I keep wanting to take a nap these days, days that should be filled with stress and studying for finals and really late midterms. I think the reason I’m taking more naps is because, first of all, it’s easy to take a nap (at least in my opinion it is), secondly, naps are the sources of carefree-ness and escape from such stressful, real worlds that I’ve gotten myself into, and thirdly and finally, I’d rather have the excuse that I suddenly found myself napping and so that’s why I wasn’t studying than having the excuse that I was playing tennis or the drums or watching TV. Nap is something natural that I assume and take advantage of my body needing to have. It’s not an excuse, it’s a reason.
But still, naps have their regrets. Last night I fell asleep from 9:30pm to 12:10am. You know how much reading I could have done in those two hours and forty minutes? At least I’m better rested now.
The bright side is that naps can be prevented but I, being the weak soul that I am at times when I am the lowest, do not follow through with the prevention. I indulgently read on beds, recumbent on my stomach or back. For the first ten minutes it’s heaven: an interesting book, comfy position, nerdy enthusiasm reading across the pages, pen in hand busily underlining. But then after about twenty minutes, I’m off sleeping, dreaming, no longer in front of my book, which is physically on my face having fallen there.
And then hours later, no work done, and the stress begins. No thank you to energy drinks – just not a big fan. Nor am I a fan of coffee.
Here is the definition of a nap, according to www.dictionary.com:
Nap
Show IPA /næp/ verb,napped, nap•ping, noun
–verb (used without object)
1. to sleep for a short time; doze.
2. to be off one's guard: The question caught him napping.
–verb (used with object)
3. to sleep or doze through (a period of time, an activity, etc.) (usually fol. by away): I napped the afternoon away. He naps away most of his classes.
–noun
4. a brief period of sleep, esp. one taken during daytime: Has the baby had her nap?
Guilty as charged; I did all of the above. Give me my shackles and tie me to a desk. Turn on the light and I gotta get some studying done.
(oh summer, please come; I need you so bad!)
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Literary Movie Review: Glory
Glory is a 1989 history film set in the time period of the American Civil War, as seen through the eyes of Commanding Officer, Robert Gould Shaw and his 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry consisting of all blacks. As with all films and writings, the title is important. Glory plays an important role in the film. It is both universal to all main characters. Glory is universal to all characters whenever the black soldiers get equality within the army. This is seen when Colonel Robert Shaw, played by Matthew Broderick, demands for shoes for his men (and succeeds in doing so) when they were lacking, despite the commonplace among white officers that supplies are usually reserved for white regiments only. It is also seen when Shaw makes it known that he will treat his men with the same authoritative discipline that white officers would use with their white men. In other words, he trains them hard to prepare them to fight (assuming they will), just like the white regiments, despite another commonplace that the blacks will not be used to fight, but just for manual labor and other minor orders (such looting and destroying civilian towns, which the other officer’s black regiment was trained to do).
However, glory is subtly different for white than for blacks. For blacks, glory is being considered equal to whites in the army; for whites (in the 54th regiment), glory is the achievement of that goal because of their assistance as well as the close bonds made through that assistance. Colonel Shaw’s glory for instance was when he lay dying with the dead bodies of his men, not ashamed that he dies with black men. The ultimate glory, for both whites and blacks in the 54th regiment is their last battle. Shaw got to show what his black men were made of and the black men got to fight, like white men, or even better.
Four main black soldiers in the film are Sergeant Major John Rawlins (Morgan Freeman), Private Silas Trip (Denzel Washington), Private Jupiter Sharts (Jihmi Kennedy), and Thomas (Andre Braugher). While they all strive to obtain glory, they each have their own personalities. Rawlins is the elderly, wise type. He has had experience and has been through a lot. He is wise in that he knows how blacks are and can communicate this to Shaw. He also is wise when he stops the fight between Trip and Thomas, knowing that their fight is useless because they are all black and they all have the same purpose. Sharts is a follower and a good fighter, his specialty being his ability to aim accurately. However, in being a follower, he is also naïve. Trip is the rebellious kind. He is also deeply lost and perhaps that is the reason he is also a trouble-maker. He is lost because before the army, he did not quite have a family and he develops it throughout the film from his stay with the other men. Thomas is called “Snowflake” by Trip because he talks and acts like a white person and he unlike most blacks, is educated, as symbolized by his glasses (since glasses often has the connotation of a studious person).
Two main characters who grow are also the two who are polar opposites by personality: Trip and Thomas. They both grow on each other. Thomas grows by becoming stronger, physically, as when he saves Trip’s life in battle by stabbing the enemy before he (the enemy) reached Trip. More importantly, he also grows by earning the respect of Trip from that same act. In turn, Trip becomes less rebellious, through learning to respect Thomas and, in the process, he becomes more united with the whole regiment, calling them his family. They both grew because they both changed for the better.
Not only do Thomas and Trip grow; so too does Colonel Shaw grow. He learns to assert himself for the sake of his army. He asserts himself when he demands for shoes, was training his men with the help of Sergeant Mulcahy, which Officer Forbes at first thought was too harsh, though it was because he at the time still harbored the idea that the black troops were just there to march and do manual labor, and ultimately when he demands that his men fight when he was talking to General David Hunter, using blackmail. The reason why Shaw was able to grow was because he had qualities that made him an effective commander. For example, he behaves professionally and disciplined with his regiment and stresses this to his men (he practices what he preaches). More importantly, he is rough and tough with his men in training them while at the same time, he forms bonds with the men helping them gain equality in the army, insuring both unity and morale.
As alluded to many times, equality is a main issue in the film. The blacks face prejudice in the army. The nature of this prejudice is such that the blacks are not allowed to fight (not expected to). The blacks do not get the same supplies as the whites and the blacks do not get the same amount of pay for being in the army. Most importantly, the blacks are not expected to train as well as the whites because they are not expected to fight as the whites are. However, with the help of Robert Shaw they get to fight, train and get supplies. While they do not get pay, they get equality in that aspect in that the white officers of that regiment decide to not get pay as well. All these factors help to overcome the prejudice that is so pervasive in the army.
I recommend this film to all those who have an interest in the Civil War, though I must warn you that there are many inaccuracies (the wikipedia page for this film had a good rant about them). Nevertheless, if you are not won by the characters’ growth and the battles scenes, you have a safety net of epic music in the background, composed by James Horner (who did the music for Titanic), featuring the Boys Choir of Harlem.
Being a mild enthusiast in American history up to the Civil War, I thoroughly enjoyed this film. A young Matthew Broderick may have helped in my loving the film as well. Sure he doesn’t have the commanding type of voice, but his voice is always pleasant to my ear and it rings well with the sound of equality.
However, glory is subtly different for white than for blacks. For blacks, glory is being considered equal to whites in the army; for whites (in the 54th regiment), glory is the achievement of that goal because of their assistance as well as the close bonds made through that assistance. Colonel Shaw’s glory for instance was when he lay dying with the dead bodies of his men, not ashamed that he dies with black men. The ultimate glory, for both whites and blacks in the 54th regiment is their last battle. Shaw got to show what his black men were made of and the black men got to fight, like white men, or even better.
Four main black soldiers in the film are Sergeant Major John Rawlins (Morgan Freeman), Private Silas Trip (Denzel Washington), Private Jupiter Sharts (Jihmi Kennedy), and Thomas (Andre Braugher). While they all strive to obtain glory, they each have their own personalities. Rawlins is the elderly, wise type. He has had experience and has been through a lot. He is wise in that he knows how blacks are and can communicate this to Shaw. He also is wise when he stops the fight between Trip and Thomas, knowing that their fight is useless because they are all black and they all have the same purpose. Sharts is a follower and a good fighter, his specialty being his ability to aim accurately. However, in being a follower, he is also naïve. Trip is the rebellious kind. He is also deeply lost and perhaps that is the reason he is also a trouble-maker. He is lost because before the army, he did not quite have a family and he develops it throughout the film from his stay with the other men. Thomas is called “Snowflake” by Trip because he talks and acts like a white person and he unlike most blacks, is educated, as symbolized by his glasses (since glasses often has the connotation of a studious person).
Two main characters who grow are also the two who are polar opposites by personality: Trip and Thomas. They both grow on each other. Thomas grows by becoming stronger, physically, as when he saves Trip’s life in battle by stabbing the enemy before he (the enemy) reached Trip. More importantly, he also grows by earning the respect of Trip from that same act. In turn, Trip becomes less rebellious, through learning to respect Thomas and, in the process, he becomes more united with the whole regiment, calling them his family. They both grew because they both changed for the better.
Not only do Thomas and Trip grow; so too does Colonel Shaw grow. He learns to assert himself for the sake of his army. He asserts himself when he demands for shoes, was training his men with the help of Sergeant Mulcahy, which Officer Forbes at first thought was too harsh, though it was because he at the time still harbored the idea that the black troops were just there to march and do manual labor, and ultimately when he demands that his men fight when he was talking to General David Hunter, using blackmail. The reason why Shaw was able to grow was because he had qualities that made him an effective commander. For example, he behaves professionally and disciplined with his regiment and stresses this to his men (he practices what he preaches). More importantly, he is rough and tough with his men in training them while at the same time, he forms bonds with the men helping them gain equality in the army, insuring both unity and morale.
As alluded to many times, equality is a main issue in the film. The blacks face prejudice in the army. The nature of this prejudice is such that the blacks are not allowed to fight (not expected to). The blacks do not get the same supplies as the whites and the blacks do not get the same amount of pay for being in the army. Most importantly, the blacks are not expected to train as well as the whites because they are not expected to fight as the whites are. However, with the help of Robert Shaw they get to fight, train and get supplies. While they do not get pay, they get equality in that aspect in that the white officers of that regiment decide to not get pay as well. All these factors help to overcome the prejudice that is so pervasive in the army.
I recommend this film to all those who have an interest in the Civil War, though I must warn you that there are many inaccuracies (the wikipedia page for this film had a good rant about them). Nevertheless, if you are not won by the characters’ growth and the battles scenes, you have a safety net of epic music in the background, composed by James Horner (who did the music for Titanic), featuring the Boys Choir of Harlem.
Being a mild enthusiast in American history up to the Civil War, I thoroughly enjoyed this film. A young Matthew Broderick may have helped in my loving the film as well. Sure he doesn’t have the commanding type of voice, but his voice is always pleasant to my ear and it rings well with the sound of equality.
Literary Movie Review: Pray the Devil Back to Hell
Watching this film, I saw many universal themes, themes as universal as the idea of religion, of nature and of the battle of the sexes.
First off, the title: Pray the Devil Back to Hell. Already we see a hint of religion. Religion in this film is somewhat the undertone, if not, a major influence in the actions of the women who are fighting for peace. It reminded me of how the women who were bravely fighting for peace of mind (no more living in fear of getting hurt, raped, etc) retreat back to religion as a backbone to support and give them ideas as to how to strategize against a man’s problem.
Another major universal theme is the battle of the sexes. Actually, it is the helping of one of the sexes as they drop so low as to induce fear among many and to create unnecessary violence in the streets. The men need the help of the women. The men need to get out of their lowly place. The women are there to enlighten them because they were careful observers. The men were busy vacationing while the women and children as well as other innocent people forcibly experienced the violence and the fear. It wasn’t much of a battle of sexes, as it was a friend helping another friend get out of the tempting violence, as it was a sex helping the other sex to create a better humanity.
The universal theme of nature also sprung up throughout the whole film. On the outside (even in public affairs) men are the ones in control, but deep down, when it comes to nature and basic living and living in peace, mothers and women are the ones in control. But isn’t that battle of the sexes? No, because here, in this situation, the women and mothers are the ones helping the lowly friends, which comprise their husbands and sons and even brothers. Running along the lines of nature, just as Mother Nature (Earth) is manipulated by its inhabitants (pollution, global warming, etc), the mothers in this film are being manipulated by their men. The men are making their mothers live in fear and in the edge of living, existing. She is being manipulated and forcibly tested for her strength in fighting what has gone wrong among their children, their men; they are fighting for peace. So here, we see the theme of the relationship between mothers, women and nature and the family and peace.
The film also poses the question that philosophers have - are we naturally good or are we naturally evil? It can be seen both ways from this film, though, based on the previous theme, and based on my personal opinion that I have always felt, people are naturally good. The evil side, obviously can be seen when the men resort to violence and weapons as a way of gaining power. The good side can be seen through the mothers having to take care of business; the mothers having that tendency, that natural tendency to restore peace and bring us back to our peaceful roots.
First off, the title: Pray the Devil Back to Hell. Already we see a hint of religion. Religion in this film is somewhat the undertone, if not, a major influence in the actions of the women who are fighting for peace. It reminded me of how the women who were bravely fighting for peace of mind (no more living in fear of getting hurt, raped, etc) retreat back to religion as a backbone to support and give them ideas as to how to strategize against a man’s problem.
Another major universal theme is the battle of the sexes. Actually, it is the helping of one of the sexes as they drop so low as to induce fear among many and to create unnecessary violence in the streets. The men need the help of the women. The men need to get out of their lowly place. The women are there to enlighten them because they were careful observers. The men were busy vacationing while the women and children as well as other innocent people forcibly experienced the violence and the fear. It wasn’t much of a battle of sexes, as it was a friend helping another friend get out of the tempting violence, as it was a sex helping the other sex to create a better humanity.
The universal theme of nature also sprung up throughout the whole film. On the outside (even in public affairs) men are the ones in control, but deep down, when it comes to nature and basic living and living in peace, mothers and women are the ones in control. But isn’t that battle of the sexes? No, because here, in this situation, the women and mothers are the ones helping the lowly friends, which comprise their husbands and sons and even brothers. Running along the lines of nature, just as Mother Nature (Earth) is manipulated by its inhabitants (pollution, global warming, etc), the mothers in this film are being manipulated by their men. The men are making their mothers live in fear and in the edge of living, existing. She is being manipulated and forcibly tested for her strength in fighting what has gone wrong among their children, their men; they are fighting for peace. So here, we see the theme of the relationship between mothers, women and nature and the family and peace.
The film also poses the question that philosophers have - are we naturally good or are we naturally evil? It can be seen both ways from this film, though, based on the previous theme, and based on my personal opinion that I have always felt, people are naturally good. The evil side, obviously can be seen when the men resort to violence and weapons as a way of gaining power. The good side can be seen through the mothers having to take care of business; the mothers having that tendency, that natural tendency to restore peace and bring us back to our peaceful roots.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Literary Movie Review: Waltz with Bashir
The movie, Waltz with Bashir, was one of the most interesting movies I’ve seen, to be honest. It was interesting because of its format – the animation; to me it looked like a moving (and movie) comic book except without the emphasis on the comic (comedic) aspect. No, the emphasis was on finding a truth and dealing with it.
Finding a truth is one of the main universal themes I found in this film, set in the protagonist’s present and past (I am not sure the location, although I think it’s Israel and Lebanon). Throughout the film, Ari explicitly searches for the truth – what really went on at the massacre – and he tries to get at it through tid-bits from various sources. I think the fact that he goes about finding the truth this way shows that the truth is never in one entity. The truth is spread out among many and it is never easy to get. In fact, the fact that the truth is dissipated among many proves that the truth is universal or at least universal for those in the army. I think that the reason Ari couldn’t remember what happened at the massacre was because he, at a subconscious level, doesn’t want to remember it. As the cliché goes, the truth hurts sometimes – it hurts for him to have witness the mass killing of civilians and it hurts for those sufferers and those innocent people who were killed.
Another universal theme from the film is the way in which people deal with overwhelming violence. Throughout the film, there were many contraries. The music, for example, seemingly sounds happy and yet the words and the meaning the words make collectively can bend a person over, sick to the stomach and cringed in the face. Happy songs were of sad and brutal ideas, like the violence and bloodshed (the bleeding – the image of the blood being poured out of the bucket from the truck suddenly invaded my mind as I typed the word, “bleeding”) from war. These scenes made me think of how, in order to save some sanity for yourself, you would have to have some escape, some happiness, to dress up the violence in – kind of like the guy who saw the war through his camera. He didn’t see the war; he saw a movie or a series of pictures. Once we lose a grip on happiness, the idea of being safe while viewing a scary documentary, instead of being part of it, we lose ourselves, just like he did when he couldn’t stand seeing the horses with flies surrounding the dying eyes. I myself was glad to be watching the film as a film instead of taking part in Ari’s and Ari’s friend’s memories. Not only can we seek happiness through song, or through camera; we also seek happiness in the face of violence by pushing the violence out of our memories, like what Ari did. However, Ari accepted that there is that horrible truth, that horrible violence and sought to find it to end his guilt of living in denial. Does that mean that all who are happy when violence is staring at them are in denial? I think so. But who said denial is a bad thing?
At the end of the film, we see the real images of the massacre. No more happy songs with violent and bloody undertones. We see the stark truth, the stark reality. We hear crisply the cries of the women from their open mouths of despair. The rubble and the children under them.
The truth really does hurt.
I did some research about the film and as it turned out, the protagonist, Ari, was also the film-maker and he (film-maker) had experience in the Israel Defense Forces during the 1982 Lebanon War. He really knew how it must have felt to participate in it and this film was probably his reaction to his experience or perhaps the film is semi-autobiographical.
Finding a truth is one of the main universal themes I found in this film, set in the protagonist’s present and past (I am not sure the location, although I think it’s Israel and Lebanon). Throughout the film, Ari explicitly searches for the truth – what really went on at the massacre – and he tries to get at it through tid-bits from various sources. I think the fact that he goes about finding the truth this way shows that the truth is never in one entity. The truth is spread out among many and it is never easy to get. In fact, the fact that the truth is dissipated among many proves that the truth is universal or at least universal for those in the army. I think that the reason Ari couldn’t remember what happened at the massacre was because he, at a subconscious level, doesn’t want to remember it. As the cliché goes, the truth hurts sometimes – it hurts for him to have witness the mass killing of civilians and it hurts for those sufferers and those innocent people who were killed.
Another universal theme from the film is the way in which people deal with overwhelming violence. Throughout the film, there were many contraries. The music, for example, seemingly sounds happy and yet the words and the meaning the words make collectively can bend a person over, sick to the stomach and cringed in the face. Happy songs were of sad and brutal ideas, like the violence and bloodshed (the bleeding – the image of the blood being poured out of the bucket from the truck suddenly invaded my mind as I typed the word, “bleeding”) from war. These scenes made me think of how, in order to save some sanity for yourself, you would have to have some escape, some happiness, to dress up the violence in – kind of like the guy who saw the war through his camera. He didn’t see the war; he saw a movie or a series of pictures. Once we lose a grip on happiness, the idea of being safe while viewing a scary documentary, instead of being part of it, we lose ourselves, just like he did when he couldn’t stand seeing the horses with flies surrounding the dying eyes. I myself was glad to be watching the film as a film instead of taking part in Ari’s and Ari’s friend’s memories. Not only can we seek happiness through song, or through camera; we also seek happiness in the face of violence by pushing the violence out of our memories, like what Ari did. However, Ari accepted that there is that horrible truth, that horrible violence and sought to find it to end his guilt of living in denial. Does that mean that all who are happy when violence is staring at them are in denial? I think so. But who said denial is a bad thing?
At the end of the film, we see the real images of the massacre. No more happy songs with violent and bloody undertones. We see the stark truth, the stark reality. We hear crisply the cries of the women from their open mouths of despair. The rubble and the children under them.
The truth really does hurt.
I did some research about the film and as it turned out, the protagonist, Ari, was also the film-maker and he (film-maker) had experience in the Israel Defense Forces during the 1982 Lebanon War. He really knew how it must have felt to participate in it and this film was probably his reaction to his experience or perhaps the film is semi-autobiographical.
Literary Movie Review: Sin Nombre
About a month ago, I watched a film in my global literature class. After watching the film we were asked to react to it, with special emphasis on universal or particular (to a country or individual) themes. After writing my reaction, I saw that, in my opinion, my reaction looked like a literary movie review. So, without further ado, this is my take on the movie, Sin Nombre:
In my opinion, Sin Nombre absolutely harbored universal themes, despite being isolated in a Hispanic culture and despite being about a Hispanic issue (of trying to get to "the north"). One universal theme that jumped out at me is sacrifice. I'm reminded of Jesus Chirst and sacrifice whenever I see Willy wearing his cross around his neck. He is symbolically Jesus, despite the fact that he was part of a gang who killed people of rival gangs and that he himself killed rivals as well as his leader who was, in all honesty, downright mean and unjust (he was like a deceiving devil in disguise because he always acted like a loyal and at times affectionate brother, like when he kisses Smiley on the head, when in actuality he gave overly harsh punishments). Then again, who is totally cleansed of all sins, though it seems to me that Willy tries to do this by sacrificing himself in many ways; we may call it redemption.
Willy first sacrificed himself by killing the gang leader on top of the train. By doing this, he saved Sayra at the expense of his being hunted down from then on. Another form of sacrifice was when he told his gang leader that his girlfriend was his friend, not girlfriend. He knew that if she were his girlfriend, they (the gang) would try to hurt her to get to him (get him to be focused in the gang again and to get him back for punishment for drifting away from the gang). This sacrifice, however, ultimately backfired because the gang leader found out she was "more than friends" with him and killed her (quite unexpectedlly though. The main point was that he was going to do her harm by raping her). One other main sacrifice, occurred at the end of the movie. Willy gets shots many, many times in the lake after telling Sayra that she should cross first. Really, his helping Sayra reach the north, overall, was his sacrifice because, as his relative asked him, "what's in it for you?" His reply: "nada" (nothing). It was all done by his volition.
Not only did this film foster the universal theme of sacrifice. Betrayal is also a "biggie." Betrayal in this film can be seen through many different lenses, many different characters. For instance, Smiley betrays childhood innocence when he enters into the gang. In an instance that stings a bit more, he betrays Willy when he returns to the gang after Willy kills the leader, and he asks to be sent to kill Willy (although this is more to save himself; then again, why would he return to the gang? Perhaps he is a victim of a betrayal forced upon him). Willy betrays his true self by having two identities: Willy and El Casper. Towards the end (or at least after the turning point where he kills the leader) he leans more on Willy (the cleaner self, the sacrificing self) and tries to rid himself of El Casper. He's says he's not part of the gang "anymore." Sayra betrays the invitation to be part of the family of Horacio (she declines to keep the picture of his family). The person whom Willy used to work for betrays both him and Sayra by telling the gang people where they were heading off to and by setting them up (I couldn't believe it!). As mentioned earlier, Lil Mago, the leader betrays different sides of himself. One ironic scene was that best illustrates this is when he is cuddling his baby while counting to thirteen, watching gang members beat up another gang member. Or was it when he was telling Willy to teach Smiley to shoot and kill someone for the first time? In either case, I could not help but laugh a little in disbelief when he seems so affectionate yet wicked.
What to do about the title! Sin Nombre. Without a name. Our protagonist has two of them. The issue of his having two names is confronted when Lil Mago was showing his girlfriend out and she referred to our protagonist as Willy and Lil Mago had to realize that that was his real name, instead of El Casper. Without a name. I am stumped on this one. Perhaps some other universal theme has gone "without a name" under my nose.
In my opinion, Sin Nombre absolutely harbored universal themes, despite being isolated in a Hispanic culture and despite being about a Hispanic issue (of trying to get to "the north"). One universal theme that jumped out at me is sacrifice. I'm reminded of Jesus Chirst and sacrifice whenever I see Willy wearing his cross around his neck. He is symbolically Jesus, despite the fact that he was part of a gang who killed people of rival gangs and that he himself killed rivals as well as his leader who was, in all honesty, downright mean and unjust (he was like a deceiving devil in disguise because he always acted like a loyal and at times affectionate brother, like when he kisses Smiley on the head, when in actuality he gave overly harsh punishments). Then again, who is totally cleansed of all sins, though it seems to me that Willy tries to do this by sacrificing himself in many ways; we may call it redemption.
Willy first sacrificed himself by killing the gang leader on top of the train. By doing this, he saved Sayra at the expense of his being hunted down from then on. Another form of sacrifice was when he told his gang leader that his girlfriend was his friend, not girlfriend. He knew that if she were his girlfriend, they (the gang) would try to hurt her to get to him (get him to be focused in the gang again and to get him back for punishment for drifting away from the gang). This sacrifice, however, ultimately backfired because the gang leader found out she was "more than friends" with him and killed her (quite unexpectedlly though. The main point was that he was going to do her harm by raping her). One other main sacrifice, occurred at the end of the movie. Willy gets shots many, many times in the lake after telling Sayra that she should cross first. Really, his helping Sayra reach the north, overall, was his sacrifice because, as his relative asked him, "what's in it for you?" His reply: "nada" (nothing). It was all done by his volition.
Not only did this film foster the universal theme of sacrifice. Betrayal is also a "biggie." Betrayal in this film can be seen through many different lenses, many different characters. For instance, Smiley betrays childhood innocence when he enters into the gang. In an instance that stings a bit more, he betrays Willy when he returns to the gang after Willy kills the leader, and he asks to be sent to kill Willy (although this is more to save himself; then again, why would he return to the gang? Perhaps he is a victim of a betrayal forced upon him). Willy betrays his true self by having two identities: Willy and El Casper. Towards the end (or at least after the turning point where he kills the leader) he leans more on Willy (the cleaner self, the sacrificing self) and tries to rid himself of El Casper. He's says he's not part of the gang "anymore." Sayra betrays the invitation to be part of the family of Horacio (she declines to keep the picture of his family). The person whom Willy used to work for betrays both him and Sayra by telling the gang people where they were heading off to and by setting them up (I couldn't believe it!). As mentioned earlier, Lil Mago, the leader betrays different sides of himself. One ironic scene was that best illustrates this is when he is cuddling his baby while counting to thirteen, watching gang members beat up another gang member. Or was it when he was telling Willy to teach Smiley to shoot and kill someone for the first time? In either case, I could not help but laugh a little in disbelief when he seems so affectionate yet wicked.
What to do about the title! Sin Nombre. Without a name. Our protagonist has two of them. The issue of his having two names is confronted when Lil Mago was showing his girlfriend out and she referred to our protagonist as Willy and Lil Mago had to realize that that was his real name, instead of El Casper. Without a name. I am stumped on this one. Perhaps some other universal theme has gone "without a name" under my nose.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Comments, comments, comments
This lent, as many of you know, I have given up youtube, a source where I get musical ideas and amusements that last for hours on end.
One of my favorite parts of youtube are the youtube comments – a place where I can get a kick out of what a computer connector says. The kick is never too hard, I’ll tell you that. Before I move on, let me say that I call him or her a computer connector because we’re all connected through the computer. In a way, the computer is the bridge between individuals and united peoples. It is also a source from which I find some interesting stories.
As I was perusing the comments under The Killers’ Mr. Brightside, I found one person who was more than appreciative of the instrumental version of Mr. Brightside that someone posted up. Here’s the actual remark:
"oh my god! i used to have this one pair of headphones that were broken. they had like a loose wire in them. so it wouldnt play the words, just the sound. i used to listen to this song on my cd player for HOURS! when i finally had to throw them away i wanted to seriously cry b/c i thought that i would never be able to hear this again w/out words. then i had this sudden thought bout 20 minutes ago to look it up as instrumental. yay! i wanted to jump up and down!!"
Whenever I read this I build up this poignant feeling, I can’t explain. It reminds me of times when you have something that is not quite perfect or is the mainstream preference and yet, paradoxically, its imperfection is what makes it perfect to you. And ain’t that a gratifying, comforting feeling. Yes, it is and it’s lovely too.
One of my favorite parts of youtube are the youtube comments – a place where I can get a kick out of what a computer connector says. The kick is never too hard, I’ll tell you that. Before I move on, let me say that I call him or her a computer connector because we’re all connected through the computer. In a way, the computer is the bridge between individuals and united peoples. It is also a source from which I find some interesting stories.
As I was perusing the comments under The Killers’ Mr. Brightside, I found one person who was more than appreciative of the instrumental version of Mr. Brightside that someone posted up. Here’s the actual remark:
"oh my god! i used to have this one pair of headphones that were broken. they had like a loose wire in them. so it wouldnt play the words, just the sound. i used to listen to this song on my cd player for HOURS! when i finally had to throw them away i wanted to seriously cry b/c i thought that i would never be able to hear this again w/out words. then i had this sudden thought bout 20 minutes ago to look it up as instrumental. yay! i wanted to jump up and down!!"
Whenever I read this I build up this poignant feeling, I can’t explain. It reminds me of times when you have something that is not quite perfect or is the mainstream preference and yet, paradoxically, its imperfection is what makes it perfect to you. And ain’t that a gratifying, comforting feeling. Yes, it is and it’s lovely too.
Monday, April 5, 2010
short story: "Natalie, Nice To Meet Me"
“Natalie, Nice To Meet Me”
by Bernadette Tinio
“Hi.”
“I'm sorry, do I know you?”
We were walking down an empty hallway. I had caught up with her with a determination to exchange pleasantries; I was interested in her manner as I observed in many of the English classes we shared. She was a tall, black girl, named Natalie, with a sophisticated style of clothing and hair. Gifted with a tongue of articulation and eloquence, she always had her hand raised with her insights about the stories we read in class.
“I was in four of your English classes last semester and three of them this semester.” I tried to remind her.
“Oh sorry; but, I really don't remember you.”
This was starting to hurt.
“You sat next to me all last semester in contemporary lit.”
Does any of that ring a bell? She looked at me with the most sincere puzzlement in her eyes. “I let you borrow a pen once.” She had forgotten to return it.
As much as this conversation hurt me, I was, nonetheless, very much intrigued by the way she carried herself. Unlike most students, myself included, she did not use a backpack; rather, she wore a shoulder bag made of real leather – not the shiny kind that glares obnoxiously when in the light, as if it were made cheap in some manufacturing factory, trying to pass off, desperately, like the real deal leather. No, her bag was authentically made with a fresh smile of originality – and it showed in her composure. She walked with confidence and self-awareness and had big, orb eyes to absorb all that came in her line of vision. If one of her professors were walking by, she would quickly target him and stride over to his side to strike a conversation about over-arching themes across multiple literary works of authors in the same era. Something like that. Her mind was always active with thoughts and reactions of whatever she read, whatever her eyes could see and see through.
I let our conversation slide and subside for a while.
__________________
Noon pellets of rain from the overcast sky tapped at the window I was sitting next to in the global literature class I shared with Natalie, a class in which Natalie was excelling well above others. She tested our professor countless of times and that made the class all the more interesting. The whole class would hold their breath and not say a word; there would be an intellectual battle scene between the professor and Natalie to which all eyes were drawn. At the end of the class it seemed everyone, except the professor and Natalie, would exhale at the same time, in relief. But that rainy day I did not pay much attention to the exchange of comments shot between the professor and Natalie; they had relegated to the status of a hushed mumble in my ears.
I looked out of the window. The darkening clouds made the raindrops harder to see unless they splashed in the puddles, distorting their own reflection. Soon, it got dark enough that my own reflection could be seen in the window. I saw a girl sitting at a desk, but who was she? She had on my clothes, but her face, like the raindrops, was distorted in the reflection. It was distorted and unclear. For the rest of the class period, I tried to figure out this mystery until my eyes grew tired. While filing out of the classroom with the rest of the herd of students, I rubbed my eyes and wiped my glasses on my shirt, holding the door with my foot, for a few students passing by me and out the door. When I finally put my glasses back on, it was to see, in clear view, Natalie, who was the last one out of the door, in front of me.
We walked out of the building and out into the rain. I put on my hood, which covered almost half of my face, while she opened a big, black umbrella. It seemed to be infinitely black. It was so black. There were no other colors, no patterns, no shades of colors. It was just a penetrating and certain black. Her umbrella held against the wind. My hood kept blowing off and I had to hold it in place with my hand. I thought perhaps she wouldn’t notice if I slid under her umbrella, behind her. Really, I was soaking wet and the pelting rain canceled out my wiping my glasses back in the classroom. The rain distorted my vision seen through the lenses. I made a quick jog to catch up to her, then, quietly and carefully, I followed her pace, close behind her. Past the blurriness and my hood, I saw that Natalie was carrying her cell phone. She was texting in the rain; a girl-on-the-go, eh? I wondered whom she was texting because she was texting fervently. Parents maybe? Boyfriend? Does she have one? And then—
Slam!
Natalie had stopped abruptly, responding to a text she received, when I smacked into her, my face hitting the back of her right shoulder. Just previously I was trying to look over her shoulder, fully delved in the mystery of trying to find out more about her through her text messages.
“Ouch, damn it.” I mumbled. Breathing slightly heavily through my nose, I patted my lower lip and tasted it to see if I was bleeding. My mouth had been opened, I realized, and when I banged into her, my jaw closed suddenly. She looked back at me. I was bleeding a bit.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t know you were there. Are you--”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Yeah . . . I . . . I know,” I looked at the blood on the tip of my fingers. “I have to go. Nice umbrella,” I muttered with my hand covering my lips as I was starting to walk away, taking a glance at her big, round eyes.
Did she suspect anything? She seemed too distracted with the blood. But when she talked to me, she had a confused look on her face. Surely she was speculating something. And was she going to say, “Are you all right?” or, “Are you following me?” I didn’t want her to finish her sentence; I felt too guilty and ashamed that she might have thought I was, in a sense spying on her. For the rest of the day, I made sure not to bump into her. I felt as if I were punished with a bloody lip, for making my way, clumsily, into her privacy.
_____________________
A few days after that rainy day, having ten minutes to get to my next class, I thought I would make a quick stop at the bathroom. The bathroom I went to is known for having quotes written on the walls of the stalls. These marked efforts of expression by other girls provided amusing reading material for the bored eye. As I entered one of the stalls, I saw that in the center of the stall door, there was a popular Shakespearean quote. It read, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by another other name would smell as sweet.” I continued it in my head:
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection
Which he owes without that title.
Romeo doff thy name, and for that name
Which is no part of thee, take all myself.
The quote brought me back to my early high school years, a time when I didn’t really know myself. If someone were to ask me who I was, I would have probably answered, a freshman at this high school. I felt awkward saying my name; it was long and I almost never said it out loud. So, instead of giving out my name, I would give an answer that categorically described me, which changes as I grow older. I could easily have been named Romeo or Montegue or Juliet or Capulet. The name was something I placed on homeworks, assignments and scantrons. But isn’t there something attached to the name? It seemed I never really got to know myself.
I was about to unbuckle my flimsy belt I had bought at a discount store by the Laundromat near my home, when I saw another quote in the corner of the door of the stall. This time, the quote was from Jason Mraz. It read, “Your name is your virtue.” I was deeply confused reading the Shakespeare quote and the Jason Mraz quote juxtaposed, somewhat, in the same stall.
“Huh?” I found myself perplexed; here, Shakespeare said that a name was just an empty title, but then Jason Mraz turned around and added meaning and morals to it. I was extremely baffled and disconcerted. Who was right? What defines a person, an individual?
I shook this mystery off and walked out of the bathroom, determined not to get a headache, when I saw Natalie standing by the large mirror in which you can see your entire body. She was applying makeup. Her arm movements toward her face were brusque, particular and careful. Everything about her was particular; she wore the perfect shade of eye-shadow that fit her complexion and only her complexion, unlike the shouting blue eye-shadow I see on girls who try too hard. Her lips glistened in the light, but did not come out as too wet and hair-sprayed-like and shiny. I looked at myself and saw my keratosis pilaris bumps on my legs and upper arms. I could have done something about those, but I was too lazy and I didn’t care much about them. I never really looked at them, at me, in the mirror. Most mornings, I would get up and get ready for school without even looking in the mirror. I wouldn’t even really fix my hair.
I left Natalie with her make-up to rush to class. Leaving the bathroom I walked out into the hall until I was at the top of a long, tall flight of stairs. From the top, all the movement at the bottom looked like the churning of waves. I imagined myself in a lonely lighthouse, observing the waters for boats. My light would scan the ocean and observe. The lighthouse never looks inward; its light just stretches far out. Taking me out of my imagination, Natalie walked passed me and descended down the steps. I watched her until she reached the bottom. Then something unexpected happened.
She looked up at me. Why? It wasn’t a split second thing. She stared at me for at least thirty seconds. I was freaked out and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to pretend to look elsewhere, but I couldn’t help it; her big, round, orb-like eyes were magnetic and they attracted my eyes. So I started to wave at her, instinctively; but, as soon as I lifted as much as a finger, she started to head for class. My heart was racing.
___________________
Busying myself with school work so as not to feel guilty of being distracted with my obsession with Natalie, I began to actually do well in school and be more focused and overall proud and happy with myself and my status in my classes among other students. I was self-assured, no longer passive and simply observant. Classes were spent with my asserting myself, participating in class discussions with my reactions and thoughts about the material we read. It seemed that my presence, for the first time, was my property, and I owned the signature I put on the attendance sheet. I even added a little zing to it, some personality: I made my signature a hybrid between print and script.
Although Natalie still participated, she was markedly quieter. I felt a little sorry and guilty for having, in a sense, took her role. But, at the same time, I felt too proud of myself to retreat to my old self, which, as I look back with reflective eyes, wasn’t much. This ambivalence I often set aside to make way for my newfound confident stride. For some time, I didn’t think of Natalie or her leather bag, which was now fading, turning a little dull in the light and looking heavy and worn out
One day, Natalie and I had to hand in a paper for one of our classes. I yawned as I sat at my usual desk. I had been having near-sleepless nights, working on assignments until late in the night and into the wee hours. As usual, Natalie came in punctually. However, instead of taking her usual seat, center and front, she sat behind me, by the window.
“Pass up your papers.” Our professor waited at the front of the room with his hands on his hips.
I turned around to collect all the papers from the students in the back. Natalie handed them to me. Although I had distanced myself from Natalie, interest in her sparked again. I took that opportunity, of facing her to get the papers, as a chance to see any meaning in her face, as to why she should pick that particular seat. She gave me nothing; it was just as blank as the stare she sent from the bottom of the flight of stairs. What was she playing at?
Throughout the class, Natalie remained outstandingly silent. It felt like a hiatus to the usual status quo of how the class ran. Participating or not, she still drew the same number of eyes, except, since she was sitting behind me, eyes were drawn in my direction as well. As other students (I included) attempted to take her place, and as eyes were eventually pulled away from Natalie, she tapped me on the shoulder. My heart pounded slightly faster. I hesitantly pivoted a little and she handed me a note. It read, “Were you the girl at the top of the stairs?”
“No,” I wrote, lying.
“What?” She must have been confused and slightly stunned, not at the possibility that she may have been talking to the wrong person, but at the fact that I was lying.
“I mean yes,” I wrote after she handed me the note again, with her response of small shock. She didn’t deserve to be lied to; she was the truest thing out there, I thought; she was the most sincere person I’ve seen.
“Can we talk after class?”
“Sure . . . .” I was scared; I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Is she mad at me for when I kept following her? Perhaps she’s upset that I have stolen her thunder in the classroom. I was beginning to regret writing “Sure.” I should have asked, “Why?” but I was scared to know. You can imagine how scared I was when class ended.
___________________
We sat down on a near-by bench outside. Natalie had tears running down her face. I frowned. My poor specimen! I asked what the matter was. She told me what the matter was, or attempted to; her speech was incomprehensible because of her emotions and all her tears, which began to wet her blouse. Lifting my arm to pat her in comfort, I was surprised when she slapped my hand away. So she was mad at me!
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to follow you; I’ll stop. I was just, I don’t know . . . lost,” I began. She disregarded what I said and started to make a scene, sobbing loudly, as I looked around and saw people staring at us, stopping like the pedestrian form of rubber-neckers. One hiccup and she was ready to explain more clearly, well, somewhat.
“My . . . boyfriend . . . broke up with me,” she sobbed in intervals. I was surprised that this was what she wanted to tell me. I thought what she wanted to tell me would have to do with me.
“So sorry to hear that.” I tried to pat her on the back again, but like before, she resisted it.
“Didn’t you know?”
Now I was confused and taken aback. “No. Should I have known?”
“Aren’t you the girl he was seeing behind my back?”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“Well, you kept following me, I thought maybe . . . .”
I was relieved to figure out what was going on in Natalie’s head, not so much at the fact that I discovered the mystery of why she started to take an interest in me, but that the mystery was really something insignificant. My Natalie had intrigued me so much that I began to intrigue her!
“So then why did you keep following me?” she asked, justly.
“Like I said, I felt . . . lost . . . I’m not sure why. Half the time, I don’t know why I do things . . . until now.” In saying that, I found myself suddenly above her, knowing what really went on during those times of close-reading in on each other in the hallway, on that rainy day, and at the bottom of the stairs. Those moments seemed like hotspots during the Cold War. I had come out confident after all we had been through because she had confused me for someone else, while I delved myself in observation of her, the true her and found out so much more; deep feelings grabbed hold and organized me.
“Hey, why don’t we start over?” I gave my hand for her to shake, knowing I probably didn’t answer her question satisfactorily, but not caring. She took my hand and surprisingly smiled. Now, why did she do that? Another mystery I thought, but I didn’t care to dive into it at the moment.
Then, with full assurance, I said, “My name is . . . .”
by Bernadette Tinio
“Hi.”
“I'm sorry, do I know you?”
We were walking down an empty hallway. I had caught up with her with a determination to exchange pleasantries; I was interested in her manner as I observed in many of the English classes we shared. She was a tall, black girl, named Natalie, with a sophisticated style of clothing and hair. Gifted with a tongue of articulation and eloquence, she always had her hand raised with her insights about the stories we read in class.
“I was in four of your English classes last semester and three of them this semester.” I tried to remind her.
“Oh sorry; but, I really don't remember you.”
This was starting to hurt.
“You sat next to me all last semester in contemporary lit.”
Does any of that ring a bell? She looked at me with the most sincere puzzlement in her eyes. “I let you borrow a pen once.” She had forgotten to return it.
As much as this conversation hurt me, I was, nonetheless, very much intrigued by the way she carried herself. Unlike most students, myself included, she did not use a backpack; rather, she wore a shoulder bag made of real leather – not the shiny kind that glares obnoxiously when in the light, as if it were made cheap in some manufacturing factory, trying to pass off, desperately, like the real deal leather. No, her bag was authentically made with a fresh smile of originality – and it showed in her composure. She walked with confidence and self-awareness and had big, orb eyes to absorb all that came in her line of vision. If one of her professors were walking by, she would quickly target him and stride over to his side to strike a conversation about over-arching themes across multiple literary works of authors in the same era. Something like that. Her mind was always active with thoughts and reactions of whatever she read, whatever her eyes could see and see through.
I let our conversation slide and subside for a while.
__________________
Noon pellets of rain from the overcast sky tapped at the window I was sitting next to in the global literature class I shared with Natalie, a class in which Natalie was excelling well above others. She tested our professor countless of times and that made the class all the more interesting. The whole class would hold their breath and not say a word; there would be an intellectual battle scene between the professor and Natalie to which all eyes were drawn. At the end of the class it seemed everyone, except the professor and Natalie, would exhale at the same time, in relief. But that rainy day I did not pay much attention to the exchange of comments shot between the professor and Natalie; they had relegated to the status of a hushed mumble in my ears.
I looked out of the window. The darkening clouds made the raindrops harder to see unless they splashed in the puddles, distorting their own reflection. Soon, it got dark enough that my own reflection could be seen in the window. I saw a girl sitting at a desk, but who was she? She had on my clothes, but her face, like the raindrops, was distorted in the reflection. It was distorted and unclear. For the rest of the class period, I tried to figure out this mystery until my eyes grew tired. While filing out of the classroom with the rest of the herd of students, I rubbed my eyes and wiped my glasses on my shirt, holding the door with my foot, for a few students passing by me and out the door. When I finally put my glasses back on, it was to see, in clear view, Natalie, who was the last one out of the door, in front of me.
We walked out of the building and out into the rain. I put on my hood, which covered almost half of my face, while she opened a big, black umbrella. It seemed to be infinitely black. It was so black. There were no other colors, no patterns, no shades of colors. It was just a penetrating and certain black. Her umbrella held against the wind. My hood kept blowing off and I had to hold it in place with my hand. I thought perhaps she wouldn’t notice if I slid under her umbrella, behind her. Really, I was soaking wet and the pelting rain canceled out my wiping my glasses back in the classroom. The rain distorted my vision seen through the lenses. I made a quick jog to catch up to her, then, quietly and carefully, I followed her pace, close behind her. Past the blurriness and my hood, I saw that Natalie was carrying her cell phone. She was texting in the rain; a girl-on-the-go, eh? I wondered whom she was texting because she was texting fervently. Parents maybe? Boyfriend? Does she have one? And then—
Slam!
Natalie had stopped abruptly, responding to a text she received, when I smacked into her, my face hitting the back of her right shoulder. Just previously I was trying to look over her shoulder, fully delved in the mystery of trying to find out more about her through her text messages.
“Ouch, damn it.” I mumbled. Breathing slightly heavily through my nose, I patted my lower lip and tasted it to see if I was bleeding. My mouth had been opened, I realized, and when I banged into her, my jaw closed suddenly. She looked back at me. I was bleeding a bit.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t know you were there. Are you--”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Yeah . . . I . . . I know,” I looked at the blood on the tip of my fingers. “I have to go. Nice umbrella,” I muttered with my hand covering my lips as I was starting to walk away, taking a glance at her big, round eyes.
Did she suspect anything? She seemed too distracted with the blood. But when she talked to me, she had a confused look on her face. Surely she was speculating something. And was she going to say, “Are you all right?” or, “Are you following me?” I didn’t want her to finish her sentence; I felt too guilty and ashamed that she might have thought I was, in a sense spying on her. For the rest of the day, I made sure not to bump into her. I felt as if I were punished with a bloody lip, for making my way, clumsily, into her privacy.
_____________________
A few days after that rainy day, having ten minutes to get to my next class, I thought I would make a quick stop at the bathroom. The bathroom I went to is known for having quotes written on the walls of the stalls. These marked efforts of expression by other girls provided amusing reading material for the bored eye. As I entered one of the stalls, I saw that in the center of the stall door, there was a popular Shakespearean quote. It read, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by another other name would smell as sweet.” I continued it in my head:
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection
Which he owes without that title.
Romeo doff thy name, and for that name
Which is no part of thee, take all myself.
The quote brought me back to my early high school years, a time when I didn’t really know myself. If someone were to ask me who I was, I would have probably answered, a freshman at this high school. I felt awkward saying my name; it was long and I almost never said it out loud. So, instead of giving out my name, I would give an answer that categorically described me, which changes as I grow older. I could easily have been named Romeo or Montegue or Juliet or Capulet. The name was something I placed on homeworks, assignments and scantrons. But isn’t there something attached to the name? It seemed I never really got to know myself.
I was about to unbuckle my flimsy belt I had bought at a discount store by the Laundromat near my home, when I saw another quote in the corner of the door of the stall. This time, the quote was from Jason Mraz. It read, “Your name is your virtue.” I was deeply confused reading the Shakespeare quote and the Jason Mraz quote juxtaposed, somewhat, in the same stall.
“Huh?” I found myself perplexed; here, Shakespeare said that a name was just an empty title, but then Jason Mraz turned around and added meaning and morals to it. I was extremely baffled and disconcerted. Who was right? What defines a person, an individual?
I shook this mystery off and walked out of the bathroom, determined not to get a headache, when I saw Natalie standing by the large mirror in which you can see your entire body. She was applying makeup. Her arm movements toward her face were brusque, particular and careful. Everything about her was particular; she wore the perfect shade of eye-shadow that fit her complexion and only her complexion, unlike the shouting blue eye-shadow I see on girls who try too hard. Her lips glistened in the light, but did not come out as too wet and hair-sprayed-like and shiny. I looked at myself and saw my keratosis pilaris bumps on my legs and upper arms. I could have done something about those, but I was too lazy and I didn’t care much about them. I never really looked at them, at me, in the mirror. Most mornings, I would get up and get ready for school without even looking in the mirror. I wouldn’t even really fix my hair.
I left Natalie with her make-up to rush to class. Leaving the bathroom I walked out into the hall until I was at the top of a long, tall flight of stairs. From the top, all the movement at the bottom looked like the churning of waves. I imagined myself in a lonely lighthouse, observing the waters for boats. My light would scan the ocean and observe. The lighthouse never looks inward; its light just stretches far out. Taking me out of my imagination, Natalie walked passed me and descended down the steps. I watched her until she reached the bottom. Then something unexpected happened.
She looked up at me. Why? It wasn’t a split second thing. She stared at me for at least thirty seconds. I was freaked out and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to pretend to look elsewhere, but I couldn’t help it; her big, round, orb-like eyes were magnetic and they attracted my eyes. So I started to wave at her, instinctively; but, as soon as I lifted as much as a finger, she started to head for class. My heart was racing.
___________________
Busying myself with school work so as not to feel guilty of being distracted with my obsession with Natalie, I began to actually do well in school and be more focused and overall proud and happy with myself and my status in my classes among other students. I was self-assured, no longer passive and simply observant. Classes were spent with my asserting myself, participating in class discussions with my reactions and thoughts about the material we read. It seemed that my presence, for the first time, was my property, and I owned the signature I put on the attendance sheet. I even added a little zing to it, some personality: I made my signature a hybrid between print and script.
Although Natalie still participated, she was markedly quieter. I felt a little sorry and guilty for having, in a sense, took her role. But, at the same time, I felt too proud of myself to retreat to my old self, which, as I look back with reflective eyes, wasn’t much. This ambivalence I often set aside to make way for my newfound confident stride. For some time, I didn’t think of Natalie or her leather bag, which was now fading, turning a little dull in the light and looking heavy and worn out
One day, Natalie and I had to hand in a paper for one of our classes. I yawned as I sat at my usual desk. I had been having near-sleepless nights, working on assignments until late in the night and into the wee hours. As usual, Natalie came in punctually. However, instead of taking her usual seat, center and front, she sat behind me, by the window.
“Pass up your papers.” Our professor waited at the front of the room with his hands on his hips.
I turned around to collect all the papers from the students in the back. Natalie handed them to me. Although I had distanced myself from Natalie, interest in her sparked again. I took that opportunity, of facing her to get the papers, as a chance to see any meaning in her face, as to why she should pick that particular seat. She gave me nothing; it was just as blank as the stare she sent from the bottom of the flight of stairs. What was she playing at?
Throughout the class, Natalie remained outstandingly silent. It felt like a hiatus to the usual status quo of how the class ran. Participating or not, she still drew the same number of eyes, except, since she was sitting behind me, eyes were drawn in my direction as well. As other students (I included) attempted to take her place, and as eyes were eventually pulled away from Natalie, she tapped me on the shoulder. My heart pounded slightly faster. I hesitantly pivoted a little and she handed me a note. It read, “Were you the girl at the top of the stairs?”
“No,” I wrote, lying.
“What?” She must have been confused and slightly stunned, not at the possibility that she may have been talking to the wrong person, but at the fact that I was lying.
“I mean yes,” I wrote after she handed me the note again, with her response of small shock. She didn’t deserve to be lied to; she was the truest thing out there, I thought; she was the most sincere person I’ve seen.
“Can we talk after class?”
“Sure . . . .” I was scared; I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Is she mad at me for when I kept following her? Perhaps she’s upset that I have stolen her thunder in the classroom. I was beginning to regret writing “Sure.” I should have asked, “Why?” but I was scared to know. You can imagine how scared I was when class ended.
___________________
We sat down on a near-by bench outside. Natalie had tears running down her face. I frowned. My poor specimen! I asked what the matter was. She told me what the matter was, or attempted to; her speech was incomprehensible because of her emotions and all her tears, which began to wet her blouse. Lifting my arm to pat her in comfort, I was surprised when she slapped my hand away. So she was mad at me!
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to follow you; I’ll stop. I was just, I don’t know . . . lost,” I began. She disregarded what I said and started to make a scene, sobbing loudly, as I looked around and saw people staring at us, stopping like the pedestrian form of rubber-neckers. One hiccup and she was ready to explain more clearly, well, somewhat.
“My . . . boyfriend . . . broke up with me,” she sobbed in intervals. I was surprised that this was what she wanted to tell me. I thought what she wanted to tell me would have to do with me.
“So sorry to hear that.” I tried to pat her on the back again, but like before, she resisted it.
“Didn’t you know?”
Now I was confused and taken aback. “No. Should I have known?”
“Aren’t you the girl he was seeing behind my back?”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“Well, you kept following me, I thought maybe . . . .”
I was relieved to figure out what was going on in Natalie’s head, not so much at the fact that I discovered the mystery of why she started to take an interest in me, but that the mystery was really something insignificant. My Natalie had intrigued me so much that I began to intrigue her!
“So then why did you keep following me?” she asked, justly.
“Like I said, I felt . . . lost . . . I’m not sure why. Half the time, I don’t know why I do things . . . until now.” In saying that, I found myself suddenly above her, knowing what really went on during those times of close-reading in on each other in the hallway, on that rainy day, and at the bottom of the stairs. Those moments seemed like hotspots during the Cold War. I had come out confident after all we had been through because she had confused me for someone else, while I delved myself in observation of her, the true her and found out so much more; deep feelings grabbed hold and organized me.
“Hey, why don’t we start over?” I gave my hand for her to shake, knowing I probably didn’t answer her question satisfactorily, but not caring. She took my hand and surprisingly smiled. Now, why did she do that? Another mystery I thought, but I didn’t care to dive into it at the moment.
Then, with full assurance, I said, “My name is . . . .”
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