Ernie Should Have Confided in Bert

              
                     After long, seemingly endless conversations about the topic of happiness in English class last week, Thanksgiving Break finally rolled around to relieve my classmates and I from awkward “speed-dating” situations. I firmly believe that I, over the course of my teenage years, have justly earned the title of “World’s Worst Small Talker.” Perhaps my peers enjoyed the experience of conversing with a person for a minute or two before whisking away to another individual. I, however, could not help wringing out my sweaty hands, scrambling around my brain for anything that would keep the discussion running, all the while thinking of any tips that Will Smith may have mentioned in his movie, Hitch. In fact, when consultation hit rock bottom, I began reciting Bible verses in my head, praying that I would survive this experience in one piece. Awkwardness kills me. Anyways, as I said earlier, these quick yet numerous interactions with my classmates centered around the idea of happiness. Before I begin a spiel on contentment, I think I must establish my personal thoughts and feelings about thinking and analyzing the term “happiness.” I hope I have not lost you. I believe that thoughts on an abstract thing like joy delve into the psychological world. I do not think such thoughts prove futile; many benefits can arise from analyzing how the brain works. However, in the long run, interpreting these ideas will turn a person in a complete circle, placing an individual back to where they started. Every individual acts in their own, specific way. No two brains operate identically. Therefore, why should we possess the arrogance into thinking that every human shares the same feelings as us in reference to such an abstract idea like happiness? I believe that scraping the surface of this topic can reap results. However, attempting to discover deeper meaning in this psychological area proves inefficient and unnecessary. Now that I finished my rant on psychology (I hope I did not offend any of my readers), let us move to the topic at hand. More specifically, let us turn to Ernest Hemingway, American author and journalist who claimed that “Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.” While reading this in class, the urge to decapitate a small stuffed animal overcame me, followed by a loathing for this man. The author’s quote offended me because I like to think that I possess a tiny bit of intelligence (when you recover from the fall off your chair, you can keep reading). In many cases, intelligence brings forth worldly possessions. Hemingway depicts the claim that these worldly goods distract people from things that bring true happiness: family, friends and companionship. However, as discussed this past day in English class, winning the lottery and becoming wealthy yields worldly possessions, promoting comfort and relaxation. Truly intelligent people understand the driving forces behind obtaining happiness and have the ability to analyze the dangers that come with intelligence. I think that Ernie should have pondered his statement about such a debatable subject before speaking to the press.

What a Nightmare

            This past week, I experienced an event in English class unlike anything I have ever encountered in my life. The teacher’s directions seemed straightforward enough. Read a short story, do a SOAPSTone for the passage, and come to class prepared with reactions about the piece of work. Students in AP English read Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Tell-Tale Heart” and, let me assure anyone reading this, Poe’s tale definitely proved itself as a “piece of work.” I think I should establish certain facts about myself before I continue with my experience. To begin with, I scare easily. For example, while in a haunted house this past year, I screamed so loudly that the witch who scared me asked if I…she asked a question that implied I shared numerous feminine qualities (use your imagination). Then the year before that, a certain girl and I shared a crush on each other. However, after a scary movie night get-together with friends, this girl shockingly informed me that she “wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with me anymore,” shortly after the movie night. I understood, and supported, her motives. Certain words definitely describe my personality when it comes to terrifying encounters. Words like sissy, wussy, and wimpy find their way right up my alley. Anyways, in class, we watched a short clip based off Poe’s work, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” adapted by Darrin Walker and Travis Mays. Walker and Mays attempt to dull down the fear-factor in their work by omitting a scene which includes human incapacitation as well as including a celebrity look-alike of Robert Downey Jr. These minor changes however, provided me with absolutely no sources of refuge from the terror that covered the screen. After peeking between my fingers for the majority of the film and turning purple in the face due to valiant efforts to withstand from screaming, I sneak a glimpse at my teacher during the closing credits. What I witness causes my heart to leap. For there, in her chair, some sort of fit seems to overcome my English teacher. I pity her, for I know the embarrassment of such reactions to a horror film. However, after seconds of watching her, I realize that she does not twitch uncontrollably in her chair due to fear, but rather because of laughter. I cannot believe my eyes. There I sit, haunted by an older man’s “vulture eye” and Robert Downey’s unspeakable deeds, while my teacher laughs in hysteria. I ask myself the question, “How could anyone find such enjoyment in a horror film?” After pondering this question for a couple days, I arrive at only one conclusion: certain people actually enjoy the feeling of going into cardiac arrest when their heart stops beating. Similar to riding a roller coaster, particular individuals harness the suspense created in a scary movie and somehow channel this energy into a thrill that leaves them hungry for more. In all honesty, I believe that there resides a bit of jealousy within me towards these people who relish horror movies. Over the next year, I will search for ways that will hopefully allow me to build a tolerance towards these films, and therefore enable me to watch scary movies with people of the opposite sex.

The Surprisingly Dreadful Day

            Certain students enjoy receiving new writing partners. I, however, find the extravaganza quite a demoralizing event due to the unspoken truth: last year, my teacher often paired a great writer with another student whose writing could use a little help. Shockingly, the majority of my past writing partners have proved themselves as some of the best writers in the grade.  Although this trend seemed much stronger last year, I think the above hypothesis still holds validity this year for at least one of her students: this guy. For instance, last Monday, my teacher paired me up with the student who won the “English Student of the Year Award” last year. I wish my teacher would have just slapped a sticker across my forehead that read “I SUCK” instead of pairing me up with this genius. Such an experience would have proved less humiliating. Anyways, after receiving our new writing partners on Monday, my teacher exclaimed, in a voice that haunts my dreams to this day, “This is the first test to prove your dominance over your partner and show that you are the leader of the pair.” Although paraphrasing slightly, the remark made me ponder this question: why does a leader emerge within a pair of people? I think author, Haruki Murakami, answers this question in his short story, “The Second Bakery Attack.” In a year when Japan experienced 8,581 violent crimes (1985), Murakami weaves a tale of a newlywed couple attacking a McDonalds in order to break a curse placed upon the duo. During the attack, the wife orders her husband to “Lower…shutter and turn off…sign” (7). The commanding diction of “Lower” and “turn off” creates a dominating tone, indirectly characterizing the wife as the leader of the couple. The woman’s ability to think quickly and intelligently during the attack implies that she possesses a history in crime. For this reason, Murakami asserts that the person with more experience in a certain situation will naturally arise as the leader of a couple. After the conclusion of the McDonalds attack, Harukami writes, “she [the wife] fell asleep” and “I [the husband]…closed my eyes” (9). The mood of closure depicted by the pleasant diction of “asleep” implies that the couple finally finds peace from the detestable curse. Through this sense of contentment, Harukami develops the claim that leadership brings about happiness. The author urges those familiar with the topic at hand to take leadership within a group in order to bring about success. On the other hand, I urge those humble enough to admit their weaknesses in certain aspects of life (especially writing) to accept their role as side-kick and support their leaders.

Raw Broccoli

            After completion of Elizabeth Strout’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Olive Kitteridge, I for some odd reason cannot help but compare the book to raw broccoli…without dip. At first thought, one must think that Olive Kitteridge proved one of the worst books I have ever read in my entire life due to raw broccoli’s repulsive taste. I, however, will explain why such a rash and hasty inference deems preposterous in this scenario. People who have never experienced the displeasure of eating raw broccoli should consider themselves extremely lucky. The initial outrageous blandness of such a vegetable hits the tongue’s taste buds and somehow, someway, turns the bland taste into a malevolent foulness, often becoming difficult to swallow. The same rings true for Strout’s novel. At some points during the reading, I wanted nothing more than to “spit” the words back out. Strout includes narratives that prove difficult to “swallow,” like raw broccoli. For example, the author writes a short story about a young woman named Julie, still controlled by her mother, Anita, despite Julie’s entrance to womanhood. Julie recollects to her younger sister how “Most mothers don’t shoot their daughter’s boyfriends,” after Anita attempts to kill Julie’s ex-fiancé (195). Although quite scary, Strout surely captures an accurate mother-daughter relationship in certain American families within this narrative. This thought urges me to put the broccoli down. In another narrative, Strout explains how the main character, Olive Kitteridge, visits her son, Christopher, in New York City. Olive, a widow that lost her lovable husband to a stroke, maintains few friends in her growing age. Christopher remains one of few reasons Olive continues to keep living. However, by the end of her stay in New York, Olive explains why she cannot call her son, “He was cruel” (232). This direct characterization of Christopher creates realization towards Olive’s situation: she has no one left in her life to live for. However, as with raw broccoli, many people forget the effects of battling through such horrible “taste.” Raw broccoli deems great for the human body, providing a person with physical strength and endurance. Olive, though quite old in age, battles through the curveballs and difficulties life throws at her. Due to her perseverance, Olive falls in love with a man, filling each other’s “holes” within their lives, like “two slices of Swiss cheese pressed together” (270). Although very depressing at points, Olive Kitteridge ends on a hopeful note. In doing so, Strout utilizes the character of Olive to speak to those encountering difficult life problems in order to tell them that there is always a reason to live. Similar to broccoli, Olive Kitteridge proves worthwhile to “eat.”

U-Turn

            Elizabeth Strout’s 2008 novel, Olive Kitteridge, dives in and out of numerous peculiar narratives about the townsfolk in Crosby, Maine. Each narrative includes the character, Olive Kitteridge, in some way or form, weaving her unforgettable presence into many people’s lives. Now two-thirds of the way finished with Strout’s work, my feelings towards her book have changed since the beginning of the novel. No longer do I read Strout’s work with a smile on my face and an urge to turn the page, but rather a depressing feeling that just wants Strout’s tales to end. I find that as the book progresses, the narratives become darker and darker with more evils entering into the character’s lives. For example, Strout’s first few narratives of her work end with lessons learned by certain characters, as well as hope. For instance, Strout constructs a story about a young boy named Kevin Coulson who plans to commit suicide. However, while risking his life to save a childhood friend from the ferociousness of the ocean, Kevin admires his friend’s will exclaiming, “Look how she wanted to live” (47). Kevin’s commendable tone towards his friend’s perseverance to live strikes hope in the minds of the readers, suggesting that Kevin may choose not to commit suicide. The very next narrative ends in a similar, hopeful way. The piano player in the town’s bar, Angela O’Meara, struggles with relationships. Strout describes a past relationship with a fellow pianist named Simon, as well as a current relationship with a married man named Malcolm. After a night with confrontations between both Simon and Malcolm, Angela makes the decision to move on, announcing that “Even drunk, she knew she would not call him [Malcolm]” (60). Angela’s choice to leave crippling relationships to better her life motivates Strout’s audience to do the same in their lives. After these inspiring narratives however, Olive Kitteridge seems take a U-Turn. Strout relates a tale of a young anorexic girl named Nina. With the help of Olive Kitteridge and a widowed woman named Daisy, Nina seeks the aid of her parents in order to cure her disease. Despite all of Daisy and Olive’s efforts, Daisy must pass on the saddening news a few months later, “The funeral’s private” (100). Strout creates false sense of hope in this narrative, robbing readers of a feeling of success and happiness. Strout then goes on to weave a story of how the Kitteridges unfortunately become hostages in an armed robbery at the hospital. Instead of finding peace and forgiveness after the drastic event, the townspeople conclude that “Both Kitteridges were changed by the event” (105). The next paragraph goes on to explain how this “change” experienced by the Kitteridges proved unhealthy. Strout’s writing clearly depicts how not every challenge encountered by an individual ends happily ever after.

Olive

            Elizabeth Strout, author of the 2009 Pulitzer Prize Award with her book, Olive Kitteridge, weaves numerous narratives together all in the presence of one, unforgettable character, in her masterpiece. Not surprisingly, this one distinguished character goes by the name of Olive Kitteridge. Strout’s prized character, Olive, mirrors the author’s life in certain areas. For example, after growing up in various towns in northern New England, Strout decides to develop the character Olive in a small town by the name of Crosby, Maine. Olive Kitteridge teaches for a living, paralleling Strout’s mother. Despite these charming comparisons, I would most definitely not befriend Olive due to her pretentious demeanor and shrewd attitude. The novel begins with a narrative that describes the relationship Olive possesses with her husband, Henry Kitteridge. Henry, a laid-back man who runs the town’s pharmacy with a young woman by the name of Denise, loves interacting with his working partner and her husband. While the Kitteridge’s eat dinner with the young couple (despite Olive’s protests), Olive cries out, “for God’s sake,” after Henry spills ketchup down the front of his shirt (7). Olive’s profane diction creates a tone of resentment towards her husband’s clumsiness. The italicized word “sake” indirectly characterizes her as accusatory and fed up with Henry’s actions. She goes on to announce to her husband that Denise “Looks just like a mouse” (5). The simile portrays Olive’s judgmental mentality towards others, illustrating her as an arrogant person. I do not desire to become friends with a woman that treats her husband as cruelly as Olive Kitteridge does and who possesses an air of contempt toward other people. Strout delves into another narrative about Olive Kitteridge’s son’s wedding day. Christopher Kitteridge, Olive’s son, unsurprisingly marries a woman with similar qualities to his mother: controlling and arrogant. Olive seems to understand the danger of having a daughter-in-law that thinks she can do nothing wrong, and the effects it will have on her son. In realizing this, Olive decides to steal and undergarment from Suzanne’s room, as well as a shoe. She also goes into Suzanne’s closet to draw black marker on one of her sweaters. Olive chooses these things “just to keep the self-doubt alive” in her daughter-in-law (74). Who is Olive to decide to vandalize and steal certain belongings of Suzanne in order keep intact the young woman’s arrogance? In her actions, Olive proves more audacious than her daughter-in-law. Speaking personally, I would not like to befriend a person who stole my underwear unknowingly from me. Strout warns those in search of friends to take care in choosing friends who think of themselves more highly than others.  

Happy Birthday

            I would have loved to meet the narrator, Jonah, in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel, Cat’s Cradle. By the end of Jonah’s fantastic tale, he finds himself in a peculiar situation. After surviving a dreadful disaster with similar effects to that of the atom bomb, he discovers few others on the island of San Lorenzo survived the catastrophe as well. Before this devastating event that wiped out almost the entire population of San Lorenzo and after Jonah becomes president of the little island, the narrator begins to possess a growing need to climb to the top of the country’s largest mountain peak, Mount McCabe. Once informed that the mountain has never been scaled by man as well as non sacred to the local religion, the adventurer claims that “Maybe I’ll [Jonah] climb it” (211). After the tragic mishap to the island, it becomes Jonah’s dream to reach the top of Mount McCabe and plant a symbol on the mountain’s peak. For this reason, if I could present a birthday present to Jonah, I would give him a pair of Verbera Hiker GTX Boots found only in North Face stores. It did cross my mind that Jonah could “borrow” a pair of hiking boots from a deserted store in the country’s capital, Bolivar. However, because San Lorenzo suffered from “misery and muck,” I figured Jonah had a slim probability of stumbling across a North Face store and therefore would have to climb in sub-par hiking gear (133). Once ascended to the top of Mount McCabe in his stellar boots, Jonah planned to turn himself to stone with the help of Felix Hoenikker’s invention, ice-nine. Every human to ever watch a movie knows that a hero, such as Jonah, has a perfect woman to love. Even before meeting her, Jonah fell in love with a young peach named Mona Aamons Monzano, exclaiming that she “could make me [Jonah] far happier than any woman” (85). Mona’s fate proved identical to Jonah’s: suicide. In order to give Jonah the strength to perform such a feat, my second gift to him would consist of a locket to wear around his neck with a picture of his heavenly Mona locked tightly against his heart. I hope that these two gifts bestow the necessary gear and strength to my friend Jonah so that he may complete his dream and fulfill his Bokononist views.