Saturday, July 18, 2020

Garden Table Blessing



At the Garden Table

It is easy to bless the tomatoes

ripening on the vine

bite-size, grape-like

and ready to burst open

in my mouth

Communion



It’s easy to bless the basil

that wafts poetic at every picking

and brush against the water can.

Collard greens

with rainbow stems, easy

potatoes, brown eyes planted

as a science experiment

sprouted purple-white blossoms

with surprising yellow centers

who knew such a lumpy

bumpy mass of starch

would be one and the same

with these delicate stem-y appendages.

 



It is easy to bless all

in this little garden corner:

the maiden hair fern

operatic hibiscus

Mondo grass and morning robins

a concrete Buddha

accompanied by a ceramic, moss-covered rabbit

wind chimes and hummingbirds

even the invading blackberries

challenging the ivy

for ownership of the hillside



What about blessing the old patio furniture

that survived 15 years and 5 moves

or the Terracotta mask

purchased after a year of sobriety

spider webs, neighbors cat droppings

what about the Citronella candle

that chases away mosquitoes

What about the mosquitoes?

Bless the mosquitoes and begin.



Monday, July 13, 2020

Where Do Her Words Go?



“…We encounter each other in words, words

spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,

words to consider, reconsider…”

Excerpt from Praise Song for the Day ~ Elizabeth Alexander



Where Do Her Words Go?


Do they merge with all the other words ~

smooth verbs at the cocktail hour,

bubbling, barbecue babble,

or do they whisper through the equinox ~

emerald-green dusky words

dissipating into starlight?



Where do her words go?

Do they course over a spiny mountain range,

nestle in juniper snags, bridge

like rainbows and trailing blackberries,

or are they slammed in car doors,

rushed along freeways of unknown destinations?



Do her words drift like puffs of Black cottonwood ~

summer snow that lands on the very one

who needs her words the most?

Or do they randomly swim

like those squiggly black lines

behind the closed eyes of the sunbather?



She feels responsible

for these words that come to her

on light-rays, sound and shock waves,

from nerve endings and heartbeats,

weighty little words to consider,

words wanting a wide embrace



Where do her words go?

On yellow freesia vibrations

to pollinate years from here?

Her words, quaint and queer,

are merely a stone’s throw in a river ~

who knows how far the ripples go?


Wednesday, July 08, 2020

Facilitating Change…Let Grace Come In  

“…through every vicissitude of heat and cold, calm and storm, up-heaving volcanoes and down-grinding glaciers, we see that everything in Nature called destruction must be creation — a change from beauty to beauty.” ~John Muir

Are destruction and creation all part of the same design system? I just finished reading The Only Kayak by Kim Heacox. He references Muir’s quote above and asks, “If the land can heal and begin anew, can we too...[and]…does that which nurtures us in turn deserve our nurturing?” I sit silently in my kayak, my cradle of resilience, stroking the surface of Sparks Lake in Southern Oregon, ready to receive the healing power of water. I listen to the soft slip-slap of the wake on my boat and wonder about reciprocity, about giving back to the water, about the ripple effect of my palm on this place.

I came here to release, to heal, regenerate after four wrestling months of quarantine, questions, passionate protests, and tragic loss. Let grace come in. I came here for Water’s wisdom, her ancient knowledge ~ the survival song of lilies rustling against the side of my boat. Let grace come in. I came here to hear the fledgling herons’ boisterous, prehistoric screech for Mother’s piscine supper of regurgitated carp. Let grace come in. The haunting coos of the Mourning dove, the chipper chicka-dee-dee-dees, and the Red-winged blackbirds’ conk-la-ree-ree-rees all harmonize with the heron and the lilies to create riffles of new song. Let grace come in.

My summer vacation officially started on June 20th. I had hoped to kayak that first day of vacation, to catch up on my poetry writing, to hike, and explore more of the Pacific Northwest. Instead, I worked. We arts educators are all worried about our jobs next fall. So last week we scrambled to create (and push through to the powers that be) documents that reflected proactive plans for facile and creative transformation of teaching spaces and methods. Simultaneously, I engaged in a new leadership role with TLAN, began leadership coaching with Sea Change Design, and started this facilitation class. I continued to feel energized from the last trimester; I had remained strong, positive, and centered all through the transition to on-line learning — leading the way for arts integration, and facilitating discussions about re-structuring for next fall. But then, the Saturday before the last week of school, my Asst. Principal called. One of our 1st graders had been murdered by her father, who then took his own life. Where is grace?

That news broke me ~ I trembled and sobbed with shock, grief, and anger, but then went right back to work. In my TLA facilitator role, I provided poetry and resources to my colleagues in addition to designing a virtual field day for students’ last week of school. Two weeks later, I tried to write my own grief poem amidst the cacophony that is my most inhospitable workspace (and my brain). I could not do it, all my reserves were spent, and I cried again from exhaustion, so much loss, and grief. Let grace come in.

 

“Nothing is lost, only forgotten…the land remembers us in an enduring embrace.” [1] During this quarantine, I had forgotten Nature’s power to heal and restore me. I had forgotten the importance of going outside, the value of my bare feet in the grass, the sun and rain on my skin, the lilacs and lavender, and thrum of hummingbirds dive-bombing the scarlet columbine. Let grace come in. Joy commented in the podcast that birds are singing more now. The robins wake me at 4:30 and I don’t really mind. Let grace come in. Ironically, in the last months while humans stayed indoors, the out-of-doors started to heal: flora and fauna thriving instead of just surviving, pollution began to clear around the world, an unintended, unimagined consequence of our quarantine. Let grace come in. By doing less, we gave more to Nature. Let grace come in. I really could not fully grasp the irony of that, but I knew that I had forgotten about the healing power of Nature for me. I knew I needed the enduring embrace of land and water. I closed my work computer and headed for Sparks Lake. Let grace come in. …


Awake Now

from a gloomy hibernation,

I notice columbine in bloom

and last year’s barren apple tree

bearing spurs. Anna’s hummingbird

flits merely feet away from me ~

her name is Joy.

 

She was, all winter, an always

presence of possibility,

but my eyes were closed, my mind shut

to her iridescent green crown,

ruby-throated chirping contrast

to my gray song.

 

 

Today, following a season

of black, I wear scarlet again,

the red that attracts her to me,

beating vehemently between

honeysuckle and apple trees.

The hummingbird

 

in crimson pursuit, reminds me

of my power to fly backward

or forward, or to just flutter

my wings in place, pollinating

and consuming all the honey

nectar of now.



[1] from Portland Nez Perce/Cherokee Educator and herbalist, Judy BlueHorse Skelton 


Sunday, June 28, 2020

For Geraldine Pearson



“…There’s a poem in this place—in the heavy grace…” *

of the “do not resuscitate” notice

tacked to the mudroom door

at Blackberry Hill Farm —

a heavy grace in the stained country curtains

on the kitchen window, open for flies

to buzz in from the barn

and land on the breakfast, uneaten.

There is a poem in this place

where flies can dine freely on home-made pies

before dying on sticky strips hanging

above the kitchen table.

There is a poem in this place

where a lamb nestles at your feet

under that same kitchen table,

while another lamb is served for Easter dinner.

There is a poem of heavy grace in this place.



Death is daily and unsentimental

on Blackberry Hill. Foxes in the hen house,

cows stuck in the mud, bummer lambs

abandoned by ewes, and ponies neglected

by their driver who chose to die at home.

A heavy grace in vulnerable surrender —

a pastoral release to swollen, weakening limbs,

to broken branches, dried leaves, and lips

unkissed, and scars softening where breasts had been.

A release to humming out of key, love songs

from apple orchards in the 30s.



There’s a poem in this place and a heavy grace

in finger tips limply reaching out from the hospice bed,

eyes averted, the Oregon horse woman whispers,

“luv you guys” for the first and last time.

A heavy grace, an end to that grooming criticism

of who one should be. In death, there is poetry

and there is ice melting in the last crystal glass

of Hendrick’s gin. Tonic soothes and our chapter ends,

giving way to the cliché, trite, simple, surrender —

the poetry of loving one just for who one is,

or is that “whom”? Loving for the first and last time.

No goodbye, just a wisp of a hand hold, dry

skin on skin, fingerprint to fingerprint

an acknowledgement of this heavy grace.




*Excerpted from Amanda Gorman, In This Place (An American Lyric)


Tuesday, May 05, 2020

Lupine


Beleven Lupine
 
Belief, be-lieve, be leaves. I believe
you can eat the greens of Oregon Sorrel
like a Shamrock salad, and you won’t die.
I believe in bleeding heart blossoms,
the power of Salmonberries to make me smile
and ah the awe of a single raindrop
in a wide lupine cup. But I don’t believe
that skunk cabbage really stinks
(even though I know it does).
 
I believe in rolling rivers and peacock blue twilight.
I believe hoot owls are wiser than we.
I believe in the mystery of the silent moth
forever circling, circling, circling a flickering flame.
I believe in deathly attraction ~
loving hard, to the bone, then letting go.

I believe in the majesty of towering cedar
and that the knots in wooden fences
eventually all fall out, leaving peep holes
for the curious and the brave.
But I don’t believe in fences or pearly gates.

I do believe that death is just a simple part of life,
but I’m not so sure that Jesus died just for us
I believe in the blessed resurrection of trillium
every March, every year, after the woodland violets
and just before Solomon’s seal and I believe
in emerald lupine with regal purple stalks
and pods filled with seedy promise.







Beleven is a Dutch word meaning to experience, live, go through, or openly profess/practice a faith or conviction.

Saturday, April 18, 2020


Morning on Bronze Pond

There they go, wild geese of peace —
making form of time
while wood ducks bob for breakfast feasts
there they go, wild geese of peace.
But the flicker’s staccato drumming will not cease
until I wake to the day’s rhythm and rhyme.
There they go, wild geese of peace —
making form of time.

What determines a morning end?
When hummingbirds beat frenzy into the day,
or when cattails burst and willows bend?
What determines a morning end?
When wood ducks, through reeds, weave and wend,
or the heron, on one leg, begins to sway?
What determines a morning end?
When hummingbirds beat frenzy into the day.







In 2017 I rented an apartment for a few months at the Caswell Gardens in Troutdale. Bronze Pond was surrounded by bronze sculptures. It was the best apartment ever. I wrote every morning out by the pond.



Saturday, March 21, 2020

Spider Web


One web spun,

ceaseless and lucid as the rising sun
simple as morning worms
invisible as today’s breeze
waiting, waiting to catch me in a sticky pause
A web sturdy as the ant’s back,
the one who carries away my frosted flake
A web shimmering only in the right light
            at just the right angle
            or right time of day, of year, of life

This web, intricate and complicated
beyond my capacity to design,
brushed away as an irritant
            an annoyance
            or was that fear?

I break this web’s anchor from fence post and tree limb
and yet it is spun again through the night, every night,
and yet the impenetrable pattern
that ambiguous weaving
an obscure path
so unclear to me, until today,
when a particular ray of the sun, a hint of first light,
cuts through this one web
so simply, so rightly
into my dawn.


Water way



Follow
the riverbed
wash clean dust and debris
purified triviality
cleanse me

Arrive
in peace
through streams of green
and humming bees
Mitigated silence
so much easier here
between pine trees and idleness
amid effortless lakeside purl

to hear
your Beloved
il bel far niente
light riffles round us shadows fall
day rests with cricket calls
lullaby psalms
be still

Friday, March 20, 2020

Hummingbird and Columbine




Awake Now

from a gloomy hibernation,
I notice columbine in bloom
and last year’s barren apple tree
bearing spurs. Anna’s hummingbird
flits merely feet away from me ~
her name is Joy.

She was, all winter, an always
presence of possibility,
but my eyes were closed, my mind shut
to her iridescent green crown,
ruby-throated chirping contrast
to my gray song.

Today, following a season
of black, I wear scarlet again,
the red that attracts her to me,
beating vehemently between
honeysuckle and apple trees.
The hummingbird

in crimson pursuit, reminds me
of my power to fly backward
or forward, or to just flutter
my wings in place, pollinating
and consuming all the honey
nectar of now.

Thursday, March 19, 2020

Trillium












Trillium


Trinity of forest floors, remind me
as I cling in this spring of uncertainty,
with desire to claim, possess as mine,
heightened by daily news and little sign
of peace.  I seek your lesson, wood lily ~

Rife and wild, you are ever meant to be
white wake robin, shaded, yes. Sheltered, but free
from harsh winds and warring lives entwined
Trinity of forest floors, remind me

that if I pluck violet-veined petals, nestled in ivy,
to vase as mine, for seven years I will not see
your flower, in patches of promise, divine
golden centers of hope in precarious times.
Behold, but not hold any blossom too tightly.
Trinity of forest floors, remind me.


A note: I first posted this in 2006, but wrote it 2003 when we were entering a war. Seventeen years later, as we are quarantined from Covid-19, I felt the need to repost.

Tuesday, March 17, 2020

After the Storm


After the Storm

I leave the polished black waters
of resentment and greed
to walk this muddy path
strewn with fallen greens
and pink veined trillium
folded in on themselves
from the weight of a drenching rain
I walk this path again
past abandoned wildflower bouquets
to the circle of cedar
and my leaning tree
the mourning dove cries
her hollow song
simply
hear me
please
please
please
please


Sunday, December 02, 2018

Advent 2018


 
One balmy February day, as I was walking through Oxbow Park along the Sandy River, I spied these creatures on the beach ~ hundreds of cairns stacked with personality and possibility. There was the plump, maternal cairn, and a priest gazing over his flock.  Beyond him was the young family of three and then, there was me, with the granite weight heavily balancing on top instead of serving as a stable foundation.





I’ve always understood cairns to be trail markers or memorials. Which were these? The beginning of a journey, or the end? As a beginning, these cairns on the beach were a poor guide for me. There was no clear path between, and I was overwhelmed by the multitude of directions. There have been times in my life journey when I have been paralyzed by possibilities and could not decide when, where, or how to begin. The only way to manage was to sit in the middle, write, and wait until all options fell away or, as Rumi said, until you “feel yourself being quietly drawn by the deeper pull of what you truly love.”

This moment at the Sandy River marked a beginning of a new relationship. I had been single for 12 years, free to walk wherever I chose, to wait for as long as I chose. But now, I walked hand-in-hand, pulse to pulse, with another. In awe of what we saw, I wondered, does she see what I see? New love in our fifties is frightening ~ four feet sinking and squeaking in a sandy foundation, while the solid stone stood still and silent in precarious towers. Memorials of each of our pasts, guidance for the future, or just a bunch of stones stacked by a bored beachcomber? And the river rushed cold toward its ocean end.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Transcendentalism and the American Voice

The father of American Transcendentalism, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and the leading architect of American poetry, Walt Whitman, had a complicated relationship. Emerson, a fountainhead of American individuality, praised the as yet unknown poet Whitman for his first edition of Leaves of Grass: “I greet you at the beginning of a great career.” Whitman, having been much inspired by Emerson and his philosophy of Transcendentalism, was honored by this high praise. Nevertheless, he unscrupulously realized a tremendous promotional plan and included an unauthorized publication of Emerson’s letter in a later edition of Leaves of Grass. For this brazen act Whitman received much criticism. Emerson had generously, albeit privately, acknowledged this budding poet as the poetic voice for Transcendentalism: “I give you joy of your free and brave thought.” Whitman shamelessly exploited this unsolicited praise without any recognition of Emerson’s bearing on his poetry.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) was an American scholar who joined other New England intellectuals to form the Transcendental Club. Transcendentalism emerged from Boston Unitarianism and the German Idealist philosophy of Immanuel Kant. The core belief was that humans were at their best in nature and uncorrupted by institutions and society. Adherents believed in the inherent goodness of people and nature, self-reliance, and non-conformity. Emerson’s first book, Nature, which he published anonymously at his own expense, is the quintessential treatise on Transcendental thought:
In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, — no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, — my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, — all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God (Emerson 511).

 Nature established Emerson as an intellectual force to be reckoned with, however, “because he so valued individual self-culture, Emerson was skeptical of the social reforms” that swept the country in the mid 19th Century (Baym et al. 507). Despite his skepticism, he did support the emancipation of women and slaves and praised a homosexual poet.

Walt Whitman illustrated Emerson’s veneration of nature and self in his heroic poem “Song of Myself.” He opens with “I celebrate myself, and sing myself” and continues with:
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy (Whitman 1025).

Whitman’s “transparent eyeball” is focused on “leaves of grass,” a metaphor for all the unique individuals, more alike than different, creating the national character of America. In what may be considered an apologetic letter to Emerson, Whitman wrote in 1856:
Of course, we shall have a national character, an identity. As it ought to be, and as soon as it ought to be, it will be. That, with much else, takes care of itself, is a result, and the cause of greater results. With Ohio, Illinois, Missouri, Oregon—with the states around the Mexican sea—with cheerfully welcomed immigrants from Europe, Asia, Africa—with Connecticut, Vermont, New Hampshire, Rhode Island—with all varied interests, facts, beliefs, parties, genesis—there is being fused a determined character, fit for the broadest use for the freewomen and freemen of The States, accomplished and to be accomplished, without any exception whatever—each indeed free, each idiomatic, as becomes live states and men, but each adhering to one enclosing general form of politics, manners, talk, personal style, as the plenteous varieties of the race adhere to one physical form. Such character is the brain and spine to all, including literature, including poems. Such character, strong, limber, just, open-mouthed, American-blooded, full of pride, full of ease, of passionate friendliness, is to stand compact upon that vast basis of the supremacy of Individuality—that new moral American continent without which, I see, the physical continent remained incomplete, may-be a carcass, a bloat—that newer America, answering face to face with The States, with ever-satisfying and ever-unsurveyable seas and shores (Whitman 1094-1095).

Whitman went on to acknowledge that Emerson “led The States” to those shores and “have led Me there. I say that none has ever done, or ever can do, a greater deed for The States, than your deed” (1095).

In Walt Whitman’s America, author David Reynolds referred to Emerson’s letter to Whitman as the “Gettysburg Address of American literary commentary.” Reynolds explains how Whitman should have realized his debt to Emerson:
If Lincoln's Gettysburg Address remade America, as Garry Wills says, Emerson's letter came close to making Whitman. It was constantly reprinted, quoted, and cited by Whitman's defenders, often with Whitman's encouragement. Just as the Gettysburg Address soared above details of battles or political squabbles and made an eloquent generalization about the goals of the nation, so Emerson's letter made a holistic, transcendental statement about Whitman's poetry.  (qtd. in http://www. classroomelectric.org/volume1/belasco/whitman-emerson.htm)

Critics scolded Whitman for not asking Emerson’s permission to publish his private letter of praise, which would have been a proper and traditional gesture. Yet, Whitman’s impropriety was a demonstration of his utter incorporation of non-conformity, one of the tenants of Emersonian philosophy. It is this philosophy that established the American voice as independent of Mother England. It is Whitman’s “Song of Myself” that welcomed all these individual identities to unite in non-conformity:
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same (Whitman 1028).

In section 15 of  “Song of Myself” Whitman lists over 50 diverse Americans who “one and all I weave the song of myself.” From the “half-breed” who “straps on his light boots to compete in the race” and “groups of newly-come immigrants” to the floor-men, tinners, masons, flatboatmen, patriarchs, prostitutes, and “President holding a cabinet council,” all are Americans with a unique resonance that rings true to the song that is these United States (1033-1035).


Works Cited

Baym, Nina, gen. ed. The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 8th ed.                                      
      New York: Norton, 2012. Print.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “Nature.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Ed. Nina Baym.
      8th ed.  New York: Norton. 2013. 508-536. Print.

Whitman, Walt. “Letter to Ralph Waldo Emerson.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature.          
          Ed. Nina Baym. 8th ed.  New York: Norton. 2013. 1088-1095. Print.

---. “Song of Myself.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Ed. Nina Baym.

      8th ed.  New York: Norton. 2013. 1024-1067. Print.

Friday, November 25, 2016

Puritans in American Literature

Nathaniel Hawthorne once wrote, “Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin.” He exemplified this most clearly in his crisis-of-faith story “Young Goodman Brown,” which was set in late 17th Century Salem, MA. Salem, at that time, was the site of the infamous witchcraft trials and executions of 1692. This horrific and appalling scar on American history was also the inspiration for Arthur Miller’s play “The Crucible.” Both Hawthorne and Miller utilize the power of literary art to illustrate the light and dark sides of human nature as the epic battle of good vs. evil is played out in a community of faith. These literary classics are momentous parables that verify George Santayana’s adage “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  Hawthorne and Miller documented, for all time, the historic irony of a group of people seeking religious tolerance and freedom from persecution; these individuals then established a church with a rigid moral code that punished all who diversified and sinned against this code. True tales for today?

The setting for both tales was Salem, Massachusetts, established by Puritan colonists. Puritanism was a religious movement opposed to the perceived corruption and impurity of the Church of England. The Church was beginning to accept diverse views and high church practices that Puritans aimed to reform (MA Puritans) or separate from (Plymouth Colonists). Puritans believed in predestination and practiced covenants with God and their community. A Covenant of Grace deemed some chosen as God’s people who have a contract with God. Sins of disobedience against this contract were punishable. However, because Jesus Christ died for our sins, God was contracted to save sinners who confessed. ““The Redeemer will come to Zion, to those in Jacob who repent of their sins,” declares the Lord. “As for me, this is my covenant with them,” says the Lord. “My Spirit, who is on you, will not depart from you, and my words that I have put in your mouth will always be on your lips, on the lips of your children and on the lips of their descendants—from this time on and forever,” says the Lord” (Isaiah 59:20-21). The final covenant, the Covenant of Good Works, promised eternal life in heaven for a pure and righteous life on earth. For New England Puritans, these covenants offered a means of organization and governance both in the church and new Colonial society. God’s law was the only law and there was no separation of church and state. The strict laws of church and state left no room for error, despite the Covenant of Redemption; one could be punished for the mere appearance of impropriety. It is this public righteousness as well as the Puritan belief that the Devil had as much capacity to incorporate as did God which led to the hysterical witch hunts.

In the story of “Young Goodman Brown” a naive young man enters a dark forest where he meets a fellow traveler with a “staff, which bore the likeness of a great black snake,” the devil, no doubt. This is the turning point for Goodman Brown - at this crossroads he is challenged to either keep Puritan covenant as he believes to be his righteous nature and heritage, or think for himself as an individual: “Let us walk on; nevertheless, reasoning as we go, and if I convince thee not, thou shalt turn back” (621). The devilish traveler challenges the  good man’s Christian heritage saying he was with his grandfather when he whipped a Quaker and set fire to an Indian village. The elder tries to reveal to the younger that all humans have within them the capacity for both good and evil. “Wickedness or not…I have a very general acquaintance here in New England” (621). This is the beginning of Brown’s loss of innocence and faith. He goes deeper into the forest and meets many of his other Christian neighbors, his congregation heading to the devil worshipping witch’s coven. Eventually, he also sees his wife, metaphorically named Faith, and her innocent pink ribbons dancing on the winds of sin. He is devastated that all he has known and seen in the light of day is not what it appears to be in the frightening dark of night. “Welcome, my children…to the communion of your race! Ye have found, thus young, your nature and your destiny.” Was this a dream? Hawthorne never fully reveals that fact to the reader. Toward the end of the story, however, the devil dashes all hope, “Now are ye undeceived! Evil is the nature of mankind” (627). Goodman Brown never recovered from his loss of faith in the good side of human nature. Too true today, this November 2016 day?

Arthur Miller’s play of the Salem witchcraft trials was an allegory for all time that also revealed the light and dark sides of human nature. He wrote “The Crucible” in response to McCarthyism and the hearings conducted by the House Un-American Activities Committee. Miller was suspected of anti-communist, un-American (and therefore un-Christian) activities. Just like in the Salem trials, he was asked to name names of others suspected of immoral acts. In his play, a group of young Puritan girls, rather than get in trouble for playing in the woods with the black slave Tituba, point their finger at the equally powerless slave, accusing her of being a witch. The town becomes hysterical as more and more men, women, and even dogs are named as witches. Through the process of naming, the previously powerless children rise in stature and status and persecution masquerades as virtue in this true-to-life witch-hunt. In the final scene, when John Proctor was asked why he refused to sign his name said, “with a cry of his whole soul: Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life!...How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name” (Crucible 4.293). Proctor considers his name the key to his individual identity and independence separate from the Puritan church/state in which he lived. At this time in Salem, MA "Every authority not only confirmed the existence of witches but never questioned the necessity of executing them"(Miller 5). To call or name a person a witch was a death sentence. The only way one accused of being a witch could escape the hanging rope in 1692 was to name the other witches. Tituba saved her neck by naming others. John Proctor refused, shouting, "You will not use me! I am no Sarah Good or Tituba, I am John Proctor! You will not use me!" (Crucible 4.281). Again, he differentiates himself from the collective mass hysteria with his name. Miller’s play reflects on the power of naming to divide and destroy. True today?

There are numerous incidents of this evil tendency of human nature to scapegoat and blame others for unfounded fears, guilt, or inexplicable trials and tribulations. Allow me to name just a few prime examples before and after McCarthyism: the Holocaust, naming of Muslim Americans after 9/11 as evil terrorists; all undocumented Mexican immigrants called aliens, drug dealers or thugs; the name calling on the political stage; or the calling out of LGBT people at the start of the AIDS crisis. As an act of bullying, name calling can destroy individual lives and communities. Throughout American history, nay human history, how often have we witnessed the religious right, the fundamental righteous, justify evil acts against fellow humans in the name of God and in their fear of those who think differently? Nathaniel Hawthorne and Arthur Miller understood that literary art (all art actually) can serve as artifacts to mirror our humanity and inhumanity. We would be wise, today, to revisit the literature of Puritan America and reflect upon both the good and evil truths of our human nature. This Thanksgiving in 2016, I reflect on how a righteous denial of our human nature can have devastatingly deathly consequences to the individual freedoms and diverse beliefs the Puritans sought and celebrated on that first Thanksgiving.

Works Cited
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. “Young Goodman Brown.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature.
Nina Baym. 8th ed.  New York: Norton. 2013. 209-220. Print.

Miller, Arthur. The Crucible. New York: Penguin Group, 1995. Print.

Miller, Arthur. "Are You Now Or Were You Ever?" The Guardian/The Observer. 17 June 2000. Web.

3 September 2016.

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Twain's advice for good writing

I was assigned James Fenimore Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans to read for my American Lit class. Mark Twain had much to say about Cooper's writing and I strongly agree with his criticism:

One of the first self-editing lessons I give my writing students is on sentence fluency and word count. I tell them that if all the sentences have an even number of words it’s like singing a song in monotone quarter notes. Variety is the spice of life. Right? Sentence length assists in the tone and rhythm of the writing. Short sentences can leave the reader breathless where as long, effusive, effluvial, winding, redundant sentences, which of course are an author’s privilege if s/he should so choose, can have a most off-putting, disturbing, or daunting impact on an otherwise enthusiastic reader. Now what was I talking about? Oh yeah, sentence fluency. I randomly selected a sentence from James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans and counted the words. Can you guess? Seventy-one! Now maybe he just wanted to show off his aptitude for semi-colons; I agree with Mark Twain, however, that an author shall “eschew surplusage,” “Say what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it,” and “employ a simple and straightforward style” (Twain 2). Instead of:

“I am not a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts himself on his natural privileges, though the worst enemy I have on earth, and he is an Iroquois, daren’t deny that I am genuine white,” the scout replied, surveying, with secret satisfaction, the faded colour of his bony and sinewy hand; “and I am willing to own that my people have many ways, of which, as an honest man, I can’t approve” (Cooper 487).


Cooper could have written, 'Hawk-eye responded, “I’m white, but I’m not prejudice.”' Although, Cooper’s convoluted journey to his point may be the deer path away from the real truth. Seems to me Hawk-eye is prejudice based on his “secret satisfaction” in his “genuine white” “sinewy hand.” Genuine implies pure, which implies the other (i.e. red skin Natives) as impure, thus insinuating a prejudicial racial hierarchy. Shades of Aryan? Although Hawk-eye has many Indian friends, he is opposed to interracial marriage and would just as soon kill an Iroquois who accused him of being bi-racial.

And what’s with “vaunts himself”? Clearly an offense to Twain’s rule number 13: “Use the right word, not its second cousin” (Twain 2). “I’m not one to brag,” Natty Bumppo remarked. This would be more in keeping with Twain’s rule number seven, which states that the characters must be consistent in their vernacular and diction. Four paragraphs previous to the offensive paragraph above, the white man speaks like an Indian in a Lone Ranger movie, “Your fathers came from the setting sun, crossed the big river…and mine came from the red sky of the morning.” You West/me East- Kemosabe! Meanwhile, his Indian friend speaks like a refined English gentleman, “Is there no difference, Hawk-eye, between the stone-headed arrow of the warrior, and the leaden bullet with which you kill?”(Cooper 487). Cooper wants us to know that Natty ain’t no bimbo bumpkin when it comes to the Native tongue, that he is more peachy-pink than white, which makes him closer to red, “…he said, speaking in the tongue which was known to all the natives who formerly inhabited the country between the Hudson and the Potomack, and of which we shall give a free translation for the benefit of the reader; endeavouring, at the same time , to preserve some of the peculiarities, both of the individual and of the language” [wordcount=59 or 69 if you add the beginning of that sentence] (Cooper 487). Eschew! By the way, I wonder, did Cooper know there were over 500 different languages spoken by tribes in the continental US at the time? 

Cooper, James Fenimore. “The Last of the Mohicans.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature.  8th ed.  Ed. Nina Baym. New York: Norton. 2013. 482-491. Print.
Twain, Mark. “Fenimore Cooper’s Literary Offenses.” Virginia.edu. Mark Twain in His Times, 2012. Web. 5 Sept. 2016. http://twain.lib.virginia.edu/projects/rissetto/offense.html



Monday, July 18, 2016

Me & Emily D.

Another reading response for my World Lit. class.
1129
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —
            ~Emily Dickinson

I came across a “Bait/Rebait” argument published in 1982 by the National Council of Teachers of English. The statement debated was: “It is dishonest of English Teachers to ignore the homosexuality of literary figures whose works they teach” The con opinion is barely worth addressing as it quotes a letter to Ann Landers as defense and opens with the argument that “…we know that homosexuality is disapproved of by the majority of taxpayers who support the school.”  The pro opinion written by Richard Follett is based on the premise that “A taboo about the lesbian/gay identity of an author is as imbalanced as a neurotic focus on that single issue…Surrendering to deception so we will not be thought different from others negates the pursuit of truth embedded in teaching literature. The writers who have produced the literature we teach deserve to have the truth shared about their lives. We have no other moral option but to side with the truth openly” (Follett and Larson). That truth, however, even in 2016, “must dazzle gradually.”

In 1982, I was finishing my undergraduate degree, heading into a teaching career, and was about to finally come out of the closet. My first partner was an English teacher who introduced me to a canon of lesbian literature starting with Radclyffe Hall’s classic The Well of Loneliness. She, of course, did not offer this canon to her high school students anymore than she discussed Walt Whitman’s homosexual orientation in relation to his poetry or I discussed AIDS in my health classes. AlthoughThe Well of Loneliness, written in 1928, did not reflect my internal landscape (aka Butch/Femme paradigm or sexual invert), here was a character in a book who felt what I felt, experienced societal and familial rejection for those feelings just as I did. For the first time in my reading life I heard MY heart beat and break on the page. I found my people not only in the characters, but the author and her associates. I found MY history, MY culture, MY place, MY voice.

The LGBT voice is frequently silenced, particularly in the public schools. The political, literary, artistic, and social contributions of LGBT persons are often excluded, distorted, or censored from school texts/curriculum. This gap in history sends the message that the LGBT story is one of inferiority – it doesn’t count in the national narrative, leading LGBT youth to conclude they don't matter. Identity is formed from a shared narrative, a common history. Keeping this subject matter out of textbooks and discussions offends the dignity of LGBT children. Oregon school districts have made strides in the formation of Gay Straight Alliances and anti-discrimination practices. However, nationally, 64% of LGBT youth still feel unsafe at school due to sexual orientation or gender identity. Many report that the school made no effort to respond effectively to harassment.

While national acceptance of LGBT-identified people is on the rise, a study by The Human Rights Campaign reported 92% of LGBT youth still hear negative slurs about them at school, on the Internet, or from their peers. Additionally, 73% of LGBT youth say they are more honest online than in the real world - suggesting a need to remain anonymous in pursuit of self-expression. In an article in the Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide, author Henri Cole (Middle Earth) was asked what elements of his gay identity might contribute to his unique literary voice. He responded, “I think my love of simile is connected to homosexuality. Nothing is ever exactly itself, like me” (Hennessy). When I read that, I thought immediately of Emily D.’s line, “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant.” How many years did I circumloquaciously circumnavigate the truth of my identity, my voice? How fearful was I of the brightness of that voice, that truth?

Was Miss Emily gay? Her orientation will forever be a mystery to us all, but there is no question she had a Sapphic relationship with her neighbor and sister-in-law Susan Huntington. In 1998 I fell upon a collection of her letters and poems to Susan in a book titled Open Me Carefully. The work is classic Emily with its dashes and unconventional capitalization. It’s also filled with universal wisdom, social context of her day, and passion. Where would I be today if this poem was included in my English class along with all the other love poems of the traditional canon?

Sweet Sue,
There is
no first, or last,
in Forever —
It is Centre, there,
all the time —
To believe — is enough,
and the right of
supposing —
Take back that 
"Bee" and "Buttercup" —
I have no Field
for them, though
       for the Woman
whom I prefer,
Here is Festival —
When my Hands
are Cut, Her
fingers will be 
found inside —
Our beautiful Neigh-
bor "moved" in May —
It leaves an
Unimportance.
Take the Key to 
the Lily, now, and
I will lock the Rose — (Hart and Smith 130)

Works Cited
Follett, Richard J. and Larson, Rayna. “Bait/Rebait: It is Dishonest of English Teachers to Ignore the Homosexuality of Lierary Figures Who Works They Teach.” The English Journal Vol. 71. No. 4 (Apr., 1982): 18-21. Jstor. Web. 27 June 2016.
Hart, Ellen Louise and Smith, Martha Nell. (ed.) Open Me Carefully. Massachusettes: Paris Press, 1998. Print.
Hennessy, Christopher. “Ten Ways of Looking at Gay Poetry.” The Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide12:5 (2005): 10. GenderWatch. Web. 26 June 2016.