Tony Hoagland, The Change (2003)

The season turned like the page of a glossy fashion magazine. 
In the park the daffodils came up 
and in the parking lot, the new car models were on parade.

Sometimes I think that nothing really changes—

The young girls show the latest crop of tummies, 
and the new president proves that he's a dummy.

But remember the tennis match we watched that year? 
Right before our eyes

some tough little European blonde 
pitted against that big black girl from Alabama, 
cornrowed hair and Zulu bangles on her arms, 
some outrageous name like Vondella Aphrodite—

We were just walking past the lounge 
and got sucked in by the screen above the bar, 
and pretty soon 
we started to care about who won,

putting ourselves into each whacked return 
as the volleys went back and forth and back 
like some contest between 
the old world and the new,

and you loved her complicated hair 
and her to-hell-with-everybody stare, 
and I, 
I couldn't help wanting
the white girl to come out on top, 
because she was one of my kind, my tribe, 
with her pale eyes and thin lips

and because the black girl was so big 
and so black, 
so unintimidated,

hitting the ball like she was driving the Emancipation Proclamation 
down Abraham Lincoln's throat, 
like she wasn't asking anyone's permission.

There are moments when history 
passes you so close 
you can smell its breath, 
you can reach your hand out 
and touch it on its flank,

and I don't watch all that much Masterpiece Theatre, 
but I could feel the end of an era there

in front of those bleachers full of people 
in their Sunday tennis-watching clothes

as that black girl wore down her opponent 
then kicked her ass good 
then thumped her once more for good measure

and stood up on the red clay court 
holding her racket over her head like a guitar.

And the little pink judge 
had to climb up on a box 
to put the ribbon on her neck, 
still managing to smile into the camera flash, 
even though everything was changing

and in fact, everything had already changed—

Poof, remember? It was the twentieth century almost gone, 
we were there,

and when we went to put it back where it belonged, 
it was past us 
and we were changed. 

Read more about Rankine and this poem here:

http://allhooknochorus.blogspot.pt/2011/02/condition-of-being-addressable-response.html

Joana Janeiro and Catarina Coelho (continuation of Nabokov's "Symbols and Signs")

She thought about not answering it and just letting it ring, but her husband told her to answer so she did.

“Hello?”

“Can I please speak to Charlie?” it was the girl again, sounding even more anxious.

“You again? There’s no one here with that name.” she told the girl impatiently. “Who am I speaking to if I might ask?”

“I’m calling from the sanitarium….”

She fell silent, possible scenarios running through her head.

The sanitarium? Why would they be calling that late? They had been there earlier that day. They had told her, told them, their boy was alright, even after... she couldn’t bring herself to think about it. She looked at her husband who was staring with an inquisitive look, and stood in silence. The girl on the other side of the line was also quiet.

She could only hear the girl’s breathing. In her mind, however, her husband’s heart was almost audible, seemingly about to jump out of his old and tired chest. There was finally some sign of life on the other side of the line as the girl spoke again.

“Are you the boy’s parents?”

“Yes… Is everything alright?” she answered suspiciously, with a knot in her throat.

“I don’t know how to say this, but…. Your son disappeared this morning, shortly after your visit…”

Her heart sank to her stomach. Her grip on the phone became loose and she felt herself fumble a few steps back. And to think her biggest worry that day had been brightly colored jelly jars.

“We thought it was best to tell you. Perhaps you know where he could’ve run off to?”

She was so shocked she almost missed the question.

She took a deep, calming breath and replied.

“No… we don’t know where he could run off to. He’s been there so long…” she hesitated, a question lingering on the tip of her tongue, “do… do you think he might’ve run away to…?”

“…we are hoping for the best, but we can’t guarantee what his intentions were. Even less given this morning’s incident. We did find a letter…”

“What did it say?”

“Ma’am, I’d rather- “

“What did it say?... please, I need to know.”

“We will send someone over tomorrow with a copy, for now please focus on possible places your son could have gone.”

After a long pause, she simply said “…Goodnight.” And hung up, too shaken to object. She looked at her husband’s wide eyes and broke into ugly sobs.

She fell to her knees, incapable of handling what the girl had just told her. Her boy, missing. How did that happen? How did they let it happen?
“What’s wrong?” the husband asked her worriedly. She couldn’t speak. Sobs were the only thing coming out of her mouth. Her husband was getting more and more worried. He didn’t know what to do and soon he started crying too, mostly due to the panic rising in his chest. Why was she crying? Who was on the other side of the line and what had they told her?

He tried to get her to stand up and walk to the old leather couch, but she was a dead weight and he was not strong enough to lift her.

“Please talk to me. Please…” he pleaded.

“Our boy….” She began even though she was still sobbing uncontrollably, “Our boy…. They let him… He’s not….”
“What? What’s wrong with our boy?” he asked her in impatient worry.

“Our son is gone!” she finally cried out, hiding her face in her hands.

He froze. He let go of his wife and held on to his knees. Gone. He finally did it; he had taken his life. After all his attempts, he had done it. He couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault. If only he had started to plan his son’s getaway sooner…

His wife didn’t say another word. He wanted to know how it had happened, how he had done it. He thought that he had the right to know, but he didn’t have the courage to ask his wife. Yet, some sort of morbid curiosity gnawed at the back of his mind.

“They say he escaped… right after we left…” she drawled out, wiping her eyes carelessly.

He sighed deeply, covering his face with one hand and weakly grabbing her shoulder with the other.

“So he’s not… he’s just gone somewhere?”

“But we don’t know where. What if he’s hurt?”

There was a pause. He carefully thought over what to ask.

“Did they not know any details?”

“…she said something about a letter.”

The living room clock tick-tocks built their way to two a.m.

When the first rays of sunshine broke through the living room window they were still sitting on the couch. Both were too tired and emotionally spent to move. They’d been up all night trying to think up a list of possible places their son could have gone off to. They wrecked their brains about it, but neither of them could point out a specific place. As a matter of fact, he’d been institutionalized so long that it would be hard for him to have memories of anywhere but the sanitarium. To be perfectly honest, she believed that he wouldn’t even remember their old home, let alone any other less relevant place.

The husband had spent his night trying to see things from their son’s perspective. He tried to understand his motives, but neither of them could say they truly knew him anymore, much less what went on inside his head.

The feeling of guilt was something that had haunted them all their lives. Even when he was a child none of them had gone the extra mile to understand him. They had been too preoccupied with what was happening around them to notice. Were they to blame for their son’s condition? Did he lose his mind to the troubling circumstances he was thrown into?

While they were both still lost in thought, the doorbell rang, echoing through the house. They exchanged a look between them, and then directed it at the door. They were possibly about to figure out what had made their son run away.

They slowly got up and headed toward the door. One last look passed between them. They held hands and took a deep breath.

The girl from the sanitarium greeted them and they invited her inside.

“That’s very kind of you but this is something you two should do alone.” She said, handing them the letter. She asked them to send the list they had thought up their way. Nodding in agreement they thanked her, and after closing the door they returned to their seats, reluctantly.

They placed the letter down on the coffee table and solemnly stared at it for a moment. Once they opened it there would be no turning back. They would have to read every word and deal with whatever it had to tell them. None of them had the courage or strength to reach for it, to take the first and ultimate step.

“Do you want to read it first?” she offered.

“I think we should read it together.”

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to…” her words failed her, and her hands shook in fear. Just the thought that that piece of paper might be the last she’d hear from her baby boy… she wasn’t ready, for any of it. Not the letter, not the call, not the consequences his escape could have. She was afraid to turn on the television one day and see some news piece that would tear her heart to shreds.

Taking note of her hesitation, the old man grabbed the letter and shakily opened the envelope.

“We count to three… and then we read it?” he suggested.

“No. You read it. Read aloud please….” She asked, eyes glued to the floor.

He nodded in agreement. He counted in his head and started reading his sons last words.

“Haven’t slept in three days. They won’t let me. I can hear them. They talk all night about what they’re going to do to me and where they’re going to dump the body after they’re done. Every time I turn around I can see them sneaking away out of the corner of my eye. They move fast, but not fast enough so I can’t see them. When they realize, I’m listening in they go back to their places, they pretend like they can’t move or talk. But I know the truth. This pen was a rat.

“They do talk… they talk too much. All the time, every minute. They plot against me, plan my downfall. And if they can find me it won’t be long until the others do too. I can’t let them. Not going to let them hurt me again. Never again. I know they want to catch me, but I’m smarter than them. I’m getting out of here, far away from their plotting and mumbling. I’m going where no one can find me. Not them, not the others, not the people who bring more of them. I’m going where it’s loudest and I’m going to make them quiet. Then the rest of them won’t find me.”

The man read it again to himself, and then returned the letter to the coffee table. He looked at his wife. She hadn’t moved an inch. She still had her eyes glued to the floor, and if they hadn’t been open he could’ve sworn she had fallen asleep.

“Hey?” he tried to snap her out of it, out of her trance, but she was miles away. He kneeled in front of her, put his old hands on her shoulders and gave them a small shake. It was fruitless.

He gave another tentative shake, this time with a little more force. She wasn’t moving. When she finally tore her eyes from the ground it was to get up and lock herself in the bedroom. Just like that, without another word.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t move a muscle. He stayed where he was, still kneeling on the ground, alone. She left him with a puzzle in his hands and the responsibility of putting it back together. Alone.

He sat back down on the couch, perplexed. This was already hard enough with her by his side. It seemed impossible to do it by himself.

But he had to try.

He hadn’t been the best father, sometimes it was his own fault, others, it was due to circumstance. Still, he owed the boy one last chance at normalcy, at family. For a whole week, he searched for him. He looked everywhere he could remember them being together. He looked in his son’s old school, but no luck. People from the sanatorium didn’t have the staff to help. They promised to give word if he came back. His hopes didn’t run that wild.

During that same week, his wife wouldn’t leave the room.  She barely ate, and when she did it was because he made her do it. He almost had to force it down her throat. Every day he would tell her where he’d been, trying to spark some hope in her. Trying to get her to trade the bed for the search of their son, which was to no avail. She was almost lethargic and he became more desperate each day. He couldn’t find his son, and he couldn’t snap his wife out of her fear.

By the end of the second week she had managed to move from their bedroom to the living room. It wasn’t much, but it gave him some hope. She started eating again, little by little.

He continued his search.

When he allowed himself a moment of honesty, though, he admitted he was worried for him, and for what could have happened. He knew that in his state the chances of him being okay were slim. But there was hope.

That week had given him some of his strength back. While they were having lunch, he decided to turn the television on. It took a few moments to work since it had been a good while without being turned on. When it did come on it was set to some news channel, and he let it stay on. He was curious how the rest of the world moved on despite their troubles.

He was trying to start a conversation when his attention snapped toward the broadcast.

“Breaking news!” they announced, something to do with the holocaust memorial museum. The old women slowly lifted her gaze from her barely eaten meal, looked at the TV and dropped her cup.

He looked at her, not understanding her reaction. When he paid closer attention to the news piece, his cup fell as well.

Some boy had jumped from the museums balcony that morning. They both knew who that boy was.

They had caught the moment on camera, warning the audience of its graphic content.

“They’ll be quiet!” he shouted at the sky “The shoes! They said they’d be quiet but I must have a word with the pavement!”

The wife let out a scream that broke the old man’s heart. He couldn’t utter a sound.

“So…” he thought “that’s where he’s been.”

How could he have overlooked that place? He had, once again, failed his son. This time he realized, with tears rolling down his wrinkled cheeks, there was no way to fix it. He had found his quiet.

The phone rang.

Film screening - reflections (for classes of March 20 and 22) - "Frozen River"

Answer two or more of the following:

- How are boundaries (un)defined in the film?

- What kind of communities are represented?

- Do you like the sotry? Why (not)?

- Comment on the struggling representations of the cultural categories of class, gender, generation.

- What are the points of comparison between this movie and Leslie Marmon Silsko's "Storyteller"?

Sobre "Storyteller" de Leslie Marmon Silko (por Melanie e José)

Lesli Marmom Silko é uma autora nativo-americana que cresceu na reserva Laguna Pueblo no Novo México. Entre várias obras, escreveu Storyteller (1981), onde o contraste entre a comunidade esquimó em Bethel no Alasca e os “Gussucks” americanos é bem visível. Storyteller é uma obra composta por vários poemas e narrativas breves/contos, onde a separação entre realidade e a ficção não é bem definida. De facto, e dado que esta é também uma das características do pós-modernismo, a fragmentação e os fios narrativos entrecruzados presentes neste “short story” são uns dos fatores de destaque.

Esta história passa-se em Bethel, Alaska. Para podermos perceber os acontecimentos que estão descritos neste texto, é importante fazermos uma contextualização histórica, pois existem alguns factos reais. Depois da Segunda Guerra Mundial, os EUA apropriaram-se desta área para a desenvolver, sendo que isto causou alguns problemas sociais entre os nativos. Foi descoberto por parte dos americanos que Bethel era uma área rica em petróleo. Por isso, os americanos decidiram explorar aquele território, incluindo os seus recursos naturais, algo que é retratado no texto, „The village people had gathered to watch the white men, and to laugh as they drove the giant machines, one by one, off the steal ramp into the bogs. “(p. 23). A educação também foi explorada e existem vários excertos de como se deu este desenvolvimento, como por exemplo, „The dormitory matron pulled down her underpants and whipped her with a leather belt because she refused to speak English. “(p. 19). A autora utiliza esta história para desmascarar uma realidade histórica que roubou toda a cultura que pertencia a estes Esquimós e a este território, fazendo com que estas pessoas se tornassem os “outsiders”, quando, na realidade, quem veio de fora foram os americanos.

Isto leva-nos à importância do conceito “storyteller” neste “short story”. Primeiro, é relevante definir este conceito, porque não só é o título desta história, como está presente ao longo de todo o texto, pois o narrador conta duas histórias dentro da história principal. A história principal foca-se numa rapariga que vive em Bethel e está a passar por todos aqueles obstáculos e a tentar aprender como lidar com isso. Uma das histórias secundárias é a que o avô desta rapariga está constantemente a contar, sendo ela sobre um homem que tenta fugir a um urso, “One night she listened to the old man tell the story all night in his sleep, describing each crystal of ice and the slightly different sounds they made under each paw; first the left and then the right paw, then the hind feet.” (p. 26). A outra história secundária é a que a avó desta rapariga conta sobre como os seus pais morreram, como se vê no texto, “«They bought a tin can full of it from the storeman. Late at night. He told them it was alcohol safe to drink. They traded a rifle for it. » (...) She made outlines in the air in front of her, showing how their bodies lay twisted on the sand; (...) «I told the priest too, after he came. I told him the storeman lied» “(p. 25). Neste excerto temos presente como era forte o alcoolismo entre os nativo-americanos, mas também como os americanos estavam dispostos a fazer tudo para se livrarem dos nativos. Isto vai relacionar-se também com o fim da história principal, sendo que acaba com a rapariga a fugir do homem da loja por cima de um rio congelado e este cai dentro do rio e morre congelado.  Sendo assim, a rapariga vingou a morte dos seus pais, e ao contrário do homem da loja admite que a sua intenção era matá-lo, “They asked her again, what happened to the man from the Nothern Commercial store. «He lied to them. He told them it was safe to drink. But I will not lie. » She stood up and put on the gray wolfish parka. «I killed him, » she said, «but I don´t lie. »“(p. 31). Apesar de sabermos que não foi a culpa da rapariga, ela insiste em relatar a sua verdadeira intenção, mostrando-se fiel aos valores dos nativos. Consequentemente, isto relaciona-se com a história do avô, sendo que, de certa maneira, esta rapariga se torna no urso e reconquista o seu território como vemos no texto, “The hunter had been on the ice for many hours. The freezing winds on the ice knoll had numbed his hand that he could not stop and the jade knife fell; it shattered on the ice, and the blue glacier bear turned slowly to face him. “(p. 32).

José Miguel Pinto; Nº52383

Melanie Rodrigues; Nº146256

15 March - Native American Renaissance and "Storyteller" by Leslie Marmon Silko

Podem ler aqui, http://nativeamericanlit.com/

E, se quiserem, aproveitem este post para comentar sobre o conto "Storyteller" de Leslie Marmon Silko.

Comment on:

- intertwined narratives
- Focalization
- Description of natural elements
- Dramatization of cultural mediation and conflict