In weaving Song of Solomon, Tony Morrison admits that a challenge was shifting from a female to male locus. This shift highlights an important reality for the Ruth, Pilate, Reba, and Hagar -- that they are at once victims and agents in a patriarchal society.

The passage given on page 151 shows this juxtaposition of roles. Pilate, because of poverty, is forced to attach herself to a man, Macon. She falls victim to patriarchy, embodied by Macon's "unforgiving" and "truculent" nature. Pilate is forced to find refuge in the hardness and abrasiveness that is a male-dominated society. However, at the same time, she exhibits agency by agreeing to stay with Macon. She remains because Ruth, a fellow woman, is "dying of lovelessness." Pilate listens to her sister-in-law's life story. Listening shows agency. Here lies the irony -- while supposedly falling victim to systemic, family-embedded oppression, she rebels by simply being there.

The women of Song of Solomon live in sheer desperation, not necessarily material, but undoubtedly emotional. Ruth is desperate for mere interest in her life, and she gets that "cared-for feeling" from her father (and his grave). Her middle-of-the-night journey to his gravesite (how much more morbid can you get?) shows the desperation patriarchy causes. In order to feel human, to feel like she can go on living, Ruth must attach herself to a man, her father. But in doing so, she strikes against what's expected by journeying to visit him. She is both victim and agent. Irony once again -- out of loss of humanity and emptiness, agency and action.

Hagar is similarly desperate, and she resorts to violence to fill her inner void. When Milkman doesn't return her love, she freaks out. Confronted with a cultural system that only wants to silence and dehumanize her, she acts out of the most human of emotions: love, and what's more, love turned to violence.

e-kt (It's Called Decay)

Decay as a function of imperialism on the Arizona-Mexico border. To learn more, visit http://www.nomoredeaths.org/

"'I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading up the hill. It turned aside for the boulders, and also for an undersized railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air. One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal. I came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails. To the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly.'"

- Heart of Darkness

There's a little something called decay in life. It's a nicer way to say death, yes. It means degeneration. Downward progression. Dying, more specifically, the process of dying. In Heart of Darkness, everything's decaying, morally, emotionally, and physically--yes, how could we forget the physical in such a setting-centered work? In the spirit of the novella's central motif, you could say the heart of darkness is sucking everything into its cruel ambiguity. Lofty ideals of civilizing and saving the "savages" decay into outright, thoughtless murder (exploitation). Decay defines this imperialism. As things decay, they become harder to recognize, just how Marlow doesn't know what to make of the head on Kurtz's gate. Consciousness decays--Kurtz entrances Marlow with his profit-making and philanthropic (work-the-natives-to-death) exploits. But death is everywhere. Remember, decay is what happens when things are dead.

Death is everywhere in the Vietnam War, as a process. Right at the start of Apocalypse Now, the pristine tropical forest burns in clouds of flame, completely smothered in combustion. What better example of decay? Nature (leaves, branches, twigs, dirt) turning to ash. A little chemistry now: Combustion releases energy and breaks down structured compounds into simpler, freer substances. In the same way, Captain Willard and his men, part of the hierarchical U.S. military, act in every way possible contrary that structure. They curse. They listen to soul music while on duty. They surf in the middle of an airstrike. They're human in the most pathetic, ridiculous way. Looking at the even bigger picture, the United States's supposedly noble effort to stop barbaric communism decays into barbarism itself. Paralell to this reality, stopping the "savages'" ways decays into savagery Irony, anyone?

War and violence equal decay. When matter decays, it changes shape and appearance. You really can't put your finger on it. In both Heart of Darkness and Apocalyspe Now, as the action falls (or rises) more and more downward, reality and morality de-morph. The characters don't really know what they are anymore. Close to the wreckage that Marlow observes above, he noted, "'They were dying slowly--it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now--nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom." He's talking about the worked-to-death natives. Their dying dehumanizes them, just "shadows." Decay equals dehumanization?

Here's another layer of irony--the decay in Europe's imperialist sacking of Africa and the Vietnam War comes from an overwhelming societal desire to progress, to move forward, to grow. This movement towards progress just leads to degradation, both of the oppressor and the oppressed. You see, decay is supposed to happen when you leave things alone and let them rust.

A shining steamer. Smooth metallic digging tools (for ivory) A brand-new shotgun. A glimmering American flag.

Pus. Mud. Dirt.

It's called decay.

President Iago

Othello overflows with violence. So there you go, you got your war element. Othello, if anything else, is a warrior. Desdemona, too. ("my fair warrior"). Our noblest characters are warriors, so we must rever war. That's why going to Cyprus is such a big deal. That's why the Duke of Venice and his men, representing the state, have a stake in the play. War is good.

Then comes Iago. He show us another side of war, the "game of war." He incites people to violence (Roderigo's fight on the drunken night). War, to me, equals violence, which equals killing people. What happens at the end of the play? Everyone kills each other. But . . . Othello kills Desdemona! There's the shift -- war ain't no holy religion, it's a silly, senseless brawl (game). I mean, Othello killed Desdemona! How else could this happen? The Moor was obviously not thinking straight, to say the least. He is no longer a god, but a base devil. I meant to say "toy," but I unconsciously typed "devil." What does this mean? Is Iago's game a practice in switching identities? Is it some sort of twisted role play? You know, when people smell they're being conned, they say, "What is this, a game?" They're also mad when they say it. Just a random, tangential thought.

The change of settings in Othello also bolsters Harold Goddard's argument. The "game of war [is] to be played everywhere except on the battlefield." So true. All the characters abandon comely, serene, Renaissance Venice for Cyprus, an island, far away, closer to the Turks. The Turks, of course, are inferior (they're of a different race); they're savage and barbarian (they're the enemy). The Turks are wimps and never fight because of rain. But who ends up being the savage? Drum roll please . . . Othello! Let's gouge our eyes out for his downfall, for his being played with!

But, really, what all did Iago do? He was simply deceitful. People are deceitful every day. He lied to turn people against each other, to kill each other. Come on, our own government did that. A recent study by the Center for Public Integrity and the Fund for Independence in Journalism found that the Bush administration "issued 935 false statements about the threat posed by Iraq in the two years following Sept. 11." (AJC, Jan. 27, 2008). What Iago does happens every day. Is he really that evil? Do we think our "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States" is evil? Not all of us are disgusted with our government, but all of us grimace when pondering Iago because he embodies--"carnalizes"--an idea, a feeling, a state. Evil.

But does he really? Morality is relative. Our generation-Y class will agree on that. Ms. Williams, you'll agree on that. So what morality is Goddard working off of? You see, since morality is relative and fluid, I don't automatically think of Iago as evil. Evil, to me, requires less thought than how it occurs in Othello. It's people dying senselessly. It's mangled bodies. It's citizens manipulated and controlled into submission. I don't know . . . maybe that is what Iago does. Wait, actually, that is what he does.

Now, about the moral pyromaniac. I began to describe the nature of fire for myself. It can be a good thing. Imagine a cozy fire last weekend, as the snow fell outside. Fire means warmth, peace, and security. Now think of the Rhode Island nightclub that caught fire, and the 100-something people that were killed. Fire signifies cruelty, violence, instability, a threat to life. And so is Iago, like fire. Appearing to be wise, he manipulates Othello. Appearing to care for his well-being, for his security, he coolly bludgeons him to his downfall.

Silly Oedipus, Trix Are for Kids!

Initially, class discussions about Oedipus Rex seemed out-there, too abstract, and irrelevant to real life. I love the world of ideas, but what good are ideas if they're not tied to action? What good is it to talk about the "nature of responsibility" when it really doesn't serve a purpose in real people's lives? Although these questions were going on in my head, I delighted in vexing myself (and classmates) with the spiraling story of Oedipus. The aberration of his unintentional actions didn't cease to awe me. I was so swept that I began asking my relatives, "If you were sleeping with your son/daughter, and you didn't know it, would you want to know?" My aunt raised her eyebrows in surprise. My dad squinted in confusion. I just smiled. Their reactions mirrored the complexity of Oedipus Rex, the tangling of morality and mental sanity/survival.

My dad told me a real life Oedipus story. To say I was taken aback is an understatement. It turns out that in one New York church my dad ministered, a 20-something-year-old man fell in love with a young-looking 40-something-year-old. He'd been adopted at birth and found a mate in this woman. However, as he learned more and more about her, he found out that she was his mom. The knowledge of it was too much (I'd imagine guilt, remorse, disgust, rage, confusion, to the point of his mind exploding, all lumped together), and he killed himself.

"A tragedy," I said to myself. I'd never had thought it could happen in real life. Suddenly, Oedipus Rex no longer floated out in the air like shiny philosophical tissue paper. It was now the newspaper, the tissue full of snot. What was I thinking? The parallels between literature and real life are endless. Finding them is the challenge. Literature, no matter how ancient, how distant, is born out of human beings. What are we all? Human beings. I hadn't seen it before - that dance between fate and free will happens every day, in the unlikeliest places.

The People of the Land, the Land of the People

Baboquivari Peak, holy to the Tohono O'odham

people of southern Arizona and northern Sonora, Mexico

"Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much."

- From Alan Paton's Cry, the Beloved Country

"Social justice is not a mandate to equally distribute; seen through the lens of Christianity it is an internal attitude like that of Christ's, who, being rich, makes himself poor to share his love with the poor."

- the late Archbishop Óscar Arnulfo Romero

"Ahmad from Guinea makes my falafel sandwich and says

So this is your country

Yes Amadou this my country

And these my people

Evacuated as if criminal

Rescued by neighbors

Shot by soldiers

Adamant they belong

The rest of the world can now see

What I have seen

Do not look away

The rest of the world lives here too

In America"

- From Suheir Hammad's "Of Refuge and Language"