Skip to main content

My Daughter Susie

 Growing up, I enjoyed "To Kill a Mockingbird," and I dreamed of living in some version of Harper Lee's community (without the racism). Lee--an obvious talent--transformed her own memories of childhood into a kind of picture gallery. All the denizens of the town presented themselves on various sunporches. The mean old lady addicted to opioids, the upright lawyer, the quirky gay kid, the "scandal" family. In the novel, little Scout learns about human behavior by studying her neighbors. By observing what is said and what is *not* said.


My own hometown had characters. One mom would not allow her kids to play "Sega Genesis" because the brand name seemed to include a veiled allusion to the serpent in the Bible. A lonely old man distributed candies--maybe because of a warm heart, maybe because of certain unsavory wishes. A widow--a former soldier's wife--comforted herself by staring at her tricorn flag. She would ask me to march around with it while the speakers played a cassette tape called "We Sing Patriotic Songs!"

I know that my own daughter is silently recording details in Maplewood. There is the crotchety lesbian who speaks about Susie in the third person--even as Susie waves in her face. "I don't want her on my grass--I do *not* want her falling on my property." There are the boys down the road; with a slight hint of judgment, Susie says (correctly), "They are *always* having pool parties." There is the friendly Latino family at the bus stop; this family inspires Susie to speak Spanish. (I hadn't known that she was familiar with Spanish.)

Susie sees and stores--sees and stores--sees and stores. She is building her own Maycomb County in her head. At least that's what I like to believe.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more