Limits

When you look at Son of Mr. Green Jeans, you begin to see the structure formulating his work. The ABC’s form a restrictive guideline to his work. Can some of your best work come from limits that are within or out of your control? Think of George Lucas and his $11 million dollar baby Star Wars the New Hope. Within a limited budget and constant pressure from screen executives, Lucas would be the highest budget film of its time and create a multi-million dollar enterprise.

In another sense, the Star Wars movies got worse and worse as Lucas obtained legendary status, unlimited funds, and complete artistic control over his films. In a financial sense, he did himself good, but those prequels sucked balls.

In The Atlantic Man, we, the audience, can only see what Duras shows us, which is as she fondly describes as nothing or “emptiness.” However, confined within this screen of emptiness are her words, which seems overtly unrevealing. She has limited the audience’s access to concrete facts and like the screen leaves us empty. In that sense, her loneliness is felt, but we are left helplessly drowning in her sea of poetic suffering with no lifeboat in sight. She limits our access to connect with her, which is quite frustrating as a reader. It almost seems as if this essay is completely for herself and not for the subject or any reader.

In another light, she reveals enough. In a melodramatic way, this emptiness takes on another form throughout the essay. In the beginning, her mind tries to empty out her image of her love. The mind is trying to fight the emptiness with emptiness, but of course it doesn’t work and she knows it. She does not try to fill the void, but almost does nothing to heal it or close it up. He is an actor of this emptiness and of course is never there, and she doesn’t ever tell him if he is the main character or not. Is he watching the film or is he in this film? Maybe it no longer matters because he isn’t there.

Drift

I’ll start this by saying that I, too, struggled with Dumas’ piece.  It’s certainly not an easy read, though I found I liked it a bit more the second time around, having a sense of what to expect.

What I appreciated most about Dumas was that she really plays with sentence structure, which I think is part of what makes her piece so confusing, but also gives it such a unique flow.  I feel like the phrases that resonated with me the most from this piece were the most unusually organized ones: “You have remained in the state of having left,” or “While I no longer love you I no longer love anything, nothing, except you, still.”  By combining these convoluted statements with her short, bare-bones paragraphs, for instance “You do not know this” or “Look at the camera,” she drifts between being anchorless and certain through her structure as well as what she is saying.  I think I noticed this in particular when reading it with Moore’s work, which seems almost journalistic in its style at times (don’t get me wrong though—I loved Moore).  In Dumas’ essay, you drift and drift through convoluted thought bordering on philosophy (“You will think the miracle is not in the apparent similarity between each of the particles that make up those millions of men in their continuous hurling, but in the irreductible difference that separates them from each other, that separates men from dogs, dogs from film, sand from the sea…” on and on for another six lines, without a single period) and then are quickly brought back down to earth with a simple statement.  I feel like I had these ups and downs a lot reading this, and it kept me reading even though it could also lose me sometimes in the drifting.

The Second Person

I was always taught that writing in second person was for children’s adventure novels or trivial things. This of course, excludes letters and things that are actually only addressed to one other person.

I found Duras’ use of the second person both intimate and distance. At first, I questioned whether she was trying to draw her audience in by making it seem insistently personal. She said “you will forget this is you,” which I thought was very true because, regardless of whether or not the reader is supposed to feel like it is s/he, by the end of the second page, we’ve already begun imagining a character and setting the scene with her.

Once I made that transition, I felt sort of distanced from the work because, I knew it wasn’t about me. However, not distanced in a way in which I lost interest. Instead I felt as if I was reading something I shouldn’t be; something that wasn’t intended for my eyes. This, I felt, made the essay all the more interesting. Although I didn’t belong there, I was curious to find out who did.

That being said, I think this choice has the capability of distancing the reader to the point which they lose interest in the work. The execution is definitely key and the subject matter is important. It would be ambitious to try, but innovative to say the least. When do you ever read published works in second person?

Creativity

I agree with both Tom and Chris about the merits of these two works. I think that both Duras and Moore biggest strength is the creative approach they take in engaging the reader. Honestly, there have been plenty of essays that we’ve read that I haven’t liked at all. After a while, reading essays becomes kind of tedious, unless the author presents interesting material in a unique fashion. 

Moore, of course, does this by organizing his theme into twenty-six seemingly random ideas, arranged in alphabetic order. This makes his essay read kind of like an encyclopedia, and each “entry” is short and to-the-point. It allows the reader to understand what Moore is getting at without reading too much into it, and thus keeps the reader from getting bored. The connections Moore draws from objects of nature, pop culture and his own life are inspired, creating a way of looking at a somewhat common theme (the loss of a father) that I had certainly never seen before. I particularly loved the entry for the letter Q, or “Quiz.” In this entry, Moore creates an impromptu quiz for the reader. This really makes it seem much more interactive than an essay should be, and actually makes it fun to read. 

Duras, on the other hand, engages the reader by speaking directly to him through extensive use of the second person. I didn’t particularly enjoy reading this piece, but I did see some merit in the second person technique. In speaking directly to the reader, Duras effectively engages the reader in ways that a normal, formulaic essay simply cannot.

My main point is that, in writing, it is often easy to just stick to what you know, which can sometimes result in fairly boring essays. That’s why it’s important to take risks. These risks are most often evident in the form of subject matter: for example, the controversial essays of Joe Wenderoth or the various selections from the course reader relating to sex. However, it is also important to experiment with style, and to present readers with new essay structure. If the risk fails, there is of course the danger of embarrassing yourself with a subpar essay. But if the writer’s risk succeeds, the essay often benefits hugely from the break from form or subject matter. This is true in the case of Moore: the break in form is incredibly entertaining and makes for an easy read that gets its point across effectively. The same is also true for Duras. Although I didn’t particularly like the essay, I do think the break in form made the essay better than it would have been without it.

Puzzle Pieces

In reading Son of Mr. Green Jeans, I am reminded of Kathryn Chetkovich’s Envy, when she reads “those pages of his I wished I had written.” I wish I wrote this: it’s brilliant. Seemingly random, fully independent snippets mesh together ingeniously to create a cohesive whole. Moore leaves us with a unique, nuanced look at absent fathers. And I always admire a writer who can do justice to a serious matter while maintaining his sense of humor.

When it comes to writing, I am absolutely incapable of pre-planning anything. I find outlines and lists useless; structure only makes me want to rebel. So I wonder how Moore approached writing this: did he start out with a general topic and just begin writing? Was the patterning of this story just lucky circumstance, or is it artfully arranged? Did he know each topic he would touch upon beforehand?

Whatever my writer envy, at least we both like Leave It To Beaver references.

The Reader

Marguerite Duras uses the second person quite a bit.  “The Atlantic Man” is addressed to some unknown person (although we know from the forward that it’s Yann Andrea), and stands as a list of commands, qualities, and effects that she wants to explain to him.  However, during the course of the reading, I can’t shake this lingering feeling that the “you” in this story is actually the reader, me.  Combined with the fact the the original French used “vous” for all instances of “you”, the formal version that she wouldn’t use for a lover but rather someone she doesn’t know, like me.

This uncanny feeling doesn’t go away throughout the piece.  It makes you feel inadequate and shameful, as if all this pain and anguish was your fault.  She speaks with force, telling you exactly how to leave her, how to leave the film empty with nothing, because you are nothing and neither is she.  You have caused her to lose herself in the nothingness, and so she tells you how to leave.

But the worst part comes at the end, with “You do not know this”.  Here, we are reminded of the roses she was just talking about.  The ones that stay open for days, let everything out, and die, unseen by anyone.  She relates this rose to herself, with “you do not know this”.  She has just let herself out, and yet no one has seen it.  So maybe we are not the person who is addressed in this piece.  We read it; we know her pain and how we caused it.  But the real “you” doesn’t know this, so we are not “you”, and we did not cause her pain.

But then again, it resonates still, even after this reversal at the end, that maybe we did do it.  Maybe not in Marguerite’s life, but our own.

Intertwining Connections

I think it’s pretty fantastic the way that Moore weaves together tidbits about animal mating habits, sitcom actors, scientific studies, and personal anecdotes—despite being seemingly random components—while remaining anchored to his theme of missing fathers. This establishes a rapport with the reader, as living without ones father is a common experience. The parts about animals and science interest the reader sort of like documentaries and news stories, the actors are recognized and acknowledged, and most importantly, the personal stories make it all honest. It also helps keep the reader paying attention since it constantly switches topics.

I don’t have much more to say about that—it’s pretty straightforward. I guess I could note that the other piece, “The Atlantic Man” is quite possibly the most painful thing I’ve ever read. That’s notable, right? Nothing else has invoked in me so difficult to control a desire to headbutt the sidewalk after removing my eyes slowly with a wooden spoon. While covered in fire ants and hot coals. Duras might be a very accomplished writer, and indeed the way the writing flows suggests this, but I am obviously not her intended audience. Please tell me that this isn’t the essence of the lyric essay genre.

Chris “is not in a good mood due to non-208 related things” Garcia

 

P.S. I will grant “The Atlantic Man” a good use of artistic effects with the whole act of addressing nothingness as a director would a movie. It just doesn’t resonate and I haven’t the energy to dissect it.

“Goodness” changes

Today, I’m a rather messy person – dropping clothes and towels on the floor, misplacing irreplaceable items left and right, letting dirt pile up until it discolors the carpet. But once upon a time in the past-tense realm of childhood, I was a neat freak. Any handwriting expert would tell you this.

My perfectionist’s drive manifested itself most clearly in my grade school notebooks. These black-and-white composition books were chocked full of clean, rounded block letters, “I’s” dotted decisively, mistakes (reluctantly) crossed out with a thick black line. Each page, I considered, was a feat of artistry and order – of course I doodled, but these sketches were not to be found creeping in the margins but rather on their own, specially designated pages.

Having a neat notebook was an utmost priority of mine, in addition to snagging the perfect pink-trimmed Nike sneakers at the beginning of the school year and making sure ketchup was a component of as many of my meals as possible. To jazz up my notebooks, I insisted my mother drive me to a local stationary store and buy Milky Pens. As a result my notes had lines of gold, silver and turquoise ink that other girls could only envy. Building my inflated confidence were my teachers. I took a fundamental pride in my notebooks, but became even more ecstatic when a teacher asked to photocopy my clear notes to give to absent students – a regular occurrence.

Today, my handwriting has evolved into something quite different. No more are there straight letters, perpendicular lines, neat margins. Today, my penmanship is loose and loopy; a unique hybrid between simple and cursive letters, with many connected to each other for the sake of jotting down words as quickly as possible. I can’t help but see meaning in this evolution – that today I am undeniably looser, more prone to doodles and unorthodoxy, a bit less constrained by a desire to please. I only wish it was socially acceptable to hand in college assignments in sky-blue Milky Pen.

Shirley Temple Dreams

When I was a toddler, I had an uncanny likeness to Shirley Temple. She’s the famed singing/dancing child star of the 1940s, with cherubic sausage curls and a round dimpled face that could melt the heart of the Grinch. My mother grew up watching Shirley Temple, and she bestowed her love of all things having to do with Animal Crackers in my Soup, The Good Ship Lollipop and Curlytop unto me. I became entranced. Shirley’s perfect golden locks invigorated a sense of pride in my own head of kinky curls, which I had previously viewed as an undeserved and malicious trick of genetics. I watched movies of Shirley tromping around in her fluffy skirts, clicking her toes on the floor to an old-timey rhythm. She giggled and sang and made everyone around her glow with affection. AND she was famous. Shirley Temple was everything I wanted to be…when I was four.

Before I had started any formal dance training, I would adorn myself with glamorous costumes and accessories (usually including, but not limited to: a tiara and a wand of some sort) and make my family watch me dance around our living room for ungodly amounts of time. In one home video of little Julia at age three, I finish a grandiose solo to the Nutcracker suite (with a grumbling DJ, Christopher DeNardo, age 6½ ) and plunge into a luxurious curtsy exclaiming “EXCUSE ME, IS anybody CLAPPING?!” What can I say? I have always loved the stage. And I am not afraid to admit appreciating a good round of applause now and again. I asked my mom if I could be in movies, and if she could start me out in Juicy Juice commercials so I could break into the biz. I was a pretty precocious little whippersnapper to say the least. Her response to my adamant requests to lead the life of a child star was to sign me up for tap dance lessons at our community recreation center. I had just turned four, and although this wasn’t exactly the same caliber of artistry as appearing in a Juicy Juice commercial, or being the kid chosen to ride around in the Oscar Myer Weiner-Mobile (my other plot to instant stardom) I was satisfied. I remember buying my first pair of tap shoes before the class. I chose to put a bright red ribbon on them. They were smashing. My expectations of a good time in tap class had little to do with technical prowess, and lots to do with the intoxicating notion of scampering about the room with fun music and being allowed to make loud noises with our shoes. I was right, that was pretty fun. But as it turns out, I also had something of a knack for physical movement. I remember standing on the wooden floor of “community dance room #4,” and hearing the shrieks from the next room over filled with little boys doing karate.

I was by far the smallest student, even among other four and five year olds. I was in my phase of only wearing dresses and pink tights; NEVER pants, or anything that might even subtly connote a lack of femininity. My patent leather tap shoes stuck out from underneath the billows of my dress like clown shoes on a princess, and my curly hair was shoved messily into a bun on top of my tiny head. We would face our teacher Ms. Joan, who looked like she had been plucked out of the chorus of 42nd street with giant hair sprayed hair, as she had us practice the Buck Times Step or our Maxiford turns one at a time. I was a tiny little ball of energy waiting and ready to prove that good, hell great things come in small packages. I wasn’t competitive with any one else; I just wanted to make sure Ms. Joan didn’t overlook me. I wanted her to think I was the next Shirley Temple, because I wanted it desperately. I also wanted to be a little taller. I wanted to have high heel shoes so I looked older. Nevertheless, each time it was my turn to do the steps I outperformed everyone. I certainly wanted to be a great dancer like dear Shirley, but I didn’t know I actually had something special. I was good. I was really good. From the moment I learned the shuffle ball change, and executed it pristinely in front of Ms. Joan and my fellow pre-school comrades, I had the first feeling of knowing I had found something I am innately good at. It was a raw stage of self-discovery. Of course in my dance training for many years to come, I would work tirelessly to achieve recognition, rehearse for many hours to perfect a piece of choreography, and prepare for the mental and physical rigors of auditions. But when I was four, in Ms. Joan’s Rec-center tap class, I was truly a kid wonder. I whipped out buffalos across the floor in perfect time, with my arms in the right place, and a dazzling smile on my face. At the end of the first class, unbeknownst to me until years later, Ms. Joan approached my mother in confidence. “Julia has got it” she said bluntly, “Your daughter is a dancer.” But at that moment, I didn’t even need the validation. I knew I had unearthed something that I loved; something that would follow me for the rest of my life. And it has. So I didn’t become a child star. And that’s ok. I’m probably way better off emotionally. But there is a Shirley Temple poster on the wall of my apartment, and more importantly; there is still time for me to figure out a way to ride around in the Weiner-Mobile.

 

Shirley (1944)

Me (1994)

 

 

 

 

Vampire

I’ll be honest, it took me a while to come up with something for this post.  I’m a fencer for Northwestern, but I’m flattened so routinely by some of my much more skillful teammates that I hesitate call myself “good.”  I played piano for eight years, but I was horrible about practicing and it took me a painfully long time to learn pieces.  I can’t paint or draw, I’m hideously tone-deaf.  But by the time I was a Senior in High School, I was a pro a running successful blood drives.

 

It’s hardly what you’d call a talent, I’m not entirely sure why I picked it.  But over the span of two years, Junior to Senior, I became capable of conniving even the most needle-phobic, squeamish person to at least consider having someone slowly drain 1/8 of their blood in a single sitting.  I had an arsenal of factoids (still do), answers for every question or misgiving.  No, you cannot get diseases from donating, it’s impossible.  Yes, the needles are sterile.  Or, of course, I also picked up the occasional well-placed encouragement.  Yes, you can miss class if you donate.  Yes, you do get out of sports practice that day.  I was so notorious for being the “blood drive girl” that for a Holiday assembly one year, “Santa” called me onstage, had me sit on his lap, told me he had the gift I wanted most, and handed me a leaking bag of red, sticky, odorless “blood.”

 

So what exactly I am I good at?  Guilt-tripping people for a good cause?  I hope not—I really, really hate it when people try to guilt trip me, and the people who stand at the arch and ask me if I have a minute for the environment, or gay rights, or PETA, and then ask for my credit card number so they can automatically take money from my account monthly never fail to frustrate me.  But I know I sank to that level a little.  Early on, when I was having less success getting names of people willing to donate, I went on stage during a school announcements session and said something along the lines of, “Guys, almost no one’s signed up for the drive.  And I know you might not love the idea but there is no substitute for human blood in transfusions, so if people don’t give, people die.”  I hadn’t meant to put it so bluntly.  But it worked.  I got at least ten names within five minutes of making that announcement.

 

I think what I able to master was the art or putting on a bit of a persona.  I hesitate to call it acting.  It was more like there was this little part of me that was the vampire: efficient, blood-hungry, tireless, merciless to fear or hesitation.  And for two weeks, at the drop of a hat, I could forget everything else and become that thing.  You know that part in Harry Potter when he’s under the imperius spell and all that’s in his mind is one action?  It was eerily like that.  All I had to do was step back and let it take over.

 

Maybe the moral is, when I want something to succeed bad enough, I get really, really good at getting it, shoving aside inhibitions and distractions.  Or maybe I’m good at framing myself in whatever light I want to be seen in that day.  Or, well, it’s possible I’m just adept at guilt-tripping.  But I like to think the whole thing proves I’m good for something, apart from sucking blood.

 

 

Potato Sacks

At the end of each year, my grammar school held an outdoor celebration, aptly entitled Field Day. The school was divided into eight teams, each of them having members from grades K-5.  The competition involved a long series of athletically oriented events, and we maneuvered through them in small groups, competing against groups from other teams. At the end of the day, the winning team would be crowned and given ribbons. It was not unusual for children to cry when they were deprived of these ribbons.

(Note: I remember that the scoring was incredibly complicated, considering that that there were at least 500 participants. Furthermore, the units for measuring Frisbee tosses are not the same as those for foot races. Worse, the gym teachers were enlisted to compile all of this data. I can’t help but feel as if egregious errors were made.)

Anyway, at the beginning of the day, we were assigned to a group and sent to the classroom where we would mobilize. Despite being in the same school, I remember experiencing a nervous discomfort, like an unfit gladiator in a foreign holding pen. Instead, it was my fourth grade dignity—and not my life—that was on the line.

As expected, I faltered in the 100-meter dash, and my Frisbee toss was one of those extreme duds. Oh, and I must mention the event where we had to pick up a bunch of obnoxious items at once and carry them to another location without dropping any (which held the penalty of starting over). In retrospect, I have deemed the creator of this aforementioned event to be a sadist that enjoyed watching uncoordinated children drop rubber chickens, turn back to look at said dropped rubber chickens, proceed to drop the rest of his/her items, and then start over, often taking three times as long as the next worst contestant.  Needless to say, my performance was leaving something to be desired, and I knew that I would have to prove myself in the next event—the potato sack race.

At the time, my intuition told me that I had a chance. Perhaps I had participated in one before; I do not remember. Surely, it was not because of any physical advantages that I possessed in comparison to my peers—I was a tad overweight, could not run very well unless it was in the direction of dinner, and surely did not perform any calf raises in my spare time.

The whistle blew, and I scampered forward frenetically. Jumping repeatedly with one’s feet confined to the bottom of a potato sack is not the most comfortable activity, but for the sake of redemption, I pulled upwards on the sack and drove my torso forward for extra momentum. Most of the race was a blur; this was not helped by the fact that my cranium was being jerked to and fro, allowing my brain to bounce freely.

I won the race by quite a margin, confirming my strange suspicion. I remember noting to myself that I was rather excellent at the potato sack race. At the time, I may have even considered this a legitimate skill. Regardless of my victory, I am quite glad that there is no video footage of this event.

I have not since participated in a potato sack race.

Making Silly Jokes

It was last period on a Wednesday during the last month of Junior year.  My friend Nevin and I were sitting in study hall when we came up with the idea to run for office.  The election was on Friday, and people had been campaigning for weeks.  “Let’s make a bunch of silly posters”, we thought, “and see how many votes we get.”

"If elected President, I promise a handlebar moustache for every man, woman, and child." -Tom Hayden for Senior Class President

That’s what ensued.  I also had one that showed a picture of a glass of orange juice that said only “Orange juice is delicious.  Vote for Tom Hayden.”  Nevin ran for Secretary.  His poster was a picture of him punching Stalin in the face, promising to rid the school of communism.

We put the posters up on Thursday, writing our speeches that night as well.  Mine told the story of my childhood, beginning with my birth, the tides of which brought about the destruction of the Berlin Wall.  Nevin’s was a list of “facts” (“When given the choice of rock, paper, or scissors, he always chooses Democracy”), and a drawing of a billy goat.

We won.  We had beaten out people who had spent way more time than we had, simply because our posters and speeches (they weren’t really speeches, though.  Voters had to read them on their own time) were funny and ridiculous.  It was at this point that I realized that I was good at making jokes.  Nevin was also pretty good.  Sidenote: my friends from High School still call me “Mr. President” sometimes.

This ability went on to help me win future elections.  For example, for my speech for Willard Secretary, I recited the lyrics of “She’s a Bad mama Jama”.  I went on to write a four-page weekly bathroom newsletter that included stories about Obama flying and fighting crime, or a piece entitled “Minutes from the First Meeting of the First Frat Ever”.

But at the heart of this isn’t really just “oh I can make people laugh isn’t that swell hur hur”.  It’s that I learned that people like me when I make them laugh.  Humor became a social tool — helping me win elections was a happy coincidence.  In humor I could win friends and make a name for myself.  I wasn’t just some guy who lived down the hall.  I was the funny guy who lived down the hall, and that’s a great person to be.  Of course, I still don’t have a girlfriend — I’m not that good yet.

I’m so good I’m doing it right now

The procrastinator’s logic in putting things off is best explained in the following quote from season two of Grey’s Anatomy:

“Maybe we like the pain.  Maybe we’re wired that way.  Because without it, I don’t know; maybe we just wouldn’t feel real.  What’s that saying? Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer?  Because it feels so good when I stop.”

There is no greater feeling of relief than getting a paper printed and stapled five minutes before it’s due to be handed in.  Race to class, throw it on the pile with everyone else’s work, and DONE.  Sit down, wait for class to be over, and go back to bed.  Lie down, soak in the glorious feeling of your full weight on the mattress and your carefree head on the pillow, and three, two, one…out.

The difference between my form of procrastination and most other students I find, is that I enjoy what I call “constructive” procrastination.  I don’t waste time by re-watching movies, perusing photos on Facebook, or shopping for new music on i-tunes.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do those things to fill the void of hours between classes or between the end of classes and dinner, but not in the peak hours of procrastination.

Instead, I start off my late-night study/paper writing sessions with good intentions.  I lay out all my books and notes and collect my pens and highlighters and open up Microsoft Word ready to begin.  But then I see I have to reference Wikipedia for something.  Alright, Internet open.  Search Montgomery Bus Boycott.  Hmm, Rosa Parks died in 2005…sad.  Oh but Condoleeza Rice spoke at her funeral.  How nice.  She used to teach at Stanford?  Leland Stanford was one of the Big Four wasn’t he?  I think I learned that in fourth grade…

I think you get the point.  My friend Danielle best associates my problem with this comic:

The end result is I have a plethora of innocuous knowledge that serves no real purpose other than to make me blurt out random facts at lunchtime in the midst of otherwise mindless chatter.  Worse still, my problem only gets progressively worse as general apathy sets in and the “fear” I had in high school that compelled me to begin work earlier steadily wanes into nonexistence.  In fact, unless I’m really excited about an assignment, I have no other way to boot my ass into gear than to watch the clock wind down until the early hours of the morning when I finally realize I actually need to dig into my work.

The worst time vacuum has to be reading week.  Last fall, I actually tried to get work done early like a good student to help keep the stress from getting to me.  What was the end result?  I finished my french assignment five days in advance,  put it on my shelf to be handed in on its due date, AND COMPLETELY FORGOT IT WAS THERE UNTIL ONE HOUR AFTER THE DEADLINE.

Luckily for me, my professor was very understanding and accepted my final the next day with no penalties.  But had I pulled my usual all-nighter and finished the paper the day of, I would have printed it off, stapled it, raced to the French department, and spared myself the pleading e-mail that stressed me out for hours between the time it got sent and the time my professor sent her benevolent reply.

Everyone can and occassionally does procrastinate.  Suddenly your laundry needs to get done, those errands need to be run, and you haven’t called home in a while, so why not chat up Mom and Dad for an hour or so before getting that essay started?  My only difference is that I still like learning when I’m wasting my time.

Anyway, now that I’ve completed this assignment, I suppose I only have seven hours to explain how the Cold War affected race relations between 1945 and 1965…arn’t you jealous?

Narcissism can be fleeting or permanent

My mom tells me that I was always a talker, even before I could “talk” (or well, speak  English) I would ramble in my own language. Eventually words began to form. To this day, my mother isn’t quite sure what my first word was. I’ve never let her live that down, because I’ve always hoped it was something impressively intelligent. However, I’m almost certain it was something uninspired like “mama” (certainly not “dada” as I did not grow up with a father) or perhaps some nickname I gave my bottle or blanket.

One more thing my mother knows, is that not too long thereafter, I was a singer. I especially love her story about her receiving a phone call home from my daycare teacher, complaining that I was interrupting nap-time by singing “I’m Too Sexy.” I suppose that should be embarrassing, but that’s a story I’m rather proud of. I think it’s representative of the development of my personality.

And so I sang and sang and sang. I came from a semi-musical family. My father, although I had never met him, was apparently a musical genius, but who really knows. My one uncle was the most talented one in the family because he could sing and play piano rather well. My mom and my other uncle came next. Everyone’s pursuit of music was unique, so it’s rather difficult to really rank them, but I think this is at least somewhat accurate.

And then there was me. My mom had this hunch that I would grow up to be, at the very least, a decent singer. As I got older, we would sing along to her Sarah McLachlan, Natalie Merchant and occasional Broadway cast recording CDs in her car. I would consistently soar comfortably on to the high notes, which seemed to wow my mother. The people around me were also impressed by the voice I packed for such a little kid, but they were close to me and I was comfortable singing around them.

In third grade, my music teacher encouraged me to audition for the solo in “The Christmas Song” for our annual Christmas concert, so I did and, though I was nervous and up against many other kids, I got it. She would sometimes pull me out of class for a few minutes just to go over it. She asked me to take the alternative high note at the end and I remember the janitor snooping on our practice time and complimenting me. I won the respect of my peers, even the boys, and I thought, maybe I was pretty good at this.

Then came the ever-dreaded, but equally anticipated move to middle school where there was a choir for “advanced voices” that, although the director encouraged us to audition for, 5th graders didn’t usually get in to. However, they encouraged us to show interest for the following year. I still remember that audition like it was yesterday. My mom sat down with me at the piano, every day for a week before the audition, teaching me the harmony. I wanted to audition as a soprano, but she accidentally taught me the alto part also, so when the audition came, I messed up. I couldn’t stop shaking because I was so intimidated by the directors. They played my note, I sang the part, they looked at me strange. Suddenly the look on their face turned.

“Oh! You actually just sang the alto part, but you wrote soprano 2 on your sheet. Did you mean to do that.”

“Oh. I learned them both and I guess I…”

“No big deal. Very good. Next.”

I wanted to cry. I couldn’t believe I messed up my audition that I’d practiced so much for! Until I few days later, when I found out I was one of the very few fifth graders who made the cut, but as an alto. I talked to the director after school, happy I made it, but also disappointed about my voice part.

“We don’t have enough altos,” she said. “Sometimes girls at this age have a hard time singing that low, but you have a nice range so we can use you there. Maybe you can sing soprano next year.”

The point was, I really could sing. I had a talent.

And so I spent four years in this “advanced” choir, jumping from voice part to voice part. My director moving me as she needed more coverage on another harmony line. When I got to high school, this meant singing everything from tenor to high-soprano as she needed. I was on top of the world.

As I’ve spent more and more time working on my voice, I’ve realized one thing: being good is never good enough. I loved my ability to sing almost any voice part in high school. I knew I was among the best, even as a freshman, and I loved the attention. I got more and more gratification in my little pond, until I finally ventured to be a big fish in the whole damn ocean. Then, I finally got the mouth full of salt water I deserved.

I began taking my voice other places and learned about all these things I couldn’t do. Among them included belting and riffing and sounding like something other than a classical singer. I was intrigued and challenged and downtrodden. It was a smack in the face, a rude awakening, a rock I needed to sink me back down to the bottom. I began to fight back and learn more and try to master everything. I then realized I was good at singing not just because I could naturally keep pitch and shape music, but I was willing to fight. When I knew I was willing to work to make myself better, the progress was evidence of me being “good” at something. This is where the true realization lies. Every time I feel like I cannot do something, I think about how much I have accomplished through practice in the past. It is in these moments that I feel most talented.

Forever Young

I consider myself a pretty talented person. I was smart enough to make it into Northwestern, athletic enough to play varsity basketball in high school, and musically gifted enough to play violin in my school’s orchestra. But none of this compares to how talented I feel I was when I was little, and this makes me pretty sad.

When I was younger, I was into all sorts of extracurricular activities. My dad was a former professional soccer player in Belgium, so he got me started with soccer when I turned 3. The year before that, I had started playing basketball on a tiny plastic hoop with a soft-ball sized rubber “basketball.” My mom, as most moms do, pushed me into activities like piano lessons and Korean lessons because she thought they would “be good for me.” I even developed a love for acting. I was proud to be cast as Abraham Lincoln in my 2nd grade class play and as Willy Wonka in my 3rd grade class play (sadly, the latter remains one of the proudest moments of my life). I liked sports and I liked playing the piano, so my list of extra-curricular activities soon grew to include tennis lessons, golf lessons (but only from my parents) and flute lessons (I still get made fun of this when people find this out about me). Needless to say, I was a pretty busy elementary schooler, but I absolutely loved it.

This all changed when I moved to Tampa in the middle of 6th grade.

The first bombshell came when my principal informed me that both basketball and soccer took place during the winter – I had to pick one or the other. I chose basketball, but ended up with a horrible coach for my two years of varsity basketball who took a lot of the fun out of the sport and made me wonder what could have been if I stuck with soccer. I tried to find a new piano teacher, but I just never found one who clicked with me the way my old teacher had, and soon gave up. I tried to keep up with golf and tennis, but with my growing workload at school and my commitment to basketball, I didn’t really have much time to keep up with these activities either. These commitments forced me to give up my short-lived acting career too, as I didn’t have the time to rehearse lines or audition for plays.

As I grew older, I learned to budget my time much better, but by this time, my potential for greatness in many areas had all but vanished. I don’t know if it was the hectic nature of trying to adjust to a new school in the middle of a year, but I had a serious inability to budget my time at all when I was in middle school. I don’t really regret any decisions I made in terms of my extracurriculars – basketball was what I enjoyed most and obviously I had to place a lot of emphasis on school, but I do miss the time when I had enough free time to completely pursue whatever I wanted. When we’re young, we don’t appreciate all the opportunities that lie before us, and oftentimes we even get annoyed at our parents for trying to push us into trying new things. But as we grow older, this number of opportunities starts to dwindle. I’m good at enough things to feel like I didn’t waste the opportunities I had as a child, but I will always miss that carefree existence of my elementary and middle school days.

Old Dreams, New Dreams

I come from a family of athletes.

My dad played Little League, my mom was on the swim team, and my brother was the captain of two varsity sports — and let’s not forget the time he was approached to be trained for the Olympics.

My parents like to refer to me as a genetic mutation.

It’s not that I’m bad at sports — it’s that I’m horribly, terribly, abysmally awful. When I was a little girl, my parents had to hire a tutor of sorts, not for school (I was good at that), but for basic activities like climbing up a ladder or going down a slide. My lack of coordination resulted in constant injury: the scar in my eyebrow and the dent in my forehead are the result of running into two different tables (one glass, one granite), two days in a row.

When I was two years old, my mother was singing me a lullaby — I imagine it was “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” or something to that effect — and I asked her to stop. Please. It hurts, Mommy.

For all their athletic talent, my entire extended family is horribly, terribly, abysmally tone deaf. And for all my lack of natural athleticism, I can sing.

The first real inkling I had that I was a more than decent singer was when I began practicing for my Bat Mitzvah. The cantor took a special interest in me, and as a result, I was given a lot of extra work. But I enjoyed the challenge (I was totally that girl in third grade who asked for extra homework), and by the time of my actual Bat Mitzvah, I was essentially cantoring the thing myself.

“Aren’t you nervous?” my mom had asked me. She suffers from a paralyzing fear of public speaking (or at least she claims to).
“Nope,” I replied, and I meant it. I loved it. For two long hours on Saturday, January 26, 2002, it was the Sally Show. And I distinctly remember the twin looks of horror that crossed my parents’ faces when during his speech, the Rabbi suggested I pursue cantoring as a profession.

Upon completing my Jewish studies, the cantor recommended me to a voice teacher whom she believed would really further my abilities. This woman happened to be the director of the Youth Choir at the Second Congregational Church of Greenwich. And so began my four-year stint as a member of a church choir and a burgeoning aspiration to become a musical theatre star.

I don’t remember the last time I sang for an audience. Perhaps it is as far back as my senior year of high school. Singing is like my dirty little secret; I sing to Youtube karaoke, alone in my room, where (hopefully) no one can hear me. I have to bite my tongue when my sorority sisters heap praises upon the girls among us who can carry a tune. I have to remember that they’ve never heard me, they never will hear me, and that that part of my life is over.

What’s truly ironic is that among my friends I’m now known as the jock. And it’s partially true; the hours I used to spend practicing music I now spend weight training in the gym. I think it’s fair to say that I’m unusually strong, but it’s certainly not because of any natural predisposition. To me, singing is like breathing, while weight lifting is a constant battle against my own limitations. Every time I add ten more pounds to the bar, I feel like I’ve won. And the same giddiness I felt while standing on the beama, I feel every time I’m in the gym. Somehow, it’s more rewarding to be good at something because I want to be.

But for the record, just because I can squat more than you doesn’t mean you won’t kick my ass in every organized sport out there.

To know failing.

I always liked directing. I have been good at it. I have been bad at it. Realizing you are good at something lasts until you start to try it.

I started directing in an acting class because I couldn’t memorize lines. The teacher was shocked to see that I had a little bit of talent when it came to directing and the next day the head of the drama department asked me to assistant direct his next play. I refused in order to play lacrosse after the end of that season I started directing. While I was playing lacrosse I felt like a good director, I had done more during class and it made clear sense to me. The next year I finally worked on a production, and all of a sudden I no longer felt like I had any talent for the job. I was working on a one-act; now the sole director.

Confidence disappeared; the feeling of talent was a faint memory. Anything I have invested myself in, has had this give and take. I start some things and go until I do well. This satisfies the itch and then I am comfortable to stop.

The things I feel I am the best at, I never feel that comfortable about. I think I am a good director and maybe I have since I started but as I prepare to direct this play in the winter, I could not be more convinced that I am useless, have no idea what I am doing, and ought to be fired, quit, or killed before rehearsals start.

This may be my greatest motivator. This fear of failure not in the eyes of others but rather fear of the knowledge I have not done all I could. I have an obligation to my actors. To my writer. They are family now and I must guide them safely through my own fog and theirs.

To acknowledge ability, is to acknowledge possibility I think—if you believe you are good at something there is immediately the possibility that you could be great, the only thing holding you back is a commitment to it. Seeing that commitment creates a place for you to show up and fill the space or to allow it to crumble inwards.

My fear is that of letting it crumble inwards. So am I good? I was for a while. Now I don’t know. I only have myself really to compete against, and the other half of me is a nagging son of bitch, who likes to believe in a few steps I’ll have something worthwhile to show.

What am I good at? Not much

I thought about posting something about my memoir because I couldn’t think of anything I’ve been good at besides high school, being responsible, blah blah, all the normal boring shit for a NU student. But after I thought about it I decided I’d rather keep my essay under wraps—it’s undergone substantial growth and rewriting, but it’s still germinating.

So what I am good at? Not much. But I am mediocre at a lot of things. And I’m bad at many more. But I did realize that I’m good at maintaining friendships over long distances.

Coming home always means two things: First, I won’t have any free time, and Second, I’ll barely get any sleep. This is because aside from my close knit family, I have three friends back home who won’t give me any peace. After two years spent at Northwestern, twelve-hundred miles away, Kamy, Michael, and Matt are still willing to drop whatever they’re doing to hang out with me. As of last summer, I stopped going home for any longer than a couple of weeks at a time—I got a job working at Applied Thin Films Inc. here in Evanston. That didn’t faze any of them—they responded by shelling out for a plane ticket to come visit me at various times during the summer. So did my younger brother. We had a whole host of adventures to remember each other by before I went back to school (The Warped Tour, Blink 182 concert, being in a gas station as it is getting held up, alcohol induced hospital trip, etc., etc., etc.). I flew home twice myself. Until recently, I never really noticed how weird it was for a college student to still have such close friends back home.

For a year and a half of college, Kamy and I dated. We fought and we dreamed and we got engaged and we broke up. The ending of five incendiary years together and living halfway across the country hasn’t stopped us from talking at least twice a week.

I was back in Austin for a week or so at the end of last summer. My brother and I are sitting in the living room playing video games, I’m waiting for Kamy to come pick me up. My dad yells from the kitchen, “Chris, who is this number (512) 554-5599, and why does your cell phone bill say you’ve called them for 3712 minutes this past month??? After a pause he says, Jesus, Chris, that’s like two hours a day… Damn good thing you’re doing most of it in the evening and they aren’t charging us…” I laughed to myself amazed. Had I really talked to Matt for two hours a day last month? I guess I had. I usually talk to my friends back home when I am walking somewhere or procrastinating and they do the same. When I told him later he thought it was hysterical.  I guess it adds up?

-Chris “I’m also pretty good with my tongue…” Garcia

Not great, but maybe good.

I still have a Livejournal. Most kids got one, or something similar, like a Xanga or Diary-X, when they were in junior high and then discarded of it sometime in high school when they realized they were too cool to be using sites like that anymore. But I still use mine regularly. So do a few of my friends.

One friend, in particular, likes to answer the daily writers block prompts that livejournal posts on their main page to help get its users thinking. On a day a little over 2 years ago, the prompt was, “What’s been your biggest influence in making you a better writer?” And the friend answered that it was me, that I was in fact so moving as a writer it inspired him to want to better himself as one.

Not only was it the nicest compliment I think I’ve ever received, but I think it was the first time I realized I might actually be good at this whole writing thing. Certainly not great, but maybe good. It also made me realize that if there was something I could do that would inspire others to create and explore and pursue artistic endeavors, I should be doing it, whether I thought I was good or not. Because isn’t that really what it’s all about? Making someone feel something so strongly that they want to make someone else feel something, too?

Essay Sketch: Conversion and WASP Pride

My essay is, right now, about my half-brother James, who is 11 years older than me, and how my family and I reacted to his ex-girlfriend Donya, who he dated for 5 years.  My family had a rough, passive-aggressive sort of relationship with her, particularly due to the fact that my parents were extremely displeased that she insinuated that if he ever wanted to marry her, he would have to convert to Judaism first, something he was in the process of doing when she broke up with him.  I want to discuss this in terms of the idea of “white guilt,” something I can be susceptible to, verses my parent’s strong sense of pride about their heritage and religion and indignation at his being asked to change, and what the line is between pride and prejudice.  (That phrase came without any sort of pre-planning, and I think I have to leave it in now).

If I have room, I also want to talk about James and why he might be so much more liberal than my parents, possibly because he grew up with his mother in an urban neighborhood (Philadelphia).  James’ mother was also born in Cuba, and came the United States with her family when she was 3, and his extended first-generation immigrant family might be why he has such a different worldview, and was so willing to convert.

Essay sketch: Mostly I’m just curious

I want to write about why girls have sex.  I want to try and understand why some are uneasy on the subject while others are expressive and quick to share.  Is sex a power device?  I can’t help but feel like it isn’t for women.

In a house full of girls who all believe in doing things for your own reasons and not someone elses, why were some of my closest friends anxious to just get the sex thing over with?  Because they felt left out?  Because they felt like it would change something about them?

Why do I feel as I approach age 21 that people expect that I have already done it?  Why do I feel like saying “I’m 21 and a virgin” out loud is so strange — like I’m superior about it or something.  I’m not.  I’m not a virgin for any religious or moral reasons.  I’m not handing out pamphlets at the Arch about abstinence — in fact, I think it’s completely backwards to think that saving sex for marriage is a good idea.

So then what am I saving it for exactly…do I even know?

My fear is that I appear to men like a mental case waiting to happen.  Like, if they’re the one to introduce me to sex, I’m going to be “duck mommied” (a term my friend came up with freshman year.  Here is how I came to understand “duck mommy”):
Danielle: She duck mommied him.
Catherine: She what?
Danielle: You know when a baby duck is born, the first thing they see move they dub “mommy” and follow it around everywhere?
Catherine: Yeah…
Danielle: Well, it’s a woman law. You can’t be the first female hand on his dick unless you’re ready to be the duck mommy. And for more impressionable guys (i.e. more desperate), a hug is the equivalent of hand on dick. DON’T DUCK MOMMY.

I’m using this term in the man to inexperienced woman sense, but I think you get it.

The biggest thing that confuses me is that I know more about sex than a lot of girls who are actually having sex.  I’ve never been shy about my body in any way and I’m absolutely fascinated by men’s bodies.  I always thought every girl masturbates and likes being naked.  The biggest person who judges me for being so open about these private matters is my younger sister.  She hates being naked and is particularly annoyed whenever I freely walk into her room to borrow something without bothering to wrap a towel around me. 

Anyway — these are hardly linchpins.  To be honest, I’m having trouble grounding this subject in just one memory.  Here are some that I’m considering:

• Feeling alone after both of my best friends have sex.
• Realizing that no matter how confident some women are in expressing their sexuality, they can be reduced to impotence in seconds by what a man they had sex with says about them.
• In this last idea I have two memories: one from the woman’s side and one from the man’s.
• Woman: The anonymous commenters on CollegeACB make one of my friends massively insecure about how she is perceived by others.
• Man: In the middle of lunch at Norris, one of my guy friends sees a girl he’s had sex with and points her out to me.  “I’ve had sex with that girl sitting right there.  She’s too skinny and kind of a bitch, but she was fun to fuck.”  At this, I realized that no matter how cool or smart or pretty or successful a woman is, she is merely an entrance, a hole, to men like the one sitting next to me.  He had the upper hand.  She was just some pretty trophy he had nailed to his wall.  If he was willing to be so candid with me, I shuddered to think what he said about any other girl he’s had sex with in the company of his frat brothers.

Daddy don’t you smoke those cancer sticks: Essay Linchpins

A quick sketch of my yet-to-be-fully-realized essay. It is about my long-time hate affair with my father’s on again off again cigarette addiction. It pretty much maps the highs and lows of our “family life,” and was an excellent outlet for the adolescent anger I was determined not to have.

 

- My father, discovered by his father, at age 15, smoking. He is given a good beating with a leather belt. And later tells me this story as one of his all too common generational commentaries, and I suppose to make the point to my younger self, that smoking is indeed very bad.

- A couple of summers after my parents get divorced my Dad my sister and I go on vacation. Earlier that summer I saw him lighting up in his work van and have grown into a consuming paranoia about his secret habit and apparent disregard of responsibility for danger. I rip through his duffel bag and that is the first time I ever see his cigarettes.

- My father and I have our non-confrontational confrontation over the cigarettes, I get angry, he looks shamed, I get angrier.

- My memory of hiding out in my Dad’s closet between his coats when I was little, because I liked the smell: Old Spice and something I later cmae to realized was the abhorrent substance of nicotine.

- Christmas of my cigarette paranoia year, at my uncle’s house – he shows a home video from Christmas, 1988, a year before I was born. In it my Dad is smoking and he and my uncle engage in some banter about “Tim Kelleher, of the American Cancer Society.” Everybody laughed as we watched. I got upset and had to leave the room.

I have drawn a few conclusions about the significance of these memories as parentifying moments, in which I recognized weakness and shame in my father and resented him for it. I also think cigarettes were in many ways my godsend, I got angry about one tangible thing and that was it. I am already over word count though, and am anticipating a hefty editing process.

 

 

Jumbled Attempt at an Essay

I’m attempting to write an essay on my relationship with my religion, and more broadly, prejudice against one’s own people. Coming up with relevant linchpins is the easy part; connecting them coherently, not so much. As usual, my struggle will be with deeper analysis of a meatier subject.

Linchpins (I won’t go into a huge amount of detail, so you’re not stuck reading it twice):

• The time I ruined Christmas for Mrs. Newman’s second grade class
• My Bat Mitzvah (haven’t decided if this has a place in my essay yet)
• Shortly after my Bat Mitzvah, I joined a church choir. I was the only Jew. I wore a cross once a week.
• On a choir tour of Europe after my junior year, I discovered a swastika carved into the bottom of the upper bunk above me in the monk’s dormitory at Winchester Cathedral.
• Nose hatred
• My roommate tells me that if I were to dye my hair brown, I’d look like a Jewish mother.
• Writing an essay on what it means to be the descendant of a Holocaust survivor.
• Getting paid to be a Jew: the Chabad House offers a class on modern Judaism called Sinai Scholars. The goal of the course is to teach college-age students to apply the Ten Commandments to their everyday lives. Upon completion of the course, you receive a $400 check.

Pictures: Second Essay Sketch

Okay, so this is a rough-ass draft. I didn’t write it as only linchpins, although it is in pieces that somewhat resemble them. I’m having a lot harder time writing on this topic than I thought I would, but I think it is a good one and I simply need to spend a lot of time with it.

–

I’ve always hated pictures. I hate the idea of them. I hate the way mom always takes so long to press the stupid little button. I hate stopping on long drives to frame ourselves in front of every single scenic outlook. I hate interrupting adventures just to prove they happened. And most of all, I hate looking ugly for eternity.

On Friday, July 28, 2006, my dad’s oldest sister was fifty years old. She had always been a sort of bohemian figure in my life and as such was often referred to by my cousins and me as ‘Crazy Aunt Diane’. I remember that she was none too happy to acknowledge her age, but took our jokes about being around for half a century gracefully in stride.  Not that she had much choice, my family  had not met like this since my grandfather’s funeral last January, and she had the good fortune of celebrating her birthday right around the time when we were all longing for an excuse to convene. My dad’s side had always been tight like that.

While this night may have marked a new chapter in the life of my aunt, family get-togethers marked something different for my sixteen year old self, namely, food. The food was always great at my grandmother’s—that woman could properly cook anything you wanted and cook it well and I remember  we always begged her for eclectic combinations that included things like galabki, eggrolls, and lasagna. If that wasn’t enough, everybody would be sure to bring various finger foods that always made my mouth water. And of course there would be drinks—maybe I could convince mom to let me have a margarita? Hanging out with my family is always great fun until the camera comes out.

For me also, a certain sad darkness tinged this affair. As this was the first time that all of my grandfather’s sons and daughters came together since his funeral, it was time to bury his ashes. Thinking about this still brought a lump to my throat, but his loss was one I had dealt with. I was glad that we were finally laying him to rest.

Getting together with my family is always a rambunctious affair full of practical jokes and obscene humor, dangerous games of spoons and cards, and unregulated roughhousing. The best example I can provide is the fact that, after flying up to Chicago to say goodbye to my grandfather, a man who had been an important part of my life since the day I was born, I learned how to snowboard, courtesy of some second and third cousins. That’s just how it’s always been, unpredictable yet tight knit.

Another interesting thing about this night is that it was the first time I would meet the wife of my older cousin, Michael. In a fashion typical of his mother the birthday girl, he had dropped off the map, moved to California and then Hong Kong for college, and found a wife in China. She was one of the few people I had ever met who called another country home and I found her to be very strange. As such, she fit right in.

The dreaded moment came—family pictures. They always tried to get everyone in and it never went smoothly. Tonight was no exception. Whether it was someone blinking, or my brother ruining pictures to be funny, it took a long time to get a couple snapshots. They weren’t done, of course, but I offered to be the cameraman to avoid getting angry and irrationally belligerent. After a long time, we were done.

The night culminated in a slide show that my Aunt’s brothers and sisters had put together. I knew that my dad had put a lot of work into it because I remember overhearing him talking about it with my aunts and uncles for the past couple of weeks, trying to work out logistics. The finished show was extremely well done. It was touching and warm and they had managed to find enough old pictures to completely chronicle the five decades of my aunt’s life. I was entranced for all of its more than half an hour length in spite of myself.

As the show went on, the photographs shifted from scenes set before my conception to a lot of events that I remembered fondly—most of them were big family vacations. I saw my uncle throwing my brother into the pool, and my cousins when they were still toddlers. I smiled to myself remembering it all.

Despite my happiness, I began to feel a little unsettled. All of a sudden, I put my finger on it. I wasn’t there. Everyone in the room could be found everywhere in the slideshow, everywhere in my aunt’s life. But not me. Twenty pictures passed for every picture that I had agreed to waste my time posing for. I looked at some of the vacation pictures and I tried to remember what it had felt like to be there. I had a couple of vivid recollections, but not many. I kept thinking, Where am I? More often than not, I was nowhere to be found. Skipping all those photographs had given me the few extra minutes in the moments, I told myself. With a heavy heart, the slide show finished without me.

I came here to celebrate my aunt’s birthday—I had always considered myself a significant part of her life. But as I walked to the car later, I thought about the slide show and wondered, maybe I was never there at all.

-Chris ‘bleary-eyed’ Garcia

Linch Pins of Essay: Fat Camp

My essay is about my struggle with weight loss and body image throughout my life. I ask why people can be so defined by other people’s opinions. I ask why I can be so defined by other people’s opinions. There’s always the “health” versus “vanity” question. I argue it’s sometimes a bit of both. Still, am I strong or weak?

- Deciding to accept my identity as the “fat kid” and venture off to fat camp for a few summers of physical fitness and nutrition.

- Finding out that I’ve become the most interesting subject of drama at the middle school when everyone finds out exactly where I spent my summer. Then learning how to deal with harshly judgmental people.

- Losing 50 pounds in high school. Does this make me weak or strong?

- My continuous battle with weight, health and body image.

Smoking

1. The first time I wanted to smoke. With three teachers from highschool. They took me to a back porch and there we smoked. It felt beautifully secret.

2. The first time I did smoke. With another novice, which was entirely underwhelming. Smoking in a flat in Edinburgh. Realizing that this was not the secret I felt.

3. The first time I smoked and it was good. The first time I smoked, and saw what I saw with the three teachers.I raced out of my house, driving far too fast on a narrow street, blazing through sunset on a red for a second or two light. Getting food and returning to the corner, sitting eating and then smoking until it hurt. Thinking that a car accident that could have happened as I ran that light would be what it’s like to die by smoking.

Dying by smoking will not be like that. It will be slower.

4. The first time I confronted the idea of death through smoking. We believe to some degree we are invincible until we do not.

5. My mediocre retorts that never answer the question, posed by judgmental strangers. “do you know smoking can kill you”
- Oh really?
- But a frustrated stranger could do it a lot faster.
- So could jaywalking (said once while jaywalking with a stranger).
Or my favorite: “I really don’t appreciate that..”
- Smile, and act as if you never heard them. After it’s been too long, turn and nod at them. Then proceed to not hear their second attempt .
-This too is ignoring the point.

6. The first time I noticed cigarettes didn’t taste like they used to.

Smoking no longer feels like it will provide a death by fire. That flames will burst from my lungs and burn me to death.

7. Smoking until it hurt. Until I wanted to vomit. Trying to vomit. Sitting in a room for ten of them, continuing to do it because it’s painful, and you want to see how far you can go. It becomes a test of strength against an enemy that will leave you ragged. – Trying to tear out the truth of the matter.
It has been a long time since I got a buzz.
If they didn’t kill me would I smoke them? I don’t know that I would. Then do I want to die? Not yet.