Without a Map: Family, Exile, Isolation, and Redemption: Final Paper Proposal

            Meredith Hall’s poignant memoir, Without a Map, tells the story of her bizarre, sorrow-filled life, a life that could have—and almost certainly would have—been different, had she not gotten pregnant at 16, in 1965, coerced in to having “scared sex on a beach on a foggy Labor Day night” (Hall xxvii).  The story that follows is the story of a girl, shunned by her town, her friends, and slowly, eventually abandoned by her family, by first her mother, then her father.  Exiled, scared, and lonely, she makes her way out into the world, quite literally—world being the operative word—babyless and parentless, to live an extraordinary life woven with adventure, as well as stretches of monotony. 

            I intend to examine the American idea of the family, how it has progressed, what it means now, how it is the common foundation for any person’s social binds, using Hall’s memoir as a building block for the exploration of the impacts of exile and disownment—the isolation of the human being from social ties, the most crucial and important of which being the institution of the family.  Although Hall lives, at least at times, an effervescent, vivacious life, a life that, when she is asked, she claims she wouldn’t choose differently, the effects of having been cast out from her originally intended life have repercussions that emanate most clearly, never entirely dissipating. 

            This topic is significant because the institution of family, although, like all institutions, is constantly in flux, ever-changing, it remains, always, the most important social tie to human development and evolution.  In Without a Map, Meredith and her first son are both incongruities from the norm (that I expect to find with research) in the sense that they both turn out well, considering their extreme childhood circumstances. 

Blog Post Six: What the f--

            The first day of class, I talked with our local poet about the absence of blogging in our lives.  The discussion, although brief, was steeped in skepticism, at least on my part, as I turned a weary eye to the deplorable 25 % that lay adjacent to the words “blog posts and comments” on the syllabus.  What was this new anomaly? I thought.  It was the enemy—my enemy—shrouded in ambiguity, an uncharted, unrefined territory.  Just what the hell is a blog exactly, anyway, eh?

 Eh?

 Admittedly, I was intimidated.  Due to a compilation of other syllabi, other classes, books, pens, calculators, all that bullshit, I admired this creature from a distance, taking an accidental holiday the first week.  The very first week…how moronic was I? 

Well, after pouring over class blogs of other, less timid, pioneers, I finally found the words to begin what has been an engaging, profound experience.

 Really, no joke.

 The works that we have covered, the discussions that we’ve had in class, and the entirely useful and advantageous journey into the blogging realm, has topped the highlight reel of my academic semester.  Granted, now, that that isn’t a very difficult thing to achieve, being that my other class selections were less-than-stimulating decisions.  But, 745, so far, has been a pleasure. 

The one thing, above all else, that I value in the blogs: the ability to be less formal and just plain more honest.  I’d compare it to when Rose talks about the disparity between his journalistic and novelistic tendencies, the fact that he can pour sentiment into his writing, rather than feel as though he cannot betray some stylistic, formal guideline.  The structure of essays, sometimes, can be too restrictive in the creative sense, whereas a blog or novel, in form, enables the author to extrapolate on their ideas in a highly relatable manner. 

Blog Five: Persepolis

            The first section of Marjane Satrapi’s memoir, Persepolis, entitled “The Veil,” is an opening glimpse into the story of a child growing up in the midst of chaotic disarray, being in Iran during the period of the Islamic Revolution.  Satrapi’s pictorial representation of her childhood is appropriate, as the graphic novel form arouses sentiments of childhood, in general, creating a connection between reader and the young heroine, no matter what age.  The content that Persepolis is based on—revolution, death, war, and pain—certainly isn’t light material, however the novel, at least in the beginning, possesses an amiable cartoonish embodiment.  Each picture tells a story, portrays a feeling, delving into the mind of a confused, scared but lovable little girl.  Satrapi says, “Everywhere in the streets there were demonstrations for and against the veil” (5).  In the picture below this, there is a dichotomy, a separation of black and white; on one side the demonstrators are veiled, shrouded in black, eyes shut tight, and on the other side there is the appearance of hair, open eyes, and dove-white turtle necks.  Both sides look angry, eyebrows slanting down in a sinister look of unadulterated frustration and discontent.  Hanging in the air above the veiled, printed cries for “the veil!” “the veil!” “the veil!”(5).  In opposition to that, the other side of the faceoff shouts “freedom!” “freedom!” “freedom!”(5).   Satrapi does an excellent job honing in on the disconnectedness of the situation, due to the pressures of living in a society torn by the not-so-invisible hand of a so-called “cultural revolution” (4).  She doesn’t understand why she has to wear the veil, the one that she does not want to wear, the one that is too hot to wear, too constrictive.  Satrapi’s ever-developing narrative with God separates her ideas of religion from the unwanted veil.  She has a very intimate relationship with God that isn’t rule-stricken or tyrannous, but rather healthy and personal.  The veil seems to be symbolic of the constraints and limitations that come with the Islamic Revolution, for Satrapi. 

           

Blog Post Four: Torture and Jack

Fernando Botero, Abu Ghraib 59, 2005. Image © Fernando Botero, courtesy Marlborough Gallery, New York.

The first thing I notice when I look at this painting isn’t the lingerie, the bruising, not the hands raised in defeat, in a plea for life, or the hoods covering the faceless men, or the pool of blood they suffer on, but the first thing I notice is the steady, arrogant stream of piss, the one that flows from the left, the least of their worries.

 This is wrong, it’s all wrong.  24 was mentioned in class.  This is different.  Jack Bauer is the ideal concerning the representation of torture; he does the unthinkable out of necessity and patronage, not to achieve personal satisfaction and a good laugh.  Would we really look at Jack the same way if he was hovering over his victim, one hand holding an electrical clamp attached to his victim’s nipple, the other sporting a Kodak digital, grinning from ear-to-ear?  Jack is a ghost, an impossibility.  People like him don’t exist, emotionally devoid, perfect, machine, untouchable. 

It would be easier to support torture—solely for the purpose of information—if situations of national security were at hand and the person bringing up the reigns was Jack, but that isn’t, it seems, the case. 

This painting is miserable, tough to look at, but it still doesn’t compare to seeing the real image, the real photographs of Americans amusing themselves at the expense of their prisoners, in unmistakable, unimaginable ways. 

"Yet Botero, by tackling this imagery in a focused and extended series, has demonstrated not only that such things can be represented in art but also that a figurative, cartoonish idiom may be the most powerful means of representing modern atrocity."  

I disagree with this idea that a “cartoonish idiom may be the most powerful means of representing modern atrocity.”  There is nothing more powerful than seeing the real thing, in its raw, natural state. It is what draws people to such sites as rotten.com, or the Faces of Death video series, if these depictions can be called attractions.  They’re so repulsive, the word attraction seems inappropriate, misplaced.  So, yes, Botero’s paintings are a very powerful representation of modern atrocity, but nothing compares to the influence of the real thing, unneutered.