The Red Badge of Courage

Lately I have been speaking out more about my dealings with an extended family member who has been a toxic presence in my and my immediate family’s lives. In doing so I have come across many others who have had similar experiences and shown great courage in sharing them and in moving on with their lives. I have wanted to find a way to recognize these people for their bravery, and so today I’m doing just that.

Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage is a coming of age story that chronicles the exploits of civil war soldiers, namely that of Henry Fleming.In the novel, Fleming starts out as a young soldier with grande ideas as to his capabilities and what being a man and succeeding in war will entail. Quite honestly, many of his early behaviors, tendencies, and modes of thinking are similar to accounts I’ve read of various personality disorders (narcissism, antisocial personality disorder/sociopathy, etc.).

At one point, Fleming sees a group of wounded soldiers and describes their afflictions as being a “Red Badge of Courage.” This juxtaposes how he feels of himself in the moment as this occurs while he is fleeing from battle (and being a general  Red hearthole). Eventually Fleming becomes more aware of his true self and position in life, and by the end of the novel he has taken his experiences and used them to grow positively while laying to rest his grandiose sense of self-worth.

To me, Fleming’s journey represents one we all undertake at one point or another. People who suffer from the afflictions above never take the time for self-reflection that is needed for this type of positive growth. Victims of these people bear emotional and mental wounds (sometimes even physical ones) which stand as a testament to their courage for having survived their interactions with these people. When these emotional wounds are coupled with the courage to do more than just survive, the courage to grow bigger than the pain and stand up to help others who suffer, well I think that deserves something. If you are one of these people, then I think you deserve

RBOCWhy use this piece of literature in such a way? Because Henry Fleming overcomes his poor tendencies to become a wise person, because the way  Red heartholes treat others is a form of emotional warfare, because people manage to survive and (despite that emotional warfare, and often because of it) become better people. I have watched as my grandmother slowly turned several of my mom’s four sisters into versions of herself. Sometimes we become the bad company we keep, other times we survive the bad company we keep. Every so often, we triumph over that company and become something truly amazing: a whole person who cares and stands up for other people and ourselves.

There are no requirements for receiving this award (you do not have to write things about yourself or pass it on to others). If you feel you know someone who deserves it, by all means pass it on! When you do, write a very brief post linking the award to the person in question (preferably to a post that exemplifies the award, but not necessarily). This way the person will be notified via pingback. You can link to the image for your blog’s sidebar via this page, or simply save to your desktop and upload it.

Oh, I should mention that it’s been awhile since  I skimmed this book (middle or high school). I relied on sparknotes to fill in the gaps (not having time to reread today). I will revisit the novel this weekend and make any appropriate changes, please feel free to point out any and all inconsistencies and/or inaccuracies!

For your convenience, here is a thumbnail!

RBOC

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4 thoughts on “The Red Badge of Courage

  1. Pingback: The Red Badge of Courage (an award) |

  2. Pingback: A quick funny story… « The Illusion Of Controlled Chaos

  3. She Was
    by Jeanne Marie
    1989
    The grief encompassed her soul until the elements of her former self were nothing.
    Nothing.
    Destiny squeezed her guts until she splattered all over the floor.
    She was, she was, but now she isn’t, not anymore.
    Wait.
    Amidst the wreckage of her shattered, twisted dreams perchance a gem remains?
    A shred of what was, a stair to climb on, a hand to reach beyond her agony,
    clutching what still could be?
    Carefully, small slivers extracted of what value they weren’t sure, held up to the light by white coats
    who thought they knew the cure, the cure for secrets that had hammered her to her knees,
    events which paralyzed the frightened child she was before.
    Men and women who only added their putrid slime to the illness,
    then when her hour was up they shoved her through the door.
    That of course was just good business, nothing’s free, no matter how she did implore.
    Secrets torn asunder, gaping holes dripping vulnerability, not unlike her veins
    the night she’d gashed them open wide.
    The dirt, the filth, the grotesque, no longer could she hide.
    Naked, restrained, unfamiliar shocked eyes did see and several faces as familiar as her own
    beheld the tragedy.
    But surely they could have done without, her agonizing screams, her blood, her shouts?
    “You have no f—— right, let me die!” she’d screamed that night until no voice remained.
    Perhaps that was true, yet they had to consider the fact that she was quite insane.
    What else could they do, what else would have been right?
    So, they saved her anyway, forced her to breathe another day.
    Clothed in anguish and shades of gray, doomed to inhere, she haunts the nights,
    a ghost of the woman before, who was, who isn’t, not anymore.
    Spirit lacerated, black with pain, red with rage, you would not recognize her aura.
    A kaleidoscope of mistrust and betrayal determines her movements.
    Such a thin line between yesterday’s grief and hope’s beckoning tomorrow.
    One baby step at a time she forges a reality where wounds are but the mortar
    between her bricks and angels guard her entrance from knights in shiny leather.
    This saddened woman who holds within her an unhealed tiny girl,
    this woman who endures the anguish her ignorance invited into her world.
    she colored her helpless children’s youth with confusion and bereavement ever more.
    She was, she was, but now she isn’t, not anymore.

Ponder on!

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