Legible Book of the Week: The Great Gatsby
by Tania Runyan
Like the judgmental, bespectacled eyes of T.J. Eckleberg, many schools have glared down and even banned The Great Gatsby for a number of complaints — language, violence, and sexual references believed to be harmful to students. While I strongly disapprove of censoring books, I find it ironic that some of the novel’s most “harmful” themes, such as classism and materialism, are rarely cited as reasons to remove the text from classrooms.
Stuff is a powerful force in Gatsby: accumulating it, judging it, damaging it, forgetting about it, hiding it, and finding one’s identity in it. I have a complicated history with material objects myself, having grown up in a house spilling over with antiques and collectibles. Every sterling silver spoon had to be polished, every Victorian furniture piece protected from the imprint of actual, seated rear ends, every cloisonne vase secured in a china cabinet bolted to the wall because we lived in earthquake country.
At once beautiful and burdensome, these items loom large in my history, shaping my view of what counts as acceptable spending. Born during the Great Depression, my parents believe in spending money on only those items that can “show for it,” choosing figurines and model trains over dinners and vacations. My mother tells stories of literally forgoing meals in favor of procuring an antique mahogany desk during her college days. While I’ve mostly rebelled against these values, I still carry vestiges of guilt for “throwing my money away” on experiences. And I carry the stress of knowing that each and every one of my parent’s possessions, including my mother’s extensive collection of hundreds of tiny perfume bottles, will have to be contended with one day.
Blissfully ignorant of the coming Depression, the characters in Gatsby throw money around like there is literally no tomorrow. Tom Buchanan entertains and appeases Myrtle with cascades of stuff, including a puppy purchased and promptly left in a corner, one of the most tragic figures in the novel. Jay Gatsby, in his attempts to reinvent himself as a man rich enough to earn Daisy’s devotion, wields stuff as a weapon against mediocrity. While he seemingly lacks a deep emotional investment in these items, from his custom dress shirts to his swimming pool, he understands their power.
One of my favorite ways to get to know a character better is to explore them through my own writing — engaging the text with my own imagination as I play with different scenarios and possibilities. What if Gatsby tried to save money, or at least support sustainability, by shopping at a second-hand store? Would he find a dashing raspberry beret to go with his salmon-colored suit? When my family does go shopping, we consider Goodwill the best brick-and-mortar choice; my daughter even works there. I believe Gatsby would have swung open the door, held his breath, and regarded the shelves with “something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.” Here’s his take, in an imagined epistolary poem to Nick, on my favorite store.
Jay Gatsby Goes to Goodwill
You wouldn’t believe the shirts,
ol’ sport, more than enough
to make Daisy tear up —
and not just because
of the hot summer cocktail
of sweat, disinfectant, and dust.
What beautiful shirts!
Paisleys, dachshunds, lilac stripes.
Some of these were once
rectangles crisp
in their Saks Fifth Avenue boxes
or flaccid Wal-Mart Rollback buys.
Someone like her
wouldn’t know the difference,
right? Gold-veined goddess
imported from East Egg,
West Egg lemon peels still stuck
to her feet. If I could get her
to cross the threshold
at the perfect moment,
the sun angling off the corner
of a cracked Black & Decker toaster,
my pomaded hair in slick relief
against those old pool noodles
swaying like cattails,
she would smile again.
Possibly transfigure me.
Or at least, Nick — I beg you, don’t leave me —
help me dream it again.
— This poem originally appeared at Tweetspeak.
