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.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Empathy

     Dictionary.com defines empathy as the intellectual identification with or various experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another. A Student's Dictionary defines empathy as the ability to share the feelings of another person. I define empathy as a person's capacity to feel and understand the feelings and situations of others. No matter which one we use, though, one word will inevitably appear in each definition: feelings. Elizabeth Strout's 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, offers deep and in-depth descriptions of a unique and troubled cast characters and the feelings, traumatic internal conflicts, and attempted resolutions of each. Strout, a former citizen of Maine, harbors a deeply-rooted understanding of the need for empathy and, through the workings of her novel, attempts to share this understanding by painting the reader a portrait of the way she sees the world.  Throughout the first third of the novel, I can see that Strout believes that, in order to live life to the fullest, we must hold a certain consideration of the feelings of others, pursue feelings of empathy, and realize that each and every person suffers from their own pressing internal conflicts. Some of these conflicts we may not understand, but, the way Strout sees it, we must make every attempt to see life through everyone else's eyes. Even before reading this book, I had the same views as Strout--I believe that empathy overshadows all other qualities in value and importance. I believe that to fully understand another individual one must realize that, no matter how happy they may seem on the outside, each person will inevitably internally suffer from their own conflicts at some point in their lives. In the lives of the characters in Olive Kitteridge, I noticed that each character's suffering stems from one particular event or series of events, and then the internal confliction and memories of the pain come back to haunt the characters in their old age. In the case of pianist Angela O'Meara, for example, two particular events triggered this internal conflict: the loss of a love and the unwise and selfish decisions of an overbearing, overprotective mother. The entire section that Strout writes about her goes into detail about these particular events and how each affects her in her old age. Before offering this detail, however, Strout describes Angela's face and notes that "nothing harsh--it seemed--had happened to [it]" (49). She goes on to disprove this later in the chapter when discussing these traumatic events and the internal conflict following each. By showing the audience that things do not always appear as they seem, Strout advances her assertion that we tend to focus in only on our own struggles and ignore those of others, especially if others try to keep them hidden or do not feel comfortable discussing them. We may lose sight of the fact that each person fights their own unique battles with their own unique problems. The fact that we all constantly fight against these pent-up demons draws us all together and proves that we, along with the characters in the story, have more in common than it may seem. Likewise, as Olive lies on the bed after her son's wedding, she ponders the meaning of life and the sources of genuine happiness. She comes to the conclusion that something as simple as a "friendly clerk" or a waitress who "knows how you like your coffee" can brighten someone's day and make them temporarily forget whatever struggle they may currently face (69).  If Olive, the character who faces the most internal conflicts throughout the course of the story, can find happiness through these simple acts of kindness and friendliness, then Strout believes that we should make sure to treat everyone with kindness and take the time to get to know everyone because we do not know what kind of emotional trauma they may be facing. If we can do something simple to brighten their day, that act of kindness will remain in their memory and continue to brighten their seemingly dreary and dismal days to come.

Plain Dumb Cowardice

      What purpose does a father serve in the life of a child? The answer to this question will inevitably vary from child to child, father to father, and family to family.  Ray Bradbury wrote his much-loved novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes, in the early 1960s, a time during which families saw their father figures as the disciplinarians of the family.  Will Halloway's father, however, does not by any means fit this description. Throughout the book, Mr. Halloway's experiences drastically change him and mold him from a relatively pathetic, deeply saddened character to one of great confidence.  He does, however, harbor a sense of wisdom that remains constant throughout the novel.  This sense of wisdom proves invaluable to his son, Will, in teaching him life lessons and fulfilling in his own way his paternal role. In my opinion, the most important passages throughout the story appear in Mr. Halloway's monologues and occasionally in his conversations with Will. One such passage occurs after Mr. Halloway brings Will home from the police station after he and Jim turn themselves in for supposedly stealing Miss Foley's jewelry.  Will, feeling compelled to get a more clear perspective into his father's life, questions him about the difference between "being good" and "being happy" (134). Mr. Halloway, though reluctant at first, goes on to give his son a detailed explanation of his views on happiness, goodness, evil, and sin.  He informs a shocked Will that "men do love sin" and that, contrary to Will's belief that people who live their lives in goodness seem the happiest, people who appear guilty and sinful often live the cleanest and purest lives.  This statement sets the tone for the rest of the story; Bradbury goes on to explore the depths and levels of sin and how they affect the way certain people live their lives.  Further into his monologue, Mr. Halloway hints as to why he does not seem happy. He explains that, in trying to always act like a good, pure person, he missed out on so many other necessities. He does reveal, though, that he blames "plain dumb cowardice" for causing him to miss out on such things as "rivers never swum in" and "cake never eaten" (136). He includes this in his response to Will to subtly imply to him to take full advantage of his youth and have fun instead of making the same mistakes that he did. The last important point Mr. Halloway makes in his monologue seems to me the most surprising and also the most insightful.  When Will asks his father what does not make him sad, Mr. Halloway replies with death. He tells Will that "if there wasn't a death, all other things wouldn't get tainted" (137).  He further explains that death does nothing but scare.  This statement surprised me, as it seemed like Mr. Halloway, who at this point in the story still seemed fairly pathetic and frightened, would find death the most frightening of all.  His acceptance of death prompts Will to think further about comparing life to death and good to evil and how each relates to the carnival and their lives.  Will sees death, as his father did, as something frightening, and life as a temptress.  This revelation sets the stage for the rest of the novel, as the conflict between life and death swirls around sporadically throughout the rest of the book. Mr. Halloway's statement also prompted me to contemplate death and the validity of his statement. At first, I did not agree with him--I believed that death, as well as scaring people,, also caused great despair and heartbreak to those involved with the tragedy.  As I read further and considered his thoughts more and more, though, I realized that none other than fear appears at the very root of this despair and heartbreak. When a loved one dies, the despair we feel stems from a fear of living without them and going on with life just as nothing happened. We fear grief, sadness, and this emotional pain more than anything.  Death, as Mr. Halloway stated, acts as a catalyst in invoking fear and causing the worst kind of pain in the world.

A Timeless Tale of Tragedy

    Time.  A simple word, yet an unbelievably complex concept.  Some of us choose to ignore the never-ceasing ticking of the clock, some of us accept it, and even more of us fear it.  Because, inevitably, with the passing of time comes aging.  Ray Bradbury thoroughly explores the depths of the internal conflicts that arise with the passing of time in his novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes. This timeless and universal conflict appears in several forms throughout the story--most notably, though, in the form of the mysterious carousel at the haunted carnival that comes to Jim Nightshade's and Will Halloway's hometown. One ride on the carousel, if no mistakes occur, will restore one's youth--a concept irresistible to many.  Additionally, though, a ride on the carousel can speed up time; this specific manipulation of time appeals mainly to children who have yet to discover the fears that come with the tragedy of growing older. Will touches on this subject when discussing the carousel with Jim and mentions that the merry-go-round does sound “keen,” but he also realizes the consequences of prematurely advancing one’s age: “You don’t really want to be twenty” (127).  The wisdom that Bradbury delegates to Will reflects his own opinions on this specific portion of the conflict—while growing older may seem alluring to young people, reality has proven that aging rarely ever works out well, and constantly wishing to speed up life will cause nothing but wasted time and disappointment.  The other, perhaps more pressing part of this conflict appears when older people reflect on their lives and want to become young again.  Charles Halloway, Will’s father, embodies this specific part of the conflict.  From the very beginning of the novel, Bradbury indirectly characterizes Halloway as wistful and painfully reminiscent of his youth.  When he watches Jim and Will go off to play, he “was suppressed with a sudden urge to run with them” (17).  Later, he reveals to Will that the thing he hates most about adulthood “is not being able to run anymore, like [Will]” (131).  As a full-grown adult, Mr. Halloway offers to us a glimpse into the world of adulthood and the depression, so to speak, that comes with age.  Seeing his son run around and do things that he once could do and now can not acts as yet another catalyst in this slow realization that age inhibits qualities and abilities that youth kept alive.  Will, in his youthful wisdom, notices his father’s unhappiness and asks him what he can do to make him happy once again.  Mr. Halloway longingly replies that he will only find true happiness if Will tells him that he will “live forever” (137). Bradbury not only stresses the importance of this raging internal conflict by referring to it numerous times but also by foiling Will to his father and juxtaposing Will's youthful wisdom to Mr. Halloway's pathetic desires and cliché reaction to the timeless tragedy of aging.

In the Spirit of Adventure

      Through various personal experiences and routine life events, I have found that most people harbor a seemingly inexplicable aversion to all things unnatural and surreal to the point of aberration. I, however, can not say that I have ever felt that way toward such things. Some of my earliest memories involve me giving into my constant curiosity to take unnecessary risks and explore the eeriest of places.  For these reasons, Ray Bradbury's 1962 novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes,  has particularly intrigued me. As I began the book and read about the mysterious, haunted carnival and the haunting happenings that Jim Nightshade and Will Halloway unearth, I have to admit that I felt a little jealous of them having adventure of their lifetimes. Throughout the beginning portion of the novel, I contemplated each new character, their personality traits, and the likely undertakings that each would engage in.  It did not take much consideration on my part to realize that Miss Foley's nephew (Mr. Cooger) clearly seemed like the character that I would most want to embody, not because of his less-than-normal personality, his unnatural means of existence, or his reputation as "the evil boy," but because of his many adventures with the carnival and the life of mystery and adventure that he leads (84). For his own reasons, Cooger has connections with this bizarre carnival while still acting as Miss Foley's beloved nephew.  The secretive, adventurous life full of risk that he leads, while at first thought somewhat undesirable, seems explicitly appealing to me.  The young Cooger's personality, however cold and devious, often proves cunning and clever--two traits which also appeal to me.  When Jim and Will return to Miss Foley's house after having sat in their rooms for hours as punishment for supposedly staying at the carnival too late, Cooger realizes that they pose a certain threat to him. To ward them off, he tosses a "rain of tinkling, rattling glitter" from his place on the balcony onto the lawn toward Jim and Will (98). When Miss Foley comes to the window and sees the two boys with her jewelry, she naturally and logically assumes that they had stolen it, just as Cooger had intended. This quick and conniving act of hatred and perhaps necessity on Cooger's part made me admire his quick wit and ability to act spontaneously.  Despite his considerably harmful intentions to the protagonists and my better judgement, I still found myself wanting to spend some time in his shoes to, for the first time, experience a real adventure complete with the risks and inevitable thrills. So, in the spirit of adventure and spontaneity, Cooger's younger persona appeals most to me.