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[recklawmusing]

Scholarly Thoughts

There's a rule in the Scholomance: you don't do something for someone else for nothing in return. Unless you're dating. Your first, and often only, priority should be getting yourself out of the school alive, which means surviving at least until graduation, and then making it back out the gates. The rule is a powerful piece of worldbuilding established by Naomi Novik at the start of the Scholomance trilogy, A Deadly Education, and helps to establish the relationships between the protagonist, Galadriel, and every other student.

The Scholomance is a school for teenage wizards, built into the void to make it harder for maleficaria to snatch up and devour the tasty wizardlings who aren't yet strong or smart enough to defend themselves properly. The school is the best option for young wizards to survive past adolescence, but that doesn't make it a safe haven. There are no teachers in the school, nothing to protect the students from the monsters that slip in through the cracks in the school's powerful wards except their own knowledge, preparedness, and reaction speed. Showering, getting food from the cafeteria, navigating the library shelves, and even the simple-sounding act of walking to class requires students to constantly be on guard, and doing these tasks alone or distracted is a hunting call to the lurking maleficaria. 

So students have to work together. But watching someone else's back can come at the expense of your own hide, not to mention your hard won resources - food that's safe to eat, alchemical supplies, potions, even the mana students build up to power their spellcasting. Ergo, quid pro quo. An exchange. One day they'll walk you down to the storage rooms for supplies, the next day you enter the closed classroom first, or trade them some of what you manage to scrounge, or a hundred other ways to balance the books. Or at least make it so that both sides feel they've got just a bit better of a deal than the other. Broker enough deals, provide enough value, make a significant display of power, and these one off interactions of deal making can blossom into an alliance, which is a necessity. No one can fight through the horde of monsters waiting inside the graduation hall and make it to the gates back home alone.

Novik does a great job of showing the rule and its impact on the student populace. Galadriel is constantly thinking of what she can use to gain an equal-ish footing with others around her, how she can convince them that she's worth protecting, even just a little bit. When maleficaria attack her, she considers of how she can trade useful pieces of their carcasses to an artificer student who specializes in odd materials. She's acutely aware that the group she tags slightly behind on their way to classes aren't her friends, they aren't her allies, there's just safety in numbers, so they can tolerate the tagalong. When she has to learn a hundred spells in Old English searching for a way to clean up monster guts in her bedroom, she leverages the knowledge for someone to watch her back during a shower. You don't do something for someone else unless you're getting something in return.

All rules are meant to be broken. My favorite scene happens in the middle of the second book in the series, The Last Graduate. Galadriel is sitting at lunch in the cafeteria with her hardwon allies after midterms in their senior year. Cora, a student that regularly sits with them, but seems to be on track to fail to find a suitable alliance for herself, sits down with a grievously injured arm. She'd failed a midterm alchemy assessment. Most of the students at the table try to specifically not call attention to Cora's injury. She's no one's ally. She may not even be close enough to call one or two at the table a friend. Her wounded arm isn't just a setback, it's a nail in her coffin. 

And then Galadriel speaks, offering to fix the arm. She can't do it alone, but needs the others at the table, even those she's not aligned with, to help. They don't have to provide any mana, or know the spell, she blurts out, they just need to close a circle around Cora. It's a small act, but in the Scholomance, it's just not something that happens. There's tension as Galadriel checks the reactions at the students she's sitting with. It's an impossible ask. You don't do something for someone else unless you're getting something in return. But one after another, the students around Galadriel join hands. She spins the spell, it cycles like a tornado around the circle of students, but they keep their hold on each other, Cora in the eye of the storm. Her arm is healed. She weeps, and everyone tries even harder to avoid looking at Cora. 

It's just kindness. It costs the other students nothing but a brief time and a bit of physical contact with the others next to them. But kindness doesn't happen in the Scholomance. It's stomped out, students learn quick that there is no advantage in being kind. They have to be smart. Resourceful. Galadriel asks anyway. 

That's the heart of the series, at least of the two books I've read so far. Kindness, love, compassion, in a world that seems to have no space for it, that seems to be built against it. When the smart option is pain, cruelty, independence, what space is left for being kind? At a young age, Galadriel was prophesied to become a dark, terrible sorceress. One of the worst the world has ever seen. She's meant to drain populations dry, destroy cities with a flick of her wrist, flay flesh from bone. Every spell she has a natural aptitude for falls into those categories - mass destruction, slaughter. The void gives her spellbooks made from human leather, crafted by evil wizards from ages long past. It would be easy for her to kill a few other students, or hell maybe even the whole school, and soak up enough power to blast her way straight through the graduation gates. She never takes the easy path. Because her mom loved her. And loved her. And loved her. 

I love the nature vs nurture aspect. Galadriel gets prophesied to become evil and her mom, a small welsh wizard who charges nothing to help other people, goes "I can fix that, I just have to love her enough." And it works. The urge is still there, Galadriel has to grapple with her anger, has to hold off on utilizing her natural talents, but she chooses to do something better, to be someone better. Her mother's love and lessons spur her to perform radical acts in the Scholomance. All rooted in compassion and kindness. 

There's truly so much to love about the Scholomance series so far - it's got rich worldbuilding, a solid romance, interesting characters and conflicts - but I think I love this part of the series the most. The message to be kind; to yourself, to your fellows. Even when the world is designed to tell you to step aside and let them die to save yourself, you can choose to put yourselves in harm's way for the betterment of someone else. You can choose kindness. We can choose love.

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This part is a reflection. I had a rougher time writing this than some of the other posts so far. I'm still not even certain if I'm satisfied with what I've gotten on the page.  I'm going to post this anyway, because that's part of the whole point. To point at something I experienced and go "here were some thoughts I had." 

I'm not trying to write reviews or anything, and I'm not sure if it even reads like a review. But I'd recommend giving the Scholomance books a shot. If you're not a fan of teens in wizard school (and it doesn't have the feel of YA to it), I'd still recommend Naomi Novik's work. Uprooted and Spinning Silver are two of my favorites. 

[recklawmusing]

Legacies

Recently I've been organizing a semi-regular movie night for some streamer friends. I was hoping to be intentional about community building, and wanted to give the group something easy to drop into if they were available and just vibe. It also ended up transforming one of my new year's resolutions. I had wanted to go out and see a new movie in theaters at least once a month, but instead I've been watching a lot of movies that came out years ago and I've never really revisited. Some have really held up, like Trolls and Kung Fu Panda 2. Others we watched have not fared as well. 

We recently watched Pitch Perfect, which still sounds like a fun movie on paper. Acapella group sing offs, musical mashups, a tiny bit of romance, and a star studded cast led by Anna Kendrick; I was honestly excited to rewatch it and laugh at a silly little comedy about singing. But then as we watched it, a lot of the jokes fell flat or felt out of place and there was so much more vomiting than I remembered. At least the music parts were still really fun, and I'm hopeful that there's more of those sections whenever we get around to watching the next one.

I also happen to love cheesy romantic plotlines, and the chemistry of the two leads was just enough to make me want to root for them. Skylar Astin had a puppy dog charm throughout the film; he was goofy and silly, and though parts of his pursuit were dated, his character always felt genuinely filled with joy and an openness. Halfway through the movie, his character reveals a passion for film scores, and lists of some of the greatest movies ever created as his inspirations. He wants to chase down the roads carved by the legends of the industry and make scores himself, and it's easy to find yourself wondering if Astin picked the movies to list off with the way he exudes pure adoration for the craft, even as Kendrick's character scoffs and dismisses the films.

This isn't actually about Pitch Perfect, by the way. 

This is about Star Wars.

"Are you a big star wars fan," I was recently asked on a dating app.

I thought for a few minutes before responding. Overthinking, mostly. In my mind, a big fan meant cosplaying characters, or creating works derived from the setting. A big fan would buy merch, have a whole display dedicated to collected toys or props, or have read all of the books in both canons, collected the comics, do things that proclaimed to anyone nearby "I'm a fan of Star Wars!" 

"I wouldn't say I'm a big fan, but I guess I'd be a medium fan?" I finally responded. "It's just always had a constant presence in my life."  

It's surprising to me that I don't really remember watching the original trilogy. I know that we owned VHS copies. The dark paper covers stood out on the shelf against the white plastic cases of the Disney movies, so it was easy to spot them anytime I went to grab some other cassette. I can't actually remember the first time I watched Star Wars, or even which movie I saw first. It's just a feeling, with no evidence to back it up, but I think the first may have been The Phantom Menace. 

I haven't watched the movie in over a decade, but I can still picture so much of the movie playing in my mind. Qui Gon slicing through the ship's door with his lightsaber near the beginning, the introduction of those rolling droids with the shields, Jar Jar Binks, the podracing scenes. Even tinier details like Qui Gon and Obi Wan using those little rebreather devices as they dive to meet the Gungans, or the design of the droid tanks that get used in the battle of Naboo. 

I saw the movie ages before I heard it being discussed as a "good" movie or a "bad" one. To me, it was magical; it was fun; it was impossible not to get hooked. Seriously, try being six years old (maybe) and watching the scene of Darth Maul facing off against Qui Gon and Obi Wan, "Duel of the Fates" crescendoing, and then his lightsaber ignites on BOTH SIDES. How are you not supposed to fall in love with that? 

And then to go on and watch the originals. Luke's journey from farm boy to Jedi. Han and Chewie's adventures in the Millennium Falcon. Princess Leia firing off retorts. The striking presence of Darth Vader. I didn't watch movies critically at that age, but I think part of me always knew instinctively that what I was watching was spun from the same fabric as other stories I loved. In Star Wars, I saw myths, fairy tales, the westerns I would watch with my grandfather. I couldn't have expressed those connections until I was much older, but I felt the influences in the films, and they resonated with me. 

I can remember practicing the sound of Darth Vader's breathing, one of the first sounds I wanted to mimic. I remember seeing Attack of the Clones (vaguely) and Revenge of the Sith (more clearly) in theaters, contributing to my love of watching movies on a big screen in a dark room full of strangers. I don't love every aspect of Star Wars. Maybe it's impossible to love every part of that galaxy, now that there's so much more of it. I went into The Force Awakens an eager nerd, ready to watch more adventures in a great big galaxy, and walked out enjoying what I had seen. Mostly. It didn't feel quite as fresh as I had hoped, but it was still more Star Wars! The Last Jedi was fun too, but parts felt a little like a let down. I don't even wanna talk about how walking out of The Rise of Skywalker put me off of going to the movies at ALL for months. 

One theme kept standing out as I watched the movies: legacy. Kylo Ren is so devoted to Darth Vader's legacy that he forsakes his father's name. Rey's story is constantly forced to become one about her quest to find her parents, to learn her own legacy. The First Order is just an attempt to regain the status of the Empire, Starkiller base echoing the Death Star, but in a bloated, distorted manner. Like it wants to become the superweapon we all held the Death Star as in our minds, something massive and undefeatable and overpowered. "Somehow, the Emperor returns," to remind us that the only real threat is and always has been Palpatine. 

Smarter people than me could probably dissect this theme and its prominence as a response to new leaders stepping up to direct these new Star Wars movies. Hell, they probably have already. And there's nothing WRONG with the theme being something the filmmakers might have wanted to explore in the movies. It just felt, to me, constricted. The Star Wars galaxy is massive, and yet, we had to go back to the same piano and hit the same notes that have already been played.

I've always enjoyed the Solo movie, with my main critiques being all those parts that exist solely to remind you that the main character is Han Solo. Watching the sequel trilogy felt like it amplified those feelings. The films told me that it mattered that they were Star Wars movies, not because of the inspiration they were rooted in, and the way they connected and expanded those base ideas, but because Darth Vader, and Leia, and Han, and Chewie, and Luke, and the Emperor, and Stormtroopers, and the Death Star were still there. 

The sequel trilogy movies, especially The Rise of Skywalker, told me that the magic of Star Wars I'd felt growing up wasn't really the important part. The important part of Star Wars is spelled out by Anna Kendrick's character in Pitch Perfect, as she scoffs at the "predictable" ending of The Empire Strikes Back. "Vader in German means father. His name literally means Dark Father." 

This isn't actually about Star Wars. It's about my father. 

My dad is not Darth Vader. He was enlisted in the Navy, and I could probably be cheeky and draw some parallels to my father working as a low-level imperial officer, but he wasn't some force of evil. 

He was distant. His work in the Navy bounced us up and down the east coast. We'd move every few years which made it hard to set down roots and really maintain friendships. Sometimes he'd get deployed and be gone for a few months, which only made it harder to ever find a rhythm to get closer to him. Even when he was home, our interests diverged and we never really found a way to connect. 

When I was in high school, my parents got divorced. It's hard to remember liking my dad before that time, my shoddy memory only highlights the times he'd be arguing with my mom in a raised voice, or spankings I'd gotten for some reason or another. But after that, I think I hated my dad for a while. The gap that existed between us widened, and I sawed off the ends I was able to reach to make sure it was as impassable as it could be. It was never enough to escape his orbit fully. 

My life's not a movie and it doesn't have themes, but my dad's legacy is one I've always run from. He was, as a metaphor, Anakin letting the hate flow through him. He was angry and stern and ordered, red in the face matching red of a lightsaber. I was scared that I was destined to become like him, that if I journeyed into that cave on Dagobah, I too would see my face inside my father's helmet. 

I wasn't a rebel and he wasn't the empire, but we stood on opposed sides over so much. I wasn't Luke. There'd be no meaningful redemption of my father in his final moments. He wasn't Vader, persuading me to join him and rule the galaxy forever. He was just an example of what I wanted to avoid becoming. 

I'm not just talking about my dad in Star Wars terms because they're fun imagery. I also cannot separate a lot of my memories of Star Wars from my memories of my dad. 

At the end of high school, I was briefly in a long distance relationship with a girl I'd never met. A week before we set to meet each other in person for the first time, she broke things off and shattered my heart. The next week, I was at my dad's, and we watched the original Star Wars trilogy. He didn't really console me, or offer any words of advice on how to process my heartbreak, and he owned the blu-ray versions of the originals, with all their strange additions and edits, but that's the only strong memory I have of actually watching those movies. A few years later, I stayed with him over my college's winter break. That Christmas, The Force Awakens was released in theaters, and I drove down the hill and saw it at the theater by his house. 

We saw The Last Jedi in theaters together when it was released. 

I don't hate my dad anymore. I still don't like him, and I don't agree with his views or how he treats waitstaff. I can't forgive him for how he's hurt people who I care about. But my present feelings towards my father are like those I have for the sequel trilogy - I try not to think about them that much. The galaxy is wide, and there are stories I love to watch instead, and people I love to focus my energies on. 

For all the interests I've shared with my mom though, she's never been a space adventures person. Someone else had to be the one to buy those VHS tapes I'd see on our shelf. 

So I do have to thank my dad for giving me Star Wars. 

[recklawmusing]

Fuck it, have a poem

O' heavy soul, craving flight, Picture soaring 'mongst dawn's light

Steady hands lift stricken match Heat flares up as the sparks catch

Piled ash top scorchéd patch Life from sheltered shell shall hatch

Hope shapes form now burdened light Rise ye Phoenix, wings alight

[recklawmusing]

On Why?

It took me nearly a year to read the last book I was given. 

One of my closest friends from college purchased a signed copy of John Green's The Anthropocene Reviewed, and mailed it to me for my 27th birthday. The book survived in my possession - unlike 80% of my belongings - through three moves, a breakup, two flights, and landed with me in the Twin Cities. I nestled it in a large suitcase alongside the four other books I still owned, the first volumes  of Delicious in Dungeon and My Hero Academia, Terry Pratchett's Equal Rites, and George Watsky's collection of essays, How to Ruin Everything. These four had each been read at least once; the two manga I'd likely pored over a handful of times, their spines gently bowed by the time I'd spent on them. Despite the many qualities that would have made it perfect to pass the time I was traveling, Green's book retained a pristine spine, even for a few months after I'd unpacked my new apartment. 

I'd spent a good deal of my teenage years immersed in Vlogbrothers content and their Nerdfighter community, but it had been a good four or five years since I'd last watched or read anything by either Green brother when I received The Anthropocene Reviewed. The book's an adaptation and expansion of another work by John Green, a podcast of the same name. I'd missed the launch and conclusion of the project in that interim time away from his work. Through this collection of essays, Green reviews some aspect of the Anthropocene era, our current, human-impacted one. The topics that get reviewed range from media like Penguins of Madagascar, to natural phenomena like Halley's Comet, to commercial products like Diet Dr. Pepper, to the tiny diseases that have impacted this era like Viral Meningitis. Green rates and reviews them all, offering somewhere between one and five stars. He even litters the parts of the book added during publishing with starred reviews, like the typeface used on the copyright page, Bembo MT, which he gives four and a half stars. 

I finally opened the book and read it a few weeks after I landed in the Twin Cities, a week before my 28th birthday. It was a quick read, and I was immediately drawn into the essays by Green's writing style. The tone felt conversational; it was easy to hear Green's voice echoing off the page as I read. I think this partially comes from its earlier incarnation as an audio medium, but I think my familiarity with the Vlogbrother videos, which have always been a dialogue between the brothers, also aided in transforming the words into something I could hear crystal clear, as if Green was reading them to me. 

All of the essays are well written and have a charm to them as Green reviews his various subjects, but one sticks firmly in my mind: his review of "Auld Lang Syne." His review covers the history of the song, its many uses throughout history and across the world, yet what stands out for me is the interspersed recollection of the life and work of the writer Amy Krouse Rosenthal. Green recounts their first meeting, shares snippets of her work that showcase her talent and personality, tracks Amy's impact on his career and personal life, and his own impact on hers after her diagnosis with cancer. His words as he narrates this revelation to the reader hit me like a truck, even on re-reading them. "I guess I should tell you that Amy is dead," he notes a few paragraphs in. "Otherwise, her death within this review might seem like some kind of narrative device, which I don't want. So, okay. She is dead. The rare present tense sentence that, once it becomes true, stays true forever." The blend of straightforward honesty, meta-humor, and the last line that feels like poetry to me fly straight and true to pierce my heart every time. They are the kind of words I want to write someday. 

Green later describes the use of "Auld Lang Syne" during World War I. The song gets sung during the Christmas Truce, when it's still too early for the horrors of the conflict to be seen clearly. Later, the song's tune is sung by British soldiers with new lyrics, lamenting the war that won't cease. They sing, "We're here because we're here because we're here because we're here." The world feels hopeless, life feels meaningless, and no one really knows why they are still there, still fighting. They are there because they are there. 

Amy Krouse Rosenthal saw the tune and the soldiers' lyrics differently, and was able to help others see it too. Green recounts that "singing this song with Amy, I could always see the hope in it." In her hands, as she sang it with a crowd, the song became something greater, a message that we exist together, that it is a wonderous marvel that we exist at all, that in spite of the hells of the modern world, "we can still proclaim in hope that we are here." 

I've now survived two New Years in the Twin Cities. Growing up, it was never a special holiday for me. The rollover into a new year, the resolutions, the toasts at midnight, it all washed over me and passed with barely a ripple. Yet now I've found something special in it. My first winter here was a lonely one. My friends were nearby, but depression, chronic health issues, and the shock of how damn cold it can get here kept me bundled up in my apartment. I'd leave for the essential shopping trips and not much more. But friends reached out suddenly on New Year's Eve, inviting me over. I spent it warm, shouting guesses to anime music quizzes on YouTube, surrounded by the people I had traveled halfway across the country to be closer to. Then it happened again this year. Suddenly I could see the magic of the holiday, or at least the edges of its still-fuzzy shape. 

I started watching Vlogbrothers videos again after reading The Anthropocene Reviewed.There was a part of that action that felt a little like coming home, or at least like picking up a habit or hobby you'd thought long abandoned. I found out that John posts a narrated version of his review of "Auld Lang Syne" just before New Years each year. I've listened to it both years I've been here, and sung along as best I can to the end of his review, where he sings Amy's hopeful version of the soldiers' lyrics. 

I think the reasoning for why Green's review of "Auld Lang Syne" impacts me so much is layered. First, it's hard to deny that it's well written. There's a part of me that's envious of Green's skill, and I know that to get close to that level, practice is required. So this is me practicing. Second, the song itself has resonated with me before, even if I can't remember most of the lyrics. (This is fine, no one knows all of the lyrics). Green analyzes part of why the song remains popular, "because it's the rare song that is genuinely wistful - it acknowledges human longing without romanticizing it, and it captures how each new year is a product of all of the old ones." Like a new year, I'm also a product of all the old me's. One of my favorite Watsky lines also reflects this mentality, "We’re every age at once and tucked inside ourselves like Russian nesting dolls."

Thirdly, Green's reminiscence of Amy Krouse Rosenthal is a touching tribute. In writing down the ways her life intertwined with his, he answers a question "Auld Lang Syne" poses. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot / and never brought to mind?" No, they should not. Amy is dead, but in writing about her, Green demonstrates the truth of what he told Amy when she was diagnosed with cancer: "that love survives death." Her memory is alive. Some of it is written down, right there.

I'm afraid of being forgotten. I'm afraid that when I shake free the shackles of this mortal coil, I will leave nothing behind to be remembered by. I know that one day, we're all forgotten. Even Shakespeare and Caesar's names will fade with enough time. I want to at least try and leave something. Who knows what may come of this project, but at least it can be my little drop in the ocean of human history, a way for my friends to later look back and remember me and quote me in exceptional pieces of writing where they remember my humor. 

I want it to be a way for my friends to know me. I've long felt that my opinions don't have merit, that my thoughts don't matter. So I keep them all close to my chest, refusing to let others see me, except in the tiny moments I let cracks form in my walls. It's, again, just a part of life I'm afraid of. To be known is to be judged. I'm trying to be less afraid. 

I delayed starting this because I was afraid, still. This is something tough for me, and I'm quick to let an excuse like that dissuade me from action. But a friend told me they were excited to read what I write about, that my opinions do matter. And if anything can get me to do something, it's doing it for a friend. 

I titled this "On Why?" because it's meant to be an explanation of why I started this. Whatever this ends up becoming.

It's because this New Year's was different. For the first time, I wanted to make resolutions. I wanted to set goals, and work to achieve them. One of those was to write things down. To leave a record. To share it with others. To let them know me, more of me than just the glimpses they get from peering through the open joints of the armor I clad myself in. 

It's because I'm here because I'm here because I'm here.