Fort Barton Woods

Fort Barton Woods

Preface

Through a reflection on my life and extensive pursuing through my notebook and semester writings, I have decided to make my final project a focus on a place known as Fort Barton. While I feel I have many interesting life memories to tell, they feel a bit cliché to me. How many times can a reader hear a story of a life threatening car accident or a intensive hospital stay? So thus, I have decided to focus on a treasured place in my life known as Fort Barton Woods. I was actually surprised to realize I have such a strong connection to this place, but I feel it is due to the representation this place has as my childhood, innocence and freedom. It was also fitting to reflect on this place as another chapter in my life comes to a close. This piece allowed me to look back on many special aspects of my childhood, at times I even started crying as I was reflecting on my friendship with my still best friend Alyssa, that I mention in the piece. Over time this piece grew to have more and more personal meaning. Fort Barton is one of the connections to my childhood home that I lived in for the first 20 years of my life. We no longer own the house and it is a place my family and I miss very much.

I feel my piece reflects both Momaday and Kaysen, and perhaps even Wolff. I feel I have a connection to Momaday due to my piece’s focus on a place. Like Momaday my place holds spiritual meaning in my heart. I was influenced by Kaysen’s style of writing as I told random stories that all connected back to Fort Barton, much like she did when she wrote about her time in McLean. Wolff also could be seen in my piece as he also tells stories that are seemingly random but important to his childhood. Above all, this class made me understand that autobiographical writing does not have a specific formula. An autobiographical text is defined by the author and the way in which they wish to personally reflect on their life.

As I graduate I will continue to reflect on not only my college years but the events that lead me to where I am now. My reflection on Fort Barton is only a piece of my self introspection. While I ultimately hope a reader enjoys it, I have personally enjoyed the reflection on this beloved place.

Fort Barton

When I was a stickily young girl, with hair barely to my ears, my legs would begin to burn within the first five feet of the initial ascent to Fort Barton. My first known memories of this menacing ascent up to Fort Barton put me at age six or seven. However I know that I have been exploring the vast expanse that Fort Barton is, since I was much younger.

While I do not have any explicit recollection of my first trip to Fort Barton, my mother tells me it was sometime in the summer of 1990. This summer would be prove to be a major milestone in the next 20 years of my life, as our family had just moved to Tiverton, RI and into our home on Highland road. Our location on Highland road would shape the next twenty years of the our lives. Fort Barton would become intwined in our family’s history. Its close proximity, less than a mile from my childhood home, would mean that as I transformed over the course of my childhood, I too would watch Fort Barton transform, not only in the physical sense but in the ways it became involved in my life. First by being a place that I was often dragged and then evolving to a place that I would come to find peace and escape.

Up There

The first part of the climb, to the tower known as Fort Barton, is a steep paved hill. This path, almost more reminiscent of a driveway, was only the beginning of the tiresome trek up to the tower. On the side of this path there were a series of stone markers. Truly, these markers were signs welcoming guests to Fort Barton Woods and the Revolutionary War Redoubt. However to me, I saw the signs as markers of how close to the top of the hill I was getting. This path winds up, and up, with a great bend in the middle were you can no longer see what is coming next. To a new comer, they are unaware that behind that bend, there stood another grassy hill and two sets of expansive staircases to be conquered. Just as you felt your lungs had recovered at the top of the long and winding path, your tired body was treated to another steep staircase and the seemingly 1000 steps to the top of the tower.

At the young age of six or seven, when I saw the trek up to Fort Barton more like a trek to Mt. Everest, I would beg to be picked up, scolded when I whined to stop, and left behind when I stood still in protest, refusing to go any further. The older I got, the longer it took before the burning in my legs set in. The mountain of Fort Barton grew less difficult to climb. The older I got, the more I craved the independence to climb the tower on my own, venture into the woods without supervision and stand in the graveyard filled with terror.

Girl Scouts

First I started as the beginner, the Daisy scout. Then somehow in third grade, through following the seemingly strict guidelines, and the random tasks required, I advanced in the ranks, to the Brownie Scout. For this momentous achievement, the girl scouts of troop 189, would travel up the hill from Fort Barton school up into Fort Barton Woods, for both a celebration and a civil duty. Instead of one of our traditional meetings in the confines of the school’s basement, we would be treated to a picnic in the woods. However there was a catch, before we could feast on the delectable treats our mothers were to pack, we had to pick up trash throughout the woods. Sure, it did not seem like our leaders were asking to much of us at the time. In fact all of the girls in our troop were perfectly excited for the change of pace. We would not have to spend the afternoon cooped up having our meetings in a place that resembled the common areas of a minimum security prison. However for me this day spent in Fort Barton woods would forever tarnish my impression of girl scouts and the associations I made with trash collection.

The day of the celebration, my fellow girl scouts and I left the basement jumping and jovial for our afternoon in the woods. Our picnic was packed, and their was much chatter about what every girls’ mother had packed. Among the highlights of the sweet treats were dirt cups, cupcakes, and tea sandwiches. As we marched up the hill, we sang songs with contagious excitement. When we arrived at the top of the multiple hills, the trash bags and gloves were distributed so we could begin our collection of the trash littering the tower area and nearby woods. When it was my turn to receive latex gloves, our troop leader realized that she was short a pair. For an instant there was a part of me that was elated, thinking that I would be exempt from traipsing around picking up discarded garbage. However this jubilation quickly subsided when my troop leader decided that I would have to follow around another girl, shadowing her every step of the way with a trash bag. While I did not like the idea of giving up my independence of collecting trash on my own terms, I was satisfied that I would not actually be handling the trash.

After a few ground rules recited by our troop leader, my partner and I set out down the rocky path winding around the tower. At first, all of the girls eagerly sought out pieces of trash discarded in the lush greenery of the surrounding woods. We were not allowed to wander far, and especially not down the uneven rocky path that lead into the depths of the woods. After a short while of meandering around the hills surrounding the tower, our momentum slowed. For one reason or another, my trash collecting partner and I decided that we would sit down and take a rest from our collection duties. As we sat there, picking blades of grass and chatting about something, now unmemorable, we were oblivious to our surroundings. However this was all about to change.

Mere moments after our rest began, we were up screaming and running. The trash bag was forgotten and we were on our feet, tripping over ourselves and running from that dastardly sight. I will never forget the terror that ensued after what we spotted in the grass. We bolted and sought the shelter of a high bolder. We both realized that we were crying hard, nearly sobbing. Personally, I was shocked and disgusted. Today after consulting various sources and recounting specific attributes of that terrifying being, I can say with great certainty that it was Garter snake. I felt vulnerable and suspicious that snake was going to follow and perhaps attack me. The yellow, green and brown stripes of that slinking body, approaching me on the grass, will forever be engrained in my memory. Even now when someone mentions a snake, I instantly picture the one I spotted on the that day and am disturbed.

The specific memories of the celebration that day begin and end with my encounter of the Garter snake. For days I was suspicious when I went outside. I walked with great care and was constantly checking my surroundings. Even at night and inside the protective confines of my house, I was fearful.

Sometime shortly after this day, I decided girl scouts was no longer for me. My experience with that terrifying snake certainly had something to do with my reasons for quitting, but I am sure I rattled off various other reasons for bidding farewell to a life of scouting. Today, my fear for snakes remains. I step cautiously in grassy areas and forever remember my close encounter with that snake in Fort Barton.

Poison Ivy

Boomer, my family’s golden retriever, adored chasing tennis balls. As faithful owners, we relished in throwing a tennis ball down Fort Barton’s trails and watching as Boomer bounded to catch them in her mouth. Occasionally the unpredictable trajectory of Boomer’s tennis ball would have it flying off the marked trail and into the uncharted woods surrounding the path. Typically it was my Dad’s role to find the missing tennis ball. However on this early summer day, following my fifth grade year, I was the one to find Boomer’s ball off in the woods. Of course, my Dad hovered over my shoulder and watched as I navigated the unkempt off-trail area.

Just as I spotted Boomer’s ball, my Dad reminded me to be careful of the poison ivy that was known to grow in the woods. I was well versed in identifying the red and green leaves of poison ivy and knew to avoid touching it. My knowledge of poison ivy was well instilled in me as my Dad was frequently having bad allergic reactions to the plant. While nothing was out of the ordinary that day, when I woke up the next morning I was in for a surprise.

Immediately upon waking, my face and eyes itched. When I looked in the mirror my face glowed shiny. Miniature bumps were forming on my right eyelid and cheek. This was not a ideal morning to wake up like this. The next day, I was to depart for overnight camp for a week and my personal appearance was on the track to continually deteriorate, as my reaction to the poison ivy worsened.

When I emerged downstairs, it was almost as if my Dad had already seen my face. Upon spotting the glistening red bumps, my Dad launched into a lecture about poison ivy; surely it had been contracted the previous day while fetching Boomer’s ball of the trail. Quickly my Mom saved me from my Dad’s lecture and came swarming in with an arsenal of over-the-counter drugs, ready to combat the emerging poison ivy on my face.

After the preventative measures were taken, I continued my preparations for camp. My two best friends arrived for dinner and we excitedly discussed camp and all the adventures we would be having together over the next week.

After a restless night of sleep, I awoke to find a horrifying reflection in the mirror. As I looked through one eye, I saw that my right eye had swelled so much, that it was now shut. My face burned a deep red, and the miniature bumps had grown in size. Instinctively I was devastated, this was not a way I wanted to be starting my first day at sleep away camp.

Sure enough my instincts proved to be right. When I arrived at camp later that morning I was quickly sent away. In fact, the camp officials recommended that I be taken to the hospital. This devastated me. I had been looking forward to camp for months and now I had to watch my best friends head off for the fun without me.

While the first couple weeks of that summer were marked by my ordeals with poison ivy and my rejection from camp, that summer was also marked by the adventures I had in Fort Barton. While my friends were at camp I made new discoveries within Fort Barton. My dad showed me the waterfall I had lusted after for so long. We spent hours sitting on the rocks on the bubbly river while my Dad educated me on the Torrey’s and the battles they fought in the area surrounding us.

When my friends came back from camp I was a wealth of knowledge. When we were all reunited back in the woods, I regurgitated the stories my Dad had shared with me. While I was envious of of their time at camp, they were envious of my new found discoveries within the woods.

Peace

As I got older, Fort Barton transformed from a place of adventure seeking into a place I sought out to find serenity and escape. My best friend Alyssa and I often walked the woods of Fort Barton telling our stories amongst those trees that bore stories of the Revolutionary War. Sometimes we would plan a lavish picnic or bring along her dog for a playmate, but mostly we just sought about the peaceful quiet of the woods. We would climb the steep path, as we had done for years on end, and walk for hours exploring our favorite hidden spots within the trails. We would climb up the stairs to the top of the tower and sigh as we took in our surroundings. We would drink in the view and marvel how much of the ocean we could see on a clear day. We would listen to the birds chirp, the silence of nature, and hope to follow the right path that lead to the waterfall.

Within Fort Barton we not only found the historical evidence of an infamous war, we found the historical evidence of her family. Like us, Alyssa’s mom had grown up exploring the woods of Fort Barton. When we followed the right trail, perhaps the blue dot, we would find ourselves sitting on the same picnic table that her mother had decades before. We would run our hands over the engraving of her initials and image what she was doing out here as a young girl.

I can not remember a time were I was not absolutely content to be walking those woods with Alyssa. While we may have changed over the years our adoration for Fort Barton and friendship always remained strong. Fort Barton will forever hold the enchantment I felt all through my childhood. I long for the mental clarity that only a walk through those woods could give me. I long to breathe in that air and remember the times before. I long to go back and explore Fort Barton all over again.

Fort Barton

When I was a stickily young girl, with hair barely to my ears, my legs would begin to burn within the first five feet of the initial ascent to Fort Barton. My first known memories of this menacing ascent up to Fort Barton put me at age six or seven. However I know that I have been exploring the vast expanse that Fort Barton is, since I was much younger.

While I do not have any explicit recollection of my first trip to Fort Barton, my mother tells me it was sometime in the summer of 1990. This summer would be prove to be a major marker of the next 20 years of my life, as our family had just moved to Tiverton, RI into our home on Highland road. Our location on Highland road would shape the next twenty years of the our lives. Fort Barton too would become intwined in our family’s history. Its close proximity, less than a mile from my childhood home, would mean that as I transformed over the course of my childhood I too would watch Fort Barton transform, not only in the physical sense but in the ways it became involved in my life. First by being a place that I was often dragged and then evolving to a place that I would come to find peace and escape.

The first part of the climb, to the tower known as Fort Barton, is a steep paved hill. This path, almost more reminiscent of a driveway was only the beginning of the tiresome trek up the tower. On the side of this path there were a serious of stone markers. Truly these markers signs welcoming guests to Fort Barton Woods and the Revolutionary War Redoubt. However to me, I saw the signs as markers of how close to the top of the hill I was getting. This path winds up, and up, with a great bend in the middle were you can no longer see what is coming next. To a new comer, they are unaware that behind that bend, , there stood another grassy hill and two sets of expansive staircases to be conquered. Just as you felt your lungs had recovered at the top of the long and winding path, your tired body was treated to another steep staircase and the seemingly 1000 steps to the top of the tower.

At the young age of six or seven, when I saw the trek up to Fort Barton more like a trek to Mt. Everest, I would beg to be picked up, scolded when I whined to stop, and left behind when I stood still in protest, refusing to go any further. The older I got, the longer it took before the burning in my legs set in. The mountain of Fort Barton grew less difficult to climb, and soon the older I got the more I craved the independence to climb the tower on my own, venture into the woods without supervision and stand in the graveyard with terror.

Girl Scouts

First I started as the beginner, the Daisy scout. Then somehow, through following the seemingly strict guidelines, and the random tasks required, I advanced in the ranks, to the Brownie Scout. For this momentous achievement the girl scouts would travel up the hill from Fort Barton school up into Fort Barton Woods, for both a celebration and a civil duty. Instead of one of of traditional meetings in the confines of the cafeteria in the school’s basement, we would be treated to a picnic. However there was a catch, before we could feast on the delectable treats our mothers were to pack, we had to pick up trash throughout the woods. Sure, it did not seem like our leaders were asking to much of us at the time. In fact all of the girls in our troop were perfectly excited for the change of pace. We would not have to spend the afternoon cooped up having our meetings in a place that resembled the common areas of a minimum security prison. However for me this day spent in Fort Barton woods would forever affect my impression of girl scouts, snakes and trash. 

Final Project Proposal

Through a reflection on my life and extensive pursuing through my notebook and semester writings, I have decided to make my final project a focus on a place known as Fort Barton. While I feel I have many interesting life memories to focus on they feel a bit cliché to me. How many times can a reader hear a story of a life threatening car accident or a intensive hospital staySo thus, I have decided to focus on a treasured place in my life known as Fort Barton Woods. I was actually surprised to realize I have such a strong connection to this place, but I feel it is due to the representation this place has as my childhood, innocence and freedom. Furthermore Fort Barton is a connection to my childhood home that I lived in for the first 20 years of my life. I feel that my focus on a place and the landscape of this place is reminiscent of Momaday. However I think that maybe my disjointed descriptions of scenes will be more related to Kaysen.

Fort Barton Woods is a place I have known all my life. Fort Barton, specifically is a revolutionary war tower at the end of the street I grew up on. It is also the namesake of the school I attended from kindergarten to third grade. However, Fort Barton encompasses much more than a historical tower. It is made up of many acres of hiking woods with rocky and windy trails that lead to waterfalls and enchanting streams. It is a place that holds both many memories and secrets. So many aspects of my life can be connected to this place, and I plan to focus on a few specific scenes that I remember from Fort Barton over my life.

Fort Barton the school has seen many transformations over the years, and I plan to compare these transformations to those on the rebuilding of the tower, the landscape within the woods, and my personal development over the 20 years of my life that I lived near this place.

For research I have consulted my Mom, who not only is a teacher at Fort Barton school, but also has the answers to memories that are cloudy to me.

Writing Sample:

When I was a stickly young girl, with hair barely to my ears, my legs would burn within 5 feet of the initial ascent to Fort Barton. I would beg to be picked up, scolded when I whined to stop, and left behind when I stood still in protest. The older I got, the longer it took before the burning in my legs set in. The older I got the more I craved the independence to climb the tower on my own, venture into the woods without supervision and stand in the graveyard with terror.

Girl, Interrupted

For Susanna Kaysen her stay in McLean hospital is an interruption in her otherwise meaningless life, and as Kaysen herself puts it her stay at Mclean means being, “interrupted in the music of being seventeen”. It seems that while in McLean, Kaysen begins to realize the relative normalcy her life has. She is surrounded by girls with serious problems and serious diagnoses. It seems that while in the hospital Kaysen is able to sort out her life while examining the craziness that surrounds her.

For Kaysen it seems her stay at McLean and her diagnosis of Borderline personality is a way to escape a life that she does not know how to navigate through. Kaysen says herself that she believed life demanded skills she did not have. For her, her stay in McLean was an easy way to escape a life that she felt was too difficult to make sense of. She was a young girl in pain. Pain that she herself could not process and left her blind to what direction her life should take a such a critical transitional period in her life. While she is clearly in pain and copes by self mutilation, Kaysen appears to be bored by life. It seems that through he various stints, such as her relationship with her english teacher, lack of effort in school, and “wrist banging” she is just trying to experience life, but doing so in intensive ways.

At the conclusion of Kaysen’s memoir she mentions the painting “Girl Interrupted at Her Music” by Johannes Vermeer. Personally I felt like Kaysen’s discussion of the painting was the missing link in her memoir. At the mention of her connection with the painting, I felt as though everything clicked. It felt as though her entire hospital stay at McLean could be rationalized through her interpretation of this painting. Like the girl in the painting, Kaysen has just been trying to get out. She was trying to break free , initially from the boredom and monotony of her life, and then from the stigma that she was “crazy”. To me. Its seems that Kaysen just wanted to break free from the pain of her adolescence and find the comfort of people who she believed would accept her unconditionally; and what a better place to find this solace than in the confines of a mental hospital, in the confines of McLean.

Multimedia ME

Both Tretheway and Momaday’s autobiographies utilize multimedia aspects to convey the memoir of their lives. The authors are sharing these pictures in order to present thee reader with their true identities. It Is my belief that this multimedia approach allows the ready to get a better sense of the authors’ unique identities. Through the use of visual imagery and poetic forms in both Tretheway’s “Beyond Katrina”, and Momaday’s “The Names” the reader is given other elements than just text to get a glimpse and perspective on their poignant life stories. Through the use of photographs, the reader is given an accurate portrayal of the authors’ lives.

Tretheway and Momaday most notably use photographs to develop their hybrid approach. Through the use of both their personal text and photographs the reader is able to gain a more literal sense of many aspects of their life. By incorporating photographs into their texts, Tretheway and Momaday allow the reader to concretely see the elements of their life they are describing. At the most basic sense, Tretheway and Momaday allow the reader to put “faces to the names” they are describing. In fiction works lacking multimedia, the reader typically imagines their own images and personas for the scenes being described. However because Momaday’s and Tretheway’s works are describing real people, places, and points in time, their multimedia approach allows the reader to get a true sense of such elements. This approach allows the story to come alive. The reader is are able to accurately see the faces and the places the authors are describing, thus enriching the experience of the autobiographical narrative. I feel this approach is successful in autobiographical texts, as it allows the reader to become more involved in the narrative, rather than implicitly imagining an inaccurate scene. Furthermore, I feel that the multimedia approaches within the genre of autobiographical text is effective because of the personal nature of such texts. When reading an autobiographical text, the reader is privileged to be let into the authors life in an intimate way. We are shown the reality of their world. Through the use of personal photographs the reader is shown the identity of characters, and all the physical attributes that make them who they are. It is not often personal photographs, dating back generations, are shared with a mere stranger. By using their personal photographs, it seems that Tretheway and Momaday are secure and genuine people. They are willing to openly share aspects of their history that are so treasured to them, something most people keep reserved to more intimate settings. They want the reader to connect with them by seeing the faces of the people an places that make them who they are. I believe that the use of personal photographs and poetry only deepens the readers experience of connecting to the authors life.

While Momaday and Tretheway both rely on photographs to make a personal connection with the reader, is seems they value photographs differently in their autobiographical texts. For Momaday his photographs are all treasured family heirlooms. They have been carefully handed for generations and preserved so that Momaday may share them with his readers. It is evident through Momaday’s brief but thoughtful captions, that he has spent much time reflecting on each photograph and perhaps has revisited them time and time again. For Momaday the pictures are a part of who he is. Within his text he shares the photographs of his grandparents, mother, father, uncles, all those that share his blood line. While the majority of his photographs are of people, or have people in them, there is one particular photograph of a landscape that stands out. This photograph is the photograph of that captures Rainy Mountain’s vast and beautiful landscape. While Momaday may not share the same genetic makeup with this place, like he does with his relatives, Rainy Mountain is of equal importance for him. In one consideration, Rainy Mountain may be considered important due to its close proximity to the burial ground of many of his ancestors. However it seems that it is the mere landscape and environmental aspects surrounding Rainy Mountain that is of upmost importance to Momaday. This photograph of Rainy Mountain further supports the notion that “The Names” , can be considered an environmental autobiography. For Momaday and his ancestors, their connection to the land is just as important as their connection to family history. The land and the environment is a part of them, and they treat it with much respect. The landscape is sacred and enchanted. By including this photograph among the photographs of his family members, Momaday is showing that the landscape and environment he grew up in makes him who he is , just as much as his ancestry does. Through the sharing of this photograph, he is once again providing the reader with images that give him a sense of identity.

While Momaday’s use of photographs allows the reader a more personal glimpse into his life, they also may mislead the reader. Included in “The Names” are various photographs of people that do not appear to have an relation to a man who is passionate about his Native American culture. Many of Momaday’s images would suggest that his family is of European descent. Some of these images that provide ambiguity about Momaday’s ancestry include the photograph of his mother standing holding a doll , his grandfather’s family photographed seated in front of a wallpapered wall, and his grandfather holding a banjo. To the reader these images can be deemed confusing as they bring into question Momaday’s Native American ancestry. How can someone who is so richly Native American have ancestors that appear so obviously European? A sense of irony is felt over these ambiguous images. These images mislead the reader into thinking that Momaday is claiming to be something he is not. They make the reader think that Momaday may be fabricating some of his history. However, for Momaday they are just evidence of who he truly is.

Tretheway’s approach in using photographs seems to be less personal, only because the images are not part of a treasured and historical family collection. While Tretheway still provides the reader with a strong sense of her identity by sharing photographs, her sharing of photographs does not elicit that same privileged feeling the reader may have felt when viewing Momaday’s photographs. Momaday’s photographs are historically older, while Tretheway’s photographs can be considered relatively recent in relation to the history of the Untied States. Furthermore, it seems that while Tretheway may include personal photographs of her brother and other family members, she also includes photographs of places she has no personal connection to. While they still help to form her identity, as they are photographs of the Gulf Coast and represent who she is, they do not have the uniquely personal quality that Momaday’s family photographs seem to have.

Both Momaday and Tretheway allow their readers to become immersed in the reality of their world by sharing photographs within their autobiographical texts. For them these photographs are supporting pieces to their sense of identity. For the reader this images also help to evoke a stronger sense of the authors identity and ultimately contributed to the readers understating of their lives. 

Writing Project 2 DRAFT

Both Tretheway and Momaday’s autobiographies utilize multimedia aspects to convey the memoir of their lives. Through the use of visual imagery and poetic forms in both Tretheway’s “Beyond Katrina”, and Momaday’s “The Names” the reader is given other elements than just text to get a glimpse and perspective on their poignant life stories.

Tretheway and Momaday most notably use photographs to develop their hybrid approach. Through the use of both their personal text and photographs the reader is able to gain a more literal sense of many aspects of their life. By incorporating photographs into their texts, Tretheway and Momaday allow the reader to concretely see the elements of their life they are describing. At the most basic sense, Tretheway and Momaday allow the reader to put “faces to the names” they are describing. In fiction works lacking multimedia, the reader typically imagines their own images and personas for the scenes being described. However because Momaday’s and Tretheway’s works are describing real people, places, and points in time, their multimedia approaches allows the reader to get a true sense of such elements. This approach allows the story to come alive. They are able to accurately see the faces and the places the authors are describing, thus enriching the experience of the autobiographical narrative. I feel this approach is successful in autobiographical texts, as it allows the reader to become more involved in the narrative, rather than implicitly imagining an inaccurate scene. Furthermore, I feel that the multimedia approaches within the genre of autobiographical text is effective because of the personal nature of such texts. When reading an autobiographical text, the reader is privileged to be let into the authors life in an intimate way. The use of personal photographs and poetry only deepens the readers experience of connecting to the authors life. 

“The Names”

Momaday’s memoir, “The Names” begins as the title suggests, with a list of names. These names however, are of great importance to Momaday, as they are the names of his ancestors. These names tell the story and the plight of this people. Behind these names lies a rich history. The story of generations of his family, the intermingling of his ancestors, and their travel throughout the country, all contributing to who he is as a person.  However Momamday’s memoir is not easily understood at face value. Within his memoir, is a completed family tree, further complicated by the Native American names and lineage. Their names are given with great care and great meaning, and with their name much is expected. There even seems to be both literal and figurative elements  that suggest these Native Americans believe the must assimilate into the white man’ world  in order to succeed.

Momaday’s memoir,  starts at the beginning, as far back as he can trace his ancestors with great certainty. While Momaday’s family is mainly of Native American descent, his ancestry becomes confusing to the reader, as at times,  the pictures he shows of his family members appear very European. This is  practically true regarding his mother. Some show her appearing to been a young native american girl, and others as a beautiful european adolescent. This becomes further complicated as Momaday discusses his father’s family’s disdain for his mother. Furthermore, as I observe the photograph of George Scott and his grandfather Theodore, I would hardly guess that they are a family descendent from Native Americans.

Momaday and his ancestors are people of the land, the earth, and the sky. They can read nature and are in touch with its idiosyncrasies. To them everything in nature has mean and can be deciphered . It is meant to be respected and cherished.  For Momaday and his ancestors, nature has spiritual meanings, and they incorporate nature into their spiritual encounters.

For Momaday’s his Native American relatives’ history is his history too. He tells their history as if it is his own. While this is an aspect of his memoir, this is also an aspect of his culture. As a Native American he is expected to take on his ancestors stories as if they are his own.

As his memoir progresses, I wonder how Momaday’s life will continue to play out and if I will be able to keep is complicated family tree straight.

April 1st.

Mister Bourdain

Anthony Bourdain is capable entertainer in a variety of capacities. His third book Medium Raw is no different. Bourdain has risen to be one of the most well known celebrity chefs over the last 30 years, and rightfully so, he is both a innovative chef and a unique character. Bourdain has a self proclaimed bad boy image that is contagious to both his television audiences and readers of his books. His rise to fame began as a a fierce line cook in New York City in the 1970s. His first book chronicled the wild life he led in New York, the drugs he did, and the epic adventures he had. Medium Raw follows Bourdain from the creation of his hit television show “No Reservations” and his travelon the show. Medium Raw chronicles Bourdain’s adventures all over the world, immersing himself in the culture like no other tourist would. Bourdain meets with locals, eats anything he is offered, and has one fabulous time.

Anthony’s voice is heard from the moment the first chapter opens. The episodic nature of the book is reminiscent of Wolffe, but truly his craft is all his own. He writes the way he speaks, with brash, wit and sass. He is known for his shtick, and he is superior at what he does. He eloquently strings together sentences that sound and look marvelous. Anthony is notorious for speaking his mind and his up front manner and honest manner is part of what makes his book so delectable. He does not take himself seriously, and makes this evident through the whimsy encounters he has with people all over the world. He is not afraid to put himself in the trenches and really experience the flavor of the country.

In Medium Raw, Bourdain acknowledges both his perspective and the world’s perspective on food has changed since the publishing of his first book. As Bourdain rises to his now uber fame status, everything is turned upside down. He tells of the incredible opportunities he is given and how he makes full use of them, traveling the world, doing what he pleases. He tells of the changes this fame has had on his life. Bourdain experiences a journey in which similarities can be drawn to Toby. Through the course of Medium Raw, Bourdain is becoming more and more aware of how he has the ability to do whatever he wants. His image and life has been transformed fro a wild partier and frequent drug user, to an genuine soul searcher. Medium Raw shows that while Bourdain is a brutally honest man, he is also an introspective adventurer just trying to learn more about himself through learning the lives of others.

Autobiographical Freedom

Frederick Douglass and Tobias Wolff are both enslaved in their respective worlds. While Tobias is not a literal slave as Douglass is, the hardships he endures throughout the course of his childhood make him a figurative slave, fighting to have control of his young life. Douglass faces a similar, yet more complicated battle to gain his freedom from a life bound to slavery. Through the course of both autobiographical texts, Douglass and Wolff struggle to gain the freedom they so desperately yearn for.

Throughout the course of Toby’s young life his basic freedoms are stripped from him. Tobias Wolff is enslaved partly due to his age and his mother’s tumultuous relationships. While it is true that most children do not have control of their lives due to a parental figure , Toby’s life is further complicated by his mother’s presence. He is controlled by his mother’s unpredictable choices and transient father figures. Through his mother’s relationships with essentially abusive men, first with Roy and then with Dwight, she puts her son in less than ideal situations. Ironically, Toby’s mother is searching for her own freedom. By constantly moving she believes she will be freed from these abusive men, instead she continues to fall into the same relationship patterns. While their constant traveling may temporarily free Toby’s mother from her abusive boyfriends, Toby is relegated to follow in her footsteps, and thus give up any sense of stability. He has little say in where they relocate next and is given little notice of a departure to another town. While Toby says he feels free on the road, it is hard to believe. It seems that Toby only tries to convince himself of this notion because he wants to please his mother, and that given the choice his life would not be that of a nomad. Toby’s mother further enslaves him by sending him to live with Dwight. When living with Dwight Toby must give up more of his basic rights and suffer Dwight’s abuse in silence.

In Toby’s autobiographical text he demonstrates the way in which he sought freedom from a world he hates: by creating an alternate reality. Toby is constantly making up tales and telling lies to gain freedom from the life he leads. He creates an image of the person he wants to be by developing a unrealistic world. Toby creates a idealistic persona when he writes to his pen pal, the Mickey Mouse club member, and his brother. Toby and his friend Arthur make up stories about their families’ lineage Because Toby feels he does not have control over his life, he simply creates the life he wishes he had. He creates such a vivid world of lies, he begins to believe them as the truth. While writing his teachers’ recommendations this notion because vividly evident as Toby says, “ and on the boy who lived in their letters, the splendid phantom who carried all my hopes, It seemed to me I saw, at last, my own face”. Furthermore, he becomes a slave to his lies and must constantly work to protect their legitimacy. The effort Toby must put into the livelihood of his lies evokes a sense of nervousness in his reader. The reader feels a constant worry that someone may out him for his lies. This feeling of anxiousness in the reader does not seem to be shared by Toby, as he eagerly creates an idealistic world for himself, specifically through the submission of his bogus applications.

Ultimately, Toby is rewarded for the creation of a false reality, when he is admitted to The Hill School. Toby creates a person that does not exist, but in the eyes of Hill he is a student that they are edgar to have attend their school. For Toby, his lies have finally made him the person he wants to be. Hill would have also be a chance for Toby to be free from the restraints of Dwight, however he has gotten to attend the school under false pretenses, which only makes him a slave to his lies. He struggles to achieve the academic success he claims to have been capable of. He cannot keep up with the rigorous environment of the school and is ultimately kicked out.

While Toby’s freedom seeking behaviors seem drastic, when given the chance at freedom he does not accept it. Toby’s departure to Paris would have been the ultimate freedom , instead he rejects the chance to go, and continues to be enslaved in Dwight’s world. In order to go to Paris, Toby’s Aunt and Uncle wish to adopt him, thus Toby would have to give up his last name. Toby does not want to agree to these parameters, as he does not want to lose his last name, and therefore does not go to Paris. Toby’s refusal to take on his Aunt and Uncle’s last name, is surprising to the reader, as Toby desperately desired to change his name before. However, Toby’s devotion to his mother is the main reason why he does not go, as he says “I could not, cannot, put pen to paper without having her with me…I could not imagine leaving her…But to call someone else my mother was impossible”. Toby’s attachment to his mother proves to be greater than his desire to be freed from Dwight. For Toby, his last name is what links him to his mother, and giving that up would further distance him from the comforting confines of his mother’s love. When given this opportunity for tangible freedom, Toby is too scared to leave his world behind. Perhaps it is because Toby has become so accustomed to his life and his lies, that he too timid to break away from them. Perhaps for Toby, the habituation of being enslaved has become comforting to him, because it is all he has known. This idea of finding comfort in his enslavement is furthered by Toby’s entrance into the Army. After he is kicked out of Hill he describes is enrollment in the Army saying, “ I did so with a sense of relief and homecoming”.

Toby’s rejection of freedom is another element of irony in his life. It seems that Toby will only accept freedom on his terms, and perhaps the rigid parameters demanded by his Aunt and Uncle will only continue to make him feel like a slave to someone else’s demands.

Unlike Toby, Douglass is an actual slave, and will be bound to this position for life. Douglass expresses his autobiographical freedom through the style in which he constructs his slave narrative and his actual freedom from slavery. Without his innate intelligence and literacy, Douglass would have never gained freedom from his life bound to slavery. By becoming literate Douglass becomes hyper aware of his situation and the unjust life he is bound to. While it is the first step in his freedom, learning to read also makes Douglas despondent over his situation. However it is ultimately his literacy that allows him his autobiographical freedom.

In his autobiographical text, Douglass has control over his readers, thus fostering the sense of freedom he feels as both an author and a person. As a slave narrative, his audience is expecting a grandiose tale about his escape; however the reader is not given that. Instead Douglass expresses his freedom and decides not to give explicit details on his escape. Furthermore, his text is uncharacteristic for this time period, because of his status as a former slave. Douglass is putting his life in jeopardy, as he is an escaped and literate slave, both illegal entities at the time. This can be seen as an expression of his freedom.

Further complicating Douglass’ freedom from slavery is the lack of relief he feels after his escape. Instead of jubilation for his freedom, Douglass finds that the way of life is not much different in the North. He is at risk for capture, and must continue to tread lightly even as his autobiography gains popularity.

Both Wolff and Douglass share similar expressions of their freedom, both in the construction of their texts and their lifestyles. While their lives may feel completely opposite there are similarities that can be drawn through their expressions of autobiographical freedom. Douglass and Wolff are desirous of their freedom, yet they must struggle to overcome their personal obstacles when they are given a chance at freedom. It seems that both authors were truly able to find their freedom after the publication of their autobiographical texts.