One Flew Over the Invisible Man's Cuckoo's Nest

It is slightly suspicious how Invisible Man and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest not only share a message of criticism towards suppressive societies but also an alarming amount of similar details. Throughout the first chapters of Invisible Man, people who have read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest begin to realize that both narrators share their invisibility and lack of personality and courage. Nevertheless, this can happen with a lot other novels as well. What is interesting, beyond both novels' message, is how particularly alike both messages are expressed.

Readers start off making a connection between the Invisible Man and Chief Brondem because of their personalities and, as previously stated, because of their invisibility. The importance of this connection vanishes for a couple of chapters until, in one concise yet striking sentence, the veteran tells the narrator, "Come out of the fog, young man" (153).  Almost intuitively, I was brought back to One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, where Chief Brondem finds himself lost and trapped within a figurative fog while us readers can only but wish he'd come out of the fog. Do these two fogs deliver a similar message? First, we know that both fogs are clearly figurative. Second, we know that both characters are in a submissive position where their complaisant behavior has made of them vulnerable, segregated men with no intention whatsoever of making themselves be heard. What the fog that surrounds both characters is trying to represent is how blinded and trapped they are in their own society. Both, unable to stand up for themselves, now face societal suppression, represented more subtly as fog.

As I continued to read, having this allusion in mind, I came across the Invisible Man's clinical experience. He describes to be lying on a hospital bed with only white people around him; doctors, who I perceive as slightly evil due to the narrator's spasmodic hallucinations and hyperbolic depictions. This reminded me once more of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest; Chief Brondem experience in Disturbance was not really that different. He would be tied to a bed, and, although tortured with ElectroShock Therapy every once in a while, he'd have recurrent hallucinations and only white, ill-intended nurses around him. Although the Invisible Man is being cured while Brondem was being tortured, both scenarios portray the characters as vulnerable and unimportant to their caretakers. This shows how segregated groups of people, whether it is blacks or indians or lunatics, are alien to societal interests; a black patient is harshly treated and mocked while trying to recuperate from a concussion while an indian is villainy tortured for hallow reasons.

Finally, the lobotomy. Doctors in Invisible Man consider it appropriate for the narrator to undergo a lobotomy and doctors in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest actually performed one in Randal McMurphy. Lobotomies are a highly controversial medical procedure in which most of the brain's frontal lobe is removed; that is, the place where most of our personal characteristics lie is cut out. This procedure, now highly unpopular, received a lot of criticism during the second half of the twentieth century because it would cause severe side effects on its patients; however, it was commonly known for successfully dealing with behavioral and psychiatric issues in patients. The fact that a lobotomy is being planned for a black and that it was done on a "lunatic" shows just how margined these people are and how invisible they are to society. A doctor even says it in Invisible Man, "It would be very different if the patient were a white Harvard student", meaning the procedure would perhaps be a lot less invading and damaging if they were treating with a white, educated person that with a black, unidentified man. This is unacceptable; a lobotomy should not be performed on a black or on a lunatic just because they are dark-colored or crazy. Clearly, the intentions of putting these patients through the torture of a lobotomy goes beyond the desire to cure them; what doctors are basically doing is cutting away the brain tissue that makes them them, consequently modeling them into being more submissive and complaisant.

It is unlikely that Ralph Ellison and Ken Kesey agreed to make the same type of references and deliver a similar message in their novels; One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was published nearly thirty years after Invisible Man. Nonetheless, this pivotal coincidence allows readers to understand the meaning behind the novel's title, for example, by relating Invisible Man with Chief Brondem's experience. Themes are endless, but what is interesting is how the ways in which these themes are delivered are also sometimes equally timeless.

Racism; Has it Become a Black Predisposition?

Racism is an inevitable topic when dealing with segregated blacks; nevertheless, how much of it is their own fault? In Ralph Ellison's novel, "Invisible Man", the story of a young, ostracized black is told through his own resentful memories. The title of the novel resembles the narrator's behavior most pointedly; his indulgent nature makes him invisible to both whites and blacks. However, we meet another interesting character at the beginning of the novel, Dr. Bledsoe. The tension between Bledsoe and the narrator represents the effects of racism within blacks and their relationships; have they become predisposed to it?

The narrator is a complaisant black who, at the moment of the story which I am interested in discussing, had gotten into trouble for taking his school's director to an all-black bar.  The director had forgiven the narrator since it was him who had asked to be shown around that area. Nonetheless, Dr. Bledsoe, black himself, shows up and worsens the situation. Bledsoe asks to speak privately with the narrator and, were it not for the narrator's outrage, nearly abused him with a metal bar. They go on to having a heated argument and Bledsoe explodes with rage, questioning the narrator on what their race has come to.

What most struck me about their argument was Bledsoe's speech on his power over whites and blacks:

"I's big and black and I say 'Yes, suh' as loudly as any burrhead when its convenient, but I'm still the king down here. I don't care how much it appears otherwise." (Page 142)

First, his language. This is a scholar speaking, and he goes on to mocking his own self, his own race, with words such as "I's" and "Yes, suh". This implies Bledsoe's thoughts on his fellow blacks; uneducated, loud, illiterate... On the other hand, describing himself as "big and black" so openly nearly resembles a racist, white man's offensive description towards blacks. Additionally, his claiming to be the "king down here" displays his unconscious sense of inferiority. Finally, the fact that this is a black attempting to physically assault another black in a racist milieu shows how desperate Bledsoe is for feeling he has control over something. He says it himself, claiming to have control over white men and black men and showing them, for example, what he wants to show them. This is clearly a misconception Bledsoe has convinced himself of.

Bledsoe's violent behavior and self-insulting speech contrasts with the narrator's obliging character. The latter is an example of why racism continues; nothing is done against it. The first, however, is the archetype of why racism exists beyond white men themselves. I remember reading an article a long time ago in which the author claimed that blacks were also to blame for the endurance of racism, explaining how they purposefully act in rebellious ways and chose certain hazardous lifestyles simply out of grudge. Bledsoe shows signs of that; he mocks his own people and attempts to break the rules by setting up his own methods of punishment and control. Both behaviors should be equally condemned; on one hand nothing is being done and, on the other, nothing productive and beneficial at least. 

Ellison's message perhaps emphasizes the effects of being invisible, but I decided to look at the other side of invisibility too. It seems as if blacks had a grudge so large and dating so far back that they have become predisposed to racism, showing this by either failing to stand up against it or thinking of themselves as powerful in an almost white-racist-man sort of way when placed in a position of authority.

Hamlet's Procrastination

Reading the BBC article on procrastination made me realize what a phenomenon it is and how it might affect people more severely than I thought. I was not really personally concerned with what the author said, simply because I have never been a procrastinator; I avoid all the last-minute stress and excuses that go with it and so failing to comply with my work has never really been an issue.

What is interesting about the article, however, is how the author implies that Hamlet is a procrastinator. I happen to disagree with this. Yes, it is evident that the prince fails to comply with the Ghost's suggestion of killing Claudius as soon as possible, but murder is not something you just "decide" to do from one day to another. I believe that, rather than Hamlet procrastinating, his delay was simply because he had not really made up his mind about getting the job done in the first place.

Additionally, as the author emphasizes in her article, the concept of procrastination deals with failing to get a task done long before a deadline, or at least safe before it. The concept of procrastination itself exists because there are deadlines; if not, we would just call those people lazy or inactive. Hamlet did not have a deadline for killing his uncle. It was not even a task he had to get done. Murdering Claudius was basically an emotional craving for avenging his father's death. How could Hamlet procrastinate killing Claudius when it was not mandatory for him to do it and when he did not even have a deadline for it? The Ghost was not like, "You have 'till Tuesday afternoon to get the job done, son." No. He was more like, "Hey, he killed me, so why don't you go ahead and kill him?" If someone encouraged me to kill someone else, I wouldn't be like, "Ah, I'll just do it later...". No way, I'd be like, "WHAT THE HELL, should I do this or not?!". To Hamlet, it does not matter when he kills Claudius. What matters is if he does kill him. Procrastinating would mean that Hamlet had made up his mind about murdering his uncle from the very beginning but had just not taken the time to do it. Besides, when people procrastinate its because they would rather be doing something else. In Hamlet's case, what would he prefer doing instead? Sharing some quality time with his men-loving mother or listening to his assassin-uncle preach about managing his new kingdom? Neither, I believe.

Hamlet was not a procrastinator. We are, for not studying for that calculus test or for failing to complete our research papers on time. Hamlet was pondering whether to do or not that paper on the first place.

Imprisoned Hamlets

Hearing the podcast on the Hamlet play put together by prisoners touched me on a very personal level. I was amazed by how the prisoners managed to pull it off together, but I also felt overwhelmed with profound reflections beyond the facts discussed.

I was curious to hear what was so interesting about prisoners putting together a Hamlet play. Of course it requires certain skills, but there had to be more to it than mere applauses to a blossoming group of criminal actors. It was interesting to hear about the paradigms within prison and the social pressures the actors went through while auditioning, it even made me proud to hear that some prisoners had to work hard and make sacrifices in order to accomplish the best performance they could; at least they were not wandering around. 

However, what really grasped my attention was the question asked by the narrator nearly half-way through the podcast, which said something like "How would a Hamlet play, one about a character's indecisive behavior about committing a crime because of the consequences he might face, be perceived and performed by a group of convicts who are currently suffering from those consequences?". This, to me, was the most basic yet fascinating question about the scenario. 

I started listening very gingerly to the outcome of this question and, to my surprise, I started feeling slightly sorry for the prisoners. I mean, here they were, putting together a beautiful play while attempting to comprehend what Shakespeare tried to deliver through his lines, all within four enclosed walls. Once they dissolved the dialogues, not only did they understand the message but also they were the message; these men were the men who Hamlet would have turned into had it not been for Shakespeare's tragic ending. The character's lines touched these men on a whole different level, one we can not even hope to comprehend. The inmate playing the ghost even felt it was the man he had killed who talked to him through this ghost. That, though disturbing, is incredibly touching. On the prisoners' side, it shows that the men are aware of what they did and felt attached to it. On the play's side, it demonstrates how timeless Shakespeare is. Just like the narrator said, even though the scenario is not literally relatable to, the theme and the struggle of the different characters is fit for all in an ageless way. 

As I continued to listen, I started liking the prisoners. I would have even forgotten they were criminals had the narrator not constantly reminded us of it. I felt the same way the narrator did once he found out about the prisoner's records; betrayed, almost to a point of denial. How could they seem so human, how could I have laughed at their comments? They had killed a man, maybe two. And now I was feeling sorry for them. Sorry that they had to perform in jail, sorry that they could not get decent props, even sorry about them not being able to perform for a bigger audience or about them not having a longer after-party. All this simply because I had heard them talk about their intimate connection to a character which I had also read about and had felt no relation to. 

All this reminded me of an inner struggle I have suffered from in the last decade. My sister and I were victims of a terrorist attack from which we fortunately survived without a scratch but in which we could have just as well died. In recent months, the Colombian government has been carrying out peace dialogues with the FARC, the authors of the attack my sister and I, along with hundreds of other civilians, suffered from years ago. The dialogues have not yet reached a conclusion but it appears to be that, regardless of the verdict, the FARC will leave with amnesty and be allowed to freely re-integrate into society. That, to me, is unbearable. I know it is the only possible solution at the moment and I know it will end a war in which thousands of innocent people have died, but the thought of me shopping for groceries beside one of the men responsible for the explosion I survived from is simply unacceptable. This is because I have not been able to forgive them. Meanwhile, after listening to an hour-long podcast about criminals who act, I was able to feel pity for them and, in a way, accept them. I am incapable of feeling the same way towards FARC members. I am incapable of realizing that they are human and that they perhaps regret many of the things they have done, just like the actors in the podcast. 

Listening to the way in which the prisoners attempt to make something new out of their lives by acting and how they seem more human than what the news may portray them to be, I feel encouraged to find it in my heart to forgive and forget. Not that I approve of what any of these men did, or that I would like to sit down and have lunch with them. But I have reached a point where I at least acknowledge that they are human too and that they feel regret. Maybe some day I will be able to forgive, or at least restore humanity back to, the FARC too. 

J. Alfred Prufrock and Hamlet

"The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot, narrates the story of an overwhelmingly nostalgic man who dwells over making something out of his life but, at the end, is unable to make up his mind about it. Aside from directly comparing himself to Prince Hamlet, or rather comparing himself to what Prince Hamlet is not, Mr. Prufrock and Mr. Hamlet have a lot more in common than they are aware of.

On one side, Mr. Prufrock is, as previously stated, a sentimental man who suffers from a lack of self-confidence. He is submerged in a "hundred indecisions", questions himself about daring to "disturb the universe", and finally continually contemplates the possibility of acting but retracts himself from doing so; "In a minute there is time for decisions and recision which a minute will reverse" (Line 47). This proves Mr. Prufrock to be a man of contradicting thoughts, of need for self-assurance, and of great misery and struggle. His grief even becomes slightly funny, for it is simply ridiculous. Nevertheless, perhaps what is most worrying about Mr. Prufrock is not his annoying sadness but his incapability of actually doing something with his life instead of over-thinking everything over and over again.

An interesting thing about Prufrock, though, is the way in which he compares himself to Prince Hamlet. He says that he is not Prince Hamlet at all and goes on into explaining, rather, what he is. This includes being the prince's advisor, glad to be of use, cautious, unable to express himself eloquently, and, at times, "the Fool". This comparison has a lot more profoundness to it now than it did before reading Hamlet. However, I slightly disagree with the way in which Prufrock places Hamlet on a pedestal. Perhaps Prufrock does not know about it, but he and Hamlet are very much alike when it comes to their inability to act. 

Hamlet, although a prince, is actually a very indecisive guy who suffers, just like Prufrock, from lack of self-confidence and love. It takes Hamlet a whole play to make up his mind about avenging his father's murder and he becomes nearly mad when it came to Ophelia, his beloved crush. In most of Hamlet's soliloquies throughout the play, he shows signs of abysmal nostalgia and misery, to a point where the famous question is asked, "To be or not to be?". To act or not to act? To live or not to live? To disturb the universe or not to? This is something J. Alfred Prufrock would certainly ask himself, but unlike Hamlet, he would take this question as rhetorical and have "not to be" as an unquestionable answer. 

The only thing that saves Hamlet from falling into J. Alfred Prufrock's dark world is the fact that he was able to make up his mind at the end and acted, killing his father's murderer. He disturbed the universe in which he lived but was able to die with the satisfaction of having actually done something with his life. The struggle of not knowing what to do, whether to act or not, could potentially be a lot more suffocating than the act of doing something, whatever it is. If J. Alfred Prufrock found some inspiration, the way Hamlet did in Fortinbras' army, he could perhaps make up his mind about accomplishing something before time ran up. This would make him a lot less pathetic, for being forever indecisive is much more pitiful than failing in whatever you decide to do. 

One Side Stories; Guilty Victims

After listening to Chimamanda Adichie's ted talk on the dangers of one-sided stories, I find myself wavering between two discerning feelings. One one hand, I relate to what she is talking about and feel, as a Colombian, a victim of one-sided stories too. On the other, I feel ashamed for being much like Chimamanda's roommate in a lot of ways; I have a handful of predispositions towards the world because of one-sided stories I chose to blindly absorb.

First, I felt ecstatic. This woman was talking about something Colombians suffer from every single day: one-sided stories. Not only was she pointing out the ridiculousness of this, but also she was able to inspire her listeners to reflect upon the issue. The story of her roommate being incredulous at her fluent English repeated itself recently on my trip to Washington D.C during October Break. While riding a cab with some people I had met, I started singing to the song that was being played on the radio. A guy who was sitting next to me turned, surprised, and said, "Oh my God, how come you know the lyrics to this song?". I stared at him and replied, "Well, Colombians also listen to this type of music." He was bewildered at the fact that Colombians actually heard pop music, and additionally seemed a little confused that I could sing the song, which meant I knew, or could at least decipher, English. This comprehensibly opposed his one-sided story about Colombians being indigenous, ignorant, barbarian drug dealers.

Nonetheless, I have to admit that I too have been guilty for formulating one-sided stories. I am incredibly ashamed of accepting this but as I heard Chimamanda's talk I felt surprised by the fact that she, an African, could fluently speak in English. This is ironic, having in mind that I suffered from the same discrimination during my recent trip. But then I quickly wondered, why is it that people in Africa are only thought of as HIV infected natives?  Well, one-sided stories. The exact same reason why Colombians are though of as close-minded, uncultured terrorists.

Chimamanda not only inspired me to speak up for my country and against its one-sided prescribed reputation but also to have an open mind before taking any other stories in. People should have, as she emphasizes, a "balance" of stories before judging people, countries, or just anything around us. We need a balance of stories before we can understand anything that happens around us.

Kurtz's Omnipotence

Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad, idealizes a particular man named Kurtz only to have him die a few pages after he first comes into presence. Kurtz was a great man, indeed. His accomplishments and his vista were beyond the ordinary, but he did not strike me as a man who would go down in history. What was it of Kurtz that made people put him on a pedestal?

Charlie Marlow, the story's narrator, starts off by merely hearing rumors about Kurtz's greatness. This quickly grows into an obsession to the point where Marlow mourns even the idea of Kurtz dying before he is able to listen to him. Marlow's idealization of Kurtz convinced him that Kurtz was a man worth listening to, as if Kurtz were above Marlow and therefore incapable of interacting with him. 

To this point, the reader only knows that Kurtz is some kind of an innate leader who was able to establish a successful ivory business in the middle of a savage milieu. This, to me, did not make Kurtz a god-like man at all.

In Part III of the novel, however, we are able to see Kurtz for the first time. Beyond rumors, Kurtz really is an outspoken man. Although suffering from a lethal disease, Kurtz is still able to impress those around him. He seems like a leader, yet fails to correspond to the God he has been portrayed as by his servants. 

Unconvinced by Kurtz's apparently admirable traits, I was reassured by Marlow's similar reaction. Notwithstanding the fact that Marlow is loyal to Kurtz and to his unquestionable reputation, Marlow also ventures to conclude that Kurtz isn't so unbelievably great. When traveling with him back to Europe, and after a series of deep conversations, Marlow conclusively states that Kurtz has a childish side to himself. More specifically, a "contemptibly childish" side to himself. This he noticed after getting to know Kurtz's vista's on a more intimate level and realizing that most of these were remarkably foolish. Nevertheless, this could also be the personification of what the doctor had foreshadowed in Part I of the novel; the changes that occur inside the men's head once they leave off to colonize.

Kurtz died, as does every other memorable hero, and I still failed to recognize him as an overly admirable man. What was it about him that seized the rest of the men? Was it his ability to speak up? Was it his skill of alleging possessions? Was it his perseverance? All these seem like very common human traits to me, but why was he idealized then?

I have come to believe than men at the time were far less innovating and independent than they are now, which would explain Kurtz's reputation to some extent. This is not convincing though. Does it have to do with the wilderness' darkness? Did Kurtz have a darkness of his own that would struck other men as threateningly admirable? I believe the answer to Kurtz's real magnificence cannot be answered until we grasp the underlying meaning of his surroundings. Was his omnipotence the omnipotence of the jungle that enveloped him?