Relatable Uniqueness

Photo mine

Personal writing has always been a favorite genre of mine to read and write. I imagine many agree with me; the very nature of the persona essay seems to make it generally likable. If I had to describe that nature in two words, I would say: relatable uniqueness.

I felt this phrase as watched a couple dozen students’ introductory videos and read five of the matching personal essays.  Many of the stories were near-retellings of experiences I’ve had myself: family councils, auditioning for music groups several times before making it in, funerals of elderly relatives I never knew well. But each essayist brought something foreign to me, whether it was quirky diction, the expression of feelings I’d never had in my parallel experiences, or a scripture connection I’d never thought of.

Admittedly, several essays described events I’ve never seen in my own life, such as the death of a father, and being in an emotionally abusive relationship, and suicide. But I was still able to relate to these essayists because of the emotions they described in their work. So these, too, demonstrated relatable uniqueness.

I would’ve deemed the essays’ video introductions superfluous except for the fact that seeing and hearing the essayists strengthened my connection to them and their writing. The writers who gave me a taste of their stories had the most effective videos for that reason. Similarly, while each essay I read impressed and touched me to some extent, I found certain literary approaches more effective than others. The essays that hit me hardest and quenched my thirst were those with a clear theme carried clearly but not redundantly throughout the piece. I’ll have to remember and apply this when I write my own personal essay(s) in the future.

"The Reader"

I grew up wanting to be a reader. I don’t think I always was a reader, but I definitely wanted people to think I was one. It wouldn’t be a far stretch to say that I was the kind of kid who wore fake glasses and carried a book around with an overly familiar title with the cover facing out just so people would see me as “the reader.” Even though my young teenage self had ulterior motives for becoming a reader, the root was a desire to be like my grandfather.

My grandfather is a shy man. His long career as an institute director has not made him any more comfortable around big groups than he was as a child. Hiding behind his pair of thick reading glasses, the bulk of my grandfather’s career was spent slaving away within long texts, all providing context to the scriptures he has almost marked bare with red and blue ink. Reading his memoirs this last year, I learned that faith was not always easy for him, but his persistence in making sense of the world and its inconsistencies rendered him a man of great strength and comfort for others.

But if there is one trait I have admired about my grandpa from a young age, it is his eyes. One of my favorite scriptures is found in 3 Nephi 13:22 – “The light of the body is the eye; if, therefore, thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.” Behind those thick rims lies a peace that came in spite of skepticism, doubt, and intermittent mental anguish. His eyes tell the story of a deep faith, rounded and tried. That is why I wanted to be a reader. To be full of light like my wonderfully shy grandpa.

Is This "Saturday's Warrior"?

According to Nephi Anderson, his book, Added Upon, “is an effort to give in brief an outline of ‘the scheme of things,’ ‘the ways of God to men’ as taught by the Gospel of Christ and believed by the Latter-day Saints” (see “Preface to the Third Edition”). By that standard, Added Upon does its job. It follows several people—most of whom become married couples in mortality—through their pre-mortal, mortal, and post-mortal lives, specifically as they relate to their dealings with and views of God. While, naturally, most characters and many details therein are fictional or at least guesswork, Anderson backs up the most important points, events, and doctrines with scriptures, mostly from the Bible. 

Anyone familiar with the play-turned-movie “Saturday’s Warrior” (another so-called “salvation story”) will be strongly reminded of it in reading Added Upon (or vice versa—the first edition of Added Upon actually predates the first performance of “Saturday’s Warrior” by 75 years). However, the two works have important differences, mostly due to their respective purposes and audiences. By my understanding, “Saturday’s Warrior” was created primarily as entertainment for Latter-day Saints. 

Added Upon, however, targets—and teaches—those not members of the LDS church. It focuses on outlining “The Plan of Salvation”, as the Latter-day Saints call it. It gives less attention to characters than “Saturday’s Warrior” does, which may be the reason I found it much less diverting. I was, however, impressed by the extensive scripture references; as I tried viewing the book from a non-LDS perspective, I found these references interesting and convincing. While many Latter-day Saints would call Added Upon “old news”, I learned a couple things from it.

Literarily, I enjoyed and admired Anderson’s beautifully delicate voice, which seemed suited to the content and purpose of the book. I was less pleased with the highly formal tone, which admittedly could be attributed more to the age of the book than to Anderson’s style. While I might not label Added Upon as great literature, I would be happy to recommend it to a friend interested in learning more about our LDS beliefs on life before, on, and after this earth.    

Reading has made me, me.

Hello my name is Madison Bess! I am from a family of seven and I am in the middle. I was raised in the church and growing up I hated reading. Reading was hard for me since I suffer from dyslexia. As I grew older I soon realized that it wasn’t just reading that was hard for me but math and writing and speech. (and… I just wasn’t a science girl) I loved school and I love to learn and my parents taught me that I could do anything if I worked hard enough. Well I challenged myself everyday and here I am now… an English Major. I know that I could not have done this on my own. The Lord has helped me in so many ways. One primary example is daily scripture study. By reading the scriptures I was able to practice reading in front of my family. This made is easier for me when I was called in class and church to read. The scriptures helped me to reach my goals and helped me to see it wasn’t reading that I hated but the fact that it challenge me so much. I am grateful for this challenge in my life because it has guided me to where I am now… an English Major. I am still not the fastest reader or the most accurate reader but I have come a long way. Reading has taught me more than any professor, student, or person I know. It teaches me things about myself. It teaches me about the world I live in. It teaches me that I can do anything. Reading has made all the difference in my world.

 Reading has made me, me.

A Good Book is (kind of) Hard to Find

A few weeks ago, an acquaintance asked that I recommend her a short story to read. I suggested Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” a famously grotesque little story about a Southern family who, while on a road-trip to Florida, is kidnapped by highway bandits. My friend read the story, and returned to me as follows:

          Sarah: Why did you recommend that story to me??
          Me: Hi, Sarah! Did you read it?
          Sarah: Yes and it was terrible! That poor family! Oh and the grandmother was so awful! How could you like a story like that??
          Me: I like the character of the grandmother; I think she’s a good example of the obliviousness that plagues the grey generation.
          Sarah: Well I thought she was weird. Why would you want to read about someone so terrible? I want something to read that’s fun!

This conversation with my friend illustrates an all-too-common refusal to deal with literature that we don’t understand. She didn’t like the story because she didn’t like the grandmother—but should literature really be restricted to depicting pleasant people? And this is the mentality that leads to escapism in literature, the repressive flight from what we dislike: anytime that art shows me something I don’t want to see, it must therefore be “bad” art.

The author (center) in an attempt to try and take a normal family photo. 

I find the commandment to read scripture, and the subsequent Mormon culture of knowledge-pursuit, completely contrary to the practice of escapist reading. We are instructed to read God’s word precisely because it is unfamiliar. The scriptures show a lot of people, good and bad, whose examples are given not to pat us on the back and make us feel good about ourselves, but to instruct us as to how we can progressively become better people.

Literature, ultimately, is impotent in terms of morality. It is free to depict the good and evil in the world, but it is powerless to affect its reader to choose that good or evil, unless the reader grants it that influence. So reading well, for me, requires two things: confidence, in your own ability to discern and resist the evil in what you read, and humility, enough to receive its good and implement it in your life.

My Oldest Habit

Of the many family home videos on the shelf back home, only one of them is in VHS form: “Katie’s First Christmas.” While two of the scenes captured therein include my role as the baby Jesus in our family’s Nativity Scene and Mom showing off Christmas presents to camera-wielding Dad, my favorite event to watch is unrelated to the holiday. It involves my eleven-month-old self bringing a book to my mother. I hand it to her and let her place me on her lap with the casual air of routine. She reads it—“The Going to Bed Book”—aloud, and lets me turn the pages.

Reading is, then, one of my most longstanding habits (although “addiction” might be more apt word in this case). Consistent reading increased my vocabulary, communication skills, and pleasure; I was hooked. By middle school, it got to the point where I couldn't eat without reading simultaneously, even if it was just the back of the cereal box.

Middle school was also the point when I made one of my most sacred and influential vows to myself: that I would never again let a day go by without studying God’s word. I’d had much experience with the scriptures before, but my consistency with (and thus yield from) them had fluctuated. I knew, due in part to the benefits of my secular reading, the power of habit.

Thus far, I have kept my vow, and intend to for the rest of my life. The expected—indeed, promised—blessings of increased knowledge, wisdom, moral strength, and influence of the Holy Ghost have been mine. As much joy as nearly any piece of literature brings me, the word of God brings the most. And that, my friends, is saying something.   

Reading Snob

I've always had an independent streak. I like to be my own person and do things on my own terms. I want to decide who I am going to be and then stop at nothing to be that person, but I discovered through several humbling experiences that this attitude doesn't always bring me happiness. I get wrapped up in myself, wanting to be the brightest and the best, and care more about who people think I am. When you're motivated solely by impressing others, you can crash and burn. I've crashed. And I've burned. And I've eaten a lot of humble pie.

I hate pie.

But I've always loved reading. A lot. Though, in elementary school, I also loved when the teacher directed me to books three grades above me to read (Look at me! I'm so smart). I loved being put in the "special" reading group with the smart kids. I loved reading Harry Potter and the Hobbit while others were still reading Junie B. Jones (been there, read that).

But, somehow my mom convinced me to read The Little House on the Prairie books with her.
 (What? Only struggling kids read with their parents.)
And we read the entire series.
(What? These aren't the fad books. These aren't cool.)
 And I loved every minute of it.

My mom and I laughed and cried. We reread favorite parts, and my mom explained the old-fashioned customs and tools, and told me about things she remembered from her childhood. I got to know her better because I wasn't being Miss Perfect Smarty Pants.
And guess what? That pie didn't taste so bad.

The Things of My Soul

     "And upon these I write the things of my soul." I read the words beautifully engraved upon the small blue journal as I stood in the bookstore, carefully holding it in both my hands. I knew right then that this was the journal I would take back home and do just as the words read: write the things of my soul.
     I began my first diary at the age of nine and ever since then I have kept one. It was three years ago that I found the perfect journal that put into words my exact feelings on journal writing. It is upon my journals and only there, that I, without holding back, pour out the things of my heart. My fears, my dreams and hopes, my anxieties, my accomplishments, my failures, the things I'm ashamed of, the people I love, the people I've hurt and those who've hurt me, crushes and boys, new life and death as well, my joys, my pains, all these things I write. But above all else, I write the things of God: my love for Him and my Savior, my testimony of the gospel and how much I delight in the scriptures.
    And when I go back and read my words, they are a comfort, for every now and then, I find messages of encouragement, words of forgiveness and strength that I purposefully wrote to myself so that when I went back to read my past I could keep my faith and do better in the present.
    My journals, the words of my heart and soul, are precious and of great worth to me. They are the legacy that I wish to inherit to my children and grandchildren in hopes that they may find within their pages comfort, wisdom, and the love of God.

Discovering God in Narnia

Photo by Davemc500hats

I received my first copy of The Chronicles of Narnia when I was eight years old. The black cover held a stunning gold lion, who lived in the embossed cover, and while staring at its eyes I knew that The Chronicles of Narnia was going to be memorable. 

Looking back on those Narnian hours, I can now say that, outside of scripture, Narnia was the first place I had discovered God within literature. Beginning with The Magician's Nephew I found a creation story; moving to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe I found the atonement and resurrection. The Last Battle is eschatology in a children's story, and the allegories continue. 

As a child, these allegorical connections were thrilling and enchanting. I felt I had discovered a secret tale of a bygone land, woven with truths that must make God real. So I kept reading. To my young self, reading became the chance to unlock ideas and unseen realities that helped me understand the abstraction of divinity and the dichotomy of good and evil. When placed within the fantastic realm of lions, children, fauns, and witches, my faith became simple: God was real because if he wasn't then we couldn't have stories like The Chronicles of Narnia.

And Aslan is just one example of how literature can help us come to know God. As Edmund asked, "Are-are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.

"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there." 

How lucky that I discovered God in Narnia because it is true—by knowing Aslan there, I came to know God better here. 

Nerdy Birthday

July 21, 2007. I had never really cared for my birthday, but this year was different. This year I realized how incredibly nerdy I was as I waited for my birthday simply so I could read the newest Harry Potter book. The book had already been accidentally released to a handful of people before July 21 and I was so anxious to read it. That morning I woke up and raced up the stairs to eat breakfast. I wanted to get to a bookstore as fast as possible. My family greeted me with a chorus of "happy birthdays."
"So when can you drive me to the bookstore?" I asked.
"Ummm....." my mom pretended to respond. "Maybe later. Let's do something fun for your birthday!"

Honestly, I don't remember a single thing from that point on in the day. I remember being pretty annoyed that I couldn't spend my birthday how I wanted, which would be curled up in my bedroom with the book.

After dinner, my family brought out a gift for me to open. I unwrapped a small, brown postal box that read "Do not open before July 21." Inside, of course, was "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows." FINALLY! My family explained that they had wanted to spend some time with me before I got wrapped up in the book so they made me wait until evening to open it.

Reading has always been an integral part of my life. My parents taught me to love reading since I was born. I think the best thing they could have done though was to be consistent. We tried to read from "The Book of Mormon" every night and that instilled in me a habit and a love of reading. I definitely feel that reading, whether it be Mormon literature, Harry Potter, or anything in between, has changed my life and has made me who I am today.

The Kindergarten Author

I am the oldest of five children and for each child my mom has kept a box of school assignments, art projects and crafts that we have completed over the years.  The majority of my box contains tiny books I made with printer paper and staples.  My favorite activity was to compile these small books and write little stories .  As my childhood continued, these stories became  less fairy tale- like short stories and poems.  I read like a fanatic for school yet never considered this passion for literary practices more than a hobby.  I began my freshman year at BYU as a Pre-Communications major and happened to take an English class for GE .  I studied theory and literary technique and wrote analysis essays rather than fiction.  By the end of that semester, I had switched to an English major, realizing that English and literature and writing was more than a hobby but a way of life.
 I find that I cannot simply separate my life from literature.  I watch movies, have conversations, listen to music and feel "literary".  I read conference talks like personal essays and I find this method overwhelmingly uplifting.  As a way of expressing my testimony, I have written blog posts and spiritual poems since my ability to express myself thoroughly has recently been the written word.
I have felt my faith increase through literature on multiple occasions. including yesterday  when my teacher became choked up while reading Whitman.  Whitman wasn't testifying of the LDS Gospel yet spoke truths.  Analytical and literary techniques allow us to delve deeper into the Spirit of Truth we feel when listening to General conference or reading the Book of Mormon and the literature we read can emphasizes the eternal Truths we find through our faith in this Gospel.

The Girl Who Hated Reading

As a kid I hated reading. It took too much effort and any book bigger than a picture book took forever to finish. My mom tried everything to get me to read. She suggested I read Harry Potter, which my older sister loved, I refused. The introduction was boring. She tried bribing me with money if I finished a book by a certain date which resulted in me reading Tuck Everlasting. I can honestly say I don't remember much of the book. I don't think I even read the epilogue because in my mind it wasn't technically part of the main story just an after thought tacked onto the end. I finished it, got my ten bucks, and didn't pick up another book until my mom once again forced me to.
However, sometime in sixth and seventh grade something in me changed. Suddenly I couldn't read enough. I read Eragon, Harry Potter, Leven Thumps, anything and everything I could get my hands on. I didn't just read them, I devoured them, completing books in a matter of days that used to take me weeks to read.
When I finished these series I wanted more and that's when my mom introduced me to the LDS fiction genre. I read Sian Ann Bessey, Betsy Brannon Green, Lynn Gardener, and others. Looking back I remember these books with fondness, not because they were literary genius, but because they told good stories and got me to start reading. Since then reading has become a central part of my life that is essential for my major (English), my job (writing tutoring), and my faith (through scripture reading and study). If it weren't for my love of reading I wouldn't be where I am today and it all started with some children's fantasy and some LDS fiction.

this poetry is sexy

I remember the first time I saw spoken word poetry being performed. I was mesmerized by how quickly he spoke, how the words just flowed so naturally from his lips, and how the wordplay was straight up seductive. My jaw was probably dropped and I might have drooled a little bit, which would have been embarrassing since I was in a high school sophomore English class watching a YouTube video. But I didn’t even notice. I was too in love with the words of Rafael Casal to care. My teacher pulled up another one and I sunk deeper as I listened to Katie Makkai’s “Pretty.” The next few years that day in class stuck in the back of my mind, following me everywhere. It wasn’t until my freshman year in college that I proactively searched for more of these videos, more of these performances, more of this passion. I spent hours searching, listening, watching, soaking it all in.

I finally started writing my own poetry, but not very often. It was usually when I couldn’t get a thought out of my mind, I would write about it. I’d edit, over and over, pick different words, find different rhythms, emphasize different ideas through the rhetoric. I would start reading them out-loud, slowly and hesitantly. As I got more familiar with the words I had written, I pushed them out of my mouth harder and faster. I would change the words as I spoke, realizing it sounded better in a different order or a different set of words entirely. I started feeling the passion I had seen in the videos, which excited me more.

This passion has carried over into my faith and helped me express my testimony in new, more developed ways.

Here is an assignment I did for a class here at BYU. 

Musical Transcendence

Nearly every student had come to the High School that day dressed in their Sunday best. What appeared to be a religious gathering held a much different meaning on this day; the air was heavy and somber. The clock ticked softly in the corner of the room as I waited for the bell. We sat in those faded orange chairs that echoed the great school spirit associated with the tradition of school colors. In the background the professor continued the lecture but all eyes pointed downward. Lost in thought, we all contemplated what had transpired the day before. A girl’s whimper and the sound of tears broke from the row of desks to my right. She had known her. They had been best friends before it had happened— before the accidental shooting.

The bell rang and we all stood up and grabbed our things. Walking down the hallway, all was silent. It was an eerie silence that I had never before experienced. I went down and grabbed my French Horn as the rest of the band quickly rushed to the main lobby of the school where we would be performing in tribute of the life the girl who had been shot.

Photo from: i.telegraph.co.uk

We felt like an army marching to help our fallen friend. We had a duty that no one was taking lightly. Our instruments were swords; our music, shields. I wonder if the 2,000 young warriors in the Book of Mormon had felt the same sense of comradery and duty as they marched to help their brothers in war.

Or perhaps the people of Nephi who were committed to defending their friends who had promised to never fight again.

We sat together and prepared ourselves. The song was Danny Boy. It had a beautiful lyrical line and a french horn solo that expressed the feelings of the day perfectly.

We sat there in the uncomfy chairs of the hall surrounded by many students all dressed in their suits and dresses, all wanting to honor the girl who had died. Some knew her, many did not, but all wanted to respect her and the manifestation of this was huge. There is something about tragedy that brings out community. It is a beautiful thing. It is sad that an ugly thing must bring out beauty in life

Every High School student was affected. The girl had been shot in the head by a gun the kids thought was not loaded. Those who knew her were heartbroken. Even those who didn't know her were affected. The whole school was somber. The Symphonic Band was asked to play as tribute. Many students had come dressed in their Sunday best. I played the French Horn in the band. Each musician played their heart out. We played for her. Students surrounded the band in the large entryway. The air seemed think and tears streamed down faces. The power of music said what everyone was already feeling. And yet, it healed.

For those of us in the band, the opportunity to perform was an incredible experience. It was transcendent and lead to a clairvoyance that allowed us to see into the life beyond the here and now. We played our hearts out for that girl. We didn't even know her, at least not personally. But there we sat in our Sunday best and we gave it our all. We played for her. We all played for her. Everyone in the school did it for her. Life is so short and I think that is why it scared us. But it is those moments when we are scared that we cling to something stronger and those things we cling to, if but for a moment, will bridge that gap between heaven and earth. That is what music did for us on that day. It was the bridge that brought us all together and brought us strength. It is one memory that I will never forget.

Later that day I was walking home. To get home I have to climb a very steep hill. There are very few trees on that hill; only dirt and some scrap from cars that fling them to the sides of the road as they speed along. You have to walk on the curb in order to avoid the dangerous vehicles that careen through the loopy road leading up to my house. I realized that this road is representative of life. Understand that if men are that we are to have joy, then the purpose of our very existence is to come to find strength and happiness. So why is there struggle? Well what I realized is there is happiness at every step of the journey. Sometimes it’s harder to find. Sometimes there are no trees. But in the end, there is a road that leads back home— and we are on it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

What Brings Us Together

Nearly every student had come to the High School that day dressed in their Sunday best. What appeared to be a religious gathering held a much different meaning on this day; the air was heavy and somber. The clock ticked softly in the corner of the room as I waited for the bell. We sat in those faded orange chairs that echoed the great school spirit associated with the tradition of school colors. In the background the professor continued the lecture but all eyes pointed downward. Lost in thought, we all contemplated what had transpired the day before. A girl’s whimper and the sound of tears broke from the row of desks to my right. She had known her. They had been best friends before it had happened— before the accidental shooting.

The bell rang and we all stood up and grabbed our things. Walking down the hallway, all was silent. It was an eerie silence that I had never before experienced. The band had been asked to perform in tribute of the girl who had been shot. I went down and grabbed my French Horn and followed the rest of the band to the atrium.

We felt like an army marching to help our fallen friend. We had a duty that no one was taking lightly. Our instruments were swords; our music, shields. I wonder if the 2,000 young warriors in the Book of Mormon had felt the same sense of comradery and duty as they marched to help their brothers in war; or perhaps the people of Nephi who were committed to defending their friends that could not defend themselves. Did they feel that same sense of duty, love, and determination?

As we neared the atrium, unexpected things began to happen. The buzz of students talking in the nearby cafeteria and adjacent halls softened to a murmur; as we took our seats I glanced down at the music stand in front of me. As I contemplated the song we were about to perform, I realized that the dots on that page meant much more to me than just notes. That day they represented our whole hearts. It was to represent the life of our fellow student. Her hopes, her dreams, her accomplishments. We would perform for her.

I looked up and was amazed to see a very large number of students now standing around the band. The great throng of students was respectfully silent now, waiting for us. I looked in front of me and up towards our director. I noticed that even Matt who was normally somewhat of a rambunctious kid had sat up straight in his seat, instrument held at the ready. For any other performance he would have been leaning forward and poking the girls who play clarinet. I guess some people have a strange way of flirting.

But this wasn’t any old concert. The atrium and surrounding hallways were filled with students who had all come to remember our friend. I had seen nothing like it before.

The director made a motion. We lifted our instruments and began to play. The melody was a very lyrical, beautiful line. We played that part with as much expression as we could. The tubas and trombones, they gave core to the song as the melody transitioned from instrument to instrument. You could feel the unique emotion that each sound gave. Many different instruments. Many different sounds. Many different people. But we were united as one voice; everyone felt it. The whole school was united. We stood together in memory of her.

The final notes echoed through the school, leaving the air heavy. The silence was thick. As I let myself come back to my surroundings, I heard sniffling from the crowd. What had they felt as we had performed?

The things that bring us together are the things that give us strength. They are things that are bigger than the one; bigger than the individual. That day, that thing had been music. It united us in spirit, in voice, and it gave us strength amidst tragedy.

It has been said that music is the bridge between Heaven and Earth. Nothing was further than the truth on that one day when we were all brought together, unified by music.