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I have seen that happen in people I know and, let’s be real, in myself. There are certain things in my life that I never defined as “grief” because no one died and nothing “bad” happened. But there were things that left a weight on me, things that never really resolved or were worked through, friendships that ended abruptly or weirdly, fights in my family that never got properly hashed out, occasions where I felt that there was no room to vocalize my feelings because it would only make things worse. 

I never thought of any of these as anything significant, but the way that grief was described as this weight you carry with you, almost like a backpack or a shadow made me realize that I have experienced that too. More than anything, it made me realize that when we lash out at people, sometimes we are really just lashing out because we cannot put into words things that are weighing us down and we are not inherently bad people.

I have most definitely had days where I snapped at people in ways I didn’t like, was short-tempered, irritable, quiet, closed-off. Most of the time it was because there was just too much going on for me and I lashed out when someone addressed it, and therefore absolved myself of the responsibility to work through something that I did not want to admit was affecting me. Seeing these characters flail at things that were far too big for them made me realize how many people there were who had emotions they couldn’t name. The idea that things could end without proper a resolution also really resonated with me. 

I have been in situations where I just kept waiting for a certain kind of closure that never came. There were times when I would punish myself for that, for feeling like something was wrong with me, for failing to close something properly. But i soon realized that no closure, no official goodbye, was all the closure I needed.

Seeing stories in which endings were not wrapped in a neat bow made me realize that that is how life is sometimes and there is no shame in it. You don’t always get the chance to properly walk away, sometimes you are just left with a mess of broken bits and you have to try to figure out what to do with them. Strangely, that realization also made me feel less alone.

It took me back to times in my life where I would let little chores pile up until it was overwhelming and the shower is the only place where I have 5 minutes of quiet to think, and suddenly I feel like there are so many things I can easily take care of and I don’t understand how I ever got here. It made me realize how much easier things can be when you take care of things when they are small rather than trying to outrun them. I realize this is all probably a very on-the-nose look at what I thought this week. 

The actual voices of people who described their family separations and where they got placed, made the historical events seem more authentic to me; their experiences made me really wonder about the proximity of these historical events to our present day.

The voices I heard after class helped me understand Beloved better than before. The ghost in Beloved used to seem like a typical horror element to me until I realized Morrison included it for a specific reason. Through the ghost, Morrison created a symbolic representation of all the unending suffering which her characters endured.

The way my past experiences linger throughout my life, also helps me connect it to the way characters in the novel experience their traumas, and how the things that people go through get carried with them throughout their lives. The story gave me a new meaning through understanding this.

Transitioning to The Destroyer also brought me a new perspective because it presented a different narrative. The story follows a mother who fights to maintain her present life after her son dies from police violence. The two stories present similar themes about people attempting to repair things which cannot be fixed.

I have had multiple instances where I attempt to solve problems in my life which were out of my control, and it made me ultimatly accept the outcome instead of trying to fight and mend it. The similar patterns in these stories made me think about our human and natural tendency to cling to particular situations.

My African American studies class this week really allowed me to understand Black Horror and its correlation to our larger fears as a culture. I had always categorized horror as a genre revolving around the concepts of fear, but what I never realized was the ways that the fear in Black cinema was representative of the more apparent, all-consuming concept of systemic racism. 

Get Out was a film that really made me stop and think of my own personal experiences of trying to fit into spaces where I felt out of place. I was able to connect with Chris and the more minute forms of racism that he experienced throughout the film. The unnecessary and patronizing compliments, the strained friendliness; these might not be as obvious as screaming the n-word or getting into physical fights like with Lila, but these were the aggressions that could very much happen on a day-to-day basis. 

Peele was able to capture these seemingly tiny moments of racism that we face every day and present them in a way that I have never seen before. Chris’s white friends and their peers all shared a common narrative of turning these aggressions into microaggressions, which Peele was able to manipulate into a form of torture and overstimulation on screen. This gave a certain energy to the film, and it made me think back to my own life in instances where I could definitely point to places where I had been before and just knew that I was not “culturally the right fit,” but I also let things slide and stayed quiet in order to maintain the peace. 

Get Out, for me, illustrated exactly what this entailed and just how psychologically exhausting this can be to be around people, be it friends or family, who do not fully let you be your authentic self. Tales from the Hood is a significantly different type of film, horror though it may be. It is still a traditional take on the genre with jumpscares and tangible threats in the form of demons, but the subtext of what this film was able to get across, under the veil of supernatural horror, was the most compelling part to me. The issues of police brutality, gang violence, and institutionalized racism were and are still very real problems that plague our society, and to have these same exact topics intertwined in such a creative and non-preachy way on screen was important to me. 

The threat and horror to me in Tales from the Hood was not presented by its supernatural elements on screen, but rather by how dehumanized Black people and people of color were by the criminal and justice systems they portrayed. The idea that horror could be used as a tool to effectively and creatively address alot of social issues is something that I had not considered until now, and this film gave me the capability to look at black horror in a new way. 

Eve’s Bayou is not as immediately horiffic as the two films we previously discussed, but it fits into the slow-burn horror sub-genre. This film again took the concept of a traditional monster or horror and switched it up. The real monster in Eve’s Bayou was not a supernatural demon or poltergeist; it was, rather, the emotional and familial breakdown that the entire cast had to endure as a result of the secrecy within the family. Eve’s Bayou helped me to remember just how often our families and our familial dynamics determine who we become and the people we become into for better or for worse. The journey that Eve took to come to terms with this reality was a truly horrifying one and made me stop and think about my own life. 

It made me relate to the storytelling in my own family. Storytelling is how we remember the people we never met, and for me, Jewish holidays are the way to keep memories alive. On Passover we retell the Exodus story over and over again, and we don’t see it as ancient history or mythology, but like our own past; as if we ourselves were slaves in Egypt. On Yom Kippur, we read a list of names aloud of people who passed because it is a form of prayer for us, and a way to keep us connected to them long after. Even Hanukkah, lighting those candles is like passing down a memory; the candles must continue to stay lit even when they have almost burnt out. 

Candyman really made me reminisce on my own memories about this and I enjoyed watching it. The idea of saying Daniel's name five times. The act of summoning someone that the world has tried to erase. The idea of remembering someone, again and again, reminded me of how every year, how every holiday we “say the names” of people who aren’t with us anymore. It’s not superstition, it’s not folklore. It’s survival. 

My grandparents used to tell me stories about their siblings or cousins who escaped or didn’t escape or were left behind. And sometimes, as a kid I would zone out, the way kids do when the stories feel overburdened, or too weighty, or you just want them to shut up and eat your broccoli. But as I get older, I realize that repetition is the point. The opposite of remembrance is the real horror. What I love about Jordan Peele’s version, and even the original is that both force us to reckon with what happens when trauma becomes a myth, when society tries to cover up its violence by turning it into a ghost story. And I think, for me, what I understand in a very personal way now is that horror can keep truth alive when history wants to bury it. Maybe that’s my favorite thing about Candyman. 

A self-reflective unease of sorts. 

We recently watched the film Us, and it really took me by surprise and shook me a little. I appreciated how the film did not hinge on the jump scares or the doubles, it was so unnerving to see such a relatable family, a mundane happy family, and then watch the order of their world fall apart. I think what stuck with me the most was Adelaide’s human reaction to “put on your shoes” to Zora. It reminded me of my family, how my mom’s voice would drop to that same exact serious but calm voice whenever things got tense between us in the car. She was someone who just took charge because there was no room for fear. 

However, what resonated even more profoundly was the idea of the tethered, an alternate version of yourself existing just beneath the surface, intertwined with your life in ways you can't even see. This concept led me to reflect on privilege and the facets of our identities and histories that we often try to hide. 

Having navigated the complexities of my multiple identities: Persian, Jewish, Israeli, and American, I often feel as though I lead a fragmented existence, trapped between different worlds. I contemplate the version of myself that can "pass" in American society, the one that carefully constructs sentences and explains ideas in a lot of detail to make sure my background is understood. At the same time, I recognize there is a version of me that remains largely hidden, carrying the unexpressed tension of those who feel misunderstood, despite the many efforts to help bridge that gap.

That is what I think I took away from Us, the reason why it not only scared me, but really haunted me, was that it was not just Adelaide I was watching. I perceived her connection in that manner too. I don't believe that Wanga was as difficult to observe for the same reasons; but honesty, I was angry watching that film. 

I could sense the ego of the filmmaker trying to use Blackness, but expecting to get away with it because, “Hey, I had two black people as the lead! Call me progressive.” However, it really did the opposite and I appreciated how the reading and in-class discussion taught me about just how rooted our film history is to those types of presentations and normalizations of Black bodies. 

What resonated with me in this case was the idea that we have witnessed a similar phenomenon with Middle Eastern identities, where they are often hypersexualized or dehumanized, reduced to a mere symbol rather than representing an authentic identity. This thought has really struck a chord with me.

I will admit, I enjoyed reading Dark Home and The Most Strongest Obia Woman in the World because we finally got to the women in the story having autonomy and power in stories where they are so often denied or victimized. I think the most empowering thing to me was that the stories did not gloss over fear, but still allowed the character to be human, messy, and brave. 

My African American Studies class made me realize that horror isn’t always in what we see on screen, but what lurks below the surface under everything. 

I really felt for Chris as it must be so tough to constantly be on edge and trying to dissect every word and underlying tone that is being said. He saw through them in that from the moment Chris met Rose’s family, on the surface, they were warm, welcoming, and polite, but everything they said felt heavy, with expectation and judgment. Watching him interact with them, I felt tense and uneasy, almost like I was sitting in the room with him, noticing all the little things that are “off.” I realized I was drawn to the film not just because it’s suspenseful and captivating, but because I felt and understood the psychological weight of being hyper-aware in a space where everyone is smiling at you but might also be hiding something sinister and have ill intentions.