Written after an earthquake and economic collapse, Junot Diaz's "Monstro" depicts a diseased Haiti, riddled with unending violence and La Negrura. Diaz writes about a land where Monstruos are Monstros, and victims are viktims--where only the "sickest of the sick" are diseased and dying, and only "poor Haitian types [are] getting fucked up." (Diaz, 2) In what seems to be classic Diaz style, he writes about the end of the world and a brief romance on the other side of the border.
Apart from Diaz's style, he uses utterly disgusting diction to describe the disease that's infecting Haitians. He describes the disease as a black, moldy fungus, budding out of humans and fusing them together. Almost zombifying them, the disease forces them to take part in the Silence and the Chorus--respectively, going completely silent and then screaming in unison. The disease itself can represent a number of things--whether it's Haiti's lack of resources to piece itself back together, or even Fuku making its return to the Island.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the apocalyptic border are the narrator, Alex, and Mysty waiting for their story to begin. Somehow despite the climate change, the overarching patria, and the Island's disease, the narrator only cares about chasing his girl. Much like "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," which juxtaposes the violence of the Dominincan Diaspora to Oscar's stunted love life, "Monstro" temporarily brushes off the state of Haiti to focus on the narrator's relationship with Misty.
The Upside Down November 13, 2017
The Netflix original show, “Stranger Things” plays on a number of the themes we explored in this class—that is, the suburbia hauntings seen in "Get Out," the nerdy kid innocence in "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" and The Turn of the Screw, and the hauntings within the home in The Haunting of Hill House and The Fall of the House of Usher. Whereas the first season tells the story of one monster in particular, the second season introduces the idea of the “Upside Down” being the haunt. Taking place in the safe, superficial, suburban small town of Hawkins, we discover the majority of the town and its people are shielded from knowledge about the “Upside Down.” Particularly in government controversies that are covered up, and families like the Wheelers’ that choose to stay in their safe bubbles, the majority of Hawkins is unaware of the gate, and prefers to “keep the curtains closed.”
The haunt of this season is not just the “Mind Flayer,” but the trauma of the “Upside Down” making its way back into Hawkins, and disrupting Hawkins' suburban safety net.
The Adventures of Zenzontli November 6, 2017
"Human beings can be awful cruel to one another." - Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Sesshu Foster's Atomik Aztex creates two alternate realities saturated with violence. Simultaneously existing in 1942 and 1492, these two "worlds" make up a land that was never colonized by Europe, and an Aztec Empire for which human sacrifice is the norm. The muddy timelines drag readers onto the Eastern Front of WWII, and reveal the monster that is imperialism. Much like how The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao paints Europeans as the enemy who colonized their land and took their people, Atomik Aztex reveals the dangers of imperialism. The empires in these realities are built on blood, and feed off of human blood and human land. But perhaps more importantly, these empires create a distinct contrast between the violent Aztec culture and the brutal American capitalist culture.
The more obvious haunts of this novel could be the ghosts of the banished Aztek warriors that haunt East LA. But even here, these ghosts don't exist to scare Zenzontli or the readers. They serve as a reminder of the narrator's real-life nightmare, being trapped in an East LA meatpacking plant. This again draws ties back to The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Well into his adulthood, when Oscar is envisioning his future and hating what it may turn into. Neither Zenzontli nor Oscar want to end up committed to lives of meatpacking or teaching. The question then becomes, what do they want?
Somehow with all of its violence and misery, this novel is also whimsical and hilarious. Whether it's by encouraging readers to read Huck Finn, or dragging readers through a twisted and repetitive prose, this novel streamlines the narrator's daydreams and darkest fantasies. Oscar WOW October 30, 2017
"Fuku Americanus," the curse of the new world, is a reoccurring phenomenon in Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. It's because of this curse that Diaz's wonderfully weird characters are painfully certain of their inevitable misfortune. Although the curse itself originated from Europeans arriving on Hispaniola, it re-emerges in several generations of Dominican de Leon.
Through Yunior's retelling of Oscar's story, we learn about the curse of Fuku and it's effect on Dominican "Machismo Men." The same curse that took down Dominican Dictator, Rafael Trujillo takes down Oscar, a nerdy fatboy who's seemingly doomed to a life of virginity. Every novel needs it's villain, and while Trujillo seems promising as a ruthless and brutal dictator, it's Fuku that takes the malicious title.
What's particularly interesting about this curse is that all characters are cursed from the very beginning. Before even reading the first praise-worthy page of the novel, we learn that Oscar's life is cut short. Diaz explores the damage brought to characters like Oscar by the Trujillo regime, and justifies the inescapability of its past. We see this time and time again, starting with Abelard, who despite his success as a doctor, ends up in the hands of Trujillo. Then there's Oscar, an overweight virgin, who despite his failures and his one success, still ends up in the hands of Trujillo. The novel reveals the fact that we are all victims of history, doomed to lives of heartbreak, misery, and reliving the mistakes of past generations. Perhaps Diaz is right--perhaps we're all Fuku'ed.
Dearly Beloveds October 9, 2017
In Beloved Toni Morrison states that Beloved's story is not one to pass on (Morrison, 274). But by putting words to Beloved's tale and allowing readers to do the same, she lets us into Beloved's tragedy and rebirth to 124. In what will inevitably be a modest attempt at understanding the brilliance that is Toni Morrison, my midterm paper will explore Beloved's roles as a ghost-child to 124, a succubus leech and "best thing" to Sethe, and a memory of slavery to "Beloveds" with similar stories.
"I AM BELOVED, and she is mine."
Unraveling Beloved's identity begins with acknowledging her existence as a ghost and her resurface to the lives of Sethe, Denver, and Paul D. In fact many will argue that Beloved is unquestionably a ghost, but this paper seeks to reveal Beloved as a possession and a remnant of slavery. Even 18 years after her death, Beloved's life isn't hers to control. Rather, it's entirely dependent on Sethe, much like it was as a baby. Despite Sethe's constant declarations of love and adoration to Beloved's ghost, Beloved can't forgive her mother's actions. In this way, Beloved is as much a ruined victim of slavery as Sethe and her unnamed mother.
To substantiate Beloved’s murder and explain her resurface to 124, this paper will also define and unpack the roles of whitefolks and whiteness. Different characters’ recollections and their experiences with whitefolks will provide answers as to whether or not they were all “bad luck.” This aspect of the paper will explore how whiteness affected these characters, and provide insight as to whether there is such thing as a good slave owner or an innocent white man at this time period. Moreover, it will allow us to explore the ideology and privilege that follows whiteness. Perhaps in this sense, Morrison intended there to be more than one haunt to this story--a memory of a tragic incident that exists in Beloved, and a reminder of the tragic history that exists in every white family's figurine of a black child with coins in his mouth.
Bridging the Gap October 2, 2017
In her novel Beloved, Toni Morrisonassigns a metaphorical conflation of identities to Beloved. On the surface it's clear that Beloved is Sethe's baby daughter and Denver's older sister. But through Morrison's use of figurative language, it becomes apparent that Beloved is "more" than that. She's a painful reminder of the enslaved mothers and daughters lost to the Middle Passage, an embodiment of the "black and angry dead," and a bridge between the past and the present, and the dead and the living.
Beloved's metaphorical presence and identity challenge us to justify her actions and question her return to 124. While trying to piece together Beloved's past, I constantly found myself envious of Sethe, who never doubts the fact that Beloved is "her child, returned to her from the dead." Perhaps it's my lack of knowledge on Beloved that makes her presence so haunting. After all, a majority of the novel only explains that Beloved died as a baby, and transformed from being a supernatural haunt that left handprints on cakes, to a physical haunt that showed up at 124, waiting for Sethe and Denver.
A piece of Beloved's identity becomes clear after she spends a cold night with Paul D. Paul D recalls having sex with Beloved, and claims he is "thankful for having been escorted to some ocean-deep place he once belonged." The "ocean-deep" sex becomes a metaphor for his tormented journey from Africa to Afro-America, for which he had no control over his body or his free-will. He goes on to accuse Beloved of "moving" him and "taking" him to places where she wanted him without his consent. (Morrison, 126) Much like men and women were taken from their homes, and moved to lands where they were unwanted, Paul D recalls feeling powerless in the presence of Beloved.
Last, Morrison uses a bridge as a metaphor to describe Beloved's roles between worlds. Before her arrival at 124, we see Beloved standing on a bridge over water, between life and death. The bridge itself is a metaphorical paradox, connecting her family's past and present, and separating slavery from present day. After returning to 124, Paul D asks Beloved how she found the house--to which she responds "When I was at the bridge, she told me." Here it's revealed that Beloved can communicate between worlds past and present, thereby reminding us of the "sixty million and more" who were victims to slavery and the Middle Passage.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may... September 25, 2017
The Haunting of Hill House elicits fear through its unsettling use of characterization. By introducing a character that’s seemingly innocent and painfully sheltered, Shirley Jackson sets us up for the worst. It's clear from the start that Eleanor Vance, former prisoner and slave to her invalid mother, is eager to salvage her freedom, identity, and “cup of stars” at Hill House. Unsurprisingly, she quickly becomes the victim of Hill House’s hauntings. But rather than giving into the house or its hauntings, Eleanor becomes obsessed with herself and the connection she shares with Hill House, almost as if living in one of her fantasies.
The concept of "the haunted" becoming "the haunt" seems to be a reoccurring thread in our discussion of American horror stories. Similar to Bartelby in "Bartelby, the Scrivener," and the Governess in The Turn of the Screw, Eleanor Vance becomes her own haunt, at one point even asking herself, “Am I doing it?—Is it me?” (Jackson, 201-2). Perhaps what’s even more unsettling about Eleanor's "turn" is her apparent indifference to the hauntings. For a girl that spent so much time questioning her decisions, Eleanor seems unaffected by the hauntings themselves. As far as she's concerned, the hauntings are giving her everything she wants--whether that's bringing her closer to Theodora, or showering her with attention. She finds herself happy and fulfilled at Hill House, only concerned that the house knows her and will keep her a prisoner of her past.
Playing with this idea that Eleanor was living a dream, it's possible that Hill House was just another fantasy. For starters, this could be a stretch, but the outlandish characterization and relationships of the characters in Hill House could have only been created in Eleanor's mind. Theodora is the sister she wanted but never had, Luke represents her uncertain and repressed sexual desire, and Dr. Montague is her makeshift parental figure. Second, the jumps and holes in the storyline are only consistent with that of a dream. Last, her depression and suicidal thoughts are apparent throughout the book, so it makes sense that Hill House is just another escape. The warnings she's given when approaching Hill House could be signs of doubt in taking her own life. At the end of her journey, she arrives at Hill House and asks herself, "Why don't they stop me?" What if they don't exist?
Just a Child September 18, 2017
The fallacy that children can do no wrong is a common theme in The Turn of the Screw. Written about a governess whose sole desire is to preserve innocence, The Turn of the Screw is both chilling and open-ended. A majority of the events in the novella are left up to the reader to decipher, but they do well to convince the readers of Miles and Flora’s innocence and purity, even enticing us to give the children the benefit of the doubt. Driven by her sense of duty to care for the children and protect them from the house ghosts, the governess quickly becomes obsessed with the childrens’ innocent beauty and beautiful innocence. It's ultimately her obsession with the children's innocence that keeps the truth hidden. We can only go as far as to guess what "things" Miles did at school, and whether or not ghosts were actually present or a fabrication of the children's lies.
In an ironic 'turn' of events this weekend, I took it upon myself to binge watch the new Netflix Original Little Evil. With its refreshing and sardonic sense of humor, the movie brings to light a number of the same questions posed in The Turn of the Screw, including innocence, madness, and the differences between seeing and believing. More specifically, the movie revolves around Lucas, a Satanist child whose mother is completely unaware of his morbid rituals and infatuations with killing her husband. Much like the governess in The Turn of the Screw, the mother in this movie never questions her son’s goodness, claiming that much like Miles and Flora, "he’s been through enough." In addition to sharing a history of abandonment and mayhem, Miles, Flora, and Lucas all share a mask of innocence, and the heart of a monster.
Curses, like Chickens, Come Home to ROAST September 11, 2017
In two of the most horrifically descriptive short stories ever construed, authors Poe and Melville challenge the aesthetics of typical homes. “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “Bartelby, the Scrivener” both create soundless spaces for strangeness, torment, and madness. In “The Fall of the House of Usher” Poe describes the main estate as unhealthy, absorbed by evil, and surrounded by a dead atmosphere of decaying trees and murky ponds. (Poe, 43) Similarly, Melville describes Bartelby’s four walls as isolating, empty, and soundless. But beyond the aesthetics, these stories reveal homes that are cursed grounds and traps for its truest of monsters.
Ironically from the perspective of a ‘Scaredy Cat,’ it wasn’t the sinful taboo or strangeness of the houses, but the wholesomeness of the characterization that elicited the most haunting images. By introducing seemingly innocent characters like the narrator or the team of copyists in “Bartelby, the Scrivener,” both authors bring to light a very humanistic perspective. These characters are not only quirky, but completely relatable and convincing that ‘nothing bad is going to happen.’ This fallacy is of course ruined when Poe and Melville introduce instances of sin and taboo to taint their characters’ innocence and portray them as monsters. Perhaps in this sense, Cohen’s second thesis in “Monster Culture” has significant merit in that the monster will always reappear, whether it’s the ghostly image of Madeline, stained in blood, collapsing on her brother, or the chilling image of Bartelby, balled up against the base of a wall, lifeless. Much to my disappointment, Cohen is right--there is no way to kill a monster. Even when the monster no longer exists in its physical form, it will always be on my mind, and haunting my dreams.