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)

Layers of Identity: The Dress Code of Society

I am sure that there are times when Spiderman’s suit is too hot for the weather. I am sure that there are times when Spiderman would prefer to wear a green suit, to compliment his eyes. I am sure that there are times when Spiderman’s suit is uncomfortably tight, and he would prefer a figure-flattering cut. But there are also times when it is in this suit, and in this suit only, that he saves the world. In his old-fashioned, red, tight suit, Spiderman rescues others, and in turn, rescues himself.

Jim Hall’s Spiderman brings into question the idea of an identity that is eternal (“fwame wesistent”), for better or for worse. Identities, or suits, as Hall describes them, often fulfill the requirements of society, but are not fully satisfactory to the person wearing the “suit.” It is particularly ironic that the focus of Hall’s poem is Spiderman, an idealized character whose “flawless” persona is envied by all mortals. Who wouldn’t want to be Spiderman? Well…Spiderman wouldn’t.

An identity may not be reduced to a single image, description, or thought. Instead, identity is a complex formation made of many layers, each responsible for a separate image. It is the combination of each layer that creates the larger impression, which we have labeled identity. Much like the layers of rock in the Grand Canyon, the layers of identity are dense, products of time, and somewhat stationary. Each layer supports the one before it, and thus, identity is an ever-growing, dependent mass. One layer buried beneath the next eventually creates an enduring structure. Inevitably, some layers of identity are preferable, and others, a burden. The day that someone has an identity composed devoid of ambiguous layers, the game of character will be won. Until then, as imperfect beings, we are forced to contemplate our existence with our few faulty layers. Although it is these layers that bring upon us unavoidable internal conflict, it is the compilation of these layers that makes up the wonders of the world.

Identities, like suits, are appropriate in some situations, and in others, they do not fit the dress code. With the dress code set, and only one suit in our closet, the best we can do is to wear it and own it; remember, it’s all in the walk. We all wish that our suit had no signs of wear and tear, no visible stains, proving its imperfection. We can accessorize it, we can hide it, we can even deny it, but the suit is a part of our wardrobe. Ironically, only stains that remain unacknowledged by the wearer are identifiable by the outside world. Hiding the imperfection can lead to its very emphasis. It is important to remember, though, that no suit comes without its imperfections. Perhaps the greatest irony of all is that the dress never makes the party. Overdressed, undressed, and not dressed at all, as long as we come eager to dance, who will notice what the hell we are wearing. (500)

Antigone: Defining Bravery

Antigone is a play of balance; it is the balance of ethics and immorality, past and future, logic and passion. The scales continue to tip throughout the play, as Sophocles never lets the plot steady itself. This perpetual motion rocks even the most stable characters. The art of this timeless play is its ability to put into question the defined. Antigone is clearly a brave character, but is bravery still bravery if it is motivated by cowardice?

Antigone is so passionate about her values 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 approach, Ismene characterizes cautious logic. 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—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 (29). 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 (16). Antigone wishes to die “honorably” and rest with the ones whom she loves, for she cannot bear living any longer. Ismene agrees, yet finds the strength to resist the temptation of death. Ismene may be the stronger of the two sisters.

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 cannot balance her own desires, and consequently settles on death. In this case, death may be the easiest and least risky of her choices. 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. 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. (430)

Life-Changing Reads

As Far Away as China, J. Boyer: I am biased because my daddy wrote it. When I read the words, it is as if I can hear him speaking them—and for that, it will always be my favorite book in the entire world.

All The King’s Men, Robert Penn Warren: I adore every line in this book. When I write, I aspire to write in Warren's style.

Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck: From the opening page to the closing page, this story moves me in a way that no other has before. I find myself believing in the characters, feeling the pain that they feel, and wanting them to triumph when all odds are against them—even when I know the ending.

My Sister’s Keeper, Jodi Picoult: I cried harder reading this book than I had reading almost anything else. This was the book that taught me how seriously a book could affect me.

The Killer Angels, Michael Shaara: This is the only war book I have read in which I find myself seriously invested in the characters and their well-being. Every character seems like a man that I might know, not a General written about in a textbook.

Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck: I often reread this book when I forget how quickly Steinbeck can capture my attention, only to leave me to ponder one hundred pages later. This is the shortest of my favorites, but its lesson is at least as large as those of the others.

The Doll People, Marlin Godwin Selznick: This was the first book that I read three times. Selznick made my childhood fantasies come to life on the page in his descriptions of the dollhouse coming to life at night.

Animal Farm, George Orwell: This is the first book I can remember admiring for its intelligence and tone.

Nineteen Minutes, Jodi Picoult: I could not turn the pages quickly enough when reading this. A book written on a chilling topic, Nineteen Minutes was full of lines that continue to haunt me.

A People’s History of the United States, Howard Zinn: Although I am yet to finish this giant book, it has opened my eyes to the importance of studying history and acknowledging many different perspectives. Reading this cemented my love of U.S. history.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time

Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time appears on the first page to be compulsively readable, yet written in overly simplified, unsophisticated language­– something rarely seen in other “upper-level” novels of its type; however, it is this style that parallels the very importance of the book. The book’s main character, too, differs from the average protagonist. Christopher Boone, an autistic boy, lacks the ability to comprehend human emotion. Although he is clearly in touch with his own feelings, he is completely unable to read physical or emotional reactions of others. However, what Christopher lacks in social ease, he more than makes up for in his exceedingly abundant knowledge of factual information. The book presents itself as a murder mystery yet early on distinguishes itself from that very cliché. The mystery of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time is not in who killed the dog, as the reader was once led to believe; it is instead the mystery of Christopher’s place in the world and the world’s place in his.

Christopher’s inability to see emotion indirectly exposes how much of society relies on subconscious dialogue. Much of how we communicate to one another is lost without physical expression. From a change in the tone of voice to an alteration in facial muscle, most language is accented, if not completely reliant on, visible physical emotion. Christopher explains that he is unable to determine emotions on the scale between “happy” and “sad.” The beauty of human emotion is its breadth of scale, most of which lies between those two categories. Although it is obvious that Christopher cannot “see” the world, it also becomes clear that the world, although it thinks it does, is truly unable to “see” Christopher.

Arguably one of Christopher’s most important gifts to the reader is not his retention of numbers, his meticulous organizational techniques, or his protective demeanor. Christopher has an ability to perceive the world without preconceived notions, prejudices, and cultural distortions. This ability is deliberately absent, and greatly so, in the novel’s other characters. Christopher’s mother and father act as foils, for his mother, who has cheated on her husband with the neighbor, and his father, who killed the neighbor’s dog in revenge, lack the evident moral sense, which Christopher so blatantly possesses. Christopher, although he cannot understand why others react the way they do, has learned the basics of right and wrong behavior, as is evidenced in his understanding of the dog’s murder. This seemingly primitive and basic lesson is one that the adults in his life have not yet grasped. He is unable to comprehend the convoluted methods of falsehood, which his parents undoubtedly symbolize. Therefore, he provides an unedited, unblemished, and rare account that his self-conscious, moral-lacking “elders” will never come to expose.

Have the instinctive emotional complexes of modern society hindered us from attaining the pureness of Christopher’s simplistic moral guidelines? What have we gained in our emotional complexity, and in turn, what have we lost? (500)