Life's Labels

Life’s Labels

            Like Bone from A Bastard Out of Carolina, I was subject to the label that life has given me. Unlike Bone I was the one who choose this label, but not the stigmatism that came with it. Bone was labeled as 'trash' because of the family she was born into. Her community forced her to live with this label and would not let her deviate from it. From a young age I had known I wanted to be a cheerleader, but feared joining because of the stereotype behind it. In the 6^th grade I decided to look past this image that cheerleading presented of the dumb, slutty, bimbo, and joined my local cheerleading squad. I cheered from then on until I graduated high school.

“Other than the name, they got just about everything else wrong” (Allison 2).

           I was forced to have people assume I was dumb or slutty just because of the name associated with cheerleading. This was highly frustrating to me because I worked hard in school to maintain an A average and held myself to high morals, but no one seemed interested in caring about that. They were too busy off assuming I was ‘screwing’ whatever guy I happened to be friends with or cheating my way through. Bone was forced to take on the label of ‘trash’ because of the family she was born into. She struggled to identify with her family because her peers saw her as trash, but she did not want to have that label. She longed to be able to make a name for herself and become something in her family no one else had become before. She dreamed of becoming a gospel singer. A dream that was unattainable because no one saw her as having talent or beauty to become one. Had she been giving the opportunity to prove herself and be more than her label, maybe she could have become one. 

“All I wanted, I whispered all I wanted, was a piece, a piece, a little piece of it” (Allison 168)

            Bone longed to become a Gospel singer, something she discovered she was passionate about. Her good friend Shannon, put her down for this and made fun of her dream. Like Shannon, it seemed that everyone around me put cheerleaders down as “not talented” or “not a real sport”. It frustrated me that no one could see the hard work we put in at 7 AM practices or how late we stayed just to decorate the gym or stadium for the big game the next day. “It’s all short skirts and pom poms,” they would say. How was I going to be excited about something I loved if it was always being put down? Negative labeling is constricting on society because many people refuse to look past and change their views once their mind has been made up.

            Stereotyping can greatly limit how far someone can move in society. Bone was never able to push past her label as 'trash' because people would not allow her to be associated with anything other than that. What people don’t realize is that just because you may associate with something that hasn’t necessarily been positively viewed in the past, will not dictate your success in the future. I was a cheerleader and graduated in the top 15% of my class, had a considerable amount of community service and volunteer work, had a job, and managed to maintain healthy relationships with my friends and family. I was not dumb. I was not a slut. The label that life or we give ourselves should not define who we are and how far we will go in life. If society can break past the stereotypes, possibilities and opportunities will be endless. 

#4

I had a grandma. She wasn’t a grandmother or a granny or a nana or even a grandmamma. She was a grandma – my grandma – and she was very good at it.

Grandma lived in the most beautiful place in the world, a speck of a town in the sticks of southwest Arkansas where blackberries grew wild and bright orange tiger lilies lined the two miles of dirt road between the highway and her place. Grandma’s place was more than a house. It was acres of pine forest, the creek (pronounced “crick” in the native Arkansan), critters, birds, and a million opportunities for imagination and mischief, and my cousins and I took full advantage of it.

We all loved spending the summer at Grandma’s place, but my favorite part was just being with Grandma. I’d follow her around the house and watch as she made biscuits or swept the floor. Sometimes she let me help peel potatoes and now and then she’d slip me a slice of raw potato to munch on. When things were quiet and the chores were done, she would sit and crochet. I loved the things she made, so I asked her to teach me. She set me in her lap and wrapped the yarn around my fingers, and then she held my hands and moved them to make the stitches. I was the only cousin interested in crochet, and as the years passed, crochet time became our special time, just the two of us. We talked and laughed and I loved her. She was a really good grandma.

At the end of every day, Grandma would write in her journal. She noted what the weather had been like, who had come to visit, stuff like that. It was pretty boring so I never paid much attention to her journals – never gave it much thought at all.

After Grandma passed away, my mom and I came across a box full of her old journals. Apparently she kept journals since her mid-teens. I missed Grandma and wanted to be close to her so I began reading her notebooks. A lot of it was the old boring stuff, but a lot wasn’t. From those pages I learned things about my grandma I had never known. She had been shot during a convenience store robbery. She had married too young. She was afraid of birth pains. She cried every Christmas because her daughter Dixie had died Christmas day. She had been in love before she met my grandpa. She wished for a better relationship with her mother. She was heartbroken when her only friend moved out of state. She had laughed and cried. She had loved and hurt. I had never known, but just lik

e Great Billie in “The Extraordinary Work of Ordinary Writing,” my grandma’s heart was poured out onto the pages of her journals, and through them I discovered that Grandma was more than just Grandma. She was a woman.

Option 4, "Bastard Out of Carolina" by Dorothy Allison

Alexandra Smith
               
           The main character Bone’s constant loyalty to her mother, Annie, throughout majority of Dorothy Allison’s novel Bastard Out of Carolina really impacted me. Every time Bone clung to her mother’s hip and buried her face into her side, I thought of myself. I wanted to scream at Bone that her mother may love her but that love is no longer enough. I wanted so badly to pick Bone up and walk hand and hand with her to one of her aunts’ places to stay. I wanted to get Bone away from the abuse, to give her some semblance of stability, an atmosphere of family and love. While reading some of the last scenes in the novel, my stomach churned uneasy, my heart squeezed painfully, my eyes swelled slowly up like a tide.

            My parents divorced when I was in the sixth grade. I lived with my mother primarily until midway through my junior year of high school. One night, we had a dramatic argument complete with a yelling match. She had had enough and told me to call my father and have him come pick me up. Said she was done and couldn’t “do this” anymore. My heart was both empty and full of rage that night. That memory mirrors a thought Bone has when she stayed at her Aunt Raylene’s after the last time Daddy Glen had assaulted her, “My mama had abandoned me, and that was the only thing that mattered,” (Allison 302). I was angry with my mother for a long time for kicking me out. I had been a mother to her and myself for majority of my life, so why was she kicking me out? I had done nothing wrong but asked her to love me, take care of me, choose me over the alcohol, and choose me over her boyfriend. Another quote from Bone connects to that memory as well, “How do you forgive somebody when you cannot even speak her name, when you cannot stand to close your eyes and see her face?” (Allison 302). Months later, when my mother finally worked up the courage to look my in the eye and speak to me at one of my school events (which she had started recently attending to try to work her back into my life), it was the most uncomfortable moment I may have ever had with her. To see her hunched shoulders, the hesitancy in her smile, the fear in her eyes, her disheveled appearance compared to the country-club-socialite with the bubbly attitude and pristine appearance I remembered from my childhood…. I didn’t recognize her. I wanted to fold her taller, 5-9 frame into my arms, run my hand down her brittle, unkept hair, and tell her everything would be alright. That we could be a family again, but as Bone said, “I wanted to tell her lies, tell her that I had never doubted her, that nothing could make any difference to my love for her, but I couldn’t. I had lost my mama. She was a stranger, and I was so old my insides had turned to dust and stone” (Allison 306).

            My mother and I have made up since then, our relationship slowing still mending with time and distance. The song “Never Grow Up” by Taylor Swift reminds me of what I wanted my mother treat me like as a child and “Landslide” by the Dixie Chicks reminds me of many experiences throughout my life that after, I distinctly remember feeling more grown up after—older, wiser, sometimes even more so than my parents and other adults in my life.

“Never Grow Up” by Taylor Swift

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/taylorswift/nevergrowup.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f4gEM7w98wM

“Landslide” by Dixie Chicks

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/dixiechicks/landslide.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4_wXPZ1Bnk

Prompt 3

Article Link: http://amherststudent.amherst.edu/?q=article%2F2012%2F10%2F17%2Faccount-sexual-assault-amherst-college#.UH9BNGar7sg.facebook

                                                         Prompt 3

During my readings of Bastard out of Carolina by Dorothy Allison I was continually prompted by the discussion of rape. Although I have never been personally raped, I know that the statistics for women being raped, especially in college, is very high. Last year I came across an article about a girl being raped at Amherst and her process of dealing with it. I will discuss the correlation between Bone in the novel Bastard out of Carolina and Angie’s article An Account of Sexual Assault at Amherst College experiences with rape.

            After being raped both Bone and Angie became very distance from others and did not tell anyone what happened. They tried to block it from their memory and convince themselves that it hadn’t happened; that it couldn’t have happened (Epifano). Angie participated in many extracurricular activities to keep her mind off of it and Bone tried to convince herself that he (Daddy Glen) had never held her tight to his hips and pretended it had all been a bad dream that would never come back (Allison,142). Neither of these tactics ended up working for them and began to affect their everyday lives. When the raping did come back to their memory, or happen again in Bone’s case, they felt ashamed of themselves and that it was their fault that it had happened. When Angie thought back to the raping she thought to herself, “If I had been stronger…If I wasn’t such a failure…This is all my fault, I really am just a broken, polluted piece of shit…” (Epifano). Bone also had shameful feelings about being raped because she did not want to hurt her Momma. She thought if she could hide that Daddy Glen was raping her then everything would be okay. During Bone’s raping’s she felt she was “more terrified of hurting [Momma] than of anything that might happen to herself, [she] would work as hard as [Daddy Glen] did to make sure [Momma] never knew”(Allison, 118).

              

                  Another shocking discovery from reading this article is how Angie was treated after she had reported it to the school. According to Amherst’s bylaws, “Rapist’s are given less punishment than students caught stealing. Survivors are often forced to take time off, while rapists are allowed to stay on campus. If a rapist is about to graduate, their punishment is often that they receive their diploma two years late.”(Epifano). The Dean of Amherst as well as other faculty members did not treat Angie with the respect and passion that she deserved; they treated her as a mental case, encouraging that the rape was her fault. Similarly to Angie’s experience, Bone’s mother ignored the situation of her daughter being raped. She excused his mistakes as Daddy Glens love for Bone and indirectly put the blame on Bone asking her why she did that, why she had to make Daddy Glen so mad (Allison, 234).

                                                   "Are you sure it was rape? He seems to 

                                                    think it was a little more complicated"

                                                            - Amherst College Administrator 

              Both of these examples convey how hard it is for a woman to overcome being sexually assaulted and the negative impact it makes on the rest of their lives. Angie and Bone are both ashamed of what has happened and feel they are responsible for it happening to them. I believe that both this novel and this article express how deeply women’s self-assurance and self-esteem are shattered when they are taken advantaged of. This article also displays how individuals do not support the survivor as one would think they would. In both the novel and the article it is clearly exemplified that the faculty of Amherst and Bone’s mother, people who should be advocating for their safety, shy away from the situation and promote silence. Although this book was very difficult to read because of its authentic experiences, I feel it is important to be aware and acknowledge that these situations are not just in novels, but are very really and happen to many women across the country and across the world. 

                                             "You never took your case to trial, so you 
                                               don't actually count as a rape survivor "
                                                             - Amherst Dean 

Option #4

Filled with new experiences and the transitioning from a child to a young adult, adolescence, for many, is a very challenging time. In Sandra Cisnero's "Eleven", I felt that I bonded most with Rachel. Granted, girls may have different experiences than boys do at the vulnerable age of eleven, but that does not mean that there is some overlap. I saw this in the way that Rachel handled her experiences in the classroom and at school.

When I was in grade school and middle school, I was the awkward and shy kid (believe it or not). Whenever it came time for me to give an answer in class or express my opinion, I was mortified by the idea because in my mind, I wasn't the cool kid and therefore my opinion was not "cool", even if it was the same as everyone else. Often times, I would daydream about what life would be like if I was older and able to be more confident in myself, much like whenever Rachel would daydream about scenarios in her head that were simply ridiculous. However, at the time, they did not seem so ridiculous.

As a young kid, we all liked to dream big (and still should, in my opinion) and that's certainly what I did whenever I was in the classroom. I always felt that even though I did not say much, my mind was constantly working and processing deep thoughts, which lead me to feel much older and mature than the rest of my classmates. Rachel often times found herself in moments of deep thought. Like Rachel, my deep thought process usually began when I started to feel a sense like I was uncomfortable and needed a place to escape without actually physically escaping.

Ten years ago, if you were to ask me to compare my childhood experience to that of a fictitious eleven-year-old girl in a book, I would have laughed and said that would not be possible because "girls do stuff differently". Little would I know that I am sitting here writing about it myself at the age of 22. While both boys and girls deal with situations differently, it does not mean that we go through the same experiences.

And no, I did not cry because I was wearing an ugly sweater! Okay, maybe I did a little. Thanks a lot, mom, for choosing my embarrassing clothing for me.

Sofia Sidner, Option 5

In Sandra Cisneros short story titled “Eleven” she tells the story of a little girl named Rachel on her eleventh birthday. She talks about Rachel going to school and the events that occurred at school, especially the situation with the red sweater. Mrs. Price, Rachel’s teacher, forces a red sweater upon Rachel, even though it isn’t hers. Mrs. Price insisted that Rachel put the sweater on and Rachel couldn’t even get the words out to say that the sweater wasn’t hers. She was mortified.

But what is interesting, is that Cisneros points out that although Rachel is eleven, in this situation, she wanted to cry as if she were three years old. Cisneros makes an interesting point saying that “…when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one” (Cisneros 1). Cisneros is trying to convey that even though your age increases, there are certain times and certain situations when you want to act younger than you are – and that’s okay.

Personally, being twenty years old, there are times when I want to act five. I want to cry to my mom about something and not have to act like a mature twenty year old adult. There are times when I want to act sixteen and rebel against what people tell me to do. And that’s what Cisnero’s stresses – even though I am twenty, I am also nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, and all the years that come before that.

This is an important piece of literature because it reminds us that it’s okay to not always act our age. We don’t always need to act our age just because society tells us to. Society pushes us to become mature adults, which is fine, but we need to remember that we don’t ALWAYS need to be mature just because we are old – and there are times when we won’t want to act mature. There are times when we will want to act as if we were a different age. I believe that that’s an important message, and Cisneros does an excellent job conveying that message, which is why I would recommend this piece of literature to my friends and peers. This short story serves as a reminder that we don’t need to and sometimes don’t want to always act our age.

Blog 2-Option 3

Bastard out of Carolina throughout the entire story had one main concept I could not stop thinking about, child abuse. From the first time we read as Daddy Glen abused Bone in the parking lot, the many times he hit her with his belt, and one of the final scenes where he raped her I could not stop thinking that I hoped this was only a story and not something an innocent child would have to experience. After watching the video about Dorothy Alison I realized it was not just a story and it does happen every day whether we acknowledge it or not, the later being what Anney did.

            After only seconds of research, thousands of articles of popped up of many stepfathers who had abused their stepchild including of one of the most famous stepdad/ daughter abuse cases in history, Woody Allen and Dylan Farrow. This case was the way I would have pictured Bone’s playing out when I think in to her future (or what it would have been if her mother had not caught Daddy Glen in the act) it was almost as if I were reading about Bone. She would have lived her life and 20 years later come out telling everyone what happened and nothing would have come of it.  Dylan wrote in a public letter "Woody Allen was never convicted of any crime. That he got away with what he did to me haunted me as I grew up” (Carter) the second I read this I could hear Bone’s voice coming through. Every day it affected her that nobody knew this secret, she was around her family every day and she was the only one who knew it had happened which fueled all the anger inside of her. “Things come apart so easily when they have been held together with lies” (Alison 248) and this is the truth in both cases. The secrets kept between these girls and their stepfathers eventually tore everybody apart; the people who looked past them felt guilt and ashamed, the mothers feeling responsible for what has happened, and worst of all the stepfathers no remorse besides their reputation ruined.

http://www.cnn.com/2014/02/01/showbiz/dylan-farrow-open-letter/

Erica Reske, Blog 2 Option 4

     As soon as I read Eleven by Susan Cisneros, I knew right away that this was the one that I wanted to blog about. I can certainly relate it to my childhood. “It has to belong to somebody, ”Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It’s maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn’t say so. (Cisneros 1)             
      Growing up,  I was the product of a failed marriage. My parents divorced when I was really young. Although my parents had joint custody, I lived mostly with my Mom, as my Dad lived in another town and was always out of town with his job. He was hardly involved and I rarely saw him. My Mom did the best she could to provide for me but sometimes had to cut costs. In turn, most of my school clothes were hand me downs from cousins and family friends who had children around my age. Whenever Mom would bring home a brown paper box, it was like Christmas. I never Knew what "new" things would be inside for me to wear. Sometimes things were too short, stretched and didn't fit just right, but that's all I had. 

I want to say it was around the third or forth grade when I started to be teased. Sometimes I was made fun of for my pants being too short or a shirt being too big and long. Kids were just plain cruel to me. I would come home and be upset from time to time. It really broke my Mom's heart that I had to deal with this, but putting food on the table was more important at that time. I didn't understand at that time.  Luckily it only lasted for a year or two, and my Mom was able to get a better job and take me school shopping where I could actually buy new things.
    Looking back, it is just really sad to know that I am not alone. Other kids are experiencing what I went through. Why are kids so cruel to one another? Why does it matter that someone has the latest trend? We should all be treated as equals. Those clothes didn't define me. I think the whole experience just made me stronger as a person and for that I am thankful.
       

Blog Option 4 - Katsigiannis

Option #4

While in high school I played varsity water polo and swam on the varsity team as well. My junior year during the spring season of water polo at a game against our biggest rival I felt the same way as the girl did in Sandra Cisneros writing, Eleven. Over the winter break my reoccurring knee injury began to act up and my doctor recommended I did therapy and didn’t push myself too hard during practices. I presented my coach, whom I have never had a good relationship with, the doctors note but continued to train. A few months later I was back to training in full force and working hard during practices to make up for any lost time.

The night of a big game I got my suit on, put my lucky number 8 cap on and sat on the bench, ready to re-leave one of the senior starters. By half time, I still had not had any playing time. I was frustrated and asked my coach to give me an explanation, he simply said, “We’ll use you when we need you…” I accepted his response and continued to cheer on my team, which was winning by 3 goals. My coach signaled to the referee that he wanted to substitute player, as I eagerly waited for him to call my name, he skipped me and instead asked a junior varsity player to jump in. I was furious. I could not understand his logic behind this. I had been to every practice, put in all the effort I could after recovering from an injury and was being a team player, WHY DIDN’T I GET TO PLAY?! Just like the girl in Eleven, everything I had been holding in was about to explode. The game ended, we won, my suit was dry, I did not get to play, and I was determined to get to the bottom of this.

After my coach critiqued the game and dismissed us, I stayed behind and confronted my coach, who was standing in front of the parent crowd. My coach stepped closer to me, leaned over me, as if he was trying to intimidate me or belittle me and said, “Hrisa, you are lazy, you probably lied about the pain in your knee so you could slack off, and when something matters to you, you decide you’re all better. I don’t need players like you on my team, fix your attitude, try harder and maybe a junior varsity beginner won’t replace you.” Not only was this humiliating, but every parent heard my coach put me down and they just stared at me with their jaws hanging and probably wondering how I wasn’t crying.

Although I could relate to the young girl in Eleven feeling humiliated, “my face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can’t stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren’t any more tears left in my eyes…”, instead of just letting things be, words came flying out of my mouth (Cisneros 2). By the time I finished, I stepped closer to my coach, puffed out my chest and told him, “I don’t need a coach like you, I quit!”