JUL - The Monster of Florence

July review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2014: The Monster of Florence: A True Story by Douglas Preston with Mario Spezi, 2008. [True Crime category]

I chose this book for the True Crime category, obviously, and it made me think about a lot more than a historical string of murders taking place in Italy. It gave me questions about the nature of crime and crime stories, the human mind's cry for a resolution or an ending, the nature of storyteller and story. The Monster of Florence is a book about the killings in Italy perpetrated by an as-yet undiscovered Monster, attacking young couples in the Italian countryside while they were having sex in cars and campsites. The story is split into two parts: first is Mario Spezi's story, the journalist who had been there from the very beginning, the one who told Preston the early tales and introduced him to the story; second is Douglas Preston's story, beginning when he picked up his whole life and transplanted it across the water to a quaint little Italian villa with the ostensible goal of writing another of his heavily-researched crime books. What he got was much, much more than he bargained for.

The dual structure of this book allowed for a segmented interpretation of the section of history it covers, as well as the perspective. With Spezi's story, we are focused on the murders, the impending doom of another to be had, the helplessness and misinformation that ran rampant through the Italian police system at this time. With Preston's, however, we get that history layered with the new events being colored with that history, with those layers. I do not know how to fully discuss this book as a good portion of the plot points represent turning points in then-current case strategy or understanding, so I believe with this review I will suffice it to continue on a more theoretical and philosophical point.

There is an interesting idea in terms of the crime genre that there is a crime that takes place, either before the open of the novel or during the first few pages, that will be solved by the end of the book. This is an idea that is decidedly unequipped to fit a true crime novel, but one which I nonetheless found myself pining for as the book wore on. This is not to say that I have regretted at all my choice in reading The Monster of Florence, only that I noticed a trend in my thought processes as the text drew to a close. I noticed that I kept waiting for a conclusion: I kept waiting for a solution to the mystery, a name to put in front of the title, "The Monster of Florence." But it did not happen. The book was written up until the present-day (as of the time of publishing, 2008), and it closed without any idea as to who the real killer is. It outlines the way the larger-than-life character of The Monster has been infecting Italian criminal discourse, being applied to the trial of Amanda Knox with little to no evidence and resulting in one of the greatest miscarriages of foreign justice for an American citizen in recent history. The idea that the crime is solved at the end of the crime novel, the idea that it is planned out and wrapped up in a perfect little fictional package, was a constant reminder to me that this was not an ordinary crime novel. It was true crime, and for reasons that I will get into in a moment, this brought up a whole host of questions for my literarily-inclined mind.

The idea that there isn't an "end," there isn't a solution to the problem, that it just keeps going right up until the last page, reiterates the fact that this is true crime. This book readily acknowledges the lack of answers that it puts forth, and in this way gives no illusions about what it is trying to be, in the end. Because this is a true story, questions arise concerning the nature of storyteller and story, as well as the conflation of the two: at one point late in the book, Douglas Preston actually enters the story, not as a narrator and observer, but as someone accosted by the Italian police as suspect and mastermind, erasing his journalistic integrity and privilege as an American journalist in the face of a single-minded vendetta for apprehending The Monster. The conflation of storyteller and story again highlights the fact that these are actual events that happened to actual people--facts further underscored by the mid-text insertion of photographs and evidences from the case--which is a sobering one, at best. This line is blurred because of the nature of this book, and it made me think about the nature of these two normally distinct entities in crime novels. I'm not sure that I have any sage words to offer as to the necessity of any or either of these in crime novels, but I felt acutely aware of them as I read Monster of Florence, and to me that is as good a start as any.

Another aspect of the "true" or "non-fiction" part of this book that I have noticed with other such books that I have read recently is the presence of a "Reading Group Guide" at the end, a collection of questions for discussion and perusal. My only concern is that while this sort of "guide" can be informative and helpful to readers who do not usually read deeply for pleasure, I wonder whether it would affect the way someone reads? Does it quash personal opinion in favor of established questions? Or am I just being a superdouche here (this is entirely possible...). Misgivings aside, I did appreciate the interview with both authors included here, and there was a certain question that stirred more of the same questions I had earlier: this question had to do with the word "satisfying," and led me to question what is the point of a story without an ending? Can a story sans ending be satisfying? Is there a sort of elegance, a sort of beauty in an open, quasi-resolution? And moreover, are the questions raised throughout the examinations in this book worth the "dissatisfaction" of there not being a face at the end to pin all the hatred and malice onto? Again, I have few answers because I am a lowly college graduate with a proclivity for close reading and cheap cabernet, but again it is my firm belief that the elicited questions are worth all.

I'm a Big Skater Now!

So tonight begins my official career as an Ypsilanti Vigilante. I guess I could've gone to Vigi practice last week, but it was hours after I'd found out my assessment results, and I was a little dizzy still from it all. It's hard to believe that I've come this far in five months. It's not precisely that I feel *different* than I did at the start of Fresh Meat, I don't think I'm a different person, but there is definitely something that has shifted. I almost feel more like myself. Like there was this girl inside of me for years, ever since I first heard the term, and she just sort of chilled out in a beaten up lounge chair at the back of my mind with my dreams of owning a bookstore and a world-class hunter-jumper horse.
My fellow wave-mates and I have talked about the "roller derby blur", and I sure as hell felt it on Sunday. Sunday was our first scrimmage day as a wave: normally I guess we get to do a little scrimmaging before the skills test, so some of our pack skills are better, but our timeline just didn't really work out that way I guess. So Sunday, first real scrimmage. I was excited, but nervous as sometimes my body has a tendency to forget how to derby after a while, and I hadn't skated in a whole week (since we didn't skate on Wednesday, just answered endless amounts of questions....) so I was already on edge. This was new ground. I didn't know how I would be or what I should expect or whether it was something I was actually good at. I mean, sure I'm "skilled" in the eyes of WFTDA and Frac and Whiskey, but what if that wasn't enough?
Now, I will readily admit that I suffer from anxiety, and it used to be really bad in high school. I haven't had a anxiety attack it a few years, I felt like I'd sort of mastered how to deal with myself through self-awareness and meds and timing. Imagine my surprise, then, when the tell-tale shakiness started to creep back after our warm up. My heart got tight like I'd been pumped with too much coffee, and every time I tried to turn around toe stop my toes just kept sliding and I'd end up on my ass. I sat out a few to work on my damn toe stops and make them behave, so I thought I was good again and returned to trackside. We had started to play a game called Secret Service that was designed for newbies to be able to focus on one job and not get so overwhelmed trying to think about everything during a jam, and I'd been handed the jammer star for one round. I got through the pack (not lead, but I got through), and I hauled ass to get back around, but I came in too hot around the curve and ended up diving through the pack and wiping out rather than getting through on my own 8 wheels. I got up, play resumed, and then I got pushed out and called for a track cut. I got up and the jam was called and I shakily made my way over to the penalty box. I sat down and then silently handed the jammer star to one of my derby wives, who I knew could tell something was amiss, but she had to be out on the track and she'd ask me later, her eyes said. I stood up, legs still almost vibrating. I skated slowly, head down, to the locker room across the rink, tension building in my chest the closer I got to the door. When I got inside, I broke. I had begun to feel terrible, like such a spaz and not in control of my own body, or my mind was not connected to my muscles anymore. I took off my helmet and my wrist guards and put my head between my knees and let myself sob a few times. Every time I heard voices near the door as skaters went by on the track, my heart did a funny little flip flop, and I remembered all the times when I was little when I would hide far longer than necessary just to see if someone would come see if I was alright. More often than not, I gave people too much credit and ended up alone on the steps next to my house angry that no one had noticed my pain, but not registering the fact that they were probably rolled up in a coat of their own hurt. I didn't want that to happen now. I didn't want to wait to see if my friends or derby wives came in to find me, I didn't want to let myself get angry at them for enjoying practice or hell, respecting my space. I tried to repeat as much as I could remember of Bonnie D.Stroir's "Puppy Talk" podcast to myself, breathing into each phrase. When I'd calmed myself down enough, when I didn't think I would cry at the drop of a hat anymore, I ventured back out and joined in stretching. I stretched silently, eyes on the floor, and geared down faster than my peers. I went to the bathroom to wash my face, when my wife Nailer came in and just asked if I wanted a hug. Of course I did, but I didn't want to cry, and she knew it but she hugged me anyway. Trauma came in shortly after, and then Belle, and soon my body was wracked with sobs and apologies as my wives just hugged me and were sweet.
I was reminded over and over that day of the safe space that derby can be if you let it, the space where you can feel your feelings but also be propped back up by every other girl who's going through the same confusion and learning as you are. That is one of the reasons I love roller derby. One of the reasons I am excited for tonight. We get to practice with the other Vigilantes, women who are talented and strong and vulnerable just like me, and I cannot wait to be able to love myself and this sport like they do.

JUN - The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

June review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2014: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot, 2010. [Award Winning category]

This month's book is The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot, a groundbreaking journalistic/biographical endeavor that has won countless awards to date. Published in 2010, this book has attracted the public eye for its hard-knock story, as its dealing with non-fiction in a way that is decidedly engaging and enthralling, and of course its picturesque cover image, one of the only surviving images of the book's subject, Miss Henrietta Lacks, the quasi-faceless woman who became known as HeLa. I am a sucker for judging a book by its cover (and a beer, and a notebook, et cetera et cetera), and this cover has stayed with me since its arrival on the scene. I have never been much for non-fiction, although my dalliance with being a historical fiction writer caused me to give it another chance, and I have also never quite been one to keep up on "the It book" of the year, as much as I want to read them. When I saw this book on the buy two get one free table at Barnes & Noble, I figured I should probably go for it. I knew two categories for this year were Award-Winning and Medical Thriller, and I figured I could decide which one to file Immortal Life under later. Being the procrastinator I am, I pretty much left it until the writing of this post to decide which category to read it for, and I came to the conclusion that while it is a medical text, it is not much of a thriller, per se, and Award Winning seems to be the better fit. Although I do not really know how to write about an Award Winning book in terms of its awards (as a category/genre/manner of reading it), but I will do my best.

First and foremost, I should mention the various things I liked about the writing, the composition of the book. Rebecca Skloot's journalistic voice still allows itself to be poetic at times, and her flow is easy and lends itself to storytelling rather than stark reportage. On the note of storytelling, I know I've talked before about finding the hidden or buried stories, and I think this book is a perfect example. It is not just the data, not just the facts. Skloot masterfully builds them up from behind in her dedication to finding out who Henrietta Lacks actually was. I love that. I loved reading about Henrietta's obsession with toenail polish and how her best friend cried out when she saw Henrietta's dead body because the nails were so chipped and it made her finally realize the extent of pain that Henrietta was experiencing. The purely human glimpses like that, the arresting tidbit--like the story Skloot gave us to illustrate that first spark of interest she had in the mysterious yet ubiquitous Henrietta Lacks.

I like to think that I, too, would've been entranced by that sliver of Henrietta. Even though Skloot did not put herself too much at the forefront of the book, I felt myself identifying with her, if only as the recipient of this story. I found myself simply soaking up the story, facts and figures about Henrietta's life and cells, the controversy that these small things engendered. It is interesting to note that Henrietta herself is also not physically in the book for very long, only for the first section, Part I: Life, which ends with her death on page 86. Just like she was not physically a part of her fame. That in itself is an interesting separation of sections: Life, Death, Immortality. The first chapter of Part One: Life begins with the exam that Henrietta demanded from the doctors, the exam that would set her down the path to being one of the most famous cell lines in all of science. It starts with the beginning of the end rather than the beginning of Henrietta, choosing to loop back instead of starting cold from the moment she came into this world. It seems to echo the ostensible "One Thing" that made up Henrietta Lacks, her body, her cells, and then move back into the woman, the way that Skloot herself made her way through Henrietta's past. The first chapter of Part Two: Death is the first intersection of Henrietta's family with science and Johns Hopkins, when George Gey learned of her death and asked David if an autopsy would happen. Part Two re-cements the focus on Henrietta's body, tracking the diminishment of her person until no one really even knew who the woman behind HeLa was. And finally, Part Three: Immortality begins with the next intersection of Henrietta's family with Science: when Bobbette is talking to a man who works with HeLa cells, ostensibly marking the first time anyone in the Lacks family knew anything about Henrietta's cells being taken and used. This section comes more to the forefront of the mind, in that it is in the more recent past and Rebecca Skloot herself comes more into play. She begins to describe her courtship of the Lacks family, her dogged desire to uncover the truth, leaving countless phone messages and writing letters and even just driving to Lacks Town to see what she could see. This section, to me, seemed about the different kinds of immortality Henrietta Lacks is experiencing, the interplay between these kinds, and also a meditation on the consequences of such immortality. There is the immortality in the simple fact that her cancer cells did not die. There is the immortality that said cheating of death brought to the cells, the aura of something exciting and groundbreaking that ripped through the medical world with the pervasive distribution of her cells. And then there is the more intimate immortality, the one born of motherhood and friendship, the one that everyone who knew Henrietta will carry on, that they pour into the conferences and museums and ideas for books in order for her name to live on. This almost unconscious examining of immortality is really what tied this book together for me.

I wanted to touch on the idea of religious faith versus scientific understanding, and how, in this text, they don't seem to rage against each other as much as usual. I noted this most in the "faith healing" scene, where Deborah is "healed" by her cousin Gary and he seems almost possessed by the spirit of God (p289). Again, Skloot does not present this interaction with any sort of judgment or skepticism, instead opting for an almost awe-inspired tone of sheer observation. It is clear that the Lacks family fall on the side of religious faith and seem diametrically opposed to the scientific understanding of Johns Hopkins and the rest of the scientific community, and while Deborah's brothers rage and want to sue everyone who has ever used their mother's cells for science, Deborah tries to isolate herself from it. She has stress attacks and stops talking to people about it. But with the influence of Skloot's presence and their combined quest to find out everything they can about her mother and her cells, Deborah actually starts to embrace science, seeing Henrietta as a sort of bridge between the two. At one point, Deborah mentions that the cells did something or other because it was Henrietta up in heaven being mad at the people down there poking and prodding without permission, so there is a conflation here with the inexplicable and the not understood that takes form in a celestial Henrietta. I liked it, I thought it gave meaning to some things that I can imagine would be difficult to grasp with only a middle school education. It seemed almost as if it was Deborah's way of keeping her mother alive and in her world, after losing her so quickly and violently.

Before I close, I think I should muse on importance of this book, the fact that it won the 19 or so awards listed in one of the first pages of the book, the afterword talking about "How you should feel about all this isn't obvious." (p316) In the reader discussion guide at the end, there was a question that particularly struck me:

As a journalist, Skloot is careful to present the encounter between the Lacks family and the world of medicine without taking sides. Since readers bring their own experiences and opinions to the text, some may feel she took the scientists' side, while others may feel she took the family's side. What are your feelings about this? Does your opinion fall on one side or the other, or somewhere in the middle, and why?

I was unsure of what my answer to this question was for a long time, and I think it's possible that that is why it took me so long to finish up this review. But I came to a conclusion after a discussion I had with my boyfriend a few days ago about learning. I figure, the very first step is to be unsure, to ask yourself these questions. One of the most rampant and unnerving things about our social culture is our knee-jerk need to share something or post something we "read" (see: agree with the title and skimmed the article), asserting our knowledge or competence or what have you. I say we because I know I fall prey to this, and I am trying my best to work on it. To let myself slow down and really read through things, get my critical eye back, allow for some questioning. It's ok to have opinions that others disagree with, but there is nothing worse than a strident voice with nothing to prop it up but bluster. If there is one overarching insight I think I gained from reading The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks it isn't necessarily a solidified opinion on tissue property rights or scientific freedom. It is that my year out of school, while fruitful, has softened me into a passive learner, and I don't want to be that anymore. There are always attractive ways to gain more information--you don't have to read the Wall Street Journal every day. Search them out. Make use of them.