Everyone was still. We all lay frozen in the most awkward and uncomfortable positions. From the audience, it probably looked like someone had emptied a toy chest of rag dolls onto the stage. My face was pressed up against the cool, black platform and my right arm hung off of the downstage side of the platform. I could still feel the vibration of the chains on my limp fingertips. I lay there, staring into the infinite black curtain, listening to the sound of silence vibrating from wall to wall. No one moved--no babies cried, no one jingled their keys, no one coughed, no one crinkled their programs, and some even forgot to breathe. I lifted my head as subtly as possible and there was Steve. His head hung weakly cocked to the side. Lines of anguish were visible on his sweat-soaked temples and around his cheekbones. The glow of soft pink and orange stage lights combined with the glare cast by the chains still swinging in the memory of our rattling them cast an eerie shimmer across his face. The aura reminded me of the softened glow produced by shining a flashlight through a water-filled fish tank. Suddenly burned by this image, I began to cry. So I returned my face to the cool comfort of the platform and sang our goodbyes as I watched my tears collect in the grooves of the wood like tiny rivers of sorrow.
She’s the kind of mother who cracks dirty jokes at the dinner table, uses the words “mannerism” and “euphemism” interchangeably, and reggaes with my friends on the dance floor. But at the end of the day, she puts on her red and green flannel pajamas and relaxes in the hands of a sixty-year-old lawyer named Matlock or shuffles through the pile of Danielle Steel and Mary Higgins Clark books looking for a good mystery to sink her teeth into.
I stopped running -dead in my tracks- entranced by the reflection in the lake. I could make out every detail; chairs on porches, tiny white cottages with brick red shutters, candles in windows, mothers standing in the doorways calling their children in from the rain, and a weeping willow which appeared sadder than usual as it drooped under the weight of the rain on its leaves.
The protagonist, Mama, shows two distinct traits throughout the story. She possesses a hard working demeanor and rugged features, leading to her insecurities shown throughout the story. She raised two children without the assistance of a man in her life, forcing her to take on both roles, and further transforming her into a coarse, tough, and burly woman. Mama portrays this through her own account of herself, saying “[i]n real life I am a large, big-boned woman with rough, man-working hands. In the winter I wear flannel nightgowns to bed and overalls during the day. I can kill and clean a hog as mercilessly as a man”(Walker 1312). It is very difficult for Mama to raise her kids on her own, but she does whatever
Brooks, Gwendolyn. “The Mother.” The Bedford Introduction to Literature. Ed. Michael Myer. New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 1999. 1081.
These examples illustrate the failings of this future society. From the beginning, Jimmy remembers his relationship with his mother asstrained. When he was a child, she expected him to be bright and understand her work. As a little boy, he wanted unconditional love that she could not always provide. It seems clear that Jimmy’s mother experienced some of the “undeniable anger” Adrienne Rich finds that connects all mothers (24).
Once a slave, Nanny tells of being raped by her master, an act from which Janie’s mother was brought into the world. With a
Janie’s grandmother, Nanny, sparks the beginning of the journey through the search of her inner self. Because of Janie’s blossoming womanhood, Nanny insists that Janie gets married right away. With Nanny’s experience with slavery, her actions in insuring financial stability and respectability for Janie, is sparked by it. With Nanny’s request, Janie’s want of independence clashes with Nanny’s plans for Janie. To soothe Nanny’s request, Janie marries Logan Killicks. Like all elders, the reassurance of the safety and stability of their children and grandchildren gives them ease. With Janie’s young and rebellious age, she does not realize the need of these essentials. Janie’s rebellious attitude drives the remainder of the novel. Like all women, Janie is expected to withdraw from her views to please her grandmother, which she does. Janie’s principle of independence is overridden by her grandmother. During the slavery era, the elders were dominant over the younger individuals. Not only does the theme of “elders know best” exist in African American culture but in society as a whole, such as the Native Americans and the Africans. Janie wanted to give her grandmother assurance that she would be taken care of before her death, a month after Janie’s marriage, Nan...
“Daisy, are you done with your book honey”, mom said loudly. “Yes”, I declared proudly. After all, it was a long and dry book at the beginning, and it did take a pretty long time. “So, do you want to tell me what it’s about?” my mom said inquisitively. “Sure”, I said, stuffing a piece of meatloaf into my mouth. “So, this book is called The Witchy Worries of Abby Adams. In the beginning, they introduce the characters. You know, like they do in every book. After that –’’Ding dong! “Oh my, I wonder who it could be!”My mother said, getting up from her seat to go get the door. “Hi Abby! Come on in. What brings you today?”Mom says excitedly. Abby? I thought. How strange! Just like the girl in my book. It must be a coincidence. “Actually Mrs. Holcomb, I would like to talk to Daisy”, Abby said. As soon as those words left her mouth, a chill went up my spine. How did mom know her? What does she want from me? Many questions were flying through brain. So much that I couldn’t even remember my own name. I can hear their footsteps through the halls. With every footstep, my heart would race faster, my hands would get sweatier, and my mind gets more clueless every time.
Smyth explores how well Jamaica Kincaid 's work fits into Chodorow 's model. She finds that Kincaid 's work has somewhat of a natural fit to the Chodorow model, because Kincaid 's literature largely involves the theme of a mother-daughter relationship (Smyth 79). “I have a sense of destiny because of my mother, who was an extraordinary person but a terrible candidate for mother.” Kincaid said to Oprah Winfrey in an interview (Oprah). The idea that Jamaica Kincaid fits this model extends my premise that Kincaid 's work is largely impacted by her mother, and adds to that, by stating that even her personality is greatly influenced by her mother. In other words, without her mother that she despises, Jamaica Kincaid would not be the woman she is today, and there is a real possibility that she never would have become an award-winning
First, White uses imagery throughout his essay to create an effective visual of his experiences at the lake. To start his essay, White reflects on his childhood memories of the lake when he and his family visited every summer: “I remembered clearest of all the early morning, when the lake was cool and motionless, remembered how the bedroom smelled of the lumber it was made of and the wet woods whose scent entered the screen.” This passage enhances
The fall of ’99 was the year of all years; Janine was in her last year of law school at Yale, and her adoptive mother, Nancy, had just phoned telling her of their family visit in the fall. Just then out of the blue she hears a knock at the door.
Marie, who is a product of an abusive family, is influenced by her past, as she perceives the relationship between Callie and her son, Bo. Saunders writes, describing Marie’s childhood experiences, “At least she’d [Marie] never locked on of them [her children] in a closet while entertaining a literal gravedigger in the parlor” (174). Marie’s mother did not embody the traditional traits of a maternal fig...
Women throughout time have been forced to cope with the challenges of motherhood, along with society’s expectations as to what a mother’s relationship should be with her child. Novelist, Agatha Christie said of the relationship between mother and child, “A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.” In Beloved, Toni Morrison examines the same idea; ultimately showing that the mother’s willingness to protect her child at all costs often endangers the mother herself. Beloved is set in the late 1800’s, but Sethe’s experiences as a mother ring true with the experiences of mothers throughout time because the act of being a mother is timeless.
As the dark stadium filled with fire, with the sounds of guns and bombs exploding everywhere, the crazed fans yelled at the top of their lungs. The enormous stage was rumbling with the sound of a single guitar as the band slowly started their next encore performance. Soon after I realized that I was actually at the Sanitarium concert listening to Metallica play "One", I thought to my self, "Is this real, am I actually here right now?" I had a weird feeling the entire time because I had worked all summer to simply listen to music with a bunch of strangers.
I wandered around the path near the lake because it was always peaceful and quiet there in the morning and the trees that hung over the wide walkway only drew me in more. The cool wind blew continuously, and some of the leaves that barely hung on to the branches were pulled along with it. They floated while dropping slowly, and one of the leaves chose my head as a landing spot. I brushed my hair with my hand, not caring if doing so messes up my hair, since the wind already accomplished that job the second I took a step outside my house.
Without warning, the lights went dark. This was the moment I had been waiting for. My adrenaline went through the roof. The time had finally come that I would get to see and hear my first live concert.
Then audience members who were perfect strangers who were screaming loudest would turn to each other with knowing glances and smile because they were sharing the same excitement and connecting with one another over their love of this man’s music. There was no pushing or shoving to get closer to the stage – it wasn’t that kind of crowd. Instead, there was mutual respect for one another’s space within the confines of the too-small venue. Nobody wanted to be the person who ruined it for someone else. It was this respect that made the audience members’ connections with one another that much stronger – we were all here to listen to this wonderful man’s music and see his performance – and, of course, we were here to enjoy it.