Freud’s Identification with Herr K.

Dora, An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria by Sigmund Freud is a case study of a hysteric young girl named Ida Bauer. Freud takes on the case at the request of Ida’s father and probes into the origins of neurotic and hysterical somatic symptoms she seems to possess. In a series of fragmented recollections of interviews with Ida, Freud attempts to unearth and reveal the causes of Ida’s hysteric afflictions. He includes in his study the entire familial frame in Ida’s personal life; her mother, father, Herr and Frau K and the governess. Freud eventually reveals through Ida that unraveling her relationships and connections with these familial individuals is very relevant and essential.

However, there seems to be an unbalanced interpretation constructed by Freud throughout his case study. At certain parts of the narrative Freud points out that Ida is continually objectified by her father and Herr K., however Freud also plays in to objectifying Ida and takes part in using her as a “barter for exchange” to suit his own personal motives. Arguably, Ida’s further subjugation and exploitation by Freud can be seen as a narcissistic desire for inclusion in Ida’s familial framework or rather a transference from an analyst to something much closer to Dora. There seems to be a struggle of Freud to keep a professional analyst-patient distance. There are significant clues that shed light on this idea, such as Freud’s identification with Herr K. and his corruption of his analyst role at times throughout the case study. This will provide important evidence in understanding Freud’s underlying motives. Through close examination of Freud’s rhetoric, this paper will propose that this case of hysteria is not necessarily limited to the patient, but is extended to Freud as he weaves himself into a familial connection with Dora throughout the narrative.

As a psychotherapist, Freud is compelled to assert every possible outcome of a situation or event. In Dora’s case, Freud repeatedly transfers and changes the meanings of events that occur, many times with claims of displacement of a sexual nature. Take for instance the incident when Herr K. follows Dora, waits for her to be alone, and forces himself on her. Being a mere child, the reader might assume that Dora’s appropriate reaction was to resist and have emotions of disgust and anger. However, Freud does not necessarily agree with her reaction. He remarks that a “healthy girl” would have genital stimulation and sexual excitement, but instead reshapes Dora’s reaction and changes it to a repressed memory. Interestingly, further on through the narrative he again reformulates this scene, but includes himself in place of Herr K.:

So the thoughts of temptation seemed in this way to have harked back to the earlier scene, and to have revived the memory of the kiss against whose seductive influence the little “suck-a-thumbs” had defended herself at the time by the feeling of disgust. Taking into consideration, finally, the indications which seemed to point in having a transference on me – since I am a smoker too – I came to the conclusion that the idea had probably occurred to her one day during a sitting that she would like to have a kiss from me (Freud 66).

However, he quickly decides to throw the “transference” notion aside as it does not contain “susceptible proof”. This passage and Freud’s decision to set it aside quickly is very significant and acts as a strong starting point to crack open the significance of this paper’s claim.

            There is an implication that the affair of Dora’s father with Frau K. leads him to turn the other cheek when Herr K. starts making advances towards Dora, at least in and Dora’s perception of it, “When she [Dora] was feeling embittered she used to be overcome by the idea that she had been handed over to Herr K. as the price of his tolerating the relations between her father and his wife” (Freud 27). To an objective spectator, Dora’s claims are rooted in reality. Herr K. apparently let it be known that he has a sexual desire for the young girl in his actions, like sending her flowers everyday for a whole year and the event of the kiss. There is a sense that Freud validates Dora’s feelings on this matter, but then immediately rejects it as simply to cloak something else  to escape criticism. Freud then turns a perfectly reasonable, “sound and incontestable” thought of Dora’s into a “delusion-formation”. Freud’s resistance to accuse Herr K. or her father of wrongdoing reveals something more about Freud as well. In showing sympathy for her father and Herr K., he takes the position that validates the exploitation and perversion of Dora.

Consider what was previously stated in the above paragraph, “delusion-formation”. In expanding on this notion it is revealed that in fact Freud may be dealing with delusional tendencies himself. In “Keys to Dora”, Jane Gallop covers Freud’s suspicious stance as a distant and objective scientist. Gallop brings up the statement of Freud in which he writes, “A gynecologist, after all, under the same conditions, does not hesitate to make them submit to uncovering every possible part of their body. The best way of speaking about such things is to be dry and direct.” Gallop then parallels this statement with the “French detour” which in [Freud’s] terms “would seem to be titillating, coy, and flirtatious” (Gallop 79). The French term of which she speaks is when Freud writes, “J’appelle un chat un chat”, which translates to a vulgar statement of female genitalia. Freud’s defense of his diction reveals a delusion when considering his direct definition of delusional-formation, “A string of reproaches against other people leads one to suspect the existence of a string of self-reproaches with the same content” (Freud 28). In this case, as Freud uses the example of the sterile position of the gynecologist, he seems to contradict himself when he elects the detour and uses the French term, which can be translated into its vulgar representation, calls a pussy a pussy. What does this purpose serve? As a reader, this notion of contradiction might seem without purpose, and only serves to complicate solving Dora’s case. However, it reveals Freud’s unconscious wish to diminish himself as the analyst in this case study.

When the reader considers that Freud is subject to self-examination and complicit in altering the narrative in such a way to include himself in Dora’s familial space, this case study becomes something much more. His identification with Herr K. complicates the narrative, however it provides an intriguing outcome that provides the literary world an analysis that reveals our curious nature to connect with other humans on more of an emotional level. Freud’s wish was to be seduced by Dora, but in realizing his stance as an analyst, he kept himself and his audience in perpetual suspension long after the conclusion.

Works Cited

Freud, Sigmund, and Philip Rieff. Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria. New York,

            NY: Collier, 1963. Print.

Gallop, Jane. Course Reader: English 166: Freud/Nietzsche/Marx. Berkeley: University

            of California, Berkeley, 2013. Print.

Subjugation from Within an Opressed Community

Oppression is a constant theme in Chicano Literature. Audiences have read time and again how an oppressed figure breaks through the chains of subjugation through heroic efforts. Writers, artists, and filmmakers usually depict the oppressed figure gaining insight and overcoming odds of their condition. Socially constructed lines visible through gender, class, and race are usually at fault for the oppressed condition. However, what is also revealed in many Chicano narratives is that the very same social constructs that exploit the oppressed community permeates and causes further stratification within, creating a seemingly endless spiral of subjugation.

It is a difficult task for writers of these narratives to reveal the gravity of how social constructs create further subjugation within the oppressed community.  In utilizing different mediums of storytelling: film and literature, this essay will explore the ways in which the theme of oppression has greater stakes for the oppressed community than what is usually seen on the surface of reality. For the purpose of this essay, the following works will be closely analyzed, compared, and deconstructed: the film Real Women Have Curves directed by Patricia Cardoso adapted from the original play by Joesefina Lopez, Sandra Cisneros’ Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories, and Alicia Gaspar de Alba’s Desert Blood: The Juarez Murders.

            Real Women Have Curves is a film that follows a young, strong-willed Mexican-American woman coming of age named Ana Garcia. Ana is embroiled in conflict from the beginning of the film. The audience immediately gets a sense of division within the family in the opening scene. Carmen, Ana’s mom is “really sick” and wants Ana to “make breakfast for the men.” Ana asks if her sister Estela can do it, but her mom replies that she has too much work in the factory. When it is revealed that it is Ana’s last day of school, Carmen props right up and exclaims in an insidious tone, “ungrateful,” and then incites her struggles with working for the family and raising Ana. Ana then walks off with a following scene of her long trip to her Beverley Hills High School.

In analyzing just the first minutes of the film, the audience already sees a very apparent division, the division between Ana and her family. When education is brought up, Carmen has a reaction that may seem typical to working class families. Education is viewed as a way to advance in society and gain more access to better opportunities, however for Ana’s mother education is an obstacle in the way of Ana’s compliance and place in the Garcia family dynamic. Another important aspect is the distance that Ana has between her family, both in the mentalities of Ana and Carmen and actual distance when she treks across town for her education.

            Carmen’s expectations for Ana seem very oppressive throughout the film, especially when confronting the issues of body image. Carmen continually puts down Ana for being overweight. In the scene where the audience first gets introduced to the family factory, Ana sees a slim dress on a mannequin. Carmen tells her that she will never fit into that. Ana gets defensive and asks, “Why does you always have to be like this?” Carmen replies that she tells her for her own good and then proceeds to put her down for her weight, calling her enormous. One might wonder, as well as Ana as to why Carmen berates Ana continually for her weight? Should a mother not love her daughter unconditionally no matter what she looks like? The answer is simple. Carmen wants Ana to get a man and get married. Carmen is priming Ana to be a compliant and model housewife so that she will follow in her footsteps and one day have a family of her own. Her view isn’t necessarily a unique one. It is somewhat of a ubiquity in Mexican-American, working class households. Success is measured from strong family bonds under a patriarchal roof where women have to meet a requirement in body image as well as a mentality.

            Oppression does not just come from within the family; it can also come from within the Chicano community. It is revealed to Ana as well as the audience the pressures Estela has in keeping up with the bills in the factory. In an attempt to keep the factory, Estela and Ana go see Mrs. Glass to ask for an advance for the dresses. As they exit the elevator and walk up to the [Chicana] receptionist, they are condescendingly informed that they need an appointment to see Mrs. Glass. Just as Ana and Estela are about to leave Mrs. Glass shows up. While Estela is having a hard time to muster up the words to ask for the advancement, Ana takes over and demands an advance. Mrs. Glass responds quite harshly that she can’t pay advances and states to Estela, “I went out on a limb to hire you in the first place because I believe a woman like me should help a woman like you.” Ana then whispers to Estela in Spanish, “She is worse than you said.” Mrs. Glass overheard and reveals that she can not only understand Spanish, but seems to be a fluent speaker.

What is taken away from this short scene is a narrative that reverberates outside of the film into reality. The audience gets a glimpse of the figure Mrs. Glass represents. A Chicana disguised by her name and position. She emanates a powerful feminine role, however she also seems to subjugate and exploit the Garcia family. The message that this scene sends is a subtle yet striking one when considering what is at stake from the oppression and exploitation within the Chicano community.

            In Woman Hollering Creek, the author Sandra Cisneros continues on with the theme of the oppressed figure very intimately. The main character Cleofilas is a woman who lives vicariously through her telenovelas, magazines, and books; a romanticized life full of passion. Before her marriage to Juan Pedro she envisions what her life would be like “en el otro lado, on the other side” (Cisneros 43). She anticipates moving away from her hometown to Seguin, where it is “far away and lovely” and where “she would get to wear nice outfits like the women on the tele” (45). Cleofilas envisions the archetypical married life comparable to what Carmen Garcia envisions for her daughter Ana. Cleofilas is determined to be a model wife and to share her love for her new family. However as the story unfolds, Cleofilas learns that what she longed for is as fictitious as her stories in her telenovelas and books.

As Cleofilas approaches her new neighborhood she finds that her home is sandwiched between two neighbors, “the woman Soledad on the left, the woman Delores on the right” (46). Soledad, which translates to solitude or loneliness, is a woman whose husband has deserted her. Delores, which translates to sorrowful, is a woman whose two sons died in the war and whose husband died shortly after from grief. Both of these characters are significant, as they offer the reader the symbolism and foreshadowing that Cleofilas will endure in a short time. The foreshadowing is represented from the scene Cisneros illustrates here:

The neighbor lady Delores divided her time between the memory of these men and her garden, famous for it sunflowers – so tall they had to be supported with broom handles and old boards; red red cockscombs, fringed and bleeding a thick menstrual color (47).

The significance of this scene is shown, as Cisneros reveals from the color red. The “bleeding a thick menstrual color” acts as the foreshadowing device that the reader will soon discover from Juan Pedro’s beating of Cleofilas; “the lip split and bled an orchid of blood” (47). So far Cisneros has only begun to provide the brutality of an oppressed figure within her marriage. Cleofilas had hopes to escape from her dreary life of her hometown, only to find that her dreams were split open with Juan Pedro’s brutality and subjugation.

            As the narrative progresses, the reader finds that Cleofilas is slipping even deeper into a fully oppressed figure. Her duties as a wife become a performance for her husband and his friends. In the scene at the ice house, Cleofilas accompanies Juan Pedro and his friends:

[Cleofilas] sits mute beside their conversation, waits and sips a beer until it grows warm, twists a paper napkin into a knot, then another into a fan, one into a rose, nods her head, smiles, yawns, politely grins, laughs at the appropriate moments, leans against her husband’s sleeve, tugs at his elbow, and finally becomes good at predicting at where the conversation will lead (48).

This passage reads more like a script of an actor following guided direction. Cleofilas is an ornament to her husband and does not have a voice within the structure of her marriage. However as this scene progresses, the reader gets some explanation as to why there might be such brutality and oppression from the men, and especially Juan Pedro:

Cleofilas concludes each is nightly trying to find the truth lying at the bottom of the bottle like a gold doubloon on the sea floor. They want to tell each other what they want to tell themselves. But what is bumping like a helium balloon at the ceiling of the brain never finds its way out. It bubbles and rises, it gurgles in the throat, it rolls across the surface of the tounge, and erupts from the lips – a belch. If they are lucky, there are tears at the end of the long night. At any given moment, the fists try to speak (48).

This lengthy passage is filled with incredible imagery that guides the reader’s understanding of where the brutality originates. Cleofilas sees the men drowning in their beer searching for an escape or an answer. Like a gold doubloon on the seafloor, the men have little chance to find what they are seeking. They cannot communicate their pain, even if they tried. The formless feelings turn into frustration, and their frustration turns violent. They are oppressed themselves. The men have a working class wage in an oppressive environment and seek truth and answers in alcohol. The anger and brutality redirects onto themselves and often onto women like Cleofilas. Cisneros offers a vivid explanation from the complexities of oppression within the Chicano community.

            As the abuse sustained on Cleofilas gets more and more brutal and the town she lives in begins to reveal its true form of “dust and despair” (50), she begins to miss her father’s home. The town on the US side is “built so that you have to depend on husbands” (51). This male dominated town is a place where a woman has no place of empowerment. The oppressed woman is secluded with no resource for liberty or individualism. Cleofilas has only her books and imagination to liberate her from the oppressed life she is living. However, even then, Juan Pedro continues his abuse by throwing a book at Cleofilas, her book. This hurts even more than the physical pain of having a book lash across her face. The symbolism at play here is that her husband not only abuses her physically, but abuses her outlet to liberate her minds as well. Juan Pedro abuses Cleofilas’ ideas. Juan Pedro believes that there is no need to read and fill her head with silly ideas. Her only escape has been thrown out.

            In perhaps the most intense example of oppression and subjugation from the areas of the US-Mexico border and within the Chicano and Mexican community comes from Alicia Gaspar de Alba’s Desert Blood: The Juarez Murders. This novel is based on factual events that led to the deaths of hundreds of women in Juarez, Mexico. De Alba provides a disclaimer for her readers that give insight as to her motives of writing on the maquiladora murders. She explains that she added a “metaphorical dimension” to the narrative “using the image of American coins, particularly pennies, to signify the value of the victims in the corporate machine; the poor brown women who are the main target of these murders, are, in other words, as expendable as pennies in the border economy” (de Alba vii). The recurring theme of oppression and exploitation is defined from the start. De Alba also uses female protagonists to stress the major issues of an oppressed community and individuals. The narrative follows a woman named Ivon Villa. Like Ana Garcia from Real Women Have Curves, Ivon is characterized as strong-willed who is also at odds with her mother. She is a feminist, lesbian, and a visiting professor at work on her dissertation. It is not surprising that Ivon is the voice for the oppressed considering all her character traits, however these traits are what enables Ivon to break through and navigate the highly dangerous streets of Juarez and her hometown in El Paso safely.

             In the first chapter of Desert Blood, de Alba describes a gruesome scene of a girl in the process of a brutal kidnapping. By opening the narrative in this way, the reader is prepared from the start of the brutality that is endured by the victims of the region. Along with the murders, the novel directly involves the Maquiladoras located in Juarez. In these factories, several female workers are oppressed and exploited from all facets of the male dominated society. The story unfolds as Ivon and her partner Brigit are in want of adopting a baby. Ivon decides that she wants to adopt a baby on the other side of the border, in Juarez. Ivon’s cousin Ximena, arranges for the process of adoption in not the purely legal means. A maquiladora worker named Cecilia is the woman whom Ivon will adopt a baby from. As the plans are set, Ivon, Ximena, and Father Francis make their way to Cecilia’s only to find out that Cecilia has been murdered. When they reach the city morgue where Cecilia is kept, the narrative sheds light onto the attitudes that men possess when dealing with a group of women protesting the violence against women, ““Estas Viejas escandolosas,” the policeman gestured at the protestors over his shoulder. “It’s not a strike, it’s these crazy women wanting attention, that’s all.” He spit at the ground” (44). The reader sees a dismissive male society encapsulated in this policeman and the disrespect he holds for the lives of oppressed woman.

Continuing on into the morgue, Ivon sees a ravaged and lifeless body of the woman that carried her adopted child. In this scene, Cecilia is laid out on a table with several medical examiners dissecting every part of her body. Her flesh is cut out and weighed, which seems to mimic a butcher in a deli cutting up parts of an animal to sell to customers. De Alba then employs her “metaphorical dimension” in this passage:

Norma Flores was collecting the gallstones in a plastic cup. In another plastic cup Ivon noticed something that looked like coins: blackened, corroded coins mixed with pennies (52).

This scene is full of imagery that resounds de Alba’s message of the oppression and exploitation of the female population in the border economy. The coins and pennies represent the low cost of a woman’s life in the society. The medical examiners cut up Cecilia like it is routine. 

Like Ana Garcia’s conflict with her family and her determination to continue on with higher education, Ivon Villa has had a similar history with her mother. After the visit in the morgue, Ivon makes her way to her mother’s home. As she steps into the hearth of the home, the kitchen, she reflects about her past:

She was home, in her mother’s kitchen, where order and cleanliness reigned, where the next thing to be done had already been laid out, the steps clearly indicated – warm the tortillas, make the lemonade, sit down to eat lunch. This is how she’s grown up (64).

The reader gets a visit of Ivon’s past and the conventional future her mother laid out and indicated for her. Her mother was priming her to become a model housewife and mother. However there is great tension between Ivon and her mother because of who Ivon truly is. Ivon brings great shame to her mother as she angrily explains here:

That’s all you do: embarrass me in front of the whole family. It’s not enough that you went away to college and turned into a marimacha with that Women’s Studies degree, or that your father took up drinking again because of you. Now you want to bring a child into that…that immoral lifestyle of yours? ...You should be ashamed of yourself (66).

Just like Carmen Garcia, Ivon’s mother looks down disdainfully on education. What makes it seem worse, however, is that Ivon chose a Women’s Studies degree. It is as though coursework in this field brings greater shame to the mother as she was supposed to be the teacher of how a woman should act in society. The issue of the relationship of a mother and daughter is a pattern seen in many Chicano narratives. The dynamic of Ivon and her mother is nothing new, however it confirms the predominant message of oppression within the oppressed community.

            The exploitation and subjugation of communities and cultures is nothing new to society. It poisons all nations of the world and creates division between insubstantial differences of race, gender, and class. The works that have been analyzed show how social constructs have plagued communities from a microcosmic to macrocosmic social scale. The microcosmic world of Chicano families, like in Real Women Have Curves and Woman Hollering Creek have revealed the true victims of oppression and how social stratification echoes in the Chicano family dynamic. The larger study of society, like in Desert Blood, reveals the very real danger of how far oppression can lead and how many innocent victims it can produce. These works, as well as several others that are also outside of the Chicano Literary genre, are important to consider when attempting to comprehend the real dangers oppression can lead to.

Works Cited

Cisneros, Sandra. "Woman Hollering Creek." Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories.    New York: Random House, 1991. 43-56. Print.

De Alba, Alicia Gaspar. Desert Blood: The Juárez Murders. Houston, TX: Arte Publico,  2007. Print.

Real Women Have Curves. Dir. Patricia Cardoso. Perf. America Ferrera and Lupe  Ontiveros. HBO Films, 2002. Online Stream.

           

How Many More Years

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How Many More Years

Several years ago I held a part-time job at a retirement community. This was not a home for dementia or for anyone especially ill. It was just a place for elderly people that were too weak to look after themselves. The Home was nothing much to look at. It was an old dilapidated building with coat upon coat of white paint that cracked and wilted like a vase full of white roses that don’t get enough water.

The lobby where relatives come to check-in was renovated a week before I began working there. I can still smell the fresh lacquer.  After the lobby, there was a deep hallway lined with framed black and white portraits of nurses and caretakers of the distant past. At the end of the hallway was an elevator that transported family and staff to the tenants’ dwellings.

The first day I met Robert was the first day I started. He was eighty-nine and always exuded vibrancy in all manners, like the way he colorfully dressed seems to stick in my mind now more than anything. A part of my job was laundry. During the scheduled lunch hour for the seniors, I made my rounds to each room picking up loads of musky clothing. First stop happened to be Robert’s.

The room was tiny with a twin bed near a small window. However, what caught my eye were the stacks of vinyl records that overtook almost the entire living space. The stacks covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. I quickly forgot why I was there and started to shuffle through these vinyl artifacts. The records had post-it notes on them, being labeled;

-first kiss

 -first girl I danced with

 -Phillip born 1959.

           While I was lost in the array of the racks of vinyl records, I failed to notice a man that was in the doorway of the room.

“Ahem!”

 I turned around in a jolt and saw a short and stubby man no taller than what must have been 5’2”. 

“Hey boy! What do you think you’re doing? What’s your name?”

I quietly responded, “Arthur, sir.”

He approached me and snatched a record I forgot I had picked up. He looked at the record, which was labeled Phillip born 1959.  Robert slipped the record out of the sleeve casing, blew the dust off of it, and placed it on his record player. With his wrinkled hand, he smoothly lifted the needle and placed it gently on a precise groove of the vinyl surface.

“Ah, Howlin’ Wolf. You know that this year was very important. This was the record I was playing when the Lord decided it was time for my first-born to come into this world.”

 He closed his eyes and started humming to the song, “How Many More Years”.

As I stood there in the midst of his recollection I felt an immediate connection. I shut my eyes while his gentle voice guided me. He continued picking out a few more records and gave me a vivid and detailed picture of his memories. Some were happy, some were sad, and some were downright hilarious. Robert was always full of life in retelling his past, even when he was going over the more somber parts of his life.

“How about this one?” I handed over a Miles Davis vinyl.

“Ah. Kind of Blue. I haven’t listened to this since…” He paused for a moment.

“…Since I last talked to my daughter. Her name is Irene. Haven’t seen her for

five years.” Robert slipped the vinyl out and placed it in the record player.

The vinyl began spinning and out of it came a soft piano accompanied by a calm cello. A sharp trumpet abruptly pierced through the sonic waves that the piano and cello carefully constructed.

            “The last thing she said to me was that I had no place in her heart.”

 The high-pitched trumpet continued to set the harmonic pace until it dissipated and gave it back to the piano and cello.

            “She told me I was already dead to her.”

Just as soon as the piano and cello were finally getting it back to how it started a saxophone took over which seemed to shift the harmonic rhythm.

            “I’ve made mistakes, too many to count, I know that boy,”

The saxophone began to dwindle into obscurity, where the trumpet reemerged, challenging the piano to keep up.

            “I’m a lonely old fool, with nothing but my memories.”

 The tempo began slowing and the sounds became dissonant. The piano soloed out the piece in a plaintive tone that made me inexplicably shiver.

            Before the next song started to play I told Robert I had to get going. He nodded and slumped over on his bed. I slowly slipped out and overheard Robert’s sighs of grief as I was shutting his door. At the end of my shift I inquired at the front desk when Robert’s last visitor came in. I was told to see the Manager of the Home, Jenny who keeps the records of all tenants and their visitors. Jenny told me the last and only visitor was Irene. That was five years ago, a week after Robert checked in at the Home.

“She only stayed for five minutes. I remember she dropped off those piles of dusty records in Robert’s room.” Jenny explained.

“Does Robert have any other family members? I find it odd that he hasn’t had a visitor in so long.” I asked.

Jenny nodded and added,

“He has a son Philip. We tried to get Philip’s contact information, but haven’t had any success. Believe it or not, Robert’s case is a very common one. Many of our tenants are lucky to have one or two visits a month. Why are you so interested anyway?” She asked in a voice full of condemnation.

In a defensive tone I answered, “Just curious. I met Robert and he seems really nice.”

“Some first day advice. Don’t get too attached to our tenants. We try to keep a professional environment and it won’t help if one of our employees gets emotionally involved with personal family history of one of our tenants.”

Jenny firmly slammed Robert’s file shut and showed me out.

            The next day at work, Jenny’s voice carried throughout my mind. I began to detach myself and carry out my duties in an autonomous fashion. I avoided Robert’s room for the whole week, up until the next laundry day. I saved his room for last and as I might have guessed he was there waiting with a record in hand.

            “I’m really sorry, but I don’t have enough time to…”

Robert cut me off,

            “Nonsense. Just listen to this one. I’ve been waiting to show you all week!”

He quickly shuffled his short legs to the record player and began playing Jimi Hendrix.

            “Let me tell you about this one fine woman I saw for a short while.” Robert said in a seductive tone.

 “All Along the Watchtower” began to drown out Jenny’s warning and I sat down waiting eagerly to hear about this “fine woman”.

                                                                ~

Months passed by and once a week Robert and I would share music albums and stories attached to the songs. Laundry days couldn’t come fast enough. They were the only days to look forward to at work and an escape from the wilting shell that surrounded Robert and I. 

However, there will be one week that will always haunt me. At the scheduled lunch hour, I hastily made my way toward Robert’s room. I cracked the door open and saw him sitting at the edge of his bed with a bewildered expression upon his face. He noticed me standing in the doorway and gestured me to come in.

“There’s not enough time. Not enough time.”

I saw an open notebook on the bed beside him and noticed what looked like estimates in very careful handwriting.

“I did the math. I figure I don’t have much time left so I started to go on figuring how long it would take to listen to my records again. I just don’t have time boy. Even if I listened to all my records back to back staying up all night and day, I just won’t have time to listen to all my memories.”

I studied his calculations and inwardly agreed as I placed my hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. I stood there thinking of all the songs he had yet to listen to; each song with its packet of memory allowing him to relive with pure emotion, his loved ones and happier moments of his life. He was right. He did not have the time.

We stood there in silence for several minutes until Robert snapped us out of our contemplative state.

“Ah the hell with it! I better get started! Pick one we haven’t listened to yet!”

He began to tell a story, but with a disheartened tone.

~

He never brought it up again. Things continued just as normal where he would reveal to me his wealth of experiences for about four months until Robert passed away peacefully in his sleep. The day we found him, Robert had the Howlin’ Wolf record placed on his record player with the needle skipping from needing to be flipped to side two. My shaky hand lifted the needle and placed it unsteadily on a groove. As “I’m Leavin’ You” started playing I picked up the casing of the album and noticed an extra added post-it labeled first time I met my friend, Arthur.

Defending the Principles of the Nation: Analysis of O’Brien’s The Things They Carried

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Defending the Principles of the Nation: Analysis of O’Brien’s The Things They Carried

When one thinks of a nation, specifically one they belong to, feelings of pride stir up; pride that originates in an idea. A citizen is grounded in the belief of an idea. This idea is so extraordinary that it unites citizenry in profound ways. Being born into a nation is a privilege that enlists all citizens to carry out and defend the ideologies of the nation. When the idea is threatened, the whole nation is threatened and is dealt with, sometimes severely. Because of obligatory duties, a citizen is drafted to fight, conquer, and murder the enemy to uphold the principles of the nation. For the fortunate citizens who do not get drafted into fighting ambiguous battles, little is known of the emotional and mental consequences of going into the battlefield. For those who experienced such battles, there is a challenge in successfully relaying the inexplicable experiences of their conquest. Thus literature is relied upon for shaping and communicating the formless feelings ruminating deep within a soldier of a nation.

            In The Things They Carried, by Tim O’ Brien, there is an attempt at communicating to the reader the individual experiences of going into a war in a distant country legitimized by the ideologies of nationalism. The way O’Brien communicates this notion is very interesting in the way the story is structured. There are several lists within the story. Listing and itemizing the tangible things each of the soldiers carried is emphasized down to its specific weight and detail, for example;

“The things they carried were largely determined by necessity. Among the necessities or near necessities were P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wrist watches, dog tags, mosquito repellant, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kool-Aid, lighters, matches, sewing kits, Military Payment Certificates, C rations, and two or three canteens of water. Together, these items weighed between fifteen and twenty pounds.” (O’Brien, 238)

The reader is bombarded from the beginning with a long list of tangibles. The narrator lists these items in no specific order, however it is up to the reader to compile an image in their mind. The lists of tangibles go on and on in the story and with it the compilations of images are added to the reader’s imagination giving an impression of the severe weight the soldiers carried. Accordingly, enacting the reader to be weighed down as the story progresses.

            As the story develops, there are interesting shifts that occur throughout. A very important feature to the structure of the story is the interchanging descriptions of tangible to the intangible things/thoughts the characters are carrying. Because of the apt attention to detailing the tangibles, when the shift occurs to the intangible and emotional weight it suggests an understanding that the tangible and intangible are comparable and synonymous with one another. The reader views the characters tied to materials that are parceled with deep and personal memory of their homes and personal lives. Ted Lavender, the victim of circumstance, carried tranquilizers and was also “scared”. Kiowa, a devout Baptist, carried a New Testament, but also “carried his grandmother’s distrust of the white man.” (238) However, the main character that is most impressed upon the reader is First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross. Cross carried many tangibles, but also carried an infatuation of a girl named Martha. Furthermore, the narrator implicates the dangers of carrying such cumbersome loads of both tangibles and more importantly intangible things.

“To carry something was to “hump” it, as when Lieutenant Jimmy Cross humped his love for Martha up the hills and through the swamps. In its intransitive form, “to hump” meant “to walk,” or “to march,” but it implied burdens far beyond the intransitive.” (238)

To truly convey to the reader the gravities of weight the soldiers carried, O’Brien employs vivid and visceral imagery. The scene of Ted Lavender being shot and killed reveals the “exceptional burden” carried by him. The narrator describes his death along with everything he carried, “plus the unweighed fear.” Once again, the tangibles are juxtaposed with the intangible weight that burdened Ted Lavender and provided him a death that was “like watching a rock fall or a big sandbag,” as Kiowa who witnessed his death describes. The description by Kiowa of Lavender’s death continues in illustrating this it was “not like the movies where the dead guy rolls around and does fancy spins…the poor bastard just flat-fuck fell. Boom. Down.” (239) There is a very important element to realism in Kiowa’s description. The way Lavender died instills an image of a heavy and solid force pounding the ground that conveys a very true and real sense of the burdens these soldiers carry up until their end.

            It is not enough that the story imparts imagery to convey the weight of the characters, but also must employ the deep ruminating thoughts of the characters to truly inculcate what is at stake for the characters. The omniscient narrator becomes valuable in the sense that the reader is taken into the deepest depths of each character, especially with the main character and protagonist, Jimmy Cross. The tangible object of the pebble Martha gives Cross as a good luck charm becomes a much heavier weight as it continually conjures up thoughts that drift him away into another plane of existence,

“he carried the pebble in his mouth, turning it with his tongue, tasting sea salts and moisture. His mind wandered. He had difficulty keeping his attention on war… he would slip away into daydreams, just pretending, walking barefoot along the Jersey shore, with Martha, carrying nothing. He would feel himself rising. Sun and waves and gentle winds, all love and lightness.” (239)

In this passage the physical object evokes memory and longing. Cross is taken away from the realities that surround him and lifts him. He feels himself rising, shedding the weight of war. However, this fantasy soon becomes more of a burden than he bargained for. The day of Lavender’s death, Cross awaits Lee Strunk who is on a routine inspection of a tunnel. During this time, without him “willing it”, Cross was compelled into thought about Martha. Rather than making Cross feel lifted like before, he felt a “dense, crushing love”. He wished to be buried under “all that weight” of love with Martha. Shortly after, in an instant Lavender was killed and Cross inwardly took the blame, adding to the weight of burden felt by him, which “he would have to carry like a stone in his stomach for the rest of the war.” (241)

            Following Lavender’s death the narrator again itemizes the tangibles and intangibles of the things the characters carry, however it is a bit different in its description because now it is what they collectively carry and what burdens they share together. Along with “USO stationary pencils and pens” they carry invisible things like infections and diseases, such as malaria and dysentery. Moreover, the narrator states, “They carried the land itself – Vietnam, the place, the soil…They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it…they carried gravity. They moved like mules.” (241) They are the beasts of burden, collectively carrying the entire nation on their backs. This notion is concluded at the end of the paragraph of which the previous quoted passage was taken. As the resupply choppers arrived, they were brought “fresh watermelons, crates of ammunition…sparklers for the Fourth of July, colored eggs for Easter. The great American war chest.” All of which they carried on their backs and shoulders “for the ambiguities of Vietnam.” (241) The sparklers, watermelons, and the colored eggs represent the national symbols to remind them where they come from and that idea they are fighting and dying for, adding further tangible and intangible weight to their bodies and minds. These passages clearly and eloquently explicate the chief and resounding message towards the reader of the true weight and haul these soldiers carry on behalf of an ambiguous conquest in a foreign land.

            Towards the end of the story and in a climactic scene, the narrator describes the “freedom birds” that will carry the soldiers beyond the war, nation, and the world, which jettisons the burdens and obligations carried by them in their experiences of war. As the jumbo jet takes off and starts flying the narrator states, “They were taken up over the clouds and the war, beyond duty, beyond gravity and mortification, and global entanglements.”  Throughout the scene, lightness is emphasized. The weights and burdens fall off as they sail over the “mountains and oceans, over America, over the farms and great sleeping cities and cemeteries and highways and the golden arches of McDonalds.” (243) Once again, the narrator uses listing, but as a way of shedding the weight that the soldiers carry. They are taken above the land, the nation, and the complications of global conflict.

O’Brien’s task of communicating the feelings and experiences is transferred to the reader quite successfully by the end of this story. There is no doubt left within the reader of the figurative weight that the Vietnam soldiers carry. O’Brien’s message endures across temporal and regional paradigms. The story of burden is something that is not necessarily new to literature, but it is something that must be communicated for those who will never experience an ambiguous global conflict far away from home.

Works Cited

O'Brien, Tim. The Things They Carried. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1990. Print.

Reprinted in The Short Story (Eng 180H). Chandra: University of California, Berkeley 2012.

How Many More Years (Second Rough Draft)

How Many More Years

Several years ago I held a part-time job at a retirement community. This was not a home for dementia or for anyone especially ill. It was just a place for elderly people that were too weak to look after themselves. The home was nothing much to look at; an old, plain, dilapidated building with coat upon coat of white paint that cracked and wilted like a vase full of white roses that don’t get enough water. The lobby, where relatives come to check-in was renovated a week before I began working there. I can still smell the fresh lacquer.  After the lobby, there was a deep hallway lined with framed black and white portraits of nurses and caretakers of the distant past. At the end of the hallway was an elevator that transported family and staff to the inhabitants’ dwellings.

The first day I met Robert was the first day I started. He was eighty-nine and always exuded vibrancy in all manners, like the way he colorfully dressed seems to stick in my mind now more than anything. A part of my job was laundry. During the scheduled lunch hour for the seniors, I made my rounds to each room picking up loads of musky clothing. First stop happened to be Robert’s. The room was tiny with a twin bed near a small window. However, what caught my eye were the stacks of vinyl records that overtook almost the entire living space. The stacks covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. I quickly forgot why I was there and started to shuffle through these vinyl artifacts. They were not in any order that was familiar to me. The records had post-it notes on them, being labeled first kiss, first girl I danced with, Phillip born 1959, etc.

            While I was lost in the array of the racks of vinyl records, I failed to notice a man that was in the doorway of the room. “Ahem!” I turned around in a jolt and saw a short and stubby man no taller than what must have been 5’2”. 

“My boy! What do ya think you’re doin’ boy? What’s your name?”

I quietly responded, “Arthur, sir.”

He approached me and snatched a record I forgot I had picked up. He looked at the record, which was labeled Phillip born 1959.  Robert slipped the record out of the sleeve casing, blew the dust off of it, and placed it on his record player. With his wrinkled hand, he smoothly lifted the needle and placed it gently on a precise groove of the vinyl surface.

“Ah, Howlin’ Wolf. You know boy, that this year was very important. This was the record I was playin’ when the Lord decided it was time for my first-born to come into this world.”

 He closed his eyes and started humming to the song, “How Many More Years”.

As I stood there in the midst of his recollection I felt an immediate connection. I shut my eyes while his gentle voice guided me. He continued picking out a few more records and gave me a vivid and detailed picture of his memories. Some were happy, some were sad, and some were downright hilarious. Robert was always full of life in retelling his past, even when he was going over the more somber parts of his life.

“How about this one?” I handed over a Miles Davis vinyl.

“Ah. Kind of Blue. I haven’t listened to this since…” He paused for a moment.

“…Since I last talked to my daughter. Her name is Irene. Haven’t seen her for

five years.” Robert slipped the vinyl out and placed it in the record player.

The vinyl began spinning and out of it came a soft piano accompanied by a calm cello. A sharp trumpet abruptly pierced through the sonic waves that the piano and cello carefully constructed.

            “The last thing she said to me was that I had no place in her heart.”

 The high-pitched trumpet continued to set the harmonic pace until it dissipated and gave it back to the piano and cello.

            “She told me I was already dead to her.”

Just as soon as the piano and cello were finally getting it back to how it started a saxophone took over which seemed to shift the harmonic rhythm.

            “I’ve made mistakes, too many to count, I know that boy,”

The saxophone began to dwindle into obscurity, where the trumpet reemerged, challenging the piano to keep up.

            “I’m a lonely old fool, with nothin’ but my memories.”

 The tempo began slowing and the sounds became dissonant. The piano soloed out the piece in a plaintive tone that made me inexplicably shiver.

~

This continued throughout the week. By the end of the week, at the scheduled lunch hour, I hastily made my way toward Robert’s room. I cracked the door open and saw him sitting at the edge of his bed with a bewildered expression upon his face. He noticed me standing in the doorway and gestured me to come in.

“There’s not enough time. Not enough time.”

I saw an open notebook on the bed beside him and noticed what looked like estimates in very careful handwriting.

“Ah boy, I did the math. I figure I don’t have much time left so I started to go on figurin’ how long it would take to listen to my records again. I just don’t have time boy. Even if I listened to all my records back to back staying up all night and day, I just won’t have time to listen to all my memories.”

I studied his calculations and inwardly agreed as I placed my hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. I stood there thinking of all the songs he had yet to listen to; each song with its packet of memory allowing him to relive with pure emotion, his loved ones and happier moments of his life. He was right. He did not have the time.

We stood there in silence for several minutes until Robert snapped us out of our contemplative state.

“Ah the hell with it boy! I better get started! Pick one we haven’t listened to yet!” He began to tell a story, but with a disheartened tone.

~

He never brought it up again. Things continued just as normal where he would reveal to me his wealth of experiences for about four months until Robert passed away peacefully in his sleep. The day we found him Robert had the Howlin’ Wolf record placed on his record player with the needle skipping from needing to be flipped to side two. My shaky hand lifted the needle and placed it unsteadily on a groove. As “I’m Leavin’ You” started playing I picked up the casing of the album and noticed an extra added post-it labeled, first time I met my friend, Arthur.

How Many More Years (Rough)

How Many More Years

Several years ago I held a part-time job at a retirement community. This was not a home for dementia or for anyone especially ill. It was just a place for elderly people that were too weak to look after themselves.

The first day I met Robert was the first day I started my new part-time job. He was eighty-nine and always exuded vibrancy in all manners, like the way he colorfully dressed seems to stick in my mind now more than anything. A part of my job was laundry. During the scheduled lunch hour, I made my rounds to each room. First stop happened to be Robert’s. The room was tiny with a twin bed near a small window. However, what caught my eye were the stacks of vinyl records that overtook almost the entire living space. The stacks covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. I quickly forgot why I was there and started to shuffle through these vinyl artifacts. They were not in any order that was familiar to me, but I soon understood what method there was in the arrangement of these records. The records had post-it notes on them, being labeled first kiss, first girl I danced with, Phillip born 1959, etc.

            While I was lost in the array of the racks of vinyl records, I failed to notice a man that was in the doorway of the room. “Ahem!” I turned around in a jolt and saw a short and stubby man no taller than what must have been 5’2”.  “My boy! What do ya think you’re doin’ boy? What’s your name?” I quietly responded, “Arthur, sir.” He approached me and snatched a record I subconsciously forgot I had picked up. He looked at the record, which was labeled Phillip born 1959.  Robert slipped the record out of the sleeve casing, blew the dust off of it, and placed it on his record player. With his wrinkled hand, he smoothly lifted the needle and placed it gently on a precise groove of the vinyl surface. “Ah, Howlin’ Wolf. You know boy, that this year was very important. This was the record I was playin’ when the Lord decided it was time for my first-born to come into this world.” He closed his eyes and started humming to the song, “How Many More Years”.

As I stood there in the midst of his recollection I felt an immediate connection. He continued picking out a few more records and gave me a vivid and detailed picture of his memories. Some were happy, some were sad, and some were downright hilarious. Robert was always full of life in retelling his past, even when he was going over the more somber parts of his life.

This continued throughout the week. By the end of the week, at the scheduled lunch hour, I hastily made my way toward Robert’s room. I creaked the door open and saw him sitting at the edge of his bed with a bewildered expression upon his face. He noticed me standing in the doorway and gestured me to come in. “There’s not enough time. Not enough time.” I saw an open notebook on the bed beside him and noticed what looked like estimates in very careful handwriting. “Ah boy, I did the math. I figure I don’t have much time left so I started to go on figurin’ how long it would take to listen to my records again. I just don’t have time boy. Even if I listened to all my records back to back staying up all night and day, I just won’t have time to listen to all my memories.” I studied his calculations and inwardly agreed as I placed my hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. I stood there thinking of all the songs he had yet to listen to; each song with its packet of memory allowing him to relive with pure emotion, his loved ones and happier moments of his life. He was right. He did not have the time.

We stood there in silence for several minutes until Robert snapped us out of our contemplative state. “Ah the hell with it boy! I better get started! Pick one we haven’t listened to yet!” He began to tell a story, but with a disheartened tone.

He never brought it up again. Things continued on like that for about four months until Robert passed away peacefully in his sleep. The day we found him Robert had the Howlin’ Wolf record placed on his record player with the needle skipping from needing to be flipped to side two. My shaky hand lifted the needle and placed it unsteadily on a groove. (CLICK FOR CONTEXT) As “I’m Leavin’ You” started playing I picked up the casing of the album and noticed an extra added post-it labeled, first time I met my friend, Arthur.