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.
Showing posts with label homosexual attraction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homosexual attraction. Show all posts
Monday, July 29, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Voyager: The Scourging of Jamie
In Dragonfly in Amber there is a scene of extended biblical allusion that seems to add little to the novel, and almost functions as a parody of the biblical scene--when Jack Randall's brother gives his beloved, pregnant Mary to Jack as his wife. In Voyager, a scene of Jamie being flogged, arms outstretched, similarly evokes a biblical scene--the scourging of Christ leading up to the Crucifixion:
*Lest my statement "what Grey calls love" be taken as more jaded than I intend it to be, let me say that I have no doubt that John does feel sexual attraction to Jamie. He might feel the beginning of philia. He certainly feels philia later--but perhaps not here, as his acquaintance with Jamie is at this point too brief, and exists in a context (of prisoner/imprisoned) that precludes romantic love (eros) or selfless love (agape). A confusion of friendly and sexual feelings at this point marks John's same-sex attraction, marking it as a hybrid and even disordered as compared with the ideal of love in the novels, the love between Jamie and Claire, though it is worth noting that to John at least, his love for Hector (a play on the Illiad, no doubt, in which Hector kills Achilles' lover--friend, fellow-soldier--Patroclus) is akin to Jamie's for Claire (see Voyager p. 172-173, 178).
The man’s muscles tightened in resistance to the pain. Again and again, until each separate muscle stood hard under the skin. His own muscles ached with tension, and he shifted inconspicuously from one leg to another, as the brutal tedium continued. Thin streams of red ran down the prisoner’s spine, blood mixed with water, staining the cloth of his breeches. (183)
And yet, it is difficult to say what this scene contributes to the novel. The reader has seen Jamie flogged before with no references to Christ, but here, the mixture of blood and water echoes the Crucifixion very clearly. Perhaps it taps into the idea that Voyager is a purgatorial novel. But it never quite reaches that level of significance, since the point seems to be how Jamie has allowed himself to be flogged, not merely as sacrifice for Angus McKenzie, but to force Lord John to punish him, and so perhaps divert Grey's sexual attraction.
If I were forced to find significance in this allusion, given that the emphasis is on Grey's response rather than Jamie's pain, I would have to conclude that Jamie has, in fact, sacrificed himself for? because of? John's sin. John does feel "self-disgust," but mainly because his eyes are fixed to the "wrenching beauty" of the scene of agony--a narrative commentary from Grey's voice that evokes artistic representations of Christ's agony.
Regardless of possible symbolism, I am forced by Jamie's sacrifice and John's gaze to remember Jamie's last (debasing) homosexual encounter(s)--with a man (Jack Randall) who would have derived more punishment from seeing Jamie flogged than from the sexual act. After the flogging, ordered by Grey, Jamie dreams of the aftermath of the flogging by Jack Randall that nearly killed him. Having himself flogged in response to Grey's desires recalls Randall's sadism, linking the two homosexual characters through violence to Jamie's body--perhaps to distinguish John Grey's homosexual desire (what Grey calls love*) from Randall's sadism. Or perhaps it suggests that there is an element of sadism in homosexual desire--contributing to my sense that Gabaldon's narratives never wholeheartedly embrace homosexuality--and perhaps also that there are elements of sadism and homoeroticism in Christian artwork, which has been argued before.
And also masochism . . . I am tempted to resist it as self-punishment, because Jamie does not seem guilty of a crime towards Grey or towards himself. However, there is the hint of something--again, a Purgatorial resonance. The punishment--represented as a removal, and almost a scourging of temptation--seems to have brought peace:
And also masochism . . . I am tempted to resist it as self-punishment, because Jamie does not seem guilty of a crime towards Grey or towards himself. However, there is the hint of something--again, a Purgatorial resonance. The punishment--represented as a removal, and almost a scourging of temptation--seems to have brought peace:
He felt relieved at once of many things. Of the weight of immediate responsibility, of the necessity for decision. Temptation was gone, along with the possibility of it. More important, the burden of anger had lifted; perhaps it was gone for good. (189)But what is the temptation? To yield to loneliness and accept John's advances? Or to sell his body for continued warmth and nourishment--and freedom? (There are two conflicting suggestions in this and other works--that Jamie is incapable of giving his body to John freely, and that he could offer John use of his body only as an absolute sacrifice. But as a prisoner, perhaps the promise of companionship is enough?) Or perhaps it's the more benign temptation to place himself in Lord John's company once again, and potentially leave himself open for further advances.
Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.
*Lest my statement "what Grey calls love" be taken as more jaded than I intend it to be, let me say that I have no doubt that John does feel sexual attraction to Jamie. He might feel the beginning of philia. He certainly feels philia later--but perhaps not here, as his acquaintance with Jamie is at this point too brief, and exists in a context (of prisoner/imprisoned) that precludes romantic love (eros) or selfless love (agape). A confusion of friendly and sexual feelings at this point marks John's same-sex attraction, marking it as a hybrid and even disordered as compared with the ideal of love in the novels, the love between Jamie and Claire, though it is worth noting that to John at least, his love for Hector (a play on the Illiad, no doubt, in which Hector kills Achilles' lover--friend, fellow-soldier--Patroclus) is akin to Jamie's for Claire (see Voyager p. 172-173, 178).
Friday, March 22, 2013
Voyager: A Literate Friendship?
It is perhaps not surprising, after their initial encounter cleared up the misperceptions Lord John Grey has about Jamie's (and Highlanders') literacy (which might be read as synonymous for intelligence or capacity for rational thought), that the common ground that allows these two vastly different men to relate to one another is found in books.
Even after Grey puts Jamie in a position that compromises Grey's authority, and potentially compromises Jamie's integrity, and Jamie--not quite in response--breeches Grey's trust (and there are other issues concerning whether a captor has a right to further bind a captive via trust*), it is through books that they establish the normal--but highly abnormal--familiarity that borders on friendship:
As the now-weekly conversation shifts to Jamie's experiences in French literary circles, it becomes a bit more theoretical, centering on the person of the author:
As Jamie continues to describe the habits of Voltaire, the reader gets a peek at the writer's art:
What becomes a bit heartwrenching is Jamie's exploitation of Grey's naïveté--a naïveté he has exploited before, on the eve of a battle in the uprising (see Dragonfly in Amber, or Grey's reminiscence in Voyager). Even given his authority, Grey has weaknesses--loneliness, and desire for intellectual companionship, quite apart from an appreciation for Jamie's attractiveness (at this point understated). If one has the ability to feel pity for Grey given his authority, and specifically, to feel a pity centered specifically on his homosexuality**, it is sad to see that his affection for Jamie (which includes, but does not seem limited to, sexual attraction) begins with deception. It is not unreasonable to expect that Jamie enjoyed the evening, but the narrative ("Fraser returned to his cell, leaving Major Grey entertained, but no wiser concerning either the source or the disposition of the wanderer’s gold") strongly suggests that he did not lose himself in the conversation the way the other did. Beware, then, the literacy-based affection?
* In an earlier circumstance, Jamie declares to Grey, “It is not legitimate for ye either to extort my services or to threaten me, Major.” (134)
**In all of the novels in which he is a character, Lord John's homosexuality is frequently an object of pity inspired by the narrative, rather than sympathy or empathy. If I analyze the Lord John novels, I plan to explore how I think Gabaldon maintains an arms' length from Grey's sexual orientation, often portraying homosexual relationships as destructive, futile, and sordid, especially as compared to Grey's platonic and almost transcendant relationship with Jamie.
Even after Grey puts Jamie in a position that compromises Grey's authority, and potentially compromises Jamie's integrity, and Jamie--not quite in response--breeches Grey's trust (and there are other issues concerning whether a captor has a right to further bind a captive via trust*), it is through books that they establish the normal--but highly abnormal--familiarity that borders on friendship:
They discussed matters of the prison, had a little conversation of books, and parted formally, but on good terms. (152)The caveat "Grey did not mention gold" (152) points to use of common literate context as a diversionary, trust-building, and information-gathering tactic--chalk that one up to "uses of literacy"!
As the now-weekly conversation shifts to Jamie's experiences in French literary circles, it becomes a bit more theoretical, centering on the person of the author:
Fraser smiled. “Oh, aye, Major. In fact, I was privileged to entertain Monsieur Arouet— Voltaire being his nom de plume, aye?— at my table, on more than one occasion.”At this point, Jamie's invocation of Voltaire might be a diversionary tactic as well, since Jamie already knows of Grey's literacy snobbery. So literacy functions as a potential plot device, on the one hand, and on the other hand, Jamie's display of his literary connections functions in the narrative as a commentary on the sociability of authors. An unrelated point is Jamie's appreciation of the food, which Grey finds unacceptable, but which is choice compared with the prisoners' fare--an appreciation which borders on absurd when Jamie (implicitly) compares the mutton to French banquet fare (Again--consider the artfulness and subterfuge in Jamie's interaction with Grey.)
“Really?” Grey cocked a brow in interest. “And is he as great a wit in person as with the pen?”
“I couldna really say,” Fraser replied, tidily forking up a slice of mutton. “He seldom said anything at all, let alone much sparkling with wit. He only sat hunched over in his chair, watching everyone, wi’ his eyes rolling about from one to another. I shouldna be at all surprised to hear that things said at my dinner table later appeared on the stage, though fortunately I never encountered a parody of myself in his work.” He closed his eyes in momentary concentration, chewing his mutton. (153)
As Jamie continues to describe the habits of Voltaire, the reader gets a peek at the writer's art:
“I have never seen Monsieur Arouet consume anything beyond a glass of water and a dry biscuit, no matter how lavish the occasion. He’s a weazened wee scrap of a man, ye ken, and a martyr to the indigestion.”Through discussion of literature, the two men leave behind their roles as prisoner and prison governor, and Jamie manages to court Grey's curiosity via his own literary knowledge. In their commentary, the reader gets a portrait of the artist as introspective, dyspeptic (in the literal and figurative sense), and antisocial. He practices the stereotypical "people-watching." And the debate between Grey and Jamie as to the nature of the author's art and inspiration--from within or from without--is a kind of literary cliché, though presumably not for armchair critics in the 18th Century! To take the cliché (an enjoyable cliché, mind you) a bit further, Jamie recounts that
“Indeed?” Grey was fascinated. “Perhaps that explains the cynicism of some of the sentiments I have seen expressed in his plays. Or do you not think that the character of an author shows in the construction of his work?”
“Given some of the characters that I have seen appear in plays and novels, Major, I should think the author a bit depraved who drew them entirely from himself, no?”
“I suppose that is so,” Grey answered, smiling at the thought of some of the more extreme fictional characters with whom he was acquainted. “Though if an author constructs these colorful personages from life, rather than from the depths of imagination, surely he must boast a most varied acquaintance!” (154)
“It was not Monsieur Arouet, but a colleague of his— a lady novelist— who remarked to me once that writing novels was a cannibal’s art, in which one often mixed small portions of one’s friends and one’s enemies together, seasoned them with imagination, and allowed the whole to stew together into a savory concoction.” (154)This "author-as-cannibal" is a necessary transition into discussion of Robinson Crusoe, which Grey introduces as "a favorite of mine since boyhood" (154). The remainder of their evening is neatly summarized:
The conversation turned then to romances, and the excitement of the tropics. It was very late indeed when Fraser returned to his cell, leaving Major Grey entertained, but no wiser concerning either the source or the disposition of the wanderer’s gold. (154)The moment turns out rather pitiful. From assuming a position of superiority, Grey has been caught unaware by the extent of Fraser's knowledge--a fact that Jamie uses in order to dominate and direct the conversation away from the subject Grey most wants (wanted?) to address--the matter of gold. The scene is a reminder not to underestimate literacy--or shared literacy context--and the power it can give. The positions of the two men are equalized, and then Grey's authority effectively subverted.
What becomes a bit heartwrenching is Jamie's exploitation of Grey's naïveté--a naïveté he has exploited before, on the eve of a battle in the uprising (see Dragonfly in Amber, or Grey's reminiscence in Voyager). Even given his authority, Grey has weaknesses--loneliness, and desire for intellectual companionship, quite apart from an appreciation for Jamie's attractiveness (at this point understated). If one has the ability to feel pity for Grey given his authority, and specifically, to feel a pity centered specifically on his homosexuality**, it is sad to see that his affection for Jamie (which includes, but does not seem limited to, sexual attraction) begins with deception. It is not unreasonable to expect that Jamie enjoyed the evening, but the narrative ("Fraser returned to his cell, leaving Major Grey entertained, but no wiser concerning either the source or the disposition of the wanderer’s gold") strongly suggests that he did not lose himself in the conversation the way the other did. Beware, then, the literacy-based affection?
Gabaldon, Diana (2004-10-26). Voyager (Outlander). Random House, Inc.. Kindle Edition.
* In an earlier circumstance, Jamie declares to Grey, “It is not legitimate for ye either to extort my services or to threaten me, Major.” (134)
**In all of the novels in which he is a character, Lord John's homosexuality is frequently an object of pity inspired by the narrative, rather than sympathy or empathy. If I analyze the Lord John novels, I plan to explore how I think Gabaldon maintains an arms' length from Grey's sexual orientation, often portraying homosexual relationships as destructive, futile, and sordid, especially as compared to Grey's platonic and almost transcendant relationship with Jamie.
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