Min Jin Lee Reads Wendi Kaufman

The New Yorker: Fiction

Min Jin Lee reads and discusses 'Helen on 86th Street' by Wendy Kaufman, a poignant short story from The New Yorker's archives. In the episo

Key takeaways

• The story's effectiveness lies in its authentic child narrator, capturing both innocence and emotional depth with remarkable precision.
• Wendy Kaufman's personal struggles—financial hardship, nontraditional education, and late-blooming literary success—lent authenticity to her writing.

Main topics

• Child narrator in literary fiction
• Wendy Kaufman's life and writing journey

Notable quotes

"It's not about the rejections. It's about the sending it out."

Conclusion

Through her reading and personal reflections, Min Jin Lee honors Wendy Kaufman's

Transcript preview

Speaker 1 (0:07) This is the New Yorker Fiction Podcast from The New Yorker magazine. I'm Deborah Treisman, fiction editor at The New Yorker. Each month, we invite a writer to choose a story from the magazine's archives to read and discuss. This month, we're going to hear Helen on 86th Street by Wendy Kaufman, which appeared in The New Yorker in November of 1997. When I was younger, when Dad first left and I still believed he was coming back, it made me happy that we still lived in the same building. I was happy because he would always know where to find us. Now that I am older, I know the city is not that big. It is easy to be found and easy to stay lost. The story was chosen by Min Jin Lee, the author of the novels Free Food for Millionaires and Pachinko. Her third novel, American Hagwon, will be published this month. Speaker 1 (1:02) Hi, men. Debra. So Wendy Kaufman died in 2014 at the age of 50. She published just one story in The New Yorker, which is the story, Helen, on 86th Street. Why did you choose it to read today? Oh, well, I wanted to pick Wendy's story because I knew her. And I knew her when she had published this story. And I remember as a young writer who was beginning, that it was so cool that a person had published a story in The New Yorker. And then she was so modest about it. And then when I read it, I thought it was such a remarkable story that when I heard about this opportunity, I was like, oh, no, I have to read this. Nobody else will choose it except me. What did you think was so remarkable? It's the voice. It's actually really hard to do child narrator very well. And also, it's funny. How did you know her? Speaker 1 (1:56) Well, I met her through an agent. And she had this kind of bigger-than-life personality, very charismatic. And the thing that I really liked about her is that she had this sort of generosity about other writers. And then she built this big community eventually when she became more established. And she impressed me. She really impressed me because not every writer I had met at that point in my life was that inclusive. Right. I know she only published this one book, Helen on 86th Street and Other Stories, and that came out a couple of months after she died. So when you say she became more established, in what way? Just as a kind of guide for other writers? Well, see, it's funny because when I met her, she had written this story and she had an agent and I had just sort of started. So that seemed very established. Well, I thought it was incredible that she had a story in The New Yorker. Speaker 1 (2:53) I guess I was so impressed by it. And also she was getting her MFA. So I thought that was an impressive thing, too, because I had come out in sort of a nontraditional way. And then, of course, I later learned about that she actually had a very nontraditional education. Like it took her nine years to finish college. Why was that? I think she got married at 18. And then she and her husband had to put themselves through college. So they were kind of. Speaker 1 (3:20) getting by and they would take classes here and there and move around for his job. I think he was a software engineer back then. I remember at one point she told me this story because I only met her twice in my entire life. So it's not like we were friends. That's not a fair thing for me to say. But when I did meet her, she would tell me this story like she and her husband were so broke at certain points, they would collect these coupons from pizza boxes. They would literally go dumpster diving to find coupons and collect them and then to... Speaker 1 (3:49) traded in for a free pizza. It's a very writer's story. Yeah, it is. It is. So you met her in that context of knowing her through her agent. And was she helpful for you with your writing at all? Oh, yeah, because she knew how embarrassed I was about submitting things. And I was so like, I always thought myself wasn't ready. And she just said, no, no, you just have to keep sending things out. And it's not about the rejections. It's about the sending it out. And I remember thinking, oh, she's correct. Because I thought it had to be perfect before it went out. And she's like, no, no, no, no. Just keep sending it out. It doesn't matter. Eventually somebody's going to take it. Speaker 1 (4:27) And she was right. Yeah. Yeah. It's funny because I guess she had early success, even though it was late as an adult. But it felt early to me. And then afterwards, she actually told her friend who was in her writers group, the rotisserie writers group that she belonged to, that she would have preferred to have been kind of like a solonier, a person who kind of holds court and meets other writers and includes people. And it kind of makes sense. From the time that I met her, because she had that kind of, we're all going to do this together. It wasn't the sort of solitary person going off and saying, I'm the only writer here. She really had this, I guess, point of view that we're all creative. It's a very different way you can approach creativity, I guess. And community. Much nicer than the cutthroat standards. She was not cutthroat. She wasn't the... Speaker 1 (5:24) There's a kind of like a, I'm the only one kind of person. She wasn't that. Well, we'll talk some more after the story. And now here's Min Jin Lee reading Helen on 86th Street by Wendy Kaufman. Helen on 86th Street. I hate Helen. That's all I can say. I hate her. Helen Maguire is playing Helen. So Mr. Dodd says, because out of the entire sixth grade, she most embodies Helen of Troy. Great. Helen Maguire had no idea who Helen of Troy even was. When she found out, well, you should have seen her, flirting with all the boys, really acting the part. And me? Well, I know who Helen was. I am pissed. My mother doesn't understand. Not that I expected she would. When I told her the news, all she said was, Ah, the face that launched a thousand ships. She didn't even look up from her book. Later at dinner, she apologized for quoting Marlowe. Marlowe is our cat. At bedtime, I told my mother, Speaker 1 (6:43) You should have seen the way Helen acted at school. It was disgusting, flirting with the boys. Mom tucked the sheets up close around my chin so that only my head was showing, my body covered, mummy style. Vida, she said. It sounds like she's perfect for the part. So, I can't play Helen. But to make it worse, Mr. Dodd said I have to be in the horse. I can't believe it. The horse! I wanted to be one of the Trojan women. Andromache, Cassandra, or even Hecuba. I know all their names. I told Mr. Dodd this, and then I showed him I could act. I got really sad and cried out about the thought of the body of my husband, Hector, being dragged around the walls of my city. I wailed and beat my fist against my chest. Speaker 1 (7:44) A regular Sarah Hartburn, was all he said. Well, at least you get to be on the winning team, my mother said when I told her about the horse. This didn't make me feel any better. It's better than being Helen. It's better than being blamed for the war, she told me. Mom was helping me make a shield for my costume. She said every soldier had a shield that was big enough to carry his body off the field. I told her, I wasn't going to be a body on the field, that I was going to survive, return home. Bring the shield, just in case, she said. It never hurts to have a little help. Speaker 1 (8:33) Mom and I live on West 86th Street. We have lived in the same building, in the same apartment, my entire life. My father has been gone for almost three years. The truth is that he got struck with the wanderlust. Emphasis on lust, my mother says, and we haven't heard from him since. Your father's on his own odyssey, my mother said, and now it's just me. and mom and Marlo and the Keatses. John and John are pair of Keats. Or pair of Keats, as mom says. When I was younger, when dad first left and I still believed he was coming back, it made me happy that we still lived in the same building. I was happy because he would always know where to find us. Speaker 1 (9:26) Now that I am older, I know the city is not that big. It is easy to be found and easy to stay lost. And I also know not to ask about him. Sometimes mom hears things through old friends, that he has traveled across the ocean, that he is living on an island in a commune with some people she called the lotus eaters, that he misses us. Once I heard Mr. Farfel, the man who's hanging around Mom now, ask why she stayed in this apartment after my father left. The rent stabilized, she told him, even if the relationship wasn't. At school, Helen McGuire was acting weird because I'm going to be in the horse with Tommy Aldridge. She wanted to know what it's like. Is it really cramped in there? Do you have to sit real close together? Speaker 1 (10:25) I told her it's dark, and we must hold each other around the waist and walk to make the horse move forward. Her eyes grew wide at this description. Lucky you, she said. Lucky me? She gets to stand in the center of the stage alone, her white sheet barely reaching the middle of her thighs, and say lines like, This destruction is all my fault. And, Paris, I do love you. She gets to cry. Why would she think I'm lucky? The other day at rehearsal, she was standing on stage waiting for her cue, and I heard Mrs. Reardon, the stage manager, whisper, That Helen is as beautiful as a statue. At home, old Farfel is visiting again. He has a chair in Mom's department. The way she describes it, a chair is a very good thing. Speaker 1 (11:24) Mom translates old books written in Greek and Latin. She is working on the longest graduate degree in the history of Columbia University. I'll be dead before I finish, she always says. Old Farfel has been coming around a lot lately, taking Mom and me to dinner at Italian places downtown. I don't like to be around when he's over. I'm going to Agamemnon's apartment to rehearse, I told Mom. Old Farfel made a small laugh, one that gets caught in the back of the throat and never really makes it out whole. I want to tell him to relax, to let it out. He smells like those dark cough drops, the kind that make your eyes tear and your head feel like it's expanding. I don't know how she can stand him. Speaker 1 (12:20) Well, the play's the thing, Old Farfel said. We're all just players strutting and fretting our hour on the stage. Mom smiled at this. It had made me wish Old Farfel would strut his hours at his apartment and not at our place. I hate the way he's beginning to come around all the time. When I get back from rehearsal, Mom is spinning Argus. It's what she does when she gets into one of her moods. Argus, our dog, died last summer when I was away at camp. My mother can't stand to part with anything, so she keeps Argus, at least his ashes, in a blue and white vase that sits on our mantle. Once, I looked into the vase. I'd expected to see gray stuff. Speaker 1 (13:12) like the ash at the end of a cigarette. Instead, there was black sand and big chunks of pink-like shells, just like at the beach. My mother had the vase down from the mantle and was twirling it in her hands. I watched the white figures on a turn, following each other, running in a race that never ends. Life is a cycle, my mother said. The spinning made me dizzy. I didn't want to talk about life. I wanted to talk about Helen. Helen. Again with Helen. Always Helen, my mother said. You want to know about Helen? I nod my head. Well, her father was a swan and her mother was too young to have children. You don't want to be Helen. Be lucky, you're a warrior. You're too smart to be ruled by your heart. And what about beauty? Wasn't she the most beautiful woman in the world, I asked. Mom looked at the Greek vase. Speaker 1 (14:21) Beauty is truth. Truth, beauty. That is all ye need to know. She is not always helpful. Manhattan is a rocky island, Mom said at dinner. There is no proper beach, no shore. My mother grew up in the South, near the ocean, and there are times when she still misses the beach. Jones, Brighton, or even Coney Island beaches don't come close for her. I know when she starts talking about the water that she's getting restless. I hope this means that old Farfel won't be hanging around too long. Every night, I write a letter to my father. I don't send them. I don't know where to send them, but still, I write them. I keep the letters at the back of my closet in old shoeboxes. I am on my third box. It's getting so full that I have to keep the lid tied down with rubber bands. I want to write, Mom is talking about the water again. I think this means she is thinking of you. Speaker 1 (15:32) We are both thinking of you, though we don't mention your name. Are you thinking of us? Do you ever sit on the shore at night and wonder what we're doing, what we're thinking? Do you miss us as much as we miss you? But instead I write, I'm in a play about the Trojan War. I get to wear a short white tunic, and I ambush people from inside a big fake horse. Even though we win the war, it will be many, many years before I return home, until I see my family again. In this way, we are the same. I will have many adventures. I will meet giants and witches and see strange lands. Is that what you're doing? I wish you could come to the play.