Creating Mood Through Imagery-October 11, 2007

10/11/07

I thought I heard a cry

carried by flighty winds

but that may have been me,

all the tortured screams clutched in the dark

now trickling down my spine

along with all the sweat-tears

shoulders drawn like bows,

I let my head fall back

and cackle

and all you could do

was gaze up at me with watery eyes

 

{Journal: Write four or five lines of poetry which create–through imagery alone–a mood of absolute triumph. Do not state the nature of the triumph; do not explain or analyze. Instead, let the images create the feeling of triumph. Use both auditory and visual images. This is my most accomplished piece that I have written for English 3 this year: I successfully responded to the prompt in the last line, which affirms the speaker’s stature (emotionally and physically). Without explanation, the poem imparts the idea of a disturbance between the speaker and his/her audience, as well as the conquer felt by the speaker.}

Comparison Essay on “The Crucible”-September 23, 2007

Margo Eatmon

Ms. Robinson

Hn English 3, 4^th Pd

23 September 2007

  

Hate Hysteria: Salem Witches and American Gays

 

Startling similarities exist between the Puritan witch hunts of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible and the persecution and exclusion expressed toward homosexuals in modern American culture. The arbitrarily defined crimes of witchcraft and same-sex attraction express ethnic hysteria which is, more often than not, shed by later generations. Even as practices recorded in the most basic histories of mankind, gay culture and witchery have faced discrimination by the faults of the societies in which they are expressed.

            The existence of gays and “witches” might pass without great notice, if not for the exile imposed by their communities, as those accused practice the same customs as their neighbors. Gays drive the same cars, watch the same television programs, and eat the same food as their fellow Americans. Likewise, the accused witches of The Crucible plowed the same land, wore the same clothing, and lived the same New England existence as their accusers. Derogatory titles awarded to the groups illustrate how little they differ from the community, other than in the form of a name or a thought. Giles Corey was relatable to the other men of Salem, but the term “witch” formed a vastness between Giles and his friends. In the same form, co-workers may be amiable until one is revealed as “fag” or “homo.” The tragedy of societal prejudice is that one foul word from others can mar a life of goodness. Exclusion like that imparted upon the gay community and the Salem witches is stirred by underlying political or monetary motives, personal discomforts, a lack of acceptance, and spiritual foundation that teaches intolerance.

The Christian faith may be the basis for the derision expressed toward “witches” and gays, as the religious teachings of the Bible deem both practices as unnatural acts against God. Puritan church-goers declared their neighbors’ witchcraft as sinful collaboration with the devil; and with declared Christians still comprising 82% of the American population (Tooley), no wonder exists that gays are despised due to biblical teachings of hate. All weak human fears, including that of the wrath of God, bud the exclusion of homosexuals and “witches.”

            Fear of pollution of the race appears to be the driving force behind the discriminatory acts against Miller’s “witches” and gays in modern American society. Puritans feared that their Christian faith would be handed to the devil–modern Americans fear their own instable sexuality may be altered by interaction with a homosexual. This fear of pollution applies especially to restriction of contact with children and those practicing alternative lifestyles. Rebecca Nurse was blamed for the deaths of Ruth’s numerous older siblings, exposing the fear of witches imposing their work upon children. Similarly, gays experience prevention, legally and by community action, from adopting children and serving as school teachers, regardless of qualifications. Such practices are illustrative of the lack of protection for these groups by the courts.

            One must realize that homosexuality and witchcraft are both “invisible crimes” (Miller 45)–only provable by personal testimony, and the victims being harmed in an emotional sense. Arthur Miller’s play narrated a series of court cases that were conducted in poor fashion, leaving the defendants a vicious Catch-22: hang, or offer your neighbor to be hanged. Proper lawyers were not awarded, and the “witches” were guilty until proven innocent. We criticize the hysteria of the witch hunts in America, yet we continue to deny gays the right to marriage and child adoption, without just reason to withhold their pursuits. Proctor, Rebecca, and the other supposed Salem witches were hung on the gallows for no proven crime: only the denial of their part in testimonial witchcraft. In the same way, gays have experienced brutal beatings and murders for no crime against another: their deaths were the result of an altered sexual preference. Just as history lessons criticize the flagrant behavior of the Salem witch trials, so may generations to come feel the shame of gay maltreatment in America.

            Correspondence between Arthur Miller’s witch-hunts and modern gay discrimination may be intriguing, but much more importantly, the comparison should inspire awareness. Bigotry in any form is intolerable, but while many modern Americans can identify the faulty society of The Crucible, realization of the identical modern circumstance remains undone. The hysteria surrounding groups practicing homosexuality and witchcraft is a cultural shortcoming, likely to fade with understanding of the popular blunder.

     

Works Cited

 

Miller, Arthur. The Crucible. 1. Austin, TX: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 2005.

Tooley, Mark D.. “God Is Back!, WS: Study Says 82 Percent Of Americans Are Christians.” CBSNews.com. 01 Oct 2006. CBS News. 24 Sep 2007 http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2006/09/29/opinion/main2053026.shtml.

Descriptive Essay-October 15, 2007

Margo EatmonMs. RobinsonHn English 315 October 2007At the perfect age of ten, I knew nature with an intimacy indescribable by the terms of my world now. Golden with ecstasy, the spirit of organic matter as her life force, my younger, wiser self cast spells among rushes; she dreamed on the tumbling, rocky beds of icy rivers; and she knowingly checked the pulse of a tree. Meditation was introduced to her in that year, and praying with the world became a common habit: the smoothness of slipping into quiet earth. Once, meeting a place in the trees, her wildly passionate ego was silenced.
    Bearing awkward hike boots through the fallen leaves characteristic of deep mountain forests, my retired persona carried herself from a restless campsite to secrets vaster than man. Hearty smoke blew from her nostrils and was gone, a branch snapped and no more babble of hungry children was discerned from the hush. An uncalculated blink removed all color from the trees, and the girl who fancied herself a sprite was in a place devoid of stimulation for the vain human senses. A reaching rhododendron branch, bare of the characteristic waxy leaves, served as a perch—though only by careful balance was she capable of remaining still. No marks of existence burned in that place: even the plants appeared lifeless fixtures. And yet, despite that vacuum of all that I now recognize (texture, taste, odor and sound, words, and other bores), overwhelming floods of sensory notion drowned the girl’s earthly self. The love between a doe and a buck, gentle and fragile, was known by her to be more ardent than the hungriest of human affairs. And the songs that roots sing below the ground vibrated up into the young veins and pumped the deep energy of a life that believes in itself. She knew that a cloud does not feel damp as her mother had promised, but that a lightness of being permeates the great nimbi. Tangibly, rain cries, and that gone missing, and the rot of waiting, curled in fantastic corkscrews, never parting for the allowance of sight or smell. The world filled young lungs with breathless ecstasy.            Fiery, the blonde child observed rules detonate in their falsehood, and no longer did she love with naivety the petty world of science. Life had been defined in the plants and animals: a lie! Disregarding academic confirmation, all was revealed to live, no granite peak knowing less verve than a screaming rabbit in death, or the sky bleeding out into night. Even in that tepid growth of bush, the world buzzed with existence. Surely swatches of harmony were retained where all acknowledged the blessed life of their neighbors, living tied. Peace where a meadow stone lived not in solidarity, but with, and because of, and for, the rays of sun that wrinkled its skin and the laughing bird who ate berries. Such did she know, but by the time the brooding youth had returned to camp, she could only convey messages of smoke and chatter and light, and her knowledge was forfeited for simpler burdens. Growing up, she felt, was enough responsibility, without having to teach the language of waves and what they feel.And now I’m grown up and realize what a waste my endeavor was—a whole sea of hype for what reveals itself as squanderance and disparity. Oh, but for memory I would be miserable, practical. I remember a meditation among the trees as the paramount of a hike, and a noted point along my bound with nature. At that time, I touched the invisible current of sublime life that reaches beyond all human comprehension. In this way, I note that if the ocean dies, I will be extinguished as well, too wrapped in the waves to flail away from fate. And though remembering is pleasant, what greatness I would sacrifice to once again feel all the world touch my skin.