Short story: “She”

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It was a crisp fall day where the warm sun caressed the golden leaves but the strong air still sent shivers through her, goosebumps slowly making their way to the surface of her flesh.

I’m leaving, she said.

The wind caught a strand of hair, dragging across her face. She pushed it away and faced him. He held her captive with his hard, dark eyes. How could she do this to him?

I’m leaving, she said again.

A gently urgent breeze whipped the hem of her skirt around her knees. She wrapped her sweater more tightly around her. He stood there so unrelenting and silent; a standoff in the driveway. He made no move towards her and she stood frozen with her hand on the car door handle.

I’m leaving, she said a third time, after a pause.

The wind wrapped around her completely, insistently, and she shivered. She watched his chest rise and fall with each somber breath.

I’m leaving. A whisper.

A final resigned breeze caught her filmy blue scarf and sent it fluttering down like a flag of surrender. Slowly, slowly, he bent down to pick it up and extended it towards her.

She placed her hand in his and followed him back into the house.

Short story: “James”

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James

Violins play softly as I sit drumming my fingers on the red checked tablecloth with flickering candles as the only light in the whole room. This is a horrible spot to meet James for dinner. The candlelight, soft music, Italian food…it all spells out disaster. It’s the final piece of the puzzle, the last straw, the point of no return. It officially labels me as a romantic.

I’m independent, not romantic. It’s my thing. My older sister is the pretty one and I am the tough one, the daughter my Dad doesn’t need to worry about even though I don’t have a husband to take care of me. I’m a smart and strong and independent woman and then I have to go and meet James. Wonderful James, who gives me butterflies and makes me do stupid things like smile to myself at work while I dreamily braid my hair and send text messages with kissy faces and x’s and o’s. I even pretended the other day that I couldn’t open the jar of pickles so he would have to come and help me but it turned out the lid wasn’t even screwed on and so he saw right through what I was doing and laughed and kissed my forehead and called me adorable. How mortifying. No, I’ve never felt this way before.

Jeez, I’ve even gone to church with him the last three Sundays. I’ve never been a very religious person. The truth is, airports see more sincere kisses than wedding chapels. The walls of hospitals hear more prayers than the walls of churches. And then I meet James, and he turns everything I think upside down and I contemplate things like religion and heaven and angels and all other kinds of stuff. I start to enjoy going to his church services, and I like the God he tells me about and I start to wonder if maybe my view of God is messed up, not James’s. His God is different than mine. James talks about forgiveness and redemption and second chances and my God sits up on a dark thundercloud in heaven, angry and disapproving and ready to strike down the pathetic mortals for not living up to His expectations. Especially me.

I sip from my wine glass. It’s a wonder James still stays with me; not only stays, but wants to stay. I have a broken soul; I know that. I don’t pretend otherwise. It makes every one else run screaming but James wants to hear about it; he wants to talk with me about what gives me awful nightmares in the middle of the night and why I hate rainstorms. And so I tell, and he listens and just when I start to think that this story, this secret, this skeleton in my closet will be the end of us, will be too much for him to hear, he just holds me and sometimes I think his eyes are full of tears when he says he wants to protect me from ever being hurt again. And I start to believe that he can. And the scariest part is…I want him to. I don’t hide anything from him anymore. I expose it all, and then I wait for him to run, just like other guys did—not that there’d been a lot of them. But there’s something different about James. He doesn’t run. And I don’t want him to.

I wish I didn’t feel this way. We’re all immortal until that first kiss and second glass of wine. I met him when we were in line getting coffee. It was a Tuesday and he said something ridiculous and cheesy like he didn’t know angels flew so low and I got flustered and dropped my coffee all over his shoes and while we were cleaning up the mess he asked for my number and I gave it to him and ran away. So I thought that was the end of it and then that night my phone rang and I answered and then four hours later I was laughing more than I’d ever thought possible and we had made plans for a date the very next day. Eight months later I’m disgustingly head over heels in love, one of those annoying girls who constantly talk about how amazing her boyfriend is and sings “Crazy in Love” in the shower and looks at wedding dresses online. My family keeps asking when we’re getting married. They love him almost as much as I do and I’m just shocked because I’ve finally done something my older sister approves of.

I check the time as the waiter stops by for the fourth time to see if I need anything. It’s not like James to be late. I had actually been the one to plan this date, and he had been so excited. I don’t plan dates. I don’t get excited about them. I say things like, “I don’t care; wherever you want to eat,” and now look at me. I make myself sick. I’d bought a new red dress that was much more sensual than anything I’d ever owned before. Red! It made me feel like a fire engine but I bought it anyway because it was kind of sassy and James loves red and I curled my hair and I was wearing the pearls he’d bought me. I’d even put perfume behind my earlobes. Ugh. I know he’ll love it, though. And yeah, maybe the heart shaped pizza is a bit much, but I’ll just say I hope he doesn’t think I’m too cheesy and then he’ll throw his head back and laugh that wonderful laugh of his, the one that thrills me right down to my toes and then he’ll lean across the table and kiss me. He kisses better than anyone I’ve ever kissed, and my older sister says that I can’t say that because he’s the only man I’ve ever kissed but that’s not true because Billy Driscoll kissed me behind the librarian’s cart in 7th grade and one time this really drunk guy kissed me in a bar and I let him because I was tired of having only Billy on my list. Billy, who cut my lip with his braces and then tattled to Ms. Cambridge that I’d gotten blood all over Pride and Prejudice and I had to face her wrath. The drunk guy had reeked of whiskey and stopped slobbering on me long enough to throw up on the floor and then resume his ardor without even rinsing his mouth and so those were both such awful experiences that they better count for something. Third time’s definitely the charm. James is the best because I can feel the love and sincerity coming right through his lips and I don’t worry about if I’m a good kisser or not because all I can think is, dang, this guy really likes me a lot and so I just kiss him back and he doesn’t complain, so there, Tessa. I used to hate couples kissing in public before, but I don’t protest anymore.

My phone rings, James’s picture popping up on my screen. “Hello?”

“Hey, beautiful.” His warm voice makes my heart beat faster and I start to believe that I am what he always calls me.

“Hi.” I giggle, something I never do except around him. “Where are you?”

“Stuck at work.” He lets out a frustrated breath. “I feel awful, but we might have to postpone tonight. I just can’t get away.”

My heart stops beating. I force my lips to move. “Sure. That’s no problem.”

“You know I wouldn’t miss tonight if there were any other way. My boss—“

“Yeah. No, I know.”

“Tomorrow for sure; I promise. I can’t wait. I gotta go but I’ll call you later, okay, baby?”

“Sure.”

“I love you.”

“Love you.” I hang up the phone and sit staring at the dark screen for a moment.

“Signora?” The waiter comes over. “Is your date coming?”

I sigh as I try to stand in the crazy high stilettos I had bought for that night. “No. He’s not.” That’s what happens when you follow your heart.

I leave James a voicemail that night, breaking up with him.

“Because of His Love for Her:” a One Act Play

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In my junior year of college, we studied how to write one act plays in my creative writing class. I originally wasn’t too thrilled with the genre, but the idea for this one came to me and I ended up scribbling it down (while I was in another class half listening to the lecture….oops.) After some polishing, it’s actually one of my favorite things I’ve written.

Because of His Love For Her

(Setting: café. Friends eating lunch.)

Rachel: You’re such a cynic. It’s disgusting.

Jacob: I’m not a cynic; I’m a realist. There’s a difference.

Rachel: Predicting that every single one of my relationships will fail isn’t realistic, Jacob. It’s pessimistic.

Jacob: (affronted) You wound me! Did I say anything about charming Harold when you asked me not to? I never once foretold any ill tidings about that relationship. I kept my mouth shut.

Rachel: Harold left me for my best friend!

Jacob: (laughing as he takes a drink) You make this too easy for me.

Rachel: Say what you want about Nathaniel. He’s the one; I know it.

Jacob: You’ve been going out for three weeks! I have leftovers in my fridge I’ve had a longer relationship with!

(Waiter arrives with food. Jacob waits as Rachel bows her head and prays silently)

Rachel: Nathaniel is different. He’s sweet and funny, and he treats me well!

Jacob: Well, that’s true. I mean, I wasn’t the one who had to come jump your car this morning. (loudly slurps straw, looking innocent.)

Rachel: (hesitates) He…he’s an auditor. He doesn’t know a lot about cars.

Jacob: Really?

Rachel: Why do you say it like that?

Jacob: No, nothing. I was just thinking about that mechanic you dated in college. That was handy, considering the beat up old trap you insist on driving around.

Rachel: Jesse? Yeah, he was nice. Thanks for ending that, by the way.

Jacob: What?!

Rachel: Don’t play innocent. You introduced him to every attractive, available woman you knew! You were there after he gave me the whole, “It’s just not working out, Rachel,” speech before dating Kelly three days later.

Jacob: Ah, yes. I do remember that. You got tears and snot all over my hoodie that night. (shudders)

Rachel: You’re a jerk.

Jacob: That is entirely your opinion. So, what does Nathanial think about the book you’ve been working on?

Rachel: (picking at salad) He’s not a—a big reader.

Jacob: No?

Rachel: (slightly longer pause) No.

Jacob: Huh.

Rachel: What?

Jacob: I was just thinking about that one guy you dated who loved reading. What was his name?

Rachel: David.

Jacob: David! He was a nice guy.

Rachel: (irritated) Are you kidding?

Jacob: What?

Rachel: You intimidated him every chance you got: challenging him, tearing him down, humiliating him–

Jacob: You do have to admit that sweater he bought for you for your birthday was atrocious. And several sizes too big, I add. I was merely defending your honor by pronouncing it the most hideous thing I’d ever seen and suggesting that perhaps any man who buys a sweater for his girlfriend of almost two years is afraid of commitment. Is it my fault that he was offended by that?

Rachel: YES!

Jacob: Debatable.

(Rachel rolls her eyes. Brief silence)

Jacob: So what does this wonderful Nathaniel do instead of reading?

Rachel: (faintly) He…camps.

Jacob: Camps! Does he hunt?

Rachel: I don’t—

Jacob: He probably does. All hunters camp, you know. He probably enjoys killing innocent animals for fun. Then he’ll keep your fridge stuffed with all that meat and make you wear the furs.

Rachel: STOP. You don’t know that. You don’t know him. Just because you hate marriage doesn’t mean all relationships are doomed to fail.

(Silence. Jacob removes the onions from Rachel’s plate and puts them on his own. She drums her fingers on the table, irritated. Suddenly drops fork, which makes a loud clattering noise.)

Rachel: Nathanial is charming, and sweet, and he has big plans for his life. He’s ambitious, and-and polite—(with a sudden burst of inspiration) His name means gift from God!

Jacob: (with mock seriousness) The heavens have foretold it.

Rachel: I’m serious. He’s fantastic.

Jacob: (checking watch) Well, apparently punctuality isn’t on the list of wonderful attributes for our dear Nathaniel.

Rachel: He’ll be here. And I was doing fine waiting for him by myself.

Jacob: Of course you were.

Rachel: I didn’t need you to come sit with me so I wasn’t eating all alone.

Jacob: Of course you didn’t!

Rachel: I am a strong, independent woman, perfectly capable of surviving on my own.

Jacob: (patronizing) Of course you are.

(Silence. Jacob lifts up the top bun of his burger; Rachel removes the pickles and places them on her plate.)

Rachel: Do you want to know the best thing about Nathaniel?

Jacob: His rugged good looks?

Rachel: (irritated) No.

Jacob: You mean he’s NOT good looking?

Rachel: No! I mean, yes! But that’s not what I’m talking about. Nathanial….(important pause) actually believes in marriage. (sits back, pleased)

Jacob: Hm. Does he want kids?

Rachel: (triumphantly) Yes! He does! Lots of kids!

Jacob: Awwww, how sweet. Is he gonna help take care of them?

Rachel: Well, no…he travels a lot for his job–

Jacob: Huh. So, YOU’LL stop teaching?

Rachel: We…haven’t really talked about that.

Jacob: Oh, my mistake. I thought since you’ve been discussing marriage you’d have talked about kids. (brief pause) And religion.

(Rachel is silent)

Jacob: (overly shocked) SURELY you’ve talked about RELIGION?

Rachel: I mean….sort of…(firmly) I definitely think he’s Lutheran.

Jacob: Lutheran.

Rachel: Yes. (pause) Or maybe Baptist.

Jacob: Baptist?

Rachel: Yes. (pause) Or…or maybe Catholic.

Jacob: Catholic!

Rachel: Yes.

Jacob: Ah.

(Silence)

Jacob: Perhaps he’s Jewish!

Rachel: (frowns thoughtfully, considering) No, I don’t think so….

Jacob: Or maybe he’s Mormon. Maybe he already has a couple of wives!

Rachel: He does not!

Jacob: (chuckles and takes a bite of his burger) You don’t even know his religious beliefs.

Rachel: I do, too.

Jacob: Prove it.

Rachel: Prove it? What, are we 7 years old again?

Jacob: Well, you’ve told me you’re probably gonna marry this guy, so you must know all there is to know about him. So, prove it! What religion does our dear gift from God follow?

Rachel: I…I think he’s actually…more…non-religious (sneaks look at Jacob, who is nonchalantly chewing.)

Rachel: So. (another pause. She awkwardly toys with her silverware. A sudden burst of laughter from Jacob startles her.)

Rachel: What? What?! What’s so funny?

Jacob: This guy is your polar opposite, and you think he’s the perfect one. You’re going to end up chained for the rest of your life to an illiterate chauvinist who makes you quit your job to take care of all the kids you keep popping out, and skips church on Sunday to murder Bambi’s mother!

Rachel: Stop it! (Jacob continues to laugh, slapping table) Rachel: You know what?

Jacob: (still laughing) What?

Rachel: You…you are…just…

(Jacob’s laughter flusters her)

Rachel: A mean cynic!

Jacob: Realist, my darling. Realist.

(In a huff, Rachel turns to her Coke. Jacob continues to laugh softly.)

Rachel: Shut up.

Jacob: Oh, I just can’t.

(They eat in silence for a moment; Jacob’s amused, Rachel’s indignant.)

Rachel: Why do you have to be so mean to me all the time?

Jacob: It’s good for you. It’ll put hair on your chest.

Rachel: I don’t want hair on my chest. I want to have a conversation with you for once without you shooting down all of my choices in men and making me feel like an idiot.

Jacob: Is it my fault that every guy you pick out has mortal flaws? You missed a pickle.

Rachel: They weren’t all bad.

Jacob: Nah. I especially liked the guy who liked to argue that he really was abducted by aliens. Take this pickle.

Rachel: One date! I went on one date with that man—he does not count!

Jacob: I’m giving you my opinion. Pickle!

Rachel: I don’t want your stupid opinion.

(Exasperated, Jacob gingerly picks the pickle off his burger and holds it between two fingers out to Rachel, stops when he sees she is sitting dejected.)

Rachel: I just…what’s wrong with me that all of my relationships have failed miserably?

Jacob: They’re jerks.

Rachel: Not all of them. Jesse was a nice guy. David was a nice guy. Harold— (pause) Okay, Harold was a jerk. But everyone else was great. They were great! And it ended badly. And now they’re all married or engaged. It shows that the problem wasn’t because of them. That leaves one person. Me. So, I ask you. What’s wrong with me?

 (Long silence as they stare at each other.)

Jacob: Maybe it’s your man hands.

Rachel: (shocked) My what?!

Jacob: Nah, that’s probably not it. Maybe it’s your cooking. Or your whining. You do whine a lot.

Rachel: (hurt) That’s a mean thing to say!

(Jacob raises eyebrow, grinning.)

Rachel: I hate you.

Jacob: Sometimes, yeah, you do. And sometimes I deserve it. But you have to admit—I’m always right. You could even call me Mr. Right.

(Silence.)

Rachel: (glumly) Nathanial’s gonna be out of town for my cousin’s wedding.

Jacob: Oh. When is it?

Rachel: Next Saturday. Do you have a game?

Jacob: Nope. We lost last week and the tournament ended. I can go with you so you don’t have to deal with Grandma Ruth’s proclamations of, ‘Oh, my poor, poor Rachel, doomed to single-hood forever!’

Rachel: Thanks, Jacob. (smiles.)

Jacob: Any time. (brief pause) Now will you please take this pickle before I throw it at you?

(Rachel removes the pickle from his burger and eats it. They sit in companionable silence, eating their meals. Nathanial enters, sits in chair next to Rachel.)

Nathaniel: Sorry I’m late—

Rachel: You’re ALWAYS late.

Nathaniel: (taken aback) What?

Rachel: And I don’t want to quit my job!

Nathaniel: But I never—

Rachel: And I AM A VEGETARIAN! (throws napkin down and exits)

(Nathanial looks bewildered at a very pleased Jacob, who quickly schools his features to look sympathetic.)

Jacob: Tough break, Sport. (shrugs innocently) Women! (pats shoulder and leaves him sitting alone at the table, dials a number on his phone.) Jacob: Hey man, listen. I’m not gonna be able to play in the tournament next weekend….

Book Review: The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven

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I have a love/hate relationship with Sherman Alexie. I adore him because of the talent he possesses. I cringe when I pick up any of his writings because I know I’m about to get punched in the gut. The Long Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven is no exception.

Sherman Alexie has a way of storytelling that makes the reader feel as though he/she is in the midst of the situation. He uses matter-of-fact language when describing circumstances that are based on his real life experiences. The tone he sets in his various stories does a good job at conveying the lot of American Indians.

This is especially seen in “That is what it Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona.” Victor does not have the money for a plane ticket to Arizona. He is travelling there because his deceased father has a savings account to be claimed. His former friend, Thomas-Builds-the-Fire, offers to lend him the money if Victor will take him along. They arrive to find the trailer, reeking from having contained his father’s dead body for over a week in the Arizona sun. Alexie describes the situation in an almost detached narrative voice that, surprisingly, actually lends more emotion to the story.

Alexie is also proficient at telling sad stories from his community with the absence of a whiny voice. Readers especially notice this when reading, “The Only Traffic Signal on the Reservation Doesn’t Flash Red Anymore.” Alexie sets the stage as he does so frequently and skillfully and the reader is swept up in the story of Julius, a young boy playing basketball on the reservation. Through the voice of Victor, Alexie recounts Julius and his eventual downfall after he gets involved with alcohol. This is a particular strength of Alexie’s; he is able to use his pieces of literature to send the message about the destructive properties of alcohol without appearing preachy or judgmental. Alexie refers to Julius as being a figure of hope for the people on the reservation; Julius was a talented basketball player and wanted to go to college. People thought he could make it, but then he got involved with drinking. He describes it as a huge hurt and disappointment to everyone on the reservation, but no one is surprised because that is what they expect to happen.

That is perhaps the saddest aspect of Alexie and his writings: there is a cycle of helplessness in which the characters find themselves. In “Every Little Hurricane,” Victor recounts how his father was spit on at a bus stop, his mother was forcibly sterilized after he was born, and how his uncles had stashed crackers in their bedroom as children so they could have something to eat. He remembers his father crying on Christmas Eve because there wasn’t any money for presents. He frequently mentions how people on the reservation are stuck in a cycle of drinking and poverty and while some are apathetic about changing, others simply don’t know how. It is all they and the generations before them have known.

One thing to note about many of Alexie’s short stories is that he likes to have his characters regularly employ colorful language. Call me old fashioned, but this bothers me. While it can be argued that explicit language can be appropriate and useful depending on the character or situation, Alexie’s heavy and frequent use of extremely offensive words is a bit over the top. So many instances of vulgar language take away from the other language Alexie uses that is incredibly descriptive and actually cheapens his stories. It distracts from the message he is trying to send in telling them. His stories could be just as (if not more) powerful if the frequency of those words was reduced.

Book Review: Woman Warrior: Memoir of a Girlhood Among Ghosts

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Maxine Hong Kingston recalls stories from her past and recounts them in her work of creative non-fiction Woman Warrior. Her stories reflect the situations of women within the Chinese culture, as well as Chinese Americans living in the United States during the Chinese Revolution. She discusses explosive topics (particularly when they are paired with women) such as education, fighting, sexism, and family life. She tells stories from her mother’s past and effortlessly blends her autobiography with Chinese folktales in such a way that the reader could misunderstand and believe that it is purely an autobiographical story.

Maxine Hong Kingston opens Women Warrior with a story of her mother telling Kingston as a child to never talk about her aunt. Kingston’s aunt becomes pregnant while her husband is away at war, and Kingston’s mother recounts the story of what happened to her; the village is enraged and ransacks her house. She retreats and gives birth alone, after which she takes the child and jumps into the family well, committing suicide. Kingston ponders this story of the “No Name Woman”; she wonders if her aunt had loved the man, or perhaps if she was forced into the sexual relationship and had no choice in the matter. Kingston frequently talks about women and the gross injustice of the oppression they are required to face.

Kingston goes on to tell the story of the warrior Fa Mu Lan, essentially morphing into the character herself. She describes the training she endures, as well as the skills and intelligence that are needed to withstand the experiences that she does. It is interesting to note that Kingston chooses to tell this story in relation to the story of her aunt; the two women (Fa Mu Lan and her aunt) are so starkly different. While Kingston’s aunt (whose name we never learn because the family is trying to wipe out her memory) gives up rather easily and does not fight, Fa Mu Lan is a committed warrior who does not let her circumstances affect her or her attitude. Fa Mu Lan is brave, strong, and unhindered.

Kingston also highlights racism in her collection of stories. She is disappointed in herself because she cannot stand up to her racist boss, who frequently makes horrifying comments to Kingston. She wishes that she could be like Fa Mu Lan and bravely stand up to her boss, but she is not bold. She expresses her discomfort in whispers and squeaks, after which she is fired. Kingston is very bitter and angry about the racism she faces, and that reflects strongly in the way she describes and refers to Americans and the United States in general.

Kingston’s writings also have a very spiritual nature to them. She frequently refers to stories involving ghosts, spirits, and other paranormal activity. Kingston tells a particularly striking story involving her mother’s educational life, in which she faces and overcomes one of the ghosts that lurk in the halls. It is known as “The Sitting Ghost,” and Kingston’s mother lights buckets of alcohol and oil on fire in order to scare it away. Although it is not an explicitly Christian story, spiritual matters heavily influence Kingston while she is writing Woman Warrior.

Beloved: A Book Review

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Toni Morrison’s novel Beloved covers many different themes; she writes about revenge, racism, death/loss, self worth, relationships, and the importance of community. Her story tackles disturbing situations such as sexual assault, infanticide, slavery, and the mistreatment of human beings that borders on being torturous. She even touches on the supernatural with the aspect of the house being haunted by a ghost, which everyone believes to be the spirit of Sethe’s daughter. Perhaps the most significant theme Morrison touches on, however, is that of identity.

Many characters struggle in the story with the concept of their identity, taken away from because of the horrors of slavery. Baby Suggs, for instance, is confused when her former master is driving her to freedom. Her son has worked overtime on Saturdays, Sundays, and nights to be able to buy her freedom. Mr. Garner refers to her as Jenny Whitlow a few times, and she doesn’t understand why. He finally reveals that Jenny is her real name, not Baby Suggs, which she goes by because her husband was Suggs, and he called her baby. Mr. Garner tells her to go back to Jenny Whitlow when she is in the North because he tells her Baby Suggs is not a “real” name. It has become her identity and is what she had been called by her loved ones, however, and she continues to introduce herself as such even when she is a free woman in the North.

Stamp Paid, too, deals with identity. He renames himself after he has paid off all of his old debts because he feels as though his new name will more accurately reflect his character. He was originally born under the name of “Joshua,” but changes it because he wants a name that is solely his own. Unlike Baby Suggs, he does not have emotional ties to his name, but wishes to be completely freed from his past. His new name not only reveals what he believes to be his identity, but also helps him view himself as an entirely different person.

Paul D and his brothers represent the idea of identity, as well. Their situation deals more with the negative aspects of slavery; they are all named Paul, but are distinguished by the initial that follows: Paul D, Paul A, and Paul F. The fact that the three brothers all have the same name signifies how slavery swallows up an individual’s character to the point that the only difference between the three men is one letter. Readers learn more about Paul D and his character, but names are a significant part of one’s identity; Paul D and his brothers are denied that basic right.

Sethe is arguably the character in which the theme of identity can be seen the most strongly. When Beloved “returns,” Sethe’s identity becomes completely swallowed up in her, to the point that she has no distinctive character outside of her daughter. She is completely obsessed with Beloved, to the point that she is completely dumbfounded and disbelieving when Paul D tells her that she is her best thing, not her daughter. All of the brutalities she faces chip away at her until she is no longer Sethe; perhaps she does not even remember who Sethe is.

Toni Morrison tells a moving story and uses many different themes that broadly cover all of the atrocities that fall under slavery. Her writing shows how the dehumanization of humans leads to cruelty, rape, and the break up of families, and, in some situations, death. Many of the slaves also display a loss of individuality and defining characteristics, as well. Morrison rightly believes the loss of identity is just as much of a tragedy as these horrors, and her writing reflects that with many characters.

Life is a Dance

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I generally don’t dance. Not at weddings, not at parties, not anywhere. It used to be my absolute rule. Dancing is awkward. You don’t know where to put your hands or what exactly to do with your feet. You can make a fool of yourself. Avoid it. It’s a good rule…except for when people tried to change your mind.

Our long time family friend has a hoedown every fall on his several acre farm. There are enormous tire swings made from tractor tires and a bonfire that once reached a record height of 33 feet high and food and laughing and square dancing and a hayride through the property and if you show up without a cowboy hat one will be provided for you at the door.

Square dancing.

I take pictures.

But one year, I was listening to the caller, who was barely understandable with his fake southern accent, and enjoying my hot apple cider when a voice interrupted me.

“Would you like to dance with me?”

I jumped, sloshing my cider over the rim of my cup and onto the hay-covered barn floor dangerously close to his feet. Normally I laughed invitations off kindly or flat out refused. But this time, for whatever reason, I said, “Sure.”

It was the worst dance of my life.

It was awkward and jumbled and I didn’t know what to do or where to go and at one point I jabbed him in the stomach with my elbow. I was completely out of my comfort zone.

It was the best dance of my life.

Dancing is a lot like love and life. You don’t know what to do and sometimes you make mortifying mistakes for the whole world to see and sometimes it clicks and something beautiful is born.

It all depends on your partner. Choose wisely.