April 17, 2013
Whilst the mutual exchange of intellectual conceptions so gaily transpired, many a pungent potato of thought was heartily unearthed. Even though half the class did not speak, those who did speak had discovered the beautiful nugget that is perspective. Said is set up as this awful, treacherous, inhuman piece of rubbish, left to wander the streets with a vendetta after his release from incarceration. As the reader, one experiences an influx of emotional gravity towards him as the novel progresses. He is, after all, a human being, and our protagonist. He appears externally cold, yet intrinsically compassionate. This is evident in the numerous ventures of his past whereupon he had aimed to court Nabawiyya. I conjure the notion of the two having never been in love at all, for it is mere infatuation that brings them together under the symbolic, overseeing tree.
Nur… Nur is a different story. She greatly contributes to the tragedy that is Said’s life by giving it color. The kind prostitute is beautifully portrayed as hospitable, loyal, and mysterious. The mysteriousness is the kicker, for her absence is of greater metaphorical and psychological value than her presence. Said ponders many a time over his concealed love for Nur while he sits alone in her apartment. This period of reflection is a direct comparison to the trials of Sisyphus, which we read about in a previous class. Sisyphus’s endurance was challenged more so mentally than physically, which was also true for Said. He cannot handle being alone for so long because he is left to lament the loss of his daughter, his unsuccessful attempts at revenge, and his unconfessed love for Nur. In the end, the class did not come to a conclusion about his death. It was not outwardly stated whether or not he died, but it was safe to assume
so.
Written for a high school class.
The Thief and the Dogs by Naguib Mahfouz
School
September 28, 2012
It loomed ahead. Baldy was glorious. It was vulnerable to the whims of nature, yet it towered over nature itself. Spiraling rows of lush green halted at a distinct point, where, seen from miles away, it transitioned to stone. Only the very top peaked over the horizon, catching the cold glimpse of medusa and branding its name—Mount Baldy. It was immense, it was all-powerful, and it was ours. The journey up its veins—its small, winding footpaths—was strenuous. The incline accrued almost exponentially. Though others were with me at the time, my crew of eight, the expedition was extremely solitary. Each of us had our own motives to reach the summit. It was an expensive trip, yes, but the feelings it evoked were priceless.
Every human being should have the natural right to experience the world in all its glory. That morning, my crew woke at the crack of dawn—four o’clock a.m. Though the darkness was thick, a deep and celestial purple seeped through the sky above. Our headlamps cut through the frigid air. The artificial light reflected off a stream adjacent to the stony trail we would follow until daybreak. After few breaks for water and photographs, we happened upon an endless grass field of ethereal beauty. Its splendor was hidden in its simplicity at the base of what appeared to be the top of Mount Baldy. A small gap in the trees opened a portal to this unimaginable realm of wonder. From afar, we only saw a linear transition from green vegetation to orangey stone. This secret field was exclusive to those who persevered this far up the mountain. It was veiled by the courage and endurance needed to reach the field itself. A photograph would not do it justice.
Being in its presence was godly. I was one with the clouds. I slowly took off my backpack while attempting to soak in what I was completely and unexpectedly exposed to. I was astounded—feeling like a small child thrown into water learning to swim. At first, the child is overwhelmed, but the only escape is to flail one’s legs about and be propelled forward… and that’s exactly what I did. I took to the fields with full force. The horizon was a gazelle, and I a lion. Once my breath had escaped me, I kneeled down to regain it. Now I was truly on my own. The others took to their own coping with nature’s sheer power. At that moment, I looked up and saw the moon. It was humongous and genial, a gentle giant resting on his expansive throne of the sky. At that time I did not realize this amicable stranger was the same I spied on through my bedroom window. This simple fact did not occur to me. There is only one Luna.
The sky was now a glossy blue. Out there in the Rockies, light pollution did not exist. The menial glow of a hiker’s flashlight did not disturb the heavens as did the towering epicenters of the city. This gave the stars great respect and granted them the power to humbly shine even in the midst of the morning as they had that day. Moments later, the group reassembled. This time, we were on the other side of the field. A distinct line separated the ambrosial greens against the lifeless, cold sea of rocks. This sea was far from any sea one would consider normal. It was inert, though rippled with the carefully placed footstep of each man. Being an able young man, I raced to the top. Though I struggled like everyone else, I had hiking poles, wide eyes, and a rush of adrenaline propelling me forward. Only later did I feel bad for not aiding my crew advisor, Jeff Pritchet, on the undoubtedly hardest part of the journey. Though this was not his first time up Baldy, he deserved to relive its
greatness on every ascent. He helped us traverse eighty miles up to this point in the week, and at the climax of pure adventure, his knees were giving out. How selfish had I been to gaze out above everyone and everything, only to notice the stumbling Mister Pritchet and not do a thing.
I stood as Captain Morgan on a feeble, proletariat rock, and absorbed the sun’s ample rays with great pride. The light was unadulterated and raw. No clouds stood in its path. The atmosphere was substantially thin, but psychologically massive. Every soul to have ever lain a boot on this pedestal of the cosmos is instantly and utterly devoured by something greater than himself. Questions of one’s place in the universe and one’s relative size and importance as a cog in the machine tumble about in the mind. Baldy was certainly unique—it had a dual summit. This camelback shape is not easily distinguishable from afar. The two peaks are within a stone’s throw. I tramped upon them both with stark blitheness and fascination. Until now I had forgotten the frivolous stone that rested in my pocket for the length of the ascension. There existed a silly tradition on that mountain dubbed rebuilding Baldy. The goal was for every hiker to carry a rock from the base to the very tip. It only
took a glance to spot the tiny mountain upon a mountain. Though they were still rocks, they differed greatly from the rest. Each held the story of its bearer. My fingers fumbled around my pants pocket until they clasped around the stone. My crew members gathered around and pulled theirs out as well. This gathering was almost sacred. We were monks as we each set our stone atop the pile and watched it tumble down until it found its place.
In a way, we were akin to that which we contributed to the pile. That day, we hiked Mount Baldy, as did the rock. We each had our chance to bask in nature’s glory on the top of the mountain, as did the rock. Later, we too would tumble down the mountain until we found our place amongst the rest of the world. We would question our placement there, yes, and we would sometimes be unhappy that we fell where we had between the other rocks. This is so, yet at the end of the day, the rock is content. It has a place, a unique place, and without it, that tiny mountain would crumble. As I took in my last sights before the descent, I thought of my size compared to Baldy. I thought of Baldy compared to New Mexico and New Mexico compared to the world. And I thought of that tiny rock I brought with me to the top, that tiny action that could change the world.
Written for a high school class.
School
September 6, 2012
Historians, and all other writers, write with bias—whether they realize it or not. Their biases may be expressed in discrete ways such as the facts they choose to leave out or gloss over. Zinn attempts to uncover and critique this in his writing of A People’s History of the United States. He executes this open-minded style using quoted primary sources and details often buried underneath the glory and pride of human progress. I believe this to be courageous and daring of Zinn; it takes great bravery to delve into the depths of truth, especially when it is not always pretty.
In comparison with Kennedy’s excerpt, Zinn goes in-depth about the suffering and genocide caused by the Europeans to the Arawaks. Kennedy, however, simply breezes by it in saying “Enslavement and armed aggression took their toll, but the deadliest killers were microbes, not muskets.” This comes across as very nonchalant and implies the killings were more or less out of the control of the Europeans. When retelling the past, historians should certainly tell the truth from multiple perspectives. As Zinn states: “My argument cannot be against selection, simplification, emphasis, which are inevitable for both cartographers and historians.” This expresses his tolerance of writers’ styles, yet also subtly states the intolerance of incoherence and misinformation in the construction of history.
Written for a high school class.
School
April Littrell