Rapunzel. . . Redeemed?: Final Thoughts

I realize, finally, having looked over my previous posts, that I did not ever actually review the book.  More importantly, I think I glossed over or misrepresented some points that are fairly important, and lest I seem to have missed it, I do want to give a few last words.

First, the matter of Hermes's homosexual temptation.  I mentioned that it seemed a lightening of the evil of homosexuality since the novel acknowledge implicitly that the temptation to that kind of sin could happen.  Well, in fact, this is most likely an unintended implication, as Hermes is in prison, alone, and very much fallen--in a sinful state that has removed him from God.  He is, like other characters in the novel say, "a slave to his body."  Unable to satisfy his lust with Raphaela, or with another girl (and he does think about the innocent Melissa), he considers yielding to Pinkie.  What I find curious is that he considers a homosexual act--and using another for his lustful purposes--before he considers himself...

The idea that sex in general (perhaps), but premarital sex in particular makes one a slave to one's body is not simply a theme in the novel--the plot, and the experiences of Raphaela, Hermes, and--Dr. Zilberger, in fact--confirm this very Paulian truth.  If I see it as a weakness in the novel and rather unlikely that Dr. Zilberger, educated woman and feminist that she is, has allowed herself to be toyed with by a professor to the point that she had four abortions, neverteless the novel uses her backhistory as an example beyond that of Hermes and Raphaela that sex--the wrong kind of sex, sex without God--is addictive.  (I am not questioning the distinction that sex without God is the wrong kind of sex--that's basic Catholic stuff.)  So what seems to be a flaw is, in fact, the plot and characterization acting in the service of the moral, and while I don't believe that that conflict should exist, I can recognize it as the author's artistic choice to put the moral before the tale.

I decided to write this post after a weekend of moving because I was thinking about a turn in the responses to rape education. The most recent feminist argument is that rape prevention education should be targeted to young men rather than young women, because young women should not have to protect themselves by limiting their own activities.  Rather, young men should be educated to be sure that they are not rapists.  The message is one that Dr. Zilberger and her compadres would approve: that all young men are potential rapists.  This is played out in their villification of Hermes in the novel, but in fact, the plot supports this idea:  in fact, Hermes is a rapist.  He sees himself as a rapist from his first sexual encounter with Raphaela, when he recongizes the power differential and knows that he should not proceed.  He is a slave to sex, and sexual desire makes him a rapist.  While it is not violent rape, the message is clear:  that decent young men can become rapists, and relatively easily.  And I wonder, is this message a necessary one?  Do we want young men or young women thinking that they are constantly in danger from their sexual impulses, either to become slaves, ever seeking sexual gratification, or to become rapists and take what they want?  For me, the novel takes teen sexuality beyond sin and temptation, into sordid crime.  I never recover from Raphaela's age, for one thing.  Making it dark is absolutely intentional, and that's fine--for a particular reader.  But that reader is not me.

Therein lies my problem with Regina Doman.  I am not her reader.  But I want to be.  I am Catholic.  I like a good story.  I like fairy tales.  I like re-visions of fairy tales.  And I get all of her literary allusions.  But there are things that I simply can't accept--and in this case, it's the dark vision of sex.  Perhaps I just don't want a cautionary tale, but I think I could accept a cautionary tale, if it did not rely on types and extremes--but types and extremes are what the fairy tale is all about.  They are not, however, what novels are about, and the novel genre--especially the realistic novel, which this is--carries its own expectations, including more complexity.  At times, Doman achieves that complexity--when she allows her characters to be real, and to deal with more or less realistic difficulties.

There are moments of real beauty in the way people and plot twists come together--as when Raphaela finds her family.  The affirmation of family is also very nicely done, as is Raphaela's gradual spiritual awakening.  Those are the positives.  But I'm not sure the positives outweigh the negatives in my final estimation, and that's because the novel is bifurcated into the fairy tale and the messy reality, and the two halves never mesh.  It is also because the audience that Doman is writing to is the one she does not need to convert--because their ideas already mesh with her own, and all they want is a dramatization of those ideas.  Real dialogue is not possible, because the novel does not allow doubt or dissent a way in--clearly, because I represent a dissenting voice.  (I do not represent a dissenting Catholic, but I am a voice of dissent within the community of Doman's readers.)   Those who are not already convinced that Catholic views of sex are correct, or even who do not fully understand and accept, and instead wrestle with some aspects of Church teaching, will not find themselves welcome in the construct of the novel, because there is no working through of doubt, there is only what is right, and going against what is right.  There's ignorance, but that hardly counts.

As a contrast, I might pose that even unredeemed sexuality has something of the beauty of marital sexuality, and that that, in itself, makes it tempting.  But the reader never sees that.  However, I think it is much more poignant to consider how something that seems good can be an evil, rather than making the sin seem sordid from the start.  But I enter the conversation acknowledging the possibility of doubt and confusion.  Hermes is well-catechized, and even though he doesn't really know what the reality of the temptation will be for him, he has all the answers memorized and feels guilt at all the right moments.  He just keeps going.  Where is the questioning reader supposed to find a place?  Not with the ignorant Raphaela, and not with the well-catechized believer-gone-wrong Hermes.

Every time I read Regina Doman's novels, I want to see her reach for a wider audience--to evangelize, not simply to reassure.  And it is because of her characerization, her storytelling, and her gripping action sequences, and also for her desire to show what faith looks like that I want this for her novels.  But to gain a larger audience would mean to shuck some of the baggage of being right--and that means acknowledging that evil isn't always easy to see, or to label, and that political and social identities don't always signify a villian, or an evil person.  Perhaps I would like to see a truly adult novel that did not rely on a fairy tale trope or motif.  Perhaps then the struggle would satisfy?  I'm not sure.  But I will likely read the next one of her novels that I see reviewed, in the hope of seeing the author's work mature and expand, to reach beyond the type and stereotype to find good and evil in unexpected--and yet realistic--places.

Rapunzel... Redeemed?: The Review, Pt. 2

One of my continuing problems with Doman's novels are her tendency to "type" characters according to--well, basically identity politics.  I have already discussed Dr. Zilberger, the feminist scientist villain, at length.  I won't do that again.  No, really.  I promise.  Even though I remain irritated that Doman has put me in the position of having to defend feminism.  Instead, I want to treat stereotyping and identity politics in the novels--the good, the bad, the intentional, the unintentional, social identity, and racial identity.

There are two characters who are very interesting, and seem to represent an attempt to humanize the "other side," by which I mean the characters whose self-defined identity contradicts Church teaching, and who normally would be cast as villains.  These characters are Minot and Pinkie.  Minot was probably my favorite character in roughly the first part of the book.  I think this is because unlike the other characters, she felt real to me rather than simply being a "type."  Here, I must acknowledge that character is extremely important to my engagement with a novel.  If I don't find enough to like in a character, or at least something that intrigues me, or if I don't find the characterizations credible, I find it very difficult to like the novel as a whole.  When I read, I want to be able to get inside the character's head and live in there for a while, trying it on for size.  So while I rebel against the "types," even while realizing that there is some excuse for this given the appropriation of the fairy tale genre, while other readers don't mind so much.  So I was intrigued by Minot, who is well-sketched, and is also more typical of a Doman villain rather than a hero.  (Had characterization of the protagonists not improved substantially, interest in Minot would not have been enough to carry me through, however.)

Minot is a self-proclaimed lesbian.  She is even having a "coming-out" party of sorts.  She is in love with Raphaela, or so she says, but it is unclear whether she is able to really love anyone.  She practices extravagance, and picks particular habits, like smoking, to irritate her adoptive mother.  Raphaela has her own, more subtle barbs for this purpose, but Minot pushes her own "mother" to the limits of her tolerance as a sort of protest of the life her mother prefers.  She seems to be drawn to literature, the arts, and drama--drama--drama.  Her desire for Raphaela, cloaked in friendship, is immature and eventually becomes disturbing, but in an instant modulates into a truer friendship as she opts to save Raphaela from their mothers.  She is a "good" lesbian, if you will, and registers as authentic with her drama, if not particularly honest with her sexuality.  Her lifestyle choice is clearly a choice--and one based on a desire for a particular kind of attention.  But she is also manipulative, coercive, and dangerously close to being a rapist.   Her flaws are not small, but she remains sympathetic because of her choice to do the right thing.  Her indictment of their mothers' feminism is also stinging, brutally honest, and, quite frankly, awesome.

Pinkie seems like a more "natural" homosexual, if you will.  He does not seem to have "chosen" his identity in quite the same way as Minot, although the reader does not know as much of his story.  He seems to be--and to have been--a male prostitute.  I am almost reminded of the character Agrado (who is transgendered) from Pedro Almodòvar's Todo Sobre Mi Madre, though Pinkie is less strictly honest than Agrado.  He is a friend to Hermes in prison, and in an extremely surprising turn, offers more--and Hermes considers, rejects the idea, and then promptly confesses.  And that was fairly amazing to me--the admission, in such a didactic book, that a young heterosexual male might be susceptible to homosexual temptation.  I applaud Doman.  Pinkie is also sympathetic because he is a caretaker, and has been sentenced falsely--something the reader has to learn along with Hermes, who is cautious with his prison associates.  But Pinkie is in prison.  He is a prostitute.  And he is a drug addict.  So even more so than Minot, who is testimony to how adoptive single feminist lesbian parent(s) can screw up a child, he is clearly not what we might consider a normal, functioning member of society. But unlike Minot, his sexuality seems to be something intrinsic rather than chosen.  So both arguments about the nature of a gay identity are present in the novel--that it is strictly chosen, and that it is something that is naturally a part of who the person is.  The coexistence of these two characters suggests that both claims might be correct, depending on the circumstances.  So homosexuality rather than being cast simply as a sin, is also associated with prostitution, drugs, drama, protest, and self-indulgence, while at the same time treated as something that can't quite be explained away as a simple choice, and something that doesn't necessarily make a person into a hateful villain.  We've come a long way from Shadow of the Bear with this one!  (And I don't mean to imply that I expect Doman to espouse acceptance of homosexual lifestyles through the novels or in other ways contradict Church teaching, becuase I certainly do not.)

So let's turn to an aspect of identity that has absolutely no ties to choice, and absolutely no relationship to sin:  Race.  While Doman fights against some ways of characterizing homosexuality that might be considered insensitive or bigoted (while relegating the homosexual characters to a sort of freak show, which is not wholly charitable...  Can we have a genuinely good, celibate character with same-sex attraction?  Just to show that someone who is gay can lead a good Catholic life?), she allows stereotype to seep into her sympathetic portrayal of the Mexican biological family of Raphaela.  From the beginning, I found it interesting that Dr. Zilberger, in adopting Raphaela, has also effectively stripped her of her cultural identity.  Raphaela is Mexican, but has no knowledge whatsoever of her cultural or linguistic heritage, which Zilberger associates with superstition, religion (which is basically the same for her), poverty, ignorance, and patriarchy.  These associations develop over the course of the novel, and I'm not going to evaluate how they connect with her feminist ideology, which seems to be more radical than liberal, and doesn't seem to fit comfortably into the American two-party system.

I'm going to admit, first, that the worry dolls as angels smacked of superstition to me, even as they were a bit childish, but (beyond their wonderful plot significance) I rather liked the way that they became the vehicle for her first stirrings of spirituality, and sort of a bridge to prayer and to Our Lady of Guadaloupe.  As Our Lady of Guadaloupe has particular importance for Mexican-Americans, and since I happen to have lived in Texas for a while, and since I have a husband who travels to Mexico frequently and observes that you just don't see Our Lady of Guadaloupe as much in Mexico as you do in Mexican-American communities, I admit that I rolled my eyes a bit when Our Lady of Guadaloupe was introduced.  You know, because the Irish kid has to have St. Patrick, so Raphaela has to have Our Lady of Guadaloupe.  *sigh*  How original.  But it does speak to the cultural manifestations of Catholicism, so there is that.  How Our Lady of Guadaloupe became significant to Raphaela, however, and the level of significance, redeemed the easy assigning of patron saints, and I was frequently moved by Raphaela's first gestures toward prayer. Now, both protagonists do seem to be praying to the saints rather than praying for intercession, which is how it is understood in Catholic thought and practice--Saints only have the ability to take one's prayer to the next level, but they are better suited to do so, since they are closer to God than we are.  This theology is not explicit in the novel, but the novel is so burdened with other ideas at times, that this is hardly a flaw--especially since Doman would expect her reader to understand this--just worth noting in passing.

Treatment of the Mexican Catholic biological family as a family was good.  I mean, of course they were going to be illegals, and interestingly neither the liberal Raphaela or the conservative Hermes wants to deal with that--though the good Republican comes through in the end.  (To be clear, I avoid aligning myself with political parties, though it is likely apparent from time to time that I am right of center, though this is modulated by academic training and temperament.)  My main problem with this is that it's too expected.  I like the unexpected.  Mexicans as illegal aliens and migrant workers isn't a stereotype--oh wait! yes, it is absolutely a stereotype.  It is also believable.  But it is not my biggest problem with treatment of Raphaela's family.  Nor is their religion, which is perfectly believable and very well integrated--it's simply a part of who they are.  I find the dynamics of the (predictably) large family to be believable as well, and I was particularly pleased at the way Raphaela has to come to terms with the presence of people in her space.  I think this is one problem that chlildren raised in small families, or large houses with a room for each person, face--they are unable to share space.  Communal spaces are reserved for specific times and purposes, and otherwise, people go their own way.  Having lived such an isolated life, it is natural for Raphaela to feel overwhelmed, but the affection of the family--their genuine warmth--makes it much easier for her to cope.  Having lived with 5 brothers and sisters in an 800 sq. ft. house growing up, I know something about people and small space.  And even now, with my own children, I prefer to create shared spaces in our small-by-Texas-standards apartment rather than partition individual space to each person according to gender or age or birth order or whatever.

The problem I have with Doman's portrayal of the Mexican Catholic family comes from something that is perhaps more subtle than the family's poverty, the stereotypically large number of children, their immigration status, or even the father's theivery (yes, okay, it was lettuce, but even so)--though I think some, particularly of Mexican descent, might be justified in finding the stereotypical representation off-putting or offensive.  Again, Doman is playing to general, ininformed perception to create types.  But the real problem I have is with the admittedly clever use of the fairy tale narrative-within-a-narrative.  This is a device I should love, because it is clever, and because I am a big fan of frame narratives.  But I don't.  And it really comes down to rhetoric.  Rather than simply being separate from the narrative--a "pull-out story," if you will, rather like J. K. Rowling's story of the three brothers in The Deathly Hallows, which is more sophisticated and attributed to a particular author, Raphaela's history is framed as a story told by Raphaela's new-found biological sister, Mona.  Mona is in her thirties.  And whether or not she was a child when she first heard what happened to her youngest sister, because the retelling is infantile, it suggests an immature understanding of Raphaela's abduction.  Zilberger is represented as a sorceress, a witch--because scientists are witches, or because Mexicans are superstitious?  You decide. Even if Mona is simply repeating the story as it was told to her as a child (and an older child--of 15 or 16), this shifts the telling to her parents (specifically her father).  So he is the one who is superstitious and lacks the understanding to communicate in a sophisticated way.  The brothers, in particular, retain the impression that Zilberger is an ogre, and they all regard her as some kind of evil supernatural creature.  And yet, this is a realistic story, even if a fairy tale.

What we have here is a conflict between the fairy tale mode and the realistic novel genre.  I understand that Doman is bringing the fairy tale back in, but the way in which she executes this motif emphasizes the child-like and superstitious nature of the family--who are also Mexican.  And Mexican culture has a fair number of practices that are, or appear to be, superstition.  However kind and good they might be, Raphaela's biological family are like superstitious children. In fact, this portrayal validates Dr. Zilberger's impression of them.  The reader is certainly supposed to think of them fondly, but is not asked to relate to them on any level.  We are left with no alternative than to feel superior.  And this is when it becomes very clear--as it was in Alex O'Donnell and the 40 Cyber-Thieves, that Doman's ideal/intended/implied audience, and likely her own background, is white and suburban.  And if that's the case, I wonder whether it is a good idea to try for diversity at all. At any rate, it's difficult to applaud her efforts at inclusion when she overlooks the larger implications of her creative choices.

So that's what I see as the good, the bad, and the ugly with the treatment of the "marginalized Other" in Doman's novel.  I will try to wrap up with some final thoughts by way of conclusion and closure--in another post.

Rapunzel... Redeemed?: The Review Pt. 1

This post is not quite a review, but might as well count as one--or the first part of one.  It is my follow up to previous posts, here and here, on Regina Doman's latest Fairy Tale novel, Rapunzel Let Down.  If you have read the previous posts, you know that I went into the book hopeful but skeptical.  That I, as a reader felt let down--and feel consistently let down--by Doman's particular strategy of moralizing in her novels.  Specifically, I object to having evil tied so explicitly to an ideology, and I felt--and still feel, if to a lesser extent--that she gives the male protagonist a distorted impression of sexuality by way of Catholic guilt, except that at least in that case, it modulates into more of a distorted sense of his own motivations.  You might have guessed that I had basically abandoned the novel, but was convinced to continue it (after finishing my reread of The Goblet of Fire and packing up the Harry Potter books for the move) by a commenter, ibmiller, who offers some observations on this post.  And as it turns out, once things get really, really bad for the protagonists, the novel takes a definite upward turn.  I could really like this novel--if there weren't things that were truly off-putting and almost bigoted, most of which can be tied to the author's modernization of the fairy tale genre, and inability to see the implications of her artistic chocies--and her further inability to find editors early in the writing process who can steer her away from really awful mistakes and excessive caricature and exaggeration.  The storytelling is spot on.  The suspense and action are riveting.  The character development starts out pretty weak, but recovers.  After all, the protagonists really are children at the beginning, and they definitely mature.  (I still say that there's a lot of creepy in the sex-with-a-15-year-old part of the equation...)

So why can't I like the book?  Again, we're talking resistance, but I think that my resistance is not wholly subjective.  The flaws really prevent enjoyment of the novels for a reader who is attuned to such things and unable to look past them.   I feel like the novel as a piece of rhetoric--which it is (which all novels are, really), particularly because it makes several explicit arguments--hits below the belt on several counts.  In addition to the evil villian feminist, who is extreme, but still operates as a mechanism to teach impressionable young Catholics why feminism is bad, we get an evil sadist who interestingly comes fairly close to the level of disturbing sadism exhibited by Jack Randall in Outlander, prison sex, and two interesting characters who are gay--gay and sympathetic--but still not what you would call your normal, everyday homosexual on the street.  I guess I should give Doman points for trying, because it almost seems that she took my advice here and here.  But then there is the problem of race.  And there's that nagging poem that makes some of the choppiest chapters even more choppy, and annoys more than it contributes--yes, there are a couple of things to be said about literacy, too.

First, the villain--Raphaela's mother.  This is both the problem that won't go away and one of the things that bothered me less as the novel progressed.  I can accept her both as an extreme, and as someone deeply psychologically scarred.  Her story is short, grotesque, and utterly unbelievable.  It rather reminded me of Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye.  Things like that don't really happen.  Well, sure they do.  Some guy in Germany kept his daughter in a bunker and impregnated her multiple times.  Women are mistreated by lovers all the time.  But I'm not sure that I can suspend disbelief enough to accept the sequence of events and their outcome.  Parts of it, yes.  And it was the icing on the cake that the abusive lover was an academic, taking advantage of his students' sexual liberation.  Most of the mentions of academia play into the worst stereotypes.  Doman's readers are never going to be able to relax and enjoy and English class in college unless they go to Steubenville, Ave Maria, or the University of Dallas, and while I have problems with academia that intersect with Doman's concerns, her representation is--once again--heavy-handed and unfair.  "Watch out for predatory academics!" it suggests.  "They will exploit and brainwash you!"  Well, peachy.  Some of us are trying honestly to teach through this attitude, and would thank the rest of you to stop the generalizations.

In spite of her tragic backstory, Dr. Zilburger (is that a Jewish name?  Great.  Another stereotype.) becomes a renowned doctor--albeit a wacky one.  Two things are going on here.  First, the conflict between science and rationality and learning on the one hand, and religion on the other.  Catholics are not anti-science.  And yet clearly science is represented here as the means of neutralizing and ultimately anihilating faith, religion, and morality, for a start.  It is cold and unfeeling--experimental seed lettuces are more important than starving families, after all. And it generally distorts the scientist's attitude towards people, who are expendable in any form, not just when in utero.  Because yes, abortion is there, too.

Now, I have no problem with the way abortion is treated.  No suspension of disbelief needed either in the way ideology informs the situation or how coercion tactics are used.  But she didn't have to be trying to establish a city of  "womyn" (oh please) and she didn't have to be a scientist.  Feminism was fine.  Less emphasis on specific and overblown extreme radical ideologies would have made a better read and provided for a more realistic villian.

The other thing that happens with Dr. Zilburger and her profession in the story is that the choice of acceptable professions for women is clearly delineated.  Scientist is out, both because of the damaging influence of scientific rationality and objectivity, and also because of the long hours that keep her from being a good parent.  Law is a possibility, because somehow both female lawyers become somewhat sympathetic.  Academia - no.  Because by implication, women in academia are either heartless grotesque feminists or abused by male professors who want to use their bodies.  And generally, being a single female professional is highly suspect, and might possibly make women masculine and contradict the essential nature of feminine identity.  And so the kind of attitude espoused by Rapunzel Let Down ends up being the very thing against which feminism is, in its most admirable forms, trying to combat.  The charitable women are quaint and poor.  The med student's wife is not necessarily aspiring to be anything but a mother.  Does Hermes's mother work, or simply support her husband's political career?  And while Raphaela will become a doctor--perhaps after the babies are grown, as one character suggests--she will be an ob/gyn or a pediatrician, which are apparently the most feminine options.  This is not explicit, but these are the directions in which the portrayals of women and women's work point in the novel, and it's pretty disturbing.  This might simply have been an unfortunate offshoot of the story the author wanted to tell, but this is what a good editor and critic can do--unpack the implications that the author might not have created intentionally so that the decision to communicate this message can become intentional.  The writing process is pretty mysterious, as I know.

The extremes of Zilburger's behavior at the end of the novel do not trouble me in terms of character development.  She seems consistent and believable at the end.  The main problem is the level of idological baggage that the novel communicates to the reader by way of this character, her profession and intellectual pursuits, and how she has raised Raphaela.  It is a huge stumbling block, and my greatest enjoyment of the novel came when I did not have to hear about feminist-this-or-that, the patriarchy (although a little of that would have been fine), or "womyn," which made me cringe unbearably, mainly because the term evokes an outdated mode or wave of feminism, and to someone who knows anything about feminism, makes the author look a bit ridiculous and uninformed.

The Pensieve as Literacy Magic

In The Goblet of Fire, J. K. Rowling introduces a very interesting device, the Pensieve.  Harry, while waiting for Professor Dumbledore to return to his office, is attracted by the glow of the silver strands of memory in the stone bowl, and unwittingly plunges into three of Dumbledore's memories--memories that have significance for the mysterious events involving Barty Crouch.  When Harry is recalled by Dumbledore to the present, he asks Dumbledore what the Pensieve is. Dumbledore's explanation runs as follows:

"This? It is called a Pensieve," said Dumbledore.  "I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind."

[.....]

"At these times," said Dumbledore, indicating the stone basin, "I use the Pensieve.  One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure.  It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand, when they are in this form." (596)

 The Pensieve proves to be an extremely useful device from a narrative perspective--it provides instant flashbacks, and gives a character who is not a participant in a memory access to that memory from the perspective of the person who was there.  Thus, the author is able to fill in a lot of gaps and give a character (Harry) the tools to figure out the puzzle and unravel the mystery--and of all of the novels, Goblet of Fire has a plot that is most like a mystery (well, ONE of its plots--there are a few).

But when I refer to the Pensieve, I refer to it as "Literacy" magic, not "Literary," magic.  So its function as a plot- and flashback-enabling device is not what I have in mind.  Rather, the Pensieve, in the story--in Dumbledore's description--in the wizarding world (we're suspending our disbelief now) functions rather like writing, and registers as symbolic of written accounts of thoughts (and, to a lesser extent, dreams).

Now, writing the above, it occurs to me that Harry has, in fact, gone into Dumbledore's office in order to tell Dumbledore about a dream.  Meanwhile, he becomes absorbed in the thoughts that Dumbledore siphoned out of his head in order to be able to look at them more clearly (perhaps objectively?) and to make connections.  Considering that Freud's method of dream analysis relied heavily on analysis of written accounts of the dream--whether written by the dreamer (often himself) after waking from the dream, or written down by a second party (himself) while the dreamer recounted them verbally--having Harry's quest to tell Dumbledore his dreams interrupted by the Penseive becomes somewhat more interesting.  According to the model that Freud provides in The Interpretation of Dreams (or perhaps a different/shorter work on the subject?), dream analysis in fact looks much more like close reading than like the typical model of patient on the couch and psychiatrist in the chair.  Had Harry written his dream instead of rushing to Dumbledore's office to wait, he might have had a fuller account of the dream as well as a text to analyze, though his written accound would be mediated by the choices he made as a writer--which would arguably be different than his choices if providing a verbal account.  Freud saw significance in the representation of the dream in language; the Pensieve, however, keeps the memory contained in a nonwritten, verbal state.  The extra layers of consciousness that go into writing a dream or memory do not create that overlayer, and the immediacy of the perceotion remains unmediated by the deliberate processes of inscription and the thought processes involved in forming the perceptions into words and sentences.

Nevertheless, for all of its immediacy, the Pensieve is like written language because, lacking a magical device to record memory as it actually happened, and to frame it without the application of additional layers of language and conscious thought, the tool we have to record memory is, in fact, writing.  And writing functions, according to Walter Ong (and other literacy theorists, like Goody, whom he quotes), in much the same way as a Pensieve in Goblet of Fire and future books:

"Texts are think-like, immobilized in visual space, and subject to what Goody calls 'backward scanning.'" (Ong 97)

Here's a nice summary of the concept:

Goody (1977) explains that writing transforms speech by abstracting its components. Words in written texts are more "thing-like" (Ong, 1982, p. 97). Their meaning can be looked up in other written texts and do not require direct ratification through interpersonal situations. Written texts enable backward-scanning of thought to make corrections and resolve inconsistencies. This self-analysis or criticism is inhibited by face-to-face communication in oral cultures. 

Writing enables both the recording and the dissecting of verbal utterance. Literate cultures have permanent records of past thought which can be compared and questioned skeptically. Such skepticism enables the building and testing of alternative explanations of knowledge. In ancient Greece, the shift from oral to literate thought processes resulted in the "logical, specialized, and cumulative intellectual tradition" of Plato. (Goody and Watt, 1968, pp. 68-69)

So looking back over things and being able to make connections and draw conclusions is a consequence of literacy, according to the foundational 20th century theorists.  It is the permanence and fixity of the written word--the knowledge that it will not change from one reading to the next--that allows us to refer back to what we read earlier at a later date, when some new idea occurs to us, or when some new data presents itself to us, or when we grow in knowledge or understanding.  (And this, incidentally, is why I reread--and reread--and reread.  The book does not change.  But I do.  And the situation of reading does as well.)  

The Pensieve has all of this as well--without the mediation of written language, which can distort the actual memory.  Memories can be modified and distorted, as we realize in The Half-Blood Prince, but in general, they are not mediated by the conscious process of writing.  In Goblet of Fire, the Pensieve shows memories.  They can be replayed and examined.  They do not change because rather than being subject to retelling, they are direct and permanent records of the event as it was received by the mind of the person who experienced it. So like writing--only better.

But I still don't like the name Penseive.  Too punny.

Postcolonialism at the Quidditch World Cup

Continuing to idly read Harry Potter instead of devoting the hours that I need to devote to packing for our upcoming move, I have reached Book 4, The Goblet of Fire.  And though I remember it as one of the more well-balanced and symmetrical in terms of plot, with all of the threads coming together neatly, it's taking a while to get moving.  Last night (well, longer ago now that I'm finally finishing this post), I read about the happenings at the Quidditch World Cup,  and frankly, Quidditch doesn't interest me all that much.  But the scene as as a whole, which might more accurately be two or three separate scenes, deserves some scrutiny for how it develops what becomes one of the central themes in the series--namely, race and race relations.  And in particular, in this first meeting of wizards from different countries, Rowling's choice of bringing the Irish to the forefront in the Quidditch match, while also staging an attack on "Muggles," invites comparison of the wizards' treatment of non-magic humans and British colonialism in Ireland.  Adding another layer to the race relations is the treatment of the second-ever house elf.  The difference between non-magic human and house-elf on the race-relations spectrum seems to be that while most wizards agree--and express openly--that house elves are inferior, there is some room for debate about Muggles.

Some of the amusing clashes of culture are the fights between the Bulgarian mascots--the veela--and the Irish mascots (leprechauns, of course--and I have a joke for you:  An Irishman walks out of a pub.)  Veela (or Vila, or Wila) are Slavic nymphs or fairy-like creatures--or so says (*sigh*) Wikipedia.  However, these Slavic creatures do not carry the same cultural currency--at least in America--or stereotype as the leprechaun.  Another amusing moment is when the Bulgarian PM reveals that he has been pretending not to understand English because he was amused by Ludo Bagman's attempts to communicate.  But there is a more serious sub-text that the presence of the Irish and all of the trappings of Irish culture highlights.

I'm thinking, here, of a little book called Inventing Ireland by Declan Kiberd.  It's probably the most readable work of postcolonial criticism I've ever read.  One of the central ideas is that British colonialism looked different in Ireland for two reasons: because of the proximity of Ireland and England (as compared to the other colonies) and because the Irish and the English just weren't that different, especially in appearance.  And so because the Irish were "closer to home"--literally and metaphorically--there was more pressure to prove that England had control, and there were more pains taken to demonstrate the differences between the English and the Irish, and more necessaity to demonize the Irish and portray them as slovenly and barbaric.  Not that the English didn't do this in/with the other colonies.  But because of this closeness, suppression of the Irish could appear more brutal than in the other colonies (some woul debate whether it was actually more brutal, I'm certain)--and often was extremely brutal--while it took a bit more propoganda and some mental gymnastics to differentiate the Irish in such a way that British superiority was highlighted.  Religion obviously played a huge part--demonize Catholicism and you demonize the Irish.  Done.

I give this overview of Kiberd because in the Quidditch World Cup, the Irish are the champions, and they have green and shamrocks and leprechauns (though not Catholicism), and they are celebrated--and even celebrated as representing the British Isles, since England's Quidditch team didn't do so well.  So no colonialist or racial tensions there (except the fighting mascots, which is a sports rivalry thing).  And yet, race is all over this scene.

After the tournament, some former Death Eaters (the followers of Voldemort) have a bit of fun with a Muggle family.  Now, I have problems with the term "Muggle."  I recognize the necessity of having a term to distinguish between the magic- and non-magic humans.  To call non-magic folk "humans" would be to imply that wizards were not human.  I think I would be okay with that, but I understand why the author wouldn't want to make that large of a divide--all people need to be people in the books, or the race divide becomes more problematic, and you might have some siding with the dark wizards who think that humans--who are another species now--are inferior.  The connection has to be closer--like the (white) Irish and the (white) English, who look more or less the same, but are somehow different (and is that difference magic?  is magic like religion?).

The problem with "Muggle" is that when it is used, it is used to Other.  Even when it is used by well-meaning wizards, it never quite registers as neutral.  The most prominent Muggles are, after all, the Dursleys, who represent the worst type of non-magic folk (as Professor McGonnogal says at the beginning of the first Harry Potter film).  So "Muggle" is first associated with them, and never quite shakes that association.  Hermione's parents are rarely mentioned, and are sort of pitiful and meek--so no help comes from calling them Muggles.  It still remains negative.  And any time the distinction between two sets of people is represented in a label, it is ugly.  So really, there's no hope for the term.  It never feels neutral.  Even Mr. Weasley, who loves Muggles, draws attention to the trivial or idiosynchratic in his struggle to understand them--the Other.  They-who-can-not-be-understood.

I have a theory that even Rowling found the "Muggle" moniker problematic after a while.  After a relatively short while.  Because she had to come up with something that was actually worse than Muggle.  Something that not only marked the distincton, but did so in a decidedly negative fashion.  The wizarding equivalent of a racial slur:  Mudblood.  Which means a wizard born of Muggles.  Which doesn't really make sense because as they were Muggles, their blood couldn't be muddied--they were already something different.  Or so we're supposed to think.  Mudblood does two things for me.  It emphasizes Malfoy's class-consciousness.  This is about being nobility--the wizard bluebloods.  Pure Bloods.  And maybe if I were British, it would register differently, but I can't even see why Hermione was so stressed out about it in The Chamber of Secrets, when the term was introduced, given that she was raised in a non-wizarding context, just like Harry.  I mean, it was clear that Malfoy was trying to be insulting, but sticks and stones, luv. [Actually, Hermione's point was that, being raised in a different context, the label didn't insult her. The movie said otherwise.] The other thing that "Mudblood" does for me is emphasizes the negativity of "Muggle"--both words, after all, start with the very same phonetic sounds.  Both are two-syllable words.  Both have the emphasis on the first syllable.  Barring the difference in the voiced velar plosive 'g' which registers in the throat with a gentle pause, and the 'd' (dental) and 'b' (labial) combination, which cause a dramatic full stop in the center of the (compund) word, the words do sound similar.  And while Mudbloods should actually be better than Muggles, they are worse--primarily because they collapse the distinction between the wizard and the Muggle, calling into question the superiority of the wizard.  So Mudbloods are reviled because by being magic, they suggest that Muggles are not so different--something that the labels belie.

There are, of course, other racial struggles.  There are the house elves, the goblins, the giants--or, in Hagrid's case, the half-giants.  All of these racial dynamics emerge in Goblet of Fire in a more developed way than in any of the previous books.  And it becomes clear that while Ron is very much immersed in these prejudices, Harry and Hermione are not.  Their ignorance permits them to behave as if the other magical races are their equals.  However, the other racial struggles are different.  On the one hand, there is obvious disenfranchisement.  That the house elves are slaves seems an ambiguous issue--because they like it. But neither they nor goblins can have wands.  On the other hand, goblins and house elves and giants are, well monsters.  They look different. They have different phisiology in addition to history and culture.  They are more obviously Other.  Muggles, on the other hand, are, well--us.  The reader.  But since most readers identify with magical characters, we as readers are put in a position of Othering ourselves.  And that's not at all a comfortable position, when you think about it.  And it is not an isolated move in fantasy.  But why?  What is the inevitable effect?  Because I can't say that I think the fans notice the difference, even when a family of Muggles, including small children, is tortured and humiliated.  It remains--distant.  Because Muggles are "not me."  They are Other.

And that's where I come back to the Irish, I guess--the Other that is like me; the Other that is me.  So who is the reader? The colonizer or the colonized?

Close Reading on the Web

This blog has become, more or less, an excercise in close reading--which suits me just fine, because it's what I enjoy the most!  However, I do see myself as being somewhat outside of internet book culture because, with few exceptions, I avoid book reviews.  I also tend to write critically--not only in terms of exercising "critical thinking" and having a "critical eye," but also by being somewhat negative.  By offering critique.  By saying what I see as being wrong with a book.  And this is something that many book bloggers avoid or sugar coat.  I think it's part of the culture.

This is how I do close reading, although most of the time my close reading has more to do with interpretation and analysis, discourse and association.  At least, I think so.  I haven't been told otherwise--yet!  But what I'm wondering is. . .  where else is Close Reading happening on the web in general, and on blogs in particular?  Book reviews are not close reading.  They can't be!  Their goal is to give an overview and promote the book (usually)--or else not so  much.

I will actually be presenting a paper in September on the "close reading" method of blogging, because I know it's out there.  I can't see that anyone has labeled it as such, but I've seen it in political and religious contexts, when a blogger focuses very closely on words and phrasing in order to reach a fuller understanding, as in Melanie's Waste Land and Nicene Creed projects, or in order to argue for a particular point or interpretation.  I have also seen it in Ann Althouse's Great Gatsby Project, which must be getting an absurd number of hits since the movie re-adaptation (and here's Althouse getting indignant about her idea--*sigh*).

So I will be gathering some data on this particular topic, and if I find anything interesting, I'll share.  It's good practice and good accountability!  Because you know.  I might be writing the conference paper in the hotel otherwise...

And please--if you find any examples of close reading, no matter what the context (well, okay, I do have some limits, but I don't think my readership will take it there...), please leave a comment and link and tell me about it!

Sex and the Catholic Fairy Tale: Rapunzel Let Down, Take 3

Although my reading of Rapunzel Let Down by Regina Doman has slowed to about one chapter every couple of nights, as I pack to move, enjoy a couple of unusual visit with friends who have pools, and--oh yeah, reread Harry Potter (I'm on Goblet of Fire--just because), I have worked my way through eleven chapters.  The chapters are short, and there are many of them, but this means that I have gotten through the (first?) sex scene.  And I'm sorry to say, but I think it's a bit of a mess.  It is fairly subtle, yes.  There's enough to work with that it might give some reader lustful feelings--particularly if that reader has not encountered intimacy of this sort in literature before.  There are no real descriptions, but there is enough tension and mention of skin and nudity to get the reader's imagination going, in spite of the necessary guilt.  It is in my nature to be both tongue-in-cheek and skeptical, and that's about all of the disclaimer I'm going to provide right now--but I will say that if this--and I mean strictly the mechanical aspects--were a sex scene that was situated in a novel that was saying something positive about sex, it would be subtle, and would pass as not too offensive, immoral, or whatever.  But it's not.  And the context is what bothers me.

I have problems with the way it is represented and executed--as if premarital sex could not be consensual; as if premarital sex cannot be enjoyable or intimate in the non-sexual meaning of intimacy; as if premarital sex is necessarily something seedy that borders on rape.

I have larger problems, however, with what the male protagonist (and the scene is written from his perspective) believes about sex.

Let me start with the first problem.  It lies with the author's essential motivation, and so is not something I can legitimately complain about without simply wishing for a different book.  This book does not set out to say something positive about sex.  It sets out to make a very negative point about the dangers of premarital sex.  And it does so by stacking the decks a bit.  He is 17, she is 15--so there's a difference in age and knowledge.  She is mature, but very sheltered.   No sexual interaction between the two can possibly be equal.  Frankly, this sort of creeps me out.  BUT--in fact, this makes a very excellent point.  There is often a differential of knowledge and experience in extramarital sex, especially for a virgin.  So--yes.  This is a very good point.

The problem lies in the fact that the sex was premeditated on his part--if only by a little bit--without knowledge on her part.  This might be realistic, but doesn't register as true, given that they are supposed to be friends.  There is a tenderness.  And he violates it completely.  Yes, he is selfish.  But I have a difficult time empathizing with his guilt, and this is the start of it.  And yet, the perspective is his.  So am I supposed to sympathize?  Or am I supposed to pass judgment?  I suspect that I am supposed to pass judgment.  But if I'm busy judging him, then as a reader I'm setting myself way outside of the context and above his actions.  I'm saying to myself, "Well, clearly he is wrong.  He should know he is doing wrong, because I know that he is wrong."  It's not too much of a leap for the reader to think, "Well, I could never be in this situation, and if I were, I would not act this way, because I know it is wrong."  Being inside Hermes's head simply pounds the message--this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong.  As the reader, I'm not feeling it.  And so I'm not really learning and experiencing along with the character at this point.  How can I?  Even as a teen reader, I'm morally superior--not necessarily because I'm truly morally superior, but because (and here we get into narrative theory) the author has implied that the reader is morally superior by placing the reader in a position of judging rather than a position of empathizing.  The moment that a reader can think, I can totally see myself doing that, or I feel so sorry for what s/he is going through, the judgment becomes more difficult.  But I can't imagine too many of Doman's readers thinking either of those things.  Hermes has just acted like a total creepy stalker--definitley stepping over a line, and not just the simple "taking it too far and having sex" line.

So that's where I start.  I rather feel like the whole "how they had sex" is unbelievable.  Had they been kissing, and both wondering whether they would or not, or simply not thinking and doing, that would have seemed more realistic, and made it seem less like a statuatory rape situation (it's a good thing he hadn't turned 18 yet!).

So my second problem. Hermes is an imperfect moral compass, yes.  But it remains true that he is  the moral compass of the novel thus far.  He is Catholic.  She is atheist or agnostic, and completely ignorant of religion.

Now, we don't know his family terribly well, but his brothers hardly seem the model of virtue.  They have definitely bullying tendencies.  And his brother Christopher seems pretty good at scamming on chicks (to use the colloquial).  He snatches Melissa out from under Hermes in the first three pages of the book or so.  Definitely a ladies' man, and no telling how far he takes it.  So there's no telling how his moral upbrining has been.  Their parents seem pretty good--father in politics notwithstanding (maybe he'll have his own sex scandel in a chapter or two, but that's doubtful with the way it has been set up so far).  The family is overtly Catholic--not just passively so.  They have a priest over for tea (and vocation scouting) regularly.  And all boys have attended Catholic school.  I have no reason to suspect that the values imparted to Hermes have been faulty--which is good, because it at least doesn't provide an additional "out" for the reader who wishes to judge Hermes:  "Well my Catholic upbringing was better--I wouldn't fall into that trap," etc. etc.

And therein lies the problem.  If Hermes knows he is sinning (and he does), and his upbringing and values are trustworthy from the reader's perspective (and I have no reason to think that they'll break down in the future chapters), and his Catholicism is orthodox, then that means that the assumptions he makes about sex and sin are supposed to be read as basically correct--because he is going against his conscience when he acts.  It is possible that his understanding is meant to seem flawed, but I have no reason to think that his ideas about Catholic sexual morality are supposed to be extreme.  And yet, I find them to be exactly that.

Hermes' first misstep occurs when he climbs Raphaela's tower and sees her undressing--quite by accident.  He acknowledges her innocence.  He knows he should look away.  But he can't.  He has seen naughty magazines (though is not accustomed to viewing them), and sees that she is real.  He can't look away.  He sees her naked.  (She's compared to a child here, by the way--which I still find disturbing, even if it is an intentional move...)  And he can't look away.  And his next conclusion is that "from a moral perspective, he would have been better off if he had been spotted and shot on the way up."  And I find that incredibly disturbing.  Because really?  This was not a willful act.  Certainly he should have stopped looking.  But I heard a priest offer in a homily once that if he found himself entranced by a pretty girl, admiring her in ways that he perhaps should not, he said a prayer of thankfulness for her beauty.  I found that an amazing--and imminently practical--testimony.  Our protagonist is not so morally mature, but to condemn himself so fully--especially since he had a lot of other deceit that should have been confessed that was much worse than accidentally seeing a naked girl--seems incredibly harsh.  We can perhaps chalk it up to moral immaturity, so I'll move on...

Hermes's next rhetorical move is to declare her "mentally deflowered."  Now, in my book, his peek is a violation of her privacy, and if we're working with feminist--yes, feminist!!--theory, she has been subjected to his "Gaze," which is a male, patriarchal gaze, and is akin to metaphorical rape.  But if she is as innocent as a child undressing, then his accidental viewing can't really violate her. So...  is the reader to believe that (as feminist theory would suggest), she has been sexually violated?  Has she been changed by his glance?  Or is he justifying his future actions by declaring her to be already ruined?  I am disturbed by the implication that she has been deflowered by his accidental viewing.  It had nothing to do with her.  I see it as a violation, yes, but to have Hermes use the phrase suggests that this is a Catholic interpretation.  And I do not think that to look at a woman lustfully deflowers her.  That speaks to a change in her, when, in fact, the lust changes him.  A violation--yes.  A change in her--no.  Let's not grant The Gaze the full weight of feminist theory and imbue it with moral significance.

So what does Jesus say?  Our hero remembers:  "'He who looks at a woman with lust commits adultery,' Jesus had warned. He knew it. And he knew that merely looking wasn’t going to be enough for him much longer."  So first, the actual Bible verse emphasizes the change in him rather than her.  But when Hermes says that "merely looking wasn’t going to be enough for him much longer," a couple of things happen.  First, he evokes the Law.  And interestingly, he emphasizes the Law in a way that rather feels like the way the Jews treat the Law according to St. Paul (more on that in a bit).  But the second thing is, Hermes makes a quick jump from accident to fascination to lust to action--and the first three steps are somewhat collapsed, and happen in an instant.  He's neither scared by the feeling nor intimidated by the prospect of deflowering the girl whose innocence he lamented a moment ago.  Nope.  It's a slippery slope--and a fast one.  No performance anxiety here.  We don't even get a glimpse of Hermes wondering whether she will want to.  And yet, before seeing her naked, sex doesn't seem to have entered his mind.  The moral?  Never look at a naked girl.  Because we know where that leads!  (Remember that he has already declared himself better dead rather than see her naked--and while I get the reference to plucking out your eye if it causes you to sin, it wasn't really his eye that caused the problem! The real problem happens when he decides to keep climbing into her tower...)

To emphasize the legalism of Hermes' thinking, and the slippery slope, he thinks to  himself:  "He couldn’t go up to receive communion, tomorrow, not with lust on his soul."  And on one sense, this is good, sound thinking.  Technically, perfect contrition and intent to go to Confession, combined with the intentionality of the sin (or lack thereof), might have meant that he could take Communion.  But that's a bit technical--too technical--for the story.  So he has condemned himself fully.  His sin must, by implication, be mortal, meaning that Hermes has judged it to be both serious and conscious.  I still quibble with the "conscious" part, though it gets "conscious" pretty fast.  So he has condemned himself--by the Law: by taking the instinctive lust and applying it to himself in a legalistic manner, complete with penalty, he has condemned himself.  At that point, it seems that since he will not live up to virtue, he can only continue with sin.  And so he does.  (Perhaps I am misreading what St. Paul has to say in Romans about the Law vs. Faith, but had Hermes turned his mind to faith rather than judging himself legalistically, it seems that he would have given himself a bit more of a chance...)

The icing on the cake is, for me, the most destructive idea of all for a reader, and yet it seems to be coming from a frankly Catholic perspective, albeit Hermes' guilty perspective:

She should have been a bride, resplendent in white, with a ring on her finger and joy on her face in the sunlight to show the world she was loved. If he had really loved her, he would have given her that.  

But he had taken that away from her. And left her with— what? The chance to watch him steal away into the shadows like a thief? And she didn’t even realize what he had taken away from her. Instead of feeling like Romeo leaving Juliet, he felt like a dog skulking off with a piece of stolen meat. An animal. No, lower than an animal. She had trusted him. He had wanted her. And he had taken her.  

And she would always be with him. And he would always be with her. Whether they wanted it or not.

She is ruined, and he would always be with her and she with him, because they had ruined each other--a permanent bond that registers here as more violation.  The metaphor, "he felt like a dog skulking off with a piece of stolen meat," is particularly unsavory.  Is she a piece of meat?  Is he a dog?  But more importantly, is she a piece of meat???  Stolen meat???  This does not bode well for countless women who are deflowered before becoming brides--whether or not that choice or state of being is the ideal or morally preferable one.  Where did he get this idea?  Catholicism?  That's what the reader is lead to believe.

Recently, an article by Calah Alexander discussing the problems with abstinence-only education came to my attention (H/T Melanie).  It was written from a Catholic perspective, so it was not voicing a problem with abstinence, only with how it is presented to young people.  The article was occasioned by the testimony of Elizabeth Smart, whose will to resist kidnapping and sexual abuse was broken because abstinence-only education conditioned her to feel like a "chewed piece of gum."

I did not experience abstinence-only sex ed.  I had the biological kind that taught you how to prevent pregnancy and STDs.  And it was fine.  Nicely amoral.  It didn't make a huge impression, but it was informative.  I would be okay with having my children taught the same things.  So this account of abstinence-only education was a bit shocking, and I can immediately see how it would be damaging to the psyche.  And yet, here it is in Rapunzel Let Down.

I suppose it's admirable on some level that Hermes feels bound to her at all.  But on such terms as these!! And I know from reviews that she becomes pregnant.  And he goes to prison.  And wow!--they are completely ruined.  So the natural consequence of sex out of wedlock is. . . ruin and despair.  This actually doesn't seem too different from the prevailing attitude about unwed motherhood or unexpected pregnancy--but the time frame is shifted back to the initial act rather than to the resulting pregnancy.

I understand that the book is supposed to be hopeful (eventually).  I understand that the book is supposed to be dark because it deals with these "issues."  But it also presents an unrealistic and potentially damaging vision of premarital sex--how it happens, why it happens, and how it should be regarded by a moral person.  The emphasis is squarely on judgment, and does not ask the reader to experience the fear and pain--at least at this particular moment.  And for these reasons, I can't help but reject it.  Again.  *sigh*

Post-script:  It has occurred to me that some might question my claim above that "the whole 'how they had sex' is unbelievable.  Had they been kissing, and both wondering whether they would or not, or simply not thinking and doing, that would have seemed more realistic, and made it seem less like a statuatory rape situation."  Why should premarital sex be shown to be more consensual in this kind of novel?  Why should they get "carried away" mutually?  And well, the reason is this:  it's fine to condemn premarital sex (or any other kind of sin) when it obviously looks and feels wrong--as this does, and very much so.  But if it feels and seems good--and if there is real affection between the couple, at least for the duration of the sexual act, then it becomes a bit more like the confusion of actual premarital sex between attached people, and a bit more confusing as well--because how could such an act be objectively wrong?  It's a harder question to answer, and a harder truth to explore.  If everything goes to hell in a handbasket afterwards, the context of the sexual act (out-of-wedlock) becomes the problem, and provides a dramatic contrast to what the characters think is a neutral or good act (though it isn't, because of the context--right?).  The sex act itself remains good or neutral (at least potentially), and the context is highlighted as the sinful part of it.  Because again--it's easy to rationalize--"Well, their situation was different.  We are equal and in love."  And so the potential for real empathy with the characters and real instruction is broken down--because who can learn when the narrative places the reader in the role of spectator and in a position of moral superiority?

Let's Talk about Resistance: Why can't I read Regina Doman? Pt. 2

My difficulty with Regina Doman's novels really seems to originate from the very same place each and every time.  The problem is the assigning of stereotypical traits to a character to make that character representative of an ideology.  As a reader, I object on the one hand to the oversimplification, and to the knowledge that the author is trying to manipulate me into attaching certain actions and beliefs to people who identify with specific political and social movements.

And so what I know about myself that can help me to identify my point of resistance:

• I don't like labels.
• I'm not crazy about politics, and particularly name-calling and identity politics.
• I don't like when an author tries to manipulate my opinions without my consent--and I don't like implicit didacticism.  If you want me to think something, be honest about it.
• I don't like when an author makes assumptions about my agreement/disagreement with a particular, hmmm... I would say "issue," but I think it's more like a particular stereotype. I tend to be okay with the issues.
• I don't like fiction that blatantly engages with existing political ideologies.  Fantasy in particular can be a bit more nuanced.  Even in Brave New World, in which ideologies are evoked through the naming of historical figures, general rather than specific practices and concepts are targeted.  Even in Orwell, evil comes from both sides of the political spectrum.  Don't set Republican and Democrat against one another, because then you're telling me how to vote.  And that's too concrete.
• In my own attempt(s) to write fiction that is Catholic, I have avoided making characters representative of good and evil in themselves, because even though it is a convention of stories I love, it is not something I accept as true in human relationships in general.

So to recap my resistance to previous novels by Regina Doman:

From my Shadow of the Bear review:  "I was rather disappointed in the villain, as having a murderous atheist aesthete sketched with broadly homosexual overtones as the evil character in a Catholic novel was kind of facile--stacking the decks a bit.  And his association with post-Vatican II habit-less, possibly lesbian nuns was another moment in the early chapters that seemed a bit overdone."

From my Alex O'Donnell review:  "My first complaint about the book is something that I noted in The Shadow of the Bear, too--the tendency to set up an easy dichotomy to explain evil behavior.  In both novels, the bad guy is a flaming atheist.  This, to my mind, is a bit too easy.  It was far-fetched (and sketched in a much more detailed way) in The Shadow of the Bear, but in Alex O'Donnell, the motif is repeated in an offhanded way that sends the reader the message that bad guys are conscious atheists out to belittle and undermine Christian belief.  It isn't enough that the bad guys are trying to KILL the protagonists, they have to try to destroy their worldview, too.  And it sets up a persecution complex--everyone bad is trying to destroy my beliefs.  In both cases, you have a figure who is like the demon un-man from C. S. Lewis's Perelandra--consciously doing evil in order to fly in the face of God and belief--but without the demonic possession that justifies that character."

"As a remedy, I would like to see a "Catholic gone bad" "bad guy" (which, in The Shadow of the Bear, he kind of was--on an exaggerated level) or an atheist/agnostic "good guy":  not someone who is held up as an example of belief, but simply someone helpful who does not share the same beliefs as the protagonist(s), and yet enters into dialogue with the protagonists about belief.  Someone for whom the protagonists could say a passing prayer for understanding--hers or theirs.  In a similar vein, I would rather like to see an evil character, who, like Gollum, gives us the shadow of the possibility of redemption.  We are Catholic.  We believe that the possibilities of Redemption and God's grace exist for every human being.  Many of us resist the death penalty for this reason--perhaps we need to remember this in our fiction."

In Rapunzel Let Down, these are the problematic lines, words and phrases that occur in the early part of the book:

• The ideal of a society of womyn was one that filled her thoughts and political interests.
• Raphaela had her petit embroidery out. Her mother had resisted her daughter’s new hobby, saying it was an outdated and useless trap for a woman’s creativity, but Raphaela had been stubborn.
• Raphaela wondered if that’s why her mother had banished her to the tower room: so she didn’t have to be reminded of her daughter’s flirtation with traditional female garb.
• The way her mother talked, it seemed as though men liked women to be scantily clad in exploitational outfits her mother despised.
• Hermes was a male, one of those predators of the human race whose role was to subdue and trap females, force them back into the biological cages of traditional gender roles.
• “The independent female existence is civilized,” ran one book she had just read. “Rational, ordered, beautifully arranged, seeking peace, in harmony with nature. Each one of these attributes runs directly against the grain of the predatorial male. If your life reflects these values, then inviting an un-neutered male to share your personal life is like extending an invitation to a bull to patronize your china shop.”
• Feeling as though she were acting in front of an audience of horrified neo-feminists, she pulled out a plaid dress and held it up to her.
• The mouth was the area that contained some of the most sensitive tissues, and like her biology textbook authors, she had often wondered why it had become an orifice for mutual human contact.

I should note that these examples take place past the point in the book when I decided to start keeping track of them.

I am not known to be a feminist.  In fact, I am extremely resistant to feminism, and have been for most of my post-adolescent life, in part because of my resistance to labels.  I don't want a tag that tells you everything you need to know about me, and in many ways, this is, in fact, what feminism--as an "-ism"--tries to do.  It is inclusive and prescriptive at the same time; it claims and rejects whomever it decides is acceptable--or not.   My "reactionary moments" posts on Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series frequently argue that Gabaldon is subverting certain feminist interpretations of history and gender identity, and when I resume my blogging about Gabaldon, I intend to argue further that she regains feminist "street cred" by promoting certain views of pregnancy and childbirth and advocating birth control in specific ways.

And yet, I still bristle when Doman evokes the predictible, and not entirely unfounded, feminist stereotypes.  But you know--I've lived in that world in some ways.  I have my own reasons for rejecting feminism--some of them based in my own Catholic faith, some that predated my conversion to Catholicism.  My reasons are based on what I know about academic feminisms and the problems and contradictions therein.  But academic feminism is also a world in which I can get around.  I have the road map.  I know the landmarks.  I can participate in the conversation, and *gasp*--I share some common ground.  I have friends who are feminist.  (For that matter, I have friends who are homosexual; I have had friends who are lesbian.)  All of which places me outside of Doman's implied and intended audience.  They have not tried to undermine the fabric of my worldview, though sometimes the particular policies they favor would, and sometimes academics in general do try, quite consciously, to undermine Christian students' worldview--at times, maliciously.   I've seen it and heard it from former colleagues.  Even academics whom I consider good people try to manipulate Christians into rejecting tenets of Christian teaching.  And yet, I bristle.  Perhaps because there's more to those people than their agendas, and generally, the agendas are formed in response to something, and I don't know what that something is.

And while I do think that hyper-political parents (on both sides of the political spectrum) do intentionally indoctrinate their children with their own beliefs, what's happening in the book is that the bad mother is keeping the child locked away--conspicuously via homeschooling (or the priviledged version of homeschooling)--as a means of "protection"; the indoctrinaton is not explicit as it tends to be in reality (with the exception of male- and Republican-hating), as in the case of my son's pro-choice friend who is the daughter of older academic parents, and who knows that the pro-life agenda intends to oppress women.  So even this does not feel real, because the child is locked away--but that's the Rapunzel convention, too.  Keeping her away from men.  And in this case, from the ability to develop informed opinions.  Which, in fact, is what the novel is doing to readers.

Thinking about Darwin's recent post on irony, if the pro-choice protesters who chanted "Hail, Satan" in an attempt to subvert (what they thought was) the Christian pro-life protesters' perception of them had been sincere, they might have been villians in one of Regina Doman's novels.  But reality is more complex.  People do things for reasons--and some people do evil things for reasons that they believe to be good.  And while fairy tale villians were black-and-white-good-and-evil, by setting a novel in a contemporary, realistic setting, and creating characters who are meant to be more or less realistic, you lose some of the ability to type.  Because then "typing" becomes "stereotyping."  When your main characters are sketched in more complex ways, it becomes somewhat irresponsible to fall back on a cartoon villain.  Consider:  Tolkien was writing about a Middle Earth with clearly defined good and evil, but he allows for complexity where people are involved.  Orcs are evil--but Orcs are not people.  Sauron is evil--but Sauron is absolutely not a person.  Everyone else with evil tendencies--from Saurumon (who isn't mortal) to Gollum (who is mortal, but not human) to the Haradrim to Boromir and Denethor--has some potential to be something other than evil.  Tolkien, who was writing a work with clearly delineated good and evil, nevertheless did not ascribe to certain characters ideologies that made them inherently evil.  

Labeling doesn't help us.  Labeling makes it impossible to understand the perspective that we seek, ultimately, to change or overcome.  By telling young people in her audience--which, I think we can assume, is largely composed of young people who have never met a real homosexual, a real atheist, a real lesbian, or a real feminist--that feminists, lesbians, homosexuals, and atheists look, think, and behave in predictable ways that are calculated to undermine all that a virtuous Catholic holds dear, an author is shutting down the conversation.  She is not protecting youth from the corruption, she is building fear, mistrust, and ultimately, bigotry.  Like the freshman who wrote the inflammatory pro-life paper when I was in my first year teaching, who knew exactly what kind of woman would consider abortion, and ended his paper with the line, "Now you know the facts.  All YOU have to do is decide"--he knew his opponent so well that he couldn't imagine a real, flesh-and-blood person with a soul beneath the monster he had created in his subconscious.  We don't need our Catholic fiction to do this for our youth.  Even if--or especially if--there is a good, moral story attached.

It may be that Rapunzel's male-hating feminist potentially lesbian female professional woman scientist nontraditional pants-wearing short-hair favoring anti-religious adoptive Democrat mother who wants to establish female-only colonies in the Third World so that womyn (yes, with the "y") can throw off the oppression of patriarchy (whew)--has a backstory, and a more complex psychology, and perhaps even some redeeming qualities that make her human.  But if so, I haven't gotten there yet.  I'll keep you posted.  I'll also try to talk about things I like, because the story is interesting enough to keep me moving past the resistance.  But it's sort of like viewing nice scenery with sand in your  eye.

Let's Talk about Resistance: Why can't I read Regina Doman? Pt. 1

It's a great concept.  It's a concept I should like.  Fairy tales recast in contemporary settings, but in such a way that they still engage with good and evil, and from a specifically Catholic perspective. Regina Doman's fairy tale novels are novels I really want to like.  And yet, every time I read them, I encounter difficulties--first with The Shadow of the Bear, and then with Alex O'Donnell and the 40 Cyber Thieves--I find myself enjoying some parts of the stories, but rejecting others so firmly that the experience of reading is seriously impeded.  So when I read Sarah Reinhard's review of Rapunzel Let Down, I was intrigued.  I was interested!  And I was cautious.  But from the review, and from Regina Doman's web site, it seemed that the tone was different in this book--more different from the other two than Shadow and Alex were from each other.  So I started reading.  I am still reading.  But the resistance is definitely there--and building.  So I'm blogging about it.

Resistance is something I've thought about quite a bit.  When teaching composition, I teach audience resistance as a way of getting students to consider audience when they are writing, and to consider what rhetorical appeals they can employ or what strategies they can evoke in order to minimize the resistance that an audience might feel when reading a persuasive essay on a particular topic that happens to be written from a particular perspective.  Often (but not always), it has been a matter of helping a very religious undergraduate student consider how an academic audience will react to a position based in Christian morality, and to strategize reaching an audience that might not find certain arguments convincing--or who might find them offputting.  So resistance is absolutely about the reader, and as a writer, negotiating reader resistance depends on whom a writer sees as her audience (more on this in the next post).

I have thought about resistance in teaching and training contexts as well.  Most recently, I have thought about ways in which "soft skills" trainers really don't help themselves because they are completely unaware of what aspects of a sensitive topic might make class participants bristle.  As a literature teacher, it occurred to me that not only were many students resistant to fantasy, whole classes could be resistant to reading literature in particular way (reading children's literature as literature rather than for its potential as a teaching aid, for example), individual students could be significantly resistant to particular works.  My favorite example of student resistance has to be the student who told me that he refused to read Plato's Symposium on the basis of my introductory lecture on the historical context--and Greek homosexuality.  I talked him through his resistance by pointing out the influence of the "Ladder of Love" on Christian philosophy, and he actually wrote his final paper on the Symposium.

When I assigned "rhetorical blogging" in my most recent/last children's literature course, I was hoping that the blogging, which specifically acknowledged the "rhetorical situation" of reading, would help students to overcome any resistance they might have to 1) fantasy or 2) reading children's literature as scholars and critics.  As it turned out, those particular students were not generally resistant, but certain things emerged:  some female students were resistant to books that they identified as "boy books"; some (also female) students felt betrayed because they expected Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH would be about the little mouse named (by her married name) and depicted on the cover; some were resistant to books about rodents (a lesson I didn't learn, that cost me a job in New Zealand); most were resistant to Roald Dahl because of what they felt was a cruel and warped sense of justice.   So in fact, we did engage with resistance in that class, and often by way of the blogs.

My purpose in having the students blog and identify areas of resistance was so that by acknolwedging the resistance, and analyzing the reasons for that resistance, students might gain awareness of their reading that would permit them to read to the end of the book, and move out of their comfort zones, and also to help them to identify these points of resistance as areas for analysis.  If something bugs you while reading--figure out why!!

So having the blog, and relizing that when I read Regina Doman's novels, I have that bristling that  makes me want to argue, even if I know that I basically agree with her underlying point, I need to pause and ask why, especially as I want to like the story.

So that's the theoretical part.  I have some ideas, but I'll save those for the next post!