Offred?

Why is Offred the only one of her household who has not retained her name? The Handmaids in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale are known as "Offred" and "Ofglen," but the Marthas are known as Rita and Cora; the Guardian is known as Nick. There is no suggestion that it is against the rules for Offred to know the names of the Marthas, but that she knows them anyway - even if that were true, there is little chance that Rita would have told Offred her name. So why must Offred be known as Offred, and why is it such a sin for Offred to tell others her real name?

It seems that it is about possession. The Commander is the one who is in charge of the household. The Wife is the supporter of the Commander, in charge of discipline and keeping the encounters between the Commander and the Handmaid kosher. The Marthas and the Guardians are helpers of the household. They do the tasks required of them to keep the household in working order, such as cleaning, cooking, etc. Handmaids, however, are simply possessions - their names even suggest their belonging to a man. They have time and place mandated for them to exercise and bathe and eat and such, and for most of the rest of the time, they are holed up in their rooms. It is as if they are stored until they are needed. Additionally, they are kept from all that might damage them - such as illicit relationships or reading. As Offred notes, she is simply "a womb with legs."

So why is Offred a possession, when everyone else is allowed to be a person? She is one of the few with working ovaries - one of the few remaining chances to keep America populated. It would seem that the handmaids would be lifted to a level of esteem rather than treated like they are incapable of determining what is best for their own lives, like they are toddlers. Understandably, Offred has not made a baby with a Commander yet, and if she had she would receive greater honor (like Janine), but up to that point, it would seem like the government would be making greater effort to make her comfortable.

An answer might be found in the fact that Gilead is trying to resemble the Biblical world. That which they have modeled Handmaids after would not have had much power. However, I do not see how the Marthas would be in much greater of a position, yet it is clear that they have much more freedom. Sure, they also do not have the same hope of honor that Offred does by giving birth, but Offred could also just as easily fail and become an Unwoman - Marthas do not have this fear.

Handmaids are possessions that are used to facilitate the needs of the government. They have no freedom. They do not truly have any rights. They may be free from, but they are not free to.

On the Seventh Day... (Working Title) Prologue

Piercing screams fill the night air.

I awake with a start. I can feel my heart pounding.

“Miranda,” I try to cry, but my mouth is so dry and my heart pounding so hard in my throat, it comes out more like a whisper. I want to clamber out of bed, but I am frozen in fear. I hear more screams and whimpers. I am sure it is Miranda; who else could it be? It sounds like it is coming from downstairs. My pajamas are already soaked with sweat. I manage to push past my rising alarm, get out of bed, and stumble to the door. I turn the knob and pull.

Nothing happens.

I don’t understand it. What could possibly be keeping the door from opening?

There are more noises coming from Miranda now. She’s screaming, crying, begging. I rush to the window. I’m thinking that I can jump down onto the grass below. I’ve done it before, many times, since our second floor isn’t too high up. But as I prepare to jump down, I see something glint in the moonlight. Somehow a pile of broken glass ended up where I would land. There’s no escape. Or is there?

I remember the attic. There’s a door to it just inside my closet. Miranda had told me never to go in there because the floorboards were old and rotting and too weak to hold me up. I figured I could use that to my advantage this time. I rip open the door to the attic, thankful that something is working for me. I can barely make out the decaying wood and insulation that defines this space by the light of what moonlight is drifting in there. I never even thought to flip on the light switch in my room. With tension rising inside me, I step into the attic. Before I can even wonder how much it would take to break through the floorboards, I’m already falling through. I tense up, waiting for the impact, but I only drop about four feet. Stooping down, I realize that I am in the second attic, the one that can be accessed through the garage. I cannot see anything; I only realize that I am there by the familiar stench of must and rot. I feel my way slowly through until I reach about where I think the ladder is. Once I find it, I push it until the ladder reaches the garage floor and I can climb down.

My sweat-soaked pajamas now exposed to the cold of the attic and garage, I begin to shiver. A mixture of the cold and fear makes it very difficult for me to climb down properly. At the bottom, I slump down to the ground, my back against the ladder. I suddenly realize how exhausted I am. Maybe I could just rest here a moment. Maybe I could just close my eyes and catch my breath. Maybe it was all just a dream.

Maybe…

“Please! Oh, God!”

Miranda’s terrified screams snap me back to reality. I stand up, forcing my shaking legs to support me, and let the ladder slide back into place. Stumbling over boxes and other objects invisible in the dark, I make my way to the door. I turn the knob.

Nothing happens.

Not again!

But this time I can find the problem. A large knife has been stuck through the doorframe and into the door. I don’t understand how someone could do that. I tug on the handle; it doesn’t even budge. Stepping back, I pull harder. Still, nothing happens. I grunt in frustration. Darkness shrouds everything, but by what little light is coming in, I see the brass knob of the door and it gives me an idea. My hands gripping the handle of the knife firmly and my right foot planted on the ground, I throw up my left foot and begin pushing on the doorknob while I pull with my hands.

“Come on. Come on! Pull loose you stupid little—”

And suddenly I’m falling to the ground and sliding across the floor. The knife in my hands comes down hard on my leg and slices through my skin, but my adrenaline is pumping so hard, I barely notice the pain. I scramble up and rip open the door. The sharp smell of copper fills my nostrils, and suddenly my heart is pounding so hard, I can barely hear Miranda’s screams. But they’re still there. Suddenly a mad determination propels me forward. As I run through the kitchen towards the living room, the scent of copper gets stronger and stronger until it is overwhelming. As I whirl around the corner, what I see stops me short.

He’s there. He’s there. I don’t know who he is or what that means, but that’s all that I can think. He’s there. He’s bending over Miranda pulling a knife from her side. He throws her arm gently over her body and I can see Miranda lying there in fetal position. And suddenly it hits me.

It wasn’t copper.

Oh, God, why couldn’t it be copper? I prayed for it to be copper. I begged for it to be copper. But as I see Miranda’s blood shimmering in the moonlight, I know that I was only fooling myself.  Suddenly my thoughts clear away and my animal instincts take over. I need to run. I need to get out of here as quickly as possible. But I can’t. I am absolutely frozen, my eyes locked on Miranda’s lifeless body. Then they wander over to the murderer as he begins to turn around.

Get out of there now! my head screams. But it is as if I am no longer in control of my body. All I can do is stare at him. I can’t understand it. The same fear that’s telling me to move has also bolted me to the floor. And I just watch him as he turns and faces me. He doesn’t seem at all shocked to see me. It’s as if he sensed my presence, like an animal. I glance at my sister.

He is an animal.

I look back at this vile creature. His face seems strange. It is completely black, but not by means of cloth or shadows. No, it seems as if it were black from birth, the color of his soul, if he has one. And as he looks at me and I look at him, he does something I did not expect: he smiles. At first I am surprised, but as I begin to see the insanity and the evil in that smile, I realize that smile is more dangerous than any dagger could ever be.

He begins to walk towards me. I start to feel as if I am merely a spectator and have absolutely no say in what happens. And, from what I can tell by his look, I don’t. He comes and he stands right next to me, towering over me, that demented smile still on his face. He raises his right hand slowly and places it on my cheek. I can feel the sting of something wet on his gloved hand now stamped on my face, the smell of copper stronger than ever.

“Don’t worry,” he says as he brushes back my hair with his other hand, which is still clutching the knife, “Your fate is not the same, at least for now. Tomorrow, I rest. Besides, you’re much too innocent right now.”

And he leaves. Which way he leaves, where he goes, I haven’t a clue. I slump down on the floor, staring into nothingness. I try to think. I can’t think. I need to think. I don’t want to think. So I just sit and wait. For what, I don’t know. But until I can regain control of myself, all I can do is sit and wait.

***

“…Female, 19. Found curled up with several knife wounds. Definitely the handiwork of the guy we’ve been after. This is already his sixth murder in this town so it seems we’re too late. We gotta wait until he strikes in another town before we can catch him.”

“Well, crud, based on his pattern so far, that’ll be another year or so.”

“Yeah, unless we catch him on his way out of town.”

“He always kills six people, one a day. He’s already struck three towns. Maybe he thinks he’s the Devil. Maybe he’s completed the number of the beast and he’s done.”

“No, he thinks he’s God,” I hear myself say, but I feel very far away.

The two detectives turn their heads sharply, noticing my presence for the first time. In the first one’s eyes I see irritation, but in the other’s I see disturbance.

“What is she still doing here?” the first detective asks a nearby officer, for by now they have flooded the house.

“We couldn’t get her to leave,” the officer replies, “We tried coaxing her out, tried carrying her out, but she just screamed and cried and begged until we left her alone. She’s gone through so much, we didn’t want to damage her further, so we were waiting for the social worker.”

“Well, shoot, Jenkins, what—”

“Wait a minute,” the second detective says. He takes a towelette from a kit an officer has on the floor. He then kneels down next to me and begins to wipe my cheek gently. The cool cloth feels so good on my skin which has been burning from this handprint.

“I am Detective Shriner,” he says, “And you are?”

I look up into his eyes, still feeling very far away. I know full well that he knows exactly what my name is, but it still feels good to be addressed like a person.

“Tessa,” I respond.

“All right, Tessa. Can you explain to me what you meant?”

“He told me that tomorrow he rests.”

“I don’t understand,” he replies as he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair out of my face. I shiver, remembering all too vividly the same thing being done to me by the scum who killed my sister. He pulls his hands away and for the first time, I feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Tomorrow is Saturday, the seventh day,” I say after a moment, “’On the seventh day God rested.’ He thinks he’s God.”

Detective Shriner stands up slowly.

“Shoot!” the other detective exclaims, “How did we not catch that before?”

“He kills them to…what, preserve their innocence?” Detective Shriner wonders. He looks down at me and kneels back down. “Tessa, listen to me. We’re going to find the man who did this to your sister. I don’t care what it takes, we’ll nail him and serve him the justice he deserves.”

I don’t realize it at first but he is picking me up, lifting me gently off the floor and out the door. This time I don’t resist. Something was keeping me tied to the house before, but now, it feels as if my obligation has been lifted. As we’re walking outside, I am surprised to find dawn slowly creeping its way up. I didn’t realize before just how tired I was.

So quiet, so early, so gentle, so tired.

            So tired…

Avoid the Stakes or Face the Stake?

My favorite game in the world is Mafia. It is even more fun to play when there are stakes - like project points. It is interesting to see who is willing to risk their points, and who is not. The goal for all Handmaids should seem to be to help the rebels win; however, many were more concerned with preserving their project points. The game was so infuriating because the Eyes were never wrong. They snuffed out every single Rebel, and were never wrong even once. The Handmaids and Rebels only had one chance to kill an Eye, but even if they did, there would still be three left. The only way for all Eyes to die is if they messed up, but that never happened.

I joined the Rebels when I had the chance. However, my only stakes were twenty project points, which I could make up if necessary. It is hard to say if I would join the Rebels if my life were at stake. This is the question that Handmaids must figure out an answer to in The Handmaid's Tale; in fact, they have a few options: risk the transit to Canada and live in peace, join the Rebels, or report the Rebels to the officials. On the other hand, the only gain to becoming a Rebel is the possibility for twenty extra project points. The Rebels in the book are attempting to save the Handmaids - which they possibly were once - from having to have sex without their consent as their only duty for their entire lives.

The transit of Handmaids out of Gilead parallels the Underground Railroad in many ways. First of all, the ones most involved in transporting people are Christians - especially Quakers.

Courtesy of discoversalem

Secondly, they are transporting to Canada people who have no choice in what they are doing and who are considered property of a rich man. Finally, the handmaids like slaves are not allowed to read, lest in their self-education, they discover a deep-seated wrong in the way things are.

The version of Mafia that we played in class revealed something that came as absolutely no surprise: the government in a very powerful entity. No matter what the time period, the government plays a part in every story. Sometimes, the government is too powerful; sometimes, the government is not powerful enough. There is rarely a story in which the government is perfect for everyone. Most dystopian societies are built upon an ideal that someone had - an idea for how to make a perfect government. There is always some entity in every dystopian society capable of catching someone who rebels against the norms implanted into the society. The fear that this entity will find out often keeps all but perhaps the most heroic in the story from rebelling and attempting to either change things or return them to normal - or perhaps just save themselves or others from being subjected to the ways of the society. In The Handmaid's Tale, the entity to fear is the Eye. The heroic ones are mostly the Quakers, who attempt to transport the Handmaids to Canada.

Courtesy of Kilgore-Gilmer

The question is: will Offred, our hero, join them? Will she get the chance to join them? Will she be a Rebel?

Clean Conscience, Dirty Looks

Looking around the room, I mostly agreed with what categories people ended up in. And there I stood amongst the meekest and quietest of the room, an Angelic Lamb. I had to ask what that said about me. Am I a pushover? Am I too quiet? Why am I a very truthful, nonaggressive person?

It can be hard to look at oneself and judged objectively truthfulness and aggressiveness. It was not surprising that there were few people with both bad qualities (Serpentine Lions - aggressive liars) or neither bad quality (Angelic Lambs like myself). Most people have some flaw to them - not to say that I am flawless or that I do not lie, but I am less inclined to violence or lying than most.

An analysis of characters with similar personalities brought up some interesting points:
Characters who might be classified as Serpentine Lions are usually villains, action heroes, or vigilantes (i.e., Drakken, Shego).
Serpentine Lambs are often tricksters - usually harmless, but they tend to get themselves or others into trouble (i.e., Rufus).
Angelic Lions are often heroes of the story - not bad people, but willing to fight for what they believe in (i.e., Kim Possible). It is a common pair of qualities for soldiers.
Angelic Lambs are simple, childlike, stupid, and/or were sheltered as children (i.e., Ron).

courtesy of disneychannel

As for me, I fall into the last category for Angelic Lambs. I was home-schooled until seventh grade by Conservative Christian parents on a Christian college campus. I knew nothing about what the world is really like save what I learned from TV (which gave me a skewed image of the world, especially considering that there were many things I was not allowed to watch). I have always been a very quiet person. Part of it is because I do not have much input into the conversation because people often discuss things I am not allowed to watch/read/listen to; however, a large part of it is that I have never had the aggression necessary to interject into the conversation. I am always afraid that there will be someone there who does not want me to be a part of the conversation. Growing up how I did also plays a part in my honesty. First of all, it's hard to lie to someone you see all the time. I also never really learned how to lie (so I'm really bad at it), and I never really get the chance to do much of anything worth lying about.

However, my meekness is not all a product of my parents. Unlike them, I am a vegetarian, do not support the death penalty, and do not want a gun in my house. I feel as though the qualities of Angelic Lambs can either make a person a complete pushover, or make them completely intolerant to discourtesy. I am the latter - if I am going to show someone common courtesies and be honest and nice to them, I would like the same respect back. I never release my aggression on the person who wronged me, however. I write metal songs, listen to metal music, join in mosh pits, and scream, and those are my methods of release. Perhaps being so non-aggressive is a fault of mine - it takes me longer to release my anger, and so I hold onto grudges for longer.

In any story, it seems that there is a perfect balance of all four types of characters (such as in Kim Possible). If one is missing, it is very blatant and to make a point. It is just another example of art imitating life.