My Nature Piece ala Thoreau

There used to be a farm house three miles outside of Sac City. Driving to the north you would come upon an ess curve and breaking it in two was a gravel road, practically nonexistent, that lead to a big yellow square house. The exterior of the house needed a coat of paint badly, but the inside was perfect. It was a home inside--a warm place to hide from the adventures in the backyard. (And to collect necessary sustenance in the form of fresh baked snicker doodles.) But back to the adventures. The ugly yellow house stood on an acre of land--land that was diverse; land that offered games and challenges; land that beckoned to a young soul to come and explore. And so my brother and I did.

In the southwest corner rose a rock pile made of all the gigantic rocks--more like boulders--pulled from the surrounding corn fields.Here dangerous sword fights took place. Up and down the rock pile we went until tired one of us would "accidentally" stumble and the fight was over. The old mulberry and crab apple trees were near the northwest corner. Here monkeys lived and gymnastics was practiced. The propane tank was our trusty steed, patiently waiting in the northeast section until we were ready to play Cowboys and Indians. (The politically correct "Native Americans" had not yet been adopted at this time.) Sometimes we would chase each other-one of us sitting on the rear of the tank and the other on the front. Fingers would be pointed in the air as guns and tree branches would be drawn from sheathe. We of course knew Indians and Cowboys didn't have swords, but we made due with what we had; plus, Mother watched like a hawk through the kitchen windows and had we thrown spears the consequences would have been dire. Thus, swords it was.

On my own I would watch the leaves fall from big oak trees. I pretended they were racing. All the leaves piled together when a strong wind would blow and as if a starting pistol had been fired off the leaves would go. Barefoot or not, I would run among them.

Now I look back and am thankful to my outdoors adventures. Thy are an outdated activity. My nephews, the only children I have a regular connection with, do not go outside unless forced. The screen door does not slam. Parents do not yell about air conditioning/heating the whole of outdoors. Instead there is silence and an occasional beep. X-boxes, PSPs, Gameboy Advances, iTouches, Playstations 1, 2, and 3, Wiis. They are now where adventures occur. Gone are the stick swords and racing leaves; replacing them are Halo and Mario Cart. Fresh, crisp, clean air has evaporated; stale, Frebreeze filled air has risen in its place.

Ralph Waldo Emerson's The American Scholar

Like most people in the class, I did not really like Emerson. As his introductory biographical information points out "he presented his essays as epistemological quests of sorts." Who wants an epistemological quest that admittedly makes "enormous demands on his readers"? I was tired after just reading the introduction to Emerson. But like all good college students do (right?), I started The American Scholar. And...it was pretty good. I'm not talking about the lessons he presents as to what an American scholar is and his/her influences and his/her duties and everything else he had to say which we've all heard before. (Although, I am fond of his saying that books are noble.) I'm talking about his writing.

The writing in The American Scholar is vibrant, descriptive, alive. His verb choices are seldom, if ever, passive. One of my favorite examples of this is on p. 521. "...tyrannized over by its own unifying instinct, it goes on tying things together, diminishing anomalies, discovering roots running under ground, whereby contrary and remote things cohere, and flower out from one stem." (Italics inserted by me.) It's almost poetic.

Also, standing out to me is his dramatic, though not over-the-top, writing style. Page 522, he writes "And what is that Root? Is not that the soul of his soul?--A thought too bold--a dream too wild."

Though there are parts of Emerson that one really has to work out and think through (i.e. "Genius is always sufficiently the enemy of genius by over-influence.") Overall, his writing is inspiring. I can see now why so many people are taken by him and consider him one of the great American writers.

Introduction: What makes a country's literature?

This introduction was the most insightful to me. Most of us are familiar with the time period, at least better than the previous ones, and so the history lessons were less necessary. However, I found it important to see how American Literature came into itself. The times from 1820-1865 are so momentous in American history, and so full of conflict that it is hard to not think about it in terms of the beginning of America's existance. This may seem like a given to the majority of people, but then why was it so difficult to invent and realize such a thing as American Literature?

I think the most important part was the realization that we (America) wanted our own literature. It seems that in America, and all newly forming countries, by possessing an individual literature one possesses an individual way of expression, thinking, and life. It is a way of breaking free and truly being oneself.

By focusing on this time period, American authors were able to bring something new to the collective world literature table. But the distinctness of America's travel narratives and convent captivity novels and war stories were not enough. Why? The author of the introduction says that American literature was not created until authors looked back to the previous time periods (Puritan and Enlightenment) and claimed them to be American. And, thus, provided a "continuously unfolding of national history and literature."

I tend to agree. I think the only way a nation can have a distinct literature is for all the major authors to come together and decide that their history is indeed theirs. And then draw on the events of that history for their writings. A quote provided in the introduction stuck out to me. Literature certainly is not the most important freedom for a nation, but the recognition of a nation on an intellectual level is perhaps one of the proudest.

"The proudest freedom to which a nation can aspire, not excepting even political independence, is found in complete emancipation from literary thralldom." --Solyman Brown

Carnival Time - Enlightenment

I found that self-betterment and human sympathy/sentiment were the major themes during our Enlightenment section.

Out of the six (or seven counting Abigail Adams seperately) authors we read--Jonathan Edwards, Benjamin Franklin, John and Abigail Adams, De Crevecoeur, Olaudah Equiano, and Phillis Weatley--four stood out amoung our class.

Many of us were taken with Jonathan Edwards. Some in positive ways and others negatively. It was universally agreed that his "Personal Narrative" was insighful and gave a human element to Edwards that was not evident in "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God." Our class was split about whether "Sinners" was a good sermon or not. Some saw this harshness necessary, both then and now; others saw it as too harsh and something that would not bring non-believers to Christianity but cause them to run away. But regardless, it was agreed to be very impassioned.

Benjamin Franklin was/is an example to all of us. Most people were impressed by Franklin's determination to better not only himself but also other Americans. His influence in upstart of the library system was mentioned often as was his 13 virtues. Also brought up was Franklin's lack of churchgoing: his belief in deism instead of blindly believing in the religion of his time.

Olaudah Equiano was the third author commented on frequently. His trust of religion and the God he read in the Bible was contrasted by the religion practiced around him. In this train of thought, our class enjoyed his frankness about religion and the times he stood up to his "owners" as an example of human sympathies and reason versus religion. Perhaps another element of human sympathies was his enslavement. It was not what many of us expected. It did not highlight the extent of horrors we are used to reading about in slave narratives.

Similar to Equiano, Phillis Weatly's slave experience was not what we are familiar with. Her life was intriguing to readers. Human sympathies was protrayed heavily by Weatley's poems about the equality of blacks and whites expecially in regards to the rights granted by God. Self-betterment is obvious in Weatley's poetry and life and was pointed out frequently.

The Adamses and De Crevecoeur were infrequently mentioned. However, when they did come up the same themes of self-betterment and sentiment were held. (Though they focused more on the betterment of the country than of the self.)

The blogs were great to read. Overall, our class excellently compared and contrasted the different authors and works of writings and pointed out different enlightenment aspects. Kudos to everyone!

Phillis Weatley

The most remarkable thing to me about Phillis Weatley's poetry is Phillis Weatley. To be honest, I don't care much for her poems --except one which I'll get to--but her life is fascinating. The fact that she was a slave while being a published poetress (is that a word?) is unbelievable. I've often wondered how a person could keep another enslaved when they're aware of their feelings and beliefs and...humanity. Perhaps I still have alot to learn about slavery from a slaveholder's perspective, but the concept of slavery seems so unbelievable to me that I never have reconciled myself to it.

Anyhow, moving on. I was not aware that her slaveholders were kind people and educated her in literature and Latin and the Bible. Which brings me to my favorite poems of hers, "On Being Brought from Africa to America." This is my favorite, again, because of how fascinating a route she takes with it. Speaking of one's home country where one's mother and father live as a "pagan land" seems harsh and cold. I could not imagine Equiano speaking of his villiage like that. And mercy? I'm pretty sure that most slaves did not feel this way. But the rest of the poem is wonderful to me. A reminder to "Christians" that slaves are human beings who deserve the love of the same God as their slaveholders.

Olaudah Equiano

This narrative really pulled me in. Although just like Tasia, I fould it much milder than other slave narratives that I've read. But it was very interesting to follow him along his experience with slavery. A few of the interesting points I found (that were not mentioned in class):

On page 361, he comments how up until now-reaching the sea coast-he had found people who understood him. It then continues to speak of language, but I wonder if it's something else too. In Africa they had slaves (as Equiano's father had) and it was understood: the kidnapping (as the boys watched out for it) and the service. They were all people and viewed as such even though some were viewed more highly. In Europe and especially America, however, slaves were not viewed even as human beings sometimes. They were thought to not have the same attachment to their children as their white owners had. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but that statement seems more than just language.

Also, page 370-1, "I no longer looked upon them as spirits, but as men superior to us; and therefore I had the stronger desire to resemble them, to imbibe their spirit, and imitate their manners." This passage bothered me greatly at first. I wanted to scream that they weren't superior, just different. Then I understood a bit of colonialization. I believe it was John Smith (though I could be mistaken) who pointed out that the Native Americans were just as eager to learn from and befriend the colonists. Perhaps this is a bit of what Equiano felt. Perhaps this is also why he never returned to his home village.