Samson Occom (Mohegan)

Thinking about that Arizona curriculum law (see Jan. 27 post), I wonder if I would have been able to teach the works of Samson Occom, a Mohegan American Indian (not Mohican or Mahican), in Arizona public school American literature classes.  Occom’s “A Short Narrative of My Life” might be construed as promoting “resentment” toward both white people and native people, while his sermon at the execution of Moses Paul most certainly can be read as reinforcing the inferiority of his own ethnic group.  “Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to” control!

Just as Shakespeare’s The Tempest is full of political ambiguity (see previous posts), so also may be the works of history’s victims.  So-called “oppression” studies may be more complicated than simple-minded legislators think.

The personal narrative convention was well-established in 1768, when Occom wrote his.  The spiritual autobiography, or conversion narrative, was a staple of the New England Puritans, and the captivity narrative became a popular form during the Indian Wars of the 17^th century (see Feb. 12, 2010, post).

Given the familiarity of the captivity narrative, in which Indians were represented as savages, the penning of a personal narrative by a native person could be viewed as an inherent rebuttal of the “barbaric” Indian stereotype, especially since it begins as a spiritual autobiography, recounting his upbringing as a “heathen,” his conversion to Christianity, and his licensing as a missionary to his own people.  As Occom relates his advancement as a teacher and preacher to native folk, his narrative begins to anticipate the success story, made famous by Benjamin Franklin (see Mar. 12, 2010, post).  However, Occom turns the conventionally affirmative personal narrative into a form of protest literature, noting how much less he is paid compared to his white counterparts.

“So I am ready to Say, they have used me thus, because I Can’t Influence the Indians so well as other missionaries; but I can assure them I have endeavored to teach them as well as I know how;--but I must Say, ‘I believe it is because I am a poor Indian.” I Can’t help that God has made me So; I did not make my self so.__” (original caps & spelling)

Note how his indictment of his white employers is accompanied by an apology for his ethnicity.  Thus, while his narrative might be construed as promoting “resentment” against white people and as a refutation of the “savage” image of Indians, its apologetic tone could be read as reinforcement of native peoples’ inferiority and of white supremacy.  Does the ambiguity make it acceptable to teach under Arizona law or does it expose the inadequacy and ignorance of that law?

 Occom’s execution sermon was so well received by his white audience that he was urged to publish it, which he did in 1772.  Both whites and native people flocked to hear a famous Indian preacher deliver the sermon at the hanging of his fellow tribesman Moses Paul on Sept. 2, 1771.  Angry at being thrown out of a tavern for drunkenness, Paul had laid in wait and murdered the next person to leave, who turned out to be a prominent white citizen.

Occom’s sermon conforms to the standard pattern of text-propositions-application.  What is unusual is that when he gets to the application, he speaks separately to his different audiences—to “My poor unhappy Brother Moses”; to his white superiors, “reverend gentlemen and fathers of Israel”; and to his native listeners, “My poor Kindred.”  His sermon thus becomes a rhetorical case study as he adjusts his message and his style to each audience, acting as a minister to Moses, calling on him to repent and save his soul; as humble servant to the white clergy, calling on them to bring the full force of their authority and power to fight sin and evil; and as temperance reformer to his native “brethren,” calling on them to give up the sin of drunkenness that they may be saved. 

His deference to his white superiors is noticeable in comparison to his authoritative tone toward native people.  He thereby reinforces white supremacy, and, no doubt, by perpetuating the stereotype of the “drunken Indian,” promotes “resentment” toward that race.

One of the effects of oppression is the internalization of inferiority on the part of the oppressed.  Thus their writings may reinforce their own oppression, even sometimes in the same text in which they protest it.

Arizona’s short-sighted curriculum law does not even begin to appreciate the complexities and ambiguities of what they seek to prohibit.

The Tempest II (Beyond Time)

Historio/political interpretations of The Tempest (see previous post) are completely valid ways of reading the play, but not the only valid ways.

 There are those who reject “universal” or “timeless” ways of reading any literature, but The Tempest invites such a reading by signaling its setting as beyond time.  The Latin word “tempestus” for “storm” or “weather” is similar to the word “tempus” for “time.”  Just as the action of the play takes place post-tempest, so it could be read as post-time or outside of time.

 While Prospero explicitly sets the action between 2 and 6 p.m., multiple references in the text suggest a timeless, supernatural realm.  Miranda invokes “the heavens” and Prospero, “Providence divine” to explain their previous delivery from death (Act I, scene ii).  Ariel invokes “Destiny” and “Fate” to explain the survival of Alonso and his companions after the storm that Prospero has conjured (Act III, scene iii).  Similarly, Ariel’s otherworldly music is barely heard by the earth-bound characters throughout the play.  Prospero’s magic creates a sense of wonder and strangeness.  There are references to visions, miracles, amazement, and mythical creatures.  The magic island suggests a new creation, resurrection, or afterlife.

 As the text itself suggests a timeless realm, so are we invited to consider a universal or transcendent significance to the play.

 The Tempest begins with disorder (the storm), destruction (the shipwreck), and an encounter with death, as the crew and passengers tumble into the sea.  This apocalyptic scene is followed by Prospero’s reassurance of Miranda that all is well and his recounting of their own exile, shipwreck, and survival on the island where Miranda has grown up, knowing only her father Prospero and his two slaves, Caliban and Ariel.  Thus is the theme of symbolic death and resurrection established at the start.

 Prospero then puts Miranda to sleep, introducing a motif of sleeping and waking that parallels the theme of death and rebirth.

 His conversation with Ariel and Caliban introduces a theme of captivity and freedom and the need to earn one’s freedom.  The appearance of Ferdinand confirms Prospero’s assurances and introduces the love theme as Ferdinand immediately falls in love with Miranda, who also falls under his spell.  Just as freedom must be earned, so must love and happiness.  Prospero pretends to believe Ferdinand is a spy with designs on the island and takes him prisoner, “lest too light winning/Make the prize light” (Act I, scene ii).

 The island is beginning to emerge as an ambiguous world: rebirth and renewal, on one hand, and trial and ordeal, on the other; airy spirit and brute nature; union and exile.

 Act II begins with Alonso, the King of Naples, fearing for his son Ferdinand’s life, as Ferdinand had feared for his father, Gonzalo imagining himself transforming the island into a new “golden age,” and Antonio (the Duke of Milan who had usurped his brother Prospero’s throne and cast him and Miranda away on the sea to die) conspiring with Alonso’s brother Sebastian to assassinate Alonso and Gonzalo so that Sebastian can assume the throne of Naples.  Ariel intervenes, like a providential angel, to disrupt the plot and the group moves on in search of Ferdinand.  Again the ambiguous island harbors both treachery and beneficence.

 Brute nature asserts itself in the next scene as Caliban, Trinculo and Stephano succumb to the power of wine.  Under the influence, Caliban bows in worship to Stephano, who supplied the wine.

The next scene (Act III, scene i) is the textual center of the five-act play.  Ferdinand and Miranda, unknowingly observed by Prospero, work together in mutual labor, declare their love for each other and exchange betrothal vows.  Beneficence breaks out in this scene as new love and the promise of new life triumph over the darkness of previous scenes.

 Treachery, however, reasserts itself in the next scene as Caliban, Stephano, and Trinkulo, in a drunken state, plot to murder Prospero.  Meanwhile, Ariel confronts Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian with their own treachery against Prospero, warning them of continuing punishment if they fail to repent and reform.  Their ordeal of guilt begins.

 At this point, the plot turns, as Prospero, in quick succession, blesses the union of Ferdinand and Miranda; with Ariel’s help disrupts the murder plot against him by the drunken trio; calls his enemies to account in his presence and pardons them; frees Ariel; and bids farewell to his magical arts before departing with the court to Naples.

 Repeatedly, as the plot veers toward death and destruction, separation and division, or brutality and guile, tragedy is averted by rebirth and renewal, convergence and union, or providence and beneficence.  It is a timeless mythic tale of suffering and redemption, in which new life, restoration, deliverance, and freedom must be earned by trial and ordeal.

 At the center of the play is the young couple, representing innocence, love, fertility, and hope for the future.  No doubt they will suffer yet more tempests, but the play is primarily affirmative, offering the promise of continual renewal for both the individual and humanity in general.

The Tempest in Tucson

On January 1 a new law went into effect in Arizona prohibiting K-12 classes that “promote the overthrow of the U.S. government, promote resentment toward a race or class of people, are designed primarily for pupils of one ethnic group, or advocate ethnic solidarity.”  The purpose of the law is to eliminate the ethnic studies curriculum in Tucson public schools.  (Read more: http://www.azcentral.com/arizonarepublic/local/articles/2011/01/01/20110101arizona-ethnic-studies-ban.html#ixzz1kVeUY0j5.) 

 Among the works that is taught in this curriculum is Shakespeare’s The Tempest.  Though the Tucson administration denies the book has been banned, high school teacher Curtis Acosta was told not to teach the play using the “nexus of race, class and oppression” or “issues of critical race theory.” 

 “What is very clear is that ’The Tempest’ is problematic for our administrators due to the content of the play and the pedagogical choices I have made,” Acosta said in an interview. “In other words, Shakespeare wrote a play that is clearly about colonization of the new world and there are strong themes of race, colonization, oppression, class and power that permeate the play, along with themes of love and redemption.”

(http://www.salon.com/2012/01/18/tucson_says_banished_books_may_return_to_classrooms/singleton/#comments)

 This stunning violation of academic freedom and crude imposition of ideological control over public school curriculum spurred me to reread Shakespeare’s mysterious final play and review some of the history of its critical reception and interpretation.

 Since its first production in 1611 (just four years after Jamestown was founded) The Tempest has been read theologically, mythically, aesthetically, biographically, psychologically, as well as politically.  One of the earliest political interpretations of the play is found in Leslie Fiedler’s 1973 essay “Caliban as the American Indian.”  However, the connections of the play to its historical context would have been recognized by its contemporaries.

 Its allusions to contemporary travel narratives of a Virginia Company expedition to Jamestown in 1608 are well established in scholarship.  The flagship of this fleet was separated from the rest and, having failed to arrive in Jamestown, was presumed to be lost.  Nearly a year later the admiral and sailors of the flagship arrived in two small boats, having run aground on the island of Bermuda, where they found food, shelter, and wood to build their boats, despite the site’s reputation as an “Isle of Devils.”  This adventure became sensational news in England, and in Act I, scene ii, of The Tempest, Ariel makes explicit reference to “the still-vexed Bermoothes” (always-stormy Bermudas).

 It would have also been widely recognized among educated contemporaries that “Caliban” is an anagram of “cannibal” (not necessarily meaning eater of human flesh in this context), and that this sub-human character constitutes a refutation of Montaigne’s well-known essay “Of Cannibals,” translated into English in 1603.  This essay is now widely understood as a source of the “noble savage” image of American Indians and the utopian view of the “New World,” in which American Indian society is represented as a kind of ideal state.  Gonzalo’s description of his ideal commonwealth in Act II, scene I, of The Tempest echoes the very same language of Montaigne’s description.

 In addition, at a time when the transatlantic slave trade is at its height, Shakespeare presents both Ariel and Caliban as slaves to Prospero.   It is difficult to deny the connection between Shakespeare’s play and the larger historical context.  In order to avoid “the nexus of race, class, and oppression” must teachers in Tucson avoid teaching The Tempest, ignore history entirely while teaching it, or distort history by treating the “New World” metaphor strictly in positive terms and Prospero as a benevolent slave owner so as to avoid creating resentment against white Europeans? Presumably, the malevolent, revengeful characteristics of Caliban, an indigenous creature enslaved by Prospero, would have to be ignored in order to avoid creating resentment against racial groups that have been historically enslaved.  In other words some of the most obvious features of the text would have to be distorted.

 Like most European literature of Shakespeare’s time, The Tempest is Eurocentric, aristocratic and patriarchal in its world view.  Under the Arizona law, that world view could presumably not be critiqued for fear of creating resentment toward Europeans, European-Americans, aristocrats, and men.  On the other hand, that world view could not be approved for fear of creating resentment toward non-Europeans, non-European-Americans, commoners, and women.  Pity the poor teacher trying to navigate those shoals!  Better to avoid the text entirely than create one’s own pedagogical shipwreck in the classroom.

 Not surprisingly, The Tempest is a far more complex and ambiguous text than any crude political ideology, and it offers a study in power that Arizona legislators, Tucson administrators, and teachers could learn from.

 First, it accurately reflects two competing European visions of the “New World.” On the one hand, it is a Utopia, as Montaigne described—a new Eden, a Promised Land, a “land flowing with milk and honey.”  On the other, it is a “hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wild beasts and wild men,” as William Bradford described Plymouth upon the Pilgrims’ first landing—“a wild and savage” place, primitive, barbaric.  If the magic island where Prospero and Miranda are exiled represents the new world, then the sub-human creature Caliban represents the savage view, while the airy spirit Ariel represents the idyllic view.  Ariel had been left imprisoned by Caliban’s witch-mother until Prospero arrived after her death, freed him, and then enslaved both Ariel and Caliban.  If Prospero represents the Europeans, then, allegorically, does this mean that Europeans have power over both the worst and best of the New World? When Prospero frees Ariel at the end of the play, having used him to achieve a redemptive resolution to the injustice done him by his enemies, does that mean that Europeans will bring out the best in the New World? By keeping Caliban enslaved at the end, does that mean that Europeans will keep the worst of the New World under control?  If so, then the play reinforces the contemporary European idea that western conquest had the providential purpose of improving the conquered lands.

 Perhaps, but Caliban’s grievances against Prospero are sympathetic, given Prospero’s harsh treatment of him. 

             This island’s mine by Sycorax my mother,

            Which thou takst from me.  When thou cam’st first,

             Thou strok’st me, and made much of me; would’st give me

             Water with berries in’t; and teach me how

             To name the bigger light, and how the less,

             That burn by day and night. And then I loved thee

             And showed thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,

             The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place and fertile.

            Cursed be I that did so! All the charms

            Of Sycorax—toads, beetles, bats, light on you!

            For I am all the subjects that you have,

             Which first was mine own king; and here you sty me

            In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me

The rest o’ th’ island.  (Act I, scene ii)

And later Caliban expresses his Ariel-like, spiritual side:

                Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

               Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

               Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

                 Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices

                 That, if I then had waked after long sleep,

                 Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming,

               The clouds methought would open and show riches

                 Ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked,

                 I cried to dream again. (Act III, scene iii)

 Thus, if Caliban represents the indigenous people of the new world, then the play does not entirely represent them in an unsympathetic light.

 Still, Ariel earns his freedom at the end of the play by obeying Prospero’s orders, while Caliban must do penance for his plot against Prospero, and, perhaps if he reforms himself, can earn his freedom as well.  Liberty, it seems, is not a natural right but a privilege to be conferred by one of greater power.

 Prospero, himself, had lost his freedom, when his brother, Antonio, usurped his throne as King of Milan and cast him, with his daughter, Miranda, away on the sea to die. Even royalty cannot rest secure in either their liberty or their power.  Prospero and Miranda survive, however, having been shipwrecked on the magic island, where Prospero continues with his studies of the magical arts, educating Miranda, and using Caliban and Ariel as slave labor.  When Prospero uses his powers to cause the shipwreck of his brother and his co-conspirator, the Duke of Naples, and bring them under the control of his magic on the island, he does not seek revenge.  On the contrary, he arranges for the Duke’s son, Ferdinand, and Miranda to fall in love, and then, after allowing the others to believe Ferdinand has drowned, arranges for a reunion and for the redemption of his enemies through the power of his forgiveness.  In the end the impending marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda symbolizes the restoration of both family and political harmony, as Prospero resumes his “proper” place on the throne.  Of course, Shakespeare’s version of family and political harmony is based on what in his day was considered the natural order of gender and class, a patriarchal and aristocratic “great chain of being,” with men ruling women, and aristocracy, with its own ranking order, ruling commoners.

 The treatment of power in the play relies on this hierarchical world view.  Order in the world depends upon each level in the great chain of being keeping its place.  When a lower level seeks to dominate a higher level, disorder and destruction break out.  Thus when Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo allow themselves to be ruled by their physical craving for wine, they become foolish, greedy, vengeful, and violent.  It was   selfish ambition that led Antonio and Alonso to overthrow Prospero from his rightful throne and establish an alliance that maintained their political rule.  On the other hand, it was Prospero’s neglect of his political responsibilities that contributed to his downfall.  Prospero’s restoration to his rightful place partly depends upon his recognition of having neglected “worldly ends, all dedicated/To closeness [seclusion] and the bettering of (his) mind….” (Act I, scene ii)  Each place in the great chain of being has a responsibility appropriate to that place and failure to execute that responsibility likewise results in disorder.  Prospero’s pursuit of knowledge, however, leads to the development of his intellectual and magical powers, which in turn enable him to regain his political power.  In addition to physical, social, and intellectual power, the play demonstrates the power of romantic love as Miranda and Ferdinand fall under each other’s spell, the power of filial devotion as Alonso refuses to give up Ferdinand for dead and insists that his compatriots help search for him, the supernatural power represented by Ariel and the island’s barely heard music that even Caliban responds to, and finally the power of compassion, forgiveness, and redemption, as Prospero, once he has his enemies in his power, pardons them rather than taking revenge.

 Today, democratic notions of equality and freedom have replaced the Shakespearean aristocratic world view, but we do expect individuals to earn their place in the world, as Ariel had to earn his freedom and Propero had to earn back his throne, and we distinguish between the kind of freedom that causes harm to others and the responsible exercise of freedom that contributes to the well-being of all.  Similarly, though we still live in a social hierarchy, we value power-sharing and the appropriate use of social control such that it benefits the general welfare, not the individual wielder of power.

 Do teachers of The Tempest appropriately use their power in the classroom to convey the full complexity and ambiguity of the play or do they use the play to advance a narrow ideological agenda?  Do Tucson administrators respect the work that teachers have done to earn their positions and their academic freedom? Do they have the right to dictate a teacher’s pedagogy and curricular choices in order to advance their own narrow ideological agenda? Do Arizona lawmakers have the right to deny an ethnic group the opportunity to learn its history and cultural traditions, again, to advance the interests of another ethnic group that happens to have more social power?  If their goal is social cohesion among ethnic groups, do they promote that cohesion by the raw exercise of social control?

 There are lessons in The Tempest for all parties involved and for all who would read, learn, and act with wisdom and compassion rather than with ignorant authoritarianism.

"Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem"

What’s remarkable about “Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem” by Maya Angelou (see previous post) is that it celebrates, not the birth of the Christian “savior,” but “the Birth of Jesus Christ/Into the great religions of the world.”

The poem takes a Christian holiday and uses it to signify a universal human longing for Peace.  It speaks as a universal “we,” voicing the hunger for Peace shared by “Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim….Jew…Jainist…the Catholic and the Confucian…Angels and Mortals, Believers and Nonbelievers.”

In this poem the birth of Christianity does not usher in a superior religion so much as a new iteration of an ancient hope for Peace harbored in the human heart, regardless of what religious belief that heart might be bound to or whether it is bound to any such belief at all.  The hope for Peace transcends belief and non-belief.  And in that spirit, Christmas, like most religious holidays, can speak to all of us.

A non-Christian might conceivably resent the use of Christmas as a universal symbol, as opposed to a holiday from their own belief system.  Likewise an atheist might scoff at the idea of a religious holiday representing a secular value.  Yet who can resist the appeal of “lights of joy,” “bells of hope,” “carols of forgiveness,” “absence of war,” “harmony of spirit,” “comfort,” “security,” or “a halting of hate”?

The poem not only seeks to transcend religious differences but also those of color, calling on us “to look beyond complexions and see community.”  It is easy to dismiss such grand appeals as sentimental tripe or blind hypocrisy, but that would leave us with nothing but cynicism.  Surely we would rather live with ideals to aspire to than total resignation to conflict, strife, hate, and war.  It is those ideals of peace on earth and good will to all that gives the Christmas season its universal appeal, whether celebrated as a religious or a secular holiday.

How does the form of the poem reinforce and enhance its message?  It uses unrhymed free verse, which conveys a sense of openness, with a combination of parallelism and line breaks to create a rhythmic, poetic effect.  While the rhythm is hardly regular, it fits with the irregular pattern of nature evoked in images of thunder, lightning, flood, and avalanche, which the poem uses to represent the “climate of fear and apprehension” into which “Christmas enters.”

With the entry of Christmas the poem turns from images of nature’s destructiveness to more human images of “bells,” “carols,” “faces of children,” “shoulders of our aged,” the “whisper” of a “word,” the word “Peace.” And later it is through “language” that we “translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.”  It is through our “voices” that we “jubiliate,” “shout,” and “speak” Peace into being.

The shift from natural to human imagery conveys the idea that it is our human responsibility and capability—not that of a natural or supernatural power--to achieve the human ideals of peace, brotherhood, sisterhood, and atonement.

Though the poem uses images of “light,” which invoke the natural phenomenon of the Winter Solstice, the Peace that it celebrates is a human creation.  And while the creative power of the Word has parallels to God’s use of language in the creation story of Genesis, the focus of the poem is on human voices and human speech.

Just as humans created “the great religions of the world,” so we created the dream of Peace, and so we are responsible for making that dream a reality on earth.  That would indeed be an “Amazing Peace.”

A Christmas Poem

"Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem"

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes

And lightening rattles the eaves of our houses.

Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche

Over unprotected villages.

The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.

What have we done to so affront nature?

We worry God.

Are you there? Are you there really?

Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,

Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope

And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.

The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,

Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.

Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.

Flood waters recede into memory.

Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us

As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children

It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.

Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,

Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.

At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.

We listen carefully as it gathers strength.

We hear a sweetness.

The word is Peace.

It is loud now. It is louder.

Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.

It is what we have hungered for.

Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.

A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.

Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.

We beckon this good season to wait awhile with us.

We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.

Peace.

Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.

We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,

Implore you to stay awhile with us

so we may learn by your shimmering light

how to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.

On this platform of peace, we can create a language

to translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ

Into the great religions of the world.

We jubilate the precious advent of trust.

We shout with glorious tongues the coming of hope.

All the earth’s tribes loosen their voices to celebrate the promise of

Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Nonbelievers,

Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.

Peace.

We look at our world and speak the word aloud.

Peace.

We look at each other, then into ourselves,

And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation:

Peace, My Brother.

Peace, My Sister.

Peace, My Soul

--Maya Angelou

"The Gift of the Magi"

In case you can’t find the significance in “The Gift of the Magi,” O. Henry is sure to tell you.

As if the title were not enough, he directly compares the young couple “who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house” to the wise men “who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger.”  And then he declares them “the wisest” of “all who give and receive gifts….They are the magi.”

Unwise because they sell their most valuable possessions, Della her hair and Jim his watch, so that she can buy him a watch chain and he can buy her a set of combs.  Yet wise because their love for each other is greater than their love for their “greatest treasures.”

The message is sentimental, beautiful, and hard to miss:  human love is by far the greatest gift, greater than any material gift, regardless of its value.

I have no quarrel with the message, but it might have been more effectively delivered if O. Henry had just told the story and spared us the commentary.

And forgive me if I find the buying and selling of hair somewhat discomforting, to say the least, but maybe that’s because of my daughter’s recent meeting with the rather strange proprietor of Leila’s Hair Museum in Kansas City (http://oisforobscure.blogspot.com/2011/10/leilas-hair-museum.html).  Beyond that, though, hair is traditionally associated with power and sexuality.  Think Samson and Rapunzel.  Is there a subliminal and, no doubt, wholly unintended message in Della giving up her power and taming her sexuality?  Does she turn herself into the traditional submissive, modest wife of the Victorian era, sacrificing her independence and assertiveness on the altar of love and marriage?  Or am I stretching it a bit?

And Jim, selling his father’s watch.  Would it be a stretch to see that act as symbolic of an Oedipal killing of the father?  Probably.  But, if you see it that way, then, perhaps his newly shorn Della is, Oedipally speaking, a substitute for his, no doubt, very proper Victorian mother.

Now we’ve really gone out on an interpretive limb.  You can be the judge of whether “The Gift of the Magi” is a sweet, simple, sentimental story of love and sacrifice or whether it masks a representation of darker depths hidden in the human psyche.  In any case, Merry Christmas! (Or, should I say "Bah, Humbug!"?)

"A Christmas Memory"

When I read this story by Truman Capote as a teenager, it didn’t make much of an impression.  Reading it again recently, I dismissed it at first as a “nice, sentimental story,” but really nothing of significance.

I know better than that though.  There is always something of significance to be found in the texts that humans produce, even if they are unintended, sometimes especially if they are unintended.  In “A Christmas Memory” there is, of course, the irony of the seven-year-old boy and the 60+-year-old woman, who is “still a child,” being best friends, and there is the pathos of the two marginalized family members clinging to each other’s companionship.  But beyond irony and poignancy, where is the significance to be found?

In rereading and rethinking the story, I noticed that while the first-person narrator is called by the nickname “Buddy,” we don’t know his real name (though we assume it is the author), and the woman, his distant cousin, is never named.  Buddy refers to her throughout as “my friend.”  The other “relatives” in the house are also unnamed, but they are the ones who seem to occupy the center of the household, in which Buddy and his friend are outsiders.

The lack of names for the relatives can be explained from the perspective of the narrator and his friend:  “…though they have power over us, and frequently make us cry, we are not, on the whole too much aware of them.”  But why the lack of specific identity for the two main characters?  Perhaps their namelessness underscores their status as near outcasts in the family (at least in their eyes).  Could part of the significance lie in the importance of belonging and community, even if it is a family community, to individual identity?  As Buddy and his friend turn to each other to reinforce their sense of self, we recognize the formative power of relationships.  Though their family situation is sad, the two characters experience great joy and delight together.

And it is this irony which brings us to the larger significance of the story.  While there are religious references in this “Christmas” story, there is no mention of Christ’s birth, though such a reference would fit well with the larger pattern in the narrative of life and light emerging from darkness.

Christ’s birth, however, is less important than the season of the natural year, the darkening days, the coming winter solstice, and the return of the sun’s light.  The most meaningful religious pattern in the story is more pagan than Christian.

This pantheistic theme is reinforced by the most explicit religious reference in the story when Buddy’s friend exclaims, while gesturing toward “clouds and kites and grass”:  “I’ll wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord has already shown Himself.  That things as they are…just what they’ve always seen, was seeing Him.  As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.”

And, years later, when Buddy learns of his friend’s death, on a December morning, it is the kites they made for each other their last Christmas together that he imagines “rather like hearts…hurrying toward heaven.”

Like the rebirth of light in the midst of winter’s darkness, it is the memory of human joy and delight two unlikely friends created together that somehow brightens the reality of death and loss.

Thus does “A Christmas Memory” reenact the ancient mythic theme of spring emerging from winter, light from darkness, and life from death.  Such is the significance of the story, and in that spirit, I wish you all a most Happy Winter Solstice!