Overdue Rebellion

Status:  Final NaNo word count—404,404

Mental State:  Not quite as exhausted as I would have expected—close though. Mostly I’m just sad it’s over. *sniffles*

 

So, I’m sitting in my room with my feet propped up drinking tea, not that anyone really cares. In fact, if I took a picture of myself right now and posted it on the internet, I doubt anyone would give it more than a passing glance or go out of their way to Google it. Maybe a couple friends would like it on Facebook. No biggie. But, if I were—say—Louis Tomlinson, almost every thirteen year old in existence would probably stare at my photo for a good solid five minutes. Its Facebook likes would number in the thousands (at least). Probably a few creepers would print it out and post it on their wall (yes, you know who you are). Big difference huh? Just…change the person, and you change everything.

While you may not care about what I had for breakfast or what my favorite color is (green, by the way) or the number of marshmallows I can fit in my mouth, you probably would if I were someone famous. And I get that, so don’t think I’m griping. Isn’t it at least a little bit intriguing, though, that if Louis posted a video relaying those exact details, a couple hundred thousand individuals would probably watch it at least once while I might get two views?

But what’s the difference between him and me aside from the obvious things like gender and facial hair? Well, he’s famous, yeah—a heartthrob. What else though? Is he a better person? Maybe. Since he’s rich and all, he can give gobs of money to charities, and he has significant influence he could use for good. That’s not really what I’m talking about though. I’m not referring to morality or talent. Actually, I’m talking about him…as a person. And me too, as a person. And you.

Countries like India have caste systems where those at the top are rich and privileged, those in the middle less so, and those at the bottom untouchable. Other countries, like the United States, are a little more covert about this—we have our upper class, our middle class, and our poverty stricken lower class. Granted, that’s a broad generalization. But the people in these different levels—it’s not like they’re some different species. They are all human beings—made in God’s image just like you and Louis and I. Both fame and obscurity can do nothing to change that.

So what makes some special and others not? Well, Louis is a halfway decent singer (some would disagree—but I wasn’t asking). Also, never underestimate the power of great hair and good looks. Those can often go farther than a decent batch of brain cells, but I digress. And I’m not like the haters. Don’t think I’m going to stand here and argue that Louis has been handed fame and fortune and adulation without just cause, all the while trying to mask my own jealousy.

Sure, he’s famous—that is something. But even if you’re not famous?—doesn’t mean you’re any less than he. Some day you may have the spotlight. Or perhaps you prefer the shadows. You know what though? Maybe the singers and the actors and the writers and the politicians are the ones we end up remembering at the end of the day. But the lady at the cash register who says something nice to the depressed teen? I think that puts a platinum album to shame.

Louis’ popularity—and the popularity of others—has nothing to do with worth. Like Louis and like me, you are a person. And we are all equal, no matter what anyone says. Granted, you might pass your evenings calculating pi to the millionth digit while I spend mine progressing my campaign to burn every math book on the planet. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. While Louis can sing, maybe you can’t carry a tune except to take it out back and bury it. Or perhaps he can’t make a decent soufflé while you can. Then comes the whole issue of appearance:  fat or skinny, tall or short? What does it matter? What do these things say about you—you as a person?

Living in this world, seeing all the gorgeous Hollywood people and the stick-thin shop window dummies and the talents everyone seems to have aside from you, it can get pretty depressing pretty fast. So here comes the point where I say something controversial. Before you shoot me, though, allow me to explain. This culture—it makes self-esteem a thing of the past. (Just so you know, that wasn’t the controversial bit.) Correct me if I’m wrong, but I doubt there’s any way you can look like the gals and the guys on the magazines. With all that airbrushing, they don’t even look like themselves. To try would be to drive yourself crazy, or worse. But people do. I do. And that’s a mistake.  

I’m not saying it’s wrong to look your best or to work out and be fit. Those are great things, just, not the most important. Rather than trying to live up to the lie that is the tabloid, the lie that the actors can’t even seem to live up to without collapsing on set or whatever, why don’t we try something else? Why don’t we rebel? Seriously. Who sets these standards anyway, the ones where you have to kill yourself to be pretty? Who made the ruling that beauty is something you put on your face instead of something you wear on your heart? I think it’s about time we stopped letting them pull this one over on us. I think it’s time we let them know how sick we are—us girls and guys—of being held to unreal standards. Why don’t we just let ourselves be human for once, stop trying to be gods? You do realize, don’t you? Things like this only happen because we let them, because we just accept the lies and don’t speak out against them.

So my challenge? Measure the thickness (not the width or length—the thickness) of a magazine cover. Sometimes that’s as deep as outward beauty goes. Why not find out what it really means to be pretty—on the inside? Age will take that face from you—what will you have left when it’s gone? And to help free ourselves, why don’t we message our friends and tell them how wonderful they are, the bits about their personalities that make them unique and special, the traits that make them better than a shop window dummy. Why don’t we rebuild our culture from the bottom up on a stronger foundation, one where we all have a little more room to breathe and actually be ourselves.

 

Note:  Please don’t misconstrue this post as a slam on Louis Tomlinson. I assure you, it is not. I just figured that using someone like Taylor Swift would come across as criticism rather than mere example. As for Louis, I do still intend to marry him some day. *grin*

Tarzan of the Apes

 

 

 

Scottie’s is a quaint little bookstore in Ellsworth, Maine that I visit maybe once or twice a year.  Every time I go, the books are piled higher and the Scotty dog is older—but that papery smell still fills the air, just like always.  I love the familiar surroundings, the high shelves and the brimming cardboard boxes, the ratty paperbacks and the priceless hardcovers.  Recently I was wandering through the crowded stacks, thumbing through old and new volumes alike—worn out Orson Scott Cards and shiny Isaac Asimovs.  Tolkein was in there somewhere, tucked in facing the tacky looking Star Trek and Star Wars collection that I always drool over but rarely buy.  Still hoping to dig up a Ray Bradbury, I moved to the classics section deep in the back corner, a veritable treasure trove if you care to dig.  And that’s when I found it.  Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs. 

My cousin loves Tarzan—the books, the soundtrack, the movie.  Whenever I visit her house, I see her copies sitting in a neat little row on her shelf, and I am intrigued.  I watched the Disney version when I was much younger, and bits and bobs still float around in my memory, random snatches of animation that stuck to my grey matter.  Not much—just enough to know that I liked it, but not enough to know why.  Truth be told, when my cousin recommended the books to me, while her enthusiasm piqued my interest, the obnoxiously melodramatic covers weren’t very promising.  This copy, though—this copy was beautiful.  The peaceful blue-green jungle was a scene from another world; a strange, magical place that I desperately wanted to visit.  And having forgotten so much of the story, I was curious to remember.  So, after all these years, I finally got around to reading it. 

At the end, as I closed the book and studied the write-up to see if it gave an accurate representation, I wondered why I hadn’t remembered that Tarzan was a tragedy. 

As a kid, when I read, I read because I loved to explore, because a mere staycation didn’t cut it for me, because everyday life can be boring for a mind that’s always learning and growing and developing.  I didn’t much care what happened, so long as it was interesting.  Nothing wrong with that, of course.  But now…  Now I read to escape, to stretch, to make sense of the world.  I live in a box—a gilded cage—and I need air sometimes.  I need to live somewhere else and be someone else when this frame becomes too unbearable. 

And Tarzan—Tarzan is beautiful.  He is free, swinging through the treetops with the fresh air and the sunlight surrounding him.  He is basic humanity, without the trappings of taxes and rent and work.  He is an untamed spirit, and I rooted for him because he is the wild, adventurous creature that I wish I was. 

Then Jane Porter comes along and ruins everything.  At first I liked her because Tarzan liked her.  But Tarzan doesn’t get the girl in the end.  He doesn’t get anything.  Instead, he abandons his old life and trades it for tiresome civilization in hopes of marrying Jane.  And I hated—how I hated to see him trapped in a suit, speaking French and eating with silverware like a normal man when he’s anything but a normal man.  He’s Tarzan.  He is special.  He is so much better—so much more—than any other man, and he deserves more than this boring fate.  How awful that he trades all that makes him marvelous for a wishy-washy girl who leads him on and then foolishly rejects him.  Where is the justice in that?  It’s as tragic as Peter Pan growing up, or Cinderella and Prince Charming getting a divorce, or Spirit becoming a tame packhorse.  It simply won’t do.  But here’s the thing—and this is why it hurt the most, this is what I didn’t get before that I do now.  Eventually, we do have to face reality.  We all have to face reality, even when we don’t like it.  Edgar Rice Burroughs told the truth.  Love doesn’t always fix things, time doesn’t always heal, and everyone gets old and tired someday.  As much as I wanted to see Tarzan free, as much as I wanted him to remain forever untainted by what taints me, his sacrifice made him twice as beautiful.  Like Pinocchio, his experiences turned him into a real boy, and that was priceless. 

So I look forward to the twenty-two sequels and all they hold in store.