Place Gives Us Identity

In his book, Travels With Charley, John Steinbeck lamented modernization, saying “It seemed to me that regional speech is in the process of disappearing, not gone but going. Forty years of radio and twenty years of television must have this impact” (Steinbeck 80).  What Steinbeck recognized was that regionalism, or distinct markers of place, ground us and give us our identity.  Steinbeck feared that with national radio and television, these markers would slowly disappear.  While there has admittedly been some blurring of the lines, Steinbeck would probably be relieved to know that he was wrong, and regionalism, including regional speech, is as important as ever.  

So why does “place” matter?  Why do we find comfort in identifying with a specific region, as well as being able to recognize markers that tell us where someone else belongs?   On the internet, there are several quizzes and memes that play into this.  “30 Things That Only Ohioans Know.”   “Which State Do You Belong In?”  “You know You’re From Ohio if. . . “ These can be found for any state, as well as several cities and even colleges.  What is our fascination with location? 

The fact is, everyone wants to belong somewhere.  There’s a certain pride in identifying with a location, even if, like Cleveland, there are lots of jokes about that location.  Ask anyone in the area about being a Cleveland fan, we’ll smile ruefully and give each other knowing looks.  But let an outsider say something negative about one of our teams, and you’d better back up. Those jokes are only okay if we’re the ones telling them.  I suspect this is true for pretty much anywhere, although it does seem like Cleveland is the butt of an awful lot of jokes.  

So how does this idea of regional identity transfer to American Gothic?  Much the same way, really, except the joke slides away to show the ugly reality underneath.  In Gothic literature, the place makes the person, but usually in rather unpleasant ways.  In Saint Marie, Marie is who she is because she lives on an Indian Reservation.  It has made her tough, but it has also shown her that the world is unfair and cruel.  The convent is “on top of the highest hill, so that from its windows the Sisters can be looking into the marrow of the town” (Erdich 2).  This location serves to set the convent and the Sisters apart, which enables Sister Leopolda to embrace her judgmental nature with confidence that she is, in fact, better than everyone else.  

In The Shawl, the characters are driven to their actions due to their placement in a concentration camp.  If it weren’t for this location, Magda would be able to run free and not need the security of the shawl. If it weren’t for the harshness of the camp, perhaps Stella would not have been so harsh to those weaker than her.  It is the location that causes the personality to change.  The people have no effect on the location.  

In Wise Blood, place is also instrumental in making Haze who he is, except in Haze’s case, it is a lack of belonging to location that changes him.  “The misery he had was a longing for home” (O’Connor 18).  Throughout the book, Haze is searching for who he wants to be, which in turn will help him to find home.  His own home, of course, was destroyed, leaving his soul adrift.  He briefly finds solace in owning a car, as he tells the car salesman “I wanted this car mostly to be a house for me. . .I ain’t got any place to be” (O’Connor 69).  Later in the story, Haze begins to live in an absurd parody of the blind preacher’s life, even mimicking his “home” by moving into the same building.  This location helps him solidify his identity as a preacher, albeit the opposite of the kind he thought he’d be when he was younger.  The lack of a true home follows him throughout the book, ultimately leading him to die in a random ditch.  (This is a parody of every worried parent ever - “I had no idea where you were; I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere!”) For Haze, lack of a sense of place leads to lack of a sense of self, and ultimately, a life wasted. 

The Importance of Gothic Literature and Self-Examination

       In the musical Hamilton, when Aaron Burr is asked by Alexander Hamilton to write essays defending the U.S. Constitution, Burr replies, “The Constitution’s a mess. . . It’s full of contradictions” (Hamilton).  This statement sums up American pretty well.  Since the beginning, America has vacillated between what it wants to be and what it actually is.  The Puritans first came here because they wanted to practice their own religion without persecution, and then promptly persecuted anyone who didn’t follow their religious beliefs.  The Founding Fathers espoused the importance of equality and freedom, yet at the same time, they personally enslaved hundreds of people.  During the Civil War, Northerners and abolitionists fought to end slavery, yet were typically not welcoming  to freed slaves who lived in their cities.  The Statue of Liberty states, “Give me your "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,  The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,” (Lazarus)  yet throughout the 20th and 21st century, America has made would-be immigrants pass stringent tests in order to gain admittance into the country.  

        A huge part of the problem with American history is that America doesn’t want to examine itself too closely, because if we do, we might have to confront these contradictions.  Rather than confront them head on and understand them for what they are, it’s much easier - it’s much more American - to simply avoid them in our quest to show America’s greatness.  “We’re awesome,” Americans want to say.  “Pay no attention to those ugly parts.  That’s not really who we are!”  Toni Morrison addresses this in her book Playing In The Dark. Rather than confront the ugliness of racism, many white writers simply ignore the topic altogether. 

       This is where American Gothic literature comes into play.  Rather than skimming over the unpleasantries and focusing on the uplifting and optimistic, Gothic literature peels back the layers to show the dark underbelly of American society.  It forces readers to take a good, hard look at themselves and squirm uncomfortably at the truths they see reflected there.   Stories like Erdich’s “Saint Marie” force readers to deal with the truths of how Native Americans were treated, as well as how religion can be used to punish and corrupt.  These are not comfortable truths, but they are truths that must be dealt with.  

       In order to move forward and fulfill the promise that America was founded on, Americans have to be willing to be truthful about the past.  It is not good enough to skim over the uncomfortable bits, or to apologetically wring our hands about the way things used to be.  We have to be willing to examine why they used to be this way, as well as how they affect us in the present.  Gothic literature is one way to make this self-examination happen. 

Works Cited

Erdrich, Louise. "Saint Marie." Atlantic Mar. 1984: n. pag. Web.

Hamilton: An American Musical. By Lin Manuel Miranda. Broadway, New York City. 2016.       
       Performance.

Jacobs, Harriet. Incidents In The Life Of A Slave Girl. Dover Thrift Edition ed. Mineola, New York: 
       Dover Publications, 2001. Nook E-Book.

Lazarus, Emma. The New Colossus. N.d. The Statue of Liberty, New York City. N.p.: n.p., n.d. N. 
       pag. Print.

Morrison, Toni. Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination. New York: Vintage , a 
       Division of Random House, 2015. Print.

Romanticism and Realism in the novel Blackwater

The novel Blackwater  clearly falls in the realm of Realism, although the main character does exhibit signs of Romanticism.  Although we are told that, “Kelly Kellerher knew about politicians, she was no fool,” (40) it is apparent that Kelly still believes that, if the circumstances are correct, people can rise above their lot in life.  Notably, Kelly fights with her father over the policies of Ham Hunt and worked diligently for the doomed presidential campaign of Michael Dukakis because she believes that the right politician in office can help to change the world.  Kelly is optimistic and wants to believe in the innate goodness of people.  She is astounded when Dukakis loses to Bush because it seemed “self-evident to her that anyone sho saw or heard him must naturally reject him, for how transparently hypocritical! how mean! how crass! how uninformed! how evil!” (42).  Kelly firmly believes that the good will be rewarded and the bad will be punished. 

Even though her Romantic beliefs falter after the election, it is evident that Kelly still has faith in the innate goodness of man.  Throughout the novel, Kelly believes that The Senator will come and save her.  Even though he literally kicked her to save himself, Kelly continues to convince herself that “he had been with her, and he was gone and now she was alone but he has gone to get help of course” (74).  Throughout chapter 19, Kelly repeats this sentiment as a mantra.  “He will be back to help me of course. . . Don’t doubt me, Kelly. Never. . . There is only one direction, and he would come to her from that direction. She knew” (75-76). Kelly holds onto this faith all the way up until “the black water filled her lungs, and she died” on the very last page of the book.

Kelly’s Romantic optimism is so strong that it almost convinces the reader that the outcome will be the one that we want, not the one that is realistic.  But, after all, Blackwater is rooted in Realism. As much as we want to believe that Kelly, a good person, will indeed be saved, we know that that is not how the world works.  The Senator was not, as Kelly first described him, “tall broad-shouldered handsome man, big bearlike man, gray fizzled curly hair, a famous face yet a comfortable face, a sunflower face, a kindly face. . .the blue eyes so blue so keenly so intensely blue a blue like washed glass” (105).  He was, in reality, “not a handsome nor even perhaps a healthy man exactly:  his skin was very flushed, unevenly mottled, tiny broken capillaries in the nose and cheeks, and his eyes, that distinctive blue but the lids were somewhat puffy, the large staring eyeballs threaded with blood” (116).  This description belies the truth - no matter how hard Kelly wants to believe that The Senator is a good man with real interest in her, he is just a middle-aged man in the middle of a divorce who is used to women giving him want he wants.  In the end, The Senator has no innate goodness in him, just ruthless ambition which causes him to hide from passing motorists instead of asking them for help in saving Kelly.   His quest for power and control lead him to not only give Kelly up for dead, but to blame it all on her, saying “The girl was drunk, and she got emotional, she grabbed at the wheel and the car swerved off the road” (147).

Overall, the novel Blackwater is rooted in Realism, in the knowledge that people in power will do anything to stay in power, even if that includes stepping on the people that get in their way.  The Senator personifies the way in which the rich and powerful get what they want, whether it be sex with a beautiful young woman, or someone to clean up their mess when things go awry.  The novel shows that it doesn’t matter how idealistic the players of the game are, the brutal realities of life will always win out in the end. 

Source:  Oates, Joyce Carol.  Blackwater. Plume Books:  New York, 1993. 

Week One: How Marie Equals America Today

Today’s post will be my reactions to passages from “Saint Marie” by Louise Erdich, as published in the March 1984 edition of The Atlantic. 

“I was going up there to pray as good as they could, because I don’t have that much Indian blood. And they never thought they’d have a girl from this reservation as a saint they’d have to kneel to” (1).

What I love about this passage is that Marie isn’t going up the hill to submit to or join the convent.  She doesn’t just want to be one of them. Marie is convinced that she is going to be the best of them, the one they will all kneel down to.   I admire that kind of confidence in a person, especially a person like Marie who is coming from nothing and has no real reason to be that confident, except for the fact that something inside of her is telling her she will be great.  

“I was ignorant. I was near age fourteen. The sky is just about the size of my ignorance. And just as pure. And that the pure wideness of my ignorance is what got me up the hill to the Sacred Heart Convent and brought me back down alive” (1).

Aren’t we all this ignorant at fourteen?  The best ignorance is that which allows us to be brave and take the chance, even when there’s no way that we should.  The naivete that tells us we know just as much as anyone else, and they should shut up and listen to what we have to say.   As we get older, and probably wiser, we become aware just how much we don’t know.   And, that knowledge tells us to sit and be quiet, to listen and learn, to not take a chance because we’ll look like idiots if we speak up.   It’s much safer, and not nearly as exhilarating.  How much do we miss out on in the name of wisdom?   

“I was like those bush Indians who stole the holy black hat of a Jesuit and swallowed little scraps of it to cure their fevers. But the hat itself carried smallpox, and it was killing them with belief” (3)

So many volumes spoken in just one line - about blind belief, about America’s treatment of the Native Americans, about faith in general.  

“She used this deadly hook-pole for catching Satan by surprise. He could have entered without your knowing it through your lips or your nose or any one of your seven openings and gained your mind” (3)

Although this seems to be a very outdated view of Christianity, isn’t this in effect how many conservative believers still view the world?  You play video games? -  Satan has corrupted you!   You listen to popular music? - Satan has infiltrated your mind!   And let’s not even talk about those shows you’re watching or the books you read - those are just evil filth waiting to steal your soul.  Why is it that people who haven’t read, watched, played or listened to things are so convinced that they know more about these things than the people who actually have consumed them and understand them?  A very well meaning lady at my church is convinced that Pokemon is simply opening the door for the devil to take over our children’s minds.   She can’t tell you what a Pokemon is, yet she is convinced that they are evil. I have no idea how she came to possess this knowledge, but she is positive that she knows best and everyone should stop playing this Pokemon game. I’m sure that Sister Leopolda would agree.

“He wants you,“ she said. “That’s the difference. I give you love.” (5)

What is love anyway?   Sister Leopolda would argue that it is beating the snot out of a child in order to save them from the Devil.   I like to think that most people would agree that beating a child with a wooden pole is wrong - but I think that the gist of Leopolda’s argument is alive and well in America today.  

Basically, as I see it, the crux of Erdich’s story is alive and well in America today.   We claim we want to celebrate youth, innovation, and creativity.  We want the young people to feel passionate about something, and then rise up to follow their dreams.  But whenever  they do, America slams the door and tells them they are wrong, they don’t know enough yet, they should listen to what their elders tell them is right.   Their elders love America and just want what’s best for it, and if it takes some questionable moral choices to make that happen, well, that’s just how it’s going to be.  The youth of America are like Marie - full of dreams with just enough naivete to think that they are unstoppable.  They are convinced that they can make their dreams come true.