Since we
began discussing grief both on the blog and in class, I have become completely
fascinated with watching Oskar’s progress throughout his various processes of
coping. Most interestingly, Oskar appears to feel a certain loyalty to his
father that he feels frightened to break. As I read about his feelings
regarding this loyalty—despite the fact that he never blatantly acknowledges
it, he subtly includes hints and clues that lead the reader toward this mindset—,
I began to wonder if Oskar still experiences sadness in regards to his father’s
death or if he forces himself to feel sadness because he believes that he
should.
A prime example
of this appears in Heavier Boots,
when Oskar straightforwardly questions his mother about her ability to laugh after
the death of his father. After expressing how he misses his father, Oskar
questions if his mother feels the same. When she says she does, he inquires, “But
do you really?” and further states, “It’s
just that you don’t act like you miss him very much.” Eventually, Oskar reveals
that he came to this speculation because he “hear[s her] laughing…in the living
room. With Ron.”
This discussion
escalates. In response to Oskar’s questioning, his mother explains, “I’m trying
to find ways to be happy. Laughing makes me happy.” Stubbornly, Oskar insists, “I’m
not trying to find ways to be happy and I won’t,” and he eventually elaborates,
“Dad would want me to remember him.” This scene ends with Oskar in a fit of
rage, screaming to his mother, “If I could have chosen, I would have chosen
you!”
Additionally, a
scene with Dr. Fein reinforces Oskar’s desire to remain loyal to his dead
father. Oskar recounts the conversation, starting with a question from Dr.
Fein:
“Do you think
any good can come from your father’s death?” “Do I think any good can come from my father’s death?” “Yes.
Do you think any good can come from
your father’s death?” I kicked over my chair, threw his papers across the
floor, and hollered, “No! Of course not, you fucking asshole!”
Both of these
excerpts show the loyalty that Oskar feels to his father and the absurdity he
feels when someone presses him to break this loyalty. Since we have decided
that it has been at least a year since the attacks, we can also conclude that
Oskar has been grieving for quite some time. However, despite the lapse in
time, Oskar remains held down by the obligation he feels to stay stuck on his
father. Overall, such a scene suggests that Oskar only grieves as much as he
does because he feels as if he should.
With that being
said, I want to propose that Oskar truly is experiencing melancholia, as he has
reached a total standstill in his grieving process and acts out when somebody
suggests that he break his loyalty to the dead.
Additionally, I would like to ask anybody in the class who has experienced any part of the grieving process: have you ever felt this kind of loyalty to a loved one that you lost? What did it feel like if/when you broke that loyalty? Did you feel guilt? Freedom?
Additionally, I would like to ask anybody in the class who has experienced any part of the grieving process: have you ever felt this kind of loyalty to a loved one that you lost? What did it feel like if/when you broke that loyalty? Did you feel guilt? Freedom?
When I went to the Philippines to go the great grandfather funeral back in 1999, I felt some sort of loyalty to him because I was the first great grandson of the many that followed me. There was always this tie that we had to each other when I went out there to visit him when I was younger. He always had a special eye out to make sure nothing happened to me when I was out there. For instance, I always had his personal bodyguard just walk with me when I was leaving our house out there. I still feel as if I am loyal to what he has done for me when he passed down a lot of his land that he owned. But I would have to say that my worrying about him as if I should stay loyal to him has slowly vanished with the years that passed, I only have photos to remind me of what he looked like and I was only 8 years old or even less in the photos that I had with him. Do I feel guilty by not remembering everything we did together? Not really, I figure that his memory will live on through my discussions with my grandfather and grandmother on my mom’s side. With slowly vanishing from my mind, I felt that I was somewhat free to a point where I was blessed to live on and continue with life. Not being burdened with constant reminders of the past or what use to be. I feel that it is better that I am in the present and not really worried with my past. I know it sounds mean to say that I shouldn’t sit down and reflect on the past of what use to be, but it is just natural to more worried about the unknown future then the known past. The past will always be remembered someway somehow. It’s unknown that we should be worried about. Like we had a brief discussion about the known unknown that we don’t want to recognize that we know it and the unknown unknown is what really can scare a person. No matter what everyone is somehow afraid of what they don’t know. That is why everyone tries to seek further knowledge so that we can learn more and that there is less unknown to a person.
ReplyDeleteYou raise a fascinating question about loyalty to the dead (and living). I was twenty-four when my father died. He was an alcoholic and in fact died from a lethal combination of drugs and booze. Although he was a decent and funny man when he was sober, brief periods of sobriety where interspersed with long periods of drunkenness.
ReplyDeleteAs you might imagine, mourning his death was complicated. I was not prepared to give up my anger toward my father, and the prospect of giving up that anger seemed like it would be disloyal to my mother.
About a year after my father died, I had an experience that convinced me that Freud’s view about the mechanisms of repressing painful truths was keenly insightful. I don’t remember all the details, but there were a number of secrets that I was keeping at this point. I was planning a surprise party for my wife and thus lying to her about a number of things to safeguard the surprise, a friend had just confided in me that he was having an affair and pleaded with me not to tell his wife with whom I was friends, and several other things were going on that required maintaining secrets. Anyway, one day my wife asked me a question that would have required yet another lie. (Think of Oskar cataloging the many lies.) Out of nowhere, completely out of context, and without a moment’s hesitation, I said: “I always liked him better.” I think my wife’s response was something to the effect of: “What the . . .”
The comment was the acknowledgment of a painful truth. As angry as I was with my father for effectively abandoning his family, and as much as my father’s drinking destroyed my mother emotionally, I liked him better, at least when he was sober. That acknowledgment laid the groundwork for some measure of forgiveness, even if it felt painfully disloyal.
Grief is always complicated and we all do the best we can. That is a trite comment, but nevertheless true.
Thanks for your posts, guys. I think that, by talking about real-life grief, we can know more about the fictional grief that Foer creates for Oskar and use our own experiences to gauge the validity of Foer's depiction.
ReplyDeleteI know that everybody grieves differently, but I think I had an experience similar to Oskar's when my father passed away approximately ten years ago. I was around Oskar's age when it happened, so, when reading the book, I often find myself relating to both his grieving process and his thought process.
As far as any loyalty I felt towards my father, I must say that I often felt guilt--and still do now--that I don't react as emotionally as other family members. This experience seems opposite of Oskar's; in this situation, I feel like I might play Oskar's mom, comparatively. Regardless, I still feel a sense of loyalty. I feel as if I should think about him every day, like my mother still does. Therefore, my guilt is a product of my loyalty in one way or another.
I think Dr. Lauritzen nailed it: "Grief is always complicated." Since everybody grieves differently, it's hard to make a case for what's normal and what isn't. However, I think that people tend to encounter a lot of the same emotions following the loss of a loved one, and, with that being said, we can know more about the general nature of grief through our human experiences.
I personally have not lost anyone that has been so dear to me in my life, however, I do have someone who is very dear to me and who is very young, practically a child, who will lose her battle with cancer soon, as her doctors have said. So for me, loyalty still does exist even though she is still alive. I feel obligated to make her very short life of 7 years seem worthwhile, as she herself knows that she is not like me or anyone else in our family. She realizes that she will not be with us longer and it makes me feel even more loyal to her. I do all that I can to make her feel otherwise. I do not feel guilt for anything that she is and has gone through, however, I feel the need to have her see that I care and that I do not give up easily although there is no hope. To a certain extend, I feel that my loyalty to her is a necessary thing for her and myself also. I do not know if I would feel the same if I had in fact lost her, but today, as I think through the terms such as mourning and grievance, I know that I will be in constant presence of those feelings, and maybe even guilt.
ReplyDeleteOne of my favorite posts/threads of the term. Dr. Lauritzen, you really brought it strong. Might as well share a poem, then.
ReplyDelete"Nicodemus Below the Cross: A Votive Ivory"
Because the dead grow so heavy, as if
wanting the earth
below them, and because we cannot stand
the sight of them,
their gravity, we leave the gravesite even
before the hole
is filled with dirt. You refuse to leave
your dead father.
From the silence of our car, we look at you,
sobbing. No sounds
reach us. Your face wild with rage. You hold
your own body,
leaden, armed, your fingers rub beneath your eyes,
as if to wear away
what lay before us. In the votive,
it’s so easy
to mistake Nicodemus for the crucifier,
his hammer poised
over Christ’s ivory wrists, his face blurred
with fear. His hand
will strike the nail away, hold the body until
blood runs its course,
then lay it down. In the votive, the last flecks
of olive, dun, and red
—the artist’s paints—river the veins
of the deepest cuts
only. No thorns of gold, no gem-encrusted
cross, no tesserae-
shattered image of a god. Just a body
cradling a body
carved in elephant’s tusk, small enough
to carry. An ancestry
of hands worrying, worrying the ivory
features smooth.
Thanks. A beautiful Easter week poem. It's different than the version published in America magazine. Is there a significance in that?
ReplyDeletePaul, I have two different versions floating around. I can't remember which one ended up in the book, TO SEE THE EARTH. Which do you prefer?
ReplyDeletebtw, this is the one that is in the book!
ReplyDeleteThe version in America begins:
ReplyDeleteSo easy to mistake him for the crucifier,
his hammer poised
over Christ’s ivory wrists, his face wild
with fear. So easy
to forget Nicodemus. His hand will strike
the nail away,
hold the body until the blood runs its course,
then lay it down.
Because the dead grow so heavy, as if
wanting the earth
below them, and because we cannot stand
the sight of them,
their gravity, we leave the gravesite even
before the hole
is filled with dirt. You refuse to leave
your dead father.
I think I prefer this one because I am so drawn in by the opening lines.