"The Twelve"

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A Beautifully Broken Land

Throughout Book I of Cry, the Beloved Country, Alan Paton uses a wide variety of literary devices such as imagery and antithesis to describe the land of South Africa. His descriptions point to an intense overall message of the breakdown of a country under wide segregation and discrimination. Paton’s portrayal of a barren land that is empty and yearning for renewal reflects a crippled nation’s cry to be resurrected from disharmonious destruction. In another point, Paton contrasts urban South Africa to the native land in order to demonstrate the deviation of ideals and morals between the philosophical citified people and the rural conservatives.

In Chapter 1 of Book I, Paton uses contradictory paragraphs that contrast a lively, flourishing land to one that is desolate and empty. He describes “rich and matted” grass that “cares for men” in the first piece, then a place that is “red and bare” with “course and sharp” land. These opposing representations symbolize the difference between native South Africa and the new, contemporary urban civilization. The viewpoint suggests that the indigenous country that began South Africa is congenital and complete, opposing to the “new” South Africa that is diverting away from the original ethics of the native people. Also, Paton utilizes parallel structure to show how absolutely opposite the two regions actually are. He repeats what is nearly an exact Xerox paragraph with antonymous adjectives and descriptions.
        
While Stephen Kumalo travels to Johannesburg, Paton uses diction and detail to show the destruction and brokenness that is the land of South Africa. He characterizes the soil as “sick” and “almost beyond healing.” The fashion in which he describes this land emulates the troubles that the country is currently pushing through. South Africa is, at this time, at the beginning of a strong racial breakdown that is named Apartheid. Because of this segregation, the nation is struggling with staying united and alive, just as the soil that Paton is illustrating. The analysis of the land could also be foreshadowing the civilization that Kumalo is about to find in Johannesburg.

In Chapter 12, Paton employs questions that analyze how fear separates man from his land. He asks “who can lie peacefully abed" and at the same moment have "fear in the heart?" This simple yet powerful inquisition revolves around one of the larger themes throughout the whole novel; fear. Paton repeatedly describes fear as being one of the lowest emotions a human can encounter, because it sequesters all other enjoyment and hope that comes with life. By depicting the beauty of South Africa through details such as "shadow of the jacarandas," Paton allows the reader to visualize how fear is capable of taking away beauty and happiness when it is allowed into the mind. 

All in all, Paton advances descriptions of South Africa's symbolic land in order to reflect upon his overall messages of the transition from native to urban lifestyles, a broken city, and fear. The depictions delineate a vision in the reader's mind that aids in envisioning the morals that Paton is displaying throughout Book I. 

The Agonistic Heart

            I’ve repeatedly heard that the only thing to fear is fear itself, but in moments between life or death, could that be completely true?

            I open my icy blue eyes and see nothing but white ceiling. The chandelier in the entry-way seems more beautiful than I remember, more classical. I begin studying the woodwork when I hear a quiet and distant whisper.

            “Sissy?”

            My sister’s voice immediately pierces my body. I feel... pain. My face feels damp, as if my nose had been running. I reach up to wipe the liquid and realize that it was in fact, red. Deep red like the roses right outside the door... So close, yet so far away. I start to giggle fiercely, but stop abruptly when reality smacks me in the face. Blood. At this point Abbi is whimpering in the background as I struggle to stand. I barely get to my knees before a sharp, twisting pain comes over my body like lightening. I lay back on the edge of the stairs and begin to worry that my sweet sister is seeing more than her little eyes can take.

            “Abbi, sissy is okay. Can you go get the phone for me?”

            “Oh, alright...” she stutters. I can sense the fear in her voice.

            Possibilities flash through my brain and I wonder if I’ll ever get up. As Abbi crawls beside me I reach for the phone and contemplate on who I should call first, and ambulance or my parents. I decide not to bother my parents with what might be my last few breaths. I begin to type a “9” when my thoughts shift. Can an ambulance even take me without adults here? Where would Abbi go? I can smell the rich blood thickening under my nose; the copper taste lingering on my tongue. I quickly type my mother’s number, preparing my words to prevent scarring sweet Abbi anymore. I hear her voice through the speaker.

            “Hello? What do you need?”

            I try to get the first word out when a sea of black overwhelms my eyes. Unconsciousness whisks me away.

            “This office is really nice,” my dad awkwardly blabs.

            I nod my head, praying that he would simply shut the hell up. The hard patient’s bed was piercing my back, and the lights were too bright. A middle-aged nurse struts into my room with a blood pressure cuff and I immediately thrust out my arm. The nurse smells like peppermints. I hate peppermints. I’m judging her every molecule when a knock on the door indicated that the doctor was ready for me.

            “I’m sorry,” the nurse states. “I’ll let you four talk.”

            The doctor shakes my parents hands and forces an ugly smile at me. I already despise him.

            “Hello Taylor, I hope you’re doing well today. We have quite a few things to discuss.”

            He shuts the door and sits on his short stool. I come to the conclusion that I’m dying or dead. He glances at my parents.

            “Your daughter has a medical condition called Pro-Long QT syndrome.”

            He begins to explain all the odds and ends; I can sense my dad itching to whip out his iPhone to research what I’m sure he thinks he already knows about. I close my eyes to drift into my alternate reality as the long-legged professor explains the reason for my sudden fits of unconsciousness.

            My eyes are focused on the masked faces around me, and my heart is ironically beating normally.

            “Taylor, are you comfortable?”

            I debate on telling him that I’d rather be gouging my back with sharpened knives than lying on this ridiculous “bed.” Instead I say,

            “I’m fine.”

            Fear languishes in my soul as the room gets colder. My pink fleshy fingers turn to ghostly white on the silver rails. These rails are only another reminder that I can’t get up. No matter how much I desperately want to leave from this invitation to death, I can’t. I begin to think about my family. What will my sister do if I don’t wake up? Who will show her all the tricks and secrets to the life of a girl? Other faces flash across my mind quickly... too quickly. I realize I’m not ready to leave this sinful world. I still have so many amazingly ignorant journeys in my humanly life. I pray that my body won’t be overcome by the same white my fingers have taken to. I pray that the doctors won’t crush the hearts of my parents by saying they’ve “done all they can do.” I can’t die. Not today. Not anytime soon. What if God isn’t pleased with the person I’ve been? I try to sit up to scream to the doctors that are trying to save my life to stop, I no longer want to be saved. But right as I open my mouth, my eyes are filled with the darkest black I’ve ever seen. Something smells like peppermints, like that fat nurse from the doctor’s office that began this tragedy. My thoughts stop there. I open my eyes to my mom’s fearful face too close to mine saying,

            “Taylor? Are you awake?”

            Ringing. That’s all I hear. A ringing as loud as a train traveling faster than light. I begin to believe I’m dead until I feel something strange. Something cold. Something wet. Something painful. I know this feeling. I remember it from another life. I slowly open my eyes to see the scariest vision possible. A chandelier. A dusty, beautiful chandelier. I try to turn my head but I’m stopped by a piercing pain in my neck. It hits me like the same train that delivered the overwhelming ringing. I contemplate what my next move will be. But what if the next turn kills me? I can see it now... “Taylor Nemenz, dead after tumbling down a flight of stairs.” What a pansy way to go. I build up enough courage to try and sit up as I remember; I’m alone. The rest of my family is away shopping. I feel my heart go to my throat, and all the fake courage I’d built up disappears. My senses start to return and I smell the same copper I smelt so many months ago. I feel the end of the stairs jabbing into my back. I look over towards my right arm and see nothing but dried blood. I begin to wonder how long I’d been laying here in the darkness.

            A shot of guilt goes through my veins as I hope my little sister doesn’t have to see me in this state, yet again. What will this mean for me? Is my family going to have spend thousands of dollars to try and save my life? Or maybe this will be my last few minutes. Maybe, just maybe, my little heart will no longer be able to take this strain. The agony it’s been under the past year is understandably enough to make anyone give up. The thought that the only thing to fear is fear itself is completely thrashed from my mind when my only fear, and even a secret hope, turns into never getting up.

Nostalgic Memories of a Blue Eyed Bookworm

Living in an influential world, most children begin reading in their early years, and cease when they find out that it’s no longer “cool.” My case is exceptionally different. My parents agree that my interest in books let them know early on that I would grow to be an avid reader. I’m not sure that I recall my preschool or elementary teachers teaching me the skill more than my parents themselves.  I remember laying down every night with my father and letting him fill my mind with the amazing world of childhood fiction.

Dad says I began picking up on words by the time I was two, and at three I could read and comprehend simple sentences. While other children were outside playing, I was covering my bright blue eyes with a book.  Some may have  theorized that these actions cautioned what was certain to be an unsocial child, but in complete truth, I’ve grown up to be something of a social butterfly. I for one believe that the relationships I used to have and still have with fictional characters have somehow given me insight into communicating and understanding people in general.

When I began school, my kindergarten teacher was amazed with the ability I had to read. She started to separate my work from the rest of the class, until at the end of the year I had progressed to the equivalent of a 3^rd grader. Administrators discussed allowing me to skip ahead a year, but my parents argued that I should have the full experience of learning. I secretly wish that they would’ve gone through with it, just because I’d have the chance to get through school even faster.

In 2^nd grade, I read my first Harry Potter novel. Teachers were so amazed that they announced my name over the intercom, encouraging other students to attempt to reach the level I was on. To me, this was a bit extravagant. All I knew was that reading was simple, and that must’ve meant that everyone could do it! Now, of course, I realize that I was far ahead of my peers.

The Hobbit quickly became the book I always begged my father to read with me before bed. I loved it so much that after it was over, I shed a few tears and simply stated that I was “done with books.” Around this time, I was forced to grow up through experience. In effect, I had to have something to keep my mind on to sustain my sanity. At ten, my emotional maturity was higher than most teens, and that meant that my attitude was sky rocketing. I remember wanting nothing more than to be in my room with a book, even if that meant pushing my parents away with rolling eyes and whispered words. Reading was an escape that helped rid my mind of reality.

As I reflect on my past of heavy reading, I truly appreciate my parents for preparing me for the future. I still to this day am always engrossed with a good book. No matter what’s going on in my life, I always have an alternative world I can quickly transport to. Reading always has been and always will be an enormous part of my life.

I Am: Amaryllis

I am the Amaryllis.

I wonder when my time will come to bloom. 

I hear voices exerting me forward;

I see bathetic faces leading me through. 

I want to free myself of this discomposure. 

I am the Amaryllis. 

I pretend to detach from reality. 

I feel the icy wind blow throughout my fantasy. 

I touch silence, even when surrounded by emphatic sound.

I worry that "infinity" is coming to an end. 

I cry. 

I am the Amaryllis. 

I understand any vex but my own. 

I say, "Find contentment within yourself."

I dream that I could mean what I say. 

I try to elude away from pessimism. 

I am the Amaryllis.. 

And I WILL bloom. 

The Handsome Drowned Man Inside Us All

  Have you ever read a book or seen a movie that, after in taking it, makes you strive to be a better you? We can't always pinpoint the exact reason, but we do know that there is more for us to do than simply sit around and watch the world moving forward without us. We need to feel as if we have a purpose, or something that we've achieved that others can admire.
 
  In Gabriel Marquez's short story The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World, an amazingly gorgeous dead man is washed onto the shore of a small village. Doing what any kind human would, the villagers proceed with attempting to discover where exactly the man came from. In the middle of that, the women and men begin to magnetize towards this idea that the drowned, abnormally large man was in fact an outstanding and almighty person. In his memory, they decide upon doing things of an unnatural or impossible nature, like "breaking their backs digging for springs among the stones and planting flowers in the cliffs." Before discovering the man, they would've never even imagined attempting these acts. Why do you think that is? Maybe, it was the fantastic theory of the already fantastic man that sparked the awakening of the villagers.

  Batman, a well known character of the fantasy realm recently captured the attention of people across the nation in the new movie The Dark Knight Rises. Even though most everyone realizes that the events and characters of this movie are completely imagined, (with the exception of the recent movie theatre assassin in Aurora, Colorado), people seem to have a sense of pride after watching it; At least I know I did. We begin to desire to be like Batman, to want to do so much more. Not all admit the childish feeling inside of being a "superhero," but we all know the truth. Every one of you wants to drive the awesome Bat-Mobile and save the city of Gothem from the "bad guy."

  This yearning inside of us is extremely similar to those of the villagers of The Handsomest Drowned Man. Because of a magical character and our idea of them, we desire to be something phenomenal ourselves. We reach with our souls for others to achieve the unthinkable. We yearn for others to be inspired by us. It's quite possibly incorrect to think of anything as being unrealistic or impossible. Maybe, just maybe, we all need a man that either dresses like a bat or is fictionally large and dead in order to reach past the ordinary and soar into the extraordinary.