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. 

Blog Post 3: Falling Man

Delillo’s American characters, in Falling Man, constantly struggle to effectively communicate with speech, all throughout the novel. They just can’t articulate the words; they’re just not there, except maybe on paper, in writing, which is what makes Lianne’s group significant.  Instead, they refer to physical action as a means to express their sentiments—pleasant or not.  It has been suggested that Falling Man isn’t a provocative story; I disagree.  Although the words aren’t always there, the American characters manage to commune in other ways. 

            “He said, ‘Hey, fuckhead’…He said it again, louder this time, and waited for the words to register… Because if anyone said a harsh word to Florence, or raised a hand to Florence, or insulted her in any way, Keith was ready to kill him” (133). 

            “He reached over and knocked on Justin’s head, knock knock, to alert him to a revelation in the making as the camera located the hole cards of a player who didn’t know he was dead. ‘He’s dead,’ he told his son, and the kid sat without comment in his makeshift diagonal, half in the chair, half on the floor, semi-mesmerized” (117-118).

            “He would tell her about Florence.  She would say she could understand the intensity of the involvement, in view of the completely uncommon nature of its origin, in smoke and fire, and this would cause her to suffer enormously.  He would tell her about Florence.  She would get a steak knife and kill him” (161-162). 

            In the first quote, Keith, having difficulty communicating with Florence—it seems there is only ever one of them capable of speech, trading  off intermittently—shows   her the emotional importance that she covets with him, by attacking the origin of the insult.  This assault is a demonstration of not only his internalized emotions for Florence, but, also, his willingness to skip straight from the talking to the fighting, not even giving words much of a thought. 

            The second quote is a moment, Lianne, Keith, and Justin watch television together.  They don’t talk much, but they aren’t distant from one another; their minds aren’t shrouded by the television, wrapped up in immediate doses of gratification.  They are alive, and aware that they are.  The conversation isn’t necessary, instead a look into the reflection that the television provides, a mirror of their scene, framing their existence.  Eyes meet; Justin’s father includes his son the way he knows how: poker. 

            The third quote enters Keith’s head for a rare look into his thoughts.  As others have mentioned, Keith’s character doesn’t receive the same amount of attention to inner detail as does Lianne’s.  He is guilt-ridden, but unapologetic.  He wants to come clean with Lianne, but is hesitant, scared by her possible reaction.  Keith ends the relationship with Florence because he knows he is complicating things, in his already complex relationship with Lianne, but he doesn’t seem to regret the fact that he had it, because it meant something to him.  That’s why the sexual component to the story is so essential. For a story that is primarily concerned with the importance of the exhibition of physical emotions, there is no physical act more intimate and important, to the novel, than sex.  The story would be missing something without it. 

            I’ve enjoyed reading Falling Man so far.  That seems to put me out on an island.  I dunno. 

Blog Post Two: Comedy following Tragedy

            Comedy allows people to approach—socially—topics of discomfort; that is its purpose.  A comedian on stage will riff on anything from sex to race—these two happening to be amongst the most commonly prodded subjects.  But if it’s not uncomfortable, if it doesn’t flick that switch in your head (the one that gets you squirming in your seat), doesn’t ramp up your heart rate, then it’s probably not funny material.  Comedy Central’s Tosh.O is as entertaining and hilarious as it is because of its unfailing devotion to the arbitrary and the unpleasant.  That’s right, they should be grouped together because that show—which, for those of you who haven’t seen it before, is essentially one comedian, Daniel Tosh, ranting in front of a green screen on which internet video clips are shown—is  a massive accumulation of really random, eccentric, and often repulsive things.  So, we laugh.  Comedy doesn’t necessarily have to be viewed as making fun of something, in the negative sense; it could be viewed as a form of acknowledgment, a way of keeping something in people’s heads, keeping them thinking. Comedy as an homage.  However, there is a question of whether some subjects are just plain off limits.  There are a few events in American history that, as someone mentioned in class, Americans simply seem to steer clear from.  These taboo subjects, which would include Pearl Harbor and 9/11, are repressed to the public eye, short of anything memorial-related.  There isn’t a complete absence of comedy, but anything geared towards an historical event of any significant emotional and physical destruction for the American, is viewed as ill-conceived, and with the worst intentions.  This humor is shunned.  Time is obviously a major issue concerning the considered appropriateness of said comedy.  Yet, interestingly, Americans still tend to avoid joking around about some particular things, even after substantial time has elapsed.  Years is one thing, but decades? 

            The Boondocks episode we watched in class poked a little fun at, as Chris Rose calls it, “the Thing.”  That-which-must-not-be-named—feels like being plopped down in a Potter story.  But the principal is there: this person, this storm, this “Thing” is so traumatic for the people intimately involved with the disaster, that it hurts to hear it spoken aloud.   The cartoon is clever about the way it approaches this particular borderline unmentionable subject in the sense that it is very serious when it shows the imitation depictions of the storm.  It toys around with the aftermath, and the people involved.  The assortment of stereo-type based characters manages to give the ole Stephen Colbert “wag of the finger” to the New Orleans citizens that Rose calls out in disgrace, in 1 Dead in Attic.  For example, the character that basically goes around committing aggravated larceny inside of the home that he has been welcomed into, is a strong metaphor for the figurative raping of New Orleans from the inside-out, by its own citizens. This is the reason why the episode of The Boondocks works: it isn’t in poor taste.  It highlights real issues and calls out the people who committed any of the insidious, ridiculous crimes against community in the wake of the disaster.  Plus, as a general rule, shows that give the cutest character the voice of racism typically tend to be well-intentioned.