Semicolon Spring 2024

What We’re About

Semicolon and Symposium are the official publications of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council at the University of Western Ontario, published bi-annually. For more information, follow us on Instagram at @ahsc_pubs or email us at ahscpubs@gmail.com. Previous editions are available online at issuu.com/ahscpubs.

Semicolon is the academic journal for the AHSC. It accepts outstanding A-level essays written for any undergraduate courses in the Arts and Humanities.

Sharing one’s work can often be daunting. The Publications team thanks you for your submissions and your trust in us.

Vice President of Publications: Julia Piquet

Associate Vice President of Publications: Abbie Faseruk

Academic Managing Editor: Samantha Ellis

Creative Managing Editor: Asha Saha

Copy Editor: Katherine Barbour

Copy Editor: Kiersten Fay

Social Media Coordinator: Mabel Zhao

Cover Designer: Emma Hardy

Layout Editor: Chahat Ghuman

An Arts and Humanites

Students’ Council Production

Copyrights remain with the artists and authors. The responsibility for the content in this publication remains with the artists and authors. The content does not reflect the opinions of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council (AHSC) or the University Students’ Council (USC).

Letter From the Vice President

Well, folks, we did it!

The Pubs team of 2023-24 has wrapped up our Spring edition of Symposium and Semicolon, successfully releasing the last half of volume 11. A lot of memories were created in this long but rewarding journey; I consider myself extremely lucky for the team I had this year, as they are the reason the Publications portfolio had an amazing inaugural year. Without them, I would not have been able to fulfill my role as Vice President of Publications nor put out six publications with nearly as much ease.

In your hands, dear reader, you find Volume 11, Issue 2 of Symposium or Semicolon. For this semester, our chosen theme was “Punk!” Punk is a subculture that emerged in the 1970s in the US and the UK that promoted the importance of individual liberty and self-expression. From new music genres like punk rock to new hairstyle and fashion trends, Punk paved the way for out-of-the-box ways for people to reinvent themselves and the culture that they indulge in. As you read this volume, ask yourself: What does reinvention mean to you?

I would like to take this last paragraph, and my last official words as Vice President of Publications, to thank my team. Abbie Faseruk, Sam Ellis, Asha Saha, Mabel Zhao, Kat Barbour, Kiersten Fay, Emma Hardy, Chahat Ghuman, and Kelly Loubandha: you guys are the backbone of Pubs. Without you, I would not be writing this message. Without you, there is no Pubs! Each one of you walked into our portfolio with a kind soul, a strong mind, and an open heart, and you exceeded all expectations I could even have dreamed of.

Happy reading,

Julia Piquet Vice President of Publications

Table of Contents

5

The Wound That Never Heals: The Blair Witch Project, Found Footage Horror, and Psychoanalytic Theory

By: Jaya Sinha

9

12

Sexuality and Decadence:

Reading Marion Hepworth Dixon’s “A Thief in the Night”

By: Annika Thornton

Prison Abolition and Disability: Divergent Bodies as Made Profit

By: Ella Whitney

16

“The Ultimate Female Fantasy”: An Examination of the Domestic Noir in Deja Dead and “Sadie When She Died”

By: Katherine Barbour

19

“Now gods, stand up for bastards!”:

The Decline of a Feudal Society in Shakespeare’s King Lear

By: Mabel Zhao

22

Visibility, Gender Performance, and Nonbinary People

By: Madyson Cooper

27

Critical Reading 101: A Lesson Taught by the Narrator of Northanger Abbey

By: Asha Saha

The Wound That Never Heals: The Blair Witch Project, Found Footage

Horror, and Psychoanalytic Theory

By: Jaya Sinha

Despite its ostensible passivity, the act of watching a film involves numerous psychic processes and the interpretation of various semiotic systems. The exact nature of the spectator’s psychic processes, specifically the process of identification, has often been explored using psychoanalytic theory. Christian Metz and Kaja Silverman are noteworthy examples of theorists with valuable insights into the psychoanalytic nature of film viewing and identification. However, their ideas were conceived to deal with classical Hollywood cinema. Films that employ other shooting techniques significantly complicate Metz and Silverman’s ideas of spectatorship and power. One such technique is found footage, defined by Found Footage Critic as a shooting style that is “designed to have the look and feel of actual (nonfictional) filmed events that were lost and subsequently discovered and made available to the viewer.” In his book, Found Footage Horror Films: A Cognitive Approach, Peter Turner writes of the limits of psychoanalytic theory as a tool for analyzing found footage films:

Metz’s notions of primary and secondary identification lack the precision of cognitive theorists and their fuller explorations of what identification entails. The diegetic camera also opens up many new avenues of investigation as its employment contradicts much of Metz’s conception of the camera in cinema. (12)

Though Turner is correct in his assertion that the diegetic camera “opens new avenues of investigation,” his dismissal of applying psychoanalytic theory to found footage films is a premature negation of a potentially fruitful theoretical analysis. This essay aims to explore how psychoanalytic theory, specifically that of Metz and Silverman, may be applied to found footage films, such as Eduardo Sánchez and Daniel Myrick’s influential horror film The Blair Witch Project.

In The Imaginary Signifier, Christian Metz cites the camera as the object of the spectator’s identification. He writes, “The spectator can do no other than identify with the camera, too, which has looked before him at what he is now looking at” (Metz 253). The viewer’s experience most closely aligns with that of the camera, the unseen spectator of the ongoings of the film. In classical Hollywood films, the spectator’s point of view aligns more closely with that of the camera than with any character on screen; their perception is governed by its gaze. The omnipresent camera creates a “vanishing point” that the transcendental film viewer occupies, constantly observing the world of the film while remaining invisible. The spectator occupies “an all-powerful position which is that of God himself, or more broadly, of some ultimate signified” (Metz 253). The found footage shooting technique used in The Blair Witch Project severely inhibits the film spectator’s power as a transcendental subject. The diegetic existence of the camera eliminates the “vanishing point” occupied by the viewer in most films by establishing the camera’s (and thus the spectator’s) physical presence in the world of the film. Furthermore, the diegetic camera’s dependence on an operator binds the spectator’s gaze to the character filming, blurring the distinction between the subject and object of the gaze. The film alternates between footage from a CP-16 and a Hi8 camera, the former shooting in black and white and the latter in colour. The switching between black and white to colour footage consistently reminds the viewer of the cameras’ existence. This reminder is further bolstered by the fact that the cameras occasionally capture

each other in their footage, establishing spatial relations between them and, thus, the physical position of the viewer within the realm of the film. When watching The Blair Witch Project, any identification that a viewer feels with the camera is coupled by identification with the character holding it, removing the spectator’s sense of omniscience while cementing empathy with the film’s characters.

The unique nature of spectatorship in The Blair Witch Project can also be examined using suture theory, as described in Kaja Silverman’s “Suture.” This Lacanian approach to spectatorship uses the classical Hollywood shot/reverse shot formation to explain the relationship between offscreen and onscreen space, or the seen and the unseen. The onscreen space in the first shot represents an “imaginary plenitude” (Silverman 220), as the viewer feels a sense of control and omniscience over the field of visibility. However, the nature of the first shot—the implication of the unseen through the character’s gaze—creates a sense of loss, drawing attention to the limitation of the spectator’s powers of perception. Silverman refers to the offscreen space in Lacanian terms: “The Absent One, also known as the Other, has all the attributes of the mythically potent symbolic father: potency, knowledge, transcendental vision, self-sufficiency, and discursive power” (221). When confronted by the presence of the Other, the viewer feels a sense of anxiety as they acknowledge the limitations of their power. This sense of loss is calmed by the second shot (reverse shot), which reveals the absence to the viewer, thus restoring their sense of control. “The classic film text,” Silverman further writes, “must at all costs conceal from the viewing subject the passivity of that subject’s position, and this necessitates denying the fact that there is any reality outside the fiction” (221). The Blair Witch Project’s diegetic camera technique completely violates this rule, taking advantage of the anxiety created by The Absent One by drawing attention to the spectator’s role.

In The Blair Witch Project, the Lacanian Imaginary is continuously disturbed by the Other. The Imaginary of the film spectator, which Silverman describes as “unbounded by any gaze” (220), depends on the spectator’s belief in the camera’s (and thus their own) transcendental nature and unlimited perception of the film. This belief must be torn by the realization of the limited capacity of the viewer’s sight in the first shot before it is ‘sutured’ by the second. Silverman describes the moment at which this ‘tearing’ occurs: “the viewing subject becomes aware of the limitations on what it sees—aware, that is, of an absent field. At this point, shot 1 becomes a signifier of that absent field, and jouissance1 gives way to unpleasure” (220). The recognition of the absent field, representative of the Other—the sense of authority that the viewer cannot overcome—creates the wound that the reverse shot must heal. The Blair Witch Project does not provide this healing. Though, as previously mentioned, the characters’ cameras occasionally capture each other. The shot/reverse shot technique is only used once, early in the film, to establish their simultaneous presence (10:50). This happens before the characters enter the woods when they, and the viewers identifying with them, are relatively safe. When the characters enter the woods, the shot/reverse shot is not used. The limitations of the camera assert their presence constantly, further opening the wound created by the absent field rather than suturing it. The absent field remains unseen by the viewer.

The Other, or the absent field, is most often occupied by the character holding the camera— usually Heather in The Blair Witch Project. The viewer is forced to spectate from Heather’s point of

1 A feeling that Silverman describes as, “akin to that of the mirror stage prior to the child’s discovery of its separation from the ideal image which it has discovered in the reflecting glass” (220).

view, constantly recognizing the absent field because the character with whom they are identifying is occupying it. This limitation of perception, or Lacanian castration, is a constant reminder to the viewer that they are subject to the authority of the Other. The absent field is not the Other itself; it is occupied by the character with whom the viewer identifies. Rather, the absent field is the representation of the Other’s power. The viewer is unable to see the subject of the film, which is most often Heather, because they are identifying with the camera that she is holding and, by extension, with Heather herself.

The viewer’s perception is bound to Heather’s, thrusting them into the role of object rather than the traditional role of subject. There is no reverse shot to suture the wound of the viewer; they remain castrated by the diegetic camera’s lack of omniscience, subject to the authority of the Other.

The anxiety created by this castration is at its height during the segments of The Blair Witch Project that most limit the viewer’s sight. In one scene (32:30), the film’s characters are woken by mysterious sounds while camping in the woods. The viewer hears snapping twigs approaching the characters while the screen remains almost completely black. Heather mentions the viewer’s blindness by stating that she is “not seeing shit on video” (32:55), and the noises continue. The viewer sees nothing, hearing the crackle of branches and the characters’ panicked yelling. Unlike traditional Hollywood films, in which Metz describes the viewer’s identification with the camera as “that of a transcendental, not an empirical subject” (254), the viewer’s identification with the camera is one of a physically present, endangered subject: Heather’s camera, and by extension, Heather herself. The viewer becomes highly conscious of the limitations of their spectatorship. Their identification with the camera renders them vulnerable to both the film’s diegetic threat (the Blair witch) and the authority and refusal of the Other. In “The Tutor-Code of Classical Cinema,” Daniel Dayan writes, “for the spectator who becomes frame-conscious, the visual field means the presence of the absent-one as the owner of the glance that constitutes the image” (30). The viewer’s complete lack of vision in this scene is representative of the complete power of the Other. The absent one, governing the already inhibited viewer, has chosen to completely deny them the power of the glance, fully castrating them. This lack of power heightens the viewer’s anxiety and fear, both desired effects of the film.

In what is arguably the film’s most iconic scene, Heather speaks directly into her camera, apologizing to her friends’ families for the trip’s tragic end. Her presence on the screen and direct address to the spectator severs the viewer’s identification with her while cementing their relationship with the camera. Heather’s face fills most of the frame, wide eyes staring into the absent field. Here, the viewer is acutely aware of their castration, of the Other’s refusal to grant them the power of the gaze. The presence of the witch, and the fact that the viewer’s identification with the camera places them in the house with her, makes this denial particularly anxiety-inducing; their awareness of the threat increases their desire for complete perception. This scene exemplifies the use of psychoanalytic theory as a tool to dissect how the film generates fear in the viewer.

Found footage films throw existing systems of theoretical film analysis into question, complicating ideas of spectatorship and power. However, viewing them through the lens of Christian Metz and Kaja Silverman’s psychoanalytic film theories creates a new and compelling avenue through which to use Lacanian theories of perception, Imagination, and lack. By examining the hugely influential film The Blair Witch Project, one can push the boundaries of psychoanalytic film theory while simultaneously unveiling the theoretical reasons for the film’s successful generation of fear and anxiety.

Works Cited

“Found Footage Film Genre.” Found Footage Critic, foundfootagecritic.com/found-footage-film-genre/. Accessed 2 Dec. 2023.

Metz, Christian. Psychoanalysis and Cinema: The Imaginary Signifier. MacMillan Press, 1982.

Silverman, Kaja. Kaja Silverman, Suture [Excerpts] - David Bard-Schwarz, www.davidbardschwarz.com/pdf/silverman.suture.pdf. Accessed 3 Dec. 2023.

Turner, Peter. Found Footage Horror Films: A Cognitive Approach. Routledge, 2020.

The Tutor-Code of Classical Cinema, www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/1211439.pdf. Accessed 4 Dec. 2023.

The Blair Witch Project. Directed by Eduardo Sánchez and Daniel Myrick, Performances by Heather Donahue, Joshua Leonard, Michael C. Williams. Artisan Entertainment, 1999.

Sexuality and Decadence:

Reading Marion Hepworth Dixon’s “A Thief in the Night”

By: Annika Thornton

Marion Hepworth Dixon was a fin de siècle writer and art critic, and the sister of more well-known writer Ella Hepworth Dixon. Though Marion “remained primarily an art critic” (Fehlbaum, “Sisters in Life” 109) and “produced primarily rather traditional pen portraits of various artists, usually members of the Royal Academy or aspirants thereto” (109), Marion wrote “several short stories, including two for The Yellow Book” (“Marion Hepworth Dixon”). Marion’s short story, “A Thief in the Night,” published in volume four of The Yellow Book, tells the story of a married woman who mourns the death of her lover, the married brother of her husband. An 1895 review of the fourth volume of The Yellow Book in The Critic: A Weekly Review of Literature and the Arts, dubbed the publication “A Yellow Indecency,” arguing: “There is nothing clever in the indecent poems and stories that go to the making this number. They simply pander to a depraved taste” (“A Yellow Indecency” 131). Another critic writing for the popular weekly women’s magazine, Lady’s Pictorial, described “A Thief in the Night” as “gruesome in the extreme” (qtd. in Fehlbaum, “Marion Hepworth Dixon”). Not only does “A Thief in the Night” present a radical image of the New Woman which threatens the notion of the sanctity of marriage for Victorian women, but Dixon’s short story also represents a decadent search for an intimate connection to a dead man. Thus, Marion Hepworth Dixon’s “A Thief in the Night” situates itself within the Aestheticism, Decadence, and New Woman movements, exemplifying the kinds of radical art and writing that The Yellow Book aimed to bring to a mass audience.

As a woman working as a writer, Marion Hepworth Dixon embodied the image of the new modern woman, and therefore, she brings a female voice to aesthetic and decadent fiction through her female protagonist, Mrs. Rathbourne. Though the story does not feature the figure of the new woman as a working woman, Mrs. Rathbourne represents a different kind of radical female character; she is a married woman who defies the social conventions of marriage by engaging in an affair with her husband’s brother, Colonel Rathbourne. The story immediately notes that Mrs. Rathbourne is married, introducing her as she lies awake at night alongside “her husband’s heavy breathing” (Dixon 239). Moreover, she is always referred to as “Mrs. Rathbourne” (239), and her first name is never revealed, repeatedly highlighting her marital status and, therefore, the transgression of her affair. The affair itself serves as a method of resistance against social expectations of marriage for women; an affair allows Mrs. Rathbourne to pursue romance and sexuality without concern for the duties and obligations of marriage. Upon learning of Colonel Rathbourne’s death from his wife, Mrs. Rathbourne expresses disdain for her sister-in-law who does not express grief, speaks “in her usual smooth, suave, unemotional tones” (241), and is more “concerned with the material trivialities of life” (241) than the loss of her husband as a lover or companion. Demonstrated by the sister-in-law’s emotional indifference, “A Thief in the Night” constructs marriage as a social obligation with no regard for the aesthetic pleasures of romance or sexuality; an extramarital affair removes the practical considerations of marriage from romance and allows one to pursue passion and pleasure. The pursuit of pleasure with no concern for practicality or social norms aligns with the aesthetes’ goal, “To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame” (Pater 1512) and “give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass” (1513), making “A Thief in the Night” a fitting story to be included

in an aesthetic magazine like The Yellow Book Focalized through the grieving Mrs. Rathbourne, “A Thief in the Night” presents a methodical investigation into identifying the presence of the soul among objects and spaces belonging to the dead. As Mrs. Rathbourne searches through her home to find a connection to her dead lover, she engages in a decadent exercise in seeking out pleasure using physical objects. In his essay, “The Decadent Movement in Literature,” Arthur Symons identifies the “qualities that mark the end of great periods” (858) that are characteristic of decadence: “an intense self-consciousness, a restless curiosity in research, an oversubtilizing refinement upon refinement, a spiritual and moral perversity” (858–9). The story introduces a restless Mrs. Rathbourne who has “watched the huge rectangular shadow of the water jug on the ceiling for over an hour and three-quarters” (Dixon 239) because she is unable to sleep in an “unfamiliar room” (239) in “the house of death” (239). On the wall, Mrs. Rathbourne notices a photograph of Colonel Rathbourne, and although “[o]utwardly the portrait was a thing of little beauty” (242), for Mrs. Rathbourne, “to look at this portrait meant to ignore all intervening time, to forget” (242) that the man’s body lies in a room downstairs. Looking at the portrait elicits an extremely personal aesthetic experience, allowing Mrs. Rathbourne to relive the sensations of her past with her lover; she recalls “[h]er foolish fear of being too soon at the trysting-place, her dread of being too late . . . his figure in front of her on the narrow winding path . . . her own welcoming cry, as she caught up her gown in the dewy grass, and darted towards him in the strange westward-trending shadows” (243). However, the experience of viewing the portrait leaves Mrs. Rathbourne longing “for something more tangible, more human, something more intimately his” (243). She subsequently embodies “a restless curiosity in research” (Symons 858) as she searches through Colonel Rathbourne’s house to find an object that will satiate her desire for intimacy with her dead lover.

Upon entering “the dead man’s room” (244), Mrs. Rathbourne’s “nervous hands twitched, [and] her eyes travelled hungrily from one object to another” (245) to find “something which he had used, that he had touched, and handled, that she could seize and call her own” (245). However, she realizes that the room becomes “itself a dead thing” (245) because “the soul of the room had fled from it, as it had from the body of the man she loved” (245). Mrs. Rathbourne’s search reaches the height of its “perversity” (Symons 859) as she nearly “raises the coverlid” (Dixon 245) which conceals the body to see the dead man, but stops due to “a renewed sense of horror” (245) and realizes, “she wanted the living, not the dead . . . the man, not the clay” (246). Although Mrs. Rathbourne momentarily reaches the conclusion that she will not uncover anything that will replace Colonel Rathbourne’s living soul, she discovers “a well-worn dressing gown” (246) which contains “a crumpled handkerchief” (246) and emits “the vague odour of cigars” (246). She also notices “the button at the breast was loose and hung by a thread as if he had been in the habit of playing with it” (246), reflecting “some unaccountable way of palpitating, everyday, intimate life” (246). Satisfied with her discovery, Mrs. Rathbourne steals the dressing gown and completes the search for an intimate object that contains some lingering piece of Colonel Rathbourne’s soul. Thus, the story completes its own decadent experiment to reveal how the grieving psyche seeks to form connections with the dead.

Through its representation of female sexuality, an extramarital affair, and the consuming desire for intimacy with a dead man, Marion Hepworth Dixon’s “A Thief in the Night” situates itself thematically within the Aestheticism, Decadence, and New Woman movements and thus constitutes the kind of boundary-pushing art that The Yellow Book aimed to distribute to the mass public.

Works Cited

“A Yellow Indecency.” The Critic: a Weekly Review of Literature and the Arts (1886–1898), vol. 23, no. 678, Feb 16, 1895, p. 131.

Dixon, Marion Hepworth. “A Thief in the Night.” The Yellow Book, vol. 4, January 1895, pp. 239–46.

Fehlbaum, Valerie. “Marion Hepworth Dixon (1856–1936).” Yellow 90s 2.0, 1890s.ca/dixonM_bio/. Accessed 7 November 2023.

- - -. “Sisters in Life, Sisters in Art: Ella and Marion Hepworth Dixon.” Michael Field and Their World, Edited by Margaret D. Stetz and Cheryl A. Wilson, Rivendale Press, 2007, pp. 107–15.

Pater, Walter. “Studies in the History of the Renaissance.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Volume 2. Edited by Stephen Greenblatt et al., Norton, 2006, pp. 1507–13.

Symons, Arthur. “The Decadent Movement in Literature.” Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, vol. 87, Nov. 1893, pp. 858–67.

Prison Abolition and Disability:

Divergent Bodies as Made Profit

By: Ella Whitney

The movement for prison abolition is an ongoing struggle for the restructuring of society in a way that no longer encourages criminalization and segregation, and a vital yet often forgotten framework through which to analyze prison abolitionist action and ideology is that of Disability Studies. Disability Studies is the study of socially constructed meanings given to specific differences in people’s appearance and behaviour and how they result in the formation of disabled identities and cultures (BenMoshe 9). It also offers a long history of political analysis and revolution. To examine the intersection between systemic racism and ableism reveals overlap in the different forms of incarceration and denied ownership of one’s own body. The deinstitutionalization movement pushed for by disabled scholars and activists lends an idea of how prison abolition can be successful through its focus on compassionate decarceration and community organization. In relation to this, both the mentally and physically disabling effects of the prison industrial complex and the criminalized nature of many disabilities further connect the two liberation movements not only ideologically but functionally. Prison abolition is a necessary step for the liberation of all oppressed minorities, especially the racialized and impoverished, but gaining rights, recognition, and respect for the disabled people living in and fighting against incarceration systems is a fundamental and interconnected piece of that liberation as well.

Disability and racial oppression are two very distinct and separate forms of oppression but indeed intersect in many places. Racism, ableism, and the prison industrial complex function in many ways to sustain and justify each other in an interrelated pattern. The movements to abolish psychiatric institutions and abolish the prison system are thus ideologically connected. The deinstitutionalization movement in the West represents a form of abolishing incarceration that acts as an example to those who would claim decarcerating prisons to be impossible. The political school of thought behind psychiatric deinstitutionalization shares the goal of decarcerating and reintegrating individuals who have been removed from society and encourages asking questions such as “whose bodies are available for capture” (Ben-Moshe 9) and what can be done to liberate them. Challenging the removal of non-normative bodies to spaces of confinement, abuse, and exploitation is at the core of abolitionist movements across formations of incarceration.

However, it would be remiss to neglect the ways that psychiatric deinstitutionalization functioned as well to upkeep the prison industrial complex. As noted in an interview with sociologist Niel Gong, the lack of properly established community support left many of those with lesser wealth or connections without access to any treatment and to suffer in silence. Access remains often blocked by location, financial struggles, lack of familial support, and more. As a result, many individuals have ended up left behind by society and have found themselves on the street. As decarcerating psychiatric treatment did little to change the carceral and segregationist mindset of society, criminalization and thus incarceration became the new threat for social control (Erevelles). It is the devaluing of certain communities in the name of protecting others that allows for the violence of State control to take place. Whether this devaluation comes from infantilization or criminalization, it remains a method to dehumanize and strip power from politically vulnerable groups. The recognition of the ways that direct decarceration served

to further prop up the prison industrial complex allows for an opportunity to learn from the mistakes of other forms of abolition. We must recognize the vacuums and weaknesses left behind from that system so that when approaching prison abolition an emphasis on community organizing and restructuring support systems for those in harm’s way can be used to mitigate previous dangers.

When examining intersections between racialization and structural ableism from a wide lens, it is apparent how both function as pieces of a larger eugenicist method of the State to maintain a certain type of desired population. Nirmala Erevelles defines the term bio-power as a collection of techniques “exercised in an attempt to preserve (normative) life” (84). An example of such a technique would be the criminalization of health struggles such as addiction, struggles often associated with Black, Brown, and Indigenous communities, and the impoverished. The criminalization of addiction functions as both an ableist and racist tool of eugenicist ideology, a demonization of a disability used to villainize and disempower racialized people. Further, it has been literally weaponized, such as during the American War on Drugs which saw the government associate drug use with Black communities in order to delegitimize them in the eyes of the mainstream (Walcott 16). Researcher Niel Gong emphasizes the racism, classism, and ableism behind the ideal of “clean streets” (51), noting that as long as addiction and other such health concerns are not immediately obvious to the public, the stigma is minimized. Such an enforced shamefulness and criminalization holds historical precedence in the legal phenomenon that took place from the 1860s to 1970s, colloquially called Ugly Laws, a series of laws that made it illegal to be seen in public when:

diseased, maimed, mutilated, or in any way deformed, so as to be an unsightly or disgusting object, or an improper person to be allowed in or on the streets … under the penalty of a fine of $1 [about $20 today] for each offense. (Chicago City Code 1881). (Schweik 1)

Punishments such as fines result in an increased legal threat for those struggling financially, which, when considering the historical disadvantaging of racialized minorities, is a grouping likely to include many disabled folks of colour. Similarly, clinically diagnosed mental illnesses have also been weaponized to uphold eugenicist and nationalist ideals through racially biased legal systems such as deportation. Scholar Geoffrey Reaume exemplifies Canada’s own history of eugenics within psychiatric treatment through the deportation of two immigrants who were to be institutionalized, despite prior to diagnosis having lived and worked in Canada with their families for years. Reaume attributes their unlawful deportations as a result of their “spoiled status as mad immigrants” (75), stripping them of their value to the public and to the State. In these many examples, it is clear how the criminalization of race and disability often intersect under eugenicist protocols.

Not only has the criminalization of certain disabilities served to uphold racist systems, but racist systems often interact with and have built upon ableist ones. In the introduction to her novel, The Ugly Laws, Susan Schweik touches upon the historical interrelation between whiteness and concepts of disability. Particularly, Schweik highlights the pseudo-scientific formations of race and their relation to intelligence. Schweik focuses on the propaganda behind the imperialistic efforts of America and the ways it utilized an implied cognitive disability as an inherent trait of all Filipino people to justify a ‘paternalistic’ invasion and pillaging of their land. Under white supremacist conceptions of race, such an implication of cognitive disability within all people of colour has been used to justify dehumanization and violence (Schweik 5-6, Erevelles 86).

Furthermore, racism itself can act as a disabling force through abuses of the body and mind, and how the dehumanization weaponized against disabled bodies is often utilized to either further criminalize both abled and disabled people of colour or victimize disabled white people. An example of this, as described by Autumn Miller, would be the Judge Rotenberg Centre. The centre advertises itself as a “last resort” (Miller 1) for disabled youth, but with 81.5% of its students being Black and Latine, the centre’s physical and psychological abuses against its residents, such as electro-shock therapy and restraints, take on a racially charged perspective. The demonization and pathologization of both race and disability work to justify violence and the removal of individuals from society whose bodies exist outside the white eugenicist ideal. This exemplifies both the supremacist nature of ableism and sanism and the disabling nature of white supremacy.

Finally, another shared motivation for the enforcement of State control over non-normative bodies, and the exploitation or removal of those bodies that follow, can be found in the capitalist interests often behind State actions. In “Property is the Problem,” Rinaldo Walcott explains how white supremacy conceptualizes and enforces the idea of Black bodies as property. He tracks white supremacist structures of ownership of bodies, capitalist structures of ownership of labour, and the physically and socially violent protections enacted over what white individuals and governments value as property. When that concept of property and profit, as tied to the exploitation of bodies and identity, is relayed through Disability Studies, therein lies a recognition of the ways disabled bodies are also, in different ways, exploited as property. Through institutionalization and incarceration, a person’s body ceases to be their own and becomes property of the State. Autumn Miller, in her previously discussed critique of the Judge Rotenberg Centre, explains that abuses such as those at the centre are not by chance, but are a result of the systemic exploitation of devalued disabled bodies through ideals of capitalist productivity. Much like how Johan Galtung’s theory of cultural and structural violence expands beyond the physical, capitalistic gains are as well not limited solely to the financial. By financially exploiting the different needs of disabled bodies through welfare, healthcare, and insurance, and also socially and structurally exploiting the mainstream conception of the disabled experience, capitalistic structures create a self-sustaining loop of objectification, pity, and fear; thus profit is produced in the form of “[facilitating] socio-cultural values around which lives are meaningful and which are not” (Miller 3).

This is a perpetuation of the idea that some bodies are inherently more valuable than others, which is beneficial to capitalist ideals as it allows for more blatant forms of exploitation such as prison labour to be legitimized in the eyes of the public. The inverse of such exploitation and in nature thus an extension of it can be witnessed in previously shown examples of systemic ableism such as the “Ugly Laws” (Schweik) or the deportation of mentally ill immigrants (Reaume); where those with disabled bodies that could not benefit the State were removed from the playing field entirely. Thus, Walcott’s description of objectification and property provides a lens through which liberation for disabled communities and liberation for incarcerated communities intertwine at the base of capitalist oppression. Examining prison abolition and the prison industrial complex from the perspective of Disability Studies provides an opportunity to delve deeper into how the State exercises control over bodies that deviate from the norm. This analysis recognizes the societal emphasis on productivity, the detrimental effects of the prison industrial complex on minorities, the racialization of certain mental illnesses, and the

unjust treatment of disabled individuals by legal and social structures. In this recognition, it becomes clear that disability as a social construct is tied to the wider carceral structure of society and the internalization of the mindsets which perpetuate it. Additionally, the similarities between the successful deinstitutionalization movement and the ongoing prison abolition movement, both rooted in antiincarceration and community-oriented principles, further highlight the transformative potential of prison abolition as a viable long-term goal.

Works Cited

Ben-Moshe, Liat. “Introduction: Intersecting Disability, Imprisonment, and Deinstitutionalization.”

Decarcerating Disability: Deinstitutionalization and Prison Abolition, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 2022, pp. 1–35.

Erevelles, Nirmala. “Crippin’ Jim Crow: Disability, Dis-location, and the school-to-prison pipeline.” Disability Incarcerated, 2014, pp. 81–99, https://doi.org/10.1057/9781137388476_5.

Galtung, Johan and Fischer, Dietrich. “Cultural Violence.” Johan Galtung, 2013, pp. 41–58, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-642-32481-9_4.

Miller, Autumn. “Against Productivity & Liberal Pity: A case study in prison abolition & disability justice.” Disability Studies Quarterly, vol. 42, no. 3–4, 2023, https://doi.org/10.18061/dsq.v42i3- 4.9192.

Randall, Rory. “Social Class, Disability, and the Lessons of Psychiatric Deinstitutionalisation for Prison Abolition: An Interview with Sociologist Neil Gong.” 2020, Accessed 2023.

Reaume, Geoffrey. “Eugenics incarceration and expulsion: Daniel G. and Andrew T.’s deportation from 1928 Toronto, Canada.” Disability Incarcerated, 2014, pp. 63–80, https://doi. org/10.1057/9781137388476_4.

Schweik, Susan M. “Introduction.” The Ugly Laws: Disability in Public, New York University Press, New York, 2010, pp. 1–20.

Walcott, Rinaldo. “Property is a Problem.” On Property, Biblioasis, 2021, pp. 9-42.

“The Ultimate Female Fantasy”: An Examination of the

Domestic Noir in Deja Dead and “Sadie When She Died”

By: Katherine Barbour

In both Kathy Reichs’ novel Deja Dead (1997), and Ed McBain’s short story “Sadie When She Died” (1973), elements of domestic noir are present through their depiction of crime that invades the domestic space of the home. Both texts provide examples that investigate how familiar domestic spaces become locations for violence against women and express the fear of women’s inability to escape violence. What Kathy Reichs’ character calls the “ultimate female fantasy” (401), is the desire for women to feel secure in their homes and have a safe space away from violence; the domestic noir reasserts how that will always remain a fantasy. I want to look at the depiction of the home as a crime scene in both Reichs’ and McBain’s works and how they symbolically convey a connection between the home and women to depict their versions of domestic noir. Through this analysis, I wish to illustrate how the home invasions in both texts emphasize the fallibility of presumed safety in domestic spheres as the female characters are subjected to violence in their homes, firmly dismantling the fantasy of domestic security.

In Reichs’ novel Deja Dead, elements of domestic noir are evident through the depiction of Temperance’s house which transforms from a place of comfort and safety to one that becomes invaded by violence. This is an example of how domestic noir “makes the home not only alien and uncanny but fatal” (Joyce and Sutton 5). Upon entering her home at the beginning of the novel, Temperance describes it as a space where she can be vulnerable: “Now I was free to relax. To think. To worry. It happened as soon as I pulled into the garage” (Reichs 34). Her home is a space that provides her with distance from violence, where she can contemplate worrying matters but be safe from them physically. Temperance often notes the multiple security measures that ensure that distance from violence: “I entered the apartment and heard the reassuring beep of the security system” (Reichs 34). As Leo Fortier starts to prey on Temperance, he does so by proving he can dismantle those protections and presumptions of security. The night Fortier leaves a severed head outside her home, Temperance senses this breach in security when she hears an unfamiliar sound: “A soft clunk followed by a faint metallic rattle. . . Was someone in the apartment? I’d grown accustomed to the ordinary sounds of the place. This sound was different, an acoustic intruder” (Reichs 229). Despite the fear of the “acoustic intruder,” Temperance continues to cling to the fact that the violence is outside:

The security system is operating, and it hasn’t been breached! Nothing has been opened! No one entered.

Then he’s out there! I responded, still quite shaken. Maybe, said my brain, but that’s not so bad.

Turn on some lights, show some activity, and any prowler with sense will beat it out of here.

(Reichs 231)

At this moment, she still believes, or is trying to convince herself, that the domestic space of her home is a barrier that separates her from outside violence. This scene signals that those security methods will not withstand Fortier, and her home will continue to be the setting of increasing levels of violence.

Joyce and Sutton define domestic noir as a subgenre of crime fiction that “puts the female experience at the centre. At the centre of these stories is a subversion of the idea of home as

sanctuary. Home can also be a cage, a place of torment, of psychological tyranny, of violence” (vii). Once Fortier breaks into Temperance’s home and attacks her, her house loses all sense of comfort and seems to turn on her: “As we pitched forward, my stomach struck a section of counter, and my head slammed into an overhead cabinet. . . The edge of the dishwasher cut painfully across my left pelvic bone” (Reichs 393). In this climactic showdown, her home fully embodies a haunted and violent space as the furniture pieces, which are emblems of her domestic space, have subverted into tools that cause her harm.

Ed McBain’s short story “Saidie When She Died” also depicts a home invasion;, however, it examines the intrusion from a bodily level to a psychological level. McBain subverts the notion that the home is a safe space by also subverting the idea of the ‘intruder.’ The first home invasion is carried out by Ralph Corwin, who was “a junkie in need of cash” (McBain 391) and chooses the Fletchers’ apartment to break into “because it was the first one he saw without lights. He figured there was nobody home” (391). Corwin only hurts Sarah in a moment of panic, illustrating how this intrusion displays the randomness of violence. While this is a classic case of a burglary gone wrong, the reveal of Sarah’s double life as Sadie and her husband’s part in her death introduces an additional intrusion. Outside her home and in the homes of others, Sarah becomes Sadie Collins. One of the men with whom Sadie had sexual relations with claims: ‘“I didn’t know Sarah Fletcher, if that’s who you think she was. But I knew this broad, all right. She introduced herself as Sadie Collins, and that’s who I knew her as”’ (McBain 397). Sadie Collins was a nomadic figure that did not belong to a single domestic space; rather, she collected the addresses of others in an address book as if seeking out alternative domestic spaces. However, the scene of the crime is Sarah’s home, but, as the title claims, she was “Sadie When She Died.” Thus, I want to propose another intruder— the psychological intruder of Sadie. Sadie symbolically intrudes into the domestic sphere that belongs to Sarah, turning the house into an uncanny space that is susceptible to violence. The story expresses a need to fatally condemn Sadie for rejecting the role of the faithful, domestic wife and exploring her sexuality outside of her home and marriage. Though her husband Gerry insists that ‘“she begged [him] to kill her”’ (McBain 410), he immediately clarifies that he did not kill his wife Sarah, and only killed Sadie: ‘“No. Not Sarah. Only the woman she’d become, the slut I forced her to become. She was Sadie, you see, when I killed her— when she died”’ (410). His condemnation of her reveals that his actions still largely came from a place of anger and reproach. The text does little to question Gerry’s separation of Sarah and Sadie, even though they were the same woman with the same desires and fears. The shaming of liberal, female sexuality is imbued in the text, and the crime scene taking place at home suggests that a sexually liberated and nonmonogamous female is incompatible with a domestic space.

While Sarah and Temperance are alike in the ways their homes become a space of violence, one thing objectivelyunobjectively divides them: one is dead, and one is alive. In many ways, Sarah is the ghost of the domestic noir whoseand her abject victimhood haunts those like Temperance— a reminder that any woman can experience similar violence within presumably safe spaces. While Sarah symbolically haunts Temperance, the other women that Fortier killed, specifically Margaret Adkins, do not allow Temperance to remain distant and objective to the violence they endured. Upon seeing Margaret’s mutilated body, Temperance describes how, “[i]nvoluntarily, I clutched my belly” (Reichs 70). This demonstrates how she cannot help but identify with Margaret as if her body knows that this

could have been her. In eerily similar language, Corwin describes how once Sarah was stabbed “she grabbed for her belly” (McBain 394). Temperance’s empathy towards Margaret expands her identity past simply being a scientist and highlights how she is another woman who relies on her home as a space of security, and that security ultimately fails her in the face of exterior violence. Margaret’s husband notes how “[Margaret] never liked living here. . . when she came home she wanted to feel safe. Untouchable” (Reichs 253). Margaret’s death foreshadows the way that Temperance’s home will similarly cease being a space of comfort and security. While being attacked by Fortier, Temperance claims,: “I saw the women again, saw what he’d done to them. I felt their terror and knew their final desperation” (Reichs 393). Here, Temperance refers to the many victims within Deja Dead; however, in a metafictional sense, she is also referring to Sarah Fletcher, who is another helpless victim within her own home.

To summarize, both Deja Dead and “Sadie When She Died” use elements of domestic noir that depict the home as a crime scene, a space where premeditated, random, or personal acts of violence can enter. The texts emphasize a connection between the female body and the home that demonstrates how women cannot escape violence. A comparison of the two texts reveals how the fate of Sarah’s fate in McBain’s short story and the numerous victims in Deja Dead represents the anxiety of the home’s inability of the home to ward off violence. Of the two works, Temperance is the only survivor, making her the exception and not the rule. Whether attacked by a stranger, a psychopath, or one’s husband, both works reflect an ongoing societal fear for female safety. Domestic noir is the product of how crime fiction reflects those fears and re-establishes the need to make the “ultimate fantasy” a reality.

Works Cited

Joyce, Laura and Sutton, Henry. Domestic Noir: The New Face of 21st Century Crime Fiction. Edited by Laura Joyce and Henry Sutton, 1st ed., Springer International Publishing, 2018.

McBain, Ed. “Sadie When She Died.” 1972.

Reichs, Kathy. Deja Dead. Pocket Books, 2015.

“Now gods, stand up for bastards!”: The Decline of a Feudal Society in Shakespeare’s King Lear

By: Mabel Zhao

The early seventeenth century, when Shakespeare’s King Lear was first performed, was an era of social change. The feudal system, defined by a rigid social structure, patriarchal authority, and filial obligations, had dominated the Middle Ages (Strauss 33). However, this medieval view of the world was under increasing scrutiny as assumptions about gender and class were challenged (Zunder 515). King Lear can be seen as a reflection of this societal shift and the anxieties it induced. Throughout the play, the feudal structure is upended as characters such as Goneril, Regan, and Edmund transcend their social positions to grasp for power and social status. On the other hand, Lear and Gloucester, personifications of medieval lordship, see their power stripped away from them and are forced to reckon with the follies of a feudal society. In that sense, King Lear is a play not only about the demise of Lear and Gloucester’s families but of an entire feudal structure.

In King Lear, Gloucester and Lear make poor decisions when choosing their successors, and this results in the loss of their social status and authority. Lear mistakes verbal affection with genuine love and chooses the power-hungry Goneril and Regan as successors over the virtuous Cordelia. In this scene, Zunder argues that Lear “behaves like a feudal magnate,” reinforcing his association with medieval absolutism as he “divides the kingdom up into dowries for his daughter as if it were his personal property” (516). Goneril and Regan then take advantage of Lear’s old age and strip away his power and prestige, symbolized by the decreasing number of knights in his retinue. Eventually, Lear is banished and left to wander through a storm. Despite his unstable mental state, Lear is selfreflective of his situation. He muses to Poor Tom: “Unaccommodated / man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal, as thou art” (Shakespeare 3.4.113–115). It can be argued that Lear is playing with the concept of equality here, implying that when “unaccommodated” of status and power, a king is equal to a beggar. He feels compassion for those at the bottom of the feudal social order, expressing regret at having “too little care” (3.4.27) for of the “poor naked wretches” (3.4.32) when he was king. Thus, Lear’s fall from power and his questioning of the social order represent the decline of a feudal way of life.

Gloucester, who also ends up exiled and wandering through nature, mirrors Lear’s fall from the top to the bottom of a feudal society. Gloucester’s fall is due to the deception of his illegitimate son Edmund, which led to the banishment of his legitimate son and heir Edgar. Gloucester physically becomes blind as a result of his mistake, a manifestation of his metaphorical blindness to the true character of his sons. He, too, ends up wandering the countryside, where he stumbles upon and shows compassion for the beggar Poor Tom, who is his son Edgar in disguise. Gloucester and Lear’s parallel arcs show that this disruption of the feudal social order is not a unique experience. Rather, in the bleak world of King Lear, the authority of feudal patriarchs is increasingly vulnerable to the self-interest and ambition of a new generation.

Regan, Goneril, and Edmund are the characters that best embody this new generation. They have no respect for the filial obligations of feudal society and take advantage of their aging fathers on their own quests for power and status. Regan and Goneril refuse to conform to the feudalist view of women

as obedient daughters, wives, and mothers. Both are more than happy to see their father humiliated, stripped of his power, and then exiled; neither sister is a mother, and their devotion to their husbands is proven to be non-existent when Regan plots to murder her husband and marry Edmund in Act 4. Regan and Goneril also weaponize their femininity to achieve their own ends by manipulating Lear through flattery: “I love you more than words can wield the matter” (1.1.60). Goneril gushes to her father in the first scene of Act 1 before dismissing him as an “idle old man” (1.4.17) and refusing to speak to him once she ha’s secured her inheritance by the act’s fourth scene. Therefore, Goneril and Regan’s actions dismantle the feudal system by undermining the gender roles that it imposes. Edmund, the play’s other villain, is also defined by his self-serving, manipulative, and individualist actions. Excluded from the feudal social order on the basis of his birth, Edmund declares his intentions to “top the Legitimate” (1.2.22), the “legitimate” being his half-brother Edgar, and rise above his status as a bastard. Edmund’s soliloquy in Act 1, Scene 2 juxtaposes “Nature” (1.2.1) and “the plague of custom” (1.2.3), with Edmund pledging his services to the former. Anny Crunelle-Vanrigh asserts that Edmund’s belief that the stigma of illegitimacy is a social and not a natural construct sets him up as a more modern figure compared to Lear and Gloucester (143). Edmund’s modernity is reinforced when he scorns his father’s belief in astrology as “the excellent foppery of the world” (Shakespeare 1.2.125). Here, Gloucester’s belief in the divine reflects the medieval belief in religious determinism. On the other hand, Edmund’s belief that we are neither “villains by necessity” nor “fools by heavenly compulsion” (1.2.128) reflects the emerging notion of self-determinism over the divine (Jensen 205–206). Just as Regan and Goneril undermined the gender roles of a feudal society, Edmund’s individualism undermined the belief that birth determines circumstance. These ostensibly modern sensibilities are what set these three characters at odds with the traditional, feudal values of Lear and Gloucester.

By the end of King Lear, all the five characters discussed—Lear, Gloucester, Regan, Goneril, and Edmund—are dead. The feudal society has been killed by the follies of old men and the ambitions of their children. However, rather than rejoicing at the demise of an unstable and unequal social order, the end of King Lear evokes a sense of futility. Both the villainous and the virtuous have died, and the future of the kingdom remains uncertain. This ending may reflect contemporary fears about England’s political system. Seventeenth-century England was ruled by monarchs whose dynasties could be secured or destroyed by their heirs. As King Lear demonstrates, this familial discord could catalyze the destruction of an entire social order.

Works Cited

Crunelle-Vanrigh, Anny. “No contraries hold more antipathy”: King Lear, Featy and Epochal Change.”

Shakespeare, vol. 14, no. 2, 2018, pp. 138–148, https://doi.org/10.1080/17450918.2018.1455734.

Jensen, Phebe. “Causes in Nature: Popular Astrology in King Lear.” Shakespeare Quarterly, vol. 69, no. 4, 2018, pp. 205–227, https://www.muse.jhu.edu/article/723769.

Strauss, Peter. “Lear’s madness as a psychoanalysis of patriarchal feudalism.”

Shakespeare in Southern Africa, vol. 12, no. 1, 1999, pp. 33–41, https://hdl.handle.net/10520/AJA1011582X_201.

Zunder, William. “Shakespeare and the end of feudalism: King Lear as fin-de-siecle text.”

English Studies, vol. 78, no. 6, 1997, pp. 513–521, https://doi.org/10.1080/00138389708599101.

Visibility, Gender Performance, and Nonbinary People

By: Madyson Cooper

Arbitrary gender constructs continue to be enforced through the fear of the body always being viewed and the political-social ideas of how man versus woman is supposed to be performed. Michel Foucault’s Panopticism outlines the ways in which power structures use visibility to trap the body in a constant state of performance, which makes people obey the social norm. This use of visibility to contain how the body is supposed to present is deconstructed in Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, as she argues that the social norms of what the body is supposed to look like and act according to gender roles are arbitrary and not a natural occurrence. Gender non-conforming identities continue to use these gender roles to their advantage to garner a certain reaction to people who enforce the gender performativity of assigned sex/gender roles. This will be explored through the nonbinary characters portrayed in I Kissed Shara Wheeler by Casey McQuiston. Gender performance continues to dictate how people perform their entire identity since many identities and forms of discrimination rely so heavily on gender.

In Foucault’s Panopticism, he explains that the Panopticon, a prison that has “at the periphery, an annular building; at the centre, a tower; this tower is pierced with wide windows that open onto the inner side of the ring” (Foucault 6), can be used to explain how power is enforced. The Panopticon is specifically made so that many prisoners can be guarded with as few guards as possible. So, the tower in the middle could only have one guard in it, but because of the lights that are placed on the guard tower facing the cells, the inmates would never be able to know if the guard was watching them. This idea of the inmate being constantly watched, or being led to believe that they are constantly watched, induces “the inmate [into] a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning power” (7). This induces a certain fear that if the inmate does something that breaks the rules, they will be punished. If they are always being watched, it is better to never do anything wrong. The Panopticon is “a generalizable model of functioning; a way of defining power relations in terms of everyday men” (10), whether in the workplace, education, or any other system that is put in place to control people, like gender norms. For example, many people feel the need to adhere to gender roles, regardless of their environment, because of the constant fear of being caught acting outside of the norm. This can even extend to those who purposefully reject gender norms, as they know what they must do to rebel against gender norms and that they constantly must be doing so. This constant fear of being overseen by a guard is put in place to control people, and this simple idea of the Panopticon turns into “a network of mechanisms that would be everywhere and always alert, running through society without interruption in space or in time” (13). The power structure created by just the idea of always being viewed is embedded into how society runs, which makes it almost imperceptible to the average person. But the power structure of the Panopticon continues to control how the body exists and how the body takes up space through the constant observation of it. This power structure takes advantage of the location “of bodies in space” (10) to control people.

This idea of “bodies in space” (10) from Foucault applies to Butler’s Gender Trouble, where Butler tackles the idea of how the body functions in a politicized state and “which social taboos institute and maintain the boundaries of the body as such” (Butler 2380). Butler wants to see how the

deconstruction of gender “destabilizes the very distinctions between the natural and the artificial, depth and surface, inner and outer through which discourse about genders almost always operates” (2376), as gender is thought of as a natural occurrence. Butler specifically examines how gender performance is thought of as natural when it is influenced and created by humans to control other humans. But, if gender is made up of performance, then it can never be part of the natural; it must be artificial and, in this case, a physical supplement for internal identity:

In other words, acts, gestures, and desire produce the effect of an internal core or substance, but produce this on the surface of the body, through the play of signifying absences that suggest, but never reveal, the organizing principle of identity as a cause. (2384)

So, these acts and gestures create a supplement for what the internal core is supposed to be. The acts and gestures are just what appear on the surface to supplement identity. However, there are always outside forces that affect identity (centre), which then affect the supplement (the performance of the body). While the gender binary was made by an arbitrary system for the explicit intention of controlling people rather than a natural occurrence of gender performance, “the political stakes in designating as an origin and cause those identity categories that are in fact the effects of institutions, practices, discourses with multiple and diffuse points of origin” (2377). This means that the origin and cause of these ‘identity categories’ that are directly impacted by institutions and culture have been influenced by so many different aspects of the power structure that it is difficult to pinpoint a specific origin. Enforcing gender performance through the gender binary spans entire lifespans to the point where “the strategy has been not to enforce a repression of their desires, but to compel their bodies to signify the prohibitive law as their very essence, style, and necessity” (2383). Although the power structure of gender norms and the gender binary can be restrictive, it does not want to achieve repression of desire. It wants to direct those desires of gender expression and gender identity into a binary. This can then be used to control how people express their desires and express themselves through their bodies and how much/little space the body can take up.

This ‘prohibitive law’ mentioned in the previous sentence is the: tacit collective agreement to perform, produce, and sustain discrete and polar genders as cultural fictions is obscured by the credibility of those productions – and the punishments that attend not believing in them; the construction ‘compels’ our belief on its necessity and naturalness. (Butler 2387)

This is specifically where the Panopticon, in which visibility is a trap, controls how people perform their gender in accordance with the norm. These norms are also, according to Butler’s theory, constructed by the dominant culture and power structure. This means that they continue to be fictitious and made to be performed almost like a character in a play. Another important aspect of Butler’s theory is that “the performance is effected with the strategic aim of maintaining gender within its binary frame – an aim that cannot be attributed to a subject, but, rather, must be understood to found and consolidate the subject” (2388). There must be a relational relationship between ‘man’ and ‘woman’ for there to be a binary frame from which gender performance can be created. While gender performance was made to be a supplement for the internal identity of a person, it could not be constructed without knowing that there is a difference. For example, a well-established cultural norm is that pink is a girl’s colour. So, when someone sees the colour pink, they think ‘not a boy’s colour’ and conclude that it should be a girl’s

colour. To enforce this relational identity and performativity, it is important to study the Panopticon, which is a machine that can be used “for dissociating the see/being seen dyad: in the peripheric ring, one is totally seen, without ever seeing; in the central tower, one sees everything, without ever being seen” (Foucault 7). In the instance of Butler’s Gender Trouble, I would argue that we are both the subject and the guard. We are always aware of being perceived as following the norms/not following the norms, and we also are the guard by perceiving other people and helping to enforce the norms. But, with this overarching reach of everyone being both the inmate and the guard, it starts to automatize and disindividualize power (7). So, in the words of Butler, “we regularly punish those who fail to do their gender right” (2387) because of how important it is to the power structure that we police ourselves as well as everyone around us.

These two texts intersect in an important way, as gender roles and performance would never be enforced without the constant visibility of the body. But the fact that gender performance must be enforced is more proof that gender is a construct that was made to control people. If these two texts are put into conversation with each other, then “a body’s verifiability is subject to an ongoing regime of scrutiny” (Brady et al. 7). The power structure that can be analyzed through the Panopticon has continuous surveillance on the body and how it operates within or out of the norm. That then forms a rigid gender binary with little to no deviance from the binary for fear of punishment, so it can control people to adhere to the dominant power structure. But an important part of Butler’s argument is “that to define the body as a construction, as she does, is not to render it either artificial or false; rather it is to hold that bodies only make sense, only come to be understood, through a variety of descriptive regimes” (9). Butler still sees the body as important to identity, as they do not want to falsely claim that the body is completely artificial or false, but they do want to deconstruct how the body takes up space. The body is still real, but the laws that were created to regulate the body and how it is supposed to take up space according to biological sex and gender are completely artificial and arbitrary. The body is then a tool for the dominant power structure to control people and embeds the idea of gender performance according to that power structure as natural.

A good example of how gender constructs affect people is through the study of two nonbinary characters in I Kissed Shara Wheeler by Casey McQuiston. The first, Ash (they/them), has fully realized their nonbinary identity and struggles with how their interests and gender presentation fall into the categories of ‘boy’ and ‘girl.’ In the novel, another character, Smith, asks Ash if they can “explain the whole nonbinary thing” (McQuiston 245). Ash explains: “When I was a kid, I thought I didn’t like girly things, but then I got older and realized that I liked some girly things, but I hated that liking them made some people think I was a girl, because on some level I always knew I wasn’t one” (247). Ash automatically starts to associate certain activities and gender performance as ‘girl’ and rejects them because it would automatically make them a girl in the eyes of the people around them. So, they hated these things, rejected them from their identity, to be seen as anything but a girl. From this, it is interesting to see how Ash purposefully rejects the gender norms of their assigned gender (a gender assigned from their biological sex) to be seen as not a girl, showing how some people purposely exclude certain performances from their identity. Later, they are asked by Smith, “why did you cut your hair, if you don’t want to be a guy?” and Ash answers, “Because I’m still not a girl, so I don’t like it when someone takes one look at me and automatically shoves me into the girl category in their brain” (247).

This is just one example of how Ash purposely performs as more masculine to combat how their natural, biological body is used to denote them as ‘girl’ when they are not one. They do this because of the constant visibility of gender and the body. As much as they do not identify in the binary, they still weaponize the binary so that they can exist in their body how they like without constantly being viewed as something they are not. They weaponize their body.

The second nonbinary person who is interesting to analyze through gender constructs is Smith. After Ash explains how they exist in their body as nonbinary, Smith says:

I like my body, because it’s fast and strong and good at football. But it also has to be a dude’s body, because I play football. So like, maybe sometimes I wish it was smaller or softer or different. … And I can wear stuff like my letterman jacket and feel better because I could be shaped like anything under that, and I can imagine that maybe I’m not shaped like a dude sometimes. (McQuiston 248)

Smith is confused as to how Ash could feel that way when Smith perceives this feeling, this way of existing, as normal. The associations that Smith has with his body and how it is supposed to be perceived are so interesting because it shows how the body is used to create and control gender. Smith feels as though he would “have to be a guy no matter what” (248) because he has a “dude’s body” (248). He must be a guy because he plays football, and he is big, tall, and strong. He has so many associations with what being a boy is that he thinks he cannot be anything else because of the way his body takes up space. But he also has associations outside the binary that contradict what he thinks makes someone a boy. He is able to acknowledge the fact that his body can play football and play it well because his body is fast and strong and has muscle memory ingrained in it from years of playing football. He mentions that when he’s wearing his letterman jacket, which is an important piece of identity for many athletes, especially football players, he can acknowledge that he could have any body, be any gender, and still wear his letterman jacket. During this scene, Smith gets his face made over by Ash, which is when this conversation between Smith and Ash takes place. After Smith’s makeup is done, the main character Chloe comments on how the makeup “suits his face like he put it on himself. Something about his shoulders looks lighter” (250). Chloe notices that he suits makeup, and, from his body language, he seems to be at ease and affirmed of his gender through wearing it. Smith is such an interesting study in gender because he hinges his gender so closely with his identity as an athlete but also finds himself open to other forms of gender performance. While this is not exclusive to nonbinary people, it tends to be more common because their identity, or at the very least their perceived identity, hinges upon how they express their gender. Casey McQuiston, in an interview, mentions that she wrote this scene because “there would probably be people who pick this book up who have some gender-y inklings but don’t yet know how to identify them” (Yao 2022). This is very much mirrored in Smith, who is unsure of his identity but is slowly realizing he might not be a boy. Having these important conversations about how nonbinary people use the arbitrary rules of gender to be affirmed in their own gender is important to both struggles with gender identity and in deconstructing gender and gender norms.

Overall, gender continues to be enforced through constant visibility, and the strict gender binary is created by the dominant power structure. Examining this through the Panopticon and Butler’s deconstruction of gender is important in understanding how visible gender performance is important in controlling people. This deconstruction of gender performance is even more complicated when those

who identify outside of the gender binary are analyzed, as they weaponize the gender binary to affirm their own gender and defy gender expectations. As gender deconstruction becomes a more widespread idea, there is less control over the visibility of gender.

Works Cited

Brady, Anita and Tony Schirato. “Gender.” Understanding Judith Butler. Sage Publications, 2013. https://doi.org/10.4135/9781446269183

Butler, Judith. “Preface.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, edited by Vincent B. Leitch, W. W. Norton & Company, 2018, pp. 2375–2377.

- - -. “Subversive Bodily Acts.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, edited by Vincent B. Leitch, W. W. Norton & Company, 2018, pp. 2377-2388.

Foucault, Michel. “Panopticism.” Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Indiana University Press, 2008.

McQuiston, Casey. I Kissed Shara Wheeler. St. Martin’s Press, 2022.

A Lesson Taught by the Narrator of Northanger Abbey

By: Asha Saha

Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey is a book about the reader in more ways than one. As we watch the protagonist, Catherine, gradually learn how to read both novels and social situations critically, we— Northanger Abbey’s readers—also embark on a journey of learning and development, facilitated by the novel’s narrator. This narrator is inconsistent, witty, and often satirical. Speaking directly to us, she pokes fun at our expectations of what a novel should be, playfully inserts and withdraws herself from the narrative, and presents us with realistic events while taking every opportunity to remind us of their fictional nature. Using direct address, she insists on our participation in her construction of the story and tests us with passages that require critical thinking to comprehend. As our critical reading abilities strengthen throughout our relationship with this sly narrator, we gradually learn, just as Catherine does, that we gain more from our experience when we read and think carefully and reflectively. Thus, through a narrator who teaches readers an interactive lesson about the necessity of reading Northanger Abbey itself more carefully, Austen strengthens her argument about the importance of critically reading both literature and life.

In the narrator’s descriptions of characters and plot, she satirizes our presupposed expectations about what a novel should be, prompting us to rethink why we had these expectations in the first place. The most prominent example is the narrator’s initial description of Catherine. She tells us that “[no] one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine” highlighting immediately that there are certain characteristics readers expect in a heroine (Austen 11). As she continues to list the traits that her heroine lacks, she mocks the very expectation that Catherine should have these traits, as well as the readers who expect them. For instance, the narrator tells us that Catherine’s mother, “instead of dying in bringing [Catherine] into the world, as anybody might expect… still lived on” (Austen 11). While the fact that Catherine’s mother is not dead might seem like an odd thing to point out, this negative description highlights that we did, in fact, expect Catherine to have a tragic backstory, even though such a circumstance is relatively uncommon in the real world. Since such a trope is common in Gothic novels, she leads us to realize that we uncritically rely on tropes to form our expectations. With sarcastic quips like “who would not think so?” (Austen 15), the narrator points to the fact that these trope-based expectations are widespread amongst readers and generally accepted despite their unrealistic nature. As Frank Kearful highlights, “[the] satiric victim is the reader’s own stock expectations, whose responses [the narrator] disallows, as they are shown to be preposterous when superimposed on the fiction actually presented” (516). Made to realize how ridiculous our expectations are, we are led to confront the fact that we have entered into this story with preconceived notions that we have not critically examined. We are thus encouraged to rethink any other unfounded expectations we might be imposing on this novel.

As the story continues, the narrator draws us into a close relationship that creates a false sense of security in our reading experience. Kearful argues that the satire of the first few chapters feels “disillusioning” (521). That is, after our unrealistic illusions about what the story should be like are dispelled by the narrator, we feel as though we have been sufficiently schooled and are now capable of

reading properly. This feeling of security is intensified by how the narrator presents Catherine to us. As we read about her navigation of the social scene in Bath, we often get the sense that we know much more about what is actually going on than the confused Catherine does. For example, after Isabella exclaims to Catherine, “Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything” (Austen 104), the narrator highlights that, “Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance” (104). Though the narrator does not openly intrude into the narrative at this moment, she deliberately highlights the irony of Isabella’s comment by emphasizing Catherine’s cluelessness. Janet Todd argues that in moments like this, “the narrator is most frequently complicit with us as readers’’ (48). While Catherine is ignorant of the irony of the situation, we recognize it, leading us to think of ourselves as perceptive, clever readers who understand just as much as the narrator does. Henry Rogers highlights a similar relationship, arguing that “in [their] relationship with the narrator and her story, the reader becomes confident, secure—even smug” (Rogers). By guiding us to this secure state, the narrator crafts the illusion that we can take our first perceptions of the story at face value without further analysis.

The smugness we develop makes us particularly susceptible to returning to our uncritical expectations, which the novel is quick to take advantage of. For instance, when Catherine is expelled from Northanger Abbey by General Tilney, we fall into a carefully designed trap. In the scenes that follow after Catherine learns the devastating news, the narrator takes on a dramatic tone, using phrases such as “agitated spirits” and “strange and sudden noises” (Austen 197). The narrator also takes time to note that in this situation, “[Catherine’s] anxiety had foundation in fact, her fears in probability” (Austen 197), creating the perception that, unlike her past predicaments, this conflict with General Tilney does not merely exist in Catherine’s mind. Assured in our ability to trust our instincts, thanks to our relationship with the narrator, we naturally begin to feel concerned. The explanation for Catherine’s expulsion looms over us, and we cannot help but build anticipation in our minds as we read this dramatic scene. Also contributing to this response is the fact that the narrator’s snarky commentary is absent from this section of the novel, which lessens the distance between us and Catherine, allowing us to connect more deeply with her anxieties. Furthermore, as Rogers highlights, the narrator is careful to somewhat maintain the illusion of General Tilney as a sinister Gothic character, so “the grounds for the reader’s continued speculation are intact—amplified, in fact” (Rogers). All in all, the narration style in this section of the novel guides us into expecting a dramatic conclusion, exploiting the close relationship the narrator has led us to believe we have.

Our anticipation of a dramatic reveal—alongside any belief that we can relax and read the novel uncritically—is abruptly crushed by the story’s conclusion. In these last scenes, where Henry travels to Catherine’s home and explains what happened to her, we do not get to read any dialogue between the two characters. Instead, we get a quick description by the narrator, who glosses over details in a rushed attempt to end the story. Furthermore, the explanation she gives us is decidedly undramatic: General Tilney was misled into believing falsehoods about Catherine’s wealth and got upset when he learned the truth. Though he is not the most likeable man, he is not a Gothic villain either. The other important event in this description, Henry’s confession of his feelings for Catherine, is also unexpectedly boring. The narrator tells us, “I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude…It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge” (Austen 211-12). As readers who have anticipated Henry and Catherine’s relationship, the absence of a romantic declaration is just as disappointing as the

General Tilney revelation. The narrator’s usage of “I must confess” implies that she feels ashamed to present us with such a disappointing confession. However, this manufactured shame on the narrator’s part is not meant to express the author’s genuine shame; the real author, Austen, has control over the events of this story and deliberately chooses to present it like this. Instead, the “confession” highlights that this ending, just like the rest of the novel, is subverting typical Gothic conventions. Throughout the story, everything we read has been realistic, which should have led us to expect the painfully realistic conclusion we received. Rogers argues that Austen intentionally uses her narrator to disappoint us; she wants us to realize that “[we] created the fiction that was not. [Our] response is new, for [our] judgment, not Catherine’s, has been at fault” (Rogers). We are the ones who have read this conflict poorly, not Catherine. When we reflect on our initial disappointment in the events of the story, we realize that we should instead be disappointed in ourselves for expecting anything different than what we received. We must admit that we have allowed ourselves to be tricked into accepting a falsely secure relationship with the narrator by failing to read critically. Thus, the narrator’s manipulation makes us realize that we must always manage our expectations with critical thinking and careful reading.

Throughout, the narrator makes direct references to the fact that we are reading a book to help us distinguish between fiction and reality. As Todd argues, “[the narrator’s] references to the reader reading this and other books…curb the [reader’s] desire to identify with characters and experience suspense” (48). An example of this distancing strategy occurs as Catherine is returning home to her family. At first, we feel empathy for Catherine, who feels defeated, but the narrator’s sudden intrusion into the narrative prevents us from identifying too deeply with her protagonist. The narrator comments that normally, an author would enjoy talking about their heroine’s triumphant return home, “But my affair is widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness” (Austen 202). Here, she takes on the role of the “author” and tells us she is embarrassed about how Catherine’s situation has turned out and would like to skip over the details of it. When the narrator reminds us of the role of an author in constructing this narrative, we are “prevented… from entering too closely into the experience as it might have been felt internally by Catherine” (Kearful 526). Though her story is realistic, we gain distance from it and remember that it is fictional. In the last chapter, the narrator even explicitly refers to the physical book her reader is holding, highlighting that the “tell-tale compression of the pages before [the reader]” (Austen 218) indicates that the story is coming to an end. Once again, we are prevented from blurring the distinction between fiction and reality. Todd argues that by preventing us from being immersed in Catherine’s world, the narrator insists that we “remain aware of a metafictional level demanding analytic response” (48). That is, the narrator’s consistent reminders that we are readers work to continually remind us that, as readers, we should be conscious of our responsibility to read carefully.

The narrator further provides commentary on the reader’s role by placing the responsibility on us to determine certain details of the story. In particular, when the narrator begins to address the limitations of her own powers in the final few chapters, she also highlights the reader’s responsibility to compensate for those limits. For instance, when she is describing Henry’s explanation of his father’s behaviour, the narrator adds, “I leave it to my reader’s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine” (Austen 215). She addresses the role of the reader directly, implying that we must use our judgement to decide if all the information given in the scene was

actually given by Henry or if Catherine learned some of the information later from other sources. Her insertion highlights that novels will not provide all the information readers need. Instead, we must fill in the details for ourselves. As Rogers puts it, “[The narrator] stresses the perception, judgment, even the creative power of the readers” (Rogers). This creative power is further emphasized when the narrator tells us that she will not describe the man that Eleanor marries because “the most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination of us all” (Austen 219). That is, the narrator cannot control how we picture Eleanor’s husband because we have agency over how we interpret the story. However, if we picture a man who is not charming and respectable, it does not make logical sense that Eleanor’s marriage to him would soften her father’s judgement on Henry and Catherine’s marriage. If we do not exercise our agency critically, the story will not work. Thus, the narrator’s invocations of our judgement to fill in the story’s details lead us to see ourselves not as mere blank canvases for a text to be imposed upon but as active participants who have a role in constructing the story and accordingly have the responsibility to make good judgements.

The narrator provides a final test for readers that solidifies Austen’s argument about the reader’s responsibility to use their critical judgement. In the last sentence of the novel, the narrator says, “I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience” (Austen 220). With this, she leaves it to us, the readers, to determine the novel’s moral: does it endorse General Tilney’s actions or Henry’s? However, these options are both peculiar since neither character’s actions are the main focus of the story. Instead of being genuine, this line is testing us. Technically, we could choose to read uncritically and decide that this is a story about strict parents and rebellious sons, but if we did, we would not get much value out of our reading experience. If we do read it critically, however, we would realize that, as Olivia Cox argues, “The text is not laying down the moral…The narrative voice is saying…it’s up to you to work out what that was all about” (7:23-7:35). Armed with the critical thinking skills that the narrator’s lessons throughout the text have helped us develop, we must work out for ourselves that the real moral is about the necessity of having those critical abilities. By passing the narrator’s test, we come to realize that it is not just Catherine who has learned how to be a critical reader—we have learned to do the same.

Reading Northanger Abbey is an exercise in becoming a critical reader. As the narrator highlights our unreasonable expectations, we gradually learn to abandon presupposed expectations and base our predictions on the logic and context of the text. When the narrator’s inconsistent tone leads us into the trap of creating fiction that will inevitably disappoint us, we feel upset with ourselves. However, that experience leads us to realize that we must start placing ourselves at a distance from the texts we read in order to interpret them critically and accurately. With her continual reminders that we are reading a fictional story, the narrator aids us in developing this skill, and her invocation of our judgement to complete the narrative helps us realize that the quality of our judgement determines the value of our reading experience. Armed with our new critical thinking skills, we leave the reading experience as better readers with a profound understanding of why the skills we now possess are important to have. Through the novel’s narrator, Austen has thus communicated her argument in a personal, intimate way that makes us understand it on a deeper level than we ever could have by simply reading about a character learning the same lesson.

Works Cited

Austen, Jane. Northanger Abbey. London, Arcturus Holdings Limited, 2017.

Cox, Octavia. “Jane Austen NORTHANGER ABBEY analysis | Playful & Self-Conscious 1st

Person Narrative Voice & Style.” YouTube, uploaded by DrOctaviaCox, 11 May 2020, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=cC8A8syG6SM.

Kearful, Frank. “Satire and the Form of the Novel: The Problem of Aesthetic Unity in Northanger Abbey.” ELH, vol. 32, no. 4, 1965, pp. 511–527.

Rogers, Henry. “‘Of Course You Can Trust Me!’: Jane Austen’s Narrator in Northanger Abbey.”

Persuasions On-Line, vol. 20, no. 1, 1999, https://jasna.org/persuasions/on-line/vol20no1/rogers. html. Accessed 31 March 2023.

Todd, Janet. The Cambridge Introduction to Jane Austen. 2nd ed., Cambridge University Press, 2015.