When doctors found lung cancer, my grandmother, a smoker for over 70 years, never asked for another cigarette, her only vice besides my grandfather. These are the women I come from. They tackle complex texts, hold one another accountable. In an uncontrollable fit, she informs her aunt that the spirits of the dead are planning to seek revenge on her for breaking her promise to her dying husband. He took a class with you the following semester. I spend more time in my new home, trapped in solipsistic contemplation of each pain and ache, space becoming so tiny I forget how good using the body can feel, forget the way I used to run or sprawl out. DOI: 10.2307/25600288 Corpus ID: 191299172. And I act the role: I fret over my new home. A First Look at the New Book by James L. Evans. However, many modern readers understand them as demonstrating that women, in that era, were just beginning their struggle for the freedom of artistic and intellectual expression. Anxious. Over the last few months, Celexa has eased my shaking hands and loosened the tangle in my throat, but I still see disaster, fear apocalypse. Nineteenth-Century Gothic Literature has often used themes of women held back or locked up in rooms and attics while attempting to make valiant stands and statements in support of their rights to artistic and intellectual expression, and social equality. Nineteenth-Century Gothic Literature has often used themes of women held back or locked up in rooms and attics while attempting to make valiant stands and statements in support of their rights to artistic and intellectual expression, and social equality. Before and after class I hear female students say, “The guy on the third floor won’t leave me alone” or “We have to go dancing in a group” or “My friend was raped over the weekend.” Some bring their younger siblings to class when the elementary schools are closed, or take time off to care for ailing parents, or use their allotted absences to have the baby they’ve been hiding all semester. Gilbert and Gubar draw their title from Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, in which Rochester's wife (née Bertha Mason) is kept secretly locked in an attic apartment by her husband. Madwomen in Nineteenth-Century Gothic Literature. My students believe that Hornbacher and Wurtzel, middle-class white women who published books in their twenties, did not suffer enough to warrant illness, are too successful to be mentally ill. He retired as the Virginia Director of Community Corrections for the Department of Correctional Education in 2009. We read Jennifer Finney Boylan and other trans writers, and when we watch Boys Don’t Cry and they learn Brandon Teena was murdered not far from our Nebraska city, they organize a campus film night. Couch your opposition and face the same. Spare the children, keep it inside. I make pitchers of fresh sun tea each day, cook dinner each night. She died for a moment and was revived, spending a long final week in the hospital, shooing us all away with manicured fingers, her hands tied down to keep her from removing the breathing tube. Her fingers quilt scraps into something beautiful despite being stiff with arthritis. Anxiety is compressed, dense, and claustrophobic, a million things packed in a tight mind. Have students write papers defending the multiple rape allegations against their fraternity house or about why the U.S. women’s soccer team shouldn’t be paid as much as the men’s because “women’s muscles, like their brains, are smaller,” or about how women wouldn’t get raped so much if they would date nice guys. (I don’t say anything more about the student, that his fiancé had recently left him and he called her “that bitch” and “that slut” when he talked with his classmates, or that he wrote war stories with all-male casts and enough explosives to blow up whatever was haunting him from his own military experience, or that he wrote opinion pieces for the university’s newspaper about the danger of feminism and why women shouldn’t be allowed to wear leggings.