Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement
7B
Wednesday, April 10, 2019 // The Statement
7B
Fictional characters, real life lessons
T
hroughout my life, I have been
called many different things — a
loud and little extrovert as a child
to a loud and liberal feminist throughout
my teenage years. With my high-volumed
voice, which I can thank my dad’s side of
the family for — I’m mute compared to
them — I never stopped talking.
Teenage angst may be a cliché, but it’s
one that I embraced to the fullest — I was
the middle-schooler who was infuriated
by everything around her. Cliques were
forming, girls were turning on each other,
boys channeled their immaturity into mis-
treatment. I was making my way through
the awkward stage with a tunnel-sized gap
between my teeth, glasses that didn’t quite
fit my face and extremely sensitive levels of
confidence. My friends were ever-chang-
ing, with useless drama constantly pitting
people against one another. With this con-
stant lack of stability, I struggled to find
my identity. Every emotion was confused
with endless anxiety, a feeling so great that
it often trumped my ability to adequately
express myself. Words failed me — noth-
ing I said had the power strong enough to
convey what I meant and what I felt. It was
all too overbearing. I needed to find a way
around it.
I had one guaranteed spot of refuge from
the war zone of adolescence: books.
The advice of fictional characters is
often overlooked. As people grow up, they
gravitate toward the idea that made-up
stories and characters are childish, and
instead of reaching for a fantasy novel
about a dystopian society, adults are
expected to read works like eloquent dis-
sertations of the history of yarn. I’m not
saying non-fiction books aren’t important
— because of course they are — however,
it’s essential that people do not dismiss the
power of fiction.
Fictitious characters living in fictitious
towns going to fictitious schools expe-
riencing fictitious problems that to me,
somehow felt real. Problems that weren’t
my own, being solved by people who I
aspired to be. Made-up scenarios con-
structed by an author to emanate univer-
sal truths.
I needed these fake realities.
I read books like “Looking for Alaska,”
a John Green mystery novel with an enig-
matic female character, or “Nineteen
Minutes,” a multi-perspective account of
a school shooting by Jodi Picoult. Novels
that had characters with traits that went
below surface level, offering complex, lay-
ered personalities that I thought I couldn’t
find in the people around me. Novels with
female protagonists who weren’t afraid to
unapologetically be themselves and male
protagonists who not only respected this
factor, but admired it as well. Novels that
broke the boundaries of the toxic mascu-
linity that most middle school boys were
victims of. Novels that praised the bold
and the different. And with these novels, I
found a way to both quiet myself down, yet
finally open myself up.
In these imaginary worlds, I was no lon-
ger the girl who couldn’t stop talking — the
content of the novels spoke to me. Instead
of accidentally interrupting the authors
mid-sentence, I listened to each tale as if
they were commandments sent from God.
I dog-eared pages I thought were insight-
ful and highlighted lines I thought were
important. Each memorable quote became
personal advice I could always come back
to when I needed it. Because my teen angst
pushed me to neglect the middle school
guidance counselor I actually had, books
took over the role.
One of the first books I found myself
devoted to was centered on a girl who was
dying. Despite its inherently morbid con-
tent, the story spoke to me. “The Fault in
Our Stars,” another John Green novel,
which, at the time, was not yet an inter-
national teen favorite, summoned my
complete attention. Though it may sound
hyperbolic, the infatuation I had with
Augustus, Hazel and Isaac was unpar-
alleled to anything I’d read before. My
emotional investment was so pow-
erful that my everyday routine took a
backseat to the book. On a specific week-
day, with just 150 pages left of the novel, I
decided I couldn’t read in school anymore.
I went to the nurse, pretended to have a
migraine and cried my eyes out because “I
needed to go home.” An hour later, I was in
my bed, worshipping the plot page by page.
Until the end.
My world came crashing down at the
conclusion of this “heartwarming” story
of teenage romance. I apologize for any
spoilers, but Augustus’ death felt like a
crime against humanity to me — an end-
ing created just to cause me pain. I cried
to the point where I actually got sick — my
sensitivity levels permanently affected,
my feelings no longer held within. The
novel gave me a sense of validation regard-
ing my whirlwind of emotions in the life
events that surrounded me. In my world
of teenage angst, any sign of sensitivity in
response to catty drama was deemed and
exposed as a weakness. A lack of confi-
dence was noticed and taken advantage
of. On the contrary, empathy and under-
standing was discouraged. “The Fault in
Our Stars” sparked a level of emotional
depth that allowed me to see that these
norms were not only immature but toxic. I
was shown that feeling deeply for yourself
and others is not a weakness, but instead
a beautiful part of the human experience.
This takeaway carries a legacy that I still
find important today,
This particular story further supported
my view of reading as a cheaper form of
therapy, and encouraged me to seek out
books as a way to find peace. I catch myself
inserting my personality into the plots
of books, most recently by becoming an
onlooker in the Mitch Albom novel “The
Magic Strings of Frankie Presto.” Read
in a span of two days while on vacation, I
alienated myself from the rest of the world
in the process. Despite it being afamily
vacation to Mexico, I certainly wasn’t in
Mexico, but instead comfortably trapped
inside Albom’s creation. Whatever prob-
lems plagued me at the time were irrel-
evant when I was reading.
The countless escapes provided by the
books of my past have shaped me into the
person I am today. Some of the adjectives
people attribute to me may be accurate — I
may be loud, and yes, I may be liberal, and,
of course, I’m a feminist — but because of
books, I’m so much more than that.
I’m
strong-willed
like
Hermione
(“Harry Potter”), brave like Tris (“Diver-
gent”) witty like Hazel (“The Fault in Our
Stars”). Just like Alaska (“Looking for
Alaska”), I act as if I am a hurricane, as
impactful and bold as I feel I could be. I am
a combination of each significant literary
character that has deeply changed my life.
I am the books I love.
BY ANDIE HOROWITZ, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL