How Many More Years

-->

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

-->

-->

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.

The Searchers & Ride the High Country: Critical Review

What Makes a Man to Wander? The Transient’s Search for Redemption

            Towards the twilight stages of the mythic Western, several of the usual elements involved in it evolved and became much more complex. As the American audience changed, so too did the American storyteller. The grandiosity and epic nature of these latter myths that are revealed to us on screen portray a depth of issues that challenge its audience into analysis of our society and our deepest fundamental beliefs. Two films that reveal the rich complexities of the issues facing the US are The Searchers (John Ford, 1956) and Ride the High Country (Sam Peckinpah, 1962). Some significant issues that are explored in these films are morality, racism, reconciliation, and religion.

Familiar figures are presented to us like Ethan Edwards (John Wayne), Steve Judd (Joel McCrea), and Gil Westrum (Randolph Scott) , however there is something much more peculiar and opaque about these characters that audiences may find difficult to examine on the surface. With the characters having to deal with an outer conflict that is apparent, there is something ruminating deep within them; nothing that is verbally conveyed but can be delineated through the actions and emotional responses that these characters play out through the films. There is a constant inward struggle plaguing these characters. Oddly, they always seem to enter from and exit into the margins of society; appearing and disappearing into a vast landscape. I argue that these struggles are based on their inabilities to conform to the social constructs of subjective moral principles, and in analyzing this notion one may conclude that the distinction between right, wrong, good and evil is full of ambiguity and uncertainty. The mythic Western figure is doomed to fall into a life of transience and an endless search for redemption.

          In The Searchers, the idea of transience is presented to us at the start of the film, which is an important theme to this narrative. If we analyze it deeply it could provide some insight. First off, what is a transient? The dictionary definition is a person who inhabits a place for only a short period of time. As the opening title credits begin rolling it is accompanied by a song written and composed by Stan Jones and performed by The Songs of the Pioneers. The lyrics present intriguing questions that pertain to the struggles of an individual entering into and becoming a part of society;

What makes a man to wander?
What makes a man to roam?
What makes a man leave bed and board,
and turn his back on home?

Ride away,
Ride away,
Ride away

                             (Stan Jones, 1956)

The first scene of the film depicts the landscape from the inside of a dark cabin. The landscape is highly contrasted to the inner dwellings of the home. What can we make of this? Perhaps true answers are embedded within the vast landscape as opposed to being within the dark cabin which could represent society’s constructed answers to fundamental moral questions. The transient who is played by Ethan Edwards (Wayne) enters into the narrative from a mysterious and complex past.

           

 Similarly, in Ride the High Country Steve Judd enters into a town of unfamiliarity, full of modern buildings and technology. He traverses the town with a sort of naivety draped on his face while thinking he was being greeted by a cheering crowd. A police officer yells, “Get out of the way old man!” Steve is in a place where he and the audience know he does not belong. Steve is a shadow representing a past that is almost forgotten and unappreciated as revealed by the bankers where the deal to transport twenty thousand dollars worth of gold is made. The bankers tell Steve that they are not concerned about the past and want to focus on the present. This statement is not only felt by the bankers but can represent the feelings of the town and beyond to society in general. Steve represents the past and is unable to be understood by the community that surrounds him. As Michael Bliss, the author of Justified Lives: Morality and Narrative in the Films of Sam Peckinpah, states, “Given the way that the film approves of Steve’s morality and criticizes that of civilization, it seems more likely that it is the world that has lost touch with Steve.” (Bliss). Steve agrees to the deal of transporting gold, but there is something more at stake for Steve than being able to get a monetary reward. He is on a quest of reconciliation. This higher purpose drives his motivations for being able to live up to principles that are deeply personal and complex.

            Ethan Edwards also has a perception of the world that is personal and complex. At several instances in the film the audience is jolted by actions played out by Ethan that seem to surface from an embroiled and conflicted conscience. Soon after the massacre of Ethan’s family, the search for Lucy and Debbie begins. When the group of searchers happens upon a dead Comanche Ethan begins to shoot out the eyes of the corpse. He states that by shooting the eyes out the spirit will be cursed to eternally wander. Some insight on this scene is stated by Robert B. Pippin in his essay What is a Western? Politics and Self-Knowledge in John Ford’s The Searchers. Pippin suggests that “it manifests again the self-hatred theme, since the description of someone who must “wander forever between the winds” fits Ethan more than anyone.” (Pippin, 2009).

            Furthermore, it may be too simple to suggest that this reaction of Ethan’s is based on racial-hatred, but more on self-conflict and confusion. For example, the act of massacre on the helpless buffalo is another scene where Ethan’s hatred arises. He justifies this act by insinuating that if he systematically slaughters the herd, the Comanche will have nothing to eat and will starve. The sentiment, which may or may not have been incidental in the film, is a known fact in American history. The buffalo were nearly instinct with the encroachment of the land by white settlement. Shortly after, upon hearing the bugles of the army rangers, Ethan and Marty are introduced to a scene of the same type of systematic genocide inflicted on a Native tribe. Ethan’s reaction to this is not of joy but of deep sorrow. Finding Look murdered is testament to his dejected state, as he pulls the blanket over her face. Ethan’s anti-Indian racism gets only more ambiguous. Thus Ethan is doomed from the onset to be a transient. It is fitting that he is compared to a spirit, who cannot be seen and understood by society, is doomed to wander forever.

            Both films have religious subtext that is worth analyzing in the attempt to answer or rationalize the transience that plagues the characters. Christianity is used as a thematic tool, but it also is a tool to decipher between good and evil for the characters. Sometimes it could be subjective and shaped into a twisted perception of morality which is proven harmful. For example, in Ride, Peckinpah takes the audience to the Knudsen Farm where Gil, Steve and Heck are greeted by the religious Knudsen and his daughter Elsa. As soon as Elsa sees the men coming she darts into the house to change from her boyish clothing to feminine attire. This can suggest two possibilities; Firstly, Knudsen is attempting to disguise his daughter from the hungry eyes of men and secondly, Elsa chooses to wear men’s clothes to protect herself from her father because of an incestuous undertone that could be deciphered from the characteristics of their relationship.

            Knudsen is an appropriate character in analyzing, considering how religion is commented on in the film. At the surface he is very religious; however when the narrative goes deeper into his character the audience finds out just how deplorable and shocking his actual behavior really is. For example, after he catches Elsa meeting with Heck in secret he confronts her in their home where he strikes her. Immediately following he backs away into the darkness (which could symbolize his ignorance) and begins citing scripture. This scene is insightful in beginning to unfold the notions of how a person can be educated by the social constructs of religion, but can also be morally deficient. Steve is highly contrasted with Knudsen. Steve is not on a quest to change the world. He is on a quest of redemption. The intentions of Steve are pure and just, as opposed to Ethan who at many times in The Searchers acts out of violence and hatred. Yet both of these characters are searching for something profound in hopes of justifying themselves in society. The question is do they ever succeed?

            In both films Ethan and Steve are on a quest of redemption. While Steve’s morality is distinct, Ethan’s is uncertain. The acts of violence and dialogue expounding hate and racism, illustrates Ethan as possessing bad moral judgment, however at several instances this illustration comes into question. It seems that his self-hatred is projected onto others subtly. For example, after the scene where Ethan and Marty discover the massacred Native tribe, they make their way to the army camp in hopes to find Debbie. When they enter the camp they find that there are some white girls that were there, around the same age Debbie would be. Upon seeing these girls, Ethan and Marty find that they have completely dissimilated from being “white” and culturally assimilated into being Natives themselves. Failing to find Debbie they exit, but the camera focuses in on Ethan as he is exiting the door. His face is not that of disgust or racial hatred, but of an almost empathetic gesture to the plight of the young women. The complications and mysterious nature of Ethan only get more complex as the narrative progresses.

            Perhaps the answer to Ethan’s complexity is his actual search for Debbie and what he chooses to do once he found her. When he discovers of Scar’s whereabouts, his initial confrontation with Scar provides much of our understanding of Ethan than what was formerly revealed to the audience. As he is greeted by Scar (a blue eyed and indistinct character much like Ethan) they both discover that they understand each other more than they previously believed. Ethan “speaks pretty good Comanche” and Scar “speaks pretty good American.” Upon entering Scar’s tent, Ethan and Marty are introduced to his wives and discover Debbie to be one of them. It would seem that it is Ethan’s great fear to have his only niece to be a Comanche. Afterwards he nearly murders Debbie in yet another jolt to the audience’s conception of Ethan’s moral judgment.

            At the final battle scene and climax of the film, Ethan, Marty and the other deputies find that Scar’s tribe is camped near town. Marty firmly believes that Ethan will murder Debbie if he got the chance so he offers to infiltrate the camp to retrieve Debbie safely. As Ethan and the deputies start to invade, Ethan in his last violent act of the film discovers a dead Scar, yet scalps him anyway. This sensationalist act could be seen as a way of concluding revenge on Scar in the only way Ethan knows, which is violent. At the critical moment of the film, Ethan chases Debbie down. At first it may seem like he is going to trample her but in redemptive fashion chooses to spare and accept her. As Robert B. Pippin mentions in his essay, “he (Ethan) is like Huck Finn, who feels guilty for not turning in Jim even though he sincerely believes Jim is stolen property and that he is morally obligated to return him.” With this connection, the distinction between socially constructed views of moral right and wrong are unclear, and even though Ethan might feel the need to enact his “racist principles” by killing Debbie, he cannot. For what he felt in his heart overcame his moral, social, and racial education.

            This moral tension is also seen within the framework of Ride the High Country. Gil is situated as a counter weight to Steve’s moral quest. His ambitions are too take what he thought life full of bitterness and failures owed to him. Gil attempts to corrupt Steve but fails time and again. Gil fails to see Steve’s convictions as being at a much higher principle. It is also the failings of Knudsen, and the people of Course Gold to clearly see what Steve stands for. It is something much more than gold, woman, or booze. It is a self- justification and redemption narrative. One that is completely personal. As Steve states, “I just want to enter into my house justified.” The final scene in Ride is heroic and tragic. Steve and Gil redeem their friendship with one last stand against Billy and his two remaining brothers. At the end of the gun fight Steve is mortally wounded and wishes not to be seen in death. His wish is to be remembered as he lived his last days; a redeemed hero of the highest moral principles.

            The denouement and final scenes of The Searchers and Ride the High Country both provide provocative conclusions of the characters Ethan and Steve. Ethan fades back into the landscape much like he entered. The view from inside the home looks out on Ethan as he disappears. He still is not able or willing to rejoin society and will most likely continue his journey into transience to attain something that is inexplicable. The ending in Ride gives a more distinct conclusion to Steve. His death is both incredibly heroic and tragic. The mythic Western figure that Steve represents is only carried on by Gil, who is apparently near death too, as he states during Steve’s final minutes, “I’ll see you soon.” The tragedy is that Steve and Ethan and the myth that embodies them is a forgotten one; left in the margins where society fails to acknowledge.

Works Cited

Bliss, M. (1993). Riding High on Morality. In M. Bliss, Justified (pp. 33-57). Chicago: Illinois University Press.

Ford, J. (Director). (1956). The Searchers [Motion Picture].

Peckinpah, S. (Director). (1962). Ride the High Country [Motion Picture].

Pippin, R. B. (2009). What is a Western? Politics and Self Knowledge in John Ford's The Searchers. Critical Inquiry, 223-246.