Anisha Lakhani's Schooled

I know this is a recurring theme amongst our class, but I was really disgusted by this narrative and the story it told.
My mom is in a way very similar to the main character. She teaches at the Lycee Francais in Manhattan, a private school that attracts Madonna's daughter and Angolina Jolie's twins. To say the least, it's pretty fancy shmancy. In order for her to make extra money, my mother tutors for the AP French exam on weekends or afternoon, an extra income which helps with two kids in college and a dog that likes to eat more than it should.

While she has of course talked about the privilege these kids have, and how she's had to numerously put "Lola" back in her place (this is what Madonna's daughter Lourdes likes to be called), she's never once blamed an entire educational system or viewed her tutoring job as being completely pointless because she does their homework. Because she doesn't.

I'm not sure what sort of world Lakhani claims exists, but it's undeniably skewed, and even offensive. Yes, I whole heartily believe that some parents believe they are titled to anything as well as their kids (my mother dreads the parent-teacher nights). But when Lakhani writes things like "I think people need to really question the validity of tutoring and its place in education today" I just want to soccer punch her. Really? She believes that there is NO VALIDITY at all in tutoring? I'd love for her to swing on by by the Writer's Center here and then say this statement out loud.

Ugh, shit like this pisses me off.

The Women of Brewster Place: Mattie Michael

Throughout Mattie Michael's story, it seems that a lot of her time is spent worrying how she pleases men. In other words, she seems to live for them. Her dad wants her to court a respectable man, and therefore she spends every Sunday with a boy she neither likes nor appreciates. Knowing how much her father dedicates himself to her, she tries to please him as much as possible.
Of course, the worst act of defiance possible toward her father is to go out with Butch. However, confronted with her need to please, or rather her dependence on men and their approval, she submits to Butch as well and lets go of her own morals. Consequence? She ends up pregnant with his child.
Once the child enters her life. She does everything for him. She moves boarding house in order for him to be raised in a more comfortable environment despite her meager income and long working hours. To her luck, she comes across Miss Eva, who lets her board in her house for free. Yet even Miss Eva warns Mattie of he dependence on her child. During a small argument, Miss Eva tells her that she should leave Basil sleep by himself at night, however Mattie refutes by saying Basil is afraid of the dark. Even though there are enough rooms so that Basil could have his own, Mattie holds on to him so much that she cannot be physically parted from him.
After Miss Eva's death, Mattie understands why Miss Eva never asked her to pay anything and made sure she was saving up money: so she could inherit the house.
However, Mattie does not think of the house as her own possession, but as her son's. Maylor writes, "It would be all for him and those to come from the long, muscular thighs of him who sat opposite her at the table" (40). Mattie therefore strips any agency she has and gives everything she has to her son.
Just as her dependence got her "in trouble" so to speak the first time around, there are further consequences this time. Her son ends up killing a man, and while it's unclear what happens to him, we can assume that he kills himself since he warned her that he'd rather shoot himself than to spend time in jail. We never see him again. Miss Eva's house, then, which she ascribed to her son, cannot be "hers" to live in, and so she departs.
In the end, she becomes the owner of "Brewster Place," finally a place she owns, and where she can carry out the kindness of Miss Eva and perhaps house people more fortunate than her in terms of the loss and the pain she experienced.

Rose of Sharon’s Pregnancy

Tom's younger sister, Rose of Sharon, begins the journey to California pregnant with her first child. She dreams of establishing a new life in the city and how she will dress her baby once she is there. In this way, she embodies the idealist views of the migrants during that time. Because she is pregnant, she also symbolizes a possible new beginning, a "rebirth" of the migrant class. But this obsession consumes her so much that she becomes condescending and adopts an attitude of superiority over others. Because she is pregnant, Rose of Sharon perhaps believes her possession is proof of her already attained new reality. For example, as the family packs the truck for California, Rose of Sharon refuses to help for fear that she might hurt her fetus.
This goes to show, however, how fragile the American Dream is. While perhaps Rose of Sharon takes advantage of her position as a pregnant woman, and identifies her baby with the symbol of the West, she is also extremely fearful of losing it, repeatedly asking her mother again and again if whatever activity she does will be harmful for her child. This intense fear of losing her baby foreshadows her still-birth. Indeed, the harsh realities hit hard after Rose of Sharon's husband leaves her, and she gives birth to a dead child.
The instilled hope at the beginning comes crashing down, and the future of the migrants appears bleak. While Rose of Sharon's pregnancy was once a symbol of new hope, it transforms into a symbol of abandoned and destroyed dreams.
Her character becomes even more fascinating by the end of the novel, however, when she is transformed into a sort of Madonna: When the family comes across a starving man and his son, Rose of Shanon gives the old man her milk. Here, she becomes the care-taker and the nurturer she never could be with her baby, and in some way redeems herself. Most importantly, however, her milk is not a symbol of the American Dream as it once did, but echoing my prior blog post, it is a unifying factor for the migrant class. Her act not only humanizes her, but also shows how a shared experience of hardship and suffering creates a sort of pact between the lower class.

"I'll Be There"

One of the most touching scenes in the novel. Feeling the pain of the death of his friend, Tom shares with his Ma' some good old words of wisdom:
"Whenever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Whenever they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there... I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an'-I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build-why, I'll be there."
Here, you can really hear how Tom feels unified with the rest of his social class. The working class, poor, struggling families: they are all united together because of a shared experience. In this way, the upper class, mainly depicted by banks and corporations become much less part of the human experience. They are completely dehumanized and instead associated with the immobile and the material. What I mean is, while the migrants are seen laboring the fields, moving across the land, etc...the privileged class is simply portrayed by corporations and not as a unified group. There are no human qualities attributed to them.
By contrast, Tom and the rest of the migrants, despite their suffering, really seem to be part of the "human experience."

The Valley of Ashes

For some reason I have never been a fan of The Great Gatsby. Part of this may stem from the fact that it was repeatedly taught to me in high school and college, but interestingly, those like me that are not very big fans of the book tend not to be American. I think GG epitomizes the American novel, and for an outsider almost seems too cliche or specific. What I mean is, GG is grounded in American values and ideologies, and if you have not grown with these, it is hard to identify with the book at all.

One aspect of the book that often did gain my attention, however, were the descriptions of the Valley of Ashes. I thought the descriptions to be really quite beautiful, and daunting at the same time. As Fitzgerald writes, "This is a valley of ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air." There is something quite mesmerizing in the valley of ashes, perhaps because it seems ghost-like, surreal.

The valley serves as a stark contrast to East and West Egg, both of which are doused in luxury. In the valley of ashes, however, poverty and ruin are extremely visible, representing the social decay of America.

I find it interesting that in the description of the valley, Fitzgerald uses the second person pronoun to invoke the reader: "Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight."
The cars here are not flashy and yellow like Gatby's and the residents are not as musical and alive. Rather, the valley seems to be a completely different pace, almost asleep. That Fitzgerald uses "you" physically places the reader there too and in this way the smoke blinds us as well. Our vision is momentarily blurred and we become implemented in the story: it is easy to see the overt wealth of the upper class, but easy to overlook those that are completely outside of it.

Gatsby's Car

As Fitzgerald describes, Gatsby's car was a ''rich cream color, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns'' (68).

Symbolically, the mustard car is a personal representation of Gatsby himself. The excess attributes of the car, with the supper-boxes and tool-boxes etc...mirror Gatsby's own over-the-top display of material wealth and social status.

Fitzgerald adds that Gastby's car was ''labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns.'' Undoubtedly, that it glows in the sunlight further emphasizes Gatsby's obsession in showing off his wealth, but it also creates another effect: Because it mirrors the sun, it reflects something other than itself; in other words, it fails to be its own thing because it rather imitate what is already there. Thus, Gatby's car is a material representation of his own hidden and secret identity.

That the luxurious yellow Rolls-Royce causes his downfall (because he is thought to be the one to have killed Myrtle) therefore comes as no surprise. His fake identity makes him an impostor to high society, and the costume and props he take on can only work for so long. Because the car is directly connected to his own identity, the fact that the car crashes only foreshadows Gatsby's own downfall.

Menilmontant: The street as a symbol of Lily's Obsession

That's not saying much, because streets in Paris aren't very steep. But as a kid, walking up Rue Menilmontant with shopping bags, accompanied by my mother, the trip back home wasn't always fun. The reason why I'm mentioning this street/neighborhood is because in my film class the other day, I watched a short film by Dimitri Kirsanoff which is called, lo and behold, "Menilmontant". Now, the plot does not have much to do with House of Mirth, but since I was reading the book at the same time that I was watching this film (not simultaneously, of course...) I couldn't help but see bits of Edith Wharton's novel echo some of the movie's plot.
The silent and black&white film "Menilmontant" is about two sisters who move out from the country side after their parents are mysteriously murdered. As they arrive in the city, they are amazed by the movement and the music of the city. It becomes clear that they hope to find a better future there, and that they hope to be able to enjoy themselves, perhaps in "flaneur" fashion.
However, they move to the working class neighborhood of Menilmontant where they find miniscule work. To make a longe(ish) story short, by the end of the film, the younger sister becomes pregnant with a man that her older sister is now seeing, and we see her face super-imposed over the Seine, indicating her being overwhelmed and hopeless.
What I find most symbolic here, however, and which we unfortunately never discussed in my film class, is the symbol of Menilmontant itself. Because the street is steep, one either looks up and must "climb" the street, or looks down and sees all of Paris- the eiffel tower, the cars, the people in their guises, etc...I find this relevant to Lily's obsession in staying at the top, an obsession probably tied to the fact that once on top, you may look comfortably at your surrounding and even find them beautiful. However, reaching the top is painful, and going down is much easier. Accurately, Lily'spath spirals downward quite quickly, and once there the top seems impossible to reach. The Eiffel tower is no longer in sight, and the music and the treasures of the city no longer a reality.
Of course, Paris does not appear in the House of Mirth, but I thought the metaphor that Menilmontant could provide us when thinking of our heroine to be interesting.

Lily Bart vs. Edna Pontellier

As I completed Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth, I drew more and more parallels between the protagonist Lily Bart and Edna Pontellier, the protagonist of The Awakening. While Edna is a married woman established in her social milieu and Lily is in a sense trying to obtain what Edna already has, these two female characters have a lot in common.
For one, it is notable that both have lost their mother at an early age, and in this way have had to fend for themselves, forcing them to become aware of their own role in their surroundings, and what they must do to keep afloat (no pun intended...although that's a pretty nasty one). More importantly, both heroines, members of the upper class, are portrayed to have their own thoughts and desires, and, perhaps because they are aware of the strict social norms that surround them, are both unsatisfied and feel constricted due to their womanhood, or womaness.
Indeed, these two characters are tied to stereotypical female roles associate with the home: mother, wife, and housekeeper. They cannot dream of being anything else.
Of course, what brings the two women even closer to each other is their death, or suicide. While it is never clear if Lily actually commits suicide, I think it hard to see it otherwise. Everything Edna has ever strived for, a husband, good social standing, and wealth, seem by the end of the novel completely unattainable for her.
By contrast, Edna feels as though she cannot abide to, nor survive the strict social norms she must follow, and drowning is for her her only means of escape.
In both cases, it seems as though death is to both characters a mode in which they can find their own feminine space, a space not affected by masculine doctrines and imposed social codes. This is a space they can inhabit, that they can defy, and in which they can define themselves. While Edna's death is much more symbolic in that she kills herself by drowning (the water stands as an important symbol of femininity) that fact that Lily dies by "overdose" also insinuates slumber: an escape in a world that is not this one. For both women, then, death is not an end to their life, but rather enables the commencement of a new one, a better one...a life in which they can reinvent themselves.

The Fall of Silas Lapham

I think it's interesting that the novel is not called The Rise and Fall of Silas Lapham but rather The Rise of Silas Lapham. In this manner, Howells valorizes the moral rise of Lapham (and that of his family) over the monetary and social downfall they experience.

Before his fall, Silas believes his money makes him superior to the Coreys, and that this can give him access to high-society. His house, the dinner party, these are all signs of his own blindness into thinking he can fit in...even though we as readers are aware of the opposite.

Towards the end of the book, however, Silas realizes that without his money he would be no-one in the social world (in Contrast to the Coreys, who have less money than Lapham but have social status because they were born into the "upper crust" and understand its workings and values).

But it's when Silas and his family move back to their "land of origin" that we see how much less superfluous and superficial the Laphams are once they go back to their roots (and quite literally). The Lapham family even seems much happier and ceases to be consumed by the worrying of belonging or fitting in a specific group. As I said in my last post, Silas regains his title of "colonel" (or at least the narrator states that the title is now more fitting), which shows that only then, when he regains the ranks of the working class he is most at ease and in his place.

But interestingly, the Laphams do not seem bitter or even regretful of their monetary downfall, instead, Silas morally rises and, in some way, "redeems" himself: he doesn't trample on others to regain his material possessions and instead accepts the situation and moves on. Furthermore, we learn that Silas has been supporting the daughter of a man who took a bullet for him during the war which also augments our own view of him as a responsible and moral man.

Silas, La Femme?

I know this is pretty far stretched, but bear with me for a little bit.
French being my first language, I have the tendency to speak to myself in French (yes, I speak to myself ALL the time). So when I picked up a copy of The Rise of Silas Lapham, this is what inside my head sounded like: "Oh, ze rise of Seelah La Femme."

So for a while I went around calling the book that, which in French means "The Woman".
And "The Woman" was for me a really cool book, except its protagonist happened to be, well, a man. So subconsciously, while I knew Lapham was a man all along, I sort of identified him as woman...

and bizarrely, things sort of made sense that way.

What I mean is, socially Lapham is the equivalent of "the woman" in the room (yes I tried to make a pun there by substituting elephant with woman). In a patriarchal society, men lead have dominant and active roles. To put it bluntly, men are always at the top, while the women (passive and docile) can never fit in where men belong. And that's what Lapham and his family try to achieve, the top, the "upper class"... to be part of the elite. But no matter what he does, Lapham can't fit in. Not because he doesn't try enough (he does plenty of times and ends up making a fool of himself), but because his origins have not prepped him for "the ways" of society, because his blood, his biological beginnings "hinder" his image and his acceptance in society...wait, sounds like women's problems all along, no?

So in a way, high society is an effeminating factor for Lapham. As Howells expresses at the very end of the book, only when Lapham loses his house and moves away does his title of "colonel" apply to him again. Howells writes, "The colonel...was more the Colonel in those hills than he could ever have been on the Back Bay" (339). It seems that once Lapham displaces himself from high society he regains his masculinity. But in high-society, Lapham is emasculated and takes on socially constructed traits that women are supposed to possess: They are not good conversationalists (how could they, they have no brains), are obsessed with aesthetics (Lapham is obsessed witht he way his house looks), and of course, they are good house-keepers -- they normally cannot obtain any high positions, that is, they cannot be more than what they are.

So while La Femme and Lapham have probably nothing in common, I thought that phonetically (for a Frenchie!), the relationship was pretty interesting...

Our other half

It's hard to imagine just how poor this country was (and still is in many parts). But looking at Riis' photographs, I don't think I've ever seen this poverty echoed anywhere else in NY. Children are described as homeless and struggling to feed themselves. In fact, in Riis' day, approximately 100,000 children lived on the streets. That's just not something you see today.

It was fascinating, and extremely heart-breaking at the same time, to read about these conditions and understand them as a non-fictional account. When reading something, even a newspaper article, I can often brush it to the side as just a story, not really part of my reality, not really true...

Riis' "How the Other Half Lives" really hit me though, perhaps in part due to the photographs. As Riis writes, "one half of the world does not know how the other half lives." Indeed, this resonates with the Great Gatsby and the disparity between the two Eggs and the Valley of Ashes, and even the Grapes of Wrath with the workers and the big corporations. It seems it often cut in two halves, with extremes on both sides.