imagine no depression

Imagine no depression, no anger, no fear, no hatred, no desire, no happiness. Do you find it difficult? I don’t. It comes as natural as breathing. I do not want fear so it does not exist. I do not want happiness because it leads to inevitable sadness which leads to inevitable anger and inevitable hatred, and in the end it is back to the neutral state of being.

Fascinating, yes? Being able to control everything. This is no joke, nor wishful thinking. It is reality. I do not want to be sick therefore I will not be. I do not like a person and they go away.

Old Barnaby’s Pupil

It had rained.  The ground along the path to Jasper was particularly sopping.  Luis pulled his boots and mud-coated trousers from the earth as he turned onto the thoroughfare that crossed through town.  Slick mud and puddles would be a common sight for another month, possibly two, but today’s puddles were from the night before.  The storm was departing and as he crossed the floorboards in front of the post office, Luis developed a lithe spring in his step.  There were no clouds.  There was no work.  It was a Sunday, and he was a man with a purpose.

In the alleyway between the post office and the arms shop, he was accosted by a broad-shouldered figure.  Luis quickly recognized the shadow whose beard draped over the rough fabric of a well-worn cotton shirt.  Gray hairs shown through the gaps that ivory shirt buttons once adorned.

“Hold up now.  Where ya off to in such a huff?”  Luis backed against the wall to get some distance between himself and the old man, who was close enough for Luis to see the dried soup clinging to the corners of his grin and beard.

“Just walkin’, Old Barnaby.  Nothin’ special.”

The grizzled beard brushed at the younger man’s dusty sleeve and turned his head down to the end of the thoroughfare.  The general store was opening.  A click and slurp emerged from his mouth as Old Barnaby turned back to Luis and placed his long arm around his shoulder.  “Come on, son.  I’m goin’ that way.”

Luis immediately shook him off, his face indignant.  “I don’t need no geezer walkin’—”

“Ya shut yer mouth and show respect, boy!”

Luis recoiled at the outburst.  The old man’s face was as decrepit as before, and there was no sign of anger.  The comment was then swept away as quickly as it had been released.  Luis allowed Old Barnaby to lope ahead of him a few steps so that he could regain his composure.

“Ya need to grow up,” said Old Barnaby.  “Kind of man are ya?”

Luis scratched his head and turned to look at him.  “Law says I am and I grown up enough already, so I’m a man.”  He squinted as he turned away from Old Barnaby to the corner where the grocer was sweeping the floorboards in earnest.

“Just can’t say what kind.”

Old Barnaby shook his head and let out a deep groan from passing gas, or possibly disgust.  “See,” he began, “that’s what I mean.  If another man questions the kind of man ya are, ya don’t start talkin’ about it.  Ya look that man in the eye and tell him yer the kind of man who’ll clear out a couple of his front teeth if he don’t shut his trap.”

“So ya want me to hit you?” asked Luis.

Old Barnaby raised his brow and continued his steady pace toward the end of the path.  “Ya do and ya’ll find y’self in the pile of horse shit we’re passin’.  Now tell me, kid.  Where do ya find yerself going with s’much intent?”

“General store,” said Luis.  “Going to meet a gal there.”

“Of course, of course.  A bit of the hokey pokey, ey?”  Old Barnaby chuckled as he croaked out the word “pokey.”

“No sir, none of that.  She don’t know I’m sweet on her yet.”

Old Barnaby paused for a moment and squinted as if trying to see into Luis’ head.  “She don’t know?  That ain’t no good.  Ya have to show her.  Talkin’ won’t do much when yer too scaredy to get close.  Have to show a woman ya have confidence.  Let her know yer interested, and more importantly,” he added at the waggle of a finger, “let her know that ya know she’s likin’ ya.  Don’t matter if she knows it yet or not.  She’ll come to see it.”

“But ain’t that like forcin’ myself?”

“No, kid, no.  What’d I tell ya about bein’ a man?  A man knows when he’s bein’ persuasive and when he’s been a poor Christian.  A difference, y’see?”

Luis shook his head.  “Not Emma, no sir.  She’s real smart.  She’ll know I’m bein’ fresh.”

Old Barnaby shook his head as they passed the general store, where he managed to take a couple of plums from a wooden fruit stand.  Luis paused to look at the stand when Old Barnaby grabbed his sleeve and pulled him along.

“Here, kid.  One of these a day’ll keep the teeth white as a bone.”  Luis took the plum into his hand and glanced at the windows of the store anxiously.

“Ain’t that apples?”

“What’s apples?” said Old Barnaby.

“For teeth.  Apples’re for white teeth.”

The old man suckled a piece of plum into his mouth.  He slurped the juice that seeped from the wound as he muttered, “I don’t like apples.  I like plums.”

Plums in hand, they made their way to the side of the general store where a young woman of seventeen or so emerged from around the corner onto the thoroughfare.  She held the hems of her blue dress in her hands as she stepped across the muddy avenue, her eyes fixed on the storefront.  The shadow from the bonnet she wore partially concealed her face, which became clearer and clearer until Luis could make out the dimples of her cheeks and smattering of light freckles.

“That’s yer gal, is it?” said Old Barnaby.

Luis nodded and deftly bit into his plum, watching as she moved closer to the men while crossing the street toward the general store.  He forced down the plum in his mouth before discarding the remainder into the mud.

“Wastin’ a plum, y’fool.”

“Yea,” muttered Luis.  Old Barnaby watched as Luis straightened his shirt and swept the dirt off his trousers, ready to advance.

“All right, son.  Just mind what I told ya.”

“I will.”  Luis stepped forward to meet her as she approached the storefront floor.  He bunched his fists and grimaced slightly – sweaty palms were inevitable.

“Um, mornin’,” said Luis.

“Good morning,” said Emma.  Luis gazed at her in silence.

Old Barnaby shook his head and bit into the plum.  “Goddamn kids,” he sputtered, and stepped out onto the fresh mud.

Old Barnaby’s Pupil

It had rained.  The ground along the path to Jasper was particularly sopping.  Luis pulled his boots and mud-coated trousers from the earth as he turned onto the thoroughfare that crossed through town.  Slick mud and puddles would be a common sight for another month, possibly two, but today’s puddles were from the night before.  The storm was departing and as he crossed the floorboards in front of the post office, Luis developed a lithe spring in his step.  There were no clouds.  There was no work.  It was a Sunday, and he was a man with a purpose.

In the alleyway between the post office and the arms shop, he was accosted by a broad-shouldered figure.  Luis quickly recognized the shadow whose beard draped over the rough fabric of a well-worn cotton shirt.  Gray hairs shown through the gaps that ivory shirt buttons once adorned.

“Hold up now.  Where ya off to in such a huff?”  Luis backed against the wall to get some distance between himself and the old man, who was close enough for Luis to see the dried soup clinging to the corners of his grin and beard.

“Just walkin’, Old Barnaby.  Nothin’ special.”

The grizzled beard brushed at the younger man’s dusty sleeve and turned his head down to the end of the thoroughfare.  The general store was opening.  A click and slurp emerged from his mouth as Old Barnaby turned back to Luis and placed his long arm around his shoulder.  “Come on, son.  I’m goin’ that way.”

Luis immediately shook him off, his face indignant.  “I don’t need no geezer walkin’—”

“Ya shut yer mouth and show respect, boy!”

Luis recoiled at the outburst.  The old man’s face was as decrepit as before, and there was no sign of anger.  The comment was then swept away as quickly as it had been released.  Luis allowed Old Barnaby to lope ahead of him a few steps so that he could regain his composure.

“Ya need to grow up,” said Old Barnaby.  “Kind of man are ya?”

Luis scratched his head and turned to look at him.  “Law says I am and I grown up enough already, so I’m a man.”  He squinted as he turned away from Old Barnaby to the corner where the grocer was sweeping the floorboards in earnest.

“Just can’t say what kind.”

Old Barnaby shook his head and let out a deep groan from passing gas, or possibly disgust.  “See,” he began, “that’s what I mean.  If another man questions the kind of man ya are, ya don’t start talkin’ about it.  Ya look that man in the eye and tell him yer the kind of man who’ll clear out a couple of his front teeth if he don’t shut his trap.”

“So ya want me to hit you?” asked Luis.

Old Barnaby raised his brow and continued his steady pace toward the end of the path.  “Ya do and ya’ll find y’self in the pile of horse shit we’re passin’.  Now tell me, kid.  Where do ya find yerself going with s’much intent?”

“General store,” said Luis.  “Going to meet a gal there.”

“Of course, of course.  A bit of the hokey pokey, ey?”  Old Barnaby chuckled as he croaked out the word “pokey.”

“No sir, none of that.  She don’t know I’m sweet on her yet.”

Old Barnaby paused for a moment and squinted as if trying to see into Luis’ head.  “She don’t know?  That ain’t no good.  Ya have to show her.  Talkin’ won’t do much when yer too scaredy to get close.  Have to show a woman ya have confidence.  Let her know yer interested, and more importantly,” he added at the waggle of a finger, “let her know that ya know she’s likin’ ya.  Don’t matter if she knows it yet or not.  She’ll come to see it.”

“But ain’t that like forcin’ myself?”

“No, kid, no.  What’d I tell ya about bein’ a man?  A man knows when he’s bein’ persuasive and when he’s been a poor Christian.  A difference, y’see?”

Luis shook his head.  “Not Emma, no sir.  She’s real smart.  She’ll know I’m bein’ fresh.”

Old Barnaby shook his head as they passed the general store, where he managed to take a couple of plums from a wooden fruit stand.  Luis paused to look at the stand when Old Barnaby grabbed his sleeve and pulled him along.

“Here, kid.  One of these a day’ll keep the teeth white as a bone.”  Luis took the plum into his hand and glanced at the windows of the store anxiously.

“Ain’t that apples?”

“What’s apples?” said Old Barnaby.

“For teeth.  Apples’re for white teeth.”

The old man suckled a piece of plum into his mouth.  He slurped the juice that seeped from the wound as he muttered, “I don’t like apples.  I like plums.”

Plums in hand, they made their way to the side of the general store where a young woman of seventeen or so emerged from around the corner onto the thoroughfare.  She held the hems of her blue dress in her hands as she stepped across the muddy avenue, her eyes fixed on the storefront.  The shadow from the bonnet she wore partially concealed her face, which became clearer and clearer until Luis could make out the dimples of her cheeks and smattering of light freckles.

“That’s yer gal, is it?” said Old Barnaby.

Luis nodded and deftly bit into his plum, watching as she moved closer to the men while crossing the street toward the general store.  He forced down the plum in his mouth before discarding the remainder into the mud.

“Wastin’ a plum, y’fool.”

“Yea,” muttered Luis.  Old Barnaby watched as Luis straightened his shirt and swept the dirt off his trousers, ready to advance.

“All right, son.  Just mind what I told ya.”

“I will.”  Luis stepped forward to meet her as she approached the storefront floor.  He bunched his fists and grimaced slightly – sweaty palms were inevitable.

“Um, mornin’,” said Luis.

“Good morning,” said Emma.  Luis gazed at her in silence.

Old Barnaby shook his head and bit into the plum.  “Goddamn kids,” he sputtered, and stepped out onto the fresh mud.

Women’s Literature, on: Individualism

Historically,
women were oppressed as the “lesser sex” (depending on the
culture) and as such many were forced into positions of subservience
where they could not express themselves as independent individuals.
Whether it be a need to express love, biographical experience, a
fictional tale, or even something as simple (or complicated) as love,
it was difficult to do so without the aid of a family or rank that
allowed women to become educated enough to learn to read and write.
For many of these women authors it then became a need to not only
express themselves through writing but to also express the need to be
fully realized individuals.

One
common argument regarding the “weak” nature of women’s wills
and the reason they are dependent on men is the creation story and
Eve’s acceptance of the forbidden fruit.  Many people refute that
it was not just Eve who fell from grace but Adam as well, for as
Aemilia Lanyer wrote in her volume of poetry, Salve
Deus Rex Judaeorum
(published 1611):

Your
fault being greater, why should you disdain

Our
being your equals, free from tyranny?

If
one weak woman simply did offend,

This
sin of yours hath no excuse nor end. (85 – 89)

Lanyer
used biblical reference (a common theme of Western literature during
that time) to make her point because religion played a vital role in
Western literature of the period, and it is possible Lanyer used such
language to gain respect, as it was important to recognize that which
is important to society in general.  Anne Bradstreet, another
outspoken author of the period, wrote “Men can do best, and women
know it well; / Preeminence in each, and all is yours, / Yet grant
some small acknowledgement of ours” (40 – 43), in which she
proposes that while men clearly are the superiors in society it is
only fair to acknowledge that women are at the very least capable of
the same literary accomplishments.  Other women authors of the period
include Dorothy Leigh and Elizabeth Brooke Jocelin who, although not
as quick to put down men, were also proponents of an education and
equality for their children regardless of sex.

As
time passed and more women were granted access to an education and a
means to express their ideas the writings became more diverse and
expressive of the desire to become independent individuals.  Mary
Leapor, a middle-class working woman who wrote from the point of view
of a common worker in at least one of her works, wrote that “…
men are vexed to find a Nymph so Wise” (30).  Indeed, for men to
accept a woman as an independent and equally intelligent person was a
bold proposal, especially for men of middle- or lower-class who were
less educated and worldly and clung to the old ways more than
educated men did.

Of
course the cause for individualism was not advocated just for women,
but for all people.  Hannah More’s “The Black Slave Trade”, an
anti-slavery piece, uses the “cause” she pleads to “sanctify”
her work, which advocates “And Liberty, in you a hallow’d flame,
/ Burns, unextinguish’d, in his breast the same” (133 – 134).
Once again equality comes to the forefront.  For all people, even
slaves, to be considered equal is to recognize them as individuals.
More later wrote a satirical piece called “The White Slave Trade”
in which she claims that English women are held prisoner by the
fashions that they are forced to bear, using terms such as
“inhumanity” and “impolicy” to describe the practice of
raising daughters to be eventual good wives and mothers, and nothing
more.  When some women other than educated white women began to write
they, too, expressed their disdain for the practices that kept people
in a subservient level.  Mary Prince described such practices,
although they were dictated and not told, when describing her life as
a former slave.  Towards the end of her memoir she states: “I am
often vexed, and I feel great sorrow when I hear some people in this
country say, that the slaves do not need better usage, and do not
want to be free.  They believe the foreign people, who deceive them,
and say slaves are happy.  I say, Not so” (437).   That such a
statement was allowed to be published, by a woman of African descent
no less, shows women and all people began to gain more individual
recognition towards the end of the eighteenth century.

Women
writers began to get published more frequently in the nineteenth
century, and with the influx of new literature came cultural and
philosophical change.  One notable yet sometimes overlooked
philosophical work is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
In the novel the monster struggles to understand itself as an
individual being, at first tied to its creator but learning to be
independent through experience and its own observations of the world
around it.  After observing a family of cottagers reading out loud
near a place it was living, the creature comments “The words
induced me to turn towards myself.” (589).  The creature began to
attain independent thought by becoming in a sense more educated.
Later, the creature tells of the Arab mother of one of the cottagers,
Safie, who instructed the daughter to “aspire to higher powers of
intellect and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female
followers of Muhammad.”  Shelley’s commentary on a woman’s
subservient status in Muslim society certainly stands out in a
narrative where a monster tells of the process through which it
attained self awareness and intelligence.

It
was arguably in the twentieth century that women writers came out in
full force to deal with individualism as ideas of feminism, sexual
and racial equality, and civil rights began to play a prominent role
in society and world politics.  Joyce Carol Oates’ “Nairobi”
demonstrates the loss of individualism in modern society.  In the
story Ginny, a middle class shop girl, is taken out to purchase new
clothes so that she can attend a social gathering with the man buying
her the new clothes.  At one point the man, Oliver, asks her if she
wants to keep her old shoes, and after quickly stating “Of course”
she changes her mind and says “No, the hell with them” (1681).
During the course of the evening Ginny is instructed not to speak too
much (or rather exactly how to behave), and is then sent home at the
end of the evening with only her new clothes and a bland cordial
sentiment.  Reflecting on the evening, the narrator states that “All
she had really lost, in a sense, was her own pair of shoes” (1684).
Ginny’s loss of her shoes, which she intended to keep before
quickly changing her mind, represent Ginny’s loss of individuality
after allowing Oliver to control her as he did, if only for a few
hours.  Oates’ portrayal of such a loss through a seemingly
inconsequential object serves to highlight just how important one’s
individuality truly is.

While
many authors since the advent of the written word have tackled the
subject of individuality (attainment, preservation, or loss of),
women authors have the unique perspective of being in positions of
subservience until recently in recorded history.  The points of view
they bring to the collective table help not only to broaden the
understanding of individuality but the importance of it.

Works Cited

Bradstreet, Anne.  “The Tenth Muse Lately
Sprung Up in America.”  Women’s
Worlds: The McGraw Hill Anthology of Women’s Writing
.
Ed. Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa
Schnell, Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY:
McGraw-Hill, 2008.  90-91.

Lanyer, Aemilia.  “Eve’s Apology in Defence
of Women.”  Women’s Worlds: The
McGraw Hill Anthology of Women’s Writing
.
Ed. Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa
Schnell, Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY:
McGraw-Hill, 2008.  58-60.

Leapor, Mary.  “An Essay on Woman.”
Women’s Worlds: The McGraw Hill
Anthology of Women’s Writing
.  Ed.
Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa Schnell,
Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY: McGraw-Hill,
2008.  255-257

More, Hannah.  “The Black Slave Trade.”
Women’s Worlds: The McGraw Hill
Anthology of Women’s Writing
.  Ed.
Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa Schnell,
Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY: McGraw-Hill,
2008.  288-296.

Oates, Joyce Carol.  “Nairobi.”  Women’s
Worlds: The McGraw Hill Anthology of Women’s Writing
.
Ed. Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa
Schnell, Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY:
McGraw-Hill, 2008.
1678-1684.

Prince, Mary.  “The History of Mary Prince, a
West Indian Slave.”  Women’s
Worlds: The McGraw Hill Anthology of Women’s Writing
.
Ed. Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa
Schnell, Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY:
McGraw-Hill, 2008.  419-438.

Shelley, Mary.  “The Monster’s Narrative”
from Frankenstein.
Women’s Worlds: The McGraw Hill
Anthology of Women’s Writing
.  Ed.
Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa Schnell,
Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY: McGraw-Hill,
2008.  579-606.

Women’s Literature, on: Individualism

Historically,
women were oppressed as the “lesser sex” (depending on the
culture) and as such many were forced into positions of subservience
where they could not express themselves as independent individuals.
Whether it be a need to express love, biographical experience, a
fictional tale, or even something as simple (or complicated) as love,
it was difficult to do so without the aid of a family or rank that
allowed women to become educated enough to learn to read and write.
For many of these women authors it then became a need to not only
express themselves through writing but to also express the need to be
fully realized individuals.

One
common argument regarding the “weak” nature of women’s wills
and the reason they are dependent on men is the creation story and
Eve’s acceptance of the forbidden fruit.  Many people refute that
it was not just Eve who fell from grace but Adam as well, for as
Aemilia Lanyer wrote in her volume of poetry, Salve
Deus Rex Judaeorum
(published 1611):

Your
fault being greater, why should you disdain

Our
being your equals, free from tyranny?

If
one weak woman simply did offend,

This
sin of yours hath no excuse nor end. (85 – 89)

Lanyer
used biblical reference (a common theme of Western literature during
that time) to make her point because religion played a vital role in
Western literature of the period, and it is possible Lanyer used such
language to gain respect, as it was important to recognize that which
is important to society in general.  Anne Bradstreet, another
outspoken author of the period, wrote “Men can do best, and women
know it well; / Preeminence in each, and all is yours, / Yet grant
some small acknowledgement of ours” (40 – 43), in which she
proposes that while men clearly are the superiors in society it is
only fair to acknowledge that women are at the very least capable of
the same literary accomplishments.  Other women authors of the period
include Dorothy Leigh and Elizabeth Brooke Jocelin who, although not
as quick to put down men, were also proponents of an education and
equality for their children regardless of sex.

As
time passed and more women were granted access to an education and a
means to express their ideas the writings became more diverse and
expressive of the desire to become independent individuals.  Mary
Leapor, a middle-class working woman who wrote from the point of view
of a common worker in at least one of her works, wrote that “…
men are vexed to find a Nymph so Wise” (30).  Indeed, for men to
accept a woman as an independent and equally intelligent person was a
bold proposal, especially for men of middle- or lower-class who were
less educated and worldly and clung to the old ways more than
educated men did.

Of
course the cause for individualism was not advocated just for women,
but for all people.  Hannah More’s “The Black Slave Trade”, an
anti-slavery piece, uses the “cause” she pleads to “sanctify”
her work, which advocates “And Liberty, in you a hallow’d flame,
/ Burns, unextinguish’d, in his breast the same” (133 – 134).
Once again equality comes to the forefront.  For all people, even
slaves, to be considered equal is to recognize them as individuals.
More later wrote a satirical piece called “The White Slave Trade”
in which she claims that English women are held prisoner by the
fashions that they are forced to bear, using terms such as
“inhumanity” and “impolicy” to describe the practice of
raising daughters to be eventual good wives and mothers, and nothing
more.  When some women other than educated white women began to write
they, too, expressed their disdain for the practices that kept people
in a subservient level.  Mary Prince described such practices,
although they were dictated and not told, when describing her life as
a former slave.  Towards the end of her memoir she states: “I am
often vexed, and I feel great sorrow when I hear some people in this
country say, that the slaves do not need better usage, and do not
want to be free.  They believe the foreign people, who deceive them,
and say slaves are happy.  I say, Not so” (437).   That such a
statement was allowed to be published, by a woman of African descent
no less, shows women and all people began to gain more individual
recognition towards the end of the eighteenth century.

Women
writers began to get published more frequently in the nineteenth
century, and with the influx of new literature came cultural and
philosophical change.  One notable yet sometimes overlooked
philosophical work is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
In the novel the monster struggles to understand itself as an
individual being, at first tied to its creator but learning to be
independent through experience and its own observations of the world
around it.  After observing a family of cottagers reading out loud
near a place it was living, the creature comments “The words
induced me to turn towards myself.” (589).  The creature began to
attain independent thought by becoming in a sense more educated.
Later, the creature tells of the Arab mother of one of the cottagers,
Safie, who instructed the daughter to “aspire to higher powers of
intellect and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female
followers of Muhammad.”  Shelley’s commentary on a woman’s
subservient status in Muslim society certainly stands out in a
narrative where a monster tells of the process through which it
attained self awareness and intelligence.

It
was arguably in the twentieth century that women writers came out in
full force to deal with individualism as ideas of feminism, sexual
and racial equality, and civil rights began to play a prominent role
in society and world politics.  Joyce Carol Oates’ “Nairobi”
demonstrates the loss of individualism in modern society.  In the
story Ginny, a middle class shop girl, is taken out to purchase new
clothes so that she can attend a social gathering with the man buying
her the new clothes.  At one point the man, Oliver, asks her if she
wants to keep her old shoes, and after quickly stating “Of course”
she changes her mind and says “No, the hell with them” (1681).
During the course of the evening Ginny is instructed not to speak too
much (or rather exactly how to behave), and is then sent home at the
end of the evening with only her new clothes and a bland cordial
sentiment.  Reflecting on the evening, the narrator states that “All
she had really lost, in a sense, was her own pair of shoes” (1684).
Ginny’s loss of her shoes, which she intended to keep before
quickly changing her mind, represent Ginny’s loss of individuality
after allowing Oliver to control her as he did, if only for a few
hours.  Oates’ portrayal of such a loss through a seemingly
inconsequential object serves to highlight just how important one’s
individuality truly is.

While
many authors since the advent of the written word have tackled the
subject of individuality (attainment, preservation, or loss of),
women authors have the unique perspective of being in positions of
subservience until recently in recorded history.  The points of view
they bring to the collective table help not only to broaden the
understanding of individuality but the importance of it.

Works Cited

Bradstreet, Anne.  “The Tenth Muse Lately
Sprung Up in America.”  Women’s
Worlds: The McGraw Hill Anthology of Women’s Writing
.
Ed. Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa
Schnell, Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY:
McGraw-Hill, 2008.  90-91.

Lanyer, Aemilia.  “Eve’s Apology in Defence
of Women.”  Women’s Worlds: The
McGraw Hill Anthology of Women’s Writing
.
Ed. Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa
Schnell, Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY:
McGraw-Hill, 2008.  58-60.

Leapor, Mary.  “An Essay on Woman.”
Women’s Worlds: The McGraw Hill
Anthology of Women’s Writing
.  Ed.
Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa Schnell,
Rashmi Varma, Beth Kowaleski Wallace.  New York, NY: McGraw-Hill,
2008.  255-257

More, Hannah.  “The Black Slave Trade.”
Women’s Worlds: The McGraw Hill
Anthology of Women’s Writing
.  Ed.
Robyn Warhol-Down, Diane Price Herndl, Mary Lou Kete, Lisa Schnell,
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playin’ a holiday tune

I’m walkin’ down the hall and playin’ a holiday tune on my gut (rapuh, pum, pum, reverberatin’ like a finely crafted drum) when Laurie says “hello,” to which I reply “sup.” Laurie’s nice, kind of mousy and quiet. She’s a kind spirit most def.

In the kitchen, grabbin’ some of that fruity chamomile tea, and Mike says “sup” (he knows sup), adding “man, that beard is getting savage.” Sorta, but not really. It’s still too much face and not enough beard.

Headed to the end.

Back asswards and drunk in 2 days. Them’s the bday breaks. On to next year.

playin’ a holiday tune

I’m walkin’ down the hall and playin’ a holiday tune on my gut (rapuh, pum, pum, reverberatin’ like a finely crafted drum) when Laurie says “hello,” to which I reply “sup.” Laurie’s nice, kind of mousy and quiet. She’s a kind spirit most def.

In the kitchen, grabbin’ some of that fruity chamomile tea, and Mike says “sup” (he knows sup), adding “man, that beard is getting savage.” Sorta, but not really. It’s still too much face and not enough beard.

Headed to the end.

Back asswards and drunk in 2 days. Them’s the bday breaks. On to next year.