Catholic School as Vicious as Roman Rule

I was talking with a friend the other week about the Death Cab for Cutie song, “I Will Follow You into the Dark.” I remarked that the song itself sounds somewhat bleak and flat, but I’ve always enjoyed listening to it. I said I wasn’t sure why but I’ve always been fond of that verse, “Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule; I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black.” This led my friend to describe a scene in the novel, “Anne of Green Gables” when a teacher wields a yardstick at her pupils in a late Victorian era classroom. I thought the scene was interesting but I didn’t think much of it until I went home later that evening and recalled something that happened to me as a child. When I was 4 years old, I went to a traditional Catholic school in Hong Kong. The school was taught by Chinese people, in Chinese tongue, for Chinese children. I’m half Chinese, half white. In Hong Kong, they have a name for caucausians: gwai lo, which translates white devil. Still, like I mentioned, this was, ironically enough, a Catholic school – and a very strict one at that. In addition to my obvious tainted contamination by the white devil, I was also born to be left-handed. In China, those who write and use chopsticks with their left hands are traditionally scorned upon. I’m not sure if an English interpretation of left-handedness for being sneaky, treacherous, tricky, or untrustworthy is the same in the Chinese language. Naturally, I wrote with my left hand, so my teacher would beat my left hand with a bamboo stick until I could no longer write with it. Of course, I quickly became right-handed. Anyway, I now realize why that verse, “Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule” always resonated within me, even though I had never actually pinpointed the origin of my song association. Listened in its entirety, that song does make me feel sad… well, gentle sadness. Oddly enough, most of my favourite songs have this sad or dark feeling about them.

The song has a beautiful music video:
deathcab I will follow you into the dark

Déjà Vu

My Dad wasn’t the most talkative person. When he and Ricki, my step-mother, separated, our meals at the dinner table would be anything but gregarious. During most dinners neither of us would utter a word. Looking back I don’t think I made it easy for him. Although, don’t we all when we’re going through teenage angst? During high school I was a brooding teenager who moped around the halls with head held down and hands tucked in pockets. I’d come home from school, go straight to my room, shut the door, escape to my cd collection, come out for dinner, then head back to my room and close the door behind me. My self-imposed exile to my room was largely consequential of my penchant for solitude and meticulous self scrutiny. In isolation, I would observe my actions, thoughts, desires, hopes and fears. Even on a packed bus or a bustling street I would withdraw from my surroundings and climb the inner synaptic walls of my narcissistic neurosis. If I was asked how my day at school was, I replied “Fine.” And if I was asked what I did or what I had learned, I’d say “Nothing.” My withdrawn silence used to drive Ricki up the wall. She would say “Really? You did nothing? So you just sat at the desk and did absolutely nothing all day?” To which I’d respond with a scowling glare.

Today, I’m still fond of the occasional brooding days. I’m unsure of what provokes these pensive moods. The weather, olfactory memories and certain songs will put me in an introspective state. Rainy days always put me in a reflective mood. I think mostly due to the fact that the rain forces me indoors. If you’re staring out the window and all you see is grey skies and colourless puddles, how can you not be put into a state of melancholy? Vancouver is notorious for this kind of weather so it isn’t uncommon to find yourself arrested in a brooding mood for a whole week. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m gloomy for a week. I actually enjoy brooding now and then. I get to catch up on all my deep thinking.

I think my olfactory moments are closely tied with déjà vu experiences. A certain smell, or even a particular sound will remind me of something from the past. It could be at the most unexpected moment too. It could be the way the morning mist smells on a particular day, or the song of a bird chirping away outside, or even insignificant background noise. I’ll pause at these moments and reflect. Sometimes I feel it reminds me of something from my past but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Very déjà vu at times.

Sometimes songs invoke certain memories and feelings that can be even more tangible than physical stimuli. Depressing songs affect me the most too but they don’t define me. I’m not a dark person – although I’m sure this post is painting me in that light – but I would say I’m very sentimental. When I was younger, my Dad used to frequently go on trips and be away for months at a time. I remember one day, he was going on an overseas trip and I was playing his Annie Lennox cd (“Medusa”) in my room. I didn’t change the cd in the stereo the entire two months he was gone because I didn’t want to forget the day he had left. This probably sounds strange, as I was already in grade 9 at the time. To this day when I hear a song from that album, I always think about that memory. I suppose this partly explains why sad songs affect me in ways that happy songs cannot.

Note: Certain prose and poetry can also put me into deep thought, but I think that subject deserves its own post. For another day.