Feeling Your Age (And When Not To)

I just got back from the cool movie theater near my apartment, where I saw the film adaptation of The Perks of Being a Wallflower. This is a young adult novel that I read for the first time last fall at age 22. I got it out of the library in Lincoln Park and read it on the train downtown, finishing it on a riverside bench I found by chance that day. I loved it. It was worth the wait.

The bench became my go-to outdoor reading and relaxation bench; the book, although I didn't know it at the time, became one of the catalysts for the writing I'm doing now.

But forget the bench and forget my writing. The Perks of Being a Wallflower is a book many of my friends deeply connected with in their teenage years. I put off reading it because...well, the reasons have escaped me. Suffice it to say that I have never really read books at the age at which I was expected to read them.

I really, really liked the movie. Was it a Great Movie? Who knows? Who cares? This was not one of my childhood novels, so I was perhaps less invested than some. (Also, knowing the author adapted and directed the film left me with no worries about fidelity.) It left me giddy, mostly. I felt like I felt after reading the Hunger Games trilogy: like a teenager, like I was experiencing emotion like a teenager. At certain points during the movie I had contorted myself into shapes in my seat that I don't think I've found myself in since I watched Pride & Prejudice for the first time. (I was thirteen or thereabouts when I watched Pride & Prejudice for the first time.)

While I was watching the movie, I experienced two overwhelming emotions that had passed me by while reading the book: vivid, happy nostalgia and gut-churning discomfort. I really felt for Charlie, the main character, who struggles to "participate." Watching him struggle to give word to his feelings, watching him inch closer to the people he wants to befriend, watching him understand more than he can express: it all reminded me of moments in my own life--few and far between, but still present--when I feel uncomfortable and unable to connect. Those parts of the film were uncomfortable for the same reasons watching J. Edgar was so uncomfortable last year. I am far, far better off than Charlie (and light years better off than anyone in J. Edgar), but no one ever said that a character has to be overwhelmingly like you for you to identify with them, and when a film or a novel is successful and your connection with the character is strong, it can feel as if that character is forcing you to amplify your feelings to match theirs. (What is tragically hilarious about this phenomenon in the case of Charlie is that this is exactly his problem. He feels too much of what others are feeling and takes it all in, letting too little out in return.)

A beautiful this about identifying with Charlie: his high school friends. This part of the film was pure joy for me (and, if the noises the rest of the audience made were anything to go by, a sizable portion of the theater felt the same way). What a collection of crazy, imperfect people who talk over each other and know all the same stories and have all the same inside jokes. Their circumstances are very different, but they remind me of people I know very well. Watching the movie reminded me of spending time with my high school friends: how effortless it is, how when we're together it's as if we've simultaneously changed and stayed just as we were senior year. My high school was small, and leaving it made me realize which people exactly were worth keeping in touch with. Some people I could have predicted; other crept up on me. When you find a group of people like that, it's worth writing about, as Charlie discovers. It's worth writing about again and again, in different forms, in different genres, across age and time.

Charlie made me think of another boy, younger, and from a different country, in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Little Bill Roach is stuck in a boarding school whose customs he doesn't fully understand, struggling to fit in to a culture that doesn't come naturally to him. In John Le Carré's book, and in the BBC miniseries adaptation, Bill Roach is buoyed along by his friendship with Jim Prideaux, a former spy now teaching French at the school. Jim draws Bill Roach out, making him aware of his natural talents--observation and empathy--and celebrating those talents. Bill Roach feels as if he has become part of something through this friendship, and he realizes for the first time that his character traits may in fact be abilities.

I love this relationship between Bill Roach and Jim Prideaux, natural "singles" and "watchers" both, so when, last winter, I saw the (otherwise great) film adaptation of the novel, I felt let down when Jim, overwhelmed with his own problems and tiring of the ever-hovering Bill Roach, lashes out with, "Go and join the others. Just bloody join in. Go and play, damn you.” This is their final interaction.

In The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Charlie makes his own efforts to join in, but he makes it his aim to participate not because someone has told him he should, but because he knows what happiness it can bring him. His friends accept him because the  qualities that make him struggle to break away from the wall at a school dance are the same qualities that enable him to say to one of his friends, "I know who you are." Knowing that someone is watching--and watching out for--you is a powerful feeling. Charlie made the effort once, to participate, and it won him these wonderful friends. By the end of the novel, he knows he can do it again, and he can do it without trying to be someone else. It's easier to admit to your own good qualities when you surround yourself with people who can see those qualities in you, people who know that some things about you will change but that there are fixed points about you too.

Ultimately, I think what I like so much about The Perks of Being a Wallflower is that it's a celebration of all the things I like most: literature, conversation, observation, introspection, close friendships, loyalty. "Only connect," said E.M. Forster. Charlie connects, and he connects in his own way: "I know who you are." "And all the books you've read have been read by other people."

On going back and moving forward (or: THE PRIIIIIDE)

In my new job as a grant writer, I sit at a desk, in front of a computer. Next to me, I have a phone with my very own extension. The only people I talk to all day with any regularity are my two colleagues, L1 and L2, and our supervisor. Sometimes I run into other people in the hallway and say hello, or chat a little longer, especially in the case of the woman who I knew first as a mom in the classroom I worked in last year. It’s wonderful, glorious, quiet, and the only stressors are the ones that come with any due-date-centric job.

Another wonderful perk is that I get chances to go back to my old site and visit, as I round up quotes for the newsletter, take pictures for the annual report, or prowl the hallways for spelling errors in case the governor drops by. A couple times I’ve made special trips over there to do those things and also to make sure I saw certain kids who left an impression on me, in particular the girl who was so upset when I left that she could barely speak on my last day.

A necessary digression: In junior year, Roommate J and I went to see an Off Broadway play called The Pride. It starred Hugh Dancy (the reason I was there), Ben Whishaw (the reason Roommate J was there), and Andrea Riseborough (the reason I’m telling this story at all). Riseborough’s character didn’t have the most stage time, but what time she did have was endlessly appropriated by her friend (Whishaw’s character) and his problems. From the time that we saw the play, Roommate J took to exclaiming, “The Pride, The Pride!” in tones of doom, whenever I was about to devote a chunk of my time to anyone else’s personal problems. She did it when I called certain friends on the phone. She did it when I would read Facebook statuses that got me concerned. It was actually a pretty helpful formulation, when you think about it, because it refers to something concrete but it also warns of a waft of hubris in the room: as if I could be so proud as to think that I could singlehandedly fix another human being. Mostly, though, it was hilarious. It was a sight to behold: Roommate J grasping her face and intoning, “The Pride, The Pride!” while writhing around in her chair as I tried to carry on a normal phone conversation without laughing. I took her point, but I always laughed it off, too. I wasn’t trying to save anyone; I didn’t think I could, or should, or that there weren’t others, better-qualified others, with the same idea.

Well, dear readers, The Pride lives on. I think about it whenever I pass one of these gas stations, for instance.

I mean, seriously, what is that about?

Most recently, though, The Pride lived on when I e-mailed Roommate J to update her on my life and let slip that I worried about the kids I left behind and thought I should visit them more. Her reply went like this (excerpt from an actual e-mail):

Obligatory:

THE PRIIIIDE THE PRIIIIIDE

I cracked up when I opened it (at work, at my glorious desk, at lunch hour, where people treat you like an adult and acknowledge that you will be checking all your e-mails). This time, though, it actually put me in check. I had been tying myself in knots over a chat I had with M, who called me and, in the midst of a separate conversation, mentioned that this girl, the one who couldn’t say goodbye to me, had been really withdrawn and depressed recently. And had been grilling my coworker, the one with a kid in that classroom, about how often she saw me and what my office was like and whether I liked it there.

Getting Roommate J’s e-mail was a nice reality check. I was in that girl’s life for all of ten months. I’m not responsible for her happiness, and I don’t know all the factors leading to her depression (which was noticeable before I was even on the scene). I can drop by and cheer her up (and I did), but I can’t expect that to be the solution, and I can’t beat myself up about leaving when it was so clearly the right decision for me. Nor, layer #2 of The Pride reminds me, should I have such a high opinion of myself that I think I am the only solution.

I can, however, go back and volunteer once a week in the evening program. I did so last night, and it felt good: to be back, to be making a commitment to show my face regularly, and to know that, whenever I wanted, I could walk out the door.

Fresh from America! Madame brought them!

StoryCorps happened, to my delight. I went on over to the Mobile Booth they had stationed in Millenium Park and, to the sounds of the jazz fest two greens over and the families out enjoying Labor Day weekend, I sat and waited my turn. A couple people wandered up to me and asked me about StoryCorps, mistaking me for an employee. Others asked where the bathroom was, mistaking me for a park ranger. Finally, Lady #1 emerged and asked me what story I would be telling that day.

Until that moment, I hadn’t fully decided. I figured they would want whatever I said to be as fresh as possible, anyway. I told her that I would be telling the story of how my parents met. I gestured vaguely. “And some other stuff.”

None of that other stuff would be new to readers of this blog, or anyone who’s had a serious conversation with me over the past year. As to the story of how my parents met, and the story of my French godfathers, which I launched into as well…those are best heard in person. Or you could listen to the recording of the entire interview they handed me on CD once I was done. I went home and uploaded it to iTunes and from there to Dropbox to share with whoever wanted to hear it. I was figuring my parents would want to hear it, and maybe a handful of interested family members. I knew which of my friends actively wanted to listen. I sent the link to some people and left it at that, figuring they’d listen to it when they could (probably while stuck in traffic or folding laundry or something).

Instead, I started getting, alternately, barrages of people wanted to listen to the interview and barrages of notes from people who had already listened to and enjoyed it. These notes ran the gamut from, “Awesome!” (much appreciated; that’s what I strive for) to “I love your StoryCorps recording! The stories you told obviously mean so much to you and are so beautiful, and your voice sounds so good telling stories (I would say you got your father’s gift :D)! I’m so glad it’s preserved to inspire others: your parents and the quality of the relationships in your family truly are moving.”

This is me, now, curled up, feeling the love.

It wasn’t that I expected no one to listen—that would be veering away from humility and into denial—but the volume and quality of the responses I got really moved me. From the girl I hadn’t talked to in a while who materialized out of nowhere and asked to listen, to the very close friend who intended to listen while she was doing something else and found herself glued to her computer, listening: these friends of mine rock.

There were others who, in really well thought out e-mails, informed me of my maturity. This meant a lot. It’s unpopular for someone my age to rhapsodize about her parents. It’s not that closeness with your parents isn’t valued in America, it’s more that it’s seen as a dangerous quality; possibly those who possess this quality are about to crawl back home, possibly they already live there, possibly they have no lives of their own.

None of those things are true of me, or of my best friend, who is also very close to her parents, or of the other people I know in this situation. “You should call home more,” is the punch line of many a joke, but it’s always the parent who utters it who is the butt of the joke, not the grown child off doing their own (presumably fulfilling, fascinating) thing. The assumption is that, as time passes, it is the parent’s place to sit by the phone and the child’s to craft their own life at the expense of the life they left behind.

In Europe, in China, in certain American cultures (although not the WASPy mainstream), living with your parents, or allowing your parents to live with you, is the norm. It doesn’t mean that you rely on them overmuch, that you haven’t cut the cord, or that you’re incapable of adulthood. It just means that for financial or health or other reasons you have chosen to support each other. That, after all, is what families are expected to do.

Let me be clear: I don’t advocate leeching off your parents. I don’t think parents exist solely to cater to their children’s needs. Nor to I think your parents should factor in every decision you make. We’re all people, and we can all live our own lives. I’m just saying that those lives don’t necessarily have to be lived completely separately in the service of some weirdly developed notion of the American Dream. I have no plans to move to my parents’ house in Kansas, but I don’t think I have to feel ashamed about wanting to talk about or be with the people who mean the most to me. Once upon a time, after all, someone referred to me as “your filial piety daughter.” I don’t think I’ve ever been more honored in my life.

So it was nice to feel the love on Facebook, in text messages, and via e-mail. And it was nice, in true Nom de Plume fashion, to share the experience with my parents, even though I was in one place and they were in another. Now, and for the foreseeable future, we and all the characters in our stories will get to hang out together in the Library of Congress. I’ll bring dinner, my godfathers can bring the wine, and my mom can bring her, ahem, American cake. My dad can provide the entertainment and sit there and tell stories to remind us how we all got there in the first place.

A Brief P.S.

Today, I finally got around to finishing Quiet. I finished it in two installments. I read the majority on my favorite bench in Chicago.

It's a place perfectly suited to contemplation. Indeed, if I had been invited to contribute an essay to the hypothetical volume of essays I mentioned in my previous post on this topic, I would probably have written it sitting on that bench.

But enough about that.

In the end, I came around. Reality never quite measured up to expectation, but Cain did shift focus from society to the individual, and that certainly helped my enjoyment of the book. Like Cain (and I don't want to spoil anything here for those who haven't read Quiet and intend to, so I'm about to be vague), the theory I found most revelatory and most applicable to daily life was Professor Little's Free Trait Theory. You may sometimes act out of character and against type, but it's worth it in the service of something you really, really care about, even if it leaves you exhausted and hiding in the bathroom.

Which brings me to my next point! Only 10% sarcastic kudos to Cain for acknowledging the Universal Hiding in the Bathroom Principle. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, that's okay, it takes all kinds!)

Thanks, also, for:
1) The guy at Claremont McKenna who got up early "just to savor time alone with a steaming cup of coffee." Replace tea, and you've got my life now.
2) "...the life of the mind." My mother, once again vindicated in print for something she's been saying for as long as I can remember.
3) "'The stereotype of the university professor is accurate for so many people on campus. They like to read; for them there's nothing more exciting than ideas. And some of this has to do with how they spent their time when they were growing up. If you spend a lot of time charging around, then you have less time for reading and learning. There's only so much time in your life.'" That last line is something both sides of the spectrum should be able to say, but you so rarely hear it applied in this context.
4) Introvert guilt, which I completely identified with and had always chalked up to Catholic Guilt.
5) "Finally, pay attention to what you envy. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, but it tells the truth."

However, there was one serious problem. In all that talk of fear of public speaking, not once did anyone mention nervous poo. Forgive me for being frank, but it's a phenomenon Roommate J (who I am sending this book immediately) and I discussed endlessly. Quelle oversight!