The Stern'st Goodnight

This is my found poem, its lines borrowed from Shakespeare's Macbeth. I apologize to any readers who find themselves irritated by the alignment of this piece. That said, I would like to mention that the shape is a visual representation of how night suddenly morphs into a messy disorder.


The Stern'st Goodnight

what is the night?
to lie in restless ecstasy, never at quiet
weary with disasters upon the quarter of the moon

the live-long night, the torture of the mind
equivocates him in a sleep
and leaves him
disheartens him

Night's black agents to their preys do rouse
whiles Darkness does the face of earth entomb.
        spurn fate, scorn death,
        hover through the filthy air
        and let the frame of things disjoint!

                    The owl shriek'd!
             daggers upon their pillows!
                  Both worlds suffer!
                  
his blood is cold.
sleep no more! 
Pray For This Good Man 
Goodnight.

Macbeth on BBC

I don't know if anyone would find these interesting, but I was going through YouTube today...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fgj8GhcxDeo&feature=related
this is the one Ms. Mah was talking about, I think.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LC9G_CZVAL8
this one is a cartoon that skips a lot of speeches, but the lines don't stray from the original text.

Guilt-Free Snacking [this has nothing to do with English class]

For those of you who crave sweet treats at lunchtime, come out to Japan Exchange's bake sale on Thursday, May 5 in the Sea Lounge! We'll be selling...

• cookies 
• cupcakes 
• danishes*
• brownies*
• slices of pie*

If you're busy on Thursday, then maybe you want to come out to Crane Festival on Friday, May 6th in the old gym. We'll have...

• live music entertainment (guitar and taiko drum performances)
• baked goods 
• crane signing booths
• with the minimal donation of $1, you can sign one of the 1000 paper cranes that we'll take to Japan next year. 

Please note that all proceeds go directly to people in urgent need in Japan. We have connections with our sister city, Wakayama, which is just southwest of the Tohoku prefecture (the area that was heavily impacted by the earthquake).

Thanks!

P.S. I'm sorry for using the English blog as a means of advertising. 

*We have limited quantities, so please come early and hungry (although for nutritional purposes, I should recommend buying your dessert first and eating it after your meat and potatoes)

"I Always Do"

Sorry there isn't much of a format here. This is Mgbafo speaking to her husband Uzowulu, two seasons after the trial.

I wish you would speak to me. If not for my sake, then do it for the children. They love you as their father, despite what they’ve seen you do. They confide in me their respect for you. And I respect you. I love you as my husband.

Oh, do not look at me that way. I did not leave you two seasons ago when you asked me to say. You may have been confident that I would choose you, but my heart was in dilemma. This whole union has been an effort on my behalf, but I expected that you would start to work as well. I believed your pleads, Uzowulu. Despite everything you did, I placed my trust in you. Please tell me I did the right thing. Please, convince me I made the correct choice.

These marks have been fading for many moons. I never forget what caused them, no matter how many I have to keep track of.  For example, where was it…. Somewhere here are scars from when I was ill. You were upset at me for bringing your supper late. And these here… they are yet fresh. But I am waiting for the pain to dull and disappear. Just as I will wait in vain for you to fulfill your promise.

Still… why, Uzowulu? Why did you stand before the egwuwu? Why did you give my brothers wine? Why did you stand before me and beg me to stay? For even now, if not for the children I would run. I would flee from this iron cage and from the wretched devil that you-

No! Stop! Please! Forgive me! I have outspoken and forgotten my place. I am confused and speaking nonsense! You are tired! You  do not want to hear of this matter...... And indeed, you work hard to earn the respect among Umuofia. Do not give this a second thought. I will speak to the children on your behalf. They are, after all, very concerned for you. And after that I will prepare your supper. If it is illness that is affecting you, please rest. I will come back shortly. I always do.

Characters Coming to Life

Initially, I was under the impression that Okonkwo was on the way to becoming a hero. In order to become a hero, you must pass an ordeal; I believed that the issue with his father provided something to be overcome. Upon completing the novel, although he chose to escape, my naive mind firmly believed Okonkwo's actions became a legacy outside of the fading black ink. Jumping out from the thin white pages, he became a hero.

That being said, perhaps this idea only proved my ignorance to the Igbo culture and the importance of cultural relativity. Even with the novel as a source of insight, perhaps I could not judge Okonkwo by Westernized measures. The Igbo people viewed all suicides as sins. In this light, the protagonist had the chance to be hero throughout; yet, by taking his own life, he failed. To contrast this, suicide in Western movies was considered a noble death if it was done for a cause. We labelled it as an honorable sacrifice when the captured secret agent or the star-crossed lovers cut their own life strings.

In the same perspective, without knowing what happened after the final chapter, I believed Okonkwo's death stood for something. His character became a hero by making such a bold statement that global readers would care. In international eyes, he may or may not have been a perfect protagonist, but we read the book from cover to cover. And as his body hung lifeless from that tree, we stopped to think. By committing suicide, he showed to the Western readers the very impact of their missionaries.   By doing something so unforgivable and shameful to his clan, he proved the desperation of the situation. Oftentimes, by the nature of biculturalism, the people spreading their religion believed they were doing a kind and compassionate duty. Okonkwo's tragic story, however, proved otherwise. And it was this that gave real, living people a perspective on the true impact of their actions.

What Defeats a Man

         The clear conflict in "The Road" is survival, under the man vs. environment category. When the world is at its end, history repeats itself and the man and his son act like nomadic cavemen. Every day, they must find food and shelter while hiding themselves from the other survivors. In multiple situations, the reader's grip on the book tightens as illness and inevitable death are foreshadowed.  In such a dark time, the cliche "every man for himself" becomes religiously practiced.
         The underlying conflict in this novel is between the protagonist and himself, following the criteria of man vs. self. Throughout the entire story, the character is in turmoil. He had to come to terms with his wife's suicide and desperately tries to carry all of the family's burdens. And whilst he strives to preserve his son's youth and innocence, he seems to be leaving himself in dark anxiety. He seems to try to protect the boy from the harsh realities surrounding them; consequently, there is no one he can speak truthfully of his own fears. His thoughts remain in his mind, which I suspect may be what leads to the end of the book. As I near the final page, I predict that what defeats him is not that which surrounds him, but that which is inside.  That being said, this is only a prediction.

Post-Colonialism to My Ears

Recently, the post-colonialism studies in our class have centered around that of countries in Africa. This is perhaps due to the fact that the most prominent pieces of evidence come from Caucasian views on this continent. However, post-colonialism refers to the aftermath of the subjugation of one group of people; it does not always allude to Africa. A pattern I've noticed is a lack of independency after a country releases the assimilated population. Oftentimes, although society modernizes with time, traces of a colonized nation remain. This can be observed in both distinct and subtle examples. 

Great Britain brought Hong Kong under its wing in 1841. It declared the island as part of its empire until giving it to China during the next century. Yet, even as the British dismissed them, pieces of post-colonialism still linger. The instance this post will focus on is on the unstated, indirect effect on Canto-pop, or HK-pop. 

Oftentimes to find what a society finds hip, looking at the trendsetters themselves is a good start. In researching various artists, I was interested to find many popular, familiar English names. Some of the band names were also words from our language; this includes Purple Nine, Twins, and Shine. The attached picture is a list of the top album sellers in 2009 for Canto-pop in Hong Kong. I was surprised to know all of the bands listed had English names and English song titles. Here, the only Chinese words were the last names of certain individuals. 

2009 IFPS Sales Chart, Hong Kong

Additionally, in searching the individual artists, some also supported appearances of Caucasian people.  

Shine

To conclude, post-colonization happens worldwide despite the number of generations passed. Sometimes, it is as unnoticeable and subtle as the people who fill our music players. It isn't a clear insult of one party versus another, but the fundamentals of post-colonization are still present. 

Steveston Cares

I know this has nothing to do with English and it has nothing to do with any literature I've read recently. I should have posted this much earlier, but I only thought of it now.

If you have time, please come down to Fisherman's Park (just outside of Georgia Cannery in Steveston, at the end of Moncton Street)! We are having a Japan earthquake and tsunami relief walk. You can come any time from 10am onwards, keeping in mind that it ends at 2pm. It's only a kilometre walk to No. 1 Road and back, but please come if you can! And bring a couple of dollars to donate, if you can spare. Funds go to rebuild a fisherman's village in Japan.

look for the crazy person wearing this on the front

look for the crazy person wearing this on the back

thank you!

Baby Steps of a Beginning Criminal

          The modern day teenagers may be enthusiastic and friendly, but society often forgets they are also young thieves. A common pastime of theirs is finding websites to download their favourite songs for free. This is incontrovertibly illegal, as the act of taking objects without a form of payment is against the law. Stealing music is a prominent issue that everyone labels as immoral. Generations before us have lived without illegal downloading; therefore, modern society should be no different. The only excuse today's teenagers have is that they are too cheap to pay cash. Yet, they're simultaneously setting themselves up for prison; furthermore, they are manipulating the leniency of the British Columbia Youth Justice Act. Perhaps the only solution is to teach them that downloading music is no different from stealing equipment in a recording studio. Once this message is conveyed, adolescents will understand they have the power to refuse illegal activity or face a life as a criminal.

"In what direction [do] lost men veer?" (116)

The protagonist in Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" is the man. He is a father and a widower, after his wife committed suicide. I would imagine his physical appearance to be worn and weary, a reflection on what he has gone through and is going through. The circumstances that characterize this novel, revolve around the fall of humanity and the world. Due to this, the man is dedicated to protecting his son and surviving each day. His motivation is his boy, a sole theme in the novel. This child is the last remainder of all that is dear to him, as they live a nomadically in a game of sustainability.  His devotion is reflected throughout the novel, highlighted explicitly in dialogue:

[His] job is to take care of [the boy]. [The man] was appointed to do that by God. [He would] kill anyone who touches [his son] (77).

Besides the explicit physical conflict, the man must also maintain a positive and protective role. Naturally, his boy poses many paranoid questions, the most common being "Are we going to die?" (10). Despite the circumstances, he comforts the child and attempts to restore the boy's fallen hopes. Yet, this proves to be a struggle on himself as he occasionally finds himself irritated by such inevitable and pessimistic speech.

An unconditionally devoted protagonist is, in my opinion, a common character used in multiple works of art. To me, the man is a less dramatic rendition on Albus Dumbledore of my childhood favourite "Harry Potter" series. Dumbledore saw Harry as a son, coming to his aid and protection even past his death. This being said, I am almost positive there are many other people reminiscent to that of the man. This, perhaps, is how Cormac McCarthy made a story about the end of life relatable to people today.

Spinning

      You sit so silent                                   next to me

    We’re in a crowd                         you’re all I see

    You glance at me                     and spin me round

      So fast that I will                     not touch ground

       My mind is whirling          with your thoughts

         to the point my heart     is left distraught

         Despite next year  you'll be too far,

          One day I'll be your only star

                Perhaps this wish still needs a voice

                    but I'll pray to be your only choice

                     These feelings never seem to end

                         I just need you to be a friend

                          Spinning fast, I lose control

                            Then you smile and

                                     everything

                                         stops.

I apologize for this deformed heart.

To answer the remainders of the requirements, this poem is written to an anonymous person. This person is one of the many people who never fail to put a smile on my face. This person is my inspiration.

                        

An Exhibit at the Zoo

 As a stereotypical teenager, my life revolved completely around school. Academics brought me the happiness and sadness that flavoured my life. Nearly all obstacles I faced originated from the crowded building I learned to call home. Yet, on a quiet November night, this changed. A hand of ice slapped my cheek, and the momentum forced me to turn and find the most difficult hardship. I was rotated to see my reflection with dried blood on her palms. Ultimately, the most emotional and demanding challenge I faced was with the person I knew best.

This began as a refreshing wind pulled a shade over the autumn skies. I slipped on a heavy fleece coat over my brown sweater, adding layers until heat crept up my cheeks. My mother zipped her black coat in a swift motion, reacting to the impatient demands of our anxious dog. Once the leash clicked, firmly attached to our pet's collar, I pulled on the cold metal handle and opened the door. 

We were going through Steveston, a regular routine. The ticking of stalling buses and the claps of human feet on the sidewalk created a calming percussion beat. Idle chatter and distant radio voices added to the orchestra. The natural melody of the outdoors continued as we walked to a crosswalk. We stopped, looked both ways, and stepped on the painted white lines. The maestro in the sky let his instruments play a few seconds longer before reaching a sudden climax. Without notice, a woman screamed and I was blinded by a white light.

When my eyes peeled open, I was flat on my stomach; I was taped by invisible bonds, stuck in that position. Above me, the shrieks of sirens and loud frantic voices blended together. As I came to my senses, I wiggled my feet and and squeezed my eyes shut. Once again, blood began to flow through my insides, but it halted before reaching my arms. I couldn't feel them. Awkwardly, using only my limited abdominal strength, I rose to my knees.

From a new point of view, the rest of the scene flooded through my mind. I noticed white chips in front of me and instinctively ran my tongue through my mouth. I froze when I couldn't find my front teeth. This fear, however, lasted only a second; delayed reactions finally allowed me to see the familiar figure unconscious on the pavement. Someone came and took me to the sidewalk, but Arctic winds were already running through my bloodstream. I sat on the curb as my tears hit the ground, mixing in with those of the traumatized clouds. The water should have flooded the streets as I wailed and desperately gasped for air. 


Within hours, the puffiness of my fingers subsided and I was able to move my arms again. Days later, a permanent souvenir was placed in my mouth. In a week, my bruises lightened until its colour matched my skin. And even still, the scream robbed me of peaceful nights for nearly a month. In my dreams I saw the faceless drivers pass by as their passengers stared down at my mother and I. I heard my own voice, drowned in tears, echoing, "I could have protected her!" 


The dreams persisted, but on Tuesday morning I went to school. Here, I became a new exhibit at a zoo. Everyone wanted to see what the bizarre animal looked like; yet, that was all. There were fingerprints on the glass, but not one person read the information provided next to it. Despite being surrounded, there was only one person who understood what was happening. There was only one living being behind the glass. 


As the weekend hesitantly approached, the heavy smell of sanitizers and disinfectants burned my nose. The atmosphere clouded over my carcass and pulled my heart down to my stomach. In an internal agony I looked to see the familiar figure in the white bed. She showed no proof of being alive; only the soft, beeping heart monitor told me her soul was there.  I stared at our family's keystone member, limbs strapped to the bed rails and tubes forced up her nose. Outside, the constant claps of shoes on the floor was interrupted by my father's hushed tone. He stepped into the room, face emotionless, and I averted my glance to the white flooring. 


For the following week, my nighttime lullaby was the soft, muffled whispers of unexpressed pain. Even when my mother came home, the lullaby played on. She was talking and walking, but a crucial part of her had changed. Her eyes were constantly glazed and distant as if she was in deep concentration. At meals, she ate her desserts first and became closely attached to flavour enhancers. Her memory was coming back, but she took time to remember names; at one moment she had forgotten of my dog and I's existences. During such times, I went to sleep and saw myself locking her in a time machine.


Days later, a news article was published. It featured our story. Now, the truth was public. Now, everyone knew how helpless I was. Tears were replaced by frustration as nails clawed into my skin. My sister stood at my door, speechless and stiff.


"I liked your old self better," she whispered. I wanted to retort back an intelligent comment, but she had quickly run downstairs as if the house was on fire.


Following this incident came visits from lawyers, police, and friends. Together, they campaigned against animal captivity and the zoo released their odd animal. It was finally taken back to its natural habitat, to be with its complete family. 


And as life renewed itself, my mother's injuries were no longer visible. Yet, she still looked at me with a pained expression, holding on a little longer when I hugged her goodnight. This, along with the entire life-changing accident, made me understand what true hardship was. Forgiveness was an extremely difficult and ongoing interior battle. And yet, something of that sort didn't need to be fought alone. There was always someone to help me come to terms with myself. When I saw my reflection, I had forgotten there was someone to turn on the taps. Ultimately, the bloodstains on my hands could be washed away, and the stench could fade until it was reduced to forgotten memories.