The Necklace

The Necklace

It had been eight years. After she was suddenly gone in the spring of 2004, I hadn’t seen her for eight years and five months. Thus, it should not be a surprise even if I suspected the phone call that I received last night as a voice fishing strategy. With exactly the same voice she used to have eight years ago, she asked me to meet at the local coffee shop.

More than an hour earlier than the promised time, I ran to the shop as fast as possible. My heart beat tremendously, and my necklace shook with the heart as well.

The necklace. My dear necklace had been on my heart for eight years. We had two identical necklaces: one on my neck and the other on her neck. It was the last present that she gave me before she moved away.

Holding the necklaces together, she murmured, “Sorry Brian. I have to go now. I will certainly come back someday. Please wait for me. When our necklaces touch each other again, we can be together forever.”

Since then, it had been the only thing that I could lean on whenever I felt weak about my life.

I sat at the table and waited. Perhaps, a little more than an hour passed. Ding-ding. The door opened, and a woman in her mid-thirties came in. Though her face was not familiar at all, I could instinctively feel that she was the one I had been waiting for my life.

My legs were frozen; I could not move any part of my body, except for my eyes. As she walked closer to me, my eyes turned desperately to find the thing. But when she approached right in front of me, I had to admit that her neck was empty. No necklace.

Trying hard to hide the pitiful disappointment, I almost shouted out the greetings, “Hey! How have you been, Rachel!” as if I were the coolest guy in the world.

After realizing the awkward silence, I noticed Rachel and I were not the only ones sharing the same air. There was a girl right next to her, staring at me with the most innocent eyes in the world. Without any extra information, I knew who she was.

The girl, probably about eight years old, looked exactly like the woman standing beside her, too similar for me to allow a possibility of her being a stranger walking by us.

“This is my daughter, Audrey. Audrey, say hello to mommy’s old friend,” was the first sentence she said.

“Hello!” Audrey seemed like an outgoing little girl; I could feel it just by hearing the hello she made.

As I was trying to introduce myself, Rachel murmured, “Sorry, Brian, excuse me, I need to answer this phone call from my husband,” and ran outside.

In less than five minutes of seeing her, since eight years ago, she walked away again, and I was now left with her daughter alone. Unlike my worries, the silence between Audrey and me broke in a few seconds.

“I had a blueberry cupcake for breakfast and it was delicious,” Audrey started talking to me in a casual way, “but I couldn’t eat more because mommy said it was too sugary for me to eat two.”

“Wow, I love blueberry cupcakes, too!” It was true that I did love them.

“Brian, how are you friends with my mommy? I have never met you before. And mommy never hangs out with boy friends. It is kind of weird.” What she said was enough to make me curious.

“Why? Your daddy doesn’t let her meet any other male friends?” I was being childish, trying to get some information about both Rachel and her husband.

Audrey laughed. “No, my dad doesn’t do that. He lives far away.” She was making me more and more curious.

“Where does he live? How far is it?” I tentatively asked this, considering every single possibility as an answer: Did they get divorced? Is he earning money in a different country? Why?

“He lives up there, which is very far away.” Following Audrey’s forefinger, I turned my face to the sky. Audrey continued, “I miss him.”

“When did you last meet your dad, then?” I tried to dig up information as if I were a detective.

“I’ve never met my dad. I hear of him every day, though. Mommy loves him very much.”

“You don’t know how he looks?”

“No. But mommy tells me I look exactly like my daddy! She has pictures, but she said she will show me when I become a third grader.”

Thinking that I could not get any more information from Audrey, I promised myself to be courageous enough to ask Rachel about everything when she came back.

“You must be very curious, girl.”

“It’s okay. I can love my dad without seeing his face. He is the best man I know!”

“Why?”

“Mommy says he is the only man she loves in her life.” When she said this, I felt something that I had never felt: a feeling that was a combination of disappointment and a new hope at the same time.

“I don’t know. She says he has left a lot of things for her.”

“What are they?”

“Well. I only know one thing.”

“Can I ask what?”

             “Ugh, wait. Yes. Sure.” Audrey hesitated for a while and searched her pocket, trying to find something.

After a few seconds, she cried out, “Here we go! Mommy tells me this is the most precious thing she has! I heard that my dad gave her this even before I was born``````.”

             Audrey continued talking, but I could not hear anything after seeing what she found in her pocket.

             I was literally frozen.

It was the necklace: the one that I could not find on Rachel’s neck was in Audrey’s pocket.

Waking up suddenly, I untied my necklace and put it into her tiny hand from my shaking hand. Unlike I expected her to be surprised of my sudden action, she smiled calmly.

In her smile, I could find a familiar face other than Rachel’s. Audrey was no longer my ex-girlfriend’s daughter; she was my daughter. She shared my blood, my necklace, and my soul. Finding my smile in her face, I smiled with her.

Like a miracle, Rachel appeared from the back.

“Rachel…. I just can’t….. Rachel….”

“I’ll tell you everything later. Brian, just remember that I’ve always missed you.”

I couldn’t believe anything: my eyes, my ears, and my fast beating heart. I just hugged her as strongly as possible.

Next to us, our necklaces were still shining together in a small angel’s hand.

The "Confirmation"

The “Confirmation”

             In 2008, I entered Shinchang Middle School, my heart throbbing with expectations for the new world. But as time passed, I started to notice the reality of the Korean education system. All they valued was the concept of “uniformity.” All students had to wear exactly the same uniform with the same hair style. No exception was allowed. In the same outlook, we had to memorize the same thing for each class. Our creativity was never accepted as an appropriate response to any matter.

             Everyone looked almost the same in the green school uniforms. The only things that could differentiate the students were their unique hair styles. However, that variety was soon forced to be the same. Boys could not have their hair touching the collars. For girls, it was even harsher; we could not have it longer than 3cm from our ears. The chief teacher of the student guidance literally measured our hair with a ruler. The rule for length being this cutting, hair color other than black was unimaginable.

Naturally born with brown hair, I was always suspected of having dyed my hair. Teachers would say, “Jane, why do you have brown hair? You are supposed to be a smart model student. The one who studies hard should always have black hair.” “Smart” students should have black hair; how racist. In the first place, I wondered why they did not want to accept the natural difference of my hair color even after having me explain it for over ten times. Secondly, even if I did dye my hair, what did it really have to do with me studying hard?

Not only the school rules, but the academic quality was also frustrating. I did not learn History, but memorized twenty different types of earthen vessels. The teacher automatically skipped teaching modern Korean history, following the unspoken rule of the society which wanted to avoid telling the dirty truth of the dictator’s era. I memorized the whole English textbook, and that was all I had to do for that class. All of the English teachers recited the book without any clues, but none of them could speak a single complete sentence in English properly. Math class was rather a self studying time for solving problems in the textbook, since most of us already learned it from prep schools and the teachers were impassionate to teach it again. Korean Language class was the most demanding one for memorizing. We never had any chance to “write”. The school did not want our diversity, but uniformity even in academics. Who memorized the detail better decided who were smarter than others.

One day, I realized I could no longer be part of the community, in which students were only taught to be uniformed. The system was not an education; in my point of view, it was no more than a tool to control students from putting their interest in other matters, and to raise them to be the loyal citizens of the country where rich people were the owners. Although I wanted to leave the school as soon as possible, there wasn’t any great solution. Most of the middle schools in Korea were not at all different from Shinchang. The only way to escape the situation was to have a completely different environment, such as moving to another country, but that seemed like an impossible alternative at the time. Also, I wasn’t sure whether I would perform better in a foreign country. After considering the solution for a while, I decided to use a method powerful enough to persuade both myself and the people around me. I promised myself to try my best in Shinchang for the first semester, and then to decide whether I still wanted to move out.

For that one semester, studying hard was always my priority. I wanted to figure out how I would view the school system after I became the only top student of the grade. That was when I studied harder than ever. I wrote down every single detail that came out of the teachers’ mouths and memorized it repeatedly until I would automatically murmur it unconsciously. For math, I almost mastered the whole 400-page textbook, knowing even the hardest problems that were not suggested by the teacher. I kept the routine of waking up, breakfast, studying, lunch, studying, dinner, and studying, until the final exams. Eventually, I took the first place in all of the subjects with no exceptions at all. My average score of the subjects was close to the perfect score of a hundred percent. Since I was the first one ever to receive so many perfect scores, the whole school was surprised. The principal called me to his office, saying tons of graceful wordings to praise my high academic achievement. The way everyone treated me changed in a few hours. No teacher could complain about my hair, or my anything. It was hilarious.

But I was not happy. Even after getting the first rank of the school and receiving numerous Model Students Awards, I felt hopeless. When I saw myself unconsciously reciting a novella and its fixed analysis, I was sure I wanted something different. Now that I tried my best in the given environment and earned great results, I was proud enough to “complain” about the current problems with the school. Through the process of setting a goal, accomplishing it, and doubting it again, I confirmed my decision with my effort.

I was ready to tell my parents. I just said six words exactly, “I want to study abroad.” Unlike my worries, they both agreed with my plan without any questions, for they already knew how much I disliked the reality of Korean public education. My mom suggested me going to a famous private boarding school in Boston. But I chose a small city called Champaign rather than Boston; a rather “boring” countryside city in Illinois seemed more attractive. I decided to go to a public school, expecting to share the ordinary, “free,” life of Americans.

Looking back to more than three years, I’m pretty sure I made a right decision through a self-confirming way. Though I’m not trying to promote any kind of cultural toadyism, I think leaving this country for a while and experiencing another was one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life. I learned a lot. I liked how they respected me as an individual- I automatically learned to respect others as well. I liked how they taught me something that I would remember forever without constantly forcing myself to memorize.

I’m not sure if the experience helped me to understand something faster in time, but I can guarantee one thing. Although I don’t remember the names of the different tribes which I was almost dead to memorize, I can still draw the exact structure of a human cell which I learned through making a Styrofoam model. Although I don’t even want to imagine the teacher who forced me change my natural brown color to a superficial black one, I still appreciate this one stranger who smiled at me at a local food market in Champaign. Honestly, I’m still proud of myself for making a wise decision not only based on my taste, but also based on a 6-month of personal experiment. 

Season 5; Episode 11

Metafiction

Jane Park

Junior Writing/ 11b3

November 15, 2012 (Thu)

<Season 5; Episode 11>

             “Kyle, have you ever dreamt of life-long love?”

             “Did you write some sort of third-rate romance, again?”

             “You really won’t regret reading this. I can’t believe I wrote it… just read it first.”

             Jane aggressively took my laptop and clicked the file to open. It might sound funny, but I was never joking when I said I was satisfied with my piece of writing, a master piece, at least for this time.

             “Oh it opened! Fine, I’ll be generous enough to read your thing. But remember, it’s for the last time.”

             A woman in her mid-30s and a man looking a bit older than her are sitting in a bar. There are two cups of soda in the middle of the table. Silence passes for over an hour, with both of them just staring at each other. For the first time, the woman opens her mouth.

             “So, how have you been? You look like a complete Ah-jeo-ci! (middle-aged man)” with her wet eyes, she shouts in a cheerful voice, ironically.

             The man suddenly smiles rather awkwardly. “Yeah, people get old. You are still a beauty, though. I’ve been so-so, been quite busy living life. It’s good to see you again. It’s been almost 20 years since the last meeting, well, the private one. I wonder how you’ve been”

The woman raises her big eyes directly at the man’s eyes. “You’ve got talkative.” She gazes him for a minute and starts talking. “Well I don’t know where to start, but I want tell you about someone, someone very important, someone who has been my life.”

It all started in my freshman year of high school. I did not know that this one relationship could affect my life this much, well, at that time.

             “You might want to join the Kendo Club,” was how he first talked to me.

“Sorry, but we can still be friends,” was my answer.

Recalling the memory over 20 years later, I can’t even imagine how brave I was to ask him to be my friend, when he was two years older than I. There was this feeling that gave me I wanted to be close to him, or perhaps I had to.

Whatsoever, we became friends, close friends.

The man lowers his head automatically. “Girl, you, you’re just,” he cannot finish his sentence as the woman cuts his phrase. “Please just listen to me.”

             I used to tell him every single event happened each day. Though we hardly ever had chances of seeing each other, his husky voice through the cell phone was enough for me. He was never talkative; I was always the one to start up a conversation and continue talking until he eventually said something. But that little moment of hearing his voice was paying enough for me to call him every day. I treated him as if I was his daughter who could tell him anything I wanted to. He treated me as if he was my dad who could understand anything that came out of my mouth. When I laughed, he sounded soft; when I cried, he sounded angry.

             The man looks neither soft nor angry. He cannot stop his hands from covering his face. The woman seems to be more overwhelmed than before. His eyes can catch her hands slightly shivering together on her laps.

             “Oh my lord, this man should have put his hands over hers!” cried Jane. She looked very frustrated with the fact that the man was not caring enough. I knew it. I knew she’d be so into my romance fiction, hah! “Keep reading it, Jane.”

“Abercrombie and Fitch apparels are now on clearance. Please visit our store and take your chance to get our products in a 60% lower price!”

“On MTV, this Friday night, we have Selena Gomez! We’ve got an exclusive interview on how she feels now, after breaking up with Justin!”

“Now we get back to “Kyle’s Diary” and you’re watching Disney Channel!”

             “Sweetie, ugh” he cannot say anything this time either. He lowers his face again and goes silent. The woman opens her lips again.

             Friends. ”Friends” was the word that I used for describing our relationship.

For other friends and teachers suspecting our relationship, we always called ourselves “good friends.” He was probably serious to say so, considering me as one of his best friends.

So was I.

At first, I was happy to have a friend like him, really. But for the sake of human nature as an excuse, I felt myself in a changing mood. Talking to him was not as easy as before; looking into his eyes was even more difficult. I could not let him have a fun conversation with other girls. Whenever I sent him text messages, I was anxious waiting for his reply, literally forever. At that time, I did not know why, or perhaps, I probably did not want to know why.

             The bigger my feelings grew, the harsher I treated him. I did not want him to notice my obsession, anxiety, jealousy, and especially the change of my feelings towards him.

             “Why did you… ugh.. I really did not know… I really did not.” The man is almost crying now. The woman, on contrary, looks calmer now. With her relaxed voice, she continues.

I never expected my behavior, denial of one-sided love, could lead our “friendly” relationship to the last moment. I really didn’t know.

And it was the day.

             The day was nothing different than normal. We promised to study together in the afternoon; I was looking forward to it. It was after lunch when I received a text message from him, saying sorry that he could not keep our promise. I was okay. I thought he had a more important team project or something. I went to the conference room in Dasan and studied alone for an hour.

             “Sorry. I’m really sorry about that.”

             It was never on purpose that I was apparently studying there, at that time. I just got to be there. Guess whom I saw. Yes, I saw him. And I also saw another person next to him, holding hands. I did not want to believe my eyes; I did not want to admit she was my roommate, my best friend.

             “What? Why does this stop here?” I was satisfied to see Jane looking for the rest of the story. She angrily looked at me, but I kept smiling.

             “I’ll let you read more if you write a reading journal based on my story. It’s due tomorrow.” I wasn’t surprised to notice Sally nodding.

“You promised me, dude,” she asked me, still frustrated not knowing the ending.

             “Yes. I promise.” And of course this is a lie. I did not write it yet.

“!@##$$%#^@#@$#%$%” the ending music comes out. Sally turns off her television and goes to bed, already dreaming what would have happened to the woman.

The biggest frame: Sally watching TV

Second biggest frame: The TV program “Kyle’s Diary”

Third biggest frame: Kyle’s romance story

The smallest frame: The woman’s narrative

[Mr. Menard] Fish Cheeks

                          As people, in general, have got more leisure time compared to the past, they earn the “luxury” to think deeply about themselves. While thinking, people realize that they can all have different ways of looking at things. Accordingly, they have the affluence to choose among them. This allowed several authors to use perspective as a tool to deliver their messages in an implicit way. “Fish Cheeks” by Amy Tan is a great example that reveals how a specific perspective can change the ways that are seen through the lens and how the author writes the story to reveal the truth.

             In the “Fish Cheeks,” Amy as the narrator recalls her childhood memory of a 14 years old girl. She is a typical Chinese American descendent who is so assimilated to American culture that she is not really proud of her own culture from heritage. The 14 years old girl, remembered by the perspective of an adult, is embarrassed about the situation where her crush visits her house full of Chinese culture. The narrator describes how abashing the moment was, using detailed explanations on her state of mood. In the end, she makes a comment on how it has all been planned by her mom to teach her Chinese culture.

             Though the experience itself is real, how the narrator interpreted it through her perspective may have changed the way how her feelings are described, or perhaps everything. The fact that she can recognize herself being embarrassed of her family, and that she can now perceive the true meaning of her mom’s plan could have been completely different if she recalled the memory at a completely different time. Because she now tries to trace back her memory, she can look at the incident in such way of admitting how she felt at that time. Because of who she is now, she can interpret her mom’s plan as it is described in the story.

             The perspective and its effects are directly related to the message that the narrator want to tell the readers. By using the specific point of view and giving the clues that reveal the perspective, the author helps the audience to notice the fact that she has chosen a perspective and that she is intentionally using it. She wants the readers to not only recognize that, but also take it into consideration for the accurate resemblance of the memory. She is intentionally revealing that her perspective is not one hundred percent correct in remembering the exact feelings that she felt at the age of 14 so that the readers can also try to think in a different point of view.

             This story, considering both the content and the author’s intentions, tells a lot about the powerful ability of having “perspectives.” Through the hats, lens, and shoes of each perspective, the extent of out sight changes. They enable us to focus on different parts of one big frame of the world. “Being in another person’s shoes for a mile,” thus, can be a tremendous experience.

Comments
Yoonju Chung: Nice link between Fish Cheeks by Amy Tan and the concept of perspective we discussed today. Amy Tan could see the different world by choosing a different perspective and realize the importance of knowing her identity as a Chinese. I was pretty impressed about what Amy Tan's mom was saying to Tan, "the only shame is to have shame". This reflective essay would be better if you discuss more about Tan's process of realization as a Chinese.
Nuri: I agree with your perspective of how different point of views can change the meaning of a situation. However, I had a hard time understanding what you meant in your first sentence- the link between luxury and multi-disciplinary views of the world; you never mention it throughout your essay. I'm excited to see how your essay later turns out.

McCarthyism, Denial of Catholicism in Chosun Dynasty, and Now

             “Government now examines policies of kicking out Reds from governmental officials.” These very eleven words were what I could find on the very first page of Chosun Daily few days ago. I first wondered who exactly the “Reds” could be, and then felt frustrated on how ridiculous the whole discussion would be. The definition of “Red” varies diversely in Korea: a North Korean spy, a North Korean citizen, someone pro-Kim Jung Il, a communist, a socialist, and someone who does not support the ideas of the “conservatives”. Frankly, the last one is how “Red” is most commonly depicted nowadays.

             With a roughly estimated precondition that the percentage of people against the “conservatives” is at least about 50% of South Korean citizens, 25,000,000 people are considered as “Red” by most of right wingers. The “democratic” government of the “Republic of Korea” is now making half of the citizens become “Reds” who have promised loyalty towards North Korea. The 25,000,000 people, according to the new law mentioned previously, are not allowed as government officials since they “smell like Reds” by having opposing views to extreme rightists’. Though unimaginable, this is what is actually happening in Korea, right now.

             Like many other governments, Korean government in favor of people with vested rights has been using a stratagem to keep their power firm and the country united. What it basically does is first to conquer all mass media including major journalisms, broadcasting centers, etc. Then, it sets the “absolute enemy,” whom the government can fabricate the characteristics of. After brainwashing vast majority of people to be always aware of “how dangerous” the enemies are, it is eventually on the last step. Since there are some “unbearable” people who still remain unaffected by the machination, the media falsely charges them for being “Reds” from North Korea. Consequently, left wingers suddenly become spies with complicated plans to communize the “democratic” government of South Korea.

             Then, how can this whole subterfuge work out in Korea? The reason is simple. There are unconditional believers of the conservatives who buttress the Republican Party without any specific reasons, but just because. For that they consider every single action of the Party as that of written in the Bible, they also want to make people in opposition be falsely recognized as “Reds.” But the whole point is that all of us are unaware of the more fundamental dilemma with the situations happening in Korea. Why does the label “Red” be considered very negatively in every sense?

             Throughout history, there have been two very similar incidents that can be compared to this phenomenon; the McCarthyism in 1950 America and the anti-catholic movement in late 19^th century Korea. After the World War II, the United States government started to tighten the “security” of the nation by punishing anyone who seems to be “Reds.” There were black lists everywhere, revealing the names of politicians, celebrities, and even normal citizens who opposed the government policies. At that time, most of the accused only tried to prove how they were not communists from the Soviet Union, forgetting something even more important. They never argued against why “Red” should be someone so dangerous that should be executed immediately.

             The anti-catholic laws in the late 1800s Korea led to similar misconceptions of general people. The conservative Yangbans, aristocrats, of the closed Chosun Dynasty felt threatened by the Catholicism that promoted the “freedom” and “equality” of all people. They simply did not want to share their wealth with poors, nor were they desirous to be equal to them. For the sake of themselves, the Yangbans criticized Catholics for being “contemptuously iniquitous,” and eventually executing all believers in Catholics with death penalty. However, not many of them suspected the precondition that “all Catholics are innately bad”, only trying to vindicate their Catholic identity.

             Since long ago, certain groups of people have been tricking majority with their nefarious chicanery. Not so surprisingly, most of us now are also victims of that strategy. What we feel might not be the whole world that exists. Now is the time for everyone to see differently and think more deeply. In the 21^st century, in the seemingly democratic society, why are we still living the 1950 McCarthy America and Chosun dynasty?

The Broken Clock - modernized

<The Broken Clock>

The chandelier was hanging in the ceiling. It provided yellow light all over the hotel lobby, where no one seemed to be present. Even the front desk had its lights all turned off.

Two people appeared in the hallway: a boy and a girl.

Without any conversation going on, they silently arrived in the lobby. Only the incessant sound of clock was heard.

Sitting on the sofa right under the chandelier, they knew that they were the only people in the lobby. Though this made them feel awkward, they did not want any others to come either.

The boy was in an auburn hair, with some waxing from the morning. A plain white polo shirt and a pair of green shorts represented a normal teenage look. His feet were shivering unintentionally in a pair of black flip-flops. His blue eyes with blonde eyelashes were gazing in the air. His mouth attempted to blurt out some words, but failed.

Right next to the boy, the girl was stiffened in a relatively stable posture. Her shiny blonde hair was incongruous with her oriental outlook, but was still attractive with the pink flowery dress. Though her hands moved a little bit towards her blushed cheeks, it was only a flinching. All the muscles and nerves seemed to be frozen.

“Ugh. This place is quite cold, I guess?” said the girl.

She stared at her hands.

“Oh. It is? Yes.. quite,” murmured the boy.

“I think it’s cold. Maybe it’s not. I don’t know. I mean, it’s not cold, but I’m cold. No. That’s not what I mean. It’s just,” muttered the girl, looking confused.

Suddenly, the boy’s left hand, with a rosary ring illuminating on his fourth finger, was brought on the top of the girl’s right hand. Her hand was cold; his hand was warm enough. The two hands paused for a few minutes. Then, the girl leaned her head on the boy’s shoulder. Smell of flagrance spread all over the lobby.

“Are you still cold?” asked the male.

“No,” answered the female. She tried to continue, but it took her a few more seconds.

After pausing for a while, she opened her mouth, saying “I feel like dreaming now.”

“I think… I… kind of….like you, a bit more than a best friend,” continued the female, with her dark eyes still staring nowhere.

It was when the male’s face turned all red. He pretended to stay bland, but could not resist replying.

“I hope the time stop at this moment,” whispered the male.

Her face flushed once again.

He stared at the clock for a moment, and punched it. The clock stopped. With their hands still holding one another, the couple looked at each other and smiled.

Even at that moment, the colossal chandelier was still hanging in the ceiling.

How the Time Was Stopped - descriptive

<How the Time Was Stopped>

The Swarovski crystal chandelier was as enormous and antediluvian as the sloop used for the filming of the movie Titanic over thirty years ago. With thousands of transparent crystal pieces dangling in the hold of an elongated chain, the Chandelier allowed the whole lobby to be enchanted with dim yellowish light. The glamorous atmosphere could intrigue anyone on Earth to fall in love, only if there were some people present in the lobby. Even the front desk was so dark that no one could ever suspect any existence of human being ready in his or her duty to answer all the ridiculous phone calls for reservations and room services.

Directly under the flamboyant chandelier, there was a chaste sofa in beige that seemed cozy enough to captivate anyone to sit and stay for a myriad number of hours. Turned yellow due to the amber aurora of the chandelier, the couch could adumbrate its obsolete authenticity. On its silky surface, there sat a boy and a girl; can it be any more obvious. The bizarre mood was harmonious with the dim light, and the adolescents were congenial with one another. Nevertheless, inevitable but intolerable awkwardness swept the atmosphere between them. No conversation. Only the clock on the wall was making a noisy sound.

The boy was in an auburn wind-blown hair style, with a slight vestige of waxing from the morning. A plain white polo shirt with a mark of The American Eagle and a pair of green Skylight Mountain Shorts from Abercrombie and Fitch exhibited the coolness he possessed. His rough feet were shivering unintentionally in black flip-flops, as a reflection of the clumsy mood. Covered with blonde eyelashes, his deep blue eyes were gazing in the air. His mouth attempted desperately to blurt out some words, but failed impetuously. He was apprehensive whether the girl could catch his facial muscles trembling minutely.

Right next to the boy, the girl was wondering if the boy could acknowledge her abnormally fast heart beats disguised in a relatively stable posture. Her shiny blonde hair was incongruous with her oriental outlook, but was still attractive with the pink flowery dress. Though she endeavored incessantly to conceal her blushed cheeks, her shy hands remained firm on her laps. She could not let go of her frozen hands from grasping her dress as tightly as an infant clasping a new toy. All the muscles and nerves seemed to be petrified. She had never felt like this before: peaceful and astounded at the same moment.

Suddenly, the boy’s basked left hand, with a rosary ring illuminating on his fourth finger, was brought on the top of the girl’s right hand. Her hand was frigid due to the anxiety she had gone through, but it was soon managed to be warm by the intense heat from the boy’s hand. The two hands paused for a few precious minutes. It was as if the hands were meant to be one in the first place. Then, the girl gravitated toward the boy, approving her head to be leaned on his trustworthy shoulder. Heavenly, ambrosial fragrance diffused from her silky hair to his peripheral nerves. At that very moment, the boy could not cope with his quivering arms, legs, and every single part of his body.

After perching in that teenage-romantic pause for a while, the girl eventually opened her cherry-red lips, saying “I feel like dreaming now.” With her dark eyes still staring nowhere, she continued, “I think… I… kind of….like you, a bit more than a best friend.” It was when the boy’s heart beat faster than ever. He pretended to stay bland, but could not resist replying. In his mellifluous voice, he whispered in her tiny ear, “I hope the time stop at this moment.” Her face flushed like a well-ripe apple.

He stared at the noisome clock for a moment, and punched it as hardly as he could. The clock stopped moving its hands. From that very second, the time did cease for the two, who now converted into a couple. They could only feel each other, and the whole world was replete with one another’s scent. Even at that moment, the colossal chandelier was still hanging in the ceiling.

[Mr. Menard] Sarah Cole: a type of love story

             For a long time in the history of literature, authors were hardly ever interested in writing stories about the scars of their own selves. In contrary to that, one big similarity shared by the authors in the confessional period was that they were admitting “brokenness” in their writings. They wrote stories regardless of the glance of the society. Although the stories written in that period are based on admitting what the authors have done, they don’t end at that point. The authors further underscore the meanings of what they have done so. In the short story called “Sarah Cole: A type of love story” by Russell Banks and the one called “The Most Beautiful Woman in Town” by Bukowski, the authors not only confess their privates, but also imply deeper meanings of their actions.

             In “Sarah Cole: A type of love story,” Ron, the main character of the story, is an attractive guy who has only gone through people who superficially liked him because he was handsome. He meets a girl named Sarah, who is almost on the other side of himself. Sarah is not good looking; she is very ugly. Unlike what Ron has expected, she starts up the conversation first, looking full of confidence. Though she is confident, contrary to what people usually expect from ugly people, her confidence is actually a fake representative of her fragile self. She acts confidently because she is the least confident woman. She cannot get any lower than that. Her broken heart is what actually exists under the cover of confidence. As time passes, the narrator realizes that Sarah is not so much different from other “ugly girls” inside; he finds that she wants to boast about her handsome boyfriend to others. In the story, the disappointed narrator confesses that he acts cruel to her, to kill the “vapid” relationship on purpose.

              In “The Most Beautiful Woman in Town,” the narrator is an ugly man. On the other hand, Cass, another main character, is physically attractive, very much. Grown up in a not so happy family background, she has grown scar from the beginning. Also, with her relatively long experience with men, she has been hurt because of those who considered her as an object, a sex machine, and nothing more than that. As a denial of the objectification done by the men around her, she prefers ugly men. She thinks ugly people have more personality than physically attractive men. The narrator is “chosen” for this reason. While Cass is going out with the narrator, she frequently tries to destroy her beauty, as a test to confirm whether he still likes her without the beauty. She relies on the man for his seeming to be different. However, the narrator, though seeming to be a different man, likes her for both her body and herself. Throughout the story he confesses that he eventually gives up protecting her, causing the death of Cass.

             Through the voices of the narrators, both authors confess what they have done to their “loves”. One of them describes his realization of how it was all “a type of love story” he had, meaning it was typical. The other admits his similarity with other “woman-objectifying” men, who did not have much strength to save his love forever. The essence of the stories is not only on the authors telling the true stories of their lives, but also on what these stories actually represent in reality. The two stories reveal that there is no pure love existing in the world. They show the process of how Sarah and the narrator from the story by Bukowski turn out to be no different than ordinary people who love for their benefits and pursue materialistic values, though both of them do not seem to be so. Thus, the confessions of the two narrators not only tell their truths, but the truths of the whole society.

            Both Russel Banks of “Sarah Cole: A type of love story” and Charles Bukowski of “The Most Beautiful Woman in Town” confess their “real” selves, revealing the things they have done, which might have been considered inappropriate to be the topic of writing long time ago. Through the confession of their stories, they also accentuate the confound revelation of the world and how the relationships between people work.

Comments
Yoonju Chung: Interesting to point out that confidence was a means of concealing her real identity of the least confident woman. I thought she was genuine and her genuity was the reason why Ron fell in love with Sarah, unlike other girls who were superficially attracted by his "beauty" (like Cass in "The Most Beautiful Woman In Town" by Charlees Bukowski) Although i thought differently, I think you make a point! Also, I like your introduction connecting confessional period authors' characteristics with this story. I would be better if you further elaborated on why he had to act the way he did to Sarah and made your thesis more concrete.