Fabulously Permanent

Kids, listen up. When your teachers and parents tell you that everything you post on the Internet stays on the Internet, they speak the truth. Unfortunately, this also holds water if someone else posts about you. Of course, I have felt the same blasting force of this truly unfair rule from the day I joined the social networking world. In middle school, I, like any other wannabe facetiously cool tween, registered for Myspace and began my journey into the world of sharing photos, messages, and interests with friends. First and foremost, I had to design a flawless profile ten times cooler and more appealing than all of my friends’. I spent an average of three hours a day creating sparkly gifs that read “ShAy FuNg” and finding songs to accurately describe my distressed emotions of the “tough” times of middle school… I went with the inspirational “The World’s Greatest” by R. Kelly. The description in my profile read somewhat like so: “The name’s Shannon but you can call me Shay, Fungy, or Shah! (If you have any other nicknames just LMK!!!!!) I hate drama, love the movies, and think Nick Jonas is really really hawt! Callertext me!” Let us call that paraphrasing because I have mostly blocked that blimp in my life out of my memory; but, I do clearly remember that I absolutely HAD to have the coolest, “selfie” as my profile picture. So, naturally I took my super enviable LG Chocolate, popped open the camera, and had a ball taking mirror pictures of myself chucking up a peace sign and pouting my lips to make the perfect I’m-so-mysterious-and-moody face. Really cool, Shannon. Really cool. After two years I apparently lost interest in the world of narcissism and deleted my profile, thank a higher power. Recently, I thanked my younger self for holding the good sense to delete those dreadful documented moments until I stumbled upon an old album on my sister’s Facebook page. Stated simply, the album consists of about twenty-five percent of my old Myspace pictures ranging from bathroom self-portraits to bird’s-eye photos of a girl wearing too much eyeliner and even more sass. Just when I thought I had escaped my past, these pictures reappeared in my life, reminding me that I can never retrieve the information I once released on the Internet, especially because my sister apparently hates my existence and wants me to die a slow social death of humiliation. Sadly, my middle school misfortunes do not end there and posts get creatively more and more embarrassing. Among the seemingly greatest sabotages (according to the popularity of favorites and likes on social networks):

     -Fourteen-year-old Shannon Fung belts a rendition of “Fabulous” by High School Musical’s Ashley Tisdale. I really encourage everyone to look up the real video on YouTube in order to fully understand how the video of me trying to reenact this scene in my room looks. I wanted fabulous, but I did not want my attempts presented to the world before my official debut.

     -Shannon Fung straight out of wisdom tooth surgery photos. Truly, my friends bombarded me merely two hours following the extremely painful removal of my wisdom teeth and approached my swollen face with a camera phone. Boom. Up on Facebook they went. I applaud you if you find them, you will surely laugh at the fact that I look exactly like Glimmer from The Hunger Games after the vicious Tracker Jackers attack her face.

To me, the Internet holds the same powers that John Keats’ urn does in his poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Like the immovable pictures on the urn, the photos and videos posted of me of various social networks will never come down. They remain permanently within the realm of the Internet world now, readily available to all who search hard enough for them. The pictures on the urn will always depict the couple as young lovers and the desolate town as sacrificial just as the Internet will forever show my embarrassing antics as a young teenager. While anyone can paint over the urn’s old pictures, they will always remain underneath it all; I can paint over the pictures of my past but even I will never forget what came first: a chubby idiot.   

Because I mean like, really cool picture, Shannon.

Shannon Plus Dedication Equals Nine

I come from a seemingly long line of Fung children. I, personally, like to think of our group as “The Gang of Four;” unfortunately, a group of four Communist Chinese men previously claimed that name decades before my family’s legend began. As the youngest child, I often times find a struggle in making a name for myself under the shadows of three radiant and talented siblings. Justin, my oldest brother, reigns as the naturally brilliant, retro-hipster, Columbia student unaffected by any problem that crosses his path. Lauren, my only sister, finds her uniqueness in her ambition. The hardest worker, she always pushes her limits in determination to impress anyone that enters her life. Finally comes my second brother, Brendan. Teachers remember Brendan for his charisma- a spirit filled with optimism, wit, and the all-around awesome ability to just live life the right way. All of my superiors hold their own unique voice, separating themselves from the blob that many people often identify us as. Recently, I found myself flipping through the pages of their old binders, curious as to my own teacher’s interpretation of their past students’ differences. And, for the first time in my life, I saw that all three siblings held one common ground: An incredible talent within the realm of Ms. Serensky’s AP English class. Never in my past two years of taking this class have I seen students receive so many eights and nines on in and out of class writings. Initially, I found myself lying in fetal position in the foyer wanting to quit, believing that my own writing would never receive the appreciative “very nice!” or “excellent!” reviews from Ms. Serensky. For a few minutes, I wallowed in despair and jealousy of my siblings’ greatness;*sigh,* living the life of the youngest child never stands as an easy feat. As I walked toward the kitchen to bake away my feelings, I had a sudden epitome-WWBJD: What Would Bobbie Jo Do? Would she run away to bake delicious cupcakes instead of fighting her problems? Absolutely not! She would sit down at the computer, write a blog about her revelation, and take AP English by the horns. I plan to do the same. Picture me clad in seventies workout gear going through a montage as I knock down all of my obstacles to “Eye of the Tiger.” Like a good, old Rocky movie, the notorious lyrics by Survivor will guide me through my ambition to the top. From here on out, I plan to work under the goal of receiving a “very well-written, Shannon,”and a big, fat, awesome sticker at the top of my paper placed specifically next to the words, “Rubric Bonus +2.” Doubt me all you want but just like the heart, the mind wants what the mind wants, and I want it all (just like Ashley Tisdale in “High School Musical 3: Senior Year"). No longer will I live a perpetually sad life in the shadows of my siblings known strictly as “Life of the Party”  (already associated by Ms. Serensky under negative connotations) or “She Who Makes Good Cupcakes.” Get ready, Ms. Serensky. You should probably hit up Michael’s because your sticker collection will begin to dwindle along with the red ink in your pens from writing a mountainous amount of awe-inspired comments on my work. Through my new ambition for greatness, I hope to join my siblings in their defeat of AP English and truly become a worthy member in "The Gang of Four." Perhaps English will never hold the key to my strong suit, but I refuse to let myself fall below Ms. Serensky's preconceived expectations of quality Fung work. Putting aside the daily stresses of English, the Data Sheets, the in-class writings, and the dubious mounds of homework, the class has inspired me to push myself beyond what people expect of the girl who turns in her blogs at 11:30 at night. I do not want to leave this school as another blimp on the radar; I do not want to go down without a fight. I hope to end the year on a bed of eights and nines as Ms. Serensky congratulates me at graduation: “Shannon, you are far cooler than all of your siblings. You are without a doubt the best Fung… EVER.” 

These fantastic pictures stand as my current inspiration. Each of these come from one of my sibling's papers. Cue jealous rage. 

More Used than a Porta Potty at Blossom

I would like to ask my readers a serious question: do you like when new acquaintances use you for your personal connections or take advantage of your tolerant and helpful personality? Personally, I do not; however, Nick Carraway seems careless when his new neighbor “friend,” Jay Gatsby, chooses to execute a plan using Nick to achieve his goal. Surprisingly, to me, we did not address this situation in class while I see it as a large complication in both the characterizations of Nick and Gatsby. From the start of Fitzgerald’s novel, Nick adamantly shows his fascination in Gatsby and his desire to befriend his new neighbor. Nick finds solace in Gatsby’s genuine kindness and devotion to creating a strong friendship, later destroyed by Gatsby’s revealed intentions of befriending Nick to enhance his chances with his ex-lover. After pursuing Nick with trips to the city, rides on his boat, and extravagant parties, Gatsby indirectly asks Nick to host afternoon tea and to invite his cousin, Daisy (78). Initially, I felt that Fitzgerald evoked sympathetic pathos from readers who have experienced the same feelings of distress after discovering the true purpose of a hurtful friendship; however, Nick’s only response shows his dedication to helping Gatsby at any cost: “the modesty… shook me” (78). Disappointment filled me as Nick overlooks his neighbor’s rudeness and apparent claim to superiority. In both the West Egg and East Egg, Nick holds only few friends among a community of self-centered and fake people: Gatsby tricked Nick with his façade. Did no one else feel the devastation of such a seemingly awesome character turning evil at the prospect of love? Or even the immediate recall of masculinity by Nick as he allows Gatsby’s “plea” to turn into a demand? A classic case of commensalism, perhaps even an alpha male of the pack situation. In Layman’s terms, Gatsby benefits from Nick’s tolerant personality while he, himself, reaps none of the rewards. This external conflict proves problematic for me: I no longer have a protagonist to cheer on. Not Gatsby, for he holds the characteristics of an unfaithful friend. Not Nick, for he shows weakness and inevitable failure. At this point, I can only hope that both men see their flawed figures and attempt to fix their disturbing definition of friendship. I may show extreme passion in this seemingly small event; yet, I believe that I would have responded quite differently to the request. How? With an absolute “no.” Hosting afternoon tea would entail me to clean and you can bet, I will not clean prior to an answer to my question, “what’s in it for me?” 

YCLF: You Can't Live Forever

Eighteen: a small number when looked at on a number line to infinity, a large number when looked at in regards to a lifetime. Yet, infinity remains a number of years unknown to mankind and the Guinness Book of World Records. As the clock approached twelve this morning, I found myself in a panic as the last seconds of my childhood slipped between my fingers. Memories flashed across my mind: the time I fell asleep while tying my shoes, the time I ate croutons off of every salad plate in a restaurant, and even the time I stuck tweezers in an electrical outlet. Yes, thinking about the past eighteen years has evoked a large dose of nostalgia into my life today; however, as I delved into the work of F. Scott Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby, four words turned my frown upside down: “’you can’t live forever’” (36). Spoken by Myrtle, she reflects on her initial thoughts as she decides to take a chance and make a huge risk in her life. As I absorbed this claim, I realized that dwelling in my awesome past would not help the transition into adulthood. I have to brace my new age, new responsibilities, and the new expectations set by the people around me; yet, how can I embrace this shift in the times without losing the values of childhood that I already cherish? I must synthesize my old ways with my new expectations. I will not give up my desire to live in a land of no consequences forever. I will buy my Powerball Lottery Tickets (thirty dollars worth of tickets to be exact) and I will get as many tattoos and piercings as I want (which will probably amount to zero due to my irrational fear of blood). Why? Because, I can make my own decisions as an adult, despite if they seem stupid or ridiculous to the outside world. I cannot live forever. Life encourages me to go out into the world with an open mind and a desire to take risks and make mistakes. Today, I learned that no curse lies in aging, only promise for a more exciting tomorrow. Unlike Myrtle, I will not commit adultery. Like Myrtle, I will take chances to fulfill my life while I still have the opportunity. Eighteen rocks and the time has come to embrace my new freedoms. 

A Dash of Devotion

Dear Ms. Serensky,

I wish to prove your preconceived notions about my recent superlative award, "Life of the Party," wrong. On the morning of Homecoming, I entered the cafeteria to meet you in my groggy and slow state of mind. While you blamed my fatigue on my "secretive nature" and Friday-night-antics, I knew the real reason for the bags under my eyes: a temptress by the name of the Food Channel. For years, she has used her almighty influence to destroy every last ounce of my own willpower. Every night, her replays of Cupcake Wars forbid me to complete any assignments and beg for me to cater to their deliciousness. How can I possibly resist? The episodes entertain me for a few hours; yet, I still have not stated the real reason for my... um... occasional days of pure exhaustion. With my right hand on my heart and my head to the ground, I shamefully admit that once the first batch of fresh cupcakes appear on my screen, I cannot withstand my shutter-inducing need to bake these scrumptious delectables in my own kitchen. With this in mind, I find that I can relate to the crazed speaker from "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. No, I do not plan on ravenously murdering an old man because he has a vulture-eye; however, I believe that we relate on the conceptual level of needing to fulfill our plans. Throughout the short story, Poe makes the clear assertion that once an idea becomes implanted in an individual's mind, it becomes difficult to ignore until someone has fulfilled the deed. Like myself, the dedicated man claims, "the idea... haunted me day and night" (3). By personifying "the idea," I feel as if he understands my unexplainable and incurable duty to address the nagging idea in my mind after watching Cupcake Wars. By no means do I advocate his violence and, well, illegal actions; however, I find his powerlessness in denying himself pleasure very intriguing and relatable. I so desperately wish that my devotion to fulfill my conscious mind's priority list held schoolwork in the top spot. But, I have discovered that when I bake batches of cupcakes before completing work, my mind temporarily lets go of all the stresses caused by school, sports, and work. My mind prioritizes baking because it brings me peace and joy, not unlike the initial feelings that the satisfied speaker feels after his expulsion of the bothersome eye. We both have a secret passion unseen by the public until our own admittance of our separate guilty pleasures: I love cupcakes and the murderer loves tearing human limbs from their sockets. Perhaps our superficial features do not match up, but together we fall victim to Poe's assertion that people suffer under the temptations of individual happiness. Yes, I have released my secret to the public. I cannot avoid and I have stayed home more than a few times on Friday nights to experiment with recipes while my peers "hit the town." So, Ms. Serensky, the next time you see me in a reverie in the hallway, you will know the real reason. They call me Shannon Fung, "Life of the Cupcake Aficionado Party."

Sincerely,
I just made (if I do say so myself) an impeccable batch of Cookies 'n' Cream cupcakes.

Reaping the Rewards of Redemption

Redemption. A word loaded with passion, power, and determination, it holds enough promise to restore hope in the hearts of millions. But what does redemption mean to me? Redemption finds its way into my veins after shamefully losing to my eight-year-old cousin in Corn Hole at our annual family reunion. The sun decides to shine right into my eyes, but that never convinces anyone else. I cannot let one blemish tarnish my reputation as the Corn Hole Queen. Four more hours remain in the gathering and desperation fills me as I search to find a way to put this bragging ignoramus in her place. Eating contest? No, that corned beef and hash smells like Aunt Nancy’s dentures. Texting race? No, kids these days do technology so much better. Thinking, thinking, thinking, and then it hits me, Capture the Flag: the ultimate test of intelligence, endurance, and thievery. Not that I have any particular experience in stealing… *cough* Pumpkining *cough*. I gather the forces because I no longer wish to involve myself in one-versus-one combat with this demon. I find my tallest uncle, my fastest cousin, my oldest grandparent (because who really wants to harm the frail one?) and we prepare for war. To say that we dug and marked her grave before she could infiltrate our boundaries would stand as a large understatement. Ah, the sweet taste of redemption on a warm summer night. Not to characterize myself arrogantly, but I often reminisce on that moment and link the unmatched feeling to my life in AP English. AP English: (n) the sole class in high school that will take you on an emotional roller coaster on a daily basis. Every nine weeks of the school year, my brain throbs, my fingers cramp, and I swear by Shakespeare’s holy name that I have carpal tunnel syndrome. I begin to lose faith that I will ever catch a break and then, suddenly, a beacon of light shines through the windows in room 329. Call me crazy, but I believe that after four years of annotating with literary devices, I can apply symbolism to this majestic moment. This light symbolizes ebullience, happy endings, and fluffy unicorns in a horror movie. Why? Extra credit season has finally arrived and let us justsay the best way I know how to spell redemption looks a whole lot like b-o-n-u-s-p-o-i-n-t-s. The time has come for me to overshadow my humiliating loss against my number one enemy, grammar. I quickly scan the room for my usual crew, Kackin* and Mampers* (rest in peace, Sockie Slemens*). Our creation of a three-headed monster works diligently under the pressure of practice AP testing dominance. Yes, we miss questions from time-to-time, but working with two of the most intelligent people I know gives me great confidence that our success will prevail in the end. As they say, “three heads are better than one.” Not only do these bonus points give my grade a desired boost at the end of the quarter, but they also help alleviate the pain from my occasional “what was I THINKING?” essays. So, what have I learned from extra credit? For one, I have never appreciated an opportunity provided to me in high school more than Ms. Serensky’s extra credit. To future students, take full advantage of this day, make it fun, cheer obnoxiously, and thank your teacher for throwing you a lifeline at the end of a dark tunnel. Second off, life will throw its ups and downs at you. Sure, you may botch up a few times, but whatever path you choose to take, I can guarantee that at the end of that road, a little girl stands waiting to serve you a cup of sweet, sweet redemption.

*Pseudonyms used for the protection of students' identities. 

So Much for Happy Endings

Finished. The last line of my summer reading complete. Relief. And extreme discontent. Why Strout? Why! Elizabeth Strout, author of a disappointing and fairly depressing book, Olive Kitteridge, writes thirteen short stories majorly surrounding concepts of loveless marriage, cheating, and desire to return to the "golden ages" of youth. Surprisingly enough, not the adventurous and thrilling reading book I typically imagine completing during the summer season. If I ever meet Strout, I plan to slam her with riveting questions. But first and foremost I will ask Strout, "Why does love exist in such a dark place in your mind?" Throughout the novel, Strout expressed the great disappointment of love as couples age, grow far apart and lose touch with the person they once thought of so fondly. For example, as Olive confronts Henry of not protecting her, Henry fervently claims, "'all the years... you've [never] once apologized'" (123). As Henry's emotions finally boil over the top, his claim creates an external conflict between a confused Olive and his own fed-up self. The conflict only adds to the growing gap between the once young lovers, desperately passionate and kind toward each other. As they age, however, Strout seems insistent on making their lives more miserable as they fight and struggle to find words to speak to each other without adding a tone of patronization. Similarly, after discovering that her husband, Roger, cheats on her, Louise speaks with extreme hatred claiming, "his heart beats twice an hour" (153). Through her livid tone, Louise indirectly characterizes herself as hurt and betrayed by the love of her life. I simply do not understand why Strout feels the need to destroy every relationship in this novel by one fowl swoop of her pen. An innocent Louise crushed by Roger's heartlessness, Nina left in the dark as Tom sleeps with another women, and even poor, old, Olive feels such betrayal as Henry moves even further away from their marriage. To top off my disappointment with the novel, Olive declares, "'I don't care if I die'" to a man she meets on a bench in her old age (254). Left alone by Henry and separated from her son, Christopher, Olive's life of continuous hardships finally catches up to her. While Strout creates sorrowful pathos from other elderly people who remain alone in the world, she writes Olive as sadly accepting of her own death due to the loneliness that drowns her. With no one left to love, her desperation breaks my heart, knowing that even after her father's suicide, her life never turned back around to present her with a slice of happiness. Does Strout assert that happy endings simply do not exist in real life? That only in fairy tales with longing princesses and handsome princes can a life full of love truly work out? Thanks to Strout's dominant tone of sorrow throughout the entire work, the future frightens me as I acknowledge the hurt that anyone can cause me. Overall, I feel that I will never understand the level of resistance the Strout so heavily enforces against love in the world. Why, Strout? Why?

"Olive" is an Anagram for "I love"

Since my adolescence, I have adopted a rather present sense of pride to my personality. This said, I naturally do not enjoy when people of any age speak to me with tones of condescension or judgment. So, I found myself in a constant state of aggravation whenever Olive voiced her snarky opinions throughout the beginning of Elizabeth Strout's Olive Kitteridge. Bouncing between Strout's thirteen short stories, the early words of the novel left me unimpressed with Olive's repetitive disrespect for her husband, Henry, and her resistance to showing any emotion, even to her loved ones. However, as the novel turns to focus solely on Olive's thoughts in the chapter, "A Different Road," I found myself feeling sympathetic for the woman stuck half-naked in a hospital bathroom. While I originally characterized Olive as old and bitter, she showed me a different side when she explains that she "pictured teaching [her son's]... children how to plant" (107). Through her hopeful diction of "pictured," Olive speaks with a disappointed tone as she shows the audience her deep sorrow upon her beloved son, Christopher's, departure to California. Olive humanizes herself as she shows her deep love for her son, despite the fact that she can hardly admit compassion for her own husband. Not only does Olive mask her loving emotions from the world, but also her emotions of fear or hurt. Like a brick wall, Olive shows no disturbance as a nurse at the hospital informs her that she needs to see a doctor for fear of her dying from a crabmeat allergic reaction: "'for God's sake,'... but her heart banged fast" (110). Hear, Strout highlights Olive's inability to show weakness to anyone but herself. While she indirectly characterizes herself as brave and unfazed, she gives the audience a hint that she has walls built up around her heart, implying that someone or something has hurt her deeply in the past. As the reader later finds out about her father's suicide, Olive's bitterness finally begins to make sense. Her internal conflict to show emotion creates pathos from people who have suffered a traumatic event, evoking pity as Olive forces herself to face the world alone. Similarly, as Olive sits trapped and threatened in the hospital bathroom with a gun waiting to fire, "she was crying, everything was all messed up" (121). The amount of sympathy I feel for Olive as she lets all of her bottled emotions out remains immense. Not only did she lose her own father to suicide at a long age, but she also lost her son to a controlling wife, lost her husband's heart to a young coworker, Denise, and now sees the world losing touch with her. Finally, I can appreciate Olive, no longer a heartless robot, but a regular woman, facing her own struggles as life passes her by. Reading her thoughts, Olive has changed my once bitter emotions toward her and has taught me that more often than not, human nature makes it easy for us to judge people upon a simple look or greeting. No one can fully understand the life that someone lives day-to-day, so do not try.

Time Tales

As I prepare for my final year of high school, my final year before I reach "adulthood," I ponder how time has so stealthily carried me quickly through the past three years. As a child, I dreamed about the days when the law would allow me to drive, when I would have a curfew later than sunset, and when I would finally be tall enough to reach the microwave buttons without standing on a chair. So, now I stand at a crossroads: once a naive child longing to grow up, now I stand as a young adult pleading my mother to stop nagging me about filling out college applications. Do I want to move forward into independence or do I wish to remain in a carefree time of acting young and reckless? In Elizabeth Strout's novel, Olive Kitteridge, the author address the major conflict of time passing which affects the lives of many characters. The conflict holds a definite role in the middle-aged pharmacist, Henry Kitteridge's, life. Working with a young woman named Denise, Henry often finds himself infatuated with her "childlike" essence (9). As his marriage finds itself dull and passionless, Henry feels an intense desire to "be in... presence of this young couple [Denise and husband, Henry]" (5). Strout juxtaposes the exciting marriage of the young couple to the distant one of Olive and Henry. As Henry indirectly characterizes himself as jealous of the young couple's spark and extreme devotion to each other, he speaks with a nostalgic tone as he longs for the days of immense happiness with his wife. Through the nostalgic tone, Strout asserts that people often lose touch with their own youth, only erasing the worry-free world they one existed in. While I have never experienced marriage myself, I understand Henry's wish to return to his days of carelessness with Olive. I often reflect on my childhood days with my oldest brother, Justin. Once duty-free, we held the ability to play games for hours, while nowadays we have grown apart due to the hectic working world he now resides in. I truly miss the close relationship we once held, just like Henry misses his own with Olive. On a different note, Strout introduces the character of Kevin Coulson, a young man still in the process of growing up and finding himself. Looking from a different perspective, Kevin acknowledges that the world's youth tries too hard to grow up. Kevin thinks to himself deciding it "sad... always a new age dawning" (42). Through his declaration, Kevin seems disappointed as he backs Strout's claim that people need to slow down and enjoy today. As a teenager, I admit that I fall victim to Kevin's point. With each crave to snag the next iPhone, each desperate need catch the latest celebrity gossip; I have unfortunately let my days of youth pass me by. Always longing for the next best thing, I have allowed myself to miss out on the small things that make these years so special; however, I also acknowledge that I cannot turn back time as I also wish the characters in Strout's novel would realize. Always melancholy and nostalgic, characters like Henry, Kevin, and many others waste their lives trying to turn back the clock. I believe that at any age, young or old, people will wish for something they once held, or will hold in the future. Embrace the time given, "today is a gift, that's why they call it the present."

We're All Getting Old

Another book completed, another sun set, another day passed. Sad but true, life comes and goes and as fast-pace as it comes along, we have no control over how much time we get to spend on earth. After the completion of Something Wicked This Way Comes, it has made me reconsider taking advantage of my young life because Bradbury truly unhinges the sadness that individual's face when growing up. While many aspects of the novel encompass childhood innocence, many scenes open my eyes to the realities of life. For example, innocent and naive Jim Nightshade tries to go about life without getting hurt. Unfortunately, Jim's mother breaks the news only to prepare him for inevitable disappointment later down the line: "'You'll live and get hurt'" (41). Through Bradbury's claim that children remain innocent and un-phased of the hardships in young life, I came to realize that no one can go through life unscathed. Why not take risks if I will find myself forced to live the rest of my short life in regret? I have only one thing to say: YOLO (You Only Live Once). Yes, the corny line by contemporary rap artist Drake has fallen victim to the scorn of critics across the globe; however, Bradbury's work opens my eyes to the truth of the statement. Never again will I come across the opportunities that face me today. As written in my last blog entry, I hope to  stop fearing death some day. Knowing that death looms in my future remains a sad truth; yet, I know how to make it work to my advantage. Like Mr. Halloway states, "'death makes everything else sad'" (137). To me, Mr. Halloway's acceptance of aging only encourages me to take death as a gift, not a threat. As crazy and controversial as it may seem, by the end of my lifetime, I pray that I have accomplished everything on my bucket list and I will stand ready to rest with open arms. I will not live with regrets as I have done in the past. As a young adult, I sadly force myself to grow up all too quickly, enabling myself to truly appreciate all that life has to offer. Through Bradbury's juxtaposition of childhood manners, demonstrated through his young and naive characters of  Jim and Will, and adult wisdoms, shown through the wise janitor, Mr. Halloway, I have seen all the advantages that life has to offer at all different stages of growth. While the surface of this novel revolves around a carnival, a deeper exploration shows the internal conflict of characters growing up and growing old and the hardships that come along with those concepts. I applaud Bradbury for effectively capturing the spectrum of emotions that run rampant in these changes of human life. One thing I know for sure, I will live every day for here on out to the fullest. As my favorite musician, Dave Matthews, once sang, "celebrate we will, 'cause life is short but sweet for certain.'"

Accepting the Inevitable

Ludwig Börne once said, "Losing an illusion makes you wiser than finding a truth." Immortality remains such an illusion that people across the world continually struggle to deny, like in Ray Bradbury's acclaimed fiction fantasy, Something Wicked This Way Comes. In this novel, Mr. Halloway, a library janitor, finds great difficulty in accepting his age as he watches over his thirteen-year-old son, Will. However, throughout the novel, Mr. Halloway learns to deal with growing old and recognizes that nothing lasts forever. Therefore, my favorite passage in the book so far comes when Mr. Halloway comes to the realization that he must lose the illusion of staying young forever in order to live his life fully. As the deceiving mirrors in the Mirror Maze shatter, Mr. Halloway knows he has beaten the trap "All because he accepted everything at last" (260). Through his proud tone, Mr. Halloway claims that no individual can last forever and that growing up comes with its perks as well. I personally, found great appreciation for the old janitor as he "showed his acceptance with sound" (260). As Bradbury indirectly characterizes the man as exuberant, I realize that this passage mirrors how I would like to live my life someday with no regrets. The strength Mr. Halloway holds in accepting his age allows himself to feel comfortable with himself which leads to the ultimate demise of the evils of the carnival. Already, throughout my life I see myself growing older and wish that I can slow down time if only to enjoy the golden age that I currently live in. However, after experiencing the revelation that Mr. Halloway feels, I now know that no matter my age, I can always feel at home with myself. I feel while Something Wicked This Way Comes stands as a liberating tale of good and evil, it also embodies the internal conflict of childhood and adulthood. While all those say that our childhood years remain the best of our lives, this passage gives me reassurance that good things come at all ages. While Mr. Halloway may no longer be young enough to run around with Jim and Will, he has knowledge in wisdom that come hand-in-hand with his years of age. 

Opposites Attract

As we round out our final year of high school, I reflect on the people I have met, befriended, and shared important memories with. Yes, similar interests brought me to these individuals; however, each one of them continuously shows me that opposites attract. Due to this concept, I have made friends with people who hold extremely conservative views, with those who find an addiction to corny romantic comedies, and even with those who can jam out all night to a nice Metallica Pandora station. In this way, I feel as if I can relate to Jim and Will's odd relationship in the fiction novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. The way that Bradbury indirectly characterizes Jim from the very beginning as a risk-taker when he remains hesitant to protect his house from lightning striking, questioning, "why spoil the fun?" juxtaposes the pragmatic nature of Will who persuades Jim to protect his home (10). I believe that Bradbury sees the world as an open canvas in which people are put together to grow and learn from others. The differences between Will and Jim remain apparent to any reader; yet, their differences remain the reason that they stick together. Without their counterpart, they have nothing to keep them grounded. With this enlightenment on human relationships, I agree with Bradbury's outlook on the world. Mr. Halloway truly captures my appreciation as he watches the two young boys and thinks, "that's friendship, each playing the potter" (18). Within his thoughts, Mr. Halloway makes the assertion that friends fall molded by friends in order to bring diversity and open-mindedness to each other. In these ways, I find myself with a similar outlook on life as Bradbury. We both believe that uniform likeness has the ability to make life dull and boring. No growth can be made as an individual without having an open-mind to the world. So, my advice to any readers follows (as corny as cliches come): Never judge a book by its cover. You never know how dramatically someone can change you before you allow yourself to get to know him or her. Whether you believe in Evolution or Creationism, the fact of the matter remains that people's differences stand to thank for the advancement of our culture. We continue to make progress as individuals because we can learn and grasp different opinions from those with opposite outlooks on life.

The Eye-Opener

As a student in a predominantly Caucasian, upper-middle-class, and Republican town, racism stands as a topic not often spoken, but one that lies on the cusp of everyone's lips when a stranger suddenly roles into the community. After reading Amy Waldman's novel, The Submission, my eyes have only widened at the amount of prejudice that many Americans face everyday. As an Asian-American, I every so often here jokes about the things that "my people" did to deserve the repercussions of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 or the bombing of Pearl Harbor. However, nothing compares to the daily stereotypes that Muslims face in the United States following the extremely sad and unfortunate events that occurred on the morning of September 11, 2001. Especially after I finished analyzing Waldman's work, I grew indignant to the constant racism that innocent individuals like Mohammad Khan (Mo) and many others face because of their religious and ethnic upbringing. The hypocrisy in the United States today astonishes me each and every time I walk into an airport and see security guards putting extra eyes on a man because he stands clad in a suit with a turban around his head. What happened to equality for all men? Yes, no laws specifically discriminate against any American citizen; however, the stereotypes and extra attention go unsaid when it comes to American Muslims. In one specific moment in The Submission, my mouth dropped at the ridiculous suggestion of treating every Muslim different because of the actions of a terrorist group in their native country: "separate security lines for Muslims" (45). Disgust and anger fill me as I page through the repeated stereotypes within this novel as I continuously hope that characters will one-by-one realize their folly mistake in taking Mo as a terrorist simply because of his genetics. In many moments, I agreed with Claire that the argument against Mo's submission "[is] a betrayal of... this country" (23). Therefore, I found myself justifiably disappointed when Mo gave up his right to build his memorial. I had hoped that he would stand and fight for his ability, as an American citizen, to claim his winning prize. Waldman's everlasting assertion throughout the novel that Americans remain unreasonably skeptical and prejudice toward American Muslims has truly given me great disgust in the liberty of our "great nation." I guess that I can only hope that one day we, as a whole and unified nation, will recognize our mistakes to pass judgment on innocent citizens of our once equal nation.

A Writing Wizard Among Mere Mortals

Rarely do I thoroughly enjoy an author's writing style without any criticisms; however, contemporary novelist Amy Waldman has captured me again through her melting pot of individual victim's anecdotes regarding the aftermath of the described terrorist attack. Setting herself apart from a typical novel, Waldman not only follows a main character's struggle to find justice in a cruel and condescending world, but she also includes information of background characters to add depth to her work. For example, Waldman's main focus remains on memorial council member Claire Burwell and submission winner Mohammad Khan. Yet, at the same time that she describes Khan's struggle to claim his winning prize, Waldman introduces characters like Asma Anwar to give diversity among the subjects potentially affected by the chosen memorial. Asma's husband, an illegal immigrant, fell under the category of "undocumented [and] uncounted" as stated by New York officials (77). By simply adding this small piece of information about a seemingly insignificant character, Waldman allows the reader to make his or her own opinion on the conflict of whether or not Khan can deservingly build the memorial or not due to his ethnicity. I truly appreciate Waldman's approach to telling this story through the eyes of different victims. While some lost a brother, others lost a husband or wife. The diversity among the author's characters stands as an atypical approach to telling a story, therefore making the novel a more unique and interesting piece of work.

Alyssa Spier: Ambitious Sneak

Pleasant surprises truly stand as one of life's greatest gifts. So, as I began the habitual and mundane task of summer reading, Amy Waldman caught me off guard in her national bestseller, The Submission, as she pulled me into the novel introducing me to several dynamic and interesting characters from the get-go. Sadly, one of said characters found no trouble in claiming a spot on my bad side. Which character you may ask? The New York Post journalist, Alyssa Spier. Waldman brings Spier into the heat of the novel as New York City finds out that a Muslim has won the privilege of building a memorial for deceased victims of a terrorist attack by the Islamic nation. Spier first broadcasts her name to the wallowing city as she publishes an article, "Mystery Muslim Memorial Mess" (57). Through the alliteration and negative diction of "mess," Spier only encourages the panic and guardedness of the New York population. While the memorial's council already finds a massive struggle in sorting out the confusion, Spier uses manipulation to instill fear among the people only to increase her chances of an acclaim to fame. Similarly, as Waldman furthers the intensity of her writing to reveal the identity and personality behind the anonymous Muslim, Spier takes drastic measures to prying into the unknown man's personal life. The nosy reporter takes to Thomas Kroll's home, friend of said Muslim. Upon her arrival, Kroll's wife exclaims, "tabloids are here. At our house" (105). Through Waldman's use of short and blunt sentences, she creates guilty pathos from reporters that repeatedly intrude on the personal lives of innocent people. In this situation, the intruding reporter happens to stand as Spier herself. This moment represents the time when I truly realized my disrespect and annoyance with Spier's character. Her negative ambition to reach the top at any cost remains impudent to undeserving characters and a great aggravation to myself. Especially during such a sensitive and obviously difficult time, I find it extremely displeasurable to read about Spier's rude manor and total selfishness as she apparently attempts to put ideas and values into her reader's heads instead of allowing them to make their own conclusions. Oh, Alyssa Spier, how I can foresee my total aversion to your overall existence.