AP Lang

Futurama

2008-04-27T07:59:00.000-07:00

After reading 98760986756 dystopia books this year, I feel I am qualified enough to tackle this blog. Brave New World and 1984 are clearly the front runners in this category. Or are they? According to the article, "Conclusion: The Two Futures: A.F. 632 and 1984," Zamiatin's We, published in English in 1924, may have influenced both writers' novels. Of course, in Orwell's case, both We and 1984 influenced his novel, but let's not quibble over that just yet. Huxley and Orwell have both received critical acclaim for their respective books, and as a result, hundreds of articles have been written comparing and contrasting the two. Unlike those other articles which read either as a love letter to either author or an embittered Huxley fan's rant, this article addresses that fine line between influence and plagarism objectively, trying to discover just how much one author can take from another.

The article describes the connection between the two in terms of subject matter and influence first, stating "the only modern anti-utopian novel in English that rivals Brave New World in influence as well as in whole-truthfulness is George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four." The article then turns to the question of influence between the two. Orwell, aware of Huxley's influence on his writing, sent him a copy, which prompted a letter of response from Huxley. In the letter, Huxley discredited the society in 1984, stating that "the policy of the boot-on-the-face is not likely to succeed." On a permanent basis, total control is too hard to maintain, and too easy to botch. Huxley believes that overall, "the political system envisioned by Nineteen Eighty-Four is simply not efficient, and, all other things being equal, efficiency leads to stability as inefficiency leads away from it." Of course, Huxley's prime example of efficiency was the society from his own novel, but this does not detract from his comments on Orwell's. He did not completely dismiss 1984, however. Huxley agreed with Orwell in a later work, stating "it may be indeed that he is completely right and that, only thirty-five years from now, the third revolution, whose crude beginnings are already visible, will be an accomplished fact--the most important and most terrible fact in human history." This admission is truly significant, as it shows the more important side to this issue is the universal fear of where the future is headed.

It has been said that there is no such thing as an original thought, and I tend to agree with that philosophy to a certain extent. Novels regarding a certain subject, such as dystopian societies, share common character-types, themes, plots, endings, etc. There is most definitely an influence between these works; Orwell himself admits he took ideas from Brave New World during the process of writing. Is the taking of ideas considered plagarism, or only the taking of words? I believe Orwell saved himself from criticism by admitting his actions and giving Huxley a copy. Ideas are taken from others daily, and Orwell should not be faulted for it, particularly because his novel was taken in a different direction than Huxley's. Huxley's vision was a world destroyed by pleasure, Orwell's a world destroyed by pain. Is one more accurate than the other? Perhaps time will tell which novel was most accurate, but hopefully not. These works were intended to save us from such a fate, and that is the most important factor. Both works share a common, noble purpose of warning us that these societies are not mere fantasies, but real looming dangers. As long as their readers keep recognizing this warning and heeding it, the question of influence should not matter.

Censor This

2008-04-09T18:59:00.000-07:00

"Fear not those who argue, but those who dodge." --Dale Carnegie

A very influential, very wise (and very young) teacher once said during a discussion on arguments and activisim that every day, she must ask herself, "Is this the hill I want to die on?" in relation to certain arguments. Her statement made me wonder about my own convictions and beliefs. What cause am I willing to completely support, what hill am I willing to die on? For me, the answer could be one of many, as I am a very (very very) opinionated person. The focus of this blog, however, is on my belief and whole-hearted defense for the freedom of speech/expression.

Idealistic? Of course. Cliché? Perhaps. Hypocritical? Not for me. There are those who "completely support" free speech, but only in the context of them being able to rant and rave and preach their views without being stopped. God forbid someone else try to say something to contradict that. How dare you even suggest such a thing! Freedom of speech has become sort of the lost cause of all the idealistic causes. It has been defined, manipulated, reshaped, stretched, and morphed to fit any one of a number of different definitions, all designed to make you appear noble while still only supporting your own right to say your personal beliefs. Since when does freedom of speech mean the freedom to do or say only those things deemed socially acceptable? Sorry for saying the obvious, but isn't freedom the ability to determine for yourself what is and isn't acceptable?

I believe in--and support--a whole different kind of freedom of speech: actual freedom. The right to say and think and believe what you want. The ability to determine what's acceptable for you, no matter what that may mean for another. I'm not talking about defending my ability to say what I think, because let's face it: I'd do that anyway, even if it wasn't legal. I'm talking about defending others' rights to free speech, and not just those people who preach what I practice. I'm talking about the kind of free speech that makes your blood boil when you hear it, statements that make you instantly angry or sad or confused, the kind of free expression you don't understand or don't want to understand. I'm talking about flag burning, book bashing, religion condemning, political backlash, crazy liberal and hardcore conservative rants. Free speech is meant to inspire response and thought; if the actions performed in this nation everyday don't get some sort of emotion out of you, then you must not be paying attention. In America, we have the freedom to say what we think, feel, believe, hope, and desire, even if these things contradict each other and everyone else. Freedom of speech is not a right given to all people; therefore, we must use it to its fullest potential. Free speech gives us the right to argue and disagree, but let us do so in a constructive way. I support the kind of speech that angers me, that inspires me, that makes me think, and that makes me weary. I support hearing both sides of the argument, even if they tell a completely different story. I support free speech at its fullest, telling lies and truths in the same breath because we can.

Give Me Individuality or Give Me Death

2008-03-07T05:44:00.000-08:00

In a world where technology is ever advancing and the possibilities are endless, the question of where to draw the line is both inevitable and vital. Genetic engineering has become the newest procedure to be promoted. Scientists rave about the possibilities for the future, but if that future is not policed by laws and restrictions, it may have a chillingly familiar appearance similar to those worlds shown in 1984 and Brave New World. This new technology allows scientists to locate and remove dangerous genes that cause disorders, such as Tay-Sachs and Downs syndrome, but where do we as a society, as a governing body draw the line? Despite the positive effects genetic engineering could have on genetic health, no adult should have the right to manipulate a child's genes to produce an ideal specimen for a specific task.

The issue of restricting alternative methods of reproduction has been controversial. The desire for a child is frequently an overpowering one, and the government is understandably reluctant to intervene in such a private matter. However, it is our responsibility as a technologically advanced society to restrict practices that have been proven easily corrupted in the past. History has shown us the mistake of giving scientists permission to experiment at will. What begins as a quest for health can transform into a misguided attempt to transform the human race. It may disturb some people to realize that American is as guilty a party as Nazi Germany in the manipulation of advanced genetics. Many of the principles Hitler based his strategy on were things he learned from the eugenics program in California. California is largely considered the epicenter of the American ethnic cleansing movement, according to "Eugenics and the Nazis." (http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgifile=/c/a/2003/11/09/ING9C2QSKB1.DTL
&type=printable). Scientists, while researching genetics disorders, discovered that certain disorders and diseases were in fact hereditary. This led to the popular practice of sterilizing those individuals with such hereditary diseases. Most frequently, these individuals were mentally incapictated in one way or another, so their families signed away their rights. Clearly in this situation, the lack of restrictions allowed the government to violate the constitutional rights of a particular group of people. As easily as scientists can learn to correct Downs syndrome, they can also learn to impliment it into a healthy mind.

As preposterous as that might sound, it is not an illogical conclusion to draw from these experiments. Brave New World presents both scenarios in order to fulfill their employment needs. An employee at the Hatchery, Mr. Foster, informs the learning scientists that there is "nothing like oxygen shortage for keeping an embryo below par" (14). The resulting children are less intelligent and more willing to follow orders. This ability to negatively impact the intelligence of a child presents a government with the opportunity to manifacture an army of obedient and incredibly strong individuals. Rather than the nuclear arms race during the Cold War, our generation will fear a genetic arms race where nations battle to see whose scientists can create the ideal solider, laborer, farmer, mechanic, architect, etc. first. Given the increase in our knowledge of genetics, it is possible that scientists may create the ideal person for a particular job or position. However, in doing so, we would be violating the rights provided to that person in the First Amendment. Every American citizen is guaranteed life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Is happiness able to be predetermined by another individual, a scientist, in a laboratory before birth? Is it possible to manufacture happiness?

It cannot be forgotten that human lives are being experimented on. Robert George and Christopher Tollefsen make a valid point when they argue that "the embyro is a whole, living member of the human species in its earliest stage of development, not just a potential one or a part of one--and if destroyed, that particular individual has perished" (Nancy Gibbs). Too often, frozen embryos have been treated as property to be used in a mass scientific experiment to determine how to improve human life. A suggestion would be to respect all human lives first, including those of the embryos being used. Ms. Gibbs asks the valid question, "are they [embryos] people--or property?" That is another question to be decided by legislators and government officials. We cannot afford to give science a free rein in this area as has been given in the past. Laws must be passed to stop the production of unnecessary embyros and to protect those already frozen. Scientists must learn to take only what is needed, rather than stock freezers with thousands of human lives waiting to be used for whatever purpose seen fit.

Then I Think to Myself

2007-11-21T18:33:00.000-08:00

Like any teenager, I complain about my life. Or should I say like anyone at all? We all complain about our problems/career/life/anything and everything. Some of us are justified, others not so much. So this blog is my attempt to refute my complaints. Not that I'm not justified sometimes, so maybe a better word is clarify. Let me clarify my life for you.

I am thankful for my job, despite its frequent overtime hours and my boss' uncanny ability to make me feel like a bumbling idiot. I am thankful that it never fails to make me feel completely inept and destined to fail as a veterinarian. I am thankful that the sight of blood does not make me faint as I observe several surgeries, all of them amazing opportunities to see animal anatomy up close and personal. I am thankful that I am not nauseated by the stench of dead, thawing animals as I clean out the freezer, though I do wrinkle my nose. I am extremely thankful that I receive such good pay as recognition of my supreme dedication to my craft. Most of all, I am thankful for having a job that teaches me the ins and outs of veterinary science, so that I will have a one-up on the competition in college, who will have the pleasure of learning themselves then what I am learning now. Everyone feels like an idiot until someone teaches them how to do things. It's not a pleasant feeling, but I'm thankful for it anyway. It means I am learning.

I am thankful for my school, despite its constant conflicts with friends, social events, and relaxation in general. I am thankful for every assignment that caused me to stay up way past twelve and consume massive quantities of caffeine (usually in the form of soda). I am thankful for every stress caused by a test or quiz, and every impending brain aneurysm hinging on a certain grade. I am thankful for the endless forms needed for this class, that club, and one big college application. I am truly thankful for all those teachers who love us students, despite our endless complaints, hectic schedules, and general lack of gratitude to those who slave over our education like a hot stove on Thanksgiving Day. Most of all, I am thankful for every day of senior year that acts as a buffer between me and the real world (college). It's scary to think that I will be off on my own next year, with professors who might not know my name and definitely won't care what my schedule's like. Sometimes, I think of failing my classes in order to stay in the safe confines of high school, but I am way too much of a perfectionist to do that.

I am thankful for my family, despite our rocky relationships and near constant bickering. I am thankful for my younger sisters mocking my driving because I know that they will make the same mistakes I do, and I will then bathe in the warm soothing water of "I told you so's." I am thankful for my mother's belief that I do nothing around the house, blatantly ignoring the fact that I leave the house at seven a.m. and do not return home until typically nine-thirty p.m. I am even thankful for my eleven-o-clock curfew that frequently puts a damper on my social life, because if my mother doesn't know where her kids are at ten-o-clock, she most certainly does an hour later. Most of all, I am thankful for my mother's complaints that I am never home, because I know I truly will not be home next year. My house is perhaps the safest environment I know, so any punishment I suffer under its roof this year cannot possibly put a damper on how much I love it. I believe I have discovered the purpose of family this year: they allow to you to become accustomed to the feeling of underappreciation at a young age so when you reach senior year in high school, you can look back on your life and say, "I am thankful for having lived such a life as this. It was not perfect and it was not easy, but it certainly taught me something."

The Truth Has Been Revealed

2007-11-14T15:25:00.000-08:00

I have always been very self-critical and, therefore, have only been able to enjoy looking at pictures from my birth until I got glasses in third grade. This was made more difficult by the fact that my family, like most families, made an occasion of the first day of school. However, unlike most families, we did it every year, or at least every year that school was enjoyable. It ended by the time I reached third grade and learned the truth. One of the pictures resulting from these first-day extravaganzas sticks out in my mind. I am sitting on our front porch, which looks surprisingly bare due to the absence of the overgrown bush that now hugs it on the left side. It’s just a baby in this picture too.

I’m about seven years old, dressed in green plaid overalls, a white T-shirt, socks that nearly reach my knees, and a smile filled with gaps. My arm is draped over the back of our family dog, Travis, an enormous Giant Schnauzer with a full beard and dark eyes who understood every secret I ever whispered to him. I can still feel the way my arm stretched across his broad back, the gray and white hairs tickling me and the warmth of his body pressed close to mine. He felt the same way years later lying on that towel in the vet’s office, waiting for a shot of peaceful death. All the implications of that room, and he was just so happy to see that towel. I called him my big brother, mainly because my parents never provided me a human counterpart. I used to dream sometimes that I did have an older brother who was endlessly funny and infinitely strong, a cross between Superman and Bugs Bunny.

Of course by the time I was born, it was too late for an older brother. Instead, I began wishing for a younger brother. I’d teach him the basics of football and how to properly treat a girl. I can still remember the day my mom told us she was pregnant, a glow in her face and a sparkle in her eyes. My father stood behind her as she explained how we were getting another sibling, and my sister cried unhappy tears. The elation rose in me as I considered the possibility that finally, finally I could get my baby brother, the one I’d imagined for so long. My parents would diplomatically say that they didn’t care what gender the baby was as long as it was healthy, but I didn’t lie. I proclaimed to anyone who would listen, “I want it to be a boy.” The night before the baby’s birth, my grandma came to watch us. I remember in the early hours of the morning, my father’s weary warm voice on the phone telling us it was a girl. We visited the hospital later that day, where I peered over the side of my mother’s bed to see a red baby. “It’s red,” I told my father. “My sister’s a tomato.”
“No, she’s not.” He told me, “It’s just from the labor; it’ll fade.”
I never got either brother I imagined, but I wasn’t disappointed. I had wanted an older brother for selfish reasons, I’ll admit. An older brother could have protected me from him; a younger brother was useless anyway.

I wish I could say I remember the exact moment it all started, but it has all become a blur of good and bad memories, a vortex spinning on the axis of my mind. I remember being afraid of my father when I was younger, but I cannot remember the exact moment he first hit me. If this were Hollywood, I’d have the whole scene playing out in my mind over and over again, the date and time stamped on the inside of my forehead as a permanent reminder. In reality, you can’t pinpoint the specifics of anything exactly. You’ve spent your entire life ignoring those memories and feelings, so it’s no wonder that you take no notice of the day they actually disappear. Nothing feels different, because you’ve pretended so well for so long that the disappearance changes nothing. You are still a girl whose whole life is comprised of secrets and lies, stitched and twisted and knotted together until no end is up.

It is a sunny day, or perhaps not. I am standing in our hallway upstairs, in front of the bathroom door. My father is in the bathroom, standing at the sink, blow dryer in one hand. He is mad, but at what I can’t remember. I don’t even know if I knew it then. I am four years old, and I am shaking. I am trembling, I am cowering, I am cringing. My father is yelling at me, screaming at me to do my earliest form of punishment: jumping jacks. I am trembling, I am cowering, I am shaking, but I am doing them just the same. My mother stands behind my father in the bathroom, but she doesn’t say a word. Her eyes follow my movements, or maybe not. I am four years old, and I have to pee. My father is yelling, so I do nothing but jump up and down and out in the jumping jack formation, up and down and out. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I feel the warm liquid flowing down my legs and onto the carpet. My father doesn’t notice either until my mother points it out. “Stop, stop, look at what she’s doing.” I am sniveling, I am crying, I am mortified. My father grabs my shoulder and hustles me into the bathroom, demanding to know why I didn’t tell him I needed to go to the bathroom sooner. This was the first (and only literal) time my father scared the piss out of me.

The first time I tried to take action, I was seven. I asked my mother if it would be okay to tell someone about my father and what he did to us, and to her. “Go ahead if you want to,” she told me. “Just be aware that they will split us up. Is that what you want? To never see your father again?” I was seven years old. I was confused, I was guilty, I was silenced. To this day, my mother defends her actions. “I told the truth,” she says. “They would have split us up.” My mother is the queen of guilt trips; she kept me silent for fifteen long years. No one knew, no one intervened, no one cared.

I am in sixth grade, and I am failing shop. I do not understand or enjoy the class, and I hate my teacher. I hate him even more when he asks for my father’s work number so he can call him and tell him I’m failing. “You were given a notice to get signed. Where is it? You didn’t hand it in.” I didn’t tell him that the notice was hidden deep in my locker. There was no way that piece of paper would ever make it home. “What’s his number?” I stammer, I mumble, I lie. “I dunno.” I tell him dully. “Oh really?” The snide grin on his face makes me want to slap him. “Well, we can always go look it up.” Damn. I fidget, I sweat, I tell him. For the rest of the day, I walk around in a jitter. I know what’s coming. I tell my friends, “My father’s gonna kill me when he finds out, so if you don’t see me tomorrow, that’s why.” They laugh and smile, but I don’t. I am serious, I am nervous, I am dead. After school, I get out of the car, and slowly walk into the building. My father comes into the back of the shop. His eyes are glittering as he asks me to sit down, and for the first time, I give credence to my mother’s theory of mild mental illness. I sit in the blue leather chair, facing my father. My mother continues into the front. What is happening here is nothing she hasn’t seen before, nothing she hasn’t overlooked. “How’s school?” He asks me. I tell him it’s fine, but my words sound hollow and we both know I’m lying. I don’t remember exactly when the blows started falling, but I do remember they hurt like hell. He is hitting me from one arm to another, beating on my bones. I am screaming, I am crying, I am hurting. When he finally stops, I am drained, I am defeated, I am dead. Shaking, I walk over to our corner in the front. My father comes up behind me, and leans on my chair, thrusting his face next to mine. “If you had brought this home the first day,” he tells me, slamming the notice on the table, “we would have just had a talk about it.” Bullshit, Dad. I don’t say it, but something has changed between us. My father and I have always been close, but now I know. I know that he doesn’t do this because of us, he does it because of him. This should relieve me, but it doesn’t. I just stare blankly at the notice, tears streaming down my face until he walks away.

My sisters mock me for weeks afterward, mimicking the sound of my screams and laughing. The younger one has no idea what she is talking about, but she laughs anyway, scornfully, cruelly. My temper flares up inside, but I say nothing. There is nothing to say. I am stone, I am ice, I am dead. Some say that abuse is not about the physical pain, but the emotional pain. Mine is about neither. I don’t feel the pain when it happens, I don’t feel anything when it’s over. Fear is always there, an instinctual thing, but even that has faded into the dullest twinge in the background. Then one day you find yourself sitting on the couch, watching a movie about a man who’s lost his mind following the murder of his entire family, and you do not feel anything. You turn your head to see your mother and sisters sobbing, caught up in the tragedy of the story, yet you feel nothing. So you turn and look at your father, who rolls his equally dry eyes, gets up and says, “Atta girl. I’m getting myself some food.”

Two weeks later, I am getting into the car in the Shop-Rite parking lot when the sleeves of my t-shirt ride up too far. My mother grabs my arm, leaning it into the light. “What are these?” She asks me, her face twisted in a concerned frown. I don’t respond, but look at her blankly. What the hell do you think they are? I scream in my head, but my mouth does not open, no words come out. “This is from that time?” She asks me, but I still do not respond. She calls my father over, holding out my arm. “Did you see these?” Of course he did, Mom. He made them. This is her attempt at performing her duties, two weeks too late. Hell, ten years too late. “Yeah,” my father says, staring into my face. “That’s what she gets.” My mother drops my arm, my father goes back to loading groceries, I get back in the car. I pull my sleeves back down over the bruises.

I am in seventh grade. I am woken up one morning to a strangely silent house. I go upstairs to see my aunt and cousin sitting at the kitchen table looking exhausted. I continue into the living room, from where I am then called into my mother’s room. She is sitting on her bed, a wadded tissue in her hands. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, her lip from something else. “He hit me,” she told me. I say nothing. I am silent, I am expectant, I am unfazed. “I’m leaving him. He’s at his parents’ house. We’re getting a divorce.” I look at her calmly. “Okay.” There’s no relief, no anger, no sorrow. I have been asking her to do this ever since I was old enough to know the truth. The fact that she chooses to leave him because he hit her again does not escape my notice.

The second time I tried to get help, I was in seventh grade. My parents were planning on getting a divorce, and I was ready to tell someone the truth. I chose a girl I was friends with and told her during gym class. As we walked around the field, I poured out my life story, or as much as I was willing to share. She listened, and I felt free. Someone else on the planet knew the truth. Nothing happened, nothing changed, no one cared. When I asked her years later if she remembered our conversation, she had no clue what I was talking about.

I am in seventh grade, and I want to die. I find myself planning out the best ways and times in which to die. Before now, I have always wanted to be seriously injured or sick, but never killed. I have daydreamed about all my friends coming to visit me in the hospital, telling me how much they loved me and how they were so worried about me. I have never actually wanted to die until now. I am low, I am depressed, I am sick. My mother and I are even more at odds now, and I find myself wishing I would have the courage to end it all. Several times, I start writing suicide notes, but crumple them in anger. Most of them are bitter tirades at my mother, and do not convey me the way I wish to be remembered. Sometime in the early stages, my parents had called my sister and me upstairs to read us an article. It was about student athletes who are the stars both on the field and in the classroom. As my parents read the article to us, I fought back tears. I was pissed at myself for showing weakness (the family motto was “Toughen up”), and because I was pissed, I choked up more. I’ve never felt good enough for my parents; I have never felt like I pleased them. My mother tells me that she does not “give away compliments, you earn them.” Well, I have tried my hardest to earn those compliments, yet they are fleeting at best. My insecurities, destroyed self-esteem, and past history have given me the motivation for this life-solving (and ending) conclusion of suicide. Surprisingly, my father is largely unaware of this period; this is between my mother and I. One day after school, she confronts me about my feelings. I tell her I want to die. I am hysterical, I am irrational, I am screaming. I hurl insults at her, telling her the truth for once. “I hate you!” I scream. She slaps my arm hard. I collapse to the ground, crying. My mother reaches for me, but I shriek at the top of my lungs, “Get away from me! Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” She sits back on her heels, her arms hanging confused in the air. “Tell me how to help you.” She pleads with me, but I ignore her, brushing past her on my way to the bathroom. I tear off a wad of toilet paper angrily and swipe my tears away. Crying pisses me off. My mother stands in the doorway, watching me. She asks me again what is wrong and how she can help. I opt for the simpler reason and take the easy way out. “You don’t love me, Mom. You never have.” She gapes at me. “How could you think that?” “You never tell me you love me, you never hug me or kiss me…” You never stop him. “Honey, of course I love you.” She gives me a hug, and I force myself to stand there, to hug her back. My mother is not aware of the night I sobbed for hours on end until my sister slipped a note under the door, telling me she was afraid that I would actually do it and she loved me so much it hurt to hear me.

Eventually, I pulled myself out of my funk. The closest I’d ever gotten was standing in my kitchen, knife in hand, sobbing over my outstretched wrist. My mother and sisters had left for church. I had stayed behind, angry with my mother. I simply could not bring the knife down. Things are better now, since I have realized that suicide is the easy way out I originally thought it was. Killing myself now would be accepting defeat, and my fighting spirit is what got me this far.

I am going into sophomore year, and I am losing my mind. I am crazy, I am insane, I am hallucinating. I will be sitting in my room doing homework, or lying on my bed trying to sleep, or doing anything anywhere, and I will hear it. I will hear my father’s voice screaming, yelling. He is pissed at someone for something. I will freeze, my heart rate quickens, my blood pressure rises, my hands start to shake. Then reality strikes an icy chill in my heart. My father is laughing, my father is joking, my father is sleeping, and worst of all, my father is not even home. I am imagining sounds, I am imagining memories. I vaguely remember being confronted while in the shower, standing there naked, wet, vulnerable. I have asked my mother if this ever happened. She vaguely remembers something as well. I am losing it.

Suddenly, miraculously, I am saved from my imminent nervous breakdown, my impending hospital stay, my fading future goals. He is dead. I am shocked, I am stunned, I am relieved. The first thought I think upon the news is that he can no longer hurt me. I have been dreading his future reactions, to college, to boyfriends, to independence. My mother is a wreck; she is lost without him. Yet without him, I am healing, I am growing, I am found. My relief overwhelms me along with equally intense feelings of guilt. Words cannot express the confusion I feel at his passing, the jumbled emotions. I regret that the only way for me to feel human again is to lose my father. I do love him, I do not love him. I do blame him, I do not blame him. My grief sweeps over me like a wave, and I am drowning in memories, good memories, the ones that supposedly far outweigh the bad. I don’t know if this is true in my case; my grandmother (my father’s mother) would always tell us, “You know, you kids are very disrespectful. Your father is a good man, and you should see what you girls do to him. Shame on you, shame on you.” My mother, despite all her differences with my grandmother, would tell me that every time she took him back, “He’s a good man, he really is. He’s a very good man.” I swear, if my father had not died, I would have killed the next person to tell me that. If I ever hear that phrase again, it will be too soon. If he were such a good man, he would not take out his anger on his young daughters. If he were such a good man, I would not have lived in fear of him. If he were such a good man, you would not need to explain that to me.

Lots of things have changed following his death. Both sets of grandparents have claimed they had no idea that my father was abusive to us kids. This is barely believable to one set, and clearly false to the other. My father hit us more than one time at his parents’ house, so their denial is an outright lie. I no longer speak with them on a regular basis. My father was their world, and since his death, they do not celebrate holidays and do not leave the house. My other grandparents have grown much closer to us. While before my father’s death they were distant and we only saw them a few times a year, we now see them regularly and stay over at their house almost every month.

As for my father, there is not a single day that goes by that I do not think of him and how much I miss him. For a while after his death, I knew with a certainty that twists my insides with guilt that if I had the choice, I would not bring him back. I was on my way to a breakdown, and he had repeatedly betrayed my trust with his abuse over the years. After fifteen years of that treatment, I had become emotionally dead inside. I still am to a certain extent; I do not cry at sad movies, I do not cry at sad songs, I do not cry at sad books. I do cry myself to sleep sometimes, when no one can hear me. I believe in my mother’s philosophy that “you are the only friend that will always be there for you,” though some of my high school friends are serious contenders. I calm myself on these overly emotional nights by repeating the phrase “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay” like a mantra in my head. I don’t believe it for an instant, but I know that I am the only person who will never ever hurt me. Yet even that is a lie, because I hurt myself every day. I hurt myself every time I look in the mirror and want to turn away. Every critical comment, every self-inflicted insult, every time I don’t measure up in my own eyes, I am hurting myself. I am the mistress of torture; I know exactly what to say to bring myself down. I don’t do it to others, but I sure as hell do it to myself. I’m constantly telling myself I’m too fat, I’m too annoying, I’m too loud, I’m too ugly, I’m too stupid, and I’m too useless to ever make an impact on another person, let alone the world. Yet even with this highly effective self-abuse, I still am my own protector. When I was a child, that protector took the form of an older brother. Later, I wanted a younger brother, just so I could teach someone how to properly treat women, as if this would make up for the abuses inflicted by my father. In a way, I’m glad I never got that brother. Instead, I learned to protect myself. I’m now a harder, stronger version of the young girl I used to be, but don’t believe for a second that the cheeky grin in the photo is a grin of innocence, of the quiet before the storm. The storm was raging in that picture. By first grade, I had seen abuse and experienced it. Were you fooled by that toothless grin? Now you know just how good I am.

She Works Hard for the Money

2007-11-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

Prostitution is allegedly the "oldest profession in the world." And ever since the first woman accepted money from the first man, it has been the subject of much debate and controversy. Some believe there are those prostitutes who enjoy the "glamorous" lifestyle of sex and (frequently) drugs, while others argue that these women are forced into this profession by desperate times or controlling pimps. I am much more inclined to believe the view portrayed in The Glass Castle, that these women are desperate and turn to prostitution out of need.

It is highly unlikely, in my opinion, that any woman would enjoy selling herself for money, but rather she pretends to enjoy the lifestyle as a defense mechanism. I can't imagine anyone would be eager to disclose that she took the job because she was broke and needed money desperately. It is more believable that she still maintains some sort of pride, at least enough to want others to think she chose to prostitute herself because it is glamorous. This falsehood is healthily supported in the media as well. How many movies, TV shows, video games, books, etc. show a prostitute as a glamorous, fun-loving, bold woman who can conquer the world? A perfect example is Pretty Woman. Julia Roberts' character is a prostitute who miraculously is able to fall in love with a rich man, or perhaps more appropriately have him fall in love with her. She is an endearing character, which only further supports the belief that prostitution is a legitimate career that could serve as a stepping stone to wealth, love, happiness, etc. None of this is actually true. The reality of prostitution is that most start at the age of 13 or 14. They are often from broken, dysfunctional homes and are frequently seduced by a man who is kind to them and buys them expensive gifts. Later, when they have been fully drawn in and are "in love" with him, he forces them to sell themselves on the street.

This non-glamorous lifestyle is supported in The Glass Castle. Even the women in the Green Lantern who lie on the porch in revealing clothing are not ultimately portrayed as glamorous. When Brian is explaining the particulars to Jeannette, he tells her that "she doesn't even know all the words in a Sad Sack comic book" (Walls 79). This sheds light on Ginger's reasons for being a prostitute; she can't read very well, which probably means she is not very educated. Most women are prostitutes because it is the only job they can get and it gives them good money. Ginnie Sue, the mother mentioned later, has nine children and a husband with no job. Her only option, unfortunately, is prostitution. It offers her the kind of money she needs for the little skills she possesses. Society has made it an acceptable choice to become a prostitute to earn money. In order to discourage women from making this damaging choice, this romanticized viewpoint must change. Women should be informed that it is never okay to sell yourself to earn money, no matter how badly you need it. Other options should be offered to these women, so they can avoid this path. There is a reason prostitutes earn so much money: they are not just selling their bodies, they're selling their souls every single time.

TTTC - That Infamous Buffalo Scene

2007-10-04T05:34:00.000-07:00

For my first post, I am choosing the infamous baby water buffalo scene. Ambitious, I know, but this scene really stuck with me as I read and changed my opinions on several things. Those of you who know me, know that I am an animal lover, to put it mildly, so this scene was particularly hard to read. However, being an APES, I tried to read the text as objectively as possible, and was able to discover some very interesting things.

First of all, this passage has everything and nothing to do with the buffalo's suffering. Yes, clearly the poor little baby buffalo was treated cruelly, but this is used as a manifestation (still love that word) of the internal pain suffered by Rat Kiley over the loss of his best friend, Curt Lemon. Rat's display of immense cruelty is his way of unleashing all that pain and anger and grief he is feeling.

It is important to note that throughout the scene, neither the buffalo nor Rat make a sound, until the very end when Rat whispers to it just before shooting it one last time. This silence is symbolic of Rat's inability to express what he's feeling. His actions alarm his fellow soldiers who have never seen such raw human emotion before. As O'Brien describes it, "we had just witnessed something essential, something brand-new and profound, a piece of the world so startling there was not yet a name for it" (79). Rat's outburst of grief and anger stems from the pain of losing his best friend in an environment none of us can accurately imagine. The grief and pain Rat felt could not have been adequately explained in words; therefore, O'Brien uses the buffalo to convey just how much pain Rat was in.

Another interesting point to mention is the fact that after the shooting ends, the buffalo is still alive. As O'Brien describes it, "it was still alive, though just barely, just in the eyes" (79). This is yet another comparision to Rat. In this scene, the buffalo is a representation of Rat Kiley and his emotions. The buffalo at the end of the scene is in tremendous pain and on the verge of dying, yet is still alive, the only evidence of which is shown in its eyes. This relates back to the dehumanization displayed by the soldiers. Throughout the war, they grow callous and numb to the mass destruction that surrounds them. By making jokes and dismembering bodies and taking souvenirs, the soldiers are able to survive without being crippled by the overwhelming emotional stimuli. In a way, the buffalo is a representation of all the soldiers. After a point, they will all be wounded, emotionally and physically, that human side of them will die, yet the only evidence of their humanity will be that slight glimmer in the eyes. That glimmer will remain as the sole reminder of the fact that they are still alive and that somewhere deep down, some piece of humanity, however small, has survived.