Fighting for Freedom

In class on Thursday we discussed the fight scenes between Paddy's parents and the effects it has on their family, their well-being, and the mentality of Paddy, himself. While I was beginning this novel, I hadn't realized the extent to which the fights were amplified. It truly hit home with me while we were discussing the fights, about seemingly "nothing" in a small boy's mind, because I, too came from a parental war-zone and my parents divorced when I was 9. Being that Paddy is ten and is slowly but surely coming more and more aware of the turmoil that is his home, I closely identify with the emotions and loss and anger that he is feeling. More so, I identify with his actions and the way he acts out with his friends and the way he treats his younger borther. And although I am now able to look in retrospect that my parents divorce was something that was needed and ultimately was the best decision my mother ever made for our own well-being and our own survival because now that my father has passed away, going through it, being that young and hearing the fights and seeing the emotional turbulence that was caused, it causes one to do things and feel things that are unrecognizable. I get Paddy. I understand him. I admire him and I feel bad for him. But like myself, I also know that if this were a true story, Paddy would ultimately come out 'okay'. I have to believe in that.

Ha Ha Ha.

I love Irish literature. It's something I have come to related in a way, and while I realize that the majority of Irish literature is sad and depressing and poverty-stricken because Ireland is by no means a rich country, I relate to it in the sense of loss. In terms of Roddy Doyle's Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha, I find myself relating to his loss of innocence and his obsession with showing his little brother the rules of life. In the first 75 pages, it is really just the background of Patrick's life and the set up for his childhood. And while we wee that he is a mini-pyrotechnic with lighting everything he can on fire, we also see the friendships that he has and also the relationship with his brother, Sinbad. Because this novel does descend from Ireland, I want to automatically related it to Frank McCourt's novels, but somehow I'm hoping that this won't be as sad as Angela's Ashes but as telling as 'Tis. And if Doyle continues with the dialogue format in which he writes the beginning and interactions, then I think it will be a true coming of age, a robbery of childhood innocence, and the strife for something better.

Ending of Ceremony

Although at first I was unsure of the ending, where Silko wanted us to go with Tayo, as I finished the novel, I realized that we could go wherever we wanted to with him. It did not come to anything overtly complex in his 'coming of age' but as I have suggested all along, 'coming of age' is much more a process than one single instantaneous occurance that changes ones life. For Tayo, his entire journey was his coming age. And while it ranged from the intense grief process- to drinking and throwing up, to dreaming and having a relationship with a woman, to witnessing a gruesome torturing- he still came out of it a free man. His process, his whatever he went through, was exactly what was needed- his own version of ceremony if you will, that enabled him to ultimately move on with his life and return to the reservation. Perhaps that is the cure to letting go and 'coming of age' or really, coming to any profound realization: find what your heart, what your mind, what your soul needs to find in order to be okay. Because it would not have been any form of 'okay' for Tayo if he did not, in the end, let himself go.

Time, Memory and the truth behind it all.

In this week's reading assigned for Silko's Ceremony, I found the concept of time and the theme of memory to be ever present. Perhaps it is the idea of time and memory that strikes me, because after the hardships, family problems and relationships, I too struggle with the concept of time and memory. I believe that time does heal the pain and it does fade the struggles but the memories...the memories are what makes it hard to move on even when time does. It is the memory of what was that makes it hard to believe that the time will take away what it needs to. It is the memory that makes us want the time to stay still, or the time to fly.

On page 147 (blue cover), Silko writes, "He didn't have to remember anything, he didn't have to feel anything but this; and he wished the truck would never stop moving, that they could ride like that forever" as if to say that Tayo didn't have to feel anything as long as he allowed himself in the truck, in that moment to let go of the grief and the sadness, let go of the memories and the visions and just allow himself to live. There is a similiar passage, the entire paragraph on page 157 that deals with the aspect of losing touch with himself, with his life, loss in general. Loss, in great part, has everything to do with Tayo and his passing time. Tayo's time limit on himself to forget the things that happened to him and the people he has lost is not realistic in any sense of the human race. Throughout all of his thoughts and dreams and vomit-triggers, he holds himself so closely to the horrible things he experienced and later on (not revealing too much), on his voyage to find himself in everything and anything (especailly the land, nature) he finally comes to terms with the aspect of time and in a small, small way, finds the will to allow time to heal him and his broken mind. It is in Tayo's memories that has lost himself and has lost his way. It is only through time that he will be able to step outside of his war-life and step into the ceremonial life.

Ceremonial Memories

At first glance, Leslie Marmon Silko's Ceremony seems to be a story of warfare, sickness and tribe. However, within the first 54 pages that I read, I found that Ceremony is much more than a story of war. I found that it is a story or grief, misunderstanding, responsibility and perhaps most of all so far, a story of memories. And as we are all well aware, any good "coming of age" tale involves a look back at memories, or it involves the task of dealing with memories and coming out of them alive, coming out of them better. My favorite passage is on page 8, "He could get no rest as long as the memories were tangled with the present, tangled up like colored threads from old Grandma's wicker sewing basket when he was a child, and he had carried them outside to play and they had spilled out of his arms into the summer weeds and rolled away in all directions, and then he had hurried to pick them up before Auntie found him." The aspect of entangled memories intertwined with the present creates a battle within itself, on top of the batttle Tayo had returned from with the Japenese. The theme of loss and trying to let go are ever present in this novel, so much so that I had to read a few passages over in order to fully understand the magnitude of what Tayo is going through. I have known grief and I have known sadness to the point sickness but the style and word choice that Silko uses in order to convey the emotional wreckage that is Tayo's mind in dealing with the death of Rocky and in dealing with the missing (and wishing) of Josiah. It is a beautiful story of letting go, the road it takes to get there and the uphill struggle of knowing when enough is enough and you have to put the past where it belongs in order to move foward.

Ending of Zenzele

The ending of Zenzele was a perfect ending for me. While we discussed it being similiar to Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl" in the aspect of its demanding and forceful nature, I whole heartedly disagree with that comparison. For me, the novel and the ending it came to served as a mother's final words to her daughter. I took it in a more personal sense that perhaps Shiri would not be able to get the chance to say these things to her daughter in person, or even in another letter; we do not know how long she has left to live, all we know is that she came home to die. As the theme of home resounded throughout the entire novel, I found the ending to be a state of truth, a state of ultimate vulnerability for a mother to say the things she said to her daughter. And while the last few lines did bring tears to my eyes ("my little earthquake") I think it came down to the simplicity of the writing, the simplicity of her words to her daughter. I feel as though if we were all given the chance to tell our children the kinds of stories that Shiri was able to tell Zenzele, even from the profound distance between them (both physcial and now cultural being that Zenzele is abroad), if we were given the opportunity to teach our kids the most divine lessons of life on our own death bed then we would be able to consider ourselves a successful human being, even a blessed human being. The chance to say goodbye is a priceless moment that all too often does not grants us the closure we need. From a personal stance, if my father had written me a letter before he died 8 years ago, I think it would contain similar life lessons, lessons of the heart and lessons of learning.

Zenzele (Chapters 1-8)

I have always liked letter-style writing, perhaps because I am one of the only people I know that still actually writes letters instead of emails to people. But I think the thing that I like the most in Zenzele is how telling Shiri's letters are to her daughter. The first chapter is desperate, vulnerable, forgiving and informative all in a few pages. The emotion that Shiri writes to Zenzele with comes from the heart, and the stories that she recalls and informs her of in their culture, heritage and family allow Zenzele to learn about where she comes from. Shiri is constantly reminding Zenzele to stay true to herself, true to her roots and I think that is one of the lessons that can be applied to every single culture. I think that is one of the themes and points that Mairare wrote Zenzele around: always be true to your own heart, wherever its coming from, wherever its going.