I
picture my grandfather sitting at the sturdy, wooden table of my grandparents’
kitchen piling salsa picante onto
whatever he was eating and worrying about the past, the present, and the
unforeseeable. If you couldn’t tell he was a ball of nerves from the way he
would rub his eyebrows, he would be happy to let you know what was ailing him
today, whether it be the Dodgers or the weather or the most recent trip to the
doctor’s office with my great aunt Caro.
“Can you believe she said ‘fuck
you’ to the nurse?” he exclaimed to my grandmother who cooked and rolled her
eyes, almost laughing from his exasperation.
“That doctor is a cabrón! And a racist! They treat me bad there because I’m
a Mexican,” said my fair-skinned and light-eyed aunt who lifted her hands to
further her point.
My
grandmother always told me that my grandfather’s life changed the day that I
was born and that she fell in love with him again after almost 35 years of
marriage. It is true that his grandchildren were the apples of his eye and he
would show his love for us by worrying about us incessantly at every moment of
every day.
Whether
it was big dogs, the beach, playground equipment, or sub-70 degree
temperatures, everything was out to get us.
“Here
comes old ‘No-jacket Matthew’ they call
him” he would always say as I would enter their house regardless of the month.
Unless it was the dead of summer, I was always exposing myself to the perils of
the arctic Southern California climate.
“Mijo, if you love me, just put on a jacket before you walk in our
house,” my grandmother would tell me. “I don’t care if you weren’t wearing it
all day, just put it on or I will hear about it all week,” and we would chuckle
as she did impressions of him in Spanglish.
I
remember when my grandpa got sick and I would go over during the summer to help
take care of him and my grandma would look at me over the breakfast table with
tired eyes and say: “You are going to look just like your grandfather one day,
baby.”
Years
after he passed away, I stared up at a picture of him that I tacked to the
bulletin board of my room and tossed back and forth, unable to sleep. I was
having pain urinating and I had made a doctor’s appointment for the morning to
diagnose what I was sure to be cancer or something equally as awful. In a
moment of decisiveness, I flicked on the lights and thrust open my laptop to
check Google for the seventh time and compare my symptoms with that of kidney
stones and Chlamydia and HIV and the rare disease Cystitis that I was probably
sure to have in addition to everything else.
I
was already sitting at the kitchen table the next morning when my mom came down
the stairs to get ready to go to work. I had spent the night productively
thinking about all of the different scenarios for having to tell my parents
that I had contracted a rare and incurable sexually transmitted disease; or I
pondered the survival rates and treatment options for my particular kind of
bladder cancer.
“You look like hell,” said my mom
who threw bread in the toaster and placed a sertraline on the napkin on the
counter. “Did you sleep okay last night?”
I
couldn’t speak as I shivered and texted my boyfriend, too nauseous to look at
my mom’s toast. When I tried to remove the looming doctor’s visit from my head,
I could only think of my college graduation or my wedding day or my future
children, all of which I was sure I would never see. My stomach ached as my
boyfriend and I exchanged messages about him telling his parents about us
before I would meet them; I convinced myself deep down in the pit of my stomach
that I would never live to see that day, especially with my illness. When I
mustered the strength to stand up, I headed out the door, stuck my keys in the
ignition of my car, and backed out of my driveway towards the doctor’s office.
It
was in the gas station parking lot on the corner of Grand and Schaffer that I
regained consciousness. I was shaking and sobbing hysterically on the curb next
to my car and the hum of my still-running engine made me dizzy. The word “Dad”
illuminated the screen of my phone which I was holding in my right hand and his
voice called out to me from the speaker. I struggled to regain my breath and
managed to spatter out a weak: “I’m okay.”
I
stood up and got back into the car, still sobbing, and turned the air
conditioning on high. Slowly, I switched the car into drive, turned on my
blinker, and made a right onto the busy street.
My
life-threatening illness turned out to be a common urinary tract infection. I
left the office with a prescription for a three-day course of antibiotics and a
referral for anxiety counseling.
I
am beginning to see more of my grandfather in me every day—in the ways that I
worry about the past that I cannot change and the future that has not yet
happened. It has become apparent to me
that I have inherited more than his olive skin and his lazy eyes.
*Intended Publication: "Lives" section of the New York Times Magazine
*Intended Publication: "Lives" section of the New York Times Magazine
Dear Matthew,
ReplyDeleteWhat a lovely piece you have developed here. But actually—the part about your grandparents is what sticks out to me the most. I wonder how it might have been different to write than the part about yourself? Also, I wonder about transitions: would you have had a better time picking a different "modern" incident to write about in which your anxiety comes to light?
I wouldn't mind being told a little more explicitly about your anxiety, if that's what that piece is about to you. This might simply come from expanding your ending—write through the piece a little more and see what happens?
Your voice is so "you" and you do a very good job of not sentimentalizing. I wonder, though, if your preoccupation with not being sentimental made you avoid details that would enhance the piece.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteMatt,
ReplyDeleteThis piece has a lot of potential. Right now it’s choppy, with big jumps in the story and then slow description. You spend a lot of words on a scene with your mom making toast and you sitting at the kitchen table. And then it ends and you’ve fainted and the essay wraps up.
It’s a little fiction-ish. There’s some he said she said at the beginning that reads like a novel. I recommend thinking of the piece as an essay on anxiety and familial relationships that is supported with vivid and true scenes, action and details from your life.
I think the comparison to your grandfather is a great idea for a powerful essay. And I think this essay requires a different structure to pull it off. Your narrative (the UTI) is richer in scenes and details. I recommend telling that story all the way through the piece—start and end with it—and move in and out of it with comparisons to your grandfather and musing about anxiety. The payoff of this essay is that you relate to your grandfather posthumously, so keep that comparison going throughout. It's part of what makes your material so good. There’s something very profound in the family aspect--much moreso than simply writing about anxiety.
Also, the sertraline plays into the family aspect of this piece, and I bet you can do a lot more with it.
You need a conclusion, and you need analysis. What happens with the counseling? Does your anxiety worsen like your grandfather’s? Are there other aspects of your grandfather that you relate to? Do you respect or disrespect your grandfather for his constant worry? Do you like relating to him or not?
Your neurotic imaginings about your illness are a tremendous opportunity for humor. Write them crisply and deliver them like comedy. Read some David Sedaris and let his style influence these paragraphs.
You tease the reader a couple times with brief mentions of things that aren’t ever brought up again. The boyfriend. The antidepressant. Your dad on the phone. Your mom’s job. I think all of these things are important aspects of the story, but they require you to develop them. Build the characters and pump up the storyline. Again, family.
The material you’ve chosen has everything necessary to make a profound piece, and I think you can pretty easily get it there.
Colin
There are so many parts of this that I love. The sarcasm, the details, the sense of closeness of your family that I can feel when I’m reading about it. I love the beginning, and I love the ending, and I can see how they relate to one another. There are some parts of this that I find somewhat confusing, which I know you anticipated, so that’s why we can workshop!
ReplyDeleteI don’t want to be insensitive to the anxiety you were feeling about your illness, but I read your fears of cancer and death as kind of humorous and sarcastic for some reason. I wonder if there is a way to make it more clear how real these fears felt to you. Maybe I am alone in my interpretation… if that’s the case then I’m sure it makes more sense to other people. The other part that I don’t fully understand is the actual breakdown that you have. It would be good if there were a few more details to paint that out a bit more. All of a sudden you are out of your car and your dad was calling. I just wonder if there are any other important elements of that climax that you could spell out a bit more. Overall it’s a great start! Can’t wait to talk about it tomorrow.
“No-jacket Matthew,” I really like this piece so far. I love the humor that you are able to bring to your grandfather’s anxiety about you. I thought the family aspect of the story was very heart-warming and nice. However, it made your grandfather’s anxiety seem almost normal. If the intent was to portray his anxiety as excessive, you might want to add more details to make it seem less just like any grandpa being worried about their grandchildren.
ReplyDeleteThe part about the narrator’s anxiety attack was very nerve-wracking. I almost wish there had been a connection between leaving the driveway and waking up at the gas station, but I also understand what sort of effect you were trying to have with it. I think that it might be even deeper if the narrator described the feelings they had in the anxiety attack so the reader didn’t lose out on very important minutes in the story and get moved ahead suddenly.
I also was very interested to know what sort of connection the narrator felt with his grandfather because they shared these attacks. Are they upset for being similar to their grandfather in this way or is it that they appreciate seeing their grandfather in themselves? I think this is a very important point that needs to be made in order to make the connection between grandfather and grandchild more fluid.
Great piece and I can’t wait to talk!
I want to know more about you. I was immediately drawn into the story by the description of salsa picante (perhaps because I’m reading this while hungry), but I think you do a great job in the first couple paragraphs of developing your grandfathers attitude, and also your grandmothers.
ReplyDeleteTell me more about the grandchildren. How many of you were there? Was he always worrying about you particularly, or all of you? (“Everything was out to get us”). Are your other cousins anxious?
I can relate to the story about the UTI, as many can in the day of WebMD and such. I would love to hear another story here. Give me a picture of what you experienced another time.
I think you just need a bit more in-depth on your own experiences and perhaps more explanation of how this impacts you to be so much like your grandfather.
Thanks,
Laurel
This is a really solid beginning. I have anxiety problems as well, and this piece really resonated with me, so kudos for that. The slightly sarcastic, ironic tone of the narrator ("...I was sure to have alongside everything else") is working quite well. By acknowledging that fears of cancer and whatnot are a little irrational and silly, you are really able to drive at one of the scariest parts of anxiety problems: even though the conscious mind knows that such fears are unrealistic, they still hold scary amounts of power. Excellent job getting that across.
ReplyDeleteThe parts about the grandfather worrying are also funny ("arctic Southern California"). All in all, you were able to write an essay that deals with something serious in a manner that is not overwrought or melodramatic, which is nice.
I do think that the piece suffers because of the way the anxiety attack itself is truncated. It's clearly the climax of the piece, but it doesn't really hit the reader as hard as it could because the narrator seems to hold himself at arm's length. Explode this moment. Impart the experience of an anxiety attack so that the reader is right there with you. Obviously, this would be pretty difficult to write, but I think it would be worth it.
I also think that the piece ended too soon. I don't know the timeline of these events exactly, but I'm guessing that this happened a few years ago. How have you dealt with anxiety since? What was counseling like? There is more to this story.
I also think that the section near the end about the grandfather must be expanded. The beginning section is much longer and more fleshed-out, which nicely situates the narrator's troubles within his family history. By contrast, the end seems a bit tacked-on. It's not as strong as the beginning (which is very strong), and it ties things up a bit too neatly.
All in all, excellent beginning.
Trevor
Howdy, Matt,
ReplyDeletePowerful piece you have here. Description is a strength that you have obviously mastered in journalism and I feel that this piece could be published in a lot of different places. This could be a falt of mine as a reader but I thought 75% of your descriptions were spot on. Where I got a little lost was right at the beginning of the car sequence, basically when you say you "regained consciousness." Did you have a panic attack and pass out/ get in a car accident? It's an important detail but a minor fix. Like I said the vast majority was spot on. You strength as a journalist is very clear and there is obviously a narrative here but I think your piece could improve specifically in terms of this assignment. I don't see how you've changed because of this story. This could be an opinion but it seems to me that this nervousness or anxiety comes from your grandfather and has always been with you. How did this specific incident with your car and your Dad calling you change you in the end? Did it?
I look forward to reading more of your stuff, Matt. Great first draft.
Woody
Niiiiiiiiiice. That's my first thought (in italics, of course).
ReplyDeleteThe description of your grandfather and extended family is endearing and tells us a lot about the narrator. The description of their actions, the aunt "who lifted her hands to further her point," and the grandfather who, "was a ball of nerves from the way he would rub his eyebrows," and the grandmother who would, "would chuckle as she did impressions of him in Spanglish." Awesome stuff.
This essay, although a first draft, is both sincere and well written. The 800 word limit seems to be the only foreseeable issue; it seems that there is more description of your family than there is of the narrator. It is tied together well at the end, " It has become apparent to me that I have inherited more than his olive skin and his lazy eyes," (do NOT change that line, it's a wonderful end to the piece) but there is not equal mention of the narrator and his immediate family. From the first half of the essay, it seems that the second half was condensed to make the limit. This may do the piece some injustice, as you clearly have a way with words.
We do get a good description of the narrator, but if you draw out the last third of the essay so we can really (in italics) get into his head it might make me weep alongside him. Possibly splitting this up into three different parts, or maybe even two, would not add to the word count but would add to the emotional impact of the piece (make me cry, Matt!)
Even as is, this piece does a great job introducing me to a condition I know nothing of- I am blessed to say that although I worry I am often able to shrug things off. Someone with an anxiety order cannot, and the narrator proves that by crying when his dad calls and saying only, "I'm okay," when he finds out that all of this is due to a urinary tract infection.
Props for writing about this in such a wonderful, and brave, way. I'll keep thinking about what I would change so I can give you adequate and fitting feedback when we workshop this tonight. Again, niiiiiiice, and I like where you're going with this. I mean it.
Chandler