Comfort in Comparison

            Tonight marked my last Holiday Concert.  Since the fifth grade, I have proudly performed in the school band every December.  Dressing up in nice clothes, playing winter-themed music, conversing with others on the grand stage—these types of activities surfaced year after year.  To ensure I never forgot my childhood, my mother made sure to meticulously scrapbook pictures of the annual affair.  Before the performance, I glanced through the images and felt a strangeness coalesce in the pit of my stomach.  I felt anxious—an emotion I rarely, if ever, felt before the show.  I had realized that every year during the Winter Concert, I had always had the fear of messing up and embarrassing myself, but I never had let it bother me.  I knew I would have the next year to do better or to fix my mistakes.  However, now no “next year” exists.  Somehow, I have already put in my eight years as a concert alto saxophonist.   I shudder to think that this time next year I will have already embarked on a new chapter of my life.  With these facts in mind, when I ascended the stage for the Concert, I can only describe myself as disoriented.  All of the previous Concerts had led up to this point--my final hoorah.  Playing the final note of the closing song, I closed my eyes and remembered a young boy who jumped up and down when his mother purchased him his own instrument.  His face radiated excitement.  At that moment, visualizing the boy’s blatant happiness, my appreciation for the world of music grew exponentially.  Music had shaped me.  It allowed me to express myself as an artist, but in a greater sense, express myself as a person.  In tribute to the ending of weekly blog assignments, and my concluding relationship with music, I reflect on some similarities.  Music has sculpted my perspective of writing. I consider them both as art forms.  When one crafts a piece of writing, selectively choosing words and their placement and purpose, he reflects the process of composing arranged notes in music.  A statement by the poet Oscar Wild, whom my father frequently quotes, comes to mind: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.”   Creating that perfect, concise work of art requires considerable effort.  Yet, writing, like music, also does not have a formal rule book.   They both have many forms and genres.  With the framework of an introduction, body and conclusion, writing has structure, but at the same time has infinite possibilities.  Further, one song may have its own arrangement of notes and dynamics, but the reader has limitless options for interpretation.  Dynamics, tempo, timbre, and articulation can all receive alteration in order to imbue an emotion or theme into music.  The characteristics of location, meaning, and individuality manifest in writing.  And so, it only seems fitting that after a day with musicality, I end the night with its twin, writing.

Spaghetti and Meatbrawls: A King Family Specialty

          Tonight’s family dinner followed the normal routine—small talk followed by silence followed by heated debate.  Let me briefly explain.  While observers of the King clan may not call us cohesive, the word “intriguing” frequently emerges.   Unlike the typical family, mine does not share much similarity.  A good descriptor for my family?   Contradictory.  We all look different.  We act differently.  But because of this variance, others take interest in my family life.  Although I do not personally see it, my friends describe interactions among my family members as entertaining, like watching the show “Untamed and Uncut” on Animal Planet.  Evidently, some type of enjoyment must come from watching incongruous organisms interact with one other.  By now, I am sure I have illustrated the difficulty my family faces in finding common ground. Anyways, back to the dinner.  This particular night, my younger sister shattered the silence.  She brought up Barbara Walters’ special on the most fascinating people of 2012.  Naturally, everyone in my family had something to say.  The fighting match had started.  Round One:  Younger sister versus elder brother. My younger sister went on to talk about One Direction, the saccharine boy band, and their rise to fame.  “They really deserve the media attention,” proclaimed the obsessive fan.  I countered with the fact they produce one-dimensional, formulaic music.  Think Beach Boys, Backstreet Boys, ‘N Sync, the Jonas Brothers.  Most fascinating?  More like mass-produced.  Round two:  Mother versus father.  The former opened with a passionate speech about the young Gabby Douglas, a gold medalist at the London Olympics.  Her sparkling personality, combined with her stunning athleticism, deserved recognition.  In response, my father mentioned E.L. James, author of the erotic book series Fifty Shades of Grey…too awkward, Dad.  Round three:  Mother versus son.  Trying to keep her momentum, my mother pushed the Cinderella story of Gabby, how she overcame poverty to earn international acclaim.  Put off by this solid logic, I knew my refutation needed creativity.  I stated that none of the invited guests on Barbara Walters’ show deserve the title of “Most Fascinating.”  The selection process reflects appearance on television and news print, rather than impact or uniqueness.  My mother’s face wilted—a knock-out blow.  I had won this round.   Sweating and panting from the oratorical altercation, my family all gleamed red with exhaustion.  Just your typical Wednesday night.   Reflecting on this nightly cycle of debate, however weird, I find a diamond in the rough.  Because of my family, I have become accustomed to disagreement, dissimilarity, and discord.  This learned familiarity proves advantageous in the AP English classroom.  Sitting in my desk, I am sitting at the dinner table.  Whenever discussion escalates to argumentation, or someone provides a strange view on an essay prompt, or even when an awkward silence pervades the room, I feel as though I am in my element.  I feel at home.

The "Real" in Realsitic Fiction

            We live in a world of judgment.  And naturally, as evolutionary beings, we have adapted to this dilemma.  The hard truth: pre-conceived notions, bias, expectation, jealousy… all these traits and more form the groundwork of human society.  Using duplicity and deception as our adaptive tools, we strive to appease the criteria of those around us. We change our clothes to match trends, mold our humor to fit the majority, put up a false front to seem happy.   Why?  Why devote so much effort to please others?  I believe a large part of the human condition revolves around acceptance.  Quite simply, homogeneity prevents exclusivity.  The “Great Gatsby” parallels this postulate throughout its story.   A lot of the novel’s main characters chore to seem nonchalant, complacent, and happy.  They all want to fit in.  I provide the following character analyses.  Gatsby—friendly, gentlemanlike, and composed, but internally unstable and dark.  If you have not yet noticed the repetition of Gatsby’s sketchy phone calls and furtive business dealings, then please reread.  Jordan—beautiful, wealthy, and witty, but privately cynical, bored, and dishonest.  I mean she cheated in a golf tournament.  Someone wants sycophants.  Daisy—extroverted, graceful, and charming, but mentally depressed, forlorn, and empty.  When the narrator inquires Daisy about her daughter, she tries to sound superficial. She states she hopes her daughter will turn out to “be…a beautiful little fool” (17).   No comment.  With all these characters' inner demons, one would expect them to openly share their problems.  Yet, they all laboriously attempt to cover up any of their discomfort.  All in the name of public opinion—how unrealistic.  Really, who would act in such a way?  Well, I think the curious can find proof virtually anywhere in reality.  We all fall victim to conformity some time or another, wanting to feel better about ourselves through other mediums.  However, in my perspective, “true happiness”, a phrase long proclaimed in AP English, emerges from diversity of self, channeling uniqueness, no matter the consequence.  In my short lifetime, the people I respect the most do not make the most money, or hold the most power, or even have the most friends.   The people I admire, who I applaud, have no fear to show their innate selves, mistakes and all.  They wear their insecurities on their sleeve, impervious to the trivial judgment of others.