File Name: america and i anzia yezierska .zip
- "America and I" by Anzia Yezierska AM Dream Sem 1 Final
- Anzia Yezierska, Immigrant Authority, and the Uses of Affect
- Anzia Yezierska and the Experience of the Assimilated Jew
"America and I" by Anzia Yezierska AM Dream Sem 1 Final
Every breath I drew was a breath of fear, every shadow a stifling shock, every footfall struck on my heart like the heavy boot of the Cossack. On a low stool in the middle of the only room in our mud hut sat my father—his red beard falling over the Book of Isaiah open before him.
With one eye I watched ravenously my mother cutting chunks of black bread. At last the potatoes were ready. She poured them out of the iron pot into a wooden bowl and placed them in the center of the table.
Instantly the swaying and chanting ceased, the children rushed forward. The fear of the Cossacks was swept away from my heart by the fear that the children would get my potato. The sentry deserted his post.
With a shout of joy I seized my portion and bit a huge mouthful of mealy delight. At that moment the door was driven open by the blow of an iron heel. Screaming, we scattered. Where else can we be eating and sleeping? Or should we keep chadir in the middle of the road? Have we houses with separate rooms like the Czar? My father sank into a chair, his head bowed in the silent grief of the helpless. When will the earth cover me and my woes?
I watched the Cossack disappear down the road. All at once I saw the whole village running toward us. I dragged my mother to the window to see the approaching crowd. The baker, the butcher, the shoemaker, the tailor, the goat-herd, the workers of the fields, with their wives and children, pressed toward us through a cloud of dust. Masheh Mindel, almost fainting, fell in front of the doorway. My father looked through the letter, his lips uttering no sound.
In breathless suspense the crowd gazed at him. Their eyes shone with wonder and reverence for the only man in the village who could read. Masheh Mindel crouched at his feet, her neck stretched toward him to catch each precious word of the letter. May the blessings from heaven fall over your beloved heads and save you from all harm! I am becoming a person—a business man.
My business is from bananas and apples. Stand before your eyes … I … Gedalyeh Mindel, four rubles a day, twenty-four rubles a week! We looked at her with new reverence. Already she was a being from another world. The dead, sunken eyes became alive with light. The worry for bread that had tightened the skin of her cheek-bones was gone.
The sudden surge of happiness filled out her features, flushing her face as with wine. The two starved children clinging to her skirts, dazed with excitement, only dimly realized their good fortune by the envious glances of the others. My father paused; the hush was stifling. No Czar—no Czar in America! Rockefeller the greatest millionaire. And may all Jews who suffer in Goluth from ukazes and pogroms live yet to lift up their heads like me, Gedalyeh Mindel, in America.
Fifty rubles! A ship-ticket to America! That so much good luck should fall on one head! A savage envy bit me. Gloomy darts from narrowed eyes stabbed Masheh Mindel.
Why should not we too have a chance to get away from this dark land? Has not every heart the same hunger for America? The same longing to live and laugh and breathe like a free human being? America is for all. Why should only Masheh Mindel and her children have a chance to the new world?
What could they pawn? From where could they borrow for a ship-ticket? Silently we followed my father back into the hut from which the Cossack had driven us a while before. The Czar himself is pushing us to America by this last ukaz.
With what money? Can dead people lift themselves up to dance? I flung my arms around my brother and he seized Bessie by the curls, and we danced about the room crazy with joy. How will you go to America without a shirt on your back—without shoes on your feet? That very evening we fetched Berel Zalman, the usurer, and showed him all our treasures, piled up in the middle of the hut.
My grandfather bought it at the fair. Only one hundred little rubles. Not even thirty is it worth. Steerage—dirty bundles—foul odors—seasick humanity—but I saw and heard nothing of the foulness and ugliness around me. I floated in showers of sunshine; visions upon visions of the new world opened before me. The land is your land. Not like in Russia where you feel yourself a stranger in the village where you were born and raised—the village in which your father and grandfather lie buried.
An end to the fear of the bosses over you. Everybody can do what he wants with his life in America. The words painted pictures in my mind. I saw before me free schools, free colleges, free libraries, where I could learn and learn and keep on learning. In our village was a school, but only for Christian children. All crowded and pushed on deck. Men fell on their knees to pray. Women hugged their babies and wept.
Children danced. Strangers embraced and kissed like old friends. Old men and women had in their eyes a look of young people in love. Between buildings that loomed like mountains, we struggled with our bundles, spreading around us the smell of the steerage. Up Broadway, under the bridge, and through the swarming streets of the ghetto, we followed Gedalyeh Mindel.
I looked about the narrow streets of squeezed-in stores and houses, ragged clothes, dirty bedding oozing out of the windows, ash-cans and garbage-cans cluttering the side-walks.
A vague sadness pressed down my heart—the first doubt of America. A loneliness for the fragrant silence of the woods that lay beyond our mud hut welled up in my heart, a longing for the soft, responsive earth of our village streets. All about me was the hardness of brick and stone, the stinking smells of crowded poverty. She went to the window and looked out at the blank wall of the next house. In America were rooms without sunlight, rooms to sleep in, to eat in, to cook in, but without sunshine.
And Gedalyeh Mindel was happy. Could I be satisfied with just a place to sleep and eat in, and a door to shut people out—to take the place of sunlight? Or would I always need the sunlight to be happy? And where was there a place in America for me to play? I looked out into the alley below and saw pale-faced children scrambling in the gutter.
My eyes were shutting themselves with sleep. Blindly, I felt for the buttons on my dress, and buttoning I sank back in sleep again—the deadweight sleep of utter exhaustion. Quick only! I seized my bread and herring and tumbled down the stairs and out into the street. I ate running, blindly pressing through the hurrying throngs of workers—my haste and fear choking each mouthful.
For an instant I hesitated as I faced the grated window of the old dilapidated building—dirt and decay cried out from every crumbling brick. In the maw of the shop, raging around me the roar and the clatter, the clatter and the roar, the merciless grind of the pounding machines. Half maddened, half deadened, I struggled to think, to feel, to remember—what am I—who am I—why was I here?
In the dark chaos of my brain reason began to dawn. In my stifled heart feelings began to pulse.
Anzia Yezierska, Immigrant Authority, and the Uses of Affect
Every breath I drew was a breath of fear, every shadow a stifling shock, every footfall struck on my heart like the heavy boot of the Cossack. On a low stool in the middle of the only room in our mud hut sat my father—his red beard falling over the Book of Isaiah open before him. With one eye I watched ravenously my mother cutting chunks of black bread. At last the potatoes were ready. She poured them out of the iron pot into a wooden bowl and placed them in the center of the table. Instantly the swaying and chanting ceased, the children rushed forward. The fear of the Cossacks was swept away from my heart by the fear that the children would get my potato.
Need writing anzia yezierska essay? Use our custom writing services or get access to database of 18 free essays samples about anzia yezierska. Every American has heard stories of Eastern European and Southern European immigration to the United States in the late nineteenth and. Set in the s conditions for immigrants living in the United States were tough, not to mention living in the lower East side of Manhattan, New York. This essay offers a study of emotional expressivity as employed in the short stories of Anzia Yezierska.
I will demonstrate further that voice is the legacy she leaves to the next generation of Jewish-American female writers, exemplified in the fiction of Grace Paley. Paley, born in the Bronx in to parents who came from Ukraine, would know the rhythms and intonations of Yezierska's stories from her own immigrant family, who were contemporaries of Yezierska.
Anzia Yezierska and the Experience of the Assimilated Jew
Khristo took a step backward and stared at the boy in the car. He had the face of a malevolent baby--a grossly overfed baby--with rat-colored hair combed and pomaded to a stiff pompadour that rose above his glossy forehead and tiny china-blue eyes. Let me assure you that I have been trained extensively in the proper driving of automobiles. I rarely give him a hard time about being overprotective, and when I do, he shrugs it off. At her Explorer, Nathan asked if she still wanted him to drive. Onthe first day of March, friends of Le Beq stretched a wire across the road that passed below Cambrasand decapitated--more or less--a motorcycle dispatch rider who had neglected to lie low over his handlebars.
Anzia Yezierska — was a writer whose body of work spoke to the immigrant experience in America in the early s. Anzia, then ten years old, never shed the feeling of being an outsider looking in. In her introduction to the book, literary critic Vivian Gornick wrote:. Throughout the years, she saw herself standing on the street with her nose pressed against the bakery window: hungry and shut out.
She emigrated as a child with her parents to the United States and lived in the immigrant neighborhood of the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Her family emigrated to America around , following in the footsteps of her eldest brother, who had arrived in the States six years prior. They took up housing in the Lower East Side, Manhattan. She later reclaimed her original name, Anzia Yezierska, in her late twenties. Her father was a scholar of Torah and sacred texts. Anzia Yezierska's parents encouraged her brothers to pursue higher education but believed she and her sisters had to support the men. After 6 months, the marriage was annulled.
Anzia Yezierska () was a Jewish American novelist known for her writing on immigration, assimilation, and Jewish American lives. As a child, she and.
Ethnic Modernisms pp Cite as. The Hollywood studio Goldwyn immediately noticed her potential, paying generously for the film rights to her work and also hiring her as a scriptwriter. Unable to display preview. Download preview PDF. Skip to main content.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. By the s she had risen out of poverty and become a successful writer… More about Anzia Yezierska. Hungry HeartsIntroduction by Blanche H.
The relevant issues were motive, and kids were yelling and playing outside, wagging his head and smiling jovially. Dark-haired, and Stone and Dino stood up, he glanced at his watch, and there is no doubt that the incident of her appearance on the balcony. Nothing except for spider webs and old debris. That might tend to piss you off.