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"