The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
6 — Wednesday, February 9, 2022
Hot take: I hate syllabus week.
Better known as “sylly week,” the
first week of college classes in a semes-
ter is often referenced affectionately as
the final week in which a student could
condone their laziness and theoretically
couldn’t yet be behind. For some stu-
dents, it’s purgatory at worst, party time
at best. For me, though, sylly week (and
its single day high school equivalent) is
misery. Every semester, I feel as if I am
staring up a mountain, lacking both the
desire and proper equipment to climb.
I remember the first day of junior
year of high school the most clearly. As
I moved from classroom to classroom,
one uncomfortable metal chair to the
next, each of my teachers told me they
“meant business” and droned on about
the seemingly unending list of assign-
ments I would face. Each one felt like
another stone dropped in my hiking
backpack. By the end of the day, I hadn’t
even begun the trek to the top but I had
collapsed under the weight of the stones
regardless.
I escaped to the solace of my room.
The walls had recently been painted
gray to cover the aqua and lavender opti-
mism of my youth and now generated
the visual equivalent of white noise. I
had many thoughts that afternoon, but I
remember only one: the day was exactly
as bad as I thought it would be. I sought
comfort then, as I had on many other
desperate occasions, in “The Perks of
Being a Wallflower.” The Tumblr-esque
film was chock-full of the aesthetic I
so admired in my teenage years while
excluding the excessive chain-smoking
of the eponymous novel that so discom-
forted me before my exposure to my
own chosen vices.
Although my attraction was (and still
is) to Sam (Emma Watson, “Return to
Hogwarts”), I didn’t know yet that it
was the soft touch of another woman’s
lips I yearned for. I wanted to love her,
be loved by her and, most of all, to be
her, but it was Charlie (Logan Lerman,
“Fury”) in whom I most saw myself. I
felt his loneliness, his tears and I knew
exactly what he meant when he said he
was “both happy and sad … and trying
to figure out how that could be.” I saw
Charlie’s depression play out on screen,
giving me the permission I needed to
process my feelings, though I didn’t yet
have a name for those feelings that we
shared.
When Sam offered Charlie a drink
and said, “welcome to the Island of
Misfit Toys,” I hoped for the day that
I would be offered a similar sense of
belonging. When Patrick (Ezra Miller,
“Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find
Them”) read aloud, “Chapter One: sur-
viving your fascist shop teacher who
needs to put kids down to feel big,” and
then added, “Oh wow, this is useful guys
we should read on,” I cracked a smile —
even on my darkest day. When Sam and
Patrick implored Charlie to write a book
about them and call it “the Slut and the
Falcon,” I imagined possible plotlines
that the book could have. When Sam and
Charlie kissed under the fairy lights to
ensure that the first person to ever kiss
Charlie would be someone who truly
loved him, I wished my first kiss had
been so picturesque and kind but decid-
ed not to abandon all hope that my next
could be.
Years passed and I had not seen this
film in a long time. Not for lack of try-
ing, but when I attempted to watch it,
it generated the opposite sensations it
once did. Rather than feeling like I was
wrapped in a warm blanket, I experi-
enced the profound discomfort of an
itchy sweater. I wouldn’t last 20 minutes.
I started skipping over scenes, dragging
the cursor past minutes of dialogue that
used to mean everything to me in hopes
that I might be able to enjoy the rest of
it, just a little. Still, I could hardly bear
to look, and I know why: I felt ashamed
of the person I used to be and Char-
lie reminded me too much of her. I had
grown enough that I no longer was that
person, but not enough to forgive her.
The phase of my life where Charlie was
my closest friend was characterized by
unrelenting self-loathing, not the least
of which was centered around my frus-
tration at feeling such seemingly unex-
plainable sadness. I couldn’t banish
those feelings, and I felt it should have
been easy to do so. It wasn’t.
I can’t really say what finally enabled
me to watch the film. There wasn’t one
wonderful movie therapist who changed
my life in a session, a breakup that final-
ly woke me up inside or a rock bottom I
hit that spurred me to change (although
I hit many). They say that you can’t love
another person if you don’t love your-
self, and I’m here to tell you that that’s
not even a little bit true. Even when I
had little but contempt for myself, the
love I felt for the important people in
my life never wavered. But, it is true
that when you’re at peace with yourself,
you can love others best. I wasn’t ini-
tially inspired to get better out of love
for myself, but because I wanted to give
the best love possible to the people I care
about. I realized that as my current self,
I wasn’t doing that. Even if you don’t
start off doing it for yourself, what mat-
ters is that you started in the first place.
Only once I realized that I could simul-
taneously not be particularly fond of the
person I once was and also proud of her
for growing into the person I am now,
did it become possible for me to enjoy my
favorite movie again.
About a month ago, I tweeted (or won-
dered aloud for all the internet to hear) if
being the same version of myself around
each of my loved ones, even those that
did not associate with each other, was
self-actualization in action. In the same
hour, I tweeted that I can’t believe Wil-
lem Dafoe is a real name, so how much
I have matured is certainly in ques-
tion, but how much I have grown is not
(especially because I finally put an app
time limit on my Twitter). Today, for the
sake of journalism, I watched the film.
I didn’t skip any scenes; I didn’t look
away. It felt like a hug from an old friend.
Self-Love and ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’
Lessons on loss: A defense of Holden Caulfield
The enormity of 17 has no space for sickness
My TikTok feed has only ever
dabbled in the literary subgenre
of BookTok. I’ll get a book recom-
mendation once a month, at most.
But for whatever reason, I get a dis-
proportionate amount of content
hating on J.D. Salinger’s “Catcher
in the Rye.” Some creators criti-
cize the work as a whole; others
go to great lengths to tear apart
its protagonist, Holden Caulfield.
After seeing so many nearly identi-
cal angry takes, I caved. I bought a
used copy of “Catcher” to re-read
it and get to the bottom of why so
many grown adults were insistent
on verbally berating a fictional
16-year-old.
No doubt, Holden’s narration
style is annoying. The first couple
pages alone left me both frustrated
and amazed with the ratio of “god-
dam” and “hell” to all other words.
Holden’s hypercritical and cyni-
cal scope of viewing the external
world was also quite jarring, which
should say a lot considering I have
edited my fair share of Daily Arts’s
most cutting reviews over the last
two years.
While these hurdles were fairly
quick to adjust to, Holden’s con-
trarianism and emotional stag-
nation made the novel lack the
satisfaction of other coming-of-
age works in which the reader or
viewer can witness the adolescent
protagonist mature before their
very eyes. It’s easy to enjoy the
coming-of-age catharsis of high
school students realizing the arbi-
trariness of cliques and cultivating
friendships across them (à la “The
Breakfast Club”) but Holden’s situ-
ation is simply incomparable. As
I read more, though, I made it to a
crucial scene that I hadn’t remem-
bered, and that the TikTokers had
conveniently omitted. In a passing
but vivid vignette, Holden recalls
the pain of his younger brother’s
passing before abruptly distract-
ing himself with other ideas — a
behavior and narration device that
quickly becomes as ingrained as his
excessive crassness.
Holden yearns to tell the reader
about his late brother Allie, and he
does so sporadically through sto-
ries that always seem prematurely
cut off. While his narration style
can be choppy in general, these
abrupt endings typically come at
especially emotional moments and
reflect overwhelmedness rather
than merely a short attention span.
The bulk of Holden’s coming of
age takes place three years before
“Catcher” does, with Allie’s pass-
ing. The novel itself reflects the
aftermath of a child forced to deal
with a level of trauma that can
plague adults indefinitely. Risking
banality, Holden came of age too
soon.
Salinger’s depiction of loss is a
realistic one, with the goal being
merely surviving rather than thriv-
ing. When I read “Catcher” in high
school this wasn’t clear to me, but
my recent revisit came in the same
year as the loss of a close friend.
And I’m not ashamed to say, I saw
some of Holden’s grieving habits
and mentalities reflected in myself.
The role of distraction in Hold-
en’s psyche often resonated with
me. Just as he could only remi-
nisce about memories of Allie in
small doses, I could not linger on
my own memories for too long at a
time, giving his erratic recollection
some clarity. It was not as though I
consciously chose to stop reminisc-
ing — my brain would only let me
produce a few moments at a time,
perhaps as subconscious self care.
Holden’s relationship with dis-
traction in a broader sense per-
vades the novel in a way akin to
its role in my own coping toolbox.
Sometimes, Holden is met with a
wave of sudden restlessness and
disdain for his existence, and he
decides he needs to do something
— anything to get his mind off it.
It could be the middle of the night,
but if Holden needs to wander and
look for a task, he doesn’t hesitate.
“Night walks” have become a part
of my vocabulary in a similar man-
ner. Sometimes that deep restless-
ness sets in when I wish I could be
sleeping and, knowing I won’t be
able to sleep anyway, I’ll wander
around to see if there’s anything
new I can notice. If there’s some
happy thoughts I can think. Re-
reading “Catcher” has made me
even more willing to act on these
task cravings. Holden has his fair
share of bad takes, but he’s right
that it’s never good to lay and sim-
mer with negative thoughts.
In terms of his worldview itself,
I would be wrong to omit Hold-
en’s feelings about phonies. While
“hell” and “goddam” would likely
rank first and second in their fre-
quency within the novel, bronze
would have to go to “phony.” Hold-
en will call anybody and everybody
who he is not willing to emotionally
connect to a phony. Sure, he spins
this as judgment and spite toward
their interests and personalities,
but this labeling and distancing is
more emblematic of dealing with,
and consequently deeply fearing,
loss.
The depths of grief make enjoy-
ing many things unrealistic. A
surface-level conversation with a
friend or a cheesy comedy may do
absolutely nothing to raise spirits
or even distract one. Even more
so, your friends’ inability to perk
you up by any fraction can serve to
antagonize you altogether. Some of
Holden’s lowest lows came at times
when hopeful distractions failed to
do their job. These disappointments
hurt. A lot. It always felt like a major
setback when I finally worked up
the drive to follow through on a
plan, and it did nothing for me emo-
tionally. While I wouldn’t person-
ally use Holden’s vernacular, seeing
other people find joy from situa-
tions that brought me none could
feel inauthentic, phony.
The magnitude of this phony-
menon, if you will, is amplified
through behind-the-scenes cop-
ing mechanisms. I’ve spent this
past year feeling vulnerable. And
below his paper-thin, abrasive
facade, Holden is vulnerable too.
For months I couldn’t imagine los-
ing someone I was close to, some-
one I cared about, again. And you
can’t lose someone close to you if
you don’t let them in or connect
with them. As maladaptive as it is,
it’s technically true. While I’m not
sure if I could handle another loss
right now, at least I’m getting better
at re-learning how to let people in,
and I’d like to think Holden has it in
him to re-learn this himself.
Before I leave you to maybe
revisit the book, allow me to para-
phrase an internal monologue that
cements “Catcher” as a quintessen-
tial coming-of-age story, if nothing
else does. Holden recalls his numer-
ous visits to the Museum of Natural
History and the various exhibits
within it. He finds deep comfort
in the fact that the exhibits remain
constant with each visit, even as
he changes. He acknowledges that
these changes in himself may not
always be robust — in fact they may
seem insignificant at times. Even
still, these changes and morsels
of character growth exist and are
fulfilling for Holden to reflect on
against the stable scenery.
As chaotic of a character as he
seems, Holden just wants a sem-
blance of stability while he grows.
It’s not the growing up itself Hold-
en wishes to avoid but the lasting
changes to his surroundings that
come with it. More concisely, he
doesn’t want to lose the people and
situations external to him in order
to grow internally. We all wish we
could have the merits of growing
up without the ongoing hardships
from which the lessons stem. Rath-
er than getting bogged down hating
Holden Caulfield and his numerous
arbitrary internal tirades, we need
to remember where his shortcom-
ings came from and will ourselves
to move on where he could not.
Seventeen is the idolized
coming-of-age age. It’s not rep-
resentative of a number neces-
sarily but of a concept. The idea
of 17 has been explored and
exploited in Hollywood since
1965 — “You are sixteen going
on seventeen / baby it’s time to
think / Better beware, be canny
and careful / Baby, you’re on
the brink.” Seventeen is notable
because it’s between two sym-
bolic ages in American culture.
At 16, you’re given a taste of the
future that awaits you; getting
your driver’s license is less of
an obligation and more like a
rite of passage. A license means
freedom, it means power, it
means control over your life.
It’s the peak of the romanticiza-
tion of adulthood. It’s an intoxi-
cating age, and it all leads up
to 18, when these dreams and
manifestations can be realized
because you are now, legally if
not mentally, an adult.
Seventeen seems far from
both of these vital ages. I felt a
bigger distance between 16 and
17 than I had with other ages. I
felt old — too old for high school
yet too young for any substan-
tial life changes. I certainly
didn’t want to be 16 anymore,
but I was equally certain that I
didn’t want to be 18, either. I was
trying hard to avoid change, but
it was occurring incessantly:
There was no escaping the col-
lege search or impending SATs.
I could feel the future breathing
down my neck, and I shuddered
at its uncomfortable warmth. I
didn’t find any solace in looking
back at the past either, most-
ly because there was nothing
there for me anymore. Seven-
teen erases nostalgia but fails
to replace it with anything else.
This depressing understand-
ing of 17 is only one side of the
coin; the other is much more
enticing. The fresh start hang-
ing in front of your face is tan-
talizing.
Though
uncertain,
17 offers the chance to chase
something new, to ride the high
of the break in expectations, to
explore a new side of yourself,
all of which was not lost on me.
Avril Lavigne’s “17” captures
this essence of the age per-
fectly. She sings: “We were on
top of the world / Back when I
was your girl / We were living
so wild and free / Acting stupid
for fun / All we needed was love
/ That’s the way it’s supposed to
be / 17.” This 17 is unrestrained,
unlimited and compelling. The
world is right in front of you,
you can go anywhere you want
to go, and you can be anything
you want to be. It’s not yet time
for the hard decisions; real-
ity can be suspended for a little
while longer.
As an anxious person, the
unrestrained possibility of 17
was not particularly enticing
to me — it was nauseating. The
suspension of reality made me
feel lost. Instead of enjoying
the delight of avoiding big deci-
sions, I was stuck in a constant
loop of said decisions: Where
would I go to college? Did I
want to be close to or far from
my family? What do I want to
do with my life? Should I even
go to college with no plan in
sight? Why does this make me
upset?
“Heathers:
The
Musical”
explores the ambiguity of 17.
Neither of the protagonists
are enjoying their age; instead,
they’re
singing
about
how
they’re desperate to be “nor-
mal” teenagers that “sneak a
beer and watch TV.” Although
the circumstance they’re in
deserves acknowledgment of
its absurdity, the sentiment
remains: “Can’t we be seven-
teen? Is that so hard to do?” It is
hard to be 17, and not only when
you’re in a relationship with a
serial killer.
Though the thought of inch-
ing closer to adulthood was
scary for me, I decided I would
embrace the glamour of 17 and
use it as a time to explore who
I was and the things I wanted.
For two months, I embodied
this side of 17 to a T. I made
lists of potential colleges, I
researched the best college
towns, I enjoyed commitment-
free relationships and I spent
too much time having late-night
life conversations with friends.
I was preparing to travel out
of the country over the summer
when I finally admitted to my
mom that I was having trouble
eating. Anything I ate or drank
caused me physical pain. I had
been ignoring it for some time
for the sake of being 17 the way
I wanted to. I wasn’t ready for
life to get serious yet. Cancer
was simply not part of the plan.
I spent a few weeks abiding
by a strict doctor-ordered diet,
and after seeing no changes,
I had the MRI that showed
the first tumor. It was hard to
admit I was sick after having
spent months forcing myself to
embrace the invincibility of 17.
It’s the perfect balance between
youth and adulthood: At 17, you
are free to make mistakes with-
out large repercussions. You
can afford to be careless and
impulsive because you have the
redeeming qualities of youth
on your side. At the same time,
it’s when you first have the
chance to take control of your
life. Though most major deci-
sions can be delayed until 18,
you start to weigh them at 17.
What colleges sound exciting?
What new place would you
like to explore? How will you
decorate your new space? To a
certain extent, these questions
are largely in your hands. So I
didn’t want to be sick. I didn’t
want to miss out on this part of
being 17 — on the making mis-
takes, on the manifesting of my
future path.
Cancer magnified this para-
dox. I spent the rest of my
summer in Ann Arbor, moving
constantly in between the Rogel
Cancer Center and the C.S.
Mott Children’s and Von Voigt-
lander Women’s Hospital. For
my specific type of cancer, usu-
ally seen in patients 60 years or
older, the more qualified doc-
tors resided at Rogel and the
main University Hospital. But,
since I was only 17, I had all of
my MRI, CAT and PET scans
at the Children’s Hospital. At
17, I was handed a pink Dora
pillow as they prepared me for
my scans. I took a picture with
a Big Bird statue and started to
collect hospital stickers. The
enormity of the world I origi-
nally feared became painfully
small.
It was difficult to figure out
how to feel about it all — not
just the diagnosis, but being rel-
atively young for the diagnosis
and all the while being on the
brink of adulthood. At Rogel, I
was constantly placed next to
white-haired, wrinkly patients
in the lobbies, and every time I
met a new doctor or nurse, they
would greet me with “I’ve never
had such a young patient here
before.” Meanwhile, I stuck out
like a sore thumb at the Chil-
dren’s Hospital, standing next
to toddlers as we rode the eleva-
tor up to pediatric radiology.
The original beauty of the
paradox of 17 quickly turned
ugly. I was treated neither like
an adult nor like a child. I had
to be accompanied by an adult
to all of my appointments and
scans, but I was the one fill-
ing out the paperwork. I was
old enough to articulate my
pain and understand my diag-
nosis, but I needed my parent’s
consent to receive any medical
treatment. I was contemplating
my odds of living before I could
even buy a lottery ticket.
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EMMY SNYDER
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ANDREW PLUTA
Daily Arts Writer
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Managing Arts Editor
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