This morning dawned peacefully and with the cool gray haze typical in May in my particular part of the world. This peace was short-lived. Thickly accented voices shouted to one another just below my bedroom window…and then I heard the metallic roar of a chainsaw. I watched in impotent horror as these interlopers proceeded to chop down the tree outside my patio. Chop. Down. MY tree. I could feel my heart racing and the hot tears of fury welling up in my eyes. I hated what they were doing and I hated that there was nothing I could do to stop them. In a matter of moments it was over…the scene of the crime wiped clean of any evidence, save one or two listless leaves blowing in the cool morning breeze. The carcass had been drug into a waiting, blood red truck, limbs amputated and hanging limply, the once beautiful form now lifeless. The workmen were proud of themselves. One even had the audacity to smile at me as I backed from my garage and drove slowly past. I ducked my head slightly. I didn’t want him to see my sadness. I was at once angry and shocked at my reaction, and slightly frightened by its intensity. Now, I feel at this point in the tale it is necessary to give a corollary example in order for the rest of my story to make sense… Perhaps I am predictable, I don’t know, but my students have figured one thing out pretty easily: I love symbols. I don’t mean the current and mundane type-—LOL or <3. I mean the literary type—-some sort of physical and tangible thing that stands in for a much more intangible idea or feeling. Whenever one of my classes finishes reading a text, I can’t wait for the wrap-up discussion. We delve into the same six areas of analysis: plot, character, setting, tone, theme, and…symbols. Sometimes I save the symbols for last…almost like dessert. I love the intuition, the investigation, the proof and evidence—-quite honestly the mystery of sussing out the meaning of a particular object and proving it out through the text. I remember one particularly enjoyable day when a student surprised me with a new symbol in a book I had read at least a dozen times now. My beloved AP class was reviewing Edith Wharton’s novella, Ethan Frome, when I asked about symbols. The usual ones were suggested in turn, when one young man boldly suggested, “Mrs. Gorham, what about the horse? I think that is an important symbol.” Now, I make it a practice to avoid shaming or laughing at my students, so my response was by no means intended to be condescending, especially since I have great respect for the intellect of this particular young man. However, in that moment I had no idea what he was talking about. In fact, I couldn’t actually, in that moment, even recollect what horse he was talking about! I stalled, of course, in seasoned teacherly fashion, “The horse…that is an interesting suggestion…” (sidenote: ‘interesting’ is a wonderful word. It can mean almost anything. It is second only in variability to the word ‘dude’…but again, perhaps this is a subject for another blog). The young man proceeded to regale the room with well considered arguments, supported by textual evidence, as to why the horse that pulled the main character’s wagon was symbolic of the man himself. As he spoke, one thing became painfully clear: The horse was a symbol. How could I have missed it? My face must have revealed my surprise as he spoke, and so from then on it was something of a joke. Even now I will find little notes left on my whiteboard-—“the horse is a symbol” or the even more cryptic “#symbolichorse.” I relate this experience simply as an object lesson. Sometimes we can be so close to something that we don’t really see it until something else forces it into our consciousness. This morning that catalyst was a chainsaw. I knew I liked that tree. I like trees as a general practice (lest we forget, I am a Park Ranger’s daughter after all). I appreciated the shade. I enjoyed looking at it through my window as I drifted off to sleep. But, until I heard the savage roar of the saw in the pale dawn light I didn’t realize it was a symbol. That tree was emblematic of my journey. I had been newly planted in this place, starting fresh in many respects. There had been wind and storm but I had stood my ground and flourished. The lush canopy of this tree, especially THIS spring for some reason, in some ideological realm also represented me. My growth. My journey. My leaves basking in the warmth and optimistically reaching toward the sky. That saw didn’t just sever the lifeblood of that adolescent trunk, but it pricked at my own heart as well. The angry tears that shocked me as I watched the murder unfold, helpless to stop it, were as much because that tree had taken on greater meaning to me as they were because I would miss its shade and beauty. Do you see? Our lives are texts. Do we ever give ourselves the same value as we do the characters in our favorite books or movies? If not, why not? We are vibrant and colorful and worthy of notice, and so are all of the wonderful characters (aren’t all the people around us characters?) within our sphere. Being aware of this makes us better writers, certainly, but more importantly, perhaps, it can make us better people.
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Wendy Picard GorhamWendy lives and works in the midst of words everyday--English teacher by profession, and writer by passion! Archives
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