TRHPS: A Meditation on the Merit of Inside Jokes

 I’m making the prediction official. The Observer (Case Western Reserve University’s newspaper) will eventually take over my life. I’ll start out writing short editorials and art pieces. Then I’ll be news reporting every week, desperately trying to convince myself to reach deadlines. Before you know it, I’ll be staying up all night, every Wenesday putting together the paper for the next morning as a copy editor. And I don’t mean figuratively all night. I mean literally all night. The section chiefs and executive editor stayed up from 9:30 in the morning to 6:30 in the morning putting out the summer edition of the paper.

I can’t freaking wait.

This is what I love about small, elite groups of people—the chance to be involved with something special. Stick with me for the next bit here…I’m going to reference Glee. I don’t know if any gleeks out there remember the pilot episode, but this was the scene that made me fall in love with the series. And I think Rachel says it best when she says this. I couldn’t find the clip (so if you can hunt it down, let me know!) but here’s the dialogue.

WILL SHUESTER: You changed out of your costume.
rACHEL BERRY: I'm tired of being laughed at.
WILL: You're the best kid in there, Rachel. It comes with a price.
RACHEL: Look, I know I'm just a sophomore, but I can feel the clock ticking away and I don't want to leave high school with nothing to show for it.
WILL: You get great grades. You're a fantastic singer.
RACHEL: Everybody hates me.
WILL: You think glee club is going to change that?
RACHEL: Being great at something is going to change it. Being part of something special makes you special, right?

Being part of something special makes you special, right?

Right.

There is, to my knowledge, one downside. I can’t be involved in everything. The Student Activities Fair was today, and more and more I’m realizing that there will be things I will have to exclude from my schedule. I can not do everything. And, in fact, the more I try to, the more left out I’ll be. Tonight for example. Me and some 2^nd floorer’s watched Rocky Horror Picture Show in its entirety. It was an unforgettable experience. I was one of those people who was somewhat familiar with it beforehand, which meant 1) I wasn’t scarred for life this time, and 2) I got to sing and dance along to the Time Warp while everyone else in the room looked at us like we were insane. It was awesome.

Yet, while all this was going on, a small group of people on the third floor (where I live) was listening to big band, old school jazz music. And another group of girls who live on my hall were sitting next door to my empty room telling stories and eating popcorn. And I wasn’t there.

Well of course I wasn’t. I don’t have a time turner. I can’t be in two places at once. Yet still, somehow, I feel left out. The more I do, the more I want to do. The more I feel like I should be included in.

I want to be able to be happy with what I have. And if that means narrowing down my club choices to two, so be it. I want to be able to tell some of those inside jokes. Let everyone else have theirs. I got to see Rocky Horror. : )

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Speaking of Rocky Horror, now that I’ve seen the entire thing, absent the Halloween crowd, I think I finally understand what people love about this movie. And I have to say, I’ve fallen in with the crowd. It’s hilarious and charming and sad all at the same time. It’s a movie for the ages, with its simultaneous perpetuation and refutation of gender stereotypes and scornful commentary. It’s a movie for people who are different. You only have to recognize the charisma and confidence with which Dr. Frank n’ Furter sings “Sweet Transvestite” to realize that. Because even with the pitiful character he becomes, Dr. Frank n’ Furter is first and foremost the man who made that stunning entrance in women’s lingerie and 3-inch pumps. He was more comfortable in those heels and garters than I’ve seen any woman be. He was more confident and honest in his sexuality than I’ve seen many other people be. And he was a strange, but real, inspiration.

Because if you could see that charisma….

I’ve heard it before and I think it bears repeating here. Confidence is sexy.

There’s something attractive about it—not just physically, but psychologically as well. We are attracted to people who seem sure of themselves. People who refuse to make apologies, and who ask for no forgiveness. And especially, especially, people who act without the permission of other people. Because those are the people whom we know will never have to ask permission from themselves.

When we doubt ourselves, when we criticize ourselves…when we hate ourselves—we give other people power over us. We give them the power to make us think, feel, or do things that we don’t want to think, feel, or do. We give them the power to influence our decisions and our actions. We give them the power to hurt us.

Dr. Frank n’ Furter would never do that. Regardless of the (sometimes extreme) consequences, he made his own decisions. And he continued to do so, right to the very end. He owned himself, and his mind, and his body, and could do what he liked. He was his own champion.

Sometimes I think we need more of that in our lives. Sometimes I think we’re too hesitant with what we want, thinking of the consequences. Sometimes we act rashly to avoid them. You can say many things about Dr. Frank n’ Furter, but one thing is irrefutable. He never ran away from his choices. He was never afraid to accept what he was.

Sometimes we have to be our own champions.

Sometimes we have to want to fight to win. 

For Curious People:

The More Things Change, The More Things Stay The Same (And Other Cliches)

It's the little things that get you. I didn't feel homesick until I saw a picture of home. It’s not even that good of a picture. Blurry, quick, taken via smartphone. But even a quick glimpse of my couch and my cat was enough to have me near tears.

The Great College Farewell was, ultimately, an anti-climax. There were no streamers, no huge dramatic farewell scenes, no marching band (which I think my sister would agree was a grievous error--marching bands should follow people about wherever they go). There were some tears and that was it. We said goodbye. We hugged. They left.

It didn’t really feel any different. It was like turning 18, or getting my driver’s license for the first time, or graduating from high school. A single event—a minute’s worth of time—doesn’t change you. It’s life that does that.

These milestones in life—I think we try to make them into representations of the black and white world that we want. We want goodbyes to be easy and finite. We want to be able to divide our life into neat little sections during which we can summarize everything that has happened to us—all the ways in which we have changed. We want to be able to pack our entire emotional life into a single moment, because then when that moment ends, we know that we’ll be able to let our emotions and experiences go as well.

We’ll be able to move on.

Goodbyes, in fact, do not work like that. People we meet take up a space in our minds that we never get back. They live in our memories of them. And people deal with these memories in all kinds of different ways. They mourn, they forget, they deny. But regardless or how much they want to or not, they all move on eventually. Time is tricky that way.

We have to find new ways to deal with the new challenges we face. The new people we face. Here at Case, I have to take initiative to get what I want. I have to make people see me. I keep having to encourage myself to leave my dorm, to go up to someone and say hi, to ask someone out to lunch. I keep having to remind myself that making friends is an active endeavor—that hanging out with people means you have to talk to them and invite yourself to whatever they’re doing first. New challenges.

Pre-Orientation: The Story of A Very Weary Freshman

You know those days that are so long that...they sort of don't feel real? Like there's no way that everything you did could have happened within a period of 12 hours. It was just too much stuff. 

Today was one of those days. 

from Playhouse Square, downtown: 

The tour of The Palace Theater was the highlight of the trip--and I know all my fellow theatre geeks out there would agree with me. It was astounding. As implied by the name, it strives to be as luxurious and as opulent as a palace. And it kind of is.

Isn't it strange how history can make something special? A guitar played by John Lennon is more valuable than a guitar played by me. Any role made famous by someone is automatically a challenge to live up too. An original copy of any famous manuscript becomes part of a larger story--the story of its inception, creation, and evolution. 

The theatre was beautiful. The artwork integrated into it was fascinating and wonderful. But what really made that theater special was its history. The Palace Theater was a vaudeville theater first. It has been host to the likes of Bob Hope, George Burns and Gracie Allen. The Three Stooges have performed there. On a side note, I must say, I love vaudeville. It's an art form like no other-- a conglomeration of freaks and outcasts, making the most of their outrageous personalities by entertaining people on stage. It was like running off to join the circus--performing became a method of escape, an avenue for talent, and a popular public form of entertainment, all at the same time. Stand up comedy is similar to vaudeville in this way. Comedy is, and remains, a relentlessly effective way of telling the truth. 

After the Palace Theater was a vaudeville stage, it was a silent movie theater--complete with a specialized piano/organ for musical accompaniment to the films. After that, it became a venue for talkies, the piano surviving as an intro form of entertainment and a part time accompanist. After that, it was a derelict old building that was going to be torn  down before a determined teacher saved it and turned it into a playhouse. What was originally scheduled to be a two week run of "Jaques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris," was so popular within it's first week that it went on to run for two and half years. 

Points to Cleveland. 
Fact of the Day: Playhouse Square is the largest theatre district west of New York City. 


from CWRU, University Circle:

We play ERS (egyptian rattlesnake screw-- no idea why it's called that)-- and toss around a football whilst kicking around a football. It's a insanely beautiful day. Not fall weather, but not summer weather either. Cleveland's picture perfect clear blue sky must be matched in intensity only by the devastatingly endless snow and rain that is winter during the months of November to April. 

We're learning about freshman tells. Their are--clearly--a lot of them. Some of them are pretty straightforward. Counterintuitive pronunciation of building names, for example. Thwing is pronounced Twing. The "h" is silent. Adelbrand is pronounced a-del-brand, like Adele the singer, with emphasis on the "del." Some others seem obvious: don't wear you key and ID card on your keychain lanyard (you know-- the one they gave you at check in for orientation?) They're all variations on the same new-kid theme though. Don't make it obvious that you don't belong here. 

It's a fun topic to think about, but in the end I can't help think that it doesn't really matter. I found myself speaking in cliches when I opened up to a senior friend of mine here about the experience of college. I find myself saying, "It's like...here you can be anyone you want to be--because no one knows who you are." 

Really, it's like you're starting over. A new school, new people, etcetera. It's strange though. I had a concept of what freshman year would be like, and this isn't it. After graduating high school, you're more yourself in your exploration of the world. I find myself taking chances more easily, speaking boldly more often, and taking confidence in my idea of myself. Being "who you are" isn't a challenge any longer--because I can be anyone. The last chapter of the book is blank. There are only my own expectations to fill. 

from Cleveland Orchestra, Blossom Music Center:
I'm on a bus. It's inelegant mode of travel for such an elegant destination. We're on our way to watch the Cleveland orchestra perform Rite of Spring, with appropriate ballet accompaniment--and I kind of feel like I've come full circle.

I've been hearing accidental references to Raleigh Charter all day, and they always hit me the same way. At first, I'm excited. There is an immediate leap of enthusiasm. The kind of enthusiasm you feel when you realize you are familiar with the topic of conversation, even when surrounded by unfamiliar company. The "I-can-talk-about-this-feeling." Confidence. Security. 

Then, a distant kind of melancholy, as I realize that I will have to struggle to explain my references. That I can't just say--"that reminds me of something I heard in Dr. B's class" and expect my fellow freshman to understand. I have to translate here. I think everyone in my group experiences the same struggle to communicate, at least initially. With uncommon backgrounds, it is difficult to be quick with your words. I can hear the pauses in the conversation, where my fellow freshman endeavor to find different ways of phrasing, or make pronouns into adjectives. 

I'm so incredibly excited that we're going to see Rite of Spring that I feel an immediate urge to tell someone who will really know WHY. Why I'm so excited. Why this entire trip seems like the missing puzzle price to me, in my experience of school, in my experience of philosophic thought, in my experience of Stravinsky. It is the completion of something.

I think I get why Sam is so attached to Band now. No matter where you go, you have a common base of experience and knowledge with other musicians. A very specific common base of experience. The girl on the trip who knows who composed Rite of Spring is a clarinetist. 

I think I'm underestimating my class. As I get to know them better, I understand that they're just as passionate, and smart, and FUN as any of the students at Raleigh Charter. I expect them to be the people I know--it's not particularly fair. This is the summer version of ourselves, after all. Classes haven't even started yet, and we still had a conversation about the morality and the effectiveness of the death penalty over lunch. These students are strong in their convictions. And then we went back to the commons and played ERS for an hour. These students are also both merciless and fearless in their jokes. 

Conversation is easy and physical presence comfortable. I think I'm gonna like it here.