The Lakehouse - Final Coming of Age Story

I felt someone nudging my shoulder and the calm, familiar sound of my grandpa’s voice, “We’re almost there, wake up.” The car ride felt like an eternity, but sight of trees completely surrounding us awakened a sense of giddy anticipation within me. I began to fidget like any twelve year old that had been buckled into my grandpa’s Buick for the past three hours. The tan interior of the car became insignificant as the East Texas flora and fauna engulfed my attention. The sunlight played through gaps in the forest canopy as we drove ever further from civilization.

I felt the car slow and leisurely turn left into the long driveway I had grown so familiar with over the years. It was summer and my parents thought it would be a good idea for me to spend a couple days with my grandparents at their lake house near Lake Quitman. I wasn’t as thrilled about it as they thought I should’ve been, but I eventually gave in to their demands. We rolled past giant pine trees that seemed to scrape the clouds. The fruit on the apple and peach trees my grandparents had taken care of over the past twenty years had just begun to ripen. I stretched my arm out the window reaching for an apple, only to miss grasping the green orb by a mere couple of inches. Squirrels dashed back up their trees and birds flew from their nests as we passed the time worn tool shed, and came to a stop in front of the garage.

The lake house was a small, one story home that was built almost fifty years ago. The side paneling was a burnt orange wood, and the blackened roof was always covered with leaves and branches from the overhanging pine trees. The garage was overflowing with fishing rods, lawn chairs, and an assorted collection of outdoor toys my grandparents had bought for my sister and me throughout our childhood. My grandma asked me to help carry in some of the groceries for the weekend as my grandpa walked around the back of the house to turn the water on. The humongous watermelon I was carrying almost slipped from my grasp as I stumbled into the den. Every corner of the room possessed a unique piece of furniture, and a worn, burgundy rug adorned the entryway.  The center of the den was occupied by an old faded, blue couch and an antiquated television that we rarely ever used. I could hardly tear my eyes away from the pair of giant windows and sliding glass doors that always made me feel as if I was walking around in a large fishbowl.

I lugged the giant melon past the cast iron fireplace and up two short steps to the kitchen. My body heaved it up onto the counter for my grandma to deal with and collapsed onto the couch. I leaned my head back and was momentarily mesmerized by a fan that never seemed like it was turning fast enough to do its job. My eyes closed and I listened to the sound of the lake washing against the bank only a short distance from the front door. The lazy sounds of summer melted any desire to move.

Birds chirping in the distance broke my trance and drew me through the sliding glass doors. Sunlight danced off the lake as I walked towards the old wooden bench at the end of the dock. I sat down on the gray, weatherworn cushion as a fish jumped from the water only a few feet from the dock. I listened to the cadenced knocking of my grandpa’s boat against the side of the dock, as the waves effortlessly pushed it aside on their journey towards the shore. A rhythmic creaking behind me averted my gaze to the sight of my grandpa carrying a pair of fishing poles and a bucket of freshly dug earth. He deftly climbed down into the boat and threw me a life jacket.

We sped off across the lake, cutting through the water as if it were a large clear mirror of soft glass. The fiery light from the setting sun skipped across the waves as the revving of the boat’s motor and the wind rushing past us deafened all other sounds. The boat slowed as my grandpa cut the motor. We drifted into a cove hidden to the naked eye by a maze of oddly placed trees and reeds. The roots of nearby oaks grew out of the water and snaked along the riverbank creating a perfect habitat for unsuspecting fish. I untangled the mess of rope sitting at my feet and dropped a rusty anchor into the murky depths.  Gramps smiled at me and asked, “Want a worm? “ I nodded as he reached into the bucket and pulled out a squirming night crawler. I skewered the unfortunate bait and cast out next to the bank. My grandpa did the same, and initiated an affable conversation concerning school, sports, and life in general. 

The sun continued to dip below the trees, and soon the metric chirping of cicadas and crickets was all that permeated the still air of night. The faded yellow moon shone dimly through the trees, and our discussion had long since faded into meditative thought. I looked up to find his head resting on his chest, quietly snoring the night away. My conscience briefly considered waking him, but decided against it and instead soaked in the sounds of silence. I smiled in silent laughter as my mind drifted towards memories of our past.  The relationship my grandpa and I shared was unique within my family. We were both quiet. We never needed to be the center of attention, and often preferred to sit in the background as opposed to commanding the focus of an entire room. Talking with him was always a pleasant respite from the chaos that resulted from living with two teenage sisters and troubled parents.  He loved talking about “the olden days”. It always seemed that every conversation we shared eventually digressed to a story about his life during the Great Depression, the time he spent in the army reserves, or some rant about how technology was going to be the end of civilization. We talked a lot about how life is different and all that has changed in the past seventy years. Common topics included the evolution of technology, the growth of television, cellular phones, fast food, music, and women. He was always convinced that, while the world looks incredibly different, the same basic motifs of life hold true: “Hard work is the only path to success. The key to happiness is to find something you are truly passionate about, and pursuing whatever that is with everything you are.  Treat people right and, generally, they will return the favor.” I smiled to myself thinking of all the corny phrases and jokes he constantly made and insisted were hilarious.

A particularly loud snore broke the silence and my grandpa rocked the boat as he coughed himself awake. He was startled by the darkness and realized he had lost track of time.

“Holy cow, we need to get back! Your grandma is probably worried sick about us.” He carefully navigated the boat out of the natural cage of low hanging trees and reeds, and then sped off into the darkness towards home.

Eight years later, I was sitting alone in my typical college dorm room when I received the phone call from my dad informing me of my grandpa’s passing. I knew my life had changed, but I could not for the life of me tell how. I vividly remember hanging up on him, throwing my phone across the room, and then staring at a blank TV screen for the better part of the next two hours. It was one of those surreal moments when life begins to feel all too real. Death was not a concept I had dealt with thus far in my life, and for a long time I was stuck in between emotions, unsure of how to react. I knew I would never talk with him again, but at the same time I was never overcome with grief. I’ve decided that this is because of the all memories we shared while he was alive. Sure, he isn’t physically with us anymore, but nothing can take away all the times we spent fishing at the lake house or those not-so-pointless conversations. Grieving at an appropriate time was healthy, but it is useless to spend time missing someone when they’ve been with you all along and will continue to be ever-present in your mind.

       This realization was a significant “coming of age” moment in my life through which I experienced a large amount of personal growth. I believe that we are products of our environments and ultimately made up of our memories. Often times we ignore them, and these memories are not profound until we take the time to reflect on them. My grandpa’s death taught me to celebrate life, and not to dwell on the parts that are out of our control. Death is inevitable and uncontrollable, and wasting time worrying about it is the antithesis of life. Our focus should never be on what we have lost or regret, but rather on celebrating the moments we have, or had, with those around us and those we care about.

More Right

I was sick of folding napkins. My fingers were sore from attempting to construct the artistic creation my mom had found online. I could not wrap my head around the concept of making something aesthetically pleasing only for people to wipe their dirty hands with. Despite this, it was the day of my little sister’s senior recital and I knew asking my mom pointless questions just to challenge her judgment was not a good life decision.

This day was the culmination of years of piano and vocal lessons, and my parents wanted the recital to progress flawlessly. My sister had wanted to play a duet with me as the final number; a rendition of Amazing Grace we had played together at my grandpa’s funeral the previous fall. I was a pretty decent cellist throughout high school, but my main goal for today was to, as my sister frankly put it, “not make her look bad”. In order to set up a small reception and make sure the sanctuary was set up correctly, my family had arrived at the church almost two hours before the recital was scheduled to begin. The sanctuary was a familiar place. My parents had brought us to this church our entire lives and it had always felt like a home away from home. The old pews and stained glass windows behind the pulpit were comfortable images of our childhood.

There was a narthex, or small entryway, right outside the sanctuary  where my parents and I were setting up a small reception for the guests who attended. I was scarring my hands with napkins while my parents were arranging a fruit tray when a man threw open the doors and stumbled inside. His black shirt and jeans were torn, and it seemed like the weight of the world was relieved from his shoulder as he placed his backpack on the ground. The mood in the room had immediately changed. My mom was openly apprehensive and asked my dad to talk to him. The man removed his beanie and scratched his head as my dad approached.

“I’m sick. Can I talk to the pastor?”, the man asked. My dad responded by informing him that the pastor was not in at the time and that the Salvation Army was right down the street.

“They don’t do nothin’”, he responded.

“Look”, said my dad, “there are about to be  a lot of teenage girls here for my daughter’s senior recital. I think you should leave.” The ensuing argument lasted the better part of ten minutes. The man yelled at my dad that his daughter had been killed in Afghanistan fighting for my family’s life. My father just continued to tell him that he needed to leave. The man picked up his bag and as he stormed out the door, yelled out, “My daughter died fighting to save yours!”.

It was one of those mentally scarring moments that I don’t think I will ever forget. I was furious with my dad. The man was obviously homeless and he had come to a church for respite, only to be thrown back outside. My faith isn’t in a great place, but throwing a homeless man from a church just did not sit right with me. My sister was practicing inside the sanctuary and never even knew the confrontation took place. Her recital was amazing, and our finale was perfect. But whenever I think back to that day, I always remember the homeless man’s frustration more than my sister’s recital.

My dad and I talked about this experience a lot in the next couple of days. It was obvious I disagreed with how he handled the situation, and I let him know it. He expressed that there was nothing the church could have done for him since the pastor wasn’t there, and that he just wanted to eliminate the potential for the man to harm anyone or take away from the recital. My dad was convinced that the homeless man’s daughter was a fictitious character constructed to create sympathy in those who had food or money. I told my dad that he may be right, but I didn’t feel like either of us should have to be the one’s who make that judgment. That decision is for someone who is much more omnipotent than us. I could see where my dad was coming from. He wanted a memory with his daughter before she left for college, and, for the people there to witness it, a comfortable experience. However, that doesn’t make the way these events played out any more right.

ME?

I had spent the majority of the drive trying to play it cool, but truth be told I was nervous. My hands were shaking and my mouth was dry. My little sister was sitting shotgun and attempting to give me her version of a motivational speech, while I mentally walked through how the next twenty minutes were supposed to play out. I made a slow right turn into our high school football stadium’s parking lot, parked by the fence near the ticket booth, and waited for my friends to show up.

A couple minutes later, a pair of cars pulled into the parking lot and drove up to the fence. Their occupants jumped out and jogged over to join my sister and me. I had facebook messaged a couple of my friends the night before asking if they could help me out. Most of them willingly obliged and promised to show up around seven the next morning at the stadium.

“Did you bring it?”, they asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got it. It’s in my trunk, took me all night to make.” My sister laughed at the reference to the night before as my phone buzzed. I answered, “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’ve got her”, Kaysie’s voice replied.

“Awesome, how far are you from the stadium?”

“About five minutes.” This was perfect. Class didn’t start until seven-thirty, so we had a little extra time.

“Alright, I’ll set it up. See you in a sec.” I hung up the phone – it was time. I hopped the fence and my accomplices followed suit. My friends were carrying the posters and jumped over the short gate to take their places in the bleachers. I surreptitiously walked around the side of the bleachers towards the field. The plan was unfolding flawlessly, everything was going as planned – until: “Boy, come here! What are you doing?”

I froze. I forgot about the groundskeeper. My mind raced as I tried to come up with a somewhat believable excuse. He had obviously been at work for a while. His knees were chartreuse with grass stains and his brow dripped with sweat and disapproval. I was drawing blanks and decided to level with him. “Look sir”, I replied, “I’m trying to ask a girl to prom. Is it cool if my friends and I use the field for the next ten minutes? I promise it will be like we weren’t even here.” I waited anxiously for his response. His stoic expression melted into reminiscence. He smiled and started laughing, “Do what you gotta do, son.”

A wave of relief washed over me and I ran to my spot on the fifty yard line. The sun painted the sky over the bleachers a fiery reddish, orange as I noticed Kaysie’s car pull into the parking lot and watched her quickly blindfold the passenger. This was going to be perfect. I signaled my friends in the bleachers to hold up their signs. A giant “PROM WITH” suddenly appeared as Kaysie led my blindfolded soon-to-be prom date to the middle of the field facing the bleachers. I stood behind her and removed her blindfold. She gasped in surprise and turned as a held up a sign that read “ME?”. 

The Lakehouse

I felt someone nudging my shoulder and heard the calm, familiar sound of my grandpa’s voice, “We’re almost there, wake up.” The car ride had felt like an eternity, but sight of trees completely surrounding us awakened a sense giddy anticipation within me. I began to fidget like any eight year old that had been buckled into my grandpa’s Buick for the past two hours. The tan interior of the car became insignificant as the East Texas flora and fauna engulfed my attention. The sun light played through gaps in the forest canopy as our we drove ever further from civilization.

I felt the car slow and take a leisurely left turn into the long drive way I grown so familiar with over the years. It was summer and my parents thought it would be a good idea for me to spend a couple days with my grandparents at their lake house near Lake Quitman. I wasn’t as thrilled about it as they thought I should’ve been, but I eventually gave in to their demands. We rolled past giant pine trees that seemed to scrape the clouds. The world seemed so big back then. The fruit on the apple and peach trees my grandparents had taken care of over the past twenty years had just begun to ripen. My arm stretched out the window for an apple only to miss grasping the green orb by a mere couple of inches. Squirrels dashed back up their trees and birds flew from their nest as we passed the time worn tool shed, and came to a stop in front of the garage.

The lake house was a small, one story house that was built almost fifty years ago. My grandparents had bought it after my mom had left for college and made a couple renovations, but for the most part it maintained most of its original characteristics. The side paneling was still a burnt orange wood, and the roof was always covered with leaves and branches from the overhanging pine trees. I helped my grandma carry in some of the groceries to the kitchen. The garage was overflowing with fishing rods, lawn chairs, and an assorted collection of outdoor toys my grandparents had bought for my sister and me over the years. The watermelon I was carrying almost slipped from my grasp as I stumbled into the den. Every corner of the room had a different, unbelievably comfortable chair.  The center of the den was occupied by an old blue couch and an antiquated television that I had never seen turned on. I lugged the giant melon past the cast iron fireplace and up two short steps to the kitchen. I set it on the counter for my grandma to deal with and collapsed onto the couch. I leaned my head back and was momentarily mesmerized by the fan that never seemed like it was turning fast enough to do its job. The den was surrounded by giant windows and two sets of sliding glass doors, so that no matter where you were you could always look outside. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the lake washing against the bank only short distance from the front door. The lazy sounds of summer melted any desire to move.

Birds chirping in the distance broke my trance and drew me through the sliding glass doors. The sunlight danced off the lake as I walked towards the old wooden bench at the end of the dock. I sat down on the gray, weather worn cushion as a fish jumped from the water only a few feet from the dock. I heard the rhythmic sound of boards creaking behind me and turned to see my grandpa carrying a pair of fishing poles and a bucket of worms. He smiled at me and asked if I wanted a worm. I nodded as he sat down next to me, and we relived a familiar memory that will never get old.

Centered

All of a sudden, a white hot knife of pain went stabbing through my leg and I crumpled to the ground. My teammate fell on top of me and my face was shoved against the rancid mat room floor. I could vaguely hear people around me – asking, “Did you hear a pop?” I felt like I was underwater. My world moved in slow motion and seemed to lag behind reality. My vision blurred and I remember someone calling my name from what seemed like a long ways away.

It had been a cloudy, typical winter day in Texas. The intermittent rain gave the impression that someone in the clouds had been wringing out a giant washrag for the past couple of hours. My friends and I were enjoying the refreshing natural showers on our walk over to the field house for football practice. Our season had ended uneventfully about a month earlier and we were in the middle of off season. Afternoon workouts consisted of yelling, running, and puking in no particular order. We had grossly underperformed within our district and the coaches were taking every opportunity remind us of our 3-7 record.

Practice began sharply at one and my existence soon became an indistinguishable combination of sprinting, sweating, and not being good enough. Our coaches had decided to make that Friday a competition day, and had different sets of relays or challenges at each station. After the team stretched and listened to our head coach for announcements, chaos ensued as each group dashed off toward our first station. I was feeling good through the first three challenges, even winning one of the speed shuttles. At the time, I possessed no upper body strength, but twelve years of soccer had given me the agility that allowed me to always be competitive. 

One of the coaches had wanted to talk to me after the previous drill, and I was in an all out sprint to catch up with the rest of my group. I threw open the mat room door to the sound of the linebacker coach screaming at everyone to find a partner. The room smelt of twenty years of sweaty, adolescent male and had a torn up black mat covering the majority of the floor. I frantically searched for someone who hadn’t already paired up and discovered the only kid left was our two hundred fifty pound center. I took a deep breath and prepared for what I knew was going to be a miserable experience. We were actually a pretty good team for the first couple of races. Sure, I was slow when it came to trying to support his weight since the kid was twice my size. But the fact that he could throw me over his shoulder, and carry me around like an empty backpack tended to even things out. Everyone knew Coach Cheeks was always obsessed with having us physically carry our teammates, and we were all dreading what we could tell was going to be the final race. He had one of those voices that sounded kind of like someone revving their car engine. You could never really understand what he was saying, but if he started yelling louder you had better figure it out. He started crescendo-ing , “Piggy back! Piggy back!”, and we all knew what to do. I hopped on the center’s shoulders and he took off across the room and back. We were in good shape since he had practically looked like Usain Bolt compared to some of our more equally paired competition. I fell off his back and braced myself to carry a small car. My body strained with effort. Slow and steady wins the race isn’t a mantra that football coaches understand. Coach Cheeks was almost physically inside my ear, bellowing at me to run faster. I quickened my pace as the pair next to me began to catch up. The end of the mat was in sight. I tried to slow down in preparation to turn around and run back to the other side of the room. My desire to win planned a quick pivot and a gut-check sprint back to the other side. Then the mat became slippery with sweat from previously fallen competitors and my left foot shot out from under me. The weight of the world came crashing down on my right knee.

The Rest Stop

I was bored, hot, tired, and starving. My little sister was in even worse shape, and had decided to occupy her time by incessantly trying to touch my kidney with her elbow. My older sister was on my other side and reeked of an unnamed lotion her body seemed to depend on second only to oxygen. Whoever decided to shove the three children in the backseat of my mom’s black Ford Windstar for an eight hour car ride had made an extremely poor decision. We had been on the road since before the sun was up. Luckily for the other passengers, us kids didn’t even remember waking up  at the hotel and being placed in the van. Unfortunately, lunchtime was nearing and everyone’s patience was beginning to run thin. My mom had spent the last half hour feigning sleep in a attempt to try to keep us quiet, but our chanting and projectile pretzels had forced a flinch that gave her away. Grandpa and grandma had long since turned off their hearing aids and were having a wonderful time enjoying the coastline from their second row seats.

It had been a week since we started our journey through the Northwest United States. The previous day, we had met up with my grandparents in San Francisco and began a two day long drive up the coast of California. My dad soon understood that we could only be placated with a chance to stretch our legs and put something in our bellies. He pulled into the next rest stop and into an empty parking space. My mom had barely unlocked the van before an all-out battle royale had begun to see which sibling would be the first to jump into the ocean. I stiff armed my older sister as I flipped over the backseat and out of the trunk while my younger sister tried to scrambled past my grandparents.  We threw our shoes off in the general direction of our mother and sprinted off against a warm, salty breeze. I kicked up sand in every direction and began to pull away from my sisters as the clear winner. With each and every stride my anticipation ballooned until finally I dove headfirst into the glistening Pacific Ocean. For a second, everything was quiet. My eyes burned. The blue-green world surrounding me seemed undisturbed by my victory. Then a blinding light reappeared and my sisters’ laughter brought my world back into focus. We spent the next hour racing down the coastline, always trying to run faster than the incoming waves. By the time my parents had caught up to us with their leisurely stroll, we were soaked, exhausted, and incapable of removing the smiles cemented on our faces.

On our way back to the car, I slowed my pace and tried to absorb my surroundings. My childhood ignorance itched to run back to the van, but I was mesmerized by the pattern in which the light played off the waves. I wanted it. I wanted the warm sun, the incessant laughter, the refreshing water. I was too young to see how much these recollections and the ephemeral ocean breeze had in common. My family’s voices beckoned me back to earth. I took one last glance at a memory and shoved a huge handful of sand into my pocket. “Don’t leave me!”

Blinded Freedom

The afternoon heat of a particularly lazy Sunday afternoon warmed my right arm as I rested it against the window of my dad’s old company car. The only reason I continued to fight the inevitable Sunday afternoon coma was the anticipation of a new form of independence. A novel source of freedom that I had been dreaming about for months. Reality snapped back into place as my head bumped against the warm Plexiglas, and the soon to be familiar sound of gravel being compacted by tires permeated my lethargy.

The owner of the used car lot practically opened my door for me as I fell out of my seat and into a sea of cars that all seemed to say, “I will never be this clean again – buy me!”. The recently shined collection of automobiles reflected the summer sunlight in a way that made me want to look away, but blindly run toward it at the same time. The thought humored me as a man with dark, greasy hair and a gregarious nature that I knew would last only as long as my dad was around sprinted towards us. He shook my hand and asked, “What are you here for son?”, in a seemingly prepubescent tone. I told him we were just looking around and he immediately went off on some tangent he thought was relevant and my dad seemed interested in. He talked extremely fast and walked even faster. We were racing past a row of used trucks when I saw it and immediately knew that destiny was colored red for that afternoon.

Time slowed to a crawl as I quickened my pace towards the scarlet 2003 Pontiac Grand Am that had caught my eye. Being a teenage guy, I knew I either wanted a pick up truck or some type of sports car going into this experience. My dad refused to help pay for gas if I decided on a truck and was fervently opposed to sports cars, so this hybrid between a sedan and my dream gave me hope. We looked it over and spent the next half hour test driving my physical manifestation of freedom throughout the nearby neighborhoods. The AC was ice cold, the radio was loud, and my heart was sold. I loved the way that the dashboard felt like it was having a seizure every time I pumped the brakes. In hindsight, that probably should have worried me a little more, but the mechanic was convinced it was natural and my ignorance was bliss.

The salesman virtually carried my dad through the door to talk finances while I got some alone time with my future ride. I had the realization that this was my first true adult decision. Apart from the obvious safety and economical requirements, my parents left the ultimate choice completely up to me. It was the first time in my life where I felt myself growing out of adolescence and into the realm of adulthood. I knew that this car was more than just a couple thousand pounds of metal and four rubber tires. The vehicle represented freedom, independence, space – everything that a rebellious teenager wanted.  I noticed my dad ambling towards me and remembered thinking to myself that he looked both relieved and worried at the same time. He tossed me the keys and uttered a tired, “See you at home.” I jumped into the drivers seat shaking with anticipation as I thrust the key into the ignition and heard nothing but the beautiful sound of a new door opening. I checked my mirrors, buckled my seatbelt, and pulled out of my car's old home. My mind raced with the dreams soon to be realized and the endless possibilities now available. I was torn between which of my friends and family I wanted to surprise first as my dashboard started beeping and the decision was made for me. The car slowed and I felt my catharsis regressing to a grinding disappointment. This was my first of many flirtations with what would soon be an endless love-hate relationship with that bright red dream.

Meeting with Khalifa #6

My last meeting with Khalifa took place soon after spring break, and we inevitably started our talk by asking about each other’s break.  I described my trip to a friend’s beach house and Florida and then asked about his vacation. He had flown with some of his friends and cousins to visit his uncle in Colorado. They spent the week hiking mountains, riding horses, and shooting guns. Khalifa raved about how much fun he had at the gun range. He was delighted with how the range offered different types of guns, and all you had to pay for was an hourly fee and ammo. He had taken an almost absurd number of pictures to show me all the different types of guns and ammo.

As we were looking through the pictures, one photo popped up that showed him riding on a horse in the snow. I asked him about it and he responded that that experience was one of the most terrifying events in his life. Now you have to understand that Khalifa is kind of a heavy set, and he originally hated the idea of riding a horse before his friends talked him into it. He hated this ordeal for two reasons. The first was that he had never seen snow before, and displayed a mild hatred for the cold. The second was that none of his friends had thought to mention they would be riding on a path that was barely two feet wide with a rock face on one side and a steep couple hundred foot drop-off on the other. He went on for a while; complaining about the weather, and how he thought his horse was going to break.

During his entire recollection of this day, I was hard pressed not to bust out laughing. Honestly, the kid just looked ridiculous. It’s hard to do justice with words to how completely out of his element he looked in every single picture. It made me think about how out of place I would look in Saudi Arabia with my blinding white skin and red hair. I started thinking about places in the world where I wouldn’t look out of place. There is an extremely large portion of this planet where I would look completely foreign if I were to visit. I still can’t get over how much bigger the world is than myself, and how often I completely forget that. I think this is something that we are all guilty of on a regular basis, typically because our daily lives demand it.  If awareness of other cultures does not play a role in helping one reach their goals, then what’s the point? Do the ends justify the means? I can’s speak for others, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I at some point I will need to become more knowledgeable about other cultures, especially Hispanic culture. In ten years, I see myself practicing medicine somewhere in Texas. Regardless of where I am, communication will be an extremely important tool in my profession, and understanding why people say what they say is something I believe will be key on a daily basis.

The service learning experience has taught me that what we perceive is often only what we see. Too often we forget that there are almost seven billion other people living mutualistically with us, and that we are all connected whether we realize it or not.  There are certain needs and desires that we all possess, regardless of our demographic or geographic diversity. The magnitude of our similarities and differences relies solely upon the instrument we use to observe them. Perception is everything.

Meeting with Khalifa #5

       I think this will probably be my favorite meeting with Khalifa. We were trying to go to a baseball game, but scheduling conflicts arose and we had to settle for the first floor of the BLUU once again. We started talking about sports and I asked about the most popular sports in Saudi Arabia. He clarified that sporting events were nothing like American athletics. He was partial to basketball, despite this sport rarely being televised, in addition to cricket and soccer. He seemed flustered by the amount of sports that Americans play and how their fans keep up with it all. He communicated that he was always extremely frustrated with most televised American sports. Evidently, he and his friends have a bad habit of falling asleep during games due to boredom. I asked why, and he told me he didn’t understand the rules. He had mentioned that his favorite sport was basketball, so I asked him if he understood the rules. Khalifa replied yes, and went on about how “you can only take three steps and then you had to pass the ball or it was a penalty”…

       At first I thought he was joking. As it turns out, he and his friends have come up with a completely wrong, but unique form of basketball which they gleaned from watching the NBA on television. I never had the time to watch or play with them, but it is an experience that I wish I had taken advantage of. Next, I asked about baseball. He shook his head at me and set it on the table with an exasperated look. Khalifa and some of his friends had gone to a TCU baseball game the week before, and apparently had never been more lost or confused in their lives. I began to explain the basic rules to him, but we soon decided it was a lost cause and moved on. I was surprised at how difficult it was to explain the basic rules of sports that most Americans consider to be common knowledge. I think it would be easier to demonstrate the rules, rather than solely trying to describe them. Regardless, it was clear that these concepts were startlingly complex to him.

        Khalifa was also confused by the culture surrounding our athletic events. He could not understand why Americans would go to a baseball game not to watch, but to socialize. In his country, sports fans treated games like religious events and their teams like demi-gods. He felt that since there were so many different sports, the fans could not be as loyal to only one team. In some ways he might be right. I think there are other underlying factors, but it’s an interesting perspective.

        I still find it odd how such a simple concept for people of this country can be so abstract for people like Khalifa. I grew up playing every sport I could and participated in most of them throughout high school. It was an odd feeling to realize that there are people living in America who would not be able to understand a significant portion of my past and consequently who I am as a person. In addition, the recognition of how incredibly ignorant I am of other cultures was not an encouraging thought. It’s so easy to get caught up in everyday life and forget how limited our perception of the world really is.

Meeting with Khalifa #4

I’m not sure what to write about for this past meeting with Khalifa. Our time was cut short by a meeting I had previously promised a friend and, consequently, the topics I have to write about are quite limited.

The only subject we had time to talk about was what we both do on weekends. At first, I thought this train of conversation would just turn into small talk and be a mutual waste of time. Much to my surprise, one of Khalifa’s favorite past times is “watching and laughing at drunk people”. I found this hilarious for multiple reasons and inquired further. Apparently, he regularly selects random locations to smoke at with his friends, and then they make fun of intoxicated strangers. I felt like a certain aspect of this discussion was probably lost in translation, but we were laughing too hard at some of his experiences for me to figure it out. I asked Khalifa why he didn’t drink, and he responded by saying he did not like the way he acted when he was drunk, and that he would rather laugh at others making fools of themselves. It seemed to me like he probably had a bad experience with alcohol in the past, but I decided against pushing any further and changed the topic.

I asked him why he came to the United States to learn English in an attempt to try and keep the conversation going. As a proud American, I fully expected to hear an answer along the lines of: “because it is the greatest nation in the world”. Much to my surprise, he had a difficult time formulating a reply. This difficulty did not stem from a lack of vocabulary, but rather a drought of sentiment. He eventually settled on the response that he had family in the area, so logically it made sense. Initially, this baffled me. Thinking back on this experience now, it was completely arrogant of me to expect the answer that my mind thought he would give. I fully believe that I live in the greatest nation on the planet. Why shouldn’t he believe the same about his homeland? I’m shocked and a little ashamed at how ethnocentric my initial response to this happened to be. I guess this type of realization is one of the main reasons behind having a conversation partner, but it was a lesson I thought I had already learned a long time ago. It scares me how malleable our perception of the world can be. Beliefs and opinions tend to be so much more ephemeral than we make them out to be.

I think that ethnocentricity is a major problem at private schools like TCU. Despite what some statistics may say, it’s hard to believe that it feels like there is any sort of demographic diversity on campus. Ironically, this was probably the most prevalent culture shock for me when I first arrived at TCU. I grew up attending public schools in neighborhoods that were extremely socioeconomically diverse. It frightens me how quickly I’ve become complacent with my surroundings. I believe that understanding where other people have come from is the most successful way to communicate and work with different individuals. I know I’ve said this before in a previous blog, but I firmly believe we are products of our environments. The ability to keep an open mind, elucidate, and understand the backgrounds of one’s peers is key in any sort of relationship. 

Meeting with Khalifa #3

Our third meeting started off rather oddly. Khalifa called me about an hour before our arranged meeting and left a cryptic message in my voicemail. To this day I’m still not sure what he was trying to say. What I took from it was that he was in Nevada and would not be “there” for another two hours. I had absolutely no idea what that meant, so I ended up just chillin’ in the BLUU until he showed up. Apparently he was trying to convey that his car was in the shop because of a faulty accelerator and that he would be late. Regardless, eventually he showed up and we began talking right where we had left off.

One of the things that struck me the most about talking with Khalifa is how often he insisted that life in America and Saudi Arabia was the same. I have never been outside the continent of North America, but for some reason I have always thought that life had to be exceedingly different in other countries.  Nonetheless, whenever I would ask what types of indigenous foods or music he liked, Khalifa would always respond that his preferences were just the same as mine. We started talking about hobbies and soon stalled on the topic of cars. Khalifa was obsessed with them and pulled out his phone to show me some pictures he had taken of his family’s almost absurd number of vehicles. Back in Saudi Arabia, one of his favorite past times is to rush home from school early and drive around the country. Apparently, gas is dirt-cheap there and you can drive anywhere for next to nothing.

           Next, we started making comparisons between our homelands. The one aspect of America that Khalifa regularly admitted made him want to cry was the price of gas. The price in the states is exponentially greater then what he is used to paying. In Saudi Arabia, paying for transportation is often never a concern. According to him, people who can afford cars just drive wherever they want without concern for the price of fuel.  The part of Saudi Arabia where Khalifa resides is extremely developed compared to other portions of his nation, which is probably one of the main reasons he maintains that America is not so different from his home.

When I first learned that having a conversation partner was a requirement in this course, I was apprehensive, but excited by the idea that I would get to know someone so different from myself. At this point, I’ve come to the realization that Khalifa and I aren’t really that different. As a species, I believe we are all products of our environments. I convinced there are certain genetic predispositions that tend to direct our actions, but the compilation of our life experiences is integral in any attempt to explain behavior. This being said, listening to someone from an entirely different culture maintain that he and I are so similar was a truly eye-opening experience. I never would have expected myself to agree with him, but following our meetings I currently under the impression that I do. Keeping in mind that this is probably to complex a concept to concur with after six meetings, I agree with the idea that there are certain motifs that run consistent through the human race. Regardless of our environment and circumstance, we all tend to desire some form of purpose, self-approval, and progress. I think these concepts are all one in the same, but I can’t really find a good word to describe them all at once. Nonetheless, I think this is probably the most monumental lesson I’ve taken away from the service learning experience. 

The Sea Change - Reflection

After a superficial read of this short story, it was obvious the inevitable lead respondent presentation over this piece was not going to be an easy task. The previous presentations had all struggled with class participation and the context of the conflict of this text did not appear like it would lead to a stimulating discussion.

The Sea Change is a short story by Ernest Hemingway depicting a man and a woman’s temporary disagreements in a bar over sexual experimentation. The main characters are a man named Phil and a nameless woman. The aspect of the vast majority of Hemingway’s writing is the amount of depth he creates in so few words. He leaves out most explicit details and allows the reader to imply the sometimes not-so-obvious thematic elements he attempts to communicate. This unique style allows Hemingway to surreptitiously address controversial topics without openly offending his readers. 

In the time prior to the presentation, I read over this story a ridiculous number of times. Almost all of the text made sense, either concretely or metaphorically with the exception of one line. Phil and the woman are arguing about what to call her promiscuity when Phil calls it a “perversion”. The woman replies:

“We’re made up of all sorts of things. You’ve known that. You’ve used it well enough.”

This line really tripped me up, and even now I’m not quite sure what Hemingway’s purpose for it is. After a large amount if thought, I’ve decided that this is Hemingway’s antiquated version of vaguebooking. Vaguebooking is when someone posts an intentionally vague facebook post solely to elicit conversation. Everyone has done this, and I always seem to find it extremely annoying.  In the context of this story, I think that Hemingway has included this line to encourage debate over its actual meaning. Its ambiguity supports the idea that there probably is no single, absolute interpretation. Honestly, I still don’t really get this. In my mind, this portion of the text serves to blur the line between socially acceptable heterosexuality and taboo homosexuality. Sometimes it seems like all Hemingway wanted to do with his writing was to blur what most people consider black and white topics into an indecipherable cloud of gray.

          At first I struggled with how a story about sexual experimentation parallels the theme of coming-of-age. After a large amount of deliberation, I’ve decided that formulating one’s personal set of ethics is a form of maturity. The ability to look at a set of options and decide what is right and wrong shows growth in a person. I believe that one underlying theme in most of Hemingway’s writing is the idea that there is rarely a correct answer to any question of ethics.  Life isn’t simple enough to reduce its complexity to an elementary yes or no. 

Meeting with Khalifa #2

       While trying to set up our second meeting, it was obvious Khalifa and I were improving our communication skills. This time we both showed up in the same basic location and in the same hour; a drastic improvement from our first get-together. We started asking how each other’s weeks were going and eventually were drawn to the topic of each other’s families. He asked about mine and I described my parents as well as my two sisters. In turn, I asked about his family and can honestly say I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Khalifa’s family is huge. The word almost doesn’t justify what I’m attempting to explain.  He and most of his direct family live in a compound that appears to be a giant mansion about the size of the TCU Commons. It was ridiculous. We spent most of this meeting looking through his phone at pictures of his cars, family, and other significant possessions. I honestly don’t remember the exact number of family members that lived with him, but I remember there being a lot. He continued on to start describing his uncles that lived in America. He has one that resides in California and one in Colorado. He also has quite a few cousins that are dispersed across the United States in various cities the names of which I can’t quite remember.

I knew the answer to my next question before I asked it, but I was curious as to how he would respond. I inquired if he missed his family. His mood turned a little more somber, and he replied with the obvious answer. He told me that he talked to his parents and sister on an almost daily basis and missed them terribly. He didn’t seem too broken up about it and quickly continued that he was having a great time in America. Thinking back on this conversation, I’m confident that I could live on a different continent than the majority of my family. At the same time, I’m not sure one can emotionally prepare for an experience like that. It would mean truly being on your own. I wanted to ask if Khalifa felt like he was maturing more in the states, but it didn’t feel like a good time to keep asking serious questions and I ended up making some dumb joke about an ocean.

Trying to experience humor in a different language was extremely intriguing and interesting, at least on my part.  There were multiple occasions when we would reach a point in conversation where it was blatantly obvious that neither of us knew what the other was talking about, and we would just bust out laughing. I feel bad admitting this, but there were several times during the middle of conversation that I would just start laughing to see if he would mirror my behavior. Most of the time he thought he had missed something and would start laughing with me. It fascinated me that humor was this sort of emotional eraser that seemed to be cross cultural, at least between Khlaifa and me.  No matter what we were talking about, any tension or awkwardness was immediately eliminated when one of us would start to laugh. We were not great at communicating with each other by any means, but the concept of humor was obviously prevalent in both our cultures, and it was an abstract form of common ground that we shared. It was one of those “circle of life” experiences where you realize that the world is a lot bigger than what you know, and that everyone on this planet is connected. We all experience similar emotions and have similar backgrounds. The environments in which we were raised are by no means the same, however, there are certain underlying themes that all run parallel regardless of geographical or cultural barriers.

Meeting with Kalifa #1

The ridiculous amount of missed calls and multiple failures in communication leading up to my first meeting with Khalifa was honestly kind of a disaster. At first I could not get a hold of him via email, and then I missed his call during the week of a Cell Biology and Organic Chemistry Test. Following that, it was probably another two weeks before I lost an unintentional game of phone tag and we finally met on the first floor of the BLUU. I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that I really wanted to call the kid ‘Wiz’, like the rapper, but I doubted he would understand the pop culture reference and decided against it.

       I could tell from the concise emails and my experiences trying to decode his text messages that communicating with Khalifa was not going to be a simple task. He walked up to me while I was sitting in a chair in the BLUU and seemed amiable enough. We greeted each other and did the awkward guy handshake where you don’t really know whether to do a man-shake or try something cooler, so you end up with this hybrid handshake that you both are forced to just play cool and segue into conversation.  Khalifa is from a large town in Saudi Arabia. I know I should probably have remembered which city, but he spent at least twenty minutes of our first meeting teaching me how to count and say simple phrases in Arabic, and all of the phonetics have jumbled together in my head. Regardless, we started off with all the basics: “Where are you from?”, “What are you studying?”, et cetera. I found out that Khalifa is studying abroad and actually has a ton of family spread out all throughout the states. He is at TCU with his cousin and is here to improve his English. He wants to be an engineer, but he also explicitly exhibited his hatred of math. I asked him about this contradiction and he just started laughing. I’m not sure what that meant or if he truly understood what I was asking, but it was funny and we shared a great laugh.

        I have always heard that English is a miserable language to learn as a second language, so I asked Khalifa about it. He conveyed that for the most part the grammar isn’t too bad, except for the idiom. Khalifa hates idioms with a passion and I can see why. If you think about them concretely, they make absolutely no sense and sound ridiculous. I remember trying to learn idioms in Spanish during high school and hating every second of it. I can only imagine what Khalifa must be dealing with.

      As I mentioned earlier, Khalifa seemed to really enjoy teaching me words in Arabic, or at least listening to me butcher simple phrases. Either way, I found it incredibly difficult to replicate certain sounds he would make, and, whenever he would congratulate me on saying something correctly, I knew there was an extremely real chance that I would not be able to replicate that phrase if my life depended on it. Counting was easier, but still a ton harder than I expected.  I had never really thought how difficult it must be for people who do not speak the native language to live in a foreign country for an extended period of time until that moment. Khalifa could speak fairly well, but at the same time it was obvious that at certain points he had no idea what I was saying and was just mirroring my emotions. It was an interesting example of communication. We both were looking for the easiest set of words or phrases to convey what we were trying to say so that the other would understand. It was a unique and enlightening experience. Despite our increasingly permeable communication barrier, I had a great first meeting with Khalifa and looked forward to meeting with him again.

To Kill A Mockingbird - Reflection

       To Kill A Mockingbird is easily my favorite read from this class thus far. I have read this novel twice before, and each time I read it I discover details that I previously over read, or was not mature enough to fully grasp. The main concept that struck me this time was how thematically relevant this novel is to different cultures and age groups. Despite being written in 1960, this novel remains inexplicably applicable to many different readers.

       When I was in eighth grade, this novel was the first novel I ever had to attempt a literary analysis on. At the time, I was convinced these 268 pages would be the death of me. Now, those sentiments just seem silly. Another interesting result of this read was that my favorite section of the book has shifted. When I was in eighth grade and freshman year of high school, I always remember enjoying the part one of the novel, and treating part two like it was the bane of my existence. Oddly enough, I think I’ve recently decided that I’m more partial to the second portion of the novel. I haven’t quite decided if the reason for this shift is my own maturity or my ability to now read a three hundred page book without becoming bored, but either was I still find this alteration curious. Back to my original point, I believe that this story has so many different conjoining thematic threads that almost anyone can find a connection to the piece. It seems to me like younger readers more easily connect with the characterization of Scout and her friends, while the more mature readers would see more significance in the cultural effects of Atticus’ life decisions and the evident sociocultural conflict of that time period.  I think that the author does a brilliant job of meshing elementary lessons to take from the book while at the same time implying certain concepts that, if mentioned explicitly, would raise a momentous amount of criticism.

       In comparison, I think that To Kill A Mockingbird is everything that Huck Finn is not, at least in the context of making a statement against racism. The main reason I refuse to write a blog post on Huck Finn is because I feel Mark Twain was a coward when it came to the conclusion of his novel. If I have to read four hundred pages to discover that you almost entirely contradict the thematic elements leading up to what seems like it should be a socially risqué conclusion, of course I’m going to be upset. Racism is arguably the darkest part of American history, and to think that a national figure of his time didn’t make a statement that truly needed to be made somewhat infuriates me. At the same time, I can also see why Twain did what he did. Maybe it was too early, and it does seem like the social effects of such a novel might be too controversial. Either way, I find To Kill A Mockingbird to be a much better read.

       This is also the first time that I have liked Jem as a character. During my previous reads of this novel I always thought of him as the lame older brother. In addition, I always remember liking Jem less and less as the novel proceeded.  Taking time to look back on these thoughts, I think I felt this way because I had a difficult time connecting with Jem’s coming-of-age. As a freshman in high school, the last thing I wanted to do was grow up and worry about the future. My central concerns consisted of which friends I was going to hang out with and trying not to miss the bus to football practice.  With high school behind me, it makes sense that I would have more respect for Jem’s character. The more I think about it, the more connections I see between Jem’s life and my own. I also have a younger sister who quite often bothers me with her ignorance and naive nature. It’s kind of ironic.

       It’s intriguing how malleable a concrete set of words can be during different portions of one’s life. Perception really is everything.

       

The House on Mango Street - Reflection

      At first, I completely despised this novel. I thought that the structure of this piece created a disjointed mood that failed to reflect the plot and distracted from the overall fluidity of the novel. The lack of character development predetermined any possible connection that I might have had with the protagonist to be nonexistent. This may sound harsh, but my favorite part of the novel was its brevity in length.  Despite my obvious dislike for the structure and characterization, there were a few intriguing characteristics that I enjoyed.

         I found the motif of names extremely interesting. This is probably because the concept of identity and search for self-definition are thematically more universal than “Hair” or provocative shoes.  The coming-of-age theme is prevalent in this aspect of the novel.  Esperanza is an adolescent girl trapped in the struggle between defining herself as a woman or a girl.  She is conflicted by her desire for the conceptual nature of womanhood, while not fully understanding that she is unprepared for the psychological and physical ramifications inherent in this maturation.  This burden is thrust upon after she is sexually assaulted, and consequently she suddenly resents all women for idealizing sex. She is upset with other females for not educating her on what sex is really like and causing her to create unrealistic expectations that ultimately do nothing but let her down. The aspect of this that interests me the most is how spontaneous this transition from adolescence to womanhood seems to be. While the author uses this sexual encounter as a hallmark of maturation, I think that there are many different events that could act as similar catalyst for this personal growth. However, I agree with the spontaneity of this personal change. I don’t believe that one can just wake up one day and decide that they have matured from adolescence to a man or woman. This maturation is a result of many different experiences and how one chooses to act in these given situations. One prevalent issue in today’s society is how much incongruence lies in what most adolescents expect their future to hold and what actually takes place. Society and social media has for a long time been the source of unheralded and unrealistic expectations of life in general. We live in a culture that relies on miracles and dreams in order to maintain hope in our futures. Contrary to this idea, when a family turns on the 10 ‘o clock news, there are never specials on the man who didn’t win the lottery, the woman who didn’t get the promotion, or the boy who hasn’t woken up from a coma. Regardless, I feel this sentiment is exhibited by Esperanza following her sexual assault.

       Oddly enough, I found the chapter “Four Skinny Trees” particularly inspiring. Esperanza found a personal connection with the four skinny trees that should not have grown or exist where they do, but live on regardless of their unfavorable circumstance. This symbol fuels her dreams and gives her hope.

       I also found the criticism of this novel quite interesting; particularly the remarks that called the novel a betrayal of the “barrio”. I would agree that for a large portion of the novel the protagonists’ main agenda is to leave the barrio and there are symbols, such as the four skinny trees that support this. However, the conversation Esperanza has at the end of the novel with the elderly aunts seems to contradict this idea. The aunts remind Esperanza to come back to the barrio after she leaves. It seems to me like life in a Latin based neighborhood is not a favorable one, and the only way to both maintain the cultural aspects of the barrio and improve its infrastructure would be to bring outside education back to the barrio. My point of view is probably ignorant, but it is difficult for me to see any merit in continuing a way of life that is obviously degrading in at least an economical sense. I can understand wanting to maintain one’s cultural roots, but not in a way that leaves a community with no future but to become a relic.

      This novel seems like a cultural statement that was made without fully thinking through the concepts inherent in the piece. There are a couple chapters I feel are completely irrelevant and useless. Despite my discontent with the novel, the cultural ramifications of the story and certain motifs made reading this narrative at least somewhat interesting. 

Library Day 4/16 - 50/60s Article

     I believe that there are certain personal conflicts that run parallel throughout all human life that each of us experience at different times and in different ways. I am convinced that one of these is the maturation of a personal belief system that, while being a product of one’s environment, is formulated independently of the beliefs of others. As I was flipping through old issues of Time Magazine in the library looking for articles that would fit this assignment, I realized that there were defined ideological threads that connected many of the articles to the previous statement concerning belief systems. What interested me the most was that many of these articles were not specifically about people, yet I still felt that the “coming of age” motif was a prevalent aspect of these pieces.

     One of these articles was about the U.S. uranium industry and a study this operation had done in 1960 on the correlation between working in uranium mines and the prevalence of lung cancer.  The results were that lung cancer was almost five times higher in U.S. uranium miners than in American men in general. The article goes on to talk about meetings of rich, important people who talked of changes to alleviate this problem and then failed to implement these changes to their full extent while making sure they did just enough to look better than other nations. Admittedly, my tone concerning this article is meant to be bitter. Personally, I feel that the people in charge failed to protect their employees from a known carcinogen in order to satiate their personal material cravings. Comparatively, it seems like the U.S. uranium industry did attempt to do more than other countries in the context of this dilemma, which I do believe is a sign of maturation for our nation. Despite this, a lesson I learned as a child was that doing the right thing tends to only matter if you do all of it. It does not seem like the executives did the right thing, but then again, there is probably a lot more to this story than what a magazine writer could fit into three pages.

     I realize that trying to express the “coming of age” motif in the context of ideas, and other inanimate or abiotic constructs, is abstract and probably a stretch. It’s true that human life only loosely connects to the everyday problems of nations, or the nebulous line between right and wrong. The conflicts and environments of a nation or company, as opposed to a human, are uniquely different, but both continue to grow and decay – rise and fall – have good days and bad ones – live and die.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that life will happen regardless of our personal agenda, and the decisions we make when faced with a conflict determine the progression or regression of our lives either in our eyes or the eyes of those around us. It seems to me that most aspects of life contain conflict, and resolving conflict leads to growth and maturation. The growth, or “coming of age”, of nations and companies could be seen as the maturation of humans as a species, rather than as individuals. This is a concept I believe is fully evidenced by the presence of more humane systems of government and the spread of equality. I think that “coming of age” is present in all of these places and ideas because when it comes down to it, depending on your religious beliefs, everything is a direct or indirect construct of the human mind. If maturation of ideas and one’s beliefs is a prevalent conflict in our minds, why shouldn’t that be seen in what our minds create?

Experiences with Huck Finn

1. No

2. I was aware of its relation to Tom Sawyer and the frequent use of the vernacular term for slave.

6. Huck Finn is considered a controversial novel because a cursory read of this piece could easily influence one to believe this novel is the culmination of Mark Twain's negative opinion of slavery. However, I believe that this novel is more of an editorialization concerning Twain's disgust with society's inability to think as individuals.

7. I had a difficult time connecting with this novel, and I would agree with the idea that it is losing relevancy to college students. I think it is significant in a historical context, but the original impact of the novel is marred by the incongruence created by the inherent differences in time periods.

8. I think this novel is considered flawed because it lacks a resolute ending to the story. There are many different opinions on why this is, many of which I think are too insightful. However, I am under the impression that Twain was either confused about the direction his novel was taking, or was too much of a coward to finish what he started.

2/13 - 1930s article

     Initially I found this assignment somewhat abstract. I thought it would be difficult to find an article with a theme that could be related to the concept of a 'coming of age' piece of literature. As I was flipping through the 1936 issue of Life magazine, I came across a collection of photographs depicting the everyday lives of the students of West Point and felt an immediate connection to this article. This article was written to educate the American people about the lives of the people of West Point. One of the reasons I found this intriguing is that as I sat down to write this post, I could not decide whether or not to call the males in the pictures men or boys. I spent a while thinking about this point and decided it would be a great catalyst for a 'coming of age' post and started writing.
     These pictures captured what seemed to me as the prime of our nation at the time. West Point was, and still is, a premiere university in this country and a place where the best and brightest were to be educated and prepared for the future. I think there is an interesting parallel between the lives of these men and the state of our nation at the time this article was written. There are many points in history where it could be said that the United States had cemented its place in world politics as a major player. However, I believe that this time period embodies that idea in a more symbolic form by this article. In a way, the argument could be made that United States was in the midst of its own coming of age during the late 1930's. My recollection of history is mediocre at best, but I remember this being a time period when we had just come out of the worst economic depression in our nation's history and, prior to that, pretty much won World War I for the Allied Powers with our intervention in the late 1910's. As a result, the perception of the United States was changing from just another country across the Atlantic to a major economic and military superpower. With the maturation of our country, I believe that a similar metamorphosis was occurring in the lives of the students of West Point.
   One of the concepts of the article that struck me was the rigor and strict discipline with which the cadets of the military academy lived within. I understand that this comes with the territory of a military academy, but I was surprised by the regimented lifestyle. Despite this, the cadets always seemed to be smiling and enjoying what they were taking part in. I know that emotion was probably scripted by the photographer and not a permanent sentiment, but I found it intriguing.  What I took away from this juxtaposition of enjoying a strict life was that these men knew what they wanted to do with their lives. It baffles me that seventy-six years can go by and so much can change. With the societal freedom that most of us enjoy in today's culture, I find that that same liberation often has the potential to lead to apathy and a lack of progress.  With the freedom that most of the men in those photographs fought and quite possibly died for in World War II, I feel that the last thing these men would look upon with favor would be mulling over possibilities. I found this train of thought very motivating - coupling the contrast of the negative aspects of wasting time against creating a reality. If pictures could talk, I feel like these cadets would be upset with the concept of paying so much money to figure out what one wants to do with his or her life. Coming of age is all about maturation in multiple aspects of life. It's about deciding what your life is for and making that mental image a reality.

Candide - Reflection

To be honest, I found this novella quite frustrating and even somewhat depressing at times. The satirical nature of this piece of literature creates an exceedingly sarcastic, and at times, humorous tone that adds to the condescending intentions of the author to create a work which points out what Voltaire sees as flaws in the society of that time period. At first, I truly enjoyed the exaggerations and not-so-subtle editorializations concerning the socioeconomic misplacement of values. However, after a while I felt as if I was reading the diary of an extraordinarily well-read teenage girl. It seemed like every footnote’s sole purpose was to explain the historical context of an insult I would otherwise be ignorant of.

After realizing that I was comparing a renowned historical philosopher to a pubescent woman, I started to think about why Voltaire could be so frustrated with so many different people. That was when I connected the Enlightenment to the theme of this course. It seems to me that if one was to anthropomorphize the time period of the Enlightenment to a young adult, a lot of the reasons I disliked this novel start to make sense.

Voltaire buried his agenda and issues with certain philosophical fallacies of his contemporaries underneath several layers of sharply worded satire. The Enlightenment was a time period in which new philosophies and paradigms of thought were growing into fruition faster than most people knew what to do with them. This ‘age of reason’ led mankind to ask and attempt to reason through certain fundamental questions of life, such as wondering if the universe can ever be understood.  With the development of solutions to these questions, there were bound to be disagreements and animosity between contrasting philosophical views. Voltaire obviously had a bone to pick with the idea of optimism being a legitimate explanation. The character of Pangloss embodied this train of thought and always seemed to have a completely rational, irrational justification for whatever obstacle is thrown in his path. The absurdity of these ‘solutions’ tend to act as catalysts for Voltaire to point out inherent flaws in the use of rationalization to answer questions that had been considered intrinsically irrational for hundreds of years. 

One of the most intriguing aspects of this novella is the character of Candide. While it is obvious that Voltaire uses this character’s innocence and pureness to contrast his critiques of the overuse of reason, I view the character in a more symbolic light. In an elegant use of incongruity, I believe that Candide represents an ironically placed solution to the errors of pure rationalism. Candide is the human element that Voltaire seems to consider absent from the ‘age of reason’. 

Despite my initial dissatisfaction with this piece, I admire how much Voltaire was able to convey without explicitly saying what he believed. After wading through his mountain of satire, I found the underlying thematic elements quite interesting and was able to connect with the coming-of-age theme despite its context being more of an intellectual movement.