love, read, write

by O. Henry
So today, I read “The Social Triangle” by O. Henry, a short story about, well, a social triangle. Much like a love triangle, only instead of love of others, of respect of others’ social class. It is really an interesting point of view in things, and it does get many points across. I’m not an expert at analyzing literature and finding its deepest meanings, since I’m not much experienced in the world of Classics. But in fact, I will attempt to make some analytical statements because I think it might help me improve upon my currently ground-level skill.
This story is basically about three social classes. I don’t know how to identify it, but it seems like Ikey Snigglefritz is very low class. The next up the ladder is Billy McMahan, who is a relatively high class—he’s a politician and a leader, someone much looked up to by Snigglefritz. Then, there’s the super-rich, who is Cortlandt Van Duyckink, who is a “[M]an worth eighty millions, who inherited and held a sacred seat in the exclusive inner circle of society,” (O.Henry, 22). I personally like Duyckink the most and McMahan the least. I don’t know, it just annoys me that McMahan really values meeting Duyckink to the extent that he would try to get everyone to have liquor for free just because he feels the mood. Maybe I’m being really one-sided, and his spirits were uplifted, but for some reason, at a personal scale, it bothers me a teensy bit. Also, that people would look at him much more respectedly. But it’s not like I don’t like him because of that, but more like, I don’t like how people,  normal people, everyone (even me), would do that if we were in that situation. That our attitudes change from morose to ecstatic just with the shake of a hand. Obviously, there’s a lot more meaning in that one shake, but when you look at it generally, it’s pretty interesting how effective it can be to your mood.
I also think he sort of shook Duyckink’s hand because he wanted to shake his hand, not because he wanted to donate. This I think because it says McMahan made an “[A]udacious act of his life,” which wouldn’t be called audacious if the objective was not asking to fund the help-the-poor campaign Duyckink was holding, but to merely shake Duyckink’s hand.
Obviously, there’s a lot of loopholes and craters in this supposed “analyzation” of the text, but hey, it’s kind of my first time doing this alone. (Yeah, I know. I’m old, and how can I not have done this before, I know. Just…bear with me.)
I like Duyckink because of the obvious reason—because he reached out to the poor. And also, that his heart’s set in the right place, as O. Henry says that it was his sudden urge or instinct—oh, it was an impulse. But all the same, such actions don’t stem from the brain but from the heart, and that’s what makes me solidify my opinion about Duyckink. (That he’s not a jerk.) (Not that McMahan is a jerk.) (He’s not.)
The three characters have different reasons for shaking the others’ hand. First, Snigglefritz shakes McMahan’s hand out of honor, out of pure admiration. TMO, McMahan shakes Duyckink’s hand out of want of attention and recognition (maybe a teensy bit of helping the poor). Then, Duyckink shakes Snigglefritz’s hand out of sympathy and wanting to help. These three kind of tell me that when you’re in a low position, you look up enviously a lot. When you’re high, you realize your ‘power.’ But if you’re not at the highest, the pleasure of seeing those below you look up to you, and the pleasure of just the luxury, might make you want more. When you’re at the highest, or at lest, in Duyckink’s case, you kind of see the flaws in being rich, and you stop and think about how to use it, just because you have too much of it.
Of course, these three are applying to people whose moral standards, their way of living, and their general thoughts are on the more, let’s be obnoxiously general, “good” side. Because obviously, there are plenty of rich jerks who use their money and position for more and more power, and plenty of poor jerks who just give up and don’t give a flying French fry about what they’ll do with their life.
(…yeah that just made no sense, the last two paragraphs.)

Literary Terms:
They’re not terms, by the way. I’m just using a phrase we used back in seventh grade when we did this as a class. xD So I won’t be naming too many literary terms, fyi.
What I really noticed and liked was the repetition of “He had shaken the hand of _____.”
That sentence is what ends each of the three parts of the short story. And it kind of ties it together and subtly yet quite noticeably makes the point across of the Social Triangle.

I also like the repetition of the words “impulse,” “audacious,” and “royalty” when describing the sensation of bringing yourself up to shaking the other person’s hand, and also the flushing, overwhelming feeling of the achievement as you shake their hand. It ties their emotions together while slightly distinguishing them. I didn’t notice this immediately (perhaps with audacious I did, but not with impulse and royalty), but when you think about it (at least, when I did), you remember that subtle meaning kind of left a little mark in your head and distinguishably, yet subconsciously let you know that the three are inextricably bound and related.

Work Cited
O. Henry, . 41 Stories by O. Henry. 2nd ed. New York: New American Classics, 2007. Print.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/105I8KWwvFPEfBR5nQfyGc9-UgYhFQ_roAOY2Go8KEjw/edit?hl=en_US

This is what I got so far—not fully edited, and I know—I shouldn’t publish it if I didn’t finish it, but I’ll edit it later on.

Here it is.

 

 

 

I was always the best.

In my family, I was the smartest, considering my short-attention-spanned, hyperactive brother could not stay still for at least a minute. In my community—I was the one who won the reading prizes, writing prizes, all that academic glory. In my school—I was in the school newspaper because I had won a competition and performed in a winner’s recital at Carnegie Hall (Carnegie Hall! Wow, that’s good! they’d say). I was the best at drawing, because everyone else just didn’t care.

In the middle of fourth grade, all of that changed.

I had moved into a whole new place. A new county, a new town, a new house, a new school, and new peers to make friends with. It was all a blur.

It was a Friday. October twenty seventh, six days after my birthday, there I was, standing in this strange… big house. It wasn’t a small cramped apartment anymore. We wouldn’t spend those Christmases huddled in the corner next to the veranda, next to the Christmas tree, everything close to us—the TV, the kitchen, the couch, the rooms, the bathroom, the door. It wasn’t that small safe box that we lived in.

It was big.

That was my first impression.

And.

It had stairs.

Stairs! For the first time in my life, I could brag to my friends about how I could run up and down stairs—stairs! Our own stairs!—and never get tired of it—that our rooms were so big, and we had three bathrooms! And two sinks in one bathroom—that was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. I could tell this to all of my friends—how amazing would that be—such a great house!

And I could finally say, “I live in a big house”, rather than “I live in an apartment”. No climbing flights of stairs to get to our house and then set down our things, dig for the key, and open the lock, and burst in. It was just park, walk, unlock, and walk in.

It was like a dream come true(—the only thing was, I had a life, so I didn’t exactly dream all day about living in a house—just trying to express how amazed I was).

But of course, that wasn’t the only thing in mind—what was I, stupid? I knew what would come next.

School.

I’d have to make new friends, even when these kids had already started school, already decided who their friends were and who their friends weren’t, and already diving headlong into the depths of learning.

But I’d do well. As I always was. The person who was smart, and good at drawing, and piano, and nothing would change.

I learned, however, soon enough, that living in this new place was like an American expecting everyone else in Korea to speak English and understand English and follow American culture. No. It was different. Very.

I noticed this the minute I saw the school. It was an eerie feeling—these kids were already used to this school by now, already adjusting to their classes, their teachers, schedules, learning. But the first impression was—man, is it big.

And so fancy! The architecture wasn’t just a big box. It had a curvy hallway that had big windows, so you could see the little paintings on the inside walls, see teachers walking by. But we were early, my mom and I. We came here before school started, to keep things organized and ready when school did start.

We walked in, and the office—it was big. Everything was big here!

My teacher, Mrs. Unanski was introduced to me—it was so weird, because my fourth grade teacher before I moved here—her name was Mrs. Kaminsky—sounded oddly familiar.

She was nice. And old. And small. But very nice. I remember that. Really nice. Mom followed along, as we walked through endlessly long hallways, with drawings on the walls already, projects and drawings and paintings and writing all on the walls. And the classrooms had the lights on, and I would peer into them, imagining each seat occupied by someone—a friend, maybe.

Mom asked how many classes there were (oh, there were so many classrooms!), and she told us there were eleven fourth grade classrooms, ten fifth grade, and eleven sixth grade. Said it without much of excitement, or whatever. Just said it, like it was just the usual—oh, it’s a bit sunny today, with a bit of clouds, not raining, definitely.

My mouth dropped. I remember that. Real clear. I couldn’t believe it. In my private school, there were two classes for each grade. Then in the public school, maybe four or five. And I was amazed. This was the world-record, I bet. Eleven!?

My mom spoke just what I thought. Oh, not the private school and public school thing—but that there were so many.

“Oh, this is the only public elementary school in Holmdel,” she nodded.

I was, again, amazed. When would this town stop surprising me?

The only public school? That would mean—my imagination of just a few classes of fourth graders stretched to a massive crowd.

We turned a corner, and went up a ‘hill’, and there we were, at a classroom, strange, new, but still, my future.

After my mom left, I was alone, in a room, awkwardly readjusting my glasses and setting down my books, as the teacher told me what they had been learning so far, and that today was the day of a test—a grammar test. She said I could take it, but it wouldn’t count—that I could try it—would I like to?

Well, I didn’t think that I wouldn’t know. So of course, I said yes.

When the kids piled in, one by one, they set their bags down, I felt something new in the air.

It was different. Much different. So different from Woodbridge, I just felt a bit nervous. They were dressed differently—I mean, not like they were wearing dresses or an exotic brand from the southern coast of Africa (is there even one?), but it just felt different, the way they looked, the way they acted, just the way they walked into the door.

I began to note the differences.

Personality.

“Hey, look! It’s the new girl!”

And on my desk was a little puppy, or was it a turtle?—but anyhow, it was a cute little doll, and there was a card next to it that said “Happy Birthday! October 21! Celine Choo!” On it. It was one of those things you buy at staples, and you fill in the “Name” blank, the “Date” blank, and then you’d give it to the person, with a sticker to go along.

“Hey, why does she get to have Puppy?” (I forget the name of it, so I’ll just call it puppy.)

“Well, probably because she’s new.”

And of course, I wanted to say, “it was my birthday, actually,” but I didn’t. It felt weird, though, seeing them so… confident. And knowing. And sure. So sure.

It scared me. It was different. Nobody sat back and was shy, nobody stared at me quietly—they crowded around me. It was weird. Very. (Did I say that already? Emphasis.)

“Hey, welcome to Holmdel! Here’s a pen!” This girl gave me a pen—a purple one. Quite randomly, actually. No, maybe it was because it was my birthday—I’m not sure. Whatever.

Anyhow.

The groups. I figured out the groups very quickly.

In Woodbridge, nobody cared about how they looked, whether they wore these pants or those pants or wore these shoes or those, whether their hair was this color or that, whether they had an accent or not. But here, apparently, they did. When they walked in, most of the people were wearing at least one item of clothing that had a brand name. And they were all wearing the ‘in-style’ or whateveryoucall it sort of clothing. Pretty sweaters from Abercrombie, boots that were fuzzy, all sorts of stuff that I did. Not. Recognize.

It was strange, yes. Very.

The groups. I could tell who was in what group, very quickly. It just came to me.

First, it was the Asians. Don’t blame me—I noticed them because I’m Asian too! But never, ever, in my life, had I ever seen so many Asians in the same classroom. It was lucky, in Woodbridge (sorry to compare so much), to have any Asian in your classroom. But here—there was her, her, him, her, and her (no names given). It was… different.

But what else was, the Asians were different. Am I sounding like I’m naming a new species? That’s what it should sound like. Because they were Asian, alright, but they were wearing clothes that I would see in magazines, the brand name clothing. What I had never thought of wearing—at all.

The next group. They were the kids who were strangers to me, almost like a new species. I found, later on, that people tended to call them ‘popular.’ But at first sight, they were just plain strange. They would burst into a song during recess, crowd into a group and talk about whatever they would, talk loud and confident and burst into sarcasm seventy eight percent of the time, and they wouldn’t talk to certain people. Certain people.

They would act all nice and friendly in front of the teacher, and when the teacher was gone, they would suddenly start talking and walking over to their friends—so audacious—and they would order our class to do this, that, whatever, and then glare and do whatever they wanted. It was strange, yes. Very.

Then it was the people I was the most familiar with—people who didn’t care what they looked like, people who didn’t care who you were or who I was, but just accepted certain things. Some Asians, some Caucasians, you couldn’t really have a way of telling. But I was in that group.

(Oh, and, if you forgot about the grammar test—I bombed it. So, don’t ask.)

As I lived in Holmdel longer and longer, I realized certain things, and began to follow that saying—“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

I made friends with the Asians in my class (what, was it my fault—I was so amazed by how many Asians there were in my class), and even found one of them was Korean! KOREAN! It was rare for there to be two Koreans in our school, but for them to be in the same class—that was pure luck. Pure luck, I tell you.

But as I made friends with some people, I realized that even Asians thought the way the strange—‘popular’—people did.

“Well, she’s wearing fake Uggs.”

And to myself, I’d think of that as ridiculous, stupid, just empty minded.

When I talked to them, not only did their personality did I notice, but their values in things, their expectations, and their achievements. So much… higher—than Woodbridge.

Some people would need at least an A. They would get angry if they got a B, or a C.

And their values—wow, would they talk about their houses—pools, tennis courts, how many rooms, study room, a laptop, computer, iPod, iPad, this car, that car, this phone, that phone, what! It was like they were living in the houses and lives I would have never dreamt of having.

And the school was so big—two gyms! and a huge cafeteria, a field and two playgrounds and a blacktop to play on. The bathrooms were in the best conditions could be (I know, an awkward subject—sort of not really whatever), and the classrooms had all sorts of cool things, like TVs in every classroom, and a touch screen thing—SmartBoard, was it? And the field day—AT A SWIMMING POOL!? That was the best thing in the WORLD. I couldn’t believe it.

But they were complaining.

It amazed me—couldn’t they see how much they had, what they had?

And their achievements—Holmdel, the school of smart people, I would say. I was no longer ‘the smart person.’ I was now the ‘person,’ no wait—the ‘new person.’

I played at Carnegie Hall? Oh, shut up, ten other people did, too.

I was in Gifted and Talented program for Art? Oh, shut up, there’s tons of other kids who take art lessons and ace the shading techniques and coloring techniques and painting techniques and win prize after prize.

What was I, now?

Piano?

Don’t tell me—my level was the average.

Swimming?

No. I wasn’t even at the level to compare. No.

And guess what—everyone at LEAST took one sort of lessons—and they were already talking about colleges, SATs, and who knows—jobs. While there I was, stupidly standing around, thinking I was smart, how ignorant I must have seemed. Tennis lessons, swimming lessons, piano lessons, writing tutors, math tutors, art lessons. Everything.

Of course, when I moved to Holmdel, my whole perspective changed, my whole house changed, my whole SCHOOL CHANGED. And so did the people in it, thus affecting me.

Yes, me.

It gave pressure on me. It felt like I was the only one doing nothing, the one who wasn’t prepared, the one who wasn’t competent. Not able.

So I worked hard. I didn’t have any tutors, no extra lessons, workbooks, after school study whatevers. But I did my homework, studied, tried to maintain the usual A range, whatnot.

And being such a slow person, it resulted in the usual bed-time of around ten to twelve. (Which is one of the terrible reasons to why I’m so short—but that’s beside the point.)

All I knew was that I would NOT be someone my mom or dad would just take for granted and give up with the amazing-smart-daughter dream. I wanted them to be happy. And the more I tried, the more they expected. And the more they expected, the more I tried. And it went on and on and on.

So sometimes, I hear kids complain how “this sucks” and “that sucks” because the speakers aren’t working for the projectors, or that we don’t get to use the language lab, or because our school looks ugly, or whatever. And sometimes, I agree—then I catch myself, and I try to remind myself that I am lucky. That I am in a place that I should be thankful about, that if I did not live here, to this day, that I probably wouldn’t have made high goals, high expectations, and high achievements. And that through Holmdel, I have made the good types of friends, and that I would, ultimately, make the right choice.

What choice? Oh shut up, I don’t know about choices that are in the future—what am I, clairvoyant? Fortuneteller? Go consult the nearest tea-leaf reader at Target in the pharmacy section—not me.

And after a while, it became difficult to take piano lessons from a teacher who was thirty minutes away. We no longer had time for that. So my mom searched for a new teacher. And there, she lived three minutes away. What a convenience!

A short month or two after I started taking piano lessons, we had a class recital—of all of her students—my piano teacher’s.

Everyone. Was. Godly. At. Piano.

Besides the first and second graders, of course—they had just started.

But suddenly, my pride shrunk to the size of a pea.

This person won this award, this diploma, got into this high school, this major.

This person got into Julliard for this instrument with this much practice and this much—

And as I learned that this teacher, this teacher who was teaching me—she was teaching those amazing key-touching people—I realized that I would probably reach that level. And after a year or two, I began to find confidence once more, not only in piano, but also in academics and such. I realized that I couldn’t compare myself to my peers—people in Holmdel—no, I was not godly at piano, nor was I a genius in math or whatever.

But I realized that I could compare myself to my friends back in Woodbridge!

How stupid.

Yeah, I know.

Stupid.

Dumb.

Arrogant.

You can throw rocks and stones (they’re the same thing, I know) at me.

But I realized.

I went to my friend’s house after Korean school, which was back in Woodbridge—or somewhere near—those towns are pretty similar, and that friend was learning from the teacher I had been learning from before I moved to Holmdel and found a new teacher, blah blah, you know the rest. She was my friend, my best friend—except for the fact that we were very very far from each other now.

My mom told her “why don’t you play a piece (piano piece, duh, don’t you know) for me? It’s been a long time!”

Now, all this time, I had thought I was better than her (again, you can kick me later on, when you actually see me, and just don’t kick your computer or something), because of this new, advanced teacher, and you know (—wait maybe you don’t. Whatever. Just pretend to know—nod and smile). Better at sight reading, piano, technique. Because even when we had the same teacher, we were rivals, you can say.

Well, she started playing, and I sat there, on the floor, looking at the keys from under, looking at her playing the piano, and I realized.

Of course, now that I had seen so much more advanced playing, I realized how she and I played weren’t the best, but she was still—good, you can say. But I realized that I should not feel superior, let compliments get into my head, or think of myself better than someone before seeing their skill.

Hmm, It's been a while since I've written a DW, and anyhow, it's only the second one.
And did you know, you're probably reading this at the other side of the globe where I am right now, as I'm writing this DW.
I am in KOREA. This is very new to me, a billion "First"s to add, and a billion "Never"s to erase.
First...
Airplane ride
Lone Airplane Ride
In Korea
Out of the US
Travelling Alone
Having a suitcase
Seeing Korean Money
;DDDD


You do not know how amazing it is, and how faint it is to be in Korea. And how it's still same land, solid land, so it doesn't feel any different, only that there are Korean people everywhere, and yeah, there's no difference. I expected something big, I don't know what, something that would make Korea much better and cooler than America, the way I dreamed it to be, but it's same old land. No magical unicorn or mysterious wizards.
But I just like it, just knowing it's Korea. Pretty hard to imagine I'm not in America. At all. It feels the same! Geez, I probably think our house is next door.
It's sort of scary, how... same... it feels.
But I hope there's much more to see out of Korea. So this is day 1 in Korea, DW2.
This is Celine the reporter speaking, Thank You for reading LoVe, ReAd, wRiTe! DW writings!
(PAHAHHAAHHA)
AM 10:37 Pyongtaek, Korea. July 29, 2011.

So I am extremely surprised at this sudden advance not only in design, but in convenience and up-to-date-ness of blogger. Again, I shall say--Blogger fails to fail me once more.
Actually it's the first time I've said that.

Anyway, here comes the idea of a DW. DW is an abbreviation for Daily Writing, meaning I write every day, literally. It's part of my Summer WorkBook plan. Of course, I wrote daily in my notebook. In fact, I had five sections in the notebook  (It's the sort with the folder/dividers to make five sections). The first section for DW, the second for Summer Study Books, the third for Geometry Notes, the fourth for Geometry problems, and the fifth, you can name whatever, but the truth lies beneath nothing.

Anyhow, I changed the first section to essay-writing, and the DW will be transferred to here, this blog. It will be filed under the label "Daily Writing", and I greatfully respect blogger because of their sudden convenience in making new labels without publishing it then naming it.

It feels very high tech, yet it seems to be missing the coziness of the previous blogger, with the two layers of tabs and multiple links.

So here is today's DW. Quite bloggy, and shortly thereafter I shall change the mood of a bloggy DW to a writey DW. Anyhow, here I am, writing in a public blog, which is, wherefore, I am not revealing much personal or of the sort information.

Anyhow, my Emsred story is quite well planned out, and in fact, I am working on it very well.
The progress of the actual plan, however, is not, and in fact, I fear I must be failing myself and any of those who truly follow this blog (which I regard as none). Therefore, this is just failing myself, but yet I'm not so happy even if I'm just failing myself, because as it is only one and just me whom I am failing, the importance is that I am failing at all. Therefore, I must quicken my pace or at least modify it (which would be wimping out), so I shall just quicken my pace.

I honestly think Emsred was quite a fit name, because it sounds like Emerald; green, bright, shining, inspiring, wondorous, yet brave but beautiful emerald. The 'red' part was not included because of the color, but I dunno.
I started out with Emerald, and then the name just sort of came to my mind, and then I knew. I knew I had found The Name, and that Emsred was just fit for it. Nothing further said about it.
And then the Grendall. My brother says that Grendall was in Lord of the Rings, but when you think of it, my brother only has seen three minutes in the middle of the Lord of the Rings movie while surfing the TV (and not the web) in Delaware when we were bored, so I don't really trust him. Yet, I sort of do (which is highly irregular), because Grendall did feel like a name I had also heard during that three minutes of intense Lord of the Rings movie. But it also felt like the perfect name for Grendall, an old, wise, yet kind man who helps Emsred.
Although I had never read Lord of the Rings before, I wanted it to be slightly the mood of Lord of the Rings. And honestly, I know nothing besides the fact that there is a hobbit, an old man, and that it's fantasy. No lie.
But for some faint reason, I sort of pretended to myself that Emsred was like Lord of the Rings. Emsred was like that whoever-it-was that I saw in the movie, probably the main character, hobbit, and that Grendall was like that old man whoever-it-was who died for the group of whoever-they-were, and that the story would be like whatever-it's-like. Honestly, I have no clue why it has anything to do with Lord of the Rings besides the fact that they're both fantasy.
Perhaps those three minutes, those three intense minutes that I watched ever so intense-fully, had inspired me to write Emsred. In fact, I actually like Lord of the Rings. A lot. Imean,
I never read it before, heard of only the first book--The Hobbit, from school, and that's all. I didn't like it before, because I didn't like dragon-fantasy books, (Harry Potter doesn't count, it's not dragon-fantasy. You have to be me to understand) and Lord of the Rings sounded very much like one of those fancy dragon-fantasy books.

Right now is very late, and my brother is bugging me about a bug on the wall (HAH. get it?), so I will go to sleep.
I must resume writing my "Emsred and the Order of Death" story tomorrow. I drastically changed the plot and characters, so I am in a slight cloud of confusion. If only...
it'll clear away, as a mist slowly gathers away from the beautiful landscape.

Until then,
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