Margins Review: Wild, by Cheryl Strayed

Hold on to your pants, girls; it's gonna be a wild ride!

  Disclaimer: a version of the following review was originally written for publication 

in Issue 19 of  The Willamette Collegian (@WUCollegian).

     This may come as a bit of a surprise to anyone who knows me, but I’m not a girl that’s caught crying over movies or books all that often. No matter how moving the scene, how compelling the plot, or how wibbly-wobbly I may really be feeling on the inside, my eyes remain blissfully dry nine times out of ten. The only reason I’m telling you this is so that you know exactly what kind of a mortifyingly big deal it was to have a friend surprise-interrupt me as I was in the ugliest phase of a middle school style emotional meltdown while reading the last quarter of Cheryl Strayed’s brilliant memoir.

     After her mother died of cancer at 45, Strayed was left alone and parentless at 22. Finding herself separated from her husband, living in a tiny apartment, working as a waitress, shooting heroin and feeling “as low and mixed-up as I’d ever been,” she decides to take on the Pacific Crest Trail in search of what she calls “radical aloneness.” So, equipped with only an overstuffed backpack, ill-fitting hiking boots, a few dollars and very little experience, Strayed sets off to reinvent the life she feels she’s already lost. But my waterfall of tears and the resulting revocation of my ‘cold & heartless’ reader badge notwithstanding, I don’t mean to imply that Wild is any kind of a downer, because it’s definitely not! What it actually is, though, is one hell of a heart-wrenching, pillow-punching, yell-at-your-friend-to-leave-so-you-can-pick-up-the-broken-pieces-of-your-shattered-dignity good read. Strayed spends much of the book recounting her bizarre adventures in the wilderness as well as her strange interactions with the people she meets along the way, writing with fierce prose and sharp humor about some seriously dire situations which involve everything from her being pitted against the elements, wild animals and her own inexperience, to her tragic inability to afford a cheeseburger.

     Desensitized by heavily jargoned theoretical readings and eye-bleeding amounts of thesis research, I came to Wild with a heart that beat more out of habit than feeling. Strayed’s captivating tale of self discovery and healing in the Pacific wilderness repeatedly stomped on that listless contraption and gave it a good kick to the proverbial curb. Somewhere in the process of reading about this brave, reckless, and grieving young woman’s trials, my reader-self was transformed into something that felt more like it wanted to start exploring the wilds and damn the consequences rather than spend one more evening watching the world passively walk by a cafe window.

     Even in the life of the most prolific reader, there are only so many books you can honestly say have really made an impact on you or changed the way you thought about the world. For me, your typical jaded and cynical college girl living in the era of text-message breakups and melodramatic blog diaries, Wild is one of those rare mind-altering exceptions. It tells the insanely personal story of one individual’s much-needed spiritual regeneration found through the complete surrender of past identities and a deep immersion into nature in all its brutality, a life experience of Strayed’s that turns out to be indirectly responsible for unleashing a powerfully influential voice upon the literary world 17 years later.

And so, without reservation, I give Wild... 
... five red-laced, kick-ass Raichle hiking boots out of five!

* * * * * 

5 / 5

On the Quintessential English Major Aesthetic

      

     C'mon guys, let's face it: English majors have got to be some of the hardiest people out there in the bloodthirsty world of academia. They are the subject of constant ridicule, faced with at least twice the amount of reading required of most other majors, and most importantly— they have had to endure years of exposure to some of the most pretentious individuals that have ever had the gall to stick their pinched little noses in the air.
     At the beginning of this academic year, I was still an English and Anthropology double major (yes, yes— boo hiss to you too, I'm one of those girls). In fact, technically I'm still considered as such. However, only a month and a half ago, I was still grappling with the then difficult decision of "shall I make my senior year hell by still trying to double major, or should I actually do the sensible thing and drop one? But then, which one?!?"
     My history as an English major and just English majordom/classes in general have always been touchy issues for me. And not just because of the exorbitant amounts of reading because, let's face it, it's not like a whole lot of reading is going to scare me off of anything anytime soon. No, it wasn't the reading. And no, again, it certainly wasn't the subject matter (I love me some archaic prose, artistic run-on sentences, and convoluted narratives, yo!). However, there was one thing that just kept on digging at me and digging at me and that was jabbed painfully in between my ribs over and over again like a stitch in my side that every so often, when I was least expecting and most unprepared for it, kicked into high gear and caused me to limp sullenly off the field.

Ugh.

     It's the people, folks, the people.
Or, rather, a distinctive and annoying subgroup that's attached itself like a parasite to the larger wonderful, open-hearted, intelligent 
(albeit forever economically impoverished) English Major culture.

You know the sort: the holier-than-thou, new-age hipsters all the low-brow collegiate newspapers poke fun at in just about every issue except, you know, of the more literary variety. They tie their scarves with such artistic flair that you are tempted to ask if they've yet called on the Darcys of Devonshire this year and sport a side part or bob that rivals the do's of the most fashionable social climbers of the Roaring 20's. They strive to be the artistic avatars of their own tastes which, while admittedly the purpose of clothing and fashion in general— is exaggerated to the point of caricature by these individuals. And so they exhibit their tastes and express their ideals in such a way that their initial aesthetic appeal is overcome by the sheer height of the ivory tower atop which they so obviously see themselves standing, staring down at all the little people as if we were tiny specs upon a toy globe they painted in the 4th grade and which they no longer find amusing or worthy of their attention.

They are those that give the loud and proud nerds, the devoted bookworms, and the unapologetic lovers of everything literary a bad name.

   

And I am sick and tired of every single goddamned one of them.

Seriously.

     The worst part is that these types aren't even reserved for students... universities actually hire these pompous toads in hordes for some inexplicable reason I can never hope to fathom.

Believe me, it's true; I've had classes with them.

That is all.

Torey

Margins Review: Glaciers, by Alexis Smith

The following review was originally written for publication in The Willamette Collegian (@WUCollegian).

          To begin, “Glaciers” is not a story about melting icecaps or old ships wrecked at sea. It’s about a young woman who is beginning to understand that life as we know it is only temporary and will one day become the distant past, leaving behind only remnants to be remembered by. Isabel is a collector of these remnants, and the plot of “Glaciers” is fueled by her desire to find the perfect vintage dress for a party that she believes will play a decisive role in her future. Populated with just as many beautifully constructed sentences as dresses, “Glaciers” is an eloquent love letter to the antiquated charm of times gone by and a work that stresses the symbolic importance of preserving the past. But, before I delve into any more of that, let me introduce you to the narrator.

          Isabel is a 20-something Portlander who lives on the second floor of a rambling Victorian house with only her cat and an eclectic assortment of old-fashioned knick-knacks to keep her company. Working in the dimly lit basement of a public library, it’s her job to tend the ‘wounded,’ or damaged, books and knit them back together again after years of being neglected. Reminiscent of “Mrs. Dalloway,” the novel’s main plotline follows Isabel’s mental journey as it unfolds over the course of a 24-hour period, broken up by a series of snapshot-like scenes featuring past conversations and reflections on memories from her childhood in Alaska.

          The cast of characters is small, but includes Isabel’s co-worker and forlorn love interest, recent war veteran Spoke. Smith’s subtle way of portraying their restrained, but quietly hopeful relationship is both insightful and endearing as she painstakingly constructs the little moments that work to bring these two lonely people together as well as those that persist in keeping them apart. Mid-way through the narrative, Isabel muses that to experience infatuation is to enter into a kind of heightened “awareness” that “suddenly sharpens your senses, so that the little things come into focus and the world seems more beautiful and complicated.” This description also serves as an accurate representation of Smith’s overall writing style as she utilizes poetic language to transform seemingly mundane scenes into inseparable parts of the overarching message; namely that moments, when studied carefully, are like photographs that allow us fleeting glimpses into the lives of others, and so deserve to be cherished and remembered.

          Essentially, this is the kind of book you can have a brief, yet satisfying romance with without having to worry too much about time commitment or being thrown into any kind of emotional turmoil. It’s the literary equivalent of a glass of wine after a long day and would serve as the perfect palate cleanser for a reader caught between best sellers and draining reading assignments. 

  
And so, since it’s definitely the kind of sweet & sentimental read well suited for getting into the Valentines Day spirit, I’m giving “Glaciers” a solid...

 ... three and a half lovely vintage dresses out of five. 

~ * * * .5 ~

____