Microsoft Word - Inglés - Literatura de la lengua Inglesa II Adriana Anaya1
INTRODUCCIÓN El conjunto de asignaturas que se presentan en el mapa curricular de la especialidad en lengua extranjera se proponen que los futuros profesores desarrollen las competencias, las habilidades y la sensibilidad necesarias para la enseñanza del inglés a los adolescentes que asisten a la escuela secundaria. Desde esta perspectiva, la formación del profesor de lengua extranjera tiene particularidades en relación con otros campos disciplinarios, pues se requiere que, además de tener un conocimiento formal de la materia (la lengua extranjera), adquiera la habilidad para emplearla como medio de comunicación y de enseñanza. En los cursos que forman parte de los estudios de la especialidad, los contenidos y las actividades se caracterizan por ser flexibles. Esta flexibilidad radica en las variadas formas de presentar los temas o contenidos que dan sentido a las asignaturas, en las múltiples estrategias que el maestro puede implementar para el tratamiento de éstos en los grupos de las escuelas normales y en el empleo de recursos y materiales. La intención es que los estudiantes enfrenten situaciones que les demanden el uso de las cuatro habilidades básicas (escuchar, hablar, leer y escribir), en el marco de tres líneas de formación específica: perfeccionamiento de la competencia comunicativa, desarrollo de la competencia didáctica y conocimiento de los adolescentes, y práctica educativa. Para ello es necesario que maestros y estudiantes tengan presentes los propósitos de la formación de la especialidad en general, así como los de cada asignatura en el semestre que se cursa. El trabajo con las asignaturas de la especialidad demanda prácticas en las que los profesores son actores centrales para promover los cambios deseados en los estudiantes normalistas, lo que incluye el constante mejoramiento de las formas de enseñanza y el trabajo coordinado entre los profesores que imparten los distintos cursos de inglés. La guía de Literatura en Lengua Inglesa II continúa con los lineamientos planteados en el curso anterior. En este semestre se pretende ampliar los conocimientos adquiridos y desarrollar una mayor sensibilización en el alumno normalista hacia una diversidad de expresiones literarias. Como resultado del trabajo en las asignaturas de la especialidad en semestres anteriores, los estudiantes habrán avanzado tanto en los conocimientos del idioma como en los concernientes a la literatura y la cultura de los países de habla inglesa. Se hace énfasis en el lenguaje literario en diferentes manifestaciones: poesía, cuentos cortos, novela, ensayo, obras de teatro, proverbios y dichos, y cualquier otra expresión digna de considerarse literaria por su originalidad o por el uso creativo del lenguaje. Al mismo tiempo, se prepara al alumno para seleccionar, adaptar y crear actividades para aplicarlas en el salón de clase, tomando en cuenta la edad, los intereses y la cultura de los estudiantes de secundaria. Es importante tener en cuenta que el propósito principal de la asignatura es reforzar el conocimiento del idioma de una manera atractiva a través del goce de la literatura, de modo que provoque respuestas intelectuales y emocionales, así como una interpretación más allá del significado literal de las palabras. En el anexo de esta guía se sugieren actividades para realizar con los alumnos de la escuela normal y algunas que pueden llevarse a cabo con los estudiantes de la escuela secundaria durante el periodo de observación y práctica. También se indica bibliografía específica para que los profesores cubran los contenidos programáticos con mayor facilidad
PROPÓSITOS GENERALES A través del curso Literatura en Lengua Inglesa II se pretende que los futuros maestros de educación secundaria: 1. Incrementen su dominio del inglés a través del estudio de textos literarios de diferentes épocas
y tipos, empleando las cuatro habilidades comunicativas. 2. Enriquezcan su conocimiento de la cultura de los países de habla inglesa para que adquieran
mayor claridad de las diferencias y similitudes interculturales.
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3. Desarrollen habilidades de comprensión e interpretación de textos literarios, y de crítica y reflexión, utilizando un mayor número de textos y con actividades más complejas.
4. Enriquezcan su creatividad por medio de la redacción de textos que partan de publicaciones literarias o sean de creación personal, la musicalización de poemas, la dramatización, etcétera.
5. Acrecienten el hábito de leer por placer y disfrutar de la literatura para reforzar su motivación en el aprendizaje del inglés, fomentando, de esta manera, la autonomía en el estudio en general y de la literatura en lo particular.
6. Preparen y apliquen actividades con textos literarios apropiados para el trabajo con los alumnos de secundaria.
7. Obtengan elementos básicos para distinguir géneros y estilos literarios. Al igual que en el curso anterior, los propósitos de Literatura en Lengua Inglesa II se logran a través de la exploración de los estudiantes de diferentes tipos de textos y la realización de actividades variadas relacionadas con éstos. En este semestre, las actividades tienen un mayor grado de dificultad, dado que los alumnos ya cuentan con más herramientas lingüísticas, y literarias y culturales. Se pretende, asimismo, que las actividades en esta asignatura se centren en el estudiante; es decir, que se le involucre activamente en ellas. Tomando en cuenta lo anterior, el maestro seleccionará y adaptará los textos que mejor sirvan al propósito de la enseñanza de la asignatura para que exista un mayor nivel de exigencia hacia el trabajo de los alumnos normalistas. Se pretende que los estudiantes, además de entender, apreciar y disfrutar los diferentes textos literarios, aprendan a trabajar de manera combinada su propia formación y la formación para la enseñanza en la escuela secundaria a través de la preparación y aplicación de actividades sencillas relacionadas con la literatura en lengua inglesa. Por otra parte, mediante el curso, sus contenidos y actividades, se pretende desarrollar la autonomía en el estudiante; en este caso, que encuentre sus propias estrategias para leer, comprender y disfrutar la literatura.
BLOQUE I LA LITERATURA Y EL TIEMPO
TEMA: La literatura tiene como una de sus funciones, presentar momentos de la Historia humana desde el punto de vista del autor y permite asomarse al pasado desde la perspectiva emotiva del lector. La lengua inglesa es muy rica en esta forma de creación escrita y guarda una importante relación con temas sobre la descripción de eventos pasados que se incluye en el Programa de Secundaria. PROPOSITO: Que el maestro explore eventos del pasado desde la perspectiva de la Literatura sobre todo en la cultura de habla inglesa y desarrolle estrategias de lectura para abordar textos relacionados con este aspecto en el aula. No. DE SESIONES 4 ACTIVIDADES SUGERIDAS: Introducción a la clase con la presentación del marco histórico al que se refiere la lectura para luego realizar una Lectura compartida del texto Paul Revere’s Ride de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow , rescatando durante la lectura aspectos de estilo y cerrando con algunas breves notas sobre el autor Comentarios en grupo sobre eventos históricos interesantes para los maestros y elaboración de un resumen como ejercicio de transcodificación. Para llevar la actividad a el aula se explica la estrategia de lectura “función verbal” empleando un fragmento para su aplicación. Para finalizar los maestros preparan un plan para lectura con la estrategia vista, teniendo como material para sus alumnos páginas del libro que estén empleando en segundo grado en la función: Narrar historias y biografías.
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Descripción del entorno histórico para entrar a la lectura guiada del texto Impressión of an Indian Childhood de Zitkala – Sa comentando durante la lectura la creación de imágenes a través de las letras. Una vez concluida la lectura cada maestro narrará en pocas palabras aquélla parte del texto que más le haya gustado y redactará en pocas líneas algún momento de su infancia. Para llevar el trabajo al salón de clase se reforzará la estrategia de función verbal ya vista, con el empleo de cognados. Los maestros prepararán un plan de trabajo para la estrategia de reconocimiento de cognados en clase con material del libro que estén empleando en segundo grado, con relación a la función: Describir eventos pasados EVALUACION: • Resumen de lectura Paul Revere’s Ride en media cuartilla • Plan de clase incluyendo estrategia de función verbal • Redacción A moment in my life. • Narración de la parte del texto que más les agradó • Plan de clase para lectura utilizando cognados BIBLIOGRAFIA BÁSICA: • HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Paul Revere’s Ride • ZIKALA – SA Impression of an Indian childhood
BLOQUE II LA LITERATURA Y LOS ESPACIOS
TEMA: La descripción de lugares, desde regiones del planeta, hasta habitaciones, pasando por ciudades o villas la literatura tienen el poder mágico de transportar al lector y ubicarlo como si fuese quien contempla el lugar e incluso, quien protagoniza la historia. Este tema se relaciona así mismo con contenidos precisos del programa de inglés para Secundaria de tal forma que genera actividades útiles para llevarlas al aula. PROPÓSITO: Aumentar el vocabulario referente a la descripción de lugares utilizando estrategias de lectura que aborden el tema de Descripción de lugares que ocupa parte importante en el programa de secundaria. No. DE SESIONES 6 ACTIVIDADES SUGERIDAS: Introducción sobre la geografía de los pueblos de habla inglesa y algunas de sus características conversando en grupo sobre lo que os maestros saben de EUA, Inglaterra, Australia y la India empleando material gráfico de su elección, que previamente hayan traído a clase Lectura robada del texto: Build a FIRE, de Jack London rescatando elementos referentes a descripción del lugar. Al finalizar los maestros describirán por escrito en breves líneas algún lugar y lo comentarán al grupo. Cierra esta parte del tema con comentarios sobre el autor. Introducción sobre el momento histórico en que se genera el texto a leer y el espacio geográfico que ocupaba el Reino Unido. Lectura por turnos del fragmento de Wuthering Heights de Emily Bronté rescatando los elementos de descripción de espacios interiores. Los maestros describirán una habitación de su casa verbalmente empleando elementos del texto. Para llevar las actividades al aula, se explicarán las estrategias de inferencia y empleo de conectores, reforzando las ya vistas: cognados y función verbal. Se trabajarán técnicas para
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adquisición de vocabulario partiendo de la lectura: álbum, bingo, crucigrama, puzzles, definiciones. De los que el maestro elaborará algunos en equipo Para concluir, los maestros y maestras diseñarán una clase para leer, aplicando las estrategias vistas y con ejercicios para adquisición de vocabulario empleando el libro que utilicen en primero, con la función: Descripción de lugares. En segundo con la función: Describir dónde están las cosas y en tercero con la función Descripción de planes futuros.
EVALUACION: • Composición describiendo un lugar • Descripción verbal de un lugar • Ejercicios y materiales para adquisición de vocabulario • Plan de clase para una función de cada grado incluyndo estrategias de lectura y técnicas para
adquirir vocabulario BIBLIOGRAFIA BÁSICA: • JACK LONDON Making a FIRE • EMILY BRONTE Wuthering Heights
BLOQUE III
LA LITERATURA Y LA ESENCIA DE LOS PUEBLOS Y LAS ÉPOCAS TEMA: La mejor forma de conocer una sociedad es a través del arte que genera, especialmente, la creación literaria, una nación, una región una villa, se reflejan en el espejo de sus escritores. PROPÓSITO: Explorar algunos aspectos de la cultura de las naciones de habla inglesa a través de los textos trabajando al mismo tiempo en el diseño de ejrcicios para comprensión de la lectura NO. DE SESIONES 4 ACTIVIDADES SUGERIDAS: Introducción sobre el tema para luego realizar una lectura guiada del capítulo V de la novea Tom Sawyer de Marc Twin que al finalizar dará paso a comentarios en grupo sobre las diversas regiones y sus costumbres en algunos países. Los maestros harán una redacción en inglés, sobre tradiciones en nuestro y lo compartirán con el grupo Una introducción sobre costumbres en una época determinada dará paso a la lectura de Christmas Carol de Charles Dickens y se realizará un ejercicio de Role play por equipo, asignando los personajes Continuando con el tema de tradiciones es necesario abordar la leyenda, como expresión literaria que refleja un momento en la Historia de una sociedad determinada Se hará una lectura primero gratuita y luego robada de Sleeping Hollow Legend de Washington Irving para luego leer algunas leyendas regionales de Chihuahua y con este material los maestros elaborarán una lectura para segundo grado de secundaria, en este caso, agregando la estrategia de referentes – referidos EVALUACION: • Redacción sobre Tradiciones en nuestro país
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• Comentario sobre las tradiciones mexicanas en grupo • Participación en Role play • Lectura elaborada para alumnos de segundo grado con base en leyendas locales BIBLIOGRAFIA BÁSICA: • MARC TWAIN Tom Sawyer • CHARLES DICKENS Christmas Carol • UNIDAD DE SERVICIOS TECNICOS. PRIMARIA Leyendas de Chihuahua
BLOQUE IV LA LITERATURA Y LOS MUNDOS FANTÁSTICOS
TEMA: A través de las letras es posible crear y recrear otras realidades en nuestra mente siendo además la literatura en sus vertientes horror, ciencia ficción y relatos fantásticos motivante para la lectura en cuanto a alumnos jóvenes se refiere. PROPOSITO: Aplicar estrategias de lectura a temas de interés para los estudiantes buscando hacer del acto de leer una actividad motivante. NO. DE SESIONES 7 ACTIVIDADES SUGERIDAS: Introducción al tema para leer en lectura por turnos The Monkey’s paw de W. W. Jacobs do la que luego se pedirá a los maestros que realicen una historieta que compartirán con los compañeros Como introducción se hablará del impacto que causó en su época Frankenstein y sobre su autora. Posteriormente se leerá un fragmento del libro y cada maestro hará una redacción a manera de página de diario que escribiera su personaje de horro favorito. Lectura de una narración de horror de Phillip Lovecraft protagonizada por un maestro, una vez hechos los comentarios pertinentes, cada quien redactará iniciando en clase y concluyendo en su casa, una historia de horro, breve, que luego narrarán a los compañeros. Para actividad adecuada a los alumnos, los maestros harán un plan de clase para aplicar estrategias de lectura empleando su propia narración con la técnica del Comic. En clase y previa presentación y datos del autor se verá una película basada en algún libro de Stephen King para comentarla y elaborar una opinión por escrito sobre la misma EVALUACION: • Historieta con base en The Monke’s Paw • Redacción de páginas de un diario del monstruo o criatura fantástica que cada uno elija • Breve historia de horro creada por cada uno • Narración de esa historia a los compañeros • Plan de clase incluyendo estrategias y la historia creada por los maestros • Comentarios a la película vista en clase
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BIBLIOGRAFIA BÁSICA: • w. w. Jacobs The monke’s Paw • MARY SHILLEY Frankenstein • PHILLIP LOVECRAFT Eight short stories • STEPHEN KING Película basada en alguno de sus libros
BLOQUE V LA LITERATURA Y EL RITMO. LA POESÍA
TEMA: Como producción sublime de la mente humana, la poesía requiere un espacio especial en este curso proporcionando una visión profunda del sentir de los autores y del propio lector PROPÓSITO: Hacer Un recorrido a través de la poesía en ingles para adquirir vocabulario más complejo y una idea más completa de la creación literaria en esta lengua. NO. DE SESIONES 5 ACTIVIDADES SUGERIDAS: Lectura en grupo de varios poemas de autores rescatando las imágenes, la rima en su caso y el ritmo como elementos clave Los maestros tendrán a su cargo un poema asignado a la suerte que aprenderán para presentarlo en clases subsecuentes Consultarán en INTERNET para obtener un poema de su elección que ilustrarán gráficamente de la manera que quieran Escribirán un poema corto sobre su tema de elección, en inglés en clase. Diseñarán una clase para secundaria como base la letra de una canción actual que buscarán también en INTERNET EVALUACION • Presentación oral de poema en inglés en clase • Poema ilustrado gráficamente • Breve poema escrito por los propios maestros • Canción obtenida en INTERNET • Clase diseñada para trabajar esa canción a manera de poema BIBLIOGRAFIA • SALVADOR NOVO 101 Poems (antología de poestas americanos) • INTERNET Web sites
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BLOQUE VI LA LITERATURA EN TRES DIMENSIONES. EL TEATRO
TEMA: El teatro en sus diversos géneros permite llevar al estudiante a una percepción más personal de las obras literarias PROPÓSITO: Proporcionar al maestro el espacio para vivir la literatura a través del teatro y practicar la técnica del rol play, piedra angular de l enseñanza a través del enfoque comunicativo NO. DE SESIONES 6 ACTIVIDADES SUGERIDAS: Introducción al tema sobre el teatro en lengua inglesa, a continuación se distribuirá el grupo por equipos y se les asignará un acto de alguna obra teatral importante que deberán preparar para escenificar considerando lo visto en clase De los textos vistos durante el curso cada equipo hará una adaptación para escenificarla frente al grupo, teniendo como elemento de apoyo el role play realizado sobre Christmas Carol EVALUACION: • Representación del fragmento de obra teatral asignado por equipo • Adaptación del texto literario para su representación • Representación de la adaptación NOTA: En este bloque se pondrá en práctica la coevaluación como instrumento para asignar calificación
BLOQUE VII LA LITERATURA INGLESA EN LA ESCUELA
PROPÓSITO: Una vez que maestras y maestros se han puesto en contacto con la literatura y sobre todo con la lectura, están listos para manejar esta valiosa herramienta en la escuela a través de estrategias de comprensión que ya se vieron y ejercicios para comprensión de la lectura. Este bloque proporcionará a los maestros el espacio para diseñar sus propios ejercicios para los alumnos No. DE SESIONES 6 ACTIVIDADES SUGERIDAS: Introducido el tema, los maestros explorarán los libros que se les hayan entregado para el ciclo escolar descubriendo y analizando los ejercicios para comprensión de lectura que estos libros puedan contener. Resolverán otros más que proporcionará la persona a cargo de la materia y paso a paso diseñarán diversos materiales que incluso pueden emplearse como parte de exámenes para evaluación, de acuerdo con los contenidos del programa de secundaria.
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EVAUACION: • Ejercicios resueltos • Ejercicios diseñados BIBLIOGRAFIA BÁSICA: • Libro del maestro • Libro de texto que estén empleando
ORIENTACIONES DIDÁCTICAS A continuación se presentan algunas sugerencias que orientan el trabajo de la asignatura Literatura en Lengua Inglesa II, para lo cual se recomienda continuar trabajando, como ya se señaló, con poemas, cuentos cortos, ensayo, novela, proverbios y dichos, y obras de teatro. 1. Cada secuencia didáctica que se trabaje con los futuros docentes debe estar orientada a
desarrollar las cuatro habilidades básicas de la lengua y a fortalecer el aprendizaje del inglés a través de la literatura y de su relación con las demás asignaturas de la especialidad.
2. Se pretende que, a través de este curso, los alumnos normalistas apliquen las estrategias que
aprendieron en la asignatura Estrategias y Recursos I: Comprensión de Lectura, para que continúen, de manera más profunda, con el proceso de interpretación de los textos que leen y adquieran, así, el gusto por la literatura.
3. Es de vital importancia que siempre se elijan textos que realmente interesen a los estudiantes,
así como que no sean ni muy cortos (sin suficiente “sustancia”) ni muy largos (con los cuales se corre el peligro de cansar a los estudiantes); por supuesto, el tamaño apropiado varía según el tipo de texto.
4. Diversificación de formas de trabajo. Como ya se mencionó, en el trabajo con la literatura se
pueden utilizar estrategias similares a las que se emplean en la comprensión de lectura (véase la Guía de Estrategias y Recursos I: Comprensión de Lectura). Se sugiere que la presentación del texto literario se efectúe a través de tres momentos: actividades previas, durante y posteriores a la lectura.
Algunas recomendaciones puntuales son las siguientes: • Lluvia de ideas y/o discusión acerca del tema de un texto que se va a leer o a escuchar. • A partir de la primera lectura del texto, inferir el título de la obra. • A partir de la lectura del título, inferir el tema del texto. • Hacer una primera lectura del texto buscando ideas principales. • Ordenar un poema o pequeño texto. • Lectura de las líneas iniciales de un texto y predicción de lo que puede seguir. • Discusión de lo que se sabe o piensa de un autor, cantante o director y de su época, antes
de trabajar con el texto. • Comparación de lo que se piensa antes y después de ver el texto a estudiar. • Discusión del significado “escondido” (entre líneas, etcétera) e interpretaciones del texto. • Descubrimiento de “efectos” en un texto (metáforas, símiles, repetición de palabras, rimas,
ritmo, etcétera). • A partir de una situación dada, escribir el relato. • Comparación de autores que escriben sobre el mismo tema en diferentes épocas, para
establecer similitudes o diferencias. • A partir de imágenes, explicar por escrito la sensación que provocan. Esta misma actividad
puede variar si se presenta una serie de imágenes y el alumno tiene que relatar una historia. • Dramatización y/o juego de roles. • Comparación de un texto original con su versión llevada a la pantalla. • Ejercicios de completar palabras en un poema o texto en prosa (cloze exercises).
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Las estrategias señaladas pueden combinarse de acuerdo con los propósitos de las actividades, ninguna es exclusiva para iniciar, desarrollar o concluir una secuencia didáctica. Estas actividades sólo son sugerencias y pueden ser modificadas de acuerdo con las necesidades específicas de cada grupo: edad, género, intereses o nivel de inglés de los estudiantes. Es recomendable tomar en cuenta las diferencias individuales y estilos de aprendizaje de los alumnos sin olvidar que el maestro que imparta esta materia continuará utilizando el inglés como medio de comunicación en el salón de clase para seguir desarrollando el lenguaje rutinario propio del aula. En el Anexo se pueden encontrar algunos ejemplos de cómo explotar los textos literarios en el aula empleando algunas de las actividades mencionadas.
5. Planeación y análisis de las sesiones de práctica en la escuela secundaria. Como ya se mencionó,
el estudio de la asignatura Literatura en Lengua Inglesa II gira alrededor de dos grandes ejes: el desarrollo de la competencia comunicativa y la competencia didáctica del alumno; por esta razón es importante que el maestro de la asignatura dedique una o varias sesiones para apoyar a sus alumnos en la preparación y organización de la práctica docente que realizarán en las jornadas de observación y práctica en las escuelas secundarias (revisar el programa Observación y Práctica Docente III). Es menester recordarle al profesor la necesidad de acompañar a sus alumnos durante la práctica para observar su desempeño frente al grupo de secundaria y obtener los elementos necesarios para que posteriormente en la escuela normal, en una o más sesiones, se realice la recuperación, el análisis y la reflexión de la experiencia vivida por los alumnos normalistas.
6. Proyecto literario. La elaboración de un proyecto literario tiene como finalidad que los
estudiantes sistematicen los conocimientos y experiencias que les aporta el trabajo con textos literarios. Para llevarlo a cabo podrán elegir un tema que deseen ampliar y trabajar individualmente, por parejas o en equipos pequeños. El proyecto puede preverse para ser desarrollado durante el semestre; de esta manera, los estudiantes organizarán su tiempo para realizar las actividades correspondientes y preparar la presentación final. Por ejemplo, si a partir del tema sugerido en una película es factible investigar acerca de otros autores que hayan escrito sobre lo mismo, otra posibilidad es investigar qué otros escritores son contemporáneos del autor y cuál es su principal producción literaria. Una idea más para el proyecto literario es investigar qué obras han sido llevadas al cine. Esto motivará al estudiante normalista a indagar y ampliar sus conocimientos, a establecer relaciones y comprender mejor las circunstancias que obligaron a los autores a producir sus obras, además le brinda la oportunidad de desarrollar otras habilidades como la búsqueda, organización y análisis de la información, y expresar sus ideas en forma escrita (véase McRae, 1998).
EVALUACIÓN La evaluación como proceso continuo exige tener presentes los dos ejes fundamentales alrededor de los cuales gira la formación del maestro normalista: la competencia comunicativa y la competencia didáctica. De acuerdo con el primer eje es importante seguir dando prioridad al progreso que cada estudiante logra en cuanto a la comprensión, análisis e interpretación de textos, así como considerar las actitudes que manifiesta hacia el trabajo con la literatura durante la clase. Se recomienda utilizar diversos procedimientos de evaluación que favorezcan la elaboración de opiniones personales y la reflexión acerca del tema central de la obra. Será mucho más provechoso si los procedimientos seleccionados demandan al estudiante la comprensión de lectura, el razonamiento y la expresión escrita; sólo así el alumno podrá identificar sus avances, la profundización que logra durante el curso y lo que es necesario que fortalezca. Si se requiere de un examen final, éste podrá ser del tipo de comprensión de lectura y de expresión escrita, tomando como modelo las actividades realizadas en el salón de clase (véase Carter y McRae [eds.], 1996: 37). El segundo eje se atiende a través de la preparación y la realización de actividades para fortalecer el aprendizaje del inglés en los alumnos de secundaria. El análisis de las experiencias de práctica y la
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reflexión sobre los logros y dificultades individuales, son elementos que vale la pena tomar en cuenta, tanto en la autoevaluación, como en la evaluación sistemática que lleve a cabo el profesor. El proyecto literario, al ser una actividad fundamental que refleja la capacidad de los estudiantes para sistematizar sus conocimientos y experiencias con la literatura inglesa, será considerado como un elemento, entre otros, para la evaluación. De ninguna manera debe convertirse en el único factor que se tome en cuenta para la evaluación final
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MATERIAL
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APOYO
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Impressions of an Indian Childhood by Zitkala-Sa My Mother
A WIGWAM of weather-stained canvas stood at the base of some irregularly ascending hills. A footpath wound its way gently down the sloping land till it reached the broad river bottom; creeping through the long swamp grasses that bent over it on either side, it came out on the edge of the Missouri. Here, morning, noon, and evening, my mother came to draw water from the muddy stream for our household use. Always, when my mother started for the river, I stopped my play to run along with her. She was only of medium height. Often she was sad and silent, at which times her full arched lips were compressed into hard and bitter lines, and shadows fell under her black eyes. Then I clung to her hand and begged to know what made the tears fall. "Hush; my little daughter must never talk about my tears;" and smiling through them, she patted my head and said, "Now let me see how fast you can run to-day." Whereupon I tore away at my highest possible speed, with my long black hair blowing in the breeze. I was a wild little girl of seven. Loosely clad in a slip of brown buckskin, and light-footed with a pair of soft moccasins on my feet, I was as free as the wind that blew my hair, and no less spirited than a bounding deer. These were my mother's pride, -- my wild freedom and overflowing spirits. She taught me no fear save that of intruding myself upon others. Having gone many paces ahead I stopped, panting for breath, and laughing with glee as my mother watched my every movement. I was not wholly conscious of myself, but was more keenly alive to the fire within. It was as if I were the activity, and my hands and feet were only experiments for my spirit to work upon. Returning from the river, I tugged beside my mother, with my hand upon the bucket I believed I was carrying.
One time, on such a return, I remember a bit of conversation we had. My grown- up cousin, Warca-Ziwin (Sunflower), who was then seventeen, always went to the river alone for water for her mother. Their wigwam was not far from ours; and I saw her daily going to and from the river. I admired my cousin greatly. So I said: "Mother, when I am tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin, you shall not have to come for water. I will do it for you." With a strange tremor in her voice which I could not understand, she answered, "If the paleface does not take away from us the river we drink." "Mother, who is this bad paleface?" I asked. "My little daughter, he is a sham, -- a sickly sham! The bronzed Dakota is the only real man." I looked up into my mother's face while she spoke; and seeing her bite her lips, I knew she was unhappy. This aroused revenge in my small soul. Stamping my foot on the earth, I cried aloud, "I hate the paleface that makes my mother cry!" Setting the pail of water on the ground, my mother stooped, and stretching her left hand out on the level with my eyes, she placed her other arm about me; she pointed to the hill where my uncle and my only sister lay buried. "There is what the paleface has done! Since then your father too has been buried in a hill nearer the rising sun. We were once very happy. But the paleface has stolen our lands and driven us hither. Having defrauded us of our land, the paleface forced us away. "Well, it happened on the day we moved camp that your sister and uncle were both very sick. Many others were ailing, but there seemed to be no help. We traveled many days and nights; not in the grand happy way that we moved camp when I was a little girl, but we were driven, my child, driven like a herd of buffalo. With every step, your sister, who was not as large as you are now, shrieked with the painful jar until she
LECTURAS BLOQUE I
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was hoarse with crying. She grew more and more feverish. Her little hands and cheeks were burning hot. Her little lips were parched and dry, but she would not drink the water I gave her. Then I discovered that her throat was swollen and red. My poor child, how I cried with her because the Great Spirit had forgotten us! "At last, when we reached this western country, on the first weary night your sister died. And soon your uncle died also, leaving a widow and an orphan daughter, your cousin Warca-Ziwin. Both your sister and uncle might have been happy with us to-day, had it not been for the heartless paleface." My mother was silent the rest of the way to our wigwam. Though I saw no tears in her eyes, I knew that was because I was with her. She seldom wept before me.
The Legends
During the summer days, my mother built her fire in the shadow of our wigwam. In the early morning our simple breakfast was spread upon the grass west of our tepee. At the farthest point of the shade my mother sat beside her fire, toasting a savory piece of dried meat. Near her, I sat upon my feet, eating my dried meat with unleavened bread, and drinking strong black coffee. The morning meal was our quiet hour, when we two were entirely alone. At noon, several who chanced to be passing by stopped to rest, and to share our luncheon with us, for they were sure of our hospitality. My uncle, whose death my mother ever lamented, was one of our nation's bravest warriors. His name was on the lips of old men when talking of the proud feats of valor; and it was mentioned by younger men, too, in connection with deeds of gallantry. Old women praised him for his kindness toward them; young women held him up as an ideal to their sweethearts. Every one loved him, and my mother worshiped his memory. Thus it
happened that even strangers were sure of welcome in our lodge, if they but asked a favor in my uncle's name. Though I heard many strange experiences related by these wayfarers, I loved best the evening meal, for that was the time old legends were told. I was always glad when the sun hung low in the west, for then my mother sent me to invite the neighboring old men and women to eat supper with us. Running all the way to the wigwams, I halted shyly at the entrances. Sometimes I stood long moments without saying a word. It was not any fear that made me so dumb when out upon such a happy errand; nor was it that I wished to withhold the invitation, for it was all I could do to observe this very proper silence. But it was a sensing of the atmosphere, to assure myself that I should not hinder other plans. My mother used to say to me, as I was almost bounding away for the old people: "Wait a moment before you invite any one. If other plans are being discussed, do not interfere, but go elsewhere." The old folks knew the meaning of my pauses; and often they coaxed my confidence by asking, "What do you seek, little granddaughter?" "My mother says you are to come to our tepee this evening," I instantly exploded, and breathed the freer afterwards. "Yes, yes, gladly, gladly I shall come!" each replied. Rising at once and carrying their blankets across one shoulder, they flocked leisurely from their various wigwams toward our dwelling. My mission done, I ran back, skipping and jumping with delight. All out of breath, I told my mother almost the exact words of the answers to my invitation. Frequently she asked, "What were they doing when you entered their tepee?" This taught me to remember all I saw at a single glance. Often I told my mother my impressions without being questioned. While in the neighboring wigwams sometimes an old Indian woman asked me, "What is your mother doing?"
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Unless my mother had cautioned me not to tell, I generally answered her questions without reserve. At the arrival of our guests I sat close to my mother, and did not leave her side without first asking her consent. I ate my supper in quiet, listening patiently to the talk of the old people, wishing all the time that they would begin the stories I loved best. At last, when I could not wait any longer, I whispered in my mother's ear, "Ask them to tell an Iktomi story, mother." Soothing my impatience, my mother said aloud, "My little daughter is anxious to hear your legends." By this time all were through eating, and the evening was fast deepening into twilight. As each in turn began to tell a legend, I pillowed my head in my mother's lap; and lying flat upon my back, I watched the stars as they peeped down upon me, one by one. The increasing interest of the tale aroused me, and I sat up eagerly listening for every word. The old women made funny remarks, and laughed so heartily that I could not help joining them. The distant howling of a pack of wolves or the hooting of an owl in the river bottom frightened me, and I nestled into my mother's lap. She added some dry sticks to the open fire, and the bright flames leaped up into the faces of the old folks as they sat around in a great circle. On such an evening, I remember the glare of the fire shone on a tattooed star upon the brow of the old warrior who was telling a story. I watched him curiously as he made his unconscious gestures. The blue star upon his bronzed forehead was a puzzle to me. Looking about, I saw two parallel lines on the chin of one of the old women. The rest had none. I examined my mother's face, but found no sign there. After the warrior's story was finished, I asked the old woman the meaning of the blue lines on her chin, looking all the while out of the corners of my eyes at the warrior with the star on his forehead. I was a little afraid that he would rebuke me for my boldness.
Here the old woman began: "Why, my grandchild, they are signs, -- secret signs I dare not tell you. I shall, however, tell you a wonderful story about a woman who had a cross tattooed upon each of her cheeks." It was a long story of a woman whose magic power lay hidden behind the marks upon her face. I fell asleep before the story was completed. Ever after that night I felt suspicious of tattooed people. Whenever I saw one I glanced furtively at the mark and round about it, wondering what terrible magic power was covered there. It was rarely that such a fearful story as this one was told by the camp fire. Its impression was so acute that the picture still remains vividly clear and pronounced.
The Beadwork
Soon after breakfast, mother sometimes began her beadwork. On a bright clear day, she pulled out the wooden pegs that pinned the skirt of our wigwam to the ground, and rolled the canvas part way up on its frame of slender poles. Then the cool morning breezes swept freely through our dwelling, now and then wafting the perfume of sweet grasses from newly burnt prairie.
Untying the long tasseled strings that bound a small brown buckskin bag, my mother spread upon a mat beside her bunches of colored beads, just as an artist arranges the paints upon his palette. On a lapboard she smoothed out a double sheet of soft white buckskin; and drawing from a beaded case that hung on the left of her wide belt a long, narrow blade, she trimmed the buckskin into shape. Often she worked upon small moccasins for her small daughter. Then I became intensely interested in her designing. With a proud, beaming face, I watched her work. In imagination, I saw myself walking in a new pair of snugly fitting moccasins. I felt the envious eyes of my playmates upon the pretty red beads decorating my feet.
Close beside my mother I sat on a rug, with a scrap of buckskin in one hand
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and an awl in the other. This was the beginning of my practical observation lessons in the art of beadwork. From a skein of finely twisted threads of silvery sinews my mother pulled out a single one. With an awl she pierced the buckskin, and skillfully threaded it with the white sinew. Picking up the tiny beads one by one, she strung them with the point of her thread, always twisting it carefully after every stitch.
It took many trials before I learned how to knot my sinew thread on the point of my finger, as I saw her do. Then the next difficulty was in keeping my thread stiffly twisted, so that I could easily string my beads upon it. My mother required of me original designs for my lessons in beading. At first I frequently ensnared many a sunny hour into working a long design. Soon I learned from self-inflicted punishment to refrain from drawing complex patterns, for I had to finish whatever I began.
After some experience I usually drew easy and simple crosses and squares. These were some of the set forms. My original designs were not always symmetrical nor sufficiently characteristic, two faults with which my mother had little patience. The quietness of her oversight made me feel strongly responsible and dependent upon my own judgment. She treated me as a dignified little individual as long as I was on my good behavior; and how humiliated I was when some boldness of mine drew forth a rebuke from her!
In the choice of colors she left me to my own taste. I was pleased with an outline of yellow upon a background of dark blue, or a combination of red and myrtle-green. There was another of red with a bluish gray that was more conventionally used. When I became a little familiar with designing and the various pleasing combinations of color, a harder lesson was given me. It was the sewing on, instead of beads, some tinted porcupine quills, moistened and flattened between the nails of the thumb and forefinger. My mother cut off the prickly ends and burned them at once in the centre fire. These sharp points were poisonous, and worked into the flesh wherever they lodged. For this reason, my mother said, I should not do much alone in quills until I was as tall as my cousin Warca-Ziwin.
Always after these confining lessons I was wild with surplus spirits, and found joyous relief in running loose in the open again. Many a summer afternoon, a party of four or five of my playmates roamed over the hills with me. We each carried a light sharpened rod about four feet long, with which we pried up certain sweet roots. When we had eaten all the choice roots we chanced upon, we shouldered our rods and strayed off into patches of a stalky plant under whose yellow blossoms we found little crystal drops of gum. Drop by drop we gathered this nature's rock-candy, until each of us could boast of a lump the size of a small bird's egg. Soon satiated with its woody flavor, we tossed away our gum, to return again to the sweet roots.
I remember well how we used to exchange our necklaces, beaded belts, and sometimes even our moccasins. We pretended to offer them as gifts to one another. We delighted in impersonating our own mothers. We talked of things we had heard them say in their conversations. We imitated their various manners, even to the inflection of their voices. In the lap of the prairie we seated ourselves upon our feet; and leaning our painted cheeks in the palms of our hands, we rested our elbows on our knees, and bent forward as old women were most accustomed to do.
While one was telling of some heroic deed recently done by a near relative, the rest of us listened attentively, and exclaimed in undertones, "Han! han!" (yes! yes!) whenever the speaker paused for breath, or sometimes for our sympathy. As the discourse became more thrilling, according to our ideas, we raised our voices in these interjections. In these impersonations our parents were led to say only those things that were in common favor.
No matter how exciting a tale we might be rehearsing, the mere shifting of a cloud shadow in the landscape near by was sufficient to change our impulses; and soon we were all chasing the great shadows that played among the hills. We shouted and whooped in the chase; laughing and calling to one another, we were like little sportive nymphs on that Dakota sea of rolling green.
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On one occasion, I forgot the cloud shadow in a strange notion to catch up with my own shadow. Standing straight and still, I began to glide after it, putting out one foot cautiously. When, with the greatest care, I set my foot in advance of myself, my shadow crept onward too. Then again I tried it; this time with the other foot. Still again my shadow escaped me. I began to run; and away flew my shadow, always just a step beyond me. Faster and faster I ran, setting my teeth and clenching my fists, determined to overtake my own fleet shadow. But ever swifter it glided before me, while I was growing breathless and hot. Slackening my speed, I was greatly vexed that my shadow should check its pace also. Daring it to the utmost, as I thought, I sat down upon a rock imbedded in the hillside.
So! my shadow had the impudence to sit down beside me!
Now my comrades caught up with me, and began to ask why I was running away so fast.
"Oh, I was chasing my shadow! Didn't you ever do that?" I inquired, surprised that they should not understand.
They planted their moccasined feet firmly upon my shadow to stay it, and I arose. Again my shadow slipped away, and moved as often as I did. Then we gave up trying to catch my shadow.
Before this peculiar experience I have no distinct memory of having recognized any vital bond between myself and my own shadow. I never gave it an afterthought.
Returning our borrowed belts and trinkets, we rambled homeward. That evening, as on other evenings, I went to sleep over my legends.
The Coffee-Making
One summer afternoon, my mother left me alone in our wigwam, while she went across the way to my aunt's dwelling.
I did not much like to stay alone in our tepee, for I feared a tall, broad- shouldered crazy man, some forty years old, who walked loose among the hills. Wiyaka-Napbina (Wearer of a Feather Necklace) was harmless, and whenever
he came into a wigwam he was driven there by extreme hunger. He went nude except for the half of a red blanket he girdled around his waist. In one tawny arm he used to carry a heavy bunch of wild sunflowers that he gathered in his aimless ramblings. His black hair was matted by the winds, and scorched into a dry red by the constant summer sun. As he took great strides, placing one brown bare foot directly in front of the other, he swung his long lean arm to and fro.
Frequently he paused in his walk and gazed far backward, shading his eyes with his hand. He was under the belief that an evil spirit was haunting his steps. This was what my mother told me once, when I sneered at such a silly big man. I was brave when my mother was near by, and Wiyaka-Napbina walking farther and farther away.
"Pity the man, my child. I knew him when he was a brave and handsome youth. He was overtaken by a malicious spirit among the hills, one day, when he went hither and thither after his ponies. Since then he cannot stay away from the hills," she said.
I felt so sorry for the man in his misfortune that I prayed to the Great Spirit to restore him. But though I pitied him at a distance, I was still afraid of him when he appeared near our wigwam.
Thus, when my mother left me by myself that afternoon, I sat in a fearful mood within our tepee. I recalled all I had ever heard about Wiyaka-Napbina; and I tried to assure myself that though he might pass near by, he would not come to our wigwam because there was no little girl around our grounds.
Just then, from without a hand lifted the canvas covering of the entrance; the shadow of a man fell within the wigwam, and a large roughly moccasined foot was planted inside.
For a moment I did not dare to breathe or stir, for I thought that could be no other than Wiyaka-Napbina. The next instant I sighed aloud in relief. It was an old grandfather who had often told me Iktomi legends.
"Where is your mother, my little grandchild?" were his first words.
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"My mother is soon coming back from my aunt's tepee," I replied.
"Then I shall wait awhile for her return," he said, crossing his feet and seating himself upon a mat.
At once I began to play the part of a generous hostess. I turned to my mother's coffeepot.
Lifting the lid, I found nothing but coffee grounds in the bottom. I set the pot on a heap of cold ashes in the centre, and filled it half full of warm Missouri River water. During this performance I felt conscious of being watched. Then breaking off a small piece of our unleavened bread, I placed it in a bowl. Turning soon to the coffeepot, which would never have boiled on a dead fire had I waited forever, I poured out a cup of worse than muddy warm water. Carrying the bowl in one hand and cup in the other, I handed the light luncheon to the old warrior. I offered them to him with the air of bestowing generous hospitality.
"How! how!" he said, and placed the dishes on the ground in front of his crossed feet. He nibbled at the bread and sipped from the cup. I sat back against a pole watching him. I was proud to have succeeded so well in serving refreshments to a guest all by myself. Before the old warrior had finished eating, my mother entered. Immediately she wondered where I had found coffee, for she knew I had never made any, and that she had left the coffeepot empty. Answering the question in my mother's eyes, the warrior remarked, "My granddaughter made coffee on a heap of dead ashes, and served me the moment I came."
They both laughed, and mother said, "Wait a little longer, and I shall build a fire." She meant to make some real coffee. But neither she nor the warrior, whom the law of our custom had compelled to partake of my insipid hospitality, said anything to embarrass me. They treated my best judgment, poor as it was, with the utmost respect. It was not till long years afterward that I learned how ridiculous a thing I had done.
The Dead Man's Plum Bush
One autumn afternoon, many people came streaming toward the dwelling of our near neighbor. With painted faces, and wearing broad white bosoms of elk's teeth, they hurried down the narrow footpath to Haraka Wambdi's wigwam. Young mothers had their children by the hand, and half pulled them along in their haste. They overtook and passed by the bent old grandmothers who were trudging along with crooked canes toward the centre of excitement. Most of the young braves galloped hither on their ponies. Toothless warriors, like the old women, came more slowly, though mounted on lively ponies. They sat proudly erect on their horses. They wore their eagle plumes, and waved their various trophies of former wars.
In front of the wigwam a great fire was built, and several large black kettles of venison were suspended over it. The crowd were seated about it on the grass in a great circle. Behind them some of the braves stood leaning against the necks of their ponies, their tall figures draped in loose robes which were well drawn over their eyes.
Young girls, with their faces glowing like bright red autumn leaves, their glossy braids falling over each ear, sat coquettishly beside their chaperons. It was a custom for young Indian women to invite some older relative to escort them to the public feasts. Though it was not an iron law, it was generally observed.
Haraka Wambdi was a strong young brave, who had just returned from his first battle, a warrior. His near relatives, to celebrate his new rank, were spreading a feast to which the whole of the Indian village was invited.
Holding my pretty striped blanket in readiness to throw over my shoulders, I grew more and more restless as I watched the gay throng assembling. My mother was busily broiling a wild duck that my aunt had that morning brought over.
"Mother, mother, why do you stop to cook a small meal when we are invited to a feast?" I asked, with a snarl in my voice.
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"My child, learn to wait. On our way to the celebration we are going to stop at Chanyu's wigwam. His aged mother-in- law is lying very ill, and I think she would like a taste of this small game."
Having once seen the suffering on the thin, pinched features of this dying woman, I felt a momentary shame that I had not remembered her before.
On our way, I ran ahead of my mother, and was reaching out my hand to pick some purple plums that grew on a small bush, when I was checked by a low "Sh!" from my mother.
"Why, mother, I want to taste the plums!" I exclaimed, as I dropped my hand to my side in disappointment.
"Never pluck a single plum from this bush, my child, for its roots are wrapped around an Indian's skeleton. A brave is buried here. While he lived, he was so fond of playing the game of striped plum seeds that, at his death, his set of plum seeds were buried in his hands. From them sprang up this little bush."
Eyeing the forbidden fruit, I trod lightly on the sacred ground, and dared to speak only in whispers, until we had gone many paces from it. After that time, I halted in my ramblings whenever I came in sight of the plum bush. I grew sober with awe, and was alert to hear a long-drawn-out whistle rise from the roots of it. Though I had never heard with my own ears this strange whistle of departed spirits, yet I had listened so frequently to hear the old folks describe it that I knew I should recognize it at once.
The lasting impression of that day, as I recall it now, is what my mother told me about the dead man's plum bush.
The Ground Squirrel
In the busy autumn days, my cousin Warca-Ziwin's mother came to our wigwam to help my mother preserve foods for our winter use. I was very fond of my aunt, because she was not so quiet as my mother. Though she was older, she was more jovial and less reserved. She was slender and remarkably erect. While my mother's hair was heavy and black, my aunt had unusually thin locks.
Ever since I knew her, she wore a string of large blue beads around her neck, -- beads that were precious because my uncle had given them to her when she was a younger woman. She had a peculiar swing in her gait, caused by a long stride rarely natural to so slight a figure. It was during my aunt's visit with us that my mother forgot her accustomed quietness, often laughing heartily at some of my aunt's witty remarks.
I loved my aunt threefold: for her hearty laughter, for the cheerfulness she caused my mother, and most of all for the times she dried my tears and held me in her lap, when my mother had reproved me.
Early in the cool mornings, just as the yellow rim of the sun rose above the hills, we were up and eating our breakfast. We awoke so early that we saw the sacred hour when a misty smoke hung over a pit surrounded by an impassable sinking mire. This strange smoke appeared every morning, both winter and summer; but most visibly in midwinter it rose immediately above the marshy spot. By the time the full face of the sun appeared above the eastern horizon, the smoke vanished. Even very old men, who had known this country the longest, said that the smoke from this pit had never failed a single day to rise heavenward.
As I frolicked about our dwelling, I used to stop suddenly, and with a fearful awe watch the smoking of the unknown fires. While the vapor was visible, I was afraid to go very far from our wigwam unless I went with my mother.
From a field in the fertile river bottom my mother and aunt gathered an abundant supply of corn. Near our tepee, they spread a large canvas upon the grass, and dried their sweet corn in it. I was left to watch the corn, that nothing should disturb it. I played around it with dolls made of ears of corn. I braided their soft fine silk for hair, and gave them blankets as various as the scraps I found in my mother's workbag.
There was a little stranger with a black- and-yellow-striped coat that used to come to the drying corn. It was a little ground squirrel, who was so fearless of me that he came to one corner of the
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canvas and carried away as much of the sweet corn as he could hold. I wanted very much to catch him, and rub his pretty fur back, but my mother said he would be so frightened if I caught him that he would bite my fingers. So I was as content as he to keep the corn between us. Every morning he came for more corn. Some evenings I have seen him creeping about our grounds; and when I gave a sudden whoop of recognition, he ran quickly out of sight.
When mother had dried all the corn she wished, then she sliced great pumpkins into thin rings; and these she doubled and linked together into long chains. She hung them on a pole that stretched between two forked posts. The wind and sun soon thoroughly dried the chains of pumpkin. Then she packed them away in a case of thick and stiff buckskin.
In the sun and wind she also dried many wild fruits, -- cherries, berries, and plums. But chiefest among my early recollections of autumn is that one of the corn drying and the ground squirrel.
I have few memories of winter days, at this period of my life, though many of the summer. There is one only which I can recall.
Some missionaries gave me a little bag of marbles. They were all sizes and colors. Among them were some of colored glass. Walking with my mother to the river, on a late winter day, we found great chunks of ice piled all along the bank. The ice on the river was floating in huge pieces. As I stood beside one large block, I noticed for the first time the colors of the rainbow in the crystal ice. Immediately I thought of my glass marbles at home. With my bare fingers I tried to pick out some of the colors, for they seemed so near the surface. But my fingers began to sting with the intense cold, and I had to bite them hard to keep from crying.
From that day on, for many a moon, I believed that glass marbles had river ice inside of them.
The Big Red Apples
The first turning away from the easy, natural flow of my life occurred in an early spring. It was my eighth year; in the month of March, I afterward
learned. At this age I knew but one language, and that was my mother's native tongue.
From some of my playmates I heard that two paleface missionaries were in our village. They were from that class of white men who wore big hats and carried large hearts, they said. Running direct to my mother, I began to question her why these two strangers were among us. She told me, after I had teased much, that they had come to take away Indian boys and girls to the East. My mother did not seem to want me to talk about them. But in a day or two, I gleaned many wonderful stories from my playfellows concerning the strangers.
"Mother, my friend Judewin is going home with the missionaries. She is going to a more beautiful country than ours; the palefaces told her so!" I said wistfully, wishing in my heart that I too might go.
Mother sat in a chair, and I was hanging on her knee. Within the last two seasons my big brother Dawee had returned from a three years' education in the East, and his coming back influenced my mother to take a farther step from her native way of living. First it was a change from the buffalo skin to the white man's canvas that covered our wigwam. Now she had given up her wigwam of slender poles, to live, a foreigner, in a home of clumsy logs.
"Yes, my child, several others besides Judewin are going away with the palefaces. Your brother said the missionaries had inquired about his little sister," she said, watching my face very closely.
My heart thumped so hard against my breast, I wondered if she could hear it.
"Did he tell them to take me, mother?" I asked, fearing lest Dawee had forbidden the palefaces to see me, and that my hope of going to the Wonderland would be entirely blighted.
With a sad, slow smile, she answered: "There! I knew you were wishing to go, because Judewin has filled your ears with the white men's lies. Don't believe a word they say! Their words are sweet, but, my child, their deeds are bitter. You will cry for me, but they will not even soothe you. Stay with me, my little one!
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Your brother Dawee says that going East, away from your mother, is too hard an experience for his baby sister."
Thus my mother discouraged my curiosity about the lands beyond our eastern horizon; for it was not yet an ambition for Letters that was stirring me. But on the following day the missionaries did come to our very house. I spied them coming up the footpath leading to our cottage. A third man was with them, but he was not my brother Dawee. It was another, a young interpreter, a paleface who had a smattering of the Indian language. I was ready to run out to meet them, but I did not dare to displease my mother. With great glee, I jumped up and down on our ground floor. I begged my mother to open the door, that they would be sure to come to us. Alas! They came, they saw, and they conquered!
Judewin had told me of the great tree where grew red, red apples; and how we could reach out our hands and pick all the red apples we could eat. I had never seen apple trees. I had never tasted more than a dozen red apples in my life; and when I heard of the orchards of the East, I was eager to roam among them. The missionaries smiled into my eyes, and patted my head. I wondered how mother could say such hard words against them.
"Mother, ask them if little girls may have all the red apples they want, when they go East," I whispered aloud, in my excitement.
The interpreter heard me, and answered: "Yes, little girl, the nice red apples are for those who pick them; and you will have a ride on the iron horse if you go with these good people."
I had never seen a train, and he knew it.
"Mother, I'm going East! I like big red apples, and I want to ride on the iron horse! Mother, say yes!" I pleaded.
My mother said nothing. The missionaries waited in silence; and my eyes began to blur with tears, though I struggled to choke them back. The corners of my mouth twitched, and my mother saw me.
"I am not ready to give you any word," she said to them. "To-morrow I shall send you my answer by my son."
With this they left us. Alone with my mother, I yielded to my tears, and cried aloud, shaking my head so as not to hear what she was saying to me. This was the first time I had ever been so unwilling to give up my own desire that I refused to hearken to my mother's voice.
There was a solemn silence in our home that night. Before I went to bed I begged the Great Spirit to make my mother willing I should go with the missionaries.
The next morning came, and my mother called me to her side. "My daughter, do you still persist in wishing to leave your mother?" she asked.
"Oh, mother, it is not that I wish to leave you, but I want to see the wonderful Eastern land," I answered.
My dear old aunt came to our house that morning, and I heard her say, "Let her try it."
I hoped that, as usual, my aunt was pleading on my side. My brother Dawee came for mother's decision. I dropped my play, and crept close to my aunt.
"Yes, Dawee, my daughter, though she does not understand what it all means, is anxious to go. She will need an education when she is grown, for then there will be fewer real Dakotas, and many more palefaces. This tearing her away, so young, from her mother is necessary, if I would have her an educated woman. The palefaces, who owe us a large debt for stolen lands, have begun to pay a tardy justice in offering some education to our children. But I know my daughter must suffer keenly in this experiment. For her sake, I dread to tell you my reply to the missionaries. Go, tell them that they may take my little daughter, and that the Great Spirit shall not fail to reward them according to their hearts."
Wrapped in my heavy blanket, I walked with my mother to the carriage that was soon to take us to the iron horse. I was happy. I met my playmates, who were also wearing their best thick blankets. We showed one another our new beaded moccasins, and the width of the belts
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that girdled our new dresses. Soon we were being drawn rapidly away by the white man's horses. When I saw the lonely figure of my mother vanish in the distance, a sense of regret settled heavily upon me. I felt suddenly weak, as if I might fall limp to the ground. I was in the hands of strangers whom my mother did not fully trust. I no longer felt free to be myself, or to voice my own feelings. The tears trickled down my cheeks, and I buried my face in the folds of my blanket. Now the first step, parting me from my mother, was taken, and all my belated tears availed nothing.
Having driven thirty miles to the ferryboat, we crossed the Missouri in the evening. Then riding again a few miles eastward, we stopped before a massive brick building. I looked at it in amazement and with a vague misgiving, for in our village I had never seen so large a house. Trembling with fear and distrust of the palefaces, my teeth chattering from the chilly ride, I crept noiselessly in my soft moccasins along the narrow hall, keeping very close to the bare wall. I was as frightened and bewildered as the captured young of a wild creature.
Zitkala-Sa.
-- End --
Paul Revere’s Ride
Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town tonight, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches, with eager ears. Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the Old North
Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing a
spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the
light, The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
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And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town,
He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled How the farmers gave them ball far ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
Robert Graves. 1895- 177. The last Post
The bugler sent a call of high romance-
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square. On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer: “God, if it’s this for me next time in France,
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with other broken ones, Lying so stiff and still under the sky-
Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die…” The music ceased, and the red sunset flare
Was blood about his head as he stood there.
Oscar Wilde. 1956-1900 20. Impression du Matin
The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a harmony in grey; A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses’ walls
Seemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul’s Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred With country wagons,; and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone, The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare, With lips of flame and heart of stone.
Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894 12. Summer Sun
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose; And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlour cook, Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic, spider-clad, He, through the keyhole, maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his gold face around He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy’s inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The gardener of the World, he goes.
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17. The Valley of Silence
IN the secret Valley of Silence No breath doth fall;
No wind stirs in the branches; No bird doth call: As on a white wall
A breathless lizard is still, So silence lies on the valley
Breathlessly still.
In the dusk-grown heart of the valley An altar rises white:
No rapt priest bends in awe Before its silent light: But sometimes a flight
Of breathless words of prayer White-wing’d enclose the altar,
Eddies of prayer.
Rudyard Kipling. (1865- 49. The Return
Peace is declared, and I return
To ‘Ackneystadt, but not the same; Things ‘ave transpired which made me learn
The size and meanin’ of the game. I did no more than others did,
I don’t know where the change began; I started as a average kid,
I finished as a thinkin’ man.
If England was what England seems An’ not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an’ paint, ‘Ow quick we’d drop ‘er! But she ain’t!
Before my gappin’ mouth could speak
I ‘eard it in my comrade’s tone; I saw it on my neighbour’s cheek
Before I felt it flush my own. An’ last it come to me – not pride,
Nor yet conceit, but on the ‘ole (If such a term may be applied), The making’s of a bloomin’ soul.
Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer,
Plains which the moonshine turns to sea, Mountains that never let you near,
An’ starts to all eternity; An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fills
The ‘ollows of the wilderness, When the wind worries through the ‘ills- These may ‘ave taught me more or less.
Towns without people, ten times took, An’ ten times left an’ burned at last; An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look For owners when a column passed; An’ quiet, ‘omesick talks between
Men, met by night, you never knew Until – ‘is face – by shellfire seen –
Once – an’ struck off. They taught me, too.
The day’s lay-out – the mornin’ sun Beneath your ‘at-brim as you sight; The dinner-‘ush from noon till one, An’ the full roar that lasts till night; An’ the pore dead that look so old
An’ was so young an hour ago, An’ legs tied down before they’re cold –
These are the things which make you know.
Also Time runnin’ into years – A thousand Places left be’ind –
An’ Men from both two ‘emispheres Discussin’ things of every kind;
So much more near than I ‘ad guessed – An’ me, like all the rest, alone – But reachin’ out to all the rest!
So ‘ath it come to me – not pride,
Nor yet conceit, but on the ‘ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul. But now, discharged, I fall away To do with little things again …
Gawd, ‘oo knows all I cannot say, Look after me in Thamesfontein!
If England was what England seems
An’ not England of our dreams, But only putty, brass, an’paint,
‘Ow quick we’d chuck ‘er! But she ain’t!
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By Jack London
DAY had broken cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth-bank, where a dim and little traveled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more-days must pass before that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky-line and dip immediately from view.
The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle, undulations where the ice jams of the freeze-up had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hairline that curved and twisted from around the spruce- covered island to the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another spruce-covered island. This dark hair-line was the trail--the main trail--that led south five hundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a thousand more.
But all this--the mysterious, far-reaching hair- line trail. the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all--made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer! in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact
impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood forte bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.
As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below--how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take; a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o'clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.
He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, traveling light. In fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he concluded as he rubbed his numb nose and cheek-bones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man, but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheek- bones and the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty air.
LECTURAS BLOQUE II
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At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the proper wolfdog, gray-coated and without any visible or temperamental difference from its brother, the wild wolf. The animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for traveling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man's judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero. Since the freezing point is thirty-two above zero, it meant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was in the man's brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a vague but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink along at the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its warmth away from the air.
The frozen moisture of its breathing had settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were its jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crystalled breath. The man's red beard and mustache were likewise frosted, but more solidly, the deposit taking the form of ice and increasing with every warm, moist breath he exhaled. Also, the man was chewing tobacco, and the muzzle of ice held his lips so rigidly that he was unable to clear his chin when he expelled the juice. The result was that a crystal beard of the color and solidity of amber was increasing its length on his chin. If he fell down it would shatter itself, like glass, into brittle fragments. But he did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty all tobacco-chewers paid in that country, and he had been out before in two cold snaps. They had not been so cold as this, he knew, but by the spirit thermometer at Sixty Mile he knew they had been registered at fifty below and at fifty-five.
He held on through the level stretch of woods for several miles, crossed a wide flat of rigger- heads, and dropped down a bank to the frozen bed of a small stream. This was Henderson Creek, and he knew he was ten miles from the forks. He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He was making four miles an hour, and he calculated that he would arrive at the forks at half-past twelve. He
decided to celebrate that event by eating his lunch there.
The dog dropped in again at his heels, with a tail drooping discouragement, as the man swung along the creek-bed. The furrow of the old sled-trail was plainly visible, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks of the last runners. In a month no man had come up or down that silent creek. The man held steadily on. He was not much given to thinking, and just then particularly he had nothing to think about save that he would eat lunch at-the forks and that at six o'clock he would be in camp with the boys. There was nobody to talk to; and, had there been, speech would have been impossible because of the ice-muzzle on his mouth. So he continued monotonously to chew tobacco and to increase the length of his amber beard.
Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that it was very cold and that he had never experienced such cold. As he walked along he rubbed his cheek-bones and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did this automatically, now and again changing hands. But rub as he would, the instant he stopped his cheek-bones went numb, and the following instant the end of his nose went numb. He was sure to frost his cheeks; he knew that, and experienced a pang of regret that he had not devised a nose-strap of the sort Bud wore in cold snaps. Such a strap passed across the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn't matter much, after all. What were frosted cheeks? A bit painful, that was all; they were never serious.
Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was keenly observant, and he noticed the changes in the creek, the curves and bends and timber jams, and always he sharply noted where he placed his feet. Once coming around a bend, he shied abruptly, like a startled horse, curved away from the place where he had been walking, and retreated several paces back along the trail. The creek he knew was frozen clear to the bottom,--no creek could contain water in that arctic winter,--but he knew also that there were springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the coldest snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice. half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow Sometimes there were alternate layers of water and ice- skin, so that when one broke through he kept
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on breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the waist.
That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the give under his feet and heard the crackle of a snow-hidden ice-skin. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, for he would be forced to stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins. He stood and studied the creek-bed and its banks, and decided that the flow of water came from the right. He reflected a while, rubbing his nose and cheeks, then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he took a fresh chew of tobacco and swung along at his four-mile gait.
In the course of the next two hours he came upon several similar traps. Usually the snow above the hidden pools had a sunken, candied appearance that advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had a close call; and once, suspecting danger, he compelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not want to go. It hung back until the man shoved it forward, and then it went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It had wet its forefeet and legs, and almost immediately the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts to lick the ice off its legs, then dropped down in the snow and began to bite ou