BU Literature Discussion

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ounilnqbfuv931

Humanities

Bentley University

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You basically have to read these1 reading in the pdf and answer these questions for each reading. The answers for these readings shouldn't be that long but please support them with the examples or the references mentioned below.

How do these writers connect the body to landscape, specifically illness to environmental destruction. As exercises in literary journalism, what kinds of research do they do and how do they bring that research into conversation with their personal stories? How might this connection between body and landscape manifest in your own work?

  1. Answering the question posed in the reading response question. You will be graded on the quality of literary insights
    1. How well did you answer the reading response question?
    2. Did you provide examples from the text?
  2. Asking the class open-ended questions based on difficult passages in the reading. As a group, you will identify portions of the readings that puzzled you or that members of your group had opposite interpretations of. You will be graded on the quality of questions for class and ability to engage classmates in discussion
  3. Learning writing techniques from the pieces. You will be graded on the quality of reflection on your own writing practice
    1. Did the writer use writing techniques that you found unexpected or inspiring?
    2. Did the writer choose a topic or a perspective on a topic that gave you ideas?
    3. Did the writer make an intellectual or emotional turn you admired?
    4. What ideas did you get for your own writing practice?

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L I T  R A R Y H U  VIA FRMAN' Growing Up in Maine’ “Cancer Valle” Kerri Arenault Living in the hadow of a moke-pouting Paper Mill By Kerri Arsenault April 12, 2017   i ea originall appear in Freeman’: Home. Mexico, Maine it in a valle or “River Valle” a we call the area, ecaue I uppoe ou can’t have one without the other. e hill are low and worn and carved  the water urrounding them, and tree line the river, which con ne the town. It’ a paper mill town where moketack poke hole in the mog the create. at’ mone coming out of thoe moketack, m father ued to a aout the rotten-melling upriver draft that urfaced when the weather hifted. at mell loitered amid the high chool oftall game I plaed eneath thoe tack and lingered on m father’ hirtleeve when he came home from work, allowing me to forgive the rank odor for what it provided. From the porch tep of the houe where I grew up, to the right, ou’ll ee a treet of clapoarded home, the quiet interrupted ever now and then  a raking logging truck. A mile or two out of town, the road narrow and mall creek knit through pature hadowed  hill, a working farm or two, a long traight road, and mell of cut ha, mudd cow path, rotting leave, or lack ice, depending on the time of ear. e eaon, the calendared our live. To the left of the porch, ou’ll ee the end of the road. ere, the pavement dip down to reveal the town’ onl tra c light, a ga tation, and the roof of the Famil Dollar tore. ehind the tore lie the wide, low-moving Androcoggin River. Jut eond the Androcoggin, on an iland in the neighoring town of Rumford, the paper mill’ larget moketack emerge like a giant concrete nger. From anwhere in town ou can orient ourelf to thi tack or the ever-preent ca-chink ca-chink ca-chink of the mill’ conveor elt and nd our wa home, even from a pitch-lack walk in the wood. When mill hutdown occur for holida or lao , the mokele tack reemle the dieaed irch tree ding throughout New ngland. ARTICLE CONTINUES AFTER ADVERTISEMENT Where tack meet k, the river pivot and head outheat, under ridge and over rapid, puhing through fall and dam, around iland and along inlet, through Ja, Lewiton, Topham, runwick, and other mall town, until it meet and mingle with ve other river at Merrmeeting a, whereupon it nall and quietl lip into the Atlantic Ocean. * April 2009 and I am home for m grandfather’ funeral. M parent’ houe igh with winter’ leftover letharg. pring ha arrived in Maine with drivewa full of mud and culled up now-plow deri; alt tain, hredded earth, and derelict mitten lie in the wake of it emracing path. A few dirt uttree of now linger like pocked monolith, meting out the new eaon’ arrival. e wollen Androcoggin puhe otam downriver in the commotion of pring’ thaw, and inect hatche will oon egin urting along it urface until ummer open like an oven. M mother come out on the porch where I’m tanding. Want to go for a walk? he ak, her face pinched with the harpne of her father’ death. We head up Highland Terrace and top to peek in the window of an aandoned houe, one I alwa liked, with it wraparound porch, turreted roof, and uttercupellow paint. e owner i ick ut refue to ell the houe, m mother a a we walk acro the attered porch. o it it there, thi once elegant home, hedding it rightne, ellow ecking the half-frozen ground. pra-painted in the road near the drivewa: “Fuck ou, itch.” e fug of the mill wallow u. ARTICLE CONTINUES AFTER ADVERTISEMENT Ahead, we reach the top of the hill, and there, m old high chool. To the eat, nowmoile trail and autting them, the mill’ decommiioned land ll. To the wet, the footall eld lice the horizon and eond that, laz nger of moke lick the k. We walk inide the chool, and m mother top in the o ce to chat with the principal. e lo mell of and-Aid, warm mahed potatoe, and damp ock. eing there remind me of Greg, m high chool on-again, o -again lumerjackih ofriend who lived near the town incinerator. I loved him like I would a orr tu ed animal, one who had lot an ee or whoe fur wa rued raw. Kell, a girl who wore her lack, perfectl feathered hair like a weapon, wa in love with him too. When he and I fought—uuall ecaue of her—I’d liten to ad ong on m caette plaer over and over until he’d call and I’d forgive him in a pattern of everlating redemption. I onl aw Greg once ince I graduated. He came to m parent’ one Chritma reak when I wa home from college. He and m mother caught up while I leaned againt the kitchen countertop acro the room. Peckerhead, m father aid when he entered the room. He called all o I dated “Peckerhead” ut onl if he liked them. If he didn’t, m father would it at our kitchen tale like a oulder while the o dgeted  the kitchen door in lank-faced ilence. Greg eventuall married Kell and got a jo at the mill, alongide hi iter Janet, who pitched for m high chool tate championhip oftall team. After m mother and I leave, we follow the dirt path ehind the footall eld, pat Mero lementar where I got into a t ght with Lia lodgett. Lia and I took turn winging horizontall at each other’ head until a teacher intruded on the rawl. Lia’ trength wa tremendou for a ixth grader, her grit haped  eing one of the ounget girl in a famil of 14 kid, mot of them o. When I looked in the mirror that night at home, I wa ure I looked di erent, the wa ou think ou do when ou loe our virginit. It wa m rt and lat are-knuckled ght, except for a few unconvincing wipe at good old Kell one night at a dance. M et friend, Maureen, who towered over oth of u, protected me from Kell’ harp, red ngernail. Down Granite treet, an untied dog egin following u, growling. Jut ignore him, m mother a. ut I hear hi narl over the thrum of the mill. A I turn to look at him the dog ni  m heel, hi tail down. I walk fater. M mother continue talking. e dog give a nal ark and it down in the middle of the road. I look over m houlder until we are out of hi ight and he i out of our. Down the hill, pat the Green Church, the town hall, the lirar, the re tation, the pot o ce, we walk through the overized parking lot at the Famil Dollar tore. omeone it inide the onl vehicle parked there eating a andwich with the window rolled up and the engine running. Near, the vacant lot where the owl-O-Drome ued to e and ehind it, t. erea’, our huttered Catholic church where Father Cr gave me m rt communion, con rmed me, and litened to m rt confeion. I’m orr I lied to m parent, I aid to him, though that itelf wa a lie. “Our mill’ primar product ha ecome a precariou a the livelihood of the men and women who make it.” On the corner at the tra c light, a gardening tore, a newih hop, to me anwa. Lawn decoration, perennial, tu ed animal, and miniature tchotchke for terrarium train the overtocked metal helve of the tore. Mot mom-and-pop hop have cloed in town, ut for a few. In their place, dicount tore like Marden’ urplu & alvage, Wardwell’ Ued Furniture, the What Not hop rift tore, and other uch econd-hand outlet and pawn hop appeared over the ear, a if the people who live here onl deerve leftover. Walmart with it linking uorecent light and the faint mell of formaldehde, hijacked the ret of the commerce. I am inpecting a now gloe when I hear m mother hout, Kerri, gue who’ here? Do ou know who thi i? Inevital, he pla thi rememering game, uuall in the grocer tore, where he will tand next to omeone, gra hi or her arm a if he were a koala, and ak me, do ou rememer o-and-o? I will tand there frozen, in the frozen food, taring at m mother and the peron he ha graed, their ee like dinner plate, waiting for m anwer. ure, e, I rememer ou! I had aid earlier that ame da to Mr. Martineau, the man who live acro the treet from m grandfather. After Mr. Martineau left the tore m mother told me he ha Alzheimer’. He doen’t rememer ou, he aid. Kerri, come ee who’ here! he hout again. I walk around the aile like Gulliver, jiggling the doll-ized platic oral arrangement, pitching the teen ower to and fro. M mother raie her arm upward like a magician. DO YOU KNOW WHO THI I? Hi. Long time no ee, the woman a. Yeah, what i it, aout twent ear? I a. Her dr ellow ang lump over overized round glae that hide pink powdered cheek. On her ulk weathirt, omething plaid. Where do ou live now? he ak, leaning on the counter, arm croed like a fortre. California, I a, feeling ad, not knowing wh. an Francico! I clarif. Oh, I went there once. Didn’t like it. And I never found anthing good to eat, he a. e people are not ver nice. I look around the tore for m mother, for the exit. It eem quiet around here nowada. Much le going on than when we were kid, I a. No, not reall, he a. Reall? I a, wondering if he mean there i omething going on or there in’t. I went  the Recreation Park eterda. It’ jut o . . . o di erent, I a, hopeful. I glance at her around the peripher of her glae, our converation. he tare at me over the top of her rim, a patient a a road, look at me without linking: m leather jacket, m Prada eeglae, m tted jean. Nope, ou’re the one that’ di erent, he a. We leave the tore and m mother tell me the mill plan to hut down Numer 10 paper machine, and other are on a tranitional chedule, meaning the too ma lumer to a low hiing halt. In the pat few decade, with technolog diplacing people and digital media overtaking print, the production of coated magazine paper—our mill’ primar product—ha ecome a precariou a the livelihood of the men and women who make it. We want to ell the houe, ut nood want to live here anmore, m mother a, panning her hand from one ide of the treet to the other. Home ag with ruined lawn—and the familie who live in them haven’t fared much etter. Around the lock, we pa Kimall chool where I attended K–4. Weed root in the tar plaground and a platic ag twirl in the damp reeze. A rut chain-link fence girdle the propert. Dr. dward Martin gutted the chool ear ago and tranformed it into a medical o ce, ut after he died, the uilding cloed up permanentl. roken gla reache the milkweed that urround the maple tree we had ought hade under during rece. Down the treet, m grandfather’ houe, uttoned up, the furnace long expired. Remnant of cragra and ogg leave atten hi once thriving garden. Mr. Martineau, who m mother and I aw at the grocer tore earlier, emerge from the houe acro the treet. He wave. We wave ack. M mother and I walk home in ilence. Halfwa there, I run m hand along the cool green iron railing that parallel the idewalk and nag m weater on it. e ruted, dimemered rail i cattered in it at the ottom of the anking. On m wa from chool, I’d roll on m ide down that anking, again and again. With gra tain on m clothe, I’d run home, a if m head wa made of that ame iron rail and m houe wa magnetic north. I ee the porch of our houe from everal lock awa, and it look a it’ alwa looked, onl maller a thing often appear when ou are older. M mother and I tomp our feet on the front porch to dilodge road grime from our oot. I can’t imagine what will happen if the mill cloe, m mother a, a he open the door. o man people are out of work alread, he clari e. It will e a ghot town. I take o m coat while m mother dig out the local newpaper, her fore nger thumping a new article aout the mill. We have to ell the houe, he a. ut he ha een aing thi for ear. * e next da, I go for a run through trathgla Park, a collection of two-famil home  the mill’ founder, Hugh J. Chiholm. rick--rick— ve million to e exact—Chiholm aemled the houe with longlating material for what he hoped would e a long-lating indutr: late roof, granite foundation, handmade header and alutrade, concrete tep, plater wall. He even wallpapered the living room. Now, roken nowmoile and other lifele remnant litter front lawn, and liting, half-aked addition or porche ca the once pritine houe. heet hroud leaded gla window, their ottom knotted to let in light or keep room dark. Garage lie in heap alongide cattered woodpile and aandoned right platic to are half-covered in now and dog hit. Wind chime tinkle aove the din of a owling mutt. ic path ahead. e road i a glacier. I mince m wa along the Wandering around in thi forlorn landcape, I think later that night, it i a ghot town, a place all ut vanihed ut for it dull egg odor. It complied with m memor of it, et it alo did not, a lend of notalgia and omething ele a unrecognizale a the ack of m own head. It’ not where we grew up, a childhood friend aid to me ear ago. What, then, wa it? It wa home, that much I knew, and home i the heart of human identit, a lurr ackdrop like that fake platic tree I leaned on during m high chool enior photograph. * When I wa a kid, m mother taed home while m father worked: her making pot roat, him making moketack mone. We explored the world through textook, Matchox car, and made claroom diorama of what we thought a Maan village or a Midwetern dair farm looked like. e ret of the world eemed to e New Hamphire or Canada. Familie didn’t go on overea vacation,or hardl even intertate. Our live were focued inward . . . Red ox core, union trike, and long ga tation line in the 70, though nood ever connected the high price of fuel to what wa happening in other countrie. For u, it wa jut inconvenient. Monumental change were happening in America. However, there were no movement in Mexico and Rumford ut for the men walking acro the footridge to work. luecollar familie like mine were more likel to dr ra on a clotheline than urn them. We lived in a hrink-Dink world where everthing wa there, jut maller. We were luck in thi, felt afe with our door unlocked at night and ameliorated mot of our in within the latched door of t. erea’ confeional. At nighttime footall game we watched our high chool re-twirling majorette to their aton kward in a pinning, lazing fan. e caught them dead center ever time. oaked aton in the duk of autumn, the melled of permanence. oe keroene- One ear lended into the next with onl light di erence in tar athlete or town leader and ometime one turned into the other. Famil uinee occupied Main treet, anchored  the Chicken Coop. “Good atin’ at’ Our Greetin’!” their tagline declared in at, red paint. On Wedneda the owl-O-Drome hoted m gum- chewing junior high league, and on Frida it murmured with the port jeting of m father’ league. I ought penn cand from the variet tore next to the owling alle, a did m mother, a did her. Up and down the treet, uinee opened and cloed their door with the eaon, the econom, and the un: Lazarou’ car dealerhip, the Dair Queen, Radiohack, Dick’ Retaurant, and our radio tation, WRUM. to the mill pan the Androcoggin where Main treet taper o . e footridge ree generation of m famil and exponential relative worked there, a did mot people who pread creton on their toat efore clocking in. We were tamped out like Chritma cookie, a good French Catholic were. We got up, ate, worked, and went to ed, deriving mall pleaure etween the routine and ometime ecaue of it. In the drow ummertime, when the un dipped low over the foothill and the humidit of the da invaded kitchen and edroom, people in our town ocked to their porche. ere, the chatted while duk knit itelf into a tight lanket. e ound of clinking dihe, faint muic, vehicle purring, and light-a-vapor laughter cented the air. Night fell like a ruie. During thoe chool-le da, I often at on the dut cur in front of our houe and counted the out-of-tate licene plate a the ped  on their wa to omewhere ele. When I could nall drive melf I’d cruie around Rumford and Mexico with all the other teenager, pivoting our ued Monte Carlo in the Tourit Information ooth parking lot efore another revolution through town. M parent thought the Information ooth wa where all the “druggie” hung out, and ometime the pot moker did, ut reall, it wa a harmle venue in a mall town with nothing ele to do ut drive around in aimle circle. M parent haped their own well-worn path. While m father walked ack and forth acro the ridge to work, m mother lugged laundr up and down the cellar tair, da after da, one kinn arm cradling the laundr aket, her free hand gripping a Vicero. With a creech and a whack, the creen door would lam hut after he elowed it open. he would dump clean laundr on the kitchen tale, nap each article of clothing three time, fold them harpl into tight wedge of faric, and tack them like the ream of white paper m father rought home from the mill. When the creen door wore out, m mother replaced it with a new one that came with a queak pring. he left it defective, announcing herelf into in nit with onl m father to hear. Hi hearing, long dulled  the hum of paper machine, wa the perfect match to her perpetual clamor. he’d let her Vicero expire efore nihing it and end me to fetch her a new pack from the corner tore. I’ll time ou, he’d a. Now GO! And o I went. Go? he didn’t need to tell me twice. In Mexico and Rumford, what we needed, we had. verone knew everone and we liked it that wa—for what other wa wa there? It wa quite the place, m mother a. ere wa never an reaon to leave. ing taed in thi alance, with minor adjutment ever now and then until mall working-cla town tarted to e alongide the indutrie that nourihed them. * I till gag ever time I drink a gla of water, a re ex that emerged in m outh when I lived within a footall eld’ reach of the mill and the Androcoggin. At the time, I weetened the mephitic water with Tang or Zarex or drank no water at all. ut a an adult, the memor of our drinking water’ rackih and weetih chemical mell/tate, comined with the our air aove it, precipitate what feel like mothering when I put gla to lip.  1970, when I wa three, the river’ diolved oxgen level wa exactl zero. Newweek named the Androcoggin one of the ten lthiet river in the United tate. verthing in the river died. Don’t eat the h, we were alwa told, ut we couldn’t have anwa ecaue we never aw an to catch. ere alo were no wimmer, hermen, or oater in the river William . Lapham, in hi 1890 ook, Hitor of Rumford, called it “eautiful,” noting “the cener ordering upon it i pictureque and often grand.” If ou quint, the Androcoggin till t Lapham’ decription. ut if ou open our ee, ou’ll ee what wa inviile to me m whole life: the mill’ pollutant hovering low over the naturall formed glacial owl of our valle and in the toxic ludge congregating in land ll and the rivered. What I did ee when I wa oung, however, wa the rainow-colored foam edding on the river’ edge, which wa a enchanting a the gra “mill now” that oated oftl up from the moketack and down upon an urface in town. What did we all do? We plugged our noe and placed our drinking glae upide down in the cupoard o ah wouldn’t get in our milk. e pollution wa a trapped a we were. Dioxin, cadmium, enzene, lead, naphthalene, nitrou oxide, ulfur dioxide, arenic, furan, trichloroenzene, chloroform, mercur, phthalate: thee are ome of the product of modern-da papermaking. Non-Hodgkin’ lmphoma, lung cancer, protate cancer, aplatic anemia, eophageal cancer, aetoi, wing’ arcoma, emphema, cancer of the rain, cancer of the heart: thee are ome of the illnee appearing in Rumford and Mexico. Occaionall in upiciou-looking cluter, ometime in generation of familie, often in high percentage. When anone tried to connect the dot etween the mill’ pollution with thee illnee, logic wa met with juti cation, peronal experience with excue, torie with tatitic, dieae with lame. etween 1980 and 1988, 74 cae of aplatic anemia, a rare and eriou lood diorder, are recorded in the River Valle. It i the highet rate in the tate. A tud i ordered to nd the caue. Reearcher examine potential environmental and occupational ource, uch a enzene, a chemical ued in papermaking and a known caue of cancer in human. ach aplatic anemia cae get pared: ome are eliminated from the tud ecaue the are referral from other hopital; ome are eliminated ecaue the tated diagnoi didn’t t into the trict cienti c criteria; ome are eliminated ecaue certain cancer treatment themelve caue aplatic anemia. In the nal report, nood can determine the exact caue. It i a if nood ever had the dieae at all. “Non-Hodgkin’ lmphoma, lung cancer, protate cancer, aplatic anemia, eophageal cancer, aetoi, wing’ arcoma, emphema, cancer of the rain, cancer of the heart: thee are ome of the illnee appearing in Rumford and Mexico.” 1984-1986. Hopital dicharge indicate nine leukemia cae in the Rumford and Mexico area. 1989. e Rumford mill dicharge 1.2 million pound of toxic chemical into the environment. 1991. In rapid ucceion, ve people in Rumford and Mexico are diagnoed with nonHodgkin’ lmphoma, a rare form of lood cancer aociated with expoure to dioxin, a toxic chemical formed in the paper-leaching proce. WCV, a oton TV tation invetigate the urr of diagnoe in their new erie Chronicle and call the epiode, “Cancer Valle.” During thi time, the Dana-Farer Cancer Intitute in oton ak our town phician, “What the hell’ going on in Rumford? We’re getting all thee kid with cancer coming in from our area.” e Lo Angele Time talk to our tate repreentative, Ida Luther: “We have a ver, ver high cancer rate, ut we alwa have lived with that. Nood can prove anthing, ut I jut can’t ee how ton and ton of air pollutant going into the air can do ou an good. At the ame time, I don’t want to make [the paper mill] out to e a villain. e’re here to make paper and—there’ no quetion aout it—thi valle depend upon that paper mill.” e mill repond  claiming there’ “no clear link etween mill wate and cancer or other dieae.” 2001.WCV lm “Return to Cancer Valle” in Rumford and Mexico. 2002. Cancer i the leading caue of death in Maine. 2003. Maine’ age-adjuted cancer incidence rate i the econd highet in the nation and Maine’ death rate from cancer urpae the national average. 2004. Cancer remain the leading caue of death in Maine. 2010. Toxic environmental expoure aociated with childhood illnee cot Maine aout $380 million ever ear, according to the 2010 conomic Aement of Children’ Health and the nvironment in Maine. 2012. A headline from Maine’ Kenneec Journal: “ome Lael Toxin pike a Poitive; pulp and paper indutr a increae i a good ign, tate o cial not alarmed.” What doen’t alarm tate o cial and the Maine Pulp and Paper Aociation are the “9.6 million pound of chemical [that] were releaed  84 Maine mill etween 2009 and 2010, an increae of 1.14 million pound over the previou ear” ecaue the increae in pollution how an increae in papermaking. Our mill i ngered a the numer one pollution producer, releaing over three million pound of toxic chemical into the environment for thoe ame ear. 2012. Cancer i the leading caue of death in Maine. Dr. Moll chwenn, director of the Maine Cancer Regitr, tender an explanation. he a contriuting to Maine’ high cancer rate are “lower level of education, high rate of povert, unemploment, and lack of health inurance.” 2013. e Cancer urveillance Report  the Maine Center for Dieae Control con rm cancer i till the leading caue of death in Maine. ere’ a lag etween expoure and diagnoi, expert declared. People could e expoed from other ource, cientit explained. ere are uncertaintie, decried the nvironmental Protection Agenc. Continued follow-up i needed, aid the mill. While organization deated who to lame, people in Rumford and Mexico quit jo or chool to care for ick famil memer; loe health inurance ecaue the loe their jo; and put caniter on pizza hop countertop to pa for medical ill. * It wa often di cult to tell where the mill ended and where Rumford and Mexico egan. e mill’ emploee, in the 1920, pulihed e League, a compendium of work and communit related activitie. In it, ou’d learn “Charlie Gordon wa erioul ill urda A.M” or in the “Rewinder Goip” column, ou’d nd out “Joe Provencher i in hi econd ohood for he i wearing hort pant again.” e newletter alo reported rt-aid room tatitic, townwide event, movie time, attendance at mill re drill, or change in the ulphate mill, the leach plant, and the nihing room. It changed to the Oxford Log in 1952 where omeone wrote a tor on Laor Da eaut parade “Cutter” girl “dreed in daring ankle-length dree” and whoe “lue onnet and ahe were made of ne Oxford paper.” In that ame newletter, ou could alo read aout Johnn Norri, who worked on the upercalendar machine, who, while on vacation in New York Cit, found it “hot and confuing.” Or Holli wett of the “Iland Diviion” who got caught in a lightening torm while hing at Weld Pond. Oxford Log pulihed pro le of high chool aketall tar who were on of e millworker. Or of Nick DiConzo, a paper teter, who prepared the ki jump for the lack Mountain’ Winter Carnival. You’d ee vintage photo of the worker adding leach to vat of pulp, or working in the Kraft mill—glovele, arefoot, miling a if there wa no end to the properit. And it looked to e true;  1930, our mill wa the larget paper mill under one roof and Hugh J. Chiholm, eventuall comined 20 paper companie to etalih International Paper, then and toda, the igget paper compan in the world. * I am home viiting. M parent and I ort through paper, organizing thing after their move to a new, one-tor houe in Rumford. e till haven’t old their old houe. It’ een on the market for a few ear. If the ank take our old houe, who care? m mother a. he ip through a newletter from 1970. It’ thick, printed in color, and feature m mother ecaue he helped plan that ear’ Winter Carnival all at lack Mountain on account of her “ rt-hand knowledge” of the queen’ dutie; he won the title and a tiara in 1962 when he worked in the mill’ peronnel department. he wa a oung mother at the time, wearing a pixie cut and poleter minikirt that howed o her good leg. In her victor photo, m iter Kell and Am it in front of her wearing matching lue velvet dree with white Peter Pan collar, ti a Communion wafer. In 1942 when m mother wa orn, legendar 20-foot wall of urine-colored foam emerged from canal 40 mile downtream in the Androcoggin.  then, almot 50 ear of otam and e uent had choked the h. Aeration of the river dimmed. Water temperature roe. Manufacturing and it concomitant pollution reached a tink zenith. e mell emanating from the river wa o appalling people ed town or huttered themelve in. Coin in men’ pocket tarnihed. tore cloed. Houe and car paint peeled like urnt kin. Reident vomited. Laundr hung on clotheline, lackened with ah. I wa 16, m mother a, when the National Geographic ociet entered into a 15ear contract with our mill. e windfall, while providing tead work, alo rought with it a windfall of pollution that exacerated the toxic load the Androcoggin Rivermater wa alread tring to manage. National Geographic demanded white, coated, glo paper and our mill made it. Making it, however, required uing even more chemical. e town’ econom ourihed. A the mill modernized and expanded, each ear that newletter, like the town’ future, got whiter and righter. And each ear the Androcoggin River and the kie aove, eemed dimmer and dimmer. M parent were caught etween a tink pat and a hopeful future. M father, in etween the overtime hour or doule hift, along with other millworker, uilt lack Mountain on land leaed to them  the paper compan. men felled tree, carved up the rock lope, and jammed iron ki lift pole in e unmpathetic oil o the could have a place to ki. ver winter of m childhood, on weekend, m father piloted our tation wagon along the frot-heaved road winding through the outkirt of town, pat the moketack, pat the wift River where he learned to wim, pat the cemeter where hi father wa uried, where I lugged m teel equipment uphill through the ic parking lot, collaped on the now, and thwacked down the metal uckle on m leather oot pinching m nger. I wa mall, the runt in a pack of kid who were alread mall, and tried to keep up with them and m father, who wa proal one of the et kier on the hill. A I followed them, m leather oot and leather glove ecame oaked with weat and uequentl frozen, in an endle circle of dicomfort. We kied until the T-ar topped clinking and growling, lolling to ret like an iron dinoaur and the lat light of duk would lam hut over the mudged hill. We’d return the following week jut a the T-ar purred awake. A video: I am four. M father crouche over me on ki and I tand in front of him on ki too, etween hi leg, facing forward, gaining peed a we race down the mountain. He warn me to watch what’ in front of me, ut to alo look far enough downhill to ee what la ahead. I think I’m kiing on m own volition. Uneknownt to me at the time, I couldn’t have tood for two econd without hi arm there to carr me. * I ak m mother, What aout the pollution when ou were a kid? What do ou mean? he a. Didn’t it other ou? e pollution? I a. It wa the mell of mone, he a. Plu, we jut had a lot of pride. Pride. I heard thi word a lot a a child. You were “proud” to e from Rumford and Mexico. You took “pride” in the mill. “Pride” in the paper we made. “Pinto pride” we crawled on pep rall poter in honor of our macot. Mill manager intilled a “pride” in their worker. What did it mean, thi pride? I learned from an earl age, to e conpicuou wa to e coare. You didn’t peak too loudl or too much, lend in. i amene, it turn out, wa partiall the ource of our pride—we were all in it together, no matter what “it” wa. We were a communit and like mot communitie, were proud of what we did, even if it wa omething we didn’t necearil like. It wa part of the ame inviile ocial rule that alo felt clautrophoic, o it wa di cult to di erentiate the two. It wa a utle force, like airplane cain preure—maive ut inviile. In thi togetherne our loaltie to each other and our town were erce, even if the intimation to conform wa enevolent. i aolute loalt didn’t top at the edge of town; it extended to hopele caue like the oton Red ox and the New ngland Patriot who for decade diappointed u with their fruitle compan. ut we tuck with them ecaue that’ what we did depite their unwillingne to love u ack. i mix of amene and loalt and pride and tuornne made u tight. We created thi helter for ourelve ut it alo meant outider remained outide. People “from awa” weren’t allowed into the anctit of our trie. And we certainl didn’t want to e part of their. olidarit wa a matter of afet and comfort, ut it wa alo a matter of hardheadedne that didn’t alwa erve u well. e mill, the main ource of thi pride and connectedne, provided u with what eemed like limitle opportunit, the tentacle of it fortune reaching into the count, the region, the tate of Maine, America. Our reliance on the mill wa like our Catholicim. We were given omething to elieve in while ignoring our own u ering, all the while waiting for the ig afterlife part in the k. We depended on the mill, a did logger, whoe lopping of the tree wa eemingl anathema to the ver thing relied upon to earn an income. renda Nickeron walk into the kitchen where m parent and I are till looking through old mill newletter. M mother and renda have een friend ince childhood and I went to chool with her daughter who were named after Louia Ma Alcott’ Little Women. M mother a to me, to renda, It wa like ‘Happ Da.’ You know the how? at’ what we lived. We lived like ‘Happ Da.’ renda agree. I ak m mother if thi wa true for when I wa a kid. Ye, prett much . . . ut I don’t know what happened after that. It’ when our kid had kid that everthing changed. You mean like me? I ak. It changed in m generation? Ye, he a. We had our parent’ and grandparent’ value. Your generation ha di erent value. renda a, Your generation had too man choice. * When m father retired from the mill after 43 ear, he received a toolox (that he ued), a ulova watch (that he never wore), and aetoi of the lung. e toolox decamped to our dut arn and I found the watch ear later, in perfect hape, in the garage on a helf  the cat litter. ince retiring, aeto manufacturer, whoe product he came into contact with a a pipe tter, compenated him for hi carred lung tiue; ometime he received three dollar, ometime a few hundred. ventuall, the monie petered out a did hi lung. He wa tough, ometime to a fault, and I never heard him complain even on the night he died. He told me a tor once aout how when he wa a kid he walked around all da with a harp pele in hi hoe, o that when he took it out, the relief wa even greater than if it were never there at all. In the ummer of 2013, he collaped on the ninth hole of the golf coure, face up, in the middle of hi dail game. After month of tet, he wa diagnoed with eophageal cancer and then a few month later, lung cancer, which can develop from aetoi; with that trifecta, the man impl couldn’t reathe. M father aked u not to peak to him aout hi prognoi and our famil complied in mute alliance. Week of chemotherap and radiation, a lood clot in hi lung, a catheter, a feeding tue, an oxgen tank, the gloom of hopice, m father hrank to half hi ize. No tate, he aid a he tuled with a piece of pata a if it were ared wire. He lot more weight and lot interet, too. M mother tried to get him to do hi phical therap, eat a popicle. He jut tared out the living room window while we whipered ehind hi ack. I went home almot ever week that winter. When I did, I drove into Maine from New Hamphire acro the Picataqua River ridge. One of the rt thing I’d ee wa the tate-funded welcome ign: “Maine. e Wa Life hould e.” Wa there ever uch a Maine a thi? I wondered a I ped up the Maine Turnpike. jut never added up. e promie of that phrae e ilver creek, iron gra lake, red loter, rock eache, the deluge of tree—the ummoned a repreentation diconnected from m Maine experience. It eemed we had lived on the edge of povert, anxiet, and illne rather than on the edge of a primeval foret. Practicall everone in our town called the area “Cancer Valle” in a joke wa, et nood ever took the nickname erioul, even to thi da. It mell like fart! kid from other high chool would a aout our town ecaue of the foul odor dicharged  the mill. And o it did. “It eemed we had lived on the edge of povert, anxiet, and illne rather than on the edge of a primeval foret.” Maine’ tor omehow ecame o appended over the ear, that the tor ecame the tor itelf. It wa like that game ou plaed a a kid where ou at in a circle and one peron would whiper a phrae in their neighor’ ear, and that child would whiper it to the next one, and o on. At the end of the circle, the lat child would repeat the phrae aloud. Inevital the murmured telling and retelling ditorted the word o the original phrae wa no longer recognizale. I wa riding the Metro-North train from New York Cit to Connecticut one night that ame winter, exhauted from m viit home. When I told m eatmate I wa from Maine, he aid, I love all that freh air and wood! Maine i God’ countr! I wanted to tell him that ehind the photo of irch-lined tream and the loter logo-ed gift on the Maine Tourim ureau weite, there i a tate perihing under the weight of it own advertiement and where “God” i noticeal aent. Intead I aid, It’ a terri c place to grow up, which wa largel true. ut the real contradiction were thee: we clear-cut our foret while tourit exalted them; pollution ankrupted the freh air we advertied; we poured dioxin into our environment, which ended up in loter that tourit ate; Henr David oreau lauded the “Pine Tree tate” ut hi voice wa drowned out  the growl of chainaw; and what gave our town life could alo e what’ killing it. A the folk Maine aing goe, ou can’t get the-ahh from heeahh. In other word, the wa life hould e, the idealized tate of oreau and tourit, ma have never actuall exited except in the landcape of our mind. lowl, m father egan to eat. All he wanted wa pitachio, o I ought ag of them. oe are too expenive for me, he’d a, a he goled them up. We talked aout aeall and ook o I ought him e Art of Fielding, which I read from at hi funeral. We watched movie. He made puzzle.  pring, he wa ale to roll hi wheelchair outide to it in hi drivewa in the awning un. Alwa a great athlete, he loathed jut itting around. You’re throwing like a goddamn GIRL! he’d ell at m throw from third to rt if the weren’t fat enough, even if I wa onl ten. He plaed third ae too, the “hot corner” he called it. He wa an intitution in that poition, never relinquihing it to ounger gu a he aged. I watched him ummer after ummer elding tinging line drive down third ae line a he crept in to take awa the unt. He wa quick, e cient. I never aw him make an error. Now, he truggled to lift a knee. * Late ummer, 2014. I ki m father hello and after a few minute, he turn to the TV. M mother hout omething from the kitchen over the clamorou rattle of Pawn tar. I lump in the overtu ed chair. Over the next couple of da, I learn the new routine of their live: m mother emptie hi catheter ag, change hi cannula, wahe dihe, make co ee, turn the heat up, turn the heat down, help him to ed, tuck him in. One da the “oxgen man,” a nure, And (their handman), on the next a parade of tranger and friend ama then dipere, like a dandelion gone to eed in a quick wind. In the morning, m mother walk m father to the kitchen, her arm wrapped around hi wait. I hear them in the hallwa. I lept liked hit, he a. I jut couldn’t leep. I don’t know. What’ the matter!? m mother a. It ain’t much of a life, he a. M mother procure a voice-activated phone, a walker, the et hearing aid, a hopital ed, athtu rail, hopice aide, ice cream, Net ix. e da drift. Dinner come earl. e late afternoon winter light heitate, then crahe, darkening the curtained room. We fold ourelve into the furniture and ip channel. “Do ou or doe anone ou know u er from lung cancer? Give u a call at . . . ” lawer on the TV eckon. Mae I’ll call, m mother ugget. What the hell are ou talking aout? m father a. e Your lung cancer. Mae I’ll call them aout our lung cancer, he a. I don’t have lung cancer, he a. M mother never ring it up again. M mother track hi oxgen level, like volunteer do on the Androcoggin River, judging impairment  percentage, keeping the lower numer at a  turning up the O2. e river’ oxgen percentage lie omewhere etween impaired and threatened, a do m father’. In 1966 the Androcroggin Rivermater tried to recreate the river’ natural aeration  intalling “uler” in the Androcoggin, which injected air into the water to increae oxgen level. M father’ od, like the Androcoggin, eem to e reccling the toxin dicharged  the mill. ut he, unlike the river, would never reathe again without a machine to help him. When I get etter . . . he a a he hunche over, hi oxgen tank hiing awa in the other room, it platic line leahing him to hi chair . . . I’ll viit our new houe. A he keep tring to live he keep ding. He i ding at the ame exponential rate a the town . . . an unuilding of a od that had previoul uilt a mountain. Hi chet working overtime like he often did in the mill. * “Vacationland,” our tate motto, appear on ke chain, tee hirt, co ee mug, and our licene plate ut the holidaof m outh were never a eaide fete. A a teenager, m iter and I would ometime drive to Old Orchard each, two hour outh, where we’d u frie on the pier and watch French Canadian men in kimp athing trunk cavort in the water. Rather than wim, I’d mother melf with iodine and a oil and lie on the hot and, getting the tan that proved I had een omewhere. We alo made earl viit to m father’ mother “Nana” and m tep-grandfather “Pop” in Kenneunk, Maine. Depite it acroanct location, the lived cloer to the town dump than to the each. For hour, we’d ift through other people’ trah with Pop, or pla on the road front lawn with their dog ijoux, a cra poiled Chihuahua. When Pop entered a room, hi egg-haped ald head irted with the ceiling. Hi voice wa ooming and fearome, et he wa a ectionate in hi toothle mile, the wa an octopu wa, emracing hi grandchildren with a manic repulive grip. M grandmother kept her emotion a tightl ound a her arm, which were alwa croed over her chet, and he onl allowed mall giggle through her thin hand, which roe to cover her mouth when he laughed. * e room in their houe melled of cigarette moke and age, a our, untid odor I evaded  leeping in their camping trailer parked in the drivewa. Pop, we learned after he died, moleted a few of m female couin. A for the each, we would ometime go, ut I would rather have een pawing though the trah or the animal- haped candle in the tourit hop than face a marauding jell h lohing in the laz wave or meeting up with Pop in an unkempt, uptair hallwa. * . . White wrote dipatche for the New Yorker from hi altwater farm in rooklin, Maine. When he drove there from New York, he too croed the Picataqua River. In hi ea “Home-Coming” he wrote that ever time he drove over the river, he “had the enation of having received a gift from a true love.” While he and I ma diagree on how we feel travering the tate line or our reaon for doing o, we agree on the reaon we are pulled there. “Familiarit i the thing—the ene of elonging,” he wrote. “It grant exemption from all evil, all haine.” I’m tethered to Maine  thi ene of elonging ut alo  a ometime paralzing amiguit I wretle to undertand—an inexplicale love for Maine and what it repreent, even if ome of thoe thing are fale. I don’t think it wa ever reall a paradie, except mae for the Aenaki Native American who hed the Androcoggin until their live and the almon the ate were choked out  dieae and ettler. When we leave home, we leave ehind our pat and encounter a verion of home when we return, uilt of legend true and fale. For me, thoe legend are o ig—Hugh J. Chiholm, dmund Mukie, Cancer Valle, Henr David oreau, Paul unan, lack Mountain, m parent, and tree, endle tree—that it i hard to ee eond their hadow. o when I drive ack over the Picataqua River ridge with Mexico in m rearview mirror, I ma not ee “true love,” ut I know leaving home can e a complicated a living there and a inecapale a our own DNA. * e night I watched m father die he kept tring to peak, ut onl a thin awful wail emerged a he thrahed hi od againt the teel edrail and wretled with hi heet. It wa the onl time I ever aw him make a fu aout anthing. What he wa tring to a, I’ll never know, ut I do know I no longer have to keep ecret from him or for him. What ou don’t know won’t hurt ou, m mother alwa aid o handedl. he wa dead wrong. I aw in that outline of hi od, a lifetime of 7–3 hift at the mill, where the hot racket of the paper machine would have made me turn into a lifele cotton all, a weeping remnant of a human eing. I aw in him, too, a lifetime of working for an indutr that in the end, led to hi end. You look like our father! People alwa aid to me and till do. Our ee, in particular, are/were the ame lue-gra and one of mine ag a little, a if I am falling aleep, the ame a hi. In that amene, I aw what he aw, or at leat I imagined I did, or tried to, epeciall on our walk around town where hi telling and retelling of the ame torie ecame more ditilled each time he told them. He’d narrate a we went: i i an hitoric pot, he aid one time, pointing to the road, a we paed a vacant lot that ued to e hi high chool. i i where Roger Gallant dropped a jar of mercur. I imagined the all of ilver pinging along the road in tantric line. We walked acro the frozen oil and cu ed our oot acro the thin now to uncover a plaque of people who donated mone for the plaque. He pointed to a Gallant, cla of 1951. m father aid. at’ the gu that dropped the mercur. at’ him, “I aw in that outline of hi od, a lifetime of 7–3 hift at the mill, a weeping remnant of a human eing.” In the aftermath of hi death, two ear on, I till can’t look at photograph of him, ecaue in them I rememer hi emaciated od, acri ced o I could have a new pair of hoe to tart chool ever fall or a new oftall glove when I turned ixteen. And in hi ee I ee me. * Paul unan loom over the Tourit Information ooth in front of the Androcoggin where unan-ized log once oated downtream toward the mill. In lue pant, a matching lue watch cap, and a hort leeve red polo hirt expoing hi rawn arm, he pro er an equall enormou axe that could clear-cut the Amazon. at tatue ha een around a long a I rememer, although it ued to tower aove Puiia’ Hardware acro the treet, a catchall hop where I ought charcoal and ketch pad for juvenile rendering of hore. He wa donated to the town when Puiia’ cloed. A a kid, I didn’t pa much attention to unan depite hi ize, and he lended into the ackground, a improale a that eem. I read that Rumford’ Paul unan got a facelift etween 2000–2002, a od overhaul including a paint jo, a new axe, and teel upport ecured to a huge lock of concrete, which to replace, the had to remove unan’ head. After the fatened the upport and efore reintating unan’ head, the workmen wriggled out of unan’ neck. After Paul’ reurrection, Rumford held a fetival in hi honor featuring a lumerjack reakfat, zip line ride over the waterfall, a facial hair contet, a annel hirt dinner dance, and an axe-throwing competition. unan’ origin remain a mter. mall town, from Maine to Minneota, claim him a their own, et the agree the o giant wa the hero of all woodmen. Legend maintain when unan’ cradle rocked, the motion caued huge wave that unk hip. He alo allegedl whittled a pipe from a hickor tree and could outrun uckhot. Our unan, I found out, wa crafted from the mold of the Mu er Man, a giant ergla tatue who pro ered mu er a advertiement on U wa in the 1970. Whatever the mth, there our unan tand a a guardian or curioit for thoe amling through the waning mill town of m outh, hi hadow ometime a rooding a the hurtling river eond. enator dmund ixtu Mukie’ maller, more eriou memorial of quat dark gra granite lie jut down the riverank from unan. Mukie wa a giant in real life at 6’4” and the man who penned the Clean Air and Clean Water Act, though no match for the long hadow cat  unan. oth memorialized in Rumford, their act equall igni cant; one deforeted the woodland, the other tried to reclaim them, the rock pool on the edge of the Androcoggin panning the gap etween the two of them. M father ued to make fun of the unan tatue and the ludicrou lue hoofprint painted on the idewalk in downtown Rumford, made  ae, unan’ lue ox. town electmen voted, in 2009, to ue $6,500 from their economic development fund to create ae, guring that he and hi hoofprint would encourage tourit to follow e hi path. What the forgot to conider wa that there’ not much left in town to ee ut Paul unan himelf and thoe garih lue tep that end aruptl at Rite Aid. Kerri Arenault Kerri Arenault erve on the oard of the National ook Critic Circle and i the ook Review ditor for Orion magazine. he teache non ction in The Mater of Art program in Writing and Oral Tradition at the Graduate Intitute in ethan, CT. Her forthcoming ook, What Remain, i aout how our landcape de ne u and how we de ne our landcape, due out from t. Martin' Pre, 2020.  10 DUT NOVL THAT AR ALO THIR LOUI RDRICH: AMONG TH LIVING AND AUTHOR' MATRPIC TH DAD IN TH TURTL MOUNTAIN 
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Explanation & Answer

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Literature Question
Student’s Name
Institutional Affiliation
Course Number and Name
Instructor’s Name
Due Date

2
Literature Question Outline
 How Do These Writers Connect The Body To Landscape, Specifically Illness To
Environmental Destruction. As Exercises In Literary Journalism, What Kinds Of
Research Do They Do And How Do They Bring That Research Into Conversation With
Their Personal Stories? How Might This Connection Between Body And Landscape
Manifest In Your Own Work?
 How Well Did You Answer The Reading Response Question?
 Did You Provide Examples From The Text?
 Asking The Class Open-Ended Questions Based On Difficult Passages In The Reading.
As A Group, You Will Identify Portions Of The Readings That Puzzled You Or That
Members Of Your Group Had Opposite Interpretations Of. You Will Be Graded On The
Quality Of Questions For Class And Ability To Engage Classmates In Discussion
 Did The Writer Use Writing Techniques That You Found Unexpected Or Inspiring?
 Did The Writer Choose A Topic Or A Perspective On A Topic That Gave You Ideas?
 Did The Writer Make An Intellectual Or Emotional Turn You Admired?
 What Ideas Did You Get For Your Own Writing Practice?
 References

3

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1

Literature Question
Student’s Name
Institutional Affiliation
Course Number and Name
Instructor’s Name
Due Date

2
Literature Question
How Do These Writers Connect The Body To Landscape, Specifically Illness To
Environmental Destruction? As Exercises In Literary Journalism, What Kinds Of
Research Do They Do And How Do They Bring That Research Into Conversation With
Their Personal Stories? How Might This Connection Between Body And Landscape
Manifest In Your Work?
Literature and art have been drawn to portray the physical environment. The physical
environment, in this case, demonstrates human-environment interaction hence the connection of
body to landscape. The connection of the body to landscape provides an array of non-fictional
and fictional writings aimed at determining the changing relationship between humans and the
environment (Buell et al., 2011). A perfect example in the article is when the author admits that
what he saw was the mill's pollutants hovering in the valley with toxic sludge congregating by
the riverbed and in landfills (Arsenault, 2017). Since the majority of the people equated the
valley as cancerous and that people died of cancer due to the toxic pollutants in the area shows a
perfect explanation of illness to environmental destruction. Therefore, writers connect the body
to the landscape through imagination and an eclectic coordinated movement that visibly
contributes to the literature through imagery, art, and media.
The kind of research that most writers do is ecocriticism because writers today conform
to anthropocenic nature writing with the idea that the natural environment is impacted by humans
(Voie, 2019). In essence, the type of writing genre is dystopian because it describes nature
characterized by a writer's concern over what happened or is happening to a specific landscape.
Thus, writers in literary journalism portray a dystopian tendency of writing by denoting an
imagined society or nation where there is great suffering, facilitating the conversation with their

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personal stories. The connection between body and landscape manifests in my work through the
shift from a conventional focus on a spiritual connection with the surroundings to a more
functional and material understanding of humanity's role in the world's ecosystem.
How Well Did You Answer The Reading Response Question?
I answered the reading response question well by equating literary journalism to my
work, enabling the transition of writing from traditional forms of writing to current
understandings of human impact on nature. On the other hand, I established a dystopian form of
writing where a writer relates to an imagined society or state that suffers from human impact.
Did You Provide Examples From The Text?
Yes, I provided an example from the text, primarily highlighting the author's notion that
what he saw was the mill's pollutants hovering in the valley with toxic sludge congregating by
the riverbed and in landfills (Arsenault, 2017). The narrative categorically shows how writers
connect the body to landscape, specifically illness to environmental destruction.
Asking The Class Open-Ended Questions Based On Difficult Passages In The Reading. As
A Group, You Will Identify Portions Of The Readings That Puzzled You Or That
Members Of Your Group Had Opposite Interpretations Of. You, Will, Be Graded On The
Quality Of Questions For Class, And Ability To Engage Classmates In Discussion
The portions of reading that puzzled me entail


Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, lung cancer, prostate cancer, aplastic anemia,
esophageal cancer, asbestosis, Ewing's sarcoma, emphysema, brain cancer, and
cancer of the heart: these are some of the illnesses appearing in Rumford and
Mexico.

4


Our mill’s primary product hasbecome as precarious as the livelihoods of the men
and women who make it.



It seemed we had lived on the edge of poverty, anxiety, and illness rather than on
the edge of a primeval forest.

Thus the open-ended questions for the class with regard to the portions of readings above
incorporate.


What was your neighborhood like growing up?



Did you witness any form of pollution in your neighborhood



Are there individuals af...


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