Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Sample 10, Glaspell: Feminism in Literature


Glaspell and American Feminism
            In the history of America, women have not always enjoyed freedoms afforded to the male gender. Women were meant to get married, have children, raise those children, keep the house, keep quiet, and serve their husbands. They could not vote, and the majority of them did not work outside of the home. Many people would say the life of the man was much easier; they went to work to make money to support their family. They voted, and there was nothing wrong with them discussing the state of the nation. There is a study that was issued in the Journal of Marriage and Family, which states there are two types of marriages, hers and his, and that marriage is healthier and happier for him, than for her. According the Judith Stevens, “Rosemarie Bank has demonstrated how female characters often play an active and crucial role in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century melodramas, challenging the popular stereotype of the passive, helpless, melodramatic heroine” (Stevens, 1989 p. 46). Susan Glaspell certainly portrays the stereotypical early twentieth century female in her characters, Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Hale. However, I see the challenge of this feministic attitude in the character of Ms. Wright. The inequality of women compared to men is portrayed through the discussions between the characters. The male characters are condescending to the women, and the women are quiet and subdued. The protagonist, Ms. Minnie Wright, is never seen in the play, but her life is told through the words and actions of the other ladies in the play. The ladies examine the “trifles” of Ms. Wright's, and reminisce about their own lives, as well as speculate on Ms. Wright's life. Through the “trifles" of life, Glaspell dramatizes feministic  loneliness, oppression, and patriarchal dominance that were so common in twentieth century America, and a sense of freedom from the oppression that became the norm in American society.  
            Susan Glaspell wrote her play Trifles during a time when women were starting to question their roles in society, marriage, and home. During that time,the life of a woman - who was isolated on a farm - in twentieth century America had to be very lonely. For Ms. Wright, it had to be even lonelier because her husband was gone to work, she had no children, and she lived at least a mile or two away from her closest neighbors. In the nineteen hundreds, it was not uncommon for farmers to live so far away from each other, since so much land was needed in order to plant, grow, and harvest their crops. It was also common that months would go by without a visitor, especially during harvesting and canning season. The women's job was to prepare everything for the winter. That meant canning, knitting, cooking, and cleaning. Since everyone would be busy on their own farm, their would be little time for visiting, especially if their were no children. In Trifles, we are made aware of Minnie's loneliness through the conversation between the ladies. Ms. Hale regrets not visiting the Wright home enough, Mrs. Peters notices the canning, the knitting, and the quietness of the house.
            Not only was it a lonely existence, but it was a subordinate position, that Mrs. Wright found herself in. Through the eyes of Mrs. Hale, the reader learns that Mrs. Wright used to be a singer, pretty, and happy. Then, she got married and she was no longer seen in town singing. She no longer were pretty things or worried about her appearance. The few times Mrs. Hale visited her, the Wright's home was not cheerful. Also, Mrs. Hale comments about how Minnie Wright did not even join the “Ladies Aid” because she supposed “she felt she could not do her part” (Glaspell, p 1714). Mrs. Hale even seems to relate her subordinate position, as she agrees with the guys that she is “takin' up our time with little things while we're waiting for them...” (Glaspell, p 1715).
            According to Carpentier of Hofstra University, Glaspell uses some of the same themes in her writing, such as “woman's problematic relationship to community, the conflict between her desire for autonomy and individuality, and her need for inclusion in a community of family that refuses to allow her those qualities” (Carpentier, 19914 p. 97). Not only does loneliness play a critical part in this conflict, but so does oppression. Within, Trifles Minnie Wright keeps house, knits, and keeps an isolated life to please her husband. There does not seem to be any indication of her need for “inclusion into the community”, but it does appear she is fighting to separate herself from the oppression of a childless, lonely marriage. We know her marriage is not a happy one because Mrs. Hale says the Wright home was not a comfortable place to be when Mr. Wright was home (Glaspell, p 1716). It leads one to wonder if Mr. Wright discouraged visitors to his home, thereby isolating his wife as a control mechanism. We also can empathize with Mrs. Wright's oppression through the image of the crooked stitches on Minnie's quilting. The ladies wonder at what could have caused Minnie to be “nervous” enough to make such crooked stitches (Glaspell, p 1716). There are many instances noted in the play of oppression, however only the women see it.
            The most obvious comment that echoes the feminist plight is the one made by Mrs. Hale, “I should have known she needed help! I know how things can be - for women...We live so close together and we live far apart. We all go through the same things – it's all just a different kind of the same thing” (Glaspell, p 1718). It is as if Mrs. Hale is referring to the state of oppression and loneliness all women feel, yet never do anything about. They just keep going through life, “worrying over their trifles”, and appeasing their men folk. However, Mrs. Wright ends up doing something about her plight, or so it is assumed. The attitude of the men is much more subtle, when Mr. Hale states, “Well women are used to worrying over trifles” (Glaspell, p 1713). He seems to imply that everything that concerns a women is much less important that the concerns of men.
            The men seem oblivious to it all. They chide the women for their preoccupation with “trifles”. To the masculine person, objects for knitting, sewing, cooking, canning, and the like are merely unimportant. In a patriarchal society, where most popular works of fiction were written by men, about men and their problems, Glaspell was a literary pioneer, who wrote a play about the plight of a woman, with more attention given to the roles of the female characters. Glaspell portrays the men as authoritative, but blind individuals, who demean their wives and Ms. Wright. The men have a one track mind. They are intent on finding a reason for Mrs. Wright's action, but can see nothing important in kitchenware, knitting, or a broken bird cage; they ultimately can not see the motive they are looking for. The women seem to find power in their quiet. They keep quiet as an affront to their husbands, and as a bond of camaraderie with Minnie Wright, another female in trouble.  How ironic that the men are condescending of the women for the preoccupation with “trifles”, but yet the women are the ones who actually find what the men are looking for.
            The discovery of evidence or lack of discovery symbolizes the differences between men and women. Within the play, the women infer meaning in every seemingly unimportant item they collect, observe and touch, while the men only look for facts, tangible and visible evidence. This shows a stereotypical feminist attitude that women are emotional, romantic people, but men are fact motivated, linear individuals who have to go by the book and step by step. According to Suzy Holstein of the Midwest Quarterly, the men and women are set apart by how they see the farmhouse. The men see a crime scene, while the women see a “home” (Holstein, 2003, p 283).  Furthermore, we also receive a different attitude on the idea of a good man versus that of a good woman, through the words of the characters in the play. For the women characters, men are “good” by societies standards when they do not drink, keep their word, and pay their debts, on the other hand; according to the men, women are “good” by societies standards if they keep a clean house, such as “some Dickson county farmhouses” (Glaspell, p 1713).
            Loneliness, male dominance, female oppression, and literature make a good match is Susan Glaspell's Trifles. Through history authors have portrayed women as the matriarch of the family, the subordinate to the men. They are to be quiet, take care of their family's needs before their own, serve their husbands, and stay out of men's affairs. What did women know about, besides housekeeping and children-raising? Those are the stereotypes that the feminist movement tried to debunct. Although Susan Glaspell's play came long before the feminist movement, it describes this stereotypical attitude towards women. Glaspell does not put on display a woman who has overcome the role of  a passive, helpless female. She dramatizes the inequality between men and women through their discussions and draws attention to the “trifles” of life, and how important they really are in the whole scheme of things. Although, we do not see Mrs. Minnie Wright at all in the play, we learn to empathize with her when it is thought that her husband has killed something she loves. She seems to break out of her cage of oppression, in the same way the bird has been torn from its cage. As we follow along in the play, we discover what originally looks unimportant, becomes very important in solving the whys of this alleged crime. So, after reading about the loneliness, oppression and patriarchal dominance in Minnie Wright's and Mrs Hale's lives we can understand more of what the early twentieth century women experienced and overcame.          


















 









References:
Ben-Zvi, L. (May 1992). “Murder, She Wrote”: The Genesis of Susan Glaspell's “Trifles”.             Theatre Journal. 44(2), 141-162. Retrieved from JSTOR on August 2010.
Blaisure, K.B., Allen, K. R. Feb, 1995. Feminists and the Ideology and Practice of Marital            Equality. Journal of Marriage and Family. 57 (1), 5-19. retrieved from             http://www.jstor.org/stable/353812
Brown, K. M. (April 1993). Brave New Worlds: Women's and Gender History. The William and  Mary Quarterly, Third Series. 50(2). Retrieved from JSTOR on August 2010.
Glaspell, S. (1916). Trifles. In McMichael & J. S. Leonard (2011). Concise Anthology of     American Literature (7th ed.) (pp. 1852-1863). Boston: Pearson Education.
Holstein, S. C. (Spring 2003). Silent justice in a different key: Glaspell's Trifles. The Midwest        Quarterly. 44(3). retrieved from JSTOR on August 2010.

Sample 9, Creative Writing Class


Changed For Life
            The scream still reverberates in my memory, and my wrists still feel the burn. Santa was coming, so we must get ready for bed! My belly was full of cake, cookies, and hot chocolate; and my ears still rang with the melodies of Christmas carols and the laughter of family and friends.  I was dressed in my red nightgown, my arms were tied behind my back (which is how we always slept due to creeping through the house through the night), and I was lying on the hard, brown furry lined floor with my ear pressed to the floor so hard as if I would become one with the floor. I just had to hear what was going on downstairs, since I had been ushered off to bed in preparation for Santa’s trip down our chimney. My bed was a Holly Hobby blanket and a pillow on the floor between Moma’s bed and the wall underneath a window facing the street where I could view the chipped paint and smell the odor of age that clung to this house. I was ten years old and knew full well that a fictitious Santa was not coming down our chimney. Daddy was Santa, and I knew it. But, Daddy would not play Santa this particular night, or any night after.
The sirens and lights lit up the night with a wail to echo the original scream. With my hands still behind my back, and my brother now kneeling beside me; I watched as the gurney entered our house. As we watched from our window, the neighbors stood in their red glowing yards and watched. It seemed like hours passed before the men with the gurney carried my Daddy from the house on that gurney. Moma raced behind them and climbed into the truck with Daddy and the men. One man walked around to the front of the truck and the truck rushed down the road. Instead of a sleigh led by a red-nosed reindeer bringing a fat, jolly man with gifts, a carriage took away my fat, jolly man sirens screaming in the night led by a red flashing beacon. It screamed, “Merry Christmas, you silly girl – Remember me”! We watched as the neighbors disappeared into their homes, and then our sister came to untie us and explain that scream to us! The scream had been one word, “Moma!”, and had been filled with fear – the kind of fear you would expect if someone had fallen and hurt themselves. It is the kind of scream you never can forget. It is the kind of scream that changes the landscape of your life within a blink of a second. It is the kind of scream remembered in your dreams and reminds you of all you’ve lost. Somewhere between midnight and dawn I must have dosed off and walked in my sleep. Or the night just became a blur in the mind of a ten year old, because the next thing I remember is waking up at Grandmoma’s house the next morning without my hands tied and sleeping in an actual bed. My life changed drastically on that Christmas Eve, and it was not because of something I got for Christmas, but something I lost that Christmas.
            As I recall, Christmas continued as usual with some obvious differences: Daddy was not there, gifts were opened at Granddad and Grandmoma’s house (who did not have a chimney), and Moma’s eyes and face resembled the lights of the ambulance for many days and weeks to follow. The turkey and dressing did not look different, and the cinnamon of the pumpkin pie still permeated the house, but people forgot to laugh. I was ten, and did not fully understand that my Dad was not coming back to me. He had bought me a beautiful two-story doll house with a green roof. The house was hinged on one side, and opened to view the entire house – left side and right side. The furniture was bundled and ready for me to distribute, but something else caught my attention – a rustle and a meow. All of a sudden a gray kitten ran from under the tree and landed in my lap. I was told years later that my dad had gone the day before to pick up the kitten and left it with Grandmoma so I would not see her before Christmas Day. I named her Merry, and cherished her throughout that long day. 
After that Christmas my brother returned to his boarding school, my sister graduated high  school and moved on to college, and I no longer was tied up at night or made to sleep on the floor. But the most important change was that life had to go on without this strong, outgoing, ever present personality. My dad was larger than life. His belly really did shake when he laughed, and his eyes really did twinkle. He knew how to make a room rock with laughter with his ever present jokes. His eyes not only twinkled but also reflected the sky on a clear, bright, sunny day; and his personality echoed that brightness. I cannot remember my dad ever crying or being angry (at least not at me). He could turn those baby blues on me, and I would feel a world of love and security emanating from him. But all, that changed on that Christmas Eve. Moma, who had never been my champion, became quiet, sullen, and withdrawn. She stayed in her room, ignored house work, and ignored the phone, the bills, and me. It often felt as if I was the only person in the house because while her body was present, she was not. It was as if Daddy had taken her with him, and in fact that is probably what she had wished for (I know I had).
            Before Daddy died, I would ride to school with Daddy, eat breakfast with him before school, and then entertain him after school or watch television with him. I did minor chores around the house like folding clothes, doing dishes, dusting on the weekend, and occasionally cleaning up after Moma’s recent pet. But, after Daddy died, sadness sagged our little house to the foundation, the stove became an ornament, the freezer entertained pot pies and T.V. dinners, cleaning became the norm for me from the age of ten to fourteen. I vacuumed, washed clothes, cleaned every room, dusted, swept and mopped, took out the trash, and brought in the mail. After a while I even delivered the checks to the bill collectors. I became an adult in a few short months. I continued my education because: 1) it was the law and 2) because I loved school and would not think of skipping out on school. But, at home laughter was not tolerated and life just seemed to stall. While Moma became quiet and sad, I became angry and secretly turned my back on God. I blamed Him for taking my father, and asked why he did not take my Mom instead. I listened to everyone’s words telling me that God had taken my Dad because he was needed as an angel. As a child, I could not understand that logic because Daddy was my angel, and how dare God take him from me. I could not understand why God had brought Daddy into my life when I was three, only to take him away seven very short years later.
            Changes were not strange to me, even for such a young girl. I had been adopted by this Dad, been loved and protected. He gave me and my family security, but he was sick. He struggled through one open heart surgery after another. He smoked, he laughed, he loved, and he shared all he had with two children who had no one. Then he died, and changed those two children’s lives again. It was not his fault, or God’s. But, I wanted someone to blame, and turned out my Mom wanted someone to blame too. I blamed God; Moma blamed me and my brother. Five years and two months after daddy died, I tried to run away from home and Moma tried to kill herself with pills. And, life changed one more time.
           








Poetry
Deliver Him, Please! (Free verse)
Todays the day!
He will come today, Okay?
Tomorrow he’ll come?
He must not be ready, yet.
Two inches you’ve opened
No further you’ve broadened
Oh, here’s a contraction, don’t you feel?
No, I feel nothing!
What an ordeal!
Hey, Doc? He won’t arrive!
What do you think we can do
To bring out my bouncing baby boy?
We wait some more? But,
Wait? We’ve waited a week!
Five more days – Why has he not come?
Hey, doc! I’m gonna freak out!
Perhaps, a C-section will do
The trick, and deliver him
I can’t wait to kiss his little cheek
Oh! Here he is! And,
What great lungs he has! And,
What a big fellow he is! And,
What a real zeal he has for his meal!
Oh! Look doc, you did it!
He is well worth the wait!










Deep Horizons (Ballad)
Oh my god what are they saying
It has exploded? see the flames?
floating on the deep horizon
Can you smell the stench of oil claims

While the black gold came
bubbling from the deep
Six people perished
while the crews lost sleep

to keep tar balls from the shore
the spoiled fish and grounded heron
flying lies and leathal leakage
broken promises and angry seaman

while the black gold came
bubbling from the deep
folks argued over bills
and who'll close the seep














Bite your tongue  (Rondeau)

Bite your tongue ‘til you bleed!
Don’t let your words stampede
Your thoughts, your heart
Don’t forget to do your part
To not let your words impede

Your relationships. Your words succeed
To make you look like a fiend
Both with family and sweetheart
            Bite your tongue ‘til you bleed!

Won’t you take a creed?
Most people would heed
The words of their preacher who imparts
Sermons and advice worlds apart
To carry a message of need:
            Bite your tongue ‘til you bleed


























Vacation
            “Oh my God, this is so wack!” Timothy thought. “I can’t believe she brought me here. She thinks I’m a baby. And, a trip to Disney World? It is going to be so hot, there. She probably got a crappy hotel, and who the heck cares about Mickey Mouse. And all these brothers she could have left at home.” At least, this is what was floating through the fifteen year olds brain, until the car pulled up into the drive way of a one story house with a pool in the back yard. Timothy knew he would have to help his dad unload the car, but he was not doing it by himself. That is what these other three rug-rats were for. Wondering what would be for lunch; he climbed from the van and started towards the front door.
The ranting and raving had gone on for fifteen minutes, by which time Nancy was in tears. The mascara was non-existent on her face, and she looked like a raccoon. This was the first vacation the family had taken without grandparents or brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins, and Nancy was determined to make it a great vacation. After all of the ranting and raving, packing, and quiet looks of trepidation, the family was packed and on their way to Disney World. While there, the family would be able to do whatever they wanted, on their own time frame and own money. They would not have to wait on someone else’s schedule, and did not have to discuss anyone’s agendas. It was to be the happiest trip ever. It was “The happiest place on earth”! But, she could feel the unhappiness radiating off Timothy’s body. For him, it was torture at fifteen to have to tag along with his parents to an amusement park. He was not a baby any longer, or so he kept telling Nancy. But, she had spent a lot of dough on this vacation, and she would make everyone happy.
She could not stop thinking about how fast her boys had grown up, and how soon they would fly the coup. So little time had been spent as a family doing family things, so when the money presented itself, the time was right to take the family to Disney World for the first time – ever. Nancy thought about what a fabulous time they would have visiting each park, like she had as a little girl. She purchased non-expiring, multi-park four day tickets for two children under 13 and four tickets for people over 13. She rented a house in the heart of Orlando, with a pool, packed the suit-cases and the car, and Columbia was a distant thought by six o’clock in the morning. Her husband drove half the way to Orlando, while she drove the rest. They were to arrive at one o’clock in the afternoon, but because of her overzealousness they arrived at eleven o’clock in the morning. The kids were complaining that they were tired and hungry, but Nancy was still very excited to be on a family vacation with just her family. She still could not understand what all the complaining was about because the air was warm, the wind was blowing, and she had so many wonderful things for the kids to do that they would be too tired to complain this time tomorrow. Oh, how she looked forward to that. She could not wait to unload the car, sort out who would sleep where, what she would fix for summer, and what time they would all head out in the morning.
“Oh, great! I have to stay seven days in this small house with her and these brats? Ahh, kill me now! At least mom’s not here, so I don’t have to hear her and Nancy argue. And, I am so glad I have my computer. Who cares if she will fuss the whole time I’m on it?  I swear she should have been my mom, I mean she sounds like her anyway. Maybe that’s why they argue! Oh well, I can’t wait to get in there, so I can take a nap”. Jacob had planned his vacation for the week in June because his wife had asked him to take those days, but he was certain it was going to be a miserable drive, a miserable time, and he would be broker than that dish he threw against the wall last month. He just knew she would spend all his money, the kids would argue the entire time, and she would boss him around; and he was not sure it was worth it to go through this. The kids would be grown and gone, soon – or so he was constantly being told. And, he was sure it would not come soon enough.  He was always telling the boys to hurry up and get a job, now he was going to be stuck with them for a week without a referee. So now they had arrived, and he had been right: the kids had argued, and Nancy bossed him to do this or that! So when the house came into view, and Jacob saw the gleam of the pool and smelled the chloride a block back, he felt so much relief flood over him.
 There was a white van parked in the driveway, and Jacob pulled in behind it. He told Nancy to wait in the car while he went to see if they could start unpacking the car. He knocked on the door, and a blond haired young girl answered the door with a mop in her hand. The smell of bleach wafted through the door, and the young girl yelled for her mom. As her mom approached the door, she excitedly exclaimed that she still had to do the linen and that Jacob and family were two hours too early. Jacob apologized and walked back to the van where his wife and children watched. His suggestion was to go find lunch, and thankfully Nancy agreed.
Timothy was so happy to get a two hour delay on unpacking the car, but he was desperate to get the Nintendo out so he could play his games. It had been six hours now, and he felt the video game withdrawals approaching. His mom told him not to expect too much time on his game system, but she never lived by her words. If he helped unpack the car without arguing, he knew she would not care about him playing the game. He just hoped there was more than one television, even though he knew his dad had packed an extra TV, especially since his mom had told him to.  Timothy could not help wondering if he would get his own room. His mom had told him he would have to share with Stanley, but he knew he could threaten Stan with all kinds of torture, and the room would be all his.
Two hours passed with only one small stand-off between Timothy and his mom, which Jacob was relieved about. The van approached the house once more, tired but full. The car was unpacked in a record twenty minutes. The nine and eleven year olds were digging through the suitcases looking for their swim suits, and the older two were deciding where to put the TV and the Nintendo. They could not decide which game to play, Nancy was printing out maps to Disney World parks and trying to decide where to eat dinner tomorrow, and Jacob was enthralled in a Civilization world oblivious to the goings on around him. He was not worried about tomorrow because he knew Nancy had it under control, and besides he knew she had it all planned out and did not need his opinion. What good would his opinion be, when she would do what she wanted anyway? Before Jacob knew it, the lights were out, the kids were snoring, and Nancy had curled up beside him looking very peaceful and the happiest he had seen her in thirteen years. Tomorrow the stress would be back on her face, so Jacob took the time to enjoy the peaceful look; and then he reached over, sat the computer on the floor, and turned off the lamp. Tomorrow would be here soon enough. Tomorrow, Disney World would be invaded by Jacob, Nancy, and their children.










Reflection
In this class, I learned to give each character a different voice, to stay away from clichés, and to give meter to each line where it is needed. I also learned it is okay for a piece to not be finished, that in fact we are always adapting our works. Our text also teaches that “dialogue can often be most revealing by what is not said” (Thiel, 2005, p. 66), which is what I tried with the subtle comments of being tied up in my first story. I was told to elaborate on it, though. For me, elaborating on the tying up takes away from the story of my father’s death, but I can understand where the confusion can also divert the reader’s attention from the story too.
My favorite genre is definitely poetry. I am not sure why, but I have been reading poetry since I was a very little girl (knee high to a grasshopper, as grandmom would say). I was given a book of poetry when I was eight years old. I read it until it fell apart, and I think I still have it somewhere. I fell in love with Robert Louis Stevenson, Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman, and Alfred Lord Tennyson before I knew who Rob Lowe, Ralph Macchio, and Kurt Cameron were. Today, I still hunt for antique books, and my most priced book is an 1800 Tennyson book.
The most difficult part of this revision was trying to find a different voice for the son, the husband, and the wife. I think after eighteen to twenty years of marriage together people do start to sound a lot alike. I just tried to think of slang to use for my son, and I tried contractions more with the husband’s speech. The attitudes do seem the same, though. Everyone is on vacation, but do not seem happy about it. All they seem to see is the work, the negativity, and the worse in the other people, which ironically is no vacation from their ordinary lives.
My strength, in my opinion, is my rhyme schemes. I think I have a strong ability to write rhyme and meter. Once I become conscious of the meter, I think I improved greatly. I think my weakness is self-doubt and writing outside of my comfort zone. I believe I am very critical of my writing, and it can be a big stumbling block. Also, another weakness is using clichés. As it was pointed out to me, using clichés is simply laziness. I really wish this class had been longer, because I still feel as if I need more help with my creativeness. Of course, when it comes to creativeness, you either have it or don’t (I know that is a cliché). In order to improve, I will just have to keep reading, keep accepting critiques, and learn by trial and error. I, also, think I must continue to challenge myself to step out of my comfort. I must be able to do things that I am not used to doing.
















References
Thiel, D. (2005). Crossroads: Creative writing exercises in four genres. Boston, MA: Pearson
Education, Inc

Sample 8, Body Art and Culture


Body Art and Culture
            We are all a work of art! The body can be used in order to express artistic style or culture. In America, styles and fads run the gamut from glam to slum. What a person wears, what hair style they wear, and how a person applies their makeup tells so much about a person.  A business suit denotes a business meeting or a successful individual, while a jogging suit denotes a health conscious individual. Jewelry, manicured nails, and names on shoes, purses, or clothing are signs of wealth. The point is our body is a canvas; and we pierce it, temporarily paint it, clothe it, and - growing more common every day - permanently paint it.  This permanent paint is known as body ink, body art, or more widely known as tattoo. Tattooing in America is a choice. It tells people something, if not just a small portion, about the person with the tattoo. Tattooing did not start in America. When it made its way across the ocean to America it was on the bodies of sailors and the military. Today, tattoos can be seen on millions of people worldwide, but the growing population of tattooing people is middle-class stay at home moms. The negative connotation surrounding tattoos dictated that only criminals, side-show freaks, or military men had tattoos. This being said, today tattoos on people has become much more acceptable as our cultures mix, mingle, and linger. Body art not only tells something about the wearer, it can also mean something for the wearer. Hair, clothing, and body art can all express some cultural, religious, or personal meaning to the wearer. For example, Kaur’s hair was a sign of her religion and faith, and certain tattoos signify the death of a friend, colleague, or loved one, and clothing symbolizes likes or dislikes, personal interests, and employment. Schildkrout and Kaur both show how these displays of the outer self can reflect the inner self, and how the body can be used to reflect culture or art.
            Kaur discusses body image which for her was affected by culture and religion. She just wanted to fit in with her peers but she was obligated by her connection to family and religious culture to keep her hair long. Eventually, her desire to be like her peers gave her the strength to cut her hair but it only helped her realize her hair, her connection to her culture and her inner faith was more important than looking like the status quo. Kaur’s desire to belong in a group inspired her to cut her hair, much like getting a tattoo or smoking in order to fit in influenced many of my peers. I can certainly relate with Kaur’s overwhelming desire to want to belong.
Where Kaur connects with the audience by telling a personal story of her struggles with body image versus religious and familial loyalty, Schildkrout discusses body modification in a much more sterile and informative fashion. Her essay is not a personal exploration, but a historical look at different aspects of body modifications, including tattooing, scarring, piercing, and body painting. She talks about each one briefly, and touches on how each one holds cultural importance. The writings of Kaur and Schildkrout are as diverse as the various body
modifications they discuss.
            While Schildkrout speaks about different cultures, Kaur gives the reader a first-hand account of how body perception is effected by one particular culture, especially when that culture is surrounded by another. Schildkrout states, “Hair is the easiest and most obvious parts of the body subject to change” (Hirsschberg & Hirschberg, 2009, p. 108), but this was not a true statement for Kaur. Hair may be the easiest thing to change for most people, but not for women of the Sikh religion, to which Kaur belongs. In order to understand Kaur’s familial and religious beliefs about hair, one must understand her religion.
The Sikh religion originated in Northern India around five hundred years ago carrying a message of truth because they are always searching for the truth. Sikh believe in one God and in reincarnation. They have eleven gurus, the eleventh one’s soul living eternally in the written words of their holy book or transcripts. To be baptized a Sikh means to be baptized a disciple.
Sikhs who are baptised(sic) and make a special commitment to Sikhism, go through an ‘Amrit’ ceremony. They are then known as part of the ‘Khalsa panth’ (brotherhood of all those who have committed). They are all required to wear the five Ks to represent this unity and spiritual being...

The five Ks represent:
1. Kesh (hair) – uncut hair and beard as it is given to us by god
2. Kangha (wooden comb) – to be worn in the hair at all times, as a symbol of cleanliness
3. Katchera (shorts) – cotton underwear which symbolize purity
4. Kara (steel bangle) – worn on the wrist to symbolize truth and freedom
5. Kirpan (sword) – to defend the truth (Kwintessential Ltd.,  2008)

 This explains why Kaur’s mother and grandmother did not want her to cut her hair, because to cut her hair would be like an adulterer breaking their vows. To be a Sikh meant to pledge your life to that God and those beliefs. So knowing all of this, the reader can understand to a greater extent why her mother and grandmother responded so harshly when Kaur finally succumbed to peer-pressure. Her mom had this to say: “[Your hair] is identity. It is your commitment to an honest life, to a compassionate life. It is your character, your credibility.” (p. 158). Kaur describes the immense guilt she felt and the inner discovery she found after cutting her hair.
            Just as Kaur’s hair had a spiritual meaning for her, many other body modifications can hold spiritual meaning for different cultures, groups, and individuals. Schildkrout discusses a few of these in her essay, Body Art as Visual Language. Matter of fact, she has a section on “Cultural Significance of Body Art” which addresses the spirituality of body art. She elaborates, “Besides being decorative, tattoos, paint, and scars can mediate the relationships between people and the spiritual world. The decorated body can serve as a shield to repel evil or as a means of attracting good fortune” (p. 106).  It is important to separate spiritual and religion here. For Kaur her decision to cut her hair was a spiritual one, although the choice not to cut her hair had been a religious one. Religious symbolizes an oneness with a group, rituals, and worship, and spirituality symbolizes an inner being, a knowing of one’s self, and a path of discovery. Body modification can be attached to either religious or spiritual journeys, rites, or rituals.  Micah Martin (2001) quotes another work which puts it this way:
The concept of religion is often viewed as a societal phenomenon, involving social institutions with rules, rituals, covenants, and formal procedures. By contrast, a typical view of spirituality refers to the individual’s personal experience, commonly seen as connected to some formal religion but increasingly viewed as not necessarily associated with any organized religion. 
Tattooing is one of these modifications that can be interpreted as spiritual or religious.
            Some critics of tattooing accuse tattoees or tattoo artists of “playing Indian” (Schwarz, 2006), or link tattooing to other self-mutilating practices, but the truth is that tattooing has been around for millennia. And most tattooing can be traced back to religious groups, such as in Arab nations, but not all religions believed in tattooing. Christianity and Judaism both hold the belief that tattooing is a heathen act, and against God. Christians who read their bibles will note a scripture in Leviticus that tells the Christian follower not to “make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you” (Vanishing tattoo crew, 2010), but ancient Hebrews wore religious tattoos. Jews do not believe in tattooing because of the Leviticus scripture; however Moslems would receive tattoos to commemorate their visit to Mecca or Medina. Another religion with the sun god, Baal, required the worshippers to be tattooed. And, in 787 a church group, known as the Fathers of Church “distinguished between profane tattoos and Christian tattoos. They wrote: ‘When an individual undergoes the ordeal of tattooing for the sake of God, he is greatly praised. But one who submits himself to be tattooed for superstitious reasons in the manner of the heathens will derive no benefit there from.” (Vanishing tattoo crew, 2010). Even today, many religions do not agree with tattooing, which adds to the negative stigma of tattoos.
            According to Schwarz tattoos were “stigmatized as something only marginalized, lower-class people would have”, but I am a middle-class working nurse and mother of four; and I am still getting tattoos. They tell the world a little bit about who I am, they show an artistic side of me, and they are beautiful. During my lifetime, I have watched the trend of tattooing to move from a person walking into a tattoo parlor (in a neighboring state) and wait in line for any random tattoo selected from the artist’s work to a trend where a person (such as myself) has to make an appointment, and can get their work personalized. For instance, my tattoos are all personalized to fit my personality and my life. They essentially tell a story about my life. I do not have to worry about someone else having the same tattoo as me. Schwarz states that these changes were influenced by different cultures and the way they tattooed. Places like Japan (who were doing full body tattooing), New Zealand (facial tattoos), Melanesia, and Micronesia are just a few countries and cultures which influenced the western world and our tattooing habits and trends. The days of getting a few small tattoos “with little or no concern for their placement or relationships between or among them” (Schwarz, 2006, 224) are over. Today, we want larger tattoos, and we want them interconnected and relatable to each other. They have to have meaning – not just be the run of the mill, cookie cutter tattoo.  “Thus, the current renaissance of tattoo as fine art that is taking place across North America provides an occasion to reconsider, in a provocative way, the fascination of Americans with ‘playing Indian’ and with all things Indian” (p. 225). I can see where someone would see that, since there does seem to be a fascination of tribal tattoos. Take a cruise through online tattoo albums, and you find thousands (or more) tattoos which are tribal or related in some way to American Indians – whether it be a wolf, an eagle, a dream catcher, or totem pole. Personally, I have not found a connection with the tribal or Indian tattoos, even though part of my heritage is Cherokee Indian. This is what makes tattoos a personal decision, though. Also, it has been established that American Indians were not the only influencers of tattooing.
            Schwarz states, “Individuals frequently seek to form and reclaim themselves through the act of becoming tattooed” (p. 229), and this could not be further from the truth for me. I began with a self-etched tattoo when I was just fifteen years old, a very difficult time for most teenagers; but even more difficult for a teenager who was feeling abandoned, abused, and neglected. I wanted desperately to fit in anywhere I could find a place, and when a friend introduced me to Indian ink, I was hooked. Years later when I was tired of explaining the cross on my hand (which did not look anything like a cross); I got it covered up – along with the initials on my upper arm. Then, because I have been going through such turmoil and change in my life, and because I love everything about tattooing – I decided to connect the two tattoos. My tattoo is large, very visible, and would be a shock to almost everyone who knows or knew me. It is beautiful to me and expresses my love of roses, vines, and butterflies (and a certain couple of monkeys!). I do not regret my decision, and am constantly told by others how much they love my art. Ironically, I started tattooing to belong,, and now continue tattooing to be different.
            Whether we look at body art from a personal aspect or an aesthetic perspective, such as in the story by Kaur or the essay by Schildkrout; we need to examine our own attitudes about body modification. I would invite the reader to remember that body modification is just a more permanent form of the fads and trends that plague the American culture. Much like cutting our hair, changing our clothes, or buying the newest shoes and pocketbook, tattooing and piercing says to the world, ‘Look at me’. For some people it can be a spiritual and religious journey, like it was for Kaur when she made the decision to cut her hair although she knew it was against the beliefs she had been taught during her lifetime. Kaur’s story just further proves the point that peer pressure can be a stronger influence than family beliefs and religious beliefs; which also was a fact in my life. For Schildkrout body modification is an art form displayed on flesh, but for Kaur’s mother the body was committed to an entity higher than herself. She instilled in her daughter that her body was not hers to change or modify at will. From these two very different writing styles, one could ascertain that it is best for an individual to be true to their selves, especially when it comes to permanent body modifications. In Kaur’s case, hair can grow back, but a hole in the body is a lot harder to mend. 







References
Demello, M. (December, 1995). “Not Just for Bikers Anymore”: Popular Representations of
American Tattooing. Journal of Popular Culture, 29 (3): 37-52. Retrieved from EBSCO.
Hirsschberg & Hirschberg, (Eds) 2009. One World, Many Cultures seventh edition. Pearson
Education, Inc. Rutgers, New Jersey.
Kwintessential Ltd 2008. A Brief Introduction to Sikhism. United Kingdom. Retrieved online at
Martin, M. L. (2001). Body Modification and Its Relation to Religiosity and Spirituality.
Samford University. Retrieved from www4.samford.edu/schools.artsci.scs/martin.html.
Schwarz, M. T., 2006. Native American Tattoos: Identity and Spirituality in Contemporary
America. Visual Anthropology, 19:223-254. Retrieved from EBSCO: Doi: 10.1080/08949460500297398.
Vanishing Tattoos Crew. (2010). Tattoo History: Religious Tattoos. Retrieved from
www.vanishingtattoo.com/tattoo_museum.