journalism : narrative nonfiction

Fuck. I walked in on the first day of class of Journalism 3170 all optimistic and spirited. Three months later into the course I’m burnt out and dying from trying too hard and reaping too little. Non-fiction is a bitch. 

Beverley Sinclair. Poised and cut-throat, she conducts her one hour and fifty minute class delivering knowledge that will help transform our work into ready-to-be-published articles. Countless nights of caffeinated nightmares have boosted me through deadlines. I wake up in the morning, print my paper, and off I go. Satisfaction.  Nope. That isn’t good enough.

Sitting in class, cheeks flushed pink with excitement to receive my first Personal Essay assignment back. She called out my name and handed me my paper. Questions, questions. questions. I couldn’t even distinguish my words from the criticism. The blue crossed out words on my paper felt like slits on my wrist. Wounded and dejected, my head sank behind my computer.

Thoughts fired through my head like bullets at target practice. Students were chattering around me discussing their well-achieved mark. A degree in English wasn’t good enough to write non-fiction – it was experience and attention to detail that mattered the most. Stories take shape everyday, all around us, and the best way to describe it is like a good cake recipe.

Flour, the foundation of a cake reflects the necessity of being able to distinguish a good story. Method. You sift through the flour to eliminate the unnecessary parts of your story, making you see the bigger issue, and narrating the people that it affects. What is the story I am trying to tell? What is my focus? Eggs act as your binding component – what do I need to do in order to narrate this story? Gather enough information from the people you are going to interview. Vegetable oil, gives your story a bit of grease to move around with. If your story sticks to the pan, it’s going to suck just like the cake. Sugar and chocolate chips are the additives that enhance the flavour of your writing. Don’t be afraid of being real and asking too many questions. The more information you have to work with, the easier it is to narrow down what is not necessary. Chocolate chips serve as the good quotes you include. It’s important to understand what you need and what’s just plain and boring. Baking soda, gives rise to your nonfiction piece, remember to show and don’t tell. Remove the useless crap and pay attention to narrative detail. The reader wants to empathize with your story and not dread reading it. My favourite part is the whisk; it is essential when wrapping up your nonfiction story. Stirring your elements is like transforming your raw materials into a liquidy golden batter. Combining your hard work to produce a flawless ready-to-be-baked nonfiction story is oh-so-satisfying when you have the right materials.

My biggest struggle was sifting through what was important; I would often clump up my batter. It seemed like everything was important, how do you know what to cut out? Either my batter was clumped, or I’d have less sugar, or sometimes I’d even burn the whole damn cake. Shit.

I breezed through this class worrying about my GPA too much and my writing too little. Sitting next to the clock, watching the seconds of time inch closer to the end of class kept me occupied, but emptied my brain of the knowledge I was supposed to be paying attention to. I’d often oversee the blue paragraphs of criticism on my papers and keep making the same mistakes over again, just because I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong, when everything was wrong. My writing was a whole pile of wrongs. I lost hope somewhere in the middle of this semester, contemplating dropping out. My left shoulder angel, the good one, who looked a lot like me or maybe even better looking than me, haloed with optimism, motivated me to keep going.

Here I am, at the end of the semester, wrapping up this class. I learned at the end what I was supposed to know at the beginning, in order to achieve some success. I wrote some good pieces that lacked important elements and flavour, making my assignments monotonous, painful to read for my teacher, Beverley Sinclair. I tried too hard which screwed up my storytelling and here I am sitting in one of the last few classes trying to redeem myself. Blaming everyone else for my shortcomings was one of the stupidest things I did in retrospect.

I am leaving Journalism 3170 wiser than the foolish girl that thought she could just skim through with writing nonfiction. You can’t just write nonfiction, you have to make it come alive, embody it, feel it, breathe it. This class taught me a lot - more so at the end. Beverley Sinclair emphasized last class, “Having things turn out not the way you thought is a really good thing.” I guess I never really understood what she meant by that until after writing this final Personal Essay. I thought my writing was good enough to help me get at least a B. I was wrong. It took much more effort than that, and in the end this paper was much more fluid and easy to write. I tried too hard for what needed lesser effort and more tact. Exhale.I learned something, it wasn’t too late.   

I paced around apprehensively outside the operation theatre. I wouldn’t call myself a very spiritual or a religious kind of person, but in times of helplessness, people call out to God. I folded my hands in prayer and asked for God to look after my mom and ensure that everything followed out smoothly. Before I could finish my prayer, I found my shorts stained with tear drops. 

On a hot Indian summer day, I watched her half conscious lying on a flimsy hospital bed. Her face, so soft and pale, defined her youthful years of life with beautiful laugh lines. She actively participated in creating this wonderful life, filled with opportunities and spiritual journeys. As irony may have it, years dedicated in putting the world's needs before her own, my mother succumbed to stage three breast cancer. 

The first thing any person would normally ask is, “Why me, what did I do to deserve this?” I wish that there were answers, but there aren’t. The irony of this question is, that my mom wasn’t the one asking these questions…I was. “Why did MY mom have to get cancer?” I half expected her to breakdown screaming and hurling rhetorical questions. Then again, there is no right time for cancer. After hospital visits, I would stare at my plate of food and mull my peas around with thoughts of the next day’s lethargic schedule. Negativity consumed me and filled my stomach with anger and frustration. There was no space for food…

No words would be sufficient to describe her courage, and yet her ability to be composed at this time, troubled me. While I asserted my skepticisms and concerns, I asked the doctors a thousand and one questions about the risks of surgery and treatment, while she sat quietly and absorbed what was happening. Her adamant nature sought to strike a balance with my anxiety and her inexorable love blanketed my unsettled heart. So why wasn’t she as troubled as I was then? I’ve come to the conclusion that many years of parenting and trying to be the best mother possible, you start accepting all the shit that life throws at you. Or maybe…she was trying to be strong for me, since I wasn’t able to handle it. I behaved as though I was the one diagnosed with cancer. Whatever the case was, in the best manner possible, I wiped my tears and extended my hand to give her the emotional support she needed.  

The concept of a summer that absolved me of my responsibilities of a student, escaped me along with my hope. Three months of holiday transitioned into hectic specialist appointments and second opinions. Removing the malignant tumor wasn’t the hard part – it’s what was to come after. A proposed mastectomy was undeniably overwhelming; the chemotherapy that followed to complete the treatment would completely rid my mother of her au naturel salt-and-pepper hair. I think that this physiological change was going to be the hardest. This is the part where you have to admit to people that you have ‘cancer’. I became so sick of doctors that I actually started envisioning myself throwing darts at their faces.  It felt, as though the four dingy walls of the hospital became our second home. Our regularity with the nurses brought us an advantage, zipping through long waiting hours shortened our visits. 

In retrospect, I vividly remember my mother cooing, “In times of need, do we only truly understand what we have.” So, what did we actually have to be thankful about? Thankful for cancer? She wasn’t amused with my sarcasm, and began to explain all the ‘worst scenarios’ that could have taken place. At the end of the day, I think she was thankful for me; that I was the one there when she needed someone.

I started sleeping in her room because I was too uneasy to sleep in my own. The company of playing Scrabble until we fell asleep was the only form of entertainment we actually had. The most important thing that kept us sane was the fact that we continued with a normal daily routine. From the time we woke up until the time we went to sleep we remained busy with chores or running relentless errands. Keeping busy put my brain to work rather than thinking about useless ‘what ifs’.

The doctor advised us to schedule an immediate surgery to remove the tumor in her left breast. Waiting was the hardest part. What does one do for three hours waiting outside the operation theatre? My stomach churned as the surgeon walked out with her palm held forward, heading in my direction. “This, is the tumor we removed, five centimeters in diameter, and the good news is, the tumor is benign.” The pulsating in my forehead reduced, but why was she showing me this unsavoury object, was I supposed to examine this thing? Nights became days at the hospital, nurses of all shapes and sizes rolled in and out. The empty house I came home to everyday echoed my unhappiness and turned into a dark cave of hate without her presence. With high hopes and my first attempt at optimism, mom began healing quickly after her surgery. I slept nearby, and not even a wink of sleep came my way, because my body just listened for her.

Dr. H effortlessly suggested removing the infected breast. It was as if he was instructing her to remove a wart. “Oh you can just have a mastectomy with a partial breast reconstruction. Oh, and the best part is, we can give you an imported German implant!” TADAAA. Ah yes, one should definitely celebrate at hearing this news. That wasn’t the most ridiculous part; plastic surgeon, Dr. M, smacked his lips every time he asked my mom to remove her bra. I can’t forget the ridiculous sound of his smacking lips or the light that reflected on his irregularly shaped, greasy, half-bald head.  The health care system in India could really use some help.

Failed attempts at distraction only lead to discovering a box of photographed memories. There it was, one small six by ten box of my childhood sitting before me. I browsed through, immersing myself in days in which I did not know any better than riding around in a red and yellow bunny shaped plastic car. Not a care in the world was painted on my face, in a world filled with gummy bears and play dates. In retrospect, I had the best childhood, with the happiest parents who provided the utmost attention and discipline that has helped me transform into the woman I am today. This small light blue box, painted with bumblebees and white fluffy clouds provided catharsis of all that I did not say. So long ago did these memories seem.  

The winged chariot of time raced on by, eluding me of all the days that were once mine. The day of departure knocked on my door and reminded me of the reality I had to face. This summer made me realize all that I took for granted. I started my holiday with the mindset that I would be going to have the time of my life so that I could come back refreshed for the fall. Unfortunately, half the things we plan don’t seem to unfold in that manner. The realization of having to be strong for one another and be prepared for anything was something I wasn’t familiar with. My simple life is generally structured, organized, and always planned. Throughout the experimental years of my life, I found that friends always walked in and out – the one person that consistently prevailed, was my mom. Based on this, I made her my best friend and the only friend I needed. A couple months later, and way too many soggy Kleenex’s, I pulled myself together and started packing my journey of self-realization and independence back into my bag. Hindsight reassures me that going back to complete my education and pursue the career of my dreams will help me support my family in the future.