I love Brent Staples's work, and I especially enjoy reading these two pieces about his ability as a black male to alter public space. Like Malcolm Gladwell's work, these two pieces make me question my own behaviors and social conditioning. Students typically prefer the MS. version--tempered in its anger, empathetic toward his "victims". Not me. I like the discomfort the version that appeared in his autobiography causes me. With a few moderate changes to wording, I become one of his victims . . . and I feel guilty about it. It is incredible a writer can elicit such response in a reader. But the real genius of his pieces is that he is able to take the same story and present it from two diametrically opposed perspectives. I think this is revision at its best. As a writer, we don't always have opportunities to change our perspectives so drastically . . . but I think being open to such changes, to look for such opportunities, can lead to growth. I've been pondering a blog post I wrote last semester about my family's Thanksgiving. I've revised it in much the same way Staples has.
A Scott Family Thanksgiving: 1st version
It has become tradition that my family gather at our beach house in the Outer Banks every Thanksgiving. First, it was just the five of us, but as my siblings and I aged and started our own families, we grew to a group of eleven. This Thanksgiving, due to distance, divorce, and general disinterest, our group was diminished to seven: my parents, my husband and son, my oldest sister, one of my nephews, and of course, myself.
As with every Thanksgiving, the day begins with my mother rising early to prep the turkey. While she does that, my oldest sister begins the laborious task of chopping . . . celery, onion, shallots, carrots, potatoes, winter squash . . . whatever the menu requires. And as my oldest sister chops, past holidays would have my other sister assembling. My mom manages, organizes, coordinates. And what do I do? As the youngest of the family, I have always been relegated to the role of kitchen lackey. In layperson’s terms, that means I clean up the messes my sisters and mother make.
This year, I had been hopeful that since one of my sisters would not be observing the holiday with us, I would graduate from lackey to chopper . . . or maybe even assembler. I knew better than to wish for any position of greater power . . . certainly not kitchen manager. It was with these hopes that I arose from my slumber early Thanksgiving morning with my mother . . . I even beat my oldest sister to the kitchen. And then I made a fatal mistake. I asked what I could do to help. My mother’s response? “Wake your sister.”
While I know I risk sounding whiny and arrogant, I truly cannot understand my exile from the kitchen except to think my mom looks at me and still sees the clutzy, pig-tailed little girl I left behind nearly fifteen years ago. What is most disappointing about this kitchen cast is that I am a good cook. Heck. I am an excellent cook. If I weren’t a teacher, I’d own an uptown bistro. I love being in the kitchen . . . I should be making messes . . . not cleaning them up. So it is difficult to swallow my pride and wash dishes for four hours straight. But I have the water-logged finger tips to prove that I’ve done (and continue to do) it.
I have secret fantasies of exacting revenge on the other women in my family for my exile. In one scenario, I am charged with the task of keeping my father out of the oven (this would fall under the role of kitchen manager, I am sure). I deceptively offer an air of pride and determination in successfully completing the task, but when my father comes by almost hourly to open the oven door and inhale the heady aroma of roasting bird, I step aside and answer my dad’s wink with a smile. He doesn’t know he’s become party to my vengeance. When, five hours later, my mother complains about how long the turkey is taking to cook, I mimic her confusion and frustration. “Maybe the oven thermostat is broken,” I hear myself offer. I don’t even protest when, exasperated, she removes the bird well before its time. At dinner, I sit back and enjoy the green bean casserole and mashed potatoes. I don’t eat any turkey. I never have.
A Scott Family Thanksgiving--Second version
After the passing of my paternal grandparents during my early adolescence, it became tradition that my extended family gathered at the family homestead located on the New River during summer holidays--my Aunt Susie and her husband, my Uncle Johnny and his wife Ginnie, my parents, and of course the mass of children (my dad's family is rooted in Appalachia, so in all, there were twelve in our brood). As a teen, these weekend visits were the highlight of my summer. I couldn't wait to run down to the river and jump in, competing with my cousins to be the most daring. These were good times. We were family and the close bond we all shared was unique among my peers, many of whom had never met members of their extended families.
But as I grew older and entered adulthood, relationships became strained. I'm not sure if there was a particular conflict or if the tension grew over time, but at some point, a rift grew between my family and the rest, especially between my mother and my aunts. Whereas at one time, the women of the family would sit on the porch sharing stories of motherhood, my mom now sat alone (or more likely with me) on the back deck while my aunts shared a bottle of Merlot on the front porch. We all put on a good show when necessary, but when the tasks of the day did not demand it, we segregated ourselves in our little corners.
One Easter (always the first visit of the season), things came to a head.
As with every Easter, the morning began with the women rising early to start cooking. The prepping of the turkey was my mom's job in day's past, a role she had embraced. As she did that, Ginnie would begin the laborious task of chopping . . . celery, onion, shallots, carrots, potatoes . . . whatever the menu required. As Ginnie chopped, spiced, and mixed, Susie managed, organized, coordinated.
But on this particular Easter, the roles were, apparently, reassigned. Susie arose early enough to disembowel the bird herself. By the time my mother arrived in the kitchen, the bird was rubbed, tied, and ready to go in the oven. "What can I do to help?" my mother asked, showing no sign of surprise or bird envy. "Wake up Ginnie," my aunt replied. For the next several hours, my mother was relegated to the role of kitchen lackey. In layperson’s terms, that means she cleaned up the messes the Aunts made. And this has been her role in the kitchen ever since.
While I know I am biased, I truly cannot understand my mother's exile from the kitchen. She is a good cook. Heck. She is an excellent cook. She should be making messes . . . not cleaning them up. I imagine it is difficult for her to swallow her pride and wash dishes for four hours straight. But she has the water-logged finger tips to prove that she's done it.
In recent years, my mother and I have shared secret fantasies of exacting revenge on the other women in my family for her exile. In one scenario, mom is charged with the task of keeping the men out of the oven and away from the bird throughout the day. My mom deceptively offers an air of pride and determination when assigned the task, but when my father comes by almost hourly to open the oven door and inhale the heady aroma of roasting bird, she steps aside and answers my dad’s wink with a smile. He doesn’t know he’s become party to our vengeance. When, five hours later, my aunt complains about how long the turkey is taking to cook, my mom mimics her confusion and frustration. “Maybe the oven thermostat is broken,” I hear my mother suggest. She doesn’t protest when, exasperated, my Aunt removes the bird well before its time. At dinner, the two of us sit back and enjoy the green bean casserole and mashed potatoes. We don’t eat any turkey. Wouldn't be prudent.
