This is Cathy Lee.
“Cowboys” reads
like a personal, intimate recounting of events, rather than a mere first-person
narrative. The protagonist slips easily into language that expresses
familiarity when she addresses the reader, which she does often, as exemplified
in lines such as “I’m telling you this because the story came to me today for
no real reason” (p. 26). The protagonist also has the tendency to be distracted
easily when recounting events, and often detracts from her current train of
thought, or the event that is currently occurring. She slips from subject to
subject easily: she jumps from the subject of her father flatlining to her relationship
with her and her ex-boyfriend (p. 25), from her father’s vegetative state to
the absence of fields in Missouri (p. 25-26), and from the thought of taking
her father off the respirator to a slew of musings on sexism, sparked by the
doctor’s sigh (p. 27). This underscores how fluid the protagonist’s thought process
is. Furthermore, she has a way of simplifying words and making them blunter and
franker, without the technical terms others employ to tiptoe around the
sensitive subject of euthanasia. She reduces the delicate term “respirator” to “machine”
(p. 27), and the euthanizing of her father to “[killing] her father” (p. 23).
Coupled with her unorthodox method of storytelling, which reads like a genuine
stream of thought, rather than a structured recount of events, this contributes
to the emphasis of the intimate feel of the story.
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