The Influence of Popular Culture (Part 3 of 3)

The final part of my Influence of Popular Culture series is easy.  It’s really just a giggle. 

Back to that first season of the Fargo TV series.  There’s a scene in Episode 8 where two FBI Agents have screwed up their assignment — the mobsters they were supposed to be watching get murdered under their watch.  Oops.  So they get reassigned to what is for them the worst job imaginable.  

They are sent to the filing room.   For an indefinite period of time.

The scene shows them, with their boss, in the elevator, as it goes down and down and down. Then they walk through the long and increasingly dark corridor to where there are no longer any windows and the plumbing pipes are visible on the ceiling.

They are still trying to talk their boss out of this horrible reassignment.  “It was just a mistake.”  “We can do better.”  The boss says nothing; they reach one of the nondescript doors along the corridor, and he opens it — THE FILE ROOM! 

File boxes, piled one on top of the other, all neatly labeled, are the only things to be seen.  The two agents enter the room; the boss closes the door.   As one of the agents tries to figure out how to get out of this situation, and the other one is resigning himself to it, the camera pans around them, up and down the rows and rows and rows of boxes on their metal shelves, seemingly never-ending.  This is their worst nightmare!

Here’s what’s funny, I think.

If you had glanced at my husband, Bob, during this scene, you’d see his grimace, a look somewhat akin to horror; you’d note how he was pushing himself back into his chair, away from the TV.  A reaction fully in line with the intent of the scene.

If you’d glanced at me, a family and local historian, you’d see my look of pure delight — eyes wide, mouth open; I am leaning forward in my chair; I am almost pointing at the TV — YES!  YES!  YES!    

All I could think of was all of the information in that room.  All of the details and stories written down on paper, in obscure forms and notes and, oh gosh, photos!  With full access to all of it!  All one had to do was look.  

Oh, and, also, the challenges and joys of trying to get all of this organized!  I was already considering the indexes, the abc order, all that lost information of people’s lives found again!  

Yes — put me in this room for a year, I’m thinking!   It can’t get better than this!

So what’s this all about?  Nothin’ really.  Just the view from the mind of a historian and erstwhile genealogist, who will never be able to comb through all of the files and records out there, but who is certainly going to try.    

The Influence of Popular Culture (Part 2 of 3)

This week I am reading a biography of the songwriter Paul Simon (Robert Hilburn, Paul Simon: The Life, Simon & Schuster, 2018), which has inspired creative thoughts regarding this business of fiction and nonfiction.  In my post yesterday, I suggested that either, or perhaps both, of the following contradictions are true:

Consider the song, “Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water,” with its sad and soothing, and ultimately hopeful, lyrics.  Paul Simon, who was known for being slow in writing and recording new music, describes this song as flowing through him, quickly and beautifully.  

He also states that the opening lines were memoir:  “I like the first lines of a song to be truthful, and those were . . . I was feeling weary because of the problems with Artie [Art Garfunkel, Simon & Garfunkel] and other things.  I was also feeling small.  But then the song goes away from memoir.  It comes from my imagination” (143).  

Simon further describes how his own awareness of himself helps him to be empathetic with others:  “I’ve always been able to feel what it’s like to be on the outside even though I’ve kind of been at the center of things in my own life” (143).  

When you’re weary, feeling small

When tears are in your eyes

I will dry them all

I’m on your side

When times got rough

And friends just can’t be found

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

When you’re down and out

When you’re on the street

When evening falls so hard

I will comfort you

I’ll take your part

When darkness comes

And pain is all around

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

All of this is lovely and perfectly understandable.  But then he describes the third verse, which came to him, also quickly, but much later in time, just as Simon & Garfunkel were in the studio ready to record the song.  This verse is one which has often perplexed listeners.  

In 1970, when I was 12 years old and this song was a hit, I loved Simon & Garfunkel.  I played their music on the piano, and sang (for no one, in my living room).  That third verse, though — didn’t know what it was about, but it was nice, and fun to sing.  

This week, while reading this book, and learning the autobiographical impetus to that third verse, I’ve reread this verse over and over, and spoken it out loud, and shivered, and felt immense gratitude to Paul Simon.  

Here’s what he tells us.  The morning before coming into the studio, Paul Simon’s soon-to-be wife found grey hairs in her head and was deeply upset.  This experience was on Paul’s mind when he wrote these lyrics:  

Sail on, silver girl

Sail on by

Your time has come to shine

All your dreams are on their way

See how they shine

If you need a friend

I’m sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind.  

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.   While I loved the song anyways without knowing this meaning, I love it so much more now.  It has a story!  

Admittedly, I wouldn’t have identified much with that story in 1970, at 12 years old.  However, today, I can’t even begin to describe the beauty.  To think that in 1970, a man would have written a song to an aging woman (or, at least, a woman who felt she was aging) to show her that the best part of her life is still to come — gosh, wow.  

Well, I think I can say that in 1970, this was not an oft-heard message.  And, today, yes, things are much better, but, still, this is a great message to hear.  I’m 62 years old, and I can tell you that Paul Simon was right — Our time has come to shine, and our dreams are on their way, and we only have to allow ourselves to see it.  And we might not be as alone as we think.  

We don’t always need (or have a right) to know the autobiographical underpinning of a creative piece.  But, in this case, knowing it has transformed the song for me.  

But, you might ask:  Lisa, is the song nonfiction?  Is it fiction?  Or is it neither?  Or both?  

And what about our TV Series Fargo (written about in yesterday’s blog post)?  Well, that’s easy, that’s fiction, baby, pure fiction.  Right?  The people are made up and exaggerated; the setting is in a real place but seems fantastical.  The plot is not only made up, but is also, in fact, ridiculous.  Still, it’s well-written and it’s unbelievably well-filmed and acted.  

And here’s what it’s telling us overall:  

This writer (Noah Hawley) wanted to say that; he had a reason to say that; that reason certainly springs from real life.   If we knew more about his life, we would probably understand what he saw or experienced that caused him to want to write a show which delivers this message.  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It’s a silly thing, really, this effort to try to make something this or that, fiction or nonfiction.  And who cares — if we like it, we like it.   

But for those of us writing about real people, it is something we think about all the time.

I’m writing a book about my ancestors in Rochester.  The history of these people, and the places they lived, and the times they lived in, is intensely researched.  The backbone of my book is based upon vast historical records.  Nonfiction.  

However, I’m drawing these people as characters.  I’m attempting to create the characters as close as I can to what I think they were like, based upon the historical information I find.  But there’s always an element of guesswork, especially when it comes to character.  How can I be sure that they were really like this?  Maybe I’ve got it wrong.

Furthermore, I’m creating scenes here and there.  In

Otto center, top row, with his family, circa 1905
(photo courtesy Gary and Jacque Fraser)

fact, I’m creating a break-up scene with Otto and Emma, who had a short-lived, tragic marriage, begun in 1887, and over by 1889.  I don’t, in fact, know where they broke up or how they broke up.  But I know where they lived, and I know what it looked like at that time, and I know the factors that probably led to the breakup (and what happened afterwards), and I know approximately when they must have seen each other for the last time.  And so I’m making up a scene, set in NYC, on a specific street and in a specific building.  It dramatizes them, helps us to feel them as people who once actually lived.  It seems the right thing to do.  

I hope I’ve got it right.  But I might be wrong.

Most of the book will be straight from history — history is so fascinating that you really don’t have to add to it or make it up.  Most of the book is true (hopefully).  But some of it is guesswork.

Am I writing fiction, or nonfiction?  

Have a listen to "Bridge Over Troubled Water," from the 1982 Concert in Central Park. And, btw, I WAS THERE!!!!

The Influence of Popular Culture (Part 1 of 3)

Roger realizes a cherished childhood memory
is actually a scene from an old movie

A couple of years into my full-time pursuit of research and writing about my ancestors and their lives here in Rochester in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, I began to have an idea of what I was about.  I knew that I wasn’t really a good genealogist, but that I was a very good family and local historian, with the goal of becoming a very very very good storyteller.  

To my mind, a genealogist looks for historical records to document the people in their family trees, as especially gleaned from vital records — when they were born, baptized, married, had children, died (and more, of course).

A Family Historian, who is essentially a Local Historian, aims to find the historical records which tell us about what those people did and what happened during their time period and in the places they lived.  

Historical records — facts — are merely fragments, bits of information (which are all too often incorrect, by the way).   As we find these facts, we can’t help but build stories in our minds.  We ask ourselves:   Why would she do that?  Why did they leave Germany?  What was he like — was he a nice man?  

And this movement from genealogy and history towards storytelling causes us to consider the tension between nonfiction (should be true) and fiction (we make it up).  Much more can be said about this, of course.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This week, my husband, Bob, and I are binge-watching the TV Series Fargo, which begins each episode telling us that this story is true, and that it happened in 2006, and that the names of the survivors have been changed, but that otherwise the story is told as it happened.   Of course, as you watch the TV show, you know that this is a lie, that it never, in fact, happened.  But — it’s a good story, anyways.  

Fargo (the TV series) is, in fact, about storytelling itself.  Consider Season 1, Episode 8, and a scene which I call, “How to Build a Story.”  

The new Chief and Molly (Deputy Solverson) are trying to solve several murders, including those of the former Police Chief and the wife of a local citizen named Lester Nygaard.  To do so, they build stories/theories about what happened.

The Chief grabs his theory quickly and wants to believe in it because it solves problems.  He does not enjoy the act of building a story.  He becomes frustrated when presented with evidence which potentially negates his theory, and so he holds onto his story even when it doesn’t make any sense.

His theories are always based upon archetypal stories, which he grabs and misapplies.  

It was a drifter, he says, maybe more than one, who broke into Lester’s house and killed the wife and the chief.  There is not only no evidence to support this, but there is evidence to counter this.  

The Chief likes the drifter story, but, eventually, he has to give in and admit that it was wrong.

What does he do then?  The Chief simply believes other archetypal stories.  He says that Lester’s brother killed Lester’s wife in a jealous rage because they were having an affair.  (The chief just happened to be there, and that’s why he got killed.)  And he continues —  Lester covered for his brother because he was afraid of his brother’s temper. 

Drifter.  Jealous lover.  Brother fearing brother.  Archetypal stories.  

Molly is aghast.  She tries to present evidence; all she wants is to be reassigned to the case.  But the Chief has already celebrated the arrest and so he shuts her down.   

So Molly turns to the other, in her mind related, unsolved case, and asks about it.  The Chief has also attached an archetypal story to this murder:  Sam Hess was killed by his stripper/prostitute’s jealous boyfriend.  It is simply another jealous lover theory, but the problem is that there is no evidence that the stripper/prostitute even had a boyfriend.

Molly is desperate to get back on the case.  Not only is she a good police officer and so wants to do a good job and find the real murderer, but the murdered Police Chief was her friend, and his pregnant wife is also her friend — this case personally matters to her.  She is invested.  

Molly builds her stories from evidence, from the record of facts, for which she doggedly searches.  To make sense of her facts, she draws the evidence on white boards (or windows), with boxes and arrows and notes and pictures.  And when she tries to explain the evidence, we can see how difficult it is to create a story from fragmentary facts, how to find the relationships, the cause-and-effects, the motivations — the plot that should naturally result from the evidence.

Over time, we see how Molly builds a  “working story,” but when presented with new facts which counter, she then has to look again at all the evidence, draw new arrows and boxes, make sense of it all.  Bit by bit, she will get to the truth (or at least to a better truth than the Chief’s).  

And one more interesting scene follows in which Molly is with her friend, the wife of the police chief who has been killed.  The wife has been depending upon Molly to “stay on” the case, to make sure that the killer has been found.  

 The chief is still celebrating his recent arrest of the alleged murderer, and the wife expresses her relief to Molly that it’s all done now.  Molly is frustrated and mutters, “But . . . the evidence . . .”  She wants to say more, but she sees in her friend’s eyes that her friend needs this story, feels better believing that her husband’s killer has been found and will be punished.  So Molly holds back.  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Let each of us consider this business of storytelling — (1) how we build our stories, and (2) what these stories mean to others.   

When we write our family stories, we want them to be true; we want to tell what really happened (a goal that perhaps can never really be reached, by the way.)  

But we also want them to be good stories — entertaining stories, stories with morals perhaps.  

The more I immerse myself in history (nonfiction) and stories (fiction), the more I think that nonfiction either doesn’t exist at all, or that perhaps the opposite is true — all fiction is nonfiction.   

  But that’s another story.