This was truly a beautiful piece about the lives of people who have had beauty stripped from them. It's saddening to see how immigrant lives and refugee lives are pushed aside or forgotten about. The piece about Ahmed particularly struck me because of how young he was and how his pain was taken as a joke or a way out--because prison just wanted to keep him in regardless of what he does. When the department of immigration didn't allow for his family to come to the funeral, I think is very indicative of this notion of separating families from one another due to some "legality" idea.

This is a super interesting and impactful line. It suggests a hypocrisy that is reveling the true nature of people. What strikes me though is that it occurs right after the discussion about generational knowledge. Is it suggesting something about hypocrisy in ancestors? Also, the close tie to veganism reminds me of tourism as a privilege or a use of trying to get over some guilt in a wishy-washy way.

There is an interesting theme with art here. This passage of knowledge in every aspect--food, language, and now art, is an interesting choice to arrange. In every piece, the author makes sure to let the audience know that their knowledge is one that was passed on from generation to generation--like natural art tools in nature. While the overall paintings may change, the original tools and foundations stay the same. This is called tradition.

In this, the author comes full circle to the father's fascination with Egyptian culture. The immortalization is something that serves as an antithesis of what he actually wants. Her father feels somewhat ashamed of his past and who he was--he wants to be forgotten instead of being remembered as a killer/predator. That's why he puts himself in the deep waters where his sculpture will never be found.

Ka seems to be talking about the feeling of disassociation. She feels that she is no longer in control over herself or where she is. This is interesting because of her tie to art, in how it suggests that her personality is one that doesn't like to recognize what she cannot control.

The mummification process and the idea of eternity/grieving through preservation parallel's the sculptor's projects and fascination with his father. In this way, the artist is eternalizing his father. Just by the previous description of the sculpture, his father in a thinking position with the cracks resembling scars, the artist connects that sentiment to the one here. This is on purpose.

informal. This is an interesting point and how Antigua almost seems like a utopia with deep dark secrets. That's why people don't stay for a long time.

(informal): wow this line is really gut-wrenching. After the narrator met these people who took over Antigua, she was miserable. She would've rather been "uncivilized" than have to experience the powerlessness that society created, a world where she cannot run things or understand how certain changing things work. It reminds me of the line from Black Panther where Killmonger says, "Bury me in the ocean, with my ancestors that jumped from the ships, because they knew death was better than bondage."

This is such an interesting point. While a place may appear to be free, everything is actually controlled. Knowledge and meeting the world is talked about in the way importing and exporting goods is talked about. Meeting the world outside the power of England is a luxury.

The writer is setting up the readers from the perspective of privilege. This place, Antigua seems like a beautiful, but struggling country that foreigners/tourists utilize as a place for vacation (for only 10 days or less). This comparison is the most explicit way of showing a criticism perhaps about how tourists think or a mockery of how visitors view this place. It seems to be a problematic appreciation. Instead of understanding why the roads are bad, they consider it a "marvelous" change.

This parallels directly to Julius' father's burial anniversary. After 18 years, Julius feels what's gone. What prompted this discomfort?

I know that Julius is a psychiatrist, but I wonder how he feels about being an African-American and understanding how Black bodies were used to change the face of medicine. Does it confuse him? Make him uncomfortable? Again, I wish we knew his thoughts a little more explicitly so we could get a grasp of what he's thinking emotionally, but I'm wondering how we can use these thoughts to analyze the way he views this history and his career.

It's interesting that Julius chooses to use the word, "wasteful" in describing the struggle. I understand what he means in something so simply took what seems like forever to pass, but I wonder why he included this thought of "wasteful" in the first place. It's realistic but also pessimistic in a sense, something we haven't quite seen in Julius yet.

I wonder if Dayo felt survivor's guilt. That he brushed with death that day and is so unfazed yet traumatized by it on the inside.

(informal) this is a really interesting point

Julius often has this feeling of sonder. He's invested into the mesmerization that pulls him into people's lives and realizing that everyone has a life and weight of their own. I think this is exactly what makes his story so relatable to so many of us. Julius is at this place, drinking, and just watching people live, and thinking about who they are. He is an observer like us. It's interesting, though, because it's not like he's a typical underdog-type character. He seems more like a puppeteer because he is presenting this story to us. And we have to somehow trust him--like he's our psychiatrist into how we can view the world in a certain light.

I remember reading Edward Said in high school and this really connected to me personally because it shows how my identity can never be a stand-alone like other authors--it comes with the weight of "orientalism" and striving for some deep meaning--sort of like minor literature's arguments.

In a broader sense, it's actually very common that minority groups are scapegoated when it comes to crime. People want a reason beyond their discrimination to not have certain people in their country because of this fear and hatred towards them--in this case, it was North African Muslims, people who assumed the responsibility of one thought-of member's actions, trying to seek forgiveness without confirmation.

Julius does so much psychoanalysis--which makes him an incredibly talented psychiatrist. His ability to infer or somewhat judge people based on one small interaction or the way they carry themselves is a double-edged sword. He may claim judgements on people without knowing them and thus fighting himself or it allows him to have genuine, directed conversation.

There is this truth aspect that comes into Cole's work. This is something that seems shunned-on to say, or even mention, about someone who is so widely loved but it's the harsh truth--that people are not who they seem to be, that theres a darkness within people, too. I wonder if the author will do some self-reflection as well or if it will all be observation.

The way this author writes is astonishing--Cole writes exactly how they said they would write: as if their words on paper voiced out a meaning. I think the juxtaposition with this morphing of what the narrator sees with these specific details about the birds, nature, general environment, show a sharp parallel contrast to perhaps the message (which i'm not sure of yet) they are trying to send.

This reminds me of several points from minor literature. South African literature has a great deal to do with power dynamics and the appearance of a false freedom. The part where the author said "it is exactly the kind of literature you would expect people to write from a prison" struck out to me because it describes the exact feeling of how smaller problems in major literature are the focal point of minor literature--this entrapment is people's lives.

I am understanding what the author means, but I am questioning the presence of choice in this context. I associate the agency over your choice with freedom. Enslaved people didn't have a choice to be slaves otherwise they'd be killed or beaten. But slavemasters have a conscious choice to exist without slaves; they are consciously making the choice to have slaves--thus they do have a sense of freedom. This was my initial thought but I think it may change as I continue to read on.

This is one of the moments where it's difficult to decipher how to look at these two characters. The woman opened up about literal sexual assault and Kerry took it as a way to use it toward's her husband's sexual desire for her.

This reminds me of the play, "The Dutchman," where a white woman lures a Black man with her sensuality, then somehow turns it onto him. The lines become blurry here because it deals with two people who have an aspect of themselves that are socially oppressed--either being a woman or being Black. It's difficult to compare this and problematic, but here it seems quite obvious that this woman is being sort of racist with her microagressions and slight, sneaky language.

I don't know why this line didn't quite sit right with me. From the start to this early point in the play, it seems like this white woman is speaking with microaggressions, maybe without realizing but there is something highly suspicious about her tone.

This scene seems so genuine and light-hearted, which somehow complicates the tensions with loving Moleka between these two women. Also, it is fascinating that when Dikeledi showed Maru the sketch and he took it, he brushed off the hard work of Margaret, but Dikeledi was reluctant to ask Margaret as to not burden her with a task that she doesn't gain anything from. This small act of respect and understanding is very unique to tropes of women fighting over one man, and I'm glad Head included this glimpse of light in this complicated relationship.

Adding on to smckoy's point, its interesting how reality and this artistic point of view come to light here. The reality of her identity--a Masarwa sets in in the face of love. If love, in this story and in real life, were as simple as just an emotion, then we wouldn't have the depth of this story. The character understands that she is being talked about all over and how it affects her relationships--this meta-state is what pushes Bessie Head's readers to engage with background context while enjoying this "love story"

This articulation of love and possession in this paragraph is very interesting. Moleka had doubts about how Maru handled his slave-owning perspective and how he had only worried about his own pockets. But it truly seems that Moleka loves her, genuinely; however, it's hard to decipher what love exactly entails within this story. Dikeledi loved Moleka because of the way he speaks to her with some strange respect, but the reasons for Moleka's love differ. I wonder why Moleka would divert his love into Dikeledi as a distraction. What purpose or right does this serve?

This line seems indicative of the relationships we see in this story. People, (like missionary Margaret and "Masarwa" Maragret), have unconventional ways of showing that they have a connection. Ranko and Maru's relationship has that element of mysticism, though, because of this power Maru seems to hold and how Ranko affirms it. I also thought that this line was beautiful because it seems like one of the more genuine things in this story about things that are often superficial.

(informal) This line really took me to step back for a bit. There are so many social things at play here. Eurocentric beauty standards, social standards, respecting everyone/finding beauty in the underrated. They are surprised because no one treats Masarwa people with respect or look at them with kindness to see that they are beautiful.

It's interesting that the child seems passive and non-reactive to what's happening to her, but Margret knows what's wrong, and feels angry for her. But it seems like a child should know when they are being treated wrong--like being spat at. Was the child just used to it? Or forced to stay quiet?

It interesting that Maru knows all these things about nature and others, yet struggles with the concept of love. That's probably what makes him human. He sees people with a value attached to them, but even so, this uncertainty in love towards Moleka or his wife is something that made him malicious. His struggle with love may suggest his upbringing in a place with a lack of love, but desire for practical knowledge.

This is interesting to think about. Maru seems to have this deep awareness and social binding while being connected to the earth--and people disliked him for it. I wonder, does this bring up the idea that certainty or knowledge is something to be feared? That perhaps we want to hide what we're thinking because it's wrong. People were "horrible" to Maru because he heard it all. Why hate someone for knowing what you're thinking? What do you have to keep secret?

In my opinion, this is her way of finding light in something so dark, like trauma/ptsd. In a sense, while her mother tells stories of seeing dead bodies and being apart from her family, the same thing that haunts her can also be the very thing that makes her understand how fragile connections with people are--how important it is to be "here, forever, now" as "in the now."

You can't hold water with your hands without it spilling, so what is this glass container that is broken? Is she referring to herself? I think that if one drop is spilled, which inevitably will come to that, these children with inherited trauma will be punished; since it is inevitable, in a sense, she is saying that this punishment is inevitable too. But what is this punishment? Is it PTSD? Is it second-hand fear?

Does trauma make us less than whole because of the holes it creates in our "carts"? Does it make us less human? It's hard to tell, but the author seems to be looking for something that makes her feel whole, perhaps because her inherited trauma is such a large part of her, even though it isn't her trauma that she's holding--which may make her feel that she has to regain her wholeness as a human being.

Opening the window--open people's eyes to the reality of the violence towards women during the partition, and also to the reader.

I think that this definitely alludes to the fact that Sakina was sexually assaulted--it broke my heart to read. Her father had been looking for her everywhere, thinking she was somewhere else during this time of partition, but she was at the hands of the very men who were supposed to protect her but instead abused and possibly raped her. I am deeply distraught from reading this but I think, maybe, this is how I'm supposed to feel. This is the reality of sociopolitical conflict--the many women who suffer in the in between. It's an ugly truth that, after I had researched the author a bit, is often covered up. The author was tried for obscenity about six times, just for revealing a reality that people didn't want to accept. Often, there is the blood of victims on the hands of the very people who were supposed to protect them. That's the truth.

The dupatta is a huge part of Indian/South Asian culture. It is usually worn by women as a form of coverage/protection for the chest area, so the fact that she didn't have it with her seems symbolic--that she was out in the world in a bare way, following this theme of violence towards women during this confusing time. It is clear that her father is in distress and he can't remember anything, but once he sees her dupatta, then he starts to regain small details.

The violence that shows up in this passage and the next are always around the stomach area; especially violence towards woman, but why? I would imagine that if it were violence towards women then it would represent something like birth--perhaps the violence behind the birth of a country or the impossibility of it.