Hi
all. I know what you’re thinking, “It’s been a year, what kind of blog
continuity is this?” I humbly apologize for the delay.
I have an unpredictable ebb and flow to my writing, but I strive to give
you something worth waiting for…
I have
been journaling a lot as of late in reflection of life events, changes mostly, things
that have opened my head and my heart. Even with all that to keep me
preoccupied I have book two in the forefront of my thoughts every day.
In all stories, the
premise is never new, and I'm sure that book two’s concept of an uptown girl is a trope that has
been retold many times in songs, poetry, and in books. It’s not meant to be formula, but
you can route it back to some fairy tale, somewhere. And as with all art it’s the
telling of the story that makes it special.
A quote from the movie THE TRIP comes to mind:
Rob:
“You should write about it…write about the food.”
Steve:
“No. It’s been done. That’s been done
before.”
Rob:
“It’s 2010, everything’s been done before. All you can do is do something that
someone’s done before, but do it better or differently.”
This
applies to all creative pursuits: writing, acting, comedy, music, dance, you
name it.
And
while I don’t consider myself a word virtuoso, I have been circling my story,
examining it from all angles, to find what is unique about it and go from there.
In
romantic fiction the conflict is what keeps the lovers apart, and in my book the
social status has to be strong enough wedge to divide my two characters. My girl
comes from a different world, one of money and structure.
Big shocker, right?
There a million books out
there where the heroine’s motive is no more than the stereotypical need to
rebel for love. The rich girl goes for poor boy.
**back-of-hand slap against
forehead**
“I’m
so repressed by the class systems that have held me back all these
years!”
I know,
the nausea needs to stop.
I’m not saying that wealth and affluence is all fun and polo.
I’m sure there a wellspring of internal and external pressures that comprise a great
conflict from which the heroine wishes to break free. Within reason.
Here I’m going to touch
back on my A_Z Challenge blog post, THE UNUSUAL SUSPECTS. Defy the stereotype.
In fiction, not all the rich fathers have
to be the dogmatic, oppressive types.
I’ll even play Wealthy Dad Devil’s Advocate: Let's say that rich father has kept a roof over our heroine’s head as well
as clad her in couture all her life. The heroine has thus benefited from the best education, and more
opportunities than other kids because of her father’s financial stability. While
that may make dad controlling, that needn’t make him hateful.
And keeping in tune with my
astrological theme, the earth element contains the signs Taurus, Virgo, and
Capricorn. They’re the practical, money conscious, worker bees. They’re the
slow-climb-to-the-top achievers. The long-road-equals-big-results-in-the-end
people.
Capricorn males are the cardinal
image of patriarchs, the male figures that represent the head of the family,
the man of the house; the shoulder daughters and granddaughters can always cry on.
This theme conjures up personal memories for me. The reminiscent smell of cherry tobacco
in particular, like my grandfather's pipe. Billows of smoke used to waft around him when he smoked, infusing his clothes. My grandpa was a college
professor, a teacher of teachers, and a kindred spirit. From the time I was a toddler
we’d been thick as thieves. He had dark curly hair, the same texture as mine,
and he used to kneel down when he’d talk to me, mono e nieta, about the
importance of keeping the head-thatch brushed before it started to resemble a
bird’s nest. My sister and I would wait patiently at the kitchen table while he
made us waffles, asking us what toppings we wanted in a Donald Duck voice.
In my eyes, my grandfather
held the answers to every question in the Universe, and in his embrace there
was protection from all harms.
I want the heroine in my
story to come from this same base of reliability and realism. She is the epitome
of the earth element, so she has a strong father.
So, now
I have to twist the backstory with my hero, of course.
Yes,
I’m a bully – it’s in the author job description.
My poor,
sweet, hard-working hero has to come from a place of lack, his father figure
missing, or absent. He must become a man without the luxury of an instruction
manual of life, as sadly so many young males are forced to do nowadays...
My
hero’s experiences are deep for that reason, it’s heart-breaking. He has to do
all the work without immediate reward. He has earn his man card with the
industriousness of his actions. But that’s the earth element for you. The
incentive isn’t worth it unless it’s earned.
And
here is where real life for the writer comes into play. For as imaginative as I
am, it’s hard for me to envision a lifestyle that I don’t live every day. From
all outward appearances, my heroine has it good.
I’m tempted to call her spoiled. But from my side of the fence the grass
can look pretty green for those who have the comfort of a disposable income. It looks
like my heroine has it easy, but in reality, one never know the struggles of others.
And a
person’s beliefs are their most powerful influence. Belief can unite or
isolate. Beliefs are the basis of peace and war, of reason and distrust. Most
of what people believe are based in their memories. Fiscal hardships,
dysfunction, betrayal, lack of support or opportunities, all of it can skew
one’s mental view of the world.
It can certainly alter
the definition of what it means to be mature and responsible.
When I think of adversity
my mind goes to the lines of separation in culture, particularly the walls
built by socio-economic status – a huge theme in my story.
The concept takes me back to an event that happened while I was attending community college:
It was
the middle of summer, the grey sky outside a hot contrast to the cool lingering
air within the room. Students from an array of ages filed into the classroom as my
Women’s Studies teacher stood at the front, a variety of non-standard education
equipment anchoring her desk; the odd lot including a pan of brownies, a thin
roll of masking tape, and a piece of paper with numbers on it. She asked us to
sit down quickly, but to “not get too comfortable.”
Once at our desks, she shook a bowl full of little, folded pieces of paper; doling out
the slips, one to each person, as she informed us that we’d be conducting a
social experiment that evening. When directed, I unfurled my piece of paper,
the word “Middle” scratched out in blue ink. Confused, I looked up to see our
teacher running the tape from one wall to another, cording off areas of the
space. Enlisting help, she directed us to push a certain percentage of the
rooms’ contents into the various sections, the center lot the largest, then
getting progressively smaller.
When
all the allotments where arranged we waited for an explanation, the lesson
clearly more interactive than one any of us had seen before.
“Today
we are talking about caste systems, specifically, socio-economic class.
Basically, how much money you make, and where that tier ranges in the US
system.”
Our
teacher described it impartially, the differences in how someone raised poor
had a certain chance of achieving a higher level of earning, based on their
background, education, and a ratio of other factors. The paper on her desk
outlined the current breakdown of earners in the United States at that time:
Poor – 13% -
The homeless, jobless and
impoverished.
Working Poor – 26% - Earn less than $20K annually,
on welfare.
Middle Class – 47% - Majority of workers, basis
of US economy.
Upper Middle – 11% - Below wealthy, six-digit annual earners.
Affluent – 3% - Elite, small percentage earning the
most.
She did
the math, splitting our group into the same factions by way of random selection
(the drawing of the slips). Each group was given the amount of resources that they
would receive in real life, each caste allotted their “tier.” I was one of the sixteen
students in the middle class caste, the blue-colored worker, the same tribe I
called home every day. Three people were deemed Poor, five Working Poor,
six Upper Middle, and the remaining
two brandishing the golden label of Affluent.
In collaboration we
divvied up everything around us, the desks, the books, and the space, the masking
tape barriers keeping us corralled in our places. The purpose of the brownie
became clear, as that too was to be “paid out” by percentage. The Affulent got everything first; 67%
percent of the room, furniture, and textbooks. The girl representative for
their caste had scooped out such a bulk of the brownie that I’d given up hope of there
being any left.
The three Poor students didn’t even fit in the space
calculation, and were told to wait out in the hallway. The six Upper Middle milled about the back-left
corner of the room, away from the deliberation and noise, and within minutes I'd forgotten they were there. I remember the two Affluent
by how comfortable they got so quickly, lounging on top of the tables that
were pushed together, unencumbered by any constraints, eating their fill of brownie
with plenty to spare.
My
group stayed in the Middle Class in
every way. Our percentage of classroom space hovered around 21%, the sixteen of
us huddled together with just enough room for us to fit shoulder-to-shoulder,
the sardine routine only uncomfortable when someone had to move, or God forbid,
sneeze.
The
moment of reckoning came when it was our turn for brownies, the remaining fragment
of chocolate seeming pathetically small, and that was before the Working Poor got their portion.
I
remember the moment clearly, our teacher coming over, presenting the pan to us
as a group, as if bidding us to elect a leader. No one stepped forward though, and
we continued to stand still, not moving, careful to maintain the peace of our unit.
Staring at the food square, my eyes began to see a pattern, a grid. And something snapped. I ducked the tape rope, mindful to not jostle my neighbors. My teacher stared
at me as I carried the brownies over to her desk and asked for a knife. Looking back I realize how much trust my colleagues had given me, watching without objection as I darted off with what was our collective "capitol".
I kept
my hands steady as I cut, turning the four-by-four inch brown remnant into
sixteen equal, bite-sized pieces. I’d even left some extra frosting for the folks
after us, thinking that my group’s rations looked fair, no one receiving more
than another.
Pan in
hand, I traveled the circumference of the tape fence, ensuring that each of my Middle Class brethren got their treat
before retrieving the last sliver of chocolate for myself. The class exercise
required that we stand in our castes for fifteen minutes, and admittedly the
wait was far more bearable after the brownies. While the sixteen of us Middle Class chewed, we slowly loosened up
in our close confinement. After we were done eating, we started to converse, keeping
still while turning our heads to nod and show acknowledgement to one another.
After a
few more minutes our teacher called an end to the experiment, the Poor kids coming back in as we returned
the classroom to its previous layout, but the revert did not clear the
air. I could tell something was different. That the atmosphere had changed in the room
somehow.
The
rest of the lecture flew by in a blink as the period came to a close. Students
stood, gathering their books in unison. I froze when my teacher called out to
me, asking me to stay after class. My natural sense of duty flaring, I got
nervous as the room emptied, my mind running over the events of the evening.
Did I make a mistake? I wondered.
The lesson seemed
objective, a review of societal statistics. I silently hoped that my deviation
with the brownie didn’t cost me any grade points, but I didn’t see why that
would be an issue.
“You
did well tonight,” my teacher said, her smile reassuring as I approached her desk,
still worried that I’d thrown some kind of wrench into her lesson plan. I
watched as she packed up her materials, stowing the tape and papers into a
long-handled, canvas bag while balancing the now empty brownie pan on top of
her arms.
“I got
it,” she said when I beckoned to help, ushering me toward the door as she clicked off the lights. “That was a fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.
It makes you think,” I replied as I followed her into the hallway.
She
paused. “Do you know how many times I’ve taught that lesson?”
Confused,
I shook my head. “No. How many?”
She let
the bag dangle in hand, the weight registering.
“Twelve
times,” she said, her eyes catching mine, her gaze direct.
“Really?”
I felt my brow furrow, waiting for a reprimand that didn't come.
She
smiled again, the expression softening her face.
“Twelve times I've taught that lesson, and you
are the first person to share the brownie.”
- SNG
