A man, merely a man

My husband is a CNN junkie and, for nearly the last two weeks, I've been inundated with the Michael Jackson coverage. I have seen the newspaper coverage, the blogging coverage, the tweets. Finally, a few moments ago, I finally turned on the TV to watch some of the spectacle that is the Michael Jackson memorial service.

And I am bothered and disturbed.

It speaks, I guess, to the need these days to turn every celebrity death into a cause for national mourning - started, perhaps, with the death of Princess Diana. Every death is endlessly dissected and analyzed. The crowds gather, flowers are laid, memorials spring up over night. For some, they find greater celebrity in death than they do alive. The Michael Jackson coverage has taken on a hysteria and depth that has far surpassed all previous celebrity death coverage so far, except perhaps that of Princess Diana. But here's my fundamental problem - Michael Jackson is being canonized as a saint, which he clearly wasn't. 

I won't say that Michael Jackson wasn't a terrific musician, because clearly that would not be true. Like Mozart as a child, a young Michael Jackson was a pop genius. Like Elvis Presley in his prime, Michael Jackson contributions changed music forever while in his twenties. And like so many who have gone before him, despite all of his positive contributions, Michael Jackson had a dark streak that cannot be ignored.

Michael Jackson was accused, at least twice, of sexual molestation. Did he actually molest those children? We'll never know, although in his interview with Martin Bashir he did admit to behaviour that we would likely find highly questionable in any of our own acquaintances. As so many will tell me and is a constant refrain from the many mourners, he was only accused and was acquitted of the charges. But OJ Simpson was also acquitted of his charges, and how, as a society, do we feel about him? He, too, was a genius in his own arena - the sports arena. He was a sports great, breaking records and barriers as one of the first black sports figures to go on to success as a spokesman and actor. Would he receive the same sort of memorial? The public outpouring? I dare say, not at all.

Yesterday, the legal analyst Jeffrey Toobin, one of the few talking heads I admire, as he almost always seems to have a fair and balanced take on the stories of the day, stated one of the most obvious sentiments I've heard. Essentially he said that yes, he made terrific music, but would you leave your kids with him?

(I won't go into how one of the other panelists tried to state that some parents did, sensing an opportunity for financial gain if their kids got a little close, which, in my opinion, came dangerously close to saying that hell, they had it coming, didn't they? Please, let's not even GO there.)

And this brings me to my essential problem with the coverage. By all means, let us say that the man made terrific music, was a terrific dancer. Let us even mourn the demise of that music and the amazing dance skills. But let us not forget for a moment that that music came at a terrifically high cost - a cost that the media seems to insist on referring to euphemistically as his "troubles". It came at the cost of those children whose lives will never be the same, caught up in the frenzy and insanity that was Michael Jackson's world, regardless of the nature of the relationship. For those children whose relationship was either one of exploitation, or merely skirted the edge of appropriateness, there is a cost in the loss of innocence. Somewhere in this endless coverage, it has become inappropriate to criticize Michael Jackson, to discuss in measured terms the less palatable aspects of his life.

Let us remember that music, no matter how terrific and memorable and life-altering, cannot undo later bad acts. It is not a panacea for one's more unpalatable traits. And let us not speak of Michael Jackson as some sort of modern-day saint, but as a man (merely a man) with a great deal of musical genius and potential who somewhere lost his way into a lifestyle that few of us would condone. 

Let us remember him as he truly was - and not as the saint we wish him to be and are pretending he was. 

Book review: The Toss of a Lemon by Padma Viswanathan

The Toss of a Lemon by Padma Vaswanathan

I recently finished Padma Vaswanathan's terrific first novel The Toss of a Lemon, which I received some time ago from Random House. I would have to say that this has been one of the best books I've read recently.

This is the story of Sivakami, a Brahmin woman who comes to her husband's house as a child bride in turn-of-the-century India. As foretold in their horoscopes, her husband passes away only a few years after their marriage, plunging her into widowhood at the age of eighteen. As is custom during that time and for a woman of her caste, she shaves her hair, clothes herself in a white sari, refuses all touch from sunup to sundown and removes herself from public life (for a widow is considered a bad omen). While she is considered a most devout widow, she breaks from tradition in one crucial way - she moves back to her husband's house instead of remaining within her brothers' household, maintaining the lands and wealth through a lower-caste assistant hand-chosen by her husband prior to his death. She does this for her son, to give him the secular education that he would not have had otherwise. This decision gives her bright but troubled son the direction he needs, but will ultimately set him on a path in complete opposition to that of his mother.

The book covers a broad period of Indian history (roughly 1890-1950s). The period was one of tremendous unrest, where the caste system in India began to break down. Historically Brahmins were considered the highest caste - the morally superior intellectuals. Leading up to independance and partition, their influence and wealth began to fade as the caste system began to break down (although, arguably, it is still in existence today).

One of the most difficult things about writing (or reading) anything historical is the tendency to look at customs or traditions through today's North American standards. Far too often in historical fiction, characters speak or act in manners that would be wholly inappropriate for the time and place. Even more unfortunate, there is often a not-so-subtle rebuke in the author's writing style - as though they will have the character act in a period-appropriate manner, yet still make it abundantly clear that they, as the author, do not agree with it. Perhaps the greatest strength of this book lies in Viswanathan's ability to be non-judgmental about customs that were wholly typical of that time, such as child-brides, arranged marriages and the caste system. We see some of the characters moving away from these practices, but as a reader I never had the impression that Viswanathan agrees with either point of view or that she was siding with one character over another, rather that she was merely illustrating the social changes that occurred during that time period. The neutrality of her writing allowed me to more fully immerse myself in the story, to reflect on the practices and draw my own conclusions instead of constantly being reminded that many of the practices are considered wholly-inappropriate by today's Western standards.

The story itself moves along at a good pace. At 600+ pages, this is not a short book, and yet I never felt that the story wasn't moving. Despite the jacket copy, which lead me to believe the story is told only through the eyes of Sivakami, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the book changes focus several times to other characters, as the story requires. Through each of these women's eyes we see the subtle way that social change is altering the structure of their families and their caste traditions. Because the focus of the novel is on the story of the family first, and history second, this is not as heavy a novel as some historically based stories. The historical events are never so overt as to become confusing. That said, those readers with no historical background on the events in India around independence or partition or understanding of the caste system could find the book confusing, but I felt that Viswanathan subtly relayed any information that was an absolute necessity for understanding the story, particularly with regards to caste customs. 

I only found two aspects of the novel disappointing. First, there were times in the book where I wished we had spent more time with a certain character to better understand their motives or reasoning, particularly in the case of Vairum, Sivakami's son. Perhaps the book was already too long, or more likely it was deliberate. Like in any family, we are left to wonder at another's words or actions, seeing them as an enigma. That said, we are often given subtle hints or clues as to the cause of a character's behaviour. The best example of this would be Sivakami's son-in-law, who we can only infer from his behaviour and from our modern understanding that he likely has some disorder such as ADD or mania. 

My other issue was the rather abrupt ending to the book. While I understand that as the story of a family, that there may not be a specific end to the story per se, I wish that the last chapter and epilogue had been handled a little differently. I found the last page of the last chapter particularly choppy, as though Viswanathan and her editor had difficulty in nailing down a final sequence of events that felt climactic enough to be an ending while still reflecting that this was a family with a story that would continue long after the final page.  

Overall, I would highly recommend this book. Despite my disappointment with the ending the book stands on its many other strengths. Particularly, the writing is excellent and highly evocative of the time and place. Reading it I could almost believe I was there, something I find occurs all too rarely in historical fiction. I am looking forward to Viswanathan's next novel, and hope that her sophomore effort builds upon the foundation she's laid here.

2 1/2 years

2 1/2 years... the amount of time it took this:

Our patient, sweet, gentle yet enduringly dumb 10 year-old golden retriever to acknowledge Peanut (in the absence of peanut butter, or any other treat waved tantalizingly at nose level).

It's a momentous day around here.

Intermission

Sitting on a bench in the lobby of a fancy theatre during intermission of a play, calling husband to check in on baby. A woman sits next to me, opens her enormous purse and proceeds to withdraw an entire half a pizza wrapped in saran wrap, which she opens and begins eating.

It's been a strange evening.

A test post

Having just received a brand spanking new cell phone for my b-day, I thought I'd test out this mobile blogging thing.

Moving right along...

In which I curse a great deal

I have a post that is 3/4 finished. A well-written, thoughtful post (if I do say so myself). That was before...

Before my goddamn, piece-o-shit computer blew it's FUCKING harddrive AGAIN!

Seriously folks, I'm not that hard on my computer. It doesn't travel (often). I've never dropped it, or banged it around. I'm not one of those that smashes on the keyboard. So why-oh-why do they keep crapping out on me?

Oh yes, for the second time in 15 months, my hard drive has unexpectedly up and quit. For those unacquainted, the first time was when I lost many important photos, including Peanut's first birthday. This time I'm much savvier, and with the use of Time Machine all of my photos and such are backed up and my huge iTunes library is safely stores on another external hard drive. (I must insert here, though, that the closed format of Time Machine frightens me somewhat. I can't actually get into the files without having a fixed Mac to "restore" the files.) However, the time I'm going to spend hauling myself to the Macstore to have the hard drive replaced, together with the cost of replacing the now out-of-warranty hard drive is really pissing me off.

So, is this just a case of super-shitty bad luck, or does Steve Jobs need a trip to the woodshed for the beat down of his life?

Just wondering is all...

Happiness is...

A trip to the Capilano Bridge on a warm winter day.