For Spacious Skies

“Oh say can you see my eyes—if you can then my hair’s too short!” –“Hair”, from the musical, Hair

This quarter we have mainly been looking at the issue of identity, the American one, to be precise. To me, the quote above is just another piece to the puzzle of American identity—not just because the line is sung to the national anthem, no, but because it shows the American’s binary opposition of desires. We want to forge our own path, yet we tell the same stories. We want to trust ourselves, but the darkness inside us prevents us. We want to rebel, yet we crave the safety of belonging.

The aforementioned ideologies could be said to be international. And I would agree. But the reason why these characteristics are in a way “claimed” by America is because America itself is a hodgepodge of people, history, tragedy, and triumph. With all that inconsistency, it’s no wonder that America is confused about who she is. He is. It is.

In Hair, the desire to both be a part of the nation and rebel against it is clearly demonstrated. Set during the Vietnam War, the main characters both bash the common viewpoint of stale conformity and sing a song “Crazy for the Red, White and Blue” that is about giving homage to the flag. This reverence coupled with irreverence is very American. It also speaks volumes to what we stand for. Not even to mention what I stand for.

I believe we live in the greatest country in the world, if only we would live up to what we set out to be. I believe in America. In our hopes and dreams. But I also know how those hopes and dreams can be perverted. It is this contrast, doubt and belief, dream and perversion, that define our American character today, and therefore mine as well.

I identify with America. We just want to know who we are. The dark sides, the bright sides, the clean and the messy. This struggle of ambivalence characterized us from our earliest literature all the way up to now. Cotton Mather? Mary Rowlandson? Luke Skywalker? We all ask the same thing.

Are we evil, or good?

Someone in class said at one point, “The problem with believing you are good is that someone else has to be evil.”

I think that is where America started. City on the Hill, Shining Beacon of Hope. And then somewhere along the line, we started to realize that we couldn’t stand up to that expectation. So we started to explore that darkness in ourselves. There is a definite shift between the declaration of the chosen in On Witchcraft or even the Rowlandson narrative, and the devastating self doubt of Poe, or The Coquette.

Who are we? Are we the stalwart white flower of Dickinson? The violent conquistador that cuts animal’s eyes out? Are we fallen women or do we rise above conformity?

America has put itself into a struggle of epic and eternal proportions.

Are we, at our roots, good or evil?

That is what this class is about, really. Our roots. We have to grow from somewhere, and we cannot choose our history. We are a nation of freedom, yes, but also bloodshed, ego.

This class is perfect for a college student to take. With every decision we make we decide even more who we are and who we wish to be. We question our own thoughts, our beliefs, our self worth, because we are finally at an age when we can choose them for ourselves. And how lucky are we to be able to do that?

I must admit, while I pick on corporate interests, wars, self-reliance to the point of isolation, I ignore the freedoms we do possess in this country. No one forced Dickinson to marry. Thoreau was not executed for not paying his taxes. All of their inflammatory, dangerous, beautiful rhetoric was published. What a blessing that is in itself.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

When we read this, do we realize the power in these words? This amendment, this ONE SENTENCE gives us the right to be human beings. To meet, to speak our minds, to believe what we choose. In this one sentence is the power of art, of criticism, of action, of knowledge. Without this, we are nothing. We should be damn proud of this sentence.

And of the beauty that was its result.

Without it, Emily Dickinson would have been forced to go to church.

Harriet Jacobs' bold slave narrative would never have been published.

Women would still be objects.

African Americans would still be slaves.

Emerson and Thoreau probably would have been executed.

I mean, jeez. We wouldn’t have this class!

The freedom to be thinking individuals is an American gift. And even though people use and abuse it, we should still be grateful. I know I’m not thankful enough. But I do respect the literature that comes of it.

Because of this sentence, we are allowed to tell the truth, as we see it, in our own words. And that, to me, is the most important aspect of being a living human being.

You see, I live by that Keats line from "Ode to a Grecian Urn," "Beauty is truth, truth beauty- that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know."

That's my cornerstone.

I died for beauty, but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb,

When one who died for truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?

"For beauty," I replied.

"And I for truth-the two are one;

We brethren are," he said.

Why am I an English major? Why a writer? Why a teacher?

Reference the above.

I do love this country. And perhaps that is why, at some points, I rail against it so. Because I know where we’ve come from. And knowing that helps me better understand where we are going.

Our roots our strong. We come from people like:

Emerson:

"Every man is a cause, a country, and an age."

Jacobs:

"My master had power and law on his side; I had a determined will. There is might in each," (216).

Thoreau:

"All machines have their friction; and possibly this does enough good to counterbalance the evil."

Dickinson:

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can cease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

With ties like that, how can we go wrong? And Thoreau is right. We can get caught up in the machinery of life, forget the good that came before us. But we can always decide to once again be the friction to the machine.

After all, we wouldn’t be the first.

The Star Spangled Banner

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Of Artistry and Seclusion

Heart, we will forget him!

You and I, to-night!

You may forget the warmth he gave,

I will forget the light.

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When you have done, pray tell me,

That I my thoughts may dim,

Haste! lest while you're lagging,

I may remember him!

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Emily, oh Emily. It's all your fault. You were the one that made me a sucker for poetry. It all began with you, and I must give you the nod of respect that is due.

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Calling all artists: would you forsake human contact so as to better work your art?

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Calling all lovers: would you forsake the world to avoid the pain of lost love?

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Emily Dickinson speaks to me. I wonder about her, and I too find myself drawn in by the spinster that seems to understand better than anyone else what life is like. I find myself beyond words when I try to talk about Dickinson's poetry. Perhaps becuase in so few words she already says it all. Yet, we know so little of her. But I would argue that we all know her intimately.

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The letters Sue kept from Emily seem to imply more than just the closeness of best friends. And the mourning in Emily's poetry seems to denote something similar. Did Emily fall in love with Sue? It would seem so. Does that change my opinion of the poet? Absolutely not.

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To me, mourning love is very similar to mourning death. Both are a loss, and both feel as if a part of oneself is broken in the process.

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I held a jewel in my fingers

And went to sleep.

The day was warm, and winds were prosy,

I said: " 'T will keep."

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I woke and chid my honest fingers,-

The gem was gone;

And now an amethyst remembrance

Is all I own.

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No matter how honest one's fingers are, no matter how tight we might hold on to that which is dear to us, love can be lost. And the remembrance, amethyst, yes. Like the most fleeting part of twilight which offers neither warmth of day nor the comfort of darkness. Amethyst indeed, is heartbreak.

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I may stumble a bit with Dickinson and love, because Dickinson and I match closer with death, I find.

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She went as quiet as the dew

From a familiar flower.

Not like the dew did she return

At the accustomed hour!

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She dropt softly as a star

From out my summer's eve;

Less skillful than Leverrier

It's sorer to believe!

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I can only tie heartbreak to death since I experienced my first of each at the same time. I wrote pages upon pages of stories about it- death and heartbreak, heartbreak and death... And redemption. Always a redemption. And I cannot help but feel, just on the cumulus edges of Dickinson's poetry, that she feels the same way too. There is respite from and for the world in art. And in art can we give that respite.

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After class on Thursday, our last day together, I went to Inniswood Gardens with a friend and read Dickinson aloud in the park. I stopped at various spots and read to the budding flowers and the still sleeping trees. I thought that Dickinson must have truly loved this time of year, when death and life and delicacy are mingled so closely. As I read, it began to rain, and the first droplet hit like tears on the page. I thought immediately that it was very appropriate.

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You see, mourning at the very end is like this time of year too. All of you in the winter months, the hoarfrost of grief, feels as dead as the person you lost, the love you lost. But you are still alive somewhere under the snows, and if another blizzard doesn't come to bury you, you thaw. It is spring for me in this way too this year. I think Dickinson would approve of the metaphor. And the rain.

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She was so sad. But she found joy in her work. In a way, she wasn't secluded at all.

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She was completely free.

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Someday I hope I can be as free as she was.

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Emily Dickinson is, in a fashion, my idol.

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To Emily

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Woman in White-

Where is your lover now?

You spoke of him with such ardor.

So swiftly passes reality.

Woman in White-

Did you forget about the world?

Or did it forget you

Until your fragile voice

Floated from the maw of death-

A nightingale.

Woman in White-

You should have worn red.

Your spirit demanded it.

But white!

A snowdrop-

A blank page.

A Woman in White.

You were too much for color.

You needed something to fill.

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Jennifer Rish

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If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can cease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

Quoth the Psyche, Nevermore

" 'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.' "

-Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven"

Now, I know "The Raven" wasn't in our required reading, but I just couldn't help myself. Partially becuase I think that the lines above summarize Poe's innerworkings and possible artistic statement completely, and partially becuase the last time I saw a crow, it cawed at me and I said, "Oh, Nevermore yourself." Some people stared. I hold that they are simply culturally deprived. Me? Weird? Noooo....

At any rate, the above lines of "The Raven" articulate something to me that we also discussed in class, something that I do believe is central to reading Poe. Suzanne said that Poe's point was that the mind is weak to itself and undermines itself. Take that, Emerson. There is a darkness in all of us that is not only inescapable, but seductive. And all we have to do in order to destroy ourselves is let it win.

This is as disturbing as it is true.

I myself am entralled with Poe's idea of perversity. In "The Black Cat", he writes, "And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart-one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of man." Notice he does not say the human body, or consciousness. No. He says heart.

I believe it. Hell, I've lived it. Haven't we all?

Now, in order to better illustrate how perversity affects my own personal existence, let us look at the story "Ligeia."

"That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I might have been easily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have reigned no ordinary passion. But in death only, was I fully impressed with the strength of her affection. For long hours, detaining my hand, would she pour out before me the overflowing of a heart whose more than passionate devotion amounted to idolatry."

Now, in class someone mentioned that perhaps in this action the Lady Ligeia was immortalizing herself in our devoted narrator's obsession with her even in her death. I laughed and agreed with the statement wholeheartedly just before someone else in the class that I am close to turned around and said, "That is so something you would do."

And you know what I did? I laughed. Becuase it just may be true.

I myself am in love with the idea of love. When Suzanne asked if we would want to be loved in this way, I was like, "Yeah!" And then I noticed the obssession. Which is kind of a downer.

But I do believe in someone being your Earth and sky. I want to love consummately and completely, and I want to love my partner to the full extent of adoration.

And, naturally, since I am a Libra born under the sign of Venus, the goddess of love, I expect that adoration to be repaid. In full.

Now, let it be known once and for all that I wish for all those connected with me to be able to recover from my inevitable death and resume their lives. I do not wish them to mistake their new dead wives for me. No.

But, I can understand the desire. Immortality in obssession. Lust.

I love to be loved. I love to be able to muddle up someone's mind with my presence, use my voice to crack their concentration.

Call me crazy, but, who wouldn't?

And don't think I'm some sort of a siren. I'm still a good Christian virgin. A Christian virgin that likes to make other good Christian virgins hot under the collar. Perversity? Some would say so.

And yet, there is a perversity in it. I must admit that sometimes I will make someone want me just for the sake of making them want me. Has that done damage? Oh yeah. Do I regret it? Of course! But still...

Perversity.

However, this question of perversity brings me back to the woman question.

Is my behavior perverse because I am a woman, or is it just perverse in itself?

Men, to succeed in our society, need to have multiple women drool over them. If multiple men drool over a woman, however, she is depicted as a slut or a whore. There is no mental dominance exerted by this woman. She's just a skank that men want.

As least, that's the way it seems to me a lot of the time. Now me, I like to think that yeah, I can be desirable. But when I'm in a relationship, devotion is reciprocal. And when I make a man trip over his own feet because I'm angry at him.... yeah. It feels good.

Ah. And therein lies the perverseness.

So to me, I have a perverse love of power. I admit it. And even though the posting of this blog may mean that I never get another date or boyfriend again, I will admit it. Because I refuse, in true Emerson style, to be something that I am not. And I am not just some damsel that is going to be rescued.

If he wants the damsel, he'll have to fight the dragon first.

"These are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes-of my lost love-of the Lady-of the Lady Ligeia." (334).

The Costs of Survival

"I like it as well as any other." (176).

When I read, "In the Heart of the Sea," I was in the same breath horrified and captivated. To resort to cannibalism in order to survive? The questioning of right and wrong over starvation? I mean, geez, what would I pick?


These questions of choice are always difficult for a reader. The "your choice" and"what ifs" make you question things you never even want to think about. For example: would you die, and be eaten, or would you allow yourself to murder and eat another human being.


Kill or be killed.

My God, may I never have to make choices like this.

I would like to say that I'd rather be eaten, and I think I would. I think. But then again, I have a few things inside of me that make me wonder whether or not that would be my choice.

Question one: am I the leader? I know it may sound crazy, but you don't kill the leader. Usually if the brains of the operation goes, the rest are quick to follow. It made sense to me that the starving sailors of the Essex ate Owen despite the Captain's request to take the sentence himself. He is still a leader figure. Therefore, the lot is not his. Besides, the laws of survival are dictated though luck. Also, as survival goes, the kid was the weakest link. How sick is it to think like that? Also, there are questions of alliance to be asked. "Within a feral community, it is not uncommon for subgroups to develop a collective form of defense against the remorseless march of horror," (172).

Question two: How violent am I? Could I stand the bloodshed? Would my practicallity outweigh my anguish? Would my hunger cage my spirit, my nobility?

Question three: Would I be able to survive the guilt, even if we made it out alive? I guess so. Just to make sure the sacrifice wasn't in vain.

Now, since this is American Lit, I found myself relating the whaleship tragedy to the American struggle for survival, and, of course, the corporate climb.

Humanity has some basic traits, and no matter how we grow and develop, the best and the worst of us still lingers on, programmed into our brainstems. Now it seems to me that this "kill or be killed" mentality has followed us through out the quarter. Get the witches before we get us, get the gold or we get executed in a Spanish prison, kill the white settlers before they destroy Indian culture, etc. So what about dog eat dog? What about the Capitalistic way in which the wealthy eat the poor. Here I go with poverty again. But really. Is darwinism to blame for our current economic situation?

On another note of classwide themes, there was one quote about Shackleton's journey through the Antartic that actually made me laugh out loud. It was courtesy of Shackleton's associate Frank Worsley, and it went like this: "So great was his care of his people that, to rough men, it seemed at times to have the touch of the woman about it, even to the verge of fussiness." (168).

So apparently, if you don't let your men die in the snow or the waves or let them eat each other, that makes you womanly and fussy. Seriously? Next time I'll decide to eat you, and then we'll see whether or not you think mercy is a fussy thing.

In 1914, Shackleton headed up what he titled the "Imperial Trans Antarctic Expedition." He had already been knighted for his efforts getting down to the South Pole, but he wanted to cross the continent. On the way down, however, his ship Endurance was trapped in the ice, and Shakleton was forced to take six men and some provisions on a rescue mission while the rest of the crew was trapped on Elephant Island. Eventually Shackleton managed to save them all, 22 men in total.

(Shackleton, Ernest. South: The Endurance Expedition. London: Penguin Classics, 2004. Print.
Worsley, FA. Shackleton's Boat Journey. 2nd ed. New York: Norton, 1998. Print.)

So that's what it means to be womanly, huh? We all survive?

Sounds good to me.

"Hope was all that stood between them and death." (168).

A Mother's Question

"I had a woman's pride, and a mother's love for her children; and I resolved that out of the darkness of this hour a brighter dawn should rise for them." (216).




There is a story in the Old Testament that says that in the days of King Solomon's reign, there were two women who came before him, each claiming that a particular baby was theirs. Solomon, in response, said that the baby would be cut in half, and half would be given to each. That way, they would both get an equal share. One woman cried out in anguish, "No! Let her have my child! Don't kill him!" Solomon replied that surely this must be the mother, since after all, a mother's love doesn't lie.

Right?

We talked during class about what did and didn't qualify as a mother trying to do what is best for her children. Some people in the class said it would be worse to split the children from their mother. Some said that it ws the right thing to do.

I for one think Jacobs was right. I believe that she knew the horror and degredation her children would suffer at the hands of "Mr. Flint" and she was not willing to take that chance, even if it meant not seeing her children grow up. I do not see her decision as a sign of her poor mothering. I see it as a logical response to a horrendous time.

I see myself with children one day. I love children. As a teacher, this love gets even more intense. I wondered once what I would do to protect my students if, per se, there was a gunman in the building. My answer is simple. I would die for them.

And as a mother, I think that in a way Harriet Jacobs did that for her children. She lost them, and that part of her died in the process.

My mother has told me that I am, literally, a part of her. When she says this, she is using the biological to underscore the emotional. "No one will ever love you like your parents will." She told me once. And I think this applies to Jacobs.

I would give up my child if that gave my child a chance to live. Not just a better life, but a chance to live. Harriet Jacobs children would not have survived Flint's plantation. She was giving them up to let them live.

What does it mean to be a slave and be a woman? Male slaves had it bad enough, but the women had it even worse. Better to be a man, because the women were raped. Just like Harriet Jacobs.

Harriet Jacobs had an overwhelming urge to protect what was hers, when everything else had been taken away. She either gave what was hers away, like her children, so they couldn't be taken from her, or she went to extreme lengths. This was one of the reasons why she took a lover.

"Why does a slave love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine around objects that may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of violence?" (161). I love her ferocity here. And I love her defiance. The rebel in me revels in it. She risks her life to mouth off to her slave holder. Because her words are hers, and so is her love.

I was enthralled with the passage where she is angry at her Nothern employers for buying her in order to free her from slavery. "So I was sold at last!" (348). How even her moment of freedom cannot be hers. She still has to be bought. And the irony just rankles!

I actually did a whole lesson plan surrounding this passage of Linda's story. It was a two-part lesson, and I tried it out on Jenn's little sister Kaylee, who was an excellent student for me and is a very gifted little girl.

The lesson goes like this:

Gender, Race and Progress

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Part One

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Foundational Text: Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Harriet Jacobs

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Role-Play: I will start with the student by having her imagine that she and her friends are going to the park. I will have her imagine that there is someone at the gate of the park that told her that she could not go in because she has blue eyes. Her friends, who all had brown eyes, could go in, but she couldn’t. She is then told that there is a park down the street that she can go to.

When she gets to the park, there is only a gravel parking lot. How does she feel? What are her thoughts?

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Draw Comparison to Civil Rights Movement. Discuss.

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Read section from Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. Explain what Linda had to go through to get to freedom. Explain Runaway Slave Act. Explain how Linda was “freed” by her white Northern Employers and how she felt about that.

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Discuss whether or not Linda is “free”

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Discuss why she might be upset about the way in which she gained this freedom.

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Discuss what “freedom” really means. Relate to the freedoms that African Americans fought for during the Civil Rights Movement and why they fought for them.

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Part Two

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Where did we come from?

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Discuss with student where her and my ancestors come from. Locate on map.

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Discuss how the human race supposedly migrated from Central Eurasia all over the world. Discuss what this means to ethnicity, and race.

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Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl: Remind student of Linda’s desire to be truly free. Discuss how differences in her skin color make that difficult in this time period. Ask student what else might be keeping her from being truly free.

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Ask student how gender prevented Linda from being free. Give student a synopsis of the control men had over women in 19^th century America.

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Discuss with student whether it was the same to be a woman and be a slave.

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Discuss Civil Rights Movement, Women’s Push for the Right to Vote, and Women’s Lib movement

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Discuss those rights for those groups today.

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Ask student to create a poster for “a modern women’s rights movement”

At the end of this lesson, Kaylee, Jenn and I talked about how both women and African Americans are still disriminated against today. Kaylee mentioned that a boy in her class stood up and said that he doesn't believe women are equal to men. The teacher let the kids debate it. I was shocked that they let them debate it. But then I had to think about it.

During multicultural lit class for my Education degree, we talked about the Middle Eastern view of women as lesser beings. We discussed that in the classroom, out of respect to other cultures, we shouldn't push the idea that women are equal to men.

.....WHAAAAT?

So, maybe I'm just not getting it, but how on EARTH, is it not okay to teach our children that other races are equal to us, and not teach them that the genders are equal. I have a few words from the bad side of Columbus to say about that, but I'll be a lady and keep them to myself.

As an educator, I have no idea what I'm going to do about this issue. Pray I just end up teaching college for the rest of my life. In that world you can insist that women are equal, right? Or strongly suggest? Where is the line? Should there be one?

Probably. The lines are the only thing that stops us from teaching KKK ideologies. I guess.

Then again, sometimes those seem better accepted than concepts of equality, justice, and respect.

I mean, we women would do anything for our children. We keep trying to be treated as equals. Doesn't that deserve some kudos?

"My master had power and law on his side; I had a determined will. There is might in each," (216).