Final Thoughts on Fall 2008

Grades are in! I did even better than I anticipated:

African American Poetry and Drama: A-
Women's Studies: A
Natural Disasters: A- (!)
Shakespeare: A
British Lit 1842 - Current: B+

I couldn't believe it when I found out I got the A- in Natural Disasters (the last general ed/science class of my BA)! I know there are some of you out there who don't expect any less, or who perhaps think I could be getting these grades even if I were sleep walking through class, but I have to say I am pretty darned pleased with myself. Yet, that B+ irks me, for I earned an A- in that class (see the blog on the midterm mishap). I wish I could say that I am rid of that rigid instructor forever, but she is the contact for the masters program. What incentive for transferring to CSU Long Beach! Well, I guess I could just try to pay more attention to directions. It's apparently pretty important, seeing how I got the only other B+ at DH, in syntax, because I failed to notice that homework was 40% of the grade, and didn't turn in the first assignment.

The instructor I had for Shakespeare, Dr. Lois Feuer, was a very intimidating Shakespeare expert. Imagine my delight as she took me aside after I turned in my final and told me she had considered inviting me to audit (?) her graduate course on gender and sexuality in Shakespeare next semester. She told me she was surprised and disappointed that I was a junior -- well, I'm only a junior because I'm compressing my schedule to graduate a semester early -- and that I was already enrolled in five classes for the Spring semester. She has one of the toughest reputations in the department, and she was simply wonderful to me. It more than made up for the rigamarole I went through in British Lit. It's amazing how far personality goes. I'm convinced that I erred in syntax and British Lit mostly because I didn't care for the instructors. Even though I know I'm not telling Dr. Feuer anything she doesn't already know about Shakespeare, I am convinced that she appreciates a good discussion about literature. I felt that Dr. White was more concerned with weighing and measuring, holding us up to the light to check for flaws, than she was with excellent discussion. Yet, I learn from all of it. I learn what kind of teacher I want to be, and what kind I desperately want to avoid being like.

In other news, I got the results for the GRE subject test back. I scored in the 78th percentile. Not my finest hour -- but not bad, especially since I didn't get to study for it, and had to rush through at least 20 questions. I still consider myself pretty great, because I scored with about the top 20 percent of my fellow test takers, which puts me with some pretty good people.

I'm very pleased with all that I got accomplished this semester. I feel like I've returned to the real world, for at least a few weeks. Are you freezing? 'Cause it's FREEZING. I hope this blubber I've been developing lasts through the winter.

"Give my love to everyone!"

After watching the film adaptation of Tennessee William's The Rose Tattoo, I have to admit that I am a little overwhelmed at the complex themes at work here. Before I do any research, I want to discuss some ideas that I have, some thoughts.

I think there is a pretty obvious reference to Italian theater history in this film. I don't remember exactly what the types are, but the notion of the buffoon is pretty strong, especially when it comes to Burt Lancaster's character, who is as tragically goofy as it gets. The other thing that I remember from Italian theater is the use of masks. There are no literal masks in the film, although it could be argued that Sarafina uses "dressing up" as a literal, tangible mask. Even then, I think once again Williams has given us a story that looks at gender and gender expectations as a mask, and discusses the power of this mask through gender-bending characters.

Is Sarafina's problem her husband's infidelity, or her expectation of herself as the ultimate woman, with feminine power enough to keep Della Rosa from straying to the Mardis Gras? What I appreciate about William's vision is his ability to show people who suffer because of their own perceptions of who they are. I think he mostly shows women who are struggling with autonomy, women who are suffering because they must see themselves as objects of male desire, or they are oppressed by others who must keep them within the limits of a very gender-specific expectation. She can't believe that her husband was cheating on her, not because of the kind of man he was or wasn't, but because of what his fidelity would suggest about the power of her femininity. The idea that she isn't feminine enough is implied in the very beginning of the film, when the store keeper has her carry her own groceries. She is reluctant to do so, because (I'm trying to remember the words) she isn't a "common donkey" in the street; she argues that she isn't a beast of burden. Yet, her expectation of her femininity weighs her down so heavily in her marriage, as well as her relationship with her daughter, that she has to implore a goddess, the divine mother herself, for help.

Now, I had another idea, that Williams was heavily relying on the association of the rose with Mary Magdalene, and the sacred prostitute archetype. Perhaps Sarafina, in her rigid demand for fidelity, is actually blaspheming the sacred prostitute. She sure does give it to the other woman at the Mardi Gras, doesn't she?! She breaks a bottle over her face, if I recall. I'm sure the purveyors of myth would go crazy with his movie, but I'm not educated enough in myth to make much more of this allusion.

Lust is a dominant theme in the film, I actually thought Burt's character just wanted to get laid, before he confessed his situation with his "dependents." The daughter is inconsolable when she cannot actualize her desire for the sailor, and her desire to live in the moment means she has a lust for life. So just whose lust is she mirroring? Her mother's lust for a strong man who will confirm her status as a sex symbol, or her father's, who's wild sexual appetite needs more than one partner for satisfaction? I think perhaps we're supposed to imagine both.

Yet, this is Williams, and he never sticks with just one theme, or one comment on that theme. I can't wait to buy his complete works.

My Homage to British Lit

I'm not sure if British Lit will be amused, but I am planning on reading Wuthering Heights over the break and doing my usual running commentary here.

I have simply had a miserable time in British Lit this semester, with mistakes and misunderstandings flying. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't give some authors due attention. I especially avoided James Joyce, Seamus Heaney, and Tennyson. I don't think I had enough time to really give these texts the close reading they demand. I had no real desire to please the teacher, which can go a long a way when you feel overwhelmed by long readings. I knew that if I did the readings we would have the same inane discussion in class that centered around a New Historical perspective, and the same dim wits would give their reader response comments that our instructor would spin according to her wishes. I had to keep myself from sleeping, doing other homework, and indulging in other diversions during this class.

I was actually interested and involved for the first half of the semester, but when she rode me so hard about the midterm mishap, I just tuned out.

Well, the entire time I have spent analyzing Moby-Dickthere has been this small voice saying, "Wuthering Heights...Wuthering Heights... ." I don't know why. There is something about childbirth, the other, and tragedy in this novel that has been echoing around in my mind as I try to understand my ideas about Moby-Dick. I started re-reading this book today, and I already see some similarities.

A full journal will follow, a chapter by chapter discussion. Maybe British Lit will forgive my behavior this past semester, and I can redeem myself with this literature that I love.

To Kill a Ratcatcher

Nine days left in the semester. That's not a very comforting fact, considering the amount of studying I have to do. Today I am playing Mercutio in a scene reading of Romeo and Juliet. He's one of my favorite characters Shakespeare wrote; there's something almost suicidal in his tone -- his "I care not," and his rant about Queen Mab -- there's something very odd going on with Mercutio. If I was a director I would portray him as very troubled -- but kind of mad, in that funny way of his. Anyway, we are going to be wearing mustaches and wielding star wars light sabers, so if anything it will be entertaining. How often do you get to say, "They have made worms meat of me!"

I missed being at Fullerton College today. I love the campus in the winter, when leaves are falling and the air is crisp. The white buildings glow in the glare of the winter sun, and a nap in the new library is so delightful. I miss FC a lot.

I'm going to start planning my break. I have six weeks, and I would like to try to go on at least one outing a week. Must stops:

LACMA: They have a new contemporary space, which my cousin says is awesome. I haven't been in ages, so that will be a fun day.

The Huntington(don?) Library: When I was sixteen I drove my boyfriend and best friend here so we could work on her photography project. We took gothic pictures by the fountain and in the statue garden and rose garden. We must have been a sight -- girls in head to toe velvet and combat boots waltzing around while the older death rocker boy looks on. I think I had red Shirley Manson hair. Compared with the goth look of today, we were pretty mild. Those were simpler times. I'd like to go and look at the collection. What fun.

Hot Springs: I just love hot springs. I know it's a little stinky -- but I think a good soak in mineral baths is very rejuvenating. Let's throw in some acupuncture and massage, too.

Films: I haven't been to the movies much lately, and I want to go all the time on break. I want to say -- yeah, I saw that -- to everything.

Theater: I vow to see at least one big show on break.

The Dick: I will work on Moby-Dick. I wish I had a grant and could buy up all the theory books I want -- but I may just have to hang out at the library. I will make breakthroughs and headway and all of that. Right after I sleep in.

Well, that's enough planning for now. Wish me luck as I go sword fight my heart out.

Old Underdog: New Tricks

Most of the people who follow this page know that I've been stressed out bonkers lately because I'm applying to Ph.D. programs in L.A., and I'm proud to say that I finished uploading my application to USC and DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT IT ANYMORE! It's really been frying my brain. Now I can let it go -- and see if I can get my bundle of papers off to any other local schools before their deadlines. I really only want to go to USC. (Blythe won't like that, but I think even she recognizes that it's a pretty good fit.) I'm under no grand disillusionment; I know they probably won't have me. Yet I'm trying to hope just a little bit that the underdog thing is pulling for me as much as it's hurting my chances of getting accepted.

I know the previous post was WHINY. I haven't been praying or meditating as much as I need to lately, and it's showing in my inability to deal with criticism, and my uncontrollable emotions. It's hard to stay centered when you are trying to promote yourself. Now that the process is over I can let it go and focus on my classes again.

I'm disappointed that I will most likely get a B in that English Lit class -- but I'm moving on. There has been some dyslexic thing hovering over me as I sit in that class. I don't know what it is. I'm a shoe-in for As in Shakespeare, African-American Lit, and Women's Studies. I'll probably get a B in Natural Disasters. Three As and two Bs ain't bad. Next semester is going to be a monster. I may have to use an organizer -- scary stuff.

I won't get any real rest this weekend, as I have projects due and about a hundred (or more?) pages to read. Now that I don't have to worry about the USC app I can take things down a notch. I want to work on Melville and Moby Dick over the break, but what with the stress of applications and finals and final papers, well, I may have to get massages and sleep and meditate for a week before I return to normal. My head actually always hurts now. Some rest will do me good.

And there are tons of good movies I need to go see. Slumdog Millionaire, anyone?

The Paradox of Feeling While Thinking

A student of literature speaks and hears of paradox often while studying poetry. It seems we can't get enough of the heartbreak of joy, or the sublime nature of true happiness. The closer you get to a real experience, it seems the more that experience will be indescribable, and conflict with labels meant to categorize it.

While this feeling (or non-feeling, depending on how you look at it) tends to be associated with high moments, I went through an experience just yesterday that came close to pushing me into the realms of purest humanity. For some reason or other, I took my British Lit midterm a couple of weeks ago without comprehending the directions. When the instructions said to pick two excerpts, I did all of them; when the directions said to choose one topic out of the two provided, I did both. I was as puzzled at my inability to comprehend the directions as the next person, and I tried to chalk it up to brain exhaustion -- I had two other midterms that week that had indeed asked me to write two essays, and British Lit comes at the end of my three class day -- I'm exhausted anyway. I don't tend to do as well in British Lit as I do in any other Literature class, although the reason for that is less discernable than why I did poorly on the test.

Here's the thing. This midterm was worth 15 point total. In spite of taking only a little over half the time allotted for the essay portion (the other half wasted on the second essay) I got a 6 out of the 7 points assigned to that portion. I got all of the "fill in the blanks" correct -- another 3 points. The only thing left was to get the five points for the identification portion. As I stated earlier, I identified three instead of two. In chronological order, the second identification I attempted was wrong. The third one however, was correct. Yet, without explanation, the instructor gave me only half the credit for the portion. Since there were no explanations for this on the paper, I concluded that she marked me off for not following directions. This gave me a C on the paper instead of an B+ or A-. The more I thought about it, the idea came to me that she might have just made a mistake on the identification portion...teachers can get tired brains, too right? In hopes that just maybe this was the case, I went to her office to check. My professor spoke nicely with me, a little patronizing maybe, and looked at my paper. She read aloud the excerpt that I had gotten wrong with great emphasis, and declared to me the correct author, and slightly mocked the guess I had confusedly scrawled out. I told her that I knew I had guessed wrong, but the final one was correct...? She replied, "Oh I didn't even look at that one. The directions were to respond to two; I only graded the top two. You alerted me to the fact that you had accidentally written two essays, but you said nothing of this portion." I agreed that this was true, and commented on how apparently scatterbrained I must have been to have overlooked the directions. She looked squarely at me and said, "Well, that is why they say to read directions three times. That is the advice given to graduate students." I thanked her for her clarification and told her I would see her later in class.

I knew that I hadn't followed directions, but apparently some small but ridiculously hopeful part of me wished that she could have been feeling generous toward probably the sole person in the class who had accidentally gone way above and beyond the call of duty and fulfilled ALL of the demands of the test in 75 minutes, with only one wrong answer. I know there is no reward for failing to follow directions; my mind knows this. I know I should not even imagine that I should receive any kind of special treatment for being smart or studious. Than what? Why did I leave her office and have to shake off tears? I suppose I'm a little fragile right now. With major universities breathing down my neck for grade point averages, and the cat near death...I don't know. Perhaps because I have had such wonderful people in my life who care, not just whether or not I can be perfect, but are concerned about my success, I am a little disgruntled by people who coldly remind me that I'm not really good enough. I suppose I must look for approval elsewhere in life, and stop leaving it up to instructors to reassure me that what I have to say is worthwhile.

It is a paradox, this thinking and knowing that what she did was fair and justifiable and this feeling hurt. It's difficult to know that I set myself up for this kind of inner conflict.

Little stars...

I was either fifteen or fourteen the first time I read Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I had about two years before I would see Baz Luhrmann's film with my then boyfriend, who didn't quite understand why I was so distraught by the film, especially since I was no DiCaprio swooner. The fact of the matter was that just months before I saw the film, I had been through some pretty perilous breakups, and the ideas of romantic suicide, families that hate each other, and even the idea of being star-crossed, all appealed to me and reached the inner, dusky corners of my mind and heart. Rereading the play almost fifteen years later has given me a different vantage point, and I identify more with Mercutio, and Friar Laurence, than say, Romeo or Juliet, but somehow their young love and fierce passion still move me, even to tears.

I have been, probably to the detriment of my learning experience, watching the film as I read, pausing to read the lines that the film skips or delivers out of character or scene. This film is still pretty darn good. Mercutio is expertly played by Harold Perrineau, now of Lost fame, and I really love Clare Danes' portrayal of Juliet. She embodies her as I interpret her from the text; she is witty, and the cleverer of the two young lovers. Her innocence and virginity, so often brought up in the text by her blushing cheek, is balanced by a strong sense of who she is and being true to who she loves, even at the cost of losing her family. Her father's tirade at her, and her mother's dismissal, is crushing in the text, and Danes' is so good at teenage angst that she takes Juliet's despair to very strong, but very realistic level. When she pulls the small pistol from her purse and screams at the Friar that he better hurry up and tell her an answer, because she "longs to die," my heart just breaks for this young girl who seems to see no other way out, and has been spurned by the people she should trust with her life.

Shakespeare seems to have a penchant for rage between father and daughters over marriage. Hero's father, in Much Ado About Nothing, tells her that if she has been sleeping around, and is ineligable to marry Claudio that he would like to kill her, and calls her all sorts of slurs. Capulet similarly yells at his daughter that if she doesn't do as he says and marry Paris, that he would watch her starving, begging in the streets with a blind and callus eye. He calls her a harlot, and tells her never to speak to him again. There is some sort of strange connection between these future sons in law and fathers in law. They are marrying off their only daughters, but they have more of a connection with these idiots than their own valuable daughters; Hero and Juliet are far wiser than their years and experience alone.

At any rate, Shakespeare repeats themes and patterns and even names, in his excellent plays. I don't think the film could move me without his direct dialogue; while it's a pretty movie, it it firmly rooted in Shakespearian sound, and tone. I have yet to watch the church scene, with the glowing blue crosses. It makes me weep. Perhaps it is good to read this play at around the ages the main characters are supposed to be. It is good for depressed young people to know they are not alone, nor have they been alone for hundreds of years. In mourning Romeo and Juliet, perhaps they put off mourning themselves.