At fifteen, I made an unnerving discovery.
I was living in a postmodern world.
I remember trying to share the Gospel with a friend who had already left for a tiny liberal arts college in New England. This friend responded by telling me that if Christianity was my reality, that was fine. But it wasn't her reality, and what was "right" for me wasn't necessarily right for her. Her lukewarm words made me feel deflated, but they did not cool my passion for evangelism. As a consequence of this exchange, I began investigating postmodernism and its main tenets. I assumed that if I could understand the current cultural and academic trends, I would be better equipped to share my faith. I was right. My rudimentary, teenage investigation has stood the test of time, providing a decent foundation for my subsequent, academically-oriented studies and giving me the tools to construct-- no pun intended-- a Christian response to postmodernism and poststructuralism.
Unlike some ardent apologists, I don't waste a considerable amount of energy condemning postmodernism. Sometimes I'm able to make use of its more mainstream manifestations and its vocabulary.
However, I don't agree with the core postmodern / poststructuralist ideology because it has the potential to eliminate the world's sense of ethics. Furthermore, it is self-contradictory. After reading "The Race for Theory," I think that Barbara Christian would resonate with my sentiments.
Christian brings up the point that poststructuralist discourse is itself a metanarrative. She sees it as oppressive and stringent, accomplishing the very thing that it seeks to eradicate. I had never looked at postmodernism's self-contradictions from the perspective of language. Christian also opened my eyes to the secular critique of poststructuralism. Before reading her remarks, I thought that all major, secular critics and academics adhered to postmodern theory. Obviously, I was wrong.
Barbara Christian critiques poststructuralism from her unique situatedness as a female, African-American intellectual. One of her main points of contention concerns the poststructuralist's murdering of the author. She states that powerful white intellectuals conceived of this concept right as the narratives of people of color began to surface, suggesting that the newly-discovered "death of the author" wasn't a coincidence. I'm not sure that her theory is true-- I would need more information. But her complaint that poststructuralist theory steals power from the authors who have fought for empowerment seems absolutely valid and legitimate.
Christian's commentary makes me consider the ramifications of white privilege within the world of criticism. The likes of Derrida, Lacan, and Barthes can enjoy the luxury of playing with theory and droning that metanarratives and authors do not exist. For them, it is only literary criticism-- a game that has no effect on them personally as white males. Those who have been disenfranchised-- with the exception of white females such as Cixous-- can't afford to toy with poststructuralist theory because it takes away their very rights and souls as humans yearning for justice.
Unfortunately, I found Christian's response to poststructuralism disappointing. She advocates a different approach to every work, essentially fulfilling the aim of the theory she seeks to abandon by rejecting all metanarratives, including poststructuralism. She's more postmodern that the poststructuralists! She also falls into their fallacy by denying metanarratives. Her conclusion places her right where she started.
As a result of reading Barbara Christian's critique, I have further reason to believe that postmodernism and poststructuralism will not continue to reign in academia indefinitely. Eventually intellectuals will see these problems and reject this movement. I pray that after poststructuralism dies they will embrace an honest, true ideology, an ideology would draw them closer to Christ.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
They're Not Abolishing English
When I first turned to "On the Abolition of the English Department," I was prepared to staunchly oppose what would be presented. I remained somewhat defensive until I realized that, in the words of the introduction, the Kenyan professors were advocating an "expansionist" policy. They weren't nearly as radical as I had expected.
I had expected that the Kenyan professors would throw out all English-language literature with the exception of Negritude, Afro-Caribbean, and African literature. Instead, I found that the proposed changes within the University of Nairobi's English (or Literature) Department served to put English national literature in perspective in light of the students' identities as Kenyans. This actually made quite a bit of sense to me. After all, it's their country. Why shouldn't they celebrate their culture and heritage?
The inclusion of African oral literature fascinated me. I learned that the oral tradition-- specifically, the folk tale-- incorporates song. So far, I've found that this is unique to Africa, and I really respect it. I think the closest thing to the African folk tale that we have in our culture is opera and musicals, but both of these genres are considered music-related, not literature-related.
I also found it interesting that the revised departmental syllabi would include the literature of other European countries such as Germany, Russia, and France. Again, I would have previously expected that the department would eliminate all study of European literature out of (justified) resentment. The inclusion of these countries' literature makes sense because it would give students a better-rounded and better-informed knowledge of the world and its cultures without compromising the study of Kenyan literature.
I wonder whether similar changes will eventually occur within the wider American university system. I am currently investigating numerous graduate programs in English, and most of the schools that I'm considering have exclusively "English" departments. These schools include Rice, University of Texas, UCLA, UC-Berkeley, and UC-Santa Barbara. However, UC-San Diego is notable in its rejection of the strictly "English" department. They offer a broad Literature degree which encompasses Asian, African, American, Commonwealth, and European literature in addition to the standard English literature. I originally dismissed this innovation as a result of politically-correct multiculturalism, and I still don't know whether I would apply to UCSD because their broad focus may not allow for intense study in British literature and general literary criticism-- where I would like to focus my studies. However, this article about the University of Nairobi's proposed transformation has caused me to become more open-minded and to respect UCSD's decision.
I had expected that the Kenyan professors would throw out all English-language literature with the exception of Negritude, Afro-Caribbean, and African literature. Instead, I found that the proposed changes within the University of Nairobi's English (or Literature) Department served to put English national literature in perspective in light of the students' identities as Kenyans. This actually made quite a bit of sense to me. After all, it's their country. Why shouldn't they celebrate their culture and heritage?
The inclusion of African oral literature fascinated me. I learned that the oral tradition-- specifically, the folk tale-- incorporates song. So far, I've found that this is unique to Africa, and I really respect it. I think the closest thing to the African folk tale that we have in our culture is opera and musicals, but both of these genres are considered music-related, not literature-related.
I also found it interesting that the revised departmental syllabi would include the literature of other European countries such as Germany, Russia, and France. Again, I would have previously expected that the department would eliminate all study of European literature out of (justified) resentment. The inclusion of these countries' literature makes sense because it would give students a better-rounded and better-informed knowledge of the world and its cultures without compromising the study of Kenyan literature.
I wonder whether similar changes will eventually occur within the wider American university system. I am currently investigating numerous graduate programs in English, and most of the schools that I'm considering have exclusively "English" departments. These schools include Rice, University of Texas, UCLA, UC-Berkeley, and UC-Santa Barbara. However, UC-San Diego is notable in its rejection of the strictly "English" department. They offer a broad Literature degree which encompasses Asian, African, American, Commonwealth, and European literature in addition to the standard English literature. I originally dismissed this innovation as a result of politically-correct multiculturalism, and I still don't know whether I would apply to UCSD because their broad focus may not allow for intense study in British literature and general literary criticism-- where I would like to focus my studies. However, this article about the University of Nairobi's proposed transformation has caused me to become more open-minded and to respect UCSD's decision.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Langston Hughes and the Negro Artist
I must admit that as I consider Langston Hughes' admonition to African-Americans in the 1920s, I feel a little out of place. First of all, I am not black. I have never known anything other than white privilege. Secondly, I don't understand the cultural and social milieu of the Jazz Age. I come from the world of the early 21st century, post-Civil Rights Era, post-Black Panthers. While all is far from perfect, our nation is now coming to the realization that we may have an African-American president in another six months.
However, for what my opinion is worth, I will offer my reflections.
Langston Hughes favors the black lower class, which he sees as more authentically Negro (to use his term). If I put myself in his position, I can understand his frustration about middle- and upper-class African-Americans. I can see why he would see the "white" culture that has consumed these families as bland or stifling. (Mind you, I don't see my culture as boring or tasteless, but I respect the opinions of others, even if I disagree with them.)
However, I question Hughes' description of poor blacks. Perhaps they have maintained their authenticity, but I thought his portrayal of their lives was glamorized. He seems to think that these people have a more easygoing lifestyle-- he pictures them breaking into song and dance for every occasion. I wonder whether the black lower class was comparatively better off in the 1920s than today. If their financial position was no better than at present, I would accuse Hughes of viewing life through rose-colored glasses.
When I spent a semester in North Philadelphia, my classmates and I would walk through the neighborhood every week to get to the community center where we were volunteering. I didn't see anyone singing, and nobody was dancing in the streets. I saw rowhouses crumbling and vacant lots filled with trash. I remember one block where only one shabby house was left standing. There were no grocery stores, no parks. The ineffective public school system had become notorious for violence against teachers, and many children were at least a year behind acceptable reading levels. The neighborhood was plagued by gangs, drugs, and gun violence. We didn't dare walk down the side streets after dark.
After studying the information that the Census Bureau had collected concerning our neighborhood, we found that many times multiple families lived in one dwelling. Most of the men who were of marrying age-- or had fathered babies-- were either dead, imprisoned, or delinquent. This left scores of unmarried young women raising families, wandering from one boyfriend to the next. Very few families had health insurance, and we learned that many mothers waited until their children's illnesses had become so severe that they had to go to the emergency room because they could not pay to see a family practitioner. Because of these stressful financial issues, education took second place to basic survival. Only some men and women had attained high school degrees. Very few had completed college.
I find it hard to believe that our neighbors in North Philly would have approved of Hughes' description of the lower class. In my estimation, with the exception of the tenacious inner-city church, today's African-American communities inspire very little joyful singing. I only hear angry, disenchanted hip-hop.
However, for what my opinion is worth, I will offer my reflections.
Langston Hughes favors the black lower class, which he sees as more authentically Negro (to use his term). If I put myself in his position, I can understand his frustration about middle- and upper-class African-Americans. I can see why he would see the "white" culture that has consumed these families as bland or stifling. (Mind you, I don't see my culture as boring or tasteless, but I respect the opinions of others, even if I disagree with them.)
However, I question Hughes' description of poor blacks. Perhaps they have maintained their authenticity, but I thought his portrayal of their lives was glamorized. He seems to think that these people have a more easygoing lifestyle-- he pictures them breaking into song and dance for every occasion. I wonder whether the black lower class was comparatively better off in the 1920s than today. If their financial position was no better than at present, I would accuse Hughes of viewing life through rose-colored glasses.
When I spent a semester in North Philadelphia, my classmates and I would walk through the neighborhood every week to get to the community center where we were volunteering. I didn't see anyone singing, and nobody was dancing in the streets. I saw rowhouses crumbling and vacant lots filled with trash. I remember one block where only one shabby house was left standing. There were no grocery stores, no parks. The ineffective public school system had become notorious for violence against teachers, and many children were at least a year behind acceptable reading levels. The neighborhood was plagued by gangs, drugs, and gun violence. We didn't dare walk down the side streets after dark.
After studying the information that the Census Bureau had collected concerning our neighborhood, we found that many times multiple families lived in one dwelling. Most of the men who were of marrying age-- or had fathered babies-- were either dead, imprisoned, or delinquent. This left scores of unmarried young women raising families, wandering from one boyfriend to the next. Very few families had health insurance, and we learned that many mothers waited until their children's illnesses had become so severe that they had to go to the emergency room because they could not pay to see a family practitioner. Because of these stressful financial issues, education took second place to basic survival. Only some men and women had attained high school degrees. Very few had completed college.
I find it hard to believe that our neighbors in North Philly would have approved of Hughes' description of the lower class. In my estimation, with the exception of the tenacious inner-city church, today's African-American communities inspire very little joyful singing. I only hear angry, disenchanted hip-hop.
Out of the Verbal Straight-jacket
Jane Tompkins' "Me and My Shadow" was exactly what I needed to hear.
Dr. Tompkins begins her essay by confessing that she gained professional clout at the expense of her emotional life. I can echo her concerns because I often feel as though a division exists between my personal life and my academic persona. Although I have grown comfortable inside a classroom and in academic discussions, I can't stay in that realm for an extended period of time without compromising my sanity. That facet of my life isn't altogether natural. It requires sustained effort on my part.
Tompkins advocates a combination of the personal and the professional, the emotional and the academic. As a woman, I find this liberating, since I often feel as though I stuff my emotions when in the classroom. For me, academics can be very exciting, and I'd like the freedom to express those feelings in my work. Essentially, Tompkins believes that language should express that personal involvement, emotionally affecting not only the author but also the reader. I see using this new language as an act of service, since all clear, relevant writing does the reader a favor.
Because she legitimizes "the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion," Tompkins sounds as though she has been influenced by the Romantics. She also mimics her Romantic predecessors by preferring the plain language of the common people over the elevated prose of the strictly rational and the "ruling class." Just as in 1798, Tompkins brings about a democratization of language as she tears down the hierarchy between the scholarly and the everyday. Unlike the stilted diction and syntax of many intellectuals, Tompkins' proposed language allows the author's authentic voice to speak. Tompkins' ideas bring me great comfort and hope: I can be myself, even as a scholar and critic.
I don't think that the acceptance of emotion into our intellectual writing necessarily signals a shift against rationality, however. As I mentioned above, the discoveries that occur when we do research and write criticism often trigger emotion, and it makes sense to incorporate the two. For that reason, I think that the attacks on Tompkins' theory are illegitimate. We aren't forfeiting anything.
However, I am concerned that some scholars will read Tompkins' essay and see it as a license for narcissism. There is a fine line between incorporating one's feelings and experiences into scholarly writing and annoying your readers with your apparent self-centeredness. I think some contemporary scholars and professors inadvertantly slip into this habit. Instead of engaging their readers as they intended, they end up alienating them. The student closes the book or leaves the lecture hall in disgust, thinking, "She's so full of herself." In these cases, I think that professors need to reexamine their priorities and their teaching methods and perhaps focus less on their own personal reactions, allowing the students to voice their own responses to the work. This is especially important for Christian professors because (theoretically) they should be servant-minded. I do like the way that Tompkins' essay parallels the Christian worldview by voicing the need for "out-going, outflowing, giving feelings" in the world of scholarship. I agree with her when she says that there is no room for "an intellectual performance." This other-centeredness should apply to the Christian campus as well as the secular university.
Dr. Tompkins begins her essay by confessing that she gained professional clout at the expense of her emotional life. I can echo her concerns because I often feel as though a division exists between my personal life and my academic persona. Although I have grown comfortable inside a classroom and in academic discussions, I can't stay in that realm for an extended period of time without compromising my sanity. That facet of my life isn't altogether natural. It requires sustained effort on my part.
Tompkins advocates a combination of the personal and the professional, the emotional and the academic. As a woman, I find this liberating, since I often feel as though I stuff my emotions when in the classroom. For me, academics can be very exciting, and I'd like the freedom to express those feelings in my work. Essentially, Tompkins believes that language should express that personal involvement, emotionally affecting not only the author but also the reader. I see using this new language as an act of service, since all clear, relevant writing does the reader a favor.
Because she legitimizes "the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion," Tompkins sounds as though she has been influenced by the Romantics. She also mimics her Romantic predecessors by preferring the plain language of the common people over the elevated prose of the strictly rational and the "ruling class." Just as in 1798, Tompkins brings about a democratization of language as she tears down the hierarchy between the scholarly and the everyday. Unlike the stilted diction and syntax of many intellectuals, Tompkins' proposed language allows the author's authentic voice to speak. Tompkins' ideas bring me great comfort and hope: I can be myself, even as a scholar and critic.
I don't think that the acceptance of emotion into our intellectual writing necessarily signals a shift against rationality, however. As I mentioned above, the discoveries that occur when we do research and write criticism often trigger emotion, and it makes sense to incorporate the two. For that reason, I think that the attacks on Tompkins' theory are illegitimate. We aren't forfeiting anything.
However, I am concerned that some scholars will read Tompkins' essay and see it as a license for narcissism. There is a fine line between incorporating one's feelings and experiences into scholarly writing and annoying your readers with your apparent self-centeredness. I think some contemporary scholars and professors inadvertantly slip into this habit. Instead of engaging their readers as they intended, they end up alienating them. The student closes the book or leaves the lecture hall in disgust, thinking, "She's so full of herself." In these cases, I think that professors need to reexamine their priorities and their teaching methods and perhaps focus less on their own personal reactions, allowing the students to voice their own responses to the work. This is especially important for Christian professors because (theoretically) they should be servant-minded. I do like the way that Tompkins' essay parallels the Christian worldview by voicing the need for "out-going, outflowing, giving feelings" in the world of scholarship. I agree with her when she says that there is no room for "an intellectual performance." This other-centeredness should apply to the Christian campus as well as the secular university.
I am a Madwoman
I first met Gilbert and Gubar in our First Year Intro to English Studies class, and I remember thinking how ridiculous their ideas seemed. Weren't they exaggerating just a bit? After all, I had never experienced oppression because of my sex. Not to my knowledge.
Now that I have read excerpts of their seminal work, "The Madwoman in the Attic," I find myself more hesitant to dismiss their ideas. Their concept of "anxiety of authorship" especially fascinates me.
As I read the first several sentences of their explanation of this phrase, I thought of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and the Biographia Literaria. Coleridge distinguishes between the primary and the secondary imagination, stating that the primary imagination belongs to all who take hold of creative ideas generated by experiences of the sublime. The secondary imagination concerns the ability to bring this vision into fruition by actually creating a work based on those ideas. Coleridge's secondary imagination eventually fails him, and he is reduced to plagiarism. I can commiserate with him, not because I plagiarize, but because I often feel the frustration of "writer's block."
However, Gilbert and Gubar go beyond the idea of literary constipation by developing the concept that women writers hesitate because of they fear creating a work inferior to the masterpieces of their male predecessors. They fear not being good enough for posterity, and they believe they can't write as well as Shakespeare or Keats.
I ask myself if this fear has kept me from writing, and I have to admit that it has prevented me from valuing my work. I consider myself just another unremarkable college poet, lacking in ability. Milton had a gift for lyricism. I do not. Therefore, I have not ventured into the realm of poetry for a long time.
Gilbert and Gubar state that the female poet is either isolated or destroyed, and they cite the words of Margaret Atwood: "You could dance, or you could have the love of a good man . . . Finally you overcame your fear and danced, and they cut your feet off. The good man went away too, because you wanted to dance." Since I haven't actually worked up the nerve to dance, I can't say that I have metaphorically had my feet chopped off. However, I can identify with the anxiety associated with having to choose between love and literary endeavors. While my current genre of writing is not labeled "creative writing," I consider my undergraduate work as a student critic and researcher just as rewarding and creative. I could see myself as a professor someday, writing books and submitting papers to conferences, but I fear that if I choose this career path, I will never find a husband. It is my opinion that many otherwise "good" men do not want their marriage to be labeled as "Mister and Dr. So-and-So." A well-educated woman can be intimidating, but I suppose the men who are intimidated are not worth marrying anyway. Nevertheless, I fear that I will end up marrying academia and feeling frustrated and lonely. Or becoming disgustingly self-centered. Moreover, I could find myself judged or excluded from certain intellectual and social circles because I am a woman.
I found that Gilbert and Gubar's observations were especially relevant to me as an upperclassman-- or upperclasswoman, if you will. While they aggravated some of my deep-seated fears, at the close of the essay I had been enlightened concerning my circumstances, and I felt as though my emotions had been validated.
Now that I have read excerpts of their seminal work, "The Madwoman in the Attic," I find myself more hesitant to dismiss their ideas. Their concept of "anxiety of authorship" especially fascinates me.
As I read the first several sentences of their explanation of this phrase, I thought of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and the Biographia Literaria. Coleridge distinguishes between the primary and the secondary imagination, stating that the primary imagination belongs to all who take hold of creative ideas generated by experiences of the sublime. The secondary imagination concerns the ability to bring this vision into fruition by actually creating a work based on those ideas. Coleridge's secondary imagination eventually fails him, and he is reduced to plagiarism. I can commiserate with him, not because I plagiarize, but because I often feel the frustration of "writer's block."
However, Gilbert and Gubar go beyond the idea of literary constipation by developing the concept that women writers hesitate because of they fear creating a work inferior to the masterpieces of their male predecessors. They fear not being good enough for posterity, and they believe they can't write as well as Shakespeare or Keats.
I ask myself if this fear has kept me from writing, and I have to admit that it has prevented me from valuing my work. I consider myself just another unremarkable college poet, lacking in ability. Milton had a gift for lyricism. I do not. Therefore, I have not ventured into the realm of poetry for a long time.
Gilbert and Gubar state that the female poet is either isolated or destroyed, and they cite the words of Margaret Atwood: "You could dance, or you could have the love of a good man . . . Finally you overcame your fear and danced, and they cut your feet off. The good man went away too, because you wanted to dance." Since I haven't actually worked up the nerve to dance, I can't say that I have metaphorically had my feet chopped off. However, I can identify with the anxiety associated with having to choose between love and literary endeavors. While my current genre of writing is not labeled "creative writing," I consider my undergraduate work as a student critic and researcher just as rewarding and creative. I could see myself as a professor someday, writing books and submitting papers to conferences, but I fear that if I choose this career path, I will never find a husband. It is my opinion that many otherwise "good" men do not want their marriage to be labeled as "Mister and Dr. So-and-So." A well-educated woman can be intimidating, but I suppose the men who are intimidated are not worth marrying anyway. Nevertheless, I fear that I will end up marrying academia and feeling frustrated and lonely. Or becoming disgustingly self-centered. Moreover, I could find myself judged or excluded from certain intellectual and social circles because I am a woman.
I found that Gilbert and Gubar's observations were especially relevant to me as an upperclassman-- or upperclasswoman, if you will. While they aggravated some of my deep-seated fears, at the close of the essay I had been enlightened concerning my circumstances, and I felt as though my emotions had been validated.
Kolodny's Aesthetic Fallacy
I thoroughly enjoyed reading Annette Kolodny's essay "Dancing Through the Minefield." She opened my eyes to the discrimination against female writers that has occurred as scholars have defined the literary canon. I resonated with her frustration, and I appreciated her thoughts.
However, her ideas concerning aesthetic merit troubled me. At various points in her essay, she sounds as though she has aligned herself with Barbara Hernstein Smith, who argues that aesthetics are a mere matter of taste. Kolodny also quotes Robert Scholes, who states that "there is no single 'right' reading for any complex literary work.'"
If Kolodny believes that any interpretation of a text is acceptable, what makes her feminist reading legitimate or worth believing? I have to wonder whether this perspective undermines the feminists'-- or even the pluralists'-- cause. If Scholes is speaking the truth, what right does Kolodny have to convince her readers that women should be included in the literary canon? What right does she have to even write an essay and strengthen her argument? Why shouldn't we maintain sexist readings of texts and dismiss her ideas? Finally, if Kolodny adheres to Scholes, I have to ask her what, in fact, makes sexism "wrong"? If I were a male scholar, couldn't I just say that my sexist perspectives are my prerogative, an expression of my intellectual taste?
I can accept Kolodny's view that literary history-- and the historicity of literature-- is a fiction or a construct. However, I think one can hold to this belief without throwing out the idea of a hierarchy of aesthetics. (Perhaps the word "hierarchy" conjures up connotations of patriarchy. If this is offensive, I'll use the word "absolute.")
It is my opinion that males have been included in the literary canon because of their works' aesthetic merit and their command of the English language. This mastery is not an innate "male" trait that makes men superior to women. This is merely the result of males' access to the education that history has denied women. If women have very little education, it follows that they will not create "aesthetically superior" masterpieces. An illiterate woman can't compose sonnets.
I fully support Kolodny's basic cause: the inclusion of women and a reexamination of the qualifications for canonicity. At the core of her argument is a desire for respect and acknowledgement, which I see as completely legitimate. However, I don't think she needs to discard the metanarrative of aesthetics to accomplish this.
However, her ideas concerning aesthetic merit troubled me. At various points in her essay, she sounds as though she has aligned herself with Barbara Hernstein Smith, who argues that aesthetics are a mere matter of taste. Kolodny also quotes Robert Scholes, who states that "there is no single 'right' reading for any complex literary work.'"
If Kolodny believes that any interpretation of a text is acceptable, what makes her feminist reading legitimate or worth believing? I have to wonder whether this perspective undermines the feminists'-- or even the pluralists'-- cause. If Scholes is speaking the truth, what right does Kolodny have to convince her readers that women should be included in the literary canon? What right does she have to even write an essay and strengthen her argument? Why shouldn't we maintain sexist readings of texts and dismiss her ideas? Finally, if Kolodny adheres to Scholes, I have to ask her what, in fact, makes sexism "wrong"? If I were a male scholar, couldn't I just say that my sexist perspectives are my prerogative, an expression of my intellectual taste?
I can accept Kolodny's view that literary history-- and the historicity of literature-- is a fiction or a construct. However, I think one can hold to this belief without throwing out the idea of a hierarchy of aesthetics. (Perhaps the word "hierarchy" conjures up connotations of patriarchy. If this is offensive, I'll use the word "absolute.")
It is my opinion that males have been included in the literary canon because of their works' aesthetic merit and their command of the English language. This mastery is not an innate "male" trait that makes men superior to women. This is merely the result of males' access to the education that history has denied women. If women have very little education, it follows that they will not create "aesthetically superior" masterpieces. An illiterate woman can't compose sonnets.
I fully support Kolodny's basic cause: the inclusion of women and a reexamination of the qualifications for canonicity. At the core of her argument is a desire for respect and acknowledgement, which I see as completely legitimate. However, I don't think she needs to discard the metanarrative of aesthetics to accomplish this.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
On Medusa and Fear
Cixous's "Laugh of the Medusa" reminded me of a conversation that I had with a friend several weeks ago. This talented friend, another Messiah English major, writes insightful poetry without any reservations and has had her work accepted to the Minnemingo Review several times. I, however, have serious emotional issues with creative writing, and in this conversation, I angrily declared that I "hate writing." I think my response must have taken my friend by surprise. (However, she probably has noticed by now that while she manages to maintain a calm demeanor, I have a much more hot-headed, emotional disposition, and I speak my mind.)
Why do I hate creative writing? I used to love it. I used to pour hours of my life into composing poetry and short stories, and I had accumulated a handful of awards by the end of high school. So obviously someone-- at some point in time-- thought my work was worth reading.
I refuse to write because I am angry. My creative self-esteem has plummeted since my sophomore year of college, resulting in my switching my concentration from writing to literature. I have no qualms about writing research papers or critical essays, but I refuse to create. I am, by nature, a perfectionist. I don't like what I create-- I critique every word, every line, every sentence. I see myself reflected in Cixous's work since my debilitating fear of failure stems from failed attempts to gain the approval of male critics. I agree with Cixous in the recognition that certain men have aided in the erosion of my confidence.
My refusal to write is a form of self-protection. If I keep silent, no one can hurt me by hurling painful critiques. I consider my work an extension of myself, the intimate expression of my soul's joys and struggles, and when a critic picks my poem to pieces, I feel as if he has criticized my naked body. Consequently, I have vowed I will never put my creations on public display ever again.
I wipe away my furious tears and stuff my shame back into that forgotten corner in my mind. Cixous would probably tell me that I can't let these men steal my joy and dash my self-esteem into slivers. I would love to completely disregard the past and move forward. She calls for the invention of a new, feminine language, and she tells her female readers to write from their bodies. What does that mean? Part of me fears that I am unable to write "from my body" because, well, sometimes I honestly hate my body.
Perhaps once I accept that my imagination and my body are "fearfully and wonderfully made," I will be able to write again. Then those painful memories will become impotent in light of the authority of my almighty God and His assessment of my worth.
Why do I hate creative writing? I used to love it. I used to pour hours of my life into composing poetry and short stories, and I had accumulated a handful of awards by the end of high school. So obviously someone-- at some point in time-- thought my work was worth reading.
I refuse to write because I am angry. My creative self-esteem has plummeted since my sophomore year of college, resulting in my switching my concentration from writing to literature. I have no qualms about writing research papers or critical essays, but I refuse to create. I am, by nature, a perfectionist. I don't like what I create-- I critique every word, every line, every sentence. I see myself reflected in Cixous's work since my debilitating fear of failure stems from failed attempts to gain the approval of male critics. I agree with Cixous in the recognition that certain men have aided in the erosion of my confidence.
My refusal to write is a form of self-protection. If I keep silent, no one can hurt me by hurling painful critiques. I consider my work an extension of myself, the intimate expression of my soul's joys and struggles, and when a critic picks my poem to pieces, I feel as if he has criticized my naked body. Consequently, I have vowed I will never put my creations on public display ever again.
I wipe away my furious tears and stuff my shame back into that forgotten corner in my mind. Cixous would probably tell me that I can't let these men steal my joy and dash my self-esteem into slivers. I would love to completely disregard the past and move forward. She calls for the invention of a new, feminine language, and she tells her female readers to write from their bodies. What does that mean? Part of me fears that I am unable to write "from my body" because, well, sometimes I honestly hate my body.
Perhaps once I accept that my imagination and my body are "fearfully and wonderfully made," I will be able to write again. Then those painful memories will become impotent in light of the authority of my almighty God and His assessment of my worth.
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