What kind of tone is "Humanity 101" written in? What are some examples. Why did the author make the poem this way? (What picture of the speaker emerges from the voice that the author has created? Do

What kind of tone is  "Humanity 101" written in? What are some examples.

Why did the author make the poem this way?

 (What picture of the speaker emerges from the voice that the author has created? Do you like the speaker? Do you relate to her?)

Araby

When the narrator finally gets to the almost deserted bazaar, the silence is described as “that which pervades a church after a service”. This is certainly not the first religious image in “Araby.” Discuss other allusions to and images of religion in the story.

HUMANITY 101 by Denise Dunhamel

I was on my way to becoming a philanthropist,

or the president, or at least someone who gave a shit,

but I was a nontraditional student

with a lot of catching up to do. I enrolled in Humanity 101

(not to be confused with the Humanities,

a whole separate department). When I flunked

the final exam, my professor suggested

I take Remedial Humanity where I’d learn the basics

that I’d missed so far. I may have been a nontraditional student,

but I was a traditional person, she said, the way a professor

can say intimate things sometimes, as though

your face and soul are aglow in one of those

magnified (10x) makeup mirrors.

So I took Remedial Humanity, which sounds like an easy A,

but, believe me, it was actually quite challenging.

There were analogy questions, such as:

Paris Hilton1 is to a rich U.S. suburban kid

as a U.S. middle-class kid is to:

1.) a U.S. poverty-stricken kid,

2.) a U.S. kid with nothing in the fridge,

or

3.) a Third World kid with no fridge at all.

We were required to write essays about the cause of war—

Was it a phenomenon? Was it our lower animal selves?

Was it economics? Was it psychological/sexual/religious

(good vs. evil and all that stuff)? For homework

we had to bend down to talk to a homeless person

slouched against a building. We didn’t necessarily have to

give them money or food, but we had to say something like

How are you? or What is your favorite color?

We took field trips to nursing homes, prisons,

day-care centers. We stood near bedsides

or sat on the floor to color with strange little people

who cried and were afraid of us at first.

I almost dropped out. I went to see the professor

during his office hours because I wanted to change my major.

He asked, “Is that because your heart is being smashed?”

He thought I should stick it out, that I could make it,

if I just escaped for an hour a day blasting music

into my earbuds or slumping in front of the TV.

I said, “But that’s just it. Now I see humanity everywhere,

even on sitcoms, even in pop songs,

even in beer commercials.” He closed his door

and showed me the scars under his shirt

where he had been stabbed. He said I had to assume

everyone had such a wound, whether I could see it or not.

He assured me that it really did get easier in time,

and that it was hard to make music when you were still

learning how to play the scales. He made me see

my potential. He convinced me of my own humanity,

that one day I might even be able to get a PhD. But first

I had to, for extra credit, write a treatise on detachment.

ARABY by JAMES JOYCE

North Richmond Street, being blind,1 was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq.2 I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gantlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits,3 to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O’Donovan Rossa,4 or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: O love! O love! many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby.5 I forget whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar, she said; she would love to go.

—And why can’t you? I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat6 that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

—It’s well for you, she said.

—If I go, I said, I will bring you something.

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason7 affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly monotonous child’s play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:

—Yes, boy, I know.

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing