Tag Archives: literature

A Little Delight and A Poem

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Part I: The Horror/Purity of Accidentally Calling Your Teacher ‘Mom’

[ Photo of James Island County Dog Park on their official website]

I went to James Island County Park on Saturday. My destination was the dog park, which is located inside the whole facility. It really was gorgeous that day, with the sky being a clear blue and the weather being cool but hot enough for me to roll the windows down without catching a chill. It was a day made for being outside. The only downside of the park is that it costs two dollars per person. While not the end of the world, two dollars to a broke college student is equivalent to one hundred dollars. Nevertheless, I was there for my dog, so I reluctantly handed over my two crumpled dollars to the older employee working the booth. I was then rewarded with a bright smile and a dog treat for my pup in the back.

The exchange was so happy and pure that my mind went blank for a moment. The person turned to me with the same smile and said, “Enjoy your time!” I replied with the same amount of enthusiasm, “You too!” It was not until a few seconds after I drove away that I caught my slip-up and felt my cheeks flush. That was not the first time I said something like that to an employee when I was the customer; most likely it would not be the last as well. But instead of letting the little incident go, I let it fester some more and thought about why that is a common occurrence in society. It’s almost on the same level as accidentally calling your teacher ‘mom’, not on an embarrassing scale (in my opinion, the latter takes the cake by a mile), but in how often it occurs in society.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that when I have that slip-up, it is usually when I am interacting with a person that I genuinely feel comfortable around. This conclusion came from me realizing that when I would call a teacher ‘mom’, it would be because I felt safe around them. The interaction with the park worker was so pure that I felt genuine about wanting them to have a great time, whatever that might look like.

Part II: Little Exercise by Elizabeth Bishop

My name is Mallery McKay, and I was completely clueless as to which piece of prose or poetry truly spoke to me to analyze. I decided to choose a piece of work that dealt with the struggles of mental health, mainly anxiety, as I struggle with a great deal of it. I thought it was so interesting develing into a writer’s mindset of anxiety and how the struggles from it play out in the work itself, format-wise and symbolic.

[ Play Ballerina: Yehezkel Raz]

I love how metaphorical this poem truly gets; it really makes you work for the true meaning of these lines through symbols mainly relating to the natural world. Bishop uses our knowledge and usage of the natural world as a vessel to reflect on one’s personal mental struggles living in our society today.

 Bishop starts the first stanza off with immediate tension through the imagery of an approaching storm; this could be symbolizing worries that a person can deal with, looming in the person’s mind, making it all they think about. Then describing the storm as a dog seems to derive the storm from its power, almost domesticating it for the reader.

Bishop uses elements of the sea as the main symbols of her metaphors, like when she mentions the strengths of a mangrove. That refers to a type of tropical tree that is adapted to live on the shoreline and thrive on saltwater when the tide comes and floods its roots. I believe Bishop uses the roots to symbolize how a person can find strength in another, and the beauty of that statement is that it does not have to be just a human. I think the second stanza can be read as finding solace in the natural world or finding something that makes you stronger, whether it be a human or anything else.

I think the most interesting part of this poem for me is how Bishop shows this mental health battle through the storm and how the natural world around it reacts. How the different elements’ reactions showcase different people with their different struggles, like the mangroves and their tough support system or the heron, who flies away but the water still shines behind it, implies that it looks for the best in the worst circumstances. To me, Bishop’s work showcases how people of the same environment can deal with struggles differently because of their own mindset and their own advantages.

I’m Rooting For You

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One of the best compliments I’ve ever heard is “I’m rooting for you.” I was playing a game of Bananagrams at Felix (the best words come out after your second French 75) when our server came by, saw my board, and spoke those four lovely words toward me. 

Not only is the word choice interesting–to root? I’m growing roots for you? It’s far more casual than “I believe in you” and far less affectionate. When I looked up the origin of the phrase (idiom?), I found it is from the British word “rout” meaning to bellow, usually related to cattle. So, how we got from cattle yelling to encouragement, I don’t know.

But if we really think about it, the idea of rooting for someone is so beautiful. To be their support, their physical roots something grounding them while they grow or go out on a limb. Rooting for someone means supporting them with no gain of their own, simply basking in someone else’s joy or achievements. 

I didn’t need someone to root for me at that moment (it was a very low-stakes game), but it was nice to know that someone was on my side. In that moment he was actively thinking about me and wanting me to win. There are people in our lives who root for us daily with no gain besides our happiness. Yet, this wonderful stranger who happened to enjoy my friend and my game of buzzed Bananagrams was rooting for me. 

My name is Lilly Flowers and a few days ago I got to pick out a random literary magazine from a pile of them in my professor’s office. Our class focuses on copy editing and the publishing industry, and much of the conversation centers around the kind of jobs one can get with editing experience. I chose the “‘Arts & Letters” spring 2023 edition of the Journal of Contemporary Culture published by Georgia College. To be honest, I mostly picked it out because of the pretty cover (see the bottom of the post), but inside I found some wonderful works of poetry and prose. Some of them are not as bright and cheery as the cover, however.

Iowa City, Iowa by Jesse Lee Kercheval

Smoke, horizon, cornfield, windbreak, road, an implicit plot all disconnected as of by jigsaw blade, amputated pine boughs, gouged sky, fissures of horizon. Only when I write, staring for hours, do the bits begin to fit. I sense a compression in my spine. I match some pieces but others, red as marrow, won’t fit unless I force them. I tire. As always. I lift my eyes to window. Sky and bare limbs like saw cuts. A cloud like a torn blouse. I can’t assemble this.

(transition music)

I could feel the frustration so viscerally the first time I read this poem. The choppy lists of images painting the vast unchanging physical land around them show the monotony of having to always be creating, thinking of something, imagining. Jesse Lee connects the physical land with her mind; the landscape is in pieces and so is she. She’s trying to make something, but all her ideas aren’t fully formed, “amputated pine boughs…fissures of horizon…bare limbs like saw cuts.” These words are sharp like our own thoughts when we can’t write. So much of our worth is bound up in what we can create when you cannot measure your worth by that.

Although the poem is named “Iowa City, Iowa,” Iowa could be anywhere for the reader. The place they’re stuck: a hometown, a city they’ve outgrown, or a state of mind. Iowa is someplace where, after being there, nothing seems to fit. “Disconnected as of by jigsaw blade” it’s as if we’re confused and unsettled about our physical, or mental, surroundings. We no longer fit into that space therefore it cannot support us.

The spine is an interesting body part to focus on in this piece. It connects the entire body and when the spine is damaged it’s devastating. The “compression” Jesse Lee feels is the brink of what is coming. She’s on the edge of devastation and complete burnout if she doesn’t take care of herself. Forcing yourself to make something and “staring for hours” are not ways to motivate yourself.

By the end of the poem, it feels like Jesse Lee has given up. She cannot assemble this. It’s a definitive statement. But I don’t think that we should see this as a failure. Jesse Lee hints at the idea of a break, as in taking a break. For such a short piece, she is communicating a lot through her imagery connected to the physical body. The internal and external are working together to scream at you “Take a break! You cannot create under these conditions!” Your body needs a break, your mind needs a rest, and maybe you need a change of scenery.

The little things.

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For as long as I can remember, I have deeply cared about the little things. I was always overly sensitive to those around me, overly in tune with people’s emotions, and spent my time constantly observing everything and everyone closely.

Still, to this day, I find myself in the same position. It means a lot to me to pay attention, to notice, to watch, and to feel. And although this was characteristic of me during my early childhood, throughout my teenage years, I so desperately wanted to get away from that part of me.

Through those years, it felt like I paid too much attention, noticed too much, and felt too deeply every second of it. I always felt like no one else saw all the little things I did, nor did they care about them like me. And in the mix of my awkward teenage angst and constant emotional turmoil, I found poetry.

This newfound world of reading and writing was a world where I felt, for the first time, completely understood. All of a sudden, I was surrounded by other people who noticed, watched, and felt the same way I did. At the same depth that I did. And as I was introduced to this new world, I found myself writing poetry every single day.

For me, it felt like the only place I could truly be honest about everything happening in my life. I wrote poems about my familial issues, my relationships with friends at school, overwhelming thoughts of my existence and my place in the world, the great burden of my feelings and how much I cared, and about all the little things around me that everyone else seemed to take for granted but I didn’t.

This fundamental aspect of poetry is what Patrick Rosal mentions in the New York Times article we read for class, “Poetry is Hospitable to Strangeness and Surprise.” He describes poetry as encompassing “observation and attention, reflection and memory, description, imagination, re-seeing and discovery.” All of these are what drew me into poetry. 

In middle school was the first time that poetry was taught in my English class. My teacher, Mr. Eleftheriadis, introduced me to Homer and Shakespeare, and it was that class that changed everything.

Not only did I fall in love with literature, poetry, and epics, but I fell in love with the details in every story. A part of his class I enjoyed the most was picking apart works line by line. As a middle schooler, my little brain was not nearly prepared for the sheer wisdom and magic that are laced between every line of the Odyssey and Macbeth, just to name a few.

In his class, I felt that I truly belonged. In every English class since then, I have always felt that way. The peers in them, the teachers and professors, and most of all, the literature have always been so inspiring and remain reminders that when it comes to noticing and feeling, I am not alone.

Since then and throughout my college career, I have been learning each and every day to return back to that little girl version of myself. I have been realizing that I want to notice, I want to watch closely, and I want to feel every second of it. I take pride in noticing the small things, paying attention, and caring immensely about the details.

As I have gotten older, I have learned that these are actually great strengths of mine, and the places where I can cultivate and grow them are in my English classes and in my photography classes. In both art mediums, I have found that my particular gift of noticing and feeling can be used to create narratives and stories, cultivate emotion through images, and learn how to intersect the two.

In an article that discusses the value and significance of poetry as a free space for language and politics, “Why All Poems Are Political” by Kathleen Ossip, she says so many things about poetry that I found incredibly intriguing, inspiring, and thought-provoking. One of the questions she asks in this article is:

“Is it possible that poetry wants to awaken your awareness of the essential and infinitely subtle suffering and joy of being alive?”

I found this question incredibly reflective of what poetry does to us. And I think it is true that poetry is about awakening, awakening to the world around us, taking note of all the things people fail to notice, and feeling all the emotions swirling about in the world. Poetry is about awakening to a world full of people who see and feel at the same depth that you do. Poetry is about a community of people who care; it is about no longer feeling alone.

Turning to Literature

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Growing up as a middle sister, I learned many lessons through the experiences of my older and younger sisters. I was constantly seeking to protect them, understand them, and support them, even when their struggles, triumphs, achievements, disappointments or goals were different than my own. However, this closeness changed and shifted as I grew up and we all attended different boarding schools. As I began studying French literature, I found myself deeply connected to Marcel Proust and Levi-Strauss. Their perspectives on how to handle themselves, their own darkness, their thoughts and perspectives on the world and how they conceptualized their reality all served as models to me when I was doubtful or struggling to understand my own reality. Feeling a connection to another person through their writing gave me great peace when I needed it most. Just as Steve Martin felt after reading W. Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge, a story about a quest for knowledge, I felt that through learning, and reading in particular, I “could have secrets possessed only by a few” (Hitz 28). That’s what people need most in their youth, some words of guidance, which I think literature can provide, which in turn can make people, if not better human beings, at least feel better for a period of time in their lives.

Throughout my life, literature has provided me with guidance, reassurance and a sense of comfort. I’m inclined to believe that my personal experience serves as enough evidence for me to believe that literature makes people “better,” kinder, and softer. In “Does Great Literature Make Us Better?,” Gregory Currie argues that there lacks “causal evidence: we need to show that exposure to literature itself makes some sort of positive difference to the people we end up being.” I would include myself in the group of individuals who “will probably soldier on with a positive view of the improving effects of literature, supported by nothing more than an airy bed of sentiment.” But that airy bed of sentiment is all the evidence I need! After all, if literature has the capacity to show us how to relate to others, find connection and find solace in it, then I think that literature has improving effects on people, whether those effects are short-term or long-term probably depends on the person.

I was particularly fond of Currie’s reference to Martha Bussbaum’s book “Love’s knowledge,” in which she argues that narrative form gives literary fiction “a peculiar power to generate moral insight.” I love this! Narratives have a beginning, middle and end. It’s nice to read a story that presents a character, a challenge, a (hopefully) journey towards overcoming obstacles and eventual triumph. I agree that narratives would generate moral insight by allowing us to see the beginning, middle and end of a tale, imparting a lesson or wisdom to the reader.

I agree that reading can help us to empathize with other human beings, in addition to helping us connect with ourselves.  In the article “Does reading fiction make us better people?,” Hammond discusses how books can teach us about the world, especially through our identification with characters in books. The article states, “without necessarily even noticing, we imagine what it’s like to be [the characters] and compare their reactions to situations with how we responded in the past, or imagine we might in the future.” Reading stories gives us the opportunity to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes, to empathize with another person’s experience, to dive into another culture, assume a different perspective. Specifically when reading fiction, the reader is more likely to “suspend disbelief without questioning the veracity of what people are saying,” and view a characters life over a span of time, even many years. For me, reading fiction and other literature, has given me the ability not only to better understand human beings, but also to better understand myself. I have found comfort in knowing that my struggles, challenges or feelings at a certain point in my life are shared by another person (an author, character, sociologist, philosopher).

Emotions vs. Science

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Reading has been a part of my life ever since I could remember. As the daughter of a teacher and a writer, consuming literature was ingrained in my daily routine. As I progressed in school and grew up in general, literature became more of an escape, away from weird teenage emotions and mean kids in the lunchroom. It became a place where I could trade my own emotions for another’s for a minute or two. That’s why I found Claudia Hammond’s article titled “Does Reading Fiction Make Us Better People?” so interesting because it introduces an argument that backs up people’s emotional attachment to books in general. Hammond seems to link empathy as the main trait of being a better person, and while empathy is a good trait to possess, one could say it takes a whole lot more than empathy to be labeled as a good person in society.

Nevertheless, Hammond explains various experiments that research people and how empathetic they are based on either being an avid fictional reader or having just read a short piece of fiction. By the end of the article, Hammond seems to believe in her argument that reading fictional literature unlocks an empathetic trait in people. I do believe that consuming fictional literature has made me more in tune with my emotions and able to see them in other people. But I do not think that empathy is the only emotion that we should take into consideration when asking the question if literature makes a person better or not.

My thought is that all literature is intentional, always carefully planned, and edited until the last second. Society does not work that way; it is chaotic, messy, and unexpected. I do find that the experiments themselves are engaging, and the prose is compelling, asking a good question that links literature to how we as people function in a society. I just found that the research focuses mostly on the empathy in others rather than allowing other emotions to be categorized as well when people consume fictional literature.

At my high school, the English classrooms were clumped together in one old, dingy hallway, while the science classrooms spanned two gigantic hallways that had been recently renovated when I got there. From then on, those two subjects—science and the humanities—were always pitted against each other, and where I grew up, it seemed that science was the more favorable one.I believe that’s when I realized that reading books was more than a hobby for me, when there was time for a choice. The choice had never been easier.

That’s why I found Patrick Rosal’s argument titled “Poetry is Hospitable to Strangeness and Surprise,” which presents the dispute that poetry and science go hand in hand rather than being opposites of one another. From this article, I am able to understand why people pick science, why there is even a choice in the first place, and why there doesn’t have to be anymore. Rosal states, “poetry and science are kin.” These two subjects share much in common, even when neither party wants to acknowledge it. I believe the most prominent similarity that they share is “observation” (Rosal). Observation is how poetry gets written; the subject that is observed gets described by the poet on paper. Observation in science is the foundation for any solid hypothesis.

The simplicity of Rosal’s list of similarities struck me because there were only five reasons, but each brought multiple examples to mind. From there, I could actually believe the argument that science and poetry, or the humanities, are similar in various ways. The two do not have to go hand in hand, but we, as a society, should “give them enough space and support to work in solitude but talk together too.” (Rosal). As shown, these two subjects can work together, but neither has to be favorable to the other.