The Things They Carried

The Things They Carried is a novel by Tim O'Brien and is a collection of stories about the Vietnam War. It is also the book we have been reading in English. I quite like it, and I think it's very well done, despite the fact that I also find it wildly depressing. The main thing I had a problem with was his discussion of "true war stories" and how a story doesn't have to actually have happened to be true. I find this irritating, and would prefer him to say that he writes stories about true war, rather than true war stories. If a story didn't happen, it is not a true story. However, a story can contain truths without it being true. There is a distinct difference.
At any rate, our assignment was to write a piece discussing the things we as students carry in our lives (physical and figurative), in a similar manner to how Tim O'Brien writes about what soldiers carry. Here is my response to that prompt. My opinion is that it turned out well enough.
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I am a scholar.

I carry pens perpetually. For taking notes, of course, so I can study them later. I am a scholar. I carry a black notebook, too, for taking notes. Notes are important. Who knows all the things we would forget if we did not write them down? Some say the printed word created civilization. I like civilization. It's a very good environment for writing things down.

Once in a younger day I wrote everything down: comings and goings and doings and it was so terribly boring. It was a mistake. It took pages and pages to write down all of the tripe. I learned my lesson, though. Now I am certain to write only the important things, such as what I think the important things are.

I am a scholar, so I carry books: heavy books, light books, bound books, unbound books. I study them. It is my job. It is necessary.

I study them, these books and paper and words, glue and paper and black stains. These mere dark materials make such great knowledge. They press the world into the page. They're ideas in a tangible form. Miraculous, they are. Brilliant. Who could resist examining such works, such masterpieces, such beautiful prisons for ideas? It's glorious! Of course I study them. I need to figure out how they work!

I am a weaver.

I am a weaver, so I carry yarn, and thread, and needles. I sew, and knit, and weave, because I am a weaver, and I create. I raise dimensions; I take string and make a gown; I take sentences and make a story. I weave. I write.

I carry pens. Perpetually. For telling stories, of course. So you can read them later. Because I am a writer. Because I am a weaver. Because stories need to be told. Or, rather, I need to tell them. Writing a story is a bit like knitting. There are many stitches and many rows, but you can only craft them all one at a time. It's laborious, but the tapestry at the end is a fine thing...

I was floundering over one piece, something that should have been straightforward but was not. I ended up with my head on my desk in the puddle of lamplight. Frustrated with the piece and with myself, I turned to a friend for help. What she said, though, was not what I wanted to hear. She told me to just finish the thing. Good or bad didn't matter, but I should just plow through and end it.

I was frustrated. I couldn't “just finish” a thing. I wanted it to be good! No, I wanted it to be perfect. It was a piece of art, and I so wanted it to be something I could look upon fondly. “I did well there, so I did.” My friend was right, though. Sometimes one must work through a story, like one might crochet for three hours straight to make a hat for a friend's birthday or a Christmas scarf. Sometimes there's a deadline, and you have to finish. The work may not be your best, but you can't unravel the entire blanket because of some snarls at the beginning.

I am an enigma.

I wear many hats. I am more likely to watch than to speak.

I have friends, but I fear we are strangers. Or half-strangers. (Which side is the stranger, I certainly cannot tell).

I have friends, and though I fear we are strangers, at times they understand me better than I think. It's always a startling revelation when one matter-of-factly spouts a truth that you thought was deep and secret. Or when one stops their day to help you put dandelions in the holes of a street sign. It's always a startling revelation that you are less different than you suppose.

I worry.

Perhaps this is the heaviest thing I carry, worry. Like a small goblin-child, seated upon your shoulders. But you cannot throw him off. He's a mere child, after all. He would get hurt, and he holds on so tightly. You must watch yourself, and lift your foot for another step even when it seems too heavy to bear.

I worry.

Perhaps this is the longest thing, worry. Like a grandfather clock, ticking away the hours, days, years. It chimes irregularly, and you look up. You hear the dong, dong, dong of time passing by and think, Oh my. There's so much I haven't done. I don't have nearly enough time. You throw yourself into your work with all fervency and haste, but it's never enough. How many have died content? Who hasn't had regrets on their death bed? You work as hard as you can, but a lifetime is never enough.

I worry that there's not enough time.

I am a watcher.

I hold detached amusement, and interest, too. Oh, this shall be interesting, how will it pan out? Those silly children, playing their games, getting hurt. Silly rabbit. When will they learn? When will it finally hit them? I would be sad for them, if it weren't so...funny.

I am a player.

I play the game. It's a large game, and you play, too. We all play. We all have roles, we all know the rules, and we all pretend it's not a game. It's a fun game, sometimes. It's a scary game. Sometimes.

At nighttime with my head on the table, I was told it was a game. I was told that life is all a game and if you want to get anywhere you have to suck it up and play. It is a fact of life, like death and taxes, and you can never stop. I was terrified. I had seen this thought before, but coming from someone else, it struck a chord. Someone else thought it was a game, and wasn't troubled by it. They saw it as a fact of life, not something to resent and fear.

Life is a game, but it's a game we make. We make the rules, so it is acceptable that we have this children's game to make sense of the world and hold the darkness at bay. We forget that it is a game, but sometimes, that's okay. The fact that it's a game does not negate the truth of it. The fact that it's a game does not make it any less real, or less powerful, or less important. Just because it's a game...doesn't mean we shouldn't play along.

Everyone is always looking for truth. Me, I love truth! But, sometimes, it's okay to pretend.

Just not all of the time.