The Fragility of Summer Friendships in Sag Harbor

 The Fragility of Summer Friendships in Sag Harbor

Throughout Colson Whitehead’s Sag Harbor, the narrator Ben ominously teases the less than fortunate fates of his friends from his childhood, hinting at the fact that he and his friends from Sag Harbor don't speak much anymore, and that somewhere in the midst of each of their coming-of-ages, they diverged from each other’s paths. This seems almost hard to believe in the context of the other Sag Harbor-born friendships, those who have lasted generations and laid the foundations for the entire community. To the adults in Sag Harbor, the friendships they made during the summers of their childhood formed a strong enough bond to last a lifetime, picking up each time they see each other like no time has passed at all. So what happened to Benji and his friends? How did they get so disconnected from one another?

The hints at the lack of substance in Benji’s friend group is there from the beginning of the novel. What looks on the surface like teasing and harmless pranks is revealed as a much more problematic dynamic at the end of the chapter titled “The Gangsters.” Benji and his friends choose to have a BB gun fight, but Benji, feeling apprehensive about the safety of the BB gun fight and not trusting his friends’ responsibility with the BB guns, proposes some rules and safety measures to ensure no one gets hurt. None of Benji’s friends care to listen to his proposals for safety measures, though, as they feel like taking precautions makes them seem less tough. When Benji takes out his safety goggles on the day of the BB gun fight, Marcus replies “I’m not wearing any pussy-ass goggles,” despite having agreed to the idea a few days before (Whitehead 183). When the group makes the rule that Randy can’t pump his gun more than twice, because the shots hurt too much, he doesn’t end up taking it seriously. At the end of the chapter, Randy ends up shooting Benji in the eye, hard enough that it was clear he pumped it more than twice, since it easily broke the skin. Benji and Reggie are adamant that Benji needs to go to the hospital because his eye could get infected, but none of his friends, even the ones with access to cars, offer to help him, because they’re too afraid of getting in trouble. Benji justifies the ways he and his friends treat each other with the excuse that they do care for each other, but the way they show that care is through insults, but when Benji is really in need of help, none of his friends are there for him. 

Though Benji tries to rationalize the way that he and his friends treat each other, it’s clear that there isn’t much genuine care or friendship underneath the jokes and insults. This is exposed again before the U.T.F.O concert. Before the concert, when N.P. is sure that he has a way to get himself, Marcus, and the cousins into the concert, he bluntly tells Benji that he might have to sit this one out, and that there was nothing N.P. could do about it. Once the bouncer tells them that maybe the boys could get in, but there’s no way he’s letting the cousins in because they look too young, N.P. quickly changes his mind, choosing to see the concert with Benji. He tells the cousins that they’ll have to leave without him, as Ben puts it, “like a soldier explaining the facts of war” (Whitehead 259). While this might not seem like a big deal––and it wouldn't be if it was a one time thing––but we see that this decision ends up costing N.P. and Bobby their relationships, with the girls being so mad at being ditched that they break up with the boys. Seeing this trend, it’s not hard to imagine that a similar thing could have happened with Benji’s entire friend group. With everybody only focused on what is best for themselves, and showing little to no care for each other, Benji’s friend group is fragile and superficial, and it’s not surprising that these friendships didn’t last.

The Polarized Gender Dynamics of Black Swan Green

 The Polarized Gender Dynamics of Black Swan Green 

The gender dynamics portrayed in Black Swan Green are very polarizing, and they force Jason to choose between femininity and masculinity. As a teenage boy, Jason is expected to present in a hegemonically masculine way; he is expected to be a “hard-knock” and not to care about the consequences of his actions, because these are socially masculine traits, and if he doesn’t act this way, he will be deemed a “sissy” and berated for his femininity. While Jason is internally conflicted about these gender dynamics––his aspiring social persona conflicting with his love for poetry––he goes along with them anyway, refusing to behave in certain ways because he deems them “gay.” Jason isn’t only experiencing polarizing gender dynamics in his social life, though; in Jason’s home life, he experiences his mother and sister going against his dad’s attempt at acting as a traditionally masculine father and husband. We see Jason’s father, Michael, insult women in an attempt to win the approval of other men, and we see him struggle with the prospect of his wife being a second breadwinner in the family, threatening his masculinity. We see Jason’s mother, Helena, and sister, Julia, becoming more respected than Michael in Jason’s eyes for their eloquence and ambition in their careers. Jason is stuck between femininity and masculinity in both his social and personal life, and we see him shift away from the societal expectation of masculinity as his coming-of-age progresses. 

In his social life, Jason is constantly trying to perform masculinity for his peers. He is constantly editing himself, hoping that nothing he does comes across as “gay,” and he is sure that one of the worst things that could ever happen to him would be for his poetry to be seen by his peers. Jason’s public persona is heavily edited, and not reflective of his true interests. In reality, Jason loves poetry; it’s clear by the way that he describes poetry as almost involuntary, feeling a poem come to him and having to write it. He attempts to publish his poetry, he actively seeks advice to make his poetry better, he clearly cares. But still, despite the clear care he has for poetry, and the ways that his poetry allows him to express his emotions freely and without judgement, he would never admit it publicly. Even to Madame Crommelynck, he admits that he is ashamed of writing poetry because it’s “sort of…gay” and “what creeps and poofters do” (Mitchell 153). Despite the fact that Maname Crommelynck is the safest person for Jason to discuss his poetry with, he still hides behind the shame that it’s “gay,” and that he should never admit it publicly. Though Jason faces a lot of internal struggle between his “feminine” interests and his outward “masculine” appearance, as the novel progresses, he gets more comfortable with not being the classic “hard-knock” masculine guy. As he gets more comfortable standing up to his bullies, he doesn’t do so by physically fighting him, but by using his words and his intelligence, two things that he hadn’t appreciated or been comfortable using earlier in the novel. When Jason is with Holly Deblin at the dance, he describes the song playing as beautiful, and remarks that “words like ‘beautiful’ you can’t use with boys you can use with girls” (Mitchell 175). To me, this marks a very important shift in Jason’s awareness of the gender dynamics of his world, and his comfort in his own masculinity. He understands that you can't use words like “beautiful” with guys, but that doesn’t stop him from using it with Holly Deblin. Throughout Jason’s coming-of-age, he becomes more comfortable in his social masculinity, and becomes less afraid to embrace the more feminine aspects of his personality.

Apart from the gender polarization in his social life, Jason also feels pulled between the feminine and masculine sides of his home life, as well. In the beginning of the novel, Jason respects his father and criticizes him very little. He idolizes his cousin, Hugo, for being so carefree and masculine, and looks to him for guidance. On the other hand, he doesn’t really see his sister as a viable figure of guidance in his life and isn’t very close with her, and he isn’t sure whether or not to side with his father or his mother when they argue. As Jason matures, he begins to look at Julia for guidance more and more. Julia, who clearly sides with her mom in most of their parents’ arguments, prompts Jason to think more critically about the issues between his mom and his dad and who is at the root of them. Jason becomes more aware when his dad makes misogynistic comments or when he sucks up to the other men in his life in an attempt to win their approval. When Michael makes a misogynistic comment to their gardener, Jason notes that the gardener responds with “a gardener’s nod. Not an ally’s nod,” showing Jason’s awareness of the anti-social aspects of his father’s misogynistic behaviour (Mitchell 117). The culmination of this struggle between the two sides of Jason’s family happens in Souvenirs, when Michael embarrasses Jason by sucking up to Mr. Craig Salt and throwing Jason under the bus, showing how little backbone he actually has, and Helena impresses Jason by dealing with the girls in her shop who were trying to steal from her. Jason is completely disillusioned by his father’s behavior, and surprised and impressed by his mother’s, giving him a new outlook on the two of them. By the end of the novel, Jason is also clearly relying on Julia much for guidance much more than he had in the earlier chapters. She gives him the confidence to go to the dance, supports him through his parent’s divorce, and urges him to keep writing. As Jason experiences his coming-of-age, he begins relying on and respecting the female role models in his life more than his male role models, which gives him a more nuanced outlook on the world than he had earlier in the novel, and gives him the courage to embrace his more feminine traits.

Sexuality as a Fleeting Connection Between Alison and Bruce

 Sexuality as a Fleeting Connection Between Alison and Bruce

In Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home, Alison explicitly contrasts her own sexuality to that of her father. While she and Bruce didn’t have a close relationship during his lifetime, they have one crucial trait in common, their sexuality, which causes a confusing connection that Alison has to navigate after her father’s death. Alison describes her relationship with her father Bruce as distant, recalling feeling like nothing but a piece of furniture or an extra set of hands for his constant renovations on their house. Throughout her childhood, she illustrates her father as uncaring and cold, never feeling comfortable enough for any physical affection or open enough to confide in. She illustrates her family as completely separate, each in their own spaces, working on their own projects, only coming together when absolutely necessary; she describes that “the more gratification we found in our own geniuses, the more isolated we grew” (Bechdel 134). Despite the fact that Alison felt so disconnected to her father during her childhood, once she became a young adult, their relationship took a slight turn. 

Once Bruce realizes that they have similar interests in literature, he takes it as an opportunity to connect with her––granted, this connection is slightly odd, with him playing more of a teacher figure than a father figure, but still, a connection nonetheless––and begins to share and discuss his favorite books with her. Bruce ends up using his new role as a provider of literature for Alison as a way to reach out to her; when he gives her Collette’s autobiography to read, she wonders if this choice was intentional. She later asks Bruce if he “knew what [he was] doing” by having her read this autobiography, to which he responds “I didn’t really. It was just a guess. I guess there was some kind of… identification” (Bechdel 220). By bringing up this book, Alison sparks one of the most honest conversations we see her have with Bruce about his life. Literature plays a big role in connecting Alison and Burce, and their connection through literature drives most of their connection through sexuality.  

The moment that Alison is told about her Father’s affairs with men, it is initially a shock, but later leads her to be more open with her father. When Helen tells Alison about her father’s sexuality, it is in reaction to Alison’s own coming out, directly linking the two; if Alison had never come out, she might not have ever been told about her father’s sexuality during his lifetime. Despite the fact that his sexuality is such a shame in his life, Bruce is surprisingly open with Alison about his sexuality, and it ends up bringing the two together in an unexpected way. When Alison comes out to her parents, she is doing so with the assumption that they wouldn’t understand, because they’ve never had to go through what she’s going through, but in reality, her father has gone through something very similar. While Alison is juggling with the idea of living as an out gay person––with her mother advising against it––Bruce admits that “There’ve been a few times I thought I might have preferred to take a stand” (Bechdel 211). Bruce clearly handled the issue of his sexuality very differently than Alison, but he has a better sense of what she’s going through than what Alison had originally assumed, and is able to give advice and opinions based on his own lived experiences. Alison had always felt like she had nothing to connect with her father about, and had felt like her father wanted nothing to do with her life or her interests, but when she comes out to him, it opens a door for a connection that she never knew existed. The biggest shame in Bruce’s life becomes one of the core things that connects him to his daughter. 

Throughout the novel, Alison contrasts the way she handled her sexuality with the way her father did, and explicitly compares them to each other. She compares old pictures of her father to pictures of her at the same age, wondering if he was feeling the same way that she was, wondering how similar their experiences were. This is a very confusing thing for Alison to contemplate, wondering how her father’s experiences compared to her own, and having to look back on his life without him, wondering what the truth is behind each picture he took and each letter he wrote. Alison and Bruce have more in common than Alison knew for a majority of her lifetime, but the trait that connects them is one that Bruce spent his entire life trying to hide, leaving Alison little to nothing to go off of while trying to retrospectively search for a connection between them. Bruce’s story is one of a million “what if’s,” and with Bruce dead, Alison has no choice but to guess what her father’s story was, and what it could have been. After a lifetime of trying to find a connection with her father, once she finally (and very unexpectedly) finds one, it turns out to be his deepest shame, and something he would never openly live out.

The Perpetual Threat of The Bell Jar

 The Perpetual Threat of The Bell Jar

After Esther has received all of her shock treatments, and has been essentially “cured” of her depression, she describes the metaphorical bell jar that had been trapping her finally being lifted. She describes a feeling of breathing fresh air and being able to see the world without the distorted lens of the bell jar. At the end of the book, the bell jar is still lifted, and Esther is finally able to begin imagining her future again, starting where she left off after the mental breakdown she describes as a “six month lapse” (Plath 236). Esther seems to be planning to go back to business as usual; she will go back to school, continue her streak of academic achievement, and reach the accomplishments she’s been working for her whole life. There is one line, though, that sticks out through all of this seemingly hopeful description of the future that has now been opened back up to her. Esther isn’t actually sure about her future, and how realistic all of these plans are for her. As she describes it, “How did I know that someday––at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere––the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again?” (Plath 241). This sentence leaves the reader sharing some of Esther’s doubts about the viability of her future. It establishes the fact that the bell jar isn’t gone, and it won’t ever be, but it is only “[hanging], suspended, a few feet above [her] head” (Plath 214). The way that Sylvia Plath chooses to describe the bell jar leaves room for speculation on whether or not someone can ever truly be free of the distortions of the bell jar. 

This theme of the perpetually looming bell jar is consistent with Plath’s poetry, most notably her poem Lady Lazarus. In Lady Lazarus, Plath details her descent back into depression and suicidal ideation: “I am only thirty. / And like a cat I have nine times to die. / What a trash / To annihilate each decade” (Plath). Plath describes her depression as repeating every ten years, and writes Lady Lazarus as if she is conscious of its return. She asserts that “Dying / Is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well,” and that, “Out of the ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air.” (Plath). In Lady Lazarus, Plath describes the same phenomenon that Esther was afraid of. The bell jar, for Plath, never really went away, and as it looms over her, she can recognize it and predict the effect it will have on her. Tragically, she assumes that this cycle will continue, and she will survive this next attempt, just like she survived her last one. Even if you can predict the bell jar falling, you can’t predict the effect it will have on you, and the things you will do while it is over you. 

Plath leaves the ending of The Bell Jar up to the reader’s interpretation; while Esther is doing better after her treatment, she still describes the bell jar looming over her and the memories of the things she’s gone through staying with her forever. In her fiction as well as her poetry, Plath describes the bell jar and its distortions as something that can never truly be cured, and will continue to loom over the people affected by it.

Holden Caulfield, Master of Deflection

 Holden Caulfield, Master of Deflection

The most memorable characteristic about Holden Caulfield is that he complains about almost everything. He is the character that created the stereotype of “teenage angst,” simply because of the sheer amount of time he spends detailing his elaborate complaints with almost every person, social setting, or societal norm that he comes across. What struck me about the things that he complains about, though, is how he makes sure to carefully avoid all of the truly traumatic things that he has experienced. The thing that I found most shocking about Holden’s account of waking up to Mr. Antolini patting his head is that he admits that this kind of “perverty” thing has happened to him “about twenty times since [he] was a kid” (Sallinger 193). This isn’t necessarily a surprising admission, considering that Holden has been in all-boys prep schools for his entire education, but what is surprising is that he has never once brought it up before as one of the many things he finds institutionally messed up about the prep school environment. He instead chooses to focus on how little authority these teachers have over him and how often they try to give him lectures, making a joke of the teachers to avoid talking about the actual bad things they've done. 

This isn’t the only time that Holden glosses over something truly traumatic to talk about something less important. He briefly mentions James Castle, the boy at Elkton Hills that, while getting beat up by other students, chose to jump out of the window to his own death instead of taking back his comment that another student was “conceited” (Sallinger 170). Holden mentions this surprisingly late in the book, considering the fact that he has spent the last 170 pages talking about how terribly mean boys at these prep schools can be. While Holden mentions the more petty things that these boys have done, like their secret fraternities that don’t admit boys who are “too pimply,” and their general mistreatment of women, he chooses to wait to mention the time that this bullying directly led to a boy’s death. He doesn’t describe this event as tragic or traumatic, though, instead choosing to see it as heroic and noble, setting James Castle as some sort of martyr for a good cause. In reality, James Castle’s story is not heroic at all, it’s just tragic. There is nothing heroic about being beat up so badly that the best option is to fall to your own death; but Holden doesn’t see it that way. 

Holden can’t grasp the gravity of some of his experiences. He doesn’t acknowledge that predatory older teachers are dangerous, not just another annoying thing that he “can’t stand.” He doesn’t choose to see James Castle as a tragic suicide at the hands of the abusive and dangerous nature of the all-boys schools he attends, choosing instead to view him as an iconic hero who stuck to his morals until his final breaths. Holden’s grievances with his world are not trivial; he might present them that way, his main problem with the system that he has grown up in being the amount of “phonies” that he has surrounded himself with, but the problems that he attempts to gloss over should actually be taken much more seriously. He might present his issues with boys his age as being annoyed with their phony antics and their elitist attitudes, but under that is a valid criticism that being a person who strays away from this norm can be very dangerous, and, as we’ve seen with Holden and James Castle, choosing not to conform to these norms can lead you to be a target for extreme violence at the hands of your peers. He might act like his only grievance with teachers is that they try too hard to demonstrate their authority over you, but under this is a reality that an alarming amount of adults in Holden’s life seem to have used their authority to take advantage of him. Holden actively glosses over the more real and traumatic experiences he has had with the institutions he is a part of, choosing instead to focus on surface level complaints with the way people act and dress, chalking it all up to a general sense of “phoniness” emanating from the people surrounding him.

On Sethe's Notion of Live vs. Death

On Sethe's Notion of Life vs. Death

One of the themes that I found the most interesting in Beloved was Sethe’s notion that dying or going crazy can be a more favorable fate than staying alive. While Sethe is escaping slavery––separated from her children, with no idea where her husband is, and six months pregnant with another one of her children––she almost gives up. She almost lays there and lets herself die, but “the thought of herself stretched out dead while the little antelope lived on--an hour? a day? a day and a night?––in her lifeless body grieved her so” and made her keep going despite what her body wanted so badly to do––give up (Morrison 37-38). During her escape from slavery, the only things keeping Sethe alive are her children; the thought of Denver, the little antelope in her stomach, dying with her, or her three kids who went ahead of her not having access to her milk. 

When Paul D. tells Sethe about Halle’s experience being forced to watch her assault and how he was last seen smearing butter all over his face,  She laments about how “other people went crazy, why couldn't she? Other people's brains stopped, turned around and went on to something new, which is what must have happened to Halle” (Morrison 83). She begins to fantasize about herself and her husband going crazy together,  and “how sweet that would have been: the two of them back by the milk shed, squatting by the churn, smashing cold, lumpy butter into their faces with not a care in the world” (Morrison 83-84). Yet again, Sethe is viewing an objectively terrible fate as more desirable than the one that she is cursed to––staying alive and sane. To Sethe, the life that she is forced to live––first her life as a slave, and later her life as a woman shunned by her community and viewed as a monster––is harder to bear than the thought of death. 

Sethe’s reaction to seeing Schoolteacher’s hat in her yard is a hard one to understand. Sethe is in a position that no person today could possibly relate to, and she is forced to make an impossible decision.The fact that Sethe’s reaction is impossible to understand also makes it impossible to judge or condone, but it can be more easily understood when considering her notions about death in comparison to life as a slave, especially after Schoolteacher’s arrival to Sweethome. Sethe has concluded time and time again that death is an easier fate than life as a slave under Schoolteacher, and with that logic, it becomes easier to understand why she views her actions as justified and necessary. Sethe holds her position that she did the safest thing for her children, and while that might seem like an oxymoronic position to hold––one that argues that dying is “safer” than staying alive––it stays completely consistent with what Sethe has wished for herself in the past. If it wasn’t for her children, Sethe would very likely have let herself die while she was escaping slavery. In that moment dying seemed like a much easier and less painful decision than staying alive, and when faced with that decision once more–– to stay alive and become a slave or die and never live through slavery again––she comes to the conclusion that death will be a “safer” option for her children, a conclusion that she wholeheartedly believes is correct, because when faced with that same decision during her own lifetime, she has come to the realization that in some situations dying is easier and safer than staying alive. 

The Stranger: A Critique Of The Judicial System

 The Stranger: A Critique Of The Judicial System

By Ruby Mitchell

Meursault did not deserve to die. This is the mindset that I was in as I finished reading The Stranger, and I believe that this was Camus’ intention. Throughout the novel, Meursault is portrayed as a morally questionable character, often choosing to withhold judgment in times when judgment is completely necessary, and refusing to form solid opinions on people that the average person would disapprove of. Despite this moral ambiguity, Meursault is not a completely bad person, and Camus doesn’t try to depict him as such. Before the murder he commits, nothing about Meursault’s moral ambiguity ever actually strays into the territory of him being morally bad or corrupt in any way, he is only ever portrayed as neutral. The prosecutor in Meursault’s murder trial takes complete advantage of this moral ambiguity, and uses it to paint Meursault as a morally-vapid monster who is a threat to our society. The court focuses more on Meursault’s morality than his crime, choosing to talk more about the treatment of his mom and his response to her death than the events of the murder that he committed. To the court, the actual crime he committed is insignificant. The victim’s sister is never brought up to testify against Meursault––even though she logically should be one of the main witnesses for the prosecution’s case––and the man who Meursault offered a cigarette to at his mother’s vigil is brought up instead. Clearly this case is not about the crime itself, not about providing justice for the victim, it is really Meursault’s morality that is on trial. 

The real crime that Meursault commits that leads to his death is his inability to play the court’s game. The mistake that Meursault makes in court is being too honest: he doesn’t have a motive, he doesn’t admit to feeling remorse, and he attempts to blame the murder on the sun. All of these explanations are true, but none of them fit what he is expected to say. As readers, we get a better view into Meursault’s thoughts and reasonings, and with that better perspective we get a more nuanced outlook on his crime and his overall moral character. While his reaction to his mom’s death might seem cold, the reader gets the added context of his weird, slightly rocky relationship with her. Later in the novel, we even get a concrete explanation of the way he went about understanding his mothers death: “Maman must have felt free then and ready to live it all again. Nobody, nobody had the right to cry over her” (Camus 122). In this passage, we get our first glimpse of Meursault actually engaging with his mother’s death with any emotion other than indifference, and the emotion we see is one of gratitude. He feels that she must have been ready to die, and that is a good, beautiful thing. He doesn’t lack any care for his mother’s death, he just has a less negative view of death than the average person, which hinders his ability to grieve in the way that he’s expected to. The court doesn’t paint him this way, though. Instead, the court paints Meursault as an unloving son who cares more about smoking cigarettes and meeting new women than “properly” mourning his mother’s death. The court fabricates a bastardization of Meursault’s relationship with his mom, successfully painting him as a monster in the eyes of the jury. 

The court also chooses to focus on Meursault’s lack of remorse for having committed the murder more than the fact that he committed it in the first place. This portrayal of Meursault is more true to his seemingly emotionless character, though the court still manages to change it to fit into their narrative that he is some sort of monster. Meursault himself agrees that he feels no remorse for this murder, acknowledging that “I couldn't help admitting that he was right. I didn't feel much remorse for what I'd done,” and later going on to clarify that “I had never been able to truly feel remorse for anything” (Camus 100). While this lack of remorse, or lack of care, for the crime that he committed does seem heartless, it’s not very hard to believe when considering the rest of Meursault’s character. Meursault might not be able to feel much remorse, but we don’t get solid evidence that he is able to feel any other type of emotion either. Meursault is apathetic when his girlfriend confesses her love to him and asks to marry him, reacts very calmly to his arrest and questioning, and doesn’t even seem to have any discernible reaction to being told that he was to be executed. While Meursault’s lack of remorse actually stems from an inability to truly feel any emotion, the court uses it to paint him as a careless criminal who kills without thinking twice about it, and uses that characterization to justify his execution. 

Meursault is sentenced to be publicly killed “in the name of the French people,” which cements the fact that his trial was unjust and not properly executed (Camus 107). Meursault committed no crime against “the French people.” If anything, he committed a crime against the Arab people, but this colonial court would never have viewed that as a heinous enough crime to deserve the death penalty. The only crime that Meursault committed against the French people was mystifying them with his constant honesty and refusal to play into the games of the court. Meursault confused the court, and the prosecutor was able to take that confusion and spin it into terror and hatred, prompting the jury to come to the conclusion that Meursault deserved to die. Camus spends the entire novel establishing Meursault’s point of view and the rationale behind all of his actions. He then places us in a court full of people who are uninterested in understanding Meursault’s point of view or rationale, with this lack of understanding eventually leading to his death. Camus uses The Stranger to parody the unjust and superficial nature of the colonial Algerian judicial system, painting it as a system that disregards the testimony of the victim’s family, makes harsh and life-ending judgments based on evidence that fails to paint the whole picture, and punishes a man more for his social shortcomings than the crime that he committed. 

Works Cited

Camus, Albert. The Stranger. Translated by Matthew Ward, Vintage International, 1989.