So far, this has been a long year. My dear, strong cousin died a few months ago after a long battle with cancer. My stepfather has been in and out of the hospital with liver failure that often pushes him to congenital heart failure. Now we are at the point of him needing nearly 24 hour/day care. My mother is constantly stressed out, and I am, frankly, overworked. Oh yeah, and someone hit and killed my cat. Somehow, this all sounds like, "Blah, blah, blah" to me. It isn't that I don't feel that I have the right to complain - okay, I kind of don't - it's just that the good ALWAYS outweighs the bad.
The way you see life is simply rooted in where you choose to cast your eyes. Sure, there is stress, and there are times when I need the support of those I love, but there is so much goodness in the world. Since June 2011, 3 of my 4 sisters have had babies - beautiful, delicious babies. I love being an aunt. I get the best of it all. I snuggle, I play, I read and teach, and then I give back. The children. :) It is a great thing. I adore children and plan on being a mother one day, but for now, I have the best of both worlds. These new bundles push me to a grand total count of 7 nieces and nephews, the oldest of which is a teenager in a few weeks. Add to the joy of my family the fact that I have the BEST friends in the world, and I am a supremely lucky girl. I am planning a trip to Baltimore in May, a week-long bike trip in June, and an epic journey to the Grand Canyon in July. What could there possibly be to make me depressed. I am always in love with the very act of living.
Still, I am not totally immune to the struggle. I have felt like I was drowning. Metaphorically, of course. I have felt like I was in some swirling pool of water being sucked into a vortex. I have struggled to breathe. I have stood like Prufrock and looked out onto a world that felt gray and empty and lonely. Then I snapped out of it. You see, unlike Prufrock, I do dare to "disturb my universe." That, alone, keeps me moving.
In class, we have been learning all about the disillusionment of the Modernists, but I don't REALLY know what that feels like. I don't know what hopelessness feels like because my life is always full of hope. I always trust in the new day and the ability of God to change my circumstances or change my heart to accept them. So I don't know that sinking feeling of hopelessness that seemed to consume so many Modernists. I can't conceive how difficult it must be when sadness works its way into your soul and seems to make a home there.
I can't imagine living through WWI, the Great Depression, and WWII. In the 20s, they lived big and fell hard. In the 30s, they lived on little and fell further. They must have forgotten to swim up toward the light. Perhaps it was easier to camp out underneath the water in the deep, cool darkness and just wait. I am thankful that warmth and light always win in me, but I get it. Too often, bottom dwelling is just easier. It takes real effort to pull yourself up, to shake off the grays and to live. It takes effort to make yourself breathe through the heavy load and force yourself to answer the question, "Do I dare disturb the universe?"
I feel profoundly sorry for the people, for the Prufrocks of the world, who simply let themselves sink. But I also feel sorry for the rest of us who may never know the greatness of those we easily ignore, those who will sink away into nothingness. Surely they are not without merit. Surely you, if you are one of those who feels sucked into the murk of life, are not without merit. Just like Prufrock would likely have found love and joy and purpose had he been brave enough to try, so you will find greatness when you dare disturb your universe and shake up what you have always known.
A man named George, whom I greatly respect, is fond of saying, "You can't expect a different tomorrow if you are always doing the same thing as yesterday." How true this is. We must be brave. We must shake off yesterday's funk and today's disappointments if we are going to have new, fresh, remarkable tomorrows. I want remarkable tomorrows. I hope that at least a few of you do as well.
EC - For this week, write me a one page paper in which you tell me about either a) a time when you have felt like you were sinking and were struggling to get your footing OR b) what you plan to do in your own life to "disturb your universe" Feel free to also comment on here so that our thoughts and ideas can mingle together in cyber space. (Commenting on here is nice and makes me happy, but it doesn't count as the EC. You must turn in the writing.)
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
R-A-C-E
RACE. What a loaded word that means absolutely nothing. As a nation, we are all bound up in the question of race. Every application you will ever see, every time you are called to jury duty, EVERYWHERE, there is the question of race. My best friend, Rachel, got a jury summons last week and was told she had to answer the race question. She didn't know how. By all appearances, she looks "white," but her father is from Armenia - a country often assigned to Europe, but formerly referred to as Asia Minor. She said, "What do I put? Asian?" We laughed about the options - White and Black (colors), Hispanic (a language classification), and Asian (an area of the world). I told her she simply had to decide if she wanted to be a color, a language, or a land mass that day! Laughable for sure.
Merriam Webster's Dictionary defines race as a family tribe or nation belonging to the same stock. This same term is used for animals belonging to the same stock. Simply said, race refers to animals or people who come from the same ancestry. This seems a rather limited definition. "Race" is more broadly seen as any grouping of humans which shares the same inheritable phenotypical (visible) characteristics or geographical ancestry. So we group people by how they look? This is a bit archaic of an idea and yet we talk every day about race.
We use terms like African-American to refer to those would otherwise be called "black," even though many South African immigrants are "white." Aren't they still African-American? And what about my college roommate, who was black but became quite upset at me referring to her as African-American since she was, in fact, from Jamaica? Is a student who is from Germany anything at all like a rancher from Texas simply because their skin color is similar? Do students living in East Gainesville have anything in common with students living in East Uganda? These are questions that must be asked. We MUST challenge a system that groups us into "races" of people without regard for culture and regionalities.
In his 1175 text "The Natural Varieties of Mankind," Johann Friedrich Blumenbach established five major divisions of humans (Caucasoid race, Mongoloid race, Ethiopian/Negroid race, American Indian race, and Malayan race). In layman's terms, this reads like a box of crayons. Are we really all distinguishable into simply white, yellow, black, red, and brown? Apparently so. Blumenbach believed that these were the identifiable groupings of humans, an anthropological observation based on phenotypic traits; eugenicists of the early 1900s would take this a step further, noting that the heritable traits within each of these groups would either elevate or limit their fitness to exist within society, thus creating a "science of racism."
Natural selection, after all, showed us that some within a species were less valuable to the gene pool and, therefore, they would die out over time and all would be as it should be. So, said Social Dawinists, was it within society (Biologists clearly believe that Darwin was misinterpreted). Those who were less "valuable" to the gene pool would naturally die out due to both their heredity and their social environment. So should they. It was not the job of society to try to help them or change that. In fact, some eugenicists believed that they should help the process along with forced sterilization and euthanasia. Sound creepy? I think that it is. I am a little taken aback by the fact that 65,000 Americans were sterilized through forced sterilization projects during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I am also a little bothered by the fact that early efforts at birth control were not about women's rights but about stopping births in minority and immigrant communities so that they might reproduce less offspring who fell into the "unfit" category. I suppose, however, that it is reassuring to know how inspirational these "scientists" were; after all, they inspired Hitler and that must speak for something.
Sarcasm aside, we must acknowledge that the issue of race has been pivotal for generations in American society. This 4-letter word, which means so little, has meant so much. I have learned in my life that Americans are experts at division. We are a diverse society. We are a society of many peoples from many places with many voices to be heard. Does it follow, however, that those voices must be singular to be heard? Should they be segregated and sometimes silenced? The beauty of a symphony is not a single instrument, it is all of them intersecting and dancing around each other. Why can people not be the same?
When we discussed this in class, one of my students asked, "What should I put, then, when they ask the race question?" My reply: "The question is not, 'What should I put?' it is 'Why should I be asked to put anything?'" What will it take for us to become the human race?
This topic is so interesting and sometimes so infuriating. Rachel, who teaches at Lincoln, and I often rant about it in private, and now, I am giving a little public rant. I think we should shout from the rooftops (sometimes in the form of a blog) when we want to be heard. I think we need to not be afraid to speak what we see as truth even if it might offend. I admit that I am intimidated by the great race debate. I am intimidated by other teachers who have told me that I can't understand my students because I am white. I am intimidated by people who get angry because I don't teach "black history" during February and by those who think that teaching it at all is keeping the division between us present. I embrace the concept of teaching history and literature as HUMAN history and literature, but when the argument over the greatness or inferiority of an author is purely based on race, it cannot be ignored. I want to scream at the top of my lungs that the failure of students in East Gainesville is about parental involvement and social pressures and financial strain, not about skin color! I want people to see with my eyes because I want to stop fighting and because I want to have unity and, well, because I want to be right.
Now, I want to hear your voices. You deserve to be heard as well.
Natural selection, after all, showed us that some within a species were less valuable to the gene pool and, therefore, they would die out over time and all would be as it should be. So, said Social Dawinists, was it within society (Biologists clearly believe that Darwin was misinterpreted). Those who were less "valuable" to the gene pool would naturally die out due to both their heredity and their social environment. So should they. It was not the job of society to try to help them or change that. In fact, some eugenicists believed that they should help the process along with forced sterilization and euthanasia. Sound creepy? I think that it is. I am a little taken aback by the fact that 65,000 Americans were sterilized through forced sterilization projects during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I am also a little bothered by the fact that early efforts at birth control were not about women's rights but about stopping births in minority and immigrant communities so that they might reproduce less offspring who fell into the "unfit" category. I suppose, however, that it is reassuring to know how inspirational these "scientists" were; after all, they inspired Hitler and that must speak for something.
Sarcasm aside, we must acknowledge that the issue of race has been pivotal for generations in American society. This 4-letter word, which means so little, has meant so much. I have learned in my life that Americans are experts at division. We are a diverse society. We are a society of many peoples from many places with many voices to be heard. Does it follow, however, that those voices must be singular to be heard? Should they be segregated and sometimes silenced? The beauty of a symphony is not a single instrument, it is all of them intersecting and dancing around each other. Why can people not be the same?
When we discussed this in class, one of my students asked, "What should I put, then, when they ask the race question?" My reply: "The question is not, 'What should I put?' it is 'Why should I be asked to put anything?'" What will it take for us to become the human race?
This topic is so interesting and sometimes so infuriating. Rachel, who teaches at Lincoln, and I often rant about it in private, and now, I am giving a little public rant. I think we should shout from the rooftops (sometimes in the form of a blog) when we want to be heard. I think we need to not be afraid to speak what we see as truth even if it might offend. I admit that I am intimidated by the great race debate. I am intimidated by other teachers who have told me that I can't understand my students because I am white. I am intimidated by people who get angry because I don't teach "black history" during February and by those who think that teaching it at all is keeping the division between us present. I embrace the concept of teaching history and literature as HUMAN history and literature, but when the argument over the greatness or inferiority of an author is purely based on race, it cannot be ignored. I want to scream at the top of my lungs that the failure of students in East Gainesville is about parental involvement and social pressures and financial strain, not about skin color! I want people to see with my eyes because I want to stop fighting and because I want to have unity and, well, because I want to be right.
Now, I want to hear your voices. You deserve to be heard as well.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Freedom in any lanquage, in any age
It's been awhile since I have written. I guess I have been distracted by the unseasonable warm winter that has lured me away from my computer and into the great outdoors. Yes, I will blame it on that ;) It has been truly beautiful outside. We have had perfectly cool mornings and warm afternoons and I have enjoyed every minute of it. I don't think I have turned on my heat more than a few days the whole winter. I hope it lasts. For now, belly full of grits and coffee on the way, I have plenty of time to kick back and think about what we've been studying in school.
Between our recent studies, and what is going on all over the world, my mind full of ideas of revolution. If you don't know about the Arab Spring and the events that have transpired in the last year in the Arab world, then you should become informed. The world is changing at a rapid pace. Sometimes that change has come through peaceful protest (think Thoreau and King) and sometimes through unfortunate violence, yet in whatever form it occurs, change is happening. People round the world are longing for rights and freedoms that their governments have long denied them. They are desperate to believe that their voices will be the catalyst for that change, and they are not willing to back down. They seem unafraid of death. Martyrs for a cause? I guess that remains to be seen, but how similar they seem to me today to the voices of the past.
The Transcendentalists spoke about the value of being true to yourself. They called for personal growth and those like Thoreau called for governmental change. Their voices echoed in the ears of people like Whitman who wrote of equality. Slowly, the match lit the paper and the paper lit the sticks and the sticks set the nation on fire. The words of a few men became the voice of a people who spoke against the institution of slavery. Escaped slaves added their own voices and the power of the abolitionist movement drove the nation toward change. Change came - in the form of a war. And while perhaps Emerson had a point when he quipped, "Sometimes gunpowder smells good," let us hope that the seeds of change grow at a lesser cost for Arab citizens who seek to find new life.
Today, I encourage you to think about what it means to be a revolutionary. Not a rebel. Any punk can be a rebel. Anyone can yell about an "unfair" rule or whine about what they didn't get or break the law just because it can be broken. None of that is revolution. Revolution is seeded somewhere else. It grows out of desperation. It grows from the soul. And when it is sparked, it cannot be killed. It's leaders might be slaughtered. It's people might go into hiding. But true revolution is built on the power of an unsilenceable voice.
EC. Write a one page summary (all in your own words) of the events referred to as the "Arab Spring."
Between our recent studies, and what is going on all over the world, my mind full of ideas of revolution. If you don't know about the Arab Spring and the events that have transpired in the last year in the Arab world, then you should become informed. The world is changing at a rapid pace. Sometimes that change has come through peaceful protest (think Thoreau and King) and sometimes through unfortunate violence, yet in whatever form it occurs, change is happening. People round the world are longing for rights and freedoms that their governments have long denied them. They are desperate to believe that their voices will be the catalyst for that change, and they are not willing to back down. They seem unafraid of death. Martyrs for a cause? I guess that remains to be seen, but how similar they seem to me today to the voices of the past.
The Transcendentalists spoke about the value of being true to yourself. They called for personal growth and those like Thoreau called for governmental change. Their voices echoed in the ears of people like Whitman who wrote of equality. Slowly, the match lit the paper and the paper lit the sticks and the sticks set the nation on fire. The words of a few men became the voice of a people who spoke against the institution of slavery. Escaped slaves added their own voices and the power of the abolitionist movement drove the nation toward change. Change came - in the form of a war. And while perhaps Emerson had a point when he quipped, "Sometimes gunpowder smells good," let us hope that the seeds of change grow at a lesser cost for Arab citizens who seek to find new life.
Today, I encourage you to think about what it means to be a revolutionary. Not a rebel. Any punk can be a rebel. Anyone can yell about an "unfair" rule or whine about what they didn't get or break the law just because it can be broken. None of that is revolution. Revolution is seeded somewhere else. It grows out of desperation. It grows from the soul. And when it is sparked, it cannot be killed. It's leaders might be slaughtered. It's people might go into hiding. But true revolution is built on the power of an unsilenceable voice.
EC. Write a one page summary (all in your own words) of the events referred to as the "Arab Spring."
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Leaves, pumpkins and a little breeze
Fall is upon us. This is my favorite time of year, hands down. I love the crispness in the air and the box of sweaters that I can finally take out from under my bed. I love the pumpkins that fill the market and I dream of carving one each time I pass by them. Last year, I carved Jack from Nightmare before Christmas, and it was a masterpiece. I don't know that I can top it this year, but I am sure going to try. I love Thanksgiving, which is my favorite holiday of all and fills me with warmth. Finally, in a true mark of my simple heart, I love the crunch of leaves and acorns under my feet. I know that this is maybe a little silly, but that little crunch under my feet when I walk is one of my favorite sounds in all the world. I will often go out of my way when walking, just so I can step on fallen leaves and acorns. It simply makes me happy. Everything about this season makes me glow a little. I wish that I had a fireplace so that I could curl up beside it with a good book, a good friend, or both.
It's a little chilly in my house now as I write, but I have my fan on anyway as an excuse to keep wearing my warm scarf and wool socks. It's going to be a very long night of grading, so I am wrapping myself in comfort. This is the time of year when grading also never ends. My students (those who want to pass at least) have just submitted their term projects and I am immersed in the task of grading them all. It is a good thing that I love what I do!! Still, the workload kind of makes me dream of escaping. I am itching for travel, even if it is just a few states away. I long to go back to Germany and to Nicaragua, and I am dreaming of mountains. It is fitting that I feel this way as I begin to teach my students about American Romanticism.
I love the look on some of their faces when they come into the room and they see the word ROMANTICISM glaring at them in 4-inch letters on the projector screen. To amplify the reaction, I always couple it with some tasteful Fabio-esque picture and wait for their excitement to take root. The girls always glow a little imagining Zane novels and chick flick scenarios and the boys usually grown imagining the same. It isn't long, however, before I comfort the boys with the knowledge that I have better things to do than to build unrealistic Hollywood expectations in the minds of impressionable teenage girls. The girls are disappointed, the boys are relieved, and the dialogue begins. I LOVE the American Romantics. I think that I understand them in a way that I have never understood the Realists and the Modernists with their invading pessimism. The Romantics and the Transcendentalists that follow them speak to me in a way that I just get.As our fledgling nation moved toward the great progress of the Industrial Revolution, Americans realized that a transition from pastoral living to city living would be less than smooth. The new cities spawned by the mechanization and promise of the Industrial Revolution were hardly the metropolises of today. In New York, overcrowded tenements encouraged the spread of diseases such as cholera, an outbreak of which killed up to 100 people a day. Considering that Cholera could strike a man down so quickly that he would be healthy in the morning and dead at night, these numbers aren't surprising. The streets of New York were littered with trash, dead animals, and improperly treated sewage. They were ripe for disease. Add to that the rising crime rates both at the hands of organized criminals and the nearly 20,000 orphans living in the streets, and it is no wonder that people wanted escape. Cities that had promised a better future were often suffocating machines. Out of this sprung a new breed of writers - the American Romantics. The early Romantics fitted neatly into two camps - those who wrote about a return to the wilderness and great American heroes of the wild like James Fenimore Cooper's Natty Bumpo and the real life Davy Crockett; and those who wrote about the darkness of the human heart like Edgar Allan Poe. Both of these camps of writers was directly impacted by what they saw in the burgeoning cities. They were both dreaming of escaping, one through embracing the wild frontier and the other through wandering deeply into the human psyche and exploring the darkness there. In the end, I get that.
While I am not so much a fan of the horror movie genre that sprung forth from the likes of Poe, I do appreciate his writing and the darkness he captured so beautifully. Still, I have to believe that he is wrong. We are not all evil at heart. There is still much goodness in the world and many people who know how to withstand pressure with grace. Yet, beyond Poe who is undoubtedly the most famous of the Romantics, I do hold in my heart a soft spot for the idea of a Romantic hero who lives off the land, honorable and young at heart. There is something cloying about the idea of being swept away into that life and out of the rush and push of society. I am sure it is not always practical, but it is always appealing. I love teaching my "urbanite" students about these heroes. They enjoy learning Poe more, perhaps, but I will never stop trying to feed them little bits of my wilderness dream. Maybe they'll catch the bug one day!
FOR MY STUDENTS: Extra Credit - After reading the blog and revisiting your American Romanticism notes, write an acrostic poem in which the first letters of your lines (when viewed down the left margin) spell out the word R-O-M-A-N-T-I-C-I-S-M. The poem needs to show a clear understanding of the Romantic movement and may include any information in your notes or this blog. Make them good. Up to 40 points EC. Due Thursday, October 27th. See me if you have any questions.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
All That Glitters . . .
There is something to be said for glittery things. The simple beauty in the way light reflects off of a drop of water, creating prisms of light; the shine of a newly polished ring upon the hand of a woman who, herself, glitters with joy; the sparkle of laughter that emerges from a place of deep happiness in the heart of a child; these things are all "glittery." They evoke something within us that speaks of goodness and leaves a sweet taste in our proverbial mouths. If life were always honest and straightforward, then glittery, happy, shiny things and moments and opportunities would always be good. But they aren't.
We humans have become experts at covering dirtiness and deception with a little shine so that we may call it clean. We live in a society where a good offer is often a scam, where doctored pictures can make anyone look like a catch on eHarmony, and where cheap fakes of designer brands and quality jewelry are peddled on the streets as great buys! When the gold begins to darken and tarnish and the silver turns our fingers green, we scoff in disappointment that we didn't see it coming.
In his 1596 play, The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare offered a warning to the cautious listener:
All that glisters is not gold;
Often you have heard that told:
Many a man his life has sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
Fare you well; your suit is cold
The message is clear: A wise man is not fooled by what looks outwardly good. A foolish man, will sell even his own life for that which seems to have outward value. On the outside, the tomb may be gilded (covered in gold), but inside, there are still worms. While Shakespeare's expression is certainly the most famous, it is hardly the first. French thrologian Alain de Lille said, "Do not hold everything gold that shines like gold," in the 12th century. Thomas Becon repeated the sentiment in 1553, when he remarked, "All is not golde that glistereth." These men understood what some of us clearly fail to grasp - the outside package can hide rather sinister truth.
Perhaps in a more metaphorical nature, Dimmesdale reaches this conclusion at the end of the book. Having planned a "glittering" future for himself, he came to understand that there was actually something better. When he says to Hester, "Is not this better than what we dreamed of in the forest?" we see that he has learned to be, as Shakespeare said, "as wise as bold."
EC - Consider the ending of the book and write a one page, well-supported paper in which you discuss the following prompt:
Why is Dimmesdale's final choice "better than what [they] dreamed of in the forest"? How is this decision a reflection of the idea that "all that glitters is not gold"?
We humans have become experts at covering dirtiness and deception with a little shine so that we may call it clean. We live in a society where a good offer is often a scam, where doctored pictures can make anyone look like a catch on eHarmony, and where cheap fakes of designer brands and quality jewelry are peddled on the streets as great buys! When the gold begins to darken and tarnish and the silver turns our fingers green, we scoff in disappointment that we didn't see it coming.
In his 1596 play, The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare offered a warning to the cautious listener:
All that glisters is not gold;
Often you have heard that told:
Many a man his life has sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
Fare you well; your suit is cold
The message is clear: A wise man is not fooled by what looks outwardly good. A foolish man, will sell even his own life for that which seems to have outward value. On the outside, the tomb may be gilded (covered in gold), but inside, there are still worms. While Shakespeare's expression is certainly the most famous, it is hardly the first. French thrologian Alain de Lille said, "Do not hold everything gold that shines like gold," in the 12th century. Thomas Becon repeated the sentiment in 1553, when he remarked, "All is not golde that glistereth." These men understood what some of us clearly fail to grasp - the outside package can hide rather sinister truth.
Perhaps in a more metaphorical nature, Dimmesdale reaches this conclusion at the end of the book. Having planned a "glittering" future for himself, he came to understand that there was actually something better. When he says to Hester, "Is not this better than what we dreamed of in the forest?" we see that he has learned to be, as Shakespeare said, "as wise as bold."
EC - Consider the ending of the book and write a one page, well-supported paper in which you discuss the following prompt:
Why is Dimmesdale's final choice "better than what [they] dreamed of in the forest"? How is this decision a reflection of the idea that "all that glitters is not gold"?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
A Secret and Suffocating Soul
A pillow pushing hard against my face,
To soften my sinful cries.
To cover my pain and disgrace,
And hide away my lies.
Pushing so hard now,
That I can hardly breathe.
Suffocating ever so slowly,
Like every day I lead.
Becoming weak under the pressure,
Too tired to even strive.
So I try and become what I was,
And make my days a 'life'.
It seems hope is really bleak,
Because these walls are closing in.
I'm crumbling under the weight,
Of my every little sin.
These words, penned by an internet poet who calls herself "Torn" seem to be spoken from the very mouth of Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale. As we work our way through The Scarlet Letter, I cannot help but think about the intense suffering of the characters. Each of them is somehow facing "walls that are closing in." Their foundations of security are rattled by shame and loss, unrequited love and unquenchable hate. Through it all, one will become angelic, one will become monstrous, and one will suffer the greatest torment of all, the suffocation that is born of silence that hides a guilty heart.
It is easy to understand the pressure that Dimmesdale faces. He is, after all, the spiritual leader of the entire town and, as such, is expected to be blameless. He should be without sin. That is without question, but is there no redemption for sin? Is there no reconciliation to be had for a man who truly loves God?
Torn writes, "I'm crumbling under the weight of my every little sin." Like Dimmesdale, she says that her own sin is hidden, secret, suffocating. If hidden sin is so capable of breaking us, then why do we not just open ourselves to sharing the truth? Perhaps it is the nature of man to fear openness, to fear transparency, to fear consequences. After all, Adam and Eve hid from God in the Garden of Eden when they knew they had sinned. So we as humans have a long history of hiding from the truth.
Think about it: As children, we hide when we know we have done wrong. By our teens, we are experts at lying to cover our transgressions. Grown men and women create entirely separate identities so that they can live dual lives and cover their many indiscretions. Lest we believe that we humans are alone in this, remember that even dogs cower when "master" yells. We hide ourselves behind webs of deceit for fear of discovery and we slowly die inside. We are all like Dimmesdale in some way or another. His story is so moving, so memorable, so painful to read, because it is so human. We all see ourselves a little bit in him and we understand his suffering. Over the next week, you will see yourself in Dimmesdale, and part of you will hurt. I hope that his story will inspire you to explore your own soul and find your own hiding places so that you may find your way out of them into the open air that brings redemption.
E.C. #1 - "Follow" this blog (you can figure it out!!) and add a comment to this blog post. What do you think about the human desire to hide from truth? Can we find redemption for even the worst sins? Is it better to confess? What do you think about Dimmesdale's situation? Write about whatever you would like in your comment, but make it good! 25 points
E.C. #2 - Read over Torn's poem again and think about how it relates to Dimmesdale. After considering that, write your own poem in the "voice" of one of the main characters (Hester, Dimmesdale, Pearl, Chillingworth) that expresses their struggles. It should be the same length as Torn's (4 stanzas of 4 lines each). Make sure to use poetic form in stanzas with meaningful line breaks. (Don't just write until you run out of space. Decide what each line should say and then break to the next line. This isn't an essay or a paragraph, after all!) Up to 40 points. In ink or typed only.
To soften my sinful cries.
To cover my pain and disgrace,
And hide away my lies.
Pushing so hard now,
That I can hardly breathe.
Suffocating ever so slowly,
Like every day I lead.
Becoming weak under the pressure,
Too tired to even strive.
So I try and become what I was,
And make my days a 'life'.
It seems hope is really bleak,
Because these walls are closing in.
I'm crumbling under the weight,
Of my every little sin.
These words, penned by an internet poet who calls herself "Torn" seem to be spoken from the very mouth of Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale. As we work our way through The Scarlet Letter, I cannot help but think about the intense suffering of the characters. Each of them is somehow facing "walls that are closing in." Their foundations of security are rattled by shame and loss, unrequited love and unquenchable hate. Through it all, one will become angelic, one will become monstrous, and one will suffer the greatest torment of all, the suffocation that is born of silence that hides a guilty heart.
It is easy to understand the pressure that Dimmesdale faces. He is, after all, the spiritual leader of the entire town and, as such, is expected to be blameless. He should be without sin. That is without question, but is there no redemption for sin? Is there no reconciliation to be had for a man who truly loves God?
Torn writes, "I'm crumbling under the weight of my every little sin." Like Dimmesdale, she says that her own sin is hidden, secret, suffocating. If hidden sin is so capable of breaking us, then why do we not just open ourselves to sharing the truth? Perhaps it is the nature of man to fear openness, to fear transparency, to fear consequences. After all, Adam and Eve hid from God in the Garden of Eden when they knew they had sinned. So we as humans have a long history of hiding from the truth.
Think about it: As children, we hide when we know we have done wrong. By our teens, we are experts at lying to cover our transgressions. Grown men and women create entirely separate identities so that they can live dual lives and cover their many indiscretions. Lest we believe that we humans are alone in this, remember that even dogs cower when "master" yells. We hide ourselves behind webs of deceit for fear of discovery and we slowly die inside. We are all like Dimmesdale in some way or another. His story is so moving, so memorable, so painful to read, because it is so human. We all see ourselves a little bit in him and we understand his suffering. Over the next week, you will see yourself in Dimmesdale, and part of you will hurt. I hope that his story will inspire you to explore your own soul and find your own hiding places so that you may find your way out of them into the open air that brings redemption.
E.C. #1 - "Follow" this blog (you can figure it out!!) and add a comment to this blog post. What do you think about the human desire to hide from truth? Can we find redemption for even the worst sins? Is it better to confess? What do you think about Dimmesdale's situation? Write about whatever you would like in your comment, but make it good! 25 points
E.C. #2 - Read over Torn's poem again and think about how it relates to Dimmesdale. After considering that, write your own poem in the "voice" of one of the main characters (Hester, Dimmesdale, Pearl, Chillingworth) that expresses their struggles. It should be the same length as Torn's (4 stanzas of 4 lines each). Make sure to use poetic form in stanzas with meaningful line breaks. (Don't just write until you run out of space. Decide what each line should say and then break to the next line. This isn't an essay or a paragraph, after all!) Up to 40 points. In ink or typed only.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Wild Beasts and Wild Men?
William Bradford once called the New World a land of "wild beasts and wild men." It is always interesting to me the ways that we describe people who are different from us. I see it all the time. An Asian student walks into a room and some ignorant child yells out "ching, chung, chang!" A Muslim man walks into a business and people walk to the other side or leave, sure that he is a terrorist. A single woman with three children of mixed race walks down the street and people assume she sleeps around and is probably ghetto and on welfare. Those of you who read The Poisonwood Bible will remember the way that the Prices viewed the Congolese people when they arrived on the "wild, uncivilized" African continent. We are really good at stereotyping. We are really good at making assumptions about people. We are really good at being wrong.
William Bradford was wrong. The "wild" men he encountered, now dubbed Native Americans in a nod to their "first nation" status, were quite civilized. They had families and homes and a functioning society. They were not savages bent on death and destruction. As a matter of fact, they didn't become violent with the settlers until it became clear that the European settlers had no intention of sharing land and food with them. As they lost their land, their families, their food, and their ability to survive, they fought back. For it, they were labeled as ruthless, violent people who murdered for no reason. Their love and compassion, their desire to be providers for their families, and their knowledge of the land and its terrible beauty all went unnoticed.
Certainly, we should have learned better. Certainly we should have stopped making hurried assumptions about people who are different from us. But should is a difficult word. We often choose not to do what we should because it is too difficult, and we suffer for that choice. Just think how much the Europeans could have learned from the Native Americans. Just think of how much we could have learned from non-violent Muslims in the days following 9/11, how much we could have understood about gentle people who didn't condone the violence of a few. Just think of how much knowledge and peace could arise from withholding our judgments based on "race" and language.
Think about what life must have been like for the Native Americans during the 1500s and beyond as their land was taken and they were viewed as evil. How does that mirror life today? For extra credit, write one page(in pen or typed) about a time when either you misjudged/stereotyped someone else or when someone misjudged/stereotyped you. Explain the situation, how you felt, how the truth was revealed and what the experience taught you. Turn in the paper by Thursday, September 1.
William Bradford was wrong. The "wild" men he encountered, now dubbed Native Americans in a nod to their "first nation" status, were quite civilized. They had families and homes and a functioning society. They were not savages bent on death and destruction. As a matter of fact, they didn't become violent with the settlers until it became clear that the European settlers had no intention of sharing land and food with them. As they lost their land, their families, their food, and their ability to survive, they fought back. For it, they were labeled as ruthless, violent people who murdered for no reason. Their love and compassion, their desire to be providers for their families, and their knowledge of the land and its terrible beauty all went unnoticed.
Certainly, we should have learned better. Certainly we should have stopped making hurried assumptions about people who are different from us. But should is a difficult word. We often choose not to do what we should because it is too difficult, and we suffer for that choice. Just think how much the Europeans could have learned from the Native Americans. Just think of how much we could have learned from non-violent Muslims in the days following 9/11, how much we could have understood about gentle people who didn't condone the violence of a few. Just think of how much knowledge and peace could arise from withholding our judgments based on "race" and language.
Think about what life must have been like for the Native Americans during the 1500s and beyond as their land was taken and they were viewed as evil. How does that mirror life today? For extra credit, write one page(in pen or typed) about a time when either you misjudged/stereotyped someone else or when someone misjudged/stereotyped you. Explain the situation, how you felt, how the truth was revealed and what the experience taught you. Turn in the paper by Thursday, September 1.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)