Libby's English

It was quite easy to judge The Glass Menagerie’s Laura for her almost immature way of escapism. She had immersed herself into a hobby that socially crippled her and prevented her from standing on her own in the real world. Its biggest appeal came from the idea that these little glass animals, especially the unicorn, represented Laura, her uniqueness, her fragility. I myself, cannot claim to be too far off from Laura’s manner of thinking. I am just as guilty of using an obsession to better represent me. Hello, I’m Libby, and I am a thriftoholic.

My hobby definitely hasn’t limited me to that world alone as Laura’s glass menagerie did. It does seem to devour plenty of time [perhaps why I haven't finished this assignment weeks ago??] but I honestly wouldn’t go back and trade a second of it. Nope, not one minute of any of the hours spent pushing my way through the rows of comically large 70s jackets in the smallest of thrift stores. Nor would a ask to retain the days spent losing myself in the attic in boxes of match boxes, photos, broken necklaces, etc. I would like to differentiate one thing between the menagerie and I. While Laura attached herself to that one unicorn to represent her entire being I’d like to believe that my entire collection of shrapnel from the past is represented by me. Myself standing here is just like a human quilt with all the scraps of history sewn together. It’s like how one of my favorite movies/books of all time would say “Everything is illuminated, in the light of the past,” -Everything is Illuminated by Jonathon Foer

So to give you a better idea of what I look for, here are my three biggest guilty pleasures…

Guilty Pleasure #1: Jewelry

Some of my favorite vintage jewelry pieces...

One of my biggest obsessions to date. One of my favorite sayings also has been “A world without jewelry is a dull world with which I would want no part of,” something I heard from my grandmother. She also gave me most of the pieces that make up my collection. No matter the age, a small piece of jewelry can say a lot about a woman. On a rainy day where I still want to feel classic but still feminine I might wear my old pink cameo necklace. On a day where I feel a bit bolder I’ll put on my grandmother’s big amber beaded necklace as pictured above [also for days in need of Russian pride!]. I have always been amused while going through thrift stores how the clothing can become so dated it may be comical, however jewelry remains relevant through out decades. Pieces like these have remained a constant in most cultures as a woman’s way to express her personality. Maybe one of the reasons I love wearing my grandmother’s stuff so much is because I believe [or hope] that my own personality and the way I manner myself is just another piece she handed down to me.

Guilty Pleasure #2: Vinyl Albums

some of my albums, and Declan, my record player, named after Elvis Costello

Should be self-explanitory. Everything sounds better on Vinyl.

Guilty Pleasure #3: Old Cameras

My Old Kodak, which came with a little surprise...

This is a bit of an interesting one. I have started a bit of a collection of vintage cameras, though most don’t actually work anymore.  Cameras always present during the most important and most memorable times of most people’s lives. When I pick out an old camera at the vintage shop, I try to imagine all the weddings, the baby showers, the birthdays, and even just nights out that this thing must have attended. Even if they don’t work, I like to put them on display in my room. I feel like then at least their stories and memories are being better respected than if they were just thrown out. The photo above is an old 1950s Kodak, the same model my grandma got for high school graduation ironically.  The best part though is the little surprise in the box that came with it which I only noticed a week after getting it. Pushed into the box was a postcard from somewhere in North Carolina; it was a young girl writing to a friend of hers.It was dated 1964. It reminded me of why I thrift, to keep stories [or spirits] alive.

Its funny how the past is woven into now.  My reasoning for my obsession is a bit hard to understand and even harder to explain. It comes only out of a true respect for the past and understanding of what has made me, my culture, my background. If a can quoteEverything is Illuminated once more, I’d refer to the seen where they had found the burried wedding rings from his grandmother during the Holocaust. “The ring is not here for us to go searching. We are here because of the ring.”

Quite literally, I must have put down this piece perhaps two, maybe even three times. The imagery on the first couple pages alone was enough to make one sick. Not to mention the sheer thought that a human being would be kept in such unimaginable conditions could bring a terrible taste to one’s mouth.  I understand the theme of our reading this year, depressing, but this was especially hard to get through right before lunch. One line that really popped out on the page was the mother screaming “Don’t take my baby!” Her baby? The term traditionally implies some sort of mothering position, one that lends nurturing arms to help life grow, thrive and be loved. That “baby” had been left malnourished and ignored for years on the ground of some dingy floor. The biological mother of Danielle couldn’t truely claim herself to be a mother when she couldn’t even show she was acting like a human being.

It is this lack of respect for human life that allows us as a people to loose faith in humanity. As the article went on, the unspeakable crimes of motherhood were almost upstaged. A couple looking for an older (potty-trained!) child claimed to have “saw something” in those dark longing eyes of Danielle. “Something” urged them to act out of the complete kindness of their heart and take in such a needing child. It seems to be that as ignorant and cruel the birth mother was, there was another home willing to take her in. Just as how as unjust and sick humanity may act at times, there will always be instances that seem to whipe away the filth others have left.

It is safe to say that history shows us that good scientists think, but great scientists completely alter the way in which we think. Thomas Edison did much more than discover new inventions; he found a determination that had lasted and defined America during the time and up to today. For this, he is a man of magnitude. His contributions went beyond the science realm and into matters of business, teamwork in research, and the American work ethic. His “Invention Factory” represented much more than the hundreds of creations made there, most of which we still see today. It was the first time the world had seen what later became known as research groups, many people working together towards specific discovery.  This new method allowed for different input, resulting in greater achievements.

The people that Edison worked with always pointed out that unique something about him, that essence about him which defined him as an American inventor.  Visitors of the Edison museum can see it quite easily too just by taking a look at his time clock which he himself punched in through. There were weeks that he had worked even 90 hours and happily. His determination was the greatest example of the American work ethic. Some may call it obsessive or crazy but if he hadn’t had tried thousands of materials to be used in one experiment, or payed close attention to every variable in every attempt hundreds of thousands of times we would never be at the point where we are today. Failure was not only a reality for Edison, but a good friend as he was quoted stating he enjoys negative results more than positive. So as a man with little formal education, Thomas Edison defined America’s unique ability and desire to perservere.  His inventions literally imporved the quality of everyday life, but he as an inspiration had improved and defined our way of life.

Sleep hard baby girl, hard as you can
You got to grow up big one day
The bigger the better
You see those birdies out there?
Big strong birdies, flying everywhere?
That’s what you got to do! Grow bigger!
Now, look over there, in that corner
Yeah that little bird, singing away
He didn’t grow too big now either
But he grew to be the perfect size
Perfect size to fit in that cage right there
Just like my dainty good for nothing cheek
That grew to fit his palm perfectly.

But nah, not you baby girl
My weary ol’ bones stopped growing years ago
But not you, you got a whole life!
I should know, I gave it to you
So this is what you got to do
Be like those birdies outside
Yup, you’re going to grow big one day
You’re going to grow bigger than this house
Those birdies are so big
They’re never going to fit a cage anymore
And your cheek, no, not your cheek
Your cheek will never fit
The cold side of
Any man’s hand
So you promise me that
That you’re going to keep growing
That you’ll never fit into nothing
That you’ll grow too big for this home
And too big for hands
Promise me that, baby girl.

Words. Letters. Small symbols completely jumbled into a mess that somehow cause a reactions from within us. Our own creation, how can such a small idea, confined to only paper or our own speech, cause such a response? “I have hated the words and I have loved them,” as stated by The Book Thief’s Liesel. Words are the one invention that has been able to alter the course of human history completely for the better and for the worse. They have been able to spark hatred as those spoken by Hitler and his propaganda: “Even when we have driven the Jew out of Germany, he remains our world enemy.” Those same symbols when rearranged have been able to completely lift people above such words of hatred as Mahatma Gandhi proved with his “The weak can never forgive; forgiveness is attributed to the strong,” which will always remain relevant as we try to forgive past crimes of humanity.

I was actually thinking about the power of words recently while at a party. I must’ve known only half the people there but I was mingling none the less. It was about this time that jokes began being exchange. As it continued it became more and more controversial. I began to feel almost uncomfortable when the Jew jokes started, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. I was never content hearing them but they were too common to object anymore and too common to have much of an effect on me. I received blow after blow completely unmoved until a certain y word came out. I looked up to see some teenage laughing at his own “joke”. He must’ve thought it was just a joke; he must’ve though it was just a word. I remember that word from somewhere else though. My grandmother told me the story of her uncle from Russia and the first time he saw the Pogroms. He was going about his daily routine when he gazed upon the wrecks of what was a near by village. Russians had come and burned it all. They destroyed businesses and homes. They had drowned people, families, all as they screamed a certain y word. He left Russia not long after and never looked back as Russian Jewry continues to burn. But even in America he could still hear the Russians, “Yids! Yids!” I wonder if somewhere in whatever unknown that may exist that he could see his great-grand niece be directly approached with it. I wonder if he saw me slapped with the word, like a cold hand. Did he think it was just a word? Did he think it was a wooden bat, one that our people had been beaten with for hundreds of years?

But surely words cannot just be weapons of mass devastation over generations. Of course not because there are words like forgiveness, the idea that we can learn for past mistakes. Words can create things just as equally inspiring as some can make tragic. They can tell stories, express emotion, or even apologize. Liesel experienced all of these types of words first hand in her experience in WWII. While Hitler spat out words like a faucet, destroying every person they touched in one way or another, Liesel was wrapped in warm words of Max’s story telling which expressed his humanity and gave her hope. Words certainly are a creation unique to the human race and we have done much destruction with it but it’s those same words possibly in just a different order that have allowed us to learn and heal from the destruction.

I’ve always hated talking about it. I just don’t want to even think about it. There were even points in The Book Thief that I just had to skip over; the imagery was just too strong. The Holocaust has never been an easy subject for me. Coming from a Jewish background, I can’t help but always go back to the thought that given the right time, it could’ve been me and how if it was, I would never been able to survive. And yet, for some reason when given the long list of sites to look at, I went straight to the survivor’s stories. The statistics themselves don’t really mean much I guess. As I sifted through story after incredible story, each story had a theme; each survivor shared a thought. Resourcefulness was key, but it means nothing without being paired with pure good luck. One survivor even went as far to say, “It was because of a miracle that I survived.”  In the other book I had read previously about the Holocaust, Maus, Art Spiegelman described his own reaction to hearing his own father’s survival story. We often see death as a sign of defeat and weakness but as Spiegelman stumbled upon, those who lived were definitely resourceful but those who didn’t make it could’ve been just as clever but one twist of cruel fate had taken them.

Everything is black. Though this moment is in no way in mourning, instead it is more of a warm black. I doze into the darkness for as long as possible until the alarm tears me out of it. My eyes open to see  a blurred mess of desaturated colors that are only one massive blob until I put my contacts in, then they are only slightly less of a blob. I drag myself into the kitchen as my eyes desperately struggle to remain open. Pink and green, everywhere. Who would be sick enough to make the first room I enter in the morning to be so bright? Someone who must have a terrible obsession with cruel irony. As I progress though, it tends to all mesh into an ugly brown color. The color remains with me as I continue my day into school, only it lightens slightly. This is most likely due to the florescent lighting. But everything turns to a pale tan. The brick walls, the floor, the desk, and for as far as I’m concerned, my paper that remains blank is the only thing that is pure white. For the most part, everything is this beige; it has no personality and nothing to keep my interest.  The day progresses and colors become darker as the sun approaches the horizon. I don’t know why but I always felt the darker colors were warmer. Perhaps it’s because it’s a sign that I’m in my own home again and away from such terrible lighting, or maybe because it’s a sign I’m getting closer to that warm blackness that surrounds me while I doze out of this world. The dark brown of the hard wood of this old house blankets me from everything outside of these walls. Such a shame how these dark colors are viewed so miserably. They are always worn in mourning, when we have lost someone, or something.  Whenever i see black, it welcomes me; it is my shelter within my own home. My eyes search for it when my body goes looking for rest. When all the work is done, my feet find their way to my room, so perfectly dimly lit. I shut my eyes and lay in the peace of the blackness. I am not in mourning in this blackness, I am only cleansing for tomorrow.

As we share this moment in the grass

I’m sorry for my arm grows where yours has fallen

And your leg where my weapon had dropped

Comrade now we are here only as one

I call you comrade for we are on the same side now

We’re on only mother earth’s side, only dirt

How foolish of us to think any different

We are just grass now, altogether

Us two, indefinable, no blade greener than another

How foolish of us to think any different

When I was born they taught me to love my mother

When I was ten they taught me be wary of my neighbor

When I was 18 they taught me to mourn

But my own death, though charts still claimed me alive

I desperately try to remember a time

Before I was taught to worry or to mourn

A time before I was taught to love

A moment when the air was somewhere between 80-95*

And the mightiest of winds blew the gentlest of gusts

And all the loud cries leveled to but just a murmur

And I was blind but for my blurred sense of where I was

And your face is completely hidden in this massive blur

Of which any likeness is lost to the surrounding warmth

That moment begins to seem a lot like this one

Oh how such irony is always victor!

How our blood shed only soften soil

I am honored to be indefinable with you

Comrade, here, this moment in the grass

“Is Google Making us Stupid?” [blog]

After reading the title of the article I was already suiting up for battle to defend my precious internet by any means necessary. Somewhere in between skimming the article to just find one quote to use to prove I read it and simultaneously sifting through crappy indie bands on myspace music while looking up recipes for breaking my fast that night while checking my email for the third time that day, I had an epiphany. Google isn’t making us stupid; it’s giving us the attention span of a goldfish. Nicholas Carr felt the need to share his recent weaknesses he found in reading after the internet had entered his life. Carr feels that the infinite quick answers at his fingertips has dumbed him down in a way. He is right in giving examples of people who admit to not being able to read long pieces and still fully absorbing all the information. “Over the past few years I’ve had an uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, remapping the neural circuitry, reprogramming the memory.” This indeed has been a result of the modern age of the internet.

It should be common sense that when a faster more convenient alternative is present people will be prone to take it. Sure I could read through Grey’s Anatomy to find what my symptoms can be a clue of, but why bother when I can just go to about.com’s health section and get the direct answer. The internet has been shortening our attention span since the very beginning. University College London has successfully figured out what mothers had been nagging about for years. The fact of the matter is everything is evolving and this includes forms of media. As in evolution we might lose some amazing traits like being able to read 10 pages without skipping ahead, but no transformation would go without gaining something.

Carr points out that the invention of the printing press and feared it had made men less studious. In fact, Florence had had the highest literacy rate of all of Europe and the humanists had made it one of the most intelligent city-states. “Others argued that cheaply printed books and broadsheets would undermine religious authority, demean the work of scholars and scribes, and spread sedition and debauchery.” This has been misinterpreted. The church had been undermined along with other writings but that was because cheap books allowed for more people to be literate and read things like the bible and interpret it in their own way, whether that interpretation be as glorious Donatello’s David or just some old kook screaming on the street. I believe this goes the same for what the internet is doing. Men do not need to go and spend years at universities to understand the bible, kids do not need to go the library to read book after book to understand one question on their homework. We are gaining more and more access to infinite information, but this comes with a tradeoff. I might not be able to read War and Peace as diligently I should, but at least I have access to infinite information on almost any subject.

So in conclusion Nicholas Carr is right to say Google has succeeded in disabling us to truly read long complex writings, but he is taking it to another extent when so courageously stating that this company aimed at capitalistic profit has made us stupid. The individual’s attention becomes harder and harder to keep as the world releases more and more understanding of everything around us. Our world’s evolution is a constant tradeoff that can be misinterpreted. The internet’s offer of never-ending knowledge at our fingers does effect our mental capabilities as proven but this new attention deficient disorder has led as to a greater demand of more knowledge which in no way makes us stupid.

I think there’s some sort of switch in my head, but i can’t reach it to turn it on or off. The only thing that can switch it are certain trigger sayings, like “required reading”. The minute such words are mentioned any functionality my brain once had is now long gone. It’s not that I feel reading is unnecessary, but i feel like it should be something very personal. If the rules were to read any book and take notes on it, students could explore a genre or author they truly are interested in or they could branch out with a recommendation from a friends with similar interests. When a book is required, students are left with the same option, put on the same adventure, making personal discovery with the text not very personal at all. While reading Angela’s Ashes, I couldn’t feel like Frank McCourt was talking to me about his life. He was talking to the entire freshman class, and not for his story’s sake, for our assignment’s sake. While reading my books of choice it was as if I was dining with Albert Camus and Pablo Neruda; it was just the authors and I conversing at some little empty cafe, trading stories, relating, discovering.

I did in fact get very intrigued with my choice books. As i said before I spent my summer getting to know famous 20th century French author Albert Camus through his first novel The Stranger which has probably become one of my favourite books now. I’m embarrassed to say it was my first experience with French literature but I’m glad i picked it up since the genre is so unique and untouched in our school curriculum. The book is the narration of a man who walks through life almost completely emotionally numb. He suddenly finds himself the murderer of another man and his life is put on trial. On the surface the plot seems simple but one doesn’t have to look far behind it to see how it was carefully crafted to be much more about Camus’ philosophy.  Through the characters actions and very simple language the reader got to understand his complexities and through this the reader questions his own self.

Keeping with the foreign Nobel prize winning author theme i had going this year, I managed to finally read the Captain”s Verses: the Love Poems by Pablo Neruda and yes it was a poetry book. I am quite the poetry nerd. I was actually recommended to read his work from a professor I met at a poetry convention couple years back but only got around to reading it now. I know some people might think that reading a poetry book isn’t really summer reading because there are no defined characters or outlined plot. I though this was true for CV until i gradually made my way through the book. Just because the plot was not drawn with specific dialogue doesn’t mean its not there. Through these poems i came to know the characters very well, the captain and his lover. I felt I got closer to their relationship by reading his letters to her which are ordered in such a way that I watch them fall in love, fall for lust, I watch their fights, i watch when they make up. Each chapter could be taken out of context and keep its meaning.

I didn’t get too distracted with authors who need translators that i forgot about the required book. I did read Angela’s Ashes. I would have preferred stumbling upon instead of being told to read it but i digress. What the summer reading rules can’t effect is McCourt unique take on voice and tone. I was thrown off on just the second page when he used humor to distance himself from the pain his father’s life might cause on him. with such a depressing story. There’s not much you can do to an autobiography writing wise since the story had already been written for you. McCourt did however use voice to the best of its use in order to make his story even more powerful and even more important to read. I really did enjoy his way with language and the path he took with it. No doubt it was a book I loved to pick up, although it might have tasted a little less bitter if I picked it up and not have someone hand it to me.