Not Just Sonny's Blues

I feel like there's a lot more to "Sonny's Blues" than just a story about Sonny and the narrator and their relationship. It's the plot, yes, but what I felt myself thinking while the narrator was describing things (such as his reflection on and reaction to Sonny's performance) so vividly, was the circumstances of all the people around him and the realities they have to face. 

One connection that I think would be helpful to make would be how the narrator comments on the boys at his school:

"They were growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were two darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which has blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively, dreamed, at once more together than they were at any other time, and more alone."

I know how we discussed in class that it seems like the narrator doesn't really seem all that empathetic (or willing to be empathetic), but I feel like his insight here, if it isn't empathy, is still very keen. He grew up in Harlem, and he's still in Harlem, and while he's now an Algebra teacher who doesn't do drugs and has a nice family, I feel like there's also this sense of loss, or resignation. It's so true that these boys have such limited possibilities in life, and it's also probably true that our narrator wanted more out of his life as well. 

When the narrator was describing Sonny's music, and all the feelings it evoked, I thought it was extremely well-put. Yes, there is so much darkness and suffering out there, and it will be there for a very long time, if not forever. Yes, no matter what Sonny does, whether if it's music or drugs or some other way to make his life a little bit better, he'll never truly escape or break free. However, his music acknowledges the darkness, and it provides these moments of hope and beauty. Of course, Sonny will continue to struggle and hurt, and he'll keep doing that forever--"I heard what he had gone though, and would continue to go through until he came to rest in earth". The world will remain "as hungry as a tiger" and trouble will continue to stretch above them, "longer than the sky". But in those moments, our narrator recognizes the hope and the freedom that Sonny's music provides, and that helps him accept Sonny and his fight. 

After carefully considering everything, I feel like Baldwin's story is really also a way to talk about the struggles of black people in the United States. I feel like Sonny's struggles with heroin and his music acts as a vehicle for this conversation. If Baldwin were more explicit, I feel like it might have made people (more so during that time period, probably?) defensive or dismissive*. I find the most compelling parts in our narrator's language when he describes Sonny's music. Honestly, I kinda felt like I was out of my element thinking about this stuff, since we didn't really discuss it in class all that much. The things I was thinking about seemed... Not exactly like a reach, but there was this worry that I didn't really get the full extent of what Baldwin was trying to do? I guess that's because I am in unfamiliar territory. Just like how the narrator can try to work on his empathy, and try and understand Sonny's experiences, I can think about these things hard, but I won't really get what exactly he meant to do. There might even be more distance. And I think identity and historical context plays a big part--he's a black man in the 1950s, and I'm an Asian girl in the 2010s. One thing that hasn't changed (of many, I suppose), though, I think, is the darkness, which is still here. 

* I get part of this idea from reading one of Baldwin's essays that I stumbled across, while I was trying to find PDFs of his stories. Here's a link if you'd like to read it--it's pretty nice. 

Sonya and Rebecca

Honestly, when reading "The Toast", I thought the whole thing about Sonya quitting her job at an Ivy League university to become a health coach was absurd and a satirization of people in real who do that. After all, people who talk about fluoride rotting your brains out and everything are all quacks, right (slight exaggeration, but still)? I mean, you can't take

"I offered free consultations to all the fat, hormonally imbalanced women I met in local health-food stores and sent “You need a health coach” emails to all my former Ivy League colleagues."

seriously. It seems at least a bit exploitative, and also brings to mind MLM schemes--the likes of Herbalife, belly wraps, and various homeopathic remedies.

Later in the "The Toast", we are brought to 2008, where Professor X (Sonya's clever disguise) is suffering from Lyme disease. It's six years before the story starts off, and we can see that she wasn't doing much better then either. She's behind on payments, being harassed by debt collectors, and her rent (which she probably doesn't have) is due the next day. And yet, we witness a phone conversation between her and a (supposed) nutritionist, who tells her that tap water gives people dementia due to the fluoride content, and is giving Sonya aluminum poisoning (a quick search on Google leads me to quite a few questionable sources). This nutritionist tells Sonya that she needs a good water filter (and heavy-metal chelation, which apparently is another big alternative medicine thing), and Sonya obliges, expenses be hanged. We can interpret this scene a bit more graciously, since we do see how sick Sonya is and how awful it must be to suffer from Lyme disease. We can understand her desperation to get better, and sympathize with her plight. And yet, something still seems a bit off, right? 

If we go back to Sonya and her sister's childhood, we can see the abuse they went through and infer how much they had to endure (both emotional and physical). One interesting thing is that Sonya never really mentions what exactly she does in the household or what verbal abuse her mother throws her way. Leala is portrayed as the responsible one and the one taking the brunt of things, being the oldest child. Sonya, on the other hand, seems to not get a lot of that variety of abuse (though she is threatened with physical punishment). But this isn't to say that she isn't affected just as much. For example, having your Barbies rape other Barbies or have sex with horses can be pretty indicative of having a messed up childhood. I'm not saying that everyone who plays with toys with the intent of rape/bestiality had a shitty home life (obviously it'll depend on things like age and previous exposure to those sorts of concepts; and sometimes you can just attribute things to curiosity and not really getting the seriousness of such topics), but it is pretty dang suggestive of such experiences. Especially if you find other indicators, which we do. Sonya manipulates her older sister's attention and feelings pretty fluently, and manages to get what she wants every time (animal abuse is another great sign of childhood issues). Even the stories Sonya writes in the present don't seem very typical of someone that well-adjusted. The evil older sister trope can get pretty questionable, especially since Sonya does have an older sister (who honestly doesn't seem that bad!).

Right, so we take Sonya's issues seriously, but we also see her as sort of ridiculous. Maybe it'd be too strong of an act (plain mean, really) to call her pathetic, but something similar to that would probably fit (but we are sympathetic). Okay, now here's the kicker: Rebecca Curtis, the author of the story, in real life, is a holistic nutritionist. She had (has) Lyme disease. She has a sister who has a husband and two kids. She used to teach at Columbia. How much of "The Toast" is coming from personal experience, and how much of it is just because of how literary fiction works--"the need for drama, the use of distortion, and the distinction between fiction and reality"?

Note: here's an interview with Rebecca that I read, if you'd like to see it 

Another Manhattan?

When I saw "Another Manhattan" on the syllabus, I thought it would focus on another Manhattan. That is, some other version of the city Manhattan; some other version of reality. Maybe some dystopia or futuristic society (or both), and the lives of people in them. I was kinda wrong... I think?

After reading the story, I wasn't very impressed. I didn't really like any of the characters and I didn't find anything particularly interesting. Sure, this guy steals this gigantic bouquet in an attempt to (somehow?) repair his (kinda bad, really) marriage. Okay. But that's it? Honestly, the only thoughts I had before our class discussion was that Jim and Kate really needed to go to marriage counseling (and Jim to therapy and also a psychiatrist's office) if they wanted things to work. Jim's initial thoughts were right--they really did just need to talk about things, rather than going out to diner with friends they cheated on each other with.

During our class discussion, I realized quite a few things that made the story more compelling. I have to admit--when I got to the latter part of the story, I started getting a bit distracted and so didn't notice as much as I should have. One thing that several people brought up was Kate and her relationship with Elliot. It's true; Elliot does seem pretty controlling, and their relationship definitely doesn't seem as nice as Jim imagines it to be. Another thing would be just how serious Jim's mental illness is, and how it seems to be so normalized. Actually, I got a bit indignant about how Kate was talking to him. Shouldn't she be more considerate? Doesn't she know how much her husband's going through? Of course, since we don't get her perspective on their relationship that much, she might also be having a tough time, at her wit's end. It's definitely a difficult situation--and so that's why I concluded that it really might be better for them to split up. Sometimes love isn't enough. You also need communication, trust, understanding, the works. I know that I have a tendency to comment on the relationships of characters of things I read, sometimes a bit too much (armchair relationship counsellor? maybe), but it's just hard not to, seeing all these people struggle and suffer!

Something that I went away puzzled about after our class discussion was the "pretty shop assistant" and her interactions with Jim. Initially, I didn't think much about her, and felt kinda bad when he ran away with the flowers. But as some people brought up, you could also interpret her trying to get him to buy them as taking advantage of an obviously mentally unwell guy. Sure, he looks rich, and sure, he did agree to all these lilies and irises and globs of baby's breath, but...
Though, I suppose Jim's also a bit weird (understatement?). I found it a bit amusing, but also pretty disheartening when he mentioned "using a shopgirl as a proxy to get himself worked up for sex later that night"--it really showed that his relationship was lacking in way too many aspects.

I know this post has been kinda disjointed (I just have a little to say on a lot of stuff), but I'm still a bit confused about the title of the story. Yes, it could be in reference to the drinks Kate's downing. But, now that I think about it, it could also tie in with Jim's feelings of not belonging. He just feels so displaced and hopeless, and he really just does not belong. Of course, maybe he'll get better and finally be able to support himself and Kate, and they'll talk and work things out and live well and... Is that another Manhattan?

Reception to fake war stories

I don't know much about war. Sure, I've read All Quiet on the Western Front and Slaughterhouse Five and I've learned about WWI and WWII and the Korean War and the Vietnam War and I've heard about the Gulf War and the wars in Iraq and the war in Afghanistan... But I don't know much about war.

Okay, sure. So when I read O'Brien and he tells me that he's trying to convey some truths about war, regardless of the fact that The Things They Carried is a work of fiction, I accept it. He's a vet, he's been through these things, I'm sure he's just trying his best to represent the Vietnam War as what it felt like, from what he remembers. After all, maybe it seems too self-indulgent, or maybe it's too difficult, to write nonfiction about such experiences. So, I immerse myself in the book. I try to be receptive. I'm almost there with these characters and these places, almost feeling, almost believing. It's nice. Sometimes I'm emotional. I think I like the book.

Of course, O'Brien never forgets to remind us of this nebulous idea of truth, versus, say, reality, and how feelings and perceptions might play with actual facts when you're telling a story, and how paradoxes and contradictions are everywhere, and sometimes I find it a bit disruptive. Maybe it's because I'm lazy. If you tell me to believe you, I will, but I really don't appreciate you constantly calling into question if what you're saying is believable (it's kinda hard thinking about all of this!). Or, maybe it's just that I don't really understand what exactly O'Brien is trying to get at. Is he trying to prove a point about how truth is just what feels the most real? Is his purpose more making a distinction between story-truth and happening-truth, or sharing the Vietnam War? It's not super clear and I'm confused (and I don't really like being confused). Things seem a bit more clear during our class discussions, but when I'm thinking about these things on my own, I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go.

The Things They Carried starts off very well. I love the first story and feel deeply for the men, and especially Jimmy Cross. I enjoy the following ones as well. Our discussions in the classroom make me think about what I'm reading a bit more, but I'm not fazed or cynical about O'Brien's intentions or his representation of the war and the people. I guess what really changes things for me is finding out how the O'Brien's dear daughter Kathleen is actually a figment of his imagination. Maybe that sounds silly since it seems like such an inconsequential thing, but it seriously makes me reconsider my beliefs and what exactly I think O'Brien is doing. Kathleen ruins "Good Form" and "Field Trip" for me. I can't believe O'Brien would betray me like this. I give him my trust and I believe that he's earnest, even if not accurate, and he spins up this fictional daughter who serves only as a literary device. "Good Form" is supposed to be a heart-to-heart talk where we distance ourselves from story-truth for a while, and reflect, but it's not. I'm a much milder version of disgusted. 

I'm at the end of the book. Perhaps I'll be able to get back into it. But in the back of my head, I know that it won't be the same. Once I've come to know something and accept it, I can't pretend otherwise. When I finish the last story, I'm unsatisfied. Linda, like Kathleen, ruins the story she's in. She doesn't fit here, in a book about truth. For one, you can't fool me into believing that 9 year olds know what real love is like! Unless, I guess, it's all relative and depends on your perception at that time and how you ruminate over those experiences and feelings over the years and decide that--see how O'Brien makes things so confusing?!

Parts of The Things They Carried are still profound, and I do find them true (or I'd like to convince myself that they are true). I can separate, for the most part, what I like (most of the characters and their humanity, sad or pleasant feelings) and dislike (some of the things O'Brien forces me to think about, Kathleen, Linda), and that's nice. I have enjoyed some of O'Brien's meta moments. Sometimes he sounds cool, and sometimes things really do click. Feeling alive is exhilarating, war is absurd, and facing certain truths, such as death, is really difficult. I wish I could elaborate more, but this blog post is really getting kinda long, and I'd like to reduce some things to platitudes or generalizations just to make O'Brien disappointed, because that's how he'll react as that's how I imagine he would react (see how being meta can be annoying? this totally is to prove a point and not because I'm getting tired of typing).

Short Story

Spring 2018.

First Corinthians and Porter

While searching for the name of the city that Milkman said he'd buy a plane ticket to get out of on Google in order to finish a blog comment, I stumbled across this blog post by an English teacher in Baltimore (read it!).

What the post examines is how First Corinthians is raped by Porter. Now, you might be thinking, really? That's what I thought too, until the author (Mr. Miazga) presented some really convincing evidence, framed in the context of sex. Honestly, it was pretty enlightening (I'm not being sarcastic or ironic or whatever at all)--before reading that post the idea didn't even cross my mind. When Corinthians keeps saying no, I thought she meant she didn't want the things Porter was mentioning, and just wanted him (romantic, right?). But like Mr. Miazga says, "There really isn't any other way to describe what happens above, is there? A woman says "no" four times in a row while a man is inserting his penis into her. There is no consent". When he put things like that, things made a lot more sense. Obviously, I have no idea how Toni Morrison meant for this scene to be read, but this is a pretty compelling interpretation. Something that I figure seems more fitting, if Mr. Miazga's claim is true, would be why Porter is described as "apologetically" asking Corinthians if he can get her something, when she asks where the bathroom is. 

If we accept that Porter does indeed rape Corinthians, then that adds a lot of confusion and complication to what their relationship really is. If it starts with rape, what does it mean for the two and their feelings for each other? What does it mean for our perceptions of the couple and the time they spent together before the rape, and the time they spend together after? 

Personally, I found the chapter with Corinthians and Porter the most moving one out of the entire book. It seems really earnest and desperate, and the sense of urgency and mix of both hopelessness and hope, I think, is extremely powerful. 

"The moment she had put her foot on the step leading up to the porch, she saw her ripeness mellowing and rotting before a heap of red velvet scraps on a round oak table." (not really relevant, but this sentence reminds me of The Bell Jar--which we read in Mr. Mitchell's Coming of Age class last semester--with its language)

"Corinthians continued to make roses, but she hated that stupid hobby and gave Lena any excuse to avoid it. They spoke to her of death. First the death of the man in the blue wings. Now her own. For if Porter did not turn his head and lean toward the door to open it for her, Corinthians believed she would surely die. She banged her knuckles until they ached to get the attention of the living flesh behind the glass, and would have smashed her fist through the window just to touch him, feel his heat, the only thing that could protect her from a smothering death of dry roses."

Isn't this really great writing? Isn't the emotion in it beautiful?

But, when we view this through the lens of before-rape (tacky term, I know, but I'm not sure how else to phrase it), things obviously get a lot more complicated. While Corinthians was feeling all these things, what was Porter feeling? What was he thinking? Was he just as emotional for Corinthians as she was for him? Did he want her to run back? Did he have an idea of what he was going to do if she ran back? Does accepting that Porter raped Corinthians sort of "ruin" the effect here, and make things seem a lot less beautiful or profound (almost a coming-of-age for Corinthians)? Does that matter? These are all questions I don't really know the answer to, and have to think on. 

Of course, we also have to address the aftermath. If Porter did rape Corinthians (which we can't be 100% certain about, but are accepting in this blog post), why do they stay together? Is this another example of "crazy love"? Do the feelings Corinthians has as she's running to Porter's (borrowed) car overpower whatever feelings she has on the rape? Is she okay? Does Porter feel guilty? Do they make up, somehow? Is it possible to make up and accept the rape as a thing that did happen and will be part of their history? I really have no useful insight to offer. 

Like Mr. Miazga, I'll also be ending this post on the topic of rape culture. If I hadn't read his post, I definitely would not have reconsidered the meaning and implications of Corinthians saying no, and definitely would not have spent so much time writing a (pretty long) blog post. What does this mean for me, and my awareness? What does this mean for the society I live in and the people around me, if others also didn't pick up on this idea? And, again, what did Toni Morrison intend for us to take away from that scene? It's complicated stuff! 

Rochester of Jane Eyre

I really enjoyed Wide Sargasso Sea. It's probably my favorite out of everything we've read so far; everything is so interesting and complicated (one word that kept showing up in the article for my group's panel presentation was "problematic", which I think fits)! After finishing the novel, something that I've been curious (and perhaps even a bit concerned) about is how reading it before Jane Eyre will shape my view of Rochester. I've never read Jane Eyre, mostly due to disinterest, but also partially due to some sort of unreasonable (and perhaps untraceable) bias. It seemed like one of those stuffy Victorian novels where nothing really happens, and all the characters are dull and pretentious. But having read Wide Sargasso Sea, I can't help but wonder what about Jane Eyre was so provoking that Jean Rhys had to go out and write a whole other novel ("fanfiction", I think Mr. Mitchell jokingly dubbed it) about it, and how Rochester in this other book presented. 

When I search up terms like "rochester jane eyre" or "rochester's character in jane eyre", I get results that include stuff like "Byronic hero", "conventional romantic hero", "passionate", or "extremely appealing and sensual". Now, that really goes against all of my biases towards that awful asshole (okay, like Christophine said, he's "not a bad man", in that he's not bad through and through, but I feel as though this reflects my current sense of indignation). Some search results attempt to convince me otherwise and explain how I'd be hard pressed to not fall in love with him due to Bronte's writing, especially considering how easy it'd be to put myself in Jane's shoes (honestly, in this aspect, Jane Eyre is more fan-fiction-esque than Wide Sargasso Sea). Again, I've never read the book, so I might really be qualified to make a judgement. However, going off of some less convincing (and more so infuriating) search results, I'm very inclined to believe that Rochester is still (if we take Wide Sargasso Sea as his legitimate history) a person of pretty low caliber.

"how old is rochester in jane eyre": Rochester is 37 and Jane is 18 when they meet. So, he's twice her age. Awesome. He's totally not taking advantage of this girl who he's employed as a governess (that's another power dynamic that totally won't skew things!) and her lack of experience. Sure, you can tell me to not judge stuff in the past with the lens of now (or something better worded than that, probably), or that love is love, but it really can't change the fact that there are inherent (and significant) imbalances to their relationship, right off the bat. 

Mr. Rochester is a Creep: A List: I don't agree with #7 (honestly I think that's a very biased--am I the pot calling the kettle black?--way of looking at things), but if all the other examples are true, Rochester seems to be secretive, manipulative, and possessive (who knew?!?). 

Mr. Edward Rochester: The author of this piece is trying to justify Rochester's horrible personality ("always on the edge of violence, likes to order people around, keeps his wife locked in the attic, and teases Jane on at least one occasion until she cries... that’s why he’s so awesome"), and basically tells us everything's okay because "passion" and "moral relativity" and how Jane's different from all the other women and changes him. Uh huh. 

Yes, my analysis might be overboard or a product of confirmation bias (also, it's not extensive enough to actually obtain that much credibility, but...). But if you really don't believe me, please check out those links yourself. Actually, what confounds me isn't that Rochester is still horrible in Jane Eyre, but rather that lots of people seem to like him (check out the Goodreads page on the book). What merit does he really have? Is Bronte's writing really that compelling? Am I misunderstanding something fundamental? Do I have to read Jane Eyre to figure things out for myself? If I read it and still don't understand, is it because I'm already too biased from Wide Sargasso Sea?