Things I'm Glad a Five-Year-Old Can't Understand

The effect of having a 5-year-old as the narrator for Room is similar to that of the childlike art style in Persepolis. We discussed that Marji's young voice and simply drawn visuals make the gratuitous violence of the revolution somehow both more and less palatable. The drawings of torture and murder don't make you squeamish at first, because they eschew the gore that would be in say, a photograph of these events, but then you remember the cost of this clean portrayal is its being filtered through the eyes of a child, who should not have to process these things.

Similarly, reflecting on Room, at first I can't help but feel very relieved the story is not told from Ma's perspective. Its an emotional portrait I can't even imagine trying to write, and it would be incredibly heavy to read. Ma is kidnapped at 19, sexually assaulted, held in isolation, brings a child into a life of captivity, and attempts suicide (among any number of other accompanying ordeals). Jack, on the other hand, has had a pretty happy life, from his perspective. There have been some very stressful episodes, but there weren't any sections of this book I found hard to read because of emotional intensity, the way there definitely would have been if Ma told the story.

That being said, immediately after expressing this relief to myself, I felt guilty. It's like I'm saying "I'm glad there was a child there to experience this horror with Ma, or else I'd have to hear about it from someone who has the experience to know they're being ill-treated and the words to convey that," which is horrible. We, the reader, are exploiting Jack's innocence for a degree of separation from Ma's story. Obviously that's not all we get from having Jack's perspective. I think it's fascinating for a whole plethora of other reasons besides this one. But I'm still struck by that same guilt I had reading about the prisoners of war in Persepolis. We get to read about Ma's suicide attempt in relatively inoffensive terms, but at a great cost to Jack, who nearly loses his Ma and will surely have psychological blowback to come. After the initial softness of a five-year-old's language, their words almost make things seem worse, because of the loss of innocence that comes with it.

7 years, 15 days, 6 hours 18 minutes and 42... no, 43 seconds

Although Room is told from the perspective of five-year-old Jack, most readers can't help but identify more with the only other primary character, his young mother. Seeing how amazingly well Ma is functioning after seven years in cramped captivity, one is compelled to consider what their own state would be in such a situation, and which aspects of the kidnapping would be most trying. There is just so much about the situation to drive a person crazy, between the claustrophobia, the social isolation, the dependence on one's captor and the loss of one's friends and family. One of the more minor psychological taxes Donoghue draws our attention to is dealing with the passage of time. As with all of Ma's trials, it is painted with the subtle brush of Jack's perspective.

The book opens on Jack's fifth birthday. His present, a drawing of himself sleeping, is tied with ribbon from the last Christmas. How does Ma know when either of these holidays occur? To my recollection, no reference is made to a calendar, and I doubt Old Nick is coming in every night after nine and updating Ma on the date. I considered the idea that she might find it on TV, perhaps on the weather channel, but she's very strict about only showing two programs a day. The only other explanation I could think of is that she keeps track daily, in her head. (Not on paper, as they only have one pencil, and they had the same pen from when Jack was 2 to 4). I know I would lose track, but upon reflection, it is totally consistent with Ma's character. She compulsively tracks time.

I don't mean she has an unhealthy, debilitating obsession, but rather a minor fixation. She claims she spent her two years in the Room before Jack came just laying there, counting the seconds, millions and millions of them. One doesn't need to believe that counting is absolutely all she did for the idea to serve my point. Certain idiosyncrasies of Jack's speech, which is influenced only by and thus reflects Ma's speech, indicate the same idea. His habit of referring to passing time in the units of seconds or hours when minutes or days would seem more appropriate conveys the sense of minute attention to how much time passed, even if they're in a clearly exaggerated figure, like "hundreds and hundreds of hours". This implies Ma speaks about time in the same precise manner. Their strictly regimented schedule, which they are constantly checking Watch in order to keep on track with, also seems out of place in the circumstances. It's not as if they have any appointments to keep or know any people with whom to keep them. But to Ma, keeping a consistent schedule may be her best attempt at normalcy, and knowing when Christmas is may be her best connection to the outside world. So I think that all of these little things, although none of them are dwelt upon in the text, add up to one of primary Ma's coping mechanisms, and a little insight into how she manages to keep it together faced with such fierce psychological adversity. 

Your Silly Scarves

In the most recent reading of Persepolis, I started to consider another way Marjane gives us a new perspective on the Iranian Revolution. We have talked at length about having a child as a narrator, but I had not considered how significant it would be to have a girl telling her coming-of-age story as the regime taking over her country is Fundamentalist Islamic. The difficulty in figuring out what it means to be a woman, especially one who identifies as a very modern, progressive woman, in this setting is made abundantly clear in the incident on p74, when Marji's mother is accosted on the street by strangers for not wearing a veil. 

I was surprised by how difficult this scene was to read. I don't think I truly appreciated what a graphic novel can bring to the story telling I read until this page. The words are so simple, jarring but sparing. But the figure in the middle panel is so broken, so devastated. And she says nothing in the bottom left panel, but her expression says it all. I understood perfectly how she felt, looking at it: abused, violated, unclean, empty, with a sinking feeling in her gut that won't let her get out of bed. It is, unfortunately, a feeling familiar for many. But afterward, I second guessed myself, amazed I had extrapolated so much from a small, black and white panel and a simple expression.

I think this scene is so important to set up how complicated Marji's relationship with the veil could be. On the one hand, wearing the veil protects her street harassment like this. It's like armor from catcallers. On the other hand, wearing the veil is like an admission that she needs protection from these people, that her hair and the femininity it represents is something of which to be ashamed, something inappropriate. This is what her government is telling her; this is what her neighbors and the news are telling her. Women protesting the veil are beaten on the streets. It is not difficult for me to understand why some women would start to believe it, why some women, who had never been devout for a day in their lives, would start to wear a chador, and believe that they needed to do so.

So Marji and her mother's relationship with the veil is not the same as a student's relationship to a uniform they are forced to wear, and its not the same as my classmates who choose to wear a veil as a symbol and reminder of their religious devotion. Rather, it represents a larger struggle between their belief of what it means to be a woman and a Muslim, and their government's. Furthermore, it represents the struggle between their desire for personal safety and their desire to rebel against an oppressive regime. I assume this is why Satrapi focuses on the issue so much. The first chapter, after all, is called "The Veil".

Many Questions About Guilt

One of the plot-drivers of A Lesson Before Dying is Grant's guilt over his failure to break the cycle of black men disappointing or leaving the women in their community. If Grant didn't feel so guilty, he wouldn't be trying so hard to get Jefferson to do what he can't, be a role model or hero to his community. This is the situation as presented by Gaines, and on the surface, it makes sense. But, the more I think about it, the more questions I have.

First of all, why is Grant so guilty? He hasn't skipped town yet. He wants to, and he could do a lot more with his degree if he lived in the North, but he's standing like a man and bringing his education back to his community, which he by no means has to do. The novel says, "okay so Grant himself hasn't fallen in the trap of the cycle yet, but he will, and besides, he's perpetuating it by teaching his students to be men of the cycle." Okay, so maybe this question is oversimplifying the situation but honestly, why doesn't Grant just teach his students different things? Why doesn't he teach them to be independent thinkers and that they are worth as much as a white man? It's stated in the book that the superintendent only comes to the school once a year, so its not like the school board would notice enough to fire Grant for teaching a few inspiring lectures a semester. Does he think it will be dangerous for his students, that life will be worse for them if he teaches them to aspire higher when they live bound by a social system that prevents them from doing so? Is this the burden of education Antoine was talking about? It's a catch-22; Grant can either teach what he does and his students become like their parents, perpetuating the cycle, or he can teach them what he wants to and when they grow up they move north, perpetuating the cycle.

If so, then it makes sense that Jefferson would be the only one who could take Grant's teaching and break the cycle, because if he learns to hold his head up high to his white oppressors, he will not be able to move north; he is pretty much guaranteed to stay in the community the rest of his life. But his life will be over in a month, which brings me to my last and biggest question. If the only man who can break Grant's cycle is one who has to literally die at 21 before he has a chance to perpetuate it, how is that a source of inspiration to the community? Isn't that horribly depressing? How will the people around him be able to follow his model in any meaningful, useful way?

Where Are They Now? The Dewey Dell Story

So, besides Anse (and maybe Addie?), most of the Bundrens end their journey worse for the wear. Cash has got a septic leg. Jewel's got no horse. Darl's been shipped off to the insane asylum, and Vardaman has got to grow up without a mother (and he's got no train!). The story I'm most interested in, and which seems to end most tragically, is Dewey Dell's. She doesn't get much of a conclusion. Her story is about in the same place it was at the outset, except now there's not much chance her situation will change. Presumably, at some point her pregnancy will become more obvious and there will be some sort of confrontation, but this doesn't happen before the novel ends. So if her entire plot arc starts and ends known and discussed only by Dewey Dell, where does her story fit into the larger novel? Why is it even there?

First lets consider that, in a sense, As I Lay Dying is Addie's story. It is her request that instigates the journey, and her body that they're carrying everywhere. A women is both the call and the quest itself. So Dewey Dell's significance, as the only other primary woman character in a predominantly male cast, is going to at least partially be how she relates to Addie. There are certain similarities. Neither of them wanted to become pregnant. Both of them became pregnant via affairs with men to whom they were not married. In both these senses these women eschew the traditional moral matriarchal role we would expect them to have in this setting. Of course, there are important differences between Dewey Dell and her mother; Addie is depicted as calculating and devoid of normal emotions whereas Dewey Dell is depicted as an almost primal, sexual entity, especially in her own narration.

But both of their storylines end fairly inconclusively. Addie's mission to get revenge on her family concludes in her barely discussed burial and Anse's immediate remarriage. Dewey Dell's goal to get an abortion in town is unsuccessful, and she is taken advantage of sexually by MacGowen. What started as a novel in which women were making decisions on their own that would place them outside the only structure traditionally offered to them (family life), shaped up to be no such thing. Perhaps Faulkner is commenting on how no matter how hard women tried, they really had no other options than to exist in this social structure. They can't take over and define the story, as evidenced by their unsatisfactory endings.

Hero Who?

As the Bundrens finally hit the road, the "journey" part, at least, of the "hero's journey" is evident. As we have been warned, an obvious hero is yet to surface. Mr. Mitchell has told us its going to be Anse, which I guess sense, as he's the paterfamilias, but so far I haven't seen much evidence for this in the text. It truly seems to be an ensemble story. The shifting narrators gives as much weight to Vardaman's contribution and perspective as Anse. It's no more Anse's journey than anyone else's, as we see everyone's ulterior motives surface. The trip wasn't even his idea, and he's not the one that stands to gain from it. They're acting on Addie's orders, so that she can spend eternity in the company of her kin
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In fact, before Anse was discussed in class as the hero, I thought, if anyone, it was Darl. Certain structural things seemed to indicate it. He's the first narrator, the narrator when Addie finally dies (arguably the most important scene so far, plot-wise). He seems to be the surrogate for Faulkner because a) he's the only who narrates like a writer, rather than the stream of consciousness of an uneducated Depression Era Mississippi farmer, and b) he's the only one who is omniscient, able to narrate scenes he was not present for in detail. Of course, the author surrogate isn't always the hero (unless the bard is the hero of the Odyssey (in which case I've greatly misunderstood the Odyssey)). But Darl also seems to be a better candidate because he has the agency Anse lacks. He doesn't just sit in the background and rub his hands on his knees.

So I can make only one conclusion. If Anse is going to be the hero of this story, he's going to have to undergo some radical character development. Maybe he'll learn to be more assertive, less lazy. (Maybe he'll find a cure for that disease that doesn't let him sweat). It makes sense, as its a hero's journey. After all, Smithy Ide wasn't that dissimilar from Anse at the beginning of The Memory of Running. But in what we've read so far, I just haven't seen Anse in the spotlight. It's not just that he's unheroic, he doesn't even seem to be the main character.

Homer is Your Drug Dealer

Why do we find gratuitous violence, such as that in the climatic scene of The Odyssey, so much more appealing in fiction than in real life?

Or: why do we like samurai films?

After today's class discussion, the question continued to roll around my head all day. The evidence that we as a culture enjoy gory fictional violence is everywhere. Look at Game of Thrones, the Godfather, or any Tarantino movie. These aren't some fringe subculture; they're some of the most popular works of television and film ever created. Yet, to me at least, there's no immediately obvious explanation.

So, let's start by narrowing the question down a bit. What kind of violence do we want to watch? Surely we're not indiscriminate in what we'll consume. The first step to understanding the psychology of the consumer is identifying what they're consuming. Unfortunately, (and please correct me if you can think of an exception), there aren't many ways people can hurt each other that haven't ended up on the big screen. Revenge narratives are popular, sure, but so is literally everything else. Among the things we enjoy viewing is Anthony Hopkins wearing a skin made of people in Silence of the Lambs. The most psychologically horrifying crimes of our society are put up for our entertainment in Law and Order: SVU. We'll watch beloved antagonists being tortured (superhero movies), dogs being shot (To Kill a Mockingbird), the glorious battles of Lord of the Rings, but also the terror, confusion and horror of modern warfare as portrayed in Saving Private Ryan.

Basically, violence does not have to be morally justified to make us like it. It doesn't matter if you're Team Suitors or Team Odysseus; you'll probably keep reading as long as someone dies.

So we must toss out "moral satisfaction and catharsis", at least as the sole motivator. Some of the examples that don't fall into that category fit neatly into the converse: moral outrage. We like to see the bad guy hurt innocent people because then we get to hate him. And hating people satisfies our need for drama.

For the rest though (and surely there are examples that fit neither of the above, either because they are morally ambiguous or neutral) perhaps the attraction is similar to that of a roller coaster, jet ski or scary movie. Dangerous and violent situations in fiction give us the rush of adrenaline evolution gave us to stay alive, minus the actual life threatening situation. So when we read book 22 of the Odyssey, we're just getting our latest fix.

Please comment if you have other ideas! I'm still not totally satisfied with this explanation.