Mimi Schwartz and What her Father Always Said...

People who lived through (and associate themselves with) a particular past generation carry a sense of how it was in the “good old days.” More often than not, these people are our parents, grandparents, older relatives or even older siblings (my older brother is 18 years older than I). You’ll always catch people like these saying things that put their generation (or decade, in the case of my brother and sisters) in a higher platform than your own. Lines like “it was better then” or “back in the day, it wasn’t as bad” are always thrown around when these particular people talk about the things that are going on in today’s world. To Mimi Schwartz, her father was one of these who came from a past generation. And in the tradition of those from past generations, Schwartz’s father had a favorite saying, “In Rindheim, you didn’t do such things!” The line is clearly a reflection of how things change through time and Mimi Schwartz, at first, did not understand why this was such a big deal for her father. In her essay “My Father Always Said,” Schwartz explains to us how she had come to terms with her father’s constant comments about how different it was in Rindheim, and in the process, she came to understand her family and even herself.

Schwartz’s essay is subtly separated into six sections. The first section serves as an introduction for the piece. It introduced who she was when she was a teenager and who her dad was then (albeit it was just the tip of the iceberg). She also touched on how things were where she grew up (Forest Hills, Queens). She finishes the introduction by explaining to us that the rest of the piece was to be about her first trip to Rindheim with her father and mother.

The second section deals with her initial impressions of Rindheim. She expressively remembers how different the town was to cities like Stuttgart where her mother was from. The section also tells us a little bit of what Schwartz’ father did as a young man in his old town. The rest of the section deals with how different Rindheim has become in 1993 than the Rindheim she remembers in 1953. However, I believe that the point of the section is the comparison that we get between the life of Schwartz’s father as young man and her young life in America.

The third section goes more into the old synagogue that her father had brought Schwartz and her mother to. Schwartz, being a young and curious girl, asked her father if they were going to go inside the temple. Her father explains that the synagogue was merely a shell of its former self as it was “gutted by fire during kristallnacht.” Not knowing what it was, she asked her father and received an answer that she really wasn’t expecting. The section shows us that the teenage version of Schwartz was beginning to understand a little but more of her history and heritage. It also explained the anxiety her father had about visiting certain places in Rindheim (his old house and the synagogue). Despite the fact that her father’s catch phrase was “In Rindheim, you didn’t do such things,” Schwartz’s father had many stories about Rindheim better left untouched. Schwartz’s father left in 1933, before things became really bad in Rindheim. But a lot of Rindheim Jews did not leave until kristallnacht. The idyllic town was certainly not isolated from the evils brought upon by Nazi Germany.

The fourth section was a little less somber than the previous one. The relatively short section deals with Schwartz’s parents as they told her a few stories from their youth. Schwartz reiterates the fact that life in Rindheim was very different for her father than her life in Queens. She marvels at the fact that her father’s school was not separated by age but rather by religion. But she does feel some comfort in knowing that they all got along. She also receives some comfort from the fact that her mother and father did have some fun when they young.

The fifth section sees a return to somberness. The section is about her visit to the Jewish cemetery in which a lot of her relatives were buried. In actuality, the initial purpose of this trip was to visit their relatives rather than visiting Schwartz’s father’s hometown. Schwartz explains that as much as she tried, she couldn’t put faces to the relatives (especially grandparents) she had never met but essentially she also lost. All she could think of were the grandparents she did know, her maternal grandparents (I assume) who lived three blocks away from their house in Queens. Even when the real tragedy and sadness of the cemetery is explained by her father by describing what happened to tante Rosa, teenaged Schwartz thought it to be not so bad since they were people that she did not know (the existence of tante Rosa was only made known to her when they visited the cemetery).

The sixth section ties all the other sections together. In this section, Schwartz explains how she’s finally accepted her father’s signature line, how it gave her a sense of her own history and sense of legitimacy. However, after the trip, she realized that her father had changed. He no longer said his often repeated line; in its place was a happier one that goes “Smile, Smile! You are a lucky girl to be here!” Although she doesn’t say it quite explicitly, the last paragraph of the section explains to us that her father, during their trip, was able to find some sort of closure that let him let go of Rindheim.

Schwartz writes the piece in a rather exquisite manner. It is quite reflective, like most of the creative nonfiction works I have read thus far. But, perhaps, the main difference lies in Schwartz’s ability to write seemingly disconnected (they were in a way disconnected despite it being about the same trip) sections and brining it all together in the end. It’s as if each sections were like separate pieces of colorful beads. By itself, they are pleasant to read but they lack a beginning and an ending and thus it seems like they are floating (perhaps the first section doesn’t suffer so much from this since it was essentially a “beginning”). However, the last section is like the string that goes through the beads and makes the entire ensemble into a necklace (or bracelet). The gaps in between the sections serve like bookends for the several snippets of Schwartz’s memories of her first trip to Rindheim. The gaps are like smaller, plain beads that emphasize the difference between other beads, making them standout.

On Montaigne and Orwell

Heraclitus, an incredibly smart (and obviously very observant) scholar who lived in the 5^th century BC, once said that “there is nothing permanent except change.” A millennium and half after his death, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist, geophysicist, or Mensa member to realize that Heraclitus’ observation is still true. Everything and everyone, at some point or another, no matter what one does, is subject to change. Creative Nonfiction, like everything else in this world, is also subject to change. In a previous reading, the essayist Bret Lott mentioned that Michel de Montaigne, the 16^th century French statesman and writer, was the forerunner, if not the inventor, of Creative Nonfiction. But after reading Montaigne’s “That Men Should Not Judge of our Happiness till after our Death,” the casual observer might have trouble believing in what Lott said about the Frenchman. If one is only used to contemporary works of creative nonfiction, Montaigne’s piece would seem almost completely alien especially if it was read aloud. However, this disconnect between the works of the “inventor” of creative nonfiction and the works of contemporary CNF authors like Joan Didion and Jamaica Kinkaid, is merely the product of several hundred years of change. Writing styles change, meaning of words also change, even the most rigid conventions of writing eventually change over several hundreds of years. Nonetheless, upon closer inspection, there are several elements of this particular Montaigne piece that has filtered through time. Take for example Montaigne’s rumination halfway through “That Men Should Not Judge.” It is somewhat similar to the kinds of reflection contemporary CNF authors use in their works. Even Bret Lott’s “Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction” has some ties to Montaigne’s work. Lott’s use of ancient and not so ancient writers as examples in his work is quite reminiscent of Montaigne’s penchant for quoting and referring to classical writers like Plutarch and Lucretius.

Assuming that we all agree with Lott’s claim that Montaigne is the forerunner of creative nonfiction (I agree with Lott, but what do I know?), it doesn’t take too long for the sound and appearance of creative nonfiction to change (what’s a few hundreds in the grand scheme of things anyway?). By the time George Orwell wrote “Shooting an Elephant” in 1936, creative nonfiction (or personal essays) has changed dramatically. Writing styles changed, meanings of words have changed, and the most rigid conventions of writing have also changed, thus resulting in a very different product. Unlike in the time of Montaigne where personal reflection was thought of as detrimental to the proper style of writing, personal reflection in the 20^th and 21^st century was and is quite common and accepted (at least in essays, never in scholarly works). Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” resembles contemporary creative nonfiction in many different ways. Obviously, the element of self-reflection present in this particular work. How can one be more self-reflective than recalling and analyzing one’s past experiences? Also, the tone of the piece is simple but very descriptive, similar to more recent works like Kinkaid’s “Biography of Dress.” Anyone who has read about anti-colonialism in the former British Empire knows that Orwell was one of the staunchest proponents of the movement. In this essay, Orwell uses his personal recollection of an event in his life as a vehicle to share his revelations about evils of tyranny and colonialism much like how Kinkaid used snippets of childhood memories to share who her mother was in relation to her as a two year old.

Kinkaid and Lott: Understanding CNF just a little bit more...

To anybody else, a simple yellow dress from a person’s childhood would probably not garner more than a few sentences of pleasant but fleeting nostalgia. To Jamaica Kinkaid, her yellow dress deserved an entire essay. Kinkaid’s “Biography of a Dress” is a stirring reflection on a particular event in her childhood that revolved around a yellow, homemade, poplin dress. However, unlike what the title suggests, the essay is not about the dress her mother made for Kinkaid when she was a toddler. Yes, I must concede that there was a lot written about how the dress was made. On the other hand, upon closer inspection, all that talk about the yellow dress merely served as a vehicle for Kinkaid to show us (rather than tell us) a particular part of her childhood and how she remembers her mother. In fact, as I finished reading the essay, I got the notion that the story was more about who her mother was in relation to her rather than what the yellow dress was in relation to a two year old. Kinkaid goes on and shows us how she, as a two year old, thought of what was going on around her. By doing so, Kinkaid deliberately shows us who her mother was as well. What makes this essay different from what I have read earlier (Didion, Alexie, and Beard) is precisely that, it wasn’t about what happened in her past but rather who she was in the past. Yes, this theme is somewhat reminiscent in Jo Ann Beard’s “Out There” but Kinkaid’s explanation of who her mother was in relation to her (and in effect, who she was in relation to her mother) takes it to a whole other level.

***

More often than not, when a writer writes about the definition of a term, their intent is to carry you from Point A (the question, the term) to Point B (the answer, the definition) in a precise and concise manner. Bret Lott doesn’t do that. What he does is nudge you (push sounds a little too violent) from Point A to wherever you decide to go to between Point B and Point Z. Perhaps I tried to milk the analogy a little bit too much there but I would like to believe that I’ve made my point. Lott’s essay “Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction” is exactly what the title tells us it is. Lott gives us several possible definitions that he gathered by reflecting on what other writers like Philip Lopate, Derek Kidner and even Michel Montaigne have said about writing such pieces. However, the main point of the essay is Lott’s argument that, as a writer, one owes it to himself or herself to find a definition of CNF simply through experimentation. He explains that “ we can no more understand what creative nonfiction is by trying to define it than we can learn how to ride a bike by looking at a bicycle tire, a set of handle bars, the bicycle chain itself.” (p.270) In essence, we can really only come up with a definition of CNF if we try to write creative nonfiction. There’s no substitute for trying. Nevertheless, despite all of this, the one thing that left an impression in me is Lott’s “last element” in his essay. The reason we write creative nonfiction is because it is “our responsibility as human beings to answer for and to our lives.” (p. 276)

Creative Non-Fiction?

How does one define “Creative Non-Fiction?” It’s easy to define “Creative”, whether as an adjective or a noun. It is also relatively easy to define “Non-Fiction.” However, putting the two together and treating it as a single term is another story. It becomes a little unwieldy and somehow ambiguous. Unfortunately, “Creative Non-Fiction” can’t be defined as “non-fiction with a creative quality to it.” If there’s one thing I learned in my fairly extensive academic career, you can’t define a word (or a term) by simply repeating it. In situations like these, perhaps the best thing to do is trust an authority in the subject (in this case, my professor) and read works that have been labeled as “Creative Non-Fiction” so as to be able to discern a unique definition for it. After sampling Joan Didion’s inspired piece about keeping notes, Sherman Alexie’s anecdotes on his childhood and the struggles of the younger Native American generation, and Jo Ann Beard’s seemingly chaotic but purposeful narrative of being “Out There”, I was able to define “Creative Non-Fiction” as an exercise in retrospective self-contemplation.

I know what you’re thinking. If it could be summed up in one word, it would be “What?” Don’t worry, I am completely aware that I have just defined a complex term with another complex term and for this I apologize. I find that this is the easiest way to define CNF. Perhaps, if I explain my conclusion, it wouldn’t cause as much confusion as I assume it’s causing right now. The word Retrospect comes from the Latin word retrospectare (which actually comes from two Latin words, spectare and retro) which means to “look back.” The three authors definitely did not have similar styles but they did have at least one thing in common, they were “looking back.” The word Contemplate comes from the Latin contemplari which means to “gaze attentively or observe.” I wouldn’t say that Didion, Alexie and Beard gazed attentively at themselves (is that at all possible?) but all three, while “looking back”, certainly observed who they were at the time in regards to what happened to them. Maybe the way I chose to explain all of this makes the authors sound egotistic and what not, but in reality they aren’t. All their “Retrospective Self-Contemplation” actually serves a greater purpose. It helps us, the readers, critics and eventual pupils of such literary pieces to read, understand, and digest the truths that they have written about. However, this definition of CNF is only one of many correct definitions. CNF does not have to be like Didion’s “On Keeping a Notebook” or like Alexie’s “Superman and Me,” in fact, it doesn’t even have to be an essay at all. Sometimes, all it takes is a simple but eloquent retelling of your summer’s adventures to a friend or two.

Greetings and Salutations...

Essays and Blogs will be up shorty...