"It's exhilarating to be alive in a time of awakening consciousness; it can also be confusing, disorienting, and painful"
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Adrienne Rich doesn’t romanticize “awakening consciousness” as a clean sunrise; she frames it as a full-body event with side effects. The first word, exhilarating, lures you into the familiar myth of progress: to become more aware is to become freer, better, more whole. Then she yanks the rug. Awakening is also “confusing, disorienting, and painful” - a list that reads like a diagnosis, not a triumph. Rich’s intent is to puncture the feel-good version of enlightenment and tell the truth her work keeps circling: clarity costs.
The subtext is political as much as personal. Rich wrote through the upheavals of second-wave feminism, Vietnam, civil rights, and gay liberation, and she became increasingly explicit about how consciousness is produced - by language, by institutions, by gendered expectations, by whose experiences are considered “normal.” To awaken is to notice the scaffolding. That notice can’t be painless because it rearranges your relationships: to lovers, to family, to nation, even to your own prior self. Disorientation isn’t a bug; it’s evidence that the old map was wrong.
What makes the line work is its refusal to offer resolution. Rich doesn’t promise that pain redeems itself or that history inevitably bends toward sense. She captures the lived tempo of social change: the rush of recognition paired with the vertigo of losing the stories that used to hold you. Awakening, in Rich’s world, isn’t a mood. It’s a reckoning.
The subtext is political as much as personal. Rich wrote through the upheavals of second-wave feminism, Vietnam, civil rights, and gay liberation, and she became increasingly explicit about how consciousness is produced - by language, by institutions, by gendered expectations, by whose experiences are considered “normal.” To awaken is to notice the scaffolding. That notice can’t be painless because it rearranges your relationships: to lovers, to family, to nation, even to your own prior self. Disorientation isn’t a bug; it’s evidence that the old map was wrong.
What makes the line work is its refusal to offer resolution. Rich doesn’t promise that pain redeems itself or that history inevitably bends toward sense. She captures the lived tempo of social change: the rush of recognition paired with the vertigo of losing the stories that used to hold you. Awakening, in Rich’s world, isn’t a mood. It’s a reckoning.
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