Ragtiiiiiime (Ragtime!) and the Patron Saint of Mediocrity

Okay, let's be honest.  I'm awful at watching movies. I talk.  I think about how I want to eat more popcorn.  I wonder how mad people will be if I filter out the movie with reading (answer: very).  When watching movies, I tend to be hyper critical. It is so difficult.
With that out of the way, Ragtime.  The movie.  Oh good lord, as soon as I saw the first scene, I went "This reminds me of Amadeus!"  Sure enough, it was the same director, Milos Forman.  I am good.
But, I'm not surprised.  The two stories are pretty similar.  They both look at the unreliability of memory, the glossing over of certain points of history.
Ragtime exemplifies the theory that I've had all along:

We look at history through a fisheye lens.  As we focus in on a new point, we distort the periphery.  What was clear a second go now blurs, until we don't know what it used to look like.

 The movie feels a bit like a memory.  The book even more so.  We're being told what happened-but do we ever know the truth?  Is history important because of what happened, or how we perceive what happened?  Which is more important?  Which is less?  Why do I always have more questions, and very really find a satisfactory answer?  Can you find one?
Either way, I absolve you.  :)

Post-Colonialism/Gender/Sex (I use books as metaphors a lot, have you noticed?)

Whilst we were having our discussion this week about sex, sexuality, gender and the roles that those things designate within a culture, I kept thinking of Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe and The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. More specifically, I kept thinking about the discussions we had about them in my 11th grade English class.  (Isn't it irritating that almost everything I do now can be related to a different phase in my life?)
When my English teacher introduced the ideas of a post colonial lens to the class, he brought up the idea that reading books from previously "colonialized" places helped  you to understand their point of view.

 But then he brought up the converse of that point-how can you be "free" when you're using the tools of your oppressors to express yourself?

This same idea was one that I had broached upon when discussing gender roles in The House on Mango Street.  The protagonist starts acting more like a boy in order to gain control in her extremely patriarchal household.  This idea frustrated me-if she had to act less like her gender, was she escaping the patriarchal system or enforcing it?

Which then creates a nice segway into Ragtime.  If Evelyn Nesbit has to use her sexual appeal to gain power, is she really doing that, or is she just helping her own victimization?  (I firmly believe that Evelyn is a victim-a silly, beautiful fool in the style of Daisy Buchannan).  How do you beat the system by working from within it?  Is it not better to work outside the system, a la Emma Goldman or Coalhouse?  Are revolutions not fought in order to foster the creation of a new system?  I.e. The American Revolution overthrowing a monarchy and creating a democracy? In the latter cases, their subversion of the system ultimately spells out their own undoing, but I feel like they're the more transcendent of the characters.

This is part of the reason that I think the end of chapter eight with "THAT SCENE" is so important. Yeah, it's probably one of the most awkward things I've ever read in the history of my life as a reader (about sixteen years)-and hopefully one of the last...Every person I've brought the book up to says "Isn't that the book with the guy in the closet who..." and then they trail off, embarrassed. Despite the unpleasantness, the scene demonstrates perhaps the one time that Evelyn is in control of something, her sexuality, without a male gaze (that she knows of).  Even then though, she only gains that control through Emma, so is it really her control again?  

The whole scene just reeks of tragedy (and awkward euphemisms). The one time Evelyn comes into an iota of control, Mother's Younger Brother suddenly...um...appears... um...and covers her in capitalism.

There's no real escape from the oppression when you're using it to your advantage.  You're still enforcing that system.  Even if Evelyn has taken controtl for that moment, she's lost it for all the others.  That may not necessarily be Doctorow's point, but I'm reminded of how Authorial intent is so often overshadowed by the reader's interpretation.  I feel like Evelyn is a victim of circumstance, like Daisy, like Okonkwo, like Esperanza.  They may recognize the system, but their attempted subversion just turns into a reinforcement.

Shameless Showtunes Post, Part 1

The video that I posted is called "Wheels of a Dream".  It's with the characters of Sarah and Coalhouse, talking about Coalhouse's car, their dreams of the future and with that, their dreams for their son.  If  you weren't too distracted by how gorgeously this song is rendered (completely live, and to date this, on the Rosie O'Donnell show in 1997), you can notice how the lyrics, once again, discuss our ideas of class and social structure.

"Any man can get where he wants to
If he's got some fire in his soul.
We'll see justice, Sarah,
And plenty of men
Who will stand up
And give us our due.
Oh, Sarah, it's more that promises.
Sarah, it must be true.
A country that let's a man like me
Own a car, raise a child, build a life with you..."

I think the most hearbreaking part is when he says "It  must be true."  Not will, but must.  H(w)e can't live without the idea of  having this possibility.  And then factoring this into the idea that Coalhouse, even though he fights the most for his due, is also the greatest victim of his class, until he's forced to act out (I'm of course, referencing the trashing of his car, his wife's death and his subsequent arson).  This idea is emphasized near the end, where he says

 "Then they will see me come out with my hands raised, and no further harm will come to any man from Coalhouse Walker, Jr."

and then, to confirm it, he makes a sudden movement, ensuring his death and proving that sometimes, you can do anything, but nothing happens until you convince others as well.

 The other video is called "Make Them Hear You" and it's Coalhouse's big dramatic death number.  (And also, everyone needs to listen to the entire soundtrack, I'm making my free post about that).  The title really says it all.  We'll see justice one day, but only if we all work for it, as equals.

Coalhouse, Class, Dreams, and Listening to my Mother's Advice (Also, I quoted CULLEN)

A Brief Anecdote: On my first day of college, Mama Dvorak took me aside and said "Beth.  We're not successful.  We all work hard, but no one in our family is successful." She laughed as my mouth hung open, trying to sound out her words for myself.  "B-b-but, mom..."

"Oh Bethie," she said, laughing at the fact that I am easily stupefied by her advice "I'm reassuring you." 

We talked a lot in class the other day about class and how people perceive different classes.  Higher class people can be seen as braggarts and lower class people can be seen as lazy.  To quote Paige "Everyone can pull themselves up by their bootstraps!" (Note that we both laughed at the absurdity of this statement). We all want to reach that middle point, or so it seems.  The extremely wealthy people I've encountered at St. Olaf don't use the word "rich".  They say that they're "well off" or "my parents work really hard." And I'll admit, I've later mocked them behind their backs, asking "how can you determine your self-worth by what your parents make?"

But the reverse is also true.  I pride myself on being able to afford to go here; I pulled myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and I have the scholarships and grants to prove it.  Does that fact make someone seem more noble in the eyes of their peers, or less so?  We all know that there shouldn't be a stereotype surrounding who has what amount of disposable income; but since we live in an imperfect world, I'm more inclined to ask which stereotype is more palatable.  Would we rather have someone like Tateh and Coalhouse succeed, or someone like the boy?  We can argue that we're past all that, but I think that would be a lie based on the noblest of intentions-good and idealistic, but a lie nonetheless.
But to get back to my anecdote, I think the dreams of class and transcending those bonds, a dream shared by Morgan, Tateh, Ford and Coalhouse, is probably one of the primary motivators of my mother's little speech.  It took me a long time to figure out, but I think that she was trying to say, in her vague/roundabout way was this: "Beth, none of us are successful.  Your family is made up of teachers and librarians and landscapers.  You don't have to do any of those things.  You can be whatever you want.  You may not be successful to some, but you'll be happy. You're smart and beautiful and you were always my favorite."  (At least, I hope that's what she's saying).  And sometimes, people like (SPOILER IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED) Tateh transcend their class. The great thing about America is that we're nourished by that dream, it seems so much more attainable because it's embedded into our psyches.

  To quote Cullen: "And like other American Dreams, the power of this one lay in a sense of collective ownership: anyone can get ahead."

Maybe my mom doesn't phrase it correctly, but if her optimism doesn't reflect this, I don't know what does.

Lady Liberty

This is the statue of Liberty in France. I think that influence my poem, the foreign perceptions of Lady Liberty.

(For the record, I don't find this creepy.  I kinda find it beautiful).

A person sits idle
Upon the bench
Alone, but for
the trees.
And, lo, behind him
stands Lady Liberty
Although her eyes see naught
there they are, to stare
her pensive gaze says nothing
but one sees truth and beauty there.
So much hope on a new horizon
to those her gazes does speak
inspiring, some, few to great acts
and others, still, to weep.

I wanted to make this poem more cynical, but I really feel like adding in cynicism taints whatever message you're trying to send.

Welcome Home

http://newyork.cbslocal.com/2011/08/13/report-911-first-responders-not-invited-to-10th-anniversary-ceremony-at-ground-zero/


Reading this article made me sick to my stomach.  To quote the friend that showed it to me:

"oh sorry, fight our wars, save our people at home every day, but don't like come to the place that has scarred this nation permanently where you performed astounding acts of heroism for which you weren't repaid which left many of you crippled or deathly ill"

To me, this is a travesty of what Americans claim to stand for.  There is no justification for how our nation treats our heroes. These are people who risked their lives, who had friends and family die trying to save others. Sometimes they don't even get so much as a thank you.
I am horribly and painfully reminded of when I volunteered in a Vietnam veteran's hospital/assisted living facility. After playing with my school band for a few hours, my director asked us to talk with the veterans.  Scanning the crowd, I watched as some of the veterans were taken away. Some smiled, but their eyes were blank.  Others sat with the same expression, the only way you knew they were alive is from their occasional blinking.  My gut clenched. Nervously, stammering out my name, I sat down next to a man named Peter. He squinted out from behind his coke bottle glasses, a grin filling half of his face, the other side doing a stiff mimic.  My stomach dropped and I scuffed my feet along the grey-brown carpet, hoping that my stammer would go away. I couldn't do this-what could I say? How could I comfort someone when I had never had a similar experience?
Peter, sensing my discomfort, which made my shame seem all the more real, tying my tongue in knots yet again and setting my hands to shaking, began to talk. As he began, I saw his eyes light up-he was so happy to have someone listen-it was almost pitiable.  He told me stories about combat, about watching innocent children be used as bombs against American soldiers.  Whilst I listened, I tried to scan my mind for a similar experience, hoping against hope that, once he stopped talking, I would have something to say.
Peter talked for about half an hour.  He told me about his experiences before and after the war, about how he had been homeless for awhile, but he was able to come to the hospital.  He told me about how he had found Jesus, and what church meant to him.
At the end, he turned to me, a wry smile on his face, and said "You know what I regret most?"  I opened my mouth, my mind still horribly blank-but he interrupted with "When I got home, people would spit on me. They called me 'baby killer' and told me I never should have gone-even though I was drafted.  All I wanted, was for someone to turn to me and say 'thank you and welcome home.'"
The words spilled out of my mouth, my stammer barely noticeable, besides to me. I raised my eyes to meet his for the first time.  "Welcome home."  Peter took my hand, whispered "God Bless You" and left the room.  Tapping my fingers on the too cold plastic chair, I turned and left the room, biting my lip, my hands finally still.
Time and time again," the things we stand for" turn into an idiotic facsimile of an idealistic fight for justice, often justified by "well, it wasn't something that I agreed with in the first place" or "it's impractical." So many times, our fight is simply one person's fight.  We sacrifice the greater good for the lesser, petty evils.  When it comes down to it, what are we fighting for?  Who pays the cost?  Did Peter deserve any of the derision that he received? No.  Do the veterans of the 9/11 tragedy deserve our highest respect and gratitude?  Are these two things really so different? What do we stand for when we do things like this? What are we teaching? Is it that hard for us to say "Thank you, and welcome home?"