Emasculation and Power

In Porter’s That Tree, the main character, the journalist, struggles with the idea of power and emasculation. While we typically see women who are portrayed as “floaters” in Porter’s stories, the journalist (male) in this story assumes this role. In his relationship with Miriam, this role reversal is increasingly evident. Before Miriam’s arrival, the journalist lives with an Indian woman who becomes the mother of his child. When the woman finally leaves, she takes the child with her. The journalist thinks in response, “that’s mine,” … “perhaps,” thus implying that the narrator is incapable of standing up for himself and allows himself to be run by women. Furthermore, the Indian woman asks for furniture as a dowry for her future (non-existent) marriage, and the journalist gladly gives it to her. Therefore, upon Miriam’s arrival, the journalist owns nothing and shortly thereafter looses is job. During the course of their marriage, the journalist remains unemployed while Miriam teaches school. The journalist’s feelings of emasculation by Miriam are fully demonstrated in the restaurant scene, where his wife hides under a table when a man pulls out a gun, rather than using him (the journalist) as a shield. Already feeling emasculated by her, the journalist’s manhood is deeply offended by this act because Miriam has subconsciously demonstrated that even she finds him inadequate. Though there are many more things that can be mentioned to demonstrate role reversals and emasculation the final page of this story is crucial. After Miriam left him, the journalist (a former daydreamer and shoddy poet) realizes that he needs to find a powerful job. Consequently, he becomes a journalist and luckily he is successful. He marries twice more, wielding his status and profession over his spouses and they are subservient. However, the journalist is not content. He feels that he needs another chance with Miriam so that he can prove to her, as well as himself and the world, that he is indeed a man because she represents the male characteristics he so desires to have. Thus, he wants her to be subservient to him and run the marriage the way it should have been the first time (in the journalist’s eyes).

Where is the Love in "That Tree"?

Some parts of the text make me feel as though “That Tree” is the story of a mean joke. Maybe a joke is not the best word to describe it but, I feel as though the narrator is only taking Miriam back in order to prove he has some kind of control. Perhaps I am way off. The narrator is telling this story and I feel as though he is merely bragging. He is bragging to his friends about how his first wife, after five years, has decided that she wants him back. She has realized that her life is not good without him. When we first discover whether or not the narrator with get back together with Miriam he says “he was going to break down and do that very thing”; he was going to give her another chance (Porter 79). “Break down”, he was going to “break down”? And he also states that he will not remarry her; “If she wanted to live with him on these terms, well and good” but her was not going to marry her (Porter 79). If her really loved her, wouldn’t he marry her again? Apparently if Miriam is going to live with him, she has to follow his terms, “She was going to take whatever he chose to hand her, and like it” (Porter 79). I feel this is his reason for getting back together with Miriam; he only wants to control her lifestyle as a way of getting back at her for their previous marriage. It seems like revenge. Yes, for a brief moment it does appear that the narrator still has feeling for his first wife, Miriam, because he ends his second marriage because his wife mocks Miriam and calls her “a mousy little nit-wit” (Porter 68). I still feel as though he wants to prove his worth; I feel as though he wants to show Miriam he is the boss in their new relationship.

Time in That Tree

This is going off of Sarah and Austin's posts:

I also thought the narration in this story was interesting, and something else that I wanted to add on to that, that Austin touched on, was the issue of time and how this adds to the story. To me, the time in this story seems very non-linear, and at points in the story, it is hard to tell if the story he is narrating is happening in the present, or if it is happening in the past. I think Austin is on to something, and I think that this varied time adds to the idea that the artist is spinning his wheels. The story starts out with the artist sitting under a tree, then it jumps to the reasons why he decided to get his act and gear, and get out from under the tree and become a journalist, but then from there the time shifts back and forth from the past to the present. For instance when he is narrating the story of when he first got married to his wife this is told in the past tense, but then he goes further into the past and narrates how before his wife had arrived he had been living with a Native American woman. These time shifts show to me how the artist is living in the past and spinning his wheels, not sure of what to do or where to go next.

Marriage

I've noticed a common theme among many of Porter's stories, that being the somewhat adolescent male figure caught between the desire for excitement and for marriage.

In "Theft," all of the men have mistresses that are more exciting than their wives. In "Maria Concepcion," Juan ping-pongs between Maria Concepcion and Maria Rosa (one providing the sustenance of chicken, the other the indulgence of sweet honey). And in "That Tree," our protagonist bounces between married life with the prim schoolteacher who functions more as a mother figure and an exciting life of poetry, art and unattached Mexican women.

What's interesting about "That Tree" is that Porter, for the first time, is giving the male's side of the story. While it's no more flattering than the others, it does offer a different perspective on this thread that runs through many of Porter's stories.

In all of these stories, marriage is an undesirable end for the male figures, perpetuating a timeless stereotype. In "That Tree," the protagonist is so noncommittal that he talks himself out of paternity of a child. The single life for these male characters is something exotic, fulfilling. Marriage is a necessary evil, and time and again wives are seen not as romantic interests or life partners but as replacements for mothers.

Braggioni keeps a wife at home to wash his feet, but prefers to play music to Laura. Married men buy purses for their mistresses, not their wives. Juan relies on Maria Concepcion for food, but runs off with Maria Rosa.

As for our protagonist in "That Tree," if his stated motives are to be believed, he ultimately chooses life with this mother figure, though that doesn't seem to be his true desire. She is the character that comes in and improves his living conditions, encourages him to break ties with his slacker friends and pushes him into journalism, garnering "the kind of success you can clip out of newspapers and paste in a book, you can count it and put it in the bank..."

I wonder what Porter's ultimate conclusion is on this topic. Is this theme prominent in her work because these are her observations? Or is Porter, whose romantic life appears to be more aligned with these male figures in her stories, working out her own issues?

Love in That Tree

The narrator in That Tree has a fascinating view of love that he doesn't seem to fully recognize. For the narrator, love is an idea of comfort, support and adulation provided by the "other" in a relationship. Miriam does not conform to his idea of what she should be: she does not adore his hobbies or his "artistic lifestyle," she does not clean for him with a smile on her face, and she is apparently not very interested in sex. It seems to me that what this narrator expects from love is a mother figure he can also fornicate with. The brief reference to his mother's cheery disposition and uncomplaining take to housework enforces this idea for me, as it is fairly near the discussion of Miriam's virginity and "frigidity" in the narrative. However, this works both ways. It would seem that Miriam (though we only understand her through the narrator's perception) also has a well formulated conception of what love should be, i.e. a romantic escape from the boredom of her Midwestern life among beautiful, cultured strangers. Miriam's vision of love and marriage are clearly perturbed by the realities of her husband's life (and Mexico in general). Is Porter saying that love is a joining of separate, ultimately incongruous personal visions wherein the participants seek a selfish satisfaction of wish-fulfillment through one another? If viewed this way, love is not selfless, giving or kind (as it is popularly thought of in hallmark cards, movies, etc) but rather self-serving and, at worst, delusional; at best, an attempt to find a person who most wholly conforms to one's internal vision of a partner and companionship.

That Tree Post

In this post, my intention is to analyze why the marriage between the Journalist and Miriam failed. The marriage, in my opinion, collapsed for the following reason. Miriam did not need the Journalist as a husband. She took on financial obligations and saved up her money from her first job for three years, and they ended up living off those savings, her birthday checks, and Christmas money which eventually “melted away and they got nothing for it.” Miriam was forced to occupy the role of the husband, the usual breadwinner of the family, and her doing so emasculated the Journalist, causing him to rely on defense mechanisms— denial, projection—to defend his position of the starving artist. He denied that his poverty of artistry was laziness, and he projected his own opinions onto those Mexican artists surrounding them, saying “these men went ragged and hungry because they had chosen once and for all between the seriousness of their souls and this world.” Miriam pointed out that all of his Mexican artist friends ended up finding careers and making money. Because Journalist remained steadfastly tied to his poetic licenses, he chose to relieve all the responsibility for making money to Miriam, who could not do it alone. By the end of her marriage, she had become “shabby and thin and wild-looking.” Miriam additionally did not need Journalist to challenge her intellectually. Her education threatened Journalist, and he believed her job as a teacher “was the most deadly occupation there was.” It stripped her of her “prettiness” and sparked the understanding that working and learning produced a certain happiness and a content lifestyle. She, however, could find no mental challenge in the housework “she despised and resented.” Miriam must have felt constrained to a submissive lifestyle where she should feel satisfaction from cooking and cleaning for a man who works just as hard as her to bring home food to his family. Except, he felt no family duty calling his name. So, Miriam was left academically static and unneeded as the role of the wife as challenged a challenged equal partner. Because he never gave her one, Miriam had no opportunity to need the Journalist to stimulate her intellectually or challenge her role as a wife. Furthermore, Miriam did not need her husband sexually. She did not challenge his virginity—most likely, because she suspected the truth and never wanted to breach the topic—but she also had “no curiosity” about sex, nor was she “palpitating to learn about life” in the way that her husband believed she would. He thought his job as a husband was to “play the role of a man of the world educating an innocent but interestingly teachable bride.” Her lack of interest in learning about sex hints at the idea that Miriam was not a virgin herself, but remained sexually unsatisfied by her husband. He believed she was merely uninterested, but perhaps she had just known what it was like to really have intimate moments with men and could not feel the chemistry with her husband. In their marriage’s intimate moments, “her mind seemed elsewhere, into some darkness of its own, as if a prior and greater shock of knowledge had forestalled her attention.” To restate: her mind wandered because her mind was preoccupied with a greater knowledge. She knew what she was missing. She did not need Journalist to satisfy her sexually. He could not satisfy her sexually. Finally, Miriam did not need the Journalist to be her savior. At the dance when the generals pulled out their guns, all the Mexican women pulled their husbands to their bodies as shields to save their lives. Miriam, however, saved her own life by running under a table. The Journalist, again, was unneeded. She expected them to be equals when he believed he should be the protector and provider. Only when the Journalist realizes that Miriam left because she did not need him in his life, does he seek revenge in the form of a career. She usurps his idea of utopia, refuses to fit the mold of a subservient Indian woman and blatantly disagrees with his ideology of poverty. But only when the Journalist realizes that Miriam really doesn’t NEED him, as society really doesn’t NEED him—he has no purpose, no existence—does he use her exit as an excuse to make something of himself. Miriam, then, could be the metaphor for “the chalk line” in life. She draws it down as a reminder that the life led right now is one that could totter into purposeful poverty or purposeful success. Living on the chalk line is like living under “that tree.” It’s a life that isn’t real and can easily be erased.

Narrative Structure in "That Tree"

In response to Sarah Petrak's post:

The narrative structure in "That Tree" struck me first for sticking it to convention, and second for being the third story of Porter's (that we've read) that does so. Where stories like "Flowering Judas" and "The Jilting of Granny Weatherall" employ narrative flashbacks, and "Maria Concepcion" indulges in gentle exposition, "That Tree" - along with "Theft" and "Magic" - are all examples of unconventional - at times non-linear - storytelling.

"Theft" begins with the protagonist fresh out of the shower, noticing her purse missing. Most of the story is concerned with the nights of the event previous (when she had her purse) and getting her purse back from the janitress.

We discussed "Magic" as a dramatic monologue in class - an idea I stand behind - though, for the sake of my discussion of "That Tree," I'd like to put forward my own pet theory here. Because of the way the story is formatted, where the hair-brusher's words are all put forward as the be-all, end-all narrative, and with Mme. Blanchard's interspersed dialogue in quotation marks, I think "Magic" is a retelling of the narrator telling Mme. Blanchard this story in the first place.

(I especially find this theory compelling because of the implications of that suggestion in class that the narrator - now armed with Mme. Blanchard's hair - is threatening her new employer with casting the very same spell that was used on Ninette. Further evidence for this idea - the fancy house madam "always hit people over the head with bottles, it was the way she fought" (39); Mme. Blanchard's only has one action in the entire tale (beyond saying something), and that is to close her perfume bottle (41). Could she be arming herself for the coming conflict, the climax that the retold telling of the tale is leading towards? This is thin ice, I know, but isn't it just like Porter to give us a taste of a hint to let our imaginations run wild.)

In "That Tree," the narrator seems to be paraphrasing the words of the journalist to his companion, quoting him directly to spice up the story or reground it in the cafe. The scene is after three marriages, and before Miriam's return.

"Theft" is the working model for my argument. What happens in the moment that Laura stands outside the shower - the opening of the story - is an opportunity for change. She spent the night previous being walked all over, thinking of other people's feeling before her own. With the theft of the purse the protagonist finally has a chance to stand up for herself, but instead gives in, and it's the janitress' own weird pride that gets her the purse back.

So what if these first present moments (the woman standing outside the shower, the narrator brushing Mme. Blanchard's hair/telling of how she brushed Mme. Blanchard's hair, the journalist in the cafe) stand as a crux between how it has been and how it will be, which are nearly identical? What if these present moments represent, instead of a turning point in people's lives, a portrait of a wheel in a rut? So often Porter's stories are the tales of unhappy people stuck going in some direction they never wanted to go in the first place, and unable to get themselves back on tracck.

Some evidence of this "wheel in a rut" idea in "That Tree": Miriam seems to have a new outlook on the journalist in her letter begging for him to take her back; "she regretted, oh, everything, and hoped it was not too late for them to make a happy life together once more" (79). Contrast that with Miriam's letters before their marriage, and that breathy, hopeful tone pops up for the first time; "she longed to live in a beautiful dangerous place among interesting people who painted and wrote poetry" (73-74). Miriam has different desires but seems to be setting herself up for much the same disappointment, especially considering that that happy life she wants to have "once more" never existed in the first place, much like she doesn't find the painters and poets interesting the first time around.

And, of course, there is the problem of that tree. The journalist opens his story to his companion in that way, noting he "had really wanted to be a cheerful bum lying under a tree" (66). And despite all of the alleged changes he has gone through - Miriam's abandonment, becoming an authority on revolutions (moments of real change, mind you), two more marriages - "that tree" persists throughout the story as some impossible ideal. The journalist has spent his adult life proving to Miriam that he "was not just merely a bum, fit for nothing but lying under a tree," when lying under a tree, "writing poetry and enjoying his life" is exactly what he wants to do (78). What the journalist wants hasn't changed, and Miriam doesn't seem to have changed, and when they both get back together - though no one can tell for sure - change doesn't seem to be on the horizon. In fact, the journalist makes a point of saying that things are going to be the same: "She was going to live again in a Mexican house without any conveniences and she was not going to have a modern flat" (79).

In brief, my theory is that Porter uses the unconventional narratives to spice up what could otherwise be a boring story. By telling them non-linearly, or from a strange point of view, she captures the humdrum in an exciting way, adding mystery and a sense of possibility to lives going nowhere (and of course getting all literary in the meantime). Maybe someone can beef this argument up for me, or tear it on down?

That Tree

While I was reading, “That Tree.” I thought it was very interesting that the narrator not only defended Miriam but took her back at the very end after all of her pettiness. The whole story he focuses on her faults rather than directs his attention towards his second wife which he admits he ended his relationship due to her comments about Miriam or he could have been with another person. It seems that he always wants to be with Miriam however, he just does not want to admit that he truly does want to be with her, why else would he take her back in the end?
It was also interesting me his connection with the tree and how he only describes the tree as an oasis in which he is able to be artistic and just worry about his poetry rather than worry about anyone else or what they think about him or his poetry. The tree is his own escape which he gets to disappear into his work.

Re: That Tree

I don't know if he really takes her back or he actually wants to be with her. I think it's more about the idea. He says that he defends her to others that criticize her, but the entire story is pretty much how snobby she is... basically how she NEVER ever would have fit into his lifestyle. He was always dreaming about other things, and he never listened to her until she left.

She was the same way too. The reason that they got together in the first place was because she said she wanted something different than the boring life she had back home. This poet offered her a fantasy... however the fantasy ended up being a nightmare for her. To him, living a life of constant struggle gave him excitement, and it wore her out because she worked her butt off so he could live in his fantasy.

When she finally leaves, he doesn't have the tension anymore. He also doesn't have the financial support, which makes him go get a real job. When she leaves his life, his muse is gone. The muse of struggle and tension and turmoil that a bad relationship offers - not her necessarily.

In the end when he "takes her back," it is all on his terms. No marriage, no compromise, no washer/dryer... She must spend the rest of her life repenting for leaving him. There must be some co-dependency between these two, and I do not think that a second time around is going to make anything better. It sounds like they will just continue to be miserable.

I also think it is important to note how he states their break up. Even though she is the one who leaves, he says she kicked him out. Why is that? Especially when the story emphasizes that she hated Mexico, so it is implied she wouldn't stay.

That Tree: Narrative Viewpoint and Semi-Eclipsed Characters

I've found my sympathies shift each time I go back to this story, and I think Porter designed it that way: even though the story is presumably told from the journalist's point of view, there are telling slips in the narrative viewpoint that create little breaks in his character. Through these little breaks we see the journalist as he sees himself, as his "guest" sees him, and as Mariam sees him. While Mariam has some very unattractive qualities as a person--sexually and emotionally cold, uptight, a bit racist, lacking in curiousity--we are forced to reconsider her as a character precisely because we are clearly getting one man's side of the story. This narrative construction is, in my opinion, one of Porter's most interesting and brilliant thus far. I found myself considering sympathy with an unappealing woman because I was forced to work harder to get to the meat of her character through the slippage in her ex-husband's narrative.

The fascinating part of this narrative construction is that we don't know exactly how much the journalist is admitting to his "guest" --(and I think the guest him/herself is one of the most intriguing characters in Porter thus far, as well)--while we might presume that the third person narrative is being relayed in the first person over drinks, intervening sections of first-person, quoted dialogue destabilize this assumption. In third-person, the text remarks that "Miriam knew better. She knew they were looking for the main chance" (76). Then, the journalist jumps into dialogue, without even breaking the paragraph saying, " 'She was abominably, obscenely right." (76) So even in moments when we think we see a bit of self-reflection, we're not sure how much the journalist is actually admitting in conversation. This slippage in the one-sided quality of this man's narrative constantly frustrates our attempts to get at Mariam's character.

She seems terribly unlikable, a bit prudish, and too serious as the journalist paints her--he even makes her seem cowardly in the dancing scene when she dives under the table to avoid the fallout of a potential gun battle. Yet we get little lines from her: her self-preservation instinct "had nothing to do at all with him," and she "had no intention of wasting her life flattering male vanity." Of course, the journalist is upset she didn't have the presence of mind to use him as a gallant human shield--she embarrassed him by her lack of faith in his masculine chivalry. Yet can we really blame her? After all, he's been living with another woman, and really makes very little effort to support her. (If he could get around to committing himself to the real effort of writing his poetry--of finding "that ideal tree he had in his mind's eye"--instead of "trying to live and think in a way that he hoped would end by making him a poet," he might get somewhere). His aspirations of giving her a sexual education are likewise fraught with ambiguous sympathies: in limited third person, we learn that he intended "to play the role of a man of the world educating an innocent but interestingly teachable bride" (73). Yet Mariam is "not at all teachable" and takes "no trouble to make herself interesting" (73). She comes off as emotionally stunted in some way: no imagination, no romantic spirit, no sense of curiousity or humor or adventure. But from a feminist theory perspective, that doesn't necessarily make her stunted as an intellect or as a woman. Tough luck if she isn't interested in sex or his poems. Tough luck if she doesn't want to play into his romanticized notion of masculinity. There is more to Mariam then this man can ever relay fairly to his guest, since she is often in a world of her own altogether: when they were together, "her mind seemed elsewhere, gone into some darkness of its own, as if a prior and greater shock of knowledge had forestalled her attention" (73). Even in the end, when it seems that Mariam is running back to financial security as a fair-weather friend, the very presence of the ambiguous, obscured guest as an audience to a one-sided tale alerts us to the possibility that there may be more to this woman than there appears.

What Tree? Under the Table and Daydreaming

I have just a few quick observations about this story, "That Tree."  Once again, we have a story about the starving artists and about what it's like to be living in a foreign country, but out of all the Porter Mexico stories, I think this one presents the clearest sense of American response to and prejudices of the Mexican people.  We can see this view in the character of Miriam.  We know from the very beginning that the journalist wanted to come to Mexico to chase the romanticized dream of becoming a poet there (pg. 67), but Miriam really does not want to be there.  We see the racial view from her eyes.  "She would not have an Indian servant near her" because "they were dirty" (75), those Mexican girls "had only one idea in their heads" (71) to her, and she cannot understand the customs of his Mexican artist friends (76).  Miriam and the journalist are on opposite ends of the spectrum here, but I wonder where is Porter?  Maybe this story best captures the essence of what she was feeling:  both drawn to Mexico on one hand and also reacting in shock to some customs that differed from her own?  This story was very difficult for me to find someone to root for.  We think we are learning everything from the journalist's perspective, but later on the character of Miriam becomes more dominant.  What do we make of this ambiguity?

Also, I was wondering if any of you had a similar reaction to learning of the journalist's affair with the Indian girl.  I found it so emotionally alarming for its lack of emotion:  Porter nearly states the affair with such dry nonchalance and indifference.  We do not get any sense of moral judgement, and more importantly, we do not get any feelings from the journalist himself about it.  No guilt, no pride, hardly anything.  We only get that he had an "odd feeling" when he thought the baby may be his (72).  The skill in her narration here, I think, is that this is told without giving us anything to go on in terms of how we are to feel about it, and in turn how it should make us feel about the journalist overall.  I wonder if I just missed something or maybe that's her point, but what could it be trying to achieve?

Flowering Judas

This story may be the most complicated and also the most beautifully written story we have yet read from Porter. My initial question when reading “Flowering Judas” was: who is Judas? Laura, Braggioni, Mrs. Braggioni…humanity? My other immediate question related to the importance of the allusion to the Judas tree. I looked up the Judas tree online and found that it is not native to Mexico, but originally seen in Southern Europe and Asia minor. The myths say that Judas, the betrayer of Jesus, hung himself on the Judas Tree. At the beautiful ending of this story, Laura, in her dream, takes the flowers of the Judas tree and eats them, only to discover she is eating the bread and blood of Eugenio, the imprisoned, dying revolutionary. One could argue, then, of Laura as the Judas figure. She is a “murderer” perhaps by association with Mr. Braggioni. The political tension of the setting is blurry to me. Is this an allegorical story of the Mexican Revolution of 1910-1920? I assume that both sides of the revolution believe Laura to be on its side. The wonderful part of Porter’s plot is that we never find out who she really sides with. Her Catholic roots allude to her allegiance but the ending dilutes even that interpretation.

Despite all my questions and confusions about the setting and the relationship between Laura and Braggioni, I found myself enamored by the imagery of this piece, especially in the contrast between Braggioni and Laura and in the ending. Phrases like “every sea shall be merely a tangle of gaping trenches” or “his eye sockets were without light, but she ate the flowers greedily” turned this political tale into a poem, a song. I also was enthralled how Porter shaped the entire text to be a foreshadowing of Laura’s death—or as I interpreted it, her spiritual death.

Flowering Judas: A Story of the Betrayal of Ambiguities

Flowering Judas is a story of betrayal. While the reader assumes this betrayal to be one of a physical nature, Porter’s intensions are otherwise. In this story, there is no “faith” that is not betrayed in some way or the other. I use the word faith loosely because the many “faiths” upheld by the characters in this story do not necessarily stem from a religious perspective. Take, for example, Braggioni. He is the leader of a revolution that fights to redistribute wealth to the general populous, yet, he indulges himself in fine luxuries. In contrast to these “faiths” is Laura, who, loving both her Roman Catholic faith and her political faith cannot divorce herself from either, though the revolution she supports has rejected Catholicism.

Not only is the idea of betrayal prevalent throughout Flowering Judas, it is also ambiguous. Unable to make opposing beliefs coincide, the characters find themselves lost and ultimately unable to achieve their different ideas of self-actualization and are, in turn, lost in a sea of ambiguity. Likewise, the flowering Judas tree serves as a symbol for the ambiguity experienced by these characters. We first see the Judas tree when Laura rejects a suitor by throwing a flower from the tree at him. The flower, traditionally a sign of love, is, of course, misconstrued by the admirer as a token of Laura’s affection. In addition, this tree, in it self aesthetically pleasing, stands for ultimate betrayal. In her nightmare, Laura eats the sensuous flower from the tree, similar to the way in which Eve eats the forbidden fruit. The flower is a beautiful disguise of personal intent from both receiver and giver alike. Thus, Laura is blinded by her beautiful faiths and cannot understand why she is unable to achieve the perfection she so desires. Furthermore, the name “Judas” refers to the name of Jesus’ disciple who betrayed Him and led Him to death.

(Deep Breath: THE END!)

Laura's Self Betrayal

(my previous post was blank, sorry.) While reading Porter's "Flowering Judas," I found myself assuming, along with some of the class, that Laura would suffer betrayal in the end. However, I've decided that Laura brings fear of betrayal on herself, without Braggioni's influence. Laura lives her life in fear, letting no on in, but at the same time, surrounding herself with people who give off the impression of betrayal. She feels out of place when she is awake, and when she is sleeping. She walks down the street in fear, and turns down love when it hits her right in the face. The story captures the idea of living life, anticipating the worst, and never letting love or happiness in. Each night, Laura comes home to Braggioni, dreading the aggressiveness that he is portrayed as having, and anticipating him coming towards her, in which case she will timidly say no. She imagines this happening each time she comes home, but it never does. Laura robs herself of happiness, leaving nothing for her to live for, and it is her own fault for blocking out both the threatening people in her life, and the ones reaching out to her, looking for love.

Another thing...what is the symbolism, if any, for kneeling, and "knees" in general? It kept popping out at me, and I think it represents vulnerability...what do you think?

Re: Re: The Tree of Betrayal

Brad makes a great point regarding Laura's stoicism (and her parallel with the protagonist in "Theft"). There is this unexplained resignation within her. But why?

The Mexican revolutionaries follow Braggioni for one of two reasons: a) They don't see the real person, only the image he's projected, or b) Like him or not, following him is the best option for their quality of life and possibly survival.

It can't be b) for Laura, as she has a home elsewhere and as far as we know would be able to return but chooses not to. It's certainly not a) because she knows the true Braggioni and seems to despise him.

You bring up a great point: What led her to this stoicism?

Flowering Judas

While reading “The Flowering of Judas,” I kept waiting for the theme of betrayal which I assumed would be obvious; however, betrayal seemed to be how Laura felt not an obvious act. To me it seemed as if Laura felt that she had betrayed her own beliefs in religion. I think her secretly doing “Hail Marys” shows her struggle with the catholic religion as well as the title of the story. It seems to me that Laura does not know what to do in her specific situation with Braggioni and it consumes her thoughts and isolates her from the world around her.
It also seems as if Laura believes she betrayed Eugenio, due to her dream where she asks for his hand and all he does is gives her the blossoms of the Judas Tree, and when she eats them and he then calls her a “Murderer” and states that it is his “body and his blood”. So Laura not only feels guilty as if she murdered Eugenio the only person she does not isolate herself from but also uses the Christian theme of taking the Eucharist as an expression of betrayal due to Judas’s actions during the last supper and his betrayal to Jesus.

Political Narrative

I think the pervasive Biblical references in "Flowering Judas" suggest the overwhelming importance of narrative in political movements. As was pointed out, Braggioni's wish washes his feet as though he is Jesus. It seems difficult to accept Braggioni as a Christ figure, given what we know about his morals and manners. Yet, in order for any revolution or political movement to have life, there must be a supporting narrative to convince followers (and leaders) that they are justified in their beliefs and actions. (When Laura admits she won't wear lace made by machine, an idea counter to the revolution, it is called her "private heresy," framing political ideals is clearly religious terms) (92).

Braggioni frames himself as a prophet--perhaps a Christ figure--but unlike Christ, Braggioni is a "professional" who "will never die of it"(98). Yet, in the teleological narrative of the revolution, there is an expected apocalyptic endpoint: Braggioni claims that "Some day this world, now so composed and eternal...shall be merely a tangle of gaping trenches, of crashing walls and broken bodies" (100). If he is a prophet or a Christ figure, he must see himself as one of the few surviving "elect spirits destined to procreate a new world" (100).

In the driving political narrative, I had to wonder about Laura's place. She only half-heartedly buys into Braggioni's prophet character. But does she still accept and believe in the teleological pseudo-religious narrative of the revolution? She seems enamoured with her own role: she enjoys playing the spy, the go-between. Certainly, it's glamourous. I think this is the core of her betrayal of Eugenio. As an expat, she doesn't have a vested interest in the revolution in the sense that she doesn't have to put herself in these dangers for the sake of her home country. Yet real patriots like Eugenio are committing suicide in prison. Reading the reference to cannibalism in here, I think Laura can be considered a cannibal in the sense that she is feeding off the narrative of a revolution which is not her own.

On a side note, something to consider for the second part of the course: Did Porter have anxieties about "feeding" off of Mexico? Did she have anxieties about living the glamourous life of an expat and using the stories of the people of a country which was not originally her own?

Flowering Judas

Looking at Porter's plot lines, "Flowering Judas" in particular, I get a real sense of un-resoltions through all the way to the climax, then a slight resolution that instead of staying resolved, ends in an unexpected place. "Flowering Judas" is a prime example of this, the repetition of Laura's beauty, her revolutionary efforts and he suitors all point to a woman who is happy and yet her reactions are so static that we wonder about what is wrong with her. She is seemingly unmotivated by any of the things she encounters, and goes along not trying to change her situation. It almost reminds me if Judas would have lived instead of hanging himself, loosing meaning and love in his life, and yet cannot apply himself towards anything. Laura does so much and yet is uncommitted to any one thing, none of it gives her joy, which, more than anything, dis-empowers a seemingly powerful character. Porter is a master at paradox, especially by introducing biblical themes, and contorting them.

Re: The Tree of Betrayal

My initial reactions after reading this story seem very much like Jessica.  I immediately was drawn to all the Christian symbols and themes.  I agree that betrayal is an important theme here, but I am wondering if it was as simple as Laura betraying Eugenio.  I think that Porter may also be hinting that Laura is betraying herself on a different level.  For whatever reason, Laura has adopted a strong sense of stoicism.  She senses that "violence, mutilation, a shocking death, wait for her with lessening patience" (93).  Even at the end, in her dream, Eugenio is taking her to her death, and she does not protest or fight to live.  It sounds as though she will accept the invitation as long as she can hold his hand (102).  Why has Laura seemingly given up on life?  I think that this is another betrayal:  giving up on herself and her right to live and just continually existing in a detached state of stoicism.

On a side note, I could not help but drawing huge parallels between Laura and the woman in "Theft."  Like the woman in "Theft," Laura is denying herself intimate, personal connections with people, everyone around her "remain strangers to her" (97).  Both women seem to be sabotaging themselves.  I wonder if this view of a woman is what Porter may have had in mind or if the connections just seem so apparent only because "Theft" is so fresh in the mind, only having read it last week.  Did anyone else get a sense of these women being similar in how they view life?

Laura "Hannibal" and loss of faith

I think the line where Eugenio calls Laura a cannibal stuck out for me more than anything. After reading this, I started drawing correlations with the Bible, and this one has really got me stumped! I'm going to go on a controversial limb...

I understand why he calls her a murderer. It is the connection with the Judas blossoms and Judas betraying Jesus, which lead to his death. Since I don't actually know what the connection between Laura and Eugenio is (there was a line about love, but I read it over and over and I cannot seem to grasp it!) I'm not really sure what the value of the murder line is here. I just understood the connection.

Now the cannibal line... I connected this with the loss of her Catholic faith. How I read the story was that she used to be Catholic, but life and especially the revolution has jaded her, and she doesn't really have faith in anything. She is walking this path that she has chosen for herself, but even though she's not fond of it anymore, she doesn't really care to change it. As I understand, during communion, Catholics take and eat and drink the actually blood and body of Christ. This is a literal view of the last supper where Jesus offers these things to his disciples. Can this be where the cannibal comment came from? Or have I just royally offended people by taking such a literal view myself? I guess we can take this more figuratively. The definition of cannibalism is one that eats others of its own kind. I didn't really see Laura as a life sucker of any sort, rather, just a good woman making the steps of the right path yet not really believing in any of it.

I would love to hear comments on this. Possibly from those that have more knowledge on either Catholicism or cannibalism.