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.
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