The protagonist in Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" is the man. He is a father and a widower, after his wife committed suicide. I would imagine his physical appearance to be worn and weary, a reflection on what he has gone through and is going through. The circumstances that characterize this novel, revolve around the fall of humanity and the world. Due to this, the man is dedicated to protecting his son and surviving each day. His motivation is his boy, a sole theme in the novel. This child is the last remainder of all that is dear to him, as they live a nomadically in a game of sustainability. His devotion is reflected throughout the novel, highlighted explicitly in dialogue:
[His] job is to take care of [the boy]. [The man] was appointed to do that by God. [He would] kill anyone who touches [his son] (77).
Besides the explicit physical conflict, the man must also maintain a positive and protective role. Naturally, his boy poses many paranoid questions, the most common being "Are we going to die?" (10). Despite the circumstances, he comforts the child and attempts to restore the boy's fallen hopes. Yet, this proves to be a struggle on himself as he occasionally finds himself irritated by such inevitable and pessimistic speech.
An unconditionally devoted protagonist is, in my opinion, a common character used in multiple works of art. To me, the man is a less dramatic rendition on Albus Dumbledore of my childhood favourite "Harry Potter" series. Dumbledore saw Harry as a son, coming to his aid and protection even past his death. This being said, I am almost positive there are many other people reminiscent to that of the man. This, perhaps, is how Cormac McCarthy made a story about the end of life relatable to people today.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Spinning
You sit so silent next to me
We’re in a crowd you’re all I see
You glance at me and spin me round
So fast that I will not touch ground
My mind is whirling with your thoughts
to the point my heart is left distraught
Despite next year you'll be too far,
One day I'll be your only star
Perhaps this wish still needs a voice
but I'll pray to be your only choice
These feelings never seem to end
I just need you to be a friend
Spinning fast, I lose control
Then you smile and
everything
stops.
I apologize for this deformed heart.
To answer the remainders of the requirements, this poem is written to an anonymous person. This person is one of the many people who never fail to put a smile on my face. This person is my inspiration.
Friday, February 11, 2011
An Exhibit at the Zoo
As a stereotypical teenager, my life revolved completely around school. Academics brought me the happiness and sadness that flavoured my life. Nearly all obstacles I faced originated from the crowded building I learned to call home. Yet, on a quiet November night, this changed. A hand of ice slapped my cheek, and the momentum forced me to turn and find the most difficult hardship. I was rotated to see my reflection with dried blood on her palms. Ultimately, the most emotional and demanding challenge I faced was with the person I knew best.
This began as a refreshing wind pulled a shade over the autumn skies. I slipped on a heavy fleece coat over my brown sweater, adding layers until heat crept up my cheeks. My mother zipped her black coat in a swift motion, reacting to the impatient demands of our anxious dog. Once the leash clicked, firmly attached to our pet's collar, I pulled on the cold metal handle and opened the door.
We were going through Steveston, a regular routine. The ticking of stalling buses and the claps of human feet on the sidewalk created a calming percussion beat. Idle chatter and distant radio voices added to the orchestra. The natural melody of the outdoors continued as we walked to a crosswalk. We stopped, looked both ways, and stepped on the painted white lines. The maestro in the sky let his instruments play a few seconds longer before reaching a sudden climax. Without notice, a woman screamed and I was blinded by a white light.
When my eyes peeled open, I was flat on my stomach; I was taped by invisible bonds, stuck in that position. Above me, the shrieks of sirens and loud frantic voices blended together. As I came to my senses, I wiggled my feet and and squeezed my eyes shut. Once again, blood began to flow through my insides, but it halted before reaching my arms. I couldn't feel them. Awkwardly, using only my limited abdominal strength, I rose to my knees.
From a new point of view, the rest of the scene flooded through my mind. I noticed white chips in front of me and instinctively ran my tongue through my mouth. I froze when I couldn't find my front teeth. This fear, however, lasted only a second; delayed reactions finally allowed me to see the familiar figure unconscious on the pavement. Someone came and took me to the sidewalk, but Arctic winds were already running through my bloodstream. I sat on the curb as my tears hit the ground, mixing in with those of the traumatized clouds. The water should have flooded the streets as I wailed and desperately gasped for air.
Within hours, the puffiness of my fingers subsided and I was able to move my arms again. Days later, a permanent souvenir was placed in my mouth. In a week, my bruises lightened until its colour matched my skin. And even still, the scream robbed me of peaceful nights for nearly a month. In my dreams I saw the faceless drivers pass by as their passengers stared down at my mother and I. I heard my own voice, drowned in tears, echoing, "I could have protected her!"
The dreams persisted, but on Tuesday morning I went to school. Here, I became a new exhibit at a zoo. Everyone wanted to see what the bizarre animal looked like; yet, that was all. There were fingerprints on the glass, but not one person read the information provided next to it. Despite being surrounded, there was only one person who understood what was happening. There was only one living being behind the glass.
As the weekend hesitantly approached, the heavy smell of sanitizers and disinfectants burned my nose. The atmosphere clouded over my carcass and pulled my heart down to my stomach. In an internal agony I looked to see the familiar figure in the white bed. She showed no proof of being alive; only the soft, beeping heart monitor told me her soul was there. I stared at our family's keystone member, limbs strapped to the bed rails and tubes forced up her nose. Outside, the constant claps of shoes on the floor was interrupted by my father's hushed tone. He stepped into the room, face emotionless, and I averted my glance to the white flooring.
For the following week, my nighttime lullaby was the soft, muffled whispers of unexpressed pain. Even when my mother came home, the lullaby played on. She was talking and walking, but a crucial part of her had changed. Her eyes were constantly glazed and distant as if she was in deep concentration. At meals, she ate her desserts first and became closely attached to flavour enhancers. Her memory was coming back, but she took time to remember names; at one moment she had forgotten of my dog and I's existences. During such times, I went to sleep and saw myself locking her in a time machine.
Days later, a news article was published. It featured our story. Now, the truth was public. Now, everyone knew how helpless I was. Tears were replaced by frustration as nails clawed into my skin. My sister stood at my door, speechless and stiff.
"I liked your old self better," she whispered. I wanted to retort back an intelligent comment, but she had quickly run downstairs as if the house was on fire.
Following this incident came visits from lawyers, police, and friends. Together, they campaigned against animal captivity and the zoo released their odd animal. It was finally taken back to its natural habitat, to be with its complete family.
And as life renewed itself, my mother's injuries were no longer visible. Yet, she still looked at me with a pained expression, holding on a little longer when I hugged her goodnight. This, along with the entire life-changing accident, made me understand what true hardship was. Forgiveness was an extremely difficult and ongoing interior battle. And yet, something of that sort didn't need to be fought alone. There was always someone to help me come to terms with myself. When I saw my reflection, I had forgotten there was someone to turn on the taps. Ultimately, the bloodstains on my hands could be washed away, and the stench could fade until it was reduced to forgotten memories.
This began as a refreshing wind pulled a shade over the autumn skies. I slipped on a heavy fleece coat over my brown sweater, adding layers until heat crept up my cheeks. My mother zipped her black coat in a swift motion, reacting to the impatient demands of our anxious dog. Once the leash clicked, firmly attached to our pet's collar, I pulled on the cold metal handle and opened the door.
We were going through Steveston, a regular routine. The ticking of stalling buses and the claps of human feet on the sidewalk created a calming percussion beat. Idle chatter and distant radio voices added to the orchestra. The natural melody of the outdoors continued as we walked to a crosswalk. We stopped, looked both ways, and stepped on the painted white lines. The maestro in the sky let his instruments play a few seconds longer before reaching a sudden climax. Without notice, a woman screamed and I was blinded by a white light.
When my eyes peeled open, I was flat on my stomach; I was taped by invisible bonds, stuck in that position. Above me, the shrieks of sirens and loud frantic voices blended together. As I came to my senses, I wiggled my feet and and squeezed my eyes shut. Once again, blood began to flow through my insides, but it halted before reaching my arms. I couldn't feel them. Awkwardly, using only my limited abdominal strength, I rose to my knees.
From a new point of view, the rest of the scene flooded through my mind. I noticed white chips in front of me and instinctively ran my tongue through my mouth. I froze when I couldn't find my front teeth. This fear, however, lasted only a second; delayed reactions finally allowed me to see the familiar figure unconscious on the pavement. Someone came and took me to the sidewalk, but Arctic winds were already running through my bloodstream. I sat on the curb as my tears hit the ground, mixing in with those of the traumatized clouds. The water should have flooded the streets as I wailed and desperately gasped for air.
Within hours, the puffiness of my fingers subsided and I was able to move my arms again. Days later, a permanent souvenir was placed in my mouth. In a week, my bruises lightened until its colour matched my skin. And even still, the scream robbed me of peaceful nights for nearly a month. In my dreams I saw the faceless drivers pass by as their passengers stared down at my mother and I. I heard my own voice, drowned in tears, echoing, "I could have protected her!"
The dreams persisted, but on Tuesday morning I went to school. Here, I became a new exhibit at a zoo. Everyone wanted to see what the bizarre animal looked like; yet, that was all. There were fingerprints on the glass, but not one person read the information provided next to it. Despite being surrounded, there was only one person who understood what was happening. There was only one living being behind the glass.
As the weekend hesitantly approached, the heavy smell of sanitizers and disinfectants burned my nose. The atmosphere clouded over my carcass and pulled my heart down to my stomach. In an internal agony I looked to see the familiar figure in the white bed. She showed no proof of being alive; only the soft, beeping heart monitor told me her soul was there. I stared at our family's keystone member, limbs strapped to the bed rails and tubes forced up her nose. Outside, the constant claps of shoes on the floor was interrupted by my father's hushed tone. He stepped into the room, face emotionless, and I averted my glance to the white flooring.
For the following week, my nighttime lullaby was the soft, muffled whispers of unexpressed pain. Even when my mother came home, the lullaby played on. She was talking and walking, but a crucial part of her had changed. Her eyes were constantly glazed and distant as if she was in deep concentration. At meals, she ate her desserts first and became closely attached to flavour enhancers. Her memory was coming back, but she took time to remember names; at one moment she had forgotten of my dog and I's existences. During such times, I went to sleep and saw myself locking her in a time machine.
Days later, a news article was published. It featured our story. Now, the truth was public. Now, everyone knew how helpless I was. Tears were replaced by frustration as nails clawed into my skin. My sister stood at my door, speechless and stiff.
"I liked your old self better," she whispered. I wanted to retort back an intelligent comment, but she had quickly run downstairs as if the house was on fire.
Following this incident came visits from lawyers, police, and friends. Together, they campaigned against animal captivity and the zoo released their odd animal. It was finally taken back to its natural habitat, to be with its complete family.
And as life renewed itself, my mother's injuries were no longer visible. Yet, she still looked at me with a pained expression, holding on a little longer when I hugged her goodnight. This, along with the entire life-changing accident, made me understand what true hardship was. Forgiveness was an extremely difficult and ongoing interior battle. And yet, something of that sort didn't need to be fought alone. There was always someone to help me come to terms with myself. When I saw my reflection, I had forgotten there was someone to turn on the taps. Ultimately, the bloodstains on my hands could be washed away, and the stench could fade until it was reduced to forgotten memories.
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