Navigating Cruelty and Humanity: A Review of Beloved by Toni Morrison

Beloved by Toni Morrison
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I was blown away. At times I felt confused by the narration (I wasn't sure who was talking in certain chapters) but overall, it was a very moving story. Slavery is a state that cannot be described without a breakdown or a madness of some sort (I think this accounts for the confusion that I felt as I was reading the novel). Colonialism is a state of slavery as well...under the guise of religious conversion or "benevolent" aid. So, in a way, I can relate to this story as part of my education of my colonial past (in context of my postcolonial state).

"White people believed that whatever the manners, under every dark skin was a jungle. Swift unnavigable waters, swinging screaming baboons, sleeping snakes, red gums ready for their sweet white blood. In a way . . . they were right. . . . But it wasn’t the jungle blacks brought with them to this place. . . . It was the jungle whitefolks planted in them. And it grew. It spread . . . until it invaded the whites who had made it. . . . Made them bloody, silly, worse than even they wanted to be, so scared were they of the jungle they had made. The screaming baboon lived under their own white skin; the red gums were their own."

I don't know what real cruelty is like. This was a cruelty that defies explanation. The "whitefolks" in this novel is a race that does not know how to be human to other human beings of different color. The same race that came up with The Declaration of Independence....is also the same race responsible for this slavery. Paradox. Irony. Humanity.

"And if she thought anything, it was No. No. Nono. Nonono. Simple. She just flew. Collected every bit of life she had made, all the parts of her that were precious and fine and beautiful, and carried, pushed, dragged them through the veil, out, away, over there where no one could hurt them. Over there. Outside this place, where they would be safe."

And lastly, I view this novel through a mother's eyes. Would I be able to do what Sethe did? This was a different kind of "Sophie's Choice." But a choice nevertheless. A choice to go back to being a slave or to be free...even if that freedom is death. I don't know. I just count myself lucky (and blessed) that I do not have to make this choice at all. This novel shows me that what is deeply personal is also political...and what is political affects the deeply personal.

Definitely worth all my time and a must-read for understanding the journey of humanity.

View all my reviews

ModPo 2013 #52 Time Of One's Own and The Time To Live: On Mayer's "Invasion Of The Body Snatchers"

Image of Sylvia Plath as a new mother from mahmag.org.

Poem from UPenn.

----------------------------------------------------

I really liked this poem. It reminded me of the time that I was a new mother as well. I craved adult conversation so much, I actually contemplated going to the office just to talk to people! Not only that, I was suffering postpartum blues (crying every day!) and I was terrible at breastfeeding because I never really learned how (yes, it's learned, it's not natural and you don't get it by looking at a poster). I was desperate and logging every breastfeeding session in a journal including what breast and how many minutes. It was terrible. Indeed, I didn't feel like my life belonged to me. I was actually alienated by my life. Don't get me wrong: I love my kids to bits. But the thing is: new motherhood really does feel like an alien invasion. 

I totally get the time distortion that Mayer talks about in the poem. Time really does get distorted for a new mother. These things kept occurring to me: "Didn't I just feed the baby?" "When did I last take a shower?" "Why does this have to hurt so much?" "Will I ever feel normal again?" "Why is the baby crying again?"

It's true that so much literature and images of new motherhood look picture-perfect, emotionally fuzzy, and joy-ful. But it's actually not. Especially with a first child. It's a time of great confusion, dazed activity, and tears. I couldn't drive while recovering from my Caesarian section and I felt so closed in, locked out of the rest of the world. It got to a point where I begged for something to do like deposit money in a neighborhood bank just so I could get out of the house. I find Mayer's "I-do-this-I-do-that" description of time spot on in that it's confused and arbitrary and decidedly non-narrative. 

I do see the turning point of "it's time to die." It reminds the speaker to live, to read, to not suppress the fantasy of having her baby getting raised by wolves. 

I see it as a refusal of the automaton's life. At some point during my maternity leave I started to paint. In a way, I saw it as my own refusal to be so domesticated and chained, without blaming anyone, really. Feeling domesticated and chained is a choice. No one imposed it on me. My circumstances and hormonal state of mind made me feel isolated but I didn't have to give in to it. Like Berrigan's "3 Pages," choices needed to be made. One needs to open the windows to let in the good cold air, wake up, drink some champagne, and maintain that aesthetic life, time that is no one else's but one's own. Recognizing the time to die is also recognizing the time to live. 

Gravida, Para, Abortus

Gravida, Para, Abortus

by Justine C. Tajonera

In a few notations, I reviewed my reproductive life.
One miscarriage at the end of the first trimester.
I didn't have a name yet. Blighted ovum.
No one's fault. Tears.
The first live birth to term. Happiness and
weariness all at the same time. Fourteen hours of
labor. Emergency caesarian. A son.
One ectopic pregnancy. I remember bleeding
in the toilet, after an office meeting. I kept
saying, "No, no, no. Please stay, please, please."
Frightful, intense pain in my right abdomen.
Operation at dawn. Emptiness. Tears again
in the recovery room. My brother called on
my cellphone. No one else was there.
One more live birth. A girl, finally.
No protracted labor. I was wiser, this time,
rooming her in immediately, not caring
what the nurses said.
One scar, two children, two
deaths, two births. All of it fit in four
digits: 2, 0, 2, 2.

I credit a fellow poet, Jimmy, for helping me with this edit of the poem:

In a few notations, I reviewed my reproductive life.
One miscarriage at the end of the first trimester.
I didn't have a name yet. Blighted ovum.

No one's fault. Tears. The first live birth to term.
Happiness and weariness all at the same time.
Fourteen hours of labor. Emergency caesarian.

A son. One ectopic pregnancy. I remember
bleeding in the toilet, after an office meeting.
I kept saying, "No, no, no. Please stay, please, please."

Frightful, intense pain on my right abdomen.
Operation at dawn. Emptiness. Tears again
in the recovery room. My brother called on

my cellphone. No one else was there. One more
live birth. A girl, finally. No protracted labor.
I was wiser, this time, rooming her in immediately,

not caring what the nurses said. One scar,
two children, two deaths, two births.
All of it fit in four digits: 2, 0, 2, 2.

Also adding a note to this poem:

Note: This was written after our annual physical exam at the office. It felt very surreal to be processed from one station to the other. The doctor wrote cryptic numbers on my sheet. I took the time to figure it out, afterwards. The title refers to the GPA system but what was actually written on my sheet was TPAL (T = babies born to term, P = para or preterm births, A = abortus or miscarriage, L = live births). Gravida is the number of pregnancies.

NaPoWriMo#16: Wedding Ring and Nature (Two Poems)

NaPoWriMo or National Poetry Writing Month, is an annual project in which participating poets attempt to write a poem a day for the month of April.

Below are two poems in pantun, a traditional Malay poetry form.

Wedding Ring
by Justine C. Tajonera

The wedding ring sat quietly atop some books.
It quietly disappeared that same afternoon.
Between us, there have never been more than looks,
no proofs of love required, no vows under the moon.

Nature
by Justine C. Tajonera

I watched our pet hamster, Mindy, devour
two of her newborn pups one afternoon.
I ask if war and hunger and poverty are
things we inflict on children who are least immune.

All I Know Of You

All I Know Of You


They say you used to dance
all afternoon in lieu of jogging.
You used to eat pastillas de leche
on your bed, dropping the white wrappers
one by one, on the floor. 

They say it's okay to cry. 
But I never really knew that
because sometimes I doubt
that I ever knew you at all. 

I touch your bracelets, 
the red ink on your books. 
I touch your watch, the silver one, 
the one without numbers
on its face. 

I'm sure you must have covered
my face with kisses. 
You must have. 

There won't be a final conversation. 
You left. And that's that. 
And nothing will bring you back, 
not these sudden, red faced and
disheveled moments of grief,
even after thirty four years. 

I kiss my children for you. 
I love you, you know, 
as if you were in my kitchen
waiting to talk over hot
lychee tea.

- Justine Camacho-Tajonera

Clea, Sleeping

This for you to keep
when you are a grown woman
or maybe a mother yourself:
the smooth and plump
arch of your soles
when I kissed them
in your sleep,
your wispy baby hair
in my fingers
and the soft sound
of your breathing,
your brows not yet
drawn together
in your defiant little frown
as you lay dreaming.

May 27, 2012
by Justine Camacho-Tajonera

Things I Want My Daughter To Have (Reading "B" by Sarah Kay)

I just discovered this spoken word poem on Amazon.com. I stumbled upon it when I searched for poetry. It was the first book they recommended for the holidays. It is truly amazing. And because I do have a daughter, I found it really fascinating and true and poignant.

There are just some things I want to share with my daughter because I was there before her. And I want to share it with love, with a lot of understanding, with the compassion of a mother to a maybe-future-mother too. And not to say that I'm all-wise either. Like Sarah says in her poem, "on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive." I want her to know that I'll be there. Through her mistakes (which she'll surely make) and her triumphs and her heartaches (with all the drama!) and her joyful discoveries. And maybe when she's a mother herself... I'll be there before, during and after that painful, bewildering, crazy, beautiful thing called giving birth. And like "The Runaway Bunny" (one of my favorite kids' books) "B" reminds me that I am a "Point B" and no matter what my daughter will do... I will find her. And also that she can't get away from me.

Some things I want my daughter to have: a love for life, an independence of thought, a big, inexhaustible heart. And more, more, more.

I was very inspired by "B." And I'm already drafting something for Clea, especially after she woke me up at 5AM today! :-)

"B"
by Sarah Kay

If I should have a daughter,
instead of "mom," she's gonna call me "Point B."
Because that way she knows no matter what happens
at least she can always find her way to me.
And I'm going to paint the solar systems on the backs of her hands.
So that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say
"Oh, I know that like the back of my hand."
And she's gonna learn that this life
will hit you.
Hard.
In the face.
Wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach.
But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs
how much they like the taste of air.
There is hurt here
that cannot be fixed
by band-aids or poetry.
So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming,
I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape
all by herself.
Cause no matter how wide you stretch your fingers,
your hands will always be too small to catch
all the pain you want to heal.
Believe me.
I've tried.
"And, baby," I'll tell her,
"Don't keep your nose up in the air like that.
I know that trick;
I've done it a million times.
You're just smelling for smoke,
so you can follow the trail back to a burning house,
so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire,
to see if you can save him.
Or else,
find the boy who lit the fire in the first place
to see if you can change him."
But I know she will anyway,
so, instead, I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby.
Because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix.
Okay...there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix,
but that's what the rain boots are for.
Because rain will wash away everything,
if you let it.
I want her
to look at the world
through the underside of a glass bottom boat.
To look with a microscope at the galaxies that exist
on the pinpoint of a human mind.
Because...
that's the way my mom taught me.
That there'll be days like this.
There'll be days like this my mama said.
When you open your hands to catch
and wind up with only blisters and bruises.
When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly
and the very people you want to save
are the ones standing on your cape.
When your boots will fill with rain,
and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment,
and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say "Thank You."
Cause there's nothing more beautiful
than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline
no matter how many times it's sent away.
You will put the wind in winsome...lose some.
You will put the star in starting over. And over.
And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute
make sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And, yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am
pretty damn naive.
But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar.
It can crumble so easily but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out
and taste it.
"Baby," I'll tell her,
"Remember your mama is a worrier
and your papa is a warrior.
And you are the girl with small hands and big eyes
who never stops asking for more."
"Remember that good things come in threes
and...so do bad things."
And, "Always apologize when you've done something wrong.
But don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes
refuse to stop shining.
Your voice is small
but don't ever stop singing."
And when they finally hand you heartache,
when they slip war and hatred under your door,
and offer you hand outs on street corners
of cynicism and defeat,
you tell them that they
really oughtta meet
your mother.

Fireworks

by Justine C. Tajonera

You won't remember this,
little one.
I was carrying you close
after the carousel ride
and there were fireworks
in the sky.
The lights and sound startled you
and your mouth opened in awe.
You looked at me, your eyes huge
with a question you couldn't yet ask,
then you looked away and
you looked at the sky again.
You leaned your head
on my shoulder
and those five minutes
stretched to forever
as I breathed in your wonder
and the powder on your neck,
your tiny hands holding on
to my shoulder.
I will keep this for us,
for when  I hold your hand
through other days ahead,
for when you have children
of your own.

You Have Been Loved

by Justine C. Tajonera

Someone else will
look into your beautiful face
and tell you that
you are loved.

But remember,
I loved you
first.

I loved every precious
inch of you,
every little smile,
every fold on your skin,
every expression on your
face.

You have been loved
through sleepless nights
when your first two teeth
sprouted,
through soiled diapers,
through your crabbiest
temper.

When time tests you,
when promises
are broken,
when disappointments
come your way,

remember that
you have been
loved.

You have been loved
for all that you are
and all that you
will be.

And everything,
everything
will be alright.


For Clea

Little Gifts

by Justine C. Tajonera

There was one morning
I discovered your socks in my bag
at work.
I started to cry, not yet knowing
if I was sad at the thought of you
waking up without me
or happy that I had something
of yours to hold me
together for the rest
of the day.

The other day, you were
already asleep
when I got back home
and I saw your slippers
outside your room
and again, I started to cry
not knowing if I was happy
that you were getting enough rest
or sad to have missed
tucking you
in bed with me.

These little things
string along in my mind
and break open my
heart.

I cannot yet
find the words
to describe why
each little thing
that you do
and leave
for me
to find

are lovely
little gifts
that throw open
all the windows
in my
life.

For Badger
Sept. 14, 2010

Image from madelinetosh.typepad.com

Mother's Day Wish

by Justine C. Tajonera

There is a sound that breaks
my heart every morning.
It is when I turn the lock
twice to leave
after getting a
goodbye kiss
from you.

Sometimes, you run
to the door
to see me out.
You wave
and say, "See you
later."

In what world is it
possible for me
to turn around
and
stay?

This morning
you finally held your
crayons in a pencil
grip,
correcting yourself,
watching me,
waiting for me to
smile.

What if we had
the whole day
to draw mountains
and trees
and suns?

Even though this is
the brink of
a work week,
I pick up my bag
and packed lunch
and head to the
door
no matter how hard
my heart remains
tied
to your side.

The day is coming,
just you wait
and see.
The day is coming
when we will both
go through that door
for adventures
with no measures
and a horizon of
mountains
and trees and
limitless suns.

(May 7, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/psychobabble/274717482/

Happy Face

By Justine C. Tajonera

Things need to
get done.
The clock moves
forward, relentlessly,
bleeding from
one hour to
the next.

But everything stops
when I see his
happy face,
even the one
he puts up for
purely illustrative
purposes.

Moment melts
into moment,
stretching apart
like well-loved taffy
and anticipated mozzarella.

A separate world
consisting of
lollipops and pink
frosting and
blocks that turn
into robots
appears
out of nowhere,
reassuring me
that happiness
has no
reason.

(Jan. 7, 2010)

Blankets

By Justine C. Tajonera

I save each sleepy kiss
planted on my cheek,
each fistful of my hair that
my son gathers in
his hands.

There's a palpable warmth
that comes from being
with him.

I know that this will last
up to a certain age,
I know it in my head.

While it is comforting to know
that cycles repeat themselves
in life
I put my hands across time
like trying to tuck
a bed sheet
in a frame,
away from the
inevitable.

I never knew this
kind of relentless
counting of the
hours
until he tumbled
into our
hearts.

Each morning
I count
myself lucky
to have him snuggled
in my arms.

Nothing could be
simpler than his
body
warmth.

(Dec. 11, 2009)


Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/amyvdh/2095120543/

When You Woke Up Today

By Justine C. Tajonera

When you woke up today
I wasn't there.
Your eyes were heavy
with dreams,
I couldn't bear
to disturb you.

When you woke up today
you must have felt for me,
stirring slowly,
listening to the birds
outside the window,
wondering where I
was.

When you woke up today,
you must have started moving
towards the stairs,
tentatively calling out
my name.

Maybe you cried,
wondering where I was.
If you were in a good
mood,
maybe you asked yaya
for eggs
and rice.

When you woke up today,
I was thinking of you,
how you looked when
I kissed your cheek.

Take my kiss with you,
dear one,
even in your sleep.

My love is even
and uneventful,
rock-bottom in its
existence,
awake always

even as you sleep.

(Nov. 12, 2009)

Image from: http://ladyfi.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/midnight_dreams.jpg

The Bottomless Bag

By Justine C. Tajonera

The day ends and there is still
so much to do.
The lists never really
come to a stop,
life is a cyclic
river,
a race
with no
finish line.

And here is where
a mother
makes sense
of this bewildering
derby:

Her heart
is a bottomless
bag.

Her literal purse
overflows with the keys to
her kingdom,
a treat for each child.
But her heart
has room for
everything:

Every little joy
or grief,
all the lightness of laughter
and the weight
of betrayal
and tears,

all the paradoxes
of loving unconditionally
and letting go
in the same
manner,

all the bittersweet
knowledge
of loving what is
temporary
and ever-growing,
ever-reaching
for the door.

When you think
she cannot
give any
more,
she wells up
with surprises.

Ask her why.
She will never

explain.

(Nov. 11, 2009)

Picture from the game Magical Empire™, used with friendly permission. Illustration drawn by Faugar.

A Picture Of Us

By Justine C. Tajonera

It used to be
that I would collect
pictures of the
two of us.
There were pictures
of our feet,
of the places
we'd seen,
the day we
were married.

Last night,
he had a picture
of us
in his hands.
He would have
fallen asleep
with it
if I hadn't
gently pried it
from his
fingers.

There is a story
of us
in his head
now.
And when I'm tempted
to pick you
apart
I remind myself
that someone is
keeping snapshots
of us
in his heart,
keeping him
safe.

For Vier

(Oct. 12, 2009)

I Would Never Let Go

By Justine C. Tajonera

I would never let go
of your hand
though the current
of a flood might
be stronger than me.
And if your hand
should ever slip
from mine,
I would never
rest until
I saw your face
again.
Nothing would
stand in my
way.
I would comb
all the cities
until I lost my shoes,
the clothes on my back,
and forget my
own face and name
before the day
that I would
ever forget
you.

(Oct. 11, 2009)

Inspired by a true story from an evacuation center.