I’ve started contributing to my cousin’s blog. Here’s my first post on her site!
Hi everyone! I’m a new contributor to Chronicles of a Music Journalist, as requested by my cousin. My name’s Meagan and I’ll start my debut here with a review of Roxane Gay’s Hunger: A Memoir of (my) Body. Gay is an author known for her sharp and insightful thoughts on feminism and pop culture, as […]
I went to a poetry workshop a couple of months ago for cabaret poetry. It was a new and fun experience. Here’s the work that resulted from that workshop with pictures of me reading.
You saw me sitting from across the bar through the smoky curtain of your Cuban cigar.
“Mami, pero you’re too pretty to be alone,” you slur. To which I smile and respond, “No, thank you, not today sir.”
Glass slams on the table. “Pero, mami, you haven’t even heard me out.”
Your sweaty brow furrows and lips start to pout.
I lean away for safety, just to be sure. Again, “No, thank you. Not today, sir.”
Your hand comes down on my shoulder that’s bare. “C’mon, mami. Why don’t you play fair?”
I push your hand off, muscles tensed, lips pursed. Through gritted teeth say, “No, thank you. Not today, sir.”
I get up walk past clinking glasses and you grab my wrist. I force you off
with an unexpected twist. Slack-jawed and dumb, you begin to sputter.
I hold myself tall and shout, “No, thank you. Not today, sir!”
I say biased because I grew up reading the books and absolutely loved them. I may have mentioned that before in previous posts, but in case you missed it, I LOVE Anne of Green Gables. I read the first book over 15 times, and I know this, because by the time I got to read number 15, I gave up keeping track of how many times I’d read it. So I think at this point, it’s safe to say I’ve read the book at least 50 times. I still plan on reading it again soon, especially after watching the new show.
I managed to watch all seven episodes in three days, which doesn’t sound impressive, but with a full-time job and grad school, seven episodes in three days is an accomplishment for me. I just liked the show that much and felt myself taken back to childhood, hearing the old familiar dialogue and looking forward to the iconic scenes. The show did not disappoint. Even though there were a few deviations from the book, it still remained true to most of the story and the spirit of the characters.
Amybeth McNulty is an exquisite Anne, I think. Her voice and eyes are so expressive when delivering her lines, which is exactly what Anne Shirley is all about. Also, in the scenes that bring to light the true horrors Anne has seen in her life (something I appreciated that’s different from the book), her performance is heart wrenching. I couldn’t help but tear up so many times for poor, dear Anne.
Geraldine James is exactly what I always pictured Marilla to be when I read the books. She does a magnificent job of changing from the completely stern authority figure to newly-made mother with a soft spot for her girl. She handles her role with grace and wit, making Marilla a lovely character.
I also love the portrayal of her relationship with Rachel Lynde. The two women have their differences, but truly it is like they are sisters with how well they know each other and feel comfortable with their banter. It’s especially refreshing in a society that tries to stifle women’s personalities.
The last thing I’m going to say about the show (last because otherwise I’ll just keep going on) is I adore how unashamedly feminist it is. The thing about media that takes on a feminist message is it often feels like if it overtly states it, it’s trying too hard or pushing an agenda. Watching Anne With an E, for the first time I questioned myself, “Why shouldn’t it be overt and pushed? Why should touting feminist ideals be subtle or hidden or gently suggested?” I just really appreciate how a childhood favorite grew up to resonate still with me as an adult.
Has anyone else watched Anne With an E on Netflix? What were your thoughts on the show? Let me know in the comments!
As part of the 26 book reading challenge I’ve been participating in for about a year now (I’m such a slow reader these days), I chose to read Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte for the category “a book that’s over 10 years old.”
A quick summary of the novel: Jane Eyre is an orphan growing up in her aunt’s household, but she is not treated as part of the family. She’s sent to a boarding school for what’s considered charity cases, like Jane, where she learns to adhere to strict conduct, but does find some friends along the way. She grows up to be well educated and goes on to become a governess in a wealthy man’s estate, teaching and caring for his young ward, Adele.
Over the course of her time there, Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester–the master of the estate–falls in love with Jane, and she with him. They are set to be married except she finds out a terrible secret that sets her running away from the house and she leaves to be independent.
Let’s start from the top and talk about Jane’s cousin John Reed. Man, this kid is a real jerk of the worst kind. He’s entitled and violent and basically the epitome of what the patriarchy stands for. So much so, his own mother, Jane’s Aunt Reed, makes excuses for his violent outbursts and rude behavior. Yes, dear aunt Reed places blame on Jane, saying she brings John’s anger upon herself by being such a weirdo, hiding in the curtains and spending her days reading instead of being joyful and smiling and dignified like a young lady should be.
I’m sure this sounds like a similar story many of you out there have experienced or heard before. That’s because it is. It’s the story that continues to this day, right down to the highest powers that be in our own country. When women don’t behave the way the patriarchal society expects them to, it’s their fault men get mad and lose control. Wow, and this book was written 200 years ago. What a world.
When we find the Reeds and Jane engaging in a skirmish, as Jane hits John for trying to hit and hurt her, Aunt Reed punishes Jane by leaving her in the red room, as the tenants of the house call it. It’s her late Uncle Reed’s room where he was said to have passed and still haunt. Jane is absolutely terrified left alone in the dark in that room, so much so she throws a huge scene, screaming, sobbing, and begging to be let out. She makes promises of becoming a better child if only they’ll let her out. Her Aunt Reed takes the hysterics as nothing but a brat trying to get her way. Jane sees an apparition, or so it seems from her description, and she’s so scared she faints.
After this episode, this is basically when Aunt Reed says it’s the last straw and sends her away to Lowood Hall, a boarding school for wayward orphan charity cases. Here, Jane must adhere to strict codes and learn to blend in so as not to call attention to herself, except the headmaster has different plans. Having taken her Aunt Reed’s side in things, Mr. Brocklehurst decides to announce to the whole school how Jane is a liar and evil, and must be shunned from their society. She is simply there to learn and be out of her aunt’s house.
There’s definitely a Matilda parallel going on here. A bully headmaster who has it out for the heroine. In comes Helen Burns, another girl who’s bookish like Jane, and befriends her despite the headmaster’s warnings. The teacher Ms. Temple is this book’s Ms. Honey.
Ms. Temple let’s Jane explain herself to the students so that they may make up their own minds about her free of Mr. Brocklehurst’s influence. Helen and Jane develop a very close relationship, one like that of sisters, so of course–SPOILER ALERT–it’s heartbreaking when it’s revealed that Helen is dying of consumption.
Despite the tragedy that befalls Jane yet again, having lost her first and only friend she’s ever known, Ms. Temple and the other teachers begin to treat her like an equal among her fellow students. Having the chance to learn in a stress free environment and shown compassion and understanding, she flourishes and becomes an adept student who learns quickly and excels in her studies for the remaining years. She in fact becomes a teacher at Lowood once she turns 18 and has graduated from her courses.
There’s a poignant commentary being made throughout all these goings on that children who are not frightened or abused will eventually go on to become well-adjusted and smart adults. Again, this sounds familiar in our own present day, but the concept of giving kids a chance to be themselves and learn in a safe and comfortable environment is a battle that’s been going on for more than 200 years.
What struck me most about Jane’s growth and change from the time she was a child to the time she became an adult, is that while she kept a fiery and feisty attitude inwardly, outside she portrayed a composed and acceptable persona that would not be looked at twice. She learned to play the game society had set forth for women, and she learned it well. At one point though, it seems she learned it too well. There’s moments when we see Jane struggle with her desire to be true to herself and conform to what would be deemed appropriate for a woman of her station.
Let’s move on to Mr. Rochester. Here’s where things really start to get melodramatic. She goes to work for this man to be a governess to his ward, Adele, who is said to be his illegitimate daughter, but he does not acknowledge her as his kin. Not a complete monster though, he agreed to take her in and have her cared for. Congratulations, Rochester, you’re not as big of a jerk as you could’ve been.
There’s a whole series of shenanigans that ensue with an elite socialite Miss Blanche Ingram, whom Rochester is set to marry, except he doesn’t want to because he knows she only wants him for his money, but he doesn’t want to be a bachelor anymore because he’s already 40 and needs a wife. Enter Jane. His ward’s governess whom he finds charming, intelligent, and a worthy partner to match his own mind and character.
Dear sweet, 18-year-old Jane, in turn falls for Mr. Rochester as well. Arrangements are broken off with Ms. Ingram and Jane is now set to marry Mr. Rochester. Except for one tiny, little, kind of important detail: Mr. Rochester is already married. His wife lives in the very house they’ve all been residing in this whole time.
A woman named Grace Poole, whom Jane thought the entire time was the culprit in many a mischievous scheme throughout the novel, is in fact Mrs. Rochester’s keeper. Mrs. Rochester, see, is certifiably insane. It’s at the altar just as he and Jane are about to be married that this information comes to light.
Mr. Rochester weaves a tale of woe, betrayal, and lies. How he was tricked into marrying this savage Creole monstress (no lies that’s basically how she’s described–not even gonna get into the blatant racism of the times) by his father, brother, and her brother, because of keeping the family name honorable by aligning himself with the Mason family. Then how he had to keep his promise because he’s a man of honor, but he refused to acknowledge her as his wife, but he’d keep her and have her cared for. Boy, he’s in the habit of shouldering such heavy burdens. What a saint.
At this point, Jane decides she can’t marry him, because it wouldn’t be right. It doesn’t matter that his wife’s crazy and violent, and not really his wife in the sense of the word. She recognizes that Mr. Rochester needed her to rid himself of that woman once and for all. When she refuses to hear his apologies and give him another chance, he threatens violence on her, violence on himself, and then once more pleads forgiveness for his rash behavior, as it’s only because his love for Jane drives him mad with obsession.
Jane struggles to leave Mr. Rochester, as she wants to believe him, and she still loves him, but she knows it’s best to be gone. Wow, it’s unreal how something written two centuries ago can still sound so relevant to our society and relationships today. The manipulation of abusive significant others. The struggle to leave that person behind. It still continues today. It almost feels like it will always persist.
Jane decides to leave in the dead of night, with 20 pounds in her purse and the clothes on her back. Much occurs over the next 36 hours. She ends up in a town with no money and no way to eat, looking for someone who can help her find work and build a new life. Just when she’s on the verge of starvation and fragile as a porcelain doll, she happens on the steps of the Rivers residence. Here, St. John Rivers takes pity and lets her inside to be cared for until she regains strength to tell her story.
Jane tells him and his two sisters the bare bones. She’s gone from the home she’s known for a few years, and has no where else to turn, so she must fend for herself. She only asks a chance to do honest work and help in finding that work. St. John finds her skills useful as his local school house is in need of a head mistress to teach the farmers’ children. Jane takes the job and stays in this town for quite some time.
During that time, St. John takes a liking to her, but eventually finds out the truth of her name, and this is when it’s revealed that another uncle of hers had recently passed away, but before he did he left her with a fortune. Turns out that uncle was also St. John’s and his sisters’ uncle, so that makes the Rivers family her cousins. Oh joy! She finally has a real family she cares for and that cares for her.
St. John is set to take up the life of a missionary, and he wants Jane to marry and accompany him as his wife (yeah let’s not talk about that incest either otherwise this post will go on forever). She says she can accompany him on missionary work, but that she can’t in good conscience be his wife, because she does not love him in that way and he does not love her. He merely is looking for someone to share his life’s work with as a fellow servant to God. Jane’s all for that. Just not as a wife.
Try as he might to convince her that this is the best path, and one in which God has set for her, she will not take the bait. She considers it for a moment, but in the end recognizes there is no romance between them. It would be a marriage of convenience. St. John doesn’t take the no gracefully, and basically gives her the cold shoulder all through his remaining time in their home. Once again, an older man (he’s 30-years-old) tries to tell Jane what’s best for her, and when Jane says she knows what’s best for her, he gets salty.
Fast forward to the end when Jane feels a longing to return to Mr. Rochester and find out what happened to him. She ventures back to Thornfield Hall to find it burned down. Turns out the crazy wife took the place out and herself with him. How convenient. Although, Rochester lost a hand and his eyesight in the disaster, so I guess, just desserts?
Jane finds her way back to Mr. Rochester, and he has been humbled by his predicament, living away in the woods as a hermit with only two servants to care for him, and Adele sent to a boarding school. Jane is softened by this shell of a man and decides to stay with him and forgives him. He asks her to marry him again, and she agrees to it, because she never stopped loving him.
I had a huge problem with this ending. Jane is deceived by this man who puts too much stock in the good standing of a family name and cherishes the finer things in life. He undergoes a disaster after she’s gone and shut himself away from the world to find himself. Conveniently, he’s no longer legally married because his wife died in the fire she set.
He’s a better man now that he’s known suffering. It was all too neat. I feel like it negated much of what Jane’s character is, which is a strong, independent woman who always rejected social standings and expectations. In the end though, as I said before, she learned the game too well, and fell for her own facade.
There’s actually so much more to discuss with this book, but if I keep going on about how Jane is a great teacher for recognizing that all children learn differently and should be given the chance to learn in their own way, or how the two men that claimed to love her really wanted to claim her as property, we’ll be here all night.
Don’t take my cynicism to mean that it’s not a worthwhile read. It’s actually a book I’d recommend to those looking to read more classics. Just know there will be a great deal of frustration with how things played out sometimes.
The return of Arrow last week stirred in me feelings from the previous season and opened old wounds (#foreversalt), so I thought I’d share an old post I wrote for my personal blog here.
WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD IF YOU HAVEN’T CAUGHT UP ON THE SHOW
Also, profanity up ahead. Proceed with caution.
I stayed up late last night thinking about how I haven’t watched the Arrow season 4 finale yet (yeah I know way behind), but truthfully, I’ve been avoiding it because I’m still salty about the death of Black Canary. Oh shit sorry, SPOILERS GUYS!
Obviously writing a show is hard. There’s pressure to write an entirely self-contained 45-minute story from week to week and film it and get it out. But, on the other hand, it’s not like they start the writing process the week before the season starts and go balls out with production. I know there’s a storyboarding room and details get hammered out for a cohesive plot line. So, with that in mind, why did they feel the need to kill Black Canary?
I get that the situations these characters are in are high stakes, and that means, people can die. Fine. It happens. I suppose I can’t think of an alternative high stakes consequence for Team Arrow to suffer other than the loss of a team member. But does losing a team member necessarily mean they have to die? (See Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD as an example of an emotional exit without death).
And that’s exactly the thing, isn’t it? Of course, if everyone always ends up coming out alright in the end, there’s no impactful consequence and things get boring. However, it is my opinion that lately TV creators and many TV critics are under the impression that the only way to have an impact is to kill a character. I’ve seen it in several reviews when people say things like, “If no one ever dies, what are the stakes? What’s the point? Why should these characters matter if they always make it out alive?”
So, in response, perhaps the writers of TV shows feel they need to shock the audience, and what bigger shock than killing off a beloved character (like Abby in Sleepy Hollow?! Excuse me?!). They’re not wrong; it is shocking, but is shocking the only way to get a visceral, emotional reaction from the audience? If that’s what you think, then clearly you don’t understand the spectrum of human emotion (might I recommend watching Inside Out to get a pretty damn good representation about the complexity of emotions and how they intermingle?)
The way I see it, if death is the only valuable consequence, that kind of invalidates the point of living and fighting. Loss, grief and pain are feelings that can be achieved through other high stakes consequences (again, see Agents of SHIELD regarding season 1 finale with the revelation of Grant Ward’s betrayal to the team).
Okay, fine, so I can’t come up with an alternative solution to killing off Black Canary. We’ll accept it and embrace that she is dead and gone. RIP Laurel Lance.
But here’s where I got really peeved with the way she died. She goes down in a fight against Damien Darhk, fighting as the Black Canary, doing what she believes is right, opposing a force of evil who is threatening her beloved city, and the last words the audience hears her say are, “Oliver, I may not have been the love of your life, but you were the love of mine.”
I’m having Teen Wolf flashbacks of the death of Allison, but let’s not go there right now. So, I know she says something else to Oliver before she dies, but we don’t know what it is. What we do know, is after all the shit she’s gone through and growth and progress she’s made to become a hero in her own right, she dies reminding the audience, “Remember I’m Ollie’s ex-girlfriend!” Even though their romantic relationship felt complete and resolved pretty much by the end of season 2 or 3 (I can’t remember which). Regardless, this whole season and probably for most of season 3 if I recall correctly, Laurel and Oliver are at a point in their relationship where they have a solid friendship that has moved past their romantic history.
So where in fuck’s name did that line come from?! Also, side note, it was a little hurtful I think to have her say Oliver was the love of her life because, I don’t know, she seemed to have a pretty good thing going with Tommy. Yeah, remember him? The guy that literally died crushed under a building’s debris so he could save Laurel from getting killed? I’m sure that line wasn’t meant to throw away Tommy and Laurel’s relationship, but it sure felt like he’d been momentarily forgotten.
Anyway, back to my salt. Look, I’m not saying Laurel’s love for Oliver (or Tommy!) is invalid. Of course it matters and it’s a huge part of her identity and history, and in certain ways that love has propelled her to where she ended up. But let’s be honest, if Laurel Lance had a true epic love of her life, it wasn’t any man; it was justice. She was dedicated to fighting for those without power and standing up for the city and the people that she loved. That was clear from the beginning when the show started with her as a low-paid lawyer working in a dinky law firm that serves the underprivileged.
Sure, she may have lost her way at one point, giving in to anger and fear that led her down the path of addiction and then to become the Black Canary for the maybe not so right reasons, but at the end of the day, she found her way back to righteousness and continued fighting as the Black Canary so that she could protect and serve. Laurel was married to justice and doing the right thing for the sake of doing the right thing from the beginning, even if she weaved in and out of that lane a bit at times.
So fine, she died because I guess “that’s where the story took them [the writers],” but did she have to die as Ollie’s ex-girlfriend after having gone down in battle as superheroine Black Canary? After the roller coaster story line she’d been given to live and fight and survive through, she deserved more than that in her death.