A Good Writer Is Hard To Find

First off, you might notice that some posts are gone. I can't say why, but if you see me in person, feel free to ask. There's some legaleness involved to it.

Second, Flannery O'Connor died of lupus forty-seven years ago today.  I am amazed at how many Catholics are ignorant of her writing, yet most of my protestant students have ready anywhere between two to four of her short stories because they are so widely anthologized in state literature textbooks.

Flannery O'Connor was the type of Catholic woman I want to be. She was dedicated to Our Lord.  She contracted Lupus, and yet, in spite of the crippling disease, she still became a prolific writer. She attended Mass everyday.  She wrote everyday, even on Sundays.  She had a wicked sense of humor and was witty, witty, witty. She led a life of service, consecrated singleness, and used her talent to glorify God.

A short history: Mary Flannery O'Connor was born in Milledgville, Georgia.  As a child, she was featured in the newspaper for teaching a chicken to walk backwards.  She then grew up, moved off to college, and enrolled in a creative writing program. After obtaining her Bachelor's, she went on to earn her M.A. in Creative Writing from the Iowa Writer's Workshop, the premier creative writing school in the country at that time. After graduating from Iowa, she returned home to Milledgeville only to be struck with Lupus, the same disease that killed her father.  She corresponded back and forth with a lesbian atheist friend, wrote daily, attended mass daily, and raised peacocks until she died of lupus on this day forty-seven years ago.

And yet, her legacy lives on. But it is only because she dedicated herself to a higher cause. Flannery said that  "All human nature vigorously resists [the] Grace [of God] because Grace changes us, and the change is painful." And if you ever read her essays on writing, called Mystery and Manners, then you know that the above quote is more true in the context of her short stories.


Too often, my protestant students tell me that they and their teachers loved the story but don't quite get it. In truth, I had the same reaction early on.  In my academic career, I encountered her work at least 3-5 times, and though I always admired it, the meanings of the stories didn't click for me until I converted to Catholicism. 


She writes about protestants.  She writes about the South.  She writes about African-Americans. She writes about Caucasians. She writes about good people. She writes about bad people. She writes about the young. The old. She writes about you. And me. 


Flannery writes about a world where the supernatural is ever present. The consequences of sin are real and immediate. Characters fall from Grace. God intervenes and offers redemption.  Often times, her characters look a gift horse in the mouth and refused that Grace. And so they die.  And so do others in the story to answer for sin.


I do my best these days to present two to three interpretations of her work when I teach it. A non-religious interpretation, a Christian (i.e. protestant) interpretation, and a Catholic interpretation. I let my students pick which interpretation to write their papers on, and it always makes me smile that they always use the Catholic interpretation because "the story has the most meaning" through that lens.  It always makes me smile that students sometimes come and tell me that "the story makes sense now, Miss V. Our high school teacher never told us about the Catholic thing."


I hope one day, that the stories I write will please God.  However, if I my writing never makes it to that place where Miss O'Connor resides within canon, I will follow the old adage: those who cannot do, teach.


I can only hope and pray that some of my students are intrigued by the Catholic worldview by talking about Miss O'Connor's works and seek to find out more themselves. 


Miss O'Connor, I know that you are neither blessed nor a saint, but I believe you made it to purgatory or Heaven.  If you are in purgatory, I pray for your expedience to Heaven. If you are in Heaven, please ask Our Lord to bless my writing as He did yours. 


Lord, thank you for blessing Flannery O'Connor with the gift of writing.






V.

It's melancholic V. today.

I've been neglectful; I know. It's just I feel like I have nothing profound enough to post. But here's something that's troubling me.

Today, I took up short story papers. We read Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man Is Hard to Find." If you haven't read her, she is one of the best Catholic writers of the 20th century, and I highly recommend any Catholic at least have a working knowledge of her body of literature.

In case you haven't read this story, a short synopsis goes like this: A selfish grandmother is going on vacation from Georgia to Florida with her son, his wife, and their two bratty children. However, the Grandmother wants to visit Tennessee and see an old Plantation home. It is also mentioned that the serial killer the Misfit is roaming the countryside.

Eventually, the grandmother tells a conscious lie in order to get her way. Going off the paved road causes the family to have a wreck. A carload of guys comes along, and the grandmother is faced to make a choice: accept the moment of Grace offered and reconcile herself to God or not. I won't ruin the story for you, but let's say it's bittersweet.

What's troubling to me is this: I have a student in my class. This student is catholic. This student attends Sunday mass every Sunday. But this student argued the grandmother could not have been redeemed in his or her paper. This student argued there was no salvation or redemption for anyone in the story. And basically argued that O'Connor's Catholicism, much less her Christianity, was irrelevant. All my protestant students, however, got it. They really liked the story.

I would say this student is typical of the 18 and 19 year olds who attend St. Joe's. It's worrisome because these are the children who are growing up to be future lapsed or Cafeteria Catholics. (I hate using those terms because Catholic is supposed to mean universal and one, but it's true. Even Protestants have the ability to pick out the differences. A protestant lady labeled me a 'cradle' Catholic because I don't eat meat on Friday. It's sad when protestants can and do see the division within us. But, I digress). If these kids can't even see the possibility of redemption for a selfishly- motivated character in a fictional story, how can they even imagine redemption for themselves? Even more troubling, what do they really believe? Are they just going through the motions? Doing what mom and dad said to do? Do they really know the love of Jesus or is it just a superficial relationship? It breaks my heart to consider the answer to these questions.

Moreover, I feel like a failure as a teacher. One of the ways I can best witness the faith is to teach O'Connor, to educate the ignorant boys and girls, (some are even from our own flock! I once had to explain to a Catholic girl why we fasted before the Eucharist), about the Catholic faith. I never push it on them - I simply explain O'Connor's, the Catholic's, world view (with falling into sin, the moment of Grace experienced when repenting, and restoration and salvation of one's soul after confession and Eucharist) and let them ask the questions. However, if I can't even change the opinion or reach one of our own, what good am I? This is supposed to be my vocation. . .

It's like O'Connor once said about her stories and her wish for people to have a conversion of heart; "To the deaf, you yell. To the blind, you draw large and startling pictures." And I've done that in explaining her stories, the Faith, and how it all relates. I feel like I scream and draw easy to understand pictures about her stories and how they relate to the Faith in order to spark interest in it or even just to renew a Love and Faith in Jesus.

But what do you do when you encounter the deaf and dumb?

Turn your eyes to heaven and pray with hope.

Have faith that these people will come around.

Love them even more.

At least that is what I have to tell myself, lest I fall into despair.

Less than 3,

V.