So it was the end before, but for real, guys - now it's the end. I just turned in my final paper and gave my final presentation in my final class of my college education. Naturally, I pulled an all-nighter to finish the paper and quipped on Facebook that my education would've felt wrong to end any other way. I left work a little early to make sure I had everything edited and could print out the paper on campus without feeling rushed which left me with about thirty minutes to kill before the final officially started. I sat in the shade of a tree in front of the Joseph Fielding Smith building and people watched as I slowly crunched what I hope is my last ever, vending machine delivered Lunchable.
I was torn between posting a Facebook status containing a link to a video with explicit lyrics that sums up how I feel about some aspects of academia, BYU administration, and some choice professors. Then I thought of just posting MoTab singing "Joy to the World" and letting my pure bliss override any bitterness I feel about certain aspects of my education. In the end, I chose neither, but will instead write this blog post.
Sitting in my class, I thought that I should call my mom when I leave and give her the official news - I am officially graduated. Then I thought about how happy she would be, and I almost started crying. Then I thought about how there was no question if I called my dad he would start crying (meaning I definitely would), so I couldn't call him either. I got the best possible scenario I suppose; I called my mom and left a voicemail. When I got back to my apartment, I checked the message my mom had left me while I was driving. She was very congratulatory and I immediately burst into tears.
I have done something that not everyone does. I have hated something about it for every four month chunk of time (also known as a semester) that I've had to do it, but I've done it. I have debt, I don't have a competitive GPA, but I did it. I got two hours of sleep last night (which is undoubtedly contributing to my current emotional imbalance) because of my own procrastination, but I finished eight pages about Jonathan Edwards's sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," and I am done. Exactly 4 years and 51 weeks ago (exactly), I started this, and now I finished it.
Despite some of my frustration with the system, I had a handful of really amazing professors that planted seeds of loving knowledge and maybe graduate school (don't mention graduate school to me for at least a year, perhaps never). I made some pretty good school friends (read: people I will only stay in touch with via Facebook since we don't have classes together any more) that also helped me finish papers, study for tests, and pass classes. But really the only thing I could think about as I slowly walked from the classroom my final final was held in, was that never in a million years would I have finished my bachelor's degree without my mom and dad. Never. So for as much as I wished I could've finished this class last semester and saved some time and money, it's all rather fitting that I'm wrapping this up as an early Father's day gift. It would only be more perfect is Mother's day magically fell again this year, on June 16th, or something. What the heck, I'm just going to say it is.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
The end of an era
I just took my Washington license plates off of my car, and put on my freshly minted Utah plates.
I finally bit the bullet this morning and registered my car in Utah. My brother is getting married on Saturday (blog post forthcoming about thoughts on the end of that era) and I'm driving north for the festivities. The registration for my car expired in June of 2011, but I've been driving under the assumption that it's more of a bother for Utah cops to stop an expired out-of-state driver than just letting me drive around illegally. And my assumption proved true: I never got pulled over for expired registration (or any other infraction for that matter). But I am 95% positive that Washington police officers won't feel the same way and the instant I enter Washington state I'll get pulled over. So I had to register my car in Utah this morning.
Why does this matter at all? It was a late-in-life discovery for me that people might not actually love the state or hometown they're from. Weird. The same realization hit me about people's names (I love my name, so it's weird when people wish they could be called something else). I am so obsessed with Washington, it gets annoying. Every time I see a car with a Washington license plate, I audibly say "Washington!" and passengers with me a lot wonder why I'm allowed to drive when I have Tourette's. I tell everyone who wonders where they should go on vacation to go to Washington, I ask everyone where they're from in case they're from Washington and then we can talk about it, and I always hoped to go back to Washington so I wouldn't have to change my license plates.
I'm staying in Utah because I got a full-time job in Utah.
I started an internship (previously mentioned here) last November, writing content for a tech company's website. It went really well. So well, they offered me a full-time job that began in April. I enjoy who I work with, and what I get to do, and the experience I'm gaining, but it means that I'm still here. In Provo. I do recognize the positives to that but the stigma surrounding graduates to who stay in Provo is an odd thing to navigate. People always assume it's your last resort and while that was the case with me, it wasn't necessarily a conscious last resort. I would be happy to live in Provo, or at least stay in Utah (I have some beef with Provo government, don't get me started) but because everyone assumes that's what no one wants to do, it's weird to move on.
I graduated from BYU . . . almost.
That's one of the great things about this job: I was offered a full-time position without the contingency that I actually need to graduate. I know what you're thinking, hold your horses. I will officially graduate in June, but I participated in the convocation ceremony in April. Family drove down, we also celebrated my birthday, we laughed and partied, and focused mainly on me so let me tell you: best. weekend. ever. But again, paired with the staying-in-Provo bit and the not-actually-graduating bit, it was an unsettling feeling. What am I doing? I have a job, I'm graduating, I'm staying in Provo. With students and the perceived population who aren't moving on (who all really have jobs but have become the underground of Provo because people assume they're not doing anything valuable). Utah county is a weird, but potentially wonderful place.
The real conundrum of that weekend was the quintessential crisis of "I'm no longer a student" paired with "I'm still a student for seven more weeks." I did start working full-time which helped really demarcate the student era of my life but unfortunately it also put my motivation in this last class to "Get a C-."
__
Even as I'm writing this my thoughts are becoming as jumbled as last month was for me. "Laurie, what's the point?" Great question. Everything is changing and it's making me nostalgic, not sad. I love working full-time because I love money, but I do hate the boredom. I love not being in class any more because I've always hated school, but I do hate not getting the opportunity to sit at the feet of some amazing professors I've had the privilege of knowing the past five years. I love how fresh and new my license plates looks because they're not filthy yet, but I hate that it has become one more piece of Washington that's slipped through the cracks of my life expanding into whatever it's going to become. This isn't really the end of an era; these are the ends of eras, and in the long run that's really okay.
I finally bit the bullet this morning and registered my car in Utah. My brother is getting married on Saturday (blog post forthcoming about thoughts on the end of that era) and I'm driving north for the festivities. The registration for my car expired in June of 2011, but I've been driving under the assumption that it's more of a bother for Utah cops to stop an expired out-of-state driver than just letting me drive around illegally. And my assumption proved true: I never got pulled over for expired registration (or any other infraction for that matter). But I am 95% positive that Washington police officers won't feel the same way and the instant I enter Washington state I'll get pulled over. So I had to register my car in Utah this morning.
Why does this matter at all? It was a late-in-life discovery for me that people might not actually love the state or hometown they're from. Weird. The same realization hit me about people's names (I love my name, so it's weird when people wish they could be called something else). I am so obsessed with Washington, it gets annoying. Every time I see a car with a Washington license plate, I audibly say "Washington!" and passengers with me a lot wonder why I'm allowed to drive when I have Tourette's. I tell everyone who wonders where they should go on vacation to go to Washington, I ask everyone where they're from in case they're from Washington and then we can talk about it, and I always hoped to go back to Washington so I wouldn't have to change my license plates.
I'm staying in Utah because I got a full-time job in Utah.
I started an internship (previously mentioned here) last November, writing content for a tech company's website. It went really well. So well, they offered me a full-time job that began in April. I enjoy who I work with, and what I get to do, and the experience I'm gaining, but it means that I'm still here. In Provo. I do recognize the positives to that but the stigma surrounding graduates to who stay in Provo is an odd thing to navigate. People always assume it's your last resort and while that was the case with me, it wasn't necessarily a conscious last resort. I would be happy to live in Provo, or at least stay in Utah (I have some beef with Provo government, don't get me started) but because everyone assumes that's what no one wants to do, it's weird to move on.
I graduated from BYU . . . almost.
That's one of the great things about this job: I was offered a full-time position without the contingency that I actually need to graduate. I know what you're thinking, hold your horses. I will officially graduate in June, but I participated in the convocation ceremony in April. Family drove down, we also celebrated my birthday, we laughed and partied, and focused mainly on me so let me tell you: best. weekend. ever. But again, paired with the staying-in-Provo bit and the not-actually-graduating bit, it was an unsettling feeling. What am I doing? I have a job, I'm graduating, I'm staying in Provo. With students and the perceived population who aren't moving on (who all really have jobs but have become the underground of Provo because people assume they're not doing anything valuable). Utah county is a weird, but potentially wonderful place.
The real conundrum of that weekend was the quintessential crisis of "I'm no longer a student" paired with "I'm still a student for seven more weeks." I did start working full-time which helped really demarcate the student era of my life but unfortunately it also put my motivation in this last class to "Get a C-."
__
Even as I'm writing this my thoughts are becoming as jumbled as last month was for me. "Laurie, what's the point?" Great question. Everything is changing and it's making me nostalgic, not sad. I love working full-time because I love money, but I do hate the boredom. I love not being in class any more because I've always hated school, but I do hate not getting the opportunity to sit at the feet of some amazing professors I've had the privilege of knowing the past five years. I love how fresh and new my license plates looks because they're not filthy yet, but I hate that it has become one more piece of Washington that's slipped through the cracks of my life expanding into whatever it's going to become. This isn't really the end of an era; these are the ends of eras, and in the long run that's really okay.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Christmas is here, bringing good cheer
In years past I've lamented Christmas as a college student. I don't own any decorations and am too poor to buy any. I am craft-illiterate and refuse to taint Christmas by making then hanging severely mangled homemade Christmas decorations. I ring in the month of Christmas with end-of-semester papers and projects followed closely by final exams, and then I jump at the opportunity to work full-time the rest of the month to get a few dollars ahead. I'm not big on listening to Christmas music all of the time (don't lynch me, I like it, just not on those 24/7 radio stations), and I'm not exactly admiring neighbors decorations because I live in a mainly student populated apartment complex. I celebrate Christmas for a few days with my family, whether in Utah or in Washington, and then it's back for a few more days of full-time work before I start the new semester slog all over again. Like I said, this has been the rinse and repeat Christmas pattern for the past few years I've been in college.
I think of Christmas at home with ungodly amounts of cookies, decorations strewn throughout the house, and a Douglas fir filling the living room with needles, its sheer size, and best of all - its smell. All of our hodge podge ornaments are placed conscientiously on the tree to fill up as much space as possible. It used to be easy but as all of the kids get married, one by one, they take their ornaments and the tree looks a little more sparse every year (I am secretly pleased because then I get to put all of my ornaments front and center). One of the radios in the kitchen is tuned to one of those radio stations playing Christmas music 24/7 starting right after Thanksgiving and for some reason, it's not so bad when it's at home. Slowly, presents start congregating under the tree and even though it's never too many, it also looks perfect and full on the old tree skirt that has the 12 Days of Christmas embroidered around it. Stockings are laid out on the fireplace and the white tree advent calendar that never has any candy in it is hung above the railing on the stairs.
On December 1st, something just felt kind of different about Christmas this year, and yet everything seems the same. If anything, it's kind of worse. My apartment is even less decorated than before, I have to work even more, and be with family even less. Regardless, I can't put my finger on it, but something is different. Maybe it's because I started out the month with family, and can now bear the next two weeks of wrapping up classes before I get to see them again. Maybe it was the office decorations I see everyday that are really quite impressive. Maybe it's because I heard my first Christmas song in a commercial last week and even though I don't remember the song or the product (it was not the Victoria's Secret ad, but I have to admit: Carol of the Bells is my favorite Christmas song), it made me so happy my eyes thought someone was chopping onions in my room. Maybe it's because I know there won't be much else this Christmas besides service and family, but I finally figured out that's all I need. Or maybe it really only hit just tonight, after we went caroling to some people that may or may not have needed to know that there was a haphazardly formed group of their peers that have found some common ground every Monday night, that miss them when they don't come. Whatever the reason for my attitude this season, it's refreshing.
P.S.
This is without a doubt the way Carol of the Bells is supposed to be sung. I love a multitude of variations and arrangments but as far as classic, perfect interpretation, this is it.
I think of Christmas at home with ungodly amounts of cookies, decorations strewn throughout the house, and a Douglas fir filling the living room with needles, its sheer size, and best of all - its smell. All of our hodge podge ornaments are placed conscientiously on the tree to fill up as much space as possible. It used to be easy but as all of the kids get married, one by one, they take their ornaments and the tree looks a little more sparse every year (I am secretly pleased because then I get to put all of my ornaments front and center). One of the radios in the kitchen is tuned to one of those radio stations playing Christmas music 24/7 starting right after Thanksgiving and for some reason, it's not so bad when it's at home. Slowly, presents start congregating under the tree and even though it's never too many, it also looks perfect and full on the old tree skirt that has the 12 Days of Christmas embroidered around it. Stockings are laid out on the fireplace and the white tree advent calendar that never has any candy in it is hung above the railing on the stairs.
On December 1st, something just felt kind of different about Christmas this year, and yet everything seems the same. If anything, it's kind of worse. My apartment is even less decorated than before, I have to work even more, and be with family even less. Regardless, I can't put my finger on it, but something is different. Maybe it's because I started out the month with family, and can now bear the next two weeks of wrapping up classes before I get to see them again. Maybe it was the office decorations I see everyday that are really quite impressive. Maybe it's because I heard my first Christmas song in a commercial last week and even though I don't remember the song or the product (it was not the Victoria's Secret ad, but I have to admit: Carol of the Bells is my favorite Christmas song), it made me so happy my eyes thought someone was chopping onions in my room. Maybe it's because I know there won't be much else this Christmas besides service and family, but I finally figured out that's all I need. Or maybe it really only hit just tonight, after we went caroling to some people that may or may not have needed to know that there was a haphazardly formed group of their peers that have found some common ground every Monday night, that miss them when they don't come. Whatever the reason for my attitude this season, it's refreshing.
P.S.
Monday, October 17, 2011
What is success?
I've been perusing two folders I have on my laptop hard drive, one created after I had already forgotten about the first. "Blog" and "Writing" are both in my "Work" folder, in a feeble attempt to put my dreams into some sort of action. Neither folder contains many documents. A few I could delete because they really did end up on this blog in some form or another, which I'm pleased about. One I wrote when I was incredibly depressed and I must say it is incredibly good. It will probably never find a place to be displayed for other's admiration for fear of it's implications of my mental health (despite the fact that it's been over a year since writing it.) One I just wrote because I realized I need to write every day and I tried to relax and I couldn't stop thinking about everything and I had read two articles today about relaxing so what should that say to me? In the "Blog" folder I also found a draft of the first ever post I put on this blog. The draft had absolutely nothing to do with the version that ended up being the inaugural post on this blog, but it certainly got me thinking tonight.
When I was 12 a church leader read this poem to my class one Sunday and I have never stopped identifying it as most likely my favorite poem. I was supposed to learn about Ralph Waldo Emerson in one of the classes I've already taken as an English major but either I never actually learned anything or I already forgot it (the curse of being forced to obtain knowledge as opposed to the sponge I can be when I get to learn on my own time.)
What is success?
To laugh often and much
To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children
To earn the approval of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends
To appreciate beauty
To find the best in others
To give of one's self
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition
To have laughed and played with enthusiasm and sung with exultation
To know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived
This is to have succeeded.
Forgive me if I've blogged about this before, I really can't remember and lack the patience to search through all of my old posts to find this poem. I've been contemplating attempting to get a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Non-Fiction (i.e. the genre I'm writing this blog in, e.g. memoirs, personal essay, etc.) There are so many variables, I started to type them out here and realized my own brain doesn't even want to deal with these issues so it pushes them in the back of my mind. More than anything, I wish I could ask my current creative non-fiction professor "Am I good enough? Will I get accepted by a school with faculty I will love and write like and then get published as I teach other students this craft, preferably at a college in the Pacific Northwest?" I doubt he would give me answers, let alone the ones I wanted to hear.
And in the end, does it matter? I define my personal success now as praise from my current workshop class and acceptance into an MFA program and being published somewhere, somehow. But Ralph tells me that's a pretty crappy yardstick. Underneath my constantly reeling brain and ever-bleeding heart, I think I'm inclined to agree, but I often forget (so much that I question my belief in his measurement system at all.) But then there's this blog post, that I'm actually really pleased with. And the wonderful comments I get from family and friends (maybe not the most critical judges, but they sure do help my self-esteem) on so many of these posts. And the tingling, giggling feeling I get when I read incredible essays assigned for my class. It's an odd rising feeling starts just below my sternum and pulses through my clavicle and esophagus, and hovers behind my eyes in a mist that never comes out of my tear ducts (for which I am grateful) that manifests to me that I really want to do this, more than I've wanted to do anything before. That's not to discredit my absolute passion for crime-solving or firefighting as a (younger) child, or my dream of directing a high school band that disintegrated a few short years ago. It's a different kind of manifestation that includes a nugget of hope that I'm not as bad at this as the dementor-like specter would have me believe. It usually sits just inside my left ear and starts sucking out my confidence immediately after I hand in an essay for my workshop class to critique.
I've achieved a lot of the points on Mr. Emerson's list, and I'm still just a baby, so I think I'm doing pretty good, all things considered. Sometimes it's hard to remember that. Someone said this to me once and I love it for it's impeccable attention to the detailed connotations within words we use. I try hard to follow it always: follow your bliss.
When I was 12 a church leader read this poem to my class one Sunday and I have never stopped identifying it as most likely my favorite poem. I was supposed to learn about Ralph Waldo Emerson in one of the classes I've already taken as an English major but either I never actually learned anything or I already forgot it (the curse of being forced to obtain knowledge as opposed to the sponge I can be when I get to learn on my own time.)
What is success?
To laugh often and much
To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children
To earn the approval of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends
To appreciate beauty
To find the best in others
To give of one's self
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition
To have laughed and played with enthusiasm and sung with exultation
To know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived
This is to have succeeded.
Forgive me if I've blogged about this before, I really can't remember and lack the patience to search through all of my old posts to find this poem. I've been contemplating attempting to get a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Non-Fiction (i.e. the genre I'm writing this blog in, e.g. memoirs, personal essay, etc.) There are so many variables, I started to type them out here and realized my own brain doesn't even want to deal with these issues so it pushes them in the back of my mind. More than anything, I wish I could ask my current creative non-fiction professor "Am I good enough? Will I get accepted by a school with faculty I will love and write like and then get published as I teach other students this craft, preferably at a college in the Pacific Northwest?" I doubt he would give me answers, let alone the ones I wanted to hear.
And in the end, does it matter? I define my personal success now as praise from my current workshop class and acceptance into an MFA program and being published somewhere, somehow. But Ralph tells me that's a pretty crappy yardstick. Underneath my constantly reeling brain and ever-bleeding heart, I think I'm inclined to agree, but I often forget (so much that I question my belief in his measurement system at all.) But then there's this blog post, that I'm actually really pleased with. And the wonderful comments I get from family and friends (maybe not the most critical judges, but they sure do help my self-esteem) on so many of these posts. And the tingling, giggling feeling I get when I read incredible essays assigned for my class. It's an odd rising feeling starts just below my sternum and pulses through my clavicle and esophagus, and hovers behind my eyes in a mist that never comes out of my tear ducts (for which I am grateful) that manifests to me that I really want to do this, more than I've wanted to do anything before. That's not to discredit my absolute passion for crime-solving or firefighting as a (younger) child, or my dream of directing a high school band that disintegrated a few short years ago. It's a different kind of manifestation that includes a nugget of hope that I'm not as bad at this as the dementor-like specter would have me believe. It usually sits just inside my left ear and starts sucking out my confidence immediately after I hand in an essay for my workshop class to critique.
I've achieved a lot of the points on Mr. Emerson's list, and I'm still just a baby, so I think I'm doing pretty good, all things considered. Sometimes it's hard to remember that. Someone said this to me once and I love it for it's impeccable attention to the detailed connotations within words we use. I try hard to follow it always: follow your bliss.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A letter to and from Brian Doyle
So a) check this guy out, Brian Doyle. He's awesome and he has published a ton of awesome pieces but "A Sin" is recent and was near the top of my Google search so that's why it's linked here. I wholeheartedly recommend his most recent book Grace Notes, which I just had to read for my class. When he came to my class last Thursday to be interviewed by my classmates and me, I asked him about his lack of Wikipedia page, so don't try looking there because none of those Brian Doyle's are him.
b) I went to his reading, open to the whole campus, on Friday afternoon and since I had one of his books, I stood in line afterwards and got him to sign it. I shook his hand and said thanks for the reading, and that I had 15 minutes in line to think of something intelligent and failed. He laughed and said he should've done the same thing (thought of something intelligent to say) and then wished me well and I left.
c) I was really bothered by this exchange and he had already admitted to the auditorium that he responds to every single e-mail or letter he receives so I went back to my office and wrote him the following letter, and his reply follows that. Enjoy.
From: Laurie
To: Brian Doyle
Subject: You just signed my book at BYU . . .
I stood in line thinking of something to say for 15 minutes and came up with something, but when I finally got to hand you my book, I got too nervous. In hindsight, I've decided that what I came up with is kind of a nice thing to say about someone and his or her writing, so I think it's worth an e-mail. Sorry for giving you more letters to wade through.
b) I went to his reading, open to the whole campus, on Friday afternoon and since I had one of his books, I stood in line afterwards and got him to sign it. I shook his hand and said thanks for the reading, and that I had 15 minutes in line to think of something intelligent and failed. He laughed and said he should've done the same thing (thought of something intelligent to say) and then wished me well and I left.
c) I was really bothered by this exchange and he had already admitted to the auditorium that he responds to every single e-mail or letter he receives so I went back to my office and wrote him the following letter, and his reply follows that. Enjoy.
From: Laurie
To: Brian Doyle
Subject: You just signed my book at BYU . . .
I stood in line thinking of something to say for 15 minutes and came up with something, but when I finally got to hand you my book, I got too nervous. In hindsight, I've decided that what I came up with is kind of a nice thing to say about someone and his or her writing, so I think it's worth an e-mail. Sorry for giving you more letters to wade through.
I love reading your writing because you're such an optimist and I'm such a cynic, and I feel healthier after I read your words. Thank you for that respite from myself.
To: Laurie
From: Brian Doyle
Subject: RE: You just signed my book at BYU . . .
Subject: RE: You just signed my book at BYU . . .
Aw, that is the kindest gentlest loveliest note I have had for a long time. Thank you, Laurie. I savor the youness of you. Brian
Don't worry, I got/get misty-eyed when I read/read it.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Of smells
Every few weeks in my "Writing Creative Non-Fiction" class, we have to submit a 500-1000 word "experiment" with a prompt given to us by the professor. This prompt was to find an essay by Michel Montaigne, use the title and quote a line from the essay somewhere within our own piece.
Although Montaigne wrote over 400 years before I even picked up a pen, I find a kindred spirit as I read his essays. No one can commiserate with me as well as one who “scent[s] at a greater distance . . . than other men.” Rank or sweet, I can pick out a scent sooner than most. While Montaigne focused on the perfumed versus the natural, I can only think of the time and place and feeling associated with every smell my olfaction registers, regardless of the pleasure or displeasure of the fragrance.
When my nose runs away with my imagination, I pretend my acute sense of smell is strong enough for a diagnosis of hyperosmia. It must be unnatural that when that woman passes me on the street and I can detect her Estée Lauder perfume, I think of my mother and I am there, in her room at six years old. She is wearing a salmon jacket and putting on makeup. Her jewelry box is open on her dresser and next she will put on her earrings that look like long, green leaves that match her skirt. We are getting ready to go to church on Sunday morning and I am lying on her bed, watching her in the mirror just so I can be with her longer.
Maybe the doctors will believe my self-diagnosis of a hyper smelling ability when I prove that I can smell the adolescent body spray on the teenager all the way across the room. I am walking down the halls of my high school, shy but pleased to be holding hands with someone. It is an aroma mixed with guilt, for dodging and sneaking and thinking that I am smarter than any adult in my life.
When my IV line is flushed with saline solution after my medical treatments and I taste it in my mouth and feel it in my eyes and smell it as though it were being spritzed in my face, then I think maybe I have a special sense of smell. And the whole hospital room is the same as my 17th spring, when I couldn’t speak or walk because I was tired and ill and something was wrong but no one knew what. The smells of disinfectant and bed pans and paper bed sheets remove me from the present and take me back a number of years in an instant, with one inhalation.
Perhaps my strongest piece of evidence is returning home, only once or twice a year. As I step into my parent’s home I smell something unidentifiable. It is the dog in the laundry room, it is the detergent in the dish washer, it is the freshly vacuumed carpet. It is my father’s aftershave and my mother’s casseroles and my stuffed dog that I slept with every night. It can’t even be categorized as a pleasant odor but it is pleasant in its associations. It is home and it is family and it is make-believe proof that I have hyperosmia, when I know that I don’t. I just happen to have an acute sense of smell.
Although Montaigne wrote over 400 years before I even picked up a pen, I find a kindred spirit as I read his essays. No one can commiserate with me as well as one who “scent[s] at a greater distance . . . than other men.” Rank or sweet, I can pick out a scent sooner than most. While Montaigne focused on the perfumed versus the natural, I can only think of the time and place and feeling associated with every smell my olfaction registers, regardless of the pleasure or displeasure of the fragrance.
When my nose runs away with my imagination, I pretend my acute sense of smell is strong enough for a diagnosis of hyperosmia. It must be unnatural that when that woman passes me on the street and I can detect her Estée Lauder perfume, I think of my mother and I am there, in her room at six years old. She is wearing a salmon jacket and putting on makeup. Her jewelry box is open on her dresser and next she will put on her earrings that look like long, green leaves that match her skirt. We are getting ready to go to church on Sunday morning and I am lying on her bed, watching her in the mirror just so I can be with her longer.
Maybe the doctors will believe my self-diagnosis of a hyper smelling ability when I prove that I can smell the adolescent body spray on the teenager all the way across the room. I am walking down the halls of my high school, shy but pleased to be holding hands with someone. It is an aroma mixed with guilt, for dodging and sneaking and thinking that I am smarter than any adult in my life.
When my IV line is flushed with saline solution after my medical treatments and I taste it in my mouth and feel it in my eyes and smell it as though it were being spritzed in my face, then I think maybe I have a special sense of smell. And the whole hospital room is the same as my 17th spring, when I couldn’t speak or walk because I was tired and ill and something was wrong but no one knew what. The smells of disinfectant and bed pans and paper bed sheets remove me from the present and take me back a number of years in an instant, with one inhalation.
Perhaps my strongest piece of evidence is returning home, only once or twice a year. As I step into my parent’s home I smell something unidentifiable. It is the dog in the laundry room, it is the detergent in the dish washer, it is the freshly vacuumed carpet. It is my father’s aftershave and my mother’s casseroles and my stuffed dog that I slept with every night. It can’t even be categorized as a pleasant odor but it is pleasant in its associations. It is home and it is family and it is make-believe proof that I have hyperosmia, when I know that I don’t. I just happen to have an acute sense of smell.
Monday, July 25, 2011
On Harry Potter
I have known that I physically need to write a post on my feelings about Harry Potter for a long time. I have a draft of it, sitting out on the internet, but I was just never satisfied with it. I have no idea where to begin to express Harry and me, or even Joanne and me. Having since written and re-read this entry, I find it inadequate as well, but it does a little better than my other draft.
My fifth grade teacher read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to my class. I borrowed Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone from my neighborhood friend after Mrs. Zachrison finished reading in class, so I was caught up on all the details of Harry's life. During all of this, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban had come out, so I borrowed that from my same neighborhood friend and was now in the same wonderful place as every person cooler than me who had heard about the series before I did. I ordered the next three books (four through six) online so I wouldn't have to do the midnight thing but would get them that day. When I was packing for college, I thought the first six books of the series would be really important to have with me, so I packed them and gave them a shelf in my limited dorm space. I re-read them all in preparation for the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I went to the midnight book release on BYU campus with friends (dressed as a muggle) and read the whole thing that night, before my test the next morning at 10am.
During all of this the movies came out. I couldn't submit to that kind of slaughter of my favorite characters in my favorite world. As the release of the final installment of the movies was drawing near, I was invited to go with some friends and I had to admit I'd never seen a single movie. I watched all 7 in three days, then the last movie in theaters, at midnight, on the fourth day. It had been so long since I had read all of the books that I was detached enough from the movies to not be too offended by what parts of the stories were changed or left out. (except for the third movie . . . I find that movie truly offensive. So much was changed without reason! Arg!) I enjoyed the last movie but I realized it was probably more because I had only read the seventh book once and didn't remember many details. So, I read seven Harry Potter books in seven days to get back in touch with my roots.
It was interesting reading them as an English and editing student. J.K. Rowling uses more adverbs than anyone alive, I think. Her favorites seem to be shrilly and darkly. She was purposefully wordy at some parts. From any other author, in any other series, these two things alone would have driven me berserk. But it doesn't really matter to me, because I fell in love with these books long before I learned that adverbs are taboo and being wordy doesn't make you sound smart. I was trying to classify my passion for Harry Potter, as if I had to explain it to an outside observer. I wouldn't say I'm obsessed; I don't own Harry Potter paraphernalia, I've never dressed up as a Harry Potter character. I did have some wizard duels in 6th grade, and I'm sure I donned a robe to go to a themed party. So how do I convince someone that I'm a true fan, without all of these other outward expressions?
The best way I can think to describe it is like a pure love. Simple, unadulterated, pure. I hope in my life I can do something just as selfless and noble and loving as Harry or Hermione or Ron or Albus or Neville or any of the characters (Sirius, Severus, Lily, James, the list is as long as the books). Juvenile literature gets knocked because they make the good guys so good, but isn't that a glimpse of how wonderful the world could be if we tried to emulate our literary heroes? I don't remember clinging to these books in times of trouble in my youth, I know some people have stories about Hogwarts saving their lives because they were so alone and in such a dark place. I just loved them because they were so wonderful. Is that a good enough reason? Does that qualify me enough to be a super fan? I don't know . . . I don't know who decides these things either, but I hope whoever does comes across this blog post someday. These books are pure, and good, and right, and they're still some of my most favorite literature I've ever read. They're friendly and comforting and still make me cry every time because there isn't a place that draws me in further than Hogwarts and Britain and the wizarding world.
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