“Laurie Sanders sat in the publications office at Gordon High School chewing on the end of a Bic pen. She was a pretty girl with short light-brown hai...more“Laurie Sanders sat in the publications office at Gordon High School chewing on the end of a Bic pen. She was a pretty girl with short light-brown hair and an almost perpetual smile that only disappeared when she was upset or chewing on Bic pens. Lately she’d been chewing on a lot of pens. In fact, there wasn’t a single pen or pencil in her pocketbook that wasn’t worn down on the butt end from nervous gnawing. Still, it beat smoking. “
Thus begins The Wave.
Can we break apart that paragraph, please?
'Laurie Sanders (seriously WASPY name there) sat in the publications office at Gordon High School (seriously WASPY school there) chewing on the end of a Bic (isn’t this a trademark or a registered item or something??) pen.'
'She was a pretty girl (thanks, we needed that knowledge) with short light-brown hair and an almost perpetual (BIG word ) smile that only disappeared when she was upset or chewing on Bic pens.' (-------) Here is the 1981 Made- for –TV- movie version of Laurie
'Lately she’d been chewing on a lot of pens.' (!!!!!!!!)
'In fact, there wasn’t a single pen or pencil in her pocketbook (I always hated pocketbooks) that wasn’t worn down on the butt end from nervous gnawing' (ALLITERATION!!)
'Still, it beat smoking.' (what a minute, what? Laurie Sanders of Gordon High School fucking smokes????)
Oh dear Lord, this was excruciatingly exasperating. (GOTCHA)
This is supposed based on a ‘real event’ that happened in Palo Alto, California at Cubberley High School back in April of 1967 conducted by a History teacher named Ron Jones (porn name):
“Jones, unable to explain to his students how the German population could claim ignorance of the extermination of the Jewish people, decided to show them instead. Jones started a movement called "The Third Wave" and told his students that the movement aimed to eliminate democracy. The idea that democracy emphasizes individuality was considered as a drawback of democracy, and Jones emphasized this main point of the movement in its motto: "Strength through discipline, strength through community, strength through action, strength through pride."
So, this book is a novelization of a teleplay of an actual event. And the writer, Todd Strasser, used the pen name Morton Rhue.(Really? Morton Rhue?) Christ… this shit is fucked up. So… what do YOU think happens? Well, here’s the spoiler. They all become little Nazis. Seriously. Well, not all but like 98% of them do and the ones that don’t are threatened. ‘The Wave’ is supposed to make the football team win big against Clarkstown. ‘The Wave’ takes the class reject/future sociopath and makes him an organized, welcomed sociopath. ‘The Wave’ makes Amy Smith (a petite girl with thick, curly, Goldilocks hair) not feel like she always needs to compete against her BFF, Laurie with boys and grades and stuff. It’s like when phen-phen hit the market.. It’s a true blue miracle! And how long do you think it took to stick? C’mon… guess… a month? Two? Try five days.
Five.Days. An entire school was ready to give up all personal freedom and individuality for this ‘Wave’—which was nothing more than the motto, membership cards, and a salute, mind you—in a work week.
Yes. Yes.. I, too, see Generation Y or Generation Z… the one that got awards for every fucking little thing that they attempted… completely falling under this spell. But, seriously? I KNOW that my generation is way too cynical for such crap. We wouldn’t have even bothered to attend the stupid pep rally announcing The Wave. We’re hiding in the darkroom playing Joy Division.
This novella/teleplay/what have you sucks. It sucks donkey balls. The writing falls between a bad Hardy Boys story and a good Sweet Valley High. If I had to read another lines like: “Copies of the Grapevine had never been scooped up faster than they were that day. The school was abuzz with the news.” I was going to start my own genocidal Nazi Party. (Please do not go all PC on me right now, ok?)
The ones that blindside me and have that weird echo --- is or isn’t this real? Sleep isn’t going to ha...more It’s a little after 2am. I’m having the dreams.
The ones that blindside me and have that weird echo --- is or isn’t this real? Sleep isn’t going to happen. What’s new. I leave my room to check out the house. Doors locked? Check. Kids asleep? Check…whoa, hold up a minute. Em is awake. She’s sitting in the living room illuminated by a booklite. She’s got about 4 blankets piled on top of her and she’s….. reading. Reading? I’m used to the insomnia, on both our parts… we knock around each other, say a few words and pretend to sleep. It’s routine by now. But, to see her reading? She looks up at me and there are tears in her eyes. Okay, now I’m really testing that reality theory.
‘Mom, have you ever read The House on Mango Street?’
Huh? I look over the book. No. Never even heard of it. ’A novel of a young girl growing up in the Latino section of Chicago.’ Okay… assigned to a freshman English class in Northern Vermont. Where ethnicity is reserved for the Somalian refugees that pepper Burlington, but hardly touch the suburbs. I’ll bite.
I pick it up, it’s maybe an hour’s read. Tops. “We didn’t always live on Mango Street.” Then, I’m lost. This is lyrical, this is heart wrenching. Words are married, sentences consummated, images borne that my white-bread, New England-raised mind can’t comprehend except on an emotional level. I’m in love.
“She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.”
“You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad. Here there is too much sadness and not enough sky.”
“Everything is holding its breath inside of me. Everything is waiting to explode like Christmas. I want to be new and shiny.”
“You know what you are Esperanza? You are like the Cream of Wheat cereal. You’re like the lumps.”
“But I think diseases have no eyes. They pick with a dizzy finger anyone, just anyone.”
“There were sunflowers as big as flowers on Mars and thick cockscombs bleeding the deep red fringe of theater curtains. There were dizzy bees and bow-tied fruit flies turning somersaults and humming in the air. Sweet sweet peach trees. Thorn roses and thistle and pears. Weeds like so many squinty-eyed stars and brush that made your ankles itch and itch until you washed with soap and water.”
I’m caught in this world that Cisnero’s painted for me. I’m hugging Alice who sees mice and wishing that Sire would hold my hand. I’m drinking papaya juice with Rafaela and reading Minerva’s poems. I’m hiding from Red Clowns.
I’m nostalgic for my own childhood. For that freedom that kids today cannot relate to. They have curfews, and GPS chips in cell phones, and mini LoJacks® implanted in their neck. What do they know of freedom? What do they know about riding their ten speed through dark streets guided by the screams of their friends ahead of them? Will they ever hang out in vacant lots with their friend’s older brothers who hand them warm beer and try to feel up their shirts? Hell no, not on my watch.
So, thank you, Sandra Cisnero. Thanks for giving me back all those summer nights…
“They will not know that I have gone away to come back. For the ones I’ve left behind. For the ones who cannot out.” (less)
life sucks. no matter how hard you try to be good, how much you want to better the lives of your children or for that matter, let’s just throw in soci...more
life sucks. no matter how hard you try to be good, how much you want to better the lives of your children or for that matter, let’s just throw in society, no matter how much you love… someone is there to just screw you over because people are vile, sinful, destructive and are usually bad drivers to boot.
so, just give it up now. you think you came into a lucky break? Naww… that’s just crap throwing you the proverbial bone. little did you know the bone was from a baby lamb. watch another reality show and fry your brain for an hour, you’d be doing more good (read: less harm) that way.
don’t dream. don’t let yourself think that you are going to get ahead. Don’t you dare distress over your fellow man, not worth it. they will cheat, lie, and downright kill you if they think it will benefit them in any way.
my advice? find a cave where you and your ideals can live happily ever after.
Why is it when I pick up To Kill A Mockingbird , I am instantly visited by a sensory memory: I’m walking home, leaves litter the ground, crunching un...moreWhy is it when I pick up To Kill A Mockingbird , I am instantly visited by a sensory memory: I’m walking home, leaves litter the ground, crunching under my feet. I smell the smoke of fireplaces and think about hot cider and the wind catches and my breath is taken from me and I bundle my coat tighter against me and lift my head to the sky, no clouds, just a stunning blue that hurts my eyes, another deep breath and I have this feeling that all is okay.
Why? Why this memory? I mean, this takes place in Alabama and mostly in the summer, well there is that one climatic scene on Halloween, but I bet it’s still hot enough to melt the balls off a brass monkey.
It must be the school thing, my daughter just finished reading it, prompting me to give it another go, to fall back into Scout’s world and pretend to be eight and let life simply be.
How is that? How can life for Scout be simple? I mean, she lives in the south, during the depression, she has to deal with ignorant schoolteachers and town folk, her ideas of what is right, what is what it should be are laughed at by her schoolmates… man, and I thought my childhood was rough.
Still, she lives in this idyllic town, I mean, except for the racism and the creepy neighbors and the whole fact that it’s, you know, the south…(forgive me… I’m not immune to the downfalls of the north, I mean, we had witches and well, Ted Bundy was born here…) But, there’s this sense of childlike innocence to this book that makes me believe in humanity… even in the throes of evil. What am I saying here? I guess, that this is a good pick me up.
What I also get from this book is that I have severe Daddy issues. I consume Atticus Finch in unnatural ways. He is the ultimate father; he has the perfect response for every situation. He is the transcendent character. My heart melts at each sentence devoted to him and I just about crumble during the courtroom scene.
Am I gushing? I sure am. I was raised by a man who thought that Budweiser can artwork was the epitome of culture. That drinking a 6-pack was the breakfast of champions. That college was for sissies. He could throw out a racial slur without a single thought, care or worry to who was around. I won't even get into the debates/rantings of a 16 yr old me vs a 42 yr old him... What a role model.
So, I thank Harper Lee for giving me Atticus. I can cuddle up with my cider and pretend that I’m basking in his light. I can write this blurb that makes sense to maybe a handful but that is okay, I am approved of and all is good. (less)
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