Vectorial, too.

As we discussed in class on Friday, there is a cyclic, or circular, nature to Dorothy Allison’s story, which she tells in her autobiography, Two or Three Things I Know for Sure.

As a young girl, she is subjected to a family life that leaves her physically and sexually abused and that is very difficult to escape.  Rather than being broken by her circumstances, however, Allison is determined to become her own woman, to not end up like her mother, her aunts, and all the women that have come before them, women who are strong enough to cope with the hardships of their lives but who still accept their circumstance as inevitable.  By the end of the story, Allison has a family of her own—a longtime partner and a son.  She is not unscathed by her past—in fact, it drives her in all of her behaviors and interactions with others—but she has still managed to learn to give and receive love, something that at one point seemed impossible for, and to, her.

Dorothy Allison

 In looking at Allison’s story, however, the discussion cannot stop at shape—directionality must be taken into consideration.  The way that she writes Two or Three Things I Know for Sure is vectorial—it has quantity, direction, and momentum.  The pace of the book is slow, initially, in some ways reflecting the southern culture in which she was raised.  This also reveals the depths of Allison’s suffering as a child; the physical and sexual abuse by her stepfather began when she was five years old and lasted until she was sixteen—a period of time that felt, to Allison, like a lifetime in and of itself.  As the author moves forward with her story, however, describing her journey into her sexual identity, learning to like herself, learning to love others, there is a distinct increase in pace.  The story moves more quickly, with more assertiveness and determination, a reflection of Allison’s personal quest; much like her joining of the karate class, she takes life head on.  By the very end, however—even just over the last few pages—there is a calm that returns, a slowness and gentleness.  This is not to say that Allison has been able to let go of her past; the conversation with her sister Anne and Anne’s daughter clearly shows that there is lingering pain and distress, so much so that Allison recognizes and seeks to address her niece’s apparent resignation.  However, Allison seems to have reached a place in which she can survive and have love, a place in which she can exist without the constant fervor once inextricably linked to her identity.