Optimism is So Cute
I was so optimistic in when I’d have things done by, in this post. Heh. Woops.
Woman as a Weapon – Beloved
Sword and shield. Down. Down. Both of em down. Down by the riverside. Sword and shield. Don’t study war no more. Lay all that mess down. Sword and shield. 1
A woman is a biological weapon.2 A weapon in a war fought against other men, other people. An oozing, leaking, contaminated zone of infection, of a porous body that bleeds into the environment3 as much as the environment, and the men in it, are taken up. And the black woman becomes the ultimate weapon, simultaneously orientalised4 and reviled. Toni Morrison’s acclaimed novel Beloved illustrates two separate aspects of woman as a weapon, seen in the main characters Sethe and Beloved herself. While both deserve equal consideration, the limitations of space demand that this essay only address Sethe.
The weaponisation of Sethe begins when she is turned into a commodity, sold, at the beginning of her tender teenage years. But the contamination of Sethe begins much, much earlier than this. Originally, she was separated from her mother and raised by a wet nurse; this was done at such a young age that she could not recognize her own mother, even in death.5 Her mother, a slave from Africa, nursed the babe Sethe for only 2-3 weeks before the babe was removed and she was sent back to work. Sethe then nursed at the breast of Nan, another transported slave. This breaking of the bond of mother and child can be seen as the first step in Sethe’s contamination; instead of being fed from the natural source for a child, her mother, Sethe is given the fluids of another. While this might not appear to be a significant step in the contamination and eventual weaponisation of Sethe, it is important to consider this in light of Elizabeth Grosz’s understanding of Mary Douglas’s notions of the dirty body. “Dirt, for her, is that which is not in its proper place, that which upsets or befuddles order.”6 There is nothing much more upsetting of the natural order than a child being breastfed the fluids of another woman.
We then jump to the contaminated Sethe, already unable to participate in a normal familial relationship, being sold to the Garner farm. Here she becomes the object of desire7 for the black men, who resort to the “taking of cattle” and dreaming of rape to quench their lust of the thirteen-year old girl. After a year of contaminating the thoughts of these men, Sethe makes her choice in Halle, and they lay together amongst the corn; Halle is now no longer merely mentally but also physically contaminated with Sethe, and he has contaminated her for other men.8 The other men of Sweet Home acknowledge her choice and from that point treat her with respect, distance, and brotherly affection.
Sethe bears Halle three children, and is pregnant with her fourth when the small family makes the decision to remain a family, and to run to join Halleâ’s mother. And at this point, Sethe becomes a weapon. Her children packed up and sent ahead, the youngest born still suckling, she remains behind to search for Halle, and is accosted in the barn by the nephews (or perhaps sons) of the schoolteacher.9 They sexually assault her, one boy with “mossy teeth” holding her down while the other physically takes her milk by sucking it from her breast. While this attack takes place, the schoolteacher watches and records everything–as does Halle, trapped in the loft above Sethe and the boys. Like many biological weapons, when she is set off, Sethe harms more than just the immediate target, although in this case, the full damage of the weapon will not be immediately seen. In fact, the immediate damage only comes to Sethe herself, who in telling Mrs. Garner of her violation finds herself beaten until her back opens up, for the disobedience of telling. But the invisible victim is Halle, who witnesses the assault on his wife and goes mad. She is used as a weapon, a means of hurting and ultimately destroying him; he knows that he will never be able to look at her again, both because the violation of his possession10 and his inaction towards it, and goes so mad as to simply sit, smearing butter on his face and obsessing over the stolen milk.11
Milk stolen, body broken, believing her husband to have abandoned her pregnant body and their children, Sethe still sets out to follow the caravan to Cincinnati, motivated by the knowledge that her youngest born child needed her milk, and her unborn child needed her life. At this point, the division between Sethe’s inside and outside has collapsed; her body has become visibly permeable and porous;12 her breast milk is flowing freely, seeping into the environment around her. And as it flows, it attracts the outside environment to her body, in the form of small insects and grasshoppers, and it announces her presence, in the form of a strong smell and visible marking on her dress, to the world at large.13
Sethe eventually makes it to her destination, House 124, along with Denver, the child born from the trauma en route. And for a short while, it appears that the weapon of Sethe has been spent, and she will be able to live the remainder of her life with her children, in happiness. But in quick succession, Sethe’s presence contaminates life at House 124. The first sign of this comes three weeks after Sethe’s arrival, with Baby Suggs happy enough at the freedom of her daughter-in-law and newest granddaughter. With the enabling of juicy berries picked by Stamp Paid, a feast is had, shared with all in the neighborhood, ninety people who woke up resenting the bounty and generosity of excess given in thanks for Sethe and Denver’s presence.14 But this poisoning of relations merely masked the darker threat coming, that of the schoolteacher, a mossy-toothed boy, the sheriff, and the slave-catcher. And at this point, the weapon of Sethe, unleashed on her assault at the hands of those nephews, finishes itself in the murder of Beloved.
The knives of regret, of misery and defense, of ways of being and coping with a world out to get you for being you–these things Sethe is urged to lay down, put aside, let go. Let go and move on. But how do you move on in a world that isn’t out to get just you, but is out to get everyone equally,15 and is comfortable using you in its battle against everyone else? When you are not only a participant in the war, but a weapon?
Lay down your sword. This ain’t a battle, it’s a rout.
Way to Perpetuate Stereotypes, Dr. Brothers!
DEAR DR. BROTHERS: I am concerned about a behavior my 12-year-old daughter has developed. Rachel is a very outgoing child and has developed a close group of friends through the years. I have noticed that she has gotten into the habit of being — in my opinion — overly demonstrative with her greeting of the girls and boys in her group. There is so much hugging and kissing (on both cheeks or in the air) that you would think they are long-lost relatives, instead of kids she has known her whole life. The other kids do not go nearly as overboard. Is this going to lead to trouble? — S.F.
DEAR S.F.: I am not sure what kind of trouble you foresee, but chances are your daughter will outgrow this behavior or curtail it if she starts hearing remarks from her friends, teachers or others that she is being too friendly or too dramatic with her greetings. Preteen kids in middle school are very much into cliques, and if your daughter’s natural bent is to be “larger than life” with her personality, this may be her natural way of showing her joie de vivre before she has to become all grown-up and “cool.”
Where the trouble could come in, as I see it, is if some boys start misinterpreting her behavior as flirtatious or leading them on. Your daughter probably doesn’t realize that her innocent exuberance could be mistaken for teasing in the hormone-charged atmosphere of middle-school youth. You might want to take her aside and make sure she is aware of what she is doing and caution her to be careful about being too free with her affection. It may sound old-fashioned, but she should reserve those personal kisses and hugs for very close friends so that she doesn’t get an undeserved reputation. She may also be showing off a little, doing some flirting with her buddies to see how it feels. It’s a good time to explain moderation!
Yeah, that’s helpful – let’s perpetuate old-fashioned stereotypes that a girl who’s affectionate and friendly must have an “undeserved reputation” – or that there is even such thing as a reputation to protect to begin with. Affection should only be shown in private, and for a few very close friends – moderate your emotions! Moderate your feelings!
And people say only boys are taught to repress their feelings.
I’m reading Beloved. For the third time in a little over a year. Have pity on my soul. Actually, pity yours, because I’m sure I’ll come back here in a bit with a mouthful of things to say. And I promise they won’t all be pithy, “who gives a goddamned whether or not Beloved was a ghost?” comments.
Fogged
0710
Asleep at 0030 and awake again at 0500; I’m not sleeping much lately, or consistently when I do sleep. A lot of tossing and turning. The insomnia is back, and is certainly, this time, a result of stress. I do keep an eye on my arm, though, constantly monitoring it. It’s been sore the last few weeks, but nothing that a few advil won’t control. It’s just a few more advil than I’ve needed before. The quarter is wearing on me, physically and emotionally.
Perhaps it’s the cumulative nights of lack of sleep, but the world is both crisp and shrouded this morning. There is a cold crispness to the lines of buildings, trains, and the metallic. The lights are refracting in golden orange prisms. But at the same time, the world is draped in a misting, dove-grey fog that occasionally takes on metallic silver when wrapping itself around objects. It softens what would be a very harsh morning, and creates a different kind of beauty. There is wonder, potential in the fog. Hints of something different, better, miraculous, marvelous, just around the corner.
It makes me sad to think that there isn’t. It makes rueful smiles and thoughts of cynicism, and wondering where my good cheer went. And I remember that I was able to relax for a few hours yesterday, in the company of a friend, and that good cheer reasserted itself, along with my more characteristic calmness.
I’m wound too tight.
I hope that email sent last night, combined with several days “off”, will also allow my mental rubber bands to relax. Physically, I’m going to see what I can do with a hefty dose of prednisone — literally relax those chest muscles, and see if it forces the rest of me to relax as well.
I haven’t been writing as much as I’d like to lately. Largely, I’ve been caught in mental whyloops and known it — what’s the point in reiterating what has already been reiterated, somewhat to the death? The horse is dead, rotted, decomposed, and has turned into detritus, and is still being kicked. Maybe it’s time to dance, instead.
0827
A thin line of darker grey on the horizon is the only indication of division between fog and water, with the occasional ship looming and suspended in the ether. When the grey glints mercury I doubletake; was that water, metal, or something in the air? If it weren’t for that subtle line and those glints, there would simply cease to be, beyond the winter brown grass and cliffs.
We’re quickly approaching the small area between Tacoma and Olympia that calls to me whenever the train takes us by; small houses tucked against a slightly crumbling cliff, water lapping against the posts keeping them elevated. It looks secluded, quiet; a tiny neighborhood of people opting to live on the very edge of earth, looking to the water and across it in their daily life. I romanticize them, imagining that they must be people who feel the surge of the tide in their blood, the moon waxing and waning a physical force upon them. I want to be among them, only today, I wonder — do I?
And then suddenly, Ketron Island erupts out of the fog, verdant and gold, the water a brilliant reflective blue. The fog roils and parts and pulls itself back from the land, blown away by the coming day.