This Labor Day weekend, after spending the whole weekend in a cozy cabin in the mountains near Los Angeles with my two closest law school friends and my new lover, I returned home, and as soon as I sat down, unpacked, and ordered myself some Vietnamese food, I was suddenly flooded with the urge to watch Dead Poets Society. No surprise there, as I watch Dead Poets Society on a yearly basis. And every year, it brings me to tears. It is not the self-harm part (which, of course, is devastating) but the part where the boys finally learn how to critically think for themselves, find joy, respect, resilience, and camaraderie — strive for what they actually want, not what they’re told to want. I resonate with that emotion tremendously.
I attended a French private international school, demanding and requiring excellence, told by everyone else (especially my father) what to do and who to be. I adored literature. I adored studying texts, deciphering the author’s desires, wants, and wishes. Highlighting text in various colors; color-coding themes and stylistic techniques; annotating books with fancy words like “chiasmus.” Whenever I watch Dead Poets Society, it enrages me — and all I can think is: Do not go gentle into that good night, / Old age should burn and rave at close of day; / Rage, rage against the dying of the light. It makes me want to carpe diem, as the boys would say. Instead, I folded. I followed my father’s and my teachers’ orders. Strangely enough, I do not regret it. I am almost thankful for it.
Somehow, I replaced fictional stories, beautiful prose, and technical poetic writing with dry, adversarial legal jargon — without merit, inapposite, notwithstanding, unavailing, misplaced, insofar as, absent, burden, arguendo, ipso facto, etc. Funnily enough, none of the boys aspired to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer, or to pursue any of those “bougie” careers. I, like the boys, was put on a train running set tracks to set destinations, with the conductor and staff ensuring I stayed safely within my seat. I wish Mr. Keating had been my professor. Today, I carry so much anger; feeling like a puppet is not a good feeling. Yet I am so thankful for my discipline, ambition, and independence. All these wonderful traits stem from my legal education and career as an attorney. I feel fortunate and frustrated, all at once.
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I had continued down the literature path. In high school, I extensively studied British, American, and French literature. I loved it — hell, I adored it. As we say in French, “avec des si, on referait le monde” — with enough “ifs,” we would remake the world. Essentially, we would rewrite our history and our future if we kept dwelling on hypotheticals — and in the end, nothing would change.
Yesterday, as I was crying through the last scene, a new thought struck me. We are each our own captain, steering our own wheel, making our own navigational choices. O Captain, my Captain is, and should be, about finding your compass and embracing captain-hood. Interestingly, I had a recent chat with a new psychiatrist. Within 30 minutes (and one session), she unraveled something so deep that I changed course: “why do let people dictate who you are, and why do you let others change your perception of yourself and your perception of the world?” Evidently, this goes against the whole movie plot, which is all about learning to be comfortable with the uncomfortableness of not conforming to others views, opinions, and beliefs. Since then, I have felt this visceral guttural burning – I must, and need, to trust my perception and feelings – over anything else. Find said compass. Dictate my own sailing routes.
So, let’s grab the helm, shall we?
Women With Swords 