I’ve had an amazing time with you all. We’ve had mountains of laughs and faced a road of challenges together. Our class was one of the only ones that really felt like family. I just wanted to end the year with a little personal adage:

Goodbye doesn’t mean forgotten, it’s simply an acknowledgement that you’ve shared something in the past.

I love you all. I wish you the best in your next adventures.

Jil Brockman

(941) 623-5235

Near the beginning of the Spring Months of every year, the individuals of Nacerima partake in rituals to celebrate their beliefs of rebirth and fertility. In preparation, families will gather for religious ceremonies, praying to the idol most connected with their idea of resurrection. After the meeting, the families return to their dwellings and begin adorning the walls and entryways with colorful depictions of nature, in hopes to raise the spirits of those in attendance.

Parents tuck their offspring in for the night with stories of false idols who will come bearing gifts. As the children sleep, the parents commence the secret distribution of small containers, filled with rewards, throughout the home. In the morning, they wake their children with the promise of a good hunt, bestowing them with the knowledge that their rodent idol, known for his secrecy, has brought them gifts of goodwill. The parental figures only allow themselves this small lie to instill the continued devotion to these traditions within future generations. Older relatives look on with pride as the group of children battle for these incentives, remembering the days when they took partook in the celebration.

Once the children obtain all the parcels, they are encouraged to smash them open and ingest their whimsical contents. When finished, the elders prepare a feast of their finest ingredients, focusing particularly on the meat of young sheep as it is most symbolic. The attendees all worship over the meal, praying for prosperous months to follow, and they begin to devour as much food as they can to fill their bellies. The night often ends with energetic laughter and stories of “the good old days”.

Title: In The Color Purple, the title of the book represents one of the most important symbolic aspects. The literal color purple, as well as many other elements of nature, represent all the great things God has created for His people to enjoy. Throughout her life, Celie is oppressed and bullied, keeping her from truly appreciating anything. But, as she grows wiser and stronger with the help from people who love her, Celie begins to realize that she deserves to have the joys that were taken from her. On page 197, Shug gives her philosophy of religion when she says “it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it”. Celie then begins to question how she has lived her life, asking “where it (the color purple) come from”(198) and shows her personal growth towards the beginning of a happier life.

Setting: The Color Purple takes place in the 20th century post-slavery, and it has two main settings: southern America and a village in western Africa. These two distinct settings allow for commentary on the feminine and racism climate of the time, as well as establish tone throughout the book. Celie lives in rural Georgia for most of the novel, where the land is mostly arid and barren. This often conjures depressive emotions, but allows the characters to appreciate the few examples of beauty that are seen. Nettie resides mostly in western Africa for the novel, in a village bountiful with nature, writing Celie of the “trees and trees and more trees on top of that”(150). This symbolizes how Nettie seems to have so much more freedom and happiness in her life than Celie does. However, as the novel progresses, we see serious and comparable downfalls in both locations. The atmosphere in both places lends to an extremely misogynistic and racist view. In both Africa and Georgia, the women are treated as lesser than men, as objects for trading, and many of the people who should be united are extremely biased and awful towards each other. Nettie makes a comparison, when talking about the education of girls in the village, saying “They’re like white people at home who don’t want colored people to learn”(157). Nettie’s village eventually ends up getting trampled via orders of white people, and then it is her who lives in a barren land. Ironically, it becomes Celie who is truly happy with her surroundings and can appreciate the subtle beauty of having almost nothing.

Any Lit Element: Names take on an extremely important role in forming the identity of the characters. How someone addresses themselves, or is addressed by other, details the impact of having an identity in their time. One prominent example of this is in the juxtaposition of Harpo’s relationships with Sofia and Squeak. Sofia is strong-willed and defiant of the normal feminine roles that try to be thrust on her. She takes confidence in her name, and in her family, and she will not let any man take that away from her. Squeak, however, begins her relationship extremely submissive, allowing Harpo to walk all over her and call her such a ridiculous name. It is not until she is inspired by the increasingly powerful women around her that she decides to take on an identity of her own, exchanging powerful words with Harpo: “‘Mary Agnes, say Squeak.’ ‘Squeak, Mary Agnes, what difference do it make?’ ‘It make a lot, say Squeak. When I was Mary Agnes I could sing in public’”(205). A title can either propel you towards greatness or keep you from all that you desire. Another example of the crucial nature of names lies in Celie’s habit of removing male names from her letters. For most of the novel, she knows her own husband as “Mr.__”. Due to all the hatred and abuse she has faced from men, she becomes terrified and angry at the whole gender, often refusing to give them a name. She removes their status from her own personal thoughts, letting herself have just a little power over them. Near the end of the novel, though, Celie has grown confident in herself and her ability to handle men, and she also mends her relationship with her husband, allowing herself to call him “Albert” as only Shug had done before.

Dear (past) Jiliann,

I know you hate that name. You hate writing it, you hate hearing it, you hate being it.

But it is yours.

Your name will define you. It will be connected to every good and bad aspect of your being.

But it only belongs to you.

It belongs to your wandering eyes and your crooked smile and your messy hair.

It belongs to inside voice and your outside voice.

It belongs to every step you take, every place you’ve been.

Jiliann is smart.

Jiliann is clumsy.

Jiliann is beautiful.

Jiliann is sensitive.

Jiliann is kind.

Jiliann is weird.

Jiliann will be all of this and more.

And it will never matter what other names you or others give yourself because you already have your own.

When you leave this place, when you move on to (possibly) bigger and better things, know that you will always be carrying yourself with you.

You are not alone.

You will always have a name.

And as much as you despise this name now, you will learn to love the sound of it rolling off someone’s tongue.

You will see it written on papers and awards, and you will feel pride.

One day. you will give your hand, look them in the eye, and show them that you are Jiliann.

Goodnight Jiliann.

I love you.

A little light shines vibrant in a tunnel.

Doorways to caves line the walls.

The sense of adventure fills your mind.

A path leads you up and up and up.

You venture forth.

There are sleeping giants who look like you.

There are mighty beasts you learn to love.

You discover a balcony,

The edge protected by sturdy pillars.

You overlook the shimmering cave

And you feel safe.

For you are a child,

And this cave

Is home.

(Laertes stands in the grave of his sister, mourning vigorously. Hamlet approaches.)

HAMLET:

What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

….

I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers

Could not with all their quantity of love

Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?

….

‘Swounds, show me what thou’lt do.

Woo’t weep? Woo’t fight? Woo’t fast? Woo’t tear thyself?

Woo’t drink up eisel, eat a crocodile?

I’ll do ’t. Dost thou come here to whine,

To outface me with leaping in her grave?

Be buried quick with her?—and so will I.

And if thou prate of mountains let them throw

Millions of acres on us, till our ground,

Singeing his pate against the burning zone,

Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth,

I’ll rant as well as thou.

(5.1.267-301)

(Laertes’ response)

“How dare he! Who does he think he is?

Just some delirious prince who once wanted to lie with my sister!

Oh, my poor Ophelia. My darling sister. My whole world.

As if someone like him could ever be good enough for the likes of she.

Screw you, Hamlet!

You may have occupied her thoughts, possibly even her bed, for a mere fraction of seconds, but she was mine first! And she will forever be mine.

For any challenge you face in her memory, I will endure 1,000 times over, just to prove the extent of my adoration.

Forty thousand brothers may not love as much as you say, but the love of one man, my love, could best you in any duel.

If your grief can ‘conjure the wandering stars’, well then, my grief shall bring the Lord to his almighty knees!

For every fight you may start, every tear you may shed, or every crocodile you may eat: I will win every battle, fill every river, eat every beast.

 

My sister was an angel in every way: from her divine face to her alluring figure to her euphonic voice. Every bit, in and out, was glorious.

Her kindness was never far from my heart, and her words stayed always in my ear.

I was, am, her most devoted follower.

I loved her with every scrap of my being, and I am certain that she loved me the same.

 

That is something you will never know, oh Hamlet, Dane of Denmark.

You may have the respect of your people, but you will never know the sweet caress of my dear Ophelia’s true affections.”

William Shakespeare’s plays are often divided into four sub-genres which share common themes, and these genres are the histories, the romances, the comedies, and the tragedies. The Tragedy of Hamlet is one of Shakespeare’s most well-known plays, and like most tragedies, it shares the common theme of having a protagonist plagued with a “’tragic flaw’ that leads to his ultimate destruction”. Hamlet’s fatal flaw is either his yearning for revenge or his madness, depending on if it is real, and either could lead to not only his demise but the destruction and devastation of almost an entire kingdom. The numerous deaths that follow therefore attribute the play with the title of a tragedy.

 

References:

http://www.shakespeare-online.com/faq/playsfaq.html

Act 4 Scene 7: Lines 190-208

There is a willow grows aslant a brook

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.

There with fantastic garlands did she come

Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,

But our cold maids do “dead men’s fingers” call them.

There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke,

When down her weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,

And mermaid-like a while they bore her up,

Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element. But long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death.

Throughout the play, Ophelia is spurned by Hamlet, and she progressively spirals into insanity after the betrayal of his love and the murder of her father.  In Act Four, Scene Five, Ophelia seems to reach the apotheosis of her delirium, as she addresses the king and queen by crooning her heartbroken songs. In actuality, Ophelia is conscious of her madness, and painfully aware of her agony, as the songs detail the events of Hamlet’s betrayal. In Act Four, Scene Seven, Ophelia winds up dead, leaving the readers to wonder if it is an accident or a suicide. But, through floral symbolism and religious implications, Shakespeare makes it apparent that her death is purposeful, and it is used as the means to her freedom from madness, faithlessness, and a connection to Hamlet.

Queen Gertrude recounts the events leading to Ophelia’s death in great detail, specifically the natural elements that she had surrounded herself with. She begins by stating that near where Ophelia had been, there was a “willow that grows askant the brook” (4.7.190). The willow often symbolizes strength, stability, or duty with its large and sturdy stature, but it can also relate to sadness with its drooping branches. The appearance of a willow here can take on two different meanings, both with the ability to tie into her death. The first could be a representation of Hamlet, a twisted tree who departed from stability or sanity. The second could represent Ophelia’s growing depression that resulted from her distance from her roots and a loss of strength. As the story progresses, it seems more likely that Ophelia’s death can be entirely related to Hamlet, as the plants are attributed with masculine pronouns and the symbols represent his betrayal of her. Another line details “his hoar leaves in the glassy stream” (4.7.191), giving the willow a dull grey and masculine image. This would be representative of the reflection of Hamlet’s madness and impurity reflected onto the pure Ophelia, leading to her loss of self. Ophelia then begins building a mourning garland, like those at a funeral, seemingly for herself. It is made of “crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples” (4.7.193), in which each flower is tied to its own important symbolism: crowflowers with ingratitude, nettles with a stinging sensation, daisies with innocence or virginity, and long purples with sexual love. She is lamenting her own story, the one in which Hamlet had taken her virginity then spurned her, leaving her sullied and unappreciated. Hamlet “boughs her coronet weeds” (4.7.197) and is the “envious silver” (4.7.198) that broke, meaning that he is the crown, or noose, of weeds that has been dragging her down. And in the tale of her death, she is physically pulled down by these jealous weeds, dedicating her misery to him. Hamlet is the one responsible for pulling “the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death” (4.7.2017-208) when he dragged her from purity and sanity, causing her to commit suicide. Her death gave her freedom from the impurity that Hamlet had thrust on her.

*WARNING: This blog post contains some strong language that I felt were necessary to convey my opinions on the topic. Please turn away if you are sensitive.*

 

What is happiness?

Happiness is…

Honestly, it’s complete bullshit.

A happy life?

That’s a lie.

The world is packed full with too many utter disappointments for anyone to be considered “happy”.

But, you can choose to make the most of it.

You can push through the crap; the 40 hour work week, the school projects, the broken families, the money problems, the anxiety, the depression.

And, when you come through all of that looking like Miley Cyrus after the “Wrecking Ball” video, you’ll find the tiny little things that seem like miracles.

Like the five dollars you were saving for gas money, which was much better spent on that dang good cup of coffee.

Or when you come out of the shower after crying for 30 minutes to find that your boyfriend has strewn rose petals and love-notes on the floor.

Or even just having a cheat day from your diet because you really needed some ice cream.

Of course, it’s not going to last.

Nothing does.

You’ll still need gas, those petals need to be cleaned up, and you’ll feel fat the next day.

But, God, those few moments will still make you smile.

So, I guess that’s what happiness is: a choice.

Choosing to live day by day, second by second, until you find the absolutely unbreakable moments. The ones that leave your memories warm and your heart full.

Because, a “happy” life would be an unbearable serving of uneventfulness.

So, you’ve got to appreciate the bullshit and how much more it makes those tiny moments shine through.

Pick your head up, kid.

Fake a smile.

Be happy.

To write, or not to write, that is the quandary:

Whether ’tis possible in the mind to transcribe the breadth of language when lacking genius,

Or if one must succumb to a sea of desolation,

And by yielding, will flounder. To think—to pause,

No more; and by a pause to say we end

The unease and the thousand natural inabilities

That a writer is heir to: ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To think, to pause;

To pause, perchance an epiphany—ay, there’s the rub:

For in that pause of consciousness what brilliance may come,

When we have shuffled off an inherent insecurity,

Must cause uncertainty —there’s the respect

That makes the calamity of script so life-long.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The blank page, the impeding notion,

The pangs of creative cessation, the despondency,

The contempt of obligation, and the derailment of the carriage off its axis,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a sharpened quill? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and toil under a hearty task,

But that the dread of something after surrender,

The tarnished realm, from which no reputation goes unpunished, no will unbroken,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to the comfort of ignorance?

Thus conscience does make heroes of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of panic,

So enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard may their currents become straight

And gain thy name of worth.