Controllers Anonymous

As I continue down the dimly lit, carpeted hallway of the high school, I pull out the community education pamphlet. I cannot believe that I have to run this session. At least only about two people signed up for the class, so I plan to leave by eight.

I flip to the page that I had earmarked, which displays the advertisement for Controllers Anonymous: Help overcome your addiction to controlling others in a safe, welcoming atmosphere. Since, obviously, a room full of controlling people just seems so inviting. I continue to the end of the hallway to the door of the AP English classroom. I quickly flip on the lights and throw my bag down on a desk, briefly glancing out of the window to observe the falling snow. It had begun to let up a bit since earlier this morning, and now dances across the grey sky.

Suddenly, I hear a knock on the door and I stand up to greet the two individuals, a blonde-haired girl, and a regal man wearing a purple cape. Narrowing my eyes, I invite them to sit down with me and introduce themselves.

“Hi. My name is Adrian Veidt, more commonly, Ozymandias. I brought along trial-sized action figures of myself as well as those of my friends since I do not mind profiting off of the few people that care about me.”

“Thank you for joining us, Adrian,” I sigh as I take the gift. I quickly peer over to see a blonde girl sitting next to him, scribbling notes down onto a notepad.

“And you?” I ask expectantly. The girl sits up a bit more and smiles.

“I’m Lauren, Ms. Serensky’s AP English aid. She does not have time for this meeting because she needs to annotate another book and grade fifty projects to continue her goal of indoctrinating students’ minds and making her class control their lives. And she wants me to make sure no one touches anything in her classroom.”

Just wonderful, she sent a spy. I invite her to share more about her teacher, sympathizing with her and offering sub-par advice. Once she finishes, I turn toward Adrian and invite him to share his story, glancing up at the clock, hoping that he will finish his story quickly.

“Well, back in the 1980’s, I conspired to kill half of New York City to end all wars. But, ever since, I have wondered if I did the right thing. Peace necessitates collateral damage, right? And if my morals benefit people in the end, I surely did the right thing?”

Great. I suppose this may last past eight.

Mairin's Daily Life, According to Facebook

Note: I have only recently begun to get to know Mairin, so I have inferred her life based on her likes on Facebook. I italicized the pages she “Likes.”

I wake up to a typical rainy day in Chagrin Falls, Ohio. But, I like watching raindrops race across my window as I silently cheer for them. So, I eat breakfast and prepare to run through the rain to my car. When I turn on the car, an old song sounds from the radio. I just love hearing a song from so long ago and remembering all the memories! In a chipper mood from my car ride, I attend my first few classes. We work on free response questions in Calculus, and they only mention particles traveling along the x-axis. Times like these, I miss the weird names of kids in word problems in math books from elementary school, when I did not have to worry about a mock AP exam. A few periods later, I walk into the Biology room, quickly reviewing the nervous system and cell-mediated immune response in my head. Mr. Ricci’s substitute, who looks younger than the majority of the students in this class, begins to hand out the test materials. He runs up to the board enthusiastically and informs us that we must fill in our name, the date, the subject, and the class period on the Scantron. Right, because I thought I would also take the liberty of filling out my score. Anyway, I begin to fill in the information, beginning with my name. As I fill out the date, I mentally say “Wed-nes-day” while writing “Wednesday.”  I formed that habit back in elementary school, but I just cannot seem to shake it. As I begin to take the test, and look around at the shocked and defeated faces of my classmates (nobody understands the immune system), I begin filling in the Scantron. I feel pretty confident, but I begin getting paranoid when I notice patterns on the multiple choice test, so I fill in a C, since I have not seen one of those in a while. After that train-wreck of an exam, I walk to meet my friends at the lunch table, spotting them from a distance. They all perk up and begin to wave at me and I enthusiastically begin to wave back at them. But, as I approach them, they call out to the person walking slightly behind me. “Oh right, you waved at the person behind me. My bad,” I think as I join them. I open my lunch bag and begin to chat. Stories told at the lunch table are the best! The bell rings and I continue on to my next class (pretty uneventful, like usual). Some of these teachers get off track and tell you stories about their lives, and I just love it! But, it just annoys me that they yell when I begin to pack up before the bell rings. Seriously, I don’t care. This class ends in 30 seconds. I will pack up. Once I survive English class and the day ends, I head to my job at Math Monkey. I generally enjoy the students, but some of the parents hover and obsess over their children so much, they should just leash them so they will never leave their sight. I may appear biased though, since I find it so entertaining when people have their kids on those monkey leashes. I return home, eat dinner, and finish my homework. As I begin to prepare for bed, I check behind the shower curtain for murderers when I go into the bathroom, and finding none, I brush my teeth and go to bed. But not before reading through the pages I liked on Facebook in Middle School and regretting my choices. Although, who would actually look at those, anyway? 

Musings from the Best Western

Writing live from the Best Western “Envy” Hotel in Baltimore. Future classmates, I may in fact meet some of you today at an admitted student’s day. So, I would like to inform you that certain aspects of this sub-par hotel room do reflect my character. As I sit here, on my bed, I face the closet which has a cracked mirror on its doors. Like this mirror, I do have flaws—I may overreact, I may appear uptight—as everyone does. Some try to hide their flaws from others, but I acknowledge them, just as the Best Western does not cover the cracks in the mirror, so others may fully understand my character and accept me, not just a façade of perfection. But, if flaws fear you, you could always hide behind the bathroom door in this hotel room, which has four locks and could serve as the vault door in a bank. An admitted introvert, I enjoy solitude, and may close myself off from others. Therefore, if I do not wish to share my feelings or if I spend a lot of time alone, you should not take this as an insult. But, as I often need to remind myself in English class, introversion does not excuse me from participation in class and sharing, and I will continue to try to improve myself in this aspect over the next four years. On another note, the lighting in this hotel room simply intrigues me, especially as I tried to sleep last night. The main light flashed like a strobe-light all night (not an exaggeration). The other light fixture flashed different colors of the rainbow. Like the main light, my synapses fire constantly, and I love to learn. I understand and acknowledge that many of you will dominate me in intelligence, but I too, love learning and will work incredibly hard at college. Do not count me out. Similar to the rainbow light fixture, I accept different nationalities and cultures and respect them. College will open my eyes and introduce me to many new, diverse students, and I look forward to learning from those who do not come from the same background as I. Now, let me acknowledge one last aspect of this reduced-rate room: the bus stop in front of the hotel that the lady at the front desk reminded us “was the city’s fault, not the Best Western’s.” I love to see new places and travel, as does the bus, as it made a stop below our window about every half-hour through the night.  If you live in an interesting place, I will join you for Spring Break visits to your home. After reading this, you may ask me why my family willingly booked and signed up for the strobe-lights, rainbow light fixtures, cracked mirrors, and vault doors at the “Envy” hotel. Well, it cost $80 a night for AAA members, and we refuse to spend money. No need to envy that. 

Carry on

Dear Reader,

As I shared on the board with my English students the other day, dealing with men proves the most aggravating for our gender. So, I have simple advice to share with you: move on. You should respect your boyfriend’s desires because, honestly, would you like to trap him in a relationship? Though his decision may trouble you now, imagine the heartbreak if you continue to invest yourself in the relationship while your partner does not. Move on. Cut your losses. Women face this trouble every day; some face adversities much greater than boyfriend troubles. So, I recommend to you what I recommend to my students who receive low rubric scores on essays. Embrace this less-than-ideal situation as an opportunity to grow. Do not begin to spiral into the abyss of despair. Just imagine the opportunities of your new-found freedom! You could focus more on work. You could form a book club. You could even take pen to paper and write about it; the best books often stem from deep emotions like heartbreak. Eventually, you could meet someone new, someone much better for you, who will respect you and your resilience. So, do not mope and try to avoid the conflict. Do not sit around complaining, crying, wishing for your situation to change. You cannot control others’ desires, try as you might. However, you do have the power to react well and to learn from your experiences. In short, all women struggle to deal with men. So, stop complaining, you sound like my teenage students. In time, they recover from a failing essay grade and learn from it (see my AP passage rates), and so can you.      

Sincerely,

Ms. Serensky 

Nursery University

I sat on the couch, flipping through Netflix, as the four-year-old I babysat came into the room and complained that he could not sleep. Sighing, I told him to lie down on the couch, but to close his eyes and try to fall asleep. “What movie could put a child to sleep?” I questioned myself as I settled on a Frontline documentary on Chinese adoption. He fell asleep within ten minutes. Once it ended, I continued to flip through Netflix and discovered what has since become one of my favorite movies: "Nursery University." This documentary on the insane nursery school admissions process in New York City intrigues me and concerns me. The filmmakers follow a few families through the process: a Harlem family, an IVY League couple from the West Village, and an interracial, affluent, and sarcastic Upper East Side couple. As the title suggests, applying to these nursery schools causes the same level of stress as applying to college, which makes the movie extremely relatable for me. I too face the same fears as the couples when they explain their “Pipe-Line to the IVIES” theory: that the best nursery schools lead to the best kindergartens, which lead to the best primary schools, which lead to the best high schools, which will inevitably secure a child an acceptance to Harvard. Though I did not attend an exclusive nursery school, throughout the college process, I too must take into account which college degrees will lead to more job opportunities for me in the future. Though these ambitious parents worry about securing their children spots at Harvard, they too consider job opportunities. As they scribble notes down at admission counseling sessions, they often ask how going to a certain school will help their children secure high-paying careers. I laughed as the admissions counselors indulge these parents, explaining that such a nursery school education will help the child develop skills that will help him/her prosper in future careers, such as a stock broker, Pulitzer Prize winning novelist, or the president. I would hope so, for $20,000 a year for a two-year-old. As I observed such scenes, they reminded me of my parents at college admissions sessions, how they would quiz the admissions counselor and would then obnoxiously talk me up after the session. Seeing other parents compete for admission into nursery schools made me realize how normally my parents act (relatively, of course!) and made me grateful for the simplicity of the preschool admission process in Chagrin. Once I finished the documentary, I called my parents, who lived in New York for many years, and told them about the film. On the other line, my mother scoffed: “Don’t laugh, Meghan! That process is so stressful, and it could have been us!” Yes, it might have. But instead, I now attempt to reach the Ivies without ever traveling down the “Pipe-Line.” I wonder to myself whether this theory has any validity. Maybe in New York City; but it only seems plausible there.  Although I may joke about these parents, I know that if I lived in New York and had a child,  I would surely buy in to it. I can almost imagine myself sitting in a preschool admission session, viscously scribbling down notes as I look around and eye my competition. I, like the parents in the film, would go to great lengths as I agree with the filmmakers’ message, a quote which interviewees stress repeatedly: “There is nothing more important than your child’s education.”        

Sick as a Dog

The slobbery hound walked up to me in the park today

His owner tried to control him, but alas, he would not stay.

He jumped up and panted, his vile breath tickled my face

Then he promptly licked my lips, and dragged his owner on a chase.

I watched the dog run away and sniff another’s tail

I watched as he mouthed a decaying squirrel on the trail.

Of course, he stopped to lick himself and to eat some waste

Balking in disgust, I wished the memory would erase.

I have often heard people say that the dog’s mouth appears quite clean

Yes, the cleanest, I repeated, trying to forget what I had seen.

Most dog owners, like me, have experienced a time in which their dog has lovingly licked their face. Of course, once the dog has walked away, I often find myself considering all of the disgusting dead animals, garbage, etc. that a dog encounters and consumes on a daily basis. These thoughts often cause me discomfort and disgust, reactions I express in the poem. For example, the appalled speaker notes the dog’s “vile breath” and consumption of “waste” (3, 7). The negative connotations of “waste” and “vile” directly characterize the disgusting nature of a dog’s mouth, arousing disgust and discomfort. Furthermore, the speaker observes the hound as it mouths “a decaying squirrel” (6). The revolting diction of “decaying” evokes pathos and appeals to the repulsion of dog owners, who ignore the reality of their dogs’ hygiene.  In the end, I refer to the cliche that the dog’s mouth proves its cleanest part (9). This statement juxtaposes the previous revolting characterizations of the dog’s mouth and thus creates irony.  Though I do not challenge the science and statistics behind this claim, as I watched my Springer Spaniels drag a dying baby rabbit to the porch last month, I wondered about the cleanliness of their mouths. Overall, I do not advocate ignoring a dog’s love, but I do encourage humans to acknowledge what their dogs eat—anything and everything.  

Compulsive Line Leader

Dear Meghan ‘06,

Do you remember two years ago, in 4^th grade, when you had an obsession with leading the line? Every day, you would try to finish your work fifteen minutes early so you could clean up and stand by the door and wait for people to line up behind you. The teacher punished you, in the end, and made you the official line ender. Of course, you never accepted the job—you cut past the rest of the students and walked at the front of the line. I roll my eyes when I think about all the time I spent and wasted waiting at the door just to lead the line. Sadly, this childish behavior sparked an unfortunate trend and inspired an obsession which still afflicts me today. Admittedly, I tend to compete when it comes to academics. In my defense, in what other area can I compete? My fifth grade art teacher gave me my first C as I glued “sloppily”, so goodbye art! I dry-heave on mile runs, so I have eliminated athletics. So, I focus my time and energy on my coursework and checking off elements of the mental list of awards competitive academics “should” win. And now, after four years of high school, I have achieved much of what I have wanted to achieve, but I still feel unfulfilled. Maybe I feel this way because I have transformed myself into an antisocial workaholic. Maybe I feel this way because the brief glory of an award fades. Or maybe I have lost sight of myself.   Whenever I see someone who has won awards or has scored well on a test, I strive to achieve what that person did. Unfortunately, in the process of trying to mimic another, I lose sight of myself and devalue my own accomplishments. So, Meghan, remember throughout middle school and high school that you have your own talents which will, in time, bring you success. Do not let this desire for success define you and hold you back from forming new friendships and enjoying life. Do not, as you did in 4^th grade, waste away in front of the door for fifteen minutes just to fulfill your desire to lead the line. Spend a little more time on the homework. Study a bit more. Read. Even talk to friends. In time, the teacher will instruct you to clean up and stand at the door. She will turn to you and call you over and ask you to lead the line to the library. Your time has come. Lead that line thirty feet down the hallway with pride.  

Best,

Meghan ‘13

If you're not the lead dog, the view is always the same.

Whitewash

Happy Hour

As many people often remind me, I act like an elderly person. Of course, friends and family attempt to tip-toe around the term—my parents call me “a woman ahead of my time,” while some friends call me “geriatric.” But, they all imply that despite my outward appearance, inside, I look like an uptight woman with thick bifocal glasses and a walker. Perhaps I convinced them of my old age the time I called up South Franklin Circle and asked to join their gym. They told me I could, of course, so long as I do not disturb the residents during their noon water aerobics courses or during their power walks on the treadmill.  However, I never joined as it cost too much and I despise parting with money—another quality of the elderly. Perhaps I convinced them of my senior tendencies when I expressed my desire to live in the South Franklin Circle community down the street from my house. In my defense, who would not want to live down those quiet streets with paved walking trails, and have access to the many recreation rooms? However, I think my extreme(ly) elderly eating schedule sealed my fate. Confession: I eat dinner at 3:30pm. Once I arrive home from school, assuming I do not have to work or tutor, I begin preparing my dinner—usually a rice or pasta dish. Once the water boils and I have made a pathetic attempt at sautéing vegetables or cooking spaghetti, I sit down, and my mother joins me at the dinner table to watch me eat. Another confession: I sit on an orthopedic cushion at the dinner table. Before my readers begin to judge, I must share that I have a tailbone condition. My coccyx, instead of facing inward like most people’s, faces out at a 90 degree angle, a condition my doctor called “unprecedented.” I prefer to call it highly evolved, of course, especially as I shamefully sit on the orthopedic cushion my grandparents ordered me from one of their senior citizen catalogs. Once my mother joins me at the table, we discuss what we watched last night on PBS. “That was a great episode of Antiques Roadshow, last night,” I prompt her as we chat about the ornate grandfather clocks and homemade quilts that, you guessed, the elderly brought in for valuation. Then, of course, the conversation turns to my favorite show, Downton Abbey, a show which Lauren Lang told me her grandmother also loves, as I finish the last of my dinner around 3:45pm. I quickly clear my plate and clean up the pans before I head up to my room to begin homework. “Be sure to come downstairs at 7:00,” my mother calls to me as I begin walking up the stairs, “Wheel of Fortune is celebrity-version tonight!” I must confess that I have not embellished in my attempt to make this daily routine extreme. I do sit on an orthopedic cushion; I have tried to join the South Franklin Circle gym; I do eat dinner at happy hour. I live an extreme life, at least, an extremely elderly one. So, I need not exaggerate, for if I did, I would wear a Life Alert necklace and carry a walker, and I am much too young—Wait! I have fallen and cannot get up!

Driving Around

I tutored today at the Chagrin Falls Park as I do every week, and I spent the first few minutes of the session talking to my student, a fourth-grader, about his work this past semester and his goals for this semester. After a few seconds of thought about his plans to improve academically, he concluded that he will act kindly to his friends. “Really?” I asked him, “Being nice is wonderful, but it will not get you an A.” He shrugged and decided to turn in more of his assignments. As I drove home today, remembering I had a blog to write, I spent time contemplating this past semester and my experiences as a blogger. I thought back to my first post, my personal favorite, “An Unlikely Pilgrimage.” As I drove, I imagined a critic, sitting in front of his/her computer and suddenly stumbling upon meghanjudge.blogspot.com.   I could see how he clicked on the post with such interest. He then raved over the descriptive writing, the strength of the voice. What a great idea, a quote wall! How intriguing that quotes can bring her closer to herself, reaffirm her interests, and help her understand her personality! No person other than Meghan Judge could have written that post, he typed away at his computer, it truly expresses her individuality!   What can I say? I like to embellish. I continued driving a bit, and to my right, a forest ended and opened into a little clearing where a person walked his dog. As I distanced myself from him, he shrunk to the size of a child. How interesting that he looked so happy to have reached the clearing, just like a pygmy who has escaped in the mist, the subject of my most quirky blog post, “Pygmies in the Mist: Part Deux.” Perhaps the post interests me because it makes me wonder about my family, especially its sanity. Reading that blog helps me to understand why my ideas seem abstract and strange and “too creative for appreciation” (as my family would call them); I inherited the gift. I suppose I value this post most because it expresses the importance of following my passions, even if I never achieve recognition and success.  Recognition does not matter to my uncle, aunt, grandmother, and the man who walked his dog, only the escape creativity and the pursuit of one’s passions provides. So, as I finally passed the retirement home across from the cemetery and pulled into my driveway, I thought back to Claire Kampman’s comment on my latest post about taking risks and discovering myself, “Crossing Bridges.” She had reflected on her recent admission into her choice college and the new fears she faced and the answers to new questions that lay beyond her reach. Taking the risk to cross new obstacles and gaining the confidence to cross them without fear leads to fulfillment, she claims, and I agree. I must understand my character and have the determination to not waver in my passions. I must have the confidence to follow my dreams, whether or not they will bring me success. So, maybe the child I tutor outsmarted me. He may have read my blog and seen past the embellishment, the metaphors, the similes, and understood my messages better than I do. Perhaps kindness provides him with the passion and confidence to continue on in his life, to escape the mist, to cross the bridge, to complete that pilgrimage to self-discovery. But still, I beg him to turn in his assignments.  

Crossing Bridges

I began my college search early, after much persuasion from my mother. She insisted that I needed to visit universities beginning in eighth grade after I had shown her a list of twenty-five schools from Boston to DC. I suppose she worried that my college search would mirror my search for a Communion dress in the second grade. She took me to six stores, where I constantly complained that no store sold the perfect non-gaudy, non-flowery completely white dress I had envisioned. Maybe she also feared that I would only like schools that would not accept me. To this, my father, ever the optimist, always responded: “Beth, stop worrying. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” So, a few years ago, my mother and I traveled to New England, where we visited Yale. We dragged our suitcases from the parking lot to the front door of the hotel, a Marriot across from a Mr. Chicken where we observed several drug deals—all just a block from Yale’s campus. As we approached the door, I warily reported to my mother, “Look. You need a pass-code to enter the hotel. Nothing good happens at a hotel where you need to enter with a pass-code.” Once she assured me that no one would murder us in our sleep, we left the hotel and walked toward Yale’s bookstore, a grey building set against the grey Spring New England sky. We walked at a brisk pace as a homeless man appeared behind me, his run-down bike rolling beside him. Suddenly, he screamed at me in his psychotic voice, “Going to Yale, you super white b****?” My mother grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the Barnes and Noble, muttering to herself that she would never send me there, that much-too-liberal school. I sighed, for I, already a sophomore, had yet to cross the bridge my dad had assured me existed. In fact, I deeply worried that I would not find a school I even liked. However, I need not have fretted, as I encountered a bridge on my last college visit to Penn. My cousins, aunt, and uncle joined us on the campus at nightfall and we walked around admiring the dark sky, the brick buildings, and the trees which hung over our heads. Few people joined us as we walked down the winding paths which disappeared from sight onto the other side of the bridge that separated the two ends of the campus. When we reached the bridge, my seven-year-old cousin James ran towards it, grabbed my hand, and looked up at me with his blue eyes. “Do you think we should cross?” He asked me, his eyes searching my face. I turned around and looked back at the rest of the group, who walked a bit behind us. In that moment, I smiled, for I had found the bridge I needed to cross.  I imagined that on the other side, beyond the cement, a tiny figure would appear and gradually would enlarge until I could make out its features and recognize my face. I could see that person walking with friends on a quiet night, never worrying whether she would cross the bridge when she reached it. She never attached too much personal meaning to that bridge, never realized it could connect her past and future. She never trembled in its presence like Gatsby as he reaches out to the unattainable green light. She merely saw a bridge, a concrete structure, which connected two ends of campus.  Nevertheless, I looked back down at my cousin and squeezed his hand, realizing that fantasy could never exist. Even if the school accepts me, I will always stand at the top of the bridge and wonder whether I should take a risk, ignore the shouts of hoodlums and the worry that the pass-code will not protect me while I  attempt to attain the unattainable. “Yes, James,” I told him, “Let’s cross.” 

The Drowning, MVP Donkey with Horns

Today, like Gatsby, I put on my bathing suit, jumped into the pool of the AP English discussion and, to make a long story short, drowned. I did not completely realize the irony of the moment until Ms. Serensky began begging Elliot, my writing partner, to jump in and save me. Of course I failed miserably when discussing Gatsby’s participation in a sport/athletic pastime. We all have heard the story of my swim team failure. But, I fail in much more than that. For example: everyone remembers the seventh grade football unit. Some students triumphed and others struggled, but few failed as miserably as I. I struggled so severely that while playing football, students upheld one basic rule: Do not, under any circumstances, pass the ball to Meghan Judge. Despite that rule, I somehow found myself with the ball toward the end of the period during a tied game of football.  In a state of utter panic, I threw the ball randomly, hoping my teammates would somehow cross the gym from where I stood alone and catch it. Unfortunately, I threw the ball to a member of the other team, who proceeded to run and score the winning touchdown. The other team voted me their MVP. I often look back on that gym class. I remember how I laughed and thanked her and went home and jokingly shared my great achievement with others; I even shared the experience years later with my interviewer for Johns Hopkins. I suppose, for some strange reason, I value these failures. I constantly repeat my memories as the other team’s MVP, as the last place swimmer, as the girl who also shared in discussion last year that McCourt compared a priest to a donkey with horns. Maybe I value these moments because they taught me the humor in imperfection and the need to keep moving forward, to save myself from drowning. So, we all must score the other team’s winning touchdown and drown in discussion. We must teach ourselves to not depend on our writing partners to jump in and save us, even though Elliot did so quite well. So, join Gatsby and me in the pool. Make sure to bring your flotation device.    

Pygmies in the Mist: Part Deux

I come from a family of amateur writers. From my great-uncle Bud to my aunt Francine, a poet 20 years in the making, my family has striven for generations to join the ranks of Fitzgerald and Hemingway. I clearly recall one of my first experiences with the unappreciated writing of my relatives. My family and I dug through boxes in my Grandmother’s house which held the belongings of the deceased Uncle Bud, a World War II veteran who enjoyed embellishing the truth. As I dug through the medals and photographs and pages of old manuscripts, I came upon a bound story with an intriguing title: “ Pygmies in the Mist.” Apparently, he had unsuccessfully attempted to publish the story, a tale of an African tribe of pygmies attempting to escape a cloud of mist. My grandmother swears publishers had not selected it as they simply could not recognize creativity and genius. She, too, likes to embellish. My grandmother, however, trumps “ Pygmies” with her own novel which has yet to grace the shelves. She and her reverend joined creative forces to produce the precursor to Fifty Shades of Grey (a la science fiction). Critics (my mother) found the novel “offensive, yet exploratory.” On the other end of the spectrum, my Aunt Francine writes an annual Christmas poem which serves as her crowning achievement of the year. Surprisingly, the public has celebrated my Aunt Francine’s work the most; she published her work in a Christian children’s magazine and received $25--four years ago. As each generation of my family has seen its own amateur writer, I suppose my family, particularly my grandmother, has prepared me to realize that role. When I visited my grandmother as a four-year-old, I would sit at the kitchen table with her as she drank her "splash" of wine and we would talk. As we chatted, she would make up tales of a little girl who lived in New York City. She gushed over the little girl's life and how she wrote, painted, and sold hats in Central Park. She shook her head when she shared that the little girl walked on the grates in the sidewalk and would fall down them. Her face lit up magically when she told of how the little girl turned into a swan one afternoon. After she told me each tale, I would smile up at her and tell her, “Someday, Grandma, I will write the stories and you will illustrate them. Everyone in the world should hear our stories.” In response, she would always gaze down at me sweetly and tell me that she truly believed me. We shall see.  Maybe, someday, my family will finally produce a Hemingway or a Fitzgerald. Until then, we must navigate the literary world like my Uncle Bud’s pygmies, constantly searching for the place in the forest where the sun shines and the mist lifts and we can finally see.  

Just South of Heaven

We drove toward the development at nine in the morning on a beautiful spring day in Wilmington, North Carolina. My family had arrived earlier that week to tour houses and to investigate different communities in the city, so we could better choose a location once we moved there. We approached the development cautiously, hesitating at the tall black fence with barbed wire that stood before layers of dense trees. Two gates marked the entrance where security guards waved Mercedes SUVs and BMWs into the gated community. My brother balked at the community’s security: “It looks like they have prepared for the zombie apocalypse”. The real estate agent, who sat with us in the car, laughed as the security guards waved her through the gates and she welcomed us to the community just south of Heaven—Landfall. As she drove down the well-manicured lane to the welcome center, she reminded us of Landfall’s heavenly facilities: two golf courses, a country club, personal docks, and an Olympic size swimming pool. Feigning enthusiasm, my family left the car and hopped onto a golf cart to begin the tour.  The real estate agent drove incredibly slowly, probably to encourage us to relish this sheltered utopia. Brick houses seemingly smiled at us and the multiple landscapers waved as we continued down the street.  Women who had already showered and applied their makeup wearing designer clothes walked out to retrieve the morning paper while waving away. My mother scoffed in hushed tones: “These women have definitely had work done. Why do these people keep waving?” I shrugged as I too felt confused, but I waved back to a gaggle of women strutting down the street while calling to their neighbors to join them for brunch at the Country Club. As I sat in the golf cart, waving uncharacteristically, I could not help but wonder if when I had entered Landfall, I had left the real world.  Looking back on my encounter with this rare community, I cannot help but compare it to the two Eggs in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Like the islands, Landfall does not sit atop perfect land as lakes and forests wind through it; nature misshapes the land which the community attempts to perfect (5). The people themselves live fantastically in their palaces with their BMW cars and other material possessions. But, more so than anything, I find myself “perpetually confused” when observing Landfall (5).  Do the residents truly care when they wave incessantly? Does knowing the business of every neighbor truly make them happy? How much does the plastic surgeon of Landfall make? Have the people in the community ever actually ventured past the ten-foot-tall gates to realize true reality? I suppose, to them, they live in the real world, in their own strange slice of Heaven, or at least, just south of it.  As for the answers to rest the questions, I will let you know, as we may move there this summer. 

Love Thy Fence

Police cars zoomed in the distance, their sirens piercing the crisp summer air. Birds flew from the trees, their wings fluttering as they soured into the sky, overlooking nosy neighbors peering from behind their fences. A short, stout police man parked abruptly in front of my neighbor’s house and quickly stepped out of the car. He then signaled to his partner, a slimmer man, who stepped out of the passenger side nonchalantly. They strutted over to my neighbor’s door, rapped on it several times, and peered into her small living room, yelling, “Police!” As silence met their call, one man walked to the back door. Suddenly, my neighbor, her hair flying behind her, dashed from her front door as the other officer cantered forward, wrestled her to the ground, and slapped handcuffs on her. The next morning, my parents built a fence. My father hammered wood polls into the ground while my mother rolled evergreen wire around the property. They planted trees that have since grown to ten feet along the border of our property. Then, they clipped the police blotter description of our neighbor’s crime (holding her boyfriend-of-the-week and his children “hostage” by locking them in a room) and hung it with a plaque of their favorite proverb: “Love your neighbor, but do not pull down your fence”. This fence and my parents’ obsession, both a blessing and a curse, overwhelm and restrict me, like Barthelme’s balloon, always protecting me from harm--and from the neighbors. Even though some days, like the day of my neighbor’s second arrest for theft of credit card numbers, I feel a “sheltered, warmed” feeling, most days, I feel “constrained” (3). Most days, I find myself dreaming of taking risks, scaling the fence and escaping my parents’ secure little world. Yet, I still find myself building internal fences, never letting down my own guard, rarely leaving my comfort zone. One day, I suppose, I may scale the fence; but I know that inevitably I will reconstruct that barrier, forgetting the constraint, only remembering the warm brown and evergreen hues of the fence my parents simply loved.    

An Unlikely Pilgrimage

I vaguely recall my emotional state. I had just turned the final page of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry after a day of reading and had begun to descend into the emotional chaos of post-inspirational-book disorder. Despair, profound happiness, obsession, and an overpowering emptiness overwhelmed me. In my state, I managed to reach into my desk and retrieve a pen and a note card, flip through the book, and copy down my favorite quote: “It was hard to understand a little and then walk away”. Setting my book down, I took the note card and hung it on the wall right next to my mirror—my quote wall—with a piece of tape. The quote joined the 41 other poems, quotes, and lyrics. As I stood back and read the familiar words on each card, I could not convince myself to look away.  However, I reminded myself I never truly distance myself from quotes; I never really look away. In fact, I probably read more quotes daily than I see people. Every day, hundreds of fragments of sentences resonate with me, if only for a moment. 42 excerpts hang beside my mirror. One quote greets me every morning in English class. I told myself that my quotes always stay with me because they allow retrace my steps, return to their familiar words when I cannot find my way. Whether admiring the wall or not, I can still revisit them because they provide wisdom and comfort. They help me understand a little about myself and my past while pointing me in the direction of my future. Leaving the wall does not mean I have to walk away. A while after I re-read the note cards, I convinced myself to leave the quote wall and placed the book back on the bookshelf. The emptiness still lingered, but quotes flooded my head to fill the void. As always, old memories resurfaced: images of me, as a young girl, toiling with contributing in class in elementary school, middle school, high school; visions of me, a bit older, struggling to determine which talent I should pursue, which path I should follow to fulfillment. Once again, I stood and returned to the quote wall.  The words welcomed me warmly and reminded me of a childhood dream. My fantasy of a day when students will walk into first period English, look up to the board and read my words. I could not walk away.

The Comfort of Pamphlets and Starfish

In her 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth Strout, a social worker, discusses the sorrows and comfort that residents of Crosby, Maine, encounter. Before reading the novel, I had always believed that people find comfort in people. Perhaps I thought that comfort requires words or an acknowledgement that the other person lives. However, after reading Olive Kitteridge, I now recognize that people seek comfort in objects and memories and that such comfort proves fragile. For example, following the death of her husband, Marlene Bonney sobs to Olive about a basket with trip pamphlets that she and her husband had put together and mourns how they “made believe we’d [Marlene and her husband] go places together” while he was ill (179). Strout highlights the denotation of “made believe” to emphasize that Marlene seeks comfort in an illusion. Furthermore, by employing a mournful tone, the novelist stresses Marlene’s pain in seeking relief from her husband’s illness in an object, and further accentuates the fragility of the woman’s comfort. Similarly, Anita Harwood lives with the pain of her father’s death and seeks comfort in a starfish. When redecorating a room, Anita sends her daughters to collect starfish to attach to curtains. Her daughter, Julie, describes to her younger sister that their mother’s father “used to bring her starfish” (184). By highlighting the emotional association Anita has to starfish, Strout implies that the woman seeks comfort in the starfish as they preserve her father’s memory. Furthermore, Anita’s attempt to involve her daughters in her personal comfort implies that she wishes her children to better understand her, and through her memories with the starfish, acknowledge why her father’s loss pains her. However, when the starfish begin to smell in the living room, Anita throws them back into the ocean, releasing “a little scream” when she throws the last one (185). Through the desperate diction of “scream”, Strout creates a painful tone and implies that the impermanent nature of Anita’s object of comfort causes her even greater anguish. Therefore, Strout emphasizes that the memories and meaning that individuals attach to objects in which they seek comfort proves painful due to an object’s fragility. Overall, I have realized the danger in storing memories and seeking comfort in a single object as although it does not live, when the object must go, I may mourn the fragility of my comfort. 

Red Hair and a Little Burst

Last year, when studying at Johns Hopkins, I asked the security guard in the library-a woman in her sixties with dark brown hair-for directions. She smiled at me and she explained the way while still keeping watch over the entry gate to the library. I began to walk away, but she suddenly called me back over and told me how much she loved my hair and how I reminded her of her grandson. Taking her phone out of her pocket, she flipped open the cover to reveal a picture of a little boy with carrot-top red hair holding a large box adorned with bows and Christmas wrapping paper. I later walked from the library with a smile on my face for the kind security guard who had shared part of her life with me. Likewise, in her 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth Strout highlights the strain and trouble in relationships in the town of Crosby, Maine. The novelist specifically emphasizes her troubled yet extremely perceptive character, Olive Kitteridge, and Olive’s belief that while life depends on big relationships, such as marriages and between a parent and children, small affinities that she calls “little bursts” also prove important (68). I agree with this belief of Olive’s as I assert that these “little bursts” exist to balance and strengthen the larger relationships. For example, Olive defines a “little burst” as a “friendly clerk” or a “waitress…who knows how you like your coffee” (69). Strout directly characterizes small affinities as “friendly” and implies a certain intimacy, a full understanding of one small aspect of an individual’s life, through the image of the waitress. Therefore, by highlighting the positive connotation of “friendly”, Strout implies that these “little bursts” yield less hurt than larger relationships because small affinities do not require the deep understanding of each individual that larger affinities necessitate. “Little bursts” still prove important as they still require an understanding, and in turn, strengthen people in larger relationships’ ability to comprehend others. Furthermore, following her son’s wedding, Olive steals undergarments and marks the sweater of her know-it-all daughter-in-law, Suzanne, whom she hates, reflecting that the action gives Olive “a little burst” (74). Strout highlights that Olive receives a bit of intimacy with Suzanne through stealing as Olive may fully understand the self-doubt that the other woman receives from a marked sweater and missing undergarments. Therefore, the novelist implies that Olive’s “little burst” with her daughter-in-law limits the strain Suzanne’s self-assurance may have on Olive’s son and his wife.  Overall, I agree with Olive’s belief in the necessity of “little bursts” as they enable people to better understand each other, as no one can completely understand another person. I may never know more about the Hopkins security guard other than that her red-headed grandson’s eyes shine like Christmas lights as he opens presents. However, with that understanding, I may knowingly smile when my grandparents take out their cell phone to show others the picture of their red-headed grandchild, the one they know so well.  

Judgement Call

In her 1977 novel, Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison, whose parents were deeply influenced by religion, recounts the history of a man, Solomon, and his flight and its ramifications on a town, Shalimar. Solomon overcame his enslavement by leaving his numerous children and wife back in Virginia while he flew back to Africa. Moreover, before his flight, Solomon attempted to bring his youngest son, Jake, with him. However, Solomon dropped the child and Jake, after having two children of his own: Macon and Pilate, was killed for his land. While reading the history of Solomon’s family, his flight, and the effects of his flight, the similarities between Solomon’s story and the Bible struck me. Therefore, as I believe these parallels exist, I pose the following question to Morrison: does Solomon’s represent a god to the people of Shalimar and Jake, a Jesus? A descendant of Jake, Milkman, celebrates that Solomon “‘left everyone down on the ground and he sailed’” (328).  Morrison employs a tone of awe to highlight that descendants of Solomon do not resent him for leaving them while he flew, but rather, they celebrate his flight. Furthermore, the juxtaposition of Solomon’s flight to the others’ place on the ground differentiates Solomon from society, and implies an almost divinity in his ability. Furthermore, Susan Byrd, who resides in Shalimar, admits that everyone in the town “claims kin to him [Solomon]” (322). Similar to the Christian belief that all are children of God, all members of the Shalimar town claim relation to Solomon. The novelist highlights this privilege to imply that the extreme reverence that the townspeople have for Solomon borders on worship. Moreover, Morrison highlights that the townspeople respect Solomon’s ability to fly as it gives them hope that they may overcome their struggles, a faith many Christians have in God. In addition, Jake’s history bears similarities to Jesus’. Following Jake’s murder and initially unsuccessful burial, hunters placed his corpse in a cave. However, after she unknowingly collected her father’s bones from the cave, Pilate receives constant “visits from him [Jake]” (245). Morrison employs the positive connotation of “visits” to imply that although the dead visit Pilate, she accepts her father’s ghost warmly. Similarly, the resurrection of Jesus enabled a greater faith in God, and Pilate’s visits from her father renew her interest in her family and its history. Lastly, when finally discovering his family’s history and his great-grandfather’s flight, Milkman feels “happy as…ever” (304). By highlighting the positive connotation of “happy” and the sheer joy that Milkman feels upon discovering the history of Solomon, Morrison implies that faith and hope make individuals happy. Overall, I question the religious parallels in Song of Solomon as I believe that Solomon does embody a god for Shalimar. However, I assert that their belief in him does not stem from lack of faith in God, as the townspeople are Christian, but rather from the desire to believe in the possibility of flight. 

The Girl and the $250 Shirt

A week ago, while on a mandatory trip to the King of Prussia Mall during a summer program at Penn, my friend commented on another shopper, a girl who also participated in our program. He pointed over in her direction and remarked, “That shirt she bought cost $250.” After rolling my eyes at the outrageous cost of the article of clothing, my friend continued, “See, Meghan, that’s why people think making a lot of money is so important; they want to buy an image.” Similarly, in her 1977 novel, Song of Solomon, Nobel Prize winner Toni Morrison highlights the greed of both the wealthy and the poor following the discovery of a characters’ alleged possession of gold. Milkman, the son of a greedy landlord, Macon, and his poor friend, Guitar, decide to steal the gold from Macon’s sister, following persuasion from Macon. By discussing this situation, Morrison explains her view that individuals place too great of a value on money.  For example, when Milkman reveals the existence of the gold to Guitar, Morrison states that Guitar could not “resist the lure of…money” (181). The novelist emphasizes the denotation of “lure” to stress that due to the opportunities for a heightened status and lavish possessions that money provides, poor individuals, such as Guitar, value money. Similarly, when a disappointed Macon discovers that his son did not steal the gold from his sister, Milkman accuses his father of “‘thinking about that gold for 50 years’” (205). By noting Macon’s current prosperity, Morrison indirectly characterizes him as greedy and emphasizes the allure of money for the well-to-do. Furthermore, by employing a critical tone, the novelist assesses that individuals value money more than they should and condemns the greed that overprizing money causes. Moreover, Morrison highlights a conversation between Guitar and Milkman, in which Guitar confesses, “can’t nobody fly with all that s*** [jewelry, vanity]” (179). Morrison emphasizes her view of flight as a conquering of obstacles and refusal to submit individual power to stress that an obsession with money presents great ramifications. Namely, greed and obsession with status limits success and an individual’s power. Overall, I agree with Morrison and her view of the world. However, I amend that people do not overvalue money, but the sense of power they feel when they hold a $100 bill. But, like Morrison, I believe that this obsession prevents flight by creating dependence on those who can fuel the fixation. Specifically, the girl with the $250 shirt, whose father replenishes her debit account.