a magnificent distraction

Fresh out of my candidacy exams, I couldn't really get into any books. Call it burnout or relief or just plain time for a break, but I kept getting 10-15 pages into books and realizing I wasn't taking in a single word. Well, I checked Nick Hornby's book out from the Buellton public library and to my delight, I was 100 pages into it before I knew what hit me. As usual, Hornby's style is humorous and captivating, and the story was entertaining throughout. I think one of my favorite things about Hornby's stories is that he always writes about things with a brand of verisimilitude that I can relate to. Hearing his characters' thoughts makes me think about the same issues in my own life (although I tend to be somewhat relieved to discover that I'm significantly happier with how I've lived my life to this point than most of his characters are), and they always become "round" characters more quickly than I would think possible.

Juliet, Naked has perhaps one of the most successful happy endings (at least, I read it as a happy ending, although I think that could be a point of contention for some) I've encountered in a long while. Since he denies the reader the typical happy-ending-montage offered by the genre of contemporary "chick flicks," he avoids the sort of heavy cheese-factor that kind of ending creates. Instead, his sort of guided open-ending offers the satisfaction of a choose-your-own-adventure story without waking the reader from the dream of the text.

I really enjoyed Hornby's book, and I'm glad I happened to see it sitting on the shelf in the library. While the title made it mildly embarrassing to check out from the librarian -- a lovely and sweet woman whose daughter was a high school chum of mine -- it was certainly worth the two-second blush, and read like a light 200-page novel rather than a thought-provoking 406-page novel.

This is one of my all-time favorite books! It's not at all diminished on the second read, after years of building it up in my mind. I was doing a lot more thinking when I read it this time, and I was really quite impressed by the sheer number of ideas Yamashita took on with this novel.

Where to begin.... There's Chico Paco, the human angel who inspires people around the world, whose barefoot pilgrimage of 1500 miles secured his friend Gilberto's triumph over paralysis...the religious symbol who also happens to be gay as well as pure of heart and soul. There's Lourdes (the impoverished maid who has two children by a husband who abandoned her long ago) and Kazumasa (the extraordinary Japanese man with his own personal satellite in front of his forehead who makes a fortune overnight and does his very best to give it all away) -- and their love story that transcends class, nationality, assassins, and kidnappers. And what do we do with Mané Pena, the Father of Featherology who has "authored" innumerable books and delivered countless lectures and been awarded an honorary PhD...and who can't read, is extremely poor, and insists on going barefoot throughout his life? Of course, we can't forget J.B. Tweep, the three-armed American man obsessed with paperclips and increasing profit margins at any cost, who favors the artificial over the natural...and who marries Michelle Mabelle, the three-breasted French ornithologist who makes their home an indoor rainforest populated by all manner of birds (and of course the fact that they marry, have triplets, and split up). Finally, there's Batista Djapan and his wife Tania Aparecida with their pigeon business, their overwhelming love, and Batista's prophetic weekly messages.

It seems like, in many ways, Yamashita's characters achieve their greatest happiness when they form meaningful and honest relationships with the people in their lives. When, like J.B. Tweep, they choose profit and artificiality over all that is "real" in their lives, they cannot be happy. They cannot survive. The hitch in this argument, of course, is Chico Paco and Gilberto. They love each other, and they have a beautiful relationship, but Gilberto's obsession with crazy stunts and dangerous escapades ends up resulting in his death. However, he and Chico Paco die at approximately the same time, and they both die before the destruction of the Matacão which was so important to and so beloved by them. So perhaps there's something more to that, although they are also the only gay pair in the novel so perhaps Yamashita is making a comment on that as well.

Perhaps my favorite character in the entire novel is Kazumasa's ball. I love the ball, and I love that the ball is the narrator of the entire novel. I think everyone should read this novel!!

What a refreshing read! I've been reading a lot of stuff that's sort of out of my "for pleasure" reading zone, and while a lot of those works have been really interesting and worthwhile, not all of them have been quite as enjoyable. Larissa Lai's novel was so...well, fresh.

Okay, so part of what makes this novel so interesting to me is the "magical" aspect of it. It does "magic" in a very different way than some of the works I've been reading. For one thing (and this is not one of the "very different" aspects of it), the magic in this novel is very firmly grounded in folklore -- in a creation story, as a matter of fact. But another significant aspect of it is the prominence given to lesbian relationships. Not only is the creator in the creation story a female, but she becomes human only to fall in love with another girl. And of course, the present-day main character version of the creator finds herself reinserted into that same romance (with a woman named "Evie" of all things). In a similar vein, by the end of the novel the women have found a way to reproduce through produce that renders men 100% unnecessary. There's a lot of really interesting stuff happening at the level of gender and sexuality.

And of course, there're some interesting things going on with regards to genetics and cloning. The whole idea of making people -- carelessly, recklessly creating disposable people on a whim -- is a dominant theme throughout Lai's novel. What do we do with people once we've created them? Are we responsible for them? If they're cloned, if their blood contains non-human DNA, if they're just different enough, can we call them something other than human? And once they're no longer classified as "real people," can we take away their rights and use them as we please? The novel's publication date (2002) should be a good indication of how much the global cloning debates influenced the storyline and inspired Lai's imagination.

I'm also really interested in the politics of this novel. Lai tackles feminism, discrimination, socioeconomic standing, etc. There's so much to talk about, and I'm trying to decide if there's room for this novel in my dissertation.

I read both parts of the play (although I'm not entirely sure why it's broken into two separate books, since when you finish the first one you really don't have a choice but to read the second one if you want to find out what happens with all the characters). The first part is called Millennium Approaches, and the second part is called Perestroika.

Wow. I mean, where do I begin? Kushner is addressing so many different HUGE issues. He's dealing with AIDS in the 1980's, racism, homosexuality, politics, Zionism, religion (Judaism and Mormonism, with a little bit of Catholocism sprinkled throughout), and more. I feel somewhat overwhelmed as I try to construct some sort of coherent blog post. I'll start somewhere easy: the characters. Kushner's merciless. His characters either seem to be saintly (as in the case of Prior Walter and Belize) or sinnerly (as in the case of Joe Pitt and Roy Cohn). I'll admit that one of my favorite characters was actually Harper Pitt, Joe's wife, because of her perceived insanity (when she's actually one of the most sane characters in the play). Despite some pretty severe flaws, most of these characters are surprisingly likable. I think Kushner isn't interested in villainizing anyone -- I think he's more interested in exposing some of the tangled and complex aspects of human beings, and digging into some of the issues that arise from those complexities.

The central focus of the play really becomes AIDS, not because of the disease itself, but because of the way it plays out in the characters' lives. The idea that it's some sort of shameful disease that one should cover up arises in Roy Cohn's character...but he's also the most reprehensible character there is in this play, so when we see him trying to pass AIDS off as cancer it comes off as a negative action. And of course, through his interactions with Belize (especially regarding his stash of mega-elite drugs) we get more of an idea about how widely AIDS is really affecting people. Of course, we get this from the several direct comparisons between AIDS and the Black Plague (most blatantly when Prior Walter's ancestors visit him).

Man, I'm at a total loss as to how to tackle this play. Suffice it to say it's a really powerful, intelligent, and scathing work that tackles some huge issues and forces the reader to confront issues that are not always openly addressed. Also, Kushner's use of "split" scenes (in which some characters are in one location interacting with each other while other characters are located elsewhere on the stage, but are also interacting with each other -- both groups oblivious to the other) is a really interesting technique that allows him to create interaction between different characters and different situations, but through staging and line alternation a whole new message emerges out of the side-by-side action.

I'd heard of the Zoot Suit Riots before reading this play, but I didn't know a whole lot about them. To be honest, I didn't even know where they happened (which is quite appalling, considering I'm from Southern California and all)...which makes me wonder about the aims of American education. But shifting my focus a bit...

Formally, I really enjoyed this play. It was interesting and thought-provoking, and I thought Valdez employed some very fresh strategies throughout. Plays that are based on historical events run the risk of being kind of flat -- sort of reporting the facts without really thoroughly developing the characters. This play found a nice balance between the political and the aesthetic, and it really worked to convey the messages. I thought Valdez's point was really interesting. I mean, of course there's the aspect of the play that concerns historical events (hence the newspaper headlines that various characters spout off at different points in the play), but there's also the aspect of the play that connects those historical events to contemporary Chican@ life. Pachuco almost ends the play at a falsely happy Hollywood moment, but brings the lights back up and says:

But life ain't that way, Hank.
The barrio's still out there, waiting and wanting.
The cops are still tracking us down like dogs.
The gangs are still killing each other,
Families are barely surviving,
And there in your own backyard...life goes on. (88)

The idea that "gangs are still killing each other" is one that has powerful resonance in today's America (especially in highly urbanized cities like LA). Zoot Suit makes this connection explicit for the reader to highlight the relevance of what happened ~70 years ago (egad, was it that long ago?) to life today. Injustice is still alive and thriving, but the message that Henry learns through these events -- that there is hope, and that family is ever-important -- is still relevant. The play's ending, a sort of choose-your-own-adventure ending with three different life endings for Henry -- a return to prison and a drug-induced death, a trip overseas with the military and a soldier's death, and a more ordinary life lived happily-ever-after with wife and kids -- presents a series of options for young people who are involved in gangs. Valdez's play hinges on the idea that there is a choice to be made. It sort of asks the reader what they want their life to look like, how they want their story to be remembered. Burn out? Hero? Family (wo)man? And inherent in that choice is an invitation to change the direction that one's life is currently headed.

I read three stories from this collection: "My Ride, My Revolution," "Mechanics," and "Chain-Link Lover." All three focused on male protagonists who were struggling to succeed in some aspect of their lives -- mostly in love. Rodriguez's stories (at least, these three) took a closer look at the pressures and stressing factors at work on romantic relationships for these men; while this theme was fairly central to these stories, other ideas were at play as well.

"My Ride, My Revolution" dealt heavily with the idea of purpose -- the main character constantly questioned his purpose, his goals, the work he might do with his life instead of ending up beaten by the system and forced into low-paying dead-end jobs as he has been doing for his entire adult life. Compared to Chacon's stories in which the drive to break out of societal constraints and move life in a direction that's actually desired (oftentimes with the added element of anger), Rodriguez's stories feel much more trapped, cornered, and not-quite-but-nearly defeated. I'm not saying that he's presenting a hopeless portrayal of Chican@ life in the US; nope, I'm saying that his characters are struggling to stay afloat in a much more desperate way than Chacon's because, for the most part, they've lost their anger.

In "Chain-Link Lover" we see a counter-example for this trend. When the main character is confronted by a road-raging white truck driver threatening him with a tire iron, he remembers the mentally handicapped girl who loves him unconditionally and begins to feel real anger toward the man. He thinks of all the injustices or frustrations he's faced at the hands of others and draws them together to form a sort of fighting rage. However, while he is able to talk back to the driver and give him the "You want me? Come get me!" line, he also knows (and admits quite openly to the reader) that if the man decides to go through with his violence, it's a lost cause. In his big moment of bravery/bravado, this is how the narrative runs:

"'You want me? Come get me!' I prodded again, much braver now since I figured he didn't have the huevos. I knew most people didn't. It was something I counted on (but the day will come when I meet the vato who has what it takes to do exactly what he intends to do)." (157)

In other words, he is able to put on a brave face and make a hollow stand, but he's also very aware that he cannot follow through on his threats. I feel that there's a deeper political significance here, but I haven't figured out exactly where to go with that yet.

Finally, "Mechanics" presents a strangely optimistic/pessimistic outlook on love. The protagonist's entire life revolves around his wife and children until the day his wife leaves him. Then what? Well, then he realizes (over time) that her departure has actually freed him...but that he still loves his children immensely. I have no idea where to go with this, but it felt almost utterly hopeless.

I read three stories from this collection: "The Biggest City in the World," "Aztlán, Oregon," and "Too White." While all three were about different characters and had very different premises, there were some common themes running through them.

In "Aztlán, Oregon," the idea of institutionalized racism is really highlighted. The main character, a reporter named Ben who was once a gang member in Fresno but has since moved and become an anchorman, decides that he's going to do a radical political report on Chicano gangs. However, when he tries to talk to the gang members about the political conditions that may have contributed to their involvement in the gang, they shrug him off and continue talking about their own versions of the American Dream (wanting a decent house, a nice wife, etc.). Chacon focuses on the relationship between gang activity and contemporary American society, taking a critical look at the different ways kids (well-meaning kids, at that) end up involved in gangs. The issue comes up again in "Too White" when the main character, Joey, is forced to end his friendship with a white boy named Kenny in order to save his life. As Kenny rides away on his bike, Joey takes the beating that was originally meant for his ex-friend, only for Joey the beating takes on an entirely different meaning as evidenced by the last lines of the story:

"Through blurry eyes, I saw three figures standing over me. Then I felt the kicks all over my body, and I heard laughter. Then a sire. The cops were coming. They were all beating me, David, Johnny, Gilbert. I was the first to be jumped in." (134)

For Joey and his friends, there doesn't appear to be a way to bridge the racial divide between characters. The only solution is a violent reconciliation. Of course, in "Aztlán, Oregon" the violence that ends the story is of an entirely different nature: Ben beats up his supervisor (Brad) in a sort of cathartic outpouring of all of the emotions he's been keeping down in this city where he feels lost.

What, then, am I to do with "The Biggest City in the World" in light of these other two stories? In a similar manner, this story ends with the protagonist -- a timid college student named Harvey Gomez -- taking a cab ride to various locations in Mexico City when he knows he is flat broke. He makes a decision that will simultaneously allow him to experience his cultural heritage and also mean becoming a thief/cheat. Well, in many ways this is related to the other stories in a very significant way. Like Ben (who feels that he's lost his Chicano-ness) and Joey (who tries to navigate the gap between whites and Chicanos), Gomez begins to figure out what it means to him to be truly Mexican. After losing his wad of scholarship money -- a symbolic event that translates to a disconnection between Gomez and the Western institution -- he ends up being recognized by the cab driver (an "authentic" Mexican) as a "real" Mexican (this after Gomez's statement that he likes mariachi music).

Chacon's collection, from the three stories I read, seems to have a very specific political mission. The prevalence of gang issues and conflicting ideas of what it means to be Mexican, Chicano, or American are also critical, and Chacon seems to be writing for an audience who is struggling to work through these issues themselves.

Well, this collection is certainly very different from The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I guess that means it wasn't what I was expecting (meaning in part that it lacked any of the more supernatural or folkloric elements that Díaz's novel was so full of). In a way, yes, this was disappointing. However, the stories themselves were quite good.

I think the last story, "Negocios," was my favorite. It's not that it was that different from the others, it's just that it was longer and really dug into the complexities of immigration in a way that I haven't seen very often before. While the primary plot follows a man as he leaves his wife and children in the Dominican Republic and travels to the US (starting in Miami, then moving again to New York), it's a very internal journey. By this I mean that he experienced a lot of things that could be considered part of the archetypal US-immigrant narrative, but his thoughts and emotions regarding these experiences were what really made this story unique. On one level, he's fairly reprehensible (not really concerned with his familia in the DR, marrying a woman solely for the purpose of using her to attain citizenship, abandoning her and the son he has with her, etc.); on another level, his struggles and his journey illustrate the considerable strength of his character. I think this is where Díaz has really struck deeply into the idea of what it means to be an immigrant to this country -- of what it means to deal with racism and injustice and low wages and substandard living conditions and ridiculously long shifts...the list goes on.

The other stories were also good. I think Díaz covered an extraordinary amount of ground here. I mean, he has stories about teenagers in the US, children in the DR, laborers, students, etc. The story "Edison, New Jersey" for instance is about two men who assemble pool tables, and it's a fairly humorous story that doesn't deal with any huge, life-altering moments but does deal with the everyday issues that, when accumulated over time, can feel like life-altering moments. It also ends on a hopeful note.

Many of his stories deal with relationships between men -- friendships, but friendships that seem to run deeper than romantic relationships. I'll admit that the final lines of "Negocios" left me wondering about the father's relationship with his buddy, Chuito -- I think there are implications of their relationship being something more than friendship. After all, the narrative is given over to the son at the end, and he's talking about how he visited his father's second wife after his father had left his family as well. Then he goes on to describe the day his father came to get his familia from the DR and bring them back to NY, and he says:

"He bought a carton [of cigarettes] at a stand, knowing how expensive they would be abroad. The first subway station on Bond would have taken him to the airport and I like to think that he grabbed that first train, instead of what was more likely true, that he had gone out to Chuito's first, before flying south to get us." (208)

There's nothing major or scandalous here, but I think there is a subtle hint that Chuito was more important to his father than the familia was, and that his father ultimately chose Chuito over everyone else. It's small, but it's something that stood out to me -- by ending the story this way, Díaz left me wondering....

I found these two poems in an anthology called Hecho en Tejas: An Anthology of Texas Mexican Literature (pictured left).

I absolutely loved "Stupid America" because of the vehemence of the poetic voice and the personification of America as this sort of violent ignoramus who has to have pointed out to him the struggles of the Chican@ in America. It may be a short poem, but it has a big message to send. My favorite part is the ending:

remember that chicanito
flunking math and english
he is the picasso
of your western states
but he will die
with one thousand masterpieces
hanging only from his mind (176)

It just captures the profound sadness of this entire situation, where one person's genius could fail to be recognized simply because the system they live in refuses to recognize what they have to offer. Instead. that system buries it under grades and other measures that all culminate in one thing: the message that this person is worthless and has nothing to offer.

As for "The Chicano Manifesto" is also groundshaking. It touches on so many flaws in the system that I really became aware of when I was teaching at the high school level. I wish I could have my students read this poem now, because regardless of their racial composition, I think this poem is really important (especially in a place like California where there is such a large Chican@ population). The series of questions near the beginning of the poem are questions I've heard people say in various forms so many times:

what is it you chicanos want?
[...]
is it understanding?
is it that you want us to tolerate you?
is it admittance? (177)

When Delgado goes on to refute these questions, he makes so many excellent points. Understanding? Well, there's a huge difference between understanding and comprehending. It won't help. Tolerance? That just means you're putting up with someone -- tolerance does nothing to stop bigotry or racism or any of the problems from which discrimination arises. And admittance? Just asking that question situates one group on the "inside" and the other group (in this case, Chican@s) on the "outside." That's no good either. Delgado's poem really digs into the issue of race relations and points to some major flaws in the way mainstream (white) America tries to address the issue. It's a really worthwhile poem to read -- let me know what you think if you get the chance to read it.

Okay, I have to start by admitting that I thought this poem was going to be a book-length work, so I was really surprised when I discovered that it was really only a few pages long.

That being said, this poem blew me away. I feel like I need to go out and do some research on it, because it's really dense and complex, and I know I'm missing a large percentage of the references being made. However, I also know that the poem is extremely powerful. It's got a strong message to deliver about what it means to be Chican@, and what it means to really embrace one's past and bring it to bear on one's present.

I feel like anything I say is going to be inadequate. What I will say is that you should read this poem -- it's short, but it's really powerful. Give it a whirl and let me know what you think.

This is one of my favorite books of all time. I'll admit that I see Vizenor doing something very similar to what Ishmael Reed is doing in Mumbo Jumbo, but I already wrote about that when I read that book (so check out that review if you're curious).

In any case, I am really interested by what Vizenor is doing with regards to technology (specifically genetic engineering) in this novel. He's got all these ideas about stories in the blood -- something akin to racial memory, as he says -- and the healing power of survivance that can be passed on through this genetic signature the heirs of Columbus carry in their blood. Just as Howe's character Ezol explains her theories on Choctaw language and time travel (and the scientific nature of her claims becomes obvious), so Vizenor's characters are well-versed in scientific theories and processes and eventually use them to reclaim control over their blood. Since blood quantum legislation has had such a profound effect on Native Americans, Vizenor's method of subverting those laws is really interesting and not only contradicts stereotypes about the incompatibility of Native American culture and Western scientific knowledge, but also creates a loophole with regards to blood quantum.

I have so much more to say about this novel, but if you want to hear it I guess you'll just have to come to the NAISA conference in Tuscon next month where I'll be presenting a paper on The Heirs of Columbus and Miko Kings. :)

I was pleasantly surprised by this novel. I guess I always sort of thought it was about young girls, not women (as much of it is), and when I realized that these "girls" were not, in fact, little girls, I was glad. Not that I don't enjoy stories that are about children, but I found this very interesting.

I have to admit that one of the most interesting things about this novel is the format. Alvarez not only tells the story in reverse, but she puts the time periods in sections (1989-1972, 1970-1960, and 1960-1956) and proceeds through them all in reverse-chronological order. Unlike Fae Myenne Ng's novel Bone, Alvarez' story seems to be going in reverse as a means by which to trace the girls' development back to the time during which they still had accents (or the time during which they didn't have accents because they lived in the Dominican Republic and spoke Spanish like everybody else). By beginning with their adult selves living the States with families and friends, having overcome many major obstacles in their lives, Alvarez starts the reader with a look at how the girls will all turn out; this way, as we read backwards into their pasts, we can see the events that shaped them into the women we already know they will become. In Ng's novel, the backwards chronology seems to work as a lens through which to focus the reader's attention on a major trauma at the center of the characters' lives (Ona's suicide), but in Alvarez' novel the backwards chronology serves the purpose of filling us in on the complicated events of four women's histories so we can understand their complexities.

The three sections the novel is broken up into (each one consisting of 5 different parts) visits a significant period in the girls' lives. Part I is their adult lives, Part II is their teenage/college lives, and Part III is their childhood lives. Each part is haunted in its own way by their family's flight from the Dominican Republic -- I by the distant past that still casts its shadow over their lives, II by the not-so-distant past that continues to feel like a tangible threat to their happiness and safety, and III by the soon-to-occur future that looms ahead of all of them just waiting to force their displacement from home/family/friends when they flee the DR for NY. In a similar way, each part is haunted by who the girls were in previous parts. I contains echoes of the women's childhoods; issues and events that developed earlier in their lives are shown to continue playing significant roles in their happiness. II contains echoes from the past and the future, as the reader realizes what some of the events in this section will lead to while continuing to feel traces of the girls' pasts that are coming out in their adolescent lives. And of course, III takes place at the earliest point in their lives, but (just as the black mama cat continues to haunt Yoyo well into her adult life) key events take place here that the reader understands will lead to certain nuances in the García girls' adult personalities and lives. The way each part speaks to the other parts is really interesting, and was one of my favorite things about this novel.

I don't know what I was expecting from this text, but it wasn't what I got! I think I was assuming it was a novel, or at least a more traditional work of fiction, but what it really was was...uh...creative nonfiction? Perhaps.... I have a friend who says she considers it a work of theory, but I felt it was closer to political memoir or even political rant than that. In any case, it's an interesting work.

Since the entire "novel" (I hesitate to call it that since there is no consistent plot, and there are not really any characters besides the narrator) is narrated in the second person, Kincaid's writing takes on a mildly antagonistic tone that keeps the reader in the position of the antagonist. The reader is lumped together with ignorant and rude tourists, prejudiced colonists, and other such unsavory characters. While it's not an overtly hostile work, Kincaid definitely puts the reader in an uncomfortable position where they're forced to look at the situation from a specific angle and to realize the damage that some seemingly-harmless viewpoints (seemingly-harmless from the perspective of those doing them) have caused to Antigua already.

Here's a brief snippet from the book's opening to give you an idea of the kind of mesmerizing narrative Kincaid creates -- while it has no plot, per say, it definitely holds your attention in a strange sort of way:

If you go to Antigua as a tourist, this is what you will see. If you come by aeroplane, you will land at the V.C. Bird International Airport. Vere Cornwall (V.C.) Bird is the Prime Minister of Antigua. You may be the sort of tourist who would wonder why a Prime Minister would want an airport named after him--why not a school, why not a hospital, why not some great public monument? You are a tourist and you have not yet seen a school in Antigua, you have not yet seen the hospital in Antigua, you have not yet seen a public monument in Antigua. (3)

When reading this novel, I had to wonder how much of the character of the novel got lost in translation. It's an interesting enough story, but the language in which it's told kept me distanced from the characters and the events. I felt like Ti Noël, the protagonist, was a nice guy, but I didn't really find myself really feeling for him when he was on the run or when he was taken as an involuntary worker to help build the Citadel. It's unfortunate, because it really is the language that gets in the way, and since this is a translated work, I just keep thinking it's probably the translation that ends up losing some of the story.

In any case, the novel is a really interesting look at the Haitian Revolution (18th century, I think) and at some of the issues that have been coming up in other works on my reading list (civil liberties, personal beliefs, etc.) but without the same context of being set in America. In some ways, it is similar because this novel is also dealing with slavery...so just because that slavery isn't taking place on US soil doesn't mean it's entirely different. However, removed from the southern states in America, the situation does change in interesting ways.

I'm noticing how vague my entry is this time around. I think it's really because I felt a profound disconnect with this novel. Okay, so I'll talk about form. The novel is divided into four different parts, and each one begins with an epigraph. Perhaps more interesting are the chapter titles within each part. Several titles are allusions to other texts (such as "The Daughter of Minos and Pasiphaë" and "The Metamorphoses"), while many others are actually in what appears to be Latin (such as "De Profundis" and "Ultima Ratio Regum" and "Agnus Dei"), and still others actually deal with the events that will take place in the novel (such as "The Amputation" and "The Sacrifice of the Bulls"). Carpentier's novel does seem very referential in this way -- and within each chapter, there are often snatches of other texts (many of them religious in nature) which frequently appear in their original languages, and sometimes without a translation for dolts like myself.

All in all, this novel was interesting, but disappointing.

This is the second time I've read Miko Kings, and this time I was reading it with a specific focus in mind. I'm presenting a paper on this book at the NAISA conference this May, and was thinking about two main ideas as I read the book this time: the way Howe addresses history and the way she incorporates ideas of science into her story. I'll elaborate.

Okay, so with regards to history, I was thinking of two things. First, I was thinking about how she reappropriates baseball -- America's so-called pastime -- and grounds its origins in Native American culture. She explains how baseball was a cultural game played as a way to welcome one tribe to have transactions with another tribe. She also talks about stickball and how it served many purposes -- training young men to be warriors by bringing them endurance, etc. -- and looks at how certain elements of baseball are not coherent with western traditions or ways of thought. For instance, she focuses on how baseball is a game without limits; she also talks about how the pitcher stands on a mound (making him the connection between the earth and the heavens) and how the players move counterclockwise. There's more, but this is the basic stuff. Well, this reclamation of the sport is one way of addressing history -- the way that it has been told by one culture at the expense of another. She also brings up another idea that is really important, and will likely feature prominently in my paper later this spring: written history (legal documents, newspaper clippings, etc.) cannot be trusted. Histories that are put onto paper can lie, but in Howe's novel the histories that are told are not only much different than the ones that are written, but they're more honest, more accurate. The value placed on written histories is misplaced, while oral histories are increasingly important but also overlooked. There's more, but for now that'll have to do.

Okay, on to science. So Ezol and Hope Little Leader are able to transcend the limitations of time, shifting back and forth between the past, present, and future. Ezol has elaborate theories about time, and often has to deal with Lena's ideas of how Native Americans aren't using science or math when in fact, as Ezol points out, they have a long history with these technologies that western science fails to recognize as valid (an idea that has clearly permeated Lena's mind). She explains her theories at times, and Lena also reads about them in Ezol's papers. She discusses the connections between Choctaw language and the movement of bodies in time and space, articulating ideas about how the language one speaks opens up possibilities that other languages may not allow for. She also talks about the incompatibility between English and Choctaw, and explains that the verb tenses in English shut down temporal possibilities. In many ways, Ezol is far more advanced than western scientists and mathemeticians (after all, she has mastered the art of time travel) and has developed greater insights into complicated theories of time and space than western theoreticians and philosophers.

For more detailed analysis, you'll have to attend this May's NAISA conference in Tuscon. ;)

Sadly, this is only the second or third time I've seen this movie (despite the fact that I own it). However, it was really good, as usual. So, the first time I saw this film was during a summer film class in my MA program where we focused on auteurship and Spike Lee films. That means that when I watch it, I'm always remembering those issues of shot-type, camera angles and lenses, film stock, and general composition. This time around, with a little bit of distance between me and the film, I was struck by the artistry of many of the shots. There's a particular sequence that occurs when Malcolm X is first gaining serious popularity. In this sequence, we're hearing a voice over of one of his more famous speeches, and we're seeing images of him sitting on a bed in a hotel room watching actual footage from the Civil Rights Movement (and the events leading up to it). In this sequence, every time we see Malcolm the camera is slowly zooming closer and closer on his eyes so that by the end we've moved from a full body shot to an extreme closeup of his eyes (and those iconic glasses). I never paid much attention to this sequence before -- most likely because I was busy watching the newsreels and trying to figure out the context of those events (which I'm much more familiar with now that I've just finished all the readings on the African American literature portion of my reading list, and since I've taken a couple of classes that touched on the historical and cultural context of that era) and wasn't able to really look at what Lee was doing with it. I think it's a really nicely done sequence that helps to help the viewer understand the complexity of the situation Malcolm X was in -- preaching the ideals of one belief system while watching the real-world occurrences he was trying so hard to help people overcome.

Okay, so on a far less serious note, I enjoyed the use of wide-angle lenses throughout the film, and the colors and stylization of the entire opening portion (with its bright colors, choreographed movements, and elaborate wardrobes). Great film -- I'll have to revisit it more often.

I haven't read this book since I taught it the last time -- which was about 3 years ago, I believe. It's a powerful story, and one that never ceases to frustrate me throughout the reading. Walter Lee just drives me crazy...until the end, that is. But this time around I found him a lot more bearable. I'm not sure what's changed in me to find more understanding for me, but it was a different reading experience this time. Mama seems to be the only character who sees what's happening to him, and while I still get annoyed with him when he keeps cutting Ruth off and not letter her share the news of her pregnancy with him, I also found myself much more sympathetic to his plight than I have been before. While I still think he's quite a selfish character in some ways (most obviously, when he uses not only his own portion of the insurance money, but Beneatha's as well), this time around I also realized he's quite a generous character -- in his own way. He doesn't see his actions as being potentially harmful or cruel -- he honestly believes that his plan can succeed, that he might be able to help his family, to improve their situation. When he explains himself at one of his low points, he tells Mama:

Sometimes it's like I can see the future stretched out in front of me -- just plain as day. The future, Mama. Hanging over there at the edge of my days. Just waiting for me -- a big, looming blank space -- full of nothing. Just waiting for me. But it don't have to be. (73-74)

His hopefulness comes through here. His potential despair -- the ability to see this huge and empty future just waiting to swallow him up -- isn't able to squash his hope. He still sees the possibility for happiness, for success, for something other than nothingness. I think this is why later on, when he hits his lowest point, it's so painful to watch him wallow in his hopelessness. After Asagai's last visit, Walter Lee's pride is gone and he tells Beneatha:

You and that boy that was here today. You all want everybody to carry a flag and a spear and sing some marching songs, huh? You wanna spend your life looking into things and trying to find the right and the wrong part, huh? Yeah. You know what's going to happen to that boy someday -- he'll find himself locked in a dungeon, locked in forever -- and the takers will have the key! Forget it, baby! There ain't no causes -- there ain't nothing but taking in this world, and he who takes most is smartest -- and it don't make a damn bit of difference how. (142-143)

This is the low point, and what I failed to see in previous readings was just how utterly defeated Walter Lee was. I don't think I fully appreciated what it was he lost in this scene -- what it was that had to die inside of him before he could speak these words. But this time around, I realized why Mama was so profoundly saddened by this speech, and why Beneatha wanted to sever any links connecting her to the man who spoke these lines: Walter Lee lost his moral compass, his pride, his integrity -- everything that made him a decent and honorable person; he lost his humanity. This time around, I think I finally got Hansberry's message.

First impression: Reed's novel reminds me of Gerald Vizenor's writing. It's incredibly complex, dense, and crazy -- and he makes up his own language. Just as Vizenor talks about Postindian survivance and trickster tales, Reed talks about mumbo jumbo and HooDoo culture. I loved it. I can't wait to read more Reed -- he's amazing. A new favorite!

Okay, so my more intelligent-sounding thoughts? Yikes, where do I even begin. I hate to say it, but I feel like I was just skimming the surface with my understanding of what was happening in this book. I mean, I got the basic storyline, but there was so much going on all at once that I felt like I was in a little over my head. But I'll do my best. I think the end of the novel was really the crucial part, as far as what Reed wanted to accomplish here. I mean, the idea that the Jes Grew pandemic was sweeping the nation, making everyone sing and dance and have a good ol' time (and that these longstanding white-based organizations wanted so desperately to stop it that they [plot spoiler!!] enacted the Great Depression just to shut it down) was entertaining and an interesting thought experiment (I don't mean that in a demeaning way). But it was really the end when Papa LaBas and Black Herman went to arrest/apprehend Hinkle Von Vampton and Hubert "Safecracker" Gould that we get the full backstory of Jes Grew and the deeper historical implications of the fight against this "disease." And of course, you know I'm always a fan of this kind of historical rewriting -- Reed takes all these ideas and cultural elements traditionally attributed to European (read: white) progress and turns them on their heads by illustrating how they all stem from African (Egypt, in most cases). This is another move that made me think of Vizenor, just because I think both authors are doing something similar here: the move to claim credit for the invention of these things (and to discredit other things, like Jesus...who I believe they referred to as a charlatan) and to expose the theft of African culture by Europeans is a way of decentering the West and pointing out that western ideas of "civilization" have in fact led to widespread barbarity throughout history, and that there's something wrong with the histories we tell ourselves about the past.

In any case, you have to read this one! It's really quite incredible, and while it's dense and took me a few days to read, it was well worth it! I may end up an IR junkie, adding him to my list of greats like Gerald Vizenor, Karen Tei Yamashita, and JK Rowling (yes, I just lumped all those authors together).

When the blurb on the back cover said Dutchman was "designed to shock--its basic idea, its language and its murderous rage," I suppose I still wasn't really expecting what happened. I mistook Clay's impassioned rant as the shocking event, only to discover that (plot spoiler!!) the truly shocking event was Lula's murder and her complete lack of affect during and following this act. During Clay's rant, though, I think the politics of Baraka's work really comes through. This is not to say that I think Baraka actually believes that murder is the ultimately solution to the problems of African Americans, but I do think this rant is intended to snap the audience out of any sort of comfortable place they may have allowed themselves to fall into and to confront them -- violently, in a way -- with one side of this situation and a very powerful statement that race relations are not what some people would like to say they are, and that there is still a very present and deeply felt problem in modern-day America (especially give the play's original performance date of March 24, 1964). For me, the point at which Baraka's drama really hit me over the head with its vehemence was toward the middle/end of Clay's speech when he says:

If Bessie Smith had killed some white people she wouldn't have needed that music. She could have talked very straight and plain about the world. No metaphors. No grunts. No wiggles in the dark of her soul. Just straight two and two are four. Money. Power. Luxury. Like that. All of them. Crazy niggers turning their backs on sanity. When all it needs is that simple act. Murder. Just murder! Would make us all sane. (35)

While I don't believe Baraka meant these words literally, the idea itself is extremely powerful: all one group of people needs to cure them of their forced insanity is to eliminate the other group. The two cannot coexist -- not in the way they have been, anyway. I think what makes this play all the more gripping is the fact that the problem is clearly nowhere near being solved. Clay's body is dumped off the train -- by the other passengers, not by Lula! And when the play ends, she's at it again with the Young Man who walked onto the train right after everyone else made their mass exodus. Haunting is about the only word I can think of to describe it, but it doesn't come close to being a strong enough word for that label.

This collection isn't my favorite by Hughes, but it's still high quality poetry...by which I mean it gets me thinking about Hughes' themes and characters (yes, characters, despite the fact that it's not a narrative poetry collection). The repeated idea of a dream deferred crops up throughout this short collection; my favorite of these instances is the poem "Deferred" (413-4) in which a hodgepodge of voices come together to voice their little wishes, their everyday dreams that have had to be put off. The sometimes grand but mostly simple wishes (owning a television set, buying a white enamel stove that has been desired for decades, passing an exam, etc.) are so poignant, perhaps because of their juxtaposition with each other. Nobody's asking for a million dollars or a tropical island -- they're asking for things that many people consider creature comforts (things taken for granted by those who aren't struggling to get by). This poem, more than the others about hopes and dreams that have been put off out of necessity and survival, really brought home the point about what can happen when we put these things -- large and small -- on hold in order to attend to the day-to-day realities of living.

I also particularly enjoyed the poem "Mellow." This poem struck me not because of its subject matter, but because of the imagery and the beauty of the language itself:

Into the laps
of black celebrities
white girls fall
like pale plums from a tree
beyond a high tension wall
wired for killing
which makes it
more thrilling. (405)

It definitely embodies some of the underlying tensions running throughout the collection -- tensions surrounding race and sexuality. However, it isn't one of the poems that focuses on Harlem (as so many of these poems do) or on what it means to be an average Joe living in Harlem in the post-WWII era of financial strain, racial discrimination, and everyday dangers.

This novel made an interesting statement about history. Ursa's position in life is compressed by the collective histories of her Great Gram, her Grandmama, and her mother and their relationships with men (most significantly, the Portuguese slave owner, Corregidora). Instead of being able to live her own life, Ursa's life is driven by the women in her family and their instructions to her to produce "generations" and pass their histories down to those generations. However, because of this history that is constantly bearing down upon her, she's unable to truly give herself over to love. Granted, I wouldn't really deem the men in her life as being worthy of her love, but it seems like she's unable to love fully even when she thinks she wants to. Jones' decision to (plot spoiler!!) put Ursa in the situation where she is physically incapable of bearing her generations complicates her life by bringing into question not only her purpose in life, but also the way she lived her life up to the point at which Mutt's abuse caused the loss of her womb. By putting this particular character into a situation that prohibits her from passing on her history, her origins, Jones' novel interrogates the significance of history in the lives of contemporary African American people. Ursa's character has been damaged by her history; she lives her life simultaneously attached to the man who enslaved her great-grandmother and her grandmother (Corregidora, whose name she retains even in marriage and whose photograph is one of her few possessions) and also hating him (spreading word of his misdeeds and evil ways to those in her life). However, when Mutt's jealousy results in the loss of her womb (and her unborn baby), she is forced to reevaluate her life and the relationships she's had. She eventually seeks out her mother's history, which has also been buried beneath the Corregidora history, as a means by which to find a way to live her life outside of Corregidora-history. I guess what I'm trying to say is that Ursa's life is a testament to the need to move forward, even though her family history is important and shouldn't necessarily be forgotten or erased.

On another note, I must admit that Ursa's character was a bit difficult to get along with. She reminded me of Alice Walker's character, Celie, in The Color Purple in that both Ursa and Celie often fail to react visibly to the people around them. However, where Celie gave the reader an indication of her emotions, Ursa's character is far more distant and often remains frustratingly impenetrable even to the reader, leaving us as much in the dark about her emotions as the other characters are. While this was somewhat unpleasant to endure (especially as a reader who likes to have a close relationship with the protagonist), it did seem to serve a purpose: the reader had no more insight into Ursa's interior than Mutt or Tadpole or Cat. In fact, while Ursa was relatively likable, she was also somewhat irritating (in a manner similar to Arvay in Zora Neale Hurston's Seraph on the Suwanee) in that she seemed to have some closed-minded views (especially regarding Cat and her sexuality) that were in such stark contradiction to what the other characters deserved that it was sometimes difficult to follow her through her life. Overall, though, I think Ursa's lack of transparency further illustrates the way she was raised to fulfill a singular purpose: make generations, pass on the history of Corregidora. Her emotionless style of living reflects the history she's supposed to rail against, but has actually allowed to become part of her. Just as her Great Gram was forced into prostitution by Corregidora and her Grandmama was forced into concubinage by the same man, so Ursa has -- like her mother before her -- given up the part of her that can allow her to freely give her love and resigned herself to a life of sexual captivity. The men in her life use her sexuality against her, and eventually she comes to realize that she'll have to play their game. This makes me uncertain of what to do with the ending. I'll admit that it seemed...out of place. I didn't think she'd ever (mega plot spoiler!!) go back to Mutt, and I certainly didn't think she'd do it in the way she did. I'm not sure if I should be happy because I think she might have regained control of her own sexuality, or if I should be unhappy because Mutt's still getting her to do what he wants her to, and she's still stuck trying to figure out what it is that will please him. I want to say it's the former, but I think it might actually be the latter.

I read two stories from this collection: "The Final Inning" and "Whose Song?" Both stories deal with the issue of homosexuality within African American culture (here, they're specifically situated in the Bronx) -- but they go about it very differently.

In "The Final Inning," the formal aspects of Glave's writing are especially interesting. He uses a lot of parentheticals and colons and dashes in unusual ways as Greg examines his own thoughts, emotions, and sexuality. For example, when Greg reacts against the word "faggots" his thoughts are interrupted by other thoughts (also his), which Glave writes as "couldn't you keep it downtown with all them downtown faggots ( -- :don't call them that: -- ) that came up to the funeral?" (166). Because Greg's character is in a state of mental and emotional distress throughout this story, these unusual punctuations serve to highlight that distress and his continual mental interruption is expressed through parentheticals and sentence fragments isolated by dashes and the nontraditional use of colons. Greg also makes up words, or combines them (as you will). For instance, his son is of extreme importance to him, and he is described several times throughout the story as holding onto Greg Jr. "tight tighttight" -- a repetition and combination of words that focuses down on the action.

In "Whose Song?" the idea of song comes up constantly: a nightbird's song, a sorrow song, a blue song, a homie's song, a song unheard, a shadowrain song...the list goes on. Mixed in with all the kinds of songs are all kinds of musical ideas -- melodylessness, screaming, singing, etc. The juxtaposition of this musicality with the utterly depressing and dark plot events makes the idea of song -- of rising above, of drowning beneath, of bringing the soul out into the air in song -- seem fleeting and ungraspable. It also makes the happy moments seem really far away (especially since their songs are described with tender and nostalgic language) and feel like they're being crushed beneath the weight of the dark moments of the present (which are described with violent and harsh language). It's a troubling story, a deeply disturbing look at the ways people are damaged and how their pain can be used to damage those who have not been hurt in the same ways...yet.

This collection was, as you can imagine, easier for me to follow (since it's "narrative poetry" and therefore each poem or group of poems revolves around a defined plot with specific characters). I really enjoyed this collection, actually -- especially the longest poem in it: "Epic of Song" (which is actually composed of 23 shorter poetic segments). I thought the characters in this poem were actually really complex, and that Star's exploration of her sexuality was made all the more interesting because of the many factors playing into it -- her relationship with Candy, who is at once her first female lover and her boss; her relationship with Evalena, who is her coworker and lover, but also her friend; her desire to succeed as a musician, which becomes more complicated once Candy dies -- that illustrated the complexities of any relationship. I'm not sure I like how that is phrased, but I can't think of a better way to say it, so there it is. Anyhow, I enjoyed the rest of the collection as well -- not just the one poetic sequence. Clarke's poetry seems most interested in exploring female relationships (sexual or otherwise). Her poems are not formatted according to any highly formal poetic style, but they flow smoothly and with a rhythm of their own. Well, since I'm so "bad" at reading poetry, I can't think of much more to say about this collection despite the immense enjoyment it gave me and the interest I have in how Clarke is approaching her larger themes within this body of work.

I can't remember the last time I read this novel, but I know it was nearly a decade ago. It's funny, but I remembered where the title came from (an African American girl who wished for blue eyes) but not the rest of the plot. I found myself very interested in the way Morrison employed the sort of revised Dick-and-Jane narrative throughout the novel. The first two pages of the novel are a brief Dick-and-Jane story that is repeated three times -- the first in its normal format, the second without punctuation, and the third without punctuation or spaces between words. This reading, I realized that when she opens certain chapters with sections from these first two pages, the snatches of Dick-and-Jane narrative she opens the chapters with actually bring something to bear on the plot events of those chapters. In other words, she takes this seemingly-innocent child's story and brings it to bear on the rest of the novel. When she uses an excerpt from it to start a chapter, it highlights one aspect of that chapter and brings the reader's attention into focus around that aspect of the chapter. For example, she includes the following snippet at the beginning of a chapter in which we meet a woman whose relationship with her cat is more important to her and more intimate than her relationship with her husband and that with her son:

SEETHECATITGOESMEOWMEOWCOM
EANDPLAYCOMEPLAYWITHJANETHE
KITTENWILLNOTPLAYPLAYPLAYPLA (81)

Interestingly, she often uses these passages ironically. For instance, the chapter where we learn that (plot spoilers ahead!!) Pecola's mother doesn't really like her children, and that she prefers the little white girl whose family she works for, we get an excerpt that reads:

SEETHEMOTHERMOTHERISVERYNICEMO
THERWILLYOUPLAYWITHJANEMOTH
ERLAUGHSLAUGHMOTHERLAUGHLA (110)

By situating this passage at the beginning of the chapter, Morrison foregrounds the mother-daughter relationship that will become so crucial in this chapter. The fact that Pecola's mother doesn't like her children and resents Pecola for her ugliness from the day she is born becomes extremely ironic in light of this passage that includes a laughing and playful mother. The irony is stronger and harder to deal with in the chapter about Pecola's father, Cholly. The opening excerpt (132) includes a big, strong, smiling father. This portrait of familial happiness is grossly distorted as the chapter leads up to Cholly's rape(s) of his own daughter. The way Morrison writes the passages so that they're bleeding together also lends a certain creepiness to them. The repeated lines, such as "laugh, Mother, laugh" turn into zombie-like commands that make the passages erie instead of cheerful. This mood permeates the entire novel, and really makes the reader see just how wrong things have gone in Pecola's life. The twisting of the Dick-and-Jane narrative underlines the twisting of "normal" family roles (parents as loving protectors of their children) so that the world these children live in becomes distorted -- a minefield of dangers where dangers should not exist.

I struggled my way through this book, to be perfectly honest. That's not to say that it wasn't a good read, but that it was difficult after finishing Seraph on the Suwanee (which was a much more absorptive read) and dealt with subject matter that I'm less interested in (i.e. religion). However, there's a lot that I gained by reading this novel. Tying it in with the other African American novels I've read recently, it seems to be part of a larger body of work that's interested in interrogating the religious values that are so much at the heart of the culture by focusing in on different characters. Baldwin seems most interested in religious hypocrisy, which becomes most apparent in John's father, Gabriel. Gabriel is a kind of preacher, but he's not really living a life that would be considered in accordance with the teachings of the Bible. His sister, John's Aunt Florence, says it the most directly at the end of the novel when she reveals her knowledge of Gabriel's unclaimed (and now dead) son; she chastises Gabriel and tells him how his life is really working as she sees it:

"Yes," said Florence, watching his face, "you didn't give her no bed of roses to sleep on, did you?--poor, simple, ugly, black girl. And you didn't treat that other one no better. Who is you met, Gabriel, all your holy life long, you ain't made to drink a cup of sorrow? And you doing it still--you going to be doing it till the Lord puts you in your grave." (243)

These sentiments are at the heart of the novel, and crop up throughout it (although this is the place where they become the most explicit). There is a wide variety of characters - in both the past and the present -- who have vowed to live a good life according to the Bible only to find themselves in situations where doing what their hearts want and doing what Christianity dictates are completely at odds with one another. The fact that Baldwin situates the most vile character of the novel (Gabriel) as a man of the cloth while simultaneously situating decent, good characters (Deborah, Elizabeth, Florence) as perceived sinners and fallen women highlights the hypocrisy he's so interested in exposing.

It's also interesting that Balwin chooses to explore these issues through a boy who's just turned 14. John's story begins and ends the narrative, with his (foster)father's, mother's, and aunt's stories coming in the middle of his story. The entirety of Part Two is actually analepsis taking place during the evening worship where John will eventually endure his own struggle with his faith. I think part of what this accomplishes is that we're seeing a boy whose entire family -- the good and the bad -- has essentially failed at merging their own happiness with their faith, and here's John who is struggling with his own inner turmoil and trying to decide which direction his own life will take. In the aftermath of Part Two, it becomes clear that John's struggle is somewhat unrealistic. Each of his role models has been through the same struggle, and each has fallen (in their own eyes). How can John possibly succeed? And I think this is the question Baldwin wants the reader to leave with. If he wanted the reader to be more optimistic, why would he include that final exchange between Elisha and John, during which John implores Elisha:

John looked at his father an dmoved from his path, stepping down into the street again. He put his hand on Elisha's arm, feeling himself trembling, and his father at his back. "Elisha," he said, "no matter what happens to me, where I go, what folks say about me, no matter what anybody says, you remember--please remember--I was saved. I was there." (252)

 Despite the apparent attainment of salvation, John's words speak of uncertainty, or even of a kind of conviction that it will not last. He has no choice but to enter his house again -- the same house where he lives with his mother and his (foster)father, and where he is beaten and his mother is beaten and his brother is beaten. And it doesn't look hopeful. It doesn't seem like it's going to last, and John's own words indicate his awareness of this.

Honestly, I haven't read Hurston for over ten years...and even then, it was Their Eyes Were Watching God that I read (not that I actually remember anything of that novel, unfortunately...perhaps after I finish my exams I'll give it another go). I must admit that it wasn't what I thought it would be. I suppose I've gotten too used to movies and TV and the way they kill off, traumatize, and generally destroy their characters at the drop of a hat. I spent half the novel worried that something was going to happen to Arvay and/or Jim (something horrible and criminal), and can only admit my extreme relief upon reaching page 352 and finding that they made it out alive. And, what's more, happy! Okay, okay, enough of my emotional reactions to this novel. I was really intrigued by the way Arvay's prejudices and preconceptions were confronted for the entire novel. At first, her unusual notions seemed to be simply naive reactions to her own happiness. However, as the novel progresses and Arvay is forced to deal with people from all different walks of life and cultural and racial backgrounds, her stubborn ignorance becomes obvious (and aggravating) to the reader. Because we have no choice but to experience Arvay's thoughts and emotions, we have no choice but to at least tolerate (if not accept or understand) where she comes from and try to consider what it means to be so used to your own way of thinking that you can't see the flaws of the thing.

While that's interesting, and I certainly think Arvay is a sympathetic enough character to allow most readers to be on her side (even if she frustrates them to no end), there was another aspect of the novel that was...troubling: Jim's treatment of Arvay (this could be broadened to a more general discussion of male/female relations, but I'll stick to Jim and Arvay). From the beginning, he seems to know more about her than she does about herself, as evidenced by his little stunt with the turpentine in her eye. This is okay, even if it does rub me the wrong way just a little bit, but where it started getting flat out weird for me was on the day of their marriage. When Jim rapes Arvay, she comes back for more and realizes her love for him. Years later, Angelina's beau tells her that she'd better be careful or he'll rape her, and she tells him that she's going to help him rape her. But that's not Arvay and Jim. There are many smaller instances -- moments where he patiently (and patronizingly) tolerates her ignorance and intolerance -- but the next major instance occurs shortly before he leaves her when he makes her strip and stand before him, naked, scrutinizing her (and humiliating her) and never giving any explanation or justification for his cruelty. I don't really know what to make of all these little problematic moments sprinkled throughout the text, but I know that there's something going on with gender and relationships that's problematic. For now, that's about as far as I can puzzle out about it.

Finally, Hurston's sending some strong messages about religion. It's not my favorite topic to discuss, so I'll keep it short, but basically Arvay's clinging to her Bible (and her gross misinterpretations of its contents) is shown in an almost entirely negative light. Jim comments on this several times, and Carl Middleton (her brother-in-law) illustrates the same principle. I'm not sure whether the overall message is a kind of religion-is-bad sentiment, if it's more focused around religious hypocrisy, or if it's more about the inadequacy of religion in some respects. It's strange. It's interesting. That's all.

Angelou's poetry is a lot easier for me to follow than other kinds of poetry (ahem, lyric poetry, ahem) because each poem tells a story. I know, I've said this before. I think I might have said it for each and every last one of the poetry collections I've written about in this blog. Well, there it is -- the bare truth. I like narrative poetry. So, back to Maya Angelou.... Of course, her poems are also different in that the stories they tell are not always of a specific individual, but of a somewhat abstract, more general individual. Oftentimes, the poems appear to be about African Americans in general (as opposed to a specific person), which is of course highlighted by Angelou's interest in the African American experience, history, and culture. Take the title poem, "Still I Rise." It's a good example of a lot of the things I've been talking about here. While the narrative "I" appears to be an individual, the poem is general enough that there are no specifics about this person other than their race (African American). The last two stanzas provide a good example of what I'm talking about:

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling adn swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously cear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

This poem also brings up the unique rhythms Angelou uses. Okay, so maybe I can't call them "unique" so much as I can say they're not conforming to any rigid forms of poetry (sonnets, ballads, etc.) but instead have a rhythm all their own. She uses a lot of rhyming in her poems, but she seems to like to play with how she uses rhyme. It's not always coming in the form of rhyming couplets or rigid internal rhyme scheme. Instead, it's (again) a very rhythmic rhyming that is tailored to each specific poem. Within one poem, she might switch up the rhyme scheme from stanza to stanza. She does this in "Life Doesn't Frighten Me" -- some of the end rhymes (the -all sound, for instance) occur throughout the entire poem rather than just one stanza, while other end rhymes come in and out for single instances. The first stanza reads:

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn't frighten me at all
Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud
Life doesn't frighten me at all

Obviously, here the rhyme scheme is fairly simple. However, the third stanza is different:

I go boo
Make them shoo
I make fun
Way they run
I won't cry
So they fly
I just smile
They go wild
Life doesn't frighten me at all.

Here, not only is the rhyme scheme different (rhyming couplets, essentially), but the structure is different enough that it could appear to be from a different poem entirely. The 3-words-per-line format is interesting, and reminds me of Gwendolyn Brooks' "We Real Cool" in the way it truncates language and makes its own kind of linguistic sense. Suffice it to say, I enjoyed this collection immensely (a true feat for a poetically intimidated reader like myself).

The last time I read this book, I was a senior in high school. I figured I wouldn't really remember the story, despite the fact that I remember liking it, but I was wrong. As I read, I continued to recall characters' names before they were introduced (most especially Shug Avery), and to have an inkling of what direction the events were headed in. However, my pseudo-vivid memories of the novel also made me realize just how much of it went over my head when I read it way-back-when.

I think what made the novel stick so firmly is the depth of the characters. They're so vivid, more so than even Ellison's characters (who had nearly 600 pages to develop). This is especially true with Celie, of course, since she's the one writing most of the letters and we get her inner perspective much more than the other characters. But the character dynamics are probably the most interesting thing to me in this novel. The way their relationships continue to shift and grow in new directions is fascinating, and the way their lives become increasingly connected is also really interesting. I know, I know..."fascinating" and "interesting" are such vague terms. Let me see if I can clarify. The way Walker weaves together her characters' lives and their always-changing romantic ties to one another seems to be a great feat of verisimilitude on the one hand (because in real life, this constant shifting is always occurring) and idealistic on the other (because all the characters find happiness in their relationships by the end of the novel, which entails a great deal of open-mindedness and acceptance on a level that not all characters actually seem capable of). But the way that the characters change and mellow with age is certainly what keeps the story interesting to read.

To be frank, I love a story with a happy ending, and so this tale appeals to me on that level. However, I think it's really difficult to write a believable happy ending (much more so than to craft a believable unhappy ending), and Walker has mostly succeeded on that front. It's not a conventional happy ending, as Disney would most likely want to have; instead, it's a complicated ending with lots of twists and turns, lots of history, and lots of personal growth for each character. In this sense, I think Walker did an admirable job with it because the ways different characters changed and grew over time was quite believable in most ways.

As for the novel's form, well, someone told me that it's the first epistolary novel in the African American tradition. As such, I find it interesting to look at exactly who Celie is addressing her letters to. For the first half of the novel, all the letters are addressed to God. Ordinarily, this would be quite straightforward...except that Walker complicates even this in the second letter of the novel. Celie writes that when her mother asked her where her first baby came from, she replied that it was God's. Of course, it was her stepfather's, so this calls the "God" of the letters' addresses into question. Lending further suspicion to this idea is the fact that when she refers to her stepfather in these early letters, she calls him only "He" -- with a capital H just like in the Bible when God is referred to with the same capitalized pronoun. Is Celie, in fact, writing these letters to her stepfather? It's a question I have no answer to, especially when Celie and Shug have their discussion on religion and the reader is privy to Celie's ideas of what God looks like (a very large and very old white man with lots of hair).

A veritable tome of a book, but what a story. From the very beginning, I couldn't put it down. Ellison's unnamed narrator tells a compelling story, even though he's not particularly lovable. His various flaws generally serve to make him more human, and to make the reader wish he would have his eyes opened sooner rather than later so he can get on with his life.

One thread that caught my attention was the one having to do with fighters. From the very beginning, the narrator illustrates his ability to fight. Whether you want to consider his example from the introduction (where he talks about beating up a man only to realize the man can't see him because he's invisible) or the instance where he goes to give his graduation speech and becomes entangled in a physical fight with the other boys who were brought there for that purpose, fighting is a crucial part of his life. It's through his first fight (the latter instance mentioned above) that the narrator gets his precious briefcase -- that symbol of so many things. When he takes Mr. Norton to the Golden Day -- the decision that ends his formal education -- the entire bar becomes a roiling fight (even though he stays out of it this time). When he gets his first job, he fights Lucius Brockway the same day he is injured and has to be hospitalized. When he gives his first planned speech, it's at an old arena where years ago a prizefighter "had been beaten blind in a crooked fight, [a] scandal that had been suppressed, and [...] the fighter had died in a home for the blind" (334). When he comes up against Ras the Destroyer, it's in a fistfight in the dark streets. And finally, when he becomes invisible (or really realizes his invisibility) it's as he runs from a fight, flees from Ras' men, falls into the coal pit, and is shut out from the world. I'm not sure exactly what to make of all the fighting imagery except at the most obvious level: the narrator has to fight for every important step in his life. He has to fight for his very life at times, and he continues to struggle rather than to give up. It's only when he truly flees from a fight that he sinks into invisibility...falls into that near-lifeless state his life is in when the novel ends.

Perhaps the most intriguing thread of this novel was what the unnamed narrator's grandfather said on his death bed, which continues to haunt the narrator throughout the story. He said,

"I never told you, but our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days, a spy in the enemy's country ever since I give up my gun back in the Reconstruction. Live with your head in the lion's mouth. I want you to overcome 'em with yeses, undermine 'em with grins, agree 'em to death and destruction, let 'em swoller you till they vomit or bust wide open." (16)

This, of course, leaves an impression on the narrator, but he continues to think that the whites are going to think he's a traitor when in fact it's his own people he's treacherous to all along...it just takes him some time to figure it out. His struggle with this cryptic bit of advice from an old and dying man serves as a kind of marker of his progress as he works his way through his own life. The various ways he considers his grandfather's words indicate his mindset and his guiding principles each time he ponders this outburst.