In the daytime, we bask in the sun, but the rays are harsh in this swampy corner of the river. It rubs our skin red and raw, but in two days’ time, the desirable brown will develop like a roll of film, and the water is murky and warm as we braid thread, waiting for midday to slip away. There are trees on the riverbank and just where the water kisses the sand, but they haven’t had leaves for a long time. Dusk sneaks up on us, wrapping our boat in swathes of blue and orange. I’m chewing on my fingers while Dad splashes the birds and laughs, but I’m not laughing. The water looks smooth and silky; we aren’t fooled, we know the shadows conceal a patient crocodile lurking below the surface. And so, as we leave behind this small rocky island with murky water and dead trees and crocodiles, I can’t help but look back at its shrinking outline on the horizon like it’s a mirror.
Confinement and Redress in Native Son
Bigger’s acts of aggression can’t be redressed by prison time, because they are ultimately a symptom of confinement. Throughout the novel Native Son, by Richard Wright, the protagonist Bigger suffers from excessive pressure from external influences. These external pressures are initially proposed as vague, fleeting senses of awareness of a truth so large it seems inaccessible to Bigger for the majority of the novel. The reader eventually comes to understand that this truth of his inevitable confinement is, in part, embedded in Bigger’s interactions with white people and the white world. This tension becomes a form of confinement, and becomes responsible for his aggressive choices, which fails to redress under the further confinement of prison time.
The tension between Bigger, and the white world is addressed directly throughout his first meeting with Mr. Dalton. The narrator describes Bigger being hyper aware of “every inch of skin on his black body” (Wright, 46), and seeming to forget how to be comfortable. Bigger’s discomfort around Mary, who is first introduced in this same scene, eventually comes to embody the tension between Bigger and the white world. This dynamic remains tenuous for the entirety of the novel. Mary comes to represent, beyond Bigger’s relationship with the white world, the place that has been found for him in it, or a place he will inevitably end up. The pervasive stereotype of a black man raping a white woman becomes a low hanging cloud, casting a shadow over any hope Bigger can have of escaping the inevitable. A black man raping a white woman is treated as an eventuality, rather than a possibility. Bigger is keenly aware of this, throughout and after his interactions with Mary. While Bigger carries a drunken Mary out of her car, his internal narration is largely composed of stress that someone will see them, and assume that he has raped her. “Suppose old man Dalton saw him now?” is a seemingly casual statement,but is his first thought as he touches Mary. The instantaneous reaction of assuming the worst case scenario represents how Bigger views his own relationship with the white world. He possesses an awareness, unbeknownst to him, that he cannot escape playing out the stereotype. This awareness is a core part of the internal confinement Bigger experiences.
Further emphasizing Bigger’s relationship with the white world, and the pressure he feels, is Mary’s accidental murder. Bigger places the pillow over her face in an attempt to silence her, for fear that Mrs. Dalton may discover him in her room and assume he has raped her. This ironically kills her, leaving Bigger in the same position he has feared, having assaulted a white woman. Accidentally fulfilling the stereotype that governs his life, and had attempted to avoid at all costs, Bigger feels a momentary sense of relief, having “shed an invisible burden he had long carried” (114). Bigger feels this sense of relief, having trespassed on an invisible boundary that has always been tenuously inaccessible, but present nonetheless.
Prison time, being presented as the logical option of punitive justice to serve as the consequences of Bigger’s actions, is fundamentally incompatible as a form of redress with what the reader has come to understand as the true problem. Bigger, in his murder of Mary, acted out of fear dictated by the inescapable reality of his confinement. Leaving Mary to potentially make noise and reveal his presence in her room would have the same eventual consequence of her murder. One could even argue that Bigger going to prison was completely inevitable. However, his actions were a symptom of confinement, him attempting to live within the invisible boundaries drawn around him. Further confinement, evolving psychological confinement to literal confinement by means of prison time provides no substantial redress, but merely perpetuates the circumstances that contribute to this cyclical passage.
Religious and Punitive Parallels in The Color Purple
The role of religion in The Color Purple (1982) is a means of subconsciously maintaining
the hold of carceral logic on characters. The Colour Purple, a novel by Alice Walker tells the story of an African American girl named Celie living in rural Georgia early 1800’s. The novel, told in epistolary format, details the abuse and lifelong impacts of pain inflicted on her by others. Celie initially writes letters addressed to God that detail the events happening around her, and include her own analytical progression. As she reconnects with her sister Nettie, the story is told through alternating letters to one another.
Celie’s letters, which narrate the majority of the novel, are primarily addressed to God. In her introductory letter, Celie attempts to include adequate context about both herself and her circumstances. She begins by writing that she is “a good girl” (Walker, 1), before using a strikethrough to amend the statement, and replace it by saying that she has “always been a good girl” (1). The primary difference between the two statements most notably being the divide between past and present tense. The reader understands that there has been an interruption in Celie’s narrative of being a self proclaimed “good girl”. The adjective itself, good, is heavily infused with dichotomous implication. Celie, not being a good girl anymore by her own definition, implicates her as a bad girl. Both terms are devoid of specificity, yet feature heavily in
discourse surrounding carceral and punitive logic. The idea of an ambiguous dichotomy within which ones perceived morality is tarnished indefinitely is strikingly reminiscent to the framework Celie uses to narrate her own experience.
In a later letter, Celie intentionally gives advice to Harpo that will harm Sofia, another black woman who has married into the same household. Later, as she struggles to fall asleep later that night, Celie recognizes feelings of guilt and shame over her actions. In her letter to God, she explains her unease by using religious language and ideas, explaining that “a little voice say, Something you done wrong” (38). The idea of guilt manifesting, or presenting itself through a voice in someone’s internal monologue is not a new one, and in media is used to represent a fragment of one’s personality that is in tune with what is, by their own definition, the moral course of action. A voice in one’s internal monologue or narrative is reliably used as a vehicle to express guilt, and the desire for redress. Celie explains to God that she “sin against Sofia spirit” (38). Walker’s use of the word sin is heavily charged with religious implication, especially given the context of moral transgression. Through Celie’s own framework of reconciling with her actions, she is unable or unwilling to address the nuance, or circumstances that pushed her to act initially. The concept of isolating actions, or placing them in a vacuum, largely resembles carceral ideals. Further, Celie believes to have “sin against Sofia spirit” (38). The use of word spirit implies that her perceived transgression transcends the physical realm, and is too large a concept to be contained within the confines of tangible reality. Celie’s actions, in her own perception, are put up for divine judgment and examination, also mirroring punitive and legal procedures.
As Celie begins to question her religious philosophies, her own internal narrative shifts away from dichotomous notions influenced by carceral logic. As she begins to understand God as a concept beyond that of a divine arbiter, the reader becomes aware of carceral concepts beginning to unravel. Celie eventually begins to address her letters to her sister, Nettie. The primary significance of this transition is that Nettie, and Celie’s love for her, takes precedence over writing to God. Celie chooses to refocus and channel her energy into a loving connection, rather than prioritizing a patriarchal deity. This shift is accompanied by Celie’s own revaluation of what it means to be religious, or to engage with a higher power. She openly questions “What God do for me?” (191). Celie openly demanding action from God, or some form of compensation contradicts her earlier letters of asking for forgiveness and clarity. Celie asks for indication and reciprocity from God, without reverting to her previous framework for analysing her own actions. Celie doesn’t acknowledge her own past actions or morality, as she did in prior letters, but rather treats morality as independent of her right to receive. This is a hugely significant opposition to the entire basis of punitive logic, and the exclusion of this notion in her critical analysis is a tangible culmination of this shift in her mentality.
This significant shift is partially facilitated by Albert (Mr. ___)’s redemption arc. Albert, who initially debuted as an abusive husband arranged for Celie, eventually comes to terms with the harm he has caused her, and seeks redemption. Albert’s redemption underscores the notion of redress, which is largely treated as impossible or illogical under the current carceral system. Celie’s choice to reconcile with Albert contradicts her initial analysis of morality. In failing to apply her inaugural philosophy wherein morality is linear, and can be interrupted, to Albert, the reverses the hold of punitive logic largely absorbed by her religious background. Furthermore,
her reconciliation with Albert comes at no personal tariff, which is another blatant contradiction to redress as portrayed by the carceral system. Both Celie and Albert grow, and heal, whilst circumventing punitive action.
Throughout the novel, Celie’s spiritual transformation impacts her framework for assessing and understanding the harm that has been caused to her, and allows her to escape carceral logic and find healing. Celie is able to shed the notions of punitive and carceral justice, once she redirects and analyses her understanding of religion. In becoming critically aware of religious shortcomings, Celie can refocus her life and pursue meaningful redress.
love of my life
love of my life
i will abandon you not
a harsh mistress
but mine nonetheless
a life of bleeding paper
all the extremities of the heart
to your madness i commit myself
i bear your mark proudly
at your service
to you i present my blood and my flesh
sever my soul from my body if you wish
keep them, for they are both yours anyway
you are my eternal present
and the greatest gift
one cannot fight destiny, i see that now
i am yours truly
i was foolish to ever think otherwise
A Dying Garden
It’s crazy how the garden hardly looks beautiful anymore. I let the grass grow out, convinced length was the missing piece. Yes, that’s what I thought, that the short grass just wasn’t right. The azaleas are blue now. I’ve always admired them from afar, and now they grow in my garden, beautiful but out of place. They don’t look so beautiful in my garden. I’m certainly not a careful gardener, but I did try my best. Maybe it’s because the fence is pale, weather beaten from hurricane season. Another coating of lacquer on that damned fence may serve the entire garden well. But even that promised coat of lacquer can’t fix the trees that bear no fruit. The juicy, and bright oranges I dreamed about are entirely imaginary. I’ve always yearned for tall trees, with thick foliage to host the birds that sing so sweetly in the morning. There are no birds singing in my garden, though. If they are there, they’re silent.
I remember the tingly, fizzy excitement when I first started working on the garden. An earthen crop of my very own, with fruit trees and flourishing flowers. My heart’s deepest desire has always been to nurture. And yet, as I look into the mirror, the woman who stares back at me is as pale and weatherbeaten as the fence. She does not sing sweetly, like the birds that are everywhere but in her garden. She bears no fruit. The woman who stares back at me is as ugly as her dying garden.
As the lights dim
Inspiration, however mundane, sweeps you off your feet. Today, I’m inspired by the emptiness inside. It almost catches me off guard at times. I’ve just graduated high school, and where I should be feeling excitement, relief, and pride, I feel dread and regret. I desperately wish to wake up to any day prior to that fated graduation. All of the people who were so readily available have seemingly vanished into thin air. I can’t even remember where they went, maybe they’re all on summer vacation somewhere? There’s something so romantic about being a high school senior, about the late nights in fields, the house parties. Cosplaying adulthood, wearing it as a costume one can take off any time. The drivers licenses, liquor and cigarettes, are all a convincing facade. But we get to come home at the end of the night and peel it all off. The delusion only makes the romance feel that much more compelling. High on adventuring, we declare we are eternal. We will stay in touch, we will overcome everything. We will still be in our twenties and thirties, drunk on pool tables and slow dancing in the rain. We are only beautiful because it is ending, we have never looked lovelier to each other because we are doomed. It’s a truth too heavy even for those summer nights to shoulder.
I’m scared of it. The chill, deep in my bones, alludes to a truth even heavier. The worst is yet to come. There is no happily ever after. I remain exactly what I am; a fragment. There is no other place for me. I was made for high school, the costumes and the acting. The morbid romance of things dying, all of that doomed loveiness. I am still damned, but this horror is far less amorous. Living an empty life as the world moves on without you, is the full extent of this heavy truth. The show is over, I’ve been stripped of my costume, and will now sit on the curb outside the theatre forever.
A River of Lilies
Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a magician. Despite being able to create anything he could ever dream of, he was fascinated with the inner workings, the clockwork of nature. What truly made the days pass as they did. The only things his magic couldn’t touch. One day, he decided he would walk to the horizon and ask a question. Standing there, at an edge overlooking infinite vastness, he called out. A gentle gust of wind caressed his cheek, as the sun started to set. He was so preoccupied with his questions, of which there were millions, that he didn’t notice dusk had taken over the sky. He watched the inky darkness as he contemplated his questions, making a vow he would walk to the horizon every day until he found an answer. And so, that’s what he did. As he looked over from his edge once again, he realized this thousandth evening was different from the nine hundred and ninety nine that had come before. Ever so slowly, he had forgotten his question. As he gazed outward, he knew that he was in love with the night sky, the inky soup that stretched out before him. Maybe, just maybe, he dared to hope the night sky was in love with him too. The magician set to work the following morning, in the secrecy of daylight, on the most grand declaration of love. He spent many moons working in daylight, and visiting the horizon at night, until it was finally ready. On his last night at the horizon, he summoned an enchanted water lily. It glowed softly, radiating gentle warmth. He tossed it over the edge, where it remained suspended in mid dair. From dusk to midnight, he summoned enchanted lilies, suspending them in the vastness before him. Finally, as the last lily apeared, he shouted to the night sky “I love you”. The river of enchanted lilies floated upward, higher and higher until they settled at the very cusp of the heavens. A gentle breeze rushed by, delivering a soft whisper.
“I love you”
The next evening, and every evening that ever followed, the magician couldn’t remember the way to the horizon. Every night when he looked up to the sky, he was condemned to watching his river of floating lilies a million miles away.
The Ambulance In The Parking Lot
I was lying in bed. It seemed to be another night where I couldn’t risk falling asleep. Even now, I couldn’t tell you why. I’d like to believe that maybe my story is more than just a fold in the infinite vastness, and that somehow it began with a warning from the universe itself. We’ll never know. Maybe the desire for being less than an insignificant water droplet, in the endless ocean, is what prompted me to pick up my phone that fateful night. I typed out the words exactly as they appeared in my head.
“Maybe we can talk tomorrow at lunch? I feel like things have just been a little off recently and if I’ve done something I’m sorry.”
The lull of the frogs outside put me asleep, all forgotten. One could even call it a metaphor, the last peaceful night of my life ended as the frogs sang their lullaby and put me to sleep. Even I, in my infinite skepticism, could not have predicted how things would unfold. At mid morning break I sat outside. The chairs were hard plastic, uncomfortable. I don’t take myself for a masochist, but I don’t see any other explanation for my perpetual insistence that we had to eat lunch there every day. But this time, I was alone. She was always flaky, never quite present. I don’t give her a name here, because she doesn’t need one. But, just know, at the time her behaviour seemed normal. I couldn’t have known something was wrong. My memory betrays me as I try to recall the details, but eventually she materialized. Maybe she was standing by the stairwells, maybe she just appeared in front of me. But she was there. Something was, is still, undeniably wrong. Gnawing on her fingernails, she looked at the floor.
“I have something to tell you,”
“You can tell me anything,”
“I’m moving,”
I was naive enough to think this was the extent of the news I was about to receive. The childish hopefulness that maybe my suspicions were entirely paranoia. Though paranoia they have never been.
“Also, another thing. I took my pills. All of them. I’m going to die,”
Even now, I can still feel the same chill in my bones. I wish I had more details of the event that ruined every day to ever come after it, but unfortunately I’m left only with the snapshots. I remember the ambulance, in the parking lot at school. It’s a jarring, invasive scene. I remember watching it, holding back tears. The parking lot has a hill next to it, where we used to sit all the time. I remember the red flashing lights projecting onto it, the hill signalling to everyone that life as we had understood it was interrupted indefinitely. Though the ambulance eventually did leave and the lights stopped flashing and the grass was green again, that day is on replay behind my eyelids. The parking lot, if you could see it now, looks the same. But I remember. I never saw her again, and so the story resolves itself. But I remember still. That one fateful day, the last time I was allowed to be a child. It was the last time I was allowed to forget, or be forgiven. I carry the adult consequences of actions that weren’t mine. In the span of hours, childhood ended, and whatever came after it began.
A Dream Shard
My dreams unfailingly show the surprising intersection of my most human desires,
it’s not uncommon.
A little game, between my subconscious and I.
Every night desire takes centre stage, but slips away before the moon meets the horizon.
My dream yesterday though, couldn’t have been clearer.
It was your face in the most exquisitely exceptional detail.
Every tiny scratch etched in your face, every likeness captured so perfectly.
It seems there’s no cheating the game of desires.
I pretend dreams are the stuff of freudian worship, and yet, somehow they catch up still.
My Corpse Garden
i can’t escape the corpse garden. there is no exit, it’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. its reality as much as it is fantasy, with equal parts traumatic hallucination. the severed heads bear a striking resemblance to fan palms, the gnarled fingers almost like twigs, grasping for anything that moves. it stinks of rotting flesh, of guilt, remorse. the smell permeates other areas better, like invisible pockets of angry air. every breath reminds me of what has been, and what could have, and what will be. the corpse garden is sometimes in my bedroom, when i open the door too quickly, or turn off the lights. the corpse garden exists in between, in the moments of silence when the reality of what i’ve done finally catches up. the corpse garden is tattooed on the back of my eyelids, reminding me every time i close my eyes. it’s everywhere, stitched on the underside of every loud noise, every silent moment. it lurks under my bed, waiting. how i’m ever supposed to sleep when i know what’s bubbling underneath, i’ll never know. it leaves imprints on my body, deep scratches, reminding me my severed limbs will one day decorate the garden, just like the others.
Literary Musings 