I'm sorry if my sentences seem less-refined (as if they weren't before) today, but my brain is operating in post-Prom sluggishness. However, this isn't to say that I haven't had any AP Lit experiences during that fun-filled Saturday night that was void of sleep. After we came back from Waffle House at an early 3:00 in the morning, we decided that maybe watching a dull movie would quiet our senses and lull us to sleep--that, of course, combined with a game of Cards for Humanity (an adult spin-off of Apples to Apples...definitely R-rated). We chose to watch the first of the three-part story The Hobbit, which ended up being the best/worst decision I made that night. On one hand, it was a movie that practically spelled out all of these literary roles we give to characters in a classic hero's journey (it was written by the father of the hero's journey himself: Tolkien); this was the best part about it. The worst part was that it was a 3 hour-long movie and lasted us until the wee hours of the morning. Most of my friends fell like stones when the card game was over and they diverted their attention to the movie. That was when they usually noticed that they didn't actually have any attention left for the movie at all and fell right to sleep. However, I was encaptured by the story itself and my curiosity for the story unfortunately forbade me to go to sleep at all that night.
Many people view this movie as being slow to climax and overall a dull movie--ironically in line with the reviews for the book as well. But being the APLit Scholar that I am (a role that I can't leave behind because it's practically ingrained now), I honestly appreciated the 30 minute-long dialogues, the beautiful scenic shots of the dwarves roaming the countryside, and the ugly, frightening, yet comedic monsters that the company faces alnog the way to the biggest opponent of all: the dragon. If anyone wanted to learn anything about the rules and regulations in creating a hero's journey, one needn't look further than this movie. The development in each of the characters clearly points out the unlikely, yet brave hero (the Hobbit Bilbo Baggins) with his fatal flaw of pessimism; his trusty crew who help him along the way to his final battle (all of the dwarves); a wise old man to advise them in all their decisions (Gandalf); a journey into the deep unconscious where the crew is subject to evil desires they must avoid or conquer in order to be successful (trudging along the wild countryside and fighting fantastically grotesque monsters that can symbolize human ugliness. All of these components contribute to the classic hero's tale, all in an effort to, as Gandalf put it, "change you to be a dfferent man when you return home from your journey."
I will agree, to some extent, that the movie is quite lengthy. The book itself isn't at all like any of the Lord of the Rings books; it looks like a regularly-sized novel. However, the content of the book is so heavy that the director split up a 400-page novel into 3 movies, something that I'm still having trouble believing. However, after watching the first movie I understand a bit better the detail that goes with making a great interpretation of Tolkien's famous book, and I'm super nerdily excited for the next two movies to see how it all plays out.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
What does Happy Mean?
So I just finished reading Memoirs of A Geisha.
I've read lots of books--good books, bad books, ok books--but this one tops them all off in terms of vivid imagination and beautiful scenery that burns in the back of the mind. I noticed this as I would force myself to stop reading once in a while so as not to get too ahead of myself. I would be washing the dishes, or walking in class, and my mind would procure an image so intricate in detail, such as a geisha gliding in a garden with a beautiful red kimono, that I'd trick my mind into believing I've seen this scene from an old movie. Nevertheless, this scene--and so many more--come from simple words on paper. It's never been any easier to imagine the setting, the actions, and the characters moving, speaking, and emoting while I read this book, and I loved every moment of it.
But like all good things, they all come to an end. I don't know how I really felt as I read the last page of Chiyo's memoir; should I feel happy or disappointed in Chiyo? There's no doubt that she's happy with what she's done in her life; she manages to stay with the Chairman after the 15-year dance into his life, despite all the obstacles. She's moderately wealthy, and in terms of status she's partying with the same ranks as the wealthiest men of Japan, from Generals to presidents to art directors. When I try to find Chiyo's true happiness, however, I realize that she's never truly happy until she ends up with the Chairman, and this doesn't happen until the ending chapters! How do you judge her quality of life when she's miserable for more than 3/4 of the novel? It makes me question whether or not Chiyo had the better life over Satsu; our literature group acknowledged this question, but didn't have enough time to discuss it. On one hand we have Chiyo, who has a definitely higher quality of life than a majority of Japanese citizens during this time period; she may have been treated like trash for the first couple of years in the okiya, but she was more-or-less guaranteed a bed to sleep in every night, food to eat, and some type of education that gavel her skills to use in the future. Later on, she's treated like royalty when she becomes a famous geisha and daughter of the okiya owner, and anything she asks, she will receive. She is the breadwinner of the whole house, making more money than we could ever imagine, in the form of jewels, donations, kimono, makeup…anything, really. What's really sad is that Chiyo never realizes how much of a better life--socioeconomically, at least--she has in comparison to other people. She gets a small taste, an inkling of it, when the war hits, of course. She burdens some of the harsh realities that Japanese citizens had to face in the wake of the war (rations, working, poverty), but what she had to endure in a mere 4-5 years, other Japanese have been struggling against their whole lives. It's almost shameful to say that Chiyo doesn't see how lucky she is to have a pretty face and extraordinary eyes, for they are what push her to become a famous geisha, not just her drive to become one.
Satsu, on the other hand, got the short end of the stick. Through first impressions, or perhaps solely by luck, she ends up in a whore house instead of an okiya, and this leads her to take drastic measures to escape such a hellhole. She could never afford such a life as her geisha sister unless she married into wealth (which I doubt she did). Her living conditions were probably sub-par to Chiyo's rich lifestyle. But what does this say about Satsu's happiness? Sure, she can't afford to wear thousands of dollars' worth of kimono, but does this put her emotional quality of life above Chiyo's? After escaping alone from Kyoto, we only have one other connection back to Satsu in the book, which is when Chiyo gets a letter from Mr. Ichiro who brings bad news of her parents' health. He mentions that Satsu ran off with the village boy, and that's that. It opens up a variety possibilities as to her whereabouts, and I can't definitively say that Chiyo led the happier life instead of her sister. She may have had the easier life, sure; but if Satsu really loved that boy and they got married, despite the troubles of everyday life and poverty, wouldn't she be the happier sister instead of Chiyo, who spends half her life chasing another man? This is what really depresses me, that the protagonist is forced to accept her geisha life, putting her happiness in the backseat for later. What's the point of all her wealth and parties if it's all for nothing? It may look like fun and games to put makeup on and entertain men all your life, but it's a wonder to me how Chiyo didn't end up like Hatsumomo, or even Mameha (who was forced into 3 abortions by her donna). Chiyo is considered extremely lucky even now, as she puts aside her happiness until the very end. This was what made the book such a struggle to read, because all I wanted was to see Chiyo happy, but now that she's happy in the end of the book I'm disappointed that her happiness wasn't discussed further in the book.
I've read lots of books--good books, bad books, ok books--but this one tops them all off in terms of vivid imagination and beautiful scenery that burns in the back of the mind. I noticed this as I would force myself to stop reading once in a while so as not to get too ahead of myself. I would be washing the dishes, or walking in class, and my mind would procure an image so intricate in detail, such as a geisha gliding in a garden with a beautiful red kimono, that I'd trick my mind into believing I've seen this scene from an old movie. Nevertheless, this scene--and so many more--come from simple words on paper. It's never been any easier to imagine the setting, the actions, and the characters moving, speaking, and emoting while I read this book, and I loved every moment of it.
But like all good things, they all come to an end. I don't know how I really felt as I read the last page of Chiyo's memoir; should I feel happy or disappointed in Chiyo? There's no doubt that she's happy with what she's done in her life; she manages to stay with the Chairman after the 15-year dance into his life, despite all the obstacles. She's moderately wealthy, and in terms of status she's partying with the same ranks as the wealthiest men of Japan, from Generals to presidents to art directors. When I try to find Chiyo's true happiness, however, I realize that she's never truly happy until she ends up with the Chairman, and this doesn't happen until the ending chapters! How do you judge her quality of life when she's miserable for more than 3/4 of the novel? It makes me question whether or not Chiyo had the better life over Satsu; our literature group acknowledged this question, but didn't have enough time to discuss it. On one hand we have Chiyo, who has a definitely higher quality of life than a majority of Japanese citizens during this time period; she may have been treated like trash for the first couple of years in the okiya, but she was more-or-less guaranteed a bed to sleep in every night, food to eat, and some type of education that gavel her skills to use in the future. Later on, she's treated like royalty when she becomes a famous geisha and daughter of the okiya owner, and anything she asks, she will receive. She is the breadwinner of the whole house, making more money than we could ever imagine, in the form of jewels, donations, kimono, makeup…anything, really. What's really sad is that Chiyo never realizes how much of a better life--socioeconomically, at least--she has in comparison to other people. She gets a small taste, an inkling of it, when the war hits, of course. She burdens some of the harsh realities that Japanese citizens had to face in the wake of the war (rations, working, poverty), but what she had to endure in a mere 4-5 years, other Japanese have been struggling against their whole lives. It's almost shameful to say that Chiyo doesn't see how lucky she is to have a pretty face and extraordinary eyes, for they are what push her to become a famous geisha, not just her drive to become one.
Satsu, on the other hand, got the short end of the stick. Through first impressions, or perhaps solely by luck, she ends up in a whore house instead of an okiya, and this leads her to take drastic measures to escape such a hellhole. She could never afford such a life as her geisha sister unless she married into wealth (which I doubt she did). Her living conditions were probably sub-par to Chiyo's rich lifestyle. But what does this say about Satsu's happiness? Sure, she can't afford to wear thousands of dollars' worth of kimono, but does this put her emotional quality of life above Chiyo's? After escaping alone from Kyoto, we only have one other connection back to Satsu in the book, which is when Chiyo gets a letter from Mr. Ichiro who brings bad news of her parents' health. He mentions that Satsu ran off with the village boy, and that's that. It opens up a variety possibilities as to her whereabouts, and I can't definitively say that Chiyo led the happier life instead of her sister. She may have had the easier life, sure; but if Satsu really loved that boy and they got married, despite the troubles of everyday life and poverty, wouldn't she be the happier sister instead of Chiyo, who spends half her life chasing another man? This is what really depresses me, that the protagonist is forced to accept her geisha life, putting her happiness in the backseat for later. What's the point of all her wealth and parties if it's all for nothing? It may look like fun and games to put makeup on and entertain men all your life, but it's a wonder to me how Chiyo didn't end up like Hatsumomo, or even Mameha (who was forced into 3 abortions by her donna). Chiyo is considered extremely lucky even now, as she puts aside her happiness until the very end. This was what made the book such a struggle to read, because all I wanted was to see Chiyo happy, but now that she's happy in the end of the book I'm disappointed that her happiness wasn't discussed further in the book.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Robotic
in the inner city, by Lucille Clifton
in the inner city
or
like we call it
home
we think a lot about uptown
and the silent nights
and the houses straight as
dead men
and the pastel lights
and we hang on to our no place
happy to be alive
and in the inner city
or like we call it
home
No, none of these words--not even the title--is supposed to be capitalized. Yes, it pained me to type the whole thing out without touching the caps lock key. It's a very peculiar thing, to read something like this without capitalization or punctuation; it goes beyond childish scrambles of thoughts, but offers a very robotic (in my head, at least) change in tone that I'm not used to reading in. Capitalization, for example, adds some sort of human depth to the poem...maybe a definite beginning? And punctuation does the opposite; it offers a definite end. If you strip this away from a sentence, it just feels like a run-on phrase (in fact, it is a run-on phrase) that goes on forever and ever. The poet epitomizes this by ending the poem with the beginning lines. When I finished reading the poem aloud, my voice had automatically prepped itself for more words, more phrases, but it sadly found none. The poem simply...stops. There is no beginning nor end. It just is.
And that brings me to the chilling tone of the poem itself. By taking away such human inflections implied in capitalization and punctuation, my inner voice reads this poem in a robotic, detached, monotone voice. The odd breaks between phrases contributes to the static, cut-and-dry feeling of the poem. I keep imagining a robot reading this, but trying to read it with human emotion (and doing so unsuccessfully, of course). Whenever the robot gets an emotional groove going, he seems to stop himself, not sure what to say next, and then stammers out the rest of the phrase. It's like an uncomfortable tick tick...tick tick tick...tick method of speaking, like a Morse code that no one quite understands.
And that was just me ranting on about the tone. The content itself is a whole other monster to conquer. If the tone depicts a creepy detachment and robotic lifelessness, then the content that follows will follow, either in an ironic or dreadfully accurate manner. Sadly, it's a mixture of both. I'm not sure I quite understand the significance of "inner" city as opposed to just "city," but I definitely see the irony in calling a city their "home." Despite personalizing a city as a place of dwelling and warmth, the houses are compared as standing as "straight as/ dead men." Combined with the awkward break between the phrase, it gives a sense that the simile used was hesitant, or accidental. Using the robot metaphor once again, it seems as if the robot is trying to find the most accurate description of its visual input; claiming that it's similar to "dead men" gives me the creepy vibe that this speaker has seen rows of dead men before. And if he hasn't, the implications of "dead men" completely negate the house-warming effects of "home." In a place of living, the speaker connects its with death and maybe even infertility (since he only mentions men).
The speaker continues this ironic contrast by "hanging on to our no place," yet "happy to be alive." Despite claiming a home, he has a "no place," and he's oddly "hanging" from it like a hangman game. Through it all, he has to plaster on a facade of happiness throughout the ordeal, or at least try to act happy in the given situation. These lines again dehumanize the speaker, as if he doesn't know any better but to be happy to "hang on to a no place." It's eerie! And finally, the last three lines repeat the first three, ending the poem with an incomplete thought. There appears to be no end to this type of lifestyle, this robotic functioning of living in the city. Homes are compared to dead people, happiness is compared to loneliness, and it all spirals in a circle to who-knows-where.
in the inner city
or
like we call it
home
we think a lot about uptown
and the silent nights
and the houses straight as
dead men
and the pastel lights
and we hang on to our no place
happy to be alive
and in the inner city
or like we call it
home
No, none of these words--not even the title--is supposed to be capitalized. Yes, it pained me to type the whole thing out without touching the caps lock key. It's a very peculiar thing, to read something like this without capitalization or punctuation; it goes beyond childish scrambles of thoughts, but offers a very robotic (in my head, at least) change in tone that I'm not used to reading in. Capitalization, for example, adds some sort of human depth to the poem...maybe a definite beginning? And punctuation does the opposite; it offers a definite end. If you strip this away from a sentence, it just feels like a run-on phrase (in fact, it is a run-on phrase) that goes on forever and ever. The poet epitomizes this by ending the poem with the beginning lines. When I finished reading the poem aloud, my voice had automatically prepped itself for more words, more phrases, but it sadly found none. The poem simply...stops. There is no beginning nor end. It just is.
And that brings me to the chilling tone of the poem itself. By taking away such human inflections implied in capitalization and punctuation, my inner voice reads this poem in a robotic, detached, monotone voice. The odd breaks between phrases contributes to the static, cut-and-dry feeling of the poem. I keep imagining a robot reading this, but trying to read it with human emotion (and doing so unsuccessfully, of course). Whenever the robot gets an emotional groove going, he seems to stop himself, not sure what to say next, and then stammers out the rest of the phrase. It's like an uncomfortable tick tick...tick tick tick...tick method of speaking, like a Morse code that no one quite understands.
And that was just me ranting on about the tone. The content itself is a whole other monster to conquer. If the tone depicts a creepy detachment and robotic lifelessness, then the content that follows will follow, either in an ironic or dreadfully accurate manner. Sadly, it's a mixture of both. I'm not sure I quite understand the significance of "inner" city as opposed to just "city," but I definitely see the irony in calling a city their "home." Despite personalizing a city as a place of dwelling and warmth, the houses are compared as standing as "straight as/ dead men." Combined with the awkward break between the phrase, it gives a sense that the simile used was hesitant, or accidental. Using the robot metaphor once again, it seems as if the robot is trying to find the most accurate description of its visual input; claiming that it's similar to "dead men" gives me the creepy vibe that this speaker has seen rows of dead men before. And if he hasn't, the implications of "dead men" completely negate the house-warming effects of "home." In a place of living, the speaker connects its with death and maybe even infertility (since he only mentions men).
The speaker continues this ironic contrast by "hanging on to our no place," yet "happy to be alive." Despite claiming a home, he has a "no place," and he's oddly "hanging" from it like a hangman game. Through it all, he has to plaster on a facade of happiness throughout the ordeal, or at least try to act happy in the given situation. These lines again dehumanize the speaker, as if he doesn't know any better but to be happy to "hang on to a no place." It's eerie! And finally, the last three lines repeat the first three, ending the poem with an incomplete thought. There appears to be no end to this type of lifestyle, this robotic functioning of living in the city. Homes are compared to dead people, happiness is compared to loneliness, and it all spirals in a circle to who-knows-where.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Black, White, and Paint
After our class's third day of seminar with Invisible Man, I feel more or less conflicted with this book. The more I understand the metaphors and the allusions, the less I understand of the book itself. It's as if Ellison wants to fit all of the world's problems, be they historic (segregation and oppression), concerning identity, freedom, politics, gender, race…the list goes on and on. As we pondered all of these (and more) within the Liberty Paints chapter, the topic of black versus white came up, and this pervaded most of the discussion. The use of black and white doesn't just exclude itself to color or race--it also alludes to truth and lie, light and dark, yin and yang. It's genius, and it's frustrating, to make sense of it all; that leads me to believe that Ellison is able to write such an elegant novel not because he is necessarily "smarter" than the average guy, but that his brain capacity has so much more room and power to make these connections clearly. I can't even begin to wrap my head around the concept of "black and white," and here Ellison is, describing everything wrong with the world mainly using the colors black and white.
Who would've thought that the concept of white paint, for example, connotes a 'fake truth?' My mind went completely over this simple fact in itself, and now every time I think about it my mind is blown at the level of symbolism within this chapter itself. The paint made at Liberty Paints (Liberty…another motif here) can only be brightened by adding a deep black something-or-other to the paint, which at first tints the paint an ugly dark color before transforming into luminescent white that Liberty Paints is famous for "If it's not white, it's not right." However, my horrible experience with paint a couple of years ago made me realize that the claim Ellison is making about the color white, especially in this pretense, is not positive.
A couple of years ago, I wanted to repaint my room green. It was lavender before, but it matched the color of the bathroom, and because of that every time I walk in to my bedroom I have the sudden urge to go to the bathroom and take a shower. This is NOT good if you plan on sleeping and doing homework in your bedroom. So, being the independent and rebellious soul that I was, I bought the paint myself and got to work painting it by myself, against my mom's qualms about messiness and my inability to paint cleanly. I will say that the one job I did well was apply the painters' tape on the crown moulding; however, not even 10 minutes into the painting adventure, I tripped and fell on the bucket of paint. Don't panic; the floor was fine since I had covered it over with plastic. However, my whole left side was covered in disgustingly pale green tinged paint that simply wouldn't wash off after a quick rinse. I will never forget the next week afterwards, the week of the "green arm." It became a testament to my klutziness, a battle scar and an annoyingly green scab that I can't peel off. The image of the paint is still ingrained in my mind; like cracked skin, it hardens and then slowly (but surely) flakes off, one by one.
Yes, it is a slight tangent to the main point. But when we discussed the paint itself my mind immediately went to this memory, an ugly outer skin to my skin, but turns out smooth on the right surface (a plastered wall). It makes me think that when the narrator is sent to Liberty Paints, it's almost like a test; will he react well to the white paint? Will he conform, or will the paint crack on him? Maybe Emerson Jr. was also a secret Brotherhood agent who sent the narrator out there to see if he's got the goods to be a Brotherhood member?
The narrator comes to the inevitable end of regurgitation (ascension?) out of the underground valve room where Lucius Brockway resides. Once the narrator learns what really goes into the paint, what its purpose really is, the factory seems to spit him back out into the wild, as if he's a bad virus that can contaminate the paint. And maybe he is; the narrator is the only one to notice a slight gray tinge to the defected paint, even after inspection by Mr. Kimbro. The narrator doesn't see in black and white; he sees in gray. He acknowledges the necessity of truth and deceit in life, but lives in a world where truth loves to be painted onto things to give the facade of innocence while the insides are in black turmoil. In the narrator's head, white IS black, not a decision of white OR black. Is one scenario better than the other? Well, not necessarily. Everyone knows that the world doesn't run in black and white (in all senses of the two colors). We really do live in a bunch of gray. But it's also true that we crave truth and seek for it everywhere; we demand it, and it's given to us by the higher power. But how do we know that the nuggets of truth given out to us are truly white? What if it's painted over?
Who would've thought that the concept of white paint, for example, connotes a 'fake truth?' My mind went completely over this simple fact in itself, and now every time I think about it my mind is blown at the level of symbolism within this chapter itself. The paint made at Liberty Paints (Liberty…another motif here) can only be brightened by adding a deep black something-or-other to the paint, which at first tints the paint an ugly dark color before transforming into luminescent white that Liberty Paints is famous for "If it's not white, it's not right." However, my horrible experience with paint a couple of years ago made me realize that the claim Ellison is making about the color white, especially in this pretense, is not positive.
A couple of years ago, I wanted to repaint my room green. It was lavender before, but it matched the color of the bathroom, and because of that every time I walk in to my bedroom I have the sudden urge to go to the bathroom and take a shower. This is NOT good if you plan on sleeping and doing homework in your bedroom. So, being the independent and rebellious soul that I was, I bought the paint myself and got to work painting it by myself, against my mom's qualms about messiness and my inability to paint cleanly. I will say that the one job I did well was apply the painters' tape on the crown moulding; however, not even 10 minutes into the painting adventure, I tripped and fell on the bucket of paint. Don't panic; the floor was fine since I had covered it over with plastic. However, my whole left side was covered in disgustingly pale green tinged paint that simply wouldn't wash off after a quick rinse. I will never forget the next week afterwards, the week of the "green arm." It became a testament to my klutziness, a battle scar and an annoyingly green scab that I can't peel off. The image of the paint is still ingrained in my mind; like cracked skin, it hardens and then slowly (but surely) flakes off, one by one.
Yes, it is a slight tangent to the main point. But when we discussed the paint itself my mind immediately went to this memory, an ugly outer skin to my skin, but turns out smooth on the right surface (a plastered wall). It makes me think that when the narrator is sent to Liberty Paints, it's almost like a test; will he react well to the white paint? Will he conform, or will the paint crack on him? Maybe Emerson Jr. was also a secret Brotherhood agent who sent the narrator out there to see if he's got the goods to be a Brotherhood member?
The narrator comes to the inevitable end of regurgitation (ascension?) out of the underground valve room where Lucius Brockway resides. Once the narrator learns what really goes into the paint, what its purpose really is, the factory seems to spit him back out into the wild, as if he's a bad virus that can contaminate the paint. And maybe he is; the narrator is the only one to notice a slight gray tinge to the defected paint, even after inspection by Mr. Kimbro. The narrator doesn't see in black and white; he sees in gray. He acknowledges the necessity of truth and deceit in life, but lives in a world where truth loves to be painted onto things to give the facade of innocence while the insides are in black turmoil. In the narrator's head, white IS black, not a decision of white OR black. Is one scenario better than the other? Well, not necessarily. Everyone knows that the world doesn't run in black and white (in all senses of the two colors). We really do live in a bunch of gray. But it's also true that we crave truth and seek for it everywhere; we demand it, and it's given to us by the higher power. But how do we know that the nuggets of truth given out to us are truly white? What if it's painted over?
Saturday, March 22, 2014
For the Love of Sonnets
Despite the sleepless night beforehand, despite the hour and a half of going over the meaning and structure of sonnets, despite the countless comparisons and contrasts between Italian, Spenserian, and Shakespearean sonnets, despite my fear, anxiety, and nervousness upon entering the classroom yesterday to take my first Sonnet Timed Writing…I have to say, it went over pretty well. This isn't to discount the puzzling nature and the mysterious aura that sonnets bring to the table (literally and figuratively), but when we took the dreaded writing test I found myself enjoying the thrill of the wordy chase, astounded and pleased with the amount of analysis that I did, despite the high-pressured situation. Despite the big impact it could have on my grade.
So what made it so much more enjoyable than other Timed Writings? Maybe I was just having a good day? Maybe the teacher had give us an-- God forbid-- easy sonnet? Nah. None of the above. When I walked out of the classroom with an unusually light heart, I started to ponder the nature of such Sonnet Timed Writings. They were just as difficult as short story analysis, just as frustrating as poetry comparisons, but I had the most fun with it. Unlike all those other horrifying Timed Writings, where you feel as if you're on the edge of a cliff, forced to explore an ocean that you barely know of--but are expected to cartograph (is that a verb?)--sonnets have that one descriptive similarity across all types that we can connect to easily: love. We know beforehand, before we even get the sonnet, what it is going to be about, and from that point on it's up to us to find those creative ways the poet uses his vernacular and wit to construct an idea of love to send across.
This made me question my capabilities not only as an AP Lit student, but as a person in general. I've always thought that connecting academic concepts in real-life applications was time-consuming and only provided busy work, a distraction from the true concepts at hand. But what is the point, really, of learning such concepts if you don't apply it in the first place? I'm not saying I know the true secrets of love to a fine point, but I felt myself connect with the sonnet in some way, and this connection facilitated the reading and analyzing process. By connecting the sonnet to me instead of to a so what statement, I could find its meaning easier and the pieces fell more firmly in place. It was a great feeling. This got me wondering about all those dreadful timed writings in the past, and I made the same type of progress with the one other writing that I felt proud of: the Grendel timed writing. I found its content of existentialism so invigorating and so relatable that writing a timed writing was like blogging about my experiences with the book.
That being said, I probably shouldn't treat every timed writing like a blog post. Using excessive first-person pronouns, cursing once in a while, and complaining aren't going to get me much higher than a 3 on the AP exam. But the attitude that I enter the writing with, the connection that I'm looking forward to explaining, will lead me to the so what and the analysis that I need for a great essay. It worked wonders for my sonnet essay, regardless of what grade I get--I'm proud of my work. Who's to say it wouldn't work for every other essay?
So what made it so much more enjoyable than other Timed Writings? Maybe I was just having a good day? Maybe the teacher had give us an-- God forbid-- easy sonnet? Nah. None of the above. When I walked out of the classroom with an unusually light heart, I started to ponder the nature of such Sonnet Timed Writings. They were just as difficult as short story analysis, just as frustrating as poetry comparisons, but I had the most fun with it. Unlike all those other horrifying Timed Writings, where you feel as if you're on the edge of a cliff, forced to explore an ocean that you barely know of--but are expected to cartograph (is that a verb?)--sonnets have that one descriptive similarity across all types that we can connect to easily: love. We know beforehand, before we even get the sonnet, what it is going to be about, and from that point on it's up to us to find those creative ways the poet uses his vernacular and wit to construct an idea of love to send across.
This made me question my capabilities not only as an AP Lit student, but as a person in general. I've always thought that connecting academic concepts in real-life applications was time-consuming and only provided busy work, a distraction from the true concepts at hand. But what is the point, really, of learning such concepts if you don't apply it in the first place? I'm not saying I know the true secrets of love to a fine point, but I felt myself connect with the sonnet in some way, and this connection facilitated the reading and analyzing process. By connecting the sonnet to me instead of to a so what statement, I could find its meaning easier and the pieces fell more firmly in place. It was a great feeling. This got me wondering about all those dreadful timed writings in the past, and I made the same type of progress with the one other writing that I felt proud of: the Grendel timed writing. I found its content of existentialism so invigorating and so relatable that writing a timed writing was like blogging about my experiences with the book.
That being said, I probably shouldn't treat every timed writing like a blog post. Using excessive first-person pronouns, cursing once in a while, and complaining aren't going to get me much higher than a 3 on the AP exam. But the attitude that I enter the writing with, the connection that I'm looking forward to explaining, will lead me to the so what and the analysis that I need for a great essay. It worked wonders for my sonnet essay, regardless of what grade I get--I'm proud of my work. Who's to say it wouldn't work for every other essay?
Sunday, March 16, 2014
The Mechanical Man
After finishing our first major project of Invisible Man and looking back at all the major quotes I expounded on, one of the themes that really caught my attention (and interest) was this connection between man and machine. Like everything in the book, this relationship isn't directly explained or explicitly mentioned, but there's always a proximity between the two subjects when the narrator mentions one or the other. I was puzzling over this comparison when, in Psychology, reminded me of this idea.
The unit was Social Psychology.
After studying numerous experiments and understanding multiple terms to explain social phenomena, the narrator's constant switch between man and machine suddenly became clearer. There is the act of man himself, physically and mentally unique in an individual setting (man), and then there's the attitude and behavior of a whole group of people acting as one entity (machine). It dehumanizes, it is not unique. It is a nonliving blob that does what the leader switch, or maker wants it to do. It's such a weird paradox, to know that human beings can be two different things.
In Invisible Man, the narrator relates himself as an individual, even though those around him--such as the vet during the bus ride to New York--see him as a machine. Even when the narrator is part of the Brotherhood and conversing with an editor of a magazine who calls him a new leader, the narrator simply replies with "I'm just a cog in a machine." When the narrator is pushing himself to be independent, to stand out from his peers at school, he is a man. When he is part of a movement fighting for a cause, he is a machine (though this can be argued because his passion, which makes him act out, makes him more human than the other members of the Brotherhood). Does identity play a part in this?
In psychology, people who are part of a group go through a phase of non-identity; it is a peculiar type of detachment that cognitively places the individual as part of a group, but not an individual person. This explains why, in group settings, many people are more prone to do inappropriate things or actions. For example, you never hear people enthuse, "Let's have a riot at 3:00!" It always starts as a calmer parade or protest march. Only then does it escalate into a riot, and this riot consists of average citizens who aren't known for being violent up until that point. The deindividuation power of a crowd makes this all possible for people to act out, even though it isn't intentional.
Similarly, the narrator gets caught up in all the Brotherhood plans, and this causes him to lose his own identity and values. Like he mentions towards the end of the novel, he realizes that he accepts all other people's opinions without having the time or chance to create his own. He gets eaten up by the ideas of others and, therefore, acts mechanically under Brother Jack's power for his larger cause, like a robot. What is peculiar about the narrator, however, is that in time he comes to realize that he is the one cog that doesn't fit correctly within the Brotherhood's very mechanical ways; the narrator's outbursts of passion and emotion in his speeches doesn't go over lightly with the Brotherhood, but that's what gets the crowd rallied up and energized. Without realizing it, the narrator acts out from the Brotherhood crowd, and his expression--only a window into his true identity--is constantly shut down by the others in order to promote unity.
Which is better? I honestly don't know. Choosing identity over harmony, individualism over unity, isn't cut-and-dry because one isn't better than the other. This makes the narrator's struggle relatable to our own struggles of fitting in or standing out, doing what they tell you to do or doing what you feel is right.
The unit was Social Psychology.
After studying numerous experiments and understanding multiple terms to explain social phenomena, the narrator's constant switch between man and machine suddenly became clearer. There is the act of man himself, physically and mentally unique in an individual setting (man), and then there's the attitude and behavior of a whole group of people acting as one entity (machine). It dehumanizes, it is not unique. It is a nonliving blob that does what the leader switch, or maker wants it to do. It's such a weird paradox, to know that human beings can be two different things.
In Invisible Man, the narrator relates himself as an individual, even though those around him--such as the vet during the bus ride to New York--see him as a machine. Even when the narrator is part of the Brotherhood and conversing with an editor of a magazine who calls him a new leader, the narrator simply replies with "I'm just a cog in a machine." When the narrator is pushing himself to be independent, to stand out from his peers at school, he is a man. When he is part of a movement fighting for a cause, he is a machine (though this can be argued because his passion, which makes him act out, makes him more human than the other members of the Brotherhood). Does identity play a part in this?
In psychology, people who are part of a group go through a phase of non-identity; it is a peculiar type of detachment that cognitively places the individual as part of a group, but not an individual person. This explains why, in group settings, many people are more prone to do inappropriate things or actions. For example, you never hear people enthuse, "Let's have a riot at 3:00!" It always starts as a calmer parade or protest march. Only then does it escalate into a riot, and this riot consists of average citizens who aren't known for being violent up until that point. The deindividuation power of a crowd makes this all possible for people to act out, even though it isn't intentional.
Similarly, the narrator gets caught up in all the Brotherhood plans, and this causes him to lose his own identity and values. Like he mentions towards the end of the novel, he realizes that he accepts all other people's opinions without having the time or chance to create his own. He gets eaten up by the ideas of others and, therefore, acts mechanically under Brother Jack's power for his larger cause, like a robot. What is peculiar about the narrator, however, is that in time he comes to realize that he is the one cog that doesn't fit correctly within the Brotherhood's very mechanical ways; the narrator's outbursts of passion and emotion in his speeches doesn't go over lightly with the Brotherhood, but that's what gets the crowd rallied up and energized. Without realizing it, the narrator acts out from the Brotherhood crowd, and his expression--only a window into his true identity--is constantly shut down by the others in order to promote unity.
Which is better? I honestly don't know. Choosing identity over harmony, individualism over unity, isn't cut-and-dry because one isn't better than the other. This makes the narrator's struggle relatable to our own struggles of fitting in or standing out, doing what they tell you to do or doing what you feel is right.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Arsehole, Artist, Joker, Judge
While our Lit group was discussing some possible ideas for our new Hamlet filming project (something I'm ashamed to say I'm excited for--it gives me more time to procrastinate on the Invisible Man project), it became very clear what our challenge will be. Our goal that day was to get a main "gist" of what each character will be like, and then we can assign him a newer, modern version of that role. For instance, we labeled Gertrude a cold, heartless witch monkey, insert-derogatory-female-word-here, from the very beginning. It was nice to see her sweet and innocent and all in Kenneth Branaugh's version, but for some peculiar reason she never struck us as that type of lady. In a quick, concurring decision, Gertrude was going to be the nosy character that everybody loves to hate in the TV shows. Easy.
Next.
And it was that way for many of the characters we were planning on including except one-- one character that all of us unconsciously avoided, the elephant in the room, the main character--Hamlet. It seemed so easy for us to label all these characters that didn't go too much in depth in the story. Characters like Gertrude, Ophelia, Claudius, even Laertes, were easy to distinguish, label, and categorize into some sort of niche or cliche, no hard feelings. So why is it so hard to do Hamlet? As I sat there listening to all my classmates' great ideas for our reality show, the absence of a main character bugged me--not because I was worried we wouldn't find one, but that the sorting, the categorizing, didn't come as quickly as I had expected. It brought me back to the discussion we had with the post-it notes with some central questions as to Hamlet's being: Is Hamlet a philosopher or a moral judge? Is he an artist or a joker? Is he poison, or is that Claudius's role?
There are a million and one pieces of text evidence that can support and deny all of them. You can make a snap judgment and claim him a bearer of truth, but just as quickly find evidence of his fabulous acting skills within the majority of ACT III. Fine then, he's a liar and an actor. Just as well, but in ACT I he seemed to do quite well in morally judging his mother and Claudius as they festively drank to Claudius's kingship. As annoying of a brat he is, he's also complicated. He's multifaceted. And whether we want to believe it or not, we find a personal connection with Hamlet that we can't find in the more extreme characters, like Ophelia or Gertrude. Both ladies represent a more specific personality type that some, but not all of us, can connect with. Sure, I can sympathize with Gertrude's struggle in finding out what's wrong with her son; you could argue that she was just trying to be a good mother, finding the best for her son. But I can't forgive her for marrying her dead husband's brother--even though it isn't technically incestuous, it's a slap in the face in the name of the late King. No one our age, no one in our generation, could connect with that, face that same problem.
But with Hamlet, it's different. His personality splits off many ways, a paradoxical combination of good and bad, sweet and sour, dirty and clean. He's more human than the rest of them. His struggle of choice resides with our own struggles in making decisions throughout our lives. Do we not ask ourselves the same questions of being, of conscience and of choice? No, it isn't to Ophelia's extent to possible suicide. But it's there, isn't it, gnawing at our thoughts if we give them enough attention?
And with that, I look at Hamlet's empty space next to "Possible TV Show Character." Everybody else's slots are filled: evil b**** (Gertrude), innocent, dumb-blonde lover (Ophelia). How are you supposed to caricature a character who plays as a human? We'll figure that out soon enough.
Next.
And it was that way for many of the characters we were planning on including except one-- one character that all of us unconsciously avoided, the elephant in the room, the main character--Hamlet. It seemed so easy for us to label all these characters that didn't go too much in depth in the story. Characters like Gertrude, Ophelia, Claudius, even Laertes, were easy to distinguish, label, and categorize into some sort of niche or cliche, no hard feelings. So why is it so hard to do Hamlet? As I sat there listening to all my classmates' great ideas for our reality show, the absence of a main character bugged me--not because I was worried we wouldn't find one, but that the sorting, the categorizing, didn't come as quickly as I had expected. It brought me back to the discussion we had with the post-it notes with some central questions as to Hamlet's being: Is Hamlet a philosopher or a moral judge? Is he an artist or a joker? Is he poison, or is that Claudius's role?
There are a million and one pieces of text evidence that can support and deny all of them. You can make a snap judgment and claim him a bearer of truth, but just as quickly find evidence of his fabulous acting skills within the majority of ACT III. Fine then, he's a liar and an actor. Just as well, but in ACT I he seemed to do quite well in morally judging his mother and Claudius as they festively drank to Claudius's kingship. As annoying of a brat he is, he's also complicated. He's multifaceted. And whether we want to believe it or not, we find a personal connection with Hamlet that we can't find in the more extreme characters, like Ophelia or Gertrude. Both ladies represent a more specific personality type that some, but not all of us, can connect with. Sure, I can sympathize with Gertrude's struggle in finding out what's wrong with her son; you could argue that she was just trying to be a good mother, finding the best for her son. But I can't forgive her for marrying her dead husband's brother--even though it isn't technically incestuous, it's a slap in the face in the name of the late King. No one our age, no one in our generation, could connect with that, face that same problem.
But with Hamlet, it's different. His personality splits off many ways, a paradoxical combination of good and bad, sweet and sour, dirty and clean. He's more human than the rest of them. His struggle of choice resides with our own struggles in making decisions throughout our lives. Do we not ask ourselves the same questions of being, of conscience and of choice? No, it isn't to Ophelia's extent to possible suicide. But it's there, isn't it, gnawing at our thoughts if we give them enough attention?
And with that, I look at Hamlet's empty space next to "Possible TV Show Character." Everybody else's slots are filled: evil b**** (Gertrude), innocent, dumb-blonde lover (Ophelia). How are you supposed to caricature a character who plays as a human? We'll figure that out soon enough.
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