"A Good Man is Hard to Find" Reaction

 What did I just read?!?!

"A Good Man is Hard to Find", one of Flannery O' Connor's shocking and brilliantly crafted short stories, throws the reader for an unexpected and horrific surprise that changes the entire dynamic of the plot. Narrating the seemingly mundane family road trip among a grandmother, her son Bailey, and his wife and three kids, the story turns the expected upside down, using the road trip to set up a rapid, and ghastly chain of events involving a car wreck, blood, and a criminal named the Misfit. In my opinion, O' Connor's ingenuity is best displayed through her build-up of tension, and the unforeseen ending she masterfully creates. By selecting a situation that a majority, if not all, of her readers can easily relate to, she makes it that much more devastating when the Misfit comes along and begins executing members of the family. Personally, I was dumbfounded, completely shocked, when the criminals systematically murdered each family member. I found myself emotionally attached to each character (some more than others), and was horrified when they met their end at the hands of the Misfit. In less than ten pages, O' Connor forges this level of attachment between the characters and the readers, making it that much more traumatizing and harrowing after this surprise ending. She creates this attachment through general associations with her audience: every reader can relate to the matriarchal grandmother, the stressed father, and the annoying kids in the back seat, all together in one car on a family road trip. The reader may have experienced an exact situation like this, as either a child themselves, as the adult, or on some sort of media. Nonetheless, the reader knows the characters, feels a bond to them, and becomes somewhat attached with what little information is given. This attachment and association that O' Connor employes effectively draws the reader in and invests them into the story, setting them up perfectly for the dramatic, surprise ending. Without such  characters and the emotional investment, O' Connor's ending would have not been as potent and successful, the reader may have been slightly effected, but not to the degree that O' Connor creates.
"A Good Man is Hard to Find", containing Flannery O' Connor's amazing application of foreshadowing, tension, and the surprise ending, throws readers a ridiculous curveball and takes them on a rather emotional rollercoaster that both devastates and horrifies her audience.

Girl, Interrupted From The Death of H. Mildew

I did not kill Herman Mildew because I was trying to kill myself.
Honestly, Detective, I believe this interview, interrogation, chitchat, whatever you would like to call it, is completely unnecessary. Furthermore, it is not only a waste of your time and funds, but a waste of mine as well. You see, I am sick,
Detective. And here, in this very psychiatric hospital, I am now trying to heal after my failed suicide attempt.

Part of your routine, oh yes.

Just to cross me off the list.

Of course.

Well, where to begin? Perhaps with my relationship to the lovely Mr. Mildew. Yes, he was my editor, and yes, I hated him dearly. He hated me just as well. Thought my work was a product of hallucinogens, LSD fads from the 1980s, pure insanity. Believed I was on a slew of different drugs, a paranoid schizoid, that was his favorite term for me. Tried to enroll me in Narcotics Anonymous one time. I am not a drug addict, Detective, but rather a nonconformist, I see the world through different convex lenses that warps and distorts the very images. I am a individual and he hated me for it.  He had trouble accepting me for who I really was. My stories had too much angst, too much of an intellectual depth, teenagers my age wouldn't want to read this if it was the last book they'd ever have. They'd rather use it for firewood. Another fabulous comment from my affectionate and tender editor. My prose didn't relate to the teen population, no ludicrous love triangles, not enough vampires making love with werewolves, no girls fighting for hunger in a dystopian set of games, it just didn't work.  Herman Mildew hated me and thus, I hated him. However, Detective, that doesn't mean I murdered him. Believe me, I would have loved to stab him in the back and have him scream "Et tu, Brute?" like the famous Caesar, have him crushed in a meat grinder, lit on fire in front of me and to watch him burn to a crisp, but it was not to be. I will give the gentleman who finally retired the troll a pat on the back.

I was focusing more of my energy last night summing up the courage to cram fifty aspirin down my throat, and finally wash it down with half a bottle of good old Jack Daniels whiskey from the corner store. At the same time dear Herman was heaving for his last breaths, blood pouring crimson out from underneath that horrible, bloated potbelly, I was waiting for the alcohol to settle. It left a brilliant trail of fire down my throat, eased my suffering if only for a little while. By the time Herman was pronounced dead, the "kind" neighbor from next door had already found me and called 911. Bastard. If only he could have left me to die in peace.  When you, Detective and your other bumbling members of the police force had arrived on scene, I was hauled into the emergency room, a stomach pump crammed down so far down my throat I could feel it moving around in my esophagus. Fifty disintegrated aspirin mixed with a slew of discolored liquids, along with the remnants of my dinner, all over the hospital floor. And by the time you had even began to consider me as a suspect in his murder, I was here, in this very room, with this stupid bracelet on my wrist and my first meeting with my shrink in an hour.

Is this hard for you to believe, Detective? Unlike some of the other suspects on your list, I have an abundance of witnesses who will confirm where I was at any specific time window. Ask the doctors in the emergency room who fed me the stomach pump, the paramedics who brought me in last night within an inch of my pitiful life. Ask my psychiatrist, a lovely chap by the name of Melvin, ask him where I was yesterday evening at 7:29 PM. My psychoanalyst, Dr. Jodi Ann Fung, a wonderfully petite Asian woman from Taiwan, I believe. Or the other patients at this place. They saw me last night, stuck their demented little heads out of their rooms and watched me roll right in through the front doors at about 8: 49 PM, an unconscious and crumpled figure, sedated and without the will to live.

Detective, I would have liked to kill Herman Mildew, but alas, I was too focused on killing myself.

Initiation Stories

Of the four selections given as the sample Initiation Stories, I most enjoyed and was drawn to the first. "Stepdaughters", a short story written by Max Apple, treats the reader to the beginning of one girl's "womanhood", in which she pursues a peculiar sport that directly contradicts her gender. Throughout the plot, the teenage shot put phenomenon Stephanie goes against her mother's wishes to conform to stereotypical womanly activities, and instead follows her own aspirations, creating conflict between the two characters. This story, the most modern of the four as it was written in 2007, was an interesting and highly entertaining read, as well as a fantastic example of a coming-of-age, or initiation story. Like any other initiation tale, the protagonist in "Stepdaughters" struggles to create her own identity, defining her personal values and her road to a future only she can craft. Stephanie must create her own sense of self, rebelling against the conformist ways of her mother and the social stereotypes and conventions that tell her shot putting is not a sport for a woman. She transforms, as does every adolescent, preteen, and teenager through the initiation story, defining her own identity and setting the course for her future as an Olympic hopeful. She learns a significant truth, gender stereotypes are not set in stone and that she has the power to mold her own life, and no one can get in the way of that. Author Max Apple conveys all of these "initiation rites" in a modern and simple way that many readers are able to understand, familiarizing them with loads of allusions to modern culture and associations with many commonplace American experiences.

Moreover,"Stepdaughters" appealed to me in another personal way, connecting many of my own initiation rites as an adolescent. For someone who participates very heavily in martial arts, and had previously played rugby for several years, I transformed in my own way, setting what aspects of womanhood I thought appropriate, and others that I discarded. Because I can relate to Stephanie's experiences and of her coming-of-age, "Stepdaughters" affected me on a more personal level, allowing me to connect even more associations with the protagonist and her initiation rites.