“Saying ‘I love you’ is the most unoriginal thing we can say to another” the genderless narrator of Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body tells the reader. “Love makes the world go round. Love is blind. All you need is love. Nobody ever died of a broken heart. You’ll get over it. It’ll be different when we’re married. Think of the children. Time’s a great healer…it’s the clichés that cause the trouble.”
In relation to love, as is the subject matter of Winterson’s stunningly poetic and vivid novel, clichés seem to be a dangerously inadequate form of expression. Much like a stereotype of a certain individualized group of people(s), clichés make the general specific; it synthesizes complex thoughts, emotions, desires into one comprehensible expression. So much personal experience gets left out when the inner workings of the complex human mind (and heart) get fragmented into a few words.
Is the presence of the cliché in language and interpersonal communication similarly tainted? Recently a dear friend’s mother passed away. Words of encouragement, sympathy, empathy, support, love, and compassion flooded my mind as I thought of what I wanted to say to her. “Nobody ever died of a broken heart. You’ll get over it…Time’s a great healer.” Winterson’s reminder of the clichéd responses we have to tragedy, whether romantic or familial, illustrates a troubling point. Although our response to a loved one’s loss is undoubtedly heartfelt and genuine, it seems impossible to convey these sincere emotions through language that is tainted with overused and outdated clichés.
Not only the act of simplifying individual human experience with a cliché, but the concept of using words that have been repeated countless times over the ages to and from different people in unique circumstances is similarly troubling. Wouldn’t we all like to believe that whatever it is we have to say is more important, different in some way, than what another does? The depth and intensity of my human experience is mine alone, it has never been felt before and will never be felt again. To a certain extent this is true of course, but like language, human experience is not unique to one person, it is repeated and continued and perpetuated from the beginning of time well beyond our own lifespan.
Perhaps the problem with clichés is the ego, then. To think that one’s own seemingly unique perspective of life can be simplified by and summed up with a phrase or two that has been used countless times before and will be used countless times again may be another devastating blow to the ego. Words, and the emotions, thoughts, and feelings they signify, are not mine alone. I am not the only one to know and express loss, heartbreak, joy, and love.
And while this knowledge may be disturbing on a certain selfish level, it is also comforting and life-affirming. Instead of creating an isolated, insular bubble around each individual human being felt and understood only by him or herself, language a communal and inclusive (albeit repetitive) in nature.
Perhaps clichés, then, are a testament to the resilience, the commonality, of humanity and our system of communication. There is a comfort in knowing that what you feel, think, and say is not a burden to bear alone, but shared through the ages. Maybe this is why we still like to hear clichés, even though they are tired and seemingly unrepresentative of our own personal self—because they are a reminder of the sameness, the shared experience of humanity.
None of us is all that different as we might like to think ourselves to be, and clichés are a reminder of this. The cliché, and language in general, act as an equalizer among us, proving that no one is more or less than another, but all represented and defined by the words we all use.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
The Art of Going Home
As I wait at Burbank airport for my luggage I realize that I’ve forgotten just how strange my mother can be. Within minutes of our reunion for my annual summer trip home, I become annoyed and overwhelmed at her characteristic quirks, idiosyncrasies, and off-beat humor I’d all but forgotten (or maybe just blocked out) in the months since the last time I saw her. Talking to her on the phone with the comfort of hundreds of miles between us and the “end call” button on my cell make her peculiarities manageable, but seeing her in person knowing that we will be together for a whole month makes me wish I had limited my visit home to a mere weekend.
I can say these things about my mom because we have a strong enough relationship that I can express these exasperations without the fear of wounding her. For as annoyed as I am upon meeting her at the airport, I quickly settle into the reality of her quirks and remember how much I actually love them for making her the wonderfully strange woman that she is.
Getting used to my mom’s boisterous and often perplexing personality turned out to be the easiest thing to reacquaint myself with upon my arrival home (though depending on the day, I might tell you otherwise). With the vast majority of my high school friends away in their respective college towns and lives, I was left to cope with my family and life at home without the comfort of distraction. As intensely as I love, respect, and enjoy my family, living in the same house as them brought up so much that I can easily forget and ignore far away in my San Francisco life. I was forced to face the reality of my parents’ impending divorce, the aging of my 89-year-old grandfather, and the adolescence of my 17-year-old brother along with the heartaches and seemingly insurmountable difficulties that come with that stage of life.
Not only interacting with my family members with their unique personalities and complex stages in life, but fulfilling my function within this family unit proved to be a challenge I had not expected before arriving home. Living an unattached, unencumbered, basically self-centered life that revolves almost entirely around my wants and needs for much of the year while in school is indeed in sharp contrast to the communal and familial world of home. Cooking, cleaning, and planning a social life are no longer tailored for me alone, but must be adjusted for the rest of my family—compromise and communication are all-important when taking into account the wants and needs of a live-in family. And yet it is so easy to forget these essential skills when living on your own.
Letting go of the routines I’ve grown accustomed to living apart from my family is one thing, but confronting the past life I inhabited within the confines of family life proved an entirely different obstacle. Going back to my basically unchanged room (still the same baby blue walls with purple and yellow stars my grandfather and I painted in high school, still the same comforter, all the old pictures and magazine cut-outs plastered on the walls) was like time traveling back to my old self with the old hang-ups, fears, and dilemmas. Some of those once pressing and all-consuming challenges have been resolved over the years—others have not. And those deep-rooted, underlying problems that I can at least consciously forget about away from home insist upon coming to the surface when back in my old environment where they originated.
No wonder so many avoid the art of going home altogether. For it is an art, indeed. Balancing the problems (and let’s not forget the triumphs and joys) of the past with those of the present, keeping your independence intact while still honoring the interdependence that is so crucial in a family, remembering who you once were while looking at who you are now and who you want to be in the future—all of these delicate issues must be addressed when you go back to your roots. Striking a chord of harmony between the many people you once were, are, and will be both within and without the context of family is an infinitely daunting task. And yet it is one that we must face whether we come from broken, distant, overbearing, dysfunctional, tight-knit, unconditionally loving, and/or supportive families. Once we at least attempt to come to terms with the families we are born into and the past they represent, we can begin to function more consciously, openly, and lovingly within the new families we’ve created, and will create, for ourselves away from home.
I can say these things about my mom because we have a strong enough relationship that I can express these exasperations without the fear of wounding her. For as annoyed as I am upon meeting her at the airport, I quickly settle into the reality of her quirks and remember how much I actually love them for making her the wonderfully strange woman that she is.
Getting used to my mom’s boisterous and often perplexing personality turned out to be the easiest thing to reacquaint myself with upon my arrival home (though depending on the day, I might tell you otherwise). With the vast majority of my high school friends away in their respective college towns and lives, I was left to cope with my family and life at home without the comfort of distraction. As intensely as I love, respect, and enjoy my family, living in the same house as them brought up so much that I can easily forget and ignore far away in my San Francisco life. I was forced to face the reality of my parents’ impending divorce, the aging of my 89-year-old grandfather, and the adolescence of my 17-year-old brother along with the heartaches and seemingly insurmountable difficulties that come with that stage of life.
Not only interacting with my family members with their unique personalities and complex stages in life, but fulfilling my function within this family unit proved to be a challenge I had not expected before arriving home. Living an unattached, unencumbered, basically self-centered life that revolves almost entirely around my wants and needs for much of the year while in school is indeed in sharp contrast to the communal and familial world of home. Cooking, cleaning, and planning a social life are no longer tailored for me alone, but must be adjusted for the rest of my family—compromise and communication are all-important when taking into account the wants and needs of a live-in family. And yet it is so easy to forget these essential skills when living on your own.
Letting go of the routines I’ve grown accustomed to living apart from my family is one thing, but confronting the past life I inhabited within the confines of family life proved an entirely different obstacle. Going back to my basically unchanged room (still the same baby blue walls with purple and yellow stars my grandfather and I painted in high school, still the same comforter, all the old pictures and magazine cut-outs plastered on the walls) was like time traveling back to my old self with the old hang-ups, fears, and dilemmas. Some of those once pressing and all-consuming challenges have been resolved over the years—others have not. And those deep-rooted, underlying problems that I can at least consciously forget about away from home insist upon coming to the surface when back in my old environment where they originated.
No wonder so many avoid the art of going home altogether. For it is an art, indeed. Balancing the problems (and let’s not forget the triumphs and joys) of the past with those of the present, keeping your independence intact while still honoring the interdependence that is so crucial in a family, remembering who you once were while looking at who you are now and who you want to be in the future—all of these delicate issues must be addressed when you go back to your roots. Striking a chord of harmony between the many people you once were, are, and will be both within and without the context of family is an infinitely daunting task. And yet it is one that we must face whether we come from broken, distant, overbearing, dysfunctional, tight-knit, unconditionally loving, and/or supportive families. Once we at least attempt to come to terms with the families we are born into and the past they represent, we can begin to function more consciously, openly, and lovingly within the new families we’ve created, and will create, for ourselves away from home.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Graduation and its Discontents
“What are you planning on doing when you graduate?” It’s a fair enough question, and indeed appropriate considering the fact that I will be graduating this semester. Throughout the course of my college career numerous people have asked me this same question and it never inspired the anxiety, terror, and dread that it does now. Even as recently as last semester I could tolerate the thought of coming up with some sort of answer to account for my post-graduation plans. The time before May 2009 seemed infinite, a far-off and theoretical shift in my life that I would eventually have to come to terms with. And now the time has come where I can no longer avoid the ever-looming reality of my impending graduation.
Perhaps my greatest fear of graduating is the loss of the academic world that comes with being a full-time student. As an English major and student in the Honors Program in the Humanities, my mind has been stretched further than I ever thought possible. I’ve been taught by brilliant minds how to dissect a text, and by doing so, have learned about the world around me, and my unique role in that larger place. Filling my days with such intellectual challenges and stimulation has truly been the most rewarding, joyous, and meaningful experience of my young life; I simply love learning. The thought of leaving this environment behind is indeed a painful one that leaves me with the fear of an empty future. Without classes to go to and learn from, like-minded people to talk with, knowledgeable professors to consult, and a total immersion in the world of the university, what will my life be like? I know how to be a good student, I enjoy being a good student; how will I define my life and my self as a non-student?
There is no doubt that my social life will be forever changed post-graduation. At USF I’ve been lucky enough to have found better friends than I ever could have imagined, but what will these relationships look like when we leave USF? The physical scattering of people who were once so tightly knit not just by love but also common circumstances will certainly change the face of these friendships, perhaps even becoming nonexistent after a certain point. Even those who remain in San Francisco or the Bay Area at large face the challenge of keeping alive bonds that are no longer supported by the same classes, living situations, clubs and organizations, and jobs.
Not only have my intellectual and social supports stemmed from my college experience, but my “after-school” activities and sense of personal fulfillment have similarly depended upon the university setting. My involvement with the Ignatian Literary Magazine as well as the Foghorn has filled up my empty hours and given me a sense of purpose, of importance. More than being in a classroom (although I feel it there, too), being part of a student group in a student-centered setting with a student-centered goal (producing a newspaper or literary magazine) makes me feel connected to a global student experience beyond the bounds of USF. On a smaller scale, being a part of these student organizations gives me a chance to make my voice heard—I somehow doubt the Guardian or Chronicle would have any interest in publishing an article lamenting the woes of a young woman about to graduate college.
So where does the lamentation of these woes leave me? Unfortunately not in any place of resolution or reconciliation. I feel no more assured about graduating than I did before I turned my internal fears into ink on paper. I wish I could say that confronting these anxieties head-on, working them out through writing, made me see my situation in a new and positive light.
But it seems like the only comfort I can find within all of this is the solidarity amongst all the graduating classes of 2009. Even if a soon-to-be-graduate claims to be counting the days before graduation out of excitement, leaving the confined world of college for the “real” world marks a shift in all our lives; it is a point of no return. Whether we hated or loved college, went to huge universities or tiny colleges, majored in accounting or gender studies, graduation will be a seismic shock for us all. I feel certain of this despite all the uncertainty that looms before me. And that, although insufficient, is comforting.
Perhaps my greatest fear of graduating is the loss of the academic world that comes with being a full-time student. As an English major and student in the Honors Program in the Humanities, my mind has been stretched further than I ever thought possible. I’ve been taught by brilliant minds how to dissect a text, and by doing so, have learned about the world around me, and my unique role in that larger place. Filling my days with such intellectual challenges and stimulation has truly been the most rewarding, joyous, and meaningful experience of my young life; I simply love learning. The thought of leaving this environment behind is indeed a painful one that leaves me with the fear of an empty future. Without classes to go to and learn from, like-minded people to talk with, knowledgeable professors to consult, and a total immersion in the world of the university, what will my life be like? I know how to be a good student, I enjoy being a good student; how will I define my life and my self as a non-student?
There is no doubt that my social life will be forever changed post-graduation. At USF I’ve been lucky enough to have found better friends than I ever could have imagined, but what will these relationships look like when we leave USF? The physical scattering of people who were once so tightly knit not just by love but also common circumstances will certainly change the face of these friendships, perhaps even becoming nonexistent after a certain point. Even those who remain in San Francisco or the Bay Area at large face the challenge of keeping alive bonds that are no longer supported by the same classes, living situations, clubs and organizations, and jobs.
Not only have my intellectual and social supports stemmed from my college experience, but my “after-school” activities and sense of personal fulfillment have similarly depended upon the university setting. My involvement with the Ignatian Literary Magazine as well as the Foghorn has filled up my empty hours and given me a sense of purpose, of importance. More than being in a classroom (although I feel it there, too), being part of a student group in a student-centered setting with a student-centered goal (producing a newspaper or literary magazine) makes me feel connected to a global student experience beyond the bounds of USF. On a smaller scale, being a part of these student organizations gives me a chance to make my voice heard—I somehow doubt the Guardian or Chronicle would have any interest in publishing an article lamenting the woes of a young woman about to graduate college.
So where does the lamentation of these woes leave me? Unfortunately not in any place of resolution or reconciliation. I feel no more assured about graduating than I did before I turned my internal fears into ink on paper. I wish I could say that confronting these anxieties head-on, working them out through writing, made me see my situation in a new and positive light.
But it seems like the only comfort I can find within all of this is the solidarity amongst all the graduating classes of 2009. Even if a soon-to-be-graduate claims to be counting the days before graduation out of excitement, leaving the confined world of college for the “real” world marks a shift in all our lives; it is a point of no return. Whether we hated or loved college, went to huge universities or tiny colleges, majored in accounting or gender studies, graduation will be a seismic shock for us all. I feel certain of this despite all the uncertainty that looms before me. And that, although insufficient, is comforting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
