Quick post on a Friday

27 06 2008

I was trying to get myself to write today, given that it’s Friday and I will likely not post during the weekend, but just couldn’t get motivated.  I wondered why?  The answer came, by accident, while talking to someone I know at work who reads this.  My personal life past is much harder to pen, starting when my son returned home, than it was because the way I feel about the periods are different.  I thought about how I feel about post-son time and the pre-son time and I realize that before his return I see my past in a detached, stepping out of myself, kind of way.  After he finally lives with us I see the past as part of the present.  It’s as if my life had a book 1 and a book 2 (I haven’t yet decided if there is, or will be, a book 3).  This colors the way I can just type it out.  Book one is just, in some sense, the how I came to be where book 2 seems more like the who I came to be (I think, but again, I’m trying to work this out in my head even now as I type it.)

I think I need to resolve myself to continuing with this blog because, as I type now, I almost physically feel on my skin the events, as though acknowledging they belong to me.  I guess over the yaers I had come to accept the book 1, where book 2 hasn’t been closed long enough, assuming that it is truly closed at all.

I thought I should relate this to anyone who might be wondering, what, did she run out of steam.  I haven’t, I’ve just had to restoke the fire that generates it.

Have a great weekend and peace.





Home again …

26 06 2008

Once I realized that there was not going to be any great escape I concentrated all of my efforts in trying to placate him so as to keep the calm.  Sometimes it worked, other times it blew up in my face anyway … and still other times, something would escape me and I would push back. 

When my son turned 5 I got to leave the house twice a day to take, and pick him up, from school.  In doing this I finally met a couple of my neighbors, who had sons in my little boy’s class.  The three of us would walk to and from school each day chatting, which was something I sorely missed doing.  Occassionally they would go out for coffee or breakfast, and invite me, but I always just gave an excuse and begged off – that would never be allowed.  By the end of the school year the two schoolmates would come over to our house after school to play with my son.  I was very fond of them and would take time to help them, along with my son, with homework and such.  While my son was at school I would clean, work out, or study GED books I had been given by my sister-in-law.  I desperately wanted to graduate high school (well get my GED anyway) before my child.  I didn’t want him to be ashamed of me.  During the summer the kids would be brought over to my house, or come call for my son to go out with them to the sprinklers or the schoolyard.  I would stay home, study, clean and write.  Never leaving unless I had to pick up something or had to pay a bill.  I did this because it was the best possible way to avoid fighting – should I not answer the phone when he called, should I take too long doing something outside, it was a definite, unquestioning brawl.  It felt as though I was resigned to this – to a life of nothing.  However, I don’t think it’s in my nature to resign completely. 

Something of me always lies beneath and stirs up over time until I explode.  One time it was over something as trivial as garbage.  Our landlord had moved from the building and put the ex in charge of cleaning the halls and taking the garbage to the curb.  He took $50 off the rent in exchange for these services.  So one evening we went outside to get away from the heat, my son was around the corner with his friend and his mother, and the ex and I were sitting outside on the stoop.  Suddenly he decided I should take the garbage to the curb.  The smell of rotten food was sickening and the bags were huge so I just looked at him, standing there so smugly ordering me around in full view of the entire neighborhood, when suddenly the old me resurfaced.  I told him to do it himself.  He took offense at that and grabbed me by the wrist yanking me to the garbage, pushing me into it face first.  He then yelled, take it to the curb bitch and gave my leg a kick.  When, as I struggled to get up, two policemen walked up to the ex.  Apparently passing by (we lived on a high traffic, main street wrought with dealers – so no surprise there, just the timing) they saw this and got out of their car.  They started berating the ex about hitting women, and one went so far as to swing at him just barely hitting him in his stomach, which caused the ex to fall backward.  After he apologized to me, at their request, they left.  He turned to me and said, “upstairs” so up I went.  On the second landing I felt a blow to my back as I flew forward, hitting my nose on the marble steps.  I turned and felt his fist hit my eye as he yelled for me to get up there.  By the time we walked in the door there was blood all over my face and down the front of my shirt.  The sight caused him to stop.  He went into the kitchen and got ice.  As he put it on me, alternating between my nose and eye, he lectured me about how I made him do these things, and how he didn’t want to get mad at me.  This was, the first time I ever broke my nose.  I never got it fixed and to this day haven’t had it looked at although I do all my breathing out of one side of it.  The step left a permant scar at the bridge of my nose – the kind of dent you usually see when someone wears glasses all the time. 

During that summer we found out my son had a hearing problem.  It was a simple procedure that irrigated his ears but it made a world of difference in both his speach and his ability to learn.  While doing the summer homework I stood in awe of how far he progressed during that two months.  He was already learning math and he almost never stopped talking now that he was completely understood.  He was my little angel and my best and only friend that summer bonding us in something other than a traditional mother/son situation.  I guess it was battle buddies really.  He was a bit of a pest on the block and there were a number of times that I would have to go barrelling down the stairs to “set things straight” with the older kids.  Very reminiscent of my brother.  Actually, my son was extremely similar to my brother in looks, and temperment which, at times, could be very emotional for me.  I guessed, at one point, God did it so I wouldn’t miss J. 

That fall he made a new friend, across the hall from us.  One day while outside with the ex my son started playing with the boy from across the hall – who, although two years older, seemed to get along with him quite well.  This delighted the ex who harbored a raging crush on the neighbor, an older woman with the coveted blonde hair my ex loved so much.  The first time the kid came to the house to play he fell into an end table splitting his ear.  Certain the neighbor would go nuts we brought him home.  She calmly got him ready and took him to the hospital - a few stitches.  That night she came over and the ex bought a bunch of beers and we all hung out.  This would become almost a daily thing.  She didn’t work so she would sometimes drop by during the day.  She lulled me into trusting her by telling me how upset she was about the many times she saw through the courtyard window the ex beating up on me.  I felt comforted to know that someone knew, someone who was coming over all the time, someone who was my friend, someone who – if continuing to come over, might make it stop.  I was pretty damn gullible.

I befriended her daughter who was about 15 (I was about 21 now).  Her daughter repeatedly warned me not to trust her, but I chalked it up to rebellious teen.  She was right.  One night I went across the hall to their house to get a movie, and when I came back the neighbor and my ex were kissing.  I looked, closed the door, and left.  They didn’t see me.  I was angry, and, confusingly enough, hurt.  But, then again, I was in my own way smart and saw this as a possible escape.  If they fell in love maybe I could get free – he wouldn’t care, she could have him.  This was the first time I deluded myself that this could happen (but not the last).  After letting them flirt for another week, I left them alone again – this time, when I returned I went AHA!!!!  I told him I wanted a divorce, I hated him, he could go live with her – but, to my surprise, they were both sorry, they didn’t want to “be together” it was just weakness mixed with the beer.  I just listened, feeling defeated.  She wasn’t going to fight for him, she didn’t even want him.  He wasn’t going to leave with her.  I ran out angry going into her apartment and locking the door, I literally cried myself to sleep.  When I woke they were both there telling me I should go home, we had a lot to talk about.  The ex was filled with apologies and promises to change.  He swore he would never hit me again.  I fell for that shyt like a small child.  As we decided to try again I felt I had one more thing to do.  I went next door and threw down with the neighbor.  I know, in retrospect, I had no right since I enabled it – but I felt it was my duty and my pride was on the line.  She backed down.  A few weeks later her daughter came knocking saying she was thrown out and didn’t want to live there, could she stay with us.  I wanted to help, I knew she hated my ex and she tried warning me after all.  So in she moved.  She stayed a few months until I found out she had snuck out while babysitting leaving my son alone in a dark apartment – warned not to tell us about it.  She added insult to injury when I found out she had brought private photos to her friends house to show and tell.  I went off on her cornering her – but backed off when she begged me to hit her.  I wouldn’t do it – that would be giving her what she wanted.  I threw her and her things out and didn’t speak to her again for a number of years.

When she left the ex began going back to his old ways … his anger, temporarily constrained, flared once more.





Essay – Homer’s Use of Epic Similes in Conveying Mood in the Iliad

25 06 2008

Homer’s Use of Epic Similes in Conveying Mood in the Iliad

            The Iliad, an epic poem written by Homer which seeks to chronicle the Trojan war, is laced with epic similes in an effort to convey the mood of the described action.  Briefly, one of the characteristics of the epic poem is that it takes factual events and laces them with grandiose imagery and the intervening of the Greek gods.  Homer does this in a very vivid and stark manner by relating the action to nature in ways which the reader could personally identify with.  For purposes of this paper only a brief section of The Iliad will be used.  In the scene we are examining Achilles, filled with rage over the death of Patroclus, seeks to destroy Hector.  Hector, against the counsel of his parents, leaves the safety of Troy and ventures out of its walls to confront Achilles.  Both Hector and Achilles are heroes to their armies, and thus, their battle is a major turning point in this poem; therefore, Homer uses a number of extended epic similes to bring this battle to life for the reader.  His use; however, of these similes gives insight into how Homer saw, and wanted the reader to see, both Hector and Achilles.

            Once Hector is outside the walls of Troy Homer describes him, awaiting Achilles arrival, through a simile:

No, he waited Achilles, coming on, gigantic in power. 

As a snake in the hills, guarding his hole, awaits a man–

bloated with poison, deadly hatred seething inside him,

glances flashing fire as he coils round his lair . .  .

so Hector, nursing his quenchless fury, gave no ground,

leaning his burnished shield against a jutting wall,

but harried still, he probed his own brave heart: (111-117)

 

This simile compares Hector to a snake guarding his hole.  Notably, he is not described as a vicious predator but rather a viper who sits in wait.  Although a snake is deadly, it traditionally strikes, biting once with its poison.  This is ironic as later in the action when Hector does strike at Achilles he too strikes out only once to sting him with his spear.  The mood Homer sets in anticipation of the battle is one of Achilles the predator, and Hector his prey.

            This mood is reinforced when Achilles arrives to begin pursuit.  Close examination of this simile is telling of future events as well as Homer’s opinion on the two soldiers.

Hector looked up, saw him, started to tremble,

nerve gone, he could hold his ground no longer,

he left the gates behind and away he fled in fear –

and Achilles went for him, fast, sure of his speed

as the wild mountain hawk, the quickest thing on wings,

launching smoothly, swooping down on a cringing dove

and the dove flits out from under, the hawk screaming

over the quarry, plunging over and over, his fury

driving him down to beak and tear his kill–

so Achilles flew at him, breakneck on in fury

with Hector fleeing along the walls of Troy,

fast as his legs would go.  On and on they raced . . . (163-173)

 

Hector, who lays in wait, upon seeing Achilles sure of himself and able, begins to flee.  Homer’s use of the epic simile in this case is a forewarning of how the race will ultimately end, “as the wild mountain hawk, the quickest thing on wings,” (166) which  tells the reader that Achilles will not be outrun by Hector – inevitably, Achilles will overtake his fleeing opponent.  Homer further develops the mood he wishes to convey through a comparison of the two birds which represent the soldiers.  Achilles’ representative hawk, “the hawk screaming over the quarry, plunging over and over, his fury driving him down to beak and tear his kill–” (168-170) shows passion, bravery and fury.  In the meantime Hector’s representative dove is used to expose his fearfulness, insecurity and lack of strength, “swooping down on a cringing dove and the dove flits out from under.” (167-168)  The savageness Homer attributes to the hawk, and thus Achilles is a stark contrast to the peaceful dove who in his cringing fear merely flits about. 

            Yet, although it is clear that the two soldiers are not equal in ability or passion, Homer moves toward a new simile to describe the action as it unfolds.  Although at first Achilles seeks to destroy Hector to avenge Patroclus, he, as well as Hector, are compared to stallions running a race. 

Past these they raced, one escaping, one in pursuit

and the one who fled was great but the one pursuing

greater, even greater–their pace mounting in speed

since both men strove, not for a sacrificial beast

or oxhide trophy, prizes runners fight for, no,

they raced for the life of Hector breaker of horses.

Like powerful stallions sweeping round the post for trophies,

galloping full stretch with some fine price at stake

a tripod, say, or woman offered up at funeral games

for some brave hero fallen–so the two of them

whirled three times around the city of Priam,

sprinting at top speed while the gods gazed down, (188-199)

 

            The armies of the time took spoils from battle, such as women, which in this poem are antagonists to the action, so this simile is befitting and ironic for “Like powerful stallions sweeping round the post for trophies, galloping full stretch with some fine price at stake a tripod, say, or woman offered up…” (194-196) here Homer shows that the race, the quest, is similar to that of an animal trained only to win without reason.  The trophy being the only award, but what value does a trophy have to a horse whether he wins or loses?  In this scene the race between Hector and Achilles is compared to an event which is nothing more than sport, yet we know that the prize was in fact the life of Hector.  It seems likely that Homer was showing how ridiculous the two soldier’s looked in using their prowess to accomplish nothing substantial in the end while, simultaneously, foreshadowing Hector’s inevitable death as both men, “raced for the life of Hector” (193) who, ironically is the breaker of horses.

            As the chase progresses it takes on a different tone as both soldier’s, weary from the chase, lose the original fury and fear and fall into a more domestic role, such as the hunting dog and it’s prey.  Dogs, raised to hunt, do not think nor feel anything about their pursuit but do it out of repetition and duty.  Knowing the job ahead yet not personally involved seems to be the imagery which Homer begins to describe.

And swift Achilles kept on coursing Hector, nonstop

as a hound in the mountains starts a fawn from its lair,

hunting him down the gorges, down the narrow glens

and the fawn goes to ground, hiding deep in brush

but the hound comes racing fast, nosing him out

until he lands his kill.  So Hector could never throw

Achilles off his trail, the swift racer Achilles– (224-230)

 

The hound, “starts a fawn from its lair, hunting him down the gorges . . . until he lands his kill.” (225-229)  The fawn on the other hand is helpless as the relentless of pursuit of the hound inevitably lands his kill, thus, Homer tells us through this simile what is about to occur.

            After racing three times around the walls of Troy Achilles is approached by Athena who tells him that she plans to intercede on his behalf.  This renews Achilles at a time during the chase where he was slowly wearing down from hawk, to stallion, to hound.  This renewal is also given to Hector through Athena’s ruse.  Disguising herself as Deiphobus, Athena assures Hector that together they would defeat Achilles, so, momentarily, Hector is portrayed not as the inevitable victim, but with bravery that Homer briefly describes in a less descriptive and less wordy simile. 

he swooped like a soaring eagle

launching down from the dark clouds to earth

to snatch some helpless lamb or trembling hare.

So Hector swooped now, swinging his whetted sword (365-368)

 

            This in itself indicates the quickness in which Hector experiences the bravery, and the quickness in which it is lost.  The richness of detail and strength of words customary in Homer’s similes is missing here, as this simile represents a façade based on nothing of substance.  Even the wording in this simile betrays the softness which is real in Hector versus the momentary belief that he is at last the aggressor, “he swooped like a soaring eagle.”(365)  This is in contrast to his earlier simile describing Achilles approach as, “launching smoothly, swooping down on a cringing dove … screaming over the quarry, plunging over and over, his fury driving him down to beak and tear his kill “ (167-170)  He continues to say in this simile that Hector’s representative eagle “to snatch some helpless lamb or trembling hare” (367) which the reader is well aware is not the case. It shows, however, that the only reason that Hector is swooping at that moment is because he perceives Achilles to be helpless, and therefore, strikes only at that moment to take advantage of this.  This simile, kept in the context of Athena’s betrayals, which the reader is privy to, makes the simile take on an almost comical tone. 

            The use of the natural world in Homer’s similes allows the reader to feel the tempo of the story change.  To say that Achilles was coming after Hector, chased him around a while, tricked him then killed him would relate, like a news story, only the facts, but would leave the reader unable to empathize or understand the underlying mood of the moment.  Home draws the reader into the action by using similes that are relatable to the non soldier, thus, in feeling the characters as they pursue or are pursued the story becomes enriched and more understandable in a deeper, more basic way.





Settling in … settling down?

24 06 2008

We really didn’t have much, but now that our son was home we were able to focus our attention on him, and really didn’t care. 

When he was small he was quite the handful.  Very wilful and oddly hyper.  For example, when we would sleep he would climb out of his crib and dump out the suger or flour and dance around in it.  He loved the window and tried several times to climb over us and out to the fire escape.  When he would break things they would wind up, without our knowing, in the garbage.  One of his favorite activities would be fingerpainting – his canvas – the wall next to his crib; his paints – whatever he could pull out of his diaper.  His hijinks were such that the downstairs neighbor was convinced he was possessed.  Me, well I just couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong - did I sleep too late, did he need more attention.  The ex, at first just ignored this but as my son got older he would get whacked on the bottom.  I didn’t approve of hitting.

During his terrible threes things got more intense at home.  When the ex would come home from work he would rough house with our son briefly and then want dinner.  He cooked for a living, and I never learned to so much as boil water – but I would try.  Unfortunately, I would mostly fail.  Too bland, too salty, too rare, too well done but the worst was burning the rice.  The ex was obsessed with the rice and I could NOT get it to come out right.  If it was soggy, trouble – if it was burnt – trouble.  And his remedy would be to throw it at me, plate and all.  For years my children were worried any time rice came into the picture – even after I finally bought a rice maker and the rice was okay – they were tense.  Plates flew at my house regularly hitting the walls, or me.  Then, the slapping and screaming would start.  This was so ordinary that nobody even seemed phased by it - including me. 

The ex began, at that point, drinking and he was never a pleasant drunk.  He would come home late from work and the second he got home I knew what kind of night it would be.   If I was lucky he’d pass out, if not, he would find things around the house to pick on, argue as he dribbled food from his mouth, or tell me the “sad story” of his life.  One night, however, he really went off and to this day I don’t know how much of that night became a part of who my son is. 

For a week I had been trying to get my nearly 4 year old to put his toys in the box when he was done.  I tried to make it fun, I tried to cajole him into it, finally I tried threats.  You will stay here until you put these in here.  I would hold the door between his and our room closed and he would stand there banging on it to be let out.  He’d become so incessed that he wouldn’t realize there was no door keeping him from going out into the kitchen.  Every night when the ex came home our son was in the room having a tantrum.  One night; however, he came home after work and decided I was keeping his son from him.  He screamed at me slapping me in the head and face.  I was NOT to keep our son in his room any more.  That done in front of our son who, besides from being willful, was very attached to me.  Two days later the ex comes home, walks into our son’s room and sees the toys scattered – he then turned his attention to his son who he spanked for it.  After that, my son and I would clean it up together. 

Going out in public was another problem with the ex.  It wasn’t enough that I was dressed in baggy sweats etc. and that I never work makeup or did anything to look nice, I was still always guilty of something.  My trips to the store were times, I wasn’t to leave the house without calling him at work to tell him, and then calling to report my return.  When we went out together it would usually culminate into, “do you know them.”  “Why was he looking at you” on and on and on.  I walked with my head down as much as possible, I avoided eye contact with anyone, and I feared someone, anyone, glancing my way.  Needless to say, I did not try leaving the house very often. 

I did; however, make one friend.  A girl who was staying across the hall with the neighbor my ex had a crush on.  The girl, 16, would talk to my son when she saw us outside so my ex would talk to her – and include me in the conversations.  I was given “permission” to invite her to the house and she would hang out with us more and more often.  One day she knocked on the door, our neighbor threw her out and she had nowhere to go so, of course, she came to stay with us.  My son loved her and she and I were cool but the ex, he just became slackjawed around her.  Things appeared more pleasant for the time.  I was always home though, so I thought it was not a problem.  But, one night, I went into my son’s room and found her laying there nude – not expecting me, of course.  I woke her and told her to get dressed.  The next morning, after he left for work, I told her to leave.  She did.  End of pleasant. 

I wanted to get my son baptized, and I wanted to make his foster partents the godparents.  Problem came when I called my mother for the return of his birth certificate only to be told she had gotten him baptized when I was in New York – the godparents were these two people her husband worked with – after all, they made my mother and stepfather godparents to their child.  I hit the roof, I talked to the priest who said, basically, there was nothing I could do.  Again, I seethed but said nothing to my mother.  Really though, for selfish reasons.  Things had gotten so stressed and violent at the house that I decided I needed to leave, but I didn’t know how I would get away with it.  The ex informed me that if I did try to go he would kill me, set me on fire and piss on the flames  was the phrase he used. 

I wanted to plan an escape, but couldn’t wait since the violence had gotten so bad one night.  He smacked my son across the face, and I was not having that, so I just got up and left.  I called the only person I had that didn’t belong to the ex’s family and begged her to come get us.  Please, I need to get out of this.  She, of course, said no.  A wife belongs by her husband’s side, I should work it out for my son, it can’t be as bad as it seems.  Essentially, that night, I found out I wouldn’t be going anyway.  There was no escaping and to make it worse, I had to turn right around and go back into that house. 





Short Story: A Very Catty Tale

20 06 2008

A Very Catty Tale

            Veronica paced nervously, glancing often at the clock on the wall.  She stopped and stood frozen as he second hand hit the twelve.  “It’s three, thank God, it’s three,” she gasped as a smile crept across her well-glossed lips.  “Right now,” she thought, “it’s happening right this minute.”  If it weren’t for her co-workers’ presence she was certain that she would leap into the air and click her heals, but, decorum being what it was, heal clicking was not an option.

            “She’s gone, finally, she’s out of my life . . . no, our lives,” she muttered far enough from the ears of those she despised second of all, her co-workers.  The one she despised most was now gone.

            Veronica found out about “her” on their second anniversary.  How could Ken have actually believe that “she” would add to their lives?  Instead of a diamond bracelet or that cute fox stole she saw at Macy’s, Ken walked in with “her” draped across his arm.  “Happy Anniversary Darling!  Look what I have gotten you,” he said joyfully.  From that moment on Veronica’s life became a living hell.

            Every morning “she” was in their bed purring contently beside Ken as he slept, and every evening when they opened the door “she” would leap playfully into his arms.  But not today, no, not today.  There would no longer be any leaping, purring or any of the other millions of agonizingly painful tricks that bitch would pull to endear herself to Ken, because, after all, Ken was Veronica’s and not Nautica’s

            Veronica hummed and grinned to herself for the next two hours, barely able to contain her joy.  She simply could not wait to get home and see “her” gone.  When 5 o’clock arrived, Veronica ran excitedly for the elevator and furiously flagged down a taxi.  She was anxious to get home, a feeling that she had not had since that fateful day when he bought home that blonde bitch.

            Everything was as she had expected, the door was ajar, the note was in place and she, having rehearsed a thousand times in her mind, performed the obligatory shrieking and shaking called for by the presence of THE NOTE:

Listen, this is a kidnapping.  I want $10,000 in $20s so you better go to the bank because when I call you are going to have to deliver them.  If you call the police the cat is going to die.  Sincerely, the Bad Guy.

Veronica read the note, re-reading the part where “the cat is going to die,” which caused her to shudder.  The pure, unadulterated joy was impossible to contain.  Then, a giggle surfaced from her throat as she read, “the Bad Guy.”  “What an idiot!” she thought.  “Surely for 10 grand this moron could have been just a little more threatening.  The Bad Guy!  You would think I was dealing with children.”

            As the screaming and shaking part of the performance was complete, she pondered more the simplicity of the note.  “What if that idiot did get a kid to take that bitch?”  After looking around nervously for any forgotten clues, Veronica lifted the receiver and dialed the number with trembling hands.  She had memorized the number and burned the paper which contained it.  Simplicity being the key, it made no sense for her to keep information laying around for Ken to come across, she reasoned.  After two rings, an angry voice grunted, “What!”

            Despite herself, Veronica felt fear rise in her throat as she stuttered into the phone at the unknown woman on the other end.  “Echo?  Sharp told me if I had any questions I should call.  This is Veronica.”

            “I know who you are.  What the hell do you want?  Listen, you ain’t supposed to call until tomorrow, so this better be good because this damn cat of yours is giving me one hell of a headache.”

            “I was just wondering, well . . . did everything go smoothly?  You have the cat?  I mean, well, I read your note, and I was wondering about ‘the bad guy.’  Why did you sign it ‘the bad guy’?”

            “I didnt sign shit!  Sharp took care of the note.  Listen, you got a complaint file it under Sharp okay?  Now, is there anything else you want your highness?”

            “No, nothing, but are you going to call tonight or is Sharp, because I don’t know if Ken will take Sharp too seriously with that squeaky little voice of his.”

            “What’ya trying to say?  I sound like a guy or something?  Listen lady, you 5th Avenue types get way under my skin and this whole thing with the cat is idiotic beyond words.  If you plan to call me and add to the ’stupid bank’ be prepared to pay the fine, got it?  From now on, it’s a hundred for every stupid question or remark made by your dumb ass.”

            “Listen, you uneducated gutter snipe!  I am never spoken to like this and refuse to be spoken to like this by the hired help.  Do you understand me?”

            Echo just laughed a knowing laugh and without much ado said, “That’ll be a hundred dollars lady.”  With that, she hung up the phone.

            Veronica was beside herself with anger as tears of rage smeared her Estee Lauder’s Lady’s Finest No. 5 all down her cheeks.  Fortunately for her, tears were just the ticket as Ken sauntered into their apartment.

            “Veronica, Veronica!  What’s wrong?  Sweetums, you’re a mess.”

            He comforted her the best he could saying all the standard “Veronica’s crying” lines.  “Please darling let me fix it for your.  What does my Angelbaby want?  C’mon, darling, it can’t be that bad.  Surely I can do something to make my little Cutesypooh smile.”  Which, of course, was equivalent to the cha-ching made when any cash register opened to display its finery.

            “They took her Kenny.  They took our little Nautica.  Oh God!  She’s all alone.”  With that her sobs deepened as she buried her raccoon eyes into Ken’s Pierre Cardin.

            Ken roared, “huh?”

            “Yes Ken, they took Nautica away, they said they would kill her.  Can you imagine our little Nautica dead?”  She said as she hid the grin washing across her face by once again pressing her made up face into Ken’s well soiled shirt.

            Ken raged, “Maybe we can call the police, what do you think, huh honey pooh?”

            “No!  No we can’t.  Theyll kill her for sure.  No, we must be patient and wait.  We have money in the safe, done we?  You know, for emergencies.  I think there’s at least fifteen thousand dollars in there, remember?  We put it in last week.”

            Ken nodded and obediently turned and walked toward the bedroom.  He returned carrying a stack of $20s that Veronica so intuitively knew would someday come in handy.  Who would have thought that day would come so soon?  As Veronica and Ken waited for contact from the kidnappers they reminisced on the special moments that the three of them had shared.  “Oh Ken, look here, see this is the scar that she left when she attack . . . I mean leapt down from the top of the refrigerator on Christmas.  And look at those cute little claw marks at the bottom of the couch.  She simply loves Corinthian leather doesn’t she, the little darling!  I still remember when she made a no no on my new Coach jacket, oh and that time she killed that bird that flew in here and hit it in my leather pumps.  I never realized how cold and hard a bird could get in such a short time.  Oh God!  Im so going to miss her.”  With that, Veronica buried her face in her hands as her entire body convulsed.  She remained that way until the laughing fit had passed.  When she looked up, tears in her eyes, there was Ken looking at her tenderly.  It was a special moment for both of them.

            At 7 p.m. sharp the ring of the phone shattered their quite reflections and brought them back into the cool, clear light of reality.  After her earlier experience Veronica was dreading the next phase of the plan; however, like any other brilliant performer she rose to the occasion.

            “Hello?  The St. John residence.  May I help you?”

            “That, lady, is gonna cost you a hundred.  Now, wanna try for $10,300 or wanna start acting like a person?”

            “Give me back my baby,” whined Veronica, “you monster.”

            “Okay, let’s see, ‘give me back my baby’ will cost a hundred unless you’re a cat too.  And ‘you monster’ just rose the rate to $150.  Yup, lady, that gives us a grand total of $10,550.  Now shhhhhhh!  Do yourself a favor and be quiet now and maybe you can keep a little money to buy food or something, okay?  I want my 10,550 in a brown paper bag dropped off in the garbage can on East 16th Street and Kings Highway in Brooklyn.  Now, it should probably be you since this was all your brilliant idea.  And besides, I kinda like the idea of my homies seeing you serve me my money.”

            Veronica stood frozen as Echo continued amusing herself.  “Also, no cars, nope.  Want you to bring it on the train just like real people have to travel . . . Got it?  If I see you get out of a car, well, you don’t want to know how far I would go, okay?  Once the money is in my hand and you are well on your way, Ill gladly kill this clawing, whiney ass thing of yours.  But until then . . . she lives.  Got it?  Now, if you leave now you should be able to get here in an hour but I’ll be nice and give you an hour and a half, so you might wanna get your ass in gear there missy.”

            “Okay, okay you win.  I’ll bring it just please don’t hurt my kitty.”  You are a monster!  With that, Veronica hung up the phone and turned to her husband.  “They want $10,500 now or they’re gonna kill Nauty.  I have to go alone.  I’ll take a cab and change for the train right before I get there.  Those idiots will never know.”

             Ken, deathly worried about the welfare of his wife, shrugged and handed the money over to Veronica.  “Be careful darling,” he said.  “Don’t worry, once Nautica is safely home we will help her forget all of this trauma.  Maybe we can take a nice family vacation or something and . . . with enough time and attention . . . she’ll be her same, old, lovable self.”

            Veronica added each syllable out Ken’s mouth to the myriad of reasons she had used to justify the death of one so beloved beloved by Ken that was.  She raced outside, cash in hand, to wave down a taxi.  Once she arrived she quickly raced to the appointed garbage can and dropped the bag.  “Done,” she said to herself, “now I just have to go home and wait for the bad news.” 

            When she returned home she found her dearest safely tucked away, pajamas on, light out, traditional cup of water beside the bed as the faint murmur of words escaping his dreaming mind wafted toward her eager ears.  “Nautica, Nautica, itll be all right.”  Veronica looked down on him and thought, “with any luck you two will be together someday soon.”

            The next morning she awoke to Ken pouring cat food into the dish.  “No” thought Veronica, “this can’t be.  I paid them.  She’s dead.  They promised.”

            Quickly she went into the kitchen to see “her” there in her usual position beside Ken’s foot waiting, just waiting, for the silver bowl to touch down before her.  Ken looked up smiling a smile that can only be produced by a complete idiot.  Veronica searched his eyes for an explanation only to find that which she always finds, nothing.

            “Look Veronica, our little cutesy wootsey is back all safe and snuggly warm.  Why Veronica, you look so happy!  I believe I even see a tear.  I must confess, although I know it’s not very manly, I wept like a baby when I opened the door and saw her there.  I’ve been so busy with her that I haven’t even had a chance to read the note.”

            “Note?  There was a note?  Quick, where is it?”

            “Easy now, it’s on the mantle in the living room,” said Ken as he bent to his knees to adore “her” as she ate her Fancy Feast.

            Veronica trembled once again, but this time from an odd combination of fear and rage.  She looked at the note and began to weep.

Hey, glad you were able to bring our money so fast.  That cabbie was pretty fast.  Well, after counting our $10,000 exactly we just knew what we should do.  We wouldn’t want to prove ourselves idiots now would we?  Sincerely, the Monster.

            Veronica was defeated, beaten by some faceless bitch.  Everything was ruined.  Sadly she made her way back to the kitchen where “they” were the happy couple.

            “Darling,” said Ken, “did I ever tell you what made me choose Nautica above all other things for your gift?”

            “No,” said Veronica flatly.

            “It’s quite simple really.  After two full years of living with you I felt I knew you well enough; therefore, I bought you something that was exactly like you.  Sometimes I can be pretty Sharp you know?  But, the difference is, she is exactly what she seems.  Sure, she can be a little bitch, but she’s a cat and doesn’t pretend to be a dog.  That’s refreshing around here, wouldn’t you say?  Now, I don’t expect anything to happen to her again because I would hate to think what terrible things that Echo and Sharp would do to the poor bitch, wouldn’t you?”  With that he looked up with a wry smile and something she had never seen before in his eyes, life.  There was life behind those eyes after all.





A New Beginning?

20 06 2008

Catholic Charities tried to be kind about what was happening but I was not receptive.  They told me that my mother had called and requested adoption, that I was considered unfit, but that they were going to give me the year to prove otherwise.  The ex, was out in the waiting room.

Afterward we walked for awhile talking about things.  I told him what had happened with the tape, and what was said in the office, and that I had every intention of getting back my son.  He agreed to work with me, acting very apologetic and claiming a new committment.  I think, even then, I knew he wasn’t capable of being a good husband but I prayed he could be a good father so I went back to him.

We went to stay with his sister in Brooklyn, he working in a pizzeria and me looking for a job.  Things in his sister’s house were very stressful as she and I had never really gotten along.  This, coupled with the grief of seeing his brother’s baby, made it necessary for us to leave.  By the time we left I was working in a variety store, where the ex would frequently be seen peaking in to “make sure” I was not cheating on him.  He was, bar none, the most jealous person I had ever known and a simple thing like walking down the street, looking up and unintentially looking at a male would set him off.

His presence around the store had at first been a joke among my co-workers, which left me feeling very small; however, one day while I was in the bathroom, and a male employee was in the stockroom, the ex came storming in making a scene and very near knocked down the bathroom door to insure I was in there alone.  I left that day and never came back – I wasn’t exactly fired although I am sure it was immenent, I never got my last paycheck and I never looked back.

We moved at this period to a room over a bar in Coney Island.  It was the cheapest place we could find.  It was seedy and no matter how much I cleaned it, it still felt sticky.  That’s how I remember it – damp and sticky.  I found a new job at a Roy Roger’s and take the long ass walk to work and home every day to save on transportation.  I lived on chicken or whatever was left at the end of the night hoping to save money.  The ex was also spontaneously showing up there, making sure I was not “up to something.”  One time I was ordered to clean the restrooms, which was distasteful enough, but when I came out of the men’s room (because a male had walked in) the ex was standing right there – AHA!  He grabbed my arm pulling me to the side saying we would deal with this later.  And he did – but, fortunately, not so much that I could not show my face the next day at work.  The end of that job came when a new person had been hired.  At the end of the night, after shutting down, I was walking home when he called to me to wait a minute.  He wanted to know about the pay schedule, whether they held back the first check, lalala.  Really, nothing important just what you would ask if you just started.  While answering I looked ahead and saw the ex heading my way.  I asked the guy, please, can you just walk away from me.  I can’t be seen with you – please.  And he did, making a turn that was about two feet ahead.  But the damage was done.  All the way home the ex pounded on me.  My head, my back, my stomach – it was late, there was no one around to stop him, and at that moment – I thought he would kill me.  That was my last day working for Roy Rogers.  Actually, it was my last day with a job for years to come.  In a cruel twist of irony, the next day we had to go to his mother’s house, there was a meeting.  Apparently his brother had struck his girlfriend and the family called an intervention so, as I heard how he hit her in her mouth during a battle, I fidgeted uncomfortably with my own bruises and bumps – afraid to say anything as I knew they wouldn’t care.

After that I was confined to the room with orders not to move.  We didn’t own a tv or radio but he would bring home puzzle books so my days were spent just doing word puzzles.  On his days off we went to a beverage distributor, bought cases of soda and beer, bought bags of ice and sold the cans and bottles on the beach at Coney Island.  Everything in life centered on saving enough money for an apartment and furniture and such.  Meanwhile, I was keeping in constant contact with Catholic Charities who said I could see my son, only in their facility though, until I could show that I was able to care for him.  They were worried that I would run off with him.  By Spring we were looking for an apartment, which we lucked into.  The ex’s sister had a friend in the used furniture business so we bought all the necessities that an apartment had.  I called Catholic Charities to come for a home visit. 

Everything was there, except the crib and a few baby things which they had told us they could get – so, our visitation rights changed and we were allowed to see him at his foster family’s house.  His foster parents were very sweet people who were duped into believing that at the end of the year they would be adopting my son.  They had went so far as to call him by the name they intended to change his to.  My heart broke for what they were going through, but I couldn’t help that.  I wasn’t giving away my child for any reason. 

On December 1st, days before my son’s first birthday, he was home.  Suddenly he became a member of the family for the ex’s and for my mother.  Everyone was quick to come over and phone with their well-wishes – but I was bitter and, with my tongue firmly between my teeth, I looked at the spectacle and seethed at their indifference over the last year.  But, my son was the center of attention and he didn’t seem to mind so I kept still.  It was for the best.

Now, however, I would be finding out what this family was really going to be like.  I looked on happy but afraid.  And, unfortunately, I should have been afraid.





Essay: Stanley Kubrick – The Man Behind the Images

18 06 2008

 Stanley Kubrick – The Man Behind the Images

Stanley Kubrick was born in the Bronx on July 26th, 1928.  He attended Taft High School and enrolled in City College of New York taking night classes. His education in cinematography was never formal, as the only art he actually studied was photography. After being hired by Look Magazine he dropped out of City College. Kubrick would regularly be sent out on ridiculous photo shoots and he became quickly disenchanted with photography as a career. His time with Look, however, would soon help Stanley to realize his true calling, film making. 

In 1950 Kubrick borrowed $3,900 to create a short documentary, Day of Fight, about the life of a boxer as he prepared to get in the ring for a big fight. The boxers were Walter Carier (the subject of the film) and Bobby James. He sold the nine-minute mini-film to RKO for $4,000. Impressed with Kubrick’s first film, RKO advanced him $1,500 for another short film. The $1,500 budget was supplemented with loans from family and friends, and the eight-minute short, Flying Padre, opened at the Paramount theater in New York on April 26, 1951 as part of RKO’s “This is America” series. Kubrick’s next production was a 30-minute industrial film for the Seafarers International Union. Unfulfilling but a financial necessity. Kubrick’s next project was to be a full-length feature film.

Kubrick, through a series of loans and investments, created several un-noteworthy films where he established himself as a talented, although difficult1, director. At this time he was introduced to, and would soon partner with, James B. Harris, a producer of training films for the Signal Corps. Harris-Kubrick Productions was born. The new partnership brought more money into the films Kubrick would direct and Harris would produce. Harris-Kubrick Productions’ first professionally staffed film, The Killing, featured actor Sterling Hayden. Bought by Paramount the $75,000 received barely enabled Kubrick to break even.

Harris-Kubrick Productions followed The Killing with Paths of Glory starring Kirk Douglas. In order to secure Douglas for this UA production Harris-Kubrick had to agree to use Douglas in 5 more films. This deal was later renegotiated to two films, one of which was Spartacus. Kubrick, after splitting with his long time partner James Harris, followed with a number of box office successes, which included a few controversial films. His filmography contained such titles as Lolita2, Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, 2001: A Space Odyssey, A Clockwork Orange, Barry Lyndon, The Shining, Full Metal Jacket and Eyes Wide Shut4. Kubrick had a brilliant vision when directing his often-satirical films. In examining three of his works, each filmed in different decades, we can see that despite the technological advancements, Kubrick remained faithful to various techniques which worked for his vision. The use of dark humor to expose contemporary social issues, startling imagery to grab the audience’s attention, and his carefully selected music are all standards for Kubrick. Examples of these techniques are found in the three works which I have examined. Although each film was shot in a different decade, and are of a different genre, Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, A Clockwork Orange and Full Metal Jacket each share similarities that can be identified as a Stanley Kubrick film.

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb is the epitome of dark humor. Shot in 1964, while the United States was at the height of its red scare, this film forewarns of the possible catastrophe that can occur should either the United States or Russia engage in any combat. What was particularly frightening was the idea that such conflict could occur as a result of one mentally incapacitated individual, General Jack D. Ripper. Even the protagonist’s name is satirical in that it is a play on words referring back to the infamous Jack the Ripper. Other examples of his dark humor can be seen in his making the President’s special advisor, Dr. Strangelove, a former Nazi scientist whose mechanical arm constantly slips into a “Sieg Heil” salute. The end of the world begins with Major Kong astride his nuclear warhead flying down to the target like an old-time cowboy – a nuclear John Wayne. The telephone tag and ridiculous conversations which constitute negotiations are cleverly shot to show how the then current lack of communication only hastens the ultimate end of the world. Dr. Strangelove utilizes stark imagery in two ways. First, the striking lighting and largeness of the War Room scenes creates a focal point for the action. Second, the absurdity of the images, such as Major Kong straddling his warhead, Dr. Strangelove’s flailing arm, and the repeated use of Peter Sellers in alternate roles takes the intensely serious subject matter and throws it into the opposite light – that of comical. Finally, Kubrick’s use of songs such as “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” and “We’ll Meet Again Some Sunny Day” during the fight scenes in a war that would ultimately lead to global destruction is comical in its ridiculousness.

In 1971 Kubrick shocked audiences with his expose on juvenile delinquency and the role of government in the rehabilitation, or lack thereof, of such criminals. A Clockwork Orange is a raucous, futuristic dark comedy. Scenes such as when Alex, the film’s protagonist, is singing “Singing in the Rain” as he kicks a man for percussion before raping his wife provokes a guilty laugh by the viewer. The situations, such as Alex’s study of the Bible while in prison and the unholy alliance between Alex and Minister “Fred” are as ridiculous as they are frightening. The film is so packed with dark humor that listing all of the examples would fill this paper. The visuals in this piece are startling and intense. The use of nudity in such things as fountains, tables and artwork fills the entire film with heavy sexual undertones. The rich costumes and dramatic use of light assault the viewer and keeps him affixed to the screen. Finally, Kubrick again finds unique uses for music in his story. The selection of such a cheerful and catchy tune as “Singing in the Rain” played at moments of highest drama is clever and innovative. Further, Alex’s love of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, and it’s ultimate role in Alex’s rehabilitation is ironic because, rather than choosing one of the decade’s rock hits, the soothing violins of this piece is Alex the animals true love.

The third and final film I examined was one of my favorite Kubrick pieces, the 1987 film Full Metal Jacket. The dark humor of this film is primarily seen in the first half of the film, the training on Parris Island. Used to show the dehumanization that occurs to military personnel, which is done in order to desensitize them to killing, the dark humor is effective and biting. As Gunnery Sgt. Hartman berates the Marine recruits, he uses such examples as Lee Harvey Oswald’s brilliant marksmanship being a result of his training as a marine. He teaches the recruits that their rifle is their friend in ways such as, marching them around the barracks while alternately holding their rifle and their “gun” which, in this case, is their penis, and singing, “This is my rifle this is my gun, one is for firing one is for fun.” Even his belittlement of the first victim of this film, an obese screw up nicknamed Gomer Pyle, offers the audience the chance to laugh as they sympathize and shrink at this humiliation. The second half of the film, although it has moments of dark humor, does not reflect the same style. It is as though a light switch was thrown and suddenly everything is cast in an entirely new light. This is especially true when it comes to the visuals. Unlike the beginning of the film, which was bright, sharp and contained highly defined lines, the second half is more spread, crowded, and ultimately darker. The viewer feels the jolt of basic training in its cleanness and clarity as opposed to the actual war and its heavy use of red and crowded, confining backdrops exposing the change in situation in a visual way. Finally, the end of the film shows a disturbing image as, having just shot the young female sniper, the platoon marches away into the battlefield light singing the theme song to the Mickey Mouse Club. This savage reality combined with the innocence implied by the song is a lasting, and effective, image.

Kubrick’s use of the devices explored above is only a small part of what has made him one of the all-time great directors; however, much like Alfred Hitchcock’s telling profile making cameos in his films, they are characteristic of a Kubrick work of art.





My Little Boy and the Path to Hell

18 06 2008

While lying in the hospital the ex showed up with this couple who ran an after hours next door to his old job – people I know who discussed buying our child.  I went nuts.  Crying hysterical I told him, “make them leave, get them out.”  They tried to calm me telling me I had nothing and they could give him everything – I wasn’t hearing it.  I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew that it wouldn’t be that.  Up to that point the ex had not seen our son, and, after he finally got those people out of my room, I had him walk to the nursery with me.  I told him to look, that was ours.  He said he understood, and we would look for a way.

The way came via my mother, since nobody in the ex’s family even wanted to see our son there was no option.  They disapproved, hated me and didn’t want anything to do with my child.  To this day, my kids are “that woman’s kids”.  I left the hospital and got on a bus to Jersey.  There were oohs and aahs, so much fake adoration.  (No I’m not being cynical – you’ll see why.)  My son was always throwing up or going to the bathroom, and I was constantly hearing, “you’re not feeding him right, you’re not burping him right.”  I almost believed it until his first checkup, he was lactose intolerant and needed soybean formula.  My mother ran out of oohs and aahs and told me, you have to leave the baby here and go to New York and deal with his father.  Make sure he’s getting things done.  So, I left my son with my mother for a “quick trip” to New York. 

When I got there I waited in the hotel until he finally staggered in.  I walked into a landmine.  While I was on the bus mother decides to call him, and inform him, that I wanted to be with his brother, that I was no good and, just to put icing on the cake, she played a doctored tape where I was heard saying I thought he was cute and I would go out with him – (actually should have played out, if nothing was ever deleted as, “If I never met the ex, and I met him, I would go out with him.)  The conversation “girls talk” was a trap, and me, stupid that I was, walked right on in through the landmines.  After getting the hell beat out of me, I was shoved out the door.  I walked from 30th Street to 91st trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do.  The only people I knew any more were the owners of the pizzeria where I met him.  I showed up, crying and bruised, in some kind of lost state. 

Now, this may seem piecemeal but really, I don’t know the exact time frame of the events that follow in italics, just that they happened within a few days.

The owner, a big teddy bear type person who I loved as though he were my own family, sat and talked to me for hours after closing.  He was working things out with his wife and couldn’t give me a place to sleep, but called his friend, the second partner, who lived close by.  I went there where he and his wife let me stay on their sofa.  Embarassed, I left the next morning.  I went back to the pizzeria but my friend wasn’t there, so I went for a walk.  I ran into the girls that my ex dealt with, who “befriended” me and we all hung out.  The avowed hatred for the ex, and I felt like someone was listening so I stayed with them – two were my aged, 16.  It was freezing so after awhile we decided to ride the trains so we wouldn’t freeze.  That was my second night out in the city – still no money, still no way to contact my mother, still no word about my son. and still very lost.  On the third day I went back to the pizzeria, kind of like a bird to a nest, where my friend and I got into a fight so I left.  I walked out, crying, angry, and worse off than ever when the wife who owned the club next door asked me to come in – no hard feelings.  I went in, where she gave me a drink, then another, then another all the while pressing me about my son, where was he, who had custody lalala.  Finally, in a fit, I left and went to the second partner’s house, I was cold, tired and now drunk.  He let me in and again I crashed on the couch but in the morning I was told not to come back.  I apologized, I understood, but in a way I was feeling way too sorry for myself to really see things clearly.  I walked about a block away when suddenly a car pulled up beside me and the ex jumped out.  He started landing blows and screaming – his stepfather, who was driving, pulled him off of me.  Seems the friend in the pizzeria was called and told him where he could find me.  His mother, stepfather, he and I all sat at a table and discussed MY son.  It seems my mother called them, claimed heart problems (I knew this was a lie) and said I had to sign papers since she could no longer take care of him.  They wanted me to give him up for adoption.  They were driving me to the bus where I was to go, pick up my son and bring him back here.  I was numb, I got on the bus, I got my son and brought him back to New York.  I had an address where I was to go, so the ex and I went to Catholic Charities with my three week old son.  I was pretty much on autopilot.  They wanted me to sign over my rights, but I told them I couldn’t, they were Catholic, they were the Church, they had to help me.  They agreed to allow me to sign over temporary custody, for foster care; however, if I didn’t get my shit together and have a respectable place for my son to stay, and the things a baby needed, within a year, I lost all rights.  I signed.  I had nowhere else to turn, I couldn’t bring him to a seedy hotel with no crib, no things.  I didn’t trust the ex, would the baby eat, would he have diapers.  I was beaten.  This, to me, was truly hell.

But, in my heart of heart, I didn’t stop thinking I would get him back.





So, whether to stay in Jersey…

17 06 2008

When I arrived in Jersey my Mother and her Husband met the bus.  Apparently, social services alerted them to my arrival to give them time to work things out with me.  They most certainly worked things out.  First they inform me that Frank had told them I was a hooker, which I was NOT – second, social services suggested they take me in, which they would NOT.  I was given an option, life in juvie (until 18 but life to me at 14) – not a pleasant location either but the hardcore juvie, or they give me a ticket and I get right back on a bus.  I took the ticket.

I was not to see my mother again for two years, when she would once again launch an attack on my life. 

I went back to New York, walked into the pizzeria to see the ex fondling one of the girl’s hair.  I slapped him and turned to leave.  The gang; however, convinced me it was nothing so I stayed.  Life would go back to normal.

The next time I felt the ex’s wrath was the time I accidentally included on the last entry.  My ex decided that a mutual friend we had was the woman of his dreams (since he was telling me daily that I was “not the perfect one”).  He pretended a casual interest until I ran across a love letter he had written to her.  I went nutz and screamed at him only to be hit and “put in my place.”  If I were smart I would have let her have him.

I started feeling increasingly lonely.  My interactions with him were rarely pleasant, I had only the mutual friends we shared and anything I would say to them I pretty much said to him.  The only peace I would get would be visiting Robbie when he was cleaning up at nights.  We would talk about life, about my dream of joining the Navy, about how I should get away from the ex.  But, one day, all that changed – Robbie moved on and now there was nobody.

Genius that I was, now 15, I decided that the doctors were wrong and I was going to have a baby.  I had always taken care of my brother, the babies when I was very young, and I missed having someone who needed me, and who I could feel loved by.  And, against doctor’s words, I did get pregnant.

Shortly after the Pizzeria closed, without warning.  The owners sold it (basically in the middle of the night in order to cheat the third partner).  At this point the ex’s sister, (I should note here that the ex’s family despised me and didn’t believe me when I told them I was pregnant), well his sister moved out of her studio in Brooklyn and we moved in.  It was in a building which sat between his mother’s apartment, and his brother and his pregnant girl’s apartment.

Not long after moving in the ex broke his ankle forcing him out of work.  We had no income and a newly discovered set of responsibilities so, pregnant me, went out and got a job.  At this point I started becoming ill – the walks to work, the 8 hour days, the mess at home, the toximia swelling my feet and ankles had me run down beyond words.  Just when it seemed I would just drop – his old boss called him and asked him to come back to work.

He got a job uptown Manhattan and, since he needed to keep an eye on me at all times (did I forget to say, he was beyond jealous) I had to go with him to work every day, stay there until he was either tired of me or the place closed, and head back to Brooklyn.  I spent my time there writing poetry and doodling, and, to my surprise, my poetry had become quite the topic.  People would challenge me to write something about some object they randomly came up with, and most often, I would.  If the asker was a male the ex would wait until we were going home, take it from the book and rip it to shreds.  It didn’t really phase me.  I had a filled 3 subject notebook of what was probably the best I would ever write.  Around the middle to end of my 7th month I stopped going to the doctor as he not only didn’t insist that I come around, he would tell me in no uncertain terms to stay home.  I found out why one day when I went there to surprise him.  He had a girlfriend, 13 or 14 years old.  She started screaming at me in the store while he stood mutely by slightly amused.  Only his boss came to my rescue.  He banned her from the pizzeria, he warned the ex – if she comes around your fired and the ex decides, I might as well quit. 

At this point we fell behind in our bills so had to leave the studio.  Most of our things were left behind and his sister and mother offered to go through it to retain our personal possessions.  I never saw my writing again.  We moved to a hotel in the city which was close enough to his new job, close enough to the hospital, and, I would learn later, a few blocks away from his “girlfriend’s” grandmother’s house. 

We stayed there through the time my son was born.  I, spending my days cleaning every inch right down to the moldings, taking breaks to read the Bible (which in my mind was the right thing to do for the baby) and getting sicker and sicker daily.  I could barely walk from the swelling and my due date of mid November came and passed.  I was panicing about the baby while the ex was trying to find “adoptive” parents who would want it.  I didn’t know if I was coming or going and, out of desperation, I called my mother.  I pleaded with her for help and she assured me that if nothing could be worked out I could take the baby and stay with her until we were on our feet.

My son finally arrived the first week in December, nearly a month late.  I had tried to have him without drugs but the labor was 5 minutes apart and after 20 hours of back labor drugs were necessary.  The ex went to work, and came back before the baby arrived.  Because I stopped going to the doctor, and suffering from preeclampsia, the delivery did not go as well as hoped and my heart stopped on the table.  But, God had other plans and in 10 hours, after the drugs wore off, I was a mommy.  My son was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, he weighed ten pounds and had the head and shoulders of a linebacker.  My ex’s brother, the only family member to visit, described him as a little sumo wrestler. 

I felt like everything in life now had a whole new meaning and looking into my son’s face made it clear – I could make everying okay for this little guy.  I could actually make him happy, like he was making me.  But again, just when I thought or trusted or believed that things might work out after all – they fell apart.





Assimilation versus Acculturation

17 06 2008

Assimilation versus Acculturation

 

Assimilation and acculturation, although sharing some similar qualities, are not interchangeable. While acculturation does allow adoption by a minority cultural group of a majority cultural group’s customs and attitudes, the minority group manages to stay a distinct, although, altered, society. Assimilation; however, does not leave the minority culture intact as the minority group will gradually adopt the customs and attitudes of the dominant culture until inevitably it becomes completely absorbed by the dominant culture. In the case of the African American versus the Hispanic American, these differences can be clearly seen.

The Hispanic American does, to a degree, acculturate into American society; however, because of language barriers and distinct cultural values has failed to assimilate. This is not only because of the preference by Anglo-America of white immigrants over that of immigrants of color, as the African American has become “Americanized.” Because the Hispanic communities fight to remain a distinct culture, maintaining its language and rituals, complete assimilation can never occur. During the 1800’s, when immigrants entering the United States had no alternative but to adopt the language of their new country and swear allegiance to its flag, the acculturation process was inevitable. However, the Hispanic immigrant of today is not obliged to adopt the ways of Anglo-America; thus, they remain a distinct and separate culture within the American culture. By sheer force of numbers, the Hispanic person now possesses the power to enforce, at best, an assimilation whereby Anglo-America will eventually need to accept the Hispanic customs and language as part of the framework for the new America. As the debate rages over bi-lingual education, slowly that which was considered the “native tongue” of America (English) will have to adjust for the new minority/majority of Hispanic immigrants.

Two countries which give rise to interesting questions regarding the debate over bilingualism and cultural rights are Mexico and Puerto Rico. Mexico, our border neighbor, provides the Hispanic community with its greatest number of immigrants. Mexico was, until the Mexican/American war, the proud owner of Arizona, California, western Colorado, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas and Utah; however, following the war the United States took possession of this land. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo contained provisions stating that the culture and language of the Mexican people would remain intact; however, this honorable intention was quickly abandoned in favor of Anglo-American customs of the already formed United States. Puerto Rico is also unique in that although the native language of the Puerto Rican peoples is Spanish, the Puerto Rican is legally an American. When the Puerto Rican migrates to the United States he does so as a citizen; however, upon arrival he is treated as though he were an immigrant. As long as he presents himself as culturally and linguistically different, the legality of his citizenship does not include him as part of the melting pot. Although language provides a barrier against assimilation, the dual citizenship also encourages the “them” syndrome that precludes assimilation by the Hispanic immigrant.

The African American, although, apparently not Anglo-American, has assimilated into the American society and culture. His people were brought to this country in chains and disassociated from their culture by force. In order to survive, the black American had to fully assimilate into the American culture and adopt the customs and ways of the dominant society. Assimilation for the African American was a slow process, but not due to the adherence to customs and rituals. Anglo-America’s bias against the “other” was based on ethnocentrism. Need for survival and fear of the dominant culture forced the African American to attempt assimilation; however, white America did not believe that the “inferior” black race should or could ever become as “civilized” as they. Thus, assimilation into society occurred long after the African American had fully acculturated. The fight for rights of survival allowed “Americanization” to occur much more rapidly in this group who, because of the span of time in which slavery was occurring, had no homeland to return to and no native tongue which remained.

Thus, acculturation, such as with the Hispanic American; and assimilation, such as with the African American, both require the minority group to abandon a part of themselves in favor of their new homeland; however, it is to what degree the minority group will sacrifice that distinguishes which path to choose. America, a country of immigrants, has an expectation, whether right or wrong, that to be American one must cease being part of the culture that has make people who they are. Acculturation allows the immigrant to hold on to that light within themselves that allows them to see who they are and where they came from, while also allowing them to become part of the culture that is around them. Assimilation, on the other hand, absorbs the minority group into the dominant group until the minority no longer exists as a separate cultural identity. Complete assimilation requires the immigrant to barter away his past for a future, however, without that past the immigrant cannot remain whole. The premise of this country was freedom – freedom to practice and choose what life the immigrant wishes to live; however, the melting pot often forces only one color to rise to the top while the other burns away on the bottom. This loss of group cultural identity robs not only the immigrant, but all of us.





The Role of the Media in Forging the “Hispanic Nation”

16 06 2008

The Role of the Media in Forging the “Hispanic Nation” 

      The role of the media in the forging of a “Hispanic Nation” is that of the tie that binds together varying components of this imagined nation.  Although in some aspects similar (i.e., language, immigration status, etc.), the Hispanic Nation is truly a fragmented group with agendas, cultures and experiences which are unique to each section of the “Nation.”  The Hispanic media; however, gives the Hispanic in America an avenue of expression that most closely represents their needs, thus, it is a coming together point for sharing the experience of being a Latino in the United States.  There is, as is the case in any pioneering endeavor, pros and cons as to its representations – both to the Hispanic community and to its American host.  Therefore, the question should be whether the Hispanic media is currently structured to achieve the unity of the Hispanic people and whether that unity would be achieved in a healthy way.  Much like the question of whether a true “Hispanic Nation” will ever be created, there is no easy answer.  Therefore, I do not propose to speak of what the Hispanic media is, but rather ask whether that tie which currently binds the Hispanic people could become a noose if it maintains its current structure.  As I develop this answer I would also like to address the second part of this essay, as it is relative to the first, and that is whether the U.S. Hispanic community is being construed similarly, or differently, than the mainstream U.S. American community is.  For this I take the perspective of construed as an industry rather than its final product, such as its image in the media.

      Geoffrey Fox, in Hispanic Nation, outlines his opinion of what contribution the media makes in the unification of a “Hispanic Nation.”

“[b]y establishing the imagery of the imagined community, by providing a livelihood for an important group of professionals as “Hispanics,” and possibly, in limited ways, by mobilizing listeners or readers to take joint action.  And the Spanish media also contribute in a fourth way, by helping develop the Hispanic nation’s continent-wide dialect, peculiarly adapted to its North American environment.  (Fox, p. 65)

However, although positive on its face, this explanation hides the very reasons that the Hispanic media may be on a course of cultural self-destruction.  The idea of the imagined Hispanic community is a double-edged sword.  Certainly community, for any people, is an important component in life; however, recollections of the early years of American television brings images to mind of what the imagined community was.  This ideal, Utopian, American society was not only constructed on a sound set, but only possible on a sound set.  This does not, and can not, exist.  In forging the Hispanic nation we are looking at another generation facing “Brady Bunch Syndrome” where the impossible family co-exists without intrusions by the real world.  It is important to realize that Hispanic/American is not solely Hispanic, but also American.  If the Spanish media focuses solely on the building of a Hispanic community ant the problems therein, then the Hispanic/American will be alienating its sibling, America.  A solidified “Nation” of Spanish people who set themselves apart from others cannot hope to add its voice to the people that it elects to alienate from their “Nation.”  The community spirit, much like the family spirit, is not born as a result of blueprints or glossy images, but from heartfelt respect and understanding of each other.  Isolationist imagery, such as a media based intrinsically on language, promotes separation rather than unification.

      Does this exclusionary practice by the Hispanic media run parallel to the mainstream U.S. American behaviors of the past (and unfortunately, at some times, the present)?  Exclusion is not a new or novel approach to controlling the media.  For years Anglo America has dominated the airwaves and press reporting from the Anglo perspective.  Vilification of minorities, and the current perspective we have on those different cultures, is in large part a result of the practices of the Anglo-American bias in news.  All too often we are spoon fed stereotypical portrayals of Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, African Americans, and Chinese – to name a few.  But who is controlling what we see?  Certainly not the minorities in question.  Therefore, the domination of the media by the mainstream American has alienated the Hispanic.  But now, with the Hispanic people being the fastest growing ethnicity, rather than incorporating into our society they elect to seclude themselves and in doing so keep mainstream America from learning of, enjoying and joining this “Hispanic Nation.”

      Fox’s second point, that Spanish media provides “a livelihood for an important group of professionals as “Hispanics,” does not take into account the fact that the Spanish media needs not only to employ talented “Hispanics” but anyone with the ability to recognize the needs of Spanish people in America.  Again, this mode of thinking separates “us” from “them” and puts up a barrier to cultural understanding.  Employing important professionals is a by-product of the Hispanic media and not a reason to develop it.

      Does this argument follow that of mainstream U.S. American practices?  Of course it does.  For decades one of the requirements to achieving success was white skin and testosterone; however, affirmative action, public opinion, the commercial validity of incorporating the largest growing minority group in the U.S., and more contemporary perspectives brought by younger executives are rapidly making biased hiring a thing of the past.  It is interesting that as prejudicial hiring practices are breathing their last breath, the promotion of engaging an industry where “Hispanic” professionals can achieve success is now acceptable.  In answer to whether the U.S. Hispanic community is being construed as similar to the mainstream U.S. Community, I would have to say unfortunately, yes.

      Fox’s third point is the mobilization of readers and listeners to take joint action.  This is a sound similar to that of a time bomb ticking.  A single perspective, uni-polar media campaign as the single voice speaking in words which are music to Hispanic ears is dangerous to a system where the needs of the whole must somehow be met.  The Hispanic people cannot be expected to do what’s best for this nation, if their only agenda is their nation.  Raising the flag of the Hispanic Nation over that of the American Flag is tantamount to surrender.  As Fox states in Hispanic Nation:

It seems obvious that for the Hispanic media to be effective they should be run by people who share their audience’s language and culture.  But Hispanic ownership is no guarantee of editorial impartiality or of responsiveness to the problems of the poorest Hispanics, as viewers of largely Hispanic-owned Univision discovered.  (Fox, p. 57).

Whenever the media is able to influence the politics and movement of any large group, it’s a danger not only to the viewers who are having their opinion manipulated with the, “It has to be true I read it in the paper,” philosophy, but to the process in which this manipulation occurs.

      This frightening prospect was once part of the fabric of this great country; however, this behavior is now scrutinizes.  It is not necessary for a newspaper or news journal to say, “we as a station promote this candidate,” when all that is necessary is to limit the coverage of the non-sponsored candidate while promoting the ethnically correct one.  Fernando Moreno, editor in chief for El Diario/La Prensa in the early 1990’s has admitted to such behavior by his publication.

The media not only have respect but, at least in limited ways, a degree of influence.  They can mobilize their audience.  Moreno maintains that “El Diario created Herman Badillo,” the first Puerto Rican ever elected to the U.S. Congress.  “it invented him . . . . Well, I don’t want to take anything away from Badillo, but El Diario promoted him.”.  (Fox, p. 58).

      Finally, Fox’s last point, helping to develop the Hispanic nation’s continent-wide dialect, peculiarly adapted to its North American environment, is not a boon to the argument of maintaining a Hispanic media, but a death knoll.  One of the major forces behind the creation of a “Hispanic Nation” is shared language of the people; however, Fox promotes the enculturation of that language from pure Hispanic to Spanglish.  This argument sounds similar to one that was bantered about only a few years ago with the African American people, and should meet with the dame ridicule.  Ebonics had no more place in American society as does Spanglish.  How can Hispanic Americans argue that they wish to maintain their cultural identify in one breath, and then express a desire to forego the purity of that culture by a conscious decision to create a dialectical perversion of one of their most unifying aspects.  In this way, mainstream America wins, putting a stranglehold in the uniqueness, and unification of the Hispanic people.





Today

14 06 2008

I forced the b/f to Coney and went on the rides he wanted.  My choice, no real pressure.  I wanted a day, one single day, with fun minus pain. 

We had a good time.  Things changed when I got home.  My daughter called, she’s been given a Section 15 or something for drinking.  She’s been downgraded from leader, been taken away in cuffs lala, time for her to leave.

My b/f and my daughter go through the same self destructive, what I wanna do bullshit and me, I’m on cleanup detail.  I’m tired of being responsible.

He doesnt want her living here, She doesn’t want him living here – but what they dont see is I don’t want to live here either.  No here, no there, no anywhere. 

Peace, I’mma do some solitary kareoke.





The end of the childhood years

13 06 2008

Although, more or less, I was living as an adult, I still lived with the recklessness of a child.  I believed I could handle anything, and would never die.  I thought I understood people.  I was wrong. 

The first time I was truly thrown was when I began doubling over in pain, frequently.  My lower stomach would burn, and I had a fever that just couldn’t be Tylenoled away.  I told one of the girls at the Pizzeria, Mary, and she took me to the emergency room claiming I was her niece.  After blood tests and all types of marvelous exams I was admitted – Thanks for the disease Frank.  I was kept there a week given continual intravenous – my mother was contacted – her involvement stayed limited to telling them my father’s address in NY, an address I was never myself given.  She would not be responsible for the hospital bill.  I don’t know how, I guess those were looser times or something, because they kept me until I was okay, and released me to the ex’s custody.  I was told that because it had been in me so long without treatment I would never have children.

Soon after, because my mother the caring parent that she is opened her mouth, Frank just rolled on up to the pizzeria.  He saw me, I saw him, and my stomach turned.  I still felt the same old fear that I had always felt whenever he looked at me.  He told me that he  had changed my brother’s name and I would never see him again – unless, I went with his friend and him for a ride to “sort things out.”  I believed it, and I thought I would be safe as long as there was someone else in the car.  They drove me to his job at a New York hospital groundskeeping shack, and he tried to push himself on me.  I told him, in a fit of fear, that I was being treated for what had already gone away – and, since I’m sure he had gotten it taken care of long ago, stopped what he was doing, no questions asked.  Proof to me that it was him.  Further proof came when he said he had some friends of his, one of which was a madame, keeping tabs on me.  First, I told him I expected to speak to my brother.  Then I related the story of Prince and asked him if he had heard THAT from his friend the madam.  He quieted, drove me back and I never heard from him again.  I did receive one call from my brother though, where he told me he hated me and never wanted to see me again – to leave him alone.  I didn’t think then that it was coerced, my mind didn’t really operate that way, so I was devastated.

A week after the encounter with Frank the police showed up at the pizzeria to take me into custody.  I was escorted into a car and driven to Spofford for the night.  The next morning I was scheduled to be returned to New Jersey.  I found out later, it was Frank’s way of keeping me from making trouble – but once I knew my brother wasn’t my brother any more, I had no intention of ever thinking about Frank again. 

On the trip to Jersey I gave a lot of thought to my life in New York, and to the life I might have in New Jersey.  I was on the fence.  I was tired of living day to day, the ex had become increasing aggressive and mean, and the only thing that gave me pause were those people who I had befriended – and knowing that leaving would mean I would never see them again.  I had a tough decision ahead of me, and as I gave more and more thought to it I started to think, maybe I should stay in Jersey.  But, all the thought in the world wouldn’t matter within mere minutes of being there.





Essay: Communist Manifesto as an Examination of Economic and Political Sociology

12 06 2008

 Communist Manifesto as an Examination of Economic and Political Sociology

 

            Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, co-authors of the Communist Manifesto, were early pioneers in the study of economic and political sociology, and through their work we see that historical analysis can provide us with insight into the future.  This document, relevant in 1848, is relevant even today.  In examining this work it is apparent that much of what Marx and Engels predicted has come to pass.  Does this mean that society today still stands in peril of the predicted revolution?  If the Manifesto is based on the natural order of history, and if the basic undercurrent of class conflict still exists, are we standing on the threshold of a revolution pitting the bourgeoisie (Marx the Donald Trumps and Bill Gates) against the proletariat (Marx blue collar, manual labor)?  In order to know the relevance of the predictions of Marx and Engels, first the Manifesto must be analyzed in order to more thoroughly understand it.

            Chapter one begins with the statement, “history of all hither to existing society is the history of class struggles” (Marx  34).   Marx then goes on to describe how the two groups, the bourgeoisie and the proletariat are polar opposites.  Unlike in the history of time when there were multiple classes, through the revolution of change, society had been relegated to just the two remaining classes.  This thinning in the number of classes was a result of the need to acquire new methods of production and exchange to meet the demand for larger and more efficient production.  Where once “production was monopolized by closed guilds”(Marx 36) supply and demand found it “no longer suffices for the growing wants of the new markets” (Marx 36).  Having the guild-masters outdated, the manufacturing middle class takes over, but that does not last for long.  In quick succession the manufacturing middle class, with the advent of steam and machinery, became obsolete and this gives rise to modern industry.

            With each new innovation, the new class, the bourgeoisie, also obtain political power controlling the representative states of Europe.  Marx states, “The executive of the modern state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie” (Marx 37).  With this new political strength and monetary ambition, the bourgeoisie manages to destruct the current structure of society tearing its binds to “religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism”(Marx 37) and thrusting society into the “icy water of egotistical calculation” (Marx 37).  Having stripped society of all the traditions and the natural state it once lived under, turning practitioners of long-honored occupations into laborers, reducing family relations to money relations – still the bourgeoisie is not satisfied.  In order to continue to progress in the free market it must stay in a state of continual change and expansion in order to survive. 

            As the boundaries of the bourgeoisie expands, capitalism becomes more globally necessary as other nations need to either produce or perish.  At first the bourgeoisie destroys the global need for nationalized products making the new industries “a life and death question for all civilized nations” (Marx 39).  Now, rather than countries being self-sufficient, living off their own particular products, they are producing as part of a “universal inter-dependence of nations” (Marx 39).  Marx states that in this way the bourgeoisie is able to “create a world after its own image” (Marx 39).  Now, capitalism is forced upon nations as the only means of survival. 

            The bourgeoisie, in an effort to centralize labor displaces people from the rural areas and centralizes them in cities; thereby, greatly increasing the urban population.  Simultaneously, it is concentrating property into a few hands, giving the greatest power to those individuals.  In doing this the bourgeoisie is able to centralize political power.  “Independent, or but loosely connected provinces, with separate interests, laws, governments, and systems of taxation, become lumped together into one nation, with one government, one code of laws, one national class interest, one frontier, and one customs tariff” (Marx 40).  Marx claims that this is the turning point in sociopolitical order.  He contends that the means of production and exchange were first the way of the feudal society; however, when production means and exchanged increased the feudal society went through a metamorphism to the bourgeoisie society.  Just as this evolution process occurred, Marx predicts the industrialized bourgeoisie society would become obsolete in its present state.  He believes that bourgeoisie, ever seeking ways of expansion, creates a condition where it “finds itself put back into a state of momentary barbarism; it appears as if a famine, a universal war of devastation, had cut off the supply of every means of subsistence; industry and commerce seem to be destroyed.  In response to these crises, the bourgeoisie scale back their production, find new markets, exploit old ones” (Marx 42).  According to Marx, though, this does not treat the underlying problems.  He states that the bourgeoisie not only created their own demise commercially; they “forged the weapons that bring death . . . the modern working class — the proletarians” (Marx 42).

            The proletariat is “a commodity, like every other article of commerce, and are consequently exposed to all the vicissitudes of competition, to all the fluctuations of the market” (Marx 42-43).  The proletarians are dehumanized through this process and considered nothing more than a machine requiring minimal maintenance.  The value of the machine decides the amount of subsistence it receives.  “But the price of a commodity . . . is equal to its cost of production.  In proportion, therefore, as the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases” (Marx 43).  This puts the proletariat in a state of antagonism with its “master”.  Marx explains that this antagonism, when first acted upon, does not strike against the bourgeoisie, but lashes out at the machines which it feels will replace their labor, the landowners and shopkeepers who live on the outskirts of both the bourgeoisie society and the proletariat’s society.  Randomly the attacks, without union, will occur scattered across the whole country, but this would not disturb the bourgeoisie as it watches the labor strike out against forces that, although are not competitive, are closer to intellectual threat to the bourgeois.  Due to the development of industry the number of proletariat increases in greater locale density, therefore, it begins to feel empowered.  As their wages begin to fluctuate with the market, and advancements in machinery threatens their positions, their lives are put in a precarious position.  This antagonism forces the proletariat to strike out – and in doing this he gets his first taste of victory.  Seeing the possibilities, and with the advent of better means of communication, the proletariat strengthens its unions and resolve fighting back.  The bourgeoisie begin to educate the proletariat over time in order to utilize the strength of numbers for their own means.  The proletariat become more numerous and organized and the bourgeoisie realize that their class will fall giving way to the proletariat.  “A small section of the ruling class cuts itself adrift, and joins the revolutionary class, the class that holds the future in its hands” (Marx 47).  Those bourgeoisies help further class-consciousness among the proletariat and aid in their victory.  At this the proletariat begins the revolution.  Having suffered under bourgeoisie rule, the proletariat condemns bourgeois laws, morality, and religions as tools designed for bourgeois economic interests.  The proletariat must then abolish private ownership as their new, victorious class owns nothing.  They take from the bourgeoisie the very thing that gave them their power, their private property.  Marx concludes that the bourgeoisie undermine the conditions of their own existence.  “What the bourgeoisie, therefore, produces, above all, is its own grave-diggers.  Its fall and the victory of the proletariat are equally inevitable” (Marx 50).

            Analyzing Marx’s theory on the bourgeoisie and the proletariat in reference to the history proceeding it, on its base, lends to the inference that the bourgeoisie will be, by their own actions, removed from power by the proletariat.  The belief that the oppression, over-exhausting of resources, political misconduct and decline in the quality of life would, naturally, give way to a revolution is based on not only historical precedent, such as the demise of feudalism, but on the understanding of human nature as a whole.  The generalizations of the motivations behind both the bourgeoisie and proletariat classes are not measurable by utilizing economic sociology, as Marx and Engels are, themselves, bourgeoisie, thus, human nature and variables are critical.  As the number of bourgeoisie is only a fraction of the population, it would take only a small percentage of that class to institute change in order to derail the oncoming events.  The error in Marx’s theory, to date, is the variable of inconsistency found in the rebel sub-classes that human nature will produce, such as Marx, Engels and their brethren.  

In today’s society there still exists classes which are oppressed and oppressing.  Any person who is trying to eke out a living without benefit of higher education can tell you of the struggle to make ends meet.  The Multinational Monitor reports that in the United States the top 5 percent own more than half of all wealth.  In 1998, they owned 59 percent of all wealth.  Or to put it another way, the top 5 percent had more wealth than the remaining 95 percent of the population, collectively.  This is similar in ratio to the 1840s, during the time when such a revolution was predicted.  But, as we are now in the 21st century, as little change in economic proportion as there is, we are not, nor have we neared, the bourgeoisie/proletariat civil unrest of Marx’s predictions.  The human factor – the organization of unions, the voice of the people, the creation of social security, disability and worker’s compensation, to name a few, have proven that revolution is not the inevitable outcome of oppression and economic inequality.   Although sociologically Marx was able to envision “an” outcome, the inexact science of applying linear historical date to economic conditions cannot predict, with accuracy, the final resolution.

The Manifesto, in its second chapter, boldly asserts that the communist has no separate interest from the proletariat.  The Communist, Marx believes, “the most advanced and resolute section of the working-class parties of every country, that section which pushes forward all others” (Marx 51) distinguished from the proletariat by the fact that its advanced evolution as a class makes it better equipped at, “understanding the lines of march, the conditions, and the ultimate general results of the proletariat movement” (Marx 51).  Thus, the Communist, although a member of the one, universal class which is being built, is distinguished as a leader.  Marx then goes on to explain, from a historical perspective, the argument for communistic rule over the argument of the bourgeoisie.  He addresses the bourgeoisie ownership of private property as a continuation of class antagonism as the wage earner stands no chance of himself owning property.  Without the abolition of private property the breakdown of the bourgeoisie/proletariat antagonism will continue.  Under capitalism, he continues, means “to have not only a purely personal, but a social status in production.  Capital is . . . the united actions of all members of society” (Marx 52-53).  In this way Marx links the owning of capital to social power, and by making property publicly owned it is utilizing its social power for all.

He next takes on the subject of wage labor.  The cycle of wage labor is one of eking out a bare existence, therefore, the current system of minimum wage serves only to keep the laborer alive to further labor.  Under Communism, the accumulation of wealth being taken from the bourgeoisie in the form of abolishing private property allows the societal capital to serve to enrich the laborer’s life.  Marx also considers the criticism that a communist society would promote idleness.  Marx states, “according to this bourgeoisie society ought long ago to have gone to the dogs through sheer idleness; for those who acquire anything, do not work” (Marx 55).  He shows that the relation of the worker to the improvement of his standard of living will inspire the worker to better produce.  In the past, under bourgeoisie society, regardless of how hard he worked there would be no improvement in his standard of living.  The standard of living argument then moves from production and labor to the family unit.

Communists are also accused of trying to destroy the family.  Marx admits to this.  He contents that in order to rebuild society as the bourgeoisie has built it, it needs to be torn down from the ground up.  The family unit, thus far, was simply a means of production where even the educational opportunities afforded to it was only that which could increase production.  Under Communism, the family, especially those who were previously exploited, would need to be re-educated in order to create a strong, single, Communist unit.

The Communist is then accused of acting to destroy countries; however, Marx contends that “working men have no country.  We cannot take from them what they have not got” (Marx 58).  Because the proletariat owns nothing, and holds no political power, he has no country to call his own.  Globally we are more united with the advent of communication and through commerce so that other nations also fall under the bourgeoisie society; therefore, the battle to free the labor class is Global.  If the proletariat is no longer exploited, worldwide, than “the exploitation of one nation by another will also be put an end to” (Marx 58).

Marx then goes on to outline the measures necessary in order to accomplish the overthrow of the bourgeoisie.  He believes in destroying the bourgeoisie society would obliterate class antagonisms, and without such the proletariat will no longer maintain their class status.  Marx closes with “In place of the old bourgeois society, with its classes and class antagonisms, we shall have an association, in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all” (Marx 62).

In this chapter Marx lays the groundwork for how the Communistic society can be achieved as well as how it would fair against the bourgeoisie society.  His first order of business would be the abolition of private property ownership.  This argument is based on the fact that the majority of society does not, and cannot, own property; therefore, if private ownership exists, it will always equate to power.  To redistribute power among the majority there cannot exist property owning by a minority.  Marx argues that as long as a minority, the bourgeoisie, continue to own property there will be a continuous class antagonism.  He continues in this chapter to describe how the laborer is unable to pull himself above the quality of life that he currently has, because he is merely a means of production.  That in freeing the laborer from his bare survival, through communal distribution of property which was once held privately, his quality of life would improve.  As Marx goes on he addresses idleness as an offshoot of the worker’s acknowledgement that “this is as good as it gets.”  When the quality of life is improved and capital is distributed to the entire of society, the worker will voluntarily improve in his new found vocation, it being no longer slavery.  Globally Marx believes that the rise of the proletariat would erase many of the boarders and boundaries between nations.  That without the dynamic of competitive capitalistic production and marketing, nations will become equal and indistinct to one another.  Finally, Marx continues to explain how society as it stands under the bourgeoisie would need to be completely rebuilt and re-educated.  Not only on philosophy, but in interpersonal familiar relationships.  All of this might sounds Utopian; however, the theory is not sound.  The answer does not lie in obliterating the rights of property ownership, as we have seen in subsequent economic history.  Property ownership is a right; however, with governmental intervention, it is also a responsibility.  By taking the human element, the needs of society as unique individuals which it consists of, the automation would fail.  Each portion of the machinery of society is different and in turn requires different maintenance.  Rather than a uniform assembly line system of ownership and labor government programs and the checks and balances that have been adopted improve the quality of life of society.  Minimum wage, social security, worker’s compensation, public assistance, union intervention for better conditions and pay, safeguards on the job and the like have all been instituted to meet the needs of the members of society as distinct members with different needs.  Further, the destruction of private property ownership curtails the desire to excel, improve means and methods of production and accumulate what the member of society himself requires to be productive.  The freedom to choose your vocation, and to change life paths are how we learn what we have to offer society.  If in my youth I was delegated to a carpenter, and my neighbor delegated to a doctor; but, I desire the life and belongings of a doctor, and my neighbor longs to work with his hands and therefore becomes an artisan, we each can achieve greatness.  However, should I be forced to remain a carpenter and build table after table, and my friend forced to remain a doctor and see patient after patient, we would perhaps do “well enough” yet never give back to society that one thing we possessed in greatness.

In chapter 2 Marx explores the evolution of socialism up to his own day.  His first analysis is of that of Feudal Socialism.  The Feudal Socialist movement was a result of the aristocracy, in an effort to create upheaval, starts the whispers of revolution to the proletariat against the bourgeoisie.  He uses literature to lampoon the bourgeoisie and to incite the proletariat.  This class; however, is in actuality the original exploiter and now fearing the bourgeoisie rule seek to repudiate it.  Marx, however, states that, “The feudalists forget that they exploited under circumstances and conditions that were quite different and that are now antiquated.  In showing that, under their rule, the modern proletariat never existed, they forget that the modern bourgeoisie is the necessary offspring of their own form of society” (Marx 63).  Marx couples the feud socialism with Clerical Socialism which “As the parson has ever gone hand in hand with the landlord, so has clerical socialism with feudal socialism” (Marx 64).

Marx next addresses the Petty-Bourgeois Socialism.  Here Marx criticizes the “third class” which consisted of the those once held position in society: tradesmen, corporate guilds, burgesses and the small peasant proprietors in society only to be engulfed by production and urbanization.  This class is rapidly becoming assimilated into the proletariat, thus, out of necessity rises the proletariat flag.  This untrustworthy alliance is one of a fight for survival where the petty-bourgeois does not in actuality seek to become part of the proletariat movement but does so as the lesser of two evils.

Marx goes on to describe German Socialism which was a mimic of French socialist literature.  Germany attempted to speak of things which they knew nothing about.  They borrowed from the French as German bourgeoisie was still in its infancy; therefore, their attempts at socialist literature was modeled after a movement which they could not thoroughly understand nor literate.  Sections three covers the Conservative Bourgeois Socialist.  The Conservative or Bourgeois Socialism that Marx next examines is set exposed as the bourgeoisie attempt to maintain their standard of living while giving just enough concessions to derail a proletariat uprising. 

Critical-Utopian Socialism and Communism is the last topic covered in this chapter.  Here Marx describes the idealistic, unrealistic methods of those who attack society in its present state but believe that it can be changed minus the revolution.  He states that “The practical measures proposed in them — such as the abolition of the distinction between town and country, of the family, of the carrying on of industries for the account of private individuals, and of the wage system . . . proposals point solely to the disappearance of class antagonisms which were, at that time, only just cropping up, and which, in these publications, are recognized in their earliest indistinct and undefined forms.  These proposals, therefore, are of a purely utopian character” (Marx 74).  Little hope is held out for the idealism of this group and Marx dismisses them quickly.

Marx uses this chapter to criticize all other forms of socialism present in society at that time.  He believes that the only way to evolve is through revolution and finds reasoning to denounce other forms of socialism.  He looks at the motivation and strength of the party, relying on the history behind its development.  He believes that their desire to work within the bourgeoisie society.  Marx believes that only through blood will the world be cleansed.  The problem here is that Marx nowhere justifies this stance that the proletariat revolution needs to be violent.  Although, following the French Revolution, Marx’s beliefs might have been acceptable, there is no data that justifies this conclusion in a scientific way.

Marx rejects the Conservative or Bourgeois Socialism out of hand as he posits that in order for the proletariat to overthrow their oppressors they must first become class conscious.  If the bourgeoisie gives concessions to the proletariat in order to ease their suffering they can quell an uprising and maintain the status quo.  This would stand in the way of the development .  This has proven inaccurate as history shows that the give and take between the bourgeoisie of today (Marx the minority wealthy) and the proletariat (Marx the working class) has led to social and economic reform.  Middle of the road, rather than violent revolution has brought unions and management together to create a society that can co-labor and co-exist peacefully.

In the final chapter Marx restates the goals and aims of Communism. Interestingly, Marx states that Germany is the chief focus of Communist interest because while the bourgeoisie in Germany have not yet achieved victory over the aristocracy, the proletariat there is more developed.  Because of this, “[t]he Communists turn their attention chiefly to Germany, because that country is on the eve of a bourgeois revolution that is bound to be carried out under more advanced conditions of European civilization and with a much more developed proletariat” (Marx 77).  He asserts, however, that Communism is everywhere that there is economic and political oppression put on the proletariat.  Marx concludes, “Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution.  The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains.  They have a world to win.  WORKING MEN OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!” (Marx 77).

The concluding chapter of the Manifesto is very short.  It says little new and is meant primarily to forcefully restate the communist’s political purposes.  Marx does, though, make an interesting prediction that Germany will be the site of the proletariat revolt.  This is interesting because it indicates that all societies need not progress at the same rate in approaching the communist revolution.  If history is universally linear than there should be no society more poised for revolution.  Although the historical sociological approach leaned toward Marx’s envisioned revolution, and we owe much in terms of the Manifesto opening our eyes to other forms of societal dependence and interdependence, that full-blown, global revolution never occurred.  This does not mean that Marx, in large part, wasn’t correct.  His use of sociology to create the Manifesto allowed the bourgeoisie to see what path they were looking down.  How much of today’s advancements in economic and labor relations is a result of the ominous threat of the Proletariat Revolution cannot be known; however, it would be naïve to not acknowledge it’s influence. 


Works Cited

Marx, Karl and Engels, Frederick. The Communist Manifesto. New York: Verso, 1998

 





Quick story about someone I met during this period

12 06 2008

One person I had met at that time, who would forever shape who I would become, was a very unlikely hero. 

When I saw people sleeping on the street, dressed in rags, dirty and disheveled I did not know what to make of it.  I could not understand how this could be.  Then, by chance, one day I met one of these people.  She was sitting outside of Grand Central Terminal; a large woman made to look even larger with the layers of clothes that she was wearing.  She had to be roughly 70 years of age, however, as I have learned, the street can add years to one’s appearance. 

I was waiting for the ex to meet me.  He was late (as usual) and I was impatient (also as usual).  As I paced back and forth, eyes downcast, in front of the Terminal the woman whom I had thought sleeping began to chuckle.  Great, I thought, a crazy old woman laughing at me.  She then spoke, “You looked there already honey, if you didn’t see it the first thousand times you wont see it the next time.” 

Curious, I asked what I wouldn’t find and she replied, “I don’t know but you sure seem intent on finding it there on the sidewalk.” 

The realization of how I must look in order for a homeless person to tell me that I looked lost made me break out in laughter.  I explained to her that I was waiting for my boyfriend and not looking for anything, which was the start of our first conversation.  By the time he finally arrived I had come to like the kindly old woman sitting in front of Grand Central.  Before walking away, which I did reluctantly, I asked her name.  “Grandma, everyone calls me Grandma.”

Over the course of the next couple of weeks I would see Grandma frequently and stopped to talk whenever time allowed (as well as a few times that time did not allow).  I bought her food and soda and asked her repeatedly if she needed anything.  I tried to find out why she was there, but her only answer would be “because here is where I am”.  One day I was called over to where Grandma was sitting.  She seemed to glow and I couldn’t wait to find out why.  She pulled a bag out of her cart and handed it to me.  “Look inside” she said, “I found them and I know they’ll fit you.” 

Inside the bag were 2 shirts, a jacket and a pair of slacks – all brand new.  Although they were my size they were most assuredly not something that I would ever buy myself.  All I could do was smile and thank her.  She was so happy and pleased with herself that I thought my heart would break.  Two days later, donned in jacket and slacks, I walked over to Grand Central to show her my ensemble.  I modeled the plaid suit as she clapped and giggled with glee.  I was not even aware of the strange spectacle we must have been.  It was just a moment in time.

A year later I moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, and like children do, I forgot all about Grandma.  Two years after that move the New York papers told the story of a woman found dead in Grand Central; a woman that locals called Grandma.  It is with her in mind that I SEE homeless PEOPLE.  I do not  see dark shapes lying on the ground, but rather, as a person someone once loved, missed, or who learned about giving from. 





Growth Resulting from Imprisonment – the Story of Malcolm X

10 06 2008

 When forms become fixed, the spirit either weakly accepts its imprisonment or rebels. All revolutions consists of the “within” fighting against invasion from “without”… All great human movements are related to some great idea. 

– Rabindranath Tagore

            I selected the above quote as it epitomizes the life, the struggle and the ultimate victory that Malcolm X, later known as El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, achieved.  Being put into a prison is only one form of imprisonment.  Imprisonment can also occur within one’s own mind.  “There is one kind of prison where the man is behind bars, and everything that he desires is outside; and there is another kind where the things are behind bars, and the man is outside” (Sinclair 1906: 337).  When isolated from mainstream society, taught from birth that you have no reason to dream – that your future is as bleak as a prison cell, one can either give up hope allowing for a self-fulfilling prophecy, or fight back using whatever tools are available.  Malcolm X chose to fight back.  His struggle, and subsequent growth, is evident through the four major phases of evolution that he underwent.  Each phase ended with a form of self-enlightenment, and each phase found Malcolm X wearing a different name.  For purposes of coherence and brevity, I will use only the name Malcolm.  (At the pinnacle of his growth and enlightenment he cast off the X he adopted as a Black Muslim.)  Malcolm summed up the path he took when saying, “There is no better than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance next time”(BrainyQuote 2001).  Malcolm did not reject his societal isolation, rather, he embraced that solitude to evolve and become the leader, and inspiration, he is even today.

            Malcolm Little was born May 19, 1925 in Omaha Nebraska.  His father, Earl Little, was a devout follower of the teachings of Marcus Garvey, thus, he was a continual source of harassment at the hands of the Klu Klux Klan.  Malcolm’s first brush with the violence perpetrated by the KKK occurred while his mother was still pregnant with him.  While his father, a minister, was out of town preaching the KKK came to his house.  Upon finding that Earl Little was not there, they harassed Malcolm’s mother and broke the windows to their home. 

            Violence, however, in Malcolm’s life was not limited to the violence of the Klan.  Earl Little was a harsh man who was prone to fits of violence.  Malcolm’s mother, Louise Little, although a more calming influence, was filled with self loathing, which at times she would transfer to the lighter complexioned Malcolm.  The family had moved several times, leaving homes when the threats of local racists became too much for them.  In 1931 Malcolm’s father was murdered, having been beat and left on the road to die.  His death was ruled as suicide despite obvious signs that it was murder.  Malcolm’s mother was left with seven children and no money to feed them.  Often the family was left hungry surviving on dandelion weeds cooked in hot water.  Although his mother struggled to keep her family together, the continual harassment of the social service workers who would frequent their home became too much of a strain on her, leaving her emotionally collapsed.  Louise Little was committed to a mental institution and the children were taken for placement.  Malcolm was placed with the Gohannas family; however, because he was an awkwardly tall youngster with fair skin, reddish hair and freckles he was frequently teased by the other children.  Having experienced his father’s death, his mother’s breakdown and separation from his siblings, he began striking out.  This violent venting caught up with him and he found himself headed for reform school.  On the way to reform school he was temporarily placed at the home of the Swerlins, who took a liking to Malcolm and kept him rather than sending him on his way.  Although he was treated with kindness, it was not as a young man but rather a mascot.  He was studious in school and felt a moderate degree of acceptance.  He had, through this time, used the self defense mechanism of accepting one’s place in society; however, that would soon change. 

            The catalyst to Malcolm’s first phase of evolution occurred in the schoolroom.  Malcolm, who as the president of his class and an academic achiever, expressed to his teacher, Mr. Ostrowski, his desire to become a lawyer.  Mistakenly believing he was doing young Malcolm a service, he explained, “you’ve got to be realistic about being a nigger.  A lawyer–that’s no realistic goal for a nigger.  You need to think of something you can be”(Haley 1973:, X 1973: 38).  Since Malcolm was accepted around town, intelligent and good with his hands, it was suggested he become a carpenter.  “People like you as a person–you’d get all kinds of work.”(Haley 1973: 1973: 38).  This was a blow which even as an adult Malcolm would relate as a tremendous moment in his life.  The indifference to his treatment in town was now gone and he became brutally aware that he was, and would always be, limited in potential.  This moment sucked from Malcolm the desire to play along.  “It was then that I began to change–inside.  I drew away from white people. . . . Where ‘nigger’ had slipped off my back before, wherever I heard it now, I stopped and looked at whoever said it.  And they looked surprised that I did”(Haley 1973: 38).  Shortly thereafter, following a series of letters, custody of Malcolm was given to his half sister Ella.  The week Malcolm graduated eighth grade he got on a bus and headed to Boston to live with Ella.  In his autobiography he states, “I’ve thought about that time a lot since then.  No physical move in my life has been more pivotal or profound in its repercussion”(Haley 1973: 39). 

            It is at this point that Malcolm exits the first phase, that of denial, and enters the second phase in his development.  Phase 2, the Detroit Red phase, begins when Malcolm arrives in Boston.  “What I thought I was seeing there in Roxbury were high-class, educated, important Negroes, living well, working in big jobs and positions”(Haley 1973: 42).  Malcolm; however, could not assimilate to the people on the Hill, and found himself seeking “Negroes who were being their natural selves and not putting on airs”(Haley 1973: 45).  While on a trip to town he met with his first real friend, a hustler called Shorty.  Shorty, older and more experienced, introduced Malcolm to a whole new world.  During this phase of self discovery Shorty was a powerful influence on Malcolm’s desire to create a new, hip, black identity.  His first conk, his first zoot suit, his first job, his first taste of marijuana, all occurred under Shorty’s tutelage.  Malcolm’s job at the Roseland Ballroom opened new doors of understanding for him.  It was also at this time when Malcolm began his relationship with one of the customers of Roseland, a white woman named Sophie.  His heavy identification with the music and dance, the status of his appearance as well as the blonde on his arm, the observance of various “side jobs” where money was exchanged for drugs, alcohol and other services, all excited Malcolm and he quickly adopted to these roles as a standard practice.  Malcolm left Roseland and took a job as a sandwich man on the “Yankee Clipper” which traveled from Boston to New York.  Once in New York Malcolm gravitated to Harlem where, “In one night, New York–Harlem–had just about narcotized me” (Haley 1973: 78).  In 1942 Malcolm, having been fired from the railroad, began working as a waiter at his favorite bar in Harlem.  Working at a Harlem hot spot had its advantages and Malcolm “listened raptly to customers who . . . would tell me inside things about the particular form of hustling that he pursued as a way of life. . . . numbers, pimping, con games of many kinds, peddling dope, and thievery of all sorts, including armed robbery”(Haley 1973: 86).  As Malcolm became more integrated in this seedier lifestyle, his financial needs began to change.  Soon he began his own hustling.  He began running numbers for a notorious Harlem figure, West Indian Archie, escorting prostitutes, selling drugs, committing armed robberies and running hustles on anyone who he could victimize.  His face was becoming well known to the local police and he had to be more cautious.  After a falling out with Archie he found himself on the run.  He headed back to Boston where he, Shorty, Sophie and Sophie’s sister began planning.  By this time Malcolm had begun using cocaine heavily and needed to find quick ways to make money to support his habits.  The group began casing out homes and burglarizing.  They would sell the items to a fence, and, for a time, were doing financially well.  That was until the police kicked in the door. 

            In February of 1946 Malcolm and Shorty were tried on fifteen counts of burglary; however, it appeared to them as though they were actually being tried for the crime of sleeping with white women.  “Nobody wanted to know anything about the robberies.  All they could see was that we had taken the white man’s woman”(Haley 1973: 153).  Malcolm states, “I reflected many times that the average burglary sentence for a first offender, as we all were, was bout two years.  But we weren’t going to get the average–not for our crime”(Haley 1973: 153).  The sentence was eight to ten years on each count, to run concurrently.  The women were sentenced to one to five years in a Women’s Reformatory.

            Malcolm’s imprisonment had now taken on a more tangible form.  Previously he was suffering the isolation of society and imprisonment into a lifestyle “allowed” by white society.  Now; however, he was completely caged.  Where before his mind was not free to pursue alternatives, he now was restricted in any type of freedom at all.  The bars which held Malcolm left a lifelong impression upon him, “Any person who claims to have deep feelings for other human beings should think a long, long time before he votes to have other men kept behind bars–caged.  I am not saying there shouldn’t be prisons, but there shouldn’t be bars.  Behind bars, a man never reforms.  He will never forget.  He never will get completely over the memory of the bars”(Haley 1973: 155).  During his time in prison he sought to escape using, at first, nutmeg bought from fellow inmates, but later harder drugs supplied by corrupt guards.  These narcotics did not, however, provide the escape that Malcolm sought.  In 1947 Malcolm caught his first glimpse of freedom, in the form of a self-educated fellow black convict named Bimbi.  Bimbi gained Malcolm’s respect through his intellect and ability to speak.  This respect resulted in Malcolm’s pursuing of correspondence courses and reading materials from the library.  It was at this time that Malcolm exits Phase 2, the angry, self destructive, self-fulfilling prophecy phase and entered into Phase 3 of his evolution, Malcolm X. 

            Freedom for Malcolm had become the fix he now sought.  He would read whatever he could get his hands on from the prison library.  At this time his brother Philbert began writing to Malcolm praising his new religion, the Nation of Islam.  Malcolm, although expanding his mind, was not ready to embrace religion.  He was still aching at his imprisonment and rejected the idea of spiritual growth focusing on his intellectual growth.  Following his brother Philbert’s attempt at conversion, Malcolm’s brother Reginald wrote to him.  In his letter he said the words Malcolm so desperately sought, “I’ll show you how to get out of prison”(Haley 1973: 158).  He followed Reginald’s instructions believing that there was a hustle brewing that would allow him to leave prison.  He was told not to eat any more pork nor smoke any more cigarettes.  After being transferred to Norfolk Massachusetts’s Prison Colony Malcolm’s brother Reginald arrived for a visit.  Malcolm was excited expecting to hear details about the con that Reginald had come up with but instead was asked, “if a man knew every imaginable thing that there is to know, who would he be?” which had Malcolm answer “he would have to be some kind of a god–”(Haley 1973: 161).  Reginald continues to explain, “There’s a man who knows everything. . . . God is a man, . . . His real name is Allah” (Haley 1973: 161).  This was Malcolm’s introduction to Elijah Muhammad and the Nation of Islam.  Reginald ministered to the caged Malcolm and through his understandings of the religion of the black man, the oppressive, manipulations of the white man, and the personal self in which he was to be responsible for, Malcolm became enthused.  He read diligently of the teachings of the Nation of Islam and soon converted fully to Muslim.  His devotion to the “messenger of God,” Elijah Muhammad, was all consuming and he wrote daily to his minister.  Elijah Muhammad wrote back, and “it had an all but electrical” effect on Malcolm to see “the signature of the ‘Messenger of Allah’” Haley 1973: 172).  Malcolm states that “a new world had opened up to me through my efforts to document his teachings in books”(Haley 1973: 182).  For Malcolm, this was freedom.  Later in his life, during a speech, Malcolm explains: “”When a person places the proper value on freedom, there is nothing under the sun that he will not do to acquire that freedom. Whenever you hear a man saying he wants freedom, but in the next breath he is going to tell you what he won’t do to get it, or what he doesn’t believe in doing in order to get it, he doesn’t believe in freedom. A man who believes in freedom will do anything under the sun to acquire . . . or preserve his freedom” (BrainyQuote 2001).

            When Malcolm was released from prison in 1952 he went to Detroit to become a member of temple.  Malcolm was at last to meet his mentor, Elijah Muhammad.  The two would have discussions on how to recruit members for the temple.  Malcolm, having lived for a time on the streets, knew the language and was able to recruit from some of the rougher areas.  It was during this time that he adopted the X to his name to replace the “slave name” he had been given. 

            Malcolm’s appeal to the members of the temple had him exalted to a position of Minister for the Nation of Islam.  Devout in his belief in Elijah Muhammad, he would speak to throngs of people, in his name, relating the peace that could be found from the “white devil” within the Muslim faith.  Malcolm went on to minister at Temple Seven in Harlem.  He would actively speak and participate across the country; however, and became known along side of Elijah Muhammad as a spokesman for the Nation.  Malcolm married in 1958; however, that did not slow down his extensive traveling to speaking engagements.  It was late in 1958 when Malcolm brought the Nation of Islam a new notoriety when during a scuffle in Harlem a Muslim named Brother Johnson Hinton was assaulted by New York police.  When news reached Malcolm he decided to call upon his Muslim brothers to march to the police precinct house where Brother Johnson was held.  When confronted, the police were, “nervous and scared of the gathering crowd outside” (Haley 1973: 238).  The allowed Malcolm to see Brother Johnson, which resulted in the brother being brought to the hospital.  Afterward, the crowd dispersed; however, the event gave a voice that was until then unheard, the voice of the Nation of Islam.  Newspapers wrote and reporters sought interviews, but not of Elijah Muhammad, but of Malcolm X.  Envy began to rise within the Nation and Elijah Muhammad, apparently intimidated by the outspokenness of Malcolm, took notice.  Phase 3 unraveled when Malcolm became a target of this jealousy and was forced to see beyond the utopia that he thought he had found within the Nation.  The first event leading to this end was Malcolm’s awakening from the euphoria he had felt at becoming a leader, a mentor and a disciple of his “living god” Elijah Muhammad.  In 1963 Malcolm’s teachings strayed away from morality issues and began covering social issues.  He states, “the reason for this was that my faith had been shaken in a way that I can never fully describe.  For I had discovered Muslims had been betrayed by Elijah Muhammad himself” (Haley 1973: 301).  It was at that time that news had broke that Elijah Muhammad was being faced with paternity suits from two of his former secretaries.  Adultery was a serious breech in the Muslim doctrines which would normally result in the guilty party being “ousted in disgrace” therefore, Malcolm entered into a period of turmoil and confusion.  It was as though he had been told that God was dead.  In an effort to understand what was happening Malcolm visited the two secretaries.  He was told by the publicly disgraced women that Elijah Muhammad had told them he “was the best, the greatest minister he ever had, but that someday I would leave him, turn against him–so I was ‘dangerous.’  I learned . .  .that while he was praising me to my face, he was tearing me apart behind my back” (Haley 1973: 303).  The second event leading to Malcolm’s evolution occurred when President Kennedy was assassinated.  Although Muslim’s were instructed not to speak nor give interviews on the subject, Malcolm was quoted as saying, “the chickens coming home to roost” (Haley 1973: 307).  This resulted in headlines which embarrassed the Nation and caused Elijah Muhammad to “silence” Malcolm.  Although upset by this news, he understood that discipline was important to the Muslin way and he had disobeyed a direct order.  When he returned to New York; however, he was shocked to find that the position was that he had not submitted to his punishment, although he knew that he had.  The final blow came when he received a call from one of the Brothers in his mosque.  He was told that it was being said, “If you knew what the Minister did, you’d go out and kill him yourself” (Haley 1973: 309).  Malcolm knew, “any death-talk for me could have been approved of–if not actually initiated–by only one man” (Haley 1973: 309).  Phase 3, the building of esteem through empowerment, a sense of belonging and recognition of one’s peers was not over.  It was up to Malcolm now to find himself.  This has been a recurring theme throughout Malcolm’s life and through each of the previous phases he would have mentors, now he was alone.  In his own words, “Number one, we want to know what are we? How did we get to be what we are? Where did we come from? How did we come from there? Who did we leave behind, and what are they doing over there where we used to be? This is something that we have not been told. We have been brought over here and isolated” (Okantah 2001). 

            Malcolm entered his fourth and final phase without the support of an advisor or mentor and isolated from the very thing that had brought him his sense of self worth.  But although he was going through turmoil he had enough inner strength and faith to remain a devout Muslim.  He started Muslim Mosque, Inc. of Harlem in order to continue teaching the Muslim faith.  He was still; however, left feeling isolated and confused.  This is when he decided to make the pilgrimage, which is every Muslin’s obligation, to Mecca – the Hajj pilgrimage.  With the help of his half sister Ella, who Malcolm himself had converted to Muslim, he was able to finance the trip.  The pilgrimage was a true spiritual awakening for Malcolm.  For the first time he sees people of all races together, in unity, showing each other respect and kindness.  He was shown great acts of kindness and consideration from people of all races and stations in life.  This experience opened Malcolm’s eyes to what the true meaning of Muslim brotherhood meant.  He wrote a letter to his Muslim Mosque, Inc. offices and asked that the letter be copied to the press.  Knowing that his anti-white stance and defiant stance against integration was widely known, he sought to announce his new enlightenment.  I have quoted this letter, in part, below:

Never have I witness such sincere hospitality and the overwhelming spirit of true brotherhood as is practiced by people of all colors and races here in this Ancient Holy Land, the home of Abraham, Muhammad, and all the other prophets of the Holy Scriptures.  For the past week, I have been utterly speechless and spellbound by the graciousness I see displayed all around me by people of all colors.

*          *          *

There were tens of thousands of pilgrims, from all over the world.  They were of all colors, from blue-eyed blonds to black-skinned Africans.  But we were all participating in the same ritual, displaying a spirit of unity and brotherhood that my experiences in America had led me to believe never could exist between the white and non-white (Haley 1973: 347).

            He signed this letter with his Phase 4 name, El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz.  After the pilgrimage to Mecca, Malcolm traveled to Africa and the Middle East where he would sit with the leaders of nations discussing the American racial problems and the ways which those nations could assist and easing the racial tension and alleviating the black people of the oppression they lived under.  When he returned to the United States he started the Organization of Afro-American Unity (OAAU), a secular political group.  Although a changed man, he was met with mistrust and doubt.  This doubt was easily seen when in February of 1965 Malcolm’s house was firebombed.  Although he had repeatedly warned public officials, the threat to his life was not taken seriously enough.  Malcolm, in an omniscient moment, stated to his co-author, Alex Haley, the following, “Yes, I have cherished my ‘demagogue’ role.  I know that societies often have killed the people who have helped to change those societies.  And if I can die having brought any light, having exposed any meaningful truth that will help to destroy the racist cancer that is malignant in the body of America–then, all the credit is due to Allah.  Only the mistakes have been mine” (Haley 1973: 389).  The end of Malcolm’s 4th and final phase of evolution occurred on February 21, 1965 while giving a speech in the Audubon Ballroom in the Harlem he had so loved as bullets ripped through his chest in front of an audience of over two hundred people, as well as his wife and four children. 

            Malcolm’s fourth phase of development, his knowledge not only of “self”, but self in relation to the world around it.  He developed the belief that there is good to be found in all mankind regardless of race; the beauty that can be found by looking unbiased at your fellow human being.  He found that he was part of an interdependent world, he did not have to function as only Malcolm a man, but as part of something bigger than himself.  He accepted responsibility for his mistakes and sought to atone for them.  The only thing that could stop Malcolm from growth was death, but even in death, he still speaks of the will of the human being in overcoming oppression, isolation, imprisonment and hate.  In the story of Malcolm’s life we see the worst in man transcend all obstacles to become the best in man.  He faced insurmountable odds and overcame them to become a testament to the strength within us that waits only to be called upon. 


References

BrainyQuote. 2001. BrainyMedia.com. Retrieved April 5, 2005 <http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/malcolmx120125.html>.

Haley, Alex, and Malcolm X. 1973. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. New York: Ballentine Books.

Okantah, Mwatabu. 2001. “Finding Malcolm X” TimBookTu.. Retrieved April 4, 2005 <http://www.timbooktu.com/okantah/findmalc.htm>.

Sinclair, Upton. 1906. The Jungle. New York: Grosset & Dunlap.





The Necessity of Forging a Hispanic Nation

9 06 2008

First, what does that mean, to forge a Hispanic Nation. Well, there are two definitions of forge which could be applied to this topic. First, to forge “could” mean, to move forward in a slow and steady manner. Alternatively, forge “could” mean a sudden burst forward. Thus, in forging a Hispanic Nation, first it’s important to decide which forge is applicable.

If the idea of the sudden rush forward is your first instinct, reconsider. You cannot make substantial, permanent progress in a quick dash. Speed is not of issue as anything created too quickly can be broken apart just as quickly. Therefore, slow and steady.

Now what is a Hispanic Nation? As a Columbian, Dominican, Puerto Rican – do you “belong” in the Hispanic Nation? What about the Mexican, Salvadorian, Equidorian? The Hispanic Nation is ALL inclusive, it is not biased and elite. Whosoever desires to become, becomes. Simple. As in this nation, the United States, all who desire to become, become, such should be the Hispanic Nation. But why? What is the point than in creating this Utopia?

First we must ask, is the Hispanic truly a minority?

Throughout the history of the United States the Hispanics have been classified as a minority, but in actuality, they are not. Amassed, the many different peoples who make up the blanket term, Hispanic, the numbers nullify the claim that the Hispanic is a minority. Minority: A racial, religious, political, national, or other group regarded as different from the larger group of which it is part.* But look at the makeup of the United States, “12.5 percent of respondents to the 2000 Census identified themselves as Hispanic, up from 9.0 percent in 1990, making them one of the fastest growing demographic groups in the United States. The “Hispanic ethnicity” category on the Census includes Mexicans (7.3 percent of the total U.S. population in 2000), Puerto Ricans (1.2 percent), Cubans (0.4 percent) and a host of other Latin and South American ethnicities.”** This, apparently, does not make Hispanic a minority. You must keep in mind that the Census does not offer Hispanic as a race, but instead lumps it together as “other race” leaving a sketchy, at best, value to the census. Further, it must be noted that illegal immigrants would not have filled out the Census given the distrust and fear associated with releasing personal information to any official.

So now, what reasons could there possibly be to forge such a nation? First of all, as a Hispanic in today’s society it is all too apparent that the American stereotype looks upon the Hispanic as nothing more than a laborer or a criminal. How often are we assaulted with such derisive remarks as “that lazy Mexican – all he does is get drunk and steal jobs from real Americans” (hmmmm, first, if he’s so lazy how does he get the jobs, second, if he’s drunk how does he keep the job, and third, what “real” American wants to be stuck bussing tables, washing dishes or getting below union pay for working his ass off on a construction site.) Who hasn’t heard that “those Columbians and their damn drugs – that bunch of convicts” but hey, even IF the Columbian is selling just WHO IS BUYING – if you said “Real Americans” you’d be right. The stereotype of today’s Hispanic leads to a self fulfilling prophecy of lower educational standards. In a study done for a thesis I had written, it was proven that the Hispanic person is, by far, viewed as the least academically gifted among a group consisting of Hispanic, African American, White American, and Asian. Why is this? If the educators do not recognize the Hispanic student as academically viable as other students in their class, will they lavish the same attention upon them as their more “gifted” students.

[Future posting from Sociology paper's examination of self-fulfilling prophecy].

Is it any wonder that our young men and women turn to the streets to find unity, alliances, support, understanding and comfort – or numbing – once realizing their place in this society? How can we expect our young men and women to stay away from the streets and all of the perils which accompany it if they have no other place where they can be accepted? The loss of our young people, their addictions to drugs and violence, their loss of opportunity to achieve through education, their hopelessness and anger – this is the only “gift” which America offers the Hispanic youth.  But, it is only our acceptance to stay separate, shadowed both polically and economically, that truly doom our youth.  Silence within the Hispanic nation is choking our young people.

As the numbers rise of Hispanic people, fear among non-Hispanic, ethnical elitists has also rise. If they cannot out-gun than they must outwit – and thus far, we’ve allowed them to do that. We have lived in the shadow of a society which would keep us in darkness, as the light would shine upon our ability to control, change and empower our people. We have believed their lies, perhaps not about ourselves but our brothers. They have pitted one Hispanic society against the other in order to break our numbers. They have manufactured a belief in us that we are not all brothers and sisters – but separate portions of a MINORITY in this country. We do not embrace the Brazilian along with the Costa Rican, we do not reach our Puerto Rican hand out to our Mexican sister. We have bought into the lie that they are not like us; however, American power brokers know better. By their own hand they write us as Hispanic – as one people. In their own Census we are “other race” a faceless, nameless herd of cattle which they seek to keep penned up for their own use. They have fooled us in the past, but can do that no more.

How do “real Americans” view people of Hispanic origin. Do they offer the same opportunities, the same justice? The following statistics show American justice as a plague on the Hispanic people.

There are 283,000 Hispanics(1) in federal and state prisons and local jails, making up slightly over 15% of the inmate population.(2)

Nearly 1 in 3 (32%) persons held in federal prisons is Hispanic.(3)

As of 2001, 4% of Hispanic males in their twenties and early thirties were in prison or jail – as compared to 1.8% of white males.(4)

Hispanics are the fastest growing group being imprisoned, increasing from 10.9% of all State and Federal inmates in 1985 to 15.6% in 2001.(5)

From 1985 to 1995, the number of Hispanics in federal and state prisons rose by 219%, with an average annual increase of 12.3%.(6)

There is a fair amount of inconsistency in measuring Hispanic jail and prison populations, as they are frequently counted in conflicting or contradictory methods; e.g. Hispanics measured racially as black or white and not as a distinct group. It is commonly suspected that the actual number of Hispanics incarcerated is higher than what is accounted for by reporting agencies. Likelihood of Incarceration Hispanic men are almost four times as likely to go to prison at some point in their lives as non-Hispanic white males, but less likely than African American males.(7)

In some regions Hispanic male arrestees are the least likely to have their cases dismissed, followed by black males, Anglo males, and females of all ethnic groups. (8)

Drugs

Despite equal rates of drug use proportionate to their populations, Hispanics are twice as likely as whites, and equally as likely as blacks, to be admitted to state prison for a drug offense.(11)

WWW.SENTENCINGPROJECT.ORG

Of all federal prisoners, Hispanics are half as likely as whites to have ever received treatment for substance abuse and also less likely than blacks (H19%, B25.7%, W39.5%). The numbers are also disproportionate for state prisoners (H33.8%, B36.6%, W51.8%).(12)

Ethnicity and the Criminal Justice System

Hispanic defendants in the federal court system are about one-third as likely as non-Hispanic defendants to be released before trial (22.7% vs. 63.1%).(13)

Despite a public perception that Hispanic immigrant communities are riddled with crime, studies show the involvement of Hispanic immigrants in crime is less than that of U.S. citizens.(14)

Hispanic federal inmates have a lower education level than both whites and blacks.(15)

Hispanic Women Prisoners

In New York, Hispanic women are 14% of the state’s prison population but constitute 44% of women sentenced to prison for drug offenses.(20)

Hispanics in the U.S.

A study from the National Survey of America’s Families found far reaching racial and ethnic disparities in the U.S.:

1. Hispanics are significantly more likely to be low-income (61% of Hispanics, 49% of blacks and 26% of whites).

2. Hispanics are less likely to receive child support (40% for Hispanics, 48% for blacks and 58% for whites).

3. Hispanics are most likely to report being in fair or poor health (33% for Hispanics, 23% for blacks and 20% for whites).

4. Hispanics are more likely to have uninsured children (29% of Hispanic children, 19% of white children and 16% of black children).

5. Hispanics experience rates of housing hardship that are twice as high as that for whites.

6. Across all income groups, Hispanic non-elderly experience food problems at a rate nearly twice that of white non-elderly. (21)

So what promise does the current standards and viewpoints espoused by white America offer one of the Hispanic culture? It holds none, thus, why should the Hispanic man and woman continue to survive on what society allows it? It is time that the diverse Hispanic population unite and show that they are no longer willing to be shackled by the antiquidated ideas of a society who has not fully evolved from the ignorant times of our forefathers. It is time to demand that we are recognized as the strong and intelligent leaders which we are rather than the servile Hispanic, outnumbered and outeducated, from the past.

Our voices have grown over the last 50 years and through the Hispanic media can continue to grow. As we see the uninvolved Midwest decide for us who becomes President, as we allow our brothers and sisters to be exploited through descriminatory hiring practices, discrimination in property ownership, discrimination in achieving credit and business loans, we must revolt. The time has come for the “good little Hispanic American” to go ON STRIKE. Take our dollars away from those who seek to exploit us and instead use them on Hispanic owned enterprises. Raise our voices in classrooms and refuse to accept the whitewashed history of this country and our place within it. Defend our brothers and sisters creating equitable legal assistance and educational opportunity. This, and only this, will forge our Hispanic Nation and give us back the pride which white America seeks to rob of us.
———————————————————————————————–
1 The term “Hispanics” refers to persons who may be of any race whose native tongue is a form of Spanish.
2 Beck, A.J., Karberg, J.C. & Harrison, P.M. “Prison and Jail Inmates
at Midyear 2001,” April 2002. Washington, DC: Bureau of Justice Statistics.
3 Federal Bureau of Prisons Population Count; June 2003
4 Ibid.
5 Harrison, P.M. & Beck, A.J. “Prisoners in 2001,” July 2002.
Washington, DC: Bureau of Justice Statistics.
6 Mumola, C.J. & Beck, A.J. “Prisoners in 1996,” June 1997.
Washington, DC: Bureau of Justice Statistics.
7 Bonczar, T.P. & Beck, A.J. “Lifetime Likelihood of Going to State or
Federal Prison,” March 1997. Table 9. Washington, DC: Bureau of Justice Statistics.
8 Spohn, C., Gruhl, J., & Welch, S. “The Impact of the Ethnicity and Gender of Defendants on the Decision to Reject or Dismiss Felony Charges.” Criminology, February 1987, 25(1): 175-191.
11 Ditton, P.M. & Wilson, D.J. “Truth in Sentencing in State Prisons,” January 1999. Washington, DC: Bureau of Justice Statistics.
12 Mumola, C.J. “Substance Abuse and Treatment, State and Federal Prisoners, 1997,” January 1999. Washington, DC: Bureau of Justice Statistics.
13 Compendium of Federal Justice Statistics, 1999, Washington, D.C.: US Department of Justice, May 2000
14 Hagan, J. & Palloni, A. “Sociological Criminology and the Mythology of Hispanic Immigration and Crime.” Social Problems, November 1999, 46(4): 617-32.
15 Jackson, K. (1997). “Differences in the Background and Criminal Justice Characteristics of Young Black, White, and Hispanic Male Federal Prison Inmates.” Journal of Black Studies, 27, (4), 494-509.
20 Mauer, M., Potler, C. & Wolf, R. “Gender and Justice: Women, Drugs, and Sentencing Policy,” 1999.
21 Racial and Ethnic Disparities: Key Findings from the National Survey of America’s Families, 1997.

*Excerpted from The American Heritage Dictionary of the English
Language, Third Edition Copyright 1992 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Electronic version licensed from Lernout & Hauspie Speech Products
N.V., further reproduction and distribution restricted in accordance
with the Copyright Law of the United States. All rights reserved.

**Census 2000 analyzed by the Social Science Data Analysis Network (SSDAN).





Life in the Big City

9 06 2008

For about a week the ex and I were becoming used to one another.  I had just turned 14 and he was about to be 19. 

The pizzeria where he worked was filled with an assortment of workers and customers who, for lack of a better name, were like a dysfunctional family.  There were the three, always battling, partners and their wives/girls, the cleanup guy who looked like Popeye at 70, the night cleanup guy (Robbie from earlier), the plethora of hookers, only three of which remain clear in my memory – Fat Morty who was in his 50’s, weighed about 400 pounds and had a crush on me.  Generally a very odd bunch.

At one point, during our late night talks, Robbie and I decided to write a book about the Pizzeria and it’s motley crew, we had a name and a general unifying theme.  Part of me suspects one day I will see that story with his name on it.  If so, kudos.

After about two weeks I was coming out of work one day when Prince strolls up to me and pushes me against the wall – you owe me, you and that c**t you hang with.  Where is your friend Toni?  I had no clue having believed she was still with him all along.  When I told him this, he informed me I was being charged and that I had better empty my pockets or else, and the way he was pushing on my throat, I knew what “or else” was.  I gave him what I had left of my pay – he patted me down, satisfied I didn’t have anything else, and said he’d be back.  Next time, I’d better have more.  I took off and headed to the pizzeria where I, hysterical and pissed beyond words, related the story.  Two of the hookers, Carmen (a latina dominatrix) and Chyna (not the least little bit demure) comforted me, asked a million questions and said not to worry.  I found out, two days later, that Prince would be a non-issue going forward.  To this day I’m not sure what it was they did to him, but I never saw him again and our friendship was bonded. 

From then on things went relatively smooth, I got a job at a deli during the night shift that paid twice what the card shop was paying and I would visit, and chat with, Robbie about dreams, writing etc. on my break.  Things weren’t too bad until Toni showed back up.  She came to the hotel and told me she intended to rob the store where I work, and just go along with everything since she took care of me.  I thought about it, I thought about the store owner who had been so nice to me, even trying to find a way to get me back in school, I was torn.  Fate, however, took care of it for me when the police showed up at the deli that night.  A customer who had come from the back entrance, which connected to the bar next door, was suspected of murdering someone upstairs.  I was questioned, the deli guy was questioned, and the police stayed posted in and around all night.  I never saw Toni again after that, and I’m sure she thought I had called them.  A year or so later I heard she was strung out on drugs and hanging around some shady club called La Trapeze.  I was heartbroken that she turned out like that but grateful that I did not get sucked in.

After a month with my ex we had our first “incident”.  I had come to him to tell him the deli guy was being unrelentless in his nasty remarks and suggestions.  So the ex went to confront him, where he and the deli guy got into a roll on the floor fight.  Nobody won, or lost – but I was fired.  That night, still steaming, the ex accused me of being the catalyst for the deli guys actions and threw an iron that just barely missed my face and crashed through a closet wall.  With a strong shaking, and a smack in the mouth, he left.  I was shocked.  It wasn’t that I hadn’t been hit before, shyt, I spent most of my life being hit, but it was that he would do it.  He came back an hour later, flowers and apologies telling me that it was because he loved me so, that he couldn’t stand for anyone else to think of me that way.  I, the moron that I was, believed him. 

That was the first of many times the ex had hurt me.  And whenever I tried to leave, I found, there was nowhere to run.  But that’s later in the story.





Essay: An Examination of Clytaemnestra as a Tragic Victim

7 06 2008

 An Examination of Clytaemnestra as a Tragic Victim

Clytaemnestra, although villified in the Oresteia, was in fact a moral extractor of vendetta justice who fell victim to the patriarchal Athenian society. What constitutes justice is a question that could not be given justice in one brief paper; therefore, for purposes of this paper we will use only two ideas of justice: vendetta justice and legal justice. Vendetta justice defies boundaries limiting actions and allows the extractor to make their own definition. This would encompass such theory as “An eye for an eye adn a tooth for a tooth.” Meanwhile, legal justice is regulated by a governing body who makes the determination as to whether there has been an offense requiring justice, and what consititutes fair and equitable justice. The Oresteia offers two different types of justice, vendetta, as well as trial justice; however, at the time that Clytaemnestra committed the act of murder, legal justice was not being offered to her. It is for this reason that this papers seeks to prove that Clytaemnestra is an extractor of vendetta justice, which is the only justice which she had available to her. An examination of the character of Clytaemnestra by analyzing the dialogue of Agamemnon shows that the actions of Clytaemnestra were not only justified for teh zeitgeist of the Mycenae age, but were also admirable given a woman’s position in society. This strength of character is an important and undervalued commodity in a play which offered a strong, determined woman the spotlight to shine as intelligent and capable. Were Clytaemnestra’s actions villainous? Certainly one might argue that this is true in today’s culture; however, it does not necessarily follow that the actions of Clytaemnestra were either vile or wicked in the eyes of the Athenian culture. The Furies argue that a violation of the blood tie was more heinous a crime that the oath tie shared by Clytaemnestra and Agamemnon; however, when Orestes’ later slays his mother he is also in violation of the oath tie as the Athenian premise is that only the father is the true parent. Why then is Clytaemnestra vilified while Orestes is considered a hero garnering sympathy and support from the audience? In determining whether Clytaemnestra was in fact victim rather than villain it is important to examine two main points. The first point is the motive behind the murder of Agamemnon and the second being teh quality of Clytaemnestra’s character. These points are very crucial, for they either indict or acquit Clytaemnestra, thus making her victim or villain. Ironically, the dialogue in Oresteia provides the tool which will vindicate Clytaemnestra’s act of retaliation.

Through Clytaemestra’s use of visualization and double entendre, as we will examine below, we can begin to see Clytaemnestra’s motives for the murder of Agamemnon and Cassandra. Additionally, by examining her interaction with other characters, such as in the dialogue between Clytaemnestra and the Chorus in Agamemnon, we are given teh opportunity to get a glimpse into her character. One such instance occurs after the lighting of the torches, which was a signal put in place by Clytaemnestra to signify the downfall of Troy. After this occurs Clytaemnestra offers sacrifice. When asked why she offers sacrifice she answers:

As it was said of old, may the dawn child be born/ To be an angel of blessing from the kindly night/ You shall know joy beyond all you ever hoped to hear/ The men of Argos have taken Priam’s citadel.

Iphigeneia, the daugher of Clytaemnestra and Agamemnon, was sacrificed by Agamemnon in order to appease the gods and enable him to go on to conquer Troy. Iphigeneia is represented here as the “dawn child” because the “dawn” represents light, which in this culture is good and pure, and “child” is representative of the fact that she is Clyaemnestra’s child. The “taking of Priam’s citadel” is the first component in Clytaemnestra’s plan for revenge for the murder of their daughter. The end of the battle signifies the return of Agamemnon; therefore, the plan for revenge could begin. The two events are inextricably tied together for it is Agamemnon’s death that will bring Clytaemnestra closure for her child’s murder. This is the reason why knowing that Troy has ben taken fills Clytaemnestra with “joy” for it signifies the impending return of Agamemnon. The much-awaited moment of retribution gives Clytaemnestra “joy beyond all you ever hoped to hear.” Clytaemnestra is speaking to a very suspicious Chorus. Clytaemnestra, mindful that the Chorus is suspicious of her, would give reasons for her excessive joy at the return of the husband who she has been unfaithful to.

But what, among all other things, does Clytaemnestra say that proves her motive to be that of vengeance for the murder of Iphigeneia? At the moment of highest drama, when faced with the accusing chorus following the murder of Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra not only states her reason but also takes the chorus to task for not having taken action against Agamemnon’s evil deed leaving her the burden of exacting justice for that death.

. . . he slaughtered like a victim his own child, my pain/ grown into love, to charm away the winds of Thrace/ Were you not bound to hunt him then clear of this soil/ for the guilt stained upon him? Yet you hear what I/ have done, and lo, you are a stern judge.

It is worth note that although Clytaemnestra has taken to the sword in revenge, she relates with tender imagery her vision of Agamemnon and Iphigeneia meeting again.

Not for you to speak of such tendance/ Through us he fell/ By us he died; we shall bury./ There will be no tears in this house for him/ It must be Iphideneia/ his child, who else/ shall greet her father by the whirling stream; and the ferry of tears/ to close him in her arms and kiss him.

This small display of affection not only embraces Iphigeneia, but also extends to Agamemnon. Does she still harbor feelings of affection for this man? Through connecting the beloved Iphigeneia with Agamemnon in an embrace Clytaemnestra is adding a deminsion of love to both. If Agamemnon were so hated by Clytaemnestra would she be able to envision such a tender moment at all? The hatred would more commonly have had Clytaemnestra speaking of the hell fires and suffering waiting for Agamemnon. This leads to the question of whether revenge for the sacrifice of Iphigeneia was all that drove Clytaemnestra?

The incidents of jealous dialogue that follow present the likelihood that Clytaemnestra was furthe fueled to desperation by a fealing of desertion by Agamemnon. Although lines 859 through 866 (in my text) are interpreted to be a foretelling of the capturing of Agamemnon in a web, they also indicate that Clytaemnestra was aware of Agamemnon’s actions in Troy.

… What I tell you now/ I learned not from another; this is my own sad life/ all the long years this man was gone at Ilium./ It is evil and a thing of terror when a wife/ sits in the house forlorn with no man by, and hears/ rumors that like a fever die and break again,/ and men come in with news of fear, and on their heels/ another messenger, with worse news to cry aloud/ here in this house . . .

Because she was well informed of the actions of Agamemnon during his absence, whe would also have been aware of the drama involving Criseius and Briseius, which was the catalyst to Achilles’ refusal to fight. This close monitoring and eager announcement of this knowledge shows how Agamemnon’s activities were of paramount importance to Clytaemnestra. An additional indication of Clytaemnestra’s anger at Agamemnon’s infidelity is shown when she addresses the chorus following the death of Agamemnon:

. . . while he,/ this other, if fallen, stained with this woman you behold,/ plaything of all the golden girls at Ilium;/ and here lies she, the captive of his spear, who say/ wonders, who shared his bed, the wise in revelations/ and loving mistress, who yet know the feel as well/ of the men’s rowing benches.

The timing of this reference to the “golden girls of Ilium” may explain the murder of the innocent Cassandra. Jealousy as a motive for the murder of Cassandra may be considered enough; however, it must not be forgotten how important symbolism is.

After carefully planning her revenge upon Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra went to great pains to proclaim her fidelity and to show respect for her husband in order to present to Agamemnon and the Chorus that she was a loving and beloved wife. This leads to the conclusion that she nto only wanted revenge upon her husband, but also wanted this revenge to come by what he believes to be the loving hand of his wife. If she were to present herself in any other way but faithful he would not have turned his back on her so quickly. Additionally, Clytaemnestra did not want her act of murder to be associated with infidelity. The action was to be solely associated with revenge for Iphigeneia. However, at the moment of her victory Agamemnon speaks tender words to Cassandra, his prize of Troy. This exalts Cassandra while denigrating Clytaemnestra. Symbolically, it is a blow most harshly thrust upon Clytaemnestra. He had left with Iphigeneia, the treasure of Clytaemnestra, and returned with Cassandra, “flower exquisite from all my many treasures.” With Iphigeneia having been cast to the sacrificial altar and Clytaemnestra being cast aside, allowing Cassandra to live would have been a painful and cruel reminder of all that was lost for teh small tokens that were gained. But do these mere examples truly portray Clytaemnestra as being sensitive?

What indication do we have that Aeschylus wished to present Clytaemnestra as a cold-hearted murderess? By observing Clytaemnestra’s dialogue when the subject of Agamemnon’s murder is not prevelant we see another person who does not display savagery but empathy and concern. The dialogue that occurs between lines 326 through 342 (my version) demonstrates redeemable qualities possessed by Clytaemnestra:

Trojans are stooping now to gather in their arms/ their dead, husbands and brothers; children lean to clasp/ the aged who begot them, crying upon the death/ of those most dear, from lips that never will be free./ The Achaeans have their midnight work after the fighting/ that sets them down to feed on all the city has,/ ravenous, headlong, by no rank and file assigned,/

And if they reverence the gods who hold the city/ and all the holy temples of the captured land/ they, the despoilers, might not be despoiled in turn./ Let not their passion overwhelm them; let no lust/ seize on these men to violate what they must not do.

Here we are offered the opportunity to see Clytaemnestra as a woman of integrity. It is Clytaemnestra’s empathy for the Trojan people which has her offering prophecyfor all of the “despoilers.” The imagery of the beaten Trojan people looks not at the spoils but at the people and their gods. If the battle were lost by Agamemnon, would not the picture be the same? Clytaemnestra may have had ulterios motives for making this speech, as it may arguably have been a warning to Agamemnon that the swift return to Argos, sans certain flowering spoils, would have delayed the date of execution.

Another instance of a clear show of morality occurs when Clytaemnestra, although feeling justified in her reqaction and angry at the chorus for their condemnation of her, redeems herself when Aegisthus appears and begins to threaten the men of the chorus. In lines 1654 through 1661 (my version) she quells the rising tempers and gives way to what her true disposition is:

No, my dearest, dearest of all men, we have done enough. No more/ violence. Here is a monstrous harvest and a bitter reaping time./ There is pain enough already. Let us not be bloody now./ Honored gentlemen of Argos, to to your homes no and give way/ to the stress of fate and season. We could not do otherwise/ than we did. If this is the end of suffering, we can be content/ broken as we are by the brute heel of angry destiny./ Thus a woman speaks among you. Shall men deign to understand?

“If this is the end of suffering we can be content.” These are not words that long for war nor seek bloodletting, but those of one resigned to the fact that fate had played its hand and she had matched it card for card. This is indicative of the fact that Clytaemnestra believes that what she has done is necessary to end the history of bloodshed in Agamemnon’s House. By her addition of the words, “If this” add an interesting dynamic to this sentence for it can be a foretelling of events yet to come, and her uncertainty that she has ended the bloodshed. It is not long after these words are spoken that Orestes returns to add another does of suffering into the House of Agamemnon.

Orestes words make the final plea as they take on new significance when applied to Clytaemnestra. From the mouth of Orestes, as he pleads his innocence to Athena, we hear words that would, had they been spoken for Clytaemnestra, been qually truthful but tragically ignored. When speaking to Athena in the Eumenides, Orestes states:

The stain of blood dulls now and fades upon my hand.

. . . and the list were long if I were to tell of/ all I met who were not hurt by being with me./ Time in his aging overtakes all things alike.

Through Orestes’ claim that he is not of any danger to society, he is given justice – but this justice should have been applied to Clytaemnestra. Clytaemnestra had shown neither disregard for life nor viciousness toward others but, as many of the men who went before her, measured out justice.





Approaches of Frederick Douglass and Mark Twain in Presenting the Black Experience

6 06 2008

Frederick Douglass’s autobiographical portrayal in The Narrative of a Slave and Mark Twain’s characterization of Jim in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn are demonstrative of the differences between the Enlightenment period and the Romantic period.  Douglass looks at events and uses reason to reach into our minds and eradicate our ignorance, while Twain allows the humanity of Jim to reach into our hearts and dissolve our indifference.  Both characters clearly teach their reader, primarily white Americans, that slaves are not inhuman chattel to be dominated but human beings capable of reaching great depths both intellectually and emotionally.  The different methods used to define the characters of Douglass and Jim accomplish a similar goal while taking different roads.

Douglass writes of himself in the first person narrative in the voice of an experienced and learned adult who is able to portray the horrors of slavery without depending upon sentimentality.  Reading Douglass’s account of life on the plantation, the rational person can envision the pain and despair without actually knowing the thoughts of the victim.  Douglass is able to step back from his anger and express opinions on the reasons men feel justified in placing the yoke around other men.  Douglass’s voice throughout Narrative could also be seen as a warning to the oppressors that the vile actions, once ignored, will no longer be tolerated.  The character in this book does not merely report, but demonstrates the growing insurgence occurring among slaves because of the brutal treatment of the slaveholder.  Douglass’s fervor to learn to read shows that the harder the slaveholder applied pressure the stronger the desire was to fight back.  I see this as a diplomatic declaration of war.  Douglass not only educates “white America” by telling his tale, but also shows consistently that the slaves will not merely succumb, but will invariably strike back.  By gently taking off the gloves, Douglass puts the reader on alert that this miserable state will no longer be tolerated.

Jim’s description is filtered through the eyes of Huckleberry Finn, via the pen of Mark Twain.  It is important to remember that Huck Finn is a young person who looks at life with the innocence of childhood and the ignorance of the unlearned.  Twain uses this method to allow readers to formulate their own conclusions without the tedium of a Sunday Mass.  Twain dispels the belief that African Americans lack humanity and moral conviction by giving Jim one of the central voices in the novel, and demonstrating Jim’s capacity to feel deep, human emotions.  

Both characters teach that slavery is an abomination, one intellectually and the other emotionally.  These two approaches are complements that used together are tantamount to a full-blown attack on prejudice.  The two lone voices of Douglass and Jim, although singing acappella, can easily fill a cathedral of the soul.