Blind

Cathedral by Raymond Carver was about much more than a married couple and a blind man.  As one of my favorite stories read so far this semester this story dealt with sight vs. insight.  Right away we are introduced to the narrator, who physically has the ability to see; yet after a few pages we notice is blind in so many ways.  He immediately draws stereotypes and conclusions about his wife’s blind friend, Robert, before he has even gotten to know him.  He assumes that Robert’s wife who has recently passed could have never been happy with Robert because he could never see her.  The narrator makes a snide remark that she could’ve worn whatever she wanted.  He does not even pay attention to his own wife nonetheless seem to know her.  He expects her to mention him while talking to Robert, which she never does understandably.  He is extremely distant from her, yet jealous of any other men in her life.   He immediately assumes he is superior to the blind man because he can physically see, yet he has no actual insight until the end of the story. 

There are many times in our own lives where we choose not to look deeper into something, or we immediately make assumptions without solid grounds.  We may also assume superiority over someone simply because of a preconceived notion.  For example, we may look at a homeless person and assume that they are inferior because they have no money or place to go, but they may have much more wisdom than we ever could, and we may not ever take the chance to learn from them –because they’re homeless.

The narrator learns to see Robert’s world at the end of the story.  His wife falls asleep giving him no option but to talk to Robert, who he begins to describe what things on the TV look like to.  He is unable to describe a cathedral to Robert, but when Robert asks him to draw it with him, the narrator sees much more than the cathedral.  He has an epiphany in which his “blindness” is lifted.

Raymond Carver’s choice to tell the story in first person from the husband’s point of view really made it easy to understand him.  We can see first hand how shallow and idiotic he is with our channel directly into his mind, and we also have a more intimate understanding of his epiphany in the end.  If Carver had decided to tell the story from a different point of view I do not think it would have nearly the same effect.

It is my fear that there are plenty of people like the narrator around; in fact I dated one fairly recently. But I know there are not nearly enough people like Robert.  So few people are willing to look below surface level and discover the rest of the iceberg, and I hope that this will change.

 

The Lottery

The Lottery was a rather chilling story, and if not that then surprising.  I think anyone who doesn’t know the story is thoroughly surprised at the end.  I had first read it in high school and remembered having my positive feelings toward the word “lottery” shattered.  It is so normal in society now to assume winning the lottery would be amazing and bring much wealth. 

Many of the stories we read lead us to question why or how society is so openly blinded to many things that seem “normal” but are blatantly wrong.  In The Lottery, society finds no problem with killing a person based on the slip of paper they draw out of a box, merely because they’ve always done the Lottery.  That’s a scary thought.  The people have become numb to the fact that they are killing someone, though the reason for ritual itself has been forgotten.  This explores a dangerous “mob mentality” of the people.  Tessie’s friends and family all pick up stones to throw at her as well as the rest of the crowd.  An extreme form of tradition is followed yet has no grounds.

When Mr. Adams mentions that the other village just recently stopped Old Man Warner immediately shuts him down on even the thought of stopping the ritual.  How many times have we done something just because everyone else is, or that’s the way it’s always been done?  Over time that thing has been something as drastic as slavery to something as miniscule as a fashion trend.  It only changes when people begin to question “tradition.”

I think another thing shown by the story, though something not commonly taken from it is humanity’s ability to be civil one minute and primal the next.   Ironically in the story Old Man Warner says that if the lottery stops then, “Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves.”  It’s a strange comment because the stoning itself is more primitive than getting rid of the ritual.  In addition, society’s ability to turn on one of their own so quickly, without good reason is primitive as well.  Tessie laughs with her friends prior to finding out she will be killed, and once the slip of paper determines her fate even her own family is ready to stone her; there’s no hesitation.  People can change in a split second.  One minute they can be a great friend, the next they’re stoning you.  One could say it’s Tessie’s own fault because she chose the paper, but at the same time everyone else is making the decision to sever all ties in a moment’s notice.  There was no heroine moment of truth where someone who cared for her threw down their stone and refused to help kill her; to them it is just a matter of fact, it will be done, and life will continue. 

It’s a great lesson to be learned to not let the Old Man Warner’s of life stop you from questioning why things are the way they are.  The Lottery is an example of how dangerous it can be to just go along with things because they’ve always been done a certain way, and the last thing we want is another lottery.

September Surprise

It was 8:51 a.m.  I had been up since 6:30 that morning, and been rather more productive than usual for a warm September day off from school.  I had cooked breakfast for my dad and I earlier, and was now finishing my algebra at the breakfast table.  The temperature in the room began to rise as more light poured in the window; it would be hot outside soon.  I looked toward the sunlight, and was glad to have the screen absorbing some of the intensity.  My eyes traced the screen up from the windowsill and landed on a figure: small, blue, and clung to the screen.  I got up and walked out under the porch and around to the window where I stood barefoot, my gaze meeting two little eyes.  He stared at me with curiosity, but ready to bolt.  I could see that he had recently re-grown his tail; probably having lost it in a close call with a hawk or cat.  I began to reach my hand up toward him.  He looked at my hand, then at me sharply and made a run for it, traveling completely vertical downward.  It was as if gravity didn’t apply to him.  I laughed and walked back inside.  I began working, and noticed a small black ant on my leg, which I immediately swept off before I thought about it.  I reached to tune the radio on the windowsill, not far from where the ant had landed.   I watched it out of the corner of my eye as it began to crawl around while I searched for the right station.  I was debating if I should take it outside or leave it there to figure out its own options when I noticed it wasn’t moving, but wiggling, as if some invisible force was restraining it.  As I looked closer I noticed that a spider barely bigger than the ant was running frantically around it, encasing it in a web so clear it was invisible to my naked eye.  The spider stopped and sunk its fangs into the small body.  The ant slowly stopped wiggling and became stiff.  The spider then ran into the crack of the windowsill, safe and camouflaged.   Now all that was left behind was the tiny corpse of the ant who evidently didn’t have any options.  So quickly it was there, and so abruptly it came to an end.

Hope

It was a bitter cold afternoon in the heart of downtown Chicago.  I walked along the pavement past the massive railway tracks as a train came rumbling along.  The street was crowded with cars, all in a rush to get somewhere.  I was on my way to a bakery to pick up a snack before my next audition, my mind focusing on how much time I had to eat and then warm up my vocals and change before I went in. 

I walked two blocks then saw the bakery, dimly lit but standing out with its pastel colors against the bricks and pipes of the other buildings.  A homeless man was standing on the street corner begging for food from all the people coming through the crosswalk.  I looked at his long beard, his brown ripped up jacket and the beanie that covered his head.  There was another man similar to him just across the street as well.  I wondered how they stood the cold; I had a wool coat on and was still freezing.  I went inside and got my food, but upon coming out noticed that the man now had a bag of chips in his hands.  I smiled; at least someone was willing to help him.  I knew I could have easily bought an extra muffin or something to give to him but I hadn’t for some terrible excuse.  I then kept watching as I walked, and saw another homeless man come up to him.  He was wearing a black sweatshirt, and a pair of thoroughly used brown sneakers.  I couldn’t hear what he said, but the other man extended his hand with the bag of chips and smiled.  The man reached in and pulled out a handful while nodding his head.  He thanked the man with the chips and broke into a smile as he continued walking down the street.  I watched for a few seconds as I thought about what had happened, then stumbled into a smile myself.  I still have some faith in humanity.

What do you think?

"Knees"  is a re-telling of an experience from this summer; the style was inspired by European films and the format of scripts.

Knees

Hairspray.  Door opens, door shuts.  Door opens, door shuts.  Key in ignition.   Fast-forward 45 minutes:  Door opens, Door shuts.  Two black high-heels click on pavement, short dress swishes back and forth; dress code.  Door opens, door shuts. 

“Morning, Ben.”

Response: “It’s not unheard of to get fired on your last day, so don’t fuck this up.”

“Yes, Ben.”

Door opens, door shuts. Two black high-heels click on the tile.  Spray bottle, paper towels, elbow grease.  Spot free Glass doors.  Typing.  Click. Tables for lunchtime guests assigned.  VIP notes updated.

Ben’s Voice: “I just got my hand print on the glass doors, clean them again.”

“Yes Ben.” 

Two black high-heels click on the tile.  Spray bottle, paper towels, clean again.

Ben’s voice: “I have a project for you today, then I want you out.”

Conscience: “I’ve never had a ‘project’ here…”

Ben:  “Get down and scrub all the shit off these kick plates, inside and out, and when you’re done polishing those, polish the threshold too.”

Conscience: “He’s never asked any of the girls to do that…”

Response: “Yes, Ben. Even with the guests already in the restaurant this morning?”

Ben: “Hurry up too. I want them to sparkle.”

Knees meet tile, one hand follows, other hand begins to scrub.  Front of the restaurant, for all to see.  Eyes, watching.  Faint laughter.  Shame. 

Male voice: “It’s kinda hot to see you down there.”

Comment ignored. 

Conscience: “Is my dress staying down?”

Scrubbing.  Back and forth.  More eyes, watching.

           Conscience: “It’s your last day, then it’s over.  Hurry up.  Guests are watching.  You’re not dressed to be on your hands and knees.”

Guest walks toward entrance.  Two black high-heels planted on tile once more.  Strange look from guest.  Door opened. 

Guest: “Thank you.” Door closes.

“You’re welcome, would you like to be seated inside or on the patio today?

Guest: “Inside. A table not a booth, please, and in a quiet spot, we are having a business lunch.”

“Of Course, right this way, please.” 

Two black high-heels are muted by carpet.  One hand pulls out chair.  Guest seated.  Other hand delivers menu; forced smile.  Eyes meet Ben’s.  Quickly now.  Knees meet tile once more.  Scrubbing, back and forth.  Eyes, watching.  Front of restaurant for all to see.  Whispers.  Humiliation.

Conscience: “Speak up.  This is not your job.”

Conscience: “You will be fired.”

Glistening bronze faintly emerges from underneath a dark layer of filth.  Hurry up, guests are commenting.  The cooks are laughing.  The servers are eying.  Ben is smirking.

Done.  Two black high-heels are planted on tile once more.

Conscience: “A real woman would have stood up for herself.”

Conscience: “You are not a real woman.”

Hold Your Breath and Hide

Hold Your Breath and Hide is a story about an early childhood memory of mine.

It was dark.  The liquid blackness filled the room, all except for the dim wash of light evenly dispersed by my curtains.  I hated the curtains; an ugly puke-green that started at the top of the arch and fell mockingly to the floor.  Where the cloth was gathered at the top it looked like little demon claws gripping from the other side, ready to leap over the rod at any time.  I turned over and pulled the sheets up to my chin, as if it would protect me if they decided to leap out while I was sleeping.  I could hear the occasional car speeding down the road just outside my window, and closed my eyes tighter when headlights would sweep through my room as they came around the bend.  I began to drift off, snuggled close to the twenty-plus stuffed animals sharing my bed, my grip on my favorite unicorn starting to loosen.  

Suddenly: POW! POW!

My body jolted, and fear surged through my veins… my feet hit the carpet, their sound muffled by it’s thickness, moving swifter than ever past the curtains, past the white wood door and into the hall where they froze –just before the hall spilled into the living room.

“Dad! Was that a––-“

“GET DOWN!”

The carpet did little to pad my fall, and would soon become damp with the tears streaming down my face.  A blurred image of my dad was not far off, and as I came to him low to the ground, the carpet became prickly, scratching my knees as if to hinder my determination to reach him.  We crawled, him in the lead and I close behind, and soon we were huddled with my brother and mom in-between the master bed and a window-less wall, staying as low as possible.   

My dad’s face was rigid, and somehow a sense of readiness presided over him in a way only described as primal; his temple bulging, nostrils flared yet breath deep and steady, muscles tense enough to spring forward at any moment, and his eyes, so piercing and focused, paying full attention to his ears while searching for even the slightest movement beyond the doorway.  We waited.  My heart pounded on the wall of my chest with no mercy, anticipating something to burst through the front door at any moment.

I turned to face my mom, hearing the sound of a quiet ring behind me, then a voice, “911, what is your emergency?”

1957

Ah the days, smack in the middle of a millennium: the 1950’s, the days of, “keen,” and “swell,” and Marilyn Monroe.  1956, the year that Norma Jean Mortenson took on the name Marilyn Monroe, the minimum wage in the United States was $1.00, Eisenhower was president, and Elvis Presley came out with his famous song, “Hound Dog.” 1956 was quite a year, and with the kickoff of 1957 many changes came along.  A Vogue magazine straight from January of 1957 is very telling about the times.

In their article, “1957 Changes,” a very inventive title to say the least, they prepare the reader for the changes happening at the start of the New Year.  Evidently, there was a new thread construction on stockings to help prevent runs (though I still don’t think there is a way to prevent them; my ballet tights all eventually get runs no matter what,) the open-itself umbrella came about, and the first sweater made of Irish linen was machine-knitted.  Of course, on the side of technology we launched the Vanguard, a satellite for transmitting weather data, the 20-year battery was created, and the picture phone was created at Bell Laboratories, which “transmits images of both speakers, snapshot size.”  I think it’s interesting that even today we are still interested in changes brought about with the new-year, and we were even fifty-four years ago.  Humanity is always interested in itself.

As I flipped through I stumbled upon an article titled “How to Turn Yourself into an Amiable Arguer.”  It’s brilliant.  The main statement of the article is easily summed up in its opening paragraph:

 “Why argument is such a favourite indoor pastime of the human race is hard to determine, for there is nothing at all to be said for it.  Socially it can be disastrous and, if reading maketh a full man, argument often maketh an empty room.  It puts a shine on the nose as no other agent can; and it leads nowhere, for a difference in a matter of fact can be settled by looking it up and one of opinion can not be settled at all.”

I cannot count the number of times I’ve engaged in an argument with good company and we argue until exhaustion kicks in, but reach no conclusion if it is a matter of opinion.  I refuse to talk politics with anyone; I’d rather leave the room, seeing as even listening to other people argue can be exhausting.  Yet on the contrary I love discussing faith, which many would also stray from.  I must admit that though I fully side with the article states about argument, it is still a guilty pleasure.  No matter how happy, enraged or upset I am after an argument there is still some sense of freedom in it.  I think it is because it shows passion, that I am alive and still thinking, not numbed by an opinion-less stupor. 

As it continues on it draws a difference between a sort of belligerent arguer, “usually male, who relies simply on the power of his lungs… to merely increase the volume until they (the other party) fall silent at last from utter exhaustion,” and “a deadlier school and certainly female… who never directly argues or contradicts, being content to drop a little depth charge when all is over.” That’s still mostly true today; many women don’t raise their voice to get their point across because more silence and a more potent word choice typically does the trick.

On a separate note, the 1950’s fashion is gorgeous.  Dresses pictured on the large pages showed ultimate femininity in their cut and color, always paying heed to the waistline, and the glamorous feel from old movies is ever present in these wonderful spreads.  Red lipstick could be worn daily and the hair always looked polished and neatly done.  Eyes were lined with a slightly winged outer corner creating the seductive kitten like eyes that were iconic on the beautiful Marilyn Monroe, and pearls or rhinestones graced the décolletage of many a woman.

 Such a beautiful era is still fondly remembered by older generations, and graces the walls of many small diners, as well as the bedrooms of many Elvis and Johnny Cash fans.  It’s strange to think that Fifty or sixty years from now, a very different generation will be looking back on the highlights of our years as we ponder our own younger days.