What Is in A Name?

The following is a term paper I wrote, a textual analysis, for my Modern American Literature course. I received incredible feedback from my professor, far better than I was expecting, which gave me so much hope as I am about to graduate and pursue a career in writing. 

What Is in A Name?

A Textual Analysis of John Steinbeck’s

 East of Eden

Who are you? Who am I? Is that something we can answer for ourselves? Or is such a definitive title the domain of others, those outside of ourselves? And if so, to what end? And what purpose? And what difference does it make, who we are or what we are called? If you heard my name was Eve, what thoughts, preconceptions and premature conclusions would you draw, based on the name alone? And would I become, in your mind, a presentation of your expectations, simply because you have decided what and who I am, so that is all that you see in me and about me? Will you connect my arbitrary actions and behaviors with your own expectations and preconceived notions, further solidifying and proving your initial opinion of me? If I had a different name—Kate, perhaps—would I have been, to you, an entirely different person? Even with the exact same behaviors and interactions? What is in a name? In all the years since John Steinbeck wrote East of Eden, have we, as a society, gotten the message he was trying to relay?

“Names are a great mystery. I’ve never known whether the name is molded by the child or the child changed to fit the name.’” (Samuel Hamilton. pp. 261)  

The value and purpose of chosen names throughout East of Eden, should not be lost on the astute reader. Even the casual novice cannot ignore that specific names, such as Adam, bring with them explicit weight and connotation, even with only the most remote knowledge of Biblical lore. The author creates further context with myriad allusions to and express mentions of the garden of Eden and the associated myth and its particulars. This is done across the pages of what is a very long employment for the reader, with deft and skill such that one is pulled through the text, engaged, and concerned, even excited, to see how this real-world adaptation of the ancient fable will play out. Set in the new Eden, the recently conquered frontier lands of California; the author, John Steinbeck, lays out in great detail, a nineteenth and early twentieth century regaling of original sin, with all the inherent drama, crisis, and commotion.

To that end, Steinbeck employs names and titles, their stereotypes, and implications, as guideposts and direction to assist the reader on the long journey through several generations and locations of post-frontier era America. Within the context of a few, well-developed familial groups, readers are educated not only about the difficulties of Victorian society in the infancy of the western United States, but also brought deep into the drama of close relationships and, perhaps most importantly, forced to face the capacity for good and evil that is innate in every living human being. It could be expected to focus only on the Biblical references, the influence and/or value of virtue and malevolence. These themes are rife, with abundant context, reference from which to feast with one’s analytic appetites easily satisfied. Taking that route, however, would deprive the analyst of the opportunity to be rewarded with a study of the importance of and elucidation available through specially chosen names and titles, and how they effect not only character and human development, but also act as catalyst for drama and plot momentum.

 “Adam chuckled. “This naming is no simple business, I see.”’ (pp. 263)

Adam Trask, who this reader regards as central to the entire novel, has not only the Biblically significant of the father of human life, but also the many positive and desperately negative characteristics inherited from his namesake. He falls victim to a woman, one who in no way resembles mother Eve, other than in her ability to coax and manipulate. (This analysis in laboring under the outdated interpretation of the mother of humanity as a tool, or at the very least, victim, of the serpent.) Our character, one of the most nefarious and despicable creations of the feminine persuasion, Cathy, or Kate, is presented as purely and perfectly evil. Today she would be given the label of sociopath, lacking the capacity for empathy or true emotion. In the story, and in the era represented, she could only be called evil, wicked. In her case, this reader finds little in her given name to analyze, but rather, the substance and evidence lies in her labels and titles, which are in themselves another incarnation of the naming process, with equal significance in the analytic process.

“To you she was [beautiful] because you built her. I don’t think you ever saw her—only your own creation.’” (Samuel Hamilton to Adam Trask pp. 260)

How often are identities formed on nothing more than name, title, and word of mouth, combined with personal biases? How often do we look past the reality before us in favor of the actuality we have created, especially with regard to our perception of each other? How much of what we see is real and how much is actually what we have created? The story’s main antagonist, Kate, really is as bad as she is written. Nothing is spared in her portrayal as nasty, vile. The discrepancy comes in Adam’s perception of her—the view he has created, the idealized take on who she is, and he suffers for it. Just as one cannot fault a snake for striking when an unwise human or animal gets too close, one cannot fault Kate for being the monster she has always been. Her evil was apparent to others, even to Adam’s own brother, who tried to warn him. It was Adam who chose not to see, for various reasons, and though the results were disastrous, the fault cannot be with Kate alone. Often, we create our own victimhood by overlooking that which does not fit with the reality we prefer or desire.

Steinbeck gives us this evaluation of our own erroneous expectations to chew on, but then compounds it with the responsibility and potential harm we can inflict when we bring life into the world. Again, through names, labels, and titles, and the expectations we impose on the life we create, for good or ill.

 “…not their blood but your suspicion might build evil in them. They will be what you expect of them.”

“I think when a man finds good or bad in his children he is seeing only what he planted in them after they cleared the womb.’” (Samuel Hamilton. pp. 260)

This is true in the development of children, but also in relationships. It seems at first to be a contradiction, as we previously reasoned that Adam held great fault in his own suffering for holding Kate to higher expectations than were her natural disposition. The difference is that Adam did not truly interact with her, as one does in child-rearing or in building a relationship. He acted only with the dream in his mind, ignoring the things Kate actually said and did, talking over her, speaking for her, straight up not listening to the words coming out of her mouth. She was telling him, just as a snake that hisses, ‘I am going to bite you!’ He ignored the warning.

As a result of his suffering, Adam chose to be absent from his own opportunity for shaping his children’s lives. And though we can see how both boys were influenced by DNA and the personalities and traits of their parents, Adam’s greater involvement could have been the balance needed to aid his son Cal in developing better qualities and could have given his son Aron a stronger mind and character. As negatively as Adam was affected by his own father’s child-rearing style, one might expect that he would want to seize the opportunity to better for his own children. But the cycle of poor fathering continues, with his involvement coming too late, with the damage already done, personalities and dispositions already formed. It would be fair at this point, to acknowledge that Adam was in large part a result of his own father’s lies and imposed machismo and unrealistic expectations.

“I’m going away now.’” (Cathy. pp. 199)

But names and parental influence are not enough. We need to dig still deeper and explore the implications and ramifications of labels and titles that are liberally sprinkled throughout the text, with great meaning and significance. Steinbeck pulls no punches and wastes no sugar on special coatings. What is the difference between a church and a whorehouse? Maybe a few activities, but mainly, the title and associated expectations. Different labels, but with the same goal in mind: to take money and assuage men’s minds, fill their needs, and keep them coming back for more.

It is not only in such controversial subject matter that Steinbeck asserts the trouble with labels. Labels are just words, after all, but are ascribed to human beings, and bring with them a weight of responsibility and expectation that our story’s characters are constantly fighting against, echoing our own real-world human struggles with identity. East of Eden was written during a time of revolution in the United States and throughout the western world. Old expectations of race and gender roles were being challenged in response to war and legislation. All the old markers of one’s identity and how people identified each other were evolving drastically and rapidly, not always with great or positive effect.

Cathy, or Kate, was a woman, and a small one at that. Prevailing opinions of small women blinded most to the truly horrible power held in her tiny frame. Lee, a wise and educated American-born Chinese man was seen only as a foreigner, an Oriental. And because the title was too hard to fight, he acquiesced for ease and simplicity. Young Mary wants to be a boy, because with that label, she will be free to embrace her obvious skills and talents. As a little girl, her achievements are not appropriate or acceptable. Lee’s young mother comes to America, disguised as a man, and works hard, filling the role of any man, only to be discovered, raped, and murdered, for not fitting the title she had claimed.

Steinbeck’s work forces readers and critics, especially those who made up his contemporary audience, to see the fallacies and logical disconnects that they and their ancestors have labored under and how things must and will change. Just as the horse and buggy are left behind, in favor of the complicated but more efficient Ford, so must past stereotypes and expectations be put out to pasture in the name of progress. Identity is a construct, based on arbitrary, contrived assessments over time in a society. Only when we realize that blanket assumptions based on and used in conjunction with labels, names, and titles, can we begin to shed their often-negative consequences. Through his Biblical adaptation, Steinbeck implores us to see this human weakness, acknowledge it, and do something about it. A hundred or so years later, and we have yet to truly heed and implement that advice.

Steinbeck, John. East of Eden. New York. Penguin, 2002.

Purity & Padlocks: Draft One

This is the first draft of a one-act play I am working on for my theater literary genre class. Due Thursday. I know it could still benefit from a LOT of fleshing out, but I don't think I will have time before it's due. I hope to be able to come back to it this summer and shore it up. :-)

Purity & Padlocks

Setting: A death bed sits in the middle of a dim white hospital room with direct spotlight from above. Old woman in the bed holds a small wooden box, locked with a ridiculous amount of assorted locks.

Pre-teen girl with blonde ringlets, wearing long sleeved shirt and neat jeans walks quietly, somberly into the bedroom, pulls up a chair beside the bed, sits down.

The old woman stirs, looks up at the girl. Clutches the box tightly to her chest.

Old Woman: (loud whisper) I protected it. Always. I kept it locked. (begins gasping for breath)

Young Girl: I know you did, Grandma! Everyone knows! Don’t worry about that, it doesn’t matter right now!

Old Woman: (gasping) It’s the only thing that does matter! Make sure they know, I kept it safe. Promise me!

Young Girl: Alright. (softly) I’ll make sure.

Old Woman: Where is your box? The one I gave you as a baby? Show me.

Young Girl: I don’t have it with me right now, Grandma. I was in such a hurry to be with you. The doctor said to hurry.

Old Woman: How could you?! Something might happen it to it. I thought you understood! Nothing else matters as much! How can you be so foolish? Collapses into unconsciousness.

Nurse walks into the room, checks the old woman’s vitals. Turns to the young woman.

Nurse: Try not to upset her. She’s dying. It will be soon. This is not the time for conflict.

Young Girl: I wasn’t trying to upset her. It’s just that I was in such a hurry and forgot my box.

(Nurse lifts the small wooden box hanging from a heavy chain around her neck. The lid is broken, hanging from the box at an angle.)

Nurse: I used to take really good care of mine, like your grandma. But my mom broke hers open before I was born, so I did the same when I was like fifteen.

Young Girl: (Gasps in shock) What was inside it?! Do you still have it? Can I see?

Nurse: Mine was full of packing peanuts. I never asked my mom what was in hers. I keep meaning to just throw this darn box away, it’s really heavy, even empty. And it hurts my neck. But then I think of my old grandma and I just keep lugging it.

Young Girl: Packing peanuts? That can’t be right. If it’s just peanuts, why do I get a new lock every year? My mom, grandma, everyone has always told me it’s something super valuable in my box. I don’t think they’d lie to me.

Nurse: (Shrugs) I’m just telling you what was in mine, honey. Anyway, speak soft to your grandma, say nice things. I’ll check on her again in a bit but call me if you need anything.

Young Girl looks around the room nervously. Stares at old woman, then young girl shakes her head, walks to window, stares out. Spotlight moves slowly, dimmer, to the window. The beeping of a heart monitor can be heard.

Flash back sequence begins.

Brightly lit meadow area with a few leafless, withered trees. Young girl is grabbing desperately at a young boy who is holding a small wooden box with a tiny, aluminum lock.

Young Boy: Stop making such a big deal about it. It’s just a box. Everyone has one, they all open them eventually. Don’t you want to see what’s inside?

Young Girl: Well, yes. Of course I wonder what’s in there. But my grandma and my mom, and well, everyone I know, has always told me to keep it locked, safe. It’s dangerous.

Young Boy: (Laughs derisively) You really think your old bitch grandma and crazy mom NEVER opened their boxes? Come on, don’t be so naïve. Reaches for the box. Girl pulls away, backs up. The boy lunges and grabs the box from her hands.

Young Girl: Frantic. Give it back! Give it back! (Tries to take the box back as the boy jangles the small, inadequate lock. She fights to retrieve it. He yanks off the lock, beginning to laugh triumphantly.) Please! Please don’t! He pushes her to the floor.

Young Boy: Laughing. Didn’t your old grandma tell you to use better locks? Are you that stupid? How important can it be if you only use a crappy toy lock? Be honest already, (throws the tiny lock on the floor) you wanted me to open it for you. You wanted to see what’s in there but just didn’t want to do it yourself. You should be thanking me!

Young Girl: (Backing away, pulling herself with her arms, as the boy opens the lid, a light shining brightly from under the lid.) No. I didn’t want to open it. I didn’t! (She begins shaking, weeping, covers her face with her hands.)

Young Boy: (Laughing, reaches into the box, pulls out a piece of coal.) This?? (Holds up the piece of coal, laughing derisively.) This is what you were so worried about?? (Tosses it up in the air, catches it, shakes it in the girl’s face.)

Young Girl: (Sobbing, jumps up, trying to grab the coal but does not succeed.) Why?? Why would you do that? I thought you liked me. I thought you cared.

Young Boy: Well, you just learned a lesson, didn’t you? (Launches the piece of goal into the air, it sails away, out of sight. He drops the box, roughly on the ground, cracking it.)

Back in the hospital room…

The old woman stirs, moans. The young girl hurries to her side. Spotlight shines down on bed.

Young Girl: I’m here, Grandma. I’m here.

Old Woman: Frantic. Where’s your box? Where is your box??

Young Girl: Grandma, how can that matter right now?? I’m never going to see you again. I’m here, right here with you. Isn’t that enough??

Old Woman: The box! Nothing else matters! You don’t matter! I don’t matter! Where is the box?! I’m dying! Can’t you give me this one little thing? I just want to see the box!

Young Girl: I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m sorry. It’s gone.

Old Woman: Gasping, fading. Stupid. Stupid girl. Stupid…stupid…stupid. (Her head lolls to the side, her arms still clutching her own box, she goes still.)

Young girl: (stares at the dead face for a moment, sighs deeply.) I’m sorry, Grandma.

The girl walks slowly back to the window, opens the pane, forces out the screen, and climbs onto the ledge. Spotlight (red filter) follows young girl.

Nurse walks back into the room.

Nurse: What are you doing?? Stop!! Stop!! (She rushes toward the window, arms extended.)

Young girl jumps quickly out of the window. Nurse stops short at the window sill, staring down for a moment, shocked. Then turns, notices something on the floor, below the window. Leans down and picks up a small, broken wooden box without a lock. Stands examining the box, then throws it down aggressively.

Curtain closes.

Quick Response to Raymond Carver's Cathedral

This is a quick response to Raymond Carver's short story Cathedral that I wrote today for my American Lit class. 

I remember reading this story before, no idea which class it was, and as I started rereading it, I was thrilled to have forgotten the ending! So it was a new discovery, a fresh experience through more seasoned eyes. So many thoughts came to mind: First, being high, or experiencing euphoria. I went into pre-term labor with one of my babies and they gave me an incredibly potent, fast-acting shot of fentanyl. It worked within less than a second, and I rose, levitated, above the hospital bed, while the baby inside me tried to force her way out. It was one of the most amazing experiences, being outside of myself, outside of my life. 

Second, I think of the first time I jumped out of an airplane. The first 45 seconds were free-fall and I felt nothing but wind and speed, unable to consciously grasp any other sensations. Then the chute came up and I glimpsed the heaven that I don't believe in. The world was silent, the clouds danced around my tandem partner and I, but they couldn't come in, couldn't broach the safety, the intimacy, the sanctuary, that existed under that parachute. 

Finally, I think of my late father, watching him take his last strangled breath in a cold, sterile hospital room, surrounded by family, none of which could save him or carry even a piece of his burden. I tried to breath for him, like physically, literally. I didn't mean to, it was an involuntary reaction. I sucked in extra air, exhaled slowly, dramatically. He suffocated anyway. And in that moment, I did not exist. Not in my own body, anyway. Not in my own life. 

I've never been forced to sit down and contemplate these ideas and experiences before now, but in some way, Cathedral has brought me to this place. It didn't happen last time I read it, but then, of course, my dad was still alive and my sweet Mariah had yet to be conceived. Life is a series of moments, experiences, illusions, and the destruction or elevation of those illusions. And around every corner, if we open ourselves to it, we might find that there is an awakening, sitting there, waiting to open our eyes by forcing them shut. 

Numbers, Titles, Diploma

This is a response/application essay written for my senior seminar course. 

**********************************************************88

Picture this: The year is 1999. A young high school senior is walking outside, past the windows of her AP Biology class, while it is in session. Her long-suffering teacher shakes his head, as he notices her and her wayward companions out of the corner of his eye. The group of teenagers laugh, then move out to the parking lot to pile into a small blue two-seater. Their class time will be spent buying fountain drinks and gummy candy at the gas station.

            Return to this misguided student at the end of her senior year, walking in cap and gown, to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance, trailing a couple hundred of her classmates. Some of her fellow students have shiny golden cords adorning their matching robes, but not our student. She doesn’t realize it yet, but this lack of bling will be a thorn in her side for years to come, growing into a mental complex and obsession that will dramatically inform not only her later college endeavors, but also myriad other forks in her path through adulthood.

            ****

            My college experience and life in general was not initially influenced by the fact that I was less than one percent away from graduating high school with honors. It was only later, as I saw friends graduating from college while I took sporadic classes between marriage, divorce, and the other drama that characterized my early twenties. Having few accomplishments that I felt proud of, (other than jumping out of a couple of airplanes and having a strong credit score) I remembered the gold cords, and they became a beacon over the next two decades that would comprise my higher education experience. Reading the Menand piece was a revelation. Well, maybe not so much a revelation—as I was already well-aware of my obsession with my university G.P.A., but maybe we can call it an epiphany. I realized, as I read about Menand’s theory #1—the idea of college as a mechanism for sorting people—that I had desperately needed to be properly sorted, funneled into the right category. Having not ended up where I thought I would be by my mid-twenties, college became something of a second chance at proving myself.

            This was in spite of the fact that I had remarried (and happily so), brought three children into the world, and was running a successful small business. I didn’t need to go to college. No one expected me—as a Utah housewife—to take on any kind of capacity beyond child-rearing. I didn’t commit to full-time education with future employers in mind. I took the journey on full time with the singular goal of making myself worthy of my own life, and of the many sacrifices that had made my life possible. After years of taking one or two classes at a time, in between having babies and tending my home, it wasn’t until the final stages of my father’s battle with cancer that I enrolled with a full-time schedule. Part of that choice was a coping mechanism; school kept me busy and left little time to wallow in sadness or despair.

I can relate to Lahiri, thinking of how strongly I’ve consciously and unconsciously wanted to make my daddy proud of me, and to be worthy of his sacrifices as an immigrant. The funny thing is that he never explicitly pressured me in that regard. His emphasis was always on hard work and avoiding laziness—the ultimate sin. This translated in my mind, at that point in my life, to excelling in college. With that motivation in mind, I have focused, to a point of obsession, on realizing the one thing that would not only redeem the short-sightedness of my high school experience, but also sufficiently honor my dad: graduating with honors.

Some people have asked what I planned to do with the degree, most expecting it was only the latest in my vacillating array of momentary obsessions. And indeed, my answer to that question has changed, as has my declared major, many times over the last few years. I have struggled with committing to what I really love, or to instead go with something socially impressive, with a guaranteed payout in the real world. I was headed in the direction of radiology for a time, collecting a bunch of courses that now don’t even apply toward my final degree. I didn’t love what I was doing—but I loved the idea of impressing people with titles and medical knowledge.

Shortly after the first anniversary of my dad’s death, as the grass finally started growing in over his grave, I had the revelation that has led me to this last semester, and about to earn a degree in English, my true passion. It hit me just how much my dad had missed out on and given up, and I saw how in trying to honor him, I was making the mistake of trying to pattern my choices after his, rather than realizing the mistake he had made and avoiding it in my own life and pursuits. The way to really reverence his life, was to embrace my own passion in mine. To live fully, and happily, and to not miss a chance to do what I truly love, as I am fortunate enough to have that choice.

And now, back to the sorting. I’ve done it. Unless I flunk my final three classes, I will graduate with honors. And having been properly sorted into the right category, the one that the obsessive part of me has wanted for so long, I realize that what happens next doesn’t really matter. When people have recently asked what my plans are, what I’m going to do next… Well, I honestly don’t know. And that is scary, but also exciting. My singular focus has been on collegiate success, with no real, solid plans on what would follow. If I’m honest, I will admit that it just doesn’t make a difference what I do next. Having accomplished this one big thing, something inside me says that it’s enough. I could die feeling fulfilled.

Of course, the fluttering, competitive butterfly that is my mind, will inevitably find something else for me to conquer. But as of this moment, if you asked me where I was headed, I’d only be able to confidently say, “Up to the podium to collect my diploma.”