NYT Profile. 9th week.

Hello friends,


http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/25/fashion/25Snooki.html?pagewanted=all


This isn't necessarily the best profile I found or have read, in fact, I think some of the profiles I have read in this class are better than this one.  That being said though, I think there is a lot to be discussed about this profile.  It uses many different sources, that vary in relationships to Snooki (personal, business  etc), which is something that helped me because I was struggling with that idea prior to this article.  I also think the author's presence in this profile is incredibly interesting.  She inserts herself in a way that says one thing, while writing a piece with a tone that says something else.  It is tough to describe and I hope more people read this one so we can discuss.  In any event it's not very long and we can read it in class.

Jerry Vincent in Kalamazoo Final Draft in Process writing

            So, I use the term “Final Draft” in its loosest sense.  Writing this piece has been a struggle for me since day one, and I don’t think that I am the only one.  Initially I struggled with defining the genre I was writing in, then when I finally thought I had captured it, we get our first drafts back and I find out I was way off.  I once again grappled with what defining what I was writing, and right when I needed help most, DOGL happened (no regrets, just a little frustrating).  Now I am left with something I am not necessarily comfortable handing in but with no other options.  I think with one more workshop (in class, not online) I could push this piece to the next level. 

            All of this is of course also on top of all of the access and time issues I had with writing this profile.  My subject was unwilling to discuss many aspects of his life and despite our prior relationship I did not feel comfortable publishing information I learned a year ago.  Many others were either unresponsive or fully declined being interviewed. 
            I know these issues are all par for the course in Journalism, they just became very frustrating when coupled with the time and scheduling conflicts we faced.  In one more revision I would be happy and I know this piece could be, but unfortunately the piece goes on print tonight at five so whatever is there is there despite what a whiny writer has to say about it.  

Jerry Vincent in Kalamazoo 3rd and (I guess if it has to be [but hopefully doesn't]) final draft

Jerry Vincent in Kalamazoo

Woody Tauke

1296 words

New York Times Magazine

            Jerry sits in his office, a crowded painter’s supply closet, surrounded on four sides by ceiling high shelves, covered with years and years worth of paint cans, on the campus of a tiny liberal arts college in Kalamazoo, Michigan.   Today, like most days, he’s flecked with paint and dust and is wearing white painters pants and a grey “FacMan” t-shirt.  He isn’t tall but he isn’t short, he hasn’t kept his crew cut from his years in the service, and he doesn’t have greying greasy shoulder length hair, like so many Hollywood archetypes would have us believe.  Jerry smokes almost constantly, is quiet, and looks like he likes to read a lot.  Jerry likes to read a lot.  His skin is tanned from the sun and his hands are broad and calloused, he works with his hands.  He uses them to wrench open paint cans, to light cigarettes, to trim ceiling tiles, and to rip up carpet.  Jerry is always clean-shaven.  He carries himself with the wisdom of his years, smiles often, speaks very slowly, and closes his eyes to tell me the stories of his life.   One marked by a medium sized city in southwestern Michigan: Kalamazoo. 

In 1970, at 19, as the reality of the Vietnam War was just beginning to permeate US culture, Jerry Vincent enlisted in the Air Force and left his home: that medium sized city known as Kalamazoo.  The idea of enlisting in the Vietnam War, in retrospect, seems reckless, foolish, some might even say suicidal, yet Jerry spoke coolly of the decision:

“I was on the verge of being drafted, I’d received a notification and at that point you can either be drafted, or you can join and I said ‘Well, I really don’t want to be cannon fodder at this time because if you were drafted at that time you were in the army.  You were a bush beater.  You were canon fodder.  So I joined the Air Force.”

 After his enlistment, Jerry was packed up and shipped off to Texas for basic training.  After four months of being taught to obey commands and having to

“learn all these forms and requirements and regulations regarding the process and the means to do the shipping of people and things” he graduated and, in May of 1971, was shipped away.  Jerry was sent to war.  Maybe war is a stretch, but he was sent to the “tropical paradise” of Thailand, where he spent his service “—moving people and their personal household goods around the world.” 

Four years later the war was drawing to a close and the Air Force did not need Jerry Vincent anymore.

Jerry reflects on and speaks of his time abroad with little fondness.  He smiles occasionally, laughing to himself over old friends he once had, but there is a sense of bitterness in his voice.  Not a deep resentment like we associate with the Vietnam War, but almost an annoyance, as if the war and his deployment were an inconvenience.    He didn’t have to wade through the jungle swamps in Vietnam, but he did have to pack up and leave his home in Kalamazoo. 

After a short lifetime of moving people and moving things, Jerry was happy to finally find himself stateside in California, just outside of San Francisco. He spent his time wandering up and down the state, going in and out of the cities—decompressing from his formative years in the Air Force, Thailand, and the Vietnam War.  He had time to himself, and the opportunity to live with little responsibility, freely, like most young men in their twenties do.  Instead though, Jerry returned to the place he truly belongs, a place he calls home, a place that many of us find ourselves away from in that time of life, but a place robbed of him. 

Later that year, shortly after his reunion with Kalamazoo, Jerry met Hans, a German immigrant and hairdresser, and his now partner of 38 year.   Having just spent the past five years shipping people and things around the world, Jerry found himself a job in the, then booming, travel industry as a travel agent.  For another four years Jerry packed people up and shipped them to places like San Francisco, Texas, and Thailand.  Eventually he found himself exhausted by the frustrations and tedium’s of the industry,

“I said fuck this.”

and Jerry quit in 1979.  Out of work and with Hans breathing down his neck, Jerry begrudgingly went to look for work once again.

            At a cocktail party one night, after a month of floating around, and Hans getting madder and madder, Jerry met a member of the, in his words: “Foreign Study Program, ya know? Which is CIP now,” and was promised a secretarial position at Kalamazoo College.  Jerry came to K College and settled, but not with either the Foreign Study Program or with the CIP.  Instead, Jerry found a niche with Facilities Management as a dorm painter.  Jerry’s father was a professional painter, and Jerry spent his childhood working on and off, with him.  At FacMan, in the summer of 1990, Jerry developed the student worker program and took twelve student employs with him to renovate Harmon Hall. 

           Jerry still employs students and keeps that tiny campus in Kalamazoo looking fresh, and Hans now owns his salon just up the street.  They smoke a lot of cigarettes and live happily together. 

Jerry left the place he grew up around the same time that most young people do, and had his share of adventures.  He served in the Vietnam War, found love in himself and with a German named Hans. He traversed his country north, south, east, and west and could have settled anywhere, but he didn’t.  He settled here, in Southwest Michigan.   It’s rare to find someone, like Jerry, who is born where they belong, someone whose narrative is dotted with places and things but is consistently marked by the place they call home.  You can deem this uninteresting or boring, but it’s a beautiful thing in life; when you find someone who truly belongs.  

Events of October Reflection

I read The Events of October shortly after arriving at K, and so did my mom, and we have spent a lot of time discussing it.  Maybe not in the context of narrative journalism but, point being, I have done a lot of reflection on this narrative.  Just a few brief things that I know many people will adress in short because I know everyone will be talking about them.

1.  Gail's use of I.  I have always struggled with where and when to insert myself into writing, especially in this course.  This work is a great example of the effective and appropriate use of I.  That being said, I am just curious as to what everyone thinks the effect of this book would be sans I?  Obviously personal experience creates relevance but was anything sacrificed for the insertion of I?  Is it ever?

2.  I ran into some contamination issues just with my profile and I don't have nearly the relationship with this place that Gail did/does, how many of these issues did he run into when writing this book?  How many seeped into the text?  I am not skeptical of her writing, just interested to hear how she handled, what I think is, an obvious obstacle.

Finally, I have heard Gail speak on this subject several times at community reflections, and I have also had her as a professor.  This may have corrupted her work in my mind but I could very clearly hear Gail in my head while reading this piece and that did wonders for the tone of this book.  I want to say the tone is remorseful but I know that's not the right word.  A hint of anger?  I can't quite place it, but I know it's powerful.  Maybe I can't put my finger on it because of the genre?  Maybe it gets in the way of the genre?  What do you think?

Can't wait to discuss.

-Woody

Piece 2 Draft 2: in process in complete

I am very happy with this draft.  Not necessarily because it’s any better or worse than my first draft (I do think it’s better), but because it’s simply done.  I don’t know why I had such a terrible time writing this particular draft of this particular piece but I was very stumped for a very long time.  Feels great to have something on the page. 

With this revision I was trying to focus my piece as a story about someone who is truly home.  I realize that this is largely still a summary of Jerry’s life but I really tried to add more of a narrative element.  I’m not saying it is anywhere near polished but I am happy with it.  I intend to work with my small group and Marin on finding a way to make it be less of a summary of his life and more of an interesting piece.  This is all I can think to write not but I will add more later.  Thanks guys.

Story 3 pitch

So, I don't have much information on this guy yet, but the other day I got a haircut from a really interesting barber (sort of an oxymoron).  His name is Mark Gilbert and he was real wacky and I would love to get to know him better.  His shop opened on Vine St, right around the corner from Crows Nest, about eight months ago and he is already very very passionate about the area.  He was super on board with being interviewed and has a nice physical activity for me to photograph.

I don't think it will be a big deal that I don't know too much about him because he is certainly interesting enough, and this piece will also benefit the community (little free advertising never hurt anyone).  With my last subject I already knew a lot about him and there were some access issues so this should be a nice change.

Comment with question/ comments.

Thanks,

Woody

Jerry Vincent in Kalamazoo Draft 2

             Jerry Vincent in Kalamazoo

Woody Tauke

1083 words

New York Times Magazine

Many of us consider home to be the place we were raised: the place we grew up and learned about the world in.  The reality of life though is that we only spend a small portion of the time we have on this Earth in the place our parents chose to raise us.  Many of use spend the rest of our lives in transit, caught between the time and place we assume home is, and the place we are looking to call home.  Some of us are lucky enough to search for and realize our true home and appreciate it as such.  Many others though will spend the majority of their lives in one place; their home, and not even realize it.  They are too fixated on the nostalgic notion of the place they grew up to stop and consider that that is not where they truly belong.    It’s rare to find someone who is born where they belong, someone whose narrative is dotted with places and things but is marked by the place they, like the rest of us so inaccurately, call home.

 Jerry sits in his office, a crowded painters supply closet, surrounded on four sides by ceiling high shelves, covered with years and years worth of paint cans, on the campus of a tiny liberal arts college in Kalamazoo, Michigan.   Today, like most days, he’s flecked with paint and dust and is wearing white painters pants and a grey “FacMan” t-shirt.  He isn’t tall but he isn’t short, he hasn’t kept his crew cut from his years in the service, and he doesn’t have greying greasy shoulder length hair, like so many Hollywood archetypes would have us believe.  Jerry smokes almost constantly, is quiet, and looks like he likes to read a lot.  Jerry likes to read a lot.  His skin is tanned from the sun and his hands are broad and calloused, he works with his hands.  He uses them to wrench open paint cans, to light cigarettes, to trim ceiling tiles, and to rip up carpet.  Jerry is always clean-shaven.  He carries himself with the wisdom of his years, smiles often, speaks very slowly, and closes his eyes to tell me the stories of his life.   One marked by a medium sized city in southwestern Michigan: Kalamazoo. 

In 1970, at 19, as the reality of the Vietnam War was just beginning to permeate US culture, Jerry Vincent enlisted in the Air Force and left his home.  The idea of enlisting in the Vietnam War, in retrospect, seems reckless, foolish, some might even say suicidal yet Jerry spoke coolly of the decision,

“I was on the verge of being drafted, I’d received a notification and at that point you can either be drafted, or you can join and I said ‘Well, I really don’t want to be cannon fodder at this time because if you were drafted at that time you were in the army.  You were a bush beater.  You were canon fodder.  So I joined the Air Force.”

 After his enlistment, Jerry was packed up and shipped off to Texas for basic training.  After four months of being taught to obey commands having to,

“learn all these forms and requirements and regulations regarding the process and the means to do the shipping of people and things”

 he graduated and, in May of 1971, was shipped away.  Jerry was sent to war.  Maybe war is a stretch, but he was sent to the “tropical paradise” of Thailand, where he spent his service,

 “—moving people and their personal household goods around the world.” 

Four years later the war was drawing to a close and the Air Force didn’t need Jerry Vincent anymore.

Jerry found himself in California, just outside of San Francisco, and spent his time driving up and down the state, going in and out of the cities.  Decompressing from his formative years in the Air Force, Thailand, and the Vietnam War.  He spent nearly a month with friends in Denver: Jerry finally relaxed.  He had time to himself, and the opportunity to live with little responsibility, freely, like most young men in their 20s do.  Instead, Jerry returned to the place he truly belongs, a place he calls home, a place that many of us find ourselves away from in that time of life, but a place robbed of him. 

Later that year, shortly after his reunion with Kalamazoo, Jerry met Hans, his now partner of 38 year, a German immigrant and hairdresser.   Having just spent the past five years shipping people and things around the world, Jerry found himself a job in the, then booming, travel industry as a travel agent.  For another four years Jerry packed people up and shipped them to places like San Francisco, Texas, and Thailand.  Exhausted by the frustrations and tedium’s of the industry,

“I said fuck this.”

and Jerry quit in 1979.  Out of work and with Hans breathing down his neck Jerry begrudgingly went to look for work once again.

            At a cocktail party one night, after a month of floating around, and Hans getting madder and madder, Jerry met a member of the,

“Foreign Study Program, ya know? which is CIP now”

at, Kalamazoo College, who promised him a secretarial job.  Jerry came to K College and settled, but not with either the Foreign Study Program or with the CIP.  Instead, Jerry found a niche with Facilities Management as a dorm painter.  Jerry’s father was a professional painter, and Jerry spent his childhood working on and off, with him.  At FacMan, in the summer of 1990, Jerry developed the student worker program and took twelve student employs with him to renovate Harmon Hall.  For Hans and Jerry, the rest is history. 

            Jerry left the place he grew up around the same time that most young people do, and had his share of adventures.  Jerry could have settled anywhere, but he didn’t.  He settled here, in Southwest Michigan, because this is where he belongs.  Jerry still employs students and keeps that tiny campus in Kalamazoo looking fresh, and Hans now owns his salon just up the street.  They smoke a lot of cigarettes and live happily together.  Jerry’s mother still lives in Portage, and he helps take care of her several times a week.  Jerry is at home here in Kalamazoo.   You can call this uninteresting or boring, but it’s a rare and beautiful thing in life; when you find someone who truly belongs.  

Week 7 reading response: Telling True Stories V/ VI

                 Last week (two weeks ago?  Tough to keep track at this point.) I posted something about "understanding" what a profile is, or how to go about writing one.  I have since realized that I still am very confused.  For the first draft of my profile I wrote essentially the chronology of my subjects life, with what I thought was a separate theme braided in.  I was happy with the draft, but after receiving comments I quickly learned that I was still very far from the elusive "profile" and was left thoroughly miffed.  I am still grappling with these questions: what is a profile? and how do I write one?  These frustrations have run me head on into one of the worst writers blocks of my life and I have not been about to produce a second draft of my profile.  For like of a better word, this is incredibly frustrating for me.
                But how does this tie into this week at all?  How does this pertain to Telling True Stories?  Well, I looked to this weeks reading with hope that I might find something enlightening enough to lift my writers block and allow me to get back on track with this course.  I was left semisatisfied.
                Coincidentally enough, it was Jon Franklin that provided the most helpful advice from this weeks reading.  On page 127, in the third full paragraph he asserts,

"While the writer must draw a true portrait of the character, its can't ever be a complete one; no writer can capture a whole person.  Every person is involved in many parallel, consecutive stories.  I am a writer, teacher, gardener, father, dog owner, and husband.  A story about me couldn't possibly include all those elements.  The reporter usually ends up choosing just one facet of a persona's life.  In a story about a music teacher and her mentorship on one student, her personal life doesn't matter.  If the story is about her life as a barfly six nights a week, then mentoring of the student probably doesn't figure in the story.  A writer chooses what matters."

This hasen't helped me to nail down a second draft just yet but it has allowed me to think of profile in a different way.  Profile is not about painting a complete picture of somebody, it is about sharing one of their stories or facets of there life and allowing readers to use that as a window through which to examine that person.  I know I just said that this wasn't terribly helpful but physically writing out that last sentence lead to tremendous break though.  I have to go try and write a second draft with this inspiration.  You've all just witnessed the creative process.

TL;DR- I am sorry for being behind, I have hit a roadblock in the quarter/ in my writing and I am doing my best to get back on track.  Fortunately, Jon Franklin saved the day again and I am feeling inspired.  Going to go write a second draft.