Distanced

When reading both Shooting Dad and Arm Wrestling with My Father,  I realized one thing: I am no longer my daddy's little girl.

The connection between my father and I has gotten severely lost. I feel as if I do not know him anymore. As a teenager, I tend towards my tender mother with her open arms and compassionate voice. Not that my dad does not have a compassionate voice, its just that he barely uses it. 

Like Brad Manning, rather than using written language, my dad communicates through movie connections. I love that part of my life but I feel that he has grown somewhat different than what my fuzzy vision remembers. The man who always used to quote Lord of the Rings or Star Wars, has now been replaced with this "legen-wait for -dary" man who is just that: a whisper of legend in my mind.

My dad and I were really close. When I was younger, my younger sister and I would joke about who was the favorite. Of course I knew it was me - I even got shirts that said daddy's little girl. My dad used to take me to air shows, my karate competitions, my violin competitions, and even helped me pick out my first bow (not hair bow-archery set). 

Whenever we were at weddings, I used to dance the daddy daughter dances with him. Now I dance alone. I don't know whether this happened as I got older or if it was just destined to happen. 

I still feel an inkling of a connection here and there, but overall its just gone. I used to know what to get him for his birthday, now I can barely think of a gift suitable.
I do not know whether I should fear this or if this is just a part of life; we all have to distance ourselves from our parents, but I don't think I'm ready to cut the cord and let go of the man who often held me after I had a nightmare in the middle of night. 

1884

The sunlit afternoon shines down on the crowd, unnoticeable it fleets.
Shade from high and low trees conceal the crowd - everyone seeking the cool.
No shirts ruffle, no skirts twist, the heat lead weights the air.
 Parasols are out and barely anyone moves.
A middle class mother and her miniature daughter stroll the banks.
Seemingly unaffected by the dead weight heat.
They promenade silently as children have been taught. Yet her mind is going a mile a minute.
But too quickly does the child tire of the inside world.
Her mother can not put up with the insightful child.
She waits for the days when the child will be able to understand decorum.
Sitting tall and standing straight,
she waits for those days.
When she will not resist the baths or throw tempers.
When she wears her gloves and gown and corset.
Looks well and kept and does not detest the stale inside.
Yet they walk on in silence. The mother betrays none of her inside thoughts.
The chatter of the well-lit and well-to-do draw her sight;
a jazz player plays a trumpet nice. Children slightly older play games carefree.
Yet the couple walk on alone.
The river stirs and all eyes are attracted to it. The reflective surface becomes the predator of all the eyes, beneath its current though lies lies.
La Grande Jatte shows a perfect scene; the mother along with all other adults fall prey to its show.
Like all that glitters, draws the eye, yet the miniature girl stares straight ahead, into the unknown.
Everyone around her is in a trance. What is she trying to warn us?
Why is this one girl left out of shade when everyone else conceals themselves.
The pure white innocence on this unnamed daughter throbs lightly, casting light around her.
Here is an angel uncorrupted by the glitz of the water. Untainted by its dark blue hues.
The daughter decides that she will not walk in someone else's footsteps. The mother's dreams drown in the predators mouth. The child ignores the set path beside the river and looks with glee toward the unknown path that lays before her.
Its 1884.

Molds

It is a fact of America that when a foreigner comes here they have to assimilate. Although we may preach we are a melting pot, we are in only sometimes. A typical melting pot melts together all aspects of each race; highlighting one or another, however, society has created a sense of unity through false advertising: the melting pot melts everything but this is poured into a certain shape: society's mold for Americans.

In Amy Tan's piece, Fish Cheeks, she retells one fateful Christmas dinner where she details the differences between her Chinese family and a typical American one. She particularly downplays her own culture in order to adhere to the American culture. Tan's mother helps her realize that she must mix the two cultures to get the best outcome. Despite her mother trying to help her understand that she is who she is, Tan does not realize this important lesson until she is older.

This piece ties into the way society has told us to perceive ourselves. For example, a long braid and long hair are typical of an Indian (not Native American, Indian as in India the country) - its easy and has its perks. I have chosen the best of both worlds: I have long hair most of the time and cut it to become short. Ask around, people normally know me as the girl with a ponytail and long hair. I opted out for the long braid.

Tan, as well as I, have chosen the best of both worlds. Culturally we are strong, yet we present a swirled image of both sides. On the inside she is Chinese, I am Indian. On the outside we are society's American molds.

Perception Conceals Identity

Identity is internal. Perception is external.

Identity is what you think about yourself. You build up your Identity. Its the back of your mask. This mask covers yours face in darkness yet you know what is there on the back; you know who you are. Life is something we construct of ourselves. The identity we create is caused by the clothes we wear, the people we associate with, the events we take part in. Identity, is complex. We create ourselves, build ourselves up, adapt.

Perception never sees the back of our masks. Perception glances at the face plastered over ours. Reads our lives in the facade we call ourselves. We wait for society to place us in a little niche and pat our heads. Society judges you and labels you with its own code. Perception is less complex. We adhere it to ourselves, crush ourselves, adapt.

In Mairs' piece, Disability, perception is exposed for the monster it really is. Media, a intricate part of society, labels disabled persons as a certain type - different from the normal "TAPs," in everyday life (Mairs). The relationship between the two - identity and perception - is separable.  Mairs asserts that the way society perceives her is different from her identity. She supports this with her own feelings and emotions as well as the common things that make her similar to every single other woman out there. The relationship between identity and perception is far from similar. Both seem to be intertwined only because society wants you to think that. However, perception lacks the apathy and distinction that identity grants you.

Identity is a strong word. I can not tell you what it means. It is different to every person. Yet, somehow we seem to be prisoners of Identity. It forces us to stare at a fine line - a shadow of life. What is and what isn't. The reality we perceive is different from that of actuality. Our caves and shadows create us and leave behind an imprint. Plato was just in saying that our senses receive a poor version of reality, in his piece The Allegory of the Cave. The reality to which we cloud ourselves is our identity.

Find your truth.

"I, Too, Am America"

It takes a long time to hand-craft a table. The sheer amount of work that presses into one solid piece of wood, shaping it, contorting it, and expecting it to become a set four-legged product of life is unimaginably colossal. This process, however diversified, is a product of society. Society shapes, twists, smooths, and forces a table into a set design. The trivialized kitchen table is unadorned. Its ebony surface reflects the ideals of those who sit around it and dictate. The reflective surface, slightly marred by scars and imprints, throws distorted images across its exterior. Yet, this lovingly polished table reflects not only one color, but many, ranging from the blase white to a rich mahogany. "I, Too" believes in a unity that such a table can only give. The table top is for sharing experiences, life-changing moments, moreover, equality that is everlasting. Everyone has to eat at a table. This seemingly prosaic moment is a monumental experience everyone goes through. The verisimilitude fostered by this eloquent poem is brought together through this extended metaphor between the united kitchen table and the United States of America. This table's surface is scratched by the similar experiences like segregation and marginalization that all the population has at one time been through. Langston Hughes effectively displays his theme of equality in unity at the ordinary kitchen table of America.

The Nation as a Whole

Jay Gatsby and the American hero, Benjamin Franklin, despite seemingly different, have a lot in common. Both are self-made men - invented literally out of thin air. On top of this both seem to be magicians- the kind that are cons. Benjamin Franklin with his many personas - Silence Dogood and Anthony Afterwit- seems to be the very drawing board for Jay "Gatz" Gatsby. The only difference is that Gatsby had a more dark side, whereas Franklin wanted to better society.
These parallels that are drawn between the two men serve, only to show how the American dream has lasted beyond the 1700s and well into the 1920s. Fitzgerald drew from Franklin to show how the "American Dream" has become and ingrained part of society. It is always lurking about. Over the course of the novel, Gatsby, like Franklin, comes to represent the nation. Gatsby represents the promising idea that one can  successfully reinvent oneself. Although Fitzgerald writes about this optimism, he definitely does not share it. Unlike Franklin's embodiment of the self made man, Gatsby's ultimate death marks the boundaries of the corruptness of the American dream.
The Great Gatsby, seems to epitomize the "American Dream", while yet displaying its hideous corruptness. Gatsby carries all the fraudulent connotations of this 1920 American Dream which Fitzgerald has seen fit to compare to Franklin's position as the epitome of this ideal dream. Gatsby and Franklin together form the nation - both ideal and opulent to corrupt and decayed on the inside.

Inspiration

Words form from thoughts. Thoughts form from experience. Experiences form from events. Events happen every day of our lives. These events we record. In history. In diaries. In memories. In pictures. We even write these snapshots of life into our books. Pictures of life inspire us.
F. Scott Fitzgerald saw a vision in a piece of art. The cover art for his book The Great Gatsby, was actually written into the book itself. He uses the image to relay themes of the life he portrayed in the novel. It spoke about hope, immorality, moral decay, social issues, warnings, and mystery.

We picked apart this art and stripped it open to the naked eye. We appreciated it for what it told about the human condition. 

Recently, art is becoming less appreciated. If we see a scenic shot, we snap a picture and save it away. Every day people try to be inspiring with phrases and words these inspirational pictures - using parts to note details that might seem important. Yet people are abusing this. They believe slapping anything uplifting on a scene is correct. It's not. 

Art is worth a thousand intelligent words. Copying and pasting a quote on a picture reveals nothing about the picture or anything deeper about the words. Words and pictures have to connect. 

This is my favorite image. The words have meaning. Be yourself. Don't be anything society wants you to be. It gives you two choices - each for you to interpret on your own. For example, I believed bold meant outspoken, not the norm courageous. Italic meant malleable, easily influenced yet strong in position. It meant authoritative. This image told me to not be normal and interpret it with a normal eye. Be myself.  

The world is always outspoken. We just really need to think before we write, create, or even start to form an idea about humanity.