From Nathan Smith's, "White Lightning," Fall '97 From Nathan Smith's, "White Lightning," Fall '97 Last night, at 3 a.m. in the quiet of my loft, I fell asleep with my pen and journal in hand. This morning, as soon as I came out of the shower and poured myself a cup of java, I was at it again. Freedom. I have essentially found in writing a freedom elsewhere out of reach. Americans speak highly of personal freedom. We have a rhetorical arsenal of maxims about doing "the right thing," being true to ourselves and saying what we feel. I myself once wrote that "If I rest my conscience upon the opinions of others, my conscience will never rest." Such bumper-sticker wisdom makes it all seem so simple, doesn't it? However, if we genuinely follow these ideals we will more likely than not find ourselves excommunicated. We face misunderstanding, refutation and hatred in the minds of any who feel slighted by our expressions of the truths we have found. These are the wages of originality and honesty, payed to us by the very people that raised us, by the very communities in which we are supposed to fit. We can recieve their support and acceptance, this feeling of being "at home," only on the terms of others; we are loved largely for showing people what they want to see. Lately I've spent a lot of time with a good friend of mine, mulling over the weight of social expectations. Over the course of both our lives we have seen people, including ourselves, torn apart by the pressures humans thoughtlessly exert upon one another. During those moments when we have spoken our deepest feelings, acted upon our most honest urges, openly loved those for whom we truly felt that most precious sentiment, we have found ourselves ostracized, mocked, questioned and rebuked. In the face of this pressure, it is all too easy to suggest people should be themselves, speak up for their beliefs, follow their hearts, blah blah blah. But how can one do so? On an individual, conversational level, one can't extemporaneously express all that one really thinks and feels. It comes out garbled and sloppy, interrupted continually by the listener. Furthermore, most of us feel bound to the rules of conversation; avoid confusing, boring, offending, and lecturing people. But haven't we all felt the urge to do so? Have we then denied our true selves? And what if being true to one's self means losing friends and family and incurring the condemnation of one's community? Honesty has large scale consequences we can never predict. What if it means risking violence, imprisonment, or even assassination? What if it means being locked in an asylum for "treatment?" In deciding that cost to be too great, aren't we then being inauthentic? Of course, we are. Most of our lives are lived in the compromise between social expectations and personal drives. This is the way of social living. Writing, however, can be wholly antisocial. My friend and I came to the conclusion that ultimately our freedom must be won on a small scale, in moments we take for ourselves, outside the range of others' judgement. Those moments are different for us all. With pen in hand in my little corners, in Chats, in my loft, at the DP building, and in countless coffee shops, I own my thoughts. No one's eyes and ears confront my words, demanding explanation, intelligibility, coherency, elaboration and more. I can write all the things I would never say aloud, aiming my thoughts at huge audiences, close friends, or no one at all. The paper only listens. The fickle nature of inspiration renders my subject matter unpredictable, but in exchange I speak honestly, free from even polite insincerity. When published my writing can inflame others as much or more than those words I withhold in conversation. The risk of free expression is equally great in writing as in speech. However, the indirectness of this offense and the power of writing as a medium allows me to say everything without refrain or consideration. While creating, I temporarily suspend the knowledge that someday my friends, my mother or my professors may peruse these pages. One might even call it cowardice, because I only have the courage to face the blank page, and most of what I say stays in my little book for no one but me to see. I hide in written words, because I cannot face another face. It's true; I take the biggest personal risks in writing, when I don't have to see myself taking that risk. It's like closing my eyes before leaping from the high dive. But this doesn't change the facts. The liberty of creation is still mine, no matter what it means about my personal weaknesses. That freedom remains, regardless of its admittedly selfish nature. And when I finally approve of my work, I place it in the public eye. I take the leap with a courage I could not otherwise muster; I free myself of my own reservations. The entirity of writing's charm, then, rests in my sense that in writing I can explore my thoughts and feelings without inhibition. Here under the gaze of countless students, I plant my flag and claim this space and these words for myself. Here at last I am free.
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