Make a Name for Yourself

Let's talk about names. After all, the novel in question is Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake, the very title of which announces its concern with names and naming. Largely because of this concern, not to mention the main character’s search for a cultural identity, I worry that any attempt at a fictive imitation of the novel (which one of my courses has prompted me to try) would devolve into sentimental, thinly disguised autobiography. So rather than strive for fiction and fail, I’ll stick with a response to the book which embraces my autobiographical impulses.

So let’s talk about names. The novel’s most obvious namesake is Gogol, our hero of sorts, who later changes his name to Nikhil, and was originally named for Nikolai Gogol. The idea of naming a child, just born, after a favorite author is somehow beautiful. The act pays homage to beliefs which have shaped my life: that books are important, that writing can show us who we are, that reading straddles the line between self and other, in a way that can open or close the world to us. But the beauty of this naming only holds up because of the unfamiliarity of ‘Gogol.’ If he had been ‘Nick’ from the get-go, no matter its connection to ‘Nikolai,’ the name would have had no resonance.

Obviously, the oddity of ‘Gogol’ is vital to building Gogol’s sense of self as a character. This Russian name, neither Indian nor American, represents his lack of a clearly defined social identity. His name-change to ‘Nick’ constitutes a deliberate step towards establishing an adult, American identity. But this step comes loaded with consequences Gogol could never foresee. The most obvious is the strange burden he has put on his family of deciding which name to call him, and when. At times, his parents slip, call him ‘Gogol’ in front of college friends, roommates, girlfriends. But can they be blamed for using the name they always intended as a family name, a fond moniker for family use?

Only Gogol’s shame creates the need for blame. His parents’ confusion should not itself be confused with shame. Shame closes us to the world, limits our actions, and dictates our desires. Confusion, however, prevents us from accepting cut-and-dried answers to all our questions. Confusion, shared with the world, reveals a self which is searching, willing to listen, and does not intimidate with unexamined assurance. Through confusion, we come to know our own ignorance. How we deal with confusion can become a central building block of our characters. Gogol’s parents respect his name-changing decision, but do not seem to understand it. They do not share his shame at the lack of an easy-to-read American identity. They express their honest confusion through support, and the occasional slip, calling him Gogol. The blame is not theirs for slipping. It is Gogol’s for not recognizing his parents’ confusion and acting to relate it to his own and resolve it. Instead, Gogol blankets his own and his parents’ confusion with a false identity named ‘Nick.’

What better disguise than a new name? Names come with built-in assumptions about who we are and where we come from. They reassure the people we meet that their judgments of us are apt, or perhaps prompt those same people to recategorize their judgment into a different stereotype. But we can turn this around. We can invite everyone around us to revel in our confusion and leave behind the slick, well-made margins of self which may be easier to understand, but are also quicker to confine. What better way to break through the boundaries of surface judgment and invite others to truly know us than to have a name which does not allow for painless pigeonholing?

I have been ‘Cagle’ since 9th grade. I’m not quite sure, twelve years later, how it happened. The story I tell, particularly to those who assume it’s a military family thing, goes like this. At thirteen, I was gangly and pale. My hair flipped at my shoulders and my bangs at my brows. A typical day might find me wearing hunter green tapered denim, a matching turtleneck, and perhaps a snowman cardigan if it was around the holidays. Braces completed the look. I don’t regret not having the friendship of those who scorned my nerdy self; it is what it is, and I choose a regret-free life.

At some point, these unfriendly trendy kids decided the number of ‘Lauren’s’ was a hassle. The popular crowd decided our fates in homeroom one day, and didn’t bother cc’ing me on the memo. The popular Lauren got to be ‘Lauren.’ The only somewhat popular, but definitely not unpopular, Lauren got to be ‘Lauren Marie,’ the middle name tacked on to the first. And I? I was Cagle. Someone did let me know that I got stuck with my last name because I wasn’t girly enough to be a ‘Lauren.’

Was that really how the name got started? At this point, I am as clueless as someone who’s never even heard of that high school, let alone attended it with me. It doesn’t matter. I have internalized this story, as well as my response. At first, I was dismayed. Then, as has happened with so many labels, I decided to embrace it, to proclaim my awkwardness, my penchant for sci-fi, my good grades, my cross-stitching hobby. But the beautiful thing I discovered was that my name did not proclaim any of these things, at least not to all people. The name has become a clear, shape-shifting vessel into which everyone I meet can pour their experiences with and impressions of me.

At times, people make the association with Kegel exercises. That’s fine. I just make sure to let them know, mine’s spelled like ‘bagel.’ Or at least, more like ‘bagel.’ I’m not too picky on the spelling. And why should I be? If I love being ‘Cagle,’ because it creates more confusion than certainty, then it would be silly to insist on correct spelling all the time. As long as it’s right on my passport and paychecks, I’ll survive. And in the process, I find people willing to make conversation. The name is an open door, beckoning people to come in and poke around a bit. All names are that way, making conversation more comfortable. Just think about any awkward moments talking to someone whose name you had forgotten. How pleasurable was that conversation? An unusual name though, not only makes conversation more comfortable, but makes conversation more likely. It is a starting point, the moniker version of a strange tchotchke, if you will.

Of course, ‘unusual’ is a relative thing, in both senses of the word. ‘Cagle’ can be unusual to those who have never heard it before, just as ‘Gogol’ is unusual to those who haven’t read the Russians, or ‘Nikhil’ is unusual to those unfamiliar with Indian names. To my family, though, ‘Cagle’ is unusual only because it isn’t just my last name. It’s what I go by, who I am. They know the name, know how to spell it, but also know me as ‘Lauren.’ My close family, though, calls me ‘Lolli,’ which is unusual in its own right.

I love these many names. I love that they give me different entry points into the world. I love the nicknames they engender: Cagtastic, Cagdeezy, Caglicious. I love that they give me different vantage points of myself and remind me that I am not always who I think I am. When Gogol changed his name to ‘Nikhil,’ I immediately wondered, “But what do you call yourself in your head?” At the risk of sounding somewhat off, when I talk to myself, I use all my names. It is a freeing experience, to be able to see in yourself multiple overlapping selves which combine into a fluid and variable whole. I wonder, does Gogol experience the same freedom? Or has he, through his name-change, simply traded in one static self for another?

Our names give us a reference point in the world, but we should not confuse that reference point with stable fact. Our names make us recognizable, but should not describe or define us. When I worry that I let the oddity of my name do too much defining, I choose to let that worry be a reminder of the good sort of confusion, a reminder of the questions I should be asking of myself. Who am I? How do I express my self to others, respectfully and courteously? What is constant in me, and what am I still creating? What am I razing to make room, and where is there room I haven’t filled yet?

All this from a name. As Gogol’s struggle with his name illustrates his search for self, an embrace of a name can illustrate a conscious creation of self. Here I will leave my musings, but for one small example of how a name can change the game. Those people you see or talk to every week, or every day, at Starbucks or the grocery store or riding the campus shuttle bus or sitting in the library: All those people have names. And if you ask what it is, and share with them yours, they become three-dimensional vessels, ready to be filled with interactions and conversation and that strange satisfaction that comes from knowing who we are in relation to the world around us.

The Family-tastic Cookbook of Awesome

In honor of the lovely fresh veg I just purchased at the Henderson farmer's market, today I'm using this little piece of internet real estate and your, my dear reader's, time to pay homage to the gift that got my cooking juices flowing.

I call it The Family-tastic Cookbook of Awesome. My mother, a goddess among women, put this cookbook together as a present about four years ago, and it changed the way I look at the kitchen. No longer is the stove for warming up spiceless quesadillas, or the sink just for rinsing out coffee mugs. In the fridge, where once lived only bagels and cream cheese, now nestle ripe zucchinis and homemade tsatsiki. And, as with so many things in my life, I have my mother to thank.

(Here I must make a quick diversion to point out that Mr. P, my wonderful life-companion, deserves an equal share of thanks. He was the first unpaid cook to put together an entire meal just for me. His boldness and bravery amongst ingredients and strange-looking cooking implements have influenced how I cook more than anyone or anything else.)

For sheer inspiration, rather than influence, look no further than the Cookbook of Awesome, as which I will hereon refer to the text in question. Let me begin with a description:

• Page count? Surpassed 250 several years back, and keeps on growing.
• Types of recipes? From appetizers and drinks to breakfasts and desserts, this book's got 'em all.
• Ingredients, cultural influences, etc.? All over the map, metaphorically speaking. Here you'll find Tunesian Tomato Soup, Salad Primavera, Scotch Eggs, and Sloppy Joes.
• Other points of interest? The recipes, most of them, have notes. From one line to a whole page, the note may be about ingredient substitutions, the recipe's origin, a memorable time it was eaten, or an admonition to try things even if they contain mayonnaise. ::shudder::

The amount of time and loving attention my mother put into this astounds me. It is as though twenty-five years' worth of unconditional love, concern for my health, and fun family/friend times have been condensed into this one object, in a way which somehow represents without minimizing.

I keep the cookbook in a 3" binder, which lets me add pages as my mother sends them to me, which is regularly. The binder's pockets have let me start adding odds and ends of paper which mostly contain recipes and notes from Mr. P's familial cooking tradition. This format has shaped how I use the Cookbook of Awesome to a vast degree, and in turn how I cook in general.

Each page of recipes tends to have plenty of white space, so I make notes about the dates that I cooked a dish, what the dish was for, if a substitution worked out, things I could do better next time. There's certainly no guilt about spilling bits of this or that on the binder or its pages, as there might be with a pristine storebought edition of Fancy Famous Chef's Cookbook of Something or Other. The book lets itself be broken down into pages, perfect for toting along to a friend's house to use in their kitchen, or to easily photocopy for anyone who's ever tasted the White Chocolate Orange Dream Cookies I can almost make without the recipe.

Having the Cookbook of Awesome makes me want to cook, simply for the joy of using the book. The tasty food that comes out of it is the icing on the cake. When my belly starts rumbling from the special brand of homesickness that's not really about a place, but about the people in that place, reading through the cookbook fills me up with happy thoughts about my fantastic family. And after I'm full of happy thoughts and tasty food, I can call my mother and qvetch about the new memories folded into these recipes, keeping company with the old.

I hesitate to use some half-baked analogy of the recipes being ingredients in the dish of my life, but somehow it's fitting, if only because before they become dishes and memories of dishes, those recipes are words on a page that my mother put there just for me. And what could be more apt for someone as in love with the word as I? Like my passions for family and literature and food and living, this book just keeps growing and changing with every use and addition and comment.

If I am so much like my mother (which I believe is true), then writing on the recipes she has written for me is one way I can love her and what she has done, be proud to be like her, and blaze my own trail that may parallel and branch off into hers, but which I can still claim for mine.

I will leave you with a few of my favorite moments from The Family-tastic Cookbook of Awesome. The words are my mother's, and I hope the enjoyment will be yours.

Doves, Venison, and Coon
Just because every Southern cook book (and this is one) should have a recipe for coon and dove and venison, here they are. I've never cooked any of these, but I've eaten all except coon. We had dove at a book club dinner; Ann Carlton's son had shot them, and he grilled them this way. They were delicious. The venison recipe is from Kathryn Tucker Windham's cookbook. The coon recipe is from Bill Woodson, one of my AUM classmates who was born and grew up in Selma. Bill would go out with his daddy coon hunting, and this is how his mama cooked the coons they shot. We took the Black Belt class and wrote a paper together on foods of the Black Belt--these recipes were in the paper. The paper got an A--we took in BBQ sandwiches and something chocolate, cookies, I think, as show-and-tell the night we presented the paper to the class.

(Should you find yourself in need of one of these recipes, just let me know. I'll be happy to share.)

Caesar Salad Graycliff
This is from a restaurant in Nassau. I leave out the anchovies, but that's only because I'm too chicken to eat them knowingly or to cook with them.

(Another delicious recipe, the Caesar Salad Graycliff. If you like spicy/savory salad dressings, this the way to go.)

(In parting, here's one full recipe, one of my favorites. Please don't hesitate to ask for any others.)

White Chocolate Orange Dream Cookies
You know about these too. My all-time favorite cookie. (Mine too!)
Makes 3-1/2 dozen

1 cup butter or margarine, softened
2/3 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 tablespoon grated orange rind (dried, as a spice is fine)
2 teaspoons orange extract (the imitation flavor works, but isn't as scrumptious)
2-1/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 cups (12 ounces) white chocolate chips (which is the size of most bags you'll find at the store)

Beat first 3 ingredients at medium speed with electric mixer until creamy. (I nuke the butter for about 30 sec to get it all softened up. Buttered up, if you will.) Add egg, orange rind, and orange extract, beating until blended.

Combine flour, baking soda, and salt; gradually add to sugar mixture, beating just until blended after each addition. Stir in white chocolate chips.

Drop dough by rounded tablespoonfuls onto ungreased baking sheets. Bake at 350°F for 10 to 12 minutes or until edges are lightly browned. (Make sure it's just the edges that get browned! The inside is best at its softest, chewiest, meltiest....och, I could go on. I should just go bake some so I stop getting distracted thinking about them.) Cool on baking sheets 2 minutes. Remove to wire racks to cool.

These cookies taste like Christmas, and Starbucks backroom chats, and class potlucks, and Mr. P nipping them from under the seran wrap, and surprise snail-mail packages to friends. Oh, and white chocolate and orange too.

Oppression By Any Other Name...

In the interview printed with his novel, The White Tiger, Aravind Adiga cites Ralph Ellison, James Baldwin, and Richard Wright as major influences on the text. Not having read Baldwin, I can’t speak to his influence. Ellison and Wright’s major works, The Invisible Man and Native Son, I have read, and I see their ghostly traces throughout The White Tiger. Traces, because their influences seem to appear almost in passing, needing to be tracked back to the source, even if the source seems obvious at first. Overt clues, if you will. Ghostly, because the evidence of these influences starts to drift away under too-close observation.

Clearly, an immediate connection can be made between Adiga’s Balram, Ellison’s Invisible Man, and Wright’s Bigger Thomas. Each character suffers systematic oppression, which reveals itself economically and socially. Each takes unprecedented, and extremely violent, measures to escape that oppression. But there, the major similarities end.

Balram’s story has a whiff of the farcical about it, with scatological humor and expletives strewn liberally about. Any story in which a man falls face-first into sewage with his pants around his ankles because of body-toppling guffaws cannot be taking itself too seriously. We don’t see these moments of humor, particularly low humor, in Ellison or Wright. Their atmospheres are decidedly gloomier, as are their characters’ self-reflective moments. While Balram relates his prior complacence with the oppressive life of a servant, the Invisible Man and Bigger rant against it.

And yet, there is a sense that all of Balram’s insights into the rooster coop system that is his India have not gained him the knowledge and autonomy he yearns for. Despite being an entrepreneur, despite no longer massaging the feet of his masters, he cannot escape a system which rewards only those who know how to work it. It is telling that Balram can use his shiny silver Macintosh to peruse the details of his own Wanted poster, but not to google the name of the fourth most important poet in history. India’s burgeoning access to technology is but one more way to play the system, not subvert it by reading poetry and discovering the “secrets that allow the poorest man on earth to conclude the ten-thousand-year-old brain-war [with the rich] on terms favorable to himself” (216).

The irony of Balram’s poetic ignorance comes full circle when he faints while watching the white tiger at the zoo, pacing back and forth in his cage, “walking in the same line, again and agin--from one end of the bamboo bars to the other, then turning around and repeating it over, at exactly the same pace, like a thing under a spell” (237). Balram’s insight, that his own life is no better than the caged tiger’s, echoes the undertones of Rainer Maria Rilke’s sonnet "The Panther." The poem’s final stanza describe the panther’s gaze:

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhange der Pupilles
sich lautlos auf. -Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille -
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

In this moment, the panther takes in an image, just as the tiger gazes into Balram’s eyes. The image vanishes, travels through the panther’s tense musculature, and ceases to be in the caged animal’s heart. Balram’s tiger itself vanishes before his eyes, then Balram follows suit by fainting, falling into the dark earth and vanishing from himself. His moment of clarity gives him the resolution to act drastically in order to change his life. Yet he remains ignorant of this moment’s poetic precedent, and Rilke’s command that in the face of art, “You must change your life.”

But Balram soldiers on, unabashed by his ignorance, and exhausting the use-value of every drop of knowledge he does possess. This trait put me in mind of a real, live, breathing person who has had to find a way with relatively limited information about the world. Planet Money, an NPR podcast and blog about various economic issues, recently broadcast a story about “The Paradox of Oil” in Angola. Their interview subjects were Gregory Schiedler, an American working for a foreign oil company in Luanda, and Minguito, the young local man who sells Gregory gum every day. Minguito does not like his job, and would prefer one in construction, which is almost exclusively a Chinese trade in Angola. When asked, he does not or cannot name any other work he would like. Like Balram, he seems to know the system is broken, that he could do better for himself given the opportunity. But what those opportunities might be? The question has no answer.

Even Balram’s great entrepreneurial venture does not represent any great opportunity or new way of living (which is to say, making a living). He starts a cab company with set contracts, hardly a ground-breaking idea, and even has to sabotage other companies already providing the same service in order to get his own off the ground. Yet the chandelier in his spacious office has blinded Balram to the misnomer of entrepreneur he continuously applies to himself. Similarly, through no fault of his own, Minguito seems blind to the possibility of a life not paid for by selling gum and working construction.

But what are we to do? Does The White Tiger give us a take-home lesson in how to begin dealing with the morass of corruption, injustice, oppression, suppression that we find in India and Angola, not to mention right here in the U.S. of A.? Other than being aware of the morass, and its stultifying effects on the human spirit, I’m not sure there is a lesson. I do know, when I listen to Minguito, I am bothered that he is referred to as a boy, although he says he is about seventeen or eighteen. And perhaps, that needling sense of discomfort with imposed labels, be they ‘businessman’ or ‘boy,’ is a step in the right direction. A direction which is shaped by Bigger’s anger towards the man, the Invisible Man’s refusal to play along, Balram’s belief in himself, and the wishes I wish Minguito will someday have, as well as the knowledge that his wishes are not for me to choose.

Wiki Wiki Wha?

This weekend, I read a chapter on "The Electronic Book," from Jay David Bolter's Writing Space: The Computer, Hypertext, and the History of Writing. He gets into historical ideas about what books actually are, and should be used for, and how this gave rise to the encyclopedia, both general and specialized. All that just sets up an insanely interesting prediction of how computers and hypertext can be used to create "The Electronic Encyclopedia."

For anyone a bit confused by my use of 'hypertext' (which, depending on the context, is either hopelessly jargon-istic or hopelessly outmoded), keep in mind that Bolter published his book in 1991. At least he didn't favor the word 'hotlink.' That term gives me a weirdly abstract mental image of neon pink Daisy Dukes. Back to the topic at hand: In 1991, Bolter writes a book in which he posits the possibility, as hinted at by previous printed encyclopedias, of an electronic edition which will have the following characteristics:

• "The computer [will] facilitate the task of moving through the encyclopedic outline and among the various articles." (93)
  
• "...in the electronic medium the visible and useful structure [of the encyclopedia] may extend to the paragraph, the sentence, or even the individual word. The computer can permit the reader to manipulate text at any of these levels." (93)
• "The editors are...free to create a referential network that functions underneath and apart from their topical outlines." (95)
• "Outlines or other topical arrangements can coexist with the alphabetical order. An electronic encyclopedia can be organized in as many ways as the editors and the readers can collectively imagine." (94)

That last point is key. The rest, generally speaking, treat more the ways in which a reader can use an electronic encyclopedia that are impossible with a printed edition. Dipping your toe in one subject, zipping along to another, never constrained from pursuing information by the annoyance of having to flip pages, grab another volume, search in the index. And it is an annoyance. Perhaps it was not so before my generation became accustomed to 'hypertext,' but it certainly is now. I've returned to consistently using bookmarks, because losing my place in a book made me want to just go find something else that did have a place marked.

But I digress. Or do I? That last quote from Bolter speaks to a new and different attitude towards information, whether printed, electronic, or otherwise. Asking whether the technology gave rise to the attitude, or vice versa is a chicken-and-egg rabbithole that I don't want to go down. I do want to get a better handle on what exactly the attitude is.

Here's why: I see a connection between the structure of Wikipedia and the fact that contemporary students consider it a valid source of information, and that they consider lowercase 'i' to be perfectly acceptable in any kind of writing, and the popularity of Harry Potter. I'm sure we could draw more into this connective web, but it might get out of hand.

To begin, Bolter's insights from ten years before Wikipedia's creation serve as evidence that Wikipedia's success is not accidental. Rather, Wikipedia is beloved by millions not only because it serves a need, but because it does so in a way that feels good to its users. I'm tempted here to draw a parallel to Starbucks, so what the hey, here goes. Starbucks offers a luxury item at mostly affordable prices. A mocha costs less than a day at the spa. But, the price could still be a deterrent for those who know how to measure grinds into a coffeepot if Starbucks did not sell the feel of buying a cup of coffee as much as they do the coffee itself. Standing in line at the local Bux, you can feel both like you belong and like you're special enough to buy coffee at Starbucks. It's ingenious, really: get your community, and your ready-made social identity, one-stop shopping! In the case of Wikipedia, you get your information, and you feel like you're part of a global project, working to democratize knowledge, scholarly and popular, for the edification of all mankind. Well, all mankind that has internet access. In its early days, Wikipedia took this offer a step further, and gave its users the chance to contribute to this floating pool of knowledge.

What could better speak to a generation that shares everything on Twitter, Facebook, Bebo, or whatever else is hip these days? To these cats, information cannot be organized hierarchically without reference to personal taste. What you have to say is not more important because it is more scholarly, or weighty, or the key to national security. It is more important because people want to know it. Thus the tickers, counting traffic to various websites. We're not measuring importance, we're measuring popularity. And we have no ticker for the former. So Wikipedia provides a pool of information (or knowledge; I've been using them interchangeably, and perhaps I shouldn't. Save that for a future post), and lets you dive in from anywhere around the sides you'd like. If you can come in through the bottom, go for it, and don't forget to skydive in sometime. No wonder the resource appeals to current students: it treats information the same way they do. I would like to be positive and not chalk it up to laziness on the students' parts, but rather think about what could appeal beyond its ease of us. The online OED is pretty easy too, but you don't see a lot of freshmen poking around in it.

So on to 'i' and Harry Potter. If this stab at wiki-theory holds water, it can be extended to students' writing as well as their research. A friend who teaches high school English told me yesterday that she has an inordinate number of students who simply don't understand why 'i' is unprofessional and 'I' is professional. The key to cracking that particular nut is this idea of 'understanding.' Is it really difficult to capitalize your 'i's,' in writing or typing? Absolutely not. Do they know it should be capitalized? According to my secret teacher source, yes. Being positive, then, we'll assume the lack of capitalization doesn't stem from laziness. Instead, it's a reflection of what's going on in the students' own capitals. (Pardon my Latin.) In a world of free-floating, unordered information, the rules of correct spelling and grammar cannot be privileged over, say, the fact that even Mac uses 'i' for all their ads.

And Harry Potter? Well, he does alright in school, but his success doesn't come from book-learning passed down through the centuries. It comes from his own choices about what's important for him to learn and what isn't. He starts a practice group, which has nothing to do with Hogwarts' curriculum. He doesn't do so well in classes, but still always saves the day. He can treat Hermione and Neville as his own personal Wikipedia. When he tries to find the answer in the library in The Goblet of Fire, one book after another lets him down until Neville shows him the answer in the unlikeliest of places.

Amazing, how Harry has tapped into the informational Zeitgeist. Bolter predicted it, Wikipedia made it, Rowling fictionalized it. Now I just wonder where we go from here. Wikipedia has reinstated editors for certain pages, as of this year, and Harry's all done. Seems like they had a good run together and we'll just have to wait for the Hogwarts theme park so we can take pictures with our iPhones and text all our friends to let them know, "omg im @ hgwrts!" Wonder if the Starbucks will be in the courtyard or the Great Hall.