Great Works of Literature I (Fall 2016)

It is the day before classes start and my mind is restless thinking about the impending semester. I decide to make the most out of one the last hot days of the summer and go to the beach.

I walk to the very back of the bus en-route to Manhattan beach. To my right, I see a girl in a 2016 Clara Barton High School shirt chatting with her friend. Her fingers are running over colorful spiral notebooks in her bag. I make the assumption that they are heading to Kings Borough Community College. My eyes shift away from the girls and land on a man that has just entered the bus. He is middle-aged, wearing a tank top and his arms are slick with sweat. What was especially peculiar about this man is that he had his headphone jacks connected to his phone with his front-facing camera on as if he was taking a never ending selfie. He would shift his front-facing camera in various directions in order to catch views of people behind, and to the left and right of him without ever actually taking a picture. His actions seemed to make people varying levels of uncomfortable. One woman got up from her seat in order to be out of his view. A male passenger engaged her in a conversation that went something like ‘what the hell does that man think he is doing?’. They seemed to be very passionate about it. The girl with the 2016 shirt and her friend laughed nervously and covered their faces. I buried my face in a book. This went on for some time, and just as the angry man was about to inform the bus driver as to what was going on, the camera man got off the bus. We soon found him walking down the block the with his front-facing camera still on and in front of him. Most all of the passengers on the bus erupted in communal laughter.

I got off at my stop and walked to the beach. The moment I reached the sand I took my sandals off and let the sand scorch my feet. My feet sank deeper into the sand and I felt pangs of pain. I willed myself to walk through it. The pain almost felt gratifying, as it took my mind off of the thoughts racing through my head.

I walked around in search of the perfect spot to settle in. I found a spot secluded enough from people so that I could have some peace, but also close enough for me to do some people watching. I laid down on my towel and let the hot sun wash over me, just as the sand had done to my feet. 

The passage described below can be found in The Odyssey Book 5, Lines 437-456, or on page 395 in the 3rd Edition of The Norton Anthology. The passage provides a very detailed description of Odysseus’ battle with the sea following his departure from Calypso’s island. Poseidon has sent a storm with the specific intention to cause Odysseus strife.

The first section of the passage, lines 437-447, is narration. The imagery used gives the reader an impression of scale, showing how small and powerless Odysseus is in comparison to the powerful, raging sea. This is accomplished through Homer’s diction, which is comprised of words that have strong, universally understood connotation. Odysseus gripped the rocks until “the skin was ripped off” his hands, showing the reader how determined Odysseus is to survive. It also allows the reader to gain an understanding of the treacherousness of the sea conditions. Homer writes that a wave “spat” Odysseus toward land, which reiterates the notion that the waves are aggressive and uncontrollable. The passage is mainly literal in its text and mostly lacks figurative language, which is important for such a visual passage and enhances its enargeia. Homer details the gravity of Odysseus’ situation without exaggeration or convoluted language. In this way, with simple sentences and literal description, Homer shows the situation is so substantial in its events that it does not require linguistic embellishment. These subtle yet weighted word choices serve to provide readers with more information about Odysseus as a character. They further solidify one of his signature traits: perseverance.

The second section of the passage, lines 448-456, are spoken by Odysseus. They are an invocation to the gods, in which Odysseus describes himself as “a wandering mortal, pitiful to the gods.” It is important to note that, at this point in the epic, Odysseus has already made clear to the reader that he knows of the gods’ involvement in his journey back to Ithaca. Interestingly, Odysseus is aware that some of the gods, or at least Poseidon, have bestowed struggle upon him, yet he continues to have hope that the gods will take pity on him and help him.

This passage continues to establish the narrative that the gods can become personally invested in the lives of humans. They can like or dislike someone—evident in that Athena has a liking for Odysseus and was there in some form to help him navigate the water, but Poseidon utterly despises him and ignited the storm entirely to thwart Odysseus’ journey. This furthers the notion that the gods are emotional, human-like, and engage in conflict among themselves. Athena and Poseidon, though both extremely invested in Odysseus’ journey, are at odds and work directly against one another. In addition, the passage suggests that the gods are just as important to the mortals as the mortals are important to the gods. Though Odysseus has much reason to resent the gods for not getting him home immediately and easily, Odysseus still invokes their help when he is in dire need. The whole passage strengthens the reader’s understanding of the dynamics of a god-mortal relationship. It also helps to give the reader a clearer idea of the politics of Mount Olympus, in that Homer exposes intra-god conflict further, and readers can see it in action.

Walking into the park feels like coming back home after a long vacation. I don’t quite remember where my things go and it feels like everything is both new and old at the same time. Although now, instead of coming back and settling myself into my favorite spots, I am being guided into the nooks and crannies that are unfamiliar to me.

We walk down the path, paved with hexagonal stones, onto the ledge overlooking the river. Leaning against the cold metal railing, I take a snapshot with my phone of the way the sun slowly creeps behind the the skyline, and in my mind I take one of all the things that cannot be captured in a photograph. The smell of salt in the water mixed with the muskiness of his cologne, the gentle yet violent sound of the waves, the softness of the wind, and the coolness of the air.

Out of the corner of my eye a string of lights catches my attention. Draped like Christmas decorations over a boat sitting still in the water, they provide an ambiance for several people enjoying dinner in the receding glow of the sun.

Deciding to move on to our intended destination, we walk side by side taking in the beauty and quiet of the park. Walking down this path is like walking between two worlds of color. On the left are the warm, brick built buildings of Battery Park City. On the right are the cool, glass towers of Jersey City. Both are beautiful in their own right.

Taking a series of turns we end up under a canopy of geometric glass, walking up to the restaurant with its name, SHAKE SHACK, displayed in giant metal letters on it’s marquee. Passing by families and couples dining at the tables outside, we walk in and attach ourselves to the end of the snaking line. For once I feel adventurous enough to stray from my strict diet of vanilla milkshakes but instantly regret it after taking a sip of what can only be described as a disgrace.

Our slow paced evening is suddenly sped up after getting a message that my mother is feeling ill. Walking a few blocks to the nearest grocery, only to be told that we had “three minutes left, ok?” had us gliding down the aisles in search of medicine. Bags of chips, bottles of juice and  rolls of paper towels occupy the shelves but my target is nowhere in sight. It is only after walking back to the entrance and glancing behind the register, that we walked right past upon entering, that I see what I was searching for.

After leaving with a small pink bottle, an appreciative smile, and a “thank you” to the cashier we make our way home. Although for me, I am leaving one of my homes behind.

Sometimes the most interesting odysseys occur while traveling from point A to point B, and other times while you’re sitting in your psych lecture listening to a McGraw Hill representative. This woman was quite a journey all on her own.

Naturally, as I entered the three-quarters filled educational amphitheater, the seat in the corner of the back of the hall caught my eye. It was perfectly placed; at least 10 feet from the nearest stranger, leaving me without distraction and ample leg-resting room.

Just like in any first class, the anticipatory chatter from the estimated 150 young adults ricocheted off of every surface, like an audience before a play.

The curtain rose and the lights dimmed (non-metaphorically speaking, the professor came in the door). Talking diminished within seconds, isolating a few chatty students who didn’t realize the class was starting.

After the professor spoke about typical first day topics, she introduced a woman (who will be referred to as Gayle for anonymity) who was going to speak about Connect, a McGraw Hill learning system used by Baruch. We, the students, had no idea that this seemingly average lady, sporting capris and and a snazzy new pair of Danskos, would give one of the most spontaneously theatrical and persuasive speeches about a learning program we’d ever heard.

I realized early on that what was about to happen would be movie-role-worthy. Gayle said quite loudly to the crowd “how are we doing ladies and gents” and proceeded to hold the headset microphone out as if she was the lead singer of a band shouting a crowd’s city name.  Her enthusiasm and confidence were almost palpable. There was complete silence with a side of awkward glances toward each others’ neighbor and a sprinkling of hesitant, low-volume “good”s. Gayle was the perfect mixture of a stereotypically embarrassing mom, the Target Lady from Saturday Night Live, and Hilary Clinton, in the most interesting way possible; gesticulative, incorporating millennial lingo into her sentences, and trying oh so hard to evoke a passionate response from us. This program is her baby, she has to show it off; make sure everyone understands its beauty.

As Gayle went on with the presentation, she tried to hype the crowd up by picking volunteers to answer her questions, taking the initiative to achieve full control of the professors computer, and telling us to check out the newest and coolest features of the program like email and, wait for it, get this… a personal profile. Behind her, the program in all its glory, the jelly to her peanut butter, complete with our Professors name and colorful interactive buttons.

I sat back and took in the sight of young adult faces trying to act at least half-excited, and Gayle putting in A-plus worthy effort toward getting us pumped for this spiffy technological homework platform.

What did she do to top it off, you ask? Catching him off-guard, she ever-so-boldly fist-bumped the teaching assistant on the way out.

Gayle made my day.

4:47PM Thursday, August 25th

I stroll out of Baruch into the 25th street plaza and began to contemplate the journey ahead. I needed to reach the Jersey shore that night to visit some family, and that meant using the dreaded NJ Transit. Since we were let out of class early, I had a good shot at catching the express train at 5:06. This would enable me to avoid the more crowded 5:25 train, which is more commuter-friendly, and thus much slower.

Though this good fortune should’ve lifted my spirits, the dark overcast felt menacing. The one thing the NJ Transit consistently provides for its customers is high-powered air-conditioned cars (though I guess $16.25 for a one-way ticket has to go somewhere). Getting wet beforehand is a recipe for disaster.

Now that I am out here, I have to make a decision. Is it too risky to make a quick coffee pitstop? Having been pickpocketed on the Transit before, I’ve developed a preference for vigilance over sleep. Caffeine seemed to be the answer, and the deli on Lex and 25th is the quickest coffee on my route.

After spending less that half a minute in the bodega, I began my gallop to Penn Station. I walked in true New York form: a furious pace, slowed down only by several zigzags past the plodding, unhurried masses whom I harshly judged as I jumped at miniscule angles to circumvent them.

Uncharacteristically, I reached the station several minutes early. After considering overpaying for Auntie Ann’s Lemonade, I headed to track 8, where a double-decker train awaited my arrival.

Though most people seem to prefer the top level, I have always gravitated towards the bottom level. It’s the path of least initial resistance, since I had climb down  to inspect the car for an open two-seater. This decision also affords me a snapshot of potential openings. Of course, there are many teases throughout the search; countless two-seaters seem empty until the very last instance, when I discover a small old lady had already claimed the seat. So, more often than not, I am forced to climb back up the stairs and reinitiate the search once again.

Fortunately, my early arrival allowed me to colonize one of the four seater complexes located at each end of the train cars. This was key, as those seats are the only ones with a guaranteed outlet, and my Galaxy already buzzed me twice about its rapidly decreasing energy. I use the word “colonize” because it best describes the control I had over this prized possession. My bag took one seat, my body another, and my feet the third. The fourth was left open for anybody who dared encroach on my territory.

Anyways, this train ride was filled fantastic scenery. Though much of this journey takes place in the marshlands, I cannot help but appreciate the nature around this vehicle. My favorite part is when the tracks travel on this little sliver of land separated two larger bodies of water. I cannot tell what is the nature of these waters: for all I know, they can be natural or man-made, rivers, lakes, ponds, canals or even dams. I lean towards the artificial; the fact that the train is basically level with the water suggests some level of human intervention.

At the time, being alert for the ride seemed like a valid justification for grabbing a coffee. But as I sit on this train with a bladder that’s about to burst, it is apparent that coffee was not the answer.

The seven train at 9PM was perfect for dodging both rush hour crowds and late-night eccentric personalities. Expectedly, I managed to find a seat on the ends. A man hurried through the closing doors, barely squeezing through. He sat down near me, breathing heavily to recover from his 100 meter dash. The nauseating, musty, and harsh scent of tobacco permeated from his plain white T-shirt. The scent immediately drew my attention, while he sat comfortably, unknowing of the acrid crime that he committed.

The rest of the train ride was uneventful. My attention promptly deviated from the man to my music. Coincidentally, we got up at the same time to leave. An ivory white, label-less container fell from his pocket to the floor. I quickly picked it up and handed it back to him. As we were exiting the congested train station, he thanked me over and over again, praising the lord that there are good people in this world. I didn’t think much of it other than an insignificant act of kindness. Soon enough, however, I pieced the clues together and realized that I had given back his pack of cigarettes. I became remorseful for this insignificant act and its consequences. Did I, by giving back something that he deemed as valuable but I deemed as toxic, ultimately commit an act of unintentional malevolence?

I struggled with the question for quite a while. It wasn’t until I considered the issue from his perspective did I finally answer it. Objectively, smoking may be detrimental to his health, but that might be a risk that he was willing to take. He could be using cigarettes to relieve stress, socialize with others, or achieve the nicotine high that he lives for. Regardless, it would be wrong for me to deny his agency. The realization made me at peace with the world. Before, I would be disappointed if people act in ways that were at odds with my values, but I was able to examine their actions from their perspectives ever since.

The subway ride was a mere excursion; my realization was a true and fruitful odyssey.

Simply put, I had not touched the steering wheel of a car since December of 2014 when I made my 2003 Mazda 6 nonexistent. Fortunately, the car was already crumbling and nothing happened to me aside from a mild shock, lots of tears, and a few insults coming from the owner of the Jaguar I hit. However, after that incident I completely lost all faith in my abilities to correctly operate any type of moving vehicle. Given my past experience, I trembled as I entered and sat on the driver’s seat of my boyfriend’s box looking car. I felt the stern and uninviting leather seat and the air conditioner blew ice cold wind sharply against my skin. The scent inside the car was a perfect mixture of expensive cologne and that typical new-car smell. As I extended my feet, I felt the hard touch of both pedals. I contemplated for a few minutes which was the break and which was the gas, and regretted asking my boyfriend for clarification as soon as I saw the alarmed look on his face. With much apprehension, I inserted the key and carefully twisted it until a mild tremor warned me the car had turned on. Worry took over my body and fear my soul. I feared history would repeat itself, except this time on a more expensive car and an already traumatized me.

By implementing deep breaths and sincere prayers, I managed to go out on the highway and begin what seemed to be the greatest odyssey of my life. The sky—crowded with chalky colorless clouds—gave off a foreboding atmosphere. There was no hint of blue, no ray of light. Rain was definitely coming and I just wished my fate wouldn’t be as gloomy. The soaring skyscrapers hovered over me as I made my way through the Financial District. A multitude of cars surrounded me in every direction possible. I felt swallowed by the congested roadway, trapped in an unescapable obstacle. Patience escaped me as I waited, continually switching my feet from the gas pedal to the break, going through faint heart attacks every time I found myself too close to another vehicle. When traffic finally started to move once again, I discovered I would have to switch lanes in order to arrive at my destination. My driving skills were anything but daring and as a result I was not able to invade my neighboring lane. The other cars were impatient and kept honking loudly at my lack of experience, confirming the typical characteristics I had previously heard about drivers in New York. At that moment, I immediately stopped the car, forced my boyfriend to switch seats with me and calmly told him my trial would resume on another day.

It was 8 a.m., the earliest I’ve been up in weeks. I locked the first door to my house, sat on the steps leading down to the front door, and tied the laces to my cat Vans. With my playlist on shuffle, the first song that played was Coldrain’s March On, very suiting for the start of my journey (and also correlating with the Coldrain tee shirt I was wearing). I unlocked my phone and saw my reflection: my bags were clearly visible and I could already see into my future as an elderly woman. I locked my phone and descended to the front door of my house. My promenade began, as March On was just about to end. I walked by the same buildings and houses, but there was something new: the sidewalk smelled of rotting garbage. However, as I approached the same house with the sunflowers, the smell disappeared. It was 8:13 when I reached the subway station. As I descended the stairs to the platform, I saw the E train to my left, but there were way too many people inside to even try and cram myself in. Luckily for me, a second E train came shortly after. I entered into the train, held onto the poll with my left hand, and started to regret my decision to eat cereal two days in a row. I was not sure if I was still lactose intolerant or if the milk was expired, but was a burning fire pit in my throat, as well as my eyes. The woman in the navy sundress with green leaves standing to my right was way too close for comfort. She clearly had enough room to move over three inches, but I guess she was too busy talking on her cell. This train felt like it was losing the snail race. So, at 8:25, I looked up: Next Stop: Queens Plaza. Great, the train did not even pass the first stop yet. Then, at 8:29, the train stopped. Amazing. I finally get to Queens Plaza and another woman in a sundress comes in and of course she too decided to stand too close to me. But, instead of standing on my right, she stands to my left. I was sandwiched between two women in sundresses. It was fine, I only had two more stops until I reached Lexington. However, the woman in the red sundress repositions herself behind me and now an old man now occupied the space to my left. I felt his hot breath on my left arm, still holding onto the poll. Should I switch hands? No, I am a New Yorker. I am a warrior. So, by 8:37, I finally made to the 6 train platform at Lexington, surviving the Battle of the E Train Commute.

All I can hear is the sirens from the ambulance outside, rushing her through the door.
As I ran through the door to see what was happening. All you can see is blood everywhere just dripping down the stretcher to the floor, and you hear a mothers cry out for help. she asked;

“Is my baby going to make it doctor?”
“Where are you taking my baby”?
“Oh Lord, why me!!!!”
“It was just a few drinks”

The Doctor asked, “Ma’am were you drinking and driving and were you wearing a seatbelt?”

All she did was just cry, because she knew what she had done…

The doctors said, “We’re not quite sure yet, but just sit tight. We are trying our best”

As she sat and waited for answers, all you can see is her eyes bloodshot red crying a river telling herself she’s never going to make it…

”Why did I tell myself it was only 3 drinks…it wasn’t going to hurt anyone…“

Clock is ticking and still no answers from the doctors. Kids playing in the waiting room yelling and screaming…
Now she’s frustrated yelling and screaming at me to give her answers, but I couldn’t. My lips were tied. I couldn’t say a word. It felt like a cat had my tongue and I couldn’t bear to tell her the bad news that her child has a 50 percent chance on making it. It wasn’t my job to do so…I just gave her a hug and said ma’am everything is going to be okay. Just pray with me. As I held her hand… I prayed;

“ And the Lord said… so do not fear, for I am with you; do not be
Dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Lord father God, as this lady’s daughter is fighting for her life. I ask for you to please be with her and give her strength and heal her lord. I don’t always understand your ways but I ask that you look with mercy and grace towards this lady. Cover your child with your sovereign hands; bring restoration and healing to her daughter’s body. Let this lady know you are with her through this difficult time. In Jesus name we pray, Amen”

All she could do is just cry those big dark brown eyes out and say, “thank you, you were God’s sent”

It was 4:45pm last Thursday, and I had just finished the first day of my first semester at Baruch College. “ Now I had to make it to Port Authority Bus Terminal for my 5:10pm bus, which is scheduled to bring me back to the Jersey Shore around 6:45pm, under the best possible conditions. I stepped outside under the dark gray clouds and smelled the inevitable rain. I hopped on my Citibike, hoping to beat the rain. Of course it began to drizzle one block into my bike trip to Port Authority. I pedaled through the traffic of 23^rd Street, fighting to avoid the moving traffic and move through the crosswalks of unruly pedestrians who did not have the right of way, yet were not afraid of a cyclist zooming in their direction. Finally, I made it to the bike lane of 8^th Avenue and sailed smoothly through the rush hour smog.

I ran down the stairs to the dark, rundown basement level of Port Authority to board my bus, as I had done every day for the past year. “I just want to get home”, I thought as my stomach grumbled. There seemed to be more people waiting for their busses than usual, and there were no busses lined up outside. I shrugged it off and continued to walk down to my bus. The line for my bus was three times as long as it typically is, and I would have to wait for the next bus. As I stood in line, I asked a construction worker in front of me why there were so many people and no busses. “There’s a bus fire,” he snapped back, punctuating his answer with an f-bomb for added measure.

“Great,” I thought out loud, “How long will this will take?” A woman strolled along and waited beside me with her puppy, which she said was a service dog “in training.” As each minute passed by, more and more people piled on to the crowded lines in the basement to the point that it felt claustrophobic. Half an hour passed. There was no update from the intercom. I noticed streaks of pale yellow liquid on the floor and traced the trail back to the dog as I moved to avoid stepping in it.

All of a sudden, everyone fixed their eyes on the bus lane when flashing sirens emerged. It was a tow truck hauling the tiniest, most sorry looking bus through the lane. The whole basement collectively sighed and cheered. After enduring the hour-and-a-half delay, my feet were heavy and tired from standing. I could not wait to get home. But then the Lincoln Tunnel was clogged with busses that had also been delayed. After an eternity in the dark tunnel, my bus was sailing smoothly down the NJ Turnpike then the Garden State Parkway.

After the daily hour-and-a-half trip that has grown longer and more mundane after a year of doing it, I sprinted down the parking lot to my car. I could not wait to get home. As I reached my car, I noticed that a frantic woman in a minivan was parked next to my car with her hood up. With all the reluctance in the world, I asked, “Do you need a jump?”

“Please,” she replied. I proceeded to pop my hood and laugh at the irony of my 1989 car jump-starting a five year old minivan. I connected the jumper cables to my battery then to hers, as she and her young children watched in awe. I started my car and passed the time with small talk, hoping that my efforts would work. I had only helped her because it is truly no fun when something slows you down on the way home.