Classic Carol

Brevity is the soul of wit

…and of scannable writing, too.

Have you ever written a six-word short story? Hemingway wrote the following (and is said to have considered it one of his best works):
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

One by me:
One part student, two parts caffeine.

Many by others:
http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.11/sixwords.html
http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords
http://www.sixwordstories.net
http://6wordshorts.tumblr.com

Let the sappiness flow with pride! / Mother’s Day

Mom, you are too good to me. I tell you I love you every day, but that just isn’t enough. The fact that you didn’t throttle me when I was a teenage angstbucket—well, that alone is a testament to your patience and fortitude. I’m so blessed to have someone who will support me no matter what. You are so strong, so smart, so amazing. You are simply the best.

Happy Mother’s Day!

But It Sounds Better This Way!

Have you ever looked up the official lyrics to a song only to disappointed, because you like your misheard version better?

Case in point: Britney Spears’ “Ooh Ooh Baby,” 1:16-1:19

My version: “Your dirty face is right at home…between my hands”
Official version: “Your jersey fits; it’s right at home…between my hands.”

Really? “Your jersey fits”? I get that they were going for the wearing-his-shirt image, but “your dirty face” is a more potent image with multiple meanings, and goes better with “between my hands.”

Well, it’s still a catchy tune.

On another note: Remember the Cingular misheard lyrics commercial? ♫ LOCK THE CASHBOX! ♫

Check out this blog!

http://theseplaces.tumblr.com/

Why I Write

This is a speech I delivered when I was a high school student.

       This…[overly dramatic pause] is the beginning. OK, maybe that was a bit melodramatic, but those words did grab your attention, right? Or maybe they just made you think, “What sort of opening was that?” See, already I’m encountering this…problem. Of words, of how they are delivered. Of things you say but do not mean, and things you mean but can’t say. And then there are those occasions where you try to get something across but it just doesn’t work.

       Hopefully, today is not one of those occasions. You see, I often fritter away my time on useless words, words that will never see daylight, words that I mutter underneath my breath, emails drafted but never sent, half-composed letters shoved into a pocket only to reemerge after laundry day. Clichés and revelations, adages and gossip. And then you have your essays and dialogues and notes and sentences that you just can’t bring yourself to finish, and then you’re laughing for no apparent reason, crying at the most inopportune moment, and all the while words are jumbled and falling out of your mouth, uncooperative, not arranging themselves the way you’d like.

       So, we have this problem of words, communication, expression and the like. But it doesn’t need to be a problem. There is so much potential, so much that can be done with words. I love words. I love writing, especially. I’ve been writing for fun, writing as an outlet, writing simply because I want to since I was a child. I love how I can express what I believe at the speed of my pen or, better yet, my fingers on a keyboard. What I’ve found is that writing is a means of communication, of bridging gaps. But I think that I would have taken my ability to use words for granted, if it hadn’t been for my brother.

       My brother is autistic and mentally retarded. When I was growing up I never considered this strange or burdensome; he is only a year younger than I am, so to me he has always been a part of my life. And as a child, he wasn’t particularly odd or burdensome, and I enjoyed having a little brother to play with and to boss around. The fact that he couldn’t speak more than a handful of words or that he had trouble feeding himself never stuck out to me as much of an issue, because he was a sweet if troublemaking boy, and his infectious smile had an endearingly mischievous quality about it. But then came adolescence.

       My entry into adolescence was characterized by an overindulgence in moping and faux-cynicism. My brother’s was characterized by a marked increase in temper tantrums. That may not sound all that unusual, but as far as I know, the average teenager doesn’t vent his feelings by hitting his own face until his cheeks become bruised, or by throwing VCRs down the stairs, or by jumping up and down to the melodies of Barney and Friends, or by yanking at his mother’s hair as she attempts to drive him to school.

       His tantrums became the worst in my junior year. Sometimes, he would be so chaotic in the morning—toppling the kitchen table, slamming doors, grabbing and tearing everything in his sight—that it would be impossible to leave the house. He was on medication, and still is, but sometimes it takes a while to kick in. These fits of rage continued during my senior year. Occasionally he’d have two or three tantrums a day, each lasting for at least fifteen minutes. He would throw tantrums in the car, which made driving an extremely dangerous task, as he might grab the occupants’ hair or throw his shoes at them, all the while screaming and slapping his face. At one point this year, it was impossible to leave the room, even to go to the bathroom, because he would have a fit of rage should he be left alone.

       Other times, my brother will laugh, jump around, and sing fragments of songs from his favorite shows and movies. Sometimes he’ll have such cheerful moments after a tantrum. It can be hard to predict when either will occur. I’ve often cried out of desperation. I’ve screamed at him for not being like a normal boy—for not being able to just say what he needs, what he feels. I’ve said that I wished he would die. To this day, I hope that he did not know what I meant. On occasion, I wondered how much easier life would be without him. Immediately afterwards I would feel incredible shame. I would alternately be upset with him for being difficult, and upset with myself for being so weak, so selfish.

       Yes, I would have an easier life without my brother. Maybe I would even be happier without an occasionally violent, bothersome sibling whose actions I can barely—and often don’t—understand. But when I think about how much more selfish I would be without him, and how ignorant I would be, I realize how blessed I am to have him in my life. I am happy that he is a part of my life. Someone once told my family that my brother was a real tragedy for us, that people like him didn’t belong with regular people and should be shut away in an institution. I was enraged that someone would dare to say something so callous and ignorant. I continue to be stunned by how ignorant and intolerant so many people are in this day and age.

       One summer at camp, I was sitting at a lunch table with the other kids and the camp assistant, a college-aged adult. The conversation mainly concerned other camps we had attended. The assistant, who liked to regale us with humorous anecdotes, began describing an outdoors camp he had attended, and mentioned that one of his fellow campers had been a mentally disabled kid.

       In his words, the kid was a jerk; the boy was so unpopular that several campers forced him into a lake and pelted him with rocks. I stared in disbelief as the assistant recounted that experience with a laugh. I thought of my brother, who sometimes does not understand the concept of personal space and doesn’t realize that it’s not socially acceptable to hop around like a rabbit, or to rewind a movie repeatedly in the company of others who are trying to watch it.

       “Was he…?” I stumbled over my words. Everyone turned to look at me—it felt like that moment in class when someone who rarely participates in a discussion decides to speak up.

       I began again: “Was he really mentally disabled? I mean, severely? If he was, he wouldn’t have understood why he couldn’t behave like that.”

       The assistant slowly responded that he knew the kid was mentally disabled, but reiterated that he was “a jerk.” The others appeared satisfied with the assistant’s response, but I couldn’t shake my uneasy feeling.

       Now, I will be the first to point out that I hadn’t actually been there to see that kid, to observe his behavior, but whenever I think back on that conversation, I feel disturbed by the fact that the assistant did not understand what I was trying to say, that he did not understand the importance of tolerance. I was also shocked that he thought that ganging up on a person, regardless of his or her mental capabilities, was acceptable. It horrifies me to think that this sort of attitude still exists. It horrifies me to think that I could have been like that person.

       I can’t begin to imagine what I would be like without my brother. I can’t imagine life without him, without his smile. What strikes me as amazing is how his smile always seems genuine. People tend to have different smiles: a smirk of superiority; a lips-only, no-teeth smile for faint amusement; or a full out toothy grin for unrepressed glee or that dreaded yearbook photo. But my brother’s smile is always the same. And it always looks real. Sometimes it comforts me, and sometimes it fills me with helplessness because I can’t figure out why he’s smiling, what exactly is making him happy.

       So the times when I do realize what he means are infinitely valuable. And the times when I don’t—well, those spur me on; they make me want to work harder. My brother cannot read or write, and he can speak very little—certainly not enough to be on his own. I have a responsibility to use my words to communicate what I believe, what I think should be, because he can’t. I think it is wasteful and it is selfish not to embrace this gift, this privilege, of speaking, writing, reading, just getting the word out. I breathe words, I am choking on words. I am robbed of eloquence on a daily basis. I babble at 1 p.m. and mumble at 4. I recite vocabulary and formulas between classes and mouth things-to-do during lunch time. There are those moments when I speak just right, sentences punctuated and clipped to perfect length, but those are exceedingly rare.

       So, sometimes, writing just seems like the better alternative. But something has been bothering me for a while. I hate how writing has supposedly been one of those things that come naturally to me, but now I can’t compose a sentence without analyzing it for depth and originality. Can’t I just say what I want to say without imagining a panel of critics sniffing, “This sort of banal tripe lacks structure, clarity, and meaning”? There is, after all, not very much in life that resembles structure, clarity, and meaning.

       Perhaps this concern is borne out of a desire to find sense and order through writing. I’m sure that’s the purpose of a lot of writing. Maybe that’s a subconscious reason for why I write. But I have never said to myself, “I should write an essay attempting to delve into my soul and reveal hidden truths.” I write because I feel like it. I write because I feel an instinctual need to. I feel that there is importance to expression, that we are not meant to shut our thoughts within ourselves, that we should not withdraw from the realities of life, both crushing and wonderful. We need to communicate. And we cannot refrain from doing so because we are afraid that our words will fall short. Sure, we might stumble, but we have power on the tips of our tongues and in our fingers, and we can’t afford to waste it.

My brother’s name and one in-joke/audience-specific phrase have been omitted. Besides that, this post is essentially a transcript of what I said.