Irony And Theme In “The Lottery”

LESSON 7: THE SCAPEGOAT ARCHETYPE

“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson

LEARNING GOALS:

R1. read and demonstrate an understanding of a variety of literary, informational, and graphic texts, using a range of strategies to

construct meaning;

R2. recognize a variety of text forms, text features, and stylistic elements and demonstrate understanding of how they help

communicate meaning;

R3. use knowledge of words and cueing systems to read fluently

W1. generate, gather, and organize ideas and information to write for an intended purpose and audience;

W2. draft and revise their writing, using a variety of literary, informational, and graphic forms and stylistic elements appropriate

for the purpose and audience;

W3. use editing, proofreading, and publishing skills and strategies, and knowledge of language conventions, to correct errors,

refine expression, and present their work effectively;

M1. demonstrate an understanding of a variety of media texts;

M2. identify some media forms and explain how the conventions and techniques associated with them are used to create

meaning;

M4. Reflecting on Skills and Strategies: reflect on and identify their strengths as media interpreters and creators, areas for

improvement, and the strategies they found most helpful in understanding and creating media texts

SUCCESS CRITERIA:

Successfully complete the questions

 

Reflecting on Literary Concepts: The Scapegoat

 

BEFORE CONTINUING, BE SURE THAT YOU HAVE VIEWED THE POWER POINT

PRESENTATION OF THE SCAPEGOAT ARCHETYPE

 

TASK

 

This story is the product of writer Shirley Jackson’s imagination and it was written during the

mid 1940s during her residence in North Bennington, Vermont. Jackson got the idea for this

story while wheeling her young children up the hill in their stroller coming home from a trip to

the little village one day. When she got home, she managed to get the story down In writing

while it was fresh in her mind. At the time it was published, she received a tremendous volume

of mail inquiring into the origin and factual basis of the story. Therefore, we have the author’s

word that it is a fictional account of the scapegoat scenario.

 

Read “The Lottery” and note your impression.

1. What is the irony of the text’s title? How do the fundamentals of “a lottery” (i.e. the various

state run “Jackpot” lotteries) differ and relate to the one portrayed in this story?

 

2. Articulate responses to the following:

 

• Evaluate the complex ritual of the lottery. Why does this town feel obligated to continue the tradition that causes such an end to one of their own?

 

 

• How might you analyse Mrs. Hutchinson’s characterization as she joins the assembly? At this point, what is the attitude between Mrs. Delacroix’s toward her? How does this

compare to the end of the story? What does complex relationship suggest in terms of

their relationship and the ritual?

• Consider the overall description and actions of Mr. Summers. What is his role in the proceedings? How does his characterization aid in developing the complex and

suggestive meaning of the ritual?

 

• What is the implication behind Old Man Warner’s remark, “it’s not the way it used to be. People ain’t the way they used to be,” as the Hutchinson’s make the final draw? What is

Mrs. Hutchinson’s demeanor at the end of the story? What is your reaction to this

outcome?

3. Decide what the author is trying to uncover about human nature and social order. What is the

theme for this text?

 

 

The Lottery

By Shirley Jackson

 

 

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer

day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the

village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock;

in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started

on June 2th. but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole

lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be

through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the

feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while

before they broke into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher,

of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the

other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and

Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix– the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”–eventually

made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the

other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at

rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain,

tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their

jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses

and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits

of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands,

began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or

five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to

the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place

between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted–as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween

program–by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a

round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because

he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black

wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called.

“Little late today, folks.” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged

stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down

on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. and

when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?” there was a hesitation

before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the box steady on

the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now

resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town,

was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one

liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story

that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one

that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year,

 

 

after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject

was allowed to fade off without anything’s being done. The black box grew shabbier each year:

by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the

original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr.

Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had

been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper

substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr.

Summers had argued. had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the

population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use

something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr.

Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then

taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’ coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready

to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one

place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves’s barn and another year underfoot

in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open.

There were the lists to make up–of heads of families. heads of households in each family.

members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers

by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had

been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant

that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery

used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk

among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse.

There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing

each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now

it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers

was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans. with one hand resting carelessly

on the black box. he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves

and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs.

Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders,

and slid into place in the back of the crowd. “Clean forgot what day it was,” she said to Mrs.

Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. “Thought my old man was out

back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on. “and then I looked out the window and the kids

was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running.” She dried

her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, “You’re in time, though. They’re still talking

away up there.”

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and

children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began

to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through:

two or three people said. in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, “Here comes

your, Missus, Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all.” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her

husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. “Thought we were going

to have to get on without you, Tessie.” Mrs. Hutchinson said. grinning, “Wouldn’t have me

leave m’dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?,” and soft laughter ran through the crowd as

 

 

the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival.

“Well, now.” Mr. Summers said soberly, “guess we better get started, get this over with,

so’s we can go back to work. Anybody ain’t here?”

“Dunbar.” several people said. “Dunbar. Dunbar.”

Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar.” he said. “That’s right. He’s broke his leg,

hasn’t he? Who’s drawing for him?”

“Me. I guess,” a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife draws for her

husband.” Mr. Summers said. “Don’t you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although

Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the

business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with

an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

“Horace’s not but sixteen vet.” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta fill in for the

old man this year.”

“Right.” Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked,

“Watson boy drawing this year?”

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I m drawing for my mother and

me.” He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said

thin#s like “Good fellow, lack.” and “Glad to see your mother’s got a man to do it.”

“Well,” Mr. Summers said, “guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?”

“Here,” a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list.

“All ready?” he called. “Now, I’ll read the names–heads of families first–and the men come up

and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until

everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?”

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of

them were quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand

high and said, “Adams.” A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. “Hi.

Steve.” Mr. Summers said. and Mr. Adams said. “Hi. Joe.” They grinned at one another

humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded

paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the

crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking down at his hand.

“Allen.” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson…. Bentham.”

“Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries any more.” Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs.

Graves in the back row.

“Seems like we got through with the last one only last week.”

“Time sure goes fast.– Mrs. Graves said.

“Clark…. Delacroix”

“There goes my old man.” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went

forward.

“Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the

women said. “Go on. Janey,” and another said, “There she goes.”

“We’re next.” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side

of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all

through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand. turning

them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar

holding the slip of paper.

 

 

“Harburt…. Hutchinson.”

“Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed.

“Jones.”

“They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, “that over in

the north village they’re talking of giving up the lottery.”

Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the young folks,

nothing’s good enough for them. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living

in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about ‘Lottery

in June, corn be heavy soon.’ First thing you know, we’d all be eating stewed chickweed and

acorns. There’s always been a lottery,” he added petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe

Summers up there joking with everybody.”

“Some places have already quit lotteries.” Mrs. Adams said.

“Nothing but trouble in that,” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young fools.”

“Martin.” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke…. Percy.”

“I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d hurry.”

“They’re almost through,” her son said.

“You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip

from the box. Then he called, “Warner.”

“Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went through the

crowd. “Seventy-seventh time.”

“Watson” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, “Don’t be

nervous, Jack,” and Mr. Summers said, “Take your time, son.”

“Zanini.”

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip

of paper in the air, said, “All right, fellows.” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips

of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. “Who is it?,”

“Who’s got it?,” “Is it the Dunbars?,” “Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices began to say, “It’s

Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill Hutchinson’s got it.”

“Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet,

staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers.

“You didn’t give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair!”

“Be a good sport, Tessie.” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, “All of us took the

same chance.”

“Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said, “that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve got to be

hurrying a little more to get done in time.” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said, “you draw

for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?”

“There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make them take their chance!”

“Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said gently. “You

know that as well as anyone else.”

“It wasn’t fair,” Tessie said.

“I guess not, Joe.” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with her husband’s

family; that’s only fair. And I’ve got no other family except the kids.”

“Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers said in

 

 

explanation, “and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?”

“Right,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally.

“Three,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“There’s Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me.”

“All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?”

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,” Mr.

Summers directed. “Take Bill’s and put it in.”

“I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. “I tell you

it wasn’t fair. You didn’t give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that.”

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the

papers but those onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

“Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

“Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at

his wife and children. nodded.

“Remember,” Mr. Summers said. “take the slips and keep them folded until each person

has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave.” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who

came willingly with him up to the box. “Take a paper out of the box, Davy.” Mr. Summers said.

Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper.” Mr. Summers said. “Harry,

you hold it for him.” Mr. Graves took the child’s hand and removed the folded paper from the

tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

“Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed

heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box “Bill, Jr.,”

Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as

he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around

defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it

behind her.

“Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around,

bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, “I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound of the

whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

“It’s not the way it used to be.” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t the way they

used to be.”

“All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave’s.”

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he

held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the

same time. and both beamed and laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding their slips

of paper above their heads.

“Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill

Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

“It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper. Bill.”

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a

black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil

in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.

“All right, folks.” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.”

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still

 

 

remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were

stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix

selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. “Come

on,” she said. “Hurry up.”

Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath. “I can’t run at

all. You’ll have to go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.”

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out

desperately as the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side

of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in

the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.