2nd Response

Of the three authors I enjoyed “The Thinking Men” by Nikky Finney the most. I loved the rawness of the words. I am personally drawn to the poetic style of the form. Stylistically the words flowed so beautifully. They seemed to point to ability by forcing the reader to notice the juxtaposition of these men and more specifically how they are capable. The exploration of the binary of men being those that do and those that do something different, or more specifically can't do was haunting. I think that author was trying to get at the racial inequality and let the voice of the men ring through the piece by validating the mind AND body. Dismantling the idea of these hard working men as being incapable of doing the thinking that would take place in this school building that they were working on was beautiful. I loved the line, “Math, mind, and muscle plied deep into each and every dark seam.”(165). As the reader I felt that this compounding of skills was being unfolded as I kept reading. 


Arroyo's "Working in a Region of Lost Names" was so somber and full of longing. The estrangement that wove their way through this piece were intricate and full of detail. The relationship between father and child, job and jobless, Spanish and English, responsible and irresponsible, cared and uncared for, made for a rich reading experience. I felt myself being pulled into the lives of these characters. Juan's suicide after the closing of the cannery highlighted this harsh landscape of loss and dependance. The harshness was made worse by the fact that our main character seemed alone with his feelings: his father is lost to the drink and then back home to Puerto Rico, his friend lost to death, and his memories in the field, rich and fleeting. Silence and solitude are what end this story when the protagonist reflects on all that is lost, even the names of those men he worked with in the field.


"Belonging to the Land" by Masumoto was full of delicate details as well as blatant disparity. I liked the combination of the two and found it to be a pleasant read. I did not like the sort of chunked up individual stories. There seemed to be three separate stories, and as a reader I found that confusing and frustrating. I understood that the link was that it was the experiences of one character and how that compounds to create a larger more complex narrative. The friendship between two young boys of different backgrounds (Mexican and Japanese) highlighted the obvious lack of dialogue about their differences. The exchange of knowledge and the noticed lack of dialogue was interesting but I wished the author would have gone deeper with that. The story about the common thread of being helpless to nature and thus leveled in terms of cultural background, wealth of knowledge,  and economic differences was fascinating. I don't often think of nature as lacking prejudice but it is so true. I liked the use of the word "democratic" to describe that affect of nature. The final story of this series was about sacrifice and the hope for a better life. The war destroyed what this family had worked so hard to create. This beautiful crop of raisins is ready to be harvested, the family is ready to reap the reward of their hard work but can't. The soil has provided but the land they are living on is not theirs, the country they live in and call home has turned against them because of war. They are shipped away from the location they need to be, off to camps, to be confined. The land and specifically the need to be at a certain location is so beautiful and subtle. By the time I got to the once gentle father burning the families belongings to white ash, I wasn't frustrated at the waste I was sympathetic and almost grateful. They had worked so hard for so long, all that they owned on that land was now returning to that land as white ash. 

Working in the region of reader response number 2

I was most drawn to Fred Arroyo’s Working in a Region of Lost Names. I believe it is because the point of entry seems illusive.

I had a few personal entry points such as in the beginning when he is observing his father looking out from the pier in the second paragraph on page 42. This was an entry point for me because I often just stare into space, lost in my head, so I can relate to the picture he paints of his father. I found it interesting that the author asks, “What was he searching for?”(42). I immediately asked why he had to be searching for anything. But, more than that, I find this part of the story interesting because the rest of the story takes place in this wandering mind space of the authors. This, in my opinion, emulates his father’s state in the beginning part of the story. The author names his story as a “looking back”(54) at the end of the story – he was occupying the region of lost names in his mind. I think it could be said that his father also was looking back, rather than searching for anything, and maybe this is the author acknowledging that. Another personal entry point for me was in the third section of the story, which starts on page 49. Partly because this is the first time I see a reference to the title, and partly because I can relate to grasping at memory for specifics such as names, and instead being left with details of surroundings, and individual pictures of times past.

I can’t, however, decide if the author had an intended point of entry for the reader. I get the feeling that his intention isn’t the traditional telling of a story. Instead he is just trying to wade through his thoughts, and he happened to offer them out to the world. I do believe there are a couple pivotal moments in the story, such as when he says,  “I have to work to continue the bloodline” (52) or “I have to try bring them – the words, too – back home” (53).  Though, I don’t think it they’re really point of entry, but just main points in his thoughts.

The Thinking Men Nikky Finney

I found myself reading The Thinking Men over and over, each time finding something new. The first time I read it I guessed that Finney intended this to be a response to the epigraph at the beginning of the poem. The epigraph says “Tradition has it that the workmen were negro slaves; but whether that applies to only the common laborers or to skilled workmen I cannot say.”(163).  The poem gives the impression that there were indeed skilled workmen that were slaves when he says things such as “We slid and nagged adze & auger, laid roof and wall from east to west”(164), and “Math, mind, and muscle plied deep into each and every dark seam.”(165).

The second time I read it I noticed the theme of intellect being more than what could be taught, more than what is found in books at a school. Despite it being against the law to teach slaves, the author says, “our math, mind, and muscle could see beyond what they thought they had enslaved” (163). Knowledge is about experience and living. I see this again when he says “We were thinking men. Our hands we living blackboards.” (164). What is a blackboard used for? To convey information - the building blocks of knowledge. They are thinking men, who learn from doing, from using their hands.

The third time I read it I zeroed in one the three sentences he had stand on their own in the poem: “We knew more than we could say” (163) “We were thinking men. Our hands we living blackboards.” (164)  “All this can leave a clear mark upon the world”(166). I found it interesting that the authors choose these sentences to stand out, because they each punctuate a point the author is trying to make.

The Lens of Memory in "Working in a Region of Lost Names," "The Thinking Men," and "Belonging to the Land"

In “Working in a Region of Lost Names,” by Fred Arroyo I kept being struck by some of the beautiful language an imagery that the author uses. Passages like, “The countryside unfolded in gold and green and blue that late afternoon, the darker shapes of the orchards coloring with apples, plums, and peaches” (43); “There was a smell of cantaloupe and dust mixing in the air drifting in through the pole-barn doors that I still can’t seem to lose” (43). The author then goes on to communicate that this style is entirely consciously created, saying “I suddenly discovered that things can be beautiful in themselves because of the care I take to see them.” (50). Not only is this characteristic a feature of his writing style, but it is a lens with which he chooses to see the world and reinterpret events in his life, especially pertaining to his father. I felt that Arroyo’s depiction of his father was incredibly gracious and forgiving; he chooses to look back on his father’s life and the men like him with compassion and admiration for their struggles rather than judgment for their vices. Rather than being angry and resentful towards his father for the silence that built up between them even in Arroyo’s childhood, and the alcoholism that took a toll on his family, Arroyo chooses to look for the beauty in his memories and creates a kind of vividly colorful and emotional, bittersweet tapestry of their time working together. The center of gravity in the story came for me in the passage: “When the presence of the Green Giant cannery no longer exists, when it seems wiped away from Niles’s memory, I’ll still return to a region of lost names, a region where I can work to remember how those men lived with dignity” (51). And the dignity seems to be the most important part to Arroyo, that his father and the men like him who left Puerto Rico to make a life in California can be given a proper place in memory.

In “The Thinking Men” by Nikky Finney the first thing that caught my attention was the form. Because it felt more like poetry than the other two essays, and therefore used language in a more condensed way, I had to read it twice to feel like I really entered it into the piece. I liked that the piece seemed to come out of the epigraph, that maybe the author read the passage in a history book and then imagined all of these skilled black workers who helped build this great school building (I tried to Google “Old Main” and I think it was the original building at Knox College, but I’m not entirely sure).  I noticed that the author used a lot of ampersands and numbers to give the feeling that these were skilled construction workers who were very knowledgeable in math, and in fact the words “math” and “mind” are continually repeated top emphasize that these men were intelligent, strong, and skilled. This is all to undergird the ironic injustice that these black men who helped to build a university were then forbidden to take part in the institution.

Finney also emphasizes how these men put themselves into the building and so in a way it should belong to them. She writes: “With or without quill or lead a signature/can still be minted in vermillion mud” (164). She also attributes these men with profound hope, as they say, “We raised this place in the name of the new day coming, how we would,/one day be counted, along with the day to day blight/of life equally wormed out” (164). It is clear these men see education as a great source for hope in the future, that if their descendents can one day be admitted into universities, then they can finally hope to have real racial equality.

“Belonging to the Land” by David Mas Matsumoto is another piece about racial injustice. I felt it was a very effective strategy to open with Matsumoto’s childhood conceptions, or more accurately lack of conceptions, about race and then the crucial statement, “But that was before they told me that he was Mexican and I was Japanese” (309) that foreshadows the struggles to come. I felt the center of gravity in this essay came when Matsumoto says, “At least nature—bad weather, spring frosts, hailstorms, rain on the raisins—was democratic. It didn’t matter the color of your skin or your religion or where your family came from. But human nature was worse, it left scars that would not heal” (314). When I read this statement I felt like it ties the whole essay together; that there are two huge and uncontrollable forces that rule our lives—nature and human nature—and one is arbitrary and treats all people equally, and the other is arbitrary and can be full of injustice. The internment of Japanese-Americans during WWII is one of those dark moments in the history of human nature, where fear overtook sense and justice.   

Colors of Nature - 2nd cluster of stories

I'll start out with a useless comment: I really enjoyed 'Belonging to the Land'. For me, personally, I felt that there were separate entry points throughout the three sections of the story, which kept me interested while changing my focus to different aspects of the narrative.

The opening to the section entitled 'In the Sixth Grade' gave a very good indirect indication of the kind of relationships that were going to be discussed in the rest of the short story: "We had what, I later learned, was a symbiotic relationship. We'd cheat on tests together - he'd open a book so I could read the needed information, and then he copied my response. I provided the answers, he took the risks" (309). The mutually beneficial interaction between the two students reflects the relationship between the farmers and the farmworkers, though the risk factor for the farmworker is much greater. This unequal amount of risk brings Masumoto to the question, "Wasn't nature supposed to be fair and democratic?" (310) The concept of a 'symbiotic' yet unequal relationship is the theme throughout Masumoto's story and is especially relevant when applying the question about nature being "fair and democratic" to America and its treatment of Japanese Americans. In other words, nature is a metaphor for America.

In the section 'White Ashes' Masumoto writes, "Dad explained the advantages of land ownership. "It's American!" he claimed. "You keep all the profits." But I knew him better. He also meant you had a place of your own, a place the family could plant roots" (311). Despite his father's ambitions, the "fair and democratic" way of American life ceased to apply to Japanese Americans after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Though the Masumoto family took great care of the crops they tended, there are still a few times throughout the story where nature destroys the crops. Similarly, though the family also makes an honest living and takes a low percentage of wages from the farmers, America doesn't hesitate to put the Japanese Americans into internment camps.

In a direct response to the epigraph, Nikky Finney asserts through content, sound, and metaphor that "We were more than blue fingers & endless backs" (163). The first line rejects the idea of African American slaves as being less than human by stating that they are more than simple body parts or, as the image "endless backs" implies, animals (163). The directness and brevity of the first line also gives it more impact as a rebuttal to the epigraph, and thus functioned for me, personally, as the first entry point.

On the first page, there are two instances of alliteration that I want to point out: "Our math, mind, and muscle" and "every heart hammered purpose" (163). The alliteration not only calls attention to these objects, but it also creates a sense of relation between the two or three things. In the first quote, the similarity that Finney builds between "math, mind, and muscle" implies that they each play an important role in their strength. Additionally, the line "heart hammered" illustrates the body as a tool; their emotions fuel their bodies, their bodies fuel their actions, and by the end of the poem, though they are being used for their bodies, they are also using their bodies to leave their signature within the landscape. I believe this is all summed up with the line, "Our hands were living blackboards" (164).

The first thing I noticed about 'Working in a Region of Lost Names' was Arroyo's enamor with nature. The narrator speaks often about what he remembers and what he doesn't, and it seemed to be a pattern that he would remember aspects of his environment over aspects of what was actually occurring at the time (i.e. "I don't recall any of those first days of work. What I remember is a morning - gold, everything - the grass, the trees, a long clothesline - speckled with dew") (46). The narrator's formal, romanticized language surrounding the environment reveals to readers his respect for nature and how closely it tied in with his emotions. Despite not remembering the names of the men he worked with, the narrator is still able to remember their faces, and the time that he spent with them he remembers most often as associated, somehow, with the color gold. The reflection of the narrator's respect towards the men he worked with in the way he remembers the environment displays his deep connection with nature in its ever-cycling changes.

"the land belongs to those who own it, work it or use it. Or no one."

Ok, so this is my first blog ever, just a heads up. Also the page numbers are from the 1^st edition of the book, sorry!

I’ve been reading a whole lot more about history lately than ever before. Belonging to the Land appealed to the blooming history fanatic in me; how different groups of people (different races, age-groups, genders, etc.) experience the same moments, decades, eras fascinates me.  The relationship between Masumoto and his companion Jessie described “In the Sixth Grade” sets the stage for a comparative piece; what is the reality of living as a Japanese American compared to life as a Mexican American in a small farming community? What about a landowner or a seasonal worker? How do these experiences intertwine? Has life always been this way? Masumoto keeps in the background of this piece what feels to me to be a scale, measuring how fair this land, that these two peoples both try to call home, will be and to whom. “We were supposed to be on opposite sides, even though we both sweated and itched the same each summer as we picked peaches in one-hundred-degree heat.” (p. 199). The idea of how the land affects both of these families lively-hoods and perception of the other illustrates the differences between the experiences of being a landowner or a land worker “wasn’t nature supposed to be fair and Democratic? I wonder what they have told Jessie since the sixth grade when we cheated together, and what stories we have left behind.” (p.199). It makes me wonder; while the landowners may have the deed to the property, the profits and the power to hire or let go of workers; who really is in control?

Nature again shows that it has the final word while Masumoto tells his families history of farming. He recalls his grandparents attempt to control nature by purchasing land and thus “…controlling one’s destiny.” (p.200).  Yet we have already seen in his first passage that nature is not controllable, and perhaps that’s what truly forms your destiny. While his family moved from place to place, their place in society as land workers followed them, and became their identity. This reminds me of how Jessie’s family is treated and thought of by society. When Masumoto speaks of his father showing him human nature I wonder if it is human nature for one group of people to improve their place in the world and then feel as though someone else most now feel how they suffered. Is that why we see a system of Japanese American landowners and Mexican American land workers that is similar to what is described as the struggles faced by Masumoto’s own family to obtain land, and also respect? With owning a piece of land comes a place for you and your family. You are no longer just a seasonal guest. But finding your place can be difficult. Weather as a farmer, an immigrant or anything really. There’s discrimination, people don’t want you to settle in and become part of a place; there’s fear that you will take someone else’s place, or impose your way of doing things on everyone who’s already there. There’s draughts, and floods and earthquakes that keep you from settling in; that rip from under you that foundation you’ve begun to take for granted. “Dad grew angry. He felt that at least nature-bad weather, spring frosts, hail storms, rain on the raisins-was democratic. It didn’t matter the color of your skin or your religion or where your family came from. But human nature was worse, it left scars that would not heal.” (p.204), this was my favorite passage from this text. I felt it summed up a universal feeling of unfairness. How no matter what your history is, what your social standing is, human nature can tear you down just as easily as the furry of a storm can lead a tree crash into your own shelter and leave you exposed to the elements, suddenly without a place to feel safe.

I felt that the epigraph was an amazing was to start this story. When I first read it, I didn’t feel how deep it ran. I read it on print level so to speak. After reading the piece I went back and read it again. Upon rereading I felt it spoke to me not only specifically about this piece, but also about nature in general and how hard some people try to control it or use it to make other people feel insignificant. You can control nearly every aspect of a person’s life if you can control nature, but you can’t control nature. I read recently that in China they have a weather machine that will make it rain two or three days before a big event to make sure the weather is clear on the big day, of course there’s no guarantee it will work, and often it doesn’t. I see similarities in trying to reach this level of control with how non-whites were not allowed to buy land; it’s all about control and showing who is dominant.  We all either own, work or use the land in one way or another, but very few of us claim to control it; because we don’t have the fear that something or someone is trying to snatch it away from us, that our place is in jeopardy. 

Colors of Nature: The Thinking Men by Nikky Finney

I met a woman. We were eating in a group, at a table for five, and we began to talk. As many people do when eating together. We discussed politics. Openly. Not something many people do. We engaged into deep conversation about our opinions on ignorance. And amongst this political gossip, the woman told a story of when she couldn't sit through a conversation.

She ate with a group of adult men. They talked about politics. In "civil" conversation, a man says, "white man built the white house." The woman left the room.

Ignorance. The ignorance of humanity.

Unfortunately, when it comes to politics, we often don't speak. And when we do, we disagree. And if we disagree, we cannot convince the other to follow us. At least rarely. So we are stuck. In awkward silence, we are stuck. With anger.

In The Thinking Men (side thought: how do you write the title of a short story?), silence is a dangerous thing. We can never truly understand the pain of others. But we can learn. We can remember silence speaks louder than words.

A PLACE which seems so far is right under our toes. The pain we live on,  the sweat we breath, but tell ourselves, "It was so long ago. We have come so far since then." But its still here. "A clear mark upon.. [the] world" (166).

It's in the walls of a schoolroom, in the walls of our jobs. It's a silent place. The place that makes us get up, without a word, and leave a room because we know deep down nothing good will come. Nothing will change. We tell people they can change, they can get better and they have the same chance as we do. But things haven't changed. People have just gotten better at lying. Or at least have evolved their lies.

Why would we have to say nothing is wrong and always argue, "it's different now," if it was truly different. It's like when you're caught in a lie you tell, and you get angry because no one believes you. And then they say, "Why do you care if it doesn't matter?"

It's not in a distant land. It's not far off in a world we don't know. It's here. In this place. At the dinner table. Then, and now. It's us. It's them. It's we.

Even if we can't see it. It's there.

Nikkey Finney says, beautifully, the place she knows of, even if she didn't necessarily experience it first hand. She can say she feels the wounds that were left behind.

Fear through Dungy's lens

Reading Dungy’s Tales from a black girl on fire, or why I hate to walk outside and see things burning seems timely for me because I’ve been thinking a lot about fear recently. Or, maybe, experiencing a lot of fear is a truer way to express my experience. Where does fear come from, and what purpose does it serve? In the author’s case, being of African American decent, fear comes from knowledge of past violence against her race. She also speaks of being taught “the rules” which dictated that she be afraid of fire. In both cases fear serves as a protection device, one that warns her of potential danger. I can see the sense behind her thoughts on the origins of fear, but can’t help myself when I take a step back and try and see a bigger picture. The way fear feels, to me, it is a natural instinct. One placed there before I ever learned about past atrocities, or “the rules”.

Fear can have so much power over us that it controls our perception of things. Dungy points to this when she shares her experience of traveling through the woods and not recognizing the “gnarled and blackened trees” p 29. The author’s description of fear influencing her actions, (“How dare the past keep me huddled up inside” p 29.) reminds me of my frustration with allowing fear to run my life. Too many times have I let fear limit “the scope of my experience” p.30. Like the author, I am often “forced back by fear” because of the “assurance of approaching danger” p. 28. Also like the author, I’ve come to realize the mere knowledge of the origins of my fears does not help in reducing my stress. I find myself asking how do I unlearn something that feels built in to me? How do I tap into another mechanism that must exist to counteract the overuse of fear?  I find it interesting that Dungy does not ask these questions.

The only tactic Dungy employs to overcome fear is to ignore it. She is invited to a bonfire, an event that she knows will conjure up images of burning bodies, and memories of lessons taught on the dangers of fire. After having these images and knowledge beaten into her over a lifetime, it really is no wonder why she is afraid, but why wasn’t there more mention of an exploration of methods to overcome fear? If this fear was so specifically learned, can’t she unlearn it? Why isn’t she asking this?

I find the shift from 1^st person to 2^nd person on page 31 very interesting. It gives the feeling that these are things that have been said to her in her life. I am attracted and opposed at the same time to this paragraph. I’m intrigued by her comparison of humans and plants: “When you live in this country you have to know the rules. Yucca, ice plant, chaparral pea, bigcone Douglasfir: even the plants here make provisions for hard times.” p.31. Human’s provision making include the following of rules; in the authors case she had been taught to not play with fire. Having never been a plant, I can’t speak to how they come to a decision on how to survive. But, it seems decidedly different from following rules placed on them by other plants. Whereas plants following these provisions lead to their survival, I believe humans following rules often leads to their defeat. I’d argue with Dungy, or whoever taught her the rules of fire, that there is a huge difference between nature’s rules, and human’s rules. Setting fire, being curious about that insect even with the knowledge of potential spark, abides by natures rules. The squandering of curiosity because of potential danger does not.

Bringing all of this back to the narration, I can point to the human’s use of fire to burn other humans as a human creation. Flames are not to be feared unless a human is behind the making of them. Flames as created by nature, or inspired by impulse in a human spirit to explore, I cannot see fear in. Not essentially, not even with all the evidence of destruction, not even with the knowledge that I have families that live in those areas that are prone to fire. For my life to be taken by nature would be a blessing. For my belongings to be demolished in a few short moments because of nature would lift a burden I was unaware of; the burden of clinging to material possessions.

I think Dungy knows that humans are what intensify her fear in the presence of fire. Through her use of the word “conflation” I am led to believe that she knows she is confusing the intention of fire (and natures part in it), and the intention of humans. She even personifies nature when she says “history and experience had linked my fear of violence against the body to those bonfires, the trees and the woods that permitted them, and the people who allowed them to blaze.” p.31. This placement of a human trait onto nature is another reason I believe Dungy actually fears the people aspect of the whole situation more.

But, maybe I’m projecting. Through all this I realize I hold the belief that humans are not in touch with nature, with their origins and purposes. I’m not convinced that everything they do has as noble a purpose as everything nature does. It is for this reason I fear humans and their blind adherence to rules made by other humans more than anything nature may decide to do to me. 

Environment: Ambivalence and Multiplicity

In “Tales From a Black Girl on Fire, Or Why I Hate to Walk Outside and See Things Burning” by Camille T Dungy we see a writer discuss nature in an unusual way, where instead of a nostalgic, idealized portrait of nature, we get a view of nature heavily mediated by fear. Dungy makes it clear that experiencing the outdoors has always been a cherished part of her life, but that at certain times she cannot be in nature without a profound sense of anxiety permeating the experience. The key seems to be geography and history: “During my years I lived in Virginia, I occupied several historical planes at once. I lived my personal experience of a community that was legally desegregated and essentially welcoming; but I also lived my mother’s and grandparents’ pre-civil rights era experience” (Dungy 29).  She has made an unignorable association, a conflation between fire and violence/terror, between a geographical landscape and the evil events that have taken place there. So to Dungy, environment is in fundamental ways not separable from the human life that has gone on there, and nature takes on an imprint—emotional, psychic, energetic—of these events that she can feel and which are as real as the immediate plane of physical existence.

Another layer of her fear is directly tied to environment: having grown up in Southern California, “Where the spark from a campfire, a stray cigarette, or an insect burned under a magnifying glass could ignite a firestorm that burned a hundred homes, scorched innocent animals and demolished thousands of acres of habitat,” Dungy is conditioned to the idea of fire as destroyer (Dungy 31). This destruction of landscape translates from the West Coast to the East as tool of destruction of people who are powerless in the face of racial hatred. Environment, then, both as external habitat, and the denizens of it, shapes us, our perceptions of the world, our fears, our interests. And we shape each other, as history makes an imprint on the landscape that becomes the legacy passed on to future generations who live on the same ground.

“Touching on Skin” by Kimiko Hahn I felt was very interesting to read after the Dungy piece because it provided a different nonfiction form; it’s short, spaced apart paragraphs and use of parentheses and dashes make it feel more like poetry than an essay. Hahn tell us: “I depend on my skin. On this wall. This pigeonhole. This frontier” (Hahn 158). Skin, biologically, is protection; it is also our way of interfacing physically with the outside world and gives us much information about environment. It also gives people much information about us (whether truths or assumptions made erroneously) and can open doors or shut them in some situations. It can be a site for pain, or pleasure. And it can be a place where we feel at home and we can carry that sense of home with us where ever we go.

“At the End of Ridge Road” by Joseph Bruchac presents a more common depiction of nature than Dungy’s piece, but that does not make it inferior or any less heart felt. I really enjoyed the section about the turtles because they are fascinating creatures that are common enough to be well known, but uncommon enough to be a treat when you actually see one. I very much enjoyed Bruchac’s blend of Native American storytelling—the painted turtle got its stripes by getting ready to go to war, turtles have thirteen large plates on their backs to reflect the lunar cycles, turtles enables the formation of North America—and his scientific knowledge about plants and animals (and most of all, his assertion that they are not mutually exclusive). Bruchac is a preservationist: of the environment, of the animals who live there and are threatened by modern civilization, of the Native American stories and culture that are part (but only part) of his racial heritage and his writing serves to further preserve these things he sees and experiences for which he cares deeply.               

Loneliness: the deceiver

Side note: I've never blogged before and I'm just winging it here. I hear there is no "real" right way…

Her loneliness sounds more like a lack of self confidence. But loneliness, I suppose, can come along with low self esteem. The subject of loneliness reaches so many people. It is a term used for being not only alone, but sad too. The author is expressing a feeling in which many have encountered and can relate to in their own way. You can read about her experience and than be reminded of your own.

How is it when you are alone, everything in life becomes dramatic, and extremely detailed? Loneliness, when you have it, is all consuming. Her focus becomes mental and physical. She is lonely everywhere. Lonely when surrounded by people, lonely when alone, lonely when having sex. She claims loneliness as its own being. It is an it. It sits in the room beside her. It seems unavoidable.

There are two points she brings up which are worthy of quoting (for my purposes). One, "You’re both grateful for each other’s bodies, their generous play and happy willingness to act as if sex were a cure for the lonely." I feel like what this is saying is so true, people try to fill their void's with actions. People will go to great lengths to not be lonely. So many people suffer the loneliness cure. (I could really go on forever.)

And two, "The Loneliness of the Unused Parts of ourselves: The easiest to deny and to endure, and the one you’re least likely to know might taint every relationship you have." This sums up why I feel the author is undergoing low self worth. Her words tell me she is surrendering to her worthlessness and believing it. Yet she is aware.

When I read this I want to shake the author and tell her it's not reality, take a stand! It takes the right words to touch the right emotions to evoke such passion. Is this a lesson? Or a don't do what I did? Either way, her self destructive outlook on loneliness has shown me another outlook on the downfall of females all over. A suffering which becomes, deeply and sadly, internal.

I wrote my own:

Loneliness. A feeling you get when alone and unhappy. In life, loneliness takes many forms. It finds you deep in thought. It creeps inside your mind and latches on. The hardships of trying to satisfy yourself stretch beyond your reach.

You can sit and analyze all the ways you are alone. You can try and fill your void with beings and a stimulating exchange of words, but than you have this greater feeling in which you cannot reach easily, alone. So you are alone. Again.

But, were you really less lonely with someone there? You long for their interest, their gaze. You are willing to do anything so they'll stay a little longer. You swivel the knobs so the pinball can hit your nerves a few more times.

Listening, thinking, responding. Did you listen? Did you completely give into this person? Or did you wait for them to finish so you could release the words curling off your tongue.

You might even let someone have their way with you, so you can hold onto the moment for a bit longer. After all some believe "Sex... [is] a cure for loneliness." But the whole time your mind is not present. Not even a little.

Happiness. Loneliness. Forgiveness. Ness. You are a noun created from an adjective. A word tweaked to name the hole inside you. A hole you always try to fill.

But, loneliness was never about you, it was about them, the whole time.

Maps to Anywhere: Intentions and Credibility

Throughout the duration of Maps to Anywhere, the narrator’s intention is to give the reader not only an imaginative and lyrical experience, but also the ability to decide whether or not to trust the narrator. Even in the title the word ‘anywhere’ connotes possibility, referring to the many potential emotional or intellectual responses to the prose. By calling the collection of prose ‘maps’, narrator is declaring the book’s status as a guide, which the reader can choose or not choose to follow.

 In “Capiche?” the narrator relinquishes his control over what his readers choose to believe by telling him/her, “Everything I have told you is a lie” (20). The narrator’s confession is underlined by the definitive statement of the first sentence: “In Italy, dogs say bow-bow instead of bow-wow” (19). However, the narrator alludes to the question of believability as he continues the sentence by saying, “…and my Italian teacher, Signora Marra, is not sure why this should be” (19). While the narrator’s initial diction asserts authority, he immediately retracts by including his fictitious teacher’s hesitance about the statement. The exchange between what may sound like true statements and those that are more questionable continue throughout “Capiche?”, creating tension between assertive truths and questions or fantastical images that draws the reader’s attention to the narrator’s credibility. His credibility comes with his intentions: “I honestly wanted to offer you something, something like the prospect of sudden love, or color postcards or chaotic piazzas, and I wanted you to listen to me as if you were hearing a rare recording by Enrico Caruso” (20). The authenticity of the work is aligned with the narrator’s desire to present the reader with ideas, images, and perspectives that illustrate the worlds in them, true or not, with a sense of sentimentality and sometimes sublime.

It is also possible that Maps to Anywhere is in conversation with Gary. In “Dream House,” the narrator writes, “I wanted those ads to convince my brother that people improved, that a sow’s ear could become a silk purse, light arise from beneath a bushel, and water turn to wine” (104). Throughout the book, the narrator transforms everyday happenings to beautiful dream-like images, using a change in tone to indicate the switch (as seen in “Capiche?”). By offering the mundane in sentimental ways, the narrator develops an intimate tone that might be reflected in his feelings towards his brother. These narratives, then, are like his “drawings of cities, intricate, hypothetical” that he gave to his brother “nearly every evening” (110). They are the narrator’s efforts to show the reader beauty that was absent in “the mothers of America [who] were so unmoved by their own sense of cadence that they had to rely on a book” (4). His credibility, then, rests within the intentions of the book rather than what is and what is not fact.

For your first day....

read this story: http://www.ohio.edu/nor/pdfs/hurd.pdf