Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Summer is Here!

And I'm excited to have time to spend writing my young adult novel; to have time to spend as the spirit moves me; to have time to spend, period.

Time.

*Deep sigh of satisfaction.

I've been doing some research on the female hero, and it's giving me ideas for my girl, Trilby. Here's a summary I wrote of a book I read that impressed me. Such good food for thought. Does it nourish you?

---

The female hero’s journey differs from the male’s in a number of ways. “Patriarchal society views women essentially as supporting characters in the drama of life. Men change the world, and women help them,” note Carol Pearson and Katherine Pope in The Female Hero in American and British Literature (vii).

This view is perpetuated in most of today’s media. Cartoonist and writer Alison Bechdel created the Bechdel Test to analyze movies according to how women are portrayed. The vast majority do not pass her simple three-point test: 1) There are at least two female characters, 2) who talk to each other, 3) about something other than a man.

It was scholar Joseph Campbell who originally identified a pattern he called “the hero’s journey” which appears in myths and stories across cultures and ages. This pattern can be broken into three broad stages: the Call, the Quest, and the Return. After analyzing hundreds of works of classic and popular fiction in the Western canon, Pope and Pearson identified ways this pattern differs for women and men.

The first stage is the Call, when the hero is summoned to go on the quest and begin her adventure. This stage is often more difficult for women, who may be leaving a protected environment controlled by people she loves, such as parents or a husband. While the male hero slays “dragons” or overcomes obstacles on the quest itself, “the first task of the female hero is to slay the dragon within,” to recognize that she has the heroic traits necessary to undertake a quest. (viii)

What are those “dragons within?” The authors identify four myths which socialize women to be passive receptors rather than dynamic actors in their lives: 1) the myth of female inferiority 2) the myth of virginity 3) the myth of romantic love, and 4) the myth of maternal sacrifice. Perhaps, in the United States in the 21st Century, the first myth can be discarded as unsupportable. But what is wrong with the other three? The flaw in these still-popular feminine ideals is that they value women only in relation to other people. Rather than encouraging women to be the “subject” of their own heroic journeys, they teach women to be the “object” in another person’s story.

This does not mean that it is wrong to be a virgin, to love another person, or to make sacrifices for children, but that when women are cast entirely in the “helper” or “complementary” role, it prevents full development of their individual character.

The second stage of the journey is The Quest, and this, too, differs for men and women. While the traditional male hero succeeds by overpowering his enemies, women master their world by “understanding it, not by dominating, controlling, or owning” it. (5) Many modern male heroes also reject the traditional “masculine” model which calls for the hero to win by demonstrating superiority over others. But rather than adopt a more “feminine” and egalitarian world view, they become alienated and unhappy “antiheroes.”

Pope and Pearson point out that minorities, the poor, the disabled, and other people whose power is limited in modern American society will relate more to the female’s journey than the male’s. This is bourn out in analysis of the “tragic hero” pattern. “It is axiomatic that the tragic hero falls from power because of hubris. An excess of pride is a characteristic of those bred to have power and accordingly to believe in their superiority. The white male tragic hero experiences a tragic fall when his inflated ego encounters experience,” the authors write. But  “the destruction of the oppressed more often occurs because they accept the role of victim.” (10)

Pope and Pearson blame strictly-defined gender roles for the failure of both men and women to achieve their full human potential. “The tendency to see men and women as inherently opposite—as respective embodiments of head and heart, conscious and unconscious, adventurousness and nurturance, aggression and passivity—has led each sex to denigrate the other because it represents the negative half of all human characteristics.” (19)

Many classic works contain scenes in which men are tempted by a “seductress” who is “a projection of the attributes he identifies as female but cannot internalize in a positive form.” (19) Likewise, women may face a “seducer” who “ultimately betrays her as a result of destructive myths governing male behavior. He may ‘seduce and abandon’ the hero in accordance with the myth that men are predators who demonstrate their virility by ‘ruining’ virtuous and attractive women. He may limit her freedom because he believes his masculinity depends on controlling a submissive and loving woman. Or, as in the case of Dimmesdale in The Scarlet Letter, he may lack the courage” to face the consequences of his behavior and be “reluctant to lose male patriarchal status and power.” (144)

In the Return stage of the journey, heroes typically bring a gift back to their community. For women, this gift may be the realization her true, heroic character. Although her journey leads to development of her potential, that potential varies widely according to the time period in which the book was written and the author’s bias; in many classic works of literature (Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy, Daisy Miller by Henry James, The Awakening by Kate Chopin, “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman), the best a female hero can do is to die or go insane rather than conform to stereotypes which limit and diminish her.


A more positive outcome is possible when all people integrate the varied aspects of human experience--both masculine and feminine--into one healthy whole.  “Both male and female heroes begin the quest for wholeness and selfhood by risking the violation of conventional norms, including conventions about appropriate sex-role behavior; both learn not to manipulate and restrain other people; and both reach accommodation with the best qualities associated with men and with women, integrating strength with humility, independence with empathy, rationality with intuition, and thought with emotion.” (15)

Friday, April 3, 2015

Incidental Blessings


When we first moved back to SF, I rode my bike to the CalTrain station at 4th and Townsend with Ace three days a week, took it down the Peninsula to San Mateo, then biked from the train to my work at a high school. The train ride was pleasant and stress free, and the atmosphere in the bike car super fun, making me feel part of a community of cool bike-riding people, mostly younger and hipper than I. 

But eventually I got lazy, and returned to driving my car. Sometimes I feel guilty for taking this less ecological mode of transportation, and sometimes I reconsider my choice, like when I'm caught in one of the frequent traffic jams downtown. 

But other times, on the occasional blessed morning, driving southbound beside the Bay on Highway 101, I look out my window and see this.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Motherhood Ain't Easy


Sometimes I worry that I made mistakes when raising my children, but I'm glad I never asked my middle schooler to pass out pamphlets while I protested nude on the streets of North Beach.


Luckily, they're all grown up now so the danger has passed. 



Friday, March 20, 2015

Charybdis ~ A short play

(A woman is sitting on a bench in a park, staring out blankly at the audience. She's clean and well dressed, holding a purse on her lap. She is waiting for someone. She looks at her watch. A young man enters and sits next to her. He's unshaven, in shabby clothes.)

SON
Hey, Mom! I've been looking for you.

MOTHER
I've been waiting right here.

SON
Well, I'm glad I finally found you. Are you hungry? Do you want to go get a sandwich?

MOTHER
Sure. I guess we could do that.

SON
Let's go. I'm starving.

MOTHER
Why haven't you eaten?

SON
I don't have any money.

MOTHER
What happened to your money?

SON
I spent it on other things.

MOTHER
What kind of things?

SON
Oh, you know. The usual.

MOTHER
(looks away, then down at her feet; seems surprised by something she sees there and lifts her feet a little off the floor)
The water is rising.

SON
What water? I don't see anything.

MOTHER
My shoes are getting wet.

SON
What are you talking about? There isn't any water! C'mon, let's go get a sandwich or a piece of pizza. I'm starving to death!

MOTHER
(gives him an appraising look) Yes, you do look like you're starving. You look like a skeleton. Why are you are ruining the good looks that God gave you? You got a great gift of beauty and you're throwing it away for no reason!

SON
Mom, no. Not this.

MOTHER
Not what?

SON
Not this big load of bullshit.

MOTHER
(Sighs dramatically. Looks away, then takes a hand towel out of her purse and starts drying off her shoes.)

SON
(watches her skeptically for a moment before continuing)
There's a reason.

MOTHER
A reason for what, Son?

SON
It’s because I'm suffering.

MOTHER
What?

SON
I'm suffering because you never loved me.

MOTHER
(Sits up straight and looks at him)
How can you say that? I've always loved you! I love you more than my own self!

SON
That's what you say.

MOTHER
I gave you everything--everything I had. I rack my brains every night about how I can help you!

SON
And then you don't do it.

MOTHER
I'm trying!

SON
No you aren't. You're not even getting me a sandwich. You're just sitting there polishing your shoes.

MOTHER
I’m not polishing my shoes! Forget about the fucking sandwich! Listen to me! The water is rising. It's already past my ankles!

SON
I don't see any water.

MOTHER
It's almost up to my knees!

SON
(nonchalant) Whatever. I'm not really hungry anyway. After you go a day or two without eating, your stomach forgets.

MOM
A day or two? Jesus! No wonder you’re so skinny! Okay, let’s go get a piece of pizza.

SON
No. Forget about it. That's not my problem. I’m suffering because Joanna left me.

MOTHER
Joanna? Son! That was 2 years ago! That's not a good reason to starve yourself.

SON
I think it is.

MOTHER
So you're feeling lonesome? Guess what? So am I. I miss you so much. Why don’t you come back to your senses?

SON
(annoyed) How can you miss me when I'm sitting right in front of you?

MOTHER
But I never see you! I don’t know where you are! Every night, I worry that you're freezing to death under some overpass. Why don't you ever answer your phone?

SON
I lost it.

MOTHER
Again?! I just bought that last month. How could you lose another phone?

SON
The same way everybody loses things! I put it down and forgot to pick it up!

MOTHER
(taps the top of her purse and looks away again)
Have you seen your doctor lately?

SON
You’re not allowed to ask me that.

MOTHER
When is your next appointment?

SON
I don't know. Maybe next week.

MOTHER
Are you taking your medication?

SON
You’re not allowed to ask about that, Mom, remember?

MOTHER
But are you?

SON
What do you want me to say? Yes?

MOTHER
(Sighs. Taps her purse.)
You smell like you need a shower.

SON
I’m sure I do.

MOTHER
Why don't you take one at the shelter?

SON
They kicked me out.

MOTHER
What?! When did that happen? What did you do?

SON
I don't know. It was crazy. They said they couldn't wake me up.

MOTHER
Why couldn't they wake you? Were you on drugs?

SON
No.

MOTHER
Why wouldn't you wake up, then?

SON
I don't know. I guess I was tired.

MOTHER
How can you be tired when you don't do anything all day?

SON
What do you know about it!? I spend all day walking from place to place, just looking for somewhere to sit down. It's exhausting! It took me three hours just to get here on the bus to meet you!

MOTHER
(penitant)
Where are you going to sleep tonight?

SON
I don't know. I was thinking maybe I could spend the night on your couch. What do you think? I just need a place to lie down for a few hours...

MOTHER
I don't think I can let you do that...

SON
Why not?

MOTHER
Because something always goes wrong when I do. Remember the last time?

SON
It's Dad, isn't it? You won't let me sleep over because Dad says no.

MOTHER
You need to check into a hospital, Son, or a drug treatment program. Those are your options. We don't want to enable you to go on living like this.

SON
Why don't you think for yourself for a change? It's pathetic.

MOTHER
I am thinking for myself. I agree with Dad. This isn't working. It's not right. You're in danger. (putting her hand out to touch his jaw) Why is your mouth swollen? Did somebody hit you?

SON
(pulling away from her) Yes. But it didn't hurt. I was smiling the whole time.
(giving her a strange smile) Don't worry about it! Everything will be fine as soon as my loan comes through.

MOTHER
Your loan?

SON
The $50,000 government transparency loan I told you about. Damien is going to co-sign for me.

MOTHER
No one is going to loan you $50,000! And if someone said they would co-sign for you, they're lying. They’re probably trying to get their hands on your disability money--to rip you off.

SON
What do you know about it!

MOTHER
I know you aren't being realistic. I know you need help.

SON
Then why don't you help me?! I stink! My feet hurt! I'm cold! I'm hungry! You're sitting there with a purse full of money and you won't even buy me a sandwich!

MOTHER
But I WILL buy you a sandwich! Come on. Let's go get one right now.

SON
No. Wait. That's not really the problem. I'm suffering because I don't understand what's going on.

MOTHER
(suddenly alert)
What?

SON
I'm think I’m sinking into the water, Mom. I'm slipping under the surface.

MOTHER
Please don't say that.

SON
It's scary, but I kind of like it. The water is warm. It protects me from falling. It cushions me from the blow.

MOTHER
No, it doesn't.

SON
I can see a grate at the bottom of the pool, creating a current. It's pulling at me. It's sucking me in.

MOTHER
Don't go towards the grate! It's a trap! Swim up! Swim up to the top!

SON
I can see the sun penetrating the water, and little particles of dust floating beside me in the light; I can see your shadow standing at the edge of the pool, peering in...

MOTHER
(takes a sharp breath)
I can just barely see you. And the water is rising. Now it's covering my shoes. I'm looking around for a rope...

SON
A rope?

MOTHER
I want to throw it to you. I want to pull you out of the water.

SON
Do you have one?

MOTHER
I can't find one. I'm still looking.

SON
You are?

MOM
Come on, Son. Let's go get a sandwich.

SON
(getting up and starting to walk around the bench in a widening spiral)
Forget it. I changed my mind. I don't want anything from you.

MOTHER
What? Why? What did I do? (Following after him. The spiral getting wider and wider until she chases him off the stage; Each time she passes behind the bench, she emerges wetter and wetter.)

SON
Don’t pretend you don’t know.

MOTHER
Slow down! Where are you going?

SON
What do you care?

MOTHER
Don't you want a sandwich?

SON
Not anymore.

MOTHER
(Looking around anxiously, perhaps for the rope) But you said you were hungry! Come on, let me buy you a sandwich!

SON
I'd rather have a beer.

MOTHER
I'm not buying you any alcohol!

SON
(stooping to pick up a cigarette butt off the sidewalk and holding it up to admire in the light) Look at the size of that one!

MOTHER
Don't put that in your mouth! It's dirty.

SON
Stop pretending you care about me.

MOTHER
Stop running away from me!

SON
Stop following me! Go find the fucking rope!
(exits)

MOTHER
Wait up! Come back! Don't leave me! (stops at the edge of the stage, reaching after him; the next line is delivered quietly, in defeat) I could buy you some cigarettes...

(walks back to the bench; sits down carefully; looks down at the ground, then lifts her feet up on the bench to avoid the rising water; settles the purse on her lap; resumes staring blankly out at the audience)

THE END


TIP JAR: Want to express your appreciation? Leave a review on Amazon, hereor just search for the title and click on it when you find it to move it up in the search rankings. 

P.C. Fergusson is a writer based in San Francisco. See what she’s working on now at northbeachnotebook.blogspot.com. Find more of her work on her Amazon Author Page.


Copyright 2014. All rights reserved.
Cover art is a collage of images found on the Internet.




Friday, March 13, 2015

What You See When the Fog Lifts


When Ace suggested moving back to San Francisco after 20 years plus in the suburbs, I was afraid. And the first night I spent in our rented flat in North Beach, I cried. I felt disconnected from my children, from the comfortable home where they grew up. I could hear the people in the flat next door, walking up and down their hallway. I wasn't sure of my boundaries. Who was I supposed to become?

But just a few days later, the fog lifted: No one knew me. No one watched me. No one judged me in the City. That awful crush of conformity that permeated my life in suburbia was gone. I was free to be anything--everything--I wanted. I was free!

Now we're coming up on our fourth year in San Francisco, and I don't ever want to go back. I want to claim San Francisco as my own, to take her in my arms and devour her, in all her lush and sere and dark deliciousness. She is mine, this city where we met and married, where my grandmother, my mother, and my three children were born. She is mine for the taking.

~At an Easter bonnet contest in Golden Gate Park. 

Monday, March 9, 2015

The Cold and Necessary Bay


When I took this picture I saw the line of light above the hills, god trailing her finger over all her creation. 

Now on my computer I see mostly the bridge, masterwork of human endeavor, with its big bolts, and thick grease, and heavy ironwork. 

In between them lies the water, cold and deep and ever changing, full of strange and dangerous life, a gorgeous and terrifying mystery, connecting man and god.

~Walking southward towards the City on the GGB.

Friday, March 6, 2015

On Angel Island




I've been searching through my photographs for images of San Francisco and environs. So many of my photos have been lost, so many misplaced. 

Back in the day, I was a photographer in college, and Ace and I would make out in a darkroom at San Francisco State University, where we met and started the courtship that would become this marriage of 30 plus years. I was young and confident in my beauty back then, but the red light in the darkroom made me more beautiful, made him look like a dream, and the acrid smell of the chemicals made that dumpy room cramped with equipment seem dangerous and erotic. We hurried back to taste its pleasures week after week.

I used a Leica then, a camera so magical it cast a spell of admiration when I entered the newsroom of the Golden Gater with it slung over my shoulder. I miss the weight of that Leica in my hand, the feel of the lens between my fingers as I spun it back and forth, bringing the two images together in the viewfinder to focus the photo, seeing that my world was in sync.

Now that the world is digital, I take photo after photo on my iphone and never print them out. They cluster on my laptop, until my laptop dies and is replaced; or stack up on an online site, until it goes out of business, warning me politely to rescue my photos before it's too late; or they sit snugly on a firewire storage device, until technology passes me by once again, and the firewire input goes missing.

My photos are like confused salmon, swimming around in the ether, unsure of the way back home. Except for this one--a beauty. It found me, at last, gills glittering in the sun.

~A friend on Angel Island.