Reaction to Beowulf

When you think of the character traits that define a true hero, the protagonist Beowulf, of the epic poem Beowulf, fits all of them. He is not boastful, but honest and proud in an honorable manner. He is brave, kind, and just and always willing to help those in need. Supposedly written somewhere betwixt 700-1000 A.D., Beowulf embodies the ideas of chivalry and bravery that were so highly praised during that time period. Beowulf could be considered the Superman of that time; he represents the ideal hero figure of early England, where the poem was written.

            I did, however, find a downside to the character Beowulf. His downside is that he is practically flawless; thus making him almost inhuman and therefore not easy to relate to. The nice quality of modern day heroes is that they are typically easy to identify yourself with; this is not the case with Beowulf. In fact, I must ashamedly admit that I can relate better to the men that ran away rather than helped fight the dragon at the end of the poem, than I can to Beowulf, the hero.  You cannot relate with him; you can only simply look up to him. This, however, is not necessarily a bad thing, although it does make the story that much harder to connect with.  

For a girl, Beowulf is not exactly “favorite poem” material seeing as it is all about gore and glory and rather lacks in the romance department. However, though it is both non relatable and unromantic, the poem Beowulf is unique and interesting to read. Unique because of the length and complexity of the poem compared to most all other poems, and interesting because, well, who does not like reading a tale of people with fascinating names and the defeating of monsters every now and then? Admittedly, Beowulf would not be my first choice to read on a rainy day, or any time for that matter, it was still an intriguing tale that captured my attention.

            I feel as though I must take a moment and talk about the monster Grendel and his mum. In my opinion, Grendel loses a few points in ferocity when his mother avenges him. Not that he asked her to, seeing as he was dead, but I still could not help but feel that it made the idea of Grendel slightly more pathetic. Perhaps I am being overly critical, but the idea of an angry demon mother slightly turned me off.

            On a closing note, Beowulf was not my favorite of stories, but I did find myself actually enjoying it. I liked reading about the Scandinavian culture and trying to pronounce the character’s names was moderately enjoyable. I must admit that when I first started to read it, I was determined to hate it, however, by the end of the poem I found myself entertained and I can now officially say that it was not horrible. 

The Memory

I was nine years old. Summer air was just rolling in, and boy, the heat was intense.  It was the first day of summer break, so a sense of celebration was in the atmosphere.  Momma had been back at home, baking an apple pie like tradition stated she should.  She always made an apple pie when there was a reason to celebrate.  Just like she always made something gross like meatloaf when there was reason to mourn.  There was never any reason to mourn though, those were happy days.  I remember walking in the front door that day to our cookie-cutter, suburban home, smelling the freshly baked pie and exhaling a smile.  My little brother, John, was upstairs making a racket with the new toys my dad never neglected to buy for him.  The sound was familiar, the sound brought warmth. It was a typical day in every way, and I liked that.  We sat down for dinner at 6 o’clock and began to devour the food on our plates as if it were our last meal.  Dad told us about his day at the office as Momma wiped the food off John’s face.  I complained about the broccoli on my plate, and Momma made me eat it anyways.  Dinner would end once silence started to occur; once I stopped complaining, John stopped fussing, and Dad stopped telling us about his day.  Momma would clean the dishes, and all would be right with the world.  That day has probably been forgotten by each of my family members.  Nothing significant happened that day, but, for whatever reason, it is the one memory I cannot stop thinking of.

            A big, rough hand landed hard against my skin. My memory, my very favorite memory, shattered from my mind like a windshield in a car wreck.  A stale, moldy piece of bread was pushed in front of me.  My bonds were loosened so that I could eat.  What was the point?  That was the question I could not stop asking myself.  Why was I there?  The coldness of the dank basement I was locked in started to consume me.  I tried my best to conjure up my memory for warmth, but it would not come.  I needed my memory.  It was not even a particularly happy memory, yet I cherished it above all of the rest.  There was something about that day—something that my nine-year-old self could not have noticed until the day of my capture; the normalcy that I would never get back.  I had no idea.  I had no idea what would take place that summer.  I thought of my Momma once more.  I thought of her apple pie and our family dinners. I wonder what the family dinners are like now.  I bet Momma makes a whole lot more meatloaf.