They Burn in Our Brains - Become a Living Hell

Couple of confessions:

First, to recap something from the last post, "Hoping for the Best". Recall that there was a lobotomy case in the late 1940s where surgeons blindly severed blood vessels in a woman's brain in hopes of curing her eccentricity and making her fit into their idea of normal society. Well, a couple of days after I wrote that post, I had a scientific method activity in my physics-theater class (a class based on examining the presence of scientific principles in plays and such). In small groups, we had to make educated guesses at the contents of a sealed shoebox. We could shake it, drop it, throw it - just not open it. The first girl in my group picked up the box, shook it a few times, and declared that she thought it was a CD. Every subsequent person followed in suit, and agreed that it was a CD. For some reason, I just didn't want to agree with everyone else - even as the experiment continued and it became more apparent that it was, indeed, a CD. I held out for Tupperware lid.

Later in class, I thought about how my disagreement affected everyone else - my opinion was out of place. It was different. And it was wrong. I thought about how people in the 20th century would have looked at me. And I resolved that every day from then on, I should try to do at least one thing every day that's out of the ordinary - something out of place, something untraditional - something that would warrant the 20th century to stick a scalpel inside of my head.

Tonight, we had the traditional Lewis Hall Freshman Welcome. We went to the chapel (every dorm has its own chapel) and listened to our rector and hall staff talk about the emphasis on feeling at home here. Then we broke into floor sections and were given necklaces with the Notre Dame crest on one side and the Golden Dome engraved on the other. Then our RA threw a box of tissues into the center of the circle and proceeded to hand out letters. Letters from parents, or in my case, a letter from my RA, Kayla. I read the card and looked at the little fridge magnet she bought me. I finished and caught Kayla looking at me. I smiled and mouthed "thank you", seeing as how she'd written me a card so I would have something to read while the other girls cried over letters from their parents. I knew she pitied me. And I let her.

You see, I just happened to check the mail on the day that Lewis sent my parents the letter over the summer, asking them to write me a personal letter about how proud they are of me. I had seen the Notre Dame logo and opened it without looking at who it was addressed to. I played with the idea of giving them the letter. Explaining that I had opened it on accident and therefore ruined the surprise. But then I thought about it some more. My school had to send them a request for them to tell me that they're proud of me? I threw the letter away. Over orientation weekend, I got into a fight with my dad. I resorted to not speaking to him unless absolutely necessary - and even then, I wouldn't look at him. When the parents were asked to go into the chapel to listen to our rector Layla give a presentation, I quickly and clearly said, "If anyone asks you to write me a letter, don't. I don't want you to."

Everything went exactly as planned. But when I saw the trouble that Kayla went through, I felt horrible. I thought about confessing to the circle, but decided against it when I saw how affected my section was by their letters. Honestly, the idea of me crying in public repulses me. That's just how I am. The idea of showing emotion to strangers is...well, less than ideal. But wait: I would rather be pitied than display sentimentality? What the hell is wrong with me?

Maybe someone really should sweep a scalpel around the inside of my brain.

Hoping For the Best - Just Hoping Nothing Happens

On Monday, I went to a soccer game on campus. It was weird without a section of screaming boys beating an African drum and heckling the other team.

Although there were vuvuzelas.

Blogger doesn't recognize "vuvuzela" as a word.

Anyway. I left a little after the second half started and walked around, trying to associate myself with campus before classes started the next day. It really is as beautiful as everyone says it is. Even to a girl who's used to humidity in 90 degree weather and thinks that anything below 70 is a bit chilly.

I went to the library. The giant building with the mural of "Touchdown Jesus" facing the reflection pool. I just wandered around - wanting at first to find copies of my favorite books, but settling for wandering when I failed to locate anything but reference books.

I found myself in the basement somehow, surrounded by tall shelves - some with mechanical handles that fold them like an accordion to conserve space. When I'd given up on finding anything entertaining, I started to head back. I don't even remember why I stopped, but I did. And, somehow, I found myself in the middle of the medical book section. I remembered seeing the section highlighted on a map somewhere, but I had actually decided against the idea of actively searching for it.

I flipped through a few books. One on the history of thoracic surgery, something on psychology, others on puberty, etc. But then I came across a book entitled Last Resort. And I picked it out. It had a subtitle: Psychosurgery and the Limits of Medicine. Intriguing.

It was about the practice of lobotomies - cutting out a portion of the brain in hopes of fixing something - anything. Katy, stop reading. I scanned the table of contents, then began to read a chapter on how the times have changed and lobotomies are no longer effective. I lost interest quickly. But for some reason, I really wanted to hold on to this book.

So I went back to the beginning, and I read the first chapter, the introduction. It was entitled "A Stab in the Dark". The chapter described a case in 1947 of a thirty-three year old woman who had undergone brain surgery. Any by "brain surgery", I mean the doctor drilled two holes, one on each side of her temples, into her skull. He removed the pieces of bone, and inserted a blunt scalpel into one of the holes. He swept it back and forth, severing some of the tissues that hold the lobes together. Then he repeated it on the other side. If he didn't screw up any major blood vessels, he sewed up the ends of the tissues and stuck the pieces of bone back in. Operation complete.

And do you know why Miss Jane Doe had her brain cut open and stitched back together?

Society deemed her a failure. Her marriage failed and ended in divorce - solid proof that she couldn't fulfill her role in society as a housewife. She, herself, began to believe that she could never function in society the way she was expected to. She grew depressed and developed mental disorders like anxiety and hallucinations. Oh, and she experimented with women a little. Another societal no-no. And so her family committed her to a mental institution. Where she was poked and prodded and treated, to no avail. Now, this is a direct quote from the book: "...these doctors believed that by destroying a portion of [her] brain they might make life for her more bearable as well as transform her into a better person" (Pressman).

Because she didn't already fit into everyone else's idea of what was normal.

In a Valiant Effort to Understand

Another one of my favorite obsessions is horror movies - not necessarily watching them, but reading the "spoilers" and descriptions on the Internet. I can't really handle seeing graphic violence on screen, but reading about it is okay (I coincidentally read an article in my mom's old Women's World magazine today about how that works) - example: A Clockwork Orange was wonderful, but don't expect me to see the movie anytime soon. But I do have a kind of intrigue for the stories in slasher films - I think it started with stumbling upon a Wikipedia article depicting all of the different traps from the Saw movies. Mind you, I've only ever actually watched the first movie as the edited version that runs on cable. But I remember thinking how ingenious the traps were; most of them even had a simple way out, if only the victims had calmed down or thought ahead. Even the drive of Jigsaw was clever to me - he threatened people (in, albeit, extreme ways) to show them the worth of their lives. But maybe people just need to be shocked in order to be changed sometimes.

Which brings me to my point: I have nothing but awe and respect for filmmakers that utilize influence over human sensitivity in order to make a point - appealing to their "pathos", if you will (fun fact: "pathos" is Greek for "suffering" or "experience"). And I have even more reverence for the director or writer who can create a story that is equally powerful, but in actuality has left most of the shock to be imagined by the viewer. Another fun fact: the first Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie from the 70s was made with limited sex, violence, and language in hopes of getting a PG rating from the MPAA so that more people would go see it.

Naturally, it's the films that have equal shock value but little gore that I look out for. But in light of today's techonology and desensitivity, mainstream movies like that are rare, and the ones that are given a chance, like Paranormal Activity, are acclaimed (I still can't get over the fact that they made the movie with a budget of like $15,000, and grossed almost $200,000,000). The effect of being exposed to so much violence on people in society is something that has been studied and wondered about for as long as horror movies have been aroud. I came across a list of the "Top Ten Most Controversial Horror Films" in Bloody-Disgusting.com's article, "Culture Shock: The Influence of History on Horror". I found it interesting that the majority of the films on that list weren't the slice-and-dice "horror porn" movies that are popular now, but movies - some of which I hadn't heard of - from the 70s and 80s. Odd, considering what modern movie-making can do today (but, of course, pretty much all ten movies have either already been remade, or is in the process of being redone).

The movie that earned the number one spot was Cannibal Holocaust (1980). It's about an anthropology professor who goes into the Amazon to look for a missing documentary crew. He gets hold of the film that they made before they dissappeared, and goes back to NYU to try to salvage the documentary, only to find that the film reveals what happened to the crew and what they did - basically, it's a "found footage" movie, like Cloverfield, where part of the movie is filmed in a "home video" format for a more realistic feel. But Cannibal Holocaust was so genuinely messed up that the director, Ruggero Deodato, was arrested because viewers truly believed that the footage was real - and that people were really murdered (of course, it didn't help that the actors signed a contract saying they wouldn't appear in other movies for a year to mess with the public, making it look like they were dead). Oh, and they really killed animals! Like, they actually took animals and violently killed them, as opposed to using special effects. Deodato was eventually cleared of the charges after demonstrating to a courtroom how one of the violent scenes was staged. He, as well as the screenwriter, producers, and film studio, was convicted of obscenity and violence. They each received a four-month suspended sentence.

Anyway, other than just being incredibly offensive, the idea of Cannibal Holocaust was the classic Pocahontas moral - that people who are considered "civilized" can be more depraved than indigenous "savages" (and look, Disney proved it with a G-rating and no lawsuits). But the bottom line is that the movie meant something. As did the other controversial movies on the list. I noticed after a while that, while reading the movie synopses, I had the habit of looking for some kind of meaning - some justification, if you will, for all of the violence and controversy. I was judging them by weighing the moral with the content. Most passed, but then I got to thinking about the "horror porn" we have now - Hostel, for example. I don't know about you, but I can remember to not follow strangers without being traumatized, thank you. Then I realized - not all movies have a "hidden meaning" or justification. They're violent for the sake of being violent. It's like people have lost the respect for movie-making, and are taking advantage of society's love for violence in order to make money. But why, for goodness sake, is violence so seductive?

Tell Me What You Want to Hear

Validation is something I spend a ridiculous amount of my life striving to feel. It's what I want from my parents, from my friends, my teachers - you name it. Validation is defined by the Princeton dictionary as "...the act of validating; finding or testing the truth of something". I wonder what that means for me.

When I got my final ACT score back, and was still shy of my goal, I had a mini-breakdown to Katy about it. However, honest Katy asked me why I wanted that number so badly when my score was pretty good anyway; did I only want it because other people had it? It's been about ten months since that conversation, and of course, everything's different now. At this point, high school grades and ACT scores mean nothing - it's only about what I do and who I choose to be from this point forward. But it's taken me this long - now that it doesn't matter anymore - to come up with an answer to Katy's question:

I used to think that I wanted a higher score because I wanted to prove that I was as good as the people who had done better than I had. Which is mostly true, but I think it's a little deeper than that. I heard somewhere that Evan Lysacek's father told him once that if someone is better than him, it just means he has to work twice as hard. That quote has stuck in my head for months. For the longest time, I held that I didn't believe in letting other people set the standards for "ideal" or "good" - which was my reason for not doing IB - there was just so much extra work required, and I liked the freedom that AP awarded me. But lately I think I've been a lot more subject to society and its rules than I would have liked to think.

A couple of weeks ago, a couple of things happened: I had an honest conversation with my dad about my major, and we went to Family Fun Day at the University. First was Family Fun Day, which we've gone to almost every year from as far back as I can remember. And at the picnic, we saw a woman that we vaguely know but hadn't seen in a while - she's maybe in her fifties, with slightly graying hair and a friendly demeanor, and she's always alone. I commented that watching her makes me sad sometimes because of how lonely she looks, to which my dad somewhat sarcastically replied "That's what happens when you wait too long to get married."

And Katy, this is where I'll pull in my response to your SATC blog entry. With a throw to Carrie Bradshaw's "should" theory: do we fall in love and get married because it's what society and our peers expect of us? Relationships are definitely not my area of expertise, so I can't really comment on love or how it comes about. And I'm aware that most scientists or traditionalists (like my dad) will say that humans form relationships in order to procreate and continue the human race. But what if that's not what you want? Marriage may be expected, or even convenient, but it's definitely not for everyone. I have an older cousin, Christina, who's in her forties, lives with her mother who she loves immensely, has a good job, and has no intention of getting married any time soon. I think she's happy, and therefore: she's done. And while I wonder if that's enough for me - it seems to be enough for her, and I think that's okay.

But then came the honest conversation. My dad had been bugging me about thinking about choosing a major. Notre Dame offers a major called "pre-professional sciences" that basically builds a general base of the sciences in preparation for medical school, but he didn't like that idea. Instead, I should major in biology or chemistry, something specific. To me, the choice had its own pros and cons: would I rather be a Jack of all trades, or a master of one? I related this to him, and he said that med schools don't care about exactly what you majored in as long as you have the required credits. And this got me to thinking: I can do anything. I might have a shot at being creative or introspective or even artistic.

I'll probably major in something in the sciences just because that's what I do, but I'm not giving up on the idea of minoring in something I love but have never gotten to look into, like sociology or anthropology (something I blame on the high school curriculum).

But wait, why do I want this again? Honestly, I really can't explain it. But this career path is something that I do genuinely want. With that said, I'm going to take a risk and lay down my theory - something people are generally aware of, but I've never heard addressed. People who are raised by minority ethnicity families will generally fall into a predictable pattern: they'll generally do well in school, appear slightly more mature than others, hold high aspirations, and end up either in med school, grad school, etc. If you ask me, I'd say I fit pretty well into that pattern, which was what was expected of me. Let's put it this way: a few weeks ago, we went to Sharon's wedding. At the reception, we talked to all of the people we hadn't seen in a while whose children have grown and prospered according to plan. I was the lucky one, being young enough that my future looks bright and promising, but I don't have to actually deliver much more than a smile and a "Thank you". But I can't help but think about what would have been thought of a family who raised a kid that quit school and ran off to join a band or something radical like that.

Also, I finished A Clockwork Orange a while ago. But I was waiting until I had generated enough material to comment on it. ACO was, as I've said, about a teenager named Alex who had a passion for violence and destruction. Anyone with basic knowledge of the story would know that the book is about how the government performed an experimental procedure on Alex that would make him hate violence - "curing" him and making him fit perfectly into society (which is very ironic, if you read the book, but I won't say much more). Basically, they forced him into a cookie-cutter and, as a character protests, took away his sense of humanity by taking away his ability to choose. Alex was choosing to be violent, but that choice was revoked by the government, so the question stands - is it better to have a perfect citizen with no free will, or to have an imperfect human being that is exercising his rights?