Boats Against The Current

      Last week, my grandmother asked me what normal high schoolers do on Friday nights.  As a person of very little social intelligence (what I lack in knowledge, I make up in awkwardness), I soon realized that I had no response.  This worried me.  How could I, a senior in high school, not have any idea what people do on Friday nights? Desperate to prove my social stability to my grandmother, though, I pathetically replied with "football."  High school kids go to football games, right? I paused to consider my friends' typical Friday nights, which consist primarily of debate, band, or taking six-hour naps.  Then I paused to consider my last Friday night, which consisted of a six-hour long trip with a rather interesting group of kids to a very sketchy Wal-Mart near the Pennsylvania border with $1,300 (in cash) to spend for a community service project.  After our rather eventful trip, we ended up back in Middlefield, sitting on top of a nearly three-story-high silo, surrounded only by stars and buggies full of rebellious Amish teenagers somehow blasting classical music as their buggies inched past us on the dirt road.  As the stars grew brighter and the night grew later, the wind picked up and the temperature dropped drastically.  Instead of going inside, though, we continued to talk.  And, as the socially competent teenagers that we are, we naturally touched on the subject of great American literature, and of course I brought up The Great Gatsby. Surprisingly, as soon as I mentioned it, my friend's eyes lit up as she excitedly announced that her class had just finished the book on the same day that we had.  And, standing outside in the cold, we began an hour-long discussion and thorough analyzation of the book, particularly of the book's last sentence, which apparently had left its mark on us as we had both memorized it.  As we discussed Gatsby and his mysterious and entrancing state of being, we each reached our own realizations.  I came to terms with the fact that, no, I had no idea what a normal teenager would be doing that Friday night, but I felt fairly certain that it would not be sitting on top of a silo discussing The Great Gatsby at midnight in the middle of what we had not-so-affectionately dubbed Amish Land.  I felt just as certain that it would not come in the form of carrying a borderline-dangerous amount of cash to a Wal-Mart so far from home.  I realized that we acted as manifestations of these boats against the current, going against the flow, ignoring the flow, and overpowering the flow. Instead of floating back to the past, though, we push ourselves toward the future, forcing ourselves beyond those who let the flow carry them backward.  We bring nothing with us but memories of the past, an awareness of the present, and a vision for the future.

Like Clockwork

       Just as I sat down to write my poetry paper on Sunday night, my dad had the brilliant idea to begin to decorate our Christmas tree. For normal people, this would perhaps entail a box of ornaments, lights, a Christmas song or two playing softly in the background, and a few people gathered peacefully around the tree.  Unfortunately, though, as I sat in the corner trying to find some trace of meaning in the supposedly complex ideas of love and blindness and clocks, I realized that making any progress on the paper would not come easily.  As my dad entered the room, he promptly turned on his country Christmas music station up to full blast on his Pandora account and, ever so considerately, placed his laptop right next to me.  Ignoring my death glare, he proceeded to turn on the TV to some warped Hallmark Channel Christmas love story and then, for maybe the fiftieth time this week, complain about my poor choice in trees (he had delegated the task of picking out a tree to me this year, and apparently trees that are wider than they are tall do not live up to his standards. Who knew?), and then began wildly unpacking every ornament he could get his hands on. As he uncovered ornaments that belonged to me (this happened about every three minutes) he ordered me to come  over and put it on the tree.  I grudgingly complied with the first few, but after the tenth ornament and the tenth interruption to my paper I threatened to lock myself in my room.  Completely undaunted by what I considered a fairly menacing statement, he excitedly handed me another one of my ornaments.  I opened my mouth to object, but then shut it just as quickly when I saw the ornament--a miniature china doll adorned in a pale yellow floral dress with a lacy off-white apron.  As I stroked the soft tassels lining the hems of her dress, I closed my eyes and time flew backward, back to third grade, when I had just finished reading The Doll People and had subsequently entered my china doll phase.  I had asked for nothing but china dolls for Christmas and my birthday and little else ever crossed my mind.  As time went on, though, my obsession slowly faded into oblivion and, like clockwork, another phase began: my snowman phase.  And then the Eiffel Tower phase.  And, after that, the rock collecting phase.  And, as I sit right now looking at my Christmas tree, I noticed that I have at least one ornament to complement each stage of my life.  As I continued my paper, listening to my dad and sister loudly and obnoxiously making some kind of cookies in the kitchen, I realized that my dad has gone through some much more dramatic and entertaining phases, including pigeon racing, beekeeping, and flying remote control airplanes.  And, by phases, I mean obsessions. Inevitably, though, with time, each passing phase faded, leaving us only with memories, ornaments, and the rather conspicuous beehive in the backyard.

Trail of Tears

     It's that time of year again. The colorful reminders of fall gradually fade into the dark, depressing labyrinths of winter as the long, bright days of summer turn to the dreary and seemingly endless winter nights.  The days blur together, each one feeling more like the next.  As I searched for a cause of my looming depression, I recently came to the conclusion that it may be a direct result of the fact that I barely see the sun anymore. I spend all morning and afternoon in school, and then I work immediately after, often until seven or eight.  Upon my departure, of course, the sun has long since set, leaving me with just the meager light of the moon, stars, and my headlights to guide me home.  As the night drags on, the vague depression fades to fatigue as I often find myself staying up well past midnight to finish my homework and do other dull, routine tasks. Then, the next day, it starts all over again.  In the middle of today's monotonous routine, though, I found myself pausing to reflect and reminisce to the days of Gurney and sunshine and flowers and happiness and when nothing mattered except avoiding the lunch ladies and the only drama involved who got "benched" at recess.  At first thought, those days seemed so much brighter; we seemed so much more lighthearted and carefree.  As I focused to more closely recall my Gurney experience, though, I realized that there existed a certain darkness, much like the one I feel today, that marred my first- and second-grade years.  It existed as an impending doom that crept into my life, twisting and turning itself about in my head before nestling permanently in my young, innocent mind.  In my mind, it manifested into a looming dread that stalked me around Gurney's comparatively bright and happy hallways. Now what, you ask, could cause such distress in a first grader? For me, it appeared as that one single demanding and infinitely stressful task.  The line leader.  The one to whom the teachers delegated the massive responsibility of trekking around the school with twenty of your classmates trailing along behind you.  The one who teachers entrusted to lead the class from homeroom to art to gym and back again.  The one who teachers yelled at if he or she made any sort of mistake.  While many waited with bated breath for their teacher to read off their name as line leader for the day, I cowered down in my seat, close to tears, careful to avoid eye contact with the teacher. I could not handle the pressure.  What if I accidentally led the class to the music room when we needed to go to the computer lab? What if one of my classmates strayed from the line under my watch? The pressure scared me into a certain state of insanity that even now I do not feel entirely convinced that I have escaped.  Luckily, as the years went on and I grew older, my fear of the treacherous task has waned.  Still, though, I never fail to cower under pressure.  When my friends and peers constantly talk about how they work so productively under pressure, I realize some things never change: I still cringe at the mere memory of the pressure, and, until last year, I never again had to experience it to that same extent.  Upon entering in AP English, the pressure inevitably returned—not quite to the caliber of that of the line leader, but still enough to make me break into a cold sweat whenever I sit, paralyzed, in the middle of a class discussion or in-class writing.  I would like to say that this anxiety has decreased since the beginning of last year, and, to a certain extent, I think it has.  I also realize, however, that I have a lot of work to do before I will be able to successfully work through the stress and the pressure and perform to the best of my ability.

Crayons, Markers, and the Pursuit of Happiness

           As a young, fearless girl, some of my favorite hobbies included climbing flimsy pine trees and scaring my grandmother half to death, refusing to wear any kind of coat in the brutal blizzards of Pennsylvania winters and infuriating my grandmother half to death, and running around my yard naked (under her watch, of course) and embarrassing my grandmother half to death.  Needless to say, I had a knack for irritating my grandmother, and she had a knack for irritating me.  We had hardly anything in common.  I could only find one single point of commonality between the two of us—we both loved to draw.  Whenever I tired of torturing my poor grandma, I dragged her to our kitchen table and made her sit still while I searched for my battered box of broken crayons and markers and stealthily stole all of the paper from our printer.  I scattered the paper around on the table and generously offered her my black, white, and gray crayons and markers before starting on my own masterpiece.  My imagination never failed me, and soon I found my paper (and the tabletop underneath it) covered in ambiguous purple, pink, and blue scribbles.  Proudly, I showed my work of art to my grandma and basked in the glory of her praise.  I bounced giddily up and down as she got up to add it to my own personal display case—the refrigerator.  As she sat down again, though, I noticed her drawing: a simple yet stunning portrait of a little boy dragging a beat-up wagon behind him.  And, of course, she had done it all in black.  As she noticed my obvious captivation with the subtly intricate illustration, she smiled and instructed me to sit down.  I inwardly groaned, fully aware that she planned on gracing me with one of her incredulously monotonous and pointless stories.  I did, however, feel slightly remorseful about scaring, infuriating, and embarrassing her earlier that day, so I reluctantly gave into my restless conscience and sat down obediently to listen.  Now, I could take up pages upon pages writing about all of the unnecessary details and pointless anecdotes that she added in, but, for the sake of everyone reading this, I will summarize.  Once upon a time, there lived a poor little boy who loved to draw. Everyone loved his work—he had a genuine talent for art.  Despite this, however, he only ever drew his pictures in black crayon.  When someone asked him why he did this, he stubbornly replied that he only liked black.  And that was how the story ended.  Unlike most of my grandma’s stories, she brought this one up again and again after she told it to me for the first time.  She finds it very inspiring for reasons that I have yet to ascertain.  As I recently spent Thanksgiving with her and she told me the story for what seemed like the hundredth time this year, I began to think more deeply about it.  While it does seem utterly pointless, I found myself considering it in terms of the boy's happiness. According to my grandma, the boy felt complete and utter contentment with his life.  He only, however, allowed himself to experience one realm of happiness.  He had thoroughly explored the depths of the realm familiar to him--the black one--and thus remained unaware of the infinite number of other dimensions of happiness.  While some may consider this a good thing--never exposing yourself to risks, staying within the boundaries of your comfort zone--if you limit yourself to these strictly defined boundaries you may never reach your full potential in terms of happiness and contentment.  Only when you free your mind to openly embrace all dimensions, realms, and colors of happiness can you truly feel that you have reached true fulfillment.  Perhaps my grandma really did not have any particular reason for telling this story, but I like to think that she told it with the intention of encouraging me to explore each color of happiness instead of just settling for what I feel comfortable with.  And maybe, just maybe, instead of infuriating her or finding some way to embarrass her, I will take her advice.

Complaints and Restraints

   Usually, I consider myself a fairly tolerant person.  I put up with my friends' seemingly endless political banter, my mom's constant nagging about how I need to figure out what I want to do with my life, and my dog's strange obsession with licking any exposed parts of my body.  I put up with my sister's weekly tantrums about going to ballet and my dad's new-found fascination with remote-control airplanes.  I can not, however, put up with people when they complain about working hard.  Unfortunately, as a high school student, I encounter this every day and have only recently learned to hold my tongue when I hear this complaining instead of hostilely refuting the pathetic arguments. This past weekend, I finally agreed to let my parents drag me around half the country visiting colleges that, quite honestly, I had little to no interest in.  At one of the colleges, I visited my cousin and, much to her dismay, shadowed her for the day.  I followed her all around campus, bored out of my mind until she took me to her English class.  Now, seeing as this was indeed an honors English class at an actual college, I expected some intense seminar-type discussion or an equally as intense writing workshop.  Instead, the professor divided the class up into small groups for an hour-long peer editing session of a five-page paper on, ironically enough, In Cold Blood. As I looked over the papers in a state of disbelief, I heard the subtle yet distinct groans from the kids at my table as they complained about having to analyze the book and how long they spent working on their papers.  Without thinking, I began to laugh.  As much as I sometimes resent all of the work that I put into my own English class, after looking at those papers I resolved to never think that way again.  As high school juniors, we could analyze books and write papers at a higher level than this group of college freshmen.  This could not happen, of course, without the arguably insane amount of time and effort that we all put into our work--and, of course, a lack of complaining.  The more complaints people make, the less inclined they feel to work hard.  This network of complaints forms a sort of restraint not only on those who do the complaining but also on those who hear the constant whining.  They subconsciously convince themselves that they will not effectively manage their workload, thus mentally blocking themselves from unleashing their full potential.

Masked Melodies

I still remember my first day of high school.  I remember it very vividly: every teacher, every class, and every emotion that ran wildly through my head, whipping my fear and excitement together into a whirlwind of anxiety.  To put it simply, I was a nervous wreck.  During my second period class, though, I felt a considerable amount of relief.  For some inexplicable reason, walking into room S108 at 8:36 that morning calmed my neurotic nerves and eased them into a state of peaceful tranquility.  Looking around at the familiar disarray of unbelievably uncomfortable black chairs, the sheet music scattered around on top of the piano on wheels, and the ever-present stash of damaged cellos badly hidden behind some broken music stands, I smiled for the first time that day.  As I stood huddled in the corner with the rest of the freshmen, the seniors helped themselves to the sheet music.  All six of them somehow managed to squash themselves onto the piano bench.  Just as they began to fill the room and surrounding hallways with the chaos of harrowing harmonies mingling with the masked melody, our teacher, mentor, and conductor, Mr. Clare, made his first appearance in the classroom.  Instead of calling for immediate silence, he stood in the doorway for a moment, clearly amused at the seniors pounding away on the piano keys.  Then he walked in.  Three years and two months later, when I walked into my English classroom at 7:45 in the morning still laughing at the school's glaring inability to sound the first bell on time, I sat down and, out of habit, glanced at the quote on the board.  As I read, I sighed and let Ms. Serensky’s neat blue lettering take me back to my days in strings: “A man who wants to lead the orchestra must turn his back on the crowd.”  I thought immediately of Mr. Clare, one of the most passionate, talented, and under-appreciated teachers in the district. What kind of sacrifices had he made for us? How had he “turned his back on the crowd” while exercising his leadership? In order to successfully conduct an orchestra, one must ignore the demands of the crowd in order to focus on the task at hand.  The melodies and harmonies that each section of the orchestra creates combine to form a masterpiece, a beautiful, unique work of art—one that could never exist without the precise hand gestures and meaningful eye contact with the conductor.  The conductor’s confidence instills a sense of power in his orchestra, as they too ignore not only the crowd but also all other distractions and let the music enter their minds and swirl around.  They block out everything but the rhythm flowing through their heads and the conductor’s steady, reassuring presence, the barrier between the soothing comfort of the orchestra and the haunting ambiguity of the audience. The conductor, back to the crowd, works his magic throughout the entire piece—he draws out a hidden melody from thousands upon thousands of interlocking dissonances and resolutions and at the same time emphasizes the subtle yet intricate harmonies weaving themselves throughout the powerful melody and waves his baton around wildly then abruptly pauses and turns to the violas and then emphatically puts his whole body into the music and then the music sweeps him away along with his orchestra and then the audience cheers and wildly applauds as the music encircles the room and then double bar lines and then silence. The conductor stops, baton in the air.  The orchestra follows suit, bows suspended the air, hovering over the still-vibrating strings as the last traces of the heavenly melody fade. The harmony takes longer to die away, as if still under the control of the baton.  The conductor relaxes, smiles at his talented group of students who just discovered their ability to make magic with music, and turns to face the crowd.  Applause engulfs him as he raises his hands once more, turning to recognize the orchestra.  He no longer has his back to the crowd--he faces it, confidently, as the audiences realizes that he does more than extract the melody from his crowd of musicians.  He is the melody.

The Gift of Literature

     My mom always told me that the books a person has says a lot about them. This may seem like an obvious statement--a person with hundreds of cookbooks most likely loves to cook, for example--but in my seventeen years I have found that this statement holds true on much deeper levels. In my uncle's house, I always notice that he has a ton of bibles on display throughout every single room, including the bathrooms, which I found a little strange since he does not practice a specific religion. The more I thought about it, though, and the more attention I paid to him and his quirky habits, I came to the conclusion that he kept this collection of bibles on display to honor the memory of his youth, when he had followed blindly in his parents' footsteps as a devout Protestant. When I finally asked him about it this year, he not only confirmed my suspicions but also shared with me another deeper reason. He told me that he kept them out in memory of his devoutly Catholic fiance, who died in a car crash the week before their set wedding date. Before having this talk with him, I had no idea that this woman even existed--apparently my family likes to avoid talking about tragedy. The bibles remind my uncle of the days of his youth, when he, as with all other children, felt carefree and still harbored that pure sense of innocence. They also remind him of days before that fateful accident when nothing marred his happiness. Additionally, he told me that he bookmarked several passages in one of the bibles that described how he wanted to live the rest of his life, and every so often he would take it off of its stand on the coffee table to read and reread those particular passages. Ever since we had that talk, I always give my uncle a new bible for his birthday. As I read through Elizabeth Strout's 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, I considered what books I would give to the troubled characters as birthday presents. Throughout the book, Henry Kitteridge appeared as the most appealing character to me. He reminded me a little of myself in his demeanor and personality, and, despite the internal conflicts he went through, he still remained faithful to those he loved.  After much consideration, I have chosen two books that I would present to Henry for his birthday. Not even halfway through the first short story, I decided that Ethan Frome would present itself as an extraordinarily appropriate gift for Henry. As Strout chronicles Henry's complex relationships with both Olive and Denise, the way he acts toward both women reminded me almost exactly of Ethan and his relationships with Zeena and Mattie. Guilt overcomes Ethan when he realizes how he feels about Mattie, and, similarly, Henry notes that he feels "guilty about everything" (10). He subconsciously compares a disagreement that he and Denise had to a "lovers quarrel" and feels equally guilty about that (24). He constantly denies to himself that he loves Denise, but his obsession with her proves otherwise. He gets frustrated with Olive's reluctance to have Denise and her first husband over to dinner, and becomes equally disdainful and resentful toward Olive with each snide remark she makes about Denise. I found the relationship between Henry and Denise as troubling and disturbing as the one between Ethan and Mattie. The second book that I would present to Henry took a little more thought. After reading about the relationship between Henry and Olive before and immediately after Henry's stroke, I decided that the thing that would most help Henry would come from the knowledge of how Olive genuinely felt about Henry. Olive acted very abrasively toward him, and this behavior occurred with such frequency that I wondered if Henry ever knew how much Olive really cared for him. With this in mind, I would give Henry none other that the much-acclaimed novel Olive Kitteridge. Because Strout gives perspective into the lives of so many people that Henry knew, he would get a much clearer idea of the extent of Olive's well-hidden compassion and loyalty to him. After Henry's stroke, Olive visits him every day, talks to him, and "spoons food into his mouth" (147). This subtle act of intimacy not only proves Olive's love for him but also made me wish that Henry could consciously realize everything that Olive said, thought, and felt about him before his stroke rendered him helpless and distant.  So, equipped with these two brilliant works of literature, I believe that Henry will see the world with a more clear perspective and have a much different outlook on life.

A Celebration of Life

     Back in March, I received word that doctors had diagnosed my friend's three-year-old brother, Jack, with brain cancer. Earlier this month, my friend called me, in tears, telling me that he had died, peacefully, in his sleep. Three days later, I attended his funeral. As I sat in the church with over 800 other people whose lives had been touched by Jack, I became slightly bored with the long eulogy and endless speeches from tearful friends and relatives and looked at the hundreds of people around me. Most of them, I noticed, either had tears in their eyes or tears streaming shamelessly down their forlorn faces. Even I have to admit that at certain points in the speech that my friend gave about her little brother I might have felt an occasional tear or two slide down my cheek. The little boy sitting next to me, who I recognized as one of Jack's friends, however, smiled throughout the entire ceremony. When the service finally drew to a close, I asked him why he did not appear sad at all, to which he replied, "Sad? Why should I be sad? This isn't a time to be sad, we're celebrating Jack's life!" I smiled at his response, but as I continued on through the day, the week, and the month, his words remained with me and whirled around in my head. So, when reading a passage in Strout's 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, about Jane Houlton, a troubled yet pleasant elderly woman, I decided that I wanted to live my life with her perspective and this little boy's outlook on life. As she reflects on life, Jane ponders its splendor and looks gratefully upon all the opportunities that it has given her. She comes to the conclusion that "so many moments weren't just moments, they were gifts" (126). Unlike the majority of the other characters that Strout chronicles in her novel, Jane shows a unique and unparalleled sense of appreciation and gratitude for even the littlest pleasures in life. She looks back on all of her memories, both pleasant and unpleasant, and appreciates the happiness in the pleasant ones and the experience and strength that she gained from the unpleasant ones. This sense of gratitude makes her happier and more appreciative in general, and allows her to lead a more rewarding and fulfilling life. I find this attitude inspiring, as I try to harbor the same outlook. Although I do not always succeed, I have committed myself to continue trying. Additionally, during this same reflection, Jane realizes that "people were compelled to celebrate because... life was a thing to celebrate" (126). Just like the little boy with whom I spoke at the funeral, Jane takes into consideration the fact that we should celebrate life and appreciate all that it has to offer us. We should take full advantage of each little opportunity for mental and emotional growth and learn what we can from every experience, painful or joyful, that we go through. Most importantly, though, we need to remember that, during moments that may seem sad, like funerals, instead of dwelling on the depressing factors of the situation we need to follow both Jane's and this little boy's example and celebrate life.