"I'm sorry if you felt offended, but I don't think what I actually said came across."--Jenny
There is absolutely no need to apologize, my dear and lovely Jenny. I think I should qualify my statement. It was not you who offended me, but rather the idea that offended me. The idea of "Old Maid." And I think I was, and am, offended because of the fact that there is no reason at all these days for any woman to be labeled as this.
As you pointed out, in Jane's day not marrying had dire financial consequences, whereas today "Sisters are doin' it for themselves!" (Gotta love Annie Lennox and Patty LaBelle.) What frightens me is that even though, and I'm sure in some cases in spite of the fact, we can now have financial stability, single women of a certain age are still looked down on socially and labeled with derogatory names. (Men don't have this problem. If they never marry, they are simply called a bachelor. However, the term bachelorette is only applied to a woman who is about to get married. Hmpf! What's up with that?)
I guess what's really got my goat munchin' on my britches is that even though we now CAN do it ourselves, society doesn't really WANT us to. Or at least, it doesn't want us doing it for too long. And the scarey thing is that even though we feminists are fighting against this, somehow our little girls are still learning it, AND they're buying into it.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
What Did You Call Me?
"...the real consequences of being an old maid"--Jenny, as told by Shane, concerning Jane Austen and the film Becoming Jane.
Oh Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. I do love you so much, so it hurts that I must tell you how offended I am. I say this mostly in jest, but there is a kernel of offense. After all, I am of that ever-growing class of women that Jane once belonged to. We are called old maids or spinsters. I don't have the experience of having been married at one time, so I can't claim the respect that a widow receives, nor the interestingly lascivious reputation that a divorcee is saddled with. Instead I am to be pitied, to be mourned, for never having known the joys that belong to marriage. Ahhh, poor me.
But seriously, I understand this comment as relates to Jane Austen and the time period she lived in. When a woman did not marry by a certain age in the 17th century, it was almost a given that she would never marry. What bothers me is that a lot of people think it's still valid today. (Not you, Jenny. This I know.)
This belief was most evident to me when one of my nieces said, "Aunt Shell, you need to find a husband." (Yes, this is an exact quote!) My first reaction was to stare, slack-jawed, at said eleven-year-old girl-child. My second was to wonder how in the hell this thought occurred to her when I've spent her whole life telling her how important she is to the world and that no man (or woman, if that is who she turns out to be) is needed for her to identify herself. With this one statement, I realized that, as far as women who never marry are concerned, the world hasn't really changed since Austen's time.
I have no plans to remain single for the rest of my life (as I'm sure Jane didn't,) but I'm not going to get married just to stop the pity that's thrown my way. I don't feel particularly pitiful or unwanted. I do feel a bit picky, but I can't see that as a bad thing (except for my age difference issues--sometimes I wish I would just get over it.) In fact, the only thing I actually lament about being almost 40 and still single is that the only one I have to share triumphs and defeats with (that is, the only one who is affected by them besides myself) is my cat, who deeply cares whether I am happy or not.
Finally, I should say that if turns out that I do remain single for the remainder of my days, oh well. At least I'll be in good company, Jane my sistah!
Oh Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. I do love you so much, so it hurts that I must tell you how offended I am. I say this mostly in jest, but there is a kernel of offense. After all, I am of that ever-growing class of women that Jane once belonged to. We are called old maids or spinsters. I don't have the experience of having been married at one time, so I can't claim the respect that a widow receives, nor the interestingly lascivious reputation that a divorcee is saddled with. Instead I am to be pitied, to be mourned, for never having known the joys that belong to marriage. Ahhh, poor me.
But seriously, I understand this comment as relates to Jane Austen and the time period she lived in. When a woman did not marry by a certain age in the 17th century, it was almost a given that she would never marry. What bothers me is that a lot of people think it's still valid today. (Not you, Jenny. This I know.)
This belief was most evident to me when one of my nieces said, "Aunt Shell, you need to find a husband." (Yes, this is an exact quote!) My first reaction was to stare, slack-jawed, at said eleven-year-old girl-child. My second was to wonder how in the hell this thought occurred to her when I've spent her whole life telling her how important she is to the world and that no man (or woman, if that is who she turns out to be) is needed for her to identify herself. With this one statement, I realized that, as far as women who never marry are concerned, the world hasn't really changed since Austen's time.
I have no plans to remain single for the rest of my life (as I'm sure Jane didn't,) but I'm not going to get married just to stop the pity that's thrown my way. I don't feel particularly pitiful or unwanted. I do feel a bit picky, but I can't see that as a bad thing (except for my age difference issues--sometimes I wish I would just get over it.) In fact, the only thing I actually lament about being almost 40 and still single is that the only one I have to share triumphs and defeats with (that is, the only one who is affected by them besides myself) is my cat, who deeply cares whether I am happy or not.
Finally, I should say that if turns out that I do remain single for the remainder of my days, oh well. At least I'll be in good company, Jane my sistah!
Monday, September 3, 2007
For Love of a Thesis
Well, it's time, once again, for me to pick up my thesis and work on a new section. The last section was about Steven King's short story "The Mist," and this new section will be about his short story "The Breathing Method." Now, I chose King as my subject because I dearly love his short fiction and feel that it has received a raw deal from the academic establishment. I also chose him because I felt that if any author could hold my attention long enough to write a 40 to 70 page critical paper, it would be King. I'm starting to wonder at the wisdom of my choice now, though.
The problem I'm having is that as I analyze King's work, I find that said analyzation is sucking the joy out of reading the stories (which is pretty much the only reason to read any story, in my opinion.) I find that by ripping everything apart I find new layers to marvel at, but that in ripping them apart, I feel a bit like Houdini unmasking fraudulant psychics. I feel smug in my ability to identify and explain the how and why of what makes the stories tick, but I lose a bit of that magical feeling of letting a story guide me through its little world.
I tell everyone that it's a good thing that I chose an author I love, or I would not be able to endure the constant re-reading and picking-apart of the literature, but I'm beginning to wonder. If I had chosen an author I liked a bit less, I think it would also hurt less to grow tired of that author. Oh Steven, whatever shall I do? I fear that I may be losing you, and it's something my heart may not be able to bear. (Sighs audibly.)
The problem I'm having is that as I analyze King's work, I find that said analyzation is sucking the joy out of reading the stories (which is pretty much the only reason to read any story, in my opinion.) I find that by ripping everything apart I find new layers to marvel at, but that in ripping them apart, I feel a bit like Houdini unmasking fraudulant psychics. I feel smug in my ability to identify and explain the how and why of what makes the stories tick, but I lose a bit of that magical feeling of letting a story guide me through its little world.
I tell everyone that it's a good thing that I chose an author I love, or I would not be able to endure the constant re-reading and picking-apart of the literature, but I'm beginning to wonder. If I had chosen an author I liked a bit less, I think it would also hurt less to grow tired of that author. Oh Steven, whatever shall I do? I fear that I may be losing you, and it's something my heart may not be able to bear. (Sighs audibly.)
Saturday, August 25, 2007
On Becoming Jane
Yesterday afternoon I decided to treat myself with a movie. The movie I chose was Becoming Jane staring Anne Hathaway. A certain English professor I know poo-pooed the movie because it concerns the romantic endeavors of Jane Austen, and as everyone knows, Jane Austen was a spinster. Ergo, she could not have had a romantic life. After having seen the movie, I can firmly say that this professor is totally wrong in her opinion.
This film is rather like the film Immortal Beloved, in which the mystery of Beethoven's will is explored. Yes, the film is speculative, but the speculations are grounded in fact. In Becoming Jane some of the facts are tweaked a bit so that they might be presented (like Jane's "challenged" brother, George, going to church with them,) within the context of the film, but on the whole, the film does a good job of showing what life was probably like for Jane Austen.
The speculative aspect of Becoming Jane concerns her affair with Tom Lefroy. While there are only two letters surviving that make mention of Lefroy, the film implies that there were several more letters that did not survive, and that perhaps the reason Jane remained single her entire life was because of the love she had for Lefroy. To me, this seems a very plausible bit of speculative fiction. After all, just because the woman never married, it can't be assumed that she never loved, and what better reason to never marry than because she could not have the one she truly loved.
The film is a joy for any Austen fan to watch, but be prepared to start crying about half-way through the film. (I'm sure not everyone will cry, but for those of us who have a propensity for it, bring tissues.) It's chock full of the heartache that comes from the audience knowing how everything will end, while the characters do not. It's beautifully acted, directed, and shot. The music fits the time period, and the costuming is so subtle it can be nothing but accurate. While I'm sure that there will be some Austen fans who can resist the pull of this film, I can't see them being the majority. For while it is a love story, it is a love story that goes beyond mere romance. It is an "epic" love story, one that examines what it really means to love, not just a mate, but life, family, work, and anything else worthy of such feeling.
It's been a long time since I've watched a film that touched me as much as this one has, and I can definitely say that it will become a part of my collection on the very day it is released on DVD.
This film is rather like the film Immortal Beloved, in which the mystery of Beethoven's will is explored. Yes, the film is speculative, but the speculations are grounded in fact. In Becoming Jane some of the facts are tweaked a bit so that they might be presented (like Jane's "challenged" brother, George, going to church with them,) within the context of the film, but on the whole, the film does a good job of showing what life was probably like for Jane Austen.
The speculative aspect of Becoming Jane concerns her affair with Tom Lefroy. While there are only two letters surviving that make mention of Lefroy, the film implies that there were several more letters that did not survive, and that perhaps the reason Jane remained single her entire life was because of the love she had for Lefroy. To me, this seems a very plausible bit of speculative fiction. After all, just because the woman never married, it can't be assumed that she never loved, and what better reason to never marry than because she could not have the one she truly loved.
The film is a joy for any Austen fan to watch, but be prepared to start crying about half-way through the film. (I'm sure not everyone will cry, but for those of us who have a propensity for it, bring tissues.) It's chock full of the heartache that comes from the audience knowing how everything will end, while the characters do not. It's beautifully acted, directed, and shot. The music fits the time period, and the costuming is so subtle it can be nothing but accurate. While I'm sure that there will be some Austen fans who can resist the pull of this film, I can't see them being the majority. For while it is a love story, it is a love story that goes beyond mere romance. It is an "epic" love story, one that examines what it really means to love, not just a mate, but life, family, work, and anything else worthy of such feeling.
It's been a long time since I've watched a film that touched me as much as this one has, and I can definitely say that it will become a part of my collection on the very day it is released on DVD.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
On Walking
I recently started walking in the evenings. Just around the neighborhood. Anyone who has been to my house knows that it's pretty hilly, so I get a descent workout. I find, much to my surprise, that I'm enjoying myself immensely. I put my headphones on and listen to my music as I walk, so it's not like I'm doing any thinking, which is very nice. I think way too much. It's good to be doing something that lets my mind go relatively blank.
The music relaxes me. I think I've been missing music in my life for a while now. I don't usually have it playing in the house. Normally it's either a movie playing or silence. I used to listen to music on my 40 minute drives to and from school, but now that I live so close, I don't even get that. A long time ago, almost a lifetime, I was a music major, so music has always been a large part of my life. I guess without it, I've lost a bit of myself. It feels good to connect with it again. It feels like we're rediscovering each other, like high school sweethearts coming together at the reunion. I feel almost whole.
On my walk today, I passed by an old man standing on his front porch. He was across the street, so I couldn't really see what he looked like, (I don't wear my glasses on my walks) except that he was wearing a white undershirt without a top shirt. He waved at me. I waved back, and then I smiled. It was kind of strange. Strange for me, at least. It's been a long time, almost 25 years, since I've lived in a neighborhood in which people waved at you as you walked by. It felt good, too. To him, I was just some woman walking by, ponytail bobbing, arms swinging, lips moving to music he couldn't hear, but something in him thought I needed that wave. I guess I did. Made me feel like I was a part of the neighborhood instead of just someone who lives a few blocks over. We didn't say anything to each other. I couldn't have heard him if he did. The French music in my ears was turned up too loud for that. But it still felt like we shared this tiny speck of a moment together. Funny. Never felt that before.
The music relaxes me. I think I've been missing music in my life for a while now. I don't usually have it playing in the house. Normally it's either a movie playing or silence. I used to listen to music on my 40 minute drives to and from school, but now that I live so close, I don't even get that. A long time ago, almost a lifetime, I was a music major, so music has always been a large part of my life. I guess without it, I've lost a bit of myself. It feels good to connect with it again. It feels like we're rediscovering each other, like high school sweethearts coming together at the reunion. I feel almost whole.
On my walk today, I passed by an old man standing on his front porch. He was across the street, so I couldn't really see what he looked like, (I don't wear my glasses on my walks) except that he was wearing a white undershirt without a top shirt. He waved at me. I waved back, and then I smiled. It was kind of strange. Strange for me, at least. It's been a long time, almost 25 years, since I've lived in a neighborhood in which people waved at you as you walked by. It felt good, too. To him, I was just some woman walking by, ponytail bobbing, arms swinging, lips moving to music he couldn't hear, but something in him thought I needed that wave. I guess I did. Made me feel like I was a part of the neighborhood instead of just someone who lives a few blocks over. We didn't say anything to each other. I couldn't have heard him if he did. The French music in my ears was turned up too loud for that. But it still felt like we shared this tiny speck of a moment together. Funny. Never felt that before.
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