Scholarly Journal by Nueva Communications

SCHOLARLY JOURNAL A student publication of the Nueva School Volume 1, Issue 1

Scholarly Journal

2020â&#x20AC;&#x201C;21 Board of Reviewers Janet Smith

Janet Smith

Director of Humanities

Theo Wright

Math Teacher

Danica Miller

Class of 2021

Amy Lu

English Teacher

Janet Smith

Director of Humanities

Theo Wright

Math Teacher

Danica Miller

Class of 2021

Amy Lu

English Teacher

Volume 1, Issue 1

Letter from the Editors

ournal title aims to publish studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; scholarly writing that explores and illuminates the human experience. We take a broad view of what â&#x20AC;&#x153;scholarlyâ&#x20AC;? means: nonfiction work that shares ideas and knowledge attained through study, research, and personal experience. We welcome a far-reaching span of perspectives and topics, connecting the humanities and social sciences with many other fields. We believe in the power of these stories. With opportunities to submit and review academic writing, students will have a chance to gain publishing experience, and new ways to develop their work through the intellectual rigor of revision. Writing for an audience beyond the classroom likewise encourages us all to consider the value and impact of our efforts. By opening their contributions to a wider community, we hope to connect with readers both within and beyond Nueva.

Scholarly Journal

BUTTON DOWN:

OPEN LETTER TO F. SCOTT FITZGERALD BY KATE E.

Dear Mr. Fitzgerald,

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I’d like to reflect on your passage culminating in Daisy sobbing into a mess of Gatsby’s shirts and saying, “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before” (92). The importance you place on these shirts, and Daisy’s intense emotional reaction to the objects, calls to mind a number of Modernist themes, but I will be discussing uncertainty in this letter. The attention to detail paid to the shirts also brings to mind Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein—I will expand on these ideas below. In the passage leading to Daisy’s reaction, Gatsby’s shirts lose their definition as clothing and are instead described only as symbols of wealth. The shirts are piled in a “soft rich heap,” separating them completely from their role as an article of clothing and instead using them to display wealth. The fact that Gatsby owns so many and still receives biannual shipments of them breaks down the usual idea of a shirt as a practical object; Gatsby owns more than he could ever use, and he purchases them largely as a way to communicate class. Additionally, the shirts are “piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high,” and they “[lose] their folds as they [fall]” (92). The shirts’ unfolding, and their comparison to objects very dissimilar from shirts, serves to explicitly separate these shirts from their usual definition. By placing so much emphasis on these seemingly mundane possessions, and by separating them from their usual definition as practical objects, you invite the reader to read new symbolism into objects which usually have different connotations. In this way, Gatsby’s shirts can also represent ideas like an access to international art and style, or imperialism (shirts from England in colors like “Indian blue”), in addition to wealth. And, by placing this passage in context with the first part of Tender Buttons, titled “Objects,” these shirts can be used to examine how the Modernist theme of uncertainty appears in this passage of The Great Gatsby. Tender Buttons’ narrow focus on a series of descriptions of objects

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supports Modernist themes of uncertainty for the future and a search for meaning after World War One, and similarities between sentence structure of The Great Gatsby and Tender Buttons will help to explain how these themes can be seen in your work. Stein’s work names objects and describes them unconventionally—in an excerpt of the entry for “A Long Dress,” she writes, “Where is the serene length, it is there and a dark place is not a dark place, only a white and red are black, only a yellow and green are blue, a pink is scarlet, a bow is every color” (5). The mismatch between meticulous lists of objects’ traits and the seeming unimportance of the literal information conveyed in these descriptions strikes an interesting parallel with your creation of Gatsby’s shirts into a metaphor. Throughout Tender Buttons, Stein seems to create a new language by defining terms like “red” in terms of how they relate objects together; similarly, Gatsby’s shirts aren’t important for their physical traits, but for how they define Gatsby and his status in regards to the other characters. Additionally, her deconstruction of the definitions of objects through extreme attention to detail is remarkably similar to how your emphasis on the shirts invites more open interpretation of their symbolism. The shirts are described with an attention to sentence rhythm similar to Stein’s work, as they are “shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange…” (92). While these specific traits have important interpretations (for example, dyes are historical signs of wealth), the specific characteristics of these shirts are less important than the shirts’ ability to communicate status. Both Gastby and Buttons attempt to find stability by creating their own systems of symbols to create a language to show how concepts relate to each other, and, in doing so, they deconstruct existing systems of words’ associations and meanings. This deconstruction speaks to an uncertainty and a search for meaning, prominent Modernist themes, that can only be explored through examination of existing structures. In sum, Gatsby’s shirts’ various interpretations and redefinition as class symbols rather than clothing speaks to a desire to explore dynamics within your experience of society by deconstructing previous definitions of even mundane objects. This dynamic can be more clearly explored when placed next to Tender Buttons, which more explicitly aims to do this, and comparing the content and writing style of the two pieces. Thank you for your time—I appreciate the opportunity to reflect on this moment in literary history.

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WORKS CITED Fitzgerald, F. Scott, et al. The Great Gatsby. Scribner trade paperback edition. ed., New York,

Thank you, Kate

Scribner, 2018. Stein, Gertrude. Tender Buttons. 1914.

Scholarly Journal

THE CUNNING WEREWOLF AS A CRITICISM OF MALE SEXUAL DESIRE BY JASON H.

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In Marie de France’s Bisclavret and Angela Carter’s two-part The Company of Wolves, both authors contradict their use of the language of appetite surrounding the werewolf to subvert the image of an uncontrollable male sexual desire. Carter frames both of her narratives with descriptions of the wolf ’s insatiable appetite: “once he’s had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do” (141) and a “carnivore incarnate... only immaculate flesh appeases him” (151). Phrases like the “taste of flesh, “carnivore”, and “immaculate flesh” draw on the language of food and consumption, and moreover tie the danger of the werewolf to his appetite. The werewolf is dangerous specifically because of his distinct hunger, and only satiating this appetite satisfies him. Carter specifies the food to be consumed in her description of the young girl in the second story: “an unbroken egg” (146). The image of the intact egg specifically represents the young girl’s sexual purity and shows that her virginity is the food to be consumed by the wolf. The werewolf therefore salivates not for flesh to literally consume but for an “immaculate” (read: pure) virgin over which to assert sexual control. This comparison reveals that the werewolf ’s appetite derives not from a physical or irrational hunger, but rather from a calculated desire for sexual control. Carter further confirms that the wolf is “cunning as he is ferocious” (141), necessarily calculated rather than instinctual. The prior description that “only immaculate flesh appeases him” and “nothing else will do” teaches us of a seemingly perpetual and endless male sexual desire, but one that is nonetheless calculated. Food and appetite require continuously as sustenance, but Carter’s portrayal of the wolf as calculated criticizes the idea that male sexuality appetite intrinsically requires satiation. Marie de France similarly subverts the image of the werewolf ’s wild and untamable appetite. Marie begins her tale by characterizing her werewolf as “a ferocious beast which, when possessed by this madness, devours men” (Marie de France 68). She describes the werewolf as “possessed”, thereby removing responsibility from the man and instead attributing

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the appetite to an intangible “madness”. When the werewolf ’s appetite is read as a proxy for male sexual desire, the idea that the man is not responsible for this appetite is an important commentary on male sexual desire. Rather than the onus on the man, responsibility is abstracted and removed from him. However, Marie subverts the image of the uncontrollable wolf through her description of Bisclavret’s attack on his unfaithful wife: “Never before has he touched a soul or committed a hostile act, except against this lady here” (71). Despite Marie’s framing of the werewolf as wild, Bisclavret proves to be controlled and calculated in his vengeance. The threat of the werewolf—his appetite—is thus a controllable impulse and can be invoked selectively by the werewolf/man. Both Carter and Marie de France write the werewolf ’s appetite as a representation of male sexual desire. Through this metaphor, both (female) authors paint the picture of a monster beyond the werewolf—male sexual appetite that necessitates perpetual feeding and is an intrinsic or uncontrollable desire. However, both authors contrast this initial image of the wolf with one of calculation and cunning. This disparity subverts the notion that male sexual desire cannot be controlled, and the sentient werewolf becomes a symbol that holds men responsible for a hunger that is frequently dismissed as fundamental intrinsic.

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WORKS CITED Carter, Angela. The Bloody Chamber. New York, Penguin, 2015. De France, Marie. Lais. Trans. Glyn S. Burgess and Keith Busby. New York, Penguin, 1999.

Scholarly Journal

HOT UNDER THE COLLAR

AMERICA’S “NEW MAN” REVEALED IN ARROW COLLAR ADS BY AUDREY H.

ith an elegant physique and a cunning look in his eye, American men’s clothing company Cluett, Peabody, and Co’s Arrow Man charmed millions on magazine advertisements between 1907 and 1931. Referenced in texts as ubiquitous as The Great Gatsby and stages as iconic as Broadway, The Arrow collar campaign became not only a lucrative advertising campaign for a series of detachable collars, but a uniquely American symbol of masculinity and sexuality. The campaign was an early adopter of the “soft sell,” or a more subtle technique of promotion; the collars sold because they pushed a lifestyle, not a product. Arrow men touted a sleek haircut, sharp physique, and stylish clothing. Comparable to the Gibson Girl–exalted as the first “modern woman” trope–he represented her male counterpart. However, the advertisements may not appear as a modern viewer might expect from this masculine image. Many Arrow advertisements depict a man gazing into another man’s eyes, and thus many

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today see his image as homoerotic. In many ways, the homosocial aspects of the advertisements are logical; rather than defining masculinity as the ability to conquer a woman’s body, the imagery simply defines masculinity as the desexualized homomagnetism implicit in male success. Success was signified not only in female submission, but in the adoration of other men as well. Despite the presence of this rationalization, the Arrow man’s history begs the question of sexuality to be asked. Many attribute the homoeroticism displayed in the advertisements to the sexuality of the artist behind the Arrow man. This artist, J.C. Leyendecker, was rumored to be a homosexual, never marrying and instead surrounding himself with male models such as Charles Beach, who often inspired his work. Despite rumor and mystery around Leyendecker and his sexuality, his homoerotic work not only prevailed, but became a wild success. The Arrow man’s mysterious sexuality ponders the question, why did a modern image of homoeroticism appeal so greatly to the American male audience? To understand the answer to this question, one must first unravel the histories of American masculinity, homosexuality, class divisions, and the ways in which those narratives interact. Around the turn of the century, from the 1890s to the 1940s, mass urbanization took place across the US. As major cities grew, so did epicenters of art and culture. These areas, such as Hollywood, often provided room for homosexual communities, although these people and their identities were officially condemned. In other words, despite the visibility of LGBT communities, their persecution was codified into law. As queerness emerged in cosmopolitan spaces, heterosexual fear around the endangerment of the nuclear American family grew to massive proportions; this panic lead to the more clear and harsh systemic limitation of the appropriate heterosexual male and female identities. In other words, if the homosexual existed in the public eye the threat to heterosexuality called for additional reinforcement of American family values. Many delineations of masculine identity grew from ideals laid out by President Theodore Roosevelt. As a child, Roosevelt suffered from severe asthma and overcame the condition with bodybuilding and other physical activity. Telling this story, Roosevelt became emblematic not only of the nation, but of the ideal masculine persona. This phenomenon created conflation between patriotism and the white, male, muscular body.The creation of the heterosexual citizen became an American obsession. Roosevelt himself embraced eugenics, and thus the production of the perfect male individual. Boy Scouts came into the public eye, after its creation by British lieutenant Robert S.S. Baden-Powell in his 1908 book Scouting

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“Many delineations of masculine identity grew from ideals laid out by President Theodore Roosevelt.”

“Commodities, too, created a new class of working men.”

Scholarly Journal

for Boys. The military man called his system a “character factory.” In A Queer History of the United States, author Michael Bronski asserts that these scouting organizations were not unlike Ford’s automobile factories. Like any other business, the construction of the muscular patriot became a consumer industry. Popular publications such as Physical Culture advertised bodybuilding and dieting techniques, but also touted everything from dairy products to “health resorts,” or sanitariums. Just as Americans could buy a car from General Motors that could conspicuously display their wealth and status, Americans could read the pages of Physical Culture and learn what they would need to buy to build themselves into the ideal American man. The sculpting of the white male body captivated the American public, resulting in its commodification. Commodities, too, created a new class of working men. After economic depressions in the late nineteenth century, Carole Turbin outlines in her essay Collars and Consumers: Changing Images of American Manliness and Business, that “many middle-class families [were convinced that] older sources of male authority were less available to their sons” (Turbin 517). Management succeeded ownership, and salaried positions prevailed over entrepreneurial ones. Respectable, white, middle-class men were more and more often working for salaries, and thus the prospect of salary work became less stigmatized. Turbin goes on to draw attention to other ways masculinity changed; “the ideal of the autonomous, restrained, self-reliant, self-made man” waned, slowly replaced with the ideal of the conspicuous consumer. Additionally, the “new man” was a patriot; he was distinctly American, not a phantom of European gentlemen figures. Thus, as his masculinity manifested less in behavior, physical appearance became much more important to the modern man. As physical appearance became more important, men became eroticized in a way previously thought unimaginable. The homomagnetic gaze of powerful men looking down at the well-sculpted working class created a dynamic that, while not deemed explicitly homosexual, was certainly derogatory. Meanwhile, the wheels of homosexual identity were finally turning as the century turned as well. While many believe that queer individuals have always existed, John De’Emilio argues in Capitalism and Gay Identity that the LGBTQ individual did not even exist until a free labour system did. As workers became more free financially, they thus became more independent from the nuclear American family structure and thus able to identify as homosexual. He asserts that homosexuality–and all sexuality, for that matter–is a performance, with commodities central to that performance. All these ideals of masculinity and sexuality were brand new at the turn

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of the century. Due to this fact, George Chauncy, author of Gay New York, would assert that the Arrow collar advertisements would not have been immediately homoeroticized at the time. However, if not categorized as images of queerness, how might one describe their homosexual tendencies? What previous historians fail to consider is that these images of homosexuality may not be portrayals of same-sex desire at all. The similar-looking men depicted in Arrow collar advertisements actually portray aspiration and attention to the self. The image of the new American man mirrors the ways in which capitalism demanded both self-indulgence and the aspiration towards a patriarchal, hierarchical status of power. If the Arrow man took time to appear sharp, care for himself, and buy the latest detachable collars, so should the consumer. Through the lens of the emerging identity of the white collar class, the change of the Arrow advertisements over time, trends in urbanization, and theory around gay identity, the importance of self-indulgence in the new American man may be examined.

While in many ways this advertisement would implicate homoeroticism--explicitly, the presence of two men only, their body language towards each other, and their physical proximity--signs point to their lack of homoerotic attraction as well. Namely, the fact that one figure puts a physical boundary between the men. Rather than a sexual relationship, the two Arrow consumers simply imply reflection of the self and the aspirational masculine culture implicit in the 20th century, male-dominated workplace through its composition. These connections are illustrated in several ways, one being the strong diagonal mirror symmetry displayed in the image. The two figures are situated in positions that mirror one another, with the axis of symmetry falling on a diagonal from the bottom left hand corner to the top right hand corner. Symmetry implies similarity, and thus the men are being compared. Secondly, their dress is similar; they both don white shirts, darkly patterned pants, and a black tie. The figures are both portrayed against a black background. Lack of context brings forward the mirror symmetry, and serves to highlight the similarities between the two men. The context that is portrayed, however, is distinctly domestic, as opposed to public or corporate. The workplace attitude of homomagnetism contrasted with the domestic background paints this very mindset as all-encompassing of both work and home life. Finally, the figuresâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; actions are analogous; they are both engaging with literary material. In these ways, the men are being compared, and each figure serves as a reflection as opposed to a lover.

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Scholarly Journal

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In the second figure, five men are portrayed in a linear fashion alongside a female companion. These men, too, are depicted in similar dress. All don suits and tophats with some variation present appropriate to age. The way in which the men are rendered in one line shows a progression. While not entirely chronological, the youngest man seems to be shown on the left, and the eldest on the right. This vague sequence suggests that instead of several individuals being represented in the picture, it may instead be one man throughout his lifetime. Or, perhaps, simply reflections of a similar archetype of man throughout time. Either way, the multitude of men detailed suggest a kind of association between figures, but instead of sexual association, their similarity proposes the notion of one man being repeated throughout the image.

AUTHOR BIO Audrey H. bio Ant remporum lacerfe ruptatur as et ma alist quam volessitist pra veles autem quae ditatius ant etur, cupta prest quia es modiorp oribus autemol uptaest, eius, consequatum ut diam velenim ut quossim pelite vernatum solupta conem faci a net vero mo modigento

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Despite rumor and mystery around Leyendecker and his sexuality, his homoerotic work not only prevailed, but became a wild success. The Arrow manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mysterious sexuality ponders the question, why did a modern image of homoeroticism appeal so greatly to the American male audience?â&#x20AC;?

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FACEHUGGERS AND ENDLESS EGGS:

SEXUAL OPPRESSION IN THE ALIEN SAGA BY STEVEN K.

Sexual Ambiguity in Alien Ridley Scott’s Alien is a film riddled with sexual tension and ambiguity. His Xenomorph forces corrupt gender norms upon its victims, serving as a symbol of patriarchal oppression. Yet, it is intentionally unclear whether this oppression is condemned or rewarded; Scott leaves the film with a clouded ending that provides more questions than answers. Scott’s sexual message is introduced to the viewer through his use of maternal imagery. After landing on LV-426 to explore a mysterious signal, the crew of the Nostromo discovers a derelict spacecraft with an intriguing physical form: rounded, flowing, and strangely organic, it contrasts the hard angles and straight passageways of the Nostromo. In his analysis, “Reimagining the Gargoyle: Psychoanalytic Notes on Alien,” Harvey R. Greenberg writes that the “uncanniness in the derelict’s exploration derives… from the nagging similarity of its structures to… organs of reproduction” (Greenberg, 89). As the crew explores the spacecraft, Greenberg notes countless features of sexual nature; the craft resembles a “stupendous uterine-fallopian system,” and the crew enters its pre-natal depths through “unmistakably vaginal hatches” (89). The crew’s exploration is a symbolic foray into the maternal womb, an entrance into the mother’s vagina and an exploration of the origins of being. In The Monstrous Feminine, author Barbara Creed compares this exploration to Freud’s description of an unborn child observing intercourse from inside the womb. Creed suggests that a kind of sexual awakening takes place: as Kane peers into the “Facehugger” egg, he stumbles upon a new, perverse form of sexuality, “a version of the primal scene in which the infant is conceived orally” (Creed, 19). The crew is introduced to the lifecycle of the Xenomorph: one of merciless impregnation, blind killing, and deep-set meaning. Through its various forms and actions, the Xenomorph aboard the

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Nostromo violently presses traditional sexual norms on the crew, revealing Scott’s commentary on pervasive binaries within contemporary patriarchal society. This commentary begins when the Xenomorph is a mere infant, a facehugger aboard the derelict spacecraft. Kane, a highly masculine male (as portrayed by his gung-ho actions while exploring the derelict), is subjected to an unmistakably female ordeal: unconsentual oral rape, impregnation, and eventual death by childbirth. This course of events transpires despite Kane’s strong traditional masculinity, feminizing him. Lying in the Nostromo’s scanner, Kane carries the Xenomorph’s offspring while being sustained by the facehugger’s umbilical cord; he is simultaneously feminized and infanticized. Later, when Kane awakes, he begins violently thrashing, the “chestburster” emerging from his belly as Lambert’s voice is heard wailing “Oh, oh god!” (Alien, 54:54). Lambert’s screams recall those of a woman in labor; it is clear that Scott intended this scene to be Kane’s “death by childbirth.” Kane’s perverse male motherhood is confirmed minutes later as the Xenomorph is dubbed “Kane’s son”—the monster has subjected Kane to a traditionally female ordeal with complete disregard to his adamantly nonfeminine nature. Scott’s facehugger is violently phallic—it matters not whether its victim is female or male, only that it is living and will allow it to reproduce. The same holds true as the creature matures into a Xenomorph, continuing to enact highly sexual actions. Its attacks are strangely sexual—carried out via a phallic appendage stemming from its mouth and almost exclusively targeting the head (the point of facehugger impregnation). When the creature assaults Lambert, there is even an undertone of sexual tension; it slowly approaches, its tail wrapping around her leg and leaving her dangling naked from the ceiling. Later, in a deleted scene, it is shown that its victims are then cocooned and turned into facehugger eggs; once more, the Xenomorph’s victims become unwilling mothers, ready to begin its violent lifecycle anew. All are equal in its eyes—Brett, Parker, and Lambert are pursued and eliminated doggedly—and all are eligible for its acts of sexual violence and reproduction. Thus, Scott’s Xenomorph is a highly exaggerated symbol for the oppression inflicted on women by patriarchal society. Blowing past the traditional view of patriarchal oppression as forcing women into traditionally female roles, the Xenomorph attempts to force both genders, male and female, to conform to its sexual model. The Nostromo’s science officer, Ash, asserts he admires its “purity, unclouded by conscience, remorse, or morality”—the Xenomorph is unwaveringly patriarchal and violently phallic, uncompromising in its progression of sexual norms. However, Ripley’s final confrontation with the Xenomorph leaves Scott’s critique without a clear conclusion. Throughout the film, Ripley is

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“Cameron’s

symbolism is fully exposed upon

examination of

the Xenomorph Queen. Able to

produce endless

numbers of eggs devoid of male influence, the queen is the

omnipotent and phallic Archaic

Mother discussed by Creed.”

portrayed as nearly asexual, having an unconventional look for a woman and not being subjected to the same sexually charged jokes as Lambert. However, Greenberg notes that during the encounter, “when Ripley steps out of her fatigues, she becomes intensely desirable and achingly vulnerable. The sight of her nearly nude body is highly arousing, in the context of the film’s previous sexual neutrality… precisely at this moment, the Alien unfolds out of its hiding place” (Greenberg, 93). In the presence of the Xenomorph, Ripley becomes “intensely desirable,” an object of sexuality. She repeatedly sings, “You… are… my lucky… star,” while staring directly at the Xenomorph—referencing the lyrics sung at the conclusion of Singing in the Rain from a female protagonist to her lover. Meanwhile, the alien emerges from its hiding place “slowly, languorously... as if preening” (93). It advances towards the now highly-sexualized Ripley as if she is indeed its lover, transformed by her traumatically violent and sexual ordeal aboard the Nostromo. Scott’s final encounter seems at first to be a touching interaction between two lovers, slowly drawing closer as they prepare themselves with love songs. Then, paradoxically, this course is quickly diverted. Ripley sneaks into a supply closet to don a spacesuit, gilded and ornamented as if it were a suit of armor. She opens the ship’s hatch, ejecting the Xenomorph into space, and burns it with the ship’s thrusters, destroying it forever. This closing sequence leaves Scott’s message ambiguous. Is Ripley transformed by the Xenomorph’s violent sexuality, becoming highly sexual herself and conforming to female gender norms? Is Ripley a solidified asexual individual, donning a suit of armor to defeat her oppressor for good? Or maybe the two coexist in some strange, intriguing manner, where Ripley discovers her sexuality but, wanting to stay an individual, destroys it by killing the Xenomorph. Regardless, Alien is a deep exploration of violence and sexuality and an intriguing rendition of patriarchal oppression. Sexual Clarity in Aliens This intriguing sense of ambiguity is lost in James Cameron’s Aliens. Formerly an enigma, Ripley is established as fully asexual, juxtaposing the infinitely fertile Alien Queen and developing a strong feminine bond with Newt. Any ambiguity is immediately dispelled from the very beginning of the film, as Ripley adamantly refuses to conform to gender norms. She dreams of giving birth to a Xenomorph, a dream in which she wails, “Kill me!”— she would rather die than conform to the creature’s ideals. Some time later, Ripley responds to gender discrimination, skillfully climbing in a power loader and picking up a box, asking, “where do you want it?” Once the

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transports are loaded, Ripley finds herself unable to relate to the marines, who refer to everything sexually. She winces as they shout “ready to get… it… on!” (a reference to sexual intercourse) and as they comment on a facehugger’s behaviour, saying “looks like love at first sight to me.” Ripley, not conforming to traditional sexual stereotypes, can not relate to these statements. Ripley’s nonconformist character is echoed in that of Newt, the lone survivor of the Colony on LV-426, Hadley’s Hope. Cameron makes it clear that Newt greatly admires Hicks, one of the Colonial Marines. Newt is often seen wearing Hicks’ helmet, and in several instances salutes and stands at attention, saying “affirmative!” to mimic him. Newt recognizes that her doll is “just a piece of plastic,” choosing to idolize Hicks instead of a fictional character. Newt, like Ripley, upends the “weak female” trope, hoping to become a powerful, independent figure like Hicks. Therefore, the violently sexual Xenomorphs are a threat to Newt’s and Ripley’s nonconformity. When Newt is discovered by the squad, she is shell-shocked, not talking or responding to anyone. Ripley notes that it was “hard to believe there’s a little girl under all this” (49:00); the weight of her ordeal with the alien muted her personality in an attempt to force her to become something she is not. The Xenomorph is painted in direct contrast with gender defiance yet again as Ripley and Newt lie down to rest under a cot in the colony’s medbay. In the presence of two facehuggers (shown in Alien to be repressors of deviant identity) Ripley tells Newt, “now go to sleep and don’t dream.” She asserts that Newt shouldn’t dream, shouldn’t fantasize about things she could do and become; in the presence of the Xenomorph, Newt is once more unable to become the independent figure she wants to be. Cameron’s symbolism is fully exposed upon examination of the Xenomorph Queen. Able to produce endless numbers of eggs devoid of male influence, the queen is the omnipotent and phallic Archaic Mother discussed by Creed, the antithesis to the nonconforming Ripley and Newt. This is shown clearly as Ripley and Newt enter the Xenomorph nest on LV-426, Ripley pointing her flamethrower at the queen’s eggs. The queen and her guard halt, afraid to advance; Ripley is a threat to the hive, and by extension the phallic oppression it represents. The Xenomorphs fear Ripley, advancing cautiously as her deviant identity is dangerous to their exaggerated sexual conformity. The film culminates in an intense battle between Ripley and the Xenomorph queen. The symbolic opposition is clear: Ripley, operating a power loader—her metaphorical “suit of armor” (recalling the final scene of Alien) and source of nonconformist strength— fights the queen, the Archaic Mother, the root of her oppression. Ripley defeats the Xenomorph, howling triumphantly as she sends it spiraling

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into the vacuum of space. Cameron’s conclusion brings the definite, unquestionable victory of nonconformist identity over oppressive phallic thought. Driving the point home in the minutes following the showdown, Newt asks Ripley, “can I dream?” to which Ripley replies “I think we both can.” Ripley, having defeated the infinitely fertile alien matriarch, has removed the oppression of their personalities. Newt, understanding she is now free, replies, “Affirmative!” rekindling her admiration of Hicks and desire to upend female gender stereotypes. In all, Cameron’s Aliens presents a much clearer message than Scott’s Alien: individual strength and identity are more important than conformity. Xenomorph Reborn

WORKS CITED Creed, Barbara. The Monstrous-Feminine : Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. Routledge, 1993. Penley, Constance. Close Encounters: Film, Feminism and Science Fiction. University of Minnesota Press, 2006. Scott, Ridley, David Giler, Walter Hill, and Dan O’Bannon. Alien. Los Angeles: Twentieth Century Fox, 1979. Weaver, Sigourney, Carrie Henn, Michael Biehn, Paul Reiser, James Cameron, David Giler, and Walter Hill. Aliens. Beverly Hills, Calif: Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, 1986.

In the Alien universe, the Xenomorph is the antithesis of nonconforming thought and identity, from its violent oppression in Alien to its juxtaposition with Ripley and Newt in Aliens. The Xenomorph is the purest form of sexual oppression, representing both phallic violence and infinite fertility; it is worshipped by the androids Bishop and Ash for its purity, and coveted by the Weyland-Yutani corporation (the ‘company’) for its power. The company’s desire for the creature is clear: in Alien, the Nostromo’s computer system is instructed to wake the crew to retrieve an alien specimen for the weapons division; in Aliens, the entire course of events is sparked by Burke’s order to investigate the derelict spacecraft and retrieve a Xenomorph. The company hopes to use the creature for its own purposes, harnessing its immense power to further some perverse profit goal. The company’s desire to use the Xenomorph, a creature that pushes oppressive gender stereotypes onto its victims, is much like the American government’s 20th century campaign that employed various “conversion therapies” to castrate homosexuals and force them to integrate into homosexual American society. Like how the Xenomorph forced its victims into gender roles, these various physical and psychiatric interventions (although heavily pseudoscientific) aimed to repress their victims’ deviant sexuality. To represent this time period, I have created a rebirth of the Xenomorph as the Weyland-Yutani corporation may have envisioned it. I imagine the company might have created some device or weapon using the Xenomorph’s biological features and strengths. This would turn the monster into a controllable tool, the oppressive power of which would be entirely controlled by the company to further its own goals at the expense of its victims.

Volume 1, Issue 1