Back in the earlier junior year days, I began research on the study of intersexualism for a research paper assigned in my Advance Placement English class. What drove me to the topic of intersexualism? Television programming: The Oprah Winfrey Show. It was an interesting topic; I knew these people are out there, but I never realized how people view them as: objects, misfits of nature, etc. Then, right as I wielded my remote control to switch to something else, a man walks on stage–to plug his book into the show, standard effective propaganda. Jeffrey Eugenides wrote the biography on my most influential first-person narrator ever, who just happens to be a fictional hermaphrodite.
I picked up Middlesex, and was introduced to Calliope Stephanides. I was acquainted to her family: Milton (the father), Desdemona (grandmother), Lefty (grandfather), Tessie (mother), Aunt Zoe, Uncle Zizmo. I was evoked into the Stephanides family, and filled into their genetic secret.
As an amateur writer, I use to detest first-person narrative. My permeating ignorance disallowed me to think of first-person narrative as a piece of art as oppose to what I use to think of it: whining. Jeffrey Eugenides taught me, through Middlesex, that the first-person voice can be even more poetic, inspirational, insightful, and impactful than the average third.
It was through the reading of this book that I realized–like the epiphany in “Orange County–that I want to be a writer; I want to create worlds; I want to show grace in diction; I want to tell the truth; I want to tell lies. The technique Eugenides uses to build emotion, paint images, and possesses sympathy and empathy. Middlesex has inspired me to write; I grow jealous every time I read a quote from the contemporary novel, jealous that I could only wish to claim to have the talent this man has. I met an interesting friend via Eugenides words, and Calliope/Cal isn’t even real.
So then there was a lull in reading. I had things to do, people to fret about, actions to regret–I’m a teen, whatever. Then one night, during a ritualistic reminiscing-in-bed session, I recalled the admiration I had for Jeffrey’s writing. I ChaCha’d a question: What other pieces of writing does Jeffrey Eugenides have?” The answer: “Jeffrey Eugenides currently has two books published: Pulizter-winning ‘Middlesex’ and ‘The Virgin Sucides.’ Thank you for using ChaCha!”
It was months later, after a high school calamity and drug influenced depression, that I would pick up The Virgin Suicides, and read through the text.
At the beginning, I compared it to Middlesex (it’s human nature), and, of course, I held my biases in favor of Middlesex. Still though, it held my interest. It continued to capture and pervade interest into my imagination, but I kept wanting to find Calliope show up in the suburban neighborhood (there have been a few cameos of “greek” accent. Including, the breif cameo of the phrase “yia yia”).
Anyways, I find myself basing a lot of my writing off Jeffrey Eugenides: a true master of poetic writing. His work has taught me that even the most mundane of stories (suburb can be told with the greatest passion.
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