Teil A

Aufgabenstellung

II.1 Leseverstehen

Sum up the biographical information on the narrator and her husband, given in the excerpt.

(20%)

II.2 Analyse

Analyse how the narrator’s state of mind is conveyed. Focus on narrative techniques and use of language.

(40%)

II.3 Persönliche Stellungnahme bzw. gestaltende Schreibaufgabe

Choose ONE of the following:
3a)

Discuss whether the husbands are helpful for their wives’ integration into their new homeland. Refer to the excerpt from Adichie’s “The Arrangers of Marriage” and the short story “The Third and Final Continent” by Jhumpa Lahiri.

OR
3b)

For the international students’ project “Language and Identity”, write an article for the project website assessing to what extent language plays a positive role in an immigrant’s integration process. In your article, refer to the short story “The Southside Raza Image Federation Corps of Discovery” by Luis Alberto Urrea to substantiate your arguments.

(40%)

Material

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: The Arrangers of Marriage

The following excerpt is taken from the short story The Arrangers of Marriage.

1
My new husband carried the suitcase out of the taxi and led the way into the
2
brownstone, up a flight of brooding stairs, down an airless hallway with frayed
3
carpeting, and stopped at a door. The number 2B, unevenly fashioned from yellowish
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metal, was plastered on it.
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“We’re here,” he said. He had used the word “house” when he told me about our
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home. I had imagined a smooth driveway snaking between cucumber-colored lawns,
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a door leading into a hallway, walls with sedate paintings. A house like those of the
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white newlyweds in the American films that NTA showed on Saturday nights.
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He turned on the light in the living room, where a beige couch sat alone in the middle,
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slanted, as though dropped there by accident. The room was hot; old, musty smells
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hung heavy in the air.
12
“I’ll show you around,” he said.
13
The smaller bedroom had a bare mattress lodged in one corner. The bigger bedroom
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had a bed and dresser, and a phone on the carpeted floor. Still, both rooms lacked a
15
sense of space, as though the walls had become uncomfortable with each other, with
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so little between them.
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“Now that you’re here, we’ll get more furniture. I didn’t need that much when I was
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alone,” he said.
19
“Okay,” I said. I felt light-headed. The ten-hour flight from Lagos to New York and the
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interminable wait while the American customs officer raked through my suitcase had
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left me woozy, stuffed my head full of cotton wool. […]
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Ike agwum,” I said, placing my handbag down on the bedroom floor.
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“Yes, I’m exhausted, too,” he said. “We should get to bed.”
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In the bed with sheets that felt soft, I curled up tight like Uncle Ike’s fist when he is
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angry and hoped that no wifely duties would be required of me. I relaxed moments
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later when I heard my new husband’s measured snoring. It started like a deep rumble
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in his throat, then ended on a high pitch, a sound like a lewd whistle. They did not
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warn you about things like this when they arranged your marriage. No mention of
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offensive snoring, no mention of houses that turned out to be furniture-challenged
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flats. […]
31
Winter sneaked up on me. One morning I stepped out of the apartment building and
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gasped. It was as though God was shredding tufts of white tissue and flinging them
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down. I stood staring at my first snow, at the swirling flakes, for a long, long time
34
before turning to go back into the apartment. I scrubbed the kitchen floor again, cut
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out more coupons from the Key Food catalog that came in the mail, and then sat by
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the window, watching God’s shredding become frenzied. Winter had come and I was
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still unemployed. When my husband came home in the evening, I placed his french
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fries and fried chicken before him and said, “I thought I would have my work permit
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by now.”
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He ate a few pieces of oily-fried potatoes before responding. We spoke only English
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now; he did not know that I spoke Igbo to myself while I cooked […].“
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“The American woman I married to get a green card is making trouble,” he said, and
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slowly tore a piece of chicken in two. The area under his eyes was puffy. “Our divorce
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was almost final, but not completely, before I married you in Nigeria. Just a minor
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thing, but she found out about it and now she’s threatening to report me to
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Immigration. She wants more money.”
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“You were married before?” I laced my fingers together because they had started to
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shake.
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“Would you pass that, please?” he asked, pointing to the lemonade I had made
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earlier.
51
“The jug?”
52
“Pitcher. Americans say pitcher, not jug.”
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I pushed the jug (pitcher) across. The pounding in my head was loud, filling my ears
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with a fierce liquid. “You were married before?”
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“It was just on paper. A lot of our people do that here. It’s business, you pay the
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woman and both of you do paperwork together but sometimes it goes wrong and
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either she refuses to divorce you or she decides to blackmail you.”
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I pulled the pile of coupons toward me and started to rip them in two, one after the
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other. “Ofodile, you should have let me know this before now.”
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He shrugged. “I was going to tell you.”
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“I deserved to know before we got married.” I sank down on the chair opposite him,
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slowly, as if the chair would crack if I didn’t.
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“It wouldn’t have made a difference. Your uncle and aunt had decided. Were you
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going to say no to people who have taken care of you since your parents died?”
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I stared at him in silence, shredding the coupons into smaller and smaller bits;
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broken-up pictures of detergents and meat packs and paper towels fell to the floor.
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“Besides, with the way things are messed up back home, what would you have
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done?” he asked. “Aren’t people with master’s degrees roaming the streets, jobless?”
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His voice was flat.
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“Why did you marry me?” I asked.
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“I wanted a Nigerian wife and my mother said you were a good girl, quiet. She said
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you might even be a virgin.” He smiled. He looked even more tired when he smiled.
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“I probably should tell her how wrong she was.”
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I threw more coupons on the floor, clasped my hands together, and dug my nails into
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my skin.
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“I was happy when I saw your picture,” he said, smacking his lips. “You were light-
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skinned. I had to think about my children’s looks. Light-skinned blacks fare better in
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America.”
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I watched him eat the rest of the batter-covered chicken, and I noticed that he did not
80
finish chewing before he took a sip of water.


(968 words)
[Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi: “The Arrangers of Marriage.” In: The Thing Around Your Neck. London: Harper Collins 2009, pp. 167–184]

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