“The Bluest Eye”
"The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison has been both highly praised and frequently challenged since its publication in 1970. The novel explores profound themes of race, beauty, and identity in a way that is both powerful and unapologetically raw. Through its unflinching portrayal of the impact of societal beauty standards and racism on a young black girl, the book has sparked critical discussions about the complexities of these issues and the necessity of confronting them.
One of the central themes of "The Bluest Eye" is the destructive influence of white beauty standards on black individuals. The protagonist, Pecola Breedlove, yearns for blue eyes as a symbol of desirability and acceptance in a society where Eurocentric features are upheld as the epitome of beauty. In portraying Pecola's intense longing for blue eyes, Morrison delves into the psychological and emotional toll of internalized racism, shedding light on the profound impact of societal perceptions of beauty on individual self-worth and identity.
Furthermore, the novel addresses the intersection of race and beauty, exposing how prejudices based on skin color and physical appearance compound the struggle for self-acceptance and belonging. By depicting the characters' experiences within a racially stratified community, Morrison highlights the pervasive nature of systemic inequalities and the enduring legacy of racism in shaping perceptions of beauty and worth.
"The Bluest Eye" also delves into the complexities of identity and the quest for self-value amid societal pressures and ingrained prejudices. Through vivid and evocative prose, Morrison paints a nuanced picture of the characters' struggles to navigate their sense of self in a world that seeks to diminish their worth based on arbitrary standards of beauty.
The novel's unflinching exploration of these themes has made it a target of censorship and challenges. Critics of the book have cited its explicit content, including themes of incest and sexual abuse, as reasons for banning it from school curricula and libraries. However, supporters of "The Bluest Eye" argue that its confronting portrayal of difficult subjects is precisely what makes it a vital and necessary work of literature. By fearlessly tackling issues that are often taboo, the novel encourages readers to engage with uncomfortable truths and confront the complexities of human experiences.
Despite the controversy surrounding it, "The Bluest Eye" continues to be celebrated for its lyrical prose, rich character development, and unflinching examination of the intersection of race, beauty, and identity Morrison's masterful storytelling and incisive social commentary have solidified the novel's place as a significant work that challenges readers to confront the enduring impact of systemic racism and narrow beauty standards on individuals and communities.
In conclusion, "The Bluest Eye" stands as a profound exploration of the damaging effects of internalized racism and societal beauty norms and the complexities of identity. Through its unapologetic portrayal of these themes, the novel has sparked vital conversations about the enduring impact of systemic inequalities and the necessity of confronting uncomfortable truths. As a result, "The Bluest Eye" continues to be a resonant and essential work that prompts critical reflection and dialogue on the pervasive influence of racism and narrow standards of beauty in society.
Dear Inez
Dear Inez,
Where do I start with this one? Oh, apologies - you don't know I'm doing a "letters series" to those I once knew but haven't spoken to in years. Don't worry, I'm probably never going to send this, but in the off chance I do, please feel free to burn after reading.
I knew you in ____, California, when I lived there, in the early days of my living in California. I met you - when? I think in 2019. Yes - before Covid. We met at a cafe on ____ Avenue. You had suggested it. It was dismal, actually. Pretentious as all get-out. The coffee was served like I needed to know some hipster language to get it, a language I didn't speak, and I was treated accordingly.
I don't think that was your fault, Inez. It also wasn't your fault that you had everything I could ever want. You were a writer. A copywriter, I later learned. You had short hair and bangs that were too short. You went to _____ College on the east coast, so we had that instant connection.
You spoke like you didn't care what anyone thought of you, but how do I make that lyrical? For you spoke off-handedly, casually, like you had nothing to prove. My entire life, Inez, I have had something to prove.
After coffee we went to a bookstore on ____ Avenue. You bought Ulysses. Ulysses! "I've always wanted to read it," you said, again, casually. What angel brought this creature to me? I thought. She's perfect friend material. We had so much in common.
Why did you stop talking to me, Inez? That is where this letter really begins, and ends. For lack of a better term, you were "cool." We made an appointment to go to winery, right when Covid was starting to clear up. You drove us, and we got so lost - we ended up two hours away from the winery by the time of our appointment. I was frustrated, but also in awe. How could someone steer us so wrong? But it was so cool. It was so cool that you were so oblivious, when my type A personality would otherwise be freaking out.
That day, we ended up going to a beach instead. I love, absolutely adore, the beach. Seeing the ocean sends shock waves through my heart. We went to a little restaurant where they served charcuterie. I love, absolutely adore, charcuterie. It was the perfect day.
So, Inez, why did you stop talking to me? Was I not "cool" enough, like you? I watch your Instagram stories now and see you out clubbing, something I also love to do. We could have had so much fun. I watch your Instagram stories and wonder what additional qualifications I would have needed to stay your friend.
Instagram stories are one thing. But real experiences? That's something else. And we experienced that - together. When I was falling apart in 2019, before Covid, when we first met - my heart getting broken by savage men, repeatedly, like I was the center of a cruel game I didn't know the rules to - you were my friend. Did you stop being my friend because I was depressed about men? I'll never know.
I'm going to end this letter to you, Inez, by saying that I miss you. I miss our shared experiences. I hope you read Ulysses. Not because it's a good book (it is), but because that remains my vision of you - someone cool, who can stand to read a book like Ulysses.
(I might still watch your Instagram stories.)
Signing off,
A.
Nowhere
It's a cold, wintery morning as The Fisherman pulls into the parking lot. He pulls his bags from the backseat of his 2004 Ford F-150, and drags them through the glass, automatic sliding doors that mark the entrance to an unknown destination. The sounds of hundreds of people milling about fills his ears in a cacophonous din so loud it drowns out his very thoughts.
Just last week he had bought a plane ticket to nowhere, and he was ready to go. He was ready to get away from the masses and leave this world behind. There was nothing here for him, or so he thought. He might as well save everyone else the trouble of caring about his existence. He didn't belong; didn't feel any purpose. He felt as if he had been born into a world devoid of sanity and hope.
He gets in line to check his baggage, and says one final goodbye to the supposed wretched world he lives in. He hefts his bags onto the scale and shoves his hands in the pockets of his dirty blue jeans. The attendant glances at her computer screen and turns to look The Fisherman in the eyes.
"No one truly goes nowhere."
Suddenly, it felt as if a burden had been lifted from The Fisherman's shoulders.
Your spin on banned books. Oh, and we’re on iOS, also.
Happy to tell you brilliant beasts of beauty, brains, and boulevards of written words that we are now on iOS. Oh, yes...
https://apps.apple.com/us/app/prose/id6470323009
And we have a new Challenge to bring in 2024, one hell of a good Challenge, we think.
https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14416
And, here's the link to the announcement on YouTube.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPAGP07T7MA
And.
As always.
Thank you being here.
-The Prose. team
Hank
Emotions welled as he sat on the patio watching the pup play with their four adult hunting dogs. Today was the pup’s last day with them, and he reflected on the coincidence - perhaps Divine Providence, all things considered - that led to this moment.
Two months prior, he left on a hunting trip with one of their dogs but found himself detoured by the compulsion to buy a grocery store sandwich. Firstly, he never bought food for hunting and secondly, a bag of snacks set on the seat beside him. Furthermore, the sandwich he craved had to come from a specific store that he had already passed.
It was there that he found the frightened two month-old pup in the cart return area where someone had dumped him just minutes before. Without a second thought, he abandoned the hunt and returned home with the pup. Hank, as he would be named. Soon afterwards, he and his wife noticed gentle, caring manner in which their dogs treated the pup and how they were careful to make eye contact before communicating in the dog-language they spoke. Their vet then confirmed what they suspected: the pup was deaf.
Now, two months later, Hank was leaving for the state prison to be part of a program that centered around inmates training rescued dogs, particularly those with disabilities like Hank. Watching the dogs romp about in autumn’s chill, he smiled fondly at how this discarded, unwanted pup, was destined for a greater purpose.
What it means to “meme”
They say in certain "memes" on social media that we all crave that bag of shredded cheese at 3AM. But what is a meme? And what is it to really crave something?
Before Louis C.K. got cancelled, I posted on social media an image of him with words over it, his words: "When a person tells you that you hurt them, you don't get to decide that you didn't."
I thought about my life with that quote, reflected on my past. In one image, I had a reason to think about things outside of myself.
I know, you're thinking. Welcome to the internet.
But isn't it crazy, that one image on the internet can summarize all my problems in one easy, digestible square of pixels?
But memes are also pointless. They're catty, or stupid, or not funny. They are why we are addicted to social media. Or, for most people, maybe. That little square that can get you to laugh, or think, or in the case of "Happy New Year 2024", make you think a quote can change your year, your life, your mindset.
I don't eat shredded cheese out of the bag at 3AM. But what is depicted in that meme is something else - a certain despair, coming across as humor. Which is of course what memes are - their entire point.
Perhaps they are the mindset, the mantra, of the Millennial generation.
Their entire point is to keep you addicted, so you keep reopening the same three social media apps over and over until you yourself become what you sought to avoid: being just like everyone else.
And, just maybe, that could be a meme in and of itself.
Perhaps, Perhaps Not.
Perhaps, I want to remember that which I lost.
I didn’t forget my life. I only forgot who stole it and when and how.
Perhaps the thief discovered a secret coven of investors desiring of what I accomplished or how I accomplished, auctioned in part, or in whole. The purchase price would determine my life’s value. I would be portioned, metered, packaged, and presented.
All without me knowing the final outcome.
Perhaps, I could confront my quandary with an appearance to the exact location of the auction.
Perhaps, I could participate in the repurchase of my life.
I could bid vigorously for the complete set of missing years. I have the finances for such an endeavor. My only real expense would be the time it took to complete such an activity.
Yet, what if another life, adorned with sexy details, came up for bid first?
What if I stretched the value of my resources to invest heavily in the latter, and not the former? Would I have buyer’s remorse in the morning? Would the memories of my “new” old life find a compatible fit among the dusty (and now empty) bookshelves of my previous existence?
How do I even know if even one of my choices includes my previous existence?
At this point, would I even care if it didn’t?
Perhaps, I want to remember that which I lost.
Perhaps not.
Natural Remedy
His herbal tea doesn’t work.
He drove to the grocery store at 10 p.m. on a week night to buy a box of that tea for me. Because I’ve had a fit again. The tea is called “Stress Free” or something. I hate him for trying. I hate him for bringing me into this world.
The tea tastes like licorice and pencil shavings, so he stirs in a heaping tablespoon of white sugar. I watch him from the couch as he shuffles around in the kitchen, boiling water and clanging dishes together. He wants me to go to sleep and to wake up in the morning, whole and clothed and in my right mind. It’s not going to happen, and I tell him this. He carries on stirring and sopping the teabag around. He only hears my tearful babbling. To him, I am much like a baby.
He is still tall and so stubborn, but when his back is turned towards me, I watch his shoulders and it’s there I see his age. Because he has carried the weight of my unthankfulness for so long, I tell myself. Because he bears his children’s burdens and his own. It’s not true, though. He looks old because he’s getting old.
In his stocking feet, he brings me the horrible, bitter, piping hot tea. My stomach turns. He is often very wrong. Sometimes, I blame him for whatever is deeply wrong inside my heart, within the hollow of my chest. But he holds the scalding mug out to me, and he holds it steady, and it’s pungent and it’s a gimmick, but it’s sugary sweet. And I know that this man would not knowingly hurt me. And somehow, I’m sure that he’s kind.
“It never works,” I sigh. I pull my blanket around me and shut my eyes tight. “Drink it,” he says, setting the mug on a coaster, turning out the light and leaving me be in the comfortable, easy darkness.