Parts of a Whole

First, some plot clarification on my novel, The Light Between Oceans, by M. L. Stedman. It was Isabel's idea to keep the baby, Lucy, as her own. Tom was a very meticulous, hardworking man and hated having to lie in his lighthouse keeper's books about finding the baby and the baby's father's body, but he did so out of love for Isabel. When people find out that Lucy actually belongs to a woman named Hannah, Tom pretends that he forced Isabel to keep Lucy, effectively protecting Isabel. Tom ends up in jail, and Isabel returns to live with her parents, and refuses to forgive Tom for quite a long time. Lucy is also horrified at the prospect of living with her biological mother, who she treats like a stranger. Eventually, Tom and Isabel reconnect, and Lucy grows up with Hannah, and still maintains a passion for the ocean that she discovered while with Tom and Isabel.

The setting of the island, Janus, is crucial to the story. Tom and Isabel are isolated from the rest of the world, and rules seem insignificant with no one to enforce them. The island is entirely different fro the mainland, and when the two first marry, Tom frets: "would Isabel love Janus as much as he did? Would she understand his world?" (55). This isolated, natural setting allows Stedman to incorporate beautiful, poetic descriptions of the island, the ocean, and the lighthouse which parallel some of the character struggles. Stedman illustrates how "the light reaches over the curve of the earth-beyond the horizon," and Isabel notes that "it's like seeing into the future...you can reach ahead in time to save a ship before it knows it needs help" (56). This light is something Tom needed: while he thought they should return Lucy immediately, he eventually grew comfortable with the idea, and was unaware that they would ever be caught. His love for Isabel and his Lucy is the light that saves him: he cares enough for the two of them to spend time in jail and attempt to protect his family by lying.

Janus also has a significant name: the island bears the name of the god of doorways, who has "two faces, bac to back" and is "always looking both ways, torn between two ways of seeing things." This is similar to the separation between Tom and Isabel discussed in the previous blog post. Additionally, this mirrors Tom's hesitation about Lucy. Just as "the island looks in the direction of two different oceans," Tom both wants to keep and care for Lucy, and return her to her real family (65). He is torn between love and justice, his family and another's, loyalty and honesty.

Another description that stood out to me follows Isabel's mapping out the island. Tom feels saddened at how she dissects the island, the splitting off into the good and the bad, the safe and the dangerous. He preferred to think of it whole" (62). This parallels some of the interactions between Tom and Isabel following her miscarriages and the loss of Lucy. When Tom does something wrong, such as hinting to Hannah at the safety of her daughter, Isabel immediately labels him as disloyal and evil. Others encourage her, suggesting that Tom murdered Lucy's father instead of finding him washed up dead on the island. However, Tom always stays loyal and in love with Isabel. Even when she blames him for everything, he sends her a message from jail, telling her "I understand" (253). He considers Isabel's whole person, forgiving her for her mistakes and loving her nonetheless.

The Mystery of Miscarriage

For my quarter 4 independent reading, I chose The Light Between Oceans by M. L. Stedman. The story follows the lighthouse keeper, Tom, and his wife, Isabel, the sole residents of the island Janus. Stedman describes how, after three failed pregnancies, they find a baby washed up on shore and pretend it is their biological child, naming her Lucy. Eventually, the truth about Lucy is revealed, and she is forcefully returned to her biological mother, Hannah. Stedman illustrates this story with nautical and light language to illuminate the hope and limitlessness of humanity, as well as the vast and disheartening disconnect among individuals. I chose to research the psychological changes that occur during pregnancy, as well the grief that accompanies miscarriage, to shed light on Isabel's motivations to "adopt" the child they find.  

During her pregnancies, Isabel feels very attached to her babies. Biologically, a woman's body is flooded with hormones during pregnancy, which makes them more sensitive and prepares them for motherly bonding with their child. Isabel is determined to be a mother; Tom describes her as "utterly single-minded about it" (66). However, Tom doesn't get the same feelings of fatherhood: he is "nervous and excited and worried" at the prospect of becoming a father, and ponders whether or not it was fair to raise children on such an isolated island (72). While Isabel looks ahead to her new child, Tom looks back on his past in the war: "he'd been on death's books for so long, it seemed impossible that life was making an entry in his favor" (70). This begins the disconnect between the couple: their feelings regarding parenthood are too vast in different ways for either of them to understand, just as the two oceans are separated around their lighthouse.

Isabel has three miscarriages, and following each she experiences profound grief and depression. Following a miscarriage, women experience an abrupt hormonal change which leaves them susceptible to postpartum depression, anxiety, and other mood disorders, so she's very emotionally unstable. This is clear in her irritability with Tom when he sends for a piano tuner, whom she mistakes for a doctor, and accuses him: "you went behind my back...you should be ashamed of yourself!" (77). The hormones produced during Isabel's pregnancies also create intense feelings of motherhood that have no direction after her miscarriage. Biologically, her quick attachment to Lucy, whom they find washed up on their island one day with her dead father, is logical. Because Tom hasn't experienced as great of a change, his rational side still encourages him to send Lucy back to the mainland. While Isabel and Tom remain emotionally connected and very in love throughout the rest of their relationship, there's a clear disjoint in their thought patterns surrounding Lucy.

Additionally, it is much harder to grieve for an untraditional loss. After her miscarriages, Isabel tries to substitute by planting driftwood crosses on the cliff, but she still suffers tremendous sadness. Miscarriages are surrounded by an immense amount of stigma, and those who haven't experienced a similar loss may not fully understand the pain of losing someone who hasn't even been born yet. After Lucy is taken from Isabel, she feels a similar grief: "everyone I've lost—they've just been ripped away—into nothing. Maybe a funeral would have made...a difference" (263).This grief is something that connects Isabel to Lucy's biological mother, Hannah. Hannah loses both her child (renamed Lucy) and husband when they take a rowboat out to sea. She has no clarity on their fate for many years: she is left grieving for people who may still be alive, and has no bodies or funeral to give her a sense of closure.

Final Post

Part of what makes The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood, so alluring is that it explores issues central to our society today. Atwood's book is based in ideas of feminism—or rather, feminism gone wrong. Before Gilead, Offred's world was very much like ours, in which sexism was rampant. The Commander described to Offred the reasons for the establishment of their new republic:
           "Don't you remember the singles' bars, the indignity of high school dates? The meat market. Don't you remember the terrible gap between the ones who could get a man easily and the ones who couldn't? Some of them were desperate, they starved themselves thin or pumped their breasts full of silicone, had their noses cut off. Think of the human misery" (283-284).
Today, we are plagued by such issues, and as women (and men) struggle to achieve beauty and express their sexuality, the result is often issues such as rape, condescension, and prejudice. It seems that a society in which these problems are eliminated would be a utopia; however, Gilead is clearly much worse than America's current state. Gilead was formed not only on the ideals of feminism, but also on conservative Christianity, which seems to be where much of the trouble stems from. Through this, Atwood suggests that using religion for governmental control leads to injustice and oppression. Throughout history, religion has often been used to control the masses, such as the caste system with Hindus in India. In this way, some of the citizens of Gilead don't just simply their government; they believe in the religious fundamentals behind it. Because of this possibility, Offred and the other rebellious Handmaids must use the utmost caution when speaking to others. When thinking about Ofglen, her walking partner, Offred states that "she has never said anything that wasn't strictly orthodox...she may be a real believer, a Handmaid in more than name" (26). Offred's afraid that Ofglen's possible loyalty to her religion may prompt her to report Offred to the government for inappropriate behavior.

Another subtler theme that connects in with the idea of totalitarian control is that people can be easily controlled and restricted if given some small semblance of power. In my third post, I discussed how Offred copes with her restricted life through remembering the past and maintaining her femininity with buttering. Eventually, through sleeping with Nick, Offred grows even more comfortable about her new life: "I no longer want to leave, escape, cross the border to freedom. I want to be here, with Nick, where I can get him" (348). By feeling like she has enough control to break the law and sleep with someone, she's found a parallel to her old reality, and accepts the new one.

I also wrote about Moira, the spunky, independent character who took charge of her own life. Eventually, she grew lazy in fighting back, and accepted the small amount of power she was given as a prostitute at Jezebel's. This lack of fight startles Offred, and made her lose hope for the future: "she is frightening me now,  because what I hear in her voice is indifference, a lack of volition. Have they really done it to her then, taken away something—what?—that used to be so central to her?"(324). This also shows how humans are incapable of resisting oppression indefinitely: if there's no end in sight, sooner or later, one will give in to others' control.

In reading this book, I used the wisdom of the writers we've studied in class to help decode Atwood's meaning. Perhaps the most important skill I utilized was to read word-by-word and pay attention to details. I was careful to notice Atwood's word choice, which helped me to pick up on patterns in her structure and diction. Atwood uses many words with associations to fertility, such as through flowers, eggs, and vessels. Reading closely also helped me to isolate key passages in which her tone or structure shifted, which yielded quite a few quotes to use for my blog posts.

I definitely recommend this book. I was a bit skeptical at first: the topics of sexism, feminism, religion, and totalitarian governments conjure ideas of heavy, pedantic, and overly complex text. However, Atwood brilliantly weaves her themes into an intriguing dystopian science fiction tale. She whisked me away into a world of red and blue dresses, of tulips and Lily of the Valley, of forced greetings and hidden names. The first person narrative from Offred's perspective places the reader directly into the story, and Atwood's tone is candid and personal so one can easily get caught up in the plot and poetic language without being halted by confusing wording. Furthermore, the political themes are illustrated from an individual perspective, so the book doesn't feel overly focused on politics or government. The characters are also highly developed—I fell in love with Moira, the spunky rebellious lesbian, and loved reading Offred's flashbacks to their moments before Gilead. Personally, as a lover of plot and characters, this book was perfect for me.

Motivation to Carry On

Throughout The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood, Offred tries to hold on to some parts of her former life before the totalitarian government took over. One way in which women keep in touch with their previous selves is through a simple act known as "buttering." In their present world, women are simply vessels—their exterior beauty or internal feelings have no value. In order to care for themselves, women salvage bits of butter or margarine to use as lotion to keep their skin soft. Offred described it, saying "As long as we do this...we can believe that we will some day get out, that we will be touched again, in love or desire. We have ceremonies of our own, private ones" (125). To these women, the simplest act of softening their skin is enough to give them the motivation to carry on. Buttering gives their lives a semblance of times past, and provides hope for the future.

Another way in which Offred stays calm is through her memories of her best friend Moira, her old lover Luke, her daughter, and her mother. Atwood switches seamlessly between flashbacks and the present moment, directly illustrating Offred's thoughts. One idea that keeps Offred motivated to stay alive is the possibility of reuniting with Luke, and that he'll send her a message: "The message will say that I must have patience: sooner or later he will get me out, we will find her...Meanwhile I must endure, keep myself safe for later" (135).

Offred also feels a strong connection to the former woman who lived in her room. This woman left a "Latin" note scratched into a cupboard, which reads "nolite te bastardes carborundorum," or "don't let the bastards grind you down.". Although the meaning of the phrase is unknown to Offred, it still serves as a reminder that someone once lived in her room, that they survived for some amount of time, and that they held on to enough of their former self to take a risk and carve something into the cupboard. Offred said "it pleases me to ponder this message...to think I'm communing with her, this unknown woman"(69).

Offred also loves to rebel against society in tiny ways, which helps her to feel alive and giver her a small sense of power. When passing one of the Guardians' inspection points, she looks up at one of their faces. She explains how it's "a small defiance of rule...but such moments are the rewards I hold out for myself, like the candy I hoarded, as a child...Such moments are possibilities, tiny peepholes" (28-29). In a world where Offred has such little power over herself and others, the knowledge that she can defy rules and make guards blush gives her the ability to carry on living her stripped-down, restricted life.

Moira

To me, one of the most intriguing characters in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale is a spunky, mysterious, rebellious lesbian named Moira. Moira is best friends with the narrator, Offred. Atwood reveals their relationship through Offred's flashbacks. In her memories, Moira is independent and rough around the edges: "Moira, sitting on the edge of my bed...one dangly earring, the gold fingernail she wore to be eccentric, a cigarette between her stubby yellow-ended fingers" (49-50). Even before the government takeover, Moira was offbeat and alluring.

Some of Atwood's most powerful descriptions are of Moira. One that particularly stood out to me was after Janine gives birth:
         "Moira was like an elevator with open sides. She made us dizzy. Already we were losing the taste          for freedom, already we were finding these walls secure. In the upper reaches of the atmosphere,            you'd come apart, you'd vaporize, there would be no pressure holding you together. Nevertheless,          Moira was our fantasy...In the light of Moira, the Aunts were less fearsome and more                              absurd." (172)
The language used in Moira's descriptions are markedly different from those in the rest of the novel. Atwood's language in this passage becomes ethereal with a ghost-like, mysterious quality through words such as "vaporize," "atmosphere," and "dizzy," illustrating Moira's absence and how the only piece of Moira that remains is an intangible memory. These passages show Moira as less of a person and more of a vague symbol of hope for Offred. As of yet, Moira's outcome is unknown, which provides the possibility that she escaped and is living a better life. However, because of the intangibility of these descriptions, Offred also feels a sense of doubt in Moira, that perhaps Moira was simply a dream or an exception. Additionally, the use of past tense at the end in describing Moira's effect of lightening their perspective on the Aunts gives the feeling that, without Moira, it's much more difficult for Offred to cope with her lack of control. Without Moira, Offred loses her "taste for freedom," and grows more comfortable with her restricted life.

This airy language isn't constant: in other passages about Moira, the language is heavy and forceful, and Atwood describes actions such as "dropping her denim jacket on the floor," "rummages in my purse," and "tosses the package" (73-74). These actions are grounding, and make Offred's memories of Moira feel recent and concrete.  These memories of Moira help her to hold onto a little piece of life before: Moira's tenacity for independence is forbidden and dangerous in Gilead, yet in a memory, they provide faith and comfort.

Offred's flashbacks also help Atwood to compare the past with the present. For instance, at one point, Offred peers out her window at the Commander, and ponders how she could spit or throw something at him. Clearly, this sort of action would not be tolerated in Gilead, and would lead to serious consequences. The following paragraph describes Moira and Offred in college casually dropping "water bombs" on boys from their dorm window (76). This structure emphasizes how Offred treated life with carelessness and took it for granted before the totalitarian government was installed, as in today's world, she's kept from the simplest of pleasures.

Flowers and Fertility

After reading The Picture of Dorian Gray this summer, my mind's been primed for recognizing flower symbolism in literature. Because of this, I instantly recognized the use of flowers in The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood. This novel explores an alternate, dystopian future in which women are stripped of power and are only valued for their reproductive abilities. The main character, Offred, is a "handmaid," whose sole function in society is to produce a child for the Commander with whom she lives. Flowers are interspersed throughout the text, and serve as symbols of beauty, fertility, and impermanence.

Atwood explicitly reveals this symbolism to the reader with the Handmaid's form of greeting: "blessed be the fruit," and "may the Lord open" in response (25). This simple exchange hints at many important elements in the book: women's loss of power, so that they must speak only in formal, stiff salutations; the prevalence of religious control in government and society; and how fertility and reproduction shape even everyday actions in their country, Gilead.

In addition to using flowers as an explicit representation of fertility, Atwood beautifully weaves in floral imagery to enhance the book's meaning. Serena Joy, the wife of the Commander, keeps a garden, "in which the daffodils are now fading and the tulips are opening their cups, spilling out color." Offred notes that "many of the wives have such gardens, it's something for them to order and maintain and care for" (16). In a time when fertility is so valued—to the point where women can be exiled for demonstrating infertility—flowers represent a form of fertility over which the characters can have control. Flowers serve as a substitute for children to wives who have none. Beyond simply fertility, flowers also represent impermanence: the impermanence of fertility, as well as of beauty and youth. Serena Joy shows her desire to capture some of her fleeting youth through the costumes she wears: "She's in one of her best dresses...flowers and fretwork. Even at her age she still feels the urge to wreathe herself in flowers. No use for you...you can't use them anymore, you're withered. They're the genital organs of plants" (104-105).

In Gilead, men are never considered infertile: legally, only women can be infertile. Because of this, many Handmaids are capable of conceiving yet are punished for something that's out of their control.
Offred demonstrates her desire to have power over her actions by trying to steal a flower: "I want to steal something...something that will not be missed...a withered daffodil" (126). However, this is a minor offense. Here, a withered flower is compared to an infertile women. This comparison illustrates the lack of status that infertile women hold in Gilead. Infertile women are disposable: many of them live must live in a wasteland known as the "Colonies," or others choose to become prostitutes for upper-ranking officials at the hotel Jezebel's.