The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart
Page 17
ME: I wouldn’t have survived this adventure without you, Oscar. From the start of my hummingbird heartbeats. To my own…
OSCAR: …unraveling.
ME: Yes. Unraveling.
OSCAR: And what a privilege it is to be a spectator.
ME: But the play, I’m afraid is badly cast. Downsized now with the other lead missing.
OSCAR: It’s a glorious spectacle, nonetheless.
ME: But you know you weren’t just a spectator, Oscar. You were also a participant.
OSCAR: In the supporting role of the apparition, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father.
JUST THEN, THE URGE TO CRY CREEPS UP.
OSCAR: Come now, dear heart. Hush.
ME (wiping away the tears): Thank you, Oscar.
OSCAR: Pourquoi?
ME: For coming to my aid. For saving me. And others like me. You could not save yourself from Bosie, but you rescued me from my own drowning. And now, here you are once again, guiding me out of my gutter.
OSCAR: Gutter and stars. We’ve all been there, my dearest. Give it time. Brief or epic, it too will pass. Enjoy life, for life is short. Love, unfortunately, is even shorter. That’s why I advised you to love spectacularly. Love with all its wonderment and endless flaws, its countless blessings and failures. Love for its devotion to rapture and forgiveness and uncertainty. There’s so much to learn from such mystery. Endless, like your list.
ME: Like my list.
OSCAR: And, by the way, Ran is only a prelude.
ME: To this mystery?
OSCAR: Yes. Above all, dear boy, never lose that edge of yours. That edge to be yourself. Keep astonishing yourself. It is the only life worth living. Otherwise, it’ll be impossible to love intensely, beautifully, and, in some places and cases, dangerously. For once it’s over, you have the rest of the afterlife to be…
ME: …dusting?
OSCAR: Ah—yes. Dusting.
RAN
Tonight, I can write the saddest us.
To think once, under a giant moon,
you draped your arm across my shoulders.
It was so surreal I could not move,
gladly stuck between flight and surrender.
From you, I learned a random kind of happiness.
From you, I found another meaning to me.
Yet, tonight, when the blur in my world
no longer thrills me, I go to bed with you
tossing and turning in my thoughts,
my only wish to unlearn the kiss
and the craving that comes with it.
To see you one last time is all I’m asking for
so I can ask, Ran, was I ever a part
in your moments of happiness too?
Tonight, I can write the saddest us.
In the Book of Love, I liked you
and I think you liked me, too
inside our small universe where a billion
kinds of loneliness now reside.
A mislaid word is how I feel tonight.
You taught me comfort, Ran,
but forgot the part about my heart
and how to stop it
from unraveling.
Doubt is a certainty tonight
while your absence ransacks this room.
Tonight, I can write the saddest us.
Tonight, I can write the saddest us.
The Song of Broken Sleep
Tuesday, 16 April
It’s almost two a.m., and the only reminder that I am still here, broken sleep and all, is the sound of jazz playing softly in my mother’s bedroom. Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, John Coltrane, Anita O’Day. Jazz artists I have grown to know and love listening to. They keep my mother company at night. There’s Coltrane and his cool and sexy, sad sax. There’s Billie, who love-wails at the moon. Ella with her silk-fine-and-mellow voice. Sarah and Anita, whose scats are like a pack of wild cats chasing after a dream. Tonight, it’s Chet Baker on trumpet and vocals. In the thick silence of the night, I listen to his voice crack as he sings about surrendering to memories, like ghosts, that we thought we had forgotten or already made peace with, memories that we never wanted and that continue to punish us by making us crave and wish we were doing more than just remembering.
The Muse This Time
TUESDAY, 16 APRIL. LATE NIGHT. MY BEDROOM.
OSCAR: Another masterpiece in the making, Ken Z?
ME: Nah. Just a haiku about my mother.
OSCAR: Ah—your muse this time! Mothers make great muses. My mother was my muse.
ME: What was she like?
OSCAR: She was a magnificent woman. An artist, a poet, and a revolutionary who fought for Ireland’s independence. She ran a salon for Irish artists and writers. Without her, I don’t think I would’ve become a writer. She gave me permission to follow my adventurous and rebellious nature. What about yours?
ME: She lives in her own little world.
OSCAR: Like Ken Z?
ME (laughing): I guess you could say that. Parallel small worlds. She’s the one who taught me how to read, and how to write haikus.
OSCAR: Ah! And your lists?
ME: From her too.
OSCAR: So she ushered you to the Gates of Imagination.
ME: Yes. I only wish she were a little more vocal.
OSCAR: What do you mean?
ME: She and I speak the language of silence.
OSCAR: Seventeen syllables?
ME: Or less. But, sometimes, I need to hear it, you know?
OSCAR: I understand.
ME: She means well. I know she does.
OSCAR: And where is she at this ungodly hour?
ME: She’s supposed to be home now. Her shifts are long, sometimes thirteen, fourteen hours a day.
OSCAR: Mon Dieu, that’s barely enough to make sleep worth dreaming about.
ME: She works a lot so she can send me to a good college. Far from here. That’s what she wants.
OSCAR: And is this what you want?
ME: I don’t want to leave her here by herself.
OSCAR: Is that the only reason?
ME: What do you mean?
OSCAR: Well, she was alone, you know, before you entered the picture.
ME: True.
OSCAR: Maybe you’re afraid to take another risk and go outside your comfort zone.
ME: Maybe.
OSCAR: I wouldn’t worry so much about that if I were you. If you can survive love, you can survive anything. As for your mother, mothers are stronger than we think. They are the scaffolds of our lives, Ken Z. They are there to protect us, to keep us from crumbling to pieces. It doesn’t matter how far we are, they are there, Ken Z, watching over us, shadowing us wherever we go, like memories. I think I hear her calling you. Adieu for now.
ME: Thanks, Oscar.
OSCAR: De rien, Monsieur Ken Z.
JAZZ
A gardenia
Behind her ear, my mother
Humming at the moon.
The Birth of a List
Restlessness keeps you up all night.
Make a list.
Morning wakes you up on the wrong side of the bed.
Make a list.
Make a list
Because it’s root canal day
Because you bombed on the SAT, debate team, cheerleading tryouts
Because you’re broke, bored, beyond therapy
Because the bullies can’t get enough of you.
Make a list
Because the boy of your dreams said “Yes!” to the prom
then, as you jumped for joy,
almost punching a hole in the ceiling,
he shouted, “April Fools’!”
Make a list
Why proms and homecoming dances are tacky, overrated,
and way overpriced.
Make a list
Why social media sucks and is for the insecure
born with narcissistic complexes.
Make a list
Because the party of your life has ghosted you
Because you’re seesawing between hoping and breaking
Make a list
Because you’re being such a dick to your friends
And they don’t deserve it
Just as you don’t deserve them.
Make a list because the elevator cable of your friendship is about to snap.
HELP!!!
“Make a list, Ken Z,”
my mother says.
She’s certain it’ll save me.
The way it’s saved her.
List compiler.
Jazz junkie.
Avid reader of haikus.
My mother, silent warrior from another time.
“This is who we are, Ken Z,” she says.
List after list after list.
Where we’ve been, where we’re going.
A million moments.
A million farewells.
A million questions.
The list keeps growing.
On to the next target.
The next memory.
“And when you’re done,” she says,
“make another.
Because a list is never finished.
It knows no limits.
Only possibilities.”
Banned for Now
Wednesday, 17 April. Mr. Oku’s classroom. After school.
“I’ve got some bad news,” Mr. Oku tells us. We knew something was up when he told me, CaZZ, Estelle, Matt, and Tanya to stay after class.
“Starting in September, when the new school year begins, I won’t be allowed to teach Oscar Wilde anymore.”
WTFs reverberated through the classroom.
“Unfortunately, his plays and The Picture of Dorian Gray, along with other books, are now banned,” Mr. Oku continues.
“Banned?” Matt asks. “As in forbidden?”
Mr. Oku nods. “Of course, this new rule won’t affect you, as you’re all graduating next month.”
Estelle is about to say something when Mr. Oku holds one hand up as he fills us in on what’s been happening at school. Apparently, the banning of certain books has been on the agenda of the Department of Public Education, or DOPE. The government-appointed members of DOPE are in charge of designing class courses from kindergarten to twelfth grade. They are the ones who come up with the reading lists.
A group of educators, including Mr. Oku, had been fighting hard to oppose it and, for some time, had been successful in blocking it. But early this week, DOPE unanimously voted to change the curriculum. The three most affected courses are history, journalism (which handles the bimonthly school paper), and literature.
“So what books are they banning?” Tanya asks.
“Probably 1984,” Matt says. 1984 was one of the first novels we read in Mr. Oku’s class. Set in a society that’s under constant surveillance by Big Brother, it made me think a lot about our own world riddled with wars, terrorist attacks, and lives controlled by a government-monitored technology.
“It’s probably too freaky and eerie for DOPE minds,” Estelle says.
“Too close to home,” I say.
“Because it is home,” CaZZ says. “North Kristol as Big Brother.”
“Those surveillance cameras are on practically every block now,” Tanya adds. “Plus our letters and packages have to go through their Customs first. I cannot even order panties online without my privacy getting invaded.”
“I’m sure that’s not the only thing they know about you,” CaZZ says. “They probably have trolls reading our emails and chats and going through our browsing history.”
“They probably control what we can and cannot access on the Web,” I say. “Mr. Oku, didn’t you move here because you weren’t allowed to teach Oscar Wilde in North Kristol?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Oku answers.
“Well, I tried doing a search on ‘Oscar Wilde and North Kristol’ and came up with nothing,” I say. “Same when I tried searching for ‘banned books in North Kristol.’ ”
“Because they don’t want you to know that their shit stinks,” CaZZ says.
“Are these the reasons why they’re banning 1984, Mr. Oku?” Matt probes.
Shaking his head, Mr. Oku takes a sheet of paper from his folder and reads from it. “According to DOPE, Orwell’s 1984 is banned because ‘the novel promotes an atmosphere of fear, paranoia, sex, and violence.’ ”
“What about their reasons for banning Oscar Wilde?” Tanya asks.
“Hello?” CaZZ says. “The Picture of Dorian Gray has underground opium dens, suicide, murder, and closeted homosexuals.”
“It reeks of homoerotic undertones,” Matt says.
“That’s an understatement,” CaZZ says.
Reading from the report again, Mr. Oku says, “ ‘Satanic in nature, The Picture of Dorian Gray tempts individuals to lead a life of vices, of immorality that culminates in self-destruction.’ ”
“But ‘there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book,’ ” Matt says, quoting one of the famous lines from The Picture of Dorian Gray. “ ‘Books are either well, or badly, written.’ ”
“Good job, Matt,” CaZZ says, winking at him.
“What about The Importance of Being—” Before I can finish, Mr. Oku is already nodding, saying, “All of Oscar Wilde’s plays are banned.”
“Why? For promoting dandyism?” Tanya asks.
“No,” Estelle says, “for promoting identity crises.”
“ ‘Oscar Wilde’s plays promote identity theft and the art of deception,’ ” Mr. Oku reads from the paper.
“Bunburying!” Tanya exclaims.
“Correct,” Mr. Oku says.
For a moment, the mention of bunburying winds my memory back to my and Ran’s very beginning at Mirage.
Matt disagrees. “But Oscar’s plays are comedies,” he says. “They’re witty and ironic. And no one gets hurt by the deception.”
“Apparently, Oscar’s wit and irony weren’t enough to convince the brilliant minds of DOPE,” Mr. Oku says.
“What a bunch of bullshit!” CaZZ exclaims. “They’re banning Oscar Wilde because he was capital G-A-Y.”
“I thought he was bi,” Matt says.
CaZZ rolls her eyes. “Tack on whatever label you want, Matt. But the truth, plain and simple, was that he was arrested and charged and wrongfully indicted without hard evidence to prove the allegations.”
“True that,” Tanya says.
“I don’t understand,” Matt says. “Why should Oscar Wilde’s sexuality be an issue when it’s not a crime here in South Kristol to be gay?”
We all turn to Matt, flabbergasted by his asinine remark. Has he forgotten the ordeal CaZZ lived through?
“Ever watch the news lately, Matt,” Estelle snaps, “with all the bullying and bashing and high suicide rate among teens, and not a single law or shelter to protect us?”
Matt falls silent, hangs his head in shame.
“I’m sorry, CaZZ,” Matt says. “Forgive me.”
“It’s okay, Matt,” CaZZ says, sincerity in her voice.
“Mr. Oku,” Tanya says, “are the Harry Potter books banned too?”
“Third on the list,” Mr. Oku replies.
“What the—”
“For promoting dark arts?” Mat
t says, half-joking.
“ ‘For advocating reading as magical thinking,’ ” Mr. Oku says.
“Seriously?” CaZZ asks.
“In fine print.” Mr. Oku holds up the report.
“So we’re not even supposed to use our imagination anymore?” CaZZ asks.
“Death to the imagination!” Estelle exclaims. “Viva Aurora Boring Alice!”
“What about Judy Blume’s Forever?” Tanya asks.
“Hello? That’s so ’70s teen porn,” CaZZ says.
“ ‘Blume’s Forever promotes sex, promiscuity, and Planned Parenthood,’ ” Mr. Oku says.
“So if Forever is banned, does that mean Charlotte Madison’s books are banned too?” CaZZ asks, referring to the overhyped vampire trilogy.
“I couldn’t get past chapter one of Jupiter Rising,” Tanya says.
“Me neither,” I say.
“Vernal Equinox tried too hard to be kinky with vampires trying to out-neck each other,” Estelle remarks.
“Mercury Retrograde was a total letdown,” Matt says about the last book in the trilogy.
“I hate to disappoint you,” Mr. Oku says, “but Charlotte Madison’s books are not on the list.”
“Of course not,” CaZZ retorts. “Those books promote abstinence. The vampires died if they had premarital sex.”
“Imagine being a four-hundred-year-old virgin,” Tanya says. “All wrinkled up like a sun-dried tomato.”
“What about The Catcher in the Rye?” I ask, about the coming-of-age novel about a beautiful loser written by a boozed-up loner.
“J. D. Salinger’s novel is first on the list,” Mr. Oku says.
“But I heart Holden Caulfield,” Tanya says of the main character. “I didn’t finish it, but he’s someone I can imagine dating.”
“No wonder it’s banned,” Matt jokes.
Everyone laughs, including Mr. Oku.
“DOPE probably read it as a manual for losers,” I say.
“And it contains profanity,” Estelle adds.
“Here’s what DOPE had to say,” Mr. Oku says. “ ‘The Catcher in the Rye promotes antisocial behavior and inspires youths to be high school dropouts and renegades.’ ”
“This is really sad, Mr. Oku,” I say, remembering how much we had loved the novel in class. It was depressing, but Holden’s confusion and loneliness, even though he came from a privileged background, hit home for many of us.