Elizabeth's Women

One of my favorite aspects of reading a multitude of biographies about the same person is the familiarity with which I begin to greet each of the main players. Another element I love is how every author portrays the people and the situation somewhat differently. Discerning authors may treat the biography as a narrated lit review: providing judicious and balanced perspectives. Other authors seem to fill in the blanks with their own opinions. While the former is doubtlessly more esteemed, both types play an important role in the realm of historical biographies.

I absolutely love delving into a new biography about someone with whom I have a familiar literary acquaintance. I have developed particular fascinations with anything involving Mary Todd Lincoln, FDR, the Tudors, Zelda Fitzgerald, and the witty elite at the Algonquin Round Table. Historical biographies are astoundingly varied in how they handle their subjects. Some things remain true regardless of the author: Zelda meets her untimely demise during a fire at a mental institution and Anne Boleyn is decapitated no matter who tells the story. Other things, however, are treated differently depending on who is speaking.

"Hello, Robert Dudley," I think warmly as I read, "Who are you this time? A manipulative social climber or Queen Elizabeth's star-crossed lover?"

My cousin, knowing my fascination with Queen Elizabeth I, bequeathed Elizabeth's Women to me as a birthday present. I had just completed a 14 hour car ride from Missouri to San Antonio and there lay Elizabeth's women- draped seductively across the bed. I was thrilled.

The biography tells the story of Queen Elizabeth within the context of the women with whom she surrounded herself. It is a captivating lens through which to tell the story. Author Tracy Borman finds the exquisite balance of reliable historian and compelling narrative.

When I was sixteen, I read the autobiography "Forever Leisl" by Charmain Carr, which tells of the author's experience playing the oldest daughter in "The Sound of Music". I read it during a family road trip to Michigan. The car ride consisted of about sixteen hours of me sitting quietly in the back seat, occasionally stumbling across a particularly juicy behind-the-scenes fact and saying, "D'you remember- in "The Sound of Music", when...". That phrase is now family code for "You're obsessing".

I knew that I loved "Elizabeth's Women" when I found myself performing mental gymnastics in order to "casually" insert a fascinating fact I had read into social small talk.

D'you remember, in the Elizabethan era...?

Prophet's Prey

It took me a long time to openly confess my fascination with memoirs and biographies about people living in polygamous cults. While other readers may guiltily hide their tawdry romance novels, Star Wars fan fiction or Dan Brown thrillers, I was reticent to crack open my "polygamy books" in the presence of others. I was embarrassed to read something so lurid and trashy. Still, whenever I saw a mass market paperback with a girl wearing the tell-tale prairie dress and FLDS bouffant hairstyle, I felt an inexorable pull to purchase the book. I would furtively hide it in my purse until I got home. Then I would devour it in the privacy of my bedroom. Shades drawn.

In time, though, the facade began to crack. I became careless and started leaving books out. I complained that "Big Love" wasn't "accurate" enough. People noticed. At first I was apologetic, rolling my eyes and laughing in a self-deprecating way. Then I became defensive. Why shouldn't I read my polygamy books? More people ought to know what's going on in this country!

To be completely honest, I'm not reading these books out of a sense of civic duty. As someone who is studying psychology, I find the mental conditioning within these fundamentalist cults to be simultaneously terrifying and intriguing. At first I wondered, "How could anyone live like that?". I've read countless stories about generations raised without exposure to the outside world. Members are psychologically conditioned to follow illogical demands: from "stop wearing the color red" to "leave your son on the side of the road and forget he existed". Anyone who leaves the cult is said to relinquish everlasting salvation. Now I wonder, "How does anyone find the courage to leave?".

I've reached the point in my torrid affair with polygamy books where I'm no longer ashamed of my love. I geniunely admire the people who find the courage to leave everything they have believed and embark on a life in the undoubtedly overstimulating secular world. I am sickened by the behavior of FLDS leader Warren Jeffs and appalled by the government's reticence to take strong action against chronic child abuse. I don't understand why the public isn't asking more questions and demanding changes.

I recently read "Prophet's Prey: My Seven-Year Investigation into Warren Jeffs and the Fundamentalist Church of Latter Day Saints" by Sam Brower. I was impressed with its comprehensive nature. Private Investigator Sam Brower exhaustively researches the FLDS cult and impressively supplies insider information into the notoriously secretive society. This is a great introduction for the curious FLDS novice. However, I would also recommend "Under the Banner of Heaven" by Jon Krakauer and "Secrets and Wives: The Hidden World of Mormon Polygamy" by Sanjiv Bhattacharya as well.

It's a landmark revelation in the journey of bibliomania: a book does not have to be critically acclaimed or deemed worthy by some arbitrary cultural standard in order to alter the way we think or see the world. Whether the cover art employs shock tactics or the subject matter lends itself to mockery, it is my belief that any book that invites us to think critically and cultivate empathy is one worth reading.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

I can think of few books in the last couple years that have elicited as much anger and controversy as "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother". At the beginning of last year, heated reactions to Amy Chua's parenting memoir pervaded media and bookstores. And yet I wasn't interested in reading it. I was aware that Chua apparently supported rigorous parenting, arguing that an A- is unacceptable, hours of daily instrument practice is necessary, and children are to be subjugated instead of cultivated.

Perhaps my disinterest stemmed from the fact that I was enrolled in an early childhood program that promoted a philosophy that was ideologically opposed to Chua's supposed concept. More likely, I was disinclined to read the book because I have been exposed to parents who believe their toddlers should be drilled in math and pre-literacy concepts. Two summers ago I interviewed for a job working with one-year-old twins. I had assumed it was a babysitting job but was soon informed that the infants had a full-time nanny and I would be their tutor. "I've been looking for toddler flashcards but I can't find them anywhere!" The woman said in frustration. "Maybe that's because one-year-olds can't read," I said helpfully. I didn't get the job.

I passed on Tiger Mother until a friend whose opinion I respect mentioned it as an interesting read. This time, my curiosity was piqued. I am not currently working with high pressure parents or studying early childhood philosophy. Also, I have been on an absolute memoir binge lately.

So, armed with Pirate's Booty and a Diet Coke, I read it in one sitting. And I absolutely loved it. I thought for a while about the intense and wide-ranging emotions elicited by this memoir and here's what I ultimately concluded:

People who say this is a terrible book because of Chua's parenting style are missing the point. Chua admits toward the beginning of the book that she had intended to write this as a defense of "Chinese parenting". However, as she is writing the book the unimaginable happens: Chua's youngest daughter hits puberty and goes rogue. This sets the tone for some truly epic showdowns between a strong, determined woman and her daughter, the opposition who inherited mom's tenacity and stubbornness. From my perspective, Chua writes with self-deprecating humor and a self-awareness that allows for reflection and, eventually, evolution.

I'm intrigued by her explanations and the rationale behind her strict parenting style. While it is not a philosophy to which I subscribe, I find myself agreeing with her more than I anticipated (DISCLAIMER: It is quite easy for me to debate the various parenting styles in my current childless state, as I sit in my pajamas drinking Diet Coke and writing at 10:30 on a Monday morning). Of course I have many questions about the socio-emotional impact of parenting with such high expectations. I also worry about the potential social stigma placed on children with developmental disabilities in environments with that much pressure to succeed. However, Chua's story is not a psychological study or sociological expose. It is the experience of one family. I felt that she is not necessarily defending or critiquing a particular way of life. Rather, she is telling a story of her experience as a parent: The exquisite, the sublime, and the very down & dirty. Chua is unflinchingly honest. I found myself empathizing with her even if I didn't agree with her decisions.

I recommend this book but with a caveat. Read this for what it is: one woman's harrowing journey through parenthood.

The Happiness Project

Is anyone else particularly fascinated by the idiosyncratic pleasures in which people delight? Almost two years ago I quit drinking and smoking. During that time I discovered I love fruit snacks to the point of distraction. Apparently my grandpa's childhood indulgence was orange soda with sardines. In Shift Journal of Alternatives: Neurodiversity and Social Change, Julia Bascom describes "the obsessive joy of autism": positive emotions she attributes to personal characteristics related to autism (http://www.shiftjournal.com/2011/11/30/the-obsessive-joy-of-autism/). I knew my boyfriend and I were kindred spirits a couple weeks into our relationship. I had recently moved and as soon as the cable guy hooked up my DVR, Tommy set Jeopardy to record: something I had intended to secretly do as soon as he left. Together we shout out answers, comment on the ridiculous names of personal injury lawyers (Brad Bradshaw, anyone?) and fast forward through the inane bios.

That's why I picked up Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project. I wasn't anticipating that I would learn anything new. Rather, I was pursuing the voyeuristic enthrall of discovering other people's unique methods of happiness. My expectations were satisfied. It wasn't the most enlightening of the stunt memoir genre (A.J. Jacobs is the master of the "My Year ________" musings) but it was interesting. One of Gretchen's philosophies is to "Be Gretchen". Things that make other people happy may not translate into her personal happiness. I thought this was one of the best messages of the book. Reflection and introspection are critical when determining what will make a person individually happy. I know people whose ideal Friday nights are spent at the casino or getting bottle service at clubs. The mere thought of that makes me want to turn off my phone, put on pajamas and order a pizza. Also, Gretchen clearly researched the topics of happiness, positive psychology and mindfulness. Her book is a helpful reference for anyone interested in doing the same.

As for Gretchen's idiosyncrasies, there are none that particularly stand out. She engages in a multitude of impressively varied hobbies, miniprojects and goals. However, there isn't the voyeur's ideal dramatic reveal: no hidden obsession with decorating taxidermied animals or creating duct tape art or participating in civil war reenactments. Which is, you know, okay... To each her own.

Franklin & Lucy

FDR intrigues me.

In college, I stumbled across No Ordinary Time, Doris Kearns Goodwin's Pulitzer Prize-winning biography of FDR and Eleanor. I read the first half voraciously and then discarded it, a weakness that plagues me even with books in which I am captivated. Despite my callous abandonment, I found myself fascinated by the interpersonal sagas of the women within the magnetic force of the president.

So I was thrilled to discover Joseph E. Persico's book examining just that. Franklin and Lucy: President Roosevelt, Mrs. Rutherfurd, and the Other Remarkable Women in His Life considers Roosevelt's life in the context of the women with whom he had relationships. Women shaped and influenced FDR in a way that is not often displayed in textbooks. His indomitable mother Sarah would occasionally and successfully rearrange the White House schedule to procure presidential meetings for her socialite companions. His longtime secretary Missy LeHand suffered multiple nervous breakdowns, arguably as a result of her emotional over-investment in the president. Franklin cavorted with witty, attractive women of stature such as Princess Martha of Sweden. However, the case is often made that his heart really belonged to Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd, his one-time social secretary for whom he nearly divorced Eleanor, lost his vast inheritance, and ruined his chances for a political future.

It's funny how one's perceptions and allegiances change with time and experience. When I was younger, I was captivated by Lucy. She was pretty and charming, caught in between social convention and true love, embroiled in a star-crossed affair with this god of a man. In contrast, Eleanor seemed to me humorless, self-righteous and entirely unrelatable. Several years and many experiences later, I encountered this book with a different point of view. I sympathize for Eleanor with her tumultuous childhood and openly criticized looks. I admire her strength and ability to define herself through her social crusades as opposed to her philandering husband during a time in which beauty was highly prized and female community activism was not.

This book is a wonderful piece of narrative non-fiction. Persico is a compelling storyteller who presents historical evidence while allowing the reader to draw independent conclusions. FDR's myriad of female influences are vividly displayed as distinctive, admirable yet flawed. However, the culpability of Roosevelt's behavior is rarely mentioned; his responsibility for the way his actions affect others is treated lightly. Still, Persico addresses fascinating questions concerning the events and people within FDR's life. For example, what would the world look like today if Roosevelt had absconded all in order to be with Lucy Mercer?

Thankfully, we can only imagine.