Shame

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Between Us

  In one of the most vivid examples of different socializing emotions, anthropologist Birgitt Röttger-Rössler and developmental psychologist Manfred Holodynski described the central role of malu (shame) in the socialization of Minangkabau children. The children come from a small peasant village on West Sumatra, Indonesia (the site where Levenson and Ekman tested their MINE theory). The central goal for socialization among the Minangkabau is to pay respect to parents and anyone else—whether kin or no kin—who is older. For the Minangkabau, “showing respect” is to be modest and norm-compliant, and children learn this behavior by learning malu (closest translation: “shame”). From very early on, Minangkabau parents encourage shy behavior in their toddlers, and call it malu-malu (“baby malu”). By calling attention to the behavior, parents also expose their children to the full attention of everyone present, which itself may elicit malu. When children are slightly older, public mocking begins. Five-year-old Haifa and her same-aged (male) cousin Is were publicly mocked by their classmates after having been discovered swimming naked in the local pond. The peers laughed and whispered, and then one cried out “They have no shame!” which was met with agreement and laughing. The episode ended no sooner than Haifa and Is were fully dressed. Sanctioning by caregivers and other relatives similarly does not end until the child’s norm violations have stopped. A defiant child is completely ignored until their behavior is no longer inappropriate, and the adults involved show vicarious or “shared” shame over their child’s norm violations. When the Minangkabau child is older yet, during early adolescence, they are sometimes actively humiliated. Thirteen-year-old Andi, whose teacher cut his hair in front of the whole class (see chapter 2), was an example of this. The use of progressively serious exclusion techniques ensures that Minangkabau children experience and “know” shame. Inducing shame does not only mark norm violations to be avoided; it also leads to the reserved and modest person that is valued among the Minangkabau: a person who is always aware of the social consequences that their behavior may have. Taiwanese Didi’s mom, whom I cited at the beginning of this chapter, equally used shaming to teach her little boy propriety. She drew Didi’s attention to norm violations, and had she lived in the Chicago area, might have been called “critical.” Where the U.S. mothers were weary of shaming or criticizing their children out of fear that doing so would harm their children’s brittle self-esteem, Didi’s mom was trying intentionally to produce a child prone to shame. She was convinced that shame was the “right” thing for Didi to feel. In Taiwan, shame shows that you know your place, and are ready to be deferential. It shows you are committed to preventing the potential negative consequences of norm-violation. In such a cultural context, Didi’s mom thought of shamelessness, not shame, as the more worrisome of the two.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Sex outside of marriage was taboo, so many members married in their teens; but since 1986, children have been forbidden to Sea Org members. Former church executives say that abortions were common and forcefully encouraged. Claire Headley married Marc when she was seventeen; by the time she was twenty-one she had been pushed to have two abortions. She estimates that 60 to 80 percent of the women on Gold Base have had abortions. “It’s a constant practice,” she said. 9 Worried about pillow talk, Miscavige instituted a policy of imposed divorces in 2004; people in the Religious Technology Center, the Commodore’s Messenger Organization, and Golden Era Productions could not be married to members in other divisions. For many of those people in the Hole, everyone they knew or cared about was in the church. The cost of leaving—emotionally and spiritually, as well as financially—was forbidding. And they knew if they tried to run away, they’d likely be found and punished. Those who attempted to leave the Sea Org through the formal process of “routing out” would be presented with a freeloader tab for all the coursework and counseling they had received over the years. Claire and Marc Headley, for instance, were billed more than $150,000 when they left and told they would have to pay if they ever wanted to see their family again. Those who accept this offer can spend years paying off their debt. Those who don’t stand to lose any connection to their friends and family who remain in Scientology. Many had long since turned their back on friends and family who were not in the church, and the prospect of facing them again brought up feelings of shame. The thought of leaving loved ones still in the church was even more fraught. All of these conflicting emotions were informed by the Scientology theory that life goes on and on, and that the mission of the church is to clear the planet, so in the scheme of things the misery one might be suffering now is temporary and negligible. There is a larger goal. One is always working for “the greatest good for the greatest number of dynamics,” as Scientology ethics prescribed. And so the executives of the church who had given their lives to the Sea Org directed their confusion and their anger inward, or toward their helpless colleagues. Rinder was an inevitable target. He was seen as being arrogant and above it all. Few people other than Rathbun really understood Rinder’s job; unlike the others, the two men were often off the base, dealing with lawyers, the government, and the press. No doubt there was resentment at work as well. The next time the Sea Org executives turned on Rinder, Rathbun exploded. He caught his friend in a headlock and slammed him to the ground, then sat astride him, pounding his head into the floor and shouting at him, nose to nose.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Al día siguiente mi hermana no me pregunta por qué dormí en su sofá. Nos lleva a su hijo y a mí a desayunar, y luego vamos a Farmer’s Market 4 por algún producto. Hablamos sobre la feria del condado que se aproxima, qué hay de nuevo en los cines y qué tipo de fiesta quiere tener Killian para su cumpleaños en septiembre. A mi hermana le gusta hacerme pasar un mal rato, pero también es buena al ver cuando estoy herida. Sabe cuándo retroceder. Después de su baile de anoche, la seguí a la parte trasera del club y conseguí sus llaves, así pude usar su auto e ir a su casa. No sabía qué decirle sobre por qué necesité quedarme a dormir con ella, así que no expliqué nada. ¿Por dónde debería empezar? ¿Cole dejándome plantada al no recogerme la noche anterior? ¿Yo sola con Jay en su auto, en una calle desierta a mitad de la noche por primera vez en dos años? ¿Yo pasando la noche en una mesa de billar? ¿Pike acusándome de jugar con su hijo y tomar ventaja de su generosidad? ¿Su jefe presionándome de nuevo para trabajar con él? ¿Cole apenas actuando como si yo existiera? Siento un sollozo tensar mi garganta. No puedo regresar ahí. Preferiría dormir en mi auto. La chica de tres años en mí, con el orgullo del tamaño del Pacífico, se lo enseñará ¿no es así? Viviré en mi auto destartalado sin aire acondicionado y las manillas de la puerta rotas, porque no necesito a nadie, ¿cierto? A través de mis ojos llenos de lágrimas, sonrío un poco mientras conduzco el auto de mi hermana. En realidad no es tan malo como eso. Tengo la casa de mi padre. Puede que mi madrastra no me quiera ahí, pero no me rechazarán. No siempre será así. Giro en el vecindario de Pike, frenando el Mustang de mi hermana y acercándome a su casa. Mi hermana no tiene que trabajar hoy, así que me dejó usar su auto para sacar mis cosas de casa de Pike. Cuando su casa aparece a la vista, veo su camioneta en el camino de entrada y me da un vuelco el estómago. No quiero verlo ahora mismo. Debería volver más tarde. 4 Farmer’s Market: Es un mercado minorista físico destinado a vender alimentos directamente por los agricultores a los consumidores.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She could have been the next Mary Jo. “So we got a little stoned,” Caitlin said. “Big deal. Nothing happened.” She gathered her hair with one hand and pulled it away from her face. When Vix didn’t respond Caitlin sat up and pointed a finger at her. “Where do you come off acting so fucking self-righteous? It’s not exactly like you were playing jacks with Von!” Vix felt her legs begin to tremble. “Look at you …” Caitlin said. “You’re so scared of that side of yourself you have to run away.” Suddenly it all became clear to Vix. “You planned it, didn’t you?” “Don’t be ridiculous. It was supposed to be the best damn birthday you’ve ever had. So maybe it got a little out of control. I’m sorry. Is that what you want me to say?” “Was Bru in on it? Just tell me … was he part of your plan … or was it just you and Von?” “You’re paranoid if that’s what you think,” Caitlin said. “Nobody planned anything. It just happened.” She lay down again with the blanket pulled up to her chin. Vix’s head was pounding. If she didn’t get away … if she didn’t get out of here … She zipped up her duffel, expecting Caitlin to jump out of bed and beg her to stay, reminding her that their friendship was more important than anything or anyone. “You know something?” Caitlin said, her voice a disgusted whisper. “You’re an emotional iceberg, terrified of your own feelings.” Keep your feelings to yourself, Victoria. Don’t ever show anyone your disappointment . She slung the duffel over her shoulder. “And you’re a disaster waiting to happen!” she told Caitlin. “Fine, go …” Caitlin dismissed her with a wave of one hand. “Have a mediocre life filled with mediocre people. Forget NBO … forget our pact. Because that’s exactly what you’re heading for … a boring and ordinary life.” “Which is better than what you’re heading for!” Vix longed to slam the bedroom door. Instead, she pulled it closed behind her, tiptoed down the stairs, left a note for Abby and Lamb on the kitchen table, then let herself out the door. Only then did a single sob escape from deep inside. But she swallowed that, too. She’d hiked halfway out to the main road when she heard a truck coming from behind. She shifted the duffel to her other shoulder. But she didn’t turn, not even as the truck slowed down. GusWHAT WERE THEY going on about at the crack of dawn? He’d tried holding the pillow over his head but he couldn’t breathe that way. Fuck. He’d been out until after two A.M. Not that he was complaining. You don’t complain when a good-looking woman hands you a slip of paper with her room number on it while you’re clearing away her grilled swordfish, even if she is wearing a wedding band.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, no! What happened was, Agnes lost her place, because the lady didn’t care for her. She went to a house in Dulwich — which, as you will know, is very far from Kentish Town, but not so far that we couldn’t meet on a Sunday, and send each other little notes and parcels through the post. But then - well, then another girl came. She was not so nice as Agnes, but she took to me like anything. I think she was a bit soft, miss, in the head. She would look through all my things - and, of course, she found my letters and all my bits. She would make me kiss her! And when at last I said that I wouldn’t, for Agnes’ sake - well, she went to the lady and told her that I had made her kiss me; and that I touched her, in a peculiar way. When all the time, it was her, only her — ! And when the lady wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her, she went and took her to my little box of letters, and showed her those.’ ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘What a bitch!’ She nodded. ‘A bitch is what she was, all right; only, I didn’t like to say it before.’ ‘And it was the lady, then, who got you sent to the reformat ’ry?’ ‘It was, on a charge of tampering and corrupting. And she made sure Agnes lost her place, too; and they would have sent her to prison along with me - except that she took up with another young man again, very sharp. And now she is married to him, and he I hear treats her shabbily.’ She shook her head, and so did I. I said, ‘Well, it seems like you were roundly done over by women, all right!’ ‘Wasn’t I, though!’ I gave her a wink. ‘Come over here, and let’s have a fag.’ She stepped over to the bed, and I found us two cigarettes; and for a little while we sat smoking together in silence, occasionally sighing and tutting and still shaking our heads. At last I saw her gazing at me rather thoughtfully. When I caught her eye, she blushed and looked away. I said, ‘What is it?’ ‘It’s nothing, miss.’ ‘No, there is something,’ I said, smiling. ‘What are you thinking?’ She took another puff of her cigarette, smoking it as you see rough men on the street smoking, with her fingers cupped around the fag, the burning end of it nearly scorching her palm. Then she said: ‘Well, you will think me forwarder than I ought to be.’ ‘Will I?’ ‘Yes.

• From City of Night (1963)

  I went around the corner with the black-dressed Al, down from 42nd Street—wordlessly—to a large room in an apartment house. “I dont live here,” he explained as he opened the door into an almost-bare room: a bed, a table, two chairs. “I just keep this place—well—as a Convenience.” He asked me to take my clothes off, but, “Not the pants, theyll do,” he tells me. He went to a large closet, and brought out some clothes. Theres a black leather jacket with stars like a general, eagled motorcycle cap, engineer boots with gleaming polished buckles. He left the closet door open, and I could see, hanging neatly, other similar clothes—different sizes, I knew. On the floor were at least seven pairs of engineer boots, all different sizes. “Ive reached the point,” Al said, “where I can tell the exact size by just glancing at the person, on the street... Here, put these on.” I did, and they fitted. “Fine!” he said. “Now lets go.” Im startled. “Where?” I asked him. “Outside,” the man says, then noticing me hesitating suspiciously: “I just want us to take a little walk. Dont worry—I’ll pay you.” That night, for about an hour, I walked with him through Times Square, from block to block in that area, into the park, silently—just walked. A couple of times I was tempted to leave, walk away with his clothes—but Im curious and I need the money. At the end of the hour we returned to the room, I removed the clothes. He didnt touch me once. He hands me $10.00. I looked at him surprised. I thought somehow I had disappointed him, and I felt grossly rejected. “Thats all,” he said; he smiles. “You were fine, just fine,” he says, sensing whats troubling me. “But, you see,” he said, rather wistfully, “thats all I want; to be seen along Times Square with a youngman in those clothes.” A few minutes later, I was back on 42nd Street, and Pete was still there, slouched outside the spaghetti place. He smiled at me. “Some scene, huh?” he said. “Did he give you anything for it?” I ask him. “What do you think, spote? He gives me five bucks for everyone I get him. I meet him once every two, three weeks. He spots someone he digs, I introduce him. Hes too shy to talk to anyone, so I do it for him, and he lays some bread on me—and I dont have to do nothing,” he says smartly. “Did you ever go with him— spote?” I said.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “She’s serious,” Vix told them. Paisley said, “I think I’ll send out for Thai.” She searched for the phone, finding it in the basket where they ripened their bananas. When the food arrived they sat around the coffee table, all three of them stripped down to their underwear with their hair pinned up. “Can I speak frankly?” Maia asked, munching on a spring roll. “Please …” Paisley said. But Maia was waiting to hear from Vix. “Go ahead,” Vix told her, knowing what was coming. “It’s time for you to get over him, Victoria. Once and for all.” “I thought I was supposed to get over her.” “Him, her … get over the whole mess.” Vix dug her chopsticks into the pad Thai. Maia took this as permission to continue. “And for God’s sake, call her up and tell her you’re not coming to the wedding. You have other plans. You’re … I don’t know … going to Hawaii with some gorgeous guy. And the next time she decides to get married and wants you for her Maid of Honor she should give you more notice.” Vix kept on eating, sampling the curried vegetables, then the pineapple shrimp. “You’re not thirteen anymore,” Maia said, growing frustrated. “She has no power over you. And I just don’t see the point in all … this.” She pointed to the albums, the loose photos. “In surrounding yourself with these … memories.” Paisley touched Maia’s arm. “Look …” she said, “being a member of the wedding party could be therapeutic for Victoria. It could offer closure … you know?” “What closure?” Maia asked. “It’ll just mean more photo ops, more heartache.” She shook her head at Vix. MaiaSHE’S ALWAYS KNOWN Victoria’s fascination with the NBO girl would come to no good. From the day Victoria moved into their room at Weld South and set out those photos she knew. Go ahead and laugh , she tells Paisley when they discuss it. I knew! She disagrees with Paisley completely. Victoria should not go to this wedding. And really, what kind of guy marries his longtime girlfriend’s best friend? She’ll do everything in her power to keep Victoria from going to the Vineyard, short of tying her up and sitting on her, which, come to think of it, might not be a bad idea. PaisleySHE ADMITS , it’s a shocker. But it’s not the first time in the history of the world something like this has happened. It probably happens more often than they know. Only not to their friends. She disagrees with Maia one hundred percent. Victoria needs to be at this wedding. Needs to experience it. That’s the only way she’ll ever be free of them. Not that Victoria is listening to a word either she or Maia have to say on the subject. Her mind is already made up, was probably made up at the moment Caitlin asked her to come.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Shel trata de mandarme temprano a casa en mi turno doble, pero después del episodio con Pike, el último lugar en el que puedo estar ahora mismo es en su casa. No tengo ningún otro sitio a donde ir, por no mencionar que necesito el dinero. ¿Cómo pudo hacer eso esta mañana? ¿Interrumpir en mi trabajo como si supiera algo? No le pertenezco. Y si está preocupado, ¿por qué no puede decirlo amablemente? No todas las mentiras son para hacer daño a alguien. Estaba cubriendo el trasero de Cole. Sí, entiendo las sospechas. Lo entiendo. Él no me conoce lo suficiente, y está preocupado por su hijo, ¿pero cómo pueden ambos hombres Lawson apestar tanto en una conversación adulta y madura? Me froto los ojos, mi mente volviendo al momento en que dijo que no apoyaría a alguien así y que me fuera de su maldita casa. En ese momento me sentí indeseada. De nuevo. Indeseada en otro sitio. Por otra persona. Me sentí como una carga. Como en casa de mis padres, e incluso a veces con Cole y Cam. ¿Por qué siempre me permito sentir como si no mereciera algo mejor? Pensé que él era agradable. Pensé que éramos amigos y comencé a relajarme. Gimo, intentando mantener las lágrimas bajo control. Odio haber llorado frente a él. Trabajo hasta que el turno de la noche llega a las seis y me quedo lo suficiente como para comerme la otra mitad de mi sándwich como cena, guardo mis propinas y cierro la caja antes de ponerme la sudadera y tomar mi bolso. No me he duchado en veinticuatro horas y un dolor de cabeza pulsa entre mis ojos por la falta de sueño. Solo quiero sentarme bajo una ducha caliente y ahogar todo lo demás. Me da un vuelco el estómago, recordando que no tengo ningún sitio al que ir para tomar esa ducha. No voy a volver a aceptar una maldita cosa de Pike Lawson nunca más. Por no mencionar que todavía estoy molesta con Cole. Me envió un mensaje para asegurarse que estuviera bien y para disculparse de nuevo, pero no le respondí.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  She read the labels on the clothes and turned over dishes and vases to study the markings on the bottom. She had no qualms about telling a saleslady that a dress marked at twenty-five cents was worth only a dime, and she usually got it at that price. Mom took us thrift-store shopping for weeks before that Christmas, giving us each a dollar to spend on presents. I got a red glass bud vase for Mom, an onyx ashtray for Dad, a model-car kit for Brian, a book about elves for Lori, and a stuffed tiger with a loose ear that Mom helped me sew back in place for Maureen. On Christmas morning, Mom took us down to a gas station that sold Christmas trees. She selected a tall, dark, but slightly dried-out Douglas fir. “This poor old tree isn’t going to sell by the end of the day, and it needs someone to love it,” she told the man and offered him three dollars. The man looked at the tree and looked at Mom and looked at us kids. My dress had buttons missing. Holes were appearing along the seams of Maureen’s T-shirt. “Lady, this one’s been marked down to a buck,” he said. We carried the tree home and decorated it with Grandma’s antique ornaments: ornate colored balls, fragile glass partridges, and lights with long tubes of bubbling water. I couldn’t wait to open my presents, but Mom insisted that we celebrate Christmas in the Catholic fashion, getting to the gifts only after we’d attended midnight mass. Dad, knowing that all the bars and liquor stores would be closed on Christmas, had stocked up in advance. He’d popped open the first Budweiser before breakfast, and by the time midnight mass rolled around, he was having trouble standing up. I suggested that maybe this once, Mom should let Dad off the hook about going to mass, but she said stopping by God’s house for a quick hello was especially important at times like this, so Dad staggered and lurched into the church with us. During the sermon, the priest discussed the miracle of Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth. “Virgin, my ass!” Dad shouted. “Mary was a sweet Jewish broad who got herself knocked up!” The service came to a dead halt. Everyone was staring. The choir had swiveled around in unison and were gaping openmouthed. Even the priest was speechless. Dad had a satisfied grin on his face. “And Jesus H. Christ is the world’s best-loved bastard!” The ushers grimly escorted us to the street. On the way home, Dad put his arm around my shoulder for support. “Baby girl, if your boyfriend ever gets into your panties and you find yourself in a family way, swear that it was Immaculate Conception and start mouthing off about miracles,” he said.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  AFTER THAT, I HARDLY ever saw Mom or Dad. Neither did Brian. He had gotten married and bought a run-down Victorian house on Long Island that he restored, and he and his wife had a child, a little girl. They were his family now. Lori, who was still living in her apartment near the Port Authority, was more in touch with Mom and Dad, but she, too, had gone her own way. We hadn’t gotten together since Maureen’s arraignment. Something in all of us broke that day, and afterward, we no longer had the spirit for family gatherings. About a year after Maureen took off for California, I got a call at work from Dad. He said he needed to get together to discuss something important. “Can’t we do it over the phone?” “I need to see you in person, honey.” Dad asked me to come down to the Lower East Side that evening. “And if it’s not too much trouble,” he added, “could you stop on your way and pick up a bottle of vodka?” “Oh, so that’s what this is about.” “No, no, honey. I do need to talk to you. But I would appreciate some vodka. Nothing fancy, just the cheapest rotgut they have. A pint would be fine. A fifth would be great.” I was annoyed by Dad’s sly request for vodka—tossing it out at the end of the conversation as if it were an afterthought, when I figured it was probably the purpose of the call. That afternoon I called Mom, who still never drank anything stronger than tea, and asked if I should indulge Dad. “Your father is who he is,” Mom said. “It’s a little late in the game to try to reform him now. Humor the man.” • • • That night I stopped in a liquor store and bought a half gallon of the cheapest rotgut on the shelf, just as Dad had requested, then took a taxi down to the Lower East Side. I climbed the dark staircase and pushed open the unlocked door. Mom and Dad were lying in their bed under a pile of thin blankets. I got the impression they’d been there

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  on earth do you need it for?’ ‘That depends. I’ll tell you all about it later.’ Then he picked up the blade - its handle was cool by now - and left the smithy. He made his way quickly to the carpenter’s house and stood outside the window once more. He coughed softly, just like before, and knocked. ‘Who’s there?’ Alison called out. ‘Are you a thief or what?’ ‘No, dear Alison,’ he said. ‘It is me again. Your darling Absolon. I’ve brought with me a gold ring. My mother gave it to me many years ago. It is of the purest gold, and engraved with a true love knot. I would like to give it you. In exchange for another kiss.’ Nicholas was out of bed and just about to take a piss. He thought that he could make the joke even funnier if he changed places with Alison and stuck his own arse out of the window. So he quickly went over to the window and thrust out his buttocks as far as he could. Absolon called out ‘Speak to me, my little bird. I can’t see you, sweetheart.’ And, at that, Nicholas let out a fart as loud as a peal of thunder. What a noise! What a smell! You can guess what Absolon did next. He steadied the hot blade, and thrust it right up Nicholas’s arse. Oh dear. He took the skin off that fundament, and all around the edges. Nicholas was in such pain that he thought he might die, and screamed out in agony like a madman, ‘Help! Water! For God’s sake! Water!’ Now his cries awoke the carpenter, and when he heard the exclamation ‘Water!’ he started up. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘Here comes the flood!’ So he took up the axe beside him, and cut the rope that held his tub to the beams of the ceiling. Then, as the children say, all fall down. In a moment the tub plummeted to the floor. I could put it another way. He had no time to sell the bread and ale on board. He was on the floorboards, passed out. He was dead to the world. When they realized what had happened Alison and Nicholas went out into the street calling ‘Havoc!’ and ‘Harrow!’ to wake their neighbours. And then the good people ran out of their houses to take a look at the carpenter spread out on the floor. He had broken his arm in the fall, and was generally in a sad condition. Slowly he recovered from his faint. He tried to stand up, but it did him no good. Before he could say a word Nicholas and Alison assured the crowd that he had gone mad. They said that he had become so obsessed with Noah and the Flood that he had gone out especially to buy three tubs; when these vessels were hanging from the roof, he had urged them to join him up there for the sake of company. Then all the neighbours began to laugh at him. He was not only mad. He was a fool. They looked up at the two tubs still dangling from the roof, and laughed even harder. It was a joke. The carpenter tried to explain what had happened, but no one was in the mood to listen to him. The testimony of Nicholas and Alison was so convincing that the whole town now treated him as little more than a lunatic. Everyone agreed about that. So there we are. That is how the young scholar got to fuck the young wife, despite all the carpenter’s precautions. How Absolon kissed her arse. How Nicholas had a sore bum. And that, pilgrims, is the end of my story. God save us all! Then the Miller fell off his horse. Heere endeth the Millere his tale

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  She could speak only to herself and, in the privacy of her own chamber, with pale and sorrowful face, she uttered her lament. ‘Alas, Dame Fortune, I am caught upon your wheel. You have trapped me unawares, and there is no escape. There is no conclusion for me but death or dishonour. I must choose one or the other. The truth is that I would rather forfeit my life than my honour. Death would be preferable to the loss of virtue and the loss of name. I would be quiet and sinless in the grave. Have not many noble wives, and young maidens, killed themselves rather than sacrifice their bodies? I know many examples. ‘When the thirty cursed tyrants of Athens slew Phidon at a feast, they ordered his daughters to be stripped naked and brought before them. They were forced to dance and perform like prostitutes, slipping in their father’s blood, so that the foul lust of the tyrants could be satisfied. God curse the wicked men! The poor maidens were filled with shame and horror and, rather than lose their virginity, they broke away and rushed to a well in a nearby courtyard. They plunged in, and drowned themselves. ‘Then the old books report the tale of the fifty Spartan virgins, captured by the people of Messene so that they might violate them. Of course the maidens all willingly chose to die rather than to assent. They would rather suffer death than dishonour. Why should I not join their company? The tyrant Aristoclides desired a young virgin, Stymphalides, and ordered her father to be killed one night; the maiden went at once to the temple of Diana, where she clung to the statue of the goddess and refused to move. No one could release her grip from the sacred image, and so she was killed on the spot. If these young girls died gladly for the sake of their chastity, why should not a wife follow their example? Why should I not defend myself from the foul desires of a man? Can I not learn from the example of the wife of Hasdrubal, who killed herself within the walls of Carthage? When she realized that the Roman enemy were about to take the city, she took her children and walked willingly into the fire. She would rather be burned alive than ravished by Roman soldiers. Did not Lucrece kill herself after she was raped by Tarquin? She could not endure the loss of her good name. That was too great a shame for her. The seven virgins of Miletus sought self-slaughter rather than submit to the men of Galatia. I could repeat more than a thousand stories of this kind. Let me see. When Abradates was killed his beloved wife cut her wrists, letting her blood mingle with the blood and wounds of her husband; as she did so she

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  We were all so thrilled and proud, and this girl seemed to think I had the coolest possible father: a writer. (Her father sold cars.) We went out to dinner, where we all toasted one another. Things in the family just couldn’t have been better, and here was a friend to witness it. Then that night, before we went to sleep, I picked up the new novel and began to read the first page to my friend. We were lying side by side in sleeping bags on my floor. The first page turned out to be about a man and a woman in bed together, having sex. The man was playing with the woman’s nipple. I began to giggle with mounting hysteria. Oh, this is great, I thought, beaming jocularly at my friend. I covered my mouth with one hand, like a blushing Charlie Chaplin, and pantomimed that I was about to toss that silly book over my shoulder. This is wonderful, I thought, throwing back my head to laugh jovially; my father writes pornography. In the dark, I glowed like a light bulb with shame. You could have read by me. I never mentioned the book to my father, although over the next couple of years, I went through it late at night, looking for more sexy parts, of which there were a number. It was very confusing. It made me feel very scared and sad. Then a strange thing happened. My father wrote an article for a magazine, called “A Lousy Place to Raise Kids,” and it was about Marin County and specifically the community where we lived, which is as beautiful a place as one can imagine. Yet the people on our peninsula were second only to the Native Americans in the slums of Oakland in the rate of alcoholism, and the drug abuse among teenagers was, as my father wrote, soul chilling, and there was rampant divorce and mental breakdown and wayward sexual behavior. My father wrote disparagingly about the men in the community, their values and materialistic frenzy, and about their wives, “these estimable women, the wives of doctors, architects, and lawyers, in tennis dresses and cotton frocks, tanned and well preserved, wandering the aisles of our supermarkets with glints of madness in their eyes.” No one in our town came off looking great. “This is the great tragedy of California,” he wrote in the last paragraph, “for a life oriented to leisure is in the end a life oriented to death—the greatest leisure of all.” There was just one problem: I was an avid tennis player. The tennis ladies were my friends. I practiced every afternoon at the same tennis club as they; I sat with them on the weekends and waited for the men (who had priority) to be done so we could get on the courts.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “We make a good team,” he said. I felt like throwing the money at him, but we kids needed it, so I put the bills in my purse. We hadn’t scammed Robbie, but we’d worked him in a way that felt downright sleazy, and I’d ended up in a tight spot. If Robbie had been set up by Dad, so had I. “You upset about something, Mountain Goat?” For a moment I considered not telling Dad. I was afraid there’d be bloodshed, since he was always going on about how he’d kill anyone who laid a finger on me. Then I decided I wanted to see the guy pummeled. “Dad, that creep attacked me when we were upstairs.” “I’m sure he just pawed you some,” Dad said as we pulled out of the parking lot. “I knew you could handle yourself.” The road back to Welch was dark and empty. The wind whistled through the broken window on my side of the Plymouth. Dad lit a cigarette. “It was like that time I threw you into the sulfur spring to teach you to swim,” he said. “You might have been convinced you were going to drown, but I knew you’d do just fine.”

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Most of them didn’t even drink, and they certainly did not have colleagues who came over and passed out at the table over the tuna casserole. Reading my father’s article, I could only imagine that the world was breaking down, that the next time I burst into my dad’s study to show him my report card he’d be crouched under the desk, with one of my mother’s nylon stockings knotted around his upper arm, looking up at me like a cornered wolf. I felt that this was going to be a problem; I was sure that we would be ostracized in our community. All I ever wanted was to belong, to wear that hat of belonging. In seventh and eighth grades I still weighed about forty pounds. I was twelve years old and had been getting teased about my strange looks for most of my life. This is a difficult country to look too different in—the United States of Advertising, as Paul Krassner puts it—and if you are too skinny or too tall or dark or weird or short or frizzy or homely or poor or nearsighted, you get crucified. I did. But I was funny. So the popular kids let me hang out with them, go to their parties, and watch them neck with each other. This, as you might imagine, did not help my self-esteem a great deal. I thought I was a total loser. But one day I took a notebook and a pen when I went to Bolinas Beach with my father (who was not, as far as I could tell, shooting drugs yet). With the writer’s equivalent of canvas and brush, I wrote a description of what I saw: “I walked to the lip of the water and let the foamy tongue of the rushing liquid lick my toes. A sand crab burrowed a hole a few inches from my foot and then disappeared into the damp sand.…” I will spare you the rest. It goes on for quite a while. My father convinced me to show it to a teacher, and it ended up being included in a real textbook. This deeply impressed my teachers and parents and a few kids, even some of the popular kids, who invited me to more parties so I could watch them all make out even more frequently. One of the popular girls came home with me after school one day, to spend the night. We found my parents rejoicing over the arrival of my dad’s new novel, the first copy off the press.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Banks of fluorescent lights hung down eighteen inches above the slanted, glass-topped desks where men wearing green eyeshades conferred over stacks of copy and photographs. I’d take the Wave galleys and sit at one of the desks, my back firm, a pencil behind my ear, studying the pages for typos. The years I’d spent helping Mom check spelling on her students’ homework had given me lots of practice for this line of work. I’d make corrections with a light blue felt marker that couldn’t be picked up by the camera that photographed the pages for printing. The typesetters would retype the lines I’d corrected and print them out. I’d run the corrected lines through the hot-wax machine that made the back side sticky, then cut out the lines with an X-Acto knife and fit them over the original lines. I tried to remain inconspicuous in the newsroom, but one of the typesetters, a crabbed, chain-smoking woman who always wore a hairnet, took a dislike to me. She thought I was dirty. When I walked by, she’d turn to the other typesetters and say loudly, “Y’all smell something funny?” Just like Lucy Jo Rose had done to Mom, she took to spraying disinfectant and air freshener in my general direction. Then she complained to the editor, Mr. Muckenfuss, that I might have head lice and could infect the entire staff. Mr. Muckenfuss conferred with Miss Bivens, and she told me that as long as I kept clean, she’d fight for me. That was when I started going back to Grandpa and Uncle Stanley’s apartment for a weekly bath, though when I was there, I made sure to give Uncle Stanley a wide berth. Whenever I was at the Daily News, I watched the editors and reporters at work in the newsroom. They kept a police scanner on all the time, and when an accident or fire or crime was called in, an editor would send a reporter to find out what had happened. He’d come back a couple of hours later and type up a story, and it would appear in the next day’s paper. This appealed to me mightily. Until then, when I thought of writers, what first came to mind was Mom, hunched over her typewriter, clattering away on her novels and plays and philosophies of life and occasionally receiving a personalized rejection letter. But a newspaper reporter, instead of holing up in isolation, was in touch with the rest of the world. What the reporter wrote influenced what people thought about and talked about the next day; he knew what was really going on. I decided I wanted to be one of the people who knew what was really going on. When my work was done, I read the stories on the wire services.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “Why you want to know?” “I want to see her.” “She don’t want to see you,” he said and shut the door. I saw Dinitia around town once or twice after that, and we waved but never spoke again. Later, we all learned she’d been arrested for stabbing her mother’s boyfriend to death. • • • The other girls talked endlessly among themselves about who still had their cherry and how far they would let their boyfriend go. The world seemed divided into girls with boyfriends and girls without them. It was the distinction that mattered the most, practically the only one that did matter. But I knew that boys were dangerous. They’d say they loved you, but they were always after something. Even though I didn’t trust boys, I sure did wish one would show some interest in me. Kenny Hall, the old guy down the street who was still pining away for me, didn’t count. If any boy was interested in me, I wondered if I’d have the wherewithal to tell him, when he tried to go too far, that I was not that kind of girl. But the truth was, I didn’t need to worry much about fending off advances, seeing how—as Ernie Goad told me on every available occasion—I was pork-chop ugly. And by that he meant so ugly that if I wanted a dog to play with me, I’d have to tie a pork chop around my neck. I had what Mom called distinctive looks. That was one way of putting it. I was nearly six feet tall, pale as a frog’s underbelly, and had bright red hair. My elbows were like flying wedges and my knees like tea saucers. But my most prominent feature—my worst—was my teeth. They weren’t rotten or crooked. In fact, they were big, healthy things. But they stuck straight out. The top row thrust forward so enthusiastically that I had trouble closing my mouth completely, and I was always stretching my upper lip to try to cover them. When I laughed, I put my hand over my mouth. Lori told me I had an exaggerated view of how bad my teeth looked. “They’re just a little bucked,” she’d say. “They have a certain Pippi Longstockingish charm.” Mom told me my overbite gave my face character. Brian said they’d come in handy if I ever needed to eat an apple through the knothole in a fence. What I needed, I knew, was braces. Every time I looked in the mirror, I longed for what the other kids called a barbed-wire mouth. Mom and Dad had no money for braces, of course—none of us kids had ever even been to the dentist—but since I’d been babysitting and doing other kids’ homework for cash, I resolved to save up until I could afford braces myself.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Mis ojos se abren por completo y lo fulmino con la mirada. —¿Estás intentando bromear conmigo? ¿Qué demonios? —Oh, por favor —replica—. ¿Me estás diciendo que no la viste inquieta y mordiéndose el labio simplemente por verte cuando te trajo tu cerveza favorita? ¿Lo hizo? —Era como un cachorro con la lengua colgando fuera de su boca —agrega. ¿Lo era? Aclaro mi cabeza y miro por la ventana, el desconcierto está grabado en mi rostro. Lo que sea. —No hables así de ella —le digo—. Es la novia de mi hijo, hombre. Vamos. Montando mi... sacudo la cabeza. Increíble. —Entonces, ¿está fuera de los límites para ti? —¡Sí! —Entonces, ¿por qué la miraste como si te encantara lo que llevaba puesto y quisieras verlo en el suelo de tu dormitorio esta noche? —No estaba mirándola así —digo a través de mis dientes apretados Pero solo se ríe entre dientes. Idiota. —Oye, no estoy faltándole al res... —Cállate —digo. Maldición. No está bien. Ya es bastante malo que la mire como si fuera una mujer real y no la chica de mi hijo, pero estaría condenado si alguien se entera de ello. —Todo lo que digo es que es exactamente tu tipo —me dice, regulando su voz—. ¿Lo notaste? Siempre fuiste por chicas como ella en la escuela secundaria. Antes de Lindsay, el Desastre, de todos modos. —Solo cállate. Pero no lo hace. —No digo que debas hacer algo. Y es por eso que intervine y no dejé que la trajeras a casa. Su tono se vuelve serio. —Bromas aparte, Pike —continúa—, es exactamente tu tipo. No deberías estar a solas con ella. Sí. Lo sé. Solo espero que sea la única persona que lo haya notado. —Gracias por la intervención —le digo—, pero incluso si me sintiera atraído por ella, soy capaz de controlarme. —No te estás viendo desde mi perspectiva. —Mira por el parabrisas delantero, con seriedad—. Se miran el uno al otro como... —¿Cómo? Traga saliva, un ceño inusualmente fruncido en su frente. —Como si tuvieran su propio idioma.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Then the old books report the tale of the fifty Spartan virgins, captured by the people of Messene so that they might violate them. Of course the maidens all willingly chose to die rather than to assent. They would rather suffer death than dishonour. Why should I not join their company? The tyrant Aristoclides desired a young virgin, Stymphalides, and ordered her father to be killed one night; the maiden went at once to the temple of Diana, where she clung to the statue of the goddess and refused to move. No one could release her grip from the sacred image, and so she was killed on the spot. If these young girls died gladly for the sake of their chastity, why should not a wife follow their example? Why should I not defend myself from the foul desires of a man? Can I not learn from the example of the wife of Hasdrubal, who killed herself within the walls of Carthage? When she realized that the Roman enemy were about to take the city, she took her children and walked willingly into the fire. She would rather be burned alive than ravished by Roman soldiers. Did not Lucrece kill herself after she was raped by Tarquin? She could not endure the loss of her good name. That was too great a shame for her. The seven virgins of Miletus sought self-slaughter rather than submit to the men of Galatia. I could repeat more than a thousand stories of this kind. Let me see. When Abradates was killed his beloved wife cut her wrists, letting her blood mingle with the blood and wounds of her husband; as she did so she called out, “I have made sure, at least, that my body will not be defiled.” ‘But why should I provide more examples, when it is obvious to me that many women decided to kill themselves rather than risk dishonour and degradation? There is only one conclusion. I will die like them. I will be true to my husband, Arveragus. I will embrace my fate with the courage of the daughter of Demotion. Do you remember her, Dame Fortune? And then there were the two daughters of Cedasus. That was another sad story. The Theban virgin killed herself when under threat from Nicanor. Oh yes, and another Theban maiden did the same thing. She was raped by a Macedonian soldier, and took her own life to redeem her virginity. It was not too high a price. What shall I say about the wife of Niceratus, who slit her wrists for the same reason? The lover of Alcibiades chose to endure death rather than to leave his body unburied. And what a wife was Alcestis! She agreed to die in order to save her husband’s life. What does Homer say of Penelope, too? She was known throughout Greece for her chastity. I could go on and on.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  I had no idea how much they cost, so I approached the only girl in my class who wore braces and, after complimenting her orthodontia, casually asked how much it had set her folks back. When she said twelve hundred dollars, I almost fell over. I was getting a dollar an hour to babysit. I usually worked five or six hours a week, which meant that if I saved every penny I earned, it would take about four years to raise the money. I decided to make my own braces. • • • I went to the library and asked for a book on orthodontia. The librarian looked at me kind of funny and said she didn’t have one, so I realized I’d have to figure things out as I went along. The process involved some experimentation and several false starts. At first I simply used a rubber band. Before going to bed, I would stretch it all the way around the entire set of my upper teeth. The rubber band was small but thick and had a good, tight fit. But it pressed down uncomfortably on my tongue, and sometimes it would pop off during the night and I’d wake up choking on it. Usually, however, it stayed on all night, and in the morning my gums would be sore from the pressure on my teeth. That seemed like a promising sign, but I began to worry that instead of pushing my front teeth in, the rubber band might be pulling my back teeth forward. So I got some larger rubber bands and wore them around my whole head, pressing against my front teeth. The problem with this technique was that the rubber bands were tight—they had to be, to work—so I’d wake up with headaches and deep red marks where the rubber bands had dug into the sides of my face. I needed more advanced technology. I bent a metal coat hanger into a horseshoe shape to fit the back of my head. Then I curled the two ends outward, so when the coat hanger was around my head, the ends angled away from my face and formed hooks to hold the rubber band in place. When I tried it on, the coat hanger dug into the back of my skull, so I used a Kotex sanitary napkin for padding. The contraption worked perfectly, except that I had to sleep flat on my back, which I always had trouble doing, especially when it was cold: I liked to snuggle down into the blankets. Also, the rubber bands still popped off in the middle of the night. Another drawback was that the device took a lot of time to put on properly. I’d wait until it was dark so no one else would see it. One night I was lying in my bunk wearing my elaborate coat-hanger braces when the bedroom door opened. I could make out a dim figure in the darkness.