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Manufactured Narratives

While Spiegelman and Walter both represent and simulate trauma as a means of situating characters and readers outside the boundaries of national narratives, Ken Kalfus’ A Disorder Peculiar to the Country challenges the very substance of political trauma, suggesting that the modes we use to process trauma are themselves caught up in the discursive realm of institutional politics. Set in the months following the attacks on the World Trade Center, the novel depicts the acrimonious divorce proceedings of a New York couple, Marshall and Joyce Harriman, who are incapable of understanding their separation in terms outside of those provided by the political narratives of the state. Their divorce is figured throughout the novel as an extended metaphor for the internecine political actions of the Bush administration; the separation serves as a vehicle for commentary on the New Normal as a state of profound personal and public instability and simultaneously presents the mutually-destructive schemes of each character as

corollaries for the state’s political campaigns both at home and abroad. Kalfus’ playful rendering of these issues parodies the American response to 9/11, suggesting that all modes of processing personal trauma and establishing positions of political agency have in fact been co-opted by the state; even engaging trauma time, it seems, is no longer a viable response to the machinery of political trauma. In this regard, A Disorder, despite its irreverent tone, is significantly darker in substance than No Towers and The Zero. Kalfus recognizes that, positioned against political discourses that blur public/private boundaries, individuals are increasingly prevented from producing spaces of political agency.

From the first pages of A Disorder, Kalfus establishes ironic distance from the traumatic event of the attacks on the towers. Joyce, watching the towers collapse and imagining the death of her husband, who works in the World Trade Center “felt something erupt inside her, something warm, very much like, yes it was, a pang of pleasure, so intense it was nearly like the appeasement of hunger. It was a giddiness, an elation...she felt a great gladness” (Kalfus 3). Marshall, narrowly escaping the World Trade Center before its collapse and believing that his wife had boarded United Flight 93 en route to California, heads home, covered in ash and nursing a head wound, “nearly skipping” (20). These passages refuse to subscribe to conventional representations of the traumatic event, instead rhetorically transforming 9/11 from a national tragedy to a personal triumph for each character; believing that their messy divorce has been settled by the “disaster,” each character celebrates what he/she perceives to be a personal

victory in the divorce proceedings. These reactions are particularly startling due to the graphic account of Marshall’s escape that we see in the same chapter.

Marshall, attempting to rescue a man from the collapsing tower, “saw that [the man] wasn’t listening, that half his head—Marshall couldn’t tell which half—had been ripped away…[Marshall] would have to will himself to forget whatever he saw” (17). By juxtaposing this horrifying scene with their dispassionate reactions, the novel recognizes the immediate experience of the attacks as traumatic, but undercuts this experience by suggesting that the traumatic encounter—itself caught in the discourses of the state—is immediately assimilated into the fabric of everyday life. By refusing to acknowledge the traumatic event and instead projecting it onto their personal lives, the characters of A Disorder demonstrate the impossibility of sustaining trauma time and thus penetrating nationalist discourse.

In the absence of these modes of processing trauma, Joyce and Marshall are denied the possibility of any viable political engagement and instead project their lack of agency onto their failed marriage. Each character engages in acts of betrayal and sabotage against the other in efforts to ruin the other’s social standing and potentially secure a more favorable divorce settlement. For instance, Joyce seduces Marshall’s closest friend, Roger, in an attempt to undermine their friendship. She comically carries out the plot as an extended reenactment of an Afghan tribal conflict in which, according to Joyce’s limited knowledge of the topic, sex “was a weapon,” operating on the logic that “the friend of my enemy is

my enemy” (63). Marshall, on the other hand, succeeds in sabotaging the wedding of Joyce’s sister and her groom, a Jewish man whose faith—Marshall correctly surmises—is a concealed source of resentment for Joyce’s WASP mother.

Marshall secretly engineers a plot that nearly ruins their wedding, attempting to reveal the mother’s latent anxieties and, more importantly, bring to life the specter of religious difference that he hopes will forever taint their relationship. He sees himself as “a crazy fucking divorcing superpower” and remarks, “It was like going back into the building and finding Lloyd [the man he attempted to save]. He didn’t know what would happen next and he didn’t care” (106). Unable to channel their trauma in productive ways, both Joyce and Marshall reenact trauma through the vindictive, counterproductive schemes that offer no positive outlet for the very real trauma that each of them has experienced.

Rather, these ploys—and the Harriman’s divorce, in a broader sense— function as empty projections of political frustration resulting from their lack of political agency. This sense of helplessness is best represented in the sections that locate the narrative perspective behind their pre-adolescent daughter, Viola.

Confused by the chaotic domestic environment in which she lives, Viola cannot make sense of the complex negotiations, bitter disagreements, and general instability that surrounds her at all times as a result of her parents’ divorce. Kalfus writes, “She knew her understanding was limited. You could identify what lay in front of you, but what it meant was invisible. You could never be sure that you had sufficient data. A person went around in her own shell, defined by what she

didn’t know” (132). Kalfus here uses Viola’s limited perspective to comment on Americans’ inability to access political reality; extending the metaphor, the divorce—in its confounding complexity—represents American politics and the country’s dubious political agenda, which many Americans could not access with any degree of confidence. Kalfus later writes, “[Viola] didn’t understand everything the News said. No one did. The News spoke about their lives in secret” (133). News media, in the interest of engaging viewers through the popular rhetoric of patriotism, are most often responsible for disseminating state-endorsed narratives. Like the superficial understanding of divorce that Viola gleans from her friends in school, the news media provides Americans with a perspective that limits access to the complex workings of institutional politics. This, of course, produces an American public inclined, from the start, to support the state’s political agenda. One cannot help but recall the 72% of Americans who, misled by our government and the media, initially supported the Iraq War (Newport).

Kalfus sums up this process: “The universe was an immense construction that rose from facts, an infinitesimal fraction of which could be apprehended in a single glance. Evidence about everything was around [Viola], if only she could see it. But she couldn’t even imagine what she was ignorant about. She was still stupid. But what else was she missing?” (145). We, like Viola, find ourselves in this state of political complacency; lacking the vocabulary and the appropriate avenues for addressing the discourses of the state, we cannot begin to establish legitimate positions of agency.

Adopting Viola’s narrative perspective in this section forces us to consider the ways that the state has infantilized Americans as a means of manipulating support for its political initiatives. Kalfus involves the reader—both in this section and in the extended divorce metaphor—in the experience of dislocation and confusion that we have come to associate with 9/11. In her book on the American response to 9/11, Marita Sturken describes the infantilization of the American public through the modes of processing trauma that were made available after the attacks. Through consumerism and comfort-culture, and particularly the use of the teddy bear as an ostensibly depoliticized source of comfort, Americans were interpellated as children and, in the process, denied access to legitimate positions of political agency. Sturken explains, “Much of the culture of comfort functions as a form of depoliticization and as a means to comfort loss, grief and fear through processes that disavow politics (6). As “children” experiencing these psychological reactions to the attack, the American public would look to the state as a figure of parental authority, thereby conceding political agency under the assumption that the state would “do the right thing.” As the culmination of this process, Sturken argues, the Bush administration was given unchecked license to engage in military campaigns against Iraq, operating in the absence of a politically-cognizant American public. Even worse, these modes of coping with trauma served to strengthen the relationship between consumerism and American politics; patriotism, as George W. Bush, Rudy Giuliani and others made clear in the weeks following the attacks, could be enacted through spending and

consumption, two processes they deemed necessary for bolstering a reeling economy (15). This process not only discouraged individuals from asserting political agency, but also helped to consolidate an institutional presence that, I argue, contributes to a more pernicious and opaque source of political trauma.¹⁰

Viola’s narrative presence in the novel suggests the ways that Americans were positioned as children within a political space designed to generate political ignorance and apathy. Kalfus seems to recognize the difficulty in confronting a discursive space generated and sustained to operate outside of our vocabulary and beyond our comprehension. This, perhaps, is why the divorce serves as a stand-in for post-9/11 politics. With it, he provides us with a more manageable set of discourses with which to confront an impossibly-complex institutional presence. More specifically, the divorce reveals the ways that institutional politics have permeated the fabric of private life and have, in fact, begun to dissolve the boundaries that divide the public from the private. In the broadest sense, the language used to describe the divorce—Afghan tribal wars, clandestine, intramarital plots, associations with the World Trade Center, etc.—indicate the extent to which politics have embedded themselves in everyday life. Kalfus writes, “The specter of her marriage rose up before her, a tower one hundred stories high. So high, you can’t get over it. So low, you can’t get under it. She didn’t know where to begin” (45). Funkadelic reference aside, Joyce here

¹⁰ See also Zizek’s “Welcome to the Desert of the Real.” Zizek claims that we have entered a state of political paralysis in which it is exceedingly difficult to separate politics from the political, thus resulting in political apathy and, ultimately, the desire for the perpetuation of “the very fundamental fantasy that sustains our being” (97).

articulates the fundamental problem of her relationship with Marshall: she cannot compress it into manageable frames of reference because, like the discourses circulating around 9/11, the marriage is impossibly complex and therefore resists her attempts to process it. As the novel progresses and as the divorce proceedings move forward, the Harriman family feels itself increasingly complicit in state- endorsed narratives; as their nuclear family dissolves, the two are forced to restructure and align their personal lives with the inexorable progression of politics and capitalism. For instance, describing Marshall’s evolving role in his company, Kalfus writes, “now, the company had become a family with stronger obligations to its individuals than were observed these days in most natural families” (68). Here Kalfus describes the transition from definitions of the nuclear family as a private entity to the family unit as an extension of the institution; politics have begun to dissolve the boundaries separating private and public spheres.

This phenomenon comes to a head near the novel’s conclusion, where Marshall, backed against a wall and facing an increasingly unfavorable divorce settlement, constructs a bomb and attempts to kill himself and his family. The scene, which, thankfully, ends with the bomb malfunctioning (despite Marshall and Joyce’s attempts to set it off), demonstrates the disturbing consequences of this blurring of boundaries between public and private spheres and the inauguration of a new kind of nuclear family. Kalfus’ rendering of this scene is at once comical, disturbing, and provocative. Entering the living room with the

makeshift bomb strapped to his chest, Marshall seeks Joyce’s assistance in setting off the device. Strangely, Joyce complies, and the two of them carry on an uncharacteristically congenial conversation about how to fix the problem. The children, pulling themselves from the television, enter the tableau. Kalfus describes the intimate process by which Joyce and Marshall check the wiring on the bomb, noting how, “against [Marshall’s] will his body grew warm” and that “she too had quickened her breath” (190). The children huddle close to their parents, and Kalfus writes, “This is how the family once looked to the outside world, how it had once been: a compact unit, loving and intimate” (191). This alarming depiction of domestic harmony is the only one of its kind in the novel, and Kalfus seems to suggest that the concept of the private, nuclear family has evolved to the point where its fabric is now held together by the politics of the state and the specter of political violence. The scene carries with it an elegiac tone that suggests the passing of an era in which privacy and family life were separate from the state. As the moment passes and the family disperses, “[Marshall] could hear Joyce move away from where they had been in the kitchen, and the machinery of the apartment’s daily life eventually resumed operation: lunch being made, TV. He buried his face in the pillow and quietly sobbed until it was soaked” (192). Later, as Marshall stands between his family and the television and attempts to explain his innocence in the marriage, Viola cries out, “Dad…we can’t see! You’re in the way!” (226). Here, the television—a medium promising new, more complex modes of identification and communication, and certainly a

medium more conducive to manufacturing political consent—provides a more attractive alternative to the outdated concept of the nuclear family.

Through these scenes and the repeated representations of the family as a political unit, the novel asks us to consider how the Harrimans and, more broadly, the American people have allowed divisions between public and private discourse to disappear. Remarking on the tendency for 9/11 novels to follow an interiorizing narrative trajectory, Richard Gray writes, “cataclysmic public events are measured purely and simply in terms of their impact on the emotional entanglements of their protagonists” (30). A Disorder utilizes this trajectory to comment on eroding public/private boundaries, and the processes of narrativization and trauma I have described throughout this chapter are at the heart of this phenomenon. In Unclaimed Experience, Cathy Caruth writes, “In trauma…the outside has gone inside without any mediation” (59). The traumatic event, an unanticipated moment of violence originating “outside” the individual’s psychic space, bypasses the normal modes of psychological processing and penetrates the individual’s interior space. Kalfus uses the nuclear family to demonstrate how these public/private zones are compromised by the traumatic encounter; here, the political infiltrates the interior space of the home and reconstitutes what once was a fortified, domestic space. After the moment of trauma, as a means of processing and confronting the traumatic event, we produce narratives that reiterate core values and carry the promise of stability. In the age of hypermediation, however, in which media produce narratives simultaneous to

the traumatic event, this process becomes more an instrument of the state and the media than a psychological process for individuals to engage. Ana Douglass and Thomas A. Vogler write:

[In the present age] we have a much more immediately materialized history, one that can even be fabricated and recorded on the spot by the modern media—making history come before collective memory rather than after. Advances in technology do not guarantee greater accuracy for collective memory, since those technologies can readily be manipulated by those in power. (17)

This creates what Douglass and Vogler call a “permanent state of witness,” in which individuals are exposed to both trauma and narrativization as two non- distinct processes. Mediation facilitates this process, and to resist the public (state) modes of processing trauma means to resist what the media and the state would have us believe are necessary processes of national identification.

This, perhaps, is why the children in A Disorder migrate back to the television set after what should have been a horrifying moment of domestic trauma in their own living room; legitimate, personal trauma does not fit within the constantly proliferating industry of trauma narrativization perpetuated through the media and its representations of 9/11. Describing Joyce’s decision to watch Iraq War demonstrations on television, Kalfus writes:

She remained home with the children, the three of them watching the news on TV, where the worldwide protesters were an image

shrunk within the screen to make room for the ‘War on Terror’ logo, the Homeland Security Threat Bar, and the news crawl. The crawl scurried: you had to have quick eyes to catch it—UN resolutions…troop movements…terrorist attacks—and still follow the stories being told by the live images. You could never catch it. (222)

Consistent with Breithaupt’s analysis of the media’s ability to produce trauma, Kalfus depicts television news as a form heavily invested in generating a continuous, permanent condition of trauma. Part of Marshall’s sense of dislocation arises from the fact that he has experienced legitimate embodied trauma and—in a political environment that has laid claim to the language of trauma and its modes of transmission—he cannot find appropriate avenues through which to process his experience.

The production and consumption of political narratives in A Disorder is different from what we see in the other novels discussed in this chapter, mainly due to Kalfus’ resignation to the impossibility of engaging the traumatic core of 9/11. Both Joyce and Marshall approach their divorce and the consequent dissolution of the family as inevitable endpoints in a long history of familial strife, one whose origins they cannot recall (Kalfus 228-229). Their history, like the history of the country, has been overshadowed and, arguably, erased by the more recent conflicts surrounding the divorce (i.e. the 9/11 political landscape). To highlight this point, Kalfus employs an interesting narrative strategy in the final

chapter of the novel. The book follows a chronological chapter arrangement, with each chapter representing a month following 9/11: “September,” “October,” “November,” etc. Each chapter traces the chronological progress of the divorce proceedings alongside the political movements of the country. In the final chapter, however, entitled “February March April May June,” Kalfus accelerates time and radically alters the novel’s narrative structure, departing from a recognizable history and instead creating what one reviewer called “a raucous, Republican dreamscape in which Bin Laden is captured, the invasion of Iraq leads to a blooming of democracy throughout the Middle East and peace, it seems, is finally at hand” (N. Oates 162). Marshall, watching on television as American investigators uncover nuclear weapons in Iraq, tells his children, “This is history” (Walter 230). At the close of the novel, partaking in the celebrations over news of Osama bin Laden’s death,¹¹ “Marshall felt a huge emotion surging within him: it was a relief at bin Laden’s capture, of course, but also sudden love for his country, at that moment an honest, unalloyed, uncompromised white-hot passion” (236). Marshall’s exuberance, of course, is generated in the patriotic fervor of the 9/11 spectacle and in the culmination of the manufactured narrative of American hegemony. Disavowing political engagement and ignoring a history of American political injustice and violence, Marshall subscribes to the narrative of American innocence.




¹¹ Kalfus’ novel, written five years before the death of Osama bin Laden, provides an eerily accurate rendition of the actual response to bin Laden’s death in 2011.

His portrayal of Americans packing the streets around Ground Zero almost perfectly anticipates the events as they occurred and as they were broadcast to the world via news media.

Kalfus’ incorporation of this alternate historical narrative complicates the book’s commentary on narrativization and trauma. Within the novel, this manufactured narrative records the events that occur in its post-9/11 environment: Saddam Hussein’s public execution, bin Laden’s death, etc. Reading the novel, however, we recognize this narrative as a construction, a fiction generated by the author, which simulates the ways that the media manufacture political narratives. Like Walter’s satire, this strategy removes us from the space of the text when we become aware of its artifice, allowing readers to critique the substance of the novel’s narrative and the ways that narratives, themselves, are always caught up in political projects. In this way, Kalfus creates a counter-narrative subtext that challenges the production of state-endorsed narratives like the one we see at the novel’s conclusion. Depicting events that had yet to or never would occur, A Disorder, in this last chapter, creates a space for the reader that encourages subversive, tactical readings. The divide between our experience of history in the months following 9/11 (the bulk of the novel’s historical backdrop) and the manufactured narrative that we see here at the end of the novel disrupts our sense of narrative stability; it furthermore undermines our faith in the narratives that have come to represent the American experience of 9/11.

Reading from this counter-space, then, helps us to process the political commentary that Kalfus makes throughout the novel. Recognizing that 9/11’s over-representation has made critical engagement increasingly difficult,¹² Kalfus

¹² For a comprehensive collection of essays that deal with 9/11 and media representation, see Media Representations of September 11 Media

suggests the possibility of re-thinking our investment in narrative—particularly as it is produced by the media and through the power of the image—as the sole means of understanding 9/11. This, perhaps, is why Kalfus chooses the divorce metaphor—the novel’s chief narrative vehicle—as his lens for viewing the American political landscape. Through this metaphor, we can move ourselves beyond conventional representations of 9/11 invested in image and narrative, and access alternative positions that provide spaces for tactical movement. Since media saturation has largely made 9/11 an unrepresentable, sacred event,¹³ viewing the spectacle through the lens of a mundane divorce narrative allows us to read and represent 9/11 through an alternate discursive set. This allows representation to occur indirectly, from a liminal space, which, as I have shown, is the only way to successfully contest state-endorsed narrative production.

While the reader is able to attain this crucial remove by recognizing the divergent narrative strains in the final chapter, Marshall and Joyce, lacking the tactical counter-space from which to critique the spectacle, cannot successfully produce spaces of political engagement. Unlike Remy in Walter’s novel or Spiegelman in No Towers, Marshall and Joyce, victims of a world in which their very modes of processing trauma are themselves bound to mediation, are