Hazy Boundaries

I realize the post is awkwardly titled, and no this isn't a trashy spin off song to Blurred Lines, but instead I'm referring to the hazy boundaries between history and fiction. Coming into the class this semester I saw history and fiction as polar opposites, with no ambiguous gray areas. History was history, it was fact, it was the veritable truth, and it was what we were taught academically. Fiction on the other hand was a manmade product of the imagination, conceived solely with the purpose of being read for pleasure and entertainment. History was confined to the pages of textbooks and fiction only appeared in the chapters of a novel. As the class dragged on, I later came to realize that there was a lot of intersectionality between the two. Not all fiction was history, but essentially all history is, in some aspects at least, fictional. History by definition is the recorded accounts of past events, but we find that these events are almost always recorded by those who weren't present or even alive in these monumental moments. History acts like a collective memory of society, in which bits and pieces of memories of witnesses and survivors are threaded together into a story until it feels real. But, as we all know, memory is a very finicky thing, and just psychologically speaking, highly unreliable. As we rely on a smattering of memories to come together to form our perception of history, we invite in so much more with each account. We leave room for biases, forgotten details, overarching story lines, and intimate subplots, until we're left with humanity embedded into our histories. Every bit of history we've learned thus far comes with the baggage of time and perspective, and varies from how we've learned it. It's actually ridiculously logical how closely related history and fiction are, I'm just surprised it took me a whole English class to finally acknowledge it.

Caught on tape!

It seems that having concrete "proof' of something tends to further increase suspicion. Who actually killed Caesar (crazy example, I realize)? We have no tangible proof of the murder but we unquestioningly believe what recorded history tell us. Instead, cases like JFK's assassination with tangible video evidence lead to hundreds of conspiracy theories, each wilder than the last. Though Delilo's take on things is highly fictionalized, when compared to many of the other theories and plots that exist alongside it, Libra seems very tame and rather believable. As we watched the clip in class today I couldn't help but realize that the first time I would have seen it, I would have been absolutely transfixed by the injured Kennedy and struggling Jackie O. The end frames in which Jackie clambered over the seat to tend to Kennedy in her signature pink suit would've definitely been my highlight, and like everyone else in the audience, I wouldn't give a second thought to much anything else. Watching the very same clip after reading Libra makes for a completely different experience altogether. Though the murder still remains the focal point of the clip, for me, the person of interest immediately shifted from JFK to Lee. Lee, to most people watching the clip, remains an infamous, static individual, known only for the murder. To us, Lee is a multidimensional character who we've seen grown up with his own share of struggles and principles. Watching his life culminate to this moment has us holding our breaths in an entirely different kind of anticipation as we try to see traces of the young man we've come to know personified through video. I guess in a sentence, watching the clip before Libra was like watching a documentary and watching after Libra was like watching a movie adaptation of the book.

Drawing Parallels

Perhaps a little late for this post (I'm ignoring the weekend reading), but I can't help kind of laughing at the overt parallels Oswald keeps drawing between himself and Kennedy. Maybe laughing is not quite the right word for it, but there's definitely a cruel sense of irony in the analogies that make it darkly humorous. Instead of the the usual convention of show don't tell, Delilo is blatantly telling us, the readers, about the similarities Oswald and Kennedy share. Brothers named Robert, pregnant wives, both have strange handwriting, and various other eerie similarities. While we did have a fairly quiet discussion in class about belief in coincidence, I do have to be open about my pretty firm beliefs in some superstition. The crossing of Kennedy and Oswald's paths in Dallas, is almost too perfect of a situation to be merely coincidental, and I'd have to concede that it was orchestrated by workings outside of our knowledge. I wonder if Oswald had been uninvolved in this whole plot if he would have maybe been a fanboy of Kennedy's much like Marina is a huge devotee of Jackie O. Despite his ultimate role in Kennedy's life, or rather the end of it, you can't help but notice the traces of admiration that sneak into Oswald's thoughts as he compares himself to Kennedy. And perhaps the parallels Oswald notes between himself and Kennedy help for him to see himself as of more historical significance.

The American Icon

Not really touching on Libra, but more commenting on John F. Kennedy's legacy in America as a whole. Assassinated in 1963, it always strikes me how much of an emotional reaction his name seems to invoke still more than 50 years later. Often seen as the harbinger of a prosperous and optimistic new time in America, his untimely death shattered the dreams of many Americans who continue to hold onto the belief that his life could have turned around many of the darker events in American history that later ensued. Despite not being in office long enough to make too much of a change in the lives of the average American citizen, JFK remains one of our most beloved presidents. Though his assassination definitely aided in creating a bond between posthumous JFK and the American public, we are obviously deeply sympathetic of his premature death, there must be other reasons for his feverish popularity. Maybe it was the way he was ushered into the white house, the first democrat to win the election in a long time, or maybe it was just the way he exuded charisma, he was, after all, notorious for his extramarital affairs. And though we may associate Kennedy with an image of youth and vitality, he had actually ben suffering from a plethora of illnesses from childhood, all of which he treated with an incredibly extensive drug regimen. To me it seems his lesser attributes have always been brushed aside in order for us to have in JFK what we seek most in a leader, a hero. Though automatically we may associate heroes and leadership with war heroes whose stories of sacrifice we hold up to the highest esteem, the American public has always sought also sought a sort of wild, virile, yet magically inspirational hero to lead us. In Kennedy the country almost found what we had wanted, but only for a few short moments before he too was snatched away.

Final Thoughts on Kindred

I touched on this issue in my reaction paper, but I found that what stuck with me most after finishing Kindred was a question more than a lesson or any sort of complete thought. I was forced to contemplate how much of who I am, or who I think I am, is just a direct a result of the environment I was raised in. I never really thought about who I could've been without a social context to define me; how can you be a good person if there isn't a set standard to be compared to? So the question still begs to be answered, are we who are because of our inherent natures, or is the bulk of how we act determined by the culture we grow around? What even is an inherent nature? With Dana's case, she is a progressive, independent woman in the 70's who then is forced to act behave and live like a slave in the 1800's. As time passes, she eventually stops acting altogether. She acclimatizes to her role as a slave because those are the circumstances she is dealt, and what she gradually grows to think of as 'normal'. Of course her exposure to the modern world still garners strong reactions towards the "diseased" mentality behind institutionalized slavery, but Dana herself unwittingly becomes an unquestioning part of the system as she spends more and more time in the past. As she assimilates into the community of slaves on the Weylin plantation, the lines between Alice and Dana blur when we begin to view them together in similar situations. Alice acts as a parallel to Dana in the antebellum south, and we consider the possibility that Dana might have been exactly like her, in thoughts and sentiments, if she had been born and raised in that time period. Alice too, in other circumstances, could've grown to be just like Dana. I guess it seems like a very simple observation that most people have given thought to, but before reading the novel I never really realized just how much weight our environment plays in shaping us as individuals. Me personally? I'm a pretty flexible person that can bend in a lot of directions, and I definitely think that different situations could have fostered completely distinct Tanisha's. So strange to think about who we are without background conditions to explain for it.

The Evolution of Rufus Weylin

When we first encounter Rufus Weylin, he's small, nonthreatening, and innocent. Dana, who claims to not even like kids very much, is almost immediately fond of him, and seems unquestioningly set in her resolve to protect his life. Hoping to influence him into thinking outside of the norms of his society, it is a slow betrayal for the readers and Dana to watch Rufus grow into the mold of the men of his time. The level of complexity to Rufus's character comes from our inability to place him as inherently bad or good, his actions almost always still manage to evoke the smallest slivers of sympathy. Initially still unmarked by the horrors of the institutionalized dehumanization, as Rufus grows older he becomes more set in the way of his father before him. Growing up he treats Dana as an equal, if not a superior, who he acknowledges as more knowledgeable than himself. He seeks her advice and never belittles her, paying her an amount of respect that he does not even award to his mother. As time goes on he begins to treat Dana more and more like how he views other slaves on the plantation. He increasingly begins to resort to violence as a means to achieve his ends, and takes advantage of his position of power to leverage decisions to work in his favor. Ultimately Rufus becomes completely indoctrinated into the slavery ideology, and when confronted by Dana about a slave sell, he responds reflexively by calling them his property. Still we can't help but feel the tiniest bit of conflicted emotion when we see him carry out his horrendous behavior. With his repeated rapes of Alice, we are reminded of his 'love' for her, with his disregard for his mother, we think of the abandonment he felt, and with the eventual attack on Dana we might even for a split second think of the grief he must be suffering from the loss of his family members. Ultimately there is no justification for the sheer abhorrent nature of his actions, but we are left considering the fact that he is a product of his time and environment, and are still swayed by our attachment to the child we knew him as.

Questioning Sanity

Billy's state of sanity is a question that seems to keep coming up time and again in our discussions. At first I really considered the question, but then, especially after the pair of panel presentations today, I realized his mental stability really isn't essential to what we as readers take away from the novel. I hesitate to class anyone as 'mentally unstable', and I think we collectively as a society are reluctant to throw that term around. It's hard to put that label on someone when they aren't a threat to themselves or society. If Billy has a way of thinking that deviates from the norm, does it really need to be addressed? Like we pointed out in class, several of the characters in the book seem to have their own fictionalized version of themselves, each to a certain degree detached from their realities. Getting at a question that was posed earlier in class today, I would argue that it is inherent in human nature to use our imagination as a means of escape. Even the way we look back on things are affected as individual human memories are some of the most flawed accounts of personal history. Imagination is our natural form of escapism, and ultimately through this Billy is able to confront his most painful memories from the past. In a roundabout way while skirting around the events at Dresden, Billy is forced to recount it and come to terms with it in a way that still feels surprisingly comfortable. Maybe it's because I know I personally tend to block out painful memories until I feel strong enough to revisit them, but I can relate to Billy's more unique line of thinking as a coping mechanism. I wouldn't question his mental stability, but at the end of it, his sanity really doesn't matter.

On the Tralfamadorian novel

Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five is often described to be an "earthling approximation" of the Tralfamadorian novel. While some may agree with this comparison, I found that my knee jerk reaction was a definite no. Sure as I spent more time thinking about it I was able to convince myself into seeing the similarities, but for the most part, the resemblance just doesn't strike me. Written in fleeting bunches, each clump describing a singular moment, Tralfamadorian novels are non-linear and lack a narrative. According to the text "there isn't any particular relationship between the messages", though they are strategically selected by the authors for effect. The appeal of this writing is found in how these distinct pieces all conglomerate together to give the reader insight into the beauty of life. Slaughterhouse Five, I feel, is an extremely poignant piece of work, but achieves this through different means. Despite the time warps and the jerky chronology of plot, there is an identifiable overarching story line that Vonnegut introduces the readers to.  I would also assume that without any relation between one message and the next, Tralfamadorian novels would not be able to sustain a central protagonist, and maybe not even include recurring characters throughout the text. In Slaughterhouse Five, Billy Pilgrim really acts as our sort-of anchor throughout the series of events, and I can't imagine a rewriting of the novel without the primary focus we have on Billy and his perspective. While both Slaughterhouse Five and Tralfamadorian novels may manage to have the same impact on readers, I wouldn't think to lump them together in the same category. Kurt Vonnegut's work remains, I believe, a still very human piece.

For the love of free will

The discussion we had in class on Friday about the differences in how humans and Tralfamadorians perceive, (or I guess believe in) free will really got me thinking about free will on a personal level. Growing up the way we have (especially with the huge sense of entitlement that is usually associated with our generation...) it's been hard to think that we have anything but free will. Class, race, economics and gender always play a role in how our opportunities are limited, but for the most part, I still think we all are led to believe that as citizens of the world, we are capable of achieving anything. At the same time, how we believe in the metaphysical, or even just destiny, can be hard to reconcile with the fact that we have free will. How can the idea of free will peacefully coexist with ideas of predeterminism? In my mind at least, it can't. I still have no idea which or what I believe in, but I find it much harder to have an optimistic view of the world when I know that everything in my life has already been predetermined. Should I be motivated to do anything if everything that's meant to happen will already happen of its own accord? That mindset is also too oversimplified a form of thinking as far as predeterminism goes, and this is where the Tralfamadorians have the upper hand. I guess we've all been conditioned for too long to quietly accept that absolute free will is a social construct. Why is it so painful for an individual to relinquish their free will? I guess in a way it feels like giving up your claim to your own life.

Mumbo jumbo--nonsense?

Having grown up hearing the phrase mumbo jumbo used frequently with the connotation of meaningless, I never thought to look into the etymology of the expression as it seemed so insignificant. The word itself seems to come from jumbled origins, with its clear roots lost to American culture over time.  An 18th century entry in the Oxford English Dictionary lists mumbo jumbo as "...a grotesque idol...said to have been worshipped by some tribes. Mumbo Jumbo is an object of senseless veneration or a meaningless ritual.". This obviously dismissive treatment of African culture may have been representative of the views that led to our eventual colloquial use of the phrase.  According to Reed, or the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, mumbo jumbo comes from a Mandingo word that literally translates to "magician who makes the troubled spirits of ancestors go away". Other sources, however, claim that mumbo jumbo stems from the Mandingo word maamajomboo, which refers to "a masked dancer that took part in religious ceremonies". Whatever its true meaning may have been, it seems more or less certain that it arises from the Mandingo language. Further research informed me that Mandingo isn't actually one concrete language, but a sort of family of languages (including Malinke, Maninka, and Bambara) spoken across western Africa. From learning this I realized just how extensive my ignorance of African history and culture truly is. This may have to do with the fact that I don't consciously go out of my way to seek more knowledge, but I think is mostly owed to the fact that American schools have almost entirely kept African history out of their curriculum. Despite the sheer number of African "immigrants" that were made to find new lives in America, their cultures were forcibly stripped and stolen from them, and did not get a chance to live on into the mainstream. Dehumanization was a tool used for years in antebellum America, and in the process a rich culture was lost and tossed aside as mumbo jumbo.

Setting and changes in viewpoint

After the panel presentation on Friday, I was left with a lot of realizations about the way in which I consume books. I became aware of the fact that how I read Ragtime in class almost definitely would have been different from how I would've read Ragtime as a random novel on my own time. Whether we like to admit it or not (and I know for a fact that that's something most people don't like to own up to), our likes and dislikes are always somewhat tied to our environment and how other people perceive things. In a classroom setting where I am essentially forced to analyze, reread, and contemplate each chapter (I'd even go as far as to say each passage), it becomes so much easier to appreciate the literary value of a book. That, combined with all the other voiced opinions in class, helps to solidify my budding curiosity into a full fledged interest for the book. On the other hand, wolfing down a novel on your own time provides a completely different experience. When I enjoy a book, I can't help but read through all of it in the shortest time frame possible. In doing so I miss out on a lot of the subtleties that would've otherwise contributed to the book's overall wow factor. When I am not immediately enthralled by a book (and this might have to do with our generation's ever-shrinking attention spans), I abandon it out of disinterest. It seems more and more now that a book either has to provide cheap thrill and action, or a solid recommendation from someone whose taste I trust, for me to really bother finishing it all the way through (let alone appreciate it for its full value...).

Who was Evelyn Nesbit anyways?

With all its scrambled plots and characters, its easy to get lost in the sea of stories in Ragtime. Despite its solid entourage of recurring characters, one specific character has particularly piqued my interest, Evelyn Nesbit. Painted as an especially confusing character, Evelyn's actions always strike me as a weird combination of hesitant and bold. Though we are given glimpses into her background (including hints at several traumatic experiences), it surprises me that more people are not more sympathetic towards her. Maybe her naivety and often resigned demeanor don't endear her to most readers, but I found Doctorow's rendition of her pretty realistic given the things she's lived through. As I read more about her from other sources, I was shocked to learn the extent of her misfortunes. The loss of her father at a very early age, the exploitation of her body by her own mother, and eventually the rape (rapes?) and physical abuse we come to read about in the book all contributed to the damaged psyche she now lives with. Reading about her from an 'objective' standpoint raises again the question of history vs fiction, as I found that I definitely consumed a 'historical' biography of her differently than I did the passages in Ragtime. Regardless of how she may have lived and suffered in her own lifetime, she is largely remembered posthumously as one of the last, great tragic beauties.