Blog

In a paragraph-length response, answer one of the following…

In a paragraph-length response, answer one of the following questions: What does it mean that the actor who plays Ben is double cast as Andrew Jackson?  In addition to being about Native American legal protections and sovereignty, this play is also about how the after effects of history live on. Key to this theme is the legacy of the Treaty of New Echota which precipitated the Trail of Tears. This treaty was signed by Major and John Ridge, direct ancestors to both the fictional Sarah Ridge Polson and the author of Sovereignty. The treaty was highly controversial for the Cherokee, and arguably illegal signed by the Ridge’s who were not in power at the time. It also lead to the Ross’s murdering both Major and John Ridge. How does the play intervene in this debate?   

This is the discussion/short answer portion of your Mid-Term…

This is the discussion/short answer portion of your Mid-Term Exam. These questions will allow you to elaborate and demonstrate your knowledge of the topics listed. Instructions Read each question carefully and provide a short answer for each question (please note that a short answer is not one sentence). Your answer should provide insight into the questions, as well as personal experiences/opinions on each topic. Each question is worth a maximum of 10 points.

Discussion.  Write a detailed response of three paragraphs, …

Discussion.  Write a detailed response of three paragraphs,  identifying and explaining the significance two poetic elements in any  one of the poems listed below. You should write three well-developed paragraphs—a brief introductory paragraph with a thesis and one paragraph for each poetic element. Do not write a conclusion. Be sure to use specific examples and details from the poem to support your answer.      “Of the Threads that Connect the Stars” Martin Espada Did you ever see stars?  asked my father with a cackle. He was not speaking of the heavens, but the white flash in his head when a fist burstbetween his eyes. In Brooklyn, this would cause men and boys to slapthe table with glee; this might be the only heavenly light we’d ever see. I never saw stars. The sky in Brooklyn was a tide of smoke rolling over usfrom the factory across the avenue, the mattresses burning in the junkyard,the ruins where squatters would sleep, the riots of 1966 that kept melocked in my room like a suspect. My father talked truce on the streets. My son can see the stars through the tall barrel of a telescope.He names the galaxies with the numbers and letters of astronomy.I cannot see what he sees in the telescope, no matter how many eyes I shut.I understand a smoking mattress better than the language of galaxies. My father saw stars. My son sees stars. The earth rolls beneathour feet. We lurch ahead, and one day we have walked this far.     “The Harlem Dancer” Claude McKay Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutesAnd watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;Her voice was like the sound of blended flutesBlown by black players upon a picnic day.She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,The light gauze hanging loose about her form;To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palmGrown lovelier for passing through a storm.Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curlsLuxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;But looking at her falsely-smiling face,I knew her self was not in that strange place.       “Googling Ourselves” Philip Schultz These strangers with my name,busy being kidnapped, embezzled,honored and dying at a frightening rate.The cross-dressing exterminator convicted of rapein Kensington, Ohio, sentencedto 72 years without bail, the policeman killedstopping a burglary in Thermopolis, WY—could theyhave imagined a Florida painter with their namecommunicating with extraterrestrials through sculpturesmade out of railroad tracks, or being written aboutin a poem by another member of our redundant familyfor a reason none of us can explain? Sometimes I fear I’m imaginary, don’t really exist.Catch myself wondering why I only seem to like myselfwhen, say, I’m wearing a teacher’s face—because I see myself only through others’ eyes?In that case, who am I really? Alone at night,watching a ballgame, I’m always surprised whenI speak to myself in the third person, wondering whythis man cares so much about something he plays no part in. It’s easier to wonder why Nietzsche soughthis soul’s sympathy, a truth he knew he’d despise,probably feared he wouldn’t survive. To imagine him up late,seeking his ever-evolving, unidentifiable self,a past more inhabitable and less unforgiving,anxious to know why someone with his name would say,“Poets lie too much . . . who among us has not adulterated his wine?” Late at night the Web is a dangerous swampof voyeuristic self-scrutiny and addictive impersonation,the ego testifying for and against itself, seeking evidenceof triumph and complicity, sanction without malice,pretext or God. Who is this man obsessively looking upall his persona narrators, feeling like a hodgepodge,trapped somewhere between Heaven and earth,spitting against the wind? Is it because he knowshe’s getting closer to the end, will soon vanishand become nothing? Is this why he’s studyingeveryone who answers to his name, becauseone may have invented time or sympathy or Godand will love him, even momentarily, for who he is?   “Because I could not stop for Death–” Emily Dickinson    Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility – We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – Or rather – He passed Us – The Dews drew quivering and Chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses’ Heads Were toward Eternity –     “not an elegy for Mike Brown” Danez Smith   I am sick of writing this poembut bring the boy. his new name his same old body. ordinary, blackdead thing. bring him & we will mournuntil we forget what we are mourning & isn’t that what being black is about?not the joy of it, but the feeling you get when you are lookingat your child, turn your head,then, poof, no more child. that feeling. that’s black. \\ think: once, a white girl was kidnapped & that’s the Trojan war. later, up the block, Troy got shot& that was Tuesday. are we not worthy of a city of ash? of 1000 shipslaunched because we are missed? always, something deserves to be burned.it’s never the right thing now a days. I demand a war to bring the dead boy backno matter what his name is this time. I at least demand a song. a song will do just fine. \\ look at what the lord has made.above Missouri, sweet smoke.