Month: October 2015

Moments of Joining

Grief takes on many forms, including the absence of grief.

Alison Bechdel, Fun Home

I was fifteen when my father left my family—and in my search for an artifact of memory, I came across a 1996 photograph of him holding me in the hospital room where I was born (Fig. 1). The second artifact, a photograph taken by a friend during my freshman year, shows me looking up from reading Dante’s Inferno in my high school dining hall (Fig. 2). The longer I compare the photographs of my father and I, the prouder and more sickened I am by how similar we look: the same small mouths turning down at the corners, the same wary brown eyes, the same thick, dark eyebrows, the same straight noses with an indent on the bridge, the same oddly precise curve to our chins. But most striking of all is the similarity of countenance as I glance up from my reading and he glances up from my face—the identical, slightly bemused expressions as the camera draws our attention away from something that we had been fascinated by.

In the first photograph, the 1996 one of my father and I in the hospital, he holds me to his chest more closely and tenderly than I can recall in any of my conscious memories. Perhaps it was as early as the hours following my birth, then, that the history of my love for my father became joined with the history of my body. Bechdel’s memory of her father bathing her—the “…suffusion of warmth as the hot water sluiced over me…the sudden unbearable cold of its absence” (Fun Home, 22)—is a memory of mine as well. I can recall, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the sensation of lying on my back as water filled each crevice in my body. When he read to me in bed after my bath, it was in these gaps and margins of my still-breathing flesh that I began to imagine droplets of ink and little pools of Times New Roman font; it must have been during one of these instances that I decided to become a writer. My father’s specter haunts each scar and bruise upon my body, although they were inflicted not by his hands, but by mine. I learned that the reason that I would never be called beautiful was because I looked too masculine, too much like him. And he was even there, in person, when I underwent the agonizing experience of tattooing the right side of my head. He was the only one I would allow to accompany me: at times it felt though we were both seeking some sort of clarity in the searing reverberations of a needle against my skull.

But the physical intimacy in the 1996 photograph is not only emergent in the way my father presses me to his chest. My mother once told me that my father had always wanted a little girl: maybe no one ever told him that little girls become women, or maybe he just never listened. At any rate, in the four-page, anguished letter that I sent in the weeks following his departure, I wrote, “You are missing the years of my life when I need you the most—the years when I start to become like you.” This sentiment has never seemed more evident than in the uncanny resemblance between the 1996 photograph of my father and the 2011 photograph of me—a visual transmutation that merges fifteen years, two dueling identities, and a single shared history in the identical expression on both of our faces. When I happened across these two artifacts of my memory, I stared at them for what felt like hours, searching for answers I felt sure they would never be able to give. More than anything, I wanted some kind of explanation for the interchangeable expressions of the man who made and unmade me, and of the daughter who loved and hated him as she could only have loved and hated herself.

To my own surprise, my artifacts of memory posed a tentative resolution to this question. The 2011 photograph, taken in Lower Right of Commons, is the image of someone whose father has already told her he hated her. She has already opened her skin with the edge of a razor, already sought solace in cigarettes, substances, and the bodies of others. The inherent sameness of my expression and my father’s is therefore paradoxically augmented and juxtaposed by the dramatically differing impacts of our shared history: this endless range of contextual differences between each photograph redefines what it means for us to be joined. I am indeed my father—not only what he is, but also that which he never was and could never be. The simultaneous equity and differentiation between the two photographs has compelled me to believe that the imposition of experience upon a subject by an object necessarily distinguishes one from the other—that the subject emerges not merely as the object’s double, but also as an autonomous result of the actions inflicted upon it. I therefore owe vast magnitudes of my selfhood to the influence of my father: but my selfhood is ultimately my own.

It has taken me an uncharacteristically long time to write this piece: perhaps because, while I have written about my body, my sexuality, my depression, my addiction, and myself, I have never truly stricken the untested heart of my own vulnerability. I have never before written about the childhood hatred and adoration that formed the burning core of who I am. The 1996 photograph of my father and I was the most difficult “text” I have ever had to analyze; ultimately, though, it has proven worthwhile. I have always wanted to know if there was any time before all of our symbiotic resentment, any period of life wherein my love for my father was not rendered injurious by the pain he inflicted upon my body and spirit. I wanted to know if we were ever happy, if his love for me had ever even vaguely mirrored my love for him. The tenderness of the 1996 image facilitates the construction of such a memory—one that predates the years of verbal and emotional dissonance. The photograph’s existence, and my discovery of it, creates the visual reality wherein our conflict is neither existent nor foreshadowed, and where I will always be one with my father. It provides me with a history that distances my love for him from the extent and impact of what I experienced.

I chose the photograph not only for its intimacy, its sense of physical merging, but also for the scarcity of detail and the sense of ambiguity. If I could have written something confident, definitive, or self-assured about that image, then the entire piece would have been a lie. When the photograph was taken in 1996, just as in every moment and memory we share between us, my father did not give me much to work with. But this time, he might have given me enough.

Figure 1. My father holds me in the hospital room (1996)

and me

Figure 2. Me, fifteen years old, reading in Commons (2011)

where were you last weekend?

This is not a goodbye. It is a confession, and hopefully a catharsis. I promised myself that I would never let this happen. I promised that I would be different, and better, and stronger than I used to be. That I would not get attached to anybody this time around, because it is never safe for me. Then I broke like that promise; I always, inevitably do.

There are parts of how I feel about you that I will never show you, that I do not understand. I think it is because I may never know what I was to you. I will never really know how you regarded me: if you loved me, if you will remember me. I wanted you to see me differently. I wanted you to want me around, not only as a lover but also as a friend. And maybe you did, maybe I’ll never really know—but even in the best of our days, it just never felt that way to me.

But these are not things that you “should” have given me. These are simply things that I needed—perhaps irrationally, perhaps unfairly, but that I needed all the same. And there is, as it was once written, a world elsewhere, where I can and will find these things. You were never obligated to be the one to give them to me.

There are days when I don’t know if you are lying, or if you are even real. But there was one night when I was certain that you weren’t, and that you were. There was light on the water, and your skin—everything glistened. And I knew you so well: every crevice and contour of your body, all the chaos and radiance of your prismatic, engaging mind. You told me that you loved me, and in doing so you gave me a glimpse of my own resurrected potential to love, to endure. It has been a long time since I have known, however dimly, what that felt like.

I will not soon find your equal. No one can make me laugh the way you do: you made me feel like I was worth something. I am afraid that when I am drunk, or dissociating, I will want you more than I want to, or should. I am afraid that if you asked me now for another chance, I would still say yes. I have to be better, more stable, than that. Sometimes all I want is to be close to you, and you do not want the same, and I simply cannot get my head around that.

You gave me some of the best days of this uncertain life: learning to read the language of your body, the inflections of your voice, the subtleties of your temperament. And I am eternally grateful for that alone—you were the clandestine wonder of this long and trying year. Consequently, I also have one final night to thank you for: a half-drunk, silent taxi ride, a kaleidoscope of city lights, New York’s sleep-dimmed skyline. I felt as close to you then as ever I have.

There is no right way to read this. It is, for me, as much of an artistic endeavor, as it is an effort towards communicative empathy. As you painted me, so I hope to write you: all of the indecisive beauty and subtle conflictions. If I had the skill and the perseverance and the pretension, I think I would want this piece to read like poetry. But I only managed these pages.

A day will never pass when I will not love you in my own confused and confusing way. But I am realizing now that I have a lot left to learn about myself, and that much of it will have to be on my own. But I feel good about that, almost confident, because I am starting to let go of this horrible fear of isolation that I have been harboring for so long. I will love again, because I can love, and I know that now. And I have you to thank for that.

In That Quiet Earth

The Navigation of Physical Space Within “Wuthering Heights”

While paranormal hauntings and an enigmatic landscape lend Wuthering Heights its sense of gothic terror, the actions of characters such as Heathcliff extend beyond the merely horrific: their total disregard for convention and civility render elements of Brontë’s text virtually inaccessible to the socialized being. Thematically and symbolically, Wuthering Heights is riddled with margins: images of windows, doorways, thresholds, and gateways heavily inform the text. Traditionally, these symbols entail division, restriction, and change, both in the literal sense and as allegories for the socially constructed parameters of civilization. But the narrative power of Wuthering Heights is largely contingent upon the ways in which Brontë’s characters navigate these physical and metaphorical boundaries: the volatile landscapes and complex architecture within the novel are repeatedly linked to the human body, and can often be read in coded sexual terms. So as the characters of Wuthering Heights engage with the physical spaces they occupy, and specifically with liminal areas such as windows and doorways, they encounter an observable nexus of social and sexual taboos: the characters of Heathcliff and Lockwood respectively embody two opposite responses to this half- civilized world.

Mysteriously orphaned as a child, and described by Brontë as “A dark-skinned gipsy in aspect,” the character of Heathcliff is socially and racially divided from his childhood community of Wuthering Heights. The resulting sense of financial and ethnic separation from the communal masses is reflected clearly in the voyeuristic physical spaces that Heathcliff often occupies. In Chapter VI of Volume I, when the Linton’s dog bites Cathy at Thrushcross Grange, Heathcliff later explains to Nelly: “I refused to go without Cathy…. The curtains were still looped up at one corner, and I resumed my station as spy; because, if Catherine had wished to return, I intended shattering their great glass panes to a million of fragments, unless they let her out” (Brontë, 51). The “great glass panes” in this scene clearly represent a degree of physical separation between Heathcliff and the object of his desire, with the glass creating a tangible but transparent boundary between himself and the world of Thrushcross Grange. But perhaps more notably, the scene demonstrates the way in which physical and social othering can manifest specifically as the realized sense of voyeurism that is routinely experienced by Heathcliff. Identifying himself as a “spy” in the scene, Heathcliff, rather than Nelly narrates this passage: from his isolated positioning behind the window, Cathy is reduced to an object of his gaze, and even when Nelly recounts the story to Lockwood, the language and visual perspective of the scene belong to Heathcliff. The passage is also one of Heathcliff’s earliest experiences with what Pauline Nestor refers to as an “endless deferral of satisfaction” (Brontë, Introduction, XXV), a characteristic of his voyeuristic social positioning with several physical and social consequences. Although he considers shattering the glass, and thereby breaching both the physical and moral boundaries in Thrushcross Grange that separate him from Catherine, Heathcliff ultimately remains passive. In what will prove to be a formative moment in his life (as Cathy meets Edgar Linton, the man who eventually marries her) he remains a perpetual outlier both physically and symbolically, yet clings to this position in order to experience a limited, one-sided satiation of his fixation upon Cathy. Heathcliff, as spectator, retains the ability in this chapter to covertly view an object of his desire, thereby satisfying an emotional need for closeness without ever directly experiencing physical satisfaction or intimacy of any form: a circumstance later echoed in Chapter XX of Volume II when he notes, “My Soul’s bliss kills my body, but does not satisfy itself” (Brontë, 333).

Of course, Heathcliff’s status as voyeur cannot naturally grant him access to the desired physical spaces that Cathy and Edgar occupy: when he enters these spaces at last, he does so in acts of physical and social transgression. In Chapter XV of Volume 2, after acquiring possession of both Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange, Heathcliff “…made no ceremony of knocking or announcing his name: he was master, and availed himself of the master’s privilege to walk straight in, without saying a word” (Brontë, 285). Heathcliff is depicted frequently throughout Wuthering Heights as a bestial, even devilish figure: in accordance with this Gothic imagery, there may be an underlying vampiric, and therefore rape-like, element to such casual and unwanted invasion of feminine- occupied spaces. It is unsurprising, then, that these psychologically violent infringements upon a physical space within Wuthering Heights are routinely accompanied by grotesque disfigurations of the body: of course, this is first hinted at much earlier in the text, when the Changeling representing Cathy’s ghost attempts to breach Lockwood’s bedroom window, but the even more frightening scene occurs in Chapter XV, when Heathcliff violates Cathy’s grave. Heathcliff’s actions, which are fueled by dissonant and perverse bodily desire, are explained in full as he tells Nelly:

“…In the evening I went to the churchyard…. Being alone, and conscious two yards of loose earth was the sole barrier between us, I said to myself—“I’ll have her in my arms again!” …I got a spade from the tool-house, and began to delve with all my might—it scraped the coffin; I fell to work with my hands; the wood commenced cracking about the screws; I was on the point of attaining my object, when it seemed that I heard a sigh from some one above, close at the edge of the grave, and bending down” (Brontë, 289).

In this scene, the effort of opening the coffin, and especially the action of actually breaking the wood with his bare hands, demonstrates Heathcliff’s efforts towards total physical destruction of a barrier between his body and Catherine’s. Furthermore, the act of breaching the coffin is socially as well as physically transgressive: in addition to violating the clear separation that cemeteries establish between living bodies and corpses in human civilization, Heathcliff’s language may even indicate an ongoing sexual desire for Cathy. In other words, Heathcliff may not only harbor desire for Cathy as he remembers her, but also for her present state in the novel, as a corpse: his use of the term “my object” can be read as referencing Cathy’s corpse as an object of affection, or of desire, while his desperation to “have her in my arms again” is an unsettlingly physical and even romantic sentiment to demonstrate towards a lifeless and decaying body. In this scene, Brontë’s diction and Heathcliff’s stated desires both contain a borderline implication of necrophilia: among the most appalling of social taboos. Thus, as Heathcliff begins to engage more aggressively with the physical space around him, he abandons more carelessly the norms and standards of the society that constrained him: the anticlimactic frustration of his voyeurism gives way to a tendency towards transgression, and his bodily desires grow increasingly perverse.

A novel of lingering tensions and oftentimes of profound horror, Wuthering Heights functions, in some ways, as a haunted text. The human tragedy and supernatural horror of the narrative besets the audience—but some of its poison is released through the telling. One of the great paradoxes of Wuthering Heights is the simultaneous necessity and limitations of both physical social boundaries: while Catherine’s strict adherence to societal convention arguably destroys both Heathcliff’s life and her own, the total lack of regard for the parameters of civilized society that Heathcliff demonstrates has horrific consequences of its own. Lockwood, on the other hand, hovers on the threshold between the conventional and the primitive: although a civilized man, he is repeatedly drawn to the seclusion and enigmatic wilderness of Wuthering Heights. Neither rejecting nor wholly embracing conventional society, Lockwood’s consolation in the face of Wuthering Heights’ tragic history is achieved through acts of communication with the character of Nelly. Lockwood often misinterprets what he sees at Wuthering Heights, and Nelly occasionally embellishes or omits information in order to fit her internalized opinion of each character; nevertheless, through lengthy narration the two characters are ultimately able to piece together an imperfect but nuanced understanding of the occupants of Wuthering Heights. In this way, they begin to exorcise the fraught history of the landscape from their own souls. These acts of healing are reflected by the newfound ability of the characters to navigate the physical thresholds of the house: in the first scene of the novel, Lockwood attempts to enter through the gateway of Wuthering Heights, but is apprehended (Brontë, 3). By the end of the novel, having fully recounted the place’s history to the reader, Lockwood is able to enter easily, stating, “I had neither to climb the gate, nor to knock, it yielded to my hand” (Brontë, 307). The ability to navigate the physical thresholds of the landscape seems to parallel the redemptive and cleansing quality of verbalizing and communicating the tragic history of Wuthering Heights; thus, in the souls of both Nelly and Lockwood, the terrors of a haunted past are comprehended, and ultimately mitigated through mutual acts of translation.

Through its characters’ engagements with the literal and metaphorical boundaries of their social spaces, Wuthering Heights demonstrates the ambiguous line between civilized and animalistic, the dissatisfaction of forced and othered voyeurism, the terrifying distortions of the transgressive body, and the catharsis of narrative. Interestingly, though, the reader is placed in a peculiar position by the end of the novel. For while Nelly tells the story to Lockwood, and Lockwood to the audience, the story is not ours to tell—we have no such purgative ability. The audience then becomes the perpetual voyeur, experiencing the novel in a profoundly visceral fashion, while never quite entering the novel’s inaccessible world. The story then lingers with a strange and almost supernatural beauty that the reader consumes, yet struggles to translate. This is perhaps the most extraordinary literary achievement of Emily Brontë’s narration within Wuthering Heights. She creates a world whose history must be told over and over again—leaving our souls affected, our slumbers unquiet.

In That Quiet Earth

The Navigation of Physical Space Within “Wuthering Heights”

While paranormal hauntings and an enigmatic landscape lend Wuthering Heights its sense of gothic terror, the actions of characters such as Heathcliff extend beyond the merely horrific: their total disregard for convention and civility render elements of Brontë’s text virtually inaccessible to the socialized being. Thematically and symbolically, Wuthering Heights is riddled with margins: images of windows, doorways, thresholds, and gateways heavily inform the text. Traditionally, these symbols entail division, restriction, and change, both in the literal sense and as allegories for the socially constructed parameters of civilization. But the narrative power of Wuthering Heights is largely contingent upon the ways in which Brontë’s characters navigate these physical and metaphorical boundaries: the volatile landscapes and complex architecture within the novel are repeatedly linked to the human body, and can often be read in coded sexual terms. So as the characters of Wuthering Heights engage with the physical spaces they occupy, and specifically with liminal areas such as windows and doorways, they encounter an observable nexus of social and sexual taboos: the characters of Heathcliff and Lockwood respectively embody two opposite responses to this half- civilized world.

Mysteriously orphaned as a child, and described by Brontë as “A dark-skinned gipsy in aspect,” the character of Heathcliff is socially and racially divided from his childhood community of Wuthering Heights. The resulting sense of financial and ethnic separation from the communal masses is reflected clearly in the voyeuristic physical spaces that Heathcliff often occupies. In Chapter VI of Volume I, when the Linton’s dog bites Cathy at Thrushcross Grange, Heathcliff later explains to Nelly: “I refused to go without Cathy…. The curtains were still looped up at one corner, and I resumed my station as spy; because, if Catherine had wished to return, I intended shattering their great glass panes to a million of fragments, unless they let her out” (Brontë, 51). The “great glass panes” in this scene clearly represent a degree of physical separation between Heathcliff and the object of his desire, with the glass creating a tangible but transparent boundary between himself and the world of Thrushcross Grange. But perhaps more notably, the scene demonstrates the way in which physical and social othering can manifest specifically as the realized sense of voyeurism that is routinely experienced by Heathcliff. Identifying himself as a “spy” in the scene, Heathcliff, rather than Nelly narrates this passage: from his isolated positioning behind the window, Cathy is reduced to an object of his gaze, and even when Nelly recounts the story to Lockwood, the language and visual perspective of the scene belong to Heathcliff. The passage is also one of Heathcliff’s earliest experiences with what Pauline Nestor refers to as an “endless deferral of satisfaction” (Brontë, Introduction, XXV), a characteristic of his voyeuristic social positioning with several physical and social consequences. Although he considers shattering the glass, and thereby breaching both the physical and moral boundaries in Thrushcross Grange that separate him from Catherine, Heathcliff ultimately remains passive. In what will prove to be a formative moment in his life (as Cathy meets Edgar Linton, the man who eventually marries her) he remains a perpetual outlier both physically and symbolically, yet clings to this position in order to experience a limited, one-sided satiation of his fixation upon Cathy. Heathcliff, as spectator, retains the ability in this chapter to covertly view an object of his desire, thereby satisfying an emotional need for closeness without ever directly experiencing physical satisfaction or intimacy of any form: a circumstance later echoed in Chapter XX of Volume II when he notes, “My Soul’s bliss kills my body, but does not satisfy itself” (Brontë, 333).

Of course, Heathcliff’s status as voyeur cannot naturally grant him access to the desired physical spaces that Cathy and Edgar occupy: when he enters these spaces at last, he does so in acts of physical and social transgression. In Chapter XV of Volume 2, after acquiring possession of both Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange, Heathcliff “…made no ceremony of knocking or announcing his name: he was master, and availed himself of the master’s privilege to walk straight in, without saying a word” (Brontë, 285). Heathcliff is depicted frequently throughout Wuthering Heights as a bestial, even devilish figure: in accordance with this Gothic imagery, there may be an underlying vampiric, and therefore rape-like, element to such casual and unwanted invasion of feminine- occupied spaces. It is unsurprising, then, that these psychologically violent infringements upon a physical space within Wuthering Heights are routinely accompanied by grotesque disfigurations of the body: of course, this is first hinted at much earlier in the text, when the Changeling representing Cathy’s ghost attempts to breach Lockwood’s bedroom window, but the even more frightening scene occurs in Chapter XV, when Heathcliff violates Cathy’s grave. Heathcliff’s actions, which are fueled by dissonant and perverse bodily desire, are explained in full as he tells Nelly:

“…In the evening I went to the churchyard…. Being alone, and conscious two yards of loose earth was the sole barrier between us, I said to myself—“I’ll have her in my arms again!” …I got a spade from the tool-house, and began to delve with all my might—it scraped the coffin; I fell to work with my hands; the wood commenced cracking about the screws; I was on the point of attaining my object, when it seemed that I heard a sigh from some one above, close at the edge of the grave, and bending down” (Brontë, 289).

In this scene, the effort of opening the coffin, and especially the action of actually breaking the wood with his bare hands, demonstrates Heathcliff’s efforts towards total physical destruction of a barrier between his body and Catherine’s. Furthermore, the act of breaching the coffin is socially as well as physically transgressive: in addition to violating the clear separation that cemeteries establish between living bodies and corpses in human civilization, Heathcliff’s language may even indicate an ongoing sexual desire for Cathy. In other words, Heathcliff may not only harbor desire for Cathy as he remembers her, but also for her present state in the novel, as a corpse: his use of the term “my object” can be read as referencing Cathy’s corpse as an object of affection, or of desire, while his desperation to “have her in my arms again” is an unsettlingly physical and even romantic sentiment to demonstrate towards a lifeless and decaying body. In this scene, Brontë’s diction and Heathcliff’s stated desires both contain a borderline implication of necrophilia: among the most appalling of social taboos. Thus, as Heathcliff begins to engage more aggressively with the physical space around him, he abandons more carelessly the norms and standards of the society that constrained him: the anticlimactic frustration of his voyeurism gives way to a tendency towards transgression, and his bodily desires grow increasingly perverse.

A novel of lingering tensions and oftentimes of profound horror, Wuthering Heights functions, in some ways, as a haunted text. The human tragedy and supernatural horror of the narrative besets the audience—but some of its poison is released through the telling. One of the great paradoxes of Wuthering Heights is the simultaneous necessity and limitations of both physical social boundaries: while Catherine’s strict adherence to societal convention arguably destroys both Heathcliff’s life and her own, the total lack of regard for the parameters of civilized society that Heathcliff demonstrates has horrific consequences of its own. Lockwood, on the other hand, hovers on the threshold between the conventional and the primitive: although a civilized man, he is repeatedly drawn to the seclusion and enigmatic wilderness of Wuthering Heights. Neither rejecting nor wholly embracing conventional society, Lockwood’s consolation in the face of Wuthering Heights’ tragic history is achieved through acts of communication with the character of Nelly. Lockwood often misinterprets what he sees at Wuthering Heights, and Nelly occasionally embellishes or omits information in order to fit her internalized opinion of each character; nevertheless, through lengthy narration the two characters are ultimately able to piece together an imperfect but nuanced understanding of the occupants of Wuthering Heights. In this way, they begin to exorcise the fraught history of the landscape from their own souls. These acts of healing are reflected by the newfound ability of the characters to navigate the physical thresholds of the house: in the first scene of the novel, Lockwood attempts to enter through the gateway of Wuthering Heights, but is apprehended (Brontë, 3). By the end of the novel, having fully recounted the place’s history to the reader, Lockwood is able to enter easily, stating, “I had neither to climb the gate, nor to knock, it yielded to my hand” (Brontë, 307). The ability to navigate the physical thresholds of the landscape seems to parallel the redemptive and cleansing quality of verbalizing and communicating the tragic history of Wuthering Heights; thus, in the souls of both Nelly and Lockwood, the terrors of a haunted past are comprehended, and ultimately mitigated through mutual acts of translation.

Through its characters’ engagements with the literal and metaphorical boundaries of their social spaces, Wuthering Heights demonstrates the ambiguous line between civilized and animalistic, the dissatisfaction of forced and othered voyeurism, the terrifying distortions of the transgressive body, and the catharsis of narrative. Interestingly, though, the reader is placed in a peculiar position by the end of the novel. For while Nelly tells the story to Lockwood, and Lockwood to the audience, the story is not ours to tell—we have no such purgative ability. The audience then becomes the perpetual voyeur, experiencing the novel in a profoundly visceral fashion, while never quite entering the novel’s inaccessible world. The story then lingers with a strange and almost supernatural beauty that the reader consumes, yet struggles to translate. This is perhaps the most extraordinary literary achievement of Emily Brontë’s narration within Wuthering Heights. She creates a world whose history must be told over and over again—leaving our souls affected, our slumbers unquiet.