Book review of Alison Bechdel's 'Fun Home'

‘Fun home’ is an autobiographical ‘tragicomic’. Comics are multimodal texts – they create their meaning through images as well as words. Traditionally, comics are light weight, entertaining and fictional but they can be a powerful medium to express feelings and explore serious issues. Bechdel’s graphic autobiography explores the tensions that occur in her family life including her father’s gay affairs and his suicide. In ‘Fun Home’ Alison Bechdel tells her childhood story using a form similar to a graphic novel. However, unlike most graphic novels which are about super heroes or fantasy worlds, her work concerns a funeral home or a ‘fun home’. The title of the book is ironic considering that the most amount of ‘fun’ that Alison Bechdel appears to have is when they spot a snake on a camping trip which even then is depressingly related to her father’s suicide.
A writer’s tool is language and this is usually used to create mood, movement and narrative structure. However in graphic novels it is the images that help to create these factors. Colour helps to create the mood that is suitable for a ‘tragicomic’ so in this case it is blacks, whites and greys. This use of colour, or lack of, reflects the morbid tone of the story and it works to inject this gloomy and depressing tone into the reader. The facial expressions of the characters are a further method used by Bechdel to create mood and movement. The parents especially are continuously portrayed as emotionless and negative looking.
For me, the images brought the story to life because there was no need to form a mental picture of the characters and the setting, it was already done for me, bringing me closer to the author’s experiences.

Clumsy Child Syndrome

'She is so gracefully clumsy,’ my ballet teacher announced to my mother at the end of my second and last ever lesson.
‘Clumsy’ was a word that was going to pop up frequently when I was the topic of conversation. It would be said in anger, ‘For god’s sake Jessica, can you stop being so clumsy,’ it would be said with a sense of pity, ‘Oh poor Jessie, try to look where you’re going this time,’ and it would be mentioned as the topic of someone’s ‘witty’ joke, ‘here comes Jess, everyone hold on to your drinks!’ – (a joke frequently made by my hilarious father).
As a child, red wine seemed to be my unconscious target.

A particularly vivid memory comes to mind whilst scanning through my large mental list of possible accidents to relate. As an 8 (soon to be 9) year old I was still being dragged along to my parents’ dinner parties. I say ‘dragged’ but in truth I don’t remember being too bothered by it. Sitting silently curled up in the corner of an unnecessarily large sofa I remember being very conscious of the glass of red wine that was being carelessly placed down in between sips. As the adults’ conversation gathered speed, my brain was urging me not to move my legs,
‘DO NOT MOVE YOUR LEGS!’
I was concentrating so hard on not moving my legs that I seemed to fill them up with pins and needles. The tingling fuzzy feeling became so excruciatingly irritating that my leg seemed to lash out, of course knocking over the glass of wine that was standing so proudly on the edge of the coffee table. It’s strange, but moments like this always seem to be remembered in slow motion. The glass slowly shifted its weight to one side and the deep red liquid was forced to slosh out on to the white carpet and spread itself as far as possible across the floor. My father’s eyes shot a disappointed look in my direction and the host of the party hurried to the kitchen to pick up salt which was supposedly meant to magic away stubborn wine stains. My face began to heat up and embarrassment waved at me from across the room. I had plastered burgundy poison over a pristine white carpet and the magical salt was not hiding it. This was at the beginning of the night: dinner had not even begun, so I had to sit in the corner of that unnecessarily large sofa all evening whilst my burgundy poison slyly stared up at me.

Book review of 'Stuart, A Life Backwards' by Alexander Masters

‘Stuart, A Life Backwards’ is a biography about a homeless psychotic drug abuser. He is an interesting subject for a biography because usually they deal with celebrities, historical figures or people who have done something noteworthy.
At Stuarts own suggestion, the biography is written backwards. The narrator is Alexander Masters and it is mostly his voice that we hear but he also uses letters, diary extracts, and records of interviews to construct Stuart’s story and add validity to the account. When the story begins the reader is already informed of Stuart’s supposed suicide and though it is told backwards, the narrative does not proceed in a chronological straight line. The question must be asked why Masters chose this technique of playing with the timeline. In parts it can be confusing for the reader when trying to locate themselves in the story. Perhaps this technique is trying to mirror Stuart’s ‘chaotic’ persona.
Stuart has had a life full of prison sentences, drug usage from the age of thirteen and homelessness. Many of his problems can be traced back to his childhood when he was horrifically abused by his family and others in positions of trust. Yet despite this, Stuart is presented as endearing and surprisingly likable.
The biography has the effect of making people more aware of the social issue of homelessness and challenges some of the stereotypes that we might have of homeless people. It is a common belief that people are homeless through faults of their own, but after reading this account of Stuart’s life the reader sympathises with him and realises that he is not entirely to blame for everything that has gone wrong.

Who is ‘normal’ anyway?

‘Jessica Shore? Would you like to come through now?’ I handed mum my bag and scarf and grudgingly followed the short jolly woman across the room to the door boldly marked ‘assessments’. The room was claustrophobically small, just big enough to fit a desk, 2 chairs and one feeble looking shelf. We were forced to sit uncomfortably close to each other. I could smell her coffee breath infecting the air. ‘Right then Jessica, we are just going to carry out a few tests to find out what the problem is, ok Jessica?’ Her upbeat voice was beginning to infuriate me, why did she persist with this patronising tone and why was she saying my name like that? Does she think I don’t know my own name? Does she think I’m stupid?

It was an ear achingly cold morning as me and mum left the house, pacing towards our bright purple Nissan Micra. We had to leave five minutes early to scrape off the ice that had stubbornly welded itself to the front and back windscreens of the car. We sat in silence all the way to the assessment. I denied that anything was wrong with me. I wanted to convince mum to turn back but she was nervously concentrating on the early morning rush hour traffic.

Ok so I can’t dance. Elaborate movement just does not agree with me. I feel nothing but awkward and overly self conscious when in a club with my friends, desperately trying to control my gangly long limbs and shape them into some sort of movement in time to some sort of beat. I am envious as my friends effortlessly show off their ‘oh so cool’ dance moves, impressing the praying eyes of the opposite sex as I shy away into the darkest corner or flee to the bar to get yet another drink. I just don’t have rhythm! But that’s quite normal, right? I suppose it might not be completely normal that I find social situations intensely and embarrassingly awkward. I just can’t interact with new people and I unwillingly project an awkward and unfriendly persona. Who’s to say what ‘normal’ is anyway? Maybe I am just a warped version of ‘normal’...

‘Ok Jessica, thank you for completing that set of tests, I will write up a report and send it to you within two weeks, Bye Jessica! Safe journey home!’ I was relieved to leave that upbeat, patronising, constant name using woman’s office but now I had to worry about what that report would contain. Two and a half weeks later it arrived on my doormat. It was marked ‘confidential document’. I ripped it open.

‘SUMMARY’

‘The information gained during this assessment indicates that Miss Shore has the learning difficulty, ‘dyspraxia’.’

Great so now I’ll be known as the dyspraxia kid. The report continued on to a description:

‘The Dyspraxia Foundation describes the characteristics as follows: ‘Dyspraxia is generally recognised to be an impairment or immaturity of the organisation of movement. Associated with this may be problems of language, perception and thought’....’Physical activities are hard to learn, difficult to retain and generalise and can be hesitant and awkward in performance.’

The report went on to describe my childhood and why I may have acquired this ‘disability’. But it is basically unexplainable. Just pure ‘luck’.
So this is me. I now have a label. I am ‘Dyspraxia kid’.

The Deep End

Monday mornings are usually dreaded by most school children. After a pathetic two days off, the week of lessons, teasing, and possible tellings-off are about to roll around again. This was not a concern of mine. I craved and longed for the week to last longer. I didn’t care about being picked on in maths by purvey Mr Crompton, or about sitting awkwardly next to the boy that smelt in English or even about waking early and sulkily trudging to school. I just longed for Friday afternoons between one and three to be scribbled out from the timetable and disappear forever. Friday afternoons were ruined by swimming lessons. The build up to this occasion would begin on Thursday evenings when I would half-heartedly carry out my chores of washing up and cleaning my bedroom. Pieces of food would be carelessly left on plates, tea-stains still rimming the bottom of cups, all because my mind would be consumed with constant anxiety about what was to occur the next day. I will always remember one particularly humiliating swimming lesson which deepened and intensified my embarrassing fear of water. After lunch on a piercingly cold January afternoon my class was teamed with the girls from 7F to begin the walk, lined up in pairs, to the swimming pool. I was paired with Becky Mason who was my safety net and fellow non-swimmer. We would always stick to the back of the line in hope that we would somehow get lost and no one would ever notice. Our plan always failed. The teachers would cunningly place themselves down the line of students, one at the front, one in the middle, and unfortunately, one at the back. Fully equipped with hats, scarves, gloves and an unattractive shiny blue puffer jacket each, we arrived at the entrance to the swimming pool clenching our draw string rucksacks filled with our swimming kits. As we got closer to the pool the pungent smell of chlorine stung my nostrils and made my stomach churn.
Mr Taylor was a large overly muscled man who carried a look of arrogance and disapproval. He had an unusually deep voice that always felt the need to shout even when having a one on one conversation. His lack of sympathy and his uncaring manner made him the worst candidate for the job of swimming teacher. But he was. The two classes, including me and Becky Mason, congregated in the reception area of the leisure centre. Mr Taylor was giving us instructions to be good and respect the space of other swimmers blah blah blah and then he suddenly shouted, ‘YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO GET CHANGED AND BE AT THE SIDE OF THE POOL, GO!’Panic filled every girl as we rushed towards the changing rooms and began stripping off, holding towels around us whilst awkwardly putting on our swimming costumes hiding our bodies from the judging eyes of others. We quickly pinged on our hideous lime green swimming hats and hurried to the pool side. Like always we were split into groups, strong swimmers, OK swimmer, and non-swimmers. This group consisted solely of me and Becky Mason. But unlike usual he did not just ignore us, in fact he seemed to go out of his way to make a spiteful attempt to humiliate us. After having free time to swim around, or in our case trying to doggy paddle, Mr Taylor took a strong blow of his whistle and called the non-swimmers to the deep-end whilst the other swimmers grouped in the shallow end waiting to see what we would be made to do. Fear immediately shot through me as we lowered ourselves in. We were given a rubber ring to pathetically and frantically attempt to make our way across the full length of the pool. My humiliation grew when I was handed one side of a pole to cling onto whislt Mr taylor, holding the other side, guided me to the safety of the shallow end. Everybody was laughing. We were humiliated and didn’t understand why we were being punished for our lack of skills. I never attended that class again.

Book Review of Julie Myerson's 'The Lost Child'.

‘The Lost Child’ tells the emotional story of Julie Myerson’s drug addicted son and the problems he causes within their family. In addition to this Myerson also explores the life of Mary Yelloly, a nineteenth century girl who died young. Her interest in this girl links to her son: they are both ‘lost children’. This contrast of biographical and autobiographical accounts is an unusual technique.
She uses direct and personal language in relation to Mary, addressing her as ‘you’, which shows how close she feels to the subject of her biography. Another note worthy technique is the abrupt shift from one genre to the other, which demonstrates how closely related the two subjects are in her mind. Myerson began by intending to write a biography but because of her personal difficulties, thoughts about her son began to interweave with the story of Mary. To some extent, the juxtaposition of the two stories gives more depth to the auto/biography genre. Myerson is aiming for a story which has more than personal importance. She is interested in the question of to what extent parents can keep their children safe. Mary’s parents could not keep her or her siblings from dying, and Myerson could not keep her son safe from drugs.
This book is controversial. It has been widely questioned whether it was right for her to expose her son in this way, however cathartic the writing of it may have been for her. In interviews with the media, she attempts to justify her actions by claiming that the book would provide the necessary shock that would bring her son to his senses.

The Forbidden Fruit

Strawberries are my body’s poison. A forbidden luxury that has denied me its sweet satisfying taste. It took years of bafflement and worry to find the cause of my symptoms. Why was this happening to me? Why was my body rejecting me and WHY wouldn’t it go away?
After consumption, the poison would linger in my body until it decided to attack. On most occasions it would inconsiderately awake me from my comfortable deep sleep at a time that, frankly, doesn’t suit anyone. It began its routine with a forever irritating throbbing of the eye, followed shortly by the feeling of nausea. Most of the time, nausea may be associated with a light manageable hangover, possibly not even resulting in the act of vomiting but if it ends that way then you feel much better for it. Better out than in and all that. This was not the case for me. My nausea did, without fail, result in the act of vomiting and up to six or seven times. A dizzy feeling would consume me and my heart would gather speed as my body prepared for the ritual that was about to take place. My throat would expand and retch up my insides, projecting them a considerable distance across the room. After the third or fourth consecutive time my throat would become dry and sleep would beckon me back to its tempting world but the poison would persist and wouldn’t stop until it was fully satisfied with its cruel work.
The poison would usually be considerate enough to affect me in my own bed so I could be looked after and at least feel relatively safe. However, on one specific occasion it decided to attack at school when all the children, including me, were gathered on the carpet around Miss Jackson, awaiting story time. I merrily listened to the first half of ‘Burglar Bill’ absorbing myself into the exciting story when I was hit with the well known feeling of the ‘eye-throb’ and I knew too well what was coming next. I raised my hand.
‘Miss! Miss! I feel really ill, my eye hurts’.
Unaware of the messy situation Miss Jackson had to look forward to, she foolishly asked me to sit back down and tell her if it became worse. Of course, it did become worse. As I felt that familiar feeling creep up on my body I rushed to the front of the class to inform poor Miss Jackson. As I opened my mouth to speak, words failed to flow out. Instead, it was vomit. Vomit, on her shoes. Everything happened at a fast pace from that moment. We were suddenly in the girls’ toilets, me in a cubicle continuing the routine that the poison had inflicted on me and Miss Jackson with one sick drenched foot in the sink and her other being used to balance herself whilst consoling me at the same time.
Strawberries are alien to me now and I have been banned from the luxury of their taste and their texture. They are an enemy that I long to befriend. They are game that I cannot join in with. They are my forbidden fruit.

Book Review on Shappi Khorsandi's 'A beginner's guide to acting English'

The well known Iranian comedian Shappi Khorsandi writes a surprisingly emotional account of her childhood in her book, ‘A Beginners guide to acting English’. Her memoir reflects on the Iran-Iraq war and follows her traditional but endearing family as they begin their lives as immigrants in London.
Immigration is a recent social trend which is currently being explored in novels as well as memoirs like this one. For example Rose Tremain’s ‘The Road Home’ is a novel about the experience of a polish immigrant recently arrived in London. This novel is moving and sad so it was surprising that Khorsandi’s memoir of immigration takes a different approach. It deals with war, political intrigue and the defiance of Shappi’s journalist father and the tone is often comic and even light hearted at times. The role of comedy here may be to take the sting out of a frightening and serious topic and give the author a way of dealing with difficulties. It seems important to question the reliability of this memoir. Shappi Khorsandi applies large amounts of descriptive detail about her early childhood which could suggest that her accounts are partly fictionalised. In addition she has invented an omniscient narrator whose account is written in italics and who can relate events that the author could not possibly know about in detail.
Despite this, ‘A beginner’s guide to acting English’ is an enthralling book that is hard to put down and even, in parts, moved me to tears.