Brief 2: Themes of The Daffodils

The poem, The Daffodils from A Native's Perspective, written by Sia Figiel, is about how her life has been affected by the Post-Colonialism society.  Her poetry reflects on being forced to originally learn foreign literature and concepts that she was unable to connected with due to cultural boundaries. The daffodils, in the poem, symbolize the cultural separation of Figiel's world and Wordsworth's world.

Often times, Pacific Islander poets who write back to the center are antagonistic; however, despite, Figiel's original resentment, she enters a state of wonder and being intrigued about Wordsworth's world.  The imagination she puts into to how the world must look through his eyes, allows Figiel to better understand Wordsworth's perspective and uses poetry from the "Center" to escape from her own reality.  And by doing so, Figiel is allowing herself with connect with some aspect of the "Center."

By allowing herself to gain a better understanding of the "Center," Figiel also attempts to explain her world to Wordsworth, who represents the "Center." Figiel connects the "Center" and her readers to her world through poetry. She wants to allow her readers the escape that was dear to her during school.

Once, distant and foreign, the poetry is now a tool Figiel can use to gain power. Power that Post-Colonialism society had originally taken from her. As seen through other literature, the power struggle is quite dire and often (as previously noted) antagonistic; however, by being open to Wordsworth's world and culturally connecting, Figiel's curious poetry is a means to explain her world and to have a voice that is very unique.

Nothing is Black and White (Creative Response/Short Story)

   People walked through the wide halls of the mall zigzagging in and out of the stores. Conversations blurred as they intertwined with the fall of the fountain, standing peaceful and calm, water blew up in celebration. People stopped to look when a man yelled, “Ho ho ho.”

   A little boy noticed the man and tugged the hand of his companion. He passed the Asian boy playing Bach on the violin to stand right in before the man, and then pulled the man’s flimsy red coat. The man in the red coat looked down. When the little boy looked up at him, he saw a brown young man with a white beard on his chin.

   “You’re not Santa,” the little boy said.

   The man smiled and his dark eyes twinkled. “Yeah, and how do you know, little bro?”

   “Because you’re not fat, and your uniforms all wrong.” The little boy smirked. “Your skins really dark. Santa lives in the North Pole.”

   Groups of boys and girls from the nearby school strode around the grand fountain, their arms swinging in unison. Their sneakers slapped the concrete in time to the towns clock ticking. As they strut passed the man in the red coat, they looked at him, then proceeded on their way snorting.

   The little boy had pulled up his white shirt and pointed at his belly. "See? Santa's more like this."

   “And why do I have to be white to be Santa Claus, bro?” The man bent down on one knee. “Just because I’m Polynesian doesn’t mean I don’t get to be jolly and generous.”

   The little boy looked at him frowning, “I guess not. But at church and at the parade he is. And my brother said he's pale because he stays inside his factory and it's dark at the top of the world most of the time.”

   The little boys' hands flew with wide gestures hoping his action would show what the North Pole looked like, and where it was.

   “Little bro, maybe all people are white, maybe not. Maybe you’re just looking at the world wrong. But then I hear we originated from Africa. So that makes us black too. Don’t you know Jesus was neither black nor white?” The young Polynesian raised an eyebrow. “Everyone’s different but the same.”

   “Even so, don’t you have to be like him to be Saint Nicholas?” The little boy folded his arms and tilted his head.

   The little boys forgotten companion shuffled on his feet. He swing his light hair around, it's long strands whipping up a cool breeze. His eyes crinkled as he watched the little boy wave his hands about in exaggerated moves. People would surely think he was telling a tall tale. 

   The little boys companion sighed, the suns rays shining bright onto his face as well as being reflected from the white tiles decorating the shopping square.

   The companion continued watching the boys arms go from wild to silent stillness.

   “If Christmas isn't about presents, but Jesus. Then dressing up as Santa isn't about being Santa, but being generous and bringing joy to others.” The man adjusted his coat. “Colour doesn't define what you can and can’t do. Think about that, huh?”

   The man stood while the little boy walked back to his older brother who said. “Don’t listen to that brown fella. He doesn't understand our religion.”

   The man stood up straight, adjusted his thin red coat and looked around him for a second, then returned to his jolly state.

   The boy looked up at his brother and said, "Nothing's black and white in this world."

   He was pulled away as the Polynesian man winked at a trio of ladies.

   “Ho ho ho.”

   Note;

   This is in response to the idea that Grace Taylor brought up in her spoken poem, Navigating Spaces.

   The idea that people should look past colour and see people for who they are and not what they are, via; colour, culture, ethnicity, etc. 

   The idea that we are all the same in some respects, but different as everyone is unique in their own way.

   

   Even if you're not Santa, his legacy of generosity lives on. It doesn't matter what colour you are, you can be a part of someone's legacy. Like being Christian and a part of Jesus.

Shedding my Skin (Creative Response)

Shedding my Skin

 

In an age of advanced technology

You’d think we would know, have knowledge

Of past and present biology.

Yet, here I am studying for futures

And lives of others, in a college

 

In this age, we are lost

We have no idea, or flickering thought

On what our history has cost.

Yet, here we are looking for more

Searching for answers that need to be sort

 

On this very day, I am confused

I have misplaced my own way, displaced

My identity. I’m amused.

It seems my arrogance is in debt

And on loan to another to defeat

 

It seems it was not aspirations or goals

But nightmares, and myself that I chased.