Things Fall Apart Chapter 16

When the missionaries first arrive in Mbanta Nwoye becomes mesmerized by their preaching. Nwoye, who has decided to take up the Christian life of the white men, declares to Obierika that he has disowned his father. It was previously established that Okonkwo and Nwoye have had a rather difficult relationship, but this forceful rejection seems to be a big step in the unravelling of Okonkwo's glory.

How is this rejection like Okonkwo's rejection of his own father?

Things Fall Apart Chapter 11

The story of the tortoise recounted by Ekwefi reveals that weakness is found in being selfish. In the story, Tortoise tricks the birds and places himself above the others. The birds, originally trusting Tortoise enough to appoint him as their speaker, become enraged when he devours the feast without them. Placing oneself before the community is looked down upon. In addition, the tortoise, a slow and methodical creature, is viewed as a symbol of wickedness. Perhaps then, wicked people are thought to be slow and methodical in the Ibo culture. These people pay the price, just as Tortoise does when his shell is broken.

How does this story tie into the actions of Ekwefi when Chielo, channeling Agbala, takes Ezinma?

One Day in the Life of Nate

By effort of hand, the door creaked open, ushering in the fluorescent light of the hallway. Perhaps it was time to wake up.

Nate shifted his head to the right of his flat pillow, hollowly acknowledging the deep red 6:30. Tentatively, as if still in dream, he placed each foot on the ground, only to be met with disappointment. Yes, it was real.

Stepping into the bathroom, slipping past the mirror, his pale hand would have reached for the bathtub faucet. He would have, had not the corner of a small envelope been peeking out behind the wall mirror, greeting the morning. Sneaking a look left and right, Nate tucked the envelope back inside, avoiding the reflective surface itself.

Although Nate refused to meet the mirror’s gaze, it seemed to be engaged in a deep staring contest. It glanced at the mess of deep brown hair, sitting awkwardly atop a head and then at the lips, currently molded into the slightest of frowns—what a familiar sight. It gently took notice of how the wide, permanently awe-struck eyes scurried across the room, hoping that the treasure remained hidden.

Nate, hearing his neighbor’s shower running through the thin walls, stepped into his inevitable shower.

He left the bathroom, clean and dazed, and his lanky body strolled out the lockless door into the hallway. His hair dripped the entire way to the medicine window.

“Good morning, Nate! How are you this morning? First name and last initial?”

He gave a slight nod to the first question and then added, “Nathan E.”

“Here you go.”

The disposable white container housed five pills, one for each of his problems. It was several less than he would have preferred. With one gulp, each of the capsules was dancing down his throat. He opened his mouth for inspection, moving his tongue back and forth until the nurse was decidedly pleased.

Leaving the window to the next patient, Nate sat down on the stained couch on the other side of the room. Off on a chair, Kara, a thin girl, no older than fifteen, mumbled a sleepy version of “Morning,” in his general direction and then turned over and closed her eyes. Nicole gave him a soft and somewhat sad smile, validating the fact that, yes, it was real.

Rhonda, the woman from the window, picked up her clipboard and announced, “Okay, I guess no one else is up for breakfast. Let’s go.”

She and Joe, another employee, escorted the trio down to the dining hall. There, Nate inhaled the artificial smell of morning. As with every morning, he ordered a plate of two pancakes, two scrambled eggs, three strips of bacon, a cinnamon roll, and a side of questionable hash browns. At the last minute, he grabbed a decaffeinated coffee—although he always pretended it contained caffeine—and then sat down at their designated table.

On the days that Joe worked, Nate often found it difficult to pay attention. The man was simply creepy by everyone’s standards. His face and awkward social skills placed him at a pedophile status. How the hospital had employed him for forty-odd years was beyond Nate as well as his peers.

He smiled, thinking of the numerous impressions he had come across since his arrival. Jennifer’s was by far the best. Jennifer was quite funny. She was the one who began referring to the hospital as the Asylum.

After twenty minutes of light conversation with the others, they left the cafeteria. It was usually only on the way back when Nate took notice of each locked door. There were so many. He only passed through three in order to get back to where he started.

In his room, the white-walled box that it was, he sat thinking. He often sat thinking in his room. It was almost quiet. The thin walls allowed him to hear a flurry of meltdowns and incessant giggles all day long. Right now, it was laughter. Frowning, he fell back asleep on top of his unmade bed.

The light seemed brighter when he next opened his eyes.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Joe’s low voice drawled. His eyes were alert behind his thick glasses and staring inquisitively at Nate’s head. The old man’s shaky hands carried a battered up clipboard, and his hand scribbled down a note or two.

Nate asked what he was supposed to be doing now.

Joe answered, “Well, it’s twelve o’clock, so I’m just doin’ rounds. Unfortunately, though, it would seem that you missed lunch.” In a quieter, more eager voice, he added, “If you’d like, we saved you a tray on the unit.”

“No thanks, Joe.”

“Okay, suit yourself,” Joe chimed and then closed the door.

Nate wandered toward the bathroom, feeling around for the light switch. Instead of the normal four lights that flickered on, only three chose to work this time. There was a dim shadow hovering around the area of the sink and the mirror.

His pale fingers frantically felt around for the tiny pouch, his tiny savior. Double-checking the bathroom door to be closed, Nate breathed in the contents of the contraband envelope greedily. No, he mustn’t now.

It was time for school. Nate always attended. Nate always did well. Nate, as was expected, left for school time. “School” lasted from 12:30 until 3:30. Each patient was given a list of assignments to complete and then was tutored along the way. Nate rarely needed the extra tutoring. Today, his assignment was to read and reflect on a book of poetry. Not so strangely, all he could see was rows of powder created by the caesuras.

At least it was interesting. At least in his fantasies, reality was small chuckle, only there for a moment.

While running his fingers between the breaks, a firm “Ah-hem, Nathan,” brought him back. It was time for his daily appointment with Dr. Williams. Nate rose from his seat and silently followed the squat man to his office.

Dr. Williams, lacking far too much hair for Nate’s taste, cleared his throat again. It appeared that he thoroughly enjoyed doing that. He started asking questions. Nate wasn’t entirely paying attention. Today was not the day to open up. Today was simply not the day. Nate nodded along from time to time, all the while wondering, Why am I here?

The session went a tad bit too long for the both of them. Today was not the day, again.

Nate was plopped back into his room after the session. The sun was beginning to set, finally. Just a little longer until he could reach for the envelope behind the mirror.

For the first time all day, Nate saw the entire unit of patients. All ten of them were gathered, patiently—some not so patiently—waiting for dinner. Kara was giggling with Jennifer. Nicole was sitting on the floor. The others were talking loudly. Morgan, the youngest, was screaming. Three new escorts lined the ten of them up.

At least dessert was good. The one thing the hospital offered an array of was dessert. So many pies lined the inside of the refrigerator; it felt like an odd freedom. Nate took one, as he always did, and carried on to the same assigned table as this morning.

Dinner was always far noisier than breakfast. Breakfast was for the sane few of the bunch, Kara and Nate often joked. Nate, with his strange, broken-up humor, adored dinner. It was peaceful.

Following dinner, the ten bodies were brought to the gym to work out. Unlike the majority of the patients, Nate actually did work out. He could be gone. The pain in his muscles was routine, expected even.

After the gym, the daily routine felt less routine. He was allowed outside, on a small patio. Nicole was outside in a rocking chair, thoroughly enjoying the rewards of the back-and-forth motion. Nate sat next to her.

She was staring at the stars with a small deal of pain. Her brown hair was a mess, and her lips formed a short frown. Something about the sky seemed troubling. Her voice said, “It’s strange, don’t you think? How we’re in a bubble, encased by these mocking stars.”

“Yeah.”

In a hushed tone, she continued, “I mean, it’s so silly. It’s not like being locked up here makes me safe. I’ve been hurting myself for the past few weeks. No one’s caught on as far as I know.”

Somewhat taken aback, Nate thought for a moment. He then said with bizarre levity, “Yeah, me, too. This place is definitely not foolproof.”

“It’s still so surreal. I’ve been here for eight weeks. We’re here. It just seems like a joke. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No. No, it doesn’t.”

Sensing that they were being watched, Nate changed the subject to something lighter.

The two began to gossip about the incompetent staff and probably could have continued if they had not been called back inside.

Nate went up to the medicine window, greeted by an unfamiliar nurse. She politely asked, “First name, last initial?”

“Nathan E.”

“Here you go.”

Two more pills sat in the paper cup. It would never be enough, he knew.

Inside his room, Morgan’s meltdown bled through the walls. Screeching and crying, it would never end. He could never escape. It was tiresome.

Closing the bathroom door tightly, Nate pulled his secret from behind the mirror. The lights were now all functioning, just in time for his evening ritual. He laid out the tiny, yet powerful pills he brought with him weeks ago on the counter. Grabbing two, he swallowed them dry, hoping his sleep would be nicer tonight. (He knew it wouldn’t be.) He carefully tucked the envelope back behind the mirror, being sure that it was completely hidden.

There was something indescribably hilarious about his situation.

Nate smiled as he sighed deeply into his flat, lifeless pillow. An intruding hand turned off the lights, and its owner softly announced, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, dearest Asylum” (1661).

My delightful flame-resistant suit

Nearly a year ago, I was branded with the diagnosis of Bipolar type II. The doctor had seen me a total of three times, over the course of three days, before she came to this utterly preposterous conclusion. Because of my family’s history of the illness (my mother was most likely misdiagnosed), it’s slightly understandable why she jumped to this conclusion, but it’s less forgivable because of the fact that she began a cycle of medications to treat a nonexistent disease. To say that I am spiteful about this would be an understatement.

With a few scribbled words, this (irritatingly arrogant) doctor shoved me into an ill-fitting flame-resistant suit. And when I challenged her diagnosis, I was most obviously in denial, according to her. No matter what I said—no matter what my parents said—there was no escaping this mess that she created. Even worse, another doctor, with having spoken with me once, confirmed my fate.

From October 21^st through the 28^th, I was stuck in the hospital with everyone against me. I was forced to watch propaganda-like videos on Bipolar disorder. My parents even bought into the nonsense eventually. I was frustrated. Frustrated doesn’t even begin to explain it. I felt claustrophobic, and I was told over and over that I was completely incapable of living my life “properly” because of this label.

During my brief bipolar stage, I learned how stupid doctors could be. That’s a very close-minded statement, I am aware, but it holds a significant amount of truth for me. No matter how hard I tried to disprove the diagnosis, I was always in “denial.” I couldn’t be anyone else. The majority of doctors didn’t even think that I could cope with it, this imaginary illness.

I was powerless to the various drugs I was prescribed. They manipulated my mind and my personality until the doctors were satisfied. By this point, the flame-resistant suit had become woven into my skin. There was no separating myself from the giant stamp on my forehead that read “BIPOLAR.”

There was no hope to “recover.” I was branded for life, according to many, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it except take various medications, all of which happened to screw my life up even more.

Never before have I felt so helpless.

There was no break. I couldn’t escape who they said I was. The “professionals” who talked to me were strange. They don’t know how to talk to people. They barked about how I am stupid for rejecting their ideas. They created this bizarre concept of the “disease” controlling my actions, yet when my actions were “bad,” I was at fault.

I had to live with this, occasionally believing it, until this past April when it was confirmed that I am most certainly not bipolar. I could probably ruin the reputation of several doctors in the Phoenix area by now, particularly the one who started it all.

But I won’t. I don’t know why, but I refuse to do that.

Things have changed, now. We thankfully found a way to dispose of the suit. (Turns out that scissors work quite nicely.)

It's over now, and I can breathe—at least occasionally (532).

Why title it Antigone?

While reading Sophocles’ play Antigone, the question that repeatedly popped into my head was, “Why would he title the play Antigone?” As a character, Antigone really irritates me. She appears as arrogant and self-righteous, putting down her sister and everyone else for having differing opinions. To be quite honest, her character reminds me of some of the religious extremists I have met. At any given moment, it was possible to find myself stuck in a one-sided conversation about how Jesus will save me. Even telling them that I am a devout Jew, which is completely untrue, but sometimes handy, failed to stop the nonsense. In short, Antigone is not my favorite character.

Why title the play after her? To me, it just seems like a whiny reminder that she was there at the beginning, but perhaps Sophocles is trying to convey his idea of tragedy. As stated in the introduction in the World Literature book, Antigone is considered to be the Sophoclean tragic hero. She represents the value of the individual as opposed to the state. The downfall of the individual could be the true tragedy through Sophocles’ eyes.

She basically has everything right, saying that Creon is wrong in forbidding Polynices’ body to be buried. Her beliefs of what is right come back to haunt Creon. Perhaps it is a simple nudge to question authority, to stick with true morality, but how can one know which morality is moral? To the Greeks, it was through looking to the gods, but, even still, there is a lack of true knowledge through personal interpretation.

Flaws, such as pride, can further complicate this personal interpretation. Creon’s major character flaw, without doubt, is his pride, which prevents him from seeing reality properly. These personal traits skew our perspectives of the world, set us aside from the Greek gods.

Maybe Antigone’s fanatic beliefs are just a way to represent the individual to the general public. Through using a concept that most would understand and relate to, the play holds more meaning. The strange part, though, is that Antigone displays a significant amount of pride as well. That seems to be the one notion that I cannot seem to wrap my head around. She stands up for what is right in an obnoxious manner and gets to hold the title of the play. In making her name the title, it is suggested that pride is something that everyone is susceptible to, even when paired with devout beliefs. All humans have flaws, or something to that effect (423).

Ten Books

I have compiled a list of the top ten books that have created the largest impact in my life thus far. I will attempt to keep my explanations of each relatively short, so as to comply with the instructions of the assignment, but, just for the record, it should be known that I could easily (and quite surprisingly) willingly babble on for pages about each book. Keeping that in mind, I present (with great flourish, of course) a list of some of my dearest memories.

1. If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura Joffe Numeroff and illustrated by Felicia Bond

The story is adorable, without a doubt. It was my favorite book growing up.

2. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl

In fourth grade, upon finishing a chapter of this book, my class would indulge in rich chocolate surprises, which I later came to realize was a form of bribery.

3. The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo

On numerous occasions, I have sworn to burn this book in a dramatic bonfire. I put it on the list because of the emotion, albeit that of detestation, it evokes in me.

4. The Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling

So, I sort of cheated by plopping a total of seven books into one slot, but regardless, the series taught how to read until dawn.

5. Anthem by Ayn Rand

I have read through this several times, seeing as it is such a quick read, but the most impressionable time was the first read, during eighth grade. I was to keep a journal of my thoughts for every chapter, and every once in awhile, I will flip back through it and add extra comments.

6. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

This is one of my favorite "thinking about the world" books. Almost every single page has some scribble or another on it, dating all the way back to ninth grade when I first opened it.

7. Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger

These were the first short stories that held meaning for me. "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" remains my absolute favorite short story for its subtlety.

8. Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl

When I first read this, I was in a dark place, to say the least. Frankl's story has been revisited frequently in my mind as I have gathered far too much information about psychology in the past two years.

9. Possible Side Effects by Augusten Burroughs

I have read all of Augusten Burroughs' books, save two, and of the lot of them, this is my favorite. After reading this book I began to search specifically for short stories.

10. I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley

Out of everything on this list, this is the most recent book of my choosing. I was in a rather dim place when I first came across it, and I am SO glad that I bought it and was able to indulge in the absolute hilarity that came neatly tucked inside, able to momentarily forget the world around me.

So, ta-da!

Delving into The Lovely Bones

It is certainly not an everyday occurrence that I come upon a book that holds my attention in tight suspense throughout the entirety of its pages. I actually became increasingly excited as the hours passed, waiting to write this blog. The word that kept popping into my mind was “ethereal.” I adored the way that Sebold’s writing style kept me adrift, as if I were floating beside the main character. But, as the reading continued, I became increasingly dissatisfied as the text adopted a distinct disjointedness, assuming the role of a faded memory.

The concept of the novel, the idea of following the life after murder seemed somewhat unconventional, though I am sure that it has been done before. It is a departure from the CSI’s and Law and Order’s, creating a surreal, yet emotional scene. Certain moments, passing words, clung to me, begging to be explored. The idea, the family behind the grief stung me. For the first fifty or so pages, I am fairly certain that approximately every two pages or so I shed a handful of tears. The children fit into my family, in terms of birth order, and so it became a very personal series of what-if’s. My mind reeled, and, somewhat embarrassingly, I was unable to continue reading this novel while in public.

About seventy-five pages through I began to dog-ear pages. Something about the innocence of Susie, coupled with a laziness only defined by summer, told me not take notes in the book. Around page one hundred and thirty, I began to observe as the characters complicated, my primary focus being on Mr. Harvey. I still find it difficult to imagine the murdered having a bit of soft compassion for the murderer. Susie’s ability to recognize and validate her murderer’s actions as somewhat helpless is equally astounding and puzzling. The strangest part, though, was when I began searching for the passages only involving George Harvey, eager to read into the mind of a murderer.

As I stated earlier, as the pages grew in number, I felt as if I were becoming detached from the characters, and, well, I didn’t like it. I wanted to know more. I still want to know more. I wanted, just like Susie, I suppose, to follow them through and live and breathe their lives. As the years became more and more vague, more and more sparse, I felt a bittersweet tug in my gut. I yearned for everything to come full circle, but instead, it became farther away, less tangible.

Although the text was distant as the ending neared, the last line absolutely pierced through me, completely out of place.

“I wish you a long and happy life” (328).

No! That last sentence angers me beyond belief. It bothers me to no end. I still cannot place quite what is amiss. Perhaps it’s the “La la la, everything’s lovely! The end,” feel to the line. That line haunts me, almost, just as the story sends shivers up my spine. Why?

Of one thing I am sure, Alice Sebold’s other novels are going to be placed on my reading list (520).