Father Says Research Articles

“My father says … my father says”: The collaboration between Sigmund and Anna Freud, James and Alix Strachey, when translating the Case Histories

ABSTRACT This paper tries to study the complexity of the personal and professional relationship between S. and A. Freud and A. and J. Strachey when they were translating Freud's Case Histories, starting with the years they spent in Vienna immediately after the end of the first world war being both in analysis with Freud and were checking the translations with him and his daughter. Those unique meetings according to me influenced even many aspects of Strachey SE later on and have still to be kept in mind even today as far as Mark Solms Revision of the SE is concerned. I also try to show the importance and the final control of the Strachey's translation exerted by E. Jones who had planned the Standard Edition of Freud' work already in 1920 and create a very rigid glossary in order to translate him which the Strachey's had to apply to their translations. I have used published and unpublished letters and notes on the translation to try to prove what I just stated.

The Time of the Migrant

The Time of the Migrant

Four Novels of 1939: Ambition and Redemption; Ethnicity and Race

Four Novels of 1939: Ambition and Redemption; Ethnicity and Race

Fade In

Fade In Cathy Linh Che (bio) a golden shovel using the beginning lines of the script ofApocalypse Now, in which my parents, who wereVietnamese refugees, were hired to play extras I chew my dinner carefully. Ahelicopter arrives. The singleman at the table is my father. The imageof his younger self fades, then a faint scent ofBaler. So I walk in the forest listening to trees. ________ My aunt asked her son to serve us coconutcut from the cluster of treesout front. For the time beingit is 2011. History is being viewedon the television, throughthe eyes of a white American. Thefact is, my parents were barely visible through the veilof that gaze. They were the props ofempire. Characters with short timeand no lines. Orprops to smell like areal thing. Movie so real, it's beyond a dream. [End Page 34] ________ While directing, Coppola occasionallychomped on a green coloredmango, skin and all. Film was all smokeand rigging, waftsof bright sulfur throughsalt spray and surf-ready waves. Thescene opens just outside the frame.My mother sleeping in a room, scented with yellowdroplets of piss. How thenshe lay, bathed in violet. ________ The musicblares. A speaker beginsto call like a child, quietly,on its way to howl, then silence, suggestiveof taxidermy. Mother ofGod, pray for my mother in 1968,13 and sent away––eager for the year to become, finally, 1969. Then, perhapsshe listens to theradio, through to the endof the evening. Bythe time she wakes, my father is already gone. Thescene opens just outside the doors [End Page 35] ________ of the schoolhouse. I can see him now,walking toward the beach, movingpast fishermen selling their catch, throughthe crewmembers setting up their cameras to capture themorning's just-rinsedlight. He waits to enter the frame.The director asks: Areyou ready? My father climbs aboard a helicopter, which skidsacross the shore. He considers his role ofan interpreter. His English, his training as a mechanic. The helicopters,borrowed from Marcos (Ferdinand, notImelda), suddenly swerve. The Hueys thatCoppola used to stage a war are needed to put down rebels. Wehad to wait, my father says. But we received payment. Still, we do what we can:keep busy, practice English, prepare to makea life somewhere new. My mother insists that filming was funfor them,a way outof the boredom of the camp. AsI listen to their telling, I realize thatmy version doesn't match theirs, though,I take what I can. Along the way, I discover a lost uncle. Ratherthan seeking hardfact (he may still be alive somewhere), I record the shapesof my family's feeling: the guilt thatstays, the glidewhen I press my mother, who bynow, engages with the narrative ata distance, with the triggered up-close at random [End Page 36] ________ intervals. She pastes album after album of photographs, thenmarked Cathy Linh Che, 1980–, anod to a gravestone, in defiance of (or an elegy for?) a phantomcountry. The construct as real as a helicopterexploding ceremoniously when her friend from the camp tosses her straw hat in.Her face in fullview.In Baler, a surfboard floatsatop a few waves, right by"Charlie's Point." Theguide drives me via sidecar to a grove of palm trees—when the scene from the film comes at me suddenly."Napalm" dropped along this ridge. River mouth withoutvine or cover. The charred remains warningmy mother about theAmerican life ahead of her: a junglein flames. Mortar fire bursts,only, it's just a dream she carries intoAmerica, and only when I ask her aquestion. Her answers are never reluctant, brightwith detail, her face alight as if diving into a red-orangefire, her past defoliated under a globof liquid heat. In exchange, 80 pesos for a day ofacting work. Just playing life anew, napalmthat never burned...

Moman's Secret Agenda

Moman's Secret Agenda

The quagmire of collegiality vs competitiveness

A parent walks into an office seeking an opinion about the need for orthodontic treatment for his child. The orthodontist evaluates the records, provides treatment options, and his professional perspective on why, if the patient was his own family member or child, he would choose a particular option. They exchange pleasantries, and the family leaves, stating that they will get in touch with the office soon. Returning in a few weeks to start treatment, the father says, “We consulted with 3 other orthodontists before we met you ….

Osiris, Crossing, and: Where My Father Returns to Visit My Mother as a Crow

Osiris, Crossing, and: Where My Father Returns to Visit My Mother as a Crow Fabienne Josaphat (bio) Osiris, Crossing Climb in this bed with me—it is much cooler on this side of the river,My father says, as if the hospital bed he has lied onfor days is now a boat, as if we are crossing the Nileand he is Osiris. He and I both standin this boat, gliding on the surfaceto the mouth of the underworld.It's hot, he says. Aren't you?Climb in here with me. It's cooler.I use the open hospital gownand fan the flames off, but the heatis already in a place I cannot see,in his head, under the scalp,and yet I keep fanning until he says,ça va, c'est bon, until he has arrived,although I don't know it yet, into a gardenof wide mango trees and papaya,into the pooled water of rice paddiesand ceibas, where the ylang-ylangsheds fragrance off the hem of night's skirt,and he is already in the shade. Where My Father Returns to Visit My Mother as a Crow The nurse is disconnecting the pump from my mother's port.I lift my eyes to the window just in time to see my father on the sill,his feathers as black as his eyes, blue black. Behind him,the palm fronds flirt with a blue March sky.Look, I say. A raven. The nurse says oh, what?I say, a crow! And before we can debate the difference between ravensand crows, she brings up a woodpecker. My mother chews ginger candy.The bird considers what remains of her balding head, the hair fineand wispy, her skin a yellow parchment. Woodpeckers tap at the windowsometimes, the nurse says. But what do they have to do with anything,what with all their incessant drilling and tapping, their obsession with food?My mother spits out the ginger candy. I wrap it in paper, an offeringto no god. I know better, I think, and watch my father fly off outside,as quickly as he'd arrived, and land nearby, patiently waiting. [End Page 56] Fabienne Josaphat Fabienne Josaphat is the author of Dancing in the Baron's Shadow (Unnamed, 2016). Her essay, "Summer is an Empty House," received a Notable Essays mention in Best American Essays 2016. Her fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been featured in The Master's Review, Grist Journal, The New Engagement, Hinchas de Poesia, Off the Coast Journal, and The Caribbean Writer, as well as in Eight Miami Poets, a Jai-Alai Books poetry anthology. Copyright © 2020 Fabienne Josaphat

At Twilight the Signs Shine With a Remote Light, and: The Future, and: Tomorrow

At Twilight the Signs Shine With a Remote Light, and: The Future, and: Tomorrow D. Nurkse (bio) At Twilight the Signs Shine With a Remote Light You might fall in love with one of the moments, and follow her through the leafy streets of Jugtown, pausing sometimes to give a coin to a panhandler, or pat a mangy dog, to give yourself plausibility.She is just a moment, your mother says, scraping a cauterized yolk from the skillet with the edge of the spatula. She won't last, your father says, looking up from the dictionary, where he's memorizing synonyms. There are a million like her, says your little sister, standing on tiptoe before the full-length mirror. Your uncle just clears his throat.Yet you dream of her, you write letters you don't sign, you wait for the Ditmas bus she rides, you eat every night at the little falafel joint. Unless you recall her charm bracelet, you can't imagine the night sky.You might glimpse her in a rearview mirror, or hear her guffaw in the static at the far end of the FM band.Summer is almost over. The hydrants open as if of their own accord. The children are fascinated by that current, all glance, nudge, and dazzling cold. The older kids sit on stoops tossing cards with pictures of the great sluggers from deeper in childhood: Harmon Killebrew, Moose Skowron.All the moments of August fascinate you, their wildness, their silence, how they glint and vanish. But she is the one you can't live without. Even in autumn you sense her sometimes, shepherding a child across the street, running after a dog's snaking leash, combing her hair in a taxi window, even in winter and the night that follows winter. [End Page 407] The Future I spend more and more time in the underworld. It's not that I don't like this world, Kensington, Brooklyn, long rainy streets, domesticated maples carved with hearts and names, the little factories that make bits of things—second hands for stopwatches, latches for the cases of flutes.I love to lie beside my wife, watching clouds mass in the mirror, waiting for a thread of cold morning rain, listening to her calm adamant breath and perhaps a scrap of Meek Mill from a passing SUV.It's just that the underworld is magnificent. The streets there glitter. The house I am summoned to has no number. A cat waits behind the door; his eyes are dazzling, purely reflective. The bookshelves are imposing, but all the books are blank, no titles on the spines. My father is there, waiting, and there I am as a toddler, a child, a boy, sixty years ago, then fifty. There is my little sister, worried sick over her shiny kneecaps. We all talk together, we are shy, we share so little, but I remember an incipient interest—Miles Davis—and the teenager warms a tad. Where do you come from, he asks.A candle burns in a candlestick. If I blow on it the flame remains vertical. If I comb in the oval mirror, the old man on the other side combs in the opposite direction, grinning slyly.You have been vanishing all your life, my wife explains when I return. You keep disappearing to make way for the next self. Who knew that you were vanishing into the future?I can't help it, our room feels cramped now. The rose in the vase. The calendar with all the days crossed out. [End Page 408] Tomorrow Can you make it to tomorrow? Can you hold out?There you will find what lies beyond the pines, what the porch lamp hides, who waits at the top of the chipped stone steps.Your father and mother will be circling in the green skiff, far out in the reach. He sculling with one oar, she scanning the glare, eyes shielded. She points, she mouths a name, you break the wave, gasping. Such a delicate operation. She has to lean forward to embrace you, he must slouch back at the same moment, equalizing the thrust, then right himself in increments, while...

The Matthean characterisation of Jesus by God the Father

This article uses a narrative analysis to contribute to the discourse on the characterisation of Jesus in the Matthean Gospel. Characterisation can be achieved in various ways. Much is revealed about characters through their actions and words, and how other role-players in the text respond to them. Sometimes there is a narrator who tells the reader about a character. The kind of character depends on the traits or personal qualities of that character and how that character performs during specific incidents. Along with God himself, Jesus forms the principal character in the First Gospel. His teachings and actions are central to the text and the actions of other characters are directed towards him. The article focuses on one aspect of characterisation, namely, on what characters say about Jesus. Such words can come from supporters or antagonists. The article concentrates on what God the Father says in support of Jesus. The Father’s point of view is normative in this narrative. The evangelist utilises the utterances of God the Father as a narrative strategy to gradually assure the prominence and authority of the character of Jesus. Matthew’s narrative clearly recounts Jesus’ authority – an authority that comes from God and not only points towards him but also finally becomes his own. The Father attests that Jesus is greater and more authoritative than any previous messenger of God. It is Jesus who ultimately states that all authority has been bestowed upon him and therefore he can send out the disciples with his Great Commission. God’s heavenly voice expresses the significant status of Jesus as the main character and exposes the malignity of his antagonists.

Year One

Year One Jaquira Díaz (bio) It begins like this: an assembly outside the university, students and professors and factory workers and taxi drivers, everyone, all holding up their protest signs, el presidente more than an hour late, the Alliance Police strapped head-to-toe in body armor guarding the stage where the country's Alliance-backed president will make his first public speech since stealing the election. Aurora, whose fourteen-year-old brother was last seen with Alliance cops outside the governor's palace, is among the protestors. She is nineteen, a first-year student, political science. Edgar, her only brother, was just a kid, a prankster, caught spray painting graffiti on the palace's south wall—stop negotiating with colonial overlords—probably something he'd heard their father say. He was taken away to answer for his crime. This story she got from his friends, Monchi and Chapo, who ran before the cops caught them. The bill for repainting the south wall was hand-delivered to her parents' house in Carraízo, but news about Edgar's whereabouts never came. Aurora's phone calls to la policía had been useless—they'd never heard of her brother or the graffiti incident, and if he was caught by the Alliance, well, he was shit out of luck, no offense, seńorita. The Alliance didn't even have an office she could call, and the receptionist at the palace just laughed when she asked to speak with el presidente, or el gobernador, ese maldito vendepatria. She visited el palacio at least four times, demanding to see a captain, a sergeant, somebody, anybody, but was turned away again and again. Her mother wrote letters, got other women in el barrio to write letters, which was useless according to her father. These men don't care about letters, her father had said. They only care about one damn thing. He had withdrawn all of their savings from el Banco Popular, had borrowed from everyone he knew. A ransom, that's what it was. The Alliance was holding Edgar hostage and he would get him back. Her father had returned penniless and beaten and without her brother. He had returned, and for that Aurora was grateful, but she had known then that her brother was dead, that he would not come home, not ever, that he was killed by a foreign government in his own country, for words he had written on a wall. When el presidente takes the stage, Aurora begins to make her way up front, sliding in between students and factory workers, ducking elbows to the head and pushing people out of her way. Her brother is dead. She once thought that knowing this would break her. But now she understands—can feel it in her bones—that being a colonial subject is even worse than being killed. Freedom is all that matters anymore. Viva Puerto Rico libre. She holds the gun against her body, in the front pocket of her Universidad de Puerto Rico hoodie, her sleeves scrunched up to the elbows. Her brother is dead and the cops notice her moving through the crowd, notice her making her way toward the podium, notice her meeting their eyes and not looking away because she is not afraid. Her brother is dead, and they are recognizing her from her many visits to the palace. Her brother is dead and el presidente is speaking—el gobernador watching from the side [End Page 70] of the stage after selling out his own people—addressing the assembly of farmers who have lost their crops, their lands, mothers and fathers who have lost their children, sisters who have lost their brothers. She feels the weight of the gun in her hand, and just like she'd imagined, protestors all around her with their makeshift signs, the heat rising rising rising like a breaking wave inside her, her brother, her brother's face, her brother's ghost-voice a whisper in her ear, Take the shot. And Aurora takes the shot. Immediately, she's surrounded by cops. A blow to the face from the buttstock of a rifle, more shots, the crowd pushing, running...

Two Poems

PHOTO: RABE/PIXABAY POETRY Two Poems by Namrata Verghese Guide to Bharatanatyam Your smile, shredded into silver shards across panes of mirrors lining studio walls. Tuck your sari, tight. Open your eyes, wide. You learn, day one – all of five years old and already told you are cumbersome – to dance against the shadows, between the cracks where mildew grows. Smile. There, where one mirror ends and the other has not yet begun, you learn to lose yourself in a pivot. Namrata Verghese is an undergraduate and Robert W. Woodruff Scholar at Emory University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Nimrod International Journal, PRISM international, storySouth, and elsewhere. Her first collection of short stories, Hyphenated, is forthcoming from Speaking Tiger Books in 2019. Visit worldlit. org to read Verghese’s story “God’s Intern.” Spellbound Win the spelling bee and you will know what it means to be lonely. “You beat them!” my father says. His dark skin tries hard to flush. But I did not beat them; I beat her: Maddy Johnson – blue-eyed, blonde-haired. We are in fifth grade, but our battle is older. Win the spelling bee and you will know what it means to master the tongue that has mastered you. To boast of your victory in the language of your master. My winning word was aubergine: a u b e r g i n e. Aubergine. “I knew you would get it right,” my father tells me in the car ride home, “because it’s a word from Sanskrit.” I smile. I nod. I did not know this. I do not know Sanskrit; I know: Sanskrit. s a n s k r i t. Sanskrit. WORLDLIT.ORG 13 ...

‘Julle noem My Leermeester … en julle is reg, want Ek is dit’ (Joh 13:13). Onderrig in die Evangelie van Johannes

Teaching in John’s Gospel In this article the significance is analysed of the Johannine concept of teaching and related themes, like teachers, different ways of teaching, both formal and informal. Both terminological as well as conceptual references to teaching are considered. It is shown that the teaching of Jesus to his followers is described in terms of Jewish rabbinic activities and that social conventions in this respect are honoured. However, when the Father teaches Jesus, the metaphor changes to typical Jewish teaching within a family context where the father teaches his child through example. The child observes what the father says and mimes these actions and words. This ensures that the teaching of Jesus corresponds to that of the Father. When Jesus goes back to his Father, the Paraclete continues this educational process by reminding and guiding the followers of the words of Jesus. The Gospel however refrains from describing the followers of Jesus as teachers, but calls them witnesses to the teaching of Jesus – the teaching remains that of Jesus. This concept is so central to the theology of John that the theological structure would collapse if it would be ignored or downplayed.

Maricón

Maricón R. T. Smith (bio) In memory of Emile Griffith (1938-2013) and Benny “Kid”Peret (1937-1962) And a man who has found prowess in boxing,grant him favor and joy.pindar I “Whoever controls the breathing in the ringcontrols the fight,” my father says. Smell of sweat,Vaseline and bleach, sting of ammonia. “The art of self-defense is crucial.” The gym is dampand the speed bag singing his beliefs. Elsewhere,a husky boy from the Virgin Islands quietly designs hats in a Bronx shop, his chest bareas he hefts storeroom cartons. His boss says,“Boy’s got a boxer’s body,” and that begins it. Emile is bewildered, with no desire for the sweetscience of footwork and fist, no assassin’seye. When a backyard bully named Jeffrey lures me to his ring of jeering rednecks,I clear a path with my ball bat, rush hometo mother, because I’m skinny, afraid. Later, [End Page 74] seeing me teary on the mat at a Scout outingand pawing feebly at Jimmy Kizner, my fatherresolves to plunge me into the discipline. “To win, you control the breathing,” he insists.Morning roadwork, shadow boxing, mitts.On his bike, the old man swears as I sweat, “Your target’s never where his goddamn headis, but where it’s going next.” Willowy, skittish,without finesse, I never overcome my fear. Griffith is a better fit—welterweight, bobcatquick, graceful as ballet. Coach Gil Clancytaunts him: “Don’t you get that matador strut.” Deft and canny through the fifties, his gold toothgleaming and bombshell blondes clenchinghis biceps at ringside, the shutterbug’s flash catching the velvet dandy in action,pearls on his cuffs, satin cravat. Dark mouseon my brow, I bus back across town from the gym to mother’s tears,tonic and gin, a dead cigarette. “My otherhalf ought to know better,” she spits. He travels, sleuthing out insurance fraud,arson, while slick-dealing firehousepoker. She twists her opal ring, exhales blue breath. I don’t want to be prissy,hope to show I’ve got moxie, like a pro,like that March night when ring pundits all agree: Peret opened inspired. [End Page 75] II Whoever controls the breathing.…Jab and tuck, shoot the right high, hookto the ribs, drive him to the turnbuckle, the ropes, the canvas. Griffith has to beschooled in fury: “It’s red sport, boy,”and rumor has it the insiders suspect he’s keeping a secret, the private lifeof linen suits, the pink Lincoln crucialto his macho disguise. Still, no one will say “pansy.” Control the breathing,control a rival’s will and snuff his soul.“Wind and feet win it. You have to show an iron intent”: in the garage my fatherpops me. “Love taps,” he says. “You’vegot to learn to shrug it off. Forget thinking. Make me miss, slugger. Everybodyhas a plan, but it’s gone to smoke soonas you get hit. Duck now. Control your breath, counterpunch, get mad. Murderme, cream puf. Make me suffer.” Yearslater, his career over, Emile jokes, “I like girls and men pretty much equal.You reckon that make me bilingual?”He’d known Peret since boyhood but never heard those venomed syllables: maricón.I hammered into the heavy bag mummiedin duct tape, pounded that son of a bitch. [End Page 76] “Punish the sap. Maul him up. Makehim miss.” Still, my father’s snarl. …I skip the rope as it hums, side step, hop and cross over, wrists whipping,weaving, sparring my shadow—left, leftright uppercut. At the weigh-in Peret keeps whispering what Griffith can’tbear to catch. He guesses the word’sout and starts lurching and whirling, breathless, shamed. Kid has crossedthe line. Maricón, maricón, slur worsethan tu mama—”You faggot!” Mild Emile bides his time. It’s sixty-two, my bouts allhistory, scufed gloves and lace-up bootsin a footlocker … one local trophy—runner-up. III March 24, Saturday night: Gillette’s parrotcawks about razors—”Feel...

Response to Commentators on Waking, Dreaming, Being

Response to Commentators on Waking, Dreaming, Being Evan Thompson (bio) Let me begin by thanking my commentators for taking the time to read my book and to write such constructive commentaries. I would also like to thank Christian Coseru for organizing and chairing the panel at the International Society for Buddhist Philosophy at the 2015 meeting of the Pacific Division of the American Philosophical Association, at which three of the commentaries were originally presented together with my response. Finally, I am grateful to Philosophy East and West for publishing this exchange. Philosophy East and West published my first academic paper, so I am especially happy to have this exchange appear here.1 In what follows, I have arranged my response according to the topics and issues raised by the commentators, rather than responding separately to each author. Autobiography and Phenomenology Owen Flanagan invites me to say more about the autobiographical quality of my book. His invitation overlaps the first group of questions that Jennifer Windt asks in her rich and reflective commentary. She wonders whether my use of my own experience reports “exemplifies a distinct philosophical practice” and plays “a unique argumentative function.” She raises three specific questions. First, she asks “whether an author’s own experience reports have a privileged evidential status in the context of theoretical arguments, both in general and in philosophy of mind in particular.” Second, she asks whether gaining firsthand familiarity with the types of experience one is investigating is “not just beneficial, but perhaps even necessary for certain types of philosophical work, for instance on meditation or dreams.” Finally, she asks about the implications of using first-person methods and relying on experience reports for teaching philosophy. Should we provide opportunities and methods for students to observe firsthand the experiences we are philosophically investigating? Let me begin with an autobiographical remark. When I was growing up I would often hear my father say—attributing the remark to Thomas Mann—that scholarship is frequently disguised autobiography. By this he meant that scholarly narratives, usually about history or literature, tend to be hidden, projective self-descriptions. Authors present themselves as impartially defending views that are really identity constitutive of their psyche or social role, all the while remaining blind to this fact, and thereby suffering from false consciousness. It is interesting to consider whether this accusation would be justified for any given philosophical text. In any case, the fact remains that philosophers today, especially so-called “analytic” philosophers, strive for a maximally impersonal form of expression, one in which the author’s personal [End Page 982] life and history play no role in the exposition. We state and defend philosophical views, but how we came to hold these views is supposed to be a contingent matter that is of no essence to the philosophy. As we learn in the philosophy of science, there is the “context of discovery” and the “context of justification,” and justification is supposed to be what is philosophically important. In writing Waking, Dreaming, Being, I wanted to do a different kind of philosophy. I wanted to produce a philosophical narrative in which the autobiographical story behind the philosophical concerns wasn’t hidden or disguised. That meant being forthright about how I came to be preoccupied with certain questions about the self and mind and consciousness, and about why the effort to negotiate among contemplative practice, Indian philosophy, and cognitive science had become existentially mandatory for me. My hope in writing this way was that readers—especially those outside academic philosophy—would be able to see why philosophy matters and how it can animate a personal intellectual quest and the way one lives one’s life. In this way, my use of autobiography and experience reports is meant to serve a distinct philosophical practice. The practice is to write philosophy in a way that reveals its sources and motivations in one’s life, and to be forthright about how one comes to hold certain views and change them in dialogue and debate with others. The argumentative function of writing this way is not so much to argue for any particular conclusion, but rather to make a case for philosophy altogether as part of...

Tribal Proclivity and its Effects on the Cooperate Existence of Nigeria in the Centenary Era: An Islamic Perspective

The word tribal is an adjective describing the noun tribe. Tribal is synonymous to the word, ethnic, family ancestral etc. Proclivity on the other hand is also synonymous to tendency inclination, or penchant. entails the natural tendency to behave in a particular way. Tribal proclivity from the above entails the act of being inclined to tribal feelings or exhibition of the act of tribalism. In one of the Prophetic traditions, Prophets s.a.w provides an insight as to the concept of tribalism: It was narrated from the daughter of Wathilah bin Al-Asqa' that she heard her father say: I said: 'O Messenger of Allah what is tribalism? He said. When you help your people in wrongdoing (Abu Dawud 2007). The expression tribal proclivity and its effects on the cooperate existence of Nigeria in the centenary era therefore symbolises how the concept of tribalism affects the continuous existence of Nigeria as it attains a hundred years of emergence. The topic is equally viewed from the Islamic point of view. A cursory look at the early history of the territory of the Federal Republic of Nigeria especially from the nineteenth century reveals that this region encompasses a number of independent empires and kingdoms. In addition, each of these enclaves has its own peculiar traditions, customs and institutions. Prominent among the enclaves are the Sokoto caliphate in the North, the Oyo Empire in the South Western region, the Igbo people in the eastern part and the Benin Empire. Borno Empire also existed and is situated in the North eastern part of the present day Nigeria.Furthermore, with passage of time, the British in their bid to secure more colonies, embarked on penetration of these areas of land. Oke (2007) holds that in furtherance of their influence on the present day Nigeria, on the 1st January, 1914, the Northern and Southern part of Nigeria were amalgamated together to form a colony and protectorate called Nigeria. This protectorate was then governed by Fredick Lugard as the first governor of the country. This was also done purposely to ease the act of governance of the two areas in the interest of the British government. Inferentially, the year (2014) marks a centenary in the history of formation of the country Nigeria. Having traverse through a number of distance, it is quite apt to flash back memory with the intent of appraising the past so as to redress the wrongs in the nearest future. Among the pertinent issue that needs to be addressed is the effect of tribalism on the cooperate existence of the Nigerian nation as it attains a hundred years of unification. Bambose (1971), in his submission avows that the country has over 400 to 420 ethnic groups. This however could not be viewed as a factor that could hinder the continual existence of the Country as a Nation. Moreover, there are about 645 distinctive ethnic groups in India and all of them exist under only a country called India.A Flash on the Prevalence of Tribal Proclivity in NigerianOne open truth is that, since the amalgamation of the Northern and Southern protectorate together in 1914, there had been series of exhibition of tribal inclination by Nigerians in their relations among themselves. Coleman (1958) testifies to the prevalence of ethnic prejudice among the three major ethnic groups in Nigeria in the 1940s. Popoola (2014), affirms that the need to foster unity among the various ethnic groups of the nation was one of the conceived idea behind the amalgamation of the country in 1914. The attainment of this he upholds remains a mirage due to a number of tribal conflicts witnessed in the country from time to time. According to Robin (1971), the 1966 coup and counter coup for example, insinuated in the hearth of the people some tribal feelings and ethnic predilection. The coup plotters were mostly from a particular ethnic group of the country (Igbo). In addition, the coup claimed twenty seven lives of which the casualties were mostly from the other ethnic groups of the nation. …

The New Jerusalem, and: So Many Wows

The New Jerusalem, and: So Many Wows David Kirby (bio) The New Jerusalem The mother and father turn the map over, confused,while their daughter checks her phone, so I say This is my campus, let me help you, and after I tellthem how to find the admissions office, the father says What will Patricia learn at your university,and I say We will teach her that beauty is something she can recognize and master, that it’s on a scalewe understand and in this way differs from the sublime, which is mysterious, even terrifying,and he turns to his wife and says Did you hear that, honey? I knew we’d picked the right school.And the mother comes over and says Once she learns this, will the Holy City come down fromheaven like a bride beautifully dressed for her husband? And I tell her No, that won’t happen until she learnsthat you ought not distinguish where you cannot divide, yet you must divide, or you will never grasp the whole.The mother fingers a tube of lip balm and says [End Page 28] And that will be the New Jerusalem, when Godmakes his dwelling place among the people? And he will dwell with them, and they will behis people, and God himself will be with them, with our Patricia and the others? And I say Yes,yes, that’s right, only they won’t know he’s there. So Many Wows When I tell the desk clerk at the Delhi hotel we are goingto the Republic Day Parade, she jumps up and down and claps her hands and says, “So many wows!” In fact, that’s what everybody says when I tell them we are going to the Republic Day Parade,and sure enough, there are mounted columns, mechanized columns, a t-72 full-width mine plough, a motorcycle corps including one man who sips a cup of tea as he sits sidesaddle on his bike and another reading the newspaper whileperching nonchalantly on the back of his, helicopters, jets, camels, elephants, folk dancers, festival floats, and tanks. Indians say that, for a project of any size, one needs three gods: Ganesh to remove obstacles, Durga for effort, and Lakshmito pay for everything. Well … Ganesh stayed home today! There are plenty of obstacles, starting with conflicting directions on how to get to the parade site, traffic jams both automotive and pedestrian, an insufficient numberof water vendors which, come to think of it, may be [End Page 29] a good thing since there’s also an insufficient number of portable toilets, and, most alarming of all on an otherwise very pleasant day, an insufficient effortto keep the crowd from stampeding, which it does often with enthusiasm and much hilarity. Yet nothing stirs us so much as the music: the skirling pipes, the trumpet fanfares, the drumbeats so loud you feel as thoughit is you who is being pounded, not the drum. James Boswell told Dr. Johnson that music “affected me to such a degree as often to agitate my nerves painfully, producing in my mind alternate sensations of patheticdejection, so that I was ready to shed tears, and of daring resolution, so that I was inclined to rush into the thickest part of the battle,” which is exactly the way I feel when the bands march by me in the Republic Day Parade.“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson in reply, “I should never hear it, if it made me such a fool.” Okay, but sign me up, sergeant! Why, I think I could face any foe if I listened to the right music on the right day. Yet many of the greatest wowsare silent: after the Republic Day parade, we take the train to Aurangabad and from there drive to Ajanta and Ellora, where dharma-crazed monks carved hillside temples in the middle of nowhere, buildingstwice the size of the Pantheon yet forgotten and covered for centuries by vines until British officers on a tiger hunt see their prey leap through the foliage, and, when they pursue it, find themselves slack-jawedbefore paintings...

For Today I Am a Trans Writer

For Today I Am a Trans Writer

Sinikka Elliott: Not My Kid: What Parents Believe About the Sex Lives of Their Teenagers

Sinikka Elliott, in Not My Kid: What Parents Believe about the Sex Lives of their Teenagers, sets out to provide the truth to parents, teens, and adults alike about how adults, particularly parents, view teenage sexuality. Through interviews conducted with several different parents from various backgrounds, socioeconomic classes, ethnicities, and genders, Elliott wanted to know what parents are really thinking when it comes to a topic that most parents do not enjoy discussing: their children and sex. She explores opinions on several issues, such as how teen sexuality is constructed, peer influence on sex, protecting teens, and ways to reconstruct views on adolescent sexuality. Overall, Elliott effectively uses interviews with a wide variety of parents to show how parents respond to social norms and views of their own children in a way that often results in resisting to address adolescent sexuality forthrightly. Although some sections may leave readers wanting more discussion of her findings’ implications, Elliott’s thoughtprovoking book presents several useful findings and highlights key issues relating to adolescent sexuality. In the first chapter, Elliott introduces the topic of sex education and the debates centered around it, as well as some history of the evolution of teenage sexuality. She argues that not only parents but also schools have a profound influence on adolescent sexuality. For example, she notes important debates about whether abstinence-only or comprehensive curriculums should be used in schools. Abstinence-only teaches that students should avoid sex until marriage in order to achieve a healthy sex life, and comprehensive curriculums give information about contraception in case students do choose to engage in sexual activity. Surprisingly, both curriculums speak mainly of the negative consequences of sex, such as disease, pregnancy, and emotional harm. The author also notes that perceptions of sexuality have changed drastically over the past few centuries. Among colonists, premarital sex among teens was very common and even accepted. Birth certificates were found with babies being born only a few months after marriage, giving proof that sex was occurring before couples married. The age of sexual consent among youth has also risen over time, from as low as age seven during the colonial times mentioned above to ten, twelve, and fourteen during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, although a reluctant change. Due to this change, parent–child relationships were transformed; as the age rose, children were viewed not as sexual beings but instead as innocent and vulnerable. Elliott also raises the issue of sex and social inequality. During the 1900s, the eugenics movement led to the sterilization of those deemed unfit to bear children based upon their gender, race, and social status. Although this seems extreme and may not be outwardly spoken, prejudices against these attributes still exist today among parents. Elliott successfully used this chapter to introduce some of the main arguments and findings presented in the book’s next chapters. Through the use of interviews with parents, she uncovers parental attitudes about teen sexuality, how parents talk to their children about sex, if at all, and even prejudices against their children’s peers. The perception of their teenagers as asexual is found to be a very common one among the parents interviewed by Elliott and presented in chapter two. One father says that he believes his daughter is immature relative to her peers, and therefore assumes she is not as interested in sex. Elliott says that parents default to this assumption to reinforce their children as asexual and innocent. Parents across the board seem to hold to the belief that sexual activity is for C. Dishman (&) Indiana University, Bloomington, IN, USA e-mail: dishmancassandra@gmail.com; cndishma@indiana.edu

Tomtens

CHRISTOPHER MERKNER Tomtens Nils looked behind the mirror to see if a tomten was hiding behind it, but there was noone there. Hebegan to shake with terror. Hewas thoroughly convinced that the tomten had bewitched him. Thetiny creature whose image he saw inthe mirror was himself - From Selma Lagerlöfs TheWonderful Adventure ofNils H H he boy'sfather massagedbadly:he used onlyhisfingertips and HUH fingernails whenstroking his customers. He workedin short, sharpbursts. He pinched.Frequently hisfingers wouldslip,comeupoff themuscleas he was lifting or twisting, and hisnailswould scrapeor gougea lobeortemple. God fuck it,hewouldsay. Thenhewouldpause. He wouldtakea long,soundbreath. He wasa minister. He knewbetter. The boywouldwatchhisfather dab thewoundswithcottonballsand return hishandstothebody, resumethepinching. The boys father had setup hismassagechairand stationin the front entrance ofthelocalgrocery store.The grocery storehadlethim thespaceas a kindness, forthemanwas a local minister. Timeswere tough. Theyknewhecouldusethemoney. Theycouldnotseetheharm inhaving a manofgodwithhissonpostedintheentryway. Theyknew himtobe a quietsortofperson.Theyexpectedhewouldremain a quiet person. Indeed,theboys father spokequietlythroughout his massages. He talkedto every customer. Primarily, he sharedthenamesofpeople fromhisparishand hisprofessional knowledge oftheirpersonallives. His bestlectorhad creditcarddebtintothehundreds ofthousands of dollars.He worried thatthismanmight be stealing from thechurch offering on Sundaymornings. He wasunsureifthismancouldbe trusted. Buthewasgoingtogivehima littlerope,hewouldsay. The Pedersens, IOO on theotherhand,weremorelikely stupidthansterile. Theywouldnot makelovein themissionary positionbecauseLenawas a controlfreak andJorge milquetoast. I meanI lovemyparish, theboywouldhearhis father say, butata certain pointphysics andchemistry tellus semenhas tostayinsidethewoman.Youcannotgiveropetopeoplelikethis. Inpointoffact, theboysfather seldomhadcustomers. Customers wereunexpected. Thousandswalkedright on by, wavingattheminister and hisson asthey passed.As such,hissonwasmadetofill thehours. The boyreally atfirst hadno sayinthisinvolvement. He wasquiteyoung.His mother had died; his father was plainlyalone and poor.When no customers stoppedfora massage, and mostdidnot,thefather calledhissonover. Ifheprotested, theboywasseizedanddragged andmadetoputhisface intothechair'spaddedpillow.He heldhisbreath whilehisfather practicedhistechniques on him. The father s techniqueswerebrutal.The man had no training. He had no touch.And he seemedto knowthis.He oftenaskedforhis son'sfeedback. Stopcrying, hisfather wouldwhisper intohisear,andtell mehowthehellto do this.The one timetheboytoldhim(Maybeuse morepalm>),hisfather thanked himsharply. The boywasthenchopped acrossthespineinone fantastic blow.Those whowerepurchasing their groceries atthefront ofthestoreheardthis.Theyturnedtolookatthe minister and theboyfacedowninthemassagechair.The father smiled at them.He waved. Tapotement, he explained.Justthe tapotement technique. Very biginChina! The boywould notoffer hisfeedback again.He stoppedspeakingtohisfather . He couldbe foundinthefather's chairforsixorseven hoursa daylistening to hisfather comment on thelivesofpeoplefrom hischurch, yetnever speaking aword.The father pressed andstroked and pummeled andpinchedhisson'sbody. He couldfeelthechild's bodygive beneathhishands.Whenever theboy'sbodyhadtried togrow, thefather couldfeelit,sowellhadhecometoknowtheboy'sbody, andhepressed andpinched thosedevelopments away. Assuch, theboystoppedgrowing. He began,instead, to shrink. Bytheageofsixteen, theboywasas bigas he'dbeenatfour yearsold.He required a boosterforthemassagechair. IOI Those who walkedpastthetwoof themovertheyearsbecame concerned. Theyaskedthefather, sometimes, ifhe had morethanone son.The father onlylaughedandnoddedvaguelyButthey weremoved. It would havebeen difficult to ignore:theonce-largeboywas now a helpless imp.Itwascleartoeveryone whattheminister hadbeendoing. So theybeganaskingforand offering moneyformassages, and when theypulledthelittleboyoutofhisfather's massagechair, theyhanded theboytoanother personwhotookthetiny childawaytobe fed. Theyslippedtheboyfoodright from their grocery bags,justoutof thesight oftheminister. The boyatefrozen fish sticks, chocolatecereal, fruits andvegetables, candy, eggs, teabags,entire loavesofbread,bagsof cornmeal-anything atallthey showedhim, anything hecouldgrabright from outoftheir bags.Theylaughedaboutit.Theywerepleased.They didnotmindhisgluttony. Theywatchedas he snappedup anything he couldfind. The onlything thatstoppedhimwasa canoffoiegras. The boyjustlookedat it. He smelledthecan. He shookit. He lookedup atthemanwhohadoffered theboyhisbagofgroceries. The mannodded.Goose liver, he said.The mantookout hispocketknife and cutopen thecan. He handeditdownto theboy.The boysmelled itandfellbackward. His visionblurred. He hadtositup.He swipedhis fingers through thefoiegrasandshovedhisfinger inhismouth.He was suddenly intheair.He wasoutofdoors,soaring overthegrocery store. He tookthewindintohiseyesandcried.He yelledoutand sweptover largespellsofforested land,deerherdsandwhite-tipped lakes.Thenhe returned tothegrocery store. The manwasslapping himintheface.Are youthere, little man>He wasshouting. Areyouthere? The boywentafterthefoiegrasand was flying again.When he returned tothestore, hewaslaughing. He smiledandwasredwithpleasure .The manlaughedand toldothersto buytheboygoose liver, becauseitseemedto maketheboyhappy. And theydid.Theyshovedit athim.He ateas muchgooseas they wouldgivehim.Theyshooktheir heads(Whatsortofchildlikesfoiegrasř) ,butthey brought ittohimjust thesame.Andtheboybegangrowing rapidly untilhisfather noticed. One daytheboywascalledover.He wastoldtositinthechair. The boysituatedhimself. The father felttheboy'ssize beneathhishands. 102 You'rea fatHerod,he whispered hisson'sear.You willbe crushed, he said. I doubtit,theboysaid. But his fatherworkedagainsthis son's body.He pressedand pinchedhim.The boycriedout.He squeezedandtwisted theboy'sflesh. He punchedand hackedatit.He pulleda metalbarfrom thehandleof a brokengrocery cartand throttled his son'sshoulders.Butwhenhe returned hishandsto theboy'sfleshagain,he couldsee thatitwas not giving way.Still, hewentbackat thechild,punching and kneading and grinding andtearing athim. Hearingtheboycryout,anolderwomancameoveranddemanded themasseuse. Not now,thefather hissed.I amatworkon myson. I willpayyouwell,pastor, thewomansaid. The boy'sfather paused forjustan instant, and theboyslipped...

Luminous Deceptions: Contingent Community and Aesthetic Form in Cormac McCarthy's "The Road"

The final passage of Cormac McCarthy's 2006 novel The Road describes a tranquil scene in which a school of trout seems to be in total communion with its environment. These pastoral qualities are out of place in dystopic context of novel, and as a result, passage has been focus of insightful about novel's ultimate meaning.1 The passage comes after father and son have journeyed through a dim and uncompromising landscape in hopes of finding warmth and shelter,2 and human life seems reduced to mere animalistic survival. At novel's end, father has died by side of road, boy has been found by another family who seem better fit to protect him (their gun has more bullets left), and boy has begun speaking to his dead father as a kind of commemoration of man's love and faith in boy's goodness. The final passage then seems to depart from grim setting, and a somewhat nostalgic but unaffected voice tells us of a world that has since disappeared:Once there were brook trout in streams in mountains. You see them in where white edges of their wimpled softly in flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which not be put back. Not be made right again. In deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.Characteristic of McCarthy's third person narrators, this voice does not indulge in what Vereen Bell calls reassuring thematic commentary (Bell 1). The scene is apart from world of novel, as indicated by vaguely past tense once and could see. Alongside these grammatical markers, novel presents a world covered in ash, in which there are likely no brook trout anywhere. Indeed, novel depicts a world shrinking down about a raw core of entities, which indicates that ash always floating in air will eventually be all that remains (83). Thus, we must ask where this narrative voice comes from, and what its apparent survival means about voice and storytelling as indicators of human existence. Because voice is a physical movement of air from mouth to ear, it is subject to this entropic process as well. Even in a metaphorical register, if there are no entities to parse because nothing is distinct from anything else, then a voice would have nothing to say even if it exist in a disembodied state. If the sacred idiom has indeed been shorn of its referent as father says at one point, then voice be coming from out of a void, perhaps akin to divine logos evoking world into being (83). However, link between language and materiality suggested by parsible forestalls this possibility.3Furthermore, objective distance achieved by voice in this passage does not make scene presented entirely alien to bleak world of novel, or to our own. If scene's pastoral qualities make it distinct from terrifying setting of father and son's journey, way in which they are evoked remind us of an elemental affinity between fish and ash they will become. The parallel comes partly from ambiguous location of scene; though a likely setting of novel suggests trout might be Appalachian, specificity of amber current and the white edges of their fins is in tension with subjunctive could see, mentioned above.4 That scene exists in past means that its presentation depends on speaker's perception filtered through memory. The scene itself calls this temporality to mind; though details that create it would be empirically verifiable were they frozen in time, fish are standing against a and eventually they will tire and have to turn into flow of water. As environment in which they live, flow of defines fish's lives; they cannot transcend it, just as speaker cannot transcend flow of time that defines human life. …