Cinemorphosis

Author: Jeffrey McMahon

  • Revisiting Alan Judd’s The Devil’s Own Work

    Revisiting Alan Judd’s The Devil’s Own Work

    As a recovering member of Write-a-holics Anonymous, I am contractually obligated—by my own neuroses—to scrutinize my bad habits and the deep-seated delusions that keep them alive. If you’re unfamiliar with my affliction, allow me to introduce myself: I am Manuscriptus Rex, an evolutionary dead-end of the literary world, a creature that compulsively transforms mundane existence into unsolicited book proposals. Where others see a casual conversation, I see Chapter One. Where others experience a fleeting moment of anxiety, I draft a preface. Writing isn’t just a passion; it’s my go-to coping mechanism, my panic button, my self-inflicted curse. While normal people unwind with a drink, I relax by plotting out a three-act structure. Some people journal. I accidentally draft trilogies.

    There’s ongoing debate over whether people like me willingly morph into Manuscriptus Rex—the scowling failed writer pacing his lawn and muttering about “kids these days”—or if the transformation is as unavoidable as hair loss and rising cholesterol. Maybe it’s some grim milestone on the aging checklist, or maybe it sneaks up, the natural side effect of realizing your cultural currency has expired while the youth livestream their way into the future. I’ll leave that existential puzzle for the philosophers to untangle.

    Desperate for rehabilitation, I revisited Alan Judd’s The Devil’s Own Work, a novella that reads like a cautionary tale for every starry-eyed writer who thinks talent alone will crack open the literary Olympus. The story follows Edward, a smug, silver-spooned upstart who barters his soul for literary greatness, only to discover that selling out isn’t nearly as effective as selling your soul. Judd’s cynicism is deliciously savage, peeling back the genteel façade of the literary world to expose it for what it truly is—a brutal, Darwinian circus where desperate souls claw their way up the ladder of editors, columnists, and curators, schmoozing with all the grace of a used car salesman at an estate auction.

    These hopefuls cling to the delusion that if they just network hard enough, flatter the right people, and craft the perfect blend of self-importance and faux humility, they’ll eventually ascend to greatness. But Judd knows better. The truth is, most of them will age out of relevance, their grand ambitions reduced to a handful of bitter op-eds, a smattering of unpaid guest lectures, and an attic full of unpublished manuscripts that smell faintly of despair. In the end, The Devil’s Own Work isn’t just a novella—it’s a scalpel, slicing through the bloated corpse of literary ambition to reveal the grotesque machinery inside.

    Edward is not your typical literary striver. While others claw and hustle their way up the greasy pole of literary success, he lounges at the base of it, certain that greatness will fall into his lap simply because he exists. He radiates a kind of effortless entitlement, convinced that the universe has preordained his ascent to literary immortality. Unlike the desperate social climbers around him, who at least put in the work, Edward is a narcissist of the purest strain—so enamored with his own exceptionalism that he sees ambition as beneath him.

    But Edward’s arrogance isn’t just about believing he’s destined for greatness—it’s about redefining what that greatness should look like. He is determined to strip his writing of any moral compass, crafting fiction that exists in a vacuum of pure, detached aestheticism. No lessons, no redemptions, no conscience. Just words untethered from anything resembling a soul.

    Meanwhile, the legendary O.M. Tyrrel, the region’s most revered novelist, is preparing to publish his final work before slipping into retirement. His magnum opus? A variation on the Faustian myth—a fitting coincidence, given the dark turn Edward’s life is about to take. In an act of staggering hubris, the insufferable upstart Edward pens a blistering review of Tyrrel’s novel, a hit job so scathing it should have burned any bridge between them. But instead of outrage, Tyrrel extends an invitation—dinner at his lavish villa in the south of France. There, over fine wine and literary banter, Tyrrel hands Edward a manuscript of ominous origin.

    What follows is a shortcut to literary fame that quickly warps into a descent into madness. Edward’s name skyrockets into the literary stratosphere, but his triumph is laced with terror. First, a persistent scratching sound haunts him whenever he writes—like something clawing its way out of the pages. Then, a malignant presence begins to stalk him, whispering the truth he’s been trying to drown in champagne and self-congratulation: he is a fraud. He has built his career on stolen words, and now those words have turned against him.

    By the time he realizes his fame is nothing but a gilded curse, it’s too late. Whatever twisted deal he unknowingly made, it has hollowed him out, leaving behind a man unrecognizable even to himself. His success is a mockery, his genius a sham, and his fate—a lifetime of torment, forever pursued by the spectral condemnation of the very thing he sought: greatness.

    As I sifted through the grim moral reckonings of The Devil’s Own Work, trying to extract some life lesson from Edward’s Faustian bargain, my inner writing demon—never one to miss an opportunity to heckle—chimed in.

    “Nice try, pal,” it sneered. “But this book won’t cure you. First off, you’re not Edward. He’s a smug layabout with a superiority complex. You, on the other hand, actually believe in morality tales. Second, Edward expects success to land in his lap like a butler delivering his morning tea. You, meanwhile, obsess over your subjects like a madman, descend into your characters’ fever dreams, and suffer through their torments just to wring out a halfway decent paragraph. Admit it—you’re a real novelist.”

    What a load of self-aggrandizing nonsense. Even if all that were true, there are plenty of people who observe the human condition with a keener eye than mine, and they don’t write novels. They work construction. They write poetry, fables, children’s books. They tell stories in bars, on factory floors, in courtrooms. Insight alone doesn’t make one a novelist.

    But damn that writing demon—it had a point. I wasn’t Edward. The novella didn’t apply to me. And if The Devil’s Own Work didn’t condemn me to a fate of fraudulent literary fame, then maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t doomed to failure either.

    Clearly, the writing demon still lives inside of me. My rehabilitation must continue. 

  • Failure is the default setting of the writer

    Failure is the default setting of the writer

    After churning out one literary failure after another across five decades, I’m forced to ask myself: Is my perseverance a virtue, the kind of tenacity that gets celebrated in self-help books and motivational speeches? Or is it a pathological compulsion, a lifelong affliction keeping me from my real calling—whatever that may be? And if the notion of a “true calling” is just a fairy tale we tell ourselves to make existence more bearable, then perhaps I should at least free up some time to do the dishes.

    To grapple with these existential questions, I turned to Stephen Marche’s slim but merciless On Writing and Failure: Or, On the Peculiar Perseverance Required to Endure the Life of a Writer. His thesis? Failure isn’t an anomaly in the writing life—it’s the default setting. The occasional success, when it happens, is a fluke, an accident, a glitch in the system. Failure, on the other hand, is the well-worn coat writers wrap themselves in, the skin they inhabit. And mind you, he’s not even talking about unpublished failures like myself—he’s extending this bleak diagnosis to the published ones, the so-called “real writers.”

    Marche backs up his grim pronouncement with numbers: Three hundred thousand books are published every year in the United States, and only a microscopic fraction make a dent in public consciousness. It doesn’t matter how famous you are—your book is still more likely to sink into obscurity than to make any meaningful impact. If you’re not sufficiently depressed yet, Marche then drags in examples from literary history: beloved writers who, despite their modern-day veneration, spent their lives begging for money, wallowing in debtors’ prisons, or drinking themselves into oblivion.

    Marche’s goal with this book—barely longer than a grocery receipt—is to strip writing of its romantic pretensions. Forget divine inspiration, artistic calling, or the fantasy of making it; writing is just stubbornness on repeat. But here’s where he really twists the knife: That whole narrative about failure eventually leading to success? Utter nonsense. “The internet loves this arc,” he writes, “low then high; first perseverance, then making it all; all struggle redeemed; the more struggle the more redemption. It’s pure bullshit.” The truth? Most writers fail, period. And even the rare successes are plagued by existential misery—forever misunderstood, chronically isolated, and shackled to a relentless hunger for recognition that can never truly be satisfied.

    Worse still, even the successful ones live in constant anxiety over whether they’ll ever be successful again. Literary triumphs don’t lead to security; they lead to paranoia. Marche describes the “psychology of failure” as an inescapable affliction that forces writers to cling to the smallest scraps of validation, inflating minor achievements to salve their chronic inadequacy. His case study? A professor who once had a letter published in The Times Literary Supplement and framed it on his wall like a Nobel Prize, using it as a talisman against irrelevance.

    Reading On Writing and Failure is like stepping into a room full of my own ghosts—writers far more accomplished than I am, yet still plagued by the same desperate need for affirmation, the same self-inflicted torment, the same inability to simply be content. It’s almost comforting, in a bleak sort of way. All those books about “maximizing happiness,” “daily habits of highly effective people,” and “radical gratitude” are useless against the unyielding hunger of the literary ego. If failure is the writer’s natural habitat, then perhaps the real victory isn’t in succeeding but in learning to fail with style.

    What struck me most about Marche’s book is just how desperate writers are for validation—so desperate, in fact, that we cling to the tiniest scraps of approval like a Jedi clutching a lightsaber in a dark alley. As proof that I was destined for literary greatness, I have spent the last three decades obsessively revisiting a single one-hour phone conversation I had in 1992 with the retired literary agent Reid Boates. At the time, I was hawking The Man Who Stopped Dating, a novel the publishing industry (correctly) determined should never see the light of day. But Boates, to my eternal delight, told me my synopsis knocked his socks off. That one phrase sent me soaring. If a mere synopsis could strip a seasoned agent of his footwear, surely I was on the brink of glory.

    Perhaps the memento I cherish even more is a letter I received from Samuel Wilson Fussell, author of Muscle: Confessions of an Unlikely Bodybuilder. After devouring his memoir, I wrote him a fan letter detailing my own bodybuilding misadventures and name-dropping a few of the lunatics I recognized from his book. Fussell responded enthusiastically, telling me that he and his friends had read my letter out loud and collapsed to the floor, clutching their bellies in laughter. Over the years, I’ve sometimes wondered: Were they laughing with me… or at me? But in the moment, it didn’t matter. In my mind, Fussell’s response confirmed what I already knew—I was a man of literary consequence, a peer among published authors and esteemed literary agents, a rising star on the precipice of greatness.

    And here’s the kicker: I can still remember the pure, uncut euphoria I felt after talking to Reid Boates and receiving Fussell’s letter, and I am convinced—convinced—that the high would have been no greater had I seen my best-selling novel displayed in the window of a Manhattan bookstore.

    Marche is right. My neediness was so profound that I mistook these small flashes of recognition as irrefutable proof of my imminent rise to literary celebrity. But unlike Marche, I find no solace in knowing that I am not alone in this affliction. I can only speak for myself: I am a writing addict. My compulsion produces nothing of value, it embarrasses me, and I am in desperate need of rehabilitation. And so, in a cruel twist of irony, I write about my recovery from writing—even though my so-called recovery demands that I stop writing altogether. My misery, therefore, is guaranteed.

  • Authenticity or Evolution? The Cultural Legacy of Mexican and Chinese Food in America

    Authenticity or Evolution? The Cultural Legacy of Mexican and Chinese Food in America

    This is the third essay prompt for my critical thinking class:

    Authenticity or Evolution? The Cultural Legacy of Mexican and Chinese Food in America

    For many, food is more than sustenance—it is tradition, identity, and history. But what happens when traditional dishes evolve to fit new cultural landscapes? Should Americanized versions of Mexican and Chinese cuisine—from General Tso’s chicken to Tex-Mex burritos—be embraced as a vibrant contribution to culinary history, or dismissed as inauthentic imitations?

    This 1,700-word argumentative essay (MLA format required) invites you to examine how cultural adaptation and survival shape food traditions. Using Gustavo Arellano’s essay “Let White People Appropriate Mexican Food” and Ian Cheney’s documentary The Search for General Tso as key references, along with additional essays on the subject, you will defend, refute, or complicate the claim that labeling these cuisines as “inauthentic” ignores the deeper realities of immigration, adaptation, and resilience.

    Key Questions to Explore:

    • How do American Chinese and modern Mexican cuisines reflect adaptation and survival rather than cultural betrayal?
    • In what ways have these culinary shifts helped immigrant communities overcome economic and social adversity?
    • Does the concept of “authenticity” erase the ingenuity and history behind these evolving dishes?
    • How does food innovation expand cultural influence, making ethnic cuisines more accessible and desirable to broader audiences?

    Required Sources:

    Use a minimum of four sources from the following list, cited in MLA format:

    • Gustavo Arellano – “Let White People Appropriate Mexican Food”
    • Ian Cheney’s documentary – The Search for General Tso
    • Charles W. Hayford – “Who’s Afraid of Chop Suey”
    • Cathy Erway – “More Than ‘Just Takeout’”
    • Kelley Kwok – “‘Not Real Chinese’: Why American Chinese Food Deserves Our Respect”
    • Jiayang Fan – “Searching for America with General Tso”

    Suggested Essay Structure:

    I. Introduction (200-300 words)

    • Introduce the debate over culinary authenticity and how it applies to Mexican and Chinese food in America.
    • Present your thesis—whether you believe these evolving cuisines should be celebrated, criticized, or viewed with a nuanced perspective.
    • Briefly mention the key sources you will use to support your argument.

    II. The Case for Culinary Evolution (400-500 words)

    • Use Arellano’s claim that Mexican cuisine thrives on adaptability to explore how tacos, burritos, and other dishes have been reshaped by cultural influences.
    • Reference The Search for General Tso to highlight how Chinese immigrants adapted their cuisine to American tastes while maintaining entrepreneurial success.
    • Use Erway’s essay to examine how evolving cuisines serve as a source of creativity and pride for immigrant communities.

    III. Overcoming Racism and Economic Hardship (400-500 words)

    • Draw on Jiayang Fan’s argument that Chinese food’s popularity in America is inseparable from immigrant struggles, where adaptation was a tool for survival.
    • Explore how Tex-Mex and Chop Suey—despite being dismissed as “inauthentic”—helped immigrant communities establish visibility and economic stability.

    IV. Challenging the Authenticity Argument (400-500 words)

    • Use Kelley Kwok’s essay to challenge the myth that American Chinese food is “not real Chinese food” and explore what “authentic” really means.
    • Argue that cuisine is never static—traditions themselves were once innovations, influenced by migration and cultural blending.
    • Acknowledge the importance of preserving traditional dishes but emphasize how adaptation allows for survival and cultural expansion.

    V. Counterargument and Rebuttal (300-400 words)

    • Address critics who argue that Americanized versions of ethnic cuisine dilute culture or exploit culinary traditions for profit.
    • Rebut by emphasizing that adaptation does not erase tradition but extends its cultural reach, making food a dynamic part of identity.

    VI. Conclusion (200-300 words)

    • Reaffirm your thesis, reflecting on how evolving cuisines shape multicultural identity and bridge cultural divides.
    • Highlight how food tells a larger story of resilience, creativity, and the blending of cultures in an interconnected world.

    Final Thoughts:

    This essay challenges you to rethink the definition of authenticity in cuisine. By exploring how food evolves through necessity, survival, and creativity, you will craft an argument that goes beyond simplistic debates and acknowledges both the importance of tradition and the power of adaptation.

  • Ozempification: The Illusion of Instant Transformation in Literature and Life

    Ozempification: The Illusion of Instant Transformation in Literature and Life

    Here is my second essay prompt for my critical thinking class:

    Ozempification: The Illusion of Instant Transformation in Literature and Life

    In an age obsessed with quick fixes and instant gratification, the term “Ozempification” captures the growing trend of using external interventions—like weight-loss drugs, social media, or material possessions—to achieve rapid personal transformation. But what happens when these transformations fail to deliver lasting fulfillment? This question is at the heart of both Nikolai Gogol’s “The Overcoat” and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Winter Dreams.” Just as modern individuals turn to Ozempic to reshape their bodies overnight, Akaky and Dexter chase external symbols of success—the overcoat and Judy Jones—believing these will complete them. Instead, they are confronted with the fleeting, fragile nature of their illusions.

    For this 1,700-word essay (MLA format required), analyze how Akaky’s overcoat and Dexter’s infatuation with Judy Jones reflect the desire for instant validation, social mobility, and self-worth—and how these pursuits ultimately lead to disillusionment. Drawing comparisons to the modern phenomenon of Ozempic and similar quick-fix solutions, explore the deeper implications of transformation, identity, and ambition.

    Key Focus Areas:

    1. Rapid Change and Dependence – How do Akaky’s overcoat and Dexter’s obsession with Judy parallel society’s reliance on instant solutions, such as Ozempic, to achieve dramatic personal change?
    2. Validation and Social Mobility – How do both characters seek approval and status through external transformations, believing that a single change will secure their place in the world?
    3. Hunger for Identity and Wholeness – What does their fixation on an object (a coat) or a person (Judy) reveal about deeper insecurities and alienation?
    4. Consequences of Transformation – How does the theft of Akaky’s overcoat or Dexter’s loss of Judy expose the fragility of basing identity on external factors?
    5. The Illusion of Fulfillment – What do these stories suggest about the dangers of believing that external markers—whether material wealth, beauty, or status—can provide lasting happiness?

    Assignment Requirements:

    • Length: 1,700 words
    • Format: MLA (Modern Language Association)
    • Sources: Minimum of 3, including:
      • “The Overcoat” by Nikolai Gogol
      • “Winter Dreams” by F. Scott Fitzgerald
      • Class lectures or Canvas materials (optional)

    Conclusion:

    Consider what these literary cautionary tales reveal about modern anxieties surrounding self-improvement, ambition, and personal reinvention. Is Ozempification a path to self-betterment, or does it reflect a deeper cultural tendency to seek shortcuts to fulfillment? By comparing Akaky and Dexter’s downfalls to contemporary struggles with instant transformation, your essay should explore whether true change comes from within—or if the chase for external validation is doomed to fail.

  • The Weight of the System: Rethinking Willpower, Obesity, and the Economics of Weight Loss

    The Weight of the System: Rethinking Willpower, Obesity, and the Economics of Weight Loss

    Here is the first essay prompt for my critical thinking class:

    The Weight of the System: Rethinking Willpower, Obesity, and the Economics of Weight Loss

    For decades, society has preached the same mantra: weight loss is a matter of willpower, personal responsibility, and discipline. But what if that narrative is flawed, oversimplified, or even deliberately misleading? In reality, obesity is not just about individual choices—it is shaped by biology, economics, corporate interests, and healthcare disparities. The diet industry thrives on promising easy fixes, while the pharmaceutical industry profits from expensive weight-loss drugs like Ozempic. Meanwhile, processed foods—engineered for addiction—ensure that millions remain locked in an endless cycle of weight gain and dieting.

    For this 1,700-word argumentative essay (MLA format required), analyze the misconceptions surrounding weight loss and explore the deeper forces at play. Use the following sources to challenge the idea that weight management is simply about eating less and exercising more:

    • Rebecca Johns – “A Diet Writer’s Regrets”
    • Johann Hari – “A Year on Ozempic Taught Me We’re Thinking About Obesity All Wrong”
    • Harriet Brown – “The Weight of the Evidence”
    • Sandra Aamodt – “Why You Can’t Lose Weight on a Diet”

    Key Questions to Consider:

    • Is personal responsibility a fair framework for understanding obesity, or does it obscure the role of systemic barriers?
    • How do economic privilege and the availability of weight-loss drugs like Ozempic create a divide between those who can afford to manage their weight and those who cannot?
    • What role does the food industry play in promoting processed, addictive foods while pharmaceutical companies profit from treating the consequences?
    • Does the concept of “self-discipline” in dieting ignore scientific realities about metabolism, set points, and the long-term difficulty of maintaining weight loss?

    Focus Areas for Analysis:

    1. Personal Responsibility vs. Systemic Barriers – Johns and Hari challenge the traditional belief that dieting is a matter of willpower, exposing the emotional and physical toll of long-term weight struggles.
    2. Economic Disparity in Weight Loss Solutions – Hari’s critique of Ozempic highlights the ethical concerns surrounding healthcare access and the commercialization of weight loss.
    3. The Science of Set Points and Metabolism – Aamodt and Brown explain how biology resists sustained weight loss, complicating the simplistic “calories in, calories out” narrative.
    4. Capitalism and the Food Industry – Examine how the Industrial Food Complex profits from processed foods while the pharmaceutical industry monetizes weight-related health conditions.

    Conclusion:

    Is the weight-loss narrative fed to the public based on reality, or is it a distraction from larger economic and corporate interests? Consider how acknowledging these systemic influences could reshape our understanding of obesity and lead to more effective and compassionate solutions.

  • The Cost of Constant Approval: Lacie Pound’s Breakdown in a Social Media-Obsessed World

    The Cost of Constant Approval: Lacie Pound’s Breakdown in a Social Media-Obsessed World

    This is the third prompt in my freshman composition class:

    The Cost of Constant Approval: Lacie Pound’s Breakdown in a Social Media-Obsessed World

    In the Black Mirror episode “Nosedive,” Lacie Pound lives in a world where every social interaction is rated, and one’s digital reputation dictates real-world success. As she obsessively chases approval, her life unravels spectacularly. But what truly caused Lacie’s downfall? Was it the suffocating influence of social media, or did her collapse expose deeper psychological fragilities that existed long before the ratings system amplified them?

    For this 1,700-word essay (MLA format required), analyze Lacie’s psychological and emotional breakdown, evaluating whether social media directly caused her downfall or merely revealed an inevitable unraveling. Use insights from:

    • The Social Dilemma (Netflix documentary)
    • Jonathan Haidt’s essay “Why the Past 10 Years of American Life Have Been Uniquely Stupid”
    • Sherry Turkle’s TED Talk “Connected But Not Alone”
    • The Black Mirror episode “Nosedive” (as a primary reference)

    Key Focus Areas for Analysis:

    1. The Role of Social Media in Shaping Identity – How does Lacie’s obsession with external validation mirror real-world patterns of social media influence, as explored in The Social Dilemma?
    2. Mental Health and the Validation Culture – Use Haidt’s analysis to examine how constant ranking, comparison, and digital pressure contribute to anxiety and emotional distress.
    3. Authenticity vs. Performance – Discuss Turkle’s argument that technology fosters curated personas rather than genuine connection. How does this performative pressure accelerate Lacie’s mental decline?
    4. The Inevitability of Lacie’s Breakdown – Was her collapse truly caused by the rating system, or did social media merely amplify existing insecurities and psychological struggles?

    Essay Requirements:

    • Length: 1,700 words
    • Format: MLA (Modern Language Association)
    • Sources: Minimum of 4, cited in MLA format
    • Required Texts:
      • The Social Dilemma (Netflix documentary)
      • Jonathan Haidt’s “Why the Past 10 Years of American Life Have Been Uniquely Stupid”
      • Sherry Turkle’s TED Talk “Connected But Not Alone”
      • Black Mirror: “Nosedive” (episode reference)

    Conclusion:

    What does Lacie’s downfall reveal about our relationship with digital validation? Is her story a cautionary tale about social media’s psychological grip, or does it expose a deeper human vulnerability that would exist with or without technology? Through this analysis, explore whether Nosedive serves as a critique of social media itself—or if it’s ultimately a reflection of something far more personal and timeless: the human craving for approval.

  • Teaching History Without Erasure: Frederick Douglass, Germany’s Reckoning, and the Power of Truth

    Teaching History Without Erasure: Frederick Douglass, Germany’s Reckoning, and the Power of Truth

    This is my second essay prompt in my freshman composition class:

    Teaching History Without Erasure: Frederick Douglass, Germany’s Reckoning, and the Power of Truth

    In recent years, fierce debates have erupted over how slavery, Jim Crow laws, and racial injustice should be taught in American classrooms. Some critics argue that these lessons have become excessively politicized, accusing educators of pushing a divisive narrative that portrays America as fundamentally irredeemable. They claim that such an approach fosters victimhood, undermines critical thinking, and turns education into a vehicle for ideological indoctrination.

    Others push back, arguing that this resistance is itself a form of historical distortion—an attempt to silence African-American voices and obscure painful but essential truths. They assert that teaching racial injustice is not about politics but about moral, psychological, and historical reckoning. Frederick Douglass’ writings offer a powerful counterpoint, illustrating how truth-telling about oppression is not an act of condemnation but one of empowerment. Much like Jordan Peele’s The Sunken Place concept, Douglass’ life reveals how acknowledging injustice can lead to personal agency, resistance, and the pursuit of justice. Similarly, Germany’s post-Holocaust reckoning provides a framework for confronting historical atrocities without fostering helplessness or national self-loathing.

    For this 1,700-word argumentative essay (MLA format required), analyze how Frederick Douglass’ personal fight against slavery and Germany’s effort to memorialize the Holocaust offer crucial lessons on addressing historical injustice. Drawing on Douglass’ Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave and Clint Smith’s essay “Monuments to the Unthinkable,” explore how bearing witness to historical truths can foster accountability, self-agency, and resilience. Consider how both examples highlight the importance of acknowledging past wrongs while also promoting national and individual growth.

    Essay Requirements:

    • Length: 1,700 words
    • Format: MLA (Modern Language Association)
    • Sources: Minimum of 4, cited in MLA format
    • Required Texts:
      • Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave (available online as a PDF)
      • Clint Smith’s “Monuments to the Unthinkable”
      • PBS NewsHour YouTube video “Why Americans Are So Divided Over Teaching Critical Race Theory”
      • David Pilgrim’s YouTube video “The Jim Crow Museum”
      • Childish Gambino’s “This Is America” (Optional for thematic analysis)

    Key Focus Areas for Analysis:

    • How Douglass’ narrative challenges oppression and promotes self-agency
    • How Germany’s post-Holocaust reforms serve as a model for confronting historical injustice
    • The moral responsibility of societies to acknowledge past atrocities and ensure they are not repeated
    • How historical awareness empowers future generations to break cycles of injustice
    • Strategies for teaching history in a way that fosters accountability, growth, and resilience—without promoting victimhood or division

    This essay invites you to step beyond the surface of modern political debates and examine how history, when taught truthfully, can serve as a tool for both personal and societal transformation. How should we reckon with our past, and what can we learn from those who have done it well?

  • Essay Prompt: Should You Follow Your Bliss?

    Essay Prompt: Should You Follow Your Bliss?

    The following is my freshman composition class’ first essay:

    Prompt Title: Passion or Pragmatism? Debunking the Myth of “Do What You Love”

    We’ve all heard the advice: Follow your passion, and success will follow. It’s the rallying cry of commencement speeches, self-help gurus, and LinkedIn influencers. But what if this well-intentioned mantra is actually terrible career advice? Computer science professor and bestselling author Cal Newport argues that blindly chasing passion can lead to frustration, stagnation, and even failure. Instead, he champions an approach based on deliberate skill-building, deep work, and career craftsmanship.

    For this 1,700-word argumentative essay (MLA format required), your task is to evaluate Newport’s critique of passion-driven career advice by drawing from the following sources:

    • Newport’s YouTube video: “Core Idea: Don’t Follow Your Passion”
    • His article: “The Passion Trap”
    • His manifesto: “The Career Craftsman Manifesto”
    • Ali Abdaal’s counterpoint video: “Follow Your Passion Is Bad Advice. Here’s Why.”

    Do you side with Newport’s pragmatic, skill-first approach, or do you believe passion still plays a crucial role in career success? Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between—requiring a more nuanced perspective that accounts for economic realities, job market trends, and personal fulfillment.

    Your essay should defend, refute, or complicate Newport’s claim by incorporating evidence from the provided sources, applying logical reasoning, and considering real-world implications. This is your opportunity to challenge conventional wisdom, sharpen your analytical skills, and weigh in on one of the most persistent debates in career development.

    So, should we follow our hearts, or should we master our craft and let passion emerge along the way? Make your case.

  • First Love in Leningrad, Circa 1984

    First Love in Leningrad, Circa 1984

    The following evening found me slouched in a Leningrad discotheque, still nursing the kind of sore backside only a Soviet bus seat could deliver. I was stationed at a high-top table, reading A Clockwork Orange, trying to project an air of literary detachment while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with the throng of dancers twisting under the flickering neon lights.

    Then she appeared.

    Short, elfin, bespectacled—like an intellectual sprite who had wandered in from some parallel universe where bookish charm trumped disco fever. Her sandy-blonde hair framed a delicate face, and her gaze, sharp and assessing, landed squarely on me. “A very famous book,” she observed, nodding toward my well-worn copy.

    She introduced herself as Tula, a Finn on vacation, and without hesitation, slid into the seat across from me. We launched into a conversation that flowed as naturally as vodka at a Russian wedding—literature, music, the intoxicating allure of Russian novelists who knew how to suffer properly. I rattled off every book I had read, every philosophical revelation I had gleaned, and, with the reckless bravado of a twenty-something, confessed my grand ambition to write a novel.

    “You will be famous,” she declared with absolute certainty, as if she had peered through the murky fog of the future and spotted my name emblazoned on book covers. “I can feel it. You must visit me at Lake Saimaa. We will celebrate. Who knows. Perhaps I too will be a published novelist again. We can live together and be each other’s muse.”

    Flattered, I let my guard down. For two hours, we spoke like old friends who had simply taken too long to meet. Our mutual love for Russian literature, the music of Rachmaninoff, and the strange magnetic pull of doomed genius bound us together in a bubble of conversation. Then, as if she had been waiting for just the right moment, she reached into her purse, retrieved a small scrap of paper, and wrote down a title.

    “This,” she said, sliding it toward me, “is the book you must read.”

    I picked it up and saw the name—The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov.

    She looked at me with the intensity of a woman who had just handed over a sacred text. 

    As we conversed under the glittering gold disco ball, the Bee Gees’ “Too Much Heaven” blared across the club. It became apparent through our self-revelations that neither of us had any romantic experience.  Tula At one point, she said, “I will never marry. I have, what do you say in English? Melancholy. Yes, I have melancholy. You know this word?”

    “Yes, I am no stranger to melancholy.”

    “I am so much like that,” she said.

    “That explains your love of Rachmaninoff.”

    She clasped her hands and almost became teary-eyed. “How I love Rachmaninoff. Just utter his name, and I will break down weeping.”

    I thought I was a depressive, but in the presence of Tula, I had the perkiness of Richard Simmons leading an aerobics class. 

    She asked me what I was doing in Russia. I explained that my grandfather was a card-carrying communist, a friend of Fidel Castro, and a supporter of the Soviet Union. He used a shortwave radio in his San Pedro house to communicate with Soviet sailors in nearby ships and submarines. He visited Cuba as often as he could to bring medical supplies that were in need there. One of his friends, a Hollywood writer, lived in exile in Nicaragua after being arrested in France by Interpol for driving a Peugeot station wagon filled with illegal weapons. My grandfather wanted me to fall in love with the Soviet Union and become a champion of its utopian vision, so he paid for me to go on a peace tour. Had I fallen in love with Russia as my grandfather had hoped? Not really. So far, I had been approached at the Moscow Zoo by a striking woman dressed in black and pearls who my tour guide Natasha warned me was a KGB agent trying to have me arrested for soliciting a prostitute. I was washing my hands at the newly built Olympic Hotel in Moscow when the bathroom sink fell out of the wall and against my torso, causing a bloody cut on my abdomen. I got a fever in Novgorod prompting a beautiful female doctor with a severe face to come into my hotel and give me a shot in the butt.  I was, as my fellow traveler Jerry Gold warned me, approached by young men on the subway who wanted to know if I had any American blue jeans to sell as a way of having me arrested for illicit black-market trading.  Everywhere I went in Russia–hotels, trains, restaurants–there were speakers playing grim chamber music as if the authorities were saying, “Try not to be too happy during your stay here.”

    Tula listened to me talk for a couple of hours with a wide gaze while touching my shoulder. “I need to see you again,” she said.

    We agreed to meet the next day at the Peterhof Royal Palace by the Samson Fountain. There is this giant garden the size of several football fields with monuments, gold statues, and fountains shooting streams of water straight into the blue sky. We sat on concrete steps around the fountains. It was close to ninety degrees as statues of gold naked bodies stood in various poses next to jets of erupting water in a spectacle called The Grand Cascade. Tula wore a short white dress and we sat on the steps. In the heat, we decided I would get us some ice cream.

    While I was walking toward the ice cream bar, a gypsy tried to hand off a baby to me the way a quarterback would hand off a football to a running back. It all happened so quickly. Before the baby was cradled in my chest, a fast-acting Russian police officer grabbed the baby, returned the baby to the gypsy, and shouted at her. I thought she would be arrested, but the officer appeared content with scolding her. She withered at his remarks and slumped away with the child in her arms.  

    I returned with the ice cream and told Tula about the incident with the gypsy. She said things like that happen all the time here.

    “But what was I supposed to do with the baby?”

    “Perhaps adopt it? Buy it? Save it from a life of misery? There is so much tragedy here.”

    “So I was supposed to fly back to the States with a baby? Go through customs and everything else?”

    “I know. It’s crazy.”

    “I don’t think I could be a parent. I don’t have the hardwiring for it.”

    “Me either. I’m too sad to be a parent. Sadness is a full-time job that leaves me with little energy for much else.”

    She finished her ice cream and smiled at me, then said, “You and I are like two kindred spirits meeting each other in this strange world.”

    “It’s hotter than hell out here.”

    “So will you marry someday?”

    I shrugged, then said, “I doubt anyone will take me.”

    “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If I were the marrying type, I would come to America and spend my life with you. We could live in California and be sad together. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

    It actually sounded rather appealing. Tula and I living a life of sadness, writing novels together, marinating in Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony while discussing the existential torment of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. What other kind of life was there?

    She stood up and said she had to catch her plane back to Finland and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

    “I really hope you find happiness. You are such an outstanding person.”

    “Outstanding?”

    That adjective used to describe me was a bit hard to take. It was like a real estate agent trying to describe a decrepit property by the train tracks as palatial. I repeated the word outstanding with perhaps a trace of sarcasm and said goodbye to her. I never saw her again, but I still remember the vanilla ice cream–the best I’ve ever tasted. 

    Nine months later while back in my routine of working out, playing piano, and doing my college studies in the Bay Area, I received a letter from Tula. I was living with my mother and standing by our front yard’s loquat tree while holding the envelope and staring with fascination at the Finnish return address. Nearby some Mexican parrots were making a ruckus in a neighbor’s dogwood tree. It was a warm May. I walked under the porch light by the front door entrance and read Tula’s letter.

    Dear Jeff,

    So much has happened since I met you. I took your recommendation and read A Confederacy of Dunces. I laughed my ass off, but the book was so sad. I keep the book on my shelf and always think of you when I see it. Now for some big news. Brace yourself. You won’t believe this. I’m getting married! I have you to thank for this. I never thought I was the marrying type, but those two days I spent with you in Russia changed me. When I got back to Finland, I was restless, I thought about you constantly, and even at one time I had this mad idea that I should arrange to visit you, but a high school friend Oliver came into my life, and we began seeing each other, not as friends but as lovers. I have you to thank for this. Meeting you awakened a part of my soul that I had never known before. I hope that you don’t forsake love, as I had planned to do, that you too will find someone special in your life. You deserve it. You are an amazing man!

    Love Always,

    Tula

    I stood at the entryway and listened to the shrill cackles of the nearby parrots. 

    So I was the guy who had helped a sweet-souled depressive fall in love. No, I wasn’t the recipient of that love. But I was the lighter fluid to get the grill going. I was the spark, the catalyst, and the kindling to get Tula on the road to Loveville. I had made a difference.

    I went inside the house, walked into the living room, and played something sad at my ebony Yamaha upright.  I tried to imagine Tula as my sole audience, but she was replaced by the Russian Commander and I could see him mocking me. 

    “You are a charlatan,” I could imagine him saying. “You are an American charlatan in Russia. You must always be put in your place. You must drink warm beer till you puke your guts out. Only then can you find redemption for your vain self.”

    Over the years, I attempted to channel the absurdities of the totalitarian police state into my fiction, convinced I could capture its paranoia and bureaucratic lunacy in novel form. Herculodge depicted a dystopia where physical fitness was the highest moral virtue—where to be svelte was to be righteous, and to carry an extra pound was to invite public shaming and possible exile. Gym-Nauseam imagined a society where citizens willingly surrendered their freedom, not to a dictator, but to the tyranny of endless, punishing workouts, their lives consumed by squats, protein intake calculations, and the pursuit of an ever-elusive “goal weight.”

    As short stories, they worked—a sharp jab of satire, a bitter laugh at the madness of it all. But as novels? They were so catastrophically bad, they deserved their own show trial. Any competent literary tribunal would have sentenced me to hard labor in a Siberian gulag, where I could atone for my crimes against narrative structure by stacking bricks in the permafrost and reconsidering my life choices.

  • The Day My Piano Playing Annoyed a Russian Commander

    The Day My Piano Playing Annoyed a Russian Commander

    After breakfast inside the newly-constructed Moscow Olympic Hotel, I spotted a grand piano in the lobby, and I began to play a sad piece that I had composed myself. My fellow tourists surrounded me and when I was done with my short piece, they asked me to play another song. Being a ham with an insatiable appetite for attention, I was happy to oblige.

    I could tell by my audience’s response that they were impressed, but to be honest, I am technically a subpar pianist, and worse I compensate for my lack of technical prowess by playing my compositions in a style that tends to be mawkish, self-indulgent, and lugubrious. 

    As my fellow tourists and other hotel guests surrounded me, there were at a distant table several Soviet military men sitting down to breakfast and room-temperature beer. They were watching me with curiosity. Most notably, the Commander, a tall husky man in his forties with thick eyebrows, dark hair, and a broad chin, was staring at me. I turned from him and continued to play my drawn-out piano ballade.

    In the middle of the piece, I saw out of the corner of my eye the same woman from the Moscow zoo, and like the day before she was dressed in the same elegant black outfit. She was standing over the piano’s soundboard and smiling at me. I was thinking of cutting my piece short so I could converse with her, but before I could do so, the slack-jawed Commander, his uniform festooned with medals and epaulets, approached the woman and gave her a lurid stare. His presence seemed to spook her. She abruptly exited the hotel, and the Commander was now staring at me with an amused smile. To make sure I knew that he was mocking me for my ham performance, he puckered his lips and placed his hand next to his chest, and waved his hand up and down while wiggling his fingers in an exaggerated fashion. His military subordinates at the nearby table were laughing. 

    When I was finished playing my composition, he invited me to sit with him and his fellow soldiers at the distant table. Listening to his heavy black military boots squeak as he walked, I followed him to the table and scanned the faces of jeering soldiers. The commander outstretched his arm toward an empty chair, his way of ordering me to sit. He then poured me a tall glass of warm beer. I was trying to construct a polite way of telling him that I didn’t care for any type of beer, especially warm beer, but before I could get out the words, the Commander shouted, “Drink!”

    Noticing my reluctance to take the warm beer, he repeated this command two more times. I could see now that I was being punished for being a piano dandy. I am convinced that the Commander knew that my piano playing was both vulgar and inferior. I say this because I know enough about musicianship to know that I am more of a piano poseur than a true musician. I also know that in Russia many children are forced to take rigorous piano and violin lessons with strict supervision so that the average Russian eight-year-old has better technical acquisition than I do. So I am convinced the officer and his fellow soldiers knew that I was a musical fraud. Also because I was deeply immersed in the novels and essays of Russian emigre Vladimir Nabokov, I knew that in Russia there was the concept of poshlost, the affectations and vulgarities of a charlatan who aspires to be grand but merely flops and reveals himself to be crass and pretentious. In other words, I was an American charlatan in Russia, and I would have to pay the penalty. The price I would pay would be to be forced to drink a pint of Russian warm beer at the behest of the Soviet military. The Commander surely knew that as an American I was accustomed to ice-cold beverages and that warm beer in the morning would not be to my liking. 

    I forced the entire glass of bitter hoppy beer down my throat. My grimacing sour face and my being overcome by nausea elated the soldiers who engaged in thigh-slapping laughter. Witnessing the American Charlatan reduced to size was cause for triumph and celebration. 

    After I was done with my beer, I thanked them for the refreshment and returned to my hotel room. I undressed, showered, then prepared to brush my teeth. When I twisted the cold-water knob, the entire sink came out of the wall and the sink’s sharp edge cut me in the chest so that I had a three-inch-long vertical cut down my torso. I was bleeding. A sink from a newly-constructed hotel in Moscow had just fallen out of the wall and cut me. 

    The cut wasn’t that deep, but I was angry that I had missed two opportunities with the mysterious Russian woman and that the Russian Commander and his soldiers had mocked me, so I spent the rest of the day lifting my shirt and showing my fellow travelers the “ugly cut” I had received as a way of venting my resentment at my perceived adversaries.

    That wasn’t the last I saw of the Commander and his coterie of soldiers. They were in a nearby cabin on the train to Novgorod. When the Commander was putting his duffel bag above his cabin bunk bed, he saw me, gave me a familiar nod, and laughed as if still feeding off my humiliation from drinking warm beer at the Moscow Olympic Hotel. Part of me was grateful that he found me to be a source of joyful entertainment because I could imagine worse alternatives. 

    Inside my own cabin, which I was sharing with Jerry Gold, I told him the Commander was nearby. 

    “He’s probably trailing us,” Jerry said.

    “Why?”

    “We’re on their radar. Or it just might be the protocol for them to keep close tabs on us.”

    “We’re just American tourists.”

    “That’s not what they think. For all they know, we’re CIA. Not to mention they saw you with a copy of A Clockwork Orange at the airport. Thanks to you, we’re all being followed.”

    “You’re paranoid.”

    “We’ll see.”

    By the time we got to Novgorod and Jerry and I were settled in our hotel room by Lake Ilmen, I had what felt like either a cold or the flu. Natasha came in to ask if I felt good enough to go on the tour of the museum. 

    “I’m not sure,” I said while lying on the bed.

    “We’ll get you a doctor,” Natasha said. 

    “I don’t need one,” I said.

    “But I insist.”

    Barely a half-hour had passed when a beautiful doctor with her light brown hair in a bun and a white medical coat came into my hotel. She was accompanied by two nurses holding leather apothecary bags. My fellow travelers, all twelve of them, were so curious they inched their way into the small hotel room to watch my examination.

    The unsmiling doctor had me sit in a chair and take off my shirt. She listened to my chest, looked inside my mouth, and proclaimed that I had a cold. 

    “Just a cold,” I announced to everyone standing in the room.

    But at that very moment, the doctor ordered me to lie face down on the bed and to pull down my pants. I was going to get a shot in the ass. 

    “In my country, we don’t get shots for the common cold,” I protested.

    “Shut up and do as you’re told,” Natasha said. 

    “If you insist.”

    No one cleared out. Watching me get a shot in the right butt cheek was apparently something everyone felt entitled to see. A Soviet-style shot in the ass was too good of an opportunity to miss, I guess. The shot hurt like hell as if some thick viscous molasses was being injected into my flesh.  

    Afterward, I went to the museum, and for some reason, we were standing in a barn surrounded by overgrown grass and weeds and Natasha was giving us a lecture about farming and trade routes in Russia. It was close to a hundred degrees, we were miserable, hungry, and impatient for Natasha to end her lecture. That’s when the Commander and his subordinates approached. They stood next to Natasha and watched us. The message was clear. We were to listen attentively to our tour guide.

    As Natasha walked around the barn and found a place that was in the shade, Jerry Gold found a long stalk of dried hay and positioned himself behind the Commander. Slyly, Jerry brushed the dry straw against the back of the Commander’s neck causing the officer to think he was besieged by a mosquito, and he gave his neck a mighty slap. After Jerry performed the prank three times successfully unnoticed by the Commander, about a half dozen of my fellow tourists had caught on and we were doing our best to stifle our laughter. 

    On one hand, I was terrified that Jerry would get caught. On the other, I was enjoying the spectacle of the Commander’s vexation.

    My good spirits were gone the next day when I woke up with a bruised ass from the mysterious “cold” shot. The pain and swelling were so bad that I had to walk with a severe limp. My fellow travelers said I walked like a Soviet soldier with a war injury.   

    Part of our itinerary that day was to visit a toy factory, which was located on the edge of a forest. I don’t know why it was so important to walk around a factory full of cheap plastic figurines. The factory was uninhabited by employees except for the attendant, but I looked out the factory window and saw several buses full of children between the ages of ten and fourteen. Some of the children were getting out of the buses and approaching the factory. I asked Natasha if the children were about to start a work shift at the factory. She consulted with the factory attendant and he whispered something into the ear of the security guard. The guard, a silver-haired man in his fifties, rushed outside and shepherded the children back into the buses. I even saw the guard give one boy a kick in the rear. It was clear to me and some of the others that Natasha and her cohorts didn’t want to create the impression that the Soviet Union violated child labor laws. 

    We returned to the hotel by the lake and had dinner in an affixed dining area that was crowded with other tour groups. The staff was so busy they had to stagger us inside the restaurant based on our status. We were at the bottom. The first tier was a group of North Korean children and teenagers dressed in blue uniforms with hats. They looked happy and confident that in the Soviet Union they were special and belonged. Their meals came first, were larger, and served by the staff with more enthusiasm. 

    We on the other hand were looked at as a painful obligation. Our portions were smaller, our food colder, and our service more perfunctory. They were throwing scraps to dogs. I was ready to leave Novgorod and go to Leningrad.