November 25, 2010

  • Rebecca is one of the best writers I know.  We met freshman year, in Advanced Writing class (we'd both been able to skip the freshman class based on our SATs).  She was always late, almost always smiling and absolutely always beautiful.  She's one of those girls who's always stylish, and who is so naturally.  I'm sure she does put work into her hair and make up and wardrobe, but it seems to the rest of us to come effortlessly.

    We never really became close friends or anything.  We sat next to each other in Advanced Writing, and then had a literature class senior year.  We both worked in the writing centre.  She was a busy girl senior year--being an art major and a writing major and the editor of the school's literary magazine will do that to you.  We smiled when we saw each other in the halls, said hello, had a couple of conversations, and that was that.

    When we had a literature class together the fall of 2009, she initially got on my nerves.  She's a cute girl who loves little animals and flowers.  She likes being happy.  I immediately put her in the "shallow" category in my brain.  Her world was too fuzzy and cute and happy for such a deep thinker as I! I liked the dark truths, I liked talking about our universal lackings, our communal hopelessness.  We are broken, is my usual philosophy, we are broken and there will always be pieces missing from our hearts, our souls. 

    As the semester went on, I started listening to Rebecca's opinions about the literature we were reading.  Really listening.  And what I discovered was that her constant search for beauty and happiness was not a weakness.  It was not a fear of the dark.  She recognized the dark and chose instead to focus on the light parts.  The hopeful parts.  My focus on the dark didn't make me any deeper than she was, but her focus on the beauty made her happier.  Happiness came easily to her, bubbling out of her and filling the room.

    Her writing is phenomenal.  She is able to capture the nuances of childhood, the little fears, the little smiles, all of it.  I read one of her short stories and I realized that being 21 isn't that much different from being 5. We are still children who get afraid sometimes, who cry sometimes, who realize the world is too big to care sometimes.  But we also like to giggle and smile and hug and cuddle.  And she somehow blends the two flawlessly. 

    Depth in perspective is not a single pinhole in the ground.  There are several, all leading to different places, different outcomes, different people.  I am thankful for the people who think differently than me and who challenge me, sometimes without knowing it.  I am thankful for perspective.  I am thankful for hope.