'The Grapes of Wrath' by John Steinbeck (Chapters 16 - 30)

 Warning: Spoilers. We're discussing Part 2.

'Okie used to mean you was from Oklahoma. Now it means you're a dirty son-of-a-bitch.'

Whew, this second half of the novel is the disillusioning section in which the Joad family realise that they, among thousands of others, are victims of callous, widespread exploitation. Fobbed off in their home state to seek work in California, they discover their golden destination is an inhospitable zone where they are taken advantage of by greedy landowners and despised by the general population, who resent their willingness to work for a pittance. Employers collude with police and bank sharks to keep workers from the Dust Bowl destitute and ripped off.

The gut-wrenching quality of Steinbeck's writing is that we all know but for being born in a different place and time, we could be the Joads. Which of us has never been shunted from one government department to another, seeking resolution of our issues from people who don't really care? Here we have the most extreme example, leading to wholesale homelessness and starvation for thousands. The nation of America has let down its precious citizens, and Steinbeck aims to make sure everyone knows it. 

I feel we can't help but appreciate his main character Tom, that master of straight-talk. He's rough around the edges, to say the least, but his refusal to sugarcoat his insights is good for those at the receiving end. Tom zooms directly in on people's blind spots and tells them pointed home truths they'd be wise to take on board. Whether it's the one-eyed chap at the used car yard (clean up your act, make the best of things and move on) or his own spiky, defensive younger brother ('Goddamn it Al, don't keep your guard up when nobody ain't sparrin' with ya'), Tom gets to the crux. His social conscience is fired up by the end of the novel to do his utmost for downtrodden victims of a corrupt system. Even his mother recognises that he's different from the others, in his burgeoning passion for social justice. 'Everythin' you do is more'n you.' 

Tom's dilemma may well form the heart of the novel. He knows he's breaking his parole conditions by moving out of Oklahoma but figures that if he keeps his nose clean and doesn't get into trouble with the law, nobody will ever be any the wiser. Yet alas, it's not that simple. Tom never anticipates the possibility that the agents of law themselves may be upholding something that's rotten to the core. It turns out holding his peace will be incompatible with holding his head high as a decent man. To avoid his own soul being tainted by the corruption at large, Tom must risk his personal safety by making waves.   

I'm touched by the spiritual hunger in the collective human heart. That other concerned humanitarian soul, Jim Casy, keeps reminding people that he's no longer a preacher, yet they still keep requesting words of prayer, benedictions and blessings. And Casy realises that providing what they ask for is neither hypocritical nor pretentious as he feared, but the humane thing to do. Saying a brief, heartfelt prayer is benevolent balm for those who crave comfort and meaning for their plight, which is almost everyone they come across. And arguably, that craving wouldn't be in the human heart if there was no means of fulfilling it.  

We don't even know what becomes of the Joads at the end. The desperate travel saga involves members of the family being picked off one by one for whatever reason, whether death, choice or necessity. Ma Joad is determined to be the glue that holds the family together, but her will is no match for eroding circumstances. They leave Oklahoma with 13 people on the truck, which is whittled down to just six by the end. Those they lose include Tom and Al, the only two drivers. The weather is turning wintry, which means nobody will hire workers at all for the next six months or so. So what happens to the half dozen left (not to mention those who have gone) is anyone's guess. 

All power to the Joad kids. Let's hope Noah settles down to make a simple but satisfactory life for himself by the Colorado River. And that Tom will dig into latent leadership genius to make an effective difference for his people. And that Rose of Sharon will continue to muster the heart of maternal compassion she uses in the final scene of the story to nurture those who need it. (My heart goes out to this girl. I don't think she was 'whinin' around candyin' herself', as Ma expresses, considering she was pregnant, nauseous, transient, starving, and her husband had just taken off and left her.) 

Let's hope that Al settles down to become a solid and reliable family head himself, and realises he has nothing to prove. And that the day will come when Winfield decides he's had a gutful of Ruthie using him as her prop to big-note herself into believing she's cool and cocky. Also that Ruthie herself realises a gentler, more generous approach may see her better through life. These two youngest Joads are an interesting little pair.

Above all, let's hope a day will come when the family needn't wonder where their next bite of food is coming from. 

Have I changed my opinion about this book from the time I loathed it as a school text? Heck yes! This is clearly a fantastic epic that served a noble purpose and deserves nothing less than five stars. Ma tells both Al and Rose of Sharon on separate occasions that they're too young to really 'get it.' I think the same thing applied to me as a 17-year-old English student. This far down the track, the whole thing moves my middle-aged heart. The image that remains with me is that of Uncle John launching Rose of Sharon's stillborn baby down the flooded river in an apple crate, to speak powerfully and silently for his people like a little dead Moses.  

See here for Part 1 (Chapters 1-15)

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