{"id":434574,"date":"2018-04-25T11:27:13","date_gmt":"2018-04-25T11:27:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/essaypaper.org\/my-other-self-sylvia-fraser-thesis-proposal\/"},"modified":"2018-10-24T08:53:24","modified_gmt":"2018-10-24T08:53:24","slug":"my-other-self-sylvia-fraser-thesis-proposal","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/my-other-self-sylvia-fraser-thesis-proposal\/","title":{"rendered":"My other self sylvia fraser thesis proposal"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\n\t\t\t \"Order\n\t\t<\/div>\n
\"My<\/div>\n

\u201cWriting is healing,\u201d says Sylvia Fraser. Born in 1935 in Hamilton, Ontario, Fraser by the 1980s had become an award-winning journalist and the author of five novels (Pandora, 1972; The Candy Factory, 1975; A Casual Affair, 1978; The Emperor\u2019s Virgin, 1980; and Berlin Solstice, 1984). But signs of trouble had also appeared. Her seemingly happy marriage had falled apart. Her fiction grew darker in vision and increasingly filled with sexual violence. Then the dam brake. Psychotherapy uncovered what Fraser\u2019s \u201cother self\u201d had known for decades: that from her kindergarten year until almost the end of high school, her father had abused her sexually. Now it was clear how her novel Berlin Solstice had acquired its intimate and chilling insight into Nazi Germany. As Fraser put it, \u201cBeing victimized and essentially tortured by my father, I identified with the Jews.In trying to understand how the Germans could have done what they did, I was trying to understand my father \u2013 and I was preparing myself for my own truth\u201d (The Globe and Mail, June 4, 1988). The memoir that followed, My Father\u2019s House (1987), startled both the critics and the public with its honesty, clarity of style and emotional force. The book not only helped to \u201cheal\u201d its author, but ignited public debate on a hidden social problem, comes out selection, which dramatizes the victin\u2019s \u201cother self\u201d trying to emerge. In 1995 My Father\u2019s House was adopted for theater and performed in Toronto. Then in 1996 Fraser publised two more books, The Quest for the Fourth Monkey, and examination of spiritual and paranormal events in her life, and Ancestral Suitcase, anovel.<\/p>\n

\"Low<\/div>\n

1 The ice at Gage Park is best in the morning when it\u2019s flint-hard and glass-smooth.\n<\/p>\n

All is possible. You carve out circles and eights, and nothing exists until you put it there. Sometimes you just race around the rink, your legs sliding like they\u2019re on elastic bands, with your breath whistling through your teeth like steam from a locomotive, faster and faster.<\/p>\n

2 Soon it\u2019s noon. The rink fills with kids in red and blue parkas playing tag or crack the whip.<\/p>\n

3 \u201cHi!\u201d It\u2019s Joe Baker from school. \u201d Wanna skate?\u201d<\/p>\n

4 I prefer to paly tag, but I don\u2019t want to hurt Joe\u2019s feelings and besides, if I say no to him, maybe Perry Lord won\u2019t ask me. Such delicate weights and balances are the stuff of predating, as I am coming to know it. Giving my hand to Joe with a bright paste-on smile, I slow my racing pace to his stodgy rhythm. The sound system squawks out \u201cOh, How We Danced on the Night We Were Wed\u201d as we skate around and around, like the needle on the record. Joe\u2019s silence rattles me. I make chattery conversation. \u201cDid you see The Thing from the Deep?\u201d<\/p>\n

5 By bad luck, the record never ends. The needle hits a crack, repeats \u201d we vowed our true love we vowed our true love we vowed our true love,\u201d the jerks into \u201cDon\u2019t Fence Me In.\u201d Now Joe links arms, forcing my to even greater intimacy and an ever slower beat, and making my other self very, very nervous. She cannot bear to be held or confined. The game of tag is breaking up. Joe speaks his only sentence, and it is a lethal one. \u201d Can I ah take you home if ah you\u2019re not doing anything?\u201d<\/p>\n

6 At the word \u201chome\u201d a cold shiver passes through me.\n<\/p>\n

I ransack my head for an explanation for the unpleasant way I am feeling and, failing that, an excure. \u201d I\u2019ll check with Arlene. We came together.\u201d<\/p>\n

7 The clubhouse is crowded and noisy and steamy, as always, We jostle for a place on the splintery benches closest to the wood stove. The air stinks of charred wood \u2013 someone\u2019s icy mittens left too long on top. Joe helps me off with my stakes, then unlaces his own while I inform Arlene. \u201cJoe wants to take me home.\u201d<\/p>\n

8 \u201cHe\u2019s cute. You have all the luck.\u201d<\/p>\n

9 I study Joe through the lens of Arlene\u2019s enthusiasm: brown cowlick in wet spikes form his cap, earnest face bent over the task of knotting skate laces. Cute? Now that I know how I\u2019m supposed to feel, I am reassured. Well, maybe.<\/p>\n

10 We leave the rink just as the gang takes off in a gossipy pinwheel for the Kozy Korner. I think about suggesting we go too, but I\u2019m afraid Joe doesn\u2019t have any money and I don\u2019t want to seem like a gold digger. Perry Lord tosses a snowball at Cooky Castle but hits Arlene instead. Tonya Philpott zings one back overhand, the way a boy would. I yearn to take up the challenge, but being with a boy obliges me to comform to more ladylike standards. Trapped, I stick my fists in my pockets.<\/p>\n

11 Crunch crunch crunch. Stakes knotted over Joe\u2019s shoulder, we trudge through the chalky snow. I\u2019ve already told Joe the plot of The Thing from the Deep, and since I saw it uptown it wasn\u2019t a double feature. The silence lengthens with the shadows. Joe doesn\u2019t seem to mind. I do.<\/p>\n

12 \u201cArlene says you got a hundred in arithmetic.\u201d<\/p>\n

13 \u201cYeah, So did you.\u201d<\/p>\n

14 \u201cYeah. But our test was easier.\u201d<\/p>\n

15 I make the mistake of taking my hand out of my pocket to brush a snowflake. Joe commandeers it. My other self panics. How long before I can brush another snowfalke and get it back without seeming rude? As I am working out the etiquette of this, two dogs rush the season by attempting to \u201cdo it\u201d on the path in front of us. My other self slips toward hysteria. I burst into giggles. The blood rises up Joe\u2019s protruding ears. He fumbles with his backside:\u201d Are you laughing at the rip in my skipants?\u201d
16 \u201cNo, it isn\u2019t that.\u201d But I can\u2019t stop giggling.<\/p>\n

17 \u201cJoker Nash cut it with his skate.\u201d<\/p>\n

18 \u201cHonest, I didn\u2019t even notice.\u201d I stifle more giggles in a sneeze. \u201cAh-choo!\u201d<\/p>\n

19 We are approaching my house. The giggles stop. Now my anxiety grows so intense I\u2019m afraid I\u2019ll faint. Snatching my hand from Joe\u2019s, I pick up a stick and drag it ping ping ping along the fence around St.Cecilia\u2019s Home the way I used to as a kid, pretending this is the most important thing in th world. How can I let you hold my hand when I am busy doing this?<\/p>\n

20 We turn the corner. Now I see it \u2014 a sour-cream frame listing with snow like a milk bottle with the cap frozen off. Home. I stop, rooted to the spot. For reasons I can\u2019t explain, it\u2019s essential that Joe go on farther. I reach for my skates. \u201cI live only a couple of doors away.\u201d<\/p>\n

21 \u201cI don\u2019t mind. I\u2019ll carry them to the \u2013\u201c<\/p>\n

22 \u201cNo!\u201d I yank the skates from Joe\u2019s neck, almost beheading him. \u201cI\u2019ve got to go \u2014 by myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

23 Again Joe blushed from his neck through his ears. \u201cIs it bacause of the rip in my ski pants? You don\u2019t want your parents to see \u2013\u201c<\/p>\n

24 \u201cNo!\u201d Then more humanely:\u201d Honest. It has nothing to do with you.\u201d Pushing past him, I sprint for my father\u2019s house, clearing the steps in a single bound. As I open the storm door, the wind catches it.<\/p>\n

25 \u201cDon\u2019t slam the door!\u201d roars my father from his armchair.<\/p>\n

26 My other self bursts into hysterical weeping.<\/p>\n

27 \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d asks my mother.<\/p>\n

28 Again, I find myself oversome by an emotion for which I must find a reason. Hurling my skates at her feet, I shout:\u201d Why do I have to wear these old things? They hurt my feet.\u201d<\/p>\n

29 Wiping her hands 9on her apron, my mother rallies. \u201cThose skates were new last winter.\u201d<\/p>\n

30 \u201cSecondhand from Amity. You said I could have new skates for Christmas.\u201d
31 \u201cYou needed other things.\u201d BY now I\u2019m racked with weeping I can\u2019t control. Not about the skates, though I hear a voice I hardly recognize go on and on about them. \u201cI hate these skates.\u201d Rage pours out of me like lava, devastating everything in its path. It flows around my father, implacable in his asbestos armchair.<\/p>\n

32 It\u2019s a relief to be sent upstairs without supper. Flinging myself onto my bed, I pound the pillow till my body is seized with convulsions, releasing the rage my other self can no longer control.<\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cWriting is healing,\u201d says Sylvia Fraser. Born in 1935 in Hamilton, Ontario, Fraser by the 1980s had become an award-winning journalist and the author of five novels (Pandora, 1972; The Candy Factory, 1975; A Casual Affair, 1978; The Emperor\u2019s Virgin, Read More …<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[15,36],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-434574","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-essay-paper-writing","category-proposal"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/434574","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=434574"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/434574\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=434574"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=434574"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.benedictsol.com\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=434574"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}