Genres of Literature

Name:

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Narrative Non-Fiction

In fiction, such as myths and short stories, the subject matter is imaginary. In nonfiction, the subject matter is factual. The writer of nonfiction writes about actual people, places, and things.

The writer can try to report facts with as few personal opinions as possible. Or, the writer can present his or her personal opinions about some facts. Often, nonfiction writing falls somewhere between these two approaches. It is impossible to leave out opinions altogether. After all, the writer must begin by deciding which facts to include. These decisions are opinions. A careful reader must keep this in mind when reading nonfiction.

As long as writing has existed, nonfiction has existed. The kinds of nonfiction, though, have changed and developed over the years.

The first biographies, for example, were written to glorify heroes as leaders. These accounts told only the subject's good acts. By the 1800's, however, biographers were beginning to include the subject's weaknesses, also. The first great modern biography was by James Boswell, an English writer. He wrote The Life of Johnson about his friend Samuel Johnson, writer of one of the earliest English dictionaries.

Modern biographies try to be true to the subject's personality and history. They usually are researched carefully and try to be objective.

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Separating Fact From Fiction1. As you read, try to separate facts from opinions. Keep in mind that the writer has chosen facts that present a certain picture of the subject. Think about what might be missing as well as what is there.2. Think about the writer's purpose. What is he or she trying to explain? Or is the writer trying to win you over to his or her opinion of an action or a person? You can appreciate how well a writer says something, even when you don't agree. In fact, this ability is an important quality of a critical reader.3. Be aware of the writer's tone. Frequently a writer reveals much about himself or herself by the tone he or she uses. This is especially important in autobiographical writing.

Read the case details of George Stinney.http://murderpedia.org/male.S/s/stinney-george.htm

What are the facts?

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Names:

Wrongfully Executed at 14?Interactive Reading Guide

1. Work Together. Make Connections: think about what you already know about the death penalty. Create a knowledge ladder by using each letter of “death penalty” to complete a word or phrase that has a meaningful connection to the death penalty.

DEATHPENALTY

2. This article is called “Wrongfully Executed at 14?”. Work Together to make inferences as to what this article is going to be about. Look at the punctuation of the title. What could that be telling us?

3. Both partners should read the first paragraph on page 73. Determine Importance by deciding what the author’s purpose is for writing this article. What does the author want readers to know or do?

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4. Creating Mental Images : The second paragraph is written to help you imagine how his family feels today. Partner A should read the paragraph out loud while Partner B tries to visualize George’s family.

The author uses strong words like justice and coerced. Explain how these (and other) word choices help shape your visualization.

5. Partner B should read the third paragraph (pages 73-74) out loud. Partner A should listen to decide what a person should know from this paragraph. Share what you were thinking. Both Partners should Determine Importance by writing two things a reader should learn from this paragraph.

6. The fourth paragraph starts with the statement: “In Stinney circles, a different portrait emerges.” Both Partners should infer what the author was trying to accomplish with this statement.The rest of the paragraph describes several cause and effect relationships that involve this case. Both partners should read this paragraph silently. Work together to list three cause and effect relationships described in paragraph 4.

CAUSE EFFECT

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Both partners should write down two questions you have about this case that haven’t already been answered by the author.

7. Both partners read paragraph 5 (pages 74-75). Make Connections by determining how this article might have been different in 1944 after the murder took place?

8. Partner A read paragraph 6 out loud. Partner B listen for clues for what the word allegedly might mean. Both Partners should make inferences together. Write what you think allegedly means.

9. Partner B read paragraph 7 out loud. Partner A should listen for clues that the death penalty was wrongly used. Both Partners should work together to explain how this paragraph proves that the death penalty may have been wrongly used.

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10. Both Partners read the last paragraph silently. Write what you think will happen next in this case and use specific evidence to support your prediction.

I think that… Because…

Conflicting Information

1. Where did these two texts present differing information?

2. What is the difference between fact and interpretation?

3. Which source is more credible?

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4. Which type of source do you learn best from?

5. Did People magazine use strictly fact or opinion?

6. Is the reasoning that People Magazine used sound? Why/why not?

7. Was the evidence relevant?

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Essays

An essay is a piece of writing that analyzes and evaluates a topic or issue.  Fundamentally, an essay is designed to get your academic opinion on a particular matter.

Many students get confused about the word 'opinion' in academic

writing, and think that academic writing should just stick to reporting the facts and forget about opinion altogether.  However, there are important differences between an academic opinion and a personal opinion, and it's important to grasp these when you're putting together an essay.

Academic opinion OR argument, stance, position, thesis, claim

Personal opinion

Determined by:

Conducting research, examining evidence, even-handedly considering issues

Gut feelings, personal experiences, own worldview

Characterized by:

Objectivity - guided by logic and rational thinking

Subjectivity - guided by emotions, personal experiences and individual character

Is it defendable?

Yes - you can defend or support an academic argument by citing credible evidence and laying out a reasoned argument

Hmmm, it's hard to say that one person's 'gut feeling' or worldview is any more valid than another's, so personal opinions are very hard to defend and validate objectively

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A Modest ProposalFor Preventing The Children of Poor People in Ireland From Being Aburden to Their Parents or Country,

and For Making Them Beneficial to The PublicBy Jonathan Swift (1729)

It is a melancholy object to those who walk through this great town or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads, and cabin doors, crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags and importuning every passenger for an alms. These mothers, instead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in strolling to beg sustenance for their helpless infants: who as they grow up either turn thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native country to fight for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.

I think it is agreed by all parties that this prodigious number of children in the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels of their mothers, and frequently of their fathers, is in the present deplorable state of the kingdom a very great additional grievance; and, therefore, whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and easy method of making these children sound, useful members of the commonwealth, would deserve so well of the public as to have his statue set up for a preserver of the nation.

But my intention is very far from being confined to provide only for the children of professed beggars; it is of a much greater extent, and shall take in the whole number of infants at a certain age who are born of parents in effect as little able to support them as those who demand our charity in the streets.

”I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled ...”

As to my own part, having turned my thoughts for many years upon this important subject, and maturely weighed the several schemes of other projectors, I have always found them grossly mistaken in the computation. It is true, a child just dropped from its dam may be supported by her milk for a solar year, with little other nourishment; at most not above the value of 2s., which the mother may certainly get, or the value in scraps, by her lawful occupation of begging; and it is exactly at one year old that I propose to provide for them in such a manner as instead of being a charge upon their parents or the parish, or wanting food and raiment for the rest of their lives, they shall on the contrary contribute to the feeding, and partly to the clothing, of many thousands.

There is likewise another great advantage in my scheme, that it will prevent those voluntary abortions, and that horrid practice of women murdering their bastard children, alas! too frequent among us! sacrificing the poor innocent babes I doubt more to avoid the expense than the shame, which would move tears and pity in the most savage and inhuman breast.

The number of souls in this kingdom being usually reckoned one million and a half, of these I calculate there may be about two hundred thousand couple whose wives are breeders; from which number I subtract thirty thousand couples who are able to maintain their own children, although I apprehend there cannot be so many, under the present distresses of the kingdom; but this being granted, there will remain an hundred and seventy thousand breeders. I again subtract fifty thousand for those women who miscarry, or whose children die by accident or disease within the year. There only remains one hundred and twenty thousand children of

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poor parents annually born. The question therefore is, how this number shall be reared and provided for, which, as I have already said, under the present situation of affairs, is utterly impossible by all the methods hitherto proposed. For we can neither employ them in handicraft or agriculture; we neither build houses (I mean in the country) nor cultivate land: they can very seldom pick up a livelihood by stealing, till they arrive at six years old, except where they are of towardly parts, although I confess they learn the rudiments much earlier, during which time, they can however be properly looked upon only as probationers, as I have been informed by a principal gentleman in the county of Cavan, who protested to me that he never knew above one or two instances under the age of six, even in a part of the kingdom so renowned for the quickest proficiency in that art.

I am assured by our merchants, that a boy or a girl before twelve years old is no salable commodity; and even when they come to this age they will not yield above three pounds, or three pounds and half-a-crown at most on the exchange; which cannot turn to account either to the parents or kingdom, the charge of nutriment and rags having been at least four times that value.

I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least objection.

I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout.

I do therefore humbly offer it to public consideration that of the hundred and twenty thousand children already computed, twenty thousand may be reserved for breed, whereof only one-fourth part to be males; which is more than we allow to sheep, black cattle or swine; and my reason is, that these children are seldom the fruits of marriage, a circumstance not much regarded by our savages, therefore one male will be sufficient to serve four females. That the remaining hundred thousand may, at a year old, be offered in the sale to the persons of quality and fortune through the kingdom; always advising the mother to let them suck plentifully in the last month, so as to render them plump and fat for a good table. A child will make two dishes at an entertainment for friends; and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter.

I have reckoned upon a medium that a child just born will weigh 12 pounds, and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, increaseth to 28 pounds.

I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children.

Infant's flesh will be in season throughout the year, but more plentiful in March, and a little before and after; for we are told by a grave author, an eminent French physician, that fish being a prolific diet, there are more children born in Roman Catholic countries about nine months after Lent than at any other season; therefore, reckoning a year after Lent, the markets will be more glutted than usual, because the number of popish infants is at least three to one in this kingdom: and therefore it will have one other collateral advantage, by lessening the number of papists among us.

I have already computed the charge of nursing a beggar's child (in which list I reckon all cottagers, laborers, and four-fifths of the farmers) to be about two shillings per annum, rags included; and I believe no gentleman would repine to give ten shillings for the carcass of a good fat child, which, as I have said, will make four dishes of excellent nutritive meat, when he hath only some particular friend or his own family to dine with him. Thus

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the squire will learn to be a good landlord, and grow popular among his tenants; the mother will have eight shillings net profit, and be fit for work till she produces another child.

Those who are more thrifty (as I must confess the times require) may flay the carcass; the skin of which artificially dressed will make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer boots for fine gentlemen.

As to our city of Dublin, shambles may be appointed for this purpose in the most convenient parts of it, and butchers we may be assured will not be wanting; although I rather recommend buying the children alive, and dressing them hot from the knife, as we do roasting pigs.

A very worthy person, a true lover of his country, and whose virtues I highly esteem, was lately pleased in discoursing on this matter to offer a refinement upon my scheme. He said that many gentlemen of this kingdom, having of late destroyed their deer, he conceived that the want of venison might be well supplied by the bodies of young lads and maidens, not exceeding fourteen years of age nor under twelve; so great a number of both sexes in every country being now ready to starve for want of work and service; and these to be disposed of by their parents, if alive, or otherwise by their nearest relations. But with due deference to so excellent a friend and so deserving a patriot, I cannot be altogether in his sentiments; for as to the males, my American acquaintance assured me, from frequent experience, that their flesh was generally tough and lean, like that of our schoolboys by continual exercise, and their taste disagreeable; and to fatten them would not answer the charge. Then as to the females, it would, I think, with humble submission be a loss to the public, because they soon would become breeders themselves; and besides, it is not improbable that some scrupulous people might be apt to censure such a practice (although indeed very unjustly), as a little bordering upon cruelty; which, I confess, hath always been with me the strongest objection against any project, however so well intended.

But in order to justify my friend, he confessed that this expedient was put into his head by the famous Psalmanazar, a native of the island Formosa, who came from thence to London above twenty years ago, and in conversation told my friend, that in his country when any young person happened to be put to death, the executioner sold the carcass to persons of quality as a prime dainty; and that in his time the body of a plump girl of fifteen, who was crucified for an attempt to poison the emperor, was sold to his imperial majesty's prime minister of state, and other great mandarins of the court, in joints from the gibbet, at four hundred crowns. Neither indeed can I deny, that if the same use were made of several plump young girls in this town, who without one single groat to their fortunes cannot stir abroad without a chair, and appear at playhouse and assemblies in foreign fineries which they never will pay for, the kingdom would not be the worse.

Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern about that vast number of poor people, who are aged, diseased, or maimed, and I have been desired to employ my thoughts what course may be taken to ease the nation of so grievous an encumbrance. But I am not in the least pain upon that matter, because it is very well known that they are every day dying and rotting by cold and famine, and filth and vermin, as fast as can be reasonably expected. And as to the young laborers, they are now in as hopeful a condition; they cannot get work, and consequently pine away for want of nourishment, to a degree that if at any time they are accidentally hired to common labor, they have not strength to perform it; and thus the country and themselves are happily delivered from the evils to come.

I have too long digressed, and therefore shall return to my subject. I think the advantages by the proposal which I have made are obvious and many, as well as of the highest importance.

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For first, as I have already observed, it would greatly lessen the number of papists, with whom we are yearly overrun, being the principal breeders of the nation as well as our most dangerous enemies; and who stay at home on purpose with a design to deliver the kingdom to the Pretender, hoping to take their advantage by the absence of so many good protestants, who have chosen rather to leave their country than stay at home and pay tithes against their conscience to an episcopal curate.

Secondly, The poorer tenants will have something valuable of their own, which by law may be made liable to distress and help to pay their landlord's rent, their corn and cattle being already seized, and money a thing unknown.

Thirdly, Whereas the maintenance of an hundred thousand children, from two years old and upward, cannot be computed at less than ten shillings a-piece per annum, the nation's stock will be thereby increased fifty thousand pounds per annum, beside the profit of a new dish introduced to the tables of all gentlemen of fortune in the kingdom who have any refinement in taste. And the money will circulate among ourselves, the goods being entirely of our own growth and manufacture.

Fourthly, The constant breeders, beside the gain of eight shillings sterling per annum by the sale of their children, will be rid of the charge of maintaining them after the first year.

Fifthly, This food would likewise bring great custom to taverns; where the vintners will certainly be so prudent as to procure the best receipts for dressing it to perfection, and consequently have their houses frequented by all the fine gentlemen, who justly value themselves upon their knowledge in good eating: and a skilful cook, who understands how to oblige his guests, will contrive to make it as expensive as they please.

Sixthly, This would be a great inducement to marriage, which all wise nations have either encouraged by rewards or enforced by laws and penalties. It would increase the care and tenderness of mothers toward their children, when they were sure of a settlement for life to the poor babes, provided in some sort by the public, to their annual profit instead of expense. We should see an honest emulation among the married women, which of them could bring the fattest child to the market. Men would become as fond of their wives during the time of their pregnancy as they are now of their mares in foal, their cows in calf, their sows when they are ready to farrow; nor offer to beat or kick them (as is too frequent a practice) for fear of a miscarriage.

Many other advantages might be enumerated. For instance, the addition of some thousand carcasses in our exportation of barreled beef, the propagation of swine's flesh, and improvement in the art of making good bacon, so much wanted among us by the great destruction of pigs, too frequent at our tables; which are no way comparable in taste or magnificence to a well-grown, fat, yearling child, which roasted whole will make a considerable figure at a lord mayor's feast or any other public entertainment. But this and many others I omit, being studious of brevity.

Supposing that one thousand families in this city, would be constant customers for infants flesh, besides others who might have it at merry meetings, particularly at weddings and christenings, I compute that Dublin would take off annually about twenty thousand carcasses; and the rest of the kingdom (where probably they will be sold somewhat cheaper) the remaining eighty thousand.

I can think of no one objection, that will possibly be raised against this proposal, unless it should be urged, that the number of people will be thereby much lessened in the kingdom. This I freely own, and 'twas indeed one principal design in offering it to the world. I desire the reader will observe, that I calculate my remedy for this one individual Kingdom of Ireland, and for no other that ever was, is, or, I think, ever can be upon Earth. Therefore let no man talk to me of other expedients: Of taxing our absentees at five shillings a pound: Of using

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neither cloaths, nor houshold furniture, except what is of our own growth and manufacture: Of utterly rejecting the materials and instruments that promote foreign luxury: Of curing the expensiveness of pride, vanity, idleness, and gaming in our women: Of introducing a vein of parsimony, prudence and temperance: Of learning to love our country, wherein we differ even from Laplanders, and the inhabitants of Topinamboo: Of quitting our animosities and factions, nor acting any longer like the Jews, who were murdering one another at the very moment their city was taken: Of being a little cautious not to sell our country and consciences for nothing: Of teaching landlords to have at least one degree of mercy towards their tenants. Lastly, of putting a spirit of honesty, industry, and skill into our shop-keepers, who, if a resolution could now be taken to buy only our native goods, would immediately unite to cheat and exact upon us in the price, the measure, and the goodness, nor could ever yet be brought to make one fair proposal of just dealing, though often and earnestly invited to it.

Therefore I repeat, let no man talk to me of these and the like expedients, 'till he hath at least some glympse of hope, that there will ever be some hearty and sincere attempt to put them into practice.

But, as to my self, having been wearied out for many years with offering vain, idle, visionary thoughts, and at length utterly despairing of success, I fortunately fell upon this proposal, which, as it is wholly new, so it hath something solid and real, of no expence and little trouble, full in our own power, and whereby we can incur no danger in disobliging England. For this kind of commodity will not bear exportation, and flesh being of too tender a consistence, to admit a long continuance in salt, although perhaps I could name a country, which would be glad to eat up our whole nation without it.

After all, I am not so violently bent upon my own opinion as to reject any offer proposed by wise men, which shall be found equally innocent, cheap, easy, and effectual. But before something of that kind shall be advanced in contradiction to my scheme, and offering a better, I desire the author or authors will be pleased maturely to consider two points. First, as things now stand, how they will be able to find food and raiment for an hundred thousand useless mouths and backs. And secondly, there being a round million of creatures in human figure throughout this kingdom, whose whole subsistence put into a common stock would leave them in debt two millions of pounds sterling, adding those who are beggars by profession to the bulk of farmers, cottagers, and laborers, with their wives and children who are beggars in effect: I desire those politicians who dislike my overture, and may perhaps be so bold as to attempt an answer, that they will first ask the parents of these mortals, whether they would not at this day think it a great happiness to have been sold for food, at a year old in the manner I prescribe, and thereby have avoided such a perpetual scene of misfortunes as they have since gone through by the oppression of landlords, the impossibility of paying rent without money or trade, the want of common sustenance, with neither house nor clothes to cover them from the inclemencies of the weather, and the most inevitable prospect of entailing the like or greater miseries upon their breed for ever.

I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least personal interest in endeavoring to promote this necessary work, having no other motive than the public good of my country, by advancing our trade, providing for infants, relieving the poor, and giving some pleasure to the rich. I have no children by which I can propose to get a single penny; the youngest being nine years old, and my wife past child-bearing.

The End

A Modest Proposal Questions18

Questions:1. What type of opinion was A Modest Proposal?

2. What was the author’s purpose?

3. What could you infer about the author from reading this?

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SpeechesThe power of speaking ability to express one’s thoughts and emotions by

speech, sounds, and gesture.

After listening to Martin Luther King, Jr.’s famous I Have a Dream speech, respond to the following questions:

1. What is the impact of this speech?

2. How does MLK reference the song My Country ‘Tis of Thee?

Your Task: Take the “I Have a Dream” speech and create your own Found Poem that represents what the speech means to you.

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HumorHumor in writing has two definitions:

1. Something that is funny.

2. Something that has a happy ending.

Traditionally, humor or comedy was seen as something that had a

happy ending. Many of Shakespeare’s plays are comedies, but

they’re not really that funny. A comedy was something that ended

happily. A tragedy is something that ends sadly.

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A BREIF MOMENT IN THE LIFE OF ANGUS BETHUNE By Chris Crutcher

 

Sometimes, when I stand back and take a good look, I think my parents are Ambassador from Hell. Two of them, at least; the biological ones; the big ones.

Four parents are what I have all together, not unlike a whole lot of other kids. But quite unlike a whole lot of other kids, there ain’t a hetero among ‘em. My dad’s divorce and remarried and my mom’s divorced and remarried, so my mathematical account of my family suggests simply another confused teenager from a broken home. But my dads aren’t married to my moms. They’re married to each other. Same with my moms.

1) Who are Angus' parents?

2) How do you think this affects him?

However, that’s not the principle reason I sometimes see my so-called “real” parents as emissaries from Way Down Under. As a matter of fact, that frightening little off-season trade took place prior to-though not much prior to-my birth, so until I began collecting expert feedback from friends at school, somewhere along about fourth grade, I perceived my situation as relatively normal.

No, what really hacks me off is that they didn’t conceive me in some high-tech fashion that would have allowed them to dip into an alternative gene pool for my physical goodies. See, when people the size of my parents decide to reproduce, they usually dig a pit and crawl down in there together for several days. Really, I’m surprised someone in this family doesn’t have a trunk. Or a blowhole. I swear my gestation period was three years and seven months.

3) What does Angus compare his parents to?

You don’t survive a genetic history like that unscathed. While farsighted parents of other infants my age were pre-enrolling their kids four years ahead into elite preschools, my dad was hounding the World Professional Wrestling Association to hold a spot for me sometime in the early nineteen nineties. I mean, mom had to go to the husky section of Safeway to buy me Pampers.

I’m a big kid.

4) How does Angus perceive himself?

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And they named me Angus. God, a name like Angus Bethune would tumble Robert Redford from a nine-and-a-half to a four, and I ain’t no Robert Redford.

“Angus is a cow,” I complained to my stepmother, Bella, the day in the first grade I came home from school early for punching the bearer of that sad information in the stomach.

“Your mother must have had a good reason for naming you that,” she said.

“For naming me after a cow?”

“You can’t go around punching everyone who says that to you,” she warned.

“Yes I can,” I said.

“Angus is a cow,” I said to my mother when she got home from her job at Westhead Trucking firm. “You guys named me after a cow.”

“Your father’s uncle was named Angus,” she said stripping off her outer shirt with a loud sigh, then plopping into her easy chair with a beer, wearing nothing but her bra; a bra, I might add, that could well have floated an ejected fighter pilot to safety.

“So my father’s uncle was named after a cow too,” I said. “What did he think of that?”

“Actually,” Mom said, “I think he was kind of proud. Angus was a farmer, you know.”

“Jesus help me,” I said, and went to my room.

5) How does Angus feel about his name?

6) What does his name mean?

7) Why was he named Angus?

8) Why are names important?

As Angus, that Fat Kid with Perverted Parents, I’ve had my share of adjustment problems, though it isn’t as bad as it sounds. My parent’s gene pool wasn’t a total sump. Dad’s family has all kinds of high-school shot-put record holders and hammer throwers and even a gridiron hero or two, and my mom’s sister almost made it to the Olympic trails in speed-skating, so I was handed a fair-sized cache of athletic ability. I am incredibly quick for a fat kid and I have world-class reflexes. It is nearly impossible for the defensive lineman across from me to shake me, such are my anticipatory skills, and when I’m on defense, I need only to lock in on a running back’s hips to zero in on the tackle. I cannot be shaken free. Plus, you don’t have to dig too deep in our ancestoral remains to find an IQ safely into three digits, so grades come pretty easy to me. But I’d sure be willing to go into the winter trade meetings and swap reflexes, biceps, and brain cells, lock, stock, and barrel,

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for a little physical beauty.

Which brings me to tonight. I don’t’ want you to think I spend all my life bitching about being short-changed in the Tom Cruise department, or about having parents a shade to the left of middle on your normal bell-shaped sexual curve, but tonight is a big night and I don’t want the blubbery boogeyman or the phantoms of sexual perversity, who usually pop up to point me out for public mockery, mucking it up for me. I want normal. I want socially acceptable. See, I was elected Senior Winter Ball King, which means for about one minute I’ll be featured gliding across the floor beneath the crimson and gold crepe paper streamers at Lake Michigan High School with Melissa Lefevre, the girl of my dreams-and only my dreams-who was elected Senior Winter Ball Queen. For that minute we’ll be out there alone.

Alone with Melissa Lefevre.

Now, I don’t want to go into the tomfoolery that must have gone on behind the scenes to get me elected to such a highly regarded post, because to tell you the truth I can’t even imagine. I mean, it’s a joke, I know that. I just don’t know whose. It’s a hell of a good one, though, because someone had to coax a plurality of more then five hundred seniors to forgo casting their ballots for any of a number of bona fide Adonises to write in the name of a cow. At first I tried to turn it down, but Grandad let me know right quick I’d draw a lot more attention if I made a fuss than if I acted as if I were the logical choice-indeed, the only choice-and went right alone. Grandad is the man who taught me how to be a dignified fat kid. “Always remember these words, and live by ‘em,” he said after my third suspension from kindergarten for fighting. “Screw ‘em.” Anybody doesn’t like the way you look, screw ‘em.”

9) Do you agree with this last sentence? Why or why not?

And that’s just what I’ve done, because my grandfather-on my dad’s side-is one righteous dude, and as smart as they come in an extra-large wide body sport coat. Sometimes I’ve screwed ‘em by punching them in the nose, and sometimes by walking away. And sometimes by joining them-you know, laughing at myself. That’s the one that works best. But when my temper is quick, it likes to speak first, and often as not someone’s lying on the floor in a pool of nose fluids before I remember what a hoot it is to have the names of my mother and father dragged through the mud or my body compared to the Michelin tire man.

10) Draw Angus.

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So you see, slowly but surely I’m getting all this under control. I don’t mind that my detractors-who are legion-will wonder aloud tonight whether it is Melissa or I who is the Winter Ball Queen, a playful reference to my folks’ quirky preferences, and I don’t mind that I’ll likely hear, “Why do they just swim up on the beach like that?” at least three times. What I mind is that during those few seconds when Melissa and I have the floor to ourselves, all those kids, friend and foe, will be watching me dance. Now, I’ve chronicled the majority of my maladies there, but none remotely approaches my altogether bankrupt sense of rhythm. When it comes to clapping his hands or stomping his feet to the beat, Angus Bethune is completely, absolutely, and most of all irreversibly, brain dead.

I’ve known about the dance for three weeks now; I even know the name of the song, though I don’t recognize it and I went out and spent hard-earned money on dance lessons; dance lessons that sent not one, but two petite, anorexic-looking rookie Arthur Murray girls off sharpening their typing skills to apply at Kelly Services. Those girls had some sore pods.

I’ve been planning for Melissa Lefevre for a long time. I fell in love with here in kindergarten when she dared a kid named Alex Immergluck to stick his tongue on a car bumper in minus thirty-five degree weather for calling her a “big fat snot-nosed deadbeat,” a term I’m now sure was diagnostic of his homelife, but which at the time served only to call up Melissa’s anger and indignation. Being a fat kid, I was interested in all the creative retaliatory methods I could get to store in the old computer for later use, and when I saw the patch of Alex’s tongue stuck tight to the bumper as he screamed down the street holding his bleeding mouth, I knew I was in the company of genius. And such lovely genius it was. God, from kindergarten on, Melissa was that tan, sinewy-legged blond girl with the brown eyes that just make you ache. You ache a lot more when you’re a fat kid, though, because you know she was only put on earth, out of your reach, to make you feel bad. You have no business trying to touch her.

11) Why do you think Angus is “in love” with Melissa? Do you think he has a chance? Why or why not?

But at the same time my grandfather-a hugh silver-haired rolls-Royce of a grandfather-kept telling me over and over I could have any damn thing I wanted. He told me that down under that sleeping bag of globules I wore under my skin the heart of a lion and the body of Jack LaLanne. In fact, in the fifth grade, Grandad took me down to San Francisco on Jack’s sixty-fifty birthday to let me watch him swim to Alcatraz with his hands cuffed behind him, towing a boat on the line with his teeth. He did it, he really did. He still does.

12) Why is swimming to Alcatraz with hands cuffed symbolic?

25

Grandad also took me to San Francisco to see some gay people, but we went to a place called Polk Street and it didn’t help much. I mean, my parents are working folks who are with only the person they’re with, and Polk Street was filled with people looking like they were headed for Tandy-leather swap meet. Maybe it helped, though. At least my parents looked more normal to me, although my mother could pass for Bruiser of the Week about fifty-two times in any given year, so “normal” is a relative term.

The bottom line, though, no matter how my grandfather tired to convince me otherwise, was that Melissa Lefevre would remain a Fig Newton of my imagination throughout my school years, and not matter how hard Grandad primed me, I would never have the opportunity for any conversation with Melissa other than one in my head. Until tonight. Tonight I’ll have to talk to her. If I don’t she’ll have only my dancing to remember me, which is like Mrs. Fudd remembering Elmer for his hair. It’d be a damn shame.

All I want is my moment.

13) What was a moment in your life that you looked forward to?

So here I sit, my rented burgundy tux lying across my bed like a drop cloth waiting to be unfolded on the floor of the Sistine Chapel, digging deep into my reserves for the courage not to crumble, hoping for the power to call up the vision of the decent guy I know I am rather then the short-fused, round clowned-jock so many people see. What can Melissa be thinking? She’ll be there with someone else, of course, so here winter Nightmare on Elm Street will last but a few minutes at most. She’s probably telling herself as I sit here that it’s like a trip to the dentist. No matter how badly he’s going to hurt you, no matter how many bare nerves he drills or how many syringes of Novocain he explodes into the roof of you mouth, in an hour you’ll walk out of there. And you’ll still be alive.

Of course, Melissa hasn’t seen me dance.

14) What does Angus compare Mellisa's dance with him to?

15) What does this say about his self-confidence?

16) How are you as a dancer? Does it make you nervous? Or do you just not do it?

26

My dad was in an hour ago, looking sadly at me sitting here on the side of my bed in my underwear next to this glorious tuxedo, which, once on, will undoubtedly cast me as a giant plum. Dad’s the one who escorted me to Roland’s Big and Tall to have me fitted, and to make sure I got something that would be comfortable. He’s a sensitive guy, one who has always scouted uncharted waters for me in an attempt to clear away at least the huge logs, to render those waters a little more navigable.

17) What does navigable mean in this sentence?

He wore his Kissbusters T-shirt, with the universal stop sign-a circle with a slash through it-No Kissing Contract. (“I don’t care who’s with who or what you do in the sack at night,” I screamed out my exasperation during one our bimonthly “absence of malice get-togethers,” designed by my parents to cement our extended family solidarity. “Just don’t kiss in front of me! I’m in junior high now! Look! Under here!” I said, raising my arms, pointing to the budding tufts of hair, “I got a bouquet of flowering pubiscus under each arm! And the jury’s in: I like girls! The only people I want to see kissing are boys and girls! Not boys kissing boys. Not girls kissing girls! The only people I want to see boys kissing girls! Understand? Hairy lips on smooth lips! Read mine! Boys…kissing…girls!” I started to walk out of the room, then whirled. “You know what I need? You asked me that all the time! ‘Angus, are you suffering emotional harm because we’re different? Angus, are you feeling angst? Angus, do you need help adjusting? Angus, do you want to see a therapist?” I’m not having trouble adjusting! I don’t even know what angst is! I don’t want to see a therapist! I just don’t want to see you kissing! You want to know what I need? I’ll tell you! Role models! Someone to show me how things are done! Don’t you guys ever watch Oprah? Or Donahue?”) It was a marvelous tantrum, and effective in that it resulted in the now famous, ironclad No Kissing contract, which I have since, for my part, dissolved but to which they adhere as if it were the Karmas Sutra itself. You will not hear the smacking, sucking reverberations of lips parting in passion from lips in either of my happy homes.

18) Go over the bold vocabulary above.

19) Why is Angus so angry?

“The cummerbund is good,” Dad says. “It changes your lines; acts almost as a girdle, Don’t keep the jacket buttoned for long; unbutton it early in the name of being casual; that way it wont pull tight where you bugle.” Dad is the person most responsible for teaching me to dress a body ignored by sensibilities of the world’s clothiers. It was he who taught me to buy pants with a high waist, and go ahead through the embarrassment of giving the salesmen my full waist size-instead of cheating a few inches to save face-so I

27

could always get all of myself into my pants and leave nothing hanging over. He also drilled into me that it is a mortal sin for a fat man to buy a shirt which tucks in. In short, my father is most responsible for teaching me to dress like a Big Top.

As he stands staring at the tuxedo, his brain grinding out camouflage intelligence, I read his mind.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” I say. “I can handle this.”

“You’ve had this girl on your mind a long time,” he says sadly. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

I say, “I’m not going to be hurt, Dad,” thinking Please don’t make me take care of you too.

Alexander, my stepdad, walks through the bedroom door, places a hand on Dad’s shoulder, and guides him out of the room, reappearing in seconds. “You father’s a pain in the butt sometimes, huh?” he says, “worrying about things you wouldn’t even think about.”

I say, “Yeah, he is. Only this time I’m thinking of them. How am I going to get through this night without looking like Moby Melon?”

Alexander nods and looks at my near naked carcass. He is like an arrow, sleek and angular, the antithesis of my father. It is as if minor gods were given exactly enough clay to make two human forms, but divided it up in a remedial math class. Alexander is also sensible-though somewhat obscure-where my father is a romantic. “Superman’s not brave,” he says.

I look up. “What?”

“Superman. He’s not brave.”

“I’ll send him a card.”

Alexander smiles. “You don’t understand. Superman’s not brave. He’s smart. He’s handsome. He’s even decent. But he’s not brave.”

20) Do you think Superman is brave? Why or why or why not?

I look at the tux, spread beside me, waiting. “Alexander, have I ever said it’s hard to follow you sometimes?”

“He’s indestructible,” Alexander says. “You can’t be brave when you’re indestructible. It’s guys like you and me that are brave, Angus. Guys who are different and can be crushed-and know it-but go out there anyway.”

I looked at the tux. “I guess he wouldn’t wear such an outrageous suit if he knew he looked like a blue-and-red Oldsmobile in it would he?”

Alexander put his hand on my shoulder. “The tux looks fine, Angus.” He left us

21) How are Angus and Superman different?

28

So now I stand at the door to the gym. The temperature is near zero, but I wear no coat because, once inside, I want to stay cool as long as possible, to reduce the risk of the dike-bursting perspiration that has become my trademark. No pun intended. Melissa-along with almost everyone, I would guess-is inside, waiting to be crowned Queen of the Winter Ball before suffering the humiliation of being jerked across the dance floor by and escort who should have GOODYEAR tattooed the length of both sides. My fear is nearly paralyzing, to tell the truth, but I’ve faced this monster down before-though, admittedly, he gets more fierce each time-and I’ll face him down again. When he beats me, I’m done.

Heads turn as I move through the door. I simulate drying my butt with a towel, hoping for a casual twist-and-shout move. Your king is here. Rejoice. Marsha Stanwick stand behind the ticket table and I casually and her mine, eyes straight ahead on the band, walking lightly on the balls of my feet, like Raymond Burr through a field of dog-poop sundaes. I pause to let my eyes adjust, hoping to God an empty table will appear, allowing me to drop out of the collective line of sight. Miraculously, one does and I squat, eyes still glued to the band, looking for all the world like the rock and roll critic from the Trib. If my fans are watching, they’re seeing a man who cares about music. I lightly tap my fingers to what I perceive to bet the beat, blowing my cover to smithereens. I see Melissa on the dance floor with her boyfriend-a real jerk in my book, Rick Sanford-and my heart bursts against the walls of my chest, like in Alien. I order it back. A sophomore server leaves a glass of punch on the table and I sip it slowly through the next song, after which the lead singer announces the “royal couple” and their court are due behind the stage curtain in five minutes.

Tributaries of perspiration join at my rib cage to form a raging torrent of sweat rushing toward my shoes as I silently hyperventilate, listening for my grandfather’s voice, telling me to screw ‘em, telling me once again I can do anything I want. I want my moment.

I rise to head for the stage and look up to see Melissa on her boyfriend’s arm, coming toward me through the crowd parting on the dance floor. Sanford wears that cocky look, the one I remember from football; the one he wore continually until the day I wiped it off his face on the sideline during our first full-pad scrimmage. Golden Rick Sanford-Rick Running Back-danced he famous jig around end and turned upfield, thought he could juke me with a couple of cheap high-school hip faces, not realizing his blimp was equipped with tracking radar. It took him almost fifteen seconds to get his wind back. Hacked him off big time, me being so fat and ugly. But now the look is back; we’re in his element. He’s country club, I’m country; a part of his crowd on the field only.

As they approach, I panic. The king has no clothes. I want to run. What am I doing here? What was I thinking of? Suddenly I’d give up my moment in a heartbeat for the right to disappear. What a fool, to even think…

They stand before me. “Angus, my man,” Rick slurs, and I realize it’s not a change of underwear he’s carrying in that paper bag. “I’m turning this lovely thing over to you for a while. Give her a chance to make a comparison. You know, be a bit more humble.”

Melissa drops his arm and smiles. She says, “Hi. Don’t pay attention to him, He’s drunk. And even without that, he’s rude.”

I smile and nod, any words far, far from my throat.

Melissa says, “Why don’t we go on up?” and she takes my arm, leaving Rick’s hand limply and at his side.

“Yeah,” he says, squinting down at the paper sack in his hand, “why don’t you go on up. You go right on up behind that curtain with my girl, Snowball King.”

Melissa drops my arm and grips his elbow. “Shut up,” she hisses. “I’m warning you, Rick. Shut up.”29

Rick tears his arm away. “Enjoy yourself,” he says to me, ignoring her. “Your campaign cost me a lot of money, probably close to two bucks a pound.” He looks me up and down as couples are the nearest tables turn to stare. That heat of humiliation floods up through my collar, and I fear the worst will follow. I fear I’ll cry. If I do, Rick’s in danger because it’s a Bethunian Law that rage follows my tears as surely as baby chicks trail after their mama. “Don’t you be puttin’ your puffy meat-hooks on my girl,” he says, and starts to poke me in the chest, but I look at his finger and he thinks better.

23) Decribe Rick:

24) How is Rick different than Angus?

Melissa takes my arm again and says, “Let’s go.”

We move two steps toward the stage and Rick says, loud, “Got your rubber gloves, honey?”

I turn, feeling Melissa’s urgent tug, pulling me toward the stage.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked quietly, knowing full well what he means by that.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Bigfoot,” Rick says, looking past me to his girl. “I’m asking if my sweetie’s got her rubber gloves.”

Melissa says, “I hate you, Rick. I really do.”

Rick ignores her. “Bigfoot comes from a high-risk home,” he says. “Best wear your rubber gloves, honey, in case he has a cut.”

In that instant I sweep his feet with mine and he lands hard on the floor. He moves to get up, I kick his hands out, following his next movements like a cow dog, mirroring him perfectly, trapping him there on the floor. No chaperone is in view so it isn’t totally out of hand yet. When he sees he can’t rise, I kneel, sweat pouring off my forehead like rain. Softly, very softly, I say, “You may not like how my parents live. But they’ve been together since nineteen seventy-one-monogamous as the day is long. That’s a low-risk group, Rick. The only person at high risk right now is you.”

25) How does Angus defend his parents?

He looks into my eyes and he knows I mean it, knows I’m past caring about my embarrassment. “Okay,

30

man,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, “just having a little fun.”

I apologize to Melissa all the way up the backstage stairs, but she’s not having any. “You should have stomped on his throat,” she says, and I involuntarily visualize Alex Immergluck clutching at his bleeding mouth in the freezing cold nest to the car bumper. “If you ever get another chance, I’ll pay you money.”

At the side door to the stage I say, “Speaking of embarrassment, there’s something you need to know.”

She waits.

“I can’t dance.”

Melissa smiles. “Not everyone’s Nureyev,” she says. “We’ll survive.”

I say, “Yeah, well, not everyone’s Quasimodo either. I didn’t say I can’t dance well, I said I can’t dance. Good people have been badly hurt trying to dance with me.”

26) Who is Quasimodo?

We’re near the risers on the stage now, and our “court,” made up of juniors and sophomores, stands below the spot at the top where we are to be crowned. Melissa hushes me as we receive instructions from the senior class adviser. There will be trumpeting, the crowing by the last year’s royalty, followed by a slow march down the portable steps to the gym floor to begin the royal dance.

We take our places. The darkness of the stage and the silence are excruciating. “What did he mean, my campaign cause him a lot of money?” I whisper.

“Never mind.”

I snort a laugh and say, “I can’t take it.”

“He’s rich and he’s rude,” she says. “I’m embarrassed I’m with him.” She pauses, and slides her arm in mine. “I’m not with him. It was supposed to be a lesson for me…”

I gaze out into the spotlights, smiling like a giant “Have a Nice Day” grape. The introduction of last year’s king and queen begin and they move toward us from stage left and right to relinquish their crowns to us. It would all be unbelievably ridiculous even if they weren’t crowning King Angus the Fat. Without moving her lips Melissa says, “I picked a slow long. We don’t have to move much. Dance close to me. When you feel me lean, you lean. Whatever you do, don’t listen to the music. It’ll mess you up. Trust me. My brother’s like you. Just follow.”

27) What type of person do you think Melissa is? Why?

She grips my arm as the royal march starts and leads me down the risers to the portable steps leading to

31

the dance floor. I have surrendered. If I am to survive this, it will be through the will of Melissa Lefevre.

Somehow I remember to hand her the traditional single long-stemmed red rose and she takes it in her hand, smiling, then pulls me tight. She says, “Shadow me.”

28) What is the significance of the diction (author's word choice) of “shadow?”

A part of me stays to concentrate, but another part goes to heaven, In my wildest dreams I could never have imagined Melissa Lefevre being nice to me in my moment, would never have dared to imaging holding her tight without feeling pushy and ugly and way out of line. She whispers, “Relax,” into my ear and I follow mechanically through a song I’d never heard, not that it would make a difference. When I’m finally relaxed I’m in it. Like the songwriter, I fear it yet am drawn to it like a shark to a dangling toe.

“Alan Parsons,” she whispers in my ear. “Good lyrics. I love ‘em. And hate ‘em. That’s what makes a song good.”

I wouldn’t know a good song from a hot rock; I’m just hoping it’s a long song. Feeling greedy now, I want my moment to last.

“Angus?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever get tired of who you are?”

I pull back a second, but it’s like Lois Lane releasing Superman’s hand twenty thousand feet in the air. She falls. I pull close again. “Do you know who you’re talking about?”

29) Why do you think that Angus continually compares himself to Superman?

30) What do you think this says about his identity?

I feel her smile. “Yeah,” she says, “I thought so. I know it’s not the same, but it’s not always so great looking the way I do either. I pay too.”

She’s right: I think it’s not the same.

“Want to know something about me?” she asks and I think, “I’d like to know anything about you.

I say, “Sure.”

“I’m bulimic. Do you know what that is?”

I smile. “I’m a fat kid with faggot parents who’s been in therapy on and off for eighteen years,” I say. “Yes, I know what that is. It means when you eat too much, you chuck it up so you don’t turn out to look like me.”

32

“Close enough for discussion purposes. Don’t worry, I’m in therapy for it,” she says noticing my concern. “A lot of pretty girls are.”

“Actually,” I say, “I even tried it once, but when I stuck my finger down my throat I was still hungry and I almost ate my arm.”

Melissa laughs and holds me tighter. “You’re the only person I’ve told except for the people in my therapy group; I just wanted you to know things aren’t always as they appear. Would you do me a favor?”

31) What do you think about the dynamic between Angus and Melissa? Are they more different than similar? Vice versa? Or both? Why?

“If it doesn’t involve more then giving up my life,” I say, feeling wonderful because Melissa isn’t a goddess anymore; and because that doesn’t change a thing about the way I feel about her.

32) Why is Melissa not a goddess anymore?

“Would you leave with me?”

My foot clomps onto her delicate toe.

“Concentrate,” she says. Then, “Would you?”

“You mean leave this dance? Leave this dance with you?”

I feel her nod.

I consider. “At least I don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight, I’m a pumpkin already.”

“I liked how you stood up for your family. It must be hard. Defending them all the time, I mean.”

“Compared to me a boy named Sue had it made,” I say.

The music ends; all dancers stop and clap politely. “I want to dance one more,” Melissa says. “A fast one.”

“I’ll wait over by the table.”

“No. I want to dance with you.”

“You don’t understand,” I say, When I dance to the beat of rock and roll, decent folks across this great land quake in their boots.”

She holds me tightly. “Listen. Do what you did when you wouldn’t let Rick up. Don’t listen to the music, just follow me the way you followed him.”

33) Why do you think Melissa wants to leave the dance?

I try to protest, but the band breaks into “Bad Moon Rising” and the dance floor erupts. Melissa pushes me back gently and, out of panic, I zero it, locking on her hips as I would a running back’s. I back away as she

33

comes at me, mirroring her every move, top to bottom. She cuts to the sideline and I meet her, dancing upfield nose to nose. As the band heats up I remain locked in; though her steps become more and more intricate, she cannot shake me. A crowed gathers and I’m trapped inside a cheering circle, actually performing the unheard of: I’m Angus Bethune, Fat Man Extraordinaire, dancing in the limelight with Melissa Lefevre, stepping outside the oppressive prison of my body to fly to the beat of Creedence Clearwater Revival.

When the drummer bangs the last beat, the circle erupts in celebration and I take a long, low bow. Melissa is clapping wildly. She reaches across and wipes a drop of sweat from my brow with her finger. When she touches the finger to her tongue, I tell God he can take me now.

“You bitch!” Rick yells at the door as I help Melissa into her coat. “You bitch! You practiced with this tub of lard! You guys been getting together dancing. You bitch. You set me up.” He turns to me. “I oughta take you out, fat boy,” he says, but his unimaginative description can’t touch my glory.

I put up a finger and wag it side to side in front of his nose. “You know the difference between you and me, Sanford?”

He says, “There’s a lot of differences between us, Lardo. You couldn’t count the differences between us.”

“That’s probably true,” I say, closing my fist under his nose. “But the one that matters right now is that I can make you ugly.”

He stares silently at my fist.

I say, “Don’t even think it. Next to dancing, that’s my strong suit.”

34) What does Angus mean by saying, “I can make you ugly?”

35) What do you think of the ending?

36) What would you come up for a theses (argumentative theme) of this story?

37) Why?

34

Harrison Bergeron

by Kurt Vonnegut

    

           

     THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God

and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody

was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this

equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the

unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General. 

Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April, for instance, still drove

people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took

George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away. 

It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a

perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short

bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap

radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government

transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep

people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains. 

George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d

forgotten for the moment what they were about. 

On the television screen were ballerinas. 

A buzzer sounded in George’s head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar

alarm. 

“That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did,” said Hazel. 

“Huh?” said George. 

“That dance – it was nice,” said Hazel. 

“Yup,” said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren’t really very

good – no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with

sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and

35

graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with

the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn’t be handicapped. But he didn’t get very far with it

before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts. 

George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas. 

Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself she had to ask George what the

latest sound had been. 

“Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer,” said George. 

“I’d think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds,” said Hazel, a little

envious. “All the things they think up.” 

“Um,” said George. 

“Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?” said Hazel. Hazel, as a

matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon

Glampers. “If I was Diana Moon Glampers,” said Hazel, “I’d have chimes on Sunday – just

chimes. Kind of in honor of religion.” 

 “I could think, if it was just chimes,” said George. 

“Well – maybe make ‘em real loud,” said Hazel. “I think I’d make a good Handicapper

General.” 

“Good as anybody else,” said George. 

“Who knows better’n I do what normal is?” said Hazel. 

“Right,” said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now

in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that. 

“Boy!” said Hazel, “that was a doozy, wasn’t it?” 

It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling and tears stood on the rims of his

red eyes. Two of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples. 

“All of a sudden you look so tired,” said Hazel. “Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa, so’s

you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch.” She was referring to the forty-seven

pounds of birdshot in canvas bag, which was padlocked around George’s neck. “Go on and rest the

bag for a little while,” she said. “I don’t care if you’re not equal to me for a while

George weighed the bag with his hands. “I don’t mind it,” he said. “I don’t notice it any

more. It’s just a part of me. 

36

“You been so tired lately – kind of wore out,” said Hazel. “If there was just some way we

could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a

few.

“Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out,” said George. “I

don’t call that a bargain.” 

“If you could just take a few out when you came home from work,” said Hazel. “I mean –

you don’t compete with anybody around here. You just set around.” 

“If I tried to get away with it,” said George, “then other people’d get away with it and pretty

soon we’d be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else.

You wouldn’t like that, would you?” 

“I’d hate it,” said Hazel. 

“There you are,” said George. “The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think

happens to society?” 

If Hazel hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn’t have

supplied one. A siren was going off in his head. 

“Reckon it’d fall all apart,” said Hazel. 

“What would?” said George blankly. 

“Society,” said Hazel uncertainly. “Wasn’t that what you just said?” 

“Who knows?” said George. 

The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn’t clear at first

as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech

impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say,

“Ladies and gentlemen – ” 

He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read. 

“That’s all right –” Hazel said of the announcer, “he tried. That’s the big thing. He tried to

do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard.” 

“Ladies and gentlemen” said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been

extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she

was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those

worn by two-hundred-pound men. 

37

And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman

to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “Excuse me – ” she said, and she began

again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive. 

“Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen,” she said in a grackle squawk, “has just escaped from jail,

where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an

athlete, is under–handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous.” 

A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen – upside down, then

sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison

against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall. 

The rest of Harrison’s appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever worn

heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H–G men could think them up.

Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and

spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind,

but to give him whanging headaches besides. 

Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military

neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In

the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds. 

And to offset his good looks, the H–G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber

ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at

snaggle–tooth random. 

“If you see this boy,” said the ballerina, “do not – I repeat, do not – try to reason with him.” 

There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges. 

Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of

Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an

earthquake. 

George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have – for many was

the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. “My God –” said George, “that must

be Harrison!” 

The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision

in his head. 

38

When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living,

breathing Harrison filled the screen. 

Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood in the center of the studio. The knob of the

uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers

cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die. 

“I am the Emperor!” cried Harrison. “Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do

what I say at once!” He stamped his foot and the studio shook. 

“Even as I stand here –” he bellowed, “crippled, hobbled, sickened – I am a greater ruler

than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!” 

Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed

to support five thousand pounds. 

Harrison’s scrap–iron handicaps crashed to the floor.

Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The

bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall. 

He flung away his rubber–ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of

thunder. 

“I shall now select my Empress!” he said, looking down on the cowering people. “Let the

first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!” 

A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow. 

Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with

marvelous delicacy. Last of all, he removed her mask. 

She was blindingly beautiful. 

“Now” said Harrison, taking her hand, “shall we show the people the meaning of the word

dance? Music!” he commanded. 

The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their

handicaps, too. “Play your best,” he told them, “and I’ll make you barons and dukes and earls.” 

The music began. It was normal at first – cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two

musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played.

He slammed them back into their chairs. 

The music began again and was much improved. 

39

Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while – listened gravely, as

though synchronizing their heartbeats with it. 

They shifted their weights to their toes. 

Harrison placed his big hands on the girl’s tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness

that would soon be hers. 

And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang! 

Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion

as well. 

They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun. 

      

      

     They leaped like deer on the moon. 

The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it. It

became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. 

They kissed it. 

And then, neutralizing gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches

below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time. 

It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with

a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead

before they hit the floor. 

Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them

they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on. 

It was then that the Bergerons’ television tube burned out. 

Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George. 

But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer. 

George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then

he sat down again. “You been crying?” he said to Hazel. 

“Yup,” she said, 

“What about?” he said. 

“I forget,” she said. “Something real sad on television.” 

40

“What was it?” he said. 

“It’s all kind of mixed up in my mind,” said Hazel. 

“Forget sad things,” said George. 

“I always do,” said Hazel. 

“That’s my girl,” said George. He winced. There was the sound of a riveting gun in his

head. 

“Gee – I could tell that one was a doozy,” said Hazel. 

“You can say that again,” said George. 

“Gee –” said Hazel, “I could tell that one was a doozy.” 

41

\Name _____________________________

Date ___________________Harrison Bergeronby Kurt Vonnegut

Key 1 - Answer ID # 0771809

Review

1.  What is Hazel watching on television?jazz dancersballroom dancersballet dancersIrish dancers

2.  What year is it?1881208119812581

3.  What is George Bergeron required to wear in his ear?

a physical handicap pluga hearing aida pain dulling cushiona mental handicap radio

4.  Who makes the announcement that Harrison has escaped?

George BergeronDiana Moon Glampersa ballerinathe news anchorman

5.  How old is Harrison?twelvefourteentwenty fiveforty

6.  What does Harrison call himself?KingEmperorPresidentHandicapper General

7.  Who is Diana Moon Glampers?the presidentthe Handicapper Generalthe Handicapper of Noisethe Minister of Weights

8.  What month of the year is it?JulyJuneAprilMay

9.  What happens to Harrison and the ballerina?Diana Moon Glampers arrests them.Diana Moon Glampers applauds them.Diana Moon Glampers shoots them.They become Emperor and Empress.

10.  What does the device do to George?plays government propagandaemits a constant ringingemits a sharp noise every twenty secondsemits a musical interlude every minute

11.  If you did not know how old Harrison was, what would you guess his age to be?

42

 

Name _____________________________Date ___________________

Harrison Bergeronby Kurt Vonnegut

Key 1 - Answer ID # 0771809

12.  Why do you think Harrison and the ballerina were able to defy the laws of gravity?

13.  What do you think is the main theme of Harrison Bergeron? Explain why you chose this theme.

14.  Why do you think people were annoyed that April was not spring?

15.  How does George feel about the equality laws?

16.  Do you think this could really happen in America? Why or why not?

17.  What do you think day-to-day life is like for people in the story?

43

 

Name _____________________________Date ___________________ 

Harrison Bergeron(Key 1 - Answer ID # 0771809)

Select the definition that most nearly defines the given word. 1.   luminous

 drew back in fear and helplessness omitting or reflecting a bright light

2.   wince a reflex response to sudden pain focusing one's complete attention on something

3.   cowered an excruciating pain drew back in fear and helplessness

4.   capered something that puts a person at a disadvantage run and jump in a happy way

5.   hindrances any immaterial object that interferes with or delays actions or progress something that is an obstacle

6.   consternation an excruciating pain fear resulting from the awareness of danger

7.   impediment something that is an obstacle omitting or reflecting a bright light

8.   whanging an excruciating pain focusing one's complete attention on something

9.   handicap a reflex response to sudden pain something that puts a person at a disadvantage

10.   riveting the process of paying close and continuous attention focusing one's complete attention on something

11.   grackle a glossy black Asiatic starling often taught to mimic speech any immaterial object that interferes with or delays actions or progress

12.   vigilance the process of paying close and continuous attention something that puts a person at a disadvantage

44

 

Name _____________________________Date ___________________

Harrison Bergeronby Kurt Vonnegut

Key 1 - Answer ID # 0771809

Pick one extended activity and complete it.

1.  Write an essay on the meaning of freedom.

2.  Write of list of things we can do to help people with handicaps live lives that are more "normal."

3.  Draw a picture of the ballerina with her handicaps.

4.  Outline the plot of this story.

5.  Compare and contrast freedom and equality.

45

Lamb to the Slaughter

by Roald Dahl (1916-1990)

The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight-hers and the one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.

Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come him from work.

Now and again she would glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to please herself with the thought that each minute gone by made it nearer the time when he would come. There was a slow smiling air about her, and about everything she did. The drop of a head as she bent over her sewing was curiously tranquil. Her skin -for this was her sixth month with child-had acquired a wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger darker than before. When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock. She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in.

"Hullo darling," she said.

"Hullo darling," he answered.

She took his coat and hung it in the closer. Then she walked over and made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side.

For her, this was always a blissful time of day. She knew he didn't want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house. She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man, and to feel-almost as a sunbather feels the sun-that warm male glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together. She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way he came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long strides. She loved intent, far look in his eyes when they rested in her, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whiskey had taken some of it away.

"Tired darling?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm tired," And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it left.. She wasn't really watching him, but she knew what he had done because she heard the ice cubes falling back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm. He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.

"I'll get it!" she cried, jumping up.

"Sit down," he said.

When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of whiskey in it.

"Darling, shall I get your slippers?"46

"No."

She watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see little oily swirls in the liquid because it was so strong.

"I think it's a shame," she said, "that when a policeman gets to be as senior as you, they keep him walking about on his feet all day long."

He didn't answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing; bet each time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass.

"Darling," she said. "Would you like me to get you some cheese? I haven't made any supper because it's Thursday."

"No," he said.

"If you're too tired to eat out," she went on, "it's still not too late. There's plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of the chair."

Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but he made no sign.

"Anyway," she went on, "I'll get you some cheese and crackers first."

"I don't want it," he said.

She moved uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face. "But you must eat! I'll fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like."

She stood up and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp.

"Sit down," he said. "Just for a minute, sit down."

It wasn't till then that she began to get frightened.

"Go on," he said. "Sit down."

She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time with those large, bewildered eyes. He had finished the second drink and was staring down into the glass, frowning.

"Listen," he said. "I've got something to tell you."

"What is it, darling? What's the matter?"

He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down so that the light from the lamp beside him fell across the upper part of his face, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow. She noticed there was a little muscle moving near the corner of his left eye.

"This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I'm afraid," he said. "But I've thought about it a good deal and I've decided the only thing to do is tell you right away. I hope you won't blame me too much."

And he told her. It didn't take long, four or five minutes at most, and she say very still through it all, watching him with a kind of dazed horror as he went further and further away from her with each word.

47

"So there it is," he added. "And I know it's kind of a bad time to be telling you, bet there simply wasn't any other way. Of course I'll give you money and see you're looked after. But there needn't really be any fuss. I hope not anyway. It wouldn't be very good for my job."

Her first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all. It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn't even spoken, that she herself had imagined the whole thing. Maybe, if she went about her business and acted as though she hadn't been listening, then later, when she sort of woke up again, she might find none of it had ever happened.

"I'll get the supper," she managed to whisper, and this time he didn't stop her.

When she walked across the room she couldn't feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn't feel anything at all- except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit. Everything was automatic now-down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze, the hand inside the cabinet taking hold of the first object it met. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again.

A leg of lamb.

All right then, they would have lamb for supper. She carried it upstairs, holding the thin bone-end of it with both her hands, and as she went through the living-room, she saw him standing over by the window with his back to her, and she stopped.

"For God's sake," he said, hearing her, but not turning round. "Don't make supper for me. I'm going out."

At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him and without any pause she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of his head.

She might just as well have hit him with a steel club.

She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds, gently swaying. Then he crashed to the carpet.

The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of he shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a while blinking at the body, still holding the ridiculous piece of meat tight with both hands.

All right, she told herself. So I've killed him.

It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden. She began thinking very fast. As the wife of a detective, she knew quite well what the penalty would be. That was fine. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a relief. On the other hand, what about the child? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill then both-mother and child? Or did they wait until the tenth month? What did they do?

Mary Maloney didn't know. And she certainly wasn't prepared to take a chance.

She carried the meat into the kitchen, placed it in a pan, turned the oven on high, and shoved t inside. Then she washed her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom. She sat down before the mirror, tidied her hair, touched up her lops and face. She tried a smile. It came out rather peculiar. She tried again.

"Hullo Sam," she said brightly, aloud.

48

The voice sounded peculiar too.

"I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas."

That was better. Both the smile and the voice were coming out better now. She rehearsed it several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, went out the back door, down the garden, into the street.

It wasn't six o'clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocery shop.

"Hullo Sam," she said brightly, smiling at the man behind the counter.

"Why, good evening, Mrs. Maloney. How're you?"

"I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas."

The man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas.

"Patrick's decided he's tired and doesn't want to eat out tonight," she told him. "We usually go out Thursdays, you know, and now he's caught me without any vegetables in the house."

"Then how about meat, Mrs. Maloney?"

"No, I've got meat, thanks. I got a nice leg of lamb from the freezer."

"Oh."

"I don't know much like cooking it frozen, Sam, but I'm taking a chance on it this time. You think it'll be all right?"

"Personally," the grocer said, "I don't believe it makes any difference. You want these Idaho potatoes?"

"Oh yes, that'll be fine. Two of those."

"Anything else?" The grocer cocked his head on one side, looking at her pleasantly. "How about afterwards? What you going to give him for afterwards?"

"Well-what would you suggest, Sam?"

The man glanced around his shop. "How about a nice big slice of cheesecake? I know he likes that."

"Perfect," she said. "He loves it."

And when it was all wrapped and she had paid, she put on her brightest smile and said, "Thank you, Sam. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Maloney. And thank you."

And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now, she was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his supper; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possible because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the house, she happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock and she'd become frantic with grief and horror. Mind you, she wasn't expecting to find anything. She was just going home with the vegetables. Mrs. Patrick Maloney going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper for her husband.

49

That's the way, she told herself. Do everything right and natural. Keep things absolutely natural and there'll be no need for any acting at all.

Therefore, when she entered the kitchen by the back door, she was humming a little tune to herself and smiling.

"Patrick!" she called. "How are you, darling?"

She put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living room; and when she saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was rather a shock. All the old love and longing for him welled up inside her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to cry her heart out. It was easy. No acting was necessary.

A few minutes later she got up and went to the phone. She know the number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him, "Quick! Come quick! Patrick's dead!"

"Who's speaking?"

"Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney."

"You mean Patrick Maloney's dead?"

"I think so," she sobbed. "He's lying on the floor and I think he's dead."

"Be right over," the man said.

The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two policeman walked in. She know them both-she know nearly all the man at that precinct-and she fell right into a chair, then went over to join the other one, who was called O'Malley, kneeling by the body.

"Is he dead?" she cried.

"I'm afraid he is. What happened?"

Briefly, she told her story about going out to the grocer and coming back to find him on the floor. While she was talking, crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dead man's head. He showed it to O'Malley who got up at once and hurried to the phone.

Soon, other men began to come into the house. First a doctor, then two detectives, one of whom she know by name. Later, a police photographer arrived and took pictures, and a man who know about fingerprints. There was a great deal of whispering and muttering beside the corpse, and the detectives kept asking her a lot of questions. But they always treated her kindly. She told her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patrick had come in, and she was sewing, and he was tired, so tired he hadn't wanted to go out for supper. She told how she'd put the meat in the oven-"it's there now, cooking"- and how she'd slopped out to the grocer for vegetables, and come back to find him lying on the floor.

Which grocer?" one of the detectives asked.

She told him, and he turned and whispered something to the other detective who immediately went outside into the street.

In fifteen minutes he was back with a page of notes, and there was more whispering, and through her

50

sobbing she heard a few of the whispered phrases-"...acted quite normal...very cheerful...wanted to give him a good supper...peas...cheesecake...impossible that she..."

After a while, the photographer and the doctor departed and two other men came in and took the corpse away on a stretcher. Then the fingerprint man went away. The two detectives remained, and so did the two policeman. They were exceptionally nice to her, and Jack Noonan asked if she wouldn't rather go somewhere else, to her sister's house perhaps, or to his own wife who would take care of her and put her up for the night.

No, she said. She didn't feel she could move even a yard at the moment. Would they mind awfully of she stayed just where she was until she felt better. She didn't feel too good at the moment, she really didn't.

Then hadn't she better lie down on the bed? Jack Noonan asked.

No, she said. She'd like to stay right where she was, in this chair. A little later, perhaps, when she felt better, she would move.

So they left her there while they went about their business, searching the house. Occasionally on of the detectives asked her another question. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke at her gently as he passed by. Her husband, he told her, had been killed by a blow on the back of the head administered with a heavy blunt instrument, almost certainly a large piece of metal. They were looking for the weapon. The murderer may have taken it with him, but on the other hand he may have thrown it away or hidden it somewhere on the premises.

"It's the old story," he said. "Get the weapon, and you've got the man."

Later, one of the detectives came up and sat beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house that could've been used as the weapon? Would she mind having a look around to see if anything was missing-a very big spanner, for example, or a heavy metal vase.

They didn't have any heavy metal vases, she said.

"Or a big spanner?"

She didn't think they had a big spanner. But there might be some things like that in the garage.

The search went on. She knew that there were other policemen in the garden all around the house. She could hear their footsteps on the gravel outside, and sometimes she saw a flash of a torch through a chink in the curtains. It began to get late, nearly nine she noticed by the clock on the mantle. The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.

"Jack," she said, the next tome Sergeant Noonan went by. "Would you mind giving me a drink?"

"Sure I'll give you a drink. You mean this whiskey?"

"Yes please. But just a small one. It might make me feel better."

He handed her the glass.

"Why don't you have one yourself," she said. "You must be awfully tired. Please do. You've been very good to me."

"Well," he answered. "It's not strictly allowed, but I might take just a drop to keep me going."

51

One by one the others came in and were persuaded to take a little nip of whiskey. They stood around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying to say consoling things to her. Sergeant Noonan wandered into the kitchen, come out quickly and said, "Look, Mrs. Maloney. You know that oven of yours is still on, and the meat still inside."

"Oh dear me!" she cried. "So it is!"

"I better turn it off for you, hadn't I?"

"Will you do that, Jack. Thank you so much."

When the sergeant returned the second time, she looked at him with her large, dark tearful eyes. "Jack Noonan," she said.

"Yes?"

"Would you do me a small favor-you and these others?"

"We can try, Mrs. Maloney."

"Well," she said. "Here you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick's too, and helping to catch the man who killed him. You must be terrible hungry by now because it's long past your suppertime, and I know Patrick would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in his house without offering you decent hospitality. Why don't you eat up that lamb that's in the oven. It'll be cooked just right by now."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sergeant Noonan said.

"Please," she begged. "Please eat it. Personally I couldn't tough a thing, certainly not what's been in the house when he was here. But it's all right for you. It'd be a favor to me if you'd eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again afterwards."

There was a good deal of hesitating among the four policemen, but they were clearly hungry, and in the end they were persuaded to go into the kitchen and help themselves. The woman stayed where she was, listening to them speaking among themselves, their voices thick and sloppy because their mouths were full of meat.

"Have some more, Charlie?"

"No. Better not finish it."

"She wants us to finish it. She said so. Be doing her a favor."

"Okay then. Give me some more."

"That's the hell of a big club the gut must've used to hit poor Patrick," one of them was saying. "The doc says his skull was smashed all to pieces just like from a sledgehammer."

"That's why it ought to be easy to find."

"Exactly what I say."

"Whoever done it, they're not going to be carrying a thing like that around with them longer than they

52

need."

One of them belched.

"Personally, I think it's right here on the premises."

"Probably right under our very noses. What you think, Jack?"

And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to giggle.

      

      

      

53

Compare the Story to the Film Adaptation

1. How did the movie stay faithful to the story?

2. Did Hitchcock (the director) make good choices?

3. What would you have done differently?

54

THE LOTTERYBY SHIRLEY JACKSON

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 20th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix—the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”—eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. “Little late today, folks. ” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?” there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to

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upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything’s being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’ coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves’s barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up–of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. “Clean forgot what day it was,” she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. “Thought my old man was out back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on, “and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running. ” She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, “You’re in time, though. They’re still talking away up there. “

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or

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three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, “Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all. ” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. “Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie. ” Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, “Wouldn’t have me leave m’dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?” and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival.

“Well, now. ” Mr. Summers said soberly, “guess we better get started, get this over with, so’s we can go back to work. Anybody ain’t here?”

“Dunbar. ” several people said. “Dunbar. Dunbar. “

Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar. ” he said. “That’s right. He’s broke his leg, hasn’t he? Who’s drawing for him?”

“Me. I guess,” a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife draws for her husband. ” Mr. Summers said. “Don’t you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

“Horace’s not but sixteen yet. ” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year. “

“Right. ” Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, “Watson boy drawing this year?”

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I m drawing for my mother and me. ” He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like “Good fellow, lack. ” and “Glad to see your mother’s got a man to do it. “

“Well,” Mr. Summers said, “guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?”

“Here,” a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. “All ready?” he called. “Now, I’ll read the names–heads of families first–and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?”

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, “Adams. ” A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. “Hi. Steve. ” Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said. “Hi. Joe. ” They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.

“Allen. ” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson… Bentham. “57

“Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries any more. ” Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.

“Seems like we got through with the last one only last week. “

“Time sure goes fast” Mrs. Graves said.

“Clark… Delacroix. “

“There goes my old man. ” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

“Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. “Go on, Janey,” and another said, “There she goes. “

“We’re next. ” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand, turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

“Harburt… Hutchinson. “

“Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.

“Jones. “

“They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, “that over in the north village they’re talking of giving up the lottery. “

Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the young folks, nothing’s good enough for them. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon. ‘ First thing you know, we’d all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There’s always been a lottery,” he added petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody. “

“Some places have already quit lotteries,” Mrs. Adams said.

“Nothing but trouble in that,” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young fools. “

“Martin. ” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke… Percy. “

“I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d hurry.”

“They’re almost through,” her son said.

“You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said.

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Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, “Warner. “

“Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. “Seventy-seventh time. “

“Watson. ” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, “Don’t be nervous, Jack,” and Mr. Summers said, “Take your time, son. “

“Zanini. “

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, “All right, fellows. ” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. “Who is it?,” “Who’s got it?,” “Is it the Dunbars?,” “Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices began to say, “It’s Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill Hutchinson’s got it. “

“Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. “You didn’t give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair!”

“Be a good sport, Tessie,” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, “All of us took the same chance. “

“Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said, “that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time. ” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said, “you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?”

“There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make them take their chance!”

“Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said gently. “You know that as well as anyone else. “

“It wasn’t fair,” Tessie said.

“I guess not, Joe,” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with her husband’s family; that’s only fair. And I’ve got no other family except the kids. “

“Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers said in explanation, “and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?”

“Right,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally.

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“Three,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“There’s Bill, Jr. , and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me. “

“All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?”

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,” Mr. Summers directed. “Take Bill’s and put it in. “

“I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. “I tell you it wasn’t fair. You didn’t give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that. “

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

“Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

“Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.

“Remember,” Mr. Summers said, “take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave. ” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. “Take a paper out of the box, Davy,” Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper. ” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you hold it for him. ” Mr. Graves took the child’s hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

“Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box “Bill, Jr. ,” Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

“Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, “I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

“It’s not the way it used to be,” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t the way they used to be. “

“All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave’s. “

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr. , opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

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“Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

“It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper, Bill. “

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.

“All right, folks. ” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly. “

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up. “

Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath. “I can’t run at all. You’ll have to go ahead and I’ll catch up with you. “

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone. ” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

The Spirit of the Lottery

Use one piece of the literature that we’ve read in this class this year to identify the spirit of the lottery. Write your response in complete sentences, first identifying the spirit of the lottery and then connecting it to the piece of literature. Be sure to use specific examples.

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In the News

1. Scout a national/international news source. 2. Find 1 article that you believe demonstrates that the spirit of the

lottery is still alive today.3. Give 3 reasons why you believe this demonstrates the spirit of the

lottery.

Article Title:

Source:

Synopsis:

3 Reasons: 1.

2.

3.

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4.

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MYTHOLOGY

Myths deal with ancient stories, such as the adventures of the Greek gods. Mythology is a collection of traditional stories that express the beliefs or values of a group of people. The stories often focus on human qualities such as good and evil.

They are often considered to be sacred and may explain how things came to be. The myths gave human emotions and qualities to the super- natural beings who were the heroes of their stories. These gods and goddesses helped or harmed mankind as they pleased.

A myth is a story that tries to explain the way the world is. People have always tried to figure out questions like who made the universe. Religion, gods, and myths were created when people tried to have an answer to these questions.

They are often considered to be sacred and may explain how things came to be. The myths gave human emotions and qualities to the super- natural beings who were the heroes of their stories. These gods and goddesses helped or harmed mankind as they pleased.

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Create Your Own Pandora’s Box

In groups of 3-4, you will be creating your own “Pandora’s

Box”

5 objects that represent evil

2 objects that represent hope

Choose objects that are related to the theme of good and

evil/myth and modern life. Determining what “object” are

placed in the box will require creative thinking about symbol

and metaphor: how could you represent “hatred”? How

could you illustrate peace?

You will share your project with your classmates.

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