Medusa Misunderstood
Submissions should include a bibliography, a short account of your aims in undertaking your chosen project and an evaluation of the outcome.
Aims:
As a seven year old, I was fascinated by Greek mythology. Like many bookish children, this love was fuelled by the novels of Rick Riordan (namely the Percy Jackson series), although it all began with the audiobook version of ‘Atticus The Storyteller’s 100 Greek Myths’ by Lucy Coats. My parents had purchased the tape in an attempt to subdue the constant bickerings that come with having three small children in the same enclosed space for over five minutes. Fortunately, the stories became the highlight of many car trips. By the time I was entering my third year of primary school, the heroic feats of Heracles and the etymology of the word narcissist had been burned into my brain. I found myself spellbound by the stories, quite oblivious to the sinister truth behind the conception of such wondrous creatures as Pegasus, the winged horse, who was in fact the product of a brutal rape. When I began high school, my love for history had moved beyond the Ancient Greeks and I had developed a penchant for more modern topics, spending much of Tuesday morning’s assembly in anticipation of the lesson on the transatlantic slave trade to follow, despite its morbidity. Though I had taken a glimpse into many periods of history, classical and modern alike, I began to notice a thread that seemed to be woven throughout the entirety of my historical
knowledge. This thought was likely lurking in my subconscious for some time, but it wasn’t until an S1 German lesson that it sparked into something more. Germany’s word for story (geschichte) is the same as their word for history. Though unaware of the etymology of the word history, I was mildly offended that it seemed history was the property of a man in the English language, that is was his story, not mine, nor any other woman’s. Further consideration brought to mind the lack of female figures I had come across in historical accounts, both in and out of school. By this point I was well aware of the saying: “History is written by the victors.” But was adamant that an edit should be made: “History is written by the victors and the men (often a single entity).” Therefore, when I was deciding on a topic for my summer project, a retelling of a well-known story from the viewpoint of a central female character was instantly appealing to me. I wanted to produce a piece of creative writing that would challenge our society’s conventional perception of not only classical literature, but hopefully prompt a reconsideration of more recent history too. I chose Medusa’s story because I don’t remember a time in my existence when I haven’t been familiar with her place in legends; Medusa, the foul monster that turns men to stone with a mere glance. Before I had learned of Medusa’s ‘origin story’, I was more than willing to accept her as a horrific creature, quite deserving of her reputation. It was only when I read Stephen Fry’s ‘Heroes’ that I truly realised the extent of Medusa’s victimisation as a female and began to challenge the fact she is perceived as a monster. I would like to think my piece of creative writing would inspire a reconsideration of the way in which we relate legends and historical accounts, particularly to children. As I have matured, my perception of many stories I was first introduced to as a very young child has
morphed, but I think more open narratives should be available to prevent such old-fashioned viewpoints being ingrained into us, especially when we are so impressionable as children. In Ovid’s telling of Medusa’s origin, detailed in book IV of Metamorphosis, she is described as a beautiful woman and devoted worshipper of the goddess Athena (or Minerva, to the Romans). He tells of how she was desired by many men because of her beauty, her captivating hair in particular. This attracted the attention of Poseidon, God of all the Oceans and brother to Zeus, King of the Gods. Poseidon proceeded to ‘ravish’ Medusa in the temple of Athena, prompting Athena to change her into a gorgon with serpents for hair as punishment for offending her ‘chaste eyes’. Medusa’s gaze now petrified anyone who made eye contact with her and she went to live on the island of Lesbos with her gorgon sisters. She lived on the island until Perseus, son of Zeus and Danaeë , travelled on a quest to bring king Polydectes her head. With the help of Athena and Hermes, Perseus was successful in decapitating Medusa and therefore brought her ‘reign of terror’ to an end, going on to use her head, which retained its petrifying ability, as a great weapon. My telling of the myth is in the form of a letter addressed from Medusa to her rapist, Poseidon. It aims to show a different side of Medusa, by no means devoid of monstrous anger, rather a manifestation of all the fury caused by abuse to which she was subjected. It is often said that monsters are made, not born, and I want Medusa’s voice to prompt a consideration within the reader of what created her and why she was the one to be punished. It may have been Poseidon who raped her, but is he not a creation of our patriarchal culture? We are the people – the tellers of history – who pass down legends until they become
intertwined with morality so surely it is our society that is responsible? Nowhere is this more evident than in the fact that Poseidon is not blamed for having raped Medusa but is in fact worshipped. So the only justification for the so-called innocence of the rapist is that he is being judged by a series of stories of glory told by men and for men. His divinity, his masculinity and his power are all hallmarks of a world in which women’s voices and experiences are stifled, treated as insignificant fripperies with no intrinsic value in the retelling of the stories that ultimately become our histories. I hope the reader is left questioning something within the conventional telling of Medusa’s story. In a way, I would also like Medusa’s words to her rapist to act as her voice in the ♯METOO movement. Never before has there been such a fitting time in which to raise questions about the power and wisdom of a woman who has been rendered to such low standings, worthy of no more than a mere paragraph in the Metamorphosis. My Medusa is bloodthirsty and filled with rage, but I believe this to be justifiable due to the hundreds of years in which she has been viewed with distain because of a man’s actions, and the way in which she has been portrayed in a multitude of (patriarchal) legends. I want my piece of writing to act as a release of all the pent-up emotions Medusa is bound to have harboured after the traumatic rape she experienced and was then punished for. I don’t think it’s right, the way masculine power seems to stifle the prospects of so many bright young women and I want my piece of writing to help change that. When writing this piece, a line from ‘The Wee Free Men’ by Terry Pratchett seemed to continuously spin through my mind: “Someone has to speak up for them as has no voices.” And I hope I have spoken for Medusa.
Outcome evaluation:
In writing this piece I think I have given Medusa a clear voice in which to convey the monstrous nature of the rape she experienced, as well as of the consequences this had on the rest of her life. I’ve tried to use imagery that conjures up both the horrific nature of the assault on her and the bitterness and resentment she must surely have felt about her treatment. Her vengeful, sometimes sardonic, tone, combined with quite violent and graphic imagery is intended to illustrate the detrimental effect her assault had on her mental state, especially when compared to her original innocence. My Medusa’s letter ends with her envisioning catharsis in the form of her death, further emphasising anguish her life now holds by implying death is the only exit. However, I think the letter also successfully allows Medusa to take back feminine power in the form of ominous threats to Poseidon, especially with use of such vivid images when she details how she wishes to avenge Poseidon’s maltreatment of her and become a martyr for womankind.
A Letter To Poseidon
“She was once most beautiful in form, and the jealous hope of many suitors. Of all her beauties, her hair was the most beautiful – for so I learned from the one who said he had seen her. ‘Tis said that in Minerva’s temple Neptune, lord of the Ocean, ravished her. Jove’s daughter turned away and hid her chaste eyes behind
her aegis. And, that the deed might be punished as was due, she changed the gorgon’s locks to ugly snakes. And now to frighten her fear-numbed foes, she still wears upon her breast the snakes which she has made.” - Ovid, Metamorphosis book IV, pg. 235
To Poseidon, I was soft, once. Like a hazy lilac sky; skin alabaster-white, all pomegranate stained cheeks and slender, curious fingers, flushed with girlish optimism. The world tasted honeysuckle sweet, as if summer had let out a great sigh. Her gentle breath caressing the meadows until crocuses spilled into being, their golden stamens like delicate strands of filigree beneath the amber lustre of the sunset. Wild laughs of my fellow nymphs hummed in my ears like stardust as we bathed, submerged silhouettes stark against the sapphire water, woven with threads of sunlight. The current coaxed my hair until it was a billowing mass of wheat coloured silk, petal soft (I was not lucid yet, snakes still sleeping in my core). Boldness was not my style, before; I sat silent, a girl holding the sun in her mouth. My knees were permanently mottled green-yellow-blue from kneeling, worship engulfing me like sweet perfume. I prayed as if I was Atlas, shouldering the sky, it was all I knew; the words of devotion spinning round and round like Helios’ chariot burning through the thick sky. Oh, how I long to wade through a night made of honey just once more. Feel the dense air’s warmth on my bare legs, grass tickling the soles of my feet, the gentle buzz of cicadas like a midnight hymn. I can still sense the ghost of my
butterfly heartbeat, a fluttering shadow, reminding me of all the tenderness I once possessed. I will never be tender again, not after what you did. “Pretty little thing. Come on, smile for me.” Once I thought worship and love were synonymous, that I was born to feed the insatiable hunger of the gods. But I never knew love. I was only a child, not yet tempted by the dulcet whispers of Aphrodite that devoured so many nymphs. Still, I wanted love to touch me the way light plays on your skin, seep into my veins like they were nothing more than tissue paper. I wanted a rose to be planted in my heart. Silly little girl. A violation, they called it. When you took your fingertips and felt the fragile membrane of my gossamer soul and pushed at the pulsating wall, stretching, stretching, stretching. You tore out my heart like a grape from your vineyard. Not a person at all, but a ruby sphere, ripe and yearning to be plucked, bursting with sticky juice, eager to be consumed. Still they do not dare to utter the word rape. Choosing instead to choke on its acridity, leaving it to squirm in the back of their throats as if they are somehow able to suffocate such a repugnant creature. They can’t. I ponder, sometimes, how my name would taste on the tongues of unborn generations, if not for you, Poseidon. Would their lips ooze with sugar as the syllables escaped them? Would they spit acid? Perhaps I will slip, sand through time’s fingers, a name whispered in the night, dwindling into obscurity. I can picture you now, body draped across your coral throne as you drink in my words, laughing at the woman who dares scream sea tyrant. I hope they poison you. Do not mistake my femininity for weakness. BABY
HONEY PRINCESS DARLING DANGEROUS DAGGER SHARP FURY Men wax lyrical about how I was ravished in Athena’s temple, a stain left on her proud divinity like crimson wine blotching snowy linen. Justice for mankind gave me shining snakes where my curls once fell. Made my eyes drip like bloodied bullet holes and my tongue a flickering dagger… so they say. “Cursed by the very goddess she worshipped, don’t you know? That’s what happens when you spread your legs and ask for it... the dirty slut.” I laugh at the narrow-minded whisperings, how I could crush them like raspberries underfoot. Tart juice exuding from the berries, drying pink and sticky on my toes. They can’t see that a woman witnessed my desecration and made it so no man could ever have such power over me again. Athena, whose Aegis bears my contorted image. Whose grey eyes peeled back my skin until I became a mass of aching, bruised sinew. Until I became sharp-edged, female rage itself. So tell me, Poseidon, mighty Olympian, god of the ocean, great deity who caresses Icarus’ limp corpse as he drifts, you rapist. How does it feel to have all that power smouldering into ash? To be whittled away at until you can never touch me again, omnipotence set alight. Do you remember me? How my screams resonated? Do you remember at all? How you stripped me of my tenderness, dissolved my womanhood until all that was left were the jutting bones of a soul
seeped in venom, the piano key rungs of my ribs slick with a swirling mess of sweat and bloody fingerprints. My own blood, mortal, crimson, unlike the liquid gold that throbs through your chthonic form. And I wretched and heaved and palpitations surged through me and you just kept going. That’s when I saw the ocean for what it truly is; all the death it holds, a cavernous graveyard of rotting bodies. It drowns you. My innocence has rotted like a sweetly decaying rose. Now all that is left are the thorns. Now I wear rage like a gown made of titanium velvet. Now there is fury in my lungs. Now my hair is serpents and my hipbones dagger-sharp. To face me is to burn in my wroth until all that’s left is a stony scream. Kiss me, and my lips taste of pure anger, concentrated and bitter. Everything is red red red. Curses for you escape my bright mouth like miniscule stars from the inferno raging in my womb, those children of rape. I can feel them, curdling in my belly, lurking like swallowed glugs of shrapnel, swelling, haemorrhaging. They will be born with bared teeth, chew and spit the bloody remnants of my love because when I look at them I will drown in their saltwater eyes. I pray to Athena for revenge. Ask for shoulder blades forged from gunmetal. I want to sprout wings and yank at your threads until you are strung up and swaying in the breeze. To trace the landscape of your body with a sliver of moon, ease open your taut skin until it blossoms with ichor; pooling, dripping, flowing in ribbons down my sculptures so they weep gold. Then they will have felt what it is like to be a woman stripped of her dignity. Those stupid men, who looked me in the eyes and saw their true form, reflected in my gaze, realised I was never theirs.
How do you like my statues, Poseidon? They make the most exquisite garden ornaments, don’t you agree? How many times have you been cast in stone, bronze, gold? It is a strange thing, to watch flesh tarnish. Swallowing men like a lilac bruise, my gaze rendering each who dares look upon me just another addition to my museum of cold faces. I do love sharp things. I like their delicacy. How I can clutch feather and blade, summon blushing peonies or scarlet pearls from your throat. How do you fancy your chances? I will wear you like war paint. Soon Thanatos will come for me too, and I am grinning broken glass because I have met him in the petrified gaze of every man that decorates my island home. You think you’ll get away with this, don’t you? That death will silence me. You think of woman as mere playthings, conjured in clay by Prometheus’ nimble fingers for your pleasure and nothing more. How quaint. I think you have forgotten what you are without your worshippers. Humanity, who kneel at the altar and pray for the love of rapists and murderers, then scatter the rubble of their temples, ashes and dust throughout the eons. Have you seen your father recently? How’s he holding up down in Tartarus, that deathless, ticking thing? You too will fade into the chaos from which you emerged, seen for what you really are. Not long now. They will scream “POESIDON THE RAPIST!” Tear you at the seams, tattoo your name into the stars and make the night sky your grave. Let you drift far from your ocean realm, bloodied crown blazing. Do you see bones seeped in fragility when you look at us (the human race, mortals)? We must seem so funny to you; the way sadness wells up inside us as we scatter fervent spring blossoms over the lifeless bodies of our kin. Death haunts us like a shadow. In a mayfly blink I will be gone, but not you. You will never know catharsis. I don’t think you quite understand that to be mortal
means… means you can have something worth dying for, and in turn something worth living for. This is a thought I keep cupped in my palms like a tiny wriggling hummingbird. I will become a martyr for womankind. I have heard tell of a great hero whose quicksilver blade is hungry for my flesh. I am going to die, and when I do, I hope to do so cradled in the arms of every woman whose truth has been siphoned from history by the cruel power of a man. It shan’t hurt (death); it will be like a dream, my heart an empty cage, sound of wingbeats filling the air. It will feel like letting go of a fistful of sky and watching it shimmer into nothingness. Perseus is his name, my hunter. A boy of Danaeë , forged from Zeus’ poisonous golden rain. Soon he will arrive and slay the foul gorgon Medusa, whose head writhes with snakes and mind with questions. And I have one for you, Poseidon.
LOOK AT ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU.
Who is the monster now?