Hooks: A Short Story

In analyzing both essays, Eating the Other: Desire and Resistance by Bell Hooks and There Is No Unmarked Woman by Deborah Tannen the authors address societal problems that highlight and emphasize the differences that certain groups in society must face and overcome, although the targets in both of the examples of societal dilemma between the two are very different, they both accurately represent how unjust the modern social structure is.

In her essay entitled Teaching the New Worlds/ New Words, bell hooks focuses on exploring and illuminating the close link between language and oppression from a feminist perspective. Recording that language is a self-imposing kaleidoscope of productive challenges and assistances that is impossible to bond or repress; she suggests that trying to circumscribe, it according to their interest is precisely what oppressors do with it. Hooks adresses African-Americans’ relationship to the Standard English as a reality more than a mere case study, and illuminating that how their native language, their most immense mean of bonding to each other had been taken away from them and

Alice could feel her pulse pounding in her temples. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her stomach as she constantly fiddled with her knuckles. She walked down the street yelling as her eyes were narrowed to rigid, cold fire. Alice felt surrounded as they threw rocks and spit on her. She lead a protest for women’s rights that caught the attention of many reporters. “ Women need rights, just like men!” They yelled over and over. A police officer ran over to them and told them to stop and threatened them if they did not stop. As they shackled her, the sadness flowed through her veins and deadened her mind. It was a poison to her spirit, as if a black mist had settled upon her and refused to shift. She felt defeated.

“It was December and the weather bitterly cold. She was a tiny mite, the size of five years, though, as afterward appeared, she was then nine. From a pan set upon a low stool she stood washing dishes, struggling with a frying pan about as heavy as herself. Across the table lay a brutal whip of twisted leather strands and the child's meagre arms and legs bore many marks of its use. But the saddest part of her story was written on her face in its look of suppression and misery, the face of a child unloved, of a child that had seen only the fearsome side of life. These things I saw while seeming not to see, and I left without speaking to, or of, the child. I never

frightened and wants her lover to take her home. At first he refuses, however after he tries to kiss her and she pushes him away he agrees begrudgingly to take her home. It is only after she gets out of the car that she sees the hook of the murderer gouged into the door. It is suggested that this rumour was created to warn young adults away from acts of sex before marriage. The story while at first spread by means of oral communication, gained infamy when a column writer in a local newspaper wrote an article describing the incident as an event that happened to a friend of a friend (Winick, 2009). To this day the urban legend of The Hook is a well-known legend, which is still told, though in our current society this is spread more as a means

First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to great ambition, but slowly and enduringly surged a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought diminished, began to grow, soon defeating the title and its rewards. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I succumbed to the incessant and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the blood. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.

The speaker, Bell Hooks starts off “By writing the autobiography, it was not just this Gloria I would be rid of, but the past that had a hold on me, that kept me from the present. I wanted not to forget the past but to break its hold” (80). It’s understandable that the audience can assume that it’s going to be about her struggling to break her past so she’s able to live in the now. However, the further the audience reads the passage, it explains about discrimination and the segregation community between the whites and blacks than her struggling to break her past. “Autobiographical writing was a way for me to evoke the particular experience of growing up southern and black segregated communities” (84) representing that Hooks is trying to break

First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to great ambition, but slowly and enduringly surged a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought diminished, began to grow, soon defeating the title and its rewards. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I succumbed to the incessant and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the blood. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.

She struggled out of her restless sleep. Rolling on the ground she found herself trying to break free from the grasp of hate. On the cusp of barbarity, she finally woke. She rubbed her eyes awake and sat vigilant, isolated by her own thoughts. Iron bars, circling her cage, tainted the lively fragrance of spring.

In Hook’s essay titled “Keeping Close to Home” she uses many of her own personal experiences to transition into analyzing society. A few personal experiences of Hook’s that caught my attention were how she discussed the barriers that were created by economic class differences between students. Coming from a working class family , when she attended college she felt a sense of inferiority to the other students. This inferiority made it difficult for her to discuss her financial situations or home life with any of her peers. Hook stated “I talked to no one about the sources of my shame, how it hurts to witness the contempt shown to the brown-skinned Filipina maids who cleaned our rooms, or later my concern about the $100 a month I paid for

Blood dripped from my knife as I grasped the leather wrapped handle, my hand seemingly frozen. I couldn't bring myself to move my arm or look away. "Did I do this? What have I done? Who am I?" Paralyzed as the crimson liquid built up at the tip of the bright blade, then fell, as if in slow motion. I was snapped from my trance as the glimmering droplet spattered on the dry, hard, dirt. "Who are you. The girl you used to be wouldn't be so heartless." Quickly I snatched up the hem of my tattered, brown cloak. Urgently wiping away the blood, as if that could wipe away the pain, the thoughts, the memories.... "That's not who you are know! She was weak and valuable." I quickly turned and walked swiftly

His aorta was hanging down from his chest, from where his heart was, like a long, thick, sallow hollow tube, cut loose and swinging to and fro inside his belly, like a pendulum. I saw it with my own eyes, but I did not want to believe it—how could one submit to such a repulsive act? It was not important who he was or how unlucky he was to be the one in the midst of this chaos, they just wanted his money. I did not see who actually cut this man open, but the mob sure made it their priority to search him for every treasure on his body: a watch, a ring, money, anything greed desires, yet there were only bandages lying under his carcass. I must have missed the scurrying of the shoeless damsels and brutes wandering around aimlessly, almost like a well, oiled machine, around and about the great square, ultimately running to torture this man. We called them Runners, running around uncontrollably like all the muscles in their body’s contract and restrict involuntarily forcing them to push forward no matter

There are times that I find myself on the floor, struggling to get up and to have the energy to walk to get some water. It starts with the yellow spots, and simultaneously getting the fuzzy feeling in my head. I start to fall, or sometimes I just hit the floor right away, and it feels so horrible. I always try to make sure that I don't hit my head or injure myself in any way, but at times I happen to fall hit my head on a table or a chair, or something that's in my way. Most times I don't even know what I've clashed into until I'm able to see past the yellow spots. I start shaking and twitching. I can't feel every part of my body though. It always hurts too much to even feel my body.

“Maria Isabel, a 15-year-old student who worked in a shop, was raped and tortured; her body was found in a bag, tied with barbed wire, her face disfigured and her nails torn out.” (Prieto-Carron, Thomson, and Macdonald, p.25)

I was caught on a snare , I was flipping out . I was trapped and couldn't move but then the human that has been taking care of me tried to help me from my hurt swollen foot from the snare I tried with all my might to break it off. I was hurt bad as I cried out. These two people came and this girl freed me from the snare as I dropped onto the man's chest as I wanted to be held then he dropped me.. . My foot is really swollen and hurts. The two people that freed me dragged me along. I thought they were going to be nice, but i was wrong. I gripped and scratched the ground while screeching. Why was sophie just standing there? She wasn’t helping me! Then, i saw her climb down from the tree and follow us.