5'9", Jazz Proficient, 113 Pounds, Perfect

"What do I want? Ever since I was a little girl there's only been I thing I want. I want what I've wanted since the first day I learned how to walk. I wanna be a Rockette." -Kicks, the Musical


There's something about them-long legs, perfectly uniform, sparkly costumes-that make the Radio City Christmas Spectacular a must-see, pack-the-entire-family-in-the-car-to-drive-in-ice-sleet-snow-hail-to-see-it show. But what is it about them? From a technical dance stand point, the show lacks any incredibly complex combinations, gravity-defying leaps, feats of flexibility, and dizzying spins. And yet well-conditioned dancers flood the box office in October to reserve seats for themselves, their parents, their second cousins, and their best friend's boyfriend's sister. I'm guilty. Since I was seven I've been in awe of the Rockettes. I will be turning 18 in January and I will meet every requirement to audition for a prized Rockette position. I never wanted to be the Sugar Plum Fairy, I wanted to be a spot in the long line of precision. But why? Why do the Rockettes pave the way for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade every year? Why have they been carefully placed on the top of the holiday heirarchy of entertainment?

It's easy.

The Rockettes opitomize perfection. Humans are created to be perfectionists. Now, you may be thinking, my room is a mess, I could not care less about how neatly I write my notes, and I get dressed in the dark. We are not all perfectionists in the sense that we spend hours on a homework assignment, meticulously scruntinizing over each and every letter. But think about it. Confusion and chaos cause some to completely shut down and lapse into some form of depression. Confusion is not an emotion humans like to carry with them for long periods of time. It is in our nature to sort things out, hoping to reach some form of understanding. Humans look for perfection in order. It's the exact reason why timelines are effective when studying history. It's why time order words (next, then, finally) are crucial in story-telling vernacular. Even if one's desk appears to be a complete mess of misplaced papers, it is guaranteed that in one's mind some form of order exists in regard to those papers.

It goes back to biology (and if you're like me, the word biology makes you cringe, so I'll only touch on it briefly). Every transfer of enery increases the entropy, or disorder of the universe. While the universe moves towards disorder a particular system, or individual moves toward maximum stability, or equilibrium. And so while our lives become increasingly chaotic and seemingly uncontrollable, it is in our nature to look for some sort of order, or equilibrium. So maybe we as humans find comfort in the Rockette's perfection admidst the chaotic streets of the city?

I'm not sure what it says about humans as a whole that we strive for perfection. Perhaps it's what keeps us moving forward, while allowing us to make sense of our lives. So, during the rush of the holiday season, kicking eye-high, perfectly in sync are the Rockettes, society's tangible perfection.

Oh They Grow Up So Fast.....

"It's now 1990. I'm forty-three years old, which would've seemed impossible to a fourth grader, and yet when I look at photographs of myself as I was in 1956, I realize that in the important ways I haven't changed at all. I was Timmy then; now I'm Tim. But the essence remains the same. I'm not fooled by the baggy pants or the crew cut or the happy smile—I know my own eyes—and there is no doubt that the Timmy smiling at the camera is the Tim I am now. Inside the body, or beyond the body, there is something absolute and unchanging. The human life is all one thing, like a blade tracing loops on ice: a little kid, a twenty-three-year-old infantry sergeant, a middle-aged writer knowing guilt and sorrow,"(236).

As I look back on my own life and think of the lives of others, there are striking characteristics that remain static throughout the course of our lives. While I clearly didn’t know her as a child, my grandmother was the kindergartner sitting in the corner smiling shying. She would always know the answer but would never speak out, for a fear of being misunderstood. My mother was the first-grader who would receive that highest grades on spelling tests, but would still feel a sense of inadequacy. She was a book worm, I’m sure, consumed by the pictures of children’s books and she was unafraid of spiders and worms as she trudged through the woods of her backyard. This is all speculation, of course, but I can deduce these descriptions of my mother and grandmother from knowing them now- because, in essence, we all have certain characteristics that define us as individuals.

This being said, I do not agree with O’Brien’s assertion that “the human life is all one thing.” Perhaps for some people, they remain exactly the way they were from the moment they were born. Their outlook on life is exactly the same, the characteristics of their soul unchanging. However, most individuals experience changes due to unexpected events or troubles in their life that alter, even slightly, the way they act, feel, and look at the world as a whole. For example, there is a picture in my room of my mom and me standing in front of a rhododendron bush. I see in my blue-brown spotted eyes many parts of the girl I am today- I was and am jealous, stubborn, impatient, unable to make a decision between the blue and pink toothbrush at the dentist’s office, loyal, compassionate, optimistic, unfortunately judgmental, and likely to change my opinions about people, the world, and myself in an instant. However, while core parts of me remain, the way in which my mind works has changed dramatically since the instant that picture was snapped.

At age six, I was perhaps the sloppiest, most careless person in my kindergarten class. Smears of crayon found their way outside of the lines, and somehow coats, jackets, socks, hair brushes, shoelaces, stuffed animals, and other necessities of a six-year-old were left stained, torn, misplaced, and entirely abused. However, I am today a borderline obsessive compulsive “neat freak.” I am not this way simply because “I learned better," but there is actually a feeling inside of me the drives me to take special care of each and every one of my possessions.

Additionally, I was painfully shy, quiet, and refined in elementary school. I would raise my hand patiently in class as ten other children shouted aloud around me. I am, to some extent, still very refined and quiet. I am “hyper” only with my closest of friends and those I feel comfortable being silly around. However, somewhere along the road I acquired a love of the spotlight. This caused an actual change within me. This comes from my experiences as a dancer and stage performer. I have shed a huge amount of self-consciousness that I was plagued with as a child, and I thrive on the opportunity to be noticed.

As a child growing up in a household with separated parents, I learned the realities of love and marriage and I learned that the truth of life did not lie in Disney movies. This realization caused me to become self-sufficient and I have within me a drive to succeed so I never in my life have to depend on someone else. Had a continued to grow up in a “perfect” household, I would not be as nearly self-sufficient as I am today and I would be sheltered from some harsh realities of life.

My parents have instilled in me important values and the difference between “right and wrong” which account for my incredibly loud conscious. This conscious often forces me to act in a certain way in a given situation. Is this instance, I have not actually changed characteristically, but rather I have advanced as a human being and my awareness of the needs of others.

Therefore, characteristically I am the same that I have always been, but the way I act and the way I feel in different situations has certainly changed drastically due to life’s experiences. Life is not so much “a blade tracing loops on ice,” but rather, a blade tracing a zigzagging, curving, spiraling picture drawn across the ice. Life is a collage of one's static characteristics, as well as one's growth and change.

Why I Write-Frank McCourt

I write. I write. I write.

The lush feel of ink staining paper makes me feel full and satisfied. Many necessities in my life have been scarce at one time or another: money, cleanliness, self-satisfaction; however, the vast oasis of words in my mind has never run dry. Ask me for 100 words, I’ll give you 1,000. I can’t help myself. Words are history. Words are my memory. Words are Ireland. Words are my passport to the intangible past-the days behind me that have lost brilliance, but not vigor.

I have lived. I do not write to solidify my own past-I have a mind that is solid enough to retain my memories. Rather, I write to teach the past to those who were born blindly into this world- those who live each day not knowing the legacies of those who walked before them. I am the voice of Ireland and all that it lost, and all that it gained.

Who? What? When? Where? Why? Who cares? Tell me how you felt, how your body reacted to overwhelming human emotion. Take away everything material-take away my food, his clothes, your bed, their house. Maybe life is fair: the important aspects of life-emotions- cannot be taken away. I do not manipulate words to create narratives, but I order words to mimic emotions. Emotions are horrifying, fulfilling, uncontrollable, self-induced phenomena that lack a How-To Guide. I write not to create that How-To-Guide, but to create a This-Is-What-Happened-To-Us-Leave-It-Or-Learn-From-It Guide. I want to teach the depression of my mother and the drunken movements of my father to save not myself, but those of the future.

When I write, I sing. Words are more powerful than temporary emotions induced by the generosity behind a material gift. It’s amazing the power a sing-song voice can have on a person. Words hold the healing powers-I wish to heal through writing, as I allow my words to sing.

Age is incredibly important when analyzing one’s capacity for comprehension, pain, love, and want. I write to reflect the way I thought at a given age. At age five, I took notice of the trivial moments in life, and the miniscule details. The brilliant white of my brother’s coffin was much more important than the way I felt, or the way mom cried. At age seventeen, I could evaluate my life from a far. The weather was much less important than the way in which I viewed my sinful actions, and how they would affect my future. However, the mind of a child is just as influential, if not more influential, than the judgmental, often dirtied, mind of an adult. We are born with the ability to view life without bias, without comparing ourselves to those around us, without self-pity. I write to teach the genius of the juvenile mind.

Oh, those pompous priests. I write to prove those pompous priests wrong. Life is more than strategically avoiding the urges of sin, just as Ireland is defined much more by its physical beauty than by its church. Yes, St. Francis, I once spoke of life’s unfair nature. However, through writing, I have reassessed my life. Religious fastidiousness has been replaced with maturity and self-forgiveness. Writing gives me the power to move forward, grow, and teach.

A poor boy-that’s what I was. I am a boy whose mother gave birth out of wedlock, and whose parents were from not from the same regions of Ireland. It was overwhelmingly difficult to break free from society’s unwelcoming tendency to express prejudices. Emotions were contained, not nurtured. America and my voyage upon the Irish Oak gave freedom to my pen. Words flew unfiltered from my mind and onto the page, where they gained tangibility. I write to be free.

Words have the power to induce laughter. Life is filled with humorous moments that make us stop our pain and suffering, even if just for a moment, to enjoy simply being alive. I consistently inject a little humor into my writing to convey the joy of breath and the pure beauty of living.

Yes, life has been a wild ride. A ride filled with faces that I cannot remember, emotions that I never captured, and moments that transcend words. However, my past, as difficult as it may have been, is what allowed me to move forward. I write to move forward as I carry with me my readers. I write to retell what I can in hopes of nurturing a better tomorrow by touching the minds of today.

Frank Tells His Story.....

"Through our sunless lanes creeps Poverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows close behind her. Misery wakes us in the morning and Shame sits with us at night." -Oskar Wilde

As Frank relives the anguish of his childhood through the power of his words, the poverty and suffering of his family become a reality to the reader. The above quote illustrates the McCourt family and their mental, physical, and emotional poverty-driven struggles.

The uncharacteristic capitalization of “Poverty,” “Sin,” “Misery,” and “Shame,” along with the use of personal pronouns, showcases Wilde’s use of personification in the above quotation. Each of these nouns can be given an individual identity by being properly assigned to one of the McCourt family members: Poverty to Angela, Sin to Malachy (the father), Misery to the living children, and Shame to the deceased children.

While the McCourt poverty is not the result of her actions, Poverty most properly represents Angela. Angela’s depression, while most directly the result of her children’s deaths, is indirectly the result of her poverty and inability to properly nourish her family. As her husband hastily spends the little money he earns at the pub, Angela begs that he bring home food for the children instead of alcohol for his mind, and thus her eyes and desires could be describes as “hungry.” The verb “creeps” in the above quote parallels Angela’s sluggish, somber, sickly physical movements as she struggles to balance her severe depression and the responsibilities of motherhood: “Most of the day Mam lies in bed with her face to the wall. If she drinks tea or eats anything she throws up in the bucket under the bed […]” (McCourt 41). The lanes are also describes as “sunless,” just as her room remains dark while she mourns the death of Margaret. Sunless would also suitably describe Angela’s day-to-day living experiences that are filled with little or no moments of pure happiness.

Plagued by the desire and need to drink, Malachy McCourt is represented by “Sin.” Excessive consumption of alcohol would be viewed by many as a sin, as would the withholding of money from one’s starving family. “Drinking. That’s where he is. There isn’t a penny in the house. He can’t get a job but he finds money for the drink, money for the drink, money for the drink,” (37). Regardless of these sins, Malachy leads the family, although not a firmly as the more practical Mrs. McCourt, which is why he is described as “following close behind her.” The adjective “sodden” used in two contexts describes different aspects of Malachy’s persona. Sodden can be used to describe one who is soaked with liquid or moisture. Water, used as a derogatory symbol throughout this memoir to represent sadness and suffering, describes Malachy’s obvious misery and dissatisfaction with himself. Used in another context, sodden means dull or stupid, especially from drunkenness, representing Malachy’s drinking habits.

The living children, Frank included, are properly represented by “Misery.” Not only does the misery of their childhood create significant roadblocks to success and happiness, but it induces tears as well-the same tears that have awoken parents to wet drops of sadness since the beginning of time. “They make faces and run to Mam’s bed, crying. She keeps her face to the wall and they run back to me, still crying,” (36). These tears and other numerous references to water represent the desperation of the Irish people. “Limerick gained reputation for piety, but we knew it was only the rain,” (12). This quote illustrates that it was desperation, rather than dedication to faith, that drew huge masses of battered individuals together in worship. The children’s misery is consistent as feelings of helplessness erupt from hunger and desperation. This desperation is exaggerated by the theme of flight, or lack of flight. The following quote, “The swings are frozen and won’t even move,” (29) shows not only the lack of flight, and thus lack of freedom from misery, but the inability of these children to live the carefree, jovial days of childhood.

Shame, coupled with guilt, is a prevalent theme living throughout the words of this memoir. The deceased McCourt children represent the unbearable shame any parent would suffer knowing their lack of nourishment caused the death of their own children. Angela cries in desperation and shame after Margaret’s death, “In the pram, Mrs. Leibowitz. Near my bed. I could have picked her up and she didn’t have to die, did she?” (38). Not only do Mr. and Mrs. McCourt have to struggle with the shame of their lost children, but they have to struggle with their personal imperfections as defined by societal norms. For example, with religion forming the cornerstone of Ireland’s social structure, any child born to parents not legally deemed man and wife, like Frank, is frowned upon: “The sisters knew what was wrong and any doubts could be resolved by the […] church. They knew that Angela, unmarried, have no right to be in an interesting condition […]” (15). Additionally, one’s church affiliation was highly indicative of the types of settings in which one would be accepted: “’Tisn’t his fault if there’s Presbyterians in his [Malachy’s] family,” (16). Shame created by societal standards was incredibly common in this time period.

As the McCourt family struggles to maintain a stable family unit, poverty, sin, misery, and shame create a seemingly unbeatable symphony of indestructible forces. Frank’s dismal childhood is personified, and described by the words of Oskar Wilde.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close-Heavy Boots?

As Oskar endures the task of finding the mystery lock while simultaneously making sense of himself and the death of his father, he finds himself experiencing a symphony of emotions. Foer's selection of the phrase "heavy boots," attacks the reader's senses, while depicting Oskar's moments of confusion, sadness, and depression.

When dissected, the phrase “heavy boots” seems redundant. Boots are typically heavy shoes that are worn in harsh weather, or when climbing or hiking on rocky, or uneven, ground. By choosing the word “heavy,” Foer wanted the reader to imagine trudging through deep snow or mud, as opposed to simply wearing boots. Utilizing an everyday cliché, a person will usually describe someone who is experiencing negative emotions as having “weight on their shoulders.” Foer transfers this weight to Oskar’s feet, to show that these emotions prevent him from moving forward in his goal to understand his father’s death, as opposing to merely being weighed down.
A person typically wears boots when they are aware and prepared for inclement weather. Oskar “wears heavy boots,” when he knows that a negative emotion or incident could hold him back, but plans to trudge through, regardless.

This phrase parallels other ideas in the story such as Oskar’s bruises, which are self-destructive. Oskar, himself, holds the power to “put on” much more comfortable shoes, however, he can no longer expect someone else to come along and untie his shoes for him. I think it’s interesting that Oskar did not wear his boots during an incredibly disappointing part of the story: when he finds out what the lock actually opens. This shows Oskar’s growth as an individual: he no longer needs to punish himself for things in life that he cannot control.

The boots contrast the presence of flight and birds in the story. As Oskar is held down by the presence of these boots, he finds himself afraid of heights. The disappearance of Oskar’s boots signals his ability to break free from the stress and pressure he placed on himself, and fly.