Sunday, May 3, 2015

Townie Essay

Anna Kleis
Professor Zabalbeascoa
FYSH: Text and the City HON 110-303
8 May 2015
The Road to Violence then Recovery
Throughout his life and especially early on, Andre Dubus never seemed to elude the violence directed at him and others no matter where he lived. School fights and street fights occurred daily with or without warnings. When Andre was twelve years old and living with his family in Haverhill, he describes school fights as being commonplace: “You’d see some boy getting his face punched over and over, and soon a teacher or vice principal would push his way through to break it up” (10). Over and over again, Andre would cluster around the fight with his fellow classmates and eventually become desensitized and immune to the violence that he would then utilize, himself, on the streets. At a bar, Andre initiates a fight with Steve Lynch, “swinging and swinging…his lower face wet and red, his mouth a dark hole though my fist felt nothing…” to satisfy his need for bloodshed (128). 
As the memoir progresses, Andre justifies his need to fight with the excuse to protect anyone and everyone.  He evolves from the victim to the aggressor and inflicts brutality against others, causing him to always be surrounded by violence.  From an unlawful person throwing a Molotov cocktail into his mother’s car to getting into countless bar fights, this perpetual cycle of fighting and chaos affected Andre tremendously. Andre is a product of his environment; his setting, economic circumstances, constant fear and humiliation, family dynamics, gender, and education that ultimately produces his art that is writing all expose Andre to violence and open his eyes to salvation from it. Similar to Andre, Mickey Ward, portrayed by Mark Wahlberg in “The Fighter,” resorts to violence as a lifestyle because of his upbringing in the poor neighborhoods of Lowell, Massachusetts.
This memoir is filled with endless fights, the details graphic and very palpable. Whether it is one of the bi-weekly school fights, brief street fights, or lengthy beat-downs, Andre captures the essence of what it is like to be the victimizer. One scene that is especially striking is the fight in the diner that Andre starts with the person who pulled the knife on his friend, Sam. Andre is relentless in his attack: “look how he falls to the tiled floor, look how he curls up on his side and covers his face and squirms for the door…I straddle him and keep punching him in the skull, the ear, the temple, his bare hands, his neck…I’m standing and kicking him in the head” (225). This truly shows Andre’s undiluted rage that was typically inflicted among his victims. These outbursts are direct consequences of Andre’s upbringing in poor neighborhoods surrounded by drugs, alcohol, violence, and a lack of parental structure.
The settings of Newburyport and Haverhill that Andre and his family resided in throughout his childhood and adolescence were detrimental to his upbringing. Because of the divorce and his father’s lack of child support payments, Andre’s mom singlehandedly raised her four children. They were forced to shack up in the poorest parts of each town they moved to, living like scavengers. They ignored “the five days of dishes stacked in the kitchen sink and on the counters…the dust everywhere, the loose hairs, the grit tracked over the linoleum floors and throw rugs…” because they could (50). After a fourteen-hour work day and a mindless dinner, Andre’s mom possessed neither the time nor energy to clean, let alone look after her own children. In his surroundings, it seemed as though Andre lived a “survival of the fittest” lifestyle because he needed to survive, and the only way he could was to be fit, a quality he acquired even though “each day I got up just wanting to get through it” (50). If only Andre and his family lived on the other side of the river in Bradford, “where a lot of Jocks at the high school lived, the kids who wore corduroys and sweaters and looked clean. It’s where houses had big green lawns and the college was where Pop taught,” then his case study might look a bit different.
Andre was compelled to be able to protect himself because of the constant state of fear and humiliation he lived in due to failed attempts at protecting those he thought he could protect. When Tommy J. arrives at Andre’s house and beats up Jeb for liking his little sister and calls Andre’s mom is called a “fuckin’ whore” while trying to defend her son, Andre feels helpless and becomes extremely humiliated: “I stood there on the sidewalk where Tommy J. had beaten up my brother and called my mother a whore. And what had I done? I’d pleaded with him. I’d called him Tommy and pleaded”(78). He was petrified of Tommy and what he was capable of doing and he was unable to protect Jeb and his mother because of this pure fear. This triggers an epiphany for Andre; he tells himself that something like that will never happen again: “I don’t care if you get your face beat in, I don’t care if you get kicked in the head or stabbed or even shot, I will never allow you not to fight back ever again. You hear me?” (78) And so begins Andre’s transformation as he begins training, doing countless sit-ups, bench presses, and combinations until he can’t do them any more. He tells himself and believes that he is not worthy enough so that he will only train harder and build more muscle. Later in the memoir, he relishes on his accomplishments after he kicks in someone’s motorcycle: “I was throwing combinations at the heavy bag that rocked the joists of the house I began to feel I was defending for the first time” (137). Andre has channeled his fear and humiliation into aggression, and this sparks the beginning of a very violent period in his life. He transitions from the victim to the victimizer.
With Andre’s father nearly nonexistent in the Dubus family dynamic, it is assumed that Andre would take on the protective role since he is the oldest son. In this aspect, it is as though Andre’s mom is an extra sibling because he has to take care of her as well as the rest of his siblings. He is gendered into his violent transformation because he has no other choice. His dad is oblivious to the life that Andre, his mom, and his siblings are really living: “’I’m coming in from the jungle. I’m tired of being out there in that jungle.”” (144). While Andre’s mom has been working two jobs, barely able to provide enough for her children to survive, let alone actually parent them, Andre’s father has been on the other side of the river, instigating romantic relationships with his students and drinking his feelings away. Andre would do anything for the attention of his father, and he gets this when his father expresses his admiration in Andre to his newest father-in-law: “he opened the rear door of his father-in-law’s expensive sedan and said, ‘My boy just beat the shit out of three punks downtown,’” with the pride in his voice “unmistakable” (231). It could be said that Andre resorts to violence in part because of the attention it elicits from his emotionally and physically absent father. They are united by violence, alcohol, and the pure fact that Andre’s dad isn’t meant to be a parent. Andre has to maintain his savage façade in order to catch his father’s attention. This family dynamic is damaging to Andre until he is a young adult and is finally able to come to terms with what he has been doing and overcome his victimizing.
When Andre was a teenager, he lived two separate lives. In one life, he would partake in street fights and exhibit his thirst for bloodshed. In the other life, he would be a disciplined student and athlete, sneaking books home, doing homework and running for the cross-country team. As Andre began to really discover his passion for writing, he began to move away from the first life and toward the latter. He can escape from violence with his writing, as “single jabs turned into words, combinations into sentences and rounds into paragraphs” (264). He would make his characters ones that wouldn’t back down, men “who did not flee, men who planted their feet and waiting for that moment when throwing a punch was the only thing to do” eventually formulating a membrane “between what we think and what we see, between what we believe and what is”(290-1). Literature is a rare art, and Andre’s literature became a special kind of art due to the experiences that molded him. He was able to channel all of his rage and all of what could have been and what could be into a piece of art to share with himself, his dad, or anyone he wanted. This is a significant change in Andre’s life because of the brutality that has been embedded into his mind and muscle memory. With writing, “I felt more like me than I ever had, as if the years I'd lived so far had formed layers of skin and muscle over myself…and I knew writing- even writing badly- had peeled away those layers…if I wanted to stay me, I would have to keep writing” (232). This self-improvement and self-awareness is the first step on Andre’s journey to defeating his inner demons and being able to continue through life and resist the urge to join or initiate a fight.
At the end of the memoir, Andre starts a fight with two men at the airport and is both admired and feared for it by witnesses and fellow plane passengers. Before he started the fight, though, he thought about the consequences of a fight. This is the first time that he actually thinks before he acts, thinking that pushing for a fight may not be a good idea and he should get his facts straight before throwing punches. He realizes this in the airplane’s bathroom: “You should’ve just walked her to the gate, that’s it. And don’t think you did any of this for her because you didn’t. You did it for you. And you need to stop. You need to stop doing this.” (336).  In addition, on the train through England, Andre is able to walk the drug dealer outside and reason with him rather than start a fight. His epiphany in the airplane fuels his desire to rectify his actions, and his reasoning on the train is a big indication of his salvation because he is aware of what could happen, which is never good. Moreover, Andre’s story exemplifies that of a success story. He could be that guy at the end of the bar who reminisces on his “glory days” of his fighting and what could have been. However, he isn’t because he didn’t box the night he was scheduled to in order to win a championship. Instead, he became a resilient individual who sought refuge in writing and prospered very much at it. Andre is now a famous author and professor at the up and coming University of Massachusetts Lowell, teaching, writing and advocating for a crowd that is eager to hear his story.
Mickey Ward’s success story is similar to that of Andre’s in that he overcomes his need to be violent and seeks salvation in a more important aspect of his life. He grew up in the streets of Lowell with his brother, Dickey, teaching him how to fight. In terms of family dynamics, Mickey assumed protective role over his mother and sisters due to Dickey’s unreliability and excessive drug use that transformed into a severe addiction. Mickey learned to defend himself to ultimately stay alive, something that more people than we think have to fight for everyday.
Why is it that some people are born with so much to lose, and some people are born with so little? Growing up knowing that I would always have a roof over my head and food at my table is a stark contrast to Andre’s life in itself. Essentially, we are opposite human beings, yet the comprehensively diverse paths each one of us has taken has landed Andre and I at the same place utilizing and furthering our educations: UMass Lowell.  Perhaps one day we will cross paths, but for now we will continue to live our lives like we have always known how to, our pasts impacting our current decisions and our mistakes shaping who we are for the future.
Word count: 2,089




Thursday, April 16, 2015

Response #2



Anna Kleis
Professor Zabalbeascoa
FYSH: Text and the City
17 April 2015
The End of an Era
            There is a quote from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road that is particularly touching, and one that I wanted to start my final response for my Lowell excursions with: “There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.” I have been feeling a bit nostalgic lately, so this sentence really spoke to me as my final semester of freshman year is wrapping up. Being at Lowell for the better part of a year has compelled me to think of all the good is does for so many people. The past six excursions I have attended have only proved this point further. People here at this University and outside of it possess an innate and generous need to better themselves and more evidently, those around them. In the three excursions I attended in this second half of the semester, I attended one required and two of my choice. The required excursion was the play “Oceanside” performed at the Merrimack Repertory Theater and directed by Nick Gandiello. My first optional excursion was Meghan L’s Honors Thesis defense in the library that we attended as a class. My second optional excursion was a Foster Care Awareness Day at the Plummer House Foster Care facility in Lowell. Despite the dissimilarity of these three events, a common idea runs through them. The play, the thesis defense, and the foster care event all took place for the betterment of Lowell and it’s inhabitants. The individuals who put on these events all have an altruistic mindset, striving to do good for the people surrounding them. Ultimately, these three excursions are tied together by the altruism that they portray.
            When I heard that we would be attending a play for our required excursion this time around, I was optimistic but hesitant. I have always enjoyed watching movies and other forms of entertainment, but I had never enjoyed watching live plays. This fear could have stemmed from when I was little and saw “A Christmas Carol” live in Boston, uncontrollably crying because I was terrified of the portrayal of Jacob Marley’s ghost (which still scares me to this day). Anyways, I have to admit that I was skeptical about seeing “Oceanside.” I knew that the Merrimack Repertory Theater is an established facility in the city of Lowell and that some great work has been performed there. After a bus ride to the Inn and Conference Center and a walk through downtown Lowell, my friends and I arrived at the theater with time to spare. We got almost front row seats to the show, benefitting my play-watching experience. After the play ended, my friends and I walked back to the bus stop, discussing the play in its entirety and reflecting on the discussion that is to come.
I was pleasantly surprised with “Oceanside.” I thought the actors played their parts in a believable way and put on a great show. I am no theater expert, but I was very impressed with the overall performance and the themes throughout the play. It was somewhat dark but had moments of comedic relief that both the rest of the audience and I thoroughly enjoyed. What I loved most about this excursion was the end of the play when the actors bowed and acknowledged the audience. The amount of pride on their face was uplifting. Their proud expressions spoke for themselves. I could truly see the diligence and immense effort that these actors put in for months to put on this production for those loyal to the Merrimack Repertory Theater. They are doing what they love for the sake of what every t
heatergoer loves. They are contributing to the artistic aspect of Lowell, spreading awareness for the arts and enhancing them simply by doing what they enjoy most.
            The first optional excursion that I went to was Meghan’s Honors Thesis defense in O’Leary Library as an integral part of class. Our class was among the numerous family members, honors faculty and advisors in the audience who assisted Meghan along the way with her honors project on video production. Meghan will graduate in May with a Bachelor’s degree in Chemistry and go on to graduate school to study education to eventually become a teacher. With the help of her honors mentor, Meghan constructed a near twenty-minute video detailing the video production process and its benefits, particularly in education. Throughout her video, Meghan reiterated that video production could be utilized in classrooms to encourage group projects, foster creativeness, and build the knowledge that is needed in our technologically advancing world.
            Not only did Meghan’s presentation directly benefit me by serving as one of my excursions, it indirectly worked in my favor because it was an example of what I will have to do in three years and therefore it was a valuable experience. I admired the way that Meghan conducted herself, presented her project and answered questions at the end. I hope that I possess that same confidence when I present my thesis as Meghan did. Additionally, I revered her motivations behind this video project, the idea that she is developing her tools that she will utilize when she is a teacher to better her students’ knowledge of all concepts. Merely her willingness to become a teacher and provide education to children is a true act of altruism. I believe that she will go on to do great things in the world of education because of her inherent ability to teach, be taught, and enhance her skills whenever possible. Meghan is indicative of a selfless person who will go on to improve the lives of many of her students. She is a by-product of the city and all the benevolence that it has to offer.
            The third and final excursion that I partook in was an event for Foster Care Awareness Day on April 8th. My Child and Adolescent Development teacher suggested the event because she is the advisor for the Foster Care Awareness organization here on campus. It was held at the Plummer House in Lowell, a foster care facility located on Broadway Street. The event was kicked off by a thank you from the club advisors and an introduction of a spokesperson and volunteer for the home, Kathleen Truscot. She described the mission statement of the Plummer House and the services they provide. In essence, they encourage for those who seek help to get that help at their facility for as long as they need it. After Kathleen spoke, a foster parent (whose name I do not remember) told her story about raising her now adopted daughter whom she met through the foster care system at the Plummer House. She praised the entire experience as the most rewarding thing she has ever done and something she would not “have traded for the world.” After she professed her love for both her daughter and the foster home she came from, Kim, a student at UMass Lowell, told her story of growing up under foster care parents in homes that were never really hers. She described the struggle growing up and how she has overcome it today. Nevertheless, the foster care system has provided her with the tools to yield her a successful college experience. They pay for her college tuition and offer monthly visits in order to check up on her progress. Although she is reminded every day that she is a product of foster care, she is grateful that it has served her in the best way possible.
            All of those who conducted and had the courage to speak at this event on Foster Care Awareness Day are the epitome of this city’s philanthropy. They have nothing to lose and everything to give. The Plummer House, it’s volunteers, it’s parents and its children serve to better the society that we live in, beginning with the Lowell area. As Kathleen described the foster mother who spoke: “She is an ordinary women who does extraordinary things.” Indeed, these kinds of people have the warmest hearts in the darkest of circumstances. They are destined to live in places where they will make a difference, and Lowell happens to be the perfect place.
            As my freshman year comes to an end at UMass Lowell, I am able to reflect on not just the benevolence of the faculty, staff and students here, but also of those all throughout this city. I have branched out from my residence of Sheehy Hall on South Campus to diversified and historic locations all around the vibrant city of Lowell, Massachusetts. I cannot seem to fathom the helpfulness and pure kindness that stems from every building, every office and every street corner. “Oceanside” signified those from the arts and their true passion for entertaining people. Meghan’s presentation of her Honors project represented the impact that simply one person can make in a particular field, hers being her future influence in the worlds of chemistry and education. Lastly, those at the Plummer House who advertised foster care and all of its benefits showed me the devotion that one person can have to other without having someone devoted to them. The best kinds of people inhabit this city. I love that I have made this place my home, and referring back to Jack Kerouac’s quote, I am just going to keep rolling under the stars, appreciative of all that I have and all that is to come.
Word count: 1,567

            

Thursday, March 26, 2015

The Common Creative Assignment

Anna Kleis
Professor Zabalbaescoa
FYSH: Text and the City
27 March 2015
The Common Creative Assignment
Part 1: Based on Lauren Groff’s “Exquisite Corpse”
A Life Worth Living
Exquisite: of a special beauty or charm, or rare and appealing excellence, as a face, a flower, coloring, music, or poetry. I use this word a lot because it sounds nice, it sounds exquisite. I also like saying it: ex-quis-ite. So elegant! This word was the epitome of my life from my early twenties to right before I spent two years in the oldest correctional facility for women in the United States: Massachusetts Committing Institution in Framingham. With a great deal of security and a loss of simple freedoms, my life was anything but exquisite during those miserable years. I was physically stripped of the nonchalant interaction with my identity, sense of self, three loving children and passive and supportive husband. My husband and children were too good to me during that time, though. Every day, my husband trekked the near fifty minutes (most of the time it was over an hour) to come see me and refresh me with news about the kids, his life, and the world’s daily occurrences. It was one of those things where I would hear what he was saying, but I wouldn’t really process it. I enjoyed the way he explained things, the rising of his voice when he got excited about something and the hasty way that he talked because he couldn’t wait to get to the exciting part. Or the lowering of his voice when he mentioned something unfortunate. You could really her the pain vibrate through his vocal chords and make its presence known, hanging like an ominous cloud over the conversation.
            My five years at the correctional facility came to an end on a day in the gloomy month of March. The roads were slick with fat drops of rain that had not been saturated into the already pothole-filled pavement. My husband, well accustomed to these roads, cruised back to Lowell with the ease that he acquired quickly after every single new experience or thing he learned. We coasted along the Merrimack River, a sight I had waited so long to see. The steady movement of the water that had powered the Industrial Revolution so many years ago put my mind at ease. I could stare at it for hours, which I usually did when I had some down time. I would sit at the bank of the river and revel in the constant swooshes and blips of the water as it encountered rocks that obstructed its flow. “What would you like for your celebratory dinner for tonight?” My husband’s kindness interrupted my daydream that had brought back so many memories before the time that I was cooped up for a wrongdoing. “Nothing too fancy. Something we can make with whatever we have at the house. I’ll have to ease into eating anything too good, you know what I mean?” With the smirk that I always loved on my husband, he nodded and proceeded along to the humble abode I had missed so much.
            After a joyous reunion and dinner with my children, so grown up that I had to prevent myself from tearing up every moment I looked at them, I roamed the house to remind myself of its familiar nooks and crannies. I ran my hand over the mantelpiece over the fireplace, the sensory receptors in my fingers familiarizing myself again with the rough edges of brick. I felt the slight warmth of the dying fire on my lower body as I admired the only family photo we have in the house because it is the only one we were able to get together. My husband sat on his favorite loveseat in the living room, grading his undergraduate English students’ papers and scribbling notes to himself. He peered up at me every once in a while, assuring that what I was doing was perfectly normal. But, over time, his glances ceased and his eyes glazed over, clearly delving into the part of himself that wanted to fully forgive me.
            Seconds seemed to hold the lengths of eternities, and I could tell my husband was growing restless. I halted my exploring and insisted that we go for a walk. Emotionless, he agreed. We suited up in our raincoats and rain jackets and immediately headed towards the river.
            As the sun started to set, the rain began its treacherous pelleting. We didn’t mind though; we continued on at our usual pace and reached the river. We found shelter under a nearby tree and looked at each other. In that moment, the swooshing of the Merrimack didn’t sound so pleasant. It sounded angry, threatening, revengeful. My husband glared at me. “How could you be so selfish?” That last word, not it’s connotation, but the way my husband said it made my heart jump. When I tried to say something, I realized I couldn’t. So many thought-out apologies that I had time to think of were left as words unsaid. My husband’s screaming in the light of the moon under the tree next to the angry river became a blissful haze, like a punishment that I so desperately needed.
            When I awoke the next morning, I was able to clearly recount the previous night’s tumultuous outcome. Despite our altercation, my husband and I lay next to each other in perfect serenity. Since I woke up before he did, I was able to study him, the changes in his facial features since I last really studied my own husband. Damn, he ages well. Slight wrinkles appeared around his mouth and on his forehead, but other than that, he was still the same vibrantly young man I had met twenty years ago and fell in love with. Gazing at this near-perfect image of my husband brought me back to the moment I said good-bye to him on one of the sunniest, brightest days in late February. Right before I bid my husband and children goodbye, though, I visited my mother in her nursing home. Her memory illuminated and then captured my thoughts because that was the last time I had ever seen her. I had abandoned her just as she abandoned me when I was younger.
            My childhood wasn’t the most exquisite experience. Growing up in the poorer part of Lowell, I wasn’t destined for much success. My father came home every night, throwing his coat on the table and yelling at my mother for something that happened to him that day. He couldn’t get a better job because of his attitude therefore he couldn’t make enough money to provide for us and he would just end up taking it out on mother. It was an endless, miserable cycle. Then, suddenly one day my mother decided she couldn’t take it anymore. I came home after school, eager to show my mom the A plus I had just received on my spelling test, to find the house empty. I just remember crying and crying until my father came home, immediately realizing what had happened and speaking on the phone. In a two-minute phone call done through a hushed tone, I became aware that I wouldn’t see either of my parents for a very long time.
            With a brief hug and kiss on the forehead, my father dropped me off with all of the belongings he thought I needed and left me with his aunt and uncle, or my great aunt and great uncle. I remembered seeing them at my baby brother’s funeral, a memory that I was trying to make distant but one that would not stop plaguing my everyday existence.
            In total, I spent three years with my great aunt, Fran, and my great uncle, Bob. I called them Bran after a while, and they grew accustomed to the nickname. They did their absolute best in raising me from a child to a pre-teen. They packed my lunch everyday, helped me with my schoolwork and listened to me when I needed to be heard. We found something to do on sunny days and played games on rainy days, my favorite of which was called “Exquisite Corpse.” We would pass around a piece of paper, each of us adding a body part until we were left with a monstrous-looking creature with five arms and one leg or nine eyes. In the middle of one of these games one dreary day, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find my mother, appearing rested and fresh as ever, being pelted with rain, beaming a huge smile on her face. Fran must have seen our visitor standing in the rain and me not letting her as she ordered, “Let them in, would ya?” When my mother stepped in the house, my caretakers were in shock. I was told to finish our game while they talked. Before I knew it, I was in the car with my mother heading to the apartment she had saved up her money to pay rent for. She explained to me what happened to her. I would not really learn the extent of it until years later. My mother had always experienced symptoms of depression, but after my baby brother’s death and my father’s constant belittlement, it went severely downhill. I listened to her and lived the rest of my childhood with my mother, still paying a weekly visit to Bran who made me feel as safe as I would ever be.
            The last time I was able to see my mother was when I was telling her that I would be going to jail for crimes that I had helped commit. I worked for a lawyer who defended the crime-committing citizens of Lowell. He was one of those crooks who had a million connections all over the place and eventually started laundering money. I figured this out one day and began to help him. I would find out new places he could put his money in, some in the United States and some in different parts of the world. When he got busted, so did I. I was put in jail as an accessory to the crime and would serve my time. I confessed to my mother that as immoral and illegal as it was, it made me feel alive. Despite the fact that I was all jumbled up and had a little more selfishness than I did morality, I wouldn’t change my decisions for anything. My mother, as disappointed as she seemed, just listened to me and reassured me that everything would be fine and that I would see her as soon as I got out.
            By the time my husband had awoken, I was already at a local coffee shop in downtown Lowell. I missed the comfort of this place and the warmth it offered any time of the year. I took a window seat and I ordered what I had missed most: a cappuccino. As I sat there pondering what I was going to do, I saw my husband emerge out of his car across the street. Just when I thought he would be crossing the street, a woman surprised him from behind. They embraced and kissed and walked away from the coffee shop. In shock, I began to tear up and let thoughts overtake my sanity. But, I stopped myself. What my husband was doing wasn’t wrong. I think he met this woman, whoever she was, near where he thought I would be so that I could see him. In that moment with that woman, I could see how alive he felt. Inevitably, I didn’t see our marriage lasting much longer. Maybe he, too, is just a jumbled mess of emotions and feelings. I think that’s what most exquisite about us in this life anyways; we’re all just exquisite corpses waiting to happen.
Part 2: An Explanation
            For this assignment, I chose Lauren Groff’s short story “Exquisite Corpse” from The Common Issue No. 01. It tells the story of a man, recently released from a prison stay of six months, who comes home to his distressed wife and finds it difficult to readjust. He was given this sentence because he stole large amounts of money from stockholders and stored it away in offshore accounts for a long amount of time all the while lying to his wife about it. After he is released, he and his wife go on a vacation to Hawaii and she reveals her true feelings towards him, her anger unraveling rapidly and his realization of how selfish he was. He finds out that his wife was cheating on him. Ultimately, he affirms that, “We can’t always choose what we love, or what we can’t love” (p.136). In order to replicate this story and its plot, I wrote about a woman who is convicted of crimes similar to those of the man in the original story and her adjustment to reality. I based this story in Lowell and its surrounding areas.
            My fictitious story can be deemed a “Lowellian” production because of its setting in Lowell and the possible every day struggles of some lower-class families who live in Lowell. My protagonist has an unstable home life due to a shaky parental relationship and constant monetary worries. It is assumed that they reside in one of the poorer areas of Lowell that sits adjacent to the richer part. However, once she has a family and a husband, it is assumed that she moves to the more lucrative part of Lowell. Additionally, a major part of Lowell described in this short story is the Merrimack River, which I believe is essential to any discussion about Lowell. I used my experience with the Merrimack and the scenery surrounding it to illustrate the scene between the protagonist and her husband. The river is a very powerful symbol of Lowell and all that is has to offer. Despite this being a redundant matter, Lowell is the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution due in major part to the strength and richness of the Merrimack River. Therefore, it would not be a story about Lowell without this significant geographical body of water. I also incorporated some of what Lowell has to offer currently. In the end scene, the protagonist is at a coffee shop in downtown Lowell, surveying her lifetime home and how it has changed.
            In conclusion, this short story based off of “Exquisite Corpse” featured in the first issue of The Common, is primarily a Lowellian production because of its context. The protagonist’s background consists of all things Lowell, although that could happen to someone who lived anywhere. I believe that Lowell is an exquisite corpse itself. It might have a little more historical aspect than most cities. It might have more bad qualities at one time than good, but that is what makes it unique. The paradox that is Lowell truly is one of the highlights of the state of Massachusetts and it is no wonder why so many artists come here to showcase its perpetual beauty.