Least favorite story

My least favorite story was Carver’s “Neighbors”. I did not enjoy the theme, the characters or the language. Minimalism doesn’t really appeal to me as a reader. I like description, explicit emotional and  psychological information and narration.  

Minnie Foster

This story made me a little uncomfortable because it made me relieve a little bit of my past. I was in an abusive relationship. It wasn’t physical abuse; it was verbal and emotional abuse. I lost myself and became submissive in order to cope with the situation. After years of hell, I finally was able to break free. This story a sad reminder of how common abuse is and it completely it annihilates a person’s soul. For years I told nobody about what was going on, same as Minnie Foster. I just cringed throughout the whole story imagining what she went through.

Hints in "A Rose for Emily"

After I read Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily”, I understood a lot of the imagery used. I decided to read it again in order to catch and enjoy all of the symbolisms and imagery that I missed the first time.

I was especially mystified with how Faulkner gives the reader many hints about what is actually happening, but the reader can’t understand the hints until the end. For example, there is a lot of allusion to death and dead bodies, mirroring what happens to Emily’s husband, including references to violence and bloating. These language clues are of no help what so ever the first time you read the story but it creates for a whole new dimension when you read it again.

Life Lesson

I used to be a little annoyed at high school classmates that seemed unable to follow instructions and or focus on work assigned and would seem to just not want to do their work. I was able to knock out any assignment given during class in less than the time allotted, and it would frustrate me when the teacher would extend the time because one student hadn’t finished the assignment. I truly thought that their ‘ADD’ excuse was just that, an excuse.

Now, quite ironically, I have ADD. I guess I always had it but it wasn’t as overpowering then as it is now. Before, I did have some issues with organization but they weren’t that bad, and I was always able to follow through with a task. Nowadays, it is hard for me to focus on one thing at a time, and I tend to struggle following through with a task. I now take medication on paperwork days to help me finish what I start.

I regret being so unfair with my judgment of those classmates that struggled with what is now my reality. I judged them without having all the information and for that I am very sorry.  This has helped me not be so quick in judging and making my own assumptions, there is always two sides of the story.

"Spirit of Perverseness"

The “spirit of perverseness” is to me a natural human affliction. Although I like the ‘rainbows and butterflies’ stance and would like to think that everybody is genuinely good, humans have very complex psychological and emotional tendencies and behaviors.  Sometimes the primal instinct, which biologically is located in the hypothalamus/thalamus are, also referred to as the primal brain, surfaces and takes over reason and logic. Incidentally, one social-emotional issue that is present in humans, but not animals, is that we as people tend to lash out or act out at people that we most feel comfortable with, those with whom we have a secure attachment, because it is ‘safe’ to do so versus lashing out at strangers. We as social beings, depend on the ones with whom we have developed a secure attachment or bond, not just to express love but also anger. We expect and assume to be forgiven by those close to us because of that relationship we have with them. This isn’t necessarily a conscious choice; most of us don’t act with our loved ones because they are just that, our loved ones.  I think we do it because it is a safe ‘place’ to show anger, aggression and otherwise socially inappropriate behaviors.  

Now as an adult, I look back and regret I lot of things I said to my mom when I was a teenager. The incident that mortifies me the most I can’t bring myself to discuss it with her still.

My parents got divorced when I was about 9 years old. I was not angry or upset about it at all, in fact, I was kinda relieved. I thought they were absolutely insufferable when they were in the same room: my mom would bicker and nag constantly and my dad would immerse himself in a fuming silence. My mom however was not happy about the divorce and would constantly bash my dad and accuse him of cheating or what not. Frankly, I didn’t care if he had cheated or not, in my head it didn’t affect my relationship with him in any way, he was still my dad and what happened in the marriage did not (or should not) have anything to do with me.

After a few months my dad remarried. All throughout this whole process, my mom had not stopped harassing me about my dad remarrying and what not. One day my mom and I were arguing about her bashing and insulting my dad in front of my sister and me. I swear I do not know what came over me because I normally would just walk away from the arguments, but that day I just looked her in the eye and said: “ Well I am very happy for him because he has what he has always wanted: a good wife.” My mom’s heart broke and I heard the pieces crash to the ground. That was absolutely horrible of me to say and it was overly cruel and uncalled for; I just couldn’t stop myself. I could hear myself talking and I knew it was wrong but I couldn’t stop. The worst part is that it felt good to say it and see how I had hurt her. It is a horrible, horrible feeling and I hope I never succumb under the ‘spirit of perverseness” again.

"The Curse" Assignment

I am a home visitor. My job is to educate parents in different areas including child learning and development (including responsive teaching strategies that promote child learning, social-emotional growth and development, etc.), nutrition, health, medical support, resource mapping and capacity building. I serve up to 12 children and their families, and I go to their homes once a week for an hour and a half. Before that, I was the agency’s interpreter, and supported the home visitors and the Spanish speaking families served by them.

A while back, there was a particular family that I supported. This family was very impoverished and has access to very few resources because of their immigration status. They, like all undocumented immigrants in the U.S., had no access to health and human services such as food stamps, Medicaid, Work First, unemployment benefits, etc. This family consisted of the mom, the dad, a 9 month old, a two year old and a 10 year old. They barely could make ends meet and did not have enough food, clothes, furniture or access to medical care. I was somewhat aware of the situation after the first home visit, but as time went by and I went to their home every week, the mom shared more and more about their situation, including not having enough food for the children, leave alone her and her husband. I felt that their situation was dire and started taking them food, clothing and any other stuff that I could get my hands on, including a couch.

Time went by and I was still supplying the family with necessities. I felt responsible for that family and specially wanted to make sure the children had enough food and appropriate clothing, especially during winter. I was exhausted mentally, physically and financially. Then I started noticing that the family was really not as bad off as they were making it out to me. They had a fairly big, nice and modern TV couple with a sound system, they went to Chucke Cheese every weekend, and got a car. I started resenting the family for abusing of my kindness. There I was, a single mom, shopping at thrift stores for my child and myself, budgeting everything, no luxuries like cable, using the same cell phone that I had gotten six years ago and never engaging in social or recreational activities that required spending money. Then it dawned on me. This was my own fault. I had trained them to depend on me for necessities and hence they simply expected me to fulfill the role of provider.

          I talked to the family and explained that I could no longer help them and that I was proud of them for being able to provide for themselves on their own. I have never made the mistake of assuming a provider role for another family after that; don’t get me wrong I still help whoever and however I can but no longer take it on as my responsibility.   

"Lucky" Break

In high school, as an International Baccalaureate requirement, students had to write a thesis. Students were expected to turn in the final thesis on a certain date after having to turn in the beginning portions of it, including topic, argument and sources at different deadlines. I had chosen to discuss existentialism and its effect on Latin American Literature.  I hadn’t really had time to finish my thesis and one day before the deadline for the finished product I had yet to even come remotely close to calling it a finished product. I had been working on other projects, including the cases for Economics and Literary analysis for English and Spanish.  We were granted use of the computers in the school library for our thesis and most of us had used that resource at some point in time.

The deadline came and I went to school knowing that I would be in a lot of trouble. I hadn’t been able to sleep the night before trying to come up with a good excuse and good arguments to convince my thesis supervisor to grant me more time. I was a nervous wreck and on the verge of tears and to top it off I was late. As I was walking through the classroom door, trying to decide if I should just tell my home room teacher (who just happened to be my thesis supervisor) immediately or wait till he asked for the thesis, he announced that he was aware that the library computers had crashed and all the saved documents had been lost. I just stopped in my tracks, and just stood there in the middle of the classroom. He then proceeded to say that all the thesis supervisors had met last evening and decided to allow an extra week for students to turn in their thesis because of the crashed computer system and to allow the students to rewrite what they had lost.

The pressure and stress buildup for me reached its boiling point and I just began to cry, and I mean cry, right there in the middle of the classroom, everybody looking at me. I didn’t say a word, my thesis, or really the beginnings of my thesis were safely saved in my own computer at home, not in the library’s crashed system.  Mr. Wallace, my homeroom teacher and thesis supervisor approached me immediately and told me it would be ok and that if I needed more than a week to rewrite my thesis he would work with me. I said nothing, just cried and softly nodded my head, understanding that he assumed I was crying because of all my lost hard work. I said nothing to convince him otherwise. I let him assume what he wanted to believe. I did not really discuss anything about the incident or the thesis because I didn’t want to blatantly lie.

That weekend however, and the week that followed, I worked non-stop on my thesis and even added more to it, possibly fueled by guilt of my omission. I did finish it in time and I turned it in on the new established deadline. I never said a word to anybody, even to classmates or friends. I took it as a “break” or second chance. Mind you though, I did not use the library’s computers ever again, just in case karma wanted some payback.

"Blue Winds Dancing" by Tom Whitecloud, Assignment

Sometimes I feel a little overwhelmed by all the responsibilities and things that need to be done. I feel like I can’t slow down and get taken over by the chaotic weight of tasks that are not yet finished. I value peace but I sometimes struggle with finding the time to stop and smell the roses. One of the experiences that helps me wind down and convey inner peace and quiet is the ocean.

            On one particular trip to the beach, the ocean completely changed my perspective about my place in this big world. On that occasion, the beach was nearly deserted, as a tropical storm was approaching the Costa Rican coast; close enough to scare people from the beaches, but far enough away that there was no real danger. 

            As I approached the ocean, the stillness of the water drew me in. I climbed up a small reef on the shore and stood there, drinking the immensity of the sea, and the perfect illusion of an infinite horizon. The tornado of blue and green hues that melted together in the water, created a seamless mirror of power. A power that overtook my sense of self, making me quiver with respect and awe. I could smell the salty essence of the surroundings, and hear the prophetic call of the pelicans. Nothing else existed, nothing mattered, except the presence of this titan. The vastness engulfed me in a serenity cloak, and made me feel at absolute peace; peace with myself, and peace with everything and everyone that could possibly exist on this earth.

            I must have been standing there for a while, because all of a sudden, I noticed the wind’s firm singing around me, like nymphs casting their mythical breath. A moist and magnanimous force that thrashed and swayed everything in it’s path. The tranquility of the ocean was gone, and instead, the water crashed against itself, creating endless runaway currents, mirroring man’s existentialist nature. The blue hugeness of the horizon, was now a veil of turbulent darkness, preparing to swallow any bird that dare thread in his territory. My wonderment was un-waivered. The rhythm of my heart, depicted the trickle of trepidation that such entity bestowed on my soul. The turmoil that resulted from such contrasting opposites, sea and sky, reinforced the powerful spell that the ocean had cast on me that day.

            Almost as before, the ocean’s mood change, crept up on me, as I suddenly realized that all was calm again. The horizon spread it’s wings as far as the end of the world, and the ocean, was once more a fervent source of quietude. It sentenced me to a willing desire to bathe in reflection, and without a fight, I gave into a guided meditation, in which I focused on my inner thoughts. I felt so minute compared to such a giant. I suddenly felt I little selfish, and blushed. The warm, gentle breeze, caressed my cheeks: a permissive forgiveness had just been bestowed on me. 

            I had to go soon, it was getting late. I took a deep breathe, trying to inhale as much of that grandeur and peace as I possibly could. The horizon was titillating  with gold, amethysts, sapphires and rubies; like the crown of a proud monarch, who sits quietly and reigns through admiration and esteem. The ocean was saturated with eternity and grace; like the laughter of an infant, pure and sincere. I no longer felt the center of the world, but more so an appreciative member of it. That day, the ocean changed my perspective about who I was, and what I wanted from life.

Kate Chopin's "The Story of an Hour" and Susan Glaspell's "A Jury of Her Peers"

In Susan Glaspell’s “A  Jury of Her Peers”, the marriage of Martha and Lewis Hale is touched upon but not overly described. Martha Hale is a strong, smart woman who knows and cares about her husband. She reads his cues and knows his faults. Lewis Hale is a farmer. He is not very educated (as evidenced by his speech), he can get things mixed up, can be a little awkward and is quite chauvinistic:  “women are used to worrying over trifles.”p. 193 The marriage seems to be OK but I feel like she is not overly happy and resents the belittling and chauvinism that her husband personifies.  

Kate Chopin on the other hand, is very clear about how Mrs. Mallard feels about her marriage to Mr. Mallard. She is described as been smart and willful; and he is implied to love her. He is indirectly described as been controlling.

In both stories, the sense of being forced to be something they are not, and do not wish to be, is bestowed upon the women by their husbands. Mrs. Mallard is actually joyful that her husband seems to have died, and that she can now be herself and do what she wants to do. Such option is not present in “A Jury of Her Peers” for Mrs. Hale, but her strength and willingness to speak up and act convey to me the idea that she feels constrained and forced to follow expectations thrusted by her husband and society.

I actually struggled with both stories because I was in a verbally and mentally abusive relationship for many years, and know exactly how pretty much all the women form both stories feel. I like to think that I am a willful and strong person, and I am not scared to speak my mind. These traits however did not protect me from getting into an abusive relationship and certainly didn’t help me during its duration. In fact, I receded into a completely submissive, lonely and hopeless state. I am out of that relationship, thank God! But I personally can identify with feeling controlled, asphyxiated and having to conform.

Carver's Neighbors

Minimalism is a technique or style used by artists, including writers and musicians that encompasses using the least amount of detail and information to create a more dramatic effect or impact. It allows the reader to imagine what the characters are thinking or feeling.

Carver provides the reader with very to the point information in Neighbors. There are not many adjectives or in-depth descriptions of things or events. The story is sequenced in an exact chronological order, and it tells of simple, mundane, everyday things like “folding the handmade tablecloth…”p. 137. In the story, actions are stated, not elaborated on or adorned by anything: “He unfastened his belt.”p. 138

Carver does not dwell on psychological or emotional description; instead he merely uses a matter of fact narration of visible events.  

Faulkner's A Rose for Emily

Word: spire

The word spire, according to Dictionary.com can be a noun or a verb. As a noun, it signifies:

1. a tall, acutely pointed pyramidal roof or roof-like construction upon a tower, roof, etc.

2. a similar construction forming the upper part of a steeple.

3. a tapering, pointed part of something; a tall, sharp-pointed summit, peak,

4. the highest point or summit of something: the spire of a hill; the spire of one's profession.

5. a sprout or shoot of a plant, as an acrospire of grain or a blade or spear of grass.

Used as a verb the meaning given is:

to shoot or rise into spirelike form; rise or extend to a height in the manner of a spire.

On page 89, Faulkner states that Miss Emily’s house is “…decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies…” The word spire, for me, exemplifies what Emily Grierson was, a show of “tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town.” Miss Emily is like a spire, an ornament that is used to achieve height but has no real value or importance in terms of the building’s structure.  Faulkner’s A Rose for Emily is charged with oppositional concepts, including Miss Emily’s view of herself and how others view her, as well as what her status was when her father was alive and what it changes to afterward, financially and socially speaking. Faulkner provides various validation statements throughout the story of this conflict:  “The Grierson’s held themselves a little too high for what they really were.”p.91, “She carried her head high enough…”p.92. In fact, the word spire is contrasted with words like “…encroached…”p. 89, “…decay…”p.89, and  “…eyesore among eyesores.”p. 89.

I believe Faulkner intentionally chose to use the word “spire” because it alludes to elegance, class and stature, which is how Miss Emily views herself. The audience then is invited to view her as such by following the language, even though, as the story progresses, the view changes dramatically.