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.

Hating Walter Lee Younger

I despise, nay, loathe Walter Lee Younger for his sexist, hypocritical, and most unforgivably, selfish manner. Although he seems to have developed some sense of manhood as he decides not to sell his pride, he still foolishly, ignorantly tells his sister, "to marry a man with some loot," shortly thereafter. Walter places his own dreams, or better, his own delusions before those of his family, be it his wife's, who he repeatedly insults and debases with his careless, bitter words, or his mother's, or sister's.  "Brother"  amidst his wallowing misery at his failure at being a "man", discounts his suffering on those who love him, and has the audacity to ask Ruth, "Who cares about you?". Repeatedly,  Walter declares he is too good to be a chauffeur, that he is better than those around him, that, "it's hard to find a man on... the Southside who understands [his] kind of thinking. Despite this, despite his belief that serving others is an unworthy form of employment, in his fantasy, " a gardener  will be clipping away at the hedges". He can't be a servant, he's too noble, but others certainly can. If this isn't the greatest hypocrisy, then, "yuk, yuk, yuk." As if this isn't enough, Walter believes just for being a man, he inherently holds the divine right to be the "head of the family," never mind his irresponsibility. Yet, when his mother trusts him with safekeeping the money, he doesn't do as he promised and utilizes the money his mother deemed for his sister to fulfill her dream of becoming a doctor for his own purposes to get his dear, little liquor store. However, when his mother buys the home of her dreams, he rancorously asserts that she "butchered up a dream of [his]". He harangues his mother for squashing his hopes, then proceeds to annihilate  his sister's hopes.  Not only this, but he keeps pressuring his sister to marry, all because, after all, she is a woman, and a woman shouldn't ever aspire to anything besides marriage. He diminishes her dream of doctoring as worthless, telling her to forget it, it'll never happen, yet when he doesn't get what he wants, he acts like a spoiled three-year old brat. Suddenly when he can't have what he desires, even if the rest of his family can, "everything is sad," and he simply drops his work. The list of all that Walter does which I abhor is virtually endless, yet one irony I find especially appropriate is that the more Walter attempts to be a man, the less of a man he is.

 

My Reaction To Walter

Consciousness: A Great Sin

"His was a great sin who first invented consciousness," states John in "Diamond as Big as the Ritz". God invented consciousness, according to the Bible at least. Ergo, Fitzgerald, through John, accuses God of being a sinner for forcing him to realize the gravity of the situation and leave their, not hyperbolas,  mountain of wealth.  By leaving their wealth and their carefree, luxurious lifestyle, they are leaving paradise. As they leave paradise, paralleling how Adam and Eve left Eden, they come to realize that now they must work for their own happiness, they must endure pain, but more terrifyingly, reality. John doesn't want to admit that his happiness was at the cost of the suffering of the slaves, the imprisonment of the sailors, the death of Kismine's various friends. In fact, John purposefully overlooks these "unfortunate murders" that "stained these happy years of progress and expansion". For the absence of this,  John - our own little sinning, selfish, horribly irritating Adam - curses God, declaring him, too, a sinner. To me at least, this seems incredibly ironic, because a sin, since I was but a babe, my mother praising my heavenly Father at my side, has always been to displease Him, God Himself. So, by this rational, God displeased God when he gave Adam and Eve conscious, including embarrassment at their own nudity. Bad God, Fitzgerald seems to say, for allowing all this corruption to fester in greed and money, how dare you have let us be this way, Daddy dearest.

 

Material Without Being Real

"A new world, material without being real"(Fitzgerald 161) appears in the overcrowded malls, the lines in front of Coach, Apple, and Best Buy on the eve of a day of thankfulness. "Real" happiness cannot be bought from the sale of the year down the street, or even the turkey at a family feast, but instead can be encountered meandering the night sky, hopping from star to star, if only you would stop...and look...up. It can be solicited from a smile at the universe in all its grandeur, without all the marketing fiasco blocking the stars from view. The universe gives no assurances, it is not, "a wish-granting factory," (John Green) but it would like some little appreciation, at least once a year. All this wealth does not equal happiness, much as the Macy's commercials disagree. Money can't buy love after all, as Gatsby's empty funeral more than emphasized. No matter the wealth, the silky shirts shipped from Europe, the booze, or the mansion of mansions, none of this is as crucial to living a fulfilling life as society has ingrained that it is. Thanks should not be given for your new iPhone, but for the health of your mother, the idle days of summer, and the laughter that leaves your liver where you stomach should be and your jaw near broken.