When Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction-Writing: Iowa Writers’ Workshop as CIA Baby?

When you get involved in fiction writing, you hear “Iowa” a lot. It’s shorthand for the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, operating since 1936 under the auspices of the University of Iowa. It’s also a flagship of American creativity. And, according to an article in The Chronicle of Higher Education, it was also erected as a bulwark against Communism, and partially funded by the CIA.

Iowa, a weapon of the Cold War?! That bastion of individualism? The first program in the US to promote advanced degrees in creative writing, to amplify the voices of writers expressing themselves freely, independently, even iconoclastically?  Oh…wait. I think I get it.

It was a shock to me at first, I must admit, when I read this sentence in an article in Al Jazeera America about the CIA sending hip-hop artists to Cuba to further American ideals: “It was also a CIA front group, known as the Farfield Foundation, that provided seed money for what would become the Iowa Writer’s Workshop.” I had to investigate.

Turns out that quote comes from Professor Eric Bennett,  assistant professor of English at Providence College. [The article adds that Dr. Bennett’s “book on creative writing and the Cold War, Workshops of Empire, is forthcoming from the University of Iowa Press. This essay is adapted from MFA vs. NYC: The Two Cultures of American Fiction, edited by Chad Harbach and published this month by Faber 
and Faber.”–just in case you want to track him down.]

Here’s the part of Dr. Bennett’s article I found most striking:

But it’s also an accepted part of the story that creative-writing programs arose spontaneously: Creative writing was an idea whose time had come. Writers wanted jobs, and students wanted fun classes. In the 1960s, with Soviet satellites orbiting, American baby boomers matriculating, and federal dollars flooding into higher education, colleges and universities marveled at Iowa’s success and followed its lead. To judge by the bellwether, creative-writing programs worked. Iowa looked great: Famous writers taught there, graduated from there, gave readings there, and drank, philandered, and enriched themselves and others there.

Yet what drew writers to Iowa was not the innate splendor of a spontaneously good idea. What drew writers to Iowa is what draws writers anywhere: money and hype, which tend to be less spontaneous than ideas.

So where did the money and the hype come from?

Much of the answer lies in the remarkable career of Paul Engle, the workshop’s second director, a do-it-yourself Cold Warrior whose accomplishments remain mostly covered in archival dust. For two decades after World War II, Iowa prospered on donations from conservative businessmen persuaded by Engle that the program fortified democratic values at home and abroad: It fought Communism. The workshop thrived on checks from places like the Rockefeller Foundation, which gave Iowa $40,000 between 1953 and 1956—good money at the time. As the years went by, it also attracted support from the Asia Foundation (another channel for CIA money) and the State Department.

After reading the whole article, I can’t say that I’m “shocked, shocked!” at the ideas Dr. Bennett expresses. The writing is not muck-raking; it’s a deeply personal statement about the impact of political ideas on a creative movement, and the more I think about it, the less surprised I am that such impact should have been so deliberately built. The Cold War was, after all, by definition, a war of ideas. Why should creative writing be held above the fray?

The only bit that leaves a bad taste in my mouth is Iowa’s own disingenuity when presenting its own history. Here’s what their website has to say on the subject:

One of the first students to receive an M.A. in creative writing was the poet Paul Engle, who assumed the directorship of the Workshop in 1941. During the 24 years of his directorship, the Workhsop gained a national reputation as the premier program of its kind. During World War II enrollment was no more than a dozen students, but after the war it grew, attaining in a few years a strength of over a hundred students, and dividing into the fiction and poetry sections which exist today.

Yep–same Paul Engle whom Dr. Bennett knew personally, and describes as “a do-it-yourself Cold Warrior.” The Iowa website seems to be opting for the storyline of spontaneously-arising program for artists. Given what Dr. Bennett has detailed, that origin story appears to be–perhaps appropriately–fiction.

No problems with those origins–but I would like to see Iowa be a little more open about them.

Do you agree? Are you “shocked, shocked”? Or is this old news to you? 

 

 

R.A.A.K.: Really Awesome Acts of Kindness

I assume you’ve heard of RAKs–Random Acts of Kindness. The concept even has its own foundation, full of ideas organized by topic, expense, and time. Go there, explore, see what grabs you! Then read on.

Our island is home to one gentleman whom I have yet to meet, though we’ve been waving to each other in passing. He almost always rides a bicycle, though the other day he apparently drove a pickup…in order to deliver a large load of wood chips, with which to revitalize the paths around the tiny county park down at my end of the island…

He's been moving this pile single-handedly all week.

He’s been moving this pile single-handedly all week.

…and its latrine. Yup. You’ve heard of Adopt-a-Spot? This man has Adopted-a-Latrine. Here’s a look from the outside of the World’s Spunkiest Latrine:

Not a decorator color in sight!

Not a decorator color in sight!

And a close-up from the inside: yes, those are magazines in one corner (New Yorker!) flowers in the other (in summer they’re fresh; this time of year, silk), and–Christmas ornaments! Yes! Merry peeing to you!

Thank you, Latrine Fairy!

Thank you, Latrine Fairy!

Even the obligatory admonishing notice is spunky:

Well, if you put it that way...sure thing!

Well, if you put it that way…sure thing!

To be sure, this is WAY beyond most folks’ idea of “random”–this is DEDICATED. I’ve a pretty good idea that this so-far-unknown-to-me Latrine Fairy is retired, thus has time to dedicate to creating joy and beauty in the unlikeliest of places. But no matter–hopefully one day we’ll all get to a place where we can adopt a latrine if we want to!

And meanwhile…now’s the time to share your own Random Acts of Kindness, given, received, or just heard about. Share away–I LOVE this stuff!

 

In Praise of Writing Retreats…and Advances

Raise your hand if you’ve ever been made to attend a Retreat that you wished you could retreat from.

Yeah. Thought so. Been there too. But the retreat I get to attend this week is NOT one of those. My writing group–seven women–gets to spend 27 hours or so at the guest house of a generous islander. During that time we…

…each get a half-hour to focus the group on our writing, whether that means workshopping a piece or just talking through a difficult issue related to our writing lives

…go for walks, solitary or in groups, along the (very wild and windy this week!) coast

…curl up on couches and read or write quietly

…cook and eat and drink together

…share, laugh, and yes, at some point there is usually some crying as well

…wash dishes and clean up

me

Afterwards, we feel individually renewed and empowered, but we also feel our mutual trust fortified and revitalized. In a group where each of us has gone WAY out on the trust limb, in poetry or memoir or even just plain old publishing and marketing issues, this sense of mutual KNOWING is essential.

Oh, and the orca-watching from our generous host’s incredible living room view? That’s just a bonus.

What do you think is the secret to a good retreat? Is it the voluntary aspect alone? The blend of group and individual activities? The wine? 

 

Germany Says “Enough!” To Christmas Commercialization Creep; What Do You Say?

How early is too early to hear Christmas carols in a shopping center? Does “Black Friday” ruin the Thanksgiving holiday? Is there something wrong with Christmas lights going up in November?

These are not new questions for us Americans. The tug-of-war between keeping Christmas special and maximizing both its joy and its bottom line has been going on since I can remember, and I’m not what they call “young.”

But I’ve been interested to notice lately, on the edges of the news, stories about Germans pushing back against “Christmas Creep.” There is even talk of regulating when Christmasy treats can begin to be sold! The Christian Science Monitor cites a recent German poll on the subject:

According to the survey, done by the polling institute YouGov for the news agency Deutsche Presse-Agentur, 1 in 3 Germans want the government to regulate when stores can start selling Christmas gingerbread cakes and other Christmas goodies. Most of the survey’s 1,000 respondents say that that date should be Nov. 30. Half say the early display of Christmas commercialism erodes the meaning of Christmas.

Yep, that’s right: the government telling stores when they’re allowed to start selling. Can you wrap your head around such an idea even being uttered in America, let alone approved of?

Sigh. Of COURSE I don’t want that kind of regulation in my own country. But. I sure wish consumers and advertisers could get together and make their own “regulation”–i.e., common sense. Respect. Dare I say “honor”–of the meaning of Christmas?

What a hoot. Get a grip, Wing.

Germany and Austria are also apparently waging a war against Santa Claus–bless their hearts. According to the website dw.de, 

Bettina Schade says she doesn’t have anything personal against Santa Claus. In fact, she likes a lot of things about today’s celebrations of Christmas — the lighted trees, the gold ornaments, the silver stars.

But all the material things, the hectic rush to buy gifts, and the ubiquity of the bearded man in the red suit are taking away from the core meaning of Christmas. She’d like to see things changed, or at least toned down a little.

“The Christian origins of Christmas, like the birth of Jesus, have receded into the background,” she said. “It’s becoming more and more a festival that is reduced to simply worldly gifts and to commerce.”

She is part of a campaign called the Frankfurter Nicholas Initiative, founded by a Roman Catholic priest in Frankfurt, Eckhard Bieger. Alarmed by the growing commercialization of Christmas in Germany, he launched the initiative that’s aimed at putting St. Nicholas, a fourth-century monk, back in the Christmas spotlight where he used to be.

The article goes on to point out what all Americans ought to know (though I’m guessing that most don’t), which is that our current image of Jolly Old Saint Nick was created for, and promoted by, the Coca-Cola Company. The “real” St. Nicholas would probably not have sold too many fizzy drinks. Which is kinda the point.

Orig. photo courtesy Wikimedia; Jonathan Meath portraying Santa)

Orig. photo courtesy Wikimedia; Jonathan Meath portraying Santa)

I am not intending here a discussion of the so-called “War on Christmas”–you’ll need to go to someone else’s blog for that. But I am interested to hear if my readers have similar ideas on when is a good season for Christmassy “stuff,” and when is not. Perhaps you hate seeing wrapping paper on sale in October, for example, but still enjoy Christmas lights as soon as Daylight Savings Time kicks in.

Can you articulate when you like to begin to see, hear and smell “Christmas,” and when you do not–and why?

My 18-layer Cake: When Personal Bests Turn Ugly (But Still Delicious)

I set a world record last week! Well, a personal best anyway. But if the winners of a US-and-a-teensy-bit-of-Canada baseball championship can call themselves World Champions, I figure I’m entitled.

18 layers. That’s 18 cake layers. But in between each layer was a thick coating of apricot puree and an even thicker layer of chocolate butter cream, so really you could call it 54 layers if you wanted to. No objection here.

Back story: The Mate’s birthday falls right around Thanksgiving (this year, the Tuesday before). I’ve been making his birthday cake every year since before he was my Mate–approximately 36 years. (I know I missed one sabbatical year, but I think that’s all.) I first made it back when I was wooing him and knew he had an affinity for apricots, since he was raised in the part of California where they grow (or used to; it’s Silicon Valley now). 36 years later, I’d say that little trick worked.

But back to last week. I was in our cousins’ kitchen, using their implements, but I’d brought my own German cookbook along. The recipe for Prinzregententorte (Prince Regent Cake) is, as you might guess, a little tricky, and I haven’t managed to memorize it in 36 years. I usually go with 2 1/2 times the recipe in order to end up with an impressive 15 layers, baking mere spoonfuls of batter in shifts.

But listen, children: Pride Goeth Before a Fall. This year, in the middle of bragging to my cousins about how awesome this cake was and how long I’d been making it, I distracted myself so much that I forgot…to add…the flour.

Even worse: I didn’t even figure out WHY the layers were baking so funky–or not baking–until I’d used up 6 layers’ worth.

Oops. Duh. Sigh. Now what? Admit defeat and serve up a humble 9-layer cake, after all that bragging?

Inconceivable. I made more batter. Quite a bit more. The result (warning: these snapshots were NOT taken with a blog post in mind, so please don’t judge too harshly):

cake1

I know, right? Looks more like a tophat than a cake!  But just in case you’re not buying the 18 layers…

cake2

Two days later was Thanksgiving. I baked the pies, plus another (more reasonably-sized) birthday cake for one of the cousins. We didn’t need any of it; we had Cakezilla. But tradition is tradition.

pies

Next year: 20? It could happen. I’m getting awfully absent-minded.

Favorite cooking disasters that turned out better than planned? Craziest birthday cakes ever? Please share!

 

 

Seasons of Work: Celebrating the Cyclical Job

My bakery closes this weekend for four months, and I’m trying not to feel sad. 

It might have been easier to make the transition if I had been there for the final, post-Thanksgiving weekend, to sell holiday cookies and Stollen, to say “see you next spring!” to loyal customers, to share hugs with my colleagues and with Holly, a.k.a. World’s Nicest Boss. (“Can I make some eggs for anybody? Who wants goat cheese on their eggs? How about an avocado?”) But I was travelling this weekend, so I missed it. When I left home, we were open. When I return: just a dark, cold, empty kitchen behind a dark, cold, empty counter.

Oh, April...why are you so far from now?

Oh, April…why are you so far from now?

I think it’s great. I love seasonal work. Maybe it’s because I love seasons, having grown up on the east coast. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the bulk of my adult career in that most seasonal, cyclical of jobs: teaching.

Despite the tone of this post, I do not spend off-season pining for my giant rolling pin. No, here’s what off-season means to me:

–writing in my barn (in my sleeping bag, with a hat on, by my space heater)

–making lots of soup and roasted root veggies

–connecting with far-flung family and friends (whether Wing Sons One and Two coming home, or us taking our giant cross-country road trip to NC)

–grooving on how early the darkness falls, up where we live at Latitude 46-something

–grooving even more on when that darkness begins to creep incrementally backward, sometime in January

–Tarheel basketball!!!

–writing new songs, singing with friends (just singing–NOT rehearsing!)

–compensating for missing my giant rolling pin by wielding my own little one a gracious plenty for potlucks

–thinking about what the new season will bring when it arrives once more: flowers! Visitors! New recipes to bake! Another concert? More book promos? Bring it all on!

But for now…let’s just make popcorn and watch the game, shall we?

Do people in Hawaii miss having seasons? Do people with year-round work miss that sense of a fresh start? Is that need for a  “fresh start” feeling universal, or simply privileged? Do people find cycles in their job even without seasons? 

These are questions I wonder about. Do you have any answers for me? What do your “on” and “off” seasons mean to you?

When Turkey Day is For Real: Stepping Up to Slaughter

My vegetarian friends: you may not care to read this on principle, but if you do, don’t worry–this post contains no gore. I decided to document my son’s participation in his first turkey slaughter (I refuse to call it a “harvest”), but found myself avoiding certain photos for my own sake as much as anyone else’s.

Back story: Wing Son Two has been working on this farm, owned by cousins of The Mate, since July. The Mate & I & Wing Son One–who is very close to his brother–came out here to spend Thanksgiving together, and to see how our son’s faring as a farmer.

Quite well, it seems. He and the cousins made their time together seem like major highjinks: “Look at that paddock! We built that!” “Tractor got stuck there…” “This field takes forEVER to mow…” But on Turkey Day, which fell three days before what most of us know as Turkey Day, the mood was so serious as to be almost somber.

There were seven victims turkeys, which Son Two & cousins had raised from chicks.

I missed photographing their capture and loading...turkey wrestling!

I missed photographing their capture and loading…turkey wrestling!

After stuffing one bird at a time upside-down into a cone (designed for chickens, so they barely fit) Cousin Jesse had the unenviable task of cutting the throat.

...and of course, someone has to hold the feet. I imagine both men said a little prayer as they were doing this. I think I was.

…and of course, someone has to hold the feet. I imagine both men said a little prayer as they were doing this. I think I was.

Next, Son Two dipped each bled-out bird into the scalder–where, again, they just barely fit. (The largest bird was 16.5 pounds after all the butchering.)

Still a bird at this point, albeit a dead one

Still a bird at this point, albeit a dead one

The most fascinating part of the process, to me, was the plucker, which looked a bit like a washing machine with rubber nubbies, and functioned in much the same way.

Becoming less of a bird by the second...

Becoming less of a bird by the second…

...almost...there...

…almost…there…

Finally, Sons One and Two, along with Two’s best friend who’s been working on the farm with him, cut off the heads and feet, cut a small hole in the back end, and delicately pulled out all the organs in a surprisingly neat little pile. (Two & friend had had experience doing this twice before with chickens, and The Mate and I delighted in hearing them share their expertise so seriously.)

No longer a bird. Meat.

No longer a bird. Meat.

Suddenly,without heads or feet or feathers, these were no longer birds. They were meat. And we were all oddly the better for having participated in, or even watched, the process.

I am–obviously–not a vegetarian. I try to avoid what I call “concentration camp meat”–anything raised in a crowded feedlot or cramped pen. I’m glad these turkeys had happy, relatively free-ranging lives. I did not like to see them die, and I’m glad I didn’t have to do it myself. But I do feel, as a meat-eater, that I bear some responsibility to the animals I have killed to bear some witness to the process, to acknowledge it, to feel its reality.

As Barbara Kingsolver wrote in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle:A Year of Food Life, “You can’t run away on harvest day.” Nor, I think, should you.

043 (2)

This Vermont farm is a calendar pictures come alive–especially in the snow. We had the most picture-perfect White Thanksgiving together. But along with the joy of being with family, I gave thanks to the birds whose lives we had taken, and felt strangely connected to them, even before they became part of me.

Anyone else had experience with raising his/her own meat? Deciding not to? Please share.

The Importance of Cultchah: Reuniting With New England

It’s easy to assume the amalgamation of American culture, especially when traveling. Macdonalds, KFC, Shell, Walmart. Where am I? Who cares? Yeah, this is Dunkin Donuts country supposedly, just like the Midwest is Bob Evans and the South is Hardee’s, but on my way to the North Shore from Boston the other day I spotted two Starbucks and a Trader Joe’s, so even that regionalism is fragile.

So here’s a little celebration of everything that is completely, 100% New England.

Granite. Everywhere. (Cue pun about not taking New England for granite. I’m sure they’ve never heard that before.)

039

Squam Rock. If you can...just...make it...to that crack up there...you can climb it!

Squam Rock. If you can…just…make it…to that crack up there…you can climb it!

Houses built right up against the street (’cause the original street was just a carriage track). Austere architecture. (Who needs porches in this climate? And who has time to be sitting on them, even in nice weather? Get back to that gardening!)

045

OLD buildings. This “salt box” house, built around 1700, used to belong to The Mate’s Cousin Erma:

043

Nice, greasy, Italian-American food (or, in Gloucester, Portuguese-American):

Ask me about the special.

Ask me about the special.

And then there are all those iconic images, like birch trees:

042

…and those hard to capture with my camera, like the accent–“Pahk ya cah”–and the attitude, which, to a southerner like me, could best be characterized as cranky rude forthright. I lived in Massachusetts for four years, thirty-some years ago, and I still miss that.

So before we move on to a different slice of New England, here’s a classic icon to celebrate cultchah:

This lighthouse is a 5-minute walk from the Cousins' house.

This lighthouse is a 5-minute walk from the Cousins’ house.

What are your favorite emblems of where you’re from? List your top three.

Road Trip? J/K: Wings Take to the Air After All

Have you been hearing about the Arctic Blast in the middle of the country? Or maybe living in it?

Yeah. We Wings might be idiots, but we’re not crazy. Driving to Vermont suddenly became a choice between snow-packed roads and blowing snow in Idaho vs. icy passes in Oregon. Seeing as this trip was entirely discretionary, we decided to create our own third choice. We’re flying. By the time you read this, we’ll be somewhere around 3,500 feet trying to keep our muscles from cramping in those tight little Coach seats.

As I mentioned in the last post, flying is actually cheaper, since we won’t be eating out or sleeping in motels for a total of two weeks. Once we get to New England, we’re with family. In fact, thanks to the miracles of flight, we’re with family for a helluva lot longer than if we’d driven!

Huh. Wonder why we never thought of that before.

So, now is NOT the time to begin the litany of Everything I Hate About Airports and Planes. It’s almost Thanksgiving! So I, for one (and hopefully The Mate and Wing Son One as well), will be giving thanks not only for family togetherness, but for the option of making it happen this way.

IMG_0197

Unless, of course, Red Rover the Intrepid Subaru refuses to take us to the airport. She’s pretty pissed off.

Now’s your chance to weigh in and let me know a) how smart we are; b) how stupid we were to even consider driving to Vermont in November; c) how much more fun the train is (yeah, but have you seen THOSE ticket prices??), or d) what’s your worst Thanksgiving travel story ever.

In Defense of Road Trips: Got None; Going Anyway; Not Sorry.

First of all, let me answer two questions. Yes, we are driving from Washington to Vermont in late November. And no, we don’t know what route we’re taking. (Mother Nature will let us know that.)

Oh, and a third question: Yes, Really.

Wing Son Two announced this fall that he intends to stay indefinitely in Vermont, where he’s been working since graduating from college in June. The Mate & I instantly thought about joining him for Thanksgiving, since Son Two is living on a beautiful farm which belongs to some of The Mate’s cousins, a huge, delightful clan of whom we are very fond.

This created a dilemma, however: Wing Son One is still in California, where we’ve been spending all our Thanksgivings since both sons gravitated there after high school. Which son to spend the holiday with?

Then The Mate added another twist: “If we go to Vermont, I want to drive.” (He’s not scared of flying, he just loathes it. I’m sure none of you can relate to this, right?)

I vacillated. Who road trips across the northern latitudes on the cusp of winter? We’re already committed to our annual cross-country pilgrimage to North Carolina in Feb-March; can I handle THAT much trippage? On the other hand…we have time. Road trips are always a bonding experience for us, a huge part of our relationship. But what about Son One?

Red Rover LOVES road trips!

Red Rover LOVES road trips!

Son One, in fact, settled the matter. When I hesitantly invited him to join us, he surprised me by accepting. His job is ending now, his new one doesn’t start till January, and he apparently likes his parents enough to spend two weeks with them in a fairly small car.

Did I mention that Son One is 24? And not real good with the whole staying-in-touch-via-email-and-phone thing? I’d happily spend two weeks idling at a traffic light with him, catching up.

I haven’t done the math on the carbon emissions, but I’m pretty sure that driving three people in one car still uses less than flying three people in a plane. Monetarily, though, we may actually be coming out behind. Yes, plane tickets are expensive, but this trip will entail a good two weeks on the road. Usually when The Mate & I go, we camp and stay with friends more than half the time, but this trip will be different: faster, darker, colder, and much less predictable. We can’t really make dates with friends; cold-weather camping holds no appeal. We’ll be seeing the interior of a number of Days Inns, I expect, paying for three people each time. It’ll add up.

(and that was in Arizona, yet!)

(and that was in Arizona, yet!)

7,000 miles. Three people doing 600-700 miles a day in a Subaru. Icy roads. Darkness at 4:30. Am I daunted?

Nah. I’ll be with my boys. I don’t care what happens. It just feels like Christmas came early this year.

Anyone else traveling this holiday season? How far, where to? Any mixed feelings there?