When I woke up, I could still see the light from my computer screen blaring across my room, from my desk right into my eyes. I needed something to get me up, otherwise I would have most likely slept the day away. With my back aching, I turned onto my side to find Steve sound asleep. He has no pain, no burdens. He is able to rest without Tylenol or Advil to numb afterpains and insomnia. He slept like a baby. I wonder what he thinks about while asleep? Does he dream of Dawn and I? Teaching me the language of my people? I let out a sigh. I shouldn't feel this way, but I do. I know learning Mohawk will only benefit him and I in a positive way, but I still have a sense of guilt. I should be the one to learn and carry on my culture, but with my aching, tired body, I’m trapped; unable to carry on traditions and a legacy that has been passed down through generations for hundreds of years. But it's not me. It’s never me. I got up out of bed. My body feels so real, fleshy, painful and imperfected. I’m tired of it. I don’t miss when I was the ‘perfect’ female image before childbirth (or as perfect as I could be, perceived by western culture), but at least now that I have a child and a family to take care of, I have some sort of validation, a sense of relief that allows me to shun my cultural responsibility.
After I had made my way back after checking on Dawn, who was (to my surprise) fast asleep, I sat back down at my desk and opened my writing. It was not near perfect or to my liking, but was anything perfect? I know I’m never going to be able to recreate the smells, the feelings and the emotions that embody so many stories that I was told as a child, but my writing did one thing differently: it opened new ideologies and opportunities for people like me. People going through the pain, guilt, and desolation that I’ve had to carry with me through my adult years. The thought of being able to kindle a new light within others, a burning, powerful, bright white light, brings me a small sense of hope. The thought that maybe there are more people out there like me. Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe the feeling of dread whenever I speak about my past, about my experiences, is shared between others. Others like me: scared, alone, afraid of doing the wrong thing. Maybe I will have the brittle power to shine light into the darkness that cloaked other women and their sore, aching bodies.
Reflection
In my adaptation of Elliott’s novel, And Then She Fell, I wanted to recreate and emphasise the sense of worthlessness and pain Alice has to go through. Through the beginning of my writing, I tried to focus on how Alice is feeling physically, as well as her mixed feelings towards her husband, Steve. I did this, as I noticed that Elliott also liked to use a lot of realistic and mildly graphic language when depicting Alice’s stream of consciousness. To recreate this I simply tried to put myself in Alice’s shoes. By using words such as “pain”, “aching” and “burdens” I tried to recreate the lethargic physical pains Alice has to go through after birth. To link this in with her feelings towards her husband, I did my best to describe Alice’s opinions towards her husband by using comparisons. For example, pairing the sentence “He slept like a baby”, right after stating that Alice is having an issue with insomnia, perhaps due to her postpartum depression. To build the sense of worthlessness and struggles with identity, I tried to include lots of internal dialogue and questions, and then used this to build into a somewhat positive ending. I used questions such as “I wonder what he thinks about while asleep? Does he dream of Dawn and I? Teaching me the language of my people?” to try and depict Alice’s sense of self doubt, but then later on brought back the internal question “ It was not near perfect or to my liking, but was anything perfect?”, using it as a bridge for Alice to realise that she is in fact carrying on her culture, and will be helping other people in situations like hers.
Work Cited
Elliott, Alicia. And Then She Fell: A Novel. Doubleday Canada, 2023.
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