Enid Dame, "The Road to Damascus, Maryland" . . .
Discussion Questions: 1. The poem's author is ethnically a Jew but also an American. Comparably Saul / Paul was a Jew (as was Jesus), but Saul / Paul was also a citizen of Rome, itself a prototype of modern Western culture or civilization. How can one rationalize and defend Dame's use of a Christian story to describe her own personal, secular, or Jewish experience as an American? 2. Most immigrants to America can't imagine how much change they're buying into. Do the changes involved in becoming an American ever end? How does Dame's poem below raise or answer this question? Is the status of "American" ever status quo or stable, or must all Americans constantly change their identities to keep up with revolutionary changes in technology, the marketplace, social or family values, etc.? 3. The poem ends with a reference to "new names," which necessarily alludes to Saul's conversion to Paul. How much are "new names" always a part of the American experience generally or of immigration in particular? Even if the name "American" doesn't change, does the meaning of "American" change? 3a. Besides names, what other symbols of assimilation, class, ethnicity, etc.? 4. How is the poem humorous? Consider hyperbole, anticlimax, irony, diminution, incongruity, presence of food, etc. How does the situation of a middle-aged woman riding in the back seat of her parents' car humorously present some of the problems posed by the infinite choices and changes presented by America. 4a. Does "dreamily" (l. 28) implicate the American Dream? 4b. If "extended childhood" is a marker for upper-class or bourgeois security, what is an American attitude toward an extended childhood like that of the poem's speaker?
The Road to Damascus, Maryland (1980) by Enid Dame (1943-2003)
On the road to
Damascus, Maryland, between the trailer
camps and rosebushes I had a vision in the back seat of my parents' car. Once again, it was happening. I felt myself
turning into someone else. I wasn’t sure who,
yet. My parents were
worried. Next week I’d be 35 and I still didn’t
seem to know who I was. At other times I’d already been: a New York Jew, a radical teacher, an Ethical
Culturist, a barefoot
breadbaker, a nice girl in knee socks I was relieved
when they changed
the subject to where we’d eat
lunch in Damascus. I sat in the back
seat
dreamily
making a list
of new names.
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