March 31, 2020 

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My two favorite parts George's “My Flamboyant Grandson” were: I happily spent the entire story thinking that the protagonists lived in a made-up city, perhaps in or around Saskatchewan, rather than upstate New York; and second, my imagination convinced me that Babar, the star that the “flamboyant grandson” idolizes and emulates was a fictional fusion of Cher and the Wiggles who blends subtle life lessons with upbeat show tunes while draped in silver silk, instead of the elephant derived from French children's literature that he actually is. When I first read the title of Babar’s hit song that Teddy, the "Grandson", sings while wearing a pink boa - “I Have Never Met a Man Like That Elephant” - my mind immediately jumped to Shania Twain’s ‘90s masterpiece, “Man! I Feel Like a Woman”. Maybe I was just being lazy, but the talk of a feather boa - which Shania and her compatriots wear in the snazzy music video - and the reference to men as elephants - which, succinctly, is the thesis of Twain’s song - created an image in my mind of young Teddy singing along to America’s greatest outsource of 1997. In other words, for the entirety of the story, I believed that Teddy was emulating a human pop-star, rather than a mammal from an altogether different genus. Without understanding the genius of these references - genius that research would later reveal - the story still resonated with me in multiple ways. 

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Each element within the kaleidoscope of curiosities that make up “My Flamboyant Grandson” felt like a personalized gift. Saunders manages to personify surveillance capitalism in the streets of New York City years before Facebook monopolized our personal data. All of the citizens - even the kiddos - must wear shoes with special strips that attach themselves to sensors as you walk down the street. New York City is ripe with sensors, and as citizens walk down the street, their presence triggers an influx of ads (thought they aren’t called ads) specifically tailored to their preferences. Advertisements donn the big screens and the small screens: holograms of one’s favorite celebrity appear and try to charm their target into buying the newest technology. Most like our current predicament, however, is the tailoring of each individual’s preference to themselves and themselves alone, so much so that every single person sees something totally different. One cannot discuss the accuracy of a certain ad with their buddies, however, because their buddies are blind to all advertisements except for their own. Kind of like how I’m sure my iPhone is reading my mind, but no one can confirm that my iPhone is reading my mind, because only I can read my mind (well, except for my iPhone). 

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It is important to note that I was so taken by this specific critique of capitalism because it is something that I spend much of my time preoccupied with. Saunders also attempts a critique, I think, of who we think of as being on our team. The narrator is a grandfather and assumedly a Korean war vet. He is also struggling signficantly with the prospect that his grandson might be gay. Repeated references to prayer position the grandfather as a church goer, likely of the school of thought that sees “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” as a fair bargain. Yet the love for his grandson and drive to make the boy feel normal are beyond evident to readers (at least to this reader). These human details give pause to the knee-jerk reaction that might accompany a sympathetic story about a borderline homophobic septuagenarian.

 

To complete the lefty trifecta, Saunders makes digestible references to the Korean War. Our poor grandfather must deal with feet that spontaneously bleed, ever since a winter spent in the “freezing muck” of Cho Bai, Korea. The thought of feet that unexpectedly swell and bleed at uncontrollable times of the day is just noxious enough to sense that Saunders leans on the side of pacifism (and maybe we should, too). 

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Saunders’s story feels of the times. "My Flamboyant Grandson" feels like a story for now. It also feels like a story for me. Maybe a story that is too carefully crafted to fit my ideology.

 

Satire is also highly critical, or at least it should be. The genre inevitably creates an in-group and an out-group. Those in the in-group are in on the joke: they get it. But being a part of the in-group also means that you probably aren’t growing. You already knew and probably participated in the critique being offered - that’s why you got it in the first place. Being part of the in-group is what keeps me reading. Equally important, though, is to position yourself in the out-group. 

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There is one particular critique embedded in this piece that I do not feel particularly in on, but after reading this piece, I am more attuned to. The critique is folded within a critique of consumerism, which makes it all the more difficult to decipher, and all the more interesting. Saunders’s critique of consumerism bubbles into his choice of characters, specifically the character whose identity I did not initially grasp. The character of Babar has roots in the early 20th century French children’s book Histoire de Babar. Babar is an orphaned elephant who escapes the jungle and finds himself immersed in big city life. Babar returns home to a community that has recently lost its king. Because of  his extensive travel and exposure to civilization, Babar is appointed king. The reign of King Babar brings a particularly stylish form of Western civilization to the elephants. In the glorification of modernity and style, it is likely not a coincidence that the original publisher of the series was global media giant Conde-Nast. The stories of Babar have also been critiqued for their apparent justification of colonialism, and the triumph of modernity over the intricate randomness of human, or rather elephant, life. 

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Babar’s inclusion in our story has profound implications: What does it mean that a child from the northernmost tip of Appalachia idolizes Babar? Perhaps the culture that Teddy and his grandfather are part of is the culture that civilization is trying to replace. The backwards ways of Oneonta - the children and adults who make fun of Teddy, the grandfather’s own outdated beliefs - serve as a stark contrast to the fast-paced, modern city. Yet the city also comes with it’s own set of issues, namely the positioning of culture within a corporate framework: patrons are only admitted to the theatre after showing proof of purchase from six different corporate sponsors, like Coke and AOL. Life in the city is essentially one never-ending commercial.

 

Who are we to say which is a better, more desirable, more just way to live? I don’t think we can, and I don’t think Saunders thinks we can either.

 

Storytelling, and satire specifically, can occupy a special place, though: a space that injects nuance into our understanding of the human experience, doesn’t accept absolutes, and makes us the butt of the joke. We should all spend a significant amount of time as butts.