Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah

As represented in the lovely song Hello Mother, Hello Father, by a poor little camp-goer, parents are the safe-haven, the harbor, the sea of tranquility that storm-drenched children oft turn towards when they are in dire straights. Be it during the time of diapers, or the era of teen angst, whenever life seems a bit too daunting, too confusing, too plain hard, it is an instinctive reaction to exclaim "take me home, oh muddah, faddah." Motherhood is characterized by love and affection, fatherhood by protection, and both are comfortable. However, that is not to say that to love your parents is to agree with them, for that is as much the case as the sky is raining Jane Austen novels (on the godly day that this is true, disregard this horridly inaccurate attempt at a witty comparison). This opposition to a parental belief is not always an attempt at rebellion, at provocation, nor an embodiment of the modern ingrate, but rather a natural progression of establishing an identity separate from those once "such a strong father [or mother]," as Manning stated. In order to mature, ideas must be contemplated alone, and the "default setting" is sometimes to take the opposite view from those closest. That, such a sprightly adolescent may muse, "that is me showing the man." Nevertheless, be you virtually a carbon copy of dearest mother, or nothing like that old brute that is your father, you are more similar than you care to believe. In some manner or the other, you are a product, the addition of m&d, and you are shaped by nature and nurture by these tremendous beings that made you, you.

Bad Boy, Good Girl

 

Jack Vettriano

She can't believe,

 that she put on her favorite dress for this,

a rouge satiny delight,

for this man,

smoke enveloping his sharp features,

a cigarette haughtily dangling from his slack lips,

oh, how she despised men like him,

men who treated her like candy from their choice confiserie.

Oh, how lovely such a damsel was,

he could just swallow her whole,

he could, indeed he could,

although, she seemed oddly adverse to the thought,

he did perceive this much at least,

for,

although she hadn't strutted off yet,

with her polka dotted gown billowing from the shore's breaths, 

she rolled her sweet, earthen pupils skyward when he called her baby,

and promptly told him she was no child,

she was a woman,

she was Samantha,

and would respond to no other,

for no sugar-coated, mollifying epithet,

would ever sound as good as the one her mother bestowed upon her.

The Shame Derived From Shame

Shame is felt by each and ever member of society: recluse, immigrant, socialite, etc. the list is as endless as my voracious appetite. It is an unpleasant emotion, to be sure, with its rouge cheeks and downcast eyes, but in Amy Tan's story of a fourteen-year-old at Christmas, Shame is a lesson. Shame serves not only as a side-effect of a bad fall, of spinach in otherwise pearly-white teeth, of the truth spilling from a lie, but as an experience that provides appreciation to a girl's tremendously special culture.  Although young Amy might not fully comprehend this in her vulnerable, hormonal teenage years, in the face of her "love," better known as the blond-haired boy, Robert, she eventually understands the "true purpose behind [her family's] particular menu" post-mortification. Amy comes to realize -  as I sincerely  hope that society will, at some point in time, preferably near- is that there should be pride in difference. As Mrs. Tan so wisely stated "[The] only shame is to have shame". Amy should not hide her crème de la crème taste in Asian cuisine (which I for one wholeheartedly approve. Is there anything more delicious than thai food, sushi, or general Tso's chicken? I think not.) because it does not fit with the American stereotype. She should embrace it, revel in it, exhibit it like an Emperor's ruby necklace, on the chest with dignity, for all to see. Culture is a prime jewel, and should be treated as such, because just as there is no diamond like another, every culture has attributes rare and fine to be treasured for centuries to come.

Searching For The Win

Success, no matter what each person defines success as, is universally sought. Some view success in monetary terms, others in beauty. Others still view success as a superficial dream that can never be achieved, just as Gatsby can never attain his precious Daisy. No matter who you are and what you aspire to have, be, or claim, you certainly imagine that getting to this place, reaching this spot, will turn life into a wonderland. However, there is no such location in which happiness and fulfillment may be magically uncovered. No, nothing could ever be that easy. Success must be dug with fingernails ripping into the damp ground after a heavy rain, with sweat dripping form your forehead from the punishing sun. Moreover, even if this perfect ideal is settled into your work bitten palms, it is not a guarantee of all you ever wished. This is discovered by the residents of the Store that clamor around the radio in Angelou's piece. Despite their apparent victory for which their very lives seemed to hang in the balance, they must still confront the wrath of their opponent's revenge, of racism's rage. Their triumph is not a be all end all, as hardly anything ever is. Their war is continuous, not to be finished in one, simple battle.