Out running
October 19th 2006 13:46
Yesterday when I was out running, and again this morning, I kept thinking about a book I had just finished, trying to work out why it mad me so uncomfortable.
At the beginning of The Tattooed Girl, by Joyce Carol Oates, the reader sees Alma Busch through the eyes of her would be pimp and watches as she immediately falls into another abusive relationship.
The text doesn’t focus on the treatment of Alma at the hands of this man, but rather follows her through the course of various forms of employment. The descriptions of her sexuality, not of the abuse, are what makes me feel uncomfortable, but feet slapping along the sidewalk, I still couldn’t figure out why I felt so…repulsed.
I think it comes down to this: By normalising the abject, Oates makes the reader feel uncomfortable with themselves, forces introspection and then pushes the reader to identify with characters who would usually evoke a feeling of repulsion. The sexual clumsiness that haunts average women, ordinary women, are inherent properties of Alma Busch’s sexual life: her doughy complexion, sagging breasts, stained night-gown, menstrual cramps, Alma’s clumsy sexuality, her mildly overweight frame, and ill fitting clothes It makes you uncomfortable because you identify with her against your will, because all of the abject hallmarks of Alma’s sexual being are, or could potentially be, hallmarks of your own.
This put in opposition with the other women in the text, who have such contrived sexual existences. A handful of lovers that they haphazardly welcome into, and cast out of their lives, well groomed, calm, secure exteriors, or they suffer from glamorous seeming neurosis. Oates gives you just enough insight into Alma’s past to make you keenly aware of the abuse she has suffered, but not enough to evoke a feeling of sympathy. Instead, the combination of limited historicity and abject sexuality paint Alma as neither hero nor villain, and this ambiguity haunts the reader through the rest of the text. Alma lives through these embarrassing events without reacting, forcing the reader to wonder if, unbeknownst to them, they too are perpetually embarrassing themselves. Oates presents the possibility that the things we don’t want to acknowledge will eventually see the light. She forces us to experience them on behalf of her protagonist, forces us to feel ashamed for her protagonist.
The humiliations that plague all women, the things that women want to keep hidden, are not only described, but Alma lives and suffers within the boundaries and confines of these. The reader is horrified, and thinks Alma need be as well, and it seems so shocking when she isn’t, exacerbating the feeling of discomfort. So then, kilometres later, sitting on the back step untying my shoes (reminding myself to get a new pair) I wondered why do I keep coming back to this author, if she makes me feel so uncomfortable?
At the beginning of The Tattooed Girl, by Joyce Carol Oates, the reader sees Alma Busch through the eyes of her would be pimp and watches as she immediately falls into another abusive relationship.
The text doesn’t focus on the treatment of Alma at the hands of this man, but rather follows her through the course of various forms of employment. The descriptions of her sexuality, not of the abuse, are what makes me feel uncomfortable, but feet slapping along the sidewalk, I still couldn’t figure out why I felt so…repulsed.
I think it comes down to this: By normalising the abject, Oates makes the reader feel uncomfortable with themselves, forces introspection and then pushes the reader to identify with characters who would usually evoke a feeling of repulsion. The sexual clumsiness that haunts average women, ordinary women, are inherent properties of Alma Busch’s sexual life: her doughy complexion, sagging breasts, stained night-gown, menstrual cramps, Alma’s clumsy sexuality, her mildly overweight frame, and ill fitting clothes It makes you uncomfortable because you identify with her against your will, because all of the abject hallmarks of Alma’s sexual being are, or could potentially be, hallmarks of your own.
This put in opposition with the other women in the text, who have such contrived sexual existences. A handful of lovers that they haphazardly welcome into, and cast out of their lives, well groomed, calm, secure exteriors, or they suffer from glamorous seeming neurosis. Oates gives you just enough insight into Alma’s past to make you keenly aware of the abuse she has suffered, but not enough to evoke a feeling of sympathy. Instead, the combination of limited historicity and abject sexuality paint Alma as neither hero nor villain, and this ambiguity haunts the reader through the rest of the text. Alma lives through these embarrassing events without reacting, forcing the reader to wonder if, unbeknownst to them, they too are perpetually embarrassing themselves. Oates presents the possibility that the things we don’t want to acknowledge will eventually see the light. She forces us to experience them on behalf of her protagonist, forces us to feel ashamed for her protagonist.
The humiliations that plague all women, the things that women want to keep hidden, are not only described, but Alma lives and suffers within the boundaries and confines of these. The reader is horrified, and thinks Alma need be as well, and it seems so shocking when she isn’t, exacerbating the feeling of discomfort. So then, kilometres later, sitting on the back step untying my shoes (reminding myself to get a new pair) I wondered why do I keep coming back to this author, if she makes me feel so uncomfortable?
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