Zora Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God is richly dense in meaning and purpose using poetic language and folkloric imagery to convey its messages. One dominating motif in the first half of the novel is that of the mule. Four times it appears: Nanny explains that “ de nigger woman is de mule uh de world;” Logan buys a second mule so Janie can help with the plowing; Matt Bonner’s overworked and underfed mule runs away and becomes the butt of the town joke; and the same, but newly emancipated, mule is dragged out after its death for a ceremonial funeral. At last, Huston’s freed and heaven-bound mule inverts the terms of accepted hierarchies, namely white over black, and male over female, liberating, if but momentarily, black women from these unquestioned social paradigms.
Historically, Western ideas of hierarchy have fostered racism by placing black people below white people simply because blacks supposedly lack the human ability to reason. For example, Hume and Kant proposed that blacks, because of their significantly lower intellectual abilities, were "naturally inferior" to whites and cited the lack of “arts” and “sciences” among blacks as evidence for their atrocious claim. Africans and African Americans have subsequently been put to the plows like mules. However, subordinate to their male counterparts, black women are one rung lower on the social ladder. Nanny explains: “So de white man throw down de load and tell de nigger man tuh pick it up. He pick it up because he have to, but he don’t tote it. He hand it to his womenfolks. De niggerwoman is de mule uh de world so fur as Ah can see.”
Huston’s choice of animal to represent the oppression of black women is significant considering the mules’ conception and connotation. The mule is of mixed heritage: a male donkey and a female horse. Donkeys have aptly been characterized as stubborn, foolish and disagreeable, while horses are known for their strength, intelligence, and sociability. The description of mules reveals a striking parallel to Janie Crawford. Like a mule, she is the product mixed inheritance; Nanny, her grandmother was raped by her white slave owner and later, Leafy, her mother, was raped by her school teacher. Both the slave owner and the school teacher are the untamed jackasses in the mule lineage while the black women are the beautiful mares whose heritage is tainted from the rapes.
It is in this context, then, that makes it easy for the reader to understand why Janie feels empathy for Matt Bonner’s mule when some of the townsmen decide to torment the animal. After seeing Janie’s disapproval of the mule’s mistreatment, in an act that is deemed as honorable as Lincoln’s liberation of the slaves, Jody buys the mule for five dollars so the “poor brute beast” can rest. The town’s comparison of black slaves to the mule further demonstrates that even black people have accepted the social paradigm of white above black. Furthermore, Janie’s empathy for the animal is indicative of the binary symbolism of the animal. She feels for the mule not only because she identifies with the mule as a member of the black race, but, more specifically, she identifies with the mule because she is the lowest of the low—she is a black woman.
However, the imagery of the white man driving the black, female mule “tuh death” is reversed when the recently-freed mule dies and ascends to “mule-heaven.” The entire town, everyone except Janie that is, gathers just outside of the community to give their good-humored respect to the deceased animal. In true preacher fashion, Sam Watson employs the belly of the beast as a pulpit and speaks of the joys of “mule-heaven.” Among miles of corn, cool water, and a river of molasses, “Up there, mule-angels would have people to ride on.” The image of mules riding on the backs of men suggests a new hierarchy for Hurston, a new hierarchy that challenges the old, a new hierarchy with black women at the top.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Go Up, Thou Bald Head
Last night, May 15, 2010, was perhaps the most barren night of my life. It started when I woke up late and I didn’t have time to shave both my face and my head before church. I shaved just my face. I went the day thinking I looked devilishly dashing—like Handsome Rob in The Italian Job—but, after taking a closer look, I realized I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not my lot to be handsome like Rob; it’s my lot to be bald like Elisha and have children mock me. Just last Wednesday, my sweet little cousin put a coon-skinned hat on my head and laughed: “Now you have hair!” That started all the other kids laughing. Dear God: where were the hungry she bears(1) when I needed them? But this isn’t about my bad day Wednesday; this is about my bad night last night. I went to get ready for bed and I looked in the mirror. I craned my neck to view the back of my skull but to no avail. I needed two mirrors. I went into the bedroom and pulled the dressing mirror off the wall for a better look. But it wasn’t any better. Instead of shining with beautiful golden-brown locks, my head shined translucent like butter-fried shrimp. For nearly an hour, I tried to get a better angle. But the more I looked the less I saw. In my mourning, I say to my departed friends: you are numbered among God and you are numbered among me. In the dawn of the Millennium, you and I will meet again to be reunited for eternity. Until that marvelous morning: go your way unto all the earth, from “dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return(2)”.
1 2 Kings 2:23-25
2 Genesis 3:19
1 2 Kings 2:23-25
2 Genesis 3:19
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
God in Literature
I really enjoyed writing this paper. It was only for a 200 level course so I didn't support the premise of my argument with scholarly research; it wasn't required. However, I'm thinking about delving into the research and developing my paper further so I can submit it to a religious conference here on campus.
Redemption from Nihilism: Christian Imagery in Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant”
“God is dead…. And we have killed him.” Nietzsche’s death of God is a way of saying that humans are no longer able to believe in any cosmic order since they no longer recognize it. When society has given up the Christian faith, Nietzsche claims, society pulls the right to Christian morality out from under its feet. The death of God and the abandonment of Christian morals run rampant in modern literature: Virginia Woolf writes that her “Jew[ish husband] has more religion in one toe nail—more human love, in one hair” than all of Christianity combined; Joseph Conrad describes “The horror! The horror!” of a chaotic and bloody world in Heart of Darkness; and James Joyce depicts an artist as a prophet as he gradually grows into artistic self-consciousness in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Simply put: modern literature has written God out of the text and subsequently out of our lives. However, despite the pending nihilism of the 20th Century, God is not dead. George Orwell’s essay, “Shooting an Elephant,” illustrates clearly how common motifs in modern writing: violence, chaos, and oppression, can transcend a morally-devoid world and offer peace, order, and redemption. In what could easily be read as a negation of the more meaningful aspects of life, “Shooting an Elephant,” triumphantly overcomes its inherent nihilism by presenting a Christology that redeems Christianity in literature in an ever-growing pessimistic world.
Traditionally, “Shooting an Elephant” reads as a short story depicting the evils of imperialism: the mad elephant symbolizing the powerful British Empire that raids and crushes the black Dravidian coolie, a symbol of the downtrodden Burmese. If the symbolism is inverted, however, which a closer reading of the text justifies, the elephant, instead of representing an oppressive, tyrannical force, becomes a liberating Christ figure. When the narrator sees the “sea of yellow faces” fixated on him and feels “their two thousand wills pressing [him] forward,” he understands that, despite his reluctance, he will “have to shoot the elephant.” This scene is reminiscent of Jesus’ trail and condemnation in the New Testament when Pilate, the reluctant Roman authority, does not want to execute Jesus.
According to the canonical Christian Gospels, Pilate presides at the trial of Jesus and, despite stating that he personally finds him not guilty of a crime meriting death, hands him over to crucifixion. The Sanhedrin, whom find him guilty of blasphemy under Mosaic law (which would never warrant capital punishment under Roman law), take Jesus before Pilate and accuse him of trumped-up charges: sedition against Caesar for opposing taxes and calling himself a king. Concerned more with the latter accusation, Pilate’s main question to Jesus is whether he considers himself the King of the Jews—thus rendering him a political threat to Rome. Pilate, nonetheless, finds him harmless. The crowd, however, want him executed. Coached by the Pharisees and Sadducees, they cry out, “Crucify him” (Mark 15. 13). Jewish leaders then explain to Pilate that Jesus presents a threat to Roman occupation through his claim to the throne of King David. Left without options, Pilate washes his hands before the crowd and unwillingly condemns Jesus to death, saying, "I am innocent of this man's blood; you will see" (Matt. 27.24).
Likewise, in Orwell’s short fiction, the narrator faces the trial and execution of a criminal whose allegations carry a political threat. Like Jesus, who is passed from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, the offending elephant is passed between the jurisdictions of its “mahout” it escapes, to the Burmans who are powerless to stop it, then finally to the British police who ultimately phone the narrator to take care of the matter. The British police parallel the Roman Empire while the narrator, the legal representative of England, parallels Pilate, the legal representative of Rome. While it is impossible for an elephant to hold any political office, except perhaps in an animal farm, the elephant is still a legal threat to the British. The narrator states that had he not shot the elephant, “[his] whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.” Walking away from the elephant suggests to the Burmans that for all their show and display of authority, the British are essentially powerless. Furthermore, in Eastern culture, elephants are loved and revered as symbols of royalty and religious divinity. Christ is both royal and divine. Like Jesus is to Pilate, the elephant is a king posing political danger to the narrator.
Despite its enormous size and strength, not to mention the physical harm it’s capable of, the protagonist knows with perfect certainty that he “ought not to shoot [the elephant].” He describes the elephant as “harmless,” walking around with a “preoccupied grandmotherly air.” The narrator determines that the best course of action is to watch the animal for a while to ensure it does not again turn savage, and then go home. However, reminiscent of the hostile crowd shouting “crucify him” in Pilate’s courtyard, the “sea of yellow faces” behind him is “shouting excitedly... shoot the elephant.” Realizing his options are exhausted, he decides to carry out their will. Figuratively washing his hands of what he describes as a “murder,” the narrator justifies his actions given that the elephant has in fact killed a coolie, putting him “legally in the right and [giving him] a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant.”
The most vivid metaphor of Christian divinity is the execution of the elephant. The narrator testifies, “I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim.... The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights.... I aimed [and] pulled the trigger.” The image of a cross superimposed on the elephant evokes the image of Christ crucified. Once at Golgotha, Jesus is stripped and nailed to the beam and hung between two convicted thieves. Pilate orders Roman soldiers to affix a sign above his head stating: King of the Jews—an ironic twist to his accusations. According to Mark's Gospel, he endures the torment for some six hours, until he “gives up the ghost” at the ninth hour (Mark 15.27). Eventually, a soldier pierces Jesus’ side with a spear to be certain of his death. Analogously, the narrator “pours shot after shot” into the animal with his elephant rifle. Although the bullets cause a violent and “mysterious, terrible change” upon the elephant’s countenance, “they seem to make no impression.” The elephant, like the God of the Christian faith, seems to have power over life and death, “giving up [his] ghost” according to his own will. Following his death, in true sacramental fashion, the Burmans congregate over the corpse of the animal and “strip his body almost to the bones” for meat. Jesus said unto his disciples, “Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day” (John 6.53-54). In this sense then, the elephant becomes a Christ figure providing salvation through the offering of his life and the endowment of his flesh—thus, redeeming and “raising” modern literature from its characteristic nihilism and providing a foundation for Christian morality in an ever increasing Godless world.
Redemption from Nihilism: Christian Imagery in Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant”
“God is dead…. And we have killed him.” Nietzsche’s death of God is a way of saying that humans are no longer able to believe in any cosmic order since they no longer recognize it. When society has given up the Christian faith, Nietzsche claims, society pulls the right to Christian morality out from under its feet. The death of God and the abandonment of Christian morals run rampant in modern literature: Virginia Woolf writes that her “Jew[ish husband] has more religion in one toe nail—more human love, in one hair” than all of Christianity combined; Joseph Conrad describes “The horror! The horror!” of a chaotic and bloody world in Heart of Darkness; and James Joyce depicts an artist as a prophet as he gradually grows into artistic self-consciousness in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Simply put: modern literature has written God out of the text and subsequently out of our lives. However, despite the pending nihilism of the 20th Century, God is not dead. George Orwell’s essay, “Shooting an Elephant,” illustrates clearly how common motifs in modern writing: violence, chaos, and oppression, can transcend a morally-devoid world and offer peace, order, and redemption. In what could easily be read as a negation of the more meaningful aspects of life, “Shooting an Elephant,” triumphantly overcomes its inherent nihilism by presenting a Christology that redeems Christianity in literature in an ever-growing pessimistic world.
Traditionally, “Shooting an Elephant” reads as a short story depicting the evils of imperialism: the mad elephant symbolizing the powerful British Empire that raids and crushes the black Dravidian coolie, a symbol of the downtrodden Burmese. If the symbolism is inverted, however, which a closer reading of the text justifies, the elephant, instead of representing an oppressive, tyrannical force, becomes a liberating Christ figure. When the narrator sees the “sea of yellow faces” fixated on him and feels “their two thousand wills pressing [him] forward,” he understands that, despite his reluctance, he will “have to shoot the elephant.” This scene is reminiscent of Jesus’ trail and condemnation in the New Testament when Pilate, the reluctant Roman authority, does not want to execute Jesus.
According to the canonical Christian Gospels, Pilate presides at the trial of Jesus and, despite stating that he personally finds him not guilty of a crime meriting death, hands him over to crucifixion. The Sanhedrin, whom find him guilty of blasphemy under Mosaic law (which would never warrant capital punishment under Roman law), take Jesus before Pilate and accuse him of trumped-up charges: sedition against Caesar for opposing taxes and calling himself a king. Concerned more with the latter accusation, Pilate’s main question to Jesus is whether he considers himself the King of the Jews—thus rendering him a political threat to Rome. Pilate, nonetheless, finds him harmless. The crowd, however, want him executed. Coached by the Pharisees and Sadducees, they cry out, “Crucify him” (Mark 15. 13). Jewish leaders then explain to Pilate that Jesus presents a threat to Roman occupation through his claim to the throne of King David. Left without options, Pilate washes his hands before the crowd and unwillingly condemns Jesus to death, saying, "I am innocent of this man's blood; you will see" (Matt. 27.24).
Likewise, in Orwell’s short fiction, the narrator faces the trial and execution of a criminal whose allegations carry a political threat. Like Jesus, who is passed from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, the offending elephant is passed between the jurisdictions of its “mahout” it escapes, to the Burmans who are powerless to stop it, then finally to the British police who ultimately phone the narrator to take care of the matter. The British police parallel the Roman Empire while the narrator, the legal representative of England, parallels Pilate, the legal representative of Rome. While it is impossible for an elephant to hold any political office, except perhaps in an animal farm, the elephant is still a legal threat to the British. The narrator states that had he not shot the elephant, “[his] whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.” Walking away from the elephant suggests to the Burmans that for all their show and display of authority, the British are essentially powerless. Furthermore, in Eastern culture, elephants are loved and revered as symbols of royalty and religious divinity. Christ is both royal and divine. Like Jesus is to Pilate, the elephant is a king posing political danger to the narrator.
Despite its enormous size and strength, not to mention the physical harm it’s capable of, the protagonist knows with perfect certainty that he “ought not to shoot [the elephant].” He describes the elephant as “harmless,” walking around with a “preoccupied grandmotherly air.” The narrator determines that the best course of action is to watch the animal for a while to ensure it does not again turn savage, and then go home. However, reminiscent of the hostile crowd shouting “crucify him” in Pilate’s courtyard, the “sea of yellow faces” behind him is “shouting excitedly... shoot the elephant.” Realizing his options are exhausted, he decides to carry out their will. Figuratively washing his hands of what he describes as a “murder,” the narrator justifies his actions given that the elephant has in fact killed a coolie, putting him “legally in the right and [giving him] a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant.”
The most vivid metaphor of Christian divinity is the execution of the elephant. The narrator testifies, “I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim.... The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights.... I aimed [and] pulled the trigger.” The image of a cross superimposed on the elephant evokes the image of Christ crucified. Once at Golgotha, Jesus is stripped and nailed to the beam and hung between two convicted thieves. Pilate orders Roman soldiers to affix a sign above his head stating: King of the Jews—an ironic twist to his accusations. According to Mark's Gospel, he endures the torment for some six hours, until he “gives up the ghost” at the ninth hour (Mark 15.27). Eventually, a soldier pierces Jesus’ side with a spear to be certain of his death. Analogously, the narrator “pours shot after shot” into the animal with his elephant rifle. Although the bullets cause a violent and “mysterious, terrible change” upon the elephant’s countenance, “they seem to make no impression.” The elephant, like the God of the Christian faith, seems to have power over life and death, “giving up [his] ghost” according to his own will. Following his death, in true sacramental fashion, the Burmans congregate over the corpse of the animal and “strip his body almost to the bones” for meat. Jesus said unto his disciples, “Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day” (John 6.53-54). In this sense then, the elephant becomes a Christ figure providing salvation through the offering of his life and the endowment of his flesh—thus, redeeming and “raising” modern literature from its characteristic nihilism and providing a foundation for Christian morality in an ever increasing Godless world.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Allison,
Two years ago today, you and I began our lives together for eternity. I love you, Sweet Heart. Happy Anniversary.
Friday, April 9, 2010
untitled
Mediocrity: a consideration I might be comfortable with. For the last two-and-a-half years I have been trying to convince myself that I was someone I wasn’t. For the last two-and-a-half years I have allowed letters on a transcript to transcend their purpose into a personification of my soul. For two-and-a-half years the magical number, 94, has either contented or confounded me. I remember my first A-: 93.8 percent. It was a long, lonely night. I wrestle almost daily with the questions: am I an A student? Am I an A- student? Or am I a B student who's trying to convince himself he’s an A student? I still don’t know the answer. I’m approaching my senior year at BYU with a 3.95 GPA and I’m looking at my first B. Thankfully, however, offering a small redemptive quality, there will be a tiny positive mark following that blasted B. Whenever I use “blasted” in my blog, by the way, I really mean “damn,” or, more precisely, any number of expletives with more profane connotations. Am I mediocre? Maybe. But somehow, the thought offers solace. I don’t think being mediocre means being common, dull, or barley adequate; I think being mediocre means being at peace when you're not the best. If an external, arbitrary entity, a construction that crumbles over time, labels me as mediocre, I can still be happy knowing that my wife, my son, my family, and my God, the relations that will endure beyond time, see me as exceptional.
Besides: it’s nice knowing the best are intimately dependent on me.
Besides: it’s nice knowing the best are intimately dependent on me.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Double Back Flip
This is my first paper I wrote in college. I seriously contemplated revising but I decided against it. So, please, don’t judge my grammar—it makes me cringe, too. I understand it’s long for a blog post but I think it’s worth your time. Please, enjoy:
Unfortunately, there are only two things I remember about my fifth grade teacher: Mrs. Underwood. I only remember two things because it is nearly impossible for any ten-year-old child to pay attention to an old, grey haired woman who has a brown mole the size of a nickel erupting out of the side of her neck like a volcano. I could have sworn that I saw Thomas Jefferson’s face in her mountainous mole one day. Every time she opened her mouth to speak it was as if I were Charlie Brown listening to his math instructor, “Mwah, wah, mwah wah wah.” The tiny black hairs growing from the second face on her neck acted like little arms waving at me to capture my attention. Her massive mole simply prevented my small finite mind from paying any thought to anything she ever said. I think of Mrs. Underwood and the first thing I remember is her mole, but despite its distractive nature, I can recall one thing she shouted at me from across the playground during recess one spring morning:
“Don’t jump out of the swings!”
“There goes all my fun,” I thought. What else was I to do for recess? It was the most anticipated time of the day. Jumping out of the swing was my life. I lived for it. I was the best at it. Not only could I jump higher and farther out of the swings than any other school boy, but I was the only one able to perform the most coveted acrobatic maneuver: the beautiful, magnificent back flip. Once performed, even the social rejects of the school yard could gain instant popularity. Mrs. Underwood and her potentially cancerous ally were determined to make me miserable.
The very next day at recess Mrs. Underwood was nowhere to be found. I looked across the playground to see which teacher was responsible to make sure the young school children didn’t wreak havoc on the playground during recess. It was Mr. Weir! He was the teacher every child dreamed of. He was young, fun and energetic. He had dark curly hair, a pair of thick, black glasses that sat on his long, crooked nose and a jovial smile that had the ability to brighten even the gloomiest of days. He never burdened or troubled his students with that nasty nonsense called homework. He rarely assigned detentions and his class always watched a movie every Friday while I was being force-fed multiplication facts. How I wished that he were my teacher rather than the Wicked Witch of the West: Mrs. Underwood. However, I knew I would be able to get away with any mischievous mischief with Mr. Weir on duty. “Victory,” I thought as my playmates and I ran over to the swings and once again resumed our typical stunts. We referred to ourselves as the Four Amigos; a fearless band of brothers united by the blood and sweat we spilt on the playground. There was Ryan Sterling, the kid with the picture perfect slicked side part; Phillip Gomezthe kid obsessed with Hulk Hogan; Mathew Vateli, the kid with a loud mouth; and me, the kid who could do a back flip out of a swing. I had just completed a beautiful back flip with a flawless landing when Phillip challenged me with an envious tone, “So what if you can do a back flip! Professionals can do two!”
“Two? Professional?” I thought as I was caught off guard. “I’m a professional!” I instantly replied. “You wait and see Phillip. I’ll do two back flips!” The spirit of pride and competition had once again gotten the best of me. Mrs. Underwood and President Jefferson were nowhere to be found to talk sense into my thick skull. I got back into my swing and pumped my ten-year-old legs as hard as I could sending myself higher and higher into the air. “I’ll show him,” I muttered to myself when I felt I was swinging high enough to perform the “professional” flip. By then, everyone on the playground had heard of the dare and had anxiously gathered around to watch as I was about to make the 1992 Hedrick Ranch Elementary School Hall of Fame. I paid no attention to the assembling crowd as I mentally prepared myself for the master trick.
When I had reached maximum height and velocity, I threw my feet over my head and tucked myself into an aerodynamic ball of talent and flew backwards into the air. I carefully watched my surroundings rotate around me when I suddenly and completely forgot how to count. Had I listened to Mrs. Underwood’s math lectures I would have probably realized that one and a half is far from two; especially when it comes to back flips. Two flips puts the performer back onto his feet, on the other hand, one and a half flips puts the performer somewhere on his head or his face. Realizing that my face was headed for a mouthful of sand and a broken nose, I put my hands over my head to break my fall.
The impact of the plunge managed to pulverize my left wrist, fracturing it in seven locations. I scrambled to my feet holding my broken wrist in my right hand. I pushed though the stunned crowd of anxious onlookers and ran past the basketball courts trying to ignore the throbbing pain while I repeatedly told myself, “It’s just a sprain. It’s just a sprain.” I was obviously wrong. Crushed and confused, I found myself lying on a cold concert planter endeavoring to convince myself that I wasn’t badly hurt. My body was beginning to feel cold and clammy as perspiration was dripping from my small, frail body like a leaky faucet. I felt dizzy. Shock was setting in. I looked down at my fractured wrist and knew it was much more than a simple sprain. I needed help. But getting help meant admitting my fault and the possibility of getting another dreadful yellow ticket for my foolish antics. After three yellow tickets, it’s an automatic detention. I couldn’t afford another one; I already had two. I received one because Mrs. Underwood caught me running though the flowers while playing tag with Matthew Vateli, and the other one because I was late to class two days before. California had recently adopted the “three-strikes-and-you’re-out” policy for criminals. One more yellow ticket and I was convinced they would hang me, for sure.
My poor reasoning abilities (which led me to believe I could perform two back flips in the first place) were now degenerating with my state of shock. Now I believed I was a run-a-way fugitive with a broken arm hiding from a yellow slip of paper. The bell rang and the unbearable pain finally defeated me. “I need to go to the nurse,” I thought. “She can patch this all up and Mrs. Underwood will never have to find out.” I mustered up all the courage a broken ten-year-old boy facing final judgment could, and walked, vanquished, to the front office to see the nurse. After what felt like an odyssey through the scorching desert I stumbled into the front office. I was dizzy, ghostly pale, and completely out of strength. I plopped onto the closest chair to catch my breath when I was greeted with the unwelcoming voice of the irritable receptionist.
“Do you have a pass to be here?”
Of course I didn’t have a pass! I was a recess war veteran experiencing post traumatic stress syndrome and she had the audacity to ask me for a pass? The nerve of that woman! I held up my mutilated hand with my swollen, sausage like fingers hoping it would license a hall pass.
“Oh my Goodness! What happened?” she cried as she ran around the front desk and over to the place I was sitting to examine my battle wound. “Mrs. Murdock! Mrs. Murdock!” The nurse came running out of her office and quickly took control of the situation. She picked me up in her arms and placed my broken body carefully onto the bed in her office.
“What happened?” Mrs. Murdock asked as she wrapped my cold, sweaty body in a blanket, treating me for shock.
“I fell,” I pathetically replied trying to avoid the truth.
“I’m going to have your mother take you to your doctor right away. What’s your name sweetie?”
“Blake? Is that you?”
I knew that voice. I heard it a hundred times before but it couldn’t be. I looked up to see who it was. Mrs. Underwood was peeking head into the nurse’s office with a concerned look on her face. She was in the front office taking care of paper work during recess; she was just on her way out when she saw the commotion.
“You were jumping out of the swings again, weren’t you!” she demanded accusingly.
I could hardly speak. I must have had “guilty” written on my forehead in black permanent marker. “No,” I timidly replied hopping she would believe my poor excuse for a lie. “But it wasn’t really a lie. I didn’t jump out of the swings; I flipped,” I rationalized to myself.
“I’ll talk to you later. I need to go to class,” she disappointedly told me as she shook her head leaving the room. Guilt and anxiety troubled my mind—I had disappointed my teacher not only through my disobedience, but I had told a lie in an attempt to escape its consequences. My heart sank as I watched Mrs. Underwood walk out of the building in frustration because my foolishness brought me great pain. “Happiness is not being pained in body or troubled in mind,” Thomas Jefferson observed. There was wisdom in her mole. My body was pained, my mind was troubled and I was certainly not happy.
Unfortunately, there are only two things I remember about my fifth grade teacher: Mrs. Underwood. I only remember two things because it is nearly impossible for any ten-year-old child to pay attention to an old, grey haired woman who has a brown mole the size of a nickel erupting out of the side of her neck like a volcano. I could have sworn that I saw Thomas Jefferson’s face in her mountainous mole one day. Every time she opened her mouth to speak it was as if I were Charlie Brown listening to his math instructor, “Mwah, wah, mwah wah wah.” The tiny black hairs growing from the second face on her neck acted like little arms waving at me to capture my attention. Her massive mole simply prevented my small finite mind from paying any thought to anything she ever said. I think of Mrs. Underwood and the first thing I remember is her mole, but despite its distractive nature, I can recall one thing she shouted at me from across the playground during recess one spring morning:
“Don’t jump out of the swings!”
“There goes all my fun,” I thought. What else was I to do for recess? It was the most anticipated time of the day. Jumping out of the swing was my life. I lived for it. I was the best at it. Not only could I jump higher and farther out of the swings than any other school boy, but I was the only one able to perform the most coveted acrobatic maneuver: the beautiful, magnificent back flip. Once performed, even the social rejects of the school yard could gain instant popularity. Mrs. Underwood and her potentially cancerous ally were determined to make me miserable.
The very next day at recess Mrs. Underwood was nowhere to be found. I looked across the playground to see which teacher was responsible to make sure the young school children didn’t wreak havoc on the playground during recess. It was Mr. Weir! He was the teacher every child dreamed of. He was young, fun and energetic. He had dark curly hair, a pair of thick, black glasses that sat on his long, crooked nose and a jovial smile that had the ability to brighten even the gloomiest of days. He never burdened or troubled his students with that nasty nonsense called homework. He rarely assigned detentions and his class always watched a movie every Friday while I was being force-fed multiplication facts. How I wished that he were my teacher rather than the Wicked Witch of the West: Mrs. Underwood. However, I knew I would be able to get away with any mischievous mischief with Mr. Weir on duty. “Victory,” I thought as my playmates and I ran over to the swings and once again resumed our typical stunts. We referred to ourselves as the Four Amigos; a fearless band of brothers united by the blood and sweat we spilt on the playground. There was Ryan Sterling, the kid with the picture perfect slicked side part; Phillip Gomezthe kid obsessed with Hulk Hogan; Mathew Vateli, the kid with a loud mouth; and me, the kid who could do a back flip out of a swing. I had just completed a beautiful back flip with a flawless landing when Phillip challenged me with an envious tone, “So what if you can do a back flip! Professionals can do two!”
“Two? Professional?” I thought as I was caught off guard. “I’m a professional!” I instantly replied. “You wait and see Phillip. I’ll do two back flips!” The spirit of pride and competition had once again gotten the best of me. Mrs. Underwood and President Jefferson were nowhere to be found to talk sense into my thick skull. I got back into my swing and pumped my ten-year-old legs as hard as I could sending myself higher and higher into the air. “I’ll show him,” I muttered to myself when I felt I was swinging high enough to perform the “professional” flip. By then, everyone on the playground had heard of the dare and had anxiously gathered around to watch as I was about to make the 1992 Hedrick Ranch Elementary School Hall of Fame. I paid no attention to the assembling crowd as I mentally prepared myself for the master trick.
When I had reached maximum height and velocity, I threw my feet over my head and tucked myself into an aerodynamic ball of talent and flew backwards into the air. I carefully watched my surroundings rotate around me when I suddenly and completely forgot how to count. Had I listened to Mrs. Underwood’s math lectures I would have probably realized that one and a half is far from two; especially when it comes to back flips. Two flips puts the performer back onto his feet, on the other hand, one and a half flips puts the performer somewhere on his head or his face. Realizing that my face was headed for a mouthful of sand and a broken nose, I put my hands over my head to break my fall.
The impact of the plunge managed to pulverize my left wrist, fracturing it in seven locations. I scrambled to my feet holding my broken wrist in my right hand. I pushed though the stunned crowd of anxious onlookers and ran past the basketball courts trying to ignore the throbbing pain while I repeatedly told myself, “It’s just a sprain. It’s just a sprain.” I was obviously wrong. Crushed and confused, I found myself lying on a cold concert planter endeavoring to convince myself that I wasn’t badly hurt. My body was beginning to feel cold and clammy as perspiration was dripping from my small, frail body like a leaky faucet. I felt dizzy. Shock was setting in. I looked down at my fractured wrist and knew it was much more than a simple sprain. I needed help. But getting help meant admitting my fault and the possibility of getting another dreadful yellow ticket for my foolish antics. After three yellow tickets, it’s an automatic detention. I couldn’t afford another one; I already had two. I received one because Mrs. Underwood caught me running though the flowers while playing tag with Matthew Vateli, and the other one because I was late to class two days before. California had recently adopted the “three-strikes-and-you’re-out” policy for criminals. One more yellow ticket and I was convinced they would hang me, for sure.
My poor reasoning abilities (which led me to believe I could perform two back flips in the first place) were now degenerating with my state of shock. Now I believed I was a run-a-way fugitive with a broken arm hiding from a yellow slip of paper. The bell rang and the unbearable pain finally defeated me. “I need to go to the nurse,” I thought. “She can patch this all up and Mrs. Underwood will never have to find out.” I mustered up all the courage a broken ten-year-old boy facing final judgment could, and walked, vanquished, to the front office to see the nurse. After what felt like an odyssey through the scorching desert I stumbled into the front office. I was dizzy, ghostly pale, and completely out of strength. I plopped onto the closest chair to catch my breath when I was greeted with the unwelcoming voice of the irritable receptionist.
“Do you have a pass to be here?”
Of course I didn’t have a pass! I was a recess war veteran experiencing post traumatic stress syndrome and she had the audacity to ask me for a pass? The nerve of that woman! I held up my mutilated hand with my swollen, sausage like fingers hoping it would license a hall pass.
“Oh my Goodness! What happened?” she cried as she ran around the front desk and over to the place I was sitting to examine my battle wound. “Mrs. Murdock! Mrs. Murdock!” The nurse came running out of her office and quickly took control of the situation. She picked me up in her arms and placed my broken body carefully onto the bed in her office.
“What happened?” Mrs. Murdock asked as she wrapped my cold, sweaty body in a blanket, treating me for shock.
“I fell,” I pathetically replied trying to avoid the truth.
“I’m going to have your mother take you to your doctor right away. What’s your name sweetie?”
“Blake? Is that you?”
I knew that voice. I heard it a hundred times before but it couldn’t be. I looked up to see who it was. Mrs. Underwood was peeking head into the nurse’s office with a concerned look on her face. She was in the front office taking care of paper work during recess; she was just on her way out when she saw the commotion.
“You were jumping out of the swings again, weren’t you!” she demanded accusingly.
I could hardly speak. I must have had “guilty” written on my forehead in black permanent marker. “No,” I timidly replied hopping she would believe my poor excuse for a lie. “But it wasn’t really a lie. I didn’t jump out of the swings; I flipped,” I rationalized to myself.
“I’ll talk to you later. I need to go to class,” she disappointedly told me as she shook her head leaving the room. Guilt and anxiety troubled my mind—I had disappointed my teacher not only through my disobedience, but I had told a lie in an attempt to escape its consequences. My heart sank as I watched Mrs. Underwood walk out of the building in frustration because my foolishness brought me great pain. “Happiness is not being pained in body or troubled in mind,” Thomas Jefferson observed. There was wisdom in her mole. My body was pained, my mind was troubled and I was certainly not happy.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Academic Life
One reason for my blog is an attempt to merge my academic life into my personal life. I believe literature is equipment for living and essential for our humanity. So, for those interested, and those not, here are the beginnings of a paper I am working on. Mind you, it’s a work in progress and it’s far from finished.
Thirst Knows No Season: Mythic Ideology of Coca-Cola in McCarthy’s The Road
“Wherever you go you will find Coca-Cola to refresh the parched throat, to invigorate the fatigued body, and to quicken the tired brain.” Not even the apocalypse debunks this prophetic advertisement of Coke’s 1905 ad campaign. Coca-Cola, America’s iconic symbol of mass consumption, is as wide reaching as the unknown catastrophe in McCarthy’s latest fiction. In the world of The Road, names carry little consequence: names of colors, birds, and things to eat, have slowly fallen into oblivion. But Coca-Cola makes a triumphal début:
By the door were two softdrink machines that had been tilted over into the floor and opened with a prybar. Coins everywhere in the ash. He sat and ran his hand around in the works of the gutted machines and in the second one it closed over a cold metal cylinder. He withdrew his hand slowly and sat looking at a Coca Cola. (22-23)
The man and his son, in what appears to be a commercial pulled straight from Coke’s archives, bond over the drink which momentarily refreshes their parched throats, invigorates their fatigued bodies, and quickens their tired brains.
From its concoction in 1886, Coke has promised its consumers elixir-like qualities; originally brewed as a medication, the beverage was advertized as the “Ideal Brain Tonic” (1897) capable of curing headaches and relieving mental and physical exhaustion. Creating their own mythology, Coke has run one of the most successful ad campaigns in American history. The company has worked to forge an ideology for its customers, one that promotes the product and its consumers as a part of a global family of happy, peaceful, refreshed drinkers. Over the last century-and-a-half, Coke consumers have been told: “The Pause That Brings Friends Together” (1935); “Happy Moment of Hospitality” (1945) and perhaps the most famous, “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke” (1971). In the stark world of The Road however, the hollowness of these promises are ultimately realized. The mythology the red can of Coke invokes when the man and the boy bond over the soft drink is but 140 empty calories as black and colorless as the world around them. Using Coca-Cola as a general representation of the false realities of consumerism, The Road taps into Coke’s mythic past and juxtaposes it with the novel’s horrific present to seemingly criticize consumer culture as a whole.
My paper will be a significant contribution to McCarthy scholarship because, utilizing Cultural Criticism as a framework for my ideas, it will examine the mythic ideology of Coca-Cola and place it into the context of The Road. Just like McCarthy’s fiction, Coke has its genesis in the South. An understanding of the historical context of the Southern soft drink will inevitably bring new insight into McCarthy’s writing. Coca-Cola plays a vital role in the novel and its presence is worth our scrutiny. After all: it’s the only proper noun in the narrative.
Well, what do you think?
Thirst Knows No Season: Mythic Ideology of Coca-Cola in McCarthy’s The Road
“Wherever you go you will find Coca-Cola to refresh the parched throat, to invigorate the fatigued body, and to quicken the tired brain.” Not even the apocalypse debunks this prophetic advertisement of Coke’s 1905 ad campaign. Coca-Cola, America’s iconic symbol of mass consumption, is as wide reaching as the unknown catastrophe in McCarthy’s latest fiction. In the world of The Road, names carry little consequence: names of colors, birds, and things to eat, have slowly fallen into oblivion. But Coca-Cola makes a triumphal début:
By the door were two softdrink machines that had been tilted over into the floor and opened with a prybar. Coins everywhere in the ash. He sat and ran his hand around in the works of the gutted machines and in the second one it closed over a cold metal cylinder. He withdrew his hand slowly and sat looking at a Coca Cola. (22-23)
The man and his son, in what appears to be a commercial pulled straight from Coke’s archives, bond over the drink which momentarily refreshes their parched throats, invigorates their fatigued bodies, and quickens their tired brains.
From its concoction in 1886, Coke has promised its consumers elixir-like qualities; originally brewed as a medication, the beverage was advertized as the “Ideal Brain Tonic” (1897) capable of curing headaches and relieving mental and physical exhaustion. Creating their own mythology, Coke has run one of the most successful ad campaigns in American history. The company has worked to forge an ideology for its customers, one that promotes the product and its consumers as a part of a global family of happy, peaceful, refreshed drinkers. Over the last century-and-a-half, Coke consumers have been told: “The Pause That Brings Friends Together” (1935); “Happy Moment of Hospitality” (1945) and perhaps the most famous, “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke” (1971). In the stark world of The Road however, the hollowness of these promises are ultimately realized. The mythology the red can of Coke invokes when the man and the boy bond over the soft drink is but 140 empty calories as black and colorless as the world around them. Using Coca-Cola as a general representation of the false realities of consumerism, The Road taps into Coke’s mythic past and juxtaposes it with the novel’s horrific present to seemingly criticize consumer culture as a whole.
My paper will be a significant contribution to McCarthy scholarship because, utilizing Cultural Criticism as a framework for my ideas, it will examine the mythic ideology of Coca-Cola and place it into the context of The Road. Just like McCarthy’s fiction, Coke has its genesis in the South. An understanding of the historical context of the Southern soft drink will inevitably bring new insight into McCarthy’s writing. Coca-Cola plays a vital role in the novel and its presence is worth our scrutiny. After all: it’s the only proper noun in the narrative.
Well, what do you think?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Memory
Eight Months. Too fast. Gone.
But where. Eight months ago I held
My son for the first time. That moment,
Like the past eight months, is only a memory;
Swallowed into oblivion. For the first time
I don't want him older so I can play ball;
I want him little again.
But where. Eight months ago I held
My son for the first time. That moment,
Like the past eight months, is only a memory;
Swallowed into oblivion. For the first time
I don't want him older so I can play ball;
I want him little again.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The Road
In McCarthy’s fictional post-apocalyptic world, desperate drifters wander through a “barren, silent, godless” landscape toward inevitable death. The world in The Road is a frightening one: “the frailty of everything revealed at last,” survivors of an unknown catastrophe have banned together in cannibalistic tribes in a violent search for depleted resources. The sky is always grey and color and life are never to be found. In this darkened hostile world, however, lies a hope for redemption. A father and his son, “each the other’s world entire,” travel the desolate roads towards the coast where they hope to find a more hospitable environment. What they encounter along the way challenges the core of their beliefs and the heart of their humanity.
And it demands we do the same.
Like much of McCarthy’s fiction, The Road requires its readers to face the harsh realities of life without offering much resolution. Why, then, do I love this novel? The first time I read the book, humanity’s capacity for evil left me frightened, overwhelmed, and horrified—yet it also left me bewildered and intrigued. So much so, I wanted to read more of McCarthy’s work. Coincidently, BYU offered an English course featuring Cormac McCarthy this semester.
I signed up. Evidently, for a ride for my life.
I’ve read the McCarthy cannon and I’ve read article after article of what the scholars have said concerning his work. Frankly, it’s the best literature I’ve come across. Currently, I’m working on a paper about consumerism in The Road that I hope to present at the Cormac McCarthy Conference in Texas in October. But more on that later.
When I had read through The Road a second time, instead of being discouraged by the dark side of human nature, I was inspired by the goodness and beauty of mankind. Thrice I cried. Listen to the tender response this father gives his son:
Can I ask you something?
Yes. Of course you can.
What would you do if I died?
If you died I would want to die too.
So you could be with me?
Yes. So I could be with you.
Okay.
When I read this, I couldn’t help but think of my own son. Will I have this same conversation with him when he’s a boy? A frightening, yet beautiful thought. In a world smothered in darkness, there is light. Hope is in the hopeless. Life is in the lifeless. And God is in the godless.
Read the book! Goodness triumphs. "It always has. It will again."
And it demands we do the same.
Like much of McCarthy’s fiction, The Road requires its readers to face the harsh realities of life without offering much resolution. Why, then, do I love this novel? The first time I read the book, humanity’s capacity for evil left me frightened, overwhelmed, and horrified—yet it also left me bewildered and intrigued. So much so, I wanted to read more of McCarthy’s work. Coincidently, BYU offered an English course featuring Cormac McCarthy this semester.
I signed up. Evidently, for a ride for my life.
I’ve read the McCarthy cannon and I’ve read article after article of what the scholars have said concerning his work. Frankly, it’s the best literature I’ve come across. Currently, I’m working on a paper about consumerism in The Road that I hope to present at the Cormac McCarthy Conference in Texas in October. But more on that later.
When I had read through The Road a second time, instead of being discouraged by the dark side of human nature, I was inspired by the goodness and beauty of mankind. Thrice I cried. Listen to the tender response this father gives his son:
Can I ask you something?
Yes. Of course you can.
What would you do if I died?
If you died I would want to die too.
So you could be with me?
Yes. So I could be with you.
Okay.
When I read this, I couldn’t help but think of my own son. Will I have this same conversation with him when he’s a boy? A frightening, yet beautiful thought. In a world smothered in darkness, there is light. Hope is in the hopeless. Life is in the lifeless. And God is in the godless.
Read the book! Goodness triumphs. "It always has. It will again."
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Truth Be Told
This afternoon, whilst reading Dickens’s Great Expectations, Joshua, prowling around the perimeters of the living room, was searching franticly for small, dangerous objects to ingest: a bit of tin foil, a red thumb tack, and even a key that he had pried off an old keyboard. Mrs. Joe had once again accosted Pip by her hand when Joshua decided his carpet adventures were over. He pulled himself along the rug to over where I lied stretched out along the sofa. When he arrived, he let out a crude, babyish lament—it was as if he cried: “Father, why must you always neglect your posterity in your vain search of knowledge and wisdom. Put down that blasted book and tend to my needs.” Who could resist such a request? I let down my book and picked up my son. Joshua rested his cheek on my chest while I massaged the small of his back with the palm of my hand. His whimpers slowly turned to deep rhythmic pulls of air: the child asleep on my breast. We both slept on the couch for the better part of an hour, deepening our fraternal bond.
That was Wednesday, February 24, 2010
My story, however, may or may not be factually accurate.
Often, I am criticized for stretching the truth, omitting crucial details, and frankly, telling lies. You, who have accused me of such, have a legitimate argument.
Here’s actually what happened:
1. I wasn’t reading Dickens; I was reading Cristina Rossetti’s poem “Goblin Market”. Laura has just eaten then the goblins’ forbidden fruit—a blatant metaphor for sex—when Joshua crawled over to me. However, I had read the first eleven chapters of Great Expectations the previous night.
2. The thumb tack wasn’t red, it was blue. Another lie. Joshua has never, in his eight months of existence, come across sharp stationeries.
3. Joshua did not actually speak. If you didn’t catch this, God bless you.
4. Finally, I didn’t fall asleep. I tried, but I couldn’t get comfortable.
So why did I do it? Why did I lie? In my mind, what I told was the truth. I wasn’t trying to give people a factual account of my afternoon; I was trying to help people understand what I felt. Joshua didn’t say “why must you always neglect your posterity in your vain search of knowledge and wisdom.” But he did. No, I didn’t fall asleep with him on my chest; but it was better than any dream I’ve ever dreamt. The details don’t matter. What does matter, then? The emotions? the experience? the dream? the truth? I’m not sure, exactly. But something that does matter is that on Wednesday, February 24, 2010, at precisely 2:47:17pm I experienced my most profound moment as a Father.
That was Wednesday, February 24, 2010
My story, however, may or may not be factually accurate.
Often, I am criticized for stretching the truth, omitting crucial details, and frankly, telling lies. You, who have accused me of such, have a legitimate argument.
Here’s actually what happened:
1. I wasn’t reading Dickens; I was reading Cristina Rossetti’s poem “Goblin Market”. Laura has just eaten then the goblins’ forbidden fruit—a blatant metaphor for sex—when Joshua crawled over to me. However, I had read the first eleven chapters of Great Expectations the previous night.
2. The thumb tack wasn’t red, it was blue. Another lie. Joshua has never, in his eight months of existence, come across sharp stationeries.
3. Joshua did not actually speak. If you didn’t catch this, God bless you.
4. Finally, I didn’t fall asleep. I tried, but I couldn’t get comfortable.
So why did I do it? Why did I lie? In my mind, what I told was the truth. I wasn’t trying to give people a factual account of my afternoon; I was trying to help people understand what I felt. Joshua didn’t say “why must you always neglect your posterity in your vain search of knowledge and wisdom.” But he did. No, I didn’t fall asleep with him on my chest; but it was better than any dream I’ve ever dreamt. The details don’t matter. What does matter, then? The emotions? the experience? the dream? the truth? I’m not sure, exactly. But something that does matter is that on Wednesday, February 24, 2010, at precisely 2:47:17pm I experienced my most profound moment as a Father.
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