Notes

Imaginary Homelands:
The idea of ‘imaginary homelands' shapes the lives of individuals caught between different
cultures. It reflects on his personal experiences as an immigrant and the challenges of
reconciling conflicting identities. Rushdie emphasizes the power of literature in bridging cultures
and giving voice to marginalized perspectives. Through anecdotes and historical references, he
delves into the complexities of cultural identity in a globalized world.

*Skim through the entire reading btw to understand the concepts better :c

Meena Alexander:
Where do you come from?
I come from the nether regions
They serve me pomegranate seeds with morsels of flying fish
From time to time I wear a crown of blood streaked grass.

The author writes about his homeland (Mumbai), the ‘blood streaked grass’ may be a metaphor
describing the different lifestyles between those living impoverished in his homeland and those
that are more privileged in other countries, and to those living away looking at it from afar, it
might seem to appear like hell (nether regions)

Mama beat me when I was a child for stealing honey from a honey pot
It swung from the rafters of the kitchen.
Why I stuffed my mouth with golden stuff, no one could tell.

King Midas wore a skin that killed him.

My nails are patterned ebony, Doxil will do that
They made a port under my collar bone with a plastic tube that runs into a blood vessel.

The former stanza utterates the innocence and ignorance of youth. King Midas was a mythical
ancient king who was famous for his ability to turn anything he touches into gold because of a
wish he made, but when his food became gold, he nearly starved to death as a result, he
realized his error: a skin of flesh. Doxil is an anti-cancer chemotherapeutic drug.

I set out with mama from Bombay harbor.

Our steamer was SS Jehangir, in honor of the World Conqueror —
They say he knelt on the battlefield to stroke the Beloved’s shadow.

The waves were dark in Bombay harbor, Gandhi wrote in his Autobiography
Writing too is an experiment with truth.
No one knows my name in Arabic means port.

On board white people would not come near us

Were they scared our brown skin would sully them?
Mama tried to teach me English in a sing song voice.
Jehangir was an emperor in Pakistan, the second stanza here gives foreshadowing with the
dark wave, giving a negative heavy connotation of his homeland, the last stanza glimpses at the
discriminatory, often subtle, attitudes that the more privileged default to towards minorities.

So you can swim into your life she said.

Wee child, my language tutor muttered ruler in hand, ready to strike,
Just pronounce the words right:

Pluck, pluck Suck, suck

Duck, duck
Stuck, stuck.

An anecdote of one of his experiences trying to fit in within an unfamiliar world

Krishna, 3:29 AM
Krishna is the Hindu deity of protection, compassion, tenderness, and love;

In a crumpled shirt (so casual for a god)

Bow tucked loosely under an arm still jittery from battle
He balanced himself on a flat boat painted black.
Each wave as I kneel closer a migrant flag
A tongue with syllables no script can catch.

The 4 characteristic traits of empathy and slight neo-cosmopolitanism that he developed living
as a foreigner. The boat in this context is a bearer of mixed origins, as a dynamic microcultural,
micropolitical structure in motion captures transnationality and intercultural contacts, the
interchange of ideas, and activism effectively.

The many births you have passed through, try to remember them as I do mine
Memory is all you have.
Still, how much can you bear on your back?
You’ve lost one language, gained another, lost a third.

The many births refer to the multiple identities one has as he strays from his roots which he was
forced to bury somewhere else

There’s nothing you’ll inherit, neither per stirpes nor per capita
No plot by the riverbank in your father’s village of Kozencheri
Or by the burning ghat in Varanasi.
All you have is a writing hand smeared with ink and little bits of paper
Swirling in a violent wind.
I am a blue-black child cheeks swollen with a butter ball
I stole from mama’s kitchen
Stones and sky and stars melt in my mouth
Wooden spoon in hand she chased me
Round and round the tamarind tree.
 I am musk in the wings of the koel which nests in that tree —
You heard its cry in the jolting bus from Santa Monica to Malibu
After the Ferris wheel, the lovers with their wind slashed hair
Toxic foam on the drifts of the ocean
Come the dry cactus lands
The child who crosses the border water bottle in hand
Fallen asleep in the aisle where backpacks and sodden baskets are stashed.
Out of her soiled pink skirt whirl these blood-scratched skies
And all the singing rifts of story.

Diasporic Experience in the Poetry of Meena Alexander

Meena Alexander looks to be the top woman on the literary map of Indian women's writings.
poetess. Her poems, trend-setting books, and well crafted other literary essays have gained her
acclaim. In our present times, literary fame belongs to a serious and skilled author from around
the world. She has written in Indian and established herself for her outstanding contribution to
the evolution of novel writing art and ethics techniques. Her poems have profound affects on our
minds and hearts for the many Indian social ideals and beliefs, and provide the microcosmic
research of man-women connection in the altered atmosphere of the current times. Her poetry,
among other things, deal with the metropolitan city life in contact with environment, as well as
the socio-psycho attitudes of the human mind trapped in the crucible of tradition and change.

Most of her heroes are estranged from the world, society, families, and even themselves since
they are not ordinary people but persons created to stand against the prevailing current of
existence and battle and strive against it in order to obtain the desired world.

Diaspora are smaller populations geographically dispersed away from their root origins:
1. Diaspora carries a sense of dislocation, displacement and finds itself separated from
their original roots.
2. According to Homi Bhabha diaspora is “gathering of exile, emigrants and refugees in
foreign culture and foreign land. Gathering of the past in ritual and revivals and that
gathering in the present.
3. In some conceptual consideration by Fred W. Riggs defines Diaspora as communities
whose member lives informally outside a homeland while maintaining active contact with
it.

Toloyan states that we use the term Diaspora provisionally to indicate our belief that the term
that once described Jewish, Greek, and American dispersion names shares meanings with a
larger semantic domain that includes words such as immigrant, expatriate, refugee, guest
worker, exile community, overseas community, ethnic community. The preceding definitions
highlight the distinct meaning of a fruitful discussion on diaspora. The poetess emphasizes the
familial link while also displaying seeming simplicity of expression.

Her poetry explores uprooting and exile, alienation and identity, migrant memories and traumas,
separation and loneliness from India to Sudan and the United States. She was born Mary
Elizabeth, but she has been known as "Meena" since birth, and in her adolescence, she formally
changed her name from Marry to Meena. In her autobiography Fault Lines (74), she says, "I felt
I had changed my name to what I already was, some truer self, stripped free of the colonial
burden." Symbolizing her own multilingualism.

She has assumed various identities in various locations. Meena began writing poetry when she
was eleven or twelve years old;
Survival music. She acknowledges that she has an inner voice that speaks to her. Her poetry
reflect her own lived experience of dislocation and exile, migratory memories, and travel to
many locations in India, Sudan, and America. She has resided in cities and towns such as
Allahabad, Tiruvella, Kozennceri, Pune, Khartoum, London, New York, Hyderabad, New Delhi,
and Trivandrum, among others. She actively attempts to trace an Indian feminist lineage in
order to locate and elevate her own commitment with women's issues.

*Use her experiences to interpolate how other diasporic individuals under

numerous circumstances were taken away from their homelands

Varied voices
Immigrant blues
People have been trying to kill me since I was born,
a man tells his son, trying to explain
the wisdom of learning a second tongue.

It’s an old story from the previous century

about my father and me.

The same old story from yesterday morning

about me and my son.

It’s called “Survival Strategies

and the Melancholy of Racial Assimilation.”

It’s called “Psychological Paradigms of Displaced Persons,”

called “The Child Who’d Rather Play than Study.”

Practice until you feel

the language inside you, says the man.

But what does he know about inside and outside,

my father who was spared nothing
in spite of the languages he used?

And me, confused about the flesh and the soul,

who asked once into a telephone,
Am I inside you?
 You’re always inside me, a woman answered,
at peace with the body’s finitude,
at peace with the soul’s disregard
of space and time.

Am I inside you? I asked once

lying between her legs, confused
about the body and the heart.

If you don’t believe you’re inside me, you’re not,

she answered, at peace with the body’s greed,
at peace with the heart’s bewilderment.

It’s an ancient story from yesterday evening

called “Patterns of Love in Peoples of Diaspora,”

called “Loss of the Homeplace

and the Defilement of the Beloved,”

called “I want to Sing but I Don’t Know Any Songs.”

In this poem, a man is trying to convey to his son the importance of learning a second language
as a survival strategy and a means of assimilation. He shares that people have tried to harm
him throughout his life, highlighting the necessity of adaptation. The poem reflects on the
experiences of the man and his father, as well as the narrator and their own son, emphasizing
the challenges faced by displaced individuals.

The poem delves into themes of identity, belonging, and the complexities of language. The man
advises his son to practice until he feels the language within him, but the narrator questions the
father's understanding of the concepts of "inside" and "outside." The narrator recalls a
conversation asking if they are inside someone, exploring the connection between physicality
and emotions.

The poem also touches upon themes of love, diaspora, loss, and the search for a sense of
home. It contemplates the longing to belong and the difficulties of finding one's place in a world
that is constantly changing. The titles mentioned in the poem, such as "Patterns of Love in
Peoples of Diaspora" and "Loss of the Homeplace and the Defilement of the Beloved," suggest
the broader themes being explored.

Overall, the poem intertwines personal experiences, philosophical musings, and societal
reflections to convey the complexities of language, identity, and the human condition.

Transplantation

1. X-Ray
 My mother carried the chest x-ray
in her lap on the plane, inside
a manila envelope that read
Do Not Bend and, garnished
with leis at the Honolulu Airport,
waited in line—this strange image
of ribcage, chain-link vertebrae,
pearled milk of lung, and the murky
enigmatic chambers of her heart
in hand. Until it was her turn
and the immigration officer held
the black-and-white film up
to sun, light pierced clean through
her, and she was ushered from one
life through the gate of another,
wreathed in the dubious and illusory
perfume of plucked orchids.

2. Ceramic Pig

Newly arrived in New Mexico,

stiff and crisp in new dungarees,
her honeymoon, they drove
into the mountains in a borrowed car,
spiraling up and up toward the rumor
of deer, into the green tangy turpentine
scent of pine, where air crackled
with the sizzling collision of bees,
furred legs grappling velvet bodies
as they mated midair, and where
they came upon the disconsolate gaze
of a Madonna alcoved against
the side of the road, her feet wreathed
in candles, fruit, flowers, and other
offerings. Nearby, a vendor
with a wooden plank balanced between
two folding chairs and the glossy
row of ceramic pigs lined up across,
brilliant glaze shimmering the heat.
My mother fell in love with the red-
and-blue splash of flowers tattooed
into fat flanks and bellies, the green
arabesques of stem and leaf circling
hoof, snout, and ear. So exotic.
Years later she still describes the pig
with a sigh—heartbroken, the word
she chooses with careful consideration.
 She’d filled the pig with Kennedy dollars
from the grocery budget, each half dollar
a small luxury denied at the local
Piggly Wiggly, until one day, jingling
the shift and clink of the pig’s
growing silver weight, she shook
too hard, and as if the hoarded wealth
of her future were too much to contain,
the pig broke open—spilling coins
like water, a cold shiny music, into her lap—
fragments of bright pottery shards
scattering delicate as Easter eggshell.

3. Sneeze

My mother sneezes in Japanese. Ké-sho!

An exclamation of surprise—two sharp
crisp syllables before pulling out
the neatly folded and quartered tissue
she keeps tucked inside the wrist
of her sweater sleeve. Sometimes,
when ragweed blooms, I wonder why
her sneeze isn’t mine, why something
so involuntary, so deeply rooted
in the seed of speech, breaks free from
my mouth like thistle in a stiff breeze,
in a language other than my mother’s
tongue. How do you chart the diaspora
of a sneeze? I don’t know how
you turned out this way, she always
tells me, and I think that we are each
her own moon—one face in shadow,
undisclosed seas and surprising mountains,
rotating in the circular music
of separate spheres, but held in orbit
by the gravitational muscle
of the same mercurial spinning heart.

4. Dalmatian

There is an art to this. To shish

kebab the varnished pit of avocado
on three toothpicks above a pickle jar
of cool water, tease down the pale
thirsty hairs of root until one sinewy
arm punches up and unclenches its green
fisted hand, palm open, to the sun.
 To discern the oniony star-struck
subterfuge of bulbs, their perverse
desires, death-like sleeps, and conspire
behind the scenes to embroider
the Elizabethan ruffles and festoons
of their flamboyant resurrections.
To trick the tomatoes into letting down
their swelling, tumescent orbs
in the cottony baked heat of the attic
until their sunburnt faces glow
like round orange lanterns under
the crepuscular twilight of the eaves.
Unwrapping the cuttings of succulents
from their moist, paper-towel bandages,
and snugging them down into firm
dimples of dirt and peat, coaxing up
the apple-green serpentine coils of sweet
pea with a snake charmer’s song to wind
around the trellis and flicker their quick
pink-petaled tongues. The tender slips
of mint, sueded upturned bells of petunia,
and slim fingers of pine that pluck
the metal window screen like a tin harp
by the breakfast nook where my father
stirs his morning coffee and waits
for the neighbors’ Dalmatian to hurl
itself over the back fence and hang,
limply twisting and gasping on the end
of its chain and collar like a polka-dotted
petticoat, until my father goes outside
and takes its baleful kicking weight
in his arms and gently tosses it back
over the fence into the neighbors’ yard.
Year after year, the dandelions
and clover are weeded out, summers
come and go, and roots stubbornly inch
down around the foundation of the house—
labyrinthine, powerful and deep.

5. Japanese Apple

She was given an apple on the plane,

round and fragrant with the scent
of her grandfather’s fruit orchards
during autumn, when chestnuts
dropped from their trees and struck
the metal rooftop like the small heavy
tongues of bells, and black dragon-
 flies like quick shiny needles darted
in and out of the spin and turn
of leaves fluttering down like soft
bright scraps of silk. She wrapped
the apple in a napkin to save
for later, and it was confiscated
at customs before she had the chance
for even a taste. Over the years it
seemed to grow larger, yellower, juicier
and more delicious, and even though
there were burnished rows of apples
stacked in gleaming pyramids
at the supermarket with quaint
names like Macintosh, Winesap,
and Granny Smith, and even though
there were sunlit apple orchards
at my American grandfather’s ranch,
where rattlesnakes slumbered
in the heat and redolence of fruit
flesh, frightening the horses,
she sampled one after another,
but they never tasted as sweet
or as bright as the apple taken from her,
the one she had to leave behind.

1. "X-Ray": The poem begins with the mother carrying a chest x-ray on a plane,
emphasizing its significance as a symbol of her transition to a new life. The image of her
ribcage, vertebrae, and internal organs becomes a representation of her identity. When
she reaches immigration, the x-ray is held up to the sun, metaphorically illuminating her
and signaling her passage from one life to another. The leis at the Honolulu Airport add a
touch of cultural context, and the fragrance of plucked orchids creates an ambiance of
uncertainty and illusion.
2. "Ceramic Pig": The speaker recalls their mother's honeymoon in New Mexico. While
driving in the mountains, they come across a Madonna alcoved against the road,
surrounded by offerings. Nearby, a vendor sells ceramic pigs with vibrant glazes and
floral patterns. The mother becomes infatuated with one particular pig, describing it with
a sigh and using the word "heartbroken." She fills the pig with Kennedy dollars, saving
money from the grocery budget. However, one day, the pig breaks open, scattering coins
like water and pottery shards. This incident symbolizes shattered dreams and the loss of
accumulated wealth.
3. "Sneeze": The poem explores the uniqueness of the mother's sneeze in Japanese
compared to the narrator's own sneeze in a different language. The mother's sneeze,
expressed as "Ké-sho!," is characterized by surprise and is accompanied by neatly
folded tissues she keeps in her sweater sleeve. The narrator wonders why their sneeze
doesn't resemble their mother's, reflecting on the complexities of identity and language.
The diaspora of a sneeze becomes a metaphorical exploration of their individuality within
the shared bond of a mother and child.
 4. "Dalmatian": The poem describes the art of gardening and the resilience of nature. The
speaker discusses various aspects of tending to plants, from growing avocados from pits
to nurturing tomatoes, succulents, mint, petunias, and pine. In the background, the
neighbor's Dalmatian becomes a recurring presence, occasionally escaping and hanging
itself on the fence. The speaker's father intervenes, rescuing the dog and tossing it back
into the neighbors' yard. This cycle repeats over the years, as the roots of the plants
continue to grow deep, paralleling the complexities and strength of family ties.
5. "Japanese Apple": The final poem centers on an apple the speaker's mother was given
on a plane. The apple carries the scent of her grandfather's orchards, evoking memories
of autumn. However, the apple is confiscated at customs before she can taste it. Over
time, the apple becomes an idealized object, growing in size, color, and flavor in the
speaker's imagination. Despite encountering other apples with appealing names and
visiting apple orchards, none of them compare to the one she had to leave behind. This
emphasizes the longing for a lost connection to heritage and the bittersweet nature of
nostalgia.

Bienvenidos B. Santos
The Day The Dancers Came
The main character is a Filipino U.S. citizen, who is eager for the arrival of Filipino dancers,
visiting America to perform their cultural dance and arts. He is different from Steve, another
Filipino who is bedridden, in the sense that while he may not have any lingering attachments, he
still possesses a familial sentiment towards his origins, seen by how curious and excited he is
while waiting in anticipation for the Filipino dancers. But it doesn’t go the way he expected, upon
returning dejectedly, he says, "They looked through me. I didn’t exist. Or worse, I was unclean.
Basura. Garbage. They were ashamed of me. How could I be Filipino?" (Santos, 124). This
contrast refers to the alienation that diasporic individuals face when encountering those who
weren't away from their home countries to a certain extent and implies that these such
individuals might not even be included within their boundaries of Filipino identity.

*the rest are vids i didnt get to watch completely cause i was sleepi sry :C