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Trailer for Journey 

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My thoughts on languages and/or why I want to be a polyglot

The past few assignments that we’ve read/played in class have made me think about the power of language more so than before. “Paper Menagerie,” “Journey,” and Haroun and the Sea of Stories all manage to express very similar takes on the importance of language. It binds people together, whether it be a son to his mother’s heritage, a traveler to a past society, or a boy to a whole new world he never could have imagined.  It is one of the singular aspects that differentiates us as a species from our fellow animals. That is why it is so special- it allows us to think, dream, and interact. In simple words, language is what makes us human.   

It is the above concepts that draw me towards languages. Sure, most of the world speaks English in some capacity, but when you interact with another person in their native language you’re able to connect with them on a deeper level than you ever can with English. Part of this is because each word of a foreign language contains a different connotation, so there will always be something lost in translation. This knowledge is part of what fuels my desire to learn languages. With every language I master I will become closer and closer to being able to connect with everyone, even if just on a surface level. With every language I learn I become further integrated into the global community as a whole.

Now with this integration comes a particular moment at which the language clicks. Your brain has been rewired to push English to the background, and then suddenly, like a child riding a bike without training wheels, you’re speaking, thinking, and even dreaming in a different language. This is where it gets interesting. It has been my personal experience that in each language I speak I act different than I do when I speak English. Take French for example. As soon as I hear French, I think of wind and salt and carefree laughter, buttery golden croissants, the intoxicating smell of lavender, and the feeling of slipping on a pair of ballet flats. When I speak French, I am able to unlock a different side of myself. Laughter comes easier, I gesticulate more, and overall I approach things with a certain joie de vivre that doesn’t come as naturally to me in English.  

Mandarin is a bit different. Although I currently do not know enough to gauge exactly how I act differently, the language comes with images of its own. Mandarin is warm and loud, sizzling with emotion, a riot of colors, lyrical and perplexing. It revolves around the concepts of community and family- 一大家. I feel as if each word carries a greater intensity than in English. Part of this is no doubt due to the tones as well as the fact that in the grand scheme of things I know very few words.  

Eventually I’d like to be fluent in both French and Mandarin. Beyond that, who knows. I’ve always wanted to learn German because I have German cousins. At the same time, however, Russian draws my interest considerably (mostly because I think it sounds badass). I tried to learn the alphabet once, but alas, to no avail. And then of course, learning the rest of the romance languages- Spanish, Italian, and Romanian- would be nice. Well, as they say the sky’s the limit! Au revoir.  

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Reflection on the Effectiveness of Open-Ended Narratives

I hadn’t fully wrapped up my thoughts on the effectiveness of open-ended narratives after our class discussion so I thought I’d make a blog post detailing my thoughts on the subject.

Though the greater lack of ambiguity in fixed-narrative stories helps to deter confusion and overall let the reader focus on enjoying the story a bit more, I believe as a whole open-ended narratives are more effective for two main reasons. First, with open ended narratives readers are required to think for themselves when deciding the singular truth of a narrative (or whether there’s even a singular truth at all). This engages the reader in a way that fixed-narrative stories simply cannot. Second, the ambiguity of open ended stories allows for greater representation and diversity. Because there is a greater sense of uncertainty as to the background of a character, readers can fill in that identity with whatever they want. This allows readers to be able to identify with characters on a stronger level than many of the cookie cutter characters exhibited in fixed narrative stories. Both of the concepts I’ve mentioned above are illustrated in the following works that we’ve looked at over the course of our second semester: Rashomon, “Seasons of Glass and Iron,” and Journey.

Rashomon mainly brings to focus the first aspect of my reasoning. While watching the film, viewers are presented with a series of contradictory witness statements during the trial of the murder of a samurai. The presentation of multiple narratives is what created so much confusion in my mind when I first saw it. However, this is totally intentional on the part of Kurosawa. He plays with our emotions, parading out the inconsolable wife, the dastardly bandit, and the ghost of the samurai itself through a medium. The stories presented contrast so wildly that by the end even when the woodcutter confesses to the priest that he lied in his testimony we question his motives. Though this approach may seem like a recipe for a headache, it forces the audience to think critically about what they’re being presented with. This concept proves ever useful in today’s world of “fake news” and biased media outlets, which is part of the reason why I place open-ended stories above those of a fixed nature.

Just as in Rashomon, Journey’s narrative is one that must be decided by the viewer for themselves, as we did with that creative writing assignment a few days ago. Much of what allows for such a wide range of interpretation is the fact that Journey lacks any words. Yes, the game presents a series of “mosaics” that give some hints about the intended story, but the vast majority of the game is open to interpretation. In addition, each time you start the Journey you are able to choose a variety of paths to travel on. In this way Journey is even more open-ended than Rashomon because the story itself can change with each new game. As such, the player must consider the various meanings of the story each time they start a new game. This heightens the degree of critical thinking the player must use in order to feel as if they have a grasp on the intended message of the story.

Journey’s representation is a bit more complex than that presented in “Seasons of Glass and Iron”. This is because much of the overall theme of the game could be considered cultural appropriation, or at the very least insensitive to the diversity of Oriental cultures. With this in mind, however, the story still provides important representation for a large group of people of color. The fact that it can reach such a broad audience is bolstered by the ambiguity of the society presented. Though vaguely Middle Eastern in dress and music, the use of glyph characters as such an important piece of the game ties in cultures from Asia as well. It is in this way that the open-ended narrative of the game provides representation to a greater number of people than that of a specifically chosen culture.  

“Seasons of Glass and Iron” instead focuses solely on my argument’s reasoning behind representation. To this date, the only stories I’ve read in school with the slightest hint of LGBTQ characters are Winter’s Bone and “Seasons of Glass and Iron”. In two years of highschool that’s a paltry ~200 page book and a short story, if you’re keeping track of sheer material. Although representation of non-heteronormative identities is on the rise, there’s certainly work to be done. However, in this intermediate period, readers can still find the representation they crave in more ambiguous storylines. That is the power that open-ended narratives provide. They give a greater sense of belonging to individuals who are sidelined by mass media, even if unintentionally.

Though I acknowledge the validity of the argument that it’s better to have outrightly diverse characters, I believe that the concept of ambiguity at work here is still ultimately more powerful. It allows readers to shape their image of characters into one that fits their own identity. Since characters aren’t restricted to any labels (regardless of how diverse the labels may be) the possibility of representation in the minds of readers grows exponentially.

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Different book covers for Haroun and the Sea of Stories 

My favorites are the yellow one and the comic-type illustration one because of the prominence of Butt the Hoopoe 

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Brief interview w/ Nikkole Salter where she talks about her interpretation of Lady Macbeth 

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please tell me you have seen the cow post that inspired this one 

I’m gonna find the cow post and reblog it for you so you can gaze on its wonderful beauty 

Here’s the link to the Buzzfeed article on the original cow poem https://www.buzzfeed.com/krishrach/my-name-rach-i-like-to-rite?utm_term=.mtvv8rxpm&sub=4448220_10385258 

my names macbeth and wen its nite or wen the moon is shiyning brite and to their sleep the men do cling i stay up late

i stab the king

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“Happy endings must come at the end of something,' the Walrus pointed out. 'If they happen in the middle of a story, or an adventure, or the like, all they do is cheer things up for a while. 'That'll do,' said Haroun.”

Salman Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories 

This is one of my favorite books and I just made the connection that Salman Rushdie was the author of The Prophet’s Hair 

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Race

Author’s Note: this is one of the poems that we created during group work with the visiting poet. 

Race.

Tense, I grip the blocks,

Ready to churn ground.

Ready or not? 3… 2…1...

Bang!

The starting gun, or a warning shot?

Heart pounding, blood pumping,

I am running.

Running for my life-

Running for glory-

It all blends together.

I feel a sheen on my forehead.

Sweat? Or Blood?

The swift footsteps of my competitors echo in my ears-

I’m not on the track anymore.

I’m in a back alley,

Scared out of my mind.

Another black boy in a hoodie.

I can hear the blood rushing in my ears

As I raise my arms above my head.

-Hands up, don’t shoot!-  

The end is near.

Roaring in my ears,

I can’t see.

Think.

Breathe.

Just one foot in front of the other.

And then- white.

The white of the tape,

Drawing closer, until,

Hands up, arms raised,

I cross the finish line, exhausted.

I collapse.

That trophy and those glorious nights

Won’t block out the blue and red lights

When they are coming for you, and what did you do?

It seems all we can do is run.

Race. 

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This was my favorite poem that we read with the visiting poet. I thought the voice of the narrator was very unique. 

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Analysis of Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen serves to highlight the horror of war and warn against its glorification. The first stanza establishes the physical turmoil that the soldiers are in, and the effects of war on their youthful bodies. Instead of being full of vigor, the men have been reduced to, “old beggars under sacks,” shadows of their former selves. The author gives the sense that the men have physically aged because of the war, describing them as, “knock-kneed, coughing like hags,” during their retreat. Although in reality the soldiers would not have aged this drastically, mentally they have aged at this same drastic rate due to the terrors that they have experienced during the war. This sense of metal fatigue and age is juxtaposed with physical fatigue throughout the rest of the stanza. Phrases such as, “cursed through the sludge,” “trudged,” “limped on, blood-shod,” and, “drunk with fatigue,” emphasis how taxing war can be on the body. The interspersal of words like, “lame,” “blind,” and, “deaf,” things that are normally associated with the extremely ill or extremely elderly further contribute to the sense of age and weariness. The second stanza continues on with the message of the horror of war by describing a gas attack. Its opening lines convey the urgency and fear surrounding chemical attacks through capitalized words, exclamation points, and em-dashes: “Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,” which breaks the reader out of the more drudging subject matter of the first stanza. The way that the soldier dies, which is described as, “flound’ring like a man in fire or lime,” and, “drowning,” insinuates that he is choking and suffocating, thus also insinuating that war suffocates those involved in it. For the narrator, the description of the soldier’s death is one of an outsider looking in. Because he is wearing a gas mask, he is physically separated from the dying man. The, “misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea,” gives the sense that he is looking out through a porthole, trapped inside while the man suffers outside. The next three lines continue the sense that the narrator is powerless in that moment, with phrases such as, “before my helpless sight,” and, “in some smothering dreams,” suggesting the narrator is paralyzed by fear, unable to wake out of his living nightmare.   

The final stanza further affirms the terrors of war while also exposing the effects of war that linger after its end. Usage of, “smothering dreams,” brings about connotations of PTSD and recurrent nightmares. The sense of repetitiveness continues through the usage of, “pace,” while an additional sense of the inability to act comes from the use of, “watch,” and, “hear,” which are very passive actions. Overall juxtaposition of these static verbs next to the gruesome descriptions of the corpse’s, “white eyes writhing in his face,” his, “blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,” serve to further push forward the revolting aspects of war. Additionally, the verbs used describing the body’s actions are much more active than those used by the narrator himself. Words such as, “writhing,” and “gargling,” suggest that the corpse itself is more alive than the soldier who describes it. This insinuates that war, even if it fails to actually kill someone, tends to leech the life away from an individual. Other phrases, such as, “obscene as cancer,” support this idea, as cancer is something that grows hidden while siphoning off the body’s energy for its own purposes, depriving it and dampening the spirit in the same manner that war does.

The next line, “Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,” marks a transition point for the final stanza. Although the line literally comments on the terrible sickness and disease that run rampant during war time, it can also serve to represent the wretchedness that comes from spouting falsities about the glory of war. The choice of the tongue as the site of injury suggests a direct connection to speaking, while the, “incurable sores,” could symbolize false, misleading ideas. This interpretation of the lines is supported by their juxtaposition with the final lines of the poem that address the falsehoods of the romanticization of war. The narrator warns of, “high zest,” and overt enthusiasm surrounding war. The phrase from the top of the stanza, “if… you too could pace,” when paired with those at the end, “My friend, you would not tell,” implies that any connection between war and glory is immediately extinguished once it has actually been experienced first hand. Unfortunately, the narrator’s use of, “my friend,” and, “to children ardent for some desperate glory,” imply that there is a much larger societal problem regarding the glorification of war. Notably, the use of, “children,” suggests that even from a young age people believe they should actively seek out triumph and greatness in war. Finally, the last two lines of the poem, “The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est / Pro patria mori,” propel the poem to a resounding finish. Translated from Latin, the line reads: “It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country.” This line is actually borrowed from the Roman lyrical poet Horace’s Odes, which connects it further to Roman society in which war was prized. Its presentation in Latin, a dead language, helps to further suggest that the idea it presents is outdated and archaic. Clearly from the narrator’s perspective, war is something that brings havoc and ruin to all whom it touches, not a tool for splendor and exaltation.    

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Rebellious Centenarians

Author’s Note: I was inspired to try and write in the epistolary style after reading White Tiger. I’m not positive how successful I was, but I had a bunch of fun writing this. 

Hello,

My name’s Peter, and I’m 112 years old. Although my very existence may seem surprising, I assure you it’s quite commonplace nowadays, that is the year 2100, for people to live upwards of 120. It’s really all because of recent developments in medical science that slowed down the deterioration of the body. If you ask me it’s just a bunch of science mumbo-jumbo. Anyway, the exact process doesn’t exactly relate to my story. It’s the side effects of the longer life expectancy that concern me. You see, after this process got cleared by the FDA and all of that, nothing really happened for the first decade or so. After a while though, people started to notice a peculiar trend in the behavior of centenarians. Upon turning 113, most individuals experience a kind of second wave of teenage emotions. To put it simply, the elderly are rebelling against the man. How does all of this relate to my life? Well, as I said before I’m 112, and unlike some I appreciate the slower pace of life at this age. I’m certainly not looking forward to my birthday, certainly not after what has happened to my friends.

First, there was Karen. She was the first one on our floor of Sunny Days Senior Center to turn 113. She had always been quiet, splitting her time between reading and tending the public garden. However, the morning after her birthday celebration, myself and the rest of the floor were woken by Fall Out Boy pumping through the activity center’s speakers at a denture-shattering level. Everyone rushed to the room, walkers in hand, only to discover Karen standing on the bingo table and screaming her heart out to “Dance, Dance,” in what looked like a tattered band t-shirt, denim shorts, and fishnets. Now, I’m very fond of Karen, but I must say that nobody needs to see that. Ever.

It was later that month that Nicholas reached his 113th birthday. A wonderful party had been planned for after the early bird dinner special, complete with fruitcake and the promise of a playlist of the greatest early 2000’s pop hits. Needless to say, I was highly disgruntled when I discovered the event had been canceled, due to the birthday boy’s daring attempt to go AWOL. Nicholas had pressed his life alert button in the bathroom, then, while the staff was distracted looking for him, he snuck into the chief aid’s office to steal back the irish whiskey one of the nurses had confiscated from him the week prior. Jameson successfully in hand, he attempted a daredevil climb out of the office’s first story window. An untied slipper caused him to trip and fall, landing flat on his rear in the gardenia bushes. Much to my chagrin, his escape attempt was viewed as a mild eccentricity by the rest of the community. After all, they said, he kept a secret stash of Jameson behind his bookshelf. What do you expect? I knew better though.

***

That was two months ago. Now, it’s August, and my birthday is just around the corner. Like, as in my birthday is tomorrow. What a buzzkill. See?! Even my speech has changed. I’m slowly starting to revert back to the habits of my youth, which is, like, whatever (and not in the good way, mind you). Trust me though, it gets much worse. Just last week I was cleaning out some old boxes, and I found my old longboard, helmet, and pads from back in the day when I thought I was Tony Hawk. It was like I was under a spell or something- I put on the pads, strapped the helmet on, and without so much as a thought about my artificial hip, I went soaring down the hallway. I remembered everything! Ollies, 180s, even a double kickflip- it was totally gnarly, dude! That is, until one of the aids saw me and chased me down the hall. She stopped me right as I was about to do a sick move down the stairs to the rec center. I was outraged. She totally killed my flow. No one has any respect for the board anymore, you feel? So, I told her to, “Stick it, Janice!” before flipping her off and running back down the hall. The only problem then was she had my skateboard, and probably wasn’t going to give it back any time soon. I was desperate to have it back, desperate for the feeling of the wind on my bald head through the vents of the helmet. I needed to live, goddammit! So, I did the only thing I could think of. I pulled a Nick.

Janice never saw it coming. Actually, she probably did, but that’s not important. I waited until just after supper, when there wasn’t anyone in the office. Hiding behind a corner, I looked out into the sitting area, watching like a hawk. After a few minutes, I heard her footsteps, and ducked behind the wall. She was just coming back after supervising the water aerobics class, and was fumbling with her keys, trying to find the proper one to unlock the door. What a loser! Finally, after what seemed ~literally~ forever, the key turned in the lock, and the door to the office swung open. Bingo! Acting quickly, I took my dentures out of my mouth, and slid them across the linoleum floor. It was perfect aim. Janice went to walk in, placing the ball of her big white sneakers on the top of my denture. Still slick with saliva, it shot out from under her like an air hockey puck. She caught some serious air, landing flat on her back, legs up in the air like a turtle. Booyah! I made my move, dashing into the office to claim back my beloved board. Spotting it leaned up against the filing cabinets, I grabbed my board by the nose and ran swiftly out the other door.  

It wasn’t very hard for the administration to figure out who did it. Janice had strong suspicions, and once it was discovered I had “mysteriously lost” a denture the case was cracked. My desert privileges were revoked for the week, which was such a bummer. But in the end, I got my board back, and that’s what counts. Well, it’s getting late, and I’m not getting any younger (at least not in reality). I suppose whatever happens tomorrow will happen, and I just have to go with the flow. You gotta stay mellow if you wanna chill, you feel? Besides, what’s so bad about acting like a teenager again? All those adults out there need to loosen up and take a chill pill. That’s all I have to say about that. Hang loose bros!

-Peter 

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One of the poems written by our visiting poet

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Analysis of Dumile Feni’s “African Guernica”

Dumile Feni’s “African Guernica” serves to highlight the absurdity of the apartheid system, much like works we have read this quarter such as The Moment Before The Gun Went Off by Nadine Gordimer. When this piece was created, Feni was living and painting illegally in the city of Johannesburg. Black africans were required to have some sort of job under Pass Laws, however to the local police being an artist did not quantify working. Due to the political controversy in his work, the police threatened Feni with arrest unless he left. With nowhere to go, Feni was forced to move out of the country and leave behind his infant daughter and her mother. He lived in a self-imposed exile, splitting time between London, New York, and California while continuing to paint the ongoing struggle of his countrymen. The majority of his work focuses on the suffering of black South Africans under the apartheid system.

His most famous work, “African Guernica,” is no exception. Feni deliberately connected everything about this work to the difficulties of township life. Instead of using canvas, he drew on newsprint, one of the cheapest papers available. His choice goes beyond practicality in that it demonstrates the poverty within townships. The name of the piece, “African Guernica,” further insinuates the hazardous conditions faced under apartheid. It is a direct comparison to Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica,” insinuating that the apartheid system is equivalent to the turmoil experienced in the aftermath of the bombing of Guernica by the Nazis. In the same way that Guernica was an innocent civilian target, Africans certainly were undeserving of the prejudice and terror experienced during this time. Just like “Guernica,” Feni’s work is entirely in black and white, indicating the clarity with which he views the horrors of black suffering under apartheid. Additionally, the color gives an overall somber tone to the work. The drawing is dominated by several animals and anthropomorphic beings, with the scene presented being insane, even grotesque. The presence of cattle and ducks possibly references the self-sustaining rural lifestyle of many Africans that was altogether wiped out under the colonization and urbanization of South Africa. A dancing human figure seems to be separating from himself, potentially symbolising how the two sides of South African society are grappling each other under this system. Nearby, a minister preaches, seated at a table, but is seemingly ignored by the other figures. This symbolizes the loss of faith or hope under such an oppressive system. Other figures are hidden in the background, obscured by the darkness. It is unclear if the darkness is meant to simply be shadow or smoke. The circular, hazy lines that make up the figures give the sense that it is more in fact smoke or smog, acknowledging the filth and lack of proper sanitation that was a common problem in townships due to poor urban planning. Altogether, though, Feni’s work is extremely ambiguous, allowing the viewer to add their own personal experiences to what is presented in order to decide for themselves the true meaning of each of the piece’s elements. In spite of this ambiguity, the overall message of the piece remains clear. The oppression of Africans under Apartheid was and remains one of the greatest horrors of the twentieth century, having left scars on the nation of South Africa and the global community that are still present more than twenty years later.  

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Seems to be several similarities between Balram and the main character of this book 

- “We are animals of the jungle, who will eat our neighbor’s children in five minutes, and our own in 10. Keep this in mind before you do any business in this country.” mirrors Balram’s cynical/realist view on life in India, Balram has also described people as wild animals and India as a jungle 

-“the fecundity and the fundamentalism together were going to bake a nice big Christmas cake for India in about 20 years. Burqa here, fatwa there. Shariah for all.” Both of them are apprehensive towards the mixing of Muslims and Hindus and more modern ideas of religious tolerance 

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Proverb is basically saying that only the story of the winning/more powerful side gets told, relates to the lack of African and other minority narratives in mainstream literature, particularly that from earlier decades  

Literature, Chinua Achebe liked to say, was his weapon. He railed against the portrayal of Africa, inspired a generation of writers to find their own voices and was unafraid to upset the powers that be. He died on this day in 2013

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NPR Interview w/ Trevor Noah about his book, talks a lot about what it was like growing up as a mixed race child under apartheid 

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Toshiro Mifune who played the bandit in Rashomon was only recently awarded a hollywood star on the Walk of Fame, which surprises me given his celebrity and also the fact that people like Donald Trump can have a star