The Shame Derived From Shame

Shame is felt by each and ever member of society: recluse, immigrant, socialite, etc. the list is as endless as my voracious appetite. It is an unpleasant emotion, to be sure, with its rouge cheeks and downcast eyes, but in Amy Tan's story of a fourteen-year-old at Christmas, Shame is a lesson. Shame serves not only as a side-effect of a bad fall, of spinach in otherwise pearly-white teeth, of the truth spilling from a lie, but as an experience that provides appreciation to a girl's tremendously special culture.  Although young Amy might not fully comprehend this in her vulnerable, hormonal teenage years, in the face of her "love," better known as the blond-haired boy, Robert, she eventually understands the "true purpose behind [her family's] particular menu" post-mortification. Amy comes to realize -  as I sincerely  hope that society will, at some point in time, preferably near- is that there should be pride in difference. As Mrs. Tan so wisely stated "[The] only shame is to have shame". Amy should not hide her crème de la crème taste in Asian cuisine (which I for one wholeheartedly approve. Is there anything more delicious than thai food, sushi, or general Tso's chicken? I think not.) because it does not fit with the American stereotype. She should embrace it, revel in it, exhibit it like an Emperor's ruby necklace, on the chest with dignity, for all to see. Culture is a prime jewel, and should be treated as such, because just as there is no diamond like another, every culture has attributes rare and fine to be treasured for centuries to come.

Searching For The Win

Success, no matter what each person defines success as, is universally sought. Some view success in monetary terms, others in beauty. Others still view success as a superficial dream that can never be achieved, just as Gatsby can never attain his precious Daisy. No matter who you are and what you aspire to have, be, or claim, you certainly imagine that getting to this place, reaching this spot, will turn life into a wonderland. However, there is no such location in which happiness and fulfillment may be magically uncovered. No, nothing could ever be that easy. Success must be dug with fingernails ripping into the damp ground after a heavy rain, with sweat dripping form your forehead from the punishing sun. Moreover, even if this perfect ideal is settled into your work bitten palms, it is not a guarantee of all you ever wished. This is discovered by the residents of the Store that clamor around the radio in Angelou's piece. Despite their apparent victory for which their very lives seemed to hang in the balance, they must still confront the wrath of their opponent's revenge, of racism's rage. Their triumph is not a be all end all, as hardly anything ever is. Their war is continuous, not to be finished in one, simple battle.

Hating Walter Lee Younger

I despise, nay, loathe Walter Lee Younger for his sexist, hypocritical, and most unforgivably, selfish manner. Although he seems to have developed some sense of manhood as he decides not to sell his pride, he still foolishly, ignorantly tells his sister, "to marry a man with some loot," shortly thereafter. Walter places his own dreams, or better, his own delusions before those of his family, be it his wife's, who he repeatedly insults and debases with his careless, bitter words, or his mother's, or sister's.  "Brother"  amidst his wallowing misery at his failure at being a "man", discounts his suffering on those who love him, and has the audacity to ask Ruth, "Who cares about you?". Repeatedly,  Walter declares he is too good to be a chauffeur, that he is better than those around him, that, "it's hard to find a man on... the Southside who understands [his] kind of thinking. Despite this, despite his belief that serving others is an unworthy form of employment, in his fantasy, " a gardener  will be clipping away at the hedges". He can't be a servant, he's too noble, but others certainly can. If this isn't the greatest hypocrisy, then, "yuk, yuk, yuk." As if this isn't enough, Walter believes just for being a man, he inherently holds the divine right to be the "head of the family," never mind his irresponsibility. Yet, when his mother trusts him with safekeeping the money, he doesn't do as he promised and utilizes the money his mother deemed for his sister to fulfill her dream of becoming a doctor for his own purposes to get his dear, little liquor store. However, when his mother buys the home of her dreams, he rancorously asserts that she "butchered up a dream of [his]". He harangues his mother for squashing his hopes, then proceeds to annihilate  his sister's hopes.  Not only this, but he keeps pressuring his sister to marry, all because, after all, she is a woman, and a woman shouldn't ever aspire to anything besides marriage. He diminishes her dream of doctoring as worthless, telling her to forget it, it'll never happen, yet when he doesn't get what he wants, he acts like a spoiled three-year old brat. Suddenly when he can't have what he desires, even if the rest of his family can, "everything is sad," and he simply drops his work. The list of all that Walter does which I abhor is virtually endless, yet one irony I find especially appropriate is that the more Walter attempts to be a man, the less of a man he is.

 

My Reaction To Walter

Consciousness: A Great Sin

"His was a great sin who first invented consciousness," states John in "Diamond as Big as the Ritz". God invented consciousness, according to the Bible at least. Ergo, Fitzgerald, through John, accuses God of being a sinner for forcing him to realize the gravity of the situation and leave their, not hyperbolas,  mountain of wealth.  By leaving their wealth and their carefree, luxurious lifestyle, they are leaving paradise. As they leave paradise, paralleling how Adam and Eve left Eden, they come to realize that now they must work for their own happiness, they must endure pain, but more terrifyingly, reality. John doesn't want to admit that his happiness was at the cost of the suffering of the slaves, the imprisonment of the sailors, the death of Kismine's various friends. In fact, John purposefully overlooks these "unfortunate murders" that "stained these happy years of progress and expansion". For the absence of this,  John - our own little sinning, selfish, horribly irritating Adam - curses God, declaring him, too, a sinner. To me at least, this seems incredibly ironic, because a sin, since I was but a babe, my mother praising my heavenly Father at my side, has always been to displease Him, God Himself. So, by this rational, God displeased God when he gave Adam and Eve conscious, including embarrassment at their own nudity. Bad God, Fitzgerald seems to say, for allowing all this corruption to fester in greed and money, how dare you have let us be this way, Daddy dearest.

 

Material Without Being Real

"A new world, material without being real"(Fitzgerald 161) appears in the overcrowded malls, the lines in front of Coach, Apple, and Best Buy on the eve of a day of thankfulness. "Real" happiness cannot be bought from the sale of the year down the street, or even the turkey at a family feast, but instead can be encountered meandering the night sky, hopping from star to star, if only you would stop...and look...up. It can be solicited from a smile at the universe in all its grandeur, without all the marketing fiasco blocking the stars from view. The universe gives no assurances, it is not, "a wish-granting factory," (John Green) but it would like some little appreciation, at least once a year. All this wealth does not equal happiness, much as the Macy's commercials disagree. Money can't buy love after all, as Gatsby's empty funeral more than emphasized. No matter the wealth, the silky shirts shipped from Europe, the booze, or the mansion of mansions, none of this is as crucial to living a fulfilling life as society has ingrained that it is. Thanks should not be given for your new iPhone, but for the health of your mother, the idle days of summer, and the laughter that leaves your liver where you stomach should be and your jaw near broken.

Infinite Hope

"Reserving judgement is a matter of infinite hope. "

 ~The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

 As rays of empathy radiate from the heavens into the chaotic earth,  a bud springs from the rough trodden ground and blossoms its pearly iris of hope. Nevertheless, homicidal toxins - those that strive to maintain a perfectly uniform lawn, for appearances sake, of course - asphyxiate such a flower shorty following its birth before it forms roots,  before it spreads its soothing hue throughout the neighborhood.  Its snowy petals crinkle and brown, topple into the unforgiving landscape, exiled from view.  Deemed a weed, it shall not thrive as long as the terrain does not flourish spontaneously, as long as there is less regard to life than garish and ostentatious beauty.

Embracing compassion, appreciating disparity in all forms, and living hopefully is a beautiful thought. The poignant musing rings in my ears, reverberates in my conscious, as I grapple with the inherent truth of it and with the near impossibility of its survival in "this viscous little world" (All Time Low- "The Reckless and the Brave"). Benevolence is massacred with cruel words and lethal glares, lost amidst an apathetic society that prizes wealth above than character, beauty above integrity, a nice garden above a blossom of purity.

 

 White Iris

The Flower of Hope

The End.

It is argued that the dwindling codes that society has abided by is a testament to the growth and betterment of the 21st century. Certainly, in some areas such as equality, I rather agree with this statement that urges a freedom of mind and compassion in a harmonious society. Even in punctuation, perfect adhesion to regulations is almost impossible to obtain, and is often considered ludicrous to even merely consider. However, how far will the impairment of this basic literary tool reach? I wonder, as society stresses less and less the merit of punctuation, will it eventually lead to chaos in literature? I reckon it might. Either that will occur or there will be some fracture in the bindings that unify the English language itself. How, pray tell, can you expect there to exist effective communication even within this nation if there is no reference or rulebook to weave all the different sections of the country together. There is already enough confusion with the colloquialism that makes those whose native language is not English to learn it, shall we supplement it with no aid in the intended meaning of text? Even though obviously this will not occur, due to many factors I shall not attempt to enumerate,  the World would be much easier if all humans communicated based on one language. The Earth's people would be more unified and less likely to quarrel if we were part of one whole, instead of 196 parts. The thought that less stipulations amplify creative thought is nice, but the repercussions must also be considered. The end is nigh, some pessimists say, and it seems every other year is a new prediction about the end of the world. Nevertheless, whether the Apocalypse is near or far from our time, I believe chaos will have a hand in it, and so maybe, just maybe the burdensome rules might be reconsidered before they are thrown to the wind, because after all they were put in place for a reason.