Bright Lights, Big Disappointment

You are not the kind of girl who enjoys going out to a fancy restaurant on a Friday night wearing heels and a dress and lipstick. You like simplicity; picnics in the park, walks on the beach, lunches at cafés in sundresses and sandals. But tonight, your boyfriend insisted on going somewhere that he deemed fit for a date. He wasn’t like you. He liked going to extravagant, special occasion-type places, even when there was no special occasion. It was one of the many things you wished you could change about him. He calls you high-strung, tells you to relax all the time, but there’s no one wound tighter than him. Even when he’s drunk and can barely string two words together to insult you, he’s a pain in the ass.

          You glance at the clock. It’s 6:33 p.m. But you’ve been up since 4 a.m. every night ever since your insomnia has gotten bad again, so it might as well be midnight. Your boyfriend is late. Shocking, really. These days, you’d be more surprised if he was on time. He probably stopped to pour himself another drink on his way out the door. And then he had another one, and another one, and another one. You knew the drill. You could just meet him at the restaurant, but he always insisted on meeting you at your apartment and going there together. He said it made him feel like he was taking care of you. You hated that stupid rule. You were perfectly capable of getting on the subway for 15 minutes by yourself. But your boyfriend needs his ego boost, so you suck it up and let him play gentleman on date nights. It was easier that way. You were less likely to make him mad if you just did what he wanted.

It’s a quarter to 7. You spray another round of hairspray onto your curls, to make sure they don’t fall flat before your boyfriend’s sorry ass decides to show up. You wished you had straightened your hair. You had curled your hair tonight because you know that’s how he likes it best. Not like he would compliment it anyway. Your boyfriend never had time to say anything but insults anymore. You adjust your necklace, position your bracelets so the clasps are inward, and reapply a fresh coat of lipstick. You see the vodka on the counter calling your name, but you have to hold off. You knew your boyfriend would be furious if he smelled alcohol on your breath. You weren’t allowed to drink. That was his job.

Your phone rings, and it startles you. You jump up to answer it. It’s your boyfriend. You answer the phone, greeting him enthusiastically, so he’ll think you aren’t mad about him being late again. He tells you he got caught up at the office and won’t be able to go out tonight. You know he’s drunk. His words are slurred, his voice slow and heavy. You can practically smell the booze through the phone. Against your judgment, you reassure him he’s forgiven, and you tell him you love him and you’ll see him later. You wish you didn’t love him. You hope you never have to see him for the rest of your life.

          Here you are again. All dressed up and no place to go. 

Stay Classy, Sir Walter

            The old saying “Money can’t buy happiness” is used to remind people that being rich isn’t the only thing in life that matters. But in the society depicted in Jane Austen’s Persuasion, that saying definitely doesn’t ring true—it’s generally understood that, if you’re wealthy, you’ve pretty much got it all. You’ve set yourself up for a lifetime of parties, suitors, extravagant lifestyles, and, perhaps arguably, happiness. In Persuasion, Austen focuses on the relationship between the social classes in early eighteenth century England, not only to describe what life was like for different kinds of people, but also to make fun of the ridiculous attitudes that some members of society had towards social distinction and class.

            Jane Austen uses Sir Walter Elliot and Lady Russell to introduce the concept of social class tensions. Sir Walter takes great pride in his high birth; his favorite book is the Baronetage, in which all the wealthy people in England are recognized (including himself), he doesn’t care to associate with most people who are below him in social rank, and places a high value on becoming better acquainted to people who are wealthy and well known, evidenced by when he shifts his focus to becoming closer to Lady Dalrymple. Sir Walter’s most prominent personality trait is his vanity—he is obsessed with himself and his great fortune. Similarly, Lady Russell, the Elliot family advisor, isn’t afraid to voice her opinions on class superiority. She has many discussions with Anne about how she should only marry someone who is of equal or superior rank. Lady Russell’s and Sir Walter’s opinions on Anne’s marriage and strong beliefs regarding associating only with those who are equal to you were the very basis of Persuasion: the tragic love affair of Captain Wentworth and Anne was broken apart seven years prior because of the urging to call off the engagement from Sir Walter and Lady Russell. Neither of them approved of the relationship; Sir Walter hated the Navy, because it provided the “…means of bringing persons of obscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which their fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of’ (Austen 35), and Lady Russell didn’t want Anne to marry someone who wasn’t rich. These were the types of characters that Austen pokes fun at; the rich, vain people that only care about money and social standing. She uses Anne’s character to portray her own opinions regarding these members of society, writing, “[Anne] considered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and saw no dignity in anything short of it” (Austen 22), showing how Anne considered her father’s unwillingness to give up his lavish lifestyle to be absolutely ridiculous.

            But while Austen portrays the rich and powerful characters in Persuasion in a mostly negative light, ridiculing them for their self-absorbed natures and shallow tendencies, she shows more kindness towards the people who had to work their way up to the top, and people who had misfortunes along the way. Austen depicts Captain Wentworth as a foil to Sir Walter. Captain Wentworth is described as “a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy” (Austen 47) and someone “full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted” (Austen 49). Captain Wentworth’s major flaw, the one that prevents him from being the ideal man that Anne is supposed to be interested in marrying, is his severe lack of money, and no social distinction whatsoever. He was a member of the Navy, a nobody; and in the eyes of the Elliots, Anne was certainly not going to marry a nobody. From Austen’s depiction of kinder, more well rounded man, we can see that she valued hard work, depth in a personality, and overall being a decent human being. Captain Wentworth’s care for others is what sets him apart from characters like Sir Walter. We see these personality traits in other characters as well. Admiral Croft, who was a “very hale, hearty, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not much, and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour” (Austen 40), was also a member of the Navy, and didn’t have a high social status. However, despite them having to work for their wealth, Admiral and Mrs. Croft are both depicted as polite, hospitable, and agreeable people, who Anne admires and enjoys being around.

            The painting of vivid pictures of the two separate ends of the social class spectrum, describing and developing how they operate with one another, and what Austen’s opinions were on the members of each played a vital role in the plot development of Persuasion. But while Austen clearly sees the importance of social classes, that doesn’t stop her from also seeing the importance of kindness, respect, and, as evidenced by the “happily ever after” ending, love being more important than any social status or bank account figure. After all, isn’t that why money can’t buy happiness?

Works Cited

Austen, Jane. Persuasion. New York City: Barnes & Noble Classics, 2005. Print.

He's So Bad, But He Does It So Well!!!!

            Every girl loves a bad boy. It’s an archetype that’s been present in literature for ages. From Jason “J.D.” in Heathers and Danny Zuko in Grease, to Clarence Worley from True Romance and Wade Walker from Cry-Baby, the attraction of a misguided girl in need of rescuing from her boring life by a self-proclaimed rebellious male, typically depicted in a black leather jacket, sunglasses, and riding a motorcycle, has been the basis of too many stories to count. Joyce Carol Oates’s “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” could certainly qualify as one of those stories; but it’s the other aspects of the story combined with the fatal attraction that make it unique.

          

In “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?,” Connie is the misguided girl in need of rescuing from her boring life, and Arnold Friend is the self-proclaimed bad boy. However, the roles of each of these characters are altered slightly, and the personalities of Connie and Arnold aren’t quite as archetypal as typical of a “good girl meets bad guy” story. Oates depicts Connie as a young, susceptible teenager who’s been ridiculed and put down by her mother, criticized and compared to her perfect model of an older sister, and altogether been deprived of the love and guidance that teenage girls need while growing up. Arnold Friend is depicted as a predator, who comes to Connie and preys on her impressionable nature. His stalkerish knowledge of her family and friends makes her the prime candidate for his seduction. According to Joyce M. Wegs, “Since her elders do not bother about her, Connie is left defenseless against the temptations represented by Arnold Friend” (Wegs 101). 

While Connie was no doubt misguided, her actions aren’t exactly representative of someone who was helpless or in need of saving. She went out every night with her friends by herself, and wanted nothing more than to attract the attention of older boys. In fact, when Arnold Friend first came to Connie’s door, she continuously tried to attract his attention, as she “smirked and let her hair fall loose over one shoulder” (Oates 3). Even before she saw Arnold, “her heart began to pound and her fingers snatched at her hair, checking it, and she whispered, “Christ. Christ,” wondering how bad she looked” (Oates 3). 

The claim could be made that Connie’s superficiality and obsession with her appearance could come from her mother’s disapproval and neglect. However, in my opinion, Connie’s actions are a direct result of her wanting to oppose her mother. Oates writes, “everything about [Connie] had two sides to it, one for home and one for anywhere that was not home” (Oates 1). To me, that doesn’t sound like a damsel in distress. Connie sounds like someone who actively wants to become someone entirely different than who her family believes she is. Although Arnold Friend was clearly a depraved human being, perhaps Connie isn’t as much of a victim as Oates makes her out to be. In all honesty, if Connie had just gotten over herself and gone to the barbecue with her family like her mother asked her to, none of this would’ve happened. But she chose to disregard her mother’s wishes. Connie’s mother may not have been the kind, endearing mom that she always wanted, but she wouldn’t have shown concern for Connie’s actions if she didn’t care. Connie was just too caught up in trying to go against her to realize this.

Present Shock? It's Everywhere You Look.

"Whatever happened to predictability, the milkman, the paperboy, evening TV? How did I get to livin' here, somebody tell me please, this old world's confusing me..." The opening lines of the Full House theme song clue you in immediately that the show is about a "not-so-average" household--a show about a “typical” family wouldn't get any viewings, so of course, this classic sitcom had to have some sort of element that would set it apart from the multitude of other sitcoms about families that are on television. Right off the bat in the first scene of the first episode, we learn that Danny Tanner’s wife died 3 months prior to the events of the first episode. As the events of the show begin to unfold, Danny asks his wife’s brother Jesse and his best friend Joey to help him take care of his 3 daughters DJ, Stephanie, and Michelle. It’s a feel-good show, full of hilarious antics, heartwarming characters, and most importantly, unbreakable family bonds. But it’s also a prime example of nontraditional narrative, because in all honesty, it has no plot.

Sure, there’s small problems and situations that need to be overcome in each episode; the events of the show address typical issues that come with growing up. But there’s no real beginning or middle of the “storyline” (I’m putting storyline in quotation marks because, like stated before, there’s no one problem that needs to be solved). Rushkoff states, “The new challenge for writers is to generate the sense of captivity, as well as the sensations and insights, of traditional narrative— but to do so without the luxury of a traditional storyline. So they come up with characters who simply wake up in a situation and have to figure out who they are or what the heck is going on around them,” (Rushkoff 31) and this is essentially how sitcoms are created--Full House is no different, considering all 8 seasons are about Danny Tanner trying to figure out how to balance all the aspects of life as a working, single father.

This is the “present shock” aspect of Full House. Every 30-minute episode contains a new mini-plot, and it’s almost always solved, in one way or another. Rushkoff explains this phenomenon in Present Shock, saying, “In short, these sorts of shows teach pattern recognition, and they do it in real time.” (Rushkoff 28) The predictability of the show’s structure is traditional, but because the show contains no overarching story, the narrative remains nontraditional. Each episode contains new antics, new situations that have to be dealt with, and no reference is made to future events that will occur in the character’s lives. Like Rushkoff says about The Simpsons, although the “episodes have stories, these never seem to be the point.” (Rushkoff 26) Whether it’s DJ trying to get an autograph from her favorite singer at the mall and getting foiled by Uncle Jesse, or Stephanie accidentally telling Kimmy about her surprise birthday party, the warmly comical moments that the show never fails to produce are what keep the viewers coming back for more. But there's never any problem that drags on for more than one or two episodes. Once the episode is over, so are the events that occurred during it.

It’s weird to think about the fact that one of the most iconic television series of all time doesn’t actually have a storyline. However, considering the show is still being played on TV networks 20 years after it ended, I’d say this take on nontraditional storytelling was successful. Because viewers in this day and age don’t care about the fact that there’s no deep, insightful meaning to the events of the episodes. It’s a show about a family learning to live together and adapt to a new way of life. The relatability of the show also draws in viewers today. Rushkoff explains this perfectly when he writes, “These shows are characterized by their frozenness in time, as well as by the utter lack of traditional narrative goals.” (Rushkoff 31) The resonance of Full House and the fact that so many people can relate to the situations that the Tanner clan has to navigate even 20 years later is part of what makes Full House such a classic. Because even now, in our present-shocked society, the show is still making people smile.

Works Cited

Rushkoff, Douglas. Present Shock: When Everything Happens Now. New York: Penguin Group, 2013. Print.

Was It Really Necessary To Tell Us Everything You Ate?

A Moveable Feast could be described as casual. It’s a work of literature depicting Hemingway’s experiences in Paris, not in a thrilling or adventurous way, but simply written as they happened. Hemingway uses first person “stream of consciousness” point of view in A Moveable Feast to create a novel in which the content comes right from Hemingway’s experiences in the same order that he experienced them. Stream of consciousness gives a novel the feeling of a diary or a journal, because the events in the novel are depicted exactly how the author experienced them, with the inclusion of his own opinions and thoughts. Hemingway uses a neutral tone to describe the events that take place, but his tone shifts when speaking about the different authors and people he encounters; for instance, his writing is soft and kind when he is depicting Gertrude Stein and his wife, but cold and distant when depicting Pascin and Zelda Fitzgerald. These tone shifts contribute to the casual narrative style that Hemingway chose to use when writing A Moveable Feast. The use of time and the fact that the story is told in chronological order helps to reinforce the diary-like style of the novel. Hemingway also includes small anecdotes about the food he eats at the different cafes, the experiences he shares with his wife, and his pastimes like watching horse racing help readers understand Hemingway’s personality and character, represented when Hemingway says, “We went racing together many more times that year and other years after I had worked in the early mornings, and Hadley enjoyed it and sometimes she loved it.” (Hemingway 67) He uses these short stories to fit the casual narrative, writing a novel that feels like he is simply recording all of his thoughts, feelings, and everything that’s happening to him. A Moveable Feast is in classic memoir style, and Hemingway’s choice to heavily include elements of his characteristics adds interest and moments of humor to the novel, giving it more of a personal feel. I think we read this book as a part of our study of language so we could become exposed to Hemingway’s unique style of writing. The informality and casualness of A Moveable Feast makes it feel like you’re reading someone’s journal, instead of a formal book, and while the plot itself was fairly stagnant, the style was more important than the events.

Academic Art

            During my freshman year of high school, I took an Art 2-D class as one of my electives—I’ve never considered myself much of an artist, but between that and automotive technology (which was essentially learning how to fix a car for 45 minutes a day and getting graded for it), art was by far the better option. None of my art projects would’ve been considered “good,” by any standards—I’m just not gifted with artistic abilities. For one project, a sketch of a still-life scene, I remember turning it in to my teacher and jokingly apologizing for how awful it was. In response, she simply laughed and said, “It’s okay, art just isn’t your thing.” But I still got a 100 on every assignment I turned in—because in public school, being mediocre in a fine art is acceptable, even understandable. It’s no big deal if you aren’t great at painting or sketching, or even singing, or playing an instrument; it’s just art, right?

            Public schools create and, whether purposefully or not, encourage students to focus on excelling solely in what have been deemed “academic” subjects, and disregard the importance of the fine arts in a young person’s academic career. Somewhere along the line, educators decided that the only subjects that measured intelligence were math, science, history, and English, and while arguments can be made that electives are considered just as important because one or two fine arts credits are required for graduation (in most public schools), it’s clear to any public school student that way more value is placed on getting an A in chemistry than getting an A in Art 2-D. In The End of Education, Neil Postman discusses the reasons for this differentiation in value when he writes, “…There is, after all, a measure of arbitrariness to the weight given to one subject or another. When I attended public school (in New York City), both music and art were considered ‘minor’ subjects—for what reason, I have no idea.” (Postman 101) Postman encountered the same problem I did in public school: fine arts have very little importance in public school. We take standardized tests that measure our skill levels in math, critical reading, and science, and whether or not we get into college is based on how skilled we are in these areas. Why are there no standardized art tests? Why is being able to read music not a requirement for being accepted to a university? Science has showed that our brains have left and right hemispheres, the left side being used for critical thinking and the right side being used for creativity. The two sides work together to process information, but most people generally have a tendency to be more inclined to think one way or another. So how is it fair that “left brain” people should be considered more intelligent than “right brain” people? They shouldn’t be, but public schools won’t be changing any time soon; guess I better brush up on my math skills.

Works Cited

 Postman, Neil. The End of Education. New York: Vintage Books, 1995. Print.