These Articulations

Seasons, seasons, seasons

After turning back the clocks for the winter, it always takes me by surprise how much I like having it get dark earlier. Perhaps it’s because I tend to find comfort in the darkness and that turning down the shades and flicking on the light switch allows me to focus more, to be more productive. But I think it’s much simpler, much subtler.

For the past few days I’ve returned to my room from class in the late afternoon. The sun is lower in the sky as I’m walking back, and once I finally unlock my door, I see it—the golden rays of the sun spilling through my window over my white bedding. It’s a rather simple sight, and perhaps one that is not unique, but it always seems more pronounced in fall and winter. 

It will be getting cold again soon, as the last few chilly nights have promised, and I feel quite alright about this. I always miss winter, but I think I miss it the most right before it gets here. Until then, I’m content to watch the last leaves fall. 

Gaining an hour while you’re already far behind

I’ve always loved the idea of daylight savings time, of watching the clocks fall backwards and gaining what we so often long for—more time. Lately, this is something I’ve been wishing I could have a lot more of, because pages can not be read or pages written or sleeping accomplished within the too few hours of a single day. 

I’ve been behind, lately, and it’s a difficult thing to carry. I’m too often going to sleep with things left unfinished, things left open and festering in my mind while I try to sleep. Once I eventually wake, my eyes too tired, the dark shadows of stubborn mascara shows me I can not even wash completely the previous day away. 

But then there are good moments, also. There is one moment that I can think of in the way I used to revisit old memories, one that holds so much possibility that it almost feels as though my heart might burst with the keeping of it. When there is someone to listen, you want to speak, speak, speak—and just as strongly, to hear, hear, hear. 

The purple gown from Halloween’s past

I used to dress up for Halloween as a little girl. It was something I looked forward to. A lot of costume catalogs came to my house, and I remember my sister and I used to flip through them in order to pick our favorites as well as laugh at the sillier ones. I always came back to the catalogs when I was on my own, flipping again through the pages and thinking of all of the things I could pretend to be while wearing the various costumes.

One year I did actually order a costume from one of these catalogs—my mom sent an order form away and in the beginning of October it arrived in the mail—a dark purple “Renaissance Lady” gown. I tried it on almost immediately, and tried it on many days afterwards, both leading up to and following the actual night of Halloween. The sleeves were open around my wrists and the fabric flowed nicely as I walked around my room, the skirt just long enough to brush the ground but not enough for me to step on or trip over. I also remember the headpiece that came with the costume, the one I wore with my then obnoxiously-long hair left to fall over my soldiers.

Halloween gives you a night, or as many moments in which you try on your costume, to become something else—perhaps someone else—until you come back to empty your pillowcase of candy and eventually settle into a reality perhaps marked by a sugar rush. I’ve always liked this idea of Halloween, and thinking about it now, I wouldn’t mind having another opportunity to walk around my room in that purple gown. 

I used to do things, and maybe I still do

I’ve always been shy, but when I was younger, it appears that this never really held me back. For example, some of my earliest memories are from pre-school, in which I often chose to hide in the dress-up bin if I decided the story one of the teachers was reading to the class was too “boring.” In my early years of elementary school, I always tried to set up play-dates with the kids I talked to and tried to ignore the obvious indication that most of these kids thought I was a weirdo. In first or second grade, I signed myself up for the school talent show (before I had even vaguely considered whether or not I actually had any talent to display). I remember coming home from school, telling my mom about my latest decision, and brainstorming with her until we finally came up with my “talent”—hula dancing. I of course do understand that there is some talent required for this, but I most certainly did not have it. I wore a too-big Hawaiian shirt and a hula skirt left over from a Halloween clearance rack tied loosely around my waist. For approximately two minutes, I stood on stage and did literally nothing but smile and sway and wave my wingers while a Beach Boys song played much too loudly. I actually watched a VHS of this night that I found while my family moved out of our old house, and let me assure you—it was bad.

But then I grew up a bit, too. In sixth grade I wrote a poem and submitted it to a children’s poetry anthology, and it was actually published—something I actually felt proud of myself for. By seventh grade, my grades had allowed me into my middle school’s chapter of the National Junior Honor Society and I ran for president. For a whole week I wrote and constantly rehearsed a speech, gave it, and was actually voted into “office” by the twenty-something twelve year olds, the majority of which had rarely ever heard my voice.

Needless to say, I started growing into the person I am today—someone who loves what she studies, but through shyness, is not always very good at sharing this love with people. However, for a lot of reasons, I feel like this is just fine.

Over the summer a friend of mine had a picnic in which she introduced her new boyfriend to me and a couple of friends she knew from work, in which proceeding conversations I became referred to simply as “the quiet smart one.” Naturally, I found this very annoying, but wouldn’t have let it get to me were it not for the particular comments one of her co-workers made to me as the night went on. Basically, he repeatedly made it known to me that he believed an education in English Literature was utterly useless and pretentious because, after all, “what does all that stuff Shakespeare wrote really have to do with anything that matters?”

My answer to that is perhaps best suited to another post, but what is relevant is what this comment really meant to me. It came from a guy who attended a career institute for college in a field that has allowed him to acquire a practical job very soon after graduation. In my opinion, no part of this decision was a bad one. Not everyone wants to delve into academic study, especially in the humanities where the majority of disciplines are largely perceived as “impractical.” But, to me, if you are someone, like myself, to whom these things are important, they do matter.

All in all, I perhaps do not fit the mold of a “practical” person—I have tried too hard in making friends, have embarrassed myself in an obnoxious hula skirt, have become a person that no longer chooses to hide in dress-up bins when things don’t go my way. Maybe I can be “the quiet smart one,” but I can take comfort in knowing that the things I study and the things I am working for are things that I believe in. I guess, in that sense, maybe I AM doing things—things much more practical than signing up for talent shows without a talent.