- Safe: Comparing the two different families would be the safest option I'm considering. Although they are siblings from the same family, Eugene and Aunty Ifeoma lead polar opposite lives. The Achikes live an affluent lifestyle, never having to worry about having food on the table. They have their own personal driver, Kevin, as well as their own maid, Sisi. They are so wealthy that Eugene often shares the wealth with the Abba community, giving away nairas to those less fortunate. Aunty Ifeoma's family, on the other hand, comes from a rather impoverished life. They struggle to find food to put on their table, and they also struggle to cook the food with a lack of kerosene. Every meal, Aunty Ifeoma's entire family combined typically eats about one-third the size of an Achike's plate. They aren't able to drive around whenever, as fuel is far too costly for them to afford on the daily, and the entire family must contribute in the house chores. What interests me most about this topic is the differences in family happiness. Although Eugene and his family are basically set for life, none of them, if not only Eugene, are truly happy, where, on the contrary, Aunty Ifeoma and her children are the happiest people Kambili has ever encountered.
- Likely: The topic I would most likely write about is Kambili's development. I would compare the person she is in the beginning of the novel to who she matures to at the end. In the beginning, Kambili is perceived as this reserved "backyard snob" who has everything in life handed to her. Deep down, she actually leads a tormented life, constantly living in fear. Afraid of slipping up, she is hyperaware of her father's reactions to every event she witnesses. As the story progresses, and as Kambili develops, she learns to question authority when necessary through Aunty Ifeoma's liberal outlook. Although many of the characters and many of the relationships in The Purple Hibiscus develop throughout the novel, Kambili's growth struck me most. She made a complete 180, becoming the girl she could only dream of ever becoming.
- Risky: This may be a bit of a stretch, but a risky topic I have been considering is comparing Kambili from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's novel, The Purple Hibiscus, to Oliver Harris from Charles Baxter's short story, "A Relative Stranger." Though they do so in different manners, both characters possess reserved dispositions, constantly wondering and worrying about the world around them. Kambili views the world from a bystander's perspective, often beating herself up mentally about her inactions. She compares herself to others, comparing their qualities to her flaws. In addition, she secretly desires a close relationship, and her desire isn't blatantly revealed until she begins to have feelings for Father Amadi. Harris views the world in a similar standpoint, however, he is more aggressive--aggressive in the sense that he has his guard up. In essence, he longs for the world, yet bottles it up. Put up for adoption, he seeks a meaningful relationship, as he felt he lacked that intimate connection with another individual.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Potential Second Essay Topics
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
For the First Time
I looked at him and then away. I wondered if Amaka would ever paint him, would ever capture the clay-smooth skin, the straight eyebrows, which were slightly raised as he watched me. "I played volleyball in class one," I said. "But I stopped playing because I . . . I was not that good and nobody liked to pick me." I kept my eyes focused on the bleak, unpainted spectator stands, abandoned for so long that tiny plants had started to push their green heads through the cracks in the cement.
"Do you love Jesus?" Father Amadi asked, standing up.
I was startled. "Yes. Yes, I love Jesus."
"Then show me. Try and catch me, show me you love Jesus."
He had hardly finished speaking before he dashed off and I saw the blue flash of his tank top. I did not stop to think; I stood up and ran after him. The wind blew in my face, into my eyes, across my ears. Father Amadi was like blue wind, elusive. I did not catch up until he stopped near the football goal post. "So you don't love Jesus," he teased.
"You run too fast," I said, panting.
"I will let you rest, and then you can have another chance to show me you love the Lord."
We ran four more times. I did not catch him. We flopped down on the grass, finally, and he pushed a water bottle into my hand. "You have good legs for running. You should practice more," he said.
I looked away. I had never heard anything like that before. It seemed too close, too intimate, to have his eyes on my legs, on any part of me.
"Don't you know how to smile?" he asked.
"What?"
He reached across, tugged lightly at the sides of my lips. "Smile."
I wanted to smile, but I could not. My lips and cheeks were frozen, unthawed by the sweat running down the sides of my nose. I was too aware that he was watching me.
"What is that reddish stain on your hand?" he asked.
I looked down at my hand, at the smudge of the hastily wiped lipstick that still clung to the sweaty back of my hands. I had not realized how much I had put on. "It's . . . a stain," I said, feeling stupid.
"Lipstick?"
I nodded.
"Do you wear lipstick? Have you ever worn lipstick?"
"No," I said. Then I felt the smile start to creep over my face, stretching my lips and cheeks, an embarrassed and amused smile. He knew I had tried to wear lipstick for the first time today. I smiled. I smiled again.
"Good evening, Father!" echoed all around, and eight boys descended on us. They were all about my age, with shorts that had holes in them and shirts washed so often I didn't know what color they had originally been and similar crusty spots from insect bites on their legs. Father Amadi took his tank top off and dropped it on my lap before joining the boys on the football field. With his upper body bare, his shoulders were a broad square. I did not look down at his tank top on my lap as I inched my hand ever so slowly toward it. My eyes were on the football field, on Father Amadi's running legs, on the flying white-and-black football, on the many legs of the boys, which all looked like one leg. My hand finally touched the top on my lap, moving over it tentatively as though it could breathe, as though it were a part of Father Amadi, when he blew a whistle for a water break. He brought peeled oranges and water wrapped into tight cone shapes in plastic bags from his car. They all settled down on the grass to eat the oranges, and I watch Father Amadi laugh loudly with his head thrown back, leaning to rest his elbows on the grass. I wondered if the boys felt the same way I did with him, that they were all he could see.
I held on to his tank top while I watched the rest of the play. A cool wind had started to blow, chilling the sweat on my body, when Father Amadi blew the final whistle, three times with the last time drawn out. Then the boys clustered around him, heads bowed, while he prayed. "Good-bye, Father!" echoed around as he made his way toward me. There was something confident about his gait, like a rooster in charge of all the neighborhood hens.
In the car, he played a tape. It was a choir singing Igbo worship songs. I knew the first song: Mama sang it sometimes when Jaja and I brought our report cards home. Father Amadi sang along. His voice was smoother than the lead singer's on the tape. When the first song ended, he lowered the volume and asked, "Did you enjoy the game?"
"Yes."
"I see Christ in their faces, in the boys' faces."
I looked at him. I could not reconcile the blond Christ hanging on the burnished cross in St. Agnes and the sting-scarred legs of those boys.
"They live in Ugwu Oba. Most of them don't go to school anymore because their families can't afford it. Ekwueme--remember him, in the red shirt?"
I nodded, although I could not remember. All the shirts had seemed similar and colorless.
"His father was a driver here in the university. But they retrenched him, and Ekwueme had to drop out of Nsukka High School. He is working as a bus conductor now, and he is doing very well. They inspire me, those boys." Father Amadi stopped talking to join in the chorus. "I na-asi m esona ya! I na-asi m esona ya!"
I nodded in time to the chorus. We really did not need the music, though, because his voice was melody enough. I felt that I was at home, that I was where I had meant to be for a long time. Father Amadi sang for a while; then he lowered the volume to a whisper again. "You haven't asked me a single question," he said.
"I don't know what to ask."
"You should have learned the art of questioning from Amaka. Why does the tree's shoot go up and the root down? Why is there a sky? What is life? Just why?"
I laughed. It sounded stranger, as if I were listening to the recorded laughter of a stranger being played back. I was not sure I had ever heard myself laugh.
"Why did you become a priest?" I blurted out, then wished I had not asked, that the bubbles in my throat had not let that through. Of course he had gotten the call, the same call that all the Reverend Sisters in school talked about when they asked us to always listen for the call when we prayed. Sometimes I imagined God calling my name, his rumbling voice British-accented. He would not say my name right; like Father Benedict, he would place the emphasis on the second syllable rather than the first.
"I wanted to be a doctor at first. Then I went to church once and heard this priest speak and I was changed forever," Father Amadi said.
"Oh."
"I was joking," Father Amadi glanced at me. He looked surprised I did not realize that it was a joke. "It's a lot more complicated than that, Kambili. I had many questions, growing up. The priesthood came closest to answering them."
I wondered what questions they were and if Father Benedict, too, had those questions. Then I though, with a fierce, unreasonable sadness, how Father Amadi's smooth skin would not be passed on to a child, how his square shoulders would not balance the legs of his toddle son who wanted to touch the ceiling fan.
"Ewo, I am late for a chaplaincy council meeting," he said, looking at the clock. "I'll drop you off and leave right away."
"I'm sorry."
"Why? I've spent an enjoyable afternoon with you. You must come with me to the stadium again. I will tie your hands and legs up and carry you if I have to." He laughed.
I stared at the dashboard, at the blue-and-gold Legion of Mary sticker on it. Didn't he know that I did not want him to leave, ever? That I did not need to be persuaded to go to the stadium, or anywhere, with him? The afternoon played across my mind as I got out of the car in front of the flat. I had smiled, run, laughed. My chest was filled with something like bath foam. Light. The lightness was so sweet I tasted it on my tongue, the sweetness of an overripe bright yellow cashew fruit. (pp. 176-180)
I selected this, rather lengthy, passage because it not only seemed significant, but it also seemed pivotal in Kambili's development. For the first time, Kambili feels something other than curious fear. Throughout the novel, she is constantly worrying about her actions and inactions and wondering about the motives and dispositions of others. Although she remains observantly quiet during most situations, much is running through her mind--too much that she never has the time to simply "stop and smell the roses." She overthinks everything and always compares herself to others, often belittling herself with the perception that she is incompetent. Spending an afternoon with Father Amadi opened her eyes to a world she did not suspect she was capable of experiencing: a world full of happiness, a world full of life. For the first time, she smiles. For the first time, she runs for fun. For the first time, she laughs. For the first time, she experiences intimacy. For the first time, she feels happy.
As I typed out and reread the passage, I noticed several things as a writer about Adichie's writing. Her prose flowed seamlessly from Kambili's thoughts to the real world and back to Kambili's thoughts, depicting the interplay between the two. She incorporates much more euphonious diction, as opposed to other sections of the novel, including words such as smooth, elusive, lightly, settled, cool, gait, inspire, melody, bubbles, balance, chaplaincy, enjoyable, foam, lightness, and sweetness. Adichie's word choice for this passage demonstrates the peace and ease Kambili feels for the first time, from spending one-on-one time with Father Amadi.
"Do you love Jesus?" Father Amadi asked, standing up.
I was startled. "Yes. Yes, I love Jesus."
"Then show me. Try and catch me, show me you love Jesus."
He had hardly finished speaking before he dashed off and I saw the blue flash of his tank top. I did not stop to think; I stood up and ran after him. The wind blew in my face, into my eyes, across my ears. Father Amadi was like blue wind, elusive. I did not catch up until he stopped near the football goal post. "So you don't love Jesus," he teased.
"You run too fast," I said, panting.
"I will let you rest, and then you can have another chance to show me you love the Lord."
We ran four more times. I did not catch him. We flopped down on the grass, finally, and he pushed a water bottle into my hand. "You have good legs for running. You should practice more," he said.
I looked away. I had never heard anything like that before. It seemed too close, too intimate, to have his eyes on my legs, on any part of me.
"Don't you know how to smile?" he asked.
"What?"
He reached across, tugged lightly at the sides of my lips. "Smile."
I wanted to smile, but I could not. My lips and cheeks were frozen, unthawed by the sweat running down the sides of my nose. I was too aware that he was watching me.
"What is that reddish stain on your hand?" he asked.
I looked down at my hand, at the smudge of the hastily wiped lipstick that still clung to the sweaty back of my hands. I had not realized how much I had put on. "It's . . . a stain," I said, feeling stupid.
"Lipstick?"
I nodded.
"Do you wear lipstick? Have you ever worn lipstick?"
"No," I said. Then I felt the smile start to creep over my face, stretching my lips and cheeks, an embarrassed and amused smile. He knew I had tried to wear lipstick for the first time today. I smiled. I smiled again.
"Good evening, Father!" echoed all around, and eight boys descended on us. They were all about my age, with shorts that had holes in them and shirts washed so often I didn't know what color they had originally been and similar crusty spots from insect bites on their legs. Father Amadi took his tank top off and dropped it on my lap before joining the boys on the football field. With his upper body bare, his shoulders were a broad square. I did not look down at his tank top on my lap as I inched my hand ever so slowly toward it. My eyes were on the football field, on Father Amadi's running legs, on the flying white-and-black football, on the many legs of the boys, which all looked like one leg. My hand finally touched the top on my lap, moving over it tentatively as though it could breathe, as though it were a part of Father Amadi, when he blew a whistle for a water break. He brought peeled oranges and water wrapped into tight cone shapes in plastic bags from his car. They all settled down on the grass to eat the oranges, and I watch Father Amadi laugh loudly with his head thrown back, leaning to rest his elbows on the grass. I wondered if the boys felt the same way I did with him, that they were all he could see.
I held on to his tank top while I watched the rest of the play. A cool wind had started to blow, chilling the sweat on my body, when Father Amadi blew the final whistle, three times with the last time drawn out. Then the boys clustered around him, heads bowed, while he prayed. "Good-bye, Father!" echoed around as he made his way toward me. There was something confident about his gait, like a rooster in charge of all the neighborhood hens.
In the car, he played a tape. It was a choir singing Igbo worship songs. I knew the first song: Mama sang it sometimes when Jaja and I brought our report cards home. Father Amadi sang along. His voice was smoother than the lead singer's on the tape. When the first song ended, he lowered the volume and asked, "Did you enjoy the game?"
"Yes."
"I see Christ in their faces, in the boys' faces."
I looked at him. I could not reconcile the blond Christ hanging on the burnished cross in St. Agnes and the sting-scarred legs of those boys.
"They live in Ugwu Oba. Most of them don't go to school anymore because their families can't afford it. Ekwueme--remember him, in the red shirt?"
I nodded, although I could not remember. All the shirts had seemed similar and colorless.
"His father was a driver here in the university. But they retrenched him, and Ekwueme had to drop out of Nsukka High School. He is working as a bus conductor now, and he is doing very well. They inspire me, those boys." Father Amadi stopped talking to join in the chorus. "I na-asi m esona ya! I na-asi m esona ya!"
I nodded in time to the chorus. We really did not need the music, though, because his voice was melody enough. I felt that I was at home, that I was where I had meant to be for a long time. Father Amadi sang for a while; then he lowered the volume to a whisper again. "You haven't asked me a single question," he said.
"I don't know what to ask."
"You should have learned the art of questioning from Amaka. Why does the tree's shoot go up and the root down? Why is there a sky? What is life? Just why?"
I laughed. It sounded stranger, as if I were listening to the recorded laughter of a stranger being played back. I was not sure I had ever heard myself laugh.
"Why did you become a priest?" I blurted out, then wished I had not asked, that the bubbles in my throat had not let that through. Of course he had gotten the call, the same call that all the Reverend Sisters in school talked about when they asked us to always listen for the call when we prayed. Sometimes I imagined God calling my name, his rumbling voice British-accented. He would not say my name right; like Father Benedict, he would place the emphasis on the second syllable rather than the first.
"I wanted to be a doctor at first. Then I went to church once and heard this priest speak and I was changed forever," Father Amadi said.
"Oh."
"I was joking," Father Amadi glanced at me. He looked surprised I did not realize that it was a joke. "It's a lot more complicated than that, Kambili. I had many questions, growing up. The priesthood came closest to answering them."
I wondered what questions they were and if Father Benedict, too, had those questions. Then I though, with a fierce, unreasonable sadness, how Father Amadi's smooth skin would not be passed on to a child, how his square shoulders would not balance the legs of his toddle son who wanted to touch the ceiling fan.
"Ewo, I am late for a chaplaincy council meeting," he said, looking at the clock. "I'll drop you off and leave right away."
"I'm sorry."
"Why? I've spent an enjoyable afternoon with you. You must come with me to the stadium again. I will tie your hands and legs up and carry you if I have to." He laughed.
I stared at the dashboard, at the blue-and-gold Legion of Mary sticker on it. Didn't he know that I did not want him to leave, ever? That I did not need to be persuaded to go to the stadium, or anywhere, with him? The afternoon played across my mind as I got out of the car in front of the flat. I had smiled, run, laughed. My chest was filled with something like bath foam. Light. The lightness was so sweet I tasted it on my tongue, the sweetness of an overripe bright yellow cashew fruit. (pp. 176-180)
I selected this, rather lengthy, passage because it not only seemed significant, but it also seemed pivotal in Kambili's development. For the first time, Kambili feels something other than curious fear. Throughout the novel, she is constantly worrying about her actions and inactions and wondering about the motives and dispositions of others. Although she remains observantly quiet during most situations, much is running through her mind--too much that she never has the time to simply "stop and smell the roses." She overthinks everything and always compares herself to others, often belittling herself with the perception that she is incompetent. Spending an afternoon with Father Amadi opened her eyes to a world she did not suspect she was capable of experiencing: a world full of happiness, a world full of life. For the first time, she smiles. For the first time, she runs for fun. For the first time, she laughs. For the first time, she experiences intimacy. For the first time, she feels happy.
As I typed out and reread the passage, I noticed several things as a writer about Adichie's writing. Her prose flowed seamlessly from Kambili's thoughts to the real world and back to Kambili's thoughts, depicting the interplay between the two. She incorporates much more euphonious diction, as opposed to other sections of the novel, including words such as smooth, elusive, lightly, settled, cool, gait, inspire, melody, bubbles, balance, chaplaincy, enjoyable, foam, lightness, and sweetness. Adichie's word choice for this passage demonstrates the peace and ease Kambili feels for the first time, from spending one-on-one time with Father Amadi.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Daddy, stay strong.
I want you to see me cross
the stage and receive my degree at my college graduation. I want you to be able
to stop worrying about mine and Adam's futures when we get real careers. I want you to
celebrate with me my big promotion. I want you to give me away to my future husband.
I want you to be at the hospital for the birth of your grandchildren. I want
you to be there at all of life’s events--both big and small.
It kills me inside to see
you become so weak and exhausted. You’re not only drained of energy, but it
seems as if you’re slowly becoming drained of life.
 |
| My adorable parents at a wedding. |
The love you have for your
family inspires me. You’ve taught me to value family over everything. You’ve
showed me that although diamonds and pearls are dandy and pleasant, one has absolutely
nothing of true value if s/he doesn’t have his/her family. The fact that you’re
always willing to literally drop whatever you’re doing in order to help out
Mom, or anyone you care about for the matter, warms my heart.
 |
| My father with my little cousin, Raymond. |
You’re the kindest man
around. Everyone always tells me how they’ve never seen you anything but happy.
I’m constantly reminded of how nice you are and how you always have a huge
smile on your face when they see you.
You are the reason I work
my ass off in everything that I do. I thrive for success in hopes of eventually proving to
you that the adversity our family has faced and continues to face will someday
pay off--that you and Mom have succeeded in providing a better life for your
kids than the two of you could ever dream of acquiring. As a second-generation
Asian American and a first-generation college student, my life goal is to simply make you and Mom proud--to be able to take care of the both of you as you both
have taken care of me.
You have frequently told me
that you’re "not smart." Even though you never went to college or received proper schooling, you’re one of the brightest people I know. Being able to speak, read, and write in three different languages fluently is a difficult, yet extraordinary, task to
master.
When I was younger, Mom was the parent I was closer to. But as I got older, and when you were first diagnosed with cancer, we started to become closer, as you officially became disabled and Mom began to face the struggles of being the only breadwinner of our household. Although your cancer stirred up nothing but turmoil in our lives, I'm grateful for it in the sense that our relationship, as a result, became stronger than ever. You were the one who attended all of my banquets and recognition dinners with me. You were the one who comforted me when I found my first lump back when I was sixteen. You were the one who convinced me not to worry about having breast cancer, even though Mommy and Aunt Van have had it. You were the one who took me to my first surgery when I had to get five lumps removed. You were always the one who drove me to and from the airport when I went on trips by myself. You were the one who helped move me out of our home and into my dorm. You’ve said to me a few
times that you’re “not number one.” But to me, you are.
 |
| Note to self: get Adam to upload/share family pictures. Also, take more pictures with family. |
Thank you for always being
there, whether I need you or not. Thank you for letting me do the things I enjoy and accepting me the way I am, as well as the mistakes I make. Thank you for
being the best dad ever. Thank you for everything.
I love you. And although I’m growing up, I’ll always be your little girl.
I love you. And although I’m growing up, I’ll always be your little girl.
Here is a little something to remind all of us to better appreciate our parents exactly as they are:
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Kambili Achike
When I first began reading this novel, I started to take a peculiar interest in Auntie Ifeoma, as her forthright mannerisms and her unbounded happiness most intrigued me--she was anything but ordinary from all of the other characters. However, as I progressed further into the book, I noticed my attention slowly shifted away from Auntie Ifeoma and towards Kambili.
Kambili Achike, the narrator and main character of Purple Hibiscus. is a diffident, apprehensive, fifteen-year-old girl. Coming from a family of four, Kambili's family consists of a loving mother named Beatrice, an intimidating father named Eugene, and a protective brother named Jaja. The Achikes' lifestyle is considerably luxurious compared to the majority of Nigerians, as Eugene's prominence and multiple occupations contributes to their affluence.
Eugene's eminence is so pervasive, that it not only prevails in the community, but it also dominates in his home. He expects perfection from his family that whenever they do not meet his standards, a good ol' beating from theirs truly is rewarded. Due to this, his family constantly lives in fear.
Kambili has an odd desire to live under her father's ways. She often thinks about the consequences her father would dish out in response to various actions, whether or not the actions actually occur. She constantly "wonders" about how others are feeling and about what others are thinking, primarily about Jaja and Amaka. Kambili also constantly "wishes" to have been the one to say something first, as well as for certain events not to take place.At school, Kambili is a social outcast. Due to her family's affluence, many of her classmates view her as a "backyard snob." They all believe she sees herself as their superior, however, she actually views herself in a degrading manner. Kambili often speaks in a low tone, one that is difficult to hear and almost resembles that of a whisper. She doesn't make an effort to talk with her classmates, as she is forced to run to her car as soon as the school day is over. If not, her father will punish her for arriving late.
My curiosity shifted from Auntie Ifeoma to Kambili due to her increasingly observant ways and bizarre thoughts. As the story progressed, I noticed her observational descriptions and haunting thoughts became more and more prevalent. She explains her surroundings in explicit details, for the most part, as she narrates the story. She also includes such strange thinking, such as always wanting to apologize to Amaka for doing nothing and continually comparing her not-so-pleasant luxurious lifestyle to her cousins' tolerable poverty.
As I started to understand more of Kambili, I couldn't help but relate her to the daughter from Bonnie Jo Campbell's short story, The Trespasser. Kambili's classmates and cousins perceive her as this arrogant girl with a perfect life of luxury, while the trespasser, from reading her diary, believes the daughter leads this ideal life free from pain and despair. In addition, both Kambili and the daughter are, in different ways, neglected by their fathers.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Novels vs. Short Stories
Reading a novel and reading a short story requires different approaches.
When reading a novel, I take breaks in between every few passages or chapters. Depending on my interest in the novel, a book may take me a day or a week to finish. When reading a short story, I always read from start to finish, reaching the end in one sitting. In addition, I tend to annotate and underline more in novels than in short stories. In fact, unless I'm using the text for a deeper analysis, I typically read short stories without making many notes. When I mark my novels, I make notes of significant events, key characteristics of each character, and even meaningful quotes.
What I pay attention to also shifts when the type of reading I read changes. I focus primarily on the theme--the author's underlying message--when reading a short story. To be frank, I don't invest myself into the text as much as I should. However, when I read a novel, I shift my attention to the growth of the characters, as well as the purpose of each passage. My connection to the characters is much stronger, as I make correlations from the novel to my life. I feel more enraged when someone is disrespected, more sorrow when a death occurs, more happiness when a pure soul touches the lives of others; in my opinion, novels essentially stimulate more emotion in its readers than short stories. Short stories are brief and concise, hence their name. Novels, on the other hand, are more detailed and winding, requiring more of an investment (in both time and attention) for further investigation. Reading a novel requires a forward-glancing perspective: the reader must constantly be looking back while looking forward, tying loose ends together to predict the final outcome.
When reading a novel, I take breaks in between every few passages or chapters. Depending on my interest in the novel, a book may take me a day or a week to finish. When reading a short story, I always read from start to finish, reaching the end in one sitting. In addition, I tend to annotate and underline more in novels than in short stories. In fact, unless I'm using the text for a deeper analysis, I typically read short stories without making many notes. When I mark my novels, I make notes of significant events, key characteristics of each character, and even meaningful quotes.
What I pay attention to also shifts when the type of reading I read changes. I focus primarily on the theme--the author's underlying message--when reading a short story. To be frank, I don't invest myself into the text as much as I should. However, when I read a novel, I shift my attention to the growth of the characters, as well as the purpose of each passage. My connection to the characters is much stronger, as I make correlations from the novel to my life. I feel more enraged when someone is disrespected, more sorrow when a death occurs, more happiness when a pure soul touches the lives of others; in my opinion, novels essentially stimulate more emotion in its readers than short stories. Short stories are brief and concise, hence their name. Novels, on the other hand, are more detailed and winding, requiring more of an investment (in both time and attention) for further investigation. Reading a novel requires a forward-glancing perspective: the reader must constantly be looking back while looking forward, tying loose ends together to predict the final outcome.Sunday, October 20, 2013
America: The Land of Opportunity?
After reading four of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's short stories, I noticed one prevalent theme among each of the stories: the distinct cultural separation between Nigeria and America. Cell One, The Thing Around Your Neck, Tomorrow is Too Far, and Ghosts each compared life in America to life in Nigeria in different manners. In Cell One, the female narrator mentions how she and her family lived a much more privileged lifestyle than the majority of Nigerians, with their American videotapes and luxurious goods, living a lifestyle similar to those of Americans. In The Thing Around Your Neck, the female narrator discusses the difficulty she faced while transitioning between her impoverished Nigerian lifestyle to her opportune American life. In Tomorrow is Too Far, the female narrator, now living in America, looks back to her Nigerian lifestyle and the mistakes and heartaches attached with her home nation. In Ghosts, the male narrator reminisces over the times when he was less lonely and when he was living with his wife and daughter in America.
The idea of America as "The Land of Opportunity" prevailed in both The Thing Around Your Neck and Ghosts. In The Thing Around Your Neck, Akunna faced much adversity while attempting to begin her life in America. Right off the bat, she expresses discomfort with the thought of leaving everything she has ever known for, what others saw, "opportunity." She explains that her immigration was a result of her American uncle entering her in a visa raffle. Struggling with being an American, she was forced to remind herself that "the trick was to understand America, to know that America was give-and-take."As much as she tried, Akunna couldn't understand the American way of life, with their sheltered mannerisms and their subtle racism. American racism was described, by her uncle, as "a mixture of ignorance and arrogance," and was characterized by questions such as, "Where did you learn your English?" and "Do you have real houses back in Africa?" In Ghosts, James lived in Nigeria with his wife, Ebere, moved to America after the Nigerian war in 1970, and later returned to Nigeria in 1976. Tempted to share with his daughter, Nkiru, of the visits he receives from late Ebere, James holds back and keeps his intimate encounters to himself, in fear of being brought back to America. He blatantly states, "I will be forced to live a life cushioned by so much convenience that it is sterile," explaining he prefers his Nigerian lifestyle over the glorified American way of life. In addition, James accuses that the American life is "littered with what we call 'opportunities,'" openly saying that it is "a life that is not for [him]."
I think what struck me most was the misconception those from impoverished nations have of the U.S. As a first generation American and a first generation college student, I often wonder about the former lives of my parents. Both of my parents immigrated from Vietnam, leaving their indigent lifestyles in hopes of acquiring these "great opportunities." Unable to afford proper schooling, neither of my parents were given the chance to attain higher education. Thus, they, and the rest of my extended family, built their lives from scratch, working and struggling in effort to provide for the first American generation--for my brother, for my cousins, and for me--with opportunities they hadn't been offered.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Nigerian Fashion
High school. Junior year. Junior year is like the Thursdays of high school. You're not quite done, but you're almost there. Your anticipation for the weekend peaks as you can nearly feel the weekend begin. It's the beginning of the end.
Eleventh grade was when I began to take a particular interest in fashion. That's also when I first started working. Was there a correlation? Most definitely. After struggling several months looking for a part-time job as a young, inexperienced teenager, I found, and accepted, three positions: one in retail, one in restaurant and food management, and one as a tutor. (I'm an overachiever, I know). Working a lot lead to a higher salary. A higher salary lead to more spending money. And more spending money lead to more freedom to choose the things I wanted to spend on.
I've always had a slight interest in fashion. When I was younger, I often flipped through fashion magazines, bewildered at why some people wore the things they did. Those eccentric pieces the beautiful supermodels sported down the runways was what society called "high fashion." Working in retail opened my eyes to the fashion world. To me, fashion isn't just a way of displaying your style; it's a way of life--a creative outlet we all get to utilize every day.
So, of course, I decided to research Nigerian fashion.
According to several sources, the fast-growing fashion industry in Nigeria will be the "next big thing" in the international market. As Africa's biggest market, with well over 150,000,000 people, Nigeria is not only the most populous African nation, but it has also developed and maintained the largest market for fashion and luxury brands. Agbani Darego, former beauty queen and former Miss World, has high hopes for the field, holding nothing but great expectations for Nigerian models and designers alike. Tony Okoroji, chairman of the Copyright Society of Nigeria (COSON), foresees a reduction in unemployment as a result of the expected growth spurt in the fashion industry.
Nigerians are expert dyers, weavers, and tailors, producing massive quantities of beautiful, rich, and colorful textiles. These textiles, vibrant in color and abundant in pattern, are predominantly Ankara and Lace fabrics. Ankara and Lace fashion dominate the Nigerian fashion industry, and these local fabrics are beginning to hit European markets.
Just like New York City, Nigeria has its own weeklong fashion festivities. Nigeria Fashion Week (NFW) is typically held every November, with runway shows, exhibitions, and press conferences galore. With a few international designers, NFW showcases fashion near and far. This year, NFW's focus is going green. Their "Going Green" initiative began back in 2011, and NFW has continued on with the focus as a strive to push for global eco-friendly behavior. NFW is conscious of reintroducing eco-conscious methods at the source through the use of environmentally friendly materials, such as natural fibers and organic cotton, and socially responsible methods of production that create social change and empower communities.
Sources:
Eleventh grade was when I began to take a particular interest in fashion. That's also when I first started working. Was there a correlation? Most definitely. After struggling several months looking for a part-time job as a young, inexperienced teenager, I found, and accepted, three positions: one in retail, one in restaurant and food management, and one as a tutor. (I'm an overachiever, I know). Working a lot lead to a higher salary. A higher salary lead to more spending money. And more spending money lead to more freedom to choose the things I wanted to spend on.
I've always had a slight interest in fashion. When I was younger, I often flipped through fashion magazines, bewildered at why some people wore the things they did. Those eccentric pieces the beautiful supermodels sported down the runways was what society called "high fashion." Working in retail opened my eyes to the fashion world. To me, fashion isn't just a way of displaying your style; it's a way of life--a creative outlet we all get to utilize every day.So, of course, I decided to research Nigerian fashion.
According to several sources, the fast-growing fashion industry in Nigeria will be the "next big thing" in the international market. As Africa's biggest market, with well over 150,000,000 people, Nigeria is not only the most populous African nation, but it has also developed and maintained the largest market for fashion and luxury brands. Agbani Darego, former beauty queen and former Miss World, has high hopes for the field, holding nothing but great expectations for Nigerian models and designers alike. Tony Okoroji, chairman of the Copyright Society of Nigeria (COSON), foresees a reduction in unemployment as a result of the expected growth spurt in the fashion industry.
Nigerians are expert dyers, weavers, and tailors, producing massive quantities of beautiful, rich, and colorful textiles. These textiles, vibrant in color and abundant in pattern, are predominantly Ankara and Lace fabrics. Ankara and Lace fashion dominate the Nigerian fashion industry, and these local fabrics are beginning to hit European markets.
Sources:
- http://www.channelstv.com/home/2013/09/21/nigerian-fashion-industry-is-next-big-thing-agbani-darego/
- http://allafrica.com/stories/201308300122.html
- http://nigeriafashionweek.com/nfw/
- http://www.everyculture.com/Ma-Ni/Nigeria.html#b
- http://iloverelationship.com/ankara-stylish-fashion-trend-to-watch-out-for-in-2013/
Monday, October 7, 2013
Late Nights
Tossing. Turning. Sleeping. Yearning. This is what happens when I can't fall asleep.
Every so often, I'll look out of my bedroom window. Some nights, the sky's a wispy purple. Others nights, it's as dark as the clichéd "midnight sky." Most nights, the stars steal the spotlight, sparkling and shimmering for half of the world to see. Tonight's a different kind of night though; the moon's as round as can be, radiating a cheesy mellow type of yellow. It shines brighter than all of the stars combined.
As I switch in and out of various positions, I can't help but think of how differently my life could, would, and sometimes should, be.
 |
| The one place I've always considered my true home. |
I wonder about why things happen the way they do and about the "what ifs" far more often than any young college student should.
What if I never met the people I now know? What if the moments I saw as the "wrong place, wrong time" were actually right? What if I didn't let the people of my past leave? What if I hadn't met you?
Obviously, my life would be a whole lot different. But I often question whether my alternative life would be better than this roller-coaster-ride-of-a-life I'm living now.
Sometimes, actually, a lot of the times, I wonder if I would be much happier. Sure, I've got the whole world ahead of me. But at the moment, there's simply too much for me to think about.
I'm still struggling to keep up with my coursework, as it seems to relentlessly pile up. I fell behind in the first place due to rush, which turned out to be the biggest waste of my time (I decided to drop midway through). My first exam is quickly approaching, and I'm several chapters behind when I should already be reviewing. This exam also happens to be one of the most crucial exams in determining my admittance to Ross.
 |
| My brother and I. |
It's the boundless possibilities of misfortunate events that's eating me alive.
I'm afraid of failing. I'm afraid of not getting into the business school. I'm afraid of letting my parents down. I'm afraid of being forgotten by my friends back home. I'm afraid of becoming everything I'm not. I'm just afraid.
All I know is everything happens for a reason. And I'm pretty sure we're all here to figure out why.
 |
| My life on a T-shirt. |
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Writing Wisdom
 |
| "If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write something worth reading or do things worth writing." --Benjamin Franklin |
 |
| "The experience of writing is primarily an adventure, not a vocation; if it feels like destiny and not a choice, you should understand at the start that it's as likely to be a curse as a blessing." --Joyce Carol Oates |
 |
| "For the details to be concrete and convey meaning, the language must be accurate and precisely given. The words can be so precise they may even sound flat, but they can still carry; if used right, they can hit all the notes." --Raymond Carver |
 |
| "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." --Ernest Hemingway |
 |
| "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader." --Robert Frost |
 |
| "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." --Maya Angelou |
A Writer Learning to Write
As student writers, we never really stop to think of how we're implementing certain techniques in our pieces; we merely let the information flow from our minds into text. We revise and rewrite, but we never take the time to truly understand what works and what doesn't. It's as if it's habitual--as if it's common sense--to recognize awkward phrases and confusing sentences. We can easily distinguish good writing from bad; however, we never truly consider what constitutes "good writing."
Two long, and rather difficult, readings take us away from fiction and stories and into politics and science. Although these aren't your typical writers writing about writing, both pieces provide us with important insights into what makes for good writing.
George Orwell's essay "Politics and the English Language" argued that the decadence of language is a result of political and economic externalities. Bad language usage is spread by tradition and imitation; even people who should and do know better apply these faulty tactics, including Orwell himself. Politicians, in particular, are a major contribution to the corruption of languages. Regardless of their party, politicians apply hackneyed phrases such as bloodstained tyranny and free peoples of the world, presenting themselves in a fairly robotic manner. Their diction consists largely of euphemism, question-begging, and sheer vagueness, as none of them want to name things without calling up the atrocious mental images.
Although many readers might have viewed Orwell's essay as a guide to "what not to do" in writing, I viewed his piece as a wakeup call. He illuminated that the English language now suffers from specific mental vices, vices of which are habitually written by most of us. Applying dying metaphors, operators or verbal false limbs, pretentious diction, and meaningless words often indicates that a writer is simply lazy. When a piece of writing is stale of imagery and lacks precision, the writer displays traits of vagueness and incompetence. More than often, these writers either have something to say and simply don't know how to say it, or they have nothing to say and bullshit their writing with a string of contrived statements.
Personally, I most related to his argument on pretentious diction. Back in high school, my English teachers called me "Queen of Academic Diction." Basking in my glory, I constantly felt the need to live up to their expectations. Thus, when writing an essay, or just writing in general, I always made a conscious effort to include big words. Orwell, however, made me realize that simplification is key, as big words often cloud a writer's meaning. Writers often hide their meanings behind complex phrases, as opposed to inserting simple words that would suffice in lieu of the phrases. Attempts to sound sophisticated typically lead to a vague piece of writing.
My key takeaway from Orwell's essay would be to, simply put, say what you mean. Most college students need to acknowledge that when they bullshit their writing and include fluffy words, they surrender themselves to language. "What is above all needed is to let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way about."
George D. Gopen and Judith A. Swan's article "The Science of Scientific Writing" aims to not only discuss the science behind scientific writing, but to also inform writers of the needs of readers. They argue that complexity of thought need not lead to impenetrability of expression, as improving the quality of writing actually improves the quality of thought.
As a writer, I gained the insight of writing with the reader in mind. Sure, we formulate our words based upon our audience, but do we ever stop and think about the structure and the syntax, and how it all combines to convey our message? Swan and Gopen stress that "information is interpreted more easily and more uniformly if it is placed where most readers expect to find it," indicating that a reader's expectations greatly factors into his/her comprehension. Structure should be set up in ways for the reader to understand the piece. "If [their] structural expectations are continually violated, readers are forced to divert energy from understanding the content of a passage to unraveling its structure." Their focus is then placed on a smaller portion of the bigger picture. In addition, writers should consider the relativity of their first and last sentences. If they, themselves, cannot follow their writing from Point A to Point B, how could they expect their readers to do so? Readers expect a grammatical subject to be followed immediately by the verb, and anything that intervenes between the two is read as an interruption. We also must think of our sentences as stories with plots. "Beginning with the exciting material and ending with a lack of luster often leaves us disappointed and destroys our sense of momentum." Writers should begin their sentences with old information and introduce/lead into new information. (Old info = topic position; new info = stress position). Doing so presents their readers with a sense of connectivity--a sense of fluidity, as the writer makes an apparent effort to connect the dots.
What struck a chord for me, as a writer, is the superiority of a reader's need for receiving the material over a writer's need for unburdening themselves of their information. We typically write to get our message out in the world, however, we don't really think about the various ways our one message could be perceived. Simple miscommunications can lead to misconstrued takeaways. Therefore, don't try to be better than your reader by leaving out information. "It matters only whether a large majority of the reading audience accurately perceives what the author had in mind."
Two long, and rather difficult, readings take us away from fiction and stories and into politics and science. Although these aren't your typical writers writing about writing, both pieces provide us with important insights into what makes for good writing.
Although many readers might have viewed Orwell's essay as a guide to "what not to do" in writing, I viewed his piece as a wakeup call. He illuminated that the English language now suffers from specific mental vices, vices of which are habitually written by most of us. Applying dying metaphors, operators or verbal false limbs, pretentious diction, and meaningless words often indicates that a writer is simply lazy. When a piece of writing is stale of imagery and lacks precision, the writer displays traits of vagueness and incompetence. More than often, these writers either have something to say and simply don't know how to say it, or they have nothing to say and bullshit their writing with a string of contrived statements.
My key takeaway from Orwell's essay would be to, simply put, say what you mean. Most college students need to acknowledge that when they bullshit their writing and include fluffy words, they surrender themselves to language. "What is above all needed is to let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way about."
As a writer, I gained the insight of writing with the reader in mind. Sure, we formulate our words based upon our audience, but do we ever stop and think about the structure and the syntax, and how it all combines to convey our message? Swan and Gopen stress that "information is interpreted more easily and more uniformly if it is placed where most readers expect to find it," indicating that a reader's expectations greatly factors into his/her comprehension. Structure should be set up in ways for the reader to understand the piece. "If [their] structural expectations are continually violated, readers are forced to divert energy from understanding the content of a passage to unraveling its structure." Their focus is then placed on a smaller portion of the bigger picture. In addition, writers should consider the relativity of their first and last sentences. If they, themselves, cannot follow their writing from Point A to Point B, how could they expect their readers to do so? Readers expect a grammatical subject to be followed immediately by the verb, and anything that intervenes between the two is read as an interruption. We also must think of our sentences as stories with plots. "Beginning with the exciting material and ending with a lack of luster often leaves us disappointed and destroys our sense of momentum." Writers should begin their sentences with old information and introduce/lead into new information. (Old info = topic position; new info = stress position). Doing so presents their readers with a sense of connectivity--a sense of fluidity, as the writer makes an apparent effort to connect the dots.
What struck a chord for me, as a writer, is the superiority of a reader's need for receiving the material over a writer's need for unburdening themselves of their information. We typically write to get our message out in the world, however, we don't really think about the various ways our one message could be perceived. Simple miscommunications can lead to misconstrued takeaways. Therefore, don't try to be better than your reader by leaving out information. "It matters only whether a large majority of the reading audience accurately perceives what the author had in mind."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)