Confinement

We have all felt inclosed, at one point or another, felt as if we are trapped with no escape. It's a common feeling in human beings; to feel as if you are confined in a space, mental or physical, with no escape. I know that before any big test, I begin to feel trapped in my mind as I continuously review subjects and become increasingly stressed out. There's no escape- I must sit in my pool of nerves and stress until that climax of stress, when it all combines to form a tumult of unease and disquietude. This is usually when I finish my test, hand it in, and finally feel the shroud of apprehension lift from my body. But what if there was no flight from the "box" you're encased in, what if it is not mental but physical, tangible? And what if this box you are in is not a box at all, but a real, palpable room in which you have spent your whole life?

In the book Room by Emma Donoghue, Jack has spent the first five years of his adolescence trapped, literally, in a room with his mother. I have only just begun the book, but I begin to see what is terribly wrong with this situation. The book is told from the perspective Jack, and though his description of the world may not be extremely graphic, we still understand that Jack and his mother are trapped in a room where they have lived for all of Jack's five years. A mysterious man named "Old Nick" comes every night and Jack must go in what he refers to as "wardrobe", where he sleeps and hides from Old Nick. It was my first conclusion that Jack and his mother were imprisoned in a jail, yet they seem to be the only ones there, besides Old Nick who only runs their errands and comes every night to Jack's mother, who loathes him. It is now my deduction that Jack and his mother are kept in this room by Old Nick, for whatever reason, and Jack's mother and Old Nick have a sexual relationship of some sort. Whatever the reason may be, something is terribly amiss if Jack has spent the first half-decade of his life trapped in a room, without seeing anything that may be outside of the room. For a room to be the only room he knows, and for his friends to be what he refers to as "Chair" and "Rug." If the only world a five-year old knows is a 121 square-foot space, I say there is something seriously flawed in his life.

In much the same way, a child's adolescence should not consist of wartime regimes, guns, and deaths. After researching child soldiers and making observations on their lives for the past few days, I can relate both Jack's life to the lives of the child soldiers worldwide. In fact, it is my belief that the lives of child soldiers and the life of Jack are on two ends of the "trapped in a box" spectrum. Whereas child soldiers are trapped in a world of battles, the witnessing of killings, and exposure to things way beyond their years, Jack is exposed to a universe of boring nothingness, and hasn't experienced enough of the world for his age. Both child soldiers and Jack will never truly escape their box; Jack will forever be scarred by his first childhood years in the room and will have difficulties adjusting to the outside world, and child soldiers will be forever on the battlefield, their development disrupted and their nervous systems maimed. To contain a child in any sort of box; be it mental, physical, metaphorical, is abuse. Children should not be left to roam free in the streets, without any parent to love them or any sort of guidance through life, yet they should also not be so restrained that they are mentally damaged. As with most things in life, I believe the key is balance and moderation. Although from time to time, we all find ourselves in a box.

The Final Stage of Maturity

It is a struggle to accept your parents for all that they are, and for all that they have been in the past. It is even more of a difficult task to endure your mother and father if they are insane, or possess some quality that is "off", that you can't quite put a finger on. If your parents have mental obstacles or issues of some sort, or are moderately passive aggressive, or simply had some major flaw, it is strenuous for us, their children, to recognize these qualities whilst living in their households and adhering to their rules. A child looks up to their parents, from day one, for they are the ones to raise you care for you, and love you passionately. If you are rejected in some other social form, you always have your parents to fall back on. We do not acknowledge, or are not aware, of how psychotic and deranged our parents truly are; we find them to be perfectly normal. But even when we do begin to discern this possible insanity or flaw within our parents, in our adolescent and teenage years, our perception of what are parents truly our is marred by a veil of hormones and self-obsessment.

I will not say that my parents possess some major flaw that everyone needs to be aware of; it is my opinion that my parents are relatively normal and are not verging on insanity, or any major defect in their character that I am aware of. But as I said before, while we are children, or what the law defines as children, it is a great hindrance to identify our parents' true imperfections and see them as the rest of the world sees them. My parents get on my nerves, sure, so do everyone else's. And maybe my mother can be a little overdramatic at times and my dad tyrannical. But these things are minuscule, and have done nothing to really prevent me from growing up in a stable environment, from my understanding. I've turned out reasonably normal, and therefore my parents had done their job accurately. Yet can the same be said for all people, especially those who have grown up in situations that are precarious?

I recently begun the book A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner, one of my favorite books. Mariam, the protagonist, lives with her mother on the outskirts of Herat, a city in Afghanistan. She was borne to a rich father, who lives in the heart of Herat and has three wives and nine other children. Her mother was poor, worked as a servant for her father's family, and Mariam only exists because of an accident, which her mother constantly reminds her of. She calls her harmani, meaning bastard, and pelts rocks at Mariam's half-brothers, who bring Mariam and her mother rice and sugar and flour every month as "penance" for what Jalil, Mariam's father, put Nana, Mariam's mother, through. He made her live far away, on the outskirts of his city, made her stay away from his true wives and children. He comes to visit Mariam every thursday, bearing gifts at times, and stories, yet is reluctant to tell her of his life in the city and the rich lives he experiences with his wives and sons. When Mariam escapes to the city, to attempt at spending time with her father, he acts as if he is not at home, and tells his servants to send her away, and Mariam refuses and eventually ends up sleeping on the street in front of her father's house. Her father lets her spend the night on the street in front of his house, and does not offer her lodging nor does her acknowledge her presence on the street. When Mariam goes back to her desolate house, sobbing, "Mariam saw. A gust of wind blew and parted  the drooping branches of the weeping willow like a curtain, and Mariam caught a glimpse of what was beneath the tree: The straight -backed chair, overturned. The rope dropping from a high branch. Nana hanging at the end of it."

This moment in the book is incredibly symbolic. Firstly, we see the defects that both Mariam's father and her mother possess, her mother possessing ones that are incredibly interesting, that will shape Mariam in the future and will probably flaw her deeply as well. Mariam's mother longs for Mariam's love and attention, and in turn loves her as well, yet masks this through hateful words for Mariam's father and a constant mention of Mariam's faults and what an awful child she is. Mariam's mother, Nana, hates herself for these spiteful words she throws at Mariam, for Mariam is the one person in the world who loves her. Mariam also despises her mother for being spiteful towards Jalil, Mariam's father, who Mariam loves desperately, and looks up to and models herself after. Mariam is so blinded by her love of Jalil that she does not see that his love for her is marred by his love for his ego, his image in the town of Herat. He will not allow Mariam to sleep under his roof, or give her shelter of any sort, and allows her to sleep on the street. Once Mariam sees that she truly is a burden to her father, she clearly sees that she is scum in her father's eyes, she now understands his flaws and, in a way, has grown up. When Mariam goes back to her home, she sees that her mother has committed suicide after Mariam chose to go see her father. Mariam here sees what her mother truly is; a mentally deranged woman who has been deeply traumatized in her past. Mariam grows here, too. It is my belief that when we see our parents for what they truly our, as the rest of the world sees them, we have grown up.

So whether growing up comes at the age of fifteen, as it did for Mariam, or when you're 50 and you finally realize that your mother has no friends for a reason, I believe that this is the juncture when we transition from child to adult.

Abandoned Souls

"All of our waste which we dumped on her and which she absorbed. And all of our beauty, which was hers first and which she gave to us. All of us-all who knew her-felt so wholesome after we cleaned ourselves on her. We were so beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness. Her simplicity decorated us, her guilt sanctified us, her pain made us glow with health...Even her waking dreams we used- to silence our own nightmares. And she let us, and thereby deserved our contempt. We honed our egos on her, padded our characters with her frailty, and yawned in the fantasy of our strength."
                                                -The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

To be cast off, from a group, from friends, from society, is a pain and burden so unbearable that only those who have an unmeasurable inner resilience can come away from such an experience unscarred. It hurts to be forgotten, or discarded, from a group of people, especially by those whom you loved. We've all probably been disposed of in such a manner by a group of people; whether it was in grade school, and you weren't allowed to play with a certain group of people because they had forbade it, or one of your friends decided that you were freakish and strange and went to go find another group of friends to hang out with. Perhaps it's simply a teacher who no longer wants to listen to your answers, and ignores you, and you are cast off there, as well.

My experience with being "cast off" involved one of my childhood best friends, who I've known since kindergarden. I was friends with her from the very beginning of my adolescence, since the first day of kindergarden, when we chose line partners and our hands met over another whimpering girl, who could not find a line partner. We both asked one another if we wanted to be partners, simultaneously, and I can still hear our laughter as we interrupted one another, excitedly talking. That was the true initiation of our friendship; it continued all throughout elementary school. She was my best friend, or one of them, at least. She was hilarious, and we were always laughing, or abusing her pets and making her dog and cat fight each other. We began to grow apart when I was about 10 or 11. I can't really discern who cast who off, who forgot the other and went on to find other friends. At first, I wanted to blame her for the destruction of our friendship, for casting me off and forgetting about me to go find other friends. This is usually not the case, however. I feel guilt for shutting her out, for neglecting our friendship and failing to salvage it. But in this situation, it doesn't matter who cast who off, for it injured and marred us in our own separate ways.

This same cast-off role is apparent in Toni Morrison's book The Bluest Eye. The story is told from the point of view of a girl named Claudia, yet Claudia is a mere observer. It is my opinion that the true protagonist is a girl named Pecola, for the story is centered around her. Pecola is a girl living in a predominantly black neighborhood; northern slums where racism is prevalent. She is beaten by her mother, and constantly watches her mother and father engage in horrid assaults of one another. Pecola is constantly referred to as "ugly" and "odd" by the members of her neighborhood, her family receiving these labels as well. When she is around 12 years of age, Pecola is raped and impregnated by her father, and becomes even more of a social pariah than she previously was. Although her baby dies, the imprint of what was done to her remains, and people cast Pecola off and use her as their punching bag, their source of happiness and reassurance, for when they see Pecola in all her grime and filth, they see themselves as being better, as being more substantial people. When they see what has been done to Pecola by her father, they look at themselves as being virtuous and pure. Pecola stifles the insecurities of people in her neighborhood, and makes them feel secure in their own bodies, for she herself is a monstrosity. It is my belief that all of us who are cast out in one way or another act as a suppressor of personal vulnerabilities for those who cast us out. When those who cast us off look at us, they see all of their greatness compared to all of our flaws, and all of the difficulties we have suffered, and how much better their lives have been in comparison to this. We act as a constant reminder of the guilt they feel for casting us off, yet also as a washcloth or rag that they may clean themselves with, so that they may shine in our gloominess.

The Figurative Egg

I believe that all of us, at one point or another in our lives, have attempted at covering our insecurities and vulnerabilities from others, so as that others cannot find that fragility within you and use it as a weapon, to maim and wound your feelings. I am an extremely sensitive person, and have been all my life. It is a topic I avoid at all costs; I deny it to anyone who seems to have discovered this defect. When I was very young, it was something I dealt with through tears and complaining. Over the years, this sensitivity has shrunk into a small, hardened ball inside of me, only to come out and arise when I am unable to swallow it, to control it. Dark humor and laughing at myself is what gets me by, and it has taken years and years of practice at containing my feelings, and redirecting them into work, or humor.

Whilst reading "Am I Blue?"by Bruce Coville, I thought about what I hide, what I cover up from others, and how much I can relate to Butch Carrigan, and the republican Congressman, who are both covering up their sexualities. I myself am not covering up my sexuality, or covering my sensitivity through violence or insufferable words. But I can definitely relate.

And while thinking about how relatable these characters happen to be, I also began to think about  society and the way people view and react to people's sexualities. Do people who are exploring their sexualities always get treated in the way that Vincent is treated in this short story? Are people who are possibly gay always greeted with the same daily fear of being bullied at school, taunted for being different? I pondered this as I sat reading the story, wondering if people do indeed suffer this torture every single day of their middle school and high school lives. After I had mulled over the troubles that Butch Carrigan inflicts upon Vincent, perhaps I am not all that much like him. In the opening paragraphs of "Am I blue?", we are greeted with an image of Vincent being kicked around in the mud by his nemesis, the bully that has scarred him both emotionally and physically for many years, simply because Vincent may or may not be gay. Vincent is then introduced to his "fairy godfather" who is willing to grant Vincent three wishes. Vincent is then given the power to see whether or not people are gay, or what degree their homosexuality is by the amount of blue their skin is pigmented with. Over the course of the story, Vincent learns that about 1 in every 10 people is a dark, vivid blue, and about 1 in every 4 people is at least tinted blue. Vincent also discovers that a Republic Congressman, who is famed for being a homophobe, is also a very bright shade of blue, and Vincent's bully Butch Carrigan, is "...blue as a summer sky..." When reading, I came to the realization that many people hide their sexuality through supposed hatred of gay people, or by saying foul things towards homosexuals to cover up what they are too frightened to admit. I myself do cover up my sensitivity with humor, and try as much as possible to be indifferent towards people, and, at times, I can be harsh towards others. I loathe myself for this. And while I interpreted this semi-hatred for myself for being abrasive and unfeeling towards others, I truly discovered how I relate to these characters, for they, too, feel a certain amount of animosity towards themselves.

It is much the case with the Republican Congressman; he covers his sexuality through hateful words and slogans that condone hatred towards gays. By doing so, this Republican Congressman defers attention away from what his sexuality is, and makes people focus on how much he supposedly hates homosexuals. In a way, he probably does hate people who are openly gay, for they had the strength to do what he couldn't ever muster the courage to do; to come out of the closet. This republican Congressman has to live behind a mask of his own insecurities his whole life, for he never had the strength to be honest with himself and others. It is much the same for Butch Carrigan, the bully that has tormented Vincent for so many years. Butch uses violence and foul words to exploit his supposed heterosexuality, when in reality must also feel a certain hatred for himself for never being honest, and for bullying Vincent when Vincent was one person in their school he could probably relate the most to. People who are homosexual and afraid to admit it, or simply people in general who are afraid of being honest about something for fear of being bullied or unaccepted will go to many lengths to protect themselves, and will form a hard shell of detestable words said towards gays, or rumored hatred towards gays so as that people are not able to penetrate their hard shell and hurt what lies underneath. I have a hard shell, and I have soft feelings that lay underneath that are fragile. In a way, I am much like an egg. I am fragile; which is attributable to my sensitive feelings, and although I do not cover this sensitivity through brutality, I am still composed of the same material as Butch Carrigan, and the Republican Congressman.