“…it is hard to think of a central character in all of literature who is less likeable than Bigger Thomas.”—Introduction, XIX

Bigger Thomas, the main character in Richard Wright’s Native Son, is, as stated by the book’s introduction, a “brutalized and limited character.” Bigger is ashamed, he is a bully, he is violent, he is dangerous, he is angry, he is aggressive, and he is scared of the world as much as he is of himself. In very few circumstances does Wright provide an opportunity for the reader to connect to or empathize with the character who is weighted with the burden of pulling the reader through his 470-page existence. That said, Bigger is very much a product of the society in which he has been trapped. Bigger can find no solace in the safety of his home life, which proves as turbulent and unstable as the outside world. He feels forced into supporting his family members, which only leads to his bitterness and to his rebellion. Bigger struggles to seamlessly manipulate his “friends” into feeling fear that he himself cannot expose. Bigger lacks a self-control that is vital to succeed, yet his success is truly limited by society’s beliefs in racial segregation, prejudice, and inequality. From these racial inequalities, he has become emotionally crippled and segregated, unable to trust anyone inside or outside of his home--and ultimately, unable to trust himself. In this sense, the reader wants to extend salvation to Bigger, has an instinct to save Bigger from the world in which he lives; however, Wright blocks the reader from doing so, and in turn, let’s the reader watch from behind the glass as Bigger slips.

“Taint not thy mind nor let thy soul contrive / Against thy mother aught. Leave her to heaven / And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge / To prick and sting her” (Act I, Scene V, 86-89).

In Act II, Scene IV, Hamlet finally is candid to his mother about the gravity and effect of her sin. His irritation has mounted so that he cannot mask an almost violent delivery—so much so that the Queen fears for her life. Hamlet admonishes Gertrude for demeaning the vows of marriage and debasing King Hamlet’s memory. He says that she has gone against heaven in her sin, making religion a series of meaningless words. Although Hamlet finally spews the disapproval he has withheld from her, in doing so, his fervency begins to violate the Ghost’s request: to let heaven decide Gertrude’s punishment and to let her conscience ration her pain. Hamlet’s mockery of Gertrude’s action undoubtedly uncovers guilt that she has buried deep within her regality; she begs Hamlet to stop speaking because she cannot face the pain of unveiling the “black and grained spots” of her soul. Our sympathy grows as Getrude reveals not only her morality, but also her humanity. Even a Queen has sinned—she, like everyone else, admittedly feels guilty and ashamed, giving her character a depth of complexity and emotion the audience recognizes. Yet, the deed has been done. Gertrude divulges no plan of action to right her wrongs. She shows guilt, but no revelation. She simply asks to hear no more of her sin, without searching for forgiveness, either from Hamlet or from the gods. Thus, as an audience, Shakespeare forces us to question Gertrude’s transformation. Gertrude is trapped perfectly for the following acts: she understands and admits her guilt, yet she has the ability to act on it. Will her conscience “prick” her to act? Or will Gertrude continue to mask from herself the dark spots of her soul? Gertrude faces a key decision in her character that leaves the audience hesitant in judgment, but anxious with uncertainty.

Antigone is a play of balance; it is the balance of ethics and immorality, past and future, light and dark, logic and passion. The art of this timeless play, as many plays that withstand a changing audience, is its ability to put into question the defined. Antigone is clearly a brave character, but is bravery still bravery if motivated by cowardice?

Antigone’s values are so earnestly ingrained in who she is that she is willing to give up her life to protect them. Many may argue that the greatest historical and literary figures have made impacts only from this type of passion. In contrast to her sister’s persona, Ismene characterizes cautious logic, perhaps rooted in fear of an isolation from society that has so plagued her family. Ismene’s mental balance contrasts Antigone’s faith in extreme solutions. However, I question Antigone’s motive. Does Antigone rebel because of her deeply rooted principles? Or, perhaps, Antigone needs to prove to herself the power she holds over her own life, her role in challenging fate—and even the ability to surpass fate, which has been the vulnerability of her lineage.

Antigone refuses to let the scale balance, for she thrives off of controversy. She has succeeded in revolting against Creon’s law by burying her brother, but this does not satisfy her. Antigone buries her brother a second time, during which she is caught. It is at the point that I wonder if she is motivated not by her bravery, but by her self-righteous desire to control her fate. She cannot control the past, and thus, she wishes to control the future. In common with her sister, constant grieving has exhausted her. Antigone wishes to die “honorably” and rest with the ones whom she loves, for she cannot bear living any longer under authority. Ismene too experiences tremendous agony and sorrow over the loss, yet finds the strength to resist the temptation of death. She recognizes that by “giv[ing] in to the law,” she chooses to live. Until Antigone, she is willing to face a “death without honor.” She is not afraid of control.

The idea of control is so frightening yet tempting to Antigone that it ultimately overwhelms her. She, unlike her ancestors, has the power to choose her destiny. She settles on death, which she knows to be, ironically, the safe decision. Living, like Ismene, with the ability of self-control is far too dangerous for Antigone. Instead, Antigone disguises her fear of control in mock bravery. Antigone's internal battle manifests itself in the form of confronting the inadequacies of society. Inadequate as they may be, they nonetheless serve a greater purpose: they provide a stage upon which Antigone can confront herself. Although Antigone preforms beautifully, she masks an insecurity, a fear of leading an honorable life successfully. She fears that she cannot find honor within life, so she searches for it in death. Perhaps it is Ismene, often titled the coward, who is brave, for it is Ismene who is willing to carry the burden of logic over the appeal of passion.

Any Other Father

I don’t really know if I would have wanted any other father. I mean, we had ups and we had downs but who doesn’t. He meant well, I suppose. He wanted things to be okay in the end. He just had it hard, you know, growing up and stuff. He never really had a father, so I think I never really had a father because that is all he knew. But he loved me. He loved so much that it hurt him that he couldn’t be a good father. He really did love me. And I really love him back.

I don’t really know if I would have wanted any other father. There are lots of fathers who don’t know a day’s work, but not my father. No, he was a man who knew what work felt like. He knew what struggle was. He was living it everyday. Pain was ingrained in him. “Real men are always in pain,” he told me. He came home at nights with bloodied hands and the darkness of a bad day smeared across his face. I was really proud of him those days because I knew a real man. I remember thinking how lucky I was that my dad’s hands told strangers that he was a man and that he knew what pain was and that today had been a struggle, but he was going home anyway.

I don’t really know if I would have wanted any other father. That isn’t to say that there were not days and moments when I wanted to escape from him, because there were. The door would open some nights and my mother and I would know from the smell to stay away from him. It wasn’t the whiskey smell we were used to. He smelled like hopelessness those nights, those nights when we avoided him. You may think that hopelessness doesn’t smell, but it does, and it did when my father walked in.

But I don’t really know if I would have wanted any other father. I would hide behind the kitchen door, anticipating the thumps of his approaching boots, heavy with a cloak of dried mud. He knew where I was, but he always pretended like he didn’t. He would open the kitchen door just enough to slide in and walk right past me, as he had done everyday that week. I was so happy that I had fooled him again. I’d jump on his back, shrieking with victory, and he let me. He always let me.

I don’t really know if I would have wanted any other father. On the good nights, on the nights when he came into the kitchen and he smelled even sweeter than the whiskey on his breath, I never wanted to let go. I would claw my hands into his thighs, begging him never to let go. He would thrust me into his grip and we would spin. We would both laugh as the world went in circles and we stood still together. I clutched him tighter as we moved away from my mother. “She doesn’t know how much fun we are having,” he would whisper in my ear, as my disappointed mother watched us ruin her home. I believed him when he told me she didn’t understand. I would close my eyes and let gravity push me tighter into his body.

My head still spinning from our adventure, he would drop me into my bed and the charm ended. I would look up at him to ask why he had let go but he never answered me. I sat alone in my room and listened as he stumbled through the hallway. My walls shook as he walked into his bedroom door. I heard his thick shoes thud onto the floor. The house grew silent and the magic died. But no, no, I don’t think I would have wanted any other father.

TFA Chapter 23:

Okonkwo finally has a feeling that is “akin to happiness” when he is again respected as a leader in his society. As an evident leader, Okonkwo is one of the six men invited by the Direct Commissioner to discuss how “Enoch murdered an egwuwu.” The District Commissioner has trapped them, for as he admonishes the six men for their “vulgar” actions (molesting others, burning homes, and destroying places of worship, page 195), he also handcuffs them. The tribe must even pay a fine for the release of the men. Just before exiting, the Commissioner instructs his court messengers “to treat the men with respect because they were the leaders of Umuofia.” (194) How should this line be interpreted? What does this reflect about the intercultural relations? Does this instruction provide a glimmer of hope in an otherwise dark situation or does it in fact enhance the irony? Is the word were significant in that line?

TFA Chapter 9: A Complex Childhood

"This man told him that the child was an ogbanje, one of those wicked children who, when they died, entered their mothers' wombs to be born again." (77)

Ekwefi has borne ten children, only one of whom, Ezinma, has survived. However, Ezinma is considered an ogbanje in her society. Ekwefi, afraid of emotionally attaching herself to one of her children in fear of its death, has allowed herself to believe in Ezinma. Ezinma, unlike the other children, seems "determined to live."(79) Nonetheless, Ezinma has been publicly labelled in her society as taboo, for ogbanjes are infamous symbols of loss and emotional torture. In hope of confirmation that her daughter is here to stay, Ekwefi plans to find Ezinma's iyi-uwa. The medicine man questions Ezinma, as to where she has buried it: "You know what it is. You buried it in the ground somewhere so that you can die and return again to torment your mother." (81) Here, Ezinma is not only forced to identify herself as an ogbanjes, but also she has been held responsible for her mother's emotional pain. Regardless, she has to preform by leading the tribe to the burial spot. In this moment (81), a helpless child is linked to and held responsible for a social evil. How does this reflect the Ibo society and its values? How might this label, and corresponding responsibility, affect Ezinma? Is Ezinma trapped by the Ibo's beliefs or can she free herself?

One Day in the Life of Denis Ivansovich

Beep. Beep. Beep. The tone of Denis’s alarm clock was so repetitive that it had become one solid noise, unable to shock him into a state of lucidity. With one eye open and the other fighting to stay asleep, he peered outside his frost-covered window to see the bustling city streets covered in a thin layer of snow. If only there had been more snow in the night. It took a foot of snow to stop this city. No snow, or anything else for that matter, could stop Denis.

Poptart in hand and his Ipod blaring, Denis inhaled the warm apartment air one last time before jumping into the unforgiving city streets. His mother screamed down the stairs, “Denis, honey, are you sure I can’t give you a ride to school today?” Today, like every other day, absolutely not. “No, thank you. Love you!” He slipped the food into his bag, freeing his hand, and opened the door. A blast of harsh wind smacked his face and sharp snowflakes danced on his cheeks. In any other town, people might stare. But here, only here, no one cared. And Denis loved it. An army of snow-covered, Starbucks-holding New Yorkers marched with heads down into the subway. Denis was proud to join the group. Like everyone else, he knew his schedule down to the minute. Only 175 seconds until the subway left, plenty of time to spare. Denis arrived at the entrance gate, always a time for frustration. In the line next to him, rushed men and women scanned their cards and propelled the metal bars forward, insuring their swift entrance. Meanwhile, Denis scanned his pass, then carefully gripping the plastic card in his mouth, used the weight of his body to swing the bars forward. Grunts and muffled sneers of impatience stung per usual. One man even spewed a profanity, raised his voice– a rarity on a cold day, for it wasted heat. Doesn’t every New Yorker know that? Oh, must be a tourist.

Arrival, as expected, was four minutes before the opening bell. Denis was funneled into a sea of monogrammed JanSport backpacks, once an array of colors, and now nearly all white. His messenger bag, slung deeply across his body, too was white with snow. All of the boys high-fived one another to celebrate making it through the week to this snowy, Friday morning. Denis had long ago perfected the friendly head nod for those who were not in reach or for those who walked on his left side.

First, second, and third period came and went. A French test on grammar, Biology PowerPoints, and an English lesson about Russian literature. Finally, the boys headed to a long-awaited lunch hour. Denis was handed the same green tray he had received at 12:00pm, Monday through Friday, for the past ten years of his life. And as he had for the past ten years, he supported the back of the tray against his ribs and gripped the front tightly with curved fingers. As the boys filled their trays higher than the laws of physics should allow, Denis played a balancing game, making sure that the sides of his tray remained equally weighted. Picking up the contents of a spilled tray would cost his a full lunch period and even some of his fifth period block; thus, tipping was not an option. Somehow, Denis always miraculously managed to balance everything. And the boys, of course, held open the door.

The air of the day’s final two periods was clouded with the daydreaming of anxious boys. While some planned the video games they would play and the girls they would call, Denis had his mind on the court. Denis was among the most talented basketball players in the state of New York. In place of the teacher’s voice, he heard the rhythmic beat of a basketball. The final bell meant hours of freedom on the courts. Denis ran into locker room, slid a practice jersey over his head, and headed onto the courts. He freed a ball from the storage room and gracefully sent it flying towards the hoop. The ball gently made its way through the netting, creating a satisfying “whoosh.” Infamous trios of girls slyly walked through the court, as if they had forgotten something and needed to retrieve it before the weekend. Some were even brazen enough to pause and watch. One weak-kneed brunette turned to her friend. Muffled by giggles, she whispered, “Look at number nine!” Her friend responsively starred and turned back. “I’ve heard he is the best in the entire state of New York. He beats all of the other boys, and he only has one arm!” Whoosh. Denis sunk another three pointer. (803)