Barbara Gerber
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On the Pleasure of Loving—and the Hating That Makes It Possible

3/15/2015

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PictureTalented and cantankerous English essayist William Hazlitt
Ever wonder why it’s so hard to stay positive? Why we like cop shows? Why we rubberneck at accident scenes? Why we complain about the bad when we are most certainly surrounded by so much more good?

Following is a long quotation from a long-winded man who lived long ago, the English essayist and critic William Hazlitt. The man was brilliant, prolific, multi-talented—and, according to historians, both cantankerous and undeappreciated. This passage is from his essay “On the Pleasure of Hating,” written in 1826 or thereabouts. The original is 4,763 words, so don’t get all grumpy about reading this 163-word quotation:

“Nature seems (the more we look into it) made up of antipathies: without something to hate, we should lose the very spring of thought and action. Life would turn to a stagnant pool, were it not ruffled by the jarring interests, the unruly passions, of men. The white streak in our own fortunes is brightened (or just rendered visible) by making all around it as dark as possible; so the rainbow paints its form upon the cloud. Is it pride? Is it envy? Is it the force of contrast? Is it weakness or malice? But so it is, that there is a secret affinity, a hankering after, evil in the human mind, and that it takes a perverse, but a fortunate delight in mischief, since it is a never-failing source of satisfaction. Pure good soon grows insipid, wants variety and spirit. Pain is a bittersweet, wants variety and spirit. Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal.”

Yes, the concept of hatred is more complex than Hazlitt’s musing, and it can be a devastating force in the world. I’m not trying to condone the terrible things human beings do to each other, nor the festering animosity that eats so many alive. I really do want world peace! All I’m trying to do is acknowledge that when we admonish ourselves to focus only on the positive, we just might lose our ability to actually appreciate the positive. Bazillions of poets and philosophers have noted that without darkness, we wouldn’t recognize light.

Which is all to say that I have compiled a list of things that I hate for a very important reason: I was in the mood to do so. Sure, it sounds negative, but that can be okay sometimes, a fact I have proven with Hazlitt’s quote and my own conclusive, airtight rationale above. (Hey, this is a goshdarned blog post, not a textbook on psychology, all right? Just let me air my little list here, okay? Is it gonna kill ya? I promise to write another blog someday on things I love, too. Fair enough?)

So here goes.

I HATE long drum solos, leaky roofs, flubby bacon, stupid books, hangovers, squash bugs, skin flaps, assault rifles, sticky countertops, zero bytes, stinky feet, cold ramen, Candyland, fire ants, snooty cats, acne scars, Budweiser, goat cheese, gifted liars, bra shopping, pack rats, chicken gooeys, varicose veins, milky skies, speed bumps, scratchy clothes, overdraft notices, muffin tops, parent-teacher conferences, white chocolate, reminding my mom of things she’s forgotten, dentist bills, food with tentacles, writing résumés, the accents on the word “résumés,” snow that melts by noon, the WTO, gritty salad, calling Verizon, when people remember my name and I can’t even remember their face, disobedient hair, bad breath, fracking, deadbeat dads, fast-tracks to sainthood, broken windows, wrong-way drivers, microwaved baby formula, austerity budgets, fake butter, deadbeat moms, sectarian violence, okra, the Koch brothers, burnt coffee, raw marshmallows, NAFTA, dried up cat food stuck to a plate, vomiting, food pictures on Facebook, rufies, backaches, the KKK, policies that keep people poor, twerking, stubborn gray roots, shag carpet, airplanes, crotch odors, funerals, dirty motels, the drug trade, lima beans, nosehair, ISIS, the songs “Under My Thumb” and “Run For Your Life,” plagiarism, gum stuck to carpet, brown tides, porn, glass coffee mugs, mosquitos, full ashtrays, boxing, menudo, mean dogs, scotch, aspartame, sticker residue, pissy cats, drivers who scream, living with slobs, flat tires, slasher movies, slow metabolisms, clogged toilets, Hallmark movies, know-it-alls, credit card debt, paper cuts, sloth, hard-water deposits, gabardine, reality TV, vinaigrette, missing a Seinfeld reference, cancer, appeal letters, Christmas trees on curbs in January, the Taliban, not being thanked, wasted leftovers, neck piercings, gang wars, grizzle, gophers, and when bad people win and good people lose.

Thanks for listening.

What do you hate? I’m listening…

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On Forgetting and Not Laughing

2/22/2015

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I’m nearly fifty-one. Or at least I was the last time I did the math, whenever that was. But it hardly matters because soon I’ll be fifty-two, and so on, and this will all still be true. Or more true, if that’s a thing.

I’m aging, you see, as we all are, though those under thirty and many under forty don’t know it yet, so we’ll leave them be. But for those of us at or past the midpoint of our lives, this is a serious business. So listen up.

Wait, where are my glasses?

Okay. Now answer me this: What happens to our lost memories? Where go the images, sounds, faces, joys, and gaffes of our years? The meals savored, the ardent kisses, the shouting matches, the sunsets, the perfect jeans, the hangovers, the knowing looks, the job interviews, the busses caught and missed, the thousands upon thousands of pages read. Gone? But to where?

I ask this because a few years ago when I was taking a Spanish class, I was shocked to find that when I prepared to, say, count in Spanish, what came out was French, which I hadn’t spoken since high school. And it wasn’t just numbers that emerged unbidden, but verb conjugations, vocabulary, and dialogues that had been forgotten for decades (Ou est Phillipe? A la piscine…). But evidently it was all in there, in some hidden foreign language closet in my brain, which, by the way, has since gone missing again.

At eighty-six, a woman I love dearly has forgotten enough things to fill a stadium. Yankee Stadium, to be exact. There, behind home plate, is the Chrysler she drove for thirteen years but can’t recall. (“Was that before or after the Chevy?”) At first base is how to sew. (“A French seam? I have no idea.”) At second is the time she painted her daughter’s bedroom brown. (“Why would I paint a little girl’s room brown?”) At third is how to use her DVD player. (“I know you wrote it down, but I can’t find that paper.”) And there on the pitcher’s mound, huge and imposing, is what it was really like to be a single mom with five kids. (“It was fun—my kids were good.” Oh come on.) Scattered in the outfield is the year she graduated from college, how to parallel park, which fork to use, what a minor chord is, the names of those neighbors who moved away last week, and…where she put her glasses.

So tell me: Is all of that somewhere in her hidden memory stadium? Or is it simply gone?

I opened an ancient folder on my computer a while ago labeled Children’s Books. In it were files dating back to 1995, with that ancient Microsoft Word icon, the blocky, flared, yellow-and-blue W. I’d created a file for each of the books I was planning to write, which at the time probably seemed overly cautious because how could I ever forget those great ideas? They have titles such as “Nicholas and the Great Dream” and “Wrong Century.” Oh yes, here I go—off to write the books whose titles ring not one bell in the belfry of my big empty head.

There’s another folder for a book I was planning about all the zany missteps of being a thirty-something with kids. Here are the chapter titles:

Bad Year for Pets (Is there a forgotten a pile of dead critters somewhere?)

Creativity and Chaos (Now that’s unique.)

Dad (Gimme something here. What about him?)

Dinner with Dad and the Kids (Something about entrees? Extra napkins?)

Gross Waiters (Must we?)

Landlords and Wretched Apartments (I recall several.)

Random Relationships (Uh…)

Trip to Austin (I have been to Texas.)

Traveling with Kids (This contains the note “Oopsie-Doopsie.” Whatever.)

Stupid Things Done (Another note: “Cracking the frog tank with the space heater.” I actually remember that. But even if I’d forgotten every stupid thing I was once planning to chronicle here, I could easily fill it with events from, say, the past twenty-four hours.)

Windmill (Huh?)

Some time ago I was at the grocery store when a woman and a teenage girl strode up to me with broad smiles. The woman thanked me for the crockpot of seasoned beef I’d sent to school that day for a teacher luncheon. I had indeed sent that food, but how did she know that? Who was she? I smiled and nodded and then got a flash of inspiration: This must be the woman I’d been emailing about the luncheon! Yes! So I boldly said, “You’re quite welcome, Fran.”

But it wasn’t Fran. It was Annemarie. And the kid she was with was my daughter’s friend. We’d met before, they assured me, ticking off the many swim meets and back-to-school nights at which we’d chatted. For the love of God, I would have sworn I’d never seen them before.

So I’m not so sure about that memory closet, or the stadium. Rote learning aside, I think memory is more like having the windows open as we speed down the vast highway of life. While we’re racing ahead, glancing at the map and hoping we have enough gas for the trip, memories of all kinds are swept out the back window by the brisk wind of time. And they are truly…gone.

I’ve already apologized to my husband and kids for whatever I have forgotten or will forget about our lives together. I’ve taken a lot of photos over the years and filled many journals, so maybe someday, when I’m just a smiling, vapid blob in a rocker, someone can tell me about myself. Until then, I guess I’ll just keep on driving.

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I Wonder If I Wonder

2/8/2015

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At the dinner table some time ago, my college-age son declared, “Everything that matters can be found on the internet.”

He’s a smart guy, that kid, with all the splendor and arrogance that thin, young people naturally possess. But I was ready for him.

“Wrong!” I snapped, stabbing one of my meatballs with a fork, my famous meatballs that have been inspiring shock and awe for nearly three decades. “How these meatballs smell and taste cannot be found on the internet.”

“Mo-om,” the young man whined, rolling his eyes. “Of course there are no smells or tastes on the web, but everything else is there.”

“What was the name of that kid who sat next to me in seventh-grade science?” I asked. “The one who smelled like Listerine? He moved to Utah after Christmas and no one could ever remember his name.”

“I’m sure he has a Facebook page.”

“Why does my car make that weird noise when I downshift?”

“Google it and find out.”

“Was my grandmother good at math?”

“Are you guys about done or should I just leave?” my husband asked with a sigh.

“Face it, Mom,” the scion asserted. “Whatever can’t be found on the internet is of no significance.”

My husband left the room as I glared at the kid in sharp disapproval.

But even though I disagreed with him, I couldn’t help recalling a story I’d heard the week before on NPR. It was about a couple of amateur historians, the Bowery Boys, who create podcasts about New York City’s history. The report included a quote from a listener who said he was so grateful to learn about the short-lived Bronx amusement park Freedomland USA. His parents had taken him there when he was a kid, but no one he knew had ever heard of the place, and he’d begun to think he’d made the whole thing up.

It was a sweet anecdote within a sweet story, but my callous reaction at the time had been, “Why didn’t you just Google it?”

And as much as the man seemed gratified to gain the knowledge that Freedomland had really existed, I believe he also lost something that day. He lost a dreamy mental pursuit, a hazy recollection that had nothing but its own threads to weave into an imperfect tapestry of memory. I felt sorry for him.

But nowadays we experience this sort of casual loss all the time.

You’re sitting around a table with friends, a couple bottles of Cabernet past dessert, when the Beatles song “Across the Universe” comes up in the music shuffle and you all try to make sense of that weird line John Lennon sings before “Nothing’s gonna change my world…”

“Isn’t it ‘Jack and you, the day is long’?” one guest posits.

“No, it’s ‘I who knew,’ and then there’s some Indian word,” claims another.

“I always thought…” you begin, but before you can gush about your theory, someone—usually the youngest person at the table—states definitively, “Jai guru deva om” and, without breaking eye contact with his smart phone, adds, “It means ‘I give thanks to Guru Dev,’ or possibly ‘victory to God divine’.” And everyone pretends to be relieved.

Or you’re on a train, telling your four-year-old nephew about, say, the Loch Ness monster, and as you try to straighten out the details, a dude with floppy hair leans in from the seat behind and rattles off the Wikipedia explanation of Nessie that he just searched because he can’t help listening to other people’s business and evidently your ignorance was really bothering him, like the way smoking used to bother people.

Yeah, I know this makes me sound like a Luddite, or a mouth-breather, or at best a silly ninny who reveres ignorance. But I am none of these things. I just miss something that the internet has largely robbed me of: I miss wondering.

Wondering is not simply a state of not knowing; it is an creative state of longing to know. When you try to piece together a long lost experience, or recall some obscure fact, you’re on a sort of quest. You leave behind the mundane, fact-based world and enter an essentially child-like place of…well, wonder.

But this state is rare nowadays, and one that can make you feel foolish. Why sit around wondering how high the Eiffel Tower is, or who won Best Actress in 1979, or who Ross Perot’s running mate was? It’s all out there, just a click away.

As I see it, we are left with three options: Experience natural curiosity and seek out fun facts all day; ignore natural curiosity to avoid seeking out fun facts all day; or wonder only about those things that can produce no search results.

I’m opting for the latter. From now on, I will only wonder about true imponderables, such as, Why does anyone like white chocolate? Why is my brother a Republican? Why is my right butt cheek fatter than my left?

And until my son concedes that there might be some information that both matters and cannot be found on the internet, I’ll be keeping all the meatballs for myself.


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The Power—and Danger—of Stories

1/24/2015

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I’ve been thinking a lot about stories lately. Or rather, I’ve been reading a lot of other people’s thoughts about stories lately. Google “story” and you get boatloads of insipid memes and pictures of bookstacks with cups of tea and exhortations to write, write, write and read, read, read.

But let’s set literature aside for the moment and focus on personal stories.

I love and need stories as much as the next person. We all need narratives to explain our lives. Stories help us wrap our heads around challenging experiences, take the long view on complex matters, cherish the sublime, and come to terms with dark and terrifying experiences.

But we forget the flipside of this: Stories can just as easily obscure the truth, and words can be their weapons.

Consider the deeply chilling UVA gang-rape story that appeared in Rolling Stone in November. I know that some of the reporting is under question, but what stays with me is the phrase “bad experience.” At one point, a female student being interviewed by Sabrina Rubin Erdely points to a frat house and explains that her friend had a recent “bad experience” there.

Hello? How about “My friend was the victim of rape in that house, a felony crime”? This form of sexual battery carries a prison sentence of five years to life in Virginia. Hmm. Sure sounds like a super-duper bad experience to me.

And now the Japanese government is spinning a story about the 80,000 to 200,000 women who were forced into government-sanctioned, institutionalized prostitution during World War II. No, they say: These “comfort women” were not provided to Japanese troops for sex by Imperial Japan’s military authorities, a crime that Amnesty International calls “one of the world’s biggest cases of human trafficking.” According to the Abe administration, they were prostitutes who followed the camps of their own volition. Forget the thousands of survivors’ stories of abduction and abuse—those sluts must have wanted it.

Maybe, just maybe, “sex slave” is a more accurate term than “comfort woman.”

Those thousands of women worked in what were called “comfort stations.” One wonders: Who exactly experienced comfort in those places? Certainly not the women, but I can’t even imagine a soldier deriving comfort from having sex with a woman who might have been forced to have intercourse with fifty to a hundred men a day.

(As an aside here, at Jones Beach State Park, near where I grew up on Long Island, the bathrooms have always been called “comfort stations.” Bizarre.)

Of course, the study of euphemisms and word connotations is nothing new. We’ve all noticed the power of word choice: Is your boyfriend slender, or is he scrawny? Are those shoes affordable, or are they cheap? Just look at the progression of what we call people whose limbs don’t function as planned: Over the past sixty-odd years, the terms have shifted from “crippled” to “handicapped” to “disabled” to “physically challenged” to “differently-abled.” The examples are endless.

But back to stories.

It is de rigueur these days to embrace all of our experiences as essential to our growth. Yeah, yeah, we know your grandma said whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and serendipitous things happen that make fate seem completely real, and the stupid things we’ve all done make great fodder for tales told ’round the fire.

But I’ve also heard some truly hideous tales minimized by this kind of thinking. A teen once told me she wouldn’t trade her tough experiences for anything because they made her who she is today. She had been raped at a young age, her father had beaten her mother and their children for years before he abandoned them, and her family was living in poverty. As much as I admired her resilience, I couldn’t help but think her response was just a coping mechanism derived from a story that others had told her. Some well-meaning person—a relative, a teacher, a counselor, a priest—had likely said, “Embrace it all.” I assume this was to help her overcome those truly tragic experiences enough to get through her daily life. But seriously, who wouldn’t change any of that if it were possible? Encysting an infection so the greater organism can continue to function is all well and good—and highly practical. But let’s be truthful about what’s being encased in that little sac, and let’s remember that stories can good or bad, helpful or damaging.

I was complaining to my mom the other day about some disappointing thing and I ended the bitch session with the pat adage, “It could always be worse.” She then surprised me by saying, “It could be better, too.” Way to go, Mom. Let’s be real with ourselves. If we’re not, we run the risk of forgetting to search for the truth and to fight to change what’s wrong in the world. We run the risk of lying to ourselves with stories.


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Hey, Google: You Don’t Know Me Just look at my random bookshelves

1/18/2015

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I’ve often joked that if any of us are ever struck with amnesia and forget even our own names, we can just do a Google search and look at the ads that pop up for a clue to our identities: Oh yeah, I’m a middle-aged woman who lives in Santa Fe and I could stand to lose some belly fat. Now I remember.

But once you tell the interwebs a little more about yourself, like you just published a book, then the ads and the suggested posts and pins and tweets get more and more focused. I’ve shared some of the items that come my way because it seemed the thing to do: Umberto Eco, Ernest Hemingway, Toni Morrison, and a host of other heavyweights have plenty to say about writing, and who am I to ignore their wisdom? No prob—I’ll pass it on.

But what about the other stuff? The funny thing is, these customized book-related ads and posts have even less to do with me than does the “Santa Fe Mom” who wants to tell me about the “5 Foods to Never Eat.” (If you don’t see that ad every time you launch Google, then you must be young, male, and/or very fit.)

Here’s the thing: I’m a writer and I love books, but not in the way the search engines and social media platforms assume I do.

First, I don’t need any bookcases, so the American Home Furniture ads can just shut up about it. To me, a great book is like a great meal—far better when shared. To a large degree, my favorite books are the ones I don’t own anymore because I’ve passed them on to other passionate readers.

Second, although I’m always reading, I am the worst, the absolute worst person in the world, when it comes to reading the hottest new books. It’s not that I’m not interested in what’s new—I can spend hours in my favorite bookstore, Collected Works in downtown Santa Fe, admiring well-designed covers and skimming jacket blurbs and standing riveted as I read passages from whatever book my hand just touched. I do my best not to crack the spines as I ogle their wonderfulness, wishing I could take every one home.

But I’m also a busy, distracted, and sort of oblivious person. I wear clothes that haven’t been in style since the first Obama administration—or maybe even the first Bush administration. I forget I’m supposed to hate my kitchen cabinets because whitewashed maple hasn’t been it since 1990. I don’t have time to want things like Pandora bracelets. And although I probably shouldn’t admit it, I read in the same way.

In addition to the young beauties that woo me at Collected Works, I also love wallflower books—the overlooked novels of otherwise-famous writers, odd paperbacks that friends lend me, books that emerging authors ask me to review, lovingly worn books I find at garage sales, books that jump out at me in the library, and the classics I never got around to reading in college, which are anything but young and freshfaced. Sure, new books thrill me, but in truth, I’m a pretty democratic, equal-opportunity reader—nearly all books thrill me.

So when I finally get my author pages set up on Kindred Readers and Goodreads and I begin to build my “bookshelf,” it might not look as zippy and fashionable as one might expect. Think of it as a place where you can enter and relax, where books are not judged by their covers or by their reviews on Amazon. This isn’t high school, after all, where worth is so often judged by looks and popularity. This will be the real, adult world, a place where books of all stripes can be loved and appreciated for who they truly are. 


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new author, new book, new year!

12/28/2014

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So I wrote a book. It took an eternity, but I finally finished it. It made its way through two literary friends and an editor and a proofreader and a designer and a printer and here it is in my hand. Right now. And that’s just weird.

Writing this book has been a highly creative—and highly private—process. I felt like a minor god over the past seven years as I invented characters and decided their fates. I sat for thousands of hours with my scotch-taped laptop, my butt spreading as I scoured my brain for all I knew about human nature and attempted to translate that knowledge into the words and actions of those characters. I worried about those invented people as if they were real—Rosemary, Liam, Dylan, Mark, Martina, and Deet, among others. When they suffered, I gnashed my teeth. When they triumphed, I cheered. When they died, I cried. But the thing is, it was all me. It was mine. (And it was FUN.)

I don’t mean to pretend that it was easy. Sure, I had crises of faith and worried that the book was crap. (Oh, did I really write that last sentence in the past tense? Good one, Barb.) Sure, I rewrote the prologue three times. Sure, I was crestfallen when my early readers warned me that certain parts didn’t make sense, or that a beloved passage needed to be cut. That’s just writing, which is something I’ve done my whole life. But this was different.

And it’s still different.

Love and Death in a Perfect World. It’s here in my hand. Tomorrow, friends and family will come to my house for a book launch party, and they can all take an advance copy home, if they choose. I hope they like it. I hope they review it. I hope they tell all their friends and acquaintances what a swell book it is and that all those people buy ten copies each and I can pay off all my credit cards. I hope it’s a really big show, as Ed Sullivan would say.

But for right now, I find myself quiet and apprehensive. I think I’m in some strange state of mourning. We’ve all heard the aphorism that whenever we gain something, we also lose something. Well I guess it’s just that for the past fifty years, I’ve been a private person who has never published a work of fiction. Sure, I’ve had hundreds of journalistic articles published, but not fiction, and certainly nothing of this length (367 pages!) or depth (just my soul—no big). I’ve also done my best to keep a low profile online and to hide from Big Data. But in the past seventy-two hours, I’ve launched a public Facebook page, a Twitter feed, two Pinterest boards, and this blog.

So the intensely personal process of writing a novel has ended, and the intensely public process of publishing that book has begun. Wish me luck.


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    Barbara Gerber

    Barbara Gerber is a writer and English teacher in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Love and Death in a Perfect World is her first novel.


    Pick up a copy of Love and Death in a Perfect World at Collected Works Bookstore and Coffeehouse, in downtown Santa Fe!

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