It has often been argued that the definition of a monster is something inhuman, something or someone who has no regard for life and nature and that which is good. Many times in literature or movies, the word monster is used to refer to men how have done horrible things: rape, murder, mass genocide. The weight that this word carries is many times undermined by things such as Halloween costumes or children’s cartoon characters. However, the fact still remains that a true monster is evil, inhumane, and lacks remorse or caring for things that a normal, emotional human being should care for. The term monster lacks what many believe to be the necessary requirements someone needs to be considered human. In Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, there is such a being that many times was called a creature because he lacked the physical characteristics necessary to be recognized by those around him as a human being. This is something that cannot be disputed, as he is described in the book being quite hideous. “His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and straight black lips” (60). Clearly the creation was far from physically beautiful, as Frankenstein had originally intended for him to be. However, does that mean that he should not be considered as a human inside? There is one undeniable fact above all that makes the monster human, and the question to be answered is not whether or not he is humane. Before this question of the monster’s humanity can be answered, let us first look at what it meant in the early 1800’s to be considered human, a functioning member of society.
The key point to examine here is that the monster’s humanity is defined by his ability to learn and use language. In Henry Kames’s Sketches of the History of Man, Kames claims that language is one way of determining a man’s station in life, and that the “manners of a particular people may be gathered from their language,” even to the point of individual words. The monster, as his character progresses through the novel, clearly becomes more likeable, not to mention understandable, as he learns to communicate with words. It is easy to see that despite his horrid outward appearance, he is really a loving and loveable individual, at least at first. His personality is one that cares for others and longs for acceptance and a family. This is evident later in the novel in his first conversations with Victor, and in his first (and last) conversation with the Old DeLacey. Upon his initial separation from Victor Frankenstein, the monster had not learned any language. It was through his watching and listening to the DeLaceys that he learned to speak French, the language of the area. Then he taught himself to read through the discovery of three books, one each by Milton, Goethe, and Plutarch. Each of these three books exposed him to a different aspect of human life, and enabled him to gain an even better grasp on language than he already had. As a side note, the language that the monster learned to speak was French. Kames had something to say about the French language specifically in his book, saying that it is a language in which every man is “…politely submissive to those above him; and this tone forms the character of the language in general, so as even to regulate the tone of the few who have occasion to speak with authority.” Even when the monster is speaking in an authoritative manner to Frankenstein (who, while he [Frankenstein] was above him at one point, quickly became even to the monster in terms of rhetorical banter), he remains well spoken and seems to stay calm in demeanor. This alone should be enough to suggest that the monster is indeed human. However, there are other scholars with far more clout that I would begin to claim who have thought the same.
The first critique by Percy Shelley of his wife’s work suggests that the novel presents the moral of “Treat a person ill, and he will become wicked.” This is a theme that is very prevalent throughout the entirety of the book, and one that supports the idea that the monster is indeed a human who started out as inherently good, and eventually was forced to turn to his wicked ways as a direct result of society’s far less than satisfactory treatment of him. More specifically, the blatant rejection he faced at the hands of his own creator led the monster to become vengeful, and display that vengeance through the murder of those closest to Victor. These actions were described by Shelley as “irresistible obligations” imposed upon him by the poor treatment to which he was subjected. This certainly suggests that the monster, though he could not be considered anything near humane at this point, still maintained his sense of humanity. He was able to intelligently and succinctly describe to Frankenstein not only his own personal desires, but the consequences of those desires not being sated. This is an ability that surely suggests the humanity of the monster is very, very real.
In his essay entitled “Disruptive affects: shame, disgust, and sympathy in Frankenstein,” James Hatch explores the presence of said concepts in the novel, and how the relate to the development of the monster. In his introduction, the author claims that “…the outside of the creature – ugly and disgusting – is judged by the people he meets to be his inside (which in fact is sensitive and benevolent, and this ideally human and humane)…” Now while I don’t claim to support the notion that the monster is in any way still humane at the end of the story (if you can defend the notion that the story ends), his humanity is more apparent than ever through his deep sorrow, grief, and regret upon Victor’s death, illustrated by his own desire to die. The monster was inherently human because he was created as such by Victor. Victor simply neglected to train his creation up in the ways of Man, and therefore the creature had to learn such things on his own. This in no way should detract from the inherent humanity of the monster.
Lastly, let me not suggest that the language of the monster in any way defines his humanity. Instead, the language of the monster, and his usage of it, allows him to prove his own humanity to the reader through his use of eloquent prose to express his very human desires and emotions. His use of language was not meant to separate him from the other creatures of the forest in which he sequestered himself; it was meant to give him a means through which he could define himself as a man amongst a world who did not think him so. On a satiric note, Jane Wagner once said “I personally believe that we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.” Though this quote is tongue-in-cheek, it describes well what the monster needed language to do: Complain that he was neither being accepted nor treated as the man that he truly was.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Helicopter Leaves
Just about everyone has seen a sugar maple tree. I’ll bet you have, even if you didn’t know it. Sugar maples are the trees with “helicopter leaves.” These emerald blades are not leaves, but seeds, or seed pods to be more precise. They hang in pairs, like angel wings. Taken apart, they make a wonderful child’s toy with which my brother and I would spend hours playing outside. Take a leaf and throw it up in the air, it spirals down, flitting to the ground. Toss it up, spiral down…uuupppp, spiralspiralspiralspiral down. For some reason this simple activity will entertain 4 and 6 year old boys for a good hour at a time. It can be done over and over again; the leaf doesn’t ever want to stop. Flitting through the air is what it was designed to do. The only reason the leaf has to stop is because the person throwing it gets tired or bored or disenchanted with the silly arboreal appendage. There is a negative aspect, though, to removing the leaf and using it as your personal plaything. Once that leaf is removed from the tree, it is dead. It may not be apparent for a few days, but eventually the leaf will dry out, turn brown, and crack. After this happens, the leaf can no longer fly. It certainly occurred that my brother and I would go outside towards the end of fall, as the last few leaves were barely hanging on to their branches, and try to find some helicopter leaves to throw up into the brisk air, hoping to float them on our breath clouds. But the leaves did not fly. The few that we found were thrown up, and fell like cruelly winged stones. We left them there, and there they will stay. They will sit on the ground, becoming mixed in with the rest of Mother Nature’s detritus and eventually will no longer be recognizable as helicopter leaves.
Call me cynical, but far too often people’s feelings are treated as helicopter leaves. Removed from their tree and used as a plaything to satisfy someone’s need for entertainment, they perform so well until the player is through with the playee and leaves the “seed” on the ground after that last throw. Sure, there are more seeds on the tree so that when someone feels the need to be entertained again, he can just go and grab a handful. But eventually the seeds are going to run out.
Everyone has had moments in their life when they feel as though their emotions have been treated like helicopter leaves. Unfortunately, it is just such an experience that led me to come up with this comparison. For two years I gave myself to her, gave everything that I could. In actuality, looking back, I gave way more than I needed to. She is the kind of person who unknowingly seeks out helicopter leaves to play with because she is too afraid to let others play with her own. Who knows exactly why; maybe it is the influence of her mother, her father, her ex’s (the ranks of which I am now a part of). It took me two years, but I realized that I no longer had any more helicopter leaves to give away. I would not, could not let myself be left bare. It is difficult, though, to realize that your leaves are slowly being plucked off, and many times not noticed till it is too late.
I had broken up with her once already. Telling the woman that I was in love with that I couldn’t be with her anymore is quite possibly the most difficult thing I have had to do in my life so far. I was tired of the double standards and the constant disappointments and the inadequacies. But of course, as I had been conditioned to do in the relationship, I backed down and asked, begged for her back. She took me, but not without reasserting her control over the relationship. I warily gave it to her, hoping that things would change for the better. If only I held on to the fact that I knew people don’t change for others, but only for themselves. If she didn’t see anything as a problem, then why should she fix it, right?
The week for which we had been back together had been a good one. We were slowly getting over things. She couldn’t stay at my house, nor I at hers, because it was still “too difficult” (her words, not mine…I desperately wanted to hold her through the night). I was leaving for a week long tour, and she was going home. We knew that when we returned to Harrisonburg things would be returning to “normal” again, but for now that seemed so far away. “Normal” came before the return, and that was much too soon. Even halfway across the country I was already doing things wrong. How can someone so easily find fault in such an amazing thing? The clincher came towards the middle of the week. We had just returned to Virginia from Connecticut. It had driven straight through from Hartford to Fairfax, and the first stop was dinner. It was March, and the streets were covered in a sheet of ice, making the roads and parking lots treacherous. It was her birthday. My first mistake had been staying up until three o’clock in the morning with the group and not calling her at midnight. I had woken up at 10:00 am and jumped straight in the shower, missing two phone calls from her in the process.
“I’m sorry, baby…I guess I just don’t tend to think of it as the next day until I have slept. No, of course I didn’t forget your birthday. I have to get on the road; I will call you later tonight.”
Dinner, beers, chatting…it soon became eleven o’clock in the evening and it was time to drive home. It was at this point I received a text message. “I’m going to bed. If you’re going to call me, do it now.” We went outside, and I called her. I gathered the guys together in the freezing cold, ice-covered parking lot and we sang “Happy Birthday” to her over the phone. She then wanted to talk with her roommate who happened to be touring with us as well. In the fifteen minutes they talked, everyone decided to load up and head out to our respective places of sleep for the evening. I got the phone back.
“Baby, I know you said you wanted to go to sleep, and I have to drive again and I don’t know where I am going so I have to get off the phone. I love you very much. Happy Birthday, and sleep well. I will talk to you tomorrow.”
…Slight Pause…
“Well an ‘I Miss You’ would be nice…” That was her response. After the singing and the ‘I love you’s and the sweet dreams she still finds something that I didn’t do adequately. Honestly, what the fuck? It was then that I knew that it wasn’t going to work out…I never should have given in to the feelings of missing her and us and what we had. Those feelings were inevitable, and they were going to come after I ended it with her for the second time as well. Stupid me…stupid her…stupid love. We spent an hour on the phone later that night, when I should have been hanging out with my friends, talking about us and the weekend to come. I didn’t tell her on the phone, but I knew the decision I had to re-make. Dammit, Blaine…
So now what? Just as the tree no longer has seeds on it to play with, the emotions of the “tree” are no longer green and fun. They are lifeless, lying on the ground in dry, brown clumps. Throwing them up into the air will result in them simply falling back down limply to the ground. Those seeds are also useless for planting…they won’t grow anything at all. And here is a secondary dilemma that results from a lack of helicopter leaves: he who desires entertainment, craves entertainment, is now without a source. It’s a lose-lose situation, with one person clearly losing far more than the other. I am not exactly sure what she feels that she has lost, but I lost my first love. I lost the woman I had wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I lost my ability to open myself up. I lost my comfort with relationships. And what did I gain? Bitterness, fear of relationships, and a slowly growing anger that has yet to be put to rest.
Of course, there are more trees, and the entertainment-craver can certainly find another tree from which to pluck seeds. But what about the first victim of seed-stealing? Should another person come along and want to play even responsibly with the helicopter leaves, there is nothing left for the tree to give. It is fruitless, with nothing to offer now or in the future through the plantings of seeds of joy, acceptance, comfort. The tree has been ruined. Certainly the tree will sprout new seeds, and certainly another person will come along to play with them. But during the time in between, all are unhappy. Be careful when you play with helicopter leaves. Don’t take advantage of the entertainment they can provide because despite the eventual return, being seedless is bad for everyone, especially the tree.
My helicopter leaves are slowly growing back, but there is no throwing them up, no spiraling down, no pure and untainted happiness at the wonders of passion and sentiment. How great it would be to once again innocently be throwing them up with my little brother, having the respect of a child for the wonders of nature. But my leaves…my leaves will stay on the branches until I am ready for them to be enjoyed.
Call me cynical, but far too often people’s feelings are treated as helicopter leaves. Removed from their tree and used as a plaything to satisfy someone’s need for entertainment, they perform so well until the player is through with the playee and leaves the “seed” on the ground after that last throw. Sure, there are more seeds on the tree so that when someone feels the need to be entertained again, he can just go and grab a handful. But eventually the seeds are going to run out.
Everyone has had moments in their life when they feel as though their emotions have been treated like helicopter leaves. Unfortunately, it is just such an experience that led me to come up with this comparison. For two years I gave myself to her, gave everything that I could. In actuality, looking back, I gave way more than I needed to. She is the kind of person who unknowingly seeks out helicopter leaves to play with because she is too afraid to let others play with her own. Who knows exactly why; maybe it is the influence of her mother, her father, her ex’s (the ranks of which I am now a part of). It took me two years, but I realized that I no longer had any more helicopter leaves to give away. I would not, could not let myself be left bare. It is difficult, though, to realize that your leaves are slowly being plucked off, and many times not noticed till it is too late.
I had broken up with her once already. Telling the woman that I was in love with that I couldn’t be with her anymore is quite possibly the most difficult thing I have had to do in my life so far. I was tired of the double standards and the constant disappointments and the inadequacies. But of course, as I had been conditioned to do in the relationship, I backed down and asked, begged for her back. She took me, but not without reasserting her control over the relationship. I warily gave it to her, hoping that things would change for the better. If only I held on to the fact that I knew people don’t change for others, but only for themselves. If she didn’t see anything as a problem, then why should she fix it, right?
The week for which we had been back together had been a good one. We were slowly getting over things. She couldn’t stay at my house, nor I at hers, because it was still “too difficult” (her words, not mine…I desperately wanted to hold her through the night). I was leaving for a week long tour, and she was going home. We knew that when we returned to Harrisonburg things would be returning to “normal” again, but for now that seemed so far away. “Normal” came before the return, and that was much too soon. Even halfway across the country I was already doing things wrong. How can someone so easily find fault in such an amazing thing? The clincher came towards the middle of the week. We had just returned to Virginia from Connecticut. It had driven straight through from Hartford to Fairfax, and the first stop was dinner. It was March, and the streets were covered in a sheet of ice, making the roads and parking lots treacherous. It was her birthday. My first mistake had been staying up until three o’clock in the morning with the group and not calling her at midnight. I had woken up at 10:00 am and jumped straight in the shower, missing two phone calls from her in the process.
“I’m sorry, baby…I guess I just don’t tend to think of it as the next day until I have slept. No, of course I didn’t forget your birthday. I have to get on the road; I will call you later tonight.”
Dinner, beers, chatting…it soon became eleven o’clock in the evening and it was time to drive home. It was at this point I received a text message. “I’m going to bed. If you’re going to call me, do it now.” We went outside, and I called her. I gathered the guys together in the freezing cold, ice-covered parking lot and we sang “Happy Birthday” to her over the phone. She then wanted to talk with her roommate who happened to be touring with us as well. In the fifteen minutes they talked, everyone decided to load up and head out to our respective places of sleep for the evening. I got the phone back.
“Baby, I know you said you wanted to go to sleep, and I have to drive again and I don’t know where I am going so I have to get off the phone. I love you very much. Happy Birthday, and sleep well. I will talk to you tomorrow.”
…Slight Pause…
“Well an ‘I Miss You’ would be nice…” That was her response. After the singing and the ‘I love you’s and the sweet dreams she still finds something that I didn’t do adequately. Honestly, what the fuck? It was then that I knew that it wasn’t going to work out…I never should have given in to the feelings of missing her and us and what we had. Those feelings were inevitable, and they were going to come after I ended it with her for the second time as well. Stupid me…stupid her…stupid love. We spent an hour on the phone later that night, when I should have been hanging out with my friends, talking about us and the weekend to come. I didn’t tell her on the phone, but I knew the decision I had to re-make. Dammit, Blaine…
So now what? Just as the tree no longer has seeds on it to play with, the emotions of the “tree” are no longer green and fun. They are lifeless, lying on the ground in dry, brown clumps. Throwing them up into the air will result in them simply falling back down limply to the ground. Those seeds are also useless for planting…they won’t grow anything at all. And here is a secondary dilemma that results from a lack of helicopter leaves: he who desires entertainment, craves entertainment, is now without a source. It’s a lose-lose situation, with one person clearly losing far more than the other. I am not exactly sure what she feels that she has lost, but I lost my first love. I lost the woman I had wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I lost my ability to open myself up. I lost my comfort with relationships. And what did I gain? Bitterness, fear of relationships, and a slowly growing anger that has yet to be put to rest.
Of course, there are more trees, and the entertainment-craver can certainly find another tree from which to pluck seeds. But what about the first victim of seed-stealing? Should another person come along and want to play even responsibly with the helicopter leaves, there is nothing left for the tree to give. It is fruitless, with nothing to offer now or in the future through the plantings of seeds of joy, acceptance, comfort. The tree has been ruined. Certainly the tree will sprout new seeds, and certainly another person will come along to play with them. But during the time in between, all are unhappy. Be careful when you play with helicopter leaves. Don’t take advantage of the entertainment they can provide because despite the eventual return, being seedless is bad for everyone, especially the tree.
My helicopter leaves are slowly growing back, but there is no throwing them up, no spiraling down, no pure and untainted happiness at the wonders of passion and sentiment. How great it would be to once again innocently be throwing them up with my little brother, having the respect of a child for the wonders of nature. But my leaves…my leaves will stay on the branches until I am ready for them to be enjoyed.
The Father
His large stature belies the true size of his heart. His arms are invariably strong and reassuring, able to cradle and comfort as equally as they are able to reprimand and convict (though not condemn). More than once they held a sobbing boy struggling to get through the friendless throes of middle school. His legs are thick and burly, powerful enough to launch his children onto his bed in a game, but quick enough to catch them should they unknowingly stray into the street in front of the house, or to chase off a stray dog that was slowly coming towards his two-year-old daughter.
His belly is slightly rounded, comfortable for a small child to sit on and pudgy enough for an older son to lovingly tease, but nowhere near “fat.” His hair, once black, curly, and thick as moss, now resembles the sprinklings of salt and pepper shakers, the remainder buzzed almost to the skin to coincide with the loss thereof; a shiny patch where hair allegedly grew once provided a mirror in which his children, in their younger and more inconsiderate days, could check their own hair, much to his chagrin. He could not rest on the couch watching the news after a long day at work without hearing giggling behind him and turning to see one or both of his sons fixing their own hair in the back of his head. Then, of course, showing his children pictures of him when he was younger, sporting a relatively substantial afro in the 1970’s did not stop the giggles. The hair on his face is a shape-shifter all of its own: beard, mustache, goatee, but always something. The one time it was nothing, he was unrecognizable to his son. He had a mustache, thick and black, when his son left the house that morning for church; when he caught up a bit later all was gone. Who was this strange man sitting next to the boy’s mother? Where is father?
His teeth, once gapped in the middle, are now fixed by the wonders of modern dentistry, though still stained by all the coffee father drank at work, at home, at restaurants. Coffee was the fuel to allow for provision to the family. His deep blue eyes, the ones he gave to all his children, hide behind small spectacles, enabling him to read short bedtime stories to the young children and check the report cards and homework of the older ones. His laugh is thick and hearty, like the Dinty Moore beef stew he used to eat and share one (just one) bite with his son. He is quite tall, his head brushing against the roof of the car he would one day give to his eldest, only to see it crushed on the way to school. See, one would assume that in a man that size all would be proportionate, but the heart…the heart is disproportionately bigger.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Food for thought...
So I did some reading today and found out that the voice in the new Levi's ad, the one with the really cool "America" montage in the background and that strong, emotive voice reading some poetry in the background...that is allegedly the voice of one Walt Whitman, cleaned up from a wax cylinder recording from the 1880s. How sweet is that!? The voice of Mr. Whitman...what a cool thing to hear.
But the article I read, which can be found here, had a really cool quote that I want to highlight.
"Interestingly, the most expensive pair of jeans that Levi's sells -- the Landmine, $238 -- carries that price tag partly because it recreates the worn, faded, torn look that has become so prized in jeans. The Levi's brand originally took off because its workpants were more durable than other clothing of the period, but you spend more today for the look people back then were trying to avoid: wear and tear."
Remember in the early 2000's when wearing jeans with holes and stains and tears started to become popular, especially in the "preppy" brands like A&F and American Eagle? I think this quote sums up best what I think of those, even though I was guilty of purchasing the same jeans for the sake of wearing the popular clothes of the time. Shame on me...
But the article I read, which can be found here, had a really cool quote that I want to highlight.
"Interestingly, the most expensive pair of jeans that Levi's sells -- the Landmine, $238 -- carries that price tag partly because it recreates the worn, faded, torn look that has become so prized in jeans. The Levi's brand originally took off because its workpants were more durable than other clothing of the period, but you spend more today for the look people back then were trying to avoid: wear and tear."
Remember in the early 2000's when wearing jeans with holes and stains and tears started to become popular, especially in the "preppy" brands like A&F and American Eagle? I think this quote sums up best what I think of those, even though I was guilty of purchasing the same jeans for the sake of wearing the popular clothes of the time. Shame on me...
Friday, March 6, 2009
A Midsummer Night's Dream
I had to opportunity to go on a field trip with a large number of students down to Blackfriar's Playhouse in Staunton, VA. For those of you who don't know what this wonderful place is, it is the only recreation of Shakespeare's Globe theater in the world. That's right, the world's only recreation of Shakespeare's famous playhouse is in Staunton, VA. What an incredible thing to be able to take advantage of if you live in this area. Yesterday was the third show I have seen there; the performed "A Midsummer Night's Dream." If you have the chance to make it down there before that play has run its course, I encourage you to do so. It was incredibly done. The acting is amazing, and character development is easy to follow, and the costuming is wonderfully done. However, I must warn you that it is incredibly risque at parts. Shakespeare was very sexual in his humor because he had to appeal to a wide variety of audience members. In his day, anyone would go to the theater, from the poorest urchins to the wealthiest noblemen and royalty, including the reigning monarch at that time. It was also acceptable for the audience to climb up on stage, even mid performance, and beat the bejesus out of the actors if they were not enjoying the production. To avoid the pummeling of his actors, and the pissing off of the noblemen, Shakespeare had a variety of humor in his plays. The current company has taken the liberty in their production to make some of the sexual tension and innuendos a bit more blatant.
They are also performing shows by people other than Shakespeare; they regularly do plays by Shakespeare's contemporaries. Currently, they are showing "Henry VI, Part 1" (also by Shakespeare), as well as "The Revenger's Tragedy" by Thomas Middleton, "The Changeling" by William Rowley and Thomas Middleton, and "The Blind Beggar of Alexandria" by George Chapman. I encourage anyone who has the chance to go down and see one of these shows. For more information, check out www.americanshakespearecenter.com.
They are also performing shows by people other than Shakespeare; they regularly do plays by Shakespeare's contemporaries. Currently, they are showing "Henry VI, Part 1" (also by Shakespeare), as well as "The Revenger's Tragedy" by Thomas Middleton, "The Changeling" by William Rowley and Thomas Middleton, and "The Blind Beggar of Alexandria" by George Chapman. I encourage anyone who has the chance to go down and see one of these shows. For more information, check out www.americanshakespearecenter.com.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Realization
My first piece that I am submitting for review is called "Realization." This is a piece of which I am particularly proud. The italicized portion is a short piece that I wrote with the same title, recounting an experience I had in college. The standard print portion surrounding it is a second essay that I wrote around the first one, examining the process of change in my own life, especially with my arrival at college. Feel free to comment however you like; I want the good, the bad, and the ugly. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Information included in this essay is no longer an accurate reflection of my life choices or extracurricular activities. Read this with an appreciation of the writing style, and take the information held within the words with a grain of salt.
Disclaimer: Information included in this essay is no longer an accurate reflection of my life choices or extracurricular activities. Read this with an appreciation of the writing style, and take the information held within the words with a grain of salt.
Realization
I wake up still feeling exhausted; it had been one of those nights when you truly believe that you are going to remember everything the next day, and then upon waking realize that the blur of thoughts coming back to your mind is nowhere close to the full collection of happenings from the night before. Craving some form of quick nourishment, but too tired and hung over to climb into my poor excuse of a car and drive to get a hot, fresh McMuffin, I stagger down the shaky ladder from my attic room, followed by a just a noisy but slightly less treacherous set of stairs, and drag my way into the kitchen.
It's funny how things that were important to us as children don't always remain so as we grow up. Likes and dislikes come and go as our tastes and preferences change; convictions waver in either direction, searching for a foothold in the crags and cracks of morality and ethics; the shell of the cicada cracks along the seam as we stretch and grow until we finally break through and press outward, each time leaving the shadow of our former self clinging to the tree trunk. But what if we don't see the shell? What if, for whatever reason, we are numb to the feeling of that cracking along our backs' seam and we don't know that something is different about us until it is too late and the shell has crumbled and blown away in the wind? If that change isn't apparent to the person who experienced it, did the change really occur? Webster's Thesaurus contains many synonyms for the word "change:" alteration, modification, mutation, variation, transformation, innovation...however, all of these still leave me with a kind of empty feeling inside. It's as though a switch has been flicked, and the light bulb is not burnt out, but for some odd reason the light doesn't come on.
A change is not simply the switching of something from one form to another. It is a realization of a new position, a conscious awareness of a difference in something, be it a belief, a stance, a desire. I've heard it said that people can "change without realizing it." But have they really changed? If a man doesn't realize that he is different, is he really different? No, because to himself he is the same person. Until he realizes that difference, he has not changed to himself, and therefore He is still He to him.
The light coming through the dusty window above the sink is annoying. Definitely annoying because of the underlying throbs of my headache, and disappointingly so because it is supposed to be a new day, slate wiped clean from last night's Dionysian revelry. I search through the cabinets and refrigerator, hoping to find something to satiate my unstable stomach, and come across two things I absolutely loved in my childhood: apple juice and raisins. Why they are in the kitchen, I have no idea, because I have not had either one since elementary school. I decide to settle, mostly because I don't care enough to keep scavenging through the cabinets, but also because I think it might be nice to reminisce. Happy thoughts of childhood may help to relieve the unwelcome throbbing in my head and the thankfully subsiding churning in my belly.
Mom and Dad raised me well. My home was safe and loving, with rules as solid as the walls of the house we lived in. They were with me, right? As I left my parents' home and entered the world of college, I kept with me the foundation of life that they had poured and did not for a moment thing of stepping off of it onto the shaky, unstable ground around me. The rules of home left me safe and secure: in by ten, no smoking and drinking, no dating until you are 16, and even then only "Christian" girls, and (of course) no movies with higher than a PG-13 rating. I had my vices - I was a smoker. A relatively heavy smoker at this point, sucking down at least half a pack of Camel Turkish Golds a day. But I still held onto the basic tenets of my Christian home: no drinking because I wasn't yet 21, no drugs because they are illegal and harmful, must go to church every Sunday ("try to find a ride down to that church in Staunton because it's affiliated with the same ministry as ours; we don't want you exposed to incorrect teaching").
I plop on the old tweed couch in the living room, sinking in far deeper than I am sure the manufacturers ever intended. No one should own a couch this old. As I open the bottle of juice and slide open the top of the box of raisins, I think back to the times in the kitchen I grew up in. I close my eyes and hunt through my mind for the memories, watching them not from my own toddler eyes, but from those of an outsider undetected by the actors playing out the scene. I see myself sitting in my high chair, a large crooked smile on my face, waiting impatiently for my favorite snack of apple juice and raisins. My mother fed this to me almost daily, and I couldn't get enough of them at that time. Apple juice and raisins: a mother's dream to gently quiet her child's cries for sustenance. Small, easy to transport in their Minute Maid juice boxes with the bendy straws and small, red Dole boxes with the smiling immigrant woman on the front. She could easily throw several of each in her purse for when the moment arrives that she knows will be coming anytime throughout the day, probably at the most inopportune time: the impending embarrassment of a very public and very vocal explosion emitting from her child's mouth. Every child loves them, every child eats them, and subsequently every child shuts up for at least enough time for the mother to finish her errands.
I held strong to my beliefs, did not let them go for an instant. While everyone else was out on Friday night, I stayed in to read or watch a movie with the other homebodies. I didn't need alcohol to have a good time. I didn't need to bring a girl back to my extra-long twin bed and wake my roommate up at three o'clock in the morning as I tried to unlock the door. I was still the same little boy, enjoying the things I always had and not needing to try new ones. I was full and content. I didn't need anything other than the words from my parents' mouths and the television or a good book on the weekends.
The image of my smiling face happily shoveling raisins into my mouth fades slowly from the view of my mind's eye as a rumble from my stomach brings me back to my harsh, present reality f hunger and headache. I take a sip of juice and pop a few raisins into my mouth, waiting for those happy memories to come flooding back as I prepare for my stomach to be silenced. However, this is not the case. As I chew slowly, a new thought enters my mind. It takes me a moment to realize what it is, but as I slowly put my finger on it, it becomes more and more apparent: apple juice and raisins are disgusting! They are simply pasteurized, processed perversions of the healthy and satisfying deliciousness that is apples and grapes. This apple juice is nothing more than tap water with a drop of apple flavoring and a bit of caramel coloring. Raisins are the cadavers of delicious red grapes. Who wants to eat cadavers? The thought is repugnant to say the least.
My change in taste for raisins and apple juice had not occurred until I realized that it had. If someone had asked me prior to that morning on my old tweed couch if I liked raisins or apple juice, my answer would have been yes. This would have been, of course, despite the fact that I had not had either in years. It was the tasting of each that made me realize tat I no longer cared for either, and that moment is when the change occurred.
I look back over the past three years I have spent in college, trying to find some shred of proof that I haven't changed, that I am still the same person I was when my parents left me on campus for the first time and I was on my own. The sobering thing is, however, that I knew almost instantly as I played back the memories like a slow-motion silent film in my head that I was definitely not the same person. It is me who changed from the kid who doesn't drink but smokes heavily to the kid who drinks on occasion and still smokes heavily. My first party was at the Knights of Columbus house, where tasting the jungle juice turned out to be such a delicious experience that half a cup turned into three. It is me who progressed from drinking on occasion to every weekend, many times not remembering things the next day. For some reason, the pull of alcohol became more appealing than the pull of things from home, and it began to become the focus of my weekends. It is also me who wandered around an apartment complex drunk and ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time, resulting in having a gun pulled of me and having to come down to testify against the kid. And because of this new found love for losing my way, it is definitely me who lost my virginity in a drunken haze to a girl I didn't know and after that night never talked to again. Something so precious to me, something I wanted to save until my wedding night, was gone in an instant of intoxicated stupidity.
Bite into an apple...the texture, the crunchy goodness, and...juice! Pure, untainted apple juice. Why take the fun out of eating an apple by just taking the juice and eliminating the crunchy? It's like taking the time to put new strings on a guitar and then trying to play with your toes. You'll still get some sound out of it (perhaps even decent sound if you're Jimi Hendrix), but the real fun of playing it is gone. Now, take a grape...throw it up in the air and catch it with your mouth; bite down and taste the soft, cool flavor. Or freeze it and chew on it; see how the frozenness brings out the true sweetness of the fruit. Freeze a raisin...it's like a small, black, wrinkly rock that could take out an eye if you aren't too good at the whole throwing-it-up-and-catching-it trick. Or just go ahead and eat the raisin thawed and "normal," if one can refer to a raisin as such. The taste is metallic, the texture rugged and harsh. You may eve prick your tongue on a poorly shaped crag of dehydrated grape skin. And where is that explosion of cool sweetness on your tongue? It's gone, stolen by sunlight or heatlamp in order to make a snack for some toddler who won't stop fussing at the mall or in the waiting room at the doctor's office.
It's gone, that feeling of security and self-efficacy. The sense that I know that what I know is right and no one can tell me otherwise has faded from everything I learned at home to just a few key ideals that will stay with me throughout my life. Well, fuck...try saying that through a mouth full of raisins. Pastor Dad wouldn't like that word coming out of my mouth. He wouldn't like all of the alcohol and occasional (sometimes more than occasional) bong hit going into my mouth either - but that one phrase can sum up a lot of things I have gone through in college. Don't get me wrong, I have definitely come into my own over the past several years. I know what I want to do with my life after college. The real question is what do I not want to do with my life? I realize that I probably come across as incredibly bitter, but the thing is I am not in the least. I still go to church (not in Staunton; it's time for me to find my own way) sometimes, but not as often as my parents think I do. And I still hold what they have taught me dear.
I finish my bite, mostly because I am trying to keep things moving inward, toward my stomach rather than away from it. I get up from the couch, place the juice and raisins back in their respective locations in the kitchen, and head back up the creaky old stairs, up the rickety ladder, and back into my always-comfortable bed. Sleep is a better cure for a hangover than kid food anyways.
I have had my realization. I am changed. And I am ok with that.
It's funny how things that were important to us as children don't always remain so as we grow up. Likes and dislikes come and go as our tastes and preferences change; convictions waver in either direction, searching for a foothold in the crags and cracks of morality and ethics; the shell of the cicada cracks along the seam as we stretch and grow until we finally break through and press outward, each time leaving the shadow of our former self clinging to the tree trunk. But what if we don't see the shell? What if, for whatever reason, we are numb to the feeling of that cracking along our backs' seam and we don't know that something is different about us until it is too late and the shell has crumbled and blown away in the wind? If that change isn't apparent to the person who experienced it, did the change really occur? Webster's Thesaurus contains many synonyms for the word "change:" alteration, modification, mutation, variation, transformation, innovation...however, all of these still leave me with a kind of empty feeling inside. It's as though a switch has been flicked, and the light bulb is not burnt out, but for some odd reason the light doesn't come on.
A change is not simply the switching of something from one form to another. It is a realization of a new position, a conscious awareness of a difference in something, be it a belief, a stance, a desire. I've heard it said that people can "change without realizing it." But have they really changed? If a man doesn't realize that he is different, is he really different? No, because to himself he is the same person. Until he realizes that difference, he has not changed to himself, and therefore He is still He to him.
The light coming through the dusty window above the sink is annoying. Definitely annoying because of the underlying throbs of my headache, and disappointingly so because it is supposed to be a new day, slate wiped clean from last night's Dionysian revelry. I search through the cabinets and refrigerator, hoping to find something to satiate my unstable stomach, and come across two things I absolutely loved in my childhood: apple juice and raisins. Why they are in the kitchen, I have no idea, because I have not had either one since elementary school. I decide to settle, mostly because I don't care enough to keep scavenging through the cabinets, but also because I think it might be nice to reminisce. Happy thoughts of childhood may help to relieve the unwelcome throbbing in my head and the thankfully subsiding churning in my belly.
Mom and Dad raised me well. My home was safe and loving, with rules as solid as the walls of the house we lived in. They were with me, right? As I left my parents' home and entered the world of college, I kept with me the foundation of life that they had poured and did not for a moment thing of stepping off of it onto the shaky, unstable ground around me. The rules of home left me safe and secure: in by ten, no smoking and drinking, no dating until you are 16, and even then only "Christian" girls, and (of course) no movies with higher than a PG-13 rating. I had my vices - I was a smoker. A relatively heavy smoker at this point, sucking down at least half a pack of Camel Turkish Golds a day. But I still held onto the basic tenets of my Christian home: no drinking because I wasn't yet 21, no drugs because they are illegal and harmful, must go to church every Sunday ("try to find a ride down to that church in Staunton because it's affiliated with the same ministry as ours; we don't want you exposed to incorrect teaching").
I plop on the old tweed couch in the living room, sinking in far deeper than I am sure the manufacturers ever intended. No one should own a couch this old. As I open the bottle of juice and slide open the top of the box of raisins, I think back to the times in the kitchen I grew up in. I close my eyes and hunt through my mind for the memories, watching them not from my own toddler eyes, but from those of an outsider undetected by the actors playing out the scene. I see myself sitting in my high chair, a large crooked smile on my face, waiting impatiently for my favorite snack of apple juice and raisins. My mother fed this to me almost daily, and I couldn't get enough of them at that time. Apple juice and raisins: a mother's dream to gently quiet her child's cries for sustenance. Small, easy to transport in their Minute Maid juice boxes with the bendy straws and small, red Dole boxes with the smiling immigrant woman on the front. She could easily throw several of each in her purse for when the moment arrives that she knows will be coming anytime throughout the day, probably at the most inopportune time: the impending embarrassment of a very public and very vocal explosion emitting from her child's mouth. Every child loves them, every child eats them, and subsequently every child shuts up for at least enough time for the mother to finish her errands.
I held strong to my beliefs, did not let them go for an instant. While everyone else was out on Friday night, I stayed in to read or watch a movie with the other homebodies. I didn't need alcohol to have a good time. I didn't need to bring a girl back to my extra-long twin bed and wake my roommate up at three o'clock in the morning as I tried to unlock the door. I was still the same little boy, enjoying the things I always had and not needing to try new ones. I was full and content. I didn't need anything other than the words from my parents' mouths and the television or a good book on the weekends.
The image of my smiling face happily shoveling raisins into my mouth fades slowly from the view of my mind's eye as a rumble from my stomach brings me back to my harsh, present reality f hunger and headache. I take a sip of juice and pop a few raisins into my mouth, waiting for those happy memories to come flooding back as I prepare for my stomach to be silenced. However, this is not the case. As I chew slowly, a new thought enters my mind. It takes me a moment to realize what it is, but as I slowly put my finger on it, it becomes more and more apparent: apple juice and raisins are disgusting! They are simply pasteurized, processed perversions of the healthy and satisfying deliciousness that is apples and grapes. This apple juice is nothing more than tap water with a drop of apple flavoring and a bit of caramel coloring. Raisins are the cadavers of delicious red grapes. Who wants to eat cadavers? The thought is repugnant to say the least.
My change in taste for raisins and apple juice had not occurred until I realized that it had. If someone had asked me prior to that morning on my old tweed couch if I liked raisins or apple juice, my answer would have been yes. This would have been, of course, despite the fact that I had not had either in years. It was the tasting of each that made me realize tat I no longer cared for either, and that moment is when the change occurred.
I look back over the past three years I have spent in college, trying to find some shred of proof that I haven't changed, that I am still the same person I was when my parents left me on campus for the first time and I was on my own. The sobering thing is, however, that I knew almost instantly as I played back the memories like a slow-motion silent film in my head that I was definitely not the same person. It is me who changed from the kid who doesn't drink but smokes heavily to the kid who drinks on occasion and still smokes heavily. My first party was at the Knights of Columbus house, where tasting the jungle juice turned out to be such a delicious experience that half a cup turned into three. It is me who progressed from drinking on occasion to every weekend, many times not remembering things the next day. For some reason, the pull of alcohol became more appealing than the pull of things from home, and it began to become the focus of my weekends. It is also me who wandered around an apartment complex drunk and ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time, resulting in having a gun pulled of me and having to come down to testify against the kid. And because of this new found love for losing my way, it is definitely me who lost my virginity in a drunken haze to a girl I didn't know and after that night never talked to again. Something so precious to me, something I wanted to save until my wedding night, was gone in an instant of intoxicated stupidity.
Bite into an apple...the texture, the crunchy goodness, and...juice! Pure, untainted apple juice. Why take the fun out of eating an apple by just taking the juice and eliminating the crunchy? It's like taking the time to put new strings on a guitar and then trying to play with your toes. You'll still get some sound out of it (perhaps even decent sound if you're Jimi Hendrix), but the real fun of playing it is gone. Now, take a grape...throw it up in the air and catch it with your mouth; bite down and taste the soft, cool flavor. Or freeze it and chew on it; see how the frozenness brings out the true sweetness of the fruit. Freeze a raisin...it's like a small, black, wrinkly rock that could take out an eye if you aren't too good at the whole throwing-it-up-and-catching-it trick. Or just go ahead and eat the raisin thawed and "normal," if one can refer to a raisin as such. The taste is metallic, the texture rugged and harsh. You may eve prick your tongue on a poorly shaped crag of dehydrated grape skin. And where is that explosion of cool sweetness on your tongue? It's gone, stolen by sunlight or heatlamp in order to make a snack for some toddler who won't stop fussing at the mall or in the waiting room at the doctor's office.
It's gone, that feeling of security and self-efficacy. The sense that I know that what I know is right and no one can tell me otherwise has faded from everything I learned at home to just a few key ideals that will stay with me throughout my life. Well, fuck...try saying that through a mouth full of raisins. Pastor Dad wouldn't like that word coming out of my mouth. He wouldn't like all of the alcohol and occasional (sometimes more than occasional) bong hit going into my mouth either - but that one phrase can sum up a lot of things I have gone through in college. Don't get me wrong, I have definitely come into my own over the past several years. I know what I want to do with my life after college. The real question is what do I not want to do with my life? I realize that I probably come across as incredibly bitter, but the thing is I am not in the least. I still go to church (not in Staunton; it's time for me to find my own way) sometimes, but not as often as my parents think I do. And I still hold what they have taught me dear.
I finish my bite, mostly because I am trying to keep things moving inward, toward my stomach rather than away from it. I get up from the couch, place the juice and raisins back in their respective locations in the kitchen, and head back up the creaky old stairs, up the rickety ladder, and back into my always-comfortable bed. Sleep is a better cure for a hangover than kid food anyways.
I have had my realization. I am changed. And I am ok with that.
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