Personal Narrative

[Rahsash Geldich]

I think it’s extremely difficult to write a personal narrative. Some people don’t like to because they just plain don’t like to write. Others, because their talents lie in other places, or they can write beautiful, moving poetry, yet cannot write a story to save their English teacher from shooting fire from her eyes into their bellies because for again, their paper is late.

Yet, I think there is one more reason, which is truer than any of those, that people on the whole dislike personal narratives. To write a really moving piece that actually leaves the reader on better trains of thought than “Dear God above, if I ever have to read such an abuse of the English language again I will shove it down my throat in attempt to commit suicide” you have to tap into yourself. Deep into those hidden crannies we cloak in shadow and shove behind curtains.

People don’t like to be perceived as weak, fearful, jealous, doubting, or as anything that allowing those inner crannies of expression to escape can throw upon the surface to mortally embarrass us. We hate to admit a fear of spiders when reading someone else’s piece about how after getting both ankles broken and falling on a spiders’ nest, they still miraculously drug the orphan children from the burning house.

Or at least, that’s the way it is with me. But I’m going to write a narrative about fear anyways. Who knows, maybe it will be interesting after all.

 

I was walking down the hallway when I first noticed it. Every television in every classroom is on, and the picture speaks in a deep male voice that conveys immense empathy while still not managing to completely mask the bored “I’ve said this every day for the past three months.” A news-stream is swimming along the bottom, as if there is so much to communicate that you have to listen and read and watch as the reporter goes to half the screen and the troops he speaks of are shown to the right of his mask-like face that is ever more plastic in its mobility.

I pointedly don’t listen. All of it makes me afraid, the way that I’ve seen three wars in my lifetime and I’m not even old enough to be considered a voting citizen to say if I want them to happen. A girl with the same name as me going into the navy, my ex-boyfriend going into the air force, so many of my other friends with plans of joining and leaving and maybe never coming back. I can see the phantoms swimming behind their eyes and can see them looking out when they watch their future fall in shattered pieces they must walk upon with bare feet. It makes me so afraid.

I know that I should probably be listening, because it is, after all, my country. I say the pledge and play the national anthem with the band at games. I live a short distance from Fort Knox and I see the planes fly overhead in Thunder Over Louisville. The crashing sounds of the jets have never been absent from my life. I am happy where I live and would not rather belong to any other country. But I don’t agree with this.

Why should we have to go and kill people to get them to see that we shouldn’t be hated? Why do we keep insisting upon the war that we ‘enter reluctantly’? I don’t understand it, and to tell the truth, I am not entirely sure I want to. I don’t want to know what makes it right for us to police the world.

I was talking about this with a friend of mine who is very into politics. She has an opinion on the war; a heated opinion that not only should we not be in that country, but Mr. Bush shouldn’t have the title of president. But I am not here to write a persuasive letter.

It’s English and here too we have the television on, babbling the same morbid phrases over and over, and in it I hear parallels between Fahrenheit 451 as I try to block it out, rather unsuccessfully.

“I hate this! We aren’t in there for the oil, we’re in there because we want a war so we can all rally around the flag and sing Kumbya!”

“I would pay big bucks to hear you sing Kumbya,” I tell her in a laughing manner. She doesn’t seem to get the hint.

“Seriously though! I mean, our economy’s down the drain and we’re simply going around expending billions of dollars!”

“D’you know,” I interrupt, “That in Washington D.C. there’s places going around changing the name of French fries to freedom fries? If you ask me, that’s being ridiculous.”

“What’d the French say?” she asks me distractedly, profile harsh against the afternoon light streaming in through the window on the far side of the classroom.

“That French fries didn’t even originate in France, they came from Belgium or something like that.”

I watch people almost to the point it’s a hobby. It’s amazing how much you can find out about a person just by watching their body language, seeing how they carry themselves around certain people. A lounging position or crossed arms, an irritated tapping of fingers or an idle twirling of hair.

Her stance was tense, leaning forward and suggesting aggressive tendencies that lie just beneath the surface. As if of their own accord, her hands swept her hair up into a ponytail that she would irritably take back down a few moments later.

“Well, it figures. People are probably going around, insisting that they won’t drink French-“

“I made a pretty letter!” A piece of paper is shoved roughly into my face and I jump back, nearly losing my seating on the desktop. A Celtic-looking ‘K’ is taking up most of my field of vision. I gently put it back to a place where it might gain some semblance of focus. One of my other friends is sitting at her desk with a contented grin stretching from one ear to the other in her pleasure at the accomplishment. She seems to have no other cares in the world and is perfectly happy to be coloring letters.

“Wow…” my political friend drawls, the syllable summing up just about everything. I laugh at the sheer irony of the situation.

“Here we are, having an exceedingly serious conversation about the War and all of a sudden-”

“I made a pretty letter!” I interrupt with an overly happy mimic. The letter drawer scowls at us, laughing too, inside.

“I hate you guys sometimes, you know that?” She begins to shove her colored pencils back into their box with a little more force than necessary as the other and I giggle hysterically.

“But we love you!” I say in a voice that drips honeyed sugar all over, drawing out the vowel and leaning over to give her a bear hug.

“Ack! No no no no! Bubble! You’re invading my BUBBLE!” She squeaks and finally I let go, leaving her sufficiently flustered. She sighs and smoothes her long hair back into its appropriate place, giving me death looks. The other comes very close to falling off also, and it’s the letter drawers’ and my turn to laugh. The bell rings and we leave, allowing the box to continue its babbling at the world that it thinks is there.

 

I think that the news shows have gone almost overboard with this. Yes, it’s good that we know what’s going on, but if we see it every day, how are we going to maintain our sense of individuality? How are we going to maintain our opinions when we are constantly being brainwashed by show after show of death and destruction? The more and more I think about it, the more and more I hear Montags’ ‘family’ whispering at me from every corner, trying to pull me in and convince me of… Something.

Perhaps of there being no wrong, or right, of ideas that people want me to think instead of ones that come into the brain and bubble around for a good while until finally in one massive Eureka moment everything clarifies. A non-conformist to a fault. I suppose I always will be, but I can’t help but to resist the abundance of opinions lying about.

It’s almost as if I would rather remain slightly unbiased in any way to prevent an unraveling of what I interpret to be a correct train of thought. Somewhere I perceive a paradox within that statement.

 

 

Edited for cosmetic reasons

Edited March 28, 2003 by Rahsash Geldich

[The Portrait of Zool]

Thank you for sharing your assignment, that moment. Very well done.

[Rahsash Geldich]

Alright, this is more of a final draft than anything, it looks a lot better I thought. Hopefully my english teacher will agree.

 

 

I think it’s extremely difficult to write a personal narrative. Some people don’t like to for the simple reason that they detest to pick up a pen and put it to paper. Others have the ability, but in other areas. They can write poetry that can somehow tell you the meaning of life, but cannot write a story to save themselves from the demise of their English teachers burning holes in their stomach with their eyes because of another late paper.

Yet I think there is one more reason, one that holds more truth than any of the previous, that people on the whole would rather not write narrative literature. To create a really moving piece that actually leaves the reader on better trains of thought than “Dear God above, if I ever have to read such an abuse of the English language again, I will shove it down my throat in an attempt to commit suicide,” you have to tap into yourself. You have to dive deep into those crannies that we hide from ourselves with shadow and shove behind curtains so they can be forgotten.

I don’t know about you, but I loathe breaking out those feelings of weakness, jealousy, doubt, and anything that allowing those cavities of secreted expression to escape can throw upon the surface to mortally embarrass me. People hate to admit a phobia of spiders when they read someone else’s Tale of Courage and Bravery. You know, the one where after both ankles were broken and having fallen upon an entire nest of spiders, they miraculously drug the orphan children from the burning house.

Occasionally we have to do what must be done, and pray that our writing doesn’t end up on the cause of death line on an autopsy report. I am going to dare to mine into those places of secrecy, and possibly the element of fear will make both of our tasks, dear reader, more interesting.

 

It is as I walk down the hallway that I first notice. I idly flip through my agenda and shrug my jacket closer in the unusual chill floating around in the school hallways that always seem devoid of air conditioning and quiet. The two swarmed around me and I realize that the television that is nestled in a corner in every classroom is on, doorway after doorway that I pass. The picture speaks in a deep male voice that conveys immense empathy, but the plastic quality of it hints that underneath the sympathetic informant tone is a bored, “I’ve said this every day for the past three months.” A news-stream is swimming along the bottom, as if there is so much to communicate that you have to listen and read and watch as the reporter goes to half the screen and the troops he speaks of are shown to the right of his mask-like face that matches the voice with its choreographed mobility.

I pointedly don’t listen. I know I probably should be, because it is, after all, my country. I say the pledge and play the national anthem with the band at games. For as long as I can remember I have heard the crashing sounds of jets overhead, especially at Thunder Over Louisville when the stealth bombers and Boeing line fly over our house on their way to the river where they’ll be showing off how much butt they can kick. But up until now the butt in question has remained untargeted and the planes virtually little more than a flexing of muscle.

I awake from my reverie and continue back to class, but tendrils of fear have already soured my previously happy mood and I slip back into it without meaning to. Why should we kill to get people to see that we shouldn’t be hated? Why do we keep insisting upon the war we ‘enter reluctantly’? I don’t understand it, and to tell the truth, I am not entirely sure I want to. I don’t want to know what makes it right for us to police the world.

My ex boyfriend passes me in the hallway and he makes a friendly lunge as if to tackle me. I leap back towards some lockers, grinning, and stick my tongue out at him. If his section of the Air Force gets pulled, he could be in one of those planes I always hear.

As with all of my many friends going into the military, leaving and maybe never coming back, there are phantoms flitting around deep in his eyes. A girl with the same name as me is going into the navy, and every time she talks about it, there is a subtle fear of drowning under her happiness of being on a boat four out of seven days a week. They all have imps on their shoulders and the shadows look out at me also see their future threatening to fall in shattered pieces they must walk upon with bare feet.

I finally make it back to the classroom and my sigh of relief is stilled in my throat since the melodramatic news show that seems to dominate all is on here too. A friend of mine is watching with a scowl, perched upon a desktop with an arm connecting chin and knee. Everything about her stance tells about her opinion that not only should we not be in that country, Mr. Bush shouldn’t have the title of president.

My earlier thoughts about the jets and the never ending, awaiting a quick ending resurface. The Fahrenheit 451 book on my desk looms up into a parallel that I cannot shove away.

“I hate this!” The outburst draws my attention away from the red banner of a revelation lying with complete innocence to my friend. “We aren’t in there for the oil, we’re in there because we want a war so we can all rally around the flag and sing Kumbya!”

“I would pay big bucks to hear you sing Kumbya,” I tell her in a laughing manner. She doesn’t seem to get the hint.

“Seriously though!” Well, perhaps she did and she simply is choosing to ignore it. “I mean, our economy’s down the drain and we’re simply going around expending billions of dollars!”

“D’you know,” I interrupt, “that in Washington D.C. there’s places going around changing the name of French fries to freedom fries? If you ask me, that’s being ridiculous.”

“What’d the French say?” she asks me distractedly, profile harsh against the afternoon light streaming in through the window on the far side of the classroom.

“That French fries didn’t even originate in France, they came from Belgium or something like that.” A smile hints around the corners of her mouth but the rest of her face quickly shutters it off. Her hands, as if of their own accord, sweep her hand up into a ponytail that she would irritably take back down a few moments later.

“Well, it figures. People are probably going around, insisting that they won’t drink French-”

“I made a pretty letter!” A piece of paper slices through our political meandering and I jump back, nearly losing my seating on the desk. A Celtic-looking K is taking up most of my field of vision. I gently push it back to a place where it might gain some semblance of focus. One of my friends is sitting behind her desk with a contented grin stretching from one ear to the other with her pleasure at the accomplishment. She seems to have no other cares in the world and is perfectly happy to be coloring letters. Even though she is human, I can almost feel a purr emanating from her.

“Wow…” my political friend drawls, the syllable capturing the irony of the situation perfectly.

“Here we are, having an exceedingly serious conversation about The War and all of a sudden-”

“I made a pretty letter!” I interrupt with a mimic that exceeds the level of happiness necessary to imitate the statement. The letter drawer drops the edges of her grin into a frown that is just as animated, to the point you can tell she wants to laugh.

“I hate you guys sometimes, you know that?” She begins to shove her colored pencils back into their box with a little more force than needed as the other and I attempt to cut off the giggling pouring out of us.

“But we love you!” I say in a voice that drips sugared honey all over, drawing out the vowel and leaning over to give her a bear hug.

“Ack! No! Get off! Bubble! You’re invading my BUBBLE!” She squeaks and finally I let go, leaving her flustered enough to satisfy me. A sigh is shoved through a clenched jaw as she smoothes her long hair back into its appropriate place, giving me death looks. The other finally stops laughing to nearly fall off the desk. The letter girl and I crack up, and I can almost feel my sides splitting. The bell rings and we leave, allowing the box to continue its babbling at the world that it thinks is still there.

However, we aren’t. Whenever I think of that, the empty room the only audience to the contraptions monotonous and morbid preaching, I like to think that we’re still grounded. It’s close to impossible to maintain an opinion that is our own when we are constantly being brainwashed by show after show of destruction and propaganda. There’s a fine line between being informed and being shocked until we take such things for the norm. The more and more I think about it, I hear Montags’ ‘family’ whispering at me from every corner, trying to pull me in and convince me of… Something.

Perhaps of there being no wrong, or right. Maybe just that there is no such thing anymore as an idea being seeded in the brain. A concept that feeds upon the nourishment provided until it blooms into one massive moment where everything clarifies and we whisper “Eureka.”

I am afraid, deep down, that we will not be able to resist the abundance of opinions that seem to be just lying about. It’s almost at the point I would rather remain slightly unbiased to prevent an unraveling of what I interpret to be a correct train of thought.

Somewhere I perceive a paradox in that statement.

Edited April 3, 2003 by Rahsash Geldich

[Ozymandias]

I humbly add you to my "List of People I'd like to Sit in a Coffee House with One Day and Debate just about Anything".

 

Amazing stuff, that interestingly enough (since I am pro-Operation Iraqui Freedom), gives me newfound hope for our country.

 

Encore!

[HappyBuddha]

I'll second Ozzy's award - I enjoyed reading your narrative a lot, and I enjoyed seeing it through your eyes too. Nice going.

[Orlan]

Was the personal narrative supposed to have one clear theme to it or was it just supposed to be "A day in the life of" sort of thing? It's good, don't get me wrong, but it has an abrupt jump from images of worrying and war to high school girls playing. It's an interesting transition, but quite abrupt. Aside from that the imagry is quite well put throughout the entire narrative.

[Rahsash Geldich]

::Feels all warm and fuzzy:: I definitely didn't think that my personal narrative would be such an... appreciated piece, I wasn't kidding when I said I detested the things. As to your question Orlan, the purpose is a litte of both. I wanted to express the way I view the entire situation, but also, I thought it was essential to see how my friends and I interacted with it. As for writing on one theme, I've definitely never been any good at it!

[Peredhil]

Rewrite is better.

 

Well done. I normally have trouble reading all the way through this sort of thing - I sipped each word and was able to see it all.

 

You're English Teacher prolly doesn't know how lucky they are. Excellence and creativity are often not rewarded in public schools. Too much effort to truly focus when weighted by the volume to view.