What American History Has Taught Me, pt. 2

I’m going to try to end on a good note here.

Maybe my lens on life is a little scrunched up. I have a very pessimistic view on things, and I think I’ve finally accepted it. It’s okay, too. I don’t mind anymore. I’m the person that loves to squeeze the shit out of a lemon, but at least I enjoy the lemonade afterwards. When it gets down to it though, I do care about stuff. So if you’ve read part one of this sub-par blog post, you would know that all I really did was bitch and complain about the Spanish settlers. Now, I’m going to (attempt) to cover the things that really hit me in the feels.

  1. Jonathan Edwards. You had to have known that this is someone I would follow up on one last time. This guy put me through feelings I never thought I had. No, I don’t mean sexually. I read all of Edwards with a smile on my face, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could have done about it. I mean, honestly. This guy was born in the wrong time. With all the new sketch religions coming out now, this guy deserves his own special place in the HOF. I read “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” in high school, but I had never thought there would be someone willing to do things only you can do behind closed doors. I’ve talked quite enough about Jonathan Edwards for one semester.
  2. Anne Bradstreet. Now, I’m not one that really pays a whole lot of attention to feminism. I’ll be real honest with you. I think that if there ever were to be something I should vote on to pass a right to make women as equal to men as possible, you could sign me up. But as a male in college with 346653 things to do and a daily basis and some semblance of a social life to live, it really is the last thing on my mind. Anne Bradstreet made me change my mind, a little. The works that I read (“The Author to Her Book,” “The Flesh and the Spirit”) made me realize that there really are some bad bitches out there in the 17th century. I would have taken Anne out for a drink, pay for everything, given her a ride home, had a real close heart-to-heart, and drive away into the abyss without asking for her to show me around her place. Because that’s what she would have wanted. “I am obnoxious to each carping tongue /Who says my hand a needle better fits. /A poet’s pen all scorn I should thus wrong; /For such despite they cast on female wits, /If what I do prove well, it won’t advance– /They’ll say it was stolen, or else it was by chance” (OpenAmLit). Men, she owned you.
  3. Edgar Allan Poe. Now, the only reason why I skipped through all the writers during the enlightenment period was mainly because I hated it. Like, hate hate. Yes, that was the period that defined the United States for being independent, and free. But, dammit was it boooring. You go from those schmucks, to this. A creepy Edgar Allan Poe, hiding bodies, hanging cats, making orangutans kill innocent people. You can’t make it up.

That’s really about it. I can only write about things I like for so long…

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