Wednesday, August 29, 2018

In favor of Segregation

We are all a part of the human race, so that is not what I am talking about.  No, something much more intrinsic. Male and female.
As a student teacher, I had a middle school geography class that I had to train for their tests. Now, one class towards the end of the day physically stank.  It was almost all boys, almost all of them were or had been under IEPs. They were a class that was being integrated into the “mainstream” of classes. They were the most engaged in the material.  They talked and batted the ideas around, asked questions, went off topic, but they were involved with the material. The other classes were neither as loud nor as physically stinky, and I certainly had more involvement from the middle school students than from the high school students when I was there, but they were less involved with the material, more hesitant to ask questions or answer them out loud.
As a teacher, I saw this played out in smaller classes.  If I had mostly boys, there were fewer behavioral issues and they stayed on task better.  If I had all girls, they were more relaxed and would talk much more freely about the subject.  They would engage with the material better.
With fairly evenly mixed classes, or classes with more girls than boys the students seemed more concerned about their peers opinions and the attention of the opposite sex.  This was true even down in 3rd, 4th and 5th grade. On days when the girls were absent or out of the classroom for whatever reason, the boys would settle down and work; when there were girls in the classroom, they were more apt to goof off or try to be clever.  When the boys were absent, or when I had a class of just girls, the girls worked more steadily and were more ready to give answers to questions and enter into conversation about the subject material; when boys were present, they were more apt to be giggling or rolling their eyes at the boys or hesitant to answer on one side or becoming super condescending on the other.  These are overall patterns. This is not every boy and girl every day, but it is enough of a pattern to make it much easier to teach all boys or all girls rather than mixed classes.

The all-girls school and all-boys school sort of approach makes sense to me, but what if we were to segregate even just classes? This is the young ladies English class, the young men's English class--same curriculum, just separate classes? Bring them together for set activities and presentations--they do, after all, need to learn to communicate with each other--but allowing them space from each other in order to, ideally, grow more freely.  This, I am certain, would encourage academic growth in the students, but only if the teachers themselves were committed to teaching academics and not ideology.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

A Woman who communicated

        Arrival is about so much more than aliens coming to earth and a linguistics professor and a physicist working with their teams to try to communicate. It is pretty amazing.

So, Emily was probably going to pick this movie that none of us had watched and I blanked out on that bit of info and watched it on my own before we watched it together. It is a movie well worth a re-watch. In a way, it is like watching 6th Sense over again, I saw things from a different perspective having seen the ending, and consequently, I saw a lot more of what was going on. For that reason, I am not going to tell many details, I will however say that this shows an amazing development in the main lady, from desolate to really consciously living. She becomes captivating.

It is a quiet sort of movie; I recall very little vulgar or offensive language; the violence is second hand; and there is no excessive sensuality at all. What humor is present is quiet. The colors are quiet, often blue-toned, lending to a sort of melancholy feel. There were a few moments when the music seemed a bit heavy handed, but I can kind of understand why they would play those sounds when they did—thematically. It still drove me out of the scene a little. Speaking of scene, the filmography was beautiful. I loved the use of clouds and wind on the one hand and TV and intercom screens on the other.

On the writing, I loved how minor characters still felt like living people; they made good use of background and side interactions. One character speaks pretty dismissively of a lot of the people at the camp that is set up near the alien shell in Montana. It seems as though maybe the writer was not quite so dismissive. Rather in contrast to that is the attitude of the colonel who fetches the civilians who are helping out. He tells Ian, the physicist, and Louise, the linguist, after they started sparring a little over the importance of math versus language, that “That is why you're both here. And I'll get your coffee.” He seemed like he would be one of those heroes that nobody knows about; he just goes and does his best to do whatever job he has with the least amount of fuss and fewest casualties possible.

For Louise's part, she is pretty intense as she gets into this figuring out the aliens thing keeping in mind the end goal. It was interesting to watch that, especially as a teacher interested in languages. One of her first, though not the first, break-through moments with the aliens comes when she removes some of her protective gear and identifies herself with her name instead of just the generic “human” identifier. That really made the guys backing them up nervous-- “Do we abort?” While most were concerned about security, potential dangers, the aliens as potential threat, Louise saw them as beings with which to communicate, potential teachers, even. She personalized the communication, and that is what started the breakthrough to be able to understand the aliens.

Like I said, I do not want to give away to much about the plot, so I will leave you with those tid-bits and one more: the aliens are named Abbot and Costello.

Cowards and Courage, a few little thoughts

Cowards no entran en la reina de Dios (It says so in Revelations 21, for example)

How can I live for God if fears control me? So I need then, to live inspired by the love of God. There is no room for hypocrisy, no room for timidity.
 “Seek first the kingdom of God.” Our heavenly Father knows that we need food and clothing, but calls us to seek first the kingdom. Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without him knowing it. How much more aware is he of our needs, concerns, desires? But, seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you.
God never promised luxury or ease, but he does promise to be with us, “even to the end of the age.” He bids us take up our cross and follow him. He promises, in essence, struggle and affliction, but he also tells us that his yoke is easy and his burden light. How can this be? Because as we rely on his grace, he is the one holding us up. Love makes even the greatest burdens light.
Love inspires us to surmount the insurmountable, to face down the dragons, to scale cliffs, to confront our enemies, to love our annoying siblings or classmates. Love gives us courage. Jeremiah could not face the Israelites, if it were not for a love for God. Catherine of Alexandria could not have faced down the scholars and the governor, had it not been for her passion for Jesus her saviour. I could not have become Catholic, facing my mother's disapproval were it not for the love of Jesus.

When God's love fills us, that is when we have courage. Couer—heart our heart is made strong by God's love.

Monday, June 25, 2018

Holding hands

Father asked us why we joined across the aisles holding hands.
Some gave response, “T’ show we are one community of believers.”
“To show unity in prayer.”
He observed that this tradition of ours was started in the seventies; it is nowhere in the mass. Fine as it may be, it actually disrupts the first part of the prayer. As we set things down and spread out seeking hands to hold, maybe forcing in some recalcitrants, we lose a beautiful part of this pivotal prayer in the mass. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
By the time we say “Give us” we are back into the prayer.

I wonder, is this part of our problem in Christianity today? We are so focused on the doings and the hand-holding. Do we forget to stand still in the presence of Our Father to seek his will? Do we forget that God Our Father has a transcendent will that is not encompassed by our missions, our desires and comforts? Do we forget Our Father because we are so caught up with our brothers and sisters?

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Doubt

I sometimes listen to the Graveyard Shift podcast, a few pastors in Ireland rambling on in conversation that might be sort of started or centered on an event or article that caught one or more of their attentions. It can be interesting, sometimes funny, sometimes thought provoking. In the one with a title playing on “nuns” and “nones” it was said that doubt is not the opposite of faith, certainty is. There was a statement made that, while we believe certain things, we have to admit that it is not certain. This reminded me of the annoying saying that “to question is the answer”, as though it would be any good to go through life asking questions without seeking answers. To sincerely question, one must be seeking an answer; if there is an answer, it could be that somethings are, in fact, certain. Anyway, one of them in particular helped to clarify a position that made more sense--that while we question and seek, doubt should not be idealized.
A few days later I ran into a Youtube series by a friar talking about Harry Potter and the Catholic Faith. He, when talking about faith as a virtue, described two different types of doubt--a doubt that is felt and a doubt that is chosen. I might feel as though I am alone, but know that God is with me and accordingly act in faith. If I feel that God is absent and act according to that feeling--that is another story. I might feel like a wretch of a sinner--in for a penny, in for a pound--but knowing God’s grace and by his grace, I can stop and pray with the angels and saints to our merciful Lord and Savior. If I act according to that feeling--how wretched I am!

If the doubt they are speaking of on the Graveyard Shift is the first class of doubt, I can at least agree with doubt not being the opposite of faith. The problem is that the concept is proposed with saying things like “I believe this, but it might not be true.” Ok. On some things, fair enough. I believe Joan of Arc really had visions; I do not empirically know that, and, sure, I could be wrong. I doubt it, though. However, That is not a matter of salvation. Believing that Jesus is the Son of God who was born, died, buried, rose on the third day--if we are not certain about that, are we even Christians? Again, I may not have empirical proof, I may not be able to touch his wounds or thrust my hands into his side, but I do have the witness of his apostles who did personally see his resurrected body. I do have the testimony of the Church that he founded that endured popular persecution and a time of regional popularity followed by popular scorn again. The point is, the gates of hell have never prevailed; she still exists just as Jesus said she would.
I have historical proof, at least, of Jesus existence, but what about the belief in the Trinity or the belief that scripture was inspired by God? I do not doubt that the Trinity is a good description of God. I do not doubt that the whole Bible, including the choosing of what books are in it, was inspired by God. I suppose, for argument’s sake, I could say that I might be wrong about these things. To say that, though, should not be mistaken for humility. That would be to say that the Church, which God founded, might be wrong about these things, which would be to say that maybe the gates of hell did prevail or maybe it was all only types and myths anyway. Why even believe in the actual historical Jesus? Surely a spiritual resurrection is a enough! But if that bodily Resurrection is not true, then, as Paul said, we are most pitiable.

 Where does that leave us? Maybe underground with a queen dressed in silks green as poison who says, “There is no sun.”
The point, then, is not what we doubt, but what we choose to believe.

Thursday, March 29, 2018

One Long Day

His face was already bruised.  We idly looked at these men as they came in so very early.  It was probably because their holiday was about to start. They were dragging this man, shoving him, really, into our governor’s courtyard.  They would not enter the building, of course. It might defile them.

The accusation was that he had set himself up as some sort of king--pitiful king!  Even were it not for his bruises, there would be no greatness in his appearance. He was certainly no lord.

He was handed over to us to be beaten, but he did not ask for mercy.  We added to the bruising delivered by his own people. The lash was laid on his back hard.  His back was lacerated, but he did not cry out. We taunted him. The centurion yelled in his face, “Beg for my mercy!  Why don’t you beg for mercy?” and kicked him severely. The man looked at him with compassion.

A couple of us had twisted together some thorns that grew close by.  This false king would have a crown. He was dragged to his feet and held in place as we draped him with one of our cloaks.  We then pressed the crown into this Jew’s head.
“Hail!  King of the Jews!”  They took turns greeting him, striking him with reeds instead of saluting him.  Some spat on his face. Even then, he did not ask for mercy. Even then, he was resolute and, most disturbingly, compassionate.

It was time.  He was called for to be presented to the people, who were close to being a mob.  They would ask for one of their own to be released, and this our governor would do as a generous gesture of goodwill.  

“Behold, the man!”  He motioned to the Jew whom we had just brutalized.  The Jew was still wearing the soldier’s cloak and the crown.
The crowd was roaring a chant, “Crucify! Crucify!”
Our governor yelled over them, “You take him and crucify him!  I find nothing in the accusations against him.”
Some of the men who had brought him in so early that morning motioned for the crowds to quiet as they spoke, “We have a law, and according to that law he must die, because--he claimed to be the son of God.”

Our governor motioned for the Jew to be brought back inside.  Once away from the crowd, who were beginning to chant again, he asked the man, “Where do you come from?”  Blood was drying on the man’s face. He was bruised and his eye was swollen. The man’s expression was serene.
Our governor asked vehemently, “Do you refuse to answer? Hm?”  He took one turn, and then said into the man’s face, “Don’t you understand that I have the power of life and death over you?”
“You have no power over me but what is given you from above.  Nonetheless, they who handed me over to you have the greater sin.” This is what he stated.  In spite of his bruises and bloodied body, in spite of the beatings and the mockery, he was calm. Our governor was pacing and looking out to where the crowds were calling for the crucifixion of this impostor and trouble-maker, as they were calling him.  We awaited orders.

Our governor had a servant bring water, while he went to face the crowd.  Like a tragedian, he motioned the basin of water to himself. “I wash my hands of this innocent man’s blood,” he said as he rinsed his hands and carefully dried them.  The mob roared, “His blood be on us and on our children!” And the man was sentenced to death.

We jostled him down and took off the cloak.  We left the crown in place and put his own robe on him, but, when we were going to put the cross on his back, he reached for it.  His eyes said he knew what he was doing. Once again, they seemed to see straight through me.

We took to the road.  We had a couple of criminals to execute that day along with this man, so we made quite the procession.  The mob was shouting more than its usual imprecations.
The man fell.  It was a wonder he had not fallen earlier.  We picked him up and he took back his cross and plodded on, leaving blood and sweat on the road where he had fallen.  A woman dashed out of the crowd; we did not stop her. She wiped his face, weeping for him. He smiled tenderly at the woman and we urged him forward.  

He was stumbling some more.  I caught the eye of a Cyrenian and called him out.  “You! Take up his cross!” He came forward, and took it grudgingly, but his face changed after the man looked at him and said something I did not understand.  After the Cyrenian served his mile, we released him.

On we went.  If he fell, we picked him up and kept going.  At the gates the women mourners greeted the criminals, but when they got to the man, He told them, “Do not mourn for me, weep for yourselves and your children.  For the day is coming when you will say, ‘Blessed are the barren women, the womb that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!’ Then they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’  For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

We finally reached the hill outside the city.  The crosses were laid down and the criminals had to be held to them.  Not The Man. He laid himself down. When the nails were driven into his hands he did not cry out like the others.  He sighed once they were in, along with his feet. He looked sorrowful, but it was not for himself. We tacked up the accusation: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”

We raised him up between the other two, and one of the men who had brought him in this morning began jeering with his companions, “He saved others, why cannot he save himself?”  and “Let this Messiah, ‘king of Israel,’ come down from the cross that we may see and believe.” This and more they said, while a smaller group of Jewish women and one man stood by weeping.

The man on the cross spoke to the heavens, “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.”
He also spoke to the small group; one of the women was his own mother.

It was as though the shadow of a snake writhed in agony across the ground, and the sun went black.  There was less talk. We watched.
It had been three hours.  The man cried out in a language I did not understand, but it meant something to the other Jews.  “He’s calling for Elijah!” They got him some wine, but it was too late.  As the sun came back, he cried out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”  The earth trembled. The people scattered; only the criminals were left to cry out weekly or to gape in horror, while we stood fast.  I knew then that the man was dead.

Surely, this man was the Son of God.

Conformity in the "Mona Lisa Smile"

An art teacher from California goes a prestigious women's college on the East coast only to discover that it is a glorified finishing school.  This is after she discovered that her class already knew the material and at least a few of them did not consider her UCLA degree worthy of respect. Oh, yeah, the administration and some of the teachers are not fond of her either.  She it was with whom they were left when the preferred candidate took a job at Brown.
As the class already knew the names of the pieces of art along with their artists and the textbook described significance of each one, Catherine Watson decides to ask them “What is art?”  She presents them with modern pieces starting with the “Carcass” and asking, “Is this art?” Her next piece, though, is of a lamb on a field of green, primitive in style, very childish. The girls say that they suppose it must be art because it is being presented.  The teacher says that one person even identified it as a masterpiece. That person was her mother. She had painted it as a child. As she identifies the “critic”, the next slide is a photograph of her mother. She asks the students to consider whether the photograph is art.  They are more cautious now, and one half scoffs that it is “just a snapshot.” She asks them, “If I were to tell you that it was taken by *important name*, would that make a difference?” She sets a new goal for the class; they are going to study the question of what makes art art, who gets to say? They are also going to look at modern works.
One of the most powerful scenes in that regard comes when she takes them on a field trip to a museum or art gallery, but they do not go through the main halls. They go “backstage”, so to speak, where the artifacts are being brought in and unwrapped. There they are when this great, big crate is brought in. It could easily be a wall. They loosen a whole side of it, which then appears to be a sideways lid which crashes down to reveal a paint splattered canvas, immediately recognizable as by Pollock. The thing is, it is so massive. Miss Watson walks up to it with face alight. It dwarfs her. Her assignment to them is to consider the painting. She does not ask for a paper for this one, just for them to consider it. The view dips in close so we can see the textures and the depth of the paint, it takes on an emotional quality--the colors in soft lavender and gray over soft crimsons almost evoke a sunrise.

On the personal side, though, the stories take a devastating turn.  One could receive the impression that Miss Watson came here to clear her mind concerning a somewhat dominating lover.  The lady who runs the house where she is boarding is a very desolate woman whose fiancĂ©e left during the war, but stayed away to marry someone else. She never moved on. The other lady in the house is the school nurse, clearly indicated to have been had a female companion. She provides birth control for the students and is fired when she will not publicly apologize and promise to not continue doing so.  
Among the students, Betty Warren is a young woman groomed to be manipulative and controlling by her mother. She has a venomous tongue. She marries, her husband is unfaithful, and she lashes out at people close to her.  Joan is her best friend. Joan had an interest in going to law school, applied and was accepted to Yale, but she chooses to marry her boyfriend/lover and go with him to Pennsylvania.  She gives a powerful defense of choosing motherhood that is undercut by the way the scene is set up. Giselle is the bad-girl-with-the-heart-of-gold. She carries on two different affairs in the film, not concurrently, one with a teacher the other with an older, married man.  She flirts with everybody and is very affectionate, and very lost. Her father had abandoned her mother and her when she was young. She is the one through whom it is revealed that the nurse is distributing birth control. Then there is Connie. Connie is regularly put down by Betty and thinks she is not attractive.  She is attentive to others’ needs and is genuinely funny. One of my favorite lines comes from her. A young man was dancing with her and talked about how his mother said his life was opening up in front of him, just on the horizon. She says that he should tell her, “that the horizon is an imaginary line which always recedes as one approaches it.”  The dance being over she says good bye, but he asks if she is brushing him off politely. She thought he was just doing a favor in dancing with her, but he really wanted to dance with her. So they dance some more. Their story, even with a misunderstanding thrown in due to his cowardice and Kirsten’s maliciousness, is sweet.
Meanwhile, Miss Watson carries on an affair with the Italian teacher after breaking up with her former lover who was about to railroad her into marriage.  Her one condition to the Italian teacher is that he not carry on relations with students. She leaves that situation after she discovers that he has been living a lie. He had never actually left the states during the war, but because he knew Italian and did not correct people's false assumptions, he had the reputation of having served in Italy with distinction.

When it comes down to basics, the women are almost all of them either excessively domineering or excessively desolate and needy, and the men are almost all passive, with the exception of a couple of controlling and jealous men.  It was pitiful. Surely, there are good men and women in the world, even in the late 50’s in academia, but where are they? Lost.

I did enjoy the movie, and I appreciated the main character, though she seemed confused in her personal life.  The overarching message of “question everything, because tradition and traditional constraints are suspect at best and likely evil” combined with self-determination is not what we need to hear today.  We are perhaps too aware of 50’s conformity and lack an awareness of today's form of ironic conformity. “To question is the answer” is almost taken for a truism. Self-determination has been radicalized to accept people’s self identity even if that identity is delusional.  The message of the movie is generally accepted as truth with little questioning. And, oh, the pressure to conform!

The thing is to live a considered life, which is why I hated that they made Joan’s defense of her decision seem hollow.  She points out that Miss Watson had encouraged them to think for themselves and make their own decisions. Joan may want to study law, but she wanted to be a wife and a mother even more.  She also observes that being a wife and a mother did not make a woman less intelligent. She had learned much and was grateful for her education, but this was what she decided she wanted--to get married and raise a family.  She was not entering it blindly. In all, I think she could have been one of the better examples of femininity, but it seemed as though the directors wanted the viewer to think she was cutting off a part of who she was, rather than that she was simply choosing among different good options.  They, with Miss Watson, wanted her to take it all--Yale, career, marriage, family--and but for her boyfriend, they tell us, she could have. Maybe they are right about Joan, but maybe a woman can also have a highly satisfying and happy life as a wife and mother. Maybe a human can have a better, more whole life by giving up some dreams in order to live out the dreams they most desire.

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Dickens and Surrealist Cinema: or the post from the end of December that never was published

Have you heard of that style of cinema in which a person may be portrayed as actually shedding a river of tears? Or images may have more symbolic import than “real” import--you know that the character is not actually a giant, but because he seems so overbearing, overpowering and gigantic to this other character, he is made to appear that much larger for this scene.  It is an interesting approach, and for some stories works well.
As I have been reading Little Dorrit, I keep on thinking that odd style would really suit this book; has anyone tried fantastical realism with Dickens?  Take this, a Mr. Casby had been introduced as very benevolent and patriarchal in appearance, long beard and all, and another character, Mr. Pancks is introduced “,with a snort and a puff,” upon which Mr. Clennam, though whom much is related reflects, “much as an unwieldy ship in the Thames River may sometimes be seen heavily driving with the tide, broadside on, stern first, in its own way and in the way of everything else, though making a great show of navigation, when all of a sudden, a little coaly steam-tug will bear down upon it, take it in tow, and bustle off with it; similarly the cumbrous patriarch had been taken in tow by the snorting Pancks, and was now following in the wake of that dingy little craft.”  
Or how this would look. A young lady is looking upon the ruins of Rome and reflecting on ruins in people’s lives and ruins in England when Mrs. General, who is often called “the varnisher” comes in.  Mr. Eustace is the writer of some travel journals who never compares anything favorably to England. “Up, then, would come Mrs. General; taking all the color out of every thing, as nature and art had taken it out of herself;...looking everywhere for Mr. Eustace and company, and seeing nothing else; scratching up the driest little bones of antiquity, and bolting them whole without any human visitings--like a ghoul in gloves.”

Visualize, visualize.  It isn’t enough to show her as powdery and wigged and stiffly full of proprieties.  Mrs. General must also be attended by proprieties.  She is a most varnished varnisher, but also a “ghoul in gloves”.  The whole thing with her gloves reminds me of some of the stuff I have read and seen in reference to Disney’s use of gloves on characters.  
In re-reading the first few paragraphs, I saw again the blistering, glaring, staring day in Marseille. Everything stares in the too bright day, his description takes you through the streets and through a church-the only refuge from the heat--and into the prison, where there are two people in a cell and other vermin.  One of them is described as having a distinctive nose.  He doesn’t exactly smile, but his mustache comes up and his nose goes down.  He was amazingly acted by Andy Serkis in the film version I saw.  Other than height, he was everything the book described.  Can you imagine taking this approach, though, of showing Dickens’ more peculiar or more shocking imagery on the screen?  Just as in the books, you would not always see barnacles when you saw the Barnacles--who exist throughout the British government and are paramount in the circumlocution office, you would not always be shown a ghoul in Mrs. General’s place, but sometimes, where appropriate, you would see these sorts of things.  It might be a longer mini-series, but I think it would be fantastically delightful.  

Monday, February 19, 2018

Captivating women

I was trying to find a good movie that portrayed a positive femininity. I was not having good success and was actually being increasingly irritated by the search results. Sexy and “badass” came up a lot. Feminist themes and godly masculinity showed up as well. I really wanted a movie I had not seen that dealt with women in a respectful and captivating manner. I did not want a Kill Bill nor a My Best Friend’s Wedding kind of movie.  Joan of Arc? Sure, depending on the version. Mother Theresa? Yes. A Little Princess? Totally--except it is actually a mini-series that would last 6 hours, and  we were actually supposed to pick movies not mini-series.  

I decided ultimately to pick a movie we had at home--Nausicaa:Valley of the Winds.  This was lovely.  She displays compassion and courage. She views the world which holds much terror with an eye for beauty.In contrast there is the beautiful but bitter Kushana of the Tolmekians, who sees things through the lens of power and fear.  
Nausicaa is introduced as she is out adventuring in the toxic jungle looking for ohm shell and collecting spores.  She leaves the jungle only to discover  Lord Yupa being chased by an angry insect, which she stuns, charms, and sends back to the forest from the vantage of her glider.  Back in the village it is clear she is well loved and respected by her people and that she loves and cares for them.  
When the village is invaded by the Tolmekians, who could have simply peacefully retrieved their nasty giant embryo and wrecked ship, the king is killed.  Nausicaa initially went into a rage and killed and injured a few soldiers before being stopped by Lord Yupa, who encouraged her to hold on for the sake of her people.  She was then taken as a hostage, but spent her last moments encouraging a few little girls who were sad to see her go.  
Kushana is imperious.  She planned to grow the giant in the valley and rule herself from there. While taking the hostages back to Tolmekia, however, they were attacked by a lone Pegite fighter.  
The airships were demolished by the zipping little craft, that is itself taken down.  Nausicaa and the other hostages, along with Kushana survive.  Nausicaa and one of her people actually save Kushana, not that she displayed any subsequent gratitude.  The Pegite fighter, Asbel, also survived the crash, but nearly did not survive the insects.  After stopping Kushana from bringing angry ohm down on them, Nausicaa sent her men and Kushana off to wait above the forest for one hour while she attempted to rescue the Pegite.  
She did rescue him from the immediate danger of giant insects or falling to his death, but then the glider was wrecked by the cutting tail of an insect whose head they had just narrowly evaded. They crash landed, this time in what would appear to be quicksand. 
Nausicaa was knocked unconscious in the crash, but when she revived in the subterranean caverns she discovers what Asbel, the Pegite fighter/prince, has been delighting in already--the air is safe to breath and the water is clean. They have time to repair the glider and rest in safety before continuing on their journey. 
They must get Asbel back to his people and Nausicaa back to her valley, and maybe somehow find a way to stop the devastation of war that bringing a giant warrior back could cause.
Throughout the story you see her courage and compassion, but I won’t tell the end; you should go watch it.  You could not just replace her with a man and have the same story.  So, Nausicaa:Valley of the Wind--it is an excellent adventure story that also has an excellent female role model. 


(It also has lovely music which is likely to become stuck in your head :)