So, for this assignment, we were supposed to find some Italian American "object", or at least something that was perceived as being Italian, and then write about it. Write about whether or not it was an accurate representation of Italy or Italian culture, whether it was perpetuating stereotypes and making a mockery of Italian Americans (this prof always seemed to suspect the latter). I wrote this piece about a package of Caesar Salad Croutons that had "Italian Herb" seasoning. Please to enjoy.
HUI336
30 September 2006
Cafarelli
Before Caesar Cardini, there was no Caesar Salad.
One of the strongest perceptions people have about Italian and Italian Americans is that they are culinary masters, great creators of food and great eaters of that food. Pasta, Pizza, and Caesar salad are among the many stereotypically “Italian” foods the general public tends to associate with the culture; however, unlike the ambiguous origins of pizza and pasta, the Caesar Salad (according to a packet of Cardini’s Italian Herb Croutons that I recently purchased) has traceable origins. Apparently created by a restaurateur in not Italy nor even the United States, but in Tijuana Mexico, the Caesar Salad, one of the things most think of as being definitively Italian, is actually Italian-Mexican. However unlikely this story may seem, my family and I had heard it before, even seen it depicted on T.V., so it is not just a fabrication by the makers of the product, but is rather a widely accepted tale in society. So why then do we think of the Caesar salad as being stereotypically “Italian”? And what if anything does this package of croutons depict or say, that confirms or denies its “Italian-ness” as such?
For starters, the packaging is red white and green (bringing to mind the colors of the Italian flag). The subtitle “creator of the Caesar Salad in 1924” is obviously meant to convey a sense of authenticity about the origin of the product; however, nowhere on the package does it say Caesar Cardini created, or even used, a crouton in his salad. The croutons looked like ordinary squares to me, but apparently they are “gourmet cut”; again, the packaging fails to tell us what exactly is so gourmet about them. What is more, the croutons are “Italian herb” flavor; however upon further inspection of the ingredient list there is not a single herb to be mentioned, Italian or otherwise.
When we turn it over and examine the back, we can read the blurb about Cardini’s development of the salad, and the company’s line of dressings and other products, available in grocery and “specialty stores” (I bought this product at Stop and Shop). Although these croutons are supposed to represent the “true flavor of Italy”, the recipe the Marzetti Company gives us on the back is for a Greek salad, not an Italian one; and the product is manufactured in Columbus, Ohio, by the Marzetti Company (not, interestingly, the Cardini company), and so obviously the ingredients don’t come from anywhere in Italy. Julia Child, widely regarded as one of the best cooks in the world, made mention of the Caesar Salad in her book From Julia Child’s Kitchen. I do have this book and she recounts her experience of having tasted it at Cardini’s restaurant as a girl, then soliciting his daughter for the recipe years later. Because France and Italy share many of the same culinary ingredients, it is interesting that a Francophile such as Child would not have encountered such a recipe in her travels, and in actuality this anecdote adds credibility to the Cardini story. Cardini, because was so well established in not just America but Mexico as well, does seem to represent that idealism that so many immigrants strived to achieve; incorporated with the new world and its “giant, bubbling cauldron…in which Italian immigrants dived and swam until they spoke English with almost no accent and developed a marked preference for potatoes to spaghetti” (Mangione 239).
On the other hand, even though the invention of the Caesar Salad is commonly attributed to Caesar Cardini, I find it hard to believe that he is the very first person to have created it. Popularized it, perhaps, but not created it. For example, 1924 seems quite late to me for someone to “randomly” throw together eggs, garlic, pepper, lemon juice, olive oil, (Parmesan) cheese, and lettuce, calling it a new concoction: all of those ingredients are suspiciously common to most of Italy, not to mention France, Spain and Greece (among others). One of the most interesting things about this crouton package is its focus almost exclusively on the history and legacy of Cardini himself, and not really on the product. In this respect, if the story is true, then the Caesar Salad is more “Italian” than one might think at first glance: it is made up of inexpensive yet tasty, whole ingredients that all would have been common to an Italian household at that time. Immigrants were obliged to be resourceful with ingredients, so that too is a characteristic if not uniquely Italian, then at least common to immigrant culture. He was more than likely, as Puzo affirms, “a fine cook in the peasant style” (Hoobler 70) and essentially could make something out of nothing. Another question that needs to be addressed: if the croutons (and ostensibly the entire Caesar salad as well) are supposed to have the “true flavor of Italy”, then how can the invention of an immigrant to Mexico via the United States be called Italian, unless the recipe originated, at least loosely, in Italy to begin with? The uncertainty here is whether Cardini’s combination was common enough already to have been an established recipe. Even though croutons are by nature a complimentary food, that is to say an ingredient which is added to something else and never the main feature, this package over-endorses its product with an unnecessary historical song-and-dance. Most people probably aren’t looking for an elaborate history behind their croutons, unless (and this is probably the case) the attachment of such a story carries with it some sort of “Italian” affiliation, and the consumer feels somehow more “gourmet” for having bought it. So though it is possible that this recipe may date back to the famous emperor who bares its name, apparently it was not named for him, as many may believe. It was created by an immigrant to Mexico who (like many others) used his Italian ingenuity to create something delicious.
All in all, however, I don’t feel that these croutons truly represent that notion at all—I found them to be tasteless and commercial; after having tried the product, I will probably never buy it again. Nothing about the croutons was special or “gourmet”, or particularly Italian, for that matter. In fact, I almost felt that in my purchasing of this particular brand of crouton, I was taking away from the business of other crouton merchants (who don’t resort to that level of unnecessary histrionic advertisement, and yet provide a product that is essentially identical). Ultimately, I am happy for the Cardini family’s success; however I also believe that through this said success the production company has exploited the “Italian American-ness” of the salad’s creator, pushing a specific image rather than endorsing the inherent quality of the product.
Showing posts with label immigrant experience. Show all posts
Showing posts with label immigrant experience. Show all posts
Saturday, August 29, 2009
a small assignment on Christ in Concrete
If you haven't read Christ in Concrete by Pietro diDonato, get thee to a Barnes and Noble and pick up a copy asap. It's a heart-wrenching little-known gem about the proletariat immigrant experience. Think "The Jungle" from a kid's point of view. It was written in the 1930's just like The Grapes of Wrath; however unlike Grapes of Wrath, which is a staple on every high school reading list, Christ in Concrete inexplicably faded into obscurity. Let's bring it back to public consciousness.
HUI333
Kightlinger
3 January 2005
Writing Assignment #2
In order to fully understand the character of Annunziata that the reader sees in the final scene of the novel, it is necessary to look at several of the aspects of her upbringing, cultural inheritance and religious beliefs. All Annunziata has ever cared about is her family, friends, and above all Jesus and religion. She has been raised in a kind of Catholic bubble of extreme faith and trust in Jesus: according to her and the paisanos who share her beliefs, every single action or experience in their daily lives is either in reference to or guided by Jesus. After having lost Geremio, she has transferred her hope and faith to Paul, making him “head-chair of the table”(227), constantly saying prayers for him, and blessing him with the sign of the cross. Annunziata turns to Christ constantly; in her mind, though it seems He cannot help them right at this moment and the family may suffer tremendously on this earth, her constant devotion and prayers will at least bring them eternal salvation in Heaven.
Paul’s bitterness and subsequent denial of his faith comes full-circle in the final scene of the novel. He has been bombarded with inconsistencies, having witnessed tragedy after tragedy in spite of everyone’s constant prayers for salvation and protection. He is sick of what he considers to be excuses, ultimately using religion to justify these tragedies or smooth them over. We can also make note of the “message” from the dead Geremio which the Cripple imparts to them – that of Geremio’s wanting Annunziata to join him in Paradise, when “all the children grow up”(115). Paul himself is growing up — not just emotionally and mentally in terms of dealing with the harsh realities of life, but he is also going through puberty and his pent-up sexual frustrations become yet another catalyst for the argument with Annunziata. Interestingly also in the final scene there are pointed suggestions of Paul’s sister Annina becoming a woman and taking the place of Annunziata by ‘speaking as a woman’ and sitting in Annunziata’s rocking chair (233). This calls attention to the fact that the children are, at least to some extent, old enough to take care of themselves.
In the final scene, during the heat of their argument, Paul verbally reduces Annunziata’s adored and revered crucifix to nothing but plaster and wood (231). This of course does nothing to change Annunziata’s mind about her beliefs; rather, she becomes even more horrified as Paul’s frustration leads him to actually break the crucifix into pieces. This is the most crucial part of the scene, because this physical destruction of the cross is a symbolic loss of faith for both characters: for Paul, it is the culmination of his utter renouncement of Catholicism — for Annunziata, the crushing of the crucifix is somewhat metaphorical for the “breaking” of Annunziata’s spirit. Though she has gone through so much (Geremio’s death, extreme poverty, eight children, the loss of Luigi’s leg), she has always been strong enough to pull through and hold everything together because of the power of her faith. Once her son’s faith is broken, she feels as though he is lost to her, and has grown beyond her control. Annunziata feels that she must punish herself for not having done enough to keep Paul on the straight and narrow path; perhaps she also subconsciously recognizes the fact that he has grown beyond her control. In her mind, she has done all she can do for Paul in terms of instilling a strong foundation of and dependency on Christianity. Because this has backfired on her and her faith is compromised, she therefore also loses her strength to go on living, perhaps thinking it is time to fulfill the cripple’s prophecy and join Geremio in Paradise.
HUI333
Kightlinger
3 January 2005
Writing Assignment #2
In order to fully understand the character of Annunziata that the reader sees in the final scene of the novel, it is necessary to look at several of the aspects of her upbringing, cultural inheritance and religious beliefs. All Annunziata has ever cared about is her family, friends, and above all Jesus and religion. She has been raised in a kind of Catholic bubble of extreme faith and trust in Jesus: according to her and the paisanos who share her beliefs, every single action or experience in their daily lives is either in reference to or guided by Jesus. After having lost Geremio, she has transferred her hope and faith to Paul, making him “head-chair of the table”(227), constantly saying prayers for him, and blessing him with the sign of the cross. Annunziata turns to Christ constantly; in her mind, though it seems He cannot help them right at this moment and the family may suffer tremendously on this earth, her constant devotion and prayers will at least bring them eternal salvation in Heaven.
Paul’s bitterness and subsequent denial of his faith comes full-circle in the final scene of the novel. He has been bombarded with inconsistencies, having witnessed tragedy after tragedy in spite of everyone’s constant prayers for salvation and protection. He is sick of what he considers to be excuses, ultimately using religion to justify these tragedies or smooth them over. We can also make note of the “message” from the dead Geremio which the Cripple imparts to them – that of Geremio’s wanting Annunziata to join him in Paradise, when “all the children grow up”(115). Paul himself is growing up — not just emotionally and mentally in terms of dealing with the harsh realities of life, but he is also going through puberty and his pent-up sexual frustrations become yet another catalyst for the argument with Annunziata. Interestingly also in the final scene there are pointed suggestions of Paul’s sister Annina becoming a woman and taking the place of Annunziata by ‘speaking as a woman’ and sitting in Annunziata’s rocking chair (233). This calls attention to the fact that the children are, at least to some extent, old enough to take care of themselves.
In the final scene, during the heat of their argument, Paul verbally reduces Annunziata’s adored and revered crucifix to nothing but plaster and wood (231). This of course does nothing to change Annunziata’s mind about her beliefs; rather, she becomes even more horrified as Paul’s frustration leads him to actually break the crucifix into pieces. This is the most crucial part of the scene, because this physical destruction of the cross is a symbolic loss of faith for both characters: for Paul, it is the culmination of his utter renouncement of Catholicism — for Annunziata, the crushing of the crucifix is somewhat metaphorical for the “breaking” of Annunziata’s spirit. Though she has gone through so much (Geremio’s death, extreme poverty, eight children, the loss of Luigi’s leg), she has always been strong enough to pull through and hold everything together because of the power of her faith. Once her son’s faith is broken, she feels as though he is lost to her, and has grown beyond her control. Annunziata feels that she must punish herself for not having done enough to keep Paul on the straight and narrow path; perhaps she also subconsciously recognizes the fact that he has grown beyond her control. In her mind, she has done all she can do for Paul in terms of instilling a strong foundation of and dependency on Christianity. Because this has backfired on her and her faith is compromised, she therefore also loses her strength to go on living, perhaps thinking it is time to fulfill the cripple’s prophecy and join Geremio in Paradise.
Rosa/Harriet Comparative Essay
Again, play to the professor's sympathies. I knew she was a militant feminist with a vagina dentata, so I wrote about female oppression. These two works are very different takes on the female American experience; one is a Black Slave and one is an Italian immigrant. Both have issues adjusting to modern American life.
HUI390
15 October 2006
Bona
Rosa/Harriet Comparative Essay
Throughout history, women have been oppressed, viewed as objects, and forced to conform to certain standards imposed upon them by society. Because the woman was traditionally considered the property of her husband, more often than not she had nothing to claim as her own. The women protagonists of Harriet Jacobs’ Perils of a Slave Woman’s Life and Marie Hall Ets’s Rosa: the Life of an Italian Immigrant are examples of two 19th and early 20th women who crossed social boundaries and remained true to themselves, ultimately achieving personal freedom. In many ways, being a woman before the 20th century also meant surrendering to the criteria of the “Cult of True Womanhood”. Women in that time lived a life of what can only be viewed by the modern reader as a form of slavery — that is to say, the woman’s sense of self was lost, embedded in social construct — and this is something that continues to a certain extent today. These two women take the stories of their lives and turn them into narratives to be passed down through the ages— that is to say, both Rosa and Harriet end up taking possession of their own stories, and acknowledge that they do indeed have something to claim as their own. One of the expectations of women during this time was to remain silent; yet our protagonists Rosa and Harriet are strong, vocal women whose personalities cannot allow them to conform to this. Owing to Harriet’s literacy and Rosa’s storytelling ability, these two women allow others to be if not involved in, at least aware of, their lives. Both tell the reader their tales, by the end of which the speakers are no longer victims of servitude, but mobile, empowered women who have quite voluntarily chosen their respective destinies.
Both Harriet’s and Rosa’s societies preached an ideology of silence, keeping women in ignorance of things deemed unfit for polite conversation, and promoting a double standard that favored masculine power. Especially taboo for women to talk (or even know) about was the topic of sex. Harriet is a victim of explicit verbal sexual harassment, saying that due to her slavery under Dr. Flint, she is “prematurely knowing” and laments other “happy women, whose purity has been sheltered (Jacobs 35)”. On the other hand, even though Rosa is a desirable object for many men, she is kept in the dark about sexual practices, even when she is engaged to be married. Rosa asks her friend Pompeo about what “the man does to the girl when he has the matrimony with her”, but even though he knows, Pompeo can only say that he “can’t tell a girl that… Only the husband is allowed to tell the girl that after the matrimony (Ets 154)”. This reinforces the double standard of the time, that of men being in the know and the woman being kept ignorant. Harriet has her own problems with Dr. Flint, and frequently faces his tirades with stoicism and courage, “openly expressing her contempt for him (Jacobs 21)”. Like Rosa, her faith and her self-confidence allow her to endure in the face of oppression. Even though at that time a master could treat a slave as rudely as he pleases and the slave dare not speak (Jacobs 36), Harriet often speaks her mind so boldly as to be practically unheard of during that era.
Rosa and Harriet are very vocal women, often speaking their mind and always answering questions honestly. If Rosa or Harriet is silent, or chooses to leave something out of a scene, that information is therefore significant and should be noted. They both depict many specific details in their stories, so it is interesting to see the information that each author chooses to leave out. Even after the fact and both women have learned about sex, neither Harriet nor Rosa (both very vocal under other circumstances) can bring herself to talk openly about it.
Jacobs uses various rhetorical themes to tell her tale, including the use of metaphor and euphemisms to imply deeper meanings. When Dr. Flint attacks the integrity of the man Harriet wishes to marry, she defends him by stating that he “never insulted her (Jacobs 29)”; this comment has double meaning, as the word insult in this context is clearly, yet not explicitly, telling the reader that Dr. Flint had sexually abused her. In another verbal encounter between these two, upon his discovery of her pregnancy, Dr. Flint berates Linda with “talk such as would have made the most shameless blush (Jacobs 41)”; this is a euphemistic way to show that even though she cannot be explicit about language used, she still makes it known that his verbal abuse towards her was terrible. Harriet realizes that her body is (initially) the only thing that she can use to gain mobility, as it is the object of Dr. Flint’s advances. However, by the end of the story we see that the character has grown and developed — Harriet has found her own voice and intends to use that (rather than her body) for mobility and to spread awareness. Rosa, too, is forced into mobility because of her body, and like Harriet, by telling her story, she is able to involve people in her life and impart a sense of community. Knowing that she is desired as a sexual object by Dr. Flint, when she learns she is pregnant, Harriet withholds this information from Dr. Flint. She has a “feeling of satisfaction and triumph in the thought of telling him (Jacobs 37)”, as she knows it will be important verbal ammunition later.
Like Harriet’s, Rosa’s existence is one of incarceration; she is owned (and, essentially, sold) by Mamma Lena and later Santino. Mamma Lena promises Rosa to be married to Santino, yet at the ceremony, when she is asked “the question”, she couldn’t bring herself to say “I do”, in fact she “couldn’t say anything (Ets 154)”. Afterwards, she cannot bring herself to give us any details about the wedding night or the matrimony. Rosa often leaves out information about Santino—he was such a bad man, she repeatedly tells us that she has to “leave him out of [her] story, that’s all (Ets 205)”. Both Harriet and Rosa are involved in abusive relationships to which they are bound by law or by sacrament. When Santino beats Rosa because she will not obey him, she says she would rather die than sin against the Virgin Mary (Ets 199). It is a long time before she can fully assert herself, but ultimately Rosa realizes that she can, and does. She takes her mobility into her own hands, escapes to the family and friends of Gionin and starts a new life for herself and her children (200).
Neither woman’s domesticity is defined by her actual children or family members, but rather the family that she has chosen for herself. For example in the case of Harriet, her family becomes the employer Mrs. Bruce, who ultimately purchase her freedom and under whom she chooses to work and live. Even though she may want to, Harriet cannot “sit with her children in a home of her own (68)”. Yet, she is content with her freedom (such as it is). Similarly, Rosa chooses the community of the Commons to be her family. When her children ask her to quit working at the Commons because she is too old to do that kind of work anymore, she refuses, stating that the Commons is her home and she could not think of leaving (Ets 248). She would rather go to her “home” at the Commons than stay at her real home with her actual children. Even though Harriet and Rosa are domestics and remain so their entire lives, they ultimately choose their own personal vein of domesticity that allows them the most “freedom”.
Rosa often faces death with a clear conscience and a strong heart. She escapes death many times, like when the landlord sets fire to her building (Ets 217), but she is always exceedingly brave. Over and over again Rosa tells us that she is “not afraid of the death (253)”. In fact, Rosa recounts the one time she was so sick that she was “ready to die”, however she was not frightened (252). Although Rosa is not afraid to die, she “likes to live (253)”. This passage shows that Rosa’s character, like that of Harriet, is a survivor; it shows that Rosa is full of life. Harriet, likewise, also responds to similarly ominous situations with an impressive courage that comes naturally to her. Even though Dr. Flint threatens her with “death, and worse than death” she was naturally of a “buoyant disposition”, and like many a “poor, simple slave” before her, “trusted that some threads of joy would yet be woven into my dark destiny ( Jacobs 21)”. Both women are inherently courageous and never retreat into an attitude of victimization.
After having achieved freedom, we see that through the course of the novel each woman has developed a new outlook on life and carries a message to their audience: both women are now essentially free to do what they want without being afraid. Harriet has obtained her freedom through Mrs. Bruce and now, living as a free domestic, chooses to share her story with others. Even though she “objected to having her freedom bought”, when Harriet “rode home in the cars [she] was no longer afraid (Jacobs 67)”. In the same way, Rosa has moved from Italy to America to Italy and back to America, and has obtained freedom in the sense that she has come to recognize her own self-empowerment.
When Rosa returns to Italy after having been in America, she is no longer afraid to assert herself: at the train station, she sits down in the seats reserved for “high people”, something she would never have done before living in America. When the janitor, appalled by her impertinence, comes and scolds her, Rosa says that she gives herself the permission to sit down, that in America the poor people get smart, and are not so stupid anymore (Ets 190). She is also able to make her own decisions about people; for example, she decides not to go back to Remo, choosing instead to stay with the more dependable Gionin. She also finally stands up to Mamma Lena, realizing that “she was just like any other old woman who was alone and sad (Ets 195)”. At the end of her account, Rosa no longer fears bosses, nuns, or high people—she realizes that they cannot hurt her because she comes from America. “That’s what [Rosa] learned in America: not to be afraid (Ets 254)”.
To be an American woman is to be a powerful and a brave woman, and although Rosa and Harriet have endured oppression, they both emerge successful and wind up embodying this ideology. Both narratives are told from the end to the beginning to the end again, so the reader knows from the get-go that the speaker ultimately survives. It is all the trials and tribulations in between that draw the reader’s sympathy throughout the narrative and give both stories a kind of moral. It can be argued that the moral of both stories is not to be afraid.
In the final chapters of the texts, both Rosa and Harriet sum up their journey from imprisonment to freedom and make retrospective comments on this. These chapters are also perhaps the most important, because although the characters have spent a good deal of time assembling their tale and getting the reader to that endpoint, the authors do indeed have a message for their audience. In order to liberate the self, one must be able to liberate others, and through the distribution of their narratives both Jacobs and Ets (Cavalleri) attempt to do this. Ets’s story is an as-told-to biography, and Jacobs’s falls into a mixed genre of slave narrative and women’s domestic fiction; yet many lines of commonality clearly can be drawn between the two. At the conclusion of both however, the heroine is able to come to terms with her history, move past it, and essentially teach it to others. She has become empowered, makes it publicly known that to the best of her ability she has triumphed in the face of adversity, and maintains the possibility of upward mobility and freedom for women.
HUI390
15 October 2006
Bona
Rosa/Harriet Comparative Essay
Throughout history, women have been oppressed, viewed as objects, and forced to conform to certain standards imposed upon them by society. Because the woman was traditionally considered the property of her husband, more often than not she had nothing to claim as her own. The women protagonists of Harriet Jacobs’ Perils of a Slave Woman’s Life and Marie Hall Ets’s Rosa: the Life of an Italian Immigrant are examples of two 19th and early 20th women who crossed social boundaries and remained true to themselves, ultimately achieving personal freedom. In many ways, being a woman before the 20th century also meant surrendering to the criteria of the “Cult of True Womanhood”. Women in that time lived a life of what can only be viewed by the modern reader as a form of slavery — that is to say, the woman’s sense of self was lost, embedded in social construct — and this is something that continues to a certain extent today. These two women take the stories of their lives and turn them into narratives to be passed down through the ages— that is to say, both Rosa and Harriet end up taking possession of their own stories, and acknowledge that they do indeed have something to claim as their own. One of the expectations of women during this time was to remain silent; yet our protagonists Rosa and Harriet are strong, vocal women whose personalities cannot allow them to conform to this. Owing to Harriet’s literacy and Rosa’s storytelling ability, these two women allow others to be if not involved in, at least aware of, their lives. Both tell the reader their tales, by the end of which the speakers are no longer victims of servitude, but mobile, empowered women who have quite voluntarily chosen their respective destinies.
Both Harriet’s and Rosa’s societies preached an ideology of silence, keeping women in ignorance of things deemed unfit for polite conversation, and promoting a double standard that favored masculine power. Especially taboo for women to talk (or even know) about was the topic of sex. Harriet is a victim of explicit verbal sexual harassment, saying that due to her slavery under Dr. Flint, she is “prematurely knowing” and laments other “happy women, whose purity has been sheltered (Jacobs 35)”. On the other hand, even though Rosa is a desirable object for many men, she is kept in the dark about sexual practices, even when she is engaged to be married. Rosa asks her friend Pompeo about what “the man does to the girl when he has the matrimony with her”, but even though he knows, Pompeo can only say that he “can’t tell a girl that… Only the husband is allowed to tell the girl that after the matrimony (Ets 154)”. This reinforces the double standard of the time, that of men being in the know and the woman being kept ignorant. Harriet has her own problems with Dr. Flint, and frequently faces his tirades with stoicism and courage, “openly expressing her contempt for him (Jacobs 21)”. Like Rosa, her faith and her self-confidence allow her to endure in the face of oppression. Even though at that time a master could treat a slave as rudely as he pleases and the slave dare not speak (Jacobs 36), Harriet often speaks her mind so boldly as to be practically unheard of during that era.
Rosa and Harriet are very vocal women, often speaking their mind and always answering questions honestly. If Rosa or Harriet is silent, or chooses to leave something out of a scene, that information is therefore significant and should be noted. They both depict many specific details in their stories, so it is interesting to see the information that each author chooses to leave out. Even after the fact and both women have learned about sex, neither Harriet nor Rosa (both very vocal under other circumstances) can bring herself to talk openly about it.
Jacobs uses various rhetorical themes to tell her tale, including the use of metaphor and euphemisms to imply deeper meanings. When Dr. Flint attacks the integrity of the man Harriet wishes to marry, she defends him by stating that he “never insulted her (Jacobs 29)”; this comment has double meaning, as the word insult in this context is clearly, yet not explicitly, telling the reader that Dr. Flint had sexually abused her. In another verbal encounter between these two, upon his discovery of her pregnancy, Dr. Flint berates Linda with “talk such as would have made the most shameless blush (Jacobs 41)”; this is a euphemistic way to show that even though she cannot be explicit about language used, she still makes it known that his verbal abuse towards her was terrible. Harriet realizes that her body is (initially) the only thing that she can use to gain mobility, as it is the object of Dr. Flint’s advances. However, by the end of the story we see that the character has grown and developed — Harriet has found her own voice and intends to use that (rather than her body) for mobility and to spread awareness. Rosa, too, is forced into mobility because of her body, and like Harriet, by telling her story, she is able to involve people in her life and impart a sense of community. Knowing that she is desired as a sexual object by Dr. Flint, when she learns she is pregnant, Harriet withholds this information from Dr. Flint. She has a “feeling of satisfaction and triumph in the thought of telling him (Jacobs 37)”, as she knows it will be important verbal ammunition later.
Like Harriet’s, Rosa’s existence is one of incarceration; she is owned (and, essentially, sold) by Mamma Lena and later Santino. Mamma Lena promises Rosa to be married to Santino, yet at the ceremony, when she is asked “the question”, she couldn’t bring herself to say “I do”, in fact she “couldn’t say anything (Ets 154)”. Afterwards, she cannot bring herself to give us any details about the wedding night or the matrimony. Rosa often leaves out information about Santino—he was such a bad man, she repeatedly tells us that she has to “leave him out of [her] story, that’s all (Ets 205)”. Both Harriet and Rosa are involved in abusive relationships to which they are bound by law or by sacrament. When Santino beats Rosa because she will not obey him, she says she would rather die than sin against the Virgin Mary (Ets 199). It is a long time before she can fully assert herself, but ultimately Rosa realizes that she can, and does. She takes her mobility into her own hands, escapes to the family and friends of Gionin and starts a new life for herself and her children (200).
Neither woman’s domesticity is defined by her actual children or family members, but rather the family that she has chosen for herself. For example in the case of Harriet, her family becomes the employer Mrs. Bruce, who ultimately purchase her freedom and under whom she chooses to work and live. Even though she may want to, Harriet cannot “sit with her children in a home of her own (68)”. Yet, she is content with her freedom (such as it is). Similarly, Rosa chooses the community of the Commons to be her family. When her children ask her to quit working at the Commons because she is too old to do that kind of work anymore, she refuses, stating that the Commons is her home and she could not think of leaving (Ets 248). She would rather go to her “home” at the Commons than stay at her real home with her actual children. Even though Harriet and Rosa are domestics and remain so their entire lives, they ultimately choose their own personal vein of domesticity that allows them the most “freedom”.
Rosa often faces death with a clear conscience and a strong heart. She escapes death many times, like when the landlord sets fire to her building (Ets 217), but she is always exceedingly brave. Over and over again Rosa tells us that she is “not afraid of the death (253)”. In fact, Rosa recounts the one time she was so sick that she was “ready to die”, however she was not frightened (252). Although Rosa is not afraid to die, she “likes to live (253)”. This passage shows that Rosa’s character, like that of Harriet, is a survivor; it shows that Rosa is full of life. Harriet, likewise, also responds to similarly ominous situations with an impressive courage that comes naturally to her. Even though Dr. Flint threatens her with “death, and worse than death” she was naturally of a “buoyant disposition”, and like many a “poor, simple slave” before her, “trusted that some threads of joy would yet be woven into my dark destiny ( Jacobs 21)”. Both women are inherently courageous and never retreat into an attitude of victimization.
After having achieved freedom, we see that through the course of the novel each woman has developed a new outlook on life and carries a message to their audience: both women are now essentially free to do what they want without being afraid. Harriet has obtained her freedom through Mrs. Bruce and now, living as a free domestic, chooses to share her story with others. Even though she “objected to having her freedom bought”, when Harriet “rode home in the cars [she] was no longer afraid (Jacobs 67)”. In the same way, Rosa has moved from Italy to America to Italy and back to America, and has obtained freedom in the sense that she has come to recognize her own self-empowerment.
When Rosa returns to Italy after having been in America, she is no longer afraid to assert herself: at the train station, she sits down in the seats reserved for “high people”, something she would never have done before living in America. When the janitor, appalled by her impertinence, comes and scolds her, Rosa says that she gives herself the permission to sit down, that in America the poor people get smart, and are not so stupid anymore (Ets 190). She is also able to make her own decisions about people; for example, she decides not to go back to Remo, choosing instead to stay with the more dependable Gionin. She also finally stands up to Mamma Lena, realizing that “she was just like any other old woman who was alone and sad (Ets 195)”. At the end of her account, Rosa no longer fears bosses, nuns, or high people—she realizes that they cannot hurt her because she comes from America. “That’s what [Rosa] learned in America: not to be afraid (Ets 254)”.
To be an American woman is to be a powerful and a brave woman, and although Rosa and Harriet have endured oppression, they both emerge successful and wind up embodying this ideology. Both narratives are told from the end to the beginning to the end again, so the reader knows from the get-go that the speaker ultimately survives. It is all the trials and tribulations in between that draw the reader’s sympathy throughout the narrative and give both stories a kind of moral. It can be argued that the moral of both stories is not to be afraid.
In the final chapters of the texts, both Rosa and Harriet sum up their journey from imprisonment to freedom and make retrospective comments on this. These chapters are also perhaps the most important, because although the characters have spent a good deal of time assembling their tale and getting the reader to that endpoint, the authors do indeed have a message for their audience. In order to liberate the self, one must be able to liberate others, and through the distribution of their narratives both Jacobs and Ets (Cavalleri) attempt to do this. Ets’s story is an as-told-to biography, and Jacobs’s falls into a mixed genre of slave narrative and women’s domestic fiction; yet many lines of commonality clearly can be drawn between the two. At the conclusion of both however, the heroine is able to come to terms with her history, move past it, and essentially teach it to others. She has become empowered, makes it publicly known that to the best of her ability she has triumphed in the face of adversity, and maintains the possibility of upward mobility and freedom for women.
Maternal figures/relationships in Brown Girl, Browstones and Vertigo
Finally! Something in English! Unfortunately this paper was written for an extremely bitchy professor... I don't remember much about this class except that I probably got a B on this paper, undeservedly. The prof hated me, therefore I hated her... that's the way it is, sometimes. I still think this is a pretty decent paper, though.
HUI390
Bona
17 December 2006
Maternal figures/relationships in Brown Girl, Brownstones and Vertigo
As we have seen in all the works of women’s literature studied in this class, the topic of motherly relationship and mother figures has been featured prominently. How are the mother figures presented in Louise DeSalvo’s Vertigo and Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brownstones? How does the relationship between the main character and her mother affect her personality, the persona that she inhabits, and the life decisions that she makes? How are these mother figures different and how are they similar? What themes do we see in mother-daughter relationships that transcend both works, regardless of ethnicity, and how, if at all, should this affect the way we read and interpret other works written by women?
The stories of both Selina in Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brownstones, and Louise in DeSalvo’s Vertigo, are bildungsromans; that is to say, stories of growth and development. Although their respective fathers do seem to play an integral part in both girls’ lives, it is ultimately the mothers with whom both women identify and eventually, on some level, come to embody. During the course of both books, according to Rosalie Riegle Troester in her essay Turbulence and Tenderness: mothers, daughters, and ‘othermothers’ in Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brownstones, each of our female protagonists independently becomes “stronger through her rebellion against her mother and [realizes] finally that she is her mother in some deep and eternal sense” (Troester 13).
One problem that the majority of girls face while growing up is that of distancing themselves from their families, in particular the mother (presuming they have a mother figure to begin with). An anthropologic trope commonly explored in literature is that of a daughter’s inherent need for dis-identification with their mothers. There are two principal reasons for this seemingly biological desire: one, that they don’t want to repeat history; and two, they are afraid that they will become their mothers. Yet by the end of both novels, both women are confident enough with their own identities to see clearly the paths their mothers have taken, and make active choices as to how they themselves will incorporate this into their own life journeys. Louise sees that she has inherited the depression that destroyed her mother, and actively fights it by intellectualizing, writing, and going to therapy. Selina sees that she is making similar detrimental choices in men, and eventually decides to personify elements of both her father and mother by remaining true to herself and returning to Barbados.
Both Selina and Louise grow up in a household with both parents and one sister, and in both cases they are the “stronger ones”, where the sisters are weak. Compellingly, in both girls’ cases the parents have a lack of communication that puts stress on their respective relationships, ultimately affecting the children. During their childhood and adolescence, both feel tension between their parents, causing them in a sense to “take sides”. Selina is naturally more like her mother Silla, yet makes an active choice to align herself more closely with the father, Deighton. The father’s free-spirited, impractical nature provides a welcome respite, even a means of escape, from the stern and formidable force of the mother. Yet ultimately Selina is forced to face facts and come to terms with the identity she shares with her mother. At the end of the novel, after her encounter with Mrs. Benton, Selina comes to understand herself in terms of ethnicity, ultimately appreciating her mother’s life choices and an understanding of herself. In Louise’s story we see the mother dying before the father, while in the case of Selina the opposite is true. It is only after the mother has died that Louise can go through her belongings and come to accept her mother as a human being. Although Louise is confused by and resentful of her mother, she still prefers her company to that of her father. The resentment she harbors for both parents is really the foundation for her blatant escapism and rebellion in her teen years and, actually, until after her mother’s death.
Both girls feel a need to “get back at” their mothers, for one reason or another—in the case of Selina, it stems from their constant struggle for control, and in the case of Louise it is out of rebellious escapism. Both Louise and Selina are “caught in a mortal conflict” with their mother, often doing extremely hurtful things in order to test the strength of their relationship. Louise tries to “punish” her parents with her sharp tongue, trying to “get back at them… for everything”. A comparable case in point is Selina’s drawn-out grieving for her father. This is of course a very telling exercise in hypocrisy, as it shows that Selina obviously cares more about Silla than she did for the father anyway, if she is willing to spend so much energy putting on a show about how much more she cared for Deighton, in order to “punish” Silla.
Both Selina and Louise are ambivalent in their daughterly roles, “feeling love and respect in the midst of [their] hatred and both [emulate] and [ridicule their] mothers’ values” (Troester 15). Louise is horrified by the food she is served at home, commiserating with her college friend Rebecca and making fun of everything her mother cooks. Selina finally plucks up the courage to visit Silla at work (out of spite, armed with the fact that she has spilled the beans about the mother’s plan), yet when she gets there, her pride falters momentarily—she is, even in her anger, awed by the strength of Silla, the only one of their family who could possibly withstand the cacophonous noise and chaos of the factory: “Only [Silla’s] own formidable force could match that of the machines; only the mother could remain indifferent to the brutal noise.” (Marshall 100). Even though she thinks she is prepared to stand up to her mother, Selina at this point in the novel has a lot of maturing to do, and it is not until later in the novel that she is able to actively fight against Silla and hold her own
The immigrant mentality of both women’s mothers keeps them working furiously, Louise’s toiling away inside the home and Selina’s outside. Silla’s bold and commanding personality is blatantly different from that of Louise’s mother, who degenerates into a pitiful state of psychosis spurred by episodes of depression throughout her life. Troester says that “Black mothers…sometimes build high banks around their young daughters, isolating them from the dangers of the larger world until they are old and strong enough to function as autonomous women” (Troester 13). And in the case of the Boyces, this is true: Selina is shielded both from having to work and from facing the harsh reality of being a black girl in a white world. Yet, if Silla is the “quintessential Black mother—strong, protective, purposeful, and determined” (Troester 14), then Louise’s mother is the opposite of the “quintessential Italian mother”. The stereotypical Italian mother is a good cook, a stoic and secure force that is innately able to shoulder wifely duties and raise a passel of children effortlessly. However, Louise’s mother is radically different—although she tries, she can neither cook nor provide a central “motherly” force for her daughters; she is inexplicably timid and constantly conflicted as to how to raise her children. With a tangible sense of both sadness and resentment, Louise underlines her mother’s frailty when it came to raising children, suspecting that her mother’s own sense of worth was always fragile, believing that she is an incompetent mother... and that the more powerless she felt, the more depressed she became(DeSalvo 47).
Deighton has a fear of success; in contrast to Louise’s father, who is fearless. In fact, the parental roles are almost reversed between these families. While Louise’s father was, as she puts it, “alive”, her mother was “afraid” (DeSalvo 43). This seemingly offhand comment both gives shape to DeSalvo’s memoir and allows us to see the relationship of the Boyces in a different light. In stark contrast to Louise’s mother, Selina’s is “alive”, courageously carrying the weight of the family while Deighton the father is afraid, at least in the sense that he is afraid of finishing what he starts, responsibility, and change. His dreamy nature inhibits any ability to see success (for either himself or his wife, especially in the hostile and foreign environment of Brooklyn). The indomitable Silla, however, becomes frustrated and angry with Deighton’s laziness and fear of taking chances, eventually taking matters into her own hands in order to save her family.
Both mothers have a somewhat removed relationship with their daughters. Unlike Louise (whose relationship with her mother is based less on fear and subordination and more on resentment and misunderstanding), Selina dares not show weakness or shortcomings in front of Silla. Louise, on the other hand, is the tougher and more outgoing of the two, disgusted and often bewildered by the fears and weaknesses of her mother. Although Louise’s mother is as strong and practical as Silla, her depression inhibits her from being able to do the things she wants to do.
The mothers of both Louise and Selina are actually rather intelligent, yet each has independent issues that restrict them from being able to pursue this. It is important to recognize that mothers are people too—they were once young, having had dreams and aspirations just like their daughters. Another common paradigm in literature is the idea of “artistry in conflict with marriage”. Finally yielding to Silla’s will, Selina is able in a sense to restart her life, and furthers her education by going to college. Somewhat surprisingly, Louise’s mother won a high school prize for writing, but was prevented from attending college due to monetary issues. Whether or not she realized it, this may have planted a subconscious seed in Louise’s mind to complete a task that her mother couldn’t finish. Clinical Depression is something Louise (as well as her sister Jill) has inherited from the mother, and although it is a somewhat unfortunate inheritance, it does serve as a vehicle for Louise to identify with later in life. What Louise has come to realize, however (and we as readers ought to do the same) is that her mental hang-ups allow her to become the artist that she is, using literature and writing as a form of therapy. The non-literary, prosaic nature of Vertigo is emblematic of her development into womanhood and her ability to put her thoughts down so clearly on paper. Similarly, Brown Girl, though a much more “traditional” novel, is full of descriptive language that accurately reflects the wonder with which a growing girl would see the world.
Louise believes that she has “kept [her] sanity by keeping [her] distance from her family”, not wanting to be “drawn back into their orbit”. This is true of her throughout her whole life—she forces her husband Ernie into marriage because it was her only means of escaping from her family. Selina also wishes to escape from her family through her relationship with Clive, however she comes to see many similarities between him and her father, particularly his lackadaisical inertia—like Deighton, Clive is incapable of finishing what he starts. The connection between the two becomes so clear to Selina that she decides to leave Clive and strike out on her own, yet another act to differentiate her life and her actions from those of her mother.
Because of her husband’s weaknesses, his inability to take command of the family business and make sensible decisions, Silla plots to overthrow him, confident in her capability to do so in his stead. Deighton is past-oriented, as opposed to Silla’s proactive, survivalist-in-the-new-world approach. In opposition to this, Louise’s mother is subservient to the father, a characteristic typical of not only Italians but of many immigrant peoples, especially before the feminist revolutions of the 1960’s. Louise never forgives her mother for loving the husband more, nor forgave her for letting him make the rules as soon as he came home (DeSalvo 59). However, this passage is quite significant as it provides a comparison between Silla and Louise’s mother: This emphasizes the autonomous (and decidedly second-or-third-generation) nature Louise comes to personify as an adult, standing up to her husband and putting her own interests before that of others. After watching the unhealthy relationship of her parents, as well as weathering her own turbulent marriage, Louise decides to embrace the concept of being herself—by deciding to be not just a mother, not just a wife, but finding time to do her work rather than dote upon her children—shows her refusal to conform to rules of marriage and motherhood she would otherwise be expected to uphold.
Both girls continually make “desperate attempts to deny the mother daughter bond”. Even though Louise’s mother plans a beautiful meal when Ernie comes over to dinner in spite of her fear of knives and fire, Louise still must find something wrong with it, something to complain about. She can never be happy with her mother’s efforts to make her happy, even when they are so agreeably conceived. Selina challenges Silla when she confesses to having told about the plan to obtain the money from the father’s land. Yet Selina’s “bold plan” is not so much one of defiance as much as it is echo of her mother’s, further emphasizing the similarities between the two. Just as Louise is able to see the correlation between herself and her mother retrospectively, Selina finally accepts that she is her mother’s daughter, inexorably linked with her to the end. Similarly, the mother must also come to understand, accept, and forgive. Ultimately, upon realizing an almost sacrificial resignation on the part of the mother, the daughter eventually comes to feel not only guilt but respect and admiration. Coming full-circle, the daughter’s recognition of this stoicism on the part of the mother is crucial to an admission of similarity, and eventually, self-understanding.
In conclusion, both Brown Girl and Vertigo can be read as bildungsromans, novels of formation, in addition to illustrations of various experiences in mother-daughter relations. The mother-daughter relationships that we have seen of both Selina and Louise superficially seem quite different: one is an Italian American third-generation memoir, and one is a Barbadian American second-generation narrative. Yet, we can see influences of both immigrant cultures through the perseverant nature of the mothers, and we consequently see this same resilient spirit in their daughters. The inherent necessity for a daughter to bear the mother’s torch forces both women to employ a sense of self-empowerment, by creating a distance between herself and her family (in this case, particularly the mother). It is necessary for both Louise and Selina to create this distance before they are able to return home and ultimately come to terms with their identity, specifically the inevitable similarities they share with their respective mothers. Through the development of both characters, the significance of mother-daughter relationships becomes clear. Furthermore, experiences like these are common to all women, regardless of ethnic background, and inextricably linked with the literary works they produce. Therefore, it is important to analyze such mother-daughter relationships among all works written by women, if we are to continue formally the study of the feminine experience in literature.
HUI390
Bona
17 December 2006
Maternal figures/relationships in Brown Girl, Brownstones and Vertigo
As we have seen in all the works of women’s literature studied in this class, the topic of motherly relationship and mother figures has been featured prominently. How are the mother figures presented in Louise DeSalvo’s Vertigo and Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brownstones? How does the relationship between the main character and her mother affect her personality, the persona that she inhabits, and the life decisions that she makes? How are these mother figures different and how are they similar? What themes do we see in mother-daughter relationships that transcend both works, regardless of ethnicity, and how, if at all, should this affect the way we read and interpret other works written by women?
The stories of both Selina in Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brownstones, and Louise in DeSalvo’s Vertigo, are bildungsromans; that is to say, stories of growth and development. Although their respective fathers do seem to play an integral part in both girls’ lives, it is ultimately the mothers with whom both women identify and eventually, on some level, come to embody. During the course of both books, according to Rosalie Riegle Troester in her essay Turbulence and Tenderness: mothers, daughters, and ‘othermothers’ in Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brownstones, each of our female protagonists independently becomes “stronger through her rebellion against her mother and [realizes] finally that she is her mother in some deep and eternal sense” (Troester 13).
One problem that the majority of girls face while growing up is that of distancing themselves from their families, in particular the mother (presuming they have a mother figure to begin with). An anthropologic trope commonly explored in literature is that of a daughter’s inherent need for dis-identification with their mothers. There are two principal reasons for this seemingly biological desire: one, that they don’t want to repeat history; and two, they are afraid that they will become their mothers. Yet by the end of both novels, both women are confident enough with their own identities to see clearly the paths their mothers have taken, and make active choices as to how they themselves will incorporate this into their own life journeys. Louise sees that she has inherited the depression that destroyed her mother, and actively fights it by intellectualizing, writing, and going to therapy. Selina sees that she is making similar detrimental choices in men, and eventually decides to personify elements of both her father and mother by remaining true to herself and returning to Barbados.
Both Selina and Louise grow up in a household with both parents and one sister, and in both cases they are the “stronger ones”, where the sisters are weak. Compellingly, in both girls’ cases the parents have a lack of communication that puts stress on their respective relationships, ultimately affecting the children. During their childhood and adolescence, both feel tension between their parents, causing them in a sense to “take sides”. Selina is naturally more like her mother Silla, yet makes an active choice to align herself more closely with the father, Deighton. The father’s free-spirited, impractical nature provides a welcome respite, even a means of escape, from the stern and formidable force of the mother. Yet ultimately Selina is forced to face facts and come to terms with the identity she shares with her mother. At the end of the novel, after her encounter with Mrs. Benton, Selina comes to understand herself in terms of ethnicity, ultimately appreciating her mother’s life choices and an understanding of herself. In Louise’s story we see the mother dying before the father, while in the case of Selina the opposite is true. It is only after the mother has died that Louise can go through her belongings and come to accept her mother as a human being. Although Louise is confused by and resentful of her mother, she still prefers her company to that of her father. The resentment she harbors for both parents is really the foundation for her blatant escapism and rebellion in her teen years and, actually, until after her mother’s death.
Both girls feel a need to “get back at” their mothers, for one reason or another—in the case of Selina, it stems from their constant struggle for control, and in the case of Louise it is out of rebellious escapism. Both Louise and Selina are “caught in a mortal conflict” with their mother, often doing extremely hurtful things in order to test the strength of their relationship. Louise tries to “punish” her parents with her sharp tongue, trying to “get back at them… for everything”. A comparable case in point is Selina’s drawn-out grieving for her father. This is of course a very telling exercise in hypocrisy, as it shows that Selina obviously cares more about Silla than she did for the father anyway, if she is willing to spend so much energy putting on a show about how much more she cared for Deighton, in order to “punish” Silla.
Both Selina and Louise are ambivalent in their daughterly roles, “feeling love and respect in the midst of [their] hatred and both [emulate] and [ridicule their] mothers’ values” (Troester 15). Louise is horrified by the food she is served at home, commiserating with her college friend Rebecca and making fun of everything her mother cooks. Selina finally plucks up the courage to visit Silla at work (out of spite, armed with the fact that she has spilled the beans about the mother’s plan), yet when she gets there, her pride falters momentarily—she is, even in her anger, awed by the strength of Silla, the only one of their family who could possibly withstand the cacophonous noise and chaos of the factory: “Only [Silla’s] own formidable force could match that of the machines; only the mother could remain indifferent to the brutal noise.” (Marshall 100). Even though she thinks she is prepared to stand up to her mother, Selina at this point in the novel has a lot of maturing to do, and it is not until later in the novel that she is able to actively fight against Silla and hold her own
The immigrant mentality of both women’s mothers keeps them working furiously, Louise’s toiling away inside the home and Selina’s outside. Silla’s bold and commanding personality is blatantly different from that of Louise’s mother, who degenerates into a pitiful state of psychosis spurred by episodes of depression throughout her life. Troester says that “Black mothers…sometimes build high banks around their young daughters, isolating them from the dangers of the larger world until they are old and strong enough to function as autonomous women” (Troester 13). And in the case of the Boyces, this is true: Selina is shielded both from having to work and from facing the harsh reality of being a black girl in a white world. Yet, if Silla is the “quintessential Black mother—strong, protective, purposeful, and determined” (Troester 14), then Louise’s mother is the opposite of the “quintessential Italian mother”. The stereotypical Italian mother is a good cook, a stoic and secure force that is innately able to shoulder wifely duties and raise a passel of children effortlessly. However, Louise’s mother is radically different—although she tries, she can neither cook nor provide a central “motherly” force for her daughters; she is inexplicably timid and constantly conflicted as to how to raise her children. With a tangible sense of both sadness and resentment, Louise underlines her mother’s frailty when it came to raising children, suspecting that her mother’s own sense of worth was always fragile, believing that she is an incompetent mother... and that the more powerless she felt, the more depressed she became(DeSalvo 47).
Deighton has a fear of success; in contrast to Louise’s father, who is fearless. In fact, the parental roles are almost reversed between these families. While Louise’s father was, as she puts it, “alive”, her mother was “afraid” (DeSalvo 43). This seemingly offhand comment both gives shape to DeSalvo’s memoir and allows us to see the relationship of the Boyces in a different light. In stark contrast to Louise’s mother, Selina’s is “alive”, courageously carrying the weight of the family while Deighton the father is afraid, at least in the sense that he is afraid of finishing what he starts, responsibility, and change. His dreamy nature inhibits any ability to see success (for either himself or his wife, especially in the hostile and foreign environment of Brooklyn). The indomitable Silla, however, becomes frustrated and angry with Deighton’s laziness and fear of taking chances, eventually taking matters into her own hands in order to save her family.
Both mothers have a somewhat removed relationship with their daughters. Unlike Louise (whose relationship with her mother is based less on fear and subordination and more on resentment and misunderstanding), Selina dares not show weakness or shortcomings in front of Silla. Louise, on the other hand, is the tougher and more outgoing of the two, disgusted and often bewildered by the fears and weaknesses of her mother. Although Louise’s mother is as strong and practical as Silla, her depression inhibits her from being able to do the things she wants to do.
The mothers of both Louise and Selina are actually rather intelligent, yet each has independent issues that restrict them from being able to pursue this. It is important to recognize that mothers are people too—they were once young, having had dreams and aspirations just like their daughters. Another common paradigm in literature is the idea of “artistry in conflict with marriage”. Finally yielding to Silla’s will, Selina is able in a sense to restart her life, and furthers her education by going to college. Somewhat surprisingly, Louise’s mother won a high school prize for writing, but was prevented from attending college due to monetary issues. Whether or not she realized it, this may have planted a subconscious seed in Louise’s mind to complete a task that her mother couldn’t finish. Clinical Depression is something Louise (as well as her sister Jill) has inherited from the mother, and although it is a somewhat unfortunate inheritance, it does serve as a vehicle for Louise to identify with later in life. What Louise has come to realize, however (and we as readers ought to do the same) is that her mental hang-ups allow her to become the artist that she is, using literature and writing as a form of therapy. The non-literary, prosaic nature of Vertigo is emblematic of her development into womanhood and her ability to put her thoughts down so clearly on paper. Similarly, Brown Girl, though a much more “traditional” novel, is full of descriptive language that accurately reflects the wonder with which a growing girl would see the world.
Louise believes that she has “kept [her] sanity by keeping [her] distance from her family”, not wanting to be “drawn back into their orbit”. This is true of her throughout her whole life—she forces her husband Ernie into marriage because it was her only means of escaping from her family. Selina also wishes to escape from her family through her relationship with Clive, however she comes to see many similarities between him and her father, particularly his lackadaisical inertia—like Deighton, Clive is incapable of finishing what he starts. The connection between the two becomes so clear to Selina that she decides to leave Clive and strike out on her own, yet another act to differentiate her life and her actions from those of her mother.
Because of her husband’s weaknesses, his inability to take command of the family business and make sensible decisions, Silla plots to overthrow him, confident in her capability to do so in his stead. Deighton is past-oriented, as opposed to Silla’s proactive, survivalist-in-the-new-world approach. In opposition to this, Louise’s mother is subservient to the father, a characteristic typical of not only Italians but of many immigrant peoples, especially before the feminist revolutions of the 1960’s. Louise never forgives her mother for loving the husband more, nor forgave her for letting him make the rules as soon as he came home (DeSalvo 59). However, this passage is quite significant as it provides a comparison between Silla and Louise’s mother: This emphasizes the autonomous (and decidedly second-or-third-generation) nature Louise comes to personify as an adult, standing up to her husband and putting her own interests before that of others. After watching the unhealthy relationship of her parents, as well as weathering her own turbulent marriage, Louise decides to embrace the concept of being herself—by deciding to be not just a mother, not just a wife, but finding time to do her work rather than dote upon her children—shows her refusal to conform to rules of marriage and motherhood she would otherwise be expected to uphold.
Both girls continually make “desperate attempts to deny the mother daughter bond”. Even though Louise’s mother plans a beautiful meal when Ernie comes over to dinner in spite of her fear of knives and fire, Louise still must find something wrong with it, something to complain about. She can never be happy with her mother’s efforts to make her happy, even when they are so agreeably conceived. Selina challenges Silla when she confesses to having told about the plan to obtain the money from the father’s land. Yet Selina’s “bold plan” is not so much one of defiance as much as it is echo of her mother’s, further emphasizing the similarities between the two. Just as Louise is able to see the correlation between herself and her mother retrospectively, Selina finally accepts that she is her mother’s daughter, inexorably linked with her to the end. Similarly, the mother must also come to understand, accept, and forgive. Ultimately, upon realizing an almost sacrificial resignation on the part of the mother, the daughter eventually comes to feel not only guilt but respect and admiration. Coming full-circle, the daughter’s recognition of this stoicism on the part of the mother is crucial to an admission of similarity, and eventually, self-understanding.
In conclusion, both Brown Girl and Vertigo can be read as bildungsromans, novels of formation, in addition to illustrations of various experiences in mother-daughter relations. The mother-daughter relationships that we have seen of both Selina and Louise superficially seem quite different: one is an Italian American third-generation memoir, and one is a Barbadian American second-generation narrative. Yet, we can see influences of both immigrant cultures through the perseverant nature of the mothers, and we consequently see this same resilient spirit in their daughters. The inherent necessity for a daughter to bear the mother’s torch forces both women to employ a sense of self-empowerment, by creating a distance between herself and her family (in this case, particularly the mother). It is necessary for both Louise and Selina to create this distance before they are able to return home and ultimately come to terms with their identity, specifically the inevitable similarities they share with their respective mothers. Through the development of both characters, the significance of mother-daughter relationships becomes clear. Furthermore, experiences like these are common to all women, regardless of ethnic background, and inextricably linked with the literary works they produce. Therefore, it is important to analyze such mother-daughter relationships among all works written by women, if we are to continue formally the study of the feminine experience in literature.
"Like Lesser Gods" -an Explication
I didn't really enjoy this book, but I am somewhat proud of this essay.
Kightlinger
HUI333
Like Lesser Gods Explication Essay
In Mari Tomasi’s Like Lesser Gods, the character of Maria Dalli is shown quite clearly as a strong and central force. Throughout the entire first half of the novel (indeed, from the very beginning, and the first time Mr. Tiff enters the Dalli household), Tomasi presents the reader with example after example of Maria’s continual unease about Pietro’s job. Though Maria struggles to perform her duties as prescribed by “L’ordine della famiglia”, she makes numerous futile attempts to change his mind about his job, and becomes continually haunted by her fears. As the novel progresses, Maria’s role as helpless onlooker begins to get the better of her, and her methods become darker and more desperate.
At the end of Book 1, in a desperate (and ultimately fruitless) attempt to “drive Pietro from the sheds and induce him to other work”(Tomasi 141), Maria goes to the quarries, enters Pietro’s workshed, and mutilates his granite masterpiece. We as readers are fortunate in that Tomasi allows us to access her actions objectively, and have the advantage over the other characters of being able to see this entire vignette through Maria’s eyes; we are able to witness, and consequently analyze, her expedition objectively. By calling attention to word choice, diction, setting, placement and imagery, we can attempt to explore this passage and determine why it is significant to the novel as a whole.
Maria’s trip to the quarries begins the “first night of fall grappa making” (141), after she overhears Pietro’s proud recognition of his “best job” (142) — a granite cross. The setting of this vignette originates in the safe, warm, welcoming atmosphere of grappa-making night; the Dallis have company over and the evening is a seemingly happy one. Tomasi’s placement of the incident immediately afterward is almost in defiance of the pleasantness of the evening. The fact that there is grappa-making going on is an interesting point in terms of setting, because it suggests that the whole incident takes place in a surreal, almost dreamlike state. This is in sharp contrast to the ever-practical Maria (144), who usually restricts the practice of dreaming safely within the confines of sleep (145) but is ultimately compelled to defile what she feels is a sacred place.
Pastinetti Place is across the river from Shed Row, and in crossing it she has effectively crossed a metaphorical river Styx. The Styx analogy is particularly glaring, especially in light of a previous scene in this vignette, in which we are shown Maria’s staunch belief in the power of the coin (139-40). As we will see, the symbolic Hades of Shed Row provides comprehensive imagery of Death in quite a few instances. From the beginning, Maria’s trip is set in the spookiness of nighttime — the sanatorium site is described as a “grotesquerie of exhumed maple roots, standing watch over their open graves” (143). The death imagery and comparisons here surround her: “gaunt specters”, “whiting bones”, “overturned tombstones” all starkly and blatantly foreshadow the unpleasant events to come. Upon breaking into Gerbatti’s shed, she enters the wet room, which has an “earthly chill of some subterranean cave” (144), very like a crypt or tomb.
Tomasi wants the reader to retain an understanding of Maria as a brave, willful soul, whose determination will not be weakened (144). In terms of sheer determination and spirit, Maria is unmatched (especially among other female characters). However, once Maria has crossed the river to Shed Row, there is no turning back. In committing this crime, she takes heart in God’s presence and the belief that she is in the right. This gives her the courage and strength to carry out her actions. But strength is “heir, too, to its own brand of pain” (148).
Consequently, once she has begun to damage Pietro’s cross and her sin has been committed, the mood of the scene changes. The imagery and word choice swiftly change. The sound created by her first blow to the cross is described as “sepulchral”, taking place in a “lofty” room (145) — both are words that clearly evoke a church-like atmosphere. The stone markers of Alma, George, and Alice become witnesses of a sort, emphasized by the fact that they are given names, and are thus personified (while Pietro’s cross is not). Suddenly her destruction of the monument becomes tangible, realized as very like the desecration of a grave. Here we see Maria uncharacteristically panic: suddenly she is breathless, the magnitude of her deed temporarily appalling her (145). Where she was so recently determined and somewhat oblivious, she is now conscious of her surroundings, becoming fearful, wary, and definitely more than a little apologetic. Maria’s cry of “half prayer, half scorn” is like an admission of guilt which catches her by surprise; she “frantically” (145) escapes, not wanting to acknowledge to herself, or even to God, the magnitude of her act.
She tries to leave the mental and emotional evidence of her having committed this sin behind, as she races back to the supposed safe haven of Pastinetti Place. However, the scrap of cloth she leaves behind serves as physical evidence of her crime. The ever-practical Maria, who may be able to justify her actions in theory, cannot continue to ignore them or pretend they did not happen once she is presented with physical evidence of her crimes. Because the entire adventure is so surreal, she might be capable of convincing herself that she would never be caught. After all, she escaped the nighttime adventure into day and then escaped back across the river, (without getting caught). However, once she is confronted with the cloth, which proves the reality of her deed, she realizes she cannot escape. It is actually almost as if she were being watched all along, and no matter what, the gravity of her deeds would ultimately pull its weight, and the truth inevitably come to light.
The discovery of the physical evidence of Maria’s deed is the culmination of a breaking point in Maria’s character. In anticipation of Pietro’s return and consequent announcement that he is leaving the sheds, the reader gets a glimpse of Maria’s dreamlike stream of consciousness as she imagines the day’s outcome. In keeping with “L’ordine della famiglia”, she convinces herself that a “good dinner” (141) will be enough to console Pietro. Though she hears nothing from Pietro nor anyone else about the destruction of the monument, she spends the day conjuring internal reasons for this. Instead of accepting the fact that Pietro, no matter what she does, will never leave the sheds, she is convinced that she has done the right thing. Maria talks herself into believing that her scheme will work out as planned — Pietro’s staying on as a stonecutter (in spite of the evilness of her actions and the subconscious guilt they have created) is an impossibility she has pushed far to the back of her mind. It is not a stretch to liken this entire vignette to that of Eve committing the Original Sin—after having done so, returning to paradise, as it were. After Mr. Tiff (the God/conscience figure here) confronts her with the weight of her actions, she, in a “stony mood of defeat” (149), decides to maintain this temporary lie. She, like Eve after her sin is committed, returns to paradise in the hope that if she keeps her mouth shut, everything will remain as it was before the fall. Maria prays to God that she will not be punished, that her actions will not have caused her to lose “all that is beautiful and honest” (150) between her husband and herself. In the second book her concern for Pietro’s health is put on the back burner.
It is not a coincidence that the vignette of “Maria’s trip to the quarries” takes place at the very end of the first book. The final scene of a pleading, penitent Maria conjures a vivid mental image for the reader; this is quickly put out of sight in Book 2, fading into insignificance (for everyone but Maria) after years of resigned pretense of innocence. Maria, in committing her own personal mission of death, has journeyed to the land of the dead and back again. No one can take a journey to hell and back without being profoundly changed. One might make a conjecture that her closing plea that God “not let Pietro find out” (150) is both a confession and a resignation—she must now acknowledge Pietro’s sacrificing himself for his “ridiculous passion for stone” (142), and she must reluctantly swallow her desire to change him.
The imagery of the cross is unmistakable: Pietro’s pours his soul into this granite cross in a devotion that mimics religious devotion to Christ. The destruction of this cross is symbolic of Maria’s loss of faith, and not Pietro’s. Although he is crushed by the destruction of his masterpiece, he can start again, and rebuild with a clean soul, whereas Maria is now tarnished and poisoned from being tempted by the easy way out.
In the next book, which takes place many years later, the reader becomes conscious of the change that has been effected in terms of the Dallis’ relationship and Maria’s not interfering with Pietro’s decision to work the stone. We now see that his happiness is the more important issue and Maria will sacrifice her own concerns to preserve this happiness. She realizes that the greatest sacrifice she can make is allowing Pietro to continue the work he loves without her interference, no matter how much it may hurt her. This is significant because it underscores the price that Maria is willing to pay in order to keep her husband and preserve the happiness that her family has found. At the end of book one, Maria understands that although she has fallen, and can never truly return to grace, she can make her own sacrifice in order to further the greater good and happiness of their family.
Kightlinger
HUI333
Like Lesser Gods Explication Essay
In Mari Tomasi’s Like Lesser Gods, the character of Maria Dalli is shown quite clearly as a strong and central force. Throughout the entire first half of the novel (indeed, from the very beginning, and the first time Mr. Tiff enters the Dalli household), Tomasi presents the reader with example after example of Maria’s continual unease about Pietro’s job. Though Maria struggles to perform her duties as prescribed by “L’ordine della famiglia”, she makes numerous futile attempts to change his mind about his job, and becomes continually haunted by her fears. As the novel progresses, Maria’s role as helpless onlooker begins to get the better of her, and her methods become darker and more desperate.
At the end of Book 1, in a desperate (and ultimately fruitless) attempt to “drive Pietro from the sheds and induce him to other work”(Tomasi 141), Maria goes to the quarries, enters Pietro’s workshed, and mutilates his granite masterpiece. We as readers are fortunate in that Tomasi allows us to access her actions objectively, and have the advantage over the other characters of being able to see this entire vignette through Maria’s eyes; we are able to witness, and consequently analyze, her expedition objectively. By calling attention to word choice, diction, setting, placement and imagery, we can attempt to explore this passage and determine why it is significant to the novel as a whole.
Maria’s trip to the quarries begins the “first night of fall grappa making” (141), after she overhears Pietro’s proud recognition of his “best job” (142) — a granite cross. The setting of this vignette originates in the safe, warm, welcoming atmosphere of grappa-making night; the Dallis have company over and the evening is a seemingly happy one. Tomasi’s placement of the incident immediately afterward is almost in defiance of the pleasantness of the evening. The fact that there is grappa-making going on is an interesting point in terms of setting, because it suggests that the whole incident takes place in a surreal, almost dreamlike state. This is in sharp contrast to the ever-practical Maria (144), who usually restricts the practice of dreaming safely within the confines of sleep (145) but is ultimately compelled to defile what she feels is a sacred place.
Pastinetti Place is across the river from Shed Row, and in crossing it she has effectively crossed a metaphorical river Styx. The Styx analogy is particularly glaring, especially in light of a previous scene in this vignette, in which we are shown Maria’s staunch belief in the power of the coin (139-40). As we will see, the symbolic Hades of Shed Row provides comprehensive imagery of Death in quite a few instances. From the beginning, Maria’s trip is set in the spookiness of nighttime — the sanatorium site is described as a “grotesquerie of exhumed maple roots, standing watch over their open graves” (143). The death imagery and comparisons here surround her: “gaunt specters”, “whiting bones”, “overturned tombstones” all starkly and blatantly foreshadow the unpleasant events to come. Upon breaking into Gerbatti’s shed, she enters the wet room, which has an “earthly chill of some subterranean cave” (144), very like a crypt or tomb.
Tomasi wants the reader to retain an understanding of Maria as a brave, willful soul, whose determination will not be weakened (144). In terms of sheer determination and spirit, Maria is unmatched (especially among other female characters). However, once Maria has crossed the river to Shed Row, there is no turning back. In committing this crime, she takes heart in God’s presence and the belief that she is in the right. This gives her the courage and strength to carry out her actions. But strength is “heir, too, to its own brand of pain” (148).
Consequently, once she has begun to damage Pietro’s cross and her sin has been committed, the mood of the scene changes. The imagery and word choice swiftly change. The sound created by her first blow to the cross is described as “sepulchral”, taking place in a “lofty” room (145) — both are words that clearly evoke a church-like atmosphere. The stone markers of Alma, George, and Alice become witnesses of a sort, emphasized by the fact that they are given names, and are thus personified (while Pietro’s cross is not). Suddenly her destruction of the monument becomes tangible, realized as very like the desecration of a grave. Here we see Maria uncharacteristically panic: suddenly she is breathless, the magnitude of her deed temporarily appalling her (145). Where she was so recently determined and somewhat oblivious, she is now conscious of her surroundings, becoming fearful, wary, and definitely more than a little apologetic. Maria’s cry of “half prayer, half scorn” is like an admission of guilt which catches her by surprise; she “frantically” (145) escapes, not wanting to acknowledge to herself, or even to God, the magnitude of her act.
She tries to leave the mental and emotional evidence of her having committed this sin behind, as she races back to the supposed safe haven of Pastinetti Place. However, the scrap of cloth she leaves behind serves as physical evidence of her crime. The ever-practical Maria, who may be able to justify her actions in theory, cannot continue to ignore them or pretend they did not happen once she is presented with physical evidence of her crimes. Because the entire adventure is so surreal, she might be capable of convincing herself that she would never be caught. After all, she escaped the nighttime adventure into day and then escaped back across the river, (without getting caught). However, once she is confronted with the cloth, which proves the reality of her deed, she realizes she cannot escape. It is actually almost as if she were being watched all along, and no matter what, the gravity of her deeds would ultimately pull its weight, and the truth inevitably come to light.
The discovery of the physical evidence of Maria’s deed is the culmination of a breaking point in Maria’s character. In anticipation of Pietro’s return and consequent announcement that he is leaving the sheds, the reader gets a glimpse of Maria’s dreamlike stream of consciousness as she imagines the day’s outcome. In keeping with “L’ordine della famiglia”, she convinces herself that a “good dinner” (141) will be enough to console Pietro. Though she hears nothing from Pietro nor anyone else about the destruction of the monument, she spends the day conjuring internal reasons for this. Instead of accepting the fact that Pietro, no matter what she does, will never leave the sheds, she is convinced that she has done the right thing. Maria talks herself into believing that her scheme will work out as planned — Pietro’s staying on as a stonecutter (in spite of the evilness of her actions and the subconscious guilt they have created) is an impossibility she has pushed far to the back of her mind. It is not a stretch to liken this entire vignette to that of Eve committing the Original Sin—after having done so, returning to paradise, as it were. After Mr. Tiff (the God/conscience figure here) confronts her with the weight of her actions, she, in a “stony mood of defeat” (149), decides to maintain this temporary lie. She, like Eve after her sin is committed, returns to paradise in the hope that if she keeps her mouth shut, everything will remain as it was before the fall. Maria prays to God that she will not be punished, that her actions will not have caused her to lose “all that is beautiful and honest” (150) between her husband and herself. In the second book her concern for Pietro’s health is put on the back burner.
It is not a coincidence that the vignette of “Maria’s trip to the quarries” takes place at the very end of the first book. The final scene of a pleading, penitent Maria conjures a vivid mental image for the reader; this is quickly put out of sight in Book 2, fading into insignificance (for everyone but Maria) after years of resigned pretense of innocence. Maria, in committing her own personal mission of death, has journeyed to the land of the dead and back again. No one can take a journey to hell and back without being profoundly changed. One might make a conjecture that her closing plea that God “not let Pietro find out” (150) is both a confession and a resignation—she must now acknowledge Pietro’s sacrificing himself for his “ridiculous passion for stone” (142), and she must reluctantly swallow her desire to change him.
The imagery of the cross is unmistakable: Pietro’s pours his soul into this granite cross in a devotion that mimics religious devotion to Christ. The destruction of this cross is symbolic of Maria’s loss of faith, and not Pietro’s. Although he is crushed by the destruction of his masterpiece, he can start again, and rebuild with a clean soul, whereas Maria is now tarnished and poisoned from being tempted by the easy way out.
In the next book, which takes place many years later, the reader becomes conscious of the change that has been effected in terms of the Dallis’ relationship and Maria’s not interfering with Pietro’s decision to work the stone. We now see that his happiness is the more important issue and Maria will sacrifice her own concerns to preserve this happiness. She realizes that the greatest sacrifice she can make is allowing Pietro to continue the work he loves without her interference, no matter how much it may hurt her. This is significant because it underscores the price that Maria is willing to pay in order to keep her husband and preserve the happiness that her family has found. At the end of book one, Maria understands that although she has fallen, and can never truly return to grace, she can make her own sacrifice in order to further the greater good and happiness of their family.
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