The Color of Sound

They were standing there waiting for, begging for him to show some sign of sadness; but no, the red in his eyes was merely fatigue, and instead of rubbing away the fearful tears of separation, he was attempting to wipe away the exhaustion that clung to the corners of his eyes and weighed down his pale eyelids as if each eyelash were another burden trying to pull his body back into the bliss of sleep. They stared into the shadows of his face one last time and then reluctantly hugged him goodbye, holding onto each moment they could prolong their leaving.

They walked into the hallway, so overwhelmed by the temporary grief that they walked in opposite directions, leaving me standing in front of Harper’s door, bewildered as to which way would actually take me to the correct exit. My father, realizing he was not being followed, turned around and called my overly emotional mother in the right direction. I followed suit, feeling as if I were marching back to my doom, shackled and slowly suffocating from my parents love. Jealously gripped me, wishing I could stay here like my brother, away from the realities facing me at home; my school, the pressure, the work, and most of all, my parents. After all the change I’d gone through this long year, I suddenly felt myself land exactly where I’d started off the year before, except a year older, and a year more miserable.

It was brisk and wet outside. When I closed my eyes I could feel the thick, soaking drops roll down my jacket and splash onto the tops of my sneakers. The three of us quickly trotted along, trying to dodge each drop despite being wise to truth. The more I dodged, the more my shoes soaked through.

We reached the car in a hurry to outsmart the rain. The engine started in a quiet buzz when my dad turned the key. I imagined myself still standing next to my brother, laughing with his friends; all of us laughing at the fact that we had beaten our parents. We had finally succeeded in leaving and our parents had no choice but to let us go. How we did it we weren’t sure, but here we were: free and alone.

In reality, it took eighteen years for Harper to pry himself from my mother’s loving arms, and his hand is still tightly clinging onto hers; a thin, soft hand which he won’t let go of until he is seduced into the arms of another woman and married. He and my mother were always close. He relied on her more than I did. I’m sure my mom wishes he didn’t need her so much and that I had needed her more; but we’re different, and we’re all still learning to accept that.

The earth seemed to run below us while the car stood floating in the air. I was tired, emotionally worn through. My parents took out their fatigue and moodiness on each other. The words being sent between my mother and father heated the acid in my stomach until I felt as if my insides were burning. It was time to cut off the noise. I got out my CD player and put the headphones securely over my ears; but no matter how loud I put the volume up, the burning in my stomach did not go away.

“Enough! Can you both just shut up already? It doesn’t even matter.” My mom turned and looked at me.

“Sweetie, your father and I are trying to talk this through.”

“You call that talking?”

“Stay out of it, Alana.”

“If you really wanted me to stay out of it, you wouldn’t be fighting in front of me.” I mumbled, but my parents were already at it again and weren’t listening to me. I put the headphones back on and turned my music up as loud as I could without breaking my eardrums.

The dull rumble of the tires gliding over the road was soothing. My eyelids became heavy and the pressure in my chest subsided along with the day. I opened my eyes to find the night streaming past my window. The rain had stopped, but there was still a layer of clouds reflecting the murky glow of the car’s headlights. The car was silent except for my mother’s slow breathing in her sleep and the sound of the traffic rushing past. I was in a state of absolute calm; the period between a dream and the realization that you’re awake; the most wonderful state that exists. You know nothing, feel nothing, and, best of all, remember nothing. For those thirty seconds, you are free from the burdens of reality. It is the only time I am able to keep my mind blank. I always envied those who could fall into bed at night and simply let go of the past and not worry about the future. People like my mother, who can fall asleep in five minutes no matter what noises surround her; and people like me, who writhe in their beds, shifting positions endlessly, restlessly scrutinizing over every aspect of their lives, almost afraid to go to sleep because of what worse truths emerge in their dreams.

I see my father’s eyes stare at me through the rear view mirror. He smiles. I shift my head to the other side and pretend to still be asleep. Suddenly, everything comes back to me in a rush of nerves. Tension builds in my heart; my lungs squeeze the petroleum air out through my flaring nostrils. My eyes begin to fill with wet, salty memories. They flow down my oily cheeks and pool at the corners of my mouth. They taste sour and old, wearing down my taste buds, making my eyes ache.

The tears don’t come for long. My eyes become dry and sore, as if I’ve drained every drop of water from my body. Crying becomes an exhausting habit after a while. I’m too tired to continue, so I just sit there, staring out the window with heavy eyes. I look up and see myself reflecting in the window. I try to make out the details of my face, but the image is blurred by the glare of headlights. I imagine that there’s another person looking at me through the car window and put myself in his eyes. What would I look like to him? The image of my face that comes up is gaunt and pale grey. My lips are wrinkled and dry; my eyes sunken and bland. It always amazed me that no matter how many mirrors you look at in your lifetime, you can never actually see yourself. Instead of looking at my reflection, I turn myself into someone else and take note of every detail in my face so that I will never forget my true appearance.

We pull off the Pennsylvania Turnpike and into a small residential neighborhood. The houses are like soldiers at attention; all the same, spaced perfectly, their dark windows looking out at the roaring traffic without flinching. A few more turns and we’d be home. Back to my house, a little quieter now with my brother absent.

When we pulled into the driveway, I sleepily unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the car door. My body felt loose and heavy; my muscles barely helping me walk in a straight line. The air was warm and smelled like the wet ground. I grabbed my bag and trailed after my parents into the house. Up the stairs and into my room I went, collapsing on my bed into a deathlike sleep.

The morning shone brightly through my closed eyelids. I lifted them to look at the square black numbers of my clock which spelled out six thirty-one. I could hear the water running through my bedroom wall and out the shower faucet. My parents were getting ready for work. I rolled over and closed my eyes. When I woke up again they’d be gone. I’d finally be alone to hear my own thoughts. I would be able to hear the music when I played it instead of it only being there to cover over my parents’ shouts.

When I woke up, I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. The sun made patterns through my curtains. I always liked the color of my curtains: sea blue. Without color, the world would be a draining place. The sky would try to drain the color out of me. The sun would take the yellow out of my skin and replace it with a dull grey. The night would steal the deep blue out of my eyes and leave behind black pits. There is not enough natural color in the world surrounding me, so I capture it in my curtains and hang it over my windows so that the sun can shine through and pattern my walls in sea blue.

I believe that the world’s paint is music. The richest tones bring out the deepest blues and reds of the ocean. The bright airy notes color the sky a sighing blue and the sun a blinding yellow. When a woman lifts up her head and sings like she is flying, that is when burgundy and auburn are born.

I’ve been playing the piano since I was six years old. I can’t remember much before then. My life seems to start with the first notes that came from the cracked wooden keys. No one else in my family plays an instrument besides me. When I begged my mother for piano lessons when I was six, she looked at me like I had suddenly grown four ears out of my neck.

“Why do you want to do that?” she asked.

“I like how the piano sounds,” I told her in my sincere young voice.

It took the convincing of my father for her to give in. He said he’d always wished he’d learned how to read music. What really got her attention was when he said that children who learn music at a young age supposedly do better in school and have more focused minds. That was all my mother cared about: my grades. Her greatest fear was that (God forbid) I’d grow up to be a musician or even worse, an artist. She looked down upon sculptors and painters as if they were cluttering up the earth with their creativity.

“What a pointless, miserable life,” she would scoff from her high horse.

Really, how horrible! The only thing more pointless would be to be a doctor who wastes away her years of expensive medical training cutting up people’s bodies so that they can have Jennifer Lopez’s ass. I thought this every time she put some other creative profession down, but would dare not open my mouth.

My father would try to be a little more kind about it. He obviously wanted the same things for me as my mother did, but I could tell he was trying to keep it to himself. He never wanted to force the idea of success on me.

“In time she’ll understand,” I once heard him say to my mother. “She’ll realize what’s important is to put food on the table.”

through my eyes

the patterns of light

and shadow

gleaming bright

across my face

The morning dove white

blare of sun

blinds me

when my pupils contract

at first glance

but I continue to stare

into the smoky clouds—blinding

until my eyes

no longer hate the light

and begin to understand

what they’re looking so intently into

My pupils relax

. . . expand

and I can see once again

enough to stare

into the swirling grains in the wood

through my eyes

makes

streets hazed with smoky crystals

as if a peaceful ghost had engulfed the world

The twisting timbers contrast with

the smoky sky

The faint embers of light break through

the misty dark

At my window

breaks

the dawn of a new storm

Not a thing has made a ripple

in the milky white

snow lightly powders the

tops of trees

The blurs of shapes fade into

gusts of air

Revealed by the patterns of the

falling flakes

I watch as the world

changes with me,

About me

Isn’t it a shame the things

most beautiful in life

happen at the oddest hours of

the Night?

I completely agree with Mr. Franek that the cell phone locker idea is completely rediculous. Whoever came up with this idea obviously doesn’t have common sense.
My favorite line from the post was, “And now, with the unveiling of Apple’s new iPhone—a multi-tasking handheld device on steroids—students will match the technology available in the school’s computer lab in every way except for printing capability. They will not want to leave this baby at the door.”
I thought that this line was funny, and a very good point. Kids are just not willing to let their cell phones out of their sight (especially if the cost $400).

There is no way to completely ban cell phones from schools without students and parents complaining. Students want to be able to talk to their friends and parents want to be in touch with their kids. I think it should be left up to individual schools to decide what would work best for their unique situation. I think that Penn Charter is partially on the way to having an effective cell phone policy, but it’s far from perfect. The problem at our school is that, even though the policy of not being allowed to use cell phones during the day is a good one, it is extremely difficult to enforce. I see kids taking their phones out of their pockets and texting friends all the time during class. Most teachers are somehow completely oblivious to their students holding their phones under their desks, their fingers frantically texting things like, “this class is SO boring!” to their friends in the next classroom. Therefore, my conclusion is that there will never be a perfect way to monitor cell phone use, but we can definitely improve.

I think that by purchasing the new smart boards, Penn Charter has taken a huge step in making this school more technologically advanced. The only problem with the smart boards at the moment is that most teachers either have no use for them or don’t have the faintest clue HOW to use them. I think the technology department should start holding classes for teachers to teach them how to use this wonderful new technology.

I like that we’re making the blogs in our English class. I think it’s a great idea. It was so difficult to organize the chapbook when it was all on paper. It will give us oppurtunities to be more creative in how we present our chapbooks by adding links to other sites, photos, themes, etc.

Dr. Lynch is a wonderful example of a teacher who is taking advantage of using technology in the classroom. Just today Dr. Lynch was not able to make it to our AP Biology class today because his daughter had pink eye. He has a camera and a microphone set up in the classroom. He can call the school’s computer from home and see and talk to us. He taught us our entire class by connecting his computer to the school’s smartboard and using his mouse to point to diagrams from our textbook’s website. It was probably the coolest thing I’d ever seen.

I think that there is a lot of potential to use technology to our advantage. Technology will be part of the future, so we should learn how to use it.

I liked the piece a lot. The overall tone of it fit the subject well. My favorite line was “Zuckerberg is no longer at Harvard. He did what all good young tech entrepreneurs do when they stumble upon a gold mine: He dropped out of school and moved to Silicon Valley.” I thought this added well to the humor of the piece. I liked how it casually flowed from one point to another. The casual tone helped point out the humor of the situation but also helped remind the reader how amazing it is that a 22 year-old is a billionare. I also liked how it didn’t take a firm stance on the issue but left it up to the readers to decide what they think.

My Favorite line is “Predicting a happy union between a child and a book is often a hit-or-miss proposition, like picking out clothes for your teenager.” This line is so true. Ever year I am amazed by the diversity of opinions among my peers of books read in English class throughout the year. I frequently find myself having very critical discussions about the books we read and rarely find two people with the same opinion.

Throughout my life I?ve found myself to have a very mixed experience with reading. I was given the curse of being what my mother calls a ?thorough reader? which is just a nice way of saying that I read much slower than the average person. I never found myself racing through books as a child, but instead taking my time making sure not to miss a single one of the author?s words.

Second grade was when I first discovered the author Roald Dahl. I soaked up almost every children?s book he ever published and even read his autobiography with my dad when I was nine years old. I loved to read with my dad. His enthusiasm for books was one of the only reasons I could tolerate being such a slow reader. He would read to me often when I was little, and, sometimes, if he was too tired I would even read to him. When I got older and the HARRY POTTER fad came to life, I became hooked and quickly got my dad reading the series too. My obsession with Harry?s secret life at Hogwarts brought about in me, for the first time in my life, an uncontrollable excitement for reading. I could breeze through the books with ease and was so eager to learn about the wizard world that I could hardly put the books down. I would go for days on end doing nothing but eating, sleeping, and reading. Even now it?s hard for me to find books that I?m just as interested in. I frequently find myself starting a book and quickly losing interest in it so that I have a pile of books on the shelf in my room that are only half read.

A few books that I have discovered more recently and have enjoyed are MEMIORS OF A GEISHA, CATCH-22, BACKWATER, and RABBIT RUN. MEMIORS OF A GEISHA I especially liked because of its interesting insight on a culture previously unknown to me. Even though I do enjoy reading I admit that I don?t find the time to read as much as I would like. And even when I do settle down with a book, I read so slowly that it?s hard for me to find time to finish it. I also admit that I?m an extremely critical reader. One of my favorite things about reading is observing other writer?s language. If I don?t like the writing style of a certain author, I get very impatient with reading his or her work, no matter how great the overall message of the book may be. I personally enjoy writing better than reading, but I feel it?s important for me to take author?s works and observe their writing style in order to help me create my own unique voice.

I thought you made a very good argument in your article. I always found it to be extremely annoying when parents try to shelter their children from what they consider to be obscene language or description. If parents didn’t make a big deal about things like sex and violence, it wouldn’t be all that Nothiinteresting to their children either. I am lost as to why teaching children what the word ’scrotum’ means is such a bad thing. Children need to learn about these things anyway. Referencing a body part in a children’s novel is completely different from letting a child watch two people have sex in a movie. I believe there is a line where children should not be exposed to certain things, but parents tend to overreact and shelter their children from even the slightest of sexual references. Do parents seriously believe that they can keep their kids from learning about sex until they’re about twenty five and ready to get married? Come ON! Kids get themselves into more trouble when they’re ignorant about something than when their parents talk to them and teach them how to act responsibly. I think the problem here is that adults are afraid to let kids grow up.

I admit, I have been raised in a very liberal family. My Mom’s whole thing is that she wants me to be as independent as possible when I leave for college. I am personally greatful that she has that attitude. It’s going to be a lot less scary to leave home if I know how to manage my own life. This does not mean that my parents have put me completely on my own. I still rely on them a lot, but they acknowledge the fact that I will, at one point very soon, no longer need them. More parents need to let go and realize that it is NORMAL for their children to grow up. Parents must understand that they will not always be there to shelter their children from the bad things in the world. I ask you parents out there, wouldn’t you rather have your child exposed to reality while still at home and able to talk to you about it? Do you really want your child to go out into the world ignorant and unprepared?
It’s a scary world out there, but instead of sheltering their children from it, parents should start preparing their kids to be independent enough to survive on their own.

http://markfranek.wordpress.com/2007/02/19/youtube-it/]

I thought this was a well-written article, but I feel like your ideas weren’t as clearly said as what you expressed in class. The article didn’t leave me thinking enough. I realize that you were limited to a small number or words when sending this op-ed to the Inquirer, but there was something missing. I was a little disappointed. There were some very good points in your article. I liked how you related it to your experience learning how to break dance. My favorite line of your op-ed is: “YouTube is not the only video-sharing site on the Internet, but it is the biggest and the fastest growing, and it may just serve as the playground/training ground for the next generation of big-time directors.” I thought that this was a good point. Youtube is a great place for people to practice making movies, and have them exposed to the world to get feedback from millions of different people. Where else would a highschool student who makes movies with a bunch of his friends in his basement have the opportunity to show his movie to the entire world? It’s amazing.

After reading your article I saw that I did, in fact, have five minutes to spare, so I listened to your pod cast. I must tell you that I was far from disappointed after listening to this. Your spoken words had a much greater impact on me than your written ones. They were more provocative and got me thinking about how the world’s technology is progressing so quickly. Perhaps you should have used this for your op-ed instead?
Overall, I enjoyed reading your article.

“I am never asked to speak for all the people of my racial group.”

Often during class I notice that when the issue of race comes up, everyone suddenly turns to look at the reaction of the black students in the room. I catch myself doing it all the time. I assume that because someone is black, he or she will be able to sum up the opinion of every black person in the country. Of course, this is completely absurd. Just like every person might not agree on which is the best flavor of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream, not every black person will have the same view on racism. (I realize that this is not a fair comparison, but you get my point.)

Part of the reason I get upset with myself when I judge people is that I have experienced being stereotyped based on my religion. Many people assume that because I’m Jewish that I must know who every Jewish person is in the school, that I’m friends with them, and that I must have lots in common with them. Ever since lower school I have been the only Jew within my close group of friends. Even my close friends make assumptions about me or single me out because they know I am different. Although this doesn’t affect me nearly as much as racism does for many African Americans, this is the only way I can help myself understand the discrimination that some people face every day.

“I can easily buy posters, post-cards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys, and children’s magazines featuring people of my race.”

When I was little, I had an enormous collection of Barbie dolls. I often chose black Barbie dolls to add to the group because I simply picked the prettiest doll I could find. I didn’t really care whether the doll was black, white, green, or had four eyes as long as I liked what she was wearing and how she looked.

When I was three years old, I told my mom that I wanted to grow my hair long. By the time I was six it was down to my waist. Every night my mom would have to spend about 30 minutes brushing my hair. My scalp would be burning by the time she was finished, and it would be knotty again within 10 minutes. Around the same age, I told my mom that I wanted to be black. I think this was because my hair was so difficult to take care of that I wished I could braid my hair like some of my black friends did. It’s interesting looking back on this now, because I’m not even sure that I understood what race was. I thought of it in very straight forward terms - that some people had darker skin and some lighter skin; neither one was bad, they were just different from one another. I simply thought that braiding your hair looked cool, and was disappointed that white girls like me didn’t do it. I’m not sure what I can get out of remembering this. In some ways I feel lucky to have been born white, but I’m afraid that I might then start thinking that it is unlucky to be born black. This can become a dangerous path. There is a fine line between feeling sympathy for those who are oppressed, and feeling pity. To pity people is to discredit them and oppress them in another way. I feel that all I can do is try to understand racism as best I can by evaluating how I and the society I live in can be blinded by stereotypes.

We have been discussing racism this entire year, reading books and articles about it, and looking at instances of discrimination in current events and throughout history. After a while you’d think I would have gotten the point - that I am a white female born into an upper middle-class family who goes to a top level private school and has almost every advantage there is (minus being male). However, these obvious facts did not start to sink in until I opened up and read the first few chapters of Ralph Ellison’s “The Invisible Man”. Why did it take so long to come to this realization, you might ask? In my opinion, this novel is the most intelligently written out of all the ones we’ve read this year. Part of it has to do with the time period in which it was written - it wasn’t easy to speak openly about race issues during the 1940’s - but it is also the fact that Ellison does not try to shove racism down the reader’s throat like some more recent authors do. He presents the facts in a subtle way that allows the reader to realize them and interpret them has he or she wishes. This more subtle approach has hit me more close to home. I respect the author and am therefore able to take his social commentary more seriously.

“The Invisible Man” traces the narrator’s path from ignorance to reality. At the beginning of the novel, the narrator is optimistic and has very high expectations in life. As the book wares on, the author’s expectations lower from being an influential part of society to just being able to graduate from college. Eventually, he even realizes that completing this goal will not guarantee that he will be able to go far in his life. The fact that he is black distorts how other people – black and white alike – view him. As the narrator’s frustration builds, he drops trying to please people all the time and stands up for himself.

The narrator is first employed at the paint factory under Mr. Kimbro. His reaction to his employer shows his frustration with the realization that he will never be going back to college. He is assigned to mix dope into paint cans, and throughout the scene he becomes gradually less and les respectful. He starts out being as polite as possible, but as Mr. Kimbro begins to annoy him, the narrator slips in small sarcastic remarks, although never forgetting to add “sir” onto the end of his sentence. When the narrator destroys some of the paint cans by accidentally adding paint remover instead of dope to the paint, Mr. Kimbro begins to yell and asks him, “What’d you do to it?” The narrator defensively responds, “Nothing, sir. I followed your directions” (203). This may seem like a reasonable response by today’s standards, but the narrator is obviously frustrated and by responding in this way, he is directly insulting the intelligence of Mr. Kimbro, something he would have never done to a white man in the South.

After his experience with Mr. Kimbro, the narrator is moved to the basement as the assistant to Mr. Brockway, a black engineer who runs machines that make part of the paint. The narrator gets into a fight with him over the unions at the plant, and as the old man threatens to kill him, the narrator thinks to himself:

You were trained to accept the foolishness of such old men as this, even when you thought them clowns and fools; you were trained to pretend that you respected them and acknowledged in them the same quality of authority and power in your world as the whites before whom they bowed and scraped and feared and loved and imitated. . . . But this was too much. (225)

The narrator begins to realize that he has been taught to respect elderly black people even though they have no respect for themselves. They have no power in the white community, and he finds the ridiculousness in the fact that this man, who has been working in the basement of a paint factory for decades, thinks that he has power beyond the factory walls. It is hard for the narrator to have genuine respect for these old men who, in the black community, are at the top of the ladder while they are on the bottom rung in the white world. How can he respect someone who has no genuine authority and self decency?

Throughout chapter 10, the narrator begins to realize that white people aren’t the only ones bringing him down, but black people are in on it to. The whole world seems to be against him, and he learns that he must stand up for himself in order to survive.