtrack to your care giving, and to your grief was something hopelessly chaotic, just like you felt your life was becoming. Glitch, you explained, is music based on mistakes; it is amalgamations of flawed and different noises. It seemed so appropriate, listening to you narrate your story, and hearing you play your music that this disordered sound was what made sense to you in the midst of your baffling situation. I can understand why you maintain a fondness for this music even now. It was a good lesson for me to learn, and a good lesson in general I think, that help and comfort can come in unlikely forms.
Finally, I very much enjoyed your discussion on your writing and the answers you gave to all of your questions. I was not previously aware of all the imagination that was involved in writing non-fiction, and I enjoyed hearing your thoughts on why the form of memoir is significant. Your insight into this genre was fascinating as a listener, and I’m sure it will prove useful as a reader.
In short, thank you for a wonderful event. I won’t be forgetting your reading any time soon.
Sincerely,
Carmen Blatt
As an avid Times reader, it is a Saturday ritual of mine to devour the New York Times Magazine. While I sometimes skip over articles that delve into complex economic theory, or the intricacies of professional sports, I never miss the “Lives” essays printed on the last page. These quirky and thoughtful pieces never fail to pique my curiosity and make me think. Your essay, “A Thousand Drops,” was no exception.
From the very beginning of the first paragraph, you had me roped in. I felt, that Saturday, as if I was seated at a chair in your bedroom, watching as you grappled with all the frustrations, watching as you and your partner of 25 years, Brian, carried out all the monotonous but live-saving routines. Your rich descriptions and the somber mood you conveyed evoked my compassion as well as my aggravation, (in a good way, of course.)
I confess, that when I came to hear you read from your memoir “Glitch,” I did not realize you were the Bernard Cooper of New York Times Magazine fame. Thus, you can imagine my delight when you read the piece aloud and I made the connection. I must say, I was surprised by the way you presented yourself in person. I would not have expected the author of “A Thousand Drops” to be so humorous, nor would I have expected him to re-tell such a story with so strong a presence and so unassailable a voice. I found your posture, volume, and cadence to be spot-on, and I was impressed.
More than that though, I was pleased to hear a more fleshed-out version of your story. I was quite amused by the anecdotes of the teenagers who drive down your street blasting their cell phone ring-tones, and your neighbors, Christina Aguilera’s spiky-haired wardrobe crew. I understand how all that contributed to your rising stress level! I also enjoyed your embellishment on the maddening noises, the constant din that invaded your life, and all the gadgets and commotion required to keep Brian functioning. The way you describe things, it seems no wonder you were driven to insomnia. I, and others probably, would assume that someone in your situation would crave peace and quiet. Instead, I was intrigued to hear about how you found solace in the strangest and noisiest of places.
I was very glad you brought in some “glitch” music to play for your audience. Neither I, nor anyone else present, as noted by the lack of raised hands, had ever knowingly listened to it before. You mentioned that your friends don’t share your interest in this music, and after hearing the selections you played, I can’t say I blame them. It wasn’t exactly something you snap your fingers to. Nonetheless, I concede there was something appealingly zany about glitch. I somehow appreciated the unexpectedness of the rhythm and the instrumental noises. For some reason, it struck me as perfect background music for an indie movie, and I guess that’s a good thing. And if nothing else, it is commendable that glitch artists push and explore musical boundaries.
What’s more, the oddity of this music, the seeming strangeness of your newfound taste, makes your story all the more fascinating. In your situation, all the predictably uplifting music wouldn’t cut it. Instead, the soundtrack to your care giving, and to your grief was something hopelessly chaotic, just like you felt your life was becoming. Glitch, you explained, is music based on mistakes; it is amalgamations of flawed and different noises. It seemed so appropriate, listening to you narrate your story, and hearing you play your music that this disordered sound was what made sense to you in the midst of your baffling situation. I can understand why you maintain a fondness for this music even now. It was a good lesson for me to learn, and a good lesson in general I think, that help and comfort can come in unlikely forms.
Finally, I very much enjoyed your discussion on your writing and the answers you gave to all of your questions. I was not previously aware of all the imagination that was involved in writing non-fiction, and I enjoyed hearing your thoughts on why the form of memoir is significant. Your insight into this genre was fascinating as a listener, and I’m sure it will prove useful as a reader.
In short, thank you for a wonderful event. I won’t be forgetting your reading any time soon.
Sincerely,
Carmen Blatt
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)