I am a "Slow Roller"

I feel the days growing more sluggish; I fear if you throw salt on me I will unzip myself and flip my insides out. But that's just me.

I have done exactly what I shouldn't have--procrastinated on my outside reading book. Before you jump to conclusions and accuse me of complete laziness, I will defend myself by saying I did not catch one break over Thanksgiving holiday (but here I am complaining again). It's not that I don't enjoy Song of Solomon. I do, it's great. Before I started reading it I expected some black pride book, something like Glory Field (shiver) or maybe Their Eyes Were Watching God. Thankfully, I was pleasantly surprised when the opening scene started with a man jumping from a building and the story of the origin of Not Doctor Street. This book is so great I nearly died laughing more than a few times, especially when Milkman, the main character, remembers how he earned the name Milkman (I'll give you a hint and say that his mother didn't give him milk out of a glass even though he was five).

It's very strange when I think about history in this book. Like Invisible Man it exists within a time period of social upheaval, but there is no direct mention of big names (MLK, Malcolm X). Specifically, there is a scene where Milkman enters a barbershop and overhears the barber talking about "Till." It took me a few moments to place importance to the name, but then I remembered an Emmett Till, who was murdered by white men for flirting with a white woman. And I thought how clever, now I understand that Toni Morrison is not just another writer speaking out for social injustice; she is simply telling it like it is. But if that's so, why include the history at all? Well, I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with the personal discovery of Milkman and his life in context, especially since he is from an affluent family sheltered from reality. I am really excited to revisit this story.

Today some random kid asked me if I was satisfied with my life. My only response was, "mostly," but I can tell you now that this slow rolling is really starting to take a toll on my mental health. Three more weeks...

Artificial Harmonics

This week has been hell. I cannot reiterate this enough. The only way I could possibly sum up this week is by recounting Tuesday in directed study when a friend asked, "Rachel, why is your hair wet? It's not even raining today." That morning I had a project due, and I overslept. The shower lost priority to brushing my teeth (I hope this is understandable). Of course I admitted that, yes, I did not shower and I was indeed wearing my brother's sweatshirt. Not one of my finer moments. The next day I went shopping, in hopes that new clothes would make me want to get up in the morning. Only thing is, spending money makes me want to vomit.

For those of you who don't know, I slave away about 15 hours a week in a crappy job at Regal--all in an effort to save enough money and get myself to France. Thursday night was the premier of Harry Potter, and although I was excited at first, I realized they would make me work that night. I dressed up as Filch, with a fake shoulder cat to match (customers appreciated it). Unfortunately, I returned home around 2:30 that night and slept through all of my morning classes. Priorities, priorities.

The weekend didn't promise much relaxation either. On Friday I had a three hour rehearsal. Then another on Saturday, and then a three hour concert. Some of our music was a repeat from last concert. The only difference is that one of Mr. Ludwig's friends had died the week before this concert, so the entire show was dedicated to her. I guess it was fitting that he invited an A Capella group to sing Ding Dong the Witch is Dead (I hope she had a sense of humor). For dinner I ate squid with an old friend and caught up on the horrors of our high school orchestra. And then the concert started with the death of Mozart's father in Don Giovanni. After that a ten year old prodigy played violin, and I thought about how he was exactly like the Invisible Man. Really, his mother has him on a leash; I see him drinking and doing drugs by 17.

After that we had to fight through a battle with Serbian kings and Arabian knights. Malek Jandali, the most pompous performer I have ever encountered, insisted that we play 5 of his pieces. Emessa, Caravan, Nour, Soul b, Yafa. I can't keep track. The worst part was that every one of them ends on an E. After the performance I was cross-eyed and ready for a nap, so I went home and watched Perfume: The Story of a Murderer and rooted for the tortured protagonist on his murderous hunt to capture pheromones in a bottle. I also received a pretty merit scholarship from Tulane. Maybe...

Well, my brothers are home. Only issue is, I have to go to school and then work about 50 hours this week. When will I ever get to live? sigh

A Break from the Norm

I feel exhausted. At the beginning of the year when I thought of blog posts, the expression "how cool!" came to mind. Now, as I sit down  to write another analysis on Invisible Man my soul begins to wilt a little. I would honestly rather talk about movies--and I stand by what I say, that movies can reflect intellectual movements just as effectively as books can. I have probably stated that French class is basically a rehash of existentialism, and I have to say that after re-watching some critical scenes in The Reader, I am much more excited to write an essay about how convoluted the nature of Anna Schmitz is than I am about writing on literature. And to think the only reason I have to write that essay is because I neglected to do any of my homework.

This past weekend was insane. First I went to work, where I was informed that I would, in fact, be working the midnight shift on the night of the Harry Potter premier. And I was honestly frightened when a person of ambiguous gender walked up to my register. A friend insists it was a man, I insist it was a woman, though she might have been correct in saying that the person looked exactly like Johnny Bravo, and therefore must have been a man. That night I stayed up until four. The next day would be a new kind of feat.

I threw a dinner concert for over 120 people. I had been arranging it since September, deciding how to cut costs and get the word out. 120 is twice as many as what I had anticipated, and if I am correct in saying, the largest number of people the concert has ever pulled in. This could not have happened without the help of my mother, who cooked for weeks in replacement of an expensive caterer and taught me the lesson of head counts and organization. Mr. Fisher, our orchestra director, provided me with no guidance and was not a lick of help in any of the arrangements. I would like to think I did it on my own, but really, it could not have happened without the help of my family and friends.

Right now my toes are numb because I decided to wear ridiculous heels on Saturday. I do regret this, but I cannot forget the feeling those heels gave me. That of a strong woman. Some would call me strong willed; when my mother cussed in front of a friend, my friend's look of surprise was genuinely amusing. Yes, we are liberal, yes my mother curses like a truck driver, and yes, I do too. But I guess cursing is like a good pair of heels because nothing can really make me feel so empowered.

I am trying to remember the last piece of creative writing I hammered out. It was A (man's) Guide to Eatin' Good Sammiches. Let's just say that it is something that could only be found funny if a woman wrote it. I've always thought I would go into medicine or some high-stress job, but now I am thinking if not a writer, a wedding planner.

The Doll House Experiment

This week I did the unthinkable--transformed myself into a housewife. It's not what you are thinking, really. (Okay maybe it is). For those of you who do not know me, I hold a liberal political viewpoint, but most of my friends are conservative (it's okay, I like it that way). Most of the time I play along with the funny jokes, "Hey woman, make me a sammich!" But this week I conducted an experiment of my own. Donning flowered skirt and towering heels, I pulled on an apron and scraped pb&j on to slices of bread. Let us make this clear: It ain't a sammich until a woman makes it (this is not a joke).

The sammiches were welcomed by my man friends with open arms and fits of laughter, except for the one reasonable character who just thought I was crazy (you know who you are). Prior to any experiments, many people believed me to be a feminist, and they probably still do. I don't know why. It is not as if I parade the superiority of womanhood (it is quite the opposite, actually, even though inwardly I believe in equality). If there was one thing I learned from this day, it is if a man is given a sammich, he expects more sammiches in the future.

This could be leading into our bigger problem with "society" (as it seems if we have no answer to why some things occur we can always blame society). These problems develop when we are young. However, we can't really blame mothers for feeding their sons sammiches. If we could, then there is something inherently wrong with our society. But moving on, this problem comes from both sides. A mother expects her daughter to play "like a girl," and for these purposes, a father generally spoils his daughter. I can't say there is anything wrong here either. I am just generally confused. Probably because this whole blog entry is about boys.

Everything really comes down to communication I suppose. Everyone knows that the sexes really do not speak the same language. I am sure everyone here has had some experience or another that made them doubt the ability to really "connect." I cannot really blame Torvald because he acts the way he has been taught to act by his sammich feeding mother; similarly, I cannot really blame Nora. HOWEVER. Let me make this clear. I do not advocate the idea that Torvald does NOT have the capability of changing. I do believe he could if he tried. Granted, tried very hard. This also comes down to something really different between the sexes.

You have probably heard of it. Passive aggression. I like to believe that women hold so much angst through passive aggression that getting a clear read out of any woman is very difficult. My interpretation of the play is that, when Nora hopes for the wonderful, she knows that it won't happen. I also think that she does not want it to happen. As people in class have said, she does NOT give Torvald a chance to really change. Between the time that he receives the letter and the time that she leaves he probably had enough time to eat only five sammiches (and this is inadequate for any male). For these reasons, I have to revert back to what I know. I know that when my mother and I get into squabbles, we play down what is really bothering us and hope the other person guesses at it. While doing that, neither of us really plan on resolving the issue (women just like a reason to stay angry). Nora really needed something that gave her the eyes to see and a reason to leave.

Of course, I really am playing into sexism too much. Ibsen did not believe that Nora's being a woman mattered. I like to agree with this, but for some reason, I just enjoy believing that Nora's problems would not exist if it weren't for those dang sammiches!

Separate Spheres

I loved A Doll's House. Really, really loved. Probably because deep down I am a feminist (shhhh!). However, there are parts that I don't necessarily agree with. Mostly I think it had to do with characters. For one, I was confused about Ms. Linde. Why does she return? I understand her husband died, but does that mean she needs to come back for a visit? Surely she needs a job, but by the looks of it, she and Nora are not very close friends anymore. In their first exchange, Nora acts with little sensitivity (probably due to her sheltered life). First it is talk of Ms. Linde's dead husband, and then Nora launches into a display of her glamorous lifestyle. Very tactless indeed. Why does Ms. Linde expect something from Nora? And isn't this Victorian times, why is Ms. Linde, a woman, able to take Krogstad's job? What happened to separate spheres? Does that just go out the window once your husband dies?

This is sort of feeding into something I had felt from the beginning of the play. I seriously thought this could have taken place in the 1920's. Or 40's and 50's. So upon reading the background information, 1879 seemed crazy old to me. When I envisioned her costume and the tarantella, I pictured a flapper girl prancing around in a barely there metallic get-up (this was before we learned the tarantella is death, which I should have known). And even after I read the play, I thought about how it could have been a Revolutionary Road type, and I can imagine Elizabeth Taylor playing Nora (okay, maybe she is a little too crazy to play Nora). But then again, I love how the play could transcend time. Unlike, you know, a Jane Austen novel. Nora probably looks something like this --->

Now on to the controversial: I fully support Nora's decision to leave her life. Do I think it was necessarily right for her? Probably not. I don't know where she could go, and I do think she would end up in the same situation with a different man. She knows how to work men, and that, I think is too vital for her to give up. You know why Rank is there; she needs a backup at all times--I'm not sure she is capable of living on her own. The death of Rank signifies the death of her old life. Whether or not she really changes, well...

Do I think she should leave her children? Yes. They are her little dolls too. It is worth noting that the time frame of this play is Christmas. The first action is the Porter coming to the door with a Christmas tree. What could be more significant than that? Christmas is the holiday that you are spoiled to death--when you trip on toy fire engines and spinning tops--and yes, when you play with your new doll house. It is also interesting what Nora says to the maid, "Be sure to hide the Christmas tree, Helene. The children mustn't see it before tonight when we've trimmed it." It is very telling of the play as a whole. She does not want to expose her children to the real world, and she herself holds unrealistic views of life. Everything needs to be manufactured and perfect.

Towards the end of Act 1, Nora is seen playing with her children but not really communicating with them. It is right after this that her problem arises, and her world comes crashing down. At the beginning of Act 2 the Christmas tree is "in the corner by the piano, stripped shabby-looking, with burnt-down candles." Of course the Christmas tree has born its gifts, but instead of the picture of a glowing mother, it is the picture of emptiness. This symbolism is very subtle, and I really love how it fits into the play. After all, the first thing I picture when I think of A Doll's House is that one Christmas morning I unwrapped my first American Girl Doll.