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Aufgabe I

Aufgabenstellung

1.
Describe the situation in the shop.
(30%)
2.
Examine Merle's character.
(30%)
3.
You want to take part in an online seminar at the University of Houston on the migrant experience titled "The Quest for True Belonging and the Courage to Stand Alone," which is offered by social scientist Brené Brown. As a prerequisite for attendance, you have to hand in an essay commenting on her statement "Fitting in is not belonging."
Write the essay, also referring to the text at hand and materials studied in class, such as the short stories by Lahiri, Levy, Pandit, and Shahraz.
(40%)

Text: Excerpt from Yvvette Edwards, “Security” (2019)

1
Merle noticed the security guard the moment she stepped through the entrance of
2
Penny World: a tall, heavy-set white man, mid-forties, who had positioned himself on
3
top of a barstool at the front of the store to have an unobstructed view of customers
4
entering; and she knew he’d clocked her, because he stood up straightaway, trying
5
to make the action seem natural by generally surveying the store, as if that had been
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his intention all along, and it surprised her, the anger she felt – hot and rapid, erupting
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inside her chest like a volcano come to life – surprised her at a time when she was
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upset with so many other things, proper problems with longevity attached, that this
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incident, when she’d just popped out to pick up some Sure deodorant and a roll of
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clingfilm, was the blow that finally swept her over the edge.
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Her flight was tomorrow morning at 11 and arrangements had been made to pick her
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up at 5 a.m. so she didn’t miss it. She’d bought the suitcase last week, had to, because
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the only one she’d ever owned was the one she’d brought with her when she made
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the six-week boat journey from Jamaica to England in June 1964, which had for years
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been reclining on top of her wardrobe, the metal handle broken, clasps defunct,
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reduced in status to a storage container, nothing more. She’d not been back to
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Jamaica since arriving here, had never gone on holiday abroad, never had need of a
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passport, and here she was, at the age of seventy-eight, making the journey back [...].
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Seventy-eight years of age, and with the neat and tidy way she always dressed and
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carried herself, were she a stranger trying to work out what kind of person she might
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be, the word that would have come to mind is church. Despite this, in the fifty-four
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years she’d been living in England and spending her money in shops with security
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guards, she’d regularly been followed around like a thief.
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Forty-one of those fifty-four years she’d worked as a care assistant in homes for the
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elderly, spoon-feeding geriatrics, dressing and undressing them, giving herself back
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problems that plagued her to this day, from lifting them in and out of bed and bath,
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on and off seats, toilets, floors; cleaning their dirty behinds and infronts, their soiled
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bedding, while acting like it was just sticks and stones to have them tell herthey didn’t
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want her black hands touching them, their food, their cutlery and medicine cups.
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She’d been watched with suspicion by those same people she’d looked after,
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watched as she mopped up all manner of nastiness, as if the only reason she dressed
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in the uniform her employers issued, wearing gloves and carrying a mop and bucket,
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was to rob them of the little shekels in purses and wallets they hid under mattresses
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and at the back of their drawers. And had she harboured any grudges against them?
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Nope. She had not. [...]
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Merle dawdled as she approached the end of the aisle, handling products she had no
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intention of buying, touching everything she felt like, without a backward glance.
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Then, as she rounded the corner, out of the security guard’s sight, she began
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marching briskly, nearly but not quite running, careful not to slip or trip and mash up
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her seventy-eight-year-old body, hurrying only as fast as she could manage safely,
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because if she injured herself, they’d probably say she’d done it on purpose to avoid
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the flight, and God alone knew whether after all the years of paying National
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Insurance contributions from her wages, she’d be entitled to treatment from the
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National Health Service. She scurried determinedly down Aisle 2 and around the
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corner so she was back in Aisle 1, continued swiftly along it, then for the second time
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rounded the top, slowing only when she spotted the security guard a few feet ahead,
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facing away from her, body alert, his head pinging back and forth like a meerkat, no
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doubt wondering where the old lady had vanished. She stopped immediately behind
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him, and as he turned around in confusion, Merle picked up a column of fifty
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disposable cups and stared at it, trying to calm her breathing, while joyfully basking
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in the vibe of his astonishment at discovering the woman he’d been following was
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now behind him. [...]
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She said, “It doesn’t feel very nice, does it?”
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The security guard’s voice was deep, bassy, tinged with a strong accent that Merle
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couldn’t narrow down further than Eastern European. He said, “My job, stop steal.”
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The fact of his accent broke her; she didn’t know why. It made no difference to what
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had happened, to this latest affront. Was it because despite being new to the country,
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he’d been endowed with the authority to treat her like a criminal? Did she feel
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because he wasn’t British, he didn’t have the right? Or because until he opened his
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mouth he’d been able to pass, to silently position himself within the system like a
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native, whereas fifty-four years on, she was still being made to feel like a foreigner?
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Now a foreigner officially.
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She said, “Well you won’t have to worry about this woman stealing ever again. You’ll
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be happy to know, I’m being deported.” [...]
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At the till, after she had paid for her items and packed them in the carrier bag she’d
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brought along, she noticed the security guard was sitting on his barstool again, and
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realised she’d have to pass him on her way to the exit. She’d decided to just ignore
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him, but as she approached his perch, he gave her a smile and she was unable to
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interpret what it was meant to convey. Solidarity? Pity? Glee?
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Her pace slowed, but she did not stop. Reflected in his glasses she saw a proud old
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lady, head held high. Her voice was steady as she spoke: “It’s me today, but
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tomorrow, they’ll be back for you.”
(994 words)
Yvvette Edwards. “Security.” New Daughters of Africa. Ed. Margaret Busby. Oxford: Myriad, 2019. 336-340.

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