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. 

What Not to Say in Class Discussion

          I have a penchant for rejecting the ideas of others that do not align with my own.  Honestly, I am not entirely sure where this aversion to new beliefs originates from.  Although, looking back, a few incidents corroborate this affliction:  First, the word “no” became embedded in my vocabulary shortly after “mama” and “dada”.  Naturally, my parents did not appreciate this infantile negativity—the terrible twos arrived much earlier than expected.  Second, whenever I played with blocks with other children in preschool, I always assumed the role of architect.  I believed everyone else far too incompetent for the position.  Third, during those elementary “after-school” book club gatherings, I became that kid who constantly shook his head in frustration.  The other students said too many “wrong” statements.  My conclusion after this reminiscence?  I exhibited some serious childhood problems.  My diagnosis could probably manifest a psychologist’s worst nightmare.  Truly, the idiom “a tough nut to crack” does not do me enough justice.  Obviously, I needed a source of treatment—an outlet to broaden my horizons and stunt my presumptiveness.  That medicine came in the form of AP English class discussion.  For me, this provided an environment of intelligent people, where there exists a diversity of thought and conclusive argumentation.  Every individual in class discussion contributes relevant insight, and I find solace in the fact that I actually agree with other well-presented stances.  Yes!  As it turns out, I can play nice with others!  The image of my first-grade teacher beaming with effervescent pride comes to mind.  Now, what would I have said in class discussions that did not have such capable and amazing people?  I entertain this question with a top-five countdown of what NOT to say in class discussions (I may have stated some of these quotes before, though not in the domain of Ms. Serensky of course).  Five: “Well, I would agree with you, but I would have to be devoid of logic or basic reasoning skills.”  Four: “If you want to garner respect, try using common sense first.”  Three: “That’s unfortunate.”  Two:  “What book are you reading from?”  And one: “Um…no.”  Needless to say, I have some work to do before I can evolve into an amenable member of society.  But until then, I am sure that class discussions in AP English will work to augment my receptivity, and decrease my propensity for verbal shut-downs.  

The Elephant in the Room

             A man stoops over your bed, with the goal to end your life.  Do you do nothing?  Or do you take action?  Personally, I am infatuated with the second option.  Hand me the bedside candle or nearby blunt object.  I will repeatedly beat that killer with the spirit of a CLUE game board character.  But surprisingly, the old man in the short film “The Tell-Tale Heart” adapted by Darrin Walker and Travis Mays defies basic instinct when he follows the first option.   Staying in his bed like a sissy, the old man let his eventual murderer triumph, not even bothering to move his lazy eye towards the darker section of the room.  His ignorance to save his own life reflects the situational irony present in too many human beings—the desire to believe everything will work out on its own, despite blatant evidence that proves otherwise.   Or, in less erudite terms, people do stupid things to avoid confrontation.  The reason for this tendency has a certain inexplicability.  I assume that people want to choose logic, but they fall victim to expectation.  For example, I can remember an uncomfortable experience during my time as a mathematics teaching assistant.  Every week, I worked with a certified teacher and another assistant my age, instructing a class of eight children or so in the fundamentals of mathematics.  One day, one of the kids in my class scraped his hands against a sharp part of his desk.  Blood started spilling out in globs.   Once again, two options soon emerged.   We could all permit the laceration, and face a potential parental lawsuit.  Or we could all allocate aid to the injury, effectively eliminating the conflict at hand.  Choice B, right?  Cue the characteristic wrong-answer-buzzer-sound.  The students around the injured student continued working.  The teacher, a substitute that day, made surreptitious glances toward the injured student, apparently absorbed in the attendance list.  My fellow teaching assistant looked ready to spew projectile vomit.  I sighed.  In a matter of a few minutes, I gathered a first-aid kit, constructed basic bandaging, and solved the medical problem.   Really, not that big of a deal.  So why the struggle of so many individuals to do something about the bleeding student?   The answer lies in the hope that someone else will come to the rescue, or diffusion of responsibility.  The world must understand that assumptions can never fully equate to the truth.  As a person blessed with the gift of realism, I offer the following advice.  If someone attempts to kill you, do your best to stop him and her.  If a young kid gets a cut, hand him or her a band-aid to prevent death by blood loss.  And if any of these scenarios confuse you, larger internal issues need scrutiny.   Simple as that. 

The New Times of Romans

          I have always felt a certain barricade whenever I start writing AP English assignments.  The intent to forge great ideas exists.    I desperately want to start writing and delve into that world of creativity.  However, a repetitive and menacing entity inexorably prevents me from beginning.   My arch-nemesis—Times New Roman font.  Once, the two of us possessed an amicable, friendly relationship.  I liked Times New Roman, and Times New Roman liked me.  We never engaged in arguments or petty fights.  We worked together to produce works of literary greatness.  But, like two siblings that spend way too much time together, Times New Roman and I inevitably grew apart.   I wanted to dabble with other options. Waves of happiness deserve the jubilant Verdana.  Bouts of sadness should cling on to the small text of Gabriola.   An inclination to mix things up demands the alluring and spicy Ravie.  Intrepid AP English 12 Scholars can discover a host of font friends within the font scroll bar in Microsoft Word.  Unfortunately, in order to match MLA guidelines, writers must utilize Times New Roman again and again.   Now, for most normal individuals, sticking with Times New Roman does not seem that disconcerting.  Then why me?  Why does iteration and uniformity block my writing desires?  The answer lies in my inherent behavioral tendencies.  For instance, since my early childhood, I have constantly wanted to defy boundaries.  Whenever the Gurney Elementary School art teacher, Mrs. Mychenburg, doled out crayons and other coloring instruments to her classes, I never possessed the capability to color inside the lines of pictures.  Either I wanted to express myself uniquely, going against the gradient of the majority or…. I had hand tremors.  No matter.  I still believe in the former explanation.  I have a characteristic restlessness to go against formal guidelines.  Times New Roman epitomizes the very rules and restraints I want to escape from.  I need constant sources of stimulation to keep my attention span relatively stable.  Ultimately, the world of written English should allow for a myriad of fonts to satisfy its diverse constituents.  Yes, I shall continue to try to get along with the required font during my time in AP English, albeit reluctantly.  But to affirm my rebellious conviction, I close with the wise words of author Matthew Butterick: “Times New Roman is not a font choice so much as the absence of a font choice, like the blackness of deep space is not a color”.

A New Outlook

After having completed Olive Kitteridge by the acclaimed Elizabeth Strout, I have adopted a new philosophy concerning life.  One of the important lessons I learned from Olive and the residents of Crosby, Maine concerns the significance of human relationships.  Complex and deeply imperfect, connections between human beings have occurred since the dawn of mankind.  As history has shown, affiliation between persons can lead to fighting, animosity and depression.  Yet, even with these daunting risks, Strout proves that relationships act as the primary mode of sustenance in life.  The suffering of “deep…loneliness”, as Olive learned by the conclusion of the novel, exceeds the pain of any injury initiated by social causes (224).  Strout makes the assertion that people find true happiness through the interaction with others.  Therefore, effort and diligence must go into maintaining friendships and love interests.  Self-centeredness and an ignorance of others’ problems will inevitably push close persons away.  Part of the reason why Olive and her son Christopher drifted apart from one another stemmed from the fact that Olive turned a blind eye towards the treatment of her son. As Chris angrily dictated to his mother, a lack of awareness of the fact that “actions bring reactions” will never bring reconciliation between feuding persons (229).  Strout indirectly characterizes Olive as oblivious by underscoring her distorted sense of others’ troubles.  As the author thematically delineates at the end of the novel, if the chance for love presented itself, “one chose it” or neglected it (270).  Without a support network of loving individuals, optimism can easily extinguish itself.  Strout establishes logos by pressing the claim that isolation from human interaction builds bitterness and furthers insecurities.  The perils of the human condition certainly seem intimidating after reading of the tribulations Olive experienced.  But, as Olive discovered through Jack Kennison, hope exists in the hands of those that care for and protect you. 

Pulitzer Pathos

As I pour over the contents of Olive Kitteridge, I cannot help but take notice at the masterful writing style of Elizabeth Strout.  The abundant imagery of Maine’s gray landscape-- with its cold waters, prolific vegetation, and turbulent weather-- effectively pulls the reader into the story.   Strout generates a vivid and intricate setting that not only allows for imaginations to run wild with sensory details, but also permits a powerful story to take place.  While the descriptive talent of Strout plays a large role in her writing style, I think that her copious use of pathos serves as her most efficacious literary mechanism.  Throughout the novel, Strout writes about thirteen interconnected vignettes.  And within each short story, Strout explores the stretches of the human condition.  For instance, in one extended anecdote, Olive and her husband Henry get caught up in a drug heist at a hospital.  Shaking with the fear of imminent death, Olive and Henry exchanged words that caused them to change “how they saw each other” (124).  Strout spreads pathos by evoking an emotion of deep pity from those that have troubled marriages.  Olive acts as a synecdoche for quiet regret—a representation of the desire to change what has already happened.  Forever affected by remorse, Strout accentuates the potency of lamentation.  Within minutes of time, the lives of the Kitteridge couple “were changed” forever due to a small window block of extreme fear (118).  Months later, after Henry has a stroke, Olive's depression deepened when she contemplated how her and her elderly friends would soon “be dead”, noting the fleeting characteristic of life.  Strout furthers pathos by creating an emotion of sadness from those who lost an immediate family member.  Stressing the unexpected aspects of life, Strout makes the assertion that small moments can have far-reaching consequences.    In the blink of an eye, Olive fragmented the relationship with her husband after saying a few words.  And in another quick series of events, Olive lost the complete mentality and personality of her husband.  Such volatility epitomizes the preciousness of life itself. 

Reluctant Approval

In the novel Olive Kitteridge, author Elizabeth Strout portrays the titular character as obstinate and verbally impetuous.  Perceiving herself as always correct, Olive displayed a large degree of presumptuous behavior in the first third of Strout’s book.  Olive’s ability to candidly disclose her thoughts and opinions has caused me to have mixed feelings towards her actions.  On one hand, Olive’s treatment of others seems rude and out of line.  A character bubbling with cynicism, Olive does not strike me as particularly friendly or affable.  Prone to “stormy moods”, Olive frequently lashed out at her husband and neighbors (84).  So much so, Henry felt a “sickening need” for compassionate love from another woman, Denise (29).  The desperate diction of “sickening” helps Strout construct logos, forming the argument that Olive’s abrasive tendencies push her close acquaintances away from her.  Olive says what comes to her mind, and because of that, she at times unknowingly creates relationship carnage.  Yet, her rigid demeanor and firm system of values have some positive externalities.  With an unflappable personality and a plethora of fierce convictions, the retired schoolteacher affected a number of students during her time as an educator.  Olive preached what she believed in and exuded a confidence that showed she accepted herself.  Remembering the “feeling of safety” Olive maintained in her classroom after talking to her, a distraught Kevin decided not to terminate his life (40).  Strout indirectly characterizes Olive as stalwart in order to present the assertion that a person’s strength can contagiously instill resilience in others.    The familiar self-assuredness of Olive made Kevin re-examine his life, with Olive acting as an important, if somewhat unorthodox, link to his past.  To me, Strout appears to underline the point that while “not everyone” who crossed paths with Olive had “liked her”, she still left an imprint in the minds of all those she met (34).  While Olive certainly has lessons to learn in amicability, the impact she has on others affirms my belief that her societal significance outweighs her infractions of decorum.

The Color of Many Faces

I believe that the color blue fits perfectly with Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut.  Yes, the fact that the paperback book cover has a tinted turquoise exterior contributes to the selection of blue. And  yes, the fact that the scenery in the book features such blue items as a large “lukewarm sea” and piles of “blue-white …ice-nine” helps as well (259, 238).   But mainly, blue fits with Cat’s Cradle because of the omnipotence of the sentiments of calm and gloom in the book.  Unlike other colors, blue does not have a uniform meaning—it bears some contradictory characteristics.  Some might define blue as a hue of security and protection that provides a soothing aura.  Others perceive blue as a manifestation of loneliness and depression, a shade that can give impetus to great sadness.   Obviously, blue must have a personality disorder, as it oscillates between states of peace and melancholy.  This volatility has a high compatibility with Cat’s Cradle, a novel that chronicles the madness of modern man.  Near the conclusion of the plot, the depressing aspect of blue expresses itself significantly.  After having witnessed the demolition of the planet, Jonah, the narrator, stumbles upon a pit located on the side of Mount McCabe.  Inside the natural geographic bowl, Jonah discerns an immense funeral ground, with “thousands upon thousands of dead” lying strewn about (272).  All of the corpses died from the poisonous ice-nine—a morbid orchestra of mass-suicide.  Vonnegut weaves pathos by invoking an emotion of deep sadness from those who have lost close relatives and friends.  Amidst the chaos of natural disasters and societal degradation, Jonah sees his world literally fall apart in front of his eyes, supporting Vonnegut’s assertion that emptiness occurs after great tragedy.  A myriad of deep blues radiate from this scene: the blue of despair; the blue of defeat, the blue of the unknown.  To alleviate such negative feelings, a lighter, more docile blue emerges from Bokononism, the key religion in Cat’s Cradle that uses “foma” to make people more optimistic (265).  Bokononists believe that man arose from the earth organically.  They use a metaphor of mud to show how God shapes and invigorates matter.  After living a full life, “the mud…goes to sleep” to meet a peaceful eternity (222).   Combating human atrocities with a serene philosophy, humans on Vonnegut’s earth manage to maintain a delicate balance between misery and placidity.  Blue adapts and changes, like water and the sky.  The blue of Cat’s Cradle leaves me content, but morose.  However, as mentioned, that lingering ambivalence should not seem out of the blue.

Ignorance is Bliss?

      When I first started reading Cat’s Cradle, I felt as though Kurt Vonnegut’s exploitation of the human characteristic of ignorance seemed excessive and hyperbolized.  Now, after having reached the second third of my reading, my view has changed—Vonnegut’s satire provides worthwhile insight into human nature.  Angela Hoenikker, the daughter of the infamous Dr. Felix Hoenikker, acts as one such source of valuable insight.   Even though Felix acted as a completely unfit parent and built weapons of mass destruction, Angela continued to regard him as a gallant saint. In order to deal with the absence of a paternal figure in her childhood, Angela tried to deceive herself into thinking her father deserves reverence, respect, and love.  Considering the day the atomic bomb hit Japan a “regular day”, Angela subconsciously attempted to ignore the death and violence her father wrought onto the world (112).  Vonnegut indirectly characterizes Angela as unmindful to underscore her conviction to forget the dark moments of her childhood and to form an illusion that portrayed her father as a hero.  Ironically, in her pursuit to religiously idolize her father, Angela follows his precedent by practicing reckless irresponsibility.  With her “Thermos jugs” in stow wherever she goes, Angela foolishly risks the security of the entire globe by carrying a very hazardous compound created by her father, “ice-nine” (192, 111).    This substance, the ultimate legacy of Felix, possesses the potential to completely freeze the earth’s water supply and in turn eradicate all forms of life.  Entangled in a false reality, whilst transporting the means to desiccate the planet—Angela serves as a synecdoche for the danger of delusion.  While trying to satisfy the simple desire of escaping her “bleak life” and attaining acceptance, the lonely and confused Angela constructs a web of lies to appease her insecurities (180).  And like so many characters in Cat’s Cradle, by blinding herself with abundant fabrications, Angela inadvertently employs the philosophy of Bokononism, the primary religion of the novel that acts as a symbol for artificial hope.   Concerning human nature’s inclination towards falsities and dreams, I find it appropriate to state a tenet of mankind seen throughout history:  Humans believe what they want to believe.  A dream may indeed lack personal truths, but it offers an escape from feeling any emotion intensely.  Apathy beats pain, suffering, and dismal happiness any day.

The Danger of Innocence

In Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Cat’s Cradle, I like the character Dr. Felix Hoenikker the least, due to his blatant indifference.  A recurrent pattern appears with Felix throughout the early chapters: even though he never intentionally tries to harm those around him, Felix somehow manages to.    The reason for this seemingly accidental destruction stems from his infantile aloofness.  Caught up in the whimsy of scientific discovery, Felix did not pay a dime of attention to his children, or even the inhabitants of the globe for that matter.  Ordered by a military general to solve the problem of profuse mud on war battlegrounds, Felix inadvertently creates a compound that could”’end of the world’’’ if released into a source of liquid (50).  Vonnegut portrays Felix as the epitome of a researcher who looks for complex answers, but does not consider the implications of his successes outside of the laboratory.  Like a child playing with toys—precarious toys, Felix obsesses over gadgetry and technology, and takes not a care for his surroundings.  As salesman Marvin Breed summarized, there does not exist a man “less interested in the living” than Felix (68). Vonnegut constructs logos by making the claim that scientists tend to remove themselves from personal relationships in order to better dedicate their time to their rigorous profession.  Unfortunately for the human race in Cat’s Cradle, Vonnegut takes this generalization to the extreme in Felix.  The father of the atomic bomb does not exhibit moral obligations or accountability whatsoever.  For instance, because of his inability to think lucidly about every-day menial tasks, he carelessly left his vehicle in the middle of a traffic intersection, which consequently led to the infliction of a mortal wound on his wife when she went to drive the immobile car out of harm’s way.  Felix “was [the reason] why she died” (31).  Felix’s reaction?   He kept tinkering away at his projects, his attitude unaffected by the loss.  Felix helped to decimate thousands of people by his working on the atomic bomb, and emotionally scarred millions more, his family included.  And yet, no mal-intent originates from Felix, and that very fact frustrates me most.  The innocence Felix maintained, compounded with the mass weaponry he produced, serves as a mind-numbing oxymoron.  Without the tools of empathy and commiseration, Felix evolved into an entity more mechanical than human.  I find it hard to like a character that has acquiesced his soul and personality to the field of science.

Seeds Of Hope

      I thoroughly enjoyed the ending of Tom Franklin’s “Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter”, as it provided a satisfying conclusion to the main conflict.  After having to endure the infantile, presumptive population of Chabot for 272 pages, I am glad to finally see them inherit some level of intelligence and deduce the real criminals, albeit after twenty-five years.  When Larry “checked himself out” of the hospital, he not only literally exhibited an exeunt from his medical injuries, but also figuratively left behind decades rife with suspicion and isolation (269).  Franklin uses the hospital as a symbol for physical and spiritual convalescence to highlight Larry’s gradual removal from the negative eye of the public.  Instead of running away to cavort in another state, Silas thankfully admits his involvement in the Cindy Walker case and allows Larry to remove his communal shackles of oppression.  While I am slightly annoyed that it took so long for one man to fess up, I am content that it at least occurred.  Now, Larry can begin to recover and start living the life stolen from him as a young teenager.  And even more importantly, Larry can also reconnect with his lost boyhood friend.  When Silas asks if Larry “needs a ride”, he makes a laudable attempt to reach out to a person he has damaged so injudiciously (270).  The author creates pathos by evoking an emotion of joy from those previously betrayed by their close friends.   Silas’ concise, but genuine, good deed indirectly characterizes him as compassionate and truly sorry.  After the drive back home, Larry “thanks Silas” and returns to his home feeling accepted for the first time (271).  The grateful tone of Larry proliferates a mood of relief and showcases Larry opening his heart to the world.  I find optimism in the fact that even after a plethora of life altering bad decisions, two adults can admirably ignore human fault and once again find the spark that made them friends in the first place.  Setting the immature fight they had as children aside, Larry and Silas can now let their friendship slowly evolve into something deeply intrapersonal—an inspirational feat that should serve as a precedent for the resolution of all petty squabbles. 

Tsk Tsk: A Severe Reprimand Is In Order

      If I could step into the book, I would like to give the residents of Chabot a well-deserved tirade and display to them the obvious innocence of Larry Ott.  Driven by rampant misconceptions, they have treated Larry unjustly for twenty-five years of his life.  Merging the reputation of Larry with circumstantial evidence, an entire town has convinced itself that a good citizen has committed murderous atrocities.  The moment that Larry decided to “see if [Cindy Walker] was home safe” spurred a quarter of a century of hatred, leading to copious abandonment and mistrust (133).  Franklin uses Larry as a synecdoche for Chabot’s blame and insecurities in order to highlight the stupidity in believing assumptions.  Franklin makes the assertion that in times of confusion, people naturally make irrational decisions.  Amid the chaos and grief of Cindy’s death, Chabot targeted its sorrow and frustration at one person: Larry.  For the members of the Ott family, their lives at that point had frozen “as if in a picture”, scorned by their fellow neighbors and cast into eternal shame (136).  Franklin employs the simile for the Ott’s situation to accentuate how ridicule can immobilize its victims.  Overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation, Larry’s parents fell into depression and never return to their former selves.  The Otts need an advocate on their side, someone who can bridge the gap.  Without this advocate or any conclusive evidentiary support, Chabot townspeople will always  falsely think they ‘“know who…raped… and killed [Cindy]”’ (179).  The situational irony of how the supposed killer in actuality has never hurt a human being creates pathos by evoking a sentiment of indignation from persons who have experienced unwarranted prejudice.   While reading “Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter”, I found myself mentally shouting in a fit of anger at how people treat Larry.  I want to set the record straight in Chabot and reveal the need for a massive amount of apology letters.  The fact that Larry has retained his sanity for so long truly amazes me, but I believe that he can live dejected only for so long.  Whenever a scenario like Larry’s presents itself, people close to the suspect should trust their instincts over rumor.

That's What Friends Are For

        Since the beginning of time, humans have always struggled in their quest to interact with one another.  Differing dispositions, contrasting body features, and disparate communication skills all contribute to infighting and unacceptance.  Yes, everyone possesses individuality—and this individuality certainly does not always lead to societal integration.  In Tom Franklin’s novel “Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter”, the main character Larry Ott presents a unique personage.  A voracious reader and an avid snake catcher, Larry has particular interests that set him apart from his classmates and family.  But even with these idiosyncrasies, if I could, I would still befriend Larry because I strongly believe that everyone deserves a friendship to support them in life.  Treated with abuse because of his uncommon mannerisms, Larry had “become an expert at reading” the disapproval of his parents (39).  Franklin indirectly characterizes Larry as reticent in order to underscore his social removal.  The discouragement frequently produced by his father compounded with the bullying of his classmates turned Larry into a perceptive child, one who could read how others look down upon him.  The author creates pathos by evoking an emotion of sympathy from those who care about the neglected.   Living in a small, isolated town, Franklin utilizes “the community of Amos” as a symbol for isolation in order to emphasize the lack of opportunities Larry had to befriend other children his age (57).  Without the benefits of friendship or the strength of a united family, Larry developed by himself, which inadvertently further fragmented his ability to interact.  Stuck in a cyclical period of disregard from others, Larry turned inward and “stayed at home” for many years (39).  Franklin’s tone of pity constructs logos by making the argument that environmental and social confinement leads to detachment.  The only way to combat Larry’s innate sadness stems from friendship.  Although Silas Jones seems to have slowly evolved into Larry’s friend, I believe the more friends the merrier.  I would befriend Larry not only because I would want to boost his self-esteem and self-worth, but also because Larry truly seems like a nice person, and I cannot imagine him purposefully trying to hurt anyone.