The cat’s head that middle sister finds in the ruins of a collapsed church represents the pervasiveness of violence—and gender-based violence in particular—throughout her community. It also symbolizes the obstacles that prevent her from retaliating against that violence. The novel’s opening link cats with femininity as middle sister recalls Somebody McSomebody aiming a gun at her and calling her a cat. Later, when middle sister finds that cat’s head, she describes how her community treats cats like vermin and places no respect on their lives. The language she uses to describe the town’s attitude toward cats is distinctly feminine, further solidifying this symbolic connection between cats and femininity. Middle sister describes how men and boys, in particular, sadistically torture cats. Though middle sister would not join in herself, she also would not say anything about their behavior. Just as the young boys and men torture cats, so too do they torture women, as Somebody McSomebody and Milkman demonstrate throughout the novel. To them, middle sister is something to be played with, abused, and eventually discarded when she is no longer wanted.
Middle sister knows her community links cats with femininity, and when she sees the cat’s head in the collapsed church, she suddenly changes her mindset. She realizes she has become numb to the violence that pervades her community and tries to make a small difference by finding the cat’s head a better resting place. But the community’s response to middle sister’s act of compassion and justice shows why it is difficult for individuals to rally against system injustices. When middle sister’s community learns that she was spotted carrying the cat head, a rumor begins to spread that middle sister is a freak who wanders around carrying cats heads for no apparent reason. This response demonstrates how the threat of social ostracization inhibits individuals from resisting violence and challenging behaviors they perceive as flawed, unjust, or oppressive.
The Cat’s Head Quotes in Milkman
Cats are not adoring like dogs. They don’t care. They can never be relied upon to shore up a human ego. They go their way, do their thing, are not subservient and will never apologise. No one has ever come across a cat apologising and if a cat did, it would patently be obvious it was not being sincere. As for dead cats – as in the deliberate killing of cats, killing them as a matter of course – I have come across that many times. The days of my childhood was when I would come across it, during the time cats were vermin, subversive, witch-like, the left hand, bad luck, feminine – though no one ever came out and levelled the feminine except during drunkenness with the drunkenness – should violence then ensue towards some hapless female – later being blamed for the cause.
First thing that happened was again I got those spine shivers, those scrabblings, the scuttlings, all that shiddery-shudderiness inside me, from the bottom of my backbone right into my legs. Instinctively everything in me then stopped. Just stopped. All my mechanism. I did not move and he did not move. Standing there, neither of us moved, nor spoke, then he spoke, saying, ‘At your Greek and Roman class, were you?’ and this was the only thing, ever, in his profiling of me that the milkman got wrong.
So, said my spontaneity, maybe-boyfriend was my maybe-boyfriend; Milkman was not my lover. At the time of affirming this conviction, the resurgence of truth felt lucid and uplifting. Somewhat unaware in my feverish excitement that instead of lucidity and upliftment, however, I might instead be swinging from one extreme of despondency and powerlessness over to the other extreme of sudden and incongruous jollity, I scribbled a note for wee sisters. It said, ‘Put on your nightclothes. I’ll be back later to read you Hardy as promised.’ With that, I threw on my jacket and rushed to the bus-stop up the road.