tarrant county college south campus

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Script
A JOURNAL OF LITERATURE AND ART
TARRANT COUNTY COLLEGE
SOUTH CAMPUS
FALL 2013-SPRING 2014
TARRANT COUNTY COLLEGE SOUTH CAMPUS
1
Published by the English Department
Fall 2013 – Spring 2014
PREFACE
The physical beauty of the South Campus is undeniable. Even in the late summer, when the sun has
drenched the spring grasses with its withering heat, the sage and live oak sing for joy in the company of
prairie flowers. Above a slow-moving pool looms the titan tower that calls for attention with timely chimes
and melodies. Intimidating pines wait for autumn to drop their spikes at the feet of the unsuspecting
passerby.
Each semester, students gather among the natural beauty of the campus, and the ground vibrates,
shakes its summer loneliness off, and embraces the eagerness of its patrons. The external splendor of
the South Campus cannot compare, and indeed, must rely upon the campus’s internal magnificence for
its sustainability. The South Campus’s inner beauty can only be found in the minds, the hearts, and the
imaginations of its students. Some of these students are artists who illustrate a view of their hearts with
words, while others sketch out their dreams with color and canvas. Each of these students
[…]bear[s] the impress of a personal quality, a profound expressiveness, what the French
call intimité, by which is meant some subtler sense of originality – the seal on a man’s work
of what is most inward and peculiar in his moods, and manner of apprehension: it is what
we call expression, carried to its highest intensity of degree. […] it is the quality which
alone makes work in the imaginative order really worth having at all.
Walter Pater, The Renaissance
Script is a witness to, a record of, a musing on the internal beauty of a college campus through
a corpus of student writing and art; it is a place where students, in profound ways, echo Pater’s
definition of intimité.
Script, put together by the Tarrant County College South Campus English Department, the
South Campus Writing Center, and the South Campus chapter of Sigma Kappa Delta, could not
be published without the efforts of three extraordinary individuals in the English Department:
Rebekah Clinkscale, Lindsey Davis, and Dr. Iris Harvey. All three of these excellent instructors
work selflessly on behalf of the students of South Campus, volunteering hours of their very valuable
time to compile this publication in a meaningful way. Thanks to them, the students whose work
appears in these pages will forever enrich this campus.
Sandi J. Hubnik, PhD
Chair, Department of English
Tarrant County College South Campus
V
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Media’s Representation of Women in Politics, essay. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Sam Leonard
King Pup, ceramic art. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Caroline Tye
You’re a Character, poem. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Tracey Wright-Taylor
African Dancer #2, woodcut. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Maureen Greenwood
Censorship in the House, essay. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Tim Bullerwell
Damaged, painting. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Dead Air, essay. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Ryan Fitzgibbons
Gecko on Branch, metal art. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Sharon Warner
Kajacs, short story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Kevin Landrum
Devil’s Inkwell, photograph. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Virginia Henry
Naked Dinner, poem. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
VI
SCRIPT • A JOURNAL OF LITERATURE AND ART
Stag, metal art. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16.
Elisha Bryant
The Not So Perfect Utopia, essay. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17.
Spencer Yancey
Cardinal, photograph. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21.
Maria F. Artiles
Los Angeles, short story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22.
Untitled, photograph. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25.
Virginia Henry
A Path I Left Behind, poem. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26.
Kevin Landrum
Berlin, drawing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27.
Earthbound: An Analysis of Book with Wings, essay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28.
Kandace Smith
Phoenix, ceramic art. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30.
Molly Smith
A Tale to Dead Paper, essay. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31.
Bryttani Moss
Mayan Creation Dance, metal art. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Maureen Greenwood
VII
The Media’s Representation of Women in Politics
SAM LEONARD
Women in the political arena are generally
treated very differently by mainstream media
than their male counterparts. The focus is
quite often more about the candidates’ looks,
personal lives, or charisma than it is about their
platform or agendas (Dabbous and Ladley 190).
With a male candidate, the discussion typically
revolves around their work history or job-related
achievements, while this type of pertinent
information is frequently omitted when
discussing their female opponents (Devitt).
Between the criticisms of Hillary Clinton’s
attitude and appearance and the fetishizing
Sarah Palin’s pageant past, the 2008 election was
rife with sexism. This trend continues today, as
illustrated in the ad hominem attacks on Wendy
Davis’s marriage and maternal capabilities. All
we seem to hear about these female candidates
is how emotional they are, where they get their
hair done, and whether or not they stayed at
home mothering for the appropriate amount
of time before returning to their careers. In an
age when more and more women are choosing
careers in fields that were previously dominated
by men, is it acceptable for news outlets to
continue to portray such a gender-biased view
of female politicians?
There are many who see this gendered lens
as detrimental to allowing women to move
forward within the political sphere. Even while
women receive less news coverage than their
male opponents in almost all instances (Kahn
and Goldenberg 228), the quality of coverage
is what is being most criticized. The women
running for office are continually faced with
having to defend their clothing and hairstyle
choices, and even the more personal decisions
of how they raise their children come into
question. This ultimately hurts the political
figure in the polls, “where economic plans
weigh far more heavily than do matching
outfits” (Devitt). Many people feel like these
topics detract from the real issues and reaffirm
the notion that a female candidate is a novelty.
A cursory look into the news surrounding
Wendy Davis’s gubernatorial bid in Texas tells
a similar story, offering an abundance of articles
surrounding her dissolved marriage or ability to
parent. The commentary that does involve her
work as a government agent mostly focuses on
abortion rights or equal pay, both of which are
generally viewed as “women’s issues.” In fact,
her work for reproductive freedom and her
light blonde hair earned her the title “Abortion
Barbie.” There are some that believe this gender
bias contributes to even more troublesome
aspects of the sexism in politics, such as John
McCain’s failure several years ago to correct a
woman for asking him, “How are we going to
beat that bitch?” in reference to Hillary Clinton.
He laughed and went so far as to call her
question an excellent one (Jost 278). Many feel
that women have a harder time maneuvering
up through the ranks with such a slanted media
scale and biased treatment in the political arena.
Others seem to think that this is a natural
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occurrence in a male-driven media. Men host
the majority of political news shows and write
more political news articles. A Women’s Media
Center poll recently found almost 80 percent
of Sunday morning news show guests are men
(Brazile). Additionally, a man is more likely
to be giving an interview to a woman in any
situation outside of the gossip spectrum, and
the results are what we see on television and
in print. The media hype surrounding a female
politician once a race is over tends to trail off
quickly afterwards (Larson 228), so the demand
for personal details should as well. People will
naturally want to comment on a pretty face,
nice outfit, or failed marriage, and many believe
this is simply the price of placing oneself in the
public eye. They do not feel like this is a real
hindrance to a woman’s political career as many
viewers are interested in these personal details.
Then there are others whose opinion seems
to lie somewhere in between. Feminist icon
Gloria Steinem says the media has a tendency
to gravitate towards what she calls “sideshows,”
women like Christine O’Donnell and Michele
Bachmann, who she believes lack substance
but have a higher entertainment value than
a reasonable or more viable candidate. She
believes it has become difficult for the media
to tell these political women apart (Steinem). It
is also true that women are less likely to go on
the record with their thoughts on public policy,
so there is perhaps less information on their
positions (Devitt). These people might believe
gender bias is a problem, but they believe there
are bigger problems holding women back in
politics than sensationalist media.
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As a woman, it matters to me to see women
represent us on all levels, local and national. I do
not believe in voting for a woman just because
she is a woman, but I will fight for that woman
to have the same opportunities as her male
opponents, regardless of her political affiliation.
Pundits would never think of discussing
whether or not Davis’s opponent, Greg Abbott,
would be able to “have it all” by being both father
and governor, because this is not language we
use to discuss male politicians. It should not be
language we use to discuss female politicians
either. They would not ask him about his diet,
clothing size, or beauty routine. It should go
without saying that these are not things they
should be asking female politicians about either.
It is human nature to want to discuss how well
both Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin can rock
a pantsuit, but it should not be newsworthy.
I do not need or want to know how old their
children were before they decided to go back
to work or what salon they patronize; that sort
of hard-hitting journalism should be left to the
tabloids. I also believe that it should be okay to
point out the crazy things some of our female
politicians do, because for every crazy woman
there is an Anthony Weiner.
This nation has an abundance of founding
fathers, but no mothers (Dabbous and Ladley
183); therefore, it is a difficult line that women
in politics are expected to walk. They must be
attractive, but not so attractive that the men
do not take them seriously or that women
might view them as a threat. They must exhibit
strength, but not at the cost of their femininity.
They must appear caring, but never emotional.
There are plenty of impressive women out
there enduring the scrutiny and distractions,
managing to change the country and world,
and as the late Texas Governor Ann Richards
said, “…if you give us a chance, we can perform.
After all, Ginger Rogers did everything that
Fred Astaire did. She just did it backwards
and in high heels.” How she looked in those
high heels is irrelevant. The women holding or
seeking office today, and the voting public as a
whole, deserve better than the current quality of
news coverage of women in politics.
Female Gubernatorial Candidates and the Press.”
Journalism and Mass Communication Quarterly 79.2
(Summer 2002): 445-63. EBSCO. Web. 30 Mar. 2014.
Jost, Kenneth. “Women in Politics: Does Gender Bias Hurt
Female Candidates?” CQ Researcher 18.12 (2008): 278.
Print.
Kahn, Kim Fridkin, and Edie N. Goldenberg. “The Media:
Obstacle or Ally of Feminists?” Annals of the American
Academy of Political and Social Science 515 (May 1991):
104-13. JSTOR. Web. 30 Mar. 2014.
Larson, Stephanie Greco. “American Women in Politics in
the Media: A Review Essay.” Political Science Politics 34.2
(2001): 228. ProQuest. Web. 30 Mar. 2014.
Steinem, Gloria. “Tough Cookies.” New York Times 27 Feb.
Works Cited
2011: 188(L). Biography in Context. Web. 30 Mar. 2014.
Brazile, Donna. “Invisibility and Bias.” Ms (2012): 63.
ProQuest. Web. 30 Mar. 2014.
Dabbous, Yasmine, and Amy Ladley. “A Spine of Steel
and a Heart of Gold: Newspaper Coverage of the First
Female Speaker of the House.” Journal of Gender Studies
19.2 (2010): 190. Print.
Devitt, James. “Framing Gender on the Campaign Trail:
3
King Pup
CAROLINE TYE
4
You’re a Character
TRACEY WRIGHT-TAYLOR
1.
You are pomade and gasoline
Crooked dog vulture with thorny flowering vines and wet lips and opportunistic eyes. A drink in
each hand. Cold cold cold.
You’re not human but a character some rebel wrote.
2.
You are classic beauty and warm reality like our heads are connected like you get me (you get it?)
and you’re so far away and I’m scared of those implications. How are you even real little doll you’re
a character some lonely girl wrote.
3.
You are clever fat mass of worlds of chaos and experience, moral entendre with dopefiend impulses.
I think you are on a planet of your own. How do we share the same blood, you are some fictitious
being that a neglect cooked up.
4.
You are this isolated man in some dark ruin with grease stain paper sheet mountain and old rock n
roll aesthetics. You’re just as eccentric as I am for all the rules you taunt. You said you’re my father
but I figured you out. You’re just another reflection of myself…
5
African Dancer #2
MAUREEN GREENWOOD
6
Censorship in the House
TIM BULLERWELL
New South Books is in the process of publishing
a revised edition of Mark Twain’s The Adventures
of Huckleberry Finn, and according to Leonard
Pitts, Jr., in his article entitled “Don’t Censor Mark
Twain’s N Word,” it will include specific changes
by Allen Gribben, a noted Twain scholar. All
racial slurs in the original text, most notably the
N-word, will be replaced with words that are, in
Gribben’s opinion, less offensive. Pitts vehemently
disagrees with the proposed changes. Although he
concedes that Gribben’s feelings on the subject do
have merit, he states that he in no way has literary
license to impose changes based on those feelings.
Pitts supports his contention with reasoning that
an artistic endeavor shared with the public should
be left in its original state, not arbitrarily changed
to suit another person’s opinion of what is fit for
public consumption. He also points out that
the words used to portray how people lived in a
certain era should not be watered down, as doing
so invariably changes how the reader visualizes
the story, and more importantly, the perceptions
they form may not be as the author intended. Pitts
also states that the proliferation of technology,
along with people in the literary field attempting
to decide what we are or are not permitted to
read, is rapidly flushing our children’s capacity
to understand the unique subtleties of any given
story right down the proverbial toilet.
I used to read Twain’s stories as a child; thus, it
is saddening to watch with disbelief as censorship
slithers its way into the literary domain of such
classics. I agree with Pitts that words weaved into a
story should not be switched if they don’t measure
up to someone else’s morality filter, as it diminishes
our capacity to correctly interpret a story and the
quality of the story itself. The best ones are told in
such brilliant fashion, visually transporting us to
a particular time and place and/or into the minds
of the characters as their lives are interwoven.
This tapestry is forever torn when people attempt
to interject their moral compass into the mix,
as if we cannot grasp for ourselves why words
were chosen. Gribben should be concentrating
his efforts on helping to improve reading
comprehension nationwide instead of using his
Band-Aid solution of removing words he feels are
not in our best interest. Paintings in the Louvre
are not retouched, nor are classic songs rewritten;
therefore, it begs the question as to why then are
well-known stories permitted to be altered from
their original form? You cannot use donuts for
dynamite. They may help implode your arteries,
but they will be of no use if you must do likewise
to a condemned building. The words Twain chose
for his story should never be changed, as he used
them to convey specific thoughts or images, and if
he occasionally used some that are now deemed
to be either controversial or no longer in fashion
to help bring his story alive, so be it. Censorship
does not help in this regard; on the contrary, it
only provides an avenue to accelerate the demise
of literary masterpieces.
7
Damaged
8
Dead Air
RYAN FITZGIBBONS
When The Walking Dead premiered in
2010, I was as excited as an office drone in a
Star Wars t-shirt could be. The zombie genre
has held a special place in the collective nerd
consciousness since George Romero’s Night of
the Living Dead premiered in the late sixties.
Films focusing on the undead remained
somewhat fringe until Internet-driven fixation
on the trinity of zombies, pirates, and ninjas
began to pick up steam in the early 2000s.
Internet popularity transitioned to mainstream
with the success of films such as 28 Days Later,
Shaun of the Dead, and the remake of Dawn
of the Dead. Zombie-themed 5K runs became
commonplace, survival guides for the zombie
apocalypse were published, Jane Austen’s Pride
and Prejudice became Pride and Prejudice and
Zombies, and even the Centers for Disease
Control chimed in by adding guidelines for
zombie outbreaks to their website. The zeitgeist
was ripe for the undead to rise and lumber into
their living rooms on a weekly basis. Zombies
were ready for primetime.
It was a foregone conclusion that The Walking
Dead would be a success, but do zombies have
anything left to tell us about ourselves? The
territory they shuffle over has already been
shot, stabbed, decapitated, and disemboweled
a hundred times before. I was excited for The
Walking Dead when it premiered and was
pleased by its inaugural run, but they’ve strayed
from the path they set out on. The Walking Dead
isn’t the worst show on television by any means
(I’m looking at you, The Big Bang Theory), but it
may be the worst show to maintain such a large
and dedicated following once it started wasting
their time.
Our hero, Rick Grimes, is a Sheriff ’s deputy
who lived out the start of the zombie apocalypse
in a coma. He didn’t survive because he was
capable or smart; he literally slept through it.
He wound up in a coma thanks to some poor
police work that resulted in his being shot. For
no reason other than the perceived leadership
qualities and skills that come with his uniform,
Rick becomes the de facto leader of a group
of survivors. Rick’s leadership can be summed
up thusly: We left that man behind and even
though he was awful, we need to go back and
risk multiple good people for him. We need to
do this because it’s the right thing to do. The
viewer is beaten over the head by Rick telling
anyone who will listen what the right thing to
do is and that apparently he’s the one to enforce
what’s right. This becomes a point of contention
between him and several other characters,
which never works out well for whoever isn’t
Rick. There’s a whole lot of circular talk going
on when there are zombies to kill! If these
debates served to create realistic tension within
the group, it would be one thing, but mostly it
serves to put them in a contrived corner they
have to shoot their way out of.
Given the series’ setting, it should go without
saying that the cast of characters undergoes
seasonal reaping, leaving us with few regulars.
9
Rick, his son Carl, Glenn (the resident gopher),
and the relatively similar characters of Daryl
and Carol are the only mainstays from the
beginning. Female characters on the show are
developed poorly and killed off when they’re
deemed annoying or the writers can’t make them
relevant. Male characters are often believably
stupid and/or duplicitous, then dispatched
accordingly. The two major female characters
from season one, Lori (Rick’s wife) and Andrea,
consistently find themselves in trouble (with
the living, undead, and fans), drag others down
with them, and ultimately are left to commit
suicide to appease the audience’s bloodlust for
them. Lori’s eventual death to save her child was
one of the more ridiculous exterminations of an
unpopular character to date. Lori’s and Andrea’s
characters shine a spotlight on the show’s true
colors as a bloody soap opera. The network’s
response to the audience’s lack of interest in or
annoyance with a character and their choice to
eliminate them are as compelling as anything in
the show.
In fairness, we do have Carol and Daryl, who
have eked out progression where others have
not. Carol suffered the loss of her husband (who
was abusive, so more of a “loss”) and then her
daughter in the second season. Daryl began as
the quiet half of a pair of biker brothers. He came
into his own with the overbearing presence of
his brother removed. Through brief interactions
with these characters, we see them grieve and
move on to become protector and caretaker of
the band of survivors. Daryl becomes a major
character since a crossbow-toting hillbilly with
a heart of gold who loves loud bikes and hates
10
shirts with sleeves is cool to both men and
women viewers. Meanwhile, Carol languishes
behind and is relegated to camp den mother.
Then there’s Michonne, who is the most at
home in a comic book show about zombies.
Michonne carries a katana and wanders the
wastes with a pair of defanged zombies on
leashes serving as camouflage. She’s a helpful
loner without strong alliances, sort of a Clint
Eastwood “man with no name.” She dispatches
the undead efficiently and has a general distrust
of groups; her skepticism of her one close
friend’s (Andrea’s) judgment demonstrates she
is one of few characters with any sense about
her. Unfortunately she’s not driving the story,
which would be more engaging if she were. Her
journeys from group to group each week, taking
care of their walker trouble and just trying to
mind her own business, would keep a better
pace and make for more compelling television.
Finally, we have our villains, zombie hordes,
and the Governor. The Governor (more of a
mayor, really) presides over a seemingly normal
town that has sprung up amidst chaos. To
protect the townspeople, he gathers supplies
by all means necessary, killing remnants of
the military and other groups he encounters.
He also captures zombies for gladiator-style
entertainment for the town to blow off steam.
Nothing about the character seems necessary
other than to point to Rick and say, “That guy is
a better leader than this nut.” He’s over-the-top
even for a show about zombies. He eventually
turns on his own people in a supervillain display
of rage, which should have resulted in his being
killed off right then. The only logical reason he
survives so long is the writers’ need for another
lurking threat because infighting, the threat of
undead flocks, and the character’s own stupidity
isn’t enough. Perhaps the writers see him as the
wasted opportunity he has been and are keeping
him alive for a more fulfilling second act. What
he has not been is a mirror held up to our
society’s leaders and government. He’s just that
creeper in a soap opera with an eye patch (yes,
he even has an eye patch).
If an entire episode played on mute or fastforward conveys the exact same plot, something
is very wrong. A show that once fostered a
setting of dread and unease now inserts jump
scares to keep the viewer awake. There’s that
saying, if you don’t have anything nice to say,
don’t say anything at all. For The Walking Dead
I’d present it as, if you don’t have anything to say,
don’t say anything at all, and certainly don’t put
that nothing on TV.
11
Gecko on Branch
SHARON WARNER
12
Kajacs
KEVIN LANDRUM
The sky was always purple on planet Neptune.
Except for when it was black and occasionally
when it was red. This never bothered Kajacs, for
he never looked up. He was a unique character
in that he was the only one of his kind. Despite
his old age, he was strong and sturdy, capable
of carrying much more than the average
Neptunian, making him very useful in times
of flood. He was what we on Earth may call a
donkey, and as the moniker may suggest, he was
not very wise. This also didn’t bother Kajacs, for
he had no use for wisdom.
One day while walking, head down as usual,
in search for more food to fill his belly, Kajacs
came upon a fish, beached upon the shore. The
safety of the water was just out of reach, and the
fish flopped violently in vain, attempting to get
back in the ocean.
“Help, help!” gasped the fish desperately.
Kajacs, hearing the cries, calmly nudged the
fish back into the water. Catching his breath, the
fish popped his head up to thank his rescuer.
“Thank the Almighty,” he cried. “I owe you
my life.”
“It was nothing,” Kajacs replied blankly. “I
don’t eat fish.”
“I think I almost made it that time,” the fish
began. “With a little help, I believe I can walk on
land with you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kajacs. “Fish
don’t walk.”
“Precisely,” he responded. “Every day I look
up from this pond, aware of a world I cannot
discover. Adventures and creatures, places and
things my existence denies me. My school, they
laugh, blacklist and torment me, as though
I were a fool. But I don’t mind,” he said as a
chuckle escaped from his fishy lips. “I do it for
them as well as myself.”
After a moment’s pause, Kajacs yawned and
turned back to his search of hay and straw.
“Well, wait a minute,” cried the fish. “Can’t I at
least repay you?”
“Ha!” laughed Kajacs. “No fish can gather the
hay that I seek.”
“Certainly there is more to life than seeking
hay, my friend. Haven’t you ever looked up and
gazed upon our beautiful universe?” inquired
the fish.
“I have no use in looking up, nor would I
look up if I did. The hay, the straw, the grass, the
feed does not come from the sky, you silly fish.
Everything I need is in its place, the way it has
always been.”
With that, Kajacs disappeared into the
Neptunian forest.
Days later, Kajacs would again come upon
the fish beached upon the shore. But this time,
no life came, no words spilled from his fishy
lips. He lay still, his dream, his metamorphosis
complete. And this time, Kajacs ate the fish, one
big gulp.
“Ugghh,” he said, disgusted by the taste. “I’ll
never eat something new again.”
13
Devil’s Inkwell
VIRGINIA HENRY
14
Naked Dinner
Peyote desert reunion party
Of decade old addicts
Little icy flat heart little lukewarm muster little sleep day no time away
Only mediation
Coming up with solutions
Ectoplasm filled junkies
Busted sores and coyote eyes
No more past delusions
Somewhere outside
The endless confines
6 months of night
Six months of day
Alaska
Without the silver spoon little
Fag lighter flesh eater flesh burner
Soul on fire cold sweaty clammy melting are your thick fingers hurting
Little amoeba worms under your nails
Banging every nail to every connection from San Diego every edge of wood and split up tree trunk
Fall off the roof later
Break your neck for painkillers
Mexican voodoo tales
Like a noose coming soon coming up coming soon….
Slippy stupid flesh
Slippy stupid and dead.
15
Stag
ELISHA BRYANT
16
The Not So Perfect Utopia
SPENCER YANCEY
In his short story “Harrison Bergeron,” author
Kurt Vonnegut displays a hypothetical vision of
America during the year 2081 where absolute
equality is the law of the land. Vonnegut’s future
America is a satirical reflection of the civil
rights movements that were taking place when
he wrote the story. In particular, Vonnegut is
satirizing the government’s involvement in
the “awarding” of civil rights by showing what
might happen to America if the government
becomes too involved in the quest for equality.
Through the lens of the twisted future setting
of “Harrison Bergeron,” Vonnegut shows
how the human race is doomed if equality is
achieved through conformity, the removal
of competition, and the fanatical desire that
everyone should have unblemished self-esteem.
First, Vonnegut displays how the government
would have to change the definition of equality
for absolute equality to exist and what measures
the government would take to enforce it. In
the alleged utopia of 2081 America, equality is
defined as conformity in all aspects of life rather
than equal treatment and equal opportunity
for all. This perverted definition of equality
is achieved through ridiculous measures and
enforced by a tyrannical government. Because
of the “211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to
the Constitution” (910), everyone is proclaimed
to be “equal in every which way” (909), or
rather individuals that do not naturally fit the
definition of equality are disadvantaged by
artificial means via handicap devices to make
them equal. The fact that the U.S. Constitution
went from having 23 amendments in 1961
during the time of the story’s publication to
having 213 in 2081 implies that Americans
supported a change in the definition of equality
and wanted the government to enforce it.
By the use of the “agents of the United States
Handicapper General” (910), the government
enforces conformity by tyrannical means
similar to the Gestapo in Europe during the
1930s and 1940s. People that mildly break the
law by tampering with their handicap devices
receive prison sentences, and people that
achieve an unacceptable amount of inequality
are executed like Harrison Bergeron is. Weirdly,
the citizens that live under the omnipresent gaze
of a Big Brother type government agree with the
equality laws and the measures to uphold them.
Perhaps society has believed that the perverted
definition of equality is true and righteous for
so long that it is comparable to their attitude
toward the handicap devices some citizens must
wear. For instance, when George is refuting
Hazel’s idea that he rest because of the physical
handicap he wears around his neck, George says,
“I don’t notice it any more. It’s just part of me”
(911). This shows that just like how George has
become accustomed to his handicaps, society
has become accustomed to the way things are
and believes that everything is perfect, or they
are no longer capable of questioning it. In
addition, the past, where everyone was unequal
by the 2081 definition, is referred to as “the
17
dark ages…with everybody competing against
everybody else” (911). This absolute rejection of
the old definition of equality and the way of life
it helped create shows the severity of distortion
in 2081 America’s thinking.
Vonnegut shows that for everyone to see each
other as equal, it is not enough to just prevent
excellence; they must bring everyone down
to the lowest possible level of intelligence and
physicality. Mediocrity rather than excellence
is the grand goal and guiding belief that 2081
America lives by. Furthermore, mediocrity has
replaced the idea of excellence, and traditional
excellence is wrong, dirty, sinful, and illegal.
This obsession with mediocrity is derived from
the very high emphasis placed on self-esteem
in the utopia. The most obvious demonstration
of putting self-esteem on a pedestal is the news
announcer who “like all announcers, had a
serious speech impediment” (912). Having
news announcers with speech impediments
would have been a daft thing to do in 1961.
However, in 2081 news announcers with speech
impediments is the most equal kind of news
announcer possible. For there to be absolute
equality, no person can ever feel inadequate
to another person in any respect whatsoever.
When the news announcer gives up after
stuttering for thirty seconds, Hazel applauds
him for trying “to do the best he could” and
believes, “He should get a nice raise for trying
so hard” (912). Since the news announcer is
completely equal and is not allowed to display
public speaking skills better than anyone else
would, nobody will feel unequal. Likewise, the
handicap devices are designed to keep people
18
from achieving excellence by using whatever
skill or capability they are naturally cursed
with that is considered to be unequal. People
with unequal minds like George must wear
mental handicaps that prevent them “from
taking unfair advantage of their brains” (910).
Also, physical handicaps are used to keep
people from achieving physical feats that are
above average and to make them “equal” with
those that are “naturally” equal (i.e., mediocre)
so that way nobody will “feel like something
the cat drug in” (910). Hazel, for example, is
naturally equal, or mediocre, so she does not
have to wear any handicaps, which means she
is not very strong physically and is what most
people today would consider an ignoramus;
however, in 2081 America she is ideal. While
Hazel may be considered perfect, Harrison
Bergeron is the exact opposite; he is treated like
some sort of Hannibal Lecter type who is public
enemy number one because he is “a genius and
an athlete, is under-handicapped, and should be
regarded as extremely dangerous” (912). This
thinking that excellence is wrong and should be
avoided at all costs is in stark contrast to the idea
of American Exceptionalism that was popular
during the 1960s. But how is one supposed to
strive for mediocrity given that it goes against
the basic human desire to achieve?
To further illustrate how ludicrous this
definition of equality is and how dangerous the
fervorous desire for equality can be, Vonnegut
shows what is thought of personal potential
in this utopia. In 2081 America, personal
potential is restrained and prevented from ever
being achieved or even thought of if a person’s
personal potential would make him or her
unequal. Hazel, for example, does not need to
have her personal potential restrained because
her personal potential is not a threat. Harrison
Bergeron, however, knew he had great personal
potential, something he should not have known
but wants everyone to see when he declares, “…
watch me become what I can become!” (912).
When Harrison Bergeron removes his handicaps
and dances around with the ballerina, he
achieves an unacceptable amount of inequality
and was promptly executed for his monumental
moment of non-handicapped reality and brief
expression of personal potential. This thinking
that achieving personal potential is something
to avoid is another example of how misguided
America would have to be for absolute equality
to be possible and shows how harshly it would
have to be enforced.
Vonnegut shows how the desire for equality
by this definition would require humanity to
stop trying to improve the world and the human
condition. Basically, the extreme desire for
equality would force the progress of civilization
to stagnate in order to prevent a delineation
between the haves and the have nots, the
talented and the untalented. Since everyone
must be mediocre in order to be equal, this
causes the progress of civilization to cease
because any kind of innovative thought is not
possible without it being deemed unequal. That
explains why the technology in 2081 America
seems to be only as advanced as the technology
that existed during the 1960s; for example, after
Harrison Bergeron is executed, the cathode ray
tube in George and Hazel’s TV burns out. This
implies that the point American civilization
was at when the equality laws were enacted
is where it has and will stay because anymore
progress would require unequal thoughts or
could lead to inequality if someone had a piece
of technology that another person did not.
Innovation has always been a point of pride
for Americans and the desire for the newest
technology is widespread, but that is not the
case in 2081 America.
In addition, another very important American
ideal of the past would be unrecognizable
in 2081 America. Vonnegut displays how
individuality would have to be discarded and
forcibly prevented for equality to work by the
definition of equality 2081 America lives by.
No individual is considered special in any way
because that would be unequal. Every person
can do every possible job because the standard
that every job requires is mediocre, and since
every person must be mediocre in every way,
automatically everyone is qualified to do every
possible job. Hazel fantasizes about being
Handicapper General with her naturally equal
mind and imagination, and when she tells her
fantasy to George, he lets her know that she
would be as “[g]ood as anybody else” (910).
Americans generally strive for individuality, so
Vonnegut is sort of begging the question of how
much people are willing to give up for equality
throughout “Harrison Bergeron.” However,
when he questions if they would be willing to
depart from individuality, it is probably the
strongest departure from what is a strongly
cherished American ideal.
So what is the purpose of this hypothetical
19
nightmare? Vonnegut presents a depressing
future where the human race has doomed itself
in the belief that it has achieved true equality.
In this future it is too late for equality to return
to its original and correct definition because
the government has defined it as conformity
through any means necessary, has removed
competition from the lives of Americans, and
has punished individuals for making others
feel less equal. Vonnegut perhaps was hoping
that his devil’s advocate hypothesis will make
Americans think twice before asking the
government to dictate the parameters of human
potential and opportunity. Although equality is
a good thing and it should be achieved as fully
20
as possible, inequality will always be part of the
human condition, in as far as it is a reflection of
individuality. Vonnegut shows what will happen
if absolute equality for everyone is attempted
by redefining equality and the lowering of the
human existence to a level so low that every
person can feel equal just because they exist,
...and it is not a rosy existence.
Work Cited
Vonnegut, Kurt, Jr. “Harrison Bergeron.” Literature for Life.
Ed. X.J. Kennedy, Dana Gioia, and Nina Revoyr. New
York: Pearson, 2013. 909-14. Print.
Cardinal
MARIA F. ARTILES
21
Los Angeles
There was something in the pastel Latino
homes and palm trees so close to the water’s
edge that made her really feel more human
than every repeating brick of house and uptown
establishment in her own home neighborhood.
She tried to find the beauty in her home. The
only time she could was in the first six hours
of her return from some place afar. Return was
always the same, sunny, blue skies, lucky, big
drains in the side of the road. It was always the
road. Not even hot pavement that smoldered
in the distance with dead yellow grassy
underpasses on the side and chain-link fences
that were so prevalent in the Real City, the city
of depravity that her parents spoke of so much
with a reverent fear and distant lore, don’t go
to this neighborhood and certainly avoid that
one. No, her own home was just cold French
gray cement and new cars, new signs, rising
gas prices, stuffy, unattractive squares in their
ironed bluish white pinstripe shirts and their
not-quite executive but definitely office-labor
ties.
People’s eyes were not dead, they were hostile
and jealous.
Out west, the same eyes were hostile, dead,
but not jealous, so they couldn’t lash out. They’d
seen plenty of people like her. Stupid girls who
had had a rough lot in their childhood who
thought they could talk shit and walk the dog
with the same body. It didn’t work like that
and she knew it but could not experience the
true evidence of this yet. Nor did she want to
22
see it oncoming like the black spring clouds of
the inevitable Texas tornado season. She hated
failure, and in avoiding it entirely, avoided the
attempt. The only failure she welcomed with
open arms were the failures on the walls and
on the floor, stuffed between cardboard boxes
with dried paint of various form smothered
and slashed across their surfaces. Primary
colors, ugly shit-bleeding colors, colors like the
manic Freudian will she was vaguely aware of
but could not put words to. An avid writer, she
tuned her audio in to all her dreams for some
meaning. Every off night rarity that her house
burned down, it was the fault of David Lynch.
Every dead corpse that fell out of the closet
belonged to her mother. Every girl’s skirt she
could not ball up in her hands and make sweet
comments about were the lying back slap of the
northwest girl she admired…however the girl
denied these claims, she said, every night, “My
astral body is a liar, I would love you anyways.”
So there was something in the prospect of
reclaiming these colorful Latino homes and
hostile, knowing citizens of Orange County that
appealed to her. When the whiskey burn flowed
and the sticky resin on the fingers of leatherjacketed rock-n-roll veterans became tell-tale
sign before the clouds of haze filling the back of
the van, she had decided this was home. There
was Mexican voodoo lore around every corner.
They stopped at the house, was it Clint, she
didn’t know his name then but suspected it was
he later. His house was beautiful, a house she
would die for. They quickly entered and left, a
big man you would expect to be clammy who
held his weight like a round bowling ball. He
could drink his way through any amount of
bullshit. The skinny good-man who looked like
he’d hung his last nice Italian vest on some door
in another state and gave up on a life of bad-boy.
She wasn’t sure about him, he had a wife and
successful kids, he seemed the most straight,
Mama Bazz she called him, but he had it in his
eyes, something strange. Picking her up from
LAX he was just some old man who knew how
to shave his sideburns well and he could discuss
everything about what to and not to consume
but at gigs he became some serious shadow of
a mafioso past. Her own cousin seemed more
innocuous, a pure spirit with glassy blue eyes
that never seemed present. She felt like a ghost,
unnoticed and effortlessly welcomed by these
men, and yet, they seemed to see right through
her. They didn’t have to look at her twice and
they knew what she was all about. They seemed
to know her more than her own family did.
They turned their eyes away and said “Atta girl!”
The whiskey was good, anyways.
The man’s abode was stocked with gray solid
heads and little painted swirls, Japanese cabinets
and so many classic pin-up posters it had her
asexually positioned head reeling.
“You know, she’s an artist too.”
“Oh, is she?” He didn’t believe him and she
understood why. Any little girl could be an
artist. She was an artist at heart but not by trade.
She was a pasty Basquiat, a hostile and southern
Warhol with less sense and more derision about
the commercial world. What was she rebelling
against? Nobody knew the answer, but she’d
give a classic, “Whatd’ya got?” Her failures were
marked achievements, she said that the feeling
of releasing unidentified feelings through paint
and making some mark, any mark, permanent,
on a thing that she held mercy over, even
inanimate, was an act of defiance and control.
She controlled what she manufactured and
she defied what anyone wanted to see. Perhaps
then, she would retire to the title “author.” She’d
tried rock-n-roller, rebel, before punk got too
fashionable, and her father called her Beat,
but she didn’t understand Beat too much, it
wasn’t boxed in enough for her, it was free-form
jazz without the genre and smoke-filled cafés,
but she knew it’d catch up with her sooner or
later like the important Lou Reed albums or
her narcissism-fueled Egon Schiele obsession,
how she lamented in Germany when his spirit
seemed to fill every pathway saying, “Go on,
you’re always right,” and she was. It made
her tired to be right all the time. But she was
no artist. She stared at the man. He said, nice
clothes, did you need new ones? She had rips
and safety pins stuck about her James Dean
red jacket. Dark plum lipstick and blue and
gold eye-shadow, short oxblood hair like fire
in the sun, dead stubborn boy eyes like some
indignant cat, well-shaped boots that would fail
her in the working world. She couldn’t reply
but slunk back to the van where she could rest
her head against the bumping cold glass, one
million tiny cold concussions. She would feel
the urge to urinate and wait for the van to pull
over, tripping down the cement slope after the
peyote-mystified man she felt akin to.
23
“Don’t wake Chopper.” His bathroom was
tinier than the one in the studio in Dallas where
the old man looking for a buck and writing
her strange, illustrious poetry deluded her into
thinking she could trust any man to understand
her vision.
She hiked up her skirt, warm piss flood,
he sang little la-di-das in the living room. So
much for being quiet. She wanted to explore
his house, she wondered what kind of stores he
shopped at, if he was ever Some Old Man to the
onlookers but he would never be who he was to
her to anyone else, he was a legend, some ragged
wolf with burned out stomach lining puking
over a toilet, later she imagined his trembling
thick sausage finger hands shakily aiming
for precision banging banging hammering
nails into the wood, glimmering snow in all
directions and hallucinations of the devil on
the doorstep below crying “Hit harder, human.”
She wondered what drove him to this madness,
was he perpetually bored? Some pain had to
have afflicted him, oh, she couldn’t understand,
he was so old, but he seemed so young and
reckless. When he got smart and waggled his
24
finger at her she felt betrayed. Leaving the
door behind her, he waved goodbye with weak
flowing fingers like moonlight behind his gray
hairs and his eyes stared into some foreign place
where things were unimaginable for a life-virgin
like her, trapped up at home, he must’ve known
things, real things, unlike the vapid stories her
alcoholic, imbecile of a mother told. “Hurry up,
don’t stay in his house too long.” They knew
something she didn’t. She memorized the color
of the wood paneling on the floor and vaguely
imagined the shelf in which he’d lock up her
silver noose, the one he seemed to always have
on him. She didn’t know why, but he sure knew
how to bring it out for a photo when family
came around. New family, family that would
go as soon as it came, but for now, California
family. She covered her mouth and cried stupid
fat tears with her pale stick legs with icy little
veins crawling up hanging off the bed, piles of
clothes on the floor, her phone screen glowed
idly, her girlfriend said, “It’ll be okay, just two
more months of this nonsense and we’ll be
together.”
So she headed West.
Untitled
VIRGINIA HENRY
25
A Path I Left Behind
KEVIN LANDRUM
I saw a road today.
It lay before me flat and clear,
free of worry and doubt.
Beseeching my approach
with bright blue skies
and ground of solid rock.
But this road was gilded,
for it led me away from you
and wished me never to return.
So I took your hand
and we walked the other way,
down our own decided path.
A winding, rocky trek
that tried to break our will.
But all the while we smiled,
hand in hand.
We carried on our wayward path
until our road merged,
became one, with the road I’d left behind.
Bright horizons, the two of us,
a new course yet to explore,
our journey just begun...
...I awoke alone on the footsteps of the moon.
I called out for you,
’til voice was hoarse
and my lungs were dry, but—
you had been gone for days and weeks.
I saw a road today.
But I guess you saw it first.
26
Berlin
27
Earthbound: An Analysis of Book with Wings
KANDACE SMITH
The idea of sculpture provokes the mind to
imagine the perfection of the Classical and
Neoclassical sculptures of the human body,
the cumbersome vision of Henry Moore’s
large scale Mother and Child, or any of the
impressionist sculptures by the capable hands
of Picasso, Rodin, or Claudel. Roaming through
the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, with
all of the sculptures and paintings, it easy to find
one’s self repeatedly drawn to Anselm Kiefer’s
Book with Wings. His works are “different.”
They carry more emotional weight for my more
spiritual self. It is not any surprise that Anselm
Kiefer is considered one of the more important
artists of his time.
Anselm Kiefer was born in 1945 in post
World War II Germany. The deconstruction
of a nation as feared as much as hated had a
profound affect on a young man born into
the eternal perdition of the Nazi party. His
vision was not one of hope or growth through
reconstruction but one of internal struggle, a
melancholic view of the world and its decay. It is
evident in most of his works. Whether you look
upon his sculptures or paintings, the nearly
monochromatic color schemes do not give leave
to a viewer’s imagination to assume color and
vibrancy, hope and resilience. Instead, they steal
the imagination away into a sleepless coma. He
leaves the heart in despair, and offers a viewing
of the world through a dirty lens.
In its simple construction, consisting of a
large book made of lead and attached lead wings
28
with a 10-foot wingspan, it speaks volumes. The
winged book rests on a lectern, all of which is
the dulled color of a lead pipe or tin can. Book
with Wings stands in a large rounded alcove
fabricated of cement. It is as if the sculpture
is giving a lecture to an unseen audience. Or,
perhaps, the winged book is conducting a
voiceless choir.
At first glance, it brings to mind “knowledge”
and “flight.” It gives the first impression of
victory, that knowledge is, in fact, freedom.
There are those that would argue that knowledge
is intellectual freedom but would also argue
as to whether or not it is as destructive as it is
productive, part and parcel to spiritual growth
and death.
“The more you know, the less you believe.”
A sagacious and worldly person was
thoughtful enough to coin the above phrase,
and synchronicity was gracious enough to make
sure that I found it typewritten on a tiny bit of
paper in a fortune cookie many years ago. It
was an epiphanic three seconds in my life. Book
with Wings revisits the impact of those precious
seconds on me every time I look at it, every
time I think about it. The sculpture reinforces
my reasoning that knowledge is not faith as
surely as the ironic lead wings of his sculpture
could no more take flight than the monkeys a
few blocks away from it in the Fort Worth Zoo.
I can only imagine that the pages are as heavy
and hard to turn as some knowledge is hard to
understand or accept.
The sculpture has a great many meanings and
messages, if allowed. It does not have to only
mean one idea or ideology. As dichotomous
and ironic as its fabrication, it is as much in
principle and perception.
Book with Wings is a reminder of Mein
Kampf, the contemptuous political manifesto of
Adolf Hitler, a brilliant genius gone so far awry
that to mention his name has people looking
over their shoulders for fear that someone
might hear them whisper it. It is a retelling of
the book’s unattainable goals and disdain of
the human condition, of its inability to accept
individuality and biodiversity.
Book with Wings is the symbol of the
Christians’ “Book of Life” that rests in the palms
of God’s good hands as they wait for judgment
with hope and prayer to find out if, indeed, in it
He has written their names. Its wings carry us to
spiritual paradise or, perhaps, across the rivers
of Lethe and Styx to an underworld possessed
of incalculable lamentation and suffering.
Through the trials and persecutions of
witches, Book with Wings is the Malleus
Maleficarum with the wings of it carrying once
bedeviled immortal souls upward to Heaven
as they are no longer damned to the luciferian
Hell, as they are purged of demonic presence by
the water, rock, and fire of the Inquisitor.
The sculpture is representative of the very
nature of knowledge--without it, we cannot
move forward. With too much knowledge, we
fall to the ground, the images of Rome and a
technological tower of Babel hauntingly flit
across the mind’s eye--our histrionic history,
an ill-fated Icarus in waxen flight. With all that
has been said, a simple phrase can establish the
meaning of the sculpture, both beloved and
despised: knowledge is not truth.
29
Phoenix
MOLLY SMITH
30
A Tale to Dead Paper
BRYTTANI MOSS
The late 1800s were considerably challenging
for women. The Progressive Era began to
reshape their incredibly domestic lives, and
their roles in society were changing in ways
they were previously unable to comprehend.
No longer were women satisfied with being
the domestic matriarchs they had always been;
suddenly, many grew increasingly anxious to
find their place within the larger society and to
express their freedom, yet faced domineering,
oppressive acquiescence in a world dominated
by male authority. Often, women who
portrayed any desire to venture outside of the
typical domestic role risked being declared
mentally insane and were treated with a “rest
cure.” Invented by Weir Mitchell to remedy the
conditions of hysteria and “nervous illnesses,” it
forced women into bleak isolation and restrictive
bed rest, often doing more harm to their delicate
psyches than good. Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s
“The Yellow Wallpaper” addresses this vexing
issue of women’s suffering through deliberate
symbolism and the disastrous consequences
of misdiagnosed postpartum depression. It
was a condition unknown to physicians of the
time, and many women suffered greatly due to
misdiagnosis. The central character within “The
Yellow Wallpaper” finds a demented solace
within the confines of her own mental realm
of insanity, eventually escaping her onerous
husband’s overbearing behavior at the cost
of her sanity. Gilman attacks these tyrannical
male figures through her indubitably quasiTARRANT COUNTY COLLEGE SOUTH CAMPUS
autobiographical text, fighting vigorously for
women’s rights.
The narrator insinuates she has reason not to
trust the behavior of her husband, John. She is
diagnosed with a “nervous depression” and a
“slight hysterical tendency” (1035), and is treated
with the aforementioned rest cure, unable to care
for her newborn child. She certainly does not
agree with this regimen, but remains silent. She
resonates with a strong feeling of guilt that she
is not appreciative, stating “I meant to be such
a help to John… and here I am a comparative
burden already!” (1037). The central character
is only able to express her true thoughts and
emotions through the “dead paper” she confides
in (1035); the use of epistolary narration reflects
the narrator’s inability to assert herself, and she
instead timidly follows the direction of her
husband. She is able to express her true thoughts
only through writing, which her husband does
not condone. She scrambles to hide her journal,
as John “…hates to have [her] write a word”
(1036). Facing such fierce opposition from her
husband, the narrator begins to regress inward,
pouring out her emotions and unspoken words
onto the pages she writes upon. “But what is
one to do?” (1035) the narrator often questions,
expressing her bleak sense of helplessness.
She is meek and unable to voice her thoughts,
instead submitting to the dominant authority
set before her.
Her husband patronizes her, making her
decisions for her and controlling every aspect
31
of her life. Referring to her as a “blessed little
goose” (1037), and a “little girl” (1040), his pet
names are condescending in nature. Instead
of treating his wife like an equal partner, he
puts restrictions on her as if she is incapable
of mature thought. Corresponding with his
egotistic actions, he confines her to a former
nursery, now converted into a bedroom. When
she begins to openly voice her dislike of her
new sleeping quarters to John, she disdainfully
admits, “…John would not hear of it” (1036).
Symbolizing her place within her marriage,
this oppressive behavior pushes her deeper into
her realm of madness, as the narrator admits
her internal struggle is becoming “dreadfully
depressing” and “John does not know how much
I really suffer” (1037). She acknowledges her
husband does not understand simply because he
feels there is no “reason to suffer” (1037). With
excuses for his calculated behavior, so begins
the deterioration of her consciousness. John’s
behavior seems restrictive by today’s standards,
but for women of the nineteenth century, it
was considered the societal norm. Admittedly,
the narrator claims “…I feel basely ungrateful
to not value [his treatment] more” (1036). She
is unable to comprehend the emotions she is
experiencing: both the optimistic hope she
will recover from this “nervous depression”
and become the supportive matriarch, and
the unrelenting desire to attain freedom. The
message the narrator conveys within the text
is evident: many women do not have an equal
place within the sanction of marriage and are
oppressed prisoners within a patriarchal world.
Confined to her bedroom, away from her
32
husband, it is only within these walls she is truly
able to be herself, free from the prying eyes
of her husband. The woman displays a great
disdain for her sleeping quarters, referring to
the yellow wallpaper lined walls as “repellent”
and “an artistic sin” (1036). She finds more fault
within her room, as the wallpaper is stripped
off in places, and the floors are “scratched
and gouged and splintered” (1038). The
decaying state of her room is reflective of the
decomposition of her sanity; the combination
of her “nervous depression” and oppressive
husband is becoming too much of a burden on
her mental health.
The audience then begins to see the central
character unravel. When she tries to convey to
John she wishes to visit relatives, she admits, “I
did not make a very good case for myself, for I
was crying before I had finished” (1040). While
in the beginning she expressed a great dislike
for the yellow wallpaper rotting on her walls,
she begins to find a solace within the confines
of the decay. Her obsession begins subtly and
eventually consumes her entire being. She
expresses this notion by admitting to her journal,
“There are things in the wallpaper that nobody
knows about but me, or ever will… it is like a
woman swooping down and creeping about
behind that pattern” (1040). She is discovering
herself behind the wallpaper; inside its captive
hold is her own liberated being, waiting to be
set free. She goes on to depict the lines of the
wallpaper as “…destroy[ing] themselves in
unheard-of contradictions” (1036). Ironically,
within the deteriorative state of her room,
she unknowingly describes herself. She is
contributing to her own insanity by consenting
to her oppressors, and in turn witnesses
herself mentally declining. She unconsciously
manifests her aspirations and hopes within the
restrictions of the wallpaper, observing that the
woman she saw creeping behind it seemed to
“…shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to
get out” (1040). She longs to be free from the
restrictive hold not only her husband has on
her, but from the unrealistic ideals pushed upon
her due to her condition.
It is finally in the last paragraphs that the
woman discovers her liberated being and frees
herself from the restrictive hold placed upon
her, at the cost of her sanity. At one point, while
she is locked away in her room, she refers to
John as a “young man” (1045). Reversing their
roles, she has broken free of oppression. She
cries out at him “I’ve got out at last… in spite
of you and Jane. And I’ve pulled off most of
the paper, so you can’t put me back!” (1045).
Throughout the text, the narrator makes
no referral to anyone by the name of Jane.
Arguably, this is finally the name of the narrator
unveiled, as she boldly proclaims she will not be
put back within the hold of the wallpaper again.
Jane, the submissive wife, has ceased to exist; in
her place is the liberated woman who will no
longer conform to the will of her oppressors.
She has symbolically freed herself from the
restrictive wallpaper and has finally come out to
embrace her own autonomous state. At last, she
is able to communicate and express herself to
John without fear of rebuttal. The reader is able
to see her remain strong in the face of conflict
and to be strong within herself. Her newfound
confidence and liberation, however, have come
at a hefty price: her sanity. Although she finds
her own inner being within the wallpaper, she
loses herself within her own consciousness.
Despite well-meaning attempts to assist
the narrator with her health, postpartum
depression was not a known diagnosis at the
time. Unfazed by adversity, the narrator is able
to unearth herself from the prison of wallpaper.
While she loses her mind, she gains a new sense
of self and freedom from those around her.
Gilman brilliantly illustrates her point within
“The Yellow Wallpaper”: it is not only society’s
control over women, but their own personal
vulnerabilities as well. These two conflicts serve
a major part in the inability for the narrator
to voice her own aggressions and form her
own opinions. Gilman clearly shows that until
women as a whole attain equality and are able
to stand on the same plateau as men within
society, many will pay the ultimate price for
their freedom.
Work Cited
Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. “The Yellow Wallpaper.”
Literature for Life. Ed. X.J. Kennedy, Dana Gioia, and
Nina Revoyr. New York: Pearson, 2013. 1035-45. Print.
33
Mayan Creation Dance
MAUREEN GREENWOOD
34
Mayan Creation Dance
MAUREEN GREENWOOD
35
SOUTH CAMPUS SCRIPT
Rebekah Clinkscale, Co-Editor, Sigma Kappa Delta Faculty Advisor, Instructor of English
Lindsey Davis, Co-Editor, Sigma Kappa Delta Faculty Advisor, Instructor of English
Dr. Iris Harvey, Co-Editor, Sigma Kappa Delta Faculty Advisor, Associate Professor of English
Consultants
Dr. Sandi Hubnik, Associate Professor of English and English Department Chair
Nicole Vallee, Instructor of English and Creative Writing Liaison
Paul Benero, Associate Professor of Art and Fine Arts Liaison
Earline Green, Instructor of Art and Fine Arts Liaison
Monica Lea, Coordinator of Graphic Services
Paula Viray, Graphic Specialist
Acknowledgements
Sigma Kappa Delta English Honor Society, Nu Delta Chapter
Tarrant County College South Campus Writing Club
Tarrant County College South Campus Writing Center
Tarrant County College South Campus Graphic Services
Tarrant County College Northeast Campus Printing Services
An Equal Opportunity Institution/Equal Access to persons with disabilities. HUEN 10.14347.08.14.PV

tarrant county college south campus

Transcription

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