"Red Dress-1946"

ENG3U

Short Stories Unit

Lesson 6: Characterization in “Red Dress – 1946” By Alice Munro

Focus: My Life is Possible

Learning Goals: Success Criteria: • -Read a variety of texts;

• -Demonstrate an understanding of character analysis and how

it impacts a short story in terms of plot and theme

• -Successfully complete the questions following the

story

Curriculum Links: Learning Goals:

R1. read and demonstrate an understanding of a variety of literary, informational, and graphic texts, using a range of

strategies to construct meaning;

R2. recognize a variety of text forms, text features, and stylistic elements and demonstrate understanding of how they

help communicate meaning;

R3. use knowledge of words and cueing systems to read fluently;

R4. reflect on and identify their strengths as readers, areas for improvement, and the strategies they found most

helpful before, during, and after reading.

M1. demonstrate an understanding of a variety of media texts;

M2. identify some media forms and explain how the conventions and techniques associated with them are used to

create meaning;

M4. reflect on and identify their strengths as media interpreters and creators, areas for improvement, and the

strategies they found most helpful in understanding and creating media texts.

CHARACTERIZATION

Use of the terms Protagonist and Antagonist in Modern Literature

• Protagonist refers to the leading character or one of the major characters in a drama, movie, novel,

or other fictional text.

Antagonist is a person who actively opposes or is hostile to someone or something; an adversary -

"he turned to confront his antagonist". The antagonist is the opposing force that brings conflict and

is instrumental in the development of the protagonist, or main character.

These terms:

• Are gender neutral – unlike HERO (male) and HEROINE (female)

• do not imply that a character is more virtuous than another

• do not suggest any character trait – only the function in the work of literature

Figure 1: Protagonist (person) and Antagonist (dragon)

What is Characterization? Characterization is a writer’s tool, or “literary device” that occurs any time the author uses details to

teach us about a person. This is used over the course of a story in order to tell the tale.

Characterization is the creation or construction of a fictional character in a story.

Examples of Characterization

The way a character speaks can inform us of their background and personality, like how educated

they are, or what they consider to be important. Even the way other characters speak to and about

our characters is a form of characterization.

Example 1 In the Harry Potter series, Dobby refers to Potter as “the noble Harry Potter,” or “good Harry Potter,” which shows us how the house elf adores the young wizard. It might also be a hint of how

Dobby would show affection for other people he admires.

Example 2 The way a character reacts to a certain scene also teaches us about them. For example, a character

who snubs (refuses) a beggar is different from a character who opens their wallet and offers money - and- there are more differences from a character who works directly with the homeless population

in a city. Characterization can happen in many, many ways.

Different Forms of Characterization:

Direct Characterization:

• We understand direct characterization from what the other characters in the story say about the

character in question. We use the commentary of other characters - what others say about the

character in question- about their actions and physical descriptions

• Direct characterization is informative, and often uses the narrator, the protagonist, or the character

themselves. The narration, “Clara had always been a smug, wicked little princess,” is a form of direct

or explicit characterization, as is the line of dialogue, “Nicholas will never stop until he gets what he

wants! He’s crazy!” Example number 1 above (Dobby describing Harry Potter) is also an example of

direct characterization.

Indirect Characterization:

• This more subtle method of characterization relies on you, the reader, to decide for yourself what it

means. Indirect or implicit characterization uses behavior, speech, and appearance, as well as the

opinions of other characters. Although other characters can be used to make direct characterization

(“Nicholas is crazy!”), they can also be used to make indirect characterization about themselves.

We make inferences on characters’ behaviours based on: (Use the acronym STEAL)

S – speech – think about what the character says and how he/she speaks

T – thoughts - consider the character’s personal thoughts and how he/she is feeling

E – effect on others – think about the characters effects on others – how do others react to

the character

A – actions – what does the character do and how does the character behave?

L - looks – what does the character look like and how does the character dress?

• With indirect characterization, we look for subtleties and insinuation based on comments and

actions of the characters.

• The reader is left to analyse character’s credibility, motivation, and consistency

Figuring out what it all means is fun, and it’s the reason fans of certain books, shows, and movies

can argue about whether or not a certain character is good, or evil, or in love, etc. Different people

interpret the characterization differently.

Watch this Short Video on Indirect and Direct Characterization: Indirect and Direct Characterization https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCshdu8loDo From China: https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1uo4y1d7Bn/

Character Classifications: We can put characters into general categories or types:

1. Static Characters

These characters show little change or transformation throughout story.

2. Dynamic Characters These characters experience a transformation or change as a result of experiences

3. Flat Characters These characters possess only one or two personality traits. They are one-dimensional and can be

summed up by a single phrase. Flat characters are poorly characterized, or poorly developed.

Oftentimes, they speak in ways that don’t sound realistic, and are considered to be stereotypes. For

example, the busy housewife could easily be called unidimensional. This doesn’t mean that you can’t

have characters who seem to be stereotypes, but it does mean that they need to not be stereotypes upon closer examination. Perhaps the busy housewife loves to blow off steam with hiking and

camping, instead of with a “spa day” that might just reinforce the stereotype.

4. Complex Characters Complex characters possess many dimensions in personalities. They are complex, and multifaceted,

like ‘real’ people.

Characters may also fall into Archetypes

The term archetype was coined by Carl Jung, and archetype refers to a set of twelve character types which (supposedly) exist across cultural boundaries and eras of time. Many writers consult

these archetypes, but don’t rely on them alone.

Generally, the twelve archetypes are: (they have different titles in different contexts)

• the Hero

• the Caregiver

• the Explorer

• the Rebel

• the Lover

• the Creator

• the Jester

• the Innocent

• the Sage

• the Magician

• the Orphan

• the Ruler

Top 11 Examples of Archetypes in Literature Editing-Queen9 July, 2018 EDT

Archetypes are tools used in literature to represent common aspects of human nature and life in general. We often see archetypes clearly examined in older literature, but these archetypes continue to be used in all types of literature, from children's books to romance and fan fiction.

While we study these archetypes in books, plays, and short stories from writers like Shakespeare, Dickens, and de Maupassant, modern writers can also use these representations of human nature to develop their own characters and plots.

What are the archetypes in literature?

There are two sets of archetypes in literature: Character and Situation. Character archetypes are precisely what the term describes. Characters in a story perform various specific functions throughout the plot, and these functions are what determines which archetype they fit into. Situation archetypes describe how certain situations play out in the story. The character archetypes are placed within the situation archetypes. Together, they create a story.

Character archetypes

The hero

The hero in a story can be male or female. This character is designed to be the "good guy" of the story. They are benevolent, honest, honorable, and have a passion for justice. They fight whatever evil forces are around them. This archetype represents our subconscious.

All heroes share certain characteristics. These characteristics include:

• Unusual situations surrounding their birth • They leave their family or the area where they grew up to live life with others • Some kind of event, sometimes a tragic event, directs them into a kind of

adventure • He or she has supernatural help • They must prove themselves during their quest • The hero's death is often accompanied by some kind of spiritual reward

In certain cases, heroes in stories are used to exhibit what a society's morals and values are. The hero is put into situation archetypes that society will understand and where the hero can portray what society wants people to be like.

Some examples of heroes in literature are Beowulf, Harry Potter, Katniss from The Hunger Games series, and D'artagnan of The Three Musketeers.

The mother figure

In literature, the mother figure is the character who provides either mental or physical protection or nurturing for other characters. This character doesn't have to be old, like Mother Goose. She can be the friend who helps the hero get through his task, or she can be the one who performs the selfless act in the story.

While we all think of the mother figure in one specific way, her role doesn't necessarily have to abide by standard societal behaviors. For example, the mother figure in Hamlet, who happens to be Hamlet's mother, is not selfless. She has a difficult time putting her wants and needs aside in order to help her son. When the mother figure does behave according to cultural expectations, it allows the reader to see some of the godly qualities we can possess.

The mother figure archetype can be:

• Nurturing • Selfless • Teachers

Some examples of mother figures in popular literature include:

• Ma Joad in The Grapes of Wrath • Demeter in Greek mythology • Madame Defarge in A Tale of Two Cities

The innocent

This archetype also goes by other names. Sometimes this character is referred to as the youth, the mystic, or the naïve. This character embodies our desire to retain our youth when we are old. It shows a personality that has not been changed by the danger, depravity, or sad experiences going on in the world. They want to be happy more than anything else and want the same for everyone. They don't have the same capacity for wishing horrible things on their enemies—the innocent believes in the good in everyone.

Behind this archetype is the goal of inspiring even the most apathetic audience member to choose to be good. In comparison to the hero archetype, however, the innocent is neutral. They don't have a special quest or complicated history. They are simply representative of the good.

Some examples of the innocent archetype are:

• Pippin Took in Lord of the Rings • The Unicorn in The Last Unicorn • Snow White in Snow White

The mentor

The mentor archetype is often the protector. They protect the main character most of all, but they also offer help to sidekicks and secondary characters. Their goal is to help the hero be successful in the task set before him or her.

This character type is often portrayed as a wise old man or woman, but this is not a requirement for the archetype. Even in more modern books, this archetype serves many functions as he or she helps the hero. For example, Q in the James Bond series is the mentor of the group. With his gadgets and unending support for Bond's needs, he allows Bond to achieve his objectives. Yoda from the Star Wars franchise and Gandalf from Lord of the Rings are other clear examples of a mentor archetype.

The sidekick

The sidekick is a tool often used by the author to present his or her perspectives about the main characters, whether the protagonist or the antagonist. Sidekicks are associated with heroes and villains. They are often a channel for comic relief as well.

The sidekicks' main characteristic is that they are absolutely loyal to the hero or villain—whichever one they are associated with in the plot. While you may not initially think of sidekicks as being brave characters, they often are written to make grand gestures, like throwing themselves in harm's way to protect the hero. This is representative of some real-life situations. There are many stories surrounding selfless acts for friends and strangers.

Some popular examples of sidekicks include:

• R2D2 in Star Wars • Robin in Batman

• Dr. Watson in Sherlock Holmes

The scapegoat

Just like its name suggests, the scapegoat is a character that is blamed for everything that goes wrong in the story. Going as far back as the Bible, scapegoats have been part of literature for quite some time. One big example of scapegoats in modern literature is the tributes in The Hunger Games series. These tributes have to pay the ultimate price for previous rebellions.

This character isn't always a major character, and can be represented by many characters or even a collective group that is held responsible for the actions of others.

The villain

Some people's favorite characters are the villains in a story. Like the hero, this character archetype is usually well thought out and plays a large role throughout a story. Their sole purpose is to bring down the hero or present a literary reason for the hero's quest. They are the antagonist in the story.

Most literature follows a "good vs. evil" structure that pits one or more people against another individual or group. The villain most likely wouldn't exist without a hero, and vice versa. They need each other as two sides of the same coin.

Their journeys are often juxtaposed, with similarities that they almost could unite under. Some popular villains are:

• Darth Vader in Star Wars • Dmitri and Ivan in The Brothers Karamazov • Sauron in Lord of the Rings

Situation archetypes

The journey

The entire plot of a story revolves around a journey that the main character or characters have to go through. This journey could be either emotional, mental, or physical, or the journey could be a mixture of these types.

This process drives the hero to discover his or her true nature or the nature of his or her existence. Throughout the journey, the hero and villain probably meet or engage multiple times, building up their need to conquer each other. One clear example of this journey is Frodo's quest to destroy the one ring of power. He is accompanied by

his sidekicks, is helped and led by his mentor, and experiences interactions with multiple villains. The villains in his journey are many: the ring, Sauron, Gollum, and, even at one point, Boramir. He encounters a mother figure in the elf queen Galadriel.

The initiation

As the main character goes through his or her journey, he or she experiences situations through which he or she grows and matures. This maturity can be the result of good or bad experiences. Continuing with the example of Frodo, he begins as an innocent Hobbit who had never left the Shire, despite having read Bilbo's stories about his adventures. By the end of Lord of the Rings, however, Frodo has grown emotionally and spiritually as a result of all the challenges he has had to endure. Each one of those challenges is an initiation situation archetype.

Good versus evil

As mentioned above, story lines with heroes and villains revolve around some kind of good versus evil quest. Some good representations of good versus evil are Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, where Snow White is challenged by the evil queen; Lord of the Rings, as discussed above; and Shakespeare's King Lear.

The fall

In many, but not all stories, the main character experiences a downfall as the result of a poor choice or action. This might bring about an opportunity for redemption later in the story, or it could be the ending of the story. Some heroes are unable to rebound after experiencing a fall. Take for example Oedipus from Oedipus Rex.

Another example is Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. Mr. Rochester made the mistakes of not being upfront with Jane about his mentally ill wife and of thinking he could properly care for his wife. As a result, he loses Jane and his wife burns down the house, which permanently disfigures the handsome Mr. Rochester. In the end, Jane makes her way back to him and they are able to continue their love story.

Why are archetypes important in literature?

Archetypes allow the reader or audience to connect certain parts of themselves with the characters, which can help them to become more invested in the story. This experience can help readers to see parts of themselves that maybe they hadn't considered before. Society as a whole might be able to see aspects of their laws or structure that maybe aren't so good.

Through literature and literary devices such as archetypes, society can become more aware of its positive and negative aspects, similar to the way that a court jester could tell the truth about a royal leader when no one else could. Common archetypes bring an aspect of realism to literature or other media that helps the story jump off of the page and into readers' hearts.

Archetype

and

Characterization Videos:

Please watch: Power in Literature, Short Stories Part 5: Characterization and Archetype https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_mdG6azrMA From China: https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1Tp4y1s7dD/ Character Archetypes https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUs1Qj11E14 From China: https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1a5411J7EP/ How Many Archetypes Are There? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aByNrzproyU From China: https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1y54y1p7je/ The Hero's Journey Character Archetypes 101 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RaVzk2YzA2Q From China: https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1cp4y1s7pV/

The Importance of Characterization Modern storytelling usually emphasizes characterization even more than classical literature. This is

because characterization is a major tool in the plot-driven narrative. Authors can quickly connect

the reader to the character, without taking the characters out of the action.

Plot and characterization are closely connected. Plot and character usually develop side by side and

rely upon each other. This is similar to our own human experience. After all, how much of our own

“plots” are related to our decisions (our character), and how much of it is totally random and

disconnected from what we do?

Characterization is one of the main building blocks of fiction today, no matter what genre or media

the story uses. Anything that teaches the audience about your character is characterization, but the

most common methods are through concrete action, dialogue, description, and the actions,

thoughts, and words of the other characters in regards to the characterized character.

Short Video on Characterization: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p9km8ks1pXE

From China: https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1VN411R7o7/

Reflecting upon Personal Experience

Before reading "Red Dress - 1946," spend some time doing one of the following activities.

• Write in your journal about your preference in clothing. Which of your clothes are your favourites? Why? How do you feel when you wear them? Do you dress to please yourself, others of your sex, or members of the opposite sex? Consider the significance of different styles of clothing in society. Do you think it is true that "the apparel oft proclaims the man," as Polonius said in Hamlet? Explain your opinion.

• We are always being given advice about how to look our best and get along with our peers. Consider several sources of such advice: examples include parents, fashion magazines and television shows. What type of advice comes from each of these sources? Do these different sources offer contradictory advice? If so, which seems most sensible and practical to you? Why?

Read the story now.

After reading “Red Dress – 1946,”

answer the following questions:

Exploring Literary Technique: Characterization & Conflict 1. What changes does the narrator of the story undergo during the evening of the

school dance? What causes her to change? 2. Alice Munro sets her narrator amidst several conflicting personalities. Compare

the characters first of Lonnie and Mary Fortune and then of Mason Williams and Raymond Boulting. How do the two girls differ from each other? How do the two boys differ from each other? Which set of characters is drawn more vividly by Munro? What statement does Munro make by sketching certain characters in more detail than others? What conflicting ideas does the narrator get from each of these characters? What effects do they have upon the narrator?

3. To what extent does the narrator establish her own identity and

independence? To what extent does she conform to the opinions of her peers? To what extent do the opinions of adults influence her?

4. "Red Dress - 1946" is told by a first-person narrator looking back on her

youth. However, the narrator sometimes involves herself immediately in the story and sometimes remains distant from it. Re-read the story, observing these shifts in the narrator's stance. Where do they occur? What purpose do you think these shifts serve for the author?

5. Re-read the last paragraph of "Red Dress - 1946." How has the narrator's

voice changed in this paragraph? In what way does she regard her mother and herself in a new manner?

Exploring Literary Technique: Theme and Tone 1. From the title of the story, the reader is led to expect that the red dress is

important. In the early part of the story, what comparisons are drawn between the clothing that the narrator's mother sews and the clothing that the narrator wants to wear? When the school dance begins, how important is the red dress to the narrator? What additional significance does the red dress have for the reader?

2. Explore the metaphor of "trying on" in the story. The narrator "tries on" the

dress her mother has sewn; she also "tries on" various ideas and attitudes. What are they? Which does she accept & reject?

3. Munro has titled this story "Red Dress - 1946." What is the importance of the "1946" in the title? Would the story be altered without it? If so, how?

4. During your first reading of the early part of the story (before the school dance), what expectations did you have about what might follow? Were you surprised by the story's outcome? How would you characterize the tone in the early part of the story? How would you characterize the tone in the later part (at the school dance)? What effects does Munro achieve by this change in tone?

Responding to the Reading

After reading the story, complete one of the following activities. Those students who enjoy drawing may wish to choose the second activity.

1. To what extent do we need to conform to society's expectations in order to

be considered "acceptable" to our parents' or social expectations? to our own? Describe the moment when learning takes place?

2. Make two sketches of the narrator in her red dress. In the first, sketch the

girl in her red dress as her mother sees her. In the second, sketch the scene described in the final paragraph of the story, in which the narrator returns from the dance to find her mother in the kitchen waiting up for her. In this sketch, focus on the changes apparent in the narrator.

Be sure to view the “Red

Dress-1946” PowerPoint and

read the article following

the story for additional

insights.

“Red Dress -1946” by Alice Munro

My mother was making me a dress. All through the month of November I would come from school

and find her in the kitchen, surrounded by cut-up red velvet and scraps of tissue-paper pattern. She

worked at an old treadle machine pushed up against the window to get the light, and also to let her look

out, past the stubble fields and bare vegetable garden, to see who went by on the road. There was seldom

anybody to see.

The red velvet material was hard to work with, it pulled, and the style my mother had chosen was not

easy either. She was not really a good sewer. She liked to make things; that is different. Whenever she

could she tried to skip basting and pressing and she took no pride in the fine points of tailoring, the

finishing of buttonholes and the overcasting of seams as, for instance, my aunt and my grandmother did.

Unlike them she started off with an inspiration, a brave and dazzling idea; from that moment on, her

pleasure ran downhill. In the first place she could never find a pattern to suit her. It was no wonder; there

were no patterns made to match the ideas that blossomed in her head. She had made me, at various times

when I was younger, a flowered organdie dress with a high Victorian neckline edged in scratchy lace,

with a poke bonnet to match; a Scottish plaid outfit with a velvet jacket and tam; an embroidered peasant

blouse worn with a full red skirt and black laced bodice. I had worn these clothes with docility, even

pleasure, in the days when I was unaware of the world’s opinion. Now, grown wiser, I wished for dresses

like those my friend Lonnie had, bought at Beale’s store.

I had to try it on. Sometimes Lonnie came home from, school with me and she would sit on the

couch watching. I was embarrassed by the way my mother crept around me, her knees creaking, her

breath coming heavily. She muttered to herself. Around the house she wore no corset or stockings, she

wore wedge-heeled shoes and ankle socks; her legs were marked with lumps of blue-green veins. I

thought her squatting position shameless, even obscene; I tried to keep talking to Lonnie so that her

attention would be taken away from my mother as much as possible. Lonnie wore the composed, polite,

appreciative expression that was her disguise in the presence of grownups. She laughed at them and was a

ferocious mimic, and they never knew.

My mother pulled me about, and pricked me with pins. She made me turn around, she made me walk

away, she made me stand still. “What do you think of it, Lonnie?” she said around the pins in her mouth.

“It’s beautiful,” said Lonnie, in her mild, sincere way. Lonnie's own mother was dead. She lived with

her father who never noticed her, and this, in my eyes, made her seem both vulnerable and privileged.

“It will be, if I can ever manage the fit,” my mother said. “Ah, well,” she said theatrically, getting to her feet with a woeful creaking and sighing. “I doubt if she appreciates it.” She enraged me, talking like

this to Lonnie, as if Lonnie were grown up and I were still a child. “Stand still,” she said, hauling the

pinned and basted dress over my head. My head was muffled in velvet, my body exposed in an old cotton

school slip. I felt like a great raw lump, clumsy and goose-pimpled. I wished I was like Lonnie, light-

boned, pale and thin; she had been a Blue Baby.

“Well nobody ever made me a dress when I was going to high school,” my mother said. “I made my

own, or I did without.” I was afraid she was going to start again on the story of her walking seven miles to

town and finding a job waiting on tables in a boarding-house, so that she could go to high school. All the

stories of my mother’s life which had once interested me had begun to seem melodramatic, irrelevant, and

tiresome.

“One time, I had a dress given to me,” she said. “It was a cream-coloured cashmere wool with royal

blue piping down the front and lovely mother-of-pearl buttons. I wonder what ever became of it?”

When we got free, Lonnie and I went upstairs to my room. It was cold, but we stayed there. We

talked about the boys in our class, going up and down the rows and saying, “Do you like him? Well, do

you half-like him? Do you hate him? Would you go out with him if he asked you?” Nobody had asked us.

We were thirteen, and we had been going to high school for two months. We did questionnaires in

magazines, to find out whether we had personality and whether we would be popular. We read articles on

how to make up our faces to accentuate our good points and how to carry on a conversation on the first

date and what to do when a boy tried to go too far. Also, we read articles on frigidity of the menopause,

abortion and why husbands seek satisfaction away from home. When we were not doing school work, we

were occupied most of the time with the garnering, passing on and discussing of sexual information. We

had made a pact to tell each other everything. But one thing I did not tell was about this dance, the high

school Christmas Dance for which my mother was making me a dress. It was that I did not want to go.

At high school, I was never comfortable for a minute. I did not know about Lonnie. Before an exam,

she got icy hands and palpitations, but I was close to despair at all times. When I was asked a question in

class, any simple little question at all, my voice was apt to come out squeaky, or else hoarse and

trembling. When I had to go to the blackboard I was sure—even at a time of the month when this could

not be true—that I had blood on my skirt. My hands became slippery with sweat when they were required

to work the blackboard compass. I could not hit the ball in volleyball; being called upon to perform an

action in front of others made all my reflexes come undone. I hated Business Practice because you had to

rule pages for an account book, using a straight pen, and when the teacher looked over my shoulder all the

delicate lines wobbled and ran together. I hated Science; we perched on stools under harsh lights behind

tables of unfamiliar, fragile equipment, and were taught by the principal of the school, a man with a cold,

self-relishing voice—he read the Scriptures every morning—and a great talent for inflicting humiliation. I

hated English because the boys played bingo at the back of the room while the teacher, a stout, gentle girl,

slightly cross-eyed, read Wordsworth at the front. She threatened them, she begged them, her face red and

her voice as unreliable as mine. They offered burlesqued apologies and when she started to read again

they took up rapt postures, made swooning faces, crossed their eyes, flung their hands over their hearts.

Sometimes she would burst into tears, there was no help for it, she had to run out into the hall. Then the

boys made loud mooing noises; our hungry laughter—oh, mine too—pursued her. There was a carnival

atmosphere of brutality in the room at such times, scaring weak and suspect people like me.

But what was really going on in the school was not Business Practice and Science and English, there

was something else that gave life its urgency and brightness. That old building, with its rock-walled

clammy basements and black cloakrooms and pictures of dead royalties and lost explorers, was full of the

tension and excitement of sexual competition, and in this, in spite of daydreams of vast successes, I had

premonitions of total defeat. Something had to happen, to keep me from that dance.

With December came snow, and I had an idea. Formerly I had considered falling off my bicycle and spraining my ankle and I had tried to manage this, as I rode home along the hard-frozen, deeply rutted

country roads. But it was too difficult. However, my throat and bronchial tubes were supposed to be

weak; why not expose them? I started getting out of bed at night and opening my window a little. I knelt

down and let the wind, sometimes stinging with snow, rush in around my bared throat. I took off my

pajama top. I said to myself the words “blue with cold” and as I knelt there, my eyes shut, I pictured my

chest and throat turning blue, the cold, greyed blue of veins under the skin. I stayed until I could not stand

it any more, and then I took a handful of snow from the window sill and smeared it all over my chest,

before I buttoned my pajamas. It would melt against the flannelette and I would be sleeping in wet

clothes, which was supposed to be the worst thing of all. In the morning, the moment I woke up, I cleared

my throat, testing for soreness, coughed experimentally, hopefully, touching my forehead to see if I had

fever. It was no good. Every morning, including the day of the dance, I rose defeated, and in perfect

health.

The day of the dance I did my hair up in steel curlers. I had never done this before, because my hair

was naturally curly, but today I wanted the protection of all possible female rituals. I lay on the couch in

the kitchen, reading The Last Days of Pompeii, and wishing I was there. My mother, never satisfied, was sewing a white lace collar on the dress; she had decided it was too grown-up looking. I watched the hours.

It was one of the shortest days of the year. Above the couch, on the wallpaper, were old games of Xs and

Os, old drawings and scribblings my brother and I had done when we were sick with bronchitis. I looked

at them and longed to be back safe behind the boundaries of childhood.

When I took out the curlers my hair, both naturally and artificially stimulated, sprang out in an

exuberant glossy bush. I wet it, I combed it, beat it with the brush and tugged it down along my cheeks. I

applied face powder, which stood out chalkily on my hot face. My mother got out her Ashes of Roses

Cologne, which she never used, and let me splash it over my arms. Then she zipped up the dress and

turned me around to the mirror. The dress was princess style, very tight in the midriff. I saw how my

breasts, in their new stiff brassiere, jutted out surprisingly, with mature authority, under the childish frills

of the collar.

“Well I wish I could take a picture,” my mother said. “I am really, genuinely proud of that fit. And

you might say thank you for it.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The first thing Lonnie said when I opened the door to her was, “Jeez, What did you do to your hair?”

“I did it up.”

“You look like a Zulu. Oh, don’t worry. Get me a comb and I’ll do the front in a roll. It’ll look all

right. It’ll even make you look older.”

I sat in front of the mirror and Lonnie stood behind me, fixing my hair. My mother seemed unable to

leave us. I wished she would. She watched the roll take shape and said, “You’re a wonder, Lonnie. You

should take up hairdressing.”

“That’s a thought,” Lonnie said. She had on a pale, crepe dress, with a peplum and bow; it was much

more grown-up than mine even without the collar. Her hair had come out as sleek as the girl’s on the

bobby-pin card. I had always thought secretly that Lonnie could not be pretty because she had crooked

teeth, but now I saw that crooked teeth or not, her stylish dress and smooth hair made me look a little like

a golliwog, stuffed into red velvet, wide-eyed, wild-haired, with a suggestion of delirium.

My mother followed us to the door and called out into the dark, “Au reservoir!” This was a

traditional farewell of Lonnie’s and mine; it sounded foolish and desolate coming from her, and I was so

angry with her for using it that I did not reply. It was only Lonnie who called back cheerfully,

encouragingly, “Good night!”

The gymnasium smelled of pine and cedar. Red and green bells of fluted paper hung from the

basketball hoops; the high, barred windows were hidden by green boughs. Everybody in the upper grades

seemed to have come in couples. Some of the Grade Twelve and Thirteen girls had brought boy friends

who had already graduated, who were young businessmen around the town. These young men smoked in

the gymnasium, nobody could stop them, they were free. The girls stood beside them, resting their hands

casually on male sleeves, their faces bored, aloof and beautiful. I longed to be like that. They behaved as

if only they—the older ones—were really at the dance, as if the rest of us, whom they moved among and

peered around, were, if not invisible, inanimate; when the first dance was announced—a Paul Jones—

they moved out languidly, smiling at each other as if they had been asked to take part in some half-

forgotten childish game. Holding hands and shivering, crowding up together, Lonnie and I and the other

Grade Nine girls followed.

I didn’t dare look at the outer circle as it passed me, for fear I should see some unmannerly hurrying-

up. When the music stopped I stayed where I was, and half-raising my eyes I saw boy named Mason

Williams coming reluctantly towards me. Barely touching my waist and my fingers, he began to dance

with me. My legs were hollow, my arm trembled from the shoulder, I could not have spoken. This Mason

Williams was one of the heroes of the school; he played basketball and hockey and walked the halls with

an air of royal sullenness and barbaric contempt. To have to dance with a nonentity like me was as

offensive to him as having to memorize Shakespeare. I felt this as keenly as he did and imagined that he

was exchanging looks of dismay with his friends. He steered me, stumbling, to the edge of the floor. He

took his hand from my waist and dropped my arm.

“See you,” he said. He walked away.

It took me a minute or two to realize what had happened and that he was not coming back. I went

and stood by the wall alone. The Physical Education teacher, dancing past energetically in the arms of a

Grade Ten boy, gave me an inquisitive look. She was the only teacher in the school who made use of the

words social adjustment, and I was afraid that if she had seen, or if she found out, she might make some

horribly public attempt to make Mason finish out the dance with me. I myself was not angry or surprised

at Mason; I accepted his position, and mine, in the world of school and I saw that what he had done was

the realistic thing to do. He was a Natural Hero, not a Student Council type of hero bound for success

beyond the school; one of those would have danced with me courteously and patronizingly and left me

feeling no better off. Still, I hoped not many people had seen. I hated people seeing. I began to bite the

skin on my thumb.

When the music stopped I joined the surge of girls to the end of the gymnasium. Pretend it didn’t

happen, I said to myself. Pretend this is the beginning, now.

The band began to play again. There was movement in the dense crowd at our end of the floor, it

thinned rapidly. Boys came over, girls went out to dance. Lonnie went. The girl on the other side of me

went. Nobody asked me. I remembered a magazine article Lonnie and I had read, which said Be gay! Let

the boys see your eyes sparkle, let them hear laughter in your voice! Simple, obvious, but how many girls forget! It was true, I had forgotten. My eyebrows were drawn together with tension, I must look scared

and ugly. I took a deep breath and tried to loosen my face. I smiled. But I felt absurd, smiling at no one.

And I observed that girls on the dance floor, popular girls, were not smiling; many of them had sleepy,

sulky faces and never smiled at all.

Girls were still going out to the floor. Some, despairing, went with each other. But most went with

boys. Fat girls, girls with pimples, a poor girl who didn’t own a good dress and had to wear a skirt and

sweater to the dance; they were claimed, they danced away. Why take them and not me? Why everybody

else and not me? I have a red velvet dress, I did my hair in curlers, I used a deodorant and put on cologne.

Pray, I thought. I couldn’t close my eyes but I said over and over again in my mind, Please, me, please,

and I locked my fingers behind my back in a sign more potent than crossing, the same secret sign Lonnie

and I used not to be sent to the blackboard in Math.

It did not work. What I had been afraid of was true. I was going to be left. There was something

mysterious the matter with me, something that could not be put right like bad breath or overlooked like

pimples, and everybody knew it, and I knew it; I had known it all along. But I had not known it for sure, I

had hoped to be mistaken. Certainty rose inside me like sickness. I hurried past one or two girls who were

also left and went into the girls’ washroom. I hid myself in a cubicle.

That was where I stayed. Between dances girls came in and went out quickly. There were plenty of

cubicles; nobody noticed that I was not a temporary occupant. During the dances, I listened to the music

which I liked but had no part of any more. For I was not going to try any more. I only wanted to hide in

here, get out without seeing anybody, get home.

One time after the music started somebody stayed behind. She was taking a long time running the

water, washing her hands, combing her hair. She was going to think it funny that I stayed in so long. I had

better go out and wash my hands, and maybe while I was washing them she would leave.

It was Mary Fortune. I knew her by name, because she was an officer of the Girls’ Athletic Society

and she was on the Honour Roll and she was always organizing things. She had something to do with

organizing this dance; she had been around to all the classrooms asking for volunteers to do the

decorations. She was in Grade Eleven or Twelve.

“Nice and cool in here,” she said. “I came in to get cooled off: I get so hot.”

She was still ‘combing her hair when I finished my hands. “Do you like the band?” she said.

“It’s all right. I didn’t really know what to say. I was surprised at her, an older girl, taking this time

to talk to me.

“I don’t. I can’t stand it. I hate dancing when I don’t like the band. Listen. They’re so choppy. I’d

just as soon not dance as dance to that.”

I combed my hair. She leaned against a basin, watching me. “I don’t want to dance and don’t

particularly want to stay in here. Let’s go and have a cigarette.”

“Where?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

At the end of the washroom there was a door. It was unlocked and led into a dark closet full of mops

and pails. She had me hold the door open, to get the washroom light, until she found the knob of another

door. This door opened into darkness.

“I can’t turn on the light or somebody might see,” she said. “It’s the janitor’s room.” I reflected that

athletes always seemed to know more than the rest of us about the school as a building; they knew where

things were kept and they were always coming out of unauthorized doors with a bold, preoccupied air.

“Watch out where you’re going,” she said. “Over at the far end there’s some stairs. They go up to a closet

on the second floor. The door’s locked at the top, but there’s like a partition between the stairs and the

room. So if we sit on the steps, even if by chance someone did come in here, they wouldn’t see us.

“Wouldn’t they smell smoke?” I said.

“Oh, well. Live dangerously.”

There was a high window over the stairs which gave us a little light. Mary Fortune had cigarettes and

matches in her purse. I had not smoked before except the cigarettes Lonnie and I made ourselves, using

papers and tobacco stolen from her father; they came apart in the middle. These were much better.

“The only reason I even came tonight,” Mary Fortune said, “is because I am responsible for the

decorations and I wanted to see, you know, how it looked once people got in there and everything.

Otherwise why bother? I’m not boy-crazy.”

In the light from the high window I could see her narrow, scornful face, her dark skin pitted with

acne, her teeth pushed together at the front, making her look adult and commanding

“Most girls are. Haven’t you noticed that? The greatest collection of boy-crazy girls you could

imagine is right here in this school.”

I was grateful for her attention, her company and her cigarette. I said I thought so too.

“Like this afternoon. This afternoon I was trying to get them to hang the bells and junk. They just get

up on the ladders and fool around with boys. They don’t care if it ever gets decorated. It’s just an excuse.

That’s the only aim they have in life, fooling around with boys. As far as I’m concerned, they’re idiots.”

We talked about teachers, and things at school. She said she wanted to be a physical education

teacher and she would have to go to college for that, but her parents did not have enough money. She said

she planned to work her own way through, she wanted to be independent anyway, she would work in the

cafeteria and in the summer she would do farm work, like picking tobacco. Listening to her, I felt the

acute phase of my unhappiness passing. Here was someone who had suffered the same defeat as I had—I

saw that—but she was full of energy and self-respect. She had thought of other things to do. She would

pick tobacco.

We stayed there talking and smoking during the long pause in the music, when, outside, they were

having doughnuts and coffee. When the music started again Mary said, “Look, do we have to hang around

here any longer? Let’s get our coats sad go. We can go down to Lee’s and have a hot chocolate and talk in

comfort, why not?”

We felt our way across the janitor’s room, carrying ashes and cigarette butts in our hands. In the

closet, we stopped and listened to make sure there was nobody in the washroom. We came back into the

light and threw the ashes into the toilet. We had to go out and cut across the dance-floor to the cloakroom,

which was beside the outside door.

The dance was just beginning. “Go round the edge of the floor,” Mary said. “Nobody’ll notice us.”

I followed her. I didn’t look at anybody. I didn’t look for Lonnie. Lonnie was probably not going to

be my friend any more, not as much as before anyway. She was what Mary would call boy-crazy.

I found that I was not so frightened, now that I had made up my mind to leave the dance behind. I

was not waiting for anybody to choose me. I had my own plans. I did not have to smile or make signs for

luck. It did not matter to me. I was on my way to have a hot chocolate, with my friend.

A boy said something to me. He was in my way. I thought he must be telling me that I had dropped

something or that I couldn’t go that way or that the cloakroom was locked. I didn’t understand that he was

asking me to dance until he said it over again. It was Raymond Bolting from our class, whom I had never

talked to in my life. He thought I meant yes. He put his hand on my waist and almost without meaning to,

I began to dance.

We moved to the middle of the floor. I was dancing. My legs had forgotten to tremble and my hands

to sweat. I was dancing with a boy who had asked me. Nobody told him to, he didn’t have to, he just

asked me. Was it possible, could I believe it, was there nothing the matter with me after all?

I thought that I ought to tell him there was a mistake, that I was just leaving, I was going to have a

hot chocolate with my girl friend. But I did not say anything. My face was making certain delicate

adjustments, achieving with no effort at all grave absent-minded look of those who were chosen, those

who danced. This was the face that Mary Fortune saw, when she looked out of the cloakroom door, her

scarf already around her head. I made a weak waving motion with the hand that lay on the boy’s shoulder,

indicating that I apologized, that I didn’t know what had happened and also that it was no use waiting for

me. Then I turned my head away, and when I looked again she was gone.

Raymond Bolting took me home and Harold Simons took Lonnie home. We all walked together as

far as Lonnie’s corner. The boys were having an argument about a hockey game, which Lonnie and I

could not follow. Then we separated into couples and Raymond continued with me the conversation he

had been having with Harold. He did not seem to notice that he was now talking to me instead. Once or

twice I said “Well I don’t know I didn’t see that game,” but after a while I decided just to say “H’m

hmm,” and that seemed to be all that wins necessary.

One other thing he said was, “I didn’t realize you lived such a long ways out.” And he sniffled. The

cold was making my nose run a little too, and I worked my fingers through the candy wrappers in my coat

pocket until I found a shabby Kleenex. I didn’t know whether I ought to offer it to him or not, but he

sniffled so loudly that I finally said, “I just have this one Kleenex, it probably isn’t even clean, it probably

has ink on it. But if I was to tear it in half we’d each have something.”

“Thanks, he said. “I sure could use it.”

It was a good thing, I thought, that I had done that, for at my gate, when I said, “Well, good night,”

and after he said, “Oh, yeah. Good night,” he leaned towards me and kissed me, briefly, with the air of

one who knew his job when he saw it, on the corner of my mouth. Then he turned back to town, never

knowing he had been my rescuer, that he had brought me from Mary Fortune’s territory into the ordinary

world.

I went around the house to the back door, thinking I had been to a dance and a boy has walked home

and kissed me. It was all true. My life was possible. I went past the kitchen window and I saw my mother.

She was sitting with her feet on the open oven door, drinking tea out of a cup without a saucer. She was

just sitting and waiting for me to come home and tell her everything that had happened. And I would not

do it, I never would. But when I saw the waiting kitchen, and my mother in her faded, fuzzy Paisley

kimono, with her sleepy but doggedly expectant face, I understood what a mysterious and oppressive

obligation I had, to be happy, and how I had almost failed it, and would be likely to fail it, every time, and

she would not know.

Alice Munro. (1968). “Red Dress - 1946.” Dance of the Happy Shades. Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson.

ANALYSIS

http://sittingbee.com/red-dress-1946-alice-munro/

Red Dress—1946 by Alice Munro 8 DEC 2015 DERMOT ALICE MUNRO CITE POST

In Red Dress—1946 by Alice Munro we have the theme of appearance, insecurity, acceptance, hope, freedom, opinion and connection. Taken from her Dance of the Happy Shades collection the story is narrated in the first person by a young thirteen year old girl and after reading the story the reader realises that Munro may be exploring the theme of appearance and insecurity. Throughout the story there is a sense that the narrator longs to be like other girls, particularly her friend Lonnie. First the reader is told that the narrator wishes that rather than having her dresses made for her by her mother she wishes that like Lonnie, she could buy her dresses in Beale’s store. Also while she is trying on her dress the narrator tells the reader that again she wishes she was like Lonnie, ‘light-boned, pale and thin.’ This line in particular may be important as Munro could be using it to highlight just how insecure the narrator feels with regard to her own body image, something that becomes clearer to the reader when the narrator describes her body as ‘a great raw lump, clumsy and goose-pimpled.’ The most striking thing about the narrator’s opinion of her body is how unflattering she is to herself which may further suggest that the narrator is not only insecure about what she looks like but it is possible that she views her physical appearance negatively because of how she will be perceived by others, particularly her peers and boys. It is possible that the narrator’s concerns about her body image are driven by her awareness of societal opinion or perception as to what a girl’s body should look like with the commonly held perception in society being that a girl who is ‘light-boned, pale and thin’ is more acceptable or desirable than a girl who is ‘a great raw lump, clumsy and goose-pimpled.’

How important appearance is to the narrator or how strong her desire to be liked or accepted by others is further noticeable when she is in her bedroom with Lonnie. The reader discovers that she has filled out some questionnaires from a magazine to see if she (and Lonnie) would be considered popular. Though some critics may suggest that the narrator is lacking any type of individuality and that she is conforming to how society may expect a young girl to act, it is more likely that Munro is highlighting the pressure that a young girl may feel while growing up and just how important it is to a young girl to feel that they ‘fit in’ with their peers or that they are popular. The fact that the narrator is also inquisitive with regards to the boys in her class and whether they might like her may also be significant as it suggests that she is starting to become sexually aware. Something that is further noticeable when the reader discovers that the narrator has also read an article about what a girl should do if a boy tries to go too far. Though again some critics may suggest that the narrator (and Lonnie) lack any sense of awareness when it comes to the politics of gender and as such are following societal perceptions of how a young girl should act.

It is also possible that by using a first person narrative Munro may have been attempting to develop a connection between the narrator and the reader. For the reader to feel empathy for the narrator or to imagine themselves in her shoes. Whether Munro has succeeded in connecting the reader and narrator is up to each individual reader to decide. Some might suggest that the narrator is being selfish, wanting to escape from her mother because she may feel oppressed when the reality is that there is nothing in the story to suggest that her mother is oppressing her. However it is also possible that the narrator is going through a stage in her life, as do many young people, in whereby she feels the need to free herself from her environment or that she has outgrown her mother and as such many readers may identify or connect with her.

There is also some symbolism in the story which may be significant. The fact that the dress is red may be important as red is usually associated with desire and passion and throughout the story the reader

can sense just how strongly the narrator wishes to be able to connect with a boy. Munro also appears to be contrasting the colour red against the colour blue, which at times in the story Munro is associating with the narrator’s mother. The narrator describes her mother’s legs as being ‘marked with lumps of blue-green veins’. Also when the narrator’s mother was younger she was given a dress with ‘royal blue piping down the front.’ It is possible that by using the colour blue (against the red of the narrator’s dress) that Munro is highlighting the narrator’s wish to disassociate or free herself from her mother. It is also noticeable that Munro at moments when the narrator feels anxious or wants to isolate herself from the world around her also uses the colour blue to symbolise the anxiety that the narrator may feel. When the narrator becomes anxious about going to the dance and tries to make herself sick, she opens her bedroom window to allow the cold air into her room and says to herself ‘blue with cold.’ Similarly the narrator as she is standing in her bedroom pictures her ‘chest and throat turning blue.’ These actions by the narrator are important as they suggest that she (at times) feels more secure in following a path that she would usually associate with her mother. That being a life of loneliness and isolation. How lonely the mother may feel is noticeable when she says ‘au reservoir’ to the narrator and Lonnie when they leave to go to the dance. The narrator tells the reader that this is exactly what she and Lonnie say to each other when they say goodbye to one another. If anything the mother is attempting to connect with both the narrator and Lonnie, much to the narrator’s disapproval. The fact that the narrator also shares her handkerchief with Raymond may also be symbolically important as Munro could be using the handkerchief to suggest or highlight a common connection between the narrator and Raymond. Though Raymond may be unaware of it.

The ending of the story is also interesting as some critics differ as to what Munro’s intentions may have been when the reader discovers that the narrator feels she has been saved by Raymond and rather than leaving the dance with Mary Fortune decides instead to dance with Raymond and walk home with him. Some critics suggest that by not following Mary Fortune the narrator is displaying an inability to think for herself as Mary Fortune appears to be able to do and in reality she is again conforming to societal norms or expectations as to what a young girl or woman should do. However it is possible that the narrator is already thinking for herself, the reader aware of just how much importance the narrator places on making a connection with a boy. It might also be a case that Mary Fortune’s outlook on life, though at first appealing to the narrator, is more reactive than proactive. Having already experienced the pain of being isolated from others Mary Fortune may feel that rather than connecting with another person (or boy) she is safer following her own path as she is less likely to get hurt. The fact that the narrator also decides that she will not tell her mother about how she got on at the dance may also be important as it suggests that the narrator is taking a further step in freeing herself from her mother and is beginning to stand on her own two feet. Whether the narrator’s actions are right is left to each individual reader to decide.