Adult Children in The Glass Castle and A Mother in Mannville

The novel The Glass Castle and the short story A Mother in Mannville both tell the story of a child with a disastrous childhood. Jeannette in The Glass Castle, whose parents were irresponsible, lived a nomadic life when she was young. Jerry in A Mother in Mannville, an orphan, didn’t have parents at all. However, the protagonists in the two stories both had special qualities different from other children and acted in more adult ways than other children. Miserable childhood didn’t ruin them, but shaped a similar positive character and personality.

I think it’s necessary to share a brief introduction of what happened on these two kids. Jerry was sent to an orphanage at the age of 4. He lived a really difficult life in the orphanage. When the narrator met him the first time, Jerry “(was) undersized” and “wore overalls and a torn shirt, and was barefooted”. Jeannette’s situation was worse. She had two careless and irresponsible parents. And it proved even worse than no parents! I’m really angry when I read the irresponsible behaviors of her parents in The Glass Castle. They didn’t take care of Jeannette, even expecting their 3-year-old daughter to cook for herself. When Jeannette was in the hospital, one of the other two children was stung by a poisonous scorpion and the youngest one fell off the back of the couch, eliciting this reaction from their father, “The floor took more damage than he did”. Jeanette’s mother didn’t care about anything, even the death of her second daughter. And her father was rude and he always used vulgar language. He also had some paranoia and drinking problem. Consequently Jeannette and Jerry developed similar characters in three aspects.

Firstly, they both had firm granite characters. They didn’t give up when they faced the formidable obstacles. Jeannette got burnt because of cooking hotdogs for herself when she was 3 years old. As a patient in the operation room she exhibited no fear. When nurses consoled her and said “everything would be okay, she responded: “if I’m not, that’s okay, too.” Her family started the skedaddle when she was about 4. They lived in the car, chased by bill collectors. Sometimes Jeannette strolled around barefoot in the hot desert. But she never complained about anything. As for Jerry, although at first he was looked down upon by the narrator with a bad manner, he still went out and chopped the wood with rhythmic and steady blows and did a marvelous great job that caused the narrator change her mind.

Secondly, they were both incredibly independent. They were more like grown-ups than children. In The Glass Castle, Jeannette cooked when she was 3. She was “pretty good with Dad’s pistol” when she was 4. Jerry had something more than independent. The narrator called it “integrity”. Most dictionaries describe this word as “honest and firm in one’s moral principles”. While if we trace the etymology of the word, we can find the word is evolved from “integer”, which means a sense of wholeness and perfect condition. Therefore, I prefer to describe the integrity of Jerry as “perfect personality and fully human”. Jerry always took responsibility without subterfuge. In A Mother in Mannville, the handle of the ax was broken but he stood back of his own carelessness.

Last but not least, although they never complained about their conditions, they were still eager for love. That was the pathos of these two stories. The little kids didn’t express their longing for love and unfortunately there’s really no one give them the love. In The Glass Castle, Jeannette felt happy staying in the hospital forever, which most people would love to leave as soon as possible. Besides the cleaner and quieter environment, the care of doctors and nurses is one of the most significant factors. She had never enjoyed the feeling of care and concern before. More evidence of her longing for love is that Jeannette cried and felt sore after tumbling out of the car. She didn’t cry when she was burnt and needed to have surgery. I propose she cried in this case because she was afraid of being abandoned by her families. She regarded the company of the family members as the precious love. Jerry in A Mother in Mannville. He didn’t have a mom, and he adopted a mother figure, the narrator herself, to try to find maternal love. What’s interesting is that Jerry told the narrator that he had a mom and he was “plainly proud” when he mentioned his mother and his gifts from his mom when the relationship between Jerry and the narrator became really close. Consequently this caused the narrator to become angry and disappointed and decide to leave. But finally she learned that everything about Jerry’s mom wasn’t true. Jerry pretended that he had a mom who loved him because he really wanted a mom. But it’s really confusing that he told his story to the narrator. From my own perspective, he wanted to protect the narrator as well as himself. He knew that sooner or later the mother figure would leave and he didn’t want to make both of them stuck in the dilemma. Jerry “went over the hill into the laurel” on the day the narrator left, which may imply that he missed her and he missed the feeling of being loved.

All in all, these two brilliant works show the fickleness of the world and the inconstancy of human relationships. These two adult children also show us that the calamitous growing environment doesn’t always ruin the child but can also build a strong child with firm granite characters.

The Night Cafe

Le Café de nuit (The Night Cafe) 
Photograghed at Yale Art Gallery

It’s getting dark. 

Faint halos shine from the gas ceiling lamps. The bar is immersed in the dim lemon yellow lights. The colors of the wall and ceiling are completely contrasting ----the harsh blood red and dark green. There is also a private room hidden in the bar, always half-curtained. It’s a family business and I inherited it from my dad. I have no idea why they painted it in these colors.

Although it’s late at night, it’s just the beginning of the nightlife of some people. My regular customers are lavish in drinking. They always shout “one more” until they have snakes in their boots. Now it’s about one o’clock. Empty bottles are scattered around on tables but I’m not bothering to clear off the tables. I usually do it the next day. The drunks and derelicts are huddling down in sleep or stupor. They will wake up naturally next morning and go back home consciously.

I’m playing billiards when Charles, aka “the Winebag”, who steps into my bar in the familiar swagger, shouting at me “two martinis, shaked, not stirred”. He always orders it. Charles makes straight towards the seat in the corner. He always sits there. I mix the cocktail and serve it. He act like a cat on hot bricks, looking out the café door and continuing to sip his Martini.

Charles is the executive officer of the local police department. He throws his police badge and pistol on the table and stands up, pacing back and forth. Suddenly he rushes to the front door and embraces the hot chick who just comes into the bar. With a thickly made-up face, she doesn’t seem like a serious person.

“Hi, babe, I’m Catherine, what’s your name?” 

“Forget it, come on, I don’t care who you are.” he says, puffing heavily, snatching at the girl’s arm. He then pulls her into the chair in the corner. They caress each other wildly and the situation seems out of control motivated by the alcohol.

They go into the half-curtained room. That’s the first time Charles uses this room, well of course it’s not the first time the room is used. 

“Maybe one day I will close the café.” I mumble to myself, leaning forward, continuing to play the billiard.

Magic Dream

“Turn off your computer! Go to sleep!” I locked the door, outside which mom stood, and on which she hammered and shouted. Yes, I was playing computer games in my room and of course I hadn’t finished my homework yet. This scene repeated itself almost every day. I just finished my homework quickly and carelessly and then got myself into the virtual world every day after school. Shutting down the game, I caught a glimpse of my accordion lying in the corner of the room covered with dust. It had been silent for years. I climbed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling

My mind went blank. I tried to recall the sweet memories but all to no avail and finally fell asleep. I descended into a dream land. It all started with a snowy day. My family drove up to the hilltop on a narrow trail. Unfortunately the memory started fading from this point. But I remembered I woke suddenly and checked the time groggily. It was about 3 a.m. Mysteriously, I then had a lucid dream. 

men playing accordion

“You played the wrong note again!” my instructor said in frustration. I held the heavy accordion on my knees, sitting on the chair with sweat rolling down my face. The accordion was disproportionately huge compared with my small body. Pulling the bellows made my arm and shoulder sore and stiff. I could no longer keep practicing so I put the accordion aside, stepping out of my room. I went to the refrigerator to find some drink and saw my grandma cleaning up the kitchen. I didn’t say a word, but she seemed to read my mind. She passed me a bottle of juice and said tenderly and gently, “Once you decide to do something, focus on it and treat it seriously and carefully.” I just smiled noncommittally, then turned and went away. I didn’t know why the dream stopped and what happened next in this dream. I suddenly traveled to another scenario, the same as the first one, covered by snow. In front of me was a deep and bottomless hole. I seemed pushed by something and fell into the abyss. I kept on falling until I woke up.

I had the dream two weeks after my grandma passed away. This simple dream, without the ups and downs and magical and fascinating plots, played an important role in my growth. I was a good-for-nothing naughty boy at that time and maybe playing the accordion was my only special skill, which was mostly compelled by my parents. Though my grandma didn’t go to school when she was young because of the volatile situation of our country. Just as the proverb says “life is the best teacher”, the huge vicissitude in her life made her seem like a knowledgeable philosopher. She always told me the significance of studying and finding myself. From that night, the words of my grandma reverberated in my head again and again, like the last testament. Although it sounds cheesy and conventional, I did start to try to focus my heart and my head. I started trying to sit at desk tranquilly. From half an hour to a whole afternoon I was immersed in the plots, the equations and the articles. It was not only a time that I begun exploring the potential, it was also a process of rebirth. 

I was 14. And I changed. Maybe it was because of some supernatural influence of the dream, maybe it was just the end of my rebellious period. I believe that what I dreamed that night changed my life.

Sitting on the Lawn

It was the very first time that I had sat under a tree, on the grass so quietly and peacefully.

It’s a broad lawn just out the gate from Calhoun College. I was just wandering around after dinner and I found this spot. I stooped down and sat there in the shade. At that moment, I felt a little dizzy, unable to focus my eyes or thoughts and I dropped my almost lifeless body leaning   against the tree. I just wanted to spend the rest of the day enjoying the lazy time. That’s not just because of scenery, but a desire to be calm, relaxed and balanced. It was a time for contemplation and even inspiration and insight.

Feeling the breeze blowing through my hair, smelling the aroma from the wet lawn and soil, listening to the yelp and laughter ringing around, a sense of happiness swirled inside me. It was a great enjoyment for every sensory organs. After my whole body imbibed delight through every pore, I could finally concentrate on the beautiful scene unfolding before me.

The dazzling beauty of nature waved in the branches of trees and the green blades of grass. In front of me I saw the verdant grass, and behind me, it was the old tree, which has probably been standing for hundreds of years. The rings engraved on it are a witness to considerable greatness, frustration, happiness and pain. It will also accompany and witness my experience and gain of this month. Looking toward the distance, the soaring spires of the library reached to the sky, standing with the setting sun side by side. From outside, the walls were made from mottled beige stones that had a rough feel and they had been sandwiched together by crumbling cement, which recounted the history of this campus. On either side of the green are the historical quaint old Collegiate Gothic architectures. All of this is so exquisite that it’s like a movie set where time doesn’t leave a mark.

A sparrow clattered from sunlight to shade, fussed in branches and then hung overhead. Meanwhile a squirrel jumped nimbly up the tree with his tail wagging. It was time to go and I would undoubtedly be back here tomorrow.